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cocastyle · 2 days ago

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I See You

Pairing — Bob Reynolds x reader

Word Count — 4k

Warning — SPOILER WARNING FOR THE THUNDERBOLTS* MOVIE I REPEAT SPOILER WARNING FOR THE THUNDERBOLTS* MOVIE!!

A/N — breaking my two years of not posting in honor of this amazing movie and character. the Thunderbolts* has reawakened my fire to write and I couldn’t ignore it. so here you go! this will be a bit of a short series. i kind of envision around three parts or so? anyways, i really hope you enjoy this and know this is your last warning before you continue on!! so if you haven’t seen the Thunderbolts* please save this for later <3

also, did you all notice the easter eggs i included ?? 👀

Part One Part Two

SPOILER WARNING FOR THE THUNDERBOLTS* MOVIE! READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!

Bob Reynolds wasn't quite sure how any of this had happened. One minute he was pretty sure he had been dying and the next he was trapped in a series of never ending nightmares. Except it wasn't just his nightmares, there were other people's too.

He knew he had been having these moments where he didn't remember things, knew that there was something going on at a deeper level than he wanted to admit. He thought with Valentina explaining this power he had been given that it would explain everything he had been feeling, that the darkness wasn't truly his but something brought on by this experiment.

But he knew the truth and walking through these endless nightmares only proved that. The darkness was his. It was a culmination of everything he was feeling, everything that had been consuming him, and it had only taken more of a physical form thanks to the Sentry project.

Bob had no way of fighting this thing, no way of taking back control of his body. And at this point he wasn't even sure if he wanted control. After all, he was just Bob. He was useless. He was nothing. Everyone would be better off without him.

So now he was trapped with no where else to go but to walk through the thousands of rooms of everyone's deepest regrets and shames.

It had been an accident at first, but sometime after his own meth chicken nightmare was when he first started stumbling into the other rooms. He saw so many things, felt the guilt and weight that everyone else felt. One in particular had stuck with him when he had ended up watching the loop of a blind lawyer watching his friend die over and over. Bob couldn't watch that for very long before he was hurriedly trying to get to any other room but that one, the blind man's cries still rattling his bones.

Bob didn't know how long he walked for or how many rooms he went through until he got to one that made him pause as he came face to face with Tony Stark. It had been a while since the hero's death, but still seeing the face of the man that had helped bring everyone back from the Blip made Bob falter slightly.

Someone's biggest trauma was Tony Stark?

Bob took a couple steps back, his eyes scanning over the room as he tried to ground himself in what was going on. He seemed to be in someone's apartment. The place would've been nice if it weren't for the fact that whoever was living here clearly hadn't been picking up after themselves in quite some time. And by the look Tony Stark was making as he glanced at the dirty dishes in the sink, it seemed he was thinking the same.

Bob knew the signs before he even saw her. It wasn't just the state of the apartment, but it was the feeling in the air. That feeling of despair, sadness, and nothingness. That feeling of knowing you were alone and there was nothing you could do about it. It clung to everything in the apartment and Bob's heart ached slightly at the sight. After all, he knew what this was like. He knew it too well.

"I can feel you judging me," a voice said, instantly pulling Bob's attention to the couch where a girl was sitting with a blanket wrapped around her and a bottle of vodka in hand. She wouldn't meet Tony Stark's eyes as she stared at the bottle, her fingers numbly fiddling with the label. "I didn't ask for you to come over and judge how I'm living. Hell, I didn't even ask you to come over, so you might as well go."

Tony let out a soft sigh, "Kid, you were ignoring my calls. Of course I was going to come check on you."

"Ever think I ignored them for a reason?"

Tony huffed and grabbed a chair from the kitchen table before dragging it over in front of the couch. He sat down in front of the girl, tilting his head slightly as he watched her before saying, "You can't keep living like this."

"You think I don't know that?" she asked, her voice bitter. “Why are you here, Tony?”

Tony just watched her in silence before saying, "Listen, Steve and Natasha came to see me yesterday and—"

The girl slammed the bottle down on the table so hard Bob thought it would break. Her eyes were red rimmed as she glared at the man and muttered, "No. We're not doing this. You're not going to sit there and try to rope me into some crazy plot to try and bring everyone back. It's been five years and I'm done, okay? I have nothing left in me anymore and I don't give a shit, so just leave."

"Kid—"

"I said leave!" she exclaimed, her eyes beginning to glow white with a power that Bob could almost feel beneath his own skin. "I'm not some sob story for you to try to fix, okay? I messed up and didn't kill Thanos in time and half of the universe had to pay for it. I'm done trying to help. All I ever do is hurt people."

She looked away, her voice rough when she whispered, "You're all better off without me anyways."

Bob sucked in a breath at that, understanding washing over him as he watched the broken girl do everything she could not to cry.

"Y/N," Tony began but the girl simply shook her head.

"No, Tony. I'm done. Just leave and go ahead and do yourself a favor and never come back. It's not worth your time or energy and I sure as hell don't want you here," she said, her head still turned.

Tony stilled slightly at her words. "You don't mean that," he told her, but before he could even blink, Y/N had used her telekinesis to pick up the bottle of vodka and send it hurtling in his direction. The man barely had time to duck out of the way before it flew right past where his head had been and shattered against the wall. Tony turned to her in surprise but the girl was already getting up and walking to the door of what had to be her bedroom.

"I miss him too you know," Tony called after her causing the girl to still.

"Stop," Y/N warned him, but Tony ignored her and instead stood up, his eyes not leaving her as he clearly made no move to leave.

"Y/N, he wouldn't want this for you. That kid loved you so much. He would be devastated by—"

"I said stop!" Y/N yelled and before anyone knew what was happening, a force was suddenly throwing Tony across the room. The man thought fast and his nano suit had wrapped around him before he could even hit the wall and Bob watched as the color drained from Y/N's face at what she had done.

She was shaking as she stared at Tony, but by the time he was looking back up at her, the Iron Man mask sliding away from his face, she was cold once again. "Get the hell out of my apartment," was all she said before turning and walking into her room, slamming the door behind her. Bob watched her go, frowning slightly as the scene began to play again.

"That was before they won against Thanos," a voice said causing Bob to flinch in surprise. He quickly turned around to find Y/N a little ways behind him, sitting down at a chair in the corner of the room. Her eyes continued to watch the scene playing out in front of her and Bob was almost beginning to question if she had spoke in the first place when she muttered, "That was the last time I saw him before he died."

Her eyes met his then and Bob stilled under her gaze. She was a couple of years older than the version of her from the memory, a little more put together but in the kind of way that screamed help more than her younger self's look had. She had learned to mask it more, that much was clear. Or maybe it was just that Bob knew where to look, that he saw himself when he looked at her and knew in more ways than one just how tired she was.

"Who was he talking about?" Bob asked, silently cursing himself for that being the first thing he said but knowing he now had to just go with it. "The guy?"

Y/N hesitated, her eyes glazing over as she got lost in thought. There was a tiny moment of utter sadness that flashed across her face but it was gone so quickly as she muttered, "I don't know." She let out a sad laugh. "Isn't that sad? It's like there's blanks in my memory. All I know is that there is this immense feeling of loss not just once, but twice. Every time I try to think of him it's like the image of him only gets fuzzier."

Bob was silent for a moment. "I have trouble remembering things too," he admitted. "There are these moments where it's like I'll wake up from a dream I don't remember having and that time is just gone."

Y/N's eyes flickered his way, her gaze shifting over him in a way that made him stand up a little straighter. "I walked through a lot of rooms before ending up here," she told him, her eyes still studying him as though she were trying to piece him together. "This was the only one I couldn't leave."

"Why?" Bob questioned.

"Why did you stop in this one?" she retorted and Bob blinked in surprise. Her head tilted slightly as she stared blankly at the boy. It was a moment before she looked away and back at Tony who was watching her past self slam the door shut behind her as the memory started back up again. "I just wanted to see him again, I guess," she whispered. "I always hated this moment, hated that I pushed him away like that and left him to fight Thanos without me. Sometimes I wonder..."

She trailed off before shrugging slightly and looking back at Bob. "Guess I was as shocked by seeing Tony's face as you were when you walked in," Y/N said. Bob barely even thought his question before she placed a finger against her temple and let out a small sigh of exhaustion. "Telekinesis," she stated. "Just a fraction of the power I was born with, but it comes in handy from time to time. I knew who you were the second you walked into this memory. Your mind is very loud, but not in the way you'd expect it to be."

Bob wanted to ask her more, but it was clear she didn't want to expand on that comment. Instead she merely tapped her fingers against the arm of the chair she sat in and said, "So you're the one doing this."

It wasn't a question. She said it as though it were fact. Not that she was wrong, but something about the way she said it still made Bob's throat constrict.

"It's not. . .it's not me. It's—" Bob broke off and he could see the way she stared at him, knew that she was reading his mind. She blinked and quickly looked away. "Sorry," she whispered. "I can't help it sometimes. You lock yourself away long enough and you'll find it harder to control what once was so easy. But I get a sense that you know that."

Bob let out a small sigh, his eyes flickering over the past Y/N who sat on the couch with a haunted look in her eyes and a tight grip on the bottle in her hand.

"We've all done some bad things," Y/N told him, answering the questions flying through his mind. "I had the unfortunate experience of being the reason half the universe died. I was there that day that Thanos went to Wakanda to take the Mind Stone from Vision. I was the last one there before he snapped. I could've stopped it, but I let his words get to me and . . . well, you know the rest."

“The Blip,” Bob muttered and Y/N nodded solemnly. He could see her trying to keep it all together, but the tension was practically radiating off of her as she avoided his gaze.

“Go ahead and say it,” Y/N told him, her gaze locked on her past self who was busy hurling the bottle at Tony’s head. “You probably lost someone in the Blip, right? Had to suffer five years without them? Who was it? Family? Friends?”

Y/N didn’t even give him time to respond as she let out a sigh as if everything were pointless, “It doesn’t matter. Everyone still thinks the same thing, but I don’t blame them.”

“It’s my fault,” she admitted. “I caused everyone so much pain and suffering and then, when I had the chance to make things right, I pushed everyone away and locked myself in my room. Then Natasha died. Then Tony. And eventually Steve followed. And where was I? Drowning my sorrows in a bottle like the asshole that I am.” Y/N scoffed slightly at herself, the fury in her eyes something most people would probably flinch at but all Bob could do was soften at the sight. “So go ahead and say what you want. Call me names. Shout at me. Tell me how much of a monster I am. I deserve it. I’ll always deserve it.”

Bob didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what he could say. Not because it was all too much to process, but because he understood it. He understood what she was feeling. The pain and the anger. The guilt and regret. The shame. He understood it in ways he couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

But the silence was loud and Y/N wouldn’t meet his eyes. She just stared at the scene in front of her as her past self’s voice filled the silence between them, her voice rough as she whispered, "You're all better off without me anyways."

Y/N flinched at those words, her face crumbling slightly as she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Bob felt his heart ache at the sight and for a moment, he saw himself sitting there in that chair. But more importantly, he saw her. He saw Y/N for who she truly was. He didn’t know what to say to her to make her better, so instead he just thought it.

I see you.

Y/N's eyes snapped up to him and Bob knew he hadn't had to say that out loud. She had heard him loud and clear.

She stood without another word, her eyes never leaving his as she walked towards him. She was quiet as she stopped in front of him, her gaze turning questioning as she studied him.

You do see me, don't you?

Bob let out a small gasp as her voice echoed in his head. He stared at her with wide eyes, but didn't flinch away not even when she took a step closer so that they were only a breath apart.

I can feel it, you know? That darkness. It calls to me.

"You know where he is?" Bob asked and Y/N quickly shook her head.

"I'm not talking about the Void," she whispered. She gently lifted her hand and placed it on his chest, right above his heart. "Here."

Bob's breath stuttered and he tried to keep his heart from racing as he whispered, "W-what does it say?"

"That it understands," Y/N replied. "That it sees what’s inside my own heart.” She hesitated before giving him a sad smile. “Like calls to like after all."

Bob stared at her, his eyes flickering over her face. He had thought she was pretty before, but up close she was even more beautiful than he could’ve imagined. Her eyebrow quirked slightly as if she had heard that thought and maybe she had, but Y/N was already moving on which he was silently thankful about.

“You feel it too,” she said and Bob didn’t need to say it out loud to confirm her thoughts. After all, he knew what she was talking about and she was right. Ever since he had emerged into this room, he had felt a sort of tug. It was the reason he had stayed. He thought it was because of seeing Tony Stark, but it was because he had felt her from the moment he had stepped foot into that room.

It was because he had seen her before ever laying eyes on her and it seemed she had done the same.

“I don’t know what to do,” Bob admitted, his words strained. “Every time I think I’m getting better, that I’ve finally pulled myself out of that darkness, I just. . .”

“Get pulled back under again?”

Bob was quiet for a moment, his gaze dropping to the floor as that same feeling of shame that always crept up when he thought about his problems beginning to rise in the form of a blush on his neck, “Yeah.”

There was a gentle touch against his chin before Y/N lifted his head so that his gaze met hers once more. Her touched lingered for just a moment, but then her hand was dropping back down to her side. Not once did she move the one that was still resting on his chest and above his heart, the only source of comfort either of them seemed to need.

She gave him a sad smile, her eyes getting a sort of far off look as she whispered, “Sometimes the hardest battle you’ll ever face is with yourself.”

Bob felt tears prick his eyes at those words and for a moment, he even felt a sense of comfort. Someone knew what he was going through. Someone understood.

He had never had that before.

“How do we beat it?” Bob’s voice was barely above a whisper.

Y/N seemed to come back to herself at those words, her eyes locking with his once more and her hand tightened on his shirt. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I’d like to figure that out. Together.”

Bob swore he stopped breathing at those words.

“Together,” he repeated, tears filling his eyes slightly out of disbelief.

Y/N merely nodded and she gently reached up, her thumb quickly swiping under his eye to brush away a stray tear that had fallen. Her own eyes were lined with tears as she whispered through a soft laugh, “Yeah, together. As long as you’re okay with being friends with the girl who does nothing but screw everything up.”

Bob couldn’t stop the small grin that began to peak out, the corners of his lips twitching up slightly as he opened his mouth to respond.

It was then that the doors to the room flew open, darkness flooding in and covering the walls and floors with black tendrils as it raced towards the two. The two stumbled back and away from each other as they tried to avoid the darkness creeping in and Y/N let out a small shout when her past self and Tony dissolved into nothing but shadows.

“Bob,” Y/N called out, but the boy was already reaching for her. He had ahold of her arm within a second and he pulled her to the one corner of the room not covered in darkness just yet.

His eyes were wide as he scanned what was left of the room, his grip tightening on Y/N’s arm in slight panic and confusion as he tried to process what was happening.

The darkness had never come after Bob before.

Not like this.

Something had signaled the Void. Something had scared him.

Bob’s eyes flickered to Y/N who was leaning into his touch, the tips of her fingers already beginning to glow white as she clearly analyzed the situation. His fingers felt warm against her forearm and for a moment he let himself remember the feel of her hand on his chest, the way her breath had fanned his face, and the way her words had wrapped around his heart like a hug he hadn't know he had needed.

And he knew.

The Void fed off of his sadness and loneliness and whatever Y/N had been making him feel was the opposite. The Void would do whatever he needed to crush this feeling, to stay in control. Even if it meant there were casualties along the way.

Bob’s heart ached at that thought and he quickly turned to Y/N who was backing closer to him as they were pushed further into the corner of the room and her memory. She moved her arm out of his grasp in order to hold her hands up, a white light emitting out against the darkness as she tried to hold it at bay.

"Bob, what's going on?" she asked. "What do we do?"

"I—" Bob was panicking now, the thought of Y/N getting hurt making him feel so many emotions that he hadn't felt in a long time. It scared him how much he felt towards the girl within just one conversation. He already knew he would do whatever needed to be done to save her and that thought alone scared him in more ways than one. Even more than the plan that was beginning to develop in his head, the plan that would save Y/N but would mean leaving her at the same time.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Y/N's head whipped in his direction. "Bob, no. You can't run. You have to fight this thing. If you don't, the darkness will only continue to consume you," she said.

"Cause you know what that's like?" Bob retorted, his panic and fear making him sound bitter. "We just watched the same memory over and over of you letting the darkness take over. If you can't fight it, what makes you think I can?"

Y/N's eyes softened slightly. "Bob," she started, but the darkness pushed closer towards them and she let out a strangled sound as she strained to keep her powers in check.

Bob watched her for a second, his eyes flickering over her one last time before he leaned forward. His lips brushed gently against her ear and he felt her shiver slightly under his touch. His breath came out shaky as he whispered, "I would've liked to be your friend."

Then, before she could do or say anything else, Bob had pulled back and thrown himself against the wall of the memory. His body broke through the barrier and into the next room, the darkness leaving Y/N behind in favor of chasing the boy.

"Bob!" Y/N cried out as she attempted to lunge after him, but the darkness threw her back and by the time she was up on her feet again, the memory had sealed itself around her, forcing her to relive the same moment with Tony while Bob got away.

- - -

Bob didn’t know how long he ran for. All he knew was that it took forever for him to get back to his own rooms. He almost cried when the meth chicken scene appeared before him, but he didn’t stop there. He continued his trek even after the darkness eventually faded away, now satisfied that Bob was back where he belonged.

Everything was just too loud, the memories too much for Bob to withstand while that feeling of utter loneliness crept up on him once more. It was foolish of him to think he could ever have someone understand him, that he could ever have someone in his life without hurting them in the end. He had done this to himself.

He deserved to be alone.

At some point Bob eventually managed to find the attic of one of his memories, the only quiet place in this miserable void, and he was quick to tuck himself away in there, away from all the noise and the darkness that he could feel feeding off of everyone's chaos.

It was only then that he sat down and curled in on himself, his breathing shaky as he tried to push every last thought of Y/N out of his head.

"She's better off without me," Bob whispered to himself like a mantra, his head tucked close to his knees as he let the stillness envelope him in a hug much different than the one Y/N’s words had given him. “She’s better off without me.”

“Everyone is.”

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spikedfearn · 13 hours ago

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Bloodbound

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: In Godthrone, Mississippi, salvation comes at a cost: one girl, every ten years. Bound beneath a blood moon to Remmick, you become more than offering. You become his. He tastes your terror like honey, drinks your arousal like wine, and marks you in ways no god could forgive. Through soul-binding magic and whispered vows carved into skin, you learn that some monsters don’t take—they tether. And once you're his, there's no such thing as free will.

Only desire. Only devotion. Only him.

wc: 15.3k

a/n: I don’t even know where to begin—I’m still trying to process the fact that Brittany Broski posted Mercy Made Flesh to her insta story like it was just another Saturday and not the coolest thing that's ever fucking happened to me 😭 I’ve been writing these aus with my whole heart, but I never expected the absolute avalanche of love and support these past couple of weeks. The comments, the reblogs, the screaming in the tags. It’s meant more than I can say, you have all helped me find the joy in writing again, I promise I’m just getting started <333 and an extra big thank you to Liz @fuckoffbard for swooping in and not only beta reading but posting the fic from my account with her laptop bc Tumblr mobile kept crashing on me every time I tried to edit it. Not all heroes wear capes

warnings: possessive vampire, blood kink, bite kink, soulbonding, dubcon elements, obsession, marking, monsterfucking, ritual sacrifice, forced proximity, loss of agency, manipulation, primal sex, size kink, somnophilia (implied), power imbalance, breeding kink (suggestive), Southern Gothic horror, emotional coercion, sacred corruption, body worship, predator/prey dynamics, fear kink, aftercare, blood drinking, religious overtones, stockholm syndrome elements

tags: @sweetheart2210, @seashelleseashellsbytheseashore, @cosmicneptune (comment if you wanna be added to the tag list)

likes, comments, and reblogs always appreciated, please enjoy!!

They told you not to cry.

The priestess with the burnt fingertips and clinking bone necklace—she gripped your chin between cracked fingers this morning and said it soft, but firm: “He won’t choose the ones who cry. He likes a little fight.”

You didn’t ask who he was. Everyone knows. They say his name like the air around it might curdle. Remmick. No surname. No title. Just Remmick, the vampire king of the blighted woods, the monster who made your town a deal eighty years ago and never broke it.

Not once.

The sun rose slowly this morning, heavy with heat that made the back of your dress stick to your spine before you even got out the door. The August air tastes like rot and copper. You dressed in the church’s parlor room, with the other girls. Seventeen of you. All local. All barely women, but old enough for sacrifice. The law calls it The Binding, but everyone calls it what it is: Bloodbriding.

Your dress is cotton muslin, faded sky-blue with a high collar and puffed sleeves. You think it used to be a baptismal gown. It’s been worn before, passed from girl to girl, all of them marked and married off to the dead. It smells like dried lavender and fear. The buttons up your back had to be done by the priestess. You couldn’t stop trembling.

The town of Godthrone, Mississippi was dying even before the Great Depression turned fields to dust and fathers into ghosts. But they say things changed in 1853, when Remmick came up from the swamps with hunger in his eyes and a deal in his mouth. He would protect the town from sickness, starvation, and war. No one from Godthrone would suffer famine, plague, or enemy. In return, every ten years, a bride would be chosen.

One bride. One binding. One soul fed to the dark.

They tried sending soldiers once, back in 1891. Sixteen went into the woods. None came back whole. Some came back dead. Some came back wrong. One woman started speaking tongues until her mouth filled with spiders. After that, they stopped questioning the pact. Instead, they polished it, sanctified it. Made it a ceremony. A celebration.

Tonight, the Choosing will be held in the town square. You will be walked up barefoot, hair unbound, throat bare. They say the mark will bloom on the girl he wants. A burning, black sigil over the heart. Like a brand. Like a marriage license signed in blood.

Your fingers clutch the hem of your dress. Your name is somewhere on the roster. Somewhere between Eleanor Avery and Ruth Jameson, though it's hard to keep track when the names aren't arranged in alphabetical order.

You haven’t eaten since yesterday. You haven’t even had your first kiss and you’re ridiculously terrified. Because you’ve dreamt of serrated teeth in the dark for weeks now. Because your skin itches like something under it wants out. Because when you close your eyes, you swear you can feel someone watching. Someone already choosing.

And the sun is starting to go down.

They say only the pure get chosen. But that’s a lie. You’ve seen who’s been taken before.

