#✩⋆⁺₊ warnings — mentions of body weight

[nadvs]

the power play (part seven)

pairing hockeyplayer! rafe cameron x tutor! reader

rating mature 18+

summary rafe is your complete opposite. the only thing you have in common with the hockey player you tutor is that he’s also recently had his heart broken. in a last-ditch effort to make the people who hurt you regret it, you agree to pretend to date.

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“When’s that part supposed to be done again?” the voice buzzes from your laptop.

You glance up at Rafe when he steps into the study room, locking eyes as he shuts the door behind him.

“By Wednesday night,” you answer, looking at your screen again. The other students in your group project stare back at you, three guys who haven’t even tried to pull their weight.

“And we have to do the peer evaluation, too,” you add. “She expects us to be transparent about how everyone contributed. And I’m planning to be totally honest.”

Rafe settles in his seat, diagonal to you at the corner of the desk like always. A smile pulls at his lips. He hates when that serious, disappointed tone of voice is directed at him, but watching you give that attitude to another guy is something else entirely.

He places his laptop on the desk and crosses his arms as he watches you in amusement.

“Is that review thing online?” one of the guys asks. You tap your foot against the floor in frustration. You’ve mentioned where to find it at least five times.

“I have an appointment now,” you say, “but everything you need to know is in the rubric. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

You exit the call, looking over at Rafe with wordless exhaustion. He doesn’t need you to tell him; that was about the group project you were venting to him about last week.

He digs his teeth into his bottom lip. It was hot to see you assert yourself like that. And he knows you’re just doing your job as his tutor, respecting the time you set aside for him, but it still makes his ego grow a little that you ended the call so quickly after he arrived.

And now he’s convinced you can’t do a single thing without it sending him into a mental spiral.

“Someone’s mad,” he murmurs.

“They’re killing me,” you say with a defeated chuckle. “I don’t know how many times I’ve had to repeat myself about things they can figure out on their own. Why do I have to hold grown men’s hands?”

“Damn,” he jokes, looking down and nodding, feigning offense.

“Well, I signed up to hold yours,” you laugh. “And you kind of hold mine with all the free therapy, so win-win.”

Rafe smirks. He’s not sure if he’s helped you nearly as much as you’ve helped him, if his version of therapy even comes close to how you’ve talked him down.

You need a physical reset after that frustrating call, a way to release the tension sitting in your body. You arch your back as you extend your arms above your head, stretching your muscles with a deep exhale.

Rafe’s mouth goes dry watching you dip your head back, your arms pulled high.

His thoughts are self-willed, running off with no warning, compelling him to imagine putting his lips along the column of your exposed neck, kissing you open-mouthed, cradling your head, hearing your sighs.

And because you have a special talent for driving him crazy, your shirt falls over your shoulder when you lower your arms. And you don’t fix it.

His eyebrows inch upward, left in stunned silence, fantasizing about planting his lips down your neck, over your collarbone, along your shoulder. Over and over again.

“Okay, I’m in tutor mode now,” you say, pulling his laptop towards you and opening it, oblivious to what you do to him. “Midterm on Monday. How are you feeling?”

How is he feeling? Like infatuation and lust are burning through him. Like he might lose whatever sanity he has left.

He clears his throat.

“Where is it again?”

“Should be in the same lecture hall the class is in,” you say, dragging your fingers over the trackpad. “But we can check the message board to be sure.”

You feel his stare on you, then look up to see humor twinkling in his eyes.

The realization hits you. He’s messing with you, acting like the guys you were just on a call with.

“Notice how I don’t get annoyed when you do it?” you chuckle. “I told you that you were my favorite student.”

Rafe’s smile slightly fades as you turn your attention back to his laptop.

He doesn’t like the reminder of the birthday party, of the bitterness that made itself a home in his chest that night when you made it clear what he is to you. Just the guy you tutor. Just a friend.

And he swallows his pain down, because he’s not going to unleash his silent grudges on you. Not anymore.

════════

There’s only four games left of the tournament. A loss means the season is over. And Rafe can’t lose.

He’s in the middle of a scoring drill, preparing for a nerve-wracking match against the visiting team. The rolling of skates cutting over ice, the smacks of sticks hitting pucks, the din from the filling stands, all fill his ears.

As always, not giving this his all is not an option. No matter how much the dread of his shoulder acting up again hangs over him.

Hockey gives him an outlet, a purpose. When he sets out to block a shot or hit the puck into the net, when he throws himself into a game with nothing but aggression guiding him, the fervor that courses through him is unlike anything else.

He can’t lose that.

You settle into your seat at the side of the rink, many rows up, chatting with Lyla. Your eyes have been almost exclusively on Rafe since you came in and you can’t believe you used to attend games without paying him any mind before.

Then again, you didn’t know who he really was. You didn’t know that under the hard exterior was such a complex man that would unexpectedly start turning anything and everything in your world inside out.

“There’s no way,” Lyla mumbles to you, shoulders shaking with laughter. “Look.”

She points forward and you lean closer to her to see a couple of girls a few rows ahead looking at a phone. They’re on the college’s athletic department’s website, on the men’s ice hockey team roster page.

Rafe’s headshot and name is at the center of the screen as they whisper and giggle.

“There are eyes on your man,” she laughs. “Watch out.”

The jealousy that swirls through you is hot and unwelcome. You don’t bother trying to hide it. It’s what his real girlfriend would do anyway.

You meet Lyla’s eyes, flashing her an exasperated frown.

“I guess it comes with the territory?” you say, tense.

“Oh, my God, they’re trying to find him on Instagram,” she chuckles, then looks at you again. “You obviously have nothing to worry about. He only has eyes for you. Everyone can see it.”

The same frustrating, overwhelming discomfort you felt the night of the last game fills your senses.

You meant it when you told Rafe that you need to take some time for yourself, to not date until Beck is no longer on your mind.

But you can’t deny that since then, it’s like Rafe is claiming the space in your heart that Beck once owned. Except Rafe is taking it over with a thousand times more force.

While you thought Beck was what you needed – friendly and level-headed and calm – you’ve seen him for who he really is after putting distance between you.

Whether he meant to do it or not, he strung you along. With a clearer head, you can see his flaws. And you’re pretty sure he’s a people pleaser.

And it kind of feels manipulative. You don’t doubt he’s a mostly genuine person; it’s just that he chooses the comfort of being liked over the discomfort of honesty. You used to love it about him, seeing it as kindness, letting it cloud your vision, letting it lull you into infatuation.

Rafe gives you an entirely new thrill. He’s not concerned with people liking him. He says what he thinks, and even though he can be harsh, you appreciate being around a man like that. He may be moody, with little control over his temper, but at least he’s direct.

And it’s because of that that you know you can’t take Lyla’s words that everyone can see it to heart. What everyone’s seeing is fake.

He’s playing it up, pretending to like you because that’s what you agreed to do. If someone like him felt something real, they’d cut the bullshit and tell you.

You think of the fleeting moments you’ve had with Rafe, the soft, gentle vulnerability and the heart-racing affection brimming with what you wish was chemistry.

Maybe he feels something, too. But probably not. Your mind is heavy with fog after years of pining for someone and being sure they felt the same, only for it to crash and burn in heartbreak.

This is why you’re trusting your instinct to stay away from romance for the time being.

The familiar pain of a confusing crush pinches in your heart. You can’t believe you’re back here, back to sitting in the stands, a spectator to your heart’s choices, dwelling over a man you can’t take your eyes off of.

You didn’t break the cycle.

You just started a new one.

════════

At the end of the second period, you head to the bathroom with Lyla. You’re washing your hands in the middle of the long row of sinks and instinctually glance up when someone appears next to you.

Tension crushes your chest when you realize it’s Emma. You make brief eye contact, then abruptly end it. You step away to dry your hands when, to your surprise, she speaks as she walks by.

“Do you not have any of your own shirts?” she murmurs.

You have to take a second to absorb her words as she storms out.

You look at your reflection, Rafe’s jersey draped over your body. You wish she wouldn’t have caught you off guard, so you could at least laugh off her dig.

Even though you’re annoyed, you’re not offended. Because if you lost Rafe after having him for real, you’d be bitter, too.

You leave the crowded bathroom and wait in the hall for Lyla, deep in thought.

You agreed to this whole thing to make two people jealous. Beck stares at you like you’ve broken his heart. Emma’s pissed that her ex has a new girlfriend. You’ve achieved your goal. You can end this now.

For your own good, you think it’s finally time to do just that.

════════

Rafe is coming down from a high. It was a tight game, but they took the win. Three games left and they could be the champions.

He’s down to his boxers in the locker room when he checks his phone before heading to the shower. A smile perks on his lips when he sees you texted him.

Congratulations! You were amazing. I won’t be able to come out to celebrate because I’m drowning in school work :( Try to have fun without me (even though you can’t)

You’re kidding, but you’re right. He can’t imagine having nearly as good of a time if you’re not there.

He slams his locker shut, donning a scowl.

════════

The next night, you step into the humid house, your arm linked with Lyla’s, the memories of the last time you were in a frat house fresh in your mind.

Rafe had you propped up on the counter, his steely blue eyes fixed on you, his large hands on your thighs. It was weeks ago at this point, but the thrill it gave you still lives in your mind. So does the sight of him shirtless the morning after.

Rafe’s eyes land on you as you pace into the living room through the pockets of crowds. He texted you about this party, offering to pick you up, and you told him you’d meet him here. He’s been practically staring at the front door since.

He’s never felt like this before. Like he’s constantly holding his breath and he can’t breathe easy until he sees the girl who possesses his every thought.

You’re saying something to Lyla, your smile bright and your eyes dazzling and God, of course you’re wearing a dress that shows more of your body than he’s ever seen before.

If he didn’t know how sweet you are, he’d think you were purposely torturing him. And he knows other guys are looking at you. It makes his blood boil.

“I just shouldn’t talk when she’s around,” Isaac murmurs.

“Huh?” Rafe looks to his friend, who’s standing beside him, taking another drag of his beer.

“Huh?” Isaac mocks with a grin. “I was in the middle of saying something.”

Rafe can’t even pretend to be annoyed. Not when you’re in the same room.

“My bad,” he says, looking forward again. When you find his eyes, you flash him that smile that both breaks and mends his heart, pressing through the crowds to close the distance.

Rafe’s palm is flat against your back when he hugs you, stroking his thumb between your shoulder blades, your skin warm and soft. His body buzzes from the relief of reuniting, even though it’s only been two days since he saw you at the library.

“I have to thank you,” Lyla says to Rafe, half-shouting over the noisy chatter and music. “She never came to this many parties before she dated you.”

“You’re welcome,” Rafe replies, his eyes on you even though his words are directed to your best friend.

“Funny,” Isaac says to you. “He used to go to everything, but he wouldn't come out last night because you weren’t there.”

Your brows knit, pleasantly surprised, hesitatingly touched as you look up at Rafe.

“Really?” you say.

Rafe needs to play it off. He’d thoughtlessly admitted it to Isaac yesterday after leaving the locker room, saying you weren’t coming out anyway, so why would he?

“Can’t have fun without you,” he replies, repeating your text back to you. You’re unsure if he’s just saying that as your fake boyfriend, or if he really feels that way.

“That’s cold,” Isaac mutters in his usual joking way. “I’m right here.”

Lyla laughs, then squeezes your forearm.

“I saw some girls from my film class,” she tells you. “Do you want to go say hi with me or stay here?”

“I’ll stay here,” you reply.

“Thought so,” she says with a knowing grin. “I’ll be right back.”

“What’s the deal with your friend?” Isaac asks the moment Lyla scurries away.

“The deal?” you say.

“What’s her type?” he asks. “If I ask her out, would I get laughed at?”

“Ohhh,” you say with a conspiratorial smile. “Are you trying to get a date?”

“I’ll owe you big, okay?” he replies, putting his hand to his heart. “For that and for my essay. What do you think of it, by the way?

“I’m halfway through,” you reply, having taken a look at it that morning between your classes. “I think you need more annotations, but I’ll get it back to you by tomorrow night with my notes.”

“Awesome, thanks,” Isaac says. ��Be honest. Who’s the better writer? Me or Rafe?”

“Rafe,” you reply immediately, gazing up at him. He’s pretty sure that the sound of you saying his name is better than anything he’s ever heard.

“Well… obviously you’re going to pick your boyfriend,” Isaac mumbles, then gazes past your shoulder. “So? Do I stand a chance?”

You follow his eyeline to see he’s staring at Lyla. You can imagine her liking Isaac.

“You might,” you say, then turn back around. “She likes when guys are direct, but don’t be presumptuous.”

“Whatever that means,” Isaac says, then looks at Rafe. “Is she always using big words?”

You chuckle, “Be yourself. And don’t be too forward. Be a gentleman.”

Right now, Rafe would be wondering what your type is, what you like guys to do. But he knows. It’s Beck, who’s different from him in every way.

“So, don’t be yourself,” Rafe chides.

Isaac flashes him a humored, but sarcastic smile, flipping his friend off before downing his drink.

“See you guys,” he says, stepping past you.

You let out an amused exhale, resting into the first private moment you’re having with Rafe tonight.

“Hi,” you say, taking his strong features in as he towers over you.

“Hey.” His eyes drift over your face. The bass of the music filling the thick air is no match to how loud his heart is thumping in his ears. “I know you can hold your own, but you don’t have to help him.”

“Back up,” you say, your smile widening. “Hold my own? Did you just give me a compliment?”

“That call I walked in on was intense,” he says with a half-chuckle. “It’s obvious you don’t take any shit.”

It’s meaningful praise, not only because it’s coming from him, someone who’s usually so aloof, but also because of how many times people have mistakenly seen your kindness as a sign that you let others get away with mistreating you.

And it’s unexpected. You never imagined feeling like Rafe sees a part of you that so many don’t.

Your crush on him was supposed to stay noncommittal. Meaningless. Shallow.

The squeezing sensation in your heart is telling you that might not be a possibility, because seeing this kind, tender side of him is proof that maybe he could be the type of boyfriend you’d want.

“I would’ve told Isaac no if I couldn’t do it,” you reply, “but I’m happy to do a favor if I can manage it.”

He still looks worried. A warm, comforting sense of endearment zips through you. You weren’t lying to Lyla when you’d told her that you liked Rafe’s protectiveness.

“I appreciate you looking out for me,” you add, trying to ignore the fluttering in your chest.

Silence sinks between you, your gazes locked, your smiles slowly fading as tension replaces every remaining sense of amusement.

Rafe breaks the stare. He looks down, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a hard swallow. He can’t have these types of moments with you. He’s fighting everything in him not to kiss you.

“You want a drink?” he asks, looking towards the dining room. “If you can pace yourself.”

You glance at the beer bottle he’s holding.

“Is that all they have?” you ask.

“I grabbed the first thing I saw,” he replies.

“I never tried that kind before.”

Rafe doesn’t think. He just holds it out, perching the neck of the bottle towards you.

Your fingers brush over his as you accept the offer, taking the cold bottle and lifting the smooth cusp against your mouth, your knees weak as you think about how he just had his lips right where yours are.

You take a small sip, promptly cringe at the sourness, and hand it back to him with a look of disgust. He laughs that sweet, innocent, boyish laugh you’ve only heard a few times before.

“No?” he murmurs, his smile bright.

“You really enjoy drinking that?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says with a shrug.

“Awful,” you mumble.

You shuffle in place, remembering what you’ve been eager to tell him.

“Oh, I have two things to tell you,” you say. “First, these girls sitting in front of me yesterday were looking at you on the school website. You know how they say a determined girl investigates better than the FBI? Just a warning, they’ll find you. If they haven’t already.”

Rafe smirks, unable to believe he ever found your rambling anything but entertaining. And cute as hell.

He should probably be taking your words to heart and thinking about dating for real, going out with girls who actually like him, but it’s unimaginable when he’s certain that he couldn’t find the feeling he gets when he looks at you in anyone else’s eyes.

“And you got jealous and lost your shit?” he quips.

“Yeah, they had to kick me out,” you play along. “How has your shoulder been, by the way?”

The sudden question is an intrusion, an assault on the happiness he’s been feeling since you walked in. He’s still getting used to it, to how you prod, to how you try to saunter past the wall he has up as if you don’t even see it.

You gaze up at him as he looks away, raking back his hair and offering a tense, “Good. I’ve just… been in my head about it. It’s messing with my game.”

A crease forms between your brows as you gaze at him in confusion, hoping he’ll say more. But he doesn’t.

“Are you worried you’ll hurt it again?” you ask.

You step just an inch closer, craning your head to look up at him, wishing he’d just lean down instead of being so unnecessarily impenetrable. He’s quiet and cold, drawn into himself like he was the day you met him.

“Yeah,” he says. “One wrong move and…”

Rafe’s convinced you’re about to judge him, to look at him like he’s a wuss. But the confusion on your face fades and is replaced with sympathy.

“That makes sense,” you say. “You want to give it your all like you always do. I bet playing it safe just feels wrong.”

He’s in awe. How do you take the tiny pieces he gives you and still get him? You’ve teased him for being perceptive, for reading people so easily, but it’s nothing compared to you.

“Yeah, I – I don’t know how to just half-ass it,” he says with a sarcastic chuckle. “I’ve never done it that way.”

You study him, curiosity stirring in you, along with a certainty that there’s nothing but beauty behind the front he puts up.

“You said you were better after you started playing in high school, right?” you press. “It must mean a lot to you.”

He scratches the back of his neck. It’s a tell. You know he does it when he’s nervous.

“Yeah,” he admits. “Hockey did so much for me and it – it makes me me, you know? I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

“Bad word,” you remind him with a soft smile. “It’s not stupid. Tell me more.”

Rafe bites the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t want to go back there, to when he was a kid, needing a place to let everything festering in him out. Not here, with other people around. Not now, when he’s unsure if you feel something, too.

“What was the other thing?” he says.

“What?”

“You said you had two things to tell me.”

You flatten your lips. It hurts how he’ll begrudgingly give you some vulnerability when you’re insistent, but most of the time, remind you that he keeps you at a distance.

“The other thing,” you eventually say with a nod, willing yourself to go back to how you used to be when Rafe’s mood drops didn’t affect you as much. “Your ex made a little dig at me.”

His face hardens, wearing that look you know well by now. The one that silently, impatiently tells you to explain.

“Something about how I’m always wearing your jersey,” you say. “Like I don’t have any shirts of my own.”

“When?”

“Yesterday at the game,” you chuckle. “She left before I could even react. But she obviously noticed me wearing it before. That girl is jealous. And very, very mad.”

He wants to ask if you’re okay, but he can tell by the amused smile on your face that you are. It takes a lot to shake you. Still, he hates that his ex tried to embarrass you. That you were in that position because of him.

“Is this the point where we call it?” you ask.

“What?”

“Do you want to still keep this up?” you clarify, motioning between you.

This is how his last breakup happened. In the throws of a party. Unexpectedly. But even though this one isn’t real, it hurts a thousand times more than the last one.

“You’re… done?” Rafe asks, embarrassed at how thin his voice sounds.

“I don’t want to care about what Beck thinks anymore,” you say. You swallow down that Rafe’s the reason why. “And we got what we wanted, right?”

You both agreed to an easy-out clause. He owes you to follow through on that. If you want to cut and run, you should be able to.

The thought of not getting to touch you, to hold you, even though it is just to make another person in the room jealous, makes his blood run cold.

But you deserve to get what you want.

“Yeah, we did,” he says. “Good luck getting over me.”

“Thanks,” you laugh. “We don’t have to announce it or anything. We just have no reason to lay it on thick anymore. Friends?”

You hold out your hand, and he gently squeezes it, shaking on it just like you did when you started all this.

“Friends.”

════════

The next night, you and Lyla and a couple of your mutual friends go out to dinner to unwind from studying. The off-campus restaurant is elegant, the entrance decorated beautifully. Lyla asks the hostess to take a photo of you all before you sit.

When you settle at the table, you look at the photo and post it to your story. You put your phone down, just to pick it up again a minute later, the impulse to see who’s looked at it too strong to ignore.

You got so used to doing it with Beck, eager to pick up on the breadcrumbs he’d leave for you. Now, you’re doing it to see if Rafe looked at it.

You tap to see who’s viewed the story and see two familiar icons. Beck’s. And Rafe’s.

It’s almost taunting to stare at, one man who led you on and another who helped you get back at him for it.

You can hardly stomach how desperately you crave indifference. How badly you wish Beck had never taken so many years from you. And for the first time, how deeply you regret putting on this ploy with Rafe.

Because all it led to was allowing another man into your heart and having to tell yourself not to let him steal it.

You lock your screen and put away your phone, determined to be present with your friends.

════════

As you finish up dinner, Lyla suggests going to a bar.

“It is a school night,” she says, mainly looking at you, “but we don’t have to stay out late. We could invite some boys if anyone feels inclined.”

“Do you have a boy in mind?” one of your friends asks her.

“Isaac’s cute,” she says, pointing to you. “He told me he asked you about me.”

“He better be following my advice to be a gentleman,” you reply.

“Do you want to invite Rafe?” she asks. The mention of his name makes your heart drop.

“No,” you say, sure you didn’t do a good job masking your sadness. “He has a midterm tomorrow.”

“Are you guys doing okay?” Lyla mumbles, surprised by how quickly you declined. This isn’t the time to drop the bomb that you’re technically broken up.

“Yeah, we’re good.”

“Good,” she says, taking her last bite. “I really don’t want Beck to be right.”

You tense up.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“He told me not to say anything,” she explains, the way her face is twisted in confusion making it clear that she has no idea why her brother wanted to keep this from you. “He’s worried about you. He thinks Rafe isn’t the best guy and you jumped into this with him too fast and that you’ll get hurt. I told him you wouldn’t be with someone who treats you badly, but you know Beck.”

You’ve managed to stay composed up to this point. You’ve held yourself together, even in private.

But this might be the thing to finally break you. The cold, hard confirmation that Beck isn’t jealous, was never jealous. He was just concerned.

Because he’s a friend and nothing more. And you were delusional to think otherwise.

“He shouldn’t be worried,” you say, forcing a smile. “Anyways, you guys go without me. I’m pretty tired.”

════════

Rafe watches you walk to his car through the dark, rainy night air as he idles in front of the restaurant’s front doors. You’d texted him ten minutes ago, asking if he could give you a ride home.

You’d said goodbye to your friends and waited for Rafe behind the front doors, fighting the urge to cry.

You open the passenger door, the interior light fades on, and his stomach drops when he sees that the girl who’s always smiling has tears in her eyes.

You settle in the car, putting your seatbelt on, staring at the dashboard. Rafe stills.

He’s witnessed you disappointed, happy, sad, annoyed, but he’s never seen you like this. Like all the joy has been drained from you, not a single trace of optimism or humor or anything left.

“You okay?” he rasps. The car light fades off, blanketing both of you in darkness.

He stares at you, moonlight just barely pricking the edges of your profile, your eyes gleaming with tears.

“No,” you utter, your voice fragile over the sound of the rain pattering on the roof.

Rafe leans in just a little closer to get a better look at you, but you’re only gazing ahead, stuck in place. He wishes he didn’t have to ask. It’s like he’s losing you, like you don’t want to tell him what you’re thinking anymore.

“What happened?” he rasps.

You don’t know how to say it. He surely already knows that he has a bad reputation, but you care too much about him to repeat any gossip. There’s so much more to him that people don’t see and you don’t want him to not believe that.

“I need a moment,” you say. “Can we go?”

He grimaces, his brows furrowing, shaking his head slightly.

“We’re not rushing anywhere,” he says quietly. You haven’t heard his voice like this before. It’s soft. Soothing.

You can’t think of what to say.

This doesn’t feel fair to Rafe. You pick at him and expect him to open up to you, but now, you’re shutting him out.

He grew to love how you share what you’re thinking, rambling so he’s completely clear on what’s running through your mind. Now, he’s on the outside, behind a wall you never had up before.

It feels like rejection.

“Can we go?” you repeat. “Please?”

He scoffs in disbelief and hurt. And then, he switches gears and steps on the gas pedal.

════════

Rafe pulls up to your dorm. You haven’t said anything to each other the whole ride.

You’ve caught discreet glances at him. His jaw is tense, a grimace on his face. He’s mad. Of course he’s mad. He’s always mad.

You’ve been silent, sniffling and wiping away tears with your sleeve.

He’s losing his mind. You’re just sitting there, your breaths shaky, like you’re breaking right in front of him and he can’t do anything about it.

“I’ve never cried over him,” you finally snap the silence.

He’s caught off guard. The sympathy you’ve been needing is etched into his face, the scowl replaced with tenderness.

“Even when I felt the worst over it, I… managed to keep myself together. But tonight, Lyla told me that he doesn’t like me and it just made it all crash down on me. I wasted so much time.”

He puts the car in park. Kills the engine. Looks at you.

“What the hell did she say?” he says sharply, his anger directed at your best friend now.

You’ve been thinking about how to tell him without causing any collateral damage. You don’t want to hurt him or risk the dynamic between him and his teammate.

“You know that I never dated anyone before,” you tell him. “To jump into something so intense with you is unlike me. Beck thinks I’m being impulsive. He’s just worried I’ll get hurt. That’s all. It was never jealousy.”

Rafe scratches his jaw. He thinks back to how every time you’re in a room with Beck, his eyes are on you.

“I thought you said you saw it for yourself,” he says after a moment. “He’s into you.”

“He was just looking at me like a concerned friend,” you mumble, your throat feeling raw again. “You’ve fed my delusion enough.”

He sighs. It’s impossible. There’s no world where a guy gets to know you and doesn’t feel something.

There are too many possibilities. Beck could simply not be into you. Or he is and he hasn’t told his sister. Or he is and he has and she’s been sworn to secrecy. Or a thousand other things that you can’t know for sure.

It’s all a confusing disarray of what you know and what you don’t, so uncertain about where you stand with Beck that it’s forcing your heart into a knot.

“I need to talk to him and get everything out into the open,” you conclude. “I don’t care if it makes things weird. I can’t keep overthinking.”

When your eyes meet Rafe’s again, an uncontrollable shudder escapes your lips, a result of how hard you’ve been crying.

And he can’t stand it. He puts his palm on the back of your hand, the words sitting in his throat, awkward but necessary to say.

“He’s not good enough for you, you know that, right?” he murmurs.

“Rafe,” you laugh sadly, his words wringing your heart. “You’re just making me cry harder. Stop being nice. It’s unlike you.”

A smile pulls on the corner of his lips. There’s the glimpse of you that he’s been craving. It’s like the sun is finally rising after a long, cold night.

“What do you want, then?” he says.

“Tough love,” you joke. “Call me annoying or something.”

“No,” he says with a shake of his head.

He can’t even do it as a joke. He’s told himself he feels too much his whole life. He’s not going to do it to you, too.

You sigh, looking down at his hand on yours. There’s nobody around to fool. He’s doing this because he wants to.

“I’m… so mad I still care,” you say. “I don’t even like him anymore, but I need to tell him that he was cruel to string me along. And then I’ll finally be done with it.”

You look out the window, seeing your reflection in the side mirror.

“And I need to be on my own and live my life without worrying what a guy thinks,” you continue. “I don’t think you see how much you’ve helped me through all this.”

Rafe is sure that he hates Beck. He fucked with you for years, stringing you along, making you question everything. You shouldn’t have to cry all because that idiot refuses to be upfront with you.

He wouldn’t treat you like that. But he’ll never get the chance to prove it. You��re blind to how fast his thoughts are racing, how hard his heart is pounding. To what he’d give to you if you felt what he does.

“You helped me, too,” he says. He wishes he was better at this, that he could say more, but there’s no way he can utter what he’s really thinking without opening up a wound that you can’t patch up.

That’s the last thing you both need right now. Especially after you told him you’re not looking to tie yourself to a relationship anytime soon.

“I’m glad,” you say. You shift your hand to unbuckle your seatbelt, leaving him to pull away. “Thank you for the ride. You should get back to studying now.”

“Who said I was studying?”

“Pretending I didn’t hear that,” you quip with a small smile, meeting his eyes one last time before you push the door open and step out of the car.

════════

It’s Wednesday night and Rafe’s sitting in an unfamiliar locker room, two periods into a vicious game.

They’re down by two goals. He’s exhausted, his shoulder is aching, yet all he can think about is you, in your dorm room four hours away.

You’d texted him twice since the night he picked you up at the restaurant. The first was on Monday, a good luck message for his midterm. The next was last night, letting him know that you can’t make tonight’s away game due to the long distance and the fact that you have a huge paper due.

If they win this game, they’re in the semi-finals. The hunger he’s feeling for a victory is the one thing driving him right now.

He’d love it if you were in the stands, behind the penalty box again, holding your phone up against the screen, lightheartedly counting his indiscretions, giving him brightness in his otherwise bleak life.

Rafe stares down at the scuffed floor, chest rising and falling rapidly, the tension thick in the room as he holds his helmet in his hands. Coach enters the room, jumping right into his pep-talk.

“We’re missing scoring opportunities,” he eventually says, his voice booming through the room.

“That’s on me, Coach,” Beck pipes up from the other side of the room.

“Then step up,” Rafe mutters with vitriol, meeting his eyes. “Instead of being such a kiss-ass, try playing better.”

“Whoa,” Isaac mumbles beside him. “Chill, man.”

“I’ll do the coaching here, got it, Cameron?” Coach says sharply.

Rafe stares down at the floor again, rage flooding him. He’d swing at Beck right now if he could, if there was nothing on the line.

Not because of the game. Because of you.

════════

When the team is back in the locker room, all the stress that was previously cutting through the air has dissipated, replaced with pride. They managed to secure the win. They made it to the semi-finals.

Rafe gets to his locker and tries to take off his equipment. But the pain in his shoulder is so blinding, so hot, that he can’t ignore the agony.

It was a hard body check, minutes left in the game. The sharp stab he felt was undeniable.

He knows that this is it.

════════

“Thank you,” you say to the security guard who walked you over to the athlete’s dorm.

It’s nearing midnight and, as promised, Isaac texted you that they’re back on campus. He’d sent you a message that Rafe got injured near the end of the game.

You called him then, learning that Rafe could barely move his arm, that he was taken to urgent care, that he was muttering about being sure his season is over.

You texted Rafe right away, concern burning through you: Isaac told me what happened. Can I come by when you get home?

He replied: yes. And then hours later, the text came in a minute after Isaac’s.

Home. Don’t walk by yourself.

You’d planned to text Isaac to open the front door for you, but you’re lucky to sneak into the building as a resident leaves. You rush in, take the elevator, and scurry down the hallway.

Your heart is pounding when you knock on Rafe’s door.

“It’s open,” you hear grumbled from the other side.

Rafe is in the dark, a pinch of moonlight gleaming into the room through a crack in the blinds as the door shuts behind you.

He’s sitting up in his bed, resting against the headboard, and when you see the sling on the same arm that he’d injured before, your heart cracks down the middle.

You don’t bother turning on the light. You have a feeling he doesn’t want to be seen right now. You settle on the edge of his bed, the side of his thigh against your lower back.

Rafe stares at your profile in the dark, his breath evening out, the dread he’s been battling losing some of its power now that he’s with you.

When Isaac said he let you know what happened, Rafe was glad he hadn’t told him about your breakup. And he was relieved that Isaac shared the news, because Rafe’s not sure he would’ve been able to tell you himself.

“Hey,” you say. “How bad does it hurt?”

“You got security to walk you here, right?”

“Yeah,” you reply. The fact that he’s thinking about your safety right now is unbelievable. “What happened?”

“I tore my rotator cuff,” he says into the dark.

“Your season’s done?” you ask, although you know it is. That’s too serious of an injury to play with.

There’s a beat of silence.

“Yeah.”

Your throat tightens. His fear came true and now he’s like this, in pain, miserable. And surely blaming himself.

“I’m sorry,” you say, your voice trembling.

His heart shifts when he catches the fragility in your tone.

“Don’t cry,” he says.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

He can’t help but huff a quiet chuckle. Leave it to you to make him smile at a time like this.

“Can I get you anything?” you ask.

“No.”

“I’m going to hug you because I need to do something,” you decide, giving into the impulse to get closer to him.

He shifts lower, resting his head on his pillow, and you turn to your side, leaning on his good shoulder, making sure to stay as far away from his injury as possible.

