#crashed-down-in-a-hurricane

[httpiastri]

Not the same anon but I BEG you for popstar! reader x paul

I feel like paul is a really cautious person?? Idk how to explain it but I don't see him as impulsive, he gives me the vibes that outside motorsport and sports in general he doesn't like to take risks. In Prema videos he's always more "contained " (idk if this is the word I'm looking for), while being playful and goofy.

But then miss popstar coming into his life like a hurricane, being the COMPLETE opposite!!! Impulsive, never ever thinking before speaking, that electric type of person and it driving him insaneeeeeeee

im loving this hype for the popstar!au, the anon who first suggested it should get a big forehead kiss 😚😚

but yes i agree!! like around certain people, when he's really comfortable, he seems like he can relax and let go a bit. like around dino he you know dances and stuff, and with karl he's always joking around. but even then, he's a lot more calm than most others !! and yes like you say, outside of racing, he seems more cautious. like if you watch videos of him on estonian shows, he's much more gentle. but he still has his personality, his playfulness and bubbly style shining through <33

i feel like he also would be cautious when meeting new people – especially if it's a girl, and especially if that girl happens to a popstar and also super cute. so around her, he's maybe not shy but more careful. and he even gets lowkey nervous when she's around, in a way where he just doesn't recognize himself? telling himself "mate get a grip???"

and then the reader being super extroverted, spontaneous, carefree… always saying exactly what she wants and not caring what anyone thinks. and god does he find it attractive!!!!

[lilislegacy]

imagine being someone at new rome university and not knowing percy is the same guy as “percy jackson, son of poseidon, two-time hero of olympus, former praetor” because the thought doesn’t even cross your mind. like… he’s percy. he’s a total frat boy. on a normal night, he walks into a party, refers to everyone as bro or dude, socializes with every living (and not-living) person in the room, makes at least 50 sarcastic comments, plays 12 rounds of beer pong, drinks way too much, and then skates around campus on his skateboard yelling “I LOVE NEW YORK” (which makes no sense, because they’re in california) until someone calls his girlfriend to come get him.

and then one day there’s an attack, and frat boy percy is all of a sudden a fighting machine. he’s yelling battle cries alongside the praetors frank zhang and hazel levesque as they lead everyone into battle. (why is he with the praetors? and why…. why in the world do the praetors seem to be following his lead?) his sword slashes through armies of monsters faster than you’ve ever seen. he’s controlling the entire river surrounding the camp, creating huge waves as tall as skyscrapers that crash down all around him, wiping out monsters and causing mass destruction to his enemies’ ranks. the sky is suddenly dark above you, ice-cold water droplets are slashing through the air, and the wind is blowing so aggressively that it’s making it hard to stand up steadily. because he’s somehow created a hurricane.

and he looks terrifying. you can feel the power radiating off of him. he’s like a god. or maybe a monster. it’s hard to tell. you’re a little scared of him, to be honest. but also in total awe, because it’s extraordinary. he’s extraordinary.

frat boy percy is not who you thought he was.

[dollgxtz]

Shattered Birdcage

Word Count: 9.5k

Summary: Sylus loses control due to the Frenzy Enhancer and you don't find the activater in time...causing him to become sexually aggressive and desperate to claim you for himself :3

Tags: praedator!Sylus x fem!reader, predator x prey, noncon, intense choking, rough sex, forced orgasm, degradation, biting, blood, injury, cunnilingus, creampie, threats, mentions of breeding, nicknames like little bird, near death experience (no one actually dies don't worry!!), fluffy ending to soften the blow :33

Taglist: @magpie-the-goblin-girl @sxremmie @lem-hhn @silverbrain @sizzlingtigerkitten @msslytherin00 @letharue @yu-irene @poptrim @monster-effer @ditsynddotsy @size0forhollywood @its-regretti @queenofstresss @reiheis @valentinared

AN: Hiii guys!! Are we enjoying the new banner? I AM! This is literally a dream come true for me. So I decided to write a fic based on it with a little twist hehe. Please heed the warnings guys, this is a very intense fic and I tagged it accordingly. This is legitmately straight up noncon, not cnc. If you asked for a tag and weren't tagged its cause I couldn't find your age on your profile anywhere, sorry! Enjoy!

You exhale slowly, fingers brushing over the edges of the movie tickets still tucked in your pocket before letting them go. The paper crinkles softly, a fragile reminder of something almost normal. But it doesn’t belong to you anymore. Maybe it never did.

Then, the world shatters.

The fire alarm shrills, a piercing, agonizing wail that erupts through the hospital like a banshee’s scream. Panic spreads instantly, as sudden and violent as a tidal wave crashing over an unprepared shore.

The chaos begins.

Screams.

Heavy, frantic footsteps thunder down the halls. The sterile walls of the hospital, once cold and quiet, now tremble with the desperate energy of fear. The mechanical beep of heart monitors, the faint hum of fluorescent lights—all of it drowns beneath the raw, unfiltered sound of survival.

Somewhere outside your room, a woman’s voice splinters the air.

"Fire! Help!"

Her cry is swallowed by the deafening roar of the alarm, by the clatter of overturned medical carts, by the stampede of bodies flooding the halls. A shadow streaks past the glass window of your door, her silhouette vanishing into the growing plumes of smoke curling along the ceiling.

Then—movement behind you. You turn, locking eyes with Sylus. He doesn’t flinch.

He leans casually against the wall, utterly unbothered by the pandemonium unraveling around you. Smoke licks at the edges of his leather top, but he remains still, red eyes gleaming with something sharp, knowing, entertained. The ghost of a smirk plays at his lips.

"They’re right on schedule," he murmurs, his voice smooth, unaffected, like this is nothing more than a carefully executed performance.

He extends his hand toward you, as if inviting you into a dance.

Your pulse kicks up, but you don’t hesitate. You take his hand.

His fingers curl around yours—strong, steady, warm despite the growing heat. With a single pull, you propel yourself forward, slipping past the threshold of the hospital room and into the chaos beyond.

Smoke greets you first, thick and curling, its acrid tendrils slithering into your lungs like a living thing. The air is already changing—heat warping it, bending it, making it heavier. The moment you inhale, your throat burns. You clamp your sleeve over your mouth, but the effort is futile. The stench of burning plastic and antiseptic chemicals invades your senses, clawing at your eyes, your nose, your lungs.

Outside, the scene is worse.

Patients in hospital gowns stumble through the smoke, their movements disjointed, frantic. Some clutch at IV stands like lifelines, others trip over their own feet, disoriented by the blaring alarms and the thick, suffocating haze.

Doctors and nurses shout over the chaos, their voices lost in the hurricane of fear. Someone grabs your arm—a patient, her face streaked with sweat and panic, begging for help—but you pull away. You don’t have time.

You aren’t here to run.

You and Sylus move against the current, pushing past the flood of bodies surging toward the exits. The sheer force of them is overwhelming, a sea of desperation crashing around you, dragging you under. A body collides with yours their fingers tangling in your sleeve—but you break free, heart hammering as you surge toward the stairwell.

"We’ll lead them to the rooftop!" you yell, the words raw in your throat.

Sylus doesn’t answer, but he’s right beside you, his presence like a gravitational pull you can’t escape.

The stairwell looms ahead, doors thrown open as black smoke pours inside, bleeding into the emergency lights like a living shadow. The second you reach it, you don’t hesitate.

You take the stairs two, three at a time, Sylus still close behind you.

The heat is worse here. It rises from below, clawing at your legs, your back, the nape of your neck. Your breath comes in ragged bursts, your lungs searing, aching, screaming for fresh air. Each step feels like an eternity, each turn of the stairwell winding tighter, suffocating.

But you don’t stop.

Then—light.

A final shove against the rooftop doors, and you break through.

The moment you stumble outside, the temperature drops violently.

The cold slaps you across the face, stealing the breath from your lungs, shocking your overheated body into momentary stillness. The wind howls, slicing through the thick sweat on your skin, tangling through your hair, but it does nothing to mute the screams below.

And these screams are different.

Not panicked. Not desperate.

Dying.

A sickening weight drops into your stomach. Sylus steps up beside you, his stance tense, rigid, watchful. He doesn’t need to say it. You already know.

Ever’s assassins are here.

Your skin prickles as you scan the rooftop, the smoke too thick, the night too quiet. You can feel it in your bones—something is waiting.

Then—a shadow moves.

Then another.

Then—

Gunfire.

The first shot splits the air like a knife through silk.

You react instinctively, twisting your body out of the way as the bullet slams into the concrete near your foot, sending a sharp spray of dust and shattered stone into the air.

Another shot.

Sylus shoves you sideways, his movements lightning-fast, the force of it throwing you just out of the bullet’s path. Another impact—a bullet embedding itself into the rooftop behind where you had been standing only seconds before.

A crack split the air, followed by another. Sparks erupted as bullets ricocheted off metal pipes and rooftop vents, spraying embers into the night. Instinct kicked in before thought—you dropped low, rolling to the side just as a round zipped past your ear, embedding itself in the wall behind you.

Sylus moved with effortless precision, dodging fire as if it were choreographed. His jacket billowed as he twisted, reaching for his blade. A flash of steel. A wet gurgle. One assassin crumpled before he even realized he was dead.

You pivoted on your heel, raising your own weapon. A pull of the trigger—a sharp crack through the air. The man before you barely had time to react before the bullet found its mark. His body jerked violently, blood misting into the wind before he collapsed.

Another shot. Another fall.

They kept coming.

More shadows emerged from the darkness, gunfire tearing through the night in an unrelenting onslaught. You both wove through them like ghosts, striking fast, striking first. Your heart pounded as you ducked beneath a swing, countering with a sharp jab to the ribs, twisting your opponent’s wrist until his own weapon turned against him. A single shot. A final breath.

Sylus barely broke a sweat, his movements fluid, brutal, decisive. He drove his blade into one assassin’s chest, twisting just enough to make it agonizing. The man gasped, a short, choked sound before Sylus wrenched the blade free and let him drop.

"Pathetic," he muttered, stepping over the body without a second glance.

More gunfire. More bodies dropping.

Silence.

The last assassin twitched once, then stilled, his fingers curling in the pool of blood spreading beneath him. The night was thick with the scent of gunpowder, metal, and death.

And then—sirens.

A chorus of wailing alarms grew louder in the distance, flashing red and blue bleeding into the night sky.

The battlefield of bodies lay still, the chaos settled into an eerie quiet. The stench of gunpowder and iron filled your lungs, coating your throat with the acrid tang of death. The last spent cartridges hit the concrete, rolling in slow, uneven circles before finally resting among the carnage. Smoke lingered in the cold night air, twisting in delicate tendrils around the lifeless figures strewn across the rooftop.

You pushed out a slow breath, feeling the adrenaline still burning in your veins. Your fingers flexed around the grip of your weapon before you finally holstered it. The police would be here soon, their sirens growing louder in the distance, but they weren’t your concern. These bodies—the nameless, faceless pawns of Ever—would be cleaned up. Their presence erased. Their deaths categorized as classified in some sealed document, buried beneath bureaucratic nonsense.

"Sylus, we're clear! Let's move!" your voice came out sharper than you intended, urgency overtaking you.

He didn’t respond right away.

He was standing unnervingly still, his usual cocky demeanor replaced with something unreadable. His expression was neutral, but there was an intensity in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, a glint of something dark that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. His movements were slow as he wiped away the smear of blood on his cheek, his fingers leaving faint streaks of red against his skin. The way he stood—too relaxed, too quiet—set off alarm bells in your mind, though you couldn’t yet pinpoint why.

Something in his expression made your gut clench. His usual amused arrogance was absent, replaced with something darker. His pupils were slightly blown, the faintest edge of something feral lurking in his gaze. The air around him felt charged, electric. Wrong.

Then a sound.

A wet, strangled cough.

You both turned.

The last assassin—one you had assumed was already dead—was still moving. Barely. He lay twisted on the ground, one arm stretched toward you, his fingers twitching, curled like claws. His chest rose and fell unevenly, each breath rattling, wet, his lungs failing him.

But his lips—coated in blood—were curled into a grotesque smile.

"Even though..." he wheezed, a broken chuckle rattling out from somewhere deep in his ruined throat. "We can't kill you or him..." He spat a thick glob of blood onto the ground, his grin stretching wider, his yellowed teeth bared like a rabid dog. "Both of you...can rot in hell!"

His fingers twitched, curling weakly around something small, something you hadn’t noticed before. Then, in one sharp motion, his fist clenched, and a sudden crack rang out. Glass shattered, the sharp snap almost lost in the cool air, but the moment you heard it, your stomach dropped. A dark, viscous liquid seeped between his fingers, mingling with the blood pooling on the rooftop floor.

Then you caught the scent.

It was faint at first, nearly masked by the coppery stench of death, but the moment it hit the back of your throat, your entire body locked up in realization. The chemical tang was sharp, bitter, something that curled into your lungs like acid. It was distinct. Familiar.

Your body reacted before your brain fully processed the danger.

"No—!"

Your pulse thundered in your skull.

The Frenzy Enhancer.

A biochemical compound designed for one thing: triggering an uncontrollable transformation in Praedators. The LCBI had confiscated hundreds of these vials from underground labs, tearing them away from illegal deals before they could be sold to the highest bidder. But no matter how much of it was taken off the streets, more always surfaced. It was unpredictable. Uncontrollable.

It worked fast—too fast.

You turned, heart pounding in your chest. Sylus had gone rigid, his muscles locking as though every nerve in his body had seized up at once. His breathing was deep, too deep, pulling in the scent like his body was craving it against his will. His head tilted slightly, nostrils flaring, a shudder running through him from head to toe.

A low, guttural growl rumbled from his chest, barely human.

Your blood turned to ice.

His pupils dilated until the irises nearly vanished, red pools swallowing the color in his gaze. His lips parted slightly, sharp, elongated canines catching the dim rooftop lights. He was salivating. A slick sheen of moisture gathered along his lower lip, his body trembling with the effort to hold himself together.

But he was losing the battle.

The Frenzy Enhancer wasn’t just a stimulant—it was a detonator. It bypassed control, restraint, morality. It didn’t just enhance what he was—it unchained it.

And right now, it was unraveling him.

"Sylus," you said carefully, your voice firm but measured. He twitched at the sound of his name, his head snapping toward you with a sharp, unnatural movement. His muscles trembled as if barely keeping himself together, but his gaze was locked onto you now—not as a comrade.

As prey.

You had seen this before as an Enforcer, watched it unfold in others who had been exposed to the drug. The Frenzy Enhancer didn’t just bring out what they were—it unchained them. It severed the link between logic and instinct, driving them into a state of raw, uncontrolled bloodlust. But this wasn’t just any Praedator—it was Sylus. He was already dangerously close to the edge even on a normal day, always teetering between control and destruction. Now, with the drug coursing through his system, you weren't sure how much time you had before he lost himself completely.

You had to move.

Reaching forward, you grabbed his arm, fingers locking tight around his wrist. His skin was hot, too hot. His entire body was trembling with need, his breath shuddering against his clenched teeth. The growl rumbling in his chest vibrated beneath your palm, every muscle in his arm wound taut like a spring waiting to snap.

"Come on," you gritted out, pulling him forward with force. He resisted, his stance firm, as though something inside him was battling whether to follow or attack. Your pulse thrummed in your throat.

Then he staggered.

It was slight, barely a misstep, but you used it. Yanking him forward, you dragged him across the rooftop, forcing his unsteady body toward the stairwell. His breath hitched in a ragged snarl, his movements twitchy, erratic, but he followed.

For now.

Each step was a battle. He stumbled against you, his balance skewed, his instincts fighting him at every turn. By the time you both reached the underground corridors of NightStrix HQ, his breathing had become ragged, his body burning up from the inside out. His restraint was slipping fast.

You shoved open the heavy steel door, dragging him inside. Deep within the base, hidden away from the rest of the world, the reinforced cage ready to hold the beast that was about to be unleashed.

Sylus grunted against you, his breath coming in hot, ragged bursts as you dragged you both into the containment cage. His body was burning up, his muscles twitching violently under your grip, every fiber of him trembling with the overwhelming need to break free. Each second that passed was a countdown to catastrophe. The Frenzy was about to take full hold, and if you didn’t restrain him now, you might not get another chance.

You fumbled with the heavy iron chains, fingers slick with sweat as you worked to loop one around his thrashing limbs. The muzzle. You needed to get the muzzle on first. Your heart pounded as you grabbed it from the steel hooks on the wall, forcing it over his mouth while he snarled, his body lurching violently against you.

"Sylus, stop—!"

He thrashed hard, nearly knocking you to the floor. His strength was unnatural, monstrous, and it was only getting worse. With a final shove, you managed to secure the muzzle around his face, locking the metal straps tightly at the back of his head. But before you could reach for the second chain, he bucked with terrifying force, sending you stumbling backward. You barely had time to clasp the restraint around one of his legs before you were forced to scramble out of the cage.

The second you slammed the heavy door shut, he lunged.

The impact rattled through the metal bars as his shoulder slammed into them, the force sending vibrations into the floor beneath you. You jumped, heart hammering in your ribs, your breath coming too fast. He slid down slightly, panting, his chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven gasps.

Then, without warning, he laughed.

A dark, guttural chuckle, low and mocking, twisted through the air like poison. His pupils were blown slightly wide now, black swallowing the color of his irises as he tilted his head toward you. Even through the muzzle, his teeth gleamed, sharp and lethal.

"Won’t you help me?" he rasped, his voice thick with something twisted—half-growl, half-seduction.

You froze.

He was still partially unrestrained. That single remaining chain wasn’t enough—if the Frenzy fully took hold, he could snap it in seconds. If you waited too long, he would be too far gone.

You had to finish restraining him now.

Swallowing the tight lump in your throat, you slowly stepped forward into the cage. Your pulse roared in your ears, your body screaming at you to run, but you forced your limbs to obey. You kept your eyes on him, watching every twitch of his muscles, every flicker of movement. You knelt, reaching for the second chain, moving with deliberate slowness so you wouldn’t startle him.

"I’m not going to watch you turn into a monster, but I—"

You never got to finish.

Sylus lunged.

A blur of motion—heat, strength, raw power.

You barely had time to react before white-hot pain exploded in your neck.

A strangled scream tore from your throat as his teeth sank into your flesh, piercing deep, his jaws locking down like a predator making its first kill. Agony shot through your nerves, the sharp burn of torn skin flooding your senses. Your vision whited out for a second, pain so intense it nearly stole your breath.

Then instinct took over.

You snarled, swinging your fist up hard, your knuckles cracking against his cheekbone with enough force to send his head snapping sideways. The impact jarred his teeth free, a sharp burst of pain ripping through you as he tore away from your skin. Blood dripped from the wound, warm and wet, seeping between your fingers as you clutched your neck in blind panic.

For a moment, all you could do was breathe through the pain.

The air was thick with the scent of your own blood, sharp and metallic, mixing with the sweat and heat that clung to you both. Your hands trembled as you pulled them away from the wound, your fingers smeared crimson. The realization sent a sickening chill through you.

He had bitten you.

Not just attacked. Bitten.

Your gaze shot back up to him.

Sylus was licking his lips.

He ran his tongue slowly over the blood staining his mouth, eyes fluttering shut for a brief second as though savoring it. Then his pupils snapped back open, razor-sharp hunger gleaming in them.

"You taste delicious." His voice was thick, dripping with need, his words slurred with the edges of something inhuman. His breath came in heavy, fevered bursts, chest rising and falling as his restraint frayed further.

A shudder ran through his body, muscles twitching beneath his skin. His fingers flexed, nails digging into the concrete floor as his entire frame shook with the need to consume more.

"Come...just a little more..." he purred, voice dropping to something low and lethal.

Then he lunged again.

You dodge just in time, barely avoiding the brutal force of his lunge. The heat of his breath scorches the space between you as he snarls, his entire body moving like a coiled beast just barely restrained by human skin. The instant he gets too close, you strike—your fist colliding with his cheekbone in a sharp, jarring impact that sends a jolt of pain radiating up your arm. The force of the hit knocks his head to the side, his body twisting under the sudden blow, but even as he stumbles, something in your gut tells you it isn’t enough.

Your heart pounds wildly, your breath coming in uneven gasps as you prepare yourself for whatever comes next. But Sylus doesn’t fall. He doesn’t even cry out. Instead, he slowly turns back to face you, a sluggish, almost lazy motion, as if he’s savoring the sting of your hit. And then—he smiles.

“Oh…I like when my prey puts up a fight,” he purrs, his voice slithering through the air like something alive. His eyes gleam with raw, unhinged hunger, pupils swallowing what little color remains. The way he tilts his head, the way his lips curl over the metal of his muzzle—it sends a sickening chill down your spine.

The Frenzy has him now. Completely.

You swallow hard, trying to suppress the shudder threatening to wrack your frame. Every inch of your body is screaming at you to run, but you plant your feet firm against the cold concrete, refusing to let fear consume you. If you let him see weakness, if you let him smell it, you’ll lose control of the situation entirely.

"Sylus! Stop it!" you shout, willing your voice to be strong. "Please, I know you're in there somewhere! I just need to—"

He lunges again.

The movement is blindingly fast. One second he's still and the next, he’s twisting, lunging toward you with a violent, predatory force. You barely manage to throw yourself to the side, feeling the rush of displaced air as he snaps at the space where your throat had just been. You seize the opening, grabbing hold of the second restraint with trembling hands and slamming it onto his other wrist. The sharp clank of metal follows as his chains yank him back, keeping him from reaching you—but only barely.

Your pulse slams against your ribs. If you don’t finish this now, he will get free.

His body writhes violently in front of you, hot with fever, drenched in sweat, trembling with animalistic hunger. He’s caught. Fully restrained now, arms suspended in place, unable to do anything but snarl and thrash.

Your arms shake as you stumble backward, breath ragged. You barely register your own hands drifting to your neck, fingers pressing against the torn skin where his teeth had sunk in only moments ago. The wound is deep, hot, raw, but you won’t die from it. Your body is immune to a Praedator’s venom—it’s one of the only reasons you’re even still alive right now. But that doesn’t stop the sick wave of nausea that rolls through you as your fingertips come away stained with more blood.

Sylus laughs.

The sound is low, rough, and dangerously amused.

"You scared?" he murmurs, voice still ragged with the aftershocks of his transformation, his breath coming in heavy, uneven bursts. His eyes flicker over you, roaming your body from head to toe, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing every tiny tremor in your stance.

Your stomach tightens. You don’t answer.

His gaze lingers at your neck, at the place where his teeth had torn you open. His lips part slightly behind the muzzle, and his tongue flicks out, running along the bloodied edge of his mouth as if tasting the remnants of you still clinging to his skin. His chest rises and falls heavily, as if trying to restrain himself, but there’s something else lurking behind his eyes. You watch as his eyes roam up and down your body, seemingly lost in thought. He's thinking about something.

Something dark.

"Your idea of help is heartwarming," he muses as he staggers towards you a bit, his voice softer now, mocking, but no less dangerous.

You force yourself to hold his gaze, even as your breathing refuses to steady. Even as something deep in your gut tells you that Sylus isn’t as trapped as he looks.

Because despite the chains, despite the restraints keeping you apart, he’s still in control.

And he knows it.

"When you approach your prey, you must ensure your own safety first. You taught me this, Sylus."

Your voice is calm, controlled, but the pain radiating from your neck betrays the lie. Each breath you take feels like a blade dragging against raw flesh, a sharp pulse of heat throbbing beneath your skin. You try to ignore it, pushing past the discomfort, pushing past the rising tide of fear that threatens to anchor itself in your chest. There’s no time to waste. You need to find the activator—now. It’s buried somewhere in his body, a trigger designed to override the Frenzy and pull him back from the brink. If you don’t locate it soon, he’ll break free, and there will be no reining him in after that.

Sylus lets out a low scoff, but there’s no real amusement behind it. His breathing is heavy, uneven, his chest rising and falling in quick bursts as though he’s barely holding himself together. Sweat beads at his temple, strands of hair clinging to his skin, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if there’s any part of him left fighting from within, if the Sylus you know is still buried somewhere beneath all that raw, seething hunger.

"Prey?" he murmurs, rolling the word slowly across his tongue like he’s savoring the taste of it. His voice is hoarse, thick with something not quite human, something that sends an instinctual shiver down your spine.

You don’t answer. You can’t. The way he said that definitely indicated that he is not the prey here.

Instead, you move carefully, methodically, circling behind him. His arms are still suspended above his head, iron restraints locking him in place, but you know better than to let yourself feel safe. Chains mean nothing to him. They’re a hindrance at best, a mere delay in what will happen if you fail. Even now, his muscles flex, the sharp ripple of movement beneath his skin a silent warning of what he’s capable of. The heat coming off him is unnatural, feverish, almost suffocating.

You steel yourself, steadying your breath as you press your fingers lightly against his back. Your touch is slow, deliberate, barely there as you search for the small, embedded activator. It should be beneath the skin, nestled somewhere between the shifting planes of muscle. But finding it means keeping your composure, means moving carefully enough that you don’t trigger a reaction.

Your fingers glide along the ridges of his spine, trailing lower, feeling for anything out of place. Every shift of your hand feels like balancing on a razor’s edge. Sylus flinches under your touch, his body tensing hard before he exhales, a low, guttural sound vibrating through his chest. You feel it under your fingertips, the tremor of restraint, of struggle.

A bead of sweat slips down your temple. Nothing. No scar tissue, no ridge of foreign anything beneath the surface that you can find.

“It’s not here…” you murmur under your breath, your stomach twisting as unease settles deep inside you.

Sylus lets out another breath, but this time, there’s something different about it. A chuckle—slow, deliberate, curling like smoke in the thick air between you.

"Do you think I’m putty in your hands?" he asks, his voice low, teasing, laced with something dangerous.

The sound sends a flicker of unease racing up your spine. He’s getting antsy. The patience he had been holding onto—if he had any at all—is unraveling quickly. His muscles are shifting beneath his skin again, his fingers twitching, testing the strength of his restraints. You don’t need to see his face to know he’s smiling.

Your heart stutters. You need to hurry.

Just as you reach toward his ribs, he jerks violently.

A metallic snap rips through the air.

One of the restraints—one of the goddamn chains—breaks free.

Your breath catches in your throat, eyes snapping up just as Sylus rolls his newly freed wrist, fingers flexing as if he’s testing how much control he has left. Slowly, his head tilts toward you, his eyes burning like fire in the dim lighting.

The smile he gives you is chilling.

You don’t think. You react.

With a burst of adrenaline, you tackle him, shoving him hard enough that it sends you both tumbling to the ground. A low, reverberating growl rumbles through him, his chest vibrating beneath your hands as his body tenses against yours.

The struggle between you and Sylus is a mess of tangled limbs and desperation, your bodies locked in a frantic battle against the cold, unforgiving floor. Every shift of his body beneath yours is like wrestling with something barely restrained, a predator on the verge of breaking free from its chains. Heat radiates off his skin, far too intense, far too unnatural, as if his entire body is burning from the inside out. The feverish warmth seeps into your own skin, making it harder to focus, harder to breathe.

Your hands move over his chest, urgent, searching, pressing against the hard muscle beneath you in a frantic attempt to find the activator. It has to be here somewhere—it has to be. Your fingers skim the ridges of his abdomen, feeling for anything out of place, a small foreign lump beneath his skin, a sign that the override switch is still there. But the longer you search, the more panic digs its claws into your ribs.

Your wound throbs, a dull and persistent ache pulsing from your neck, sending sharp spikes of pain through your senses with every movement. The smell of blood—your blood—is thick in the air, mingling with the scent of sweat and something deeper, something primal that radiates from Sylus like a caged animal ready to tear through steel.

"Tell me—" You swallow hard, ignoring the dryness in your throat, trying to suppress the fear that’s creeping into your voice. "Is the activator here?"

Sylus doesn't answer immediately. His breath is coming heavy, uneven, his chest rising and falling in sharp, controlled bursts beneath you. Then, slowly, he grins.

The sight of it sends a ripple of unease down your spine.

"Don’t…" he growls, his voice low and guttural, slipping between clenched teeth. His body tenses beneath you, coiled muscle flexing, veins prominent beneath the sweat-slicked skin of his arms. His hands twitch rhythmically, fingers curling like claws ready to rip you to shreds.

"Don’t press it."

You ignore him.

You have to.

You shift, dragging your hands lower, pressing over his ribs, smoothing your fingers down the hard planes of his stomach, searching for any change in texture, any break in the muscle that could indicate the activator. Your fingertips glide over his skin, past the deep ridges of his abdomen, dipping lower—

A sharp, ragged exhale.

Sylus’s entire body jerks beneath you, his spine arching suddenly, pressing into you before falling back against the ground. His breath stutters, his hands clenching into fists as a sound rumbles deep in his chest—low, guttural, something between a moan and a growl.

Your movements falter for the briefest second.

Did you find it? Did you hurt him?

Your heart pounds violently against your ribs. Your hands remain pressed against him, frozen mid-motion, fingers still splayed across the hard muscle of his lower abdomen. You can feel the way his body shudders, tense and coiled, every fiber of him locked in place, the warmth of his skin searing against your palms.

You don’t know if the reaction is pain or something else, and the uncertainty sends unease coiling in your stomach.

Sylus exhales another uneven breath, his chest vibrating beneath you. His head tilts slightly, red eyes flickering open, dilated again and dark, and he looks straight at you. Not through you, not past you—at you.

The grin he gives you is slow, deliberate.

"That-," he murmurs, voice edged with something dark, something lustful. His lips curl at the corners, his teeth flashing between parted lips as his gaze flickers lower, trailing over the places where your hands are still pressed against him. "That feels...good".

Your breath caught in your throat as the realization hit you like a freight train barreling down the tracks. Your eyes widened as you lowered your head and took in the unmistakable bulge of his erection, straining against the confines of his pants, a tangible proof of the pleasure you were unwittingly providing.

This isn’t pain.

The second he senses your moment of shock, Sylus strikes.

With terrifying ease, he yanks you upward, your feet leaving the ground for a brief, weightless second before he drives you downward. The world tilts violently, your stomach dropping as you’re thrown forward, your body twisting midair before—

Impact.

The breath is knocked from your lungs as you hit the cold, unforgiving floor, your stomach smacking against the hard surface with enough force to send a sharp shockwave through your ribs. Your arms instinctively splay out, palms slamming against the ground to steady yourself, but the weight that follows keeps you from moving.

Sylus presses down against you, his entire body covering yours, his hands locking around your wrists before pinning them flat against the floor beside your head. His hips press firmly into yours, locking you in place, trapping you beneath him.

Panic seizes your chest.

You try to twist away, to jerk free, but his weight is unmovable, pressing down hard enough that every shift only grinds you further against the floor. The heat of his body seeps into your back, feverish and all-consuming, the ridges of his toned chest molding against your spine.

You thrash, breath coming hard and fast, struggling against his grip, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t budge. Doesn’t even react—except for the slow, deep inhale that shudders through his chest.

Then, he breathes against your skin.

"You smell like fear," he murmurs, voice low and silken, curling around your ear like smoke.

Your entire body locks up.

His lips are too close.

The warmth of his breath ghosts along the side of your face, his nose grazing the edge of your jaw before dipping lower, hovering over the sensitive skin of your throat. Your pulse races, hammering so violently beneath your skin that you know he feels it.

His grip tightens.

"And something...sweet," he muses, dragging the words out slowly, tasting them like something decadent.

Your struggles escalate, knowing exactly where this is going.

"Sylus! Stop! No!"

Your fingers claw against the floor, legs kicking, desperate to throw him off, but Sylus doesn’t move an inch. If anything, his hold only grows firmer, heavier, more absolute. The pressure of his body against yours makes it impossible to move, to breathe properly, to think.

Then—he lowers his head.

The brush of his lips against your ear is featherlight, teasing. A sharp contrast to the overwhelming, inescapable strength of his grip.

And then—his teeth sink in.

A sharp, precise nip to the outer shell of your ear, quick and fleeting, followed immediately by the slow, deliberate glide of his tongue. He slides all the way down to your neck, lapping up the still dripping blood from your wound. He alternates between licking and nipping, as if feeding himself and claiming you all at once.

You flinch violently, a shudder ripping through your limbs as heat explodes beneath your skin. Your breath catches, fingers digging into the cold floor as a rush of pure, primal panic flares through your nerves.

Sylus hums. A deep, satisfied sound.

"Something very sweet," he repeats, his voice edged with amusement, hunger, something else entirely. His fingers flex against your wrists, nails pressing into your skin—not enough to break, but enough to remind you of the power imbalance.

"Makes me want to devour you whole."

A violent shiver wracks through you, your entire body locking up in terror.

Move. Move. MOVE.

Desperation surges through you like wildfire. You snap your leg back, aiming a blind, vicious kick toward his leg, his thigh—anything that will make him falter, make him let go—

But he’s faster.

Before you can even make contact, he moves. His weight shifts, his grip flexes, and suddenly—you’re being crushed, pressed even harder into the ground.

Your breath chokes in your throat as his body presses flush against yours, one of his hands releasing your wrist only to grip your hip, pinning you down even harder. His fingers dig in, securing his hold, ensuring you have nowhere to go.

"Nice try," he murmurs, voice dipping into something thick and sultry, rich with amusement. The warmth of his breath trails lower, sweeping along the side of your bloodied throat, down to the nape of your neck.

A slow, wicked grin spreads across his lips, and you feel it—feel his smirk against your skin, feel the way he’s drinking in every panicked breath, every tremor, every racing heartbeat.

"You should know better," he murmurs, his voice a low, teasing growl. "Prey that struggles only makes the hunt more exciting."

His fingers flex against your hip, nails pressing in just enough to send a sharp, prickling sting through your nerves.

"Why resist me now? You made your choice when you stepped inside," Sylus taunts, a dark chuckle rumbling from his chest. Tears prick at your eyes, threatening to spill over as the harsh sound of ripping fabric echoes ominously in the confined space. Your skirt! You cry out, trying to lunge forward, to escape, but his grip is relentless, fingers suddenly tightening around your throat with a firm command.

"Stop. Moving." His growl is a sharp command in your ear, his weight pressing down on you, pinning you to the ground with an unyielding force. The air is forced from your lungs in a rush as he yanks the remnants of your skirt away, tossing it aside carelessly. The room's cool air brushes against the exposed skin of your legs, and you shiver, fear and vulnerability intertwining as you plead with him.

"Sylus...this isn't you. Please—" Your words are abruptly silenced as he tears your underwear away, his actions speaking louder than any words could. The chill against your bare skin draws a sob from your lips, a desperate sound swallowed by the room's oppressive silence.

He's going to take you right here on the cage floor. Claim you. And there's nothing you can do. This isn't Sylus you know anymore.

"My my...this was what you were hiding underneath that skirt?" he growls, a feral edge to his voice. He leans forward, trailing his tongue along your back, the sensation a disconcerting mix of heat and cold that leaves you trembling beneath him.

"Please...snap out of it! Don't do this...!" you scream, your voice raw and desperate as you squirm helplessly beneath him. Your pleas are met with a soft, almost soothing "Shhh..." as if he's trying to calm you, but the sharp sound of his zipper coming undone is a jarring counterpoint, a grim reminder that he's too far gone.

This is it, you think, swallowed by a tide of helplessness. It could be worse...right? A gasp escapes your lips as you feel something large, hot and throbbing press against the middle of your ass. Sylus moans, a deep, primal sound that reverberates through you, sending shockwaves of dread and involuntary ache coursing through your veins. He spits, the wet warmth landing on your skin, slicking the path as he rubs his cock between your cheeks, each movement deliberate and unhurried.

"You looked divine in that uniform when we met again," he murmurs, his voice a silken thread of temptation and threat. "Would it be awful of me to say that I've been wanting to tear you apart with my cock ever since I saw you again?" His words are accompanied by a deep chuckle, a sound that seems to vibrate through your bones.

You squeeze your eyes shut, fighting against the warm, wet sensation that overwhelms your senses. No...this isn't the real him, you remind yourself, clinging to the hope that somewhere beneath the Frenzy Enhancer's influence, the true Sylus still exists. He's still in there, right? The question echoes in your mind, a desperate mantra as you hold onto the sliver of hope that the man you know will resurface, that this nightmare will end.

The moment of hope you had was shattered in an instant as you felt a sharp, piercing pain between your folds as he grips the skin of your ass, a large intrusion attempting to force its way inside you. You screamed, your voice raw with agony, as you tried to pry his hands away, your nails digging into his skin. "It hurts! Stop, please!" you begged, your pleas desperate and frantic.

Sylus grunted and moaned, his body a contradiction of pleasure and annoyance as he struggled to push his cock deeper into your tight folds, his tip breaching your entrance only to retreat, the pain searing and hot. "Hmm..." he growled, his voice a mix of frustration and desire.

You shook, your body trembling from the pain, your lower half throbbing, the intrusion gone but the ache still spreading. Suddenly, your hips were gripped and your lower half was raised up, your ass raised in the air, your hands bracing against the floor, your body now positioned for his taking.

"You just need a little...preparation," Sylus whispered, his voice low and dark, belying the wicked intent behind his words. Before you could protest, his hot tongue was sliding down your cunt, his skilled mouth working to prepare you, his touch both electrifying and unwittingly arousing, a wicked precision that left you trembling, your body betraying your mind's resistance.

"Mghn! S-stop...please, Sylus!" you pleaded, your voice hoarse and desperate, your fingers clawing at the floor as you tried to escape the pleasure-pain he was inflicting. But his death grip on your hips was unyielding, holding you firmly in place, his tongue a relentless force, licking and slurping at your folds with primal hunger. Like a beast that hadn't eaten in weeks.

