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elikajinnie · 6 months ago

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Steal Your Way To My Heart - N.R (Part 1)

P: Bankrobber! Ni-ki X Fem!Reader

Requested by: @badtzsan (hope you like it <3)

Warnings: Teasing, Pursuing, Murder, Kidnapping, Violence, Obsession, Stalking, Flirting, Ni-ki just wanna cover you in jewels tbh.

Synopsis: Your life was boring—until a visit to the bank changes everything. Now you find yourself under the attention of one of the criminals. Now what do you do when the criminal's attention isn't just on the job but on you?

a/n: inspired by false alarm mv by the weeknd pr request :)

See request here

Your days were always underwhelming.

You’d wake up to the sound of your alarm, drag yourself out of bed, and go through the same motions: school, then work, then home. Over and over, like clockwork. And somewhere along the line, it became suffocating.

Each morning felt heavier than the last, your feet dragging like you were wading through wet cement. You found yourself staring out windows more often than not, watching the world pass you by. Same streets, same faces, same everything.

You craved something more. Something to set your blood pumping, your heart racing. You didn’t just want change—you needed it. The kind of adrenaline that would make you feel alive again, remind you that there was more out there than just this monotonous cycle you’d been stuck in.

But nothing ever happened.

You’d given up on expecting it. Change, excitement, anything—it wasn’t in the cards for you. At least, that’s what you thought.

Until one morning.

You were running late for work, your bag slung haphazardly over your shoulder as you weaved through the crowded streets. The morning rush wasn’t anything new, but you were moving too fast, too distracted, and you didn’t even notice the figure walking toward you until it was too late.

You crashed into him with enough force to make you stumble back a step. Your bag slipped from your shoulder, scattering its contents onto the sidewalk.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” you gasped, immediately crouching to gather your things.

“No, it’s my fault,” came the response, a smooth, low voice that made you pause mid-grab.

You glanced up, an automatic, polite apology ready on your lips—but it never made it out.

Your breath caught.

He was tall, towering over you even as he crouched to help pick up your things. Dark hair framed a sharp jawline, his skin smooth and flawless in the morning light. But it was his eyes that held you captive—piercing, intense, like they could see right through you. For a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

“You okay?” he asked, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You blinked, snapping out of your daze. “Y-Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry again, I wasn’t paying attention.”

He handed you your phone, his fingers brushing against yours for the briefest moment. “Don’t worry about it. Happens to the best of us.”

You stood together, and now that you were face-to-face, the sheer presence of him was almost overwhelming. There was something about him that felt… off. Not in a bad way, but in a way that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. Like he wasn’t supposed to be here, in this moment, colliding with you.

“Well, uh…” you began awkwardly, suddenly hyperaware of how plain your uniform looked compared to how effortlessly cool he was. “Thanks.”

Before he could respond, the distant chime of your phone’s clock reminded you that you were late—really late.

“I have to go,” you blurted, clutching your bag tightly.

He smiled again, softer this time, and nodded. “Of course. See you around…?”

You didn’t answer, too flustered as you turned and hurried off. But as you glanced back over your shoulder, he was still standing there, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite place.

You didn’t know it then, but that moment would change everything.

You didn’t know it at first.

How could you? To you, it had just been a fleeting moment, an odd yet strangely thrilling encounter with a handsome stranger. Sure, his face had lingered in your mind longer than you’d like to admit, but life didn’t stop just because you ran into someone attractive.

Day after day, you returned to your routine: school, work, home. And yet… something felt different. Subtle, at first—like a faint whisper at the back of your mind. You’d catch yourself glancing over your shoulder as you walked down the street, or feeling your pulse quicken when a shadow flickered in your peripheral vision.

But you brushed it off. You were overthinking things, you told yourself. It was probably just your imagination playing tricks on you.

You didn’t know that it wasn’t.

Because he was watching you.

The same guy you’d crashed into that morning. Day after day, he followed you. He was careful, almost eerily so. He stayed just far enough away that you’d never notice. Blended into the crowd so seamlessly that you’d never think to look twice.

But he was there. Always.

He saw the way you rushed into work, cheeks flushed from the cold or the stress of running late. He saw the way you smiled politely at customers, even when they were rude to you. He saw the way your shoulders slumped when you thought no one was looking, the weariness of your routine weighing you down.

He saw you.

And every day, he learned more.

Your patterns, your habits. The exact time you’d leave your apartment in the morning. The small café you stopped by occasionally, ordering the same drink every time. The way you lingered outside the bookstore window after work, staring at the same display of novels you never seemed to have time to read.

You were fascinating to him.

But it wasn’t just fascination—it was something darker. Something possessive.

And it wasn’t long before the distance he kept began to shrink.

One night, as you left work later than usual, the streetlights barely illuminating the empty sidewalk ahead of you, you felt it again—that nagging feeling, like someone was watching you.

You glanced behind you, but there was nothing. Just the empty street stretching out behind you, silent except for the faint hum of distant traffic.

You shook your head, scolding yourself for being paranoid.

But as you turned back around, you didn’t see the figure slipping into the shadows, just a few steps behind where you’d been standing.

He was getting closer. And you still didn’t know.

He kept his distance, always careful, always calculated.

Day after day, he followed you, studying every detail of your life like it was a puzzle he needed to solve. But he never showed himself. Not yet.

He learned the way you brushed a strand of hair behind your ear when you were deep in thought, the way your lips pressed into a thin line when you were frustrated, and the soft laugh you let out when you read something funny on your phone. He memorized your patterns as if they were sacred—your favorite routes, the way you adjusted your pace when the streets were crowded, and the shortcuts you took when you were running late.

And still, you didn’t know.

But you began to feel it.

The unease settled in your chest like a stone, heavier each passing day. You couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was there—watching, waiting. When you walked home at night, the silence felt too loud, the shadows too alive. You found yourself glancing over your shoulder more often, your heart racing for reasons you couldn’t explain.

But no one was ever there.

You started locking your doors twice before bed, pulling the curtains closed even though you’d always liked the city lights spilling into your room. You told yourself you were just being paranoid. That nothing was wrong.

But he was getting bolder.

One night, as you walked home, your bag slung over your shoulder and your headphones in, you felt it again—that prickling sensation on the back of your neck. Your steps faltered, your hand tightening around the strap of your bag.

You paused and looked around, the dim streetlights casting long, eerie shadows on the empty road.

There was no one there.

You shook your head, muttering to yourself about how ridiculous you were being, and picked up your pace.

Behind you, in the shadows, he stood perfectly still, his head tilting ever so slightly as he watched you disappear down the street.

He could have reached out. Could have closed the distance between you. Could have made himself known.

But he didn’t. Not yet.

The bank was quiet, save for the faint hum of the air conditioning and the occasional shuffle of feet. You sat on a plastic chair near the wall, scrolling aimlessly through your phone, half-distracted by notifications you didn’t care enough to open.

It was late on a Friday, and the place was nearly empty—a few tellers behind the counter, a couple arguing softly over paperwork, a man in a suit sitting near the door, tapping his foot impatiently.

You weren’t expecting much. Just another mundane errand to tick off your never-ending list of obligations.

Then they walked in.

The doors burst open, slamming against the walls with a loud bang that echoed through the room. You looked up instinctively, your fingers freezing over your phone screen.

There were four of them, maybe five—it was hard to tell in the chaos that followed. They were dressed head to toe in black, their faces hidden behind masks: a snarling wolf, a grinning clown, a featureless white face, and a grotesque demon.

And they were armed.

“Everyone on the floor!” one of them barked, his voice distorted through the mask, the barrel of his gun sweeping across the room.

Your heart dropped, your body reacting before your brain could catch up. You slid off the chair and onto the floor, your phone slipping from your hands as you pressed yourself flat against the cold tiles. Around you, the other people in the bank were doing the same—some crying softly, others frozen in stunned silence.

“Hands where we can see them!” another one shouted, their voice sharper, more aggressive.

You obeyed, trembling as you stretched your arms out in front of you. Your breaths came in short, panicked gasps, the floor suddenly feeling too hard, too cold, too close.

One of the masked figures strode past you, their boots heavy against the floor. You flinched as they moved, your body instinctively shrinking in on itself.

You tried not to look up, to stay small and invisible, but your gaze flicked upward for just a second—and you saw the wolf-masked figure staring right at you.

The mask tilted slightly, as if they were studying you. You froze, your blood running cold as your eyes locked with the dark voids of the mask’s eye holes.

“Keep your head down,” the figure growled, their voice low and menacing.

You dropped your gaze immediately, your entire body trembling as you pressed your forehead against the floor.

Behind you, one of the robbers barked orders to the tellers, demanding cash. The sounds of drawers opening, paper rustling, and the muffled sobs of a teller filled the room.

“Move faster!” another one snapped, slamming their hand against the counter.

The tension in the air was suffocating, every second stretching into what felt like an eternity. Your mind raced, a whirlwind of panic and fear. What did they want? Would they hurt someone? Would they hurt you?

You didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe too loudly.

But amidst the chaos, a thought nagged at the back of your mind—this wasn’t random. The timing, the masks, the precision. Something about it felt deliberate.

And then, you felt it again—that same sensation that had been haunting you for days.

The feeling of being watched.

Slowly, carefully, you shifted your eyes to the side, just enough to see the wolf-masked figure standing a few feet away. Their head was turned toward you again, their stance unnervingly still compared to the chaos around them.

It was like they weren’t even focused on the heist anymore.

They were focused on you.

The chaos continued to unfold around you, the masked figures shouting commands and waving their guns as the tellers scrambled to fill duffel bags with cash. The sound of drawers slamming and the occasional muffled sob of a hostage filled the air, but all you could focus on was the crushing weight of fear in your chest.

Then the clown came closer.

You didn’t see him at first, too focused on staying still and small, but you felt the shadow looming over you. A pair of scuffed boots came into your view, stopping just inches from your head.

"Well, well, look at this," the clown mask sneered, his voice dripping with malice.

You barely had time to flinch before he noticed your phone lying on the floor, just by your head. He chuckled darkly, lifting his boot and slamming it down onto the device with enough force to shatter it into pieces. The crack of the screen echoed through the room, making you jump.

“No phones!” he shouted, crouching down just enough to get in your face. His mask’s grinning expression felt mocking, his gun now pointed directly at your temple.

Your blood turned ice-cold as you froze, your breath catching in your throat.

“What do we have here?” he taunted, leaning in closer. “You trying to be a hero? Huh? Recording us, maybe?”

“No!” you choked out, your voice barely above a whisper. “I wasn’t, I swear!”

The barrel of the gun pressed harder against your temple, and you clenched your eyes shut, shaking uncontrollably. “You better not be lying to me,” he hissed.

But before he could say anything else, a hand shoved him hard, knocking him off balance.

“Back off!” the wolf snapped, his voice sharp and commanding.

The clown stumbled but caught himself, turning to glare at the wolf. “What’s your problem?” he spat.

“The money’s the priority,” the wolf said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Not wasting time threatening some random girl.”

For a moment, the clown hesitated, his finger twitching near the trigger as he glanced between you and the wolf. You held your breath, terrified of what he might do.

Finally, with a frustrated growl, he stepped back, lowering his gun. “Fine. Whatever.” He shot you one last glare before storming off toward the counters, muttering under his breath.

The wolf lingered for a moment, his masked face still angled toward you. Even though you couldn’t see his expression, you felt his eyes boring into you, assessing you, as if silently telling you to stay put and stay quiet.

Then he turned and walked away, joining the others as they stuffed more cash into their bags.

Your heart was pounding so loudly you were sure everyone in the room could hear it. You stayed frozen on the floor, trembling, as the chaos continued around you.

Before you could even begin to process what had just happened, a gloved hand yanked you up by your arm.

“Get up!” a rough voice barked behind the grotesque demon mask.

Your legs wobbled as you were hauled to your feet, your body stiff with terror. “Wait—what are you doing? Let me go!” you stammered, trying to pull away, but the grip on your arm was like iron.

The wolf approached swiftly, his movements precise and deliberate. He didn’t say a word as he reached into his bag, pulling out a pair of handcuffs. You froze, your breath hitching as he grabbed your wrists, forcing them together in front of you.

The cold steel bit into your skin as the cuffs clicked shut.

“W-Why are you doing this?” you pleaded, panic rising in your voice.

The wolf didn’t answer. He only exchanged a glance with the demon, and before you knew it, they were dragging you toward the counter, your shoes scuffing against the tiled floor as you struggled.

“Stop! Please!” you cried, thrashing against their hold, but it was no use. They were too strong.

They pulled you around the counter, past the terrified tellers huddled on the floor, and toward a back door you hadn’t even noticed before. The demon shoved the door open, and that’s when it happened.

Gunfire erupted, the sound splitting the air like thunder. You screamed, instinctively ducking as chaos exploded around you.

The cops were here.

Bullets tore through the doorframe, shards of wood and plaster flying everywhere as the robbers scrambled for cover. The wolf yanked you to the side, his grip on your arm unrelenting as he pulled you out of the line of fire. The demon cursed loudly, returning fire with his assault rifle as the clown and the others shouted orders.

You were caught in the middle of it all, your heart pounding so hard it felt like it would break through your ribs.

“Move! Move!” the wolf barked, dragging you further back into the bank as the others laid down suppressive fire.

You stumbled over your own feet, the cuffs cutting into your wrists as you were manhandled left and right. The gunfire was deafening, each shot sending a jolt of terror through your body.

“Let me go!” you screamed, tears streaming down your face as you tried to resist.

But they didn’t listen. The demon shoved you forward, almost knocking you over, while the wolf kept a firm hold on your arm, steering you toward what looked like a service entrance.

“Take her through the alley!” one of the robbers shouted—maybe the clown, you couldn’t tell anymore.

“No time!” the demon snapped. “They’ve got the back covered too!”

More gunfire erupted, and you ducked again, your ears ringing from the sheer volume of the shots. The smell of gunpowder and fear was thick in the air, suffocating you as you were dragged further into the chaos.

The fire exit door slammed open, and chaos followed you into the cold night air.

Gunshots cracked like thunder around you as the masked robbers fired wildly at the police closing in from all sides. You stumbled as they dragged you forward, your wrists aching against the cuffs, your legs barely able to keep up.

“Cover me!” the demon barked, his assault rifle spraying bullets toward the flashing red-and-blue lights in the distance.

The wolf, still gripping your arm, yanked you harder, pulling you toward a white van that screeched to a halt just ahead. Its tires skidded on the asphalt, smoke billowing around it. The sliding door flung open, and you barely had time to register the driver—a figure in a grotesque zombie mask—before the robbers began throwing the bags of money into the back.

“Get in!” the clown yelled, his voice sharp and frantic.

You resisted, digging your heels into the ground as they tried to force you forward. “No! Let me go!” you screamed, thrashing wildly.

The demon growled in frustration and shoved you forward. “Quit fighting, or I’ll give you a reason to stop!”

Your body collided with the hard interior of the van as the wolf hoisted you up and shoved you inside. The smell of leather and gasoline filled your nose as you landed on your side, your hands still bound in front of you.

“Move!” the zombie driver shouted, his voice muffled but commanding.

The demon and the clown scrambled into the van, slamming the door shut as the wolf climbed in last, still holding his weapon.

The van roared to life, its engine growling as it sped off, tires screeching against the pavement.

You were thrown to the side as the van lurched forward, and you struggled to push yourself upright, your heart racing as panic set in. Outside the windows, flashes of blue and red danced in the dark, and the distant wail of sirens grew louder.

“They’re right on us!” the clown shouted, peering out the back window.

“Then lose them!” the demon snapped, slamming a fresh magazine into his gun.

The zombie swerved the van violently, narrowly avoiding a blockade of police cars as bullets ricocheted off the metal exterior. The robbers fired back through the open windows, their weapons deafening in the cramped space.

You pressed yourself against the corner of the van, your knees tucked to your chest as the chaos unfolded around you. Your ears rang from the gunfire, your body shaking uncontrollably as you watched the masked figures shout and fire, their movements chaotic yet disturbingly practiced.

One of the cops’ vehicles pulled up alongside the van, its siren blaring as an officer leaned out the window, aiming a weapon.

“Take them out!” the demon ordered.

The clown let out a sharp laugh, rolling down the window and leaning out with his rifle. “With pleasure.”

The van swerved again as he fired, the sound of bullets tearing through the air making you scream. The police car veered off course, skidding to a halt as its tires blew out, sending sparks flying.

“Hell yeah!” the clown shouted, slapping the side of the van as he ducked back inside.

The wolf, sitting closest to you, glanced your way. His mask tilted slightly, as if he were studying you again, his body unnervingly calm compared to the others.

You pressed yourself further into the corner, your breath coming in shallow gasps. “Please,” you whimpered, your voice trembling. “Why are you doing this? Just let me go!”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, the zombie yelled from the driver’s seat, “We’re clear for now, but they’ll be on us again soon! Where’s the next checkpoint?”

The demon pulled out a map, spreading it across the floor of the van. “Couple miles out. We ditch the van there and split up.”

“And her?” the clown asked, jerking his head in your direction. “What do we do with her?”

The air in the van grew heavier, the question hanging like a loaded gun.

“She stays,” the wolf said firmly, his voice low.

The others exchanged glances, but no one argued.

You stared at him, your mind racing. Why? Why did he insist on keeping you?

You pressed your back harder against the cold metal wall of the van, your knees drawn up to your chest. Every fiber of your being screamed to fight, to yell, to do something—anything—but you didn’t. You stayed quiet, hoping that silence would keep you alive.

The robbers kept moving, the van swerving sharply as the zombie masked driver navigated the dark streets. Every turn jostled you, the cuffs on your wrists digging into your skin.

“Are we clear?” the clown asked, his voice tense as he peered out the back window.

“Not yet,” the demon growled, his rifle resting on his lap as he reloaded. “They’ll catch up. We need to move faster.”

“They can’t keep up,” the zombie argued from the front. “I know these streets. We’ll lose them soon.”

The van fell into a tense silence, the occasional crackle of the police radio chatter outside filtering through the open window. You kept your head down, your breaths shallow, trying to make yourself as small and invisible as possible.

But the weight of the wolf’s gaze was still on you.

You could feel it without even looking up, the way he sat so still compared to the others. It was like he was watching you, studying your every move, even though you weren’t making any.

Finally, the clown broke the silence with a loud sigh. “This is getting boring,” he muttered, leaning back against the van wall. “We should’ve left her behind. Dead weight.”

You flinched at his words, your hands trembling as you clenched them tightly together.

“She’s insurance,” the wolf said coldly, his tone cutting through the air like a blade. “In case things go south.”

“Insurance, huh?” the clown sneered, tilting his head toward you. “She doesn’t look like much. What are you gonna do? Use her as a human shield?”

The wolf didn’t respond.

“Enough,” the demon snapped, silencing the clown with a glare. “She’s here. That’s the end of it.”

The clown grumbled under his breath but said nothing more, turning his attention back to the window.

You glanced up briefly, your eyes darting to the wolf. He was sitting across from you, his posture relaxed yet somehow alert. His mask tilted slightly, as if he knew you were looking at him.

You quickly looked away, your pulse quickening.

The van suddenly jerked to the side, making everyone lurch forward.

“Checkpoint’s up ahead,” the zombie announced, his voice calm but firm. “Get ready to move.”

The tension in the van grew heavier as the others prepared themselves, checking their weapons and adjusting their masks.

You stayed frozen, your mind racing. What would happen at the checkpoint? Would they let you go? Or was this just the beginning of something worse?

The wolf shifted in his seat, leaning closer to you. You tensed as his gloved hand reached out, grabbing the chain of the cuffs around your wrists.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” he said quietly, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you nodded shakily, unable to muster the strength to speak.

The van slowed to a stop, the sound of gravel crunching beneath the tires.

The demon opened the sliding door, his rifle at the ready. “Move,” he ordered, gesturing for everyone to get out.

The clown and the wolf exited first, guns drawn as they scanned the area. The zombie stayed in the driver’s seat, his hands gripping the wheel tightly, ready to bolt if things went sideways.

Then the demon turned to you.

“Let’s go,” he growled, grabbing your arm and yanking you out of the van.

The night air hit you like a slap, cold and sharp, as you stumbled onto the gravel.

The wolf was by your side in an instant, his hand on your arm again, steadying you. It wasn’t comforting. It was a reminder that you weren’t going anywhere.You were then half-dragged, half-pushed toward a row of hidden vehicles parked in the shadows of the industrial area. Engines roared to life as the robbers split up, each group climbing into separate cars.

The wolf steered you toward a sleek black car, opening the passenger door and shoving you inside with startling precision. Before you could even think of resisting, he leaned over, pulling the seat belt across your body and fastening it with a decisive click.

The movement was quick but strangely careful, as if ensuring you wouldn’t get hurt. You stared at him, breathless and wide-eyed, as he settled into the driver’s seat without a word.

The clown slid into the back seat, slamming the door shut behind him. “Let’s move!” he barked, his tone impatient.

The wolf didn’t reply. He simply started the engine, his gloved hands gripping the wheel as the car roared to life. Without hesitation, he pressed the gas, the tires screeching against the pavement as the car sped off into the night.

Through the rearview mirror, you could see the other vehicles peeling off in different directions, each taking a separate route to evade the cops.

The silence in the car was deafening, broken only by the hum of the engine and the faint sound of sirens fading into the distance.

You sat stiffly in the passenger seat, your hands clenched in your lap as you tried to steady your breathing. The wolf’s presence beside you was overwhelming, his calm demeanor in stark contrast to the chaos you had just witnessed.

From the back seat, the clown let out a sharp laugh. “Man, did you see the look on those cops’ faces? Like they didn’t even know what hit ‘em!”

The wolf didn’t respond, his focus entirely on the road ahead.

The clown leaned forward, resting his elbows on the back of your seat. “So, what’s the plan with her, huh?” he asked, jerking his thumb toward you.

You flinched, your shoulders tensing as his attention shifted to you.

The wolf’s grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly, but his voice remained steady. “She’s coming with us. That’s all you need to know.”

The clown scoffed, sitting back again. “You’re getting soft, Wolf. Letting her ride shotgun like she’s part of the team or something.”

The wolf glanced at you briefly, his mask hiding whatever expression might have crossed his face. Then he turned his attention back to the road.

“She’s leverage,” he said simply.

The clown muttered something under his breath, but he didn’t push the subject any further.

You turned your head toward the window, watching the dark streets blur past as the car sped through empty intersections and winding back roads. The reality of the situation was beginning to sink in, the adrenaline fading just enough to leave you with a sick, hollow feeling in your chest.

You were completely at their mercy, trapped with no way out.

And yet, there was something strange about the wolf.

He hadn’t hurt you—not like the others. He hadn’t yelled at you, threatened you, or treated you like a disposable hostage. His actions were calculated, almost protective, even if you didn’t understand why.

But that didn’t make him any less dangerous.

The clown’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts. “So where are we headed, anyway? Safehouse number two?”

“No,” the wolf said. “Too obvious. We’re heading to the fallback location.”

The clown groaned. “Great. Another night in the middle of nowhere.”

You didn’t dare ask what the fallback location was.

Instead, you kept quiet, your heart pounding as the car sped further and further away from anything familiar.

The engine roared as the wolf pressed the pedal harder, the car speeding down the dark, desolate roads. You gripped the edge of the seat with your cuffed hands, your body stiff as you stared out the windshield, too terrified to look anywhere else.

Behind you, the clown rummaged through the two duffel bags, his gloved hands pulling out wads of cash. The bills rustled as he counted, his voice loud and obnoxious in the tense silence.

“Ten grand, twenty, thirty,” he muttered, stacking the money in neat piles on his lap. “Damn, this haul’s better than the last one. Maybe we should hit banks more often.”

The wolf didn’t respond, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, his hands gripping the wheel with calm precision.

The clown snorted, shaking his head. “You’re no fun, you know that? All business, no celebration. You could at least crack a smile under that mask.”

“I’m driving,” the wolf said flatly. His voice was low, steady, and completely unbothered by the clown’s antics.

The clown scoffed, shoving another bundle of cash back into the bag. “Yeah, yeah, Mr. Professional. Always the same with you.”

You glanced at the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of the clown’s mask—a twisted, grinning face that sent a chill down your spine. He noticed you looking and leaned forward, his head tilting as if he were smirking beneath the mask.

“What about you, huh?” he said, his tone dripping with mockery. “You enjoying the ride, sweetheart? This must be the most excitement you’ve had in your boring little life.”

You stiffened, refusing to answer.

The clown laughed, a sharp, grating sound. “Aw, come on, don’t be shy. You’re practically part of the crew now. Maybe we’ll even cut you a share.”

“That’s enough,” the wolf said sharply, his voice cutting through the air like a knife.

The clown raised his hands in mock surrender, leaning back in his seat. “Fine, fine. I’m just trying to lighten the mood. You’re such a buzzkill, Wolf.”

The wolf didn’t reply, his focus returning to the road.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry as your mind raced. The clown’s teasing was unnerving, but the wolf’s silence was worse. He was an enigma—calm, controlled, and impossible to read.

The car swerved slightly as the wolf took a sharp turn, the tires screeching against the pavement.

The car sped down the empty streets, the hum of the engine filling the tense silence. After a while, the clown’s fidgeting grew louder, and you could sense his boredom brewing. He leaned forward again, resting his arms on the back of your seat.

“So,” he drawled, his tone laced with mock curiosity. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

You hesitated, glancing toward the wolf, who showed no sign of responding. His grip on the steering wheel remained steady, his eyes locked on the road ahead.

“I asked you a question,” the clown pressed, tilting his head. The subtle way his fingers drummed against the gun in his hand sent a shiver down your spine.

You swallowed hard, deciding that staying silent wasn’t worth the risk. You answered him, your voice barely above a whisper.

He repeated your name, as if testing the way it sounded. “Nice. Bet you never thought you’d end up on an adventure like this, huh?”

You didn’t answer, staring straight ahead as your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your seatbelt.

The clown chuckled, the sound low and unnerving. “Not much of a talker, are you? That’s alright. Quiet’s good.” His tone shifted, becoming smoother, almost flirtatious. “But you don’t have to be shy with me. I’m not as scary as I look.”

Your stomach turned, and you instinctively leaned slightly closer to the door, putting as much distance as you could between you and his presence looming behind you.