Your arm is draped over his torso, your cheek at his upper chest, feeling the faint thumps of his heart. The soft, rhythmic beating is what beckons the tears threatening to fall finally come out.

“How bad does it hurt?” you ask again, your voice thick with sadness.

He doesn’t see a reason to lie.

“Like hell,” he admits, the painkillers barely numbing the pain.

Rafe shuts his eyes, grimacing, angry at his body for betraying him.

Your arm around him brings him a sense of peace. And the fullness warming his heart doesn’t come from simply liking someone.

This is love.

But you’ve told him so many times that you need to be on your own. He can’t mess that up for you just because he wants you for himself.

He’s never been this worried about his selfishness. He’s never really liked himself and he’s always wanted to be a better man and being with you is the first time it feels achievable.

“Why’d you come here?” he asks, desperate for you to tell him you feel it, too. That he’s worth breaking your rules.

“Because I care about you,” you say with an offended laugh. “Should I leave?”

“No,” he says quickly.

“Then try being a little more welcoming,” you joke.

If you want to feel welcome here, in his room, in his bed, in his heart, in his life, he’ll make it happen.

And he’s always been the type to show, rather than tell.

He still feels a pinch up his neck, but he fights through the ache to sit up half an inch. He brushes his lips against your forehead to leave a chaste, featherlight kiss on your skin.

“How’s that?” he rasps, settling back on his pillow.

Your body numbs, the air heavy with pressure. It’s an avalanche coming down on you, the excitement of his touch, the confusion of his intentions, the fear of giving another person all the power to break your heart.

And it’s like you’re buried under your overwhelming emotions, barely able to move.

You don’t know what to say.

So, you nuzzle closer, squeeze him tighter, and close your eyes, hoping that whatever happens next doesn’t hurt you anymore than you’ve already been hurt.

(to be continued)

author’s note um so i think we’re at 50k words and all we have is a forehead kiss... next part will be the last and the slowburn will be OVER. i promise. don’t hate me <3

if you want notifications on when i post my fics, follow @xorafe-library and turn on notifications 💘

[trampleddoves]

For the blurb thingy: him fucking you into overstimulation and you weakly try to push him off but you can't so he just guides you to hold onto your plushie while he keeps fucking into you...<3

s. r. blurb 9

contents: afab!reader, dom!Spencer, penetrative sex, overstimulation, mentions of a safe word but not used, corruption of a plushie, MDNI

You aren't sure where Spencer gets his stamina in bed. 

You love him, really you do, in all his lanky, nerdy glory, but Spencer Reid can barely run up two flights of stairs without losing his breath. He cannot run like a normal person while holding his gun, often leaning on one side as if the gun weighs more than it actually does and is dragging him down. 

Yet somehow, without fail, he manages to last multiple rounds of sex 

At first, you assumed he's trying to compensate for something. He reaches his climax quite quickly—Being buried inside you seems to set every nerve in his body on gasoline, white hot flames licking just under his skin and erupting without warning. You both cry out, his in pleasure, and you out of surprise, your head thrown back as he spills deep inside your cunt. He pushes through the orgasm, taking advantage of the slick that’s gathered inside your walls to fuck you even harder. 

You thought he’s just being thorough. He wants you to climax as well, after all, he’s simply being a thoughtful lover. 

All delusions of that fly out the window by the time you come down from your high for the second time in a row, and he’s still going. Fingers at your clit, alternating between infinite circles and playful pinching, he fucks you hard and deep even as your vision swims and you’re barely coherent. 

The sheets are ruined beneath you, your slick dripping down your ass and thighs and soaking the bed. His cock is slick, a ring of creamy white gathered and coating the base, evidence of your release that’s mixed and dripped out from your swollen, sensitive folds. 

For someone who’s so adamant about exchanging germs and bacteria, Spencer Reid can be awfully filthy in bed. It’s overwhelming. Dizzyingly so. But something about your hazy, dreamy state only fuels him during nights like these, so he slows down, deliberately keeping himself on edge as he cups your breasts in his big hands, catching your nipples between his long fingers. 

Your hands lift up, sluggishly pushing his forearms away, and he pauses.

“Too much?” he rubs his palms over your chest, before they skate down your back, easing his rhythm to something more gentle and tender, “Need your safe word?”

You mumble something incoherent, eyes closing as his cock slides out. Your cunt tightens around him greedily, because despite everything, you relish this just as much as he does. The mind numbing sensitivity is simply too euphoric to ignore, the way you can feel your cunt ease up or squeeze around him is downright addictive, and even the loud, sinful sounds of wet skin slapping hard into each other is music to your ears. You love that his strength and stamina seems reserved specifically for you and your intimate nights, that he has something of a reservoir of physicality that he keeps hidden away from people. 

You whimper again, twisting to the side.

“Darling? Talk to me.” he croons, laying his body over yours. His weight presses you into the mattress, cock sitting heavily inside your walls. It helps ground you enough to extract an answer.

“I’m fine. I’m fine, keep going.”

“You sure?” he kisses your jaw, tongue licking up to your ear, hot and wet and filthy, “We can always stop.”

You clench around his cock in response. 

A breathless laugh. He lifts himself on one elbow, his other arm reaching for the closest fluffy thing he could find, which happens to be a large penguin plushie. “Here, hold onto Mr. Butters for me, love.”

You moan, one arm holding the toy to your chest, the other grasping his hand desperately, “We’re corrupting Mr. Butters.” you whimper as he begins to move again, pulling out of your delicious heat before snapping back inside.

“Not the first time we’ve done so, unfortunately.” he chuckles, finding a steady rhythm, “You still with me?”

“Mhm hmm,” you nod, gasping as he lifts your hips for a better angle. You swear you feel him in your stomach like this, reaching spaces so deep, spaces only he’s able to feel.

“That’s it,” he groans, roughly thrusting into you, “Good girl. Just hold onto Mr. Butters.”

So you do. Poor Mr. Butters, with you through thick and thin, bearing witness to your childhood fears and teenage folly, and now, your very adult activities.

[muqingslover]

This question is related to the last ask you posted, but what do you think the lads men most unexpected/unconventional turn-on would be?

Your depiction of Zayne got me thinking, what is that shy man gonna do if mc finds his "weak" spot lol. Cuz yeah, obviously he'd be turned on about his beloved sending him risky pictures BUT the moment mc realises one of his unexpected turn ons that maybe he himself wasn't even aware of? Oh lawd.

[ this one had me thinking for days oh my goodness! Just a heads up, I got carried away with some of these...very carried away.....shhh. ]

Your lips.

Alright, alright, i know it sounds confusing but stick with me here.

I've thrown some of my takes on his kinks around but I didn't want to repeat myself so I spent some time stewing over this.

Eventually I landed on the idea that Zayne would be very particular about sharing anything that touched your lips, especially before an official relationship.

Drinking from the same straw, sharing the same spoon, tasting something you already bit into it— It's an instant way of getting his poor mind to go into overdrive.

He is a very proper and respectful man. He doesn't like to have indecent thoughts about you, but the idea that his lips touched something yours did as well make him all tingly and shy.

Massages.

He loooooves the feeling of your weight pressing down on his hips when you straddle him, though that's not even the tip of the iceberg as to why he is so into this.

Your hands are truly magical when it comes to getting rid of the few knots on his body and the further he relaxes, the further Xavier begins to grow more aware of you.

The comforting weight is slowly causing him to grind against the mattress under him each time you shifted on top of him and the way your hands make their way down his bare spine has him biting the pillow sheets.

Not to mention that the minute your fingernails scratch his scalp in an otherwise affectionate gesture he nearly cums in his pants.

His ears and neck feel so hot he decides to bury his face in the pillow to keep you from noticing.

He would either flip the tables on you at some point or (try to) go to sleep in hope everything would be fine once he wakes up again.

Gentleness.

That's right. You heard me. This man will crumble at your feet every time you care for him like he's a pretty princess.

I'm not necessarily talking about grand gestures. Simple and natural ones are the most effective. The type that you wouldn't even notice you are doing it.

Slow caresses on his shoulder or hands, checking to see if he's alright while cradling his face, patiently explaining something to him, wiping his face if there was something on it, running your fingers through his hair... ECT.

He has a distinct memory of you being so worried about him when he scrapped his hand during his daily troubles— It was no different than a paper cut to him, but the blood made it seem worse than it actually was and that caused you to immediately fuss.

He watched with such genuine adoration as you tended to his wounds; Your furrowed eyebrows as you focused, the soft concern in your voice when you asked if the disinfectant stung and how could Sylus not pretend that it hurt? Just a little bit. Just enough to hear more of your encouragement that it was almost done and he was doing well.

Trust me, it will lead to him kissing you without warning, seemingly out of nowhere, once it's done and prepare yourself for the best night ever.

(I cut this short like four times and still ended up being long....oh well.)

Helping him with his clothes.

Each time you fix his crooked, poorly tied necktie (which he absolutely hates to wear) or straighten up his collar for him Rafayel is fighting back demons.

This also applies to you helping him actually dress up (or undress) and picking out his outfits without him having to ask.

The sight of you standing in front of him, hands swiftly buttoning up his shirt, has him weak in the knees. It makes him feel as you're truly his partner. That this is the married life the two of you deserved to have eons ago.

Speaking of undressing, this naughty fish will absolutely tease you about unbuckling his belt.

He would take a seat on a nearby chair with a dramatic sigh before he asked for you to help him with his clothes because he was oh so very tired to do it himself.

He leans back against the chair as if it was his own personal throne, knees slack as he spread comfortably and tilts his head to the side to rest it on his hand.

"I have an early morning tomorrow, you know. Won't you finish helping me so we can head to bed?" It sounds innocent enough, rather playful even, but the expression on his face is anything but. Just look at the volume on his pants, he ain't fooling anybody.

Hearing his own name + Whispering.

Last but most definitely not least, everyone's favorite boy.

It doesn't matter what's happening the second you say his name his full attention is on you. It's like a very well trained dog.

He can tell what you're feeling, sometimes even thinking, based on the way you call him alone. It comes with the years of experience of being your best friend.

It however also comes with the perpetual problem that his body reacts so well to your voice that it ends up being a little *too* well.

You may be in the middle of an argument yet the moment you say his name Caleb would be fighting back a boner. upcoming fic sneakpeek—i mean what

Another odd turn on of his is when you whisper something in his ear.

It doesn't really matter what you're saying. The sound of your voice so close to him and the way he can feel your warm breath tickling his skin is enough to have this man crossing his legs and praying his bulge is subtle.

You can imagine the nightmare this was during teen years when the two of you would sneak around grandma's house.

[risingoftime]

SANCTIFIED LIES | REMMICK X F!READER | PART ONE

synopsis: they say the devil drinks blood and hides in the woods just past the burned-down church. But you know better, the devil wears charm like cologne. The devil has hands that once pulled you from a fire. The devil kisses like he remembers every version of you and mourns each one. You should run. When he looks at you like you’re the last beautiful thing left in this godforsaken town, the hate dissolves on your tongue, and all you can taste is the ghost of his mouth sweet with lies.

18+ mdni, mentions of the KKK & racism, remmick has a saviour complex, explicit sexual content, blood play, predator & prey, vampirism, biting, rough sex, southern gothic erotica, reader is a hoodoo practitioner, slow burn, fire, manipulation, swearing, spit kink, dirty talk (remmick knows how to talk a girl through it), oral, face fucking.

The fires started slowly: a tiny house, a sharecropping community, then the fields that once paid your granddaddy’s bills. Folks say it’s the heat, the drought, or maybe God has come down to smite what’s left of this cursed parish. But you know better. You’ve seen how the flames dance, too clean and precise. The way they lick up walls like they’re searching for something. You’ve felt him near before the smoke even rises. Remmick never leaves soot on his boots or ash on his collar. No, the devil here walks like a man, smells like cedarwood, and falls from grace. And whenever you hear the sirens wail, you wonder if it’s your turn to be saved or sacrificed.

You woke up in the middle of the night to the smell of thick smoke being carried in the humid southern air. The covers clung to the perspiration that coated your skin as you threw them off your body to the side. Looking out the window, the night sky pulsed orange and red. Down the road, you could see your neighbour’s house lit up like a lantern, flames dancing greedily along the porch beams. You could hear the screams, muffled at first, but their pleas grew louder to a high shrill, then nothing at all—just the crackle of fire swallowing wood, bone, and memories.

The Klan must have struck again. Nothing felt real, and everything looked straight out of a fever dream. You stumbled out barefoot with a heart thudding against your ribs like a warning, but you already knew you were too late. The land around you, once quiet, now reeked of smoke and heavy sorrow. Cotton fields looked like little ghosts in the distance, and the countryside plantations were still fresh, a cruel reminder that nothing ever really changes in the Mississippi Delta. 

There he was when you looked off to the yard's edge, past the gnarled oaks and overgrown cotton fields. Remmick was watching, shirtless and still as death, a hunter stalking his prey, awaiting the perfect time to strike. You squint your eyes to see if your sight has tricked you. Searching for any signs that may relieve the unease in your spirit. The longer you looked, the more wrong he felt. A single White man observing from a distance the Black community of sharecroppers. The breeze shifted around him, and the cicadas fell quiet in his presence. 

You'd heard all of the stories from your mama and other kinfolk. The tales that are whispered after baptisms and buried deep beneath the guise of our hymns that we hum. They were about things that wore the shape and skin of a man but walked in the shadows, older than time as we know it. Things that couldn't cross salt and garlic or enter uninvited. You don’t know how long you’ve been out there, but you can sense it. It’s been a while since the crowd started to disperse and return to their four-walled sanctuaries. You took note of the death looming around from the devastating fire and returned to your grandmother’s home. Someone will see to it shortly. 

You pressed your hand against the door frame, stilling your heart as you locked up again for the night. However, you could still feel him, similar to a weight in your chest. He wasn’t just watching; it was a silent warning, and you were sure of it. But fear didn’t come easily to you. Not since you were twelve when your grandmother taught you how to boil bones and speak to your ancestors for guidance. Before she passed, she handed you an old silver key that opened a crawlspace under the floorboards and taught you, “Whatever walks through that field, baby, don’t let it catch you unarmed.”

You lit the lamp and sat down at the table. Your bloodline blessed you with prayer and ash. Your hands moved gracefully, pulling all the things you would need close. Dirt from your mother's grave, a twist of black thread, and dried petals from your grandmother's rose water jar. The wind whistled low and strange, the tide of grief kissing the grounds of your yard. In the distance, you could hear the firefighters put out the resisting flames, but the souls of the house were long gone by the time they’d arrived. Outside, Remmick hadn’t moved from his hiding place. He was waiting for the night sky to be the darkest and the moon to rise at its highest. 

Suspicion is useful when you know how to wear it correctly. It was armour under a nightdress. You crushed the grabbed items, binding them together with a pinch of grave dirt and spit. The words came next and rolled off your tongue in your grandmother’s voice. Protection charms don't work if you whisper them scared. You could feel him coming closer now. The land between you was shrinking, inch by inch.

Remmick wasn’t just a man. You knew that long before tonight. A man didn’t pull flame from bone or walk through housefires without smoke in his hair. You were just a girl then, wide-eyed and disobedient, pretending to sleep but watching from behind the simple linen curtains. Your grandmother had told you to shut your eyes, say your prayers, and rest. But you didn’t listen. And now, all these years later, you’re sure he was the one who started it. A man didn’t make the living restless every time he passed by. After the fire, the whole street wore silence like mourning clothes. The house was gone, nothing left but blackened wood and the smell of something far worse than ash. Nobody talked about the screams. Nobody talked about how the fire danced, moving faster than any flame had a right to. They sure as hell didn’t talk about the figure that walked calmly into the flames, then vanished before the sirens arrived. It had seemed like you were the only one who had remembered what that White man looked like emerging from the flames with blood smeared across his mouth and dripping down to his chest. 

Uncertain about Remmick's intentions and unwilling to discover them, you secured the charm bag firmly around your wrist. Searching through the jars in the kitchen, you found garlic and ate two cloves. The unliving had begun to walk among us, and we could no longer hide. It was time to expel the evil, even if it was just you. You were tired of running, navigating through the world with a bent head and pleading hands to the White man who constantly undermined you and spat at your feet. That’s when the knocks came, and it wasn’t at your door. Remmick dragged his claws across the window pane, and the thin glass threatened to crack under the pressure of his touch. His shadow loomed from the moonlight, causing his figure to appear on the curtains. You didn’t even think to peek in the corner, in anticipation that he might try to break it open. 

Your breathing turns shallow as you try to think of a plan, but your mind remains blank. There was nowhere to run. Remmick was goading you, seeing what he could get away with before you met your endpoint. He was now on the roof, and the only hint of his footsteps echoing above your head was the ceiling, rickety and creaking under his weight. He was on your Mama’s roof. The haint blue paint covered the front porch, and Nana believed any protection against haints was reasonable. However, you weren’t sure Remmick was a haint, although he seemed restless towards achieving a goal. The problem is that you didn’t know what he wanted. Too afraid to think of what was worse, an aimless monster or a trained predator seeking his prey. 

A tiny rock shot through the wooden door like a bullet, grazing the side of your cheek and drawing a surprised yelp out of you. The hot, stinging sensation was immediate. An inch further to the right, and it would've been over for you. You felt the blood trickle down your face. 

As if it summoned Remmick to move closer to the edges of the house, he yelled out.  His voice is gravelly and urgent with an Irish rasp. “Didn’t mean no harm, just wanted a word, is all. Could we have a talk, yeah?” 

You paused before opening your mouth, “S’alright, it's a tad bit too late to be chattin' up strangers.” 

When he walked up on the sea blue porch, Remmick made it known that he ain't no regular haint. He was something far more sinister. “We both know i'm not no stranger, now do we?” His voice was almost amused, like he savoured the truth you’d tried hard to forget.

You couldn't answer. Your throat had run dry, and your joints signalled you to run, but your feet stayed rooted to the wooden floor. The porch screeched, and then you saw him peek his eye in the hole he had created in the door. 

“Ain’t no need to be afraid now,” he said softly, eyes flicking to the blood still drying on your cheek. “Let me in, sweetheart. Just for a minute.” Remmick’s smile wasn't welcoming, and it was calculated and waiting. “I got all night. But you and I both know… It’s easier when you open the door.” The porch boards groaned beneath his weight as he reached the last step.

“Say yes, and I swear I’ll be gentle.”

The mojo bag pulsed at your wrist like a second heartbeat. He couldn’t cross the threshold unless you let him. And he knew it. Still, he lingered with a purpose. Remmick let the silence stretch for a breath too long, then slipped a small silver flask from his pants pockets. Without breaking eye contact from the makeshift peephole, he popped the cap and poured the liquor steadily across the porch boards, spraying it across where your grandmother used to set out sweet tea and protection jars.

The sharp scent of whiskey hit the air like a warning, and he took a swig of the last drop before putting it back. 

“You know, back in the old days,” Remmick murmured, striking a match against the wooden panels,

“Folks didn’t wait for witches to come out polite.” The flame flared, gold and hungry. He held it close to the wood, just long enough before continuing. “They burned ’em. Said it cleansed the sin. Said it set the spirits free, same thing I overheard you, Mama, chat about.”

He leaned forward, flame dancing in his eyes. “But me? I wanna talk.” He flicked the match to the side onto the grass, not lighting the porch yet. 

But the threat still stood, “open the damn door, girl. Or I’ll let the fire do the askin’.”

You yanked the door open with rage fresh on your face and fury hot in your belly. “Yah, do you think fire scares me?” Your voice was sharp like a knife, waiting to gut whatever it came in contact with. This porch held sacred memories, your grandmother's humming and Sunday prayers. Stepping close to the doorway, close enough for your shadows to meet. 

The way Remmick looked at you like you were some missing piece he’d been hunting for across lifetimes made your skin prickle. It was in his eyes that had seen too many wars, too many deaths, too many rituals performed by candlelight and blood. 

“You think I’d come all this way just for talkin’?” he asked incredulously. “You got what I need, girl. Somethin’ old and powerful.”

He tilted his head, gaze dragging over the mojo bag tied to your wrist with a knowing curiosity, “Your blood carries a name older than yours. And I reckon your ancestors know mine.” A cold wind pushed through the trees, and somewhere, something howled.

You yanked your mojo bag tighter on your wrist, heart pounding but unwavering. “You ain’t the first devil to knock on this porch, Remmick. And you sure as hell won’t be the last.” If you didn't have your grandmother’s house, you had nothing. Your siblings didn’t stick around for long after her heart ran out. But you stayed, gave her the best burial that you could manage out back. You wrapped her in linen and laid her to rest beneath the willow tree out back, the one she always said hummed when spirits passed through.

The Mississippi Delta was your home. All that you've known. Remmick won’t be able to run you out that easily. You’d be damned if he lit your grandmother’s house to nothing but ash, the same way they burned every proof that a Black woman ever owned anything worth keeping.

Every board held a prayer. You could still hear your mama’s voice humming “Wade in the Water��� when she hung herbs to dry.

“I was born on this land,” you said, voice low. “My mama picked cotton ‘til her fingers split. My grandmama kept a roster of every lie the white folks told. They worked this dirt, prayed over it, and died on it. And now you think you gon’ scare me off it?” 

“I ain’t here for no quarrel… unless you make me earn one.” Remmick took one step towards you, stopping short of the doorway, as if it pained him that he couldn’t maneuver his body through. You took a step back in return, more instinct than fear, but he noticed. 

“I remember this place,” he murmured, glancing toward the willow tree. “Your grandmother used to have a heap of rituals for protection, she said. Against things like me.” You felt the chill curl around your spine.

“She knew you?” 

Remmick smiled then, slow and humourless. “Knew of me. Your kin have been dancing with shadows longer than you think.”

“You got her eyes, y’know,” he said. ”That fire in your veins? Your foolish heart? It was hers before it was yours.” He crouched, letting his fingers play with the pool of liquor that he spilled. “Precious blood runs in you,” he said, voice dipping low like a secret. “Same as hers. Same as the ones before her.”

You tried to let the words digest, but your mind has yet to wrap its mind about how a man who doesn’t look a day over thirty knew your bloodline. “Blood that doesn’t just call spirits... it bends ‘em. Breaks ‘em. Feeds ‘em.”

“That’s what your grandmother never told you, right?” His voice softened, almost pitying. “She shielded you as best she could. Wrapped you in prayers and grave dirt. Hid you from the ones who’d drink you dry just to taste a little of that power.”

You didn’t move, didn’t breathe. “But me?” He tapped his chest with two fingers. “I don’t wanna bleed you, baby girl. I want to build with you. You and I could own every acre from here to the Gulf.” He grinned, wide and wolfish, like he could already taste it. "All you gotta do is let me in."

“I ain’t born yesterday, you ain’t welcome ‘round these parts.” You stated.

He got up to his full height, towering over you. His pupils flashed red for a split second. “You ready to burn with me, baby girl?” In a flash, before you could blink, he got out his pack of matches and lit one. Remmick struck the match against his boot. A hiss, a flare of orange, and then he pressed the little flame to the porch rail. The old wood caught instantly, hungry after so many dry seasons. Flames licked upward, low but fast. 

Your rage was insurmountable, but something profound inside you shivered awake. The air around you shifted, thickened, heavy with the copper scent of stirred magic. The flare that had just begun to spread stuttered. The wood blackened but refused to break. The fire coiled on itself, guttering, whining that it's been trapped. 

Remmick’s eyes narrowed, watching. “There it is,” he said, a rough purr. “Knew you had it in you.” As he stepped back from the smouldering porch, the matchbook dangled from his fingers.

“You ain't just your grandma’s girl,” he murmured. “You're a goddamn birthright walking.” You barely heard him. The power in your body pulsed once, twice, a rhythm as old as the Delta itself. And though the fire still flickered at your doorstep, it did not touch you. The fire roared where Remmick had pressed it to the porch rail, growing faster than it should have. The flame that stuttered moments ago now surged, as if your blood had called to it, but you hadn’t meant to, and you didn't know how.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. If you stayed at your grandmother’s house, the last piece of her you had would be transformed into nothing more than the dirt and ash that filled your mojo bags.

A harsh sob broke from your throat as you yanked your bag tighter and slammed the door shut before charging out the back door, sprinting off and taking that last leap into the heavy night. Behind you, the fire roared louder, and somewhere in the crackling din, you swore you heard Remmick laughing triumphantly.

The ground shivered under your feet as you ran, and the willow tree at the back of the yard, which was your grandmother’s grave, hummed as you sprinted past it. Before you felt him creep up behind you, you barely made it off the land and already stepped into a current too strong to fight. The fire behind you spat and snapped, the light throwing his silhouette in sharp, devilish relief.

"Thought you could outrun it?" he drawled, voice like velvet dragged over gravel. "Outrun me?" He pushed off the tree, slow and sure, that lazy grin stretching across his face, it was hard to ignore how tempting the Devil looked then. There was a hunger in his eyes that was dark and sharp; he was a man stepping up to claim something he’d already marked as his. Remmick moved with a raw, predatory grace, the kind of man who didn’t need to chase. 

Broad shoulders strained the worn fabric of his shirt, with sleeves rolled to the elbows, exposing forearms dusted with old scars and new sins. His jaw was sharp, stubbled, and dangerous, and that mouth was full, crooked, and parted just enough to flash the sharp gleam of his elongated canines. Lord, his eyes burned with something hungrier than lust, pupils blown wide, rimmed in a glow that no mortal could ever have.

"You can feel it, can’t you?" he said, closing the distance in unhurried strides. There was magic in your blood, old and defiant, and it screamed at you to ward him off, salt the earth he walked on, and spit in his wicked, beautiful face. But another part that knew loneliness, quivered toward him like a smoker starved for air. “Mmmm,” he said. “You’re overthinking, sugar.”

He stepped closer, the tip of one claw tracing lazy circles in the space between you. “Thinking gets you killed.” Before you could answer, he flicked the matchbook in his hand and tossed a lit match into the dry brush at the yard's edge.

Fire bloomed, crackling and eager, a rough circle hemming you both in. “Could you fucking stop lightin shit on fire?” He's destroying everything that he sees with his touch. 

“You wanna run so bad?” Remmick asked, fangs fully bared, cruel and gleaming. "Let’s make it interesting." He licked his thumb, snuffed out the match he'd struck, deliberately never taking his eyes off you. "You've got ’til the count of three." The thrill of the hunt made Remmick excited.

The heat behind you pulsed like a heartbeat. Flames curled at the yard's edges, circling in toward the house but not touching it. They were waiting for his command. And in the middle of it all, Remmick stood like the conductor of some unholy symphony.

“Before we play,” he said in a low and sweet tone, “I want you to know what you agree to.” He circled you as he spoke.

“You run,” he murmured, pausing just behind your ear. “And I chase.”

You swallowed hard, and it felt like something was lodged in your throat. “If I catch you before the sun touches your porch, you’re mine. Fully. Not just your blood. Not just your gift. You.”

He came back around to face you, his gaze pinning you like a hand to the neck, not violent, just sure of its power. “No more hiding behind salt lines. No more prayers whispered in your sleep. You gone let me into that little heart wrapped in bones and grief.” He leaned in, forehead nearly brushing yours.

“And I’ll teach you what your grandmother never did. What your mama was too scared to face. I’ll open every locked door inside you and let the fire run wild.”

You shivered, despite the warmth licking at your ankles. “And if I don’t catch you…” He said, stepping back now, hands open like he was offering peace. “Then I walk away. No tricks. I won’t cross your land again, unless you ask for me.”

He gestured toward the tree line, just beyond the fence. The woods had never looked so dark.

“But,” He tipped his head,  “You’ll never make it ‘til dawn.” 

It took everything in you to turn your back on him and map out a plan, because your survival depended on it. Even if you didn’t make it past dawn you were going to try your damn hardest to put up a fight. Wasting your breath on conversation wasn’t going to make him spare you.

Behind you, Remmick’s voice followed, "One..."

part ii | taglist | @marley1773 @iheartamora @childishgambinaax @klssngss @remmickcherie @sinnersappreciation

[mandoalorian]

a body to break against [bucky barnes x f!reader]

pairing: new avenger!bucky x f!reader

synopsis: a night of chinese food, shots, and unexpected camaraderie with the new avengers forces you to confront your place on the team, and it's especially difficult with bucky’s stare lingering on you.

word count: 6200

warnings: 18+ for eventual smut, enemies to lovers, thunderbolts* spoilers, alcohol consumption, mention of family member death, details of physical and emotional abuse, grumpy!bucky, avengers tower fic

masterlist

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You didn’t know what woke you. Maybe it was the absence of weight in the air. Or maybe it was the silence—thick and undisturbed, like something had finally shifted. For a moment, you lay still beneath the blanket, eyes fixed on the ceiling, waiting for the storm to return.

But it didn’t.

You stepped out of the room barefoot, expecting to find Bucky Barnes still haunting the apartment like some cold draft. Instead, the kitchen was empty. The chair he’d claimed last night was vacant, the beer bottle gone. His presence, which had been so sharp and intrusive, had vanished.

And you were relieved.

Until a voice startled you from the table. “Morning,” it said — warm, casual. You turned your head and saw him.

He was younger than you expected. Messy curls, soft features, and a grin that looked like it came easy. Joaquin Torres.

He waved a spatula at you. “Sam said you might be up soon. I made eggs. Hope you’re not vegan.”

You hesitated in the doorway, unsure how to exist in a space that felt suddenly… normal. And then, because your stomach growled before you could think of an excuse, you nodded and stepped in.

Joaquin talked about the grocery store being out of oat milk again, about some neighbour who kept confusing him with his own cousin, and about music. He didn't ask who you were or why you were here. That made it easier.

You ate quietly, letting the rhythm of his voice fill the silence.

When Sam walked in, the room changed. Not with tension—not like it had with Bucky—but with a kind of quiet awareness. He froze in the doorway when he saw you sitting at the table, a plate of half-eaten eggs in front of you, a rare flicker of something soft brushing across his face before he caught it and cleared his throat.

“Morning,” he said, nodding.

You nodded back, unsure if you were more startled by how natural this felt… or by the way Sam looked at you. Like he was trying not to look too long.

He joined you at the table, grabbed a coffee, and the three of you sat like a real group of roommates — almost.

But even as you smiled faintly at something Joaquin said, you felt it: Sam was watching you more closely than before. Like he wanted to say something, he hadn’t quite found the right words for.

The eggs were almost gone. Joaquin had started poking fun at your lack of hot sauce tolerance, making exaggerated wheezing noises every time you reached for your water. You rolled your eyes, but the amusement was genuine — fleeting, but real.

Sam watched the exchange with a half-smile, arms crossed, leaning back in his chair like he was cataloguing something in his mind.

“Hey, Joaquin?” he said suddenly, voice steady but layered.

Joaquin glanced over, a piece of toast halfway to his mouth. “Yeah, Cap?”

“Can we get a minute?”

Joaquin blinked. Then his eyes flicked between the two of you, his expression comically exaggerated. “Ooooh. Private talk. Say no more.”

You raised a brow. “It’s not—”

He was already standing. “Hey, I support emotionally mature conversations. You want me to pretend I didn’t hear anything, I will. You want me to eavesdrop through the wall, also doable.”

“Joaquin,” Sam said, a warning threaded through the name.

“Going, going,” Joaquin grinned, walking backwards toward the hall. “If either of you cry, I want a full recap.”

You huffed a breath through your nose. Sam waited until the bedroom door clicked shut, and the apartment fell quiet again. Then he turned back to you.

He leaned his elbows on the table, hands laced together.

“I opened my home to you,” he said quietly. “I gave you a safe place. I know it’s only your second day here, but you know I’m on your side. I need two favours from you. I want you to know, they aren’t conditional. You don’t have to answer. You’ll still have a home here, for as long as you need, until you get back on your feet. But I also need you to consider doing the right thing.”

You looked at your plate, then slowly lifted your gaze to meet his.

“I need the truth,” he said. “About your powers.”

You didn’t say anything at first. Just sat with it. The truth. The weight of it. The danger in it. Sam was right. You knew what the right thing was. You knew he deserved to hear it. 

You swallowed. “I’ve had them… for as long as I can remember.”

Sam didn’t blink.

“Most of the time, it’s just…” You hesitated, unsure how to put it into words that wouldn’t make you sound unhinged—crazy, even. “I can see people’s emotions. Auras. I can feel things — what’s coming, what’s hidden. It’s instinct, but stronger. Like… something crawling under my skin.”