If he doesn't stop soon you'll definitely-

"Those cute noises you make drive me wild" Sylus growled, his voice a low, guttural sound. You can't see his face, but you can feel his eyes roaming up and down your now soaked cunt, no doubt wishing he was deep inside you right now. "Reminds me of the sound a rabbit makes just before its eaten."

You gasp and shiver at the depraved sentence that leaves his mouth before something wet and long enters your hole, making you cry out. Sylus's tongue, hot and insistent, buried itself deep within you, his mouth working in a rhythm that sent waves of pleasure through your core.

Sylus's grunts and moans escalated into a primal chorus as he delved deeper into your folds, his tongue a relentless force, his hands digging into your hips with increasing urgency. Your body was a tempest of sensations—pain, pleasure, and ecstasy—a melting pot of conflicting desires. You tried to hold on, to keep yourself from succumbing, but your body had a mind of its own, and you went limp, surrendering to the pleasure he was delivering.

"Mghn!" you cried out, your body shaking, your hands gripping the floor as you fought against the overwhelming pleasure. "Don't cum... don't cum..." you pleaded, your voice hoarse, your lips bitten to stifle the moans that threatened to escape.

But Sylus found that sweet spot, that spongy part inside you, and twisted his tongue, sending you over the edge. You bit down harder on your lip, trying to muffle the sounds of your climax, but it was no use. The pleasure was too much, and you came undone, your body shaking, your cries echoing in the cold cage as waves of pleasure washed over you.

Sylus lapped up your essence, his tongue working feverishly, his grunts and moans a testament to his own pleasure as he reveled in the taste of your orgasm, his primal satisfaction evident as he continued to lap up your juices like a thirsty dog.

"This taste..." Sylus groaned, his voice thick with greed, as he brushed his tongue against your inner thigh, catching the drippings of your pleasure, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. You gasped for breath, your body still trembling from the orgasm, your mind racing for a way out of this predicament.

"Your scent has filled the room now...its driving me mad. I can't wait any longer".

Your thoughts turned to the activator, the key to your freedom. You needed to get turned around, to find it somehow. "Sylus, w-we should—" you started, but your words were cut off by the sudden, sharp intrusion of his cock slamming into your cunt with a force that sent shockwaves of pain and pleasure through your body.

"Agh!"

The initial penetration was rough, but easier than before, his cock sliding into your wet hole, stretching you, before he pulled back slightly and sheathed himself completely inside you, his grip on your waist tightening as he began to thrust, his hips pistoning in a relentless rhythm.

"Ahh...it hurts..." you whimpered, your body writhing in his grip, trying to escape the pain of his thrusts. But Sylus chuckled, his voice dark and amused. "Keep squirming, little bird. It only makes it feel better."

His words were a taunt as he continued to plunge into you, his cock pistoning in and out, his body a cage of pain, his grip on your waist unyielding, his thrusts relentless, driving you to the brink of ecstasy and agony, your cries and moans filling the cold cage with a symphony of raw, primal sex.

You begin to try and dissociate from everything by focusing on the concrete floor, but Sylus primal grunts and growls as he slams into you, using your body for his own pleasure, makes it hard to escape reality. Think! Just think! You've been in worse situations before, what can you do to get turned around?

A lightbulb goes off inside your head. Its risky, but at this rate...

"F-for a Praedator...I honestly expected this to be much better. A little disappointing after waiting all these years Sylus" you spat, trying to sound more confident than you truly felt. Sylus momentarily slows his thrusting, not completely stopping but definitely enough to ponder your words. You shiver as you hear a deep chuckle.

"Is that so?"

Your entire world flips around as he grabs you, spins you around and pushes you roughly against the concrete floor. Before you can continue speaking, his hand slams into your throat, squeezing slightly. Not enough for serious harm, but its a clear warning.

Sylus's gaze is dark, beastly and terrifying as he leans down to your face, as if trying to look deep into the depths of your soul. Your heart aches as you recall your last encounter with him earlier that day, when he gave you the movie tickets. He had looked so soft...unlike the beast that was in front of you now.

"I can give you rougher, if that's what you crave," Sylus purred, his voice laced with dark humor, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous light. "I quite like you in this position, that look of fear in your eyes turns me on" He began to laugh, a low, menacing sound, as he pushed his still-hard cock back into your aching hole, his hand never leaving your throat.

Sylus's other hand, strong and sure, reached out, tearing your top with effortless ease, the fabric ripping as he exposed your breasts to his hungry gaze. Your nipples hardened in response to the sudden exposure, the cool air on your sensitive skin a stark contrast to the heat of the moment.

Your breasts bounced with each powerful movement of his hips, the motion causing a mix of pain and fear, your body a canvas of sensations, your mind struggling to process the whirlwind of physical reactions.

You whimpered as pain, pleasure, and fear mingled within you. His hand squeezed harder with each thrust, cutting off your air supply, and you clawed at his fingers, desperate for breath, your nails digging into his skin.

"C-can't...breathe..." you gasped, your voice hoarse, your heart hammering in your chest, sensations blurring together. Despite your struggles, your body began to respond to his relentless thrusts, your muscles squeezing around his cock, a reaction you couldn't control.

"Oh, you like this, don't you?" he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "Gonna cum while you can't breathe, little bird? I could've given you this pleasure sooner if I'd known. I'd have gladly delivered your demise, one way or another."

His words sent a shiver through you as your body betrayed your mind's resistance, succumbing to the pleasure he was inflicting, your climax building despite the pain and the fear, a testament to the twisted game he was playing with your body and mind.

Were you truly going to die this way? After everything, after fighting for so long to see him again? This is how things end between the two of you? You look into his eyes. His rabid, feral eyes and feel tears begin to prick them. You look past him, your eyes resting at the revolver still strapped to your leg.

You still have one more option.

"I-it won't be me succumbing to my d-demise" you choke out, staring into his eyes. He doesn't stop thrusting into your body, but his eyebrow does raise. "Even if you make it out of here, what do you think they'll do with you when they realize the only immune person is also pregnant with a Praedator's baby?"

Your eyes widen at his words, your brain barely processing their meaning as your vision begins to blur. No! No! You begin to thrash as the sounds of his evil laughter fills your ears, and his thrusts pick up relentless speed.

"D-don't cum in me! Please!" you choke out, your voice hoarse and gravely as your forced to continue take the relentless pounding of Sylus's cock. He's ignoring you, he doesn't care. He only has one goal now. You feel your lower half begin to ache and pulse, evident that you just orgasmed beneath him. But you barely register it, as your top half begins to hurt.

Your lungs burn as if set ablaze, the oxygen in your body dwindling, your chest seizing with every desperate attempt to inhale. A thick, suffocating haze fills your head, making your thoughts sluggish, disjointed, slipping between the cracks of fading consciousness. Your body betrays you, limbs losing strength, muscles growing weak as an unbearable heaviness creeps into every inch of your skin. Your fingers, once clawing at the iron grip around your throat, are failing you now, slipping away, no longer able to fight against the pressure stealing your air.

A dull ringing overtakes your ears, growing louder, drowning out the world around you. Your vision narrows, dark spots creeping into the edges, threatening to swallow everything whole. A strange lightheadedness overtakes you, a weightless, dizzying sensation that makes it hard to remember where you are, what you’re doing. Your body is shutting down, giving up, preparing to surrender to the void clawing at the edges of your mind.

No. No, no, no. It can’t end like this.

A spike of panic jolts through your fading awareness, but your body refuses to listen, sinking deeper into helplessness. You strain, forcing your head up just enough to look at him, to plead, to beg, but the words won’t come. Your throat is locked, crushed beneath his grip, and no matter how much you try, no sound escapes past your lips. Sylus barely seems aware of you now, his expression dazed, half-lidded, his breath uneven as he lingers on the edge of his own orgasm. His fingers twitch slightly, tightening then loosening, but he isn’t paying attention, isn’t thinking, isn't entirely here. He’s too close to the edge, too lost in wanting to finish inside you.

That’s when you see it.

A flicker of red, faint but undeniable, flashes in one of his eyes. It’s barely noticeable, a fleeting pulse of color in the red of his irises, but it’s there. Your slowing mind struggles to process it, to make sense of what it means, until the realization slams into you like a shock of ice water.

The activator?!

Adrenaline floods your veins, shoving back the creeping darkness threatening to pull you under. The sheer, primal will to live surges through you like a lightning strike, reigniting every dying nerve, forcing your limbs to respond even as they scream in protest. With the last of your strength, you move.

Your fingers twitch, barely managing to form a fist. Gritting your teeth, you summon every ounce of energy left in your failing body, pull your arm back, and slam your thumb directly into his eye.

A guttural, animalistic roar rips from Sylus’s throat as his grip on your neck vanishes, his entire body jerking back in raw, instinctive pain. The instant pressure is released, air floods your lungs, rushing in so fast that your entire chest seizes from the force of it. A sharp, shrill gasp tears from your throat as you suck in a desperate, wheezing breath, the burning relief almost as unbearable as the suffocation had been.

Your vision, once clouded and swimming, sharpens in an instant, the murky haze lifting as the world snaps back into terrifying clarity. Every nerve is raw, every muscle trembling, but you’re alive. You can breathe.

Sylus's eyes widened for a moment, a brief flicker of surprise as all the Frenzy enhancer seemed to leave his body, and then, just as quickly, the feral intensity left his gaze, his face softening. But it was too late for his body to catch up, as his hips froze mid-thrust, his cock twitching inside you, releasing a hot flood of cum against your womb.

You gasped, your body trembling from the unexpected climax, the sensation of his release filling you, an intense mixture of warmth and fullness.

Sylus’s eyes met yours, the fire in them flickering unsteadily as the weight of what just happened crashed over him. The frenzied hunger that had gripped him moments ago had drained away, leaving behind something raw—horror, confusion, and something close to regret. His breath came fast and uneven, chest rising and falling as he struggled to process what he had just done to you.

His lips parted slightly, but no words came at first. His red eyes, now normal, darted across your face, lingering on the deep red imprints, blood, and bruises his fingers and teeth had left on your throat. His grip, once unrelenting, had been torn away, but you still felt it there—the phantom sensation of his hands crushing the air from your lungs.

“Are you…” He swallowed hard, voice hoarse, like it physically pained him to speak. “Are you okay?”

You coughed, your throat burning, the rush of oxygen still too sharp, too overwhelming. But you managed to nod, your limbs still weak, your entire body trembling from the shock. You could feel the marks he had left, the lingering ache that pulsed in time with your heartbeat, but you were alive.

Sylus was still staring at you, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes now—guilt, realization, something heavy and unspoken pressing down on him. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers curling like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if he should.

“Why didn’t you press it sooner?” His voice was quieter now, filled with something vulnerable, almost desperate. “The activator… you could have stopped me before—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head, frustration with himself evident in the tightness of his jaw. “Before I did this to you.”

The look on his face—haunted, shaken—was so unlike him, so different from the Sylus you knew, that something in your chest ached. He wasn’t just horrified by what had happened. He was horrified by himself.

You forced a small, reassuring smile, even though your throat still ached, even though your entire body was still reeling from the ordeal. “Because I couldn't find it. But I knew you were still in there,” you whispered, voice raspy but steady. “And I was right.”

Sylus let out a slow, uneven breath, his gaze locked on you like he was trying to convince himself you were telling the truth. Then, without another word, he moved.

Before you could react, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, the warmth of his body pressing against yours in a way that was nothing like before. This wasn’t dominance or power. This was desperation. He was still inside you, but neither of you cared to address it at this moment.

His grip was strong, but careful this time. His hands, which had moments ago been your greatest threat, now held you like you were something fragile, something breakable. His fingers curled against the back of your head, as if grounding himself, as if he needed to feel that you were real, that you were still here.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured against your hair, voice rough, low, and laced with something unspoken. “I wasn’t…I couldn’t—” He exhaled, tightening his hold. “I didn’t want our first time to be like this.”

You closed your eyes, allowing yourself to sink into the embrace. Tears of relief slipped from the corners of your eyes and dripped to the concrete floor. Your hands gripped the leather of his top, grounding yourself in him, in the fact that he was back now. His heartbeat, still fast, thrummed against your own, and for a moment, neither of you moved, neither of you spoke. The silence was thick, but not empty.

“It’s okay,” you whispered finally, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “You’re back now.”

And then you kissed him.

It was slow at first, hesitant, but the second your lips met his, Sylus shattered.

His grip on you tightened even more, arms pulling you flush against him as he kissed you back like he had been waiting for this, like it was the only thing tethering him to reality. There was nothing controlled about it—it was desperate, messy, full of every unspoken thing he couldn’t bring himself to say over the years. His fingers slid up your back, then tangled into your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, to claim more of you, to drown in you.

You could feel his pulse beneath your fingertips, still racing, still alive. You weren’t sure who was shaking more—you or him—but neither of you pulled away. Neither of you wanted to.

When you finally parted, both of you were breathless, your foreheads still pressed together. His lips hovered just over yours, his hands still holding you like he couldn’t bring himself to let go yet.

It was all going to be okay.

For the first time since this nightmare had begun, Sylus let himself believe it.

[nottsluvv]

⌦ anakin skywalker eats you out and cums in his pants ｡ navigation ꕀ masterlists ꕀ rules ꕀ anons ꕀ aus ꕀ readers

warnings ꕀ mdni, smut 18+, oral(f!receiving), dry humping, oral fixation, petnames(angel, baby, etc), overstimulation, slight cum play, dom switch!anakin skywalker

anakin skywalker who eats you out like a man starved, licking your clit, rubbing his nose, and thrusting his tongue up into you. he fucks his tongue into you, needing to taste every drop of you, lap up every drop of you like it’s his life essence. 

“taste so fucking fucking good, angel.”

anakin whimpers when he feels you reach down and tug at his curls with your fingers, and your thighs clench and squeeze around his head tightly. he’s so hungry for you, he barely breathes. 

you start rocking your hips back and forth into his face, and he pushes your thighs down, holding you against the bed as you moan out his name. he’s already made you cum twice, and he’s already consumed every single drop from your body. your hands grip the sheets tightly as another orgasm washes over you like a hurricane.

“ani! oh stars—” you gasp, legs trembling on either side of anakin’s head. your breaths come out in soft, small pants, and he pulls away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. a dark wet spot between his legs catches your attention. anakin’s pants are soaked with pre-cum, his cock straining against the fabric. 

“that’s what you do to me, baby,” anakin says hoarsely, his gaze following yours, and he looks down. 

“were you humping the bed?”

“fuck yes. one more for me? please, angel,” anakin begs, settling his head in between your thighs again. you feel your core clench involuntarily and before you can answer, his mouth is back on your pussy. he starts rocking his hips against your bed, making the mattress bounce underneath you.

“anakin, your mouth, i love your mouth so much,” you mumble incoherently, feeling the pressure in your stomach appear quicker than the last orgasm, his tongue working magic on your folds. anakin groans against your skin, and he starts thrusting his hips against the bed faster, sloppier, more desperate.

“an’ i fucking love. this pussy,” anakin breathes out, his voice muffled by your cunt. he thrusts his tongue up into your needy hole, slick with your arousal and his saliva. a symphony of moans escapes your mouth, mingled with your sharp gasps for air, shivers running down your spine.

“gonna cum f’me, angel?” anakin asks between pants as he rocks harder against the bed, his cock so hard for you, it aches against his pants. you moan in response, and soon you come undone on his mouth, your cum covering anakin’s lips and tongue.

anakin whimpers as his hips thrust against the bed a few final times, cumming in his pants. “f—fuck angel,” he bites out, stifling a moan as he rides out his high, his lips still attached to you.

he cleans you up quickly, not letting a single drop get wasted, and pulls you up into his lap. your lips crash against his, tongue’s clashing as you taste yourself on him. a hand slips down to his crotch where you cup the wet patch he created, feeling his cock with your palm.

“you’re still hard?” 

anakin smirks against your lips. “always.”

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© nottsluvv.tumblr 2025. do not copy, translate or claim any of my works as your own. reblogs + comments are greatly appreciated + motivating!

[incendiorum]

tag dump #2

[siempre-bucky]

existence

Joaquin Torres x Fem!Reader

summary: There's a rumor at the base that MRs. Torres doesn't exist. No birthday parties, no drinks at the bar after a mission, no base run functions. Sam crashes at the Toress' after the White House incident and sees if she actually exists.

wc: 1457

a/n: Spoilers for CA:BNW

 His ears were still ringing. 

Echos of gunfire and police sirens shrouded his mind, Sam’s body was on autopilot with his eyes burning holes into the dirty apartment complex carpet and his sore feet dragging along it. He still doesn’t comprehend how Joaquin could be in a chipper mood after that. Sam noticed the limp in Joaquin's step and the bruise on the back of his neck. It could have been worse, the President could have died, Cap reminded himself. 

“Wait till you meet her, Sam! Ugh, I have been waiting for this for the longest time!” he cheered, clearly forgetting the late hour. Right, Sam blinked, he was finally meeting Mrs. Torres. After working together for three years, he thought this mystery woman didn’t exist. The younger man would make excuses “She’s working overseas,” or “She has no service.” But after catching a glimpse at his lock screen which proudly displayed a photo of the pair at a Hurricanes baseball game he changed his mind. The rest of the base thought it was AI-generated. 

“I’ll believe it when I see it, man,” Sam forced out a chuckle, ribs screaming back at him. 

Joaquin stopped at the door, digging his key out of his pocket and turning the lock. The echoes disappeared once Sam took a step into the small DC apartment. The smell of baked goods and a soft “We’re home, Amor” coming from the other man was enough to silence them for a moment, the pain in his ribs dulled with the feeling of anticipation rising. 

She was real. His brown eyes discreetly widened as she appeared in the doorway that divided the kitchen and living room, wiping her hands with an orange and green rag. He didn’t take his eyes off her, she examined Joaquin up and down before giving herself the ok to crash into him.  “I’m so happy you’re ok,” She muttered against his neck, his arms holding her against him. 

The soft interaction made something in his chest ache, and the way Joaquin then cradled her face and whispered reassurance in two languages almost made him tear up. Almost. He’d be sure to make fun of him for this later. 

“Sam, this is my wife.” 

The woman smiled softly, aware of the situation at the White House,  and introduced herself, outstretching her hand. He noticed her firm grip, but he could feel the tremble. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Sam. I can’t get him to shut up about you,” she chuckled, leaning back into Joaquin’s embrace. 

“Nice to meet you too,” he said with a small smirk. 

“There’s a pillow and blanket on the couch for you along with some clothes. Half his closet is just U Maimi stuff—I hope you don’t mind the colors.”  

Sam turned around and glanced at the neat pile resting on the arm of the couch. “It’ll do fine. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome anytime. I’m going to get him cleaned up, let me know if you need anything else.” She patted her husband on the back and ushered him into the kitchen, dismissing all of his protests. 

Sam walked towards the couch and ran his fingers over the plush olive green material of the blanket before picking up the vibrant green t-shirt. He snickered and tossed it over his shoulder. 

“Shit!” a shrill curse came from the kitchen followed by soft apologies. It was instinct for the hero to look over and check out the scene. Joaqquin was fine, sitting on the counter with a piece of gauze covering his eyebrow. She stood between his legs, a look of sympathy on her face while she dabbed at the wound. 

Love looked good on the kid. In their line of work, there wasn’t much room for love or even just the look of it on someone's face. He remembered the first night he saw it on Joaquin’s face; it was at a bar somewhere in Europe and Sam had been counting on his fingers how many girls the other had turned down for a dance. 

“Five,” he laughed wiggling his fingers in his face. 

Joaquin rolled his eyes and playfully shoved his hand away, “Yeah, yeah.” 

“Wanna go for six or do you wanna tell me why you’ve said no to every pretty girl in this place.” 

The curly-haired man took a swig of beer for confidence, letting out a deep sigh as he put the bottle back on the table. “I have someone back home,” he finally admitted. 

“You got a little girlfriend!” 

There was a small blush on his cheeks and a smile so soft and sweet it was sickening. “A wife.” 

“Wife,” Sam repeated slowly. 

“College sweethearts, I think that’s what it’s called.” 

Yeah, love looked good on him. Sam snapped out of his memory and opened the blanket his eyes watching her press her hand against Joaquin’s chest with his wrapped around her wrist, his thumb swiping along the bone. His heart was beating, he was alive. Sam wondered if that was something they did after he came home from deployment, or now when he returned from a mission. Tonight was just supposed to be a fun night celebrating their mission, not stopping an assassination attempt. 

“Sam…bro, you good?” 

The couple stood in front of him, a red first aid kit in her hands. “Go get changed, I’ll patch up Captain America,” she smirked. Joaquin smiled and kissed her on the temple before retreating to the bedroom down the hall. 

“I’m fine,” Sam laughed it off. 

Her eyes flickered down to his arm, wet crimson staining a patch of his forearm. “Sit,” she told him firmly. 

He took off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeve. Well, I’ll be damned, he thought as he looked at the sliced skin, it shouldn’t need stitches. She popped open the kit and got to work in silence. He should say something, the gears in his brain working overtime to come up with something appropriate. 

“You know, I was starting to think you didn’t exist.” He settled on that. Nice going, Sam. 

Thankfully she laughed, pouring a clear liquid over the cut that made him wince. “We get that a lot. We have a tally of all our friends who’ve said that.” 

“Sorry to add another. Work keeps you away?” 

She smiled and nodded, “I work for a charity. Helping communities rebuild after the blip. Some places haven’t been as lucky as we have. I was away a lot—it worked out when he was deployed.” 

A sadness began to loom over her as she gently wrapped his arm with a white gauze. She missed him, and he missed her just as much. “Was?” he narrowed in on the past tense of her words. 

“I requested a transfer to a desk job as soon as he finished those wings. I need to be here if something happens.” There was a tremor in her voice, “Him being Falcon puts him in even more danger. I want—need to be closer to him.” 

“He’s a good man,” Sam told her gently, “a damn good Falcon, he learned from the best.” He got a smile and a small chuckle out of her relieving her of some of the nerves she carried. 

She put her hand over the gauze and looked at him dead in the eye. “Keep him alive, Sam.” It was a gentle command. “He means everything to me.”

His lips parted and glanced down at the silver wedding band around her finger, thinking of a way to tell her that he might not be able to in this line of work. Joaquin saved the day, strolling into the room with a signature toothy smile. “Have you been talking about me this whole time?” he joked. 

Her smile instantly brightened. “You wish,” she laughed, collecting her things from the couch and rose to her feet. 

“She’s a miracle worker.” Sam raised his arm to show his partner the neatly wrapped gauze. 

“Looks good, Sam!” The other man cheered, leaning forward to get a better look. “We don’t have a well-stocked medicine cabinet for nothing.” 

“Yeah, I learned after too many scraped knees from the basketball court back in Maimi.” 

Joaquin winced and wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close to his side. “Let’s let Captain America get some sleep,” he suggested, pressing his lips to the side of her head. 

“Let us know if you need anything, Sam,” she told him. 

“Will do, Mrs. Torres. Thank you for everything.” 

“Anytime. We’re here or you.” 

Sam got comfortable on the couch, and surprisingly he felt like he could fall asleep instantly. Pulling out his phone, he sent a quick text to his friends at the base: ‘Mrs. Torres exists.’

[flowergirl1243]

out of step - [part one]

SUMMARY: When a ballerina steps into the fast lane, and a Formula One driver slows down just long enough to fall for her.

PAIRING: lando norris x ballerina!reader

part one

EPISODE ONE: THE GALA ⟶ Early March, preseason

ynusername posted a story

Liked by oscarpiastri, mclaren and others lando I was told this wasn't a black tie event. They lied 🕺💀🔥

user1 help where is he

user2 this man's always off doing side quests

It starts with a near disaster.

Lando’s moving too fast, champagne in one hand, phone in the other, laughing at something dumb George sent, when he nearly collides with someone in the narrow hallway behind the gala ballroom.

Not just someone.

Someone in a silk dress, pale pink and shimmering like moonlight. She steps back before he can crash into her, nimble as anything, barely blinking.

“Oh, shit, sorry, sorry,” he blurts, clutching his drink like it’s the most precious thing in the room (second most, she’s winning).

She blinks up at him with wide, surprised eyes. But then she smiles. Really smiles. It’s soft and bright and just a little crooked.

“It’s okay,” she says gently, tilting her head. “You looked very determined to sprint through that wall.”

Lando laughs, nervous and loud. “Didn’t mean to almost take you out, I swear.”

“I believe you,” she says, hands clasped in front of her like a ballerina in rehearsal. “You don’t look like a villain. Just…enthusiastic.”

He grins. “That’s generous.”

She shrugs, teasing. “You did apologize three times. That’s more than most.”

“Lando,” he says quickly, offering his hand before he can overthink it. “Norris.”

“I know,” she says, accepting it. Her touch is light. “You’re a bit hard to miss.”

“Oh,” he says. “Is that good or bad?”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

Her smile softens. She doesn’t let go of his hand right away. Neither does he.

“I’m Y/N,” she adds. “I dance with the Royal.”

He nods like he understands, even though he very much does not. “So like…ballet ballet.”

She giggles, ducking her head. “Yes. Ballet ballet.”

“That’s insane,” he says, stunned. “Like…the toes? The spinning? Swan Lake type beat?”

“Exactly,” she says, amused. “Except tonight, I just smile at people and try not to get sequins in the wine.”

He’s grinning again. “Well, you’re doing amazing. 10 out of 10 sequins-to-wine ratio.”

Her eyes sparkle. “And you? F1 driver crashing into innocent women at black-tie events?”

“Only the pretty ones,” he blurts.

Her eyebrows shoot up, delighted. “Oh?”

“I mean,” he fumbles. “I didn’t, just—”

“You’re adorable,” she says, laughing now, and it’s so unfair that she’s this graceful and this funny.

Lando blinks. Then laughs, full and too-loud and startled. “I swear, I’m not usually...this.”

She raises one elegant eyebrow. “What’s this?”

“Chaos,” he offers, holding up both hands like a confession. “Pure, grade-A chaos.”

She giggles. Honest-to-god giggles. “Well, it’s very…charming. In a hurricane kind of way.”

He relaxes a little, then catches up to the fact that she is very beautiful. Not just “pretty in a nice dress” beautiful, but “you’d-paint-her-in-a-museum” beautiful. Pale pink dress, soft eyes, hair pinned in a bun that somehow makes her look like both royalty and a Disney character. Her shoes are delicate and glittering and he thinks they might be terrifyingly expensive.

They’re quiet for a moment. A good kind of quiet.

Then Lando blurts, “Do your feet hurt all the time?”

She gives him a startled look, then bursts out laughing. “Yes,” she says. “All the time. They’re a nightmare. I have a bag of frozen peas in my freezer named Gerald.”

“For ice?”

“For ballet-related emotional support,” she says, mock-serious.

“Gerald sounds like a top bloke,” he replies. “He and I would get on.”

She smiles again, warmer this time. “And you? Do your arms hurt from all that steering?”

“That,” Lando says, hand over his heart, “is deeply offensive. We do much more than steering.”

“Right, right. You press pedals, too.”

“Oh my god,” he says, scandalized. “I’m being bullied by a ballerina.”

She grins, impossibly radiant. “You’re holding your own.”

He shrugs. “I’m doing my best. You’re kind of intimidating, though. You haven’t stopped smiling once and I feel like I’ve aged three years.”

“You’re sweet,” she says gently, with a tilt of her head. “And clearly not used to being off the track.”

“Off the track and out of my depth,” he agrees.

“Don’t worry,” she murmurs, stepping past him, slow and deliberate. “I’ll go easy on you. For now.”

He turns to watch her go. “Wait,” he calls after her. “You’re just gonna leave me here after nearly making me fall in love with you?”

She glances over her shoulder. Her smile is devastating. “Lando,” she says sweetly, “that sounds like a you problem.”

And then she disappears around the corner, pink silk fluttering behind her like a ribbon in the wind.

Lando doesn’t move for ten full seconds.

Then, quietly: “Oh, I am so screwed.”

The floor was too polished.

That’s what Y/N would blame later, the floor, not the dress, not the nerves that hit every time someone glanced at her like they were trying to place her name.

It happened quickly. One second she was stepping down from the stage where the patrons had all just been introduced, a blur of lights and applause and polite nods, and the next, her heel caught on the hem of her gown.

It wasn’t a dramatic trip.

Not one of those cartoonish arms-flailing faceplants. No, this one was subtle, graceful even, just enough of a stumble to tilt her forward, to send her off balance.

Just enough to make her heart skip.

And just enough for him to be there.

Strong hands caught her at the waist, one quick step forward and suddenly she was pressed against a very warm, very solid chest. She could smell something clean and sharp, cologne and champagne and maybe the outside world.

“Careful,” came the amused voice, low and British and far too close to her ear. “You almost fell for me.”

Y/N's head snapped up.

Lando. Of course.

He was already grinning.

She blinked, stunned for a moment by how close they were. His hands were still at her waist. Her hands were on his chest. His bowtie was crooked, and his hair looked like he’d run a hand through it ten times too many.

“I didn’t fall,” she said quickly, cheeks going pink.

“You didn’t hit the ground,” he corrected. “Because I caught you.”

“I was fine.”

“You were definitely mid-trip,” he said, clearly enjoying himself. “I swooped in like a knight in shiny loafers.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re blushing.”

“I am not—”

“Blushing and defensive,” he said, taking a slow step back but still watching her like she was the best thing he’d seen all night. “Deadly combination.”

Y/N adjusted the hem of her dress, refusing to meet his eyes. “If I had fallen, I would’ve landed in a perfect fourth position.”

“Oh, of course,” he said solemnly. “A true professional. But still, lucky for you, I was there. Strong reflexes. Great balance. Heroic, really.”

She looked up at him then, lips curving. “Do you always flirt with girls who nearly break their ankles at fundraisers?”

He gave her the smuggest smile. “Only the really graceful ones.”

Y/N smoothed her dress again, even though it didn’t need smoothing. Her heart was still racing, not from the almost-fall, but from him. From the way he was still looking at her like she was both a miracle and the punchline to a joke he was desperate to hear again.

“You can stop staring now,” she said, aiming for calm and landing somewhere near breathless.

Lando tilted his head, grin not fading. “Can I?”

“Yes,” she said, turning slightly, trying to regain composure. “The show’s over.”

“Well, then I’d like a refund,” he quipped, falling into step beside her as she started walking again. “That was a very short performance.”

She side-eyed him, trying not to smile. “You’ll get your money’s worth next time I fall down the stairs.”

He laughed, open and delighted, and she could feel it settle into her chest, warm and oddly comfortable.

“I like you,” he said easily, too easily, like it was a fact and not a surprise even to himself.

Y/N blinked. “You don’t even know me.”

“I didn’t know you ten minutes ago,” he shrugged. “But now I do. A little.”

She arched a brow, amused. “And what exactly do you know?”

Lando pretended to count on his fingers. “Let’s see. You’re elegant, slightly dangerous in heels, and devastating with your comebacks. You pretend not to be flustered when you are. Also, you smell very nice.”

She paused, thrown by that last one. “Do I?”

He looked over, and for the first time, his teasing dropped just slightly. His voice softened.

“Yeah. Like something expensive and… calm.”

Y/N didn’t reply. For a second, neither of them did.

Then—

“I still didn’t trip,” she murmured.

He grinned, pleased that they were back on familiar ground. “You’re sticking with that story?”

“Absolutely.”

“Bold. But incorrect.”

“I’m a ballerina,” she said primly. “We don’t trip. We redirect momentum.”

Lando let out a laugh that made her want to grin, but she held firm. Barely.

“Alright then,” he said, stopping at the edge of the ballroom where the music was starting again. “Redirect momentum with me sometime?”

She blinked. “Was that a very weird way of asking me out?”

“I’m trying to speak your language,” he said, grinning. “Was that a yes?”

Y/N hesitated just long enough to keep him on his toes.

Then: “If you promise not to trip over your own ego.”

He put a hand to his heart, mock-wounded. “That’s going to be tough.”

“I know,” she said sweetly, and stepped past him, into the crowd. But not before glancing back once, just once, over her shoulder.

He was still watching her.

Of course he was.

The phone rang late that night, soft and unexpected. Y/N glanced at the screen and smiled when she saw Lando’s name. She swiped to answer and settled onto her bed, the quiet of her room wrapping around her.

“Hey,” she said, voice low and easy.

“Hey yourself,” Lando replied, sounding relaxed, a hint of a smile in his voice. “Didn’t think you’d pick up this late.”

“I wasn’t really doing anything important,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You?”

“Same. Just scrolling through memes and pretending to be productive.” He chuckled. “So, what’s new with the most graceful woman I know?”

Y/N laughed softly. “You’re sweet. Not much, just rehearsals and trying not to trip over my own feet.”

“That sounds about right.” He teased gently. “Maybe I should give you some tips on balance.”

“Oh, please,” she said with a grin she knew he couldn’t see. “Last thing I need is you knocking me over.”

“Hey, I’m a professional. I only knock people over accidentally.” His tone was light, casual, but somehow warm.

“Accidental chaos. Sounds familiar.” She paused, then added, “What about you? How’s the ‘deliberate chaos’ going?”

“On point,” he said. “Mostly on the track, but I’m working on it off the track too. Starting with not embarrassing myself at galas.”

“Big improvement already.” She smiled at the thought. “Though you did make a memorable entrance.”

“Memorable, yes. Graceful? Not so much.” His laugh was easy. “Speaking of grace, maybe you can teach me a move or two sometime.”

“Only if you promise not to break anything,” she teased.

“No promises,” he said, grinning through the phone. “But I’ll try.”

They both laughed, the kind of comfortable laughter that comes from familiarity.

“Well,” Y/N said, “don’t keep me up all night with your chaotic charm.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Sleep well, Y/N.”

“You too, Lando.”

They said goodnight, and the line went silent, but the warmth lingered, like a secret only they shared.

Hello, my lovelies! I'm back again with a new series, woo!! I hope you all enjoy it! Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist or removed! Also, if you only want it for this series or just my work in general! Love you all!

[delusional-day-dreamer]

Sleepy Girl - p.b.

‣ paige bueckers x gf reader!

‣ wc: 2k of smut 😛

‣‣ synopsis: waking up in the morning horny and ur girlfriend is right there tbh (ending is kinda rushed and the fic is not yet edited so please bear with me)

‣‣‣ a/n: hey guys... i know i completely ghosted this app for a good while but thank you for all the support even while i was MIA. this idea came to me at 11pm on vacation and i figured i should grind it out and make a return. i have a lot of drafts and ideas i came up with but no idea if i'll be able to write them all. in the meantime enjoy and happy holidays!

The warm sunlight spilling in to your bedroom and directly onto your face from the small gap in your curtains seemed to have it out against you.

It was one of the incredibly rare weekends of the season, where your girlfriend, Paige, didn’t have morning practice, lifting, or any PT sessions for residual pain after coming back home late from a basketball game (UConn won, obviously) and the two of you planned to make the most of it.

Having been in a relationship for almost a year now, the two of you had gotten to know each other pretty well over time. From working with the basketball team as a photographer to sharing a class with Paige, to running into each other literally everywhere every single day, metaphorically and physically, the universe seemed to have an intricate plan to bring the two of you together. And with such insistent force, who were the two of you to rebel?

The past ten months dating Paige had been a small roller coaster, the days spent together blissfully were obviously accompanied by the occasional argument of time management or messy rooms or even slight jealousy, but it was nothing the two of you couldn’t work through.

And of course, it was all accompanied by the mind blowing sex you couldn’t stop having. Bent over the kitchen counter, in the shower, in the living room, standing up, from the back, you name it.

But, there was one thing you and Paige had discussed exploring, but never gotten the chance to pursue, and it seemed like this morning was the perfect chance to test it out.

Depending on who woke up first, the two of you often liked to wake the other up with gentle kisses, roaming hands, and sweet nothings. But your synced ovulation cycles brought on a new possibility: morning head.

Although the concept of fucking your girlfriend while she was asleep seemed… well, odd to say the least, the two of you had discussed consent extremely thoroughly, and you weren’t going to sit (or lay in this instance) here and pretend that the sight of Paige laying in your bed right now wasn’t actively turning you on.

She had come to your off campus apartment immediately after her game at XL center and crashed pretty fast, only stopping to shower change into an old, oversized yet cropped off the shoulder sweatshirt of yours and a pair of boxers she left in your drawers.

Currently, she was conveniently splayed out on her back, her left arm stretched above her head raised the hem of your sweatshirt upwards, exposing the curve of her chest and the slightest glimpse of her pink nipples, which were already slightly peaked from the cold air radiating from your fan.

It didn’t take long for you to make up your mind, softly crawling over to rest in between her legs as you leaned over her sleeping figure, using your left hand to gently lift the fabric over her perky tits, exposing her creamy skin to you. You slowly peppered kisses on her boobs, not wanting to create too much stimulation that would wake her before you got to the more exciting part. Although, you weren’t sure you would have to worry about that. Paige could sleep through a hurricane if she was tired enough.

You nipped and sucked at her chest, making sure to pay special attention to her nipples before beginning your descent down her toned abs, bringing your hands to rub at her thighs simultaneously.

Paige groaned softly in her sleep, unconsciously spreading her legs out wider as your fingers danced over the waistband of her boxers.

Deciding that there was no reason to be a tease, especially with the growing ache in between your own legs, you hooked your fingers in her boxers and pulled them downwards, being extremely careful when taking them off her body fully and throwing them off into a corner of your room.

