#and people kept talking over him and for him

[fleurbly]

THE MAN IN THE WOODS

summary: a quiet walk home turns dark when the man who’s been watching finally steps out — blood on his hands, your name on his lips, and no plan to ever let you go.

warnings: non-con (subtle/psychological themes), dub-con, obsessive behaviour, stalking, violence/gore, murder/s, possessive character, blood, threats/intimadation, breeding kink

pairing: dark!remmick x reader 

w/c: 11k+

DNI IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TO TAGS, AND ARE UNDER 18

The Mississippi heat was sticking to you in a way that felt like it was just part of you now, like you couldn’t really shake it off. Thick, heavy, like the whole air was holding its breath. You were used to it by now, but that didn’t mean it didn’t get to you some days — like today, when the sweat was rolling down your back, and your dress felt like it was clinging to you like a second skin. It had a way of making everything slow down. You could feel it in the way the hours dragged by. Nothing moved fast when it was this hot, not even the wind.

You had stayed later in town than you meant to, but it wasn’t unusual. You never minded, really. Mrs. Avery had needed your help with the post office, and then you ended up talking with Miss Harriet for a while, listening to her ramble about things that didn’t matter, but you liked listening anyway. It wasn’t until the sun was a sliver on the horizon that you realized how much time had passed. And, sure, you could’ve taken the main road back, but you preferred this one. The back road that led through the edge of the woods, where the trees felt like an old friend, and the sound of the insects buzzing was the only thing that kept you company. It was quieter that way.

The stories had been getting worse lately — things going missing, bodies turning up in strange places. You’d heard the talk. The whispers at the market, the older folks talking in hushed voices, the sudden stares you got when people thought you weren’t paying attention. But you didn’t feel scared, not exactly. You had walked this path for years, had heard the same stories told over and over again. People got lost, sometimes, and some of them never came back, but that was just life around here. Life, death, and everything in between.

You tried not to think about it too much, but as the last bit of daylight started to fade, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Not that it was anything new, really — not in the Delta. The woods were always full of strange sounds at night. Always full of shadows that seemed to stretch longer than they should. And the feeling? It had come before. Maybe just nerves. Maybe nothing at all. It didn’t matter. You kept walking. Your boots pressed into the soft earth, the sound muffled by the dampness in the air.

But tonight, the quiet was heavier. The trees seemed to close in a little more, their thick branches blocking out the last of the light, casting shadows that seemed to move when you weren’t looking. It was the kind of quiet that made you wonder if you were the only one walking this path. You couldn’t hear the birds, the usual buzz of crickets. Just silence. The deep kind that settled over everything and made you feel like you weren’t meant to be here.

You shook it off. Told yourself it was just the night playing tricks. You kept moving, turning the corner past the old fence where the wood had started to rot years ago. The same stretch of road you’d passed a hundred times. But as you stepped deeper into the woods, there was a shift in the air. The kind that made your stomach tighten just a little. The kind that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up, like you were being watched, even though you couldn’t see anyone. You didn’t stop walking, but you did slow down, your senses sharp in a way they hadn’t been before.

And then, you saw him.

At first, it was just a figure. Tall. Broad-shouldered. He was standing in the shadows, like he belonged there, his back to you. And for a second, you thought maybe you’d imagined it, maybe you’d caught the wrong glimpse of something in the dimming light. But the longer you stared, the more you felt like there was no way he could’ve been anything but real. His presence didn’t make a sound. Didn’t stir the air around him like it should’ve. It was like he was... waiting. Standing perfectly still.

You almost turned around, almost told yourself you should’ve taken the main road after all. But you didn’t. You stood there for a beat too long, unsure of what to do. He wasn’t moving. Didn’t look like he was about to. But there was something in the way he stood, something about the way the trees almost seemed to part around him, that made you feel like he wasn’t just passing by. Like he was waiting for you to notice.

When he finally turned, you felt the air change, like a sudden shift in pressure. His eyes met yours.

It was like nothing else mattered. Like time stopped for just a second, just long enough for you to notice the way the fading sunlight seemed to catch in his hair, the way the shadows made his face almost too perfect, too sharp to be real. And that smile — not one you’d ever seen before. It wasn’t kind, exactly, but it wasn’t threatening either. Just... knowing. Like he had something figured out, something you weren’t meant to understand yet.

But you felt it, anyway. The tension, the slow, almost magnetic pull.

And then, just like that, the world shifted again.

You didn’t know it, but that moment would be the last time things would ever feel the same.

You should’ve walked away. Every instinct in you screamed to turn around, to leave, to put some distance between you and the man standing just a few steps away, the man whose presence seemed to fill the entire space around you. But still, you stood there, rooted in place, like something—some force—had decided it wasn’t going to let you go.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke, and the quiet stretched between you like a taut wire. You didn’t know what you were waiting for, but it felt like the world had paused, holding its breath. His gaze never wavered, steady, almost calculating, like he was trying to read you in a way that made your heart pick up the pace.

Finally, he spoke, his voice smooth with a slow southern drawl. "Tell you what, darlin’... it’s mighty late for someone like you to be wanderin’ out here all alone." He stepped forward, his boots barely making a sound against the dirt, but the small movement felt like it took up more space than it should’ve. Like he was somehow pulling the air closer to him, drawing you into his orbit.

You hesitated, trying not to let the flutter in your chest show. "I’m fine," you said, the words coming out a little too fast. "I’ve done this walk a thousand times before."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. His eyes flickered down to your hands, clenched at your sides, then back up to your face. "A thousand times, huh?" His lips quirked into a half-smile. "Well, darlin’, you sure do make it sound easy."

You shifted on your feet, trying to shake the strange feeling creeping up your spine. "I don’t need anyone walking me home."

He didn’t miss a beat, his grin widening just a touch. "Oh, I reckon that’s your call." He took a slow step closer, his voice lowering just a little. "But I’ve been out here a long time, seen a lot of things. Some of ‘em don’t belong in these woods." His gaze sharpened, just for a second, and there was something else in his tone now. "Not to mention all the strange happenings lately. Folks keep goin’ missin’ around here. Real shame, that."

You froze, your breath catching. "What do you mean, strange happenings?" you asked, though you already knew. The disappearances. The bodies found scattered across these very woods. The whispers. Everyone had heard the rumors, but no one dared to speak too openly about it.

He leaned in just a fraction, like he was about to tell you a secret. "Oh, just... you know. Folks not comin’ home at night. Bodies turnin’ up in places they shouldn’t be. Nothin’ good about that." He paused, eyes narrowing. "Not safe out here these days, darlin’. You sure you’re alright walkin’ alone?"

You swallowed, the chill creeping up your spine. You knew what he was hinting at, what everyone was whispering behind closed doors. "I’m fine," you said, but it came out much less convincing than you intended.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes never leaving yours. "Sure you are, darlin’. But even the toughest of folks could use a little company when things go sideways. You sure you don’t want someone with you? Wouldn’t want you to join the list of folks who got... lost." He flashed a grin, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes, and there was something dangerous lurking behind the casualness.

You bristled. "I’m good," you shot back, though it sounded more like a plea than a declaration. "I don’t need anyone."

He chuckled, low and dark, but with an ease that didn’t match the words. "Well, darlin’, that’s up to you." He stepped a little closer, eyes glinting with something unreadable. "But I’ve got a feelin’ you might change your mind soon enough. After all, we both know how the story goes around here. Stranger things than gettin' lost happen in these woods." His smile was lazy, but there was an edge to it, something that made your pulse quicken.

A subtle threat hung in the air between you, yet there was still something oddly... comforting about him. Something about the way he was standing, the way he moved with such certainty, made you hesitate, even as every instinct screamed at you to get away.

He took another step closer, his voice dropping lower, almost a whisper now. "I’ll walk you home," he said, as if it were already settled. "Wouldn’t want a lady like you to be out here alone with everything that’s been happenin’ around here lately."

You bit your lip, torn. A part of you wanted to refuse, to walk away from the situation entirely. But another part—something you couldn’t quite put your finger on—made you stay still. He was right, after all. The woods weren’t safe anymore.

Finally, you nodded, barely enough for him to notice. "Alright... fine," you muttered, hating how weak your voice sounded.

His smile widened, but it wasn’t kind. "Good choice, darlin’," he said, his voice soft yet steady, the kind of tone that carried an unspoken assurance. "Let’s get you home safe, then."

And with that, he fell into step beside you, his presence almost... comforting. The woods didn’t feel as suffocating anymore, the shadows not as dark. With him by your side, you felt less like you were walking into the unknown, and more like someone was guiding you through it. The path ahead didn’t seem so threatening, and for the first time tonight, you found yourself easing up just a little.

His steady stride kept time with yours, and even though you weren’t ready to fully trust him, there was something about the way he moved—something sure and quiet—that made it harder to keep your guard up. You had no idea where this would go, but for now, you weren’t alone, and that meant something.

After a few more minutes of walking in silence, you finally saw the familiar outline of your home ahead. The warmth of the night still clung to you, but the oppressive quiet of the woods started to fade as you neared your doorstep. The walk had felt longer than usual, and the air seemed to grow heavier with each step, but you didn’t mind.

Remmick kept pace beside you, his presence a strange mix of comforting and unsettling, until finally, the gate to your yard came into view. He didn’t say anything as you reached it, but just before you stepped through, he spoke, his voice low and steady.

“You be careful out here, darlin’,” he said, his gaze lingering on you for a second too long, like he wanted to make sure you understood.

You nodded, feeling a shiver run down your spine, though you couldn’t tell if it was from the heat or something else. “I will,” you replied quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He gave a half-smile, the same knowing grin from before. “Good,” he said simply, then took a step back into the shadows. “See you ‘round… names Remmick by the way.”

You didn’t say your name— too worried, and it seemed like he noticed that to. You watched him disappear into the night before turning toward your door. With a hand that felt almost numb, you turned the handle and stepped inside, the familiar creak of the door shutting behind you making it feel like the night was over. But the weight of everything that had happened lingered, like it wasn’t really finished at all.

And just like that, you were home.

It started the night he left you at your gate.

You didn’t notice it right away. At first, it was subtle — an odd sensation, like the remnants of a conversation you couldn’t shake off, the kind that clung to you even after the words had ended. It wasn’t something that jumped out at you, not at first. Just the faintest trace of unease. You told yourself it was nothing — just the lingering tension of meeting someone like him in the woods, a man who had the unsettling ability to smile too easily, stand too still, and know just a little too much about you. You thought it was your mind playing tricks, a fleeting discomfort that would disappear with time.

You tried to sleep that night, but the feeling didn’t go away. It settled on your chest, heavy and suffocating, like something was watching you from the shadows. Like something was waiting. Every time you closed your eyes, it was there, lurking at the edges of your consciousness. The memory of his smile. His eyes, so steady, so calculating. It lingered in your mind like a flicker of a memory that hadn’t quite been made yet.

But it wasn’t just the first night that left its mark.

By the second night, it was worse.

The tightness in your chest had grown, a feeling of unease that gnawed at the edges of your mind. You couldn’t sleep, not even in fits. The air in your bedroom had turned thick and suffocating, as though the very walls were closing in around you. It was too hot, too heavy, like trying to breathe through cloth. You tossed and turned, futilely opening windows to let in a breeze that never came, then closing them again when the humidity grew worse. You left the light on, hoping the soft glow would bring comfort, but it only reminded you of how much you wanted to turn it off, to surrender to the dark. You shut your eyes, only to open them again, staring at the shadows in the corners of your room, hoping they would stay still. Hoping the night would pass.

But the quiet was too loud. The stillness felt too alive.

You began checking the locks more frequently. Not just the back door, but the windows too, making sure they were secure. You even double-checked the small, unimportant things, like the kitchen cabinet, the pantry door. Anything that could have been moved. Anything that didn’t feel right. Still, no matter how many times you checked, the discomfort wouldn’t leave. You never saw anything. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

The heat, the oppressive Mississippi heat, didn’t help either. It pressed down on everything; the old wood of your porch, the dampness of your sheets, the sticky sweat that clung to your skin. The air felt like it had taken on a life of its own, moving sluggishly around you, crawling along your neck, down your spine. The weight of it made you feel like your skin was too tight, like there was something inside you, waiting to break free. Something that shouldn’t be there. Something that had crawled under your skin and wouldn’t leave.

You needed to get out.

So you went to town, hoping for the relief of movement, the comfort of people. Just the sound of everyday life. The hustle of the bakery, the familiar gossip at the market. Anything that felt real. Anything that wasn’t this unshakable feeling of being watched.

It was late afternoon when you wandered past the bakery, the warm, golden sun sitting low on the horizon, casting long shadows over the street. The heat was just as bad as it had been the past few days, but you didn’t mind. Not much you could do about it anyway. The town had its usual lazy rhythm, with people moving in slow, deliberate motions, their faces slack with the weight of the air. But there was something in the air today. Something different. The usual hum of life felt muffled, drowned out by a strange stillness.

You didn’t mention your sleepless nights. You didn’t mention how you hadn’t been able to shake that feeling for the past three nights, that prickling sensation that had settled just beneath your skin, like someone was standing just behind you, breathing down your neck. You didn’t tell anyone about the dreams — not quite dreams, more like flickering images of a man standing at the end of your bed, silent, still, always watching, always smiling. But you weren’t ready to say anything. You didn’t want to sound crazy.

Maybe it was the heat. That’s what you told yourself as you stepped into the general store, grateful for the stale, cool air that rushed to meet you. But it didn’t quite reach your skin. Your thoughts kept wandering back to that night. To his smile. To the way his eyes had looked at you. Something about it had stuck. And it gnawed at you, quietly, as you ran your fingers over the shelves, distracted and restless.

You were so lost in thought that you didn’t notice Jesse until you heard his voice.

“Hey. You alright?”

You looked up, startled, and saw him standing there, hands stuffed in his pockets, his brow furrowed with concern.

You hadn’t realized how tense your shoulders were until he spoke. His presence, so casual and familiar, made you realize just how much you’d been on edge all day.

“I’m fine,” you said, exhaling a breath you hadn’t known you were holding. “Just needed a few things.”

He didn’t seem convinced. His eyes narrowed slightly, studying you, as though he could see right through your words. “You sure? You look a little… worn out.”

The comment made you laugh, but it was more out of discomfort than anything else. “Thanks,” you replied, trying to make light of it. “I didn’t realize it was so obvious.”

“I mean it,” he pressed, stepping closer with a frown pulling at the corners of his lips. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

You didn’t respond. He wasn’t wrong. It had been days, maybe longer, since you’d gotten a full night of sleep. Since the night you met him.

“I’ve just been a little… off lately,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them. You could hear the hesitation in your voice, the way you were avoiding the truth.

Jesse took a step closer, his expression softening. “You know, you can talk to me if something’s bothering you. I don’t mind.”

You forced a smile, but it felt more like a grimace. “It’s nothing, really. Just one of those weeks.”

Jesse glanced out the window, squinting at the low-setting sun, its warm rays creeping between the buildings, casting long, golden streaks across the floor. He turned back to you, his gaze lingering on your face, searching for something you weren’t sure you wanted him to find.

“You heading home soon?” he asked, his voice quieter now, more deliberate.

You nodded, shifting on your feet. “Yeah. Just need to grab a few things.”

He glanced down at his watch, then looked up again. “You taking the long way home?”

The question hit you harder than you expected. The long way. The path you’d been avoiding in the past few days. The one you used to walk without a second thought, but now it felt different. Heavy. Haunted. You hesitated, trying to buy time.

“Yeah, I think so,” you said, your voice unsure.

Jesse didn’t push it, but his eyes lingered on you for a moment too long. “Let me walk you,” he said after a beat, his tone firm but not forceful. “It’s getting late. And I don’t think you should be out there alone.”

His offer, simple as it was, sent a strange feeling through you. A part of you wanted to decline, to keep your distance, but another part — the part that had been feeling so exposed lately — welcomed the offer.

You wanted to refuse. You wanted to tell him that you didn’t need anyone walking you home. That you could handle it. But when you opened your mouth, the words didn’t come out. Instead, you nodded slowly, your lips parting in a soft sigh. “Alright,” you said, the heaviness of the words settling on you. “I’d appreciate it.”

As soon as the words left your mouth, you felt a strange sense of relief mixed with something else, something that lingered at the back of your throat. You hadn’t meant to invite him along, but now that he was here, it felt… necessary. His presence, quiet but steady, seemed to ease the tightness in your chest, even if only just a little.

The sun was already slipping behind the trees by the time you finished your shopping. The storefronts bled amber light onto the sidewalks, but the sky above was fading fast — from hazy gold to bruised purple. Jesse stayed close, trailing quietly beside you as you stepped outside, the air thick with heat and something else — something colder that you couldn’t name.

The walk began in silence.

People had retreated indoors. Porch lights flicked on. Insects buzzed around street lamps. The town folded itself inward for the night, leaving you and Jesse alone with the steady sound of your footsteps.

It didn’t take long for the streets to give way to the quieter, tree-lined path you always took home. Familiar, but not in a comforting way — not anymore. You kept your eyes ahead, not daring to glance too long at the shifting shapes in the woods just off the road.

Jesse walked beside you, hands tucked in his pockets, his gaze occasionally drifting toward you.

“How have you really been?” he asked after a stretch of silence. His tone was softer now, less casual than before — like he wasn’t just making conversation, like he actually wanted to know.

You hesitated. “I’ve had better weeks,” you admitted. It wasn’t a confession, not really, but it was more honest than what you’d been saying to everyone else.

He nodded slightly, like he understood something in your voice. “Thought so.”

You didn’t say anything else. Part of you wanted to, but you weren’t sure how to explain it — the nights spent staring at the ceiling, the feeling of something in the room with you even when it was empty, the way you caught yourself checking over your shoulder like a nervous habit.

“I keep waking up,” you finally said. “Middle of the night. No reason. Just… wide awake and certain someone’s there.”

Jesse’s eyes shifted to you again, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I thought maybe it was just in my head at first. You know, stress or heat or something stupid. But it hasn’t stopped.”

“It started a few nights ago. After I walked home alone.” There it was — out loud. And now that it was, it felt heavier.

Jesse was quiet for a long moment before he spoke again. “Why didn’t you say something?”

You shrugged. “I didn’t want to sound crazy.”

His voice came low. “You don’t.”

You gave a small, humorless laugh. “Feels like I do.”

The trees thickened ahead, the stretch of road narrowing as the shadows crept in faster than the fading light. You could feel it again — that pressure at the base of your neck, the one that told you to run even when nothing was behind you. 

It was only another couple of minutes in silence, you walked a little faster without meaning to.

Jesse noticed. “Hey,” he said gently, “we’re almost there.”

You nodded, eyes still forward, heart picking up a beat. The path wasn’t long, but in the dark, it stretched out like something else entirely — like a hallway with no end. The wind stirred the branches above you, and for a second, it sounded too much like whispering.

“I don’t like this road,” you said, more to yourself than to him.

Jesse didn’t answer right away. “I don’t either,” he admitted. “Never have.”

That caught you off guard. You glanced at him. “You used to live near here, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” he said, then hesitated. “Used to hear things out here at night. Long time ago.”

A shiver crept up your spine. “Like what?”

He paused. “Voices. Footsteps. Once I swore I saw someone just standing in the woods. But when I looked again, there was nothing.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.

The last bend came into view — the one that would lead to your driveway. You felt the pull of home, of safety, just out of reach.

You were almost home when Jesse’s voice finally faltered. The familiar turn onto the last stretch of road had come into view, and the trees around it began to lean in closer, their branches curling overhead like fingers. Fireflies blinked in the tall grass by the ditches, but even their glow felt dim against the dark swallowing the horizon.

“I can walk you the rest of the way,” Jesse had offered earlier, his voice low but steady. “It’s not a trouble.”

You’d turned to him, the hem of your sundress brushing your knees as a breeze picked up. You’d really looked at him — his brows furrowed, jaw tense in the fading light. It wasn’t just a polite offer. He meant it.

Still, you had hesitated. He had already stayed longer than he needed to, and he had farther to go. You didn’t want to keep him longer than necessary. Plus, you didn’t want to worry him — not when you weren’t even sure what you were afraid of.

“No,” you’d said softly, offering a faint smile. “That’s alright. You should head back before it gets too dark then it already is. I’m almost there.”

He’d held your gaze a beat longer, like he might argue, but eventually gave a slow nod. “Alright. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

He’d stepped back, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his figure swallowed slowly by the darkening trees. The silence crept in behind him, not sudden, but steady — like water filling a room.

You’d taken a breath, glanced down the road toward home, and started walking again. The gravel shifted under your shoes, the sound oddly loud in the stillness. Your dress clung a little to your skin in the humid air. Cicadas buzzed in the distance. Somewhere nearby, an owl called once, then fell quiet.

Then, a scream.

It came from behind you, from the woods Jesse had just disappeared into. It wasn’t just a shout, not something startled or careless. It was deep, guttural — raw and sharp with an edge that made your blood run cold.

You froze. Turned. The trees stood still, unmoving, their shadows stretching like long fingers reaching into the dark.

Another scream ripped through the air, even more tortured than the last. It didn’t sound like Jesse, not in any way you’d ever heard him before. It was something else — something full of agony.

“Jesse?” you called, but your voice trembled and was lost in the thick night air. Too soft. Too quiet.

You waited, every second stretching out like hours. But there was nothing. No response.

And then it came again. A scream, this one louder than the others, piercing the silence in a way that felt like it was coming from everywhere. All around you. And then — silence.

The kind of silence that felt wrong. Thick. Heavy.

You stood there, frozen. Your heart hammered in your chest, and your breath came shallow. You didn’t know what to do. You wanted to run, but your feet wouldn’t move. The trees loomed like dark sentinels, the forest closing in on you with the weight of something terrible.

But it was just the night, right?

The sound of the woods shifted, a crack in the dark.

It wasn’t Jesse.

It couldn’t be.

You didn’t know how long you stood there, but eventually, you forced yourself to turn back toward your house. It was only a few more steps, and maybe if you just kept walking, you could ignore whatever was happening behind you.

But that wasn’t possible, was it?

You couldn’t stay out here in the dark. You needed to be inside. You needed safety. The front porch of your house was just a few steps away. Just a few more steps, and you’d be able to shut the door behind you, lock it, and pretend none of this had ever happened.

But as your foot hit the first step of the porch, the sound you had been trying to ignore hit you again. This time it was your name being yelled.

It was Jesse’s voice, unmistakable.

The scream rang out with a desperation that cut through the night air like a blade. And it wasn’t just the tone of it, but the way it broke, jagged and guttural, that sent a wave of panic crashing through your body. The kind of panic that made your blood run cold. The way he said your name made your chest tighten with fear, like he was calling you for help — like he was begging.

You froze on the porch, your heart leaping into your throat. Your hands trembled, the grocery bags now slipping from your fingers and crashing to the floor in a mess of sound. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. All that mattered was that sound. Jesse’s scream. His call.

Your feet moved before your mind could catch up, your legs shaking as you turned and sprinted back toward the woods. The weight of your steps seemed heavier now, the path to the trees long and endless, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t stop. Not now. Not when he was still out there — in the dark, in the woods, screaming for you.

The road seemed to stretch on forever, but finally, the trees swallowed you again. The sharp smell of the earth hit you, the wet grass, the cool air between the trunks a relief from the suffocating heat, but none of it felt real. Not anymore. All you could hear was the sound of your own ragged breath and the call of Jesse’s voice echoing through the woods, tearing at your chest.

“Jesse!” you screamed, your voice raw, but it was lost in the thick air, swallowed whole by the trees.

Your heart pounded in your ears, the panic rising like a wave, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Something deep inside you — something that you couldn’t explain, not even to yourself — refused to let you go back to the safety of your house. It was as if the woods were pulling you in, and Jesse’s voice was the only thing that mattered.

You pushed forward, running faster now, the distance between you and the last place you’d heard him scream growing shorter with every step. Every branch that scraped your skin, every twist of the undergrowth beneath your feet, felt like nothing. Nothing compared to the sound of his voice calling for you.

The woods stretched endlessly before you, dark and suffocating, but you didn’t stop running. Branches scratched at your arms, the hem of your sundress catching on underbrush, but the sting didn’t register. Your lungs burned with every breath. All you could hear was the fading echo of your name on Jesse’s voice, still ringing in your ears, raw and pleading.

“Jesse!” you screamed again, but it sounded smaller now, swallowed by the trees, useless.

You pushed deeper.

The dirt beneath your feet was damp, soft with recent rain, and your shoes slipped as you clambered down a slope you hadn’t noticed before. You caught yourself on a tree trunk, breath catching in your throat. The air had shifted — no longer just humid, but colder now. Wrong. You could feel it pressing in around you, thick and still.

And then — something.

A shape, low to the ground. Just ahead in the clearing.

You stumbled forward, one slow step at a time, heart beating like a war drum in your chest. And then the shape resolved. You saw the boots first. Familiar. Mud-caked. Still.

Your stomach dropped.

“Jesse?”

You crept closer, voice trembling.

He was there, lying on his side in the wet grass, the folds of his shirt soaked dark and heavy. His body was twisted, one arm outstretched, fingers curled into the earth as if he’d tried to hold on. But it was the angle of his neck — the way his head had fallen too far back — that told you something was horribly wrong.

You fell to your knees beside him.

“Jesse—” your voice cracked, catching in your throat as your eyes finally took in the full horror of it.

His throat — or what was left of it — had been torn open. Not cleanly. Not like a knife would do. This was rough, brutal. Something had ripped into him with teeth, shredded muscle and sinew, left bone exposed. Blood soaked the grass around him, still wet, still warm.

Your hands hovered uselessly above him, too afraid to touch, as if reaching out would make it real. His face was pale, lips parted slightly, eyes glassy — but open. Staring. Not at you. Not at anything.

A soft sob escaped your lips. The sound didn’t belong to you. None of this did. None of it could be real.

You backed away, slowly standing up. You couldn’t take your eyes off him. Jesse, who had smiled at you only minutes ago. Jesse, who had offered to walk you home. Jesse, who had screamed your name like it was the last thing he’d ever say.

And it was.

You wiped at your face, not realizing you were crying until your hand came away wet. The stillness around you felt heavy now. A silence not of peace, but of something waiting.

Then — the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end.

Something was here.

You didn’t hear it move. You didn’t see it. But you felt it. A presence. Something wrong. Something watching.

You turned slowly.

The woods behind you were too dark, the tree trunks pressed too closely together. You couldn’t see anything — but that didn’t matter. You knew. The way your gut twisted, the way your skin prickled. You were not alone.

You didn’t move.

The woods held still around you, suffocating in their silence, and the cold that had crept in earlier now settled deep beneath your skin. Your breath hitched in your throat as your gaze swept the trees, searching for whatever had stirred the air behind you. For a long second, there was nothing.

Then, from between the trunks — slow, deliberate — a figure stepped into view.

It was a man.

At first, the shape of him was just shadow and movement. But then the light shifted, and you saw his face.

Remmick.

Your breath left you in a soundless gasp.

It was him — the man who had walked you home just days ago, calm and courteous, his voice low and drawn with that rasp that curled at the edges of his words like smoke. The man who had said your name like it tasted sweet on his tongue. The man who, even then, had looked like he knew more than he let on.

He wasn’t breathing hard. Wasn’t flustered. His movements were slow, easy, almost casual.

Like he’d been here a while.

Watching.

His eyes found yours, and that same, familiar half-smile touched his mouth — the one that had seemed harmless once. Kind, even. Now it felt like a hook just beneath your skin.

“Well now,” he said, voice soft, coated in something you couldn’t name. “Ain’t you a sight.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even will your mouth to move. You felt frozen where you stood, just yards from Jesse’s lifeless body, the scent of blood still thick in your nose.

Remmick’s gaze drifted past you, to the place in the grass where Jesse lay twisted and ruined, and for a heartbeat, his expression didn’t change at all. No surprise. No horror. Nothing.

He already knew.

He took another step, the leaves rustling beneath his boots, you still couldn’t see him clearly.

“Didn’t mean to give you a fright, darlin’,” he said, slow and easy, like you were still back on that quiet walk home, like there wasn’t blood drying under his nails.

You swallowed hard, but the dryness in your mouth made it useless. “Remmick…”

It came out thinner than you wanted. A whisper. A question.

He looked at you again — really looked — and the softness behind his eyes shifted. Not cruel. Not angry. But something darker. Like he was peeling something back. Like whatever mask he wore had been slipping this whole time and he’d finally let it fall.

“I was hopin’ we’d see each other again,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. “Just didn’t think it’d be quite like this.”

Your knees locked. You couldn’t step back. Couldn’t flee. The woods behind you weren’t safety — they were a cage. You were stuck between Jesse’s body and Remmick’s bloody figure, the air too thick to breathe, your heart thudding so loud you swore he could hear it.

He smiled again — slower this time. Warmer. Like he thought you might smile back.

“C’mon now,” he said, his voice dipping low, nearly fond. “Ain’t nothin’ to be scared of.” But your body knew better. It was screaming. And somewhere deep inside, so did you.

You stumbled backward, your breath hitching in your throat as he fully emerged from the shadows, parting the trees like they were nothing. The moonlight barely touched him, but that little bit was enough. You saw the blood first—thick, dark, and smeared across his shirt, soaking into the collar, dripping down his neck. It clung to him like a second skin, and his chin was streaked with it, as though he hadn’t cared enough to wipe it off.

The blood glistened, fresh and wet, a stark contrast against the black of the night, but it was the way it soaked into him that made you freeze. He looked like something else entirely. Something not quite human.

His eyes met yours, cold and unwavering, as if you were nothing more than a passing thought in his mind, and for the first time, you realized how wrong you were about him.

“What…” Your voice trembled, the word barely leaving your lips as you took a step back. Your hands were shaking, but you couldn’t look away from the blood that stained his clothes and most definitely staining him. “What are you?”

He stepped forward slowly, one foot in front of the other, parting the branches around him like he was walking through a world that had bent to his will.

And when he spoke, his voice was calm. Too calm. Thick, like honey pouring over you, suffocating you.

“You ain’t askin’ the right question, dove,” he drawled, his Southern accent curling around every word, wrapping them up in something dangerous. “But I suppose you wouldn’t know how to yet.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, your breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps as you struggled to form a coherent thought.

“What did you do to Jesse?” You finally forced the words out, though they came out choked, angry. “What the hell did you do to him?”

Remmick’s gaze drifted behind you, toward the clearing, where Jesse’s body lay lifeless in the grass. His blood had soaked the ground, leaving a dark stain that was already beginning to sink into the earth. But Remmick didn’t seem to care. His eyes didn’t flicker toward the body with any kind of guilt.

He only looked back at you, and his voice was disturbingly quiet, though it was no less menacing.

“Somethin’ tried to take what’s mine,” he said, the words slow and deliberate. “And I don’t take kindly to that.”

You shook your head, the weight of his words pressing in on you like a heavy stone. “He didn’t try anything,” you spat, trying to back away, but your legs felt like they were made of jelly.

Remmick took another step toward you, his eyes never leaving yours. “Didn’t matter. He touched you. Walked you home. Spoke your name like it belonged to him.”

Your heart stopped. You had a sickening feeling in the pit of your stomach, like something cold and dark was wrapping around you, slowly choking the breath from your lungs.

“That ain’t how this works.”

You swallowed hard. “You killed him,” you said, the words tasting like ash in your mouth, but it was a truth you couldn’t ignore. The horror of it swirled inside you, threatening to consume everything you knew.

Remmick didn’t deny it. His lips curled upward in a slow, almost affectionate smile.

“You’re a monster,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him, but it was enough to make his smile falter, if only for a fraction of a second.

He took a step closer, the blood on his shirt now darkened to a sickening rust color. His hands were covered too, but they were still steady, his posture calm as if he hadn’t just committed an atrocity.

“I ain’t like the things out here,” he said, his voice low and rough, his drawl thicker now, like he was speaking through smoke. “But I ain’t human, neither. Not in the way you think.”

You stepped back again, your chest heaving, the panic rising within you like a tidal wave. You had to get away. You had to run, but your feet wouldn’t obey you. Your legs felt like they were cemented to the ground.

“But I meant it when I called you mine,” he added, his voice almost reverent.

A chill ran through your spine as you tried to process his words. “You’re crazy,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him, but the words felt heavy. “You don’t even know me.”

He tilted his head slightly, and for a moment, you thought you saw something flicker in his eyes. Maybe regret. Maybe something else. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

“I know you better than anyone ever could,” he said softly, stepping closer still. “Better than the man who thought he could take you home. Better than anyone who thought they could walk beside you. I was watchin’ over you long before he ever came around, long before you even known it.”

You recoiled from his words, his presence, everything about him. This wasn’t protection. This wasn’t love. This was obsession. The kind that made your blood run cold and your skin crawl.

“I saw you,” he continued, his voice lower now, like he was telling a secret only you were meant to hear. “When you were walkin’ home from town, your eyes down, not a soul beside you. I saw you. I was there. I always was.”

He took another step closer, his gaze moving lower, his eyes lingering on the hem of your sundress, the curve of your trembling hands.

“You don’t know how hard it was,” he murmured. “Seein’ you, walkin’ in those woods, all alone. You smelled like summer, like innocence. And I had to fight every instinct not to touch you. Not to ruin you right then and there. But I thought to myself, ‘It’s okay Remmick, you can wait abit longer, you’ve always been waiting for her’.”

You felt a sickening twist in your stomach. The weight of his words hit you like a punch, but the most horrifying part wasn’t what he said. It was the way he said it — as if this had been a slow, inevitable fate, and you were always meant to be his.

“You’re not—” You choked on the words, trying to push back against the terror crawling up your throat. “You’re not in love with me. You’re obsessed. There’s a difference.”

He smirked, the corners of his mouth curving upward in something twisted. It wasn’t affection. It wasn’t love. It was something far darker, more primal.

“That’s right,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m obsessed with you. And I always will be. You don’t get to walk away from this. Not now. Not ever.”

You backed away, the sickening feeling of his presence pressing in on you, suffocating you. But the moment you did, he stepped closer again, the distance between you closing like the jaws of a trap.

“Once something belongs to me,” he murmured, his voice dark with an unholy promise, “it stays mine.”

Something inside you snapped at that moment, causing you to run. The woods swallowed your footsteps the way a mouth swallows breath — quiet and final. Your legs screamed to keep running, but the moment your foot snagged on a root slick with mud, the world tilted sideways. You hit the ground hard, palms slapping the earth, the breath knocked clean from your lungs.

You turned over, gasping, scrambling backward on your hands. Bark bit into your spine as you hit a tree.

And he was already there.

Remmick stepped into view with the slow ease of something that had never needed to run. The moon cast a dull sheen on the blood across his throat, his chest, soaking deep into the collar of his shirt. It clung to him like it belonged there. His eyes caught the light in a way that didn’t look real.

You tried to speak, “Remmick—” but he didn’t let you.

“I was always there,” he said, voice low and almost reverent. “You just didn’t look.”

He stepped closer. The crunch of his boots against leaves felt louder than your breath.

“Every night you took that path, I was in the trees. When the sun dipped low and you walked with your head down, hummin’ those little nothin’ songs to yourself, I was already watchin’. Behind the brush. Under the dark.”

You shook your head. “I never—”

“You didn’t see me,” he cut you off sharply. “Couldn’t. Not in the day. I ain’t allowed in the morning. That’s not when I exist.”

He said it like a fact. Like a rule carved into his bones.

“But night?” His voice deepened, and his gaze swept over you. “Night belongs to me.”

