#fluff part one | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bluetimeombre · 1 month ago

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₊˚ෆ Stacey’s ( Ellie’s ) mom ,

'dude your mom is hot' was a sentence Ellie got used to hearing between her friends.

Warning, language, SMUT-ish, nothing too explicit, age gap, crushing, dirty talk, oral (f receiving) voyeursim kinda? Lmk if I missed anything

•----------•----------•----------•----------•-----

“ Hey, should we go back to yours? ” it was typical of Dina to ask, to always suggest to Ellie they go back to her house. The one with Miller out front.

But Ellie knew it wasn't Joel she was trying to get a peek at.

Ellie was groaning, her arms out wide as Dina was already grinning, practically skipping to her house. “ Dina- ”

“ C'mon, wanna hear that gee-tar playing of yours, ” she said.

“ Are you serious right now? ” she groaned, following begrudgingly because she'd follow Dina to the end of the earth.

Dina looked back at her with a cheeky grin.

“ I don't even live there anymore! ” Ellie tried to argue.

“ Yeah you do. ”

She shook her head and kicked stones along the path as she followed. She liked her garage that had turned into her room.

But Dina liked the house that smelled like wood and you.

•----------•----------•----------•----------•----

“ Hello! ” Dina walked in like the home was hers. She was there often enough that she knew the doors were always open to her.

Ellie sulked as she walked through the door, wiping her dusty boots on the mat and gently closing it behind her.

“ Is anyone home? ” Dina asked after she got little reply. Her hands were on her hips, gently tugging down her shirt until there was some sort of teasing going on around her chest. She turned to Ellie.

Her cheeks were pink and she tried to find entertainment in the white walls and not Dina's attempts. “ I-I dunno. ”

“ Ellie? ” a voice suddenly called.

You. You walked down the stairs, boots in hand and jacket thrown over your arm. “ Thought I heard you two, ” you greeted with a nod and smile, settling yourself on the last step. “ How you doin' Dina? ”

Dina grinned wide, knocking her boot on your sock clad foot. “ All the better for seeing you. ”

Ellie tutted and looked down.

You peered up at Dina, smirking. “ Always love to see ya, Dina.”

When Ellie's friends- especially Dina and Jesse- wanted to come around more she'd been glad of the attention, to have a life she could share with friends. Then it started to become more instant.

'Hey, whose at home?'

'Hey, I was thinking about guitar lessons, who taught you?'

'You know anyone who can repair my jacket?'

At first, Ellie had thought they were all about Joel. The gruff, older, brother of Tommy, mystery man.

It wasn't until about a month ago, when Joel was stuck out on patrol and Jesse insisted on looking over you that Ellie realised her friends weren't there for Joel. They were there for you.

It was embarrassing for Ellie. And she could never tell if you knew and loved it or really didn't see the effect you had on them. On everyone.

Finally, Ellie noticed how you tied up your boots and stood. “ Where are you going? ”

“ Patrol, ” you said, “Tommy thinks they found raider tracks heading south, want some of us to go look. ”

“ And where's Joel?”

“ Joel's right 'ere. ”

The man trod downstairs, still buttoning up his checked shirt and hiding the dust of greying chest hair. His hair was tussled, no socks on his feet and a thin, small layer of sweat on his forehead.

Ellie took it all in with an embarrassed groan the same time Dina noticed and chuckled.

“ Joel, you dog! ”

He bristled under her comment. “ Dina. ”

You laughed to yourself, throwing your jacket over your shoulders.

Joel's hand had hardly brushed your shoulder before Dina jumped at the opportunity.

“ Here-” she said. “ Let me help you.”

“ Thanks. ”

Joel and Ellie watched as Dina held your jacket out, helping your arms slide down the sleeves and brush her own hands against yours and Dina was all too pleased with herself.

She even smoothed your collar back as you pulled back your hair.

You turned to her, smiling. “ Thanks. ”

Joel was at your back, taking you to the door. “ C'mon, honey, i'll walk you out. ”

Ellie approached Dina's side as they watched Joel's hand dance the lowest part of your back and opening the front door for you.

“ You need gloves? ” Dina asked, calling to you.

Joel looked over his shoulder with a scowl. “ It ain't winter yet, she'll be fine, ” but both girls then noticed how he lowered his lips to your ears and muttered the same question.

Ellie saw how Dina looked at you, watched you as you said your bye's to Joel. She saw how Dina's eyes scanned over you- head to toe- and but down on her lower lip. She slapped her in the arm. “ Cut it out. ”

“ Can't help it ,” she mumbled, shrugging innocently. “ Your mom does something to me.”

“ She's not my mom, ” Ellie grumbled. It was true, you weren't. Maybe you were the closest thing she had to a real one- after all you'd done with Joel to save her you were family. A love of hers. But you were more a sister than a mother. Only slightly older than Ellie but younger than Joel.

Maybe that was why all of her friends wanted you.

You were just that out of reach.

Joel saw the two watching, one happy and the other with a scowl just like his.

The door inched closed just enough for him to kiss you without an audience.

Dina grumbled. “ C'mon man. ”

Joel pulled it back enough to show your head popping around. He didn't seem happy but Dina didn't care.

“ I'll see you soon, Ellie, ” you nodded. You and her never liked goodbye's, just see you later's.

“ Be careful out there, ” she said.

You smiled and looked to her side. “ See you later, Dina.”

Before you could disappear the two girls watched as Joel's finger's wrapped around your forearm. “ Be safe .”

“ I will. ” You promised, pecking his lips again.

Your footsteps sounded down the porch and down the stairs, across gravel.

Joel still lingered at the door, watching you guy, an arm up on the door and sighing, huffing, as if all the noise he made could stop you.

Dina was giddy as she rushed to the door, opening it wider and waving you down. “ Be safe! ” she called.

You glanced back, an amused grin on your lips and furrow between your brows as Ellie dragged her feet over to also watch you go. You offered them all a small wave.

Joel and Dina watched you walk off, Ellie wishing she could hide in a hole from embarrassment.

“ How'd you get a fine woman like that, Old man? ” teased Dina.

Joel didn't turn, even give any sign that he'd heard until he saw your body move around the corner to meet Tommy (one of the only one's he trusted you to patrol with). His eyes were dark and narrow when they turned down to Dina. “ Don't you have a garage to get to ?"

•----------•----------•----------•----------•---

Ellie had a good training session with Jesse. A real good one. An early morning rise, the birds chirping. She'd even managed to take him down one on the mat.

He'd given her a 'looking good' and suggested breakfast at the food hall.

“ Your right hooks got something, ” he said, letting her through the door first and to the stands.

“. You think?” her smile was large though her muscles were sore.

“ Yeah! ”

They'd just got plates and mugs, just gotten their foods when they heard the unmistakable dark chuckle of Joel Miller. Unmistakable cause it was the sound only you could drag out of him.

Jesse's head practically snapped at the sound.

Ellie groaned. “ Seriously. ”

Jesse grinned.

You and Joel were sat at a table to yourself but it may as well have just been you and him in the entire world.

Though people were all around the canteen, smiling and talking, you and Joel faced each other. Your chair was turned to him while his body was focused on you, hand laid out over yours on top of the table, his fingers drawing lazy circles along the back. Your eyes were shining, glittering as you spoke while Joel's... Joel's was nothing shorter than adoration.

Jesse's was too. “ Let's go say hi. ”

He was already walking over to you as Ellie hung her head.

You turned first, noting Jesse's long strides and Ellies little shuffles. You still smiled, though not as wide as you moved your chair back under the table.

Joel's gaze turned dark but he didn't try moving as Jesse and Ellie slid into seats in front of you.

“ Hey,” Jesse greeted. His arms crossed over the table across from you, his breakfast pushed aside and forgotten about. “Hope you don't mind us joining. ”

" Yes, ” said Joel.

You swatted his chest and tutted.

Ellie smiled sheepishly to herself, tucking her head into her chest. She knew the very move she used on Dina.

“ You were training this morning?” you asked.

“ Yeah, Ellie's she's getting real good! ” Jesse boasted, slapping a hand on her shoulder and causing her to jolt.

Ellie glared at him.

You caught the glare. “ Well, she's got a good teacher. ”

Joel glared at you, clearing his throat and shuffling his chair closer to you as Jesse blushed.

“ Thank you, I mean, well, you've probably taught her- um- taught her moves. ”

Your lips moved with amusement. “ The best kind .”

Joel huffed an approval of a laugh.

Ellie caught the way Joel kicked up a leg over his other, his hand large, sliding over your thigh. He only had to tug a little before he had you pulled into his side.

Jesse's blushed was absorbed.

If Ellie could see how her friends reacted to you, then Joel must've caught onto it before her.

“ So, um- ”Jesse tried again, pulling himself into the table. “ I heard you and Tommy got those raiders? ”

You shrug, fingers tracing over the rim of your coffee cup. “ Was only three. Stragglers, I reckon. They were low on supplies. The winter would've got them anyway.”

“ Well you've kept this town safe, again, ” said Jesse. “ You're a hero. ”

Ellie didn't know if she wanted to be swallowed up by the ground or if she wanted Jesse to.

There was a flicker of some uncomfortableness at the compliment.

You looked into your mug and frowned. “ A hero can't get a damn cup of coffee around here-”

“ I'll get it! ” Both Joel and Jesse had said.

Joel glared at him. His strongest yet, even Ellie who'd done nothing wrong but know you, shrunk.

Jesse, to his credit, still tried. “ I can get it. It's no problem. ”

“ I’ll get the damn cup of coffee, ”Joel almost growled at him.

He pushed his chair back.

Before he left the table he made sure Jesse was watching as he rested his hand on the back of your chair and leant down.

He kissed you passionately, the kind of way he made sure never to do in front of Ellie. His knuckles bleached white with how hard he grabbed the back of the chair. The steal of your breath. The tilt of his face and the shove of his tongue into your mouth, quick and effective.

When he pulled away, smirking down at you and getting your empty mug, you were still staring after him, licking your lips from the taste of him.

You watched him go like Ellie and Jesse weren't there, leaning around the table to watch him walk.

Jesse deflated, groaning to himself. He could train, cook, be as buff as he wanted, but he'd never be an older man like Joel Miller.

“ Gross ,” Ellie grumbled, stabbing at her eggs.

•----------•----------•----------•----------•-----

Ellie lead the way, laughing back into the Miller residence.

Weeks had passed and spending time with Dina and Jesse was easier when you and Joel had been so busy. So busy you weren't seen my her friends much.

Joel had been asked by Maria to build faster, to which he always liked to joke about and push her buttons with, while you and Tommy had been busy in keeping tabs on any change in patrol logs. Sure you'd gotten three raiders, but Tommy didn't like chances.

“ So is anyone home?” asked Dina, her voice tinged with hope as the three of them kicked off the snow on their boots.

“ Yeah, like, will Joel be in, or... ” Jesse trailed off, warming his hands with his breath.

“ No, they're not in, Joel had patrol and she's with Benji ,”Ellie told them, opening the door and keeping it open as she walked in. “ It's just us.”

But it was not just them and they discovered as much as they rounded the corner into the kitchen.

"Fuck, bab- Oh my god!"

"Shit-shit!"

"What the fuck!"

All manners of expressions, from pleasure to horror, were shouted across the kitchen.

Jesse hid his face, Dina laughed and Ellie looked damn well near ready to explode.

You were propped up on the kitchen counter, your legs were wide and your dressing robe had been bunched at the waist. Your hand had been grasping at salt-and-pepper hair and Joel's hands had been grasping at your hips and ass, pulling you into his face as he sat on his knees in front of you.

At all the yelling and your quick jump to your feet, he was up, you were hiding him behind you as your robe was pulled back.

“ Ellie, we thought you were out! ” you said.

“ We eat here! ” she argued.

“ Joel was eating something, ” Dina snickered.

“ Dina! ” warned Joel.

It seemed the only one's who could see some funny in the situation was you and Dina, as you couldn't help but laugh off the blush on Jesse's cheeks.

“ Ellie- ” you laughed, hands behind you as you hid Joel (who was definitely almost half hard and stubble covered in you)

“ Seriously !” she was still snapping, her teenager anger coming to the surface. “ Just five minutes of being fucking normal! ”

You were still finding the situation laughable as you stirred yourself and Joel out the kitchen like you were a pair of horny teens. “ We'll just er- go finish- I mean, leave the three of you to it. ”

You and Joel were in the door way from the kitchen when you passed a nod to Ellie's friends. “ Dina. Jesse .”

Then you were gone, Joel's low groans of annoyance at the interruption and your laughs. But even Joel gave a low grumble of something that was similar to laughing at Ellie's eruption.

Normal, like a finally normal family.

•----------•----------•----------•----------•-----

“ Dina, this is ridiculous! ”Jesse seethed as he followed her up the stairs of the Miller house.

“ Oh c'mon,” she whispered, creeping up the stairs. “ You telling me you don't wanna know? “

“ No, I don't! ”

But it was a clear lie.

The two were supposed to be sleeping in Ellie's garage, on a crappy mattress Joel had dragged in for them.

Ellie was sound asleep when they left.

It was only to wonder, to quench a thirst as they convinced themself. They just wanted to see your and Joel's room, wonder what secrets it held. Specifically. what pieces of you were there.

Were clothes of yours strewn about the place, thrown haphazardly around? Were your guns that delicately pulled triggers lying on a cabinet, organised? Were their pictures? Ellie's drawings? Your boots?

Your nightwear?

“ Dina, if Ellie knew... fuck, if Joel knew- ”Jesse panicked.

“ They're not gonna. It's just to see. ”

Ellie had casually mentioned that you and Joel would be out the house as you always babysat Benji for Maria and Tommy on a Friday night so they could go out.

She’d almost promised you and Joel would be gone, without thinking about the consequences.

Dina and Jesse didn’t think as they crouched outside the door that his the secrets of you.

A bit more than secrets.

Jesse put out a hand, stopping Dina from turning the doorknob. “ You hear that? ”

Moaning. Groaning.

Memories of pain sprang to mind before they heard the creak of a bed.

"Oh baby,"

"Yeah-there? Just there, I know what you like mama,"

"J-Joel!"

Jesse’s outstretched hand started to tremble.

No, you and Joel were not babysitting for that evening.

Dina cracked a grin. “ Are they? ”

But Jesse gulped.

They didn’t need to see you or Joel. The thump of the bed on the wall and the gasps and moans were enough for them to imagine Joel on his back, his cock buried deep in you.

Your hands would be atop his chest, or low on his sternum to steady yourself as you bounced on his cock, taking him and retracting him, moaning at the constant fill.

You’d be sweaty- glistening in it. You’d throw your head back, hair cascading down your back as you moan.

"Harder baby," they could hear Joel grit out through his teeth. "C’mon, fucking bounce on it! Make those damn kids hear and think they have a chance!"

Little did he know they were outside the door, ruining themselves with their own imaginations.

Joel cursed, grunting loudly. "You think? You think anyone else can make you this wet? Can make you this needy?"

There was a little noise, a whimper from you that had Jesse clenching his jaw and Dina biting her lip.

"Louder!"

"You, Joel! Only you!"

"Damn right. Now show me, show me this sweet cunt is mine!"

They sounds of skin on skin increased, louder, paired with filthy words and even filthier sounds.

They pictured Joel’s feet planted on the bed, hands digging into the skin of your hips and holding you up to thrust into you, having you a numb mess as you both spilled words.

"Only yours, my sweet little pussy only fits your cock, Joel,"

"Can feel you squeeze me. Shit- it’s so good. Wanna be buried inside of you forever,"

"Don’t think about anyone else- don’t look at anyone else, just you,"

Neither of Dina or Jesse could move as you and Joel reached your limits.

"Say my name, say my name as you let me fill you up! Say my name as you let me make you a mama!"

"Joel!"

It ended in grunts and deep breaths.

As you and Joel calmed down, Dina and Jesse came back to themselves, catching their breaths as if they’d been at activities.

Jesse brushed off his pants and whispered. "I think I’m er, gonna head home. Would you let Ellie know?"

“ Yeah. Yeah, I-I think I’m gonna go wake and tell her now. ”

The two stood at the top of the stairs.

“ Bye. ”

“ Goodnight. ”

They each bid bye, seeing each other rush of with slick between legs and something hard too.

(Little did they realise how Joel had watched them ‘sneak’ from the garage and heard them enter the house. Little did they know you and a Joel had thought how they needed to learn a lesson that what was Joel’s was always Joel’s)

Joel pulled you into his chest, tucking his head between your neck and shoulder, peppering it in kisses. "That’ll show ‘em."

Work is so busy I’m so tired but I loved this!!

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newobsessionweekly · 2 months ago

Text

Aftershock: Bradford's Barbie

Main Masterlist | The Rookie Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Tim Bradford x younger!reader

Fandom: The Rookie

Summary: You and Tim are not dating. But also aren't not dating. Until he pulls back, you shut down and every feeling comes crashing down on you both.

Angst to fluff

Warnings: description of gunshots maybe? not proofread yet

Words: -

It didn’t start with fireworks. Or candlelight. Or anything remotely poetic.

It started with a crash.

Not the earthquake kind, not this time. Just you—exhausted, makeup smudged, hair in a bun that had declared war hours ago—falling asleep on his couch after a late-night takeout run and a shared bottle of whiskey neither of you meant to finish.

You woke up tangled in his arms. The next morning, you told yourself it was a one-time thing.

It wasn’t.

Somehow, in between shifts and field assignments, takeout orders and inside jokes, it became a routine. Your body in his bed. His scent on your clothes. His lips on your skin, hot and heavy in the silence after dark. And, weirdly, you slept better at his place. He did too, not that he ever said it out loud.

You weren’t dating.

You weren’t not dating, either.

Tim called it “convenient.” You called it “friends with benefits.” Lucy called it “a catastrophe waiting to happen,” though she didn’t know the half of it.

Because somewhere between him calling you a menace and you calling him a fossil—somewhere between him brushing your hair off your face and you learning how he liked his coffee—you started catching feelings.

Like a dumbass.

And the worst part? You didn’t even mean to. It just… happened. The way feelings do. Quiet at first, like a hairline crack. Then spreading, splitting, splitting, splitting.

Until something inside you started to break.

You told him once.

Sort of.

A few weeks ago, lying in his bed with your cheek pressed to his chest, you’d murmured something dumb and sleepy like, “I think you like me, Bradford.”

He hadn’t laughed. He hadn’t kissed you either.

He’d just gone still.

“Don’t make this complicated,” he’d said finally, voice low. “It’s already risky. You’re… you’re too young. This thing is just for fun. Let’s not pretend it’s more than it is.”

And like a fool, you nodded.

You told yourself you could deal with it.

But here you are, two months later, being reckless all over again.

Because now, thanks to a shiny new contract between LAPD and your father’s construction firm, you’re officially partnered with none other than Timothy “Emotionally Constipated” Bradford.

You might’ve pulled a few strings. Okay, a lot of strings. But in your defense, it was the perfect setup: a project pairing cops with civil engineers to evaluate post-quake building damage. Everyone wins. Especially you.

Except you forgot one detail.

You’re still in love with him.

And he still thinks you’re a goddamn risk.

You’re halfway through assessing a condemned strip mall in East Hollywood when it all goes to hell.

The street’s quiet, a little too quiet, the kind of quiet that prickles under your skin. Tim’s beside you, hand on his vest, eyes scanning every window and alley like he’s waiting for something to jump.

You’re marking a crumbling doorway with bright red chalk when it happens.

A pop.

Then another.

Gunfire.

You drop instantly, instincts kicking in, but not before Tim grabs your shoulder and yanks you behind the rusted frame of a dumpster. His body covers yours, warm and solid, one arm braced against the metal and the other curled around your waist.

“Stay down,” he growls, eyes blazing.

Your heart is beating in your ears, faster than it should. Too fast. His breath is hot on your cheek. His chest rises and falls against your back, firm and steady, while yours feels like it might explode.

And all you can think is: this isn’t casual. This isn’t just “fun.”

This is him shielding you like he’d die for you.

When it’s over—when backup arrives, when the scene clears, when the world rights itself again—you’re sitting on the tailgate of an LAPD shop with an ice pack pressed to your knee and a very pissed-off Tim looming over you.

“You okay?” he asks. The words are tight. Controlled. But his hand won’t stop gripping your thigh.

“I’m good,” you reply lightly. “But damn, Bradford. You almost made me think you caught feelings.”

His jaw ticks. “Don’t.”

“What? Can’t a girl joke around with her—what are we again? Bed buddies?”

He doesn’t answer. Just steps back like your words physically burned him.

You wait for him to say something—anything. But all you get is silence. His walls are up again. Brick by goddamn brick.

You nod, lips tightening.

“Got it.”

You stop texting him after that.

No goodnight emojis. No sarcastic memes. No more midnight rides to each other’s places. You pull out. Clean cut. No drama.

You tell yourself it’s the right thing. The smart thing.

You also start sleeping like crap again.

You expect him to call.

He doesn’t.

You expect him to knock on your door like he always does when things go sideways. Show up with a six-pack and that dumb grumpy look he pretends isn’t fond.

He doesn’t.

Instead, silence.

You last three days before deleting his name from your favorites. Five days before you fold the hoodie he left behind and tuck it in a drawer. Nine before you hear through one of the engineers that he requested a reassignment. A new partner.

The hurt isn’t new.

You just didn’t expect it to land like this. Like a slow tear in your chest every time you turn a corner expecting to see him, but don’t.

Tim is worse.

He doesn’t talk about it. Not to Lucy. Not to Thorsen. Not to Lopez. He just… broods.

He snaps faster. His fuse is shorter. He works more shifts, runs more drills, volunteers for the worst hours.

Lucy notices.

Of course she notices.

“You’ve been insufferable lately,” she says one day while they’re stuck in the locker room post-shift, both drenched in sweat and sun. “Worse than usual.”

Tim grunts, slamming his locker shut harder than necessary. “Just tired.”

“Bullshit.”

He shoots her a look, but she doesn’t back off.

“Is this about her?” Lucy asks casually. Too casually.

Tim stiffens. “What?”

“The blonde. Barbie. Earthquake Barbie. Whatever nickname you gave her in your grumpy little brain.”

Tim says nothing. Just pulls his shirt over his head like the conversation’s over.

It isn’t.

Lucy leans against the row of lockers, arms crossed. “Look, I didn’t want to get involved, but you’re spiraling. And when Tim Bradford spirals, people start punching walls and doing push-ups until their triceps cry for help.”

Tim’s voice is low. “She’s fine.”

“She’s not talking to you.”

“She doesn’t have to.”

Lucy raises an eyebrow. “So you were hooking up.”

He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t even flinch.

Lucy whistles. “Damn. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Tim exhales slowly, resting his forehead against the cool metal. “It wasn’t supposed to be anything.”

“But?”

He hesitates.

Lucy watches him carefully. “But?”

“I don’t know,” he says finally. “She got under my skin.”

Lucy nods. “Yeah. That tends to happen when you’re in love.”

Tim turns to her, eyes flinty. “It wasn’t love.”

“Sure.”

“She’s almost twenty years younger than me.”

“And?”

“She’s reckless. She pulled strings to partner with me.”

“She also stood her ground during a live gunfire incident and patched your hand when you busted your knuckles punching a brick wall.”

Tim doesn’t respond.

Lucy softens. “Look. I don’t know what happened between you two. But I’ve known you long enough to know when someone’s got you twisted in knots. Go to her. Fix it.”

It takes him until midnight.

You’re not surprised when he knocks.

You hear the heavy sound of his boots on the hallway first—then the pause, then the knock. He doesn’t knock like a neighbor. He knocks like someone who built you into his routine and doesn’t know how to function without it.

But you don’t answer.

You sit cross-legged on the couch, hoodie pulled over your knees, and sip from a lukewarm mug of tea you don’t even like.

You hear the second knock. Then his sigh. Then silence.

“I know you’re there,” he says through the door, voice low and rough. “You’re loud in heels. But I swear—you’re louder barefoot.”

Your heart stutters.

You stay quiet.

He exhales, palm pressing to the door.

“I didn’t mean to push you away.”

You roll your eyes. “You didn’t push me away, Bradford. You made it very clear where I stand. Or don’t stand.”

He laughs, but it’s bitter. “Yeah. I’m a dumbass.”

You don’t deny it.

Tim leans closer. “I just… I didn’t want to ruin what we had. And I thought keeping it casual would keep it safe.”

You raise an eyebrow even though he can’t see it. “Casual? You kissed my shoulder when you thought I was asleep. You stocked your fridge with my favorite iced coffee.”

Silence.

“Casual my ass,” you mutter.

You still don’t open the door. You hear his exhale through the wood.

“I didn’t mean that,” he says, quieter this time. “You know I didn’t.”

You hate that his voice still does that to you. That low rumble laced with something vulnerable. Something only you ever get from him—when no one’s watching. Not Lucy. Not his team. Not his goddamn conscience.

“You said I wasn’t worth the risk,” you remind him, because he needs to hear it. Needs to sit with the way it burned through you like acid.

A pause.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then how did you mean it?”

Silence.

You wait. The kind of silence where seconds stretch until they feel like bruises. He doesn’t answer, and that tells you enough.

You move to the door, pressing your back against it, still not ready to open it. “Go home, Tim.”

“I am home,” he says softly, and fuck. Fuck him for saying that.

The ache spreads. It’s not even anger anymore. It’s that thing you hate admitting even to yourself. Longing.

You press your palms to your eyes. “You don’t get to say that.”

Another pause.

“Okay. Fine. You won’t talk to me?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

He must hear the way your breath hitches through the door, because his next words come sharp.

“Then I’ll make you talk.”

The knock stops. The silence twists.

Then the click of the door handle turning, slow—because you forgot to lock it. You never lock it when you expect him.

The door opens, and there he is.

Post-shift, tired eyes, hand still on the doorknob like he’s giving you one last second to throw him out.

You don’t.

He steps in and shuts the door behind him.

You’re still in your hoodie, hair up in that messy knot he always said made you look like you “tried not to look hot,” and failed.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just drinks you in. Quiet, serious, unreadable. Then, in three strides, he’s in front of you, his hand tilting your chin up.

“I fucked up.”

You blink. “You think?”

He doesn’t smile. He just leans in—closer than he’s let himself in weeks.

“Say something.”

You don’t. You won’t.

So he does what Tim Bradford always does when he’s cornered by emotion—

He acts.

His lips crash into yours before you can say another word. It’s not soft. It’s not gentle. It’s desperate. Like he’s trying to apologize with every breath he pulls from you.

Your hands fist in his shirt before your brain catches up. Before your heart can argue. Because you’ve missed this. Him. The heat. The feel of his body like a shield and a furnace all at once.

He pulls back just far enough to murmur, “You’re mine.”

You open your mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to fall apart—but he kisses you again before the words come.