Rebecca Sue, who slit her baby sister’s throat in a fever dream. Agnes Miller, who used to take men’s teeth as trophies.

None of them were pure. They were just...unlucky. Or pretty. Or strange enough that no one would miss them.

You’ve always known you were one of those girls. Born during a blood moon, baptized late because no one could find your daddy until spring thaw—when they fished him out of the river with his eyes missing and his hands gnawed to bone. Your mama didn’t cry. Just braided your hair tighter that morning and told you to never kiss a man with a gold chain or blue eyes. Said they never bring nothin’ but grief.

She died a year later. Something in her blood turned sour. The town doctor wouldn’t touch her. Said it was Remmick’s curse, passed down from when she laid with a man not her husband. Said that’s what happens when women sin.

You were seven when she died. You remember the flies buzzing in her throat. You remember how quiet the house got after. They moved you into the orphan house at the edge of the bog. You learned quickly not to cry at night. Crying brought the wrong kind of attention. So you got good at being quiet. Good at disappearing. Good at keeping secrets under your tongue until they turned bitter and black.

You never learned to curtsy right. You never kept your head bowed during sermons. But you were beautiful, and that was enough. Curious eyes, soft demeanor, a voice like river water. You didn’t want to be, but beauty in Godthrone is a death sentence wrapped in silk.

And now here you are.

Twenty-one and cursed with symmetry.

Chosen to stand under the sickle moon tonight, wearing a dead girl’s dress and nothing else beneath it. Your whole life leading to this—one slow march toward a monster’s mouth.

The town pretends this is holy. They hang garlands on the chapel door and sing hymns in minor chords. The mayor’s wife gave you perfume, lemon balm and sugar, and told you to “make the town proud.” Her eyes didn’t meet yours.

You think about running. You always think about running. But there’s nowhere to go. Not with that feeling in your chest. That strange pull. That sense of something waiting. Something with teeth.

And a name you never dared say out loud until last night. Whispered into your pillow like a prayer. Like a confession.

Remmick.

Your skin burns when you think about it now.

There are stories, of course. Every girl who grows up in Godthrone hears them. They start as whispers during thunderstorms—told under quilts with a candle burning low, shared like secrets between girls too young to know better and too scared not to listen.

“He walks on graves and doesn’t leave footprints.” “He drinks from animals and people, unless he’s claimed you.” “If he marks you, you’ll never want anyone else. Even if you try.”

But the worst ones are the quietest. The ones passed from dying lips to trembling ears. The ones that don’t sound like warnings—they sound like wishes.

“He touched me once. I haven’t known peace since.”

There was one girl—Celia Mott—who came back. Just once. Just long enough to be seen. The Binding year of 1911. She walked into the town square three years later, barefoot and smiling with red-stained teeth. Hair grown long and wild, white dress yellowed with age, eyes gone black. She didn’t speak. Not even once. Just walked right into the chapel and curled up on the altar like a dog. They found her there the next morning, hands folded on her chest, body cold as the river.

No one talks about Celia. But everyone remembers her. You remember her.

You were only thirteen, peeking through a knothole in the chapel wall. You watched as they wrapped her in burlap and buried her deep. You remember thinking she looked peaceful. You remember being jealous. That was the first time you ever said his name, whispered into the dirt above her grave. Not out of fear. Not even hate. Curiosity.

Because what kind of man makes a girl lie down and die smiling?

You used to wonder what he looked like. The other girls said he was monstrous, with claws for hands and eyes that burned like oil lamps in the dark. But that never sat right with you. You don’t think a creature that ancient would need to be grotesque to be feared. You think he’d be beautiful—awfully, unnaturally beautiful. The kind of beautiful that keeps you up at night, sick with craving.

And that’s the part that terrifies you most. Because somewhere in the dark part of you—the part that still dreams of blood-slick mouths and hands around your throat—you want it.

You want to know if he’ll kiss you first or just bite. You want to know what it feels like when the bond takes. You want to know if the mark will hurt as much as it’s supposed to. You want to know if you’ll scream.

You press your palm flat to your chest. Nothing yet. No mark. No burn. No claim. But you swear—you swear—you can feel something there. Like a match waiting to strike. Like teeth ghosting your skin. Like someone’s already touching you from the other side of the veil.

The sun is sinking lower. The bell will ring soon.

And then—the chapel doors open like a serpent unhinging its maw.

Wood creaks. Heat rushes in. And for a second, you don’t move. Then the priestess nods. Just once. That’s your cue.

You step forward on bare feet, feeling every splinter in the boards, every grain of dirt that clings to your soles as you pass the threshold and step into the sweltering dusk. The sky bleeds orange and purple, clouds dragging low like bruises. Somewhere, a cicada screams. And just like that—it begins.

The town square is only five blocks away, but the walk feels like miles. You don’t look at the people lined along the street—don’t dare. You can feel their eyes anyway. Heavy as wet cloth, pricking your skin like pins. Old women in rust-stained aprons. Young boys clutching their mothers' skirts. Men who won’t meet your gaze but still lean in for a better look.

It feels like being paraded through the gallows. Or the garden before slaughter.

The other girls walk ahead and behind you, a procession of blue and white and shaking, anxious limbs. No one speaks. Even the priestess has fallen silent. The only sound is the crunch of gravel underfoot, and the dry shush of cotton brushing thighs.

Your heart beats so loud it’s all you hear. It doesn’t sound like fear anymore. It sounds like an invocation.

The town square unfolds in front of the old courthouse, the brick stained dark from a fire no one talks about anymore. There’s a raised wooden platform at the center—built just for this, just for tonight. The gallows rope is still looped overhead, a relic from older rituals, back when Binding meant hanging the chosen until they gasped awake with his name on their lips.

Now it’s cleaner. More sacred.

They say he prefers it that way.

Gas lanterns flicker along the perimeter, casting warped shadows over the crowd. Wreaths of night jasmine hang from the eaves, their scent thick and cloying in the heat. Everything smells like smoke and sugar and sweat. It makes your stomach roll.

The girls are led to the platform and lined up—seventeen of you, barefoot on the warm planks, hands clasped at your waists like dolls posed for judgment. The crowd stares. Some murmur prayers. Some cry. And some just watch.

You keep your chin up. Not out of pride. But because you know he’s watching too. Somewhere. Behind the crowd. Behind the dusk. Behind the veil of what’s seen and what isn’t.

You can feel it. That tickle at the base of your spine. That breath against your collar. That heartbeat that doesn’t match your own.

The mayor steps forward. Fat and red-faced in a linen suit too tight for the heat. He clears his throat. The priestess lights the ceremonial flame in a basin of copper and bone. She whispers in a language that isn’t English, isn’t Latin, but makes your skin crawl all the same. The fire flares blue.

The bell tolls from the chapel behind you. One. Your pulse stutters. Every eye is on you. Two. You glance down. No mark. Just the flutter of your own chest, just the sickly thrill under your ribs. Three. You feel the wind change. Just slightly. Like something just arrived. Four. The bell keeps tolling, steady as a countdown. Or a death knell.

You don’t flinch, but your knees feel loose. Like they’re no longer yours. Like the wood beneath your feet is suddenly shifting grain, trying to swallow you whole.

The priestess raises both arms. Her voice, when it comes, isn’t loud, but it carries. Thin and sharp and dry as snakeskin. “By covenant sealed and blood remembered, we offer our daughters.”

The crowd murmurs the response: "May He spare the many, and take only the one."

Five. You keep your eyes straight ahead. The girl next to you, Ruth Jameson, is breathing so fast she sounds like a kettle about to boil. She’s a preacher’s daughter. Always wore gloves, even in the summer. Once slapped you for speaking during Sunday reading. You almost hope it’s her.

Let it be her. Or Eleanor Avery. Or Violet Price with the thick braid and expensive teeth. They’re prettier. Cleaner. More practiced in obedience. You’ve heard the whispers that the vampire favors grace, not sharp girls who talk too little and think too much.

Six.

You exhale slow through your nose. Try to imagine the town square without people in it. Try to remember how it looked in winter, dusted with sleet and full of silence. Try to picture yourself anywhere else. You can’t.

The priestess begins the litany. A string of old names, spoken in a dialect that feels like ash in your ears. “Ishari. Vael. Thorne. Kelrem. Narthyx…”

The words twist like vines around your ankles, tight and burning. They say the names are the True Ones. The old ones. The first vampires. Remmick’s forebears, or his victims, no one’s really sure. You doubt there’s a difference.

Seven.

The wind shifts again. This time, everyone feels it. A ripple goes through the crowd—silent, almost reverent. A little boy starts to cry and is shushed immediately. You don’t dare move. You feel it too. It’s like being brushed by something that isn’t there. A pressure. A pull. Like your body isn’t entirely your own anymore.

Still, no mark.

You wonder if you’ll even know when it comes. If it will be sudden. Sharp. Like lightning. Or if it’ll be slow. Like seduction. Like being kissed where no one else can see.

Eight.

The priestess’s eyes are closed now. The other girls tremble. Someone is crying. You’re not sure who. You dare a glance to your left. Eleanor’s lips are moving, silent prayer or quiet bargaining. She looks ready to faint. Her hands are shaking. You look to your right. Ruth’s eyes are squeezed shut, lashes wet. No one is looking at you.

Good. Let it be one of them. Let it not be you. Please.

Nine.

The priestess holds up a small obsidian dagger. Cuts the palm of her hand and lets the blood drip into the blue flame. It hisses, high-pitched and eager.

You smell it instantly.

Not like iron. Like something older. Like the scent of a crypt cracked open.

Ten.

The bell stops. The crowd holds its breath. The fire roars. The flame in the basin spits.

Blue arcs to white. The heat radiates across the platform, and the priestess steps back, blood dripping down her wrist like ink on a parchment soaked too long. Still no mark on your skin. Still no voice in your ear. Still no rush of fire behind your ribs.

You let your shoulders lower a fraction, just enough to feel the strain begin to ease. Just enough to believe—maybe—it’s not you.

Maybe you were only ever meant to stand here, to be one of the extras. The backdrop to someone else’s fate. One of the girls who’ll go home tonight, pale and trembling and untouched.

You could live with that. You could learn to breathe again.

You could get married someday to someone simple and safe. A man with kind eyes and a little farmland. You could forget this ever happened, could press it flat like a pressed flower between the pages of your life. You’re almost ready to believe it.

Until the silence begins to stretch. And stretch. And stretch. Too long. Too unnatural.

The crowd is still holding its breath. But now, they’re waiting. Expectant. The air isn’t quiet—it’s thick. Charged. Like a storm that hasn’t broken yet, a scream that hasn’t been released. You swear the ground hums.

Your skin itches.

Not with sweat. Not with fear. But with awareness.

The priestess’s head cocks slightly to the left. She doesn’t move otherwise. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t speak.

And then the lamps flicker. All at once.

Not a breeze. Not a draft. It’s something deeper. Something below.

A mother in the front row lets out a sob. Her child starts crying again. No one hushes him this time.

The flame gutters low.

You see your breath fog in front of you.

It’s August. The air should feel like soup. But all at once, it’s cold.

A cold that doesn’t touch your skin—it touches your soul. And that’s when you feel it.

Not a mark. Not yet. But the presence. The knowing. It’s here. And it’s looking at you.

You don’t see him at first. You feel him.

Like being plunged into deep water. That gut-punch plunge, that pressure in your ears, that moment of suspended breath where your body forgets how to float. The world narrows. The noise dulls. Every hair on your body rises like it’s been called to attention.

The flame sputters. The priestess lowers her head, and the entire crowd follows. All at once, the square is bowing. No one told you that would happen. The girls beside you drop their gazes. You remain upright.

Too stunned. Too still.

And then you hear it.

Bootsteps.

Slow. Measured.

Bootsteps on gravel, a sound far too ordinary for something this monstrous.

And still, you don’t look. You can’t.

Because your chest is burning.

It starts beneath your collarbone. A single point of heat, sharp as a blade, blossoming outward like ink in water. You gasp, clutch at your heart—but nothing’s there.

No wound. Just pain. Just…change. You look down and see it bloom.

A mark.

Black and bright and moving, like a tattoo drawn by something alive. Swirling patterns, sharp edges and curling lines that twist and wind down your chest. You hear someone cry out—a choked sound, like a girl breaking open—but you don’t realize it’s you until the priestess grips your arm to keep you from falling.

She’s smiling. “The chosen,” she whispers.

And that’s when he speaks.

Not loud. Not rushed.

But his voice cuts through the air like a blade through silk.

“Lift yer head.”

You don’t mean to obey. But your chin rises.

And there he is. At the base of the platform. Not monstrous. Not grotesque.

But broad and pale, dressed in black that doesn’t shine, hair slicked back like wet ink, and eyes the color of dried blood and dying embers. There’s no mistaking him. No imagining he might be a man. He is not a man.

He is the end of prayers. The promise of ruin. The reason the dark exists. Remmick. And he’s looking only at you.

Possession, raw and ravenous, carved into every angle of his face.

“C’mere, little bride,” he says, softly.

And when you step forward—shaking, burning, claimed—it’s not because they all told you to. It’s because you want to.

You step down from the platform one trembling foot at a time.

The crowd doesn’t make a sound. No cheers. No wails. Not even a rustle of skirts or a cough from the old men lining the back.

Just silence.

The kind that feels held—like a breath everyone’s too afraid to release.

Your bare feet meet the packed earth. It’s warm from the heat of the day but it may as well be ice. You can’t feel anything but the burn of the mark, pulsing like a second heart beneath your skin. Every beat of it syncs with something that doesn’t belong to you. Something older.

Remmick waits at the bottom step.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. He just watches you walk to him—like he knew you’d come, like the ceremony was nothing more than a formality. A ritual to dress up inevitability.

You stop just before him. Close enough to feel the wrongness that coils around him like smoke. It doesn’t repel you. It draws you. Makes your blood thrum, makes your mouth dry, makes your thighs clench in a way that shames you instantly. You pray he can’t tell.

Then he lifts a hand. And brushes his thumb lightly across the mark.

Your knees nearly give.

The touch is not cruel. It’s not even forceful. But it ignites something deep, something coiled and ancient inside you. The mark responds—flaring hotter, the lines shifting under his skin like they recognize him.

And then his eyes meet yours. That red glint beneath the dark, sharp and knowing.

“Felt ya long before this,” he murmurs. His voice isn’t deep. It’s smooth. Clear. Cold. “Y’cried my name in yer sleep last week.”

Your breath catches. You didn’t even remember dreaming. But he speaks it like truth. Like he was there.

“Almost took ya then,” he says, dragging his gaze down your body, slow and deliberate. “But this here's cleaner.”

He leans in. And you flinch.

He pauses—just a hair—and then his mouth is at your ear.

“Like when they tremble,” he whispers, voice full of something dark and warm and terrifyingly pleased. “But I like it more when they beg.”

Your breath hitches so violently it hurts. And then his nose drags along the line of your throat. He inhales. A shiver tears through you, sharp and helpless.

“Smell like mine.”

He says it like a promise. Like a curse. Like a man who doesn’t need to raise his voice to ruin you.

The mark burns.

And your body answers with something shameful and wet.

His hand slips to the back of your neck, cool fingers cradling the base of your skull. “I can feel ya now, little bride,” he says, voice softer. Hungrier. “Every shiver. Every ache. Every time yer thighs press together ‘cause yer thinkin’ of me.”

You want to say no. You want to say stop.

But your lips part— —and all that comes out is a broken, traitorous moan.

The crowd still doesn’t move. The priestess watches with her hands folded. And Remmick, smiling now, presses his lips to your jaw—not a kiss, not yet—and whispers:

“We begin tonight.”

They don't clap. No one dares.

The moment he speaks, the crowd begins to part like a body splitting open. Quietly. Obediently. As if on cue.

Remmick doesn't take your hand. He doesn’t have to. You follow him. You don't look back.

The crowd watches in total silence, as though afraid that one misstep, one murmur, might draw his attention. You feel their eyes on you—burning, curious, afraid. But none of them move to stop you. No one calls your name. No one tries to say goodbye.

And somehow that hurts worse than if they had.

The mark on your chest is still searing, like hot iron beneath your skin. But it’s not just pain anymore—it’s pull. With every step you take behind him, it feels stronger. Hungrier. You feel him through it now. A weight in your gut. A throb between your legs. An ache in the part of you that shouldn’t want this, but does.

You wonder if he feels it too. You don’t have to wait long to find out.

Halfway down the path, Remmick pauses, turns his head just slightly—not enough to see his whole face, just the ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. “Stop squeezin’ yer thighs together like that,” he says without looking at you. “Ain’t polite.”

Your cheeks go hot. You hadn’t even noticed you were doing it. Instinct. Reflex. Shame flickers to life—but it doesn’t stay long. Not when he glances back, finally, and meets your eyes with something wicked and low in his voice.

“Though I do like it.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just keep walking.

Remmick’s estate lies on the edge of the woods, past the last row of homes where the gas lamps thin and the road turns to dirt. The air shifts the moment you cross the boundary—cooler, thicker. It feels like stepping into another world. A forgotten place. The trees here lean too close. The moss drips like old lace. You see stones sunk into the earth along the path, names long worn away. Grave markers, maybe. Or warnings.

The carriage is waiting for you.

Sleek, black, quiet. Not pulled by horses—those would never make it through these woods. Instead, it waits unnaturally still, shadows wrapping around its wheels, as if it simply appeared when called. Remmick holds the door open for you.

You pause.

Not because you’re afraid. But because everything in you wants to go in.

You hate how much you want it.

Inside, the cabin is too dark. Too cold. The seat cushions are velvet, the color of dried wine. There are no windows. Only candle sconces that haven’t been lit. You sit, carefully. Your thighs still sticky from earlier. You press your knees together and fold your hands in your lap like a good little bride.

Remmick follows. Closes the door behind him with a click.

You’re alone. Utterly, entirely alone.

And you feel the silence tighten around you like a glove.

Then he speaks. Low. Deliberate. “Take off the dress.”

You don’t move. You don’t breathe.

The words take off the dress still hang in the air—heavy, impossible to grasp, clinging to your skin in ways you can’t shake.

Your fingers twitch in your lap.

The candle sconces haven’t been lit, but you can see him anyway. The dark doesn’t seem to touch him, not really. His eyes are brighter in it. Redder. Watching you the way a wolf watches a trembling rabbit—not out of pity. Not out of malice, either. But with the certainty of hunger.

He leans back, legs spread, one arm resting along the velvet seat. Casual. Patient. Like he’s giving you a choice when you both know there isn’t one. “I won’t ask twice, sweetheart.”

The term of endearment doesn’t sound kind. It sounds dangerous.

Your breath comes shallow. You reach for the first button.

The collar is stiff, the thread old. You fumble. Your fingers feel clumsy, not from fear—but from how aware you are of his gaze. It traces every movement. Tracks the tremble in your hands. Watches your chest rise with every breath.

You get the first button undone. Then the second. The third.

The dress loosens across your shoulders. The mark, still searing hot and alive, seems to pulse brighter in the air between you. It aches when you drag the fabric down your arms, exposing more of it. The gown drops to your waist, then your hips. You shift to slide it lower.

Remmick still hasn’t moved.

But the air has. It feels denser now. Like you’ve stepped inside his lungs and forgotten how to breathe on your own.

When the dress slips past your thighs and pools at your feet, you’re left in nothing.

No underthings. No slip.

Just bare skin and that still-burning sigil over your heart.

Your hands twitch up to cover yourself—reflex, instinct, shame—but his voice stops you before they reach your chest.

“Don’t.” One word. Quiet. But it scalds.

You obey. Your arms drop.

He finally leans forward.

His palm drags over his jaw as he takes you in, slow and deliberate. You expect him to leer. To lick his lips or reach for you like you’re already his. But instead, he just looks.

Like he’s seeing something holy.

And then, softly—more to himself than to you—he says, “Fuckin’ beautiful.”

You bite your lip.

Something twists in your belly. Something hot and low and helpless.

He leans in, elbows resting on his knees, and murmurs: “Y’don’t even know what yer feelin’, do ya?”

You try to speak, but your throat’s too dry.

He tilts his head, watching the way your thighs inch together again. “That’s the bond, love. That ache? That throb in yer cunt? That heat sittin’ behind yer ribs like a sin waitin’ to be confessed?”

His voice drops even lower.

“That’s me.”

You shudder. The mark pulses.

And Remmick, grinning now—slow, sharp, possessive—reaches out, thumb brushing just under the curve of your breast, not quite touching the mark but close enough that it sparks again behind your ribs. “Y’feel me yet?” he asks.

You nod. Barely.

He laughs, soft and cruel and pleased. “Good. Then let’s make it permanent.”

Your breath stutters.

His thumb still lingers just below your breast, not quite touching the mark, but the heat from his skin radiates into yours like an ember pressed to parchment. You feel it coil low in your belly, tight and trembling.

And he sees it.

Of course he does.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, voice like smoke curling around your neck. “Already buzzin’ for me. And I haven’t even laid a proper hand on ya yet.”

He lets his fingers trail lightly down your sternum. Not rushed. Not greedy. It’s almost reverent—if reverence could be soaked in hunger. His fingertips drag over your ribs, then down to the soft dip between them, tracing lazy circles that never quite reach where you want.

The bond throbs between you like a living thing.

It doesn’t just burn. It pulls.

Each touch sends something electric singing across your nerves, as though your body’s not fully yours anymore—shared now, tied to something dark and breathing. Every sensation is heightened. The velvet seat beneath you feels too soft. The air feels too tight. And his touch?

His touch feels like command.

He leans closer. You feel his breath on your throat before you see his mouth. “Tell me where it hurts,” he whispers, and his tongue brushes the shell of your ear.

Your hips shift without permission. “Lower,” you manage, barely above a whisper.

Remmick hums. A dark, pleased sound. “Aye. Thought so.” He brings his hand to your thigh, palm broad and cool, fingers spreading to grip you firm. Not harsh. Not rough. But with purpose. Like he’s claiming the space. Like he already owns it. He pushes your legs apart slowly, and the bond sings when you don’t resist.

When you offer.

His gaze dips down.

And he groans—quiet, guttural. “Sweet fuckin’ Christ.”

You’re soaked.

Your body, treacherous and needy, has already given itself over. The mark glows faintly in the dark now, pulse-for-pulse with your heartbeat, lighting the curve of your breast and the sweat beading along your collar.