You pushed back farther against the bark, digging your nails into the dirt, into anything. “You’re sick.”

He smiled. It wasn’t human.

“I watched you sleep,” he whispered. “Window cracked just enough. Dreamless, like you were waitin’ for somethin’. For me.”

“No—”

“You left the light on some nights. Like you wanted someone to see. All that bare skin under those thin blankets—”

“Stop.”

He crouched then, too close. His knees sank into the wet ground inches from your feet. His voice dropped into something hushed and awful.

“You finally saw me, that day in the woods. First time our eyes met, I could’ve torn the world open right then. You in that little dress, do you know how hard it was not to touch you? Not to drag you off the trail and make you understand what you were?”

You stared at him, horror swelling thick in your throat.

“You don’t know me,” you said, voice shaking.

His smile widened, teeth a little too sharp. “But I do. You don’t get it yet — what we are. But you will.”

“I’ll never be yours,” you hissed.

He leaned in until his bloodstained collar nearly brushed your knees. His breath was warm — wrong — as he spoke.

“You already were,” he murmured. “From the first time I I saw you while ago, under moonlight. I ain’t let anything touch you since.”

You tried to push yourself up — tried to find space, air, anything — but he rose when you did. Not fast. Just… deliberate.

“You think Jesse died ‘cause he was bad?” he asked, tilting his head. “He died ‘cause he thought he had a right to you. Thought speakin’ your name made it his to say.”

He stepped toward you again.

“But that name?” His voice was a blade now. “That name only ever sounded right in my mouth.”

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream.

Somehow, your feet found the ground beneath you. Somehow, you scrambled up from the roots and mud, your palms bleeding, your knees buckling. But you ran — faster than before, your breath ragged, every heartbeat screaming get away, get away, get away.

The trees blurred around you, branches whipping at your face and arms, but nothing could slow you down now. Not the cold sweat that soaked your dress. Not the taste of blood in your mouth from where you’d bitten your tongue.

Not even his voice behind you.

“Run, dove,” he called, smooth and syrup-thick. “Go on. I like when you run.”

You didn’t dare look back. Every fiber of your being pulsed with one command: move.

But he was faster.

You didn’t hear him coming. You didn’t even feel the ground change — one second you were upright, the next you were jerked backward so hard your scream died in your throat.

Pain bloomed hot across your scalp.

His hand was tangled in your hair, yanking you off balance. You hit the earth again, your knees skidding against gravel and moss as he pulled you back into him, the back of your head nearly colliding with his chest.

He crouched behind you now, crouched low like a wolf over a carcass, his breath brushing your cheek.

“I said run, didn’t I?” he murmured, voice mock-gentle as his grip tightened. “But we both know you were never gonna make it back to that little porch light. That door was never gonna open for you again.”

You struggled, clawed at his arm, but he only laughed — low and breathy and too calm.

“Don’t,” he warned, his lips grazing your ear now. “You’re gonna make me hurt you, and I don’t want to do that.”

His other hand slid to your throat — not squeezing, not yet — just resting there. Like he was measuring something. Like he owned it.

“I’ve been good,” he went on, voice fraying at the edges now. “So good. Watching. Waiting. Keeping things away from you. But you keep runnin’ from me like I’m the danger.”

He yanked your head back again, forcing you to look up at the trees, at the stars barely visible between them.

“I’m the reason you’re still breathin’. Ain’t no one else ever gonna love you like I do, dove. They don’t even see you. Not really.”

“I’m not yours,” you choked out, voice raw.

He growled — a low, inhuman sound that vibrated against your back.

“You are,” he snapped, fingers tightening in your hair. “You been mine. From the minute you stepped into my woods. From the second you smiled at the trees like they were friends.”

You twisted beneath him, trying to throw him off, but his body was all heat and weight and blood.

“You’re sick,” you spat, and this time, it shook him. He went quiet. Still.

Then, quietly, coldly; “So be it.”

The air crackled with a sudden shift. The playful menace in his voice vanished, replaced by something sharp and dangerous. His hand tightened in your hair, not just holding you, but possessively, painfully. The fingers at your throat flexed, a subtle warning that sent a fresh wave of panic through you.

He shifted, his weight pressing more fully against your back, pinning you to the rough ground. The scent of damp earth and pine needles mingled with his own darker, muskier smell, overwhelming you. You could feel the tremor that ran through his body, a tightly leashed fury that threatened to break free.

"Sick?" he repeated, the word a low growl against your ear. "Is that what you think?"

He released your hair, and for a desperate moment, you thought you might be free. But then his hands were on your shoulders, his grip like iron as he rolled you over onto your back. The sudden movement stole your breath, and you stared up at him, his face a shadow against the faint starlight. His eyes, though, burned with an intensity that pierced the darkness.

He loomed over you, his knees bracketing your hips, effectively trapping you. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the raw power that emanated from his still form. Your chest heaved, and the taste of blood in your mouth seemed to intensify with your fear.

One of his hands left your shoulder, tracing a slow, deliberate path down your arm. His touch, despite the underlying threat, sent a shiver down your spine. It was possessive, claiming, like he was mapping the contours of his territory.

"You think this is sickness?" he murmured, his voice low and rough, like stone scraping against stone. His fingers reached your wrist, his thumb pressing against your racing pulse. "This…need? This hunger I feel when I look at you?"

His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingering there for a long, breathless moment. You tried to pull away, to twist beneath him, but his weight held you firmly in place. The gravel dug into your back, a stark reminder of your vulnerability.

"Tell me," he breathed, his face dipping closer, his breath ghosting over your lips. "Tell me you don't feel it too. Even a little flicker?"

His eyes searched yours, demanding a truth you were terrified to acknowledge. The fear was still there, a cold knot in your stomach, but beneath it, something else stirred – a primal awareness of his nearness, the undeniable intensity in his gaze. The woods, the cold, the fear, all seemed to fade, leaving only the two of you in the suffocating darkness.

His words hung in the air, a challenge and a confession. You didn't answer, couldn't answer, trapped between fear and a strange, unwelcome curiosity. His eyes, dark and intense, held yours captive. He lowered his head, his breath warm against your lips. You could feel the subtle shift in his body, a tightening of muscles, a coiled energy that promised a release you both dreaded and, perhaps, secretly craved.

His hand, still on your wrist, tightened again, his thumb tracing the delicate bones. It was a possessive gesture, a claim. The air thrummed with unspoken desires, a silent battle waged between predator and prey, between fear and a burgeoning, forbidden attraction.

He paused, a hair's breadth from your mouth, giving you one last chance to speak, to deny the connection that seemed to crackle between you. But the words wouldn't come. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the oppressive silence.

"No?" he whispered, his voice rough with a barely contained passion. "Then I'll show you."

His lips brushed against yours, a feather-light touch that sent a jolt of electricity through you. It was a tentative beginning, a question asked with skin instead of words. He waited, as if gauging your reaction, giving you a chance to pull away, to end it. But you didn't.

His hand, having found the hem of your dress, continued its slow ascent. The fabric whispered against your skin, each inch a deliberate exploration. His breath grew warm against your neck as his touch finally reached the top of your thigh.

He paused there, his fingers lightly tracing the curve of your inner thigh, sending a shiver down your spine. You clenched your legs slightly, a reflexive attempt to guard yourself, but his touch remained, a possessive claim.

His mouth left your neck, and you felt his breath moving lower, tracing a hot path down your throat. He lingered at the hollow of your collarbone, pressing a soft kiss there before continuing his descent.

You could feel the heat radiating from his body as he shifted, his weight pressing more firmly against yours. The hard ridge of his arousal against your thigh was an undeniable reminder of his intent.

His lips continued their downward journey, past your stomach, lower still, until you felt his breath hot against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, just inches from where your underwear began. A gasp escaped your lips, a mixture of fear and a strange, unsettling anticipation.

His hands, which had been on your thighs, now moved to the hem of your dress once again, bunching the fabric higher to allow him more access. You felt the cool night air on your exposed skin as he pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the inside of your thigh, his lips lingering there, sending a wave of heat through you.

He moved again, his kisses tracing a path closer to the edge of your underwear, each touch a deliberate tease. You could feel the tension building within you, a confusing mix of apprehension and a burgeoning, forbidden awareness. His breath was hot and ragged against your skin as he nuzzled closer, the anticipation becoming almost unbearable.

His fingers slipped beneath the elastic of your underwear. The thin fabric offered little resistance as he slowly, deliberately, eased them down.

The sensation was jarring, exposing a part of you that felt intensely vulnerable under his predatory gaze. You squeezed your eyes shut, your hands clenching into fists against the damp earth. The sounds of the forest seemed to fade, replaced by the frantic pounding of your own heart.

He paused in his task, as if sensing your heightened distress. You could feel his gaze on you, a heavy, possessive weight. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken tension and the raw anticipation of what was to come.

Then, with a final, gentle tug, the last barrier was gone. You felt the cool air envelop you completely, a stark and undeniable exposure. His breath hitched again, a low, guttural sound that vibrated against your thigh.

He lowered his head further, and you braced yourself, every nerve ending screaming in a mixture of fear and a terrifying, undeniable curiosity. You felt the brush of his lips against your bare skin, a soft, tentative exploration that sent a shiver through your entire body.

His kisses became more insistent, tracing a slow deliberate path, once again to your inner thigh, closer and closer to the most vulnerable part of you. Each touch was a brand, a claim, stripping away not just the physical barrier but also your sense of control. 

The anticipation alone was a brutal kind of pleasure, a tightening coil in your belly that had nothing to do with wanting. Then, the invasion. Slow, deliberate, and impossibly intimate as he slid his tongue inside.

A sound escaped you, a delicate moan ripped from your throat against your will. It wasn't a sound of pleasure, not the soft sigh you might offer in a moment of genuine intimacy. This was something else entirely – a strangled gasp of shock, a raw expression of vulnerability laid bare. It echoed in the stillness of the woods, a testament to his violation. Your body betrayed you with its involuntary response, a stark reminder of your helplessness under his relentless advance. 

His tongue continued its relentless exploration, and he finally lifted his head, his eyes dark and possessive as he stared down at you. A slow, knowing smirk stretched across his lips, a cruel anticipation that made your stomach clench.

"Your sweet little cunt tastes like pure heaven, darlin'." He lowered his head again, his breath hot and wet against your most sensitive flesh. "Sweeter than any blood I ever craved, honey."

He pressed closer, his tongue delving deeper, and a strangled sound was torn from your throat, a mortifying mix of revulsion and a shameful flicker of sensation you couldn't control. "You got no idea what you do to me, dove," he murmured against you, his voice thick with desire. "Makes a man… wanna forget his own damn name."

His fingers digged into your hips, holding you captive as his mouth continued its brutal assault. "Every little taste of you is drivin' me wild," he groaned, the words punctuated by wet, insistent sounds that echoed in the stillness of the woods. "You're gonna be screamin' my name before this night's through, you hear me?"

He shifted his angle, his tongue finding a particularly sensitive spot, and a sharp gasp escaped you, a sound that disgusted you even as it seemed to please him. "That's it, sugar," he breathed, his voice low and guttural. "Beg for it. Say my name when you’re comin’. " 

"Remmick—" The sound that tore from your throat was a raw, involuntary plea, a shameful testament to the sensations he was dragging from you. Your hands, clenched moments ago in protest, now fisted in dark hair, your grip tightening as a wave of heat washed through you. 

Your hips lifted slightly off the cold earth, a movement you couldn't control, a sickening surrender to the intimacy he was forcing upon you. The wood sounds faded, replaced by the wet, insistent rhythm of his mouth and your own ragged breaths. A strange, dizzying lightness bloomed in your head, a horrifying disconnect between the violation and the undeniable physical response blooming within you.

"That's it, dove," he rasped against you, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Feel it, don't you? Feel what you do to me." His fingers dug deeper into your hips, anchoring you as his ministrations grew more demanding, more relentless. The delicate dance of his tongue was now a possessive claiming, stripping away the last vestiges of your resistance. 

A moan, deeper and more resonant this time, escaped your lips, a sound that horrified you even as it seemed to fuel him. It wasn't a moan of desire, but one of pure, unadulterated sensation, a body reacting against your will. The high, as you called it, was a dizzying loss of control, a shameful betrayal of your own boundaries.

He finally lifted his head, the wet sounds ceasing, and a thick, carnal quiet filled the woods. His dark eyes, pupils blown with desire, he looked at your flushed face, a look of pure lust. A slow, wicked smirk stretched across his lips as he watched the lingering shudders that still wracked your body.

“Sweet little cunt got you all worked up, ain’t it dove?” he rasped, his voice a low, heavy with lust. 

He suddenly shifted, his hands beneath your thighs, lifting you higher, “Gonna feel me stretch you open and fill you up proper. You gonna be milkin’ my shaft so nice, darlin’.”

The head of his erection pressed insistently against your slick folds, a thick, undeniable presence. His eyes were burning into you as he fully shifted you, slowly and deliberately stretching you open, so you were sitting atop him— his back against a tree, supporting him.

“That’s it.” His eyes were feral, demanding, and the raw, possessive hunger in his gaze was a palpable thing.

The stretching sensation was intense, an unfamiliar pressure that made you gasp. "Remmick—it's… it's too much," you choked out, your hands gripping his shoulders, your knuckles white. The unfamiliar fullness was overwhelming, bordering on painful.

He stilled for a moment, his dark eyes locking onto yours, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. "Tight little thing, ain't you?" he murmured, his voice a low, almost impressed rumble. His hands tightened on your hips, his thumbs pressing into your flesh. "You're okay, darlin'. Just gotta relax for me."

Despite your choked plea, he didn't withdraw. Instead, he began to guide you, his hands firm on your hips, initiating a slow, rocking motion. "Easy now," he instructed, his voice softening slightly, though the possessive edge remained. "Just follow my lead."

The movement was awkward at first, the unfamiliar friction and fullness making you tense. You could feel him deep inside you with each downward slide, a stark and undeniable invasion. "It hurts," you whispered, your breath catching in your throat.

"Shhh," he soothed, his gaze unwavering. "Just gotta get you used to me, sweet thing. You'll open up. Trust me, dove. This is gonna feel real good soon." He continued to guide your hips, the rhythm becoming slightly faster, more insistent. You could feel the heat building between your bodies, a strange and unwelcome warmth spreading through you despite your discomfort. His low groans filled the night air, a stark contrast to your own shallow, unsteady breaths.

The awkward, uncomfortable rhythm continued, each downward slide a raw reminder of the unwelcome intrusion. You clenched your jaw, trying to breathe through the ache, your hands still tight on his shoulders. "Remmick," you gasped, the word catching in your throat, "it still—"

He cut you off with a low growl, his hands tight on your hips, pushing you down a little further. "Gotta ride it out," he murmured, his breath hot against your neck. "Just gotta loosen up for me. Feel how good this could be if you just let go."

The rubbing began to burn, a rough feeling mixed with the deep ache inside. You tried to slow him down, to find a way that hurt less, but his hands on your hips called the shots, a steady push and pull that left you gasping for air.

But then, little by little, something started to change. As that initial tightness started to give way, a different feeling poked through. The deep ache started to shift, the rubbing making a strange, almost hypnotic beat. A small sound slipped from your lips, not quite a cry anymore.

He seemed to feel it, his movements getting a little smoother, like he knew what he was doing. His low groans got louder, and you could feel his body shaking a little underneath you. A weird heat started low in your belly, still mixed with that ache, but with a tiny spark of something else.

Towards the end of his guiding, when the rhythm felt more steady, a different kind of breath caught in your throat. The hurt hadn't gone away completely, but it was tangled up with a strange, almost overwhelming feeling in your body. A soft moan slipped out, surprising even you. The tightness in your shoulders started to ease, your hands in his hair weren't so tight anymore. The night air still felt cold on your skin, but the heat between you was real now, a slow, unwelcome fire starting to burn.

His breath hitched in his throat, a rough sound against your ear. "That's it, dove," he growled, his hands still firm on your hips, guiding your movements. "Feel that heat building? Feel me gettin' nice and deep inside you."

He shifted beneath you, his hips bucking harder now, meeting your rhythm. "That's right," he rasped, his voice thick with a raw hunger. "That sweet little pussy is grippin' me good."

His hands slid up your sides, "You feel me pumpin' inside you, baby?" he murmured, his eyes locked on yours, dark and intense. "Gonna fill you up real good. Gonna breed you nice and deep, make you all round with my baby."

He leaned up slightly, his lips grazing your ear. "You gonna be screamin' my name, breathin' heavy, wantin' nothin' but this," he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. "Gonna plant my seed deep inside you, make you carry my mark."

His hands squeezed your sides, urging you to move faster. "Beg for it," he urged, his voice rough with lust. 

A moan escaped your lips, a sound you barely recognized as your own. The heat between your bodies intensified, a suffocating pressure that demanded release. Your head fell forward, your hair falling over your face as a wave of intense sensation washed over you.

"Please…" The word was barely a whisper, a broken plea torn from your throat.

"Please what, darlin'?" he urged, his voice low and demanding. 

Tears welled in your eyes, a confusing mix of shame and a desperate need for the relentless pressure to cease, yet also… to continue. "Please… more," you choked out, the words tasting like ash in your mouth.

A triumphant smirk stretched across his lips. "More of this, sweet thing?" he growled, his hips bucking harder, deeper. "You want me to fill you up good? You want my seed inside you?"

Another groan escaped you, followed by a soft, broken sob. The line between fear and a terrifying, undeniable desire blurred, leaving you adrift in a sea of overwhelming sensation. "Yes," you finally whispered, the word a shameful admission of the power he held over your body. 

As the intense waves of sensation began to crest within you, your grip on his shoulders tightened, your body instinctively clenching around him. A series of involuntary gasps escaped your lips, each one a testament to the overwhelming pleasure that was now intertwined with the lingering fear.

"Yeah, that's it, darlin'," he grunted, his voice thick with exertion. His hands gripped your hips even tighter, his own movements becoming more frantic, more urgent. "Milk me good, sweet thing. Squeeze me tight."

He bucked his hips upwards with a deep groan, his head falling back, his jaw clenched. "Feel that, dove?" he rasped, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Feel how close I am? You're gonna pull it all outta me."

The pressure inside you intensified, building to an almost unbearable peak. Soon after he followed you, after a few more harsh and deep thrusts, you felt the hot, thick pulse of his release deep inside you, a claim.

As you both finally came down after a few minutes, you still stayed sat atop him, chest rising, the warmth of your skin clashing with the cold bite of the earth beneath you.

Remmick didn’t speak at first. He just looked at you.

Then, slowly, he leaned in close — so close his breath brushed your cheek — and whispered, low and calm:

“I should’ve taken you the first time I saw you.”

He brushed your hair back away from your face, lips barely grazing your temple.

“But I waited. Now you’ll never leave me again.”

His words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be. You felt them settle in your bones — heavy, inescapable.

Because truly, he was inescapable. 

[drewswife]

summary — Rafe meets your 2-year-old son for the first time

warnings — none fluff kinda

a/n — this been in my drafts for a whileeeeeeeeeee

My palms were sweaty as I adjusted Leo on my hip. His small hand clutched a well-loved stuffed dinosaur, its felt scales worn smooth. Today was a big day. A really big day. Rafe was finally going to meet Leo.

We'd been together for a few months, a whirlwind of late-night talks and stolen moments. He knew about Leo, of course. How could he not? My world revolved around my little man. But this was different. This was the first time these two important parts of my life would collide.

The doorbell rang, and my heart leaped into my throat. I took a deep breath, gave Leo a reassuring squeeze, and opened the door.

Rafe stood there, a nervous smile on his face. He looked endearingly awkward, his usual easy confidence slightly dimmed. In his hands, he held a small, brightly colored book.

"Hey," he said softly, his eyes finding mine.

"Hi," I replied, trying to match his calm demeanor, even though my insides were doing the cha-cha slide. "Come in."

He stepped inside, his gaze immediately drawn to the small human nestled on my hip. Leo, usually shy around new people, peered at Rafe with wide, curious eyes.

"Hey there, little guy," Rafe said gently, crouching down. He held out the book. "I brought you a friend."

Leo hesitated for a moment, then reached out a chubby hand and took the book. It was about a friendly monster. He immediately began flipping through the pages, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Rafe looked up at me, a hopeful expression on his face. "He likes it?"

I smiled, relief washing over me. "He loves books. You scored major points."

The next hour was a careful dance. Rafe kept his distance at first, letting Leo explore him on his own terms. He spoke softly, asking Leo about his dinosaur and pointing out the pictures in the book. Leo, surprisingly, seemed intrigued. He’d occasionally glance up at Rafe, then back down at his book, a small, hesitant curiosity blooming.

The real breakthrough came when Leo, mid-roar, stumbled slightly.

Before I could react, Rafe was there, steadying him with a gentle hand on his back. Leo looked up at him, his eyes wide for a moment, then he giggled and went right back to his dinosaur.

From that moment on, the ice seemed to melt. Leo started inching closer to Rafe, eventually plopping down on the floor near him, still engrossed in his book. Rafe didn't try to force interaction, but he kept a watchful eye on him, answering my questions in a low voice.

Later, as Rafe was getting ready to leave, Leo did something that made my heart swell. He toddled over to Rafe, clutching his dinosaur, and held it out.

Rafe looked surprised, then a warm smile spread across his face. He knelt down and gently took the dinosaur. "Thank you, buddy," he said softly.

Leo then did the most Leo thing imaginable. He yawned widely, rubbed his eyes, and leaned against Rafe's leg, his little body heavy with sleepiness.

Rafe looked up at me, his eyes filled with a tenderness I hadn't seen before. I knew in that moment that this was the beginning of something special. It wasn't just about Rafe and me anymore. It was about us, all three of us, finding our own rhythm.

As I carried a now-sleeping Leo to bed, I glanced back at Rafe, who was still standing by the door, the little monster book in his hand. He smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile that reached his eyes.

"He's amazing," Rafe whispered.

"He is," I agreed, my heart full.

🏷,@zenithsturniolo @starrii-sturns @spencerreid66

[moondustbaby]

Backseat Confessions

Bsf!Rafe x Bsf!Reader

cw: smut, piv, oral (f. rec), unprotected sex

mdni 18+

Summary: A late-night drive with your best friend turns into something filthy and unforgettable when years of tension finally snap in the backseat of his truck — and Rafe makes it clear he’s done pretending you’re just friends.

⸻

The truck was too quiet.

Engine ticking softly in the heat-soaked silence, windows cracked just enough to let in the summer air. My thighs stuck to the leather of the passenger seat as I shifted, trying to ignore the way Rafe kept glancing at me every few seconds — like he was waiting.

Like he knew.

We hadn’t even planned to go anywhere. Just ended up driving around after the bonfire like we always did, the two of us laughing too loud, avoiding the weight of everything that hung heavy in the pauses. His music low, my feet on the dash. Same routine we’ve had since we were sixteen.

But tonight was different.

“Why’re you all quiet now?” Rafe’s voice cut through the stillness, low and cocky. “You were talkin’ my ear off ten minutes ago.”

I glanced at him, heart ticking faster. “I’m not quiet.”

He smirked like he didn’t believe me. One hand on the wheel, the other resting on the console — close enough to touch. “Yeah, you are. You only get quiet when you’re thinking about doing something you shouldn’t.”

I swallowed hard. “Do you always have to say shit like that?”

He leaned back in his seat, turning his head to look at me fully now. That lazy grin. That look in his eyes — like he was already inside my head and had no plans of leaving.

“What, am I wrong?” His voice dropped. “Tell me I’m wrong, baby.”

I hated the way he said that. Baby. Like it meant nothing and everything at once. Like it was some inside joke between us and I was the only one laughing nervously at the punchline.

I looked out the window. “You think you know everything.”

“I know you.”

The air thickened.

“You been squirming in that seat since we left the party. Wearing that little dress—” he dragged his tongue over his bottom lip. “Knew I shouldn’t’ve let you leave the house lookin’ like that.”

I turned to him slowly. “Let me?”

His smirk widened. “You know what I mean. All those guys staring at you and you still ran back to me the second it was over. Wonder why that is.”

I hated how much I loved hearing it — the me in his voice, all cocky and territorial. I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to.

Rafe leaned closer, voice low and dirty. “Bet you’re soaked, aren’t you?”

I choked on my breath.

His hand slid across the seat and landed on my bare thigh, hot and possessive. “C’mon, don’t lie to me now. You been sittin’ over there all quiet, all flustered — got that look on your face like you want me to do something about it.”

“You’re not serious.”

His hand crept higher.

I shivered when his fingertips brushed beneath the hem of my dress. He raised a brow, daring me to stop him — knowing I wouldn’t.

“You gonna make me check for myself?”

God, he was filthy. Shameless and smug, and I loved it. Loved the way he looked at me like I was his even if we’d never said the words out loud. Not just friends, not yet lovers. Just two people tangled in something too hot to name.

“You’re all talk,” I muttered.

That did it.

Rafe shifted fast, climbing over the console with zero hesitation, forcing me back against the door as his mouth crashed into mine. Hot. Desperate. Possessive.

I gasped when his hand cupped me over my panties, his thumb pressing right where I needed it. “Yeah?” he growled against my mouth. “Still think I’m all talk now?”

“Fuck—Rafe—”

His fingers moved with purpose, slow and taunting. “You wore this little dress just to tease me, didn’t you?” His lips trailed down my jaw. “Knew you weren’t wearing a bra the second I looked at you.”

I whimpered when he pinched my nipple through the fabric, making me arch into his touch.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “Always actin’ like you don’t want me, then you let me touch you like this. So fuckin’ easy for me.”

“You’re such an asshole,” I breathed.

He smirked. “Still lettin’ me feel how wet you are, though.”

He slid my panties to the side and dipped two fingers into me in one slow, slick motion. I gasped, nails digging into his arm.

“That’s it,” he murmured, curling them just right. “So fuckin’ tight. Been thinking about this for months. You have no idea.”

“Then why didn’t you do something?” I whispered, breath shaky as he fucked me slow with his fingers.

“Didn’t wanna ruin it.” His mouth found my neck, tongue dragging over my pulse. “Didn’t wanna fuck it up.”

“You already did,” I moaned. “The second you touched me.”

He pulled back just enough to look at me. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I breathed.

He pulled his fingers out and sucked them clean, slow and filthy, eyes locked on mine the whole time.

“Backseat. Now.”

My whole body jolted.

I scrambled clumsily into the back as he shoved the front seats forward, watching me with hooded eyes and a grin like he’d won a prize. By the time I sat back against the door, he was already between my knees, tugging my dress up, dragging my panties down and tossing them somewhere in the dark cab.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he muttered, pressing open-mouth kisses to the inside of my thigh. “How fuckin’ long I’ve been dreaming about this exact moment.”

I bit my lip as he licked a stripe up my center, slow and possessive. “Rafe—”

“Say it,” he growled. “Say you’ve thought about it too.”

“I have,” I gasped. “God, I have—”

“Say it.”

“I think about you all the time,” I confessed, panting. “When I’m alone. When I’m—fuck—when I touch myself, it’s only ever you.”

That made him snap.

He dove in, tongue working me over like he was starved, moaning against me like the taste of me was his new religion. I cried out when he sucked on my clit, when his fingers slid back inside me and curled just right.

“I’m gonna come—”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t let up until I was shaking, legs clenching around his head, hands fisting in his hair as I came hard against his mouth.

When he pulled back, his face was flushed and wet and smug. “So fuckin’ pretty when you come for me.”

He undid his belt with one hand, the other stroking himself slow as he watched me come down from it. He was thick. Hard. Leaking at the tip.

“C’mere,” I whispered, already reaching for him.

“You sure?”

“Rafe,” I breathed. “Please.”

Instead he pulled me onto his lap, my knees bracketing his hips as I lowered onto him inch by inch. The stretch made me gasp, made him groan.

“Fuck—so tight—so fuckin’ wet for me—”

When I sank all the way down, our foreheads touched, breath mingling.

He didn’t move right away. Just held me there, his hands on my waist, his chest rising and falling like he couldn’t believe this was real.

“You feel like heaven,” he whispered.

I kissed him soft, slow, until he started to move — thrusting up while I rode him hard enough to make the whole truck rock. The windows fogged. The air turned thick with moans and skin and gasped confessions.

“Fuck—fuck, you were made for me,” Rafe grunted, fucking up into me harder. “No one else gets to see you like this. No one else touches you like this, you understand?”

“Yes—Rafe—please—”

He pulled my dress down to free my tits, sucking one into his mouth, then the other, moaning around them like he was worshipping me.

“Gonna fill you up,” he gasped. “Gonna come so deep inside this pussy you’ll feel me for days.”

“Do it,” I whispered, clawing at his shoulders. “Come in me, Rafe, please—”

He growled and fucked me faster, rougher, until my vision blurred and I was coming again, crying out his name as he spilled inside me with a curse and a moan that sounded like ‘mine’.

We stayed like that, panting, trembling, stuck together in the heat and sweat and quiet.

Then he kissed my shoulder. My collarbone. My mouth.

“You ruined me,” he whispered. “There’s no going back now.”

“I don’t want to.”

He smiled against my lips. “Good. ‘Cause you’re mine now.”

And I knew — with the way his arms locked around me and his come still dripping down my thighs — that I’d never belong to anyone else again.

༶⋆｡ﾟ☽✿⋆˚✧✿☾ﾟ｡⋆༶

a/n: this fic is brought to you by sexual tension, a hot truck, and the complete inability to act like normal best friends. rafe went feral and honestly? good for him. if your bsf isn’t fingering you in the passenger seat while saying insane shit like “you’re mine now,” what’s the point. thank you to my brain for cooking this up at 2am and thank YOU for reading my backseat filth.

♥️ lani

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@psychicnatural @superlegend216

[onlyforwoosan]

Wicked, Wild, and Yours— ℧

Pairing: Choi San (Outlaw Hunter!AU) × Female Outlaw Reader (Enemies to Obsession)

Wordcount: 4.8k

Synopsis: You’re a wanted outlaw. He’s the bounty hunter sent to catch you — but San doesn’t want the reward. He wants you. One chase, one fight, and one night where he makes sure you never run again.

Genre: Smut, Dark Western Romance, Enemies to Lust to Something Else, Outlaw Hunter!AU

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, Rough sex, Dominant behavior, Gun violence, Knife use, Blood, Hair pulling, Dirty talk (degrading & possessive), Overstimulation, Handcuffs, Emotionally charged tension, Light gore (during fight scenes), Power play (consensual)

The night was quiet—too quiet for your liking.

The bar was mostly dead, except for the usual drunks and card players who were too broke to leave. Oil lamps flickered across creaky floorboards, casting a soft golden light over the worn mahogany bar. You wiped down the same glass for the fifth time, listening to the low hum of murmured conversation and the occasional thump of boots on wood.

Then you heard him.

The sharp clack of spurs hitting the porch. The heavy sound of a man who walked like he owned the dirt beneath his feet. You turned your head just in time to see him tie up his horse, one hand adjusting the brim of his dark hat, the other resting near the holster on his hip like it belonged there.

And then he walked in.

Choi San.

You froze.

Your breath caught, fingers locking around the glass as he strolled through the doorway. The man was sin carved in leather and bone, his coat swaying behind him like the wings of death itself. He waved to a few folks who recognized him—either too stupid or too scared to avoid his gaze. A hunter. The kind of man people whispered about in other outlaw camps. The kind who didn't take prisoners.

You'd seen posters of him before. "Bounty hunter. Ruthless. Gets the job done."  You thought he looked dangerous in the sketches.

But nothing prepared you for the real thing.

Your heart pounded harder than it should’ve. You couldn’t tell if it was panic or... something worse.

He didn’t glance at anyone else. Just walked right up to the bar and sat down directly in front of you. When he finally looked up, straight into your eyes—it was like he was already aiming.

"Evenin'," he said smoothly.

You nodded, trying to play it cool. “Evenin’.”  He tipped his head slightly, giving you a once-over that was anything but subtle. “You new in town?”

You kept your tone neutral, your face still. “Been around.”

“Hm.” His eyes flickered with interest. “You don’t sound local.”

You shrugged. “A lotta folks ain’t.” 

He smiled then—slow, deliberate, and just shy of cocky. “Fair enough. Whiskey. Neat.”

You turned your back to pour the drink, your hands moving automatically. But your mind was racing. What the fuck is he doing here?

Choi San didn’t just wander into towns like this. He hunted—tracked people down, flushed them out. The kind of man who didn’t ask questions unless he already knew the answers.

And you... were most definitely on someone's list.

You tried to steady your breathing, but it felt like your lungs were trying to crawl up your throat. He couldn’t possibly know who you were, right? You’d changed your hair. Wore different clothes. You were careful, goddammit.

But not careful enough.

You’d been caught once. Only once. That was all it took to get your face on a poster. And San? He didn’t miss.

You brought the drink over and set it down in front of him. “Here.” He took a sip, eyes never leaving yours.

“Y’know,” he said slowly, “I’ve seen a lotta faces. Yours… looks mighty familiar.”

Your throat dried up. “Do it?” you managed. He nodded, eyes sharp now. “Mm. Got one of those looks. Dangerous. Pretty.”

You flushed—goddammit, get a grip—and quickly glanced away, pretending to busy yourself with the bar rag.

“Where’d you say you were from again?” he added, voice light but laced with meaning.

“I didn’t.”

That got a chuckle out of him. “Feisty.”

You forced a polite smile, muttered something about checking stock, and excused yourself to the back.

The saloon’s back room was hazy with smoke and dust. You slipped in, shutting the door behind you, your chest rising and falling fast. “Haechan!” you hissed.

Your partner in crime—both literally and figuratively—was leaned against the back wall, cigarette hanging from his lips and a bottle of bourbon in his hand.

“Jesus,” he muttered, eyeing you. “What crawled up your—”

“San’s here.”

That made him freeze… He took the cigarette out of his mouth slowly. “The bounty hunter?”

You nodded. “He’s at the bar. He looked right at me. I think he knows.”

Haechan cursed under his breath. “You said he was on the other side of the territory. How the hell did he find us this fast?”

“I don’t know! Maybe someone ratted, maybe I slipped up.” You grabbed your head. “God, Haechan—he’s gonna kill me. You’ve heard what he does.”

He studied you for a second, serious now. “Then don’t give him the chance. Get out. Go out the back, take the alley, and run.”

You hesitated. “We said no splitting up.”

“We also said don’t get caught,” he shot back. “You’re the one they have posters of. You got made. I didn’t. I’ll cover for you if I can, but you’ve gotta move.”

You peeked through the crack in the door. San was still at the bar. Still watching. Like he knew. He lifted his glass and took a slow sip—then winked at you.

Your stomach dropped. Haechan stepped closer. “Go. Now.” You turned, breath shaky, every instinct screaming to bolt. But something held you there. Fear? Curiosity? Or the heat that still lingered in your skin from the way his eyes had trailed over you?

No. You had to focus. You straightened your spine, took one last look at Haechan, and pushed back through the door.

Back at the bar, San looked completely at ease, fingers tapping against the rim of his glass. You swallowed hard and approached. “Sorry about that. Had to check something.”

“All good,” he replied smoothly. “We were just getting to the fun part anyway.”

You arched a brow. “Fun part?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bar. “The part where you tell me your name. The real one.”

Your blood turned cold.

You stared at him, trying to find something casual to say, some smart remark, but your mouth wouldn’t move.. He smirked and reached into his coat. That was all it took… You bolted.

You didn’t wait to see what he was reaching for—gun, badge, poster—you weren’t about to find out. You shoved through the back door, hit the alley running, heart pounding, boots skidding across the dirt. You vaulted over a crate, ducked under a fence, and disappeared into the night.