“Say it,” he breathes against your skin, kissing down your jaw. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you whisper, dazed, breathless, undone. “And you’re mine as well.”

His hands tighten around your waist, like he’s trying to ground himself to the words. Like you’ve said something dangerous, holy.

“I’ve been yours,” he says hoarsely, “since the moment I met you, Barbie doll.”

Your knees nearly give out.

He lifts you—effortlessly—and carries you to the couch, laying you down like you’re something fragile and irreplaceable.

This isn’t just sex anymore.

This is everything that’s been building. All the friction, the denial, the tension that snapped the moment he let himself feel.

The hoodie is the first thing to go. His hands slow, reverent. Like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

He kisses your chest, your neck, your mouth again. “I don’t care about the age gap,” he murmurs. “Or the job. Or the risk. I care about you.”

You close your eyes and arch into him. He’s not just making love to you. He’s choosing you. Out loud. Without hesitation.

And the best part is—you’re finally choosing him back.

The next morning, sunlight filters through the blinds, casting a warm glow over the room. You stir, feeling the steady rhythm of Tim’s heartbeat beneath your cheek.

“Morning,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep.

You look up at him, a smile tugging at your lips. “Morning.”

He brushes a strand of hair from your face. “So, does this mean we’re official or something?”

You chuckle. “I think last night made that pretty clear.”

He grins, pulling you closer. “Good. Because I don’t plan on letting you go.”

You nestle into his embrace, feeling a sense of contentment you hadn’t known you were missing.

And in that moment, everything feels right.

553 notes · View notes

jinx-xxed · 1 year ago

Text

Feral Desires

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

A/N; This feels like a crazy jump from my first smut I posted lmfao 🫡 it was also crazy writing this, I haven’t written omegaverse in forever despite it being a favorite

Summary; You’re on a mission for the First Order, well away from your alpha, which means it’s the perfect time for your heat to start out of nowhere.

Content; NSFW 18+, AFAB reader, omegaverse, omega reader, alpha Kylo Ren, mated to Kylo, heats, ruts, nesting, fingering, piv sex, knotting, biting/marking, scent marking, breeding kink, A LOT of breeding kink, protective and possessive Kylo, also very loving Kylo, tiny bit of size difference kink, conservative views on omegas (mostly pertaining to suppressants), omegaverse terms (kids referred to as pups), fluff

Wc; 6.4k

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

You thought it would be fine.

It should’ve been fine.

This wasn’t supposed to happen, gods, this was not supposed to happen.

Your heat was not supposed to start a month early right when you leave on a mission.

Everything had seemed okay at first; you gathered your troops after getting your assignment—investigate an uninhabited jungle planet’s surface and find out what the First Order could gleam from it. You had bid farewell to Kylo Ren, the Supreme Leader and also your mate. Through your bond both in the Force and in the bite mark on your neck, you could tell how apprehensive he was to let you go. It had taken some convincing, but he’d allowed it. If he wasn’t swamped in a million other responsibilities that come with his new position, he would’ve joined you.

The trip to the planet had gone without a hitch, and everything had seemed like it was in perfect order. You were the first to step foot on the surface once your ships’ doors had opened with a hiss of depressurized air. It was quite beautiful when you took it all in; covered in lush vegetation and impossibly tall trees covered in moss, a few of which your ships had unfortunately crushed on their way down. Sensors indicated that the air was nontoxic and clean so you had gladly taken a deep breath. Smells came stronger to you with your aberrant status, meaning you could practically taste the planet on your tongue. It was damp and full of the smell of wet leaves and bark, along with the reek of wild animals you didn’t know the names of. Said animals were calling through the trees in chirps and barks. It was quite nice.

Stormtroopers fanned out, beginning to take notes of anything that seemed of importance or interest. You and your lieutenant, a beta named Mallory who’d been by your side for many years, were in charge of placing down beacons and sensors that would give you every piece of data you’d need. It’d tell you what’s beneath the planets surface like ores and minerals and what kind of regeneration systems it had. It’d be a slow process; taking scans of an entire, huge planets surface wasn’t the easiest thing in the world. That’s why you were given a weeks timeline for this mission. Easy enough.

Until you’d gotten a prickling on the back of your neck, until an odd amount of sweat started to build at your collar, until you could barely hold on to your data pad because of how slippery your palms had become. You’d tried to ignore it, tried to ignore those telltale signs because surely your heat wouldn’t be starting now? Surely it wouldn’t have been catapulted forward a month because your body got confused by you leaving your alpha and was doing what it needed to in order to bring him back?

“General? Are you alright?” Mallory asks you.

You realize you’d been standing there looking at your data pad like an idiot while warmth and sweat builds beneath your uniform. You look up and try to blink the haze out of your vision. Suddenly all those smells from before are so overwhelming. “I think I need to go back to the ship.” You mutter. You’re not stupid, you do realize it’d be irresponsible to try and ignore this. Hell, you can’t even get yourself to take a step forward when all you want to do is go back to your ship where the scents are familiar.

Mallory tenses, noticing the flush in your face and the way your demeanor is so off. She may be a beta but she’s still able to recognize the onset of a heat, especially yours after being your lieutenant for so long. That’s why she goes with you everywhere, to keep an eye on you. She’s perfect for times like these. “Okay. Let’s go, quickly.” She says, a gentle hand on your arm guiding you back the way you came.

She says commands through a radio while you walk, instructing the next in charge—a fresh-face captain—to continue the observations so they can at least get something out of this. You feel guilt pierce through your roiling stomach, cursing yourself over and over for not being able to see a very simple mission to completion. It’s embarrassing. It makes you wish you were able to take your damn suppressants again.

You haven’t taken them for about three years, ever since you became mated to Kylo. As soon as that happened, all of your suppressants were tossed and every medic on the Steadfast was strictly forbidden to give you any. If any were discovered, you knew exactly what price they’d have to pay. Before all that, you’d taken them regularly to give you some peace aboard the ship and keep your position as general safe. People were more willing to trust you with things if your omega status was… muted. It was easier to ignore.

The only reason you really got to keep your job was because you were damn good at it and you kept being an omega from getting in the way, so nobody cared. It was simple. Then Kylo came along, discovered you were Force sensitive, began to train you, and you fell for him hard. You ended up becoming his mate, his teeth laying claim to the skin where your neck meets your shoulder, right where your scent gland starts. He bears a similar mark from your own teeth. He was gracious enough to let you remain as a general, even if every primal instinct he has tells him to keep you away from your job because it’s dangerous. All because he knew how upset it’d make you if he took it away, and because you’re actually competent.

However, it puts you in situations like this where you’re trying to fight off an oncoming heat while you’re on an unknown planet in an unknown space and your alpha is a galaxy away from you. You’ve learned that your status as an omega comes before your position as a general.

Mallory gets you back on to your ship that’s specifically assigned to only you two for your own safety. Never before have you been so grateful for that. She heads towards the cockpit immediately, taking her seat in the pilots chair and flipping switches. You slink towards the back of the ship, craving an enclosed space and cold air. Your heat hasn’t hit you full force yet, but you know it’s a matter of hours. You know it’s a matter of hours until your brain is pure incomprehensible mush, until your body is on fire, and until there’s a need inside so deep that it consumes your entire being and only one man can satisfy it.

It always starts out slow, with everything feeling just a bit too sensitive and your temperature rising. Then you feel it in every gland you have, a slight throb to them as your scent changes and pheromone production skyrockets. You get sweaty and those stiff uniforms the First Order requires feel like they’re boiling you alive—hence why you’re removing your jacket now. Next is the nesting, creating your own little safe space where nothing can hurt you and it’s only for you and your alpha.

It’s extremely difficult in a sterile, empty ship. You can feel your omega start to panic as it realizes there’s nothing to nest with besides your own jacket and a thin, scratchy blanket from an emergency kit in the ship. Nothing with Kylo’s scent, nothing to keep your alpha close, nothing safe, it’s not safe, oh gods-

You whine low and sad in the back of your throat as you hopelessly try and try and try to rearrange your two items into something satisfactory in your little corner. It doesn’t work of course. It only serves to send you into more of a frenzy, wishing for anything else, wishing you were back on the Steadfast, back in you and Kylo’s shared rooms where you could make as big a nest as you want with his full closet at your disposal. Comfy sheets, pillows, big capes covered in his scent… thinking about it is not helping.

The ship rumbles to life beneath you and you can feel its vibrations from how your body is pressed against the floor. The cold metal helps to keep the fever raging through you at bay. You’re curled in on yourself, your hands at your neck massaging your aching glands and the bite mark that resides there. It does little to soothe your pain but it’s all you have. You faintly hear Mallory talking, though it’s drowned out by the buzzing in your head. Until a familiar, deep voice crackles through the ships comms and has you sitting up immediately, your attention laser-focused.

“I want her back on the Steadfast immediately.” Kylo says. He sounds angry, livid perhaps. It’s enough to make you feel the need to submit despite the fact he’s not even mad at you. Hearing him does something to your bond akin to reigniting it across the distance between the two of you. It gives you the smallest bit of a connection to cling on to and you wrap yourself in it, enjoying it while it lasts. You can feel his emotions, his need for you like you need him. He’s angry he isn’t there, that he can’t provide for his omega like a good alpha should. He’s irrationally scared too—scared that something might happen to you, that some other alpha might try to get to you. He’s like a ticking time bomb, ready to go off on anyone he deems fit.

“Yes, sir, I understand.” Mallory says. She looks over at one of the monitors, pressing a few controls on the screen. “Based on what fuel remains and if I avoid active fuel preservation, it should take about five standard hours to reach your coordinates.”

Five hours. By the time you reach the Steadfast, you’ll be well intro the throes of your heat, accelerated by the fact Kylo isn’t there to help you. You haven’t had a heat without your mate for a long time and your body is not happy about it. A wave of depression and anxiety washes over you, your fingers digging into the blanket and threatening to rip it.

Kylo can sense that, sense how panicked and upset you are and it only makes his rage grow. He knows he can’t do anything about the length of your return trip and it makes him feel useless, like a sorry excuse of an alpha. You almost feel bad for the staff back on the Steadfast. “If anything happens to her, I’ll have your fucking neck.” He snaps, voice crackling through the comms.

Mallory takes the threat with neutrality. It’s nothing new to her. “Yes, sir. You have my word that I’ll keep her safe.”

Kylo calls your name suddenly and it has you stumbling to your feet and towards the radio. You grasp at the back of Mallory’s chair to keep you stable. “Alpha?” You ask, voice unable to hide your desperation.

“I’m sorry this happened. It’ll be better soon.” Kylo promises, his tone softening just a bit when he talks with you. “Be good in the meantime.”

You nod even though he can’t see it. “I will, alpha.” You’d do anything he asks.

With that, the radio clicks off and he’s gone. It felt like the only support keeping you upright was just ripped away from you, his presence in your bond fleeing and leaving you with nothing. It made your chest constrict and heat lick down your back, everything seeming to spin. Mallory rises from her chair after putting the ship on autopilot. “Go lay back down. I don’t want you to collapse.” She says. “And take these.” She hands you two bottles of water that were brought along in case of emergencies. You’re going to need them more than anything with how much fluid you lose during your heat. You down one of the bottles immediately.

You obediently take the other back to your “nest”, spending another ten minutes trying to rearrange your blanket and jacket. You eventually just give up and flop down with your knees tucked up to your chest, trying to ignore the ache across the entirety of your body. Your thoughts are still coherent at least, though you can feel them steadily slipping away. Your omega just wants Kylo, wants him more than anything. Wants his scent, his strong arms, his lips on your gland, his knot.

There it is. You whimper, your nails digging into your palms hard enough to draw blood as you feel the first trickle of slick seep into your underwear. Your breath comes out in pants that fog the metal paneling under you, your face feeling like it’s on fire. You writhe on your blanket, distracting yourself with movement and trying to find any kind of position that provides relief. Squeezing your legs together helps a little, putting some pressure on your clit and releasing more slick. You know this pair of underwear is going to be unsalvageable by the time this is over.

You can feel the slick start to stain your pants, creating a wet spot that’ll keep spreading. The ache has moved lower, now settling in your stomach and making you nauseous. Its comes in waves of cramps and hot flashes and gushing slick, creating a combination that feels like actual hell. You know that that’s how it’ll stay with the intensity increasing as the hours pass without your alpha inside you. You wish so badly you could just sleep the time away, close your eyes and open them again to Kylo there to take care of you. But you don’t feel safe enough to fall asleep. Your nest is shit, the ship is too unfamiliar, and you’re right at the beginning of your heat when you’re most vulnerable without your alpha who’s supposed to protect you.

These next five hours are about to be the longest of your life.

» ☆ «

Time passes in a haze.

A haze full of desperation, need, fire raging in your blood, and slick coating your thighs. Your vision is blurred, like a film was put over your eyes. You try to focus on the feeling of the ship underneath you instead of… anything else. The state of being in heat is all you know now, you don’t even remember what it’s like to not be making a drooling mess of yourself over the thought of your alpha’s cock sinking into your aching cunt.

Mallory has been trying to ignore you the whole time for her own sanity; your whines, moans, panting, and the desperate whispers of Kylo’s name passing between your lips. She’s stayed well away in the safety of the cockpit, focusing on just getting you both back to the Steadfast. Even though she’s a beta and has no specific inclinations, she can still feel the headiness in the air, sticking to the back of her neck and making her skin prickle. This isn’t anything particularly new to her, she’s been by your side for years. She knows what it means to be an omega.

That’s why she’s glad when a final jump through lightspeed sends her sensors beeping and the massive hulk that is the Steadfast appears at the top of the viewport. She keeps her hands from shaking by gripping the controls of the ship, guiding it towards home base. She has no reason to be afraid really, Kylo Ren wouldn’t do anything to her without reason after she’s proved to be so faithful, and he’ll be too focused on you anyway. Still, she can’t help the little kernel of fear in her chest as your ship is latched onto by a gravitational beam and power is taken out of her control.

All of the commotion breaks you from your stupor. You prop yourself up weakly on your elbows, your jacket and blanket soaked in slick in a heap under you from all your twisting and turning. Your face is flushed like the rest of your body, your remaining clothes stuck to your skin because of the sweat. From your place on the floor you can just barely see through the viewport, watching as the ship pulls into one of the hangars. You can sense him now. He’s so close. It’s too bad your legs are too weak to support you, otherwise you’d use them to run out of the ship to greet him.

You feel the ship shake as it settles on the ground and you hear the sounds of it powering down. Mallory rises from her chair to get to the ramp controls, a hiss of depressurized air sounding as it lowers. She steps aside and bows her head as he enters. Finally.

Kylo instantly commands the entire space around him as soon as he comes aboard the ship. It’s like everything else around him fades away because nothing else matters. His black robes do a perfect job of outlining the muscles beneath them, his fractured helmet covering his face and making him look akin to death itself. He locks onto you, you can feel it, and instantly there’s a whine coming out of your throat. Your mate is here, your alpha is here after you had to wait for so long. Your excitement is like a buzzing that encompasses your mind to the point you can’t think about anything else.

And then his scent hits you. It’s musky and heavy, amplified by his rut that was triggered by his omega’s heat. He smells like a campfire in fall, smoky and laced with something like cinnamon. When you inhale it, it’s easy to imagine being in the forests of his home planet with a nice fire to keep you warm. There’s undertones of your own scent mixed in from your mating, creating a nice combination of the two to let anyone know that you belong to one another. His scent instantly becomes the only thing you know and starts your heat all over again, fresh waves of slick pouring from your cunt and cramps seizing your stomach.

Kylo smells it, it slams into him like a freight ship, sending him reeling. He resists every feral instinct in him telling him to pounce on you right then, to pin you down and fuck your heat away, to finally take care of the constant bulge in his pants, knowing that he needs to get you somewhere safe first. Somewhere other alphas won’t be tempted by you, even if you’re mated. His scent on you sometimes isn’t enough to deter the most depraved; his hands clench into fists at the thought, the leather of his gloves creaking.

“Alpha… please..” you whimper, reaching your arms out towards him, needing so badly just to feel him, to touch him. You can barely think straight, the only thing in your head being him, him, him. He can’t deny you anything. The metal panels beneath his boots thunder with the power of his steps, it makes you quiver. Alpha is so strong, so capable.

“I know. I’m here now.” He says as he scoops you easily into his arms, voice crackling through the modifier in his helmet. It sends pleasant shivers down your spine. You can hear how ragged his breathing is, can feel it when his chest is pressed against your cheek. You cling to his padded tunic, the material familiar and comforting beneath your fingers. You become surrounded by his scent and it brings some relief to the pain you’ve been feeling, putting your omega at ease with your alpha finally with you.

You shrink yourself as much as possible in his hold as he walks down the ramp of the ship, your face buried against his arm. There’s a spike of anxiety in your chest once the bright lights and all the different smells of the Steadfast reach you; the sharp metal tang, the hints of sterile cleaning products, and then the sweat and musk of every aberrant in that hangar. It’s overwhelming when you’re fresh into your heat, but Kylo is quick to soothe you. His body produces more of his own scent to mask everything else, pheromones changing ever so slightly to have a more calming effect on you. He’s still not entirely used to the way everything about him is so tailored to you and only you even after all this time, but he loves the pride he feels when he successfully gets you to relax.

All of the workers within the hangar stay well away from Kylo. Nobody is stupid enough to approach the Supreme Leader and his mate with the state you’re in. It would only end up getting their heads detached from their shoulders. He’s given a wide berth while walking through the halls of the ship, taking whatever shortcuts he can to reach your shared rooms faster. Everything feels so hot, your breath coming out in pants and your clothes so unbearable because of the way they’ve been drenched in your fluids. You’re whimpering in his arms, sounding so sad and pathetic as your fingers knead into his chest. “I know,” he says again, softer this time, “I’ll make it better.”

There’s the beep of a control panel as Kylo gets the hydraulic doors to your rooms open, bringing you inside and letting them bang shut behind him. You’re greeted with fresh, cold air against your burning skin and comforting familiarity—your safe space. Kylo goes to set you down and you nearly wail at the thought of losing contact, not able to bear it after being without him for too long. “Just one second, I promise.” He tells you, laying a large hand against your cheek, the leather warm from the heat of his palms. You listen to your alpha like the good omega you are, standing there squeezing your legs together while he removes his helmet. His beauty always manages to enrapture you. His sharp features and pale skin dotted with freckles, the black waves of his hair that fall around his face. There’s a slight flush to his cheeks, his pupils blown wide with desire. He carelessly puts his helmet aside.

Then he’s on you. His lips press against yours, hot and needy and wet, his hands coming up to grasp each side of your face. You can’t help but moan into his mouth, your arousal spiking even higher from the urgency in his kiss. You’re surprised you can even produce more slick with how much you’re already covered in but you feel another wave of it drip down your thighs anyway. His tongue licks against your teeth, exploring your mouth that you’ve willingly opened for him.

His hands are heavy weights on your hips. He moves them down to cup your ass, then lifting you easily so your legs are wrapped around his middle. His raging erection presses slightly against your aching cunt and you gasp sharply as a shiver shoots up your spine, causing you to break from your kiss. You can’t help but try to grind down on it, creating a wet spot on his pants from your slick. He groans against you, trying not to drop you from the stimulation.

He’s quick to bring you into the bedroom, kissing you with more fervor. You manage a glance backwards and see just what Kylo’s done to your shared bed. You both barely make it to the haphazard nest he’d made for you in his own desperation, his mind wanting to protect a mate that wasn’t even there and driving himself insane over it. It’s full of dark blankets, pillows, and just about every article of clothing from his closet—soft tunics, capes, undershirts—piled onto the bed so it’s positively drenched in his scent. It’s absolutely heavenly as you fall back into it, surrounded entirely by your alpha. Kylo follows after you, shedding his clothes as he goes and merely adding them onto the nest, the scent of them fresh and potent.

“All for you,” he breathes against you, sticking his face into the crook of your neck, “everything is for you.” He inhales against your gland, tongue darting out to lick sensually at it. You squirm beneath him, moaning openly as your swollen, red gland is finally given attention. His bare hands slip beneath your white tank, pulling it up and over your body, the cold air making your nipples perk up instantly. Your pants and underwear are next to come off and you squeak when your slick becomes chilly against your skin.

“Fuck,” Kylo groans, “smell so good.”

“Alpha,” you whine, wrapping your arms across his wide shoulders to bring him closer, “alpha please…”

The ache and pain you feel is starting to become too much. You need him, you need him to fuck you, to pump you full of his cum and plug you up with his knot. Just the thought of it is enough to make your legs quiver and for your cunt to flutter. He knows exactly what you’re thinking of and he feels the need in himself just as much. He needs to take care of his omega, to make sure you won’t want for anything, and guarantee that you become swollen with his pups. A growl rumbles in his chest, his cock jumping at the idea.

His hand that was on your hip moves lower and he doesn’t hesitate to sink two fingers into your heat. They meet no resistance, sliding in and out with complete ease from the way your body has been preparing yourself for this for the last five hours. You throw your head back, mouth falling open at the relief you feel from finally having something fill you, cunt clenching in appreciation. The sounds your body makes are disgusting, copious amounts of slick being sloshed around by Kylo’s fingers. It’s wet and depraved and nasty and you’re enjoying every moment of it. He uses his thumb against your clit, rubbing back and forth and nearly making you scream. That combined with his mouth altering between the glands on either side of your neck makes it very easy for you to cum. Your body seizes, muscles constricting as pleasure wracks your body.

You can feel part of that fire within you finally die down, but it’s still not enough. There’s still an ache nestled deep inside you that his fingers can’t help with. “Please! Alpha, please, more..” you cry, grabbing at his arm to try and pull him up, to make him give you what you want so badly. You need his cock, the thing red and begging for attention, standing tall against his abdomen and dribbling precum.

His fingers withdraw from the warmth of your cunt and it makes you wince and whimper at the loss, your legs immediately trying to close and rub together in an attempt to get some friction. “What a desperate thing you are.” Kylo mutters, bringing his soaked fingers to his mouth and running his tongue along them to gather your slick. You’ve seen him do this countless times but it still has your face blushing furiously. He hums his delight. “Delicious, as always.”

He gets his hand under your back, scooping you up and flipping you onto your stomach. He tugs you towards him harshly, repositioning you like a doll so your ass is in the air, your face pressed against the materials of the nest. Kylo’s scent overwhelms your nostrils, heady and aroused. A mixture of slick and cum oozes from you, dripping down the lips of your cunt and your clit and onto the bed below. You wiggle your lower half, trying to entice him. “Please… need you..” you say, voice muffled by the pillow you’re currently hiding your face in.

Kylo’s hands run from your breasts, down your sides, and settle on your hips, the rough texture of his callouses making you shiver. “My beautiful mate.” He whispers, enthralled by your body as his eyes trace over it. The head of his cock prods at your entrance and you suck in your breath. You nearly sob as he sinks to the hilt inside your cunt not even a second after, your nails digging into the blankets below you from how full you feel. Kylo stretches you to your limit, getting so deep into you it’s like you can feel him in your stomach. He sighs in relief, his massive body bending over yours so his forehead rests against your shoulder. His chest is so warm against your back, his big muscled arms braced on either side of you. You’re basically caged in and pinned down, completely at his mercy. You couldn’t be happier. Your omega keens at the attention, at your alpha displaying his complete dominance over you.

His first thrust is bliss—sliding out of you almost entirely before slamming back in, his pelvis pressed sharply against your ass. He does it again, and again, getting steadily faster with each one until he’s built up a steady rhythm that has your entire being shaking with the power of it beneath him. Your mouth hangs open, drool falling from your lips, your eyes rolling back into your head. His grunts and groans and rumbles fill your ears, your own moans rising to meet them. He presses his lips against the gland that bears your bite mark, breathing you in again and moaning. “My mate, my mate,” he says reverently along your skin, “fuck- m’gonna fill you so good. You’ll give me pups, won’t you? You’ll make me a strong heir.”

“Yes! Yes, anything!” You wail. To your heat addled mind, nothing sounds better. Nothing sounds better than him filling you so full of his cum that there’s no way you don’t get pregnant. You want him so deep that he gets directly to your womb. You want to satisfy your alpha, you want to show him how obedient you are. Yes, you’ll do whatever he wants.

“My good girl.” Kylo praises, sucking your gland into his mouth and making you scream from the pleasure. It’s so shockingly intimate, warmth blooming in your chest and spreading along your body. He’s always been obsessed with your glands, even before you were mated. Your scent brings him so much comfort, such a feeling of home that he can’t stay away. He has his nose buried in the crook of your neck whenever he can and he it turns him on when he’s able to get his tongue on them. Your scent sticks to the roof of his mouth, it becomes the only thing he knows, the only thing he can taste. He fucking loves it.

“So good, sweetheart.” He gasps, sweat dripping from the ends of his hair. He watches where his cock disappears into your cunt, entranced. “Needed to fuck you so bad..”

If your brain wasn’t pure mush right now, you’d agree with him. But you can’t think with the way his cock is splitting you open, each thrust piercing your cunt and hitting that spot right at the top that seems impossible to reach without him. It makes it feel like lightning is igniting your blood, your vision flashing white. You didn’t realize how hard you were gripping the blankets until his large hand perfectly eclipses yours, his fingers slipping between your own so you hold on to him instead.

You hear his growl by your ear as his thrusts become more erratic, knowing he’s getting close. His free hand reaches under you to your clit, fingers playing with it roughly. He’s going to make sure you go along with him. You jerk from the added stimulation bordering on overstimulation from the constant pounding of his cock and the sensitivity from you already cumming once. Your moans get louder and louder, punctuated by each thrust he gives you, breaking in the middle and becoming more high pitched than usual. Your breath is pushed from your lungs, the pillow beneath you is soaked in drool.

“Mmn, shit-“ Kylo groans. He sounds drunk when he talks, his words slurred by his rut and pleasure. “Gonna give you pups. M’gonna knot you, you’ll be so good. My perfect mate.”

Yes, yes that sounds like everything you could ever want. “Please, please! Please alpha I need you-“ you beg, finally finding some semblance of your voice. “I need your knot!”

Kylo grunts his acknowledgment, his thrusts picking up the pace as he teeters on the edge. Then you feel it. Swelling begins at the base of his cock, steadily getting bigger. His movements are forced to slow along with it, becoming more and more restricted as his knot grows. Just as you feel like he’s stretched you to the brink, he lowers his head and sinks his teeth into your bonding mark. You scream. You scream so loud you wouldn’t be surprised if someone walking by outside your rooms heard you. Your vision is pure white, you feel like you can’t breathe, and you feel such a deep connection to Kylo in that moment that it pushes you over the edge. You cum harshly around his cock and his knot, cunt spasming. He cums at that same moment, hot ropes of his seed coating your walls white and his knot plugging your hole to keep it all in.