Still, you managed to force out a stiff response, if only to keep him from getting more agitated. “I don’t really… feel like talking.”

The clown’s laugh was sharper this time. “Come on, don’t be like that. You’ve got a pretty face. Might as well use that pretty voice to keep me entertained.”

Your body tensed, the flirty edge in his tone setting your nerves on fire. Before you could react—or even glance at the wolf for help—the car lurched to an abrupt stop, the tires screeching loudly against the pavement.

The sudden motion threw you forward in your seat, your seatbelt catching you just in time, but the clown wasn’t as lucky. He pitched forward, hitting his head hard with a muffled thud.

“Goddammit!” he cursed, rubbing his forehead through his mask as he sat back. “What the hell, Wolf?!”

“The light’s red,” he said coldly, nodding toward the traffic light ahead.

The clown let out a disbelieving laugh, waving his hand dismissively. “You’ve never stopped at a red light before. What’s the deal?”

The wolf’s grip on the wheel didn’t loosen, but his tone dropped lower, sharper. “I stopped.”

The clown muttered something under his breath, leaning back in his seat with a groan. “Fine, whatever. You’re the boss.”

You stole a glance at the wolf, your heart racing. His mask obscured his face, but his posture told you everything. His shoulders were rigid, his breathing controlled but heavy, and the way his hands clenched the steering wheel made it clear—he was furious.

But why? Was it because of the clown’s behavior toward you?

The light turned green, and the wolf started driving again, the car moving smoothly as if nothing had happened.

The clown stayed quiet for a moment before letting out a huff. “Man, you’re wound up tight tonight. Need to relax.”

The wolf didn’t reply, his focus entirely on the road.

You could feel the weight of exhaustion dragging at you, your body craving rest, but your mind refused to let go. The tension in the car was thick, and every muscle in your body screamed for a break. But you knew better than to trust sleep around these men. The fear of what might happen if you closed your eyes was far too strong.

The road beneath the tires seemed to stretch on forever, and you blinked hard, doing your best to keep your focus. Every time you thought you might drift off, a sharp turn or the sound of the clown laughing from behind you pulled you back into reality.

Finally, the car slowed to a stop, the engine purring to a halt in the quiet night. You blinked rapidly, trying to clear the haze of exhaustion from your vision, but you were still too disoriented.

The clown’s voice broke through your foggy thoughts. “Alright, we’re here. Let’s go.”

The wolf opened his door without a word and stepped out, his heavy boots crunching against the pavement as the clown followed suit. Your door swung open, and before you could gather your bearings, the wolf’s cold hand gripped your arm, pulling you roughly out of the car.

You stumbled slightly, your legs unsteady from the long ride, but the wolf didn’t give you any room to regain your balance. “Move,” the wolf growled, and you had no choice but to follow, your body moving instinctively even as your mind screamed in protest.

The wolf continued leading you, his eyes sharp and watchful as he guided you toward a steel elevator.

You tried to keep your breathing steady, but the fear gnawed at you as the elevator doors closed with a dull thud, the sound of the mechanical gears grinding making you feel even more trapped.

The elevator descended with a slow, jarring motion, your stomach lurching as you were pulled deeper underground.

When the doors finally opened, you were greeted by a dimly lit basement. Concrete floors stretched out before you, and the air felt musty and stale, like it hadn’t been disturbed in ages.

The clown’s voice echoed in the silence as he dropped the bags of money on a long wooden table. “First group here, huh?” He grinned, turning toward the wolf. “We need a bigger place if we’re going to keep up with the haul.”

The wolf didn’t answer him. His gaze never left you, and he moved toward a small door at the far end of the room.

“You’re staying here,” he said, his voice firm and low.

You didn’t have time to protest before he unlocked the door and shoved you inside. The room was sparse—bare concrete walls, a single bed in the corner, and a small desk against the wall. There was a single light bulb hanging overhead, casting an eerie glow over the room.

Before you could fully register what was happening, the wolf had locked the door behind you, his footsteps echoing as he walked away.

You stood frozen for a moment, your heart pounding in your chest.

You were alone.

Alone in a cold, unfamiliar room, trapped with no clear way out.

Time seemed to stretch endlessly in that cold, empty room. Hours passed—or maybe it was just minutes, you couldn’t be sure. You paced the small space, trying to think of some way out, but all your thoughts kept circling back to the same grim reality.

But just as the weight of your fear felt unbearable, the door to your cell creaked open. You didn’t move at first, too exhausted and emotionally drained to react. But then you saw him—the wolf.

He stood in the doorway, his presence towering and suffocating, his eyes dark and unreadable beneath his mask.

“Come on,” he said, his voice low and commanding.

You didn’t hesitate, feeling an instinctive pull to move despite the part of you that screamed to resist. There was nothing to gain from defiance—not here, not with him.

His gloved hand grabbed your arm firmly, pulling you out of the room with a force that left you no room to protest. As you were led down the dimly lit hallway, you passed the other robbers. They didn’t speak, their gaze on you. The clown sat lazily at the table, fiddling with a lighter, his gaze flicking up for a brief moment, but he didn’t say anything.

The wolf didn’t stop, dragging you forward with an unyielding grip. He grabbed a bag from the table without a word, his focus fixed ahead.

You were taken back to the elevator, its cold metal doors sliding open with a hiss. The same grinding sound as before filled the air as the elevator took you upward, the quiet hum of its mechanics deafening in the otherwise still atmosphere.

When the doors opened again, you were faced with the world outside, the harsh light of the morning sun streaming in. The wolf shoved you toward a sleek red car waiting at the curb, its engine idling, ready to take you away.

The sun had begun to rise, casting long shadows on the pavement, signaling the end of the night. The city was waking up, but you felt like you were in another world entirely. The red car’s door swung open, and the wolf pushed you into the passenger seat with a firm hand. He climbed into the driver’s side without a word, his movements swift and deliberate.

The car roared to life, pulling away from the curb as the wheels crunched over the gravel.

The wolf’s gaze flickered briefly toward you, but he didn’t say anything. He just drove, his hands steady on the wheel as the car hummed down the road.

The tension in your shoulders, the constant dread you’d been carrying, began to ease—ever so slightly. Your eyelids fluttered, heavy from the exhaustion you’d been pushing through, the lack of sleep catching up to you. You tried to stay alert, but it was harder and harder to keep your eyes open.

And before you realized it, your head dipped forward, your body relaxing into the seat. Your breathing slowed, soft and steady, as you drifted into sleep.

The wolf’s eyes flickered over to you, his gaze briefly softening as he saw your head resting against the window. The corner of his lips twitched into something resembling a smile, though it was hidden behind his mask. There was a deep sense of satisfaction that washed over him.

You slowly opened your eyes, the soft light from the window spilling across the plush linens. The warmth of the bed made you feel disoriented, almost too comfortable, and the moment you became fully aware of your surroundings, a cold wave of shock hit you.

You were in a luxurious hotel suite, the kind you’d only seen in movies or heard about from those who had money to spend. The room was large, with expensive-looking furniture scattered about, dark wood and gold accents giving it a rich, elegant feel. The bed you had woken up in was massive, the sheets pristine white and slightly crumpled.

You sighed, the weight of the confusion and fear coming back. Your body was sore, and you could still feel the faint remnants of exhaustion in your limbs. But somehow, it felt wrong to stay here. You didn’t know where here was, but it certainly didn’t feel like a place you should be.

With a deep breath, you slowly sat up, your feet touching the cold floor. After a moment’s pause, you decided you couldn’t just sit here, unsure of what was going on.

The hallway outside the room was silent, save for the muffled sound of distant chatter. You stepped out and walked toward the elevator, your mind racing with questions. You reached the lobby, the plush carpet soft underfoot, and approached the receptionist desk, where a young woman sat typing on her computer.

“Excuse me,” you said quietly, your voice still raw from the sleep. The receptionist looked up, offering a warm smile. “Can I help you?”

You hesitated for a moment, still trying to gather your thoughts. “I… I woke up here, and I’m not sure how I got here. Can you tell me what happened?”

The receptionist took a moment to study you, her gaze flicking to the key card in your hand. “Oh, I see. You were brought in this morning. A man dropped you off though he didn’t stay long. Just… dropped you off and left.”

You frowned, the confusion deepening. "Did you see his face?"

She shook her head, her expression apologetic. "No, he was wearing a hood. I couldn’t see anything and he didn’t say much.”

You sighed out a breath, feeling a strange mix of relief and frustration. Relief, because at least you weren’t in immediate danger, and frustration because you still had no answers.

“Thank you,” you said, forcing a smile as you handed back the key card.

The receptionist nodded sympathetically as you turned and walked out.

The days that followed felt like a blur of events, each one blending into the next. The shock of the robbery and the kidnapping seemed to hang over you like a cloud, the adrenaline of the event never fully disappearing.

The police had been persistent, asking you question after question, trying to get every detail you could remember. You recounted everything—what you saw, what you heard, how the robbers acted, how you ended up in the hotel.

But what unsettled you the most was the fact that the place they had taken you to—the hidden basement, the garage, everything—was now completely empty. The police had searched the location, but there was nothing. No traces and no leftover evidence. It was as if the robbers had vanished into thin air.

And when they tried to trace the hotel, it was the same story. The receptionist’s memory was all they had, and that wasn’t much to go on. A hooded man had dropped you off. No name. No face. Nothing.

The police had no leads, and you were left with nothing but your own confusion and growing fear.

You tried to keep going. You tried to move on, to get back to some semblance of normalcy, but the feeling that had surged through you—danger, uncertainty, that rush of adrenaline—was a hard thing to shake.

You’d always thought you wanted something more, something thrilling. But now that you had experienced it, now that you had tasted that kind of danger, it felt like an itch you couldn’t scratch. It wasn’t something you could walk away from. It was always there.

You went back to your work, your life, doing your best to keep your routine in place. But nothing felt quite the same. It was like you were constantly looking over your shoulder, waiting for something to happen, waiting for those men to reappear.

Some nights, the fear crept back in, and you’d find yourself unable to sleep, lying awake in bed, the images of the action flashing through your mind. And then there were those moments, when the rush, the thrill, would start to creep in too. You’d catch yourself staring out a window, lost in thought, wondering what it would be like to see one of them again.

It was dangerous, you knew. But it felt impossible to escape that feeling. Something about it was… addictive.

The morning sunlight filtered through your window, casting a warm glow over your apartment, but as you opened the door, the peaceful atmosphere quickly shifted. There, lying on the floor just outside your door, was a bag—an expensive-looking, high-end designer bag, its sleek material catching the light.

You tilted your head in confusion, wondering who could have left it there. Your heart skipped a beat as you crouched down and zipped it open. Your breath caught in your throat when you saw what was inside.

A piece of paper was folded neatly, the words scrawled in neat, precise handwriting: "Wear it for me."

The signature beneath the words read: Wolf.

A chill ran through you, but the bag was filled with more than just a note. Inside, you found an assortment of beautifully crafted jewelry—shiny necklaces, delicate bracelets, and a pair of earrings that sparkled like diamonds. There were also clothes—luxurious fabric, intricate stitching, and garments that screamed wealth.

You felt your stomach tighten, torn between the unease that bubbled up within you and the undeniable curiosity that had you looking over your shoulder. But there was no one in sight. No one watching.

You picked up the bag, feeling the weight of it in your hands. You glanced around the hallway, half-expecting someone to jump out at you. But nothing. No movement, nothing.

Stepping back into your apartment, you closed the door behind you, your mind racing. The room felt stuffy all of a sudden, and your hands trembled slightly as you quickly checked the news, hoping to find something—anything—that could explain this. But there was nothing. No new robberies. No incidents. The police reports hadn’t changed.

You looked at the open bag sitting on the floor in front of you. The glint of the jewelry, sparkling almost like it was teasing you. Each piece seemed to tempt you, daring you to pick it up, to try it on.

Your fingers hovered over the contents of the bag before you quickly pulled them back, shaking your head. This is ridiculous, you told yourself. It wasn’t safe, wasn’t normal. You didn’t know the Wolf’s intentions—what this gesture even meant.

You clenched your fists, forcing yourself to pull back. "No," you muttered under your breath. Whatever game the Wolf was playing, you weren’t going to be part of it.

Leaving the bag on the floor where it was, you grabbed your coat, slipped on your shoes, and headed for the door. You needed to get out, clear your head, put some distance between you and whatever this was.

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, as you decided to take a stroll, hoping the fresh air would clear your mind.

Walking, your steps slowed in front of a jewelry store. The display window sparkled under the bright lights, showcasing an array of necklaces, rings, and bracelets. The pieces were beautiful, elegant, and impossibly expensive.

Lost in your thoughts, you didn’t hear the faint sound of footsteps behind you until a low, familiar voice broke through the quiet.

“Do you like what you’re seeing?”

You froze for a moment before turning your head slightly, glancing over your shoulder. Your breath caught when you saw him—the handsome man you had crashed into days ago.

For a moment, your mind raced, trying to make sense of his sudden appearance. He was dressed casually, hands tucked into his pockets, an air of confidence around him.

“Yeah,” you said softly, turning back to the window. “They’re beautiful.”

“They’d suit you,” he replied, his tone smooth, yet sincere.

You felt heat rush to your cheeks at his words, your heart giving a traitorous flutter. “Thanks,” you mumbled, looking away from the display and at the ground, trying to compose yourself.

There was a pause before he spoke again, his voice calm but laced with something deeper, something unreadable. “Jewelry like that... it’s meant to make a statement. To say something about the person wearing it.”

You glanced up at him, his gaze fixed on the display for a moment before shifting to meet yours. His eyes held yours, and for a second, you could feel the intensity behind them.

“Maybe,” you said cautiously, your voice barely above a whisper.

A small, knowing smile tugged at the corners of his lips, as though he understood something you didn’t. “You don’t think it’s for you?”

You hesitated, unsure how to answer. “I’m not sure it fits my life right now,” you admitted, thinking about the bag sitting untouched back in your apartment.

His smile grew, but it wasn’t mocking—it was... intrigued. “Maybe you just haven’t stepped into the right life yet.”

Before you could respond, he straightened, taking a step back.

“Think about it,” he said simply, giving you a slight nod before turning and disappearing into the flow of pedestrians on the sidewalk.

You stood there, rooted in place, staring after him as your heart thudded in your chest.

Who was he?

After returning home, you let out a heavy sigh as your eyes landed on the bag still sitting where you’d left it. You crouched down and peeked inside once again, taking in the glimmering jewelry and the luxurious clothes.

Scrunching your nose, you muttered to yourself, What the hell am I supposed to do with this?

You closed the bag with a resigned huff and headed to the bathroom, stripping off your clothes and stepping into the hot shower. You let your mind wander for a moment, trying to make sense of everything.

After drying off and wrapping yourself in a towel, you walked back into your room. Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, drawing your attention. Frowning, you picked it up and unlocked the screen to see a text from an unknown number.

The message made your stomach flip:

"You didn’t like the gift I left this morning?"

Your breath caught. For a moment, you just stared at the screen, your heart racing. You typed a quick reply:

"What do you mean?"

It didn’t take long for the reply to come.

"I didn’t see you wearing the jewels."

You froze, gripping the phone tighter in your hand. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who it was. Your suspicion solidified in your mind as you began typing furiously:

"Wolf?"

There was no denial.

"Out of all the names you could’ve chosen, that’s the one you stick with? I’m flattered."

You huffed in frustration, pacing your room as you typed back.

"Why are you watching me? And why would you even give me this stuff?"

A moment passed before his next reply.

"I bought it out of the goodness of my heart, just for you. Thought you’d appreciate the gesture."

You rolled your eyes, fingers flying over the keyboard.

"With stolen money."

This time, his response took a little longer, but when it came, it sent a chill down your spine.

"You didn’t seem to complain when I kept you safe, sweetheart. Or when I made sure you slept comfortably that night."

You swallowed hard, glaring at the screen as your mind flashed back to that night in the hotel. Despite your frustration, you couldn’t deny the truth in his words. You were alive, and he had been the one to ensure it.

Still, you typed back stubbornly:

"That doesn’t mean I owe you anything."

His reply came quickly, as if he had been waiting for you to say it.

"Oh, sweetheart, this isn’t about owing me. I just wanna spoil you."

You stared at the message, torn between anger, confusion, and an emotion you couldn’t quite place. Your hands trembled slightly as you locked your phone and tossed it onto the bed.

And before you could stop yourself, you grabbed the bag, placing it on the bed. Slowly, you unzipped it and pulled out the clothes first—a sleek designer outfit that felt as expensive as it looked. Next, you took out the jewelry, laying it out piece by piece. Rings, bracelets, earrings, and necklaces all glittered under the dim light of your room.

You swallowed hard as you picked up the outfit and the jewelry, staring at them for a moment. What harm could it do to just try them on?

The thought tugged at your resolve, and before long, you found yourself slipping into the outfit and clasping the jewelry around your neck and wrists. You turned toward the mirror, almost not recognizing yourself.

The person staring back at you looked expensive, untouchable, like someone who had walked out of a magazine.

You tilted your head, running your fingers through your hair. Without thinking, you grabbed your phone, adjusted your pose, and snapped a picture.

Your thumb hovered over the photo for a moment. Should I? The thought sent a thrill of uncertainty through you, but before you could overanalyze, you sent it.

The instant you hit send, regret settled in your stomach like a rock. You thought about deleting it or throwing your phone across the room, but the damage was done.

Not even a minute passed before he replied.

"Knew you’d look good in it."

Your cheeks burned as you stared at the screen. Before you could respond, another message came through.

"You wear it better than I imagined. Stunning."

The compliment sent your heart racing. You quickly typed a response:

"You’re a psycho, you know that?"

This time, the reply was almost instant.

"Maybe. But I know a good investment when I see one."

You frowned, typing quickly.

"I’m not an investment."

His response came slower this time, but it hit harder than you expected.

"You are to me. Whether you see it or not."

Your stomach churned, and before you could come up with a reply, another message came through.

"Enjoy the gifts, sweetheart. There’s more to come."

You tossed your phone onto the bed, staring at yourself in the mirror again. You felt beautiful, sure, but at what cost?

The days that followed after felt surreal, like stepping into a life that wasn’t your own. Every morning, you would find another bag or box outside your door. Each time, the gifts inside grew more extravagant—more jewelry, designer clothes, expensive shoes, even a high-end purse that you’d only ever dreamed of owning.

The Wolf never let you ignore his generosity. His messages always followed soon after, asking if you liked what he’d left and reminding you to send proof that you were wearing them.

At first, you resisted, replying with excuses about being too busy or not wanting to wear such obvious luxury items. But he was persistent, and there was always an underlying threat hidden behind his charming words. Not explicit, but enough to remind you that he was watching.

"Don’t keep me waiting, sweetheart." "I just want to see you shine." "Humor me, or should I drop by and see for myself?"

So, reluctantly, you complied. You’d slip into the outfits, put on the jewelry, and snap a picture. At first, you tried to make it obvious that you weren’t enjoying it—standing stiffly, giving half-hearted smiles. But over time, as you caught glimpses of yourself in the mirror, you couldn’t deny that the attention made you feel… special.

And when you were out, you started wearing some of the items—not all at once, but enough to feel their weight on you. The Wolf noticed immediately, always commenting when he saw you through his texts.

"Everyone’s staring at you, aren’t they? They should. You’re breathtaking." "You belong in things like this, not the life you’re trying to hold onto."

But the feeling didn’t come without guilt. Each time you put on something he sent, you couldn’t shake the thought of how he got the money to pay for it. You knew it was stolen, yet here you were, parading around in the spoils of his crimes.

As you sat on a bench in the park that evening, sipping a coffee and scrolling through your phone, a message from him lit up your screen:

"You’re starting to enjoy it, aren’t you?"

Your fingers flew across the screen as you typed out a response.

"Enjoy it? What, being spoiled by stolen money and manipulated into wearing it? No thanks."

The reply came almost instantly, like he’d been waiting for you to bite.

"Sweetheart, if you really hated it, you wouldn’t be wearing my gifts right now. Don’t lie to me."

You clenched your jaw, glaring at the screen. You could practically hear the smug tone in his voice.

"I wear them because you keep pushing, not because I like them."

It was a weak excuse, and you knew it. So did he.

"Sure you don’t," he replied, adding a winking emoji. "That’s why you’ve been strutting around town looking like you own the place. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the extra confidence."

You rolled your eyes, fingers moving quickly.

"Confidence? More like stress from worrying you’re watching me all the time. Maybe I should toss this stuff out and be done with it."

There was a pause this time, long enough that you thought you might’ve finally gotten under his skin. Then your phone buzzed again.

"You wouldn’t dare. And even if you tried, I’d just buy you more. You deserve to look like the Queen you are."

Your cheeks burned, and you hated the way your heart skipped at his words. "Stop calling me things like that."

"Why? You don’t like being called my Queen? Or would you prefer ‘baby’? ‘sweetheart? ‘angel’?"

You huffed aloud, typing furiously.

"I’d prefer if you left me alone, actually."

"Hmm, yeah, that’s not happening."

You groaned in frustration, leaning back against the bench as his next message appeared.

"C’mon, don’t be mad, sweetheart. You’re cute when you’re flustered."

"You’re insufferable."

"And yet, you keep replying. Admit it—you like our little chats."

You hesitated, glaring at the screen. Part of you wanted to ignore him, to block his number and try to move on with your life. But another part—the one that felt a flicker of excitement each time his name popped up—kept you typing.

"I reply because you won’t leave me alone," you shot back.

"Mmhmm, keep telling yourself that. You’ve got my number saved by now, don’t you?"

Your stomach flipped, and your face burned. You hadn’t saved his number, but the thought that he’d guessed something so ridiculous still made you squirm.

"In your dreams," you typed.

"Oh, sweetheart, you don’t want to know what I dream about."

Your jaw dropped, heat rushing to your cheeks as you stared at the text before locking your phone, you shoved it into your bag with an annoyed groan. He was impossible, and he knew exactly how to get under your skin.

The bell above the jewelry store door jingled softly as you stepped inside, greeted by the glimmer of diamonds and gold under bright display lights. The store wasn’t too crowded—just a few customers browsing quietly, the sound of soft music humming in the background.

You wandered toward the ring section, humming to yourself as you peered through the glass. Your fingers brushed over the edge of the counter as you admired the delicate pieces—sleek bands, intricate designs, and stones that sparkled.

One caught your eye: a simple silver ring with a small diamond. The kind of thing you’d never buy for yourself, but it didn’t stop you from slipping it onto your finger to admire it.

The moment felt normal.

But that didn`t seem to last.

The sound of a door slamming open behind you shattered the calm. A sharp, angry voice boomed through the store, cutting through the soft music.

"Everyone on the ground! Now!"

Your stomach twisted as you froze in place, the ring still halfway on your finger. Panic set in as the store erupted into chaos—gasps, screams, and the clatter of someone dropping their bag as people scrambled to the floor.

Your head turned slowly, heart hammering in your chest.

And there they were.

The same robbers from the bank. The masks. The guns. It was like a nightmare replaying itself, except this time you weren’t just a bystander.

Your gaze locked onto him.

The Wolf.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Behind the mask, his head tilted slightly, as if he were sizing you up, and even without seeing his face, you knew he recognized you.

You swallowed hard, your hands trembling as you raised them slowly, your mind screaming at you to do something, anything. But he wasn’t moving, and the longer he stared, the more you began to feel like his prey.

Then, finally, he spoke. His voice was low, distorted slightly by the mask but unmistakably calm.

"You really do have a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, don’t you?"

The familiarity in his tone sent a shiver down your spine. You took a shaky step back, but his gun followed the movement.

“Stay right there,” he ordered, and his voice wasn’t as calm this time. It was sharp and commanding.

You dropped back to the floor, your knees hitting the cold tiles as the others watched silently.

"Good girl," he muttered, almost to himself, and though the words weren’t loud, they hit you like a brick.

This wasn’t a coincidence. It couldn’t be.

The Clown let out a loud, exaggerated laugh as his gaze landed on you, his gun resting on his shoulder. "Well, well, look who it is! Isn’t this just too good to be true?" he teased, gesturing wildly toward you with his free hand.

You stiffened, keeping your eyes down as the other robbers turned their attention to you, their movements briefly faltering.

"Seriously?" the Clown continued, leaning against one of the display cases. "Out of all the jewelry stores in the city, you walk into this one? What are the odds?"

"Focus," the Wolf snapped, his voice sharp as he shoved a handful of necklaces into a bag. But his tone wasn’t as steady as it usually was—there was something strained about it.

A skeleton, standing by the door, glanced between you and the Clown. "What, you two know her?"

The Clown chuckled, his laughter high-pitched and mocking. "Oh, we know her, all right. She’s like our little good-luck charm. Wherever she goes, we hit the jackpot!"

You felt your stomach twist, the heat of their stares making your skin crawl. You tried to stay still, tried not to draw any more attention to yourself, but the Clown’s taunting made that impossible.

"You’ve got to admit," the Clown continued, his tone dripping with amusement as he gestured to the Wolf, "this is kind of funny."

The Wolf didn’t answer, his focus locked on the bags of jewelry as if ignoring the conversation altogether.

Then, before anyone could say another word, a loud pop shattered the air.

The glass window near the front of the store exploded inward, and a thick cloud of gas began pouring in. The cops had arrived.

Chaos erupted instantly.

"Gas!" the Demon shouted, covering his face with one arm.

The Clown cursed, dropping the rings he was counting and grabbing his gun. "We’ve got company!"

The gas spread quickly, making your eyes water and your throat burn. You coughed, trying to crawl toward the counter for some kind of cover, but you didn’t make it far.

Rough hands grabbed you by the arm, yanking you upright. You barely had time to scream before the Demon’s arm was around your neck, dragging you backward toward the exit.

"Shield!" he barked, his voice muffled.

"No!" you gasped, struggling against his grip, but he only tightened his hold, keeping your body in front of his as the store filled with smoke.

The Wolf turned sharply, his eyes—or rather, his mask—locking onto you. "Demon, leave her!"

"No time for this!" the Demon snapped back, holding you tighter as you kicked against him. "You want us to get out or not?"

The Clown was already firing shots through the gas, laughing like a maniac as the police closed in.

Your heart raced as you were dragged toward the back, your screams barely audible over the chaos. The Wolf hesitated for a moment, his gun raised, before letting out a growl of frustration and motioning for the others to move.

