#i barely slept and panicked all night

[mariyekos]

Thoughts on the new DMC trailer?

Going to be honest I haven't watched any trailers since the trailer at the Game Awards (or whichever one I have those 2 breakdown posts for) 😅 I keep seeing the trailer announcements when I don't have my headphones on me, and I've been behind on watching them once I have the time... maybe tomorrow I'll finally get to watching them! Tonight I'm dead tired so I don't think I'd be in much of a good mood and I don't want to start off on the wrong foot, so to speak. When I watch them I can make a write up on it though! Would probably be fun.

[brokenbarnes]

Convergent

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings: memory loss, angst, Bucky hurting people, nightmares

Description: part 2 to Echos. A glimpse into how the reader recovers from getting her memories wiped by Hydra and how Bucky deals with finding those who hurt you.

A/N: Thank you all so much for reading! Echos was my first fic to hit over 1k notes. I appreciate all the love and support you've shown me as I return to writing!

Mornings were the hardest for you.

In your medical notes, it has been found that you were very disoriented, confused, panicked as you struggled to remember where you were. Not only where you were, but that you were safe.

The duvet cover you loved so much had to be traded out. The heavy blanket felt like a dead weight, leaving you gasping for air and fighting against the soft cotton as if it were shackles. Bucky found you did alright with just the top sheet and maybe the knitted throw blanket waded up under your cheek.

Since you lost your memory, he has tried to wake up before you. Hearing your restless movements could stir him out of a dead sleep. Rubbing his own tired eyes, he’d move or smooth out any obstructions around your legs and hope you’d go back to sleep.

Sometimes you’d sit up in a hurry, making him flinch against the headboard. He can almost hear how wild your heart is beating as you look around the room.

“Good morning, Doll,” he whispers, voice deeper from sleep.

You turn around, eyes wild with panic. Your shoulders would slump at the sight of him, tipping your head down to rest against his shoulder. He squeezes your forearm to let you know he’s there.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

“You’re okay,” his hand works its way up your arm, under the sleeve of your shirt to rub your shoulder.

Despite laying down early last night, you look as if you barely slept. Dark shadows under your eyes that have nothing to do with the dim light worry him. How can your brain recover if you can’t rest?

You lay against him for a while, catching your breath and trying to refocus. Although this has been your home for the last few years, your anchor is Bucky. The missing piece in the puzzle that brings it all together.

Breakfast is always the same, a quick bite of protein to try and help your brain recover. Bucky makes your coffee just the way you like it, hoping the caffeine will help the headache you are most likely experiencing.

Today you’re anxious. Maybe because today marks a month since you’d been found, since he got you home. Unsettled, you wander into the living room, picking at the skin around your thumb nail.

Cradling his coffee, he follows but keeps his distance. Leaning against the doorframe, you drift around under his watchful eye.

He gives you time, letting your eyes frantically weave around the room, trying to cling onto something that’s familiar. You stand in front of the window behind the sofa, rolling the fabric of the curtains between your fingers.

“Why can’t I remember the beach?” You asked, glancing over your shoulder at the framed picture beside the TV.

“It’ll come back,” Bucky continues reassure you.

“I know I love that picture,” you scrub at your face with your hands. “But it’s so fuzzy.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “Give it time.”

“How much time?!” Jumps from your mouth before you can stop it. Today you’re frustrated and there’s no helping it. “It’s been a month and I barely remember anything from before.”

He takes a step toward you, mostly on instinct. You try to hide your upset expression, though you’ve learned there is little you can hide from Bucky.

“I am in no hurry,” his arm slides around your shoulders, pulling you into his chest. You rest your head against his sternum, trying to take a handful of deep breaths but even that feels like a chore at the moment.

After helping him clean up breakfast, you disappear into the bathroom to shower and get ready for the day. Just as he was sitting down on the couch, his phone lit up with a call from Steve.

He knew what it was about, he picked up quickly. “Hey Steve.”

“We got a lead,” the blonde cut to the chase.

Every free moment of the last month, the team has spent looking for the people that took you. There is no way they just wiped your memory and disappeared without any ulterior motives, Bucky wanted to hunt them down and make them all pay.

“When do we leave?” Bucky stood up, feeling the first signs of adrenaline pump through his heart.

“You sure you want to go, Buck?”

“What do you mean? Of course I’m going.”

“You’re going to leave her?”

He stopped, looking toward the bedroom where he could still hear the shower going. Now he was torn, today was already a hard day, he didn’t know how long he was going to be gone and you two had barely spent any time apart since you got back.

“How long?”

“Wheels up in thirty.”

He hung up the phone, hearing the shower squeak as it turned off, heading down the hall toward the bedroom. He found you wrapped in a towel, leaning against the counter, inspecting the burn scars that were slowly fading as time went on. Purposely making his footsteps heavier, you heard him approach.

“I think they’re going away,” you said, trying to get a good look at the scars in your peripheral.

Bucky nodded in agreement, swallowing hard as he tried make a very hard decision. When he didn’t respond to your comment, you looked at him in the mirror.

“What’s going on?” Turning around, holding the towel against your chest with both hands.

“Steve just called,” he shoved his hands in the pockets of his sweats.

You nodded, waiting for him to continue.

“I’ve gotta go for a little bit,” he cowardly avoided your eye contact. He tried not to notice as your face paled.

“Go? Go where?” Your voice trembled. In the month you’ve been home, Bucky has rarely left your side. You haven’t known this life without him.

“A mission,” he didn’t want to give too many details, he couldn’t bear to watch you spiral anymore.

“Okay,” you murmured, moving past him into the bedroom. He stayed in the doorway as you dropped your towel, pulling on a clean pair of pajamas. He could tell you were anxious because your wet hair was seeping into the back of your shirt, but you weren’t moving it away from your neck.

“I’ll call Nat and see if-“

“No,” you interrupted, sliding your feet into slippers and sitting down on the end of the bed. “I’ll be okay.”

“Sweetheart, I don’t want you to be alone,” he sat down next to you. Despite his announcement, he was still unsure if he was going and had made no move to get ready

You picked at your nails, a tell if he’s ever saw one. “I’ll be fine, I promise.”

Bucky reached over and covered your hand with his. “I don’t need to go.”

“No, go, it will be good for me to be on my own for a little bit,” you crossed your arms over your chest, almost defensively.

He felt his shoulders slump, uncertain if he made the right decision or not and was confused by your reaction.

“I’ll be fine,” you tried to smile, reading his body language was a skill you were considered fluent in. “My plan was just to hang out and finish my book anyway. I’ve been meaning to cross this off the list.”

Bucky came across a list of your favorite books in a notebook last week, you have made it your mission to read them again as if it were the first time. It has been a joy to watch you re-read the very books that brought a certain sparkle to your eye.

He nodded, taking a minute to will his body to move. You angled your body away from him as you braided your hair over your shoulder.

His go-bag was always ready, packed with all his mission essentials and positioned specifically by the door. The duffle bag used to have a partner, but it’s been long retired to closet until circumstances change.

After zipping up his tac suit, he cast one last look of you, now under the covers and attempting to focus on the book; balanced precariously on your knees. He couldn’t see your eyes, downturned, hiding behind your long lashes.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said, although wondering if he would keep that promise.

“Be safe,” you murmured, not looking up at him as he stood in the doorway.

He shut the bedroom door behind him, taking a deep breath before continuing down the hallway. His heavy boots were loud against the hard wood floor, making it easy for you to track how far the distance has gotten between you two.

On his way down the elevator, he calls Nat to see if she could stop in later to check on you. She’s on her way to a separate mission with some agents in the opposite direction. The Celtic knot of worry tied around his heart is making it hard to focus.

On the jet, he finds Steve, Sam and a handful of agents who can barely look him in the eye.

Both of his best friends have a way of seeing right through him, Steve squeezes his shoulder and gives him a tight lipped smile.

“She’ll be okay.”

Bucky nodded wordlessly, sliding his duffle bag under the jump seat and working on setting up his communication network.

Sam plopped down in the seat beside him, nudging his arm and grinning around something he said earlier. Bucky responded with a half hearted smile and pressed the little comm device into his ear.

When the bird was in the air, Steve gave him the rundown of the information they received. After hacking deep into Hydra’s system, they narrowed it down to a team of men based on some grainy footage than an ATM picked up a few yards away from where you were taken.

Stark’s crazy AI technology had found them on a security camera at a nightclub in Hong Kong. They were most definitely on the run, staying undercover after committing atrocious crimes against the world’s pettiest team of soldiers.

On the Stark tablet, Bucky stared at the faces of your captors. These are the less-than-humans that watched as you screamed, feeling as if your brain was on fire, every muscle in your body seizing, the smell of burning hair and skin penetrating the air.

You never described these things to Bucky; he knew from an unfortunate shared experience.

The rage that filled Bucky was welcomed like an old friend. Something he hadn’t felt in a long time, at least not since he met you. The metal hand that rested on the Kevlar covered knee curled into a tight fist, the plates shifting silently under his sleeve.

Without your anchor, you drifted aimlessly around the apartment, unmoored. You started out in bed, but found the urge to move was crawling under your skin.

You floated from room to room, the feeling of anticipation filling you at the approach to the doorway, disappointment on the way out.

You realized that you were looking for something. Someone.

Back in the bedroom, you got back under the covers and tried to calm your trembling breath. Pulling the covers up to your chin, you press your lips to the soft fabric to try and regain your bearings.

Despite the few crumbling memories your minefield of a subconscious recovered, the current consciousness you have has never been away from Bucky. Maybe an hour here or there while he goes to the gym or a meeting, but never for an extended period of time.

Your hand stretches out and curls into his pillow case, bringing it close to your face reminds you of your love.

The anxiety comes like a sneaker wave, pulling you under quickly. Churning your stomach, tightening your chest, tears wetting Bucky’s soft pillowcase.

The loneliness seems especially prevalent now, as this is not something you have had to face on your own since you woke up that day in the Hydra facility. You tried earlier in the month, to hide your emotions from the one who knows them the best, but Bucky was like a stubborn piece of Velcro. He very rarely left your side.

There, that’s an idea. What would Bucky do for you?

Aside from almost overwhelming physical affection, there was usually a process. Sitting up, you looked around the messy bed and pulled a heavy blanket up from where it had fallen on the ground. Bucky most likely moved it there during the night when everything got so wrapped around your legs you felt like you were strapped to the chair again.

After locating the blanket, you wiped your cheeks and threw your legs over the side of the bed. Sliding your feet into slippers, you stood on weak legs and made yourself stand.

Somehow, your wobbly legs carried you into the kitchen. The electric kettle was put away neatly, where Bucky cleaned it up and put it away like he always does. As the kettle filled with water, resting in the bottom of the sink, you gripped the edge of the counter with white knuckles. Head ducked, willing your lungs to fill with air and not tremor.

The next task was finding a mug, it took you a minute to find the cabinet that housed your mismatched collection of ceramic mugs and the drawer with assorted amounts of tea. Bucky always had some sort of story to go along with the mug, how you’d bought it from a university student when walking through NYU, an Etsy seller that had a sweet deal, an antique store at the coast.

The one you selected this time was a misshapen thrown mug, a pulled handle and a honeycomb pattern stamped around the middle. You could still see the drips of the burnt orange glaze from where it was dipped and fired.

Your fingers traced the indentations of the pattern that had been pressed into the stoneware, a memory pulsing at your temples.

Bucky’s loving smile, a flea market, a young red-headed woman with frizzy orange hair that had wrapped this mug in brown butcher paper.

The kettle was done, you poured the water, made your tea, muttered the memory under your breath until it had a solid place in your mind.

Shuffling back to the bedroom, you settled under the heavy blanket and cup the warm ceramic in your hands and waited for the tea to cool just a bit.

You tried hard to think, what would Bucky do now?

Looking around, you found your book next. It was a dog-eared paper back, the cover fading around the corners and folded in half in a way that told you it got shoved into a bag far too many times. As you read, you found little handwritten annotations that usually made you smile.

Propping your heels up on the mattress, the paper back rested against the tops of your thighs.

You had no interest to read, every few words the aching feeling in your chest returned. Making your gaze drift and go blurry around the edges, your mind returning to the awful feeling in your stomach.

Despite the long flight to Hong Kong, Bucky was wired with anticipation. After setting up shop in their hotel room, he stood at attention by the door, ready to head out.

“Relax, Buck,” Steve said from his spot behind a computer. “We’re going to send the agents to confirm that they are there.”

“Steve-“

“Barnes, trust me on this,” his best friend said in his military voice. “Stay put.”

Instead, Bucky paced. He walked the length of the stupidly luxurious hotel room that Stark had rented.  The rational part of his mind understood why he couldn’t go in yet, but the primal hindbrain was calling for heinous crimes.

“Dude,” Sam complained, pouring a cup of coffee while they waited. “Give it a rest.”

Bucky shot him a look but didn’t respond. He was itching to do something with his hands and there was only one way to scratch it. His thoughts bounced back and forth between committing the ultimate sin and how he left you home alone. Now he’s half way around the world and there’s no going back.