Behind you, you heard the door slam open and a voice shout, “Shit—!”

You didn’t look back.

By the time San got to the alley, the only thing left was the echo of your boots and the swirling dust in the wind.

He stood there for a moment, glaring into the dark.

Then he smiled.

“She’s fast,” he muttered, already mounting his horse. “But not fast enough.”

Three days had passed since you vanished into the night, slipping through San’s fingers like smoke.

Three fucking days.

He wasn’t used to people getting away—especially not pretty little things who blushed under his stare and ran before he could even finish his sentence.

Now, the hunter was the one being haunted.

San rode through the outskirts of the dusty town under the silver sheen of moonlight. His horse’s hooves beat a steady rhythm against the dirt trail, a low wind stirring the brush. He had one hand on the reins, the other holding a small, battered communicator—cheap tech smuggled in from an old mining town. Outlaws didn’t trust satellites, but he and Woo had their ways.

“You still on her trail?” Wooyoung’s voice crackled through the speaker.

San sighed. “Yeah. She’s hiding good.”

“No shit. You let her run, remember?” San scowled at his best friend's comment. “She was fast.”

“She was hot,” Woo corrected, laughing.

San didn’t say anything. “Oh my god,” Wooyoung continued, smug as hell. “You do think she’s hot.”

“I said she was fast.”

“You said she was cute first. Then fast.”

There was a pause. San sighed again. “She was cute,” he admitted under his breath, just loud enough for Wooyoung to hear.

“Bro.” Wooyoung practically screamed. “Are you catching feelings for a felon?”

“She’s not just a felon,” San said. “She’s... wanted. Like—seriously wanted.”

“You’re not helping your case.”

San rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue. “I’m just saying... she’s interesting. I usually don’t remember faces. I can’t stop remembering hers.”

Woo whistled. “You gonna kill her?”

“...I don’t know yet.”

San hung up before Woo could answer. And then he heard it.

Voices—angry. Shouts. The sharp echo of a gunshot.

He clicked his tongue and pulled the reins, guiding his horse toward the source. A moment later, he spotted movement ahead.

A fight. No—a brawl.

Three figures. You, some guy beside you—firing back-to-back—and a third, dressed in outlaw hunter gear. The third was large, bleeding from the shoulder, but still charging.

You.

San’s stomach flipped. His hand went to the revolver at his side.

You had a knife in one hand and a pistol in the other. Your lip was bleeding, dirt on your skin, your shirt torn at the shoulder. You looked fucking feral—cornered, animal-like, panting as you turned and stabbed the hunter in the side. He grunted and backhanded you hard enough to knock you against the rocks.

San didn’t think.

He jumped off the horse mid-gallop, landing hard and rolling once before rising with his gun already drawn.

Haechan noticed him first.

San caught the flicker of recognition in his eyes before the kid bolted, disappearing behind a cluster of crumbling mining shacks.

You—bloodied, dazed—shoved yourself up from the ground and screamed after him, “You fucking coward!”

And then you turned—and froze.

San stood there, silhouetted in moonlight, revolver drawn and pointed—not at you, but at the hunter who had just recovered and was turning back around.

The man squinted at San. “This ain’t your business, bounty—”

Bang.

San shot him in the thigh. Then again, in the shoulder. The man dropped, screaming.

You stood in stunned silence, barely able to breathe. Your ears were ringing, your head pounding. Blood dripped from your chin. You watched San approach you slowly, holstering his gun like nothing had happened.

You stumbled backward. “What the hell—”

He grabbed you by the wrist before you could bolt.

“Nope. Learned that trick last time.”

With a swift motion, he yanked a pair of worn steel cuffs from his belt and clink—latched one around your wrist. The other he clipped to a leather strap on his horse’s saddle nearby.

“What the fuck, San?!” you spat, struggling.

“You ran once. Not again.” His voice was low, sharp, like a blade gliding against skin.

You tried to pull away, but the chain only rattled. “You just killed him!”

“He was gonna kill you.”

“I had it under control—!” You screamed at the top of your lungs. pissed.

“Your face says otherwise,” San growled, grabbing your chin roughly, forcing you to look at him.

His thumb brushed your split lip, slow, deliberate.

You winced—but didn’t pull away.

The tension between you thickened instantly, charged and volatile. His grip wasn’t cruel, but it was firm. Commanding. The way he looked at you wasn’t like a hunter and prey—it was something darker. Needier.

“You alright?” he asked, quieter now. He was a little guilty from snarling at you.

You stared at him, stunned. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.” His eyes flicked down to your mouth. “Just don’t want damaged goods.”

“Wow. Charming.”

He smirked and released your chin. He turned toward the hunter, who was now crawling away, blood trailing behind him. San didn’t hesitate. He pulled out his second pistol and walked right up behind the man.

“Please—” the hunter gasped.

Bang.

You flinched. The sound echoed through the hills, and then silence.

San returned to you calmly, like he’d just taken out the trash. You sat in stunned silence, chained to his fucking horse, blood on your lip, your stomach twisted.

He kneeled in front of you again, this time slower, his movements careful.

“Next time,” he murmured, “don’t get caught in the dark.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were outnumbered.”

“I had Haechan—”

“Your boyfriend, who ran?” San snorted. “Yeah. Real dependable.” 

You look disgusted. Haechan was most definitely not your boyfriend. He would never be. “Ew! He's my best friend!” You snapped back at him. He looked a little surprised but was kind of happy. Maybe he had a chance..

“My bad, Y/N…”

You glared at him, cheeks flushed with rage. How dare he even use your name? “You think you’re so much better than everyone else because you’ve got guns and a goddamn horse?”

He leaned in close. “No. I think I’m better because I don’t leave people behind.”

You stopped talking. The words hit something raw in you. Something unspoken. Maybe something you’d tried not to feel for years.

San rose, tugging gently on the chain that led to your wrist. “Let’s go.”

You scowled. “What, now?”

“Unless you’d rather sleep next to a corpse.”

You rolled your eyes but stood, dragging your feet. He helped you onto his horse roughly, but not painfully. One hand on your hip, another guiding your thigh up. You yelped when the saddle caught your bruised leg, and he smirked.

“Sensitive, huh?”

“Go to hell.”

“You first, sweetheart.”

He climbed up behind you, his chest pressed to your back, one hand firmly holding the reins, the other lightly resting on your waist.

“You don’t need to hold me like that,” you muttered.

“Don’t flatter yourself. Just don’t want you falling.”

And with that, he clicked the horse into motion.

The ride was brutal at first—every gallop jostled your aching body. You bit your lip to avoid making a sound, even as you bounced against him, your back slamming into his chest.

When he sped up suddenly, you let out a sharp gasp.

“Easy,” he chuckled. “Didn’t take you for the jumpy type.”

“I’m bleeding, you dick.”

“You’re alive,” he replied smoothly.

The wind picked up, cold and sharp, stinging the open cut on your lip. You winced, and he must’ve felt it.

“You sure you okay?” he asked.

“Why are you being nice?”

“I’m not.”

“Right. Just a bounty to you, huh?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, softer than before: “Not just.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to glimpse him over your shoulder. His face was unreadable in the moonlight, but there was something in his eyes—something unsettling. Like, even he wasn’t sure what he meant.

You faced forward again, heartbeat thumping loudly in your ears The rest of the ride was silent. But you could feel him—every breath, every muscle shift, every time his gloved fingers brushed your waist or gripped the reins just a little tighter when you leaned back too far.

And worst of all?

You didn’t hate it.

The ride to San’s hideout was long, but the tension made it feel shorter.

You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t talk. And San didn’t offer explanations.

The horse slowed just before dawn, stopping at a secluded ranch tucked behind a dead patch of forest. Weather-worn fencing framed the property, and the barn looked half-collapsed. But the house—it was quiet, sturdy, and unsettlingly normal. Too normal for a man who just shot someone in the skull two hours ago.

San dismounted first, then helped you down—not with kindness, but with control.

His fingers didn’t linger, but his eyes did.

He pulled the chain on your cuff taut and led you up the porch. The door creaked as it opened, revealing a dim interior filled with dust, warm light, and weapons. Guns lined the walls in neat rows. A single table sat under a bare bulb, with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

No Wooyoung.

You noticed.

San locked the door behind you. “He’s gone,” he muttered. “Bar hopping. Or fucking someone. Or both.”

You didn’t say anything, but you did blush a little.. Fuck– you blushed a lot.

You just kept scanning the space, taking note of the exits. Of the heavy boots by the door. Of the butcher knife, half-cleaned in the sink.

San watched your eyes track everything. “Smart girl,” he said. “But don’t bother. You run, I’ll just find you again.”

You glared. “You cuffed me to a horse.”

He smirked. “You looked cute like that.”

You scowled, but before you could respond, he grabbed your arm and dragged you further inside, pushing you down into a wooden chair near the table. He crouched in front of you, eyes locked on yours, fingers gripping your chin again.

“Let’s try this again.”

You didn’t resist—but you didn’t look at him, either.

“I wanna know who you were working with. Names. Routes. Safehouses.”

You scoffed. “Like I’d give you shit.”

He tilted his head. “You still don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

He grinned slowly. “You’re not leaving here unless I say so.”

You bristled. But something in your stomach flipped again—something sharp and dangerous and unwanted. He’s insane, you thought. But then he said—

“You thirsty?”

You blinked.

“What?”

San stood and reached for a nearby jug of water. He poured some into a clean glass and set it down in front of you.

You stared at it, confused.

“What the fuck? You were just being an ass.”

He chuckled. “I was always being an ass. Doesn’t mean I won’t give you water.”

You didn’t trust it, but you were parched. You grabbed it and drank. The metal of your cuffs clicked as you shifted. San sat down across from you, one ankle propped over his knee. He watched you sip, then spoke casually.

“You know, I’ve been thinking. I should kill you. Would make my job easier.”

You tensed.

“But…” He leaned forward, eyes dragging over your body. “There’s another option.”

Your eyes narrowed. “What. A deal?” 

He smiled darkly. “No. A punishment.”

Your heart jumped. “The fuck is that supposed to mean—”

His voice dropped low, sultry and razor-sharp. “Punishment like fucking that sweet pussy of yours until you forget your name.”

Heat exploded in your face. “You’re insane.”

“You’re wet.”

“Fuck you—”

“Exactly.”

He stood and crossed the room. You didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Your body was frozen—but not from fear. From want.

He returned with a small key and crouched beside you again. “I’ll unlock the cuffs. But if you run, I’ll catch you. And next time, I won’t be gentle.”

He unlocked the chain.

You didn’t run.

You didn’t want to.

He stood again and offered his hand. “Your choice,” he said, voice low and rough. “Out that door… or to my bed.”

You stared at him, then glanced at the door. You didn’t move. “Thought so.”

He took your wrist, pulled you up, and led you down a hallway. His room was worse than you expected. Dark wood walls. An unmade bed. Guns everywhere. Antlers mounted above the headboard. Shelves lined with bullets, whiskey bottles, and half-ripped wanted posters.

You paused—because three of those posters were yours. One was pinned near the bed. And it was stained.You didn’t ask what the white smear was.

San noticed you looking.

He smirked, leaned in behind you, and whispered, “Got real familiar with you before I met you.”

You swallowed hard.

His hand slid around your waist. The other gripped your shoulder.

He bent you over the edge of the bed, body flush to yours, breath hot on your ear.

“No more talking.”

Then the rip.

He grabbed the back of your shirt and tore it straight down the spine, fabric splitting like paper. Your bra snapped loose seconds later. You gasped, but his palm was already on your back, keeping you bent.

He dropped to his knees behind you, fingers roughly yanking your pants down to your thighs. He didn’t prep. Didn’t pause. You felt him move behind you, heard the telltale crack of a condom being torn open.

Then—

One hard thrust.

You screamed—half in shock, half in need.

“Shhh.. i’ve got you..” he growled, voice hot at your shoulder. “You can take it.”

“F- fuck!” You moaned as he slammed into you again, then again, his hips snapping rough against yours, one hand buried in your hair, the other gripping your hip like he owned you. You couldnt lie, you loved it. Him treating you like this.

“Fuckin’ tight little outlaw cunt,” he grunted. “You needed this, didn’t you?”

You moaned through gritted teeth, body on fire, legs trembling. “S–sannie..”

“You like being bent over like a prize?” he snarled. “Like a bounty?”

You didn’t answer—so he spanked you. Hard. You cried out, biting the sheets.

“Answer me, baby..”

“Yes,” you hissed. “Yes—fuck—yes.”

He fucked you harder.

No mercy. No pause.

He filled you like he was trying to ruin you from the inside out, rough and fast and filthy. He whispered the nastiest shit in your ear—how good your pussy felt, how pretty you sounded begging, how much he was going to fuck you until you couldn’t walk.

Your voice cracked as you tried to breathe his name, hips trembling under the weight of his body.

“S–Sannie…”

It came out broken, high and desperate. You weren’t even sure if you were begging him to stop or begging for more. The sound of it made him still for just a second — just long enough for him to lower his chest against your back, wrapping one strong arm around your waist to hold you close.

His breath was warm at your ear, the edge in his voice softening.

“There she is…” he murmured, lips grazing your temple. “My sweet girl.”

You whimpered again, tears clinging to your lashes. “I–I can’t…”

“Yes, you can,” he said, quieter now, but no less intense. “You’re takin’ me so well. So perfect… you were made for this. Made for me.”

His thrusts slowed — deep and steady now — more like he was savoring you, not just claiming you. His fingers tangled with yours over the sheets, his other hand rubbing soothing circles over your ribs as you tried to catch your breath.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “All messed up for me. Cryin’ for me.”

You nodded shakily, voice trembling, “S–Sannie… it’s too much.. G–gonna cum.”

He kissed your shoulder, moving gently now — hips rolling slow and thick inside you, coaxing every gasp and moan from your throat.

“I know, baby,” he said. “But I’ve got you. You don’t gotta run anymore. You’re safe now… right here with me.”

And with the way his arms wrapped around you, the way his voice dipped into something raw and real, you almost believed him.

Your legs almost gave out—but he held you up, cock driving into you over and over until you were trembling, moaning his name in broken gasps.

When your body clenched and you came hard around him, he cursed, pulled out, and flipped you over.

“On my lap.”

You barely had time to breathe before he pulled you into his lap, straddling him as he sat down on the edge of the bed.

He was already hard again. Already rolling another condom on.

You whimpered.

He grabbed your hips and slammed you down onto him.

You gasped—eyes wide, back arching.

He leaned forward, grabbed his cowboy hat, and placed it on your head.

“There,” he smirked. “Now you look real pretty.”

You couldn’t speak.

You just rode him—driven by some fever you couldn’t explain, some need that had been burning for days. He held your waist and fucked up into you, your bodies slamming together, the hat slipping down your forehead.

He groaned every time you clenched, every time you whispered his name, every time you lost rhythm and whimpered into his neck.

“Naughty fuckin’ little outlaw,” he breathed. “Could’ve been mine this whole time.”

“You’re insane,” you whispered.

“And you’re soaked.”

You shuddered.

He let you ride him until your thighs burned and your legs collapsed. Your forehead stayed pressed to his as your hips moved faster, his hands gripping you tighter like he was trying to anchor both of you. San's breath was ragged, warm puffs against your mouth as he looked at you — not just your body, but you.

“I’m close,” you whispered, voice barely holding together, “Sannie, I—”

His hands slid up your back, one curling into your hair, tugging gently to tilt your face to his. “I know, baby. Just let go. I’ve got you.”

Your fingers dug into his chest as you ground down on him harder, chasing that high that sat right on the edge of every nerve in your body. His mouth brushed yours — not quite a kiss, just breath and warmth and the tremble of restraint in him.

“That’s it,” he whispered again, voice thick. “Ride it out for me. Take everything I give you.”

You cried out his name — sharp and breathless — as your body finally broke, pleasure rolling through you like a wave that knocked the air from your lungs. You clung to him, gasping, the world spinning around you as your muscles tensed and fluttered with each pulse of release.

San groaned deep in his throat, his hands tightening on your hips as he bucked up into you once, twice, chasing his own edge. “You’re perfect,” he choked out. “So fucking perfect.”

Then he pulled you fully against his chest, burying his face in your neck as he followed you over the edge — body shuddering, breath caught between a curse and your name.

Then he laid you down.

The bed creaked as he hovered over you, finally slow, finally controlled.

He kissed your neck once—just once.

Then he slid into you again, slow and deep.

You gasped, already sensitive.

“Shhh,” he whispered. “Let me feel you.”

This time, he didn’t pound you.

He rolled his hips with care, like he was learning your body. His hand found yours and pinned it over your head, his other hand gripping your jaw as he looked into your eyes.

“You were always gonna be mine,” he murmured.

Your lips parted.

You believed him.

And when you came again—shaking and breathless—he followed you, burying his face in your neck as his body tensed and trembled against yours.

“I’ve got you, sweetie..” He murmured in your ear.. You held onto his biceps.. Your eyes starting to close…

The bed was cold.

San’s hand dragged across the sheets as his eyes blinked open, muscles sore and head fuzzy from a sleep that felt far too short. The room was quiet—too quiet. No footsteps. No smartass remarks. No soft, sleepy breaths beside him.

He sat up quickly, heart already racing.

You were gone.

The cuffs were off. The door hadn’t slammed. You’d slipped out quietly, like smoke through a crack in the wall.

He cursed under his breath and scanned the room. That’s when he saw it:

A folded note, sitting crooked on the nightstand, weighted down by one of your spent bullets—small, but unmistakably yours.

He stared at it for a moment, jaw tight.

Then picked it up.

The paper smelled faintly like you—leather, dirt, and something sweeter underneath. He unfolded it carefully, like if he opened it too fast you might vanish for good.

Your handwriting spilled across the page, messy but confident.

“Morning, cowboy. Didn’t mean to disappear without a kiss. You were snoring too loud.”

“Don’t get your ego all twisted. Last night wasn’t a surrender—it was a draw. A damn good one, though.”

“I liked the way you touched me like you owned me. Even if I don’t belong to anyone… not really.”

“You’re dangerous. All coiled muscle and rough hands and a mouth that makes it impossible to think straight. Guess that’s why I didn’t shoot you when I had the chance.”

“But I’m not good at staying. Never was. Never tried to be. There’s always a bounty, always someone chasing me, always another dusty town to disappear into.”

“Still… you felt different. Even if I won’t say it out loud.”

“And maybe I’m stupid for leaving. Maybe I’m scared. Maybe both.”

“But if you find me again—really find me—”

“I’ll stay.”

“Because for all my running, I think I’ve been yours since the second you walked into that bar.”

—Yours. Always.”  

“p.s .. I love you.”

San didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

The note trembled slightly in his hand as he sat on the edge of the bed, shirtless, marked up with scratches and bites you’d left behind. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, eyes locked on the paper like it might say more if he just stared long enough.

She’s gone, he thought.

But she’s not lost.

He folded the note gently and tucked it inside his coat—right next to his heart. Then he grabbed his belt, holstered his revolver, and headed for the door.

There was only one thought in his mind now.

He wasn’t mad. Not even close.

Because now?

He had a reason to hunt you again...

[ama3003]

The Cost of Sides

Character: Bucky Barnes

Requested: Yes! I didn't want to respond directly since it does contain some Thunderbolts Spoilers but I really hope you see this. If you do see this, please message me that you did so, I can have some peace of mind.

The request started with "Can I request a fic for Bucky please? I’m wanting lots of angst of reader and Bucky not seeing eye to eye after..."

Type: Angst

Summary: You and Bucky seem to be on opposite sides.

A.N: DO NOT READ IF YOU DON'T WANT THUNDERBOLTS TO BE SEMI SPOILED!!!!!!!!!

Again THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS ARE IN THIS FIC

3...2..1...

You met Bucky through Steve during the U.N. bombing fiasco—back when everything was falling apart and nothing felt safe.

From that moment on, you were in it with him. Every step, every fight, every quiet moment in the aftermath. He never had to ask; you were just there.

And when Steve died, when the weight of it all came crashing down, the two of you leaned on each other like you were the only solid thing left in the world. Somewhere in that grief, love happened. Slowly, then all at once.

After that, you were just… you and him. No big declarations. No drama. Just this steady, easy rhythm.

Sure, there were arguments—small ones, over stupid things like laundry or leaving dishes in the sink—but never real fights. Nothing that stuck. You could read each other so well it never got that far.

Until you played the video Sam sent you.

“Ladies and gentlemen, meet the New Avengers,”

And there was Bucky. In the center. Wearing his suit. Standing with them.

Your heart dropped so fast you couldn’t breathe for a second. Not because you thought he betrayed you or Sam though he definitely did—but because he let it happen. Because he stood there, quiet.

You didn’t want to pick sides. God, you really didn’t. But it felt like he already had.

He said he didn’t ask for it. Said he wasn’t even sure how it happened. But he kept showing up to their briefings, kept running missions with them, kept wearing that title like it didn’t burn.

And the worst part? The government—the government—was backing them. Funding them. Controlling them. You grew up watching them twist heroes into weapons. And now they had Bucky.

You tried to talk. At first, it was calm. Then it wasn’t.

Now it’s been fourteen months. And you barely recognize the way your fights stretch out, sharper, faster, more frequent. Less about the Avengers and more about everything that’s not being said.

You still love him. That’s not even a question. And he loves you. You know that. But sometimes love isn’t enough to close the space that’s growing between two people who don’t see the world the same way anymore.

You try. You both do. But it’s harder than it used to be. Way harder.

This morning, you show up at the compound with coffee in your hands, the paper tray trembling just slightly from lack of sleep—and everything else. It’s your way of saying sorry without saying the words. Not for what you fought about, but for the way it happened. For the silence after.

That’s how you find yourself stepping off the elevator and into the team’s living space chest still aching from the night before—just in time to hear it:

"Weren’t you going to talk to him?"

"I already did," Bucky says. His voice is low, tired. Like he’s already lived through the argument in his head too many times to want to say it again.

"And?"

"It went poorly."

You stop just past the doorway, your stomach twisting. You shouldn’t have heard that. But now that you have, you can't pretend you didn’t.

“You spoke to Sam?” you ask, stepping into the room fully.

Everyone looks up. The weight of too many eyes lands heavy on your skin. No one says anything. They don’t have to. Everyone knows what’s been going on—what’s been quietly breaking between you and Bucky for over a year now.

“I brought coffee for everyone,” you offer, your voice quieter than you meant it to be. It doesn’t hide the tension. It only highlights it.

Then, gently to Bob: “I got you decaffeinated tea.”

“Thank you,” Bob says, offering a soft smile, trying to smooth out the edges of the moment. But it doesn't do much.

You turn back to Bucky, heart in your throat. “You spoke to Sam?”

He exhales slowly. “Yeah. I did.”

“Why?” you ask. You already know the answer. You’re just hoping it’s not the one you’re thinking.

“To see if he would stop all of this,” he says, rubbing a hand down his face.

You stare at him, jaw clenched. “I told you he wouldn’t. Ross is breathing down his neck. He basically has his hands tied.”

Bucky shakes his head, frustrated. “That doesn’t give him the right to make this whole thing hell for us. It’s not our fault that Valentina decided to do all of this.”

You feel the words catch in your chest before they come out. “But you didn’t fight it.”

The room is still. Even the air feels heavy.

Yelena, sitting off to the side, casually adds, “You do know that he filed for copyright of the name.”

Bucky turns toward her, caught off guard. “Did he?” Then his eyes swing back to you. “See? We're not doing anything. He’s taking it too far.”

You feel heat rise in your chest. Not anger exactly—something messier. “Look, the Avengers stay with the one who has the shield. He has the right to start up the team again. And don’t forget—you’re the one who told him he should.”

“I never said that.”

You glare at him, the words hitting before you can stop them. “He vented to you, Bucky. You gave him advice. You told him Steve didn’t make a mistake handing him the shield. You told him to lead—to build something new. The Avengers. And now not only is there a new team, but you’re in it. With the same government that once tried to erase him. And you didn’t even try to understand his side."

He scoffs, voice rising. “Sam’s side? He’s the one who doesn’t want to speak to me! He’s the one who’s blaming me like I planned this!”

“What happened during that call?” you ask, arms crossed tightly in front of you like it’s the only thing holding you together.

“I told him—” Bucky starts, then shrugs, eyes flicking away. “I told him he was being ridiculous. That there’s already an Avengers team. That there’s no reason to start a second one.”

Your lips part, but it takes a second for the words to come. “So you basically told him to back off.”

“He’s making this really difficult,” Bucky mutters.

You feel something in you crack—quietly. You can't keep arguing. You lost all willpower. You grab your purse off the counter. “I’m not doing this right now,” you say, more to yourself than to him.

But behind you, his voice calls out, rough and wounded. “You’re not even going to hear me out?”

You stop. You turn. Slowly. “I’ve been hearing you out for fourteen months, Bucky,” you say. “Every time. I’ve listened. I’ve tried to understand. But you signed on with them. What more is there to hear?”

He steps forward, like being closer might help you hear him better. “It’s not like that—”

“No?” Your voice trembles, but the anger in it keeps it from breaking. “Because it feels like exactly that. And fine, let’s say you didn’t sign up for the politics, but you’re still here. Standing next to them. Like that shield and that name didn’t come with blood and pain and history.”

His shoulders tense. His jaw tightens. That flash of guilt flickers in his eyes again—but he swallows it down too fast. Again.

“This isn’t about Sam.”

You almost laugh. “Everything is about Sam.”

“I didn’t want this,” he snaps. “But sometimes we don’t get to wait for the perfect cause to show up. The world’s on fire. Sam had time—he could’ve acted. But now he’s creating this new team out of spite.”

You look at him like you don’t recognize him for a second. “And sometimes you don’t even realize you’re helping the very system that tried to erase your best friend from history...That tried to bury you.”

He flinches. That one lands. You can see it in the way he goes still.

You take a shaky breath. “Sam bled for that shield. He earned it. But they made him prove himself again and again. Until he was almost broken. And now you’re smiling for the cameras next to the same people who happily tried to hand that legacy to John.” You glance at Walker. “No offense.”

“Some taken,” Walker mumbles. You ignore him.

Bucky’s face darkens. “I haven’t forgotten what they did. But I haven’t forgotten the threats out there, either. This team… it’s not perfect. But we show up. Sam’s team haven’t shown up at all.”

“And when they do?” you say, stepping closer. “Are you really going to go up against Sam? Against his team? Over a name?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

It feels like a punch to the ribs. You stare at him, voice soft and hollow. “And what about me?”

That shatters something in his expression. You see it—the flicker of fear he tries to bury but can’t. Because this time, it’s different. You’ve fought before—circling this dilemma for months, both of you carefully pretending it lived outside your relationship. Like you could keep love and ideology in separate rooms. But this? This is the first time the line disappears. The first time it feels personal.

And you can’t pretend anymore.

“We’re a family, Bucky. After Steve, it’s always been us three. And now you're ready to go against him? Over a group name that we both know belongs to him.”

“I want to be where I can help,” he says, quieter now. “Sure, the government backs us up, but we're not letting them control us. We're on the right side."

Your eyes burned, but you refused to let the tears fall. “And what happens when the lines between right and wrong blur, Bucky? When the people you’re working with start justifying things again?"

He doesn’t answer right away.

You lower your voice, barely above a whisper now. “What happens when history repeats itself?”

He looks at you, offended. “You think I’d let that happen again?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “And that’s what scares me.”

The silence hung there like a bruise. No one said a word.

Silence settled between you again, broken only by the muffled sounds of the team whispering amongst themselves, trying not to be obvious, failing miserably.

You turned toward the window because it was easier than looking at him. Easier than seeing what was—or wasn’t—left in his eyes.

Your voice came out quieter than you meant, cracked at the edges.

“I can’t follow you into this, Buck.”

You heard him breathe in—sharp, like maybe he hadn’t expected that. Or maybe he had.

“I never asked you to,” he said. But there was something in his voice. A break. A catch. Something small but real.

And somehow, that made it worse.

You nodded, once. No drama. No grand speech. Just… done. Then you turned and walked toward the elevator.

No one stopped you.

You felt their eyes on your back. You felt his most of all.

The elevator dinged open, and you stepped in stiffly, trying to keep your hands from shaking and your heart from breaking right here in front of them.

The doors started to close.

He still didn’t move.

Still didn’t say your name.

And that? That was the part that broke you. He was letting you go.

Only when the doors shut and you were alone did your shoulders slump. Only then did the breath you'd been holding finally let go—and it came out shaky.

You didn’t cry. Not yet.

You pulled out your phone, meaning to call Sam. Ask if you could crash for the night.

But your screen lit up before you could type.

Your lock screen.

That damn photo.

You and Bucky, wrapped up in each other, grinning like idiots. Some blurry picture someone else had snapped at some rooftop barbecue. He had his arm around you, his mouth near your ear. You were laughing like the world wasn’t ending.

Back when things still felt easy.

Before sides. Before names meant more than people.

Before all of this.

You stared at it, and your chest ached. Actually ached.

Different times. Different battles. Same man.

But maybe not the same love.

You’d followed him through hell and worse. You would’ve followed him anywhere.

But not this time.

Not into something that went against everything you believed. Not when it meant losing pieces of yourself just to stay close to him. Not when it meant standing against the memory of the only real family you've ever had.

Ahhh, I seriously love getting Bucky requests—they're always my favorite to write!

Also, I know this whole Sam vs. Bucky situation has stirred up a lot of emotions, but honestly, their friendship is so strong that I doubt it'll last long.

Anywhoooo I hope you enjoy this one! Love you all and thank you for all the support!!!!!

Pleaseeeee send me more requests (I'm on a Bucky roll right now lol)! And to those who have requested don't worry I'll get to yours soon!

[cinnxmxngxrl]

“Silly Shirt”

Pairing: Jackson!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Summary: While out on patrol you stumble across a silly little shirt, and you can’t wait to have Joel try it on for you.

WC: 2,4k

Warnings: smut, minors DNI, pwp, dirty talk, age gap, unprotected piv, oral (f!receiving), creampie, established relationship, kinda getting caught, grumpy but sweet Joel.

A/N: sooo, that picture of the shirt popped up on my twitter timeline and I couldn’t help but think of Joel. This is very unserious but I hope you like it🫶

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

You’d been helping clear an old gas station outside of Jackson’s perimeter—a mostly looted, crumbling mess, just walls and dust and collapsed shelves. But while Tommy scouted outside, you ducked behind a counter and found it.

“I wish I had serotonin instead of this huge cock.”

You laughed out loud. The text was bold, a little cracked with age, printed across the chest of a faded black T-shirt. It was ridiculous. So damn stupid. You couldn’t believe people used to wear stuff like this before everything went down.

But the second you imagined Joel in it—your Joel— so gruff, always-serious Joel with his broad chest and sharp scowls and sleepy drawl. You had to cover your mouth to stop from giggling like an idiot.

He’d rolled his eyes so hard last week when you’d joked about his “cowboy big dick energy” that you nearly got tossed over his shoulder and carried straight to bed. And still—every time he got that low, worn-down, half-mad Southern drawl going, muttering something about needing rest or peace or just five fuckin’ minutes—your body responded like he’d said something filthy instead.

You could already see the exact way he’d react to it. That combination of gruff embarrassment and low, grudging amusement. The way he’d pinch the bridge of his nose, try not to smirk. Maybe mutter a “What the hell is wrong with you” while you straddled him and made him wear it.

And so you stuffed the shirt into your pack.

It was late when you got back to Jackson. Patrol had stretched longer than usual thanks to a collapsed bridge on the way home, and the cold was biting through your jacket by the time you reached the warm comfort of your shared house.

Inside, you found him slumped back on the couch, long legs spread wide, one arm tossed over the backrest like he owned the damn world. He looked up when he heard you come in, tired eyes softening immediately.

“Hey, honey,” you greeted, voice warm as you shrugged out of your jacket. “…Well shit.” You licked your lips. “You always this pretty when I get home?”

Joel looked up from his mug, smirk curling beneath the silver in his beard. “That’s my line.” He murmured, slow and deep, like it always got when he’d had a long day. “You alright?”

“I’m great. You?”

He nodded. “Just tired.” Then his mouth quirked. “But never too tired for you.”

Your stomach flipped at that. You bit your lip, grinned.

“Got a surprise for you first.”

Joel raised an eyebrow as you unzipped your pack. You kept eye contact while you pulled the shirt out and held it up with two fingers.

Joel blinked once. Twice. Then stared at the shirt like it was some alien artifact. You could see the moment it registered.

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.”

You burst out laughing. “Read it, Joel. Out loud.”

“No,” he said flatly. “I’m not readin’ that shit out loud.”

“Oh, come on.”

“This’s bullshit,” he muttered. “This’s absolute fuckin’ garbage.”

“I found it out there,” you said between snorts. “Thought of you immediately.”

“Yeah, an’ why’s that?,” he said dryly, but you saw the edge of his mouth twitch. “Jesus. That’s gotta be the dumbest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen.”

“I know. That’s why it’s perfect.” You threw it at him. He caught it reluctantly, holding it up between two fingers like it was radioactive. “Try it on.”

He groaned. “Ain’t no way—”

“Please?” you said, sauntering closer. “Come on, Joel. Just for me?”

You were already climbing into his lap before he could protest, straddling him with your knees braced on either side of his thighs. He let out a low grunt, both hands coming to your hips instinctively. His beard scraped against your cheek as he sighed.

“You’re trouble.”

“And you’re already hard.”

His hands flew to your waist. “I ain’t.”

“You are.”

“I ain’t—goddammit—”

You smiled sweetly. “Whatever you say.”

He shook his head, but his fingers tightened on your waist. “You really want me to wear this stupid-ass shirt?”

“I want to see you in it. Just once.”

He studied you for a moment. You could see the flicker of fondness in his eyes, the warmth hiding behind the exhaustion. Then he muttered something under his breath, set you gently aside, and stood.

“Fine. You want ridiculous?” he growled, pulling off his flannel and undershirt in one smooth motion. “I’ll give ya ridiculous.”

The sight of him shirtless, golden in the firelight, never failed to knock the air out of your lungs. You were so distracted watching the muscles shift in his back that it took a second to realize he was actually pulling the stupid shirt on.

The black cotton clung to his shoulders and arms—tight across his chest, loose at the hem. The message across the front stretched just slightly over his pecs—you clapped a hand over your mouth and howled with laughter.

“Oh my god.”

Joel’s face was unamused. “You happy?”

“More than you could possibly know. You look so hot in that shirt.”

“You’re lucky I love you,” he muttered, tugging you into his arms again.

You reached down and traced the text with one finger, slowly. “You know,” you said thoughtfully, “as funny as this shirt is… it’s not wrong.”

His brow arched. “That right?”

“Mhm. Suits you well.” Your hand slid lower, over the flat of his stomach. “You do have a huge cock… and you could use a little more serotonin sometimes.”

“Y’wanna keep talkin’?” he asked, voice low, rumbling against your ear. “Or ya want me to show you how true it is?”

You didn’t answer—just crushed your mouth to his with a sound that was more growl than sigh, and then it was all heat, teeth, and slow-blooming hunger.

He had you under him on the couch in seconds, the hem of the ridiculous shirt brushing your stomach as he settled between your thighs.

“Gonna make ya cum,” Joel said into your neck, “with this dumb fuckin’ shirt on.”

His hands pulled down your pants, tossing them somewhere on the floor.