“You know what this is, don’t ya?” he says, dragging a finger up your inner thigh, stopping just shy of your center. “The bond’s settin’ in. Claimin’ ya. Makes every nerve scream for me. You’d let me do anything right now, wouldn’t ya?”

You want to say no. You really do. But your body says yes in a dozen ways. The way your breath shakes. The way your thighs tremble. The way your hips rock forward, desperate for any friction, even the ghost of it.

You meet his eyes. “Please,” you whisper. It slips out before you can stop it.

Remmick’s grin turns sharp. Triumphant. “Say it again.”

Your cheeks burn. But your body doesn’t hesitate. “Please.”

He moves then.

Not fast. Not rough. But with absolute, devastating intent.

He sinks to his knees in front of you. Not in worship. Not in submission. But in devouring anticipation.

His hands slide up your thighs, spreading them wider, and he presses a kiss just above your knee. Then another, higher. And another. Each one closer to the place that aches. The place he’s not touching.

Yet.

“You don’t even know what I’m about to do to ya,” he murmurs, mouth against your skin. “But yer body’s already beggin’.” He nips just above your hip, tongue soothing the sting. And finally, finally, his hand reaches the mark again—palm flat over your heart.

You jolt.

It feels like fire licking up your spine. Like something ancient waking up. Like something that says: Mine.

“Y’ready, little bride?” he asks, voice rough with hunger, reverent with power.

Because this is more than lust.

This is binding. This is belonging. And you’re about to be his—in every sense.

Your heart is a drum. A hammer. A hymn.

And Remmick holds it in his palm like he’s already broken it open and tasted what’s inside.

He watches you. Eyes dark, pupils wide, mouth parted—not in awe, not in shock, but in possession. Like a man handed his favorite weapon after years of war. Like he knows exactly how to use you. “Keep yer eyes on me,” he says softly.

You do. Because you can’t look away.

His thumb strokes over your mark, slow and possessive. The moment he presses down—just the lightest pressure—you gasp, full-body and shaking. It doesn’t hurt. It’s worse than that.

It undoes you.

Your back arches off the seat. A whimper slips past your lips, high and humiliating, and the fire under your skin blooms wider, deeper, lower.

“Good,” Remmick breathes, as if your body’s reaction is all the permission he needs. “Let it take ya.” He leans in again, lips brushing over the curve of your breast, just below the glowing sigil etched into your flesh. His mouth is soft. Cool. But where it touches, heat follows. Magic, maybe. Or something far filthier.

You shiver.

He trails his tongue in a slow, careful circle around the mark. Not kissing. Not biting. Just tasting.

You make a sound—something raw and helpless—and Remmick laughs, low in his throat. “Feel that?”

You nod, dazed.

He hums like he’s proud of you. Like he owns every breath you take now. “Bond’s startin’ to root,” he says against your skin. “It’s in the blood. In the muscle. Every heartbeat yer body makes now? It’s for me.”

His hand moves lower.

Fingers dragging down your belly, past your hip, settling between your thighs where you’re soaked and trembling and already spreading for him without thought. “You feel like sin,” he murmurs. “Gonna taste like salvation.” And then he finally, finally presses his mouth to the center of you.

You jerk. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

His tongue is slow at first, lazy, almost cruel in how lightly he licks. As if he’s savoring the fact that you’re shaking under him already. You try to move—try to rock against him—but his hands grip your thighs, holding you open, holding you still.

“This ain’t just fuckin’,” he rasps, voice muffled by your body. “This is the bind. This is me settin’ my claim.”

You moan. You whimper. And when his mouth closes over your clit and he sucks, your vision shatters.

It’s not just pleasure. It’s magic.

You feel it in your bones, in the roots of your teeth, in the back of your throat. You feel the bond snap into place like a tether. You feel him inside you—his hunger, his need, his desire—mirroring yours, amplifying it, turning you both into a single, burning thing.

You’re panting now. Desperate. Gone. “Remmick—” you gasp.

He groans like your voice alone could finish him.

You feel his tongue again—harder now, faster, coaxing your orgasm to the surface like a secret—and you give it to him. You give everything. You come with a cry, eyes wide, hips shaking, the mark on your chest glowing like fire in the dark. And Remmick?

He doesn’t stop.

Not until you’re slumped against the seat, legs still twitching, the bond humming under your skin like a satisfied beast. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Smirking.

“First part’s done,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now we finish it.”

He stands. Unbuckling his belt. Unbuttoning his trousers.

And between your thighs, your body begins to ache all over again.

You’re still trembling when he rises.

Remmick towers over you in the low flickering dark, the glow from your mark throwing soft gold light across the sharp bones of his face. He looks half-saint, half-devil—something carved out of hunger and patience, restraint and ruin.

He doesn’t touch you yet. Not again.

He just watches as you breathe, chest heaving, legs still slack and parted. And for a heartbeat, he says nothing. He simply drinks you in like a man parched. And then his voice cuts through the silence again—low, velvet-rough, intimate as a mouth pressed to your spine. “You’re takin’ it real pretty,” he murmurs, thumbing the buttons on his trousers loose one by one. “Didn’t think you’d fold that fast. But fuck, I felt it.”

Your body answers with a pulse.

You want to close your legs, to pull your dress back on, to shield yourself from how open he’s left you—but the bond won’t let you. It aches when you think about hiding. It pulls you back toward him, like a tide. Like gravity.

And he knows it.

He steps out of his slacks and lets his shirt hang open, chest pale and cut with the kind of lean strength you’ve only read about in books meant to be hidden under your mattress. His body is strong, scarred, real. A monument to the centuries he’s outlived.

Your eyes drop lower. And—god.

You freeze.

He’s hard already, thick and flushed, hanging heavy between his thighs, and for the first time since the mark bloomed, you feel a new kind of fear coil in your gut.

He’s going to ruin you.

And you want it so badly you could cry.

Remmick sees the way your gaze lingers. “‘S alright,” he says, stepping closer. “I’ll go slow. First time’s meant to sting a little.” His hand drags down your cheek, thumb brushing your lips. “But y’won’t be scared of the pain. Not when I’m the one givin’ it to ya.”

You make a sound in your throat—something small, breathless, wanting.

He strokes your jaw, then cups the back of your neck, guiding you gently down, down, until you’re laid out across the velvet bench seat. He doesn’t climb on top of you right away. He kneels beside the bench, one hand splayed wide across your ribs, the other pressing just above the mark on your chest.

The weight of it grounds you.

“Last chance, little bride,” he says softly, and there’s something raw beneath the teasing now. “After this, there ain’t no undoing it.”

You look up at him. And despite everything—despite the fear, the heat, the bond that feels like it’s branded your soul from the inside out—

You nod.

Remmick’s smile is slow. Tender. Like a secret finally answered.

“Atta girl.”

He leans down.And when his mouth presses over the mark—soft, sure, claiming—you swear your body catches fire all over again. His mouth seals over the mark, and it’s like being opened. Not physically—not yet—but inside. Beneath your ribs. Somewhere sacred.

You feel it the way thunder rolls over land—first a hush, then a tremble, then a crack that splits you straight down the middle. His lips part just enough for his tongue to drag across the sigil, and something ancient stirs to life.

The mark glows white-hot.

Your back bows off the seat. Your fingers clutch at velvet, at air, at him. A gasp tears from your throat, raw and keening.

Remmick moans against your chest. “There she is,” he rasps, mouth dragging lower, down the slope of your breast. “Fuck, yer soul’s singin’ for me now. Y’feel that? That little ache in the base of yer spine?”

You nod, frantic.

“It’s me,” he says, hand sliding back between your thighs. “That’s me growin’ roots in ya.” His fingers tease your slick folds, feather-light, not giving what you need, just promising.

You whimper.

Remmick watches you writhe, his cock hard and leaking, resting heavy against his thigh. “Spread ‘em wider, sweetheart. That’s it. Just like that. Let me in.”

You do as you’re told. You’d do anything he asks right now. Not because he’s taken your will. But because he’s claimed your want.

He climbs over you slowly, one knee pressing between your thighs, his body blanketing yours with terrible warmth. The feel of his skin against yours makes your mark pulse like it’s alive. He lines himself up, dragging the head of his cock against your soaked entrance, letting it slip through your folds, slicking himself in you.

You gasp.

“Remmick—”

He cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, voice low and hoarse. “I’ve got ya. Gonna go slow.” He pushes in.

God.

It’s thick. It stretches. It burns in the best, most ruinous way. You clutch his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as he inches deeper—slow, agonizing, precise. Every breath is a plea. Every heartbeat is his. You feel the bond knot tighter, pulling you to him with every inch he sinks into your body. Halfway in, and you’re already fluttering around him, body shaking, eyes wet.

Remmick groans, low and wrecked. “Fuckin’ hell,” he grits out. “You’re tight as a fist. Grip me like you were made for it.” He rolls his hips forward, just a little deeper.

You cry out—more overwhelmed than hurt. Pleasure is coiling inside you like a scream wound too tight to release.

“‘S alright,” he murmurs. “Yer takin’ me so well. Gonna have all of me soon.”

He kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your jaw.

“Y’wanna say it?” he asks.

You blink up at him, dazed.

He smiles against your throat. “Say yer mine.”

The words curl on your tongue, fever-warm. “I’m yours.”

His hips snap forward, burying himself in you to the hilt.

You shatter.

You can’t breathe. Not properly.

Not with him buried that deep inside you—thick and unyielding, pressing against something that makes your vision go white around the edges. The stretch burns and soothes all at once, every nerve pulled taut, every inch of your body drawn to his like a tide to the moon.

Remmick doesn’t move right away. He just holds himself there. Letting you feel the full weight of what he’s done.

What he is doing. What you’ll never come back from.

You whimper, your hips twitching, the pressure too much and not enough and perfect. And all he does is lean in close, his voice curling against your ear like the heat of a candle’s flame.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “Feel me in ya? That ache in your belly? That’s me settin’ in, stretchin’ ya out, makin’ room.” His hand cups your jaw, gentle but firm, tilting your face toward his. He watches you—hungry and soft all at once, like a man who’s both starving and reverent. “Y’wanna know somethin’, sweetheart?” he asks, hips giving one slow, rolling thrust.

You gasp, back arching, lips parting in a helpless cry.

He groans, deep in his throat, and stills again. “You’ll never forget this feelin’,” he says. “No matter what happens after. No matter where you run. This right here?” He shifts inside you, not pulling out, just moving deep. “This bond’ll hunger until I feed it.”

You can’t speak. Your body is writhing under him, hips tilting instinctively, needing more, needing movement. The bond is humming now—hot, thick, vibrating under your skin like a wire ready to snap.

And then he starts to move.

Slow. So slow it feels lethal.

He pulls out an inch. Pushes back in. Again. And again.

Each thrust is a deliberate claiming—grinding against the deepest part of you, igniting something wild and ancient in your blood. You moan with every slide, and his name slips out of your mouth between gasps like a prayer, like a curse, like you don’t care who hears.

“R-Remmick—”

He shudders above you, burying his face against your throat.

“Fuck, say it again.”

You do. You can’t stop. “Remmick. Remmick—” Your fingers dig into his back, pulling him closer, urging him to move faster, harder, deeper.

But he won’t. Not yet.

He keeps the pace slow, grinding into you with the kind of restraint that hurts, like he wants to ruin you one slow breath at a time.

You’re sobbing now. From pleasure. From pressure. From the overwhelming rightness of being filled by him.

He kisses the corner of your mouth. Then your jaw. Then the spot where your pulse pounds like a war drum. “Let it take ya,” he whispers. “Let me in. All the way.”

You don't have to let it take you. It's already happening.

Every roll of his hips, every grinding thrust, buries him deeper—not just into your body, but into your very being. You feel him threading through your blood, knotting himself into the soft, wet, secret places no one else has ever touched. You feel him becoming part of you.

And it’s bliss. It’s agony. It’s everything you never dared want.

Remmick groans into your throat, the sound rough and ragged, and you realize—he’s shaking. His arms bracket your head, muscles tense, as if he’s holding himself back with the last threads of a fraying leash. "Fuckin’ hell," he rasps against your skin. "You don’t even know what yer doin’ to me, do ya?"

You moan when his hips shift again, a slow, brutal grind that rubs against something deep inside, sending another crack through your already crumbling self.

"You’re burnin’ me up from the inside," he breathes. "Claimin’ me right back without even tryin'." He thrusts again, a little harder this time.

Your nails rake down his back, and he hisses, the sound sharp and desperate.

"Y’hear that, little bride?" he pants. "The bond’s snappin' shut. Lockin’ us together. Ain’t no prayers that can undo it now."

You whimper under him, nodding frantically because words are gone. Lost. All you can do is feel. All you can do is take him. The magic between you stretches taut—white-hot and endless—pulling tighter with every slow, deep stroke.

Remmick lifts his head. Looks at you. Really looks at you.

And something raw, something wild flashes through his crimson eyes.

Not cruelty. Not hunger. But devotion. The kind of devotion that ruins. That razes. That rebuilds.

And his voice—Christ, his voice—comes soft and reverent, like a prayer said in a burning church. "Mine." He pulls almost all the way out.

Your body cries for him.

And when he slams back in, burying himself to the hilt, the bond explodes.

You barely have time to scream. It rips out of you as Remmick drives back into your body with a force that shatters something deep inside—not bone, not muscle, but something older. Something tied to the very breath in your lungs and the heat in your blood.

The bond snaps tight. It doesn’t just settle between you—it erupts.

A wave of heat crashes through you, stealing your sight, your breath, your thoughts. The air around you blurs and sharpens all at once, everything too bright, too loud, too much. You feel him in every corner of your being—his hunger, his lust, his need crashing against yours in a brutal, endless tide.

Remmick groans low in his throat, a broken sound, like he’s barely holding himself together. "That's it, love," he pants, thrusting deep and sure now, fucking you through the bond’s collapse. "Feel it. Feel me." Each thrust drives him deeper than flesh, branding his presence into you so thoroughly you don't know where you end and he begins.

Your fingers scrabble at his back, nails dragging across his spine. You clutch at him like drowning, like if you let go you’ll be ripped apart.

And maybe you would.

"Yer mine now," he growls against your neck, voice shaking with the force of it. "Every heartbeat. Every breath. Every fuckin’ drop of blood in that sweet body—mine."

You sob beneath him, helpless.

Because it’s true. It’s so true it hurts.

He fucks you harder, hips slamming into yours, the slick sound of your bodies joining filling the dark carriage. Every inch of you aches for him now, craves him. The pleasure is brutal, endless, washing over you in thick, consuming waves that blur the edges of the world. "Say it," he snarls. "Say who owns ya."

You can barely get the words out, your voice broken and gasping between thrusts. "You—Remmick—I'm yours, I'm yours—"

He groans, loud and wrecked, driving himself deeper. "Again."

"I'm yours!" you cry, clinging to him, legs wrapping around his waist without thought. "I'm yours!"

The bond screams its satisfaction, magic sealing tighter, brighter, a perfect, eternal tether. Remmick’s rhythm falters—just for a heartbeat—and then he lets go completely. He fucks you harder, faster, rougher now, as if trying to stamp himself into every molecule of your body. As if the bond isn’t enough, as if he needs your body to remember what your soul already knows.

You’re close again. Closer than before.

Tears leak from the corners of your eyes, not from pain—but from the overwhelming rightness of it. The way your body, your magic, your very soul sings under him.

"That's it," he grits out, teeth scraping against your jaw, your throat. "Gimme one more, sweetheart. One more, and I'll fill ya. Mark ya up proper."

You sob something desperate and broken against his shoulder.

And then you fall apart.

Your body breaks first. You cry out, a sharp, ragged sound, thighs locking around Remmick’s hips as your climax rips through you like a flood that’s been dammed too long. It’s blinding—so much more than pleasure. It's surrender. It's consummation.

The bond erupts under your skin, a wildfire racing from your chest outward—your limbs, your heart, your mind all filled with him, only him.

Remmick snarls low in his throat when he feels it—feels you milking his cock, spasming around him, clutching him so tightly you might tear him apart if he were anything less than what he is. "Fuckin’ hell, there’s my girl," he growls, voice thick, shaking, barely human. "God, yer perfect—perfect for me."

You barely hear him over the rush of blood in your ears, the way your heart stutters and kicks under the strain of the bond locking into place. You feel like you’re dying, being reborn, consumed.

And then—

His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back to bare your throat.

You don’t resist. You can’t.

You offer it to him. Begging without words.

Needing it. Needing him.

Remmick’s breath sears against your pulse, a guttural sound of want breaking free from his chest. "Mine," he rasps, and then— He sinks his fangs into your throat.

You scream—not from pain. From release. From completion.

The moment his teeth pierce your skin, it’s over. The bond seals so violently you swear you feel the whole world lurch.

You feel his cock throb inside you as he spills himself deep, hips jerking hard against yours as he empties everything into you—claiming you, breeding you, binding you. His moan vibrates against your throat, a filthy, possessive sound, full of ancient, ruinous satisfaction.

You convulse around him, helpless, drowning in the force of it—your orgasm crashing into his, a tangled knot of pleasure and magic and hunger so overwhelming you stop knowing where you end and he begins.

Everything collapses into him. His taste. His scent.

His voice murmuring ragged, half-spoken promises against your bleeding throat.

"Never lettin’ ya go." "Made ya for me." "Gonna fuckin’ ruin anyone who tries to take ya." "My sweet girl. My bride."

The world fades to black around the edges.

Not death. Not fear. Just him. Only him.

You don't know how long you stay like that. Him buried deep inside you, teeth still sunk into your throat, body trembling with the aftershocks of the bond and the brutal, gorgeous wreckage he’s left behind.

When he finally pulls his fangs free, you whimper at the loss—but he shushes you gently, lapping at the puncture marks with slow, lazy strokes of his tongue. Sealing the wound. Marking you further.

His hand cups the side of your face, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth like he's calming a horse that’s been run too hard. "There she is," he murmurs, voice low and thick with satisfaction. "My little bride."

You blink up at him, dazed, boneless, ruined.

He smiles.

It’s not kind. It’s not soft. It’s something far worse. Worship.

"You feel it, don't ya?" he whispers. "That ache behind yer ribs? That’s me sittin’ in yer soul now."

You nod weakly. You can still feel him inside you—hot and sticky, filling you in every way a man can. The bond thrums between you like a heartbeat shared.

And he’s not done.

You see it in his eyes. That hunger. That certainty.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth—slow, claiming kisses, each one staking a piece of you deeper than the last. "You’ll never want anyone else again," he promises, voice almost tender. "Yer mine now. Body, blood, soul."

And somehow, impossibly—

You don't fear it. You crave it. You crave him. Forever.

The carriage rocks gently as it moves, but you barely notice. You’re sprawled across the velvet seat, bare and boneless, your limbs too heavy to lift, your skin humming with the aftershocks of what just happened.

Of what you are now. Of what he made you.

The mark on your chest still glows faintly, a soft pulse in the dark, echoing your heartbeat—and his. It thrums in your veins, in the tender ache between your thighs where he spilled himself so deep you can still feel the heat of it. You don’t know where your body ends and his begins anymore.

Maybe there’s no difference. Maybe there never was.

Remmick sits at the far end of the carriage now, leaned back lazily against the seat, trousers still open, hair a mussed halo around his head like he’s been through a war and came out smiling.

He watches you. God, he watches you.

Eyes dark and glittering, hungry and satisfied all at once, a predator marveling at the way his prey still twitches even after the final blow.

He’s in no rush. He’s got you now.

Forever.

And you feel it—the first thread of it tightening low in your belly.

A throb. A pulse.

Your body responds instantly to his gaze, hips shifting, thighs pressing together, nipples tightening in the cool air. You bite your lip, trying to smother the shameful rush of heat flooding you again, but it's impossible.

Because now—

Now he feels it too.

A low, wicked chuckle rumbles from his chest. "Aw, sweetheart," he drawls, the accent thick and syrupy, heavy with cruel affection. "Already missin’ me inside ya?"

Your face burns. You shake your head, a weak, pitiful denial—but the bond betrays you.

He tilts his head, the smile on his lips turning downright vicious. "Don’t lie to me," he says, voice dropping low and rough. "Not now. Not when I can feel every twitch of that sweet little cunt clenchin’ on nothin’."

You whimper, curling in on yourself without thinking.

But he doesn’t let you hide for long.

In a blink, he’s across the carriage, hands bracketing your hips, dragging you back flat against the seat. He crowds over you without even touching you fully, his presence alone suffocating, his body heat pouring into you like a second, darker sun.

"You’re open to me now," he murmurs, brushing your hair from your face with almost obscene tenderness. "Every want. Every ache. Every filthy little thought—" He presses the flat of his palm to the mark. You jerk under him, helpless "—I feel ‘em all."

His thumb strokes slow, lazy circles over the mark, and each touch sends new ripples of need spiraling outward—your body trembling, your thighs wet and slick all over again. "You’re gonna learn real quick, love," he says, grinning as you whimper, as you arch into his touch without meaning to. "Ain’t no hidin’ from me now."

He leans down, mouth brushing your ear. "Every time you ache, I’ll know."

"Every time you touch yerself, I’ll feel it." "Every time you think about me splittin’ you open again—"

He rocks his hips against you, not entering, just letting you feel the thick, hot weight of him. "—I’ll be right there, cock hard, ready to remind ya who you fuckin’ belong to."

You sob, overwhelmed.

And his voice goes velvet-soft, coaxing. "Beg me, little bride," he whispers, lips dragging down your throat, over your mark, down the trembling plane of your belly. "Beg me to fuck ya again. Right here. Right now. Fill ya ‘til there’s nothin’ left but me."

You’re already halfway there. The bond shudders and pulls tight, a perfect, beautiful noose.

And you know— You’ll never be free again.

You’ll never want to be.

You don’t even realize you’re begging at first. It’s not words—

It’s sounds.

Soft, desperate little whimpers that slip from your mouth without permission, without shame. Your hips rock up toward him, seeking friction, seeking him, even though there’s no chance of satisfaction without his mercy.

Remmick smiles down at you, all lazy, wicked patience. His thumb strokes your mark again, and your whole body jolts, back arching beautifully off the velvet, nipples peaked, thighs slick. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and rich. “Know you can do better’n that. Gimme what I want.” His other hand slides between your legs, fingers ghosting over the soaked, swollen mess he’s made of you.