Steve stood up suddenly a while later, looking at both of his best friends with a different look in his eye. “They’ve been located. We gotta move fast.”

Bucky nodded, a determined set to his jaw.

For hours, you lay on your side, weighed down by the heavy blanket, tears wetting the pillow beneath your cheek.

Although some memories are coming back, good ones; like the image of Sam tripping over the leg of the coffee table and popcorn flying out of the bowl in the air almost as if it was straight out of a cartoon. Bucky laughing so hard he can’t breathe, pressing his hand to the spot under his ribs and doubling over.

Bad ones are taking up a larger space in your mind, especially as night starts to approach. The awful constraining feeling of the leather restraints, your wrists tugging relentlessly as the electrodes approach. Your muscles, convulsing painfully, even after the electricity was powered down. The laughing, someone screaming and turns out it was you.

You wonder what you did to deserve it.

Bucky tells you that they took you and left him. You have fuzzy memories of being bound and gagged, laying in darkness, your head aching.

You are aware of who you used to work for, the level of importance your job title used to hold. You were on a mission and they took you. But why you?

That question will forever haunt you. And Bucky. You know he wishes they took him instead, but you wonder how you would have done without him?

Sleep finds you and drags you under. Your head sinks into the pillow, hand outstretched toward the other side of the bed. The other side of the world.

Your screams echoed across the concrete warehouse. They remove the electrodes, your chest is heaving, sweat beading across your forehead.

Eyes blurry, your blink until the florescent lights aren’t in double vision. You realize the whimpering is coming from your own mouth.

“Not so tough now?” A dark voice comes from behind you.

“F…fuck you,” your voice stammers, but the anger you feel remains steady.

“Ah,” it chuckles, pacing behind you, boots clicking on the solid floor. “Still defiant. Disobedient girl.”

The voice now stands in front of you, you spit at his feet. All you could do with the restraints still keeping you stationary.

“Let me ask you this, tough girl,” he crossed his arms, a hint of a smile stretching his ugly face. “What is your name?”

You paused. “What?”

“What is your name?”

The panic got you like a riptide, sweeping your feet from underneath you and pulling you out into the sea. You searched your mind, realizing that you did not know any life outside of the awful concrete walls.

“That’s what I thought,” the voice murmured with a sinister smile. He turned on his heel and headed for the exit. “Keep her here, we’ll need to wipe her again soon.”

You woke with a strangled gasp, the panic flooding your system had you sitting straight up in bed. Your heart was beating painfully up your neck, making it hard you breathe.

The room was dark, the covers were tangled around your legs, your skin was damp with sweat as you pressed your hand to your throat.

Gasping for a breath, you try and orient yourself. Where are you? What time is it? Are you still in the awful concrete and cinderblock facility?

Throwing the covers from your legs, the air in the bedroom turns the sweat cold and you shiver.

Looking at the other side of the bed and finding it empty does nothing to help. There should be someone there. Who should be there?

You blink and try to take a deep breath. Bucky. Bucky should be there.

Twisting around to look at the nightstand, it’s still the waking hours of the morning. The sun hasn’t even thought to rise yet and the glowing letters of the alarm clock tell you she won’t for a few more hours.

The brightness of your phone hurts your eyes, keeping one squinted open, the other closed against the visual assault. You see Bucky has not texted you that he is on his way home yet.

Pressing a hand to your aching head, you toss the phone aside and ease your head back onto the pillow. You want him here. You need him here.

The tears return but you stay silent. Staring up at the ceiling, tears sliding over your cheeks, down your neck and under the collar of your shirt.

You make no move to wipe them away.

Bucky seems to come too with Steve’s hands on both of his shoulders, shoving him away, his back slamming into the wall of the shady nightclub.

He blinks, feeling a smear of warmth on his face. Wiping it with his hand, he see’s red. Is it his blood?

No, it’s theirs.

Four men, laying motionless in the alleyway. A variety of injuries, broken noses, fingers, split lips, facial abrasions and most are covered in so much blood it’s hard to tell.

“You stay down,” Steve hisses with a finger in his face.

He remembers now. The white, hot anger he felt when he saw the quartet of men in the nightclub. They were laughing, drinking, showing each other videos on their phone. He kept his cool until he saw what was on their phones.

Videos and pictures of you. Crying, screaming out in pain as your soul was stripped away from you. And they were laughing at your despair as if you weren’t even human. He knows they don’t think of you that way, hell; they don’t even think of him that way.

Bucky left the group and found them in the alley way. By the time Steve realized that he was gone it had already happened.

Looking down, the black metal was splattered with the crimson gore. His right hand was starting to sting, he found split knuckles that he didn’t want to deal with at the moment.

It was starting to come back to him. How he beat each men into the bricks of the alleyway, the metal hand making a sickening crunch each time it connected with flesh. He saw red.

When he hurt people as the Winter Soldier, it was done without emotion, without remorse and without thought. He was numb to it.

This time, he was blind with rage. He could hear your screams and your pleas with each man he beat into the ground. The anger that shook his hands wasn’t something he felt in a long time.

Sam’s face bobbed into his eye sight, but Bucky had that awful far away look in his eye. The usually unserious man looked back at the agents who were taking the villains into custody and then back at his best friend.

“How does that feel?”

“How does what feel?” Bucky responded, voice low. His eyes were trained on Steve, who was talking into his ear piece, running a hand through his usually tidy hair.

Sam prodded him in the ribs, which got him to wince and stifle a groan. He must have taken some hits and not realized it. His body had started to ache.

“Let’s go home,” Sam clasped his shoulder. Bucky pretended not to notice the concerned look in his friend’s wise eyes.

The plane ride home was silent. The four injured men were held in a separate area where Bucky was not allowed to see them. He sat on the bench seat between Steve and Sam. He knew that they were there to stop him if he decided to lose control again.

He spent most of the flight with his elbows on his knees, bracing his head in his hands. He wondered how he was going to explain this to you. Would this change how you looked at him?

You didn’t know this side of Bucky. You hadn’t seen the flat look in his eyes, how it makes his best friend question his ability to be in the field.

All you know is the one who found you in the Hydra facility. Who only showed you kindness. Who soothed your headaches with a gentle hand, carried you to bed when you fell asleep reading on the couch, helped you start a journal to keep track of your memories when you asked.

He couldn’t even tell you where he was going because he knew that this is how it would end.

He couldn’t wait to see you, so why did he feel dread most prominently in his aching body?

When the front door opened, you were standing in front of the microwave, watching your dinner spin in an agonizingly slow circle. You peaked around the corner to find Bucky toeing off his boots by the overflowing shoe rack.

“Bucky?” Your voice was small.

He kept his head down, duffle bag slung over his shoulder. “Hi Honey.”

You moved closer to him, sensing his unease. Your slippers shuffled on the hard wood floor, twisting your hands together in front of your sternum.

“How was the mission?” You asked, hoovering a few feet away from him.

He swallowed hard, turning to look at you. “It was alright.”

You sucked in a quick breath at the sight of his face. A ring of purple around his eye from where he must have caught someone’s fist, a split lip that was in the processing of healing, blood splattered across his neck and jaw.

“Bucky, w-what happened?” You closed the distance between you two, eyes now checking his entire body for wounds.

“I’m fine, Doll,” he sighed, reaching out to squeeze your shoulder. “Promise.”

“Come here, let me look at you,” you caught his hand, leading him out of the dimly lit foyer.

He set his bag down outside the kitchen, taking a seat at the table you share your meals at. The microwave beeped, but you ignored it, turning on the light that hung above the table.

The overhead light dramatized his bruises, especially the hit he took on his cheek. Your expression was focused, but concerned, you brushed your soft palm over his throbbing cheek bone.

“What happened on the mission?” You asked, stepping away to wet a hand towel at the sink.

Bucky sighed, leaning back in his chair. He didn’t want to lie to you, you didn’t deserve that. You deserved to know the truth.

“It was the people that hurt you.”

Your actions stilled, back stiffening up from where you were wringing out the towel under the stream of warm water. You didn’t turn around.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t want you to worry.”

You shook your head, turning around with the towel in your clenched hands. “Well I’m worried now.”

His eyes closed as you brushed the towel over his stubbly cheek. The blood had been dried for a while now, you wrinkled your nose as you found more in his ear.

“I… I just couldn’t let them get away with it,” he whispered. You moved to stand between his knees, his hands pressed against your hips to ground himself.

“I’m alive,” you whispered, moving the towel down his neck. He swallowed hard.

“And I’m grateful for that,” his eyes opened. “But they tortured you and I can’t let them get away with that.”

Your hand was cupping his cheek, making it hard to focus on answering your question. Your thumb brushed gently over the bruised skin under his beautiful eye.

“Y/N, they had… they had videos,” his voice cracked. “And pictures. And they were laughing, showing each other.”

His hands tightened on your waist, you looked into his eyes and saw how distant they were becoming. The same rage he felt in the dark nightclub was thrumming through his veins.

You wiped under his chin, across his jaw and over his adam’s apple. You didn’t meet his eye.

“And they hurt you,” his voice cracked. “They didn’t hurt me, they hurt you. They did this to you. I-I just saw red. The next thing I knew Steve was shoving me off ‘em and they were on the ground not moving.”

You reached for his metal hand, swiping the damp cloth over his knuckles. He pretended not to see how discolored the towel was turning.

“You mean so much to me, Honey,” his chin wobbled. “I wish I could have saved you from this.”

“I’m alive,” you repeated, focusing cleaning the grime out of the plates of his arm. “I’ll be okay.”

His flesh hand dug into your hip, but you didn’t mind. His mind was buzzing and you knew he needed to talk. You reached up and smoothed over his hair, cupping his cheek.

“They wouldn’t have taken you if it wasn’t for me,” his voice was cautious, brittle, one step away from cracking. “I just keep fighting back this guilt that continues to remind me that you can be taken from me at any moment. This time it was because of me. And-and I can’t lose you.”

You move to his flesh hand, carefully cleaning up his split and bruising knuckles. His gaze is fixed on your face now.

“You mean everything to mean, Sweetheart,” his voice was so quiet, you had to focus to hear him. “You’ve kept me sane from the moment I met you. You didn’t treat me any differently because I was broken. You didn’t expect me to be anyone but myself.”

Your memories of when you first met Bucky are still a little fuzzy, but you have traces of warm feelings, laughing, the crinkles around his eyes when he smiled.

“And when I saw those guys just laughing at your pain… I-I-I fucking lost it. How could they do that to somehow who saved my life? Who made me whole again?”

You stop your motions, looking down into his tearful expression. “Bucky, you were always whole. I just reminded you of that.”

He nodded, swallowing hard.

“And I’m not going anywhere,” you brushed over the tender swelling around his mouth. “I’ll always be here for you to come home to.”

He nodded, swallowing hard. You squeezed his chin, taking a step back out of his space.

“C’mon, you need a shower,” you managed to smile.

He stood up and pulled on your hand as you turned away. You looked back at him, tilting your head.

Leaning down, he put his lips on yours. Since he found you, kisses were often pressed to your forehead, your cheek as you slept, the top of your shoulder as you made your tea.

You gasped softly into his mouth, pressing your hips against his. His warm hand pressed against the nape of your neck, urging you closer.

He loved the feeling of your pliant body pressed against his. How you melted into his body just like you used to, hands sliding over his back to press against his shoulder blades.

Pulling away, he pressed his forehead against yours. Both seemed to have a little bit more light back in their eyes. You bit your lip and smiled up at him. He mirrored your smile, which made you gasp.

“The beach!” Your eyes shone, despite the headache you got when memories reached the surface. “The beach… we stayed in this little cabin in April and it rained the whole time except for one day…”

Tears welled in his eyes again, but not from sadness.

“The last day, we all went down to the water, Sam threw Nat in and she was freezing,” your eyes were unfocused, moving quickly back and forth as you watched it play out in your mind. “He built her a fire to warm her up and we made s’mores.”

He nodded, hands cupping your shoulders.

“And I burned my marshmallow, which made you laugh because you told me the best way to cook it but I ignored you… The sunset was so beautiful, Bucky.”

“It was, Doll,” he nodded with a tender smile.

You were back, smiling up at him in a way that made him forget how awful the last couple days turned out. You pulled on his hand again, sliding your slippers down the hallway.

“You still need to shower before I’ll kiss you again.”

He laughed again, wrapping his arms around you and swinging you up into the air. You squealed, clutching his shoulders to keep your balance. For the first time in a long time, the apartment heard laughter and love.

Despite it feeling like you were swimming against the current, you were making your way back to him. One happy memory at a time.

[sevsevteen]

Can u write about y/n (reader hehe), where she passed out after their performance because fatigue or stress. About how the 13 guys reacts and took care of her until she wakes up! I'm so sorry if it feels too long haha, I just really want to feed my delusions haha🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 (if you ever reply to this, THANK YOU!!🫶🫶)

hell yes!! i love this prompt ㅠㅠ all my hurt/comfort people RISE . this one's a little lengthy because of a few details i wanted to add in, enjoy ;)

-- જ⁀➴°⋆

The mirrors were fogged, the floor slick with sweat. It was the third time you'd run the choreo from the top, and your shirt clung to your back like a second skin. Your limbs trembled more than they should’ve - but you kept pushing.

