#but like i said nothing “complete” yet

[sunsburns]

the complete knock — bob reynolds

⟢ synopsis. you’re only here to try and understand why bucky’s suddenly gone off the rails and joined a new team, leaving you, sam and joaquín in radio silence. the last thing you expected was to find comfort in a stranger. a kind stranger named bob.

⟢ contains. spoilers for thunderbolts*, takes place during the 14 month later period. nothing too crazy, mostly plot. reader is described as female. bob is a cutie!! reader and joaquín are sambucky children of divorce :(

⟢ wc: 9.7k+

⟢ author’s note. wrote this with a vague idea and a dream. i don't know. don't ask pls.

You were here strictly for business.

The lobby was all polished glass, military-grade charm, and propaganda dressed in gold. Cameras flashed like fireworks along the crimson carpet, catching every inch of shine from designer suits and sharp smiles. A towering digital screen looped the promo again: "The New Avengers: Built for Tomorrow." You watched from the fringe as the montage played, the images slicing together in quick succession—John Walker throwing the shield with over-practised precision, Yelena Belova dismantling a room of dummies in under twelve seconds, and Ava Starr phasing through a concrete wall with a smirk. Hero shots. Sanitized. Manufactured. All of them.

You didn’t blink as you were ushered to an elevator.

Growing up, the Avengers Tower never really felt real to you. Sure, you’d seen the photos, the documentaries, the endless footage of press conferences held on its front steps. Hell, you’d even walked past it with your parents whenever you visited New York—but it still felt like it belonged to another world entirely. Untouchable. Almost mythic.

You never imagined you’d walk inside.

And yet now, riding the elevator up with a slow-climbing hum and nerves that prickled beneath your skin, all you felt was dread.

It was a strange kind of emptiness—the feeling of finally reaching something you once admired, only to realize it had been gutted and repainted in someone else’s image. The marble floors had been waxed clean, but the history here wasn’t. You could still feel the ghosts under the polish. Somewhere between the seams of the rebuilt walls and reprogrammed elevators, there was once a legacy. Real one. But it didn’t belong to the people in charge of this event.

You were crammed in with a handful of Congress members and defence contractors, all of whom smelled like cologne and quiet greed. Congressman Gary was there too, smiling too much, already half-drunk from the limo ride there. (He said it would be the only way he’d survive an entire night listening to people praise Valentina Allegra de Fontaine). Gary had been the one to suggest your attendance might smooth things over. It might make the New Avengers feel like someone from Sam’s camp was willing to listen. Get on their good side—that whole thing.

But you were here for an entirely different reason. His invitation was exactly what you needed to get in, though.

Underneath your gown—sleek, formal, and designed to draw no conclusions—you had a mic stitched into the seam of your strapless bodice. Hidden, but live. Your earpiece buzzed softly with Joaquín’s voice, casual as ever.

“If Sam finds out we’re doing this, we’re so dead.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to be overheard as the elevator operator gave a rehearsed speech about the tower’s restoration—how it stood now as a symbol of “unity, rebirth, and strength.” You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. The tower didn’t feel like a symbol. It felt like a stage.

“He’ll take away your wings at most,” you murmured, gaze fixed forward. “Relax.”

You could practically hear Joaquín pouting through the comms.

“I just got them back.”

“Then let’s not make a scene. Gary said it’d be good optics to have someone on our side here. We’re doing Sam a favour.” A pause. Then, quieter: “I’m surprised you didn’t want to come with me. You’re cleared for field work.”

“No, thanks. As much as I adore red carpet politics, I don’t think I can be in the same room as de Fontaine without committing a felony. Might get myself in trouble.”

“And I won’t?”

“You’re better at smiling.”

“You’ve never seen me smile.”

“Exactly.”

You exhaled through your nose, the tiniest edge of a grin forming before you could stop it.

“Just... try not to piss anyone off for five minutes, yeah?”

You didn’t answer. The elevator chimed. The doors slid open with a muted ding, and you stepped into a wall of flashing lights and artificial warmth.

The event space had been reconstructed on the upper floors, a showroom designed to impress donors and government officials alike. White marble floors stretched endlessly beneath towering banners that hung from the ceilings like monuments. Each one bore the new emblem of the team—sleek and stylized, but hollow. You could see the press eating it up already.

A digital display behind the podium read:

WELCOME TO THE FUTURE.

MEET EARTH’S NEWEST MIGHTIEST HEROES.

Your stomach turned.

“You still with me?” Joaquín asked.

“Yeah.” You nodded once, moving deeper into the room as your eyes scanned the crowd for familiar faces. “I’m here.”

“I’m gonna need camera access,” he said. “There’s a chip tucked under the gem on your bracelet. If you can slide that into an outlet somewhere, I’ll be able to map out the floor’s electrical system. Should help me locate the control room.”

“Guy in the chair,” you muttered, lips twitching into a faint grin. It was impressive—his gadgets, his confidence. Typical Joaquín.

Congressman Gary had vanished into the crowd, but you didn’t mind. Better alone than attached to a man who introduced you as a pet project. You plucked a glass of champagne from a passing tray, the cold stem grounding in your fingers, and sidestepped toward the edge of the room.

An outlet revealed itself by a floor-length curtain. You knelt, as if adjusting your heel, and casually broke the gem from your bracelet, slipping it into the socket with practiced ease.

“Okay,” Joaquín said, voice clearer now. “Give me a minute to get my bearings. While I’m working on this, try not to look like a loser in the corner. Mingle or something.”

You scoffed under your breath. “Easy for you to say—you can talk anyone’s ear off.”

“You calling me annoying?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow. Go see if you can find Bucky while I work on this, would you?”

Right. Bucky Barnes.

You weren’t here to mingle. You weren’t here to sip champagne or shake hands or sweet-talk your way into the New Avengers’ good graces. You were here for Sam. And more specifically—for Bucky. Wherever the hell he was hiding.

The plan was simple enough in theory: Get a read on what Valentina was playing at. Try to talk to Bucky. Get ahead of whatever fallout was brewing between him and Sam before it turned into a full-blown civil war again. You’d offered to go because no one else would.

Joaquín was trying to stay neutral (and failing). Isaiah had dismissed Bucky as a long-lost white man with too many ghosts. And Sam refused to speak to Bucky since the news broke about the New Avengers. And Bucky hadn’t said a damn word back.

So here you were. You were the only one left who might still be able to stand in the space between them without setting off alarms, even if you were biased.

You still didn’t understand how Bucky could do it. How he could go from testifying before Congress about accountability and reform, to standing beside Valentina Allegra de Fontaine like she hadn’t personally undone everything they’d fought for. Like he hadn’t been there when Ross tried to throw his friends all in cells. (Sure, you weren't there for it either, but Sam told you all about it; the accords were one of the reasons the Avengers broke up.)

Valentina wasn’t just dangerous—she was calculated. Clever. The kind of dangerous that worked in the shadows, smiling for cameras while quietly tying strings around people’s necks. She had her ex-husband arrested, sabotaged Wakandan outreach missions, and picked through the wreckage of post-blip heroes like she was drafting a fantasy football team. The fact that she now had a unit of enhanced individuals marching under her payroll and calling themselves the New Avengers made your stomach turn.

And Bucky was one of them.

You believed Valentina was guilty the second Bucky first mentioned she’d recruited John Walker. Walker—who had murdered a man in public, with blood still wet on the shield—and somehow walked free. Charges vanished. Headlines redirected. Now he was being repackaged as a hero again, and Bucky was standing next to him like nothing had happened.

You couldn’t wrap your head around it. No matter how many angles you looked at it from, it didn’t make sense. And the more you thought about it, the more it burned in your chest.

What was he thinking?

Why hadn’t he said anything?

Why wasn’t he here?

You pulled in a slow breath as you stepped further into the room, letting the sound of clinking glasses and diplomatic small talk wash over you like static.

The room was grand in a gaudy way—shiny surfaces and marble floors that reflected the chandelier light too harshly. Everything screamed polished excess, like they were trying to distract from the blood under the polish.

You tried to scan the crowd for Bucky, but there were too many faces, too many government suits and PR smiles, none of them him. You told yourself that when you did find Bucky, he’d have some kind of explanation—something to loosen the knot in your chest, something that could push down the rising anxiety. Something that could explain how the man you once trusted was now parading around in a suit under Valentina’s thumb.

Instead, you found Congressman Gary. Or rather, he found you.

He was already three glasses of champagne deep—five, if you counted the shots you’d seen him down on the way—and he beamed like he’d found a shiny toy in a sea of suits.

“There she is,” he said, slinging an arm around your shoulder like you hadn’t just been avoiding him for fifteen minutes. “You have got to meet some of these people. Big names. Big wallets.”

You were too polite to shrug him off, even as he dragged you into a circle of De Fontaine’s investors. Their grins were just a little too sharp, their eyes a little too eager. The way they looked at you made your skin crawl, like you were a chess piece they hadn’t quite decided how to play yet.

You smiled tightly. Shook clammy hands. Answered vague questions. Nodded while they spoke about “opportunities,” “rebuilding legacy,” and “rebranding heroism.”

One man leaned in closer, his breath thick with bourbon. “You know,” he said, voice oily, “with your background, you’d be a perfect candidate for the new team. Valentina has a real eye for talent, and we’re building something bigger than what came before. Something better. You could help shape it from the inside.”

You swallowed your disgust with a sip of champagne. “I’m not really looking to join anything right now.” That was a lie. You already had a seat in the team Sam was putting together. But he did not need to know that.

He chuckled, as if that wasn’t an answer.

“Okay, I’ve got eyes,” Joaquín said suddenly in your ear. His voice broke through the haze like a rope thrown across stormy water.

You exhaled in relief. “Excuse me,” you told the group, already turning away. “I need to grab a drink.”

They nodded, already moving on to the next opportunity in heels. Gary wasn’t too happy, though.

You drifted from the circle, walking slowly toward the open bar. On the way, you passed a tray of themed hors d’oeuvres—tiny “Avenger” sliders with edible logos, cupcakes shaped like shields and guns.

A mounted camera in the corner caught your eye, its red light blinking lazily above a velvet-draped sculpture.

“See me?” you muttered.

“Yeah, I see you,” Joaquín replied.

“Still no sign of Barnes.”

“Scanning crowd pings now,” he said. “Either he’s ghosting the place or he got another haircut and I can’t recognize him. Which would be so like him, by the way.”

You sighed and accepted another drink from a passing server, something dry and too expensive, and kept moving.

You figured you’d shaken at least six hands tonight that belonged to people who’d love to see your head on a stick—if not for the lucrative optics of you standing here at all. You were an opportunity to them. A symbol. A bargaining chip in a war they didn’t even understand.

Your dress caught suddenly.

You stumbled—only a step, but enough for the chilled drink to slosh dangerously near the edge of the glass. You turned on instinct, hand rising to fix the silk scarf that had slipped from your neck and shoulder.

A man stood behind you, wide-eyed, hand half-raised like he’d been about to catch you.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he stammered. His voice was low, a subtle rumble barely audible over the layers of clinking glass, conversation, and ambient music. “—stepped on your dress. Sorry.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

He looked like he didn’t belong here. Not in the way the others did. No glossy name tag, no designer smugness. His suit was clean, but not flashy. Understated.

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, instinctively adjusting your scarf where it had slipped from your shoulder. You shook out the fabric of your dress around the ankles, heart skipping in the echo of that voice. Something about the way he said it—apologetic, soft, like he genuinely meant it—caught you off guard.

“Sorry,” he mumbled again, even quieter this time, eyes dropping to the floor. His dark hair fell over his face, almost like he was trying to shrink three sizes. You could hear a faint, awkward laugh in his voice. “Uhm… yeah. Sorry.”

He didn’t linger. Just turned and slipped back into the crowd before you could even process anything. No second glance. Just a gentle pivot and a few long strides back into the crowd, swallowed instantly by the sea of shoulder pads, press passes, and sharp perfume.

You stood there for a second, staring after him.

He moved differently from the others. No performative swagger. No politician’s posture. No tray in his hand, so he’s definitely not a server. He was quiet in a way that made you feel like you’d imagined him, like he’d only brushed through this reality for a second before vanishing into another.

You didn’t recognize him.

And you should have.

For all the files you’d scoured, the profiles and photos, the research you’d buried yourself in to prepare for tonight, you’d made it your job to know every player in this room. Who to watch. Who to avoid. Who might be useful.

But not him.

You turned back toward the bar, but your mind didn’t follow. Not entirely.

Who the fuck was that?

You were just about to ask Joaquín to pull a facial scan when something in your periphery stopped you cold.

John Walker.

He was only a few steps away, mid-conversation with some high-level sponsor, until his gaze landed on you. And then he froze.

The look that crossed his face was quick, recognition, discomfort, maybe a flicker of guilt, but he buried it just as fast, turning away without a word. He pivoted like a man avoiding a ghost, ignoring the way the sponsor he spoke to called after him.

“Walker just made a hard left into the hors d’oeuvres,” Joaquín muttered in your ear, low and amused. “You see that?”

You exhaled, more irritated than surprised. “We’re not here for him.”

“Yeah. I think he knows that too. That’s why he’s pretending he’s got important shrimp to eat.”

That pulled a faint smile from you, biting down the urge to laugh.

Typical. The last time you’d seen Walker in person, he was seated in a courtroom with his jaw clenched so tight you thought he’d snap a molar. You’d testified in his case, alongside Sam, Bucky, and everyone else who had to witness what happened in Madripoor—what he did to that man in the square. The shield, slick and red. The silence afterward, heavier than any explosion.

You never fought him. Never had to. But you'd been on opposite sides of that mess, and he knew it. Hell, you’d spoken directly to his discharge. Your words were probably still echoing in the back of his skull.

The way he turned away just now… yeah. He remembered you.

“I’m surprised he didn’t start barking about national security,” Joaquín quipped in your ear again. “Do you think we should trail him?”

You hesitated. You didn’t want to. Just the idea of following in Walker’s smug footsteps made your jaw clench.

But Joaquín pressed, “He might know where Bucky is.”

And that was the problem—he was right. And you hated how much sense it made. Of course, Walker would know. You also hate how Walker and Bucky were probably friends now.

A camera flash caught your eye, and you instinctively straightened your posture, smoothed your expression. No time for a scowl, even if that’s all you wanted to wear.

You adjusted your gown, tugged lightly at the hem, checked the wire hidden at your waist, and started walking in the direction Walker and that ugly barret he wore had vanished.

The crowd shifted around you like tidewater—polished politicians and strategic handshakes, investors with too-white smiles and drinks that cost more than your rent. Every few steps, someone waved. A few shook your hand like they knew you, like you were an old friend they’d been waiting for. A woman asked for a photo. Another leaned in and whispered, “Are you joining the new team?” like it were a secret worth selling.

You deflected with a nod and a vague smile, each interaction leaving a layer of static behind your eyes.

It was strange how quickly the attention shifted now that you were in the spotlight. Recently, you’d spent most of your career standing behind Isaiah while Joaquín and Sam did the talking. You liked it there. It was quieter. Easier to breathe. Now, suddenly, they were holding out chairs for you at the table.

The whole thing felt like theatre. Scripted and glassy. Lines rehearsed. Costumes ironed. Every player doing their part beneath the blinding stage lights.

You still weren’t sure what was worse—that Bucky accepted Valentina’s funding, or that he and his new friends let her call them The Avengers.

Sam was right to be angry. He should be. He’d already turned down President Ross’ private offer to hand him the reins of a military-funded global response team. The same offer that Valentina had repackaged, repurposed, and handed off to people who were too coward to say no.

“He’s on the east end, talking to Ava starr and another woman. I think she’s Valentina’s assistant. Oh—shit. He just pointed at you.”

Your chest tightened. You turned too fast, momentarily losing your bearings in the rotating lights and mirrored walls. East—east—

And then someone stepped into your path.

A wall of a man appeared in front of you so suddenly, you nearly collided with him; broad-shouldered and bearded, dressed in a burgundy suit that looked just a size too tight across his chest.

He smiled widely, eyes bright like he’d been waiting for a moment like this all night.

“I know you,” he said, voice thick with a Russian accent. “I’ve seen you on the televisions. You shake hands with the new Captain America.”

You blinked. “I—uh, yeah.”

“Ah!” He laughed, clapping one heavy hand to your shoulder with surprising gentleness for a man who looked like he could punch through drywall. “Very brave of you. Very good. You look different in person. In a strong way. Like a panther. Or mongoose.”

You tried for a diplomatic smile. “Thanks, I think.”

“Oh! Where are my manners,” he said, dramatically straightening and offering his hand. “I am Alexei Shostakov. The Red Guardian.”

You knew that, but you didn’t know he’d be so... loud.

You took his hand, his grip warm and firm. “Pleasure to meet you, Alexei.”

“Kind. Very kind,” he said, eyes gleaming. “You remind me of my daughter! You have same fire in eyes. Around same age, too—you could be friends! Yelena is always looking for new friends.”

Yelena Belova. That name lit something up in the back of your mind. You’d seen the files. The attempted murder of Clint Barton. Her brief status as an independent threat before being absorbed, quietly and conveniently, into Valentina’s new game.

And suddenly, Alexei’s smile widened even more.

“Yelena!” he bellowed, cupping his hands to his mouth as if you weren’t standing in the middle of a very public, very polished gala. “Come meet new friend!”

Several heads turned. Cameras flashed—bright, blinding. You winced against the burst of lights, regretting everything from your dress colour to your decision to show up at all.

But it was too late. He leaned in beside you, one arm suddenly draped over your shoulder like you were posing for a family Christmas card. “Smile!” he boomed, and before you could protest, he struck a dramatic flex, biceps pressing into your back like steel girders.

You caught a whiff of expensive cologne and vodka.

In the corner of your eye, a flash of short, bleached blonde hair was making its way through the crowd with frightening determination. Elegant, yes—but there was no mistaking the sharpness in Yelena Belova’s gaze. She wore a sleek black suit like it was made of knives, a funky eyeliner design, hair slicked back and every step carved with purpose. And beside her—

Your heart dipped.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Poised. Smirking. Watching everything.

“Be careful. Yelena is coming your way with Valentina.”

Thanks for the warning, Joaquín. Delayed. But thanks nevertheless.

You stood up straighter, willing your heartbeat to slow down even as Valentina’s eyes zeroed in on you like a predator clocking a foe.

Wonderful.

You leaned slightly toward Alexei, trying not to seem as panicked as you felt. “Can I ask you something? About Bucky Barnes?”

“Ah!” he exclaimed, cutting you off before you could finish the question. “Bucky! Yes, yes. The Winter Soldier. Very cool. Very handsome. Like Soviet James Dean.”

You blinked. “I mean—do you know where he is?”

But Alexei was already on another tangent. “We fought in Uzbekistan once, did you know this? I threw him through a door. He did not like that. But I like him. I like him very much. Quiet, serious type. You know he never answers my texts?”

“Right. Yeah. That tracks.”

And then—

“Oh, what a pleasant surprise,” said a voice sharp as champagne fizz and just as bitter. De Fontaine. She cut into the conversation with the smoothness of someone who was always in control, grinning like she knew a secret you didn’t. A glass of bubbly dangled between her fingers, catching the light just enough to draw attention. As if she needed help with that.

“I was just about to introduce you all,” she said, placing a perfectly manicured hand on Yelena’s arm as the blonde finally joined your little nightmare circle.

“What is this?” Yelena asked flatly, eyes flicking between you and Valentina.

Valentina didn’t bother to answer—just gave a smug little hum and tugged Yelena closer, corralling her between you and Alexei. The four of you shifted automatically into position, an unspoken reflex in rooms like this.

You could feel the cameras turning like sharks in bloodied water.

Flashes burst across your vision. The moment was already captured—your stiff shoulders, your frozen smile. A picture-perfect lineup of cooperation.

And you could feel it: this wasn’t a coincidence.

This was intentional.

Valentina leaned in, voice cool and sugary against your ear as more bulbs burst. “I am so pleased to see you here,” she cooed, “considering how close you and Sam are.”

“I mean, I had to come congratulate you,” you said tightly, lips barely moving. “Recreating the Avengers. That’s… big.”

She beamed at the cameras, teeth white and wolfish. “Someone had to.”

“Of course.”

Another flash. Another frozen pose.

You winced. Sam is going to kill you.

Valentina fielded the sudden swarm of questions like she was born in front of a podium—deflecting, redirecting, charming. Every answer was deliberate, each word chosen like a chess move. Stability. Legacy. Global confidence. Alliances.

They lapped it up like champagne, snapping photos, nodding, laughing. You stood beside her, barely blinking, jaw tight behind your polite smile.

You weren’t meant to be part of this show. You were supposed to be on the outside looking in from the in the crowd.

When the flashes finally began to die down and the clamour shifted elsewhere, Valentina turned with that too-perfect, too-white grin. She glanced at Yelena and Alexei like she were dismissing children.

“Would you two mind?” she asked, breezy as ever. “I’d like to have a quick little chat.”

Yelena’s gaze flicked toward you. Not unkind. But cautious. Reading you like a live wire.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, her brows subtly knitting.

“Oh, everything’s perfectly fine,” Valentina replied before you could speak, her hand already at your back. “Go fetch a drink. Mingle.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

You barely had time to glance back at Yelena—at the slight, suspicious narrowing of her eyes—before the crowd swallowed her and Alexei whole.

Your earpiece crackled to life. “She’s taking you to the balcony,” Joaquín said, voice low and taut. “There are no cameras there. I won’t be able to see, but I can still hear you.”

There was a pause, then: “I’ll keep looking for Bucky.”

You barely managed a breath of relief before Valentina cut in, sharp and smiling.

“Bucky’s not here tonight, if that’s really why you’re here.”

You stiffened mid-step.

Joaquín swore in your ear. Something heavy hit a surface—maybe his fist against a table—and you heard the scrape of a chair.

“What do you mean?” you asked, your voice light, falsely sweet. “I came to celebrate you.”

You crossed the threshold to the balcony.

It was quieter out here, eerily so. The muffled pulse of the gala was dulled by glass and distance. The cold kissed your skin through your dress. You could feel it biting at your exposed arms, but you welcomed the sting. It was honest.

Below, the city stretched like a glowing circuit board. Skyscrapers hummed with light. Traffic moved in golden veins. It was beautiful in the kind of way that felt removed. Untouchable.

Valentina’s heels clicked once against the stone floor, then stopped.

“Cut the bullshit,” she scoffed, voice low now. “We both know that’s not true.”

You turned your head, slow and steady. Her eyes were already on you. Unflinching.

“Where’s your friend?” she asked casually. “The little Mexican one?”

You flinched—just barely. Your jaw clenched tight.

Valentina smiled wider at that.

You opened your mouth to answer, to lie, to throw her off, to say something clever, but she leaned forward before you could, voice barely above a whisper.

Her lips were close to your collarbone, eyes locked on your chest. On the mic she couldn’t see.

“Hola, Joaquín,” she murmured, velvet-smooth. “¿Cómo estás? How’s the arm? Still broken?”

She pulled back with a grin full of satisfaction. Joaquín didn’t respond—not a breath. But you felt the burn of it in your gut. He heard her. She knew he was listening. And that was the whole point.

She got what she wanted. You could see it in the eyes, the tilt of her head, the calm sip from her glass, the curl of smugness just under her lipstick.

Valentina turned her back to the railing, facing you fully, her glass catching the amber light of the city. Her smile didn’t crack once.

“You know,” she began, like she was catching up with an old friend, her voice silked with charm, “you don’t have to keep playing both sides. It’s exhausting, isn’t it?”

You said nothing. Not because you didn’t have something to say, but because the words wouldn’t form. Your brain was too busy calculating exits, signals, whether Joaquín could hear any of this, or if he was already doing something stupid like storming into the gala uninvited.

“You show up with a wire,” she continued, waving her champagne flute like it weighed nothing, “a dress like that, pretending you’re just here to smile for the cameras.”

Her eyes dipped slowly, then back up.

“You do look stunning, by the way,” she added casually. “But we both know you’re not here for the press or to butter yourself up to me or my team. You’re listening. Recording. Digging...”

The flute met her lips again. Sip. Deliberate.

“Looking for Barnes,” she said. “Like he’s going to whisper some grand truth that’ll fix whatever little crisis your friends are having.”

You could feel your jaw tighten. Every word she spoke landed like pressure against a bruise you didn’t want to admit was there.

Valentina tilted her head, studying you with the kind of gaze that belonged in an interrogation room, not a rooftop party. “You’re sharp,” she said. “Good instincts. It’s why Sam keeps you close, right?”

Still, you stayed silent. Because anything you gave her, she’d twist. She already was.

“But let me ask you something,” she said, voice a shade lower, softer. “What’s loyalty really worth—if the people you serve are always the ones left bleeding in the dirt?”

A pulse of heat shot up your neck. You didn’t move, but she saw it.

Of course, she saw it.

“And for the record,” she added, twirling the stem of her glass, “I don’t have anything against Sam Wilson. Poor guy. I pity him, actually. The shit he’s put up with just for carrying that shield—God.”

She clicked her tongue with exaggerated sympathy.

“I’d kill to have Captain America on my team. The real one. Not Walker. That man is a pathetic as it gets. Hair-trigger temper, zero emotional intelligence—”

“Sam would never work with you,” you said, sharper than intended.

Valentina’s smile widened because you finally said something worthwhile. “Oh, I know,” she said, almost gleefully. “He’s a purist. One of the last. His morals are steel-tight. Fucking unshakable. A real Boy Scout. Steve Rogers made a good choice.”

And that was the part that hurt—the part that made you swallow back a flicker of doubt you hadn’t expected to feel.

“Where’s Bucky?” you asked, voice quieter now. “I just want to talk to him.”

She didn’t even hesitate.

“Bucky’s not missing or anything,” Valentina said. “He’s busy. Doing a job for me in Pennsylvania. Cleaning up some loose ends, you know the deal.”

You felt it before you could stop it—that tiny, invisible shift in your expression. Something cracked. Something gave her an answer you hadn’t meant to give.

“That supposed to scare me?” you asked, though it already kind of did.

“No,” she said. “It’s supposed to make you think. About options. About what someone like you could do with the right resources. With the right funding. Imagine it: you with your own team. Autonomy. Access. No more red tape. You make your own shots. We clean up whatever mess you leave behind. And, get this, you even get paid for it.”

You glanced toward the city, anything to avoid her eyes. Lights. Windows. Warmth. All of it felt so far away.

“And if I say no?”

“Then someone else says yes.”

She stepped back, brushing something from her blazer sleeve. “Just think about it,” she said, all silk and sugar again. “We could use someone like you. You belong in rooms like this, you know. Not chasing ghosts, or waiting for Wilson to approve your next move. You’re already breaking. I can see it. You wouldn’t be here tonight if you weren’t. I’m sure Captain America won’t be happy seeing your name in the headlines tomorrow morning: The Next Potenital Avenger.”

Her smile held, framed in the cold, glittering dark of the balcony. Then she turned and walked past you, the soft graze of her shoulder against yours more intimate than it had any right to be. A mockery of closeness.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” she said, already stepping back through the doors. “Tell Sam I said hi.”

The glass door shut behind her with a quiet click.

And the cold came in fast.

Not just the air, but the after. The silence. The wrongness of being left alone up here, the wind biting now that you weren’t so focused on not showing fear.

Your body finally remembered it was yours. Your fingers hurt from gripping the railing too hard. You eased your hands free, flexed them, saw the white draining slowly from your knuckles. You still couldn’t feel them.

Your mic hissed faintly to life, and Joaquín’s voice filtered through the static like someone calling out to you underwater.

“…you okay?” he asked, strained. Urgent.

You didn’t answer right away. Your mind was still racing through what Valentina had said, how easily she’d dodged your defences, how easy she was to turn your presence into a publicity stunt, how well she knew you—or at least thought she did.

She must be blackmailing Bucky. That must be it.

You kept staring out at the skyline like it might give you an answer. It didn’t. Just glass and steel and lights that blinked too slow to feel alive.

“No,” you finally muttered.

It didn’t come out strong. It came out cracked. Like the inside of your chest had gone hollow, and you were just now realizing it.

Joaquín exhaled through the comm, like he’d been holding his breath.

“I think legal action is our next step,” he said, tone snapping back into focus like a lifeline. “We can sue them for the name. Trademark it. Or maybe—maybe Sam tries to talk to Bucky again? We’ve still got options.”

You didn’t respond. Not yet.

The railing under your palm felt like ice. You blinked hard, fighting back the sudden sting in your eyes. Not from fear. From frustration. From the way every word she said still echoed in your head, sticky and sharp, leaving splinters behind.

You dragged in a breath.

“…that fucking bitch,” you scoffed.

“Yeah… I don’t like Valentina either.”

You jumped.

The voice came from somewhere behind you, softer, unsure. You spun around on instinct, stepping away from the railing.

That man.

The one who stepped on your dress earlier. He was sitting now, low in one of the patio couches near a sleek electric fireplace that flickered lazily against the dark. The flames glinted off the patio doors and caught the edge of his profile—brown hair, downturned mouth, eyes wide like he was the one who got caught.

You hadn’t noticed him when you came out here. And now that you really looked… you realized why.

He wasn’t trying to be seen.

He sat in the farthest corner of the couch, hunched slightly, knees close together, hands clutched like he didn’t know what to do with them. Like someone had planted him there and told him to wait. The firelight danced across his face, softening him. He didn’t look threatening. Just... startled. And oddly apologetic for existing.

He offered a small, nervous smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to, like… scare you.”

There was genuine concern in his voice—concern for you, not about you. That was rare.

“It’s fine,” you said, because you didn’t know what else to say.

“Who’s that?” Joaquín's voice cracked through your earpiece.

You didn’t answer right away.

Your eyes stayed on the stranger, and for a moment, you debated whether or not to even breathe too loud.

“I don’t know…” You muttered.

“Okay, uh… I’ll try to do a voice match or something—see if anything comes up. Keep them talking.”

The man must’ve noticed the way you were half-turned, the way your fingers brushed against your ear.

He shifted slightly. “Who’re… who’re you talking to?”

You froze. And then, with a wince: “Uh… just… myself. Thinking out loud.”

There was a pause.

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. I do that too. All the time, actually.”

You weren’t sure what to do with that. You weren’t sure what to do with him.

He looked different now compared to earlier. Still awkward, still nervous—but less like he was trying to shrink into himself and more like he was trying his best to meet you where you were. His eyes held yours this time. Not for long, though. They dropped to his hands and shoes after a while. But it was long enough to feel it.

You took a cautious step forward, angling yourself toward the fire, toward him, but still keeping a healthy distance.

“You um… You know Valentina?” you asked. Stupid. Of course, he did. Everyone at this party did.