Barely touching. Barely giving.

You sob out a broken little sound, your hips chasing his hand, your body betraying how desperately you need him to touch, to fill, to take.

Remmick chuckles, a dark, filthy sound that rumbles deep in his chest. “You’re already cryin’ for it, aren’t ya?” he says, tapping your clit lightly with two fingers just to hear the whimper it wrings out of you. “Poor thing. Poor messy little bride. All knotted up and nowhere to go.”

You bite your lip, trembling.

And finally, finally, you find your voice. “Please,” you gasp. “Please, Remmick—please, I need you—”

His breath hitches. He feels it through the bond.

Your honesty. Your surrender. Your helpless, soaking, wrecked want.

His hand fists in your hair, tugging your head back to make you look at him. “Say it proper,” he growls, eyes glowing deep red in the dark. “Say what you want.”

You sob again, blinking up at him, undone and aching. “Please fuck me,” you whisper. “Please—fill me up—make me yours—” You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore.

You just mean it. You mean every breathless, desperate word.

Remmick’s whole body shudders. “Fuckin’ hell, you’re perfect.” He doesn’t make you wait after that. He grabs your hips, hauling you down the seat, lining himself up again with ruthless, hungry precision.

You feel the head of his cock slide against your entrance, hot and heavy and inevitable. You whimper, trying to push down onto him, but he holds you still.

“Easy, love,” he murmurs, voice thick and rough. “Gonna give it to ya. Gonna fuck ya slow. Deep. Like you deserve.”

You cry out, nails digging into the velvet, the anticipation unbearable. And then—

He pushes inside. All the way.

Inch by inch, deliberate and slow, stretching you open, filling you so completely you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t be anything but his. Your head tips back, mouth open in a soundless moan, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.

Remmick groans like he’s dying. “Christ, yer fuckin’ perfect inside,” he pants, hips rolling slow, deep, dragging against every tender, swollen place he touched before. “Tight little thing. Made to take me.”

You whimper under him, arms thrown around his shoulders, legs locked around his waist, pulling him deeper, begging without words for more, more, more—

“Shhh, I got ya,” he soothes, kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat where his bite still aches. “Gonna take care of ya, little bride. Gonna fuck ya full. Keep ya full. Never gonna let ya go.”

The bond hums louder. Hotter.

Closer.

You can feel yourself already climbing again, your body desperate to fall with him, for him, because of him.

And Remmick—

Remmick feels it too. Feels it through the bond, through your trembling body, through the desperate clench of your cunt around his cock. “That's it,” he groans, pace picking up, thrusts slow but brutal, deep enough you swear you feel him in your throat. “Milk me, love. Show me who ya belong to.” You don’t realize you’re crying again until his thumb brushes the tear slipping down your cheek.

Not hard. Not cruel.

Gentle. Tender.

Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s proud.

“Look at ya,” Remmick murmurs, still grinding deep inside you, the head of his cock dragging over that sensitive, aching place that makes your toes curl and your thighs shake. “Cryin’ so sweet for me.”

He kisses the tear away. Slow.

Lingering.

And then he pulls back just enough to watch your face as he thrusts deep again—slow and rough and devastating—the velvet seat creaking under you both.

You sob, hips rolling to meet him without even thinking, chasing the friction, the fullness, the ownership.

“That’s it,” he pants, voice ragged with pleasure. “Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl. Always knew you’d take me so pretty.”

You cling to him now—arms thrown around his neck, nails raking down his back, legs locked around his hips like your body’s trying to weld itself to his. The bond thrums, vibrating louder, hotter, tighter, until there’s nothing in the world but him—his cock splitting you open, his hands anchoring you down, his mouth whispering filthy worship against your throat.

“Yer built for me,” he growls, teeth scraping lightly against your skin. “Every inch of ya. Every little flutter of this sweet cunt—made to squeeze the life outta me.”

You keen high in your throat, mindless.

Gone.

And Remmick knows it. Knows he’s breaking you. Knows he’s ruining you.

And he loves it.

“You ain’t ever gonna want anyone else,” he murmurs, slowing his thrusts even more, dragging them out until each one feels like a lifetime. “Ain’t ever gonna even think about lettin’ another man touch ya. Not when I’ve already marked ya this deep.”

You whimper, nodding desperately, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Say it, love,” he urges, voice rough and sweet and brutal all at once. “Say yer mine.”

“I’m yours,” you sob, clenching around him so tight he curses under his breath. “I’m yours—I’m yours—only yours—”

He thrusts deeper, harder, driving you up the seat. “Good girl,” he growls, voice wrecked. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

Your climax builds again—fast and brutal—pleasure knotting behind your ribs, behind your spine, the bond squeezing tighter, ready to snap.

And he feels it. His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit with ruthless precision, thumb circling it in time with his deep, devastating thrusts. “Gimme another one, sweetheart,” he pants, hips snapping harder now, cock hitting so deep you swear you feel him in your fucking soul. “Wanna feel you fall apart around me. Wanna drown in it.”

You moan—high and desperate—and the pleasure crashes over you without warning.

You shatter. You scream.

Your body locks up tight, clamping around him, pulsing, milking, owning him as much as he owns you.

Remmick roars against your throat, hips jerking wildly, and then he’s spilling inside you again—hot and endless, filling you so deep you swear you can feel it leaking out around where you’re still clenching him tight.

He bites your shoulder this time—not hard enough to break skin, just hard enough to mark—and the bond howls in satisfaction, sealing it even deeper.

He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t move.

He just lays there, trembling over you, cock still twitching inside your soaked, fluttering cunt, breath ragged against your skin.

“Mine,” he whispers again.

A vow. A sentence. A promise.

And you—You cling to him like you’ll never let go.

Because you won’t. Because you can’t. Because you’re his. Forever.

You wake in his bed.

You don't remember how you got there.

One moment, you were in the carriage, trembling and wrecked in his arms. The next, you were here—on soft linen sheets, the scent of smoke and leather and Remmick sinking into your skin with every breath you take.

It’s still dark outside. Still heavy.

Still thick with the weight of what’s been done.

The mark over your heart burns dully now, a steady throb like a brand set into your flesh. Not painful. Not exactly.

But constant.

A reminder. A tether.

You reach for him instinctively, seeking the heat of his body against yours—but find only cool sheets where he should be. You sit up, heart stuttering, chest tightening so fast and sharp it’s like you’ve been punched.

Because he’s gone.

He’s not in the bed. Not in the room.

And the bond—The bond screams.

The ache blooms under your ribs, a sick, gnawing hunger that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with absence.

You feel wrong without him. Empty. Fractured.

You clutch the sheet to your chest, trembling. “Remmick?” you whisper into the dark.

No answer. Just the slow crackle of the fireplace across the room.

Your thighs are sticky with the remnants of him. Your body aches in places you didn’t know could ache. And still—it’s not enough.

Your body wants him back. Needs him back.

You bite your lip, rocking slightly where you sit, trying to soothe the gnawing ache, the gnashing hunger spiraling tighter inside you.

And then—

You feel him.

Not physically. Psychically.

A thread tugging between you.

You squeeze your thighs together, trying to suppress the fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly—but it’s no use. The mark flares hot.

You whimper.

Somewhere—wherever he is—you know he feels it too.

Because a voice curls into your mind. Low. Rough. Amused. "Miss me already, little bride?"

You gasp, hands flying to your chest, clutching the mark like it might stop the flood building under your skin. “Remmick,” you whisper, voice breaking.

His laugh—low and dangerous—echoes in your mind. "Can feel ya squirm from here."

You shudder violently.

He's not even touching you—and still, he unravels you with nothing but the bond. With nothing but his voice.

"Bet yer soaked again already." "Bet yer clenchin’ that sweet cunt, achin’ for me." "Bet you’d beg real nice if I told ya to."

You whimper, rocking helplessly on the bed, the sheet sliding down your body, baring your breasts to the cold night air. You squeeze your thighs tighter—but it only makes it worse. The bond thrums between your legs like a second heartbeat, cruel and constant.

And Remmick—

Remmick drinks it in.

"Touch yerself," he murmurs in your mind, voice thick with heat and wickedness. "C’mon, sweetheart. Let me feel it."

You shake your head, trembling.

You don’t want to. You can’t. But your hand is already sliding down your belly, shaking, betraying you.

The bond rejoices.

Your fingers trail lower. Soft. Tentative. Shaking.

You’re not thinking anymore. You’re feeling.

Feeling the mark pulsing hot against your ribs, feeling the bond pulling you forward like a hook in your chest, feeling Remmick’s presence wrapped around your mind like smoke.

You part your thighs slowly, the sheet falling away completely. The cool air brushes your skin.

Your slick heat clings to your thighs. You’re already soaked for him.

And he knows it.

"Tha’s it," he drawls into your mind, voice rich with wicked satisfaction. "Good girl. Show me how much ya miss me."

Your fingers slip between your folds, gathering the mess he left inside you.

You whimper. Just from the first touch.

It’s almost too much—too raw, too sensitive—but you can’t stop. Your body won’t let you. Not when the bond is throbbing so hard it feels like a second heartbeat inside your cunt.

You circle your clit with slow, trembling motions. Your back arches. Your breath shudders. “Remmick,” you moan into the empty room, thighs trembling. You swear you can feel him groan from wherever he is—like the sound of your pleasure punches through the bond and wrecks him too.

"Sound so fuckin’ sweet when ya moan for me," he murmurs, rough and reverent. "Could listen to ya all night, little bride."

Your fingers move faster, hips lifting off the bed, chasing the friction, chasing the edge. But it’s not enough.

You whimper helplessly, frustrated tears welling in your eyes. You need him. You need more.

And he feels your desperation.

"Poor thing," he croons. "Can’t even make yerself come without me now, can ya?"

You sob out a broken little “no.”

Because it’s true. The bond won't let you. You’re too tightly strung, too deeply tethered to him. You’re trapped in a pleasure you can’t finish without his touch. Without his voice coaxing you over the edge.

And Remmick? He sounds delighted.

"Good," he growls. "You shouldn’t be able to. Yer mine now, body and soul. Only come when I say so. Only break when I make ya."

Your fingers tremble between your legs, still circling, still trying.

And then—

His voice drops into a low, filthy purr.

"Tell me what you need, sweetheart." "Tell me what you’re beggin’ for."

You choke on a sob, panting. “I—I need you,” you cry. “Please, Remmick—I need you—inside me—on me—anything—please—”

The bond tightens, wrapping around you like iron and silk all at once.

And then you feel him move.

Not just through the tether. Physically.

Heavy, sure footsteps across the wooden floorboards.

You twist on the bed, gasping, heart hammering—

And there he is. Leaning against the doorframe.

Shirtless.

Trousers unbuttoned and slung low on his hips.

Eyes glowing deep red.

Cock already hard, leaking, ready.

He licks his lips slowly, predatorily, as he watches you spread out on his bed, hand between your thighs, body trembling with the need he’s been feeding from a distance. “Aw, sweetheart," he says out loud now, voice thick with hunger, accent curling around every syllable. "Look atcha. Fallin’ apart without me."

You shudder violently, reaching out toward him, tears spilling over.

“Please.”

Remmick’s grin turns sharp. Dark.

Triumphant.

“Don’t worry, love," he purrs, crossing the room in three slow, deliberate steps. "I’m gonna take real good care of ya.” The mattress dips under his weight as Remmick climbs onto the bed.

You tremble, thighs still parted, hand still slick and shaking where he caught you mid-plea, mid-fall. But the second his body covers yours—solid, hot, real—you sob with relief.

The bond sings. Bright and brutal.

Tightening like a velvet noose around your heart, your spine, your slick aching cunt.

He hovers over you for a moment, just looking—eyes burning, mouth parted, chest rising and falling with wrecked, hungry breaths. “So fuckin’ pretty when ya beg," he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, all wicked affection. "Could watch ya cry for my cock all night."

You arch up without thinking, hands grabbing at his hips, desperate for him to move, to fill, to own you again—

But Remmick just chuckles. Slow. Dark. Cruel.

"Nuh-uh," he says, catching your wrists easily in one hand and pinning them above your head. "You wanted me, little bride. Now you’re gonna take it."

You gasp, blinking up at him, helpless under the steady weight of his body, the heat of his cock dragging against your dripping folds, heavy and leaking and so close.

He shifts his hips, just enough to tease you—rubbing the head of his cock along your slick entrance, sliding through the mess he already made of you, pressing against your clit with maddening, lazy circles.

You cry out, hips jerking.

But he doesn’t give you what you need. Not yet.

He leans down, nose brushing yours, lips ghosting over your mouth. "Patience," he murmurs, soft and deadly. "Gonna make ya feel it."

And then he moves. Slow. Devastating.

He presses inside an inch. Then stops.

You sob under him, back arching, cunt fluttering helplessly around the stretch.

Remmick groans low in his chest, forehead pressing to yours. "Christ, love," he pants. "Yer still so fuckin’ tight for me."

He pushes deeper. Another inch. Another.

Your legs wrap around his waist automatically, desperate to pull him closer, to drag him deeper, but he only smirks against your skin.

"Greedy little thing," he murmurs. "Can feel it. The way yer suckin’ me in."

You whimper, blinking up at him through a haze of need and tears. "Please," you whisper, broken.

He kisses your forehead. Then your nose. Then your trembling mouth.

"Beg prettier," he growls against your lips.

You cry out, the bond pulling tighter, demanding. "Please, Remmick," you sob. "I—I need you—need all of you—please, please, fill me up—"

And that’s what does it.

His patience breaks. With a low, snarling groan, he slams the rest of the way inside you—burying himself to the hilt in one brutal, perfect thrust.

You scream—high and raw and wrecked—as he stretches you open all over again, thick and deep and claiming.

The bond flares.

Brighter. Hotter. Tighter.

You feel him everywhere.

And he doesn’t move at first—just holds you there, trembling around him, stuffed so full you swear you can feel his heartbeat through the walls of your cunt. "That’s it," he pants against your throat. "Take it. Take all of it."

You sob, clenching around him, desperate for more, for anything, for everything.

And Remmick—Remmick fucking smiles.

"Good girl," he breathes. "My good little bride."

He holds still for just a moment longer.

Lets you feel it. The stretch. The fullness. The way your cunt pulses helplessly around him, like your body’s already trying to keep him, even before he’s started moving.

Remmick’s breath fans hot across your cheek. “You feel that, sweetheart?” he whispers, voice low, reverent. “That’s what it means to be bound.”

You moan beneath him, tears slipping down your temples into your hairline as your fingers tighten around his arms—his name clinging to your tongue like prayer, like poison, like you’d die without it.

He begins to move. Slow.

Deep.

Each thrust rolls through you like thunder, like ritual, like a man grinding his soul into yours one inch at a time. He pulls back until only the tip remains inside—then sinks in again, long and devastating, pressing into every tender spot he’s already mapped with hands, teeth, and magic.

You cry out.

The sound is wrecked. Raw.

Remmick groans into your neck. “Fuck, you sound like heaven,” he pants, thrusting again—deeper, harder, making the bed creak beneath you both. “Takin’ me so fuckin’ good. Like you were made for this.”

You nod—wild, desperate.

Because you were. Because that’s what it feels like.

You were made for him.

The bond throbs between you, singing at every point where your skin meets his—breast to chest, hips to hips, heart to heart. It doesn’t just tether. It entwines.

You feel him inside you in ways that have nothing to do with flesh—his hunger, his need, his worship burning through the tether like fire licking silk.

“Never lettin’ you go,” he murmurs, fucking you deeper now, his rhythm building. “Gonna keep you right here—under me, around me—'til you can’t remember what breathin’ feels like without my cock inside ya.”

You sob—moaning, wrecked, grateful.

He lifts your leg over his shoulder without asking, pressing deeper, grinding his hips down to fill every inch of you, dragging another scream from your throat. “That’s it,” he growls. “Squeeze me, love. Just like that. Milk me dry.”

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb circling your clit with perfect, devastating pressure, like he’s already memorized how to tear you apart.

Your back arches, vision blurring.

You’re close. So close.

Remmick feels it. Through the bond. In your body. In the way your cunt flutters, begging to break again. “Come for me,” he rasps. “Come with me inside you. Let the whole fuckin’ world know who you belong to.”

You can’t stop it. You don’t even try.

You break.

Harder than before—clenching around him, crying out his name, the bond lighting up like a wildfire behind your eyes.

Remmick groans loud and possessive above you, hips snapping hard, fast, until he’s burying himself one last time and spilling into you with a sound you’ll never forget. “Mine,” he chokes out. “Fuck—mine. Mine—”

You don’t know who’s shaking more.

Your hands. His voice. The world.

He stays inside you. Doesn’t pull out.

Just holds you. Breathes you.

Like he needs to.

The bond simmers between you, satisfied and sealed, humming like a beast at rest. You reach up, hands trembling, and cup his face.

He leans into your touch like it hurts not to. “Y’feel it now?” he whispers, barely audible. “That ache when I’m gone?”

You nod, eyes wet.

“Good,” he says. “Because I fuckin’ feel it too.”

You wake up sore.

Sweetly. Brutally. Deep in the muscles of your thighs, between your ribs, in the soft swell of your cunt—filled and used and claimed. You shift under the heavy quilt, blinking into the low golden light of the fire across the room.

There’s birdsong. Faint. And the low simmering hum of the bond still thrumming in your chest like a second heartbeat.

It’s quiet here. Peaceful, almost.

Except for the ache between your legs and the warm, terrifying weight of him behind you.

Remmick.

He’s still there.

One arm curled heavy over your waist, bare chest pressed to your spine. You feel the slow, lazy drag of his breath against your shoulder—calm and even, like a man who’s slept deeply. Like he’s sated.

He doesn’t stir when you shift slightly.

But the bond does. It tightens, warm and low, like a pulse at the base of your spine. Like a hand slipping between your thighs. Like a warning.

Don’t move. Don’t leave. You’re his.

You lie there, heart pounding quietly under his hand.

And then—

His voice. Low. Rough with sleep. Slipping against your skin like silk over a bruise. “Where d’you think yer goin’, little bride?”

You freeze.

His fingers flex over your belly, lazy but firm, tugging you back against his chest until you feel the unmistakable weight of his cock, already thick and half-hard between your thighs. He presses his face into the crook of your neck, breathing you in like he’s starving again.

“I wasn’t,” you whisper. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

A soft, dangerous hum in your ear. “Good.”

You stay still.

The silence stretches, warm and weighted, as his hand strokes lazy circles over your stomach. He’s not trying to arouse you—not yet. Just remind you. That he’s here. That he feels you. That he owns every flutter of your heartbeat before you even register it.

“You dream last night?” he murmurs.

You swallow hard. You had.

Dreamt of him. Of his hands. His mouth. The way your legs shook when he told you to beg. The way you liked it.

“I don’t remember,” you lie softly.

Remmick laughs against your throat, lips brushing the skin he bit just hours ago. “Liar.”

His hand slides lower. But slower now. Less demanding. More like he’s testing something. Watching how your body answers to his. How the bond hums in response to every breath between you.

“You’re thinkin’ too loud,” he says, nuzzling behind your ear. “I can feel it.”

You tense. Just slightly.

His hand stills over your hips. Then his voice, softer this time. “You scared of me, love?”

The question sinks into your ribs like a needle. You’re not sure how to answer.

Yes.

And no.

And not enough.

You don't answer right away. How could you?

Your throat is tight. Your body too sore, too raw. The ache between your legs still pulses in time with the bond, and Remmick’s presence behind you—his breath on your neck, his cock hardening slowly between your thighs—makes it worse.

Makes it better. Makes it everything.

And still, that question hangs in the air like smoke:

“You scared of me, love?”

He doesn’t say it cruelly. He doesn’t laugh after. He just waits.

His hand stills on your belly, fingers splayed wide over the skin he’s already touched with tongue and teeth and blood.

You swallow hard, voice soft, barely audible.

“Yes.”

Remmick doesn’t tense. He doesn’t growl. He doesn’t punish you.

He exhales slowly through his nose, like the answer had been expected. Maybe even hoped for. “Good,” he murmurs. “Y’should be.”

You blink—heart thudding once, hard, behind your glowing mark.

His thumb strokes your stomach, just above your navel. “You should be scared,” he says again, slower this time. “I’m not a man, sweetheart. I ain’t some boy who’ll kiss your hand and promise forever under a moon I don’t get to stand under.”

He kisses your shoulder instead. Soft. Lingering.

A contradiction to the words in his mouth.

“I’m what waits under the bed,” he breathes. “What knocks at the door when you pray it won’t. What takes instead of asks.”

You shiver. Not from cold.

From the way your body doesn’t recoil.

From the way your hips push back against him without thinking.

Remmick hums against your skin. “Scared of me,” he repeats, voice lowering to a hush, “but still so wet for me you’re stickin’ to my sheets.”

You whimper, cheeks burning.

And still—he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t rut into you. Doesn’t force.

He just holds you tighter. Because this is worse than violence. Worse than taking.

This is knowing.

He feels everything. Not just your body.

Your shame. Your desire. Your ache for him.

And he loves it.

“You think I don’t feel what that fear does to ya?” he murmurs. “How it curls low in your belly, how it sweetens the way you clench when I talk like this?”

His teeth graze your throat again. Gently this time. Carefully. “You’re scared,” he says, “and still, you’d let me put a baby in you if I told you to.”

Your breath catches.

Your body answers before your voice ever could—heat surging between your legs, thighs squeezing together around nothing, cunt fluttering at the idea of it.

He feels that too.

“Ohhh,” he groans, laughing low and pleased. “There she is.”

He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t flip you over. Doesn’t tear you open.

Doesn’t bare his teeth and fuck you through the mattress, even though you can feel how badly he wants to.

Instead—Remmick slips down your body slowly.

The quilt is pulled aside with a lazy flick of his wrist, exposing your bare skin to the cold air and to him. You shiver, more from anticipation than chill.

He kneels at the edge of the bed, dragging your hips to the edge like you’re something soft and sacred he’s about to set on fire. The bond buzzes between you, a hot, pulsing wire strung from your cunt to his mouth, taut and trembling.

You bite your lip. And you don’t dare move.

Because the look in his eyes—

Low. Hungry. Worshipful.

It pins you to the sheets like a hand to the throat.

“Still scared?” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your knee.

You nod. Barely.

He smiles. Slow. Honest. “Good. Don’t stop bein’.”