You had to. It was comeback season. Mistakes were magnified. Camera angles unforgiving.

But when you missed a beat during the transition into the bridge, the music halted sharply.

“Again?” Hoshi, exhaled in frustration. “It’s literally the same step you’ve done all week.”

“I know,” you panted, wiping your forehead. “I’m sorry, I just-”

“We’re all tired, okay?” he snapped. “But no one else is messing it up this much.”

That did it.

Your fists clenched at your sides. Your voice, raw from exhaustion, rose before you could stop it.

“Do you think I want to mess up? I’ve barely slept because I’m reviewing the choreo every night-”

“And yet you’re still the one making us do it over,” he shot back, voice colder now. “We’re not asking for perfect. Just for you to try like the rest of us.”

That was the part that broke you.

Because you’ve been trying. Trying so hard your muscles ached before even warming up. Trying so hard you hadn’t eaten a full meal in days. Trying so hard you’d forgotten what it felt like not to have a headache.

You opened your mouth to respond - but your vision swam.

Colors flickered at the edges of your sight. The mirror blurred. Your throat tightened.

And instead of arguing back… you fell silent.

Turned.

Started walking.

“Wow,” Hoshi scoffed. “Just gonna walk out now?”

“Hyung, stop-” Minghao’s voice cut in, low and warning.

But you didn’t hear the rest. Couldn't.

You made it halfway down the hall, palm flat on the wall as the last thing that was supporting your figure. The air was cold, sharp - but not enough.

Not enough to clear the fog. Not enough to stop the sudden spinning in your head, the crushing in your chest, the pins and needles in your fingers.

And then: a thud that echoed louder than the music ever had.

Loud. Sickening. Final.

The door swung open behind you, slammed by the wind of sudden footsteps.

“Guys!” Jeonghan’s voice cracked the air, the first to sprint down the hall where you collapsed, your body crumpled against the cool floor. Your limbs twitched slightly - not from movement, but from exhaustion that had long past healthy.

Seungkwan dropped down beside you, shaking your shoulder gently. “Hey - it’s us. Wake up, yeah? Come on, open your eyes.”

“She’s burning up,” Joshua murmured, crouched behind them, checking your forehead with the back of his hand.

“What do we do-” Dino asked, voice panicked, barely holding it together.

“Call the nurse. Now,” Seungcheol snapped, already sliding his hands under your legs and back to lift you back into the practice room.

Mingyu rushed back with a towel, dabbing the sweat on your forehead away. “She was fine a minute ago. She said she was fine.”

“She wasn’t,” Jeonghan muttered bitterly. “We didn’t see it.”

“Or we ignored it,” Wonwoo said quietly, placing a cold compress gently on your forehead.

Hoshi stood in the doorway, frozen, guilt thick in his throat when they lied you down on the couch. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“No one did,” Dokyeom said, softly. “But you were hard on her.”

“She looked tired all week,” Minghao said, adjusting the towel on your neck. “I should’ve asked earlier.”

The nurse arrived minutes later, checking your vitals and confirming it was a mix of heat exhaustion, dehydration, and overexertion.

“She’s stable now,” the nurse assured them, “but she needs rest. Real rest.”

They carried you back to the dorm together - heads low, hearts heavy. Hoshi insisted on carrying you himself on his back, despite being drenched in sweat and shaking with nerves. Jeonghan held the elevator doors. Woozi opened your bedroom.

You didn’t stir.

.

For the next two hours, they stayed close. No one moved far from your side.

Joshua carefully wiped down your arms with a damp cloth, whispering under his breath, “You did well. You always do.”

Seungkwan paced at the edge of your bed, phone in hand, searching articles about how to quickly replenish electrolytes.

Jun sat in the corner with a blanket over his knees, watching your chest rise and fall, counting the seconds between each breath. “I can’t believe we let it get this far.”

Mingyu, curled up by the door like a guard dog, looked up only to ask, “Will she hate us when she wakes up?”

“She won’t,” Seungcheol said quietly. “But maybe she should.”

They dimmed the lights. Kept the room quiet. Brought water, set aside fresh clothes, even placed one of your favorite snacks on the nightstand - just in case you felt well enough to eat later.

When your fingers twitched under the covers hours later, it was Vernon who noticed first. He had been sitting cross-legged by your bed, silently guarding, music low in his earbuds.

“Are you awake?” he whispered.

Your eyes fluttered open. Groggy. Disoriented.

“Hey, hey - don’t move too fast.” Jeonghan was beside you in an instant, gently smoothing your hair back.

You blinked, throat dry. “What… happened?”

“You fainted,” Wonwoo said softly, from the foot of the bed. “You pushed too hard.”

“I didn’t mean to…”

“We know,” Hoshi said, eyes red. Hands clenched. A quiet apology waiting on his tongue.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t know. I should’ve - I didn’t mean to say those things.”

You looked around, eyes wide - all thirteen of them in your room, packed shoulder-to-shoulder.

“You all stayed?” you croaked.

“Of course,” Dokyeom said. “We’re not leaving you alone again.”

Your eyes landed right on Hoshi, voice quiet but steady.

“It’s okay. I didn’t listen to myself either.”

Silence fell for a moment.

Then Seungcheol sat down on the edge of your bed, speaking for them all.

“You’re our teammate. We practice together, win together, and if one of us breaks…we all should’ve noticed.”

You felt your eyes sting again - but this time, not from pain.

“You’re not alone,” Seungkwan said, slipping his hand into your. “So don’t act like you are anymore, okay?”

You nodded, finally letting yourself give into the exhuastion.

Not because you were weak.

But because you were loved.

--

[heliosunny]

The Hollow Crown

Prince!Anaxa x Reader

You, a runaway apprentice turned petty thief, stood before a king and queen whose grief had hollowed their eyes and made their crowns feel heavier than gold.

"Another one" the king muttered, his voice flat with exhaustion. You barely bowed. You knew your odds.

Behind you, the guards tightened their grip on their spears. One wrong word, and your head would join the pile left by healers, scholars, and miracle-workers who'd failed.

“I can heal him.”

A lie? Maybe. But it bought you time. And time was all you needed.

'He used to be brilliant. He once debated four councilmen to silence when he was ten.'

You heard it all on the way here. What a pity.

The king waved his hand. “Fail. And you die.”

That was fair.

You were led to the prince’s chamber.

The man who once charmed courts and terrified scholars now sat in the middle of the room, barefoot, with leaves in his hair and a belt wrapped around his head like a crown.

He was humming to a beetle crawling on his palm.

You cleared your throat.

He glanced at you. “Do you think beetles are born knowing they’ll be crushed?”

"That depends. Are you crushing them on purpose?”

He blinked, then grinned. “You’re funnier than the last one. He tried to exorcise my lungs. I'm Anaxagoras.”

You stepped closer.

“Yeah, yeah prince A.”

You were just a dropout with half a spellbook and a death sentence in every direction. But you could feel pressure, a kind of twisted resonance, like a spell wrapped around him.

The prince tilted his head. “You don’t look like a real mage.”

“I’m not.”

“Oh good,” he said. “They make my brain itchy.”

You were panicking. The pressure was unbearable. You had minutes to prove your worth, or your neck was next.

You whispered a spell under your breath: Echo Tongue. To make him mirrored the words you said.

“Say this: ‘My mind is clearing. I feel… lighter.’”

“My mind is clearing. I feel… lighter.”

A gasp echoed behind you. The queen had stepped inside, the royal physicians followed.

“What did you do?” the queen asked.

“I severed the mental snare around him. The effects will strengthen with time.”

Lie. But it worked.

Cheers broke out from the hallway. Inside, your heart was clawing to escape your chest.

The king entered last.

“If this is a trick—”

“It isn’t.” you interrupted smoothly, guiding the prince to his feet. “He needs rest and continued monitoring. I’ll remain close, in case of relapse.”

You didn’t say: Because if I leave, the spell wears off. Or Because I have no cure.

And now you had it. Time… and a prince who parroted your every word like a puppet on a golden string.

That night, while he slept, you poured over scrolls, scraps. Whatever cursed him hadn’t just broken his mind. The false cure bought you hours, maybe days. Eventually, they’d realize something was off. The prince was too agreeable, too rehearsed. You had to find the real root.

You didn’t expect him to be a genius. Parents usually brag about their kids so you thought maybe the queen did the same. No, he's not just any genius, but the kind of genius who could recite entire economic treatises from memory, solve siege logistics in his head, and critique high court decisions while brushing his teeth.

And now, the kingdom expected him to return to duty.

They assigned you as his assistant. Every hour he was dragged to meetings, study halls, strategy sessions. And every hour, you were there behind him, feeding him lines when needed, making sure his “miraculous recovery” didn’t unravel in public.

It was exhausting. More importantly, it was dangerous. The longer he played puppet, the more people stared, noticed the uncanny pauses, the oddness of his phrasing.

You needed time.

So you made it.

You waited until the prince was halfway through a military briefing. The sun shone gently through the palace windows. A perfect afternoon. A rock soared in from the garden. You’d enchanted it minutes ago.

Thwack

It smacked the prince clean in the temple.

The prince collapsed. You rushed to him dramatically, checking his pulse. “He needs rest and healing. Alone.”

Within the hour, he was carried to a private room in the medical wing, under a healer’s care.

You returned to your quarters, pulled the curtains shut, and unwrapped your tool - a glass globe.

You contacted your master. The globe flickered with a dull light. Then, slowly, an image emerged through the glass.

“Well,” he drawled, “I thought you were dead in a ditch.”

“I might be soon,” you said. “I need your help.”

He scoffed. “You always need help.”

You shook your head. “I’m trying to break a curse. It’s… it’s on a prince. Everyone who tried to cure him got beheaded. I only survived by pretending I did.”

Your master blinked. His face softened, hardened, settled somewhere between curiosity and...was that respect?

“Well,” he muttered. “You learned some courage.”

“Whatever this curse is, it’s not normal. It feels like it wanted him quiet. Like it hated that he was clever.”

Your master frowned. “A sabotage.”

“So someone did this on purpose?”

“Fools fall two ways - by nature's hand or another's. So ask yourself: what slipped past his lips? What 'blessing' came with strings? And what's been staring at you this whole time?”

You scribbled the words down. You hate quizzes.

He added, “If it’s still lingering, it means the anchor’s close. Break the anchor, and the spell will collapse.”

“Any clue what it could be?”

“Could be an object. A name. A symbol burned into his soul.” His gaze narrowed. “Or it could be someone he trusts.”

The globe dimmed. Then he vanished.

The spell you cast was… unstable, to say the least. You didn’t even have all the ingredients, so you substituted powdered mooncrab shell with stale chalk, and you’d spilled ink on half the glyphs. But it was all you had.

It worked, though.

The moment you whispered the incantation, a sickly shimmer outlined two objects in the prince’s quarters. One was a bronze pendant tucked inside the folds of his pillow. The other - a porcelain chess knight sitting quietly on his bookshelf. You smashed both.

Nothing changed.

That was the problem.

You slumped against the wall, clutching your head in your hands. You were tired.

And the third anchor? Still hidden.

It felt close. But you couldn’t see it. Couldn’t feel it the way you were supposed to.

You were cursing under your breath when the prince suddenly stopped spinning in circles and walked up to you.

“Why are you sad?”

“…I can’t find something” you admitted. “Something very important.”

The prince tilted his head. His long light green hair shifted over his shoulder. “When I’m lost,” he said, “I always look for Seraphel.”

“Seraphel?” you echoed.

He nodded. “He gives me tea and tells me what thoughts to ignore. He says I think too much.”

Anyone the prince truly trusted was suspicious now.

You waited until nightfall. Then broke into Seraphel’s chamber.

He slept like a statue. His room was neat. Almost unnervingly clean.

The third anchor. A sealed ring tucked in a velvet box under Seraphel’s bed. Marked with the same sigil etched into the tattoo on the prince’s hand.

You shattered the ring, burned the box.

All three anchors disappeared.

You waited.

But the prince didn’t move. He had fallen asleep moments after you broke the curse, head resting gently on a spellbook.

You tried shaking him.

He wouldn’t wake up.

It was like his mind, freed at last, had left to find itself.

You sat by his bed, hands trembling.

The curse was gone. But so was he.

What if breaking the curse came too late?

It happened in the soft hush of dawn, when you’d half given up hope.

The prince stirred. A faint sound escaped him.

“Good morning.”

He recognized you immediately, of course he did. You’d been his shadow for weeks. Feeding him lines, lying for him.

But there was something new in his stare.

By noon, the entire palace knew the news: Prince Anaxagoras was well. The king wept. The queen kissed your forehead like you were a holy relic. Nobles who once scoffed at you now bowed so low their knees cracked. And Anaxa just watched it all with a faint, feline amusement, like he was testing how far they’d crawl.