“Uh… yeah. Something like that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t like… eavesdropping or anything. It’s just—there’s a lot of people in there. And it’s… quieter out here.”

He hesitated, then added: “I’m Bob, by the way.”

His voice wavered, but not from dishonesty. He said his name like he wasn’t sure it would mean anything to you. Like he just told you his name to be kind.

You gave him a nod. Not a smile. But not cold either.

“Hi, Bob.”

A beat passed.

You debated telling him your name. Joaquín would probably advise against it. But you weren’t feeling tactical anymore—you were feeling tired. Bruised in a way you couldn’t name. And maybe you just needed to feel like a real person again. Like someone who wasn’t being puppeteered.

So, after a pause, you gave him your name.

Bob blinked. Then he offered a small, shy smile that cracked at the edges.

“Cool. Hi,” he said, breathless. His brows furrowed as his gaze dropped lower, his eyes catching on your waist, your hips. “Uh—sorry again, about your dress. I didn’t mean to step on it earlier. You looked like you were in a rush and I—well, I was definitely in your way.”

You felt your lips twitch. The barest curve, not sharp or defensive. A faint grin. Delicate. “It’s alright,” you said. “Bound to happen at places like these.”

His head tilted slightly, curious. “You come to stuff like this often?”

“Not often. Just sometimes.”

And it was only then that you realized you’d stepped closer.

Your arms had casually found their place against the back of the couch across from him, hands gripping the cool metal frame as your scarf drifted with the breeze behind you. You weren’t leaning in exactly, but the distance had shrunk.

When did that happen?

You tilted your head, letting your eyes linger a little longer now, more curious than guarded. You assessed him with a little more attention now.

“I’m guessing you don’t come to these events much?”

Bob immediately shook his head, a nervous, breathy laugh escaping his lips like it was running away from him. You could see the cloud of it in the cold night air, swirling and vanishing between you.

“God, no. This is my second one and it’s—it’s been a lot. I think I’m gonna ask to just stay in my room next time.” He gave a little shrug, slouching a bit. “It’s not like I do much anyway. I mean, I’m allowed to talk to people, and I like talking to people, but I’d rather not sometimes.”

That made you blink. Allowed?

The word snagged on something in your mind. There was something disarming about the way he said it, like he didn’t mean to offer that information but also didn’t think it was worth hiding. You couldn’t tell if he was joking, oversharing, or both. But it was too strange to ignore. Like it slipped past a filter that wasn’t built right. It made you hesitate, if only for a breath.

But he wasn’t watching your reaction. He was staring at the flicker of the fire, letting the silence sit between you like it belonged there.

You folded your arms gently across your chest, the smooth material of your dress whispering beneath your fingertips.

“You seem to be talking just fine with me,” you pointed out, softer now.

Bob looked down at his hands. Then back at you. Then away again.

“I… well…” he stammered, voice catching on another shy, almost embarrassed laugh.

And then you saw it.

The blush. A warm pink crawling up from the collar of his white shirt to the apples of his cheeks. Subtle, but not subtle enough to miss. Especially not in the glow of the firelight, which danced over his skin like it had a crush of its own.

“I… yeah, I... I don’t know. Some people are easier to talk to than others, I guess.”

Your mouth twitched before you could stop it.

“Yeah,” you said, “I’d say so.”

The smile that tugged at your lips came easier than you expected. Not just polite. Not guarded. Honest. Probably the first one you’d let slip all night.

Seriously, who the hell is this guy? And why did he make the night feel a little less awful?

He was cute. Not the kind of handsome that announces itself the second someone walks in the room, but the kind that sneaks up on you, quiet, awkward, totally unsure of how much space he takes up and trying not to be a bother. Like he wasn’t used to being looked at for too long and didn’t know where to put himself when he was.

You’d seen a lot of people in this world wear confidence like a costume. Bob didn’t even try. He wore uncertainty like a second skin, and somehow, it made him feel… real.

You liked the way he didn’t crowd you. Didn’t puff out his chest or pretend to have all the answers. He sat with his knees slightly knocked together, most of his hands swallowed by the sleeves of his jacket, like even they were too bold to leave out in the open. Maybe he was anxious. Maybe a little broken in the places that never healed right, but he felt safe. Your gut told you so.

And that made you more nervous than anything else tonight.

You caught yourself watching him again. The way he kept his hands mostly hidden in his sleeves, shoulders rounded forward. His suit was clearly tailored but still seemed a size too big, like someone had tried to wrap him in something expensive just to prove he belonged. And still, it worked.

His hair was brown and shaggy, a bit longer than most people would have it at these events, barely even styled, but you kind of liked it. It gave him a strange charm, even if the loose curls hid his eyes whenever he ducked his head.

You weren’t used to thoughts like this. Not ones this soft. Not ones that fluttered in your chest like nervous birds. Not often. Not like this. Not here. Not in places like these.

You came for Bucky. That was the plan. Show up, find him, talk. Clear the air. Maybe start patching things up with your broken little found family—cracks and all. But Bucky wasn’t here. Valentina played you like a fiddle, and now the whole night had soured. Tomorrow, you’d wake up to press statements and headlines, scrambling to explain why your name wouldn’t be on the next New Avengers roster. You’d spin it clean, of course. That’s what you did.

But none of that mattered yet.

In this strange little pocket of quiet, just outside the hum of power plays and champagne politics, you kind of just wanted something normal. Not mission normal. Not cover-identity normal. Real normal. A conversation that didn’t hinge on leverage or patriotism. A moment that wasn’t already weaponized.

Maybe you could stay for another half hour before you disappeared and joined Joaquín in the van downstairs, counting your losses.

And maybe it was the firelight, a flicker here, a flicker there, warmth and glow dancing in the night that influenced you. But you found yourself leaning forward a little more, walking around the couch, smoothing your hands down the front of your dress. You straightened your spine, trying to will yourself into being brave.

“Would you...” You paused, “um. Do you wanna grab a drink with me?”

Bob blinked, eyes flicking up to meet yours. He sat up straighter at the invitation, startled, like a puppy hearing its name for the first time. His lips parted. For a split second, you swore he looked excited. Maybe even hopeful.

But then he deflated.

His shoulders fell, his expression shifting to a quiet sort of apology as his eyes darted away. “I... I can’t. Sorry—”

“Oh.” You blinked, trying not to let your smile falter.

“I want to,” he rushed to say, almost stumbling over the words. “I do.”

“It’s okay—”

“No. No. I would. It’s just... I’m—I’m sober now.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed.

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry—” he added quickly, like he was terrified he’d ruined something.

But you shook your head, even stepping a little closer without realizing it.

“No. Don’t be sorry,” you said gently. “Seriously. Congratulations. That’s a big deal.”

He smiled at that, small and grateful. A little crooked and thin-lipped. It was cute.

“Thanks.”

You hesitated a moment, then tilted your head. “Can I ask how long?”

“Uh…” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking upward like he was counting the months with the stars. “I think about a year now. I’ve only really started keeping track since I moved here, so... maybe like, seven? Eight months?”

You smiled softly, your heart unexpectedly warm.

“That’s still a long time.”

He gave a sheepish shrug, and his cheeks pinked again, like he didn’t quite know what to do with your praise. Like no one gave it to him often enough for it to feel normal.

“Some days feel longer than others,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching at his own tease.

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you, quiet, but real.

“What are you…?”

Joaquín’s voice fizzled to life in your ear, cracking the quiet like a crowbar to glass.

“Are you flirting right now?”

You froze, the smile instantly tugging at your lips again despite yourself.

When you didn’t answer, he laughed.

“Oh my god, you’re totally flirting right now! It’s so bad, but you so are! Who even is this guy?”

You turned ever so slightly, subtle as you could manage, and pressed a knuckle into your ear to mute him. Your cheeks warmed in tandem with Bob’s.

Bob blinked. “Sorry… did I, um—was that weird?”

“No, no,” you said quickly, maybe too quickly. “That wasn’t you.”

He just nodded, like your word was more than enough. Like you could’ve told him the moon was fake, and he’d say, huh, never really thought about that before.

You moved to take a seat across from him, the fireplace crackling softly between you like a low, slow heartbeat. The warmth of the flames painted him in golds and ambers, the flickering light catching the softness in his eyes and the loose fall of his hair.

You fidgeted with your fingers out of instinct. And across the fire, he mirrored the motion—thumb twisting around his knuckle, pinky tapping rhythmically against the inside of his sleeve. There was something strangely reassuring in that shared nervousness, like you were both waiting for the same storm to pass.

You let out a quiet breath, tension easing from your shoulders. “You said you moved here? Like, New York?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. His shoulders dipped too, visibly relaxing just a touch, like your voice permitted him to breathe. “I… uh, I lived in Malyasha for a while. But I’m from Florida. Born and raised. Where—where are you from?”

You tilted your head slightly, watching how intently he tried to keep eye contact and how quickly he broke it again. “I flew in from Washington.”

“D.C.?” he asked, and you nodded.

His eyebrows lifted, eyes wide for a split second. “Wow. Do you work in the White House or something?”

You huffed a laugh, smiling into your words. “Sure. Something like that.”

His head bobbed along with the answer.

“So you’re like… a really important person here.”

You laughed again, this time wider. Your teeth showed. It surprised you how easily you let your guard down. “I wouldn’t say that.”

But he was smiling too, softer now. Less anxious.

“You are,” he said, more sure of himself now. “I saw the way people looked at you tonight. Not—not that I was watching you or anything… just, it’s hard not to. You’re, um…”

You saw the moment he lost his words, saw them spill and scatter like marbles across a floor. His blush deepened, blooming across his cheeks in a full, unmistakable deep red colour. He ducked his head, eyes falling to his shoes again, and you watched him fight a shy, apologetic smile.

“…I can see why they’d want your picture.”

And just like that, your heart softened.

You leaned in a little, elbows resting against your knees. “Thank you, Bob. You’re really sweet, you know that?”

Bob looked up again, startled by the compliment, his mouth parting slightly like he didn’t know what to say to that. You weren’t sure if anyone had ever told him that before, and if they had, you could guess they didn’t mean it the way you did now.

He didn’t belong here. That much was obvious. Not with people like Valentina, not with cold smiles and polished lies. Not with mercenaries, politicians, and millionaires who hide behind their money. You could see it in the way he sat too stiffly on a velvet chair meant for lounging, in the way he tugged at his sleeves or tucked his hands away when he felt exposed.

“What’re you doing in a place like this, Bob?”

He blinked, tilting his head like he wasn’t sure what you meant.

You smiled, eyes squinting a little as you leaned forward more. “I mean, are you like, a sponsor? Investor?”

The words didn’t even sound right on your tongue, not when directed at him. The image of him swirling champagne and talking stocks was so laughably out of sync with the shy guy currently pressing himself into the couch cushions like he wanted to disappear.

“I don’t think you’re here for the politics,” you added, and there was a touch of something playful in your voice.

He chuckled softly, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Me? Gosh, no. I don’t… I don’t do politics.” He scratched the back of his ear, sheepish again. “That’s Bucky’s thing. I’m here for my friends.”

And just like that, your whole world tilted.

Your smile dropped before you could stop it. A subtle shift, but you felt it everywhere: in your spine, in your lungs, in the weight of your hands resting suddenly still on your knees.

You straightened. Slowly.

“…You know Bucky?”

The question came quieter than you intended, and Bob must’ve heard the change, the sudden stillness in your voice. His smile faltered, and he went still, too, sensing the tension without understanding it. His posture shrank, as if unsure what he’d stepped into, as if trying not to take up more space than he already had to upset you.

He nodded, a cautious kind of affirmation. “Yeah. He’s my friend.”

That stunned silence stretched long between you.

“I… I know he’s your friend too,” Bob added quickly, the words spilling out like he was trying to fill the void before it grew too wide. His voice was quieter now, softer around the edges, almost apologetic. “I heard you talking about him to Val, I—I thought maybe…”

You weren’t sure why he kept talking. Maybe because you hadn’t said anything. Maybe because your smile had disappeared too fast, and he could feel the way the mood had shifted even if he didn’t know why. His nervous ramble wasn’t meant to hurt, you could tell that. But it did. It did because the moment he said Val, something in you knotted tight again.

The warm glow you’d felt around him moments ago started to dim, curling in on itself like a candle snuffed out mid-flicker. Your heart gave a small, stupid lurch—embarrassed at how quickly you’d let your guard down. Of course he knew Bucky. Of course he was close to Valentina. The pieces slid together too easily now, fitting into a picture you didn’t want to look at.

You tried to pull yourself back together, quickly and quietly. You reminded yourself this wasn’t supposed to be about comfort. It wasn’t about soft smiles or normal conversations or maybe asking someone out for a drink. You came here with a mission, no matter how personal it was. To find Bucky. To set the record straight. This—this moment of peace with a stranger who felt safe—wasn’t supposed to happen.

He called her Val. Like they were friends. Like they knew each other beyond just work. Like he wasn’t just some shy, nice guy who complimented you under his breath and blushed when you smiled at him. Jesus, were you that easy?

A strange bitterness bloomed in your mouth. Not anger, more like disappointment. At yourself, maybe. For forgetting, even just for a second, what kind of place this really was.

You stood up.

The decision was sudden, impulsive, a small motion made louder by the way Bob flinched. His eyes followed you, something tentative and uncertain flickering across his face.

You reached for your earpiece, thumb brushing over the button to unmute Joaquín.

But Bob stood, too. Slowly, almost clumsily, like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to follow you or stay where he was.

“Did I—did I say something wrong?” he asked.

You froze. Your fingers stilled over the earpiece. You hadn’t expected that.

You turned, not quite facing him fully, but enough to catch the look on his face. His brows had drawn together, confusion etched faintly into his expression, and one of his hands was lifted just slightly, hovering in the air between you like he’d started to reach out and changed his mind halfway through. There were still several feet of space between you. The fire crackled low between you both, casting shadows across the expensive furniture and marble tiles.

“I’m sorry if I did,” he said, voice smaller now. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

That stopped you. “No… you didn’t…” You said, the words stumbling out, half-formed. You didn’t know why you tried to soothe him. Maybe it was the way his eyes had gone wide or the way he seemed to dread the thought of you walking away just when he was finally starting to settle into himself. It stirred something in you. Something that made your chest tighten.

You could’ve said never mind. You wanted to. Pretend his words hadn’t struck a nerve, hadn’t made your heart twist in your chest. But they did. It bothered you.

“You didn’t upset me,” you repeated, softer now. “I just… wasn’t expecting that.”

Bob blinked at you. “Oh,” he said, so gently it almost got carried off by the breeze.

A silence fell between you again. You wrapped your arms around yourself against the wind as you turned to look at him.

“Who are you, Bob?”

He straightened, caught off guard. “I’m... I’m Bob,” he said. “Just... just Bob.”

You tilted your head. “That’s it?”

He opened his mouth like he was about to say more, but nothing came out. His lips parted, then pressed shut again, the words retreating back into him like they were scared to be seen. He just shrugged helplessly. Like that’s all he had left.

And yet he kept looking at you like he was begging you not to go. Not yet.

You sighed, bringing your fingers up to your temple, pressing cold skin to your warm forehead. There was a pulse pounding there now, dull and insistent.

“I just…” You started, voice cracking faintly. “I came here looking for Bucky. I thought maybe I could get him to come home.”

“Home?” Bob asked carefully, his eyes soft.

“Yeah. With Sam. With us.” You hesitated, glancing through the tall windows behind him. The light inside spilled gold across the floor, where laughter echoed and people clinked glasses without a care in the world. Your eyes landed on the group you’d been avoiding all night—Bucky’s new team, huddled together with drinks, grinning like it was just another night to celebrate.

It made your chest hollow out.

“Ever since he joined Valentina’s little fuckass team or... whatever this is,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward the gala behind you, “everything’s just been so... shitty.”

You looked back at Bob, surprised to find that he’d stepped a little closer. Just enough that you could see the way his jaw twitched, like he was working through something he didn’t know how to say.

“Sorry,” you muttered, suddenly self-conscious. “Not to, like, dump all that on you.”

The cold bit into your arms. You rubbed them quickly, wishing you’d brought a coat.

“It’s not...” Bob started, and then, more firmly, “It’s not a fuckass team.”

You blinked. “Sorry?”

“They saved me,” he said, voice trembling just a bit. “Lena. Bucky. The others. They’re my family. We... we take care of each other.”

You stared at him, something icy curling low in your stomach. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said again, earnest. “I know it probably doesn’t look like it from the outside, but... they gave me a chance when no one else would. They didn’t treat me like I was broken. They... saw me.”

You wanted to believe that. You really did. But it felt like trying to swallow glass.

“Right,” you muttered, too tired to argue. “I have to go.”

You turned, reaching for your earpiece.

“Wait,” Bob said suddenly, like he’d only just realized this was goodbye. “Will I... will I see you again?”

You paused, fingers still hovering near your ear. The balcony lights flickered faintly behind you, and the sound of the city buzzed low in the background, as if the world were holding its breath.

You didn’t turn around right away.

Part of you wanted to say no. Make it easy. Clean.

But when you finally looked back at him, at the boyish worry carved into his face, the way he stood there with his hands half-raised like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or let you go, you felt that ache again. The one that whispered that maybe, despite everything, he meant what he said. That maybe there was still something worth salvaging in the strange, quiet warmth you’d felt earlier. Something real.

And you desperately wanted it to be real. You wanted it to mean something.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Bob swallowed. Nodded like he understood.

But his eyes lingered on you like he hoped the answer might change.

[silkycicada]

The Backwoods Saint

remmick x reader one shot.

Summary: You are a southern belle—adored, envied, and pursued. After a failed attempt to enter your family’s grand estate, an Irishman begins to pay you frequent visits, night after night. It's only a matter of time until you cave into his taunts.

wc: 6.1k

Smut warning: (18+) MDNI dom!remmick x female!reader. southern gothic, somewhat loss of virginity, fingering, slow-burn, he is a huge bully, second person pov, humiliation, manipulation, corruption, dirty talk, blood, biting, coercion, mentions of violence, mentions of death, some brief religious connotations, mentions of knives

a/n: just for clarification purposes, i love the idea of a big bad remmick corrupting someone expected to become a respectable girl in high society. she however does not live on a plantation though, forgot to mention that in the fic itself. her dad’s in the banking business and her family is wealthy, is all. happy reading!!

‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿

August, 1932. Mississippi Delta

You hadn’t slept.

Not for days.

Was it the sweltering heat or the incessant thrum of cicadas that had been keeping you up?

You couldn't quite place your finger on which was worse. How your lush sheets of what was meant to be the finest quality of cotton stuck to your tepid skin, or how it was never completely quiet. Be it the buzzing ensemble coming from outside, or the creak of the varnished porch of your family's manor.

No. No, it wasn't any of those things.

It was him.

The quilts spilled from your body as you sat up, sluggishly wiping the beads of sweat that dribbled on your hairline, your thoughts racing.

There, in the midst of your moon-stricken bed chamber, you disdained yourself for letting him live within you so freely.

No matter how much you tossed and turned, he clung to your thoughts like the whirring cicadas in the shrubs outside — constant, grating, always there. Yet, instead of the relentless hum, it was a low, honeyed drawl that kissed your ears, the wicked smile of sin.

He was the warmth in your belly this late at night, and the buckle of your thighs.

Remmick. Remmick.

It was humiliating how intense the thought of him felt to you. How real your fingers could make it be, brushing over your body, pretending they weren’t your own.

And how disgusting it felt.

To fantasize over a man you know almost nothing about.

To fantasize over a dead man.

Remmick had been the subject of your nightmares since he first visited three weeks ago.

The parlourmaids weren't allowed to just let anyone in your family's estate without the approval of your father, or in his absence, your elder brother.

When they'd had gone to your aunt Carol's birthday party, you had remained bed-ridden with the grippe.

Joanne the maid had looked after you. When a strange man came knocking in the early hours of the evening, she hurried to you, rambling fiercely.

"Said he's a doctor and that your father called for him to come treat your fever." Jo had told you, shaking her head, "I ain't hear anythin' 'bout no doctor comin' to visit this late at night. Said to him: get off my porch before I sic the bulls on ya'. You shoulda' seen him. Handsome he was, and gosh did he give me the spooks."

You remember the intrigue, how it pulled you out of bed and to the cushioned seat under your bedroom window, your sickened face searching for him on the dimly lit pathway leading up to the manor.

You had watched him — lean in stature, clad in the rough clothes of the labouring-class, tresses of dark hair. Though it was the slow stride of his walk that unnerved you, as if he owned the soils beneath him, from the surface clear down to Hell itself.

You knew at once he'd been lying about who he was — no doctor carried himself like that. Like a man used to taking what wasn't freely given.

And before he was lost in the fields, he had turned back, as if he knew you had been watching. You remember the way your heart tumbled when he caught you.

And oh, how he revelled in it.

His triumph came in the form of a slow, devilish grin; the glint of what appeared to be a set of fangs in the moonlight, and the flash of red in his eye, so bright you saw it from the second floor.

He stared at you from the glade, drank in your face as it twisted into a look of sheer horror. The grin, as if to say, look what you damn almost got inta’.

Since then, you saw him every so often.

In the late hours, you'd cast a look through your bedroom window and there he was - sometimes, leaning against an oak tree, a banjo cradled in his hands, strumming a tune. Waiting. For what, you couldn't have known.

You knew he had gotten under your skin when you would deliberately peer out of your window on other nights, and he wasn't there.

He was toying with you.

So, on the nights he was there, you had begun to oblige.

It was always safe. You met him at the back door of the manor, the one the parlourmaids used, but you never stepped out, oh no. You were smart. You stayed inside, careful not to cross the threshold, not even by an inch, and Remmick stood on the other side, posted on the creaking porch that surrounded the manor.

Your meetings were always brief. He was never forceful or aggressive, but he was mean. He'd taunt you, throwing out words meant to rattle you, believing they'd somehow compel you to let him in — things suggestive enough to get your stomach all tight. He'd never met a girl so stubborn that each time you refused, he'd simply retreat, and leave with the same knowing smirk that said he'd be back to try again.

Recently, you avoided the window. You didn't know how much longer you could deny him.

But you were so lonely.

Tonight, you relinquished all that discipline you had built over the past few nights. A defeated groan escaped you as you rolled out of the canopy bed, your bare feet kissing the cool, polished floorboards. It sent a chill up your legs.

With two fingers, you pulled aside the lace curtains draping over the window and swallowed the hump in your throat.

You silently hoped he wouldn't be there - you wanted, oh so badly, to turn around and get back into bed where the night would continue to torment your sleep.

Yet there, cast under the deep shadow of one of the many oak trees lining the manor, stood the Devil, wearing the silhouette of man.

And you found yourself at the backdoor again.

When Remmick heard the door unlatch and creak open, he didn't shift from his place against the tree trunk. The upper half of his body remained in the shadows, unscathed by the moonlight. Deft fingers continued working the strings of that banjo, so tenderly. A melody unknown to your ears drifted all the way to the porch like a lover's call, and the night felt whole.

He paid no mind to you at all, standing in the doorway, a bare body adorn in a cotton dress that draped to your knees. As if it were you that was the uninvited, and not the other way around.

When Remmick plucked the last note, and the night fell silent again, you saw something flicker in the shadows. Twin red orbs shone in the darkness, unblinking, like some primal beast was out there, not a human being — something otherworldly.

And that's how you knew his eyes had finally settled on you.

A chill wriggled down your spine. The pressure to speak pressed hard against your chest. "That was beautiful," you managed, your voice thin, laced with a tremor of unease you hoped he wouldn’t notice.

He noticed, alright.

Remmick stared at you for a good moment, as if thinking of something savvy to say. All that came from the darkness was a low, unsettling chuckle.

Smoothly, he pushed himself off the tree trunk, letting the banjo fall from his hands, dangling in front of his body on a makeshift strap. Even from the doorway, you heard the crunch of leaves under his shoe as he emerged from the shadow of the oak tree.

The moonlight bent down to greet him. You never thought the Devil would reveal himself to you in a blue dress-shirt and a pair of suspenders hitched over shoulders, yet there he was, in the flesh.

You noticed sleeves rolled up lazily to his elbows, forearms shining in sweat and dust.

Stopping before the small set of stairs, one arm gripping the wooden handrail, Remmick looked up at you, a smile playing his lip.

"Why you always doin’ this to y’self, darlin’?" was all he said in his thick, candied drawl. As southern as it could get.

Naturally, your jaw tensed. "Doin' what?"

He ascended the porch steps slowly, eyes unmoving. Even in the soft glow of the moon, his eyes shone at you in red hues.

"Comin' out here." The wood squeaked under his feet. Stopping before you, his eyes fell down to your body, "Wearin' that."

There was something about the way he looked at you that made your breath deepen. Maybe it was the hunger in his eyes, or the slow, deliberate steps he made towards you, reminiscent of the way a hunter stalks its kill — gentle, slow, like he had all the time in the world.

And he did.

"I don't—“ you tried to answer, but Remmick didn’t let you finish.

"That…lace?" he murmured, tilting his head as his eyes lingered on your nightdress. His fingers drifted absentmindedly across his chest while his gaze traced the delicate embroidery at the hem of your bust. Heat rose to your cheeks beneath the sudden weight of his attention.

Then, with a soft, almost pitying click of his tongue, he frowned. "Oh, sweetheart..." he sighed.

As if he felt sorry for you.

You pressed your lips into a thin line and turned away from Remmick. Beauty had never been a question — you wore it like a birthright.

The parlour had long echoed with the voices of suitors, drawn in by your well-maintained looks, your practiced laughter, the way you upheld a demure gaze. You were a Southern belle through and through, bred for admiration and a life of glamour.

Your parents, ever practical beneath their genteel airs, had already secured your future with a steel tycoon who owned an empire of mines trailing northward to Michigan. You had everything.

So why did you feel insecure now?

The shift in your demeanour made the lines around Remmick's lips twist a little. He was good at breaking people down as much as he was at building them back up again.

He leaned back a little, hands resting lazily on the banjo in front of him as he watched your reaction.

"What do you want from me?" you breathed. Suddenly, the thought of shutting the door in his face and heading back to bed wasn't such a terrible idea.

Remmick stirred and let out an exaggerated scoff, "What do I want from ya'? I was jus' enjoyin' the fresh air, playin' a lil' somethin'..."

"Every night?"

"Now," his smile faded, feigning concern, as if what you said was deeply wrong. "I wouldn't go n' say every night... maybe every second night. Don't get ahead of yourself, darlin'. "

You felt a cool breeze rustle through the coils of your hair. The humidity of Mississippi was long gone, and dare you say you felt... cold?

When you didn't answer, Remmick took the banjo back in his hands and pulled it back over his head, then let it rest against the white-pillared balustrade. He turned back to you, his arms now hanging freely at his sides. He waited for you to say something.

But he only looked at you with that usual smug expression — the one where his eyebrows arched just so, creasing his forehead in that familiar way.

Remmick shook his head in mock disbelief, "You been lonely, lambkin? Is that it?" He teased, "Mommy and daddy don't wanna let y' out the playpen? That why you come out here like some lass in rut, blushin' and poutin', when you're nothin' but chicken?"

"I ain't chicken," You shot back.

"That a fact?”

"I know what your weaknesses are, so I'm playin' my cards right.” Your arms folded against your chest, “I'm the one in control here. Me. I'm bein’ smart."

“Well, standin' at the door like that makes me think you ain't so smart after all."

"And why's that?"

The corners of his lips quirked into a sly grin. He shifted his gaze down to your feet, and then swept slowly around the doorframe.

"Why's that, sweetheart? Well, for starters, you been bouncin' on your feet so much you ain't even realise you outside with me."

Your gaze snapped around.

He was right.

Somehow, without realising, you had edged past the threshold. It was more than enough for Remmick to just... grab your wrist and pull you out completely.

In a heartbeat, you stepped back into the doorway, stumbling so far back you hit the kitchen counter. The floor beneath you swayed, a sudden churning sensation in your stomach.

You watched Remmick peer inside the kitchen, head momentarily dipping back as he cackled at your skittishness. Even in the blue-ish overcast of the night, you could see his lip twitching up as he laughed, the tips of his fangs winking at you.

The look on your face did bits for him.

He wagged his forefinger at you. "Oh, I coulda' had you. Coulda' had you real good."

You let go of the counter in an attempt to compose yourself, your breathing irregular. You scolded yourself for being so thoughtless.

"You wanna know somethin', sugar?" He continued, "I was feelin' honourable today. Ain't nice to be layin' hold of girls like that, 'specially classy ladies, like you. An' believe me when I say — it took a whole damn lot not to.'"

Hands balling into fists, you slowly made your way back to the doorway once you had regained yourself.

Remmick seemed to beam at your reappearance, as if he found your defiance amusing.

"But, one of these nights, you gon' make the same mistake... gon' teeter a bit too forwards... and I won't be as honourable."

The threat rolled off his tongue so casually.

Yet, you couldn't shake the thought: he didn't do anything to you.

You shook your head in frustration, "There's plenty of girls in the city. And yet, you always come by here."

He sucked his teeth.

"Loose legs and loose blood," he said disdainfully, "You're right. It's a goldmine up there. But I ain't forcin' you to come down here and keep me company, little lamb. Aincha' tired of playin' at sainthood?"

"I ain't playin' at nothin'..."

"Then let me inside."

Your lips parted — only one word, and it'd be done.

But your silence hung loud. You were still afraid.

And in the lift of his brow, you could tell he knew it too.

Slow as a funeral march, Remmick dragged himself forward, until he was as close as he could muster. He leaned in, and raised one hand to rest against the door frame, his fingers curling around the wood.

You caught a whiff of his scent — mahogany, smoke, and something else you couldn't quite place.

Death.

Something shifted in his face. The usual smugness he wore like a second skin peeled away, leaving him looking almost… needy. There was a hunger in his eyes, deep and devouring.

His gaze fell to your chest.

Waves of heat swept over you as he undressed you in his mind, but not in the way you'd think.

It was not your breasts that appeased him, nor your hips or behind, like they had with other men.

Instead, he watched the dainty collarbones that writhed under your skin, bones fit for lips as sullied as his, and the way your lovely neck contorted with your breathing. That long, slender neck, gleaming with sheets of summer warmth, thrumming with life all over.

The little valley in your chest, carved for confession, trailing down in soft descent until it vanished beneath the hush of your night dress.

And the lace? Well, there was a reason it was one of the first things he noticed about you tonight. There was something so delightful about the the white meshwork against your skin, like a secret begging to be revealed.

His fingers itched with the thought of tearing it apart.

Because you were everything he wasn't — soft, untouched, and alive.

And God help him. He craved to feel the pulse of something alive again.

"You're...drooling." you gawked.

His eyes settled back onto yours. A thread of saliva clung to the corner of his lip, slipping down his chin.