You shift lower, aligning your face with Paige’s already wet cunt as you grip her thighs and blow into her folds lightly, gently arousing her.

You start softly, small kisses and hickeys leading inwards before you finally allow your tongue to lick a long stripe from her entrance up to the sensitive bundle of nerves that made her breath slightly hitch.

Even in her sleep, Paige’s body was actively reacting to the growing pleasure as you circled her clit with your tongue and hummed into her, sending shockwaves running through her body, legs spreading, mouth dropping open with low moans, and back arching.

And yet, she was still asleep. You had no interest in waking her up forcefully, it would defeat the whole purpose of morning head. So, you dutifully detached your lips from her clit, opting to replace it with your thumb as you run your fingers through the slick she had accumulated before inserting your middle finger into her, curling it upwards in the way you knew she loved, which seemed to do the trick.

Her eyes began to flutter open the moment you added in your ring finger, mouth dropping with a groan as her right hand reaches out to cup the side of your face.

"Good morning," you rasp out, your breath hot against her sensitive cunt as you smirk at the already fucked out expression on her face.

"Fuck baby, God I didn’t think it would be this good when we talked about-”

Her sleepy whines were cut off with another loud moan as you reattached your lips to her clit, pressing into her g-spot with your fingers while simultaneously sucking her clit, small laughs vibrating through her core as you watched her body shudder at your actions. Her hand immediately moved up to your scalp, placing a firm grip in your head as she secured your spot deep between her legs, anchoring you in place.

"Aw shit ma, fuck you're so good at that, right there just like that, such a good fucking girl for me, don't stop mama you're gonna make me cum," her breathless rambles were endless as she used her left hand to play with her already exposed nipples.

The added stimulation pushed her closer to the edge, and it wasn't long before her muscular thighs began to shake around your head, closing around the sides of your face as she began to grind her hips into your mouth, chasing every second of her orgasm as her mouth hung open with cries.

She eventually let up after you finished licking her clean, even making a show of pulling your fingers out of her and sucking her juices off of them. Her gaze darkens as she pulls you up and over her body once again, capturing your lips in a deep kiss.

She nips at your bottom lip before pulling away, feigning annoyance in her tone. "As much as I loved the little stunt you pulled just now, shit pissed me off too. Brought this up in the first place cause I wanted to surprise you."

"Actin' like it's that big of a deal P, you can just do it a different morning," you teased, hand running up and down her side.

"Mm, whatever. All I care about right now is gettin' you right ma," she mumbles against your lips, reconnecting your lips as she slips her tongue into your mouth, grabbing your ass and rolling your hips into her at the same time.

"Nuh uh, it's your day to pillow princess. Lemme spoil you a little bit. You're still tired and sore from your game yeah? Besides, I have a better idea," you insisted, rising up and straddling her waist.

You shoved your sweater off her body before Paige's large hands pulled your grey tank top up and over your head, tossing it somewhere either of you couldn't be bothered to check. Her hand pressed into your mid back, forcing you to arch over her, conveniently placing your perky tits right over her mouth.

Her teeth scraped against your stiff peaks as her other hand, which had quickly returned to its place resting on your ass, began rocking your hips back and forth over her abs, drawing out deep sighs of pleasure from the multiple sources of friction and stimulation.

"Fuck Paige," you whined out, "why you gotta make it so hard for me to take care of you sometimes," you half-heartedly reprimanded, pinching her nipple roughly as you tore yourself away from her, shimmying your basically non-existent thong off as you resettled yourself in between her legs.

"Crawl up to the headboard," you demanded, raising your eyebrow at her inquisitive expression.

"Please," you added in with a soft pout, satisfied when she complied with your request. You eagerly followed her body, stationing your hands on her shoulders as you draped your right leg over her left, maneuvering her right in order to rest over your own left before gently lowering yourself down, hissing the moment your cores met.

You rolled your hips forward tentatively, moving your left hand down to Paige's right thigh while you sank forward, circling your other arm around her neck as you moaned against her lips.

The kiss was a needy, open mouthed mess of saliva and moans as you continued to roll your hips into Paige's with the help of her guiding hands, shocks of pleasure licking your spine every time your clits aligned.

As you approached closer to your orgasm, your head tipped back, mouth hung open with desperate, borderline pornographic whines constantly spilling out, impairing your ability to kiss Paige back. Though, she would never complain and simply kept her mouth busy by sucking hickeys along your neck and chest, whispering filthy words of encouragement into your skin.

"My girl's such a slut for me, huh? Riding me so good, pussy so wet she's dripping all over me, 's basically crying for me ma. You like that?"

Her gravely voice added to the fuzzy feeling that had taken over your brain, driven only by the tight coil threatening to snap any second in your belly. From the feeling of yours and Paige's warm slickness coating your entire cunt, to the deep throbbing you clit was experiencing.

You moved your left hand from Paige's thigh up to the headboard, using it to grind down harder against Paige's center, and the pressure on your clits had moans ringing out from both of you.

"God, Paige. So close baby, fuck I'm so close," you whined near incoherently, eyes screwed shut from the way your entire body was on fire, on the edge of immense pleasure.

She moved her mouth to the sweet spot behind your ear, nipping at the skin as she her fingers deftly began tweaking your nipples. "Cum for baby, give it to me. Please need it so bad."

You cry out as a freight train of an orgasm hits you, Paige's words and hands sending you over the edge, and the sight of you coming undone, not to mention the sounds you were letting out, left Paige no choice but to follow your lead.

Your body shuddered against hers, the pleasure slowly washing over you, leaving you breathless and extremely sensitive. You untangled your legs from Paige, collapsing on the bed next to her and pulling her down with you.

You kissed her sweetly, intimately, a far cry from the sex you were just having.

"I love you so much you know that?" You muttered against Paige's lips, cracking your eyes open to see the lazy smile set on her face.

"I love you too, even though I'm pissed you stole my surprise," she whispered defiantly.

"What you don't think those two orgasms made up for it? We can go for round two if you really insist," you smirked, knowing that there was no way your body could handle another orgasm immediately.

Before she can even answer, your stomach growled loudly, inciting loud laughter from both of you.

"How about we take care of that first yeah? We can go for round two in the shower after breakfast," she responded slyly, pulling you up and out of bed with her to get dressed and have breakfast together. To you, nothing in the world could beat mornings like these with Paige.

[othernightslikethis]

ARE YOU ENGAGED?

3,9k words

smut

Karina (Aespa) x Male Reader

Hey there, folks, it's been a while. I'm trying out new writing styles, so bear with me! This was supposed to come out on Karina's birthday, but a few things happened that caused quite a delay! That's it

Yuu Jimin.

Your Brother’s Damned Bride.

You didn’t even know who she was when you had her. When your hands gripped that slender waist, when your lips met the smooth curve of her neck, when you buried your balls deep inside her tight cunt in the loo of some upscale club—she was your brother’s fiancée.

But let’s start at the beginning.

Two years ago, you and your older brother had a row that began as something trivial and ended in irreparable damage. No one even remembered the reason—money? Jealousy? Some drunken comment after too much soju?—but the result was you packing your bags and leaving for London without a second glance.Life there wasn’t easy at first. You drowned yourself in work, in parties, in random bodies you couldn’t remember the next morning. It was liberating, but hollow. Your parents called occasionally, but your brother? Complete silence.

Until that bloody invitation arrived.

"We request the pleasure of your company at the wedding of..."

You nearly spat out your coffee reading it. He was getting married. And worse—he wanted you as his best man.

Your first instinct was to ignore it. But something—guilt, maybe, or longing—made you reply "Yes" before you could think twice.Yet returning home wouldn’t be so simple. Your old room no longer existed (now a posh office for your father), and staying in a hotel seemed too depressing. That’s when Hwang Hyun-jin, your brother-from-another-mother since school days, came through with a solution:

"Just crash at mine, yeah? Still got that ugly sofa with your name on it."

On your first night back in Seoul, Hyun-jin already had plans.

"There’s a new place in the city centre—expensive drinks, beautiful people, perfect for forgetting you’re here for a wedding.

"You didn’t resist. And that’s when everything went wrong.

You were on your third whisky when she appeared.

Sitting alone at the bar, wearing a tight black dress that left little to the imagination. Hair dark as ebony, lips painted red, legs that went on forever. She smiled when she caught you staring, and you—drunk, stupid, completely oblivious—didn’t hesitate before approaching.

"Here alone?" you asked, in slightly rusty Korean

.She laughed, the sound low and husky, twisting something in your gut.

"Depends. Are you offering company?"

It was too easy. She leaned into you, her fingers playing with the collar of your shirt, her perfume—sweet with a hint of something forbidden—filling your lungs. When your hand slid along the curve of her waist, she didn’t pull away. On the contrary, she pressed herself even tighter against you.

"You kiss well... for a lost boy," she murmured against your mouth.

You didn’t even process the comment before she tugged your belt and whispered:

"Bathroom. Now."

---

She threw herself into the cubicle like a hurricane of sedition and pent-up desire. Her high heels slipped slightly on the damp bathroom floor as she lunged at you, but it didn’t stop her—her blood-red nails dug into your waist as she shoved you with animal force against the cold wall. You staggered, feeling the hard edge of the toilet press into your thighs, but you didn’t fall. Not when she was there, warm and insistent, smelling of jasmine and lust.

"Someone’s in a hurry," you growled, but any teasing died in your throat when she dropped to her knees with the fluid motion of a geisha, her knees meeting the filthy bathroom floor without hesitation.

Your leather belt creaked as she tugged it free with sharp teeth, the metal buckle clattering against the tiles with a final click. Your zip was down in a blink—you hadn’t even noticed when she’d undone your trousers, but there they were, sliding to your knees, your boxers yanked down with a firm motion from someone who knew exactly what they wanted.

Your cock was already throbbing, swollen with need, the vein pulsing visibly as it met the humid bathroom air. Her eyes dilated like a feline’s before prey—dark pupils swallowing her russet irises as her wet tongue dragged slowly over wine-red lips.

"Fuck," she murmured, her voice a rough whisper as her manicured hands wrapped around your length, measuring, comparing. "You’re… much bigger than him." A low, husky laugh escaped her throat as her thumbs smeared the pre-cum already beading at your tip. "Much."

You almost asked who "him" was, almost questioned why she was here alone in a bar, almost showed a shred of decency. But then she opened that sinful mouth and swallowed you to the hilt in one smooth motion, and all rational thought evaporated.

"Fuuuuck," you moaned, your voice echoing off the cramped bathroom walls as her throat constricted around you. She gagged, eyes watering, but didn’t pull back—instead, she took you deeper, nostrils flaring as she fought her reflex. You could feel every spasm, every clench of that hot, tight throat, and when you looked down, the sight was near pornographic:

Your cock disappearing between her swollen lips, spit dripping from the corners of her mouth, her makeup slightly smudged. And then you saw—she’d hiked up her tight black dress to her waist, revealing nothing underneath. Nothing. Just that perfect body, skin smooth as silk, and that…

"You really are a little slut, aren’t you?" you snarled, fingers tightening in her ebony hair.

"Left home without knickers, knowing you’d spread for someone tonight?"

She answered by pulling back until only your tip remained between her lips, her burning eyes locking onto yours as her right hand slid between her own legs. The sound she made when her fingers found her swollen clit was something between a moan and a stifled laugh.

"I knew… I’d find… a proper cock today," she gasped between slow licks at your head, each word punctuated by a flick of her tongue that made your abs clench. "He… ahhh… he never fucks me like this." Her fingers were now plunging into herself with quick, filthy strokes, the wet sound filling the small space between you. "Never… makes me… feel… like this…"

Doubt hammered at your mind like a distant echo—should I really be doing this?—but every moral thought dissolved the moment your hands fisted in her dark hair, guiding your cock back into that hot, obedient throat.

She didn’t resist. Didn’t pull away.Just opened her eyes and stared up at you, pupils blown with want, as you used her mouth as you pleased. Your hips moved on instinct, slamming against her face with a savage rhythm, each thrust taking her deeper until your balls hit her wet chin.

"Take it, slut. Swallow it all," you growled, fingers tightening in her scalp.

She choked, tears welling, but didn’t stop. Her hands clutched your thighs, nails digging in as if begging for more.

When you finally yanked her back, a thick string of spit still connected her lips to your cock. She gasped, lipstick smeared, face flushed with effort—and yet, she smiled.

It was then that you fixed your eyes on those breasts.

She understood immediately.With a deliberately slow movement, she pulled her dress down, freeing those perfect tits—large, firm, her nipples already hardened with arousal. She swayed them in front of you, letting them slap together, and the moist sound of flesh against flesh nearly made you lose control.

"Come on, big boy," she teased, her voice hoarse from sucking. "I know you want it."

Before you could react, she had already trapped your cock between them, squeezing with perfect pressure. Hot. Soft. A heavenly grip.

You groaned, your abdominal muscles tensing involuntarily as she began moving her body back and forth, rubbing her breasts around your cock like a second cunt.

"This is what you wanted, isn’t it?" she whispered, her lips curling into a filthy smile.

You didn’t answer. You just grabbed her hair again and started thrusting between them, losing yourself in that heat, in that forbidden sensation.

She laughed, low and dirty, as she watched your face twist with pleasure.

"Come. I want to see you cover them."

Your cock pulsed violently between your sweaty bodies, a brutal contraction signalling the inevitable.

"Fucking—" you snarled, but the words were lost in a rough groan as the first thick ropes of cum erupted from your tip, streaking across her perfect face in hot white lines.

She didn’t flinch.

On the contrary—she smiled, those red lips parting as your semen dripped down her cheeks, spilling onto her chin and exposed tits. You were still coming when she wrapped her mouth around the head of your cock, sucking the last spurts with an obscene "glug", her tongue working frantically as she swallowed every drop.

"—Fuck, you came so much..." She laughed breathlessly, wiping the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand before licking her own breasts, devouring every drop that had landed on her skin.

You watched her, still breathing heavily, your cock still throbbing, still hard against your thigh.

She started pulling her dress back up, her breasts returning to the confinement of the fabric, but you grabbed her by the hip and shoved her against the wall again, lifting her leg in one sharp motion.

"Wh—?" She looked confused, until her dark eyes drifted down...And saw.

You were still erect.Her lips parted slightly, her swollen mouth still trembling from the sucking.

"...Bloody hell."

And then—that smile. That catlike smile that knew exactly what it was doing. She bit her lower lip, her fingers rising to grip your neck, nails digging into the back of your skull as she pulled you closer, the heat of her body burning against yours.

"Fuck me then, you bastard."

It was all you needed to hear. You turned her towards the wall, her hands pressing against the cold tiles as you lifted her leg higher, exposing her completely.

"You’re definitely the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen," you growled in her ear, feeling how wet she already was, her entrance pulsing just from the head of your cock pressing against her.

She moaned—a rough, filthy sound—her hips arching back in an obscene invitation.

"And what are you waiting for?"

With a single brutal motion, you filled her to the hilt, feeling her insides clench around you like a hot fist. She cried out, fingers scratching the tiles, her head thrown back as you started fucking her with anger, with desire, with the sheer need to mark her as yours.

The sounds she made now were uncontrollable—loud moans, slurred words. You shoved her hard against the bathroom wall, your body moulded against hers as your cock drove in and out with a rhythm that made her hips slam against you. She was so wet that the slick sound of the two of you echoed in the cramped bathroom, each thrust filthier than the last. If anyone was outside, they’d hear just how loud you were.

"Like that, fuck—! Harder!" she screamed, her voice a mix of command and plea, her nails raking down your back through your shirt. You obeyed.

Grabbing her hair, you yanked it back, arching her spine as you kept fucking her mercilessly. Her tits bounced with each impact, her hard nipples dragging against the cold tile.

"Just like—! Ah, fuck!" She moaned loudly, her body trembling around yours. "You—you’re fucking me so good—"

That’s when you felt it—her tightening even more. Her inner muscles squeezing around your cock as if trying to suck every inch deeper.

"Gonna come for me, you slut?" you snarled in her ear, teeth sinking into her neck as you picked up the pace.

She didn’t answer—just screamed, a raw, animal sound, her body convulsing in pure ecstasy as another orgasm ripped through her. You felt your cum dripping down your thighs, her pussy so drenched it overflowed with every thrust.

But you didn’t stop.

"You think it’s over?" you whispered, your voice rough with lust. "You think I’ll let you leave this bathroom without filling you up again?"

She turned her head to face you, eyes glazed, lips swollen and red like crushed cherries.

"Don’t stop," she ordered, her voice a mix of defiance and submission. "Fuck me until I forget my own name.

"You spun her roughly against the wall, her black dress now hitched at her waist, her breasts perfectly exposed—large, heavy, with dark pink nipples so hard they looked like gemstones. Your fingers dug into the soft flesh, squeezing tightly as your cock plunged back into that already ruined cunt.

"AH! FUCK! YES!" she screamed, her voice echoing in the tiny bathroom as you buried yourself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

Her tits jerked violently with each slam, hitting the wall with a wet "smack", her skin reddening from the friction. You could see the veins beneath her delicate skin, how her nipples puckered with every thrust.

"These tits are mine now," you growled, squeezing hard until she moaned, your fingers leaving red marks on her perfect flesh.

She was so wet that cum and her own fluids dripped down her thighs, pooling on the floor in obscene puddles. The smell of sex and cheap perfume filled the air, intoxicating.You yanked her hair back, forcing her into a dramatic arch as you sped up, your balls slapping against her clit with a filthy "slap-slap-slap".

"COME AGAIN, BITCH," you commanded, spitting down her back before licking the salt from her skin.

She obeyed like a bitch in heat—her body convulsed, her cunt clenching around your cock like a hot fist, her tits shaking as fresh streams of fluid trickled out.

You couldn’t hold back—with an animalistic snarl, you hilted yourself and unloaded your second load deep inside, spurting so hard you felt the hot liquid leaking down her thighs.She collapsed against the wall, completely ruined, her breasts now marked red, her makeup smeared, her lips swollen.

"We... need... to stop..." she whimpered, even as her legs trembled uncontrollably.

You smirked, your cock still throbbing between you.

"Who said we’re done?"

You didn’t know where you found the stamina, but your hips kept slamming into her with an animal rhythm, wet skin making a lewd sound with every impact.

"He... ah!... he never filled me like this..."

Your cock twitched violently inside her at those words. You gripped her waist harder, fingers sinking into soft flesh as you picked up the pace. Raising your hand, the bathroom filled with the sound of spanks. You loved watching her arse jiggle and redden with each slap.

"Never?" you snarled, spitting on the back of her neck before licking a salty trail up to her shoulder.She shook her head frantically, her tits swinging like sweat-soaked pendulums. "Never... never... never..." Each word was a hoarse moan, synced with your brutal thrusts.

You pulled her hair forward, forcing her to look down and watch your cock plunging in and out of her. "Look how you’re taking my cock, slut."

She saw—her red, swollen cunt stretching around every inch of your length, her plump lips clinging to you with each withdrawal. "Fuck... you... stretch me so wide..."

Your heavy balls slapped against her clit with every thrust, the wet sound maddening. You saw in the reflection how her eyes rolled back when you hit that spot inside her.

"Does he make you scream like this too?" You didn’t even know who the poor bastard was, but you taunted her, hammering exactly where it made her fingers claw at the tiles.

"NO! NO! FUCK, NO!" she screamed, her body quivering like a leaf in the wind. "Only you... only you... OH, GOD!"

Her tits bounced violently, her nipples so sensitive that she pinched them between her own fingers, moaning louder with each tweak.

You felt the heat building again, your cock swelling even thicker inside her. "I’m going to fill you again," you warned, teeth sinking into her shoulder. "Until it’s dripping down your legs at the altar."

She came instantly, a hot gush coating your cock as her womb pulsed uncontrollably. "YES! FILL ME! FILL THIS SLUT UP!"

It was enough to make you explode—with a snarl, you hilted yourself and pumped what must’ve been your second or third load deep inside (you’d lost count by now). So hard that you felt the hot liquid leaking down her thighs immediately.

She slumped against the wall, completely ruined, her breasts marked red and bitten, her makeup smudged, her lips swollen from screaming.

"That was definitely good, but I need to go, stud," she whimpered, even as her legs shook uncontrollably.

And you were already spent, pulling out of her, watching the sheer amount of cum you’d dumped inside her leak out. She brought her fingers to her well-used cunt, rubbing gently as if gathering your seed, then brought them to her lips.

"Mmm... delicious."

---

The daylight stabbed into the room like a knife, and you could barely open your eyes. Every ray of sunshine felt like a needle piercing your brain. Your mouth was dry, with the metallic aftertaste of a hangover and regret. When you finally managed to focus your vision, there was Hyunjin, standing beside the sofa, holding a steaming cup of coffee with that mischievous grin you knew so well.

"Good morning, gorgeous," he sang, sarcastic. "Or rather, good afternoon. You look like you’ve been run over by an elephant.

"You groaned, trying to sit up, but the world spun violently. Your hands trembled as you held the cup, and the smell of coffee, which would normally be comforting, now felt like a direct assault on your churning stomach.

"Bloody hell..." you grumbled, rubbing your eyes with your knuckles as if you could wipe away the pain.

Hyunjin flopped onto the sofa beside you, jostling the cushions in a way that made your stomach turn over.

"So, shall we talk about last night?" he asked, that glint of malicious curiosity in his eyes. "Because you came home saying some… interesting things."

Your heart stopped for a second. Fragments of the previous night came back in torturous flashes—the packed nightclub, the deafening music, the shots that had seemed like a brilliant idea at the time. And her. Dark hair, a dangerous smile, a wedding ring glinting on her finger.

"Oh, no..." you murmured, covering your face with your hands.

Hyunjin laughed, a bright, cheerful sound that should be illegal for anyone in your condition. "Ah, so it’s true! You actually hooked up with a girl who’s taken!"

"I didn’t know!" you protested, but even your own voice sounded guilty.

"Sure, sure," he replied, sarcastic, shaking his head. "And I believe in fairies. But relax, your drunken charm probably convinced her never to tell you her name, right?"

You threw a cushion at him, but he dodged with a laugh, grabbing your arm in a suffocating hug.

"If you die—and at this rate, I wouldn’t be surprised—I’m taking your PS5, your flat in London, and your sneaker collection. Deal?"

That line came with the fakest, sweetest smile he could muster—the one that made people forgive any rubbish he said. You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help a half-smile.

"Keep dreaming," you muttered, shoving him lightly.

Hyunjin just laughed again, releasing you and stretching out on the sofa like a satisfied cat. "Just saying... if her boyfriend shows up with a baseball bat, I’m pretending I don’t know you."

You threw another cushion, but this time he caught it and hugged it, lying on his side to stare at you with pure amusement.

"The guilt’s eating at you, isn’t it?" It was. It really was. But you’d never admit it out loud. Instead, you buried your face in the sofa and let out a long groan while Hyunjin laughed—loud, merciless, and thoroughly pleased with the chaos your life had become.

---

The air felt heavier in front of that house. You stood frozen on the pavement, your fingers gripping the straps of your rucksack so tightly your knuckles turned white.

It had been years since you’d last set foot there. Did they still remember your face? You weren’t the same person anymore—not the scruffy teenager who spent nights glued to the computer, fuelled by energy drinks and instant noodles. Adulthood had reshaped you: strict diet, gym routines, skincare regimens. But none of that mattered now.

With a heavy sigh, you stepped forward and rang the doorbell. The sound echoed inside the house, and your heart raced as if it might explode.

"Just a moment!" a woman’s voice called from within.And then the door opened.It was her.

She was there. The girl from last night.Without the heavy club makeup, without the dim bar lights masking her features. Just her, her skin slightly creased from sleep, her eyes still heavy. Beautiful. Horribly familiar.

"Ah... s-sorry," your voice came out in fragments, syllables shattering like glass—"I think I’ve got the wrong house.

"Your fingers tingled. Breakfast threatened to come back up. You were already stepping back when another voice cut through the air:

"Babe? Who is it?"

Your brother.Your body reacted before your brain could—a wave of heat surged from your chest to your ears. You knew he was engaged. Of course, that was why you’d returned to Korea. Now, your brain made the connection.

And there he was, in pyjamas, his hand resting on her shoulder. The way she leaned slightly into him… it was intimate. Natural.

"Bloody hell!" Your brother stepped forward, eyes wide. "You vanish for years and just show up like this?!"

Your throat tightened. You could feel sweat trickling down your back. The girl—your brother’s fiancée, his bloody fiancée—frowned. You saw the exact moment she recognised you:

First, a vague flicker of familiarity.

Then, her eyes tracing your face.

Finally, the shock. Her hand flew to her mouth.

"Wait…" Her voice was barely a whisper, "last night at… at the…"

Your brother looked between the two of you. His grin faltered, shifting into confusion, then something darker.

"Last night where?"

The silence hung like a brick. You could hear the ticking of the hallway clock. Somewhere in the house, a tap dripped.

"At… at the restaurant!" you blurted, your voice three octaves higher than usual. "I saw you! At that place we used to go to as kids! Alone! And I thought, ‘Wow, she’s gorgeous,’ and… and…"

Her hand tightened on your brother’s arm. Her eyes glistened—with panic? With anger?

"That’s right," she cut in, too quickly. "I mentioned it to you later, remember, love? That annoying customer who wouldn’t stop calling the waiter?"

Your brother hesitated. You saw his jaw tense—that same tic he’d always had when processing lies.

"Right…" he drew the word out, eyes fixed on you. "Then why are you acting so weird?"

"Jet lag," you muttered, fingers twisting behind your back. "Flight was rubbish. Think I’ll… go buy fags. Or throw myself under a bus. Either works."

Your brother opened his mouth to reply when she intervened:

"Love, leave him, he looks half-dead. D’you want coffee, at least?"

Your brother just laughed and pulled away from her, crushing you in a bear hug.

"Missed you, mate!"

[srslyblvck]

calm to his storm, klaus mikaelson

pairing: klaus mikaelson x fem!reader

synopsis: you are the calm to his raging storm. so what happens when his only calm is taken away from him?

genre: fluff, a little bit of angst,

warnings: mentions of torture

word count: 2.6k

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ THE ANTIQUE CHANDELIER ABOVE shook slightly as another crash echoed through the Mikaelson estate. Klaus’ rage tore through the air like a hurricane, sending priceless artefacts and heirlooms scattering across the room. Rebekah stood a few feet away, her arms crossed, a mix of irritation and concern on her face.

“Klaus, for heaven’s sake!” she snapped, her own temper flaring. “Must you destroy everything? That was from the 18th century!”

Kol leaned casually against the doorway, arms folded. A smirk played on his lips, though even he seemed wary. “Let him have his tantrum, sister. It’s like watching a storm obliterate a quaint little village. Entertaining, don’t you think?”

Elijah entered the room, his usual calm demeanor strained. He surveyed the chaos—broken vases, shattered glass, the remnants of Klaus’ fury—and pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is getting out of hand.”

“And when has that ever stopped him?” Rebekah shot back, throwing her hands in the air.

Another crash—this time a painting flung off the wall—interrupted her. Elijah sighed deeply, his gaze shifting toward the grand staircase. He seemed to consider his options for a moment before turning to leave.

“I’ll fetch her,” he said simply, his voice tinged with both resignation and relief.

Upstairs, in stark contrast to the chaos below, your room was a haven of peace. Soft lamplight illuminated the plush armchair you sat in, legs curled beneath you. A leather-bound book rested in your hands, and beside you on the side table sat a glass of red liquid—whether it was wine or blood was anyone’s guess, and you enjoyed keeping them guessing.

The muffled sounds of Klaus’ outburst barely registered. To you, it was as normal as birds chirping or wind rustling leaves—a background hum of the Mikaelson household. You turned another page, utterly unbothered.

A soft knock at the door broke the tranquility.

“Come in, Elijah,” you called without looking up, already knowing who it would be.

Elijah entered, his steps measured as always. He stood for a moment, hands clasped in front of him, as though reluctant to disturb you further. “It seems,” he began in his polished tone, “your presence is required downstairs.”

You raised an eyebrow, setting the book down carefully. “Klaus?”

“Who else?” His lips twitched into a faint, weary smile. “Rebekah is losing her patience, Kol is doing nothing helpful as usual, and I suspect this will only end peacefully with you.”

With a small sigh, you stood, smoothing the folds of your dress. “He’s really upset this time, isn’t he?”

“You could say that.” Elijah offered you his arm, a gesture that always made you smile, even after all this time. “Though I must say, I sometimes wonder how you manage him so effortlessly.”

You took his arm, your smile soft. “It’s not effortless. It’s just… understanding.”

The sight that greeted you in the living room was chaotic, but unsurprising. Klaus stood amid the wreckage, his chest heaving, fury etched into every line of his face. Rebekah was glaring at him, hands on her hips, while Kol lounged in the doorway, twirling a broken candlestick like a baton.

“Klaus,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the tension like a balm.

His head snapped toward you, his wild eyes meeting yours. For a moment, he looked ready to lash out again, but then he saw you—calm, composed, untouched by his rage. The storm in his expression faltered.

“You’ve been shouting for an hour,” you continued, stepping into the room. “Are you okay?”

Klaus scoffed but didn’t respond, his hands flexing at his sides. You moved closer, resting a hand lightly on his arm. “What’s wrong?”

The smallest touch from you carried a weight nothing else could. His anger didn’t vanish, but it dulled, like a smoldering ember instead of an inferno.

“It’s nothing that concerns you,” Klaus muttered, his voice quieter now.

“It concerns me if it upsets you,” you said, tilting your head to meet his gaze. Your soft tone carried no judgment, just an earnestness that Klaus couldn’t resist.

Elijah silently excused himself and pulled the others with him, muttering about how he didn’t want to witness Klaus being "domesticated."

When the door clicked shut, Klaus turned to you fully, his posture still tense. “You don’t understand, love. This—this betrayal, this treachery—it deserves blood.”

You placed your other hand on his chest, the gesture anchoring him. “Maybe it does,” you said softly. “But you always remind me that timing is everything. You don’t need to act now, not when you’re this angry.”

Klaus exhaled sharply, the weight of your logic pressing against his instinct to lash out. His hands moved to your waist, gripping you gently as if you were the one tethering him to the ground.

“You make it sound so simple,” he murmured, his voice softening further. “But you don’t know what it’s like to carry this rage. It consumes everything.”

You smiled, shy but radiant, the polar opposite of his stormy intensity. “That’s why I’m here. To remind you that not everything has to be consumed.”

Klaus studied you for a long moment, his eyes searching. Finally, he leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. “What have I done to deserve you?”

You chuckled softly, a sound that Klaus secretly adored because it felt like sunlight in his otherwise dark world. “You don’t have to deserve me,” you said simply. “I’m here because I love you, Klaus. All of you.”

He closed his eyes briefly, savoring the words that he didn’t hear often enough. When he pulled back, some of the tension in his frame had dissipated.

“Thank you, love,” he said softly.

You brushed a hand across his cheek, and for once, Klaus Mikaelson didn’t feel like the monster the world claimed he was.

The full moon hung low in the sky, its light filtering through the dense forest. You were returning to the Mikaelson estate after a quiet evening in town, a much-needed break from the volatile energy that often permeated the house. The path was eerily silent, save for the occasional rustle of leaves underfoot.

Something was off.

The hairs on the back of your neck prickled as you slowed your steps.

They came out of the shadows, cloaked in spells that masked their presence. A coven of witches, their eyes burning with vengeance, encircled you.

“Ah, the little darling of the Mikaelsons,” one sneered, his voice dripping with malice. “The one they’d burn the world for.”

You didn’t wait for pleasantries. In a blur of speed, you lunged at the closest witch, your vampiric strength taking him off guard. He crumpled under the force of your blow, but the others retaliated quickly. Spells lit the night as energy pulsed around you, slamming into your chest like a battering ram.

You gritted your teeth and fought back, feral and determined, but the odds weren’t in your favor. One by one, they overwhelmed you, their magic precise and relentless. You tore through two more of them, leaving them bloodied and unconscious, but a searing pain shot through your veins—a vervain-laced dart embedded in your shoulder.

You stumbled, your vision swimming, but you kept fighting, even as your strength waned. Finally, the world blurred and darkened as they dragged you away, their triumphant laughter the last thing you heard before the void consumed you.

When you awoke, you were bound to a chair in a dimly lit chamber. Your wrists burned where the vervain-laced ropes dug into your skin. The air smelled of damp earth and old magic, and your head throbbed from whatever spell they’d used to keep you subdued.

“You’re awake,” one of the witches said with a wicked smile, crouching before you. “Good. We wouldn’t want you to miss the fun.”

Their leader, a tall woman with piercing green eyes, approached with deliberate steps. “Do you know why you’re here?” she asked, her tone almost conversational.

You met her gaze despite the pain. “Because you’re bored and pathetic?”

She slapped you hard across the face, the sting sharp and immediate. Blood trickled from the corner of your mouth, but you refused to give her the satisfaction of flinching.

“Brave little thing, aren’t you?” she sneered. “We’re here because of your beloved family. They’ve terrorized witches for centuries, and now, you’ll pay for their sins.”

They tortured you methodically, using spells to inflict pain, cutting into your skin with vervain-coated blades. Every time you began to fade, they used magic to jolt you back to consciousness. They wanted you to suffer, to feel every second of it.

Still, you held onto your resolve, refusing to give them what they wanted. When they demanded information about the Mikaelsons, you laughed through the pain. “Do you really think they’ll let you live after this?” you taunted, your voice hoarse but steady. “You’ve made a mistake.”

It didn’t take long for the Mikaelsons to notice your absence. Klaus was the first to sense that something was wrong. The moment you didn’t return home, his paranoia kicked in, and when they found the bloodied trail in the woods, the fury that followed was palpable.

“Witches,” Klaus growled, his jaw clenched tight as he examined the scene. “They’ve taken her.”

Elijah placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder, his own expression grim but composed. “We’ll find her.”

“No,” Klaus snapped, his voice low and dangerous. “We’ll kill them.”

Rebekah’s eyes burned with determination. “They won’t live long enough to regret this.”

Kol, always eager for chaos, twirled a dagger in his hand. “Let’s not waste time then, shall we?”

You were barely conscious when the first explosion rocked the chamber. The witches scrambled, their spellwork faltering as the Mikaelsons descended like a storm.

Klaus was the first through the door, his eyes locking onto your battered form. His rage was palpable, a force of nature that seemed to suck the air from the room. He didn’t waste words. In a blur, he tore into the nearest witch, snapping their neck with a savagery that made the others freeze in terror.

Rebekah followed, her fury no less potent. She flung one witch across the room, her face twisted with righteous anger. “You dared to lay a hand on her?” she hissed, plunging a dagger into the witch’s chest.

Kol’s laughter echoed as he dispatched two witches with brutal efficiency. “I’ve got to say,” he quipped, wiping blood from his blade, “you lot make terrible hosts.”

Elijah moved with his usual grace, dispatching the leader of the coven with a calculated strike. His focus, however, was on you. He reached you first, his hands gentle as he untied the ropes and eased you into his arms.

“Y/N,” he murmured, his voice tight with concern. “You’re safe now.”

Your head lolled against his shoulder, your strength utterly spent. “Took you long enough,” you whispered weakly, a faint smile playing on your lips.

Klaus appeared beside him, his hands trembling as they hovered over your face, not knowing where to touch without hurting you further. His eyes were wild with guilt and rage, his voice cracking as he spoke. “I’ll kill every last one of them,” he vowed, his gaze darting to Elijah. “Take her home. Now.”

Elijah nodded, carrying you out of the carnage as Klaus and the others finished what they started. You heard the screams of the remaining witches as the Mikaelsons exacted their vengeance, but you didn’t feel pity. They’d made their choice.

The house was unusually quiet. The kind of quiet that seemed too fragile, as if one wrong move might shatter it. You lay on the bed, propped up by a stack of pillows, your body still recovering from the ordeal. Though most of your injuries had healed, a dull ache lingered beneath the surface—a reminder of what had happened.

Klaus hadn’t left the room since you were brought back. He sat in the armchair by the window, bathed in moonlight, his hands steepled under his chin. His silence was unnerving.

“You’re awfully broody tonight,” you said softly, trying to lighten the mood.

He didn’t respond at first, his eyes fixed on the dark forest outside. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but heavy. “I failed you.”

You sighed, shifting slightly despite the discomfort. “Klaus—”

“No,” he interrupted, his tone sharpening. “They took you because of me. Because of who I am. And they hurt you. If I had been faster, smarter—”

“They would’ve still tried,” you cut in, your voice calm but firm. “This isn’t your fault.”

He turned to look at you, his expression haunted. “How can you say that?”

“Because it’s true.” You held his gaze, your voice steady despite the fatigue in your body. “You can’t control what others do, Klaus. You can only do what you did—save me.”

He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor as he began to pace. “I should’ve torn them apart the moment I sensed something was wrong. Instead, they touched you—hurt you—and I…” He trailed off, his hands clenching into fists.

You watched him for a moment before patting the space beside you on the bed. “Come here.”

He hesitated, the weight of his emotions visible in the tight set of his shoulders. Slowly, he approached, sitting carefully beside you as if afraid his presence might cause you more pain.

Reaching out, you took his hand in yours, your touch gentle. His fingers were tense at first, but they relaxed under your warmth. “Klaus, look at me.”

He did, his blue eyes stormy with guilt and frustration.

“I’m alive,” you said softly. “Because of you. You came for me. You always do.”

“I should’ve protected you better,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

“And yet, here I am.” You gave him a faint smile, squeezing his hand. “You don’t have to carry this guilt. I don’t blame you.”