“And the rest of the time?”

You met his eyes.

“Sometimes I spiral,” you said. “Sometimes it’s not just reading emotions. Sometimes I feel this… surge. A force. I can predict people. Their moves. Their lies. I can see through them. And if it gets loud. Too loud…I…”

Sam leaned back a little. Not away — just adjusting. Digesting.

“Have you ever hurt anyone with it?”

You didn’t answer.

That silence was enough.

Sam looked down, nodding once. Then he spoke, voice calm but weighted. “There’s a war in space.”

Your eyes narrowed.

“The New Avengers know. Joaquin knows. The government knows. It’s not public, and it’s not simple, but it’s coming. And if it’s already happening above the atmosphere, it could be a matter of days—weeks, even, before it comes to Earth. We don’t have enough people ready for what’s next. And I need all the help I can get.”

You stared at him. “So this is a recruitment speech?”

“This is me telling you the truth. Which leads to my second favour…” He leaned forward again, tone shifting into something firmer, something that settled into your bones. “I don’t want to sign Bucky’s peace treaty. I don’t trust it. But we both know I’m going to do it. For the greater good. Because we don’t have time for egos,” He paused. “And I’m asking you to do the same. Join us.”

You folded your arms across your chest, more for comfort than defiance.

“You want me to be an Avenger?” You bit your lip, looking down at the table. The proposition made your stomach twist with unspoken anxiety. 

“Have you ever wanted to be more?” Sam asked softly. “Because now’s your chance. You’ve already survived so much. But if you step up, you won’t be alone anymore. You’ll have purpose.”

You looked at him. The man who’d picked you up off the street and offered you warmth and protection. A home.

“I’m not a hero,” you said quietly.

Being an Avenger was your brother's dream, not yours.

Sam smiled, just a little. “Neither was I. Until Steve gave me the chance to be. Now, I’m giving you that chance.”

You didn’t answer right away. But something shifted in your chest. The tiniest spark of belief.

And when Sam stood and grabbed the treaty folder from the counter, you didn’t stop him.

You watched him sign it.

And for the first time in a long time, you wondered what it would feel like to stop running — and start becoming.

────✪────

The ride to Avengers Tower was quiet—not tense, but contemplative. Sam sat in the front, flipping through the treaty folder. You didn’t get a chance to read it for yourself, but you had gathered that they were filled with terms authored by Valentina Allegra de Fontaine herself, chairman of O.X.E. and figurehead of the New Avengers. You remembered yesterday, Sam’s passing comment about her being Bucky’s girlfriend. 

That had to have been a joke. 

Joaquin, in the backseat beside you, kept trying to lighten the mood with whispered jokes and dramatic gasps every time the tower came into view.

“Ever been in the Tower before?” he asked, nudging you.

You shook your head. “No, this is all very new to me.”

“Oh,” he said, eyes wide. “Brace yourself. It's like a reality show in there. But with superpowers and less shame. Maybe.”

“Torres, you haven’t even been to the tower before,” Sam snickered, shaking his head. Joaquin’s cheeks flushed a dusty pink, and you quirked an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Forgive me for trying to impress the lady,” Joaquin grumbled. “Okay, I’ve never been, but I’ve heard a lot about it.”

“I imagine it’s very different now, compared to what it was like when I lived there with Tony, Steve and the rest of them.”

“I would have loved to be part of that.” Joaquin hummed, his eyes filled with dream and longing.

“Yeah, it wasn’t so bad.” Sam reflected with a small smile upon his lips.

The car pulled up to the glass entrance, sleek and towering, the A emblazoned above the doors like a warning more than a welcome. Security scanned your faces — or rather, Sam’s — and let you in.

Inside, it was exactly as Joaquin promised.

Before you could say a word, someone shouted.

“Yelena, stop putting gum in John’s helmet!”

“I’m conducting an experiment!”

“Your experiment almost took out my peripheral vision!”

“Maybe use your brain instead of your biceps for once, huh?”

From across the lobby, a burly man with a strong Russian accent called out, “Does anyone know where I put my beer? It is emotional support.”

You blinked.

Sam sighed beside you. “Welcome to the New Avengers.”

A woman with sharp, blonde hair and electric blue eyeliner passed by, muttering under her breath and typing furiously into a tablet. “I swear to God if Bob drops those milkshakes again—”

Right on cue, a clatter, broken glass and milkshake all over the pinewood floor. Bob, you assumed, stood with wide eyes, examining the mess he had made with an almost delayed response. Again? This wasn’t the first time he had done this?

“Why did you even make so many milkshakes?” Yelena sighed, already grabbing a mop to clean the mess.

“Bucky said we might have guests,” Bob replied, looking genuinely disappointed that his time making milkshakes had been wasted.

“Oh my god,” you murmured.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Joaquin whispered, clearly delighted.

And then, amidst the chaos, a familiar figure appeared — Bucky Barnes. Standing at the top of the stairs in full tactical gear, arms folded, jaw tight. His eyes swept over the three of you, stopping on you for half a second longer than necessary.

He descended slowly, calculated and unreadable.

“Nice of you to show,” he said to Sam. “Been waiting.”

Sam held up the signed treaty. “Got what you wanted.”

Bucky didn’t smile. But he did take the folder, nodding once.

Then his eyes returned to you. Just for a breath.

You met his gaze and said nothing.

Because whatever this was — truce, alliance, manipulation — it wasn’t over. And Bucky Barnes wasn’t just an Avenger.

He was your enemy.

And now you were on his team.

Bucky led the three of you through a winding corridor of glass and steel, toward a meeting room tucked behind reinforced doors. He hadn’t said a word since taking the treaty, and you were fine with that. The less you had to hear his voice, the better.

Still, you could feel his presence — heavy, watchful, tense. And it made your skin crawl.

Joaquin gave you a sympathetic look as the doors closed behind the four of you. “This feels like being summoned to the principal’s office,” he whispered, earning a glare from Bucky that only made him grin wider. “Yup, confirmed.”

Sam ignored them both and took a seat at the table, gesturing for you to do the same. You hesitated — only a beat — before sitting across from Bucky. He opened the folder and flipped through the pages, then set it aside.

“The team’s unstable,” Bucky said bluntly, addressing Sam. “We’re barely functioning. Half the government wants to shut us down. The other half wants to use us as weapons. This treaty… it’s not just a co-leadership agreement. It’s our last shot at legitimacy.”

Sam nodded. “That’s why I signed it. But you know, I still don’t trust the system behind it. This whole thing is like the Accords all over again. Everything that we fought against.”

“I was on Steve’s side that day, regardless of his beliefs. I didn’t care for the politics. Kinda had my own shit going on.” Bucky sighed, running his metal hand through his wavy hair. The metallic black caught a sliver of light and sparkled under the afternoon sun. 

“Which is how it’s always been,” Sam frowned. There was that look again. The betrayal. If you hadn’t known any better, you might have thought that Sam and Bucky were ex-lovers, going through the breakup of the century. The tension in the room was sharper than a knife. “You saying you’re okay with being under the control of Val, Congressman?”

“No. No. And I’m not a Congressman anymore,” Bucky corrected like it was an extremely important detail he had to defend himself from. “You know me. You know what I’m trying to do here.”

Sam nodded briefly, something in his face softening. You read his aura, and it glowed with faith. Belief. Hope. “I still don't trust this.”

“I don’t either,” Bucky admitted. “But I trust you.”

Silence settled between them. You watched closely — the decades of history between them pressing into every glance, every pause. There was something unspoken there. Something heavy.

“Then let’s get to work,” Sam said. “She’s in.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to you again. “You sure?”

You crossed your arms. “I didn’t come all this way to sit on the bench.”

“Good,” Bucky muttered, standing. “You start training tomorrow. Physical and tactical.”

“With you?” you asked, unable to keep the disdain out of your voice.

“Problem?”

You gave him a tight smile. “Guess I’ll just have to lower my expectations.”

He stared at you, unreadable, before turning to leave.

Sam caught your gaze as the door closed behind him. “He’s rough around the edges,” he said. “But he means well.”

You didn’t respond. Because it didn’t matter what he meant.

You had a personal mission. And this was only the beginning.

You were still sitting at the conference table when the door slammed open like a bad sitcom entrance.

“Lena said she’s ordering Chinese food,” Bob announced, stepping inside with the grace of a golden retriever on roller skates. “Anyone staying for dinner?”

Joaquin leaned forward immediately. “Does that include dumplings? Because if so—hell yes.”

Sam chuckled under his breath. “I could eat.”

You hesitated, eyes flicking to the door that Bucky left from. You were still recovering from sharing air with the man, let alone sweet and sour chicken.

But... maybe you needed to see what you were up against.

“Sure,” you murmured.

Bob smiled. “Great. Fun. Exciting. Oh! I can make you a milkshake too, if you’d like. I can do vanilla or chocolate, or strawberry. But not banana. They don’t blend properly because John freezes them. And come to think of it, someone keeps hiding the strawberries from me.”

“What do you mean, someone is hiding the strawberries from you?” Sam asked, puzzled with a hint of mild concern. Not concerned for the strawberries, but for Bob. 

“I’ve said too much,” Bob stilled. “Gotta run!”

And with that, he was gone, practically leaving an air of smoke behind him. 

“I can’t believe this is the team Bucky formed,” Sam sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Right?” Joaquin grinned, his brown eyes gleaming with excitement. “I can’t wait to get to know everyone.”

────✪────

When the sun set, The Avengers Tower common room looked more like a college dorm—empty takeout containers already littered the table, and someone (Alexei) had managed to crack a fortune cookie clean in half before opening it.

You were seated on the oversized sectional with a plate of noodles in your lap, wedged between Yelena—who kept stealing your spring rolls with zero shame—and Joaquin, who had already named three different sauces after himself and started rating them out loud.

“I call this one ‘Torres Tang,’” he said, holding up a little cup of neon orange sauce. “Sweet with a kick. Just like me.”

Bob laughed so hard he choked on his dumpling. Ava handed him a bottle of water without looking up from her phone.

Sam had taken the big armchair like some kind of dad overseeing chaos. Bucky sat at the edge of the couch, mostly silent, mostly brooding, chopsticks barely touched.

And somehow, somehow, it didn’t feel as tense anymore. You were still wary. Still watching him. But the noise helped. The food helped.

Empty, grease-stained boxes were scattered about, chopsticks poked out of rice bowls at odd angles, and someone had already spilt duck sauce on the rug (Bob, according to Yelena, who’d ratted him out instantly).

You were half-listening as Alexei brought over a full bottle of vodka—his contribution to the evening.

“Let’s make it fun,” he said, plopping it down with a loud thud. “One shot for every ‘Never Have I Ever.’ If you have, you drink. If you lie, I will know.”

“Dad… this is so weird.” Yelena groaned, squeezing her eyes shut.

“You're terrifying,” Joaquin said with an impressed whistle, already reaching for a shot glass.

Alexei didn’t use one. He took a clean swig from the bottle and grinned like it was water.

You blinked.

“Jesus,” you muttered under your breath. “Is that even safe?”

“No,” Ava answered without looking up from her phone. “But here we are.”

“Russia’s finest,” Alexei smirked, licking his lips. “Me, not the Vodka. I got this from Walmart,” He nudged you, and you looked at him with a hardened yet confused expression. “I was Russia’s answer to Captain America, you know? They call me the Red Guardian,” He flexed his bicep. “Touch it.”

“I uh—“ you glanced around the room. Yelena looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole. Bucky watched, his stare unreadable as usual. And Joaquin was beaming, amused, like this was the most entertaining thing he had ever seen. “No, thank you.”

“One day, you will touch it,” Alexei smiled, proud. “100 percent super soldier serum coursing through my veins. You see how I am much bigger than these two?” He gestured to John and Bucky. “That’s the vodka.”

“The serum actually went to his head and made him delusional,” John said pointedly. “I can bench press 600kg. Nice to meet you.” He extended a hand for you to shake, but you just looked at it, speechless and slightly disturbed.

“Can you guys stop being so odd, you’re gonna make her run away,” Ava warned before mouthing an ‘I’m sorry’ in your direction. You smiled, grateful for her comfort. 

You had no plans on running away, and in all honesty, you weren’t really that creeped out. You’d dealt with a lot worse, like Shane and some of the men who frequented McCready’s bar. Because of that, you were quick to realise that these guys were no more than just a simple group of harmless misfits. And for the first time, you felt like you could fit in with them. Besides, you were certainly confident that they weren’t going to harm you, and that counted for something. 

Everyone settled into positions on the sectional. Sam had taken a seat in the armchair, casually draped like he wasn’t watching every interaction in the room. But you felt it. The way his gaze drifted to you more than once. Not heavy, not unwelcome — just steady. Soft. Like he was trying to read you.

And then there was Bucky Barnes, sitting across from you.

His drink was untouched at first. But when Alexei took his second swig, Bucky gave a quiet sigh and knocked his own shot back. No flinch. No change in expression. You had no idea what kind of alcohol tolerance came with a super soldier serum, but whatever it was, it was intimidating.

“Okay!” Yelena bounced beside you, already a little flushed, a little chaotic. “Never Have I Ever—uh—crashed a government vehicle!”

You stared as Bob, Bucky, Sam, Joaquin, and Alexei all drank.

“Seriously?” you asked.

Sam gave you a sheepish shrug. “It happens.”

“More often than it should,” Ava muttered.

“I’ve never even driven a government vehicle.” You revealed, almost feeling a little left out. 

“Don’t worry,” Yelena grinned at you. “You’ll get there.”

Another round.

“Never have I ever... kissed a teammate,” Ava said, a coy little smile playing on her lips.

Joaquin drank immediately.

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

He didn’t explain. Joaquin just leaned into you and whispered, “Regret nothing.”

You didn’t drink. But you did feel two sets of eyes on you.

Sam’s—quiet, full of something like concern or curiosity.

And Bucky’s.

His was different. His stare settled against your skin like a spark. It crawled across your collarbone, dragged over your throat, and stayed. Hot and unmoving. You didn’t dare look back.

You felt your face warm — maybe from the shot, maybe from something else.

“I need another drink,” you muttered and reached for the bottle.

“Atta girl,” Joaquin said, clinking his glass against yours. “Let’s ruin our livers together.”

You laughed. Too loud. You were getting tipsy, and Yelena wasn’t helping — giggling as she told stories about “murder yoga” and missions gone wrong. Joaquin kept the mood light, telling stories about Sam and Red-Wing. 

“Who’s Red-Wing?” You asked with a slight stumble over your words.

“Oh, you’re gonna love him, he’s adorable.” Sam beamed proudly.

“He’s like… your dog?” 

Joaquin laughed at your suggestion.  

“No! He’s my surveillance and reconnaissance drone!” Sam answered, taking a swig of beer, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Even John Walker got into the discussion, though he was a loud, cocky drunk. Every time he spoke, you wanted to toss an egg roll at his head.

Alexei, on the other hand, drank like a man built to survive nuclear winters. You were genuinely impressed he was still upright. He did, however, disappear to pee every ten minutes.

And somehow, Bucky had knocked back three shots without blinking. But he had been so quiet all night. You wondered if this was normal for him. 

When it was your turn, you found yourself blurting it out before thinking:

“Never have I ever… felt like I belonged on a team.”

The room went still for a beat too long.

Everyone drank, except you.

Yelena bumped your arm. “That’s because you haven’t had us yet. These guys aren’t just team mates, they’re family. And we hope that, now you join us, you'll feel the same.”

You smiled. A little. But your fingers tightened around your glass.

You wanted to believe her.

And as your eyes flicked across the room—to the quiet kindness in Sam’s, to the electric weight of Bucky’s—you wondered if, for once, you finally might.

The chaos had dulled. Yelena had passed out sideways on the couch, her braid tangled in a takeout box. Ava and Alexei disappeared an hour ago—something about a chessboard and bad Russian soap operas. Bob wandered off humming a lullaby in a different language.

Sam was at the door, pulling on his jacket while Joaquin tried to find both his shoes.

“I told you to keep them on,” Sam muttered, exasperated.

“They were cramping my style,” Joaquin replied, wobbling dramatically with one sock on. “Besides, Yelena dared me to do a split.”

Sam gave you a look like this is my life now.

You grinned, maybe a little dazed, leaning back against the counter in the kitchen. The vodka had crept up on you with slow fingers, leaving your limbs warm and your thoughts fuzzy around the edges. You weren’t drunk, but you were hovering somewhere on the ledge between honesty and recklessness.

“You good?” Sam asked softly, his voice low so the others wouldn’t hear.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just need to cool off. And maybe drink a gallon of water.”

Sam gave your shoulder a squeeze, lingering just a second longer than necessary. “Don’t disappear tonight.”

You blinked. “I won’t.”

“Good,” he said, but his eyes lingered, warm and heavy. Like he was seeing more than you wanted him to. “Call me if you need anything. You know that, right?”

You nodded again, trying to pretend you didn’t feel the heat of his hand even after he let go.

Joaquin blew you a kiss on his way out. “Don’t let the assassin bite.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re thinking of Yelena.”

“Same energy,” he called, already halfway out the door.

The apartment fell quiet.

And then you realized you weren’t alone.

You turned — and found him there.

Bucky Barnes.

Leaning against the fridge, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.

You stiffened.

Of course he’d be the last one standing.

The buzz of alcohol still coursed through you, making everything feel a little lighter, a little less sharp. You weren’t sure if it was the drink or the chaotic energy of the night, but your mind had begun to drift in and out of clarity.

You slid off the counter, intending to steady yourself, but the room suddenly tilted, and you stumbled forward, your feet tangled up in the wayward stretch of your own legs.

Before you could hit the ground, there was a hand on your arm, warm and steady. Then another, pulling you back up with an ease that made your stomach flip. His chest was hard beneath your palm, his muscles flexing as he adjusted his grip, the heat of his body surrounding you like a wall.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you instinctively pressed your hand a little firmer against him, your fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt, feeling the warmth and strength underneath. He smelled like soap, leather, and something faintly metallic — unmistakable.

You slowly looked up, meeting his eyes, and for a split second, you forgot where you were. The intensity of his gaze—blues that seemed to see right through you—made your heart flutter uncomfortably. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t look away.

"Got you," he muttered, steadying you, his voice low.

You swallowed, suddenly aware of how close you were to him. How alive you felt in the space between you.

There was a moment of stillness. A breath.

"Are you... reading my aura?" he asked, his voice quieter now, though it carried a hint of teasing.

You tilted your head, eyes locking onto him, your lips parting slightly. "No, I'm just looking at you."

The words came out before you could stop them, and immediately, the flush of heat spread across your face. You couldn’t take your eyes off him. The way his muscles moved beneath his shirt when he adjusted his hold, how his eyes flickered for a second—soft, startled. Almost shy.

And then, just like that, you saw it. The faintest blush creeping up his neck. His cheeks flushed a soft pink, and for the first time tonight, he seemed... off-balance. The man who had walked into every room like he owned it, now suddenly unsure of himself. It felt like power. Like control slipping through his fingers.

You couldn’t help but smirk at that, though your head spun slightly, making it harder to focus.

"Didn't mean to make you self-conscious," you said, your voice a little slurred.

Bucky laughed softly, shaking his head. "No... you didn’t. Just... wasn't expecting that."

You both stood there for a beat, caught in the weird energy hanging between you. He still hadn’t let go, though you didn’t know if it was because you were still too wobbly to stand or because he was hesitant to break the tension. Either way, you didn’t pull away. The air felt thick, charged, and you could sense it—there was something about him that made you feel like you were about to do something you weren’t quite ready for.

But then, in a sudden shift, Bucky cleared his throat, letting go of your arm but standing close enough that you could still feel the heat radiating from him.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped forward, opened the fridge, and pulled out a cold bottle of water. He held it out to you without a word.

You eyed it like it might explode.

“I’m not gonna poison you,” he said flatly.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Reluctantly, you took the bottle from his hand. Your fingers brushed his glove. Static popped between your skin. You pulled back too fast.

“Thanks,” you muttered.

Bucky didn’t move. He just watched you twist the cap, take a long sip, and then wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. You could feel his eyes on you. Focused. Cautious.

Like he was trying to piece you together.

“I guess tonight we learned that you shouldn’t mix vodka and Chinese food,” he murmured.

“Smartass. I’m fine. You sound like an Avenger,” you shot back. You weren’t even sure what you meant by that, or where the relevance was. Maybe you were also reminding yourself that you were an Avenger now, too.

“I am one.” He deadpanned.

“Yeah. Unfortunately.” You sighed.

He flinched—just a flicker of something in his jaw, something regretful—but didn’t fight you on it.

“You still hate me,” he said.

You looked away. “I haven’t decided.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

The silence stretched, soft and brittle.

You hated how nice the water felt. How steady he was, even when you didn’t want to trust him. He hadn’t tried anything. He hadn’t said anything clever or smug. Just… stood there. Let you exist in your tired, tipsy state without pushing.

“I can get you a cab,” he offered after a moment. “Or you can crash here. We’ve got spare rooms.”

“Why are you being so—” you stopped. Swallowed. “Why are you trying to take care of me?”

He held your gaze. “I just… I don’t know,” he looked away. “We’re family now. And family takes care of each other.”

Your throat tightened.

You wanted to say something cruel. Wanted to twist the knife, remind him of your brother, of what he did.

But the words wouldn’t come.

Because you didn’t feel like spiralling tonight.

Not when he looked at you like that.

Bucky hadn’t moved. You were still clutching the cold water bottle like it was a lifeline, and for once, he didn’t feel like a threat. Just a quiet presence, filling the silence without demanding anything from you.

You hated how easy it was to let your shoulders relax around him.

“I guess I’m just not used to this,” you muttered.

He tilted his head slightly. “Used to what?”

“Someone… noticing,” you said, voice low, almost embarrassed.

His blue eyes softened.

“I don’t need it, by the way,” you added quickly. “I’ve been fine on my own.”

Unlike Sam, Bucky didn’t contradict you. Didn’t say that doesn’t sound fine.

He just stayed quiet.

You didn’t look at him when you spoke again. “You’re not what I expected.”

He raised a brow. “Cold-blooded killer with a vibranium arm and a brooding attitude?”

“That’s not… entirely wrong,” you smirked faintly, despite yourself. “But you’re less of an asshole than I imagined.”

He chuckled, just once. A real one, deep and unexpected. “High praise.”

You took another drink of your water. Bucky watched. “What kind of name is Bucky, anyway? It’s kind of dumb.”

“My name is James,” He revealed, and something in you shifted at the revelation. A sliver of his personal life. “My sister was called Rebecca, and we called her Becky. My middle name is Buchanan, so my folks called me Bucky. Becky and Bucky.”

You felt your heart stop in your chest. “You have a sister?”

“Had,” Bucky corrected. “Being 111 years old means I don’t really have much family left.”

“Oh," Ditto. "So you’re really old. Like, older than my grandpa…”

Bucky frowned. 

“Do super soldiers die?” You pondered out loud.

“Yeah, sometimes.”

“How does one kill a super soldier?” You giggled through the water bottle, enjoying the sudden confidence that the alcohol had instilled in you.

“You’ve had way too much vodka,” Bucky huffed under his breath, extending his hand and having it hover over your shoulder, like he was afraid to touch you.

“No, no no no, trust me, if I were sober I’d be asking the same questions.” You laughed harder this time. Bucky stood there, watching you, confused, but then he finally let his hand rest upon you, and you let out a sigh you didn’t know you were holding in. 

"Come on," he said, a little more briskly, though his voice had the same softness as before. "Let's get you to bed. You need water."

You blinked, still a little dizzy, but nodded. "I’m fine," you protested, but the words felt like they slipped out half-heartedly.

He raised an eyebrow. "Sure you are."

The two of you walked quietly back into the living room, but you didn’t miss the way his hand floated just a little too close to your back, as though it might reach out again if you needed it.

But you didn’t need it. Or did you?

You weren’t sure.

You followed him down the corridor. The tower was dim, most of the lights on a motion sensor timer. You could still hear someone’s snores echoing faintly—probably Alexei, given the volume.

He stopped at a door and opened it for you. The room was surprisingly cozy. Not lavish, just… calm. A bed with fresh sheets, folded blankets, and a little chair by the window. It felt untouched, like it was waiting for you.

You stepped inside, but before you could say goodnight, Bucky’s voice followed you.

“Training starts at six.”

You turned, narrowing your eyes. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious,” he said. “You want to stay on the team, you train with me. Early.”

You groaned, already regretting everything.

“Water’s on the nightstand,” he added, nodding toward it. “And Tylenol in the drawer. You’re gonna want it.”

You didn’t thank him. Not out loud.

But you lingered in the doorway.

“Why are you like this?” you asked, quieter than before.

He looked at you, confused. “Like what?”

“Careful. Thoughtful. Like you’re trying to be better.”

He paused for a long time.

“Because I have to be,” he said. “If I’m not, then I’m just him again.”

Your breath caught. You didn’t have to ask who him was.

He turned to leave, but then hesitated.

“I see the way Sam looks at you,” he said, voice tight. “It’s not just a teammate thing.”

You blinked. That was the last thing you expected him to say.

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Sam looks at everyone like that.”

“No,” Bucky said. “He doesn’t.”

You didn’t answer. Just stepped into the room and let the door click shut between you.

But even after you lay down, curled into the strange sheets and tried to close your eyes, you could still feel Bucky’s voice in the room with you.

And the strange, unwelcome comfort that came with it.

Bucky closed the door to his own room with a quiet click.

He leaned back against it, exhaled slowly, and raked a hand through his hair. The dim light from the hallway disappeared under the seam of the door, and for a moment, he stood there in silence. Listening. Thinking.

You.

God, you were loud in his head.

He moved across the room, sat on the edge of the bed like he was waiting for something to pass—some thought, some feeling—but it didn’t. It just kept building.

The way your lips had curled, tired but amused, when he’d handed you that bottle of water. That small smile like it wasn’t supposed to be there.

The way you looked tonight—dressed in soft cotton and drunk warmth, all fire and fight and something almost tender.

You had a sharp tongue. You didn’t hide your disdain for him. In fact, you wore it like perfume—thick and impossible to ignore.

But he saw the way your expression faltered when you thought no one was looking. The heaviness behind your posture. The moments where you softened, briefly, like you didn’t know how to hold it together anymore.

And your eyes—those damn eyes. Always reading. Always pulling more out of him than he gave.

He hated that.

He hated how much he noticed you. Hated how it pulled something out of him he didn’t have a name for.

You hated him. You should hate him.

And maybe that’s what made it worse. That he knew he didn’t deserve anything else.

But still…

Still, when he closed his eyes, it was your face he saw.

The tilt of your head. The sliver of skin at your collarbone. The sound of your laugh—rare, unpredictable.

He sat back on the bed and dragged a hand down his face.

“This is stupid,” he muttered to himself.

Feelings were messy. Dangerous. They clouded judgment. He didn’t want to want anything—not peace, not forgiveness, and definitely not you.

But wanting had a way of sneaking in. Quiet and slow and relentless.

He lay back on the bed, arm draped over his eyes, heart beating too loud in the stillness.

Tomorrow, he’d train you. Tomorrow, he’d look at you and pretend none of this mattered.

But tonight… he couldn’t stop thinking about the way you felt when you stumbled into his chest.

So, so stupid.

You hated him, and he hated you.

Or, he hated being hated by you.

────✪────

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[ssa-dado]

Backshots... Back Pain, Sorry

Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: SMUTTY smut kind of smut. Fluff if you're a freak. Summary: It starts with a back massage, ends with your face in a pillow and Hotch scolding you mid-thrust for arching your back incorrectly. You’d argue, but it’s hard to speak when he’s fixing your posture with his [REDACTED] Warnings: MDNI (established... whatever this is, oral [f!receiving, brief mentions of m!receiving], unprotected p-in-v bc we live on the edge [♫ of glory ♫]), age gap, casual oopsie choking, accidental-but-not-really voyeurism, Hotch is pussy-whipped af but somehow still is a patronizing piece of shit, mentions of Jack (sorry Jack) Word Count: 6.6k Dado's Corner: Phi attempting the “Don’t write Hotch like a pathetic bottom after humiliating him in 30 Seconds” challenge: lasted a strong 30.5 seconds. Proofreading brought to u by Dr. Bin @hotchology PhD

masterlist

The first thought you had when you saw how big Aaron’s hands were was not, (un)surprisingly, that they’d be perfect for back massages.

That was probably your second thought.

Because your first was… well, that those thick fingers looked suspiciously well-suited for another kind of activity involving a lot more curling and a lot more work from his middle and ring finger.

Still.

Now – naked (just the top half, because he insisted. Something about how deep tissue massage works better on bare skin and some other pseudoscientific bullshit you’re trying very hard not to sexualize)- lying face down and completely at his mercy, you have to admit:

He’s freakishly good at the massage thing too.

Also, the noises coming out of your mouth are quite similar anyway.

Same pitch. Same breathlessness. Same “Yes, that’s the spot, sweetheart - like that?” murmured behind you in that pompous gravelly chuckle that does absolutely nothing to help you separate the two scenarios.

At least this time, it’s his thumbs digging into the knot just under your shoulder blades and not… well. Other places.

You don’t know how he does it.

It’s awful. It’s amazing. It makes you want to cry, make out, confess every fear you’ve ever had since the third grade, and tell him about the time you got lost in a supermarket when you were six and never fully recovered.

(Stepping stone of your abandonment issues, actually. Very formative stuff.)

But instead, you just hum.

And before he can tease you (because you know he will, the moment he realizes you’ve melted into a limp, worshipful little puddle over a shoulder rub), you manage to mumble:

“Can you keep doing this forever?”

Also because - small detail, minor point - he’s pinning you to the mattress with his hips. Like, fully. Whole FBI-agent body weight centered right over the curve of your ass.

And every time he shifts - reaching up to get a better angle, dragging his hands (those large, beautiful hands) up the sides of your spine - his hips roll just slightly forward.

And- yeah. He sort of… rocks against you.

Not on purpose.

(Probably?)

(…Definitely.)

Which would be fine. Totally manageable. Not at all a problem - if it weren’t for the fact that he’s wearing the least fuckable pajamas on Earth… which, of course, makes them ten times more fuckable.

Plain, boring navy bottoms. A matching buttoned top. (Aaron Hotchner cannot survive without buttons. He needs order. He needs structure. Even in REM sleep.)

Classic grandpa cut. V-neck just deep enough to show a scandalous sliver of collarbone you might, unironically, faint over.

(Thankfully, your current view is limited to his bedside table: a vintage old-man lamp that costs more than your phone, and a framed photo of him and his son.)

(Hi, Jack. Sorry for having thoughts about your father.)

Back to the pajamas - the most crucial detail is the fabric.

It’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched. High-thread-count sorcery. Probably imported. Definitely overpriced. Breathable, which is just a fancy way of saying stupidly thin.

Thin enough that when he leans in - presses down - you can feel the shape of his-

…Anyway. You’re getting ideas. (Again, sorry, framed Jack.)

“Not to be paternalistic,” he starts. (It is to be paternalistic. Entirely so. But you’ll allow it. You’ll allow anything, frankly, because for some reason it’s insanely hot when he talks like this.)

“-but you shouldn’t have a back like this at your age.”

“Well, thankfully I’ve got your magic hands to fix it, don’t I?” You smile, turning your head to look back at him, because you’re an idiot who still thinks eye contact might save you.

It doesn’t.

What you get instead is one of his signature sighs - the special not-to-be-paternalistic-but-very-much-is variety that sounds like he’s aging ten years just trying to keep you alive - and then a gently condescending lecture about cervical strain and spinal alignment and how you “can’t just twist your neck around if you actually want this to help,” yada yada-

“I know it doesn’t feel like a big deal now, but these things add up,” yada yada-

“I just-can you please take this seriously? I know you joke, but I’d like you to still be able to stand up straight in ten years.” yada yada, (okay, long-term vision, wow, didn’t know we were doing that now) yada yada-

“Sweetheart”.

All of it delivered in that deeply patronizing, annoyingly hot concerned-professional voice he’s perfected.

The one that should be irritating. Would be irritating, If it weren’t currently paired with both his hands kneading down your back, thumbs sinking into that dangerously tender spot just above your hips.

(You would roll your eyes, but you’ve just been told that’s a cervical risk. So you moan into the pillow instead. Respectfully.)