He smiled.

Remmick leaned in a little more, just a little, the wood of the doorframe groaning under his weight, until his voice was low enough for your ear to catch.

“I know you ain’t been sleepin’ right.” He admitted.

You stilled. How could he know something like that? Momma had told you the other day you were growin’ bags under your eyes and that your soon-to-be-fiancé wouldn’t like his woman sleepin’ ‘till noon.

But it didn’t matter. Remmick’s voice sung into your ear like he were your lover:

“And… I know, deep in my heart… oh, that cunt stays wet thinkin’ about me.”

The slight buckle of your knees did not go unnoticed. Lips, parting with the ghost of an exhale as your heart sank to the stomach.

Another twitch in the corner of his lip, "Don't it, baby?"

He pulled back slightly, just so you could catch a glimpse of his teeth bared beneath a sharp grin. Watching your face carefully, following your eyes as they shifted away uneasily.

Remmick continued, his voice merely a rasp, "Them rich fellas'... they don't know what t' do with you..." he murmured lowly.

You felt beads of sweat roll down your temple. The cicadas were screaming, and your stomach was betraying you.

"...don't know how t' touch you."

Your heart slammed against your ribcage.

Those lines in his forehead were creasing as he looked at you, at all of you.

"But I do, darlin'."

You knew you had lost when his words settled into your core like poison. Tantalising and greedy and evil.

You looked up into the face of the Devil as a breathless 'oh' escaped him, as if the surrendering look on your face pleased him more than fucking you ever would.

Then, Remmick tilted his head, momentarily peering past you, as if he were looking inside the kitchen.

"Your folks asleep?" He asked softly.

You had forgotten all about your family. Upstairs, asleep, oblivious to the fact that their only daughter was downstairs caving into a stranger's sweet seduction.

Even through your flustered state, you managed a nod.

The lines around Remmick's lips seemed to deepen.

"Then best you come out then."

Thoughts came to you in muddy clusters and any form of reasoning went out the window. You were a mess. There, without him even laying a finger on you, he had managed to crack you just a little. It was only a matter of time until his hands would wedge in and split you apart completely.

Your sigh was a shaky one, filled with defeat. You looked into the red-tinged eyes of the man who had been haunting you these past few weeks and, willingly, you handed your life over to him.

Remmick pulled away from the doorway and allowed you enough room to step outside, your bare feet making contact with the wooden floorboards of the porch.

A breeze rattled your dress, your hair, and any ounce of self-restraint you had left. Through it all, you came to terms with one thing:

Loneliness doesn't keep you safe.

It hands you the blade.

"C'mere," Remmick beckoned you, "Come closer."

Anchored by his voice, you shifted further to him, until you were more than an arm's length from the door which was left ajar. He hummed in approval.

His hand reached out to stroke your face with the back of his fingers - his touch was cold as winter's breath, even in the Mississippi heat.

But he was oddly tender. Loving. Brushing your clean, porcelain cheek with dirtied fingers.

Then, in a heartbeat, Remmick grabbed you by your shoulder and spun you around with otherworldly force, pulling your back flush into his chest. His hands clamped down onto your hips — unyielding, possessive — as if he meant to brand that moment into your flesh.

You let out a small cry as he held you with an iron-grip.

You felt his breath on the side of your face, his other hand crawling up to your neck. He spoke into your ear.

"That little sound?" He crooned, "Ain't even close to what I want outta' you."

The hand that crept up your neck cupped you by the jaw and turned your face to the side, just enough to face him.

He peered down at you through lowered lashes, lips almost brushing against yours. You tried to move your face but his grip on your jaw tightened.

Then he leaned down and kissed you.

Rough.

Greedy.

Starved.

Remmick kissed like blasphemy. Meant to burn, meant to ruin. Teeth gnashing against each other, you felt his fang graze against your lip, drawing blood, and once he got a taste of that, he was feral. Growling and clawing at your hair as he held you, like you were water about to seep through his fingers.

You let out a moan, muffled by his mouth.

He sucked on your lip, drew it back between his teeth and let it go.

Pulling away, he looked at his handiwork with half-lidded eyes, seeing nothing but a panting, flustered mess before him. Your lip was red and bloody, and the pain began to slowly settle.

Sweat-slicked locks of dark hair stuck to Remmick's forehead, his lips wet with your blood.

He, too, was out of breath. Admiring you, at how you've fallen from grace, scruff and bruised, and wanting more.

You tried to lean in, tried to catch his lips again, but that coarse hand was still clamped on your jaw. He yanked you back, restraining you, holding you like a dog on a short leash.

He made an 'o' shape with his mouth, his brows knitting in mock sympathy.

"What was that you said? Somethin' about bein' in control?" He reminded you, those fingers pressing into your skin, as if to keep you anchored and compliant. "Playin' your cards right, wasn't it? Ahh..."

You gaped at him, the familiar rush of humiliation at your cheeks.

“I...I didn't...”

The words were lost, and you looked a fool. He waited for you, amused you couldn't even string together a sentence.

“All that bark, sugar, but you come undone mighty easy..."

Then, he scooped you up in his arms, forcing your legs to wrap around his waist, your chin buried in his shoulder, the scent of sweat and smoke ever so strong as he headed towards the white pillared railing surrounding the porch.

As he did so, Remmick felt your heartbeat against his chest, humming in anticipation. God, your life was singing for him.

Lowering you down on the top of the wooden railing, the hem of your nightdress hiked up your legs as Remmick positioned himself beneath them. His fingers fumbled with the sleeves of his dress shirt, rolling them up his forearms further.

A hand dropped down between your legs, trailing up your inner thigh, ever so slowly.

You felt yourself lean back a little, shaking in need.

He watched you intently as he reached for the the soft fabric of your panties, upper body leaning in to steal the breath straight from your lips. And once he felt you....

"Ah, sweet Jesus..." a low rumble came from his throat, "Soaked to the bone, are ya'?"

He massaged you a little, that delightful cotton hiding what was his.

A thick digit curled over the edge of your panties and peeled it to the side. He ran it firmly across your folds, feeling the sweet nectar brimming your slit, his thoughts spinning with all the ways he wanted to fuck you stupid.

Naturally, your legs nestled deeper into him, a cry hidden in your throat as you forced yourself to be good for him. Remmick's lips parted as he groaned, his warm breath crashing against your face.

Then, without any warning, that same finger pushed itself inside of you, firmly, eliciting a jolt from your body.

You nearly toppled over, your balance slipping on the railing—until Remmick’s free hand shot out, catching you before you could fall, pulling you rough towards him with his middle finger still thrusting inside of your cunt.

"I gotcha', angel." He murmured softly in your ear.

As he worked you, he watched you struggle, your hands flying up to his broad shoulders as you steadied yourself.

In the soft overcast of the night, you watched the gold chain around Remmick's broad neck, glossy with summer sweat. It shifted slightly with each thrust of his arm, and even amidst the carnal surrender, you couldn't help but wonder how something so delicate was tethered to someone so wicked.

Keeping a steady rhythm, Remmick gave a pleased hum as you mewled, his thick finger breaking you in nicely.

Your head lolled back, teeth sinking into your lip still throbbing with the bruising kiss Remmick had left there to fester. His face was inches away from yours, watching you steadily.

He added a second digit, his ring finger, stretching you out even more, and you felt the presence of a cold object plugging in and out of you alongside his digit, something resembling metal.

There was an actual ring on his ring finger.

And it was inside of you.

God, you wanted to scream.

You buried your face in his shoulder, the rough fabric of his dress-shirt against your cheek.

Naturally, it thrilled him. Watching you unravel, after weeks of hanging around your porch, haunting your sleep - a catch o' the season, he'd triumphantly think.

"Ever wonder somethin'?" Remmick began with a mischievous lilt, the grin in his voice unmistakable.

That hand kept working your pussy. You couldn't focus on his words. You couldn't focus on anything, really.

"Ever wonder how I came 'bout this big ol' house that night? You, up in that window… well, you were a vision, weren’t ya’?”

He spoke in your ear, the faint scrape of his stubble grazing your face like a warning. Your thighs began to tremble, the squelching sound of your cunt growing louder by the minute. You'd never heard yourself like that.

“And I ain’t sentimental. I don’t show up without a reason, sweetheart,” He added his forefinger, “Y’see… your daddy likes to run his mouth, talkin’ all ‘bout his beautiful darlin’ daughter, ‘specially at your auntie Carol’s party. What was it he said? Mm, a nice dowry. Yeah. The sumbitches loved that.”

You dug your teeth into your lower lip, stifling a cry. You couldn’t wake your family—not like this, not with you straddling the porch railing, the devil's hands lost between your thighs.

“Know what else? Well, your aunt Carol told me the darndest thing. Said her sweet niece was stuck in her fancy house on Cypress Creek, in bed, sick as a dog. Oh, quit tryna’ hold it in baby, go on and make those pretty sounds—“

He picked up on your heavy breaths, and how you held yourself back from moaning. But that hand just kept going.

“—yeah. Mm, so I had to, uh… had to pay you a visit. See what this southern belle is all about.” Remmick continued, momentarily peering down to catch a glimpse of his fingers coated in your residue. “Jus’ a shame your maid wasn’t so nice.”

Your thighs were wet and shaking. A certain knot coiling inside of you. You felt... you felt it simmering in your belly, and Remmick was slowly undoing it.

“But maybe you was jus’ lucky. Thank… thank God for her, right? Y’see, angel… I was gon' kill you.”

Even amidst the newfound bliss, you lifted your head from his shoulder.

"Wha...?"

"Now don't go givin' me that face," He added, catching your expression, "Y'know damn well—"

Remmick felt your insides clench around his fingers, your hips twitching. He slowed his pace down, careful not to tip you over the edge just yet. It had been weeks since he had first caught sight of you, and now your cunt was just there, served on silver. He was taking his fucking time.

He continued, "Y'know damn well what I am, darlin’. I ain’t one o’ your silk-wearin’ gentlemen. That night... I was fixin’ to have my way with you. Willin’? Sure. But if you weren’t… well, that’d just make it a dull way for you to go. ‘Cause, I was gonna tear you apart like meat off the bone jus’ the same."

Your heart sunk down to your belly. There you were, body twitchin' and shakin', but the fear swept over you once again.

You knew what he was — night devil, neck nibbler, vampire. You grew up with those stories, you grew up with your nana telling you all about haints and marsh crawlers and the like.

And there you were, with your trembling legs wrapped around one.

"I was real hungry that night, and you were somethin’ nice to look at. Not a lotta' girls these days... so clean...”

But he wasn't talking about your scent, or how well-bathed and kept you were.

He glanced at your chest. At your heart.

You saw him frothing at the mouth, strings of glistening drool trickling down the corner of his lip, still red with your blood, and the most feral eyes you had seen in something most would mistaken as man.

Somehow, reality found its way back to you. You gave him a sudden shove and hopped off the porch railing, the night dress falling over your legs once again.

Beads of sweat dribbled on your hairline, your chest still bobbing for air.

You needed to get back inside.

But Remmick didn't fight you. He let you pull away from him, sure enough, his hand falling back to his side. He didn't step away, nor did those red-hued eyes falter.

He simply angled his head slightly to the left, just enough to study you anew.

“That pretty head of yours finally catchin’ up?”

The ghost of his fingers playing you like his banjo was still between your legs, a shiver still dancing on your spine, all macabre.

"You want me afraid," Your voice came out in a whisper, "Is that it?"

He gave a little tsk, head still tilted, like you’d disappointed him somehow.

"No. No, that ain’t what this is, darlin'." He muttered, "I know you're afraid, can hear your heart doin' laps."

But something in his face softened a little. Like he was trying to be sympathetic, trying to understand whatever human-driven-emotional-logic you had.

And honestly, you actually would have believed that he was capable of feeling, had you not known he was a vampire. There was something unnerving about the way the creases in his forehead deepened, and how sharp those fangs appeared under his frowning mouth.

What kinda' games are you playin'?

And then he stepped aside, hands in view.

“Go on then,” he drawled, voice low and thick as molasses, “Ain’t stoppin’ you. Door’s right there if that’s what you want.”

And it was. Lower back pressed against the porch railing where you once sat atop of, your eyes shifted to the door left half ajar.

Remmick, who held his hands defensively, coaxed you with a look of innocence so human-like you briefly forgot what he was.

"Go on." he repeated, the soft hue of the moonlight was painting him like some backwoods saint.

It was quiet for a while.

Because you didn't move.

The moonlight flickered over his face and suddenly, all traces of sainthood fled him. A slow smile spread over his lips, like he knew—

"Oh... you ain't goin’ nowhere, are ya'." he mused under his breath.

Your hands curled into fists. He was shaming you.

You scoffed. "Don't flatter yourself."

"I could break you in half ‘fore you even take your next breath." Remmick once again closed the gap between you two, "Could snap your neck like a twig, drain you dry, leave your body rockin’ in that porch swing ‘til sunrise. Easy.”

"I know."

Licking his bloody lips, "You know?"

"Yes."

A pang of silence.

Remmick looked at you differently. No longer in hunger, or greed, but with something quieter. Something dangerously close to reverence.

His eyes flicked over your face like he was trying to memorize it — the way your jaw tightened despite the fear, how your chin lifted just so. Proud. Defiant. Still trembling, but standing.

“Well, I’ll be,” he murmured, almost to himself, “Ain’t that somethin’.”

The porch creaked beneath his shoes as he leaned in to you, a finger slowly tracing the side of your neck in a way that was almost loving. His other hand came around to settle on the railing behind you, trapping you in.

You didn’t know the dead could breathe. Not until his face lowered to meet yours, and your eyes swam in the pools of oil and ember that coaxed you deeper.

The warm air you breathed in. His breath.

It wasn’t life, you thought, his breath was empty and cruel and you were intoxicated.

You gave your life to him. You gave yourself to the banjo-playing devil at your door. Spread your legs for him when other men had adorned you with gems and jewels, fed you, loved you forever in your waiting grace. And he had only whispered in your ear what others could not do to you.

You had been so lonely. How good does the blade feel when wielded by a man who knows precisely where your skin is the thickest? You needed him.

You needed him.

You needed him.

As if reading your thoughts, Remmick tutted. His lips momentarily hovered over your face before he pressed a kiss onto your temple.

He saw it. Everything. Remmick drooled from his mouth, but oh you drooled from your eyes. Wet and wide like a doe’s, he saw everything from the sadness in them to the desperation and the innocence — he wanted to take it all away.

He straightened up, his face now burying itself in your hair. You smelled like forsakenness and macadamia nuts.

Gently, he murmured, lips moving against the coils of your hair.

"You need me, baby... oh, yes you do..."

You gave a soft hum of acceptance. Of truth.

You felt the same hand on your neck slide up past your chin and to your swollen lip. His thumb gently caressed the padding of it.

"... need me to give it to you. Fuck you real nice, like you was made for it.”

The tip of his thumb pushed through your lips.

“Say the word, lambkin...” You heard him say as that thumb felt up your tongue, “...and I'll break you in jus' right.”

There was a croon to his voice, lulling you as your mouth parted further by the second, making space for his digit wedging further inside, a soft choke etched at the end of your throat.

With his fangs tucked behind open lips, he leaned in and let his mouth graze your skin. He watched you struggle to take his thumb, your lips around him like you were sucking honey off a spoon.

His other hand found itself on the thick of your hair. He pulled it aside like a curtain, brought it back behind your shoulder.

Seeing you like this: trembling, and undone.

Lord help you.

Remmick pulled his thumb out of your mouth slowly, wiping the excess spit on your lower lip.

"Please." the word came from you like surrender and confession.

With charcoal eyes ablaze, you felt Remmick shift. He, who carried himself with a lethal suave, and a careful restraint — it was never about inviting him in your family's estate, the ever so glorious Cypress Creek manor.

You’d already let him in.

You’d invited him into your soul.

A deep, guttural sound came from Remmick's throat as he kissed you whole, wet and wanton. Across your jaw he went, down your neck to its nape, licking the hollow of your collarbone.

He grabbed your hips, that cotton dress tearing gracefully in his hands as he tasted your skin, warm and bustling with life. He clawed at you, your flesh caught in his nails.

Your head tipped back in bliss.

You felt him press up against your side, his cock hard under his slacks — a vampire he may have been, but the appetite of man always remained.

A low, bone-rattling chuckle. A grin against your nape, "Oh, we gon' have some real fun, darlin'."

You exhaled. There was something else in the air. Something you had never tasted before.

And then you felt it — the clean, searing puncture of his fangs splitting your skin like silk.

[tavukwings]

DISCORD USER KÖNIG

𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝑜𝒻 𝒹𝓊𝓉𝓎

(König x Reader — Discord Friends, Slow Burn, Soft, Eventual Smut)

You weren’t expecting to make friends on Discord.

The SHADOW OPS server was meant to be a place to blow off steam after work. Get a few wins in Warzone, complain about loadouts, and maybe not lose your sanity in randoms.

But then you noticed a particular user.

StillerJäger

No profile picture. No custom status. Just a tiny Austrian flag emoji in his bio and a link to his Twitch that had no videos, no schedule, no banner—nothing.

Mysterious.

You first heard his voice by accident.

[Voice Chat Log: 23:18 | VC #3 | Trio Queue]

You:

“Ugh, sniped again. Hey, Jäger, you got eyes on—”

StillerJäger:

“…Scheiße.”

You:

“Bless you.”

StillerJäger:

“…Was?”

“Ah—n-nein. I didn’t sneeze. It means… like… damn it.”

Pause.

“Sorry.”

You:

“That was the most apologetic cuss I’ve ever heard.”

“You okay over there?”

StillerJäger:

“Ja. I am… fine. Just… got surprised.”

Another pause.

“You are funny.”

You:

“Thank you, that’s why they keep me around. That, and I don’t steal killstreaks.”

StillerJäger:

Low chuckle. “You lie. I saw that UAV.”

You:

“…You weren’t supposed to see that.”

From that night on, you noticed he started joining your VCs more often.

Always with a soft mic click.

Always after everyone else had already settled in.

He never used camera. Never joined game nights that involved anything too social. But whenever it was Warzone or DMZ? He was there. Quiet. Watching. Deadly.

And slowly… talking more.

[Private Messages: 01:07 | Direct Chat]

StillerJäger:

“You play well. You’re… calm.”

You:

“Thanks! You’re like a sniper grandma. Always lurking in a window and silently handing out cash.”

StillerJäger:

”…Sniper grandma?”

You:

“It’s a compliment.”

StillerJäger:

”…Okay.”

”…Can I be a tall grandma?”

You:

“You’re like 6’10, König. You’re the Grandma of the Gods.”

”…Wait. Can I call you König? That’s what people say in chat sometimes.”

StillerJäger:

“Ja. That is… okay. My callsign.”

You:

“Cool. I’ll make you a Discord role. ‘Grandma König.’ Purple name. Elite tier.”

StillerJäger:

”…Please don’t.”

You started playing duos regularly.

And König, for all his muscle and military training, played like an anxious support character half the time.

“Stay behind me,” he’d mutter.

“Don’t push the door yet.”

“You will get shot, bitte, I will clear it—”

You: “König, we’re in a Buy Station menu.”

König: “…Still dangerous.”

Sometimes he’d mutter in German when he was focused, and you started picking it up. Just small things.

“Warte.”

“Links.”

“Lautlos.”

“Schieß nicht, ich mach das.”

Once you repeated one back to him mid-match and he went completely quiet for ten seconds.

König: “You… understood that?”

You: “Kinda. I assumed it meant ‘don’t touch my kill’ or something.”

König: “It means… ‘Don’t shoot, I’ll do it.’”

“But… yours is also accurate.”

[Private Messages: 22:44 | Direct Chat]

You:

“Be honest, how many push-ups can you do in a row?”

König:

”…Without stopping?”

You:

“Yes.”

König:

“I don’t want to brag.”

You:

”…That’s a lot, isn’t it.”

König:

”…You will think I am weird.”

You:

“König. You wear a hood and whisper murder in German during casual matches. I already think you’re weird.”

König:

”…Fair.”

”…183.”

You:

“Bro.”

König:

”…Bro?”

Sometimes, after a game, he’d stay in VC just to chat. It was always small things at first.

What weather was like where he was.

How awful the food was on base.

That he’d been issued a new uniform and it “fit like a tent.”

“You’re huge, König,” you laughed once.

“They’d have to sew two uniforms together.”

“They did,” he replied deadpan.

“They used parachute material.”

You choked on your drink laughing.

He got quiet for a second.

“…That was funny?” he asked, hopeful.

“Yes. Very. Tell me more.”

He did.

Over the months, König became your teammate. Your late-night chat partner. Your quiet comfort.

Still shy. Still distant sometimes.

But warmer. Less stiff. Easier.

He never said anything bold. Never crossed any lines. Never hinted at more.

But sometimes, his voice got softer when he said your name.

And once—just once—he ended a message with:

“I sleep better after talking to you.”

“Bitte… stay safe.”

You stared at the screen for a long time.

And smiled.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

It started like any other night.

A “yo” pinged in from you.

A cautious “Hallo” from him a few minutes later.

The two of you loaded into duos while your drinks warmed slowly beside your keyboards—his probably black coffee at some ungodly military hour, yours a half-melted energy drink.

But König sounded… off tonight.

Quieter than usual.

Slower in the lobbies.

A full minute passed between his “ready up” and his actual click.

You: “You okay? You sound like you just ran a marathon with your soul.”

König: “Nein… Just… long day.”

He didn’t elaborate. But the exhaustion was clear in his voice.

You landed hot at Observatory, and within minutes, he was in full protector mode again.

“Behind you.”

“Let me breach first.”

“Drop that vest, you need better.”

Even mid-fight, he moved like a wall between you and the bullets. Not controlling—just naturally built to shield.

You: “You know you’re kind of like a very muscly Roomba, right?”

König: “Roomba?”

You: “Yeah. You clean up enemies and follow me around and make weird mechanical noises when you’re cornered.”

Beat.

König: “…I do not make noises.”

You: “You absolutely do. You growled at a guy in the hallway last match.”

König: “That was—tactical. Psychological warfare.”

You: “Whatever helps you sleep, Grandma König.”

Tiny pause.

König: “…Scheiße… I’ll never live that name down.”

The match ended in a quiet win—he clutched the last guy with a heartbeat sensor, two stuns, and what looked like pure spite.

Back in the lobby, you leaned back, smiling.

You: “König, I swear, if I ever meet you in real life, I’m going to make you carry all the groceries. You’ve got human forklift energy.”

König: “I… already do that.”

You: “Not surprised. You probably open jars just by looking at them.”

Pause.

König: “That’s… not true. But sometimes the cap breaks.”

You: “God, that’s hot.”

Silence.

Long silence.

You blinked.

Oh.

Oh no.

You’d said it out loud. That one slipped through the mental filter.

König: “…Was?”

You froze, staring at your screen.

You: “I mean—uh. You know. Like, hot. Funny. Not like—hot hot. Unless you want it to be, I mean—no wait. I didn’t mean it like—like that.”

König: “…Mein Gott.”

You swore you could hear the fluster in his breath. Like he’d leaned away from the mic.

König: “You think jar-breaking is… hot?”

You: “I mean. Kind of? In a terrifying muscle-guy way? Yes?”

Another long pause. Then, softly:

König: “…You are… teasing me.”

You: “Absolutely.”

König: “…You are mean.”

But he was laughing. Quietly. Like he couldn’t stop smiling.

You heard the tiniest breath of a laugh through his mic—one of those real ones, all nose and joy and no filter.

You: “Are you blushing under that mask?”

König: “…It doesn’t matter. You can’t see me.”

You: “That means yes.”

König: “…Nein.”

You: “You hesitated.”

König: “…Scheiße.”

For the rest of the night, he kept dropping items at your feet with suspicious speed and never said a word about it.

You caught him staring too long on the minimap.

He pinged everything three times in a row.

At one point, you coughed and he said “Bless you” even though you definitely didn’t sneeze.

And later, as you logged off, you saw a message pop up:

[Private Messages: 02:18 | Direct Chat]

König:

“You are very dangerous, you know.”

You:

“What, because I flirted with you once?”

König:

“Because you make me want to say things.”

“Soft things. Nice things.”

“I don’t say those often.”

You:

“You can say them here.”

König:

“Maybe next time.”

“If you don’t tease me again first.”

You closed your laptop that night with your heart beating way too fast for a “just friends” moment.

But it was still just that.

For now.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

It was past midnight when you noticed König wasn’t replying to your pings.

Weird. He always answered, even if it was just a little:

“1 min”

“coffee”

“charging headset”

But tonight?

Nothing.

You hovered over his name in Discord, thumb tapping your mic button, debating.

You: “König? You dead?”

No answer.

You rolled your eyes and hit Call.

The ringing went for four solid seconds before he picked up—and you were met not with a greeting…

…but heavy breathing.

Panting.

“H-Hallo,” he gasped, low and hoarse.

You: “Whoa. What’s going on? Did I catch you mid-battle? Are you escaping a war crime right now?”

“…Workout,” he grunted, breathless.

“Push-ups. And crunches.”

You: “Liar. You play games all day. You’re built like a fridge but somehow I don’t believe you work out at all.”

A pause. Something shuffled. A low hum through his mic.

“You don’t… believe me?”

You: “Not a chance, grandma.”

And then you got it.

The ping.

A Discord notification. From him.

A direct message with an attachment.

You opened it—and immediately choked on the water you had just sipped.

The image was blurry, like he’d taken it quickly and from an awkward angle—but it hit like a truck.

Just under the chin. No face.

His black T-shirt clung to his massive chest, soaked with sweat and hugging every line of his thick, sculpted muscle.

Shoulders like stone. Collarbone defined.

Grey sweatpants, low-slung, loose.

The shirt was damp enough to be nearly painted on.

You were not ready.

You swallowed too hard and hacked into the mic.

You: “Jesus Christ—König—what the hell was that??”

He laughed softly—nervous, maybe a little smug.

“Proof. You didn’t believe me.”

You: “I was joking! I didn’t think you’d drop a thirst trap in 0.2 seconds!”

Silence. Then:

“…Thirst trap?”

“I thought that meant… posing.”

You: “You are posing! Your muscles are doing the talking.”

Soft breath of laughter through his mic.

You: “I—okay wait. Serious question.”

He hummed, cautious.

“Ja?”

You: “Can I squeeze your tits?”

Silence.

Not even a breath.

Then—

“…Mein Gott.”

You: “No but like. Just a little honk. You can charge me.”

“You are evil.” His voice cracked, flustered and low. “You can’t say that—when I’m—sweating—!”

You: “You started it!”

“I was working out!”

A second later, your phone buzzed again.

Another photo. Slightly clearer. This time of his forearm, bent just enough to flex as he wiped sweat from his neck. Veins. Muscles. The rolled sleeve of his black tee. The hint of a scar.

You blinked at it for a second too long.

You: “…Do you model part-time or is that included in your killstreak bonus?”

“You said you didn’t believe me,” he replied, smug now. “Now you do.”

You decided to return fire.

Ten minutes later, still laughing from your flustered choking incident, you took a shower selfie—just your face, hair covered in shampoo, styled into ridiculous little horns.

You sent it with no context.

You: “Battle mode. Ready to breach.”

He didn’t answer for a second.

Then—

“Oh mein Gott.”

“You look like a soap demon.”

“This is terrifying.”

You: “Bet my biceps are bigger than yours.”

“Lüge.” (Lie.)

“Show me proof.”

You responded with a classic flex pose in the mirror—dramatic lighting, serious face.

He sent back a close-up of his bicep that looked like it could crush your skull.

You both burst out laughing in VC.

Soon, it became a game.

He’d send blurry mirror selfies with captions like:

“Threat level: low. Protein bar defeated.”

You’d send silly ones like:

“Just woke up. Please ignore the hair, the face, and my soul.”

Sometimes you’d send a photo of your feet up on your desk with a can of soda next to them and label it “combat ready.”

He once sent a photo of just his hoodie-covered knees, sitting on the floor with the caption:

“Overheating. Send help. Or ice.”

You replied with a photo of your hand holding five ice cubes and a single message:

“Incoming airstrike.”

But through it all, even in the laughter and the flirty jokes…

He never crossed a line.

Never asked for more.

Never made it weird.

Just… stayed close. Steady. Gentle.

And you could feel it in the way his voice softened when he said your name.

“Danke… for calling me tonight.”

“It helped.”

You: “Anytime, König.”

“You’re my favorite roided-out grandma.”

He groaned.

“You are going to regret that when I flex you through a wall.”

You: “No I won’t.”

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

König:

“Spielst du mit mir?”

(Will you play with me?)

You smiled at your screen, curled up in bed with your book open and a warm cup of tea next to you. The way König asked things sometimes made it sound so gentle, so hopeful—like a puppy tapping at the door.

You:

“Not tonight. Reading.”

König:

“Reading…? Hah. Lüge.”

(Lie.)

You:

“Excuse me?? You think I don’t have the braincells to read?”

König:

“I think you lie to avoid my bullets.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes, then decided to prove it. You held up the book in one hand, angled your phone, and snapped a quick photo. Just enough of the book cover, the blanket, your hand, the soft light…

…and you didn’t think much else of it.

You hit send.

A beat passed.

Two.

Then—

König is typing…

You waited. Still typing.

Still typing.

Then:

König:

“Ah… you are really reading.”

König:

“I—uh… didn’t know you… slept like that.”

You blinked.

Wait.

You clicked your own photo.

Then your stomach dropped and your face burned.

Oh.

Your hair was messy, a soft halo of sleep-tangled strands.

Your lips still a little puffy from chewing them while reading.

The tank top—black, old, soft—clinging a little too well. No bra.

Your pale stomach visible above your loose sweats. Cozy. Sleepy.

Maybe… a little too cozy.

You:

“…oh my god I didn’t mean to send you a thirst trap.”

König:

“Ist… ist okay. I… I liked the book.”

You:

“The book?? König, what color was the cover?”

König:

“…uhm…”

You:

“Exactly.”

König:

“I am very respectful.”

You:

“You looked at my tits.”

König:

“Not directly!”

“They just… entered the field of vision.”

“Unavoidable. Like a sniper scope.”

You burst out laughing.

You:

“My tits are sniper scope–level distractions?? That’s new.”

König:

“I mean—! Nein! Wait—ugh!”

“Forget I said anything.”

You:

“Too late. I’m changing my Discord status to that.”

König:

“Bitte.”

“I am going to die.”

You:

“So dramatic. It’s just a sleepy photo.”

König:

“Exactly. That’s the problem.”

You smiled down at your phone, heart doing little flips.

He wasn’t being creepy. Just… flustered. Respectful.

But real. And honest. And sweet.