For a moment, he said nothing. Then, his free hand reached up to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. The touch was so tender it made your heart ache.

“I can’t lose you,” he said, his voice raw.

“You won’t,” you replied, leaning your head against his shoulder. “I’m tougher than I look, remember?”

A soft, humorless chuckle escaped him, but the tension in his body began to ease. He shifted slightly, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as you leaned into him.

For a while, the two of you sat in silence, the world outside the room forgotten. His hand rested on your arm, his thumb tracing absent patterns against your skin, as if reassuring himself that you were real and not some fragile illusion.

After a while, you tilted your head to look at him. “Klaus?”

“Hm?”

“You’re going to need to stop blaming yourself. It’s exhausting to watch.”

A small, genuine smile tugged at his lips. “You always know how to put me in my place, don’t you?”

“Someone has to,” you teased, though your tone was gentle.

He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Thank you,” he whispered, his lips lingering against your skin.

“For what?”

“For not giving up on me. For always seeing the good in me when no one else does.”

You tilted your head up to meet his eyes, your hand brushing against his cheek. “Because it’s there, Klaus. Even if you don’t see it, I do.”

For the first time that night, the shadow in his gaze lifted, replaced by something softer. He leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was both tender and fervent, as if pouring every unspoken word into the touch.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet room. “You’re mine,” he murmured, his voice a mixture of possession and reverence.

“And you’re mine,” you replied with a soft smile, your fingers brushing through his hair.

In his arms, the lingering aches of your ordeal seemed to fade. The storm that had raged in him had settled, replaced by the calm only you could bring.

divider by @dollywons

[rainrot4me]

The Quiet Violence Of Wanting

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

────────────────────────────── run to you - bryan adams

── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.

NSFW WARNING, MINORS DNI

✦ . Summary: Helplessness, guilt, remorse, and isolation—all unacceptable emotions when you’re a proxy. You’ve got blood on your hands, and purposeful or not, the cops don’t care. Their job is so take you in. It’s okay to need saving—especially if it’s from a pretty killer lady who’ll do anything to make you squeal.

✦ . Characters: {Separate} Kate the Chaser x Female Reader, Jane Everlasting x Female Reader, Clockwork x Female Reader, Nina the Killer x Female Reader

✦ . Warning: Blood, violence, guns, bullet wound, panic, mentions of dead body, sex as a means of reassurance, vaginal fingering, oral sex, teasing, rough sex, cunnilingus, scissoring, sixty-nine, face riding, semi-public sex, blood consumption (sexual)

✦ . Words: 20.7k {~ 5k per section}

✦ . Note: HAPPY PRIDE MONTH!! I know I’m hitting it on the tail-end here, but that makes me no less proud and grateful to be in such a great community of lgbtq+ folks. Super long one, mind the warnings, but have fun with these scary girls!! They’re all wlw in my heart 🤍 Thank you so much again to Angie for creating such BEAUTIFUL banner art for this post, go give her all the love and kudos you can muster!!

Art by @z0l0fft.

────────────────────────────────────────────

You weren’t supposed to kill him.

Not like that.

Not like an animal.

But the memory is burned into the backs of your eyelids—your hands around his throat, the crunch of cartilage, the wet snap of something vital giving out. The screams stopped too fast. You didn’t even realize how hard you were squeezing until the body slumped in your grip like a sack of meat, eyes wide, mouth frozen open. You stood there for a second too long, panting, trembling, staring down at what was left of the mission.

It was supposed to be a grab-and-interrogate. A standard proxy hit. Kill a weakened ally who decided to run his mouth and put the proxies in a messy spot.

But he laughed. He said your name like it was something filthy.

And suddenly, there was no handler, no script—just red.

Now the cops are coming.

You don’t know how many are chasing you anymore. Four? Five? Maybe six. Doesn’t matter. You’re faster.

You’re running on pure instinct, lungs shrieking for air, body soaked in blood—some of it yours, most of it not. You tore through the suburban house like a hurricane, crashing out the back door and bolting into the night. By the time you hit the woods, there were already sirens, dogs, radio chatter echoing through the air like the voice of God calling down judgment.

The soles of your boots hit the earth like war drums.

Each breath cuts your throat.

Your side burns with a sharp, knifing pain—either from a cracked rib or where a bastard cop clipped you with a bullet.

But you don’t stop. You can’t stop. Not now. They’re on your heels. You can feel it in the way your heart jumps in your chest.

Flashlights sweep through the darkness behind you. One illuminates your shoulder just as you dive behind a cluster of trees, your back scraping bark. You spin, raise your gun, and fire—three wild, desperate shots.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Someone cries out. Maybe you hit them. Maybe not. It doesn’t matter. You’re not trying to win—you’re trying to disappear.

You lunge forward, ducking under branches, tearing through a tangle of shrubs and briars. Your clothes are shredded, your hands are shaking, your teeth won’t unclench. You can still feel that bastard’s pulse stop under your fingers.

What if they catch you? What if they take you alive?

You’ve heard the rumors—what the government does when they catch one of you, a proxy.

The experiments, the vivisections, the silence.

You’d rather take a bullet to the head than be taken.

Your body’s failing. Every breath is ragged, vision’s tunneling. You leap over a ditch and almost collapse on the landing. You’re too slow, too loud, too fucking messy. The Operator will have your head for this.

Your blood leaves a trail behind you.

You reach the edge of the woods—houses again. Neighborhood streets, too quiet for the hour. A dog barks in the distance. Police sirens wail louder, closing in. Helicopter blades chop the sky above, scanning with white-hot beams like they’re looking for heat signatures, monsters in the brush.

You press yourself against the side of a shed, gun shaking in your grip, and try to steady your breath. Your eyes sting. You don’t remember if it’s from tears or sweat or blood. You don’t care.

You weren’t supposed to kill him like that.

But deep down, a rotten, hidden part of you whispers:

You wanted to.

You close your eyes for one second.

Snap. A twig breaks nearby.

You don’t even think. You spin on instinct, raise the gun, heart jackhammering against your ribs—

—but you’re not fast enough.

A hand grabs your wrist.

Another seizes your hoodie, yanks you hard.

You’re pulled violently backward, into pitch black. Your body slams against something solid—stone? wood? another body?—and a hand clamps over your mouth.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝  KATE THE CHASER

You barely have time to register the shape in front of you—just a shock of dark hair, hard shoulders, the gleam of a blade tucked close to a lean frame, and a chalky mask that covers every inch of face except for the cold stare of angry eyes—before Kate shoves you back against the broken-down brick wall behind the shed. Her grip on your hoodie is iron, knuckles gone white.

“Kate—”

You saw her first through the smoke and flashing red-blue police lights—that hard silhouette, lean and coiled like a predator, the eyes behind that blank white mask burning with a cold purpose. Her hair swung like a blade down her shoulder, streaked with dark grime and sweat, making her look carved straight out of some soldier’s nightmare.

Her other hand is already gripped onto your jaw tight, tilting your face up toward hers. 

Her eyes cut straight through you, that same unblinking, predatory stare she always wears. You’ve seen her glare down terrified prey, watched her paint entire rooms red with her knives, but right now that fury’s turned on you—and somehow, that’s worse. Out of all the missions you’ve done together, of course the one that she let you handle while she kept watch was the one that you majorly fucked.

“What the fuck happened?” She spits the words through gritted teeth.

You try to answer, chest still hitching with adrenaline, hands reaching around her arms and trying to pry her iron-clad hold away, but your voice breaks in your throat. All you manage is, “The mission—” before she tightens her hold, silencing you.

“Nevermind. Not here. We need to get out.”

Her gaze darts past your shoulder, scanning the woods, the glow of flashlights and the crackle of radios growing closer. You hear boots on gravel, the slam of car doors, someone yelling coordinates into a walkie.

Kate shifts her weight, pressing in closer until you’re practically pinned between her and the wall. It’s the only way to keep you still—and to keep you hidden. Her breath brushes your cheek, warm despite the cold night air, but you’re still shaking like a leaf from adrenaline.

“Listen. They’re sweeping the block. They’ve got dogs. They’ll flush you out if you move.”

She presses her forehead to yours, just for a second, and you catch that faint scent of copper and cheap perfume—the only things Kate ever smells like. Familiar. Comforting, in a twisted way.

“I’m going to get you out of this,” she says, low, deadly calm. “But if you fuck around right now, they’ll rip you apart before I can.”

The weight of those words sinks straight into your bones. There’s no softness in her tone, no sympathy—but you know she means it. Kate doesn’t say anything she won’t back up with violence.

Your hands are still shaking, so she takes your gun, slides it into her own belt, then checks your side where you’re bleeding through your clothes. Her fingers are quick, clinical, more soldier than friend.

“You’re sloppy tonight,” she growls. “Next time, finish the job quiet.”

You choke out a harsh, mirthless laugh. “Next time?”

Her eyes twitch, not quite a smile—but close. “After this fuck up? No way you’re going alone again.”

You feel like you should smile, should say something moderately funny to offset the tension, but there’s no time.

A sudden burst of light washes over the far side of the shed, voices getting too close. Kate’s hand clamps around your wrist and she pulls you hard, almost dislocating your shoulder as she drags you around the corner. You stumble, nearly crashing into a pile of rotting firewood, but she steadies you with a sharp tug.

“Stay behind me,” she hisses.

Her knife is in her other hand now, glinting with a hungry sort of certainty. Kate is violence incarnate—you’ve always known that. And in this moment, you realize you trust her more than you trust yourself—put more faith in her abilities than you ever could your own.

She moves through the yard like a shadow, pulling you with her. You barely even breathe. Police radio static crackles through the night, so close you can taste it, but Kate doesn’t flinch.

“They’ll move on,” she murmurs. “They’re just pigs.”

A dog barks from the next block, loud and savage, but Kate doesn’t even blink. She keeps you pressed tight against her side, fingers wrapped tight around your wrist, steady and sure.

“When this is over,” she whispers, eyes locked on yours, “you're going to tell me exactly what happened. We’re gonna work it out, alright?”

Your mouth goes dry. You want to ask what she means, but part of you already knows: the blood, the kill, the thrill of being hunted and surviving—she’ll share it with you next time. Not because she forgives you. But because she understands you.

Because you’re the same.

Kate never lets go of your wrist. It’s like being handcuffed to a wild dog—every motion is sharp, deliberate, an unspoken follow or die.

You track through the neighborhood one yard at a time, moving between crumbling fences and backyard sheds, through darkness so thick it feels like syrup. The police are still sweeping the area, but Kate knows how to work the angles—she times every dash, every crossing of a street, with a kind of terrifying precision.

At one point, you both freeze behind a trash bin while a patrol car coasts past. The floodlight bounces across the garbage, catching your sleeve. Kate pushes you down so hard your knees scrape concrete, her hand planted across your mouth.

“Stay still.”

The car idles. Your heartbeat slams so hard you think it might explode—but Kate holds you there, steady, like a soldier on a leash. The engine finally roars off, leaving you with only the far-off drone of sirens and your ragged breathing.

“Move.”

She doesn’t wait for you to stand; she hauls you back up and pulls you along, boots whispering across patchy grass and cracked driveways.

The neighborhood finally falls behind. Houses get fewer, spaced farther apart, until you cross a drainage ditch and land back in raw woods. The sounds of police radios fade behind the first stand of deep pines.

The world feels colder out here—older. Like the trees themselves are judging you, rooting for your pursuers.

Kate glances back, scanning the treeline, her jaw set. “They’ll call in a perimeter. I know the pattern,” she mutters. “We’ll cut south and stay under the trees.”

You nod, even though your legs are about to give out. Blood from the bullet wound seeps down into your waistband, hot and sticky. Kate notices—of course she does—but just shakes her head, refusing to slow down.

“You’ll make it,” she says. “I’ll drag you if I have to.”

That sounds like her. The scariest part is that you believe she would.

You march together for what feels like hours, winding deeper into the forest. Eventually, the sound of running water cuts through the night—a muddy stream clogged with weeds. Kate pulls you to the bank, practically throws you into the water.

“Wash it off,” she orders. “Blood trail’s too easy to follow.”

“Are you serious?”

She only gives you a sideways look, the kind of thing a tiger does when observing its meat, daring the prey to move further before it jumps.

You bite back a groan as you kneel down next to the stream, lifting your shirt up above the wound. It’s not big, just a bullet graze deep enough to draw blood, but it’s enough to soak into your clothing. You cup your hands, the cold water hits your wounds, but you scrub the worst of the blood away, water swirling dark when you go to cup for more. Kate wipes your face roughly with her sleeve, smearing a streak of mud off your cheek.

“Better.” It’s a word that shouldn’t sound kind coming from her lips, but somehow does.

The night only grows blacker. Pines cluster overhead so tightly you can barely see stars. You walk in silence, every branch that cracks under your boots making you flinch. Kate, meanwhile, is as calm as ever—stepping over logs, ducking low branches, checking over her shoulder every few minutes.

It’s only when you break out of the treeline onto a wide, overgrown field that she finally slows down. A pale, half-collapsed shed stands in the middle of it, half-swallowed by weeds and tangled vines. A rusted tractor skeleton leans against its side.

Kate points. “There.”

You follow her across the field, every step feeling heavier than the last. By the time you reach the shed’s door, you’re half-dead on your feet. Kate pulls it open with a loud creak, then motions you inside.

It smells like rotting hay and oil. Mice scatter from the corners. Moonlight trickles through holes in the roof, falling in sickly pale pools.

You both tumble inside, Kate dragging the rickety door shut behind her like the latch-lock on the upper side was going to help keep anyone out. 

Kate posted herself by the doorway, silhouette framed by jagged moonlight through a broken panel. You let your eyes drift from her to the shadows inside the shed—rusting tools, splintered shelves, the heavy scent of dust and rotting grain clinging to the stale air. The quiet, after all that screaming and gunfire, felt alien.

You shifted over to the adjacent wall, leaning your weight back as the wood groaned, wincing at the pull of the bullet graze along your side. The adrenaline was crashing hard now, leaving a sickly hollow ache behind. You caught yourself shivering, even in the muggy air, as the memory of the kill replayed behind your eyes—the way the bastard’s face caved, the sticky spray across your knuckles, the voice that still begged even after you’d decided there was no mercy left in you.

Kate’s eyes flicked over, reading you as easily as always. She didn’t soften; she never did. But something in the way she stepped closer, boots crunching straw, told you she wasn’t going to let you spiral.

“Let me have a look now,” she said simply, nodding to your wound.

You hesitated, but she was already lifting your arm, fingers under the hem of your shirt, peeling away the half-clotted mess. Her hands were rough, efficient, like every second of delay was an insult to her skills. You hissed when she pressed her sleeve against the torn flesh, and she didn’t apologize—just steadied your shoulder with a firm grip.

“Lucky,” she muttered, eyeing the angry, bruised skin. “Half an inch deeper and you’d be eating dirt right now.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out hoarse.

“Could’ve been worse,” you croaked, and Kate’s smirk was as dry and humorless as ever.

“It usually is.”

Her sleeve came away dark with blood, you felt bad. She stepped off of you, shuffling around rotting crates and rusted tool boxes until she found a dish rag stuffed into an old lockbox and some used duct tape in the plastic containers on the shelves. She sauntered back over, folding the rag and pressing it to your wound, then tearing a strip of the duct tape and splaying it out across your ribs. It was gaudy, and definitely going to give you some sort of infection, but it would work to stop the bleeding for now.

“Thank you.”

“Mhm.”

In the dim, you could see her studying you again, that deep, animal calculation that made even your closest allies hesitate. But instead of judgment, you saw recognition—like she understood that ugly fury still boiling under your skin, because it was the same one carved into her bones.

“We’ll stay here tonight,” she ordered, voice quiet but absolute. “No way we can track back to the mansion like this. I need daylight.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but she was already moving, repositioning a length of rusted pipe across the door as a makeshift lock. The night beyond was deathly still now, police sirens faded so far they were only a ghost on the breeze.

Something about that silence crawled under your skin—too empty, too forgiving after what you’d done. But exhaustion hit you like a mallet anyway, and you sank against a crate thrown on the dusty ground, the world swimming.

Kate’s silhouette paced the tiny floor space, restless and sharp, a predator refusing to settle even with prey long since dead. 

The shed had gone quiet except for the occasional rustle of field mice in the hay, the only right the hard moonlight soaking in through the cracks, stretching and widening the shadows. Kate’s boots clicked against the old wood floor as she paced, her knife flicking in restless little arcs with every turn. The silence weighed on you, too heavy to ignore, pressing until your breathing felt trapped in your chest.

Finally, you broke.

“I wasn’t supposed to kill him.” The words scraped out raw, throat still scorched from running and screaming. “We needed him to talk. I—I lost it.”

Kate paused mid-step, eyes narrowing. “Yeah,” she bit out, “you did. You were sloppy.”

It punched through your ribs sharper than a bullet, but you didn’t look away. “He laughed at me, Kate,” you forced out, voice cracking. “He laughed. Said I didn’t have it in me. That he’d gut me and send my teeth back as a message.”

Kate’s jaw tightened, the blade in her hand dancing again as she flipped it over and over, muscle memory perfect and deadly. “And you proved him wrong.”

You flinched. “We needed him to talk.”

She exhaled through her nose, rough, almost a growl. “Yeah,” she admitted, pacing another line across the floor, “we did. But…” She paused, glaring at the half-rotted wall, then turned back to you. “I’ve had targets like that. You think you can keep it together, keep it clean. Then they push that one button and it’s like something snaps inside. Happens to all of us.”

You let your head tip back against the crate, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling. “It shouldn’t have happened to me.”

Kate snorted softly, a humorless, broken sound. “You think you’re above it?” she asked, tone still razor-edged. “I’ve seen Masky absolutely tear his hair out over not being able to stay calm. Seen Hoodie stare at a dead body for an hour because he felt so bad. You’re working for the Operator. There is no ‘above it.’ There’s alive or dead, and that’s the whole list.”

You swallowed the burn in your throat. “I wanted to do it right. I wanted—”

“To do it clean,” Kate interrupted, stepping closer, her pacing slowing. “You wanted to look like you had control. But control is a lie.”

Your gaze met hers then, and for the first time since she’d dragged you off the street, there was no judgment in her face—only a hard, weary understanding.

“I killed my first target with a hammer,” she admitted, voice low, almost lost under the hiss of the wind through the boards. “Slammed him so hard the handle snapped. I was supposed to bring him back for interrogation, but…” She shrugged, eyes far away for a heartbeat. “I saw him smile at me. Like I was just some kid. And I just… stopped caring.”

You blinked, surprise breaking through the shame churning in your gut. “Kate—”

“Don’t,” she cut in, but this time there was no bite to it. She finally lowered the knife, letting her arm fall slack at her side, shoulders sagging. “You think you’re a monster now?”

Your breath trembled. “Yeah.”

A tiny, almost gentle snort. “Good,” she said, voice soft, quiet in a way only you ever heard from her. “That means you’re still human.”

She walked over and sat beside you, the floor creaking under her weight, knees bumping yours. The knife stayed on the floor between you, a silent truce.

You looked down at your hands, still stained under your nails, still carrying phantom blood. Kate followed your gaze, then reached over and took one of them, holding it steady in her rough grip.

“Next time,” she said, steady, anchoring, “I’ll be there faster. You won’t have to hold back alone.”

Your eyes burned, but you bit down the sob before it could get loose.

“You’re not done,” she continued, leaning back so she could scan the doorway, ever the watchful eye even in this tiny moment of peace. “You’re shaken, you’re hurt, but you’re not finished. Remember that.”

You nodded, swallowing hard, letting her words root themselves somewhere deeper than the panic.

Kate leaned her head against the wall, close enough you could feel the warmth of her shoulder against yours. “We’ll wait here until they move the search. Then we go home.”

“Home,” you echoed, almost a laugh, but it died in your throat.

Kate smirked faintly. “Yeah,” she said, voice quieter than you’d ever heard it, “home.”

The night breathed around you, and finally, after everything, the two of you let yourselves sit in silence, side by side, the world outside still hunting—but for a few precious hours, unable to touch you.

Kate’s hand stayed wrapped around yours, her grip warm, grounding—so unlike the harsh commands she’d barked all night. Without warning, she shifted closer, pulling you until your shoulder pressed hard against her chest. The knife stayed forgotten on the floor as her other arm came around you, tight, protective, something almost desperate behind the way she held on.

She rested her chin against your hair for a moment, breathing you in, and then with a short, frustrated huff, she reached up to tug at the mask. The battered, blood-smeared plastic clattered to the floor, landing by her boots. Her face, so rarely seen, was softer than you remembered—sharp cheekbones, a scar cutting across her jaw, those cold eyes warmer now in the half-light.

“Look at me,” she murmured, voice husky, and you did, blinking through the burn of exhaustion and shame.

Kate’s thumb traced over your cheek, smearing grime and tears away. “You did good,” she said, firm, unyielding, as if daring you to argue. “You hear me? You did good. You made the call you had to make.”

Your throat threatened to close again. “I—”

But Kate didn’t let you finish. “No,” she cut in, voice dropping to something dangerous and low. “No more apologies. You survived, you kept your head, you got out. That’s good enough.”

Your eyes blurred, and you tried to look away, but her hand came up, fingers curling under your jaw, forcing you to hold her gaze.

“That’s good enough for me,” she breathed, the edge of a ragged sweetness cracking through her solidified discipline, “and it should be good enough for you.”

Before you could even find your next breath, her lips were at your temple, brushing warm against the skin there, then lower, grazing your cheekbone in a whisper of a kiss. You shuddered, leaning into her almost on instinct, your body screaming for comfort you hadn’t dared to want. Heat raised from your chest, an almost blistering flush on your cheeks.

Kate’s grip around your waist tightened, hauling you flush against her. Her mouth moved lower, skimming down your jaw, breath hot, the scrape of her nose against your neck making you jump.

“You’re perfect,” she whispered into your skin, every syllable a rough promise. “You’re not going to break on me, not tonight, not ever. I won’t let you.”

The warmth of her mouth met the side of your throat, a slow, burning kiss that made your pulse trip. You could barely process one sensation before the next followed—her lips open, tongue darting, teeth just skimming your pulse point in a bruising mark that sent a jolt all the way through your spine.

“Kate—” you tried, a gasp, but she just shushed you softly, dragging another kiss lower, then back up, repeating that dangerous pattern until you couldn’t breathe straight.

“You did so good,” she whispered between kisses, voice breaking over you like a benediction. “So damn good, don’t ever doubt it.”

One of her hands roamed up your ribs, careful not to brush your bandaged wound, strong and sure, tracing circles into your side while her other arm cradled your head. It felt like being pulled apart and held together at the same time, the rough security of her presence mingling with the heat of each lingering kiss.

“Breathe,” she commanded, mouth ghosting over your collarbone. “Come on, just relax for me.”

And you did—ragged, shaking, tears slipping free as every bit of panic and horror you’d bottled up poured out under her relentless, gentle destruction. Her mouth found your throat again, open and wet and claiming, and her fingers dug into your hip like she’d never let go.

“Kate,” you choked, overwhelmed, but she just pressed her forehead to yours, breathing hard, eyes locked to yours in an unspoken promise.

“I’ve got you,” she murmured, steady as iron. “I’ve always got you.”

Her lips claimed yours before you could reply, desperate and deep, breaking you open until nothing was left but the taste of blood and salt and her. You melted against her, letting her steal every doubt and fear with each bruising, perfect kiss, the night outside fading until there were only pitiful whimpers and breathy reassurances—all sharp edges and impossible safety, carrying you through the dread.

Kate pulled back just far enough to study you, eyes glittering darkly, catching every ragged tremor in your breath. Her hand came back to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing over your lips like she was memorizing the shape of your weakness.

“You’re still trying to hold on, aren’t you?” she rasped, voice low, dangerous, something feral under it.

You shivered, pulse stumbling at the accusation.

Kate’s smirk curved slow, wolfish. “Trying to keep from breaking,” she continued, leaning in until her mouth hovered against yours, so close you could taste her words, “even after everything. After you tore that man apart with your own hands.”

Her breath ghosted over your lips, making your body jolt with a need you’d barely let yourself feel.

“You want to own it now, don’t you?” she goaded, tone almost mocking, but twisted with a strange, brutal affection. “You want to feel like you’re in charge again.”

Your fingers dug into the front of her dark hoodie, knuckles white, but she only laughed—a dark, hungry sound that made your cheeks burn.

“Then take it,” she growled, crashing her mouth to yours again, teeth clacking, rough and claiming.

It broke something in you, the last thread of caution snapping clean. Your hands fumbled at her gear, yanking open straps, fighting with buckles, wanting her closer, wanting skin, anything that wasn’t hard fabric and bloodstains. Kate didn’t resist—she shoved back just enough to drag the hem of your shirt up, shoving the fabric off your arms and over your head, her hands already roaming the new bare skin like she owned it.

“You think you can control me?” she breathed against your lips, biting your lower one until you moaned. “Control this?” Her hands were everywhere, pushing you back until your spine hit the floorboards, pinning you there with a knee between your thighs, knocking her knife away until it hit against the opposite wall.

You swallowed a curse, gasping when she ground her leg against your center, electric heat flooding your nerves and making your hips jerk.

Kate leaned down, breath coming hard, hair falling around her face in a black curtain, pupils blown wide with need. “You can try,” she rasped, fingers curling in your waistband, “but you’ll never win.”

You arched into her, every nerve singing, desperate, mind fracturing with the way her hands kept stealing any scrap of composure. She tore open the button on your pants, and you clawed at her belt in return, fighting to peel it off. You needed her skin on yours, needed it now.

Clothing was discarded in jagged motions, ripped seams and impatient curses, pants dragged down your thighs and her hoodie hauled over her head. The chill of the night air hit your bare skin, goosebumps rising, but Kate’s mouth was there to burn them away, tongue and teeth mapping you with a feverish devotion. She hauled off your shoes, tearing your pants off the rest of the way and tossing them behind her. She smiled at your mismatched bra and panties, curling in on yourself, trying not to react to the way she bit her lip.

She stood up then, all heavy breathing and lean muscles running up her arms. You watched with heavy eyes, staring up at her as she pulled her belt from the loops, dropping the leather to the floor. You leaned up on your elbows. The sound made you twitch, whining when she slowly opened the button of her jeans, kicking off her boots.

“Don’t look so desperate,” she grinned like a cat, then pushed off her jeans, stepping out of them. You could’ve drooled at the way her boxer briefs hugged her hips, strong thighs and tight muscles making your stomach flutter with need. Her sports bra accentuated the curve of her chest, making her look like a horny fever-dream in the moonlight, every angle and curve of her body highlighted with the white light.

She pushed you down, hard enough to make the old wood creak, then followed, straddling your hips with a bruising grip. Her hand slid around your throat, not squeezing, just there—a terrifying promise you couldn’t help but lean into.

“Look at you,” she hissed, biting down on the edge of your jaw, “trying so hard to be in control, but you’re shaking for me.”

You tried to answer, but her hand tightened just slightly, forcing a ragged, hungry gasp from you instead.

“Say it,” Kate demanded, rolling her hips down so you could feel the wet patch growing in her boxers, sending sparks crashing through your bones. “Say you need me to make everything better.”

“I—” you tried, but your voice broke, caught between a sob and a moan.

Kate’s mouth was at your ear, voice molten and dangerous. “Say it.”

“I need you,” you choked, the words spilling out like a confession, raw and unfiltered.

Kate growled in triumph, claiming your mouth again, all teeth and heat, dragging her nails down your sides until you writhed. You clutched at her, pulling her closer, refusing to give an inch even as she devoured you. “Yeah? Need me to save you? Need me to make everything better?”

“I do—” you panted into her mouth, biting at her lips and running your hands up into her hair. 

She chuckled, “Good.”

It was all a blur of movements, Kate shoving you off, sitting up before she turned herself around, straddling your chest with her back facing you. You almost freaked, ready to question what she was doing before she was bending over, the swell of her ass in your face.

She pushed open your legs, her chest pressing against your abdomen as she pressed her arms between your thighs, opening you up for her to press her face down to your core, humming in approval at the wet state she found your panties in.

It was only when she ran her fingers against the fabric of your panties did you understand what was happening. Her legs planted on either side of your head, your hands coming around them to pull her closer, face-first with her clothed center. You could’ve died right there.

“You want control right? Want to feel powerful? Then take it. Don’t make me beg you.”

You groaned, reaching over the swell of her ass to pull her boxers down, eyes blowing wide when her glistening cunt pressed closer to your face. You obeyed, pulling her closer, burying your face against the heat of her thighs. Kate’s responding moan was ragged, full of dark satisfaction, her hands fisting in your thighs as she shifted, lining her dripping cunt above your mouth.

At the same time, she leaned forward, bracing herself on the floor, tugging your panties to the side with a desperate fist, until her mouth was at your core, a mirror to the hunger you felt, hot breath against your twitching clit.

You both froze for a breath, overwhelmed by the raw, perfect tension. Then Kate laughed, low and delighted.

“Don’t hold back,” she rasped, and before you could answer, her mouth was on you, tongue greedy and hot and merciless.

You cried out, muffled by the slick heat of her above you, but you didn’t falter. You pulled her hips down, dragging your tongue through her folds and licking her open, tasting her, worshipping her with every hungry pull of your mouth.

Kate swore, the sound breaking, hips grinding down against your tongue as her own mouth worked you with savage precision.

“Fuck—” she gasped, the vibration of her voice sinking into your core, “just like that—don’t stop.”

It was a brutal, desperate rhythm, the two of you devouring each other, hips grinding, hands clawing at whatever you could reach. Kate’s thighs trembled against your face, slick and perfect, while you felt her mouth dragging you higher, higher, tearing you apart with each filthy, perfect stroke.

You couldn’t tell whose voice was whose anymore, the moans tangled, ragged, echoing in the tiny shed. The smell of sweat, sex, and old dust made it all dizzying, animal, real.

Kate bit down on your thigh hard enough to leave a bruise, drawing a strangled scream from you, but you didn’t stop—you sucked harder, lashed your tongue against her clit until she was shaking so badly she had to brace herself on the hardwood.

You fucked your tongue into her cunt, her hips riding your jaw like she couldn’t stop herself, like your tongue was tearing her open. She followed, her fist tugging your panties further to the side as her free hand circled your clit.

You felt her spit onto your cunt, your clit twitching under the pressure as she rubbed the spit into your wetness. You nearly came when she pushed her fingers into your entrance, giving you barely any time to adjust before her lips were wrapping around your clit and sucking you for all you were worth. Your hips bucked up into her, her fingers curling and scissoring you open while she lapped up every drop that oozed out of you. 

You kept up, groaning every sound of approval into her cunt, fucking your tongue into her until her ass was jerking, bouncing her hips as you followed her every move.

“Fuck,” she snarled, voice gone almost raw, “you’re gonna make me—shit—don’t you dare stop—”

You didn’t. You let go completely, losing yourself in the taste and heat and rawness, and the moment she came, it tore through her like a wildfire. Kate screamed, bucking so hard you had to hold her steady, grinding down on your mouth while she shuddered apart.

The second you felt her break, you gripped her ass, forcing her onto your mouth as you drank ever squeal and whine that spilled from her lips, soaking your tongue as she clamped around you. She let her hips jerk, until they fizzled into spasms, panting against your cunt. Kate was still trembling, breath hot and uneven against your skin, when you felt something in you snap. A hungry, aching need to own this moment, to take it back, to burn away everything that had gone wrong tonight.

You shifted, rolling Kate onto her back before she could even catch her breath. Her eyes widened, pupils blown, lips still slick and parted.

“Wha—” she started, but you didn’t give her a chance to question you.

You swung your leg over her, straddling her, your body still shaking but your hands sure. Kate’s surprised grin was immediate, the kind of feral grin that dared you to take what you wanted.

“Oh?” she rasped, voice hoarse, “my girl wants more?”

You didn’t answer with words. You shifted back until you were over her mouth, grabbing the old wood of the shed’s wall to steady yourself. Kate’s hands immediately came up to hold your hips, fingers biting into your skin with possessive force.

Her breath was hot against you, and you shivered as she looked up, eyes glinting with pride and want.

“Then fucking take it,” she growled, and her tongue was on you again, greedy and brutal, dragging a cry straight from your throat.

Your hips rolled down, desperate, grinding against her mouth until you saw stars. Kate groaned against you, guiding you harder against her tongue, her hands pinning you in place with the strength of a killer—ironic.

You couldn’t hold back—your body moved on instinct, chasing that edge with a violence that felt almost holy, grinding down against her again and again. The shed rattled with each movement, old metal tools clanging somewhere in the background, but all you heard was your own ragged breathing and Kate’s dark, hungry moans.

She didn’t let up for a second, devouring you, tongue working with ruthless precision until your thighs were trembling, your voice breaking on every breath.

“Fuck, Kate—” you gasped, your hands scrabbling against the wall, “don’t—don’t stop—Make me cum.”

She laughed against you, a low, possessive sound, and pulled you down harder, refusing to let you escape her mouth. Your grabbed at the chest, her ribs, clawing your fingers from her abdomen to her throat as you fucked yourself down onto her, dragging your hips with one roll of her tongue after the other. You could feel it, the desperate, animalistic pull of your core, the heat teetering at the edge, until it was just too good—

You came apart for her, body locking up, your entire mind blanking out under the intensity. Kate held you steady through it, not letting you move away until you were sobbing, breathless and boneless above her, her tongue still dipping inside and lapping up drop after dropped that soaked onto her lips.

When your arms gave out and your stomach couldn’t hold yourself up any longer, she finally let go of your hips.

She let you collapse to the side, crawling over you and dragging you into her arms, her lips swollen and slick with you. She kissed you, messy and unhurried, her fingers still tracing patterns on your oversensitive thighs as you both tasted each other on your tongues.

“There you go,” she whispered, pride dripping from every word, “taking back control. That’s my girl.”

You buried your face in her neck, heart pounding, the last traces of fear and failure finally burned away.

With Kate, you could be as wild and reckless as you wanted—and she’d always be there, hungry enough to catch you. Ready enough to face whatever fucked up problems you had, and would be more than ready to make you face them.

And it didn’t matter how hopeless you felt, because she would always be right there—with sharp eyes and steady hands, her heartbeat locked in time with yours, ready to pull you out of the dark every time you slipped, ready to chase away the monsters even if you were one of them.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝  CLOCKWORK

“Get down.”

A hand shot out of the shadows, fingers iron-strong around your wrist, dragging you back so hard you nearly lost your footing. You hit the wall of an old shed with a breathless thud, instincts screaming, gun half-raised—but before you could pull the trigger, your eyes met a familiar, glinting clock-face grin.

“Natalie—”

She stepped from the shadows like a specter, copper hair glinting under the streetlights, eye like split green glass fixed on yours with terrifying precision. That clock set into her socket ticked steady, a hypnotic, terrifying constant, and the weight of her fists promised she could rebuild you—or tear you apart—at a moment’s notice.

“Easy,” she hissed, one palm clamping over your mouth as her mismatched eyes darted past you, scanning the darkness where sirens wailed and red-blue lights cut through the trees like a curse. “Don’t you fucking move.”

Your heart slammed in your ribs, adrenaline biting at every nerve. You could still taste the metallic tang of blood in your mouth, still see the shattered remains of that bastard. You’d lost control, and now the cops were here, too close, too loud.

Natalie’s breath burned against your ear, her mechanical eye clicking as she focused. “How many?” she growled, her voice low and lethal, like the grind of a blade against bone.

“Six—seven,” you gasped against her palm. “Two on foot, rest in cars.”

She scowled, fingers flexing around your wrist. “Fuck,” she snapped. “Come on.”

Then she was hauling you forward, leaving no room to argue, boots pounding hard through wet leaves and broken fencing. You tore after her, lungs screaming, legs shaking with exhaustion and leftover rage. Every time you stumbled, she yanked you upright, refusing to let you collapse. You hopped cracking sidewalks and the bones of fences that barely held the barking dogs behind them.

Past the tree line, the flashing cop lights bled into the night behind you, and then the world opened up—a rust-bitten old gas station, long boarded shut, weeds growing tall around shattered pumps. Clockwork barely slowed, steering you around the side, where a battered old pickup crouched low in the dark like a patient animal. Her truck, the one that she had fixed up herself and played music in so loud the mirrors shook. She was supposed to drive you back to the mansion after you finished, you were supposed to meet back up here, not get dragged and have your heart aching from adrenaline.

“Get in,” she ordered, yanking the passenger door open.

You didn’t hesitate. The second your boots hit the cab floor, Natalie was in after you, slamming the door and twisting the key in a rattling ignition. You winced, grabbing your side and gritting your teeth when blood stained your palm. The engine coughed, then roared to life, headlights cutting a pale wound into the night.

“Hold on,” she barked, throwing the truck into reverse.

Tires skidded, mud and gravel spraying as she spun you around, then tore out across the overgrown lot, aiming for the crumbling highway beyond.

Your pulse still refused to settle, vision sparking from shock and fury, hands twitching where they braced against the dash. She was laser-focused on the road, jaw clenched, mechanical eye sweeping left to right like a predator scanning for threats.

“Talk to me,” she snapped over the engine’s growl. “What the hell happened?”

You swallowed, trying to shove the blood-soaked images out of your head. “He—he wouldn’t talk, Nat. Wouldn’t give up the data. I tried to scare him, but—” Your voice cracked, shame cutting through the high. “I lost it. I couldn’t stop. There was so much blood—”

She didn’t even flinch, hands steady on the wheel, eyes catching yours for a fraction of a second. “You lost control,” she said flatly, as if reading a grocery list, not judging, just knowing.