He kisses higher. The curve of your thigh. Then the crease.

Then—

Close.

Not touching. Not yet.

But watching you twitch. Watching your hips roll up in a silent, shameful plea.

Remmick groans softly. “You think that fear makes me less gentle?” he asks, voice hushed, like confession. “Nah, sweetheart. Makes me tender. Makes me want to ruin you slow.”

You gasp as he finally presses a kiss to your cunt.

Soft. Closed-mouth.

More reverent than filthy.

It’s worse than teasing. It’s adoration.

He parts you with careful fingers, breath ghosting over you until your legs shake from the not-touching, the almost, the please.

And then his tongue finds your clit.

Just once. A soft drag.

Then again. Slower. Wetter. More precise.

Your back arches off the bed.

Your hands reach for something to hold—sheets, the edge of the headboard, the carved wood posts—but Remmick grabs your thighs and holds you down.

“Mmm-mm,” he hums, tongue circling slowly. “Don’t run.”

You moan—loud, needy—and he groans in response, mouthing at you deeper, filthier, gentler.

“You taste scared,” he mutters between licks. “And it’s makin’ me hard enough to fuckin’ kill for it.”

Your legs twitch.

You’re soaked. He’s drinking you in. Taking his time, tongue slow and firm, lips wrapping around your clit like he’s savoring your fear, your sweetness, your surrender.

And still—

No rush. No cruelty. Just… devotion.

Monster-shaped.

Blood-warm.

Endless.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs against your cunt, voice almost broken. “Even when you’re shakin’. Even when you flinch. Even when you don’t fuckin’ understand what I’ve turned you into yet.”

You sob.

Because he’s right. You’re his.

Even in the fear.

Especially in the fear.

And when he sucks your clit slow and deep, the pressure spiraling out from your spine in white-hot coils, you don’t try to hide the tears.

You don’t want to anymore.

You break the second time he moans. Not from the sound alone—though it’s low and thick and filthy, vibrating through your cunt like a prayer that never belonged to God—but from the way he presses his tongue flat, dragging it slow and steady through your slick folds like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that’s ever tasted like salvation.

Your thighs tremble around his head.

You try to close them. He doesn’t let you.

Strong hands pin your legs open, thumbs digging into the meat of your thighs as he devours you—hungry, tender, relentless.

You sob. Tears spill freely now. Not from pain. Not even from overstimulation.

But from the unbearable, overwhelming worship.

He licks you like you’re sacred. He sucks your clit like it’s a rosary bead caught between his lips.

“Please—” you gasp, voice catching. “Please, I—I can’t—”

But you can. He knows you can.

“Y’can,” he growls into your cunt, mouth soaked, voice wrecked. “Y’will.”

His tongue flicks faster now, swirling pressure tight and perfect, designed to drag you toward the edge.

“Gonna come for me, little bride,” he murmurs, biting your inner thigh. “Gonna give it to me. Right fuckin’ now.”

And you do. You shatter.

The orgasm tears through you like lightning—white-hot, blinding, burning you open from the inside out. You scream his name, thighs locking around his head, body writhing, breaking.

Remmick groans like your pleasure’s feeding him, like it’s going to his head, to his cock, to the thing in him that isn’t human and never pretended to be.

You’re still shaking when he moves.

Rising up over you. Dragging his cock along your twitching folds, hard and slick and soaked with the mess you just made.

“You’re still scared,” he says, watching you with eyes too dark and too red to be anything but wrong.

You nod.

Because it’s true. Because it always will be.

And he smiles.

Soft. Loving. Terrifying.

“But you want me anyway,” he whispers, lining himself up.

Your lip trembles. “Yes.”

He kisses you.

Then pushes inside.

Not hard. Not brutal.

Just deep.

He sheaths himself in your still-pulsing cunt like he belongs there. Like the bond’s waiting to welcome him back.

You cry out, arms wrapping around his shoulders, clinging to him like you might fall through the bed otherwise.

Remmick groans, low and aching, forehead pressed to yours. “That’s my girl,” he breathes. “Takin’ me even when you’re scared. Clenchin’ like you don’t ever wanna let go.”

He starts to move.

Slow. Rhythmic. Ruinous.

And you sob against his mouth—not because it hurts. But because you’ve never felt so full of something you’ll never understand.

“Say it,” he pants, each thrust dragging a cry from your throat. “Say the fear don’t matter. Not if it’s me.”

You nod, dizzy and wrecked, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“It doesn’t,” you whisper. “Not if it’s you.”

Remmick groans, fucking into you harder now, the bond singing through your bones. “That’s it,” he growls. “That’s mine. All of it. All of you.”

You nod again.

You don’t fight. You don’t flinch. You give in.

You don’t know how long he stays inside you.

Could be minutes. Could be hours. Could be forever.

Time doesn’t work the same anymore. Not when your body is bonded to his. Not when your soul is stitched to something ancient and starving.

He holds you through every aftershock. His hands stroke your skin as if memorizing the shape of you, the feel of you, the way your body softened under his until it didn’t know where it ended and he began. Eventually, he moves—slowly, gently, as if reluctant to leave the heat of you even for a moment.

You expect him to pull out and clean you, maybe carry you to a bath, maybe tuck you against his chest again and fall into that peaceful quiet you’d been drifting in before.

But instead—He kneels between your thighs.

Again.

Eyes glowing in the low firelight. Expression unreadable. Mouth blood-red and reverent.

“Remmick?” you whisper.

And then you see it.

His knife.

The blade is old. Dark. Iron and bone. Etched with something that moves if you look too long.

He doesn’t raise it. Not yet.

He looks at you with the kind of stillness that makes you forget how to breathe. “I need to finish it,” he says.

You blink. “I thought we already did.”

He tilts his head, eyes trailing down your sweat-slick body, pausing at the faint glow of the mark over your heart. “Nah, love,” he says quietly. “We did the binding. The claiming. The taking.”

He presses the knife to his palm.

“But not the keeping.”

He slices. Clean. No flinch. Blood wells thick and slow from the cut, dark and rich and wrong.

You sit up slightly, heart pounding.

He holds his hand out to you. “Drink,” he says.

You stare. Then whisper, “Why?”

His voice doesn’t shake. It never does.

“Because this world don’t care what I’ve claimed.” “Because someone’ll try to take you from me.” “Because I need them to know you’re mine before they even open their mouth.”

Your breath catches. “Remmick…”

“They’ll smell it on ya. Feel it in your blood. The burn of me, buried under your skin. It’ll make ‘em hesitate. Make ‘em hurt when they touch you.”

You swallow hard.

Your legs are still trembling from his last claiming. You can feel his seed still dripping from you. You can feel his breath in your lungs, the bond in your spine, his mark over your heart.

And still—he wants more.

You crawl toward him. Hands shaking. And press your lips to his palm.

The taste is sharp. Sweet. Thick with something that isn’t just blood.

Power.

Magic.

Hunger older than this country, older than the woods, older than God.

Remmick groans low in his throat, watching you lap at the wound like you’re starved for it.

Maybe you are. Maybe you always have been.

When you’ve had your fill, he pulls you up into his lap, cradling you there like a bride carried across a threshold made of ash and bone. His mouth finds your throat again. Kisses it. “I’ll kill for you,” he whispers. “I’ll burn for you.”

You press your forehead to his. “I know.”

“I’ll never let you go.”

“I don’t want you to.”

His arms tighten around you. One hand slides over your belly. The mark is glowing again. Dimmer, but pulsing steady. “You’ll carry my blood now,” he says, voice soft and ruined. “One day you’ll carry more.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

The bond answers for you.

You are his.

Forever.

Not because he took. But because you gave.

Because when the dark came knocking—when it whispered promises of pleasure and fear and ruin—

You opened the door. You bared your throat.

You said yes.

And now, when they speak of the bloodbound bride of the most dangerous vampire in the Delta, they won’t whisper in pity.

They’ll whisper in awe.

Because you didn’t run. You didn’t cry. You stayed.

And when they ask you why—if you’re ever foolish enough to speak to mortals again—you’ll say the only truth that matters anymore.

“I was scared.”

And then, with a smile, with teeth, with Remmick’s fire burning behind your ribs—

“But I loved him more.”

#bloodbound and bimbo-fied #ritual sacrifice but she's kinda into it #the mark on her chest is glowing and so is her coochie #sinners 2025 #sinners au #sinners fic #remmick #remmick x reader #sinners remmick #jack o'connell

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eternalsams · 3 days ago

Text

My Taste ↠ Robert 'Bob' Reynolds

pairing: Bob Reynolds x gn!reader

warning/content: fluff, anxiety, non-established relationship, Bob's a cute puppy in love, might contain spoilers if you look into it, it's giving Avengers fanfic with Clint in the vent and Thor eating pop-tarts.

summary: You take Bob out but his anxiety gets the best of him and he's scared he might ruin everything.

word count: 1.9k

a/n: english isn't my first language, please take that into consideration. This is my first time writing for Bob, I saw the movie so I know the way I'm writing for him isn't the same as in the comics.

marvel masterlist main masterlist

You grabbed your bag and walked in the common room when something caught your attention. Bob had just turned a page of his book, his lips parted in concentration as his eyes read word after word on the paper. You smiled softly to yourself, he just seemed so relaxed after a couple of months with you guys.

The first few weeks were the hardest, he'd stay mostly silent, only speaking when talked to. His relationship with Yelena was the strongest, the two connected very quickly and she was the one he talked the most to. But he eventually opened up to the others, including you. He once found you reading a book and sat down next to you on the couch, sometimes stealing glances at you and your book as you flipped pages. "What's it about?" He asked quietly and if he'd said it any lower, you wouldn't have heard him. You looked up at him, surprised he was interested in what you were doing. You looked back down at the words you were reading and mentally marked your progression before looking back at Bob. "It's uhm... it's a romance." You noticed his cheeks flush a little as he smiled sheepishly. "Is it any good?" He then asked and you smiled at him, pitching him the plot of the romance you were reading.

And so the next time you went to the library for yourself, you looked for a book you could get for Bob. During your previous conversation on your own reading, he quickly told you what he liked in the plot and what he disliked, so you had a vague idea of what to get him. And when you came back home, the new recruit was getting coffee in the kitchen. He added a cube of sugar as you noticed he always did in every hot drink he had. "Hey, Bob!" You called him and he jumped a bit, holding his cup extra-carefully. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." You chuckled and pushed his new book on the counter towards him. "What's this?" He frowned as he sipped on his coffee, the hot drink warming up his tired body and numb muscles. "It's for you! If you don't like it, you can still give it back, I kept the receipt." You explained as you pulled the think piece of paper out of your bag. He put down his cup of coffee and reached for the book, his fingers caressing the hard cover. "You really shouldn't have, thank you. It means a lot to me." He smiled and you could've swore you saw his eyes shine with tears before he looked down at the book and opened it.

Since that day, you'd exchange about your last readings and more. He opened up to you and sometimes asked you to get him particular books when he knew you'd pass by the library. Leading to today. He was so focused on the fictional story he was reading about he almost missed you but he eventually looked up and smiled at you.

Bob liked you, he liked how passionate you were about what you loved, he liked how patient you were with him. When you first met, he was apologizing for every breath he was taking a bit too close to everyone and every time he did so, you'd smile at him with kindness and tell him he was fine. You never told him the things he felt were senseless, you acknowledged his feelings and accepted them. And he liked your smile, how small wrinkles appeared beside your eyes when you laughed at one of Alexei's bad jokes. And he couldn't not notice how much work you put in your body and strength. He knew you were waking up early to go work out with Bucky, the two of you showing up sweaty and tired in the kitchen when he was having his umpteenth coffee after a long night staring at the ceiling of his room.

Bob noticed how you were dressed and holding your bag in your hand, he frowned. "Are you going somewhere?" He was confused, you didn't have anything coming up in your agenda, so maybe a last minute trip to the store or something. "I wanted to know if you wanted to go grab a coffee somewhere. But I see you're deep in your book so I don't want to disturb you." You chuckled sheepishly and put down your bag next to the couch. Bob parted his lips and looked down at his book, the plot was getting really interesting and he was almost done with his chapter. He didn't really like putting down his books in the middle of a chapter but he also really wanted to go out, and especially with you. "I can finish reading my chapter and then I'm all yours. I mean... not all yours, I mean yeah but-" He stuttered, warmth flooding his face as he tried to crawl out of this embarrassing slip of the tongue. "Of course! Finish your chapter, I'll be waiting." You smiled at him and pulled out your phone before sitting down on the couch and staying busy until Bob was ready for you. The young man stared at you for a little longer, surprised with how comprehensive you were, but also not shocked at all. And before you could catch him staring, he focused once more on his book. He quickly finished the chapter, snapped the book shut and almost run to his room to change into something else than his usual sweatpants.

When he came back, you were waiting for him by the door and held it open for him. You locked behind the two of you since the others were out on different missions and Bob followed you in the street. Even after a few months in New York, he was still amazed by the tall buildings and how loud the city was. There were so many people in the streets that he almost wanted to grab your hand not to lose you in the crowd but he stopped himself because that'd be weird if he did. You eventually turned into a quieter street and he noticed the small café with the tables on the pavement. You went to sit in the sun and he followed you silently. A waitress came to bring you the menu and Bob politely smiled at her as you thanked her. "So... tell me, Bob." You caught his attention and he looked up at you above his menu. "Did you talk with Bucky like I told you to?" Bob once told you he wanted to learn how to fight but was still too scared to go out and find a gym. So you convinced him to think about telling Bucky because you knew the ex-soldier would be very attentive and caring with Bob. "Uhm, no... Not yet. But I think I'll talk to him when he'll be back home tomorrow." He nodded as if to convince himself he could do it. "He actually offered to help me if I ever wanted to get into... that." He explained a little shyly. "That's great! See? I'm sure he'll be glad to see you're taking his offer."

The waitress came back to take your orders and you simply asked for two coffees and a piece of pie to share. You and Bob kept talking about what he's been doing while you were out on missions, sharing funny stories about Yelena's guinea pig or how thrilling the last movie he saw was. The lady brought you your drinks and food and you thanked her. You took a sip of your coffee and closed your eyes as the bitterness of coffee burned you tongue. When you opened your eyes again, you noticed Bob was fidgeting and not touching his cup. "Something's wrong?" He looked up at you and quickly shook his head before forcing a smile. "No. Everything's fine." He shrugged awkwardly and grabbed his cup before taking a sip and hiding a grimace. "Bob. What's wrong?" You put down your coffee and reached out for his hand. He stared at your hand as he felt the softness of your fingers rub his knuckles. How can someone who might've taken lives have hands this soft? "It's nothing, they just... Aren't they supposed to give a cube of sugar? You know, just in case..." He asked quietly, not really knowing what he was getting at. He hasn't been out in society for so long, he couldn't even remember the last time he went to a fast-food.

"They forgot your sugar?" You asked as you moved to stand up and go ask for some. Bob squeezed your hand to stop you from doing so with panicked eyes. "No, don't! It's fine, really. I can drink it without sugar." To make his point, he took another sip and did a better job at hiding his grimace, but still not perfect. "Bob... You never take your coffee without sugar." You sat back down, your second hand joining the first one holding his. He could feel his heart beating faster at the contact but ignored it. "How do you- Never mind, it's okay, I promise." He anxiously glanced at the waiters inside, they might've forgotten because they're busy or maybe they're having a bad or long day.

"I always notice things about you Bob." You admitted, drawing back his attention on you. He almost spilled his coffee on his shirt when he looked into your eyes and saw the softest of them. He couldn't remember when was the last time someone looked at him that way. It made him think, hope, that what he was starting to feel could be reciprocated. He smiled and felt his cheeks flush. You let go of his hand and stood up, but before he could ask you where you were going, you told him. "I'm going to the bathroom, will you be alright by yourself for a minute?" You asked him jokingly, a teasing smile on your lips. He nodded and smiled as you left the table and he watched you go inside. He quickly averted his eyes when he realized his gaze was dropping and punished himself mentally. He was supposed to be your friend, not a pervert who checked you out every time you turned your back to him. True to your words, you came back a minute later at your table and dropped a cube of sugar in his cup of coffee.

Bob's eyes snapped at you and back to the waiters inside. Before he could fully panic, you grabbed his hand and rubbed his knuckles once more. "I said I wanted more sugar for my coffee, I didn't tell them it was for you." You explained and noticed his shoulders drop in relief. You knew Bob never wanted to be a burden, even more after what happened when you all first met. He felt guilty over everything and anything. But you could work with that, half your friends were that way. One more or one less wouldn't change how you'd handle things. "Thank you." He said quietly before taking a new sip and smiling softly. "Better huh?" You chuckled and he nodded, enjoying the feeling of coffee waking up his body and your hand still in his, keeping him out of his thoughts and in the present. But he was way more surprised when you lifted his hand and placed a kiss on his knuckles, timidly smiling at him, not knowing if he would accept the gesture. But the look of pure adoration in his eyes gave you an answer and your smile widened.

tag list (people who interacted (comments or reposts) when i asked who wanted Bob in my characters list): @leavemeoutofitkay @adaobiiii @sennasiempre @thetorturedpoetcalleddez @gumdropgirl

@woniwontons @hailey-laufeyson @ineverusethisaccount @nopopculturereferenceinthetrip @crashingout136789

@autumnsymphony @smiley-roos @fandomficsobsession @rummikubcube @girxwrp @books4ever03 @firebeverly @xprloki

@spideybatsy @mvcg-oo @devils-blackrose @wandalfnation @foreverchangingmind

#bob reynolds #robert reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #robert reynolds x reader #the sentry #the sentry x reader #thunderbolts #thunderbolts*#marvel #mcu #lewis pullman #lewis pullman x reader

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gf2bellamy · 22 hours ago

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hii i absolutely LOVE your writing,, its just so perfect🤭

may i please request a story with spencer realizing he has a crush on reader and so he starts getting nervous and stutter-y around reader. so then reader gets a little upset thinking she did something wrong and they end up talking about what’s happening and it leads to a confession + kiss

thank you!!💖💖

crush — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: a tiny bit of angst bc reader thinks she did something wrong a/n: hii !! this request is so cute <3 i hope you like this <333

Spencer had it bad.

Like, really bad.

It wasn’t even up for debate anymore—he was completely, undeniably, and overwhelmingly crushing on you.

Right now, he was sitting at his desk, staring at you as you leaned casually against it, deep in conversation with Emily at her desk across from his. You were animated, gesturing with your hands as you made a passionate argument.

“No, look, the movie sucks,” you insisted, pointing a finger at Emily. “You have to read the book. It’s so much better.”

Emily rolled her eyes but smirked, clearly enjoying the debate. “I don’t know, I think the movie has its moments—”

“Absolutely not.” You cut her off, shaking your head. “The book has so much more depth. The movie just—” You let out a dramatic sigh, exasperated. “It butchers it.”

Spencer wasn’t even listening to Emily. He was too busy watching you, completely entranced.

Two days ago, he’d come to a life-altering realization.

He liked you.

Not in the casual, oh-she’s-nice-to-be-around kind of way. No. This was the heart-racing, brain-melting, can’t-think-straight-when-you-smile-at-him kind of way.

And it had all started with a cup of coffee.

You had placed it in front of him, your fingers brushing his for a fleeting moment as he reached for it. A harmless, everyday interaction—except that it wasn’t harmless. Because then, you had smiled at him. Soft and warm.

“New tie?” you had asked, tilting your head slightly as you pointed at the green tie he was wearing.

Spencer had looked down at it, momentarily forgetting how words worked. “Oh—uh—yeah. Yeah, I got it yesterday.”

You had grinned. “Looks good on you. I like it.”

And then, as if your words hadn’t already short-circuited his brain, you had reached out—just for a second—adjusting the fabric between your fingers before turning away and heading back to your desk.

That was the moment. The exact second Spencer knew he was doomed.

And now? Two days later, he was struggling.

Struggling to focus. Struggling to act normal. Struggling to not stare at you like you were the most fascinating thing in the entire world—which, let’s be honest, you were.

“Spence.”

Your voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he blinked, suddenly hyper-aware of how close you were. You had turned to him now, one hand resting lightly on his arm as you smiled.

“Tell her the book is better than the movie,” you said, tilting your head toward Emily. “Back me up here.”

Spencer knew, logically, that he had said those exact words to you a few weeks ago. He agreed with you. He had data, facts, and literary analysis to support the claim. It was an easy argument.

And yet—

He was completely, entirely tongue-tied.

You were looking at him expectantly, your touch burning through the fabric of his sleeve like a brand.

“I—uhm—I think—” He swallowed, feeling his face heat up.

You frowned slightly, confused by his sudden inability to form a coherent sentence.

He needed to get it together.

“Yes,” he finally forced out, clearing his throat. “Uh, the book is—definitely better. Than the movie.”

You grinned, triumphant. “See? Told you.”

Emily just smirked at Spencer, amusement flickering in her eyes.

You, then , watched as Spencer quickly withdrew his hand from your touch, avoiding your eyes like it physically pained him to look at you.

And over the next day, it kept happening.

It was subtle at first—small moments that could’ve easily been brushed off as coincidences. But then they started piling up.

Like when you were working on the geographical profile together. You had been standing close to him, pointing at a section of the map, asking for his input. But instead of responding immediately, Spencer had frozen.

Completely.

You had glanced up, expecting one of his usual rapid-fire responses, filled with statistics and insightful observations. But nothing came. Instead, he stood there, his jaw slightly clenched, his fingers gripping the edge of the table.

You had frowned, waiting.

A long, awkward silence stretched between you until someone else had walked by, snapping him out of it. He mumbled a quick, barely audible response before abruptly walking away.

Then there was the night the team went out for drinks. You had slid into a booth at the bar, expecting Spencer to take the seat beside you—like he always did. It was a habit. Something that just was.

Except this time, he didn’t.

He sat at the far end of the table, wedging himself between JJ and Rossi, not even acknowledging you.

That was when the doubts started creeping in.

Had you done something wrong? Had you said something to upset him?

You replayed the past week in your mind, searching for anything that might have caused this shift. But there was nothing. At least, nothing you could think of.

Still, it didn’t stop the sinking feeling in your chest every time Spencer avoided your gaze, every time he hesitated before answering you, every time he refused to sit near you.

And now, back at Quantico, the case closed, reports needing to be filed, you sat at your desk, watching him.