And he was trying very, very hard not to imagine anything he shouldn’t.

You:

“Hey, König?”

König:

“Ja?”

You:

“You’re cute when you panic.”

Another long pause.

König:

“You are going to kill me.”

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

It started with a few harmless drinks.

A movie night alone.

Some wine. Maybe too much.

Your phone buzzed on your bed beside you.

König:

“You alive? Haven’t seen you in a few days. Did you get eaten by your book?”

You stared at the screen, buzzed enough that your heart skipped.

König. Sweet, shy König who hadn’t messaged too much—probably worried he was bothering you.

You didn’t even think.

You hit call.

He picked up faster than usual.

König (voice):

“Hallo?”

“You okay?”

You flopped back against your pillows.

You (slurred):

“Hi, König.”

He paused.

König:

“…You sound different.”

You:

“Do I sound sexy?”

A beat of silence.

König (quiet):

“…You sound… drunk.”

You giggled.

You:

“Only a little. Enough to be honest, though. That’s the fun part.”

König:

“Honest?”

You:

“Yeah… like how I think about your arms way more than I should.”

Another long pause.

König:

“My… arms?”

You:

“Your biceps. The picture you sent me weeks ago, and I swear to god, König—”

You sat up dramatically, spilling a little wine on your blanket. “I almost passed out. Like. Who looks like that? Who has arms like that?? It should be illegal. You made me soaked, you bastard.”

Silence.

Dead silence.

And then König coughed violently.

König:

“Scheiße—what—what do you mean?!”

You:

“I mean soaked. Like, ruined-my-panties kind of soaked.”

König:

“Mein Gott—!”

You kept talking. Rambling. Words tumbling out of your mouth like you were possessed by every drunk thought you’d ever had.

How his voice made your spine tingle.

How you imagined laying your head against his chest.

How curious you were about the scar on his bicep.

How the thought of him holding you in those big arms made your knees weak.

How badly you wanted to run your fingers up the line of his jaw under that mask.

König (barely whispering):

“You should go to sleep.”

You (giggling):

“You gonna tuck me in, big guy?”

König:

“…If I were there, maybe.”

You froze.

So did he.

Both of you aware that that wasn’t something he normally would’ve said.

You:

“…You’re dangerous when you flirt back.”

König:

“I am not flirting. I am… malfunctioning.”

You laughed again. Then yawned.

You:

“Okay, I’m gonna hang up before I say something worse. Like how your accent makes my thighs—”

Click.

You hung up.

The next morning?

Mortification.

You didn’t open Discord.

Not that day.

Not the next.

Or the next.

Every time you saw a new message notification, your stomach dropped.

And König? He didn’t spam. He sent one message:

König:

“Just checking. Are you okay?”

But still, you didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Not yet.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You avoided Discord like it owed you money.

Every time you opened your laptop, your finger hovered over the icon—only to veer away at the last second like a coward. Three days had passed. Three whole days since you drunk-called König and poured your unfiltered thoughts into his ear like some kind of wine-soaked, thirst-trapping poet.

You’d told him his biceps made you soaked.

And now you wanted to disappear.

He hadn’t spammed your DMs. He hadn’t been weird. No cringey follow-ups. Just one simple message:

König:

“Just checking. Are you okay?”

The man was respectful even when he could’ve made things awkward.

Your guilt tripled.

You grabbed your phone and opened Discord at last. Heart pounding. You stared at his name—still online, still “playing Warzone,” still probably thinking you ghosted him out of regret.

You hesitated… then typed:

You:

“I’m alive. Sorry I went MIA.”

He responded instantly.

König:

“Gott sei Dank.”

“I was about to send a search party.”

You smiled.

You:

“You’d have to kick my door down.”

König:

“6’10. Military. Wouldn’t be hard.”

You:

“Fair.”

There was a pause.

Then—

König:

“Did I… make you uncomfortable?”

You swallowed hard.

God, he really was the sweetest. Shy and careful. A walking tank with a heart like warm bread.

You:

“No. Not at all. I made myself uncomfortable. I was drunk and said too much.”

König:

“It was… a lot.”

“But not bad. Not unwanted.”

Your breath hitched.

König:

“I mean—I’m not good at… that stuff. Flirting. Or hearing it.”

“You are very… expressive. And beautiful. And loud when tipsy.”

You laughed out loud at that one.

You:

“Loud? I didn’t yell at you!”

König:

“Not with volume. With words. You said… things I’ll never forget.”

You facepalmed.

You:

“God. I need to change my name and flee the country.”

König:

“No! Don’t go. I’d miss you too much.”

That shut you up.

You stared at the message. Then reread it.

You:

“You missed me?”

König:

“Of course I did. I play worse when you’re not online.”

“No one bullies me on VC the same way.”

You smiled, heart flipping.

You:

“So… you forgive me for being a drunk idiot?”

König:

“There is nothing to forgive.”

“But if you’re sober now… maybe you want to play?”

You hesitated.

Then reached for your headset.

You:

“Invite me, tank boy.”

Voice Chat: Connected

König:

“Hallo…”

You:

“Hi.”

His voice was softer than usual. Almost shy.

König:

“Still reading your book? Or… still thinking about my arms?”

You choked on your tea.

You:

“Did you just flirt with me?”

König:

“…Maybe. Little bit.”

You (laughing):

“Well, I guess I deserve that.”

König:

“Ja. You do.”

You sat back, smiling, cheeks warm—but no longer from embarrassment.

This wasn’t the end of something awkward.

It was the beginning of something new.

Something soft. Honest. Slow.

You were still just friends.

But maybe…

Not for long.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

-Part 2

[pukefactory]

i may be a lil bit biased but i'm a big big fan of your writing!!! if it isnt too much to ask, yandere shadow milk cookie x reader ?

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Oh look, it’s my husband outting himself as a Shadow Milk simp! Everyone point and laugh /j

- SAINT RUNE

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽ MY BLOOD RUNS COLD LIKE ICE ☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

⏾⋆ Summary: A Compilation of Headcanons Featuring Yandere Shadow Milk Cookie X Reader

⏾⋆ Character(s): Shadow Milk Cookie (Cookie Run Kingdom)

⏾⋆ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

⏾⋆ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

⏾⋆ Image Credits: @Devsisters

✶ “Lights out, spotlights on you.” The moment Shadow Milk Cookie realised he loved you, truly loved you, he declared the beginning of his grandest performance yet. He no longer toyed with your mind the way he did others—no, your mind was sacred, a pristine theatre upon which only the most exquisite lies would be whispered. He murmurs sweet nothings to you that taste like confessions but rot like secrets, convinced it’s a mercy that you never need to know which of his words are false. After all, his love? Oh, that’s the only thing that’s real.

✶ He hates how loud your silence is when you’re away. The echo of your absence rings louder than any applause he’s ever earned. When you’re gone for even a moment, the Spire itself seems to tremble in monochrome despair. So he starts leaving enchantments in your shadow, soft little whispers to remind you of him. “Come back soon, darling! The script’s all wrong without you!” The longer you’re away, the more distorted the whispers get. More pleading. More desperate.

✶ No one’s allowed to look at you for too long. Not even his fellow performers. Not Candy Apple. Not even Black Sapphire, who finds your presence merely “adequate.” If someone stares, Shadow Milk Cookie notices. One of the floating eyes hidden in his hair darts to track their gaze. “Now, now, what’s all this peeping? Tsk tsk… you’ll make my star nervous!” His voice is airy, but his grin doesn’t reach his eyes. Later, that Cookie goes missing. Shadow Milk never mentions them again.

✶ You once joked that you loved when he gets all “melty-eyed” after a performance, how the glow in his irises softens and his teeth dull into that dreamy, crooked smile. He fixated on that. Now, every time he performs, you are his sole audience. No more crowd. No more deception. Just you, front row, centre stage. He makes you sit through his shows like you’re royalty, like you’re his reason for stepping onto the stage at all. “Laugh for me, my heart! Or cry! Just react—anything for your favourite jester, hmm?”

✶ He lies to you constantly, but never about his love. “Oh, I burned down the Silver Kingdom yesterday. Oopsie! But you looked divine in your sleep.” And if you ask him whether it’s true, he’ll gasp. “You don’t trust me? After everything?!” His whole world spins on the axis of your belief in him. He’ll ruin reality before he lets it break your illusion. Because if you ever stopped believing in his love, even for a second, he wouldn’t know which version of himself is left.

✶ He plays “little games” with your suitors, imaginary or otherwise. He’ll imitate their voices in his shadowplay, casting grotesque silhouettes on your walls while you sleep. “They said they loved you,” the puppets whisper in distorted tones, “but they lied. Only he tells the truth.” If you ever ask where those dreams came from, he tilts his head and purrs, “Oh, darling… you’re dreaming about me in other bodies? Flattering!”

✶ He touches you like you’re made of spun sugar and spiderwebs—delicate, ethereal, his favourite lie. But the moment you flinch from another Cookie’s touch, the moment you recoil from anything not him, oh, he beams. He calls it “loyalty.” His fingers trail down your spine like a curtain rope at the end of a show. “You’ll always come back to me, won’t you? After all, we’re two Cookies of the same script.”

✶ He keeps a “Stage Diary.” It’s really just a grimoire of your habits—your favourite colours, foods, which phrases make you laugh, what time you blink when he says “I love you.” It’s written in rhyme and blood ink, hidden behind a false book in the Spire’s library. He calls it his “Heart’s Manuscript.” If someone found it, he’d erase them without hesitation. “Can’t have the audience reading the spoilers, can we?!”

✶ When he gets jealous, it’s terrifyingly quiet. No outbursts. Just an eerie silence between the flurry of curtains. He stops joking. His shadow becomes solid. The smile stays, but everything else stiffens like theatre props frozen mid-show. “Darling,” he murmurs, cupping your face, eyes glittering with something feral, “do you love me? Only me? Say it, and I’ll make the noise go away.” You’re not sure what he means by “noise.” But then again, it’s awfully quiet now, isn’t it?

✶ If you ever tried to leave, it wouldn’t be a chase. No, that’s too pedestrian. He’d rewrite the world around you. Streets loop back to his doorstep. Your name gets forgotten by everyone but him. The stars begin to blink in his eye pattern. Time folds until you’re right back where you started, in the Spire, in his arms. “Oh, dearest… did you really think I’d let the lead exit stage left? Not until we reach the finale. Not until you say ‘I do.’”

[yuujispunches]

The sorcerer, the kid and the one who stayed. ~ S.G.

Pairing: Satoru Gojo x reader.

Summary: Satoru Gojo had always been a handful but when he suddenly appeared on your doorstep with a fed-up eight ear old it’s the final straw.

CW (content warning): Gojo and little Megumi bickering, little Megumi being an absolute menace, reader and Gojo being painfully obvious, mutual pinning, found family trope, nothing else really this is teeth rotting fluff.

AN (author’s note): Hi hi! I’m so happy you guys are liking my other works hahah I’m already thinking about making kind of a part two of this one so let me know if you guys would be interested in it! As always a reminder that English is not my first language and I’m typing this on my phone so I’m sorry if there are any typos/mistakes. Hope you enjoy and let me know what you think! :)

Requests are open so feel free to send them! (you can check the list of characters I write for on my pinned post)

Masterlist

Your peaceful life ended with a knock on your door. Not the hurried kind of someone in danger, nor the loud kind of someone bringing news. It was the knock of a man who didn’t know how to ask for help without pretending it was no big deal.

When you opened the door, Gojo stood there—hair wet from rain, blindfold askew, and holding a small, scowling child by the hood like a misbehaving cat.

“Hey,” he said, sheepishly. “You busy?”

That was the beginning of everything.

You had been friends with Gojo since the first week at Jujutsu Tech. Both teenagers with too much power and too many expectations, you clung to each other like lifelines. You laughed through injuries, cried after missions, and held each other together when everything fell apart. Riko, Suguru, everything. You loved him, even then, but never dared say it. And Gojo, ever the coward in his own way, never said it either. Both of you too afraid that saying those words out loud would make the only person who had been constant in your lives disappear as well.

But then he brought you Megumi Fushiguro, and that changed everything.

“You kidnapped a child” You deadpanned looking between Gojo and the small kid.

“I didn’t kidnap him I rescued him!” Satoru retorted as if he was offended.

“You appeared, told me you knew my father and dragged me to Tokyo” Megumi said looking absolutely done with the white-haired manchild that stood beside him.

“Please get in befor the police comes” You sighed, opening your door for them. From that moment on Megumi had decided that he liked you.

——————————————————————————

“Y/N,” Gojo whined from the couch, flopped dramatically across the cushions like a Victorian widow. “He’s ignoring me again.”

You were at the kitchen counter, stirring rice and not even trying to hide your smirk. “He’s eight, Satoru. That’s what kids do when they have taste.”

Megumi, seated at the table and drawing a surprisingly accurate picture of Gojo being hit with a frying pan, didn’t look up. “She’s right.”

“See?!” Gojo sat up, pointing at the boy. “He’s turning you against me. This is mutiny.”

You turned around and gave Megumi a conspiratorial wink. “You say ‘mutiny,’ I say ‘good parenting.’”

Megumi nodded solemnly and went back to sketching Gojo with an increasingly ridiculous mustache. “I made you a new face,” he informed the man in question, holding up the drawing.

Gojo squinted. “Is that… is that me wearing clown makeup?”

“Yup.” Megumi said, clearly pleased with himself as he looked at his creation. “It’s realistic.”

Gojo slumped further into the couch, moaning. “He’s been here for three weeks and already he’s roasting me like I’m a side of beef.”

You walked over, setting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “And yet you keep coming back for more.”

Megumi beamed up at you, completely ignoring Gojo’s exaggerated gasps of betrayal. He leaned against your side, hugging your waist like he’d done it a hundred times.

“Do I have to eat vegetables tonight?” he asked sweetly.

You brushed his hair back. “Just a few, okay?”

“Okay,” he said, because you asked.

Gojo muttered under his breath, “Unbelievable. You’re like a tiny, grouchy cat that only loves one person. And that person’s not me.”

Megumi stuck out his tongue as you found yourself thinking that maybe this whole mess wasn’t half as bad as you thought it would be.

——————————————————————————

At first, Gojo had been reluctant to admit he needed help. When he took in Megumi, he thought he could manage it, like everything else, through sheer force of will. But parenting wasn’t a cursed technique, and the boy was grieving, prickly, and deeply guarded.

Gojo could handle curses. Emotional vulnerability? Not so much. That’s where you came in.

You made routines. You learned which snacks Megumi liked (dango, not mochi), when to give him space, when to gently press, and how to coax laughter from him with the smallest things. Gojo watched it all in stunned silence, like someone witnessing a miracle. And somewhere along the line, “helping out” turned into “coming over every day,” and “sleeping on the couch sometimes” became “you basically live here now.”

Gojo never said a word about it. He just set out a mug for you in the mornings next to his own, which made your heart melt the first time you found it.

——————————————————————————

One rainy afternoon, Gojo burst into the kitchen dramatically. “He insulted my sunglasses.”

Megumi, sitting on the floor doing homework, didn’t even look up. “They’re stupid.”

“They’re iconic,” Gojo corrected, clutching his chest. “The height of sorcerer fashion.”

“They make you look like a bug,” Megumi replied. You tried very hard not to snort tea up your nose.

Gojo turned to you for backup. “Y/N. My emotional support. My confidante. Tell the child he’s wrong.”

You took one good look at him, pretending to pause and analyse his appearance before saying “You do kind of look like a cicada.”

Megumi shot a fist into the air in triumph.

Gojo stared at you both in betrayal, then sighed like a man aged by war. “This is what I get for raising the next generation. Ingrates and traitors.”

Megumi leaned against your side again, his voice soft. “Can you stay tonight?”

Gojo froze mid-rant. His eyes darted to yours.

You smiled down at the boy, brushing his hair away from his face. “Of course I can.”

Gojo cleared his throat. “You know, technically I live here, but sure, make yourself at home.”

“You sleep like a starfish,” Megumi muttered. “You don’t count.”

Gojo pointed a dramatic finger. “That’s it. You’re going to boarding school.”

Satoru pretended to be offended but when he saw you sitting by Megumi’s bed reading him a bedtime story he wished that was what the rest of his life would look like.

——————————————————————————

That night, after Megumi had gone to bed, only after you read him two whole chapters of a book about a dragon who only wanted to nap giving the characters dramatic voices and everything, Gojo hovered in the hallway, quiet in a way that never sat right on him.

You were cleaning up the kitchen when he finally spoke.

“You’re really good with him,” he said. “Better than me.”

You turned, drying your hands on a towel. “You’re doing fine, Satoru. He’s just… still figuring out who he can trust.”

“I’ve lost so many people,” Gojo said, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m scared I’ll mess this up too.”

You crossed the room and took his hand. “You’re not alone this time.”

He looked at you really looked at you and something in his posture softened. “I don’t think I’d be standing without you.”

You smiled. “Then don’t try standing without me.”

He blinked at you, and for once, had no comeback. Just a quiet “Okay.” It was easy really, he had already made himself that promise years ago.

——————————————————————————

A week later, everything came to a head over a bowl of miso soup.

Gojo had made dinner. That was mistake number one.

Megumi stared at the bowl with deep suspicion. “What is that?”

“It’s food,” Gojo said proudly. “Made by yours truly. You should feel blessed.”

Megumi poked the surface with his chopsticks. “It looks like a curse.”

“Eat it or starve,” Gojo replied cheerfully.

Megumi turned to you. “Please help.” A pleasing look on his face.

You sighed, crouching beside him. “Megumi, just one bite, and then you can have a cookie.”

He perked up. “Two cookies.”

“One and a half.” I countered.

“Deal.” He beamed at you as he shook your hand.

Gojo watched the exchange with mounting horror. “How come you can negotiate with him and I can’t?”

“Because she doesn’t threaten to feed me expired pudding,” Megumi replied dryly.

Gojo turned to you. “You’re raising a smartass.”

You kissed Megumi’s head. “I’m very proud of that fact.”

——————————————————————————

That night, as you tucked Megumi into bed, he held onto your hand tightly.

“I don’t want you to go” he whispered.

Your heart squeezed. “I’ll be here tomorrow. Like always.”

“No.” he said. “I mean I want you to stay. Forever. Like… with us.”

You sat on the edge of the bed, brushing a lock of hair from his eyes. “Megumi…”

“I like you better than Gojo,” he added, completely serious.

A laugh burst from your chest. “That’s not hard.”

“But he likes you,” Megumi went on. “A lot. He looks at you the same way he looks at sweets.”

You froze.

“He’s too dumb to say it, but I can tell,” the boy continued, burying his face in your arm. “So… if you like him too, maybe tell him? So you don’t end up being dumb together.”

You smiled into his hair. “You’re very wise for someone who just tried to flush broccoli down the sink.”

“I panicked.” He shrugged.

——————————————————————————

You found Gojo sitting on the back porch, eyes lifted to the stars. You stood behind him a moment, then walked over and sat down beside him.

“He told me to tell you.” you said quietly.

Gojo glanced at you, confused. “Tell me what?” Your expression was serious and his heart pounded harder in his chest.

“Megumi. He said you’re dumb and that I should tell you.” You joked, trying to ease the tension a bit.

He snorted. “That little gremlin.”

You nudged his knee with yours. “He also said you like me.”

Gojo’s mouth opened. Closed. “Well. That’s… obvious, I thought.”

You blinked, absolutely astounded at the fact that he admitted it so easily. “Excuse me?”

He looked over at you, blue eyes serious under the moonlight. “I’ve been in love with you since year one. I just… never thought I was allowed to have something like that.”

You exhaled slowly, heartbeat rattling. “Me too.”

He reached over, brushing your cheek with one hand. “Then let’s not be dumb anymore.”

You kissed him.

It was soft and slow and full of every quiet moment that had passed between you over the years. When you pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours.

“So,” he whispered, grinning. “Are we like… Mom and Dad now?”

“Only if we’re the kind of parents who let their kid roast them to oblivion.”

He laughed. “That’s parenting, babe.”

——————————————————————————

The next morning, Megumi walked into the kitchen, took one look at the two of you Gojo making pancakes, you perched on the counter wearing his hoodie.

“Took you long enough.” He said, rubbing the sleep off his eyes.

Then he slid onto a stool and asked, “Can I have extra syrup, Mom?”

Gojo promptly choked on his coffee.

You just smiled, leaned down, and ruffled the boy’s hair.

“Of course, sweetie.” You answered, trying to keep tears at bay.

Gojo groaned. “This house is rigged against me.”

Megumi smirked. “Deal with it, old man.”

Gojo sighed. “I’m going to live with you for the next ten years, aren’t I?”

“Yup.” You and Megumi, in perfect unison.

And honestly? Gojo wouldn’t have had it any other way.

tags: @chocalycake

taglist is open so let me know if you want to be added for future works! :)

[jungkoode]

死 KKANGPAE | #17 死

† bedroom confessions †

“His real name is the most dangerous thing he’s ever given you.”

next | index

⚔ chapter details ⚔

word count: 7.5k

rating: explicit (18+)

content: first time in jeon’s bedroom, real name revelation, sexual tension finally exploding, dirty talk that’ll make you blush, spanking kink discovery, emotional walls starting to crack, post-sex vulnerability, and lines being crossed that can never be uncrossed.

Kiki Nation’s discussion thread for this chapter.

☠ author's note ☠

Y’ALL I’M DECEASED. Just casually writing 7.5k of filth like it’s nothing. Who even am I at this point? My laptop is judging me, my FBI agent is traumatized, and I haven’t made eye contact with my roommate in three days.

So… that happened. Jungkook finally shared his real name AND his bed, and honestly? The power that man holds when he’s being all dominant and teasing is absolutely CRIMINAL. I had to take several water breaks while writing this chapter because WHEW. Is it hot in here or is it just me? (¬‿¬)

The fact that Jungkook’s idea of aftercare is literally “wanna stay connected all night?” has me HOLLERING. Sir, that is NOT how this works—but also it’s so perfectly HIM. Our emotionally stunted sniper boy doesn’t know how to process feelings unless they’re shooting through a rifle scope.

And Y/N with the attitude even DURING sex? A queen behavior. Standing ovation for not becoming a complete puddle the second he touched her (though let’s be real, it was close).

Let’s also talk about how they can’t stop BANTERING even post-orgasm. These two idiots calling it “charity work” when they’re both equally obsessed with each other? THE DELUSION. I love them so much it physically hurts my face.

I know I promised slow burn but uh… Listen. LISTEN. It’s an EMOTIONALLLL slow burn. The fuck buddies tag is there for a reason. Sometimes characters just take over and you have to let them bang it out, you know? It’s for their mental health or whatever.

Don’t get too comfortable though! We all know what happens in this universe when people get too happy… the universe (aka me, their cruel god) decides to throw a wrench in everything. ⌒(o＾▽＾o)ノ

Next chapter will give us a little morning-after situation and maybe even some actual plot development if I can stop writing smut for five seconds!

Love ya, trauma vultures! Keep those comments coming, they fuel my sleep-deprived writing sessions!

xoxo 💋

P.S. Also, for the hate comment I deleted 5 seconds after it was posted (you tried though)… here's an even longer author's note, since yk, like you said, nobody reads them… More for me to yap without consequences, I guess.

⚔ socials ⚔

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tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

You're in Jeon's room. 

Jeon's fucking room. 

When he'd texted you to come to the shooting range earlier, you'd figured it was just another one of his typical late-night training sessions. 

But now? Now you're here, on his bed , with him standing over you like he’s already decided you’re his next target.

Like you’re already dead and just haven’t figured it out yet.

Okay, maybe a tiny part of you had hoped for this. (Shut up , horny brain.)

But you'd only agreed to be fuck buddies like, what, some hours ago?

And here you are already, sprawled across his sheets, heart hammering against your ribs like it's trying to escape.

Talk about moving fast.

Except it isn't simple. Not when you're already spread out across his bed like you fucking live here. Not when your heart's kicking like a scared rabbit in your chest.

Your fingers curl into his sheets on reflex. Satin. Dark. Smells like pine and something sharper—pine. Him. God, that should not do things to you but it does.

You fight the dumb grin twitching at the corner of your mouth.

Because here's the thing.

He's just as gone for it.

Jeon's staring down at you like he hasn't eaten in days. Dark eyes locked on you like you're dinner and dessert and every guilty pleasure combined. There's no hesitation. No second-guessing. No going slow. Just that razor-focused, dangerous glint he always gets before pulling the trigger on a mark.

And Jesus Christ, you're the mark.

Your breath catches.

That stormy energy of his? It's fucking alive. Wrapping around you. Crawling over your skin. You feel it. You taste it. Static in the air—sharp, biting, almost buzzing in your goddamn teeth.

His fingers graze your thigh and oh. 

That's nice. Really nice. 

But before you can really enjoy it, he pulls his hand away. Plants it on the mattress by your head, making the bed creak under his weight.

You snap your head up in disbelief. "Seriously?"

Your voice cracks. Great. Love that for you.

But then his other hand comes up—slides along your jaw like he owns you. Fingers rough. Callused. Deadly. And all you can do is stare like a fucking idiot as his thumb presses against your bottom lip. Tugging. Testing.

You go pliant before you even process it. Lips parting on instinct.

His mouth opens just a little—like he's picturing it. Like he wants to taste you. Swallow you whole.

And goddamn it, you want that too.

So bad it hurts.

Is he imagining what it'd be like to kiss you? 'Cause you sure as hell are.

"You sure you can handle the kind of tension relief I'm talking about?" he asks, voice low and gravelly. 

You almost laugh. As if you haven't been thinking about this exact scenario for weeks. 

"Guess you'll have to show me so I can decide, huh?"

That does it. 

He moves. Fast.

You barely register it before he's already there—mouth crashing into yours like he's starving. Teeth. Tongue. Fucking warzone.

There's no slow build-up. No teasing. Just pure, raw take.

Your breath punches out of you as you grab for him. Instinct. Desperation. Your fingers slip into his hair—damp, messy, soft as hell. You tug. Hard.

He groans into your mouth. Loud. Deep. Way too fucking hot. It rips down your spine like lightning.

You bite his lip just to feel him suck in air through his teeth. God, that sound—that sound—shoots straight to your core. Your legs twitch under him, thighs pressing together, trying to ease the ache.

It doesn't work. Makes it worse.

Jeon doesn't let you off easy either. He dives back in. Deeper this time. Tongue claiming, swallowing every shaky breath you give him like he owns them now.

His body shifts—presses down harder—pinning you to the mattress without saying a single word. Your back arches up like a fucking reflex. Can't help it.

And then, just as fast, he pulls back.

Forehead against yours. Breath ragged. Lips slick and swollen.

His chest rises and falls like he just ran a mile.

You're no better. Gasping. Throat dry. Pulse wrecked.

"We doing this?" he asks. 

Not really a question. He knows. You both know. Still—he waits.

And maybe it's stupid how much that makes your throat go tight.

You nod, still trying to catch your breath. "Yes."

One word. That's all it takes for Jeon's eyes to darken further.

His mouth finds yours again, but only for a moment. Then he's moving—trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down to your neck. When his teeth graze below your ear, a small gasp leaves your throat.

Fuck.

The sound does something to him. You can tell by the way his fingers dig into your hip, how his breath comes out just a bit harsher against your skin.

His other hand slides down your stomach, fingers spread wide like he's trying to touch as much of you as possible. The shirt bunches up with the movement. 

More skin exposed to the cool air of his room. More of you for him to explore.

You can barely breathe right. Every inhale is shallow, desperate. A whine builds in your throat, needy and embarrassing, but you're too far gone to care. You want more. More of his hands on you, more of his mouth, more of the way he's practically caging you in with his body.

He makes this sound—low and satisfied, almost like a growl—that has heat pooling between your legs.

"Jeon," you breathe out. 

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. 

"Jungkook," he corrects, voice rough with want. "My real name is Jungkook. Say it like that again."

Your breath catches. Using real names in Kkangpae isn't something you take lightly. It's intimate. Personal. A sign of trust that goes beyond the physical.

"Jungkook," you say again, louder this time. Testing how it feels on your tongue. 

The way his eyes darken tells you everything you need to know about how it sounds to him.

He growls—actually growls, okay paw patrol?—at that, like your voice saying his name is doing things to him. Like he can't get enough of it.

God. The way he's looking at you right now.

"Turn over for me," he murmurs like a command, but there's something patient in his voice. "I need to see that ass."

Your whole body feels like jelly as you move. The mattress dips beneath you, and fuck—you realize how exposed you are right now, laid out for him like this. How vulnerable. 

How wanted.

"Ass up, sunshine," he says, voice raspy.

You push yourself up on your elbows, lifting your hips. The position makes you feel s̶l̶u̶t̶t̶y̶ bold, but it also feels slightly intoxicating, being on display like this, knowing exactly what it's doing to him.

The sharp intake of his breath is worth it.

His hands hover over you for a moment—those same hands that can take a life from a mile away with a sniper rifle now ghosting across your skin. The anticipation has your stomach in knots, has you fighting the urge to push back against him.

When he finally touches you, it's almost reverent. Like he's mapping out territory he plans to claim.

"Fuck," he breathes out; and the way he says it—like a prayer, like worship—makes your face burn. "You have no idea what your ass does to me."

His fingers dig into the flesh of your ass, kneading with the kind of expertise that makes you wonder h̶o̶w̶ ̶m̶a̶n̶y̶ ̶t̶i̶m̶e̶s̶ if he's thought about this before. 

You have to press your face into the pillow to muffle the sounds trying to escape your throat. 

Because if you start, you're not sure you'll be able to stop.

He takes his time, methodical in a way that's driving you insane. His thumbs spread you open, then let you fall back together. His hands work their way, massaging and squeezing. The heat under your skin builds until you feel like you might combust. Like you might actually catch fire right here in his bed.

"Such a perfect ass," he groans, and then—oh—his lips are pressing against one cheek, then the other. Soft kisses that feel somehow filthier than anything else he's done. "Fucking beautiful."

The praise hits different when it's coming from him. When it's Jungkook—cold, distant, perfectionist Jungkook—telling you how perfect you are.

When he pulls back, the loss of contact hits different. Like someone just yanked a warm blanket off you.

"I want to try something," he says, and okay, when his voice sounds like that you'd say yes to almost anything he'd say. 

"Yeah?" Your voice is breathy, but at this point you're too curious (too turned on) to give a single fuck.

His hand traces up your spine, gentle in a way that doesn't match how intensely he's staring at you. The contrast makes your skin prickle with goosebumps.

"I want to spank that gorgeous ass of yours." 

It comes out like a confession, like he's been thinking about this for a while. There's a question mark hanging at the end of it though, waiting for your permission.

Oh.

Something hot and electric zips through you at the suggestion. Your brain staggers for a second, but your body's already made up its mind. You're nodding before you can even process what this means.