When the king asked how to reward you, you’d barely opened your mouth before Anaxa’s hand settled on your shoulder.

“I’d like them to stay,” he said sweetly. “Beside me. They’re useful.”

The king hesitated. Who would dare refuse the miracle child returned to himself?

And so it was done. You were no longer a prisoner. You were the prince’s personal aide.

At first, it wasn’t so bad. You helped him catch up on lost months—papers, councils, secretive letters.

But then… the games began.

He’d catch you watching him from across the room. Smirk, as if he knew every thought that flickered behind your eyes. Drop a pen and make you pick it up, only to brush his fingertips along your wrist when you did.

Yet outside those moments when he bullies you, he guarded you like a dragon its hoard.

A chancellor sneered at your common birth, Anaxa cut him off mid-sentence. “Do not speak to them again.”

Only he could torment you. Tangle your nerves until you wondered if he was toying with you or protecting you from something far worse.

One night, you found yourself alone with him in his private study. He reclined in his chair, long hair brushed to one side.

“You look frightened,” he murmured. “Don’t be.”

“Why keep me here, Your Highness?”

“Because you made me interesting again,” he said, “And because you belong to me now. Don’t you?”

----

Today was spectacle disguised as labor, Anaxa’s favorite kind of cruelty.

He’d dragged you to his private study. Scrolls, treaties, and obscure arcane scripts were stacked in leaning towers that threatened to crush you.

He perched behind his massive desk, long green hair tied into its usual elegant ponytail, eye unblinking as it skimmed lines of ancient text at a pace you’d once described as “inhuman.”

“Write this down” he ordered. He began reciting words you’d never heard, whole pages unwinding from his tongue.

You scrambled to keep up. Ink splattered your cuffs. The first pen cracked in half under your grip. The second one slipped and left a black streak across your wrist. Halfway through your third pen, he paused, just long enough to watch you struggle to jam the nib back into its slot, then went on.

You wanted to hiss at him. Maybe cry.

By the tenth pen, your fingers were numb and your notes looked like the aftermath of a dying spider on cheap parchment.

When you handed him the stack, Anaxa didn’t even glance at the ink-stained pages. He just leaned back and said, “This is hideous.”

“You didn’t even read it—”

He tapped his temple. “I remember it all. You only wrote it so you wouldn’t forget how small your mind is beside mine.”

You hated him a little, then. Not enough to say it. Just enough for the sting to settle behind your teeth.

And he wasn’t done.

He swept the table clear with a single swipe, papers and pens clattered to the floor. He tossed you a piece of chalk. “Draw.”

“Draw what?”

“Whatever you know. Whatever you think you know. Let’s see how useful you really are.”

So you drew. Your palm cramped. Your knees ached on the cold marble floor. A third of your attempts flickered, sparked and died.

He watched it all.

When the final line sputtered out, you were sure he’d ask for more. Instead, Anaxa stood. His robe brushed your shoulder. He cupped your chin with his fingers, forcing you to look up at him.

“You look dreadful,” he said, “I suppose you’ve earned your bath.”

“You suppose—?!”

“Go.” He released you, already turning away. “If you’re not clean when I call for you again, I’ll drag you back half-soaked. Understood?”

You almost barked back something rude, but your aching back and filthy hands betrayed you. You just nodded.

“Good,” he murmured. “Off you go.”

The bath was the closest thing to heaven you’d known in weeks. You stayed until the water cooled. Until your thoughts were soft and boneless.

When you returned to his study, half expecting another trial, he didn’t even look up. He was alone at his desk, the tower of scrolls replaced with a single open ledger, candlelight dancing over the gold embroidery of his robe. His pupil flicked back and forth, tracking line after line at impossible speed.

You lingered by the door longer than you meant to.

He didn’t look up. But his voice, when it came, cut through the silence like a knife. “Staring is rude.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were,” he said calmly, still eyeing on his work. He dipped his pen, “Do you like what you see?”

You folded your arms. “I was wondering if you’d break another ten pens for fun.”

He chuckled “If I did, would you curse me?”

“I’d consider it.”

Finally, he looked at you. “Come here.”

“Why?”

“To read to me. Your voice is tolerable when you’re not whining.”

You snorted despite yourself. “So you do enjoy tormenting me.”

He didn’t deny it.

“I enjoy many things about you.”

And you did what you must. Because you valued your life.

You never liked staying in one place too long. You’d made a life out of slipping through cracks, stealing bread, disappearing.

But Anaxa… Anaxa was an iron lock around your ankle, disguised as silk.

It started over a half-finished supper in his private garden, where he’d dragged you out to “get fresh air”. Really, he just wanted to watch you feed the koi while he read court letters and pretended you weren’t entertainment.

He must have felt the shift in you. The way your eyes drifted to the walls, the guards beyond them, the distant sky.

“You’re restless.” he said, not bothering to look up from his letter.

“You’re imagining things.”

“You want to leave.”

“Always do.”

He set the letter aside. When his eye lifted, they pinned you like a specimen on a tray. “You could take me with you.”

You choked on your laugh. “Right. Sure. I’ll just drag the prince out. No one will notice.”

“You could use magic.”

You snorted. “What do you want me to do, fly us both? The only time I flew, I almost left my legs behind.”

“Then open a portal.”

You rubbed your temples. “That’s worse. The last time I opened a portal, it swallowed my teacher’s cat for two weeks.”

“Then figure it out. You’re clever when you’re desperate.”

You stared at him. “You’re serious.”

“I’m always serious.”

You gestured at the palace behind him. “You’re royalty. You have an entire country under your thumb. You can’t just run off because you’re bored—”

“It’s not boredom.” His voice snapped, just a bit. “It’s disgust. Look at them.” He gestured vaguely toward the invisible halls beyond the garden. “They used to laugh behind my back. Call me the idiot. Feed me honeyed words and shove me into walls when no one was looking. Now they line up to kiss my feet because I’m useful again.”

You fell silent.

“Did you know they plan to marry me off soon?”

“I figured,” you muttered. “You’re a prince. It’s how kingdoms stay rich.”

“It’s how vipers stay fed.” he corrected. “I heard them. They treated me like a stray dog back then. Now I’m a prize.”

“Then… don’t marry them.”

“I won’t,” he said. “Not if I have something better to amuse me.”

You stepped back.

“If I have to,” he continued, “I’ll marry you instead.”

It wasn’t a proposal. It was a threat.

You scoffed, pushing him back by the shoulder. “Don’t joke about that.”

“I’m not. I’d rather chain myself to you than to any of them.”

“Do you hear yourself?” you snapped. “You can’t just decide that because you’re bored—”

“I’m not bored!” The koi scattered at the sound. He caught your wrist before you could retreat.

“I remember everything. Every laugh. Every lie. I know exactly what I am to them. But you—” His thumb traced your pulse like he might snuff it out for fun. Or keep it beating, just because he could.

“You’re mine.”

You pulled your hand back. “You can’t own me.”

“I already do.”

“You’re insane.”

“Perhaps.” He leaned in, close enough that you could see the gold thread of his eyepatch. “But you’re the one who broke my curse. You should’ve let me rot if you wanted to run.”

“I saved your life. That doesn’t mean you get to ruin mine.”

“Stay, and I won’t have to.”

“So what, you’d rather cage me here forever than let me walk away free?”

“You’d leave?”

You looked away. “I don’t belong here. I never did.”

The koi drifted back to the surface, scales flashing silver under the garden lanterns.

“Then I suppose I’ll just have to find a way to belong wherever you run.”

And you realized, with a cold knot in your throat.

You weren’t the one keeping him caged here anymore. He was the lock on your door. And you were the key he’d swallowed whole.

----

Prince Anaxa summoned the Board of Masters. Everyone knew: when Anaxa wanted to know something, he wouldn’t stop until it cracked open in his palm.

And someone had to be the test subject.

Of course they picked you.

You sat in a circle of chalk. Anaxa stood just outside the circle, watching.

“Let’s increase the pull by half.”

You wanted to curse him. Instead, you braced your palms on the circle’s edge, forcing the flow of your magic through the sigils into the new vessel—a glass sphere.

You felt the drain immediately.

When you swayed, he was there, one hand on your shoulder.

“Focus.”

When the session ended, you collapsed back onto cold stone. Someone draped a blanket over your shoulders, it wasn’t him. He just looked down at you like a craftsman studying a flawed tool.

You’d thought that was the worst of it.

Whispers slithered through the hallways. Servants snickered when you passed. Apprentices called you pet, plaything, parasite. A pretty toy to drain dry for the prince’s amusement.

You tried to ignore them. Tried to tell yourself it didn’t matter. For now, you were… useful. That was enough.

But one morning, bruises bloomed on your wrist where someone shoved you against a cold marble wall, just out of sight.

“You think you’re special?” they hissed.

You shoved them back, but the sting stayed. The words too.

Anaxa found out, of course.

He said nothing at first. Just called for another test.

“We’ll test the vessel directly.”

He held up the finished sphere. He gestured for the man who’d shoved you.

“Come.”

The man obeyed—how could he not? He placed his hands on the vessel. The moment the spell triggered,the apprentice gasped, spine arching as raw power licked through him.

Anaxa didn’t look away from you. Not once.

The apprentice collapsed.

“Perfectly. No more questions, yes?”

Later, when the Masters were gone, he sat with you in the empty hall. Your head rested against a pillar, hair damp with sweat. He twirled the vessel in his hands, its gem glinting with magic trapped inside.

“You’re trembling.”

“I’m bored,” you lied. “That’s all.”

“Good. Stay bored here, with me.”

You shut your eyes. “One day, I’ll go.”

He pressed the vessel against your palm.

“Then I’ll follow.”

“Yeah, Prince A. I doubt that.”

----

You knew something was wrong the moment you saw his fingers hovering at the edge of his eyepatch. You were just going to find some food when you saw him.

“A?” you asked. He didn’t answer.

He just tilted his head back against the pillar, thumb pressing into the black-gold edge of the patch that covered his left eye.

You remembered all those nights lately, catching snippets of what he read when he thought you were half-asleep by the hearth.

And suddenly it all made sense, why he’d been mumbling about magic sigils, why he’d half-joked about keeping you close.

“..I shall sacrifice this.” his thumb pressed harder, you lunged forward and grabbed his wrist.

“Don’t.” You hadn’t meant to shout, “Don’t you dare.”

He blinked at you, startled, caught in the act.

“What are you doing?” you hissed. “Curse it? Offer it up? Do you think I’d stay?”

“It wouldn’t hurt for long.”

“You idiot. You idiot.”

You forced the next words out before they stuck in your throat. “I’ll stay. For… however long.” Your jaw twitched. “Until someone assassinates you. Or me. Or both of us. So leave your eye be.”

His breath caught, like he hadn’t planned for that answer. Like he didn’t know what to do with it.

Then he lowered his hand.

“Ah…” he sighed, like he was letting go of something too heavy to carry anymore.

You opened your mouth to say something when he bent one knee down onto the cold marble floor.

“What are you—? Wait—don’t—don’t propose to me right now.” A laugh puffed out of you. “I swear I’ll knock you out—”

But he didn’t pull out a ring or something. Instead, he hissed sharply through his teeth, winced, and shifted his weight off the knee.

“…I think I strained it.”

“You—what?”

“Well? Do something about it.”

You stared. “You want me to—”

Anaxa pointed at his own shoulder. “Piggyback ride. Now.”

You threw your hands in the air. “You—”

“You said you’d stay.” he reminded you sweetly, ignoring how you nearly growled at him. “That includes carrying me if I hurt myself for your sake.”

You crouched anyway, let him drape himself over your back, let his breath tickle your ear as he settled in with infuriating satisfaction.

“Don’t drop me.” he warned smugly.

“Maybe I should.”

[natsaffection]

The Weight of you. pt 2 |N.R

Older!Natasha x Younger!Reader

Warnings: AgeGap! (N= 32, R=22), Fluff, Fluff, Fluff 🍀 (for real)

word count: 1,5k

A/n: After my inbox got completely swamped, I decided to post it. It wasn’t planned at first, but some of the comments truly broke my heart, so here it is. I’m not that cruel.

Part 1

Natasha woke up screaming.

Her body jolted upright in the dark, drenched in cold sweat, chest heaving like she’d just surfaced from drowning. Her throat burned. Her mouth was open but no sound came out, just broken gasps and choking silence.

Her hands, trembling, soaked, clawed at the sheets like they could ground her. Her heart thrashed wildly in her ribs, fast and desperate and wrong.

She couldn’t breathe. Her eyes darted around, wild, panicked, searching for rubble, smoke, blood, the street, the stone slab, the blood.

But there was none. Just…darkness. Soft, familiar darkness. The room was quiet. The only sound was the ticking of the little clock on the nightstand. And her own ragged breath.

She looked to her right..and there you were..

Peacefully asleep, curled on your side beneath the duvet. One arm tucked under the pillow, the other resting lightly on your chest. Your lips were parted slightly, lashes fluttering against your cheeks in dreams, the faint rise and fall of your back steady and warm.