Neither of you move for a good minute because quite frankly, you’re not able to. The aftershocks are enough to keep you frozen, simply panting and trying to catch your breath. Your entire body is buzzing with pleasure and it feels like you’re floating in the clouds. Kylo is the one to come-to first, getting his arms under you to flip you both on your sides so that he’s spooning you, chest pressed firmly against your back and his big body practically engulfing you. The movement jostles his knot and makes more cum spurt from his cock and it sounds like he chokes on his breath.

He sighs, kissing the back of your neck before shifting his attention to your bond mark. Kylo’s tongue runs over it soothingly, almost like an apology for biting you. He just felt the primal need in him to refresh the mark, to let anyone else know that you belong to him. With the way you’re absolutely covered head to toe in his scent, you think everyone across the galaxy will know. “You okay?” He murmurs once he’s satisfied.

You nod, even though it feels like too much work. “Mhm.” You’re exhausted. Your heat was completely fucked out of you… for now at least. You know it’ll come back in an hour or two, ready for the same thing all over again. At least your alpha will be with you this time.

“You did so good, sweetheart.” Kylo says, his voice so full of love and adoration for you. He kisses along your jaw to the back of your ear. “My sweet omega.” You love his praise, you love the moments after when he’s so soft and gentle with you. It makes you feel so safe and happy, like you have everything you could ever ask for. And you do, really, because he’s so willing to get you anything, to provide you with everything.

He’s quiet for a moment before kissing your gland again. You can tell something was bothering him. “Never should’ve let you go on that mission.” He mutters, anger biting at his tone. “I should’ve known it was too close.”

“It’s okay. I didn’t expect it either.” You say, taking his hand that had been wrapped around your waist into your own. “It’s fine now.”

“I could feel when you were going into heat,” he continues, burying his face in your neck to remind himself that you’re here, “I could feel it and I wasn’t there… it drove me fucking insane. I needed to get to you.”

You can only imagine how it affected him, sensing you across the galaxy and being so incapable of helping you at all. You get glimpses of those past emotions through your bond; how angry he was, how agitated and scared. He’s far more attuned to the Force than you are, so it was much easier for him to connect to you than it was for you to connect to him. He had to just stand back while you suffered.

“Kylo, it’s okay.” You murmur again, bringing the back of his hand to your lips to break him from his thoughts. “I’m here now. You took care of me so well. You built such a good nest.”

That seems to calm him down. “I did? I just threw what I could on to the bed.”

You nod. “It’s far better than what I had in that ship.” You nuzzle into the soft materials. “Good for pups.” Just the mention has his cock throbbing inside you and pushing out more cum, as if making sure that that actually happens. You both groan.

Once he’s done, you sigh contentedly and look around. “Though… maybe just a few things could be fixed.” You say, reaching out to fix said things as you do. They’d been bothering that primal part of you that enjoys the nesting for a while. A pillow was just a bit out of a place, a blanket wasn’t fluffed up enough by just a tad, and one of his capes was just slightly askew. It makes you feel kind of crazy, but it puts your mind at ease. The whole thing has Kylo chuckling.

He brushes hair back from your face. “You should rest while you can.” He orders. “You’ll need it.”

You’re already starting to feel drowsy again, so you can’t even argue. The low, rumbling purr that’s started in Kylo’s chest adds to it. It’s such a soothing sound—just like a cat’s purr, instantly making your body relax against him. You can feel the vibrations from it reverberated in your back. You curl up as best you can in his hold with his knot still in you, his strong arms secure around your middle. There’s no need for a blanket because Kylo keeps you plenty warm—he’s like your own personal heater.

Laying there in your big, comfy nest with your alpha holding you close and his scent all around you, with your heat finally satiated… it’s so, so easy to fall asleep.

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this-is-tiny-mia · 4 months ago

Text

Sorry, wrong number (H.S. One Shot) Part 2.

General Masterlist THIS IS A PART 2 - YOU CAN FIND PART 1 HERE Summary: A wrong-number text leads to an unexpected connection between a you and a stranger. What starts as a playful exchange quickly becomes the highlight of their days, leaving you curious about the man behind the messages.

A/n: OKAY again, i wasn't expecting SO MUCH love to this One shot, i actually wasn't expecting anything tbh, I want to thank @eileenrry for giving me the last push to publish it, ily 🥹. Just a reminder, english is not my first language bare with me with grammar. and it's also my first One shot so be gentle 🥹. Andddd this isn’t the end there’s one more part coming. Anddd please let me know if I missed someone in the tag list, I’m trying to get used to tumblr again after a few years so everything it’s upside down for me.

Word count: 4.5k

Warnings: Use of y/n, slow burn but things catch up quickly at the end, a small vulnerable moment. (idk if it counts as angst, please let me now if i should add another warning)

You froze, gripping your cup as if it could somehow tether you to reality. Your mind raced—what were you supposed to do now? Walk over and say hi? Pretend you didn’t see him? Was he expecting you to make the first move? Or maybe you were just desperately hoping to wake up from this fever dream.

Before you could decide, he pushed off the wall and started walking toward you. Shit. Shit. Shit. Your heart pounded in your chest. Every step he took felt deafening, like the slow-motion build-up to a climactic movie scene.

By the time he reached your table, you were caught between bolting for the door or sinking into your seat to avoid collapsing altogether. You knew him, of course—who didn’t? A few years ago, you even considered going to one of his concerts but didn’t manage to get tickets. It wasn’t something that crushed you; you weren’t the kind of fan to cry yourself to sleep over it. Instead, you shrugged it off with an “Okay, maybe next time.”

What you didn’t know was that “next time” would turn out to be a one-on-one meeting with him in a café, while he tried (and failed) to stay incognito.

“Hi,” he said, sliding off his sunglasses. That voice—his voice—sent a shiver down your spine. And then came that signature, disarming smile. “Is this seat taken?” he asked as he sat down without waiting for an answer. Of course, it wasn’t taken.

You stared at him, frozen, your mouth slightly parted. Every movement he made was deliberate yet casual, like he was completely at ease in this moment. Meanwhile, your brain was still scrambling to process whether this was real life or a fever dream. Somehow, you managed to breathe out a shaky, “Hi.”

For a moment, the space between you was thick with silence, though not uncomfortable—just charged. He gave you a sheepish smile, scratching the back of his neck like he wasn’t entirely sure how to begin.

“I guess this is the part where the serial killer takes the victim,” he said, teasing to break the tension. “Lucky for you, I’m not one—as you can see.”

You blinked, finally finding your voice, though it was a little wobbly. “No, no, I clearly see you’re not a serial killer.” A nervous smile tugged at your lips, trying its best to outshine the chaos of emotions tumbling through you.

He chuckled softly, the sound warm and reassuring. “Yeah. Guess fate wanted me to see if you’re as interesting in person as you are over text.”

Your face flushed, your mind racing to keep up. You weren’t sure if it was from embarrassment, disbelief, or something else entirely—a weird kind of thrill that you couldn’t quite place.

“Well,” you said, fighting to steady your voice, “I guess this is where I admit I didn’t think you were real—or at least, not this real.”

“How not ‘this real’?” he asked, his head tilting slightly as curiosity glinted in his eyes. “I mean, I’m way too real right now.”

“Like… I thought I was texting a random Harry,” you said, stumbling through your words, trying to explain yourself without sounding completely ridiculous.

“I’m still a random Harry,” he replied with a small shrug, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

Well, he wasn’t exactly wrong. To himself, he was just Harry—not the Harry. You sat there for a moment, considering his words. In some strange way, nothing about him being this Harry changed what you’d already come to know. It didn’t undo the weeks of shared thoughts, the genuine conversations, the effortless way you clicked.

You thought about the little quirks you’d picked up from his texts—the way he used emojis just enough to be endearing but not overkill, the offhanded pictures of random things he’d shared, the teasing yet thoughtful tone that felt so easy to respond to. Famous or not, none of that felt fake.

“You’re right,” you said finally, a small smile breaking through your nervousness. “You’re still just Harry. The same Harry who asked for help picking nail polish colors like it wasn’t a BIG decision for a BIG brand” His laugh came easily, soft but genuine. “Hey, it wasn’t that big, i told you i already had those colors in mind.” He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “But honestly, I’m glad it was you on the other side of those texts.”

You swallowed hard, your pulse still racing, but his words—and the way he said them—settled something in you. Maybe this wasn’t as surreal as it seemed. Maybe it was just two people who happened to find each other, one text at a time. “Why glad?” you asked, frowning slightly, not quite understanding what he meant. He leaned back a little, a soft smile playing on his lips as he considered his response.

“Because,” he said after a moment, “it’s rare these days to have a conversation that feels real, you know? No filters, no pretense. Just… people being themselves. And with you, it felt like that from the start.”

You blinked, his words hitting a little deeper than you expected.

“I mean, I didn’t know I was texting someone who I needed filters for to begin with,” you joked, trying to lighten the moment. He laughed, the sound warm and easy, a sound that felt like it reached across the table and wrapped around you. “That’s the point,” he said.

You paused, taking in his words. It felt big, weighty, yet oddly simple at the same time. Like he was trying to say something beyond the words themselves, but without complicating it. Instead of overthinking it, you just nodded, letting out a small, genuine smile. “Well,” you said softly, meeting his eyes, “I’m glad it was me, too.”

He didn’t have much time that day, just stopping for a coffee on his way to the studio. You secretly wished this was that rom-com moment because moments like this only existed in movies, right? After some light small talk about the coffee and an exchange of polite goodbyes, he stood up to leave. You stayed behind, frozen, letting it all sink in—this wasn’t a dream. You felt butterflies over a pop star. You’d been talking to him for more than a month without knowing. Suddenly, your boring, predictable life felt like it belonged to someone else. It didn’t even matter what would happen from now on—this was your story.

----

"Morning, Tulip 🌷. Today’s question: Favorite recent album of all time?"

You didn’t expect a text from him the morning after. You figured he’d need time to process the fact that you’d actually met in person. But no, there he was, texting you like nothing had changed, his chill demeanor so endearing it almost made your heart ache.

"Is this a trick question?" you replied, grinning at your phone. "Because I don’t want to hurt your feelings if I don’t say it’s one of your albums."

The thought was surreal—bantering and teasing Harry Styles over text? That was straight out of fanfic material. (A/n: Not me breaking the fourth wall in my first fic lol.)

"Don’t worry, I wasn’t expecting you to say one of my albums," he replied. Of course, he wasn’t.

"‘You’ by Larry Lovestein," you texted back after a moment of thought.

"Love that," he responded quickly.

How was anyone supposed to concentrate on mundane daily tasks after meeting Harry Styles in a café the day before? And not only that, but he was texting you like you were the most interesting person in the world. And—AND—he had a nickname for you! A nickname.

"Y/N?" Gwen’s voice jolted you back to reality. You blinked twice, trying to refocus. "Yes?"

"Coffee?" she asked, smirking knowingly as she handed you a cup. "What’s up with you?" she said, sitting down next to you.

"Nothing… just… clients, emails," you said quickly, trying to act like your insides weren’t throwing a full-blown party.

"Clients and emails, huh?" Gwen raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I’ve never seen you smile like that over clients and emails."

You swallowed hard, thankful she wasn’t too nosy. You didn’t want to risk sharing too much, not when you were casually texting with Harry Styles. That thought lingered—Why did he trust you? He could’ve easily stayed anonymous. He could’ve walked away from the café and pretended it never happened. Instead, he chose to tell you. It was terrifying to imagine how vulnerable that decision must’ve been for him. What if you were the wrong person? Someone who’d plaster it all over social media the next day? The weight of his trust settled over you, and for the first time, you realized just how fragile this connection was—and how much you wanted to protect it.

You weren’t rushing into anything; neither of you were. It was easy, light, and fun—like reconnecting with a long-lost friend, only this friend was Harry Styles. Over the next month, the “question game” continued, but it evolved. There were more pictures, videos, and now… voice notes. Yes, voice notes. You couldn’t help but replay them at the end of the day, savoring the sound of his voice as if it were a melody written just for you.

The intimacy deepened as more pieces of your lives were shared. Selfies of him at the studio, casual and effortless—selfies meant only for you. These weren’t circulating on Twitter or stashed in some secret Reddit thread. They were yours alone. And you shared back: snapshots of your day-to-day life—your desk cluttered with coffee cups, a corner of your office bathed in sunlight, and even a shy selfie taken at the café table where you’d first met him.

You didn’t know if you could call it a real friendship just yet, but it certainly felt like one. There was a comfortable rhythm between you now, a bond that felt genuine and unforced.

He clearly didn’t have much free time to casually meet again, though you hadn’t asked. The idea of seeing him in person again was both thrilling and terrifying. It wasn’t just his fame—it was the weight of the connection you were building. Trust was a fragile thing, and you both seemed to understand that. Brick by brick, you were quietly constructing something that felt worth protecting.

“How’s THIS cold today??” you texted, attaching a selfie where only your eyes peeked out from beneath two bulky jackets, a beanie, and a scarf. The icy weather was relentless, and staying home had been the original plan, but of course, the two important files you needed were on your office computer.

“How are you OUT in THIS cold? That’s the question” he replied almost immediately

“I need some files I left at the office. Forgot to upload them yesterday”

“Don’t freeze out then”

“I’ll try.”

You smiled at the screen, tucking your phone back into your pocket. It was so easy—he was so easy to talk to. You didn’t feel the need to answer immediately, and you didn’t panic when he didn’t either. It was a natural back-and-forth, effortless and grounding. The way he interacted with you made you feel like he wasn’t someone crazy famous, like he was just Harry—your Harry, in a way. And you hadn’t told anyone yet. It wasn’t exactly a secret, but you hesitated to share it. How would people react? Would they even believe you? For now, you were content to keep it to yourself. It felt special this way, untouched by the opinions or expectations of others. Just you and him, chatting like old friends.

In your mind, it was going to be a quick trip—drive downtown, grab the files, and rush back home under a cozy blanket. In your mind. But life had other plans, didn’t it?

Sliding into your car after uploading the files and rubbing your hands for warmth, you turned the key in the ignition. A rusty, choking sound filled the air, followed by... nothing. “I’m sorry??” you exclaimed, staring at the dashboard as though sheer willpower would coax it to life. “No, no, no, you can break down TOMORROW! Not now!” Your fingers fumbled to turn the key again, and again, each attempt more pathetic than the last.

With a defeated sigh, you slumped back against the seat, a puff of breath visible in the freezing air. Accepting your fate, you pulled out your phone and opened your insurance app to report the issue. Unsurprisingly, the weather had caused delays, and it would be a while before they could send a tow truck. You quickly snapped a screenshot of the insurance chat and sent it to Harry.

“I don’t know if I can keep my promise of not freezing out.”

His reply came almost instantly. “What?? Your car broke down??”

“Yep. They say it’s going to be a while because of the weather” you texted back.

“Where you at?”

“Parked in front of my office,” you replied, your stomach doing a small flip at how fast he was responding.

“No, I mean the address” he sent back.

Your heart skipped a beat. Was he serious? You immediately typed back

“Don’t even try it, I’m fineeee,”

You lied, knowing full well you weren’t fine at all. But it wasn’t the cold or the broken-down car that had your stomach in knots. It was the thought of Harry coming to “save you” that sent a swarm of butterflies into overdrive. Because it wouldn’t just mean Harry coming to help. It meant seeing him again—really seeing him—since the big reveal. No screen between you, no casual texts to ease the nerves. Just him, in person, showing up for you in a way that made it harder to ignore what was happening between you two.

And as much as that idea thrilled you, it scared you just the same.

“Please?”

That was all it took. How can a girl resist a please from Harry Styles? Go ahead, i’ll be here waiting if you find someone. You sighed, caved, and typed the address, pressing send without overthinking. He didn’t reply, but he didn’t need to—you both knew what was about to happen. No confirmation was necessary.

Twenty-six minutes later, you were bundled in your car, trying to stay warm and still, counting down the seconds until the surreal became reality. The street was eerily quiet—only a few brave souls trudging through the cold. Who in their right mind would be out in this weather? That’s when you saw it—a black car pulling up right in front of yours. Your breath hitched as you recognized him in the rearview mirror, his eyes catching yours for a fleeting moment. Then, your phone buzzed.

“Did you order an Uber?”

You let out a chuckle, a mix of nerves and amusement, and grabbed your purse. Stepping out into the biting cold. Sliding into the passenger seat, everything about this moment felt surreal. The warmth of the car, the subtle hum of the engine, and, most of all, him—Harry, sitting next to you like this was the most natural thing in the world. Your movements felt slower, deliberate, as though your body and mind were bracing themselves for what this meant. Sitting in the same car with Harry Styles wasn’t something you had ever imagined happening, not like this.

“Hi again” you said softly, your breath visible in the cold air.

“Hi” he replied, flashing that disarming smile. “Need a friendly lift? or should I just keep pretending I’m an Uber driver?” You laughed, the tension melting just a little.

“Well, that depends…what’s your rating?”

“Solid five stars,” he said, easing the moment even further. And just like that, the butterflies in your stomach settled into something a little calmer, a little more certain.

“Sounds good then,” you replied, falling into a silence that was more reflective than awkward. Your mind was spinning with a million thoughts—what this meant, how this even happened, and whether you’d wake up any second now.

“So, where to?” he asked, breaking the silence with a soft smile.

“Oh! Right,” you snapped out of your daze, quickly explaining where you lived. It hit you how crazy this was—months ago, you’d been so cautious, terrified to even drop a vague hint about your location. And now? Now, Harry Styles was driving you to your apartment.

“You really didn’t have to,” you said, glancing at him.

“I know,” he replied, flashing a smile that made your heart stutter.

The drive was… nice. Surprisingly nice. The small talk flowed naturally—not forced, not the awkward kind you’d exchange in an elevator. It felt easy, even comforting. If you didn’t look at him for too long, you were almost able to suppress the butterflies fluttering in your stomach. Almost.

“Weren’t you busy? It’s a Thursday,” you asked, realizing the absurdity of the situation.

“You really think I know what day it is?” he replied, his tone light and sincere, not smug or pretentious—just endearingly innocent. You couldn’t help but laugh.

“What, no color-coded calendar?”

He shook his head, grinning. “Nope. I’ve got the schedule of a 60-year-old retiree, not a nine-to-fiver. Days kind of blend together, you know?”

And there it was again—that disarming charm that made it all feel so normal. So easy. Like this wasn’t the most surreal thing that had ever happened to you.

“Yeah, I should’ve guessed,” you muttered with a small smile, trying to keep your voice steady.

The whole drive, your mind raced with scenarios. What would happen when you reached your apartment? Do you invite him in? Do you just thank him and say goodbye? And if—by some miracle—he did come in, did you even remember to pick up the clothes from the bathroom floor? But before you could spiral any further, his voice cut through your thoughts, casual and confident, like he already had the answers to all your questions.

“Can I invite myself over for a tea?” he asked, pulling into a parking spot in front of your building.

You blinked, caught off guard. “I was going to invite you,” you said quickly, defending yourself as you scrambled to regain composure.

“No, you weren’t,” he replied with a teasing grin, already stepping out of the car. And just like that, you knew the decision had been made for you. Butterflies? Gone. They’d evolved into full-blown fireworks. You shakily opened the door, praying the apartment was in some semblance of order. To your relief, aside from two glasses sitting on the kitchen counter, everything was in place.

“You can still blow me off if you’re busy,” he said, stepping inside and glancing around, taking in your space with quiet curiosity.

“It’s fine. Perks of being a freelancer,” you replied, heading to the kitchen and opening a cabinet to search for tea. “I don’t have many flavors, though,” you admitted, scanning the limited options.

“Well, it’s a good thing I like most,” he said with an easy grin. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

“Okay,” you said softly, smiling as you set the kettle on to boil. While waiting for the water to heat, you found yourself watching him. He wandered a bit, casually inspecting the books on the shelf, a framed photo on the wall, and the little details of your life.

It was surreal—a good surreal—watching Harry Styles in your apartment, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Like how? How was this happening? And why did it feel so oddly natural, like a longtime friend had stopped by for a chat?

The sharp whistle of the kettle broke your trance. You quickly poured the tea, handing him one of the steaming mugs.

“Thanks,” he said, taking it with a small nod. Then, as if sensing your disbelief, he gave you a sly smile. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you lied, taking a sip of your tea to avoid answering further. Were you okay? Absolutely not.

He sat down on the couch, cradling the mug in his hands, and you followed, sitting on the armchair across from him. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was comfortable, filled with the sound of the occasional sip of tea and the faint hum of the heater working overtime against the cold.

“Nice place,” he said, his eyes scanning the room again before settling on you. “Feels very...you.”

You tilted your head, curious. “What does ‘me’ feel like?”

He chuckled softly. “Warm, cozy. A little bit of chaos in the details.” He nodded toward the stack of papers on your desk.

You groaned and put your head in your hands. “Okay, maybe I wasn’t fully prepared for company.”

“Nah, it’s perfect,” he said, grinning. “Makes it feel real.”

You smiled at that, the tension in your shoulders easing. “And your place? What’s it like?”

He leaned back, thinking for a moment. “Depends which one,” he teased, and you rolled your eyes dramatically.

“Okay, fancy. You know what I mean. The one that feels most like home.”

His expression softened. “It’s quiet. Lots of books. A few random things I’ve collected over the years. Nothing too extravagant.”

“That’s not what I imagined,” you admitted honestly.

He raised an eyebrow. “What did you imagine?”

You hesitated, wondering if you should hold back or just say it. “I don’t know. Something...flashier? Like an MTV Cribs episode or something.” He laughed, a deep, genuine sound that filled the room.

“God, no. I’d hate living like that. Flashy isn’t my thing.”

The conversation flowed from there—effortless and natural. You talked about little things, like favorite movies and weird food combinations, and at some point, you stopped feeling like you had to pinch yourself. It just felt like two people enjoying tea on a cold day. Eventually, though, the tea mugs were empty, and the silence settled in again, this time heavier with unspoken thoughts.

“I should probably get going soon,” he said, breaking the stillness.

Your heart sank a little, but you nodded. “Right. Of course.”

He stood, stretching a bit, and you followed him to the door. He hesitated there, turning to look at you with a small, almost shy smile.

“Thanks for the tea,” he said, lingering. “And...for letting me pick you up.”

“Anytime,” you said softly, and you meant it.

As he stepped out into the cold, he glanced back one last time. “See you soon?”

“Yeah,” you said, watching him walk to his car, the promise of “soon” hanging in the air. You closed the door behind him, leaning against it as you exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. The room felt emptier now, even though he’d only been there for a short time. You glanced at the two empty mugs on the table, a small smile tugging at your lips.

For a moment, you let yourself replay everything in your mind—the way he casually fit into your space, the warmth in his voice, the way he lingered just a little before leaving. But then, your phone buzzed.

“Thanks again. Made the cold much more bearable.”

----

“Are you dating someone?” Gwen asked, her smile widening as she caught you grinning at your phone.

“What? No, I would’ve told you,” you replied quickly, placing your phone face down on the table. Normally, that would’ve been true—you’d tell her about a new guy or someone interesting in your life without hesitation. But this wasn’t a normal situation. This was different. And as much as you tried to keep it hidden, clearly your expression was giving something away.

“Would you, though?” she teased, leaning in slightly, her tone playful but probing.

“Yes, I promise,” you said, hoping to sound convincing. Deep down, you felt a twinge of guilt. You’d apologize later for lying to her—she’d understand. At least, you hoped she would.

“What’s something you’ve never told anyone before?”

You hesitated, the weight of his question lingering in the air. “Something I’ve never told anyone?” you said to yourself, stalling, your mind racing. “Okay… when I was younger, I used to think I wasn’t enough for the things I really wanted. Like, I’d convince myself it was better not to try because failing would just prove it. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone that before.”

You stared at the text, feeling vulnerable. Naked even. It wasn’t easy to admit things like that, not even to yourself. But somehow, with him, it didn’t feel as scary. The way he spoke, the way he made you feel like he’d never judge you, created a space that felt safe.

"I think wanting things, letting yourself want them, is the bravest part. Like… taking that first step, you know? Even if it’s scary. Besides, from what I can tell, you’re more than enough. Probably always have been. You just needed to catch up to it."

You read that, smiling softly at your screen. It was strange—how he could make you feel like all those nagging voices in your head didn’t stand a chance against his words. Like he had this way of dissolving your doubts faster than your therapist ever could. Maybe it was because you believed him so easily, the way he spoke like he knew something you didn’t, like he could see a future you hadn’t dared to imagine yet.

"Wow, how much you charge per therapy session?" you texted, hoping to lighten the moment without brushing it off. "Your turn," you added, nudging him back into the conversation.

The pause before his response wasn’t long, but it was enough to make you wonder what he might say next.

"Sometimes, I miss being no one. Just… Harry. Not Harry Styles. I love what I do, don’t get me wrong. But there’s a part of me that wishes I could walk into a room and not feel like I have to be something for everyone. It’s strange. How can you be surrounded by people all the time and still feel like no one really sees you?"

You read his words slowly, letting them settle in. And then it hit you—both of you knew the feeling. Both of you felt seen by each other in the way you both wanted to be seen. It didn’t need to be said out loud, but it was there, clear as water.

"I met you as Just Harry. And ‘Just Harry’ is pretty awesome to me 😉. I still see Just Harry"

His reply came almost instantly.

"Thanks, Tulip 🌷❤️."

You stared at the screen, your heart skipping a beat. The little red heart stood out in the conversation like a tiny, unspoken promise. It was the first one either of you had shared. And somehow, it felt like a beginning.

The day went on as usual, no more texts exchanged. Both of you were busy, focused on work, yet your mind kept wandering back to Harry. How everything between you was unfolding—it wasn’t painfully slow, but it wasn’t rushing either. It was just… perfect.

You couldn’t help but smile at the thought of him. Sometimes you even laughed, scrolling through the gossip and pictures of him on Twitter. THIS is the man you knew? The same man who shared something he hadn’t told anyone else? It felt surreal.

Millions of people thought they knew him, adored him, and claimed a piece of him for themselves. But you—you really knew him. In a way that was different. Special. Personal. It was crazy to think about, but somehow, it felt right.

You were scrolling through many tweets in bed when it came. Another text.

"I’ve been around the world and back, and I still find myself wanting to talk to you about everything. What does that mean?"

PART 3

--- Taglist: @jackiehollanderr @proudravenclawbird @hopeyoustaythenight @maryjahps @obsessiveenthusiast @liiit44 @loveheart-123 @harrystyleshotwife @harryscherries28 @addiemb8332 @cumuluscranium @gguksfilter @alemunson42069 @sarah22194 @summertime-pills @hescrush @cosmomento @harrys-wifeyy

#harry styles #harry edward styles #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry fic #harry styles fic #harry styles x reader #harry styles one shot #hs fanfic #one shot harry styles #one shot #harry styles x y/n #harry styles fluff #harry styles writing #Sorry wrong number #part 2

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zepskies · 3 months ago

Text

BREAKING POINT - Part 1

Pairing: Russell Shaw x Reader

Summary: Russell made you a promise, but “getting out” of government contract work is even more difficult than he thought it would be. Is he willing to put the past aside, or is this going to be your breaking point?