“Breathe through it,” he says. And you do. Immediately. Obediently.

Because he says it so kindly that you have to keep reminding yourself – repeatedly - that he actually cares about your spinal health, and is not, in fact, secretly calculating how many ways you could arch your hips to grind back against his very conveniently located crotch.

(You are. You’re calculating. You’re the problem.)

“Yeah, that’s a good one. Keep doing this,” he says, as his thumbs keep moving - maybe in circles, maybe up and down - you honestly couldn’t say. You’ve lost all grip on spatial awareness.

All you know is there’s a pulsing, needy little bundle of nerves between your legs now demanding attention.

Especially when he comments, right as his fingers glide just above your ass-

“You’re really tight here.” Sir (GN). Be serious. “You should start being a bit more mindful about your posture.”

And with just those few words, your clit - tired, neglected, and frankly done with being emotionally sidelined - decides it’s going to take what it can get.

If a proper orgasm isn’t on the table, a slightly patronizing lecture from Aaron Hotchner about spinal health will have to do.

It politely raises a hand. Submits a request to speak. The brain, overwhelmed and half-fried from continuous exposure to his voice, approves it immediately.

So you ask, way too casually for what it actually means:

“Could you go lower?”

“Lower?” he repeats, taunting, as his hands pause their tantric little routine before gliding under your waist and flipping you over onto his orthopedic mattress.

Now you’re face-to-face with him.

Arms crossed. Brows furrowed. That specific, sharpened brand of exasperation he reserves only for you - his favorite little headache (how romantic of him) - comes today with a bonus layer of disbelief.

Because Best-Profiler-Or-Whatever-Goddamn-Award-He-Just-Won-Again 2012 (the year's not over, but if the Bureau doesn’t give him another brass plaque to add to the terrifying shrine of ego and martyrdom he keeps in his office, he might actually cry) has officially clocked that the look in your – probably very dilated - eyes says one thing and one thing only:

Fuck me. (So Shakespearian.)

Still, since profiling is such a complex job –

(Or so he claims, usually while humblebragging about how he reads murderers for a living, yet somehow still can’t figure out the real reason you keep staring at his hands-)

so many factors, so many nuances, every twitch, every blink, every micro expression a breadcrumb-

So, you, being the considerate, emotionally generous person that you are, decide to spare him the effort. You remove all ambiguity, wrap your legs around his waist, and pull him in.

(Also: your boobs are out. The top of your pajama set’s currently sitting neatly folded on the far bedside table, placed there with care by none other than the Sexy Masseuse Extraordinaire himself.)

(You can’t turn to look at it. If you twist your neck, he’ll scold you. But you know it’s there.)

(So yes. #FreeTheNipple could easily be Exhibit B. Another little clue in the ever-growing case file of She Wants Me. Please, Aaron. Be thorough. File it under Intent.)

And apparently, he does.

Because without you saying a single word, he exhales - through his cutest, slightly uneven nostrils (and probably a deviated septum he refuses to get checked out) - and mutters, incredulous:

“Again?!”

Ah. Yes. Again.

Because to be fair, it is technically true that the second Aaron walked through the door - still suited up, still rumpled from the flight, fresh off a three-day case on the West Coast - the only greeting he got was a breathless “I missed you,” right before you yanked him down by the tie and onto his own couch to physically demonstrate that you (unlike him, [sometimes]) actually mean what you say.

So moved were you by his presence that you completely forgot to do the one basic thing required of anyone with even a shred of shame or social awareness:

Close. The. Curtains.

(You keep forgetting there’s an entire wing of Aaron’s apartment complex that has a front-row seat to his living room. Practically panoramic… oh- hi, Linda from 154.)

But it’s fine. It’s fine.

You fixed it.

You skipped the full nudity part and went for the most logistically respectful option: unzipping just his fly, just enough to free what you needed. Nothing more.

Just the essentials.

Just a fully dressed woman bouncing on a fully dressed man’s lap.

You’re pretty sure that doesn’t count as public indecency. (It’s basically PG-12. Glee’s airing worse on national television every Tuesday at 8/7c and that show’s somehow still going. So really, you’re fine. This is fine. Society has seen worse.)

…You also really, really hope no one saw it in the first place. You tell yourself no one saw it.

You keep telling yourself that, even as your brain starts tallying how many windows overlook this very couch. (Six. There are six. Possibly seven. And that woman on the third floor with the poodle - she definitely saw something. She always does.)

Those people didn’t see that your panties were still on - just pushed to the side, soaked through, clinging to your thigh.

Didn’t see the way your mouth fell open when you sank down onto his cock, gasping from the stretch, from the fuck yes finally of being full again.

Didn’t see his head fall back against the couch, eyes shut, the half-muttered “Jesus Christ” he left when your hips started rolling.

They didn’t see the way your thighs trembled when he grabbed your hips, then your waist, then your thighs again like he couldn’t decide where to hold you hardest, just knew he needed to keep you going.

Didn’t hear the noise he made when you grabbed a fistful of his tie for leverage, just to stay upright while he hit so fucking deep.

And they definitely didn’t hear the way your moan cracked when his mouth brushed your ear and he muttered: “Been thinking about this the whole damn flight.”

Three hours. He sat in a government plane, in slacks, probably surrounded by spreadsheets and murder, and still somewhere over Colorado, he was hard and thinking about you.

“I missed you,” you really mean it. (Yes, you want to fuck him. Obviously. But it’s also starting to feel like the reason you’re so desperate for his body is because being without him hurts a little more than it should.)

“That’s what you said in the shower,” he reminds you. (Oh. Right. The shower. The one that happened immediately after the couch.) “And on the bathroom sink.” Ah. Yes. You’d offered to blowdry his hair, but something else got blown first. (Priorities.) “Don’t you think that’s enough for tonight?”

He basically looks at you like you’re the most beloved disaster he’s ever encountered.

Fond - yes.

Amused - definetely.

Also very much trying not to laugh. He even bites his lip to hold it back.

Veeeery humbling experience.

And still, he leans in over you and locks his lips with yours - sweet enough to excuse how annoyingly chaste it feels. You start to pull him back in but he detours to your cheek instead, lingering there.

“You’re adorable,” he pities you. “Now please could you turn back over?”

Choking yourself with the pillow suddenly sounds like a fantastic plan. You eye it. You consider the logistics. You’re halfway to asphyxiating yourself into emotional amnesia when he leans in and kisses your shoulder.

Then the other. (Symmetry. He’s disgusting.)

You brace for his hands on your back, but it’s his mouth instead.

Starting at the nape of your neck, he works his way down your spine, lips dragging wet and slow. Every kiss sinks into your skin like he’s trying to rewrite your nervous system from the top down, rearranging your fucked-up muscles better than his actual massage ever could.

And he doesn’t stop.

Not even when his fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama pants and start easing them down - his mouth just keeps going, picking up exactly where the fabric leaves off.

You still get butterflies at the stupidly familiar feel of his calloused palms skimming down your thighs, knuckles brushing bare skin as he peels your bottoms away.

Could be excitement. Could be the fact that he’s been edging you for what feels like a fiscal quarter. Could be because you’re head over heels for him and refusing to deal with it. (Unclear. Not investigating.)

Anyways, Aaron - sweet, disciplined Aaron - folds your PJ pants, sets them neatly on top of your already-abandoned top on the bedside table (it was only a matter of time, that poor top’s been waiting for backup all night), and then immediately dives back in mouth-first (correction: teeth-first) sinking a bite right into the peak of your ass.

One side, then the other. (The man really loves symmetry.)

Groaning into your skin as you gasp his name - only for him to shut it down halfway through (fuck him, really) - he slides one arm beneath your hips, the other draping heavy across your thighs, and manhandles you into place in one smooth (hot) motion on all fours.

Ass up, panties still on (and very much soaked through).

It’s… a moment.

You crane your neck, scrambling for words - something clever, something linguistically adult - but what fries every functioning synapse isn’t just the way he’s staring at the soaked spot on your underwear;

It’s the way his pupils visibly dilate when he catches the barest glint of your cunt beneath it.

And still, he manages to outdo himself.

Because Aaron Hotchner’s greatest talent - aside from his intellect, that weirdly specific dry humor only you laugh at, and, of course, the mouthwatering, life-altering, holy-shit-that-thing-has-weight dick he’s somehow just casually lugging around - it’s his uncanny ability to always state the obvious.

“You’re soaked…” he murmurs. “You already fucked me and you’re still soaked.”

(There’s just something in Aaron saying that you fucked him…Call it power-hungry. Call it praise kink. Call it whatever.)

“Shit, say it again.” You just want his voice. More of it. Inside you, around you, anywhere.

You gasp as he hums straight into the damp fabric of your panties “Smug little thing… Let’s see how long it lasts.”

Then he drags his face down, nuzzling his nose along your glistening slit – catching every slick ridge through the soaked cotton, barely giving you any pressure, just enough to make you momentarily twitch.

He doesn’t bother teasing – just goes straight for your clit, flushed and throbbing, and latches on.

Mouth open. Tongue flat.

You start cursing everything.

Cursing the fabric of your panties he still hasn’t moved aside.

Cursing the way the soaked cotton catches every flick of his tongue – turning each pass into friction and making everything worse.

Cursing yourself for the sound you make when he moans into you – mouth hot and hungry – and yanks your hips closer like he can’t fucking help himself.

Grips your ass, fills both palms, pulls you tighter to his face until there’s nowhere for you to go – nowhere for you to run – nothing you can do but take it.

He’s drinking you. He sucks your slick through the fabric, letting it saturate his tongue, then releases your nub with a wet, obscene pop just to do it again.

Then again. And again.

Clicks his tongue just to hear the sound it makes against your cunt.

Right when you think you might actually die from how deliberately he’s taking his sweet time, he finally peels the fabric to the side.

(Thank God.)

“Fuck, Aaron-” you choke, fisting the sheets as he dives into your into your hole.

You were so fucking wrong.

His real talent isn’t stating the obvious.

It’s the way he makes out with your cunt, making you clench against him, and that molten heat already begins to gather low in your stomach.

“You taste better every fucking time. God, I missed you,” he mutters, one hand pressing into the small of your back to hold you down, the other spreading your ass so his tongue has more room to work and can slide deeper.

He fucks you with it.

Pushes in, pulls back, then he drags himself back up to your clit and just… goes feral. A combination you’re 100% sure he makes up on the spot, yet it’s somehow the exact cheat code to your nervous system.

You start grinding against his face, chasing friction like it’s oxygen, needy for whatever the hell that is until your thighs are trembling and your brain has officially vacated the premises.

The only word(s) you manage to hold onto is-

“Aaron- Aaron, please-”

Not your best work. Not ideal.

You should specify - to Mr. Old Man™ - that after please, there was going to be don’t stop.

But instead, it comes out half-strangled, choked off by the groan you let loose as he pulls away too fast, too soon, leaving you gasping face-first into a very wet, very real patch of drool on the mattress.

(It’s cooling against your chin now. Disgusting.)

You writhe, still aching, still pulsing, your body practically begging for his mouth, his nose, his fucking tongue - anything to fill the hot, miserable emptiness between your legs - until his hand wraps around the back of your neck (shit. fuck. shit), lifting you way too easily.

(Maybe because he’s strong. Maybe because you’re fully limp with desperation. Maybe because you don’t resist even a little bit. Hard to say.)

He pulls your spine upright, presses you back against his chest and crashes his mouth to yours.

And as he groans into your mouth, his whole face glistening with your arousal, smearing messily against your cheek, his cock presses between your folds, dragging through the soaked disaster he made of you.

The thick, swollen head - already leaking with precum - bumps against your clit as he grinds forward, dragging through your slick with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, a choked moan catching halfway in your throat…

…Right as his fingers start to curl around it.

Soft. Careful. Too careful. Like his hand landed there on instinct and now he’s realizing it, hesitating, trying not to make it a thing (which, joke’s on him, it already is).

(Also, if he could go ahead and press those thick, possessive, chubby-ass fingers a little deeper into your neck- yeah. That’d be ideal. Five stars.)

So, probably in a noble act of distraction (or self-preservation), Aaron starts to push in.

That first stretch.

That toe-curling burn you never fully prepare for. The one that drags your body open inch by inch like he’s carving a space only he gets to fill. And you adore it. You crave it like a sickness.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, mouth grazing your jaw. “I couldn’t resist.” And another kiss, “I need to fuck you properly so you don’t wake me up begging for it again.”

(If he keeps holding your neck like that while saying shit like that, you’re definitely waking him up again. With your mouth. Or your thighs.)

You decide to clench around him in reply (how generous of you - really, public service) - tight enough that you know he’s furrowing his brows right now, trying so hard not to let out one of those high-pitched, desperate little whimpers that would completely shatter the illusion of his usual Important Serious Man™ composure.

“Mmm, sweetheart,” he groans, dragging in deeper until he’s finally fully seated inside of you, buried to the hilt. “You’re not even trying to hide it, are you? Squeezing me like that…”

He should really be speaking for himself, considering the thing twitching inside you just because it’s lucky enough to be nestled inside you is his cock, not yours.

And sure, he starts rocking into you all slow and deliberate, hips rolling against the swell of your ass like he thinks he can distract you with rhythm alone, but it’s textbook deflection.

(Hotchner: 1 – You: 0. For now.)

“Aaron-” you gasp, barely coherent, because fuck, you’re full. Like - can’t think, can’t breathe, forgot-Aaron’s-home-wifi-password kind of full.

(Which is annoying, because you were just about to remember it. It was something long and unnecessarily specific, like JHotchnerILoveAmerica65 or JackRules2012.)

(AHotchnerNet_3G_guest_home_office?)

(QuanticoSecure_LinkV2?) Nope. That’s the Bureau one. (You may or may not have shamelessly stolen their bandwidth to watch YouTube videos in his office the first time you visited - sitting on that black leather guest chair, legs swinging, waiting for him to come out of some high-stakes consult.)

(Ugh, come on, you almost had it. It’s the one with the weird numbers… Jack’s birthday? No, that was the old one, the one you used to mooch off before he got weird about network security after that article in The Atlantic.)

(Was it Hotchner_Home_8347_SECURE_VPNLOCKED? Or was that the printer? What was it?)

(Wait - is he 7.5 inches? 8? 8.5?! Feels like that but you’re way too biased.)

“Oh fuck-” Your nails bite into the solid curve of his bicep, your back arches on instinct - no thought involved, just muscle memory screaming yes, like that, and your body goes soft over his, melting like heat’s finally overtaken every vertebrae you’ve got.

Boneless. Useless. Yours now comes with a floppy warranty.

He notices, so he wraps his other arm tight around your waist, keeping you upright. “Yes, honey? You like that? Is that what you’re trying to say? Or-.” A sharper thrust. “Do you need me to go harder already?”

Not accepting your whimper as an answer, he goes harder anyway.

White-hot static floods your brain, sparking behind your eyes. You lose track of sound, of sense, of everything but the slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, that becomes even louder than the creaky-ass wooden antique bedframe Aaron refuses to replace.

(Yes, it was expensive. Yes, he insists it’s historical. Yes, it’s probably haunted. No, you do not care. Louis XIV himself could rise from the dead and tell you it’s a collector’s piece, you’re still letting Aaron split you in half on it.)

“Do you feel it?” he asks.

You know what he means. Doesn’t even need to say it.

Especially when his hand tightens just that little bit more around your throat - enough to blur the edges, enough to make your cunt flutter in a grateful little thank you because that was literally what you were about to beg for and this man just read your goddamn mind and saved you the humiliation-

“Well- it’s- fuck yes, right th- it’s kind of impossible not to, isn’t it?”

Wrong answer, apparently.

Because it earns you exactly zero gold stars and a one-way ticket to being shoved face-first into the mattress, his palm flat on your back.

(Or maybe he’s just decided he won’t be satisfied until you’re properly, thoroughly, professionally fucked dumb, until the only thing your brain can process, let alone say, is his name.)

“Lift your hips,” he instructs.

“What-”

“Just do it.”

You do. Of course you do. Because you are weak and unprincipled and you like it when he uses his dad voice.

(Sorry, framed Jack. Not your dad dad. Like- authority figure dad. Weird to explain. Just- sorry Jack.)

He reaches for the pillow from his side of the bed (naughty… part of you hopes he doesn’t bother changing the case afterward, just so he can fall asleep every night wrapped in the scent of your sex… but then again, you’re talking about Aaron, so he'll probably sanitize it twice and iron it back into place) and slides it beneath your stomach.

“There. Better angle for your back,” he mutters.

“Are you fucking kidding me… oh fuck- my back?” You try to mock him, but all you can think is that this stupid orthopedic pillow just shoved him even deeper.

He’s drilling into you so hard, so fucking perfectly, that all you can focus on is how thick he is - how every goddamn ridge, every pulsing vein, every inch of him is dragging against your walls and hitting your spot every single time.

Somehow, you’re still not used to how deep he gets. Still not over the fact that he fits like this, that he fucks like this. That he’s that deep. That much.

You start thinking you should give him a little plaque.

A nice, shiny, brassy “Deepest Stroke Award: Best Dick 2012” kind of thing. Stick it right next to his Bureau commendations so everyone that steps into his office knows he’s that good.

So good that as he angles himself even better (you didn’t even know that was possible), you don’t even hear the bedframe anymore.

(Which is convenient, because next time he wakes you up at 3 a.m. - all apologetic and sleepy and sweet, muttering “sorry, sweetheart, I just need to turn over, please go back to sleep” while trying not to make it creak - you’re gonna tell him to just flip you over and fuck you like this until you both go deaf. Sleep like babies. Problem solved.)

You’re gasping, whimpering, face buried in the mattress, fingers curled so tight in the sheets they might tear, and Aaron has the audacity -the actual fucking balls (which, by the way, are slapping against your clit with every thrust and fuck, they feel incredible… justice for balls, truly) - to tut at you.

“Sweetheart, you’re collapsing your shoulders again, try to pull them back. Keep the neck long.”

You try to lift yourself. You really do. But your arms are jelly, your spine’s gone to hell, and your entire body is preoccupied with coming apart on his cock.

Still, his big, warm hand spreads flat over the center of your back as he straightens you out. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t make me correct your posture and fuck you… engage here.”

(Which is ironic. Because right now? He’s doing both flawlessly.)

“Trying,” you pant.

“Oh, I can see you’re trying,” he mutters, and somehow it’s affectionate and condescending and it should make you furious but instead your cunt clenches yet again like it wants to say thank you, sir.

He shifts his hips and pushes in deeper, angling just right and you see white.

Just white. No thoughts. No gods. No laws. Just the smug chuckle he lets out as your mouth drops open and a sound escapes that isn’t even a word anymore.

“Poor thing,” he coos as his pretentious mouth brushes your spine. “Clenching around me like that and still trying to impress me with your form. You can’t even hold yourself up, sweetheart. That’s adorable.”

“Why do you have to be such an asshole? Can’t you just say one of those stupid cheesy things you tell me all the other times?”

He kisses your shoulder. “Because for some reason,” he murmurs, lazy and devastating, “we both know why this turns you on more.”

It’s because you watch too much porn when he’s away. That’s what it is. That’s the problem. You look for the perfect video, scrolling through every possible variation of "older man, authoritative voice, hairy chest, forehead lines, kind of sad but knows how to eat pussy."

Trying to find a man with his exact nose. His exact voice. His exact cock.

But you never find it. You never find him.

And you’re too chickenshit to ask him to just send you a video of himself fucking his fist - because he’s probably doing something more important, like saving Gotham or shooting an active shooter - and you don’t want to be the reason he gets sidetracked while stroking his lenght in a government office. (…Though, the idea is… not bad.)

So instead, you settle. Again.

You open one of those copy-paste porn videos made for men who think women are doormats with vocal fry, and let it play. Same limp dialogue. Same dead-eyed expressions. Same choreographed humiliation kink that somehow makes you feel like the one being punished.

And still, it doesn’t work. Because Aaron Hotchner has fucked up your brain chemistry to such a degree that other men just don’t do it anymore. You slap the laptop shut to end up staring at that blurry pic you took of him coaching Jack’s football game. (Sorry, Jack.)

He’s just in a bland T-shirt. Biceps hulking under cotton. Arms crossed. Whistle hanging from his neck like he’s about to say something inspirational and slightly disappointed.

That’s the reason.

(...Or maybe it’s just that nothing on this godforsaken Earth turns you on more than when he tells you what to do - precisely how to take it, exactly how to behave - even though you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of mental energy convincing yourself that enjoying that somehow makes you less of a feminist, like Simone de Beauvoir’s going to rise from the grave and revoke your womanhood because you like being manhandled by a man in overpriced pajamas.)

(Yeah… it’s definitely because you watch way too much porn.)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hand sliding back up to your throat, palm pressing lightly, thumb stroking under your jaw as you try to mumble something broken and vowel-heavy that you’re pretty sure started as his name. “Oh…” Aaron chuckles, putting two and two together. “So this is what you want?”

“Hnngh…” you try, but he slaps your ass. (You swear to God, the next time he walks in front of you on a staircase, you’re smacking him. Right there. Mid-step. He will be humbled. You will have your revenge.) “Yes. Yes. Just- just stay there.”

“Here where?”

“Shut up.”

Another slap.

Another involuntary moan. (Still. Stairs, Hotchner.)

“No, but seriously - your back. You sit like shit. You fuck like a dream, but Jesus, I’m gonna send you to physical therapy myself if you keep collapsing your shoulders like that.”

You whimper into the pillow. Your clit’s caught between the pillow and your cunt clenches hard, slick dripping down your thighs, and you don’t know if you’re closer because of the way he’s choking you or the fact that he just corrected your posture.

“Could you – fuck – could you just talk more?” (There it is. Your final shred of dignity. Cashed. Spent. Gone.)

He hums behind you. “Oh, now you want feedback?” Then he leans down, and suddenly you’re wearing him – coarse salt-and-pepper chest hair scraping your slick back, the full weight of him pushing you down as his cock punches so deep into you, you have to roll your eyes back.

“You want me to tell you how fucking good you feel?” he grits, hips picking up pace, snapping harder now.

You’re not really in the conditions to answer.

Your mouth is open but your brain has blue-screened, locked in a loop of oh my God oh my God oh my fuc-

“God, look at you,” he groans, almost in disbelief, hand splaying across your upper back to keep you down, to stop your writhing. “Making a mess all over my cock. You’re dripping. Absolutely soaking me.”

And oh… you feel it.

The soaked patch you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he still hasn’t taken off - just shoved down far enough to fuck you properly - slapping wetly against your skin every time he drives in.

(You’re naked. He’s half-dressed. Fully dressed, actually…)

Oh, you feel it.

The wet, sticky sound of your cunt swallowing him with every thrust. The soaked spot you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he didn’t even bother taking of hitting you over and over again while you’re naked.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he huffs, and oh - his voice cracks. He’s close. Good. (That’s so hot.) “Taking me so well. Still gripping me like it’s the first time. Letting me fuck you this- this deep- Jesus Christ-“ (Amen.) “I can feel every goddamn pulse-”

His hand slides from your spine to your throat - tightens just enough to send your body into full siren-mode panic, only to twist it into white-hot bliss a second later.

And then the other sneaks between your thighs, fingers already soaked in you, finding your clit like he’s done it a thousand times (you’re still in the double digits) and starts circling. . Fast. Messy. Precise.

The kind of perfect that short-circuits thought. That makes your jaw go slack. That makes your breath catch on the edge of something that isn’t quite a moan, or a cry, or-

It almost slips out.

That thing.

The three-word, soul-ruining thing people only say when they’re either very brave or very stupid. And right now, with his fingers rubbing you and his cock still buried so deep it feels like belonging, you’re dangerously close to being both.

“F-fuck, Aaron-”

“I’ve got you. Let go, sweetheart.”

And you do.

You break. Your thighs tremble, your back arches involuntarily (and Aaron’s too far gone to lecture you about spinal integrity now), and your moan turns guttural and ugly as your orgasm crashes through you - pulling his name from your throat

You clamp down so hard around him he curses, jaw clenched, hips jerking once, twice, then he’s there too.

Hot, deep, choking on his breath as he thrusts into the tight clutch of your pulsing cunt, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in rough, thick spurts that have your body jolting again from the aftershocks.

He groans into your shoulder, mouth open, teeth grazing skin, hips still twitching through the aftershocks - every helpless pulse of him inside you dragging another ripple of heat down your spine, through your thighs, and eventually, shamefully, down onto the sheets.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move, really, except to press his chest tighter against your back, as if he’s trying to stay in your skin. Like if he lets go, something might slip - out of him, out of you, out of whatever the hell this is.

His breathing is still a bit ragged, hot and damp against your shoulder, and you feel his lips brush there, once, then again - barely a kiss, just contact.

Just reassurance. Just him not knowing how else to say I needed that. Instead it’s just words not meant to be heard - just soft, scattered nothings that don’t quite form sentences, all of them pressed into your skin.

"You're okay,"

"Got you,"

"So good, baby..."

Over and over. Sweet. Ruined. Honest.

Your chest hurts.

Because he means it.

He’s not thinking about it, he’s just being. And it’s the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he’s ever done to you. You need to ruin it.

“FUCK, that was incredible. Where did you keep all of that?!”

He pauses. You can feel him trying not to laugh.

You roll onto your side, gasping. “No, like, WOW. Wow wow wow, Aaron. Wow. Who are you? What was that? Have you been holding out? Were you possessed? Should I call someone? Is there a hotline?”

You watch the faint blush creep across his cheek as he pushes up onto his elbows, runs a hand through his post-sex hair (sexier than pre-sex hair, somehow), and exhales the most exasperatedly fond sound you’ve ever heard.

“Please don’t call anyone.”

These moments - when he completely misses a joke that any normal adult would clock instantly - really do make you want to climb him like a tree all over again.

But what really gets you? What sets your neurons on fire and your soul on its knees?

The phenomenon - still unstudied, tragically overlooked by science - in which post-sex Aaron becomes the most meticulous, terrifyingly competent man alive.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just materializes a warm cloth from nowhere (possibly interdimensional?), cleans you up with it, straightens the sheets, fluffs the pillows, and tucks you in.

You don’t even know when he grabbed his glasses, but suddenly they’re on his face and you’re on his chest, half-sitting, draped over him.

You might feel shame for being so clingy if he ever said anything about it. But he never does. Not even a snide little quip. Just those small, fond huffs that suggest he’s mostly annoyed at himself for enjoying this so much.

Or, like now, he reaches calmly into his go-bag and pulls out what is undeniably the driest, dustiest, most textbook-looking book you've ever seen in your life.

“Sorry,” he says, settling back against the headboard. “I’ve just got a few chapters left… do you want to pretend to be reading with me?”

Wise choice of words, Agent Hotchner.

Because what you really want is to drown yourself in his pheromones and rub your cheek on his chest hair until your responsibilities disintegrate.

“Wearing those,” you sigh dreamily, eyeing the glasses, the page, the stupid peaceful look on his face, “you can do anything you’d like.”

He shakes his head - fond. Touched.

Probably regretting all his life choices, but not enough to stop.

He flips open the tome, rests it against one bent knee, and starts reading. His finger glides up to his lips every time he turns a page, like he’s savoring each one. Every now and then, he adjusts his glasses.

You watch in awe.

Reverence.

…Horniness.

So you just keep kissing him. Aimless, endless little things - his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, the back of his ear - any patch of skin within a lazy head-turn radius gets worshipped.

“Wow. Wow wow. Aaron. Wow. Wowowowowow.”

He doesn’t even flinch.

Just keeps reading, completely unbothered.

Occasionally hums.

If you’re lucky, he presses a kiss into your hair or the side of your temple - never rushed, always lingering, like he’s sealing something in.

Or if he just does that because he’s an old fuck and that’s how they taught knights to kiss their trembling maidens back in the 1500s.

He looks so… peaceful. Way too peaceful.

Which is immediately suspicious.

You open your mouth, just about to ask, “Can we do it again?” when, without even glancing up from the page, he slides the hand resting on your waist down.

Dips straight into your PJ pants, then your underwear.

Your mouth falls open. Nothing comes out.

Not even the question. He’s already answered it.

He exhales through his nose - completely unbothered - as his index finger starts stroking your clit in the slowest lazy little patterns.

Like fingering you under a blanket mid-biography is just his evening chore before tea and chapter seven. Like he’s got all night. (He probably does.)

(You can’t even moan yet. You’re too busy trying to process the fact that he’s still reading.)

And then, instead of simply licking a finger to turn the page like a normal person, he brings two of those thick fingers to his mouth.

He sucks on them, eyes still fixed on the text, lips closed around his fingers as he coats them in spit. And without ever lifting his gaze, he sinks them deep into you - curling just enough to make your thighs tense around him.

“You think I don’t know the real reason you’re always staring at my hands?”

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

[livingund3ad]

[for the last time || в последний раз]

chapter warnings: disturbing/unsettling imagery at the end of the chapter.

01. | 02. | 03. | 04. | 05. | 06. | » you are here | ... |

———————

From the eyes of [ Batman ]

Roughly 19 hours before the events of 01.

The darkness of the room was thick and restless. Shadows crept along the high ceilings, their tangled shapes swaying as the curtains trembled under the weak hum of the air conditioning. Bruce Wayne lay tangled in his sheets, the pressure of sleep bearing down on him like stone.

He’d managed three hours. Three whole hours of dreamless, shallow rest. It was something. Not enough, but something. His body ached from last night’s patrol—knees stiff, ribs sore, bruises blooming where punches had landed harder than expected. The fatigue was constant. Heavy. A permanent companion now. His bed felt less like a place of rest and more like a place of recovery—a battlefield in itself.

He hadn’t planned to wake up yet.

The knock on his door came first. A slow, deliberate knock, followed by the sound of hinges creaking open. Too heavy and measured to be Damian, too impatient to be Tim.

Dick.

His protege’s voice broke the silence.

“Bruce.”

A pause. Then, louder.

“Bruce. You awake?”

Bruce opened his eyes, staring at the darkened expanse of his bedroom ceiling. The dull throb behind his eyes intensified. It was an effort just to turn his head toward the door, but he managed.

“What is it, Dick?” His voice came out rough, barely more than a rasp, worn down from disuse.

Dick stepped inside, boots soft against the carpet. His hair was damp, skin slick with sweat. He looked like he’d just come from a run, or maybe he’d been pacing the halls for who knew how long. His expression was tight, the familiar cheerfulness replaced by something raw and simmering.

“It’s [****]. We think she's gone, B.”

Bruce blinked slowly. His shoulders shifted, not quite rising from the mattress. The muscles in his back protested, a dull cramp gnawing at his spine.

“Have you searched the manor?” he asked, voice dragging like gravel. “Checked her room? The grounds?”

Dick’s jaw tightened. “Yes, Bruce. Everyone has. Alfred’s been up since breakfast, checking every corner of the manor. Tim’s working through train surveillance. And Jason—” His lips twitched in frustration. “Jason’s actually helping and trying to track her down.”

Bruce made a sound in the back of his throat, something halfway between a grunt and a sigh. His limbs were leaden, every joint straining just to shift his weight. He wasn’t ready to drag himself from the bed. Not yet. Not when everything was so heavy.

“She’s probably with her friends.” He stared up at the ceiling, eyes unfocused. “Did you try reaching her phone?”

“Of course we did. Straight into voicemail.” Dick’s tone was clipped, brittle. “Bruce, she’s been missing since last night. No messages. No calls. And you’re just—”

Dick’s fists clenched at his sides. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to hit something, anything. And then the dam broke.

“If you’re not going to take this seriously, something might really happen to her. Maybe it already has—which, god I hope not.”

His words hit like punches. They didn’t just hurt. They tore. Because he wasn’t wrong.

There was a deep sigh before the door slammed behind him.

Bruce closed his eyes, the darkness behind his eyelids somehow clearer than the dim room around him. Dick’s anger was justified. Even now, Bruce could feel the jagged edges of it cutting through his own haze of fatigue.

But the urgency didn’t reach him. Couldn’t reach him. It was like trying to swim against a tide of exhaustion, his mind numbed to everything that didn’t demand immediate attention. Pain was real. Sleep was real. The rest was static.

A memory surfaced, slow and reluctant.

Alfred.

Alfred had told him last night that [****] wasn’t home yet. It had been a brief mention after a late dinner, the old man’s voice tinged with unease. Something Bruce had acknowledged with a nod before letting it drift to the back of his mind.