You nodded, throat tight.

Her lips twitched, a dark little smirk breaking across her features. “Good.”

Your head snapped toward her. “What?”

Clockwork’s good eye stayed forward, but the edge of her grin was vicious. “He deserved worse. You went too far, yeah—but you came back. You ran. That means you’re still thinking, not just killing on a spree.”

You swallowed hard, a shaky breath catching in your lungs.

Natalie’s voice dropped, soft, dangerous. “Means I can still work with you. Means you’ve still got your head on your shoulders.”

The truck hit a pothole, bouncing you in your seat, but she never lost control. Never. It did, however, make you wince when your wound pulled open just a bit.

Past the broken highway, the woods turned to open fields and crumbling barns, no lights, no sirens. Safe—for now.

Natalie finally let the speed bleed away, pulling off the main road into a half-dead cornfield, where she killed the headlights and let the engine idle. Night swallowed you both, thick and heavy, only your harsh breathing breaking the silence.

She looked at you then, really looked, eyes scanning every fleck of blood and dirt on your face, the tremor in your hands. Slowly, deliberately, she reached over, clicking her cold, mechanical fingers against your jaw, tilting your head toward her.

“You’re bleeding,” she hummed, the edge of panic hidden but not gone.

You followed her gaze, down to where a warm, sticky heat had been blooming across your ribs, too drowned out by adrenaline to fully take a moment to handle it. When you pulled up your shirt, the wound was gushing spurts of blood.

“Shit,” you muttered, wincing.

Clockwork’s jaw tensed, her scar twitching. “Did the guy do it?”

“No,” you gasped, trying to peel your shirt away from the wound. It burned like hell, but didn’t feel deep—a graze. “Bullet clipped me.”

“Alright.” She slammed the brakes, hard enough to make you lurch forward in your seat. The truck skidded onto a shoulder lined with dead grass, pulling through a gap in the trees and settling behind a row of branches and bushes, just out of sight to any drivers passing.

Without a word, she twisted around, popping open the glove compartment and tossing you a battered green metal box. “First aid kit. Clean it before it gets all over my seats,” she ordered, as if there wasn’t stain after mysterious stain on the fabric already.

You hesitated, chest still rising and falling in ragged bursts. Natalie reached over, hooking a finger under your chin and forcing you to meet her eyes, her grip cold and unyielding.

“Do it,” she growled, “before you pass out on me.”

You swallowed hard and nodded, fumbling the latch of the kit open. Gauze, tape, a half-used roll of bandages—it felt clumsy and distant in your shaking hands, but you did what you could, pressing antiseptic pads to the torn skin.

Clockwork stayed close, one hand still on your chin, the other gripping the back of your seat, refusing to let you fold in on yourself. Her breathing was shallow, mechanical eye flicking over every move you made.

“You’re lucky it was a graze,” she rasped, voice steadier now but lined with something like fury. “If that bullet had gone an inch deeper—”

Her words cut off, teeth clacking shut, like she couldn’t let herself finish the thought.

You looked up at her, trying to laugh, though it came out strangled. “Since when do you worry about me?”

Natalie’s mouth twitched, something raw sparking in her mismatched gaze. “Since you decided to massacre someone in the middle of a suburban neighborhood,” she shot back, but the bite was duller, softened by the way her thumb brushed your jaw.

You slumped back against the seat, breath rattling in your lungs, the makeshift bandage clinging to your side. The sting of antiseptic was nothing compared to the jagged guilt clawing at your throat. The memories wouldn’t leave you alone—the target’s face, twisted in terror, the way your hands had felt when you tore them apart. You were supposed to get information, not slaughter him like an animal.

Your fingers twitched, still stained red. You couldn’t stop seeing it.

Natalie was watching you, good eye sharp, reading every flicker of pain across your face. You couldn’t hide from her, even if you tried.

“I shouldn’t have lost it,” you blurted out, voice cracking. “He was just supposed to talk—I was supposed to make him talk. And then I couldn’t stop, Nat. I couldn’t fucking stop—”

Your words spiraled out of you, messy and shaking. “I should be better than this, but I’m not. I’m a monster. I am what they say I am.”

Your head dropped into your hands, hot tears burning down your cheeks, smearing the dirt and blood in streaks.

For a long moment, Natalie didn’t speak. The truck engine ticked softly, cooling in the silence. Then she shifted forward, reaching out, gentle in a way that was so alien it broke you all over again. She brushed your hair back from your face, fingertips cold where skin met skin.

“You listen to me,” she murmured, voice steady, strong, like steel. “You are better than this. You had a moment—a moment. That’s all. Don’t let that define you.”

You tried to turn away, but she wouldn’t let you, catching your chin in her palm and forcing your eyes back to hers.

“You hear me?” she repeated, softer, close enough you could feel her breath. “You are more than your worst night.”

You choked on another sob, fresh tears spilling over, but Clockwork was already there, wiping them away with the edge of her thumb, brushing every drop aside with meticulous care. Her expression was fierce, protective, unbearably tender.

“You did what you had to,” she breathed, leaning closer until her lips grazed your temple. “And you came back. You came back to me. That’s what matters.”

Your body trembled, still half-shattered under the weight of everything, but her warmth pulled you back from the brink.

Then, gently, she started to kiss your tears away, mouth brushing soft over your cheekbones, the tip of your nose, each little trail of salt. You shivered, swallowing a sob, helpless under the delicate press of her lips.

Her hand moved from your jaw to the back of your neck, tugging you closer until your foreheads touched, her other hand still cradling your side like she could take the pain for you.

And then she kissed you.

It was slow, deep, claiming, like she was rewriting the taste of blood with her own mouth, trying to replace the screams with something sweeter. You leaned into it, desperate, letting her steal the weight of the night right off your shoulders.

Her fingers tangled in your hair, guiding you deeper, tongue teasing against yours until your breathing turned ragged. You felt everything in that kiss: her forgiveness, her want, her absolute refusal to let you drown.

When she finally pulled away, she kept you close, her nose brushing yours.

“Don’t you ever run from me again,” she whispered, voice raw, eyes locked to yours. “We carry this shit together, you hear me?”

You nodded, tears still shimmering, heart pounding wildly in your chest.

Natalie didn’t let you go, her lips tracing yours with a dark sort of sweetness, letting you breathe for half a second before pulling you right back under. The taste of her, the bite of metal against your skin, was a lifeline—and you clung to it like you might drown without her.

But underneath the relief, there was still a wildfire of rage and fear, a shaking need to do something, to feel something stronger than regret. You kissed her harder, teeth clacking, a low whimper tearing out of your chest as you pressed closer.

Natalie didn’t flinch. Her grin was dangerous, pupil blown wide, her mechanical iris ticking in wild little jolts as you practically devoured her.

“Yeah,” she breathed, breaking away for a second, voice hoarse. “Let it out. Don’t hold back on me.”

She bit your bottom lip as she spoke, dragging you across the console, not caring when your thigh slammed into the gearshift. You let out a surprised yelp, but she only laughed, a rough sound that made your blood burn.

Her hands were on you. She pushed out of her seat, sliding across the console and into the backseat, dragging you over her lap and back with her, the truck rocking with the motion. You couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, too consumed by the taste of her mouth and the harsh, desperate way her hands were tearing at your clothes as you straddled her lap.

“C’mere,” she growled, gripping the hem of your ruined shirt and yanking it up, exposing the angry bandage and the blood-streaked skin around it. She paused, eyes darting over the wound, something protective flashing there—but then her lips were on your ribs, kissing carefully around the bandage, biting at unbroken skin, leaving marks you’d feel for days.

You moaned, the sound ripped out of you, back arching as her cold, calloused hand slid up your spine. You ground down on her lap, tightening your hands on the seat behind her, dragging your rapidly twitching center across her jeans.

“That’s it,” she praised, lips brushing hot against your sternum. “Give it to me—all of it. I can take it.”

It shattered something in you.

Your fingers tangled in her messy hair, yanking hard, pulling her mouth back to yours in a bruising kiss that left you both gasping. Her hands roamed lower, squeezing your ass, dragging you flush to her until you could feel the button of her jeans under you.

You ground down against her thigh, clumsy and desperate, half-crazed with the need to burn the horror out of your veins.

Natalie held you there, voice low and taunting against your ear. “That’s my girl. Can’t control it, huh? You want to take it back, don’t you?”

You whimpered, nails digging into her shoulders. “Yes—”

She chuckled, dark and sweet. “Then take it. You’re angry? Upset? Take it out on me, let me have it.”

She shoved you back, letting you sprawl across the cracked leather of the back seat, then followed, caging you in with her hands on either side of your head. Her weight pinned you down, stealing your breath, making your pulse thunder.

Her mouth went lower, kissing down your stomach, tongue flicking at the edge of your waistband, hands already tugging at it with a violence that made you gasp. You pushed against her shoulders, trying to breathe, but she only pinned you harder, eyes flashing.

“Don’t run from this,” she growled against your skin. “Don’t run from me.”

Then she was tearing the rest of your clothes away, popping open the button of your pants and dragging them down to your ankles, shoving your shoes off with them. You hauled your shirt over your head, Natalie growling when you went to reach for your bra next.

It was a flash of movement and she was dragging your panties off, giving you barely a moment to breathe before she was hauling her own shirt off. You looked wide-eyed up at her, leaving you bare and exposed, but somehow safer than you’d felt in hours. Her hands mapped every inch of you, cold and demanding, grounding you in their steadiness. Her bra hugged her body tight, heavy breathing stretching the fabric, but the only thing you could think was—you needed to tear it off.

You felt your mind blur, the grief, the rage, the guilt—all of it funneling into the wild, reckless heat between you. You needed to feel her, to mark her the way she was marking you, to lose yourself in the violence of wanting.

She kissed you again, deep and possessive, swallowing the last of your broken cries, her hands leaving bruises on your hips as she dragged you closer.

You reached behind her back when she latched onto your neck, unclipping her bra and dragging it off her shoulders. She did yours in return.

Natalie didn’t waste another second. She pushed you down harder into the seat, her hands seizing your wrists and pinning them above your head, eyes locked on yours with a hungry, unblinking focus that made your heart stutter.

“You want this?” she rasped, voice rough and shaking. “Then fight for it.”

You bucked up against her, wild, teeth bared in a snarl that was half sob, half want. The truck’s suspension creaked with the force of it, but she didn’t let you go, didn’t even waver, holding you steady with those vice-grip hands.

“Come on,” she coaxed, breathless, a crooked grin twisting her lips. “Show me you’re still in there.”

You lunged up, crashing your mouth to hers, savage and messy, the kiss breaking over and over between gasps for air. Natalie only deepened it, biting at your lower lip until you tasted blood, then licking it away like she owned every drop.

Her other hand was everywhere, tracing hard lines over your ribs, the curve of your waist, down to your hips. She squeezed there, possessive, a bruising grip that made you whimper into her mouth.

“God, you’re hungry,” she breathed, pulling away to scan your face, eyes blown wide and wild. “So desperate.”

You nearly cried from the sheer relief of it, hips grinding up against the rough material of her jean-covered thigh, trying to get any friction. But she made you work for it, shifting just out of reach, smirking as you squirmed beneath her.

“Natalie—”

“What?” she teased, dragging a fingertip from your collarbone to the edge of your bandage, circling the wound with a dark tenderness. “You want something?”

You nodded, breath coming ragged, hands clenched into fists against her hold.

“Say it.”

You swallowed, shame burning through your chest, but the need was too raw to hide. “I want you. Please—”

She laughed, low and filthy, and let go of your wrists, only to grip your jaw in one cold, strong hand. “Good girl.”

Then she was kissing you again, rougher, tongue hot and demanding, a rhythm that left you dizzy. Her free hand trailed down, sliding between your legs without hesitation, and you nearly came apart from the single finger that she dragged through your slick.

“That’s it,” she purred against your cheek, nipping the delicate skin there. “Take it. You’ve been holding back all night, take what you need.”

You moved with her, frantic, fighting against the hold she had on your wrists but not being able to break it. The contrast of her warm body and cold fingers running through your folds sent a chill straight to your core, and you moaned, arching into her.

Natalie pressed two slick-soaked fingers to your clit, dragging obnoxious circles along the bud, making you grind against her, desperate and furious.

“Fuck,” you choked out, tears spilling again—from relief, from adrenaline, from the raw, impossible ache of surviving. You arched your hips, begging her fingers to push inside, her digits circling your clenching cunt. She chuckled, dragging her lips up the side of your throat, nipping your jaw—then shoving two fingers all the way to knuckle deep into your gummy walls.

You cried out, back arching off the seat, eyes shooting wide. Tears flowed harder. She kissed them away, like before, but this time with her fingers dipping into your cunt, pulling you open for her, rough and perfect. She curled her knuckles, pumping the digits so fast you felt like she was rattling you. Her palm pressed against your clit, bumping the nub every time her fingers pumped, making you moan so loud and breathless.

“No more hiding,” she growled, voice shaking, her breath coming as ragged as yours. “No more doubting yourself. You’re mine. You understand?”

“Yes—”

“That’s right,” she snarled, letting your hands go. You arched, nails raking down her back, pulling her closer until there was no space left at all, no past, no future, just this endless, hungry now.

She moved hard, fingers relentless, every thrust a demand that you feel, that you live, that you fight back. And you did, meeting her, matching her, letting every shred of guilt and terror burn away in the heat of her hands and the rough sweetness of her kisses.

Natalie’s voice stayed in your ear, a constant, grounding rasp. “Good. Good. Show me. Don’t hold back.”

You couldn’t—and you didn’t. Despite the feeling, the overwhelmingly amazing feeling, you wanted her—all of her. You reached between you, tearing open the button of her jeans and pushing the waistband down. She chuckled, pushing her fingers in your cunt to the hilt and holding them there, grinding her palm against your cunt. You mewled as she sat up off of you, grinding your hips up as she pushed her jeans down with one hand. 

“Nat—”

“Hold on—”

“No.” You pushed up, pushing her hands off of you and grabbing at her hips. You hauled her down onto the seat, flipping the two of you so her back hit the fabric with a grunt. She stared up at you with a wide eye as you dragged her jeans down the rest of the way, pulling her boots off with them. Her panties were soaked already, messy fabric right around her hips as you peeled them down too. Natalie grinned, teeth barred when you climbed onto her lap, dripping cunt barely giving Natalie a moment to adjust in her position before you were throwing one leg over her hips and slotting the other underneath.

You planted your foot on the carpet of the truck, the other hooking over her leg and beside her hip, then pressing down as hard as you could.

Your bare cunts met in a shock of white heat and ecstasy. You both groaned deep and loud, bucking up into the heat of the other as you began to grind your desperation against her. Soaked lips and glistened folds rubbed together, clits bumping and thighs shaking.

Natalie moaned deep in her chest, her auburn hair splaying under her as her flushed cheeks and freckles shined in the moonlight filtering through the windows. Your stomach curled, muscles working to ride your arousal and need as you fucked your cunt against hers. “Mhnn-Hah— Nat—Natalie, oh, god—”

“Use me, baby—Fuck—take it all out on me.”

You sped up, legs burning so bad from way you knocked your hips so violently against hers, clit burning with the sensation.

Your whole body was singing, burning, shivering, and Natalie seemed to feel it in every breath you took. She leaned up onto her elbows, just far enough to look up at you—sweat-slicked, shaking, absolutely ruined—and grinned with a predator’s satisfaction.

Then, without warning, she pushed you down, hooking one hand under your knee and flipping you to the side, your back hitting the cracked vinyl seat with a dull thud.

“Fuck—” you gasped, but she was already moving, already pressing herself against you, pinning you down.

“Spread,” she growled, voice a ragged command.

You obeyed, hips rolling forward, your legs parting around her thighs. Natalie slipped her fingers under your knee again, adjusting you until your cores aligned, heat meeting heat in a molten jolt that stole your breath.

Her pupils blew wide, lips parted in a soft, disbelieving curse. “God, you’re so fucking wet.”

You moaned, helpless, grinding forward as the brush of her skin against yours sent a white-hot shock of pleasure through your whole body.

“Yeah,” she breathed, catching your hips in her hands, guiding you, “that’s it, baby—right there.”

And then she was moving with you, hips rocking together, a perfect friction of arousal and sweat that left you both shaking. The rough fabric of the truck seat bit into your back, grounding you, but it was nothing compared to the dizzy, consuming sensation of Natalie’s cunt dragging over yours again and again, a filthy, perfect rhythm.

Your voices tangled—gasps, broken moans, curses—the truck rocking slightly under your combined, desperate motion.

“Harder,” you choked out, fingers digging into her shoulder, nails biting hard enough to draw blood.

She gave you exactly what you wanted, grinding down, hips rolling with a force that made stars burst behind your eyes. You couldn’t remember why you were upset, it didn’t matter, the tears in your eyes weren’t from sadness or anger anymore, but from feeling so fucking good you thought you might pass out.

“Don’t you fucking stop,” she hissed, every word a ragged praise, hands slipping behind your back to pull you closer, grinding so hard you felt the shock of each impact in your teeth. You both moved together, hips pulling back for just a second before you were knocking back together again, fucking your cunts together thrust after thrust.

You couldn’t hold back—couldn’t even think—just moved with her, matching her hungry rhythm, every nerve on fire, hips snapping in time with hers.

Natalie’s leaned up off the seat, pushed one of your legs back and propping your heel on her shoulder. She leaned down, spreading your legs so wide you felt the burn and pull in your hip flexors. She was tearing you apart, head dropped to your shoulder, panting against your skin, her voice raw.

“Fuck—look at you, taking what you want—just like that—”

The sound of skin against skin was obscene, slick and hot and perfect, sending you higher, faster, until all you could do was whimper her name, over and over.

Her lips found your throat, biting down hard enough to leave a mark you could already feel, the pain blooming in perfect harmony with the heat building low and unstoppable in your belly.

She must have sensed it, felt the way your hips stop pulling back and instead chased hers, refusing to do anything but grind so hard you thought your pelvis would crack.

“Come on,” she growled against your neck, voice breaking. “Give it to me—let it go—”

You slammed forward against her one last time, clit slamming against hers just right, and it detonated inside you, a blinding rush of release tearing a scream from your lungs.

Natalie followed right after, her rhythm stuttering, a strangled moan ripping through her as she ground down hard, chasing every last spark of pleasure. You both felt the gush, the way your cunts soaked into each other, sloppiness all over your thighs and puffy lips.

For a long, endless moment, you clung to each other, shaking, breathless, the truck echoing with your ragged gasps. Then she collapsed against you, still tangled together, her lips pressing soft, shaky kisses into your neck. Your leg slipped off her shoulder and down to her waist, wrapping around her as she soaked in the taste of you.

“Goddamn,” she breathed, a laugh breaking through her hoarse voice, “you are something else.”

Your body still trembled, aftershocks making you twitch against her, the world around you a haze of sweat and shallow breathing. Natalie stayed right there, her skin warm and sticky against yours, her arm curled protectively around your waist.

For a minute, there was only the pounding of your hearts, a soft lull that almost made you think you could sleep right there. But Natalie was never one to leave silence alone for long.

She lifted her head, brushing her nose against your cheek, voice still thick and rough. “Hey,” she rasped, “you with me?”

You nodded, blinking through the tears that still clung to your lashes. Your throat burned, voice barely a whisper. “Yeah. I’m here.”

“Good,” she said, a crooked smile tugging at her lips. She nudged your jaw until you met her eyes, thumb sweeping gently across your cheek. “Because you did damn good tonight. You hear me?”

Your chest twisted, shame trying to worm its way back in, but Natalie shut it down with a sharp, possessive kiss.

“No guilt,” she murmured against your mouth. “No second-guessing. You made the call. You survived.”

You swallowed, tears rising again—you couldn’t even help it. “I lost control,” you croaked, voice shaking.

She kissed you again, harder, shutting down the tremor with sheer force. “Then take it back,” she growled, and that hungry grin returned, eyes shining with something dark and unstoppable. “We're not done until you can admit that.”

Before you could answer, she was shifting, moving down your body, peppering kisses over the curve of your chest, her hands greedy and rough on your thighs.

“Natalie—”

“Shh,” she soothed, one hand running up your abdomen, nails dragging lightly over your ribs until you shivered. “I’m gonna help you take it back.”

You gasped as she eased your legs apart again, settling between them, eyes locked on yours with a focused, feral calm that made your pulse spike. You spread your thighs, her hands on the underside of your knees and pressing them back.

Her voice dropped to a sinful murmur. “Let me hear you, sweetheart. Don’t hold anything back.”

She kissed lower, pressing hot, claiming bites along your belly, then dipping between your legs again, dragging her tongue through your ruined folds quick and filthy. You almost sobbed, thighs clamping around her shoulders, but she pinned you open with that inhuman strength, refusing to let you hide.

“That’s it,” she purred, her voice vibrating right through you, “give me everything. Every bit of it.”

Your hands flew to her hair, fingers tangling as you arched into her mouth, the heat of her tongue driving you right back into that place where nothing existed but sensation. Natalie ate you like she’d been starving, relentless, pushing you higher and higher until you felt like you might break apart. Her tongue rolled over your clit, then soaked down into your entrance, pressing the muscle into the hot, sticky hole as it clamped down around her.

You tried to muffle your cries, but she caught your hips in an iron grip, pulling you closer, grinding her face against you with a filthy groan. She slurped your cunt, tongue darting in and out in filthy, sloppy kisses.

“Louder,” she commanded, breaking free just long enough to catch your eyes, pupil wide and dark as she panted. “You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.”

Then she dove back in, tongue working you with such unrestrained hunger it made your vision blur. She curled her tongue up, her nose grinding against your clit with all the reverence of an animal as she growled into your arousal. 

“Fuck Natalie!” you cried, tugging her hair so hard she whined. “M’gonna cum—please, god—Aghhh—” You couldn’t fight it—wouldn’t fight it—and the second orgasm crashed through you hard enough to make your spine curl off the seat, a strangled scream tearing free.

Natalie held you through every wave, licking you clean, drawing out the pleasure until it left you gasping and spent.

Finally, she came back up, breath ragged, lips slick and pink, good eye bright with pride. She leaned down, pressing her forehead to yours.

“There you are,” she whispered, voice shaking with raw relief, “my girl.”

You pulled her down into a kiss, clinging to her, needing that final anchoring warmth. She let you have it, wrapping you up tight, cradling your face as the adrenaline bled away and your heart began to steady again.

No more sirens, no more screaming, no more guilt. Just Natalie, breathing with you, holding you together piece by piece.

And it didn’t matter how guilty you felt, because she would always be right there—her smirk twisting into something soft just for you, her hands knowing exactly how to fix you, how to stitch you back together, whispering that the blood on your hands didn’t make you less worthy of being held.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝  NINA THE KILLER

A scream nearly tore its way out of your throat when a hand yanked you off your feet, dragging you with brutal force behind a sagging dumpster. Your boots scraped across wet concrete, heart hammering, gun still clenched in your white-knuckled grip.

“Hush,” a sharp voice hissed in your ear, and you froze.

“Nina—”

You glimpsed her in the glare of a police car headlight, dark jacket and mini-skirt sticking to her body, color-dyed hair wild around her fierce grin. Her mouth was smudged in fresh red, a sloppy grin echoing in the paint on her cheeks, eyes gleaming like a rabid dog’s as she sized you up. Gorgeous, manic, fearless—dripping danger like perfume.

She held you pinned in the shadows, her arm locked around your waist like iron, her knife glinting at her hip, crimson-stained from god only knew what. The pink-streaked hair framing her face shimmered under the ugly yellow light of a flickering street lamp, her split smile and too-white face stern with concentration and worry as she scanned the street.

She was supposed to be your lookout, supposed to help if anything went wrong and get the two of you out—but when you went into that house alone and left with blood on your hands, all you cared about was getting away.

“Shit, sweetheart, you trying to get killed tonight?” she rasped, eyes flashing with a furious glint.

You swallowed, lungs burning. Sirens wailed nearby, closer, their red-and-blue glow sweeping across the brick walls of the back alley. A police cruiser turned the corner in a screech of tires, spotlight slicing across trash bins and shattered glass.

“They’re everywhere,” you panted, your side still screaming from the bullet that grazed you, “I— I couldn’t—”

“Focus,” Nina hissed, giving you a small, almost violent shake. “Breathe.”

You tried. The night felt suffocating, the smell of wet concrete and asphalt mixing with gunpowder and coppery blood, but you forced yourself to drag air into your lungs.

Nina peered around the edge of the shed, her breathing shallow, the glint in her eyes practically feral. “Cops are sweeping the whole block,” she whispered. “We gotta move.”

“Where?” you rasped.

She grinned, wolfish and electric. “Behind the grocery store. I know the way. Come on.”

Nina didn’t wait—she hauled you forward by the wrist, practically dragging you along the damp alley. Your boots splashed through puddles, the gritty asphalt tearing at your knees when you nearly stumbled, but Nina was relentless. She kept you pinned against her side, a shield of rage and confidence.

The grocery store’s loading bay was barely lit, the rusted metal doors chained shut. Nina guided you into the deep shadows behind a leaning stack of pallets, shoving you to crouch low. You winced, pressing a palm against the graze on your side. Blood was soaking through your shirt, warm and sickly.

Nina crouched beside you, eyes darting everywhere, chest heaving. Her blade was still out, steady in her hand even as the adrenaline shook her bones.

“You got shot?” she hissed, pressing her hands around the bloodied area.

“Just a graze,” you ground out, teeth clenched.

She swore under her breath, reaching to tug your hand away so she could see the wound. The harsh neon glow from a backdoor sign flickered over her face, revealing the raw edge of concern in her dark eyes, her eyeshadow and mascara slightly ruined from all the messiness of the night.

“God, baby, you’re a mess,” she smiled, voice threading between worry and that hungry, almost aroused adrenaline you never understood when she saw blood. “Fucking beautiful.”

You laughed, bitter, shaky. “Thanks.”

Nina’s grin widened, dangerous and manic. “Listen, we sit tight here until they sweep past. Then we’re getting the fuck out, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She leaned closer, her breath hot on your cheek, eyes locked on yours with deadly focus. “You follow my lead. If anyone comes back here, I will gut them, and you will run. Got it?”

“Got it,” you whispered.

The sirens blared again, closer still. You ducked lower, heartbeat rattling your ribs like a caged animal. Nina pressed in against your side, the heat of her body grounding you, steadying you.

And in that heartbeat, hidden behind rotten cardboard and rusted metal, you realized she was your lifeline—vicious, unstoppable, and willing to burn the world down for you.

The pounding of police boots grew louder, sweeping through the street outside. Nina tensed, blade ready, her arm protectively caging you against her chest.

Until you heard voices, loud and deep, hollering that there was movement on the east side of the street, far away from where you actually were. You both took a collective sigh of relief as you heard them all move away, boots and tire screeches trailing down the road and away from the electric buzzing of the sign overhead.

The cops’ shouts finally faded, the screaming sirens drifting off down the next block. The pulsing of flashlight beams shrank away, swallowed by the night, until it was just you and Nina in the cold hush of the alley.

For a second, neither of you moved. Your heartbeat still slammed in your ears, the metallic tang of blood mixing with rotting produce and old rain. You shivered, shoulders pressed against the damp bricks.

Nina lowered her knife, though she didn’t sheathe it, eyes fixed on you with that same electric focus.

“Talk to me,” she demanded, voice sweet and concerned. “What the fuck happened out there?”

Your throat burned. You opened your mouth, but everything spilled out in a rush, hot and cracked, like tearing open a wound all over again.

“I—it was supposed to be simple,” you choked, breath stuttering, “just information, Nina, that’s all—I tried—I tried to get him to talk but he laughed at me, he laughed, and I—”

Your hands trembled, fingers still sticky with drying blood.

“I lost it,” you admitted, tears biting your eyes, “I lost everything. I couldn’t stop, I—”

Nina leaned in, closer, until her forehead nearly touched yours. Her eyes burned, dark and unreadable, taking in every trembling word.

“Baby,” she murmured, “look at me.”

You did.

She tore at her own skirt, yanking a strip of pink speckled fabric free with a vicious rip. Without flinching, she pressed it against your side, staunching the oozing graze. Her touch was surprisingly gentle, even as her words stayed sharp.

“You think I’m gonna hate you for that?” she scoffed, voice almost amused. “You think I wouldn’t have loved watching you tear him apart?”

Your breath hitched.

“You think I wouldn’t have wanted to see you,” she went on, binding the cloth tight around your waist, “so beautiful covered in a bastard’s blood?”

She grinned, a razor’s edge of wickedness.

“You are gorgeous, sweetheart,” she purred, eyes dancing in the weak alley light, “beautiful and terrifying, just the way I like you.”

Nina finished tying the makeshift bandage, fingers lingering on your skin, pressing into you like a brand. Then she lifted your hands, stained crimson and shaking, and kissed the knuckles one by one.

“You are beautiful,” she whispered, lips brushing blood and dirt, “and you were perfect tonight.”

Your chest cracked open, a sob catching in your throat, but Nina was already moving—kissing higher, dragging her lips up your forearm, tasting the tang of copper on your skin.

She cupped your face in both hands, smearing your own blood across your cheeks, and kissed you hard. It was brutal, claiming, the taste of metal and sweat and fear on both your tongues.

Nina devoured you like she’d starve without it, her voice breaking between kisses, “Perfect, perfect, beautiful, perfect girl—”

The night outside was silent again, but you felt the world roar back to life in her arms, lit up by Nina’s praise, Nina’s fire, Nina’s mouth on yours—tearing away every scrap of guilt and sewing it back up with something dark, and alive, and endless.

Nina’s mouth was hungry, biting at your lips, stealing every shaky breath from your lungs. Her hands slid over your shoulders, slick with blood, fingers gripping hard enough to bruise. She couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t get enough of you, like you were oxygen after she’d just drowned.

She drew back just a hair, panting, staring down at your stained hands with pupils blown wide. “God, baby,” she moaned, voice trembling with twisted adoration, “look at these hands…”

She lifted them to her mouth with wide eyes. Her teeth scraped lightly as she took your middle finger between her lips and sucked, eyes fluttering half-shut as if tasting some fine, forbidden wine.

You gasped, heat roaring through your chest.

Nina popped your finger from her mouth with a wet sound, tongue flicking across the remaining blood. “So fucking delicious,” she purred, a dangerous smile breaking across her face.

Your heart lurched, breaking free of its cage, and you couldn’t stop yourself. You surged forward, grabbing fistfuls of her shirt and spinning her, pinning her to the rough brick wall behind the pallets.

Nina let out a soft, breathless laugh, head falling back against the crumbling bricks, eyes gone wild. “That’s it, sweetheart,” she urged, “take what you want—”

Your lips crashed into hers again, hard, messy, tasting iron and adrenaline. She clung to your shoulders, nails biting through the fabric of your sleeves as you kissed down the line of her jaw, across her cheekbone, over the sharp curve of her throat.

“Mine,” you rasped, voice breaking against her skin, “you’re mine too. You want this fucker’s blood all over you?”

“Say it again,” she gasped, her breath stuttering when your tongue traced the edge of her ear.

“Mine.”

Nina’s hips rolled as you slotted your thigh between her legs, desperate, her hands winding into your hair to keep you close as you devoured every inch of her neck, your teeth dragging little red marks in your wake. Her bangs ruffled against her face, hair a mess, that raw, ecstatic grin splitting her face that you always loved.

No matter how awful you felt, no matter how disgusting your body seemed after the actions tonight, Nina combatted that. Her words, her actions, her need for you—even full of dread and anger—made your bones shake with want, with need for her in turn.

Your voice trembled, half-crazed with the taste of her, “You—you make me crazy, you know that? Fuck—”

You kissed her again, cutting her giggles off, fierce and consuming. Her body arched into you, gasping and biting at your lower lip, trying to drown in you, to burn in you. You could feel her heartbeat hammering wild through her ribs, matching your own.

Blood, sweat, night air, all of it tangled together—the filthy, perfect confession of monsters who would rather die than let go. Of two people who are fucked—who know they are—and love each other for it.

Nina’s arms wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you closer, refusing to let you slip away, even for a second. You held her against the wall, breathless, starving, and kissed her like you could taste forgiveness on her tongue, the two of you locked together in the alley’s darkness with nothing but each other to hold on to.

“You’re insane.” Your hands roamed down the curve of her sides, squeezing tight, hungry for every inch of her.

“You love it,” she shivered, head falling back against the bricks, a ragged moan breaking loose when your palms slipped under the hem of her torn skirt. The thin fabric barely clung to her hips anymore, stained and ripped, easy to shove up to her waist.

Your eyes widened when you saw the lacy thong that hugged her hips. “Seriously…?”

“I knew I’d be hanging with you tonight, so…”

You shoved her hips down onto your thigh, grinding her clothed cunt against your pant-leg.

“Fuck,” Nina gasped, nails dragging down your arms as you pressed in closer, pinning her tight to the wall. “God—don’t stop—”

You didn’t. You ground her hips into your thigh, breath catching, the friction sending shocks of want straight through your veins. Nina’s hands clawed at your back, urging you on, lips parting in a raw gasp when you rocked her against you harder, chasing that blinding edge of release and rage.

Your fingers pushed up under her skirt, and down into her panties, brushing hot, searing wetness, teasing your fingers against her clit just to feel her tremble.

She arched into you, nearly wild, voice cracking, “Please—baby, please—”

“Look at you,” you rasped against her neck, biting lightly at the soft skin, “fucking desperate…”

Nina let out a choked laugh, breathless and wrecked. “For you—always for you,” she confessed, hips canting forward into your hand, her eyes locked on yours like she’d die if you looked away. Her lips were bitten and bruised, cheeks so pink you smiled at her, leaning forward to kiss them.

You pushed her skirt higher, bunching it around her hips, free hand gliding up her thigh and around to grab her ass, hard enough to make her squirm. You could feel her cunt clench around nothing, pulsing, begging for you, slick against your fingers.

She pushed her thigh up between your legs at the same time, rocking against you in a perfect, filthy rhythm that made your head spin.

Your hips snapped harder against her, a strangled cry breaking from your throat. Nina drank it in, lips ghosting across your jaw, hungry for every sound.

“Fuck me up,” she whispered, voice shaking, “do it, please—”

You slammed your mouth against hers, swallowing her whimpers, your fingers teasing her folds, stroking up against her clit until her knees buckled. The alley seemed to close around you both, gritty and cold, but so alive, her thigh grinding right into your core, dragging you higher and higher.

You pushed her harder against the brick, every thrust making her gasp, until you thought you’d fall apart from how bad you wanted to feel her break.

Nina’s hands tangled in your hair, colorful nails tugging you down to kiss her again, deep and dirty, her tongue greedy against yours, your bodies shaking together in a feverish, unstoppable rhythm.

She couldn’t stay still—rocking her hips, pushing back against your hand, chasing that wild edge like she’d die without it.

You curled your fingers against her slick heat, drawing a sharp cry from her throat. Nina bucked, nails digging into your shoulders, her thighs twitching under your grip. When her hips stuttered, you curled your finger, pushing your middle digit in. There wasn’t any resistance, Nina clamping against you all the way to the hilt.

“That’s it,” you growled, voice ragged, “take it, Nina—fuck, you feel so good—”

Her lips split in a ragged grin, teeth flashing between moans, “More—please, more—”

You obliged, sliding another finger inside her, working her open, feeling her clench around you, hot and dripping. She nearly folded, legs trembling, forehead pressing hard against yours.

Her thigh still pinned between your legs, grinding against your soaked center, driving you closer and closer to the brink. You rocked on her, hips rolling in desperate, hungry circles, gasping when every perfect movement made her cry out again.

“So pretty,” Nina rasped, voice broken and shrill, “fucking—perfect—”

Your teeth caught the side of her throat, biting down just enough to leave a mark, and she let out a high, shaking moan, her hands gripping your arms like she’d fall apart if you let go.

“Keep going,” she pleaded, hips jerking, thighs quaking, “don’t you fucking stop—”

You fucked your fingers up into her harder, faster, knuckles curling in deep, watching her unravel. Her mascara ran in dark streaks down her flushed face, smudging in the tear tracks and the specks of blood still drying on her cheeks.

It was beautiful. Vicious. Perfect.

She kissed you, sloppy and uncoordinated, her tongue sliding over yours in a frantic claim as her walls fluttered around your fingers, tight and wet.

“Cum for me,” you breathed against her lips, voice rough with your own rising release, “come on, baby—on my fingers—”

And Nina did, hard, her whole body locking up, a strangled cry tearing through the alley as she pulsed around your fingers. You fucked her through it, refusing to let her down easy, grinding against her thigh as you watched her face twist and her eyes roll up into her pretty lashes.

You both shook, forehead to forehead, panting, clinging to each other like the world might tear you apart if you let go.

Before you could even catch your breath, Nina was moving, her body still trembling from her own orgasm but eyes locked on you with that ravenous, feral spark. She didn’t give you a chance to recover.

Rough hands grabbed your hips, spinning your back to the wall, pinning you there with a bruising grip. You barely had time to gasp before you felt her sink to her knees in front of you, her hands already tugging at your waistband, yanking the button of your pants open and tugging them down your thighs with single-minded hunger.

“Fuck, Nina—” you tried, but your voice cut off in a ragged moan when she pushed your legs open, dragging your panties down with nails scratching your skin. She spread you open, breath hot against your dripping cunt.

“Shh,” she cooed, low and wicked, “I’m not done with you yet.”