"Go! Go!" he barked, his voice laced with anger.

You were shoved through the back door and into an alley, the cold air hitting your face as the sounds of gunfire echoed behind you. The Demon didn’t loosen his grip, dragging you toward a waiting van parked at the end of the alley.

"Let me go!" you screamed, your voice hoarse, but your words fell on deaf ears.

The Clown opened the back doors of the van, waving the others inside. "C’mon, c’mon! Time to disappear again!"

The Demon shoved you forward, and you stumbled into the van, your wrists hitting the cold metal floor. The Clown climbed in behind you, pulling the doors shut as the Wolf took the driver’s seat.

The van roared to life, screeching away from the alley as the cops’ shouts faded into the distance.

You curled yourself further into the corner, trying to make yourself small, your heart pounding so hard it hurt. And then, out of the corner of your eye, you noticed something—or rather, someone.

Another woman.

She was sitting on the opposite side of the van, her face pale, her hair disheveled, and her body trembling. You recognized her from the store. She’d been near the necklace displays, standing by herself. You’d barely noticed her in the chaos, but now it was clear—she’d been taken, too.

Her eyes met yours, wide and terrified, and for a moment, neither of you said anything.

The Clown, seated on one of the metal benches along the wall, noticed the direction of your gaze and snickered. "Ah, don’t worry," he said, waving his hand lazily. "She’s just along for the ride, like you."

"Why?" you croaked, your voice barely above a whisper.

The Clown tilted his head as if you’d just asked the stupidest question in the world. "Because she was there, obviously."

The woman flinched at his casual tone, her hands clutching the fabric of her skirt as she looked between you and the Clown.

"Let us go," you said, the words stumbling out of your mouth before you could stop them. Your voice shook, but you forced yourself to continue. "You don’t need us. We—we’re just witnesses. You got what you wanted—"

"Shut it," the Demon snapped, cutting you off. He was leaning against the side of the van, his arms crossed, the mask over his face making him look even more menacing. "We’re not letting anyone go until we’re in the clear."

You clenched your fists, anger flickering beneath the fear. "This is insane—"

"Insane?" The Clown laughed, leaning forward slightly. "Sweetheart, you don’t even know the half of it."

The Wolf’s voice cut through the tension from the driver’s seat, calm but firm. "Enough."

The Clown rolled his eyes but leaned back, stretching his arms out like he didn’t have a care in the world.

The van hit a bump, and you winced, grabbing the wall to steady yourself. The woman across from you whimpered softly, her eyes darting toward the doors as if she were contemplating throwing herself out.

"Don’t even think about it," the Demon muttered, noticing her gaze.

The van fell into an uneasy silence, the only sounds the hum of the engine and the occasional squeal of the tires as the Wolf took another sharp turn.

You looked at the woman again, and this time you spoke softly, trying to keep your voice steady. "Are you okay?"

She blinked at you, her lips trembling. "I—I don’t know," she whispered.

You nodded, your throat tightening. You didn’t know what to say. What could you say? Both of you were trapped, at the mercy of masked criminals who seemed to thrive on chaos.

The Clown glanced between you and the woman, a grin audible in his voice even if you couldn’t see his face. "Don’t worry, ladies. We’re taking real good care of you."

You glared at him, your fear momentarily eclipsed by anger. "Care? You call this care?"

The Clown laughed again, but the Wolf interrupted sharply.

"Clown, I said enough."

The Clown huffed, leaning back in his seat. "Fine, fine. Killjoy."

As the van turned into what felt like another narrow alley, you clenched your fists tighter, your nails digging into your palms. The woman across from you mirrored your fear, her wide eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Shouts and sirens blared behind you, the chaos reaching a deafening crescendo.

“They’re right on us!” the Clown shouted, gripping the edge of his seat as he leaned toward the back doors, peering through the small window. “There’s three cars chasing—no, four!”

The Demon growled, raising his gun to return fire out the back. Bullets shattered the van’s rear window, glass flying everywhere. You ducked instinctively, covering your head, your ears ringing from the deafening blasts.

The woman next to you screamed, clutching the bench for dear life, her face pale as a ghost.

"Keep them off us!" the Wolf barked from the driver’s seat, his voice sharp and unyielding as he yanked the van into a hard drift around a corner. The tires screeched again, the force slamming you into the wall of the van.

The Skeleton, who’d been silent the entire ride, crouched near the back doors with a rifle in hand. "I’ve got it!" he shouted, leaning out of the broken window to aim at the pursuing cop cars. He fired several rounds, the recoil kicking against his shoulder.

A loud bang followed as one of the police cars spun out, crashing into a parked vehicle.

“That’s one down!” the Skeleton yelled, a hint of triumph in his voice.

But his victory was short-lived.

Another pop of gunfire came from behind, and before you could process what had happened, the Skeleton froze, his body jerking forward violently. Blood sprayed against the inside of the van as he dropped his rifle, clutching his chest.

“No!” the Clown shouted, scrambling toward him.

The Skeleton gasped for air, his body trembling as he collapsed onto the floor of the van.

"Dammit!" the Demon hissed, grabbing the fallen rifle and firing blindly out the back. "They got him!"

You couldn’t take your eyes off the Skeleton’s body. This wasn’t just some action movie or heist drama. Someone had just died right in front of you.

The Clown muttered a string of curses, shaking Skeleton’s shoulder as if trying to wake him up. "Come on, man. Not now. Not like this."

But it was no use. He was gone.

The woman beside you sobbed quietly, her face buried in her hands. You wanted to comfort her, to say something, but no words came.

The Wolf’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade. "Demon, take the rifle and keep them back. Clown, sit down. He’s gone. We can’t stop now."

The Clown hesitated, his body trembling with barely contained anger, but he finally obeyed, slamming his fist against the metal wall before sitting back.

The Demon took Skeleton’s place at the broken window, firing round after round at the remaining cop cars.

The van swerved again, throwing you against the side. Your head slammed into the metal with a dull thud, and your vision blurred for a moment.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the gunfire stopped altogether. The van jolted to a halt in what seemed like another underground garage, and for a moment, everything was silent except for the sound of your own ragged breathing.

The Wolf killed the engine, his hands still gripping the wheel tightly.

The Clown was the first to speak, his voice hollow. “We lost him.”

No one responded.

What the hell had you gotten yourself into?

The Demon barked orders as they moved quickly, unloading bags of cash and weapons from the van and transferring them to a sleek black SUV parked nearby. Every move they made was quick and calculated, their boots echoing loudly in the underground garage.

You and the woman stood there, side by side, both of you trembling for different reasons. Her fear was evident in the way she kept shaking, her eyes darting everywhere like she was looking for a way out. You, on the other hand, were frozen in silent fury, your body stiff as you glared daggers at the Clown, who stood a few feet away, his gun trained lazily in your direction.

“Man, this was a mess,” the Clown said casually, his tone far too relaxed given the situation. He tilted his head toward you, his painted mask cocked like he was grinning beneath it. "But hey, look on the bright side—at least you got to hang out with us again. Bet you missed us, huh?"

You didn’t respond, your glare sharp enough to cut glass.

He laughed, as if your silence only amused him. "Still giving me the silent treatment? You know, you’re gonna hurt my feelings if you keep this up."

Beside you, the woman whimpered softly, clearly unable to handle the Clown’s twisted sense of humor. He turned his attention to her next, his voice mockingly sweet.

“Aw, don’t cry, lady. We’re not all bad. Well...” He chuckled. “Most of us aren’t great, but at least I’m entertaining, right?”

The woman shook her head, her lips quivering as tears spilled down her cheeks.

“Leave her alone,” you snapped, unable to stay quiet any longer.

The Clown turned back to you, tilting his head again. “There she is! Knew you couldn’t keep quiet forever.”

“Shut up,” you bit out, your voice low and venomous.

He let out a mock gasp, pressing a hand to his chest. "So cold! You really do know how to break a guy’s heart."

The Demon’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. “Clown, enough.”

The Clown shrugged, stepping back slightly but still keeping the gun pointed at you and the woman. "Fine, fine. No fun allowed."

After a few more tense minutes, the Demon slammed the trunk of the SUV shut, signaling that they were done loading.

The Wolf glanced over at you as he walked toward the driver’s side door. His gaze lingered for a moment, and though his mask obscured his expression, there was something unreadable in his posture.

“Let’s go,” he said, his voice calm but firm.

The Clown smirked, giving you a two-fingered salute before backing toward the SUV. “Well, ladies, it’s been real. Don’t miss us too much, okay?”

The woman let out a quiet sob, and you clenched your fists, your nails digging into your palms as you fought the urge to say something—anything—that might provoke them further.

The Clown climbed into the backseat, leaning out the window one last time as the SUV started up.

“Oh, and one more thing...” He leaned out of the window dramatically, throwing a mocking kiss in your direction. "Mwah!"

You glared at him, your jaw tightening, but you didn’t respond.

For a few moments, everything was silent except for the distant hum of the SUV’s engine fading into the distance.

The woman collapsed to her knees beside you, her body wracked with sobs. You stood there, your fists still clenched, your chest heaving as you tried to process what had just happened.

The flashing red and blue lights of the police cars reflected off the damp pavement as the cops swarmed the abandoned van where you and the woman had been left. You watched in silence as the officers questioned her, her voice trembling as she spilled everything she could recall about the robbery.

After hours of questioning and paperwork, they finally let you go. Exhausted, you dragged yourself home. The weight of the day pressed heavily on your shoulders, but even as you sank into your couch, staring blankly at the TV screen, the adrenaline from the encounter still buzzed faintly beneath your skin.

You tried distracting yourself with a movie, flipping through channels until you landed on something familiar.

Then, your phone buzzed.

The sound made you jump, when you reached for your phone and saw the notification, your breath caught in your throat.

It was him.

"Miss me yet?"

Your heart skipped a beat. You stared at the message, unsure how to respond—or if you even should. Your fingers hovered over the screen, torn between ignoring him and diving into a conversation you knew you shouldn’t be having.

Before you could think too hard, another message came through.

"You didn’t tell them about me, did you? Good."

You sat up straighter, your pulse quickening.

"How do you know I didn’t?"

The three little dots indicating he was typing appeared immediately.

"Let’s just say I have my ways."

You frowned, your fingers tightening around your phone.

"Why are you messaging me? What do you want?"

There was a pause before his next message.

"Thought I’d check in."

Your lips parted in disbelief. Was he serious?

"You can’t just ‘check in’ like this. You’re a criminal."

He answered right after.

"And yet, here you are, replying to me."

Curiosity finally got the better of you.

"I have a question."

The reply came faster than you expected.

"Ask away, doll."

"All the stuff you’ve given me… the jewelry, the clothes, everything. Did you really buy it? Or was it all stolen?"

You waited, biting your lip, half-expecting him to dodge the question. But then your phone buzzed again.

"Bought. Every single piece. You deserve the best, not leftovers from a heist."

His words made your stomach twist in a way you didn’t want to admit. But still, you weren’t convinced.

"I don’t trust you."

"I know. That’s fair. What would it take for you to trust me?"

You hesitated, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. Part of you didn’t even want to respond, but the absurdity of it all made you type before you could think twice.

"A mirror picture."

You sent it jokingly.

"Like the ones I’ve been sending to you."

There was a long pause, and you were about to type again when your phone buzzed. A photo popped up in your chat, and you froze.

Wow...

He was sitting on the edge of a bed, facing a mirror. Black pants hugged his legs, and a simple white shirt clung to his broad shoulders. Silver jewelry adorned his wrists and fingers, glinting under the soft light of the room. A chunky chain rested around his neck.

But his face was hidden—his phone held up in front of it, the sleek black screen obscuring his features.

Your breath hitched as you stared at the image. It was strangely intimate, like you were seeing a side of him he didn’t show anyone else.

"Satisfied?"

You blinked, trying to collect yourself.

"That doesn’t prove anything. Your face is still hidden."

"I didn’t think you’d want to see me yet. You might get hooked."

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks burned as you typed back.

"You’re so full of yourself."

"And yet, you’re still talking to me."

He had a point, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of admitting it.

"Don’t you have something better to do than bother me?"

"Not really. You’re the most interesting thing in my life right now."

Your chest tightened at his words, and you quickly changed the subject.

"You didn’t answer my question, though. How do I know the jewels wasn’t stolen?"

"You don’t."

You frowned, unsure if that was meant to be reassuring or not.

"This doesn’t make me trust you."

"That’s fine. I have time to change your mind."

You sighed, leaning back against the couch as you stared at his picture again. There was something about him.. something.

The days after that conversation felt… different. You didn’t know why you kept responding, but something about his persistence kept pulling you in.

His messages started coming more frequently, each one bolder than the last.

"What are you wearing today?"

You rolled your eyes at that one but still replied.

"I’m wearing jeans and a hoodie."

"Disappointing. I was imagining something more exciting."

"Get your imagination in check."

And then there were the voice memos. The first one caught you completely off guard.

His voice was deep, smooth, with an almost teasing edge to it.

"You’re always so defensive, doll. Relax a little. I’m not trying to hurt you."

The moment you heard it, your cheeks burned. You told yourself it was just the surprise of hearing him—not because his voice sent a shiver down your spine. Absolutely not.

You didn’t reply to that one immediately, hoping he’d leave it at that. But then another one came the next day.

"You didn’t respond to me yesterday. Are you mad, or did I just leave you speechless? Either way, I don’t mind."

Your fingers hovered over your phone, debating whether to reply. You told yourself to ignore it. But curiosity got the better of you again.

"Speechless? Not likely. I just have better things to do."

His reply came quickly, this time another voice memo.

"Better things? Like what? Sitting at home in the hoodie and jeans you wouldn’t let me imagine?"

You groaned but couldn’t stop yourself from laughing under your breath. He was relentless.

And it only got worse—or better, depending on how you looked at it.

One night, as you were scrolling on your phone, a longer voice memo came through. You hesitated before pressing play.

"You know," he began, his tone softer but still carrying that teasing lilt, "you don’t have to keep playing hard to get. I like this game, sure, but I’m patient. I’ve got all the time in the world to win you over."

Your stomach flipped, and you hated how much his words affected you.

"Win me over? You’re delusional."

He sent a message almost immediately.

"Maybe. But I think you’re starting to like it. Admit it, doll."

You didn’t admit anything, of course. But the truth was, you hadn’t stopped thinking about him—not his words, not his voice, not the way he made you feel.

And that terrified you. Because even though you tried to ignore it, you were starting to enjoy the attention. Starting to crave it, even.

But how could you let yourself fall for someone like him? Someone dangerous, mysterious, and so clearly off-limits?

You didn’t know. But what scared you most was that part of you didn’t care anymore.

You were crouched in the back of the store, stocking shelves. It had been a quiet day, and you were lost in your routine, mindlessly organizing items when you heard it—a voice that froze you in place.

"You’re really good at this, you know. Stocking shelves. Very meticulous."

Your breath caught in your throat. That voice. That smooth, teasing voice you’d come to recognize through late-night messages and voice memos.

You turned slowly, heart hammering, and there he was. The guy you had crashed into on the street. The same guy who had flustered you outside the jewelry store. But now, seeing him up close, hearing his voice—his voice—everything came crashing down on you like a tidal wave.

It was the Wolf.

Your lips parted, your instinct to scream taking over, but before you could make a sound, his hand clamped over your mouth. His other arm snaked around your waist, pulling you in close.

"Shh, doll," he whispered, his voice low and calm, but there was a hint of steel beneath it. "Let’s not make a scene."

Your heart was pounding so loudly you were sure he could feel it against his chest. You struggled against his hold, your mind racing with panic, anger, and disbelief.

"I knew I’d run into you eventually," he continued, his voice soft but dripping with that familiar smugness. "Though I didn’t expect it to be while you were busy stacking shelves."

You glared at him, your muffled protests pushing against his palm.

"If I let go, are you going to scream?" he asked, tilting his head as if he were genuinely curious.

You nodded furiously, and he chuckled.

"Honest. I like that about you."

You squirmed harder, and finally, he sighed, leaning in closer. His lips were almost brushing your ear now, and his voice dropped to a whisper that sent shivers down your spine.

"Scream if you want, doll. But just know, if you do, I’ll have to leave. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?"

The way he said it wasn’t a threat—it was a promise, one that left you frozen in place. Slowly, he removed his hand from your mouth, watching you intently as if daring you to make a move.

You didn’t scream. You couldn’t.

"That’s my girl," he said with a smirk, his arm still loosely wrapped around your waist.

"What the hell are you doing here?" you hissed, your voice low but trembling.

"Shopping," he replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "And maybe visiting you. Call it multitasking."

You pushed against his chest, breaking free of his hold, and he let you go, though his smirk didn’t falter.

"You’re insane," you spat, taking a step back, your voice rising slightly.

"And yet, here we are," he said, leaning casually against the shelf as if this was all perfectly normal.

You wanted to yell, to shove him out of the store, but all you could do was stare, your mind still reeling. The man who had been sending you messages, giving you gifts, teasing you relentlessly—he wasn’t some untouchable figure. He was here. Right in front of you.

And he was everything you feared he would be. Charming. Dangerous. And completely unapologetic.

You turned away from him, your hands trembling as you grabbed the next item to stock. You focused on the task, willing your racing heart to calm down. Maybe if you ignored him, he’d get bored and leave.

"You’re just going to pretend I’m not here?" His voice was laced with amusement. You didn’t need to turn around to know he was still watching you, his gaze burning into the back of your head. "I didn’t take you for the silent treatment type, doll."

You clenched your jaw, refusing to rise to his bait.

He chuckled softly. "Come on. I get points for effort, don’t I? I’ve been nothing but generous. All those gifts, all those messages... and this is how you treat me?"

You slammed a box of items onto the shelf a little too hard, the sound echoing through the aisle.

"Careful," he said, his tone mocking concern. "You’re going to break something. And then what? Do I have to buy the whole shelf to make it up to you?"

You finally spun around, glaring at him. "What do you want?"

He grinned, clearly enjoying how easily you snapped. "What do I want? That’s a loaded question." He stepped closer, his movements unhurried and deliberate. "But right now? I just want you."

You stared at him, trying to figure out if he was serious—or just messing with you. The way he leaned casually against the shelf, arms crossed, he looked completely at ease, like this was just another day for him.

"You’re insane," you muttered, turning back to your work.

"You’ve said that already," he teased. "It’s starting to sound like a compliment."

You didn’t respond, focusing on stacking the last of the items in the box. He stayed quiet for a moment, and you thought—hoped—he might finally leave.

But of course, he didn’t.

"You know," he started again, "I’ve been picturing this for a while. You, working. Me watching you." His voice dropped slightly, and you felt a shiver run down your spine. "Roles reversed for once."

You threw him a sharp glare over your shoulder. "Do you ever stop talking?"

He smirked. "Only when there’s a good reason to."

You rolled your eyes and turned back to the shelf, but you could feel the heat of his gaze following your every movement.

"You’re cute when you’re mad, by the way," he added. "But you probably already knew that."

You ignored him, determined not to let him get under your skin any more than he already had.

But as much as you hated to admit it, you couldn’t help the way your heart skipped a beat every time he spoke.

You froze as his arm suddenly came up, caging you between the shelf and his body. His other hand rested casually on the edge of the shelf near your head, but there was nothing casual about the way he leaned in, his eyes locked onto yours.

"I’m talking to you, doll," he said, his voice low and teasing. "I don’t like being ignored."

You swallowed hard, glancing around the store, your mind racing. There was no one else in this section—just the two of you.

"What are you doing?" you hissed, trying to keep your voice steady, but your nerves betrayed you.

"Getting your attention," he said simply, tilting his head as his eyes roamed over your face. "Because you’re clearly trying to avoid me, and that’s no fun."

You tried to step back, but the shelf pressed against your spine. He was so close you could feel the heat radiating off him, and the faint scent of his cologne invaded your senses, disorienting you.

"You can’t just—just do this," you stammered, your hands hovering awkwardly at your sides, unsure whether to push him away or keep them where they were.

"Why not?" he asked, his tone infuriatingly calm. His eyes flicked down to your lips for the briefest moment before meeting your gaze again. "It’s not like you’ve told me to stop."

Your mouth opened, but no words came out. He smiled, clearly enjoying the effect he had on you.

"So, here’s the deal," he said, leaning in just a little closer. His voice dropped to a near whisper, sending a shiver down your spine. "I’m asking you out. Right here, right now."

Your eyes widened. "You’re what?"

"You heard me," he said, his smile widening. "Let me take you out. Dinner, drinks, whatever you want."

You blinked at him, your mind scrambling to process his words. Of all the things he could have said, this was the last thing you expected.

"You’re insane," you finally muttered, trying to look anywhere but at him.

"You’ve mentioned that," he replied with a chuckle. "But you didn’t say no."

"No," you said quickly, finally finding your voice.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unfazed. "Is that your final answer?"

"Yes," you snapped, though it came out weaker than you’d intended.

His smirk didn’t falter. If anything, it grew. "We’ll see about that," he murmured, leaning back slightly, though he didn’t move away entirely. "I’ve got time."

You glared at him, your heart pounding in your chest. "I don’t."

"Then I’ll just have to be quick, won’t I?" he said, his voice dripping with amusement.

Before stepping back entirely, his hand darted out, catching yours in his grip. You tensed, your instinct telling you to pull away, but his hold was firm yet strangely gentle. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, lingering on the ring you’d forgotten you were wearing—the one he had sent in a gift bag just a few days ago.

"Ah," he murmured, his voice low and teasing as he admired it. "You kept it. You do like my gifts, after all."

You opened your mouth to retort, but before you could say anything, he bent down, his lips brushing the back of your hand in a kiss that sent a jolt through your body.

"Perfect fit," he murmured as he straightened, his smirk firmly in place. "Looks even better on you than I imagined."

Your face flushed, a mix of embarrassment and anger. "What is wrong with you?" you hissed, yanking your hand away and cradling it to your chest like it had been burned.

He just chuckled, his gaze never leaving yours as he took a slow step back. "You’ll come around, doll," he said, his confidence maddening.

"Not in a million years," you snapped.

"We’ll see," he said, winking before turning and walking away, his casual stride making it seem like he didn’t have a care in the world.

You stood there for a moment, staring after him, your hand still pressed against your chest.

After that it was relentless. Every time your phone buzzed, you knew it was him. The texts came like clockwork: teasing remarks, flirtatious comments, and, without fail, him asking you out. You rejected him every time, telling him no, reminding him this was never going to happen, but he never seemed fazed.

He started showing up. At first, it was just at your job. He’d stroll in like he owned the place, leaning casually against the counter, that smirk of his permanently etched on his face. He’d make small talk, tease you, and then, inevitably, ask, "Dinner tonight?"

"No," you’d reply sharply, barely sparing him a glance as you went about your work.

"One day, you’ll say yes," he’d say confidently before leaving, and it drove you insane.

Then he escalated.

The first time he showed up outside your school, you almost screamed. You had just stepped out of the building when you saw him leaning against a sleek black car, arms crossed, sunglasses perched on his nose.

"What are you doing here!?" you asked, narrowing your eyes as you stopped a few feet away from him.

"Figured I’d give you a ride home," he said nonchalantly, tilting his head toward the car.

"I don’t need a ride," you said, crossing your arms.

"Didn’t ask if you needed one," he replied smoothly, opening the passenger door with a casual flourish. "Get in."

"No."

He sighed dramatically, removing his sunglasses and looking at you with those piercing eyes of his. "Look, we can stand here all day, or you can get in the car. Your choice, doll."

You glared at him, your stubbornness clashing with his. But as the minutes ticked by and other students started to glance your way, you finally relented with a huff. "Fine."

"Knew you’d see reason," he said with a grin as you climbed into the car.

The bickering didn’t stop there. You told him repeatedly to leave you alone, to stop showing up, but he never listened.

"You’re persistent," you muttered one day as he drove, your arms crossed as you stared out the window.

"I prefer ‘determined,’" he replied with a smirk, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t deny the small, traitorous part of you that almost looked forward to his appearances. It was maddening, frustrating, and yet… you didn’t hate it.

The late evening air was crisp as you got ready, the faint sound of distant cars humming in the background. You glanced down at yourself, smoothing out the fabric of your outfit—a dress that hugged you just right.

You slipped on your heels, the soft click of them on the ground echoing as you locked the door behind you. Your purse hung over your shoulder, packed with just the essentials.

Your friends’ car was parked at the curb, the music already blaring as the passenger window rolled down. Yuna was in the front seat, leaning out slightly to wave at you with a grin. "Finally! We thought you’d take forever!"

"I’m here, aren’t I?" you teased, walking toward the car and opening the door.

Wonyoung and Chaewon were in the backseat, laughing over something on Wonyoung’s phone. Yuna turned down the music slightly as you climbed in and buckled your seatbelt.

"You look amazing," Chaewon said, eyeing your outfit with approval.

"Agreed!" Wonyoung added, nudging you playfully. "Who’s the lucky guy tonight?"

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped. "It’s not like that. Let’s just have fun, okay?"

The car roared to life as Yuna stepped on the gas, the upbeat music filling the small space once again. The club was about twenty minutes away, and as you looked out the window, the city lights blurred past.

When the car pulled into the parking lot of the club, you stepped out, adjusting your dress and looking up at the bright neon sign that lit up the entrance.

What you didn’t notice was the black car that parked a few rows away. Inside, a familiar figure sat, watching you intently as you laughed with your friends and disappeared into the crowd at the entrance.

The dance floor was crowded, bodies moving to the beat, lights flashing in bursts of color that left you feeling free, untethered.

You swayed to the music, letting yourself get lost in it, your arms lifting as you spun slightly. Everything felt good—better than it had in a long time. Your friends were nearby, dancing and laughing, but at that moment, you were in your own little world.

Until you weren’t.

A hand brushed your waist, and a figure stepped up behind you. At first, you thought nothing of it—people were constantly bumping into each other on the crowded floor. But then you caught it: the sour, musky scent of sweat and stale cologne. It wasn’t pleasant, and it made your nose wrinkle instinctively.

The guy leaned in closer, his presence too heavy, his breath hot against your neck as he tried to match your movements. You froze for a second, then subtly shifted away, putting some distance between you and him without making a scene.

But he followed.