He’d let it drift. Because that’s what he did with her.

Because it was easier. Both for him, and for her.

[****] was… different. Not in the ways the boys were. Not in the ways Bruce could measure and train and prepare. She didn’t come from trauma. Not the kind he understood, anyway. She wasn’t broken in the way he could mend. She didn’t need a cape, a cowl, or a mission. She needed something simple…. a father.

And Bruce had no idea how to be one.

He’d buried anything [****]-related in the recesses of his thoughts. Kept her in the light. Away from the pool of red that came with crime fighting. He trusted her that she's capable enough on her own. That was how he protected her. That was what he told himself.

But she hadn’t come home last night. [****] always comes home, because Alfred always tells him so.

And he’d done nothing.

No.

The weight in his chest tightened, twisting. His pulse thudded in his ears, the room’s chill seeping into his bones. [****] was missing. She could've been gone for hours. And he’d dismissed it like it was nothing.

No, no, no.

He reached for the phone. Not urgently. Automatically. Like muscle memory kicking in long after instinct had failed. The glow of the screen felt blinding, his own name too bright and sterile against the dim of the cold room.

He scrolled through his messages. Dick’s texts were frantic, piling up with half baked theories, updates and demands for information. Tim’s were more focused, detailing surveillance footage he was pulling from the train stations. Jason’s messages were terse and precise, relaying possible areas where she might've been.

Bruce glanced past them, his focus on another thread entirely. His e-mail. He fired off a message to his secretary, fingers tapping with mechanical precision.

Subject: Urgent

Body: Check all recent emails for anything related to ransom demands or potential kidnapping attempts. Also monitor [****] Wayne’s bank accounts for any activities. Notify me immediately if you find anything unusual and recent. Keep this under wraps. —BW

He didn’t elaborate. Couldn’t. This was a personal matter, but it was also something he needed to keep under wraps. The media would have a field day if they caught wind of this.

But deep down, he didn’t believe this was random.

He was aware that no one goes missing in Gotham without a reason.

Gotham is a city of intention. Every scream in the night has a motive. Every broken window, every body in an alleyway—it’s all part of something. Chaos, yes, but not without pattern. Not without teeth.

If [****] was missing, someone could've taken her.

Because of him.

Because she was a Wayne.

Bruce’s thoughts spiraled. If [****] had been taken, it was because of his name. Because she was the biological child of Bruce Wayne. One of his likely heirs to his corporate empire. He’d kept her far from Batman’s world, made sure of that. That she’ll never be a target from the enemies he fought under the cowl.

…what if she was?

But Bruce Wayne’s enemies were just as ruthless. Just as dangerous. He made the precautions that she won't be traced back to the man he was once the sun was down.

He dropped his phone onto the bed, staring blankly at the far wall. His breath came shallow and uneven, the air cold and brittle in his lungs. His hands trembled against the sheets.

[****] is missing because I didn’t act. Batman was too busy, and Bruce Wayne was around but never present.

He pushed himself upright, pain lancing through his shoulders and back. Everything felt heavy, every inch of his body protesting the movement. But he couldn’t stay in bed. Not now.

His feet hit the floor, and he forced himself to stand. The weight of the previous night’s injuries tugged at him, muscles strained and torn. But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

He needed to help look for her. Actually look for her.

He reached for his shirt, pulling it over his head with jerky, desperate motions. His gaze caught on his reflection in the darkened mirror, eyes hollow and sleepless.

He tried to picture her. [****].

Seventeen, no—eighteen now. Her birthday had passed recently. He remembered that PR had him arrange a gala for the girl. He remembered the taste of champagne, vaguely. He remembered she wore an elegant white gown that night. The faint sound of instruments playing vivaldi in the background. He hadn’t been there for it. Mentally, at least. Physically he was there for 15 minutes. He’d given her a gift. Something practical.

But her smile… what was her smile like? What was her voice like?

His mind went blank.

Fuck.

W̶̩̑͑̀̉̃͛͛͑h̷̡̗̘̜̄̄̈̊̈́̈́̇̊̀͗y̴̛͚̽̇̃͊̈̈ ̸̛̰̝̟̂̆̿̌͝c̸̩͉̰̰͈̗̼͉̙̃̍̒͆͑̒̏̓͊͠ͅṏ̸̭͍͕͈̝̭́u̴̧̫͈̜̭̳̰̍̆͊̔̆͊̄̎͒̊͜l̶̡̧̛̙̘͇̳͖̪͖̗̐̑̑̿͐̒̀̈́̕d̸̠͖̟̭̮͇̮͇̆̊̈́̄n̶͕̲͌’̵̧̨͖͓͔̋͜t̴͉͙̰̲̜͚̻̮̣́̈́̃ ̷̧͈̲̯̃ḫ̸̡̢̳̖̖͇̤̮̮̂̊̈̊̅ȩ̷̖͉͚͓͖̗͙̲͆̅̑̏͒̇̕͜͝͝ ̸̡̹̳̥͂ͅr̶̛̯̅ȩ̷̥̙̩̬͂͝m̶̢̢͕̖̹̗̦̬͂͐̋̔̀̑̉̄͘e̵̙̿̆̽̋͠ḿ̴̞͛̅̇̊̅̚̚b̸͎̣̐ę̶̛̤̙͂̒̄̌̎̍͋̇͜͝ȓ̷̫̲͎̪͔̩͒͗͊̽̀̚͝ͅ ̸̢͎̜̲̪͕̄̓͗͛̄͂̂͂͝͝w̸̥̝̻͈̪̭͒̀̉̆̍́̕̚͠ḥ̸̭̳̬̼̇̔̓͆͒̋a̸̻̩̽͋̓̚͠ͅt̴̙̊̏̍́̎͊̕͠ ̷̡̖̬̰͓̰̰̯̞̙̀̅̌̌̋̆̌ş̶̰͚̙͙̪̦̅́̌̃̃̓̃̍̾h̴̞͓̠͑͂̀́̋͗ḛ̵͓͇̺̃̕ ̵͖̼̙͚̮̮͑̀̇̈́̀l̵̛̙͛̽͐͗̔͌̏͐o̸͕̦̩͈͛̓̏͛̀̈́͌͠o̵̧̘͆̔̄̒́̏̊͝k̵̡̺͓̠̖͔̺͔̲̘͆̄̂̄́̀͆e̴̢̨͕̯͐͛̀̂͊̈́̋͗͘͠ͅd̴͓̽̇̊́̓͘ ̶̛̦͔͇̦̱̟̲͍̏̅͊́ľ̶̢͈̺̼̀ͅi̶͋̋̋̽͂͒̇̀͝ͅk̷̨̧̛̙̲̪͙͈̗͆̐̊ê̵̲̠͔̪̙̗̪͈̥͖̎̈́͒͊̒̒̏̏̕?̶̛̱̪̌̍̀

The guilt curled like acid in his gut. The numbness wasn’t armor anymore—it was rot. He had no excuses. No enemy to punch. No villain to blame.

He could feel Gotham breathing beyond the windows, its pulse thrumming like the city knew. Like it was watching him.

People didn’t just disappear in Gotham.

They were taken.

They were lured.

Or they were broken.

And always, always—there is a reason.

This city doesn’t allow coincidence. Only consequence.

And perhaps the consequence of being Bruce Wayne’s daughter,

Had just come due.

Taglist: @kneelforloki @shycreatorreview @pearlyribbons @homeless-clown @daffy-the-duck @1abi @reeyy0-2 @ryuushou @nisarelle @cssammyyarts @bunniotomia @cxcillia @unrelatedlily @the-holy-pigeon @electricgg @fortunatelydifferentqueen

A/N: Omggg finally, part one of ftlt is finished, and three more left lmfao. I just wanna say thanks a lot for all the notes and reblogs, they mean a lot to me as an author. Really keeps me motivated to write. From one of my recent posts, I've mentioned that'll be on short hiatus, so sad to say, chapter 8 would only be released in the next few months or so. I'll try to keep active, maybe post other related content for ftlt every now and then. My ask box will also remain open, so feel free to ask anything, whenever, whatever(although I might not be able to respond to them asap, lol). Y'all can also privately message me, if you just want to rant or vent about something even if you're a total stranger. I'll be here to listen. :)

(Although bots will be instantly blocked—so lol fuck off :D )

[bernardsbendystraws]

You Don’t Own Me

SERIES MASTERLIST

Chris Sturniolo lives by his own rules, refusing to be controlled. Some see him as a rebel, a troublemaker—but is that the full truth? Meanwhile, Y/N is focused on making the most of her last year of high school, determined to have a normal teenage experience. But when their worlds collide, they realize they may have more in common than they ever expected.

WARNINGS: COPYRIGHT NOTICE. PLEASE READ AND LOOK UP DEFINITIONS OF WARNINGS FOR FURTHER CLARIFICATION. HUGE TW FOR THIS CHAPTER. CSA (only mentioned, not described), heavy angst.

A/N: This song was a huge inspo for me when planning this series. Although I love the true meaning relating to lovers, I think the lyrics can hold weight in other contexts too

With love and big tits, Rose

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

P26: Remember it...

“Chris?” 

God, I feel dizzy. My body is heavy with sleep, my eyes drooping as I slowly wander towards the kitchen, following the echo of a loud clunk of something falling. 

He probably dropped my water bottle. I hope it’s not dented, but I really hope he didn’t accidentally drop it on his fucking toe—that shit hurts. I’ve had a purple toe to prove just how much that stupid metal water bottle hurts being dropped on a foot. 

My brows furrow as I hear a slight shuffle of noise—too much noise for just one pair of footsteps. I walk a little faster, my heart hammering in my chest as I round the corner from the hallway into the kitchen.

It’s just…Chris? 

Damn. Am I really that delusional right now? 

Attempting to rub the sleep from my eyes, I yawn while hearing his footsteps come closer. The feeling of his arms swarming around me makes my body relax into his hold, the touch of the cold metal water bottle against my arm making me curl away from the object. 

As I go to pull away to escape the ice metal sensation, I feel Chris tug me under one of his arms, flipping me around so I’m nuzzled under his hold as he starts to walk back towards my room, guiding us as I follow his movements. 

“Sorry—just…just dropped your water.” he says, his voice rushed, like an anxious worry of adrenaline from making such a commotion in the middle of the night. “-let’s go back to sleep, c’mon.”

Ugh, sleep. That’s what I need—that’s what my body is desperate for right now. I can tell my balance gets sloppy. My weight leans against him as I hear him hiss out like he’s in pain. 

What the hell?

Before I can even stand up straight enough to get a good glance at him, Chris pulls me back into the bed, immediately holding me against his chest as we both lay on our sides. 

“Are—are you okay?” I mumble, my words sluggish and slow as he starts to soothe his fingers over the top of my back, lulling me back to sleep quickly. 

“Yeah, I–yeah, just…just dropped your water on my foot, but it didn’t do any real damage, just stings a bit. Just….go back to sleep, baby,” he says, holding me tighter. 

Sleep consumes my senses faster than usual. His soothing voice and delicate touch makes it impossible for my mind to rush to any thoughts except for how content everything feels. He clutches me closely, a bit tighter than he’d been holding me previously—and I swear I feel him shiver, some sort of vibration that makes me nuzzle even further into him subconsciously. 

This is so peaceful. It’s impossible to feel anything but pure calmness as I let myself sink into exhaustion. 

___

The morning breeze seeping through the window is peaceful, but cold—brutally cold. My eyes shoot open as I reach out, feeling nothing but empty sheets next to me.

“Chris?” I ask, my voice still scratchy from sleep. 

Oh.

He’s gone.

Reaching over, I grab my phone off my nightstand, trying to swallow the lump in my throat as my chest grows heavy. The screen reflects black for a second, my sullen expression making me more aware of reality as I tap the device, seeing the digital pixels light up as I read a text. 

From Chris: Hey, don’t freak out, I just headed home a bit early. I’ll explain later, I’m sorry. 

Why’s he sorry?

Oh god. 

No. 

We said I love you last night, did he not actually mean it? 

My chest heaves up and down as I try to suck in deep breaths, my eyes watering as I feel shallow sighs leave my quivering lip. He seemed so genuine with his words. How could that sort of emotion be just from the heat of the moment? 

That can’t be it, I refuse to even let my brain try to convince me. 

I saw his eyes—I heard his words. He meant it. I know in my soul that he meant it. 

Words don’t just feel like that. Confessions that are that deep and vulnerable can’t be faked. 

So what went wrong? 

Before I can think any further, I hear a knock on the door, my eyes widening before I relax, remembering Chris isn’t here and there’s no reason to freak out about getting caught. Although, I kinda wish he was. I want him here, even if it means getting in trouble. 

The door creaks open as Baylen peeks his head in. My eyes furrow as he gazes across my room, almost as if he’s searching for something. 

“Hey, uh–” he continues looking, scratching the back of his neck as he fully steps into my room, “-how’d you sleep?” he asks, his eyes darting to my bathroom and my open closet with curiosity. 

He knows—he has to know. There hasn’t been a single day in the past couple years where he’s ever waltzed into my room, asking how I slept. Especially not with such wandering eyes. 

“Baylen?” I ask, my body freezing as he looks towards me with an unreadable expression.

I can feel it. Deep in my gut, the look in his eyes makes everything pulse with adrenaline in my body, like an automatic response that makes everything seem like I’m looking through a camera lens to see. 

“I…” his eyes drop as he looks at my bed, analyzing the messed up sheets and comforter, “-where is he?”

My eyes widen with horror, my throat feeling incredibly dry as my lips smack open and shut. “I—what? What do–”

“No, where…where is he?” he interrupts. 

Baylen rubs a hand over his face, his face scrunching with distaste that has a hint of sadness lingering in the creases of his eyes. My heart pummels in my chest. I swallow the lump in my throat, my eyes feeling dry as the morning breeze stings against my waterline. 

“He left, I—I’m sorry, I won’t sneak him around again, just—please don’t tell mom, I—”

My words halt as I watch him stalk closer to me. He sits on the edge of my bed, his arms resting on his knees with his face buried in his hands. I freeze, noticing the subtle shake of his body, a loud sniff echoing through the room as the wind grows silent. 

“I–I’m—’m sorry,” he cries, a sob racking through his body as his entire body racks with a devastating vibration. 

My face tingles, every slight sensation echoing as I feel the air grow stiff. I sit up. My hand reaches out to his shoulder, lightly laying on him as I frown. 

“-’m so fuckin’ sorry, you—I—fuck,” his voice cracks, his sniffs growing louder as I hear him choke on a breath.

Pure instinct rushes over me. I lean forward, wrapping my arms around him as he shakes with loud cries. Baylen grows stiff. His body freezes under my embrace before he turns, pulling his arms around my waist as he places his chin on my shoulder.

Something is horribly wrong. The way he’s clutching onto me tells my body to activate every anxious sensation possible. 

“What’s going on? Is this about…what’s…just—talk to me,” I plea, my lip wobbling as another sob from him echoes through the room. 

He pulls me impossibly tighter, his tears hot and wet as they seep onto the fabric covering my shoulder. “He…he was filling up your water bottle, I…things just kept—he said you deserved better than me and—-and he’s right.” 

My face scrunches as I listen to his broken words. Chris and him had some sort of run-in last night, one that had somehow led to my brother who barely even acknowledges me to sob onto my shoulder. 

“Baylen….you’re still my brother, it’s okay, I know our dynamic hasn’t always been the best, but—” 

A sharp cry purses through his lips. I wince as he hugs me a bit too tight, the whimper sounding from his mouth making something in my chest sting. 

“He’s right. I…you don’t understand, I haven’t—you—he’s not what you think,” he says, his voice strained and getting quieter. 

“Chris?” I ask, met with an even louder sob.

“Dad.” 

My bones go rigid as I feel my heartbeat stop for a second. Baylen shakily lets go of me, his teary, red eyes staring into mine with a pout tugging on his face. 

“He’s…he wasn’t a good person—especially not to you.” 

“What?” I ask, the word coming out as more of a breath than an actual question. “Baylen, what’s going on? What…what happened last night? What’re you saying?”

His eyes. They say volumes before he even starts to speak. 

Each of his words echo with a piercing pain, a sharp sensation clawing at my chest as I feel my heart shatter. 

___

Silence drums through my room. Not a single ounce of sound, not even a noise from moving in my sheets—I hadn’t moved. 

If I moved, this might be real, and this can’t be real—it can’t be true.

A knock breaks through the silence. My eyes stay trained on my wall as I see movement and hear the sound of my door creaking open. 

“Hey, I—” 

Chris. 

His voice is impossibly soft. I hear the door close shut, his footsteps trailing until he’s directly in my view. 

“Hey.” he repeats, this time more delicately. 

Chris sinks onto his knees, kneeling on the floor as I lay on my side. I stare as his hand reaches out, caressing my hair behind my ear. The heat grows in my face. 

This is too real. 

“Baylen let you in?” I ask numbly. He nods, his thumb caressing over the rim of my ear as I find the lump of emotions building in my chest. 

“How are you—”

“No. I…don’t. Please, just–”

The question makes my chest burn, the response rushing off my tongue as I feel my face scrunch with displeasure. The wall in front of me is blocked by his body, my eyes drifting to above his shoulder where my dresser is—the dresser with a picture of the man that made my heart feel like it was being wrung out like a towel. 

“I don’t want it to be true. I—I don’t wanna think that he…I…Baylen—he’s not lying, he wouldn’t lie about this, but—I’m gonna be sick,” I mumble, squinting my eyes shut as hot tears begin to leak. The sight of that dumb picture is burning in my mind, the fear of opening my eyes to see his face making my stomach twist with nausea.

The comfort of Chris’ touch disappears. I hear him walk around my room, my eyes peeking open to see him setting the framed picture of my dad face down on my dresser. 

A sob rumbles through my chest. Chris rushes over, scooping me into his arms as he cradles me like a baby into his chest. 

“Hey, hey…I got you, just—just let it all out, okay? I’m here,” he whispers.  

My vision is blurred as I try to open my eyes. Every muscle in my body aches as I look over to my dresser, the once prized picture hidden, the frame barely visible. 

My dad’s been dead for a long time. He’s been a memory for years—but that’s dead too now. 

All the memories, all the things I thought I knew—they’re all gone. 

Everything about him is truly dead.

[daxisyzz]

𝑶𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒖𝒑𝒐𝒏 𝒂 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: In dreams, you danced with him beneath the glow of a 1940s jazz bar—Bucky Barnes, a stranger who felt like home. The world called it a vision; you knew it was a memory reborn. Drawn across lifetimes, you find him in Bucharest, where love awakens, and fate begins again.

Warnings and tags: post avengers-aou, no civil war in this universe, 40s!Bucky, Civil War!Bucky, the reader has powers like mind manipulation and dream walking, the reader has been reincarnated in the present, was alive in the 40s in her previous life, implied "death".

Lyrics for the song are in italics

Word count: 3.7k+

A/n: Happy birthday to me ✨️ it's my birthday today!! this is a special I've written for my birthday. Hope you all like it<3. divider creds: @strangergraphics

Your powers were slipping again.

You had always known how to tiptoe the line between dreams and waking, could soothe nightmares, slip into someone’s subconscious like dipping a hand into water. You had control. Precision. Boundaries.

But ever since Bucky Barnes had vanished gone off-grid without warning after the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. something inside you had begun to fray. You didn’t even know him. Not really. Just a face you’d seen in passing in the Smithsonian. A few mentions of him from Steve. Still, his absence clawed at you like a wound you didn’t remember receiving.

The rest of the team noticed. Wanda placed a hand on your shoulder more often. Steve asked you if you were sleeping enough. Sam hovered like he was waiting for you to crumble. You hated it. Hated the way your grip on reality was starting to blur at the edges. Your dreams bled into waking life, and your waking life kept warping into something unreal.

And then, one evening, everything shattered.

You had been meditating in your room, trying to ground yourself, when your vision went black.

No warning. No sound.

Just the sudden sense of falling into something deep and endless, like a void.

When your eyes opened, you were no longer in the compound.

The air smelled like smoke and perfume. Jazz music hummed through the floorboards beneath your shoes. The room swayed with movement, laughter, and golden light. You blinked at the wood bar, the soft glow of the lamps, the sway of dresses and the crisp cut of coats.

It was the 1940s.

Your mind tried to escape the illusion, but everything was too real, the warmth of the room, the scratch of your dress’s lace, the way your heels pinched slightly, under your toes. Your breath hitched.

You were dreaming, and you weren’t.

“Miss?”

You turned. A man stood near the bar, handsome in a pressed suit, tie loosened just enough to look charming. His smile was a little cocky, a little too familiar. Your heart stopped.

“Dance with me?” he asked, voice smooth, warm.

Your fingers twitched.

You knew that face. Younger, softer. Before the Winter Soldier. Before the war carved grief into his bones.

Bucky Barnes.

But he didn’t know you.

And yet—he looked at you like he did.

You took his hand.

The crowd faded. The band played a soft melody. He pulled you close, one hand at your waist, the other cradling your hand like it was something normal.

You moved together like you had done this before. Like your bodies remembered even if your minds didn’t.

You laid your head against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut as warmth washed over you.

Your thoughts whispered like wind through trees:

I know you. I walked with you once upon a dream.

I know you. The gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam.

A part of your soul clicked into place.

You swayed gently, chest to chest, the world shrinking down to just you, warm hands, and the kind of quiet that holds weight. Your cheek brushed against the lapel of his suit, the scent of him grounding you. You could feel his heartbeat through his shirt.

Then it all started dawning on you.

The music slowed, muffled, like it was coming from far away. The warm golden glow of the jazz bar dimmed. Your stomach turned. A faint pressure built behind your eyes. You blinked once, twice and the weight of everything crashed into you.

The dream faltered. No.

Not a dream.

A memory.

Your body stiffened in his arms.

Bucky felt it instantly. “Hey. What’s wrong, doll?”

You looked up at him with wide, wet eyes, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and throat. “I remember you.”

His brow furrowed, in confusion. “What are you talking about, sweetheart? You feeling okay?”

You stared at him. Your fingers curled into his jacket, gripping tight. “This isn’t just a dream. You…”

You didn’t get to finish.

Your breath caught in your throat as the room began to wither around you. The warmth of Bucky’s embrace vanished, replaced by a suffocating emptiness. The music, the laughter, the lights—they all dimmed, dissolving into still hum.

You gasped, struggling to keep steady, but the world slipped through your fingers like sand. Your heartbeat sped up in your chest, faster and faster, and then, it was gone.

You blinked back into existence with a gasp not in the dim warmth of the bar, but into something colder, heavier.

An alley. Slick cobblestones beneath your shoes. The muted rumble of a city alive just beyond the shadows. Rain dripped from a fire escape. The scent of tobacco, engine smoke, and something faintly floral clung to the air.

You knew this place.

Your body remembered before your brain caught up.

You weren’t in the compound. You were in another dream.

You were back. In your body. In the 1940s.

And he was there.

“Hey,” came a low whisper from your back.

You turned just in time to see Bucky Barnes slip around the corner, hair slick, kakhi jacket hugging his shoulders like he’d walked out of an old movie. The way he looked at you half smile, half mischief, stole the air from your lungs.

“Thought I lost you in the crowd,” he said, voice barely above the rain.

You swallowed. “You didn’t.”

You meant it in more ways than one.

He stepped closer, close enough that his fingers brushed yours. “You’re shaking,” he murmured, brows drawing together.

“I’m fine,” you lied. You weren’t. Not even close.

Because you knew what was coming. You remembered this moment before it happened. You remembered how your heart had felt like it would shatter from how much you wanted him, how much you couldn’t tell him. And now you were living it again, with the weight of the future crushing your chest.

Bucky reached up, cupping your cheek like you were something fragile. “You sure?” he asked gently.

You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes. “No.”

“Talk to me.”

You looked up at him. Your Bucky. But not yet. Not quite. He didn’t know what would be stolen from him. He didn’t know he’d leave you.

“I’m scared,” you whispered.

“Of what?” he asked, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“Of how much I already need you.”

That pulled something out of him. His breath hitched, and he tilted his head, eyes searching yours for any sign you didn’t mean it.

But you did.

You always had.

And then—it happened.

He leaned in.

So did you.

The kiss was soft. Hesitant, at first. Like the two of you were testing the shape of something you didn’t quite know how to hold.

Then it deepened.

Slowly, his hands found your waist, and yours tangled in the lapels of his jacket. He kissed you like you were a all thathe wished for, like he’d been dying to for weeks but had waited for this exact moment. The press of his lips was warm, sure, and achingly new.

And your heart broke a little.

Because this was the first time for him.

And you remembered the last.

But if I know you, I know what you'll do

You'll love me at once, the way you did once upon a dream

When you finally pulled back, your breath caught. His forehead rested against yours.

“Wow,” Bucky murmured.

You laughed softly, dazed. “Yeah.”

“You okay?” he asked again, voice low.

You blinked, eyes glassy. “No. But this… this helps.”

He smiled, completely unaware of the storm behind your eyes. “I knew kissing you’d be good,” he teased.

You huffed a wet laugh and kissed him again before you could cry.

Because this was the beginning.

And you already knew the end.

You were still spinning, breathless, heart thudding with the ghost of his lips on yours. His hand had been warm on your waist, grounding you, and his eyes. God, those eyes—soft in a way that made you want to stay right there forever.

You barely had time to hold on to it. To even say a word.

And then the world snapped back.

The familiar tug pulled at you, stronger this time. The air thickened with the smell of smoke, the sharp scent of gunpowder in the air. Your shoes felt heavier, the weight of them an instant reminder of where you were, who you were.

The darkness around you closed in, and in an instant, the alley, the city, the moment you shared with Bucky all vanished, as if they were never real at all.

You blinked.

Screams echoed around you loud, painful, desperate. The air stung with the sharp smell of blood and antiseptic. People shouted over each other, voices rushed and panicked. You heard the hiss of bandages being pulled, the snap of needles, the clinking of metal tools. It was loud. It was messy. It was real. This was the battlefield. And you were right in the middle of it.

You were back in the war years. Or few months after the kiss had taken place.

Back where the world had crumbled. The weight of the memories hit you like a freight train.

You were in uniform, a nurse’s uniform, dust-streaked and bloodstained. The fabric was heavy against your chest, the worn apron crinkled at the edges. You had lived through this, survived it.

But this wasn’t your life anymore.

This life belonged to her—the woman who had tried to hold on to her humanity, who had tried to save as many as she could, even as she felt herself slowly breaking. She was the one who had run into the fire, who had patched up the wounded bodies, who had held their hands as they breathed their last breath.

You weren't her, and yet you were.

You were a nurse in the war, doing everything you could to hold it together in the middle of the chaos. But there was one thing—one person—that kept you tethered to this place.

Bucky.

He was there. His face still soft, but now tired, haunted. His eyes were harder now, his soul tarnished by the war, the loss. You could see it in the way he moved, the set of his jaw. The way he was trying so hard to keep it all together.

You remember seeing him more times than you could count back at camp, in the mess hall, during missions. And now, here he was again, coming through the swinging doors of the field hospital where you worked, his arms full of supplies.

You didn’t have time to process anything before chaos broke out.

A soldier had just come in, bleeding out, and you rushed to his side, pushing past Bucky, your hands already reaching for the tools you knew you’d need, as if it was second nature. You barely had a chance to look at him as you worked, stitching up the soldier’s wounds, trying to keep him alive.

It was only once you’d stabilized him that you met Bucky’s gaze across the room. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes a softness that betrayed the hardened soldier he had become.

It felt like everything stopped for just a second.

And then—An explosion.

The world around you shook violently, throwing you to the ground. The screams, the sounds of the explosion, the cries for help—they were all too much.

Before you could even move, Bucky was there. He grabbed you, pulling you to your feet, holding you close as the world spun around you. His arms were strong, steady, something to hold on to in the middle of all the noise and panic.

“We have to go!” he yelled, his voice barely cutting through the noise. “Now!”

You tried to focus, tried to keep your feet under you, but everything was loud and blurry. It was hard to breathe. Hard to think.

And then you saw her. A soldier who was caught in the crossfire. She was lying there, barely conscious, her leg shattered by the blast.

You ran toward her, but before you could reach her, a bullet tore into your side. The pain was instant—hot, sharp, and far too familiar. You gasped, your knees buckling, and everything around you tilted.

Bucky caught you before you hit the ground. His arms wrapped around you, holding you tight like he could keep you here just by not letting go.

“Stay with me,” he said, his voice cracking. “Please. Just stay with me.”

He pressed his hands to your side, trying to stop the bleeding, but you could feel it—you knew this was bad. Just like last time. Maybe worse.

Your vision started to fade. The sounds around you felt far away. You could still hear Bucky, but his voice was distant now, like he was underwater. And you couldn’t hold on much longer.

“Please, don’t go,” he whispered as you slipped, your body growing heavier in his arms.

“Bucky,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure if he could hear you. You tried to smile, to tell him that it would be okay, but the pain was too much.

“I can’t lose you. You still haveto meet Steve. We have to get married, after the war, live together in our home,” Bucky cried, holding you tighter, his voice breaking, desperation in every syllable.

And then everything went silent.

The voices, the screams, the gunshots, the explosions, they all faded. There was only Bucky’s voice, lingering in the distance.

His final plea.

And then—nothing.

You woke up with a start, gasping for air, the harsh light of the compound blinding you. Sweat clung to your skin, your heart still pounding as though you had just run a long marathon.

But your mind wasn’t here. Your mind was back.

Back with him.

Back in that life.

The memories crashed into you like a storm, vivid and unrelenting: Another life. Another version of yourself. You saw it all—flashes, pieces falling into place like the final turn of a puzzle box. You had been lovers in another time. A hidden corner of Brooklyn. A shared laugh over coffee. The weight of his dog tags pressing into your chest when he held you. The sound of a gunshot. A goodbye that ripped something from your soul. It wasn’t just a dream. It was real.

Your body shook as you pressed your hands to your face, choking on a sob as the weight of it all crashed over you.

I remember you, you thought, tears flooding your eyes, the ache in your chest too sharp to ignore.

In that life, you had been together. In another time, another version of yourself had loved him completely—had been his, and he had been yours. But now… now, he was lost to you. The years, the distance, the life you had been reborn into, none of it mattered. You could still feel him. You could still feel it all.

A broken, choked cry slipped out of you before you could stop it. You folded in on yourself, arms wrapped tight around your body as the grief crashed over you, wave after wave. The dream had pulled you in so deep, it felt like a part of him was still inside you even now, awake, you couldn’t shake him. Couldn’t let him go.

“Why didn’t I remember?” you whispered into the quiet, your voice barely holding together. “Why didn’t I know sooner?”

Your hands curled into fists, nails biting into your skin, trying to ground yourself. But the ache in your chest only grew heavier, pressing down with the truth you could no longer ignore.

You had to find him.

You couldn’t just stay here, pretending nothing had changed. Because everything had. He was out there somewhere. Bucky Barnes, your Bucky, had disappeared, and you couldn’t let him go. Not when you had shared so much. Not when the threads of your past still bound you to him.

You wiped your eyes, the determination sparking to life behind your tears.

“I’ll find you,” you whispered, voice full of unshakable resolve. “I will find you, Bucky.”

And nothing—not the past, not the present—was going to keep you from bringing him back into your life.

The team had gathered, though they were all confused about why you called them. Steve, Natasha, Sam, Wanda… even Tony, arms crossed, looking skeptical.

Your heart was racing, like it wanted to jump out of your chest. The words stuck in your throat, but you made yourself speak anyway.

“I remembered him,” you said, voice shaking. “I remembered everything.”

Steve blinked. “Who?”

“Bucky,” you whispered. “I knew him. I loved him. Not here. Not in this life. In the one before.”

Silence.

Sam frowned, leaning forward. “You mean like… a past life?”

You nodded slowly, your hands trembling.

“There was a jazz bar. The 40s. I remembered the way he smiled at me like I was his whole damn world. We danced, and I—God, I felt it. Our shared times, the end of it all. It was real. All of it. I don’t know how or why I forgot, but when I woke up, it was like losing him all over again.”

Steve’s mouth parted, stunned. “He never… he never told me he was seeing anyone back then.”

"He wouldn’t have. She... I died young. Before hydra took him. But it was real. We were real." you said.

Wanda stepped closer, gently. “And you think we can find him out there?”