The office was quieter than usual—most of the team had taken the morning off to rest, leaving only you and Spencer to handle the paperwork, just as you always did.

Except this time, Spencer wasn’t talking to you.

He sat across the room, his eyes fixed on his files, his pen moving rapidly across the paper. And still—not once—did he look up at you.

Your fingers curled slightly against the report in front of you, a dull ache settling in your chest.

The silence between you was suffocating.

Hours passed, the only sounds filling the room were the scratch of pens against paper and the occasional shuffle of files. It was unnatural—terribly unnatural. The two of you were never this quiet around each other.

Spencer wanted to talk to you. He always wanted to talk to you. But every time he opened his mouth, he managed to embarrass himself. So, he just... stopped trying.

And then there was the other problem—his newfound hyper-awareness of you.

Every touch, no matter how small, felt like an electric current running through his skin. Like when the two of you were sitting in the back of the SUV on the way back from a case, and your knee had accidentally brushed against his. It had been nothing to you, a completely normal, casual thing. But to him? To him, it had set his entire body on fire.

Or when you touched his arm , casually, the way you always did—except now, it wasn’t just casual to him. Now, it was overwhelming. Too much.

So he did what he thought was best—he avoided it. Avoided you.

It was time to leave, and coincidentally, both of you started packing your bags at the same time.

Somehow, despite everything, you still moved in sync.

It was a habit at this point. You always left work together, falling into step beside one another like second nature. Some nights, you’d end up at the movies, where Spencer would hesitantly—almost shyly—share his food with you. Something he never did with anyone else. Not with his germophobia. Not even with the team.

But with you it had never been a problem.

Other nights, you’d wind up at his apartment, curled up on his couch, just hanging out. Just you and him. And in hindsight, Spencer supposed he should’ve seen this coming.

Should’ve realized that whatever this was—whatever you were to him—wasn’t just friendship.

Maybe he’d been crushing on you all along.

The two of you walked to the elevator, the air thick with awkwardness. You exchanged shy smiles, unsure of what to say or do.

Finally, you both spoke at the same time.

"Are you okay?"

The words tumbled out of your mouths in perfect unison, and for a moment, you both froze, staring at each other. Then you both chuckled awkwardly, the sound breaking the tension, just for a second.

“Go ahead,” Spencer nodded at you, pressing the button to call the elevator.

“You—just... I feel like I haven’t talked to you properly in ages,” you admitted, a nervous laugh escaping as you fiddled with the strap of your bag.

Spencer looked away quickly, a guilty blush creeping up his neck.

Oh god, why couldn’t he just act normal around you?

“Did I do something wrong?” You blurted out, suddenly worried. "Because I—I’m not entirely sure what it was, but you haven’t been looking at me, or talking to me, and I’m just—”

Before you could ramble on any longer, Spencer cut you off. His voice was a little too loud, too eager.

“No, no, you didn’t do anything wrong!” He shook his head quickly, almost desperately, as if trying to reassure you. His wide eyes met yours, and there was a softness in them. “I promise.”

The elevator doors slid open, and the two of you stepped inside.

You pressed the button to the ground floor, still watching him, trying to make sense of everything.

“So, what is it then?” you asked, your voice more hesitant now, as the elevator began its descent.

Spencer bit his lip, his fingers nervously tapping against the strap of his bag. What was he supposed to say? That he had a huge crush on you, but he couldn’t even stand to be near you without fumbling through his words and avoiding your gaze? It sounded so stupid when he thought about it.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, staring at the doors in front of him as the elevator descended slowly. His mouth opened, but no words came out.

“See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” you pointed at him, a hint of teasing in your voice, but the concern still lingered. “You’re acting like this because something’s going on, and I’m just—I don’t know what it is.”

Spencer’s heart raced.

The doors finally opened, and you both headed towards the exit , where you stepped out into the chilly night air. You instinctively pulled your jacket tighter around yourself, waiting for him to speak.

Spencer hesitated again. His mind was spinning.

“No, I swear it’s not you,” Spencer muttered, tugging on the strap of his satchel, trying to buy himself some time. “It’s just I—I…”

You waited, eyes fixed on him, your breath fogging in the cold air. You were getting impatient, and the more time passed, the more you started to worry that whatever had been going on was something you had no control over. Something that was maybe your fault.

You were now standing by your car, watching him. Spencer looked torn, his fingers gripping the strap of his satchel tightly, his body tense like he was debating whether to run or stay. His lips parted slightly, and then, as if he couldn’t hold it in anymore, the words tumbled out.

“I like you.” His voice was quiet.

For a moment, you just stared at him, confusion flickering across your face.

“I… didn’t realize you disliked me until now?” You frowned slightly, your voice uncertain, trying to make sense of what he was saying.

Spencer’s eyes widened in panic. “Wait—no!” He rushed to correct himself, shaking his head frantically. “That’s not what I meant—I didn’t mean that.”

His breath came out in a nervous puff of air, his cheeks burning red as he struggled to find the right words.

“I mean—I like you. Like, like like you.” His voice dropped to a mumble, the last part barely above a whisper. “Like, I have a crush on you.”

He swallowed hard, his heart hammering in his chest as he finally said it.

And then, silence.

His eyes darted to you hesitantly, searching your face for a reaction, his stomach twisting with anticipation.

You stood frozen. Did he just say what you think he said?

“I… what?” you blinked, your breath hitching.

Spencer’s face was already bright red, his hands fidgeting nervously at his sides. He looked like he wanted to disappear into the pavement, like he regretted saying anything at all. His voice had been so quiet at the end, barely above a whisper, but you heard him.

He liked you. Like liked you.

“I have a crush on you,” he repeated, this time slightly louder, but his voice was still laced with hesitation. His eyes flickered between yours and the ground, as if he was trying to gauge your reaction but couldn’t bear to look for too long. “That’s… that’s why I’ve been acting so weird.”

A rush of emotions hit you all at once. Relief. Surprise. And something else—something warm, something thrilling.

You let out a small breathy laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “Spencer, you’ve been avoiding me for days because you have a crush on me?”

He winced slightly. “Yes?”

A smile tugged at your lips. The pieces started falling into place—the nervous stammering, the awkward silences, the way he’d flinched at even the smallest touches. You had spent the entire week wondering if you’d somehow upset him when, in reality, he was just… flustered.

Over you.

It was almost funny. No—it was funny.

Spencer watched you carefully, his anxiety spiking at your silence. He had just spilled his feelings to you in the most awkward way possible, and now you were just standing there, staring at him with this unreadable look. He braced himself for rejection, for you to awkwardly brush it off, for you to tell him that you didn’t feel the same way—

Instead, you smiled.

And then you laughed.

Spencer blinked. “Are you—are you laughing at me?” He sounded both confused and slightly horrified.

You quickly shook your head, even though you were still grinning. “No! No, I swear, I’m not laughing at you.” You bit your lip to stifle another giggle, but it wasn’t working. “It’s just—you’ve been torturing yourself over this ?”

Spencer huffed, looking away. “I wouldn’t call it torture—”

“You literally stopped making eye contact with me.”

“That’s—okay, that’s fair.” He sighed. “I just… I didn’t know how to act. Every time I tried to talk to you, I ended up embarrassing myself, and I figured it would be easier if I just… didn’t.”

You softened at that.

“Spence,” you said gently, reaching for his hand before he could overthink it. The second your fingers brushed his, you felt him stiffen. But he didn’t pull away. “You know you could’ve just told me, right?”

He let out a breath, finally meeting your eyes. “I was afraid that if I told you… things would change.”

You squeezed his hand lightly, feeling a rush of fondness for him. His brain was the most brilliant one you’d ever known, but sometimes he made things so complicated.

“Well, things are going to change,” you admitted, watching his expression closely.

His heart stuttered. “Oh.”

A flicker of panic flashed across his face, and you quickly squeezed his hand again before he spiraled.

“Not in a bad way,” you reassured him, stepping a little closer. You tilted your head, smiling softly. “I like you too, Spencer.”

Spencer’s breath caught. “You…?”

“Mhm.”

He blinked rapidly, like he was trying to process your words, as if he hadn’t even considered the possibility that you might feel the same way.

And then—oh.

Oh.

His entire body relaxed, the tension melting from his shoulders. He let out a breathy laugh, running his free hand through his hair as he shook his head.

You smiled as you leaned back against your car, watching the relief wash over Spencer.

He stared at you, his eyes flickering between your own and your lips, and you could practically see the thoughts racing through his mind.

Spencer swallowed, his hands fidgeting at his sides. And then, as if the rush of confidence from his confession hadn’t completely worn off yet, he asked, “Can—can I kiss you?”

Your stomach flipped at his words, your smile widening. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Spencer exhaled something that sounded like half a laugh, half a breath of relief, before you reached for him, your fingers curling gently around the fabric of his cardigan as you tugged him toward you.

He let out a shaky breath, his hands hovering for only a second before settling on your cheeks. His fingers were warm despite the cold air.

His fingertips barely grazing your skin like he was memorizing the shape of you. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, and for a second, he just looked at you—like he wanted to take his time, like he wanted to remember everything about this moment before it even happened.

Then, finally, he leaned in.

The first touch of his lips was soft, almost tentative, as if he was giving you a chance to pull away. But when you didn’t—when you kissed him back just as eagerly—he let himself relax. His hands cupped your face more firmly, his body leaning just slightly into yours.

You sighed against him, your hands sliding up to rest against his shoulders, your fingers gently threading into the curls at the nape of his neck. That was all it took. You felt him shiver slightly under your touch, a quiet hum of contentment vibrating in his chest.

When you finally pulled away for air, your foreheads rested together, both of you breathless but smiling.

Spencer opened his eyes, his pupils slightly blown, a soft, dazed smile tugging at his lips.

“I can’t believe that just happened,” he murmured.

You chuckled, your hands still resting against his neck. “You really thought I didn’t like you back?”

He huffed out a small laugh, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t want to get my hopes up.”

You brushed your thumb along his cheek, tilting your head playfully. “Well, you should’ve. Because I really like you, Spencer.”

His smile widened, something utterly adorable in the way his entire face lit up at your words.

“I like you too,” he said again, as if he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to say it out loud.

You grinned. “Yeah, I think I got that part.”

#criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds x you #spencer reid #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds #spencer reid x you #criminal minds fic #criminal minds angst #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic

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ashwhowrites · 23 hours ago

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Hi there!

Your angst is pretty great and I'm addicted to reading angsty stuff and I hardly request things so hopefully I do this right without taking your creative freedom away. I was thinking Eddie x Reader are friends, she likes him and he knows she does without telling her; he's unsure how he feels but he drunkenly makes out with her at a party or something, obviously leading her on. Once she confronts him about it, he's awkward and doesn't make a big deal about it though it meant a lot to her. You can decide their fate. If you do choose to write this, thank you. 😚

I hope this is what you wanted and you enjoy it. Thank you for requesting ❤️

Can a kiss change anything?

Y/N couldn't remember when she fell in love with Eddie. It felt as if she was always in love with him and didn't have a single day where she didn't. She wished more than anything to tell him but she was too scared. She was scared she'd make him run, drop her, ruin their friendship and never talk to her again.

She wasn't aware Eddie knew about her feelings. She thought she was good at keeping it a secret but Eddie wasn't as oblivious as people thought. He could see it in the way she looked at him, how her skin turned warm whenever he touched her, and the small changes from a friend to a crush.

He wasn't sure how he felt about it. He thought she was a beautiful girl but the idea of her being with someone else didn't twist his stomach. He enjoyed his time with her, but he didn't crave to be by her side all day. He never thought about his feelings for her until he realized hers. But even then, he didn't feel any different. He did like the attention he got from her, and how she hung on to every word he said. She made him feel confident. He liked that she had a crush but he didn't like her.

Y/N was in her own world where she pictured Eddie realizing his feelings one day and then they'll be together forever. It was fate that she believed in. He just hadn't realized it yet.

~~~

Y/N was giggling as she and Eddie took another shot. They were seated at the dead bar, spending all the cash Eddie made at the party before.

"Isn't this so much better than staying with all those losers?" Eddie said as he slammed down another shot and called for another.

"I only care about being with you anyway," she said as she gagged on the shot. "Fuck that's awful!"

Eddie ignored the first part of her sentence, laughing at her suffering from the shot. "Looks like you need another," he teased as he called for another.

"I'm so drunk!" She groaned as she placed her head on the sticky bar.

"That's gross!" Eddie laughed, "here pick up your head," he demanded. She listened, lifting her head. He placed his hand on the bar, his palm to the air as he told her to lay down on it.

She smiled against his hand as she rested. Her heart beamed at the small gesture.

"But your head comes up when the shot arrives!"

With the alcohol at the party plus the after-party at the bar, they were both stumbling on their way out.

"Let's take a second for air!" Y/N said as she inhaled the cold air. She closed her eyes and leaned against the wall. Eddie leaned against the wall as he looked at her. Even drunk he wasn't sure how he felt. Sober or not, he was stuck with the same thing.

The music from the bar vibrated to the outside, and Y/N was in a dancing mood as she sprung off the wall. She reached her hand out and grabbed Eddie's hand, yanking him into her. He stumbled into her.

"Let's dance!" She giggled, holding Eddie's hand above them as she tried to make him spin. He laughed and obeyed, letting her spin him. He tried to ignore how everything continued to spin when he came to a halt. He returned the favor, spinning her around and around. She smiled as she danced with him in the alley of the bar, no matter where she was he made everything better.

She was far too gone to balance herself, tripping over her own foot as she headed for the ground. He was quick to yank her back up, right against his chest. She breathed heavily from the fear of falling, but also from being inches away from his face. Her smile dropped as she looked at his serious face.

She gulped as she felt the tension between them. His large hands on her back made her shiver, and the warmth of his body against her was heaven. He moved one hand to cup her cheek, his mind racing with the thought that if he kissed her, it would all make sense. Her heart raced as he closed his eyes and began leaning in.

She didn't want to wait, holding his face as she brought his face down to hers and crashed her lips against his. He was caught off guard by her impatience but went with it. He moved to wrap both his arms around her as he pressed her against his chest, deepening the kiss.

She felt like she was floating as the kiss turned into a make-out. Both were seemingly heavenly, gripping each other for more as their lips worked together. She shivered as she felt his tongue slowly push into her mouth. She held back a moan as her body was pressed against the building.

Eddie could feel her eagerness as he played with her tongue. He felt a growl in the back of his throat when her hands moved to his hair and pulled. The alcohol made all his decisions. Telling him to rock his hips against hers as they panted against each other. She wanted to go further as his hands moved around her body but she didn't want it to happen while they were drunk out of their minds. But she wasn't going to stop the kiss.

Eddie pulled away, feeling no air left in his lungs. He had to admit that the kiss was amazing. But was it because they were drunk? He tried to find the answers he wanted in her eyes as she fluttered them open. But all her eyes said was to kiss her again.

So he did.

~~~

Eddie didn't remember the rest of the night, but he woke up safely in his bed. His head hurt and his stomach needed to release all the alcohol he consumed.

"I hate being hungover," he groaned as he slowly crawled out of bed. He noticed water, pills and a note on his nightstand. He threw back the pills and grabbed the note.

"Call me when you wake up"

He knew the handwriting and well he spent the whole night with her so who else would have written him a note. He waited until his head and stomach settled before he gave her a call.

Y/N felt sick but she wasn't sure it was because she was hungover. After their kiss, she needed to talk about it. She needed to know where they stood and if they were ready to cross over the line.

A part of her was excited. He kissed her and didn't stop it, she figured that meant he realized he liked her. She welcomed herself in the trailer, not surprised to see Eddie wearing sunglasses as he lay on the couch.

He hissed as the sun cracked through the door. She quickly closed it and walked over to the couch. She smacked his legs and he moved them off the cushion, letting her sit.

"How are you feeling?" She asked

"Fucking dead," he groaned as he clenched his eyes underneath his sunglasses. She reached over and removed the glasses, ignoring his dramatic reaction.

"I need you to be serious for a second," she sighed. It wasn't often Eddie was in serious conversations and he never handled them well. "I want to talk about that make-out session we had at the bar."

Eddie shifted in his seat uncomfortable by the topic. He had some time to think about it, even though his head felt like it was being pounded by a hammer. He felt guilty for how he felt because he didn't feel the way she wanted him to.

"Do we really need to talk about it? We got drunk and kissed. Do you know how many people get drunk and do shit they wouldn't have done sober?" He asked, he made the mistake of looking over at her. His stomach turned as a small pout formed on her face.

"So that's all it was. Just a drunken kiss?" She hated saying it out loud. She truly thought the kids would flick the switch and he'd like her back. She spent so much time hoping and wishing she hadn't prepared herself for him not liking her back.

"I'm sorry, I truly am so fucking sorry," he said as he reached over to hold her hand. "I shouldn't have done that when we were both drunk. I hate that I hurt you."

She tried to play it off, chuckling to herself. "Hurt me? Why would a little kiss hurt me? It's fine. We were drunk and I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page about it!"

"But we're not. I know that kiss meant something to you, I know you like me."

Y/N stopped breathing as she looked at him with wide eyes. Her stomach fell and his hand in hers no longer brought comfort. She wanted to deny it but it was no use. She slipped her hand out of his.

"When did you find out?" She asked

"I don't exactly remember. One day I just noticed you were different." He answered honestly.

"So you knew when you kissed me last night? Why would you give me that hope?" Her voice cracked and it made Eddie gulp.

"That's why I feel horrible! I was drunk and stupid. I've been trying to figure out if I could feel something for you and I thought If I kissed you I'd know."

She sadly nodded to herself. The truth was he didn't like her and she didn't know how to handle that.

"And you felt nothing at all?" The small bit of hope in her voice made his heart crack.

"I'm sorry," he said as gently as he could. "I wish I did to make this easier for you."

"You know, I could get over you not liking me. And I would have believed that you didn't want to hurt me. But you knew I liked you and kissed me. You knew it meant something to me and told me you'd never do it sober. You hurt my feelings."

Eddie panicked as she stood up, quickly reaching out for her.

"What can I do?" He begged

"I need space to figure it out," she sighed. "I'll call you," she gave a small goodbye and walked out.

Eddie nervously bit away at his fingernails as his stomach tightened with anxiety listening to the sound of her car peeling off.

Y/N tried to hold back tears as she drove away. She was embarrassed that all this time he knew how she felt and it crushed her to know there wasn't a single part of him that liked her and he wasn't ever going to.

She had to figure out how to move on from Eddie Munson.

@bmunson86 @mxcheese @ladymunson @michaelfuckinglangdon @z0mbie-blah @biittersweet @mirrorsstuff @somethingvicked @micheledawn1975 @ago-godance @magnificantmermaid @tlclick73 @hargrovesswifee @cityofidek @silky-luxe @lokiofasgard616 @loving-and-dreaming @eddiemunsonsbitch69 @ashlynnkennedy @strangerthingsstories5255 @harringt8ns @pleasinghellfire @whoscamila @stusdollface93 @gretavankleep37 @bellaisswagger @arlxt @ineedmentalhelp123 @emxxblog

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie stranger things #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson request #ashwhowrites #eddie munson fluff x reader #eddie munson angst #eddie munson angst x reader

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manicmanuscription · 1 day ago

Text

Selfish? or Rational?

SJM x Reader Week 2025: Day Two @sjmxreaderweek

Prompt: Friends / Family

Pairings: Azriel / Reader

Summary: The long awaited breakfast scene! This is the third part to unapologetically selfish and it just fit so well with the prompt!

A/N: I'm really not happy with this so I'm so sorry if I disappointed you guys. I really struggled with finding the right format but nothing fit and then it was just hanging over my head and aaa. I do maybe want to write one more part a few months into the future bc I have a cute idea but we will see. But for now this is the end of this mini series thank you for reading! (if anyone has any ideas how i can fix this finale please please lmk!!)

Tags: angst, fluff, ic beeing lowkey messy (but not really.)

Word Count: 1237

SJM x Reader Week 2025 | Acotar Masterlist

Cassian watched his brother as if he had grown three heads. He knew Azriel had hidden his mate from him, in fact his own mind was still reeling from that piece of information. But to actually see it? It was something else entirely Azriel had pulled the chair out for you after silencing all the questions his family had thrown out there. Growling that his mate needed to least eat before dealing with their nonsense.

So now here they were all settled at the table once again and Cassian was mesmerized. You worked in tandem to prepare each other a plate of food from the options laid across the table.

You poured Azriel his tea the way he liked it and black coffee for yourself. Him returning the favor by buttering biscuits for you and so on.

They were in sync and he could not stop staring. It was a simple task and yet so domestic, you looked up at him and give him a sweet smile when he passed you the small tin of jam unprompted.

As if they’d done this little song and dance a thousand times and with an aching heart Cassian realized they had.

And he had no idea about it.

Until he did, and just didn’t believe his brother.

Nausea rolled in his stomach at the guilt and heartbreak. He wasn’t the only one shocked at his brother’s actions. The rest of the Inner Circle not even trying to hide their interest in the couple sitting in front of him.

Nesta comfortingly grabbed his hand under the table as she continued eating. He barely noticed the touch too focused on the foreign side of his brother he was currently seeing. The only sound heard in the room was the small ticking of a clock until finally Mor broke first. “How long have you been seeing each other? We didn’t know about you until recently.”

“Four years.” You responded with a slight wince. Four years of his own brother hiding you away. Three years since he started acting shady. Two years since he told them and one year of Cassian absolutely tormenting him over a fake mate that was very much real.

“My brother said you travel, is that true?” Rhysand asked diplomatically steering the conversation away from Azriel’s actions. Although from the storm brewing behind the High Lord’s eyes Cassian assumed it wouldn’t last long.

“Yes. I do. I work closely with Thesan and occasionally Helion. Which unfortunately requires me to move across borders quite often.”

“What work do you-” Rhysand started but Mor interrupted him. “So busy you had no time to meet us?” She crossed her arms over her chest, hiding her hurt behind defensiveness.

Azriel snarled and it shocked and amused Cassian. His brother was usually levelheaded. He opened his mouth to respond but you put a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry it truly wasn’t malicious intent. I'm in Velaris only a few weeks out of the year and it’s been hard on both of us. The time we have together we prefer to spend alone.”

She didn’t have to mention what Azriel did for work. Their family barely even saw him even less since being mated but they all knew it wasn’t just his schedule alone that put a dent in your relationship. Rhysand’s hand tightened on his glass and if they werent friends for so long Cassian wouldn’t have noticed it was from guilt.