He pressed in again, his hand grazing your arm this time, and you turned to glance at him over your shoulder. He was taller, with an unsettling grin and eyes that were too confident. His intentions were clear, and the sight of him only made your unease grow.

You moved again, this time more deliberately, angling yourself toward your friends. But before you could take another step, the guy grabbed your wrist lightly, leaning down so you could hear him over the music. "Where you going, sweetheart?" he asked, his voice slurred, his grip tightening just enough to make your stomach churn.

Your heart sped up, and you tugged your wrist away, your voice firm but not loud. "I’m not interested."

He didn’t seem to care. "Don’t be like that. I just wanna talk."

You scanned the dance floor, hoping to spot one of your friends, but the crowd felt suffocating now, the lights too bright. Panic bubbled just beneath the surface as the guy moved closer again.

But then, out of nowhere, another presence loomed behind you—larger, steadier. A hand reached out and clasped the guy’s shoulder, pulling him back sharply.

"She said she’s not interested," a familiar voice said.

Your head whipped around, and your stomach dropped. It was him. Standing there in the middle of the club, his jaw tight, his eyes dark and burning with intensity.

The guy holding your wrist scowled, trying to shake his grip off. "What’s it to you, man?"

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Everything."

The guy hesitated, clearly weighing his options, but after a tense moment, the guy muttered something under his breath and released your wrist, disappearing into the crowd.

He turned to you, his hand brushing yours as if checking to make sure you were okay. "You alright?" he asked, his voice softer now.

You nodded, though your heart was still racing. "What are you doing here?"

His lips curved into a faint smirk. "What can I say? I like keeping an eye on what’s mine."

Your eyes narrowed, a mix of annoyance and confusion. "I’m not yours."

But he just chuckled, his hand falling away as he took a step back. "Not yet."

He turned to walk into the crowd, leaving you to stand there.

For a split second, everything felt like it was moving too fast, and then, without thinking, you grabbed his arm. The wolf—no, he—stopped in his tracks, his body going stiff for a moment, surprised.

You didn’t care. You were done letting things happen around you without doing something.

You tugged on his sleeve, pulling him back toward you, and he let you. His dark eyes flickered with surprise as he leaned down, close enough for you to feel his breath against your skin. His presence was intense, like a fire you couldn’t step away from, his hands instinctively falling to your waist, holding you steady as if you might fall.

"Where do you think you're going?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, though it was more demanding than you expected.

His grip on you tightened, his body language shifting from the casuality he’d always shown to something a bit more... intimate. "I could ask you the same thing," he replied, his voice low.

You swallowed, your pulse quickening. Something about this, about him being so close, felt like it was pulling you in deeper. You’d been fighting the connection for so long, but now, with his arms around you, the fight felt distant.

“I’m not some... object to control,” you said, but even you could hear the uncertainty in your voice.

His lips curled into a faint, teasing smile, and he leaned even closer, so close you could feel the heat radiating off him. "No, you're not," he murmured, his voice a gentle hum against your ear. "But you like when I take control, don’t you?"

Your breath hitched. It was a question, but he was already certain of the answer. Your hands instinctively moved to his chest, your fingers grazing the fabric of his shirt.

He looked at you for a long beat, his gaze softer now, as if he was studying you. "You really don`t want me to leave?"

You didn't answer right away, but when you did, your words were quiet, raw. "I don't know what I want anymore."

He didn’t let you go, his fingers brushing your hair back gently, his lips ghosting over your temple as he leaned down. "Maybe I can help you figure it out."

You blinked, caught off guard by his sudden tenderness. His touch was so gentle...

“I don’t even know your name,” you murmured, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

He pulled back slightly, his dark eyes meeting yours with a gaze that made everything in the room seem a little less important. There was a flicker of amusement in his expression, “It’s Ni-ki,” he said simply, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to give you that piece of him.

Ni-ki.

You repeated it silently in your mind, the name feeling foreign but familiar, a puzzle piece that somehow fit.

Before you could even process it fully, his hand brushed against your cheek, his thumb gently tracing your skin. "Have fun," he added, his voice softer now.

Then, without another word, he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. Before Ni-ki turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

You touched your forehead where his lips had been, feeling the trace of his kiss burn even though he was already gone.

What had just happened?

Part 2 here

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Taglist: @ilyunjina @nshmrarki @laylasbunbunny @kiripimaspillow

@wensurr @immelissaaa @simj4k3 @vegahrid @03sunoos

@hollxe1 @moonpri @cherriesfine

Wanna be in the perm taglist? Lmk <3

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em1i2a3 · 1 month ago

Text

Cradle

Pairing: Beefy!Bucky Barnes x Mom(Post-Partum)!Fem!Reader

Warnings: Starts off on a bit of a scary note, Fluff, lot’s of it, reader went through a C-Section, and there is a reference to that, there is accidental swearing, and once again Bucky is just a super soft sweet boi being his sweet boi self…But all in all, very fluffy, very cute, just pure vibes.

Authors Note: This is connected to ‘Forwards Beckon Rebound,’ it’s a little bit of a continuation of sorts but it’s more of a blurb, there’s not a lot connected, this could be read as a standalone too though, I think. Also, Adrianne Lenker has really been a mood for me lately, and thank god she has so many beautiful songs because this one was so frickin fitting.

Word Count: 3,443

Taglist: @sleepysongbirdsings (y’all I’m so mentally old I’m slowly getting used to what to do for these posts lol, so if anyone wants to be part of my Taglist I mean…Give me a shout :))

The last thing you remembered before going under was Bucky’s voice. His large hands framing your face, his thumbs running along the bags under your eyes.

”I promise I’ll be here when you wake up…” His voice was cracking, fear breaking through his words. He was terrified, you could see it in the way his dark blue irises scanned over your face, taking every detail in as if this could be the last time he saw you. Everything happened so quickly that neither of you had time to process anything. One moment you were in the hospital bed getting checked, the next they were preparing you for an emergency C-Section. You were panicking, scared for the baby, scared for yourself even.

You reached up and squeezed his fingers tight–a desperate goodbye you didn’t want to be saying–nodding through the tears that streamed down your face, then the cool oxygen mask slid over your mouth and nose, and you were taken under a sea of black.

————-

Coming back to consciousness felt like being dragged through wet cement. Your limbs were heavy and numb, as if they were being pinned down by invisible weights. Your throat was burning and your mouth was dry, you assumed it was probably from the tube they had put down your throat during the surgery to make sure your breathing was controlled, you heard them mention it in the chaos of them preparing you for the C-Section…At least you thought you did.

Thankfully there was no immediate pain, just a deep, tight ache that buzzed in your lower abdomen reminding you of what just occurred two and a half hours ago.

You felt like you were floating, half-aware, but half-asleep, until the sound of voices pulled you closer to the surface.

“You’re doing perfect hun,” A soft, coaxing voice said, you assumed it was a nurse. Her tone was patient, and warm, almost motherly even.

”I’m…I just haven’t done this before…I don’t think I’m doing this right.” Another voice cracked out, low and thick with nerves. It was Bucky. Your Bucky…Your rock...You could feel your chest twist at the sound of him so worried, but there was such relief when you heard that voice.

“You’ve been doing great. She’s calm, she’s breathing steady. Been asleep for the past hour after that big feed. You’re keeping her warm and giving her something steady to nap on, I’d say you’re a pro.” You could feel your body immediately tense at the word she. A baby girl. You had fought to keep the gender a secret from yourself, and now knowing gave you some sort of second wind in a way, a push to try and keep yourself over the edge so you could stay at least semi-conscious.

There was a soft rustle of fabric, a faint creak of a chair, and the sound of shifting. You forced your eyes open, just the tiniest bit, fighting against the weight that was trying to pull them closed again.

The first thing you saw was him.

Bucky was sitting stiffly in the reclining hospital chair, his broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, like he was attempting to curl himself around the tiny bundle in his arms, trying to make himself seem small in a way, which was nearly impossible given the sheer size of him. His hair was pulled back in a bun, and he was shirtless, with a soft pink blanket covering a portion of his chest and midsection, containing as much warmth as possible. His vibranium hand hovered awkwardly over the fabric, resting there for support, but not fully touching, letting his other arm do all the heavy lifting. You could see the way it was wrapped around her, his enormous hand cupping nearly her whole back with the most delicate kind of softness.

Your vision was still swimming, but you could make out the faint shape of a tiny hand–impossibly small–splayed out over the center of Bucky’s broad chest. Her little fingers twitched now and then, though there were no shifts or squeals, not yet at least.

The entire sight was almost too much to take in.

You could see how tense Bucky was even from across the room, his jaw tight, his brows drawn together. It was easy to tell he was nervous and worried that he might accidentally do something wrong, and every muscle in his body showed that through the way they locked and tensed into place so that he could hold himself perfectly still.

”I-I definitely don’t feel like a pro,” Bucky muttered, “I’m scared I’m gonna hold her too tight…She’s so small.” The nurse chuckled softly, adjusting the blanket a bit higher over the baby’s back with a practiced hand, moving carefully, and reading the tension that was running all over his face. She was treating him with the same tenderness she might offer a brand-new parent, even though she knew the situation.

“She’s not little. Nine pounds, two ounces is a chunky little peanut.” The nurse teased gently, patting Bucky’s vibranium arm reassuringly, “You’re just a big ol’ mountain of a man, and you make everything look tiny.” Bucky gave a small, uncertain laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes, even though it did ease him a bit. He continued to cradle the bundle against him, dragging his thumb along her warm skin, a small smile coming up on his lips as he looked down at a carbon copy of you, just in tinier form.

His head dipped slightly, his nose brushing against the crown of the baby’s fuzzy head, breathing in without even realizing he was doing it. His eyes fluttered closed, and for a second he looked younger and softer than you’d ever seen him before.

“Is it weird if I say she smells like spun sugar…Like Coney Island cotton candy…That real sweet, sticky kind of smell.” Bucky asked quietly, his voice rough with nerves and awe as he cradled the bundle tighter to him. The nurse let out a soft, affectionate laugh.

”Not weird at all,” She soothed, “Every baby’s got their own smell, it’s kind of like a new car smell…But for tiny humans, and you’re certainly not the first tough guy to melt over it, either.” You could see Bucky’s cheeks turn a faint red through the blurriness in your vision. You swallowed against the dry scrape in your throat, heart aching as you opened your mouth to form a word.

”Bucky…” It was barely a sound, just a breath in the air, but he had heard it. His head immediately snapped up, his wide blue eyes locking onto you from across the room, a wave of relief washing over him. His mouth parted, but no sound came out, and he looked wrecked. It was like he had heard the most important voice of his life. The nurse nudged him slightly.

“C’mon, big guy, let’s bring her to mama hm?” Bucky blinked up at her like he’d forgotten he could move, like the only thing that was keeping him focused was you and the tiny heartbeat that was pressed against his chest. Slowly, he shifted to his feet, the nurse helping guide him as he adjusted his hold on the baby with exaggerated care. You could see the way he kept his vibranium arm hovering uselessly by his side as he stepped towards you, and you could feel tears filling your eyes at the gentleness of it all.

You tried to lift your arms, desperate to reach for the both of them, but they barely twitched against the sheets. A helpless whimper tore itself from your throat.

”My arms are still numb.” You croaked, feeling the tingling heaviness that plagued your nerves. Immediately the nurse was beside you, smoothing a hand over your shoulder.

”That’s alright sweetheart, we can still get her tucked up against you, Bucky over here can climb in beside you and secure her on your chest for extra safety.” Bucky stood frozen for a second, looking down at the tiny bundle, then at you.

“I would like that.” You replied quickly. The nurse smiled at your response and held her hands out to Bucky motioning for him to hand over the bundle so he could slip onto the mattress, and fill the space beside you. The hand off was gentle, and you could see the look on his face when the soft warmth of the baby’s skin left him, like he was holding onto the fleeting moment. He kicked his shoes off and brought down the railing beside you, carefully sliding underneath the covers, the mattress shifting beneath the new weight he introduced to it. You knew it would be a tight fit, but you wanted him there with you, and no matter the close proximity, you just craved his steady presence, and he gave you that with no questions.

He slid his vibranium arm around your shoulders, curling it carefully around you, bringing you closer to him with such a protective instinct that you could feel your heart beating out of your chest, leaning into him, absorbing the warmth that radiated off his skin.

”Alright, now you’re gonna help me a little bit and just untie the top of her gown so we can get the little one tucked in.” Bucky nodded once, like he was taking orders on a mission. He reached up to the shoulders of your gown, and you could see the hesitation in his eyes, before gently pulling on the ties, loosening them slowly just enough to reveal the top of your chest. The cool air ghosted across your skin for just a fraction of a second, then the nurse carefully placed the tiny, perfect weight of your daughter onto your body.

The moment her skin touched yours, it was as if the whole world cracked open. The heat of her, the fragile rise and fall of her chest against yours, the indescribable softness of her cheek pressing into the curve of your breastbone, the way she nuzzled her little nose into you with her fists curling up tight against your body–it was overwhelming, but worth every second. You could feel the coolness of Bucky’s vibranium hand run over your bicep, soothing you the only way he could in those moments as he looked down at you, watching tears flowing down your cheeks. You were so relieved everything was okay, and now that your eyes were on her, the instinct of wanting to be closer pulled at every fiber of your being. Bucky brought his arm over her back so he could hold her closer against your chest, keeping her nuzzled on your skin so you could take in every moment, even though you couldn’t cradle her on your own yet.

“That’s perfect sweetheart,” The nurse said quietly, tucking the soft pink blanket loosely around all three of you, securing the warmth once more without actively separating everyone, “I’m going to step out and give you all some privacy, if you need anything the call button’s right on the bed rail.” The both of you nodded, but you weren’t even sure you heard her properly because you were so enamoured by the little bundle that was frowning against you.

The door clicked softly behind the nurse as she stepped out of the room, leaving the three of you wrapped in a bubble of silence. Neither of you moved at first. There was too much floating in the air around you–gratitude, wonder, a love so thick it was hard to breathe through. The only sound that could truly be heard was the tiny, steady coos of the newborn sleeping against your chest.

Slowly, Bucky shifted closer to you, and without a word he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. It was feather-light, the kind of kiss that would’ve broken you in any other situation apart from this. When he pulled back, his lips ghosted another peck against your hairline.

”You are…Incredible.” He whispered, his voice trembling with the weight of everything he was holding in, “The strongest person I’ve ever met.” He added, another kiss landing right on your temple.

“I’m so proud of you Y/N…” You closed your eyes at his words, a fresh wave of tears burning behind the lids, as you leaned down to press your cheek against the tiny crown of soft fuzz that was your daughter’s head, breathing in to calm your heart from seizing up from the overwhelming sensation of love that coated it. You let the scent of her settle in your lungs, and it hit you that it was exactly how Bucky described it. Sweet and warm, soft and sticky like spun sugar on a summer day. You let out a little, tearful laugh against her head.

”You really are right…She does smell like cotton candy,” Bucky let out a low, broken chuckle, tightening his arm around you, his hand stilling against your bicep, shifting so he could get even closer to you.

“I thought I was hallucinating, so I’m glad you confirmed that. I assumed the nurse was just trying to ease my worries when she said it was normal.” You let out a quiet giggle, looking up at him.

”I think it was for the best. You looked so nervous…Like a gentle giant.” He blushed at the way you said it, realizing that you had been watching and listening to his interaction with the nurse for longer than he thought.

“Yeah well…I was scared,” Bucky replied sheepishly, his eyes flickering from you, down to the tiny sleeping bundle against your chest, “She’s a carbon copy of you…I didn’t want to accidentally do something wrong.” You smiled through the burning in your throat, bringing yourself even closer to him, nuzzling into the steady shelter of his body.

”You did amazing, Bucky…” You whispered. He let out a shaky exhale, as if he’d been holding his breath for hours, his forehead tipping down to bump yours. You know how much he needed to hear that, and how much it soothed the nerves that were ripping him apart from the inside. The baby cooed gently, shifting a bit against you, her tiny fist moving along your chest, like she was trying to get closer.

The both of you watched her, your chests moving in sync, taking in deep breaths, and after a while, he broke the silence.

”So…” He said softly, his thumb stroking absently along your forearm, “Have you thought about what you’re going to name her?” You could feel a smile tugging up on your lips at the question.

”I have,” You responded gently, shifting slightly so you could see his face better. He pulled back a little as well, giving you his full, undivided attention, his eyes focused on yours, scanning over your face in anticipation.

”I’ve actually known for months,” You admitted, watching as Bucky’s eyebrows furrowed. You usually told him everything, but this was a secret you kept safe until today, not wanting to be too reliant on getting a specific gender, because truly it didn’t matter, all you wanted was a healthy baby. He tried to hold himself back from looking too desperate for your answer, but you saw through it.

“I want her to have the name of the person who raised my second favourite human being in the world,” You said quietly, your voice trembling with such tenderness it almost felt like you were shaking against him. You could see the cogs turning in his head, his brows pulling together even tighter like he was trying to figure out what you meant by that. You loved seeing the confusion in his eyes in that moment, and it made you smile through the tears that began to build up in your eyes.

”Winnifred,” You whispered, “I’m naming her Winnifred.” You could feel the air get sucked out of the room, watching Bucky’s jaw go slack, blinking hard, once, then twice, like he didn’t trust himself to believe what he just heard. His throat bobbed in a rough swallow, as he took in a small breath.

”My ma…” He rasped, his voice breaking into pieces, his eyes glistening over with unshed tears as he stared at you like he was witnessing a miracle “You…You’re naming her after my ma?” You nodded, smiling through your own tears. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, like he was trying to ground himself, his forehead lowering until it rested lightly against yours, his breath shuddering out over your cheeks.

“You deserve everything good in this world, Bucky…And she would be so proud of you…I want to honour that.” You could feel him shake slightly, as he sniffled, pulling back to look at you again. The sheer sight of him wrecked you, his blue eyes swimming with tears that clung thickly to his lashes. You wished in those moments you could reach up to hold his face between your hands, but they were still tingling.

”You’re…You’re my sun, Y/N…” He whispered, his vibranium hand slipping from your bicep to cradle the side of your face with aching tenderness, “You’re the center of everything for me…I choose to be in your orbit every second of every day…And I don’t want to do anything else.” You could feel yourself choke up a little bit, as Bucky carefully leaned forward, kissing your cheeks gently, soft and slow, like he was memorizing you.

“Because I love you…So fucking much.” His breath ran over your skin as he said the words so lightly you could barely hear them over your pulse pounding in your ears. His confession hung between the both of you, filling the space and sinking into your body like sunlight after a long, brutal winter. You closed your eyes at his thumb dragging along your cheek, your breath trembling as you pushed yourself to speak.

”I love you too, Bucky…I always have.” There was a moment of silence, and you opened your eyes to look at him, seeing a small smile on his lips. It was such a relief to finally say it aloud, and it was the perfect moment to do it. He breathed you in for a fraction of a second, then without words he shifted. His hand slid from your cheek to the side of your neck, his fingers splaying out to anchor himself there. You tilted your chin, nudging your nose against his, then finally…His lips touched yours.

It was barely a kiss at first, it actually mirrored the way you had brushed the corner of his mouth with yours the night he had felt the baby kick for the first time, but only this was more like he was offering himself to you. Surrendering.

You let out a small exhale through your nose, and Bucky answered with a breath of his own, pressing a little closer, kissing you now with just the slightest bit of pressure. The softness of his lips captured yours in such an aching, and burning way…Because it was him kissing you with a kind of worship so raw and stripped down that it made your chest swell.

You kissed him back with everything you had, and with as much care as he gave you, trembling against each other with the weight of it all–the baby sleeping on your skin, the love that tied you together, the history, the hope, and the future.

When you finally broke apart, it was by small fractions, neither of you really willing to let go–your noses brushing, your breath still tangling together in the space between you.

“I’m all yours…” He whispered, letting the words fold into the fragile air, like a promise. Like a prayer. You closed your eyes for a second, breathing every inch of him in–his warmth, his steadiness, and his devotion.

“Forever and always, Bucky…Till the end of time.”

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lorelune · 3 months ago

Text

inversion

|| rin itoshi x reader || E/18+ || angst with a happy ending || wc: 7.2k || ao3 ||

Preemptive grief defines your relationship with Rin. Heartbreak is in the nature of your connection. You are forced to reckon with its end.

minors, antis and ageless blogs dni

notes: eeeeeee this piece is part of a trade i'm doing with beloved @rabbbitseason :3c they asked for angst + rin and i am here to deliver a bruisy piece 🙂‍↕️!!!! he was an interesting (read: slippery) character to chew!! but very fun as well :3c thank you to @suguwu for beta reading this piece and talking through rin's character as well!!! jun's invaluable feedback rlly helped bring the piece together. please read and enjoy something a bit achey my kind reader 💗

CWs: angst with a happy ending, gn reader with afab anatomy, rin is assumed to be 20+ and playing professionally, f receiving oral, missionary, some possible abandonment issues for the reader

You do not mean to fall in love with Rin Itoshi.

Distinctly, you did not want to fall in love with him. Because he is probably not a good lover, nor does he want to be a lover at all. It’s a poor combination. Being enamored with him is a poor way of being.

It’s unfortunate that you have found yourself in this position— hopelessly in love and irrevocably attached to him.

...

Drizzle falls from the sky in a mist. It’s been like this for days, a haze of light rain with thick fog that rolls in during the mornings. You’ve almost gotten used to your hair frizzing up and returning home damp from any outing.

It’s unpleasant. But then again, everything is unpleasant at this moment, so the rain is the least of your worries.

Rin Itoshi is on your front stoop.

There’s a little cement step there that he sits on. In front of your door, just behind him, is a welcome mat. A large, ceramic cat is set just next to the door. As you walk up to your home, grocery bags in tow, you cannot see your normal, friendly guardian.

Instead, all you see is Rin Itoshi.

Stopping in the little walkway up to your small home, you let the rain drench you. Rin looks up from the ground with an expression between a scowl and a pout. His hood is drawn up over his head, but his hair still looks wet. The tips of his shoes are soaked through. Even from a distance, you can tell.

You sigh.

“You’re home late,” he says. His words get eaten by the ambient sounds of the city, and the pittering of rain on nearby roofs.

You raise your arms, trembling with the weight of your haul. “Groceries.”

“Hm.”

You frown and Rin rises.

He takes your bags, taking them from you and easily looping them on a single forearm. He moves aside so you can slip past him, to your door, now able to see your fat-bodied kitty cat protector (who really isn’t doing much protecting at the moment—) and give him a nod of acknowledgement.

Rin makes a sound behind you; a huff. He’s amused. You contend with kicking his shin but decide against it.

Like a lost, wet puppy, Rin follows you inside.

There’s a pair of house slippers for him; there has been for months. The fuzzy fabric of the slippers is patterned to look like big, pink cat paws. You purchased them for Rin as a joke, a gag that you didn’t expect to get a rise out of him beyond a heavy blush, and yet he took to them immediately. His pair sits next to your own slippers like the two belong next to each other.

Rin shuffles behind you.

(How many times have you done this?)

You turn on the electric kettle and put away the groceries Rin has carried inside for you. You mentally plan out your meals for the week and concurrently catastrophize about what the fuck to do with the man in front of you.

He leans against your kitchen counter. His outer layer has been shed, all he’s in now is a (somehow, still damp) white t-shirt and his warm-up joggers. Rainwater still clings to his bottom lashes, dew-like. You lean forward, cupping his face to brush the moisture away. His cheeks are clammy, still so chilled.

(It’s all too tender.)

“You’re cold.” You frown. “Go sit down. I’ll finish making tea.”

“I am sitting down.”

“Leaning isn’t sitting.”

“Close enough.”

You sigh. “I meant in the other room, preferably with a blanket.”

“I’ll wait.”

You sigh, “Fine.”

It’s not worth arguing with Rin.

Rin is so— so— frustratingly single-minded. Motivated in a single direction to a fault. You’ve long since learned that attempting to sway him, regardless of how sensible and sensical of an idea you have, is fruitless. If it doesn’t align with what he has already decided he is going to do, he simply won’t change. It’s something rather immutable about him.

His nature is as stubborn as his thoughts.

(Loving him is so difficult; you wish that you didn’t.)

Rin grabs two mugs (your mugs) while you fetch the tea. It’s the same selection as it always is— your cup of ginger and honey, and his plain peppermint.

You only settle once the two of you make your way to the couch, side-by-side, covered in the worn quilt that Rin likes best. It’s a tawny mix of grey and tan yarn. You picked it up from a thrift store years ago. You never would’ve thought that it would become such an integral part of a pathetic, mutual routine.

Rin is stiff beside you. One glance at him tells you that he’s chewing on his words. He doesn’t tend to— to do that. He doesn’t mince anything that flows from his brain to his lips. Your stomach rolls with a sense of unease.

“Is everything alright?” You ask.

(It never is, not really, when this routine is being completed.)

Rin looks at him. His gaze is piercing, crystalline. It lances you. “I’m leaving.”

You know this already; you aren’t supposed to.

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

“... For how long?” This you don’t know.

“A while.” Rin's hands ball into fists on the tops of his thighs. “Half a year, at least.”

“I see.”

(You feel your world begin to cave in.)

An eerie quiet settles over the room. The rain patters outside, streaking your windows in droplets, obscuring the greater world. It makes it feel like all that exists is you, Rin, and the lucid knowledge that your connection has nearly run its course.

You swallow; it’s audible. “Where to?”

“Europe.”

“Europe’s big. Countries—?”

“Germany, Italy, and France,” replies Rin. “Maybe more.”

The back of your eyes sting. “I could visit?”

“I’ll be busy.”

“... Could you not make time?”

(Could you not make time for me?)

“I don’t know.”

“Hm.” You feel something cold and dreadful coat your insides.

Your tea is cooling down, steam hardly rising from the mug now. You take a sip of it, and hold the mug in both hands, grasping onto the warmth that radiates off of it. The ceramic of the vessel still holds heat, enough to scald your palms. Yet, you don’t put it down.

This big, unspoken thing lingers between you both. It writhes, swirls, like it always does when you enter this routine. There’s always been an impending end date to your connection, even if neither of you could quantify the time you had left together. Rin's career, his ambitions, his nature to not just excel, but crush and break in tandem, have always floated above your dynamic.

This thing would immolate eventually.

(And you along with it.)

...