“You ain’t gettin’ up till I wipe that smug little look off your face,” he growled, trailing kisses on the inside of your thighs, teeth nipping just enough to make your back arch. “Tossin’ this dumbass shirt at me like that. Givin’ me attitude. Waitin’ for me to fuck you stupid.”

“I wasn’t giving you—fuck—attitude,” you gasped, fingers knotting on his hair. “I was giving you a gift.”

He chuckled against your soaked panties, a dark, gravelly sound, and then licked a long and slow stripe over them. “Oh, it’s a gift alright. Gonna remember this one next time you’re real sweet an’ needy, beggin’ for my cock.”

“Joel,” you gasped. “Fuck, that feels…”

“Good?” he finished for you, glancing up. “Ya like me bein’ all filthy with you in this dumbass thing?”

You moaned softly, the sound dragged out as he kissed your core over your panties. “I like you” you whispered. “And that fucking cock.”

That got him. His eyes flared hot, and the joke dissolved into something thick and charged. He yanked down your underwear in one motion, like it offended him, and his mouth was on you a second later.

“Gonna make you scream in this shirt,” he growled. “Then maybe I’ll fuck ya on the porch. Let the whole damn town see what this ‘huge cock’ can do.”

You cried out—sharp and needy—fingers tangling in his hair while he devoured you like he meant to ruin you, one strong arm slung across your hips to keep you from squirming too much.

You could feel the goddamn shirt brushing your thighs, stretched tight across his back as he worked his tongue deeper, slower, relentless.

His tongue pressed flat dragging across your clit with maddening precision, the kind of pressure that made your toes curl and your breath stutter. Each circle was a cruel tease, perfectly measured to build, to burn, to make you beg without ever saying a word.

You whimpered, hips jerking up as he flattened his tongue again, lips latching around that swollen bundle of nerves, sucking just enough to make you see stars. And then he moved lower, licking a slow, wet line down to your aching entrance. He tasted you there, soft moans vibrating against your core as he swirled the tip of his tongue around your hole—like he was savoring you, like he needed the flavor of your cunt more than he needed air.

“So close… fuck—Joel—” you whimpered, voice breaking on the edge of desperation. “Don’t stop—don’t you dare.”

Your thighs trembled around his head, the tension coiling tight in your belly. His hands gripped your hips harder, holding you in place as you writhed, shameless and soaked beneath him.

His tongue redoubled its efforts, lapping harder against your clit. Messy, hungry, relentless.

“Cum f’me,” he rasped against your cunt, the words hot and thick with need. “C’mon, darlin’. Wanna taste it—wanna feel ya cum on my tongue.”

Your thighs shaked, your fingers tangling in his thick hair, tugging hard—but he only growled low in his throat and pressed in deeper, tongue flicking, exploring, driving you toward madness with every filthy, deliberate motion.

“Oh my god, Joel—”

He looked up, still devouring your cunt, and hummed against you. Smug fucker.

You came in sharp pulses, breath hitching in little broken gasps, the world spinning behind your eyes. And he didn’t stop. Not for a second. Not until you were tugging at him, breathless, whining, “Please—wanna feel you now—Joel, please.”

His mouth was slick when he pulled back, beard damp and eyes dark. “Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “Gotta fuck you properly, huh? Can’t just eat your pretty little pussy and call it a night.”

Joel stood long enough to shove his jeans and boxers down, cock already hard and heavy, flushed dark at the leaking tip. The shirt still clung to his frame, rising with every heave of his chest. You stared, it was beautifully poetic, a shirt talking about having a huge cock, and his huge cock right below.

“You wear it so well,” you murmured, dazed.

Joel stroked himself once, slow and steady before climbing on top of you. “Told ya I’d show you how true it was.”

“I’m so lucky to have a man like you…” you said, tracing the letters of the shirt, “with a huge cock.”

“Goddamn girl,” he rasped, pinning you down with his hips. “Ya never shut up.”

“You know I like talking when I’m getting fucked.”

“Yeah?” He thrust into you slow. Deep. “Say somethin’ now.”

You whimpered, loud, reaching for him—and he sank into you in one long, perfect thrust that knocked the breath from your lungs. His jaw clenched, forehead pressed to yours as he filled you.

He sank in all the way and stilled, just letting you feel it. The stretch, the burning pressure.

“Jesus,” he groaned, head falling to your shoulder. “Ya always this tight, baby. So warm. Drives me mad.”

“Only when you wear fashion statements,” you gasped.

His laugh was broken and breathless, hips beginning to move—slow at first, then faster. Every thrust sent you higher, pleasure building like a slow burn, hot and unbearable. He was thick, perfect, hitting deep with every snap of his hips.

Every time he pulled out and slid back in, inch by inch, you gasped, back arching against the couch.

“Ya feel it, don’t you?” he whispered. “How I fit inside you?”

“Yes,” you whimpered, arms wrapped tight around his back, nails digging into his shoulder blades. “Oh— Joel… feels amazing.”

“Shit— Y’were made to take this cock. Could fuck you like this forever.”

I nodded. “Please do.”

You could feel him everywhere—his weight pressing you down, his breath ragged against your skin, his cock dragging along every sensitive inch inside you like he’d memorized where you needed him most.

His thrusts grew heavier, his rhythm more urgent, and your legs wrapped tighter around him, pulling him in, desperate for more.

“Fuckin’ love this pussy,” he muttered, nose buried in your neck. “So wet for me. Always ready for my cock, ain’t ya?”

You could only nod, too far gone to answer, the heat coiling low in your belly curling tighter with every filthy word, every perfect thrust. You couldn’t even tease him anymore. Couldn’t manage anything but a moan. Joel’s hand slid under your thigh, lifting it higher, draping your legs over his shoulders, so he could drive even deeper, reaching that place inside you only he could reach.

You cried out, voice pitched, eyes fluttering as he hit a spot that made the world white around the edges. Your hands flew to his back, nails digging in for something to hold onto, something to ground you as he fucked you deeper, rougher, like he needed to make you feel it for days.

“Y’wanted this,” he growled. “You come home laughin’, hand me this dumb fuckin’ shirt, crawl in my lap—what’d ya think was gonna happen, huh?”

“Exactly this,” you gasped.

He fucked you harder. The couch creaked. The fire crackled beside you both. You could feel yourself getting close again—your nails scraping his back, your lips parting in a soft, high cry.

You squeezed him tighter, involuntarily—your body clenching around him with a mind of its own, overwhelmed by how deep he reached, how perfectly he filled you.

“Ah—shit—baby—you know I can’t hold it when you squeeze me like that,” Joel groaned, his voice ragged, half-broken with the effort it took to keep control. His hands dug into your hips, desperate, like he was trying to anchor himself as your walls fluttered around him, tight and pulsing.

Joel was losing it, you could feel it—his rhythm faltering, jaw tight, breath ragged against your ear.

“Gonna cum,” he warned, voice hoarse. “Gonna take every drop inside f’me like a good little girl?”

“Yes,” you whispered, mouth against his shoulder. “Yes, Joel, please—fill me up.”

Your second orgasm hit like a punch to the chest, white-hot and dizzying, you clenched around Joel, squeezing him with all you had. It tore through you in waves, your whole body shuddering, hands fisting the cushions, throat raw from the cry you couldn’t hold back. You were unraveling beneath him, helpless and wrecked.

He followed a heartbeat later, hips stuttering, body tensing as he buried himself deep, spilling his thick and warm release inside you with a groan that turned your bones to water.

Joel collapsed over your body, both of you sticky and breathless, the words I wish I had serotonin instead of this huge cock pressed against you as you laughed again.

He stayed there for a long moment, breath warm against your skin, heart hammering against your chest.

“I ain’t wearin’ this in front of people. And don’t ya dare tell anybody ‘bout this.”

“No promises,” you whispered, lips kissing his jaw.

Just as Joel was pulling a blanket off the back of the couch to cover both your bare bodies—you both heard it.

The front door creaked. You barely had time to squeak before Ellie’s voice rang out from the hallway.

“Yo, Joel! You home? Tommy said you—OH MY GOD.”

Luckily both of your half naked bodies were already covered by the blanket, but her eyes immediately went to Joel, who was still wearing the shirt, the printed message on it stretched across his chest.

“Nope. Nope. Nope-nope-nope. I’m gonna bleach my eyes. I’m burning my brain. I knew I should’ve knocked.”

You dissolved into hysterical laughter, clinging to Joel’s back as he cursed into your neck.

“You,” he gritted, eyes locked on yours, “are never bringing home some stupid shit again.”

Ellie turned around, walking out the house as fast as she could. “Seriously? I—what the—why is that shirt—why are you— Joel—YOU’RE WAY TOO OLD TO BE WEARING THAT.”

“I hate you,” Joel muttered to you.

“You love me.”

“…Yeah,” he sighed. “Unfortunately.”

dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

[rosetintmyworld84]

I remember when basically every woman lost their minds over David Harbour as Jim Hopper in Stranger Things. It was his big breakout role, and everyone was thirsty over him, and he looked like this

Then you have the entire cast of Our Flag Means Death being Not Hollywood Conventional Attractive, and the fandom of mostly women and queer people have been thirsting after them for years. So much so that Con O'Neill, who after season 1 kept saying he was too old to go shirtless, had a shirtless scene in season 2 and everyone went NUTS and he looked like this

while also being one of the shortest cast members

Reminds me of that one post talking about the superhero Everyone is Hot and No One is Horny thing, where they pointed out how Alfred Molina as Doc Ock looked like this

and how everything about this character is so much sexier than just a dehydrated perfectly sculpted form.

It is so much less being an idealized male specimen, than confidence, charisma, and not being a giant douche bag.

i think the reason a lot of men are screaming, puking, and crying about this is bc it forces them to acknowledge that the reason they can’t get women to like them is not actually bc of their physique but bc of their shitty personality

[astars-things]

Drive with Y/n and Lando...

lando norris x quadrant athlete reader

Summary- where you and Lando do a quadrant video, where you drive around and he asks you questions that fans sent in, talk about your relationship

------

Landos' camera guy, Ash, mounted the camera onto the dashboard, making sure it was secure and recording before giving us a thumbs up. One of the Quadrant admins put out a post on Twitter asking what quadrant athlete and or general video fans would like to see, and the most requested one was that you and Lando do a 'drive with me' type video, but the twist was that they wanted you to drive, so here you were sitting in the drivers seat of your Nissan G-T r35 (you can change the car if you want) with Lando in the passenger seat. 

You had the Quadrant admins post an Instagram story and a Twitter post for people to send in their burning questions. You and Lando both picked out 10 of your favorites and got the team to put them on cards for Lando to read out. "I swear," you mutter, buckling your seatbelt and starting the car, "if you pick anything weird, I’m kicking you out. I mean it, Norris."

"You wouldn’t dare," he grins, stretching out like he’s on a beach somewhere. "I’m your emotional support passenger." You gave him an eye roll. You put the car into drive and made your way out of your street, so nobody could figure out where you lived from the video. "Quit touching things", you muttered as you wacked Landos' hand away from your phone as he kept pressing shuffle on your playlist. He let out a huff before dropping your phone back into the cup holder 

Giving Lando a quick glance you mutter "Start the Q&A before you break something." as you flick your turn signal and ease the car into a nearby parking lot so you could do the intro together. The editors were going to have a field day with trying to edit this chaotic mess

You pulled into a car park to film the intro of video 

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to the best Quadrant video you’ll see this month. Possibly ever," he announces, dramatically looking over to you before continuing  "Today we’re in the car with quadrant athlete and my girlfriend Y/N. She’s driving and I’m fearing for my life." you let out a loud sigh "Ignore my very dramatic boyfriend, I'm stepping aside from flipping dirt bikes to be here with you today" you said eyes flicking to the camera with a practiced smirk. "So you better appreciate the sacrifice."

"Sacrifice?"Lando repeats, feigning offense. "Anyways moving on. We asked you guys to send in questions on Instagram and Twitter, and we’ve picked our favorites. I’m driving because you lot demanded chaos and Lando is reading the questions." 

"And making sure we don’t die," he adds. You hit him gently on his bicep when he tightened his seatbelt for dramatic effect "Okay you ready love" Lando cooed grabbing his cards from the floor of you car, you nodded back pulling the car out of the carpark "Okay first question coming from @.PitStopQueen Who takes longer to get ready in the morning?" Lando read out and with no hesitation you called out "Lando"

"Excuse me?" he says, eyes wide. "Don’t lie to the internet," you say calmly, changing lanes with one hand on the wheel. "You spend at least twenty minutes just fixing your hair." "That’s called personal grooming," he argued, waving one hand toward the dashboard camera. "Some of us care about looking presentable." 

You raised an eyebrow. Making Lando second guess what he just said Lando just shook his head and held up the next card. "From @.Y/nLandoshipper How do you guys handle long distance?" You let out a soft breath, glancing at him to see if he wanted to answer or for you too, Lando gave you a nod silently saying you can answer 

"Its not easy, let me just say, there are somedays where its tougher than most but it makes us value the time we do get to spend together" You said trying not to let tears out as you think of times when you needed Lando and he was on the other side of the world, Lando put his hand on your thigh gently rubbing it to give you comfort 

"Lots of FaceTime calls," Lando added. "And spontaneous visits. I flew to your last event even though I had to be back the next day." you let out a little laugh remembering that day  "You were only there for like twelve hours." "Best twelve hours of my life," he said with a wink.

You smiled despite yourself. "We’re lucky we understand each other’s schedules. I think that’s the key." Lando let out a hum agreeing to your statement, Lando held up the next card, reading dramatically "From @.CircusFan Lando what is the coolest trick you have seen Y/n preform?" 

He let the question hang in the air for a second, glancing over at you with a grin that said he already had an answer locked and loaded. "Oh, that’s easy," he said, looking straight into the dash-mounted camera. "It was that backflip thing you did, off the mega ramp, in Vegas, I think? And then you let go mid-air and somehow landed it like it was nothing."

You smirked, eyes still on the road. "Superman seat grab backflip."  "You were just casually flying through the air like gravity was optional. I’ve never screamed so loudly watching a live stream. I called you right after, didn’t I?" Lando exclaimed, still clearly amazed by it. 

You nodded, laughing at the memory. "You were more breathless than I was." Lando turned back to the camera with a pointed look. After a couple of more questions it was time to answer the last one, Lando looked over at you, grin already tugging at the corner of his lips as he read the final card.  "Okay last question is from @.GridGossip How did you two meet" 

You groaned softly, your face already warming. "you picked this one didn't you"  Lando gave you his classic not so innocent face "Maybe" Lando said, practically vibrating in the passenger seat with excitement. "You said you not lie to the internet, remember?"

You gave him a look. "yeah but I didn't really want to expose myself to much today" Lando let out a little laugh "c'mon its a cute story" You sighed, knowing there was no way of getting out of this "Fine, we met on raya. Happy now?" You groaned not really ready for the comments you were going to receive from this, you pulled into a car park quite ready to end this video and go home to hide away,  

"At the same time," Lando insisted, pointing between the two of you. "Let’s do it properly. On three." You rolled your eyes, but held up three fingers with him. "One, two, three" "Raya," you both said, in perfect sync. Then came the laughter. Easy, familiar, the kind that felt like home.

You both interlocked hands "Okay thank you everyone for watching todays video, I'm going to go get y/n ice cream for making her answer that last question, thank you to everyone who sent in questions." You laugh, leaning in toward the camera. "If you want a part two where Lando drives and I cling to the door handle for dear life, like, comment, subscribe, all the YouTube things." 

"bye" you both said waving at the camera 

@.User This was pure chaotic gold. Y/N's so calm behind the wheel and Lando's just... there for vibes 😂 

@.User2 The thigh grab when she talked about long distance??? They're so in love it physically hurts me 

@.User3 they're giving chaotic domestic energy and i'm eating it UP.

@.User4 Thank you for feeding us with (yourship name) content

*Photo is from pinterest- however, I made the YouTube bit

please reblog, like and comment 🫶

[sunsburns]

GONE GONE / THANK YOU — variant!mark grayson

⟢ synopsis. you’ve never wanted to fight mark grayson, but the universe has a way of twisting your arm, and now you're forced to reckon with it.

⟢ contains. 18+, mark grayson x reader, evil variant!mark grayson x reader (but not the way you think), serious injury, death, gore, violence, major angst, no happy endings here, oliver locks tf in.

⟢ wc: 5.6k+

⟢ author’s note. do not be fooled, this is a tragedy. there is no romance here.

You remember, vaguely, back when he still worked for Cecil and trained with the Guardians. When you were teammates, rookies with too much adrenaline and not enough experience. Mark Grayson used to ask you to spar like it was a game.

You always turned him down.

It was always him asking, too—never Cecil. Sometimes, Rex would try to coax you into it, just for fun, by placing bets with Bulletproof like it was a pay-per-view event. “Come on, just once,” he’d say, “I got twenty bucks on you getting tossed into a wall.”

It wasn’t like you’d stand much of a chance—or at least, that’s what you told yourself. You weren’t helpless, sure. You could fly, move faster than most. You had telekinesis, strength just barely above the average hero’s. You could throw a car without touching it and take a punch that would hospitalize most people. But you couldn’t split the sky open with a single blow. You couldn’t level a building by accident.

Mark could.

He was much stronger than you. You knew that. But he always swore you were the only one on the team he’d ever have a fair fight with.

You remember him saying it once, voice all boyish and sincere as he watched you hurl a semi-truck into a monster that crawled out of Hell with nothing but a wave of your arm. Or that time you tackled him midair to shield him from a laser blast—one that left you burned and stumbling, but still standing.

Back then, he was new to this. Sloppy. Hopeful. Moved like he was wearing his dad’s boots and still trying to grow into them.

Maybe back then, you could’ve taken him.

Maybe it would’ve been fair.

You’d always brushed off the sparring sessions he suggested, hiding your nerves behind a smirk. He’d flash that stupid grin, eyes too bright to take seriously, and you’d wave him off like it was nothing. “What, so I can lose in front of you? No thanks.”

You never said what you really meant: I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t even want to know how to.

Looking back, it was kind of embarrassing how quickly you’d grown fond of the new superhero.

“Oh, c’mon,” he’d beg, hovering beside you in the sky, similar to some overeager golden retriever, “it’ll be fun! I’ll go easy on you.”

You remembered the way he’d grin when he said that, like he meant it. You remembered the way he used to chase after you mid-flight on your off days, shouting challenges through the wind when all you wanted was to fly in peace. You’d mentioned craving Caribbean food in the Caribbean once—offhand, totally casual—and next thing you knew, you were midair, scrolling your maps app while Mark kept pace beside you, claiming he just wanted to “smell the sea air or whatever.”

Yeah, right.

You knew better. He just liked being near you. (Or at least that’s what Eve told you later, when you brought it up and she rolled her eyes like you were the last person on Earth to get the hint.) And when it came time to carry the food back, he always helped without you asking.

He was kind like that. Earnest. The kind of guy who matched your pace, who never minded when you stopped flying to rest on a rooftop or circle over a new city just to take it all in. He kept you company. Slowed down for you.

But he also liked to annoy the hell out of you.

He had a talent for pushing your buttons—prodding, teasing, egging you on just enough to make you want to hit him. Not in the playful, shoulder-shove kind of way either. You’re talking a real punch. One that might actually break his nose.

He’d say stuff like, “What if you just threw stuff at me?”

You blinked at him, mid-hover. “Throw stuff at you?”

“Yeah. Like, I don’t know—trucks? Cars? Big, heavy stuff. No combat. Just toss things.”

You’d laughed. “No combat? Why? You think I’d beat you in a real fight?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Probably, yeah.”

And he meant it.

You were better at combat than Mark. Everyone knew it. He had raw power, sure, but he fought like he was still learning where his limbs ended. He was always a little too reckless, too eager to win fast, to fight them and leave, always charging in when he should’ve taken a second to think or hear out whoever he was fighting this time. He always let his opponent push him onto the back foot. Unfortunate because Mark only knew how to block with his face.

Which sucked, because he had a very pretty face.

“I don’t want to fight you, Mark.” You said it because it was true. Because even if it was just a playful team match, even if the stakes had only ever been bragging rights, you’d seen what he could do. Just a glimpse of it—enough to leave you rattled for days.

You didn’t want to feel helpless under him. You didn’t want to see him like that.

“Train with me,” he corrected you.

You arch a brow. “We already train together.”

“Spar with me, then.” He rolled his eyes, like you’re being deliberately difficult.

It made you laugh, escaped before you could stop it. It almost makes you cave. His voice, the slight pout in his tone, the way he gets when he wants you to meet him in the middle.

“What would I gain from this if we do?”

“You’d know my weaknesses.”

“I already do.”

“Fine. You’d know what to do in a fight with me. A real fight.”

That made you pause.

You glanced at him, really glanced, and saw the honesty in his eyes. It sobered you.

“If I ever try to fight you, Mark,” you murmured, “I must be the craziest person on the planet.”

And maybe that was the problem.

Somewhere, in the quiet corners of your mind, the part of you that didn’t speak often, you understood what he meant. You saw the logic. It wasn’t about wanting to fight. It was about being prepared for the possibility. That one day, something might happen—someone might twist his arm, or his mind, or the world might just break wrong—and you’d be the only one left to stop him.

Just like he was the only one who could stop his dad.

But it was Mark.

You couldn’t picture it. Couldn’t even begin to shape that version of reality in your head. A Viltrumite? Sure. Maybe. But not Mark. Not the one who flew slower just to stay beside you. Not the one who remembered where you liked your food from or made you laugh just to hear the sound.

A Viltrumite, sure. But never Mark.

It always surprised you that Cecil never forced the issue. That he never pulled you aside, never handed you a file full of fail-safes and protocols for some contingency plan. Never demanded you run a one-on-one simulation, just in case. Not even after Anissa.

Maybe he was too busy moulding Mark into a weapon. Focused on teaching him how to dodge the hit instead of what it would mean to land one. Maybe no one really wanted to imagine a world where Mark Grayson needed to be stopped.

But now?

Now you wish you’d said yes.

You wish you’d tested yourself. Learned his rhythms, his tempo, the way his shoulders moved before a strike. You wish you’d paid closer attention. Memorized every tell. Every blink. Every breath. Every violent twitch in his body.

Should’ve known what it’d feel like when one punch hit you for real.

When he hits you for real.

“Why won’t you fucking die?!”

The voice is his, but wrong.

It curdles in your ears: guttural, unhinged, warped by something deeper than rage.

You’re weightless—thrown midair like a ragdoll. For a single, surreal moment, there’s a strange comfort in it. Suspended high above the wreckage, the sun kisses your skin, and a breeze slips across your face.

Up here, the sky is still beautiful. A stretch of blue that hasn’t yet been stained by smoke or scorched by heat. Far enough from the screaming and all the noise. Far enough to forget what’s happening on the ground.

But you can’t breathe.

Your lungs seize, your eyes snap open, pupils blown wide as your body remembers the pain.

You barely register your own gasp before a blur of blue and black cuts through your vision. Fast and close.

Your body shudders violently. Instinct claws at your nerves as the blur sharpens.

He’s coming. Again.

Faster than before.

Faster than you can think.

Gravity slowly claws you back down. You’re dropping.

You don’t even get the chance to scream before two boots slam into your stomach.

Your body folds inwards with a crunch—sick, absolute. Something inside you gives way. Ribs, maybe. Or your will.

The air vanishes from your lungs.

And then you’re falling.

Plunging faster than you can think to pull yourself up again.

The wind whips past your ears, colder now, biting at torn fabric and skin. Your suit peels away in places, edges fused with blood and grime. It soaks through the fabric, your blood. It clings like glue.

You hit the ground like a meteor and concrete craters beneath you.

Your spine strikes first, a bolt of blinding white-hot pain rippling through every inch of you, from the tips of your ears to your toes. And then your body goes limp, twitching in the dust.

You heave; a short, broken breath. Once.

Twice.

Then blood rises up your throat like a tide. It fills your mouth, thick and choking. You cough, gag. Swallow a bit without meaning to. The taste is iron and fire and fear.

Your nose is shattered, and has been since the second time he hit you; it’s not getting any better—just a wet, twisted mess that sends pain knifing through your face with every shallow breath. Blood seeps from the split at the bridge of it, more of it rolls out to coat your lips. You try inhaling through it, and it’s like dragging air through broken glass.

Your vision pulses. Static edges. Fireflies at the corners of your eyes. The sunlight above you flickers like it’s behind dirty windows.

Everything burns.

You’re vaguely, bitterly grateful to discover that you can take a punch or two from a Viltrumite.

Even more grateful to realize he still gets frustrated when a fight drags on longer than he wants.

He’s always had a temper. That little crack in his armour. That flicker of impatience just before he stubbornly decides to end things.

Funny how that trait sticks. Across dimensions. Across versions.

Across Marks.

You try to move.

You know he’s coming again.

You fight to make sense of where you’ve landed—what part of the city this is, how far the damage might’ve spread. The world tilts wildly when you try to sit up. Every muscle screams. Every joint trembles under the weight of your own body.

Your fingers dig into dust and rubble. Arms shaking, elbows buckling when you roll over.

Somewhere past the ringing in your ears, a footstep echoes.

Not his. Too light. You freeze. Your body goes rigid with fear.

Then you see a child.

Shit.

A girl runs past, tripping over debris, breath coming in broken sobs. Your heart lurches.

She stumbles toward a crumbled wall, where a hand reaches out from a narrow crack in the broken concrete. A voice calls softly, a little desperately. She throws herself into someone’s arms, and the space swallows her whole. Hidden. Safe.

You meet someone’s eyes inside the dark. Just a flash. Then a whisper.

“Is she okay?”

“Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.”

However, your blood goes cold because you don’t hear him land. You feel it.

A tremor shocks the ground beneath you. Dust kicks up into your throat. Something inside you screams at you to run. But your legs won’t listen. Your body doesn’t move.

A shadow twists along the edge of the crater, slow and crawling, swallowing the light around it. You watch, frozen, as the figure nears, closer with every heartbeat, every rasping breath that burns your lungs. Your chest is caving in under the weight of fear, the panic a raw, wild thing clawing up your throat and getting stuck. You barely move.

Your instincts take over before your mind catches up—what little you can summon lurches to life, and a thin, violet barrier flares to life around you.

It glows dimly, trembling in the air like it’s afraid too.

Then, the first strike lands.

You flinch as a violent crack echoes through your shield. His fist hits it again, harder this time—shockwaves rippling outward, shaking the ground beneath your knees. You collapse backwards, knees buckling beneath you, your limbs no longer listening.

And now, you see him.

The colours of the suit are the same. Black and blue. Familiar. Too familiar. It’s his jawline, his mouth, the slight crookedness in his lips—only this time, there’s no smile at all. No warmth. Just something brutal and cold in the lines of his face. It’s haunting, how much he looks like your Mark.

His fists don’t hesitate. They don’t tremble. They don’t stop. He slams them again and again into the shield, and you know it’s not to knock you out. He’s trying to kill you.

Your vision blurs, not from the impact, but from the emotion cracking inside your chest. It’s like looking into a mirror, someone shattered and glued back together in all the wrong ways. His jaw clenches, tighter than you’ve ever seen on Mark. And he shouts and screams at you like rage has him by the throat.

His suit is covered in blood. Not just stained. Soaked. You know Mark bleeds more often than not and carries his wounds to prove it. This isn’t that. This isn’t his blood. These are other people’s. It drips from his fists. Smears across his shoulder. There’s a tacky smear along his jaw.

And then you notice the difference: his hair is tucked beneath a tight, blue cowl, pulled back out of reach. It’s smart, almost too smart. You’ve seen people grab Mark by the hair mid-fight, use it to throw him off balance. This version, this thing pretending to be him, has made sure that won’t happen. Even so, a few strands of inky black hair have broken free, fluttering in the wind, familiar enough to steal your breath.

It’s that hint of recognition that almost costs you everything.

His fist crashes into your barrier again, and this time, it shatters and you feel it crack down your spine.

There’s no time to think. You throw yourself upward with a burst of raw energy, launching into the air, limbs screaming in protest. You don’t look at him. You look past him toward the building where the civilians are hiding, where you felt their fear.

Get away from them. Get him away from them. That’s all that matters now.

You’re gasping, your lungs pulling in air like they’re drowning. Your hands are trembling so hard you can barely summon the force again. Your vision is swimming. Blood sticks to your side, to your lashes, to the inside of your mouth.

And you’re scared.

You barely make it a few feet into the air, just high enough to feel the wind stir through your hair, when he grabs you by the throat.

The momentum dies instantly.

His hand clamps around your neck like a vice, fingers cold and unyielding, and you’re yanked backward through the sky with brutal force. Your body jerks in the air, and you choke on a scream as he lifts you like you weigh nothing. A ragdoll. A thing.

You claw at his wrist, nails scraping, scrabbling, legs kicking beneath you, wild and useless, searching for something, anything, to find leverage. But there’s nothing. Your lungs seize, scream for air, and your chest caves in with the effort.

“M-mm…” It slips out, a little pathetic. A strangled, broken moan choked on blood and bile, laced with panic you can’t swallow down.

Tears finally break. They spill hot and fast over the curve of your cheeks, over the cuts already weeping there. You can’t stop crying—it hurts too much to cry, but your body doesn’t care. Everything is on fire. Your ribs ache where they’re cracked. Blood drips down your chin from your split lip. Your shoulder pulses where you hit the ground earlier. It all bleeds together in one screaming pulse of pain.

The variant grins. Wide. Delighted. His teeth are strangely white, and there’s something sickening in the shine of his eyes you can see through his goggles. He brings you closer, so close you can smell the blood caked beneath his collar. So close your lips brush the edge of his ear.

“Sorry, what was that?” he murmurs. His voice is casual, almost amused, like he’s not slowly squeezing the life out of you. Like he’s enjoying this.

You try to speak again. Try to push past the pressure in your throat, the blood in your mouth, the trembling of your jaw.

“Mmar—muh—”

He laughs. Laughs.

“Muh-muh—come on, you can do it. You know my name. Say it.” He’s mocking you, voice all sweetness and cruelty. His grip tightens just slightly, and it sends a new spike of agony ripping down your spine.

Your face crumples.

You’re sobbing now, really sobbing, even though it hurts. Even though every broken breath feels like it’s digging your grave faster. You collapse inward, deeper into his grip, your weight sagging against his hold as your feet dangle uselessly beneath you. Blood smears down your neck, thick and warm, mixing with the salt of your tears. It leaves tracks on your cheeks. You don’t think you’ve ever been this afraid.

He shakes you once, sharp and jarring.

A cry slips out of you, louder this time.

“Say it,” he demands again. “C’mon. At least beg a little.”

Your lips part. It hurts. But you do it.

“Mark—please. Please.”

He hums like he’s enjoying it, cocking his head.

“Yeah. That’s it.”

“Please, Mark. I don’t—I don’t wanna…”

Your voice breaks again. Trails off into something too small to hear. You meant to say die. But it catches in your throat, and you’re not even sure if that’s the truth.

Because you don’t want to die at his hands.

You don’t want to die looking at his face.

You don’t want to die thinking this is the last version of him you’ll ever see.

You squint through the blood stinging your eyes, searching—anything. A broken pipe, a shard of metal, a loose brick. Something you could use before he chooses to tear your head from your body or snap your neck like a twig. But your brain blanks. He could do anything to you. You’ve seen him do worse.

“Hm,” he hums, tilting his head like you’re a puzzle he already solved. He pushes you away, just slightly. “I thought you’d put up more of a fight—”

A jagged chunk of broken concrete comes hurtling through the air behind him. It slams into his back and crumbles instantly, like dirt hitting steel. It doesn’t hurt him, but it makes him falter. Just for a second.

It’s enough.

You land a shaky kick to his stomach. It barely moves him—he grunts, more annoyed than wounded—but it’s enough to loosen his grip on your throat. His hand slips, and you drop like dead weight, gasping as air stabs back into your lungs.

You’re in the air again before you hit the ground, desperate to put distance between him and the civilians hiding in the building nearby. You knew you wouldn’t get far. You just needed space.

But he’s faster.

His hand snatches your ankle mid-flight, yanking you down so hard the air tears from your lungs again. Panic hits like ice in your chest, he could rip your leg clean off. You brace for it. But it doesn’t happen. You’re more durable than you give yourself credit for.

He must realize that too because he pauses. And in that pause, a car slams into him from the side with a scream of twisted metal, sending him skidding across the air. The vehicle shatters around him like glass against a god.

You hover in the air, staggering, breath ragged. Run. You burst away. But it’s like he never left. A blur of movement, and he’s on you again. The wind trembles around you as he grabs the back of your suit, lifts, and throws.

You crash through a concrete wall like a bullet, debris exploding in every direction. The force slams you into the tiled floor of the building behind it, breaking the ground beneath you as you skid across it. Each bounce against the cracked floor sends more shards of pain ripping through your ribs, your spine—until your body then slams into another wall, cratering the surface.

Your ears ring.

You blink rapidly through the haze and spot them. Movement. Figures, crouched in the corner of the room. Wide eyes. Shaking hands. Trying to stay quiet. Shit, you need to get out of here.

Then you feel him.

“—You little shit.” His voice is right there. Hot. Furious. His goggles have broken, and you can see his eyes. You feel sick when he looks at you, and you realize he has the exact same eyes as the Mark you know.

Hands seize you, claws in your skin, and you flinch, scrambling weakly, but there’s no time. Icy fingers dig into your face like meat hooks, one thumb gouging dangerously close to your eye as he yanks your head forward and smashes it back against the wall.

Once.

Twice.

He does it again. And again.

Your skull slams into the concrete until the plaster splits—until the wall peels back like wet paper and your head strikes the raw metal beam embedded beneath it. The sound is sharp. Hollow. Like a bell rung for the dead. The metal dents and bends to the shape of your skull.

“Fight back,” he snarls, saliva spraying across your cheek. His grip tightens. “Fight back, coward.”

The building groans around you. Cracks crawl like veins across the walls. Dust sifts down from the ceiling like ash from a burning sky.

Still, you don’t move.

Because your hands, shaking and soaked in your own blood, remain limp next to you. Fingers splayed, twitching, and glowing with desperate violet light. Your force field is fragile now—no longer the confident, humming barrier you’ve conjured in countless fights. This one sputters. Fractures along the edges. It buzzes with instability, as if your own heartbeat is the only thing keeping it alive.

Through it, the civilians cower in the corner. A young girl sobs into her mother’s chest. An older man clutches his chest, gasping. Blood trickles down someone’s temple. One of them meets your eyes—just for a second.

They’re depending on you.

You’re the wall between them and a god gone mad.

Even as blood pours freely from your nose, leaks from your ears, and chokes your throat, you hold the shield.

And he sees it.

His gaze flicks from your face to the trembling light shielding the survivors. Then he turns. Slowly. The glow reflects in his eyes like a glint off polished glass.

He sees them. The people you’re breaking yourself to protect. The reason you’re not fighting him back.

“Oh,” he breathes, realization flooding his face like bile. “That’s what you’re doing.”

There’s no humour in it. No mockery. He stands up. Steps back just enough to leer down at you. Then he nudges your leg with his foot, light, almost lazy.

“Am I not worth your full attention?” he spits, voice low and venomous.

You manage to lift your head just slightly, breath rattling in your chest.

That’s when you see it—the sudden flick of movement. His leg tensing, rising, snapping downward.

The stomp hits your knee. Hard.

A flash of pain rips up your thigh. Your force field flickers. Cracks splinter across its surface.

He sees that too.

And then he lifts off the ground. Just slightly. Hovering. Charging his weight.

“No—” you croak.

But it’s already too late.

He comes down full force, heel slamming directly into the joint of your knee. You hear the wet pop before your body processes it.