AN: Welcome back to the Every Second Counts-verse! After the cliffhanger in Bubbly, I know you guys have been wanting this next part of their story. Get ready for a rocky ride — in two parts! 😅 (Also thank you again for all the birthday wishes. You guys are the best. 🥹💜)

Special thanks to the lovely Michelle - @luci-in-trenchcoats - for giving me tons of Tracker spoilers from the books that helped me shape the idea for BP! Both Michelle and Wayne - @waynes-multiverse have been incredibly encouraging and supportive in this one. 💚

Song Inspo: “Come in From the Night” by Chicago

Posted on Patreon: 3/28/2025

Word Count: 6.8K

Tags/Warnings: Fluff, angst, secrets and lies of omission, hints of Russell’s shady past, 2x02 events, and a twist…

⌖ Series Masterlist

Part 1: One Step Ahead of the Past

You paused in the middle of the grocery store aisle when you heard the thump. Yet another item dropped into the shopping cart.

You turned your head from the display of buy-one-get-one coffee brands and rose a brow at your boyfriend, trying not to smile.

“Uh, no. I don’t think so,” you said, grabbing the box of Zebra Cakes out of the cart.

“Aw, come on,” Russell implored.

“Babe, Dory and I call these cancer cakes. And you know what, for a guy who somehow keeps in like, Super Soldier-level shape, you’ve got a mega sweet tooth for all things junk,” you teased, and then smiled hard when he snaked an arm around your waist to try and distract you. You knew what he was really aiming for.

“Super soldier, huh?” A smirk curved his lips. “We talkin’ Captain America or Schwarzenegger?”

You laughed and tried to wiggle out of his grip. He had you trapped against the handles of the cart. He sneakily clawed a hand for the cartoonish black and white box of treats, but you held it just out of reach.

“If we have these in the house, you know I’m gonna eat them too, and it’s all just going to go straight to my ass, stomach, and thighs,” you quipped.

Russell hummed a kiss into your neck.

“I got no issue with that.” He squeezed your hips. “Just makes you softer to tenderize.”

A hot blush lit up your face, especially when an older lady gave you two some side-eye as she passed by with her cart. You bit your lip to temper your embarrassed smile, but you still reached back to pinch Russell’s side in retaliation. He just laughed and dodged your hand, ultimately wrapping his arms tighter around your waist.

“It’s true,” he whispered lowly in your ear.

“Hmph, I’m sure,” you replied in amusement.

Despite your better judgment, you tossed the Zebra Cakes back into the cart and kept it pushing, literally. Russell’s pleased grin had you almost rolling your eyes. Yes, he knew how to play you like a fiddle.

You grabbed a couple packages of Gevalia coffee and continued down the aisle, but you didn’t realize that your shadow had disappeared. Russell caught up to you after a little while, withdrawing a peach cobbler from behind his back. It was from the bakery section. Another goddamn dessert?! And how’d he get over there and back so fast?

“I know I might be pushing my luck, but what about this guy for tonight?” he asked. “At least it’s homemade, right?”

You chuckled. “Yeah, homemade. Right from the factory that delivered it to the grocery store.”

But you sighed and relented on that one too, waving a dismissive hand. Eh, it’s on sale. Pick your battles, I guess.

Russell took that as consent to place the cobbler carefully next to the carrots, broccoli, and asparagus. He was slightly mollified by the bag of potatoes.

“That’s a lot of rabbit food,” he remarked.

“Oh yeah, and it’s gonna go great with the steaks tonight,” you sweetly replied. You knew the only way you were going to get him to eat said broccoli was if he had a slab of meat to go with it. Again, pick your battles. Your man was many things, but health-conscious wasn’t exactly one of them. It surprised you, considering he’d spent most of his life in the military.

“Heeeeell, yeah. With the special sauce, right?” he asked hopefully.

“Yes, with the special sauce,” you smirked.

And no, that wasn’t a euphemism.

Russell smiled, that one that crinkled the crow’s feet around his eyes. His hand fell to a comfortable place on the small of your back as he fell into step with you. It was his habit whenever you two went out together—a familiar hand on your hip, your waist, or brushing your hair back to massage the back of your neck. You liked the contact; the reminder that he was with you, and that he wanted to be.

But his touch fell away after you entered the cereal aisle. You did hear a short buzz, but you didn’t notice until you were almost at the end, halfway through asking if he wanted oatmeal or Fruit Loops. When you realized you were talking to empty air, you looked over your shoulder and saw Russell stopped in the middle of the aisle, staring down at his phone with knitted brows.

His attention was wholly on the screen, where a brief message held more weight than it should.

Are you in?

Russell kept digesting the words.

“Russ?” you called to him, breaking him out of his reverie. “What’re you doing?”

Shit. He typed out a reply, and he sent it before he could think better of it. He pocketed his phone and caught up to you in a few of his long strides, his long hair bouncing along with him. His hand slipped around your waist and found purchase on a belt loop of your jeans.

“So with our soon-to-be three course meal, what’cha thinking on a movie? Wanna watch Terminator again?” he proposed.

You rose a brow at three courses, but you skipped ahead to pushing back on said proposal.

“God, no. We watched all six movies last weekend!”

“Aw, come on, get to the choppah!” Russell invoked his best Arnold impression, prodding at your waist all the while. Never mind that the line was from Predator, not Terminator.

You flinched, and a giggle bubbled up in you on reflex as you swatted at his hand. You pushed the cart onward to the checkout counter.

“All right, just the first one though,” you replied. “Then I want to watch Bridesmaids.”

He playfully groaned. “Gonna make me sit through another chick flick, huh?”

“Oh no. It’s hilarious,” you said with a snicker. “Though maybe it is better if we watch that one after dinner. There’s a scene with food poisoning from some sketchy-ass meat and…yeah. Anyway, you’ll like it, baby. I promise.”

Russell gave you an indulgent smile, but inside, he hid a guilty twinge.

“What was your favorite thing to eat growing up?” you asked.

Russell was helping you unpack the groceries in the kitchen in a familiar routine. He’d been living with you for almost a year now, and still, little questions like this sometimes helped you get a window into the man.

Key word being sometimes, because even now, he considered your question with more uncertainty than it should warrant.

"You mean, uh, on the compound?" he asked.

"Sure." You'd take any brief spotlight into his childhood.

“Uh…kind of hard to answer that one. We mostly ate whatever wild game we could catch,” he admitted. “A lot of rabbit. Which honestly wasn’t my favorite, but I learned to like it.”

He soon abandoned that thought to take out the peach cobbler from a grocery bag with a devilish cackle. You knew by the boyish look on his face that he’d be cutting at least two generous slices out of that one later.

“Maybe that explains why you’re such a foodie,” you wondered aloud. Because your man didn’t just like food. He was borderline obsessed with trying new spots with you, whether it was an upscale restaurant on the bougiest part of downtown, or a sketchy taco truck on the side of the freeway.

“Could be,” he acknowledged with a chuckle.

“What was it like having to hunt for your own food?” you asked. You’d studied history and ancient civilizations for both of your doctoral degrees, let alone your experience as a professor at Wyoming University, but studying hunter-gatherer communities was much different from having to learn how to survive for your next meal.

Russell set down the cobbler on the counter. He took advantage of the task of grabbing the vegetables next, handing them off to you so you could sort them the way you liked in the refrigerator.

“Wasn’t easy,” he said, “My dad was a taskmaster. And that wasn’t just about skinning rabbits and squirrels.”

You grimaced. “Squirrels too?!”

Russell nodded.

“We had these milestones…” he trailed, as the memory reappeared in his mind. “Heh. I remember being woken up and dragged out of bed in the middle of the night. Dad had me scale a cliff in almost pitch blackness. Couldn’t see the ground below me, could barely see a few inches above me. Was the day I turned thirteen years old.”

You paused what you were doing to meet his gaze. Jesus. Happy fucking Birthday, you thought, both in sarcasm and incredulous dismay.

Russell sighed and shook his head. He continued balling up empty grocery bags.

“That. That look right there,” he said, pointing at your face. “That’s why I don’t talk about this shit.”

You quickly recovered yourself and shut the fridge.

“I’m sorry, it’s just…” You turned to him and laid a hand on his forearm, sliding down to slip your hand into his. “I’ve given you the deep cuts, right? And my brother has no problem spilling all about my awkward teenage angst, and basically every embarrassing thing I’ve ever done since I was two. But with you, there’s still so much I don’t know, Russ. Not just about how you grew up, but about your life since then.”

Russell brushed his thumb over the back of your hand, but all he could really give you was a quirk of his lips.

“That’s classified,” he said, only somewhat joking.

“Look, I get that. I know there’s a lot you can’t tell me,” you said, “but give me the broad strokes, okay? Besides Doug, who have been the important people in your life? Where were you stationed? How many countries have you seen?”

Russell let out a deep breath. None of your questions had easy answers. He knew he needed to give you something, even if it was just broad strokes. But…he just couldn’t bring himself to look back anymore. There was too much tied to things he couldn’t, shouldn’t tell you. Mostly it was for your own safety, but selfishly, there were also things he didn’t want to let loose. If he did, maybe it would change the way you looked at him with those soft, loving eyes.

“Look, maybe that’s not something we should get into tonight,” he said.

Your expression shifted into disappointment. You seemed to be making that face a lot lately, whenever he told you about another job out of town, whenever he didn't come home when he initially said he would, whenever he closed up on you.

But this time, you closed up on him.

“You know what, it’s been a long day. I think I’m feeling too tired to cook,” you said. You tossed the wad of empty grocery bags under the kitchen sink and passed by him on your way out of the room, and over to the bedroom.

Russell blinked in confusion.

“Well, wait, what’re we gonna eat then?” he called after you.

“I don’t know. Make yourself a sandwich,” you said, just before he heard the door shut.

The loud thud made him sigh through his nose. He surveyed the ingredients you’d intended to cook with strewn across the kitchen counter and rubbed a hand over his bearded face.

“Shoulda saved that conversation for after dinner,” he mused.

You and Russell were still at odds as you got ready for bed that night. After what happened in the kitchen, you cooled off for a bit. You did end up making the steaks and watching Terminator with him, but afterward, you went back to the bedroom to read by yourself, leaving him to watch old reruns of Seinfeld on TBS.

It was never really the same without you and your colorful commentary, or the way you often burrowed into his side and commandeered most of the couch. (He didn’t mind, long as he got to cop a feel every now and then.)

He could read you all too well though. He knew you were still mad at him.

He now eyed you in your silky negligée, which he thought you’d worn to bed on purpose just to torture him a little. It was the pretty purple one with lacy edges. He bought it for you while you two were on vacation in California a few months ago.

Russell’s phone buzzing on his nightstand distracted him. He checked it before you had a chance to see what was on the screen. It was from his handler at Horizon, detailing a string of coordinates for his next gig—plus a ticket for his flight taking off in two days. Russell planned to tell you tomorrow after you cooled off a little more, though he knew it wasn’t going to be an easy conversation.

He tried slipping into bed behind you and wrapping his arm around your waist, kissing your bare shoulder. He nosed past the thin strap of your nightgown and inhaled the pretty, floral scent of your soap…which he totally didn’t use himself.

“Nuh-uh,” you warned without even looking at him. It was a firm no on the touching, to which Russell exhaled and leaned back on his pillow, carding a hand through his hair.

“Come on, baby. How long’re you gonna ice me out?”

“Until I actually know the man who’s in bed with me,” you snipped back testily.

“Hey, that’s not fair,” Russell said. He drew back in and kissed the side of your head, rubbing a hand down your shoulder. “You already know the important bits.”

“Oh, yeah? Like what?” you dryly replied. It was a struggle not to give into his touch, but this wasn’t the first time you two had a conversation, verging on argument about these things.

He knew it all too well.

Still, he hesitated. Like what? How I’ve spent a long time doing what I’m told, and not a lot of asking questions. Probably not as much as I should’ve.

He shook his head. “I’m not gonna lie, I’ve seen a lot of shit that would blow your hair back. But even though my growing up was…unconventional, to say the least, it’s made me good at what I do. Most importantly though…” He pressed another gentle, lingering kiss into your neck. “This is where I want to be. You’re the one I wanna move forward with.”

He felt you take a long breath. He hoped it meant that you were hearing him, that you were softening.

“How are you going to do that when you’re away on another job?” you asked.

Russell paused.

You moved away from his hold and sat up in bed. He followed suit as he noted the look on your face, tired and upset. His brows furrowed, despite the prickle of guilt bubbling under his skin.

“What’re you talking about?” he said.

“Don’t even try it. I saw the coordinates pop up on your phone just now!” you snapped, and you make a sound of frustration, rubbing your face with both hands. “You promised me, Russell. You promised you’d be done with contract work months ago now. So what is it? Is it that you need more money for your brewery?”

Russell swallowed. The truth was, he’d made the target goal on his business account months ago, but he’d also found one reason or another to accept the last few jobs out of town. There was pressure from Horizon to stay on. They didn’t want to lose a valuable “contractor,” after all. But it was also his own unwillingness to give up the feeling of knowing exactly what he was doing, what he had been trained to do, and secretly, the way his work kept him on the edge.

That flip in the stomach that forced him to make decisions in the breadth of a second?

Well, it was a hard feeling to give up, and an even harder life.

He rubbed a hand over his face with a tired sigh.

“Look, it’s more complicated than that,” he said.

“You know what, I don’t think it is,” you shot back. “I think you’re a lot like Charlie, except this—this kind of work is your fix.”

The accusation stung like a hot iron poker. Russell opened his mouth to sling back a retort, even though he knew your aim was deadly when you wanted it to be.

You just turned away from him and shut off the light.

In the morning, Russell woke to your side of the bed being cold and empty. It made him feel hollow, shitty, after the events of last night reared back up in his mind.

He lied there between the sheets and listened. He could hear your familiar movements in the kitchen. Letting out a deep breath, he forced himself out of bed.

After brushing his teeth and raking a hand through his messy bedhead, he cautiously approached the kitchen. Russell lingered in the doorway just outside of view. He found himself watching you putter around in your little nightgown, fuzzy slippers, and frizzy hair. Your fingers got tangled in it while your free hand grabbed the eggs from the fridge, your hip propping the door open.

You’d made a pot of coffee and even set out his mug for him, as was your habit. Your own mug laid half-empty on the counter. His mug was somewhat special, though not just because it currently had a spoon resting inside it, ready for his sugar and cream.

You bought it for him last time you blew half your paycheck at Marshalls; a home goods store he could rarely drag you out of within an hour. That mug featured all the major condiments, including sriracha, which was what made you think of him. It matched the sweatpants you found for him, covered in cartoony fries and burgers.

They might’ve been silly gifts, but he liked that. He liked that you thought of him in the little things that somehow added up into the big things. They reminded him that you’d given him a chance. You’d given him home cooked meals, and let him make you a few too. You’d watched virtually every popular ‘90s movie that had ever been made with him—or at least, every one you thought he’d might like. You had a list of the 2000s to tackle next.

You were an encouraging sounding board for him, whether it was talking about what he’d serve on the menu of his future brewery, brainstorming names, or even looking up what paperwork he would need to get started. You’d also been helping him navigate his relationship with Dory, and your brother Charlie, and even Colter, whenever Russell’s still admittedly distant relationship with his brother came up.

Russell washed your car and took out the trash and washed the dishes whenever you cooked, but standing here right now, it finally clicked just how much you actually did for him. How much you cared, and put your actions behind the caring part. You’d given him a place to come home to after decades in service, and years more on the road.

Hell, you were his home. You and his sister.

But now, he realized why you were so upset. You thought he had one foot off of the firm foundation you were trying to build with him. You thought he wasn’t wanting to fully commit here, to you, and to the things he claimed he wanted. You were struggling to understand him.

So Russell entered the kitchen officially, padding in on sock-covered feet until he could slip his arms around you from behind. You stiffened in his grasp and turned to look at him over your shoulder.

“Russ,” you warned, but he shook his head.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said. “You were right.”

You paused, allowing the fridge to close. Slowly you turned in his arms. You bit your lower lip and granted him a dubious gaze. Still, he counted it as a win when you tentatively held him back, slipping your hands over his biceps for stability.

“About what?” you rose a brow in challenge.

“I’m gonna start shopping around for real estate here in Laramie, but first, I’m gonna start making moves on the business proposal for the brewery. Would you mind looking it over for me?” he asked.

Your head tilted as you considered what he was saying, as well as what he wasn’t saying.

“But aren’t you…leaving?”

“I’m not taking that job,” Russell said. “I’m calling Horizon today, tell ‘em I’m retiring. For good this time.”

It took a while, but his words seeped into your mind and settled there on the ocean floor. Tears began to sting in your eyes, but you nodded and reached up on your toes for a sweet, lingering kiss. You stroked his cheeks and slipped your fingers through his hair when you hugged him. He held you back just as tightly.

He knew he hadn’t given you everything you asked for, but this felt like a good start.

Russell expected the call at some point, but half an hour was a new record. It was a Saturday, and he made sure you were busy in the laundry room before he took the call in your brother’s old room—AKA: Russell’s office.

Charlie had been out of rehab for a few months now, rooming with Manny, one of his old unit buddies. Your brother agreed to leave the family house to you though, since you’d always been the stable one who could actually take care of the mortgage and the general upkeep of the house. Russell joined Charlie and his friends for beers every so often, either at Charlie’s apartment, or a new bar close to downtown.

They traded stories and friendly fire at one another, Russell from his side of the branch in Special Ops, to Charlie and his friends in the Air Force. Dave and Manny could be especially loud-mouthed when tequila was involved, but Russell welcomed the good-natured ribbing with a few good pot shots of his own (he was still a little proud of “glorified flight attendants”).

Now though, Russell held the phone to his ear and greeted the man on the other line.

“Hey, man. What’s up?”

“What’s up?” Adam intoned. “‘What’s up’ is that you’re leaving us high and dry, Russ. What’s that about?”

“Look, you know this was never a permanent gig for me,” Russell replied, speaking quietly just in case you were close by. “It’s high time I took a break, settled down, you know?”

Adam snorted. “You don’t have a civilian fucking bone in your body, Russell.”

“Well, that’s nice. I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

“Look, you’re the best man I ever worked with. The best CO I ever had. You pulled my ass outta the fire more times than I’d care to admit,” Adam said, “but you remember that last tour?”

Russell sobered. “You know I do.”

“And you remember what I had to do to get us out of that mess. Out of Nicaragua.”

Not like you’d ever let me forget it, Russell thought. Though it was nothing he didn’t see behind his eyes when he went to sleep.

“But when I got this gig, and they asked me who I’d recruit, you’re the first guy I thought of,” Adam said. “Well, you and Dougie. He fucking quit on me too.”

Russell was happy for Doug. He and his wife just had their first baby a few months ago. One chunky little boy.

“Look,” Russell said. “I’m grateful for…everything, you know that. But this is just something I gotta do. I’ve got other responsibilities now.”

“Yeah. How is your girl, huh? Been wanting to grab a beer with you, maybe get to finally meet her.”

Russell’s lips twitched. He didn’t talk about you as a rule, not to anyone in Horizon. Aside from Doug, Adam was the only one on the payroll who knew Russell’s real name, let alone about you. This was supposed to be a secure line though.

“She’s waiting on me, Adam. Can’t keep doin’ that to her,” Russell replied.

After a while, Adam sighed.

“All right, Russ. I hear ya. I’m fucked, but I hear ya.”

“You’ll be fine,” Russell smirked. “You’ll find someone young and fresh off the meat market.”

Adam scoffed. “Right. These kids. Half of ‘em anxiety ridden pussies or juvie fucking flunkies. Can’t hack even half the shit we went through in basic, let alone eight months in Baghdad.”

That led into familiar territory. Russell shot the shit with his old friend for a few more minutes before he finally let Adam go. The phone hung from Russell’s hand after, and he expelled a sigh. He felt a twinge of regret, like he was letting go of hell of a lot more.

After he left home and enlisted, it didn’t just become his life. It became who he was. Both his body and his mind were shaped by the structure of the chain of command, the mission, the follow-through. Muscle-memory.

Putting that aside had been harder than he imagined. After all, what the hell was he, if not a soldier?

Russell wrestled with that question longer than he cared to admit. It even had him getting up from his desk to consult a glass of bourbon he kept on the bookshelf.

…It’s for the best, he reasoned.

Even now, Russell didn’t get to see his little sister as often as he liked. Their work kept them moving in different directions, her busy teaching schedule not often gelling well with his more unpredictable one. But today, a Tuesday, he was taking her to lunch between classes.

She stopped short in the doorway of her office.

“Oh! Damn, I forgot…”

She meant to invite you too, but when she took her cell phone out to call you and see if you were busy, Russell laid a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s okay, she already knows I’m here,” he said. “But you and I are long overdue for some brother-sister time.”

Dory hesitated, but at his grin, she smiled back brightly and put her phone away. “Okay, then. Where do you want to go?”

He took her to a nearby café you told him about. It was one you and Dory frequented at least once a week, either for coffee and pastries, or for a nice protein bowl.

“Why is everything a damn bowl nowadays? They’re all just trying to be Chipotle,” Russell groused, but he ate his bowl of wild rice, steak, and arugula salad with just as much gusto as a carton of Chinese fried rice. He polished it off with a beer and tried to stifle his belch.

Dory rose a brow, but after a beat, she couldn’t hold in a laugh.

“Well, doesn’t seem to bother you that much,” she remarked. Her amusement slid into a teasing smirk. “Matter of fact, looks like you've been eating well since you started shacking up with my best friend.”

Russell grinned around the lip of his beer. "What're you tryin' to say, D? You fat-shaming me right now?"

"Aw, I wouldn't go that far," she laughed. "You just look like you're settling in to this civillian thing."

Russell smirked. He couldn't argue with her. According to you, he was in super soldier shape. Still, he knew you were being a little too generous. He had softened around the pouch a little since he’d stopped moving around from motel to motel, no time to get comfortable, as he was now. His hard work was also looking different these days—sitting at his desk or on the couch with his laptop. He wasn't a complete sloth though; he still worked out on the regular.

“Gotta admit, she keeps me well-fed,” he said. Though there was no mistaking the glint in his eye, or the waggling of his brows. Dory snorted and shook her head.

“Please, I don’t wanna hear about any of that. It’s bad enough I had to endure the beginning stages when you two couldn’t be in a room together without eye-fucking each other. Or sneaking off into a public restroom at our work Christmas party—to actually fuck each other.”

Russell spluttered a laugh into his beer, making a slosh of amber liquid run down his shirt. Dory smirked and handed him an extra napkin. He coughed and blotted out most of the stain himself, but gave her an accusatory look through his amusement.

“You guys seem to be doing well though,” Dory said, her eyes softening along with her smile. “She told me that you finally quit Horizon.”

He rose a brow and set down the empty beer. “Finally?”

“Well, sorry, but she’s not the only one who worries about you, you know?” Dory grabbed her brother’s hand. “It’s been good to have you around this past year, getting to know you again. It feels like having a bit of home back.”

Russell smiled ruefully, squeezing her hand.

“Thought you didn’t like to think about all that.”

“It wasn’t all bad,” she admitted. Her head tilted in thought. “I remember, you used to sing to me whenever I couldn’t fall asleep.”

His mouth twitched, his eyes softening.

“Couldn’t blame you. That place made some weird-ass sounds at night,” he replied, though he sighed deeply through his nose. “You were just a kid.”

“So were you, Russ,” Dory reminded him.

He held her gaze for as long as he could stand. Eventually, he lowered his eyes. He released her hand and went back to polishing off the flourless chocolate cake she’d ordered for dessert.

“That night…you really recognized the man Dad was talking to?” Dory asked after a while.

Russell was a little surprised she was bringing that up, but he nodded slowly.

“I did, but hell. That was twenty years ago.”

She bit her lip. “I still can’t believe Colter thought you…”

“That’s in the past too,” Russell said, his tone even more dismissive.

Hmm. Protesting a little too much, Dory thought.

“Did you ever tell her?” she asked.

They both knew who she meant. You.

“She knows the main bits, but you’re asking if I told her how our brother thought I killed Dad?” Russell scoffed. “No. Didn’t think that little footnote would go over well.”

Dory stared back at him with concern in her blue eyes. She didn’t like keeping things from you, even if it wasn’t her secret to tell. Unfortunately, her family had a lot of secrets.

“It’s not worth getting into, D,” Russell said. “That, or any of it…though I don’t know. I don’t think Colter’s ready to let it go. He believes me now, but he wants to know who got to Dad, and why. He’s tenacious, I’ll give him that.”

Unlike Colter, it seemed, Russell had an image of his father that had lasted in his mind. It wasn’t a good one.

Paranoid son of a bitch.

Russell couldn’t really blame Colter though. He was young when they were taken to the compound. He probably didn’t remember his friends, the house, the way they lived before.

Russell had been ten years old. He remembered being on the baseball team doing well as a pitcher, and having to lie to his coach and quit the team. Russell remembered saying goodbye to his best friend, Randy, who he never saw again. Russell remembered having to lock up his tears and help his mom take care of his younger siblings, and make sure they were settling into a musty old cabin in the middle of the woods.

“I’ve tried looking into it before,” he admitted.

Dory’s brows raised. “When?”

He waved a dismissive hand. “A long time ago, when I had government access to some things. Got a whole lot of nadda.”

“No good is going to come of it, and I told Colter the same thing,” Dory said, shaking her head. “Whatever happened, it’s better if we all just move on.”

She continued eating. After a beat of hesitation, Russell followed suit.

A couple of weeks later, Russell felt like he’d made good progress. He narrowed down his search to three different spots in downtown that were up for leasing, though one of them was a bit too close to Howley’s for your comfort, which meant he really had two options. Both were walkable, but one had more parking availability, while the other was a better price for the amount of interior square footage. It was a lot to consider.

You’d given him the number of a good commercial realtor you knew, thanks to your boss, Dr. Goldstein. Looked like that stuffed suit was good for something, other than piling his work onto your plate so he could get his monthly back wax.

You were still at work on a Thursday when Russell’s phone rang. He quirked a brow at the caller ID, but a grin tugged at his lips when he answered.

“Well hey there, Ms. Greene.”

“Russell, where are you right now?”

“Chillin’ at home. Working through some stuff on my new business venture. Though if the next question’s ‘What am I wearing,’ I gotta remind you that I’m happily off the market,” he teased.

“And thank God for that,” Reenie dryly remarked. “Listen, I need your help. Actually, I think Colter needs you.”

He detected the urgency in her voice now, and he sobered.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“I don’t know, but I need you to find him. He’s been missing for over 24 hours.”