Luckily Feyre pressed a kiss to his cheek as they conversed without speaking. “I can’t imagine being away from your mate for so long.” She finally said aloud after a few moments.

“It’s been difficult.” And opened your mouth to say more but Amren beat you to it, looking directly at the Spymaster. “Are you going to say anything or just let her do all the talking?”

A violent gleam passed in his brother’s so fast if Cassian blinked he wouldn’t have noticed it. “I don’t recall you having much of a place to voice your opinion.” She just hummed low in her throat and continued to observe you. Azriel and Amren had their own weird relationship, as if they were strategists first and friends maybe second or third. He didn’t understand the double meaning behind her comment but Azriel did and he just pressed himself closer to your chair, shooting the female a challenging look.

The tense moment quickly passed as everyone had questions for you and Azriel, even Elain and Varian tossing their two cents in every once and awhile. You just sat through it all with a smile on your face, answering politely and even returning barbs and underhanded comments as if you’d been apart of the family for centuries.

“So yes I founded the Saving Soul’s community and-”

“Saving Soul’s?” Elain asked.

“Yes, it's a proficient group of Healer’s and Innovators that try to advance medicine through lot’s research and unique cases of illness. It’s why I travel so much I was recently across the continent for research in prosthetic limbs”

“You founded it?” Rhysand asked, surprised. “Yes, Thesan and I grew up together and he helped me create the project once it was on it’s feet and he became High Lord I’ve been managing it with a few others.”

Rhysand and Feyre gave each other a knowing look before turning to you and you moved before they could voice whatever shared thought that had clicked for them.

He just shook your head slightly and the conversation moved forward. After all you didn’t want Azriel knowing you and your team had requested border permissions for Illyria, your next study was wing repair which meant moving home. Permanently.

“Looks like he gave you a good time when you came home.” Mor pointed out to the scarf that revealed a few purple hickeys.

Your hand shot up to your neck as you gave Azriel a scathing look. He just sat back in his chair unable to hide the smug smile. “I told you!” You snapped.

Mor started laughing and even Nesta cracked a smile. “How did you guys meet?”

“Well that’s certainly a story.”

Cassian didn’t speak the entire breakfast. Everyone was content to let you in with open arms as soon as they noticed how smitten Azriel was.

As everyone finished lunch and headed home Cassian was the last to leave. He had seen how absolutely in love his brother was but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. Years gone by without his own brother sharing something so important with him.

Nesta was saying goodbye to Nyx and it gave him a chance to catch Azriel as he was leaving. “Hey Az can we talk?”

Azriel looked over at you briefly. The male was rushing you out of here the second breakfast was over and he turned to him before nodding. “Yeah what’s up?” He asked as the males moved to a quieter part of the house. “Listen Cassian I know your upset about this-”

“Are you happy?”

Cassian had seen it but he needed to hear it.

Azriel smiled, a true smile. His brother never smiled.

“Yes.”

“Then that’s all that matters.” He said, giving him a squeeze on the arm before going off to find Nesta, and he meant every word. He could let go of the hurt, he understood why of course. All he wanted was for his brother to receive everything he wanted, and with a quick glance at you it looked like he had.

#sjmxreaderweek2025 #sjmxreaderweek #azriel x reader #unapologetically selfish #fluff #angst #azriel #inner circle #acotar #acotar x reader

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hamzahsbaby · 21 hours ago

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taking care of hamzah when he comes back from drinking with martin and he talks abt how much he missed you

when bestfriend!hamzah drunkenly admits that he missed you after a night out drinking with his friends ♡

warnings/notes: i had to make this bestfriend!hamzah cosss like yeah!!! you’re all he thinks about!!! even when he’s with his friends having a good time!!!

you paged through your textbook, nestled in your freshly washed sheets with a mug of green tea in hand, facemask on, all while your grandma pjs hugged you with a familiar sense of comfort. you weren't sure exactly what you were looking for in the textbook, some stupid source for a paper you were writing for your JAMS class. but having done enough reading for the night, you sighed and threw the textbook nearby on the floor, when your phone dinged. it was martin.

[ hamzah's bf ] : Hey. Can you come pick up Hamzah? I told him he could crash here but he just keeps saying he misses you. Won’t stop.

you stared at the message, blinking, like maybe you'd read it wrong. you didn't. hamzah told you he wasn't going to drink much tonight — "just one drink, swear", were his exact words. but apparently that was a lie and now he was back at martin's house, drunkenly begging for you. "really hamzah?" you mumbled to yourself before sending martin a quick 'on my way' and sliding on your slippers.

and twenty minutes later, hamzah stumbled into your passenger seat, his hood up and eyes glossed over. he didn't say anything at first, just let out a huge sigh, like with you was the only place he wanted to be. "thanks for coming to get me." he mumbled, his voice tired and rough.

"you're lucky i like you." you flashed him a little smile before putting the car in drive and pulling away. "no," he corrected you, laughing to himself, "you love me." you didn’t say anything, just kept driving. the drive was kind of silent, the ruffle of the engine and your playlist shuffling was all you could hear.

and when you made it back to your place, hamzah followed behind you, he was quiet and swaying just a little. he threw his shoes off, like he always did. “do you want some water or something?” you offered.

“i just wanna lay down,” he slurred out, rubbing his eyes and yawning. you nodded and led him to the couch, that was always where he slept if he ever stayed over. “can i lay in your bed?”

you were taken aback by his question, “uh, yeah.” hamzah had only slept in your bed one other time; the time you got broken up with and he held you as you fell asleep because he was the only one who knew how to comfort you. “thanks.” he stuttered, making his way to your bed, where he plopped down like it was his own bed.

you followed a minute after, bringing him a cold glass of water “thanks for always taking care of me.”

you giggled. “really? i feel like you’re always the one taking care of me. gotta return the favor.” you threw him a fresh t-shirt to sleep in from your drawer. “what?” his eyebrows furrowed, like he was genuinely offended. “you do so much for me.”

you opened your mouth to argue with him, but he kept going, his words were a little slurred but honest. “you make everything easier by just being you. even tonight —” he paused, swallowing thickly. “i missed you the whole time. even when i was laughing and having a good time, i kept thinking damn i really wish she was here.” he wasn’t even looking at you anymore, just carelessly throwing on the t-shirt you gave him. like what he said didn’t just set your heart on fire. “you’re my girl. you know?”

#ೀ works ⋆#꒰ ⊹ bestfriend!hamzah ♡#hamzah ໒꒰ྀི´ ˘ ` ꒱ྀིა #hamzahthefantastic x you #hamzahthefantastic #hamzahthefantastic imagine #hamzah x reader #hamzahthefantastic x reader #hamzahthefantastic x y/n #hamzahthefantastic headcanons #hamzahthefantastic texts #hamzah x you #hamzahthefanatasticxreader #hamzahthefantastic blurb #hamzah x y/n #hamzah fic #hamzah imagines

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sushirrrry · 2 days ago

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second person please! :)

I am not too fussed but an emphasis on plot please

Best friends brother. Some proper dramatic thing where she likes goes on a date or something or is speaking about a date and he gets all possessive but it’s like no they cant:

best friend brother or brothers best friend. Jealousy. Protectiveness. Frat boy era possibly? X

this is like the coolest thing writers can do. Thank you. I love ur writing take care ❤️

word count: 1,420 cw: staring & longing a brother's best friend!harry x you blurb

******

this week, I'm doing a little writing spree in honor of hitting 1,000 followers! send me your requests for 1,000 word blurbs here & I will be writing them all week! here is a template, if you'd like to fill it out

thank you so much for 1,000 followers, it means the world to me! ****** Summer.

You didn’t expect this summer to feel like this limbo of to do it or not to do it.

The beach town rental was supposed to be a break, it was supposed to be the time for you, your brother, your sister, and your parents to get a little reset before senior year—before your brother moved across the country for work, and you got serious about grad school.

Instead, it feels like you’re orbiting a version of yourself that only exists when he’s around.

Harry.

He’s been your brother’s best friend since middle school; he came on every family vacation since you can remember. He’s the kind of guy who always smelled like cedar and old leather in high school from the notebooks he carried around, who got taller every time he came over, and who now walks around the house shirtless like it’s a free public service.

You wish you were immune to the way that you see him. You used to be – that was until you recognized how large his hands were, how solidly enchanting his eyes were, and how you felt unfathomably different with him around. But now, he’s the sun, he seemingly takes up your entire orbit.

It’s just past six now when you come up from the beach—still warm, golden light soaking into your skin. You’re salty, hair feeling gritty with the sand and slat, and sun-tired, your towel slung over one shoulder, and your phone vibrating with a new text from Jonathan.

Jonathan: Still on for dinner tonight?

You tap out a vague “yep see you soon” and shove your phone in your bag. You’re not even sure why you said yes to him. He’s nice. Too nice. The kind of guy who talks about investing in crypto on the first date and asks if you “do Pilates or whatever.”

He was extra nice to you the night that you met when you and your siblings went out for drinks; you got his number and had been hanging out for the summer. It was nice – it was something that made you feel secure, like you could date again, casually and without any posing dramatics.

You open the gate to the rental’s back porch and pause when you see him.

Harry.

He’s leaned back in a weathered Adirondack chair on the porch, sunglasses sliding down his nose, beer bottle sweating in his hand. Bare feet up on the railing, skin golden from a week in the sun, curls still damp from the ocean. His eyes flick up when he hears the gate shut. He looks annoyed, like you had disturbed his peace. Or maybe he just looks at you like that now.

You walk past him toward the hose, towards the outdoor shower. “Don’t start.”

“I haven’t said anything.” He replies quickly, letting his head rest again.

“But you were thinking it.”

He shifts slightly. You can feel the weight of his stare even with your back turned. “Thinking what exactly? Please, tell me, great philosopher of mind-reading.”

“That my swimsuit’s too small. Or I’ve got sand in my hair. Or that I shouldn’t be going out with Jonathan tonight.”

There it was: a pause.

Then, he comes back with: “Is it too small? I didn’t notice your ass completely hanging out.”

You roll your eyes but don’t answer. The hose is cold on your skin, and you rinse off quickly, aware that your bikini is clinging to all the wrong places under his gaze – but that’s the thing: he had noticed, because you could feel his stare like glue on a trap.

When you finally turn back, he’s sitting up now, elbows on his knees, jaw set. “You’re going out with him, again?”

You blink. “What?” You cross your arms, but then notice that it’s pushing your boobs up in the triangle shape bikini top, so you stop. “Is that a problem??”

He shakes his head like it’s obvious. “Because… I don’t know.”

Harry was known for this – he was known for sitting and trying to defend his position but never having the words to do so. It wasn’t that he wasn’t sensitive, he just didn’t know how to express himself outwardly which is how he lost most of the things he wanted. “He just doesn’t look at you like you invented the sun.”

Your stomach flips at his random comment; you tilt your head at him.

“That’s poetic coming from the guy who hasn’t looked at me directly in a week.”

“I’m trying to be respectful,” You finally hear him mutter. “Your brother’s inside, and I’m trying not to destroy the one good thing I have by going and trying to make another good thing happen.”

Your breath hitches at his remarks.

He stands then, beer dangling from his fingertips as he goes to step closer. “You think I don’t see it? The way you’ve been pushing me. The sunscreen bit last Thursday? The popsicle thing?”

“I was eating a popsicle,” you say weakly, like you hadn’t a clue what you had been doing. You bite the inside of your cheek when he tilts his head back at you.

“Yeah,” he says, voice dropping, “but you were looking right at me.”

You don’t deny it – he had a point. The funny part about you and Harry’s relationship is that since you had had both grown up, there had always been this. You had fun together, he made you laugh, you made him blush. It was playful…

Until it wasn’t. Until you watched him chat up girls at the bar, or he watched you floating around the pool as you chatted with your mom. There were many times when you just weren’t sure what had happened. All that you knew is that you were fighting an internal battle of trying to keep the normalcy, but that just wasn’t there anymore.

You didn’t know what to do about it, so you just didn’t do anything. You just kept this internal struggle, watching him watch you.

He’s inches away now. His voice is low, hoarse. “C’mon, you know he’s just gonna take you to that overpriced fish place, talk about NFTs, maybe kiss you on the pier and ask for a handy. And the whole time, I’ll be here, wondering if you’re thinking about me instead.”

“If I’m thinking about giving you a handy on the pier?” You joke, feeling a smirk rise on your cheeks.

You feel your smirk move away when you see that his reaction is much more… daunting. “If I had the opportunity, I’d be asking for more than just a handy, I can tell you that much.”

His fingers brush your wrist. Barely a touch, but enough to make your pulse skitter as you take in a breath.

“You don’t get to be jealous, you know,” you whisper out, eyes darting back towards the house as you wonder if anyone is looking for either of you.

“Not jealousy,” He says under his breath, shaking his head, “I’m protective.”

You laugh—short, breathless. “Same thing, isn’t it?”

His eyes burn into you, then. “Not when it’s you.”

Silence. Just the sound of waves and cicadas and your heart in your throat as you feel a burst of the warm breeze that comes right from the ocean and onto the deck that you’re both standing on now.

You both suddenly hear it then; your brother’s laughter is echoing from the inside.

You step back, feeling his finger loosen on your wrist.

Harry doesn’t move. Just watches you, gaze stormy, mouth parted like he’s about to say something that will ruin everything.

“But I’m not yours to lose,” you say to him, knowing that his indecisiveness met with your trust is keeping you both apart – for now at least.

He nods once.

“I should go shower,” you say.

He nods once, knowing that you need to walk away before anything can happen – before he does something. “Yeah. You should.”

But his voice cracks a little at the end, and you hear it loud and clear.

When you slip inside, towel clutched tight, you don’t miss the way he stays rooted to that porch like he’s bracing for a storm he knows he can’t outrun.

And you walk away—barefoot across the wooden planks of the deck, heart pounding, wet hair sticking to your back—knowing you’ve just torn something open that will never fully close again.

He doesn’t stop you from walking away; he never has. But, maybe one day, he will.

#harry styles fanfic #harry wattpad #anon ask #harry styles fanfiction #harry fanfic #ask #harry styles #harry styles x original character #harry styles smut #harry x you #harry styles x you #harry styles blurb #blurb #writing blurb #harry styles one shot #harry styles fic #harry styles stories #harry styles x reader

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dreaming-of-epiphanies · 3 days ago

Text

𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓑𝓾𝓰

Description: Reader screams and Tom is instantly at her door to see what's wrong. Turns out it's a bug she needs him to kill. The problem? Tom discovers he is also afraid of this particular bug. (Reader x Tom, established relationship)

A/N: My roommates and I discovered a cockroach in our room yesterday so that inspired this. And no, we weren't able to catch it yet- it hid under our sink so now we're all afraid to go into the bathroom. Anyway, I kinda hate the title but I wanted to post this before going MIA for a couple days for finals (my first two exams are tomorrow; help). Hope you enjoy!

Warnings: none.

The soft but insistent tap of rain against the window echoed through the room as Tom hunched over his desk, his quill moving at lightning speed. The dying candle sat near his parchment, creating a mosaic of flickering light across the paper. He was nearly finished with an essay he was writing about the Unforgivable Curses for Defence class, despite it being assigned earlier that day. He had gone to the library as soon as class let out, snagging a few books regarding the subject (it was easy to find them- he’d had the title memorised due to how many times he’d read them before) and locking himself in his dorm room to write the essay.

Now, as his quill approached the end of the parchment with sure strokes, he leaned back in his chair, relaxed from the satisfying feeling of another essay well-written. He’d still have to spell check it, of course, and go back through it another day to add in any details he missed. Perhaps he could-

A scream interrupted his musings. It was high-pitched, full of sheer panic and unmistakably hers. Immediately, Tom was on his feet, his chair knocked back by the force in which he leapt up, though he didn’t even attempt to fix it as he yanked his door open, storming down the stairs and across the common room towards the girls’ dormitories.

Anyone who saw him stalk with such a determined gait would not have clocked him as worried, but Tom’s mind was ablaze with terror. She had screamed. She never screamed- not like that- not unless something was wrong. Something is wrong, he thought to himself, dread seeping in, something is wrong and I’m not there. That thought made him pick up his pace, speed-walking to the stairs and practically hurrying up them.

He arrived at her door and didn’t bother with the pretence of knocking before barging in, his eyes instantly zeroing in to find her. She was perched on her desk chair, clutching the wall beside her as she looked at the floor in fear. He felt his shoulder relax slightly- she was okay. Although she looked odd, she appeared unharmed. But the fear in her eyes made him tense up again. He would not let her be afraid, not if he had anything to say about it. Nothing would hurt her while he was with her.

“What are you doing?” He asked sharply, voicing cutting through the air and her eyes whipped up to his. She gasped in relief, frantically gesturing for him to come over.

“Oh, thank Merlin you’re here!” She exclaimed as he stepped inside, letting the door close behind him. “I saw a trollcleg!”

Tom’s eyes narrowed slightly as he approached her. “You screamed because you saw a trollcleg?” Trollclegs were relatively harmless insects. Despite looking a bit creepy with their many legs and annoying buzzing when they flew, they were similar to cockroaches and nothing to be afraid of.

“It was huge!” She shook her head, eyes wide. “Practically the size of a Vampyr Mosp!”

“Why didn’t you kill it?”

She looked up at him sheepishly. “I’m afraid of them.”

Tom sighed, though it was more fond than exasperated. “Come on,” he said, taking hold of her arm and placing a hand on her waist. “Let me help you down before you fall and I have to deal with you declaring a terrifying insect made you lose your balance.”

“Not until you get it!” She protested, gently pushing his arms away from her. Tom raised his eyebrows in mock irritation.

“You want me to kill the trollcleg for you?” He asked, and she nodded enthusiastically. He let out another sigh, stepping away from her. “Fine.”

“Thank you!” She exclaimed, straightening up and nearly toppling over in her unsteady chair. Tom grabbed her arms again, steadying her so she didn’t fall.

“I’ll do this if only to get you down from there faster.” He warned her, only releasing her arms when he was sure she had regained her balance.

It didn’t take him long to locate the trollcleg. It was hovering near a pile of chocolate frog candy wrappers, buzzing happily around. But his eyes widened when he saw it. She was right, it really was massive. Despite himself, Tom felt a shiver run down his spine. He did not want to get any closer to that thing.

“Did you find it?” She asked suddenly, and Tom nearly groaned in a mix of frustration and relief as the trollcleg heard her voice and buzzed away. At least he could put off getting nearer to it for a little while.

“We need to be quiet,” he chided her, and she put her hands up in a ‘surrender’ motion.

Tom crept around the room, waiting for the trollcleg to reappear. It finally did, crawling on the floor next to her trunk. Tom slunk towards it, carefully lifting his foot to crush it with one swift stroke. But right as he was about to step on it, it lifted back up, buzzing directly towards his face. Tom recoiled, stumbling backwards with a very undignified shriek.

“Get it; get it!” He heard her yelp, clapping her hands.

“Don’t move on that chair, you’re going to fall!” He yelled, still slapping at the bug, which was fruitfully trying to attack his face- it had no stinger so it really wasn’t threatening at all, just annoying.

“Damn you-” he managed to get out before knocking it to the floor again and quickly stomping on it. Only when he pulled his foot away and ensured that it was indeed dead did he hear her let out a disbelieving laugh.

“Did you scream?” She asked, trying (and failing) to hide a smile as she got down from the chair and made her way over to him.

“No,” Tom said instantly, and her smile only grew, now looking more like a smirk.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you shriek like that before,” she teased, reaching up and fixing his hair for him, running her fingers through the soft waves. It had been mussed up as he tried to swat the bug away from his face.

“I intended to keep it that way,” he told her. “And just to be clear, I killed the bug because I wanted you down from that chair as quickly as possible,” he added, looking down at her sternly. “Not because I also dislike trollclegs.”

She smiled slyly, nodding her head wisely. “Oh, of course. I won’t tell anyone it was you who made that last scream.” Tom glared at her for a moment before shaking his head. He couldn’t feign anger at her for too long.

“Alright,” he murmured, tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear.

“Besides, if anyone asks, I can just say you did it because you love me.” She quipped, and Tom rolled his eyes but stepped in closer.

“Yes,” he said. “That too.”

#tom riddle fan fic #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x you #tom riddle fanfiction #my fanfic #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fic #tom marvolo riddle

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sugardollcurse · 3 days ago

Note

hi queen, i love your writing so much!! its hard to come by beatles writers nowadays 😭 anyway i was wanting to request hcs (or a oneshot if u want) of george x fem reader who is a popular singer from america and whos sort of like him in the sense that shes very quiet and loves to stay inside? ofc u dont have to but if you do, thank u!!!! hope you have a wonderful day☺️🫰

𝒉𝒖𝒔𝒉 𝒉𝒖𝒔𝒉

꒰ pairing ꒱ george harrison x fem!reader

꒰ contains ꒱ being famous but anti-attention together </3

꒰ summary ꒱ you're america’s shyest superstar, he was the quiet beatle.

꒰ note ꒱ thank you love!! you’re so right.. with how massive the beatles still are, i would expect there to be more writing for them!! </3

𓂃⋆ your first meeting was backstage.

You were touring the UK for the first time. Headlines called you so many great things, but you always ducked out of the spotlight the second you left the stage.

The press was obsessed with you possibly meeting the Beatles, so naturally, some label exec cooked up a photo op.

You were so overwhelmed by the noise, the flashes, the people shouting your name. And George saw it.

While John. Paul and Ringo charmed the room, George kind of… hovered at the edge. Watching you.

You finally locked eyes across the room, two introverts in a storm.

When you were introduced, you both spoke so softly the poor rep had to lean in to hear.

George did it on purpose, obviously. He could speak as loud as he wanted but didn't.

You heard each other perfectly.

𓂃⋆ you didn’t flirt the way people expected.

You weren’t bantering. You weren’t laughing too loudly.

You weren’t doing it for the cameras.

It was quieter than that.

You complimented his guitar work.

Said you liked the way he played “Boys” live better than the record version.

George blinked. "You actually listen?"

You smiled. "I only care about the music."

It was the exact thing he needed to hear.

𓂃⋆ you started spending time together in stolen minutes.

While the others went to clubs or threw hotel parties, you and George would find corners to sit in.

Literal corners.