Natasha stared at you like she was seeing a ghost. Her hand hovered over you for a moment, scared to touch, to shatter the vision. To wake up again.

Then she reached out, gently, barely brushing her fingers along the curve of your bare shoulder.

Warm and real. Her breath hitched, and broke entirely. Her body folded forward, silent tears spilling down her face as her forehead came to rest against your shoulder blade.

Her arms slowly wrapped around you, pulling you close. Holding you like you might slip away. You shifted slightly at the touch, murmuring something incoherent, but didn’t wake. You just let out a small breath and nestled back into Natasha’s chest, trusting. Unaware of the storm you’d just saved Natasha from without even knowing it.

Natasha buried her face in the crook of your neck. She breathed you in, that scent, the one that always made her shoulders drop, her world soften. Sweet shampoo. Warm skin.

She closed her eyes. Her hand moved to rest over your heart, feeling the rhythm of it beneath her palm.

Alive. Each beat said it. Over and over. Alive. Alive. Alive.

Natasha kissed the back of your shoulder, so softly it was barely there, then tightened her arms around you and didn’t let go.

She wouldn’t sleep again tonight. She didn’t need to. She had everything she needed, right here.

Sunlight crept gently through the cracks in the curtains, casting a golden haze across the bedroom. The kind of quiet morning that felt untouched by the world, too perfect, too still.

But Natasha hadn’t slept. Not really. Not since the nightmare.

She was still wrapped around you like a lifeline, arms coiled tight around your waist, legs tangled, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades. Her face was buried in you. Her nose nuzzled against the curve of your neck like she was trying to breathe you into her lungs.

She hadn’t moved all night. Couldn’t. Every time she even thought about letting go, her stomach twisted. But this? This she could do. She could stay here. Wrapped in soft warmth and steady heartbeats.

You stirred a little, groaning softly and trying to roll onto your back. Natasha responded by tightening her arms and snuggling in deeper with a soft, muffled grunt of protest.

“Morninggg…” you mumbled, voice still husky with sleep. “Gotta get up…”

“No.” Natasha whispered into your neck, her voice hoarse from tears. “You’re staying.”

“But-”

Before you could finish, Natasha moved her hand, slow and devilish, slipping her fingers just under the hem of your sleep shirt and giving a light, teasing tickle along your stomach.

You squeaked. “N-Natasha!” you gasped, twisting in the sheets, laughter bubbling out instantly. “No, no-don’t-!”

Natasha smiled. Smiled..It was small, but it reached her eyes. Hearing your laughter again, feeling it against her chest, it cracked something open in her. The tension in her shoulders, the knot in her gut, the ache in her throat…all of it softened in that one sound.

She tickled you again, just enough to keep the giggles coming. You squirmed, half-laughing, half-trying to escape, but Natasha shifted quickly, rolled halfway over you, arm slung around your waist, pinning you gently in place.

You blinked up at her, cheeks flushed and hair a soft mess.

“You’re evil.” you whispered, smiling breathlessly.

Natasha leaned in close, her face just inches away.

“And you’re mine.” she murmured, brushing her nose along yours.

You melted instantly under her, eyes fluttering shut, smiling so wide it made Natasha’s chest ache. Then, without another word, Natasha reached for the sheets, tugging them high above your heads.

The world disappeared into a cocoon of warm cotton and shared breath. You laughed again, soft and breathy, your voice muffled beneath the blanket. “What are you doing?”

“Hiding you.” Natasha whispered. “Keeping you safe.”

You reached up in the dark, fingers finding Natasha’s jaw. “From what?”

“Everything.” Natasha replied.

She kissed you, as if she had all the time in the world and still needed more. You sighed into it, fingers curling in her shirt. When they parted, you were breathless again, but for a different reason.

“You’re acting weird..” you teased softly, but your voice was tender now.

Natasha tucked herself into your neck again, the sheets still wrapped around you like a secret.

“I had a dream.” she admitted. Her voice was almost too quiet.

You didn’t ask what kind. You just turned slightly in her arms, enough to wrap your own around Natasha this time. Your hands stroked slow patterns down her back, anchoring her.

“I’m here.” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Natasha pressed her face in tighter.

“I won’t let you.”

You lay there for a long time, under the covers, hidden from the world. Two heartbeats. 

“I really have to get up, Nat..” you murmured, voice scratchy but determined. “Meeting at ten, and I need to shower, and-” You started to roll onto your back.

Big mistake..

Before you could even make it halfway out of the blanket burrito, Natasha moved fast and smooth, like it was a mission. With zero warning, she shifted and dropped herself squarely across your chest.

“Oof-!” you gasped, startled breath whooshing out of you. “Natasha!”

“Mmm..” came the response, completely unapologetic and muffled into your collarbone. “You’re warm. And soft. And not allowed to leave this bed.”

You tried to push her off, but it was half-hearted at best, Natasha was dead weight in that familiar way she did when she really didn’t want to move. Like a cat determined to sleep on your face.

“I have to go to workkk..!” you whined softly, threading your fingers through Natasha’s hair anyway.

“No, you don’t.” Natasha murmured. She nosed at the hollow of your neck, brushing her lips there in a way that made your stomach flutter. “Not today.”

“I doooo…”

But Natasha just snuggled deeper.

And without moving off you, she reached a hand out from under the blanket, groping in the direction of the nightstand like she’d trained for this.

“What are you doing?” you asked suspiciously.

Natasha’s fingers curled around the phone. “Saving your coworkers from missing you too much.”

“Natasha-”

Too late. Still under the covers, Natasha brought the phone into your little blanket fort. The glow of the screen lit her face with a mischievous grin. She typed in the passcode, the date you made it official, without even needing to look.

She tapped a few things quickly, thumb gliding over the screen with deadly precision. Your eyes widened when you realized who she was calling.

“Wait-wait! Are you seriously calling my boss?!”

Natasha calmly rolled her body more fully over you, keeping you pinned like a warm, stubborn blanket.

You squirmed. “Natasha! I can’t not show up without calling myself! I-“

“Shhh..” Natasha cooed sweetly, her voice like honey. “Spy things happening.”

You opened your mouth to argue again, but then Natasha kissed you. A kiss that said, Breathe. I’ve got this. You’re mine today.

And by the time you could blink, the call was already ringing.

“Hi.” Natasha said, instantly shifting into a smooth, polite voice as someone picked up. “Yes, I’m calling on behalf of Y/n L/n. She’s not feeling well today-no, just a little under the weather. Nothing serious, but she’ll be resting. Thanks so much.”

She hung up. Turned the phone off. Dropped it onto the bed beside you. And then went right back to snuggling into your chest like nothing had happened.

You stared at the ceiling, stunned. “Did you just…call me in sick?”

“Mhm.”

“Impersonating me?”

“Technically.” Natasha murmured sleepily, “I didn’t say I was you. Just that I was calling for you. Very legal. Very charming. Very cuddly.”

“You are ridiculous..” you said, but your voice was already dissolving into laughter.

Natasha smiled against your skin. “You love me.”

You sighed dramatically, threading your fingers through red hair again.

“Yeah..” you whispered. “I really, really do.”

You stayed like that for a long moment, wrapped in warmth and soft breaths, the whole world outside the covers irrelevant.

And when Natasha pressed another kiss to your chest and whispered, “Let’s just be still today.” you didn’t argue.

You just pulled the blankets tighter around you both. And stayed.

[dismalflo]

matchmakers association

Remus lupin x fem!reader ✩ 5k words

Summary: You and Remus are hopeless, but James and Sirius aren’t quitters.

cw: fluff, shy!reader, kind of shy!remus, mutual pining, James and Sirius play matchmakers and are general menaces.

From where Sirius is sitting, it’s impossible to miss the way Remus looks at you, like every word spilling from your lips is the most important thing he’s ever heard. He’s leaning forward just slightly, head tilted in that way he does when he’s fully tuned in, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His eyes are warm, attentive, like he’s trying to memorise you.

You're sitting there, fingers nervously twisting in the hem of your jumper, voice barely above a whisper as you recount the dream you had last night. Something about floating books in the library and a talking tabby cat with a monocle who demanded five galleons in overdue fines. You weren’t going to mention it to anyone—it’s ridiculous, really—but when Remus had asked how you slept, it caught you off guard. And you panicked.

Remus laughs, quiet and breathy. He leans in closer, resting his elbows on his knees, watching you like you’ve just gifted him something precious. His grin is effortless, lopsided, and it sends a pulse through your chest that’s so sudden, it borders on painful.

“Did the cat ever get its money?” he asks, mock-serious but clearly enjoying himself.

You blink, startled by the question, and then laugh, a shy, uncertain sound that’s more exhale than voice. “No. I think I woke up before I could pay him.”

“Tragic,” he murmurs, eyes twinkling. “Poor feline economy.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners as he says it, and something in his expression, so open, so achingly kind, threatens to unravel you completely. You glance down, focusing intensely on a loose thread near your sleeve, hoping it distracts from the way your heart feels too big for your chest.

Across the room, Sirius raises a single eyebrow, watching the scene unfold like he’s in on some joke no one else knows the punchline to. He catches your eye briefly, and though his expression is unreadable, it carries that familiar glint of knowing. He definitely knows.

“I—um,” you stammer, the words colliding in your throat like a stack of falling books. “I should head up. I’ve got some work to finish.”

Remus straightens a little, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face—disappointment? Concern? Whatever it is, it’s gone before you can name it. He nods gently.

“Alright,” he says. “Don’t let the cat find you again.”

You smile despite yourself, a small, fluttery thing that barely reaches your eyes. With a mumbled goodbye, you slip away, still clutching the hem of your jumper in your fist like it’s the only thing anchoring you. You can feel Sirius’s gaze trail after you, all the way to the stairs.

Remus, for his part, doesn’t look away. His eyes stay locked on the doorframe you just disappeared through, unmoving. His brow is furrowed slightly, replaying every word, every laugh, every nervous twitch of your fingers in his mind on an endless loop.

He doesn’t even notice James walking into the room.

James pauses, glancing between Remus and Sirius with a look of dawning confusion. Sirius, who has been watching the whole interaction unfold like it’s the most entertaining show on Earth, lets out a low whistle and leans back in his chair, stretching out leisurely.

“You’ve got to put the poor thing out of her misery,” Sirius says, tone light but threaded with a teasing sharpness. His arms cross over his chest, and the smirk tugging at his lips is all mischief.

Remus blinks, startled. “What are you talking about?” he asks, instinctively defensive. “We—we’re friends, Sirius.”

Sirius doesn’t even blink. “Oh, come off it,” he says smoothly, waving a hand toward the door you’ve just gone through. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Moony.”

Remus turns away slightly, color rising in his cheeks. Sirius notices, of course. He notices everything.

He glances at James, who’s now standing squarely in the doorway, clearly trying to figure out what he’s walked in on. Sirius grins wider, as though he’s about to share something scandalous. “James,” he calls, sing-song, drawing out the name like it’s the start of a revelation.

“What?” James asks, brow raised.

“Who are we talking about?” Sirius says casually, as though the answer should be obvious.

James frowns, glancing again between the two of them. “Y/N?” he guesses.

Sirius snaps his fingers and points. “Ten points to Gryffindor.”

James raises both eyebrows. “Well yeah, she proper fancies moony.” he says, like it's the most well known thing in the world.

“What? No, that’s—” Remus flushes deeper, stumbling over the words like they’re foreign. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mate,” Sirius says, shaking his head like he’s disappointed, “I’ve seen her say more to you in five minutes than she’s said to me in five years. Shame too, must be funny with how you were going on.”

Remus looks like he wants to disappear. “Sirius, no. It’s not—it’s just...”

“You’re sweet on her too,” James says, not unkindly, though the teasing is still evident. “Obviously.”

Remus freezes. His mouth opens like he might deny it again, but no words come out. His eyes flick toward the door, desperate, like maybe you’ll come back and spare him.

Sirius leans forward, wolfish grin on his face. “Just admit it.”

Remus’s face twists in frustration. “It’s not like that, you sods.”

“Sure it’s not,” Sirius says dryly.

Remus stands abruptly, hands clenched into fists, eyes flashing. “Just because you two only ever think with your dicks doesn’t mean I do,” he snaps. “She doesn’t like me, and I don’t—” His voice falters for half a second, but then he sets his jaw. “It’s never going to happen.”

Before either of them can speak, he turns on his heel and storms out, boots echoing against the floorboards, shoulders tight with tension he can’t shake.

The door slams behind him.

Sirius exhales slowly, the grin slipping off his face, replaced by something closer to a grimace. “Always so bloody dramatic with him,” he mutters, not unkindly. There's fondness in the complaint, buried just beneath the surface.

James watches the door for a long beat before glancing back at Sirius, eyes gleaming with quiet amusement. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Sirius smirks again, but this time it’s slower, more thoughtful. “Depends,” he says, voice low and conspiratorial. “What are you thinking, Prongs?”