“Looks like I’m gonna be a little late for dinner,” Russell told you over the phone. "Uh, okay, maybe a lot late."

“What? It’s kind of hard to hear you. Do you have the top down on the Chevelle?”

“She’s a Chevelle Malibu, baby. Well, technically, Malibu for short—”

“Russell, what’s going on?”

“It’s nothing to worry about. Reenie called, and it looks like Colter might be in a hard spot. I just need to go help him out,” he replied. Really, he was fighting his worry as he pressed his foot a bit harder on the gas. The sleek Chevy flew down the highway at a speed that would make you hit his arm, if you were here.

“Why does it sound like you’re giving me the kitty gloves version?” you asked him in suspicion.

Russell smiled ruefully. This was why he loved you—for your mind.

“Again, nothing to worry about. I’ll be home by the morning…probably.”

He heard your heavy sigh.

“Okay, Russ. Just be careful, please.”

“Hey, you know me. I’m always careful.”

“Right,” you snorted.

The curve of his lips kicked up into a grin. “I gotta let you go, but I’ll see you soon.”

“Yeah, okay…I love you.”

His face softened a fraction. “Love you too, sweetheart.”

You hung up with your boyfriend and slipped your phone back in your purse. An undercurrent of worry churned in your stomach. You knew Russell was downplaying whatever was really going on. Reenie wouldn’t call him for help unless Colter was really in trouble, or else why wouldn’t she call the police?

That rewardist work that Colter did, it had led him into some shady shit, according to Dory, like insidious cults, serial killers, and corrupt politicians. She talked to Colter now more than she used to, but even then, she knew he wasn’t giving her the whole story about most of his adventures.

Must be a Shaw family trait, you thought sourly.

With Dory on your mind, you decided to call her up and make tonight a girls’ night. You hung out at her apartment after work, splitting a bottle of wine and several orders of Mexican takeout while watching reruns of New Girl.

“Where do you think they are right now?” Dory asked, for a moment sobering from laughing at Jess’s antics.

You had your glass of wine poised to your lips in thought. “I don’t know, but I do know Russ wasn’t telling me the whole truth. I think Colter’s in trouble.”

Dory worried her lip. It clearly didn’t sit well with her that both of her brothers were MIA right now. You tried calling Russell earlier for a check-in, but his phone went straight to voicemail. Colter’s number didn’t even ring. It was just a dial tone, with a disembodied voice saying this number has been disconnected.

But there was nothing you two could do. Reenie had advised you to sit tight and wait for one of them to check in.

“You know, I may not understand them sometimes, but it makes sense to me why they are the way they are,” she said. “They had it worse than me growing up, either because I was the youngest or because I was the only girl.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, though you had a feeling you knew where she was going with this.

“I remember, Dad used to make them sleep outside sometimes. Somewhere in the middle of the damn woods, without supplies, without food,” Dory said. She actually began to tear up, her blue eyes turning pale and glassy. “I heard him and my mom arguing about it once. Finally he agreed to go out there and watch out for them—from a distance though, so they wouldn’t know he was there.”

You stared back at her in dismay. That hurt your heart so fucking deep. No wonder Russ didn’t want to open up about this shit. How can I blame him? How can a father…

You shook your head, resting a hand on her arm.

“But why? Why did your dad do all this? Russell said he was paranoid, but…what was he running from?” you asked.

“We don’t know,” Dory admitted. After a moment, she looked over at you and held your gaze. “All that we did know, was that his death wasn’t an accident.”

That revelation shocked you. Your mouth parted, though no words escaped.

Dory set down her wine and got up from the couch. Then, with a certain decision weighing in her eyes, she went over to her room.

“D?” you questioned. “You’re just gonna drop a fucking bomb like that on me and walk away?!”

Not getting an answer, you rose to follow her, where you watched in bewilderment as she dug into the recesses of her closet until she found a plain white shoebox. It was just some old cardboard, frayed at the corners, but Dory hesitated to even open it.

“What are you doing? What is that?” you asked.

“A few years back, a family friend gave this to me. Apparently it has some of my dad’s old stuff,” she said. “I’ve never wanted to go digging through it because I wanted to leave the past behind me. I think it’s been easier for me to say that, but not so easy for Colter and Russell.”

After a beat of hesitation, she handed the box over to you.

“Would you give this to Russell when he gets back?” she asked. “He can do whatever he wants with it. Look inside, try to piece together what happened, or just burn it all. Either way, I’m done. As far as I’m concerned, my dad wasn’t really my dad after he took us to live in that place. And my mom…” She laughed humorlessly. “She was no saint either. She went along with everything my father did.”

You took the box from her with some concern. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Honestly, I don’t even like having it here. It’s just a…bad reminder.”

You rubbed a hand over her arm in comfort. "You guys never went to the police?"

Dory shook her head. "Mom didn't trust anyone, least of all the police. She probably thought it was safer for us."

"God, I'm sorry," you said. After a beat, you set down the box and pulled Dory into a hug. She rested her chin on your shoulder and squeezed her eyes tight for a second.

"It's okay," she said. "...It's in the past."

Sure, you thought. But there were some scars that didn't fade, no matter how much you ignored them, banaged them, or tried to soothe them.

You took the box and left her apartment shortly after. She offered to let you stay the night so you wouldn’t be alone, but you declined. Russell installed a state-of-the-art security system in your house, making it feel like the safest place in the world to you. That was where you’d be able to sleep tonight, even with this mysterious old shoebox.

The drive back was devoid of traffic this late at night, but after what happened with Eddie Mendez last year, you always felt uneasy driving alone at night. A good part of you was also still trying to digest all of this.

On one hand, you could understand Colter and Russell wanting to know what happened to their father. If Ashton was murdered, the reason could explain everything they went through growing up.

With all of these thoughts rattling through your mind, you couldn’t even be completely relieved when you pulled into the driveway of your home. You walked into the house quickly, shut the door, and input the code to lock everything behind you.

Holding your purse on one shoulder and the box under your other arm, your first instinct was to find a good hiding place for it. You began to wonder if you should’ve accepted it from Dory at all. If her father’s death was no accident, then what was he killed for?

But…Dory had this thing in her closet for all this time without incident. Surely there was nothing diabolical about it. Ashton Shaw had been a professor too, right? It probably just held some keepsakes, a few old essays, some paperclips and 20-year-old dust bunnies…

You found a place in the house that a burglar would be unlikely to look for something valuable (again, really, what kind of burglar would want to steal a shoebox of old junk?), and you took a deep, calming breath in the middle of your living room.

You still hadn’t been able to get in touch with Russell. All your texts had been going unanswered. You grabbed your phone and began to find Reenie in your contacts, but you paused. You were reminded of something you forgot to do when you walked in the door.

Along with the coded door lock, there was an app on your phone where you could monitor the cameras strategically placed outside the house. However, when you checked the app, you realized that the camera feed said Unavailable. For every single camera.

Your brows furrowed. That’s weird…

Seconds later, the first bullet broke through your impact windows.

AN: 🫣 Oh sorry, did I not mention there was a cliffhanger? You can rant and scream in the comments, it's totally fine. 😂

As you can see, we're in the middle of 2x02, with my own twist on some things around it. Plus some material from the books making it into this part - and more heavily implied in the next part - coming next Sunday!

Next Time:

While the phone rang, tucked between your shoulder and your ear, you were forced to set down the gun. With trembling hands, you quietly rifled through your medicine cabinet for gauze or an ace bandage. Fuck, yes! Okay. This could work. You found the big square bandages that stick on. Russell bought them the last time he came home with a couple of nasty abrasions from a job.

Still, the phone rang.

Come on, come on, come oooon!

“Hello?” The lawyer’s voice was smooth and retaining a note of exasperation.

“Reenie! Where’s Russell?” you whisper-hissed.

“I have him right here. What’s wrong?” she asked. Immediately, her tone shifted to concern. You’d never met Reenie in person, but you knew she worked with Colter and, according to Russell, was damn good at what she did.

You didn’t give a shit about any of that right now.

“Put him on the phone, please!”

In a few seconds of shuffling, you finally, finally heard his voice.

“Sweetheart, what’s going on?”

A breath of relief escaped you in a rush.

“Russell,” you sobbed.

⌖ Keep Reading: PART 2

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ameliaenya404 · 8 days ago

Text

More than a Spark

Pairing: Eddie x gn!reader [no explicit detailed mention of the reader's genitalia and gender neutral terms]

Lots of built up sexual tension because it's the best kind of tension

Wc: 2000+

Desperation.

Yearning.

Two things that look unbelievably perfect on every dateable in your home. Especially a certain brooding, dark-haired man down at the breaker box. It's undeniable how Eddie's no good for you, how he's a bit of an asshole who struggles with getting any emotion other that stoicism, which is really a lack of emotion, out when he's around anyone, much less you. But you can see it on his face when he doesn't think you notice.

His heavy-lidded gaze lingers on you as you nurse a drink at the bar, Volt sweet-talking you and Johnny Splash performing yet another charming but terrible a cappella on the stage. Eddie wants you. Badly. You can see it written all over his face, and the white knuckled grip he has on the drinking glasses whenever you tease him.

Volt is easier to read, easier to talk to and touch and Makeout with in the shitty dim lit backroom of the breaker box. Eddie not so much. You've yet to get your hands on his chest and your tongue on his but you have a feeling it might be tonight with the way the bar starts to clear out and he's still glancing your way as he wipes down the bar top.

"You heading home or what?" His gruff voice almost gives you full body shivers, it fills the empty air and demands your attention.

Glancing back at him and moving down a few barstools to sit in front of him, propping your elbows onto the counter he's trying to clean, you smile at him.

"Sounds like you want me to leave," You pout, not that you can pull any sympathy from the man in the state he's in, but maybe you could get something in other than a tired goodnight.

"There are a lot of things I want," his response is vague and casual but leading onto something more that makes your core feel weird. Good weird.

His voice never failed to stir up some feeling inside of you. More specifically the way he spoke. His tone. The words he used. Every sentence is crafted carefully to further uphold the closed-off vibe you got from him. Like he'd let on just enough to pique your curiosity and leave you wanting for more, it was begging to get on your nerves.

"Are you always-"

"Such an asshole?" He chuckles lowly before you can finish.

"Difficult. I was going to say difficult." You retort with a roll of your eyes.

"I'm not exactly sure what it is you want from me, Volt gives you plenty of attention."

"There are a lot of things I want," you repeat his vague statement, giving back the same energy he gave to you.

"Real smart, one of those things being?"

"You," it was time one of you came out and said it.

You were beginning to grow impatient and would rather get shut down than not take a chance at this. Plus talking to Reggie was enjoyable to you, at least there were some positives to getting rejected.

"You have Volt," he says, tossing the towel over his shoulder and giving you a look.

"Call me greedy but I want you too," you shrug, tracing little shapes onto the bar top with the tip of your finger, looking at him through your lashes.

"...I have a feeling I'll regret inviting you to the back," he groans. Which bassicly meant you were.

Months of chipping away at the man's patience led up to this moment and you were thrilled, though you tried not to show too much of it on your face. Only a fraction of it in the form of a slight smirk to mirror his own.

"I'll be good I promise," you giggle softly.

"Oh I'm sure you will," he grumbles, the back of his knuckles sliding against the underside of your jaw and across your cheek slowly before he turns around a begins walking, "You coming?"

You fight back the urge to say 'Oh I will be," instead opting to follow him to the back of the club. The minute you step foot in the back area your arms are around his neck, lips brushing eachother as a silent request.

Permission is granted when he presses his lips against yours. It's hungry and desperate and tense, everything you expected a kiss with him to be like. Behind all the pent-up frustration it's surprisingly gentle and considerate. His hands are on your back, sliding down to get a firm grip on your ass, something that prompts you to moan into the kiss.

Messy is the only way to describe the way your tongue slides against his as one hands find purchase in his hair and the other rests on his firm chest. You tilt your head to kiss him better, deeper. Your noses bump and teeth clash a bit but neither of you finds it in yourselves to react or make a deal out of it, too lost in the heart-racing sensation of each other's lips locked after months of built-up glances and sexually charged interactions.

Eventually, you have to part with him for the necessity that is oxygen. If you didn't need air you think you'd never willingly part from him. Forhead to forhead, his hands still gripping onto your ass, your hands still in his hair now dragging down to hold his face as you both pant. It's hot and stuffy in the backroom, a shitty torn up couch and box TV shoved in a corner to keep Volt and him entertained or something, Volt talked about it one time but you were too preoccupied with kissing on his neck to care.

The fantasy of having them both on and in you was never fleeting, but you had just gotten Eddie so you figured you'd still have to work up to the Volt and Eddie sandwich you so desperately wanted.

"I want to fuck you so bad, I need to fuck you so bad" Eddie groans. A sentence you've never thought you'd hear in your life time blessing your ears. You could have jumped up and down with joy if it wasn't mood-killing.

"I wanna fuck you too, so fucking bad Eddie you don't even know." You chuckle, kissing him again.

"Oh I think I know," he groans against your lips, lifting you up with ease and dropping you onto the couch.

For a torn-up god knows how old piece of furniture it provided some comfort, just about the bare minimum though. It was awkward to position yourselves on, you opted for having him take his pants off and sit down, and straddle him for a more efficient position. He slid his vest off and let out a groan the minute your hands touched his bare chest and your lips were kissing his neck and jaw.

You wondered if he could shock you. Maybe not, Volt was the real electricity and energy, Eddie was just the...wires? Well, you could get shocked by wires, yeah? Volts shocks stung enough so you weren't exactly willing to test your theory with Eddie. Instead trying to avoid his wires, similar to how you avoided touching Volt's wild hair. Though it was pretty to look at.

"You want this, live wire?" The endearing little nickname leaving his lips in his voice in that tone made you shiver. Nodding enthusiastically.

"I need to hear you say it," he chuckles, one hand gently holding your chin, his thumb rubbing gentle circles into your cheek as he forces you to meet his gaze.

"I want this," you practically whine. The sexy confident act falls a little, leaving behind the sight of someone who needs something really bad. Leaving behind the sight of pure desperation and desire. You could see some of it in his dark eyes too.

"You want what, live wire?"

The way he was looking at you was positively simple and it made you weak everywhere.

"I want you to fuck me Eddie, need it. So so bad. Need it so bad, please fuck me." You amped the pleading up, giving him everything he wanted and more, giving him a look of want, slightly biting your bottom lip, your brows furrowed a bit and your eyes sparkling with something sensual.

It felt erotic.

It was erotic.

It was no longer just sexy, passing glances. No longer a thought in your mind you entertained every night alone in bed. You were straddling him on his couch, your hands exploring his chest. It was sensual and erotic and almost perverted the way the two of you were looking at each other. Touching each other, as if you'd never touch each other again.

Which you very well might not. He could decide he wants nothing to do with you after tonight. But deep down part of you knew Eddie and how he wouldn't do that. Once he's deep in something, he stays. And soon he'd be deep into you, literally.

With your explicit permission he slides down your pants until they fall onto the floor, you in turn sliding down his boxers until they rest halfway down his thighs. He's a good size, the perfect girth to fill you up and leave you completely satisfied with no want for anything more other than him pounding into you.

You giggled softly as he groaned from your hands sliding down his chest, brushing against his happy trail and down to his cock. Stroking it a few times just to relish in the sounds he made in response before lining yourself up with his length.

The sounds you both let out as you sit down on him are sinful and filled with pleasure. Your head tilts back as you moan but his hand comes up to grab your chin bringing your face inches from his, his lips brushing softly against yours as you settle on his cock. Accustoming yourself to the stretch and the slight sting that melts right into ecstasy. Eddie kisses you with passion, pouring everything pent up into it as you got used to the feeling of his cock inside you. The gruff closed off asshole who worked at the Breaker Box now laid beneath you looking perfect and kissing you like he'd never get the chance to again.

"I'm gonna move now, kay'?" You mumble softly against his lips and he nods, with his permission you begin to slowly move up and down his cock before going just a bit faster once you get a sense of rhythm.

The sounds he makes are more than enough to let you know you're doing perfectly. Riding him is euphoric, a sensation unlike any other. The dimly lit stuffy backroom and broken-down couch creaking only add to the dirty real feeling of it all. It was messy, your wetness making your thighs slick as you went up and down on his cock. His cock felt perfect and snug inside of you, your hands resting on his broad shoulders, finger nails digging into them drawing a groan from his lips which you then kissed, swallowing the sounds he was making, your own sweetly blending with them.

You reach your peak, coming with a long satisfied moan, head thrown back a bit, his calloused hands gently rubbing your hips and working you through it. Right before, you can feel him about to come, slipping off of him and stroking his cock a few times until thick ropes of cum hit your and his stomach as he finishes with a satisfied moan.

You both sit there, sweaty and panting, trying to calm down.

"You know, I would've appreciated a little invitation to this show." Volt's voice startles both of you out of the trance you were in.

"I'll be sure to let you know next time then," Eddie chuckles, his hands resting warmly on your waist and everything seems to click into place as you all let out small laughs.

#eddie watts #eddison watts #volt date everything #date everything #🧋Mel's fluff #💄Mel's smut #eddie x reader #eddie watson x reader #gender neutral reader #kind of tried my best for that part #my freaky ass is hoping into every fandom i fancy #especially one with a man who vaugly reminds me of dean from the iron giant #♥ mel's rambles #eddie and volt #volt and eddie

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dreamersparacosm · 15 hours ago

Text

jeon jungkook - love, rewritten

╰┈➤ pairing ; love hater!jungkook x hopeless romantic!reader

╰┈➤ genre/tags ; strangers to friends to lovers, sunshine x grumpy, fake dating (on some occasions), hopeless romantic x cynic, oblivious idiots to lovers, bartender!jungkook, fatherless!oc, romantic comedy, smut, fluff, some angst

╰┈➤ summary ; Step one: Find a really, really hot guy to fall in love with.

Totally doable. Easy peasy. You could do it in your sleep.

Except.. there is that small, minuscule fact that ever since you were two years old and could comprehend consonants and syllables and all those other things that create a coherent sentence, you had been told that you never needed a man. Your mother, your grandmother, great-grandmother — all women who reproduced without the help of a man (well, as far as biology would let them. There was indeed a penis involved, albeit it wasn’t one that stuck around long enough to see the product.)

You refuse to be like them. In fact, it’s your life’s mission. Move to New York City, date a man, fall in love, get married, have babies. That’s the plan.

And the plan’s going great — except Jungkook Jeon, the man who saved you from one of the worst dates of your life, is determined to help you on your mission; falling in love with him, someone who detests romance with a passion, wasn’t really part of the deal, though.

Or, in which there’s thirty dates, one generational curse, and zero idea you already met the one.

also available on: wattpad (coming soon .ᐟ.ᐟ )

𐙚₊˚⊹ PLAYLIST HERE 𐙚₊˚⊹

[ SERIES ; PART ONE RELEASE DATE TBD ]

date one, date two, date three, date four, date five, date six, date seven, date eight, date nine, date ten, date eleven, date twelve, date thirteen, date fourteen, date fifteen, date sixteen, date seventeen, date eighteen, date nineteen, date twenty, date twenty-one, date twenty-two, date twenty-three, date twenty-four, date twenty-five, date twenty-six, date twenty-seven, date twenty eight, date twenty-nine, date thirty

╰┈➤ extras!

✎ the date diaries: an excerpt from the taehyung entry

✎ a bar napkin left abandoned: a note by jungkook

✎ jungkook’s dirty 30th birthday bash [his POV]

✎ bodega brides: leaked messages from the groupchat

✎ lr!jk instagram

✎ lr!oc instagram

comment to be a part of the taglist!

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chleem · 9 months ago

Text

Not a big deal pt1

miniseries; basketball player drew x high scl student reader

Summary: You lose your virginity to a random guy at a frat party miles away from your home. A few days later, you find out that he’s your brother’s competitor, for the regional colleges’ basketball tournament.

Genre: strangers to lovers, smut, angst, fluff

Warnings: cursing, age gap (18 & 24), protected sex (read at own caution

⋆.˚ please dont copy my work, if inspired please tag me

♡⸝⸝ (pretend drew is 24 in this one) | p2 | index | p3

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

You never thought this day would come.

The day you lose your virginity.

You’re in a frat house party miles away from your home, kissing an attractive stranger. Not your ideal way of losing your virginity, but at least you were doing it with an attractive guy.

His name’s Drew. Yeah. That’s the only thing you know about him.

And also that he’s a great kisser.

He’s also the second guy you’ve ever made out with.

You try kissing him with the same pace he is, but that just makes him pull away, looking down at you with hooded eyes and parted lips. “Slow…just relax,” he whispers, and you nod, making him smile.

You feel his smile against your lips, and you actually listen, slowing down and kissing him at your own pace. You tilt your head back into the pillow, and Drew takes the opportunity to kiss you deeper.

His hands go under your skirt, massaging your bare thigh. His lips move down your neck, kissing your collarbone and cleavage.

“Drew…” you moan softly, hands tangled into his hair.

He pulls away from you, and you immediately miss the warmth of him. But he pulls his shirt off, and your eyes are blessed with the sight of his upper body. You also don’t miss how erected he is. “Your…shirt,” his eyes move to your chest.

You sit up slightly, and reluctantly pull your top & bra off. Now you feel really, self-conscious. It’s your first time being naked in front of someone, and it felt…unnatural. Is he…going to judge you for your chest size? Or the freckles on around your chest area?

“Beautiful,” he whispers, which surprises you. You feel your entire body going an entire degree hotter than it already was. He then chuckles. “Beautiful,” he repeats again, before leaning in and kissing you.

You smile against his lips, and lean back into the pillow. Your wrap your arms around his neck as he moves down your chest, and starts kissing around your breast.

He leaves wet kisses around on both of your breasts, unwrapping and wrapping his mouth around each. Your soft moans drives him to suck on your nipples harder, giving each the right amount of attention.

“Fuck,” you breathe out, when he’s done. He kisses down your stomach, stopping right above your skirt. You look down to meet his hooded eyes, a small trail of drool on the corner of his lips. You shyly smile, knowing you got this insanely attractive man on top of you, making you feel good. “Hey,” you breathe out.

“Hey,” he smiles softly too, his fingers playing with the ribbon on your underwear. He then looks down at your skirt, and pulls the underwear off. Cold air hits your pussy, but you like it. “I wanna fuck you in this skirt.”

Shit. Then he palms your pussy, causing you to arch your back. His free hand pins you back down, as he spreads your legs for him. “You’re soaking wet already.”

“Drew…” you softly say, wrapping your hand around his, the one around your waist. You want him to fuck you. Like, right now. You didn’t care if he found you weird for getting wet just from kissing; you just want him.

He lowers his head between your legs, and you feel his hot breath hit your pussy. Swear, you feel like an orgasm is near. “Lemme eat you first,” he says, kissing your inner thigh. Then, he presses his tongue flat against your pussy.

“Fuck,” you moan, your hands tugging at his hair. You feel him chuckle lightly, before he starts devouring you. Drew’s tongue was good. He’s eating your pussy, as if it’s his last meal on earth. Maybe you’ll cum just on his tongue alone.

You feel two of his fingers entering you, and you gasp loudly. It feels good, and really tight. It reminds you again that it’s your first time. Drew plants a kiss on your inner thigh, his fingers moving slowly.

“You’re…really tight,” he breathes out, and you look down at him, between your legs. His eyebrows are slightly furrowed, the corner of his lips slightly curled up. “This…you’re not a virgin, are you?”

That comment catches you off-guard. Should you…lie? Tell the truth? Shit. Is he gonna…back out once he knows you’re a virgin? So, you lie. “Been a long time,” you breathe out, his fingers still in you.

He chuckles, kissing your jawline. “Sure,” he sucks on your collarbone, his fingers starting to busy themselves by thrusting into your hole.

“Shit,” you curse, breathing heavily. He thrusts his fingers deep into you, stretching you out for him. He makes sure to go deep-deep with his fingers, and you’re pretty sure you’re at your limit.

He groans at how tight you are, moving back down between your legs. He then plants soft kisses at your pussy, his fingers slowing down. Fuck. You want him to keep going. “Drew…I, I want you,” you voice out, even though the air was practically knocked out your lungs.

“All yours, babe.”

He pulls his fingers out of you, and gets off the bed. He strips out of his pants and underwear, his erected dick standing tall and proud. Fuck. He’s big. You’re not sure you can take it.

Drew walks to the nightstand, opening each drawer. He gets lucky in the last drawer, finding a box of condoms. He quickly checks the expiration date, before joining you on the bed yet again. You sit up, watching in anticipation, as he tears the pack open and wraps it around his erection.

Shit. This was really happening.; You're about to lose your virginity.

You gulp once he’s done, wondering how he’s going to fully fit inside of you. “Drew, that’s-“

“You’ll fit,” he cuts you off, softness in his voice. He pecks your lips, intertwining his fingers with yours, pinning you back down to the mattress. “You’ll fit, and it’ll feel good.”

You nod, trusting a total stranger.

You watch him adjust his dick to your hole, but only he’ll see since the skirt covers your view. But you feel his tip against the entrance, and you want to squeeze your thighs together.

“Fucking beautiful,” he compliments, before looking up at you. Butterflies are flying crazy in your stomach.

He then sticks himself in, and you moan loudly. “Shit,” he kisses your jaw, and you thought that was his whole thing, but then he pushes deeper, his entire dick now nested inside you.

“Fuck!” You gasp, your free hand scratching Drew’s back. This… this is a completely different feeling compared to just his fingers. It’s a hundred times more thick and…and rough. You’re breathing heavily, and so is Drew, his hot breath fanning your forehead.

He then moves out, and then thrusts in. You moan, your grip on Drew tight. “Too much?” You hear teasing in his voice, and you look up at him. Sure enough, a small smirk is on his lips.

You pull him down, and you kiss him as a reply. He kisses you back, and thrusts into you once again. This time, he thrusts harder, making you gasp into his mouth. “I don’t think… I want to go slow on you,” he whispers against your lips.

Fuckkk. Does he know how hot he is?

“Go ahead,” you breathe out, and his hand squeezes yours tightly after hearing that. His smile is all smitten, kind of matching yours.

He thrusts into you roughly, and picks up the pace after each one. Your moans are his motivation to keep going, as well as the sound of skin-slapping in the room. The kisses that he trails along your body just serves as a bigger help to your orgasm.

He even takes one of your legs and hoists it upwards, to get deeper into you. He hits a spot that takes your satisfaction levels to a new ground, pretty sure that he’s hit your g-spot. “Drew…” you moan, the pleasure fogging your mind up. “You… you’re…”

“Mmh?” He groans, biting down on his lip.

“I think I’m…fuck,” words are hard to form now.

Was sex suppose to feel this good? Or is it just Drew that makes it feel like you’re in heaven? Either way, it feels so fucking good.