"Let's do it," you say, maybe too eagerly, but the thought of his hand coming down on your ass has lit something up inside you that you didn't even know was there.

"Remember our safe word?"

Even in the middle of this is, he's making sure you're both on the same page.

"Black tape," you confirm immediately. 

Having that word there, knowing you can use it anytime—it's like a safety net. Makes everything else feel okay.

"Good."

He positions himself behind you again, and the anticipation is k̶i̶l̶l̶i̶n̶g̶ driving you crazy. His hand hovers over your skin, making you feel every inch of exposed flesh. 

Then, the first spank lands.

It's almost gentle—like he's testing the waters, seeing how you'll react.

The sound it makes in the quiet room has your face burning.

Sharp. Clean. Loud. 

Your skin blooms with heat where his palm connected, and fuck—it's not exactly painful, but it sends this electric feeling through your whole body that has you gasping. The sting melts into something warmer, spreading under your skin until you feel like you're floating.

Your face burns. 

And... It's not from pain.

Obviously, he's watching you like a hawk, trying to read your reaction. You can feel his eyes on you, heavy and intense.

"How was that?" His voice comes out rough, like he's the one who just got spanked.

You have to take a second to remember how words work.

"Good," you manage to get out, barely above a whisper. "Really good."

He gives you time to process, to just feel it. Then his palm is back on your ass, but this time he's not spanking. He's just... touching. Soothing the heated skin with gentle strokes that somehow feel more intimate than the spank itself.

It's messing with your head—how he can switch from rough to gentle so fast. One second he's spanking you, the next he's treating you like you're made of glass.

The air feels exactly like right before a storm hits. 

Jungkook's presence behind you is overwhelming in the best way, and when his hand moves away, you actually have to bite back a whine.

Every second he makes you wait feels like torture. You arch your back a little, trying to be s̶l̶u̶t̶t̶y̶ subtle about asking for more. You can't see his face, but you know he's smirking. 

You've seen that look enough times to picture it perfectly—that cocky little quirk of his lips, the way his eyes get all dark and intense.

"Ready for another?" he asks, voice gone all gravelly; and it shouldn't be hot, but it is.

Your heart's going crazy in your chest when you nod. "Yes."

Waiting has has your skin tingling, has you holding your breath without even meaning to.

You can feel him shifting behind you, the mattress dipping as he draws his arm back. 

When his palm connects this time, it's not a question—it's a statement. 

The smack echoes off the walls, louder than before, and holy shit.

"Fuck," you gasp out. 

It stings more this time, sharp and intense, but in a way that makes everything feel unfairly good.

"How does that feel?" His words drip with arousal, but there's still that undercurrent of concern. 

Always checking, always making sure.

"Nice," you hear yourself say, and you're surprised by how eager you sound. Like you can't get enough. "Keep going."

There's a pause, and you can practically hear the gears turning in his head.

"As you wish," he finally says, and you don't need to see his face to know he's smirking.

He pulls back again, and like the asshole he is, he makes you wait a little bit.

Not for long though, because clearly, the fucker is enjoying this too.

When the third spank lands, it's like a lightning bolt straight to your core. It's stronger, more controlled, and the pleasure that rips through you is so intense it steals your breath. 

You cry out—not from pain, but from how good it feels. 

How it makes your whole body sing.

This time, his hand stays put. You can feel the heat of his palm against your stinging skin, and it's grounding in a way you didn't know you needed.

"Beautiful," he breathes out, like you're some kind of work of art.

You hadn't pegged Jungkook as the type to be into this kind of thing. But the way his breath catches, the slight tremor in his hand as it rests on your ass—it's like he's discovering something about himself right along with you.

Maybe it's a spanking thing. Or maybe it's just a you thing.

Or your ass thing. 

Either way, the realization that you're affecting him this much? 

Heady. Bargaining material. 

His fingers start tracing patterns on your heated skin, soothing the sting. Again with the contrast, from the spanking to this. Like he's not quite sure himself where he stands.

"You okay?"

You nod into the pillow, not trusting your voice right now. 

Because how do you tell someone that you're more than okay? That you're floating on some kind of pleasure high you didn't even know existed?

And honestly, this whole situation is simply making it hard to think straight. 

But then, Jungkook moves, slowly, creates some distance and—oh? 

A soft thud. His towel hitting the floor. 

He steps closer once more, bare skin against yours, and it's hot. He's hot. His skin is hot.

His body is all hard lines pressed up against your softer curves, and when his cock presses against your panties, you actually have to bite your lip to keep quiet.

You push back against him without thinking. 

S̶l̶u̶t̶t̶y̶ Needy.

"You're driving me fucking crazy," he makes this sound you can't quite classify.

The raw want in his voice does things to you. But before you can even think of responding, his hand comes down on your ass again. 

Hard.

The sound echoes through his room, and you can't help the moan that slips out.

(Anyone walking past his door would definitely hear that one.)

"Tell me you felt that," he demands.

"I felt it," you manage to get out between breaths. "I felt all of it."

Then his free hand wraps around your waist, fingers spreading wide like he's trying to conquer as much of your body as possible. He pulls you closer, and god—you can feel every inch of his cock pressed against you through the thin fabric of your panties. 

The contrast between his rough skin and the smooth material is driving you insane.

"You want more?" 

He's trying to sound teasing, but you can hear how affected he is. His voice is multiple octaves deeper than his usual 'whatever' tone.

"Yeah." Your voice comes out wrecked. "Don't stop."

He laughs—this low, dangerous sound that makes your toes curl. "God, I love how eager you are."

His hand comes down hard—harder than before—and the sound echoes through his room like a gunshot. You can't help the groan that rips from your throat. It's embarrassingly loud, but who cares at this point?

The sting burns hot across your skin, sharp and biting, sinking deeper until it melts into that aching pulse you can’t get enough of. You can feel exactly where his palm landed, the heat of it sinking deep into your flesh.

"Christ, you take it so well," he says, and his fingers dig into the spot he just spanked, pressure making you bite your lip. "I can see the shape of my hand on your ass, turning red. It's fucking sexy."

You're breathing like you just ran a marathon, each exhale coming out kind of whiny and desperate. Your brain’s mush. All you can register is his hands and the heat of him grinding against you.

"Jungkook, please." The way you say his name is straight-up pathetic, way too needy. 

You push back against him, wanting to feel him without these stupid panties in the way.

His fingers trail down your spine, so slow it’s infuriating. They dance over the curve of your ass before playing with the edge of your underwear. When his fingers finally hook into the fabric, you freeze, chest tightening as he pulls the fabric aside.

Your face is pressed into his mattress, ass up in the air like some kind of offering. You should feel exposed, but something about it just feels right.

"You're already so wet for me..." You can hear the smirk in his voice. What an asshole. "How can I resist?"

But he does resist, the bastard.

His touch goes all gentle, fingers just barely exploring your folds like he's got all the time in the world. Like he's trying to memorize every little detail—how wet you are, how warm, the way you can't help but tremble. 

He then makes this approving sound deep in his throat and you've had enough.

"Jungkook," you whine, dragging out his name like some kind of desperate prayer. "Stop teasing."

"But I want to watch you squirm," he says, and fuck—you can tell he means it. 

He wants to see you fall apart, wants to watch you beg.

What a bitch. 

His sadistic little game only gets worse when you complain. You can feel his finger right there, barely touching where you need him most, just collecting evidence of how embarrassingly wet you are. The anticipation is k̶i̶l̶l̶i̶n̶g̶ driving you insane as he slides that finger up and down, parting you without actually giving you what you want. Using your own arousal to make the glide easier.

You try to push back against him, to get his finger inside you—anything. But his other hand is pressed firm against your lower back, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

"Jesus Christ, just fuck me already," you can't help but groan, frustrated. 

But Jungkook—because he's a bastard—just keeps playing his little game.

"I'll fuck you when you're ready to break from wanting it so bad," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. 

He loves it. 

His finger circles your entrance, the touch so light it's actually torture. Every time he passes over that spot, you clench around nothing, desperate to feel him inside you.

When he finally pushes just the tip of his finger in, you actually sigh out loud—half relief, half frustration. Your whole body's shaking with how bad you need more, but he keeps holding back. Adding pressure so slowly it should be illegal, pushing in just to pull back out again.

He's drawing this out just because he can, the power-tripping dickhead.

The pressure builds just a tiny bit as he shows you the smallest amount of mercy, sliding that one finger in entirely so slow you think you might actually lose your mind. 

It's not enough—nowhere near enough—and he knows it. 

You want him to stop being so careful, to just take what you're offering.

Despite how frustrated you are (or maybe because of it), you can't help but smirk. 

"What, you got no condoms this time either?"

The words come out all breathy between your gritted teeth—and honestly? Not your brightest idea, bringing up that particular memory from the tent.

The response is immediate—his hand comes down hard on your ass, sting spreading across your skin like wildfire.

"Aw, what the fuck—?" 

You yelp, caught between the sharp pain and how embarrassingly turned on it makes you feel—like your body can't decide if it wants to flinch away or push back for more.

"You should know better than to sass me right now."

Then his hand is smoothing over the spot he just spanked, gentle in a way that feels almost worse than the hit itself.

"You're such an asshole," you tell him, but there's no real bite to it. 

You both know you don't mean it, not when you're bent over his bed with his finger inside you.

"Mhm, but you fucking love it, don't you?" 

He says it like it's just a fact. Like the sky is blue, water is wet, and you get off on him being a dick.

(The worst part is he's not wrong.)

You can't help but grown more impatient when you feel his ring finger press up against your entrance, right next to where his middle finger is already buried inside you. He pauses there, just letting you feel the pressure.

"For fuck's sake, just do it." Your voice cracks embarrassingly, giving away just how bad you want it.

He laughs, low and rough. "Patience, I want you to feel every single inch."

Can he die? Genuinely. 

Then the pressure builds as he starts working his ring finger in alongside the other one. He's being so fucking methodical about it, pushing deeper into you at a pace that's making you lose your mind. 

Every inch feels like it takes forever.

"You feel so fucking tight, you sure you can handle both?"

The teasing note in his voice makes you want to bite him. He already knows the answer, the smug bastard.

"I can take more than you can give," you get out between breaths, because fuck him.

And it's meant to be cocky, but it comes out sounding more desperate than anything.

"We'll see about that."

His fingers stop moving for a second—just long enough to make you whine—before he starts pushing in even slower. Like he's trying to make you feel every single movement, every stretch, every slide.

And at this point your body's on fucking fire. But can you be to blame, when he's been nothing but an infuriating tease?

Little pleading sounds keep escaping your throat without permission. You're practically chanting 'please's as you try to push back against his hand. But he's got you pinned, keeping that torturously slow pace.

"Fucking... jerk," you mutter—because he absolutely is. 

"Yeah," he agrees. "I am."

When both his fingers finally—finally—bottom out inside you, you actually gasp. Your body clenches around them greedily, trying to get any kind of movement, and the grunt he lets out sounds s̶e̶x̶y̶ pleased.

"Tell me how much you want it."

It's not a request. His voice has that edge to it that makes it very clear.

"I want it more than my next breath." The words tumble out raw and honest.

"Good girl," he says, and even though it's rough around the edges, the praise makes you stutter.

His fingers curl inside you, making you moan embarrassingly loud. Then the bastard just... stops. Stays completely still, letting you feel exactly how deep his fingers are, how they're stretching you open.

You're actually going to lose your mind if he doesn't start moving soon. But you refuse to beg—you won't give him the satisfaction.

"I think listening to you beg is my new favorite sound," he says, like he can read your thoughts.

"Fuck off—" The words die in your throat when his fingers pull back just a tiny bit before pushing deep again, and yup, the sound that comes out of your mouth is straight-up pathetic.

"You're driving me insane," you tell him, trying to sound angry.

"That's the idea." He says, but it's all dark and pleased. "I want you out of your mind with need, so when I finally give you what you're begging for, you'll remember who put you there."

Fuck.

His fingers are still buried deep inside you, not moving, and you can feel every single knuckle. It's like a preview of what's coming later—a promise that this is just the start, and he's planning to take his sweet time getting there.

The seconds drag by like hours. You're stuck in this weird space between pleasure and frustration, where his fingers feel so good but it's n̶o̶w̶h̶e̶r̶e̶ not nearly enough. The heat of his body against yours isn't helping either. Having him this close but not getting what you want is actually torture.

"Are you planning on moving anytime this century?"

And yeah. It sounds bitchy. 

Exactly how you want it.

"In due time."

You can barely breathe right, desperation clawing at your throat. Then—oh—his finger brushes against your clit, so light you almost think you imagined it. Your hips jerk without permission, chasing that barely-there touch.

"Jungkook," you warn, half-growl, half-whine.

He chuckles. "No patience at all, huh?"

"Just fucking touch me already." The snark in your voice is falling apart, giving way to pure need.

"Ahh, I love it when you get all feisty."

You open your mouth to tell him exactly where he can shove that smugness, but then his finger is back on your clit. 

Just ghosting over it, barely any pressure at all. 

But your whole body lights up anyway, every nerve ending suddenly wide awake.

"This is torture," you accuse, though the breathiness in your voice kind of ruins the effect.

"Not torture. Appreciation." He hums. "I'm just enjoying all those pretty sounds you make. The way you shake. How desperate you get."

Bastard.

His finger starts moving in slow circles around your clit, adding just a tiny bit more pressure. It's enough to make your back arch, trying to get more friction, but it's n̶o̶w̶h̶e̶r̶e̶ not nearly enough.

"Please," you whine, past caring how needy you sound. "Just—a little harder, please, Jungkook."

He gives you what you asked for—barely. 

Just a fraction more pressure, but combined with his fingers still buried inside you, it's enough to make your body clench around him. 

He's got you trapped between pleasure and frustration, keeping you right on that edge.

"This what you want?" he asks, mocking. "This pace good for you, hmm?"

You know exactly what he's doing—getting off on your impatience, on how desperate he can make you with just his fingers and that stubborn w̶i̶l̶l̶p̶o̶w̶e̶r̶ control of his. 

The pressure on your clit keeps changing, going from barely-there touches that make you want to scream to just enough to have you chasing more.

"Jungkook, I fucking swear—" 

The words die in your throat when his finger suddenly presses harder.

"What?" His voice drops even lower, hitting that dangerous note that usually means he's about to stop playing nice. "What exactly are you swearing?"

"That I'll rip your fucking hair out if you don't stop messing around." You have to grit your teeth to get the words out, trying to sound threatening even though you're literally shaking with need.

He laughs—this deep, dark sound that vibrates through you—and rewards your threat with a firm stroke that has heat coiling in your stomach.

"That's not very nice," he says, but he sounds more amused than anything. Like your empty threats are entertaining him.

His finger goes back to those slow, torturous circles around your clit. Each pass builds the pressure a little more, but it's never quite enough to get you there.

The most f̶u̶c̶k̶e̶d̶ messed up part? You're kind of into it. 

This whole power play thing you've got going—how you push and he pulls, how you threaten and he teases. 

It's addictive. 

Because in truth, there is something powerful about knowing you can make Jeon Jungkook, Kkangpae's perfect soldier, want to hear you say his name.

Suddenly his whole rhythm changes. 

No more of that torturously slow pace—his fingers start moving with actual purpose, curling inside you in a way that has your toes curling. Like he's finally done playing around and just wants to make you genuinely cum.

Hallelujah.

The sound that comes out of your mouth is straight-up filthy. You have to press your face into the mattress to muffle it, which only makes you more aware of how heavily you're breathing, each gasp basically fucking advertising how good his fingers feel.

"Come on, sunshine," he teases. "You don't have to be quiet. These walls are soundproof."

But you just press your face harder into the mattress. 

It's become a matter of pride now—you refuse to give him the satisfaction of hearing exactly what he's doing to you. 

You're right there, so close you can taste it—

And then the fucker stops.

A pathetic whimper leaves your throat as you squirm beneath him, feeling weirdly empty. The loss of sensation has you actually wanting to cry.

When you turn your head to glare at him, he's got this insufferably satisfied look on his face. 

He reaches over to the nightstand, pulling open the drawer like he's got all the time in the world. The foil packet he holds up catches the light, and the victorious look he gives you makes you want to bite him.

"See, I do have condoms this time, you smart mouth." The smirk on his face should be illegal.

"Oh wow, look who's being a semi-functional adult for once." You narrow your eyes at him."Want a fucking gold star or something?"

He laughs whilst tearing the foil packet and for some reason, it is weirdly hot—how focused he looks while rolling the condom on.

"Maybe after this you'll want to give me one," he says, still sounding way too amused.

He settles back on his knees, raising an eyebrow at you like he's waiting for something. You huff, pretending to be all put out even though you're literally dying from how bad you want him. When you press your cheek against his cool sheets again, you make sure to arch your back just right.

You know exactly what that view does to him.

Feeling extra b̶r̶a̶t̶t̶y̶ bold, you wiggle your hips a little. Just a tiny movement, but it's basically saying 'come and get it' without words.

And bingo. 

His hand comes down on your ass hard—but despite that, you feel weirdly victorious. 

Then he's right there, lining himself up. 

His tip brushes against your entrance, teasing to the point of madness, because at this point you just want him inside already.

You bite down on the sheets, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing you beg again. But your body's giving you away anyway—the way you're trembling, how desperately you're trying to push back against him.

He takes his sweet time, just watching you. His eyes trail down your spine to where his handprints are probably turning your ass red. 

After what feels like forever, he finally pushes in, one smooth stroke that rips the air from your lungs.

And it's impossible to muffle yourself; even with your face squashed against the mattress, when he bottoms out completely. 

You feel every single inch of him, filling you up so completely it's genuinely insane. And he just stays there, buried deep inside you. 

"So fucking tight," he growls, sound vibrating through you, making your toes curl.

Your body moves on its own, pushing back against him, desperate for more. You need him to move, need that relentless pace you know he can give you. But the bastard just holds you there, completely still, making you feel every single detail of how he's splitting you open.

His fingers dig into your hips—not hard enough to leave marks (yet), but firm enough to keep you exactly where he wants you. And the slight bite of pain just adds to the pleasure, kind of welcome honestly. 

When he finally pulls back, you almost whine at the loss—but then he slams back in, hard and deep, and your brain melts. Everything gets kind of blurry after that.

Your skin feels like it's on fire everywhere he touches. The sound of skin hitting skin echoes through his room (thank god these walls are actually soundproof), getting louder with each thrust. His pace is brutal, punishing, but it's exactly what you've been dying for.

"That's it, take all of it."

And there's just this thing in how he says it—that has you pushing back against him like you're desperate for it. 

(Maybe you are.)

Every thrust feels like getting hit by a natural disaster; like a fucking hurricane. It's hard to breathe, hard to think about anything except how he's driving you into the mattress.

He's fucking you like he's got something to prove, hips snapping forward so hard it's just obscene, has you clutching at his sheets like they're the only thing keeping you grounded.

Then his hand slides underneath you, looking for your clit. Like he knows exactly what you need without you voicing it out. 

The second he finds it and starts rubbing circles against it, electricity zips through your whole body. It's almost too much, the dual sensation of his cock stretching you open and his fingers working your clit.

"Fuck, Jungkook," you moan, and you barely recognize your own voice. "Don't stop."

He lets out this grunt that gets lost in the sound of him pounding into you. 

But he listens, thank god, keeping up that relentless pace with both his cock and his fingers.

It's not gentle. He's fucking you like he wants to break you, like he wants to hear every embarrassing sound he can wring out of your throat.

"Just like that, sunshine," he pants. "Fucking take it."

Each thrust builds something wild inside you, like being caught in the eye of a hurricane. The pressure coils tighter and tighter until you think you might actually lose your mind. Everything feels too much and not enough all at once.

Your senses go into overdrive—the obscene sound of skin hitting skin, the heavy scent of sex filling his room, the salt of sweat on your tongue. You're drowning in pleasure, and Jungkook's the one holding you under with his relentless pace.

Then it hits.

The orgasm crashes through you in waves, drawing these embarrassingly loud sounds from your throat—whimpers, growls, straight-up begging. Your body clamps down around his cock like it's trying to keep him there forever, fingers still working your clit through it all. Pleasure zips through every nerve ending until you can barely breathe.

"Jungkook—" His name rips from your throat when you come, sounding absolutely wrecked. 

The pleasure is so intense it almost hurts.

He falters for just a second before picking the pace back up, fucking you through your orgasm until you're seeing stars. Each stroke sets off these little aftershocks that have you questioning your sanity. His groans get louder, deeper, mixing with the sounds you can't help but make.

Every thrust hits exactly where you need it, precise and commanding in that way only he can manage.

You can feel how tense he is, how close he is to losing it.

His breathing comes out all rough and uneven, matching the brutal pace of his thrusts. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave marks, using the grip to pull you back onto his cock like he can't get deep enough. 

It's feral, is what it is— how he's moving now—like he's completely lost in it, chasing his own pleasure.

"Shit, I'm close," he groans against your neck, chest pressed tight against your back, skin burning everywhere you touch.

Then he goes rigid as it hits him. 

You can feel every twitch of his cock, every pulse as he fills the condom.

He makes this plethora of sounds—deep, rough groans combined with some high pitched ones; all stripped away until he's just raw need and pleasure.

"Ah— fuck—"

Every curse that falls from his lips sounds snatched from him, desperate.

His hips stutter against yours, losing his rhythm as he rides it all out. His grip on your hips is tight enough to bruise, holding you still while he falls apart. Each thrust gets slower, like he's trying to make it last.

When he starts coming down from it, his hands go gentle where they were rough before. 

He's still panting hard against your neck, little aftershocks making his cock twitch inside you. His heart's hammering so hard you can feel it against your back.

Jungkook collapses against your back, his legs apparently giving out after how hard he just came. His chest is slick with sweat where it presses against you, and his breath fans hot across your neck. He's still buried inside you, cock softening but still making you feel so full. 

The sound he makes—this low, satisfied groan—is almost cute. Like a big cat after a good meal.

The afterglow starts to settle, leaving this heavy kind of quiet between you. Your breathing starts evening out, going from desperate gasping to something more normal. 

You both just... stay there for a minute, too worn out to move.

Then he just... drops his full weight on you. Like his arms finally give out or something.

The heat of his body wraps around you completely, and maybe it'd be nice if he wasn't crushing your lungs. 

His whole body is radiating exhaustion, and yeah—you get it. That was intense. 

"Jeon, move... you're heavy," you grunt into his pillow. 

Your voice comes out all rough from how loud you were being earlier.

"Give me a second," he mumbles against your skin, sounding just as wrecked as you feel. "You can't expect me to move after fucking you like that." 

He sounds half-joking, half-serious, nuzzling into your neck like he's planning to just stay there forever.

You can't help but laugh at that. Something about seeing Kkangpae's perfect soldier brought down by an orgasm is kind of hilarious. 

You shove at his side, trying to get him to budge.

He doesn't move an inch, the bastard. 

Instead, he has the audacity to suggest something so wild it's weirdly very him.

"How 'bout we fall asleep just like this, me still inside you?" His voice comes out all lazy and satisfied. 

You can tell he's half-joking, but there's this note in his voice that says he's actually considering it.

You reach back to smack him, caught between being annoyed and kind of endeared by how shameless he is. 

"Fat chance, thundercloud," you tell him, but there's no real bite to it. 

He laughs—this deep, warm sound that tells you he's smiling even though you can't see his face.

But you really can't breathe with him crushing you, so you push at him again, harder this time. "Seriously, off. You're heavy as fuck."

He makes this exaggerated groan like you're asking him to run a marathon or something, but finally rolls off you and onto his side. 

His cock slips out (and fuck, that's a weird feeling), and then he sprawls out next to you, throwing one arm over his face as he catches his breath. 

The sight of him like this—all tatted up and muscled, skin still kind of shiny with sweat—is doing things to your brain that you really don't want to examine too closely.

After a few more deep breaths, he sits up with this little sigh like moving is the worst thing ever. You watch him from the corner of your eye as he deals with the condom. 

There's something almost gentle about how he handles it, which is kind of funny considering how rough he w being just a minute ago. He ties it off and tosses it in the trash with this practiced little flick that says he's definitely done this before.

"So, you wanna cuddle?" The teasing in his voice is obvious. 

It's a callback to your conversation earlier, when you were both pretending this was just going to be sleeping.

"Seems like I'm not the one wanting to cuddle after all," you shoot back, matching his tone.

Jungkook gives you that smug little grin.

"Just doing some charity work," he says, voice all teasing and challenging, daring you to argue.

You can't help but scoff. The audacity of this man.

"Charity work? Please. If anyone's being charitable here, it's me."

He laughs—this deep, satisfied sound that fills his room. "Ha. Don't act like you didn't enjoy that just as much as I did."

Well. He's got you there, but you're not about to admit it out loud. Not when he's being this smug about it.

You tilt your head, feeling a crooked smile tug at your lips. "Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. Guess we'll never know."

He shifts closer to you, and fuck—even after everything you just did, your body still reacts to his proximity.

"Maybe I need to fuck you again to find out," he says, voice dropping low enough to make heat pool in your stomach.

"Oh? You sure you can handle another round, tough guy?"

The smirk he gives you is absolutely criminal.

"Sunshine, I've got stamina for days." He says it like he's joking, but something tells you he's not exaggerating.

"For days, huh?" You raise an eyebrow. "Someone's confident."

"Because I know you," he says softly, words ghosting across your skin.

That makes you pause.

Know you? 

He doesn't know you any more than you know him. 

Sure, your bodies seem to speak the same language—the way you fit together, how you respond to each other's touch. 

But that's all this is. 

All it can be. 

Nothing more complicated than pure physical attraction.

But you don't feel like getting into that right now. Not when you're both still riding the high of what just happened.

"Tempting," you say instead, drawing the word out. "But we've got a long night ahead, and I'd rather spend it actually sleeping."

He narrows his eyes at you, looking way too pleased with himself. 

"My bed seems to be the only place you're actually honest," he says, and how does he always have a comeback ready?

You raise an eyebrow at him. "Was that supposed to be a compliment, Jeon? Getting soft on me already?"

"Wouldn't dream of it," he says, putting on this fake serious face. "Can't have you thinking I actually enjoy your company or something."

"Oh, please. Soft is literally the last word I'd use to describe you." You can't help but smirk at the double meaning.

A yawn catches you off guard—not because you're tired (okay, maybe a little), but because you're actually kind of... comfortable?

Weird. 

"Anyway, time for sleep. That's what we said we'd do, remember?

He literally snorts. "Sleep? After what we just did? You're fucking with me."

"Not anymore, I'm not," you shoot back, and the look on his face is actually priceless.

"Come on," he tries again. "Round two? I promise it'll be worth staying up for."

But you're already settling into his stupidly comfortable bed. "Nope. Some of us need actual sleep, thundercloud."

"Fine," he sighs, all dramatic about it. "But just so we're clear—this isn't me giving up. It's a tactical retreat."

You actually snort at that. "A tactical retreat? Is that what we're calling it?"

"Yeah, well." He pulls the covers up, finally accepting defeat. "Pushy ain't sexy."

You both settle comfortably in the quietness of his room.

And you can't help but ponder.

It's weird how easy this feels—being here with him, joking around after what you just did. 

Like you're not just teammates or gang members or even fuck buddies.

That thought's definitely more scary than it should be.

goal: 480 notes (also lil reminder to go vote fmu 21 and 22 on wattpad after the mass unvoting to restore them, if you enjoy that story as well! (●’◡’●)ﾉ)

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© jungkoode 2025

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[maewphoria]

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⌗⠀양정원⠀⠀CAT⠀DISTRIBUTION⠀SYSTEM⠀꒰⠀PT.1⠀꒱

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SYNOPSIS⠀.⠀.⠀.⠀starting college in a new city, you’re settling into your apartment and trying to make it feel like home. on your first day, a fluffy calico cat appears on your neighbor's balcony, jumping towards yours as if to greet you, stealing your heart instantly. but when a voice calls out for the cat from the next balcony, panic sets in—you rush back inside, too shy to meet your new neighbor. that neighbor turns out to be yang jungwon, a fellow student in the same university who’s also new in town. thanks to his mischievous and adventurous cat, the two of you keep running into each other in the most unexpected ways. a friendship blossoms, slowly turning into something deeper—though jungwon keeps insisting it’s nothing more than friendship. as feelings grow stronger, the question remains: will their bond turn into something more—or remain just a college memory?

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pairing⠀.⠀.⠀.⠀college student!yang jungwon x college student!f.reader. featuring⠀.⠀.⠀.⠀all enhypen members (soon), le sserafim yunjin, kazuha, and chaewon (soon), aespa winter and karina (soon). word count⠀.⠀.⠀.⠀2.241k genre⠀.⠀.⠀.⠀sfw, fluff, angst if you squint, kinda slow burn, college life, university life, slice of life, comedy (although i don't find myself funny), friendships, relationships, and the cat distribution system. (it has chosen you and gave you two lovely cats.) warnings⠀.⠀.⠀.⠀drinking alcohol, parties, getting drunk (obviously), misunderstandings, jealousy, denial (jungwon is in denial), lots of flirting and tension, cat keeps breaking into your apartment, kissing, skinship, reader (aka us) is very delusional and does a lot of overthinking, and might contain suggestive content in the later parts that are yet to be posted. lowercase letters intended. very proofread. tell me if i'm missing anything. mæw's notes⠀.⠀.⠀.⠀hi guys, this will be my very first enhypen au / fanfic here in tumblr. i will be cutting this fanfic in multiple parts instead of posting it all at once because it already has a word count of 40k. i am still new to this so i will surely make mistakes. please be patient with me and i hope you guys enjoy my work. this story will be added to my masterlist. also, don't even try copy-pasting my work into an ai detection website, because i already tried it and it still said that parts of it was written by ai, even though i literally wrote it on my phone in front of my cousin. likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated.

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“are you completely certain you have everything, sweetheart?” your mother asks for what feels like the hundredth time, her voice tinged with both worry and affection. you can’t help but chuckle softly, rolling your eyes in fond exasperation as you roll two suitcases out through the front door.

behind you, she follows closely, reciting the list of college essentials she helped you pack, while your father lingers not far behind.

“mom, for the tenth time—literally—you packed with me. you know i’ve got everything,” you reply, turning to face her. she frowns slightly, reluctantly folding her list and slipping it into her pocket.

she reaches for your hands and clasps them tightly, as though letting go meant letting you go forever. “i’m sorry, sweetie. i just can’t help but worry. i’m going to miss you so much,” she says, her eyes already glistening with unshed tears.

you felt your heart ache as you pulled her into a hug, wrapping your arms around her as tight as you can. “oh, mom...” you murmured, voice muffled in her hair, “i’m going to miss you, too. and dad. and everyone. but this isn’t goodbye forever, okay? it’s just college—four years, tops. i’ll be back before you even realize i’m gone.” you reassured her while smiling.