You nodded, suddenly fierce. “I don’t think. I know. And I’m going to find him.”

There was a pause. Then Tony let out a low whistle. “Well. That’s one hell of a love story.”

Steve’s expression had shifted—no longer confused, but grave. “Let's bring him home.”

Five Months Later – Bucharest

You’d gone through every old file, every false lead, every sleepless night with his voice in your head, his warmth on your skin like a ghost. But now, standing outside the apartment building, your hands balled into fists in your coat pockets, it was real. He was real.

Steve looked at you once, like he was checking in, and you nodded. The hallway was narrow and dim, peeling wallpaper, faded lightbulbs. You could hear the soft hum of life behind closed doors—someone cooking, a baby crying, a radio playing softly.

But you only heard your heartbeat.

The door creaked open under Steve’s hand. The apartment was dark, sparse. The door shut behind you. You stepped inside slowly, looking around at the almost empty unit. It had an old mattress on the ground, a small kitchen and some random trinkets here and there.

And then, footsteps on the stairs. The creak of the floorboards. Keys in the lock.

You froze.

The door opened.

Bucky walked in.

He was older now, harder, with shaggy hair and a scruff-lined jaw, but his eyes—those same eyes you saw in that dream—landed on you and stopped.

He dropped the grocery bag in his hand.

You didn’t move.

And then it happened—his body swayed, just a little, his eyes wide and distant, like something inside him snapped. You saw it, all of it the memories coming back, sharp and clear, like shattered glass reforming. Your laughter, your hand in his at the bar, the soft way you whispered his name as his lips met yours, the way he held you like he didn’t know how to let you go.

He remembered.

He remembered everything.

“No…” he breathed, stumbling back, shaking his head. “No, this isn’t real.”

“Bucky,” you whispered, your own tears rising fast. “It is.”

He turned like he was going to bolt.

“Don’t,” Steve said, stepping between him and the door. “Don’t run.”

“I can’t—I can’t—” Bucky’s voice cracked. “This isn’t supposed to happen. You were—you were gone.”

“I came back,” you said, stepping forward slowly, hands raised like you were approaching a wounded animal.

His breath hitched. His fists clenched at his sides. He was shaking all over.

“Do you remember?” you asked hesitantly. He looked at you, and in the dim light, you saw the truth break through. He had. And it hurt. It hurt.

His voice was raw. “You died in my arms. I held you while you—while you bled out.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks. “And now I’m here.”

“I can’t do that again,” he whispered.

“I’m not asking you to,” you said gently, voice cracking. “I’m asking you to come home. With me. Let’s remember it together.”

Steve placed a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, quiet and steady. “You don’t have to run anymore, Buck. We found you.”

And that’s when Bucky broke.

He dropped to his knees.

You caught him.

His arms wrapped around you so tightly it stole the air from your lungs. His face buried in your neck as he trembled, sobbing—not like a soldier, but like a man who had carried a century of grief with no place to put it.

“I missed you,” he choked. “I saw you. Every time they wiped me. Every time they dragged me back. I saw your face." He pulled back just far enough to look at you, his eyes swimming with tears.

"I forgot who I was—but I never forgot you."

You clung to him like you’d never let go again.

"I thought… maybe I imagined you so I’d have a reason not to die," he whispered. "But you were real. You’re real."

“I’m here now,” you whispered. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

They held each other, the world outside fading into silence. There were no words between them—just the sound of their breathing. His was shaky, uneven, like he couldn’t quite catch his breath. Hers was steady, but you could feel the weight of everything they’d been through in each inhale, each exhale.

She wasn’t here by accident, not by fate, but by something deeper. Something that had always been there, hidden in the fabric of who they were. She hadn’t come back just to live again, she’d come back to find him, to remember everything they had, and to give it another shot.

And as they held each other, their hearts beating together in a way time couldn’t touch, they both knew something for sure: some loves are too strong to be torn apart by anything life, death, time itself. Their love had survived it all, and no matter what came next, it would always find its way back to them.

Together, they had become something that couldn’t be undone.

And this, this was their second chance. Their rebirth.

This was their beginning

[clarenmac]

Did you say 👀 👀 landoscar body worship??? Cause if so I am SAT

well! ask and you shall receive...

decided to not keep it locked up in the gdoc.

for context: i took a nap after miami gp, saw these photos of lando, and wrote this. it's not necessarily set around miami, but make of it what you will.

✨find under the cut✨

landoscar body worship

2.1k words

mature(?)

an exercise and exploration into love, devotion, and surrender (whilst in the face of messy, fraught and ambiguous feelings).

(a warning/heads up... brief mentions of touching and (almost) kissing feet. but it's more about the emotional and physical surrender of touching someone—allowing someone to touch—a place of complete vulnerability. as opposed to just like... a foot thing. lmao)

***

It’s the strip of exposed skin between the band of his joggers and his shirt. Right where the fabric has ridden up, soft and slack from the stretch of his arms above his head. It slips across him easily. Leaves him bare, like an invitation.

It’s there, that strip, where Oscar can’t stop looking. 

Lando makes a sound. Not quite a groan, not quite a sigh. Just something small. Hurt.

Something sensitive. 

It’s his back, Oscar thinks. Tight and sore. Muscles bunched at the base of his spine, knots braided high across his shoulders.

He watches Lando’s fingers curl into the pillow above his head, white-knuckled. Watches the stretch go deeper, the arch in his back pull sharper, exposing more skin—dark, warm, soft. A line that Oscar could trace with one finger.

Lando’s face is twisted to the side, trying to bury himself in the sheets. Almost mouthing at them. He’s drawn tight there too—his face—pain etched into all his fine lines. 

Nothing to do with his back at all. 

Oscar stands at the foot of the bed, useless. He listens to Lando’s neck crack, the sharp crunch of it loud in the still of the room, and flinches.

“Hey,” he says, soft. Careful. 

Lando doesn’t react. Like Oscar’s not there at all. But he is—Lando invited him in. Asked for it, and said nothing. Just reached out in the hallway—closed the gap with a hooked finger in the sleeve of Oscar’s shirt. Just enough to pull. Just enough to close the metre between their rooms, that impossible distance, lined in ugly carpet and harsh fluorescent light.

A distance Oscar couldn’t cross without that tug.

But he followed. Crossed it. 

Of course he did.

Oscar’s the one that reaches for him now; reaches for the only part of Lando he can touch without disrupting the fragile shape of him: his ankle. He closes his fingers gently around the bone, his thumb brushing across the skin there. 

Lando doesn’t react. Not really. But there’s a flicker—his eyelids twitch, a subtle shift beneath them. Then the faint crease between his brows. Small, but sharp. A line that wasn’t there before—one Oscar wants to touch. To smooth.

Wonders how he can, when he’s the reason for it. For all of them. 

Maybe. 

He isn’t sure if that’s right. Because he can’t read Lando when he’s like this—withdrawn, wound tight. Like he wants to push Oscar away. Can’t stand him. But—

He reached for him. Pulled him in close. 

The way he keeps reaching for him, over and over, like Oscar’s the only thing that’s helping.

Oscar can’t make sense of it. But he wants it. Realises he’s sort of desperate for it—to not be pushed away. To be allowed in.

He puts a knee on the end of the bed, leans forward, but doesn’t climb on. He balances his weight on Lando—on that gentle-gentle hand still resting at his ankle. Squeezes tighter, just for a second, before brushing it up along his calf. He pushes Lando’s joggers with it, inching them higher and exposing more of that skin. 

Soft. Hair coarse. Something dangerous.

Lando says nothing.

Says everything, when he parts his legs.

Only slightly—barely—but Oscar feels the space he creates. The space he makes. Just for him.

Only for him.

Oscar breathes. Watches his face. He wants to crawl over him, press him down into the bed—cover him so completely, so tightly, that he can’t drift away inside his own head.

He doesn’t. 

He will, but not yet.

Instead, he lifts Lando’s leg to his chest. Pulls gently at his shin until it folds him in, like he’s trying to hug him there.

Lando lets it happen. Eyes closed and loose for it.

When Oscar closes his hand around Lando’s socked foot, Lando twitches. Surprised. Sensitive. 

Oscar presses his thumb into the arch—right where he knows Lando will be tight.

He gets the reaction he was hoping for. And shit. He just wanted a reaction—fucking anything—‘cause when Lando grunts, when his eyelids flutter, Oscar feels something start to untangle in the space between his ribs. Something tight finally letting go.

He wants to do the same for Lando.

So he does it again. Pushes. Digs in. Thinks he could stay just like this—get up on the bed and put Lando’s feet in his lap. Just to keep him grunting. Keep him breathing. Keep him here.

He pulls off Lando’s sock, then the other, smiling when he sees the curl of Lando’s toes. Has to shake his head at that—something embarrassing licking hot and high near his neck. Probably something dangerously wrong with him, but maybe there always has been.

And when Lando sighs—when he presses his feet into Oscar’s hands, something loosening in his face—Oscar thinks maybe there’s something dangerously wrong with both of them.

Hopes.

(Knows.)

Oscar closes his eyes, bringing Lando’s leg up near his shoulder, right by his face. He breathes. Tries not to shudder as he presses his nose to Lando’s calf, his ankle. Inhales deep. His mouth grazes over skin—barely, lightly—and he can’t see it, but he hears it: that sound at the back of Lando’s throat.

Oscar holds his leg like it’s delicate. Like if he’s not gentle enough, the moment will crack and disappear.

But Lando’s not delicate. Not gentle. He doesn’t need Oscar to treat him like this. He doesn’t need to be coddled, cradled like glass.

But Oscar wants to.

He wants to take Lando in his hands and shatter him—carefully, deliberately. Just so he can help put him back together.

If that’s what Lando needs.

When Oscar closes his mouth over the side of Lando’s ankle, it’s dangerously close to his heel. Almost at the sole of his foot.

He hears the way Lando breathes for it—feels the tremor that follows.

Oscar knows what it means, touching him here. Like this. Knows it isn’t about the obvious strangeness, isn’t about the easy joke—feet, mate? seriously?—isn’t about being a fucking freak, or whatever the fuck Lando’s going to say later.

It’s about touching him where he’s vulnerable.

It’s about being allowed to.

Oscar lets himself move further up the bed, kneeling now in the space between Lando’s parted thighs. He runs his lips along the skin of his leg—up the shin, the calf—until he meets the bunched material of his joggers near his knee.

He kisses him there. Right in that soft, dangerous spot below the kneecap. And when a hand curls around his wrist, Oscar flinches—so hard that his grip on Lando’s leg turns impossibly tight.

Lando doesn’t flinch in return. Doesn’t even move. Just holds Oscar steady.

Oscar blinks, lands on the shape of Lando’s hand around his wrist, and swallows. It always stills him—how Lando’s fingers overlap when they curl around him like that.

He glances up, still half-hiding in the space behind Lando’s knee, and the breath that leaves him is sharp when he realises—sees—

Lando’s eyes are open. Hazy. Half-lidded.

But open.

And looking directly at him.

Oscar doesn’t say anything. Lando doesn’t either. But Oscar feels the weight of it—what he’s doing—shouting between them, loud and heavy.

Lando’s thumb presses firmly to his pulse, and Oscar wonders if he can feel it. Feel how it’s steady. Calm. Certain.

Hopes he can.

Hopes Lando knows what this means to him—that he’s not afraid to be here. That he wants to be.

Oscar kisses him again, squeezes his calf, and Lando sighs.

“Oscar.”

Oscar blinks. He hadn’t expected to hear his own name. To hear anything at all. Didn’t expect to hear it… like that.

“Yeah?” he says. Asks. He doesn’t know what he’s asking, only that now Lando’s speaking, he doesn’t want it to stop.

Even if all Lando says is his name (over and over and—) that would be enough.

Lando doesn’t respond. Just blinks at him, slow and drowsy, like he’s working something out. He tugs at Oscar’s wrist, the way he tugged at his sleeve in the hallway, and Oscar hears it again for what it is.

An invitation.

He runs a hand down Lando’s thigh, gentle, until he can hold him to his hip. Keeps him close. Doesn’t want to let this part of him go. 

He plants his other hand beside Lando’s head, and leans in. Slowly. Finds that holy, granted space between Lando’s legs, and lets himself sink into it. 

Like kneeling.

Like absolution. 

It’s the way Lando touches his waist. His neck. The way he reaches for him, sighing when Oscar’s weight settles on his chest and pushes him into the bed. The way Oscar can see his lashes, the red-rimmed edges of his eyes—vaguely devastating from this close.

Oscar revels in the heat of him.

He doesn’t react when he feels the heavy, half-hard press of Lando’s cock, almost against his own. He’s hard too, or nearly—just a dull, low thrum. Easy to ignore.

Because this isn’t about sex. Not in the way Oscar’s known it.

It’s something else. Something just as exposing. Maybe more.

Still—

It never won’t get to him. The knowledge—the reality—that Lando wants him too. Keeps wanting him. Despite everything.

Lando’s eyes track across Oscar’s face, that little frown still tucked between his brows. He settles on Oscar’s mouth, where Oscar knows his lips are cracked. Dry. He licks at them—an unconscious habit, usually reserved for Lando.

He can feel Lando’s hand at his throat. Not squeezing—just holding. A thumb brushing the tense line of a tendon too tight.

Lando sighs and Oscar kisses his jaw. Closes his mouth over Lando’s throat, just to feel him swallow—mirroring the way Lando holds him. Like they’re keeping each other there. Anchored. Alive. 

I’ve got you. 

There’s so much Oscar wants to say. All the fucking time, really. Not just here. But he just—can’t. Can’t because he’s never going to get it right. Never going to look at Lando’s face and find a perfect, tidy way to explain it all. Wouldn’t be enough. And—shit. It’s not even that. Lando doesn’t need a speech, Oscar’s pretty sure he wouldn’t want one, but it doesn’t change the way Oscar feels. 

What he wants Lando to understand.

He licks at Lando’s pulse. Bites him there. Hides in that space. Pushes at his shirt, where it’s ridden high up his middle. Keeps pushing until it’s bunched under his arms, tight across his chest.

Oscar drags himself down—graceless, probably. Awkward. But finesse isn’t the point. He just has to touch. To hold. To breathe Lando in, so that maybe Lando will understand.

Lando lets him. Easy. Fingers tangled in Oscar’s hair and pulls.

It’s not sex—but still, Oscar moans. Can’t help it. A thank you.

“Oscar,” Lando says again. 

Oscar hears what’s beneath it. 

You don’t have to. 

“Let me,” Oscar says out loud. 

Lando’s grip in his hair tightens.

Oscar settles, lowers himself to Lando’s chest. Doesn’t hesitate, just breathes. Presses his mouth to Lando’s sternum and feels the bone there. Kisses him there—again and again—until salt tastes like spit, until spit tastes like nothing at all. Just Lando.

He feels the rise and fall of Lando’s chest against his face. Breathing deep. Heavy. Letting himself feel it. Take it.

“You’re good,” Oscar hears himself say. Doesn't really know why he says it.

Repeats it. “You’re good.”

Something moves through Lando’s chest—wracks through it—and Oscar feels it.

He doesn’t want to undo Lando. Doesn’t want to hurt him. That’s the whole point.

He doesn’t want this to bruise.

Oscar lifts his head, rests his chin on Lando’s torso. Lando’s head had been thrown back, eyes shut—but he blinks up fast when he feels Oscar pause.

They look at each other. Again. Just like before. And Oscar sees the way Lando’s cracking. Spilling out all over the edges.

“Lando…” he says softly. Tries not to frown. Starts to say more, but—

“Don’t stop,” Lando cuts in. Firm. Clear.

Oscar drops his forehead to Lando’s skin. Wet and hot. Clutches a fistful of his shirt, closes his eyes, and sighs. 

And kisses him again.

His collarbone. His shoulder. His chest. His ribs. Almost at his armpit. The shape of him.

He could live here, Oscar realises. Make a home in this space Lando’s offered him. In the space Lando wants—needs—him to be.

A space that feels like surrender.

Like devotion.

Because that’s what this is, isn’t it.

Being with Lando Norris—loving him—is devotion. Surrender, in its highest, most brutal form.

And when Lando’s legs part wider, thumbs brushing reverently at Oscar’s temples, Oscar thinks—

Surrender comes in many forms. Starting with a mirror. 

[ldydeath]

I Need Somebody 2 | Kwon Ji-yong (G-Dragon)

Summary: Everything has changed now that you’ve appeared in Jiyong’s song. Do you have what it takes to make it out of the industry? Word count: 1.8k Warnings: slight angst (?), mentions of body weight and body image issues. Author’s Note: decided to then one of my April fics into a series. You can check out the master list here! 

You hadn’t known when you’d slipped into Jiyong’s car that night how much your life was going to change. You’d thought you’d just be a simple cameo on a song, maybe dip your toes into a new relationship. You never imagined you’d be standing around a group of people who were picking apart every last thing about you. 

Like everything Jiyong touched, the song had been a hit. You’d gotten more traction that you’d expected. Though, you figured that had to do with your last minute addition to the song being so heavily highlighted in Good Day more so than your actual vocals. Either way, you’d somehow managed to get signed to Jiyong’s label. 

He was helping produce your solo single, something you’d been very vocal about. You had never wanted fame, singing karaoke as a release had been enough for you. So if you were going to do this you were going to do it with someone you trusted. 

The two of you had been inseparable since the night you met. If you weren’t at his place he was at yours. You’d stood by his side for his first solo concert, gone with him to support Daesung's solo journey as well. You’d found a home with Jiyong in the few short months you’d known him.  That home was something you desperately wanted to get to right now. You didn’t know if you could handle one more person critiquing your body today.

Your phone buzzed, cutting through the noise and you let out a sigh as you excused yourself to see who it was. You weren’t at all surprised to see Jiyong’s name flash across the screen. You were supposed to have been done with this outfit fitting hours ago. He had a show at a golf event that you were supposed to be at. He’d be taking the stage any minute. 

Did you forget about me?

You snorted at the text, as if you could forget him even if you tried. 

Not even a little bit. Fitting went over. Should be out of here soon.

I’ll make sure to send you a video. I’m wearing the suit you picked out. Miss you.

Don’t change, I’ll be over after. 

You smiled at your phone, before you heard it. The soft murmurs of the team. Someone was asking what Jiyong possibly saw in you, another commenting on your body weight….again. You tried to silence the noise, because that’s all it was. You were a pretty girl, someone Jiyong had been attracted to and it didn’t matter what they thought. At least that’s what you told yourself. 

The fitting went on for a few more hours and you finally made your way to your house, defeated. You were supposed to be celebrating at Jiyong’s. A successful show for him, a successful fitting for you. Future power couple in the making and all that. But after this day, you just needed to curl up in a ball and shut the rest of the world out. 

You’d sent Jiyong a text telling him you weren’t feeling up to going to his place and headed straight home. You’d been too far in your own head, you'd missed Jiyong’s car parked out front. Didn’t even realize the door was unlocked when you stuck your key in. You slid out of your shoes and dropped your bag down, a sniffle following suit as you leaned against the door. Your eyes cloudy with tears.

“What happened?” Jiyong’s voice had an edge to it you hadn’t heard before and you turned to face him. 

“I didn’t know you were here, I’m sorry.” You wiped the tears away quickly as more seeped out. You hadn’t meant to let them get to you like this. 

Jiyong had known something was up when you didn’t make it to the show. His suspicions had been right when you’d canceled on him all together. If anyone knew how cruel the industry could be, it was him. He’d watched it destroy his best friend, almost destroyed him too. He wasn’t going to let that happen to you. 

He moved quickly, his hands finding their way to your face as his thumb wiped away the tears spilling down your cheeks. It broke his heart seeing you this way and he pulled you to him. Your face buried into his chest as you took a minute to collect yourself. He rested his chin on your head, holding you close as his hands ran soothing circles on your back. He didn’t know what they’d done to you, but he’d make sure they wouldn’t do it again. 

“What did they do?” His voice was more calm, but there was still an edge to it. 

“ApparentlyI’m hideous and extremely wrong for you.” You sighed, moving out from the safety of his arms. 

“That’s completely inaccurate.” He crossed the room, keeping in pace with you. “You’re gorgeous for starters. And you could do a lot better than me.” You snorted. 

You moved to sit on the couch, pulling a blanket up over you and wrapped your arms around your legs, attempting to make yourself as small as possible. You took a second to take in Jiyong, his messy hair, the suit, under different circumstances you’d be ripping those clothes off him. You wanted the confidence you’d had that morning back. 

“You look nice, by the way.” Jiyong smirked at your words before moving to sit next to you. 

He pulled you into his arms and you practically melted into his touch. This was what you’d wanted all day - to be with him. You just hated that you felt so broken in his arms. As if reading your thoughts, Jiyong placed a kiss to the top of your head, your cheek, and then finally your lips. 

There it was, that magnetic pull you’d felt in the club again. It was always there, pulling you to him. The struggles of the day disappearing for a minute while you’re tongues danced for dominance. If you could spend the rest of time kissing this man you’d be happy forever. Unfortunately, you couldn’t. 

“I ordered us food. Figured you hadn’t eaten today.” His forehead resting against yours as he spoke. 

“I haven’t. I should eat salads until I fit into this ridiculous outfit.” You pulled away, as if repulsed with yourself. 

“Hey. No. You’re perfect. Everyone in that club the night we met thought so, I still think so. We’ll get you a new stylist if this continues. They need to alter the clothes to fit you, not the other way around.” He pulled you back to him. “You’re going to eat and we’re going to forget this day ever happened.” 

Your head found its way to his shoulder, and you curled into him. His arm stayed planted around you, as if he was solely responsible for keeping you upright. You don’t know how long you sat there in the silence but it was nice to have him to come back to after a day like this. 

The two of you are in silence, Jiyong watching to make sure you actually ate. He knew how easy it was to get lost in the noise of the negative comments, but he would reassure you every day that they were wrong if they had to. 

“Come on, up.” Jiyong was on his feet his hand reaching out for you. 

“What, why?”

“Just trust me.” You sighed, taking his hand.

He pulled you to your feet before taking out his phone and flipping through his Spotify before landing on the perfect song. Hitting play, his hand rested on your hip, his other gripping your hand. You let out a small laugh as you swayed to the music. 

“This is cheesy.” You teased, your eyes glancing up to look at him. 

“It’s romantic.” He corrected, a lopsided grin crossing his face as his eyes locked with yours. 

You let him twirl you around your living room, his voice humming along to the lyrics of the song. It wasn’t one you recognized but he had a way of making everything so beautiful. This song was sure to be your new favorite. 

You could feel yourself relaxing, the weight of the day finally fading away as you melted into Jiyong. A real smile on your face as you leaned up to kiss him. He held you close, his lips moving with yours as he tried his best to kiss all your pain away. 

“You should be my Too Bad dancer on tour.” He said it so casually, like he had the power to just change everything that easily. 

“What? Why?” You shook your head. “I couldn’t.”

“You should see yourself when you get lost in the music like that. You’re breathtaking.” He moved your head so that you were looking at him. “And you can. Unless you’re scared.” 

“I’m not.” You glared at him, knowing exactly what he was doing. He’d figured you out so quickly in the short time you’d been together. “Are you sure?”

“About you? Always.” He smirked and you grinned. 

“Alright. I’ll do it.” 

Jiyong’s gummy grin matched the one on your face and he leaned down to kiss you again. This was the only way he could think to keep you safe. You’d be on the road with him, you could work together on songs while you traveled around Asia. He could fire your stylist and you could use his. You’d be surrounded by support and if it ever got too heavy he’d be right there fo carry the weight of the world for you. Or with you. Whatever you wanted. 

He’d known it the second he’d laid eyes on you that he’d do anything for you. Now he just needed to show you how serious he was about it. This journey wasn’t going to be easy, but it would lead you to some beautiful places and a chance at a different life than the one you’d grown accustomed to. You were a star in his eyes and soon enough the rest of the world would see that too. 

“Come on, let’s go to bed. It’s been a long day.” His hand slid down your body effortlessly as he reached for yours.

Lacing your fingers together, he led you to your room. It amazed you how comfortable he was walking through your house like he owned the place. You hadn’t been together that long but you couldn’t imagine a time before him now. 

He helped you undress, leaving tinder kisses across your skin as he slid your robe on your body. You helped him out of his suit jacket, undid his tie carefully before flinging it across the room. You’d imagined this going so differently when you’d seen this suit earlier. He stripped down to his boxers before climbing into bed and pulling you to him. 

He covered you both up, his arms wrapping around you as you drifted off to sleep. He watched you for a while before reaching for his phone. He fired off a few text messages to make sure you wouldn’t have to worry about ever seeing that team of people ever again. When you woke up in the morning you’d have a whole new team, he’d make sure of that. 

tag list: @wcnderlnds @infinetlyforgotten @berfgrimm @aizshallnotbefound @loveesiren @gdinthehouseee @tulentiy @petersasteria @alosss-blog @sooyasya @dprvivi @mirahyun @breakmeoff @1950schick @flymetothexmoon @sherrayyyyy

[slytherin-pen]

In The Night, I Am Yours

pairing: Eris x Reader

word count: 1.1k

warnings: mentions of Beron and his abuse.

tags: no use of y/n, gn reader, sex worker!reader, reverse hurt/comfort, Eris needs a hug, soft!eris

a/n: heavily inspired by that scene in HOTD where Aemond goes to a brothel for cuddles. written for day 5 of @sjmxreaderweek

The Velvet Den wasn’t the most glamorous brothel in the Autumn Court. It wasn’t the most expensive or the most infamous, either. But it was the kind of place where a person might stumble in and forget, for a few blessed hours, the cruelty waiting outside.

You were used to visitors coming through your door with desires they could not voice elsewhere. Some wanted pain, some wanted power, and some simply wanted to be seen.

Then there was him.

Eris Vanserra, heir to the Autumn Court. The male who had set whole villages ablaze, who wore his arrogance like armor, who moved through the world like he was untouchable.

And yet here, he was just Eris. And he only ever asked for one thing.

To be held.

The first time, you had blinked in surprise. Surely, you had thought, this was some sort of trick, some game he was playing. A test.

But when he had stripped off his heavy crimson cloak, the fine embroidered jacket beneath it, and then the linen shirt—baring skin dusted with old bruises and scars that looked suspiciously like whip lashes—the truth had been impossible to deny.

It was no secret that Beron was an abuser. Lesser Fae. High Fae. His own family. No one was safe. Despite that knowledge, you couldn’t help the shock and rage that coursed through once you saw the evidence of his brutality on Eris’s body.

You had to take a moment to collect yourself, clearing your throat before motioning toward the bed with your hand. When you had moved to untie your robe, Eris stopped you. He had no desire for you to be nude. You had simply shrugged and crawled onto the bed with him.

Now, months later, it had become a ritual.

The moment Eris stepped into your room, well past midnight, always cloaked and hooded, you would lock the door and open your arms.

And he would come to you, shedding not only layers of clothes but his mask, too.

Tonight, he looked particularly tired.

You watched from the bed as he crossed the room, undoing the heavy buckles of his armor with slow, mechanical movements. His hands trembled slightly, a detail you might have missed if you weren’t so used to looking for it.

Wordlessly, you rose and went to him, brushing his fingers aside to help.

Unbuckling leather. Pulling bloodstained gloves from his hands. Lifting the weight of his armor from his shoulders. He let you, his eyes closed, his breathing steadying.

When at last he stood in just his pants, the firelight highlighting the pale scars across his chest, you reached for his hand.

“Come to bed, Eris.”

He let you lead him without resistance.

You pulled him into the circle of your arms, lying back against the pillows. One of his arms curled possessively around your waist, the other came up to grip the fabric of your shift, as if to anchor himself to you.

For a long time, there was only silence.

Only the feeling of his breath against your throat, slow and uneven. Only the weight of his body half-draped over yours, heavy and real and alive. He smelt faintly of woodsmoke and cedar.

“Today,” he rasped, so quietly you barely heard him, “he made me watch.”

You didn’t ask who he was. You didn’t need to. You stroked your fingers through his hair—that thick, fiery mane usually slicked back so perfectly—and found it damp with sweat. As if he’d only just escaped whatever horrors Beron was up to today.

“What did you see?” you murmured.

“A traitor,” he said flatly, his body tensing up again. “My father caught him trying to flee the court with his mate. Punishment was swift.”

Your hand kept moving through his hair, slow and steady. You didn’t press him to continue, but he did, after a long, shuddering breath.

“I had to stand there,” he whispered. “Had to… pretend I approved. That I agreed.” His fingers clenched in the fabric of your shift. “While they screamed.”

You pressed a kiss to his temple, feeling his body tremble in your arms. “It’s not your fault,” you said softly. “If you have any chance of making this court a better place someday you have to do what he asks to survive.”

Another ragged breath. Another long silence.

“What if I end up like him?”

It broke something in you every time he said things like that. Things a little boy might have whispered in the dark.

You tightened your arms around him, offering your body as a shield against the dreadful thoughts clawing at his mind.

“You won’t,” you said fiercely. “You’re nothing like him, Eris.”

He said nothing, but the tension in his body eased a little at your words.

For a while after that, he simply lay there. You ran your hands along his back, mapping the faint new scars with your fingertips.

Eris buried his face against your throat, breathing you in like you were the only clean thing left in the world.

Eventually, you felt him slip into sleep. His body slackened in your arms, the furrow between his brows disappearing.

You knew he wouldn’t sleep long. He never did. A few hours, maybe, and then he would be gone before sunrise. Back to the Forest House, back to the games, back to his cage.

But for now, he was here. Warm and alive in your arms. And you would hold him for as long as he needed.

He stirred once in the dark hours before dawn, and you murmured his name to ground him. He settled again almost immediately, like a child reassured by a familiar voice.

You wondered, not for the first time, how long he’d been alone before he found you. If anyone had ever held him like this before now. If his mother was ever even allowed to. If he even knew how to accept it outside of this corner in the world the two of you have carved together without fear or shame.

Your heart ached for him.

You brushed a kiss against his forehead and whispered promises he might never hear.

“I will always hold you. You are safe with me. You don’t have to be alone.”

Outside, the first gray light of dawn began to seep through the curtains. Soon, he would leave. He would become the heir again. The monster his father demanded. But here, in this stolen pocket of time, he was just a male. Just Eris.

And for as long as he let you, you would be the one to comfort him. To hold him like a lover he isn’t allowed to have.

taglist: @tele86 @phamtastical

[nashusglasses]

💪🏻&🥶 + zayne pls and thank u queen

Hi Sam ily!!!!!!! thank you for giving me a reason to revive wife guy Zayne who gets turned on when you mention the fact that you have a mortgage together LOL

send me an emoji + a lads man for a drabble! 🌞

For the seventh time tonight, Zayne declines the groom's offer of a sip of his whiskey neat. Never mind the shit taste; he promised himself he'd be completely sober the rest of the night, and the pineapple juice the bartender offered him was as satisfied as he was going to get.

He watches the bride take her nth shot. Then he sees you chasing her around the dance floor with a water bottle but failing miserably to get her to drink it down. Even worse is the DJ queueing up Bottoms Up by Trey Songz, and suddenly you're lost to the throng of drunk dancing and the bride violently shaking ass.

Zayne laughs quietly to himself, comparing the image of her now to three hours earlier: she was such a pearl, exchanging vows with tear-kissed eyes in front of the calm sea. He's glad to see her having the night of her life after witnessing—once again—the horrors of wedding planning. (His two responsibilities were keeping the rings safe and saying his best man speech. He guesses such important tasks warrant a congratulations shot from the bar, but whiskey neat? He inwardly cowers at the thought of the taste.)

You, however, aren't faring quite so well.

You catch him outside the reception hall a while later, sending his mom a text telling her his speech went well. "Zayne? Are you busy?"

The first thing he notices: the extra weight you're putting on your right leg, and Tara carefully balancing your arm around her shoulder.

He instantly puts his phone in his pocket. "Are you alright?"

You give him a sheepish smile, like you're afraid of a scolding. "I may or may not have twisted my ankle trying to have a dance-off with a baby."

"A baby," he repeats in disbelief.

"It was my niece," Tara snorts. "You think you got her? I need to call Andrea a ride, she's passed out at the sweetheart table."

Zayne briefly recalls a bridesmaid lain akimbo on the chairs. "Of course."