And with your orgasm near, you’re a bit disappointed that this was ending. Who knows when you’ll find a guy who’ll have sex with you again, or if you’ll ever see this sexy guy again. “I’m close,” you finally say, looking at Drew with hooded eyes.

“Cum on my dick, babe.”

He kisses your forehead, cheeks, jawline while giving you a few more thrusts. And when he gives you a sloppy kiss, the knot in your stomach snaps, and you cum all over his dick, just like he told you to.

Drew continues to thrust into you, but slower this time, as he helps himself to his own orgasm. Your body goes limp, so you just watch as he uses you to cum. He moans in your ear when he finally cums, his moan like music to your ears.

He rests his forehead against yours, the both of you breathing heavily.

Drew’s the first one to talk. “Told you you’ll fit.”

“Yeah. And… and it was great.”

Shit. As soon as those words leave your mouth, you regret it. Who says that after sex? ‘It was great’. Are you some kind of psycho? Oh my gosh. This guy is probably rethinking all his life decisions, and hoping he never even kissed you. You’re such a stupid-

“Sensational,” he cuts off your thoughts. “It was sensational.”

You stare at him with doe eyes. What? You couldn’t help it; you burst out in laughter. His word choice is funny. He’s funny. And cute. And handsome.

He chuckles, probably from hearing your laugh. “Just saying.”

You wrap your arms around his neck. You can’t believe that you just lost your virginity to this guy. This…guy who uses the word ‘sensational’ to describe the sex. This guy who’s insanely handsome with a perfect body. This guy…who, who’s only looking for a hook-up.

This guy, who you’ll never see again.

And in this moment, you told yourself, that you'll never make yourself forget about this man.

——

You hate the jersey Luke forced you to wear.

You didn’t even want to come to this boring basketball game, totally fine with staying at home. But, your parents insisted, since it was the ‘final championship game for regional colleges’. Yeah. Your horrible brother was able to make it to the championship game, and if he won this round, his college student debts would be payed off, or something like that.

Well, Luke was stressed out enough to not bother you this entire morning, except making you wear his jersey.

You don’t hate your brother; he’s just very annoying. You grew up with him always teasing you, and never letting you know peace.

“Did you even wear pants underneath?”

You roll your eyes, lifting your jersey to show the shorts below. “Of course not,” you reply, a hint of sarcasm in your voice. You don’t know why your parents left you alone with Luke, when you didn’t even want to be here at all.

The commentator for the game announces there to be ten minutes left until the game starts. You look around, and the opposite team is not even out of the locker rooms. Only your brother’s team seen practicing or chilling by the side. Weird.

“Who are you guys competing against?” You ask, signaling Luke to scoot over on the chair.

He does; and you sit down beside him, looking onto the court with his teammates practicing. “Um, WCU.”

Why does that college sound very familiar? “They’re…not here yet,” you comment the obvious.

“Fuckers…trust me, y/n, they’re going to lose,” Luke cockily says, leaning forward.

You furrow your eyebrows, crossing your arms as you turn to your brother. “You score an average of ten points per game.”

“Thirty points. Per game. No wonder you’re so stupid,” he corrects you, and you roll your eyes. You knew your brother was good at basketball, just his attitude cancels out all his good parts. “Hey, I’m not captain for nothing.”

“Wow, so impressive,” you mockingly say, and he slaps your knee. You flinch in pain, even though he only slapped lightly. “Ouch! I’m telling mom.”

“So mature,” Luke rolls his eyes, turning to the court.

The commentator then asks your brother’s team to gather up front, to shake hands with the opposite team. Some kind of mannerism to show before the game. Problem is, WCU players haven’t even come out of the locker rooms.

“They think they’re the guests, so they can wait till the last fucking minute,” Luke suddenly complains to you. “Tell you what, their cheeky asses are going to lose so badly-“

“Hey, maybe something happened back there,” you say on purpose, cutting your brother off. He’s rude and egoistic, and you’re embarrassed to admit that you’re related to him. He gives you a ‘what the fuck’ look, and you just shrug. “Who knows.”

“You’re so fucking naive, it’s cute,” he…insults you? Is that an insult? Whatever. He stands up, before turning to face you while stretching. “Watch me beat their asses, y/n. I swear, you’ll see me holding the MVP cup-“

“Let’s welcome… the Western Carolina university! Going against Eastern Carolina university! For the regional basketball championship!” The commentator interrupts, and music starts to play loudly.

You look over at the court entrance, that’s connected to the locker rooms.

The players come out in single file, their supporters cheering loudly for them. Their uniforms are white, with red & yellow stripes. All of them are tall (of course) and all have this…dominating aura around them.

You look at each one of them as they walk onto the court, facing the crowd and waving at familiar faces. You scan their faces, playing a game of smash or pass in your head.

But when your eyes land on the last one to come in, you couldn’t believe it.

No fucking way. It was Drew. The Drew that you lost your virginity to, in a frat party at West Carolina. The frat party that your friend convinced you was worth the five hour drive. The frat party, where afterwards, you left without asking for Drew’s number (to be fair, before sex, you both agreed to it being a one-night stand).

You rub your eyes, hoping you got the wrong person. Nope. It was Drew. Standing there, hands behind his back, emotionless as his eyes scans the crowd. Wearing the basketball team uniform, a bandana keeping his hair back. His face, the same handsome features you stared at when being fucked by him.

“Look at them, a bunch of losers, right?” Luke sits down beside you, not even trying to lower his volume.

Oh fuck. “Hey, you alright?” Luke suddenly asks, making you peel your eyes away from Drew. Is it written all over your face that you fucked Drew?

“Why wouldn’t I be?” You smile nervously. Your brother would freak out if he found out that you slept with his rival. Wait, he would freak out that you even lost your virginity in the first place. “why…you should go join your team.”

“But you seem-“

“Captain of the Eastern Carolina university team, please make your way to the court!” The commentator announces.

“That’s you!” You say nervously, patting your brother’s back.

He looks at you, with worried brows and confused eyes. “Okay…” he gets up, scratching his hair. He gets ready to join them, but then turns back to you again. Luke looks at you mischievously, before saying, “You didn’t give me a good luck kiss yet.”

You scrunch your nose in disgust, glancing at Drew. Oh shit. He’s staring at you! Does he recognize you? Of course he does, otherwise he wouldn’t be staring. “Fuck off, Luke,” you embarrassingly say, knowing everyone is waiting for him.

“C’mon, lil sis,” he pokes his cheek.

Fuck. Why can’t he ever just fuck off? You roll your eyes, before standing up and giving your brother a peck on the cheek. Why does he always want to embarrass you? Why is he such a pain in the ass?

“Thank you. Although, I never needed luck,” he grins, before running to join his team. You wanna kick him in the balls so hard right now.

You turn back to Drew, who’s still staring at you. His brows are furrowed, lips in a frown, and head tilted slightly to the side.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. This is so awkward and embarrassing. You want to disappear into the floor right now.

You get up and look away from him, walking to the seats behind. Your parents wave at you, and you just smile awkwardly as you walk up the steps.

Please, let this game end quickly.

——

Whenever Drew scored a point, he would look over at you with a small smirk on his face. Which was, almost always. He must’ve scored over a half for his team (you were exaggerating, but he did consistently score).

And as for your brother, they were behind. Behind by more than twenty points, and it was the last quarter. It was humiliating, and stress was written all over Luke’s face. You’ve never heard your brother yell at his teammates as much as right now, or yell in such a harsh manner.

The last minute of the game. ECU is definitely losing the championship.

Some of the crowd continues to cheer, and most definitely, the ECU students are bowing. Either at WSU or their school, you’re not so sure anymore.

Thirty seconds left. You watch as a team member on court starts cheering, wanting Drew to go along with him. But Drew ignores him, saying something serious to him. He listens, and wipes the smile off his face.

Twenty seconds left. Your brother got the ball. A teammate nearby waves to him, wanting to get his attention to pass the ball to him. Luke ignores him; traveling through the court; he wants to score all by himself, just to boost his ego.

Ten seconds left. Drew defends against Luke, getting close and blocking his way of scoring.

Five seconds left. Luke jumps at the same time Drew does, and Drew manages to block his ball away, the ball knocked out of your brother’s hands.

To you, it all happens in slow motion.

Still in mid-air, your brother pushes Drew, hard. He falls, missing the basketball hoop-pole only by a few centimeters, landing on the hard floor. Shit.

The bell rings, and the crowd around you all stand up, cheering loudly. Confetti also dropped, further making it hard to see. Fuck.

“Your brother tried his best,” your mom says, standing up and clapping.

You furrow your eyebrows at her, standing up beside her. “What? He got a lot of penalties, yelled at the referee, and pushed Drew. He did not play well.”

“Who’s Drew?” Your mom asks, turning to you confusingly.

Your eyes widen, and you turn away to the court. Shit. “I said crew, mom. He pushed one of the crew from the other team,” you lie. You get to get a glimpse of Drew, who gets up with the help of his teammates. He's rubbing his lower back, pain on his face. Fuck. That fall must’ve hurt. What was your brother thinking?

You watch as the two teams are called to shake hands again, your brother and Drew, standing close to each other. Luke, having a cocky smile on his face, says something to him. Drew says something back, before holding his hand out. Your brother shakes it, his smile now gone, and his expression turned mean.

What did they say to each other?

After everyone finished shaking hands, ECU went off the court, and WCU was cheering with each other. Luke looked like he wanted to murder someone.

Someone in a suit presents the championship trophy, handing it to Drew, who takes it with a proud smile on his face. Cute.

Another trophy comes, and the commentator introduces it as the MVP award. It’s handed to Drew too. But he hands the championship trophy to someone beside him, who immediately raises it up high in triumph.

Then, you make eye contact with Drew. He’s smiling at you, and he holds the trophy near his chest. Fuck, fuck, fuck, butterflies are forming in your stomach right now.

But the eye contact breaks when his teammates pull him by wrapping an arm around his neck, urging him to celebrate. You watch as he laughs at something they say, reminding you of that night, when he chuckled after hearing you laugh.

Fuck. The urge to run down here and talk to him is beating loudly in your mind.

But you don't. You were nobody to him; just someone he fucked on a random Friday night.

Same goes for you; just someone you lost your virginity to. No big deal. Not something really important. Just...not a big deal, right?

-------------------------------

word count: 3.5k

ִ ࣪𖤐 a/n: hope you enjoyed reading as much as i enjoyed writing this! (ignore my mistakes plsss) there will be a part two, so look forward to it <3 and these next two months i will be very happy, since obx s4 is out (won't stop smiling).

elevator | other | index | pt2 | pt3

#drew starkey #drew starkey imagine #drew starkey x reader #fiction #mini series #strangers to lovers #drew starkey x you #smut #fluff #angst #part one

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actuallybean · 21 days ago

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Last Woman Standing* | Part One

An apocalyptic plague wipes out every woman on Earth — except you. Now locked in a bunker with Sam, Dean, and Castiel, they soon realize they’re all falling in love… and lust… with the last woman alive. *Contains sexual material: Minors DNI, polyamory, apocalyptic themes, emotional/psychological tension, possessiveness, protective dynamics, some angst, heavy sexual content in later parts, consensual but intense scenarios. Pairings: Sam Winchester x Reader, Dean Winchester x Reader, Castiel x Reader (eventual polyamorous dynamic) Part Two Tag List: @mostlymarvelgirl @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @catsinacottage Supernatural Masterlist | Main Masterlist

You wake to the sound of your phone buzzing angrily against the wooden table.

It vibrates so violently it nearly throws itself onto the floor. Your cheek is stuck to the open pages of an old lore book, your neck stiff from the awkward angle you'd passed out in. There’s a deep indentation from the spine of the book pressed into your skin. A blanket—Dean’s old flannel one—has been thrown over your shoulders at some point, but it’s barely warding off the cold.

The overhead light is still on, flickering slightly, and the bunker’s library is otherwise silent. Too silent.

You blink against the sting of dryness in your eyes, your lashes crusted together from sleep, and groggily fumble for your phone. The screen glows harsh in the low light. You squint through the blur and read the message that’s been sent a dozen times, each timestamp a little more frantic than the last.

Jody Mills: Claire’s missing. Donna too. No women at the station today. Something’s wrong. You okay? Hello?? WHERE ARE YOU??

Your breath sticks in your throat.

You bolt upright, the chair scraping across the floor with a shrill screech that echoes off the walls. The books you’d been reading tumble to the floor in a heap. The bunker feels too big, too quiet, too cold.

You blink at the time—4:42 a.m.

Your fingers shake as you type out a response. I’m fine. What do you mean they’re gone?

The message status says Delivered, but there's no reply. Just that hovering silence.

You rise to your feet, still disoriented, brushing the sleep from your eyes and pushing the blanket off your shoulders. Your bare feet hit the cold stone floor as you move toward the hallway, calling out quietly.

“Sam?”

Nothing.

“Dean? Cas?”

Still nothing.

The bunker feels… wrong. Like the shadows are watching you. Like you’re the only person left alive underground.

You move quickly now, padding barefoot down the corridor, glancing into each room as you pass, heart thudding harder with every unanswered call.

And then, from somewhere deeper in the bunker—you hear it.

Voices.

Frantic. Overlapping. Panicked.

“I can’t find her anywhere!” Dean’s voice, sharp with worry. “Kitchen, bedrooms, garage—nothin’. She’s gone, man!”

“I checked the security feed,” Sam is saying, breathless. “Last image of her is from ten hours ago, entering the library. Then nothing. No exit. Nothing after that.”

“What if…” Castiel’s voice is quiet but grave. “What if it happened to her, too?”

“No.” Dean growls. “Don’t say that. Don’t even—She wouldn’t just vanish. She’d fight like hell. We’d know.”

The sound of Castiel’s wings shivers through the air, the heavy flap echoing in the silence like thunder underground.

“I searched every floor,” he says when he rematerializes. “She’s not here.”

You round the corner into the war room just as Dean shouts again, pacing furiously. “Goddammit! She was right here! We were all here, and now she’s just—” He cuts himself off, shoulders trembling.

“I’m here,” you say softly.

The silence that follows is immediate.

Dean whirls around like he’s seen a ghost. Sam’s eyes widen, stunned. Castiel stops mid-step and stares at you like you’ve just risen from the dead.

You blink at them from the archway, wrapped in your oversized sleep shirt, hair a tangled mess, phone still clutched in your hand like a lifeline.

“I… I fell asleep. In the library. My phone was under a book or something. I didn’t hear anything.”

They don’t speak at first—just stare. The relief that floods the room is palpable. Dean exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face as if he’s physically holding himself together. Sam drops into the nearest chair like his knees gave out. Castiel takes a step forward, his eyes flickering with something that might be awe, or grief, or some mix of both.

Dean finally breaks the silence. “Jesus, sweetheart.” He crosses the space in three long strides, wrapping you in a fierce hug, arms crushing around you like he’s anchoring himself. “We thought we lost you.”

“I didn’t even know anything was happening,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “Jody messaged me. Said Claire was gone. Donna too. No women on duty anywhere.”

Sam speaks without looking up. “Hospitals. Schools. Government offices. It’s not just hunters—it’s everyone. Every woman… just gone.”

You feel it settle like lead in your bones.

A cold, unspeakable understanding.

“Except you,” Castiel says, voice low and reverent. “You’re the only one left.”

You stand there in the middle of the war room, Dean’s arms still around you, Sam watching you like you’re fragile glass, Castiel with something ancient and wounded in his gaze—and for the first time, you truly feel the weight of your existence. You, alone, standing against the silence that swallowed half the world.

And suddenly, the bunker doesn’t feel cold anymore.

It feels like a cage.

A quiet, humming tomb. And you’re what it’s protecting. Or what it’s hiding.

Either way—you are no longer just part of the world. You are what remains of it. And that knowledge burrows into your chest like a splinter too deep to remove.

✦

You don’t cry at first.

Not when Sam lays out the facts on the war room table like corpses in a morgue. Not when Dean starts scratching a map of missing persons reports into the wood with his knife. Not even when Castiel murmurs that Heaven’s gone still—no new souls, no activity.

It's when they tell you you can’t leave that it finally hits.

You sit in the library—the same goddamn chair you fell asleep in—with a wool blanket wrapped around your shoulders, hands clenched around a mug of tea you forgot to sip. The steam has long since faded.

Dean sits across from you, hunched forward like he can’t meet your eyes. Sam’s pacing behind him, arms folded, the muscles in his jaw tight. Castiel stands in the doorway like a silent sentinel, eyes burning holes through the floor.

“Look,” Dean says, gently. “We don’t even know what’s causing this yet. We don’t know if it’s demonic, celestial, viral, magical—”

“I get it,” you say, your voice hoarse. “You think I’ll vanish too if I leave.”

“We don’t know what’ll trigger it,” Sam says, turning sharply. “But so far, you’re the only woman who’s survived. That means something. And until we figure out what that is, you’re not safe outside.”

You nod numbly, staring at the mug in your hands.

You’re not safe inside, either—not really. Not from the thoughts creeping in around the edges of your mind.

Claire. Jody. Donna. Charlie. Eileen. Rowena.

Gone.

Without a trace.

The grief doesn’t crash all at once. It leaks in—through the cracks in your resolve, through the soft moments of silence between words. Through the familiar ghosts in your memory.

You remember Charlie’s laugh echoing through the bunker, her boots up on the table while she trounced Dean in Mario Kart.

You remember Jody’s arms around you after your first brush with death, how her voice shook when she said, You’re one of mine now.

You remember Eileen’s gentle hands and her fierce, unflinching eyes. The way she taught you the ASL sign for family.

You remember Donna’s voice over the phone, warm and light, always ending every call with, Love ya, sweetheart. Stay sharp.

You remember Rowena sitting across from you at the kitchen table once, sharp eyes and a small smile on her lips, telling you, You remind me of myself at your age. That’s a good thing. Mostly.

They're all gone.

Every woman you’ve ever fought beside, bled beside, loved—

Gone.

You blink, and the tears spill over without warning, sliding hot down your cheeks, caught in the salt lines around your mouth. You press the mug to your lips just to have something to hold onto, something solid.

Dean looks up, alarmed. “Hey—hey, don’t…”

He stops himself, because what the hell can he say?

Don’t cry? Don’t feel this? Don’t mourn an entire gender?

You swallow a sob so thick it bruises your throat.

“I keep thinking,” you whisper, “what if it’s not just now? What if this is it? What if I am the last?”

No one answers.

The silence is worse than anything they could say.

Sam crosses to you slowly, placing a hand on your shoulder, the touch gentle but grounding. Castiel approaches from the shadows, kneeling beside you like a knight before a dying queen.

Dean swears under his breath and kicks the leg of the table before sinking down next to Sam, running a hand through his hair.

“You’re not alone,” Dean says eventually, voice low, rough. “You’ve still got us.”

“I know,” you whisper. “But it’s not the same.”

Because they don’t know what it’s like to be in your skin. To sit in your room and realize every face you’ve seen in the mirror belongs to a class of people that no longer exists. To have no one left who knows the language of your body, the weight of your silence, the ache of sisterhood.

The boys are trying. You know they are. But grief like this is a different kind of species. It doesn’t respond to logic or comfort. It just is. A dull, gnawing ache that worms its way through your chest and wraps around your lungs until even breathing feels like mourning.

You stand, the blanket falling from your shoulders, and turn to leave.

“Where are you going?” Sam asks gently.

“My room,” you mutter. “I need—just—I need a minute.”

Dean starts to rise like he might follow, like he might try to offer you company. But Castiel gently puts a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

You don’t look back.

You walk the long, dim hallways of the bunker barefoot. It’s colder now. Or maybe you are.

When you finally reach your room, you close the door softly behind you and curl up on your bed, pulling the covers to your chin like armor.

And in the dark, you finally let yourself cry for real.

You cry for Claire’s stubborn spark and Donna’s laugh. For Rowena’s strength and Jody’s arms. For the way Charlie used to tease you and the way Eileen used to see you. For every woman you’ve known. Every girl you’ve saved. Every name you’ll never learn now.

You cry for the silence where their voices should be.

And you cry for yourself, too—for the hollow, lonely truth of what you’ve become.

Not a survivor. Not a warrior.

A relic.

A ghost of a world that no longer exists.

✦

Time loses shape in the bunker.

There are no windows, no sunrises or sunsets to mark the hours. Only the hum of old lights, the rumble of distant generators, the clink of coffee mugs, and the shuffle of tired feet. At some point, the calendar on your nightstand stopped meaning anything. It’s just a piece of paper now—one of the last things written by a woman.

You don’t know how many days passed before it stopped feeling like shock and started to feel like reality. But by the seventh day, the stillness has settled into your bones. Everything that’s gone hasn’t come back. There are no signs. No answers. No dreams whispering clues in the night. Just absence. A void shaped like half the world.

And you still haven’t seen another woman’s face.

Not in person. Not on a screen. Not even in a dream.

You tried, once—searching old photo albums on your phone, scrolling desperately through camera rolls just to see them again. Your thumb paused over Jody’s smile, Rowena’s raised brow, Claire’s battle-stained cheek. You looked at them like a starving person might look at food behind glass. You tried to feel comforted.

Instead, you felt grief crystallizing in your chest like frostbite.

You stopped looking after that.

Sometimes you stand in front of the bathroom mirror longer than you should, just to prove to yourself that womanhood still exists. That it’s not gone. That it hasn’t been erased like pencil marks off a white page. But it’s a hollow ritual now, one that leaves you colder afterward than before.

Your face looks different, even though it hasn't changed.

You wonder if it's because there's no one left who reflects you anymore. No one to echo your voice back with understanding. No one to soften your roughness with their own.

Just you.

And the men.

Always the men.

✦

It started small.

You don’t notice it right away—not in the thick fog of grief, not when you’re moving like a ghost through the bunker, not when your body feels like it’s wearing the loss like a second skin.

But then—little things.

You walk into the war room and the conversation stops just a little too quickly.

You reach for a cup in the kitchen and Dean is already there, wordless, placing it in your hand before you can ask.

You stretch your sore arms during training and catch Sam’s eyes lingering on the scar beneath your collarbone—one he’s seen a hundred times before, but now… now it looks like he’s seeing you for the first time.

And Castiel. He watches you like you’re both familiar and sacred. Like something holy and untouchable. His silences are longer now. Sharper.

At first, you try to chalk it up to the circumstances. You’re all grieving. You’re all trapped. And maybe they just don’t know how to treat you anymore. Maybe they’re trying too hard not to break you.

But it grows.

They grow.

Possessive in quiet ways. Protective in louder ones.

Sam walks you to your room even when you insist you’re fine. Dean insists on keeping you in his line of sight when you’re in the firing range. Cas offers to accompany you every time you even suggest stepping outside your door, like he’s afraid the air might swallow you.

It’s not… bad. Not really. But it makes the bunker feel smaller. Like the walls have inched closer every day since the world went dark.

You’re not just the last woman.

You’re the only one.

The last reminder of the world before.

And they look at you like they know it.

✦

It’s after dinner, one quiet night, that it really hits you.

You’re washing the dishes—old habits die hard—and you glance up toward the table where the boys still sit. No one’s talking. Dean’s staring into his glass of whiskey. Sam is flipping through an old newspaper from before the vanishings, not really reading. And Castiel’s eyes are on you.

Not just on you. Watching you.

There’s something so gentle in the way he does it. So reverent. Like you’re the last page in a book he thought he lost. He doesn’t look away when you meet his gaze, doesn’t flinch. Just holds it, like a tether.

Your hands still in the dishwater.

Sam glances up next—and for a moment, it’s like he was waiting for you to catch him. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, then closes it. His brows furrow. He doesn’t look away either.

Dean, too, lifts his eyes now. Slowly. Like gravity’s fighting him.

And when all three of them are staring at you—really staring—you feel it all at once.

You’re not just a woman to them anymore.

You’re a symbol.

A relic.

A vessel.

The last proof of what was lost.

And maybe—maybe the last hope of what could be rebuilt.

The thought makes your stomach lurch.

You dry your hands and leave the kitchen without a word, your footsteps soft and fast against the stone floor.

✦

That night, you stand naked in front of the mirror again.

It’s the first time in days that you’ve really looked. Your body’s changing—little things. The curve of your hips. The dip of your waist. You press your hand against your belly and try to remember if it’s always felt this soft. This alone.

You turn, examining old scars and new shadows, the pink stretch of your skin where bruises have bloomed and faded. There’s a vulnerability to it now that you can’t shake.

You used to think of your body as a weapon. Sharp. Agile. Strong.

Now it feels like something rare and endangered. Something every eye in the bunker tracks when it moves, even if they pretend not to.

You sigh, turning away from the mirror. You slip into one of Dean’s flannels, too long on your frame, the scent of smoke and leather still clinging to the collar.

You crawl into bed, but sleep doesn’t come.

Because now, it isn’t just grief that sits on your chest—it’s something else.

Something quiet and hungry and waiting.

And you don’t know if it’s theirs… or yours.

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muppenthings · 1 month ago

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Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Coby's always blushing a little (around Archer).

Archer just wants to tease him. ;p

He's releasing fog, not steam btw. Feeling a little shy and flustered~

#Muppen draws #oc Coby #oc Archer #g/t #giant/tiny #g/t fluff #Archer u bully. xD #It's only one page. the final part is gonna have more I promise xD #I love having the weekend off cause then I can draw. ;o;

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degenerateshinji · 1 month ago

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li tianxi survives au!!! li tianxi/lu guang siblings dynamic!!! come read my fic!!!!!

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anniebeckcalla · 3 months ago

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ღtexts with nct dream

the dreamies when reader's feelings are unrequited (part 1)

(non-idol!dream x reader) ◦ ₊ cw!rejection, angst ◦ ₊ cafe ◦ ₊ masterlist ◦ ₊ click here

ღcalla's note: as I have mentioned before, I am going to keep uploading 4 parts instead of all in one go. sorry for the inconvenience :<

jeno

renjun

thank you for the comments and reblogs! (´･ω･｀)

taglist: @cigsaftersuh @jenoleeaesthetic @pl4netx1a @jeonghansshitester @chenlezip @neodreamzenie @markkiatocafe @mejaemin

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this-is-tiny-mia · 4 months ago

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Sorry, wrong number (H.S. One Shot) Part 3 (Last Part)

General Masterlist Summary: A wrong-number text leads to an unexpected connection between a you and a stranger. What starts as a playful exchange quickly becomes the highlight of their days, leaving you curious about the man behind the messages.

Finally Y/N and Harry give in to their feelings.

A/n: I CANNOT BELIEVE HOW MUCH SUPPORT THIS SERIES GOT, I HAD SO SO SO SO MUCH FUN WRITING IT AND I CAN'T WAIT TO DO MORE STUFF. Thanks if you liked, shared, left a comment, anything! REALLY THANK YOU SO SO MUCH.