“Wait—”

Crunch.

The sound is sickening—like splintering wood wrapped in muscle. Your femur caves, bone shearing beneath his strength.

You scream. It rips from your throat with raw, animalistic agony. A sound born from every nerve in your body, catching fire.

But he doesn’t stop.

He stomps again.

Your leg gives entirely. Another crunch—louder this time. Bone bursts through skin, blood pooling fast and dark across the tile. Flesh torn. Tendons snapped.

You try to crawl away, sobbing, your fingers scraping uselessly against rubble, but he pins you with a single hand, heavy and uncaring. Whimpers slip past your lips. Your body trembles. Tears return—hot, relentless.

Still… you hold the shield.

Or try to.

Your hands flutter now, weak and slow. The violet glow dims, sputters, and flickers. You feel it dying.

You let out a choked sob. “No— please—don’t—”

He doesn’t even look at you.

Just kicks your side and shoves you down to the floor with a dull, wet thud. The impact knocks the breath from your lungs. You taste blood again. You bite your tongue to keep from blacking out. Your world is sideways.

He steps over your body, shadow stretching across the floor.

“You wanna play hero?” he says, voice thick with disdain. “Then try and stop me.”

The force field fails.

The whine that comes with it is soft. Pathetic. Like a dying heartbeat. The light vanishes.

And then he moves forward.

You hear it first. The civilians scream. A cacophony of fear and hopelessness, and panic. Feet scramble across the floor, slapping and slipping in the dust. Bodies scatter like bugs when a rock is lifted, rushing to corners that won’t save them.

You try to look away. But you can’t.

Tears stream down your bloodied face, your vision blurring, every nerve screaming.

“No—please—stop—”

You watch as he grabs one by the throat, fingers sinking into flesh with a sickening wet crunch, and slams them into the ground hard enough to collapse the tile and crater the concrete beneath.

Bone shatters. The body twitches once. Then doesn’t move again.

Another screams before she’s hurled across the room and hits a concrete column so hard her spine snaps with a sound like cracking ice. Blood sprays in a wide arc, painting the pillar in a bright red fan. What’s left of her folds in on itself like meat dropped from a rooftop.

A third runs. Tries, anyway.

They don’t make it two steps before the variant is on him, driving his fist into the back of their skull like a sledgehammer. The head doesn’t just break. It bursts. A wet, explosive noise followed by silence.

You cry again. All you can do is cry, helpless and shaking. Because you can’t do anything. Can’t crawl. Can’t protect them. Can’t stop it.

All you can do is lie there, twitching, crying, blood in your mouth and dust in your eyes, your own leg bent backwards beneath you like a snapped twig, ribs stabbing sharp into your lungs every time you breathe.

The room shakes. Then goes still.

The screams stop. The begging stops. Everything stops. Except you. You’re still breathing. Barely.

And he sees that.

The Mark who isn’t yours. Who wears his face but none of his soul.

He turns, eyes raking over the ruined bodies, the cracked walls, the crimson streaks painted across your cheeks and neck and chest.

Then he walks away.

He doesn’t even kill you.

He doesn’t even care enough to anymore.

He just leaves you here. A pile of meat and power and broken promises. Like you aren’t even worth finishing off.

The world sways. Tilts. Cracks. You’re not sure if it’s the building or your skull. Everything blurs at the edges, the colours too red, too dark. The air is too hot.

Your ears ring—sharp, high-pitched, like a scream still echoing inside your skull. You can’t tell if it’s someone else’s or your own.

The walls are split open like ruptured flesh. The ground is thick with dust and blood and the sickly stench of offal. Light flickers from a shattered fixture above—rapid, dizzying pulses that make your stomach lurch.

What’s left of your forcefield gutters across the floor like dying embers. Violet flickers catch the blood, the bone, the ruin. Cast soft light on glassy eyes staring up from broken faces.

Some of them look like they were trying to run. Some tried to hide. One looks like they were shielding another.

None of them made it.

You should move. Should crawl to the window. Should drag yourself somewhere someone might see you. Maybe he’ll see you. The real Mark. If he’s out there.

You don’t move. You can’t.

Your leg’s twisted beneath you, a grotesque knot of blood and shattered bone. One arm lies limp across your stomach, fingers twitching without purpose. You think something’s wrong with your ribs—sharp edges press against your insides every time you try to draw in a full breath. So you don’t.

The sun begins to sneak through the crumbled wall, golden light stretching over the carnage like a lie. It touches the broken bodies. The cooling blood. Your face.

And you lie there. Unmoving. Unseeing.

Because what’s the point?

Your hands are burned from your own force field. Still faintly glowing. Still trying.

You’re alone in the ruins of hope.

The concrete groans once more, something shifting far above. A soft cascade of dust falls like snow.

But otherwise—nothing.

No rescue. No sound. No light.

Just the stench of blood. The sting of smoke. And you, barely holding onto the thought of staying awake. Not because you want to. But because something in you still refuses to close your eyes.

Even now.

Even when there’s nothing left to save.

And help arrives too late; a sound, distant, frantic, pierces the silence.

Footsteps. Heavy. Rushed. A younger voice screaming, raw with something deeper than rage: “Die! Die! Die!”

Your heart clenches. That voice. You know it. That high, stubborn pitch. That little face, purple and wide-eyed and brave in a way only a child could be.

Oliver.

But then… silence again.

That silence terrifies you more than anything. He was here. You heard him. And now you don’t.

You start to cry again. Weak little sobs, more breath than sound. It hurts too much to make noise. Maybe you imagined it. Maybe your brain, desperate and failing, conjured him to spare you from dying alone.

Then at first, it’s just a crunch. Soft. Careful. The sound of wind shifting through broken glass. Your ears twitch—what’s left of your hearing, catching the shift in air, the gentle thud of shoes landing on broken tile.

Your ears twitch, catching it through the sharp ringing that’s made a home in your skull. Another crunch. The delicate movement against the air.

Approaching.

Your vision swims in red and static. But you see it—a blur of violet streaking in from the jagged hole in the wall. It flies crooked, clumsy, like it’s too fast for its own balance. It shouts your name.

Not your hero name.

Your real name.

The sound cracks through your chest. A sob tears up your throat.

He lands too hard. Hits the ground with a gust that kicks up glass and bloodstained dust. Then he’s on his knees beside you.

“Oliver?” you whisper, the name catching on something wet in your lungs. The word barely makes it out. A cough wracks through you, sharp and tearing. But it’s something.

Your eyes flicker toward him. He’s breathing hard. Shaking. His fists are covered in blood—not just his, you think dimly—and there’s a long scratch across his cheek that’s already scabbing over. His eyes go wide when he sees you. So wide they look like they might spill over.

“You… you shouldn’t be here,” you croak.

Oliver stares at you like you’ve lost your mind. His mouth opens. Closes. Then opens again, trembling.

“I should’ve been here sooner,” he says.

You try to breathe, but it’s shallow. The weight in your chest doesn’t budge.

He reaches out, but doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t know where he can.

“I saw him,” Oliver whispers, “I saw what he did. I thought you were holding him off—I thought—then I couldn’t see you anymore, and I—I stopped him. I got rid of him—”

His voice cuts off. He blinks too fast.

You try to move. Your fingers twitch, scraping weakly against the rubble. You don’t know if you’re reaching for him… or for the people you couldn’t save.

Oliver sees it. And he starts to cry.

“It’s okay,” he says quickly, urgently, scooting closer. “It’s okay. I’ve got you now. Just—just stay awake, alright? Stay with me. Please.”

He’s a child. Still a child. And he shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t see this.

“You have to go,” you rasp, barely audible. “Mark... he’ll be looking for you.”

Oliver shakes his head. “Mark’s fine. You’re not. I’m getting you out of here. I’ll take you to Mom. You’ll be safe with her. She’ll know what to do.”

He says it like it’s a promise. Like it’s fact. But you know better. You feel it in your bones—what’s left of them. You’re not going to make it that far.

You close your eyes for a moment. Just a blink. Just to rest them.

You let the words settle into you like warmth in a cold room.

Maybe that’s enough.

[better-setterv2]

𝒜𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃𝓈𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒪𝒹𝒹𝓈 𝒫𝓉.1

Authors Note: Hey everyone! Here is a quick one-shot that I wrote. Hope you enjoy! Feel free to leave comments. Lots of love xx

Summary: Lewis Hamilton never intended to fall for someone half his age, but somehow he feels more alive than ever. In a world defined by fast cars and fleeting headlines, his younger girlfriend becomes talk of the paddock.

Taglist: @nebulastarr

Warnings: mentions of sexual content, age-gap

MASTERLIST

Pt1, Pt2

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Lewis never meant to fall in love with someone half his age.

He was 40 now. People liked to whisper about it like it was a secret instead of a number he carried with pride. There was a quiet strength in getting older, he liked who he was more than ever.

But still, in the mirror under fluorescent hotel lighting or the glare of another photo op, he saw time creeping in at the corners of his eyes. Followed by feeling the fatigue after back to back race weekends.

And then you came in like a storm he hadn’t seen coming.

It started during a climate advocacy event held during the Miami Grand Prix weekend. You were part of the university team handling research and logistics. Young, sharp, unbothered by his fame. You treated him like a panelist, not a personality.

That alone caught his attention.

But it was more than that. You had this spark in your eyes, this low amused voice that carried more weight than your years.

He found himself drawn to it, to you. When he asked a question you didn’t nod and flatter, you challenged. Not disrespectfully, but with that same thoughtfulness he remembered valuing when he was the youngest guy in the paddock trying to be heard.

It started slowly. Professionally.

A text here. An email to follow up. A question about your research. An offer to review your thesis on sustainability in high emissions sport - “if you’re okay with notes in red,” he joked.

Then came the late night coffee at the café no one else knew about. You sat with your knees tucked under you, laughing softly as he told you about his first F1 season. He listened like your voice mattered. You listened like you already knew what was behind the curtain of fame.

It wasn’t supposed to become anything more.

But then it did.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You weren’t prepared for Lewis Hamilton either.

At first, you kept your distance. You weren’t blind, you knew who he was. But you also knew how men like him were treated. How women like you got framed in stories not your own. It wasn’t a game you wanted to play.

But Lewis wasn’t like that. He was kind, private and smarter than people gave him credit for. He asked about your dreams like they mattered. He made space for your voice in a world where most men your age were too busy shouting over you.

You didn’t mean to fall in love with him. But you did.

And when he kissed you for the first time it was slow, unsure, hesitant and you felt the weight of it. Like he wasn’t used to taking risks like this anymore, like maybe he didn’t expect you to kiss him back.

But you did. You pulled him in closer, fingers in his hoodie, lips parting against his like he was something precious. And in that moment, you stopped worrying about what it looked like.

2 months later after their first intimate moments of kissing they took a step further.

The air between you crackles with energy , that familiar tension building after hours of quiet talking and long glances. You were curled up on the wide hotel couch, his arm resting behind you with his fingers brushing your shoulder as he watched you explain something about a court ruling you’d been researching. But he wasn’t listening to the law anymore.

He was looking at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“You know I’m trying not to kiss you right now,” he murmured, voice husky.

You turned your head, lips curving. “Who’s stopping you?”

He kissed you gently at first. His hand cupping your face, thumb brushing your cheek like he needed to memorise you. The kind of kiss that lingered. That asked, Are you sure?

You tugged him closer in answer.

Clothes came off piece by piece. Not in a rush, but like you both needed to feel everything. His lips worshipped every part of you with admiration and you whispered his name against his skin like a secret you were finally allowed to say.

He moved slowly, carefully, never assuming, always checking. “Okay?” he asked as he pressed his forehead to yours, breath mingling. His voice cracked a little. Like this mattered more than he’d expected.

You nodded, eyes locked to his. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I want this.”

And when you were finally joined, body to body it didn’t feel like lust or a restriction -

It felt like home.

After, he held you in the silence. Arms tight around you, lips at your hairline. Neither of you spoke.

You didn’t need to.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Of course, the world found out.

One blurry photo taken at the airport, your hand in his, sunglasses doing nothing to hide his smile.

You became the headline.

“Who is Lewis Hamilton’s mystery girl?”

“26 year old grad student rumored to be dating the F1 legend.”

“Age gap romance: Lewis Hamilton and his much-younger girlfriend spark debate.”

The paddock didn’t take long to join in.

At first, it stung. The whispers, the judgment, the looks that didn’t even try to hide themselves. You’d always been confident, but nothing prepares you for being seen like that. Misunderstood on a global scale…

Lewis noticed your silences growing longer, your smiles more guarded.

One night in Miami, after a long dinner where someone made one too many passive aggressive jokes about “you kids these days,” you sat on the balcony in one of his hoodies, staring out over the city.

He came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist with his chin on your shoulder.

“They don’t get it,” you said quietly.

“They don’t have to,” he replied. “I do. I get it. And I’m not letting you go just because people have small minds.”

You turned to face him, eyes searching his. “You sure?”

Lewis leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead like a vow. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It wasn’t always perfect.

There were fights, about the future or about your career followed by his. There were long nights apart. Stress. Doubt. Pain.

But there was also growth.

He started reading the articles you wrote. You traveled with him when your schedule allowed. You met his family. Slowly, the paddock got used to you.

And one day, when you were walking hand in hand through the Ferrari garage for his practice run, someone shouted a joke about how he was just trying to stay young.

Lewis laughed and pulled you closer.

“Damn right I am,” he grinned. “And she’s the reason I still feel alive.”

You looked up at him, cheeks flushed, and he winked. Like nothing else in the world mattered more than you.

And in that moment, you believed it.

After watching the race you both headed back to his hotel building.

Although there was always something unreal about the way Lewis holds you after a race.

His body still warm from adrenaline. His scent, sun and sweat and something undeniably him.

You’ve seen the way the world looks at him. Flashes, microphones, hands reaching out but here in the quiet hotel room, his hands are on you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

“I missed this,” he murmurs, brushing his lips across your bare shoulder.

You turn your head to look at him, still lying chest to chest under the rumpled white sheets. Your legs tangled like they always seem to find each other on instinct. “It’s been two days.”

“Too long.” His voice is low. Honest.

The race weekend had been brutal. Flickering of cameras, questions, headlines dissecting not just his performance, but you. Your age. Your clothes. Your smile. Some called it inappropriate. Others, a publicity stunt.

Lewis had stayed silent.

But now, here in the low light he lets his guard down.

“I hate that they talk about you like that,” he says suddenly, hand tightening on your hip. “Like you’re some accessory. Like what we have isn’t real.”

You trace your fingers over the line of his collarbone. “They don’t know me.”

“They don’t deserve to.”

There’s a pause.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he admits. “You. Us. I didn’t go looking for someone younger. I just -” He sighs. “You made me feel something I thought I’d buried.”

You press a soft kiss beneath his jaw. “You don’t have to explain.”

But he does. For himself. For you.

“I’ve lived this life for so long. Constant movement. Everyone wanting a piece of me. I forgot what it felt like to stop. To feel something simple and good and new.” His eyes search yours. “You remind me of who I used to be. Before all of this.”

Before the fame. Before the scars.

Before he stopped believing in something as fragile as love.

[sterekloverforever]

Later

Stiles: So he was brutally fucking me against the wall. He scooped me up, each of his arms were under my knees as he bounced me on his cock.I was screaming so loud I’m surprised people couldn’t hear me, especially you werewolves.

Erica: Jesus Christ

Stiles: You asked…do you want me to stop?

Erica: Fuck no, I want more details.

Stiles: You need help.Anyways, as he’s fucking me I feel like I’m going to cum and I tell him but he doesn’t stop. I end up cumming so hard I pass out, like a full out of body experience. But he didn’t stop there, he kept fucking me as I’m literally dead to the world. When I wake up and he’s still going at it. I felt something weird start to swell in my ass and I ask him about it and tell me why he never said he had a knot.

Erica: *shocked face*

Stiles: Yep, do you want to know the worst part.

Erica: *still unable to say anything but nods her head*

Stiles: I fucking loved it. I was literally praising him as he fucked it inside of me. God,it’s a feeling like no other. I don’t think I could ever go back to normal sex.

Erica: Oh my god

Stiles: Oh yeah. I could cum in my pants just thinking about it. I’m so lucky I’m Derek’s mate. For the rest of my life he gets to fuck me so good. I’d already do anything for that man but now, I would go to the ends of the earth for his dick.

* Derek walks into the loft, looks quizzically at Stiles and Erica*

Derek: What are you guys talking about?

*Stiles bounds over to Derek and places a heated kiss on his lips*

Stiles: Oh nothing, just about how much I adore you.

*Derek smiles softly and places another kiss on Stiles lips*

Erica:

Derek: Is she okay?

Stiles: I think so.

Derek: Erica, do you mind locking up? I’m taking Stiles out on a date.

*Stiles lights up, beyond excited about going out with Derek*

Erica: …Uh huh, I’m just gonna sit here for a few minutes.

Derek: *raises and eyebrow* Okay, see you later.

*Derek walks over to the door as Stiles bends down to whisper to Erica*

Stiles: *smirks* Just be sure to be gone when we get back. I’m going to be riding his dick as soon as we get back here.

Derek: STILES! I heard that. Get your ass over here and stop messing with my betas all the time.

*Stiles giggles but goes over to Derek and grabs his hand*

Stiles: But it’s so much fun messing with them.

Derek: Just because it’s fun doesn’t mean you should do it, baby.

Stiles: *pouting* ugh, fine. Bye Erica.

Derek: I was thinking of a picnic in the preserve. Does that sound good to you?

Stiles: Oh my god,yes! We can go to that one area no one goes to and you can bend me over the boulder there and fuck me hard and fast.

*Derek groans as he drags Stiles out of the loft, very excited to do what Stiles said*

Erica: *puts her head in her hands* I should have never asked.

@arminathura since you asked so nicely :)

*Derek, Stiles, and the 3 betas get into the Camaro*

Isaac:Why does Stiles get to sit up front?

Derek: …Well

Stiles: *straight face* Because I let Derek fuck me against the wall last night. He had me hanging on his co-

Derek: *blushing furiously* OK Stiles. I think they get it.

Erica: No please continue. I want all the details.

Boyd: …

[darkmatilda]

𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐛 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: one trip to california, one bed, two people, dozens of increasingly absurd topics of conversation, and an uncountable number of internal monologues running through spencer’s head during the night spent under the same blanket with his unexpected, self-appointed roommate.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist reader, one bed trope in stupid circumstances (with this trope the more absurd = the better cant change my mind), mention of spiders, 7k words of talking like trust me nothing happens here (okay they fight a bit over the blanket) (guess who won), spencer is down down bad bad, reader teaches him about skin care and is wearing his clothes, cucumber somehow becomes a topic of conversation, mention that they had sex before (intimate talk, finally confront that fact), they solve crosswords like an old married couple then get married buy a guinea pig name it gideon monroe and move to the countryside (they dont just kidding)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 7.3k

𝐚/𝐧: shoutout to my homegirl @nightfullofparadox for conducting complex research on the walls of her room and helping me determine whether hand cream feels sticky, greasy, or moist—such an important matter that without it, this fic wouldn’t exist. marathon masterlist

"...it was during the night of June 11 to 12, after nearly a year of preparing the plan, that they finally put it into action," Reid explained, with an unconscious hand gesture—fluid and natural—showing just how engaged he felt in the story he was telling. "In their beds, they left fake heads made of a mixture of toilet paper, soap, concrete, and hair from the prison barber shop’s trash. That way, the guards thought they were asleep when in fact they were escaping through an opening in the ceiling they had carved using spoons..."

The famous escape from Alcatraz was a topic Morgan and Garcia had some superficial knowledge of, while their partners—Savannah and Sam—had virtually none. And it just so happened to be one of the places they planned to visit during their three-day trip to California (actually, it was also the reason Spencer agreed to go with them at all), so he was thrilled by the fact that he could introduce them to this orally fascinating subject. And, as a bonus, make the airport check-in much more interesting.

At one point, Savannah sighed, taking a sip of the coffee she’d bought at the airport.

"I still can’t believe that the first place I’ll visit during my vacation is a prison," she said.

Reid shrugged. For him, visiting Alcatraz was far more interesting than lounging by a pool, but he decided not to judge and instead offer up some information that might change her mind.

"The island of Alcatraz is beautiful in itself," he noted. "In 1972, it became part of the Golden Gate National Recreation Area..."

He broke off, noticing the impatience with which Morgan kept glancing at his watch. His gaze was still scanning the airport, as if someone was missing. Just to be sure—not that he needed to, because he was sure—but just to be sure, Spencer counted the faces of his friends. Four, plus himself. As many as there were supposed to be from the start.

“I swear, if she’s late…” Derek muttered under his breath, gently shaking his head from side to side.

Spencer parted his lips, then closed them again, feeling at least mildly confused.

“Who?” he asked. “We’re all here.”

A laugh rang out...

A treacherous giggle escaping from Penelope’s mouth.

All heads turned toward her, which only made her laugh harder and prompted her to cover her mouth with her hand. Sam looked at her, caught by her smile; he seemed just as surprised as Reid—but in a slightly different way—positively intrigued, while a knot of foreboding twisted in Spencer’s stomach.

“What are you two up to, hmm?” Sam asked Garcia, his gaze moving from her to Derek.

A smirk formed on Morgan’s lips.

“We made sure Reid won’t get bored…”

“Well hey there, everyone,” came a voice from behind Spencer. He shut his eyes, unable to believe what was happening. He didn’t even have to turn around. “If any of you secretly manifested for me to be late, you almost got your wish. You wouldn’t believe the traffic…”

He still didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to—he knew exactly who had joined them. It was obvious just from the looks Penelope and Morgan were exchanging. Oh, he had been so right—he definitely wouldn’t be bored on this trip. He’d just end up going absolutely insane with irritation at least a thousand times. About 333.3(3) for each day of their stay.

“Just wait till Spencer finds out we booked them a shared room…”

His eyes flew open instantly—and so did his mouth, his throat suddenly dry.

Morgan burst out laughing but calmed him with a wave of hand.

“That part was a joke.”

A very unfunny one.

*

After a long shower and an even longer day, Spencer finally slid into the hotel bed. The hotel bed in a room booked just for him. To his great relief, Garcia’s words had indeed turned out to be a little silly joke, not something he actually had to live through.

Strange places usually meant trouble falling asleep, but that night, exhaustion worked in his favor—the first day of their stay in California was always meant to be the most intense one, strictly focused on sightseeing. His body was tired from walking, and his eyes were already beginning to close. A familiar heaviness and haze settled over his head, signaling that he’d drift off the moment it hit the pillow…

…but then came a knock at the door.

With a frustrated sigh, he got to his feet, having no clue who might want something from him at this hour. He didn’t even feel like forming a theory or guessing—he just opened the door, his face making it clear to the visitor that whatever it was they wanted, they’d better want it quickly.

The sleepiness left his body at once, replaced by surprise at the sight of the last person he expected to see from the trip. He almost groaned.

“Don’t even tell me it wasn’t a joke and we really are sharing a room…”

The woman shot him a glare, probably because of his openly displeased reaction. Not that she looked particularly thrilled herself—Spencer gave her a quick once-over, mildly surprised to see she was still wearing the same clothes from their sightseeing earlier, which might mean she hadn’t even made it to her room yet. Her expression, on the other hand—tense.

“Relax, pretty boy,” she said coolly, the nickname paired with a nod toward his not-so-cooperative post-shower hair and the sleepwear that, despite being neatly folded in his suitcase, looked a little crumpled.

Spencer awkwardly smoothed his hair a bit; not noticing, she continued—this time with more seriousness:

“As it happens, I need your help. It won’t take long.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying not to give in to the irritation. One thing that was constant in their relationship was that whenever they needed each other’s help, it actually took a long time. Let’s skip the fact that it could easily be cut in half just by removing their verbal sparring. And at least five minutes of convincing to do it at all. That step, Spencer decided to skip—he was too tired for that.

So he could either shut the door in her face, or help. He knew he wouldn’t survive the first one.

“Help with what?” he got straight to the point.

She looked at him a bit more kindly, like she was pleased with the readiness to act.

“I could go to literally anyone else, but since they’re all paired up I didn’t want to barge into their room all of a sudden, in the middle of the night,” she began, then sighed. “There’s a spider in my room. I won’t sleep with it in there, and I’m definitely not killing it myself. So,” she gave him a meaningful look.

Spencer hesitated for a moment before giving a verbal response, though he was aware that his expression probably gave a lot away.

 “Did you get a good look at it?”

“Of course not. Then I’d spend the whole night feeling like something’s crawling on me. But it was big and scary. Come on, before it gets away,” she tried to grab his wrist and pull him out of the room, but Reid skillfully avoided it.

For one simple reason.

“You know that in California the most commonly found venomous spider is...”

“Black widow,” she finished for him, suppressing a shudder at the very thought. “Especially fond of corners in apartments, like the edges near the baseboards. And according to the California Poison Control System, around 200–300 black widow bites are reported annually in the entire state.”

He couldn’t help that the little lecture complete with stats made an impression on him. She shrugged nonchalantly.

“Why are you staring like that, Mr. Genius? You’re not the only one who does research on places you’re visiting,” she replied. After a second of silence, she cleared her throat. “Okay, especially about the spiders in them.”

Reid sighed, still with one hand on the open door to his room.

The woman met his gaze. Her eyes, as if on command, softened and grew at least twice their size in an earnest, silent plea that felt like mercilessly kicking a puppy if denied.

“Will you kill it?” she asked.

If he stared at her for another minute longer, a halo would’ve lit up above her head and giant angel wings would’ve sprouted from her back—he had to break the spell, shaking his head. He already knew her manipulative techniques. But a witch’s tricks, no matter how beautiful she was, were still a witch’s tricks.

“Fuck no,” he replied. “What if it bites me?”

As he had expected, her convincing, innocent charm evaporated, giving way to a grimace.

“Better for it to bite me?”

Spencer’s arms shot up defensively.

“Well, from my perspective…”

“Move,” she suddenly commanded, cutting off whatever he was about to say. He straightened, his brow furrowed, not understanding. She made a sweeping motion with her hand, emphasizing what she meant. He felt a little as though some invisible force had actually pushed him aside, and he struggled to resist. The woman, with her usual confidence, looked him straight in the eye.

“Move, because I’m sleeping here,” she declared.

He blinked slowly and parted his lips wide enough to swallow a tennis ball. If anyone had just shot a tennis ball at him. Taking advantage of his moment of whatever it was, the woman gave him an ironic smile and simply bypassed him, not even caring that her hip brushed against him. Spencer somehow felt that fleeting touch all over his body, not just on that small part of him protected by clothes.

He needed to jam his hand into his own head to catch up with the situation.

“You’re not sleeping here!” he squeaked. With that voice, he wouldn’t stop even a kitten from wiping its ass on his pillow (and since he’d become a cat dad, that had happened a few times—he knew what he was talking about). Let alone a grown woman, a woman like her, from literally anything.

So, he took a deep breath, turned to face her, and said in a lower tone:

“You can’t sleep here.”

“Funny, because that’s exactly what I’m doing. Now close those damn doors.”

He felt that if he really closed those doors, he’d seal his fate. And it was exactly that thought that had terrified him when Penelope joked about it at the airport. Hesitant, he looked at her, not quite so clearly in the dim room, but still...he couldn’t deny it, she was attractive. In every way. Something she was well aware of and liked to use, making his face turn red and his mind fuzzy.

It was something Spencer could fight—but only for a short while. For the rest of the time, he became pathetically defenseless and exposed to her will, and like any person, he wanted to feel like he had some control over himself, over his own corner, room, bed, sleep.

He forced himself to take a deep breath and stay patient. Her arms crossed over her chest clearly saying she had already made up her mind. Still, he tried.

“Seriously,” he said with emphasis. “You can’t. There’s only one bed.”

He stated a fact, didn’t make it up—yet she scoffed as if he had just shared some controversial, completely unfounded opinion.

“It’s huge. You won’t even notice me,” she swiftly countered the argument.

He sighed, because on that particular point, she was right. The hotel bed was enormous. He looked at it with hesitation eating him from the inside, and finally, he broke and closed the door. As he turned to do it, he caught a fleeting glimpse of satisfaction on her face. He wanted to bang his forehead against the flat wooden surface.

Realizing he couldn’t stand frozen like that for the rest of the night, he finally stepped away from the door, slightly closing the distance between them. There was something expectant in her eyes.

“You’ll have to lend me something to sleep in,” she declared, watching his reaction with amusement. A reaction he tried to keep as unaffected as possible—but didn’t succeed very well. She gestured to her outfit. “Everything’s in my room. I didn’t even get the chance to shower when that monster materialized in it.”

He let out a sarcastic snort.

“What do you think,” he began, “how many clothes did I pack for a three-day trip?”

“Certainly more than necessary, you germophobe.”

Spencer should have felt offended by that remark, but somewhere at the edges of his mind, it flattered him a little. Because in truth, he had brought more clothes than necessary, and it was related to his aversion to germs. What he didn’t know was that she knew that.

“If anything, I’ll lend you something of mine tomorrow in return,” she murmured playfully, letting her gaze trail down the length of his frame, a gesture that instantly tightened the muscles in his stomach.

“I don’t think that would exactly fit my style,” he noted, swallowing as calmly as he could manage.

She shrugged slowly.

“You’ve got a decent waist. It would suit you.”

As she walked past him, heading straight for his suitcase, she poked him in that so-called decent waist with her fingernails, her hand moving like she was picking berries off a bush. Spencer actually jumped, rendered speechless, because first of all—what the fuck—and second, that hurt!

“I’ll pass,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing the assaulted spot.

He watched with a sort of sick fascination as she approached his suitcase and pulled out whatever clothes she deemed suitable for sleeping. It wasn’t the process or the act itself that triggered such a reaction in him—this inability to look away or even move—but her, in and of herself. So brazen she was practically unpredictable. And because of that, utterly captivating.

He only remembered that his body needed air to survive once his new roommate disappeared into the bathroom and the sound of the shower reached his ears. And really, it was at that exact moment that full-blown panic took hold of Spencer's back.

As they had already established, the only bed was huge—but still, it was just one. A flat surface not usually shared with random people, let alone people with whom you had such a complicated relationship. In order to even be able to move, Reid had to look at it from the opposite perspective. It was just a flat surface, a piece of wood, a mattress, and some bedding. The world wouldn’t end if he found himself under that bedding with her. Maybe he was even being heroic. Maybe there really had been a black widow in her room, and he, Spencer Reid, had to make this sacrifice for the good of humanity. For the good of one mind-blowing woman with never-flustered eyes who walked through every situation with unwavering confidence—even this one.

He realized he was still standing in the middle of the hotel room, completely frozen, and the sound of water from the bathroom had long gone silent.

To avoid humiliating himself right from the start, he hurried into bed. His thoughts tangled in chaos. It wasn’t like she was his guest or anything—he didn’t have to wait for her or make sure she had everything she needed. He had every right to simply lie down on his side, turn his back to her, and snatch a well-deserved and long-awaited sleep. And that’s exactly what he decided to do, though despite his heavy eyelids, his body and mind remained fully alert.

He heard the sound of the bathroom door creaking open, heard each of her steps separately, even heard the rustle of the duvet as she grabed a part of it to slip underneath. The mattress shifted. Just once. Which meant that if she had really gotten into bed, there would’ve been a few movements—signs of lying down, adjusting, searching for the right position. Spencer frowned and hesitantly rolled onto his back so he could look at her—and saw that she was frozen in a seated position, staring back at him.

He wanted to ask, a bit snidely, if something was wrong—but the words stalled in his throat at the sight of his clothes on her body, his loose t-shirt slightly revealing a glimpse of her collarbone and a few strands of hair still tucked underneath it.

In the end, she beat him to it, nodding slightly in his direction.

“We need to switch sides,” she said. He looked at her in confusion. “I mean, I prefer sleeping on that one.”

Spencer glanced at the ceiling for a moment, drawing a breath stripped of all patience into his lungs.

“What difference does it make?”

“Comfort. I always sleep on the right.”

“Oh, come on. This is my bed, and you’ve got…insane demands!”

“These aren’t insane demands. These are basic demands. You don’t want to know my insane ones.”

For a moment, their eyes met, and he pursed his lips slightly.

“You know what? I don’t think I can argue with that,” he muttered.

There was a flicker of premature victory in her eyes.

“So…we’re switching sides?”

“No.”

Saying that one simple word somehow made him feel more grounded in the situation. His brain was still in place, not melting and leaking out of his ears yet. Her chest rose with an annoyed sigh, and for a moment, she stayed quiet, locking eyes with him, giving him a chance to reconsider. And when Spencer didn’t…she simply turned her back to him and lay down on her side.

Without begging, or resorting to her usual tricks (let’s be honest—she always managed to find some), Spencer propped himself up on one elbow and stared at her back, his brows furrowed. That had gone surprisingly easily. So easily, in fact, that he didn’t feel the slightest satisfaction in having defended his rightful side of the bed.

He was just about to lie down in silence… when she let out a long, overly dramatic, loud, and thoroughly offended sigh. Yep—one short sound packed with that many adjectives.

He rolled his eyes at the sound.

“You can sigh all you want,” he muttered under his breath.

 He glanced at her cautiously, silently waiting to see if she’d say anything.

She didn’t.

He was just about to rest his head on the pillow again when the sound came back—just as overly dramatic and just as irritating.

“Fine. Take the damn side.”

His eyes shut tight, and a brief thought crossed his mind: he wasn’t going to cave to one of her whims. She’d survive one night on the wrong side of the bed.

Completely against that thought, his open palm smacked the pillow in defeat.

She immediately turned to face him with a smug little grin—and this time, it was Reid who sighed, though out of disbelief at himself. Thinking she’d get up and walk around the bed, he was left speechless, eyes wide, when she simply slid over him like someone crossing two shoelaces before tying them.

A knee accidentally jabbed him in the ribs, the ends of her hair brushed his face, and finally an elbow shoved him toward the left side all within, like, two seconds.

“How sweet of you to give me my favorite side,” she added with ironic cheer, the corners of her mouth lifting. She sat cross-legged on the bed, a gap between her back and the headboard, the blanket covering part of her knees. “You going to sleep now?”

Spencer, lying flat on his back and still recovering from what she'd just done, slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position. His hand, acting entirely without the consent of his fogged-up brain, reached for the nightstand where he’d left a book—just in case he couldn’t fall asleep.

Before she showed up, he’d been ready to pass out the moment he hit the mattress. Now, though, he was sure he wouldn’t be able to. He was fully awake.

In response, he just shook his head and opened the book to his saved page. It was about Alcatraz. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed her tilt her head to read the title on the cover, then pick something up—something he hadn’t even realized she’d been holding.

She squeezed a bit of white cream from a plastic tube onto the back of her hand. Catching his glance, she held it out toward him.

“Hand cream?”

Spencer gave her a completely blank, uncomprehending stare, like she was an alien visitor offering him some sort of high-tech ointment for immortality. And it wasn’t that the question itself was so outlandish. He was just fascinated by the escalation of it all. From inviting herself into his room and stealing clothes out of his suitcase to now sitting shoulder to shoulder in his bed and offering him hand cream.

He gave a slow shrug.

“Why not.”

She squeezed a bit of the lotion onto his hands, and after he rubbed it in, he waited a few minutes before reaching for his book again—because the thought of sticky fingerprints on the pages gave him the ick.

In the meantime, a dissatisfied grimace flickered across her face.

“All my skincare stuff is in my room,” she complained to him. “I had to use those hotel minis from your bathroom.”