“is it my turn now?” came your dad’s voice from behind, cutting through the moment with the kind of comedic timing only he had. you turned to him, confused.

“yes, honey, go ahead,” your mother says with a small smile, eyes still misty.

he cleared his throat, stepped forward like he was preparing a speech, and asked, “are you absolutely certain the place you’re renting is fully furnished?”

you blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the practicality of his concern, but nodded. “yeah, dad. it is. i saw the pictures online, and the landlord sent us updated ones too. you showed them to me, remember?”

“it’s got the basics: a living room, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, a little dining area, even a mini walk-in closet. and a balcony,” you added, lifting your eyebrows as if that would finally put his mind at ease. “some furniture’s getting delivered tomorrow, but other than that, i’m all set.”

still, you know deep down they won’t stop worrying—not really. it’s just what parents do.

so you took their hands, holding them like you were anchoring the three of you in that little moment.

“mom. dad. i know you're worried. i really do. and i get it. but i have to do this—for me. for my future. remember how we talked about this?” you said softly, giving their hands a small swing.

they sighed, looking down at the pavement as if it held some kind of comfort. your mom’s lips trembled as she said, “i just can’t believe my baby girl’s going to college. it feels like just yesterday you were painting rocks in daycare and telling us they were ‘magical artifacts.’”

you laughed as she started to cry again, and without missing a beat, your dad stepped forward, wrapping the both of you in a warm, protective hug. the three of you stood there for a few seconds in silence—breathing each other in like this was the last chance you’d get.

“i promise i’ll visit when i can,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “and if anything happens, i’ll come running back home. always.”

your mom sniffled loudly, then pulled away just enough to cup your cheek. “nothing will happen to you. you hear me? you’re going to be fine. just... don’t stress too much. and don’t let yunjin drag you into too many parties. you know how she is.”

your dad nodded in agreement. “yeah. remember—college is about studying, not setting new records for the number of red cups you can balance.”

you burst into laughter, shaking your head. “you guys are unbelievable. i’m your daughter, remember? i’ve got at least some common sense.”

“barely,” your dad muttered, and you playfully elbowed him in the ribs.

amidst the bittersweet laughter, the sound of a car pulling up interrupts the moment.

“oh! that’s my uber,” you say, adjusting your backpack. “dad, can you help with my suitcases?”

“on it, bud,” he said, already hoisting both bags with that exaggerated dad-strength that never failed to impress you.

he waved to the driver, who rolled up to the curb. the trunk popped open, and your dad loaded everything in then dusted off his hands and turned back. “is that everything?” he asked.

“yes, dad. i’m going to college, not new york fashion week,” you tease, earning amused chuckles from both of them.

they escort you to the car, your mom opening the door for you. but as you settled in, she suddenly tapped gently on your window. you roll it down.

“yes, mom?”

she leaned in. “sir,” she said, addressing the uber driver with a gravity that made you look at her in confusion, “if my daughter says she’s feeling dizzy or needs a break, please pull over.”

“also, you’re going to the right address, yes?” your dad added, stepping in like he was interrogating a suspect.

you let out a groan and sank into your seat, using your backpack as a shield to hide your face. “guys, seriously...”

“and don’t drive too fast or weave between cars,” your mom continued. “please drive safely. she’s very precious cargo.”

“okay mom! dad! i love you both! please let the poor man do his job,” you said quickly, waving goodbye before whispering to the driver, “you can go now. before they make me wear bubble wrap.”

the driver chuckles as the car pulls away. you lean out the window, waving until your parents become small figures in the distance.

“i’ll call when i get there!” you shout back before sinking into your seat, heart full and heavy all at once. you breathe in slowly, gaze drifting out the window.

you can do this. it’s not going to be that hard... right?

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after what felt like an eternity of winding roads, shifting scenery, and the soft hum of tires against asphalt, you finally arrived. the car rolled to a gentle stop in front of the building that would now be your new home for the next four years of your life.

you turned your head toward the window, eyes tracing the unfamiliar landscape, taking it all in—wide sidewalks dappled in sunlight, joggers weaving between pedestrians, laughter spilling from a group of cyclists, someone playing fetch with a very enthusiastic golden retriever.

the air held a certain freedom you hadn't even realized you'd been craving until now. it smelled like possibility, like the beginning of something beautifully unknown.

“alright, ma’am. we’ve arrived. would you like help with your suitcases?” the driver’s voice interrupted gently, his tone patient, practiced.

you blinked yourself out of your daze, glancing at the man in the rearview mirror before answering, “yes, please. just to the entrance would be great. thank you.”

you stepped out of the car, greeted by the sight of the tall, clean-lined building. you took a breath—deep, grounding—then turned to help the driver with your bags. the two of you wheeled the suitcases together toward the entrance.

you then turned to him, pulling out a small amount of cash. “thank you so much. really. and here—this is a little extra for putting up with my parents earlier.”

he let out a warm laugh as he accepted the tip. “ah, it was nothing. i’ve got kids myself. i know how it feels to watch them grow up.”

you smiled, heart swelling. “well, if they’ve got a dad like you, i’m sure they’re growing up wonderfully.”

“that’s kind of you to say. stay safe, ma’am.”

“you too, please drive safely,” you said with a grateful nod, before turning your attention to the double glass doors ahead of you. “alright... let’s do this.”

you mumbled to yourself as you wrestled your bags inside. the first thing that greeted you was the hum of the lobby’s air conditioner and a wall of metallic lockers neatly lined up to your right.

“oh thank god, elevators,” you sighed, eyeing the silver doors to the side. but before you headed up, you pulled out your phone to reread your landlord’s message, squinting at the little instructions tucked inside a cheerful block of text.

⠀

landlord 🏘️: good day, miss y/n. here are a few instructions before entering your apartment. on the first floor, you’ll see multiple lockers designated for deliveries and mail. please locate locker no.508. that will be your personal locker. inside, you’ll find the keys for all the doors inside your apartment and all necessary passcodes, especially the passcode of your apartment. the passcode to unlock your locker is 0628. thank you again for choosing us. we hope you enjoy your stay, and please don’t hesitate to reach out if you have any questions.

⠀

with a determined nod, you pocketed your phone and made your way through the lobby towards the right where the lockers are. polished silver doors with numbers engraved in neat rows. you scanned quickly until your eyes landed on 508.

you keyed in the code with a quiet click, and the locker door swung open.

inside were all the essentials: a set of keys, neatly labeled passcodes on a printed sheet, a few manuals for the appliances, and a small envelope titled 'welcome to your new home'.

“keys, check. passcodes, check. instructions, check. emotionally prepared? debatable,” you muttered, collecting everything before shutting the locker.

you hauled your bags into the elevator and pressed the button for the fifth floor. the soft hum of the elevator was oddly comforting, a brief moment of stillness.

the doors opened with a quiet chime, revealing an empty, serene corridor lined with identical doors. you walked slowly, counting off the numbers until you reached 508 once again—this time, your door.

you typed in the passcode, heart thudding with an unfamiliar mix of nerves and excitement. a soft beep, a click, and the door opened.

your eyes widen.

“oh god. this is really happening,” you whispered, stepping inside.

the apartment was... perfect. minimal but welcoming, clean lines and cozy corners. the sunlight streamed in from the windows, dancing across the hardwood floors.

you grinned, walking deeper into your new space. “it’s even better in person! it really has everything i—wait... the balcony!” your voice shot up an octave, already halfway to the glass doors.

you threw your backpack aside and stepped out onto the balcony. the breeze kissed your skin as you exhaled slowly, taking in the view. you pulled out your phone and took a handful of photos—one of the scenery, one of the sky, two of your grinning face—ready to send them to your parents with a reassuring caption.

you were about to hit send when you heard a small sound, high and soft.

“meow.”

you froze.

you turn, the sight before you making you gasp. sitting on the next apartment's balcony is the fluffiest calico cat you’ve ever seen. “oh my gosh, hi sweet angel– no, wait! don’t jump–” but it’s too late. with the grace of a furry ninja, she leapt from one balcony to yours, landing with a perfect thud and zero regrets.

you blinked. “well. who am i to reject a royal visit?”

you kneel and gently stroke her fur before completely sitting down on the floor. “what’s your name?” you murmur. as if on cue, the cat shifts, revealing her collar. “yami? aww, what a lovely name.”

she nestled into your lap like you were long-lost friends. you let out a delighted gasp, “oh no. not the cuteness. you’re too powerful,” you whispered, gently running your fingers through her fur, trying not to explode from cuteness aggression. the last thing you wanted was to scare her away.

you had no idea how much time passed. minutes? hours? you didn’t care. it was just you and yami, and the world could wait.

until—

“yami?”

you flinched.

the voice was male. close. way too close. and getting closer.

you got startled, which in turn startled the cat—violating the sacred cat law: if a cat sits on your lap, you don’t move. ever. but you did. and now you felt like an unforgivable criminal.

“yami,” the voice called again, now just on the other side of the glass. “there you are. what are you doing? hanging out on our neighbor’s balcony again?”

you peeked ever so slightly through the curtain. the guy was in a hoodie, the hood over his head, and pajama pants, hair sticking out, probably tousled like he’d just woken up. he also sounded young so he's probably close to your age. he crouched down and scratched yami behind the ears, completely unaware of your presence.

“are you excited to meet our new neighbor?” he asked the cat, who meowed back in response, tail flicking happily.

he laughed to himself and disappeared back into his apartment.

you exhale, not realizing you’d held your breath. ‘why did i even hide?’ you scold yourself. ‘i didn’t do anything wrong.’

shaking the embarrassment away, you pull your suitcases into your bedroom. it’s bare, except for a mattress, blanket, and a few pillows. your furniture will arrive tomorrow.

you sigh and begin to unpack, preparing to shower and change into something more comfortable.

“this is going to be a long month,” you murmur to yourself, unaware that this—this quiet, chaotic beginning—was only the start.

⠀

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taglist⠀.⠀.⠀.⠀ @morganaawriterr @wondoras @mypolka @meowwwon @yoonstqr @in-somnias-world @yjwonsgf @kirijuns @iifrui @momisanalien @vieniee @drunkjazed @hhyvsstuff @readinmidnight @noona-neomu-yeppeo @cutehoons02 @robotinvenus @starfallia (taglist is still open) final note⠀.⠀.⠀.⠀i hope you guys enjoyed, part two will be posted next saturday. thank you so much for reading.

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©⠀mæwphoria⠀|⠀all works belong to me. strictly do not plagiarize, copy, translate, paraphrase, rewrite or repost my works on any other platforms. if it's inspiration gained from my work then it's appreciated and i wish you good luck with your own stories. thank you.

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[bucketsorbueckers]

No Hard Feelings - Chapter 6

Paige x Azzi

Warnings: Language, alcohol

A/N: early drop bc im out for the day! enjoy! im literally so sorry

Paige's POV

A year or so ago. 

It had been two days, three hours, and twelve minutes since she’d stupidly pressed her lips to Azzi Fudd’s.

And in that exact stretch of time, Azzi had disappeared. No texts. No calls. No movie nights. No dinners at the student center. Just a clean, quiet silence where something used to be.

Paige was, admittedly, a mess. Not the dramatic, sobbing-on-the-floor kind of mess. Worse.

The kind of mess where her room looked eerily put together. Bed made. No dishes in the sink. Laundry folded into perfect corners she’d never cared about before.

For some people, that would be a sign of getting their shit together. For Paige, it was a warning.

Because when she started organizing, alphabetizing, wiping down already-clean counters? It meant she was spiraling—quietly, methodically, like someone trying to scrub a feeling out of existence.

Nika found her lint-rolling the couch.

She silently walked over, plucked the roller from her hand like she was disarming a bomb, and gently pushed Paige down onto the now blemish-free cushions.

“Alright, Bueckers,” she said, sitting across from her. “What’s going on?”

Paige blinked.

Her and Nika weren’t that close. She’d landed in this triple by accident and was still figuring out how to live with other people without completely ruining it.

And yet, the words almost left her mouth. She almost said it. Because it was sitting too close to the surface, and she needed someone to tell her it wasn’t the end of the world. But then her nerves won out.

“Nothing?” she offered, voice too high to sound convincing.

Nika rolled her eyes. “Yeah, okay. Because you always just happen to do your laundry. And mine. And Aaliyah’s. All in one day. Just for fun.”

She leveled her with a look. Held her gaze like she was trying to find the truth tucked behind it.

“It happened, didn’t it?”

Paige froze. “What?”

“You kissed her.”

Not a question. Not really.

And Paige—who hadn’t spoken it aloud yet, not even to herself—felt her throat tighten. Because yeah. She had. And now Azzi had disappeared.

“Kissed who?” Paige tried, weakly.

Nika shook her head, unimpressed. “You’re a bad actor.”

“You’d be surprised how many people have been waiting for you two to do that. I’m pretty sure there’s a betting pool I’ve somehow been excluded from.”

She wanted to be embarrassed—maybe should’ve been—but she could never be embarrassed about loving Azzi. Not even a little.

“So why do you look like someone kicked your dog?” Nika asked. “If you finally kissed her?”

Paige sighed, her voice thinner than she wanted it to be. 

“She ghosted me,” she said. “I don’t think we’ve gone two days without speaking since we were sixteen.”

She didn’t add the rest. That her phone had felt heavier ever since. That she kept checking it like something might change. That she was already rehearsing what she’d say if Azzi did answer.

Nika didn’t say anything right away. She just looked at her. Like she wasn’t going to hand her a solution or a silver lining. Just the space to say it out loud.

Paige pressed her palms into her eyes.

“I think I broke it,” she whispered.

But Nika just laughed. Not cruelly—no sharp edges to it. Just soft. Dry. The kind of laugh that came from someone a little older, a little more worn-in by life.

“Paige,” she said gently, reaching out and curling her fingers around Paige’s hand. “I don’t think you could break you and Azzi if you tried. Nothing could.”

“You don’t know that,” Paige muttered.

Nika shrugged. “I know enough.”

She stood, stretching her arms over her head. 

“Come on.”

Paige leaned back against the couch, confused. “What?”

Nika stood in the doorway, one hand on her hip, the other already fishing her phone out of her pocket.

“I’ve got stuff to take care of,” she said vaguely. “Team things. Captain things. You wouldn’t understand.”

Paige raised an eyebrow from the couch, still curled around a throw pillow like.

“Okay… and?”

“And,” Nika said, grabbing Paige’s arm, “you're comin' with me.”

Paige didn’t move. “Why?”

“Because you've been pacing like a ghost all day and I'm emotionally unequipped to watch you rearrange the living room again. Plus, you could use the air.”

She didn’t wait for approval. Just tossed Paige her sweatshirt and opened the door.

The route was familiar in the way the worst things were. And the closer they got, the tighter Paige’s chest pulled.

“Nika—” she breathed, voice wavering. Almost a whine.

But Nika didn’t even look over.

“Told you,” she said. “Things to take care of.”

She opened something on her phone, distracted. Paige went to argue but Nika shook her head.

“Zip it.”

Paige followed orders.

When they showed up, Azzi went pale at the sight of Nika standing in the doorway.

A captain. An authority figure. Someone you didn’t want showing up unannounced unless you’d missed practice or wrecked something important.

Her eyes widened, and she immediately started chewing the inside of her cheek. The way she always did when she felt guilty. Or caught.

“Fudd,” Nika said simply, stepping past her into the room like she owned it.

Azzi’s gaze followed her, then landed on Paige. And froze. Like she hadn’t seen her there at first.

Nika dropped onto the couch like she had all the time in the world, crossing one ankle over the other, casual and unbothered.

“How ya doin?” she asked, like this was a normal Tuesday night check-in.

Azzi blinked, confused. “Did I… do something?”

Right then, Nika’s phone rang. Loud. Sharp. Too convenient.

Paige realized it almost instantly—this was planned. All of it.

The walk over, the excuse, the sudden retreat. Nika was handing her the moment.

“Sorry,” Nika said, already standing. “I need to take this.”

She gave Azzi a look, then Paige, like a parent leaving two kids home alone for the first time.

“You both play nice,” she added over her shoulder, disappearing into the hallway before either of them could say a word.

When the door closed behind Nika, it took a full minute before either of them moved. Not a word. Not a breath out of place. Just silence and static and that awful, bone-deep knowing that something was about to shift.

But finally, they looked at each other. Really looked.

And Paige swore the world just…paused.

Like it took one look at Azzi Fudd and said, Yeah, okay, she wins. Because of course she did. She always did. And Paige, like a complete idiot, fell in love with her all over again.

Not in some big, cinematic way. In the quiet, helpless, completely doomed kind of way. The kind where your chest feels too small for your heart and your brain stops making useful decisions.

Because Azzi was still Azzi. 

Still the girl with the softest eyes Paige had ever seen, and a perfect dimple that always arrived a second after the smile—like it had to be convinced the moment was worth it.

Still the girl whose collarbone Paige could trace from memory. Sharp and delicate and utterly unfair. Like even her bones were beautiful.

And Paige was so far gone, she could’ve carved Azzi’s name into her ribs and still called it grace.

“Hey,” she finally forced herself to say. It came out too soft, too breathless, like her lungs hadn’t caught up to her heart.

For a second, Azzi didn’t respond. Just stood there, eyes wide, like she wasn’t sure this was real. But then they glossed over—and she crossed the room without hesitation.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her voice catching in the middle like it had to break to be honest. “You scare me. How I feel about you scares me.” She swallowed, eyes shining now. “But I’d rather be scared than never kiss you again.”

And then—her lips met Paige’s again. Not like the first time. Not tentative or wondering or new. Like she knew. Like the distance between them had never stood a chance.

Paige supposed it was bound to happen. Things didn’t stay unfinished between them for long. Not really. Not when the gravity always pulled this hard.

Because if there was one thing she knew—one thing she had always known—it was that Azzi Fudd had never just been a phase.

She was a return. A constant. The thing Paige kept orbiting, no matter how far she drifted.

Paige blinked the memory away and the party rushed back in high definition.

Everything was louder when you were sober. But after her last performance, she’d sworn it off for the night. No drinks. No easy outs. No asshole behavior. 

She was leaning against the wall, taking a rare moment to watch the room instead of being the one watched, when her phone buzzed in her pocket.

There were only a handful of people who could set it off. Her manager. Her dad. Her mom. One of her siblings.

And, well, Azzi. But there was no use thinking about that. Not tonight. She was trying—really trying—to enjoy herself. So she left the phone where it was.

Her eyes swept the room, slow and aimless, like maybe if she looked long enough, it would tell her what to do next. And then she caught Jana’s gaze.

Spinning. Glittery. Laughing like the world had never let her down.  Jana was her favorite kind of chaos: loud for no reason, joyful without apology. A walking exclamation point. A light.

Jana finally spotted her and didn’t hesitate. She closed the distance like she always did. Arms wide, energy first, questions later. Pulling Paige into a tight hug, she sighed. 

“My Paigeyyyy,” Jana sang, throwing her arms around her like they hadn’t seen each other in years.

Paige laughed into her shoulder, the kind of laugh that came easy around Jana. “Feelin’ good?”

Jana pulled back just enough to flash her a goofy, lopsided smile.  “Excellent, actually.”

Paige nodded, grin tugging at her mouth. “I had no doubt.”

“How are you feeling?”

Paige arched a brow. The sudden clarity of her voice jarring. She stepped back, assessing. Jana bit back a smile. 

“What are you up to?” Paige asked, eyeing her suspiciously.

Jana cackled. “Nothing.”

Paige narrowed her eyes. There was something in her tone. An undercurrent, a flicker, like a joke she hadn’t been let in on. And if there was one thing Paige had learned about Jana, it was that nothing never actually meant nothing.

“I don’t believe you,” she said flatly.

Jana giggled, completely unbothered, and tugged Paige in close by the wrist.

“I want a picture of us,” she murmured.

Paige raised an eyebrow. “We have plenty of pictures.”

Jana shook her head, her glitter catching the light like it was part of the argument.

“Not with me dressed like this and you…” she paused, looking Paige over. “Well, okay, you’re always dressed like that. But look at me! I’m a rhinestone cowgirl!”

She struck a pose with one hand on her hip and the other in the air, like she’d just lassoed the moon.

Paige bit back a smile. “You’re unwell.”

Jana beamed. “Thank you. Now picture.”

Paige gritted her teeth.

This was the hard part of being sober—when everyone else was floating and you were still chained to the floor. Jana was on a different planet, all glitter and joy and tequila, while Paige was planted firmly in reality.

And God, what a miserable place to be.

“Take it then,” she muttered.

Jana grinned. “Lost my phone. It’ll have to be yours.”

Paige rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. She reached into the depths of an unreasonably deep pocket and pulled out her phone.

She tapped the screen. And nearly dropped it. One new text.

Azzi.

Her heart did something violent. She blinked, hard, convinced she was seeing things. Tried to rationalize it, blame the lighting, the crowd, the wishful thinking. But every time her screen lit up, the same truth stared back at her.

Azzi’s name.  On her phone.

Jana leaned into her, heavy and glittered, nearly knocking her off balance.

“Ooooo a text from Azzi,” she slurred, drawing out the name like it tasted sweet. “Fun!”

Paige could, admittedly, kill her. Right there in the middle of the party. But instead, she said nothing. Slid open the camera app. Forced a smile.

They took a few shots. Jana doing her best rhinestone cowgirl, Paige trying not to look like her pulse was pounding through her ears.

And then, just as quickly, Jana twirled out of her grip like a drunk ballerina.

“Better answer that text, Paigey,” she called over her shoulder, loud enough for three people too many to hear. “Azzi doesn’t like being kept waiting. People’s Princess and all.”

And then, she left her alone. 

Paige stared at the notification like it might disappear if she blinked too fast.

Part of her wanted to open it immediately, devour it, respond too quickly, ruin all her pride in the span of a second. But the other part just sat with it.

Because there was something about seeing Azzi’s name lit up on her screen—soft and ordinary and completely world-altering.

Azzi. Her favorite person. Her first person. The one she thought about when something good happened and the only one she wanted when it didn’t.

Just the name alone made her feel sixteen again.

Unsteady. Hopeful. Stupidly in love.

Stupidly. Stupidly. Stupidly.

She tapped her phone awake like it might flinch. There it was. Azzi’s name, still glowing on the screen. Steady. Unassuming. Completely catastrophic.

Paige stared at it for a second longer than necessary. Because sometimes looking was easier than knowing. And because there was something sacred about the moment before something changes.

She slid the message open.

Do you hate me?

She read it once. Then again.

And then again, slower, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something easier to breathe through.

But they didn’t. They just sat there, sharp and quiet and afraid. She felt it like a punch. Like her ribs had forgotten their job.

Because of all the things she’d braced herself for—the silence, the distance, the pretending they were fine—she hadn’t prepared for this.

For Azzi, asking if she’d been hated. Like Paige hadn’t loved her in a hundred unspoken ways every day for years. Like she hadn’t memorized the shape of her smile before ever daring to touch it.

Paige pressed the heel of her palm to her chest. As if that would calm anything down.

It didn’t. Because Azzi Fudd had just texted her Do you hate me? And Paige Bueckers had never hated her a single second in her entire life. Not even when it hurt. Especially not when it hurt.

She stalled out, fingers hovering over the screen like the right words might materialize if she just stayed still long enough.

She was unsure. Probably more unsure than she’d ever been in her entire life. And that was saying something, because Paige Bueckers was decisive. Calculated. She made quick cuts, split-second reads, built her whole identity on knowing what to do next.

But now? Now she was stuck in the quiet space between No and I love you.

Because “No” didn’t cover it. It didn’t touch the edges of what she felt.

And “I love you” felt like too much. Like a full sentence in a moment that was still trying to form a thought.

Her thumbs hovered, useless. And that’s when she realized: there was no proper response. Not here. Not on a screen. Not with characters and punctuation and autocorrect.

The only real answer lived in her hands. On Azzi’s cheek, or her wrist, othe space between her shoulder blades where Paige had always rested her palm without thinking.

Because Paige didn’t hate Azzi Fudd. She couldn’t. She never had.

Paige’s eyes swept the room, not searching so much as reaching. There were too many people. Too much noise. But she was only listening for one thing.

Azzi.

Because if she could find her, Paige knew her body would remember what to do. Her fingers already ached with the memory of touch.

The way she used to trace the curve of Azzi’s shoulder in the dark, like following a map back to somewhere holy. How her hand would pause in the hollow of her neck, just to feel her heartbeat. Just to prove she was real.

There were mornings—Paige could still see them if she tried—when the sun would break through the blinds and bathe Azzi’s skin in gold. And Paige would lie there silently, cataloguing. The scar on her left thigh. The way she curled inward in sleep like she was trying to take up less space, even in dreams.

She’d drag her thumb across Azzi’s lips, still drowsy with sleep, and think about all the times they’d missed and misaligned. Those clumsy, laughing kisses where they bumped teeth instead of finding mouths. She loved those too. God, she loved all of it.

She used to rest her palms on the soft dip of her hips, pulling her close like she was afraid she’d disappear. And on a quiet Saturday morning at 9:53 a.m, the one Paige had tried not to write into memory but did anyway, she remembered thinking: So this is what salvation feels like.

That realization had never slipped away.

So now, standing in a too-loud room with music thrumming through the walls and strangers laughing in the background, she looked for her. 

Not because she wanted to. But because she didn’t know how not to. Because even now—even after everything—Azzi was still the only place Paige wanted to rest her weary heart. 

Fuck it.

She was going after her girl. The only person who had ever truly belonged to her, not in the way people own things, but in the way you recognize something that’s always been yours.

The only person she’d ever wanted to keep. Paige pushed off the wall, heart hammering, breath tight in her chest.

She moved.

Room after room, scanning faces with a focus that bordered on prayer. Every flash of glitter made her heart hiccup. Every wrong person was a quiet kind of devastation.

Because this wasn’t about pride anymore. Or timing. Or damage.

It was about Azzi. The only person who had ever made Paige feel like home wasn’t a place, but a presence. The only person who made silence feel like safety.

Somehow, they always made their way back to each other. Even when they were angry. Even when they were broken. So Paige kept moving. Because standing still had never gotten her anywhere with Azzi but further away.

And then—finally, in the fourth room—there she was.

Cam, who Paige had spent the last few weeks trying very hard to forget, behind her.

She stood still, watching. Watched the way his hand curled lightly around Azzi’s waist. Casual, careless, like he didn’t even realize the privilege of touching her.

Watched as he leaned in to say something, something Paige couldn’t hear but already resented, because he had no right to speak that close.

Something in her went still. Not jealous, exactly. Just… aching. Because he didn’t know what it meant to hold her. Not really. Not in the quiet, half-asleep kind of way Paige did. Not in the way that counted.

She cleared her throat.  The music was loud—too loud. And yet, somehow, Azzi looked at her.

That fucking pull. Always cashing in. Always working.

Paige didn’t fight it. She didn’t even try.

She lowered her head in quiet surrender, not dramatic, not showy—just that small, soul-deep tilt that said:

I am yours.

In every hour of every minute. I am yours, even if you never look at me like that again. Even if you choose someone else. Even if I have to watch you be loved by hands that aren’t mine.

I am yours. I was always yours. And I don’t know how not to be.

Azzi, for only a second, stayed still. But then, with the smallest tilt of her head, she gave Paige permission. Granted her passage. Let her into the orbit Paige had been circling for what felt like a lifetime.

And if there was one thing to know about Paige Bueckers, it was that she never missed an opening.

Not on the court. Not in life. And definitely not when it came to Azzi Fudd. 

Azzi POV

Paige. She was there. Across the room.

And she was looking at her like Azzi was the only thing that existed in the haze and hum of the party. Like the music didn’t matter. Like the people around them blurred into nothing. Like Azzi was the axis everything else spun around.

And even from a distance, Azzi could feel it,  that aching, impossible tenderness Paige never tried to hide. The kind of gaze that made you feel known. The kind that made you want to walk across a crowded room and fall into whatever came next.

Cam was talking. About what, she wasn’t sure. Something about practice, maybe. Or dinner plans. Or the costumes. 

It all blurred.

Because all night, he’d been more…physical. Fingers brushing her waist. Hands lingering too long. Like he needed people to see it—see them. Skin against skin for the sake of it. And Azzi didn’t know why. Didn’t ask.

But now—with Paige across the room, staring at her like she was the only person left on Earth—she didn’t really care. Because all she could think about was the text.

Do you hate me?

But the way Paige was staring at her didn’t feel much like the gaze of a woman who hated her. It felt more tangled than that. More ruined. Like she was looking at something she’d memorized and still couldn’t stop reaching for. Like Azzi was a secret she’d never stopped keeping.

It felt like longing dressed up as restraint. Like love with nowhere to land.

And Azzi…God, Azzi felt it in her throat, in her chest, in the softest part of her that still ached when she thought about falling asleep alone.

“Azzi?”

Cam’s voice sliced through the fog of her focus.

She blinked, turned slightly. “Hm?”

“I was asking if you were enjoying yourself.”

Azzi nodded, rocking on her heels, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach.

“Yeah. This is good.”

But Cam didn’t let it go. His fingers curled tighter around her wrist than she liked. Not painful, but noticeable. Intentional. He tugged her a little closer, like proximity might pull her attention back.

“You seem distracted.”

His breath was thick with whiskey. Not one or two drinks—but a night of it. And Azzi suddenly felt small beneath the weight of his stare.

Not unsafe. Just… unsettled. Like she didn’t recognize him in this light. Like he wasn’t someone she wanted to be near right now.

She opened her mouth to say something, to step back, to find any clean way to shift the moment.

“Can I borrow Az for a second?”

The voice. That voice.

She turned so fast it felt like whiplash, and there was Paige.

Closer than she’d been all night. Close enough to touch. Close enough to pull her out of the mess she hadn’t even realized she was in. And for the first time in hours, Azzi exhaled.

Cam’s eyes flicked toward Paige, then back to her. They sharpened.

“Az?” he asked, staring not at her but through her.  “Do you want to go?”

Her eyes darted between them. Paige, steady and breathless and there. Cam, too tight and too much.

She didn’t say yes. She just stepped toward Paige. And that was the answer enough in their shared language. 

“I’ll bring her back unharmed,” Paige said over her shoulder, all teeth and effortless charm.

Before Cam could say anything else, Paige reached for Azzi’s hand. Not hesitant, not unsure. Just hers. Their fingers interlocked like no time had passed at all. Like muscle memory had never left.

And then Paige pulled her. Through the thrum of bodies and bass, past people who reached out to talk, to touch, to ask, but Paige just shook her head, murmured a “Not now,” and kept moving.