Thanks to the best of the best @eileenrry for hyping me up (It's already saturday over there so i guess it's fair i'm publishing this now) Word count: 3.4k

Warnings: A LOT OF FLUFF AND A LOT OF CHEESY DATES YOU'LL BE THROWING UP BY THE END OF IT. MAINLY CUTESY STUFF FOR YOU TO FANTASIZE ABOUT. Use of y/n, everything happens really fast, time moves QUICK.

You read his text again, your heart racing. It was playful, sure, but there was something else—something unspoken, just under the surface.

"I think it means we’re in trouble," you finally typed, keeping it vague. You didn’t want to assume anything yet.

"Trouble? 🤔" His reply came almost immediately. "Define trouble."

You hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard. How could you define something you didn’t fully understand yourself? How could you put butterflies at full speed into words?

"I don’t know," you typed. "Maybe… when someone sneaks into your head when you’re supposed to be working, and suddenly spreadsheets don’t make sense anymore."

Brave of you. Classy, even. You hit send and stared at the screen, instantly second-guessing yourself. It was honest, sure, but had you said too much?

The three little dots appeared. Then it disappeared. Then it appeared again.

Oh, shit. Please say something.

"You know what I think it means?" he finally wrote.

"What?"

"That I’ve somehow managed to ruin spreadsheets for you, and I’m not even sorry."

You giggled out loud, the sound breaking through the quiet of your room.

"Good to know you have no regrets" you replied, a smile spreading across your face that nothing could erase.

"None at all," he shot back. "But for the record, you’ve ruined a few things for me too."

The conversation hung there for a moment, his words settling over you like a soft weight. You wanted to ask what he meant, but you were terrified of the answer.

"Fair enough. I guess we’re even," you typed back.

“Want to ruin things for each other tomorrow?”

“What does that even mean?” you chuckled, staring at your phone.

“It means I’ll think of you tomorrow, and I hope you’ll think of me too. Goodnight, Tulip 🌷.”

It felt completely surreal, like you were trapped in a dream you never wanted to wake up from. You couldn’t help but thank your past self—and your lousy fingers—for mistyping that single, life-changing number. Just one little mistake, and now here you were, heart racing and thoughts spiraling every time his name lit up your screen. It was pure magic.

The next morning, you found yourself humming while making breakfast. Humming! Like you were Aurora from Sleeping Beauty, twirling around your kitchen like the birds were about to join in. You were a walking cliché, and you didn’t even care. Doomed, yes—but in the best way possible. In love, obviously. The knock at the door jolted you out of your fairytale haze. You blinked, momentarily confused, before heading to answer it. Standing there was a delivery man holding the biggest bouquet of tulips you'd ever seen—bright, colorful, and completely over-the-top in the best way.

"I didn’t…" you started, unsure if this was a mistake.

"Delivery for Y/N," the grumpy delivery man interrupted, already turning on his heel. "Have a good day or whatever." And just like that, he was gone, leaving you in the doorway with the bouquet in your hands, completely stunned. Were these even meant for you? He hadn’t checked any ID or anything. But the moment your eyes landed on the card nestled between the tulips, your heart flipped.

For Tulip From H.

It was all you needed. That tiny, scribbled note said everything. You felt the heat rush to your face as a grin spread across it. Of course they were yours. Who else would send tulips to you?

You closed the door behind you, clutching the bouquet like it was the most precious thing in the world, unable to wipe the smile off your face.you stared at the flowers like an idiot for a hot minute and quickly grabbed your phone to text him but he beat you to it, as you were typing the message his came first. “Morning Tulip, hope you were awake.”

“I was indeed, woke up to 25 tulips in my face.”

“Oh really? I thought I said 30. Someone’s getting fired,” he replied, clearly joking.

“I really love them, they’re beautiful. 25 is more than enough. Why the flowers, though?” You played the innocent card, knowing full well the answer.

“Oh, I thought I should make sure to mess with those spreadsheets today.”

The sound that escaped your mouth wasn’t even human—it was a mix between a laugh and a scream. You quickly tried to gather your thoughts to reply.

“Then how can I make sure I mess with your day?” you typed, feeling bolder than usual.

“You already are doing it, Tulip.”

And just like that, your heart was officially ruined for the day. You stared at his last message, rereading it like it held the secrets of the universe. How did he do that? Ruin your entire day—in the best way possible—with just a few words?

“Good to know I’m effective” you replied, smirking to yourself.

“So… how do you feel about letting me ruin your evening too?”

It’s happening! Everybody calm down! it’s happening!. Your stomach flipped. You typed and deleted your reply about five times before settling on something casual.

“Depends. What do you have in mind?”

“Dinner? Unless you’re busy with those spreadsheets.” There it was again, the perfect balance of teasing and genuine interest.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to keep you from your firing spree, but… dinner sounds good.”

“Perfect. I’ll pick you up at 7.”

As you stared at the screen, excitement mixed with nerves. Was this real? Was he actually asking you out? Tulips were one thing, but a whole dinner? That felt… bigger. And 7. It was barely 9:30 am, and you had to wait until 7? That’s torture. What were you supposed to do for the next few hours? Sit around and obsess over every possible scenario? Yeah, you did.

You groaned and tossed your phone on the couch, pacing the room like it might somehow speed up time. Maybe you’d clean the apartment—again. Or work on those spreadsheets he seemed so intent on ruining. Or maybe… you’d just spend the day imagining what this dinner would actually be like. Would it be casual, or was he planning something elaborate? What would he wear? Oh god, what should you wear? The spiral of overthinking had officially begun, and 7 PM felt like a lifetime away.

By the time 7 PM FINALLY rolled around, you were a bundle of nerves. After hours of trying on clothes and second-guessing your choices, you’d settled on something simple but flattering. You didn’t want to look like you were trying too hard, but let’s face it—you were. A buzz on your phone snapped you out of your last-minute mirror check.

“Outside. No pressure, but I’m hungry.”

You laughed, grabbed your bag, and took one last deep breath before stepping outside. There he was, leaning casually against his car, looking effortlessly perfect. How was it possible for someone to make standing look so good? Only Harry Styles.

“Nice ride,” you teased, trying to hide your nerves.

“Nice dress,” he shot back, smirking as he opened the passenger door for you. LOST, you are more than lost for this man.

The drive was filled with the kind of banter that felt like second nature by now. He wouldn’t tell you where you were going, just that it was “low-key, but worth it.” That’s what you expected actually, he was really recognizable, and you? could be mistaken for a waitress if some took the correct picture. Harry Styles and who is she? But then you ended up at a cozy little Italian place tucked away in a quiet corner of the city.

“Looks amazing” you asked as he held the door open for you.

“Wait till you taste it” he said, leading you inside. Wait…was that….about the restaurant? or….

The atmosphere was warm and intimate, with dim lighting and soft music playing in the background. You sat across from him at a small corner table, feeling like the rest of the world had disappeared.

“Alright, let’s get this out of the way,” he said, leaning forward with a grin. “Tell me all the embarrassing stories about yourself before the breadsticks get here.” You laughed, shaking your head.

“Absolutely not. But I’ll trade one for one if you’re brave enough.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, it’s on.”

The night unfolded with laughter, stolen glances, and stories that made both of you feel like you’d known each other forever. At some point, you realized you hadn’t checked your phone once—a miracle in itself. You were used to distract yourself whenever the guy you were out with started to talk about bitcoin or some pyramid scheme. When the check came, he waved you off before you could even reach for your wallet.

“Don’t start,” he warned, smirking. “Consider it a payment for ruining your spreadsheets.”

I don’t even think we can still say butterflies. let’s evolve to a full on zoo. As he walked you back to your door later that night, the air between you felt charged but comfortable. You paused, turning to face him.

“Thank you. For tonight. It was…”

“Perfect,” he finished for you, his voice soft.

You didn’t even mind that he left you with just that. No kiss, no dramatic goodbye.

But.

His gaze flicked to your lips for just a second before meeting your eyes again, and your breath caught.

‘Can I…’ he started, voice barely above a whisper, ‘...do one more thing to completely ruin your night?’

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. You tilted your face up slightly, and he took the hint, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours. It was soft at first, tentative, like he was testing the waters. But when you didn’t pull away, his hand came up to gently cup your jaw, deepening the kiss just enough to leave you dizzy. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours for a moment, both of you breathing slightly harder.

‘I think you just ruined my whole life,’ you said. It was pathetic, but it was a completely, utterly, undeniable truth.

‘Alright, Tulip. I’ll take full responsibility. But if I’ve ruined your life, I guess I’m going to have to stick around and fix it.’

You could feel your knees WEAK.

----

By now Gwen knew about your lovelife, who didn’t when you were dating Harry Styles, it was really difficult to hide the blushing moments, the giggles, the fancy car that picked you up every now and then, Your days were magical. MORE than magical.

May 12

Harry had sent you a song that morning with a simple text

“This one it’s just pure truth. Song link Specially 2:32”

Listening to it on repeat throughout the day, you couldn’t help but smile. It was one of those songs that felt like a confession, like it was saying all the things he hadn’t quite said yet.

"Are you trying to tell me something, Mr. Styles?" you texted.

"YOU tell me 😉"

May 14

You snapped a picture of your desk—papers, coffee cups, and a very tired-looking plant all vying for space.

"Welcome to chaos" you captioned it and sent it to him.

Seconds later, a photo of a perfectly neat studio table arrived, complete with his notebook, a few pens, and an untouched cup of tea.

"Show-off" you texted.

"Organized chaos" he corrected. “Coming to make me company later?”

“Obviously”

May 18

“🌷”

Every morning now started with a single tulip emoji from Harry. No text, no explanation—just the flower. It made you laugh every time, this simple, silent ritual he’d created just for you. There was something about it—something understated and intimate.

It didn’t matter if the rest of the world felt chaotic or overwhelming; that one tiny emoji always managed to anchor you. Some days, you’d wake up to find it already waiting for you, like a quiet reminder that someone out there was thinking of you. Other days, it would pop up mid-morning, just as you were starting to feel the weight of your to-do list. But he NEVER failed to send it.

You weren’t even sure how he’d decided to start—but you knew it was the first thing you’d look for every day. It wasn’t grand or overly sentimental, but that’s what made it so special. It was Harry in the simplest, purest form—thoughtful, playful, and somehow always knowing exactly what you needed without you ever having to say a word. Sometimes, you’d reply with nothing more than a matching tulip. Other times, you’d tease him with a string of emojis—🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷—followed by a cheeky, “Did one not feel sufficient today, love?” Yes. “Love” had made its way into the conversation. Tulip was still his favorite, but love was now in the game.

He never explained it, never justified it. But in those simple tulips, he said so much more: I’m here for you. I see you. I want you.

May 30

When you told Harry you’d finally gotten the project approved at work, his response came in the form of three celebratory emojis: 🎉🥂🌷.

"I’m so proud of you, my tulip" he wrote.

It wasn’t over-the-top or overly formal, but it hit you right where it mattered. The simplicity, the care—it was so very him.

"You were the one pushing me to keep doing it at midnight that day in your apartment. So it’s all because of you 💖"

The rest of the day passed in a blur of emails, calls, and the lingering glow of Harry’s words. By the time evening rolled around, you were ready to collapse on the couch with a mindless TV show and a celebratory glass of wine. That was the plan as Harry told you he was stuck with some family stuff, at least, until the doorbell rang. You frowned. You weren’t expecting anyone. Pulling your sweater tighter around you, you padded to the door and peered through the peephole. And there he was.

Harry. Standing on your doorstep, wearing that damn smile, holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and—of course—a single tulip in the other.

You flung the door open, heart racing. "Harry, what—"

"Celebrating you, obviously," he said, stepping inside like he’d always belonged there. He handed you the tulip first, letting his fingers brush yours, then held up the champagne. "I figured we could upgrade from emojis."

You laughed, caught somewhere between disbelief and pure joy. "You didn’t have to do this."

"Didn’t I?" he countered, his tone soft but teasing. "You work so hard, Tulip. You deserve to be celebrated properly. And most importantly by your boyfriend"

It was more than 1 month since he made it completely official, and called himself your boyfriend, and you obviously didn’t argue about it, but still, it all felt like a dream. YOUR BOYFRIEND wanted to celebrate you and that’s exactly what he did. You spent the evening sitting on the living room floor, sharing stories, clinking glasses, and laughing until your cheeks hurt. At one point, he grabbed your hand, lacing his fingers through yours, and simply said, "I’m proud of you."

It wasn’t loud or flashy, but it was everything. The kind of moment that imprinted itself on your heart, quietly becoming one of your favorites.

June 8

"Busy next Friday?"

"Depends. What’s the occasion?"

"Thought you might like to see what all the fuss is about. Backstage pass included 😉. A kiss from the performer too. Maybe multiple ones."

“I ACCEPT”

Your heart raced. You weren't sure what terrified you more: being in his world or the fact that he wanted you to be. But in reality you were already in his world, of course there were many MANY articles of “Harry Styles spotted with mystery girl” but you were just too busy actually being so in love with him to even care.

July 16 It was Harry’s idea.

“I’m a decent cook,” he said, grinning as he rolled up his sleeves. “You’ll be impressed. Trust me.”

You weren’t entirely sure if you trusted him, but the idea of spending the evening in his kitchen, cooking together, sounded perfect. He handed you an apron, and you got to work. The plan was ambitious: homemade pasta and sauce, garlic bread, and a simple dessert. But things went off course almost immediately.

“Is this what dough is supposed to look like?” you asked, holding up a sticky mess that refused to cooperate.

Harry peered over your shoulder, frowning. “Uh… probably not. But it’s okay! It’s rustic.”

“Rustic,” you repeated, raising an eyebrow. “That’s your explanation for this disaster?”

“It’s charming,” he said, taking the dough from you and attempting to salvage it.

“Do you happen to have Gordon Ramsay on your contacts?” You said looking at the unfinished (a bit uneatable) dinner. “I do, but i don’t think he would want to see this”

By the time the pasta was in the pot, you were both covered in flour, and the kitchen looked like a tornado had swept through it. The sauce was a little too salty, the garlic bread had burned edges, and somehow, the dessert had completely fallen apart.But when you sat down at the tiny kitchen table, your mismatched plates in front of you, it didn’t matter.

“To our first—and possibly last—cooking adventure,” Harry said, raising his glass of wine.

“Here’s to hoping we survive the food poisoning,” you joked, clinking your glass against his.

But the truth was, the meal was delicious in its imperfection. And as you sat there, laughing and stealing bites from each other’s plates, you realized it wasn’t about the food at all. It was about this—about him.

----

It had been two days. Harry was on a quick trip to L.A., and the time zones, paired with his whirlwind schedule, made communication sporadic. You told yourself he was busy—his life was far more chaotic than yours—but the silence still felt deafening.

You’d held back from texting or calling him, trying not to seem clingy, but the doubts crept in anyway. Maybe this was too much. Maybe you were too much.

Finally, you broke. Your fingers hovered over your phone, hesitating over his contact like he wasn’t your boyfriend, like he was once again just a stranger. Before you could overthink it, you sent a simple message: “Am I ruining your days over there?👀🌷”

The minutes stretched into hours with no reply. You didn’t realize how tightly you were gripping your phone until the screen dimmed, reflecting your worried expression.

Then came the knock.

You nearly jumped out of your skin, rushing to the door.

Harry stood there, out of breath, hair disheveled, his eyes searching yours like he’d been running for miles.

“You’re in L.A.,” you blurted, confused.

“Was,” he corrected, stepping closer. “I—I couldn’t do this over text.”

“Do what?” you asked, your voice trembling.

He held up his phone, the screen glowing faintly in the dim light. Your text stared back at you.

“This. You. I literally cannot think straight when I’m away from you.” His voice cracked slightly, and your heart clenched. “I don’t care if we’re moving too fast. I think about you all the time, and I’m—”

You stepped forward, cutting him off as your arms wrapped tightly around him.

“Harry, stop,” you murmured against his chest, your voice soft but sure. “You’re here. That’s all I need.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands firm but gentle on your arms. “No, you don’t understand,” he said, his gaze steady. “I love you. Completely. Hopelessly. And I couldn’t let another second go by without telling you.”

The world seemed to tilt, his words hanging in the air.

“You idiot,” you whispered, tears stinging your eyes as a smile broke through. “I love you too.”

The kiss that followed wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t a question or a test. It was an answer—a culmination of every tulip emoji, late-night text, and unspoken promise.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you laughing softly, Harry reached into his bag and pulled out a single tulip, slightly crumpled but no less beautiful.

“I couldn’t come empty-handed,” he said with a lopsided grin.

You took the flower, your smile uncontainable. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it.”

That night, curled up on the couch with his arm around your shoulders and the tulip resting in a vase on the coffee table, you realized something profound.

It wasn’t the tulips, the texts, or the grand gestures that made this real. It was the quiet moments—the shared smiles, the silent understanding, the unwavering presence.

No matter what, you had each other.

Forever. --- A/n: If you made it til the end, i just want to say thanks again 🥹🫶 If you have any suggestions or comments or complaints! , please feel free to reach out! --- Taglist:

@jackiehollanderr @proudravenclawbird @hopeyoustaythenight @maryjahps @obsessiveenthusiast @liiit44 @loveheart-123 @harrystyleshotwife @harryscherries28

@addiemb8332 @cumuluscranium @gguksfilter @alemunson42069 @sarah22194 @summertime-pills @hescrush @cosmomento @harrys-wifeyy @isinpfortvdmen

@familyshow-orisit @notsosweetcreature @cevans-winchester @camillegillians @donutsandpalmtrees @amateurduck @hermionelove @misty-heartbreak

#harry styles #hs4 #harry styles fanfic #harry edward styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x reader #harry styles fic #harry styles one shot #harry styles x y/n #one shot #one shot harry styles #harry styles fluff #sorry wrong number #harry fic #hs fanfic #part 3

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sacr1ficialang3l · 3 months ago

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Black No.1

WARNINGS: canon-typical violence. dean's hatred for the supernatural. a lot of vampire world-building because i'm a nerd. 7.5k

NOTES: first part of little miss scare-all. as always, english is not my first language. enjoy<3

“I went looking for trouble. And, boy, I found her.”

New Orleans is emptier this time of year.

Dean is kind of glad they got a case here in October instead of during Mardi Gras. As much as he would love the partying, the booze, and the girls in tiny dresses, it's hard to be discreet about their job when there are that many people around.

Sam and he walk into a small, rundown bar near the motel, deciding to stay away from the main streets of the French Quarter. The place is dark—way too dark, even for a bar. The floor is black wood, and the walls are covered in dark red velvet, which looks like hell to clean. Dean could call it goth, but the crowd’s surprisingly mixed.

As Sam and him take a seat at the bar, Dean thinks there are way too many people here for a Tuesday afternoon in a small bar tucked down a quiet alley. There are some college kids, a few young couples swaying on the dance floor to the rock music playing in the background. But there are also big groups of adults, old men drinking alone, and people who look like they’re in their thirties sitting around, glancing from their drinks to the empty stage in the back of the bar — like they're waiting for something.

Dean and his brother share a confused look but decide not to question it. They just started this case today, and it’s already causing trouble.

They both order some whiskey and sip from their glasses while going over the case details.

More people trickle into the bar—all ages, all styles. But most of them don’t even order a drink or head to the dance floor. They just stand around, waiting.

Okay, what the hell is happening?

Before he can ask anyone, the bartender snatches a microphone and bolts for the stage, where a drum kit, a guitar, a bass, and a mic stand have somehow been set up without Dean even noticing.

Sam and he turn to each other again, confused.

This tiny, murky bar has live music?

“Good night, everyone!” The guy greets the crowd, and it’s only then that Dean notices the people packed in around the stage. “Our girl is ready for you, so please, everyone, give it up for Lost Souls.”

Great. Probably some local band of teenagers with way-too-edgy lyrics and way too much eyeliner, Dean thinks. He turns back to the bar and takes a long swig of whiskey.

But then, the crowd erupts in cheering so loud that Dean almost jumps out of his skin. Everyone, both young and old, is losing their mind over this band.

There are two girls and a guy already standing in front of the instruments, but everyone’s eyes aren’t on them. Instead, they’re locked on the figure walking onto the stage.

That's when Dean sees you.

Your hair is long and pitch-black, reflecting the dark red lights of the bar. You’re dressed in a tiny leather mini-skirt, a lacy red tank top that hugs your waist perfectly, and a leather jacket that you slip off your shoulders as you make your way to the front of the stage. The crowd goes wild. You’re wearing knee-high boots, and multiple necklaces, bracelets, and earrings adorn you. You have an eyebrow piercing, and when you wrap your hand around the microphone, Dean notices the rings on your fingers—and how your long red nails are as sharp as fangs.

Holy shit.

Dean’s met plenty of beautiful women—both human and supernatural—but none of them compare to you. There you are on that stage, greeting the crowd like they’re old friends. The shifting red and white lights seem to wrap around you, making you glow like something otherworldly. Your eyes are mesmerizing, and your smile is sharp, almost predatory, as you scan the bar. You move with such smoothness that Dean almost wonders if you’re a siren.

And then you start singing, and he’s almost convinced you are one.

Your voice… it’s unlike anything Dean has ever heard before. Sultry, powerful, piercing—yet soft at the same time. The band plays behind you, but it’s clear that all eyes are on you. On the way you jump around stage, like you own it. Both Sam and Dean stare, eyes wide and jaws dropped. They watch as you sing song after song, people singing and cheering along.

What the hell are you doing in this run-down bar, and not Madison Square Garden? Dean can’t wrap his head around it. You sip from a huge bottle of wine throughout the show, twirling with it in hand during every guitar solo. You play some covers from big bands—classics that make Dean’s heart quicken, the deep rumble of the bass vibrating through his chest. And then you play some of your own songs, which you announce with a grin, and they might just be Dean’s favorites.

At some point, he thinks you two make eye contact. But Dean is still in the back of the bar, perched on his shaky stool, while you’re bathed in lights and surrounded by the hands of people jumping and dancing in the way. It’s probably his imagination, but he swears he sees you lick your lips.

The show ends with a roaring final song. You introduce each of the band members before saying your goodbyes to the crowd.

“As always, it’s a pleasure and an honor to sing for you.” The crowd erupts in cheers, totally enamored. “Y’all are the best. Stay safe, and long live rock ‘n’ roll!”

With one last bow and a few kisses blown to the audience, you disappear backstage.

Dean stares at the closed curtains of the small green room you’re probably in right now, mesmerized. He hears Sam paying for their drinks in the distance, but it’s all just background noise. He’s completely lost in thought as Sam pulls him out of the bar, unable to focus on anything except you.

He lies on the uncomfortable motel bed that night, eyes fixed on the ceiling. His mind is a tangle of red lips, long legs, and your songs—lyrics of shoving, ripping, sucking. Bloodied lips, sharp teeth, and bruised knees—all echoing in his head until he finally drifts off to sleep.

The next morning, a bloodless corpse awaits them a block away from the bar.

Sam and he continue to work on the case, but every night, Dean insists on returning to that bar.

Every night, he watches with hooded eyes as you walk onstage in some skimpy outfit, twirling, jumping, and kicking around the stage, flirting with a few lucky sons of bitches in the front row. You wink at them, sometimes even kneeling down to sing right in front of their faces. You also flirt with the members of your band, brushing your hand down their arms, leaning back-to-back with them, and sending seductive glances over your shoulder.

It’s always the same routine. You sing a few covers, a few original songs. Every night, the crowd goes feral for both. The bar is never empty—there’s always a huge crowd ready to watch you perform. You drink from your bottle of chartreuse, finishing it by the end of the gig. Dean wonders how you never seem to get drunk. You introduce the band members, give your thanks, and walk backstage.

And then Dean leaves.

For some reason that he—nor Sam, by the confused looks he sends him every night—can’t understand, he always leaves before you even have the chance to walk out into the bar. He doesn’t know why. He likes you, obviously. You might be the most gorgeous, sexiest woman he’s ever seen. And any other time, he wouldn’t hesitate to go up to you.

But you’re different, and he just doesn’t understand why.

But tonight is the night. It’s Friday, and he knows the bar will be fuller than any other day. The case, though, is turning out to be more difficult than they anticipated. They know it’s vamps—another corpse has shown up every night since they got here, all attacked past midnight, and all of them drained dry. The thing is, there’s no sign of a nest. No suspects, no connection between the victims, nothing.

So, Dean is stressed out and ready to unwind a little. And what better way to do that than flirting with (and hopefully having some good sex with) a hot rockstar chick?

Sam and he walk back into the bar around seven-thirty, half an hour before your gig, and sit down on the same bar stools as always. Dean tries to hide his anticipation behind a glass of whiskey. After all, he’s got a cool guy image to uphold.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

You've noticed the guy coming in every night. Of course, you have.

Even though it's near the French Quarter, it’s still unusual for tourists to find this bar. And you definitely had to notice the two extremely hot newcomers, especially the one in the brown leather jacket with sharp eyes that seemed to follow you around like a hawk.

You're supposed to be focused on hunting down those pesky vampires that have been killing people in your audience. You know it’s just a small, cheap excuse for a nest that’s hiding somewhere secluded, using your shows to catch easy meals.

And if they get discovered, you'd be blamed, even though you stopped feeding directly from humans a long time ago. There are four of them—four different kinds of footprints at each crime scene. You’ve pieced together this information, but you still don’t know who they are or where their nest is. You've been following clues, waiting outside the bar to catch them, but they’re some slippery motherfuckers. They manage to escape every time. And, if you’re honest, you’re also a little distracted.

You’ve been in front of some pretty attractive men in your time—from Mick Jagger to Axl Rose in his prime, to the nights spent with Peter Steele in New York. And, okay, you’d admit, Lord Byron had been quite the cutie, too.

But this guy? With his piercing green eyes and that cocky smirk that vanishes, replaced by an almost hypnotized look whenever you sing a particularly filthy song? He’s got you infatuated like you haven’t been in literal ages. But for some reason, you can never seem to find him once the show ends. You’ve heard from a few people that the two new guys are FBI agents investigating the deaths in town, but you have a feeling they’re hunters.

You’ve dealt with hunters before, always trying to convince them to walk away, to avoid a fight they’re not going to win. Some listen, some attack. You never go for the kill—at least, not unless you have to. You prefer leaving them unconscious, just injured enough so they can’t track you down right away. By the time they’re back on their feet, you’ve already moved on to a new city, sometimes a new country. They never find you again.

You kind of hope Green Eyes isn’t a hunter, though. But he has that look. You just pray that he and his partner are after the real killers and not you.

Either way, it’s time to perform. Hopefully, he’ll be there again, and this time, you’ll catch him after the show.

All thoughts vanish the moment you step onto the stage. It’s like the music possesses you, and all that matters is that these people are here to see you. So, you give them the best performance you can, like you do every night.