You end up in your bedroom, the gloomy day sliding into a thickly dark night. You’re not even sure if the moon is out. The room only glows with light from a few soft lamps. The spray of them catches the angles of Rin’s face well. Even with age, his face hasn't hardened all that much. He still has pudge in his cheeks that he can’t shake. It makes him look younger, more innocent, like there hasn’t been a thing in him, forever, threatening to devour him as it craves to brutalize others.

Another part of your routine commences once you enter your soft, kindly-lit bedroom. Sex— of some sort. Today it feels bad. You’re not sure what’s coming other than grief.

Stripping feels like a funeral march. The drizzle that continues to fall outside may as well be a dirge.

Rin pulls his shirt over his head and off. It’s a quiet affair today, though typically it isn’t. On a more normal day, when you aren’t witnessing your romantically entangled decay in real-time, there’s banter. You might rib Rin, he may respond with his own barbed remark that you find a bit silly. It’s fun, despite Rin’s perpetually bruised demeanor.

Today, though, there’s no humor. No jesting. All that’s left is the unfathomable depth of— something behind Rin’s eyes and the ache in your chest that you’re afraid will kill you.

You kneel on your bed, left only in a sweater, goofy-looking socks, and panties. The stupid satiny kind that you think is kind of uncomfortable, but you know Rin enjoys. He leaves his boxers on, coming to rest on his own knees across from you.

Your eyes feel damp, you feel stupid, and can’t make yourself look at him.

“Don’t be a crybaby,” he tells you.

You scoff, the sound warbly and your voice watery. “Like you’re any better.”

(Rin isn’t the crybaby notably. You think he gets close to it sometimes. Maybe that’s just your own wishful thinking.)

(You want Rin to crack; it would make your own fissures less shameful.)

Rin kisses you then like he can hear your thoughts, and kissing you hard on the mouth will extract them from your brain. It does, in a way. He’s warm and familiar. You love him so terribly.

You cup his cheeks in your palms, still aching from your mug earlier. You don’t care. You couldn’t make yourself care as you lean into him, pitching your weight forward. For all the things Rin isn’t good at, he is good at catching you. He bears the weight of you easily, wrapping an arm around your waist and securing you with a hand on the nape of your neck.

He’s so solid. Bigger than he appears. Firm muscle over firm muscle, he’s so entirely unyielding beneath your hands. There are so many parts of him that contradict each other; it’s what drew you to him in the first place. Rin Itoshi has always been a spectacle for you to untangle and know, even if, at first, it was just to satiate your own curiosity about the foul-mannered, enigmatic man he appears to be.

Unfortunately, now, you have untangled Rin. The essence of him has been unraveled in your hands, laying across your palms like sheets of satin fabric— the kind that catches the light and almost shimmers in sun rays and moonbeams alike. Rin is so much more fragile than he appears, tough at some angles, but so bruiseable at others. This knowledge is held by you so intimately, you cherish it, what else can you do?

It’s damning. It’s made you love him.

You stifle a noise against his lips and fall into him more.

In a single motion, Rin has you on your back, laid beneath him while he straddles your hips. He doesn’t stop kissing you. If anything, the leverage has him leaning into you more deeply. It’s suffocating, the weight of his body and him over you. Like it’s bearing down into your soul.

Rin licks into your mouth and you let him.

It’s almost gross when he kisses you like this. Filthy— dirty. He practically plunders the inside of your mouth, running his tongue over the back of your teeth, pushing it against your own, spit dripping out of the corners of your mouth. If you felt like you could be properly romantic with Rin, you might even say it’s a claiming act.

But you can’t be romantic with Rin. Because this doesn’t matter. The physicality you share serves the function of physical release and gratification. You love him and it is useless that you do. These are immutable facts.

(Facts that you hate, despise, and loathe. Why can’t he love you—? Why can’t he— just understand?)

You growl against his lips and shove at his chest.

“Just—” You sigh, turning your head to the side. You can’t look in his eyes or you’ll immolate. “Fuck me already, okay?”

Rin wordlessly presses his forehead against your temple. His hands claw into your hips. He’ll leave bruises, but they’ll never last the six months that he’ll be gone for. You’ll be a distant memory to him by then, you’re certain.

Something awful and far too hot is boiling in your chest.

“No,” says Rin

“No?”

“No.” He repeats, dragging his nose down to your jaw, then your throat.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to yet.”

“Well, get a move on then.” You scoff. The watery quality of your voice has shifted to something sharper, angrier.

“What’s with you?” He sighs out of his nose and it makes you flinch. “Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like this—” Rin tugs your jaw to face him and holds you there. You’re stuck looking into his eyes, azure and shiny like polished stones. Full of something you can’t name, lest you break your heart further.

(Your delusions are both damning you and saving you.)

Your eyes water; maybe you are a crybaby. “Fuck off.”

Rin kisses you hard again, flattening himself to you. He’s a cage like this, where you can only take what he gives you and—

(Rin gives you everything. Because that’s how he is with things he cares about.)

You feel like you're melting into the duvet as you desperately claw into Rin’s scalp, raking your hands through his hair. A pathetic noise bubbles up from your throat, pours from your mouth into Rin’s, and he takes it in kind. He always does.

(He shouldn’t be reliable, but he is.)

It’s hard to think when he kisses you like this. Rin’s physicality is consuming, like he’s attempting to crush you and absorb you into him. It’s an intoxicating type of connection; it’s part of why you linger within your entanglement. In the moments you’re under him, intertwined with him like this, god, touching at all— you can’t do anything but think of Rin and his attention.

You kick him because he’s leaving— he’s leaving you and he isn’t letting you follow.

Rin grunts at the impact, even though you don’t kick him all that hard. You nip him at the same time—

You’re so angry.

All the dread in you is angry, bitter like bile, and white hot. Preemptive grief, loss that you have to start swallowing before Rin isn’t even out of your arms.

“I hate you—” You tell him against his lips.”You’re awful. You’re the worst—”

Rin breaks away from you in an instant, slamming you back on the bed by the shoulder in a single, decisive motion. It makes your head spin.

“You don’t mean that.”

“And what if I did?” It’s not convincing, your voice is wobbling too much for it to be. You stare up at him, lips curling.

“You’re being a brat.”

“Oh my god, says you—” You roll your eyes. “You’re the brat here. Just— fucking kiss me—”

“No.”

“Then fucking leave already—!”

Rin holds you steady by the jaw, bowing over your body. You can’t look anywhere other than him. It’s consuming, like you’re being engulfed by a rushing tide.

“Stop. It.” His words are clipped, filled with his own anger. His grip is too tight; you fear he may crush you.

“Choke.”

“You’re throwing a tantrum.”

“So what if I am?” you laugh, the sound too high and airy to be comfortable. “If it bothers you so much, just leave already. It’s not like you want to be here. Does passing time in my bed make it go faster for you, Rin? Getting your last taste of this before you fuck off and leave—?”

“That’s what this is about?”

“What else would it be about!”

Your voice breaks and you close your eyes. God, you don't want to cry, but it feels unavoidable now. All of Rin’s attention, potential vitriol, judgment, and rejection is pointed at you. You might as well fucking die.

Rin is quiet over top of you, like a dark, stormy cloud in its last moments before a thunder crack. Heat lightning crackles between the two of you, but nothing strikes the ground yet.

“It’s better for you to stay here,” he says eventually.

“Why do you think that?” You sound exasperated.

Rin’s quiet again, then speaks like he’s seated at a confessional, and not over your hips.

“You shouldn’t be around me too much when I’m playing,” Rin confesses and squeezes your jaw. “It’s bad enough here. All I’ll be doing is playing soccer—”

“And that’s what you want, right?”

“Yes—” Rin admittance hits you in the chest and you have to let out a steadying breath, so you don’t shatter right there. “And you can’t be there for that.”

“Why?”

Rin lets go of your jaw and you open your eyes.

His own jaw is tight, his bottom lip bitten between his teeth. His eyes are wet, almost like there could be tears threatening to spill into his lower lashes. Maybe you’re imagining it.

“Trust me.” His tone is a bowstring. You’re both ready to snap. “Please.”

A whine echoes from your throat, out of your control.

(You love him and you hate seeing someone you love hurt—)

You can’t help yourself. You tug him down by the shoulders and into you, so he can lay over your chest. He lets you, so easily, and tucks his face into the curve of your neck. He hides there, arms wrapping around your middle, so tightly that you’re sure that you’ll ache there the next day.

It hurts, it hurts— not the pressure on your ribs, but having the atypically unsteady presence of Rin in your arms. It’s not uncommon for the two of you to cuddle, Rin is clingy, especially after sex, but it is odd to see him this visibly upset. It hurts because he’s hurting. It hurts because he’s choosing to leave and telling you not to follow, despite... everything. It hurts so deep in your chest, that you let yourself become so involved and in love with him.

You bury your face in his hair and shake.

...

Rin is bad at protecting people.

It’s a given, knowing his nature and the fact that he had an older brother closely looking out for him for most of his life, makes his ineptitude at protection make sense.

He clearly wants to be. He has the strength and tenacity to bare his teeth and claw, but you don’t think Rin knows which way to direct his fear and grief— whether to inflict wrath on himself, the aggressor, or the person he actually means to protect.

You can’t blame him. Some things, Rin only understands in theory and not in practice. Rin is so highly attuned to feelings but so absolutely atrocious at empathizing. You think— with you— he tried. He even succeeded at points, which makes your own heartbreak feel all that more infectious and virulent.

Your back is laid out over your duvet, your legs cradling Rin’s hips. He has three fingers in you, stretching you out with as much care and intention as he can muster. You can tell by the furrow in his brow, the peek of his tongue sticking out from his lips. Pleasure burns in your core, but the sensation is eclipsed by a well of fondness and grief, drowning you.

Rin slides onto his stomach and hikes your legs over his shoulders. He takes one of your hands and places it into his hair. You knot your fingers into the soft texture of it and tug. He likes when you do that, when you try to take from him. Rin shudders between your thighs, huffing a breath into the pudge of them. He nips.

On another night, you’d scold him and give him a playful amount of grief for it.

Tonight, you want him to bite you so hard that you bleed and scar.

(Would he? He’s so scared of hurting you, even if he doesn’t say it. He is hurting you. A sick part of you wants him to do material harm to you, so you’ll have something tangible to remember him by. An imprint of his teeth in your thigh would be too romantic, maybe. Too much to ask for.)

Rin kisses up toward your cunt, taking his time over the outside of it. He breathes in the scent of you, long and hard, a few times. A wishful part of you hopes that he is committing it to memory.

“Hurry up,” you snap.

“No.” Rin keeps fucking denying you. Haste would make this hurt less. You could speed things up to the inevitable end where Rin Itoshi has thrown this— you— away and you are left alone. Instead, he prolongs it. Instead he is carving a piece of you out, in the shape of himself, the wound never to fill as cicatrix and heal.

You drag him closer by the hair and grind against his face—

“Impatient—” he says against your cunt with a growl. His arms wrap around your hips, holding you down and in place, keeping you from squirming.

It’s needed as he drags his tongue over your cunt, dipping the tip of it into your hole before landing on your clit. He laps at it, at you, humming and groaning as you tug at his hair. The motion you’re allowed lets you just barely grind against his face. It’s not enough contact. You want more, need more, but Rin is only giving you so much.

“God,” you breathe out. “Fuck you.”

Rin practically growls, the vibration of the sound against your sex makes your back arch, a pretty, croaking sound dripping from your throat. He dives into you with more fervor, digging hand-shaped bruises into your hips.

The pleasure comes to you like licks of a flame, just as scorching as they are whimsical. Your toes curl as Rin’s sucks your clit. There’s finesse in his actions. There didn’t used to be, at the start of things, but now Rin knows your body so intimately—

(It feels crushing to know this will be the last time—)

It feels like you’ve been struck.

Never again— this is it—? The last time he’ll be in your bed, between your thighs, in your arms. You’ll never get to share this proximity with Rin Itoshi again. Not this version of him, anyway. You know what the journey that he’s about to embark on will do to him. The Rin that you know won’t exist for much longer, and—

The version of himself that he’ll return as won’t be yours.

(And he won’t give a fuck about you, will he?)

It feels— like you’re going to die. Preemptive grief for a still-living person feels selfish. And yet, you can’t breathe suddenly, even with Rin, present, between your thighs, lavishing you with (fleeting— fleeting!) attention.

You rip your hand from Rin’s hair and cover your face. You can’t look at him. You can’t. Tears are dripping from the corners of your eyes, soaking into your hairline. Your breathing speeds up, painful and raw. Rin is still between your legs.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, looming over you once more. You can feel his shadow, more than you can see it.

He grabs your wrists and tries to drag them away from your face. When you don’t budge, he pries them down to your sides. Perhaps it was foolish of you to think that you could hide from him.

“Just—” You breathe, staring into the shadows thrown onto your bedroom wall. “Keep going. Please. Ignore me.”

“The last thing in the world I can do is ignore you right now.” Rin squeezes you, less for comfort and more to remind you that he is there. “Don’t be unreasonable.”

“I just want to get this over with—” Your voice wobbles and you squeeze your eyes shut. A sob is trapped in your throat, breaking in an ugly sound. Your wrist jolts in Rin’s grip, desperate to try and hide the noise.

You want to hide this from Rin.

If Rin wants to hide the ugly, poisonous part of him that comes out in his career, you want to hide the lovesick one that has infected you. The one that is shattering, in real-time, at the idea of Rin leaving your bed cold, forever.

“I want to take my time,” Rin tells you. “Let me?”

“And I want you to just get it over with—” You repeat, a sob finally breaking from your lips, fully. Rin noses into your cheek. “Finish breaking my fucking heart already, Rin. Then you can hop on a plane and I can block your fucking number.”

There’s a stall. A beat, then two, followed by a third.

Rin is shaking on top of you.

“Would it be that easy for you?” He speaks with gritted teeth.

Would it?

(No, it would actually be so hard for you to cut Rin off so swiftly. Even if you blocked his number, you’re bound to see him in the news. You don’t even follow football all that closely, but he’s such a household name these days that you’re sure to encounter news of him and his accumulating accolades.)

(If not, you know his teammates. Rin begrudgingly introduced you after the lot of them crossed paths with you enough times. You have a few of their phone numbers. Rin’s mother has your contact information too, from the time that Rin spiked a high fever and you needed her specific oyaku recipe. She messages you photos of her garden now, and asks if Rin’s alright.)

(And none of that is even acknowledging the personal, emotional wreckage that cleaving Rin from your life so swiftly will leave behind.)

“No,” you say.

Rin takes a steadying breath, his breath too warm against your cheek and down your jaw.

“You said,” his voice maybe wobbles, you may be imagining it, “that I’m breaking your heart?”

You laugh, something horrible and pained. “I thought that was obvious?”

He pauses. “Maybe it was.”

God, he’s so shit at this kind of thing.

“You’re awful, you know that?”

And you cry.

You’ve become so fragile in the past few weeks. Imagining this day, these exact moments of fleeting intimacy, like doing so could prepare you in any way for the pain that’s now tearing through you. The fear of losing him is being actualized, and you’re making it worse, pushing him away like this. But what would happen if you held him closer when it’s so clear that’s not what Rin wants?

You tear your wrists from Rin’s grip, taking a great amount of effort to flip and attempt to crawl across the bed. Crying like this makes you feel awful and ugly; you want nothing more than to hide. Rin is frozen, motionless, above you at first, letting you writhe until you get onto your tummy, squirming and clawing your way out from under him.

Then, he bears his weight down on you. He gathers your wrists up again and pins them to the bed on either side of your head. It’s a single moment of strength that immobilizes you flat all over again.

“Rin!” You mean to shout it, but instead, it’s a cracking sob that you have to muffle into the duvet.

He gathers your wrists in a single hand, and pets your hair, like you so often do for him. He rubs circles on your shoulders as you wail into the duvet. Bucking him off doesn’t work, he’s an unrelenting presence, sitting on your lower back, almost laid over you. It’s hard to breathe.

(A sick part of you likes this. Knowing that your blatant pain and struggle are being acknowledged by Rin, held and quelled by him, soothes the part of you that craves his attention so terribly. You love him so much, you feel guilty for these feelings just as much as you feel elated by the touch and care he is providing you.)

“It’s okay,” he tells you. He is not a being meant to comfort, the words sound wrong coming out of his mouth. “It’s okay.”

“You know it’s n-not!”

A fresh wave of tears pours from you. You’re soaking the mattress.

“I’m sorry,” he doesn’t apologize either. “If I could give you what you want, I would.”

The sob that you scream into rumpled bed sheets is like thunder that splits the sky.

...

Rin fucks you like he loves you.

He kneels between your legs, holding your hands, thrusting into you at an unhurried, almost reverent pace. Slow and deep, busting up your insides. You’re stretched around his pretty cock beautifully; he told you so.

Each cant of his hips knocks a teary breath out of you. You— you haven’t stopped crying. You’re not sure that you ever will.

Rin kisses you despite the tears and snot, licks your cheeks and mars your neck with mark after mark. His teeth dig into fragile flesh, biting and sucking like he could be eating you, rather than bedding you. It’s a shift in his demeanor— he’s not normally this desperate. Maybe your shattering has made him more lucid to your coming loss.

His hands slip up the backs of your thighs, resting behind your knees. He bears his weight down on you, folding you in half easily. It pushes his cock deeper in you, maybe too deep, but you relish the pain anyway. The pressure of him forces a sound of you, aborted and frail. When you try to cover your mouth, muffle yourself, Rin is pulling your hand away to kiss you.

Rin swallows down every sound, every breath, every bit of you that he can. You press back at him with as much desperation as you muster. He takes and takes, regardless of your tears and jagged edges.

He curses under his breath, tilting his forehead against your own.

“C-Close?” You ask, another involuntary sound being punched out of your lungs.

“No—” He shakes his head.

“Are you lying?”

“No—”

“I’m unconvinced,” you manage to grit out, a bubbling sob creeping up your throat just after.

Rin growls, something in his chest, and thrusts harder, like he’s trying to carve out your insides.

“I—” Rin’s words choke off, pressed against your lips, a frantic edge to it. “I don’t want to be done yet.”

You both freeze.

Rin’s as deep in you as he can be, his hips pressed to your pelvis. Every bit of his weight is bared into you, into your cunt and flesh. He’s breathing in deep, hurried breaths, sweat beads on his brow. You’re grasping his shoulders, digging your nails into him as his words hit you.

“You—” You laugh and cry in the same breath. “You don’t mean what I think you mean, do you?”

His grip on you tightens. His expression is cloudy, his focus solely on you (what a terrifying thing to be on the receiving end of—)

You continue speaking, feeling a creeping amount of panic, “You— you mean sex right? You want to k-keep going?”

“If I said yes to that, I’d be lying.” Rin thrusts into you, hard and fast. You arch your back against the duvet.

“S-So you don’t want—”

“I want to keep fucking you,” Rin corrects, easily. He pushes you down into the mattress like he’s trying to crush you, pulverize you. “I don’t want to be done fucking you.”

“God,” you hit his shoulder with your fist and the force of an angry kitten. “You fucking suck, Rin.”

“I’m sorry—”

“ — Don’t say shit you don’t mean.”

He kisses you again, this time softer. More kind, but still like he wants to eat you.

You finish like that, with his lips laid over yours, with the tempest of loss having consumed you. Rin heavy over your body and heart, pleasure having snuck up behind him enough that tension has coiled in your gut. Your orgasm washes over you slowly, in waves, and you’re sucked down into the sensation with darkening vision and curling toes.

Rin kisses you through it, cursing as you tighten around him. He didn’t— he didn’t use a condom.

“Inside—” You beg him. “Inside— please, please—”

Rin listens to you, bowing over you and pushing your knees up to the sides of your skull. A choked sound leaves his lips and you swallow it down with your own keen. A gush of warmth follows, and you shiver with the heat and fullness of it.

Rin fucks you through his orgasm, muscles drawn tight as he fucks you deep and slow. He only stops when his cock is too soft to continue, and you’re both shivering from overstimulation.

His cock drags out of you, wet and chilling in the still air. You whine at the loss, the panic and grief of this all hitting you again.

You don’t have much time to spiral, as Rin is gathering you up his arms, rolling away from the soaked sheets. He holds you tight, chest-to-chest. His hand is in your hair, and he grabs yours and places it on his own. Reflexively, you scratch his scalp and tug him closer.

You’re both quiet for a long time. The rain hasn’t stopped, dribbling on, but it doesn’t feel as grim now, more sedating. Your eyes go half-lidded.

“Can you clarify?” You ask Rin, peeking up at him. “What you meant before?”

(“I don’t want to be done—”)

“Hm.”

“God—!” You laugh, headbutting him. “You do suck.”

He squeezes you, so hard that a sound is forced from your lips.

“So you want to keep fucking?”

“It’s more than that.”

“Fuck, Rin—”

“Shut up.”

“Still figuring it out?”

“Something like that.” He muffles the words into the top of your head.

You’re not sure where your grief sits then. Maybe it’s gone, and your release was just that— release. It makes you laugh again, into Rin’s chest. You squeeze him like doing so will keep him here, in this moment, for a little longer.

Rin wordlessly squeezes you back even harder.

...

You and Rin don’t talk much once he goes to Europe.

You lose your mind right after he leaves, obviously. Screaming, crying, not throwing up, but pretty close to it. His house slippers get thrown in the back of a closet (rather than in the trash because, despite everything, you have hope—) and you rot for several weeks.

It takes a while for you to be close to normal.

Your routine with Rin had been a regular occurrence. Maybe once a week, sometimes twice. Not having it to count on unmoors you and makes you lonely in a way that feels unwelcome and raw. There’s a piece of you missing, just like you knew there would be.

You get a few texts from him. A photo or two of monuments he encounters with a few choice words—

[Rin]: I thought you would like this

You’re going to fucking kill him.

You’re never sure what to reply, so you tend to keep things brief. Your last encounter made you question your understanding of your relationship so profoundly that you don’t know how to proceed. There’s... certainly more than you expected, but upon Rin departing for Europe, so much had been left unsaid. How do you begin to broach that— is it even your place to?

You don’t bring it up. You don’t call him, you leave the wound he left alone, and it aches a little less each day. Still gaping and empty, but less raw maybe.

It’s late one evening when you receive a call from a random, international number.

You ignore it at first, thinking it’s spam, but they recall you several times, and you pick up on the fourth attempt.

“... Hello?” You ask into the receiver.

“Oh, hi! Is this [name]?”

“It is— who is this?”

“Oh, it’s Isagi— I’m one of Rin’s teammates from Bluelock. I’m not sure if you remember me, but we’ve met a few times!”

You have— Rin has a serious chip on his shoulder about Isagi, which has been made to be an incredibly comical fact when realized Isagi is one of the most genuinely kind, polite people you’ve ever encountered.

“Oh yeah, it's nice to— um, hear from you. What’s up?

“Ah, yeah! I apologize for the abrupt calls. I’ve got something to ask you that’s kind of time-sensitive— if you have a minute.”

“Yeah, I’ve got time.” You swallow. “Is... everything alright? Is... Rin okay?”

“Oh, yeah! He’s totally fine. Maybe a little hungover, but fine.”

You straighten up and withhold gasp. “Rin drank?”

Rin has refused alcohol the entire time you’ve known him. He swears it affects his performance.

Isagi laughs on the other side of the line. “Oh man, you don’t even know. I’ve never seen the guy with any alcohol in his system before either, and I kind of get why. He really is a lightweight.

“I imagine... and this has to do with why you called?”

“Yes, actually—” Your phone chimes with a new message from Isagi. “Is this you in the photo?”

The photo is of another phone, specifically of its lock screen. The time on the photographed phone screen reads [01:11]. The lock screen is a photo of you.

You’re sleeping, clearly, face half-smushed into one of your pillows. Mascara smears under your eyes and hickeys are bruised up and down your throat. From the location of the marks and makeup, you know this is from the last night you saw Rin. Your chest feels tight.

“What the fuck.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yeah, oh my god.” You had no idea Rin took this photo— and it’s his fucking lock screen? That fucker only had the generic, preloaded graphics displayed on his phone the entire time you knew him.

“I thought so— sorry, it’s kind of insane for Rin to have a photo like that—”

“It is, yeah.” You run a hand over your face, switching your phone to speaker and rubbing your cheeks. “How does this relate to you calling?”

“Well,” says Isagi, “Rin’s been playing like shit.”

“He has been.” Oh my god, has he. Like actual garbage. You’re not sure you should admit that you watch Rin’s games religiously, because at this point it’s a bit pathetic of you. But you do watch them live if at all possible, otherwise you purchased some stupid European streaming service to catch the recording as soon as possible. And because of this, you know he has been playing sloppily. You’ve been... blaming jetlag. Or something. Adjusting to the European diet or whatever.

(Not the vestiges of your relationship still, miraculously, affecting him in any way.)

“It hasn’t been great. We won our match yesterday, but barely. And we went out drinking which was good for morale! But maybe not great for Rin. He drank a bit too much and got a bit weepy.”

Your stomach drops. You can see where this is going.

“He kept talking about missing someone but didn’t say any name. And when we saw his lock screen... we kind of put two-and-two together.”

“Great deduction. Aren’t you known for that?”

Isagi laughs, sounding good-natured. It makes you smile. It’s nice to know Rin hangs out with good people who aren’t all dour and weird like him.

“Something like that. Anyway, his birthday is in a few weeks, and me and a few of the other guys thought it would be a good gift for him to fly you out and surprise him.”

You stay silent, attempting to suffocate the spark of hope that traitorously stirs in you.

“Isagi.” You fold your hands and put them vertically to your lips. “Have you met Rin?”

That makes him laugh, “I have, I’m probably around him too much. But he’s been weird since we started the season here. If you visited, the team would cover everything. Our coach even offered to arrange rooms for you at the hotels we’ll be at. If you don’t want to room with Rin, anyway—”

“Rin and I aren’t together.”

“Damn.” Isagi clicks his tongue. “Does he know that?”

Maybe you’re an idiot. Maybe Rin’s an idiot. Maybe you’re both idiots.

“I should ask him, maybe.”

“He’s never been the type to do things in halves, you know.”

“Trust me, I’m very aware of that.”

Isagi whistles and you shake your head.

“You don’t have to give me an answer right away. If you could let me know in the next few days, that would be great. You’ve got my number now that I’ve called, yeah?”