She didn’t waste another second—her tongue was on you, hot and wet, dragging through your folds with a filthy groan. Your head smacked back against the brick, fingers scrabbling for something to hold on to as she licked into you, messy and greedy, like she wanted to drown in the taste of you. You latched onto her hair, one fist around her ponytail and the other cupping behind her head, pushing her closer.

“God, you taste perfect,” she growled against your slick, lips sealing around your clit and sucking hard enough to make your knees threaten to give.

You cried out, loud, echoing in the empty alley, hands dragging to tangle in her hair. Nina moaned at the pull, the vibration sending sparks straight through your gut. She doubled down, tongue flicking your swollen bud, lapping at your taste, then plunging inside you with little warning, fucking you with her mouth.

Your thighs shook, breath coming in shattered, frantic bursts, hips jerking against her face. Nina just held you tighter, nails biting into your skin, keeping you right where she wanted you, tearing you apart under her mouth.

“Fuck—Nina—don’t stop—”

She hummed against you, eyes glittering, hands spreading your ass wider so she could bury herself even deeper. Each swirl of her tongue felt like fire, like absolution, like punishment—every desperate, broken sound she drank from your lips only spurred her on.

Your hips started to stutter, a hot wave building so fast you could hardly think. Nina’s tongue fucked you hard and fast, then moved up to circle your clit, relentless and perfect. Her nails dragged along the top of your thighs, leaving wilting marks.

Your climax was building so fast it was blinding, every flick of Nina’s tongue sending you closer to the edge until your nerves were set on fire. You couldn’t take it—it was too much, too raw, too sharp.

Your hands gripped hard, tugging Nina by the hair and pulling her face away from you, slick and messy, her lips glossy with your arousal.

She looked up at you, eyes wide and wild, pupils blown, mouth parted in a desperate gasp.

“No—no, baby, don’t—” she choked out, voice cracking as her hands clawed at your hips, trying to shove her face back against your cunt, “please, let me—let me finish you—”

You panted, chest heaving, legs shaking, your grip iron tight in her hair. Nina’s nails bit into your thighs, practically pleading with her whole body, breath ragged, tears starting to prick in the corners of her eyes from the pure frustration.

“Fuck, Nina—give me a second—” you gasped, trying to keep yourself from falling apart right then and there.

But she shook her head frantically, voice gone rough and broken, “No—please, I need you, let me taste you, let me finish—”

You tried to steady your breathing, but she was so goddamn beautiful, wrecked and hungry, smeared with blood and tears and spit, trying to pull against your hold like an animal starved.

“Let me,” she whined again, almost sobbing, “I need you to cum on my tongue—fuck, please—”

The desperation in her voice split you open. You couldn’t hold her off any longer, couldn’t fight that wild, shaking heat in your core.

Your hand loosened, just enough for her to surge forward, devouring you again with a sob of relief. Her mouth sealed around you, tongue working you ruthlessly, like she’d die if she didn’t make you finish.

You felt it snap, pleasure crashing through you so violently you nearly collapsed, a raw cry tearing from your throat. Nina held you up, refusing to let you slip away, licking you through every quaking spasm, moaning against you like she’d never get enough.

When you finally sagged against the brick, shaking, she pulled back, lips glossy and swollen, face flushed and eyes wild.

“Fuck,” she panted, licking her lips, “I could eat you forever.”

“Clearly,” you huffed through shaky breaths.

You felt like every bone in your body had turned to liquid. The alley seemed impossibly quiet now, the night air cooling the sweat on your skin. In the distance, you could still hear faint police sirens fading back in, swallowed by the restless hum of the city, but making their way back around the block.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You just looked at each other, hearts still hammering, breaths ragged, stained by blood and sweat and the taste of violence.

Finally, you let out a broken, exhausted laugh, “Jesus, Nina…” you breathed, voice frayed, “I thought I was gonna fucking pass out.”

She grinned, impossibly proud of herself, though there was a strange softness hiding underneath. She came down to crouch in front of you, smoothing your hair from your face with shaky fingers, tracing your jaw like she couldn’t believe you were real.

“Look at you,” she murmured, thumb brushing over your cheek, “a fucking masterpiece.”

You swallowed, the night’s chaos washing over you all at once—the blood, the bullets, the screaming. The mission going to hell, the smell of gunpowder, the look in that target’s eyes before you tore him apart. It clung to your ribs, heavy and suffocating.

“I lost control,” you rasped, the guilt starting to gnaw through your adrenaline, “I—fuck, I lost it—I was supposed to get information, and I just—”

Nina’s expression shifted, something gentler behind her bloodlust, something frighteningly warm. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead to yours.

“Hey,” she breathed, voice calm but unyielding, “you did what you had to do. You survived. That’s all that matters.”

You closed your eyes, trying to believe it. Her hands steadied you, warm against your shoulders, pulling you in until you could feel her heartbeat against yours.

“You’re a monster, just like me,” she whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth, “and I wouldn’t change a single thing about you.”

The words sank in, a twisted kind of comfort—the only comfort someone like you could ever really understand. You leaned into her, letting the horror of the night slip away for a heartbeat, replaced by the familiar, brutal warmth of someone who saw you for exactly what you were.

Together, you stayed tucked in the dark of that alley, catching your breath, clinging to each other, until the world outside finally felt just a little bit quieter.

And it didn’t matter how remorseful you felt, because she would always be right there—kissing every sin off your skin, praising the violence you carried, promising you were beautiful even in your ruin, worshiping you like you were made to break things and be broken.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝  JANE EVERLASTING

You barely had a chance to breathe before a hand shot out of the shadows and seized you, iron-strong fingers clamping around your wrist. A flash of pale skin, a knife glinting by her hip—and a familiar cold rage in those dark eyes. 

“Jane—”

She was a dark queen moving through the crush of shadows, black hair sleek and gleaming like onyx, every move radiating lethal grace, black dress hugging her curves just right. Her pale skin caught the twisting moonlight, highlighting cheekbones sharp enough to cut, and when her eyes—black as midnight—locked on you, the world seemed to hush, bowing to her power.

“Come on,” she snapped, yanking you off balance, hauling you down an overgrown side yard and vaulting a sagging fence in one smooth motion.

You stumbled, nearly lost your gun, heart thundering, adrenaline screaming through every vein. The sirens behind you were getting closer, blue and red cutting through the dark as the police spread through the neighborhood, barking orders, boots smashing through backyards in a fury of hunting dogs.

Jane didn’t slow, dragging you along with a death grip, her hair streaming behind her like a black banner of war. “They’ll sweep the woods,” she growled, “too obvious. We go deeper into town. Blend in.”

You nodded, panting, barely keeping your feet under you as she ducked behind another house, crossed through a ruined backyard, and sprinted toward the chain-link fence on the opposite side.

Jane was there to be your getaway. She was staying in a motel nearby, and you had talked before this mission. You weren’t supposed to mess everything up and drag her into this, she was just meant to be a place to stay for the night.

The neighborhood bled away fast, block after block blurring together in a haze of sweat and panic, until you hit the edge of the town proper—a busier street, still lit, people pouring out of late-night shops and bars, oblivious to the monsters at their doorstep.

Jane didn’t hesitate, dragging you into the chaos, weaving through drunks and night owls, dodging a pair of college kids laughing on the curb. All in heels and a mask, no less.

“Keep your head down,” she hissed, pulling your hood up and tucking your hair beneath it, hiding the drying blood splattered on your collar. “They’ll never think to look in the middle of a crowd.” Funny for her to say, as if she didn’t stand out like a gothic sore thumb.

The street was alive with pulsing neon and pounding bass from the bars, a swirl of cheap perfume and sweat. Jane threaded through it like a phantom, never breaking her stride, scanning every doorway. You could barely keep up, your wound pulsing painfully along your ribs, the bullet graze burning under your shirt with every harsh movement.

Finally, she spotted a place—a dive bar with a busted neon sign, so crowded you could barely see through the window. Perfect.

Jane wrenched open the door, a wave of sour beer and old cigarette smoke hitting you in the face, and shoved you through the crush of bodies. A couple of people shouted as you bumped them, but Jane didn’t care, cutting a path straight for the back hallway with predatory grace.

Someone grabbed her arm—a drunk guy trying to flirt—and she shoved him off so hard he crashed into a table, sending glasses flying. Before anyone could react, she’d kicked open the door to the bathroom at the far end, yanking you inside and locking it behind you.

The tiny space reeked of bleach and stale air. You slammed back against the sink, trying to catch your breath, pulse still pounding in your throat like a war drum.

Jane rounded on you, her eyes flashing. “What the fuck happened out there?” she demanded, voice sharp enough to flay you alive.

You swallowed hard, wiping a streak of blood from your mouth, your hands still shaking. “I—I lost control,” you rasped, voice cracking. “He—he wouldn’t talk, and I—”

She stepped forward, crowding you against the sink, her hands coming up to grip your shoulders, holding you steady.

“Look at me,” she snapped, her tone leaving no room for argument. You forced your gaze to meet hers, that deep, endless black, and felt the tremor in your knees.

“You’re still alive,” Jane hissed, voice dropping low, “that is what matters.”

Outside, you could hear the bass from the jukebox thumping through the walls, people laughing, completely oblivious to the murderers hiding in the bathroom.

Jane’s hands loosened, sliding to your jaw, her thumb smearing away the blood from your cheek, then cupping you there with a surprising gentleness.

“Breathe,” she whispered, so close you could taste her, “we’re not done yet.”

Jane pulled back, scanning you from head to toe, her eyes narrowing at the blood soaking through your side. The bullet graze burned like hell, reminding you with every heartbeat that you’d gotten sloppy, too sloppy.

“Fuck,” Jane growled, tearing her gaze away. She unlocked the bathroom door just enough to slip out, leaving you alone for a moment with the cracked mirror and buzzing fluorescent light.

You leaned against the sink, hands trembling, chest tight. The roaring in your ears was deafening—the weight of what you’d done, the blood, the smell of it on your skin. The target’s face kept flashing behind your eyelids, the way he screamed before you tore him apart.

Before you could sink too deep, Jane returned, one hand balled around a filthy-looking rag swiped off the bar counter—meant for drying pint glasses, but good enough for triage. She locked the door again behind her, stalking forward.

“Lift your shirt,” she ordered, voice leaving no room to argue.

You obeyed, teeth gritted as you peeled up the blood-crusted fabric, revealing the graze running a line of raw pain across your side.

“Jesus,” Jane muttered, dipping the rag into the sink and ringing it out before pressing it to your wound. The rag was rough, stinking of cheap beer and lemon-scented soap, but it was cold, biting into the torn skin in a way that made you hiss.

Jane didn’t apologize. She just worked, methodical, wiping the blood away with careful but firm swipes, trying to get the worst of it cleaned up.

“Fucking amateurs,” she spat under her breath, though you couldn’t tell if she meant the target, the cops, or you. Maybe all of it.

You clenched the edge of the sink, forcing yourself to hold still as she worked. “I…I just lost it,” you finally admitted, voice raw. “He wouldn’t talk, he kept laughing, and I just—”

Jane paused, rag still against your side, her eyes locking on yours. Dark. Hungry. Understanding.

“You snapped,” she finished for you, voice dropping to a low rasp. “We’ve all been there.”

You swallowed hard, shame and relief clashing inside your chest.

“I should have never done this mission alone.”

Jane’s hands slowed, her touch softening. She let the rag drop, bracing her palms on either side of your hips, leaning in so close you could feel the warmth of her breath through her mask.

“You did what you had to,” she murmured, brushing a strand of sweaty hair off your forehead, letting her thumb linger against your temple. “I’m proud of you.”

The words cracked something inside you. Your shoulders slumped, a ragged breath tearing out of you, eyes burning with unshed tears.

Jane brushed the tears away before they could fall, one after the other, slow, deliberate, like she wanted to make sure every bit of you was safe with her—even your pain.

“You’re not alone,” she whispered, words ghosting across your face, “you’ll never be alone with me.”

You exhaled, trembling, letting her words bury themselves in your ribs, letting her warmth sink through the cold shell of your fear.

Jane reached behind the hem of her mask, pulling the white veil off her face and setting it on the sink behind you. Your eyes welled with tears, her dark ones meeting yours with that fierce determination she always held. You hiccuped, choking on another sob as she tugged you closer, pressing her hips to yours.

Jane kissed you then, deep and consuming, swallowing up every broken, desperate piece of you like it was the sweetest thing she’d ever had.

Jane’s kiss didn’t stop—it devoured. You felt her tongue slip against yours, demanding, taking, like she could drink down every fear and regret tangled inside you. Her hands slid from your hips to your waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, grounding you in the present.

The pain of your wound seemed to fade under the heat of her mouth, your mind spinning with the rush of relief, desire, confusion—everything tangled so tight you couldn’t separate one from the next.

Jane broke the kiss with a wet sound, her lips brushing your ear, voice low and dark.

“You feel that?” she rasped, her thigh pressing between yours, pushing up until you couldn’t help but grind down on the pressure. “That’s real. Right here. This is all that matters now.”

You gasped, hands shooting out to grab her shoulders, nails biting into the leather of her jacket as she rolled her hips against you, forcing another ragged moan from your throat.

The stench of bleach and cheap beer, the faint scent of old cigarettes and the copper of your own blood—all of it burned into your senses, dizzying, filthy, perfect.

Jane kissed you again, rougher this time, her teeth catching your lower lip until it stung. Her hands trailed up your shirt, warm palms dragging across your ribs, tracing every harsh breath you took like she was memorizing the shape of your fear.

“I want you to feel alive,” she hissed, voice so deep it vibrated against your mouth. “You hear me? Alive.”

You nodded, unable to speak, your body already moving with hers, grinding harder against her thigh, chasing friction like you’d die without it. Her short black dress was riding up like it always did, making you so hungry you could’ve snapped if she touched you one more time.

“Good girl,” she purred, catching your chin in one hand, nails pressing into your cheeks, forcing you to look straight into her black eyes, molten with hunger. “Show me how alive you can be.”

She kissed you again, drowning you, while her other hand slipped down to unfasten your pants, tugging them harshly over your hips. The fabric stuck to your sweaty skin, but she tore it down anyway, not caring about anything but getting closer, skin on skin.

You kicked them off desperately, hooking a leg over her thigh to keep grinding against her, lost in the frantic, needy pulse of your own heartbeat.

Jane’s mouth traveled down your neck, biting, sucking bruises into your flesh, marking you with a predator’s claim. Her hand was between your legs then, cupping you through your underwear, the fabric instantly damp under her touch.

“Look at you,” she breathed, voice almost reverent, “fucking perfect.”

Your hips jolted when her thumb found your clit, a ragged cry bursting from your throat, echoing off the cracked tiles.

“Stay with me,” Jane ordered, biting at your collarbone as her fingers teased you, relentless, driving you to the edge so fast your head spun. “Stay here with me.”

You moaned, body shaking, so close to shattering already. Jane’s breath was hot against your throat, her voice like a blade, slicing through every ounce of doubt.

“I’m not letting you go,” she growled, fingers slipping beneath your underwear to finally touch you bare, sliding through the soaked heat. “Not now. Not ever.”

Jane didn’t give you a chance to catch your breath. She grabbed your hips, spinning you around so you were facing the grimy mirror, the harsh bathroom lights throwing your reflection into cruel clarity.

“Look,” she commanded, voice rough, as she pressed your chest down against the cracked porcelain sink, arching your back so your ass was pushed out toward her. “Look at yourself.”

You tried to obey, dizzy and half-gone, your wide, teary eyes meeting your own reflection. Blood streaked your cheek, your shirt rumpled, your lips bruised and swollen from her kisses—you looked like a monster, a gorgeous monster.

Jane growled low in her throat, one hand trailing over the curve of your ass before slipping down between your thighs, dragging your soaked panties aside. She bullied two fingers inside you without warning, filling you to the knuckle, forcing a sob out of you as you clenched around her.

“God, listen to you,” she hissed, pumping into you hard enough to make your knees buckle, “listen to how wet you are for me.”

Your moans bounced off the walls, filthy, shameless, mixing with the faint rumble of music outside the bathroom door. Jane twisted her fingers, finding that perfect spot inside you, her thumb grinding mercilessly against your clit until your hips were jerking back on her hand.

“You’re gonna watch yourself come,” she ordered, eyes gleaming in the mirror as she met your gaze, “you’re gonna see what I see.”

Your legs shook, another cry tearing out of you, pleasure ripping up your spine like wildfire. Jane’s pace grew harder, faster, the wet sounds of your body obscene in the tiny bathroom.

And then she dropped to her knees behind you, never breaking rhythm. She tugged your panties over the swell of your ass and down your thighs, dropping to the floor with your pants. You felt her breath first—hot and hungry against your skin—before her tongue replaced her thumb, licking slow, filthy circles over your clit while her fingers kept pounding into you.

Your scream bounced off the tiles, hands clawing at the sink, knuckles white.

“Fuck—Jane!”

She laughed, dark and feral, mouth already slick with you as she flicked her tongue and rolled against your clit, devouring you like she was starved. Her grip on your thighs was bruising, holding you in place as you tried to buck away from the overwhelming pleasure.

In the mirror, you saw the way your hips ground back against her mouth, how Jane’s eyes fluttered half-shut in bliss as she licked you like the sweetest thing she’d ever tasted.

Your head fell forward, dizzy and undone, but Jane pulled you back up by the hips, forcing you to watch every second of it, refusing to let you look away from your own destruction.

Jane’s tongue drove you insane, tracing circles and dragging rough, desperate patterns over your clit until you felt like you’d break apart. She was ravenous, lapping you up like she’d been starving for your taste all her life, moaning low in her throat as if your pleasure fed her more than any kill ever could.

Your fingers clawed into the ceramic sink, the mirror fogging up with your ragged, panting breaths. The reflection of Jane on her knees behind you—hair wild, eyes hungry, shoulders flexing as she kept your thighs pinned—burned into your mind, obscene and perfect.

She worked her fingers deeper, spreading you wide, crooking them just right to hit that spot that made you choke on a sob. Every slick, filthy sound from your wilting cunt echoed off the bathroom tiles, mixing with your broken cries until you could hardly think.

“Jane—!” you gasped, voice cracking, your legs threatening to give out.

She pulled back for a heartbeat, letting your arousal shine on her lips, and looked up at you through dark lashes, eyes blown wide with mirth.

“Keep those pretty eyes open,” she ordered, voice low and dangerous, “I want you to watch how perfect you look falling apart.”

Then she dove back in, tongue flattening against your clit with merciless force, sucking, swirling, flicking until you saw stars bursting behind your eyes. The muscles in your belly coiled tight, molten and impossible to contain.

Jane felt it—felt your thighs trembling around her face, felt you clenching down around her fingers—and doubled down, fucking you harder, rougher, faster, egging you on with every eager, hungry stroke of her tongue.

“God, you taste like sin,” she mumbled into your cunt, her voice vibrating straight through you. “Come on, baby—let it out for me. I want all of it.”

Your head snapped up, catching the ruined reflection of yourself in the mirror—eyes glassy, mouth open in a silent scream, body shaking—and that was it. You shattered around her fingers, a white-hot climax tearing through you so violently you thought your heart might explode.

Jane didn’t stop, didn’t even pause—she rode you through the quake of it, swallowing down every wave of your pleasure, relentless, possessive, like she couldn’t bear to let a drop escape.

Your knees buckled for real, and she caught you before you hit the ground, pulling her fingers free and replacing them with her tongue again, devouring you with messy, sloppy moans that made your thighs twitch.

“Too much—” you whimpered, voice raw.

Jane just growled, holding you steady as she sucked at your clit until your vision went dark around the edges, tears running down your cheeks. She was relentless, drinking in every second of your oversensitive, desperate whimpers.

Finally—finally—she pulled back, licking her lips slowly, eyes locked on yours in the mirror. She looked utterly unhinged, pupils blown wide, breathing ragged, face shining with your slick.

“Look at you,” she purred, voice wrecked, “so fucking gorgeous.”

The tremor in your limbs hadn’t fully stopped, but you were fueled by something deeper now—the hungry, frantic need to give Jane back everything she’d just poured into you. You looked at her, still crouched in behind you with flushed cheeks and slick lips, and something inside you snapped, feral and devoted.

Before she could even catch her breath, you surged back, grabbing her by the shoulders, hauling her up, and crashing your mouth to hers. She grunted in surprise, kissing you back hard, teeth clicking against yours in a bruising kiss. Then you twisted your fingers in her dress, hauling her up to her feet and backing her toward the cheap laminate counter near the bathroom’s broken soap dispenser.

“Your turn,” you growled against her lips, voice rough, still panting.

Jane smirked, heat flashing in her eyes. “Oh? You think you can handle me?”

You answered by pushing her up onto the counter so her legs hung open in front of you, then fisting your hands in her clothes, dragging her closer until your hips were pressed flush between her thighs. She let out a low laugh, head tilting back, daring you to go further.

You accepted the challenge. Your fingers were already working at the buttons of her dress, popping them open one by one, exposing her pale skin inch by inch. The bra underneath was black lace, straining to hold her in, and you wasted no time—you tugged it down, freeing her breasts and cupping them in both hands, your thumbs brushing roughly over her nipples until she gasped.

“Fuck—” Jane hissed, eyes slamming shut, her body arching toward you.

You pinched and rolled her nipples, watching her bite down on her lip to stifle a moan, and then ducked your head down to taste her, dragging your tongue hot and wet over one aching peak. She jolted under your touch, her fingers tangling in your hair, pushing you closer, demanding more.

“You’re so—so eager,” she panted, a grin flashing through the haze of her arousal, “you gonna ruin me, baby?”

You pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, your grin dark. “Yes.”

You ran your hands over her thighs, spreading them wider, letting her feel the intent in every touch. Jane bit her lip harder, watching you from under her lashes, breathing ragged, waiting.

You pushed up the fabric of her dress, bunching the clothing around her hips and hooking a finger under the thin fabric of her matching lace panties and dragged them aside, revealing the slick heat already pooling there. Her pussy glistened, the sight making your head spin with hunger.

“Do you feel that?” you growled low, voice thick, “You’re dripping for me.”

She laughed, breathless, but her hips jerked toward you in a silent plea. “Shut up,” she shot back, cheeks flushed, “just do it.”

You didn’t hesitate—you dove forward, mouth crashing into her cunt, licking a long, slow stripe through her folds that made her cry out, knees knocking against the counter. You lapped at her with reckless abandon, the taste of her drowning you, tangling with the coppery tang of blood still on your tongue from earlier.

“Holy shit—” Jane gasped, one hand slamming to the mirror behind her to steady herself, the other clutching desperately at your hair.

You sucked her clit into your mouth, flicking your tongue over it in fast, hard circles until her thighs clenched around your head. Her taste was heaven and poison all at once, and you couldn’t get enough, groaning into her as you devoured her with everything you had left.

Jane’s head fell back against the mirror with a dull thud, her eyes rolling half-shut. “God, yes—just like that,” she choked out, her hips bucking against your mouth.

You answered by clicking two fingers between her folds, collecting all the arousal and spit and smearing it at her entrance. She must have felt the push of your fingertips, because she was mewling so loud you thought you’d have to gag her if not for the thumping music outside. You slid two fingers inside her, curling them up to find that perfect spot, your tongue never breaking its punishing rhythm. Her whole body jerked, a ragged cry ripping out of her chest as you fucked her with your fingers and licked her clit like you’d die without it.

“Fuck—fuck, you’re gonna make me—”

She tried to close her legs around you, but you shoved them apart again, growling, refusing to let her escape. Jane whimpered, her nails scraping against the mirror, her other hand fisting so tightly in your hair you thought she might rip it out.

You only pushed harder, faster, dragging another scream out of her, the filthy squelch of your fingers mixing with the wet, desperate sounds of your tongue. She was close—you felt it—the way her walls clenched, the way her thighs trembled, her entire body teetering on the knife’s edge.

“Come on,” you urged, voice muffled by her heat, “come for me, Jane. Let me see you.”

With a strangled moan that tore straight through the pounding music outside the bathroom, she shattered, her release crashing over you so hard she nearly collapsed off the counter. You held her steady, drinking down everything she gave you, refusing to let a drop go to waste.

When she finally sagged back against the mirror, gasping and twitching, you pulled away, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand and looking up at her.

She was wrecked—absolutely wrecked—hair wild, lips parted, eyes blown wide with pleasure.

“Holy fuck,” she breathed, laughing brokenly, dragging you up to kiss her, tasting herself on your tongue, “you really are a monster.”

You smirked against her lips, heart still hammering.

“Only yours,” you promised.

Jane was still trembling on the counter, flushed and breathing hard, but the second her eyes locked onto yours—raw, hungry—something dark crossed her face. Before you could even process it, she lunged forward, knocking you back until your spine smacked against the filthy tiled floor. You barely had time to brace yourself before she was on you, straddling your hips, her thighs gripping your hips tight.

Her dress was still hanging open, exposing those perfect, heavy tits, nipples peaked and flushed from your earlier touch. Your gaze locked there instantly, practically drooling over the sight of her, the memory of how they’d felt in your mouth burning behind your teeth.

Jane smirked down at you, hair falling in a wild dark curtain around her face, and reached between you both to rip away the last scraps of your ruined clothes, tossing them aside like they meant nothing.

“You wanna stare?” she rasped, voice feral, “then take what you want.”

She leaned forward, pressing her chest against your mouth, and you couldn’t help it—you latched onto one perfect nipple, sucking hard, rolling your tongue over it while your hands roamed up to knead both of them greedily. Jane gasped, shuddering above you, grinding her slick heat down against your belly, smearing you with her arousal.

“God—” she panted, voice breaking, “you’re so fucking filthy…”

You groaned around her nipple, one hand sliding down to grip her ass, pulling her closer, urging her to move lower. Jane understood instantly—she shifted her hips, lining herself up with you until your soaked cunt was pressed right against hers, hot and dripping, your clits just barely grazing together.

For a second, the two of you locked eyes—wild, starved, feral—and then you both moved at once.

She started grinding down on you, slow at first, letting your folds slide together, the slick heat so intense it nearly made you black out. You bucked up to meet her, desperate to keep that friction, the heady, burning pleasure of her clit dragging against yours. Your legs shook with every pass.

“Fuck,” you gasped, “oh my god—”

Jane laughed, breathless, throwing her head back and riding you harder, rolling her hips in frantic circles. You watched her tits bounce with every movement, mesmerized, obsessed, reaching up to grope them again, pinching her nipples until she cried out.

“That’s it—” she growled, voice rough with need, “feel me, baby, feel how fucking wet you make me.”

You answered with a moan that echoed off the bathroom walls, your thighs shaking as you matched her rhythm, clit catching perfectly against hers with every desperate grind. It was messy, filthy, loud—the slap of wet skin against wet skin, your bodies practically steaming with sweat, the smell of sex and adrenaline and blood thick in the air.

Jane’s nails dug into your shoulders for leverage, her thighs flexing around your hips, her whole body trembling as she pushed harder, faster, chasing something brutal and unstoppable.

For a heartbeat, she just rocked against you lazily, letting your folds slide and catch, smearing more wetness everywhere—but then something seemed to snap in her, a spark behind her eyes, raw and hungry.

She shifted her weight, planting her hands against your chest for leverage, and lifted herself up slightly—enough that when she came down again, your clits slammed together with a sudden shock of pleasure that made both of you cry out.

“Fuck—!” you gasped, the jolt like she had just shot you with electricity.

Jane grinned, feral and sharp, hair wild around her flushed face. “Oh, you like that?” she rasped, and before you could answer, she was doing it again—lifting and dropping, bouncing her hips so your swollen clits smacked against each other, sending shockwaves of pleasure straight through your bellies as she rode you.

It was filthy, obscene—the wet slap of your cunts crashing together, the sticky sound of your juices mixing, your bodies jerking against each other as the rhythm picked up. Jane’s tits bounced beautifully with every hard drop of her hips, and you couldn’t resist reaching up to grab them, thumbs flicking over her dark, sensitive nipples until she moaned for you.

“Fucking watch me,” she growled, voice shaking, hips moving faster, harder, grinding in circles between every bounce to keep your clits tortured, your nerves on fire. “Watch me fuck you like this.”

Your eyes were locked on her, helplessly, hungrily—memorizing every filthy detail, the raw heat in her gaze, the way her thighs flexed, the way her perfect tits shook every time she came crashing down onto you.

Each slap of flesh felt like it could break you apart, clit to clit, harder, harder, the friction so perfect you thought you might burst from it. The pleasure built in savage waves, making your toes curl and your stomach seize. Jane was moaning now, desperate, grinding down between the bounces, dragging your swollen bud against hers until you were both soaked, dripping down your thighs.

“Jane—” you gasped, voice cracking, “I’m— I’m gonna—”

“Look at me,” she demanded, voice breaking, “I'm the only thing that matters right now—”

You forced your eyes open, meeting hers, drowning in the way she looked—powerful, unhinged, yours. You felt your orgasm tearing through you before you could even warn her, your body locking up under her, a ragged scream ripping out of your chest.

Jane was right behind you, a strangled sob of pleasure falling from her lips as her hips stuttered, grinding out her own climax against your throbbing cunt. You felt her gush against you, mixing with your own release, everything so hot and wet you thought you might pass out.

She collapsed forward then, still trembling, pressing her forehead against yours, trying to catch her breath.

“Holy shit,” she whispered, voice raw, “I fucking love you.”

You smiled, dazed, reaching up to wipe a strand of sweaty hair from her face.

“Love you too,” you rasped, completely spent, hands still roaming to cup her breasts one more time, because you couldn’t help yourself.

Jane let out a breathless laugh, leaning down to kiss you again—slow, sweet, achingly tender, a sharp contrast to the vicious, hungry way you’d just devoured each other.

You held each other there on the dirty bathroom floor, hearts hammering in sync, while the music from the bar pounded on outside, uncaring, drowning out the chaos of the world beyond those thin, battered walls.

It didn’t matter. The mission, the cops, the way you felt. Because you knew you were alone. 

And it didn’t matter how alone you felt, because she would always be right there—an unmovable shield, fierce and unyielding, pressing her lips to your tears and telling you the night could never swallow you whole while she was breathing, that you would never have to stand alone again.

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs are appreciated!

๑ back to my masterlists

── .✦ rainrot4me2025, all rights reserved. ꩜ .ᐟ

[favefandomimagines]

Radio Silence (f.l)

Summary: violence against healthcare workers is ramping up all over the country...Y/N just never thought she'd be on the receiving end of it.

Request: @darkxdemonx Can I request a Frank Langdon x reader where they are married

This might be a bit long but like when Dana got punched out in the ambulance bay, reader goes out to take a break out in the ambulance bay but gets stabbed and she collapses and no one knows where she is, like she's not answering any of her pagers, Dana then goes out for her smoke break and finds her in a massive pool of blood. Like really angsty, nearly dead when found, maybe goes in a coma from blood loss. Meanwhile Frank is a mess and losing his mind, wants to help but not allowed, Robby shouts at him to leave. Happy ending tho!!

Again sorry it's so long i had a vision😂

AN: we got some more angst up in here lol similar to my fic ‘Nightmare’ but different because violence against healthcare workers is a very real thing! the united states health care system is not fun so please be kind to your healthcare workers (nurses, doctors, techs, receptionists, etc.)

The halls of a hospital never truly slept.

The Pit, the nickname for the ED, got its name for good reason. No matter what hour of the day, it was always on the edge of boiling over.

Dr. Frank Langdon leaned against the trauma bay sink, scrubbing blood from beneath his fingernails. It wasn’t his patient. He’d just stepped in when the intern froze, eyes wide at the sight of arterial spray. Another Wednesday night turned battlefield.

Frank had worked here for almost five years. He’d seen everything: stabbings, crashes, shootings, overdoses, children dying in their parents’ arms. But these days, his reaction to the madness had changed. He still worked like a machine—focused, methodical—but he carried more weight now.

Because somewhere in this chaos was Y/N.

Dr. Y/N L/N. Internal medicine with a trauma focus. Brilliant, steady, beloved by patients and staff alike. She was the calm eye of the hurricane, a quiet counterbalance to Frank’s intensity. They'd met four years ago during a particularly nasty Christmas Eve shift. He'd been elbow-deep in a gunshot wound; she’d been treating a hypothermic homeless woman in the next bay. Their first real conversation was over coffee and an argument about the hospital’s underfunding.

They’d gotten married two years later in a small ceremony on a rooftop in downtown Pittsburgh, surrounded by all of their coworkers, with, ironically, the sound of sirens echoing faintly in the distance. It was perfect.

Frank glanced at the clock: 12:54 p.m.

“Have you seen Y/N?” he asked Dana, the charge nurse, as she passed by.

Dana exhaled through her nose and sipped her Diet Coke like it was the only thing holding her together. “She said she was heading out for a break about twenty minutes ago. Ambulance bay, I think. Didn’t even take her coat. I told her it was too cold.”

Frank nodded, trying not to let the worry show on his face. “I’ll check on her in a bit.”

“Don’t take too long. Triage is drowning and psych just offloaded another patient.”

“Business as usual,” he muttered.

||

Y/N rubbed her temples as she leaned against the cool brick wall outside, the night pressing in around her. The hum of fluorescent lighting spilled out from the ambulance entrance behind her. Somewhere down the block, a siren wailed. She could still hear the garbled voice of the dispatcher over the radio inside. Another incoming GSW. ETA twelve minutes.

Just twelve minutes of peace. That’s all she wanted.

It had been a hard day. Her patient in Bay 4 had coded. A young woman with lupus and sepsis—gone before they even got the second round of epi in.

No one said it aloud, but the attending had paused long enough that Y/N could see the uncertainty on his face: Should we even keep going?

“Sometimes I hate this place,” she whispered to herself. And yet she couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

Her pager buzzed softly, but she ignored it for now. Just one more breath.

“Hey,” came a voice.

Y/N turned, expecting to see one of the residents or maybe a paramedic coming in from a call. But it wasn’t a face she recognized.

The man standing in the shadows of the ambulance dock was disheveled. Gown askew, shoes missing, an IV still taped to his wrist.

“I’ve been sitting in there for hours,” he said, voice slurred but angry. “No one does a goddamn thing.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said gently, instincts kicking in. “Let me take you back inside and get someone to—”

“You people think you can just ignore people like me,” he snapped. “Let us rot in the waiting room while you just pick who you treat.”

“That’s not true,” she said, cautiously stepping forward. “I promise you—if you’ll come with me, I can help.”

He didn’t move.

And then something flashed in the dim light.

Y/N’s eyes widened.

“No—wait—”

The knife plunged into her abdomen. Once. Twice. A third time, as hot pain exploded in her core and blood began to soak her scrubs.

She gasped, stumbling backward into the brick wall. Her legs gave out beneath her. The man turned and ran, his footsteps vanishing into the night.

The world tilted. The air turned cold. She tried to reach for her pager, for anything.

Frank… she thought, before her vision blurred into black.

||

The clock ticked toward 1:30pm, and the ER pulsed with the uneasy rhythm of a shift that had gone on too long. Monitors beeped in overlapping tones, overhead pages droned, and the smell of antiseptic and stale coffee hung thick in the air.

Frank was elbow-deep in a consult on a ruptured spleen. He should have been entirely focused—the kid on the table was pale, blood pressure tanking—but something gnawed at the edge of his consciousness.

He hadn’t heard from Y/N in almost an hour.

That in itself wasn’t that unusual; sometimes they were just too busy to check in. But he’d texted twice. Paged her once. Silence. No read receipts. No reply. The longer it went, the more the unease in his chest spread like a slow bleed.

“Dr. Langdon, do you want to hang back and walk the family through the consent?” asked one of the interns.

Frank blinked, realizing he’d been standing still, staring at the surgical consent form without reading it.

“No,” he muttered. “You go. I’ll be back in a few.”

He checked his phone again. Still nothing. He sent another message. You okay? Where are you?

No answer.

“Hey, Dana,” Frank said as he approached the central nurses’ station, tension wrapped tight in his voice. “Has Y/N come back from her break? I haven’t heard from her in a while.”

Dana looked up from the computer, frowning slightly. “Not sure. That was about, what, forty, forty-five minutes ago?”

“That long?” he asked, his voice tightening.

“She probably ran into a call or went upstairs. You know how it is.” She reached for her coat and half-empty pack of Camels. “I’m heading out for a smoke. I’ll keep an eye out.”

Frank gave her a small nod, but the unease was already rising, thick and bitter in his throat.

The wind had picked up since earlier, biting through Dana’s thin hoodie as she pushed open the door to the ambulance bay. She lit her cigarette with one hand, shielding the flame from the wind, and took a long drag.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

The rust-red bricks along the far wall glinted under the fluorescent security lights. One of the gurneys had been left by the door, probably by the last EMS crew. Dana glanced around, exhaling a stream of smoke. She turned to lean against the concrete barrier—

—and froze.

There was something wrong with the ground just past the dumpsters.

A shape. Crumpled. Still.

Dana took a slow step forward, her cigarette falling from her hand and landing in a puddle with a soft hiss. Her eyes adjusted. Her breath caught.

“No… no, no, no—”

Y/N’s body lay curled on her side, her scrub top soaked in dark red. Blood had pooled beneath her, so much blood that it had started to dry around the edges where the wind had cooled it. Her pager blinked weakly in the dirt beside her, flashing with unanswered alerts.

“Oh god! Somebody help!” Dana yelled, her voice cracking as she sprinted the remaining distance. She dropped to her knees beside Y/N, her hands shaking as she checked for a pulse.

It was there—thready. Weak.

But there.

“Hang on, sweetheart. Hang the hell on,” Dana whispered, pulling her phone out with fumbling fingers.