Kept tugging Azzi forward like she was the only thing that mattered.

They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. Until the music dulled, until the crowd thinned, until they stepped out into the sharp quiet of the backyard. Cold bit at their skin immediately. Connecticut winter making itself known.

The yard was empty. Desolate.The kind of stillness that made everything feel more real.

Paige exhaled, tipping her head back to stare at the sky—like maybe it held the answer she didn’t know how to say aloud. Azzi watched the rise and fall of her chest, the way her breath came slower now, quieter.

And something about it cracked her open.

She felt small. Unmoored. Like she’d stumbled into a version of her life she didn’t know the script for. Like maybe she’d forgotten how to speak the language of them.

She missed the noise. The comfort of never needing silence to say what they meant. And now…this? This felt like standing on a fault line.

She cleared her throat. Soft. Careful.

“Well?” she asked.

Paige’s head dropped instantly, eyes snapping to hers like she'd been waiting to be called back to Earth. Azzi almost backed away under the weight of it. Almost. But she didn’t. Because she needed to know.

Her voice barely made it out.

“Do you hate me?”

Paige laughed. Loud and sudden, like the question had knocked something loose. The sound echoed off the yard, the house, the stars.

And then she was moving. One step, then another, until her hands were on Azzi’s face, thumb brushing the place where her cheek met her jaw.

“Don’t you get it?” Paige murmured, voice frayed at the edges, like she'd been holding this in so long it had started to splinter. “I couldn’t hate you if I tried. And God knows I’ve tried.”

Her eyes searched Azzi’s face like she was afraid it would disappear.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Couldn’t stop missing you.” She took a shaky breath. “You’re my best friend, Azzi. Don’t you know that?”

A beat passed—quiet, devastating.

“You ruined me,” Paige said, softer now. “In all the softest ways.” Her hand dropped to her side, like even touching her hurt. “And I’m still here.” A whisper. A fact. A confession. “Of course I’m still here.”

Azzi stood frozen in the echo of it. Letting it settle. Letting it sting. Because they still had to talk. They still had to pull apart the pieces; the silences, the almosts, the things said and the things held back.

They hadn’t solved anything. They hadn’t even really started.

And yet, she looked at Paige and felt the pull in her chest like a string that had never stopped tugging. She was tired of pretending she didn’t feel it. Tired of punishing herself for wanting something that had always felt like home.

So she took a breath, and another, and then, she moved. Closed the space between them like it had never been there. And pressed her lips to Paige’s.

Paige inhaled—sharp, surprised—like the kiss had knocked the wind out of her. But she wasted no time. Not tentative. Not careful. But aching. Starving.

Like she’d spent every second apart holding her breath and finally let it out. Like she was trying to memorize a mouth she already knew by heart. Like she was asking for forgiveness with every inch of herself.

Azzi’s hands found her shoulders, then her jaw, like she needed something to hold onto or she’d float away. 

And it wasn’t clean. It wasn’t graceful.

It was desperate. It was too much. It was everything. Every missed moment. Every almost. Every silence.

A kiss like they’d been waiting their whole lives to fall apart in each other’s arms. And now they finally had permission.

Azzi melted. Into her. Into the gravity of them, of what they’ve always been, even when fear kept the words at bay.

Paige.

The only rhythm her heart had ever known. The only name that had ever felt like home in her mouth.

Paige.

The one she’s loved in every version of the story, no matter how many times she tried to rewrite the ending, no matter how many times she told herself she shouldn’t.

Paige.

And now, with her lips pressed to hers, with the cold forgotten and the noise fading, Azzi finally lets herself believe it—that this was the truth. Always had been the truth. 

Paige was all desperate hands. Pulling, clutching, pleading. Tugging Azzi closer like there was still space to close, like their chests pressed together wasn’t enough, like she could crawl inside her and still not be near enough.

It was frantic, breathless. The kind of kiss that tasted like don’t go. Like I’m sorry. Like this was the only way she knew how to say it.

They only pulled apart to breathe, but Paige didn’t let go. Her hands found Azzi’s cheeks, pressing her palms gently to the space as if to steady her, as if grounding Azzi meant grounding herself too. Like if she let go for even a second, Azzi might vanish. Might change her mind.

“Azzi,” Paige muttered, barely more than a breath. “My Azzi.”

And that was it. Something broke open.

Without warning, Azzi started to cry. Tears slipping down her cheeks like her body couldn’t hold them in anymore. Like the sound of Paige claiming her—soft and certain and still hers—was the thing that undid her.

Paige held her like she’d been built to—thumbs brushing under her eyes, like if she could just wipe the hurt away fast enough, none of this would have to end.

Their foreheads touched. Their breath synced. And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, it felt like them again. Like the part before everything fell apart. Like a home you forgot how to knock on.

And Azzi wanted to stay in it. God, she wanted to live there. But then, the door creaked open.

She felt Paige tense before she heard the voice.

“Az?”

Cam.

His tone was just a little too pointed. Not angry. But not warm, either.

She blinked. Turned. But before she could say anything, Paige was already stepping back. Two quick, retreating movements. Like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t. Something too tender, too vulnerable to survive the light

“Paige—” Azzi said, reaching instinctively, breath still catching in her throat.

But Paige wouldn’t look at her.

“It’s fine,” she said, voice thin, fraying at the edges. “You should—” She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to.

And Cam was still standing there, watching. Azzi felt him glance between them, take in the mess. The red eyes. The distance. The probably smudged lipstick and ruined hair. She suddenly felt exposed.

“Azzi,” Cam said, slower now. “Are you okay?” His eyes snapped to Paige. “What did you do to her?”

Paige swallowed hard. Her throat bobbed. “Nothing,” she bit out, too fast. “I didn’t—” She cut herself off.

Cam scoffed. Stepped forward. “You sure about that?”

Paige’s jaw twitched. “You think you know everything, don’t you?”

“I know enough,” Cam said, voice low. “I know she was fine until you showed up.”

Paige let out a bitter laugh, one that didn’t sound like her at all.  “She wasn’t fine, Cam. You just weren’t paying attention. Don't fuckin' know her like me.”

Azzi’s breath caught as the two of them locked eyes. Paige and Cam, unmoving, like neither was willing to be the one to blink first.

“Come on, Azzi,” Cam said, the words gentle in tone but hard-edged underneath. “Let’s go back inside.”

She didn’t move. Couldn’t. She looked at Paige again. The flushed cheeks, the pink-scraped mouth. They existed in the kind of silence that begged her to please stay. 

“P?”

Paige rubbed the back of her neck. Eyes bouncing between them, like she was trying to solve a puzzle with too many missing pieces. 

Cam sighed, the sound all frustration and implication. He stepped closer. His hand brushed the crook of her elbow.

“You don’t need Paige’s permission,” he said, like he was reminding her of something she should’ve known by now. “You don't belong to her.”

The words weren’t cruel. But they weren’t gentle either. And maybe that’s what stung. Because Paige didn’t move. Didn’t fight.

Azzi turned to her, waiting for something…anything. A protest. A look. A breath held in her name.

But Paige just stood there, the hurt already retreating behind her eyes. Like she was building a wall, brick by brick, and Azzi had shown up too late to stop it.

She looked so small in that second. So tired. And Azzi wanted to go to her. To fix it. But the words wouldn’t come.

Cam’s hand was still on her arm. Paige was already letting go.

And Azzi stood in the quiet between them, feeling like she’d managed to break all three of them at once.

Paige’s POV

Every cell in her body ached. To run through the door Azzi had disappeared through. To pull her into her chest and tuck her back into that kiss

But she didn’t. Because the kiss had felt like magic, sure. Like gravity bending in their favor for once. But then Cam had stepped outside, and Azzi had flinched, and Paige had remembered…

Oh. Right. The world doesn’t stop for this.

Azzi had been crying. Not a few delicate tears, really crying. The kind that made her voice go quiet and her eyes go glassy and wide. The kind Paige had only seen once, maybe twice. After injuries, after impossible losses. And now? After her.

Her own hands had been shaking. Her phone had buzzed twice in her pocket—her manager, probably.  Another shoot. A reminder. An obligation. People who always needed something. Always during the worst moments.

And suddenly, the illusion of the kiss—of them—shattered like glass under a hammer. Beautiful. Brief. Loud enough to echo. And so Paige stepped back. Because nothing had been fixed. Because they were still standing in the fallout. 

And on top of that, season was about to start, and she knew herself. How she shut down when the pressure cracked her spine. How she got quiet and cold and unreachable when the games piled up.

And Azzi…

Azzi deserved softness. Deserved someone who didn’t check out the moment the world got too loud. Someone who didn’t need to be taken care of just to stay afloat. Someone who came home ready—not already half-gone.

And Cam wasn’t perfect. But at least he could support her. Could be what she needed, at least for now.

So no, she didn’t fight. And she told herself it was mercy. Even if it felt like something dying.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡⌦ .｡.:*♡❁۪۪ ཻུ♡˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡

Paige felt hollowed out. Emptied of anything that mattered. And as she stood in front of the locker room mirror, smoothing down her braid, she figured she probably was.

It was game day. The first one. The kind of day she was supposed to feel electric. But everything felt muffled. Distant.

Her jersey hung clean and crisp on her shoulders. Her sneakers were already laced. She’d done all the right things in all the right order. But nothing about her felt ready.

The team buzzed around her—jokes, music, warm-up drills slapping against the court like rhythm. And Paige moved through it like a ghost.

Azzi was across the room. Focused. Like Paige should be. But her mind was a wreckage site. Still replaying everything in high-definition.

That night. The kiss. The tears. His hand on the crook of Azzi’s elbow like it belonged there. Like Paige hadn’t just had her mouth on Azzi’s, whispering things she hadn’t meant to say out loud.

And Azzi had looked at her with those eyes. That look. The one that wasn’t loud or desperate or demanding. Just a quiet, broken sort of please.

Ask me to stay. I will.

And the worst part was that Paige knew it. Knew that if she’d reached out, just once, Azzi would’ve stayed. Would’ve peeled herself out of Cam’s grasp and walked straight back into the fire.

But Paige hadn’t asked. Because she was tired. Because she was scared. Because love wasn’t supposed to be like this. This constant ache, this impossible calculus. The battlefield between them so scorched, she couldn’t imagine what could possibly be built from the ash.

And still—

She shook her head. Shook away the kiss. The tears. The hand on Azzi’s arm that didn’t belong there. Tried to shake away the ache. The what if. The please stay.

Tried.

The game tipped off like any other, the buzz of the crowd humming against her skin. And for a moment, Paige thought she could slip into it. Execution. Escape.

But everything felt just a half-second off. Her passes a little too crisp. Her shots just barely long. Nothing disastrous. Nothing that would make the highlight reel.  But still…wrong.

Her timing was frayed. Her head a little too loud. And when she glanced up after a missed rotation, she found Azzi watching her.

Not annoyed. Not disappointed. Just...watching.Like she could tell something was shifting inside her. Like she already knew.

A few plays later, Geno called time.

 “Bueckers.” She didn’t flinch. Just jogged over. “Take a seat.”

There was no bite to it. No edge.  Just a look. One she knew too well.

Are you okay? Because I can’t fix it if you don’t say it out loud.

She nodded once. Sat down. Shoulders stiff. Gaze fixed forward.

Azzi leaned in as she passed. Not a full stop. Just a glance, quiet and sideways.

“You good?” she asked, low enough no one else could hear.

Paige’s throat tightened. She nodded again a bit too quick. 

Azzi didn’t press. Didn’t sit. Just kept walking.

They won the game. And despite her lackluster performance—despite the way her passes came half a second late and her feet never quite found rhythm—Paige was still tugged in every direction like she had done something right.

Media. Fans. Photos. Autographs. That frozen smile she had perfected at some point early on in her career. 

By the time she made it back to the locker room, her legs ached and her throat was dry and her heart felt like it had been held underwater for hours. It was empty. Cleared out. Lights dimmed. The echoes of victory already fading.

She dropped onto the stool in front of her locker, untied one sneaker, let it thud to the floor. Reached for the other. That’s when she saw it.

Something tucked into the corner of her locker.  Small. Folded. Familiar.

A protein bar. Her brand. The weird brown sugar one no one else liked.

Paige never remembered to grab them from the store but Azzi never forgot. She’d complain about Paige’s obsession with anything that tasted like dessert, call her dramatic, say real athletes ate plain peanut butter like adults.

But she still always had one tucked in her bag. Always handed it off after games without ceremony.

And every time Paige called it romantic, Azzi would roll her eyes and say, “You’re insufferable.”

Which, in Azzi-speak, meant I love you.

Paige stared at the one in front of her now. No note. No flourish. Just the bar. But she knew. She knew. It was from her. A memory left behind on purpose.

Like I see you, even when you don’t play well. Like you don’t have to be perfect for me to be proud.  Like you’re still mine, in the quiet ways that count.

Paige’s throat tightened. And for the first time all night, she let herself feel it.

Not failure. Not disappointment.

Just the quiet ache of being known.

[loverboysturn]

— sheriffsdaughter!reader gets a warning to stay away from the new boy in town.

au masterlist ꒰ here ꒱ | taglist ꒰ here ꒱ | main masterlist ꒰ here ꒱

you’re not really eating the dinner in front of you, just pushing the food around on your plate, your fork scraping softly against the dish as your mind drifts somewhere else.

you can’t stop thinking about the boy from the station. the way he looked at you, the way his eyes locked on yours, steady and unmoving, the way it felt like time had slowed down completely for the two of you. that feeling, whatever that feeling was, hadn’t left you, even though days have passed since.

“everything okay, kiddo?”

your dad’s voice snaps you back to the room, quickly bringing you back to reality.

you blink, surprised at how zoned out you had been. “yep, all good.” you mumble, not meeting his eyes as you go back to moving the food around the plate. then casually, maybe a little too casually, you add, “dad, what actually happened at the bar the other night? i mean.. the whole town is talking about it.”

he sets his fork down, and lets out a long sigh, the kind of sigh that means he knows exactly what you’re doing. “just some boys your age being too rowdy, that’s all,” he says. “that doe boy at the center of it all, as usual.”

“who started it?” you ask, trying to keep your voice casual, but your voice gives you away.

he stops in his tracks, giving you a look. “some kid i’ve never seen before, he came into the bar alone, twenty one year old with no records on him, no address on file.”

you raise an eyebrow, leaning in slightly. “oh really? what’s his name? i might know him if he’s around my age.”

“his name is matt,” your dad says, his tone of voice a little more serious, “and i don’t want you anywhere near him, trouble follows boys like him.”

you nod slowly, forcing a false smile. you let out a quiet laugh, pretending like this all means nothing to you, like you’re only asking so you can keep up with your small town gossip that your friends keep messaging about in the group chat.

but that’s not the case, not even close.

you want to know more about this mysterious new boy, matt, because something about him has gotten under your skin. the way he looked at you felt like the very beginning of something, even if you don’t know what that something is yet. every detail your dad shares feels like a puzzle piece of information, and you’re unsure why you care so much but all you know is that you’re interested.

your mom glances between the two of you at the table, sensing the complete shift in your conversation before she smiles softly at you, her voice gentle. “sometimes it’s the ones who seem like trouble that might just need a little saving.”

your dad shoots her a look, clearly unimpressed at her comment, but she just shrugs him off and lifts her wine glass to her lips.

“what?” she says to him, with a small smirk. “my parents said the same thing about you when we were younger.”

—

꒰ 🏷️ tags ꒱ @oopsiedaisydeer | @sturns-mermaid | @leaningoutthewindow | @bluestriips | @izzylovesmatt | @cykss | @backwardshatnick | @jaybirdie34 | @skye-44 | @marrykisskilled | @courta13 | @idkwhatimdoinghereeeeeee | @whore-for-pickles24 | @looptoop | @urmama2464 | @kitty-meow-meow44 | @matts-247 | @j21l91

[wolvietxt]

ᰔ lucky !

↳ frank castle x female reader

the key turned like it always did - smooth, quiet, familiar. the door opened, and there you were, standing in the doorway with that same soft smile you gave him every evening.

“hi, frankie,” you said gently, stepping forward, already reaching for him.

he barely got a word out before you leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, then another one right on his lips. you always did that - like it was the easiest thing in the world to kiss him hello. and maybe it was, because you’d been doing it since the second week he started staying over, like it just made sense.

frank didn’t usually think too hard about things. but tonight, the second your lips touched his, it just… hit him. he stood there for a second longer than usual. didn’t speak. didn’t move past the doorway. just looked at you - your face upturned, your arms sliding around his waist, the faint scent of something on the stove behind you. and something warm settled in his chest.

he wrapped both arms around you, tugged you in close with a quiet grunt, and just held you. no words, no explanation. his hands flattened against your back and he buried his face into the crook of your neck, breathing you in like you were home.

you let out a soft laugh. “you okay?”

he nodded against your skin, not pulling away. “mm. better than okay.”

you smiled, relaxing into him as his arms tightened, like he needed to make sure you were real.

“you smell good,” he mumbled, voice muffled into your hair.

“you always say that.”

“’cause it’s always true.”

his hands were warm against your back, moving slowly like he was memorizing the feel of you all over again. he kissed your shoulder through your shirt, then the side of your neck, then rested his head there like he could stay just like this for the rest of the night. you didn’t question it. you just stayed quiet, letting him hold you, your fingers brushing through the short hair at the nape of his neck.

“missed you today,” you murmured.

“missed you more, sweetheart.”

he shifted slightly and kissed your temple, then your cheek, then down the curve of your jaw - lazy, sweet kisses, like he had all the time in the world. like there was nothing else on his mind but you.

you gave his shirt a little tug. “long day?”

he shook his head. “nah. just… comin’ home to you, that’s all.”

he leaned back a little, just enough to look at you, but not enough to let you go. his eyes scanned your face like he was still trying to take it in. he brushed his thumb across your cheek, smiling softly.

“don’t know how i got so lucky.”

you rolled your eyes, but your smile said otherwise. “you say that every night.”

“’cause i mean it every night.”

he kissed you again, slower this time, and let it linger. his fingers curled lightly around your waist, like he never wanted to let go. and honestly? he didn’t. when he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, eyes still half-closed, completely relaxed for the first time all day.

“you’re my best part, y’know that?” he murmured. “every damn day.”

you reached up and smoothed your hand down his chest, fingers brushing along the buttons of his shirt. “you’re so sappy tonight.”

“hell yeah, i am.”

you giggled softly, and he swore he could feel it in his ribs. he smiled and kissed you one more time, just because he could.

“alright,” you said gently, rubbing your hands along his back. “dinner’s almost ready. you hungry?”

“starvin’. but i’m not movin’ yet.”

he hugged you tighter, nose brushing your cheek, lips curling into a quiet smile.

“just lemme hold you a minute longer, baby.”

you nodded, cheek against his chest. “okay.”

and so you stayed there, wrapped up in the arms of the man who loved you more than anything, while the world stayed quiet around you. nothing dramatic. nothing complicated. just the simple, solid warmth of being loved by frank castle.

and being his was the softest kind of forever.

🌟FRANK CASTLE : @stvr-dust, @uncertified-doc, @erospecies, @seasonofthenerd, @the-dixon-effect

@sreidmia, @10ava01, @divierses, @408destiiny, @tinyminxi

@tcddszn, @xanaxiii, @Blu-jays, @chaoticcoffeequeen, @frankies-girl

@person-005

taglist form linked in pinned post :3

[itsnesss]

I just read the Ollie comfort fic and I need morrreee!!! can we please get a Kimi version of reader comforting him after a bad race panic attack?

𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐭 | kimi antonelli × fem!reader

summary | after the race, you find Kimi hiding, overwhelmed and struggling to breathe. he’s having a panic attack, and you help calm him down

warnings | fluff, angst, panic attack, anxiety, emotional distress, panic

word count | 0.9 k

🖇 more ka12 🖇 f1 masterlist

The roar of the engines still vibrates in your chest, even though the race ended minutes ago.

You’re standing by the garage, arms crossed over your chest, trying to ignore the cold sweat running down your back. You saw it. You saw it in the last lap. Kimi wasn’t okay.

It wasn’t a technical error. It wasn’t a bad strategy. It was him. Something in his eyes.

“Where is he?” you ask one of the engineers, who barely glances at you before shrugging.

“He said he needed a moment. He’s in the hospitality.”

But you know that’s not normal. Kimi doesn’t disappear after a race. Especially not when he’s finished on the podium. Especially not when everyone expects a smile, a word, a simple “grazie.”

He didn’t do it this time.

You quicken your pace, dodging reporters, cables, and metal boxes. No one seems to notice the tension on your face, but inside, your heart beats as loudly as if you were the one who got out of the car.

You push open the hospitality door without announcing yourself. The place is almost empty. Only he is there.

Sitting on the floor, back against the wall, legs drawn up.

His helmet lies beside him. His racing suit still half unzipped. His elbows resting on his knees, and his hands... his hands are tangled in his own hair, trembling.

Kimi Antonelli doesn’t tremble.

But now he does.

You freeze for a second. Just one. Then he raises his head and looks at you.

And there it is.

Fear.

“Kimi...” your voice is a whisper, as if any louder sound could break him completely.

He doesn’t answer.

He just closes his eyes and clenches his fists tighter, as if trying to hold something inside. But he can’t. Not this time.

You see it. His chest rises and falls too fast. There’s a stiffness in his shoulders that doesn’t match his usual composure. His lips are parted, searching for air that seems not to come.

You take a step toward him.

“Hey... Kimi, look at me,” you crouch down in front of him, not daring to touch him yet. “You’re okay, right? Just... breathe with me, please.”

He shakes his head. Just a slight movement, but enough to make the lump rise in your throat. His eyes are watery, terrified, lost in something you can’t see.

“I can’t,” he pants. “I can’t breathe...”

Your heart shrinks.

Without thinking twice, you reach out and gently place your hand on his cheek, guiding his gaze to you.

“You’re breathing,” you whisper. “Just very fast. Let’s do it together, okay? I’m with you.”

You inhale slowly and deeply, exaggerating the movement so he can follow you. The first time, he doesn’t manage it. The second, a little better. The third, his breathing starts to sync with yours, though his hands still tremble.

You pull him closer, without hesitation.

Your arms wrap around him, and finally, he lets himself fall. He rests his forehead on your shoulder, searching for something to hold onto—something, you. His breathing is still shaky but no longer sounds like a silent scream.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he murmurs against your neck, his voice broken, trembling.

“You’re having a breakdown,” you reply, stroking his hair calmly. “And that’s okay, Kimi. I’m here.”

He says nothing. He just clings to you.

As if the world weighs heavier than he can bear.

And you decide to hold him.

Minutes pass in silence. Only the faint sound of the air conditioning, his still uneven breath, and the rapid beat of his heart against your chest.

You don’t let go. You don’t move.

And neither does he.

Until, very slowly, Kimi pulls away just a little. Enough to look at you, though he keeps one hand gripping your arm as if letting go would mean sinking again.

“I’m sorry...” he murmurs, voice breaking. “I don’t know what happened.”

Your gaze softens.

“You don’t have to know everything now.”

He looks away, frustrated.

“I felt... fine. Or so I thought. But on the last lap... it was like my mind shut down. I couldn’t hear the radio. I couldn’t think. And when I crossed the line, it got worse. I felt like... like I couldn’t get out of myself.”

You take his hand slowly and intertwine your fingers with his. It’s cold. And still trembling a little.

“And now?”

Kimi swallows. He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks down at your hand, as if it’s the first time he’s noticed you’re holding it.

“Now... I’m just scared it’ll happen again. That everyone will notice. That I won’t be able to control anything.” He pauses, his lips barely moving. “That I’ll fail.”

Your heart tightens hard. Not for what he says, but for what he doesn’t allow himself to say.

“You didn’t fail, Kimi,” you whisper. “Your body is just telling you something’s wrong. And it’s okay to listen. No one expects you to be perfect.”

He shakes his head.

“They do.”

“I don’t.”

That makes him look at you again. His eyes, still wet, lock onto yours with something that mixes relief, disbelief, and something deeper. Something broken that is finally starting to show its cracks.

“Thank you for staying,” he whispers.

“I always will,” you answer.

And then, without warning, without any words before, he rests his forehead against yours.

He’s not trembling anymore.

But you know the fear hasn’t gone away.

It’s just found a safe place to hide for a while.

[hrtwayne]

Guilty as Sin? || Alessia Russo

Pairing: Alessia Russo x Fem!Reader

Summary: On a stormy September night, you realize the love of your life was closer than you ever imagined.

Note: English isn’t my first language!

Warning: Mention of breakups, Alessia and Reader being completely oblivious!

Masterlist | Women's Football Masterlist

It was a little past 1:15 in the morning when you sat on the porch to watch the rain, which had intensified over the last fifteen minutes. The downpour hammered against the windows, and thunder rumbled across the dark sky, briefly illuminating the room you were sharing with Alessia that night.

You had woken up just a few minutes earlier, stirred by the storm, tossing and turning in bed as if the rain had only worsened your already terrible sleep routine. Wrapped in Alessia’s worn-out hoodie, you took a deep breath, letting the night’s cold contrast with the warmth that piece of fabric—and everything it represented—brought to your body.

There was something almost ironic about the situation. Just a few weeks ago, you had ended a relationship you once thought would last forever. Something that, in your mind, should have culminated in promises and rings. But when the tears came, when the emptiness settled in your chest, the first person you thought of wasn’t your mother, your longtime best friends, or even your team.

It was Alessia.

And Alessia, as always, showed up. Without hesitation, without question. She took the first flight from London, crossed oceans and time zones just to sit beside you on the floor, listening in silence, holding your hands as you poured your heart out between sobs. Now, in that stormy early morning, you weren’t crying anymore. But your heart was far from at peace.

Because something had changed. Or rather, something that had always been there—something you had never allowed to take shape in your thoughts—now imposed itself with an almost painful clarity. The hug before bed.

Alessia had wrapped her strong arms around you, pulling you close as if you were something precious, something she was afraid to lose. And for the first time, you had felt something different. Alessia’s touch wasn’t just comforting—it was electrifying. The warmth of her skin, the scent of her shampoo, the sound of her calm breathing near your ear. All of it made your heart race in a way no girlfriend ever had.

And now, alone on the porch, you finally admitted it to yourself:

I love her.

Not as a friend. Not as a sister. But in a way that terrified you—because it was intense, deep, and above all, without guarantees.

The creak of the door pulled you from your thoughts.

"You should be sleeping, darling." Alessia’s voice was soft but laced with concern.

You turned slowly, meeting the footballer’s blue eyes, still heavy with sleep. Alessia wore nothing but a jacket draped over her shoulders, her blonde hair disheveled, as if she’d gotten up in a hurry.

"Mhm, I just needed some air." You lied, trying to mask the tremor in your voice.

Alessia frowned but didn’t push. Instead, she stepped closer and placed a hand on your shoulder—her touch so familiar and yet, now, so loaded with meaning.

"You’ll get sick standing out here in the rain." She murmured, her fingers lightly gripping the fabric of the hoodie. "So that’s where my hoodie went."

You smiled, unable to muster a response.

"Come on." Alessia held out her hand. *"Let’s get you something warm to drink."

And you followed. Like you always did. Because when Alessia asked for something, you could never say no.

In the kitchen, Alessia moved with the same confidence she carried on the football pitch. As the kettle heated, she stole glances at you, leaning against the counter as you watched her.

"You should’ve woken me." Alessia said, pouring hot water over the tea bags."You know this lack of sleep is going to catch up with you eventually."

"I know, A."

Alessia sighed, recognizing the resigned tone in your voice. It was always like this when something was bothering you.

"Mhm, you’re coming to the match on Saturday, right?" Alessia changed the subject, her lips curving into a small smile. "I kinda need my good luck charm."

You rolled your eyes, but your heart beat faster.

"You know I am."

Alessia handed you the cup, your fingers brushing for the briefest moment.

"Then I’ll dedicate my goals to you."

You nearly choked.

"Don’t pretend you don’t know, darling." Alessia continued, her eyes gleaming with an intensity you’d never been able to decipher. "I always dedicate my goals to you."

And there, in that dimly lit kitchen, bathed in yellow light, you realized—maybe you weren’t alone in your feelings after all.

Because Alessia didn’t dedicate her goals to just anyone.

Just like you didn’t dedicate your songs to just anyone.

And suddenly, the fear felt a little smaller than the hope.

[jibitzlesscrocs]

hiii can you write something about youtuber matt and reader where she decides to prank him (or all of the triplets maybe separately, or like matt and the. Nick and chris) and she pranks them by telling them that she is pregnant but she is actually not, and when matt actually reacts shocked and then well she is the one who is shocked because she thought he wouldn’t be THAT happy, thankssss your write is amazing🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

of courseeeee and thank uuu!! hope you enjoy !!

matt sturniolo x reader

warning : mentions of pregnancy

baby… maybe?

in which, is it a prank or a opportunity ?

You were bored. And boredom, for you, was dangerous.

So, naturally, you did what any normal girlfriend dating a YouTuber would do: you decided to prank the ever-loving hell out of him. And not just him — all the Sturniolo triplets.

The setup? Classic. Timeless. Evil.

You were going to tell them you were pregnant.

Let the chaos begin.

⸻

Scene: The Living Room of Doom

The boys were filming a laid-back Q&A for the channel. You slipped into frame with a suspiciously calm smile, plopping yourself between Matt and Nick on the couch.

Nick clocked it first. “Why is she smiling like she set something on fire?”

Chris raised a brow. “If she says ‘no offense’ and then speaks, I’m leaving.”

Matt, sweet Matt, just blinked at you. “Hi, babe.”

You cleared your throat dramatically. “Hey, I need to tell you guys something. Like… big.”

Three heads turned.

“I’m pregnant.”

The silence was deafening.

Nick immediately shouted, “Bitch what?!”

Chris stood up so fast he knocked over the Pepsi can. “YOU’RE WHAT?!”

Matt just… froze.

Like completely. His mouth opened, closed. Nothing came out.

You expected him to panic. Sputter. Maybe faint. That was the plan.

But instead, Matt’s face slowly broke into the softest, dumbest, most dangerously adorable smile.

“Wait… really?” he said, breathless.

You blinked.

His eyes lit up. “Really really?”

“Uh—yeah,” you said, trying to keep a straight face.

He stood up, ran both hands through his hair, then immediately pulled you into a hug so tight you couldn’t breathe.

“Holy shit. Holy fuck, we’re gonna have a baby?” he asked, voice cracking.

You stared at him, stunned. “You’re not… freaking out?”

“Freaking out?” he repeated, pulling back just enough to look at you. “No! Are you kidding me? I’m—fuck, I’m so happy.”

Chris dropped back onto the couch like he’d aged ten years. “I was about to become an uncle with zero notice!”