“Yeah, I’ll be in touch.” You swallow. “Thanks for reaching out, Isagi. I appreciate it. And— thanks for keeping an eye on Rin too.”

“Yeah, yeah. Someone needs to while he’s here. Let me know what you’re thinking, feel free to call if you need anything too. Or want me to spy on Rin for you.”

“Will do,” You laugh, light-hearted for the first time in weeks. You exchange goodbyes and you drop your phone onto your lap.

...

Oh my fucking god.

You know several things immediately— you want to go. Desperately, actually, especially with the knowledge that stupid fucking Rin Itoshi has you as his fucking lock screen? You need answers, if nothing else. You won’t settle for a very sad, weepy fuck this time around.

You also know that you should not surprise Rin.

So, you act before you can convince yourself better of it. You scroll to your messages with Rin and craft.

[you]: hey, i hope you’re doing alright. your teammate (isagi) just called me and invited me out for your birthday to surprise you. but i know you well enough to know that if i surprise you like that you will either kill me, isagi, yourself, or all three of us.

[you]: i wanted to touch base before i gave isagi an answer

[you]: i’d love to see you

[you]: and we should talk too.

Rin almost immediately sees the message— the freak has read receipts on. A bubble indicating he’s typing appears, then disappears.

A call from him comes in. You nearly drop your phone as the screen lights up your face and vibrates.

With a steadying breath, you answer.

“Hello?”

“What did Isagi tell you?”

You snort. “That your play sucks and that you’re a weepy drunk.”

“He sucks. Don’t talk to him again.”

“I have to, so he and the rest of your team can buy me tickets and a hotel room—”

“If— if you want to come, I’ll buy your ticket. And why would you need a hotel room?”

“So I have somewhere to sleep.”

“Is my bed not good enough for you?”

“Are you implying that I’d sleep with you?”

“...Yes.”

“Damn,” you fall back onto your couch with a laugh. There’s an odd coil of relief that’s unspooling in your chest. You could cry again. “Is that alright?”

“I— I wouldn’t want—” Rin so rarely loses his words, it shocks you to hear when he does. “Yes. It’s fine. I can meet you at the airport too.”

“Well, aren’t you sweet?”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

There’s a poignant moment of silence that passes between you two. You can imagine Rin now— it’s the morning where he is. He probably is nursing both a bottle of water and that electrolyte drink he prefers— he likes the blue flavor the best. He’s probably in his warm-up clothes, preparing for his meticulous morning routine.

“I’m excited,” Rin says, stilted but there. “To see you again.”

Something warm burns in you, frail but burgeoning.

“So am I.” You wipe your eyes and laugh. “Don’t break my heart again, Rin, I swear to God.”

“I won’t.”

He says it with enough conviction that you believe him.

#lore writes #rin itoshi x reader #rin itoshi x you #itoshi rin x you #itoshi rin x reader #bluelock x reader #bluelock x you #ANYWAYS!!! :3ccc #this piece was so interesting like #had not thought about rin in the ways i was required to for this piece :'^)#and it was very gratifying and so fun!!#thank you bitti for asking for such a piece and i hope you enjoy dearest!!!! 🩷

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lila-lou · 20 days ago

Text

✨Barely alive 1/2✨

Summary: In a motel room thick with blood and unspoken love, you fight to keep Dean alive. One night together, a thousand words never said and now, silence might be all you have left.

-requested-

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Warnings: Angst, Language, Blood

Word Count: 4102

A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient.💙

You weren’t sure how the hell he was still breathing. Dragging Dean Winchester’s half-conscious, bloodied body across the parking lot of the rundown motel felt like trying to pull a dead weight through wet cement. His boots scraped against the gravel, leaving streaks of red in their wake. Blood soaked through his jeans, through his flannel, even through his damn leather jacket. You kept your grip tight around him, one arm wrapped under his ribs, not that there was anything intact there to hold onto.

The door to your room slammed open under your foot, and you barely managed to lower him onto the bed without screaming yourself. He groaned, low and broken, and you felt it deep in your chest. His face was a goddamn mess. Swollen shut on one side, lip split wide open, his cheekbone purple and slick with dried blood. His right arm hung at a sick angle, and you knew the second you touched it earlier, it was broken clean.

“Geez, Dean…”, you whispered, brushing the hair from his forehead. It was damp with sweat, maybe a fever already setting in. Or maybe shock.

He blinked slowly, his only working eye barely focusing on you. His lips parted like he was gonna say something, then closed again. You didn’t push. Not yet.

You grabbed the first aid kit from your bag, heart racing, hands already trembling. Sam had been gone for over a week. Left after a fight so loud, it could’ve cracked the walls. And Dean — stubborn, proud, self-destructive Dean — had acted like it was fine. Like he could handle everything.

He couldn’t. Clearly.

You tore the remains of his shirt open with shaking hands. The sight made your stomach turn. Deep bruising ran down his ribs in shades of black and sick yellow. There were claw marks on his side, and gashes that needed more than just stitches. Your fingers brushed over his hip, and he flinched hard. Yeah. Fractured. At least.

“You’re lucky to be alive”, you muttered, half to him, half to yourself.

And maybe he was. But barely.

You tried to steady your hands, but they wouldn’t stop shaking.

The needle slipped between your fingers, clattering onto the bed beside him. You cursed under your breath, dragging a hand down your face. You’d stitched him up a dozen times before, shit, maybe more. You’d seen him bleeding, broken, barely breathing. This wasn’t new. But this time, it felt different. This time, it felt like you were watching him slip away from you for real.

Your eyes burned as you pressed gauze to the worst gash on his ribs. He flinched again, and a low groan escaped his throat, but he didn’t push you away. He didn’t crack a joke, didn’t smirk, didn’t throw out one of those dumb lines he used when he wanted to pretend he wasn’t in pain.

He just laid there, too quiet. Too still. Like maybe he’d finally run out of fight.

"Dean", you whispered, but your voice broke on the name. You tried again. "You need to stay awake, alright? Just… don't close your eyes".

He didn’t answer, but his one good eye fluttered open again. Barely. He looked at you like he recognized you, like maybe your voice was the only thing tethering him to this world right now. And it hurt. God, it hurt.

Months ago, when everything changed between you two, when he kissed you like he couldn’t breathe without it, when he touched you like he finally let himself want something, you thought maybe it meant something more. Maybe he was ready. Maybe you were the thing he finally didn’t want to push away.

But the morning after, he was cold. Distant. “We shouldn’t have”, he said, jaw clenched like he was ashamed of it. Ashamed of you.

You knew better, though. You saw it in the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. Heard it in the way his voice softened when he used your name. Felt it in the way he always made sure you were the one who came back from the hunt in one piece.

He knew you loved him. He just didn’t think he deserved it.

Your hands hovered over his chest. So many cuts. So many bruises. You didn’t even know where to start. “I can’t…”, you breathed, voice cracking. “I don’t know if I can fix you this time”.

A long silence hung in the air. Then, his lips parted, voice hoarse and low. “You always do”.

It was barely more than a whisper, but it wrecked you. Because even now, even half-dead, he still believed in you more than he ever believed in himself.

You sat back on your heels, staring down at him, and for a long second, all you could do was breathe through the panic threatening to choke you. There was too much blood. Too many cuts. His skin was hot to the touch, burning under the mess of swelling and bruises, his forehead slick with sweat. Fever was setting in fast, and if the fractures didn’t kill him, infection would try its best.

“Okay”, you whispered, mostly to yourself. “Okay. One thing at a time”.

You reached for the bottle of alcohol and the cleanest cloth you had, which wasn’t saying much. As soon as you pressed it to the jagged cut on his shoulder, he jerked with a ragged gasp.

“Easy, Dean. I got you”, you said softly, trying to keep your voice steady, even as your vision blurred.

You wiped blood away carefully, trying to find where wounds ended and bruises began. Some of them were shallow, thank God. Others were deep enough to need stitches, but you still didn’t know if his body could take it right now. His breathing was shallow, too fast, like he couldn’t catch up, like every inhale was a fight.

“You’re burning up”, you muttered. “Damn it, Dean…”.

He’d always said you were the one who kept a cool head under pressure. The one who didn’t panic. Who knew what to do when everything went sideways. But this? This was different. This was him.

This was the man who made you fall in love without even trying. The man who held you like he was terrified to let go — just that one night — then spent months pretending like it hadn’t shattered both of you. He kept you close, but just far enough that you couldn’t touch the softest parts of him. The parts he swore were too broken to be loved.

You grabbed the needle again, hands still shaking, but steadier now with purpose. You had to do this. There was no one else. No Sam, no backup. Just you, and Dean bleeding out on your motel bed.

The biggest gash was along his side, jagged, too close to the ribs, probably torn open when he hit the corner of a table or maybe a beam. You didn’t let yourself think about how hard they must’ve thrown him to make that kind of damage. You just threaded the needle, pressed the gauze around the wound again to slow the bleeding, and got to work.

The first stitch drew a low, guttural sound from his throat. Not quite a scream, not quite a word, just pain. Raw and sharp.

“Sorry”, you whispered, wincing. “I’m so sorry”.

He didn’t answer. Just gritted his teeth, or tried to. His jaw twitched, and his fingers curled weakly into the blanket. You moved as quickly as you could without being sloppy, knowing if you did this wrong, it’d only make everything worse. You counted each stitch under your breath like a prayer. Six. Seven. Eight.

Blood still seeped out around the thread, warm and too dark. You wiped it away, and he groaned again, barely conscious. “Stay with me, Dean", you said, louder now, voice cracking. “Come on, don’t check out on me”.

His eye opened a sliver again, dazed and heavy. “Y’r loud”, he mumbled, slurring.

Relief surged through your chest so hard you almost choked on it. You didn’t let it show, though. You just gave him the smallest smile and kept going. “I’ll be louder if you pass out”, you muttered, trying to keep it light even though your throat was tight. “You know I will”.

The next hour was torture, for both of you. You stitched up every open wound you could find. One on his thigh. One slicing across his collarbone. Another near his ribs that wouldn’t stop bleeding. The blood wouldn’t stop. Your hands were soaked in it, and still, he didn’t scream. Just made those soft, broken noises through clenched teeth, his body jerking every now and then with the worst ones.

You didn’t know how he was still conscious. Or maybe he wasn’t, not fully. His eyes would roll back, then flutter open again like he was caught between worlds. His skin had gone pale, almost grey, except where the bruises turned it violent colors.

You pressed your hand to his chest. Still rising. Still falling. “Don’t you dare die on me”, you whispered, voice thick, forehead dropping to his shoulder for just a second. “Don’t you fucking dare”.

His chest trembled under you, not quite a laugh, not quite a breath. But it was something. And it meant he was still fighting. Even if barely.

His body kept jerking under your hands, small, involuntary twitches every time you pressed harder than you meant to, especially on the deeper wounds. The ones that wouldn’t stop bleeding. You had no choice but to apply pressure, your palms slick with blood, trying to hold him together while he drifted further and further away.

At one point, his head rolled to the side and his breathing stuttered. You panicked. “Dean? Hey. Hey—look at me”.

His eye fluttered open again, slow, unfocused. His lips parted, but no sound came out this time. He looked past you, through you, like he wasn’t really there anymore. Like he was floating somewhere just out of reach.

You cupped his face gently, bruised, swollen, barely recognizable. “You stay right here with me, you hear me?”. Your voice cracked hard, tears blurring your vision.

He blinked again, slowly. Then let out a quiet, pained breath. Barely a whisper: “’M tryin’…”.

God, that broke you. You swallowed the sob crawling up your throat, and forced your hands back to work.

You tied off the last stitch with trembling fingers, heart pounding like it was trying to claw its way out of your chest. Blood was still oozing from half a dozen places, and you knew if you didn’t disinfect them soon, you’d lose the fight anyway.

“Okay”, you muttered to yourself, grabbing the bottle of alcohol. “This is gonna suck”.

You didn’t even warn him. You just poured it. Everywhere. Over his ribs, his side, his shoulder, across his thigh, down the nasty scrape on his back, every single place you’d stitched, every inch of broken skin.

Dean screamed.

Not loud. Not sharp. But deep, raw. Like it came from somewhere in his chest he never let anyone hear. His body arched off the bed, then collapsed back with a heavy, wet gasp. His hands grabbed at the sheets weakly, trying to ground himself. Trying to breathe.

You flinched, biting down on your lip so hard you tasted blood, and kept going until the bottle was empty.

“I’m sorry”, you whispered, wiping sweat from his forehead with the least bloodied part of your shirt. “I’m so damn sorry, Dean”.

He didn’t answer. He’d slipped under again, not unconscious, not quite, but not awake either. His jaw clenched every now and then, like his body was still stuck in the memory of pain.

You dried your hands off with what was left of the blanket. Blood was caked under your nails, smeared across your arms, soaked into your jeans. You looked like you’d gone to war. And maybe, in a way, you had.

You rummaged through your bag with frantic hands, tossing aside salt rounds and old hex bags until your fingers closed around the bottle of ibuprofen. You popped the cap, shaking a few into your palm. Useless for the kind of pain he was in, but it was something.

Now you just had to get him to swallow them.

You looked down at him again, chest rising slow and shallow. Eyes closed. One hand twitching now and then like he was chasing something in a dream.

Eventually, with coaxing and some half-conscious instinct to survive, Dean managed to swallow the pills. His lips barely moved, his throat worked once, then he was out. Gone, like his body had finally gotten permission to shut down.

You watched him for a long moment, just to be sure. His chest rose. Fell. Again. Still breathing.

You exhaled like you hadn’t in hours and sank back against the wall, knees aching, limbs shaking so hard you thought you might fall apart right there. The motel room was too quiet now, filled only with the broken rhythm of Dean’s breathing and the throb of your own pulse in your ears.

Your hands were still covered in blood, his blood. But as the adrenaline drained out of you like floodwater, you finally felt it.

Your blood, too.

A warm, slow trickle down your leg. The burn in your side, your hip, your stomach, sharp and unforgiving now that the focus was off him.

You looked down. “Shit”.

Your shirt was rolled up and crusted in red. The cut along your thigh was bad. A deep, angry gash that stretched up over your hipbone and arced toward your belly button. You hadn’t even realized it went that far before. But now, in the dim yellow light, you saw the worst part. One section, right at your hip, where the skin had split wide enough to see bone.

You swallowed hard, the sight finally hitting you. No wonder your whole leg was numb. No wonder you’d been limping for hours without feeling it.

The adrenaline had kept you going. Fear had done the rest. But now, with Dean finally stable, there was nothing left to hold you up.

You grabbed what was left of the first aid kit and bit down on a towel, hard. The needle slipped in and you almost blacked out. Your vision sparked white, the pain blinding. Your hand faltered.

“No”, you whispered, through clenched teeth. “Not yet. Not done”.

You dug in again, stitching up the wound in short, clumsy bursts. Your hands didn’t want to listen anymore, too shaky, too cold. Every tug of the thread made you nauseous, but you kept going. Gritting your teeth, biting back screams, sweat pouring down your back.

Halfway through, you had to stop and press a hand to the wall to keep from passing out. The room spun around you. Blood dripped from the cut onto the floor, a slow, steady beat. Your breathing came in shallow gasps.

You glanced at Dean. Still there. Still breathing.

You shut your eyes for half a second, jaw clenched so tight it ached. Then forced yourself to finish the job. Every stitch was agony. But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t afford to. Not tonight.

The stitches were horrible.

Jagged. Uneven. Too shallow in some places, too deep in others. Your hands weren’t steady anymore. They were trembling, bloody, and halfway numb. But they held. Barely. The wound stopped gaping. That was the best you could ask for.

You grabbed the pressure tape from the kit and did what you could, wrapping the worst of it — your thigh and across your hip — with tight, clumsy layers. Every movement pulled at the thread, sent fire tearing up your side, but you didn’t stop. Not until it was covered. Not until the bleeding slowed enough that it wasn’t pooling on the floor.

You leaned back, gasping, slick with sweat and cold all over. The edges of your vision pulsed dark. You weren’t sure if you were shaking from pain, blood loss, or the fear still clawing inside your chest.

Your hand fumbled for the bottle of ibuprofen. You dry-swallowed two, maybe three — you didn’t count. You barely even felt them go down.

You sat on the floor, back against the bed, trying to catch your breath. Your body screamed at you to stop, to sleep, to shut down. You were weak. Weak in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time — not just physically, but deep in your bones. Like all the fight had drained out of you.

But you didn’t let yourself close your eyes. Not yet. Not while Dean might still slip away.

You turned your head, just enough to see him. He hadn’t moved. His face was still torn up, skin pale and bruised beneath the swelling. His chest rose, barely. Fell. The smallest movements. But enough. Just enough.

Your fingers found the edge of the bed, gripped it tight like it could tether you to the moment. You listened to his breathing, counted the seconds between each one. You were afraid to blink. Afraid if you did, the sound might stop.

You whispered into the dark, voice hoarse and broken, “Don’t make me bury you, Dean. Don’t you fucking dare”.

You fought it. God, you fought it. Every time your head dipped forward, every time your eyes slipped shut, you forced them open again. You told yourself Dean needed you. You told yourself you weren’t allowed to rest. Not until you were sure he’d make it through the night.

But you were bleeding. Dizzy. Fevered and freezing all at once. Your stitches burned with every breath, and the pain was no longer sharp, it had gone dull and heavy, a warning bell in the back of your skull that your body couldn’t take much more.

You were slumped against the side of the bed, one arm draped across the mattress, fingers just barely brushing Dean’s. You’d left them there as a last-ditch lifeline, like maybe if you could feel him, you’d be able to stay grounded. Awake.

But your head started to nod. Once. Twice. You jerked awake the first time, heart pounding, lungs dragging in air like you were drowning. The second time, it took longer. The third time… You didn’t wake up. You slid sideways, your cheek pressing against the rough motel carpet, body curling in on itself instinctively. Your wound throbbed, your leg twitched, but you didn’t stir.

The room went still. The only sound left was the low hum of the busted heater and the broken rhythm of two people barely hanging on. Dean didn’t wake. You didn’t move. And the darkness swallowed everything else.

Hours later, Dean came to in pieces.

First was the pain, sharp, burning, everywhere. Then the heat, like fire in his bones. His face was stiff, swollen, and every breath rattled through broken ribs. But the worst was the pressure in his head, the dizzy haze that made the motel ceiling above him spin out of focus.

Then he turned his head. And saw you.

Crumpled on the floor, half-naked, covered in blood and sweat and wrapped in half a roll of pressure tape. Your leg was bent awkwardly, and there was a dark red smear across your hip where the bleeding had started again. Your hand still rested near his, just barely touching, fingers limp.

His stomach twisted. “Y/N…”. It came out hoarse, barely audible. He tried again, louder. “Y/N”. No response.

He didn’t have the strength to panic, but something primal clawed up inside him. He reached for you, hand trembling violently. His arm screamed in protest, pain flashing down through his shoulder, broken. Still broken. Didn’t matter.

He gritted his teeth and dragged himself toward the edge of the bed.

Every inch was agony. Fire lit up inside his ribs. His vision blurred again, but he didn’t stop. He reached down, hooked his fingers under your arm, and pulled.

It took everything he had.

Muscles shaking, breath wheezing, he managed to drag you halfway onto the bed, then again, higher, until you were next to him, your limp body sprawled out against the pillow, head on his arm. Your skin was cold with sweat, your breathing shallow but steady.

He looked down at you, eyes glassy, blood in his mouth. “You’re so stupid”, he muttered, forehead pressing to yours, his voice thick and slurred. “You weren’t supposed to get hurt…”.

And then he felt a tug. A burning, ripping pain across his side.

The worst wound, the one on his ribs, had torn open again. The stitches popped under the strain, and warm blood began to spread beneath him, soaking into the sheets.

“Shit…”.

He didn’t even have time to scream. His body crumpled, dragging him back down into the dark with you tucked against his side.

You slept. Both of you. Unconscious, broken, fevered — but alive.

Twenty hours passed. The world didn’t stop spinning, but inside that shitty little motel room, time froze.

It was light out when you woke again.

Muted daylight filtered through the crooked blinds, casting lines across the wreckage of the room. The air was heavy, the sour-sweet stench of blood, sweat, and something more… raw. The kind of silence that comes after a war.

You didn’t know what stirred you. Maybe the pain in your leg, the fire in your side. Maybe it was just the pressure of him beside you, heavy, still, and warm with fever.

You blinked, slow and aching. Then you saw it. Dean.

His face was turned toward you, lips pale and parted, chest barely rising under layers of dried blood and soaked bandages. His arm was still cradled around you weakly, even in unconsciousness. But under him, a dark red patch had spread wide and deep.

The wound on his side. It had ripped open. Your stomach turned cold.

“No”, you rasped, voice breaking. “No, no, no—”.

You forced yourself up with a cry, your side screaming in protest. The movement made you dizzy, pain lancing through your body like lightning, but you didn’t care. You shoved yourself upright on trembling legs, one hand clutching the edge of the bed as your vision went spotty.

You yanked the first aid kit toward you, what was left of it, empty wrappers, stained gauze, one last needle and a half-used roll of thread. You grabbed the alcohol, swallowed down the bile rising in your throat, and peeled the sheet back from Dean’s side.

Blood poured down his ribs in a slow, steady stream. The torn skin gaped open again, worse than before. Angry, red, wet. You could see deep into it, deeper than you had the first time. It was a miracle he was still breathing.

“Fuck, Dean…”.

Your hands worked on their own, numb with shock, driven by something older than fear. Survival. Love. Madness. You didn’t even realize you were crying until a tear hit his chest and mixed with the blood.

“I told you not to fucking die on me”, you whispered, threading the needle with shaking fingers. “You don’t get to do this. Not now”.

You poured alcohol over the wound again, and his body jerked weakly beneath your hands, not conscious, but reactive. Still there. Still in there.

You sobbed through the pain, biting down on your own shirt as you started stitching again. The needle dragged through muscle, tissue, skin and you cursed yourself with every pass. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”.

Twelve stitches. Fifteen. Twenty.

You weren’t even sure if you were doing it right anymore. Your vision swam. Your head was hot. But the bleeding started to slow. You pressed gauze over it, wrapped him as best you could, every part of you trembling.

When it was done, you collapsed beside him again, heart hammering. He was still breathing. Barely. But he was.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰

Part 2

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#jensen ackles #dean winchester #deanwinchester #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fic #dean winchester x y/n #dean x y/n #dean x reader #dean x you #spn fanfic #spn #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural

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skzophreniic · 1 month ago

Text

⍣ ೋ cw: angst, emotional distress, breakup, implied sex, unspoken goodbyes, unresolved tension, heartbreak, depiction of a deteriorating relationship, quiet suffering, post-intimacy grief, crying, intense emotional vulnerability

⍣ ೋ notes: haven't written angst in a while so this was a very healing experience lmao. lmk if u guys like it or i should just stick to smut

He doesn’t knock anymore.

The door opens with a soft click and closes even softer, as if he’s afraid even the sound of his arrival might break whatever delicate thread is still holding this together. You don’t get up to meet him. You don’t need to. His footsteps are familiar now—measured, heavy in a way they never used to be.

He smells like the studio. That particular mix of metal, sweat, and burnt-out hours. The air shifts when he walks in, not because anything changes, but because he has.

So have you.

Chan doesn't say anything when he finds you curled on the couch, blanket thrown haphazardly over your legs, TV casting flickering shadows across the room that neither of you are watching. His eyes are already on you—tired, rimmed red, soaked with the kind of fatigue that sleep doesn't fix.

He drops his bag by the door and shrugs off his jacket like he's shedding a second skin. His hoodie underneath is crumpled, sleeves bunched around his elbows, faint coffee stains on the cuff. He runs a hand through his hair, the curls flattened by a beanie he must've left in the car.

You don't say anything.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

You used to run into his arms like gravity. You used to ask how his day was, what he ate, if he was okay. Now you just stare, waiting for something you can’t name—something you’re afraid won’t come.

He stands there for a second too long. Like he wants to say something but doesn't have the strength to lift the words to his lips. And then, without permission, he’s crawling onto the couch beside you, tucking himself into your side like he still belongs there.

You let him.

His head drops to your chest. He exhales hard. Like being near you is the only place he can breathe—but not for long.

“You didn’t text,” you murmur, your voice quiet.

“I didn’t know if I should.”

The words sit in the space between you like wet cement.

Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? He’s always not sure. Not sure if he should stay. Not sure if he should go. Not sure if he can be both Bang Chan and yours without losing himself in the split.

Your fingers brush through his hair automatically. Habit. He shudders like it’s the first gentle thing he’s felt in days.

“You could’ve called,” you say.

“I didn’t know if you’d pick up.”

You close your eyes. Because that one stings.

He shifts, turning into your touch, and for a moment—just a moment—he looks at you like he used to. Like you’re the safest place he’s ever known. Then his gaze drops to your lips, your throat, your hands. His expression changes. Cracks.

“Can I stay?” he asks, voice breaking around the edges.

He’s never asked before. That’s the worst part.

You nod anyway.

He kisses you.

It’s not soft. It’s not rough. It’s frantic. Like he’s trying to outrun something. Like if he presses hard enough, you’ll forget how long it’s been since he last said I love you without guilt in his eyes.

You kiss him back. Because he still tastes like home, even if you know it’s a house being torn down brick by brick.

His hands are on your waist, sliding under your shirt like he’s trying to feel your heartbeat, like he needs proof you’re still letting him do this. Still letting him stay. Your body arches toward him like it always does, but your chest is caving in around the space where the truth lives.

This is ending.

Not today, maybe not tomorrow.

But soon.

And both of you know it.

He pulls away, gasping like he’s surfaced from deep water. His forehead presses to yours.

“I’m trying,” he whispers, like a confession. “I swear, I’m trying.”

You nod again, but your eyes sting.

Because so are you.

And it’s still not enough.

______________________________________________________________

You end up in bed, but not to sleep.

Clothes long forgotten on the floor. Skin slick, lips swollen, breath still uneven in your chest. The sheets are tangled around your legs, damp with sweat, your body still buzzing from him—too warm, too close. Like the heat is trying to make up for everything you didn’t say.

He lies beside you, propped on an elbow, watching you with something unreadable in his eyes. Not hunger, not even longing. Just a kind of quiet desperation. Like he’s trying to memorize this—you—before he has to let go.