You let the music guide you, letting the sound of the guitar flow through your veins as you feel free. There, with all the lights on you and the loud cheers of the crowd, with the microphone in your hand as you twirl, jump, and flirt, you feel alive. Or, at least, as alive as a vampire can be.

You decide to sing a Led Zeppelin cover tonight, sensing that Green Eyes is that kind of guy. And you’re clearly right, if the way your enhanced eyes catch his jaw dropping is anything to go by.

In the next song, you jump off stage.

If Green Eyes doesn’t want to be found after the show, you’ll catch him mid-performance instead.

You walk through the crowd, and they part like the Red Sea for you. All of them with wide eyes, trembling hands, but they don’t touch. You cup a girl’s face, singing to her and making her almost faint. You run a delicate hand down a guy’s chest while singing about a poorly hidden metaphor for a blowjob.

Slowly, like a snake, you make your way toward the supposed FBI agents.

You make a show of sitting on a stool, singing toward the bartender, who just chuckles and shakes his head, too used to your shamelessness. You get up and walk past the taller of the two new guys, sending him a glance over your shoulder, before you finally reach him.

Green Eyes is even hotter up close. You lick your lips and lean down, hovering over him as he sits on the bar stool. Your hand runs through his hair, and you catch the way his breath hitches. You whisper filthy lines into the microphone as your hand trails down his shoulder, and you just know your bandmates will tease you about it all night.

You grab his jacket and pull him forward as you walk backwards, not enough to make him stand but enough to leave him perched on the edge of his seat. Then you turn around, making sure your hips sway just right as you make your way back to the stage, a pleased smirk playing on your lips.

The rest of the show flies by, three more songs before you make a show of walking backstage, only to have the crowd scream and beg for one more.

You down the rest of tonight’s wine bottle before rocking out to the real last track. Now in an extremely good mood, you toss your leather jacket to a group of your regulars—the groupies who always crowd the front row. By now, you know them all by name. They fight over the jacket until Alice, you think her name is, snags it. The smile that splits her face is so big, it fills your soulless body with a warmth so real, you almost believe you have one.

You give your little goodbye speech and retreat to the green room.

You retouch your makeup, check that your fangs are still hidden, tug your mini-skirt just a tiny bit higher.

Once you’re ready, you walk out on a mission.

For your pleasant surprise, Green Eyes is right where you left him. He seems to be in some kind of argument with the other guy, both of them gesturing quickly with their hands.

You walk closer slowly, smiling at the people who offer compliments and gently brushing off anyone who tries to make conversation.

You are focused on something else.

Casually, like you don’t even notice they’re there, you lean against the bartop right next to them.

“You’ve got quite a line waiting for you today.” The barman, Troy, informs you with a grin. You can feel the two agents stop their conversation and focus on you instead.

“Well then, I better get started.” You thank him when he hands you your first drink, a spicy mango margarita.

Fans always try to buy you drinks. You never have the heart to tell them you don’t need it, you have more money than necessary even with your eternal existence. But it’s very inconvenient when they all try to buy them at the same time, and you end up with five to ten quickly melting drinks around you.

That’s why Troy and you came up with a system. Fans could go to him and buy you a drink, and he would just add it to a list. At the end of every show, he would start preparing the first drink. By the time you’re done with that one, he has the next one ready. And the next one, and the next one.

Thank the gods for your supernatural alcohol tolerance.

“One day I’m gonna have to drag your cold body off that stage after the cirrhosis takes over.”

“Something’s gotta kill me, right?” you wink at Troy, and he laughs—even if he could never really grasp the irony in your words.

Only after you’ve taken a long sip of your fruity drink do you turn to the two agents. Their eyes dart away, caught staring, and a sharp, Cheshire-cat smirk curls your lips.

“You two are new.” It isn’t a question.

Green Eyes licks his lips but hesitates for a moment. The other one—so tall, even with you in platform heels—takes over.

“Yeah, we’re just passing through.” He extends his hand for a shake, and you meet it, watching him twitch at your icy touch. “I’m Sam. That’s Dean, my brother.”

Brothers. That made sense, the hotness is genetic.

Green Eyes—Dean—nods and extends his hand as well. You grab it, letting your touch linger this time.

“That was quite the show you put on tonight.” His voice is deeper than you imagined, and you take a sip of your drink to hide the grin tugging at your lips.

Oh, you’ve really hit the jackpot.

Only if you’re wrong, and he’s not a hunter... but you try not to think about that just yet.

“Well, thank you.” You smile, stepping away from the bartop and stopping right in front of the brothers. “First time seeing our gig?”

You know it’s not, but you ask anyway.

Sam shakes his head, earning a glare from his brother.

“Nah. We’ve been coming here after work every night.” He says, unbothered by the daggers being thrown his way. “Every show has been amazing.”

“Yeah.” Dean adds, leaning forward, his elbow resting on the bar and a smirk on his face. He seems to have regained his composure. “I can’t believe you haven’t made it out of this hellhole.”

You chuckle and shake your head.

“I’m kinda fond of this hellhole.” You shrug, earning a smile from both brothers. “The booze’s good, the crowd’s electric, so I’d say I’m doing pretty damn well.”

The real reason you could never go further than some goth bar in New Orleans is simple: you couldn’t risk getting famous. Back when the only way to capture a moment was through an oil painting, it hadn’t been a problem. By the 50s, you’d started hiding a bit more. But now, with the rise of the internet, getting too popular could be disastrous.

Someone, thirty years from now, might see you on the street and wonder why you look exactly the same as you did back then. It’s too risky.

You continue to make small talk with the brothers, trading jokes and witty comments. You finish your margarita and continue with a rum and coke. The brothers look at you with wide eyes but Troy reassures them.

“I’ve seen her mix every single liquor we have in this place and she still won’t get more than a little clumsy. I don’t know how she does it, but I wouldn’t worry about it.”

It stops any questioning, but you could see the wheels turning in Sam’s head. He might be trouble.

“So, a Zeppelin fan?” You look up at Dean with hooded eyes over the rim of your glass, subtly changing the topic. He seems taken aback that you noticed his reaction to your cover choice, choking on his last sip of whiskey while Sam tries to suppress a laugh.

“Oh, you know it.” Dean grins, setting his empty glass back on the bartop. “Classic rock never disappoints.”

You nod, humming lowly. Led Zeppelin had, admittedly, been one of your favorite bands to hang around back then. You remember being at one of their concerts—VIP, then backstage. You can almost see Dean’s reaction if you told him you were actually there for most of the writing sessions for Physical Graffiti. “Oh, for sure. The seventies were wild, the golden age of rock ‘n’ roll.”

You eye both brothers’ empty glasses and meet Troy’s gaze.

“How many whiskeys today?”

Troy glances at his list, then grimaces. “Like fifteen? I don’t get why most of them order you whiskey.”

You laugh, shrugging. You could down any drink without flinching, but you had to admit whiskey wasn’t your favorite. (Too many nights throwing up on a pirate’s deck might have given you some serious PTSD.)

“Care to help me scratch a few more drinks off that list?” you ask the brothers, already signaling Troy to start serving the glasses.

“Am I not supposed to be the one buying you a drink?” Dean’s grin widens, his voice lowering an octave.

You laugh, low and sultry. “Oh, believe me, darling, I don’t need you to.” You wink at him, pointing at the already served whiskeys. “Help yourselves. Tonight’s on me.” You smirk. “Or, well, on my fans, anyway.”

You end up getting pretty hammered that night. The brothers are way worse than you, with Dean stumbling around the emptying bar. His hands start to wander, and his touch lingers longer each time. He leans in closer every time he speaks to you, his eyes half-lidded and his words a little slurred.

At some point, someone gets a hold of the jukebox and plays The Cure. Dean whines about it being too “emo and sappy,” rolling his eyes as the first chords play.

You drag him onto the dance floor, both of you swaying to the beat of Lovesong. You grab his hand, making him spin a few times, the two of you laughing as you end up draped all over each other. His face presses against your neck, and his large hands wrap around your waist.

You are enveloped by his scent, the sweet smell of his humanity (his blood calling to you like honey) mixing with something strong, like motor oil and wood. It is a scent you won’t forget.

“Haven’t felt this alive in ages.” Your words are more literal than Dean realizes, but he nods anyway. His gaze lingers on you, eyes shining with an almost hypnotic intensity, as though he’s as mesmerized as some of your fans. It makes your heart ache in a way you didn’t realize it still could.

At least four more rounds of tequila shots later, Dean is all goofy grins and slurred whispers, insisting more than once that you come back to his motel room.

“Sammy’ll find somewhere to crash,” he mumbles, his words slipping together.

But he’s clearly too far gone, so you gently steer him back toward the bar, ordering a glass of water. Sam is a little more sober—at least enough to shoot you a few teasing glances—and you trust him to keep an eye on his brother. Still, you walk with them to the bar’s front door, making sure they’re both upright and heading in the right direction, not stumbling toward a car.

Dean tries to convince you to let him walk you home, but you just shake your head, laughing. Not only do you not need protection, but you're also sure he'd end up passing out halfway there.

"Go with your brother, darling. I’ll see you at my next gig."

You wait for a few minutes, then follow the brothers from the shadows to make sure they get to their motel without any issues before you retreat. You continue your nightly rounds, still on the lookout for those dumb vamps.

With your mind just the tiniest bit clouded after finishing every drink on tonight's list for the first time in a while, you end up heading home earlier than usual. Maybe the vamps took a break on Friday night.

The next day, you walk outside just to find another body, this time abandoned in the bar’s dumpster. A young girl, black leather jacket clutched in her hand.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

After Alice’s death, you decide it is finally time to get rid of the plague.

But this also serves as a reminder of why you don’t get attached to mortals. Their bodies are so fragile, their existence so fleeting. You can’t afford to bond with them; you’ve learned your lesson.

So, erasing any trace of Dean from your mind, you double down on hunting the vamps.

You sneak into the morgue first, hoping to find any clues in the body. Just like the others, there’s nothing but fang marks on her smooth skin. If your eyes gloss over at the sight of your autograph scrawled on her arm in black Sharpie, well, that’s between you and the corpses around you.

From there you visit all the previous murder scenes, trying to find any detail you may have missed. You look closely, try to catch any strange scent or trail they may have left while retreating, but find nothing.

You leave Alice’s for last. She was the only victim you knew by name, and it tore you apart knowing that they all probably knew your name. Or the name the town gave you, at least.

You're just going over the footprints that seem to vanish into thin air when you hear two voices approaching. The sun is already setting, but it is still strange for clients to be here this early, especially roaming around the dumpster.

You quickly retreat to hide behind a nearby tree, the trunk thick enough to conceal your figure.

You listen closely, trying to figure out who it might be.

“We already investigated this place in the morning.” An exasperated voice reaches you. “You sure we’re not here just so you can try and catch a glimpse of her?”

“C’mon Sammy, I’m a professional.” So you were right about the hunter thing, damn it. “I’m just saying this is the freshest lead we have. We might as well start here."

“Yeah, right. So the way your eyes keep drifting to that window means nothing, hm?”

Dean scoffs, and his footsteps get closer.

“I am just… making sure we’re not missing anything.”

A brief silence follows, as though the brothers are sharing an unspoken moment.

“You’re so fucked.” Sam snorts. “The only person you’re gonna catch behind that window is Troy. I don’t think she’s the type to go out in the sun.”

Oh. He is indeed trouble.

You stay as still as non-humanly possible, trying to gather how much intel the brothers have. They know what you know—that the killers are vamps and part of a nest—but they’re missing some pieces.

And they also know a few things you didn’t know.

“The guy you saw last night, you said he drove a black van?”

Sam saw one of the vamps? Damn it, if you’d been a little more careful, maybe you would’ve caught them too.

“No, he wasn’t driving. Someone else was inside, waiting for him. Took off as soon as he jumped in.”

“And you couldn’t follow them because you were drunk out of your mind.”

“Should I remind you, you were the one passed out in bed.”

“Details. But the tracks are gone now, right?”

“Yeah, somehow they managed to get rid of the tire tracks before sunrise.” Sam pauses, and there are some more shuffling noises.

“What I can’t seem to understand is why they are targeting the bar’s clientele.”

"I think I know.” Sam sounds reluctant, like he’s not sure whether he wants to say it. “And I think it might have to do with your Lily Munster.”

“It does.” You step out from behind the tree, making both brothers jump and pull out their guns. You catch sight of the machetes hanging from their belts, and you sigh. “But not in the way you’re imagining.”

You meet Dean’s eyes, and his jaw twitches. He looks disappointed, almost betrayed. You keep your chin up, but something bitter washes down your throat.

Whatever

“So that’s why you don’t get drunk, or even break a sweat while performing.” Sam’s tone is all-knowing, and you fight the urge to smirk. “And you’re freezing cold.”

“So, what? You use your charm to lure in fresh blood?” Dean sneers, his voice dripping with disdain.

You shake your head, leaning back against the tree and watching him unsheathe his machete.

“You’ve got the wrong vamp, guys.” You try to explain, reluctantly spilling everything you know about the nest and why they’re targeting you.

“And you expect us to believe that?” Dean scoffs. But Sam’s mind is clearly racing now, the wheels turning again.

“You saw the van and the vamp last night. I was circling the bar at that time, trying to catch these assholes.” You shrug, flipping your hair back with casual defiance. “I can tell you more about them if you need.”

“Like what?”

“They’re young vamps, the way they bite their victims…” Something cold flashes in your eyes as Alice’s body comes to mind. “It’s feral. They’re new to feeding, probably abandoned by their Sire, left to fend for themselves.”

“Also,” you add, shaking your head and stepping closer to the brothers. They immediately tense, preparing for a fight. “Their nest is somewhere with a strong odor. I can pick up their scent at the crime scenes, but the trail’s impossible to follow. They’ve covered their tracks, wherever they’re hiding.”

The brothers exchange a look, both mumbling. “The old factory.”

“What?”

“There’s an old factory near our motel. The smell’s unbearable.”

“It’s also close to where Sam saw the vamp yesterday.”

You nod, taking in the information. You wonder how you missed the factory—it had been so easy to get distracted by a cute guy, and now a young girl, along with many others, are dead.

“The sun’s still up, which means the vamps are probably still holed up in there.” You speak up. “If we go now, we can take them out while they’re still vulnerable.”

“We?” Dean scoffs. “You’re not going anywhere, sweetheart.”

You lock eyes with him, his green gaze still piercing under the warm sun, and you notice his grip on the machete waver.

“I’m not who you think I am, Dean.” You take a slow step forward. “I don’t feed on humans, I don’t harm people. I’m not like the other vamps you’ve hunted.”

His tongue presses against his cheek, his breath catching as you close the distance between you.

“That would explain how she can walk in the sunlight.” Both of you ignore Sam’s voice, still focused on each other. “She could be useful.”

“I’ve given you everything I know about the nest. Believe me, I want them dead just as much as you do.” You glance at Sam briefly, then back to Dean. “Let me help.”

Dean hesitates, his expression softening for the briefest second before hardening again.

“No. We’re not working with a bloodsucker.” You swallow the lump in your throat. He tightens his grip on the machete, preparing to strike.

“Dean, the sun’s setting. We don’t have much time before it’s dark.” Sam grabs his shoulder, pulling him back. “The nest first. This can wait.”

With that, Dean secures his weapon back in place and walks off. You watch as the brothers climb into their car and drive toward the factory. You try to shake off the tightness in your throat, but it lingers.

Licking your teeth, you turn around and start walking.

⋆♱✮♱⋆

Dean can’t believe what he’s about to say, but he kind of wishes he had accepted your offer.

He shuffles again where he’s tied to a column, trying to find a way to break the ropes. But the vampires—just some fledglings, as feral and lost as you predicted—knew how to tie someone up. Neither he nor Sam can find a way out, the ropes pulled tight and deliberately placed away from any sharp surface.

The bloodsuckers pace in circles around them, speaking in hushed, frantic voices.

“I thought you said the plan was infallible!”

“Well, I thought it was! They should have gone for her, not us.”

“I told you this would happen! You never listen to me.”

“It’s not my fault, okay? We’ve all heard about the Dark Heiress. I was sure she’d tear any hunter to shreds before they even got close to us.”

The Dark Heiress?

Oh, what has Dean gotten himself into?

Sam and Dean share a look, both trying to piece together who you really are.

Dean has to admit, he’s a little bitter.

You’re genuinely one of the most beautiful girls he’s ever met. Even through the haze of alcohol, he remembers everything from last night—the shared laughs, the slow dancing, the looks that meant a lot more than either of you could handle.

His heart tugs at the idea that you might just be another monster he’ll have to gank.

"Whatever. We have the hunters now. We just gotta get rid of them, and we’re clean."

"I still insist it’s not a good idea to keep bothering the Heiress."

"Yeah, guys. She might find us out, and I don’t want her as an enemy."

"What would she even do to us? We outnumber her."

"She’s invincible! She'll wipe us out before we even get a chance to pull out our fangs. Haven’t you heard the stories?"

"The stories may be a bit exaggerated," comes that smooth, sultry voice.

Dean turns to look at the front door of the old factory, just in time to see you walking in. As disgusted as he is about your nature, he has to admit you look like a goddess.

"But blondie’s right," you continue with a smirk. "You shouldn’t mess around with me."

All the fledglings freeze on the spot, turning to look at you like they’re seeing the boogeyman.

Your eyes drift to Sam and Dean, like you’re making sure they’re okay. Dean tries not to think about the fact that you might actually care.

The sound of your boots against the floor echoes like a marching band as you make your way toward the vampire gang. In your hand, you hold Dean’s machete, the same one that had been ripped from his grasp when he got knocked out.

Dean has trouble breathing at the sight. You move like smoke, slow and confident, your eyes dark and flashing almost red. You’re still wearing your typical get-up: leather mini-skirt and flimsy top. But now, you look dangerous, like sin personified.

The swing of your hips matches the lazy sway of your blade, and when you smirk, Dean catches a glimpse of your fangs. Two of them—long, shiny, and sharp—placed where your lateral incisors should be, instead of covering every tooth like the other vampires.

You slash through the first vamp’s neck like it’s nothing, sending the other three flying. But you’re quicker, just as precise and skilled in combat as you are playing the guitar. Your long hair whips around you as you spin and jump across the factory, and the contrast to the girl he saw on stage leaves Dean dizzy for a second.

He hates to admit it, but he can’t tell which version of you is hotter.

In a matter of seconds, there’s only one vamp left—the one who seemed to be their leader. He puts up a bit more of a fight, and you end up straddling him right in front of Dean and Sam. The machete had been knocked from your grasp, and now you’re pinning the fledgling down, struggling to figure out a way to reach the weapon.

“Should’ve known killing the little bitch was a bad idea.”

Your eyes immediately snap to the guy beneath you, your expression twisting into something almost bestial.

“What the hell did you just say?”

“I told him not to go for the groupies, but the dumbass had to kill the pretty girl.” The vamp spits out, a malicious grin spreading across his face. “Didn’t think you really cared, though.”

The grip you have on the guy’s wrists tightens, the veins in your neck standing out as your voice sharpens to a deadly hiss.

“Watch your fucking mouth.”

“I don’t regret it, though.” The vamp smirks, blood and vampire goo dribbling from his mouth. “She was a good little snack, barely screamed—”

He doesn’t have time to finish the sentence. You rip his head off with a swift, vicious motion, the sound of bones snapping filling the air.

Bare hands, no weapon. You simply wrap your hands around his jaw and yank. You toss the head aside like it’s nothing, then slowly rise off the corpse’s lap, casually adjusting your jewelry.

Your face is splashed with goo, your white tank top—no bra, Dean’s brain notes unhelpfully—now dripping with black vampire blood.

“Damn it, always so messy.” You roll your eyes and casually walk over to pick up the machete.

You head back to the brothers, who are staring at you in stunned silence.

You just beheaded someone with your bare hands.

A sick part of Dean’s brain sends a shiver down his spine at the sight, but he shakes it off.

Bloodsucker. Remember?

First, you free Sam, and then you make your way to Dean. He turns to look at you as you kneel next to him, but your eyes remain cast down. You make quick work of cutting through the ropes with the machete, never once meeting his gaze. There’s something creeping behind your eyes, something dark and morose.

You leave the machete next to Dean, like you’re daring him to use it. He grabs it but doesn’t lunge for you. Instead, he gets up and rubs his wrists where the rope irritated the skin.

“Thank you for that, I suppose,” Sam says after an awkward moment of silence. You let out a bitter laugh and nod.

“No problem. I just thought I should come and check if the job was done.”

Dean nods, studying you slowly with his eyes.

“You’re different,” he affirms, and it finally makes you meet his gaze. Something heavy passes between you, something that leaves him breathless and scared.

“Could’ve told you that,” you huff, leaning down to pick up one of your necklaces that fell off mid-fight.

“Who are you, Dark Heiress?”

The nickname makes you laugh, this time genuinely. You throw your head back and all, eyes closed, the moonlight catching on your flawless, fangless smile.

“I told you, I am not like other vamps you know.” You place the necklace back around your neck, a black leather thread with some kind of symbol as a charm. “I am… older. Another breed, if you will.”

Dean turns to Sam, but his eyes are locked on the necklace. It’s a seven-pointed star inside a circle, every space outside the star engraved with a different symbol, and a tiny triangle in the middle of it. On the outside, a wolf-headed snake is eating itself. It’s like nothing Dean has ever seen before, but Sam seems to recognize it.

“No way.” Sam takes a step closer to you, and you simply smile smugly. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“Do you mind catching me up?” Dean asks sarcastically, but his brother ignores him, staring way too close at your necklace — and your chest.

Dean’s jaw tightens. “Okay, dude.”

He grabs Sam’s shoulder and yanks him back a step, a little rougher than necessary. Sam just stumbles, still wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

You only laugh, and even then, your voice sounds melodic. You look at both of them with a cocky grin, and Dean can’t tell if he wants to punch you or kiss you.

“You’re Count Orlok’s… daughter?” Sam asks in fascination.

Dean thinks he should probably know who that is, but he’s still completely lost.

“Count Orlok?” He frowns, trying to place the name. Maybe it’s the Vampire Alpha? Or was it in a movie?

“I think you mortals know him more as Nosferatu.”

Now it’s Dean’s turn to drop his jaw. “You’re telling me you’re the daughter of… that creepy gray dude from that silent film?”

You laugh again, still covered in vamp goo — and still beautiful.

“Pretty accurate representation, not gonna lie,” you drag out, walking toward a broken mirror to fix your lipstick.

“So, there’s an entire other breed of vamps? Orlok descendants?” Sam’s eyes are huge and shiny, and Dean can practically see his brain overheating from the nerdy overload.

"It’s just me," you respond after a beat, your voice low. "Father was the last of his kind. He needed a male heir to continue the line... but he only had me."

You turn to face them, shrugging casually, as though you're not shattering everything they thought they knew about vampires.

"So you’re the heiress."

"That’s what the other vamps started calling me." You smirk. "They know better than to disturb me." You glance down at the corpses with a sigh. "Or at least, I thought they did."

"So what’s Nosferatu’s daughter doing in New Orleans?" Dean huffs, finally letting go of the machete. You can't help but smile at his frustration.

All three of you begin to slowly make your way out of the factory. Sam and Dean walk with a slight limp, still feeling the aftereffects of being attacked and tied up, but you glide next to them effortlessly.

Strong. Determined. Graceful. Hypnotic.

“I’ve lived all over the world, met all kinds of people.” You walk closer to him, confident and radiant under the dim lights of the twilight. “When I decided I wanted to perform, I couldn’t help but come here. All the legends and literature weren’t lying, it really has been the best place I’ve lived in a long time.”

A blanket of sadness drapes over your eyes, and for a moment, it looks like you’re not really seeing him—like you’re lost in your own thoughts. You bite your lip, and Dean can’t help but notice the shift.

“That’s why I try to stay away from trouble, keep a low profile. I wanna enjoy this for as long as I can.”

It makes sense. You couldn’t stay in the same place long enough for people to notice you don’t age, and you clearly loved performing. Dean could tell music gave you life, and he doubts you’d jeopardize that. But still…

“How do you feed, then?” Dean’s voice softens slightly, the edge of hostility melting away quickly as he meets your gaze.

You all stop in front of the Impala, you leaning casually against it.

That’s an image Dean won’t forget—you, in your tiny clothes, looking like the cover of a heavy metal album, sprawled across Baby’s hood.

He can easily picture you there in another world, mini-skirt pulled up higher, blood-red lips parted—

“Blood bags.”

It takes Dean a moment to catch up. Right, feeding.

“I haven’t fed on humans in a long time,” you continue, shrugging nonchalantly. “I mostly steal blood bags. It’s enough to keep me going.”

Both brothers nod at the information, but Sam’s eyes flick back and forth between you two.

“I’ll—uh, go put the machetes in the trunk.” He practically scurries away, making you giggle.

Cute.

No, Dean, stop. Bloodsucker.

You straighten up and walk towards him, tilting your head slightly so you're looking up at him through your long eyelashes.

“So, should I get ready to fight you?” Your tongue runs over your teeth, and Dean resists the urge to pull you closer.

“Don’t think it’s necessary.” He gives you a half-smirk. “Just don’t give us a reason to come back and find you, sweetheart. Next time, I won’t be so nice.”

Your grin turns smug, and you lean just a little bit closer.

“I won’t.” You wink at him. “And it was a fight you were gonna lose, anyway.”

That makes him snort, eyes narrowing. He wants to call you out for being cocky, wipe that smirk off your face with his own mouth, but he can’t. He saves people. He hunts things. Things like you.

“I don’t know about that.” He lowers his eyes, pulling away. You catch the shift, taking a step back and clearing your throat.

“Right.” You seem to collect yourself, and Dean can almost picture the armor materializing around you. “I guess I… won’t see you again.”

He chuckles lowly, a little bitter. “I hope so.” He nods, and your eyes linger for one, two, three seconds before you pull away.

You wave goodbye to Sam, and then, with a fluid movement, you disappear into the shadows, as if the night itself is swallowing you whole.

Dean sighs, sliding into the driver’s seat, trying to shake off the bitter taste lingering at the back of his throat.

“Thought I was the one with a history with violent women?”

“Shut up, Sammy.”

“Come on, you practically got a boner when she decapitated that guy with her hands.”

“Are you feeling okay? You might have a fever. Hallucinating things.”

A beat passes, and then—

“She looks like a good person.”

“She’s not a person. She’s a creature.”

“But—”

“I think you should get some sleep, Sam.”

Hours later, as the empty road stretches on, Dean finally lets himself wonder if he’ll ever see you again.

NOTES: Nyx is here!!! I hope y'all liked it. I am obsessed with her and I've been planning her whole story for quite a while. I wanted this to be a little shorter but there's just so much lore to explore! anyways, part 2. coming soon.

TAGS: @littlesoulshine @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @h8aaz @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 @blossomingorchids @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @losers-clvb <3

If you wanna be tagged in future works, let me know!!

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