She said it with such profound disgust that Spencer glanced at her over the top of his book, just as he was flipping the page, mildly amused.

“Poor thing. How ever did you survive?”

“Trust me, it took real sacrifice,” she assured him with a dead-serious expression. She picked up the hand cream again, examining the label with the air of someone reviewing classified intel. “Let’s see. Oh my god, there it is—Ethanol. Hello, instant dryness. Fragrance. Irritates, triggers allergies, wrecks your lipid barrier.”

She went on, listing off each ingredient in the cream with critical precision, offering lengthy commentary and open disdain for most of them. At some point, her monologue drifted into the category of skin-friendly ingredients—and that’s when Spencer realized he wasn’t actually reading anymore. He was just sitting in silence, eyes quietly fixed on her.

“And on top of all that,” she said suddenly, louder, pulling him out of the daze he'd slipped into. His open book lay face down on the blanket covering him up to the waist. “it just smells absolutely disgusting.”

Following her words, with some surprisingly genuine curiosity, he brought the back of his hand to his nose. And frowned.

“Smells like cucumber.”

“Exactly.”

“Cucumbers are actually a pretty nice scent.”

“Oh, please,” she scoffed. “Who in their right mind wants to smell like a cucumber?”

He felt obligated to defend the honor of cucumbers.

“Well, I bet there are plenty of people who like that scent,” he began, logically spreading his arms to the sides. She raised her brows at him, clearly not accepting that. “Otherwise there wouldn’t be so many cosmetic products with that exact smell. Personally, I don’t think it’s bad. It’s definitely refreshing.”

Her eyes swept over him almost evaluatively, up and down.

“I wouldn’t want to hear that kind of compliment.”

Spencer had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from commenting, but ended up doing it anyway.

“Oh, that’s new.”

“Hm?”

“You, not wanting to hear a compliment.”

She turned her face toward him, eyes narrowed.

“Are you suggesting I’m vain?”

Reid only slightly raised his brows and gave a brief shake of his head, leaving it open to her interpretation. After her question, he looked away from her, leaning out of the bed to place the book back on its spot on the nightstand. He figured it was probably time for sleep—another early wake-up awaited them the next day, and they’d already spent too much of this night talking. Surprisingly, Spencer didn’t regret it.

It means, he’d probably need an extra cup of coffee because of it tomorrow, but the whole thing was that after this conversation, he felt a knot in his stomach loosen, stress gradually leaking out of his entire body. Stress that had been there from the beginning, precisely because of what they were doing—sharing a bed.

A rather pleasant silence settled between them—finished, complete. Each of them focused on finding a comfortable position in which they wouldn’t be in each other’s way; no unfinished topic lingered in the air, no unpleasant words hung between them. The bed was spacious enough that, once they turned their backs to each other, they could almost forget about the other’s presence—but before they did, Spencer hesitated, lying on his back with his head on the pillow.

He caught her gaze before she had a chance to show him her back—he stopped her. She propped her temple against her palm, lying on her side, and gave him a questioning tilt of the chin. He swallowed nervously, gearing up to bring up something he had meant to say earlier but had forgotten.

“You’re going to leave early in the morning,” he said. It wasn’t a command or a request—more like…an opinion. Because he honestly thought it was the best solution, and assumed she’d agree. Her expression, however, remained unreadable.

 “I mean, before the others wake up,” he clarified.

Her shoulders gave a dismissive shrug.

“I’ll leave when I wake up and get myself together. I don’t care if the others are still asleep or already done with breakfast,” she replied.

She said it with a kind of simplicity that didn’t quite apply to the way Spencer perceived reality. Honestly, he felt like rolling his eyes.

“You know what they’re going to think about us?” he asked, rhetorically.

It seemed to him that she disagreed just for the sake of disagreeing, of doing things her own way, when in reality he hadn’t asked her for anything impossible or exhausting. Just for a possibly unnoticed exit from his room in the morning.

Still, she chose to answer.

“Two consenting adults having sex. Scandalous.”

For a moment, he stared at her in silence, then sighed. His head turned toward the ceiling.

“Okay, forget it.”

The mattress shifted—her movement. Or rather, her coming closer—not out of some sudden, unjustified need for affection, but to make sure her quietly spoken words were heard more clearly, a trace of irritation in them.

“Don’t act like some blushing princess,” she chided him, with complete seriousness despite everything. “We actually did have sex, Spencer. Did you forget?”

He was glad he had chosen to keep his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Just as the topic returned like a boomerang thrown nearly a decade earlier, one that had hit birds, planes, and several of his own downcast glances on its way back—forms of escape.

Her question wasn’t rhetorical; she waited for an answer, staring into his profile with a drilling gaze. Clever responses got lost somewhere in his tired brain; defeated by the effort of searching, he closed his eyes for a moment and went with simplicity.

“No.”

The reply came a moment later, but in its own way, measured—as if planned as well.

“So stop acting like it would be such a huge shame for you. The fact that you might be accused of sleeping with me,” she said coldly. Her hand, which had until then been supporting her head, dropped loosely onto the mattress. She pulled it toward her body and turned onto her back herself, no longer looking at him.

Spencer turned onto his side to look at her—or rather, at her profile—immediately after she said it. There was no pause, no uncertain hesitation, no nervous swallow paired with searching for something to say that wouldn’t make him sound like a jerk. In fact, he felt so bad about how she had taken his words that correcting himself came easily, driven by too much shame.

“I’m not saying it would be shameful,” he denied. “I just…maybe I don’t want people thinking things about me, about us, that aren’t true.”

“Then maybe you should care less about what people think,” she shot back.

“And maybe you should care more.”

She tilted her head slightly in his direction to catch his gaze—and hold it. Spencer felt a dryness in his throat, realizing she was waiting, without blinking, for the moment to say what she meant to say.

“Listen,” she began slowly. Her voice didn’t rise or lower; she didn’t break eye contact, but she also didn’t let him read too much from her expression. “We’re both adults. We slept together. It was nice. There’s no need to overanalyze it.”

She didn’t say it harshly, but it sounded like the end of the conversation.Spencer, however, couldn’t just leave it like that—something inside him made him speak up before that proverbial biting of the tongue could happen. It wasn’t easy though, not when his throat felt like a desert, and the question came out surrounded by a noticeable, nervous rasp.

“It was nice? Did…did you actually enjoy that?”

As he looked at her with his lips sealed and his breath held, she looked at him like he was an idiot.

“I’m not the type to fake anything.”

Lying still, he truly wished she would look away—let him free himself from her eyes and from what came not exactly because of them, but because of her. Her presence, her closeness, everything she had said. The memory he always punished himself for replaying, at least whenever she was near. He considered it deeply inappropriate.To feel someone’s touch again, to watch them uncovered while they stood right in front of you, maybe saying something, maybe asking a question.

Maybe lying in the same bed, in which she ended up only because of a small intruder in her own room, face to face, in the quietest possible silence.

Spencer gave in and turned his head away, cursing silently in his mind. But that still felt safer than continuing to meet her eyes. And when he did, suddenly the distance between their bodies seemed to grow, ever so slightly, even though physically they remained the same—on the same side of the bed. Only then did a flicker of sober thought manage to pierce through his mind. You won’t even notice me, he recalled her words and felt the urge to scoff. Even at the moment she’d said them, he’d suspected they wouldn’t hold true.

Sure, he could turn his back to her and draw some imaginary line between them, but that line was just an abstract concept, with no real application in their reality. He could not see her, but he still felt her beside him, and her presence seeped ethereally into his mind.

He somewhat regretted putting the book down, as he really needed a distraction. They still hadn't said anything to each other, but her gaze no longer lingered on him, making whatever had hung in the air between them in that brief moment start to fade away.

Reid moved his fingers aimlessly, trying not to appear paralyzed. And that's exactly how he felt, which made him incapable of falling asleep. Even his eyelids were no longer heavy. He heard a soft clearing of her throat. Okay, right after that, whatever had hung in the air was truly gone. Or rather, they existed on the plane of that aftertaste.

"You know," came his quiet, thoughtful voice. The silence between them had lasted long enough that a certain rasp had crept in, making Spencer have to mask a deep breath he suddenly took. "I don't think I can fall asleep without some mental effort. I miss my sudoku. Left it in my room, along with my skincare stuff."

"Talking to me isn't enough?" Spencer tried to joke, adding a little cocky tone to relax things, but god, it came out as the most awkward, pathetic thing he'd said, especially considering that his brain had shrunk to the size of a peanut over the last twenty minutes.

She spared him by not shooting him a look that said seriously? He shot that look at himself instead. Then he cleared his throat.

"Actually, I think I have some crosswords in my bag."

Her head turned toward him, eyebrows raised, silently asking what are you waiting for?

Spencer nearly jumped out of bed, almost tripping over his own legs, and returned moments later with a thick crossword book and a pen. Half sitting, half lying down, he immediately felt her shift closer to his side, her head resting on his pillow so she could see the filled-in squares.

Her finger tapped one of the boxes before Reid had even read the clue.

“Benzene,” she said.

Out of habit, he parted his lips to speak, then shut them—because, well, yeah. It was benzene. He dropped his gaze to the next clue, the answer flashing in his mind with a slight delay—but she said it aloud before he could. And that’s how it went every time, even though he was used to solving crosswords at near-record speeds. It happened because every time he knew the answer, his eyes drifted toward her, checking if she did too. And that alone was enough to smack his logic and focus square across the face, causing the delay.

He tried to recover, but there was no competitive spirit in him that night. So he just filled in the answers she gave, finding a strange kind of ease in the motion itself.

Force drawing objects toward each other, the next clue read. Of course he knew the answer—but he didn’t rush to say it. After all, she said she needed the mental effort to fall asleep; this was her shot. But no response came. Well, it was late. Maybe her sleepy brain wasn’t firing at full capacity anymore.

Then he felt a certain weight settle against his shoulder.

Spencer didn’t even need to look in her direction to know it was her head. But he looked anyway—because it felt so improbable he had to challenge both his eyes and his brain to a duel, just to make sure they hadn’t conspired to play tricks on him.

But no, it wasn’t a trick at all. She had really fallen asleep, letting her neck go slack, her temple landing right in that spot on his shoulder, the crown of her head brushing lightly against his neck and jawline.

Staring at her, Reid finally forced himself to blink when the air started to sting his eyes. The crossword book still rested in his hands, open, the pen between his fingers, and his lungs—at last—uncertainty drawing in air. Gently, so as not to jostle his body too much or… well, wake her.

He wondered if she’d yell at him if he woke her and told her to move. To go back to her half—the half she’d fought so hard for. But that thought remained just that: a curiosity. Spencer didn’t actually want to do it, though he couldn’t quite explain why. He, who usually shied away from touch. Yet this didn’t feel intrusive, awkward, or unwanted. It felt like a heavy blanket settling over the body on a cold, lonely night—something that wrapped around you with the soft weight of care and comfort in that dim, suspended moment just before sleep.

Though maybe, out of respect for her, he should wake her. After all, it wasn’t like she’d done it on purpose—her head had just drifted there…

Spencer pressed the back of his own head into the pillow with a sigh.

He closed the crossword book, set it aside on the blanket, and simply lay there—not trying to sleep, not trying to stay awake either.

It didn’t take long before the former won.

And it would’ve been very romantic to say that, come morning, they woke up in the same position—rested and refreshed, ready to take on another day of their trip, radiating energy and charm. That absolutely did not happen.

When Spencer woke up, it wasn’t even morning. Bringing his watch up to his face, he learned that exactly one hour and twenty-four minutes had passed since they’d fallen asleep—or rather, since she had. He, meanwhile, now lay pushed all the way to the edge of the bed, the knuckles of one limp hand brushing the floor.

He was literally one tiny movement away from falling off and slamming his head into the nightstand.

There was sand under his eyelids, and he was freezing. Disoriented, he forced his unbelievably heavy head upward to figure out why.

While he had been exiled to the very edge of the bed, she was lying comfortably on her side right in the middle, wrapped in their entire shared blanket like a cocoon—so tightly, in fact, that it took him a solid five minutes of analysis just to figure out which side her face was on. Eventually, he concluded it was turned toward him.

With a sigh, he reached for the edge of the blanket, hoping to claim at least a small portion of it for himself.

He couldn’t wrest the blanket free from her iron grip, no matter how hard he tried. A disbelieving huff escaped his lips—how could a sleeping body possess so much strength? And despite all his efforts, her slumber remained undisturbed.

He sighed. He was far too cold to give up.

After a moment’s hesitation about getting any closer, he finally leaned in to target the one part of her body left unguarded by the fortress—that is, the blanket. Gently, he pressed a finger against her cheek, with the kind of light pressure you’d use to test if dough had risen.

Her eyes fluttered open slowly, casting him a look that was first surprised, then thoroughly annoyed.

In a sleepy, groggy voice, she mumbled something that sounded a lot like what do you want?

“What do I want?” repeated Spencer, just as quietly as she had, but with more alertness. Their words were barely murmurs; if someone had stood in the doorway, they probably wouldn’t even have realized they were speaking to each other. “I want the blanket. You took all of it for yourself.”

“Because I’m cold,” she replied selfishly.

He scoffed in outrage.

“Guess what, so am I!”

At the count of fifty-eight, she stirred, then unwrapped her cocoon, lifting a part of the blanket so he could slip underneath. Her face showed nothing short of pure pity—divine mercy, even.

The woman didn’t answer him anymore, her eyes closed throughout the entire exchange. Reid shook his head slightly in disbelief, realizing… she had probably fallen asleep again.

He decided to wait a minute. Sixty seconds before he stopped being so nice and just took the blanket from her.

Spencer looked at her hesitantly, unable to move because, well… it would mean actually getting close. Almost falling asleep face to face, nose to nose.

“No, then don’t,” she muttered impatiently, already starting to pull the blanket back when Reid made the decision—before his brain had time to logically process it.

Once he was close, she let the blanket fall over both of them.

He couldn’t close his eyes, staring at her features blurred by the dark, even though he wanted to.

“Attraction,” she said, half-asleep.

His lips parted in confusion, unsure if he had imagined it.

 “W-what?”

A long moment of silence passed before she responded again.

“Force drawing objects toward each other. In the crossword. The answer is attraction.”

“Oh, right,” he confirmed, sheepishly.

Another stretch of silence followed—so long there was no doubt she had fallen asleep.

In the morning, he woke up first, struggling to make sense of the tangle of limbs they had become. Not cuddled, exactly, but complex, unarranged—labyrinthine. If he weren’t so sleepy, he might have been able to turn it into some sort of metaphor about…

“How late are we?” she pulled him out of his thoughts, sitting up with a yawn.

Her question, tone, and movements were all completely casual.

Still lying down, Spencer blinked up at her silhouette above him, trying to orient himself in reality. They had agreed to meet the rest of their friends at a specific time. He sighed, feeling the stiffness in his muscles, and slowly reached for the watch he had left on the nightstand, immediately sighing again.

“Very,” he said simply.

She adjusted his t-shirt, which had slipped partially off her shoulder.

“So I’m taking the bathroom first.”

He watched as she threw the blanket off her knees and her bare feet traced a path toward the bathroom. He followed her with a gaze that bordered on intrusive, and when he realized it, he flinched slightly. His head fell back onto the pillow at the same moment the door closed behind her.

He had just been hit by the kind of thoughts one can only face in a horizontal position.

For some reason, the room felt much quieter than it had when they had both been lying there in silence.

He fixed his gaze on the ceiling, simply not knowing what was happening to him. Once more, he replayed in his mind the way she adjusted his shirt on her body with a certain fluidity of movement, a nonchalance, a naturalness. A naturalness that, in its own way, hurt him when he thought about it too much.

The weight in his head was definitely not natural, the nervousness wasn’t natural, the way his breath changed when her face, in sleep, ended up too close to his—none of it was natural.

And yet, they had only shared a bed.

Before he could spiral fully into the rest of his anxious thoughts, a knock sounded at the door. A flashback from the previous evening flickered across his mind—when he had first been falling asleep and it had been her standing on the threshold. But now she was in the bathroom, so it had to be someone else—one of their friends.

He went to open the door and, just as he’d predicted, found himself face-to-face with Penelope.

“Do you even realize what time it is?” she asked, placing her hands on her hips. Spencer raised a hand to his forehead and rubbed it. After so many hours of quiet, her voice struck him as particularly loud. It helped wake him up—something he definitely needed.

“If you want to spend this day the way we originally planned, you better get dressed and do something about that hair, my dear…”

Penelope’s mouth suddenly fell open, her eyes widening as they locked on a point just behind Spencer. He instinctively turned—only to see his roommate stepping out of the bathroom, unaware of Garcia’s arrival.

She was still wearing his clothes from the night before, her hair damp from a morning shower, and yesterday’s outfit slung over her arm with the clear intention of returning it to her own room and suitcase.

Penelope only noticed her once both pairs of eyes had settled on her—his included—and she froze mid-step. She looked him straight in the eye, and he was sure they were both thinking the same thing—the conversation they’d had the night before.

“Oh my god,” Garcia squeaked, practically bouncing in place. She slapped a hand over her mouth, shaking her head as if to gather herself. “I mean hi. You. Two of you. I…see you’re not quite ready so…fifteen minutes? Great!”

Before leaving, she shot Reid a very pointed look—just a second long, but more than enough to make it clear that they definitely had something to talk about.

[neptunsx]

LOST IN THE BEAT | N.RK

⤷ genre: nsfw.

⤷ synopsis: ni-ki as your rival in a dance competition.

DAY 1:

The bus ride from the airport to the competition hotel felt endless, but the moment you stepped into the grand lobby, your breath hitched. Towering glass windows overlooked the skyline, golden lighting warmed every corner, and banners for the World Hip Hop/Street Dance Championship fluttered from the ceiling like flags of war.

“Welcome to six days of stress, sweat, and too much hairspray.” your teammate muttered beside you, tugging her duffel higher on her shoulder.

You laughed, adrenaline already buzzing in your veins.

You and your crew had worked all year for this moment. Elite teams from all over the world gathered here — a melting pot of styles, reputations, and rivalries. Your group was respected. Feared, even. But this was new territory. A bigger stage.

After check-in, your team settled into your rooms on the 6th floor. Two people in each. You dropped your bag and flopped onto one of the beds, exhaling.

“Welcome ceremony is in 4 hours.” your captain reminded everyone, already checking her phone. “Be presentable. Be seen. But don’t get sloppy.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “We’re not amateurs.”

Your room was soon cramped but buzzing with your teammates' energy. Outfits were unpacked, makeup kits sprawled across beds, and loud music thumped from someone's portable speaker.

You pulled yourself together with care — sleek outfit, clean makeup, hair swept up to frame your face — and left for the party.

The rooftop was glowing under soft string lights, music pulsing through the floor like a heartbeat. Dancers mingled — laughing, dancing, showing off tricks and spins. The atmosphere buzzed with that unique energy only dancers gave off when they were off-stage but still trying to win.

You found the rest of your team gathered by one of the long cocktail tables, sipping drinks and scanning the crowd.

“There’s Japan’s team.” someone murmured, and you turned your head.

Their presence was impossible to ignore — sharp movements, dark clothes, an air of quiet superiority. You caught the way a few of them threw glances — not friendly, not curious. But competitive. Judgy.

Your leader straightened, tossed back the rest of her drink, and with the kind of confidence only years of winning could build, walked straight toward them. There was no choice but to follow.

Fake smiles were exchanged like poker cards. Introductions, tight handshakes, forced compliments. You kept your expression neutral, nodding along, but your eyes were scanning... observing.

And that’s when you saw him.

Ni-ki.

The best dancer on Japan’s team — and one of the most talked-about competitors this year. Standing just slightly apart from the rest, tall and big, oreo hair, dressed in an oversized shirt layered over low-slung jeans, silver chains glinting against his collarbone. Chrome Hearts rings adorned his fingers, catching the light as he sipped casually from his drink, his gaze trained on your group and you. Or through you. You couldn’t tell.

Judging you. Or checking you out.

Either way, your blood heated.

You stepped closer, drawn like a moth to a flame you already knew was going to burn.

"What?" you snapped under your breath once you were within earshot. "Never seen real competition before?"

His lips quirked — barely. "Competition? I thought you were part of the decor."

You scoffed. "Guess it takes a real dancer to recognize one. You probably wouldn’t know."

Ni-ki’s smile sharpened. "Sweet of you to think you’re the standard. You dance like you’re trying to prove something. It’s exhausting to watch."

"And you dance like you know everyone’s already watching. Arrogant much?"

He stepped closer, gaze scanning you with the kind of intensity that made your skin prickle. "It’s not arrogance if you can back it up."

You folded your arms. "Is that what you tell yourself before every performance? Must be nice to live in that delusion."

"Delusion implies it’s not real." he said, tipping his head slightly. "But I guess it’s hard to see the truth when you’re used to being second-best."

You bristled. "You’ve seen me dance for five seconds. You don’t know shit about me."

He raised a brow, calm but smug. "Didn’t have to. The way you keep puffing your chest around us says everything. Insecure much?"

You stepped forward now, chest brushing his. "Please. If anything, you’re the one intimidated. Watching me from the edge like a scared little boy."

He tilted his head, gaze dropping briefly, slow, deliberate, before rising to meet yours again. "Oh, I was watching. Just trying to figure out how someone could look so confident and still mess up their footwork."

You raised a brow, biting back a scoff. “Says the guy who’s been leaning on a wall all night, too scared to sweat his perfect hair out.”

That smug smirk returned. “I don’t need to try hard. People know what I’m capable of.”

“Do they?” You stepped a little closer, drink still in hand. “Because I’ve seen videos. You’ve got showmanship, sure. But underneath that? Kind of hollow.”

Ni-ki let out a low chuckle. “Cute. You dig through my reels before bed or something?”

“I don’t waste my time on mediocrity.” you shot back.

He leaned in just slightly, voice lower now, almost amused. “No, you just come to parties pretending to be the big shot when you still have something to prove.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough. You’re loud. In your dancing. In your attitude. That’s what people do when they’re desperate to be seen.”

You blinked. Heat prickled in your chest. “You think hiding behind cool looks and cryptic one-liners makes you interesting? Newsflash — you’re not mysterious. You’re just emotionally constipated with a rhythm.”

Ni-ki gave a slow shake of his head, tongue pressing into the inside of his cheek. “Wow. That’s the best you’ve got?”

“Trust me, I’m holding back.”

His gaze dragged down your face, slowly, then back up again. “All bark. No bite.”

You stepped even closer, practically toe-to-toe now. “Try me.”

Ni-ki’s expression flickered, something unreadable flashing behind his eyes. He didn’t respond right away, just stood there, looking like he was trying to figure you out.

But then, with a slow shake of his head, he turned his gaze elsewhere, the corner of his mouth curling into something too smug for your liking.

You didn’t wait for more. Without another word, you turned on your heel, walking away with purpose, the weight of his stare still pressing into your back as you made your way back to your table with your team.

The party carried on around you, loud and lively, people chatting, laughing, drinks flowing. But despite the noise, the space between you and Ni-ki felt charged, like the air itself was holding its breath.

Every time you caught his eye from across the room, it was like a quiet spark. His gaze would linger for just a moment too long, something unreadable flickering behind it, before he’d look away—only for you to find him staring again moments later.

You tried not to let it bother you, focusing on the conversations around you, laughing with your team. But you could feel his presence in the room, a weight that was impossible to ignore.

And every now and then, just when you thought you were imagining it, you’d catch him watching you—his expression unreadable, but something in his eyes undeniably locked on you.

A challenge, a dare, a question. You weren’t sure which. But whatever it was, it made your pulse race every time.

DAY 2:

You blinked your eyes open. Dim morning light leaked in through the sheer curtains, casting sleepy shadows across the floor. The air smelled like clean linen, hair product, and faint perfume from the night before. But your body was already buzzing — your mind racing ahead to 4 PM. Preliminaries.

You turned your head.

R/N (roommate’s/name) was sprawled out on the other bed, one leg kicked off the blanket, mouth slightly open, hair splayed across her pillow.

“Rise and suffer.” you said hoarsely, tossing a pillow at her hip.

She groaned into her arm. “Can’t we just skip prelims and manifest our way to the finals?”

You laughed softly, dragging yourself up to sit on the edge of the bed. “We wish.”

She grunted but started moving. Slowly. Like her bones were made of lead.

You both threw on sweatpants and hoodies — hair pulled back, faces bare — and made your way down to breakfast with the rest of your team filtering out of rooms nearby.

The hotel lobby smelled of fresh coffee, citrus cleaner, and some kind of pastry. You trailed behind the group, the nerves blooming under your ribs now, your legs jittery even before caffeine.

The dining hall was lively but low-pitched — teams clustered at different tables, some still blinking sleep from their eyes, others already buzzing with energy. Laughter drifted from the table closest to the buffet. Someone was talking in rapid French, and another group in Portuguese. The international air made everything feel bigger.

You grabbed trays and moved through the buffet — eggs, toast, fruit, a second cup of coffee you hoped wouldn’t make your hands shake later.

R/N leaned in as you scanned the room, casually trying not to look like you were looking.

"He's not here."

You blinked. "Who?"

She gave you a slow, smug look as she bit into a piece of melon. "You know who."

You rolled your eyes and poured orange juice a little too forcefully. "I wasn’t checking."

"Yeah, right.”

You sat by the window, where light poured over the table and made the morning feel deceptively calm. Your team filtered in around you — still in half-asleep states, teasing each other, sharing TikToks, whispering nervously about the schedule for the day.

Preliminaries weren’t until 4 PM.

That meant hours of build-up. Hours of waiting. Of nerves tightening by the minute.

You tried to focus on breakfast, but your thoughts were restless. Like your body was already halfway on stage, halfway counting beats and measuring breath.

Back in your room, the energy shifted. You weren’t in pajamas anymore. Your hoodie came off. The performance outfits were on. Hair brushed out. Makeup bag open. Music playing low from someone’s speaker.

It felt real now.

You sat at the desk mirror with R/N beside you, both of you doing eyeliner like it was war paint.

“You good?” she asked, her reflection catching yours.

“Just want to get out here already.”

“You’ll kill it. We will.” she bumped her shoulder into yours. “We didn’t fly all this way to quit and blend in with the losers.”

You didn’t say it out loud, but there was more at stake than just placement. You wanted to be seen. To be undeniable. And not just by the judges.

The venue was packed when your team arrived.

Polished floors. Massive LED panels. Blasting bass echoing off high ceilings. Teams were everywhere — stretching in hallways, warming up on the sidelines, coaches talking with tight-lipped intensity.

You felt your heartbeat climb just from stepping into the room.

It was more than nerves. It was anticipation.

From the moment your team stepped into the side area by the stage — shoulder-to-shoulder in matching warm-ups, names stitched in sharp block letters across your backs — everything felt realer. The air was thick with sweat and nerves. Every second, another team went up, another music cue played, another burst of applause hit like thunder through the walls.

You and R/N stood near the curtain, peeking through the side gap to catch glimpses of the competition.

“Shit…” she muttered under her breath. “They’re clean.”

On stage, the team from the Philippines was tearing through their set. All tight footwork and fluid, contemporary bursts between sharp hip-hop breaks. They moved like they’d been born rehearsing.

You didn’t mean to doubt yourself, but your heart tripped over itself watching them. And they weren’t even the strongest ones here.

Your hands flexed at your sides.

Someone behind you started counting eight-counts out loud to stay loose. Your other teammate was stretching again — even though she’d already stretched twice. You could tell everyone was carrying it differently: nerves, anticipation, hope.

You weren’t scared.

But you were wired.

Every cheer from the audience sent a fresh spike of adrenaline through you.

Then came the call.

Your team name echoed through the speakers. You felt your pulse in your ears.

“Time to go make them remember you.” your coach clapped her hands once behind you.

You walked out under the lights.

Everything dimmed but the heat of the spotlights and the weight of the music waiting to drop.

The stage felt enormous. Your whole body was aware of its size, of the way your heartbeat seemed to bounce back off the walls. You took position and the rest of the team fell into place.

And then—

The first beat dropped.

Like muscle memory, your body launched into motion. Your nerves didn’t vanish. They transformed. They sharpened.

You weren’t thinking. You were feeling. Every turn, every syncopated move, every drop of your weight into the beat — it was real and alive and honest. You danced like it was the last time you ever would.

The crowd blurred. But you caught flashes of motion in your periphery — shadows moving. Someone watching from the wings. Cameras panning. Judges scribbling.

But you didn’t stop.

You snapped into the final pose with the kind of force that left your chest burning and your vision spotty.

For one second, there was silence.

And then — roaring applause.

You stood there, heaving for breath, sweat sliding down your spine, your teammates already lunging in to hug each other behind you.

T/N’s voice cracked behind you.

“We killed that.”

Backstage, your adrenaline was still spiking. Your hands shook as you took a water bottle from a volunteer, half-spilling it as you tilted it up.

Then you heard…

“Team Japan, please take your places.”

You turned instinctively. The hallway cleared just enough to catch them walking past.

Cool outfits. Calm, unshaken. Like nothing could touch them.

Ni-ki walked at the front, hoodie off now, arms loose at his sides, eyes steady. He didn’t look at you at first. But you could feel his awareness like gravity. You didn’t mean to stare, but—

Then he turned.

Just slightly. Just enough to lock eyes for a split second.

He didn’t smile.

But something sparked at the edge of his gaze. A flicker. Something like challenge.

And then he passed.

You should’ve looked away when they hit the stage but you didn’t. You watched all of it. And it shook you.

Because Ni-ki danced like he didn’t need to prove anything. Every movement was effortless — crisp, fast, deadly smooth. The whole team was good, but your eyes kept snapping back to him.

Not because of attraction. It was something else. Something magnetic. Commanding.

The crowd was loud — louder than they’d been for anyone else.

You hated how your chest ached watching them.

R/N leaned in during their set.

“Fuck.” she whispered. “They might win this whole thing.”

You couldn’t answer. Because part of you already agreed.

A few performances later, it was time for the results. All the teams gathered on stage, the air thick with anticipation and nerves, hands clenched tightly and breaths held.

Names flashed up on the screen, team by team.

Your name hit the screen second.

You and your team screamed in sync.

You felt like someone had taken the air out of the room. You couldn’t stop laughing — loud and breathless and maybe a little hysterical. Your teammates tackled each other in hugs. Someone cried into your hoodie.

You glanced up again—

Japan.

They were in. You both were.

Semi-finalists.

Across the crowd, Ni-ki was looking at you. This time, he didn’t look away. Your smile faltered for half a second. You lifted your chin.

So did he.

And just like that, you both turned away at the same time. Unspoken: we’ll meet again.

DAY 3:

Everyone woke up late, skipping breakfast.

Your team had crammed into one room last night to celebrate — it got messy, loud, and unforgettable.

Today was the preliminaries for the minors division, which meant the adult teams had the day off. Time to hit the streets, explore the city, sneak in some light practice — or maybe even hook up with someone from another team. Heard rumors.

You and your team had thrown on your most casual fits. Hoodies, sunglasses, sneakers — and poured out of the hotel like kids on a field trip.

No schedule, no pressure, just the open streets and whatever looked fun.

You started in the historical part of the city, wandering down cobblestone streets lined with narrow cafés, souvenir shops, and murals painted across aging buildings. Street performers filled the air with music.

“Let’s find food before Y/N passes out.” someone said, pointing at your dramatic limp.

You all ducked into a local spot — cozy, busy, the smell of grilled meats and spices washing over you as soon as you stepped inside. The tables were close together, conversation loud and fast in languages you half understood.

You ordered too much. Shared everything. Took videos of your teammates trying something spicy and immediately regretting it. Someone flirted with the waiter just enough to get you all free desserts. You hadn’t laughed this hard in days.

After that, you wandered into a nearby shopping district — bright signs, trendy boutiques, street carts selling accessories and snacks.

The team split up to hit different stores, rejoining every so often to compare finds or drag each other into dressing rooms.

You were strolling with your teammates, casually chatting about what was still missing from your shopping lists, when you spotted a group of dancers hanging outside a sneaker store, laughing. You recognized their faces from the prelims. Canada’s team. One of the guys — tall, sharp jawline, nose ring — looked over and gave a subtle nod of recognition.

You nudged T/N. “That’s the team from Canada, right?”

“Mhm. And that guy is not ugly.”

As if summoned, he and his team walked over with a slow grin. “Didn’t expect to run into stars of the stage.”

You raised a brow, playful. “Didn’t expect to be recognized without stage lights.”

He let out a low chuckle. “Some people are hard to forget.”

His gaze lingered — not in a creepy way.

Behind you, your teammates were already chatting with his, the two groups blending easily, like dancers always do. He stayed near you, hands in his pockets, voice low as he asked where you were headed next.

“You should come to that club near the riverfront with us tonight.” he said.

“You dance as good offstage as you do on it?” you teased.

He smirked. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”

By the time you left the shopping area, the plan was set: both teams were going clubbing tonight. At the BEST club of the whole city. Half your team was hyped, the other half already planning outfits. R/N looked at you with a knowing smile and mouthed, “You better wear something lethal.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t disagree.

Tonight was for having fun— no judges, no scores. Just lights, music, and the kind of tension that had nothing to do with competition.

By the time the sun dipped behind the skyline, your hotel room looked like a tornado of makeup, clothes, and hair tools.

Your teammates were spread out everywhere — one doing eyeliner in the mirror, another trying on their third outfit, someone blasting music from a small speaker. You were half-dressed, sipping something bubbly out of a stolen paper cup, and lining your lips with the kind of confidence that only came after a good day and a better outfit.

T/N flopped dramatically on the bed behind you.

“We’re about to commit crimes with these looks.”

You gave yourself one last glance in the mirror.

“Let’s make it illegal, then.”

Downstairs, the hotel lobby was a mini runway. Your team had gathered by the glass doors, dressed to kill and louder than ever. Outside, Canada’s team was already waiting — jackets slung over shoulders, shoes clean enough to mean business.

Black-haired guy, the one who’d been flirting, grinned the second he spotted you.

“Damn, you look good.” he said, low but not subtle, eyes running down then back up.

“Thank you.” you smiled, cheeks already flushing.

The teams merged effortlessly, playful energy bouncing between you all as you walked down the street together. The night was cool, the city alive — music from open bars, the hum of traffic, and laughter echoing off the sidewalks.

Once you reached the club, it felt like entering a different world.

Low lights, deep bass, everything tinted in red and purple glow. A strobe cut across the floor as dancers swayed and spun, the air thick with sweat, perfume, and that charged kind of joy only dancers understood.

Your team flooded in like a storm. Jackets dropped, drinks ordered, hair let down. You ended up at the bar with T/N and two others, clinking glasses and laughing at something ridiculous. The music was good. Your body was already moving with it.

You let the beat guide you onto the floor, your teammates cheering, half of them already spinning into their own circles. You moved like the music was yours. Smooth, effortless, magnetic. Canadian guy followed. You danced, laughed, touched lightly here and there.

It was fun. It was light. It wasn’t serious — it didn’t have to be.

The night blurred into laughter, half-finished drinks, and dancing like you didn’t even care who was watching. Everyone was tipsy, glowing under the lights, arms thrown around shoulders, bodies swaying to the beat like gravity didn’t exist.

The Canadian guy had gotten bolder — his hand at your waist more often now, fingertips brushing just under the hem of your top when he leaned in to say something close to your ear. You let it happen. Maybe even liked the attention. You weren’t exactly innocent either. You were challenging him.

But then —

You turned your head. Scanned the crowd out of instinct more than curiosity.

And your stomach dipped.