She slammed her fist against the emergency call button near the entrance, and the alarm echoed inside. The ER doors burst open seconds later.

“She’s here!” Dana cried. “It’s Y/N! She’s been stabbed! Get a crash cart—now!”

The emergency doors burst open as a trauma team scrambled into the ambulance bay. Y/N was already on the gurney, Dana at her side, pressing gauze to her abdomen.

“BP 60 over palp! We’re losing her!”

Frank heard the shouting from halfway across the ER.

“Trauma code in bay two!”

Then he heard the name.

“Y/N.”

He was already moving, sprinting through the corridor like a man possessed. He shoved past techs, interns, anyone in his path.

“Make way!” someone shouted.

He turned the corner and stopped cold.

There she was.

Pale. Unconscious. Her blood soaking the sheets of the gurney. The paramedic was holding pressure to her abdomen. A nurse straddled her on the gurney doing compressions. Dana stood off to the side, her face streaked with tears.

Time slowed.

His ears rang.

“No…”

He surged forward.

“Frank -- stop!”

Dr. Robby appeared, physically blocking him as the trauma team wheeled her toward Trauma Two.

“Let me in! That’s my wife!” Frank shouted, his voice raw and cracking.

Robby grabbed him by the shoulders. “Frank—listen to me! You can’t go in there. You know you can’t!”

“I can help her! She’s dying—Rob, please—”

“You’re too close!” Robby shouted back. “You’ll make a mistake! Let us do this!”

Frank stood frozen as the doors slammed shut between him and Y/N.

He heard the words no doctor ever wants to hear.

“Get the paddles!”

“Clear!”

“She’s coding!”

He leaned against the wall, sliding down until he hit the floor, fists clenched in helpless fury.

Somewhere behind the trauma doors, they were fighting to save the love of his life.

And for the first time in his career, Frank Langdon couldn’t do a damn thing.

||

The ICU felt like a different world from The Pit. Here, the chaos dulled to a constant, rhythmic hum—ventilators sighing, monitors beeping steadily, a far-off intercom calling for someone who wasn’t going to answer anytime soon. It was colder here. Quieter. Too quiet.

Y/N lay motionless beneath crisp white sheets in Room 6. Machines surrounded her bed like silent sentinels—an IV tower hung with fluids and antibiotics, a central line dressing at her clavicle, a monitor displaying a sluggish heart rhythm, and a ventilator that rose and fell with an eerie mechanical breath.

Her face, usually so expressive and animated, was pale and still. The only color came from the bruises along her collarbone and the deep purple dressing taped across her abdomen—evidence of the emergency surgery that had saved her life.

Barely.

They’d told Frank she lost almost half her blood volume. That the knife had nicked her iliac artery. That she flatlined twice on the table. That it was a miracle she even made it to the ICU.

But none of that mattered now.

She hadn’t woken up.

Two days. Forty-eight agonizing hours.

Frank sat beside her, still in the same rumpled scrubs he’d worn since the night she was brought in. His white coat was draped over the back of the visitor’s chair, stained and wrinkled. His hands—usually so steady in the trauma bay—trembled slightly as he brushed a piece of hair from her forehead.

He hadn’t left her side.

He couldn’t.

A soft knock came at the door. He didn’t look up.

Dana stepped in quietly, holding two cups of coffee. She paused at the edge of the room, looking at the woman in the bed—her friend—and then at Frank.

“You look like hell,” she said gently.

Frank exhaled, but didn’t smile. “Thanks. Just what I needed to hear.”

Dana set the coffee down on the tray table. “She’s strong, Frank. Stronger than anyone I know.”

“She shouldn’t have been alone out there,” he whispered, voice raw. “She shouldn’t have gone out there by herself.”

Dana sat in the other chair, watching the rise and fall of Y/N’s chest beneath the blankets. “We all take breaks. That’s not on her. And it’s not on you.”

“I’m her husband,” he said quietly, his eyes never leaving Y/N’s face. “I’m supposed to protect her.”

Dana blinked hard. “You’re not Superman. None of us are.”

Frank didn’t answer.

They sat in silence for a long moment, the kind that only happens when grief and exhaustion weigh heavier than words. Eventually, Dana stood.

“I’ve got a shift starting downstairs,” she said. “Page me if anything changes.”

He nodded, barely perceptibly.

When she was gone, he took Y/N’s hand in his, carefully avoiding the IV line in her wrist. Her fingers were cold but pliant. Not lifeless. Just… sleeping.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You’re probably sick of hearing me talk to you. I don’t even know what day it is anymore. They say I should go home. Get some sleep. But I can’t. Not until you wake up. Not until I see those eyes again.”

His voice caught.

“I miss you. I keep thinking about stupid things, like how you always steal the last dumpling or leave your coffee half-finished. And the way you laugh when you’re too tired—like it slips out without your permission.”

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to the back of her hand.

“I would trade places with you if I could. In a heartbeat.”

The monitor beeped steadily beside him. A nurse came in quietly to check vitals, adjusted a setting on the ventilator, then nodded and slipped out again without a word.

Frank closed his eyes.

“Come back to me, Y/N. Please.”

||

The silence was so complete, so constant, that Frank almost didn’t notice it when something shifted.

A tremor.

Not in the machines.

In her hand.

He opened his eyes slowly, sure it was a trick. But no. Her fingers twitched again. Slight, but deliberate.

He sat up sharply. “Y/N?”

The monitor picked it up a beat later—heart rate climbing, irregular but stronger.

Her eyelids fluttered.

“Y/N. Hey—hey, it’s me. I’m here. I’m right here.”

Her eyes cracked open just barely, unfocused and glassy. Her lips moved soundlessly.

Frank hit the call button like his life depended on it.

“She’s waking up!” he shouted, heart slamming in his chest. “She’s waking up!”

The nurse from earlier burst back in with another in tow, both rushing to her side. A doctor followed moments later. The ventilator hissed louder as they began to adjust her settings.

“Pupils reacting. Respiratory effort increasing. She’s coming out of it.”

Frank stepped back only when they made him. But he stayed in the room. Wouldn’t be anywhere else.

Y/N’s eyes drifted toward him. Not quite focused. But there was something there. Recognition.

A tear slipped down his cheek.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “You came back.”

And she squeezed his hand.

||

Y/N was already awake when the first light filtered into the ICU room.

She hadn’t slept much. Her body still ached with a dull, bone-deep heaviness, and her dreams remained fragmented with flashes of blood, pain, the cold pavement of the ambulance bay… and Frank’s voice, calling out for her through it all.

But today wasn’t about that.

Today was about moving forward.

She was going home.

Slowly, she turned her head and looked around the room that had been both prison and sanctuary for the past two weeks. The IV pump next to her bed had fallen silent. The heart monitor still blinked lazily, a green line rising and falling with steady rhythm. The ventilator had been removed days ago—thank God—and her throat was no longer raw, just hoarse.

And there, in the recliner next to her bed, was Frank.

Sleeping.

If you could call it that. His posture was too stiff, one hand curled into a loose fist, the other resting on the side of her bed as if he couldn’t bear to let go even in unconsciousness. He hadn’t left her side. Not once. Every shift change, every sunrise, every IV bag swapped—he’d been there.

She reached out, her hand trembling slightly from residual weakness, and brushed her fingers over his knuckles.

“Frank.”

He stirred immediately, like her voice had sliced through whatever shallow dream he was caught in. His eyes flew open—still bloodshot from days of sleep deprivation—and landed on her.

“You’re awake,” he said softly, voice cracking as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile peace.

“I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye to the place,” she whispered, a crooked half-smile forming.

Frank chuckled under his breath, half-relieved, half in awe. “You’re the only person I’ve ever met who gets sentimental about the ICU.”

“Only because I lived,” she replied.

The smile faltered for a second as the weight of that truth passed between them. She had come dangerously close—too close—to not surviving. And Frank had been the one forced to watch it all unfold.

He reached up and cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing gently just below her eye.

“I almost lost you,” he said, barely audible.

“But you didn’t,” she answered.

And that was all that mattered now.

Nurse Harper arrived with the discharge kit—paperwork, instructions, prescriptions, a light wheelchair, and a pair of hospital-issue grip socks that had somehow made it into Y/N’s collection of personal effects.

“You get to keep the socks,” Harper joked, trying to lighten the mood.

“Best part of this entire experience,” Y/N deadpanned, her voice still raspy.

Frank helped her change slowly, his hands moving with reverent care, as if she might break from even the lightest pressure. He’d seen every inch of the damage—the surgical dressing on her abdomen, the fading bruises across her ribs, the angry red line where the chest tube had gone in.

But now he was dressing her in something soft and warm: a loose hoodie and sweatpants she had worn on call too many nights to count. A symbol of normalcy.

“Thank god I’m getting out of here before I hit a three-week ICU bill.” she muttered as he gently eased the hoodie over her shoulders.

Frank smiled but didn’t answer. He was too busy memorizing the curve of her smile.

Dana arrived with coffee and a ridiculous pink balloon that said “YOU DID IT!” in rainbow foil letters.

“I figured something sparkly was in order,” she said, setting it down at the foot of the bed.

Y/N laughed, then winced. “You’re trying to kill me all over again.”

Dana gave her a careful hug. “I still can’t believe it. You being here. Walking out. There were moments we didn’t think you’d make it.”

“I had good people,” Y/N said. “You. The team. Frank.”

Dana turned to Frank. “You should’ve seen him. Total menace to every intern and med student on shift. I think Robby almost sedated him.”

Frank shrugged. “I’d do it all again.”

The door opened again, and this time Dr. Robby himself entered. He looked uncomfortable, like the emotions he’d been suppressing for two weeks were threatening to break through. He carried her discharge summary, eyes darting to Frank and then back to Y/N.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “Vitals stable. Labs look good. You’re officially kicked out of the hospital.”

“Such warmth,” Y/N said with mock affection.

He handed her the paperwork, then added quietly, “You’re a fighter. I hope you know that.”

Y/N’s smile softened. “Thank you for keeping me alive.”

“Wait!” Y/N stopped him. “What about work?” She asked.

The entire room froze.

Dana choked on her coffee.

Frank’s head snapped around so fast Y/N half-worried he’d pull something.

Even Robby blinked.

“Excuse me?” Dana sputtered.

Frank leaned forward, gripping the back of the chair. “Y/N. You just woke up from a coma. Two weeks ago. You were nearly exsanguinated in a parking lot. Maybe take a beat?”

Robby crossed his arms, giving her a look that hovered somewhere between clinical concern and sheer disbelief. “You’re seriously asking about your next shift right now?”

Y/N shrugged, wincing slightly as her stitches pulled. “I just… I want to know what the path back looks like. I don’t want to sit around doing nothing. The longer I’m away from trauma, the more I feel like I’m forgetting how to do it.”

Dana leaned in, deadpan. “You forgot how to breathe on your own. Let’s maybe start with that.”

“I’m not saying next week,” Y/N said, a little sheepish now. “I just… I need a goal. Something to work toward.”

Frank crouched down beside her so they were eye level. “Hey. You’re not less of a doctor because you need time. Okay? You lived through something people don’t come back from. You’re not behind. You’re alive.”

That word hung heavy in the room.

Alive.

Y/N looked down at her hands, at the bruises fading on her wrists from countless IVs. She hated feeling weak. Hated feeling like a patient. But Frank was right.

Robby finally broke the silence, voice softer now. “We’ll start with outpatient follow-ups. PT. Maybe some consult work once you’re cleared. Low-intensity stuff. You won’t touch a trauma case until we all agree you’re ready. Mind and body.”

She nodded, subdued but still determined.

Dana sighed. “God help the next resident she precepts. They’re going to get a surgical evaluation and a motivational speech.”

Y/N smirked. “I’ll start charging by the hour.”

Robby handed over her discharge paperwork. “No shifts. No heroics. No ‘I feel fine, let me just assist on this one case’ nonsense. If I so much as hear you peeked into the ED, I will personally sedate you and send you back up here.”

Frank raised his hand. “I volunteer as the sedative delivery system.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth lifted.

She folded the paperwork across her lap and glanced between the three of them—her mentor, her best friend, and her husband. All of them looking at her like she was precious and maddening and slightly out of her mind.

“Okay, okay,” she relented. “I’ll behave.”

Dana snorted. “We’ll believe that when we see it.”

The air outside felt like another world. Clean. Brisk. Fresh in a way the ICU air never could be.

Y/N paused on the hospital steps, squinting into the light, her hand shading her eyes. She turned her head slowly and looked at Frank.

“You ready?” he asked, the car keys dangling loosely in his hand.

“No more hospitals,” she said.

“For a while,” he added.

“For a long while.”

He opened the passenger door, and she eased in with a quiet grunt of effort. He adjusted the seatbelt for her, checking three times to make sure it wouldn’t press against her surgical site. When he closed the door and circled to the driver’s side, he paused for a second, staring at the hospital behind them.

Then he climbed in, started the car, and reached for her hand.

Y/N laced her fingers through his.

They drove away slowly, the hospital growing smaller in the rearview mirror. The road ahead was long—and healing would take time—but they were together.

And that was enough.

[skzstarl0ver]

Part 2 to the enemies to lovers Jeongin fic please please pls

One Bed, Two Problems (pt.2)

(One Bed, Two Problems pt.1 link)

Jeongin x reader / enemies to lovers / only one bed / smut → fluff / possessive!Jeongin

**involves!!** sex, dirty talk, cursing, rough sex, Insulting / complicated relationship

reminder for pt.2 : @camryn-haitani @imagine-all-the-imagines @yeop-i @slut4junho

enjoy xx (open for request)

★.•☆•.★★.•☆•.★¸.•☆•.¸★ skzstarl0ver ★⡀.•☆•.★⡀.•☆•.★¸.•☆•.¸★

The problem isn’t that you slept with Jeongin. It’s that you did it twice. And now it’s the next night, and you’re standing on the balcony of your hotel room, staring out at the ocean like it can give you answers.

Behind you, you hear him laughing from the couch with the others — that same lazy, low laugh that drove you insane even before he kissed you senseless. Your skin still burns when you think about last night.

You told yourself it meant nothing.

But your body’s still aching like it meant everything.

You told yourself you could forget it.

But now you can’t look at him without remembering how he sounded when he whispered your name.

This trip was supposed to be just a vacation. Some dumb getaway with the friend group. Seven days of fun. Drama-free. Definitely not sleeping-with-your-archenemy levels of complicated.

But now?

Now he’s acting like nothing happened.

And that’s what pisses you off the most.

It all comes to a head on Day 3.

It’s late. The group’s playing cards in the room next door, but you’re not there. Neither is he.

You’re pacing your shared room like a storm cloud.

He walks in, hoodie half-zipped, hair tousled like he just got out of a hurricane, and when he sees you, he freezes.

“…You good?” he asks, voice low.

You turn.

“You’re unbelievable.”

He blinks. “Okay. Hi to you too.”

You cross your arms, heart pounding. “You’ve been ignoring me all day.”

“Didn’t realize I was supposed to be glued to your side now.”

You glare. “Jeongin—”

“What?” he snaps suddenly, stepping toward you. “What do you want me to say? That last night changed everything? That I can’t stop thinking about the way you moaned my name?”

You falter — just for a second. “Don’t be an ass.”

“Oh, I’m being the ass? You’ve been throwing looks at me all day like you didn’t start this.”

“I didn’t start anything,” you hiss. “You kissed me.”

“You kissed me back.”

He’s close now. Too close. You could shove him. You could kiss him. You don’t know which urge is stronger.

“God, you’re so arrogant—”

“And you’re in denial.”

You laugh bitterly. “About what, exactly?”

He takes another step. His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

“That you want me,” he says softly. “Even when you’re mad. Especially when you’re mad.”

Your pulse jumps. “You don’t know what I want.”

“I know how you sounded when I had you spread out under me.” His voice dips. “I know how you screamed my name.”

You shove him.

Hard.

He catches himself against the wall, laughing like it’s all a game.

You point a trembling finger at him. “You’re so fucking—so infuriating, and cocky, and confusing—”

“You’re the confusing one,” he snaps back. “You act like you hate me but you come the second I touch you. You beg for me like you’ll die without it—”

You scream. “Because I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing!”

Silence.

You’re breathing hard. He’s staring at you like you just cracked something open.

“I don’t…” Your voice shakes. “I don’t know what this is. I don’t know what you want from me, Jeongin.”

He stares.

Then?

He crosses the room in two strides — grabs your face — and kisses you.

It’s not gentle. It’s angry. Messy. Desperate.

You moan into his mouth, fists clutching his hoodie, and it’s like a dam breaks.

Clothes are pulled. Teeth clash. Fingers fumble. He lifts you like you weigh nothing and throws you on the bed.

“You want to fight?” he growls, climbing over you. “We’ll fight.”

His mouth crashes onto yours again, and you claw at his back, needy.

“You drive me insane,” he mutters against your throat.

“Good,” you snap, yanking his shirt over his head. “You deserve it.”

He growls, bites your shoulder, makes you gasp.

“Still think you hate me?” he pants, grinding against you.

You whimper. “Shut up.”

His hand flies to your throat again — gentle, just enough pressure to pin you to the moment.

“Make me.”

You do.

The kiss is fire. His hands are everywhere. You can’t get close enough.

Your shorts are gone before you even realize it, and his fingers slip between your thighs like they’ve missed this.

“You’re soaked,” he growls. “You missed me, didn’t you?”

You whimper. “Jeongin—”

“You gonna beg again, baby?” he taunts. “You want my cock that bad?”

You moan as he teases you, rubbing you slow and firm, right where you need it.

“Say it,” he whispers, voice dark. “Say you want me.”

“I want you,” you gasp. “*Fuck—*please, Jeongin—”

He groans. “Good girl.”

And then he’s sliding into you in one deep, perfect thrust — and you sob his name.

Every movement is raw now. Unfiltered. You wrap your legs around his waist and take it all, over and over.

He fucks you like he’s angry.

You take it like you’ve been starving for him.

The room is echoing with your moans, your gasps, the slap of skin on skin.

You feel him lean down, kiss your neck softer now. His voice breaks.

“I hate that I can’t stay away from you.”

You freeze.

It’s the first honest thing either of you has said in days.

You grab his face, kiss him hard. “I don’t want you to.”

After

You're lying on his chest, sweaty and spent, heart pounding. The air feels still now. Like you’ve both been put through a storm and somehow ended up on the other side.

He strokes your hair quietly.

“I didn’t mean to ignore you today,” he says softly. “I just didn’t know what we were doing.”

You close your eyes. “I didn’t either.”

“I thought if I acted like it didn’t mean anything, it wouldn’t.”

Your chest tightens.

“But it did,” he adds. “It does.”

You look up.

His eyes are soft now. No teasing. Just truth.

“I want you,” he says. “Not just in a hotel room. Not just during a fight. I want you for real.”

You blink. “You sure?”

He smiles faintly. “I think I’ve been sure since the first time you yelled at me over how to fold towels.”

You laugh through your tears.

“Still think I’m a brat?” you whisper.

“Always,” he grins. “But you’re my brat.”

You kiss him — slow this time. Like a promise.

And when you fall asleep, tangled in his arms, the last thing you hear is his voice in your ear.

“I’m not letting you go. You know that, right?”

You smile.

“Good.”

Breakfast – The Next Morning

You walk in wearing his hoodie again.

Chan stares. Seungmin raises his brows. Minho sips his coffee.

Jeongin just smirks, slides into the booth beside you, and drapes an arm around your shoulder.

“Sleep well?” Hyunjin asks, too casually.

You smirk, sipping your coffee. “Like a baby.”

Jeongin kisses your temple.

And no one says a word — but everyone knows.

_

The air is crisp with that annoying kind of goodbye weather — too sunny to match the mood, but just cold enough to make you want to be back in bed.

Suitcases are being wheeled out of rooms, tossed into trunks. People are groggy, hoodies on, coffees in hand. The trip is officially over.

You’re stuffing your duffel into the back of Chan’s car when you hear a familiar voice behind you.

“Hey, need help with that?”

You glance over your shoulder. Felix is there, smiling, bright despite the early hour. His hair is a bit messy, and he’s still wearing pajama pants, but he looks awake. Which is more than you can say for yourself.

“I’m good,” you say, then hesitate. “Actually… yeah, take this?”

You hand him your backpack and he tosses it in. There's a brief silence while the trunk closes.

Then—

“So…” You turn toward him. Felix is looking at you with that little grin that always means he knows something.

“You and Jeongin,” he says slowly. “Are you… like…?”

You blink. “Like what?”

He tilts his head. “You know. A thing. Dating. Hooking up. Making heart eyes when you think no one’s watching.”

Your stomach flips.

You laugh, but it comes out a little awkward. “Was it that obvious?”

He shrugs, smiling like he’s won a bet. “Only to everyone with eyes.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s… complicated.”

“Is it?” he asks, voice gentle.

You pause. “Okay, maybe not anymore.”

Felix raises a brow. “So, you are dating?”

You glance over your shoulder — and see Jeongin, across the lot, loading his suitcase into the back of another car. He’s in a hoodie, hair fluffy from sleep, and when he looks up, his eyes find yours instantly.

He doesn’t smile.

But he softens.

You feel it all over.

You smile a little, then look back at Felix. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “We are.”

Felix grins, warm and genuine. “Good.”

You blink. “Good?”

He nods, crossing his arms. “He’s different around you. Less of an asshole.”

You snort. “Wow. High praise.”

“I’m just saying,” Felix laughs. “He’s annoying, but… he likes you. Like, really likes you. I haven’t seen him this happy since—” he pauses, then smirks, “—well, ever.”

Your heart squeezes.

Across the lot, Jeongin closes the trunk and walks toward you. His hands are in his pockets, steps casual, but his eyes haven’t left you.

Felix nudges your arm. “Speak of the devil.”

You grin. “Wish me luck.”

“You won’t need it,” he says, hopping into the car. “Just don’t kill each other on the drive back.”

You and Jeongin meet halfway.

He raises an eyebrow. “What’d Lix say?”

You shrug, playing it cool. “Just asked if we’re dating.”

Jeongin smirks. “What’d you say?”

You glance up at him, smirking right back. “Told him it was complicated.”

He laughs under his breath, then leans in, voice low. “Want to make it simple?”

Your breath hitches. “How simple?”

He brushes his fingers over yours. “You. Me. My car. Three hours of driving. One playlist. Maybe a few pit stops where I kiss you senseless.”

You pretend to consider. “Hm. Sounds tolerable.”

“Mm. Don’t lie.” He grins. “You love me.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t push it.”

But when he opens the passenger door for you, you kiss him on the cheek before getting in.

And yeah… you kind of do.

Thanks for reading xx

[rafesorchid]

Hii i LOVEEE your work!! I love baker reader and mechanic rafe!! I was wondering maybe you could write something of them getting into an argument!!???💕

BITE THE HAND THAT FEEDS

when mechanic!rafe & baker!reader get into their first argument

plot: when a busy day at the bakery causes miscommunication, rafe's insecurities boil over into an argument that leaves both of you hurting. but love has a way of pulling you back — even when the words cut deep.

CONTENT: heavy angst, yelling, hurtful language (driven by insecurity), emotional breakdown (crying), temporary separation, rafe leaves, hurt/comfort, soft fluffy ending, kissing, lots of apologizing, love confession

thank you so much for this idea lovie 🩵 really enjoyed writing it, have fun!

the smell of burnt sugar clung to your hair, a sweet, sticky reminder of the morning’s chaos at the bakery. you’d barely had time to throw your apron in the wash before rafe showed up at your door, grease still smudged along his jawline, knuckles raw from god knows what.

he didn’t even say hello. just stormed in like a hurricane, rattling your little kitchen with his heavy boots and heavier sighs.

"where the fuck were you?" he snapped, voice sharper than you’d ever heard it.

you blinked, still holding the basket of freshly wrapped pastries you’d planned to bring to him. "i was at work," you said carefully. "where i always am."

rafe scrubbed a hand over his face, leaving a dark streak across his temple. "i went by. you weren’t there."

you set the basket down on the counter, heart thudding loud in your ears. "i had to run deliveries," you said. "mrs. harper needed a last-minute birthday cake, and—"

"you didn’t answer your phone."

you reached for your apron, wringing the fabric between your hands. "i left it in the kitchen. it gets crazy sometimes, you know that."

he stared at you like he didn’t know you at all. like you were some stranger he didn’t recognize.

"rafe," you said, stepping toward him. "what’s really going on?"

he flinched like you’d slapped him. "what’s going on is you don’t give a shit," he hissed. "you’re too busy playing house with your fucking cupcakes to care about anything else."

you recoiled, the words slicing deeper than they should have. "that’s not fair," you whispered.

"no?" he laughed, but there was no humor in it. "i sat outside that bakery for two fuckin’ hours. waited like a damn fool. and you couldn’t even bother to check your phone."

guilt pooled heavy in your stomach. you hadn’t known he was waiting. hadn’t known he needed you.

"i didn’t mean to—"

"you never mean to," he cut you off. "but you always do."

the kitchen felt too small, the walls pressing in around you. you wanted to reach for him, wipe the grease from his cheek, kiss the hurt out of his voice — but he wouldn’t let you.

"i’m sorry," you said, and meant it with every broken piece of you. "i didn’t know."

rafe shook his head, stepping back like he couldn’t stand to be near you. "you never know," he muttered. "you’re too busy baking your goddamn cookies."

"it’s not just cookies, rafe," you said, anger sparking hot in your chest now. "it’s my job. it’s my dream. i’m building something for myself."

"and where does that leave me?" he snapped. "standing in the fuckin’ parking lot like an idiot? waiting for scraps of your attention?"

you bit the inside of your cheek, tasted blood. "you’re not scraps," you said fiercely. "you’re—you’re everything."

"doesn’t feel like it."

silence thickened between you, a heavy thing neither of you knew how to lift.

finally, rafe muttered, "i’ll get out of your way," and turned for the door.

rafe doesn’t get far.

he makes it to the truck, shoves the key into the ignition, but doesn’t turn it.

he just sits there, gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles go white.

his mind replays everything — your face when he yelled, the way your voice cracked when you said "you’re everything,"the goddamn basket on the counter — and the guilt crashes down on him like a tidal wave.

"fuck," he mutters, slamming his head back against the seat.

he hadn’t meant to be so cruel. hadn’t meant to tear you down when all you ever did was try to love him.

but he was scared. scared in a way he didn’t know how to name. scared that you were slipping away, that your bright, sweet world would outgrow the messy, broken boy who only knew how to fix engines and break hearts.

scared that loving you would never be enough.

he wipes his face with the back of his hand, breath hitching.

then he sees it — your silhouette in the window, sitting on the kitchen floor, curled in on yourself like you’re trying to disappear.

and something in his chest shatters.

he can’t leave you like this. he won’t.

not when you’re the only good thing he’s ever had.

you don’t hear the truck door open. don’t hear the boots crunching back across the gravel.

you only notice he’s back when you feel his arms around you, pulling you up off the floor and into him.

you gasp, clutching at his jacket, the smell of him — oil and leather and something purely rafe — hitting you like a drug.

"m’sorry," he says against your hair, voice wrecked. "baby, m’so fuckin’ sorry."

you shake your head, sob catching in your throat. "you don’t have to—"

"yes, i do," he says fiercely, pulling back just enough to cup your face in his hands. "i was an asshole. said shit i didn’t mean. i—I just get so scared, sometimes."

you blink up at him, vision blurry with tears. "scared of what?"

"scared of losin’ you," he says, voice breaking. "scared you’ll wake up one day and realize you deserve better than...this."

he gestures at himself like he’s nothing. like he’s worthless.

you grab his wrists, holding on tight. "there’s no better than you, rafe," you say, fierce through the tears. "i don’t want perfect. i just want you."

he closes his eyes, a tear slipping down his cheek. he’s always been so bad at this part — the feeling part — but right now, he’s trying.

"i love you," he says, raw and broken. "love you so much it hurts."

you press your forehead to his, breathing him in. "i love you too," you whisper. "even when you’re an idiot."

a shaky laugh escapes him. "yeah?"

"yeah," you say, smiling through the tears. "especially then."

he kisses you again, softer this time. slower. like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

when you finally pull apart, he rests his forehead against yours, breathing hard.

"let me make it up to you," he murmurs.

"you already have," you say.

but he’s stubborn. he pulls you to your feet, guiding you over to the counter where the basket still sits.

he unwraps it carefully, like it’s something sacred, and pulls out a turnover.

then he holds it up to your mouth. "open," he says gently.

you laugh, sniffling. "rafe—"

"c’mon, baby. let me take care of you."

so you do. you take a bite, the sweet peach filling bursting on your tongue, and rafe watches you like you’re the only thing that matters.

"good?" he asks, thumb brushing your cheek.

"perfect," you say.

"yeah," he murmurs, eyes soft. "you are."

he pulls you into his arms again, swaying a little like there’s music only he can hear.

and in that messy, sugar-dusted kitchen, with the taste of peaches still on your lips and rafe’s heart beating against yours, you realize something:

he’s not perfect. neither are you.

but together, you’re something damn close.

and that’s enough.

it’s more than enough.

authors note

hello my sweet beautiful people, i'm genuinely so thankful for all your support this past week <3 lov u all lots

[pretentious-blonde]

offically

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: steve panics as he has never had that talk with you, and staying true to form, he overthinks the situation entirely

warnings: 18+ this contains smut, m oral reciving, thigh riding, steve being a nervous sweetheart <3

a/n: idk if i'm happy with this BUT i had to get it out of my mind. also this could be counted as switch!steve so do with that what you will!

series masterlist

A low rumble of thunder echoed outside, and the rain tapped steadily on the classroom windows as Mr Harrington huddled on the floor with his group of second graders. 

It was indoor recess—a golden opportunity for this nail-biting Jenga showdown. Steve’s team and the opposing side of giggling kids faced off over a tower stacked higher than it had any right to be, teetering ominously near the top.

Everything else in the room was buzzing with activity—board games and colouring sheets spread out on tables—but the teacher’s full attention was on the wooden blocks in front of him. He was as serious as any professional athlete under stadium lights. Tension thrummed in his chest, and he could swear the kids on the other side were practically holding their breath, too.

“All right,” he murmured, leaning closer and tapping at a lower block. “What are we thinking, guys?”

One of the students on the other team let out a sharp gasp. 

“That’s cheating!” She accused, pointing at Steve’s probing finger.

“Not cheating,” he huffed out a laugh. “It’s called strategy.” 

He rolled his shoulders back, confidence in his eyes and his heart pounding at the childish competition. 

“What does that mean?” A young boy asked with a confused expression. 

“Strategy means…” He glanced around the tower, “figuring out how we’re gonna win.” 

He sent the kid a playful wink. Instantly, a small chorus of giggles broke out across the table. 

“Pick that one!” one of his teammates whispered urgently, pointing to a precariously wedged block near the middle.

“Yeah, bud, I think you’re right,” he agreed, feeling a surge of pride that this little second grader had even braved an opinion in such a pressure-cooker situation.

Without further hesitation, he leaned forward slowly, fingertips tingling with anticipation. The room seemed to hold its breath.

He nudged the block—just a hair’s breadth out of place. It was going smoothly at first, half the block was free—until suddenly, the entire tower swayed and came crashing down with an echoing clatter. Wooden pieces scattered across the carpet as laughter, shrieks, and theatrical groans erupted from all sides.

“That’s your fault!” wailed one of the kids on Steve’s own team, arms flopping in exasperation.

“Mine?” Steve exclaimed, eyebrows shooting up in feigned offense. “You’re the one who told me to pick that block in the first place!”

The child folded his arms, trying to keep a straight face. 

“Yeah, but I would’ve done it so it didn’t fall.”

Steve burst into laughter, tossing a block gently back into the box. 

“Okay, hot shot. Next time? I’ll let you take the lead.”

He glanced at the clock mounted high on the wall, signalling the end of playtime. With a clap of his hands, he stood tall and called out over the ruckus.

“All right, party people, fun’s over,” he announced. “You’ve got five minutes to get this place looking like it did before we started.”

He fought a grin at the unified chorus of dismayed groans. He raised his brows, crossing his arms in a mock-stern stance. 

“If you don’t put it away, next time we don’t play. Got it?”

A smattering of Yes, Mr. Harrington, rang out, and the kids jumped into action. He allowed himself a moment to watch them scatter—tiny hurricanes of energy, racing to scoop up board game pieces, crayons, and Jenga blocks from around the room.

Teaching was his chance to make a difference, sure, but also to indulge in childlike wonder—when everything felt hopeful.

His gaze flicked to the farthest table, the one that always looked like a rainbow explosion had taken place—glue sticks, coloured pens, and tiny scraps of construction paper littered every inch of it. 

With a soft chuckle, he strolled over to help. Beginning to collect lids and snapping them onto markers, relishing the simple, grounding routine. One of his quieter students, Alfie, stood nearby, cradling what looked like a small, folded card against his chest.

“Hey, Alfie,” he said gently, tilting his head toward the colourful paper in the boy’s hands. “Whatcha got there?”

Alfie blinked up at him, eyes wide with shyness. He held out the card. 

“It’s for Ellie,” he mumbled, voice barely audible over the rustle of paper scraps.

“Oh yeah?” Steve asked. The name tugged at his heart in a different way than usual—he thought briefly of you. Seems like love has been on everyone's minds recently.

Ellie was busy putting them away now, small arms struggling around the stack, and Steve felt a pleasant feeling in his chest at the simple reminder of your first meeting, all spurred on by a simple request for children's reading material. He shook his head as he returned his gaze to his younger student.

“Special occasion?”

The boy’s cheeks pinked as he fiddled with the corner of the card. 

“I’m…gonna ask her to be my girlfriend.”

He had to bite back a grin; the pure earnestness was almost too sweet to bear. 

“That’s a big step, bud,” he said, tone soft as he screwed the cap onto a glue stick. “You nervous?”

“Kinda.” Alfie’s shoulders lifted in a half-shrug. “I’ve never asked someone before.”

There was such bravery in those words that triggered a familiar swell of empathy. He crouched down so he could be eye-level with the kid, giving the card a closer look. 

“Well, you’re doing it right.” He said as he got closer. “A nice card? Thoughtful. Girls like that.”

“What if she says no?” Alfie peeked at the little hearts he’d drawn in the corner. 

“Then that’s okay,” Steve replied, voice warm and unwavering. “Just means she wasn’t the right one for you.”

The boy studied his own artwork, as if absorbing some ancient wisdom.

“Go put it with the rest of your stuff so it doesn’t get lost,” he patted him gently on the back. “It’s important, right?”

Alfie nodded, teeth catching his bottom lip in a shy smile before he scampered off to tuck the card safely in his cubby.

Steve straightened, scooping scattered crayons into a box. He was keenly aware of the other children zooming past, arms full of supplies and games, but his mind drifted toward a realisation that made him pause.

He had never actually asked you to be his girlfriend. Not in any official sense, anyway.

His thoughts began that familiar racing which was practically muscle memory at this point.

You and him were clearly together—you spent half your evenings with each other, cooking dinner, stealing kisses around your shop, taking turns meeting the other from work. You even called each other on nights when neither of you could slip away from your busy schedules. 

And that other day in your kitchen, on the counter, his head between your— 

The memory threatened to flood him with heat, and he cleared his throat, forcibly shutting down that train of thought. 

There were children present, for crying out loud.

But still, he couldn’t shake the question. Should he say something? Did you even want him to? You’d always been so content with the small gestures—picking up your favorite snack at the movies, leaving a sweet note behind the register. 

He’d been out of the dating game for God knows how long, but this—this felt like a crucial step, one that couldn’t be ignored or fumbled.

Running a hand through his hair, he surveyed the classroom. The kids were nearly done, the once-messy tables now growing tidy. He hefted the box of coloured pencils and returned them to their spot on the shelf. In his chest, the question still glimmered, stubborn and insistent. 

Are you his girlfriend?

He exhaled, a sigh that seemed to carry all the pent-up yearning in his heart, and wandered back to his desk. As he sank into his chair, he knew this thought wouldn’t leave him alone. Not until he found the right moment to bring it up with you.

And with his luck, it was sure to be more of a challenge than necessary.

Sunday in Hawkins was supposed to be mellow—just a quick coffee, maybe a grocery run—but alas, things don't always go to plan. 

You had somehow transformed this simple outing into a mini shopping spree, darting from shop to shop with that almost pleading expression he could never say no to. And while his arms were definitely beginning to ache, he wasn’t one to complain. Not when he got to watch you light up at the sight of each new treasure you found.

He followed you into a cosy little home goods shop, the kind with shelves stacked to the rafters with mismatched antiques, colourful glassware, and odd knickknacks. You drifted to a shelf with an impressive selection of vases—round ones, tall ones, some painted with delicate flowers.

“It’s… very you.” Steve teased safely as you eyed up a beautiful glass vase, soon holding it up for his opinion.

“What?” you shot back, grinning over your shoulder. “You don’t like my interior design choices?”

He shifted the other bags onto one arm, the lingering weight reminding him just how many stops you’d made that afternoon. 

“I didn’t say that,” he replied, giving you a playful smirk. “It’s just…do you really need another vase?”

Your shelves were already pretty cluttered, and he just couldn’t see how you could possibly fit anything else up there. And that’s not to say he didn’t like the eclectic style of your flat, but the practicality was something he was finding difficult to ignore. Even with your excited expression. 

“Uh, no?” You didn’t miss a beat, your matter-of-fact tone making him roll his eyes. “I want it. There’s a difference.”