Just cross-legged on a carpeted floor, passing a guitar between you.

“You write anything lately?” he’d ask.

You’d hum half a verse. He’d finish the line.

Neither of you would say out loud what was happening, but it was obvious.

You were falling in love like it was a secret chord progression.

𓂃⋆ george loved how low-maintenance it was with you.

You didn’t demand fancy dinners.

You didn’t push him to be louder than he was.

You didn’t mind if he didn’t talk a lot.

When you were together, it wasn’t awkward silence, it was peaceful.

You’d sit on opposite ends of the sofa reading different books, and occasionally trade glances like, I can’t believe I get to have this.

𓂃⋆ you both hated interviews.

George, famously, had zero patience for the media circus.

And even though you were famous, you wilted under too many questions.

You hated when journalists asked if you were dating anyone, or if you’d “snag a Beatle.”

Once someone asked you on live TV, “Which Beatle’s your favorite?”

You smiled and said, “The quiet one.”

𓂃⋆ you stayed "friends" for years. when you visited him at home, it was heaven.

He showed you his garden.

You called it peaceful. He said it was yours now too.

You cooked one thing and nearly burned it.

He ate it anyway.

Called it “gourmet” with a straight face.

You both sat at the window listening to records while it rained, and when the world outside got too loud, George would rest his chin on your shoulder and whisper, “S’just us, alright?”

𓂃⋆ the press didn’t know what to do with you two.

They kept trying to spin you as a “power couple”, loud, wild, flashy.

But there were no scandals.

No drunken nights.

Just grainy photos of you two sneaking out of hotels early in the morning, both in sunglasses and long coats, quietly holding hands.

𓂃⋆ he wrote songs for you. quietly. always.

He never said, “this is about you.”

But you’d know.

A little chord change that mirrored something you sang once.

A lyric about “the sound of her silence.”

You’d hear his songs and feel a weight in your chest, like someone just saw you.

𓂃⋆ george trusted you with the parts of himself he couldn’t explain.

The spiritual searching.

The feeling of not belonging to the machine.

You’d lay in bed at 2 a.m. while he talked about India, or what it meant to him to finally feel quiet inside.

You said, “You don’t owe the world an explanation.”

He said, “I don’t, but I think I owe you one.”

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee

#george harrison #george harrison x reader #george harrison oneshot #george harrison fanfic #george harrison imagines #the beatles #the beatles fanfic #the beatles oneshot #the beatles x reader #oneshot #fanfic #fanfiction #beatles x reader #beatles

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valc-cq0 · 1 day ago

Text

His Duty, Her Desire (1)

Pairing: Bodyguard!OC x Chaebol!F!Idol (Karina, Aespa)

Genre/theme: Slow burn, drama, forbidden romance, hierarchy

Rating: Mature

Word Count: [3396]

A/N: Hey everyone! This is my very first fic, and I’m super excited to finally share it. I’ve been lurking and reading so many works here on Tumblr, and I finally decided to take the leap and write one of my own.

I’m still figuring things out, so please bear with any rookie mistakes, but I poured my heart into this. Feedback, comments, or even just a like would mean the world to me. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy it!

Seoul glittered beneath a sky of gold and smoke. From the penthouse of the Gloré Tower, the city looked like a snow globe of ambition and neon. Inside, however, chaos reigned.

“Unbelievable! That stylist thought a pink sequin jumpsuit was couture?! I looked like a bedazzled popsicle!”

Karina, full name? Yu Ji-min, but no one dared call her that, stormed down the hallway, flinging her custom Balenciaga clutch at the couch. Her voice echoed through the apartment like a warning siren.

Valc, tall and dressed in a sleek black suit with an earpiece barely visible beneath his black hair, leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed. Unfazed. As always.

“You didn’t look like a popsicle.” he said calmly. “More like... a disco ball with sass.”

Karina whipped around, glaring. “Was that supposed to make me feel better?”

“A little. You’re glowing today, if that helps.”

She rolled her eyes, grabbing a bottle of sparkling water and taking a swig like it was vodka.

This was his life now, babysitting South Korea’s most chaotic chaebol heiress, the youngest daughter of a conglomerate that owned half the country’s luxury malls, tech companies, and scandals.

When Valc had been transferred from international private security to Seoul, he thought it’d be guarding stuffy CEOs. Not... this. Not Karina.

“I want a new stylist. And a new driver. And while we’re at it, can I get a new bodyguard too?” she huffed, pacing.

Valc raised a brow. “I’m right here, you know.”

“Exactly.”

“Harsh.”

“Facts.”

He suppressed a smirk. Karina was fire and thunder wrapped in Chanel. Always dramatic, always late, and always surrounded by chaos.

“You’re stuck with me.” he said simply, pushing off the doorframe. “Until your dad finds someone else who can put up with your... charm.”

Karina’s pout deepened. She hated when he teased her. But she also didn’t hate it enough to stop him.

Later that evening, they were at the opening of a luxury fashion boutique in Gangnam. Cameras flashed as Karina stepped out of the car, her long legs accentuated by a micro-mini skirt and thigh-high boots. She didn’t wait for Valc, she never did.

He followed at a comfortable distance, eyes scanning the crowd.

“I swear, if that influencer chick shows up again and calls me ‘Karinnie’. I’m throwing champagne in her face.” she muttered to him under her breath as they entered.

“I’ll bring the glass.” Valc replied without missing a beat.

She giggled despite herself, then quickly composed her face back to its signature RBF as paparazzi shouted her name.

Inside the event, Karina immediately attracted attention, suits, socialites, and slimy heirs vying for her attention. Valc stood near the corner, arms folded, eyes trained.

And then—

“Oh my god, he’s hot.” said a voice behind him.

He turned slightly. Two girls were ogling him openly. One waved. “Hi! Are you single?”

Valc blinked. “Working.”

Karina, across the room, caught the exchange. Her eyes narrowed dangerously. The girl had the audacity to touch his arm.

Valc didn’t flinch. But he did notice Karina making a beeline toward them.

“Excuse me.” she said sweetly, too sweetly, placing herself between Valc and the girls. “He doesn’t talk to strangers.”

“Are you his boss?” one girl asked.

“I’m worse. I’m his nightmare.”

Valc coughed to cover a laugh.

“I need a drink.” Karina snapped, grabbing his wrist and dragging him towards the bar. “You looked like you were enjoying yourself.”

“I wasn’t.” he said, amused.

“You didn’t push her off.”

“She touched my jacket.”

“She touched your arm.”

“I can’t control people’s arms, Karina.”

“You could’ve leaned away!”

He leaned closer, voice low. “Like this?”

Karina’s breath caught in her throat for a second, but she scowled, refusing to let him win.

“You’re annoying.”

“Thank you.”

Valc had been to many mansions in his line of work, but Karina’s family estate in Hanam made everything else look like a vacation rental. Think Versailles with a Samsung sponsorship: marble floors, security drones, and a koi pond that probably had its own trust fund.

He adjusted the earpiece as they entered. Karina strutted ahead, throwing her sunglasses at a maid like a drama queen in a K-drama.

“Unni, I need a full bath, rose petals, pink ones this time. Not red. Red makes me look like a corpse.” she said, tossing her heels aside with zero aim. They hit a priceless vase. It didn’t break, but it flinched.

Valc followed, expression neutral. The staff gave him sympathetic glances.

“Is she always like this?” he asked a nearby maid.

“She’s... unique.” the woman said delicately.

Karina whirled around. “I heard that.”

“You were meant to.”

“Watch your tone, bodyguard.”

“Watch your aim, princess.”

Her mouth twitched. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why? You literally live in a palace.”

“I hate the word.” She turned away, but not before he caught the flicker of something in her eyes, resentment? Bitterness? Hm.

Later that day, Valc wandered through the estate’s west garden, waiting for Karina to finish her two-hour glam session. A voice interrupted his peace.

“You must be Valc.”

He turned. A woman in a sleek navy pantsuit stood at the edge of the path, smirking.

“Ningning.” she said, offering a hand. “Cousin, confidant, chaos enabler.”

Valc shook her hand, amused. “Bodyguard, babysitter, accidental therapist.”

“I like you already.”

She looped her arm around his. “Come on. Let’s gossip.”

“Is that allowed?”

“Everything’s allowed when your net worth starts with a ‘B’.”

They walked toward the indoor pool as she filled him in on the drama. The broken engagement with the chaebol heir. The scandalous yacht party that trended for three days. The secret tattoo Karina got during a tantrum in Tokyo.

Valc laughed more in ten minutes than he had all week.

Too bad Karina walked in right when Ningning touched his shoulder.

Her heels clicked like thunder on marble.

“Oh wow, look at you two getting cozy.” she said flatly.

Valc straightened. “Just talking.”

“Didn’t know my cousin was into guys who wear the same three suits.”

“I rotate them.” Valc said with a grin.

Ningning raised a brow at Karina. “Jealous much?”

“I don’t get jealous. I get bored.”

She strutted past, flipping her hair and refusing to look at Valc.

That night, at a black-tie event at Lotte World Tower, Karina arrived late, glammed up like a goddess of controlled chaos. She wore a black silk dress with a thigh slit so dangerous it should’ve come with a warning.

Valc, in a tailored suit for once (Karina’s doing, though she’d deny it), stuck close behind her.

“Smile like you don’t hate everyone.” he muttered.

“I do hate everyone.”

“Fake it.”

“Like this?” She smiled sweetly at a passing CEO, then whispered, “He embezzled ₩3 billion and cried when my dad threatened him.”

“Your family sounds terrifying.”

“You haven’t even met my mom.”

During the dinner, Karina got surrounded by a group of posh heirs, one of whom slid into the seat beside her with a little too much confidence.

“Ji-min-ah.” he purred. “You look stunning tonight.”

“Park Jin-woo.” she sighed. “Still pretending to be charming?”

Valc hovered nearby, eyes scanning. But when Jin-woo leaned in closer, Karina suddenly turned towards Valc.

“Bodyguard.” she called sweetly. “Can you help me with my necklace?”

Valc raised a brow. “It’s not broken.”

“Then pretend it is. Fix it.”

He stepped forward, hands brushing her bare shoulders as he reached around her neck. Karina tilted her head slightly, too slowly and her breath fanned against his cheek.

Jin-woo cleared his throat.

Valc didn’t blink.

Karina smiled, triumphant. “Thank you. So good with your hands.”

Valc stepped back, jaw tight.

Later, in the parking garage, Valc opened the door of her limo.

“That was unnecessary.” he said.

“What was?”

“The act. The jealousy stunt.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” she said innocently, but her grin gave her away.

He leaned close. “Be careful, Karina.”

“Why?” she asked, tilting her head. “Worried I’ll fall for you?”

There was a pause. A charged second.

“No.” he said finally. “Worried you already did.”

And with that, he shut the door.

The next morning, the estate was unusually quiet, until Karina shattered the calm.

“What do you mean we’re going to Jeju?!” she yelled from her silk-draped bed, mascara smudged under her eyes like war paint. “I just got my nails done for Seoul!”

Valc, standing at the doorway with a duffel slung over his shoulder, kept his expression unreadable.

“Your father wants you at the investor retreat. Starts tomorrow. Jet leaves in three hours.”

“I hate investor retreats. Everyone smells like old money and desperation.”

He shrugged. “I just follow orders. You scream at them.”

“Ugh, fine. But I’m bringing my wine fridge.”

“You’re not.”

“Then I’m not going.”

“You are.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Karina threw a pillow at him. “Shut up.”

The private jet was stocked with enough food, champagne, and skincare to supply a K-pop tour. Karina lounged on a cream leather seat in a silk robe, scrolling through her phone and sighing dramatically every three minutes.

Valc sat across from her, reading a thick file labeled Contingency Protocols.

“I’m bored.” she said.

“I’m busy.”

“I’m prettier.”

He glanced up. “True.”

She blinked. “Wait, what?”

“I said it’s true. You're prettier. Now let me read.”

Karina flinched at the compliment, even though she'd been fishing for it. She stared at him, a little too long, before shifting her gaze to the window.

Jeju’s breeze was different. Softer. Saltier. But the resort they were staying in was anything but calm.

Karina arrived in a mood. That morning, Dispatch had dropped a juicy article titled "Chaebol Princess and Her Hot Bodyguard: Secret Romance or PR Stunt?"

She was livid.

“Why would they say that?!” she shouted, pacing the suite.

Valc sipped his Americano. “You flirted with me in front of like... a hundred cameras.”

“I was acting!”

“Right. Oscar-worthy.”

Karina hurled a cushion at him. “You don’t care?! They called you hot!”

“I’m not mad about that part.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re dramatic.”

She collapsed on the bed with a groan, then peeked at him. “You think I’m pretty, right?”

Valc blinked. “We’ve been over this.”

“I want you to say it again.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“Because I hate you, but I still want to hear it.”

That made him chuckle. “You’re impossible.”

“You already said that.”

He crossed the room, sitting at the edge of the bed. His voice was quiet. “You’re the most beautiful chaos I’ve ever met.”

Her breath caught.

She turned away.

“Gross. Don’t get poetic.”

That night, Valc joined the retreat's formal dinner, reluctantly. Karina was surrounded by suit-clad men with predatory smiles and old money names. Valc kept to the shadows, sipping whiskey.

Then she walked in.

Winter, Karina’s childhood rival and now CEO of a skincare empire, glided in like an ice queen. Short dress. Diamond eyes. Deadly smile.

“Valc, was it?” she asked, gliding toward him like she was already bored. “You look much better than the rumors.”

He nodded, diplomatic. “Nice to meet you.”

Winter smirked. “Charming and polite. Karina always did pick the best toys.”

He blinked. “I’m not—”

“Oh, I know what you are. The question is... do you?”

Karina was across the room, watching with narrowed eyes. And then she stood.

In three seconds flat, she was beside them.

“Winter.” Karina said, voice dipped in venom.

“Ji-min.” Winter purred. “Your bodyguard and I were just chatting.”

“Too close for chatting.” Karina snapped.

“I was standing.”

“You were drooling.”

“I was complimenting his jawline.”

“Well, compliment your own and walk away.”

Valc said nothing. He just watched Karina’s jaw twitch.

Winter smirked, gliding off with a smug twirl.

Valc leaned in. “Jealous again?”

Karina took a sip of champagne, eyes locked on Winter. “Shut up before I drown you in this glass.”

“Copy that.”

Later that night, back in the suite, the tension was too thick to cut.

“Why do you care who talks to me?” Valc asked, toeing off his shoes.

Karina didn’t answer. She stared out the window at the crashing waves.

“Karina.”

“I don’t care.” she said. “I just hate her.”

“Right.”

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re seeing through me.”

He didn’t say anything. Just walked up behind her, close but not touching.

“I see more than you think.” he said quietly.

Her voice cracked. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

The rain hit Jeju like a grudge. Sheets of water poured over the coast, wind howling against the windows of the cliffside villa Karina had insisted they move into last minute, because “retreats are for old men and bad wine.”

Lightning flashed, thunder cracked, and in the living room, Karina was still wearing a silk robe, arguing with the smart fridge.

“Why does it keep suggesting kombucha? I asked for wine!”

Valc sat nearby, barefoot, in sweats and a hoodie for once, watching her like she was both exhausting and entertaining. Which, frankly, she was.

“I think it knows you’re unhinged.” he said.

Karina spun around. “Are you siding with the fridge now?”

“I trust it more than your mood swings.”

She grabbed a pillow and threw it at him. “You’ve got jokes for someone who’s supposed to protect me.”

He caught the pillow with one hand, grinning. “Laughter is protection. Keeps me from losing my mind around you.”

She flopped onto the couch, letting out a dramatic sigh. The lights flickered. Outside, trees bent like they were bowing to the sea.

“You ever think about quitting?” she asked suddenly. Her voice, too quiet.

Valc glanced at her. “What, and miss your daily tantrums?”

“Be serious.”

He put the pillow down, sobering. “Yeah. I’ve thought about it.”

She blinked. That clearly wasn’t the answer she expected.

“Why?”

He leaned back, arms folded. “Because sometimes I forget if I’m protecting you from the world… or from yourself.”

Silence.

Karina looked down at her hands. Perfect nails. Rings that cost more than tuition.

“I don’t know who I’d be without all this.” she murmured. “The money. The power. The drama.”

“You’d still be you.” he said simply.

“You don’t know me.”

“I’m starting to.”

She met his gaze. There was something in her eyes, vulnerability, raw and rare. It made Valc sit up straighter.

“I don’t let people in.” she said. “Not really.”

“I noticed.”

“But with you…” Her voice dropped. “It’s different. And that scares me.”

Valc’s heart kicked in his chest. This wasn’t teasing. This wasn’t bratty games.

“I’m just your bodyguard, Karina.”

“No, you’re not.”

A crash of thunder drowned the silence between them. The lights blinked, and then died.

Darkness.

Karina jumped.

“Okay, that’s a nope, I hate storms.” she said quickly, voice pitching higher.

“You? Afraid?”

“Shut up and come here.”

Valc reached for his phone, flashlight flickering on as he walked toward her.

“You good?” he asked.

“No. My life is blacked out. I feel poor.”

He snorted. “You’re so dramatic.”

She grabbed his sleeve and tugged him down next to her. He sat, warmth between them immediate.

“I used to be scared of blackouts.” she said quietly. “When I was little, I thought it meant the world was ending.”

He turned the flashlight off. “It’s not.”

“I know.” A pause. “Because you’re here.”

Valc looked at her. Something shifted.

Karina leaned in. Just slightly. Just enough for him to feel the heat of her breath.

His voice was low. “Karina…”

“Shut up.” she whispered. “Just for once.”

And then she kissed him.

Soft. Quick. Like a secret.

When she pulled back, her cheeks were flushed, and her mouth opened to say something, anything.

The lights came back on.

Reality crashed in.

Karina blinked. “I—That didn’t mean anything. I was... stressed.”

Valc sat still. “Right.”

“Seriously. It was a blackout kiss. Everyone gets one.”

“Sure.”

“I’m gonna take a shower.”

She fled.

Valc sat there alone, blinking at the now-too-bright room.

He touched his lips. “A blackout kiss?”

Yeah, he was definitely in trouble.

Back in Seoul, the city skyline greeted them with its usual chaos, billboards flashing, taxis honking, camera flashes hiding behind coffee shop windows. But for once, it wasn’t the skyline Karina was looking at from the backseat of the Maybach.

It was Valc.

He hadn’t said a word about the kiss.

Not during the flight.

Not during the drive.

Not even when she dropped her designer sunglasses and nearly lost her mind at the airport lounge.

He was back to his usual self, calm, unbothered, unreadable.

And it pissed her off.

“What’s your problem?” she snapped suddenly.

Valc raised an eyebrow from the passenger seat. “Me?”

“You’ve been quiet.”

“I’m usually quiet.”

“Well, you’re extra quiet. Is this about Jeju?”

He looked out the window. “You said it didn’t mean anything.”

Her jaw tightened. “And you just agreed.”

“Was I supposed to argue?”

“Yes!”

Valc turned towards her, finally. “You’re confusing as hell, Karina.”

She scoffed. “And you’re an emotionally constipated tree.”

“Glad we’re being mature about this.”

They didn’t speak again until they reached the estate.

The next morning, Dispatch dropped another bomb.

[EXCLUSIVE] Chaebol Heiress Karina Spotted Kissing Her Bodyguard in Jeju Villa?!

The photo wasn’t clear, low-light, slightly blurry, but it was them. The kiss. The lightning in the background added drama straight out of a romance novel.

Karina stared at her phone like it had personally betrayed her.

Ningning stormed into her room minutes later. “Okay, girl, what the hell! You and Tall, Dark, and Stoic are making headlines! Again!”

Karina threw the phone onto her bed. “How does Dispatch keep getting this stuff?! Are the lamps mic’d?!”

“Probably. But more importantly, are you, like, in love or whatever?”

Karina flinched. “What?! No. It was a blackout kiss.”

“A what now?”

“You know, like... a panic move during a thunderstorm. Happens all the time in dramas.”

“Karina. You’re not in a drama. You’re in denial.”

“I can’t like him.” she said, pacing now. “He’s my bodyguard. That’s messy. That’s scandalous. That’s… dangerous.”

“So are you,” Ningning said with a smirk.

Karina paused. “What if he doesn’t feel the same?”

Ningning’s smirk widened. “Then he’s a bigger idiot than I thought.”

Meanwhile, Valc stood outside the estate, watching the press cars pile up like vultures on a buffet line. His phone buzzed.

Unknown Number.

He answered.

“Is this Valc?” a woman’s voice asked.

“Who’s asking?”

“I’m Giselle. We need to talk. About Karina.”

They met later that evening at a rooftop bar in Itaewon.

Giselle wasn’t what Valc expected, confident, sharp, and stylish in a way that said she knew how to ruin reputations with a single Instagram story.

“I’m her friend.” she said, sipping a mojito. “Kind of. More like... her mirror. Except my life didn’t get handed to me on a platinum plate.”

Valc nodded. “You said you wanted to talk?”

“Yeah. I like you. But you need to be careful.”

“Of Karina?”

“Of the world she lives in. She’ll break you without meaning to.”

He frowned. “I’m not easily broken.”

“You think she kissed you because she’s in love? Maybe. But maybe it’s because you’re the only thing in her life she doesn’t control.”

Valc didn’t respond.

“You’re a good guy. I can tell. Just don’t expect her to know what she wants.”

Giselle stood, dropping a business card on the table.

“If she hurts you, call me. I’ve got tequila.”

The next day, Valc was walking through the estate garden when Karina appeared out of nowhere like an angry angel in leather boots.

“Oh, so you do have time to meet mysterious women now?” she snapped.

He blinked. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb. I saw the photos. Giselle? Really? You think that’s subtle?!”

Valc crossed his arms. “She wanted to talk about you.”

Karina’s jaw locked. “Sure she did.”

“Jealous again?”

“No, I just hate being replaced.”

“I haven’t replaced you.”

She stepped closer. “Then what are we, Valc?”

He met her gaze, calm but intense. “You tell me, Karina.”

“I told you it meant nothing.”

“Then stop acting like it meant everything.”

Her face twisted. She shoved him.

He didn’t move. “Done?”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

And before she could argue, he walked away.

This time, she was the one left alone, furious and breathless and maybe, just maybe... heartbroken.

A/N: Part 2 dropping soon, stand by !!

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