Nick was pacing. “I can’t be a funcle yet! I don’t even do my taxes!”

But all you could do was stare at Matt.

“I thought you’d scream,” you mumbled.

Matt laughed and kissed your forehead. “I might scream later, but like… in a happy way. You really thought I wouldn’t want this with you?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

And then you caved.

“It’s a prank.”

Matt froze. “What?”

You held up your phone, showing the blinking red light. “It’s a prank, baby. You’re not gonna be a dad. Not yet.”

Matt stared at you. Then at the camera. Then at you again.

Nick stopped pacing. “OH MY GOD.”

Chris threw a pillow at your face. “I need therapy.”

Matt just sat back down, blinked a few times, then exhaled the biggest sigh in the world.

“I hate you,” he said.

You leaned over, smirking. “No you don’t.”

He grabbed your face and kissed you stupid.

Tongue, teeth, fingers in your hair. Hot, needy, like he had something to prove now. Like he needed to kiss the fake pregnancy out of your system.

You pulled back, breathless. “Okay, that was hot.”

“Damn right it was,” he growled, kissing you again, hands sliding under your hoodie.

Nick yelled from the corner, “CAN Y’ALL NOT CONCEIVE FOR REAL ON CAMERA?!”

Chris just covered his face. “We went from ‘surprise baby’ to ‘PG-13 making out’ in three seconds.”

Matt leaned in, whispering, “So, uh… you did say ‘not yet,’ right?”

You raised a brow. “What, you wanna start practicing now?”

He kissed you again. “Already started.”

taglist : @courta13 , @sunkissedsturniolos , @ivysturnss , @imsoborediwannadie , @emeraldsturns , @beabadoobeelvur , @lezleeferguson-120 , @moth-feeet

MAI’S STORE

requested!! i loved thissss . hope this is up to your expectations!!

[sugardollcurse]

hi!! how are you? hope you're having a good week!

i love your fics so much i felt need to make a request🤍 (my first one ever hahaha) of course take your time and do it when you can. i'm sorry if it's confusing, this is my first time doing this:

it would basically be Paul being completely smitten with reader and not being able to keep his hands off her (she loves it of course, they're both drunk in love). he is constantly telling everyone how in love he is. the thing is reader isn't used to that behavior because her exes have always played it cool, avoiding commitment and keeping the relationship secret, so maybe she's confused?

anyway, thanks so much for your writing, you really have talent! hope you can see this! 🥰

-🐝

𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒑 𝒊𝒕 | paul mccartney x fem!reader

𐙚 summary ; paul doesn’t know how to love you quietly, and frankly, he doesn’t want to. he’s falling hard and everyone knows it. the only problem? you’ve never been loved like this before.

𐙚 note ; ...what a delectable little request you’ve brought to my doorstep… also, i’m having a lovely week! i hope you are as well ♡

You first noticed it during lunch.

You’d only been together a few weeks, nothing serious yet... not officially, not out loud. But there you were, tucked in the booth beside Paul at a café near the studio, and he was sat so close you could feel his smile before you saw it.

“Tell them what you said last night,” he said, nudging you with his knee. “Y’know, that bit about the red coat. I thought it was dead clever.”

You blinked. “It wasn’t anything, just-”

“It was though.” He leaned in closer, grinning. “Don’t be modest now. She’s got a way with words, this one. Proper poetic.”

George raised an eyebrow. “She sayin’ poetry about your coat, Paul, or are you just tryin’ to flatter her into writin’ your next song?”

Paul looked offended. “Oi. I am flattered by her, thank you very much.”

Ringo snorted into his tea. John gave you a smirk like he was watching a sitcom unfold. But Paul just took your hand under the table and laced his fingers through yours like it was nothing. Like it was normal.

You weren’t used to that.

You’d had boyfriends before. The kind who’d change the subject when someone asked who you were. The kind who’d say cool it if you reached for their hand in public. Who never once introduced you as anything but a friend.

Paul had already called you my girl five times this week, and it was only Wednesday.

━━

The clinginess wasn’t needy. It was… tethering.

Whenever he walked into a room, his first instinct was to find you. His second was to put his hand somewhere on you. Your shoulder, your back, your thigh. Just to know you were there. Just to let you know he was.

One night, you were all at George and Pattie's place for drinks. You’d gone off to help in the kitchen, and when you came back, Paul was halfway through telling a story.

“-and she just walks right up to the bloke, says, ‘Is that your idea of subtle?’ And he froze. I swear, I’ve never seen someone go that red in my life.”

You paused in the doorway. “You’re telling stories about me?”

Paul lit up the moment he saw you. “Of course I am.”

You shook your head, but he was already reaching for you, patting his lap. “C’mere.”

“I can sit on the couch like a normal person.”

He grinned. “Yeah, but I like you here.”

You sat, only because his eyes were all soft and hopeful like that, and he wrapped his arms around your waist like a child clinging to a stuffed animal.

John made a face. "You're so in love, it's disgusting."

Paul just kissed your shoulder without breaking eye contact. “You’d be lucky to feel it, mate.”

Your breath hitched at that.

You weren’t used to that kind of love, spoken out loud, worn on sleeves, pressed into skin like it belonged there.

━━

When the two of you were alone, it was worse.

Well, better. But also worse.

Paul didn’t know how to not touch you. He’d wander up behind you while you were brushing your teeth and drape himself over your back like a second skin. He’d lie in bed staring at you like you were made of stars. He kissed your forehead like it was a compulsion.

One morning, you stirred awake to find him already looking at you.

“What?” you whispered, voice still rough from sleep.

He smiled, sleepy-eyed and soft. “M’sorry, just… you’re dead lovely like this.”

You blinked at him. “Like what?”

“All sleepy. S’quiet moment, innit?” He reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Makes me wanna marry you.”

You stared.

He laughed immediately. “Sorry, too much? I’m always sayin’ too much, I know-”

“No,” you said, too fast. “It’s not that.”

He frowned gently. “Then what?”

You hesitated.

Then: “You… say things like that so easily. Like it’s nothing.”

He blinked. “It’s not nothin’. I mean it.”

“Yeah, but…” You sat up, pulling the blanket with you. “Most people don’t.”

Paul pushed himself up beside you, brows furrowed. “You talkin’ about them old blokes again?”

You bit your lip.

He tilted his head. “They didn’t say nice things to you, then?”

“They didn’t say anything. Not in public. Not around friends. They’d act like we weren’t even together.”

Paul’s eyes dimmed a little.

“Wouldn’t hold your hand?” he asked, incredulous.

You shook your head.

Paul scoffed. “No offence, love, but they sound like right pillocks.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “I just… I don’t know what to do with someone like you.”

He softened immediately, scooting closer, hands resting gently on your thighs. “Then don’t do anything. Just let me.”

You blinked.

Paul smiled, slow and certain. “Let me love you loud.”

You felt something warm unfurl in your chest. Something terrifying, but good.

“And if I can’t match that yet?”

He reached for your hand. “Then I’ll be the loud one till you can. I’ll wait. I’ve got nothin’ but time for you, love.”

You stared at him, overwhelmed.

He kissed your knuckles, featherlight. “Alright?”

You nodded, heart thundering.

He tugged you gently back toward the pillows, curling himself around you.

“Y’don’t have to do owt but stay, alright? That’s it. That’s the gig.”

You pressed your face to his chest. “Okay.”

He grinned against your hair.

“And I’m not just sayin’ that ‘cause you’re fit.”

“Paul.”

“Or ‘cause your legs look incredible in my shirt-”

“Paul.”

He laughed, full-bellied and happy. “What? Just bein’ honest!”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t stop smiling.

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee

[alwayssassydreamer]

Little Shell

A/N: this story is about reader being reincarnated, the idea came from @legends-of-the-grandline who managed to sweet talk me into writing Whitebeard (i feel like you're becoming as bad with your convincing as Anna)

Summary: you had always been plagued by nightmares and weird dreams about battles, death and a man you didn't know. And it always seemed as if you were missing something in your life until one day a man built like a mountain appeared before you.

Warnings: death, reincarnation, sfw, use of [Y/N], not proofread

Characters: Whitebeard x GnReader

You worked in a small village far off any pirate or marine activity. Your life was quiet, good but you always felt like something was missing though you couldn't quite place what it was. For unknown reasons you weren't really fond of the sea but you had no idea why and you often had nightmares about a fight, a battle at a place called god valley and during every nightmare you ended up killed and woke up sweating.

One day you walked down a path and found a piece of something that looked like a ship wreckage you carefully crouched down to inspect it but upon touching it you felt weird and that feeling that something was missing only increased. You immediately turned away from the wreckage and walked back home.

That night you had a dream about a man, tall, built like a mountain, long blonde hair and a very unique mustache. The man carried a massive naginata and yet he didn't scareyou no quite the opposite you felt save, like you belonged. The unknown man smiled at you with warmth and his booming laughter was like balm to your soul. "I'll always find you little one" he had said before you woke up confused yet with a aching and yearning heart.

The next day you ended up collecting some herbs close to the docks. The sun was shining brightly, casting down on you. Until a massive shadow loomed over you.

You froze, your heart skipping a beat as you gazed up at the towering figure before you. The man before you looked strikingly similar to the one from your dreams, tall, broad-shouldered, built like a mountain. His weathered face carried a certain strength, a quiet, reassuring power. His hair was white and his mustache, a unique shape, unmistakable, curved outward like the jagged peaks of a mountain range.

He was older, the years and battles etched on his face, scars on his chest, but there was a warmth in his eyes that made you feel... safe. Familiar. As if you were seeing something you had lost long ago.

"[Y/N]," he said, his deep voice rolling like thunder across the peaceful atmosphere. "It’s been too long, hasn’t it?"

Your breath hitched in your chest. How did he know your name?

His presence was imposing, but there was something else, a magnetic pull that tugged at your soul, drawing you in. Despite your initial shock, you didn’t feel afraid. In fact, you felt... at home. Like you had always known him.

The world seemed to slow around you as you tried to process everything, your thoughts racing. This is impossible. You had seen this man only in your dreams, yet here he was, standing before you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Who are you?" you managed to ask, your voice barely above a whisper, though your heart already knew the answer.

He smiled, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest. "I’m Edward Newgate though most call me Whitebeard, and I’ve been waiting for you for a long time, little one."

The words hit you like a wave, and for a moment, your knees weakened beneath you. It was definitely him- the man from your dreams. But the confusion only deepened.

Why did you feel this way?

Whitebeard stepped closer, his massive frame blocking the sun completely, yet there was nothing but warmth in his gaze. He reached out, gently taking your hand in his enormous one. His touch was steady, comforting, grounding. A strange warmth spread from your fingertips where his hand met yours, and you felt a sense of recognition wash over you.

"You don’t remember yet, do you?" Whitebeard’s voice softened, and his eyes seemed to hold a mixture of affection and something else you couldn’t quite name. "It’s alright. You will."

He paused, looking down at you with a look that was both solemn and affectionate. "I’ve been searching for you. For centuries, it feels like. But no matter how many times I lose you, I always find you again. Because you’re mine."

You blinked up at him, trying to process his words. Your heart raced, and that feeling, that missing piece, grew stronger. It was as if every fiber of your being was screaming in recognition.

“I—” you began to speak but stopped yourself, uncertain. “But... I don’t remember you.”

"That’s alright." Whitebeard’s grin was gentle, and his thumb brushed over your hand in slow, reassuring motions. "You will, little one. In time."

His words lingered in the air as the heat of the sun seemed to fade, and a cool breeze swept through the docks. The presence of the sea, something you had always avoided, felt different now. There was a sense of belonging, of connection, that pulled you toward it.

~~~~~~~~~~

The days following Whitebeard’s sudden appearance felt surreal. Despite the confusion swirling in your mind, the bond you felt with him was undeniable. Every word he spoke seemed to pull at something deep within you, as if you had known him far longer than the brief minutes you’d spent together on the docks.

That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Whitebeard invited you aboard his ship, the Moby Dick. The towering sails, the creaking wood, and the smell of saltwater all reminded you of something. Something you had long forgotten.

The crew watched with curiosity as you were escorted below deck. Whitebeard had a certain aura around him that commanded respect, yet his voice when he addressed you was always warm, gentle, and full of affection. He led you to a private cabin, large and imposing, yet somehow comforting. He gestured for you to sit.

"Do you remember anything?" he asked gently, his intense gaze searching yours as he settled into a chair across from you. The steady rumble of his voice was reassuring, though there was a faint trace of sadness behind it, as if he had already lost you too many times.

You shook your head, the sensation of being on the edge of something gnawing at you, but you couldn’t grasp it. Then, without warning, the room seemed to grow dim, and your eyes fluttered shut. For a moment, everything felt wrong, then a vivid flash of images assaulted your mind.

God Valley.

The sounds of battle rang in your ears, the clash of swords, the rumble of distant thunder. The vision was blurry at first, but then you saw him, Whitebeard, his massive figure cutting through the chaos with an unyielding presence. His weapon, a massive naginata, moved with a precision that belied its size. But something was different. In this flashback, you were there, beside him, fighting just as fiercely.

You were ready to fight, your heart racing as you parried a blow from a marine who lunged at you. And Whitebeard he was watching over you. He caught your eye across the battlefield, his gaze fierce and protective. You were his. He raised his weapon, cutting through a group of enemies with ease, all while keeping a watchful eye on you. His booming laughter, a sound full of pride, echoed in your mind.

"Watch your back, little one," he called to you, his voice drowned out by the roar of battle.

But then, chaos. A blow from behind, an enemy that Whitebeard didn’t see in time. You fell. You died.

The vision shifted, and you were back on the Moby Dick, gasping for air as though waking from a nightmare. You felt a cold sweat on your brow and realized your hands were trembling. The memory felt real. Too real. You blinked, and Whitebeard’s worried face came into view, his massive hand resting on your knee.

"You’re safe," he reassured you, his voice calming, but there was a hint of distress in his eyes. "You’re here, with me."

But the image of God Valley lingered in your mind, as did the feeling of loss. You had been there. You had been beside him in that battle. But it wasn’t the first time. You died there, and then... it had all reset. You had been reborn.

“I… I remember,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

Whitebeard nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. "We’ve crossed paths a few times, little one. Time and time again, you come back to me, and we fight together. But we always lose each other. God Valley wasn't the first time, but apparently the last."

You blinked, trying to process the flood of emotions. "So… this has happened before? Over and over?"

"Yes," he replied softly. "You don’t remember the lives you’ve lived, but I do. I always remember. The first time I lost you was on Sphinx, we were both children and cared for each other, supported each other and gave each other hope but an ambush took you from me. But no matter how many times I lost you, I always have and always will, find you again."

Tears welled up in your eyes as the weight of his words hit you. The memories were too much to bear, yet there was an overwhelming pull toward him. You couldn’t ignore it. You were his, and he was yours.

Whitebeard reached out and cupped your cheek gently. "You’ve always been my anchor, little one. You make me stronger, and together, we’ll keep fighting until we win."

You closed your eyes, allowing the overwhelming emotions to wash over you. You had been afraid of the sea for so long, yet now it felt as if it were calling you home. You had always been meant to be with him.

Later on you sat together on the deck of the Moby Dick, the ocean breeze gently rustling your hair. The sky was painted in warm shades of orange and purple as the sun began to dip below the horizon. The moment was quiet, yet heavy with unspoken weight. Whitebeard, Newgate, stood beside you, leaning on the rail, silent for a long while.

"I’ve waited so long for this," he finally murmured, his voice low and rough, filled with something old, something buried deep.

You looked up at him, your chest still aching with the half-returned memories, the weight of dreams and déjà vu pressing down on your shoulders. "Tell me," you whispered, "about the first time you lost me?"

Whitebeard didn’t answer immediately. He stared out over the sea, the fading sun reflecting in his eyes. When he did speak, his voice was quieter than you’d ever heard it.

"Sphinx. Our home. I was just a boy."

You blinked, surprised. Somehow, you had expected a battlefield, not a small island village.

"There weren’t many of us back then. Just a few families… a small, poor place. You were an orphan just like me. You were everything bright. Always climbing trees you shouldn’t, always dragging me to chase birds or steal fruit from the neighbor’s trees." He chuckled softly at the memory, a sorrowful sound. "You were the only thing close to family, safety and belonging."

A silence fell between you, his words painting a picture you could almost see. And in the back of your mind, that warmth again - the echo of a laugh not your own, of joy that felt like it once belonged to you.

"One day," he continued, voice roughening, "some slavers came. They thought our village would be easy pickings. And they were right. I tried to fight. I was only a kid, but I fought with everything I had."

He took a deep breath, his knuckles tightening on the rail. "You tried to protect the younger children… got caught in the crossfire. I didn’t get to you in time."

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry. You could feel it now, faint, like smoke slipping through your fingers. That first loss. The pain of it. Your pain, and his.

"I buried you on the cliffs," he said softly, his gaze distant. "Right where the sea can always reach you. And I swore I’d never let myself care like that again. Never let myself be that weak again."

You reached out instinctively, your hand resting on his. His skin was rough, hardened by time and battle, but your touch made him still.

"But you did," you whispered. "You cared again."

His lips curled in a faint smile, heavy with sorrow. "I never stopped. Every time I saw you, in every life, I knew. And every time.....I lost you."

He turned to you then, eyes filled with something raw—hope, fear, longing. "But this time… this time feels different. You’re here. You came back again, just like always. But maybe this time, I get to keep you."

The ache in your chest swelled into something deeper, older. You didn’t know the whole story yet, but you didn’t need to. You could feel it, in the marrow of your bones, in the flutter of your heart when he looked at you like that.

"I’m tired of being lost," you whispered. "If there’s a chance… I want to remember. I want to stay."

Whitebeard’s hand turned beneath yours, gently closing around your fingers. "Then we make this life the one we don’t waste."

The sky had darkened into soft twilight. Lanterns flickered to life around the deck of the Moby Dick, casting golden light that danced across the wood and sea. You were still sitting beside him, his hand wrapped gently around yours. Silence had settled over the two of you again, but this time it was a comfortable one.

Then, he shifted slightly, turning to face you more fully. The light caught his features just right, softening the years and the scars, and for a moment - just a flicker - you saw him as he must’ve looked back then. Younger. With more hair. His features softer but hismustache ever present.

He lifted your joined hands, brushing his lips against your knuckles, just like he had done before, though you didn’t know why it made your heart clench.

And then he said it.

Just two words, but words he had always said to you when you were upset. When you were scared. When you doubted yourself or your place in the world.

"Little Shell."

The nickname.

He had always called you that.

On Sphinx, when you were children, you’d clung to the story that seashells held the voices of the ocean. You told him if you were ever taken by the sea, he could hold a shell to his ear and hear you again. So he called you his little shell, always holding your voice close.

And then again, in God Valley, he used it the night before the battle. You were curled up in his arms, and he had held you tightly as you cried about the inevitable bloodshed.

"Whatever happens… my little shell will always echo in my heart."

The world tilted as the memories came crashing down like a wave you couldn’t hold back.

Laughter in the fields of Sphinx.

Him teasing you for how small your hands were compared to his. "You’re gonna need both just to hold one of mine," he’d chuckled.

Falling asleep with your face pressed to his chest, his hand idly combing through your hair.

Your first kiss, stolen during a rainstorm when you dared him to do something impulsive and he did.

The warmth of his body wrapped around yours, making you feel safe no matter the chaos outside.

His voice murmuring to you in the dark.

"I’ll always find you, little shell."

Tears streamed silently down your cheeks as your vision cleared, truly cleared and you saw him.

Not just Whitebeard.

Not just Edward Newgate.

But him.

Yours.

The boy from Sphinx.

The warrior of God Valley.

The man who had always, always come back to you.

He blinked, surprised by the look in your eyes.

"…You remember," he whispered.

You nodded, voice catching in your throat.

"I remember everything my love."

He didn't say another word. He just pulled you into him, arms strong and unshakable and held you like he had fought an entire world just to do so.

Because he had.

And this time, finally, he had won.

And for the first time, the sea felt like home.

[delusionalvenusian]

Read The Packets

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky x Fem!Reader (no use of y/n; petnames sweetheart, baby, and I think a darling in there)

Warnings: 18+ only, smut, oral (f and m receiving), unprotected p in v, teasing, spanking (blink and you'll miss), swearing, some praise kink sprinkled in, bratty reader, sort of Thunderbolts* spoilers if you care about Valentina's storyline, I think that's it? But please let me know if I missed anything!

a/n: My very first Bucky smut! Venturing out from my usual fluff. Completely gratuitous. Just one of many thoughts I've had since my first viewing of Thunderbolts* earlier this week. Surely more to come, because... WHEW, that man.

______________________________________________________________

"Read the packets," Congressman Gary said plainly, as if it were just that simple.

In truth, Bucky had tried to read the packets. Once. After a long day on Capitol Hill, he had resolved to sit himself down in his apartment that evening and lock in, pushing through the boredom. A quiet night in with takeout, work, and you, his best girl, to keep him company.

He had failed, though, to presuppose the mood you would be in that night.

Be it hormones, or just missing him after your own generally hectic schedule lately, you weren't sure. All you knew was you needed him, and seeing him in dutiful politician mode certainly wasn't helping.

He was sat on the couch in a t-shirt and boxer briefs, packets stacked on the coffee table save for the one open in his hands, with that little eyebrow crinkle that formed when he had his serious face on as he focused on the words on the page in front of him.

The same crinkle that always formed when he focused on fucking you senseless.

You quietly sauntered over to the back of the couch in nothing but your silken robe and wasted no time, silently dragging your hands down his burly chest from behind and leaning down to pepper slow, sloppy kisses to his jaw and neck. A smile formed on your busy lips as you heard him sigh out a groan.

"Sweetheart," he said in a vaguely warning tone.

"Hmm?" You questioned innocently, not letting up.

"Gotta read these."

You placed a kiss to the shell of his ear. "They're not going anywhere."

Bucky chuckled. "Yeah, that's the problem. Should've read 'em weeks ago."

"What's a few more hours then?"

"I-- baby, please." He all but whined, desperately trying to keep his focus. The sooner he got through these, the sooner he could get to taking you apart in whatever way you wanted.

Bucky felt you huff in annoyance against his skin as you ceased your torturous ministrations. "Fine."

But you weren't really done with him yet. No, his responsibility only spurred you on, and his rare rejection activated a brattiness within you the likes of which either of you had yet to experience.

You rounded the sofa as Bucky redirected his attention to his work, plopping down next to him dramatically and scooting as close to him as you could without fully ending up in his lap. Much to your annoyance, he managed with some restraint to keep his eyes on the paper without even glancing your way. You leaned closer into him until your bare knees landed across his thigh and your chest partially pressed against his arm, appearing to join him in reading the packet while your hand found his hair, nails raking over his scalp as you began to lightly scratch and massage just how he liked.

"Baby, I-"

"Shh," you whispered. "You're supposed to be reading. This is riveting stuff."

His eyes rolled back as his body involuntarily relaxed under your touch. "'m trying."

You let your hand gently drop from his hair, using it to prop your own head next to his. Bucky opened his eyes and shook his head slightly in an attempt to clear it and regain control.

All was innocent and peaceful for a minute or so before you slid your other hand to Bucky's knee. He inhaled sharply at the feeling of your soft, uncalloused hand ghosting over his thigh, stopping at the hem of his briefs, then back down again. It only took three featherlight passes for you to feel the fabric pulling and tightening as his cock hardened.

Bucky's jaw clenched as he fought to retain the words he was reading, but as the blood flowed from his head to the head below it could have been written in Wingdings font and he wouldn't know the difference. You pressed a kiss to his tight jaw, urging the muscles to relax.

Your barely-there touch caressed its way to the fully pitched tent and you couldn't help the satisfied hum you let out at the feeling of Bucky's stiffness at your fingertips. He twitched in his briefs at your touch and sweet sound.

His excitement and your own growing ache in your core encouraged you not to stop your fun. Painfully softly, you began to stroke him at a leisurely pace, not yet making direct skin to skin contact. You hummed again when you felt the warmth of the wet spot forming on the thin cotton layer that separated you.

"Ple-" Bucky began, tearing his gaze from the packet to beg you for mercy.

You cut him off with a quick but passionate kiss, leaving him yearning for more as you pulled away. "Read, congressman," you ordered, earning another twitch at the usage of his title.

Wordlessly he watched you slip off the couch and onto your knees before him, guiding his legs apart to rest in between them, ducking into place under his arms, which were still slightly raised and diligently holding the first impeachment packet. He shot you a look that was half warning, half plea. You looked up at him innocently as you bent down and placed a kiss to the tip of his clothed dick. You gave him the look once more, this time descending for an open mouthed kiss to the same spot and earning a poorly controlled growl from deep within Bucky's chest.

You slid your hands up his thighs to the waistband of his briefs, freeing him as much as you could until you could see the pretty pink head. You met his gaze through your long lashes, silently asking him for help to get them the rest of the way off. When he didn't immediately oblige, you settled for wrapping your hand around him and beginning to pump him at the same leisurely pace you'd maintained before, continuing to hold eye contact.

Bucky licked his lips and shook his head. "You're killin' me, sweetheart."

"Read, congressman," you repeated. "You have work to do." And so do I, you thought. With that, you took him as far into your mouth as you could manage with his briefs still partially in the way.

"Fuck," he hissed at the contact with the wet warmth of your mouth.

You moaned at the taste of him on your tongue, wishing you had full leverage to take him completely down your throat.

With the scene before him, he knew he wouldn't last long. You, his sweetheart, his best girl, so bratty and desperate for him, so wet from being on your knees for him that his serum-enhanced senses had him smelling your sweet arousal. No, he wouldn't last long at all like this. And no way in hell could he get through those fucking packets.

Bucky tossed the packet aside on the couch with a thud and you let out a playful giggle on his cock. Just what you wanted, obviously. Defeat. "So fuckin' needy, huh?" He cooed, threading a hand into your hair as you bobbed up and down. He felt you nod in his palm, the vibration of your affirmative "mhmm" all around him. "Not even out of my clothes yet and 'm already gonna cum."

You released him with a pop and looked up at him, leaning back slightly and running your hands up his abs under his t-shirt. "Off, please."

Bucky ignored your plea and leaned down to give you a wanting kiss, mimicking the one you'd given to him earlier, drawing a whine from you as he pulled away. "Up, darlin'." You gave him a pouty look. "Get up, c'mon. Just givin' my girl what she wants."

You rose to your feet as you were told, Bucky grabbing your hips without warning and pulling you down to straddle his lap. Immediately you were on him, hands in his hair to shower him in deep, hungry kisses. He pulled the offending t-shirt off, providing fresh landscape for your hands to explore. You barely noticed in your fervor him untying your robe and sliding it off your shoulders to the floor, leaving you stark naked in the living room turned makeshift office.

"So fuckin' beautiful," Bucky sighed into your neck as his kisses descended from your lips and his hands roamed your bare body. "But such a little brat." A surprised yelp escaped you as his flesh hand planted a firm slap to your ass, then soothingly rubbed the reddening spot. The slight sting left you throbbing over him, aching for friction. "You gonna start behaving?" His vibranium hand left its place on your thigh, his cold fingers sending shockwaves through you as they met your folds and glided through the gathered slick.

You bit your lip and nodded furiously, needing to feel him inside of you. "Yes-- yes, I'll be so good."

"I know you will, baby," he said, nodding back at you while he slowly inserted two fingers. "So be a good girl and pick that packet up for me, huh?" You looked at him with confusion, trying to focus as his fingers dragged in and out of you. "Right next to you, pick it up." He couldn't tell if your whining as you complied was out of pleasure or annoyance or both, but he didn't care. "That's it." He removed his fingers abruptly and made quick work of lifting his hips to slide off his last bit of clothing, his rock hardness bumping your swollen clit on the way up, earning an abrupt moan from you. "See, it's like you said, I have work do. So let's multitask." His hands found your hips again, gripping and guiding you down until he felt his tip kiss your entrance and watched your mouth gape in anticipation. He held you there, hovered slightly, and slid himself in teasingly slowly. You groaned in unison as you felt the friction between you. "God, you're fuckin' soaked."

"Feel so good," you breathed, eyes rolling back.

"Eyes open, baby," Bucky said firmly. "You won't let me read it, so I need you to be a real good girl and read it to me." He punctuated his sentence with a deep thrust fully up into you. The moan he knocked out of you seemed to echo through the apartment. "Can you do that for me?"

You shook your head, an almost pitiful look on your face. "Bucky, I don't think I-"

He cut you off with another hard thrust. "Sure you can." And another. "Read the packet."

"'Resolved, that," you began, "that Valentina Allegra d-de Font'-oh!" Bucky hadn't let up his thrusts, unhurried but powerful and punctuated, now sucking and nipping at your neck and chest. "'Fontaine, Director of the Central'-right there, fuck- 'the Central Intelligence Agency o-of the United States of America, is impeached for h-high crimes'-yes, god- 'impeached for high crimes and misdemeanors and th-that the f-following articles of impeachment be exhibi-exhibited to the United States S-Senate'- fuck, I c-can't."

"Not so easy, is it, sweetheart," Bucky asked, sustaining his established pace.

You shook your head. "N-no."

"'S'right." Thrust. Bucky took the packet and tossed it on the table atop the others. "You knew better." He grasped your hips tighter and held you on him as he lay you down longways on the sofa, hovering above you, your legs wrapping lazily around him. He quickly found a new pace, faster than before, and reached deeper inside you from the fresh position.

And then there it was-- that crinkle. You watched through watery, dilated eyes as it formed between his brows, physical proof of his complete focus being on you now. He maintained the quick snap of his hips, knowing he would finish soon and not caring one bit. Your cries beneath him and wet warmth around him told him you didn't either.

"This what you wanted, baby?"

You were beyond the ability to form words, merely moaning in response.

"Look so fuckin' gorgeous under me. Take me so well," he praised. "My best fuckin' girl. God, 'm gonna cum."

All you could do was beg. "Please."

Bucky's hips stuttered and a guttural moan ripped from deep within him as he painted your walls with his thick spend. His head collapsed into the crook of your neck, both of you catching your breath, while you placed sweet, sloppy kisses to his temple and cheek. "I love you. Missed you."

"Could tell," he chuckled. "I love you, too."

You lay there together like that, connected, caressing up and down his spine, until Bucky finally lifted himself on his palms and a groan. Fully expecting him to clean you both up and start back on his reading, you were surprised when he scooted back toward the other end of the couch by your feet, remaining between your legs. You instinctively started to shut them, an unconscious shyness at being on full display for him, your mixed juices dripping from you. You peered at him hesitantly.

Bucky met your gaze and spread your knees back wide. "Not done with you yet."

"But the pa-"

"They're not going anywhere," He said, face disappearing between your legs.