In the far corner of the club, tucked half in shadow, you saw him.

Ni-ki.

Back pressed against the wall, arms locked around some girl’s waist. She was pressed against him, her arms curled around his neck. He was grabbing her ass, pulling her closer to him. Their mouths crashing into each other. It wasn’t shy. It was desperate.

Your body went still, your smile freezing at the edges. The music kept going. The guy beside you was still speaking — something about a drink, maybe. You didn’t hear it. Couldn’t. The heat that flushed your skin wasn’t from dancing anymore.

Why him?

Why did it bother you?

You didn’t even like Ni-ki. You barely knew him. You’d spoken once — argued, really — and yet somehow the memory of his eyes raking over you felt hotter than this guy’s fingers ever could.

But seeing him like that — her hands in his hair, his mouth on hers, on her neck — it hit something sharp and sour behind your ribs.

You looked away fast, like the sight had burned your eyes. Turned toward the guy still touching you, tried to focus. Tried to let him pull you closer. His hand slid lower. His breath warmed your cheek.

But it didn’t feel right anymore.

His touch didn’t spark anything now — not when you’d just watched Ni-ki stick his tongue down another girl’s throat. Like he knew someone was watching.

Do I care? No. I don’t.

...But you did. And it pissed you off.

You threw back the rest of your drink like it could kill the feeling.

Fine. Let him kiss her.

Two can play that game.

You tugged the Canadian guy by the hand, pulling him into a darker corner of the dance floor, away from your teammates, away from the noise. This spot gave a clearer view of the club’s back wall, where Ni-ki had been before, pressed up against that girl like she was oxygen.

You tilted your head, laughed at something you didn’t hear, leaned in closer. The Canadian guy’s hands were eager, mouth finding yours in seconds. His kiss was clumsy but hungry. You let it happen. Let his hands settle on your hips, your fingers tug gently at the back of his shirt.

Because you wanted Ni-ki to see.

But when you looked up — the corner was empty. He was gone.

Your stomach twisted, annoyance curdling in your chest. You weren’t sure if you were disappointed he didn’t see — or angry he didn’t care. You pulled away from the guy, muttering some excuse about needing air before he could even ask and rushed outside the club.

The air hit you like a splash of cold water — crisp, quiet, and far too clear compared to the chaos inside. You stepped out onto the dim sidewalk, heels clicking against the concrete, heart still pounding from the music. Or maybe not from the music at all.

You needed space. You needed to stop feeling this stupid twist in your stomach every time you thought about it — about him. You barely knew him. You had one conversation. One fight. One impossible, electric stare-off.

So why did seeing his mouth on someone else make your skin crawl?

You exhaled sharply, ready to brush it off — until you looked to your left.

And there he was.

One hand in his pocket, the other holding a cigarette between his fingers. Shirt slightly undone at the collar, hair messy, lips puffy from making out, expression unreadable — except for that glint in his eye when he noticed you.

He looked unfairly good, like the kind of trouble you knew you shouldn’t want.

His gaze swept over you, slow and deliberate as he took a drag from his cigarette.

“Out for air? Or did your little fanboy run out of lines?”

You rolled your eyes, folding your arms. “Didn’t realize you were on a break from dry-humping your way through the club. You looked real sentimental with that girl’s hands down your pants.”

He hummed, letting your words hang. Flicked ash onto the ground like it bored him.

“Didn’t realize I needed your approval.”

“You don’t.” you said, stepping a little closer, arms crossed, jaw tight. “But if you’re gonna act like a dog in heat, at least find someone with a pulse behind her eyes.”

That got a reaction. He turned to face you fully now, eyes narrowed, jaw tensing once before he grinned — slow, sharp, like a warning.

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you.” he murmured.

“I’m not jealous.” you bit out, words too sharp to be anything else. “I’m disgusted.”

He chuckled — low, humorless.

“That’s why you couldn’t stop looking?”

You flinched. Just slightly. But it was enough.

His eyes caught it, and the grin faded. What replaced it was colder. He took a step forward, just one — deliberate.

“You really think you’re above this? That you don’t play the same games?”

You matched him, closing the space between you by another inch.

“At least I don’t pretend I’m mysterious when really I’m just emotionally stunted and vaguely rude.”

Ni-ki gave you a long, slow look. A muscle in his jaw ticked once.

“You think you know me.”

“I know your type.”

Another step.

His eyes dragged over your face, and for the first time, the smugness faded. His voice dropped an octave.

“No. You don’t.”

You should’ve walked away.

But your body was already tilting toward him — just slightly. Like gravity had picked a side.

“Then stop acting like a stereotype.”

“Then stop staring at me like you want to ruin me.”

Your mouth parted.

The space between you could be measured in heartbeats now. His cigarette burned between two fingers, forgotten, smoke curling around the both of you like a trap. You could see his chest rise and fall, feel the heat off his skin, feel every word like a bruise.

“You think I want you?” you said it quietly this time. The lie tasted bitter on your tongue.

Ni-ki’s gaze dropped to your mouth, then back up — and his voice turned to gravel.

“No.” he stepped even closer. “I think you want to hate me so bad you don’t know where the line is anymore.”

And just like that, you were chest to chest. Close enough to feel the breath from his lips. Close enough to see the flecks of bronze in his dark eyes.

The air between you charged. A breath. A heartbeat. His hand twitched, like he almost reached for your face — and your body leaned in before your brain could catch up.

Your noses brushed. No one moved.

Not quite a kiss. Not yet.

His lips parted “Say it again.”

You whispered, “I don’t want you.”

But it didn’t sound like a denial. It sounded like surrender.

His eyes searched yours like he was waiting — like if you blinked, he’d kiss you.

You blinked.

And then you took a shaky step back. The moment shattered like glass underfoot.

Ni-ki didn’t speak. Just let the silence burn. He took one last drag, exhaled, and flicked the cigarette away without looking.

“That’s what I thought.”

You didn’t reply. You turned, walked away, your legs too steady for how wrecked you felt.

You didn’t look back. And he didn’t follow. But the heat of him followed you all the way inside.

DAY 4:

You woke up with a pit in your stomach. It wasn’t the hangover.

Tonight was the semi-finals. 7PM sharp. And it felt like the entire world was holding its breath.

Your roommate was already up, gathering her things. You got up and dressed quickly, pulling your hair back, staring into the mirror for longer than necessary as if it could prepare you for what was coming.

A few hours later, you all regrouped at a small studio a few blocks away — one you found and booked days in advance. The space wasn’t perfect, but the mirrors were clean, the sound system was decent, and the floor felt like home.

You danced through every beat with precision and force, trying to sweat the nerves out of your bloodstream. The run-throughs were good. Just like you’ve been practising for months for this moment. You kept going, pushing harder each time, breathing through the tightness in your chest.

It was close to 3PM when your coach finally made you stop.

“You’ve got this.” she said, voice firm but soft around the edges. “Trust the work you’ve put in.”

You nodded, even though your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

You returned to your rooms, half-dead and half-floating. Everyone rushed to take a shower and rest for a few hours, to regain powers for the semifinals.

Time passed quickly. You didn’t really want it to. But it did.

Everyone dressed with care, stage makeup went on like armor. You lined your eyes sharper than usual, slicked your hair back, smoothed your outfit like you were building a version of yourself that didn’t feel like crumbling.

The hotel lobby was buzzing when you came down. Teams were pouring in, competition jackets draped over shoulders, nerves vibrating through the floor. You spotted familiar faces — teams you partied with, competed beside, nodded to in passing. It felt like every step toward the shuttle was heavier than the last.

And of course, the devil, Ni-ki, couldn’t be missing. Your eyes always found him with no effort in the crowd. Like they were used to him.

He stood across the lobby, leaning slightly against the wall as his team checked in with officials. His expression was unreadable, arms crossed over his chest, jaw clenched like he was trying to contain something that wanted to spill.

He didn’t see you. But you did.

And even from a distance, your stomach twisted. You swallowed it down. Turned away. Let it burn somewhere deep.

The lights hit differently tonight — brighter, harsher. The crowd was louder. The stage felt colder under your sneakers. Every second backstage felt like an hour.

You watched other teams perform. Some flawless, others crumbling under pressure. It didn’t matter. Nothing registered but your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Your team went on near the middle.

When the music started, you moved like you had nothing to lose. Like every breath had to count. The choreography hit hard — footwork sharp, turns clean, faces locked in and burning. You felt every second of it in your body. The ache, the sweat, the adrenaline like lightning in your veins. You could hear your teammate's breaths in rhythm with your own, feel the ground thrum with each drop of the beat.

And when it ended, you were shaking. But you were smiling.

The cheers blurred around you. You stumbled off stage and fell into a huddle of arms and breathless laughter. It was good enough to get you to the finals.

And then came Japan. Again.

They took the stage like wolves. As always. Every movement was controlled, smooth. Their energy was cold-blooded, but magnetic. Ni-ki’s performance was ruthless. Every glide and hit exact, every expression unreadable but intense.

You hated how he danced. You hated how good he was. And you hated how you couldn’t tear your eyes away.

By the time they ended, the air had shifted.

The room knew. It was between you and them.

Everyone gathered on stage, hands held too tightly, whispers too quiet to hear. You stared straight ahead, chest caving in with nerves.

One team was announced. Then another.

And then — your name.

Your team screamed, collapsing into each other like falling dominoes.

You did it. You made it to the finals. This is what your team had been dreaming off, practising hours for. And you did it. But that didn’t mean victory. Finals did.

Moments later, Japan’s name was called. Ni-ki’s team erupted too — less noise, but just as sharp.

It hit like a cold wave. Japan was in the finals. Of course they were. You knew they would be, had expected it, but hearing their name called still made something sink in your chest. They were good. Too good. And everyone on your team knew it.

The high from your own victory thinned the second reality settled in. Glances were exchanged, subtle and tense, like no one wanted to say it out loud: we might not win. Japan was sharp, dangerous, disciplined down to the bone. And Ni-ki? He was a force all by himself — the kind of dancer that didn't just hit moves, he owned them. You felt the nerves in your teammates, the weight of what was coming. The finals weren’t going to be a celebration — they were going to be a war.

After results, all teams and coaches had the chance to chill at the lounge. The tension had shifted into something looser. Music played low in the background, ambient and modern. Tables were filled with food trays, pitchers of juice and cocktails. Dancers from every team spilled across the room, slouched into couches, laughing, sharing videos from the stage, comparing blisters and bruises like badges of honor.

Your team had taken over one corner, plates half-full, drinks getting chucked down, one after another. Everyone was smiling, but you could feel the static under the surface — conversations danced around one name: Japan.

You needed a minute. Maybe it was the post-adrenaline crash or just the heaviness in your chest, but something pushed you to your feet. You scanned the lounge casually — too casually — looking for Ni-ki. And you found him. As always.

You should’ve stayed with your team. Your coach had even pulled you aside to keep morale high. But your feet moved before your mind made the choice.

Surrounded by his teammates, one hand holding a drink, the other resting on the back of a chair. Relaxed. Effortlessly confident. Like the night hadn’t even scratched him. His teammates were talking, laughing. But you saw him glance your way before you started walking over.

You didn’t have a plan. You weren’t even sure why your feet moved. Maybe it was ego. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was just the bitter twist in your stomach that hadn’t gone away since the results were announced.

“Congratulations.” you said when you were close enough, tone flat and pointed. “Must feel nice to know you’ll coast through to the finals.”

Ni-ki’s head tilted slightly. A slow blink. He didn’t answer right away — he just took a sip from his glass, eyes never leaving yours. Then, without a word to you, he turned to his team and muttered in Japanese, voice cool and bored:

「タバコ吸ってくる。」(“I’m going for a smoke.”)

And then, to your confusion, he looked at you and motioned his head toward the exit.

You blinked. “What?”

He didn’t wait for an answer — just started walking. Like he knew you’d follow. And damn it, you did.

The hallway outside was dim, quieter, lined with low wall lights and half-drawn curtains. He pushed open a side door leading into the alley behind the venue. Cold air hit you instantly, crisp and biting. The sky overhead was black, speckled with city glow. He pulled a cigarette from the packet he had in his pocket, lit it with one flick, and leaned against the wall like he had all the time in the world.

He didn’t look at you at first.

Outside, the alley was quiet — dark and lit only by one flickering streetlight. The night air was cold but clean, curling around your skin like a warning. He lit a cigarette without looking at you.

“You always come when called?” he muttered, not looking at you.

You crossed your arms. “I wasn’t called. You just did your brooding little nod and walked off like some K-drama villain. And no one’s scared of you, by the way.”

He exhaled smoke through his nose, finally glancing over. “You followed, didn’t you?”

You rolled your eyes, stepping closer. “Only because I knew you’d say something stupid, and I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to correct you.”

“Bold of you to assume you’ve ever corrected me.”

“You’re not as untouchable as you think.”

He scoffed. “No, but I’m still above your level.”

You froze. A beat passed. “Funny, for someone so ‘above,’ you’re spending a lot of time on the ground with us mortals.”

His tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. “Just keeping an eye on the competition.”

“You mean obsessing?” You stepped closer again, defiant. “Because it’s starting to look a lot like that.”

He didn’t flinch. “If I was obsessing, I wouldn’t be wasting my time on someone who barely scraped through the semis.”

Your mouth opened, sharp words poised—but they caught in your throat. He was closer now. Not by much, but enough that you could smell the smoke on his breath, the faint trace of cologne under his jacket.

You blinked. “You know what your problem is?”

“I’m dying to hear.”

“You don’t know how to lose. Not just competitions—people, control, moments. It terrifies you.”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “And you don’t know when to shut up.”

You both stared at each other, the silence charged. His jaw was tight. Your fingers were curled into fists. The space between you crackled like the air before lightning.

“You walk around like chaos in a pink top.” he said suddenly, voice lower now. “Like if you’re loud enough, no one will notice you’re scared of failing.”

Your chest tightened. “At least I don’t hide behind silence and smoke. You think being mysterious makes you untouchable? You’re just emotionally illiterate.”

His brows twitched, barely. You hit a nerve.

“You’re scared.” you added, voice quieter but colder. “Because you’ve seen us. And you know we might beat you.”

He stepped in. You didn’t move back.

Now, you could feel his breath. His eyes searched yours like he was trying to read something between your lashes, something you didn’t want him to find.

“Tell me I’m wrong.” you whispered.

He didn’t.

Instead, his gaze dropped. Slowly. Your lips. Your neck. The way your throat moved when you swallowed.

The air thickened. Your heart thudded in your chest so loud it drowned out everything.

Neither of you said a word. But something shifted. The hostility didn’t leave—it just changed shape. Still sharp, still biting, but now laced with something dangerous. Wanting. He leaned in, dangerously clsoe.

You inhaled through your nose, shaky. “We shouldn’t—”

“I know.” he murmured.

But neither of you moved. His hand brushed yours, just barely. You didn’t stop it.

Then your nose almost touched his. One more breath and you’d fall into him.

Your lips were inches apart. The world outside the alley vanished. A slow tilt of your chin and a flicker of heat in his eyes was all it took. His lips crashed onto yours.

Hot. Unapologetic. Like he was trying to shut you up and pull you in at the same time. You didn’t resist. You couldn’t. The second your lips met his, everything else dropped out of your mind—every insult, every glare, every sarcastic jab. All of it dissolved under the pressure of his hands on your waist, your fingers tangled in the collar of his shirt, your bodies snapping together like magnets.

You kissed like enemies. Desperate, territorial, clashing in rhythm and teeth and breathless groans. It wasn’t pretty. It was addictive.

His hand slid up your spine, pulled you flush against him, and you gasped against his mouth. He took advantage of that, deepening the kiss until your head spun.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not with him. But then again, everything with him was wrong. And that’s what made it feel so good.

When he finally broke away, just enough to look at you, his lips were swollen, chest heaving.

“What the hell are we doing?” you breathed, voice wrecked.

His fingers tightened on your waist. “Ruining each other, probably.”

You didn’t answer.

You just kissed him again.

Ni-ki’s hands gripped your waist like he couldn’t get you close enough. You found yourself pressed against the wall before you could think about what was happening—his thigh slipping between yours, his mouth dragging heat down your neck, teeth grazing skin like he was trying to leave a reminder. A mark. A warning.

Your breath caught. “Ni-ki—”

“Don’t.” he muttered into your jaw. “Don’t say my name like that if you want me to stop.”

Your fingers curled into the back of his neck. His skin was hot. His pulse matched yours—fast, wild. He kissed you again, slower this time but deeper, like he was learning the shape of your mouth, tasting defiance and swallowing it.

You tugged at his jacket, your hips rolling forward without even thinking, chasing friction, chasing him. His hands dropped low, firm on your thighs, pulling you up slightly, caging you against him.

There was nothing soft about it. It was heat and tension, pressure and frustration. Months of unspoken things condensed into a kiss that felt like punishment and pleasure tangled together.

His lips trailed up your neck again. “You and your big fucking mouth… look where it got you.”

You bit your lip, dizzy. “I hate you.”

“I can tell.” he said against your skin, and kissed you harder.

The moment cracked when your head fell back against the wall and reality slammed into your chest like a fist. Your fingers stilled. His lips hovered an inch from yours. The silence that followed felt louder than the music still pulsing behind the wall.

You looked at him—really looked. His lips were red. His eyes were dark. His expression unreadable.

Your breath hitched. “What the hell are we doing?”

Ni-ki stepped back, just barely. Enough to let cold air fill the space between you. He didn’t answer.

You smoothed your hair with shaky fingers, like that would fix what just happened. But it couldn’t fix your heart slamming against your ribs or the way your body still leaned toward him, like gravity was stronger where he stood.

“This never happened.” you said, more to yourself than him.

“Right.” he muttered, voice flat now. Detached. “It didn’t.”

He didn’t follow when you turned and left.

You walked back alone. Chest tight. Mind racing. The kiss still burned on your lips, in your lungs, in your bones. You hated how much you liked it. Hated that it had to be him.

By the time you made it back to your room, you felt stupid. Stupid and breathless and a little bit ruined.

And worst of all? You wanted it again.

DAY 6:

Day 5 was mostly a blur. The minor divisions were in their semifinals, so it was a quieter day for the adults. Your team was locked in, rehearsing non-stop, your bodies sore and exhausted from the constant practice. You didn’t have time to think about anything else—just the finals ahead. It was the calm before the storm, and the pressure was building.

It’s today that mattered.

The nerves hit hard in the morning. Every part of you was on edge, the weight of the upcoming performance hanging heavy in the air. Finals night. The moment you’d been working for, grinding for. And everything felt amplified—every little detail, every second of practice, every mistake you couldn't undo.

It was 4pm, and you could already feel the tension thickening in the air. The team gathered in the hotel room, a mix of excited chatter and quiet focus. Everyone was trying to calm their nerves, but you knew it was going to take everything to pull off what you'd been dreaming about. The finals were at 8pm, but the clock felt like it was ticking at double speed.

"Alright, we got this." your teammate said, tossing a water bottle in the air and catching it with a grin. But even with the confidence in his words, you could see the fear in his eyes, mirrored in everyone else’s. The stakes were too high, and the thought of falling short felt suffocating.

Your leader entered the room, eyes sharp as ever, but there was a softness in her voice. She didn’t need to pump you up with words. You knew what was at stake. You’d all been working for this, for each other. But the final words were important, and they hit like a punch in the gut.

"Remember why you’re here. You don’t need to be perfect. You just need to give it your all. For you. For each other. And don't forget—this is your moment."

The words stuck with you as you gathered your gear and made your way downstairs. The hotel lobby was quieter now, the air thick with tension. You passed by other teams, all of them wearing their game faces, the weight of the moment evident in their stiff movements.

When you walked into the venue, it hit you hard: the spotlights, the hum of excitement from the crowd, the smell of fresh sweat in the air. It all collided into one overwhelming sensation. Your heart was in your throat.

The other teams performed first, each act fueling the fire in your belly. Some were impressive. Some were good. Some were clearly struggling under the pressure. But no one had the flawless execution you were hoping for. The nerves had you second-guessing, but the clock was ticking. It was your turn.

And when it came time for you to step onto the stage, it was like time slowed down. You heard the cheering, the lights blinding you, but it all blurred into the background. It was just you, your team, and the music.

You danced like you were born to be there. Every move was sharp, controlled, and somehow, it felt like the world had disappeared. You and your teammates were in sync. Everything flowed. It was perfect. You nailed it.

As the last note hit, there was no holding back. You all screamed, adrenaline flooding your veins. You couldn’t tell if you were shaking from excitement or fear, but you had done it. You had nailed it. You’d given everything, and now it was in the hands of the judges.

Then, of course, Japan’s team went up. And it was like the air was sucked out of the room.

They moved with a precision that made you freeze. Every step, every beat, every turn was flawless. The synchronization was unreal. Their energy was undeniable, and the crowd ate it up. Your stomach sank as you watched, realizing just how damn good they were. It wasn’t just a performance—it was a display of dominance.

Your team exchanged looks. You could feel the fear creeping in. You weren’t sure you could compete with that. But there was no time to dwell on it. More teams performed, some just as good, some not quite matching up. Your mind raced, the anxiety building. You couldn’t even hear the crowd anymore. All that mattered was the results.

Then came the worst part.

The results. The moment when everything you’d worked for came down to a few words. Your heart drummed in your chest, every nerve firing in overdrive.

The tension before the results was suffocating. You stood shoulder to shoulder with your team, sweat drying on your skin, heart pounding so loud it drowned out the noise of the crowd. Hands were clenched, breaths shallow, glances exchanged but no one spoke—there was nothing left to say. Every second dragged like it was trying to break you. You tried to replay the performance in your head, grasping for reassurance, but all you felt was uncertainty. The stage lights seemed harsher, the air heavier. You could feel your pulse in your throat. Hope and dread twisted together inside you like a storm, and all you could do was wait for the verdict that would either crush you or crown you.

The host stepped up to the center of the stage, mic in hand, his voice echoing through the venue as the buzz of chatter slowly died down.

“And just like that…” he began, glancing around at the rows of exhausted, adrenaline-soaked dancers, “another championship comes to a close.”

A round of light applause rippled through the crowd, the energy low, everyone too on-edge for celebration just yet.

He smiled, eyes sweeping over the teams. “You all brought fire to the stage these past few days. Passion, skill, heart. Every single performance was a reminder of why we do this, why we train, why we compete, why we love this craft. You should all be proud.”

You shifted on your feet, nerves climbing higher with every word.

“But of course,” he continued, voice slowing, “only a few can take home the trophies tonight. So let’s get to what you’ve all been waiting for…”

The crowd hushed again, and your heartbeat roared in your ears.

Here it comes.

“The first place goes to…..Japan!!” The words hit like a punch to the gut.

There was a beat of silence. Then, a collective exhale from your team. It was anger, frustration, and a gnawing feeling of defeat all at once. Japan had earned it. They deserved it, but damn it—you wanted it. You wanted this moment. But all you could do was watch them bask in the glory.

The announcer’s voice echoed again, “Second place..… [Your Team].”

The room fell silent again, and for a second, you couldn’t breathe. Second. Second place. You had done it. But at what cost? You wanted to scream, to shout, to feel something. But all you felt was this bittersweet, hollow weight in your chest.

Your teammates broke into cheers, throwing their arms around each other. But you? You were caught somewhere between satisfaction and disappointment. Your hands clapped, your lips curved, but none of it felt real.

You were proud of yourself, your team, of the blood and sweat you’d all poured into this week, of every bruise and sleepless night. Second place was huge. It was proof that you belonged on that stage. That you were damn good.

But beneath that pride was something darker. Something that coiled low in your gut and burned in your chest.

You didn’t just lose. You lost to him.

To his smug smirk. To his unreadable eyes. To that quiet, lethal confidence he carried like a weapon. You could already imagine the way he’d look at you later—cool and composed, maybe even offer some sarcastic congratulations like it was all a joke. Like you were the joke.

And worst of all, you knew this would inflate his already oversized ego. He’d eat this victory alive. Let it drip from his words the next time he spoke to you. Turn it into another sharp edge in your rivalry.

You should be celebrating. But all you could think about was how badly you wanted to wipe that inevitable look off his face.

The announcer’s voice rang out, calling for the winners to come up and claim their trophies. You stood still for a moment, letting the weight of it sink in. Your team cheered, clapped, and rushed forward, but you stayed back for a beat longer, watching Japan’s team take their place on the podium, the gleaming first-place trophy held aloft like it was meant for them, and them alone. The cheers for them felt loud, too loud, a reminder of what could have been.

But soon enough, your leader was beside you, pulling you into the group. “Come on.” she said with a smile, “Second place is still a hell of an achievement.” And it was. You knew that. But you couldn’t shake the thought of what if.

You forced a smile as your team gathered around. The trophies felt heavy in your hands as you joined the group photo, your teammate's excitement and pride infectious, but something inside you was still a little hollow. You couldn't help but think of the one thing you wanted most. The win that slipped away.

After the ceremony, you all took your seats in the back of the venue, waiting as the other divisions went through their final rounds. The air was thick with tension and adrenaline, but slowly, it began to shift. Your team relaxed a bit, letting go of the intensity of the competition for a moment. You looked around, catching glimpses of your teammates laughing, taking photos, trying to shake off the disappointment, the finality of the night.

The finals were winding down, and as soon as they ended, you all made your way back to the hotel. The hallways seemed quieter now, everyone still high from the performances, but the exhaustion was creeping in.

In your room, your leader came in, their smile wide. "You did amazing." she said, clapping you on the back. “Second place is no small feat. We’ve earned it.”

You nodded, your eyes meeting hers. There was pride there, and you could feel it, but it still didn’t settle the storm brewing inside you.

Your teammates gathered around, still buzzing, cracking jokes, pulling each other into quick hugs. Despite the second-place finish, the camaraderie was undeniable. You’d made it. You’d fought hard.

Around midnight, the celebration party started. Your leader gave you the green light to head down, still a little stiff from the day’s exhaustion, but the thrill of the competition fading just enough for everyone to relax. You did your makeup and dressed up like a goddess, grabbed your things and joined the group, a mix of excitement and lingering frustration swirling in your chest.

Tonight wasn’t over. Not yet.

The party was about to begin, and it was time to blow off some steam. You didn’t know what to expect, but you knew this much—no matter what, you weren’t going to let this night slip away without something to remember it by.

The music blared through the hall, shaking the walls and vibrating through your chest. It was wild, electric, a chaotic mix of neon lights, pulsing beats, and bodies moving like they had nothing to lose. The energy was insane, everyone dancing like they were free from the weight of the competition, like the world had faded away for a while. Your teammates were all over the place, laughing, dancing, shots flying from hand to hand, the floor a blur of colors and movement. You hadn’t felt this alive in ages, just letting the music consume you.

The laughter, the noise—it all felt like it was drowning out the ache of second place for the night. Everyone was chillin', and for the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t care about the competition. You were just living.

But then, out of nowhere, you felt a hand. Warm and firm, pressing against your waist, pulling you back into a body you couldn’t ignore. You stiffened, tension rushing through your body like wildfire. You didn’t have to turn to know who it was. You felt the confidence radiating off him even before his voice slid into your ear, too smooth, too sure of himself.

“Congratulations.” Ni-ki’s voice was low, like he was savoring every word. “Told you we’d win. How does second place feel like, huh?”

His grip tightened, pulling you against him even more, his chest pressing into your back. You could feel every inch of him, and it made your skin burn with that strange mixture of anger and something you didn’t want to admit was there.

“Don’t start.” you snapped, trying to twist out of his hold, but he wasn’t having it.

“You gonna complain now?” He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. “Not that surprising, though. You all were good, but not good enough.”

You could feel your jaw clenching, anger rising, but there was something else bubbling beneath it. The tension was thick between you two, electric, and it wasn’t just about the competition anymore. No, this felt like something more. Something dangerous.

You spun around to face him, eyes narrowing. “You’re really gonna rub it in, huh? You think you’re above everyone else because of one damn win?"

Ni-ki’s gaze hardened, his grip still unyielding. “It’s not about being above anyone. It’s about being the best. And you’ll always be second, no matter how hard you try.”

Your chest tightened at his words. Anger, frustration, and something else you refused to acknowledge churned inside you. "So this is it? You’re just going to keep playing this game? The ‘I’m better than you’ act?”

"Maybe." he shrugged, his eyes locking onto yours. "But I’m not the one with the problem. You’ve got a lot of pride for someone who lost." His fingers traced the outline of your waist, his touch too intimate for the situation, but you couldn’t pull away.

You moved closer, the tension between you two growing unbearable. "And you’ve got an ego that would take up the whole damn room." you muttered, barely above a whisper, your breath hitching as his fingers slid under the hem of your shirt, teasing the bare skin of your waist.

His smirk deepened. "At least I earned it."

You took a step back, glaring up at him with a wicked smirk. "You really think you can walk around acting like you're the king of this place? You're not even a challenge. You're just a spoiled brat who thinks his wins mean anything more than a fluke. You fucking asshole.”

He took a final sip of his drink and set it down on the nearest table with a quiet clink. “Let’s go upstairs.”

Your heart punched your ribs. “What—now?”

He was already turning, throwing one last glance over his shoulder. “Need a minute to muster up the courage? You fucking brat.”

You didn’t answer. Just followed.

The elevator ride was thick with silence — but not the empty kind. The kind laced with charged glances, shallow breaths, every inch between your bodies pulling tight like stretched wire.

The hallway was dim. Your footsteps echoed in time. When he unlocked the door, he didn’t look at you. Just opened it and stepped aside like he knew you’d walk in anyway.

And you did. Because you weren’t backing down. Not from this.

Once the door clicked shut, it was like all the noise of the party dissolved. Just the quiet hum of air conditioning. He turned around and stared at you, hands in pockets.

You crossed your arms, tilting your head in challenge. "You gonna keep staring or actually do something?"

He gave a soft, humorless laugh under his breath. "You're all mouth, aren't you?"

You arched a brow. "Better than being all ego."

He stopped a breath away, close enough that you could smell the faint mix of his cologne — clean, sharp, a little intoxicating.

"You talk a big game." His voice was a low murmur now, rough around the edges. "Still haven’t seen you back any of it up."

You held his stare, heart hammering against your ribs. "Maybe you just can't keep up."

A flicker crossed his face — something between a grin and a snarl.

"You’d break before I even had to try."

Your pulse skittered. You hated how much you liked the way he said it. Hated how much your body reacted when your mind was screaming at you to shove him away.

Instead, you stepped into his space fully, your chin tilting up so your face was inches from his. You could feel his breath now, steady and hot against your lips.

"Prove it." you whispered.

For half a second, he just stared — like he was giving you one last chance to walk away.

Then the string snapped.

His hand shot up, gripping the back of your neck as he crushed his mouth to yours. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was teeth clashing, mouths fighting, desperate and rough like you were both still arguing — just without words now.

You shoved him back against the wall with a thud, and he laughed into the kiss, one hand finding your waist, fingers digging in, pulling you closer until there wasn’t a breath between your bodies.

Your hands fisted in the fabric of his oversized shirt, pulling him down harder, wanting to erase the smirk he wore like a second skin.

He responded by spinning you, pressing you back into the opposite wall, pinning your wrists above your head with one strong hand. His thigh slipped between yours, pressing up, tilting your hips just so.

You gasped against his mouth, and he grinned against yours, victorious.

"Cocky little thing." he murmured, lips brushing your jaw, your throat. "Let’s see how long you can keep that up."

With expert precision, he slid his hand from your wrist down your arm, across your side, back to your waist, molding you against him. His other hand worked at removing your shirt and bra, rough fingertips brushing your bare skin. You tilted your head back, offering him more access, heart racing at the reckless abandon in his movements.

His mouth followed the path of his hand, trailing open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone and chest, nibbling gently before sucking on your nipple hard. Every touch was deliberate, claiming, like he was rewriting the entire week of competition into a single moment of raw need.

You bit your lip as he nuzzled the hollow of your neck, breath hitching. Your body arched instinctively, pressing further into him. “Ni-ki…” you whispered, voice trembling with want and frustration.

“Shut up.” he growled and picked you up roughly, throwing you on the bed.

He hovered over you, his eyes dark and intense as he took in the sight of your flushed skin and heaving chest. You could see the hunger in his gaze, the primal desire that had been building between you the whole week. It was like a dam had burst open, and now a flood of pent-up passion threatened to consume you both.

Without breaking eye contact, he reached for the hem of his shirt and yanked it over his head, tossing it carelessly to the floor. Your breath caught in your throat at the sight of his toned torso, the defined muscles of his abdomen and the lean lines of his chest.

You licked your lips unconsciously, your fingers itching to explore the hard planes of his body. He smirked at your reaction, one hand trailing down to the waistband of his jeans. With a deft flick of his fingers, he undid the button and zipper, shimmying the denim down his long legs until he kicked them off completely.

Now clad in only a pair of Calvin Klein black boxers that left little to the imagination, Ni-ki settled between your spread thighs once more. You could feel the heat of him, the thick ridge of his arousal pressing insistently against your core. A needy whimper escaped your lips as you arched up to meet him, craving more of that delicious friction.

He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmured, "You want it so bad, don't you? Want me to fuck you until you can't walk straight?"

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you nodded frantically, too far gone to form a coherent response. He chuckled darkly, his hand sliding up your thigh to hook under the hem of your skirt. With a swift tug, he yanked the fabric down, tossing it aside to leave you in nothing but a scrap of lace panties.

You gasped as cool air hit your overheated skin, your nipples pebbling instantly. Ni-ki drank in the sight of your naked body, his gaze lingering on the damp patch darkening the delicate fabric between your legs. Without warning, he ripped the flimsy barrier away, leaving you completely naked and vulnerable under him.

He settled between your trembling thighs, his shoulders pushing them further apart as he gazed up at your glistening pussy with unbridled hunger. Without preamble, he leaned in and ran his tongue along your slit, groaning at the first taste of your arousal. His hands gripped your ass, kneading the soft flesh as he delved deeper, his tongue circling your clit before suckling the sensitive bud greedily.

"Oh god, Ni-ki!" you cried out, your fingers tangling in his hair, holding him in place as you grounded your hips against his face. He growled in response, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your core. He was relentless, his tongue plunging into you, leaving you breathless.

Your legs quivered and shook, threatening to give out at any moment as he ate you out like a starving man at a feast. He seemed determined to devour every last drop of your essence, his mouth and chin slick with your juices. The obscene sounds of his lust-filled sucking and slurping filled the room, mixing with your increasingly desperate moans.

Just as you felt your climax building, cresting like a tidal wave, Ni-ki abruptly pulled away. Before you could protest the loss of his talented mouth, he was hauling you up and flipping onto his back, dragging you on top of him. Your hair was fisted in his hand, guiding your face down towards the prominent bulge straining against his black boxers.

With shaking hands, you tugged the fabric down, freeing his thick, hard cock. It sprang up, slapping against his abdomen, the swollen head already glistening with precum. Ni-ki groaned, his grip on your hair tightening as he guided your face closer to his throbbing erection.

"Fuck, Y/N... I need your mouth on me. Now." he demanded, his voice rough and ragged with desire. Obediently, you leaned in and dragged your tongue along the underside of his shaft, tasting the salty essence of his skin. Ni-ki shuddered, his hips jerking up slightly, seeking more of your touch.

Emboldened, you wrapped your lips around the head of his cock, your tongue swirling around the sensitive flesh. You could taste the precum beading at the tip, making you crave more.

Ni-ki groaned as you took him deeper, his thick length stretching your lips around his girth.

"Fuck, your mouth feels so good." he grunted, one hand fisting in your hair as the other gripped the base of his cock. "I'm going to ruin this filthy mouth of yours that's been running off all that shit."