Not like he used to, when he looked at you like you were the future.

Now he looks like he’s already mourning it.

You watch him back.

His eyes are so bloodshot you wonder if he’s cried recently. Or if he just hasn’t blinked in a while. Either way, he looks wrecked.

And he’s never been more beautiful.

“What are we doing, Chris?” you whisper.

Your voice doesn’t shake. It’s steady in that numb way, like you’ve accepted you won’t like the answer.

He exhales slowly, eyes falling to your lips. Not to kiss. Just to look.

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

That makes his jaw clench. His hand twitches against the blanket, fingers curling into the sheets like he wants to hold something but can’t.

“You’re the only thing that still feels real,” he says.

You blink, hard. But it’s not enough to stop the ache building in your throat.

“Then why does it feel like you’re already gone?”

He doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t. Because the truth is, he is already gone. Not entirely. Not on purpose. But his body is torn in ten different directions every hour of the day, and his heart never quite comes home anymore.

Bang Chan isn’t just a name anymore. It’s a weight. A crown. A prison.

And there’s no room in it for you.

You roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling. Your voice comes out softer this time.

“I keep thinking if we can just make it to the next comeback. The next tour. The next break. That eventually, we’ll be okay again.”

Silence.

“But I don’t think we’re going to make it to anything, Chris.”

You hear him shift beside you. Feel the mattress dip as he leans closer, his breath ghosting across your cheek.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not? You’re thinking it too.”

His hand finds yours in the dark, fingers curling against your bare waist like he’s afraid it’s the last time he’ll get to.

And then he says it.

So quietly you almost miss it.

“In another life…”

Your eyes snap shut.

“…I wouldn’t be Bang Chan.”

His voice trembles.

“I would just be yours.”

It feels like a knife. Not because it’s a lie. But because it’s so true.

You turn your face to him, tears slipping free even as you try to hold it all in. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, slow and reverent like he’s never touched you before. Or maybe like he’s already mourning it.

“Then why can’t you be mine in this one?”

It breaks something in him. You can see it in the way his face contorts, in the way his chest shudders with a breath he can’t hold in.

“Because I had to choose.”

His voice cracks. He squeezes your hand tighter.

“I had to choose.”

______________________________________________________________

You don’t sleep.

Neither does he.

You just lie there, skin to skin, heart to heart, pretending this night will stretch forever. That morning won’t come. That goodbye won’t have to be spoken out loud to be real.

Because it already is.

And when he slips out of bed just before sunrise, quietly gathering his things in the darkest hour, you pretend to still be asleep.

Even though you’re not.

Because pretending is all you have left.

You hear the zipper of his bag.

It’s the quietest sound in the room, and still—it drowns everything else out. It’s not loud. It’s not rushed. It’s careful. Like he’s trying not to wake you. Like he doesn’t know you’ve been lying there, staring at the closet door for hours.

You don’t move.

You don’t give him the closure of open eyes.

The sound of him dressing feels too familiar. Hoodie sliding over bare skin. Belt buckling. Keys placed gently on the kitchen counter so they don’t jingle. He moves through your home like a ghost, weightless in all the ways that matter, heavy only where it hurts.

Your throat burns, but you don’t cry.

Not until he’s gone.

Not until the door clicks shut again—softly, always softly, like he’s still trying to protect something you both already lost.

Then your face twists and breaks and folds into your pillow. The sob that escapes is quiet and sharp, the kind that comes from a wound too deep to scream.

You don’t know how long you lie there.

Eventually, the sun rises.

Eventually, the light touches the room in pale golds and soft grays, the way it used to when you’d wake up tangled together, when you still felt like you were building something instead of bracing for the fall.

Eventually, you get up.

Not because you want to. Just because you have to. Because the sheets are cold now, and the silence is louder still.

You pad into the kitchen, eyes gritty, heart hollow. His coffee mug is still on the counter. Washed. Dried. Turned upside down.

He always does that.

You don’t touch it.

You don’t touch anything.

There’s a post-it on the fridge. Not from today—maybe from weeks ago, maybe months. His handwriting, loopy and rushed.

“Get more oat milk – love you ♡”

You don’t throw it away.

Instead, you sit down on the floor.

Right there, in front of the fridge, knees pulled to your chest like a child hiding from thunder.

And it’s there, in the stillness, that the truth finally settles into your bones:

This love is ending.

Not because you didn’t fight. Not because it wasn’t real. But because even the realest things can die in the wrong life.

You press your forehead to your knees.

Whisper to the space between your ribs.

“I would’ve loved you forever.”

And the silence answers back.

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cece693 · 21 days ago

Note

Hi! I love your stories and I was wondering if you could write something about Buck Barnes or Steve Rogers with a male reader who got sick but is being stubborn about it. He refuses to accept he is sick and doesn't want to let his boyfriend take care of him, insisting there is no need to rest or go to the doctor, he has to work and it's no big deal even if he clearly feels warm and looks tired. The more he fights it the more exhausting it gets and he starts to look really childish, like a whiny toddler throwing a tantrum or something

Simple requests always are my favorite, more so when they target some of my favorite characters.

I'M NOT SICK (I PROMISE)

pairing: stucky x male reader tags: you're not sick, but you are, caring boyfriends, like who wouldn't want to get smothered by them, you're such a drama queen, but in a good way, comedic elements

You wake already annoyed — at your own body, mainly, because it dares to feel like a bag of wet cement. Your head is stuffed with cotton, joints aching as though you sparred ten rounds with Steve and Bucky back-to-back. Obviously you are not sick; you simply...slept funny. You tell the mirror so while splashing water on a face that’s gone a worrying shade of pale.

Down the hall, voices drift from the kitchen.

“He was burning up last night,” Bucky mutters, soft enough you almost miss it.

“Let him try toughing it out for one more hour,” Steve answers, impatience tucked beneath kindness. “Then we stage a coup.”

A coup? Over your totally-not-illness? Ridiculous. You stride in, shoulders squared, clutching your laptop like a shield. “Morning,” you croak. (Why does it sound like gravel?)

Two sets of super-soldier eyes track you: Steve stirring oatmeal while Bucky leans against the counter with arms crossed. Both clock the tremor in your hand when you reach for a mug.

“I’m fine,” you say before they can speak, because offense is the best defense. “Just a big day. Gotta answer emails before the morning briefing.”

Bucky lifts a brow. “Emails can wait. Your temperature can’t.”

You wave him off. “Drama queen. Look, I’m— ” The room tilts; you catch the back of a chair before you become a new floor decoration. Bad move: Steve is at your side instantly, steadying you with a palm to your forehead.

He winces. “You’re burning, sweetheart.”

“Captain Rogers, stand down,” you huff, wriggling free. “I’ve had worse after one of Nat’s curry nights.”

“Nat’s curry doesn’t make you shiver,” Bucky says.

“I’m not—” A violent sneeze bends you double, proving everyone’s point except yours. When you straighten, both men are staring the way a pair of wolves might regard an injured bunny.

You cross your arms. “Don’t look at me like I’m made of glass.”

Steve sets the oatmeal spoon aside, blue eyes sliding from your flushed cheeks to the goosebumps on your arms. “Glass is stronger than you look right now.”

“’M not calling off work.” You place your laptop on the counter and open the screen. “If I miss that briefing—”

Bucky’s metal hand closes gently over the lid, easing it shut. “Doll, you’re typing gibberish. ‘Regrads’ isn’t a word.”

Heat pricks behind your eyes — half fever, half humiliation. You yank the computer back like a toddler stealing a toy. “Mind your business, Tin Man.”

Bucky’s jaw ticks, but Steve only sighs, patient in that maddening Boy-Scout way. “We’re your business. You’re ours.”

“I don’t need babysitters!” Your voice cracks, too loud for a Wednesday morning. You know you’re being ridiculous; still, the more reasonable they get, the more you dig in. Why does accepting help feel like surrender?

“Okay.” Steve shifts tactics, the commander scenting mutiny. “You have two options. One: you let us put you on the couch with fluids, Tylenol, and bad daytime television. Two: I declare you unfit for duty, call Sam to cover your briefing, and carry you there myself.”

Your mouth drops. “That’s coercion.”

“That’s love,” Bucky corrects, gentle. “Love sometimes sounds like orders when stubborn punks don’t listen.”

You attempt a scathing retort but it devolves into a coughing fit so brutal you see stars. When your vision clears, you’re mortified to find tears clinging to your lashes. Bucky’s flesh hand rubs slow circles between your shoulder blades; Steve wipes your cheek with a dish towel, tenderness undoing every scrap of defiance.

“I hate this,” you whisper, voice small. “Feels like losing.”

Steve tilts your chin until you meet his gaze. “Letting people care for you isn’t losing. You’d patch us up in a heartbeat, wouldn’t you?”

“Well—yeah, but—”

“Then let us return the favor,” Bucky says. “That’s what being in a relationship is, doll.”

Your shoulders sag. The fight, finally, ebbs out of you, leaving only exhaustion and a grudging gratitude. “Fine,” you mumble. “But I want the couch, not the bed. And no thermometer—I don’t need the numbers judging me.”

Bucky snorts. “And you called me a drama queen.”

Steve kisses your burning temple. “Couch it is. But the thermometer stays. Compromise.”

You grumble yet comply, allowing yourself to be herded to the living-room fortress Steve prepared: pillows stacked like ramparts, fleece blanket already warmed by the dryer. The moment you hit the cushions, your eyelids feel weighted. Steve tucks the blanket under your chin; Bucky appears with a steaming mug of honey-ginger tea that smells like safety.

“Tiny sips,” he warns. You obey without argument this time, too tired to posture.

The first sip scalds in the best way, unlocking the knot in your throat. You blink up at them, shamefaced. “Sorry for the tantrum.”

Bucky brushes his knuckle across your hairline. “You’ve seen Steve when he refuses to admit he’s injured. Trust me, yours ranks low on the toddler scale.”

Steve grins, sheepish. “I do recall hopping on one foot insisting my ankle was ‘just tweaked.’”

“Broke it in three places,” Bucky adds, deadpan.

Their banter coaxes a weak laugh from you, which morphs into another sneeze. Steve slips a tissue under your nose like a dad with perfect reflexes. You mutter thanks, cheeks hot for reasons beyond fever.

“Rest,” Bucky orders, voice gone syrupy with concern. “Movie marathon while you nap?”

“Something terrible,” Steve suggests. “So you don’t mind missing chunks.”

You groan theatrically. “Put on The Room. My pain should be mirrored on screen.”

They chuckle, but Steve actually cues it up. As Tommy Wiseau begins his infamous rooftop rant, Steve presses a cool kiss to the side of your forehead. “Love you,” you whisper.

Steve smiles against your ear. “Love you more.”

Bucky scoffs playful jealousy. “I’m right here, punk.”

“…love you both.” Sleep tugs you under.

You wake thirteen hours later to sunlight and the smell of pancakes. Your fever’s down, head merely cottony instead of magma. Steve’s stretched beside you reading a dog-eared novel; Bucky dozes in the armchair, metal fingers still curled like he fell asleep guarding you.

You swallow around a tender throat, throat thick with unspoken gratitude and leftover stubbornness. Steve’s eyes flick to you, soft. “Feel better?”

You nod.

He arches a brow. “And?”

“…And maybe next time I’ll admit when I’m sick.”

Bucky cracks one eye open. “Record that on your phone so we can play it back.”

You roll your eyes—then smile, sheepish. “Fine. Next time I’ll let my annoyingly perfect supersoldier boyfriends fuss immediately.”

Steve tucks stray hair behind your ear. “Good. Now eat your pancakes before Bucky claims them.”

“Hey,” Bucky grumbles, sitting up, “we share everything in this relationship—especially flapjacks.”

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fayesia · 9 months ago

Text

Freak

Martin (In The Modern World - Fontaines D.C.)

warnings: nsfw 18+, readers lowkey mean to Martin, p in v, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, doggy style, handjob, squirting, fingering, spit play, creampie, hair pulling, rimming (brief), p with a little plot, filthy words on a screen :D

You were always cautious. Walking the same route home. Past the cobbled roads, the dark forested pine trees, and old abandoned buildings. None screamed safety nor comfort, neither of which you expected when moving into the area.

As long a you were free. Successfully escaping the pressures in your life, the heavy weight of hands pressing and pulling you, moulding you, into what they wanted you to become.

So, yes, maybe walking the same route every day to get home wasn't ideal. But neither was the sight you had to witness as you walked across the parking lot in front of your house. The car parked in it. The only car.

In it was him. Your neighbour. That freak. That beautiful fucking freak. A man clambered out, shoving the passenger door open while blood ran from his nose and mouth. His neck marked with ligatures of varying pink and red hues. Pushing past the small crowd forming he briskly stumbled away, the crowd shifting as people left and newcomers joined.

You know you should've kept walking, walking the same damn route, but you didn't. What's that's saying? Curiosity killed the cat. Well, consider yourself the cat.

Making your way over to the edge of the crowd, you stood watching, keeping at least a meter distance so as not to draw attention. His head turned to the window, the side one facing you. His mouth dropped open to reveal a blue stained tongue. Freak. You grimaced. Yet your eyes were unable to remove themselves from the sight in front of you. Your legs were stuck, glued to the cement, your brain ordered them to move, but no movement was made.

Your eyes focused on the scene in front of you, snapping you out of your disassociation, the shuffling of the crowd parting ways. Boys rode off on their bikes, women clutched their bags whispering with one another, and hooker resembling teenagers scoffed sauntering off, losing interest at the dark-haired man in the car.

The very one slumped in the car seat, heavily battered and bloodied as well as unconscious.

You turned to leave, taking two steps before swivelling back on your heels. You stood considering for a few moments the result of what your actions may cause. If the butterfly affect would, in fact, impact what was to happen due to your next decision. Well fuck that, you don't really care about the result of your actions, at least not since you moved here.

Pulling the drivers side door open, you leaned in, tentatively you waved your hand across his face. Was he awake yet? No.

Fuck. Well then. Poking him didn't work either. Grabbing his shoulders, you leaned closer.

"Martin. Martin. Wake up, Martin!"

He grumbled, regaining consciousness, but also the from the pain of his injuries. Pulling him up from the seat, a task proven easier than expected due to his thin build. It suited him. In his own way. Wrapping his arm around your shoulder, you hauled him the short walk to your house beside his. The height difference made it more a half drag on his part. You spoke in hopes of providing some comfort.

"Nearly there, Martin. Nearly home."

You didn't really like the freak, but you weren't a heartless human. His reptiles had escaped to your garden more times than he'd like to take responsibility for, and so had his toy helicopter. Resulting in more hostile neighbourly conversations between the both of you than you'd have liked, considering the majority of them happened at 2am, when he was normally awake.

Unlocking the front door, you manoeuvred Martin's flopping body onto a kitchen chair, dragging it across the floor with a loud screech that jolted him awake.

"What are you doing?"

"Calm down. I'm just trying to help. Now sit still."

You didn't mind the silence, wetting some paper towels with rubbing alcohol as you gently wiped the blood and grime off his pasty white skin. The kitchen was filled by the low hum of your broken refrigerator and the hisses coming from Martin's mouth with every swipe against his skin. His eyes followed you, throwing away the dirty tissues and packing up the first aid kit, placing it in the cupboard before making your way back to the sink.

Stood across from the seated Martin he looked up, shifting in his seat with a pink hue dusted over his cheeks.

"Guess I should go then."

"Umm yeah, let me see you out."

You both walk to the door in silence until his voice scratches out down the hallway.

"You wouldn't happen to have seen my snake have you...I left the side window open again...you know-uhm the one across from your garden."

"Again! Seriously! How many times have I told you. I don't want to see that creepy snake in my garden. What if it bites me -"

"Hey! He's friendly."

"No, i doubt that. It's probably a freak. Like you!"

He angered at your words harshly shoving you against the hallways narrow walls. There was barely any space for two people to walk, so being pinned left you feeling even more trapped. It was like the temperature had increased ten fold, your eyes widened at the close proximity between the two of you. He breath was hot and heavy against the side of your face, daring you to keep talking, but you knew better, rather content with glaring at him.

His fingers dug past the material of your faux fur coat while yours held tightly on his forearms. The silence seemed to drag on with the two of you looking into each others eyes. But it was more than that, both looking past each others iris, the pupils and the nerves, looking into each others souls.

And then he kissed you. Just like that.

His lips were on yours, and you could taste the distinctive artificial flavoured candy only just overpowered by the cigarette he must've smoked earlier.

It was suffocating and comforting. Yet freeing and ferocious. As if you had finally given into a craving after so long, like you were sinning after years of celibacy.

Your hands grappled at each other clothes, needing to remove the thick confines you were in. Various articles of clothing littered the hallway, creating a breadcrumb trail to your bedroom. His hands dug into your hair, only deepening the kiss once you were straddling his lap on your bed. Oxygen wasn't a necessity in this moment. It was the taste of each other that you both were surviving off of.

Discarding your bra, Martin removed his shirt, leaving him in his boxers. He positioned you on all fours facing away. Cold, long fingers dragged your panties off you, and you were bare to him, no feeling of shame, just need, as your arch deepened. His hand caressed the path of your spine where he lay gentle kisses, kneeling behind you, he played with the softness of your thighs and hips. The silent room was now filled by your whines of pleasure.

His mouth was on you, exploring every part of you, tasting and savouring you like it was his last meal. His tongue traced from your leaking hole down to your clit where his lips suckled more noises from you. He brought two fingers to your cunt, spreading your folds as his tongue moved through the mess of your juices and his spit, only spreading it down your inner thighs. You pressed back against Martin's face, moaning out in pleasure but his hands hooked around your thighs holding you in place while his mouth worked on you.

You were so close. "Fuck yes just like that, I'm gonna fucking come don't stop- don't you dare fucking stop."

Your words only spurred Martin on, his thumb prodded at your hole wetting it with a mix of fluids before unexpectedly moving it to your tighter hole above. The action drawing out even louder noises from you. He smiled at that and you could feel the change of expression against your pussy. "Come for me."

You didn't need asking twice, clenching the bedsheets you whined into them, your cunt gushing around Martin's tongue and drenching the bottom half of his face. Small droplets ran down his chest as you fell flat against the mattress, angling your head to see a smiling Martin.

God, what a freak.

But you thought it with a small smile this time.

One that was covered by Martin's lips once again, his body embraced yours. You tugged at his boxers, and he pulled them off barely separating from you before leaning his head back to groan up at the ceiling. Your hand wrapped tightly around his cock. It fit comfortably in your hand, what lacked in girth was made up by length.

He thrust into your hand, jerking to feel more stimulation from you, which you were sure to provide. You were comfortably laying with his cock in your hand, his hand moving to separate your thighs, leaving you open to him. His hand coming down to explore your pussy while your hand continued working on him. Entering two of his fingers you arched at the movements, your own fingers were not of the same length or thickness. Moaning out, Martin was kneeling beside you, your hand jerking him off as his fingers worked in and out of you, his thumb occasionally rubbing against your clit.

It was art. The type the Greeks would've painted. The type found in the Renaissance era.

Pure pleasure and carnal desire.

You felt your release nearing, but when Martin twitched in your hand, he removed his fingers and moved. You huffed in annoyance about to speak your mind, but his hands grabbed your body, quickly flipping you over, the same way he did to the men in that car.

Pulling your hips up and pushing your back down, you were in the same arched position as before. He breathed heavily, almost hesitant, but the teasing movement of your ass was almost too much for him to bear. Holding his cock he spat onto your cunt as he pushed the leaking tip through your folds, only further adding to the mess of your pussy.

The tightness wrapped around his cock, almost pushing him out, but the further he entered, the more your cunt sucked him in.

The two of you made noises that bounced off the walls and were certainly heard from outside your window, neither you could give less of a fuck though. His hand clutched your hair while the other guided your hips back against him with each thrust. There was nothing gentle about his movements but that only made you crave more, the feeling of his cock entering you roughly with each movement had you releasing more liquid along the length of him. It collected around the base of his cock making his movements pass easier.

He hauled you up by your hair, his front pressed against your back, his lips against your ear, licking and nipping at the soft flesh. Bringing your hands up to his head, you pulled him into a kiss. Your fingers ran through his slightly greasy hair, the black soft locks tightly wrapped around your fingers while his tongue explored your mouth.

The change of position only prompted his dick to reach even deeper inside of you. Your moans increased while his hands moved around your body, first around your throat, then down to your tits where he roughly grabbed at them and pulled at your nipples, finally coming down to your clit where his fingers rubbed harshly, spreading more of your wetness around.

That was your breaking point. Your hands reached for anything to hold onto, which was Martin's forearm. Your sharp nails dug harshly into his skin, marking it with red crescent shapes, and his dick pummeled harder into you. The both of you were nearing release. Whispering into your ear, he urged you,

"Come for me. Come around my cock, wanna feel you fuckin' tighten your pussy 'round me."

And so you did.

With a few more thrusts into you, he bottomed out as you threw your head back, moaning Martians name. You doubt he would realise with how much noise it was said with.

But he did. He relished in it.

He'd go so far to believe its what made him cum as quick as he did after you. Still deep in you his cock released his cum, with near animalistic groans and arms that embraced you tightly, willing to never let go.

The thick liquid collected inside you and as his now soft dick was pulled out you could feel it drip out between your thighs, his face nuzzled into the side of your neck as the two of your softly caught your breath, relishinng in the sex of pent up tension. The sheets now soiled by your choices. The result of angry words said in the flurry of an argument.

The consequence of fucking your freak neighbour.

#martin #smut #ewan mitchell #ewan mitchell smut #in the modern world #fontaines d.c.#oneshot #lemon #aemond targaryen smut

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pankowcrumbs · 1 month ago

Text

Soft X Joseph Quinn

MasterList

Joseph Quinn Masterlist

Stranger Things and Cast Masterlist

The clock on the wall ticked past midnight, its rhythmic sound filling the quiet flat. I sat on the sofa, a soft blanket draped over my legs, the glow of the lamp casting a warm hue across the room. The day had been long, but my thoughts were with Joe, knowing he was enduring an even longer one on set.

I knew he was exhausted the moment I heard the key scrape into the lock.

It was nearly 1 a.m., and I’d been curled up on the sofa with a blanket and my book for hours, unable to properly settle knowing Joe was still on set. Seventeen hours of filming for a gritty war drama was brutal in any circumstance but Joe? He gave everything. Always had. And he’d texted me around 10 to say they were still going. My chest had tightened just thinking about how tired he must be.

The door creaked open and I looked up, my book falling to my lap.

He looked shattered. he was still in his military costume boots, jacket, even the smudges of soot and fake blood painted across his jawline. I blinked at him for a second, and when our eyes met, something in his expression softened.

“Hey, bub,” he said, voice hoarse and raw from the day.

“Joe,” I murmured, rising quickly, the blanket falling from my shoulders. “You look wrecked.”

He gave a weak chuckle, letting his bag slide to the floor. “That’s because I am.”

I walked over, reaching up to cup his face gently. His cheeks were cool, his stubble brushing against my palm. “Let me look after you.”

“I’m fine, baby,” he said, though the tremble in his voice betrayed just how not fine he was.

I gave him a look, the kind that said don’t argue with me, and he smiled faintly, letting me guide him to the sofa. He sat heavily, his head falling back against the cushions.

“Stay there,” I instructed, already padding towards the kitchen.

It didn’t take long. I reheated the pasta I’d made earlier, set out a bottle of water, dug out the hot water bottle I’d prepared just in case he’d want it, and grabbed his softest hoodie from the bedroom. When I returned, he was half-asleep, his eyes fluttering as he battled the weight of exhaustion.

“Joey,” I whispered, crouching beside him. “Eat first, sleep after.”

He stirred, blinking groggily before smiling when he saw me holding a bowl. “You’re an angel.”

“No, just your girlfriend who hates seeing you like this,” I teased gently, helping him out of the thick costume jacket.

He winced as he moved. “God, I think I aged twenty years today.”

I chuckled softly and draped the hoodie over his shoulders. “At least you’ll die handsome.”

He snorted, took the bowl, and began to eat with quiet gratitude. I sat beside him, legs folded under me, watching him. His movements were slow, each bite careful, but I could see the colour returning to his face. After a few minutes, he set the bowl aside and looked at me with this tired, affectionate gaze.

“Bubba,” he murmured, voice almost a whisper. “I love you. I’m so grateful you’re here taking care of me.”

I smiled “Of course I’m here.”

He stared at me for a moment, then sighed dramatically, tugging the blanket off the back of the couch. “But for the love of God… please just come here and cuddle me. That’s what I really need right now.”

I laughed, warm and sweet, and didn’t hesitate for a second. I slid into his arms, the bowl long forgotten on the coffee table, and he pulled the blanket around us like a cocoon.

He buried his face in my hair, inhaling deeply. “This… this is it. I’ve been dreaming about this all day.”

My chest ached in the best way. “You missed me that much?”

He pulled back enough to look at me, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “So much. You’ve no idea. I spent three hours lying on wet cement thinking about your laugh.”

I giggled. “That’s very poetic.”

“I’m a very poetic man,” he deadpanned, and I couldn’t help but laugh again.

We settled into silence for a while, his arms wrapped tightly around me, our bodies moulded together perfectly. I could hear the steady beat of his heart beneath his chest, feel the way he breathed slower with every minute.

“You want to talk about it?” I asked gently.

He nodded slowly, eyes still closed. “It was a rough day. The director was pushing us for this massive sequence, so we kept doing retake after retake. Explosions, shouting, fake gunfire. It was intense. And cold. And I kept thinking... is this even worth it?”

I stroked his chest soothingly. “It is. You’re brilliant. You make it real.”

He let out a sigh. “It helps knowing I come home to you.”

My heart squeezed.

He kept talking, his voice getting softer with each sentence. About the crew, the scene, how his feet hurt, how the camera jammed mid-take and they had to start over from scratch. I listened, murmured encouragement, rubbed small circles on his back, and kissed his temple whenever he got too frustrated.

Eventually, he stilled.

“You’re so good to me,” he said, just above a whisper.

“I love you,” I replied simply.

He turned his face to mine, kissed me with a depth that made my eyes prickle with tears. “I love you too.”

We stayed there for a long time, just cuddling, nothing else.

Later, when the clock struck 3 a.m., I stirred to suggest we go to bed, but he tightened his arms around me like a child refusing to let go of their favourite teddy bear.