-

“Are you sure this is going to work?” James’s voice wavers just slightly, betraying the flicker of doubt running through him. He leans against the arm of the couch, watching intently as Sirius adjusts a few books on the floor, each one placed at a precise angle, almost too perfect. Sirius is crouched low, a mischievous grin tugging at the corners of his lips as he arranges the trap.

Sirius flashes James a cocky smirk. “Trust me, Prongs. I’ve thought this through. It’s foolproof.” His eyes glint with that familiar spark, the one that always signals trouble.

James doesn’t look convinced, but he sighs and crosses his arms. “If this goes wrong, I’m blaming you, Pads.”

Sirius winks and straightens up, stretching his arms out with exaggerated nonchalance. “If it goes wrong, I’ll take full responsibility, mate. But it won’t. Just wait.”

Over in the corner, you’re completely oblivious to the scheming happening just a few feet away. As usual, your nose is buried in a book, the weight of the world in your hands as you try (and fail) to focus on the words before you. Filled with distractions from thoughts that don’t quite settle.

Remus, unaware of the trap laid before him, strides across the common room, deep in thought. His shoes strike the stone floor with a rhythmic clomp, a sound you’ve grown used to. But this time, it’s louder, as though fate has already decided he’ll make this entrance one for the books. His gaze is fixed ahead, oblivious to the strategically placed book in his path, waiting to trip him up.

Time seems to stretch as Remus’s foot catches the edge of the book, his body pitching forward. For a split second, everything is suspended in midair. His arms flailing in a desperate attempt to catch balance, and then the inevitable happens.

With an almost comical force, Remus stumbles right into you, knocking you back with the unexpected impact. You gasp, breathless, the force of his sudden weight landing in your lap. It’s like the entire room has frozen. Your eyes widen as you look up, heart racing with both surprise and sheer embarrassment.

Remus’s face turns a shade of red you’ve never seen before. He scrambles to get off you, muttering apologies at a rapid-fire pace. “Oh my Merlin, I—sorry! Sorry! I didn’t—” His hands dart about awkwardly, unsure of where to place them, like he might somehow make the situation worse. His gaze is averted, skipping frantically around the room, and finally, in a move that only adds to the embarrassment, he shuffles a few inches away and slumps down beside you, burying his face in his hands in utter mortification.

You, too, are a mess. Desperately wanting to say something, anything, but the words are trapped somewhere in your throat. You look anywhere but at him, at the way his messy hair falls over his forehead or the soft brown of his eyes. It’s impossible to avoid the feeling that the universe is conspiring against you as you twist your jumper hem between your fingers for something, anything, to do with your hands. The silence is deafening, thick with the weight of unspoken apologies and shared embarrassment.

James and Sirius, from across the room, have already collapsed into the nearest armchairs, practically choking on laughter as they watch the disaster unfold.

“Well, that was a disaster,” James mutters under his breath, rubbing his face with both hands. “What happened to the romantic part of the plan, Pads?”

Sirius is doing his best to hold it together, but he’s failing miserably. His shoulders shake with barely contained laughter, though it settles as he takes in the words. “Well it looked bloody romantic in that film, prongs. Not my fault moony is a fucking oaf,” he groans.

Remus is still frozen, staring at the floor as though it might swallow him whole. He hasn’t looked up, not even once. His embarrassment is palpable, radiating off him in waves. You, on the other hand, are fidgeting so violently that it’s a wonder your jumper isn’t a tangled mess by now.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of silence, Remus lets out a breath and speaks, his voice tight with discomfort. “Are you—um—okay?” His words come out in a hesitant stutter, as if he’s testing the waters before he sinks any deeper. He risks a glance at you, but his eyes immediately flick back down to his hands, his voice cracking with embarrassment. “Sorry again. I really didn’t mean to—”

You shake your head frantically, a flush spreading over you. “I—I’m fine,” you stammer, your voice barely above a whisper. “You just... surprised me.”

Remus shifts uncomfortably beside you, his hands running nervously through his hair as he tries to relieve his awkwardness. “I didn’t mean to cause a scene... I’ll just—” He starts to rise, clearly planning to escape the awkwardness before it swallows him whole.

“Okay,” you whisper, your voice small and strained, too embarrassed to meet his eyes.

-

“Okay,” Sirius drawls, arms crossed as he leans back in an armchair, one eyebrow cocked. “You sure you’ve thought this one through, lover boy?”

James huffs, balancing two mugs of tea precariously in his hands while eyeing the worn, squishy couch near the fireplace. “This isn’t a bloody trap like yours, Pads,” he mutters, “It’s tea. It’s normal. It’s gentle. It’s what normal people do when they’re not trying to orchestrate the demise of moony.”

Sirius snorts, clearly unimpressed. “And your genius plan is what, exactly? Ply them with chamomile until they fall into each other’s arms?”

James sets the mugs down on the coffee table with exaggerated care, glancing over his shoulder to make sure neither Remus nor you have noticed anything amiss. “No,” he says, smoothing out an invisible wrinkle in his jumper. “The plan is to give them five minutes alone by the fire. Quiet, warm, relaxed. Maybe they talk, maybe someone smiles—hell, maybe someone blushes, Pads.”

Sirius clutches his heart mockingly. “Romance and tea? How Evans hasn’t snapped you up yet, I’ll never know.” he whispers, sarcastically.

But James ignores him, walking toward Remus, who’s nose-deep in a tattered copy of Wuthering heights. “Oi, Moony,” he calls casually. “Come sit by the fire for a bit, yeah? Brought you tea. The good kind.”

Remus looks up, eyes narrowing, skeptical. “What do you want?”

“Nothing,” James insists. “Can’t a man just care for his friend? You look like a corpse. You need tea.”

Remus snorts but rises anyway, stretching as he walks toward the couch. James waves him over, then slips off to the other end of the common room with a wink at Sirius, who is now trying not to look like he’s watching intently from behind a rogue transfiguration textbook.

You're already curled up at one end of the couch, a dog-eared paperback open in your lap, thumb nervously tracing the edge of the page. You glance up when Remus sits at the opposite end, a bit stiff, clutching the steaming mug with both hands like a lifeline.

“Hi,” he says after a pause, voice low and careful. His eyes don’t quite meet yours.

“Hi.” You smile, small, unsure, and drop your gaze.

The fire crackles. The silence between you two feels gentler this time, less like a vacuum and more like a space waiting to be filled. You peek at him from the corner of your eye, noting how his hair falls just-so over his forehead, how his fingers tap an absent rhythm against the ceramic of the mug.

Remus clears his throat and shifts a little closer, barely noticeable, but you do.

“You, um… like that book?” he asks, nodding toward the one in your hands.

Your smile returns, small but real. “Yeah. It’s kind of slow, but… nice.”

He nods, encouraged. “Sometimes nice is better than exciting.”

A breathy laugh escapes you, surprised. “I’d say so.”

There’s a flicker of something like confidence in his eyes as he holds your gaze just a moment longer than usual. His shoulder inches closer still, his voice a little warmer now. “I could lend you one, if you want. Something slower. But not boring.”

“I’d like that,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, but it’s the most certain thing you’ve said all day.

And for a moment, just a moment—there’s a softness between you, a glowing hush wrapped in firelight and chamomile steam. He’s looking at you like maybe he understands you, and you’re looking at him like maybe that’s okay.

From across the room, Sirius leans toward James and mutters, “Fucking hell.”

James just grins smugly, arms folded. “Told you. No tripping required.”

But just as the moment settles, as Remus opens his mouth to maybe, maybe, say something more, you glance at the clock above the mantel and visibly stiffen.

“Oh—I have to go. I’ve got the… the thing. For Transfiguration.”

You’re already collecting your book and mumbling apologies before he can respond, a heat blooming like wildfire climbing your neck. Remus stands halfway, as if to follow or say something; he doesn’t.

The silence you leave behind is tangible. Remus drops back onto the couch with a long sigh, fingers curling around the warm mug once again.

James claps Sirius on the shoulder. “Almost, mate. Almost.”

Sirius huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “It has to be next time, I can’t go on like this any longer.”

-

The next few days pass in a strange, quiet limbo.

Remus avoids your eyes like they burn. You dodge his like they might catch you saying too much. Something cracked on that couch—small, but sharp. And tea, apparently, couldn’t fix it. Sirius delights in poking the wound. James, more subtle, keeps giving Remus pointed looks like he’s waiting for a confession. He never gets one.

But he does get an idea.

It starts with a note, tucked between the pages of your Advanced Defensive Spells textbook, just as you’re packing up in the common room. The handwriting is messy, but unmistakably meant to be Remus’:

Meet me in the library after dinner? Bring your notes. – R

Your heart stumbles in your chest. It’s short. Simple. But the way your fingers tighten around the parchment says everything it needs to.

-

By the time you make it to the library, the sun has dipped low, and the tall arched windows cast golden shadows that stretch like reaching fingers across the stone floor. The scent of old pages and polished wood settles around you. Picking a table in the far back, quiet, tucked behind a barricade of dust-laced bookshelves, you unpack your notes with hands that won't quite stop shaking.

Remus shows up exactly three minutes later, arms full; parchment, quill, a plethora of battered books. He looks like he’s braced himself for something, an ambush, maybe, or worse, a conversation. But when he spots you already seated, head bowed over your textbook, he clears his throat and slides into the seat beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Hey,” he says, softly.

You glance up. Your heart does that stupid flutter again, like it hasn't learned its lesson. “Hey.”

And then… silence.

You both read. Or pretend to. Every turn of the page feels loud, like it echoes between the bookshelves. You sneak glances at him when you’re sure he isn’t looking. He does the same, though less successfully—once your eyes meet for half a second too long, and you both dart back to your notes like they’ve become ancient relics demanding total concentration.

Two aisles over, James and Sirius are crammed behind a bookshelf, wedged between Theories in Transfiguration, Vol. VI and a truly enormous tome on magical law reform. Sirius is lying flat on the floor, chin propped in his hand. James crouches awkwardly behind him, squinting through the slats.

“They’re not even talking,” James whispers, scandalized.

“They’re studying,” Sirius hisses. “In silence. Like psychopaths. I told you we should’ve gone with the spilled ink plan.”

“You wanted to accidentally spill ink on her essay?”

“Disaster leads to bonding!” Sirius insists. “It’s science!”

“We've proved that it doesn't! I think they might deserve to bloody pine after each other forever.”

-

Remus shifts beside you, his brow furrowing ever so slightly as he scans the parchment in front of him. His quill taps an uneven rhythm against the tabletop, a quiet metronome to the silence that’s settled between you. The library around you hums with the soft rustle of pages and the occasional muffled cough, but it all fades beneath the weight of his hesitation.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he speaks, his voice low and cautious, but touched with that familiar, curious tilt that always sends a flutter straight through your chest.

“I’m not complaining,” he says, “but… why did you ask me to study with you? You usually study with Lily, don’t you?”

You blink, caught completely off guard. “What? I—Remus, you invited me.”

His head turns slowly toward you, confusion creasing his brow. “No, I didn’t.”

Your heart stutters. Something cold and strange prickles at the base of your spine. You reach into your bag, fingers curling around the folded parchment you’ve been carrying all evening, too nervous to hand over, too unsure of its meaning. You slide it across the table, letting the edges brush his fingertips. “This. I found it in my book. Before dinner. It’s your handwriting.”

Remus stares at the note. His mouth parts slightly, eyes narrowing as he squints at the familiar scrawl. He doesn’t touch it right away, just stares at it like it might suddenly change. Then, moving slowly, almost reluctantly, he reaches into his own satchel. His hand emerges clutching a nearly identical piece of parchment.

You stare.

He stares.

There’s a long, charged pause. Then you both move at the same time, him turning his note toward you, and you leaning forward to read it. The words are unmistakable:

Meet me in the library after dinner? Bring your notes. – Y/N

Your mouth goes dry.

The silence that follows is total, a suspended moment thick with realization. Then, as if on cue, your gazes snap to each other, eyes wide, the truth dawning between you.

“Oh my god,” you whisper.

“Those bastards,” Remus mutters, voice low and vibrating with disbelief. His ears are red, burning with equal parts rage and something else—something closer to hope, quickly doused. He stares at the parchment like it might suddenly start laughing at him. His mouth opens, shuts, opens again, as if he’s caught in a fierce internal war.

“I’m going to kill them,” he mutters, not looking at you, fists clenched around the parchment like it personally wronged him. “I swear I’m going to hex them into next week. I’m so sorry. James and Sirius are convinced that—”

“They’re right,” you interrupt, voice soft but steady, slicing clean through his rising spiral.

Remus freezes.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. You can feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and unrelenting, burning into you like sunlight through glass.

Your hands twist together in your lap, fingers tangling in your sleeves. Your voice is quieter now, barely more than a whisper. “They were right. The other night… I heard what you said.”

A beat of silence. He doesn’t breathe.