He started to fuck into your mouth, his hips surging up to meet your downward motion. You relaxed your throat, letting him push in deeper, until the head of his cock kissed the back of your throat. He cursed, setting a rough, punishing pace.

“This is what you wanted, isn't it? To choke on my dick like the dirty girl you are?" he snarled, his voice dripping with lust and a hint of anger.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as he used your mouth, fucking into it with wild abandon. Drool leaked down your chin, dripping onto your heaving chest as he claimed your throat ruthlessly. The obscene sounds of his flesh slapping against yours and your gagging filled the room.

Just as you thought you couldn't take anymore, Ni-ki wrenched you off his cock, a string of saliva connecting your swollen lips to the engorged head. Before you could catch your breath, he flipped you onto your back on the bed, his strong body covering yours.

"Fuck, I need to be inside you." he panted, his eyes wild and feral as he loomed over you. "I'm going to fuck you so hard, you won't be able to sit right for a week."

He hooked your leg over his shoulder, the other one falling open automatically as he notched the swollen head of his cock at your entrance. With one brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside you, stretching you wide around his thick length.

"Oh fuck!" you cried out, back arching off the bed as he started to move, his hips slapping against yours with brutal force. He set a punishing pace, the bed creaking and shaking beneath you as he fucked into you with all the pent-up frustration and desire he'd been holding back.

Ni-ki's fingers dug into the soft flesh of your breasts, kneading and squeezing as he pounded into you mercilessly. You could feel every thick inch of him stretching you open, hitting depths you didn't know you had. Obscene wet sounds filled the room as he fucked you harder, the force of his thrusts jostling your entire body.

"Fuck, your tits are perfect." he growled, leaning down to capture one hardened nipple in his mouth. He bit down, the sharp sting of pain blending deliciously with the pleasure radiating through your body. You cried out, your fingers tangling in his hair, holding him to your chest.

He switched to the other breast, lavishing it with the same treatment as his hips never faltered, driving into you with animalistic fervor. You could feel your climax building, the coil of tension in your core winding tighter and tighter with each brutal thrust.

Just as you were teetering on the edge, ready to shatter, Ni-ki flipped you over onto your stomach. You gasped, your cheek pressing into the mattress as he hauled your hips up, forcing you onto your hands and knees. The new angle allowed him to drive even deeper, and you could feel him in your stomach with each powerful surge of his hips.

"Fuck, you like that, don't you? Being put in your place, getting your tight little cunt wrecked?" Ni-ki snarled, one hand fisting in your hair, wrenching your head back as the other hand cracked across the rounded globe of your ass.

You yelped at the sudden sting, your body clenching down around his pistoning length.

"Yes!" you whimpered — your eyes rolling back as he spanked you again, the pain morphing into pleasure that set your nerve endings ablaze.

He chuckled darkly, his hand coming down on your ass again and again, leaving red handprints blooming across your skin.

You could only whimper and moan, your body shaking and trembling as he fucked you through the pain and pleasure, the line between the two blurring until you couldn't distinguish one from the other.

Ni-ki's movements became erratic — you could feel his cock throbbing and pulsing inside you, growing even harder if that was possible. His grip on your hips tightened, fingers sinking into the soft flesh hard enough to leave bruises.

“F-fuck Ni-ki, im cumming” you whimpered.

Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, your vision going white as you screamed your pleasure into the mattress.

You were trembling and gasping from the force of your orgasm, your inner walls fluttering around Ni-ki's throbbing length as he continued to pound into you. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mixing with your ragged breathing and wanton moans.

Just as the aftershocks of your climax began to subside, Ni-ki suddenly pulled out, leaving you feeling empty and aching. Before you could react, he was gripping you hair tightly and wrenching you back, forcing you onto your knees on the bed. You blinked up at him, your cheeks flushed and eyes glazed with post-orgasmic bliss.

Ni-ki loomed over you, his cock jerking and pulsing, slick with your combined juices. "Stick out your tongue." he demanded, his voice rough and strained. "I want to see that filthy mouth put to good use."

Obediently, you stuck out your tongue, your lips parting slightly as you gazed up at him with hooded eyes. His hand tightened in your hair, holding you in place as he stroked his thick length, his grip tightening as he neared his peak.

With a guttural groan, Ni-ki aimed his cock at your face, the swollen head hovering just inches from your outstretched tongue. You could feel the heat radiating off his skin, could see the way his cock throbbed and jerked as he teetered on the brink.

"Fuck, Y/N, I'm gonna..." Ni-ki's words cut off with a strangled cry, his hips jerking forward as he found his release. Thick, hot ropes of cum erupted from his cock, splattering across your tongue and painting your face with his essence.

You shuddered as the first spurt hit your tongue, the slightly bitter taste of his release flooding your senses. He rode out the waves of his orgasm, each twitch of his cock sending another string of cum to mark your skin.

You swirled the salty essence on your tongue, savoring the taste of his release before swallowing it down greedily. At the same time, you used your fingers to scoop up the stray drops of cum that had landed on your cheeks, making sure not to waste a single precious drop. You licked your fingers clean, your eyes locked with Ni-ki's as you did so, watching as his pupils dilated with dark satisfaction at the erotic display.

He reached down and hauled you up to your feet, his hands gripping your waist as he pulled you flush against his body. Before you could regain your balance, he crashed his lips against yours in a bruising kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth to claim every inch of it. You could taste yourself on his lips, the musky flavor of your lovemaking mingling with the salty tang of his cum.

Ni-ki reached for a towel he tossed onto a nearby chair, pressing the soft fabric into your hands. You took it with a grateful nod, using it to wipe the remnants of his cum from your face and neck, leaving your skin feeling clean and refreshed.

You both lay back down, catching your breath. The room was hot with the aftershocks of what just happened, your skin damp, your chest still rising and falling in uneven waves. You lay there, limbs tangled in the sheets, legs trembling with every faint movement.

Ni-ki was beside you, half-sitting against the headboard, one arm lazily draped behind his head, the other running through his messy hair like he hadn’t just wrecked you. His breath was slower now, but the gleam in his eyes hadn’t dulled in the slightest.

You tried to sit up but failed, your body refusing.

“Can’t move?” he teases, voice low.

“Go to hell. I can’t feel my legs.” you snapped with rasping voice.

“Good.” he said without missing a beat. “Means I did it right.”

You rolled your eyes and flopped back down. “Shut up.”

His gaze finally shifted toward you, dark and cocky. He leaned in a little, brushing hair away from your face with surprising gentleness. “You think we’re done?”

Your eyes flicked to his, breath catching for half a second “Are you serious?”

His mouth curved in a slow, cruel smile. “What? Scared round two will remind you who really came out on top tonight?”

You wanted to slap him. You wanted to kiss him harder. Both urges hit at once like a slap to your chest.

“You’re an asshole.”

“You’re a bitch.”

Your chest heaved. “Fuck you.”

He dipped his head, his lips brushing your ear. “That’s the plan.”

He leaned in, his lips ghosting over yours, so close you could barely think.

“So,” he whispered, voice like poison and silk, “what’s it gonna be? You gonna run back to your little team with your silver medal and pretend this didn’t happen?”

You stared at him, furious and breathless. “No.” you muttered, teeth gritted.

“That’s what I thought.”

And then you kissed him again. Hard, reckless, like punishment.

Because this wasn’t over. And maybe, deep down, neither of you wanted it to be.

{this story took so long bye-}

[pixiexdusts-world]

The Edge Of Something Real

Bucky Barnes x thunderbolts!reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes falls for a tough new Thunderbolts* teammate and risks everything to save her when she’s injured on a mission, revealing their growing bond.

Word count: 1,490

Notes: no thunderbolts* spoilers :)

Bucky Barnes wasn’t one for first impressions anymore.

He’d learned long ago that people were complicated, layered, and often disappointing. But the new recruit on the thunderbolts* team? She shattered every expectation from the moment she walked in.

Her name wasn’t important at first. What stood out was how she carried herself—calm, controlled, eyes like fire. She didn’t try to impress anyone. She didn’t talk much. And when Valentina tossed her into a sparring match with Ghost during her first week, she didn’t flinch. She won.

She was fast, brutal, and efficient. Bucky knew killers when he saw them. And she was one.

So maybe it made sense that he couldn’t stop watching her.

⸻

The first time they actually spoke was in the training room.

Bucky was working the punching bag with quiet precision, sweat dripping from his brow. She walked in without a word, unzipped her jacket, and started stretching on the mat beside him.

“Nice work with Taskmaster yesterday,” he offered, not looking at her directly.

She raised an eyebrow. “You saw that?”

“I hear everything.”

She smirked. “You always this chatty, Barnes?”

That made him glance over. “Only when someone impresses me.”

She tilted her head slightly. “Then you’re hard to impress.”

“Exactly.”

She let out a dry laugh, then started wrapping her hands. “Good. Wouldn’t want things to be too easy around here.”

They trained in silence after that, but it was a comfortable one. Bucky couldn’t help glancing over at her form—sharp, purposeful, never wasting energy. She didn’t just fight well. She moved like someone who survived things most people couldn’t imagine.

And that… he understood.

⸻

Weeks passed, and the team started gelling in that broken, violent way the Thunderbolts* were known for. The missions were ugly, high-risk, and rarely clean. But she never hesitated. She kept up with the chaos, stood her ground with Yelena and U.S. Agent, and even earned Taskmaster’s rare nod of respect.

Bucky watched her more than he admitted. Not just in combat, but in the little things. How she patched her gear herself. How she didn’t talk about her past but carried it in her posture. How she always volunteered to scout ahead alone.

She was a lone wolf. Just like he used to be.

So when she got hit—really hit—during a botched extraction in Prague, Bucky’s reaction surprised even himself.

She was bleeding, her shoulder torn open, pinned down by gunfire.

“I got her!” he shouted before anyone else could respond, already breaking formation.

He reached her under heavy fire, shielded her with his body, and hauled her behind a wall.

“You’re an idiot,” she grunted, wincing as he checked the wound.

“Probably,” he muttered. “But I’m your idiot now, so shut up and let me stop the bleeding.”

She blinked at him, stunned—not just by the pain but by him. For once, she didn’t argue.

⸻

Back at base, after stitches and silence, she found him alone, cleaning weapons.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said softly.

He didn’t look up. “Yeah, I did.”

“Why?”

Finally, he met her gaze. “Because you’re not just another soldier to me.”

She swallowed hard. “Then what am I?”

Bucky set the gun down and stood. There was a storm in his eyes, the kind that carried decades of regret—and something else, something fragile.

“You make me remember I’m still human.”

She didn’t respond right away. She didn’t need to. The look in her eyes said it all.

So did the way she stepped closer, reached for his hand, and didn’t let go.

⸻

They didn’t talk about it much. Not in words. Their connection grew in looks, in quiet touches, in the way Bucky stood a little closer to her in the field. In how she learned to read his silences.

They started sparring more—sometimes as an excuse to be alone, other times because it was the only way they knew how to connect. When she knocked him down one afternoon, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her on top of him.

They stared at each other, breaths shallow.

“Gonna kiss me or keep pretending we’re just teammates?” she whispered.

Bucky chuckled, voice low. “Depends. You gonna let me?”

She didn’t answer. She kissed him instead.

It was sharp and slow and messy in all the ways that made him feel alive again.

⸻

Of course, nothing stayed easy for long.

During a covert mission in Madripoor, she got separated from the team—and vanished.

They searched for hours. Then days.

Valentina declared her MIA. The team prepared to move on.

But Bucky refused.

“She’s not dead,” he snapped. “I know she’s not.”

“You’re letting feelings cloud your judgment,” Taskmaster warned him.

“Good,” he growled. “It means I’m not a damn machine anymore.”

He found her two days later, trapped in a holding cell underground, barely conscious. He broke the lock with his metal arm and carried her out himself.

Her voice was weak. “Took you long enough.”

“You knew I’d come?”

She smiled faintly. “You always do.”

⸻

After that, something shifted. She didn’t push people away as much. She let him in, piece by piece—her real name, the reason she joined the team, the life she lost before this one.

And Bucky? He opened up in return. Told her about the nightmares, the guilt, the weight of being someone the world used and feared in equal measure.

They weren’t perfect. But together, they weren’t alone anymore.

One night, as they lay in bed in some safe house far from war, she whispered, “You think we deserve this?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, fingers tracing lazy circles on her back. “But I want it anyway.”

She closed her eyes and rested her head on his chest.

And for once, neither of them dreamed of blood.

[dracosprettygirl]

ღ spoiled

Pairing: theodore nott x reader Word Count: 1.8k words Summary: Theo was convinced you'd never look his way—until a Hogsmeade date leaves your heart bruised and angry. Now, Theo's done hiding his feelings... And ready to ruin every man who ever made you feel unworthy. Warnings: 18+; mdni; fem!reader; reader's hair is described to have waves; reader is explicitly  referred to as a woman; swearing; fingering; sweet/dirty talking; praise; italian nicknames; female-centric nicknames (sweet girl; pretty girl); oral(f!receiving); dry humping if you squint; penetration; unprotected sex (wrap your willy before you get silly!); not proofread; let me know if i missed any! A/N: i saw this and thought of him. and ofc i had no choice but to write this.

♫ swim by chase atlantic.

Theodore Nott was absolutely convinced of two tings:

1. He was absolutely, irredeemably in love with you.

2. You didn’t feel the same.

It wasn’t your fault. He didn’t expect you to notice the way he turned every page in Potions book every time Slughorn asked a question, just to catch a glimpse of your approving smile when he got something right. Or how he’d always sit near you in the Common Room, hoping you'd accidentally lean into him again. Or that he kept chocolate-covered strawberries enchanted cold in his dorm because you once said they were your favorite.

But today?

Today was hell.

Because you were out in Hogsmeade. With Matteo Riddle.

Theo watched you go, wearing that pretty white sundress that drove him feral, cheeks flushed with cold and excitement. You'd smiled at Matteo—soft and uncertain—and Theo had nearly cursed a hole through the stone wall when the git offered you his arm.

Now, several hours later, the dungeons had gone quiet. Theo was seated in his usual chair by the fireplace, a book open in his lap, but his eyes kept reading and re-reading the same paragraph for nearly half an hour.

He felt you come in before he could even look up—the shift in the room, the weight of your presence like a familiar pull in his chest. He glanced up. Froze.

You looked… wrecked.

Not outwardly. Your hair was still pinned back in those perfect waves cascading down your back, your gloves still neat. But your eyes were glassy, your lips pulled into a tight line.

Something inside Theo cracked.

You didn’t even look at him when you passed. Not until you reached the couch and dropped onto it like your bones had given out.

He closed the book. “What happened?”

You blinked at the fire. “Nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Theo sat forward, elbows on his knees. “If it upset you, then it matters.”

You hesitated. And then, as if some wall broke, you whispered, “He said I was spoiled.”

The words dropped like a dead weight between you.

Theo blinked. “Spoiled?”

You laughed, bitter and low. “Matteo said I expect too much. That I’m used to people giving me everything I want. Called me demanding.” You swallowed, suddenly small. “I didn’t think I was asking for much. I just thought he would open the door for me.”

Theo stood. Walked over slowly, then lowered himself to the rug in front of you, his long legs folding easily beneath him.

“He said that because you wanted him to treat you right?”

You didn’t answer, but your silence screamed yes.

Theo’s hands curled into fists against his thighs. “You’re not spoiled.”

You opened your mouth, but he cut you off.

“And even if you were—what the fuck is wrong with being treated like you matter?” His voice was sharp now, but not at you. “Wanting nice things, or softness, or someone to care doesn’t make you selfish. It makes you human.”

You stared down at him, something fragile in your expression.

“I like pretty things,” you murmured. “I like flowers, and thoughtful letters, and someone walking on the street-side of the pavement. That’s—”

“That’s not spoiled,” Theo said, voice low. “That’s you knowing your worth.”

A beat of silence. The fire crackled.

And then you said, very softly, “Why do you always say the right thing?”

His gaze locked with yours. “Because you deserve to hear it.”

Your breath hitched.

Theo reached up, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered just a little too long. Your skin felt like it might combust under his touch.

You leaned in. A little. Barely.

Theo swallowed hard.

“Opening doors for a woman—and especially a woman like you—it's a privilege. Matteo’s a fucking idiot if he doesn’t realize that,” he said, voice thick. “And if he doesn’t know how to spoil you…”

You raised a brow. “Yeah?”

His lips curled slowly. “Then let someone else try.”

Your heart stuttered. “Who?”

Theo didn’t answer. Not with words.

He just stood up, leaned forward, and kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was everything else — aching, gentle, reverent. Like he was memorizing your mouth with every slow brush of his lips. His hands settled on your waist, steadying you.

You sighed against him — and that was his undoing.

He deepened the kiss, one hand sliding up your back, the other cradling your jaw like you were made of silk. You tugged him down onto the couch with you, your legs parting instinctively to let him slot between.

And then the kiss turned hungry.

Theo pulled back just long enough to whisper, “Can I?”

You nodded.

He was on you in seconds, mouths hot and eager, hands tangled in fabric and hair. His lips moved from your mouth to your neck, sucking a mark just below your jaw.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he murmured, teeth grazing your throat. “Let me take care of you.”

You gasped when his hand slipped over your legs, cool fingers dragging up your thighs. Your hips arched instinctively, grinding up against him.

Theo groaned. “Shit—don’t do that unless you want this to end fast.”

Your voice was a breathless whisper. “Then slow down.”

His eyes burned.

“You want to be spoiled?” he whispered, sliding your shirt fully over your head. “Let me spoil you, cara mia. Let me worship you”

You whimpered. Every brush of his fingertips made your nerves light up. He kissed the inside of your wrist, your brow bone, the top of your head.

“You deserve silk sheets and moonstone rings,” he murmured, voice like velvet. “Someone to remember your favorite tea and put warming charms on your slippers.”

Your breath hitched. “Theo—”

“And,” he added, crawling back up your body, his hands framing your face, “you deserve someone who makes you come so hard you forget your own name.”

The retort forming on your lips dissolves into a moan when Theo’s large hands wrap around your thighs. You could feel how hard he was through his trousers, feel the restraint trembling in his muscles as he held himself back.

“This infernal thing,” Theo whispered, his fingers working their way under the hem of your sundress, brushing your core. “You drive me insane every time I see you walking around in this tiny little thing.” 

You whimpered, unable to form words as he begins to rub gentle circles over your clit through your panties. 

“Say it, vita mia,” he breathed, eyes dark. “Say you want me.”

“I want you,” you said, hips arching into his touch. “Please, Theo—”

He groaned, kissing you like he’d been starving for years. “I love the way you say my name.”

He pushed your panties to the side—not all the way, just enough to give him access to your aching core. Theo liked the control, the knowledge that he had you right where he wanted.

“You’re so beautiful,” he muttered, lips grazing your collarbone, fingers toying with your clit. “Fuck, you have no idea.” 

You gasped when he tugged the cups of your dress down, his mouth immediately descending on your breasts. 

Your hips shifted, needy friction building, but Theo caught your movement. 

“Patience, sweet girl,” he whispered. “And you shall be… rewarded.” He said, punctuating the last word with a slow thrust of one of his fingers into you. 

“Fuck, cara mia,” he groaned, as he began to move his hand in and out of you, slow, gentle, teasing. “You’re so wet already. Is this all for me?”

You nodded breathlessly. “Please…”

Theo smiled like he’d just won a war. “That’s more like it.”

His hand pulled away from you, and he gripped your thighs, spreading them apart, settling on his knees in front of the couch before lowering his mouth to your core. The first pass of his tongue had you arching off the couch—slow, teasing, maddeningly thorough. Theo ate you out like he was starving, with long, lazy strokes, then focused on your clit, flicking and circling until your breath hitched and your hands flew to his hair, tugging.

“T-Theo—!”

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he muttered between licks. “Let me hear you.”

He slipped a finger back inside you—then another—curling them perfectly as he sucked your clit again. Your legs trembled, his hair soft between your fingers. Heat gathered in the pit of your stomach, coiling tighter and tighter, pressure threatening to snap.

“Theo I’m gonna—!”

Theo moaned against you, the vibration of it sending you over the edge. You cried out, back arched, thighs squeezing around his head as you came hard—stars behind your eyes, pulse thudding wildly.

When you opened your eyes again, Theo was staring down at you with pure reverence in his eyes, his pupils blown wide, hair a mess from your fingers.

“I could do that all night,” he muttered, leaning up to kiss your lips, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “But right now, I need to be inside you.”

Your hands fumbled at his trousers as he shoved them down, revealing a length that had you clenching around air.

“You’re sure?” he asked, voice cracking with restraint as he settled between your thighs, lined up and ready but still holding back.

“I want you, Theo,” you whispered, dragging your pussy over his throbbing length in a way that had him letting out a shuddering breath in your ear. “Please.”

He didn’t make you ask twice. He pushed into you slowly, watching your face the whole time — the way your mouth parted, the breath you caught, the way you held onto him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned. “So fucking perfect.”

Once he was fully inside you, Theo pressed his forehead to yours, holding still as you adjusted. Then he started to move—slow, deep thrusts, each one angled just right, dragging moans from your lips with every roll of his hips.

The way he filled you—like he was made you—had you gasping his name.

“I’m not going to fuck you,” he rasped, lips brushing yours. “I’m going to ruin you for anyone else.”

And he did.

He worshipped every inch of you—Theo sped up, pinning you wrists above your head with one hand, the other wrapped around your throat, holding you to his gaze as he fucked you harder; whispering praises against your skin like a man possessed. “That’s it, pretty girl. Take it all—good girl.”

When you came a second time, it hit you in waves—Theo coaxing you through it, his hips rolling against yours. “Shhh, baby, I know, I know. I’ve got you, cara mia. I’ve got you.”

And when he finally fell apart—your name on his lips, voice cracking, forehead pressed to yours—it was with a reverence that left no room for doubt.

You were his. And he had always been yours.

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[inkdrinkerworld]

Till The Bitter End

cw: angst, LOTS of hurt/comfort, reader’s an ex widow, Yelena and reader friendship, Bucky is very supportive, reader is haunted a little by their actions as a widow (mentioned no detail), sadness and slight depression representation! Thunderbolts mini spoilers (there’s mention of the team), my first time writing for him so maybe a tad ooc but also very post fatws and cabnw Bucky vibe as well!

You’re not a part of his life anymore, you have to keep reminding yourself of that. 

You’re an ex-widow. A black widow, a killing machine and he's a congressman now. 

You can’t be there, you can’t be in his house, in his bed. You just can’t. 

One look into you, one quick search and they’ll know everything you’ve done. All the people you’ve killed, all the blood on your hands. Sure they’d forgiven Bucky, he hadn’t had a choice. He was The Winter Soldier; you were just you. A black widow, full consciousness, full ‘choice.’ 

To his credit, Bucky had tried to keep you. He’d tried to make it so that you wouldn’t feel like you’d had to leave, but he knows you. Knew you. 

You didn’t want to make things bad for him, for his chance to make a positive difference. It wasn’t even that Bucky couldn’t find you, you asked him not to. You made him swear on Steve that he wouldn’t find you. 

Then you left, and you regretted it everyday. Bucky regretted the promise too. 

You couldn’t stay in DC, not for a while, so you’d packed your bags and told Yelena you were going on a vacation. 

You’d been to Italy, Spain, then Germany, but your heart pulled you out of there quickly. 

After weeks of deliberating and talking yourself out of it, you finally worked up enough nerve to settle in Romania for a bit. 

It was every bit as beautiful as you had remembered. The history was vast and it was the last place you and Bucky had been truly happy. 

Your old neighbours remembered you, and when they asked after Bucky your chest ached something red hot, like a poker left in the fireplace. 

You managed to hold it out just until the plums were everywhere and then you had to leave. 

The pain of missing him but seeing him in everything was too much, and you had to come home. 

Not knowing where you were kept Bucky up at night. Yelena hadn’t told him you weren’t in Dc about a month into your ‘vacation’ and he was tempted to break his promise and ask Joaquin to find you. 

Then she’d called him and said, “She is home. Do not come looking for her. There is too much sadness.” 

Bucky hated the regret that swam its way deep between his ribs, settling deep inside of him like that had always been its place. Still, he understood. He didn’t begrudge you the distance you wanted. He knows all too well how it feels to be backed into a corner and forced to stay someplace where it feels like you can’t breathe. 

So he let you have your distance, to clear your head or whatever it was you needed even though he hated not having you close.  

At least he knew you had Yelena. 

You were rotting in bed when Yelena came back to the apartment, she was in her suit and you barely registered her till she was on your bed. 

“Up, you need fresh air. I will not let you drown in sorrows anymore.” 

She reaches over you and yanks your curtains open, sunlight shining through the room. 

You roll your eyes. She’s trying to be helpful, but this hurts. 

It hurts because you want to be with Bucky. You want to help with whatever is going on or going to be going on. 

You just can’t force yourself to stop worrying about the potentiality of things going horribly if you do help. 

“Yelena.” 

She cuts you off, her hand slicing through the air to stop whatever it is you’d had to say. 

“No, you helped me when I was like this. Now I help you. Go take a shower, you stink.” 

There’s no room to argue with her when she gets serious like this, but you don’t make it easy for her. She has to practically haul you to your feet and into the bathroom, blasting cold water on you to help snap you out of whatever funk you’re in. 

“Be quick, we have places to be.” 

You furrow your brows, you never have anywhere to be. That’s why you’ve been laying around in the apartment with all the windows closed and the lights off. 

You don’t have the energy to argue and shower so you leave it at that. 

You hear Yelena whispering on the phone outside the bathroom door, but there’s only so much you can make out. 

“She’s not doing good.” Silence as she listens and then her response. 

“I think this is bullshit, but okay. You are the boss.” 

You really don’t know who she’s speaking to, but you can guess. 

By the time you’re finished getting dressed, you have to scoff at how predictable the Red Room has made you and Yelena. 

You’re in black pants and a black sleeveless top fitted to your body; lest you get attacked. No need giving anyone more of you to hold. Your hair’s in two braids pinned to your head as well. 

“You look depressing.” It’s easy for you and Yelena to speak like this; you’ve pulled each other out of ruts like the one you’re in now and a certain degree of bluntness has always been necessary. 

“That’s how I feel, Yelena. Where are you taking me?” 

She shrugs, a bowl of what smells like Mac and cheese sits on her lap, spoon waved around as she chooses her words. 

“We are going for walk. You need the fresh air.” 

Your walk is mostly silent, Yelena understands what you’re going through better than most. Memories of all the horrible things you’ve done are swirling in your head like the beginnings of a hurricane over the water. You didn’t want to be part of their team for this- you don’t know how to reconcile your guilt. 

When you pass by Bucky’s apartment you freeze. 

Yelena walks in and smiles at the doorman, he smiles at you too but you can’t make your feet walk through the threshold. 

“Come on. You need to at least tell him to his face all that you are feeling. It makes no sense that you sit and mope and wallow alone. He is sad too.” 

You shake your head. “I’m going to ruin his entire congressman thing, Yelena.” 

She rolls her eyes, pushing back a few strands of hair from her eyes. “You are both hard headed. You will not ruin things, you’re just going to talk with him.” 

You try glaring at her, keeping your eyes hard but then you smell his cologne; smell that cedarwood and mint you love and you crumble. 

“James?” He’s standing ten feet behind Yelena and when she sees him she nods. 

“Hurt her Barnes, I know how to take that arm off.” She turns to you, a hand resting on your shoulder. “Talk it out. Get it out of you and come home.” 

He shakes his head at her, waiting until she’s gone before approaching you. 

“I don’t think I can do this,” You whisper and if Bucky’s hurt he masks it well. His hair looks a little longer, brushing under his jaw now. He doesn’t look well, there’s dark circles under his eyes, his face looks paler than usual and from what you can see he’s lost weight. 

Your stomach sours at the idea that he’s not been taking care of himself because of you. Your hands wrap around your middle instinctively at the thought. 

“We have to talk it out, doll.” He says softly and you meet his eyes for the first time. 

They’re still that striking blue that steals your breath. God you’ve missed looking into them. 

“We can go up to my apartment or we can go to that corner store you like.” 

You shake your head, “I don’t want anyone to see us.”

Bucky sighs, a sharp exhale and you cringe at how your words replay in your head. 

He doesn’t say anything and gestures for you to follow him. 

When you get up to his apartment, Bucky makes you a cup of tea exactly the way you like it. You rub your chest to release the pressure building behind it. 

“Thanks,” you whisper, not missing the fact that he’s used your favourite mug in his house. 

“I don’t think there’s any reason for this not to work.” 

You can’t help but smile at the bluntness of his words. Like you’d said, bluntness is appreciated. 

“I can give you five right now.” 

Bucky crosses his arms as he sits in the arm chair across from you. “Give them to me.”

His metal fingers flex when you take a long sip of your tea. You sigh before speaking. 

“For one thing, my past isn’t public knowledge or pretty and if we were together and I was attending all your congress meetings and being seen with you at those galas, people would just dig to find the worst of what I’ve done.”

Bucky shakes his head, “I was the Winter Soldier and they let me be congressman doll.”

You scoff, “You also stopped Thanos and brought people back after the blip and helped Sam rehabilitate those displaced from the blip.” 

Bucky doesn’t say anything then. There’s not much to say, he had exonerated that past. People like a tortured man, they could forgive a man for his wrongs especially if they looked like Bucky. There’s a certain appeal to a tortured man getting better. 

You’re not sure there’s anything like that for a tortured woman, and you know society doesn’t like women that are hard to control and that’s what you’ve always been. 

“I don’t want to ruin the life you’ve just started having James. It was hard before you became congressman, I knew how waking you up screaming from nightmares was torturing you again.” you shake your head at the memories. “I couldn’t keep doing that to you. I won’t do that to you.”

You’re on a roll now. “I don’t want to be another person’s pawn. I don’t want to become a part of their game and even if you’re on the inside of it, we’ll still be working for them. We can’t even trust them and I don’t trust that they’re not up to something.”

Bucky can understand that part, not wanting to be a pawn, but this was what he and Sam had worked on. At least to some extent. 

“Anything else, doll?” To anyone else, it would sound patronizing, but Bucky genuinely wants to know if there’s anything else rattling around your brain and worrying you. 

You take a few minutes to answer. “Those are the major ones.”

He nods, and tries for a smile. “Not five though.” 

You scowl, but it’s not nearly as severe as it could be. 

It’s clear to you Bucky doesn’t agree with you. The man doesn’t have a subtle bone in his body and it’s glaringly obvious that he’s relishing in your closeness as he leans forward, the tips of his fingers brushing your knee. 

“Doll,” he looks up at you through his lashes, his eyes intense as he holds your gaze. “You weren’t torturing me. I didn’t know how to make it safer for you to sleep and that shit ate me alive. I never told you, but after you fell asleep again I’d stay up, watching you for hours trying to figure out if there was some way to tell before the nightmares were starting so I could get you out of them before they started.” 

Your heart lurches. 

Bucky takes your silence as permission to continue. 

“Your past is yours, if you don’t want anyone digging around in it, I get it. I can ask Joaquin to seal the documents, I could seal the documents. I could erase them if you wanted too.”

You sniffle and Bucky smiles sadly. “You can’t decide that I don’t want you. We promised we wouldn’t do that, do you remember?” 

You nod, the memory coming back fast. 

It was just after Thanos, you’d been blipped and when Steven had gotten everyone back, you were running to Bucky. You just needed to see him, to know that he was okay. It wasn’t the time, there was still Thanos to defeat and then Tony died, but the night of his funeral when you were laying in Bucky’s bed, your head on his chest he’d made you promise. 

“No matter what, we don’t sacrifice ourselves and we don’t decide things for the other person.” 

His voice was thin and hollow that night, but there had been underlying hopefulness seeping through his words. 

You’d sat up, your knees pressing into the space near his hip. Your hands reached for his face, you had smiled at the stubble there. 

“I promise, Bucky. We’ll stick it out till the bitter end.” You dropped back on the bed next to him, fingers tracing the planes of his chest. 

He had laughed, kissed your forehead and held you to him tightly. “Till the bitter end, doll.” 

“I don’t want to disappoint you Buck. I’ve been just wallowing in missing you, I couldn’t even stay in Romania for more than a month because you were everywhere. Yelena had to help me shower and I was the one who wanted this to end. What a coward you must think of me.”

Your breath catches on the last of your words and Bucky can’t restrain himself anymore. He tugs you to the armchair with him, tucking you into the corner with a hand on your hip. 

“You’re not a coward.” There’s a hint of finality to his words. “You couldn’t disappoint me ever, doll.” There’s grief building in Bucky’s chest at the thought of you alone in Romania. There’s so many memories of you both together in that little house and he knows you still have your key. 

There’s also heartbreak at the fact that you think you’ve disappointed him. Bucky’s been amazed by everything you’ve ever done. 

“I’ve not been any better, but we’re working on it now, yeah?” 

You nod, shutting your eyes and letting the tears fall. Being this close to Bucky is like a balm to all the mangled and splintered edges of your heart. Just the pressure of his hand on your hip is enough, not to mention the weight of his side pressing into yours. 

“I really missed you.” you hiccup and he chuckles, holding you a little tighter. 

“You haunted all my dreams, doll.” Bucky’s metal arm reaches for a strand of hair that’s caressing your cheek. “I know you don’t want to be their pawn, and I won’t let you be. You’re not going to get roped into it as long as I can help it.”

You sit quietly for a time after that. You’re not sure what to say, so you say nothing and just let your tears fall and let Bucky hold you. 

“If you don’t want to be part of the team, I won’t force you. But I want another chance at us.” He whispers the words sometime later and you look up at him, dried tears like rivers on your cheeks, eyes bloodshot. 

“Even with all the sad thoughts?”

Bucky smiles, his hand stroking your face. “Especially with all the sad thoughts. We don’t live through what we did and just go on, baby. We work for it, and I know you’re trying.” 

You sigh, tipping your head on his shoulder. “Yelena is whipping me into shape, she’s not letting me wallow everyday.” He laughs then, because Bucky can see her doing it. 

“She’s a good friend.” 

You lay in silence for some time again, Bucky’s breathing settling you a little. 

You’re not sure if you’d fallen asleep, but the sun has gone down when your phone rings. 

“Did you talk things out? Are you better for now?” 

You smile, you really do love Yelena. 

“We talked it through. M’giving it another shot.” 

Yelena hums, “So you’re part of the team?” 

You sigh, “I don’t know about that yet. But I’m trying with Bucky again.” You feel the man smile against your shoulder. 

“Good. You are not alone and you can’t do it alone, we can help.” 

Your throat clogs with tears, “You’re a great friend, Yelena.” 

She blows a raspberry, “I saved you from poison arrow and you never left me alone after. I am the best friend.” 

You laugh, some of the warmth sneaking back into you. 

“I’ll be home in the morning Yelena. Make sure to lock the door.” 

“Criminals are scared of me. Have a good night.” 

You hang up after a few more minutes, body heavy with fatigue. 

“Ready for bed?” 

You nod, slipping from the armchair and starting towards Bucky’s bedroom. 

You’ve not forgotten your way around this place.

Bucky is pleased at that fact. 

You sit on his bed, slipping out of your shirt and pants, Bucky doesn’t hesitate to get your usual pyjamas; a pair of his boxers and an old red Henley. 

When you slip into your side of the bed Bucky’s eyes go glassy. 

“I’ve missed seeing you in there.” 

You smile as he lays beside you, your head laying on his warm shoulder.  

“I missed being here.”