“Sound argument,” he conceded as he followed you to the counter, trailing behind you good naturedly.

He had some experience shopping with women, and he learnt pretty fast that questioning the validity of such purchases was a redundant argument. 

But hey, if you're happy, so is he—and it meant getting to spend more time with you.

He watched quietly as you paid. He’d tried to do it himself in the first shop you'd visited, but you'd quickly shot him down—not that it stopped him from wanting to. You were rather insistent when you set your mind to something. But that was alright; he’d just have to get creative in the future. 

If he really thought about it, this could even count as market research—practice for when he got you something special himself.

As soon as you finished thanking the young woman behind the till and tucked your wallet back into your bag, he swept in, picking up your purchase before you even had the chance to reach for it.

If he couldn't pay with money, he could at least help this way. Besides, he enjoyed the glances he received from people on the street. The approving looks that confirmed he was doing something right.

“You think I shouldn’t have bought that?” you teased, nudging his shoulder with yours. 

“That’s not what I’m saying.” He relied as he pushed the door open with his shoulder, following behind you once again. 

“If it’s too heavy, you can just say that.” You smirked, eyes dancing with mischief.

He let out a small, theatrical huff as he shook his head. 

“You’re lucky I like you, y’know that?”

Your face softened, a grin blooming so sweet it made his stomach do a small flip. You hooked your arm through his as he fell in step with you. 

“I am lucky,” you said, your voice warm and fond. “And hey, you look good carrying my stuff.”

His cheeks warmed at that, a heat spreading as he basked in the little thrill your words always seemed to ignite. And yes, he had to agree—he did look good carrying your things. He looked like your boyfriend carrying your things. Once again, that same nagging thought resurfaced, the question of whether you two were ‘official’ pulling insistently at the edges of his mind, just as it had all week.

Before he had a chance to vocalise any of his racing thoughts, the clouds that had been looming overhead all afternoon finally decided to make themselves an issue.

A single raindrop splattered onto the tip of your nose. Another hit his arm, quickly followed by a deluge that washed over Hawkins in a matter of seconds. You let out a startled squeal, gripping his sleeve in an attempt to dodge the worst of the sudden downpour.

“Shit—this way,” he called, reaching for your wrist and gently tugging you along. Rain pelted the pavement, soaking through his hair and dampening his jacket. His shoes splashed in gathering puddles, and he could feel you stumbling to keep up, breathless laughter tumbling from your lips.

“Steve!” you gasped, half-exasperated. “The car is in the other direction!”

He cradled the bags protectively to his chest, blinking raindrops from his eyelashes. 

“Yeah, well, someone decided to go off track with all those extra stops,” he retorted, voice raised above the hammering rain. “My apartment is closer!”

“Seriously?” you said, eyes widening even as you followed him down a side street. The walkway glistened with water, and your shoes squeaked on the slick pavement.

“Yeah, so follow me if you don’t wanna get drenched,” he insisted. Though you were both already pretty soaked, the idea of shelter felt too good to pass up. There was just one small detail that caused a surge of excitement in your chest. 

You’d never been to his apartment before. Not once. 

You'd spent plenty of time at your place, curled up together on the sofa after closing, or wandering aimlessly around town—giggling in coffee shops and buying far too many pastries along the way.

But his apartment? 

This was new.

It wasn’t like he’d intentionally hidden it from you; it had just never seemed to fit naturally into your plans. Whenever you went on a date, he usually just walked you back to your doorstep. After work, your place was conveniently on his way home. And whenever he was in town, you always seemed to be there, somewhere close by. 

His place had simply never come up.

The thought of you stepping into his home—into the space where he felt safest—felt like a huge step. He valued it deeply, the one place where he didn’t have to pretend to be anything other than himself.

Inviting you inside meant sharing a significant part of who he was.

When the two of you finally tumbled inside his apartment, the door slammed shut behind you with a dull thud, muffling the roar of the storm outside. Rainwater dripped from the hems of your clothes, creating a small puddle at your feet. Steve, still balancing your many shopping bags, set them down by the door with a sigh. You might've felt guilty about him carrying everything, but the excitement of being inside his flat quickly overshadowed any lingering worries.

He turned to you, taking in your damp hair and the tiny droplets clinging to your lashes, and felt a gentle tug of tenderness in his chest. Without thinking, he reached out, carefully brushing a few strands away from your forehead, his expression softening with concern. 

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice light, “you’re drenched.”

A delighted laugh bubbled from your lips as you raked a hand through your soaked hair. 

“Yeah, well, so are you.” Your gaze swept over his own waterlogged sweater, making him acutely aware of just how chilled he was.

“Point taken,” he conceded, trying not to shiver. He glanced at the window, where sheets of rain still pounded against the glass. “Hang on, I’ll grab you something dry.”

“Steve, seriously, it’s not—” You moved to protest, arms folded beneath your chest. 

He shook his head, a firm but amused glint in his eye. 

“You’re gonna catch a cold like that.” His tone was teasing, but he meant every word—he couldn’t bear the thought of you being uncomfortable on his watch. “Just—stay here,” he added, vaguely gesturing for you to wait by the couch.

Without giving you a chance to argue further, he ducked into the short hallway that led to his bedroom. As soon as he was out of your line of sight, he let out a soft exhale and ran a hand through his hair, sending droplets flying, nerves building slightly. You were here, in his space. And rather than scaring him, it filled him with excitement.

The last person he'd brought here had been Robin, but that hadn't felt particularly special—she was around so often, comfortable enough to make herself at home without asking. But now you were his guest, and suddenly he was playing host. It made him giddy, his thoughts drifting to fantasies of coming home to find you already waiting, or casual phone calls where he'd simply just tell you to come over.

He flicked on the bedroom light, mentally cursing the scattered laundry he’d forgotten to fold. The room felt lived in, the walls adorned with movie posters he'd sneakily acquired from his old job, and a modest bookshelf tucked neatly in the corner.

He snatched a dry sweater from the closet for himself—quickly changing out of his soaked one—before rummaging for something comfy in his drawers, settling on a soft, oversized number he hoped would fit you well enough.

As he padded back into the living room, tugging his own fresh change of clothes more into place, he caught you gazing at one of the framed photos on his bookshelf. 

You couldn't help yourself as you continued to look at all of his photos, each one turning his space into a gallery of vivid memories. Everywhere your eyes landed was something positive, something bright.

It was clear he had crafted this intentionally—surrounding himself with reminders of joy and comfort, so whenever anxiety or overwhelm crept in, happiness wouldn't be far away. And now, seeing you here in the middle of it all, it felt as though he'd included you in that gentle optimism, too.

“Here,” he said, offering you the bundle of clothing. The jumper practically swallowed his arms—he’d picked the largest one he owned. “It’s probably too big, but at least you’ll be warm.”

“Thanks.” You took it, fingertips skimming the worn fabric. 

Then, as casually as if you were in your own home, you peeled off your soaked shirt. He froze, his pulse jumping to his throat. You were still wearing a bra, sure—but you might as well have been waving a neon sign because he couldn’t look away.

In the grand scheme of things, you'd both done far more intimate things together, yet this caught him completely off guard. 

A surprise, absolutely, but definitely not an unwelcome one.

“You staring?” You arched a brow at him, a cheeky grin playing on your lips. 

He cleared his throat, snapping his gaze to a nearby lamp. 

“Uh—no,” he lied, feeling heat flare across his cheeks. “Shut up,” he added, but there was no real bite to his words.

Your laughter came soft and sweet, he felt a fierce ache of pride that you were comfortable enough to joke like this around him. Watching you pull on the jumper, he couldn't help but notice how perfectly it fell just past your hips. 

He was just about to tease you—some witty remark about how good you looked in his clothes—but then your fingers moved to the button of your jeans, and his heart nearly short-circuited.

You shimmied out of them, leaving you in nothing but his sweater, which barely concealed your underwear. You held out your wet clothes at arm’s length, droplets pattering onto the floor.

“Can you…” you trailed off, offering him an apologetic smile.

“Yeah,” he said, breath catching. “Y-yeah, of course.” 

Gingerly, he took the soggy bundle, hyperaware that his brain was racing at the mere sight of your bare legs. He forced himself to turn away, inhaling a calming breath. 

“I’ll put these on the radiator.”

Slipping into the adjoining room—an open doorway that led to a compact kitchen and a laundry nook—he carefully spread your clothes over the warm metal. A burst of thunder rattled the window, shaking him from his smitten spiral. He cleared his throat, ran a towel quickly over his hair, and then made his way back to the living room. You were already curled up on his couch, legs tucked beneath you, your attention drawn to the rain hammering the glass. 

Something about the sight—you, looking so relaxed and at home—melted the last of his hesitation.

He sank down beside you, the old couch cushions dipping under his weight.

“Better?” He asked, voice quieter than usual.

You turned, letting your gaze lock with his. “Much better.”

He sighed in relief but had to make a very conscious effort not to stare at the bare skin of your legs, no matter how tempting it was. He glanced away quickly, hoping you hadn't noticed, but when his eyes drifted back to yours, he saw that playful glint in your expression—clear evidence you'd caught him red-handed. 

His heart jumped, a little embarrassed, but you weren't going to let him off easy; he knew that mischievous look far too well.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice already betraying him with a slight tremor. 

Instead of answering, you shuffled closer. Closer still, until the thin cushion separating you ceased to exist and you were practically pressed against his side. 

What were you planning?

“You still cold?” he teased, trying and failing to keep his composure as you inched even nearer.

Sure, it was a silly question—he was the one who felt like his blood was on fire—but the words spilt out before he could rethink them. His own breath caught in his throat as he began to catch onto what was happening. 

“Maybe,” you replied, a playful lilt to your voice.

He was about to muster another snarky comeback, maybe tease you about the goosebumps on your legs, but you swung yourself over his lap before he had the chance. You leaned in to sweep away the stray strands clinging to his forehead. The simple gesture sent a warm flush skittering through his veins. 

You clearly wanted to play with him. 

“Wh-what are you doing?” he managed, voice just a bit hoarse. The way he looks when he’s flustered only urging you to tease him further. 

“Nothing,” you murmured, tilting his chin gently upward until his gaze locked with yours. “Am I not allowed to look at you?”

The words echoed in his mind, and he blushed so hard that he was sure you could feel the heat rolling off his face. 

“I mean—yeah, you—” He stammered, unable to form a coherent response before you leaned down and pressed your lips softly against his.

His eyes fluttered shut almost instantly, hands drifting up to settle on your waist as he held you close. You pulled back just for a moment, your breath fanning across his cheek, and he swallowed thickly in anticipation. 

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, “what are you—”

“I’m saying thank you for today,” you whispered, sliding your mouth over his again. A shiver ran through him at the warmth of your lips, the gentle press of your body against his. His fingers curled in the fabric of his own sweater you were wearing, anchoring you closer.

Your lips trailed a path to his neck then, soft and insistent. His breath hitched, and his mind went blank save for the electric pulse racing through his body. He felt your teeth graze delicately against his skin, and a low groan escaped him, unbidden. The next instant, he was arching up, a rush of heat coursing from his neck all the way down to his toes.

“Gonna let me thank you for real, Steve?” you purred against his ear, followed by a nip that had his vision hazing around the edges. 

He was so easy to fluster—it was almost unfair, but you couldn't deny how adorable it made him. Especially when all he could manage was a ragged exhale. The sensation of your lips skewing his ability to think straight. 

“Shit,” he mumbled, voice wrecked and hardly recognisable. “I—yeah, yes—please,” he breathed, mind whirling. 

Any coherent thought dissolved when you leaned back and studied him, your eyes dark with want. 

“Wanna try something,” you murmured, and every nerve in his body lit up at once.

He swallowed, throat suddenly dry. 

“Whatever you want.”

And he meant it. He trusted you—completely. 

You could take care of him; he knew that deep down.

You slipped off his lap and sank to your knees in front of him. A jolt of pure, dizzying shock flared behind his ribcage at the sight, sending his heart into a frenzied rhythm. He blinked, mind scrambling to keep up.

You brushed your fingers gently along his thigh, your movements deliberate and careful—letting him know without words exactly what you were doing. His breath caught softly, grateful that you were communicating so clearly, even if words escaped him entirely right now. 

He vaguely registered your hesitation about undressing him, aware you hadn’t quite crossed that bridge yet. Normally, he'd have appreciated your thoughtfulness, but right now, his mind was struggling to concentrate on anything other than your touch.

Your hands were purposeful, nails grazing the denim lightly, and he nearly jolted at the sensation. When you looked up at him with those wide, doe-like eyes, he felt an embarrassing hitch in his stomach. You were wearing that almost-innocent expression that never failed to make him want to do anything you asked.

“Look so pretty like this,” you said, voice low and soft as you let your hand creep to the waistband of his jeans. 

And he did—eyes blown wide, lips flushed and parted—he was a vision, utterly breathtaking. You couldn't tear your gaze away, captivated by how beautifully undone he looked above you.

“Fuck, angel,” he mumbled, fighting the urge to sink deeper into the cushions. “Can’t just say stuff like that.”

“What?” you teased, tugging gently at the button of his fly. “It’s true.”

A strangled sound escaped him, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. You had his zipper halfway down, and he barely remembered to breathe as you began peeling away the damp denim from his hips. 

The thought that this is happening looped wildly in his mind, making it impossible to focus on anything other than the smooth press of your palms against his skin.

Some part of him was still spinning—still tangled up in the swirl of half-voiced questions about what, exactly, you and he were. When your fingers found the elastic of his boxers, he felt his pulse spike. You were about to tug them down, already leaning in closer, when a burst of panic fused with desire in his chest.

“Hey, wait, no—wait, stop,” he blurted, placing a hand gently over yours.

You froze, wide-eyed and contrite. 

“Sorry,” you whispered, already starting to withdraw your hand as though you’d touched something forbidden, terrified that you took things too far. “I’m sorry, what did I do?”

Fuck.

“No—no sweetheart, you didn’t—” he rushed to reassure, heart twisting at the worried look on your face. He swallowed, willing his voice to cooperate. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

As you stayed there, still on your knees, hand resting on his thigh, he felt heat flush his cheeks. God, you looked so concerned. And he felt utterly ridiculous for choosing now, of all times, to bring up the one conversation he’d been dancing around for days.

“What are we doing?” he asked, voice cracking on the question.

You blinked up at him, confusion knitting your brow. 

Wasn't it obvious?

“Um, I was gonna—” and the embarrassment colouring your cheeks made his stomach clench. You looked as though you thought he was rejecting you—which couldn't have been further from the truth.

He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his messy hair. 

“Not that—definitely not that,” he clarified, wincing because this was probably the worst way to go about this. “I just…” A groan rumbled in his chest as he struggled to string his thoughts together. “Are we…are we, like, together?”

Silence stretched for a moment, his heart hammering relentlessly in his chest. He watched you carefully, catching the uncertainty in your expression. He knew you weren’t misreading him—you never did. You always seemed one step ahead, taking his hesitation without question and guiding him towards an answer.

Even now, you understood him. You saw past the nervousness, the awkward pause, the apology in his eyes. He was still learning—still figuring out how to put his feelings into words without tripping over them—but you didn’t need him to say it outright. You could read between the lines, pulling meaning from the things he couldn’t quite articulate.

“What do you mean?”

You had an inkling of what he meant, had already pieced it together in the way he looked at you, the way he paused—but hearing him say it, hearing him put it into words, made it all the sweeter.

“I mean…” His frustration with himself flared. He pressed his palms against his eyes, mortified by the timing. “Are we, you know, together?”

There it is.

A knowing smile curved your lips as you leaned in, letting your hand trail just a little higher on his thigh. Slow and deliberate. His breath hitched, and you could practically see the anticipation warring in his expression. 

Oh, this was going to be fun.

“Which part, exactly?” you asked, unable to hide your amusement. “The part where you spend all your free time in my shop? Or the part where you fall asleep on the phone with me practically every night?”

He let out a tortured groan, hiding his burning face in his hands again. 

“This is so not how I wanted this conversation to go,” he muttered, shoulders tense even as he recalled the soft memories.

“Oh, wait—was it the part where you carried all my bags today?” You paused, as if savouring how flustered he was, before lowering your voice further. “Or maybe it's the part where you ate me out on the kitchen counter?”

Your words snapped something inside him, and his head lifted sharply, heat rushing straight to his cheeks as he desperately tried to silence the sinful image of you unraveling above him—an image that was both utterly filthy and entirely unhelpful in clearing his scattered brain.

“Stop,” he managed, somewhere between a whine and a protest.

“Alright,” you relented, your grin practically lighting the room as you decided he had been tortured enough. “I’m done. Promise.”

“Thank you,” he breathed, relief tangling with embarrassment.

You tilted your head, eyes still dancing with affection. 

“So go on,” you urged softly.

“Huh?”

“Ask me what you want to ask me,” you murmured, guiding his hand to rest against yours on his thigh again, your skin warm beneath his touch, letting him know that you’ve got him.

He stared, trying to corral his thoughts into something understandable. His pulse thrummed through his entire body. 

“Are…are you my girlfriend?”

He cringed inwardly, mortified at how childish he sounded. Hell, even his students could probably navigate this conversation better than he was currently butchering it.

“Do you want me to be?” you asked, fingers toying with his own.

“Yes,” he said, maybe more forcefully than he intended. “Yes, I want you to be my girlfriend.” 

The reward of hearing him finally ask you officially was more than worth the trial you'd just put him through.

In truth, you had already considered him yours. There was no question of where his heart lay, no doubt that his gaze was fixed solely on you. But this uncertainty had been eating away at him, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts for days. Honestly, you were more than happy to put his mind at ease.

Even if you had a little fun with it first.

“Good,” you cooed, then trailed your palm over the front of his boxers. He shuddered at the sensation, heart flipping as you teased. “Because I’d really like to make my boyfriend feel good," you paused, glancing up to meet his eyes, "if he’ll let me?”

He swallowed hard, his throat clicking audibly. 

Boyfriend. 

The label settled over him like a perfect fit, especially when it came to you. It felt right.

More than that—it felt earned.

After years of therapy, of unlearning, of piecing himself back together, he had finally reached a place where he could be that again. Where he could embody that for you. And God, if he could, he’d shout it from the rooftops—because after everything, he was finally here. 

“Anything. Anything you want, just—” His breath came out shaky as he watched you hook your fingers into the waistband and finally ease him free, the sight of your hand on him making his brain sputter out.

He was fully at your mercy, and he knew it.

You freed his cock from his jeans, fingers wrapping around his length with a touch so deliberate it sent a shiver through him. Your strokes were slow, teasing, dragging out his anticipation until he was fighting the urge to buck into your hand. The pace was torturous in the best way, every movement intentional, every flick of your thumb over his tip pulling ragged curses from his lips.

“Please,” he rasped. It felt like an admission—like you’d unraveled him so completely that the only word he could utter was a plea.

The playful glint in your eyes didn’t wane for a second. 

“Since you asked so nicely,” you murmured, leaning down to take him into your mouth.

His vision went momentarily white at the initial jolt of pleasure. 

“Ah—fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned, voice breaking on the last syllable.

His hand shot out, gripping the couch cushion to keep from tugging you closer too quickly. Every nerve in his body screamed to feel more—to sink deeper into that warm, wet heat of your mouth—but he wanted you in control, you setting the pace. No matter how undone he was becoming.

His heart thundered at the smug little curl of your lips around him, and a full-body shudder tore through him. You’re a fucking minx. The way you thrived off his torment, off every broken sound he made, was downright sinful—and God, he loved it.

“You’re—you’re gonna be the death of me.” He managed to choke out, though there was more desperation than accusation in his tone.

You didn’t answer—only laced your free hand with his, threading your fingers together. That tender gesture clashed beautifully with the wicked rhythm you kept, your mouth sending jolts of pleasure through every inch of him. Intimate and filthy all at once, and the contrast was dizzying.

He squeezed your hand to ground himself, giving another breathless moan that might have sounded embarrassing if he’d been capable of caring about anything other than how good you felt.

When you finally pulled back for air, you looked up at him, flushed and triumphant. The sight knocked the wind right out of him. 

“Want you to cum like this,” you murmured, your voice low and sweet as you guided his palm to the side of your face. “Let me make you feel good.”

You settled over him again, lips wrapping around his cock, and his grip tightened involuntarily. This time, he couldn’t fight the broken whine that tore from his throat.

He tried—God, he tried—not to push you too hard, but every brush of your tongue shattered a piece of his self-control. The way his fingers twitched against your cheek and travelled to your hair, urging you deeper and apologising for his urgency.

“You are—” he managed to babble, voice raw. “You—God, always—” The rest of his sentence disintegrated into a choked, needy noise as you quickened your pace. His breathing came in short gasps, and his pulse hammered so fiercely that he felt it in his fingertips.

“Don’t stop,” he begged, the words half-lost. He couldn’t stop the slight thrust of his hips, the heat coiling in his abdomen reaching a breaking point. The blissful pressure threatened to overwhelm him.

“Shit, wait—baby—” His voice broke, hands trembling around you. “I’m gonna—”

“Let go,” you whispered. And then you were taking him even deeper, pushing him right over that dizzying brink.

It was too much, too intense—pleasure slammed through him, wrenching a ragged cry from his chest that he barely recognised as his own. His body went rigid for a moment, and then he felt it all wash over him in waves that left him trembling. Throughout it all, you held him, your hand entwined with his, guiding him through the spiralling bliss until he finally went boneless against the couch.

When the reeling from the blissful high began to dissipate, he glanced down at you, taking in the sight before he dared to move.

He leaned forward, his elbows braced against his knees so he could meet your gaze on equal footing. His heart was still hammering in his chest, and he had to remind himself to breathe steadily, to find some semblance of composure. Yet the moment his eyes absorbed your flushed cheeks and the subtle rise and fall of your shoulders, any hope of calm unravelled.

God, just look at you. By some miracle, you were his—truly, officially his.

“You’re something else, y’know that?” he murmured, voice a little hoarse. There was a soft reverence in his tone, as though he still couldn’t believe his own luck.

A flash of self-satisfaction curved your lips, and before you could respond, he closed the distance. His kiss was as gentle as he could manage, though there was no denying the heat behind it.

You melted into him, arms looping around his neck, your fingertips grazing the hair at his nape. The scent of you—slightly musky from exertion, threaded with the faint warmth of your body wash—made his head spin all over again.

When he guided you onto his lap, you went willingly. The move ended with you straddling his thigh, and the firm press of his denim against your underwear made you jerk in surprise. 

He felt the tremor that shivered through you and swallowed down a groan. Despite how tender he was still feeling from his release, an echo of desire began to thrum low in his stomach, and his mind latched on to a new idea—one that had him downright giddy with anticipation.

“Mmm,” you teased, smile dancing on your kiss-bruised lips, “you just figuring that out now?”

He scoffed softly, but the playful glint in his eyes couldn’t be missed. Pulling back a fraction, he rested his hands on your waist, tracing small circles into your hips through the fabric of his sweater—your sweater now, technically, but it bore his scent and that fact made him hum with satisfaction.

Your brows furrowed in curiosity as he edged you slightly backward, enough to slip his palms over your hips. Then—so subtly you almost questioned if it was by accident—he dragged you forward over his leg. The friction had your breath hitching, your eyes going wide with recognition when he repeated the motion.

“Oh,” you breathed, voice hitching, and he couldn’t help the slow grin tugging at his lips.

“Yeah,” he rasped, dragging out the syllable, “oh.”

You braced your hands on his shoulders. The lazy confidence unfurling inside him felt new but exhilarating—after all those times you’d teased him into a breathless mess, it was his turn. He watched your cheeks burn hotter, and the awareness sank in that you’d realised exactly what he was planning.

His girlfriend. Official. Right here, perched all pretty on his lap, pliant enough to shatter on his thigh. A possessive thrill coursed through him at the thought. He wanted to make you feel as incredible as you’d just made him.

And from the look in his eyes—the slow, self-assured fire that glowed beneath his lashes—you knew it too. You might’ve been the one teasing him earlier, but by the gleam in his expression, you could tell he wasn’t going to relent until you were undone.

“Steve,” you started, your voice low and edged with apprehension and want.

He merely grinned, letting his hold on your hips tighten, urging you to move again. 

“No, angel,” he drawled, mischief lacing his tone. “Don’t back down now.”

He continued guiding your hips, the gentle pressure of his palms keeping you tethered. When you tipped your head back, exposing the graceful line of your throat, he fought the urge to dip in and kiss every inch of skin he saw. Desire coiled low as he watched the way your body moved with each drag across his denim. 

“Feel good, baby?” he asked, voice catching with that newly emboldened edge. His gaze swept over your flushed cheeks, your parted lips.

You only managed a strangled murmur that it felt so good, and he smiled—completely enthralled, slightly smug. He was the one rocking you like this, making you whimper and cling to him, and the knowledge shot straight through him like a jolt of adrenaline.

“Gonna get off like this?” he pressed, flexing his thigh more pointedly beneath you. Your only response was a nod, desperate and unequivocal. “Good,” he murmured. “Use me all you want. I’m yours now, aren’t I?”

It was such a shift from the breathless, near-begging mess he’d been earlier. That single reassurance you’d given him—claiming him—seemed to have flipped a switch inside him. 

Steve Harrington never was the type to do anything by halves once he’d given his heart away, and this, right here, was proof he was ready to take care of you just as thoroughly as you’d done for him. He flexed his leg again, and you let out a shaky whine, head lolling back. 

“No, none of that,” he chided playfully, giving your thigh a light tap. When your gaze fluttered to his again, he softened ever so slightly. “Keep those eyes on me, alright? Wanna see you.”

Your stomach knotted with need at his command, and you dug your hands into his shoulders for balance. Each roll of your hips sent pulses of molten pleasure through your core, and his steady grip on your body only pushed you closer to the brink. The intensity of his gaze, locked on yours, made it all the more dizzying.

“One day,” he said, breath hitching at your frantic movements, “gonna have you ride me like this.”

“Fuck—Steve,” A quiet gasp escaped you, surprised at how confidently filthy he’d become. Instead of blushing and letting the moment go, he kept going, emboldened by the way your eyes widened. 

“Yeah, you like that?” He rasped, “ S’okay to want it, baby, I' know you do.”

You swallowed thickly, clinging to him as you sped up, each stroke of friction bringing you higher, closer. He watched your hands quake slightly where they gripped his sweater.

“Just know you’d take me so well,” he went on, voice rough with longing. His thumb slid across your belly, pressing gently just above the waistband of your underwear. “Gonna feel me right here—can’t wait to see it, gonna look so fucking beautiful, I just know it.”

Your control began to unravel. The pleasure built too high, too fast, and the broken syllables falling from your lips told him everything he needed. He held you steady as you tried to warn him, though it came out garbled, your body tensing in telltale desperation.

“Oh, I know—I know,” he whispered, coaxing you right to the edge. “C’mon, show me, angel. You can let go.”

And with that, you did. Each quiver and wave of your release pulsed against his thigh, the grip you had on his shoulders almost bruising. He welcomed every ounce of it, eyes locked on your face. He wore the raw, awestruck expression of a man witnessing something indescribably precious—like he wanted to imprint this moment forever.

When the tremors finally subsided, you slumped forward, pressing your face into the crook of his neck. Steve’s arms came up around you in an instant, holding you securely, chest heaving with exertion. He skimmed the back of his knuckles along your spine in soothing strokes, dropping a few featherlight kisses against your hairline.

He sensed the flutter of self-consciousness in the way your cheeks glowed pink as you pulled back, and it only made him grin wider.

“Oh? You shy now?” he teased, voice low.

Your immediate no, came out suspiciously soft, which made him snort. He tugged you closer and felt his heart skip at how you pressed against him so naturally, even through the bashfulness.

“So,” you ventured after a beat, a tiny smirk tugging at your lips, “do you feel better now?”

“Which part?” His mouth quirked up as he asked in a mock-innocent tone. “Because the part where you were on your knees—”

“No, not that,” you groaned, heat creeping up your neck. “Jeez, is that all you keep me around for?”

His laugh was unabashed this time, eyes shining with mischief.

“Well, if I’d known you could do that, I would have asked you a lot sooner,” he bantered back, just to rile you up.

You huffed and moved to stand, but he was quicker, shoving his arm out to stop you in your tracks.

“Wait, wait, no—come back here,” and pulled you back onto his lap with a gentle but insistent tug. His fingers drifting absentmindedly as he traced small patterns into your skin. You realised with a jolt of warmth that he was already more openly affectionate, more physically clingy.

Maybe the relationship label was all he’d needed to show this side of himself.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to ask,” he murmured, tone now serious. “I was being stupid.”

You shook your head and looped your arms around his shoulders, fingers playing with the hair at the base of his neck.

“You’re not stupid,” you said softly. “It was…kind of sweet.”

He snorted, a playful scoff, as if unconvinced.

“Yeah, that’s one way to put it.” But the corner of his mouth quirked up, betraying how relieved he was to hear you say it.

Your eyes drifted to the window then, and you frowned. The steady drumming of rain had quieted, replaced by a gentle, sporadic dripping against the glass. He felt you tense in his arms and immediately straightened, concern flitting across his face.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice laced with that newfound protectiveness. He was clearly prepared to fix whatever had put that crease in your brow.

“We should probably head back to the car." You sighed. "Looks like the storm’s over.”

He followed your gaze to the clearing sky, then shook his head.

“We don’t have to,” he said quietly, eyes flicking back to you. “Not if you don’t want to.”

Confusion flickered over your features.

“Steve, you have work tomorrow. It’s Sunday—”

He shrugged, sliding his hands up and down your sides.

“Yeah, but you don’t. And I can…what, pack my bag or something in the morning?” He rolled his eyes in good humour. “It’s not like I need much time to check I got my stickers.”

A small giggle escaped you, and your fingers toyed with the neckline of his sweater. He could tell you weren’t truly convinced, though he also sensed your reluctance came more from courtesy than disinterest. He smoothed a hand over your spine, trying not to beam too much with how badly he wanted you to stay.

“Please?” he added softly, his eyes bright and earnest. “I’m asking nicely.”

A warm flush spread across your cheeks; you chewed on your lower lip as though mulling it over. He recognised you were almost certainly going to agree, so he threw in one last incentive for good measure.

“I can order pizza for dinner.”

That sealed it.

“Sold!” you exclaimed, the tension in your body dissolving instantly.

With a sudden rush of affection, you flung your arms around his neck and buried your face in the crook of his shoulder. He laughed, the sound light and filled with relief, cradling you to him as if you were something precious.

He was really going to have a sleepover with his girlfriend.

His heart fluttered with excitement he didn’t even try to hide. Visions of you sprawled on his couch, rummaging through his secret stash of Family Video flicks, drifted through his mind. He pictured your socked feet propped up on his coffee table as you dozed against his arm. Maybe you’d share a blanket, occasionally sneaking kisses during the slow scenes.

His arms tightened around your waist. Leaning his head against yours, he allowed himself to revel in the moment. Because this was exactly the thing he told himself he would never achieve again.

But here you were—in his arms—proving his theory entirely incorrect.

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer @chiliwhore @kvroomi @just-lilita @negomi123 @catluver02 @tinythebunni @everythinghasafacee

[screamlet]

For the Bucktommy cuddling prompts: 12 (Just waking up) and 16 (With rain outside), pretty please? 💜

waking up, falling asleep again, it's all the same thing. 💖 1.2k, post s8, buck crashing at tommy's between apartments but they're not together. and if you want yet another time i wrote about them together as buck freaks out during a storm: you can read this, too.

---

Tommy bolts awake at the knock on his bedroom door because holy shit he lives alone who the fuck—

"Are you awake?" Evan calls softly.

Right. Evan is staying in his spare room. He rubs at his eyes and calls back, "Yeah, it's open."

Tommy's eyes adjust to the light, or lack of light from the storm outside. "40% chance of rain my ass," Tommy mutters. He yawns huge and smiles at Evan, who's in sleep pants and a tank top, and holding himself awkwardly in the door to Tommy's room. "I'm awake, promise. What's up?"

Evan has his head tilted, smiling too mysteriously for this early in the morning and this late in their break-up. "I didn't realize waking up with me was the only thing keeping you from waking up like that."

Tommy knows his hair is flat on one side and probably several inches higher than it would be when he's all human and pretty (and pretty human). His brain's trying so, so hard to churn up some comebacks but it's not happening.

"You must've been knocked out," Tommy replies. "I didn't get in until about four and it—" He checks out his watch on the nightstand. "It's seven. It's seven? Christ."

"Shit, I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay, I won't mention this when your next landlord calls for a reference."

Evan laughs softly, not a laugh but a sigh of Tommy that he really can't be hearing.

The moment evaporates with a huge flash of light outside, a bolt of lightning from the storm, and a massive foundation-shaking clap of thunder overhead. Evan jumps and hits his back against the wall, his eyes wide and terrified as he stares at the window.

"Evan? Are you—"

"Can I stay here with you?" Evan asks quickly. "Just until the storm passes and then I'll—I'll make breakfast or go back to sleep or—and I won't bug you, I promise, I just—it'd help to—" Evan takes a breath. "Did I tell you about the time I was struck by lightning and died for three minutes and seventeen seconds?"

Tommy stares at him, then silently pulls aside the covers. Evan climbs in and stays very firmly on the other side of the bed, though like always he steals every shred of comforter he can get away with.

"I know this is stupid," Evan says as Tommy lies down next to him, on his side so they're facing each other. "How many favors do I owe you now? Letting me stay in your room until my place is ready, now just crashing in your bed like this?"

"You don't owe me anything," Tommy says, devastatingly honest on only three hours of sleep. "Lightning strike? A couple of years ago—that was you? No one ever said. Or, I don't know. Sorry. I didn't know."

Evan scoffs. "Why would you know? It's—yeah. It happened. And it hasn't rained like this—well, since I was at the loft, and whenever that happened I slept on the sofa because I—I don't know, it was—shit, this sounds stupid."

"No it doesn't, and you don't have to explain yourself." Tommy pauses. "Wait, yes you do. We met in a hurricane, Evan. You got into a tin can—"

"I did it for Bobby," Evan says, and the weight of that—flying into his worst nightmare for Bobby, for Athena—doesn't escape Tommy's notice. How could it?

"But the other stuff," Evan adds. "Yeah, I do need to explain myself. I mean, I'm staying at my ex's place and if that isn't bad enough—"

"Gee, thanks."

Evan kicks his shin ("playfully"). "Bad enough for me, now I've—I'm like a kid running into his parents' room or something."

Tommy wraps a hand around Evan's bicep, watching the touch ground him and his thoughts. "I never would have dared as a kid. Be a man, my dad said, to this six-year-old baby who's got the big tree in the yard knocking its branches into the window right by his bed. I get it. I don't like storms either."

Evan meets his eyes for a long moment before he answers, "Fucking sucks, Tommy. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me too. So." Tommy sighs and doesn't know how to do this without making it about a thousand times weirder than it already is. "So—can I—do you want—"

"No, it's okay, just—just being here is enough, I promise."

"One day I'll figure out how you use the word promise, because it's so—that's not what it means." Tommy sighs. "Three hours of sleep. Get over here."

"Over?"

Tommy wraps an arm around him and pulls Evan to his chest. Maybe not as close as he might have this time last year, but enough that the body heat between them is already hot for a humid summer morning. Evan's startled but it only takes a moment before they're—here they are, like puzzle pieces reunited.

"Thanks," Evan whispers. "When it passes—"

"If you wake me up, I'm evicting you."

"Okay."

"That was a joke."

"Okay."

Tommy's exasperation deflates into sadness, just plain sadness. He'll blame the exhaustion later, if either of them has the guts to ask. That's what he'll blame for the kiss he presses to the top of Evan's head, and the one to his forehead. He rests his head against Evan's and holds him closer.

"We'll write out a tiny lease on that notepad in the kitchen," Tommy says, the heat and the weight against him lulling him to sleep again. "You don't owe me anything. Not a thing. Not rent or favors or cooking or anything, unless you want to give it."

Evan's body is relaxing against him, his breath slowing. "I do, Tommy. I do."

There's another flash of lightning, and a thunderclap that makes both of them jump and bolt awake again. "I'm sorry," Evan whispers after their legs and knees bumped into each other under the covers.

"It's okay, I've got you," Tommy whispers.

Evan nods. "I've got you, too."

They find each other again, that close-but-not-too-close hold from before. That slow drag into sleep is coming again, but Tommy blurts out, "I have disposable earplugs. Do you want a pair?"

"Oh. Yeah. Good idea."

"Great idea," Tommy says, searching inside his nightstand until he feels and hears the plastic crinkle of a pair of earplugs.

Evan accepts them and sits up. "Thanks. I guess I can—"

Tommy stares at him. "No, those go in your ears and you go—" Tommy hits the pillows and Evan laughs with a huge smile, with his whole chest, as he opens the packet. "Okay? Okay. Great."

"Stop making me laugh," Evan protests as he tilts his head to put one in. "I'm sad and scared, read the room."

"It's my house and I'm buying a big driftwood sign that says: In this house we live we laugh we love and we deflect our feelings with jokes."

Evan tilts his head in the other direction. "Last thing I'll say before I can't hear you anymore: you don't need a sign for that."

"Wow. Wow."

Evan motions to his ears with an exaggerated shrug. Tommy mouths very clearly EAT ME—but judging by the lift of Evan's eyebrows, he's better at lip reading than Tommy thought.

"Third time's the charm," Tommy says as they lie down again. There's thunder overhead again, but Evan barely notices. His quiet and his calm, that trust as he falls asleep in Tommy's arms again, pulls Tommy down into sleep, too.