As soon as Tara's passed you over to Zayne's side, she's scurrying back into the hall with a quick feel better! He has to lean down as you hook your elbow onto his shoulder, suddenly very aware of your proximity and scent. Sea salt. Bergamot and jasmine. Something unattainable at the moment. "Do you think you can help me walk back to the bridal suite?" You ask. "I left my sandals there. I'm done with these heels."

You point to the small lakeside house just past the outdoor bar and the ceremony grounds. It's a one-minute walk at most, but Zayne doesn't want to risk your ankle swelling up into a balloon. He knows you'll refuse him, so he's quick with it.

"Wha—Zayne!"

He adjusts his hand under your knees, cradling the other under your shoulders. Your arms wrap around his neck with a nervous grip. He thinks he feels you shiver. "Are you cold?"

"Maybe." You don't make eye contact with him as he starts walking. "Oh my god this is so embarrassing."

"Now why would you say that?"

He's almost miffed that you're questioning his intentions. He hasn't had a chance to have a conversation with you that wasn't about being on schedule for wedding performances. (Weddings have a funny way of revealing all the mushy parts stuck inside you, and you of all people would know this. You nearly cried your foundation off during the father of the bride speech.) "Zayne," you say in warning, watching the bartenders you pass by snickering to themselves, probably thinking you're too drunk to walk.

He sighs. He's gonna need to bring out the big guns to get your guard down.

"I know," he concedes. "I just missed my wife so much."

You barely suppress your body vibrating with another shiver. "You piss me off so bad."

"And I have every reason to drop you. Here. Right now." The cement pathway to the suite is a very dangerous threat to your very vulnerable butt. "Say that again."

You huff, curling your hands into his neck in veiled threat. You don't say anything. The rest of your ten-second walk to the suite doors is cloaked in your silent defeat. You only talk once he's got you inside and seated on the lounge chairs, the place still messy with makeup palettes, matching bridesmaid pajamas you'd all left haphazard to get into procession. There's a random hair extension lying limp on the floor.

"This is gonna be a bitch to clean up later." You loll your head back, closing your eyes as Zayne props your bad ankle up onto a couch cushion he grabbed. "I take it back. You don't piss me off that bad anymore."

Zayne smiles, sits down in the lounge chair next to yours. He's also tempted to sink into the softness like you do. "We should think of our vow renewals soon," he says.

"We've been married for three months."

"I like to think of our prospects."

"We should probably pay off our mortgage first."

Zayne feels a zap rip down his spine. He'll be the last to admit it, but witnessing your life become intertwined at the barest bones of incoming mortgage payments and hydro bills has transformed him into something new. Something changed. A husband who takes care of his wife.

"You look very beautiful tonight." He watches you peek an eye open at him. The air conditioner of the suite whirrs to life. You smile tiredly.

"And you're very handsome," you answer back. "I kinda like being married to you."

"Good."

He leans over, kissing your lipstick off.

"I kind of like being married to you, too."

[lost-in-thoughts03]

Falling for you // Hwang brothers

Previous part:

Summary: What happened last night was so good, but you keep denying it to yourself. In-ho reveals a previously unknown side of himself.

" My skin on your skin, again and again."

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, orgasm, rough, deep, slow, praising words, dirty talks, unprotected sex, hickeys, possessive, p in v, fluff, In-ho being In-ho, flirting, clingy, mention of rabbits, teasing, denial, grammatical errors

The room is quiet, save for the rhythmic rise and fall of your breathing. A soft glow from the city lights filters through the curtains, casting gentle shadows across the bed.

In-ho lays beside you, his body warm against yours, his arms securely wrapped around your waist. His bare skin pressed against yours should be enough to make him close his eyes and drift off, but he doesn’t.

He can’t.

Instead, he watches you—your peaceful expression, the way your lashes flutter slightly in your sleep, the faint pout of your lips.

A few stray strands of hair have fallen across your face, blocking the view of your delicate features. With a quiet chuckle, he brushes them away, fingers tracing lightly along your cheek.

Beautiful.

He smiles, his heart swelling at the memory of last night—the way you clung to him, the way your voice trembled so sweetly, the way you completely unraveled in his arms.

The thought alone sends a pleasant shiver down his spine.

You’re dangerous, he thinks, and you don’t even know it.

With a deep sigh, he pulls you closer, molding himself against your back, his arm tightening protectively around your waist.

His lips find the top of your head, pressing a lingering kiss there, then another, and another.

He knows he should sleep, but how can he, when this moment—this—feels like something he never wants to end?

His fingers absentmindedly trace small patterns on your skin, memorizing every inch of you, as if trying to make sure that when morning comes, you won’t disappear.

He exhales against your hair, his voice barely above a whisper.

" You have no idea what you do to me, do you?"

You stir slightly in your sleep, making a small noise before nestling closer into his embrace. He smiles against your skin.

Maybe you don’t need to know. Not yet.

For now, he’s content just holding you.

A warm, steady rhythm—soft breaths against your skin, the comforting weight of an arm draped over your waist. It’s what stirs you first, pulling you from the depths of sleep.

You shift slightly, feeling the firm press of a body against your back, the heat radiating between you.

Then it hits you.

You’re naked.

Your eyes snap open, and for a second, your brain scrambles to piece everything together.

The memories flood back in waves—hands roaming, lips tracing paths over bare skin, hushed whispers tangled between sheets.

Your body heats at the vivid recollection of how In-ho had made you feel last night.

Oh. My. God.

You barely have time to process before the arm around you tightens, pulling you back flush against him.

A sleepy, content hum vibrates from In-ho’s chest as his lips press lazily against your shoulder.

" Mm…you’re awake." He murmurs, voice thick with sleep.

Your body freezes.

You don’t dare move, don’t dare breathe. Maybe if you stay still enough, this moment—this absolute chaos of a situation—will reset itself. Maybe you’ll wake up again, and it will all have been a dream.

But then, his lips move again—trailing up your shoulder, grazing the back of your neck.

Abort mission. Immediate emergency.

Your brain is screaming at you to say something, do something—anything to break the tension. So naturally, the first words out of your mouth are:

"…Did we?"

Silence.

And then, he chuckles—the most infuriating, knowing chuckle you’ve ever heard in your life.

" Oh, we definitely did." He says, voice dripping with amusement.

You whip around, clutching the blanket to your chest, finally facing him. " No. No, no, no. That—That didn’t happen."

One of his eyebrows lifts. " Oh?"

" Yes! I mean—Maybe I was drunk! Maybe you were drunk!"

His smirk deepens. " I don’t recall either of us being drunk, sweetheart."

You open your mouth, then close it. Damn it. Damn it.

In-ho props himself up on one elbow, watching your internal struggle with open amusement. His gaze flickers down for a split second, and you realize—you’re still very much naked under this blanket.

Heat rushes to your face. " Stop looking at me like that!"

He snorts. " Like what?"

" Like you—like you know things!"

He definitely knows things.

With an exaggerated sigh, he leans closer, his fingers lightly tracing over your bare shoulder. " Relax." He murmurs, voice suddenly softer, sending shivers down your spine.

" If it makes you feel better, you were very…enthusiastic last night."

You let out a strangled noise, yanking the blanket over your head. " I HATE YOU."

His laughter vibrates through the bed as he tugs at the edges of the blanket. " Come on now, don’t hide from me." He teases. " I didn’t hear you complaining last night—"

You kick him under the blanket.

" Ow—!"

" Shut up, In-ho!"

He’s still laughing, but when you dare peek out from under the covers, his expression softens. He reaches out, brushing your cheek with his knuckles.

" Hey." He says, quieter now. " We don’t have to make it a big deal, okay?"

You chew on your lip, still feeling embarrassed, but something in his gaze—warm, sincere—makes the panic settle just a little.

After a moment, you huff. " Fine. But if you ever bring this up to anyone—"

His smirk returns. " What, like telling Jun-ho that you moaned my name at least—"

You grab the nearest pillow and smack him with it.

" OKAY, OKAY!" He laughs, dodging your second attack. " I’ll be good! I swear!"

You don’t believe him for a second.

The teasing, the laughter, the playful bickering—it all dies down eventually, leaving only the steady sound of your breaths filling the quiet space.

The adrenaline fades, and now, you and In-ho just lay there side by side, staring up at the ceiling.

The sheets are tangled between your bodies, your bare skin still warm from the remnants of the night before.

There's a comfortable silence, one that neither of you seem in a rush to break.

You glance at him, catching the way his gaze is still fixed on the ceiling, as if he’s trying not to look too eager for your answer.

Then, In-ho shifts slightly, resting one arm behind his head.

" Are you really sure about this?" He asks, his voice softer now, less teasing.

" About…us?"

You take a deep breath. " Yeah. I think I am."

" You spent all that time pushing me away, and now suddenly, you’re willing to give me a chance?"

His lips quirk into the smallest smile, but there’s still a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

" Why, though?" He asks.

You exhale slowly, thinking. " I guess I realized that…if I keep running away from everything, I’ll never really know what I’m missing out on." You turn your head to look at him.

" I don’t want to live my life full of what ifs, In-ho. I want to at least try—take a risk and see what happens."

He hums, a slow smirk creeping onto his face. " So what you’re saying is…you just couldn’t resist me anymore?"

You roll your eyes. " That’s not exactly what I said."

" But it’s what you meant." He turns on his side, propping himself up on his elbow so he can look down at you.

His smirk widens as he runs a finger along your bare shoulder. " Admit it—you’ve finally accepted that you want me.

You huff, turning your face away. " Forget it. I’m changing my mind."

He laughs, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you closer. " Too late, sweetheart. You already took the risk—now you have to deal with the consequences."

You try to glare at him, but the warmth in his eyes makes your heart do that stupid little flip again. You sigh, dramatically. " Why do I feel like I’ve just made the worst mistake of my life?"

In-ho leans in, lips brushing against your ear as he murmurs, " Because I’m never letting you go now."

You shiver, swatting at his chest. " See, this is why I hesitated in the first place."

He just chuckles, pulling you impossibly closer, his lips pressing against your forehead. " Too bad. You’re mine now."

And for the first time in a long time, you’re not afraid of that.

You don’t know how long the two of you just lay there, tangled in the sheets, warm bodies pressed together in a comfortable silence.

It should feel awkward—maybe even overwhelming—but it doesn’t.

If anything, it feels…right. Like something you should’ve done a long time ago.

In-ho is still looking at you, his head propped up on his hand, watching your every move with that same infuriating smirk. " So," he drawls, fingers tracing lazy circles on your hip, " now that you’ve finally come to your senses and admitted you want me—"

" Oh my God…" You groan, throwing an arm over your face. " I never said that."

" You implied it." He corrects, nudging your side. " Which is basically the same thing."

You peek at him through your fingers. " Is it, though?"

" Absolutely." He grins. " And now that you've taken the risk, I have to ask—how do you think it's working out so far?"

You roll onto your side to face him, narrowing your eyes playfully. " Hmm…jury’s still out on that one."

His smirk falters for a brief second before he scoffs. " Jury’s still out?"

You hum thoughtfully. " Yeah. I mean, sure, last night was…decent—"

" Decent?" He cuts you off, sitting up slightly. " Excuse me?"

You bite your lip, fighting a grin. " I dunno, In-ho. I was expecting a little more from you, considering how cocky you are all the time."

He stares at you, blinking in disbelief. Then, realization dawns, and he lets out a deep chuckle, shaking his head. " Oh, you’re funny, huh?"

You shrug. " Just saying—maybe I need more…convincing before I can say if this whole thing was worth the risk."

His eyes darken slightly, and before you know it, he’s flipping you onto your back, hovering over you with a wicked grin. " Convincing, huh?"

You pretend to think. " Mm, yeah. But I guess we could just go about our day like normal instead—"

" Not a chance."

You squeal as he suddenly yanks the blanket over both of you, trapping you beneath him. His lips are already on your neck, his hands eager to prove a very specific point.

And, well…you suppose risks are meant to be taken, after all.

Much later—after more convincing (not that you’d ever admit how easily you caved), after breathless laughter and lazy kisses—you finally muster up the strength to push In-ho away and sit up, the blanket clutched to your chest.

" We really need to get up now." You mumble, running a hand through your messy hair.

" Do we, though?" In-ho murmurs, still sprawled out beside you, looking far too satisfied for his own good.

He reaches out, fingers ghosting over your back. " Because I’m perfectly fine staying right here all day."

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the way your skin tingles under his touch. " Some of us have things to do."

He scoffs. " Like what? Running away from the cops? Avoiding Jun-ho’s lectures? Come on, stay a little longer."

You give him a look. " You are a cop In-ho, in case you forgot."

" Yeah, but at least I know how to enjoy life in between." His hand trails down to your waist, and before you can react, he yanks you back down onto the bed, flipping you onto your stomach with ease.

" In-ho!" You yelp, struggling against his grip, but he just laughs, pinning you there.

" I think you’re forgetting something important." He says, his voice dangerously amused.

You glare over your shoulder at him. " And what’s that?"

He leans down, lips brushing against your ear. " You literally just said you were giving me a chance. That means you can’t escape me now."

Your face heats. " That’s what you took from our conversation?"

" Absolutely." He grins, flipping you back over so you’re facing him. " And I have every intention of making sure you don’t regret it."

You groan, shoving at his chest. " You’re insufferable."

" And yet, you’re still here."

You open your mouth to argue, but he kisses you—slow and teasing, stealing whatever witty comeback you had prepared. When he pulls away, his expression is far too smug.

" See? No regrets."

You huff, turning your face away. " Jury’s still out."

He just laughs, tugging you close again. " We’ll see about that."

You open your mouth, ready to snap back with something sharp—but before the words can form, In-ho’s lips crash onto yours.

Slow, deliberate, and teasing—he steals the air from your lungs and the retort from your tongue.

The only sound that escapes is a desperate, needy moan melting right into his mouth.

He smirks against your lips, knowing exactly what he’s doing, his kiss deepening until your head spins.

Then, with a possessive growl, he pulls you onto his lap—skin against skin, nothing left between you.

His hard length presses against your stomach, impossible to ignore, making your breath hitch.

He drags his lips down your jaw, kissing, biting, tasting his way to your neck where he sucks hard—leaving a mark, a reminder.

You shudder, gasping when his mouth finds your nipple.

His teeth graze, tongue flicking, then he sucks—hard—sending a jolt of heat straight through you.

" In-ho..." You whimper, but it only makes him chuckle darkly, lips still wrapped around you, nibbling until you're squirming.

" Go on." He murmurs against your skin, voice husky, lips brushing your sensitive flesh,

" What were you gonna say?"

But you're lost now—his mouth, his hands, his cock pressing against you—turning your clever words into nothing but broken gasps.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, desperate for something to ground you, but he doesn’t stop—he only hums against your skin, the vibration making your thighs clench around him.

In-ho pulls back just enough to look at you, lips wet, eyes dark with something primal.

" I’m waiting." He drawls, his voice low, teasing, thick with lust.

" Where’s that smart mouth now?"

You open your mouth again—maybe to answer, maybe to curse him—but he’s faster.

He lifts you just enough to grind you down against his length, dragging the swollen head along your soaked folds, making you gasp and arch against him.

" You feel that?" He whispers, lips brushing against your ear now.

" How badly your body wants me…how fucking ready you are."

A shiver rips through you as he rolls his hips, slow and purposeful, coating himself in your arousal.

He’s not rushing—he’s savoring, watching every little reaction he pulls from you.

His lips trail back down, tongue flicking over your nipple again before biting—hard enough to make you cry out.

" In-ho…please." You pant, your voice wrecked, needy.

His dark eyes flash, pleased. " That’s better."

One hand grips your hip, the other tangling in your hair as he forces your gaze on him.

" Beg for it. Beg me to ruin you properly."

The way he says it, deep and sinful, sends heat pooling between your legs. And you do—you give him exactly what he wants.

" Please…I need you. I need to feel you—inside me…everywhere."

That wicked smirk spreads across his lips. " Good girl."

With a growl, he lifts you just enough, positioning himself. " Hold on." And then he pushes in—slow, inch by torturous inch—stretching you until your head falls back with a broken moan.

He doesn’t stop there. His lips are everywhere—marking, claiming—while his hands grip your waist, dragging you down until there’s no space left between you.

" Mine." He growls against your throat.

" Every fucking inch of you."

And the night is just getting started.

In-ho groans low, the sound rumbling through his chest as he sinks fully into you—deep, so deep you feel him everywhere.

He stills for a moment, just savoring the way you stretch around him, the way your body clenches tight, desperate to pull him even deeper.

" Fuck…look at you." He growls, one hand sliding up your back, the other gripping your ass hard enough to bruise.

" Taking me so well…just like that." He drags his mouth along your jaw, biting down until you whimper.

" Made for me, huh? This perfect little body—fucking made to handle me."

Slowly, painfully slow, he pulls back until just the tip of him is left inside—then slams back in, deep and rough.

You cry out, nails raking down his back, but it only makes him shudder and fuck into you harder.

" Yeah…that’s it." He growls, breath hot against your ear.

" You feel that, baby? How deep am I?" Another rough thrust makes you gasp, your head falling back, body trembling as he keeps the pace brutal and steady—grinding deep every time, hitting every sensitive spot.

" You’re perfect." He pants, lips finding your neck again, sucking hard enough to leave another mark.

" Taking every inch of me like you were fucking made for it…so tight, so good."

Your whimpers turn into broken moans, your body rocking with every deep thrust.

But In-ho doesn’t stop—he keeps whispering praises against your skin, filthy and soft, as his hands roam over you possessively.

" Look at you." He breathes, voice almost trembling with how good you feel around him.

" Fucking yourself on my cock…and you’re still begging for more, aren’t you?"

Your only answer is a whimper and the desperate way your hips move, chasing every thrust, every inch of him.

" Good girl." He groans, slamming in deep and holding you there, buried to the hilt.

" My good fucking girl. You’re gonna take everything I give you, aren’t you?"

His lips crash back onto yours, swallowing your moans as he fucks you slow, rough, and deep—like he’s savoring every second of ruining you.

In-ho pulls back, breath ragged, eyes dark as he stares at you—completely wrecked on his lap.

" Not done with you." He growls, voice rough with need.

Before you can even catch your breath, he grabs your waist and flips you over effortlessly, pressing you down onto your hands and knees.

His large hand slides up your spine, palm splayed between your shoulder blades, forcing a soft arch from you.

" Stay just like that." He growls.

" Fuck, look at this view…"

You feel him behind you—thick, heavy, hard as steel—dragging his length slowly along your soaked folds, teasing you until you’re trembling.

Then, without warning, he thrusts in deep—so deep it punches a moan right out of your lungs.

" Goddamn…you feel even tighter like this." He groans, rolling his hips slow but devastatingly deep, hitting that spot inside you perfectly.

" Taking me so fucking good, baby."

His pace is brutal—slow, deep, deliberate—as if he’s determined to make you feel every single inch.

His hand slides up, tangling in your hair and yanking your head back, forcing you to arch deeper.

" Listen to yourself." He growls in your ear, hips slamming against you hard enough to echo in the room.

" Moaning for me…dripping for me. You love this, don’t you?"

" Yes…fuck, yes." You gasp, back arching more as you push back on him, desperate for every inch.

In-ho groans low, his hips grinding deep, staying buried inside you as he leans down, lips brushing over your ear.

" That’s my girl…taking it all like you were made for me."

One hand leaves your hair, sliding down to grip your hips bruisingly tight as he fucks you harder, deeper, slow enough to drive you insane.

Every thrust pushes you forward, your body shuddering under the weight of him.

" You feel this?" He growls.

" How deep am I? Fuck, you’re perfect…swallowing my cock like you can’t get enough."

His teeth scrape down your shoulder before he bites, marking you again—possessive and rough—as his hips slam against yours, slow and punishing.

In-ho doesn’t let up. He stays deep, grinding his hips into yours until you’re trembling—hips arching back, needing more, chasing every punishing thrust he gives.

His breath is hot against your skin as he leans in, his chest pressing along your back, trapping you there while his cock drags slowly, teasingly out of you…before slamming back in, hard and thick, knocking the air from your lungs.

" You’re not cumming yet." He growls, voice dripping with control.

" Not until I say."

You whimper, head hanging low as your arms threaten to give out, but he’s there—one hand tangled in your hair, the other sliding along your waist to your stomach, forcing you to stay upright.

His cock fills you so deep, it’s unbearable, each stroke measured and slow, making you feel every inch as he drags against your walls.

" Fuck, just listen to how wet you are for me." He snarls, pulling back just enough so you hear the filthy sound of him moving inside you.

" You love this, don’t you? Love when I fuck you slow…deep…make you feel every damn second of it."

You try to speak, try to answer—but all that comes out is a choked moan.

He grins, lips brushing your ear. " That’s what I thought."

His hand slides lower, teasing over your clit—but never giving enough pressure, just enough to make your thighs shake.

" You want to cum so bad, don’t you? I can feel it. But not yet, baby. Not until I’m done playing."

Another deep, brutal thrust has you keening, gasping his name. " In-ho, please—"

" Please what?" he growls, dragging his cock out slowly…painfully slow…until just the head stays inside you.

" Beg me. Beg me to ruin you properly."

" I…I need it." You gasp, desperate, voice breaking.

" Please…fuck me harder…I need you—need all of you."

His dark chuckle vibrates against your back. " Good fucking girl."

And he gives it to you—hips snapping forward with a brutal thrust, so deep you swear you see stars.

But he doesn’t speed up.

He keeps that rhythm—slow, powerful, ruthless—driving you right to the edge, then pulling you back again.

" You’ll cum when I tell you." He growls, dragging his teeth along your shoulder.

" And when you do, you’re gonna cum around me…while I’m buried so fucking deep you forget your own name."

His hand tightens in your hair, forcing your head back as his hips grind against you, hitting that perfect spot over and over until tears prick your eyes.

" Not yet." He breathes, lips ghosting over your skin.

" I’m not done with you.”

In-ho’s grip tightens, his breath hot and ragged against your skin as he keeps that unrelenting pace—deep, slow, and punishing.

Every thrust feels heavier, more desperate, like he’s fighting his own need to let go, determined to drag you right to the edge first.

" Fuck—" He growls, hips snapping hard as his cock drives deep into you, grinding against that perfect spot until your body’s trembling under him.

" You’re still so fucking tight…clenching around me like you need it…like you’re begging me to fill you."

Your legs are shaking, arms barely holding you up, but he doesn’t care—he keeps you right there, forcing you to take every inch, every brutal grind of his hips.

His hand slides down your stomach, fingers finally circling your clit—this time with pressure, just enough to make your breath hitch and your body jerk.

" That’s it…feel me, baby." He murmurs, voice thick with lust.

" You’re so fucking perfect like this…taking everything I give you like a good girl."

His lips brush your ear, teasing. " I can feel it…you’re right there, aren’t you?" He grinds his cock in deep, slow circles that make you sob out his name.

" Holding back just like I told you…goddamn, you’re perfect."

You nod, desperate, gasping—your body screaming for release, your walls tightening around him until it’s unbearable.

" In-ho… I can’t—please—" Your voice is broken, wrecked, pleading.

" You can." He growls, his own control fraying as his hips slam forward harder, rougher, grinding deep.

" You’re gonna hold it just a little longer. You’re gonna let me feel you fall apart with me."

His pace picks up now—still deep, but rougher, harder, each thrust sending you forward as he fucks you right to the breaking point.

The sound of skin against skin, your breathless moans, his low growls—it’s all building, the air thick with it.

" You ready?" He snarls, grinding so deep it makes you cry out.

" You’re gonna cum so hard for me, baby…fuck—" He hisses, his own release close.

" I wanna feel you lose it. Milk my cock until there’s nothing left."

His fingers circle your clit faster now, matching the brutal thrusts as he drives you higher—so close it hurts.

" Now." He growls, hips slamming forward as he buries himself deep.

" Cum for me—fucking cum while I’m inside you.”

That final command tears through you like lightning.

Your body seizes, back arching hard as the orgasm rips free—violent, overwhelming, your walls clenching so tight around him it pulls a raw, guttural groan from In-ho’s throat.

" Fuck—that’s it." He growls, his voice breaking as he feels you unravel around him.

" God, you’re squeezing me so fucking tight…milking me dry."

You’re shaking, barely able to hold yourself up as waves crash through you—pleasure so intense it borders on pain.

Every slow grind of his hips keeps you there, dragging out your release until tears burn your eyes.

" In-ho—" You sob, lost, ruined, body shuddering as you cum hard around him.

" That’s my good girl." He growls, his pace stuttering now as your orgasm pulls him under.

" So perfect…taking it all—fucking mine."

With one last deep thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, cock twitching deep inside you as he spills, groaning your name like it’s the only thing he knows.

You feel it—hot, thick—filling you as he stays locked inside, hips grinding through every last pulse.

" Goddamn…" He pants, leaning over you, lips brushing your shoulder as he breathes hard.

" You took it so fucking good…perfect little body made for me."

He stays there, still buried deep, hands roaming your trembling body as he presses soft kisses over your skin—his voice low, full of praise.

" You did so good for me…took every inch, every fucking drop."

And for a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your breathing, the feel of his body heavy against yours—completely spent, completely his.

In-ho stays still for a moment, his breath hot against your shoulder, as if he’s trying to pull himself back from the edge right along with you.

Slowly, his hand releases your hair, trailing down your spine with gentle strokes, soothing the tremble in your body.

" Hey." He whispers, pressing a soft kiss to the nape of your neck.

" You with me?"

You nod weakly, breath shaky, but it’s enough. He pulls out carefully, hissing at the sensitivity, his hands steadying you as your arms nearly give out.

Without another word, he gathers you up in his arms—strong, possessive—and carries you toward the bed like you’re something precious.

Laying you down gently, he brushes the damp hair from your face, his eyes softer now—still dark, still hungry, but full of something else.

Care.

Pride.

" You did so good for me." He murmurs, leaning down to kiss your lips—slow, tender, full of everything he couldn’t say with words.

" Took everything I gave you…fuck, I’m so proud of you."

His fingers trace your jaw, then your throat, lingering on the marks he left there. " Marked you up so pretty…but we’ll take care of it, yeah?"

You hum, eyes fluttering closed as his lips follow his fingers—soft kisses on every bruise, every love bite, every inch of skin he claimed.

He leaves for only a moment—returning with a warm cloth, cleaning you up gently, murmuring sweet nothings as he does.

" I’ve got you…just breathe, baby." Every pass of the cloth is careful, slow, his hands steadying you when you shiver.

When he’s done, he tosses the cloth aside and pulls you against him, wrapping you up in his arms.

" Do you feel okay?" He asks softly, lips pressed against your temple.

" Not too much?"

You shake your head, snuggling closer, and he exhales a soft laugh—relieved, content.

" Good…stay right here." He whispers, dragging the blankets over both of you.

" Let me hold you."

And he does—his hand stroking your back, his mouth brushing lazy kisses along your shoulder as you both slowly come down from the high.

The air is thick with the scent of sex and sweat and him—but there’s peace in it now, the kind that only comes after being fully, completely ruined…and cared for.

" You’re mine."

He murmurs sleepily, lips curling into a small smirk against your skin.

" Always."

And you fall asleep to the sound of his steady breathing, safe and warm in his arms.

...

You don’t know what time it is. You don’t even know what day it is anymore. All you know is that you have not left this bed since morning, and it is now—what? Afternoon? Evening? Tomorrow?!

All because of him.

You lay sprawled on the mattress, body thoroughly exhausted, the sheets barely clinging to your form. Beside you, In-ho is just beaming, looking incredibly pleased with himself.

His fingers lazily trace patterns on your skin, as if he isn’t the reason you’re currently out of commission.

You glare at him. " You’re like a damn rabbit."

His grin widens. " Is that a complaint?"

You groan, throwing an arm over your face. " I’m just saying, do you ever get tired?"

He hums in thought, then turns on his side to face you, resting his head on his hand. " Not when it comes to you."

You groan even louder. " Gross."

He just chuckles, rolling on top of you again. " Round f—"

You shove him off. " Absolutely not! We need to do something else, anything else, before I die."

In-ho, still grinning, finally relents, lying beside you again. " Fine, fine." He sighs dramatically. " But only because I don’t want to break you."

You slap his arm. " In-ho!"

He laughs, rubbing the spot where you hit him, then suddenly rolls onto his stomach and buries his face into your side, arms wrapping around your waist like a damn koala.

You blink. "…What the hell are you doing?"

A muffled voice comes from your side. " Cuddling."

Your eyes narrow. " Since when do you cuddle?"

No response. Instead, he nuzzles against you like a damn puppy seeking warmth.

Your brain short-circuits.

" In-ho." You say slowly, staring down at him.

Still no response. He just tightens his hold, keeping you locked in place.

And then—then—he looks up at you with the most innocent, pleading expression you have ever seen in your life.

His usual cold, composed demeanor? Completely gone.

Instead, he looks like a little kid who just wants attention.

Your heart does something stupid.

"…Are you pouting?"

"…No."

Oh, he is.

You blink at him, trying to process this. This is In-ho—the man who is usually so smug, so collected, the one who teases you endlessly.

And now? Now he’s wrapped around you like a clingy little brat, wanting to be babied?!

You stare at the ceiling. " What did I get myself into?"

" You said you were giving me a chance." He mumbles into your skin. " So you have to deal with all of me."

Your eye twitches. "All of you include this?"

" Yup." He nuzzles you again. " Especially this."

You sigh, reluctantly running a hand through his hair. " You’re impossible."

He hums, clearly pleased. " And yet, you’re still here."

Damn it. He got you again.

You’ve accepted your fate.

After hours—literal hours—of having every inch of your body worshiped by this insatiable rabbit of a man, you thought you’d finally get some rest.

Maybe even leave the bed. But no. Absolutely not. Because now, you’re dealing with something far worse.

A clingy In-ho.

He’s still wrapped around you like a barnacle, face pressed against your stomach, arms secured around your waist as if you’ll disappear the second he lets go.

You’ve tried moving. You’ve tried reasoning. But nothing works.

" In-ho," you sigh, poking at his forehead. " Let me go."

" No." He grumbles, his grip tightening.

You roll your eyes. " Why are you acting like this?"

He tilts his head up to look at you, eyes narrowing. " Are you complaining?"

You hesitate. On one hand, yes, you are complaining because you’ve never seen him like this before, and it’s borderline ridiculous. But on the other hand…

Your fingers absentmindedly thread through his hair, and he melts.

Oh, for the love of—he’s actually purring.

You bite your lip, trying to process this. This is the same man who always had a sharp tongue, who looked down on others with that signature cold stare.

The same man who, just last night, was far from innocent in the way he handled you. And now?

Now he’s whining because you stopped petting him.

" You do realize you’re acting like a child, right?" You deadpan, scratching at his scalp.

" Mhm.. " He hums, clearly not ashamed.

You groan, dropping your head back onto the pillow. " What happened to the cold and composed In-ho I used to know?"

" He got laid." He says simply. " Now he wants to be babied."

You choke. " Excuse me?"

In-ho lifts his head slightly, giving you a smug, drowsy grin. " You heard me."

You slap your hands over your face. " I’m actually going to die here."

" Nah." He pulls your hands away with ease and laces your fingers together, his voice dropping into something softer, more sincere. " You’re stuck with me now, remember?"

Your heart stumbles, your body betraying you as warmth spreads through your chest.

You huff, feigning annoyance, but the way your fingers squeeze his back tells a different story. " Yeah, yeah." You mumble.

In-ho smirks, pressing a kiss against your stomach before resting his head there again. " Good. Now go back to petting me."

You should resist. You really should.

But instead, you shake your head and thread your fingers through his hair again.

And damn it, you kind of like this side of him.

You don’t know when you officially gave up, but at some point, you stopped trying to escape and just accepted that In-ho had claimed you as his personal pillow.

The day—if you can even call it that, since you haven't left his bed—has been spent doing absolutely nothing, and yet, it feels like everything.

You've never seen this side of him before.

Clingy, needy, downright adorable. It’s almost alarming how much he wants to be babied by you, considering this is In-ho—the same man who once had a reputation for being cold, detached, untouchable.

Now? Now he’s curled up beside you, head resting on your chest, tracing small circles on your hip as if he’ll die if he isn’t touching you in some way.

You sigh, staring at the ceiling. " I need to get up."

" No, you don’t."

" Yes, I do."

" No, you don’t." He shifts slightly, nuzzling against you like a damn cat. " Just stay here."

You groan. " In-ho."