“No. Don’t move. Just stay.”

I laughed softly. “Alright, Joey. I’m not going anywhere.”

He hummed contentedly, nuzzling closer.

“You know we were supposed to go out tomorrow,” I murmured after a beat.

“Mm, cancel it,” he mumbled. “I just want to cuddle with my girl all day.”

I smiled against his chest, my hand slipping under the hem of his hoodie to rest against the warm skin of his side.

“We can do that,” I whispered.

We fell asleep like that. Wrapped in each other. Safe. Home.

It was nearly noon by the time we stirred again.

I blinked my eyes open, nestled beneath a mound of blankets and warm limbs. Joe's arm was still slung lazily around my waist, his face pressed to the side of my neck, his breath soft and steady. The living room had filled with golden morning light, dancing through the half-closed curtains, warming the room like a quiet blessing.

I shifted slightly to stretch, and felt his arm tighten instinctively.

“Don’t even think about moving,” came his groggy voice, muffled slightly by my hair. “I’ve got you exactly where I want you.”

I smiled, the kind that bloomed from my chest outward. “I was just going to grab us tea.”

“No.” He burrowed deeper against me. “You move, I die.”

I laughed quietly, reaching a hand up to stroke his curls. “That’s dramatic, even for you.”

“Not dramatic,” he murmured. “Just deeply in love.”

That made me still.

He didn’t say it for effect. Didn’t say it to win me over or charm me. He said it sleepily, sincerely, without even lifting his head from my neck.

“I love you too,” I whispered, twisting slightly so I could press a kiss to the top of his head.

He finally moved then, just enough to look up at me. His eyes were sleep-heavy and glassy, but there was a sparkle in them, too. That Joseph Quinn sparkle that never really went away, no matter how tired he was.

“Can’t believe I got so bloody lucky,” he said softly.

“Joe…”

“No, seriously,” he went on, propping himself up on his elbow now, eyes fixed on me like I was made of stars. “You...you're just… You take care of me. You listen to me rant about directors you’ve never met, actors you don’t know, and you don’t even flinch when I go off on tangents for hours. You never once told me to stop doing this job even when it means I’m gone for months. You don’t complain. You just love me.”

I reached up to brush my fingers across his cheek. “Of course I love you. I knew what this life would be like. I chose you, Joe. All of you.”

He closed his eyes for a beat, like the weight of those words settled right into his bones.

“You know what they say?” he whispered, eyes opening again. “Behind every strong man…”

I smiled. “Is an even stronger woman?”

He nodded, eyes glinting with sincerity. “You are. Stronger than I’ll ever be.”

“Joe”

“No, listen to me,” he said, voice dipping just above a whisper. “You hold me together when I feel like I’m crumbling. You remind me who I am when I lose myself in a character for too long. You kiss my forehead when I’m sick and laugh at my terrible jokes and make me feel… human. I’d go mad without you.”

My chest ached, in the way it does when someone says something so vulnerable, so beautiful, you don’t quite know what to do with it.

“I’d never let you go mad,” I whispered.

He smiled, wide and lazy, and leaned in to kiss me. It wasn’t rushed, or wild it was soft, sure, full of meaning. His hand cupped my cheek and I melted into him, every inch of my body relaxing again.

After a few minutes of quiet kissing and soft smiles, I pulled back with a sigh. “Alright. We do need tea.”

He groaned. “Fine. But I’m coming with you. I can’t be more than a foot away from you at any given time today.”

I laughed, pushing him off gently. “Clingy.”

“Proud of it.”

We padded into the kitchen, barefoot and still in pyjamas. He sat at the breakfast bar, head in his hands, watching me like I was some rare painting as I made tea and grabbed the leftover banana bread from the tin.

“You know,” he said after a sip of his tea, “I don’t think I ever want to leave this flat again.”

“Good thing we’ve got nowhere to be,” I said, sliding a slice of bread his way.

He grinned. “I lied about wanting to go out, you know. Yesterday. I only said it because I thought you’d want to.”

“I only said yes because I thought you wanted to.”

He laughed, mouth full. “We’re hopeless.”

“Hopelessly in sync.”

The rest of the day passed in a haze of soft warmth and slower-than-usual time.

We lay on the sofa for hours, flicking through old movies, half-watching as he played with my fingers or buried his face in my neck. At some point, I made cheese toasties, which he declared “the meal of kings,” before insisting on doing the dishes while humming a little song about how in love he was.

Later, as the sun started to dip below the windowsill, we climbed back into bed, fully dressed but fully content. I was reading, and Joe was lying beside me, head on my stomach, fingers tracing light patterns along my side.

“Can I ask you something?” he murmured.

“Course.”

“If I’d met you sooner… do you think we’d still have found our way here?”

I looked down at him. “Yeah. I think we’d always end up here.”

He reached up, tangled his fingers with mine. “I like to think so too.”

There was something so utterly romantic about the simplicity of the moment. No pressure. No red carpets or film sets or people asking for photos. Just us. Quiet and full of love.

“Marry me one day?” he asked suddenly, voice light but sincere.

I raised an eyebrow. “Are you proposing in pyjamas?”

He laughed, cheeks flushed. “Not officially. I just want you to know I’m already planning the rest of my life with you.”

I leaned down, kissed the tip of his nose. “That’s good. Because I was already planning mine with you.”

He practically beamed. “God, I love you.”

“You’ve mentioned.”

He kissed my belly through my shirt and murmured, “Not enough.”

Eventually, we fell asleep again, limbs tangled and hearts full.

And in that quiet, in the way his thumb brushed over my hand even in sleep, I knew I’d never feel more loved than I did in that tiny flat, wrapped up in Joseph Quinn’s arms, on the laziest day of our lives.

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mortuary-maggots · 4 months ago

Text

Mean

This is my first time writing smut so please be kind as I figure things out!

synopsis- Toby and reader do not get along in the slightest. What happens when they're forced to share a bed coming home from a mission?

TW: smut, mentions of blood, name calling (both sexual and non), mentions of murder, biting, reader is kind of a brat, reader is afab

Let me know if I've missed any warnings.

Thick silence clung to the air of the car, mixing with the stale smell of cigarette smoke and greasy fast food bags. Tim had one hand gripped firmly on the wheel, so tightly you would be shocked if he didn't leave behind imprints in the leather. His other hand rested outside the rolled down window, cigarette nestled between two fingers; his fourth one in the last hour. You knew the mission had gone poorly even if it had been completed, but his chain smoking in silence cemented that fact all the more. He was always the first to chastise the group when things went south, armed with harsh words and insults that you knew were out of a need to better you all. Silence from him when it came to matters of work was unsettling, it was only a matter of time before he exploded.

Brian sat passenger, equally silent. That wasn't out of the ordinary, he was often a man of little words, even more so when he was sleep deprived. You all were at this point. Cleaning up loose ends for the Operator would often consist of many day missions, in which rest was a luxury. You all savored the ability to relax when you came back, even Tim, who never really slept much to begin with. Brian fiddled with the screen of his camcorder, opening and closing it in a repetitive motion, head focused on the road in front of him. Normally, he'd be hounding Tim to slow down on the cigarettes by his second one, not wanting to deal with the acrid fumes in such close proximity, but you knew even he felt the tension that seeped from the man in the driver's seat.

Toby sat next to you in the back, eyes trained outside. His elbow rested on the armrest of the door, his cheek nestled into his gloved hand. You could tell he was still fuming from your earlier fight, the fight that had almost cost you the entire mission. You couldn't even remember the full context to why you had started fighting in the first place, you probably killed someone he had his sights trained on or something of the sort. It didn't matter what it was about either way, you both always found something to argue over. Drinking the rest of the milk in the cabin, him dumping your wet laundry on the floor to replace it with his, who sat shotgun when Brian wasn't in the car, just about any interaction you had with him ended in a screaming match that had to be broken up by Tim or Brian, sometimes both if it got too out of hand.

It's not like you tried to start something with him, it just kind of happened. He was disagreeable and snappy and you could tell there was something about you just existing in his general vicinity that pissed him off. You weren't quite sure what you had done to land yourself on his perpetual shit-list, but you also hadn't really asked. You craved the excitement that came with the explosion of vitriol you casted at each other, it was a much needed stress relief. He was an outlet to blow off steam. However, there was also a small part of you that enjoyed the attention from him, even if it was mostly negative.

When you had first become a proxy, you had mentally latched onto him, developing a little proximity crush in the process. Falling for someone was something you were sure would never happen to you, especially after all the trauma that led you to where you were now. Yet, here he was, infectious laugh and messy curls making you feel smitten. Back then, you’d be able to have a conversation without it devolving, his energetic ramblings about things he loved were endearing, but somewhere along the way that had rapidly changed to a demeaning attitude. It wasn't gradual, it came overnight, like a switch had been flipped. You didn't reciprocate his jabs at first, but the longer it went on the more it lit a fire in you. The crush hadn't really gone away either, instead twisting into an unhealthy obsession with how easy you got under his skin, how much you lived rent free in his head even if he was dousing his mind version of you in gasoline and striking a match. There was something so enticing about pushing his buttons until he lost control.

The most recent fight had almost resulted in a survivor escaping, both of you far too enthralled in verbally ripping each other apart to notice someone trying to slip away. Brian had finished her off while Tim forcefully led you and Toby back to the car, hands gripped on the backs of your necks. It was like breaking up a dogfight by separating them by their scruff, though it didn't stop you two from continuing the tirade back and forth until Tim threatened to leave you both to walk. You had shut up instantly, but you knew it wasn't the end; you always seemed to pick up right where you left off.

“You two need to get your shit together.” Tim's gruff voice pierced through the smog that had yet to escape through his open window. “You're going to get yourselves fucking killed because you can't get along for longer than five minutes.”

“I'll do that w-when she stops being a cunt.” Toby mumbled under his breath, kicking at one of the discarded food bags that had consisted of tonight's dinner.

It didn't stop Tim from hearing it clearly, letting out a disgruntled sigh that told you he was trying his best to not stop the car completely and chew you both out.

“You're right, I'm sorry Tim.” You ignored Toby's nasty comment in favor of keeping your head attached to your body. Toby's anger was easy enough to deal with, you had been for a while, but Tim's anger was a whole other beast you didn't want to be on the other end of. Even if you desperately wanted to say something snarky to piss off Toby further.

Toby just scoffed at your apology, obviously expecting one pointed towards him as well. Tim only shook his head, letting another sigh fall from his lips, though this one sounded decidedly more exhausted. It was still hours back to the cabin and you knew you needed to stop at a motel before he crashed the car from sleep deprivation. Normally on missions Brian drove, but he had relinquished the keys to Tim, not trusting himself to stay awake on the long drive back. An insomniac in the driver's seat had seemed like a good idea at the time, but the longer the drive went on, the more it became harder for him not to nod off as well.

Thankfully, Brian seemed to be on the same wavelength as you. “We should find somewhere to stay for the night before you fall asleep at the wheel.”

“I want to g-go home.” Toby sat up, more alert. His hazy brown eyes glanced toward you for a moment and you felt a tug at your heart strings. You almost resented the feelings for him that refused to go away, almost hated the giddiness that flipped in your stomach when he spoke to you. Almost.

“Kid, we need sleep. Everyone is tired and cranky and I'm sick of listening to you two go at it.” Tim agreed with Brian's sentiment. Brian snorted at the end of Tim's sentence, delighted at the accidental innuendo.

Toby didn't seem to notice Brian's implications, and if he did he didn't say anything about it. “You're just g-going to make me share a room with her.”

“You both are going to have to learn how to get along at some point.” Brain responded.

Tim's eyes flicked up to the rear view mirror to look at you both in the backseat. “He's right, we can't afford a failed mission.”

Toby didn't respond, instead opting to dramatically slump back in his seat, arms crossed like a child who just got told he can't get a toy at the store. It was amusing to see a grown man act like this because of you, but you knew Brian and Tim were right, even though you had a feeling if you tried genuinely being open with Toby, it wouldn't go the way you intended. You wished you could pry open his brunette head and peer inside his skull to see what went on in that confusing brain of his. If you actually could see thoughts that way, it would be decidedly easier than trying to get him to calmly talk to you on his own. You ran over ways to approach him about, at the very least, pretending to get along on missions the entire way to the seedy motel Tim had chosen. You were no closer to having a good idea though.

“Alright wait here.” Tim stretched with a groan as soon as he got out of the driver's side, a cacophony of cracking joints sounding as he did. Man needed to see a chiropractor or get a stretching rack before his bones disintegrated or something. The car was practically vibrating from the intensity that settled over the remaining inhabitants. You could feel Toby's gaze burn holes into your head, but you refused to meet his gaze, hoping to save whatever storm was brewing for when you were both in your room for the night. It didn't take long for Tim to return, two keycards in hand and another cigarette in the other. He stopped in front of the car and waved the keycards in the air, a silent signal for them all to get out.

Brian made a beeline for the trunk to retrieve your duffle bags as Tim handed Toby the card for your room. “They only have two, one bed rooms left, so I just got those.”

“Are you f-fucking kidding m-me.” Toby's twitches got closer together in length as he spat out his shock. You could feel the anxiety fall off him in waves, his full eyebrows furrowed in rage. You tried your best to keep a poker face, but you still felt a blush dust across your cheeks because you didn't necessarily mind sharing a bed with him, it was just an excuse to be closer. It was not lost on you how pathetic that made you sound but you couldn't bring yourself to care.

Tim only grunted a simple, “you'll live,” in response and stamped the cigarette butt out on the ground with his foot. He shoved one of the key cards into Toby’s hand, ignoring the death glare he received in return.

Despite yourself you couldn't help but poke the bear. “It's just a bed.”

“That I have to s-share with a dumb slut.” He growled. “W-what if she bites me in my sleep and I get rabies.”

“Can you two just fuck already.” Brian came to stand next to Tim, tossing the duffle bags on the ground in the middle of the group.

Toby let out an exasperated noise and wordlessly snatched his dark green bag from off the pavement before stomping off in the perceived direction of your room. You were quick to follow, knowing fully if you didn't, he'd leave you to find your own way there, maybe even lock you out of the room. Tim and Brian were a few paces behind, walking leisurely and chatting about breakfast plans for the morning. The small motel looked to be on the verge of condemnation, run down and empty save for the few cars that dotted the parking lot. You had a sneaking suspicion that Tim was lying about the room situation to get you and Toby to finally talk things out. You knew that if this didn't work, Tim and Brian would stop at nothing to remedy the problem, maybe even going as far as to get you both one giant sweater with the words “this is our get along shirt” printed across the front. You hoped it wouldn't have to come to that.

Your rooms were right next to each other, the doors around it proudly boasting closed for cleaning. It was usually the case for you all to get rooms far away from the general public when you had to stay somewhere for the night, none of you really wanted to get caught by the police. Toby tore through the door after unlocking it, the sheer force of the swing causing it to slam into the wall inside. The compact room had very little furniture, only a bed that barely fit two, two nightstands on either side, and a dresser, and the bathroom was equally as small, narrowly fitting all of its amenities. You closed the door softly behind you after calling goodnight to the other two. The clock that sat on one of the bedside tables read the witching hour and yet there was a frenetic energy coming from Toby as he ripped open his bag on the bed.

“You can have the bed, I'll sleep on the floor.” You had decided to wait to talk to him until morning, desperately trying to avoid another argument for Tim and Brian's sake. You were hoping he'd be a little more agreeable with a full rest.

He had other plans, however. “W-why? So you can complain to them about h-how I made you sleep on the floor?”

“Fine, then you sleep on the floor.” You could feel the familiar venom bubble to the surface, you needed to redirect this fast before you lost it yourself.

“Oh that's real nice, make me s-sleep on the floor.”

“There's no fucking winning with you, is there?” You spat. “Do whatever the hell you want.”

He pulled his clothes from his bag and stalked into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. It was going to be a long night. You quickly changed into your own pajamas while he was locked in there, it becoming abundantly clear that he had no interest in even trying to head Tim and Brian’s word. You tried to think back to before it all started, micro-analyzing every single thing you had done or said to him that could make him hate you as much as he did, but you couldn't come up with a single answer. You hadn't done a damn thing except treat him with kindness and it was driving you up the wall that this is how he chose to repay it. Toby stormed out not long after you had finished changing and ignored you completely as you swapped places to do your night routine, which was done hastily in favor of getting to bed faster.

The room was dark when you returned, Toby already under the covers and staring at the ceiling. You mirrored him, your bodies almost touching from how small the bed was, and you made sure to scoot as close to the edge as possible to stave off a complaint from him.

That effort was in vain. “Turn towards the wall, I don't want y-your face to be the first thing I s-see when I wake up.”

That was it. You felt something snap in you as you raised your voice at him. “What is your fucking damage? Why do you always have to have an attitude.”

“Take a look in the m-mirror.” His voice raised in response to yours. “Maybe you'll figure it out.”

“Real mature. I busted my ass to get along with you when I first joined, went out of my way to get to know you. Why do you have such a problem with me? I-”

He cut you off. “Because I fucking like you okay?” Your eyes widened and you whipped your head to look at him. The concern etched onto his face told you he was just as surprised as you were that it came out of his mouth. You could only stare at him, face hot, your own mouth agape as your brain ran a mile a minute and your heart matched its pace.

He made a move to leave the bed, but you wouldn’t let him run away from his confession. “Toby, wait, why didn't you just tell me?” Your voice was soft and shaky, wanting to diffuse the situation, astonished he reciprocated your feelings.

“So what? I’ll get rejected, l-laughed at?” His voice wavered, unsure of everything that was unfolding between you.

“How do you know I’d do that?” You couldn’t believe what you were saying, couldn’t believe this was even happening. “I don’t understand why you felt the need to push me away, instead of being a dick, you could have just said something.”

He furrowed his brows, taking a minute to respond. You could almost see the gears in his head turning, tired eyes scanning the ceiling for some kind of answer to his problems. “Y-you kind of deserved it.”

You let out a discontented noise, moving to get out of the bed. You had to get some air. “What the fuck ever Toby, I give up.”

Before you could get up fully, his hands were on you, pulling you back into the bed until you were on your back under him, wrists pinned. “I’m f-fucking right, you come in here with those stupid d-doe eyes and pretty smile and act so sickeningly nice to me. It pisses me off, I thought I could f-fix it by starting fights but that just made it s-so much fucking worse because now I’m just thinking about putting you in y-your place.”

All you can do is stare at him, astonished at his confessions. He was inches from your face, breathing labored and eyes unblinking, hands in a vice grip around your poor wrists. It was a struggle to form coherent thoughts, let alone words. “Toby, I-”

You don’t get much out before he interrupted you. “S-shut the fuck up, stop talking. I don’t want to hear it.”

It felt like your brain short circuited a moment, realizing he’s set you up perfectly to push back. “Then make me.”

He just stared in confusion a moment before it finally clicked. He threw caution into the wind, slamming his lips onto yours in a frenzy. It was sloppy and rushed, like he’d been dreaming of this moment for a while and he couldn’t wait to finally claim you. He sucked your bottom lip into his mouth, biting down on the thin skin until it started to bubble with blood, the metallic taste filling your mouth. The pain caused you to inhale sharply, only rewarding you with his knee moving to separate your thighs, a low groan erupting from his throat as he slid his tongue across the bleeding lip. Your mind is clouded and your clit tingled with excitement as he moved to leave messy kisses down your neck, biting down when he found the spot that caused the biggest reaction. He abused the skin, sucking and biting until a bruise blossomed, causing pitiful whimpers to fall from your mouth.

“L-look at you.” He breathed, pulling back to admire your disheveled form. Your eyes were half-lidded, lips parted as you struggled to catch your breath from the whirlwind of his rapidly shifting attitude. “So much fight in you before, but I was right wasn’t I? Y-you are a slut.”

“I am not!” You protested, though your words quickly turned into a gasp when he shoved his knee further up your thighs, rubbing against the fabric of your pajama shorts.

“O-oh good, you still have some fight left.” Toby shifted, letting go of your wrists and pushing your legs open enough that he could kneel between them. “I’m looking forward to b-breaking you.”

He moved his hands down the curves of your body, obviously intent on taking off your shirt. You let a coy smile fall across your face, he wanted a fight and historically, you were glad to give that to him. You grabbed at his wrists, stopping him from getting what he wanted, making him growl in frustration and rip the thin material in half.

“What the fuck.” You ignored the cool air that hit your bare chest in favor of riling him up further.

His gaze was predatory as he took in the sight of your breasts, exposed just for him. He spoke with a wolfish grin. “If you’re going to act like a brat, I’m g-going to treat you like one.” He dipped to leave marks all over the expanse of skin, relishing in the way it made you buck under him. Pressing down on your clit with his clothed erection, he ground into you roughly, sending chills down your spine. Once he was satisfied with the bruising, he latched onto one of your nipples, nipping at it every so often. His fingers pinched roughly at the other, the dichotomy of pain and pleasure leaving you reeling.

“I think I like you better when you’re using your mouth for this.” You said between pants, ignoring how your voice wavered.

He pulled away from your nipple with an obnoxious pop. “A-and I think I like you b-better when you’re a d-desperate mess.” Hands tugged your pajama shorts down, discarding them somewhere off the bed, leaving you in just your panties.

“Fuck you.” You spat.

“P-planning on it.” He ran a finger up your clothed folds, pressing a little harder when he ghosted over your clit. You could tell he was admiring the green lace of the garment, admiring how soaked you were from his actions. “All t-this for me?”

Instinctively, you pressed your legs together, giving him the perfect opportunity to pull the underwear off and stuff it into the pocket of his pajama pants. Before you could protest, Toby’s hands gripped harshly into your thighs, prying them apart. You tried to stifle a gasp, though you were unsuccessful as you watched him lick his lips. Wordlessly, he dove to lick a stripe up the slick folds, swirling his tongue around the clit when he reached it. His hands still held firm on your thighs, his fingers were gripping so tightly you knew they wouldn’t escape unmarked. Your back arched off the bed, moans tumbling from your lips in a hushed tone, your own hands grasping the thin bed sheets.

He pulled back after a moment and clicked his tongue. “Oh c-come on, I know you c-can be louder than that, you run your mouth too much to be q-quiet now.”

You opened your mouth to protest with furrowed brows, but he quickly returned his tongue to your clit, this time sucking it roughly into his mouth. You let the moans and whimpers spill, unashamed of whoever may hear it, your hands coming to find purchase in his brown curls. Your light tugging urged him to slip two long fingers into your sopping entrance. The surprise caused you to squeak, hips bucking as he curled them into the spot that made your walls contract around him. His pace sped up, each harsh suck of your clit building pressure in you until you couldn’t take it anymore. Your head was thrown back, eyes screwed shut as the coil snapped, your walls threatening to keep his fingers from escaping with how much they squeezed.

He didn’t stop until your breathing calmed and you pitifully pushed his head away, babbling about how you were sensitive. Slowly, teasingly, he pulled his fingers out, maintaining perfect eye contact, and put them in his mouth, licking them clean. He swiftly took off his clothes and swiped the tip of his hard cock against your folds, collecting your cum on his head before lining it up with your hole. He was big, not too wide but definitely made up for it in length. You had a feeling it would take a minute to get used to, but judging by the impatient lust swirling in Toby’s eyes, you wouldn’t get much time to adjust.

“Look at you.” He breathed. “S-so high and mighty before and now here you are, l-learning what you’re good for.”

“I d-” You were cut off by your own gasp when he pressed into you, burying the head in your plush walls.

“Sorry, w-what was that?” His voice was mocking and snide as he moved your legs to rest your calves on his shoulders. He lowered his body, manhandling you into a mating press so he could hover above your face.

“You’re an asshole.” Each word was punctuated by heavy breathing and was rewarded with him swiftly bottoming out inside you. A strangled noise of shock came from you, hands flying to push back on his shoulders.

He lowered his head to your ear to deliver a dangerous whisper. “I don’t think you’re in a position to t-talk back to me.” He pulled out, agonizingly slow before slamming back into you, forming a quick and painful pace. You felt so full, like you would split in half, unable to form anything but piteous cries with every hit to your gspot. Eventually, the pain began to subside as you grew accustomed to his length and the brutal pace he set, every roll of his hips a shot of electricity straight to your core. He brought one hand down to play with your clit, the other snaking to grip roughly around your throat, cutting off your air supply. His thumb pressed into one of the spots he left on your neck, causing a dull ache to greet you. Your head spun, dizzily clenching around him with every deep thrust and every labored pant that he let out into your ear.

You felt your second orgasm start to build from his relentless actions, clit throbbing from his abuse. It was like he could sense you were close, somehow speeding up his thrusting until you saw stars, vision growing hazy from air loss. Your hand pulled weakly on his wrist, lungs begging for relief but he refused to let up. It only seemed to make the pressure in your core burn more, only made the pleasure of his cock more intense, only made his sultry growls more arousing. You felt like you could explode. Your nails dug into the skin of his wrist as you threatened to do just that, eyes rolling back in your head.

“Toby, I’m gonna-” You struggled out the best you could with him still depriving you of oxygen.

“Cum for me slut, cum around my cock.” Was all he said, and much to your dismay you obeyed. You let your orgasm wash over you, milking his cock. He fucked you through it, letting off your clit and neck to rest his hands on either side of your head. You heaved, thankful to finally be able to breathe properly again. He kept pounding you over and over, until without warning, he buried himself to the base, spilling his own release into you as deep as he could and pressing a surprisingly soft and loving kiss to your lips. When he pulled away, you both stayed there a moment, foreheads pressed together, your legs shaking.

“I’m s-sorry,” He mumbled. “F-for being so rude to you lately.”

You could only smile as he slowly pulled out of you, gently lowering your legs back onto the bed. “You can make it up to me by not pushing me away anymore. I really like you Toby, and I’m tired of pretending I don’t.” You watched him admire the way his cum slipped out of you and onto the mattress.

He returned your smile after a moment and pressed another gentle kiss to your lips. “C-can you stand?” He asked, getting off the bed.

You struggled to push yourself up, swinging your wobbly legs over the side and almost crumbling to the ground as soon as your feet hit the floor. Almost like he was expecting it, he caught you and threw your arm over his shoulder to hoist you up.

“Let's get you cleaned up.” He said, leading you into the little bathroom, triumph coating his voice. Tim and Brian would never let either of you hear the end of this.

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