“You heard that?” he says finally, voice hoarse, like it hurts to ask

You nod, still not meeting his eyes. “Yeah. I didn’t mean to overhear. I’d forgotten my quill and came back down. But it’s fine.” You force a small, brittle smile. “Don’t worry about it. I know you don’t… feel that way about me.”

The look that crosses Remus’s face is devastating.

His mouth parts again; shocked, wounded and for a moment, he just sits there, stunned and pale, like the world’s dropped out from under him. Then the words burst out, rushed and raw.

“I was lying when I said I didn't–that it would never happen.”

You blink.

Remus swallows hard, dragging a shaky hand through his hair, which only makes it stand on end. “I panicked. I didn’t mean a single word of it. I just—” He groans and buries his face in his hands, fingers curled against his temples. “I thought if I denied it, I could kill the feeling. Control it. I didn’t think you could ever… possibly feel the same.”

You stare at him, your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your ribs.

He lifts his head, looking directly at you now, eyes full of something desperate and unguarded. “You barely talk to anyone,” he says quietly. “But when you talk to me, it’s like… it’s like I’m hearing for the first time. And it kills me. That I can’t stop staring. Or thinking. Or wanting—”

He cuts himself off, lips pressed together, eyes still locked on yours like he's trying to memorize the exact way you're looking at him right now.

Your voice is barely audible. “You don’t have to stop.”

Remus freezes again. His brow furrows, as if he thinks maybe he’s misheard. “What?”

You meet his eyes, finally, fully, and it takes everything in you to hold steady, but you do. “Staring. Thinking. Wanting. You don’t have to stop.”

And just like that, the dam breaks.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a month. Something in his posture shifts, his shoulders relaxing, the tension in his jaw unclenching. He leans forward across the table, hands still fisted around the note, but looser now, like he’s letting go of something heavy.

“Y/N,” he says softly, your name like a secret he’s been aching to speak aloud. “I’ve wanted to tell you for so long, but I didn’t want to scare you off. You’re… you’re shy, and I’m…”

“You’re safe,” you interrupt, a tremble in your voice, but the words are clear. “That’s why it scared me. Because I didn’t want to lose that.”

Remus’s eyes go glassy for half a second, like something just cracked open inside him. Then, with slow, careful movements, he reaches across the table and lays his hand, palm-up, beside your notebook. Not demanding. Not pushing. Just there.

An offering.

You stare at it. Your hand twitches.

And then you take it.

His fingers wrap around yours, warm and steady and so gentle you feel like you might come undone from the sheer kindness of it.

From the aisle across the way, a very muffled, triumphant whisper breaks the moment: “I told you! I bloody told you!”

You both whip your heads toward the sound.

There’s a thud. A loud shhh! And then a frantic scuffling of robes and shoe soles.

Remus sighs, but he’s smiling now, really smiling, soft and tired and happy. You’re still holding his hand. He hasn’t let go.

He doesn’t plan to.

“Next time,” he murmurs, eyes crinkling, “we leave them in the library and sneak ourselves somewhere quiet.”

You laugh, surprised and breathless, your forehead falling forward against your joined hands. “Deal.”

-

It’s a lazy Sunday afternoon in Gryffindor Tower, the common room awash in the soft gold of late-winter sunlight. You’re curled up on the windowsill with feet tucked under Remus’ thigh, your head resting against his shoulder. He’s reading, half reading, really, because every few minutes you say something, or shift closer, or just smile at him, and it ruins his concentration completely.

Not that he’s complaining.

Across the room, Sirius and James are playing chess. Sort of. Mostly, they’re watching you and Remus over the tops of their pieces, poorly concealed amusement flickering between them like a game of its own

James nudges a pawn forward without looking. “He’s smiling again.”

Sirius doesn’t even glance up. “He’s always smiling now.”

James leans back in his chair with a theatrical sigh. “Remember when he used to brood by the fire and sigh over his homework?”

“I do,” Sirius says wistfully. “It was like living with a moody Victorian ghost.”

“He had that haunted look.”

“And now,” Sirius says, gesturing vaguely toward the couch with a chess piece, “this.”

“Baby’s all grown up,” James laments, wiping a fake tear from his eye. “Disgusting.” he deadpans.

“You’re just bitter because Lily only just agreed to sit next to you in Potions again.”

James turns, affronted. “She leaned over to ask for my notes last week, Padfoot. It was a turning point.”

Sirius just hums, clearly not buying it, before casting another smug glance at Remus and you.

“Still,” he says, “we were right.”

James grins. “Painfully right.”

Sirius nods solemnly. “They’d still be dancing around each other if we hadn’t stepped in.”

Remus glances up from his book, catching the last bit. He raises an eyebrow. “Are you two talking about your own brilliance again?”

Sirius doesn’t miss a beat. “We’re just saying, without us, you’d still be sending each other tortured glances from opposite sides of the common room.”

You lift your head from Remus’s shoulder, hiding a smile. “We probably would.”

Remus looks at you, a little startled, then softens. “Maybe.”

Sirius gasps. “You admit it?”

James pounds the arm of the chair like he’s won a bet. “Finally.”

Remus sighs, and it’s the long, fond sigh of someone who knows better than to fight it. “Fine. You were right.”

Sirius clutches his chest. “Say it again.”

“I won’t.”

James winks at you. “Don’t worry. He’ll say it eventually. Usually after you leave the room.”

Remus throws a cushion at him, and James ducks with a laugh.

You nudge Remus gently, still looking over at the two boys, and he turns to you, instantly softening again when he sees your face.

“You were right,” you agree. “Even if you’re unbearable about it.”

masterlist <3

[cozymochi]

Hi there! I like your oc Tia 😊 she's so cool! I was curious how does she get along Leona? Especially in book 2? Just curious 🤔

(Thank you 😳 I have a more generalized scenario of their dynamic written out here.) Gonna have to forego Book 2 because… Leona doesn’t really engage with the Prefect that much in it. So, that more or less applies to Tia too. BUT! Book 3??

BOOK 3.. has so much. They were roommates for 3 days and 2 nights. LISTEN— Two ideologically opposed, obstinate, people stuck sharing a room? It writes itself.

Now Tia has to cook for him and take up all of Ruggie’s old duties during the 3-day stint all while having to fulfill Azul’s contract to get her dorm back? Crazy work.

It was the worst setup for both of them. I can’t even properly articulate all the thoughts I had about it, so incoherent yapping it is.

I don’t think Leona would have denied her room and board on principle (cough, she’s still a lady) nor make it a trial, HOWEVER! That doesn’t mean she’s just going to sit around, take his bed (she slept on the couch) and be coddled while dealing with this Azul thing. She’s getting put to work. It doesn’t matter who you are, you aren’t staying in Savanaclaw and doing nothing.

Like the usual scenario for the prefect, Tia apparently takes over Ruggie’s job of being Leona’s gopher during those 3 homeless days. I kinda wish we saw more of that, but I get narrative priorities and wanting to stay on track. [book 7 has entered the chat]

I believe… for the most part, Tia took over Ruggie’s job while rooming with Leona in stride. Mostly because when she does anything, she tries putting maximum effort into it. His room is not ideal, so she’s already cleaning and organizing from the jump. High key, working on something is how she functions since relaxing is hard for her point blank. Leona doesn’t really get that but, it’s whatever.

Her cooking? 100/10, he gets the best meat ever. Well. For an herbivore anyway. (…Can’t let that ego get too big right)

And you know what was glossed over during this time? The fact not even housewardens get a private bathroom. So somebody 🦁 is going to have to 🦁do escort missions 🦁 Nobody is allowed in when she’s in there using the shower. Just something very annoying for him to be stuck doing 💚😔 Oh also she gets up at like! 5AM!!

AnD SHE WON’T LeT him go back to sleep after that! She just will yap about the state of his room and seems to be bothered by every little thing that crosses her mind. Ruggie found it funny as hell at least. Surprised she got Leona up at all but hey, less work for him for once.

It’s fine though. Leona gets his payback tenfold by having her run around like a panicked gazelle during morning training. It’s very cathartic to see. That- and he makes sure his food requests are very dense and luxurious. What? She can’t live with herself if she doesn’t put in maximum effort all the time ☺️ It should never be a problem for her. Who kindly is letting her stay in Savanaclaw again? Who clears out the bathroom for her? He just does so much.

[Immediately ruins the room she just organized and has her running head first into Azul junk via omitting words just so he can be smug about it later]

…She gets him back again later by denying him sleep not by yelling — but purely from listing all her grievances that she had the entire time she was living with him. She had a lot to criticize. …This whole duping Azul plan she made worked great, not only did Leona get roped into it, but she also got to vent. :3

Leona was right. Azul wouldn’t know real villainy if it hit him. Tia is more of a villain than he ever could be. In more ways than just outsmarting his dumb contract thing.

He would never want to share a room with her again <3

I got my jokes and only yapped about the pain on a very bare bones level, but if time was ever dedicated to downtime moments—- I do think Tia would have voiced being grateful in an earnest way despite it all, even while staying there and under a lot of stress from various sources.

I’m not too certain how receptive Leona would be to it. Probably outwardly dismissive. Yet…

anyway everything’s still pretty cool with Leona after all that Book 3 stuff I guess.

BYE!!!!

[sturniphone]

𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 . . . introducing:

; ⌗ nerd!matt && lamb!reader﹒💭 ⸝⸝

Everyone at school knows her. She’s the girl who makes eye contact when you pass in the hall, who compliments your outfit like it matters, who shows up to the party in lip gloss and a thrifted tank top and somehow makes it look expensive. But what they don’t know is that she cries sometimes in the girls’ bathroom because being adored doesn’t always mean being understood. She loves her friends; she really does, but they talk over each other and drink too fast and sometimes forget to ask her how she’s doing. Matt is the only one who ever notices when she goes quiet. When she gets that glazed-over look, like she’s smiling but no one’s home. She’s not sure why he sees it—but he does. And that means something.

Matt doesn’t know what they are. He knows they kissed. Once, when she had glitter under her eyes and smelt like strawberry lotion. She leaned in like it was the most natural thing in the world, and he’s still replaying it. He wants to ask her what they are. He wants to hold her hand in public. But what if she laughs? What if she says it was a mistake? So instead, he keeps being her safe place. Carries snacks for her in his bag. Learns her schedule. Keeps the hoodie she borrowed even though it smells like her, and he can’t think when he wears it.

He’s painfully shy and nerdy, especially around her. He blushes if she sits too close. Stumbles over words if she compliments his hoodie. But he’s always there. Always consistent. Always soft-spoken and steady. Her anchor, even if neither of them has said that out loud yet.

He never texts first, but he always answers. She always finds him in a crowd. Always. Whether it’s at lunch or after school, her eyes scan for him like she’s looking for gravity. They don’t talk about the kiss. She lets herself be soft with him—whispers secrets in his hoodie, cries quietly during a sleepover movie night while pretending it’s the film. He lets her take up space in his world, and she lets him hold a part of hers no one else sees.

She always brings him coffee when she’s late to school—black, with one sugar, the way he nervously muttered once and thought she forgot. She doodles on his math notes. Hearts in the margins. Little frogs. One time she drew a very bad sketch of him with ❝cutie nerd❞ written under it. She wears the pink Tiffany necklace he gave her every single day. Tucks it under her shirt around others, but Matt always notices it peeking out.

He still sleeps with a teddy bear. It’s old, worn from being loved for too long, with one ear slightly flopped and a stitched-up paw. He hides it—tucks it under his pillow when people are over, buries it under blankets during sleepovers. But one night, she stayed late and fell asleep in his bed after a movie marathon. And he forgot. She found it. She picked it up gently, eyes wide and heart doing cartwheels, and said, ❝Matt. You didn’t tell me you had a bear.❞ And he. Panicked. Turned the colour of a fire truck, tugged it from her hands with a mortified gasp and stammered something about ❝It’s not a big deal—I just—it helps me sleep, okay?❞ She tried not to cry at how red his ears went. How he couldn’t meet her eyes for a whole five minutes. How deeply human it made him. Later that night, she kissed his temple and whispered, ❝I think it’s the cutest thing about you.❞ Matt hasn’t slept without the bear or her since.

They have a corner in the school library no one really uses. She calls it ❝our office❞ and sometimes drapes herself across his lap while he does homework. Sometimes she sleeps in his dorm when things are too loud—his room smells like clean laundry and paperbacks. He sets an alarm early so he can walk her home before anyone sees. They once slow-danced in a kitchen during a party. No one was around. She had bare feet and grape soda. He doesn’t talk about it, but he thinks about it all the time.

what to expect?

So, um, yeah… I’m kinda blank on texts for them right now (no immediate ideas popping up), but I’m totally down to give it a shot if you want! <3 I’m all about that fluff and angst—like, give me ALL the feelings, please, right now. As for smut… nah, not just yet. They haven’t slept together (there's a tiny bit of sad lore I have for her there but it really is tiny), but they have kissed (which is basically heart-melty enough), so maybe we can write about that moment first? Smut can definitely come later when the time feels right. please asks and questions about them !!