He huffs. " What could possibly be more important than me right now?"

" I dunno, eating? Taking a shower? Rejoining society?"

He finally lifts his head, squinting at you in mild betrayal. " Society? Society didn’t make you feel as good as I did last night."

You gasp, slapping a hand over his mouth. " Oh my God, shut up."

He laughs against your palm, eyes crinkling with amusement. " What? It’s true."

You glare. " If you don’t let me go, I swear I’m going to—"

" You’re going to what?" His voice is pure challenge as he pulls your hand away. " Leave me? Please. We both know you love this."

You open your mouth—ready to argue, ready to prove a point—but then he does the thing.

The thing being his stupidly unfair puppy eyes.

He tilts his head, bottom lip slightly jutted out, his fingers playing with yours. " Stay with me a little longer?" His voice is softer now, almost hesitant, like he’s afraid you might actually say no.

Your heart clenches.

Damn it.

You groan, flopping back down onto the pillow. " Fine."

He beams, immediately wrapping himself around you again. " Knew it."

" You’re so lucky you’re cute." You grumble, running a hand through his hair.

" Mm," he hums contently. " Say that again."

You roll your eyes. " Absolutely not."

Too bad, because judging by the way he tightens his hold on you, you're not going anywhere anytime soon.

" In-ho, move."

" No."

You glare at him, arms crossed as you stand at the edge of the bed, again, trying to get him to release you. You swear, this man has made it his life’s mission to keep you trapped here.

" In-ho," you say slowly, " let me go."

He just grins up at you, lounging in bed like a spoiled cat. " Make me."

Your eye twitches. " I swear to—"

" I love you."

You freeze.

Heat creeps up your neck before you can stop it. " Excuse me?"

He shrugs, completely unfazed. " I love you."

Your face burns. " That is not—"

" I love you."

" In-ho!"

" I looove you…" He sing-songs, propping himself up on his elbows, watching you with a stupidly smug smile.

You glare at him, face now on fire. " You can’t just say that whenever you want!"

" Why not?" His smirk widens. " It’s true."

You clench your jaw, willing your heart to calm the hell down. " That’s not how you use those words in an argument."

" Oh, so we’re arguing?" He tilts his head. " Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re just standing there blushing."

You gasp, covering your cheeks with your hands. " I am not!"

" You totally are."

" I am not!"

" I love you."

" IN-HO!"

He laughs, reaching out to grab your wrist and pull you right back into bed with him. You yelp, landing on top of him, but before you can escape, he traps you there, arms locking around your waist.

His lips brush against your ear. " You’re cute when you’re flustered."

You groan, hiding your face in his chest. " I hate you."

But damn it, your heart skips again.

" Liar." He grins, kissing the top of your head.

" I love you."

You want to be mad.

You really do.

Oh.

A/N: Y/n and Jun-ho met when they were 16. In-ho, on the other hand, began to like her when she reached her legal age—around the time Y/n was in her twenties. (I need to clarify this to avoid misunderstandings between the characters)

Y/n and Jun-ho's age right now: 23 (College students)

In-ho's age right now: 30 (I need to lower down his age to make it more accurate)

Another smut? Damn haha. But I'm so glad that she finally chose him. Really...really choose him. May their love last till the end of this story.

Tags: @maah-sama @colorwastaken @astronomicalastro-blog1 @frontwomann @coruja12345

See u in the next part! 😉

[serapharua]

୨୧ 一 WOLF!&TEAM REACTING TO SOOHA HURTING THEIR MATE/IMPRINT

ot9 &team — GENRE : imagines headcanon hybrid — PAIRING : gn.reader — WARNING : mentions of blood, injuries, very angry &team — REQUESTED : by 🎧 anon <3 ☆ — &t masterlist

note : ik nothing about Sooha ngl but it make more sense to do her since teamies don’t automatically just kill her

K :

It wasn’t the blood that broke him.

It was your face, the way your eyes found his through the blur of pain, the silent call in them even as you stumbled back, hand pressed to your side. The scent hit him next. Copper and panic. Wrong, all of it.

And standing too close was her.

Sooha.

K moved before he thought. One breath he was still, the next he was there, heat boiling under his skin, vision tunneling red. He didn’t care if it was an accident. Didn’t care if she’d flinched too late or aimed too wide.

“You touched them,” he said, voice low and razor-edged. “You hurt them.”

His claws flexed at his sides. Fangs bared. His body shook with the effort not to rip something apart. The air changed, thick and charged, ancient fury curling at the edges like smoke.

Sooha didn’t step back, but even she stiffened beneath the weight of it.

“She was in the way”

“No.” The word snapped out of him like a crack of thunder. “You don’t get to explain.”

Behind him, he could hear you breathing, too quick, too shallow, and it carved through him deeper than any wound ever had. He didn’t look at her again, not yet. The threat had been made, carved clean into the air between them.

“If they bleed,” he said, quieter now, colder, “you answer to me.”

He didn’t touch her. Didn’t need to. Every cell in the room knew what would happen if she crossed that line again.

Then K turned.

And everything in him shifted.

His hands, still trembling from rage, found yours with impossible gentleness. He knelt beside you, gaze locking with yours like he was anchoring the both of you back to earth.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice barely above a breath. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

But the look he cast back, sharp, unblinking, promised one thing:

Next time, mercy wouldn’t come first.

FUMA :

It was the scent that hit him first.

Not the blood, though that was bad enough, but the fear. Your fear. Dampened, buried, but still there under everything. Sharp as iron. Wrong in his lungs.

He was running before his thoughts caught up.

The world narrowed to the shape of your body on the ground, curled in on yourself, one hand slick with blood. You weren’t crying. You weren’t screaming. But you were shaking, and that was worse.

And there, standing above you, was her.

Sooha.

Something in Fuma’s chest went still. Then cracked.

“Don’t move,” he said, voice low and flat.

She turned, eyes wide, maybe surprised, maybe not, but she didn’t listen fast enough. In a blink he was between you both, every inch of his body coiled and ready.

“You laid hands on them,” Fuma said. No growl, no roar. Just words, cold and final.

“It wasn’t—” Sooha began.

“I don’t care.”

The way he looked at her, empty of warmth, of patience, of the usual calm he was known for, made the trees seem to lean back. Even the wind stilled.

Behind him, your breathing faltered. He didn’t look, didn’t flinch. Just raised his voice slightly, enough to cut through the fog.

“Go.”

For a second, Sooha didn’t move. Then she did, slowly, deliberately, like she knew if she lingered too long, she wouldn’t walk away.

Only when she was gone did he kneel.

The moment he touched you, everything about him changed. His fingers were steady, voice low and careful as he peeled your hand away to see the wound.

“You should’ve called for me,” he said softly. Not accusing. Just… aching.

“I’m okay,” you murmured, but he didn’t believe it. Not really.

“You’re not,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “But you will be.”

He didn’t ask what happened. Not yet. Not while you were still bleeding.

But the next time someone touched you like that, anyone, they’d learn just how deep Fuma’s calm really ran.

And how far he’d go when it finally broke.

NICHOLAS :

He didn’t know what hit him first, the scent of blood, or the sudden stillness in the air.

But when Nicholas saw you, everything inside him snapped.

You were upright, barely, one hand braced against a tree, the other pressed to a wound that bloomed red through your clothes. Your jaw was tight. You weren’t crying, you never cried, but your eyes darted up the second you felt him near.

and standing next to you was Sooha.

Nicholas’s body moved before his thoughts did. He was in front of you in an instant, shielding, seething. His claws hadn’t extended yet, but they were close.

“What the hell did you do?” he said, voice flat but shaking underneath.

Sooha’s expression hardened. “They got in the way”

“Wrong answer.”

He didn’t yell. He didn’t need to. The weight in his voice was worse than shouting, cold, cracking, on the edge of losing control.

You shifted behind him, trying to steady yourself. He could hear it in your breath. The quiet effort to stay upright. The stubbornness of not letting it show.

But he could smell your pain. Taste it. It made his vision pulse.

“She didn’t mean—” you tried, but he cut you off gently.

“Don’t defend her.”

His hand moved back, brushing your arm like a promise. Then he turned back to Sooha, eyes glowing low.

“You ever lay a hand on them again, and I won’t stop at warnings.”

Sooha didn’t argue. Not this time. She backed off without a word.

Once she was gone, Nicholas turned, catching you before your legs gave. He held you like you weighed nothing, lowering you to sit against the tree.

“You okay?” he asked, brushing blood from your cheek.

You nodded. “Been worse.”

He huffed a bitter breath. “Doesn’t mean I’ll accept this.”

His hand curled gently around yours, grounding you.

“They’re not going to get away with it,” he said quietly, voice steel beneath the softness. “Not when it’s you.”

And behind his steady touch and careful hands was the storm he refused to let loose, unless someone gave him a reason.

EJ :

It didn’t register at first.

The blood, the torn sleeve, the way you winced when you moved, it all blurred into static around the thunder in Euijoo’s head.

Then he saw her.

Sooha.

And everything went still.

He was by your side in a breath, crouching low, hands hovering just above your injury like he was afraid touching it would make it worse. His voice came quiet. Shaky.

“Who did this?”

You tried to speak, but he already knew. His gaze cut across the clearing, finding Sooha without needing to search.

“You hurt them,” he said, softly, too softly.

Sooha stood straighter. “It wasn’t intentional.”

But Euijoo didn’t blink. Didn’t even move. “Doesn’t matter.”

There was no growl. No snarl. But his aura twisted the air, charged with something cold and ancient and deadly calm. His claws didn’t need to show for the threat to land.

“They’re mine,” he said, as if that alone should’ve stopped her. “You don’t touch what’s mine.”

“Euijoo,” you whispered behind him, voice strained. “I’m okay…”

He turned halfway, eyes flicking to yours. His expression crumbled just a little.

“You shouldn’t have to be okay after that.”

Then he looked back at Sooha, still kneeling beside you, but his presence felt larger, darker.

“I won’t ask you to explain it,” he said. “But I will ask you to remember this feeling. The line you crossed.”

Sooha didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. The line had been drawn.

He turned back to you fully, brushing a trembling hand through your hair, checking the wound like every inch of your pain was his own.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “You’re safe now.”

But as he helped you stand, steadying you with one arm, the look he threw over his shoulder was quiet and lethal, a warning dressed in ice.

Next time, he wouldn’t be so calm.

YUMA :

The second he caught the scent of your blood, Yuma’s world narrowed.

It didn’t matter how far he was or who else was there, he was already running, heart hammering, breath shallow. And when he found you, doubled over, blood dripping between your fingers, something inside him snapped.

“What the hell happened?” His voice hit the clearing before he did, sharp and low, already breaking apart at the edges.

You looked up, pale but defiant. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

But it was.

Yuma barely spared you a glance before turning, and there she was.

Sooha.

Standing too close. Looking too calm.

“You did this?” he asked, voice flat. Cold.

“It was a mistake,” she said quickly. “She got in the way.”

“In the way?” Yuma echoed, a humorless laugh breaking through his clenched teeth. “You think that makes it better?”

His posture shifted. Shoulders drawn tight. Hands curled into fists. His wolf wanted out, fangs, claws, everything. But he held it back. Just barely.

“She’s my imprint,” he said, voice rough with fury. “You don’t lay a hand on her. You don’t look at her like that.”

Sooha stood her ground, but the air around Yuma had turned volatile, humming with the promise of violence. If it weren’t for your hand brushing his arm, grounding him, he might’ve crossed the line right there.

“Yuma,” you said softly, even as pain crept through your voice. “Don’t.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. And what he saw, the tight grip you had on your side, the red soaking through your shirt, nearly undid him.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, breath catching.

“I told you,” you managed, ever-stubborn. “It’s fine.”

He shook his head once, jaw clenched tight. “No. It’s not.”

Then he turned back to Sooha, expression carved from stone.

“This is the only time I let this go,” he said. “You don’t get another.”

And with that, he was at your side, lifting you with an arm around your waist, every motion careful like you were made of glass.

“Don’t talk,” he murmured as you leaned against him. “Just let me take care of it.”

But the silence he left behind crackled with warning.

Next time, he wouldn’t ask questions first.

JO :

The moment Jo saw the blood on your clothes, his heart stopped.

You were on the ground, one hand pressed to your side, the other braced against the earth like it was the only thing keeping you upright. Your eyes found his, wide, dazed, and he was moving before he even registered it.

“No, no, no—” The words tumbled out in a whisper, panic rising like bile.

He dropped to his knees beside you, hands hovering, afraid to touch. “What happened?”

You blinked slowly. “It’s not bad. I just—”

“Who did this?” he cut in, sharper than he meant to be.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Because he heard the footsteps behind him, too casual. Too calm.

Sooha.

His eyes snapped up, glowing faintly, just enough to betray the instinct clawing to the surface. “You.”

“She got in the way,” Sooha said flatly. “It wasn’t on purpose.”

Jo stood slowly, something unrecognizable creeping across his face. He was quiet, always had been. The one who smiled, who soothed, who kept the peace.

But there was no calm left now.

“You hurt her.” His voice was quiet, dangerously so.

“It wasn’t personal,” Sooha replied.

Jo’s jaw twitched. “Everything’s personal when it comes to her.”

The air around him thickened, humming with the weight of a bond you’d never seen him speak of aloud. But now it was raw, exposed, barely restrained. His wolf wasn’t snarling or howling, it was staring straight through Sooha like she was prey.

“You don’t get to touch her,” he said, low and even. “Ever.”

Sooha didn’t flinch. But she didn’t speak again, either.

Jo turned back to you then, all the fury bleeding from his face in a single breath. He knelt, his touch gentle as he gathered you into his arms.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “I’m here.”

You leaned into him, wincing softly, and he held you tighter, as if shielding you from everything, even fate.

But when he looked up again, eyes meeting Sooha’s from beneath his lashes, there was no softness left.

If it happened again, he wouldn’t be quiet about it.

HARUA :

Harua’s focus was sharp as always, until it wasn’t.

The moment he noticed the blood, everything around him seemed to blur, the trees, the breeze, the very air itself. His instincts kicked in with a force he couldn’t ignore, even as he saw you, struggling to stay upright, clutching your side.

The sound of your shallow breathing was the only thing he could hear, the rest of the world falling away.

“Hey,” he called to you softly, crouching beside you. His hand hesitated over yours before gently wrapping around it. “Look at me.”

You blinked, a forced, tired smile pulling at your lips. “I’m fine, Harua. Just a scratch.”

His eyes darkened, his gaze falling to the wound that was still bleeding, the blood stark against your clothes. His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek.

“No,” he said quietly, his voice a calm mask that barely masked the tension under it. “You’re not fine.”

The moment he stood, his presence shifted, something deeper, more dangerous simmering just beneath the surface. Harua wasn’t the type to show anger, but this was different. You were different.

It wasn’t just the sight of you hurt, it was the knowledge that someone had done it. Someone had hurt you.

When he turned to face Sooha, his eyes glowed faintly, cold and sharp.

“You hurt her,” Harua said, the calmness in his voice at odds with the storm behind his eyes. “That’s a mistake.”

Sooha seemed unbothered, unaffected. “She got in the way. It wasn’t intentional.”

Harua’s lips curled into a thin line. “It doesn’t matter. You hurt her.”

Sooha tilted her head, unconcerned. “I said it wasn’t on purpose.”

Harua stepped closer, his wolf seething beneath his skin. His composure was holding, but just barely. “Doesn’t matter. You don’t get to touch her, not ever.”

For a second, there was silence, thick and heavy, like the world itself had stopped breathing. Then, Harua’s gaze softened as he turned back to you, kneeling once more at your side.

“You’re safe now,” he said quietly, voice laced with a gentleness that only you seemed to draw out of him. “I’ve got you.”

You looked at him, eyes heavy with fatigue, but you managed a soft smile. “I knew you’d come.”

He smiled back, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. His fingers brushed your hair back softly, the warmth of his touch betraying the storm swirling inside him.

Then he turned his head slightly, just enough to lock eyes with Sooha.

“If I ever find you near her again,” he said, each word weighted with quiet fury, “it won’t be a mistake. Understand?”

Sooha didn’t answer, but she backed away without another word. Harua didn’t move, watching her until she was gone.

His attention returned to you, his focus narrowing. You were his now, and that was something no one could take from him. Not ever.

TAKI :

Taki’s world had always been easygoing, a relaxed pace, a careful watch, a balance between his wolf instincts and his sense of humor. But that world shattered the moment he saw the blood.

It wasn’t a lot, but it didn’t matter. The sight of it was enough to set something off inside him. You hurt, stumbling a few steps back, trying to hide the pain. The way you looked at him, eyes wide with uncertainty, maybe more tired than you let on.

Taki’s usual calm façade cracked, and all that was left was an instinct to protect.

His gaze snapped to Sooha, and for the first time, there was no playful grin on his face. Just sharp, dangerous intensity.

“What did you do?” His voice was low, even, but underneath it lay the tremor of something barely restrained. His claws flexed, a tick of tension in his hands.

Sooha raised an eyebrow, a look of indifference in her gaze. “It wasn’t intentional. It’s just a scratch.”

Taki took a slow, deliberate step toward her, each movement precise, like he was sizing up his next move. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes held the storm of his wolf.

“You shouldn’t have touched her,” he said, his voice unwavering but with an edge that was unmistakable. The shift in the air was palpable, like something ancient was stirring just beneath his skin.

Sooha barely flinched. “It wasn’t like that. She’s fine.”

“No,” Taki growled, his chest tightening. “She’s not fine. And you’re gonna learn that you don’t hurt what’s mine.”

The words hung in the air, charged with a protectiveness that was sudden, fierce. Sooha’s dismissive attitude seemed to falter at the weight of Taki’s words.

Taki’s attention snapped back to you. He crossed the space between you two in a heartbeat, dropping to his knees beside you. His hand hovered over your injury, careful not to cause more pain but not showing any hesitation. His usual teasing smile was gone, replaced by something more serious, more tender.

“You’re okay, right?” His voice softened, and the warmth in his eyes softened the storm in his chest.

You met his gaze, your breath uneven, but you offered him a faint smile. “I’ll be fine. Just a scratch.”

But Taki wasn’t convinced. His lips pressed into a thin line as he inspected the wound again, his eyes flicking up to Sooha, the silent warning in his gaze unmistakable.

“You better not make that mistake again,” he said, his tone cool, controlled, but with an underlying fury that was impossible to miss.

Sooha raised her hands in mock surrender, but Taki didn’t turn away from her until he was sure you were safe. His fingers gently cupped your cheek, guiding your gaze back to him.

“We’re getting you somewhere safe,” he murmured, his words wrapping around you like a promise. “I won’t let anyone hurt you again.”

MAKI :

It was quiet when Maki arrived.

Too quiet.

No birdsong, no breeze, just the smell of blood, yours, and the slow thrum of danger curling low in his gut.

You were still on your feet, barely. One hand pressed to your ribs, blood slipping between your fingers. Your eyes flicked up at the sound of him, and that alone, the way you looked for him, even in pain, made something snap in his chest.

Then he saw her.

Sooha.

Standing not far, calm like nothing had just happened.

His voice, when it came, was quiet. “What happened?”

Sooha didn’t flinch. “It wasn’t on purpose.”

Maki stepped forward. Not fast. Not loud. But the weight of him was enough to shift the air. “Doesn’t matter.”

There was no snarl in his voice, no teeth bared. But that only made it worse. His fury came quiet. Cold. A warning wrapped in stillness.

“You hurt her,” he said, stopping only a few feet away. “You crossed a line.”

Sooha’s tone edged with annoyance. “She got in the way.”

Maki tilted his head. Not a twitch in his face. “No. You just didn’t care.”

Behind him, your breath hitched, and that sound, that small, broken sound, undid whatever control he had left.

He turned his back on Sooha without another word.

You didn’t protest when he reached you. You didn’t have to. He moved slow, his hands steady as they found yours, pulling them gently away from the wound.

“Let me see,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, too tired to speak.

His jaw clenched, eyes darkening as he took in the damage. But when he looked at you, his expression softened again. Careful. Deep.

“She shouldn’t have touched you,” he said, quiet but certain.

You gave a tired half-smile. “I’ve had worse.”

He didn’t smile back. “You won’t again.”

Behind him, Sooha was still watching. But Maki didn’t care. His body blocked you from her, his energy alone a threat that needed no teeth.

If she tried anything again, there would be no second warning.

And she knew it.

Word count : 3408 | serapharua, 2025.

[r-memberme]

elle-mae | k.m

⎯⎯Instead, it lingers at the threshold of your grief like a candle that refuses to go out. It waits. It softens. It learns your silences like verses, and he reads them like scripture.

warnings: mention of miscarriage, heavy angst, this is a comfort fic (I need to be comforted), grief, Mother's Day

The lilacs come early this year.

They bloom in soft mauve clusters along the crooked fence, heavy with scent and memory. Their perfume drifts in the air like something ancient and mourning, and you pause beside them on your walk, your palm brushing the petals—fragile things that break even under gentleness. It almost feels like a mercy, how easily they surrender.

A year ago, you were bleeding in a bathroom that didn’t feel like home. The tile was too white. The air too still. The silence too loud. There was no one there to hear you whisper please into your own cupped hands.

You’d held the sink like a lifeline, forehead pressed to the mirror, praying to something that had stopped listening. Your breath fogged the glass. You watched yourself come undone in real-time—eyes red-rimmed, mouth trembling with prayers that tasted like blood. The kind of prayers that echo through your ribs long after you’ve stopped speaking them aloud.

The world outside had kept spinning, oblivious. Cars moved down the street. The sky stayed blue. The birds went on singing. The sun had dared to rise the next morning like nothing had happened. No one knew—not even the stars. Not even him.

Klaus hadn’t come into your life yet. He was still just a shadow waiting at the edge of your future. A silhouette in the mist of everything you thought you’d never deserve. He hadn’t yet kissed your trembling hands. He hadn’t yet whispered mine against the shell of your ear in the dark. He hadn’t yet learned to touch you gently, like the whole world might fracture if he held on too tightly.

You hadn’t told anyone. Not because you didn’t want to—but because you didn’t know how. How do you mourn something the world won’t name? How do you say I was a mother, even for a moment—when there is no cradle, no photograph, no name?

But the lilacs knew.

They’d been blooming then, too—outside that cold apartment window. Their scent had drifted in while you cried on the floor. You remember it clearly. The sharp sweetness of it. The reminder that beauty could still erupt, uninvited, while your body waged a quiet war on itself.

Even now, the smell takes you back. It splinters your breath. It gentles your rage. It carries the weight of what never was.

And yet—today, your hand brushes the petals, and you do not pull away. You let the scent wrap around you like an old lullaby. You let it sting. You let it stay.

༊*·˚

Klaus never asks for the story. Not all of it. Not in words.

He’s not the kind of man who demands confessions. He listens with his eyes, his hands, the way he watches you when you’re staring out the window too long, the way his thumb finds your wrist when your breathing falters, quiet and stuttering, when memories claw their way back uninvited.

His kind of love is not loud. It is not impatient. It does not beg you to move on.

Instead, it lingers at the threshold of your grief like a candle that refuses to go out. It waits. It softens. It learns your silences like verses, and he reads them like scripture.

Sometimes, you wonder how he knows. How someone like him—sharp-edged and storm-born—can love so gently.

But then you remember that he, too, has known loss in a thousand forms. Children buried. Trust broken. A heart stitched together with blood and betrayal. Perhaps that’s why he doesn’t flinch from your brokenness. He sees it, recognizes it, and stays anyway.

There are nights when you wake up gasping. And he’s already there.

Sitting beside you, holding a glass of water, his hand on the curve of your back. He doesn’t ask what you dreamed. He just breathes with you until the storm passes.

There are mornings when he leaves a sprig of lilac on your pillow—tucked beside your cheek like a secret vow. I see you. I haven’t forgotten.

His love isn’t in the grand gestures. It’s in the quiet ones. The way he watches your hands when you touch the soil. The way he draws you into his chest when you can’t speak. The way he never tries to fix the grief—only hold it with you, until it hurts a little less.

And when you look at him sometimes—when the light is soft and his eyes are softer still—you realize: He loves all the versions of you. The one who still mourns. The one who sometimes can’t breathe. The one who keeps loving anyway.

His kind of love doesn’t rush healing. It builds a sanctuary around your ache. And stays.

༊*·˚

The body remembers before the mind does.

Sometimes, it begins with nothing— just a hush in the air, a shift in the light, a tremble in your fingertips you cannot explain.

May tastes like metal on your tongue. The scent of lilacs makes your stomach twist before your mind catches up. Your shoulders tense like they’re bracing for impact. Your chest forgets how to rise.

You go about your day as if the world isn't peeling away at the seams. You smile when you’re supposed to, nod when spoken to, fold laundry like a woman who isn’t unraveling.

But the ache roots itself deep. It curls beneath your ribs. It whispers beneath your skin.

Grief has no calendar. It creeps.

And when it comes this time, it doesn’t ask permission. It drags you back to the cold floor of that silent bathroom. The silence. The porcelain. The blood. The sound of nothing at all.

You don’t cry. You freeze.

Your hands are shaking when Klaus finds you standing barefoot in the hallway, staring at nothing, your tea grown cold on the counter.

He says nothing.

Just comes to you slowly, like one might approach a frightened animal— his hands lifted, his voice a murmur in the hush.

You try to speak but the words fail. You can’t explain this kind of pain. You’re not even sure you understand it yourself.

“I’m here,” he says, as if that is enough.

And maybe it is.

Because when he pulls you into his arms, your body remembers something else— safety. Warmth. The sound of a heart still beating beside your own.

Your face finds the hollow of his throat. Your breath breaks against his collarbone. And you shatter, quietly.

No wailing. No sobbing. Just that soft, aching kind of grief that seeps into everything.

He doesn’t try to hush you. Doesn’t tell you you’re okay. He just holds, like he’s trying to absorb some of the weight.

And maybe he is.

You feel it then—how he bows his head to press his lips to your temple, as if in prayer. As if kissing the place where the sorrow lives might soften it.

He whispers something low and ancient in your hair, words in a language you don’t know, but your body seems to understand.

The pain doesn’t vanish. It never does.

But it changes.

Wrapped in his arms, you remember that you are not alone anymore. That someone now carries your memory in his hands like a sacred thing. That your body, while marked by absence, is also cradled in presence.

And in that, there is comfort. Not in forgetting—but in being remembered.

༊*·˚

It’s a strange kind of ache—loving someone you never got to meet.

There’s no name. No photo. No voice you remember. Just a faint image that never formed, a space in your heart that opened without warning and never fully closed.

You sit on the edge of the bed with a blanket pulled over your knees, staring out the window. The lilacs are still blooming, soft and quiet against the fading light.

Klaus moves through the apartment behind you. He doesn’t ask questions. He just keeps you company, always nearby, always watching without pressure. You know he’d do anything if he could. Fix it, change it, take it away. But he knows better than to try. He just… stays.

You didn’t think it would still hurt like this. You didn’t think you’d still feel it—this invisible bond, this gentle, persistent grief.

But love doesn’t need time to take root. It doesn’t need a heartbeat or a name or a face. Sometimes, it just is.

You still love her.

You always will.

And it doesn’t feel like a betrayal to say that out loud—not with Klaus. Not with him sitting beside you in the quiet, your hand in his, warm and steady.

“I think about her,” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “Not all the time. But… some days more than others.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles. “I know.”

You look at him then. And for the first time today, you see something in his expression that grounds you—something fierce and tender. He never met her either. But you can tell he would have loved her. Fiercely. Easily. As if she’d been his all along.

“I don’t know what kind of mother I would’ve been,” you murmur.

Klaus turns to face you fully, eyes steady. “A good one.”

You shake your head, swallowing the lump rising in your throat. “I was so scared.”

“You still are,” he says gently. “And you still showed up. Even when it broke you. That’s the kind of mother you would’ve been.”

You lean your head against his shoulder, and he rests his chin lightly on top of it. There’s a pause, full of the kind of silence that feels sacred.

“I still light a candle for her,” you whisper. “Even when I told myself not to. Even when I thought I should move on.”

His hand tightens slightly around yours.

You smile, a small, sad smile that trembles at the edges. “I don’t think I want to forget her. Even if I never really knew her.”

“You don’t have to,” Klaus says. “Some people are real even if they were only with us for a moment.”

And somehow, that’s enough.

Enough to soften the sharpness in your chest. Enough to remind you that this kind of love—the quiet, invisible kind—isn’t something shameful or weak.

It’s yours. It’s real.

And even in the midst of the grief, there’s comfort in remembering.

You still love her. And that love still has a place to live.

༊*·˚

He takes your hand and leads you to the balcony just as the sun begins to lower—soft gold spilling over the railing, painting the world in that in-between glow. The sky is hushed, blushing at the edges. A day nearly done, but not yet gone.

You dont know what to expect. Only that he asked you to trust him.

There, on the little table by the wall, sits a small ceramic pot. Cracked in one corner, carefully repaired with golden lacquer. Kintsugi. Like the Japanese philosophy Klaus once told her about—of beauty in broken things.

Inside the pot, blooming in quiet defiance, are clusters of tiny blue flowers. Forget-me-nots. So small. So impossibly vivid.

Your breath catches in your throat.

“I thought they’d be lilacs,” you murmured.

He shakes his head gently. “Those were for the world to see. These... are just for you.”

You step closer, fingertips trembling as they touch the petals. They’re soft like silk. Cool like the morning. And somehow, they feel like a memory you never got to make.

“I didn’t know what to do last year,” you say quietly. “I didn’t know how to grieve someone who was never here. I still don’t.”

“You don’t have to know,” Klaus replies. “You just have to remember. And live. And let that be enough.”

You don’t know how long you stands there, watching the light slide over the flowers like a blessing. It’s not grand. It’s not loud. But it’s something. A small, living thing that doesn’t demand anything from you—only offers itself, blooming anyway.

Klaus places something else on the table beside the pot. A small card, hand-written in careful script.

You lean down to read it. Just two words.

Still yours.

Your knees nearly give out. You sit before you collapse, and he sits with you.

You leans into him, your face pressed into his chest. He holds you like the world might try to take you too.

And for the first time on this day—the hardest of days—your grief feels a little less lonely.

Because they are not forgotten. Because you are not alone. Because something still blooms.

Forget-me-nots.

And you won’t.

༊*·˚

You wake before the sun. The room is quiet, dim. Klaus’s arm is heavy around her waist, and for a while you just lays there, watching the early blue seep into the curtains.

Today isn’t loud. It doesn’t ache the same way last year did.

The grief is still there—woven into the corners of her mind, stitched into her body like thread—but it’s softer now. Not gone. But no longer screaming.

You slip out of bed, careful not to wake him, and pads into the kitchen barefoot. The floor is cold. The mug warms her hands. You stare out the window at the garden, at the faint glow beginning to rise over the lilacs.

They're blooming again, just like last year. Just like always.

But it’s a different kind of day.

You waters the forget-me-nots he gave you. They’ve taken well to the balcony. Small, bright, stubborn. Just like the memory they were planted for.

By the time Klaus wanders in—hair rumpled, shirt half-buttoned—your standing at the counter in the soft robe you insists on stealing.

He wraps his arms around you from behind, burying his face in your neck like he always does when he’s still half-dreaming.

“Happy Mother’s Day,” he says quietly.

You laughs a little, the sound cracked but full. “You’re not supposed to say that.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “But I mean it anyway.”

You lean into him. Closes your eyes.

It’s not the kind of day where you pretends nothing happened. It’s not the kind of day where you try to replace what was lost, or drown in what might’ve been.

It’s the kind of day where you let yourself be held.

Where you make pancakes with tears in your eyes, but a smile on your lips. Where you light a single candle beside the forget-me-nots and say nothing, because nothing needs to be said.

Where you let Klaus braid flowers into your hair like you’re something sacred.

It’s the kind of day where you lets joy exist next to sorrow without shame.

And maybe that’s all healing ever is—letting both things live inside you without tearing each other apart.

It’s a different kind of day.

And for the first time, that feels like enough.

Happy Mother's Day my loves🤍

Happy Mother’s Day to the ones who carry love that never had a name. You are seen. You are remembered. And you are still a mother.🤍(and so am i)

This one hit close to home but I felt that I needed to get it out there. hope it brings comfort to those who need it🤍

i will love you forever it seems, Elle-Mae.

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