💭 ִ ˖ ་ 𝓛ola talks idk

⌗ ִ ۫  ּ   matts study group .ᐟ ꒰ @chrepsi @ph3ebssturniolo @sturnsxbbyeilish @j21l91 @pip4444chris @mattslutt @sophand4n4 @mattscoquette @mi-co-uk @tezzzzzzzz @emely9274 @oopsiedaisydeer @theowensturniolo @httpssturns @matthewsroses @bugs-tags @mattswrinkleton @victorious8 @h3arts4nat @madz146 @ifwdominicfike @rriverscuomo @ivysturnss @brianaluvschris @mattsgold @sturniolotoast @ariieeesworld @angelicameron @blahbel668 @sturniszn @chriss-slutt @mattsdiva @little-lolaaa @mattsmoth @clairo4life @everythingaboutbags @matts-wife @chrispleasure @ajskorner @mattspillowprincess @freshlovefever @twylas114 @matties-angel @mayax2o07 @sturnsflirt @tonymayor2022 @ifellforanotherloser ꒱

[fazedlight]

Embers

I’m not going to fuck Supergirl, she promised herself.

There were two things Lena was very certain of in life: Kara was straight as a board, and Supergirl wanted Lena just as badly as Lena wanted her. The tension with the latter seemed to crackle with every late night conversation in her office, with every last minute save.

But it didn’t matter. One good lay wasn’t worth risking her friendship with Kara Danvers. If things went south with Supergirl, and Kara’s friendship with the kryptonian outranked her friendship with Lena…

Well, Lena wasn’t going to find out.

---

I’m not going to fuck Supergirl.

She didn’t want to, not anymore. Not with the kryptonian’s angry eyes trained on her, the completely unearned distrust. I did nothing wrong by making kryptonite.

Lena glared back, trying to distract herself from the tension between her legs. “This may come as a shock to you,” she snarled back, ignoring the electric charge between, “But I don’t think about you while I’m doing it.”

Okay. So it was a freudian slip.

But she wasn’t going to fuck Supergirl.

---

So she… started to develop feelings for the super.

The feelings still didn’t come close to the flame she held for Kara Danvers. The pointless, fruitless flame. What she wanted with the shy reporter was far more than one night, whereas her interest in Supergirl remained purely physical.

But as Supergirl sorted through Lex’s notebooks in the prison, Lena found that there was sympathy mixed with the tension. She knew what it was like to be falsely accused, to be framed for a crime she didn’t commit - and she felt the guilt of her role too, in helping Lex.

But still, the kryptonian looked at her with familiar and lonely eyes. God, it would be so easy…

If she could just forget Kara, meet her needs without strings attached, have a meaningless night with the reporter’s high-powered friend… But it wouldn’t be right, and it still wasn’t worth the risk. I’m not going to fuck Supergirl.

---

Fuck Supergirl.

Hatred buzzed in her veins after her brother’s death, and all she wanted to do was tell the blonde superpowered reporter to go fuck herself.

It was odd, Lena thought. With Kara so sad and weeping at the Pulitzer, Lena knew she had the kryptonian wrapped around her finger. How far would she go?, Lena mulled. If there was no longer a friendship to protect, what did it matter if Lena had Kara soothe her more primal needs?

In the early days, her fantasies had been about the shy and bashful reporter, or the demanding kryptonian. And after finding out Kara’s true identity, her fantasies became more base - hatefucks and betrayals. Any way to release some of the tension before sleep, to satisfy the burning temptation.

But she suspected it would destroy her. I’m not going to fuck Supergirl.

---

Fuck, Kara…

Lena was panicked as she rushed across the city, realizing the trap she had fallen into with Lex, worrying that something would happen - or had happened - to Kara. This is my fault, my fault, she thought, knocking on Kara’s door.

Her breath caught as the blonde answered. Relief that Kara was alive, shame that Kara and the others were in danger because of her. Anything else was pushed far out of her mind.

Far too quickly, Kara was sent to the phantom zone. Lena barely slept, and fantasized about nothing.

---

Then there were the happy tears. Standing in the Tower, Lena couldn’t believe Kara had returned to her - the world felt surreal as she felt Kara’s arms wrap around her.

It wasn’t long after that Kara pressed her lips against Lena’s, and Lena discovered that the kryptonian had many fantasies of her own. Whereas once she had thought Kara to be shy, and Supergirl to be controlling, Lena was delighted to find her insatiably creative.

I’m not going to fuck Supergirl, she had once promised herself.

Some promises were meant to be broken.

[twistedsistas-stuff]

Pregame Jitters

Request from: @blowmymbackout

Oj Haywood x Reader

It started off sweet. You on top of him, grindin’ slow, lettin’ your hands trail up under his shirt like you been wantin’ to do for weeks now. He was breathin’ hard, eyes hooded, lips parted just so—lookin’ at you like you were a dream he ain’t think he was allowed to have.

You kissed him again, deeper this time. Your fingers brushed down his chest, over the ridges of muscle that came from throwin’ hay bales and mendin’ fences. He smelled like sun and sweat and saddle oil. Felt like home.

But then you paused.

Somethin’ was off. His hands weren’t movin’. His breath was shallow—not from want, but from thinkin’. And when you shifted against him, lookin’ for that telltale pressure—you didn’t feel nothin’.

You leaned back a little, blinkin’ down at him.

“OJ?”

He turned his face away just a bit, jaw tight, eyes stuck on the ceiling like maybe it’d offer an excuse for him. But he didn’t speak.

You sat up straighter, slid off his lap real gentle-like. Not accusin’, not shamed. Just tryin’ to understand.

“It’s alright,” you said, voice soft. “You don’t gotta… we don’t gotta do nothin’ you ain’t ready for.”

OJ finally looked at you, eyes wide and a little panicked—like he hated he’d let you down. Like he was scared you’d get up and leave.

“It ain’t you,” he muttered, sittin’ up with a sigh, rubbin’ at his jaw with one hand, the other clenchin’ the sheet beside him. “It damn sure ain’t you.”

You just waited. Didn’t rush him. That’s one thing you learned about OJ—silence was part of his speakin’.

He swallowed hard, voice like gravel when he finally found it again. “I just… I don’t know how to do this. I mean… not with somebody like you. You so soft, so fine, got me feelin’ like I’m messin it up before I even start.”

You smiled, just barely, touched his arm. “You ain’t messin’ up nothin’, baby.”

“I ain’t—” He looked down at his lap, clearly frustrated. “I ain’t used to… folk wantin’ me like that. Like this.”

You scooted closer, slid your hand up his back, felt the tightness in his shoulders.

“I know,” you whispered. “You been out here on this ranch, workin’ yourself to the bone, barely talkin’ to folks outside your sister and them horses. You don’t think I see that? I know you don’t do this often. Or maybe ever.”

He gave a dry little laugh. “Ain’t had time for it. Or the words.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder.

“Don’t need words right now. Just you. However you come.”

OJ stayed quiet a minute, just breathin’. Then finally, he spoke again, voice so low you almost missed it:

“Felt like I had to get it right. Make it perfect. Show you I could be what you wanted.”

You tilted your head, made him look at you. “I ain’t here for perfect. I’m here for you.”

His throat worked as he swallowed that. “What if I don’t know how to let go?”

“You don’t have to. Not all at once.” You kissed the edge of his jaw, soft and slow. “We got time. You ain’t gotta prove nothin’. Just let me be here with you.”

He nodded, real slow. Eyes wet, but he blinked it back.

And you didn’t try again. Didn’t push nothin’.

You just curled up with him on that bed—limbs tangled, the window fan hummin’, moonlight spillin’ over the two of you like some kind of quiet grace.

And OJ—he held you tight. Tighter than before. Like he was finally lettin’ himself believe you wanted to stay.

And Lord, you did

You must’ve both drifted off sometime after that—his arm curled around your waist, your face tucked up under his chin. The fan hummed lazy over y’all, the world outside quiet ‘cept for the distant whine of crickets and the creak of the barn settling into night.

OJ slept hard, breathin’ slow and deep, one hand still resting gentle on your hip like he didn’t wanna lose hold even in his dreams. And you—your nerves had finally settled. You wasn’t mad. Wasn’t even disappointed. Just… a little confused. A little unsure.

But not cold.

You felt him stir after what must’ve been an hour, maybe two. Sun was slidin’ down behind the hills now, turnin’ the room amber gold. He blinked slow, then looked down at you like he was still tryin’ to figure out if this was real.

“I gotta get you home,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep.

“You sure?” you asked, thumb brushing across his chest.

He gave a little nod, kissed your temple with a featherlight press. “Yeah. Let’s get you back.”

Y’all didn’t say much on the walk out. Just quiet smiles, little glances, the kind that hold too much to put into words yet. He helped you up in the truck, hand warm at your back like always, then walked around slow, slid behind the wheel, and turned the key.

The engine rumbled to life, and so did your phone.

Group Chat: 🐍Snakes & Saints🐍

Keke 🖤: 👀 well???

Raye 💅🏾: don’t play w me girl what happened

Mel 😭: did he flip you like a bale of hay or nah??

You smiled, thumbs tappin’ as you snuck a glance at OJ—his hand firm on the wheel, eyes on the dirt road stretchin’ out ahead.

You: y’all… he couldn’t get up 😩

You: said I was too fine

You: like… literally

They lit up like fireworks.

Raye 💅🏾: GIRL BYE 😭😭😭

Mel 😭: i KNOW you lyin. not mr horse whisperer foldin over a lil booty

Keke 🖤: nah he on B.S. lmao “too fine” ?? he too scared

Raye 💅🏾: he said “you beautiful” and his dick said “nope”

You bit your lip trying not to laugh, phone buzzin’ nonstop in your lap.

You: what i do?? 😭

Mel 😭: nothingggg boo

Keke 🖤: just let him be nervous. maybe he ain’t used to women like you.

Raye 💅🏾: mmhmm he been on that dusty ranch too long

Raye 💅🏾: you prolly the first soft thang he seen that ain’t got hooves

You: y’all ain’t right 😭

Keke 🖤: but fr? just keep being you. he’ll come around. probably when you not tryna jump him 😭😭😭

You smiled, heart warm now. They were right. You didn’t need to push nothin’. OJ was quiet, raised up on that land with barely anyone but his sister and the horses. You? You was a lot. Beautiful, bold, soft in all the places life hadn’t hardened.

Maybe you really did make him nervous.

Good.

You slipped your phone back in your bag and looked over at him. He caught your gaze for half a second, a little smile tuggin’ at the corner of his mouth like he knew you’d been textin’ about him.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low and smooth like molasses.

“I’m good,” you said, leaning back in the seat, eyes soft. “You?”

OJ kept his eyes on the road. But he nodded, hand flexin’ once on the wheel.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just… gon’ take my time with you.”

That right there? It was more than enough.

You wasn’t sure what to expect the next time you saw him.

OJ had texted the next morning just a simple, “You sleep okay?” Nothing big, nothing flashy. But it meant somethin’. Meant he was still thinkin’ about you. Still wanted to know how you was after everything. And when he asked if you wanted to come by the next weekend, just hang out—ride if the weather was good—you said yes without even thinkin’.

You pulled up late afternoon, sun sittin’ low and fat in the sky, the kind of heat that clings to your skin but don’t quite burn. OJ was already outside, leaned against the fence, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, lookin’ like that same quiet dream you’d first seen out by the stables.

But this time, when he saw you, somethin’ passed over his face.

Not nerves.

Hunger.

“You look good,” he said, eyes runnin’ down your frame slow like syrup.

You raised a brow. “Just good?”

He gave that little side-smile of his. “I’m bein’ polite.”

You laughed, walked over to him, and he met you halfway. Didn’t rush. But his hand found your lower back this time. Real firm. Stayed there a second longer than it needed to.

Y’all rode a while, easy conversation, horses trottin’ gentle under y’all. But even then, he was different. His gaze stuck to you longer. His voice dropped lower when he spoke your name. When you leaned forward in the saddle to adjust the stirrups, you caught him starin’, jaw set like he was tryin’ not to react.

You ain’t say nothin’. You just smiled.

Back at the barn, you helped him unsaddle Lucky. OJ moved close behind you, reaching past to grab a brush from the shelf. His chest brushed your back—on accident, maybe. But he didn’t move away right after. Just lingered. Let the heat of him settle into your skin.

“You always get this close to folks when you brush a horse?” you asked, lookin’ back at him over your shoulder.

His voice was damn near a murmur. “Only when I want to.”

You turned around real slow, still holdin’ the reins in one hand. “You flirtin’ with me, OJ?”

He didn’t blink. Just looked you dead in the eye, voice steady as a stone. “I’m tryin’ to.”

That was new.

No hesitation. No nerves.

By the time y’all got back inside, dusk was spillin’ through the windows, pink and lavender paintin’ the walls. He poured y’all some water, handed you a glass, his fingers brushing yours on purpose this time. You sat on the couch, sipped slow, tryin’ to pretend your pulse wasn’t jumpin’.

He sat beside you. Not across the room. Not in the chair like last time.

Right next to you. Close enough that his knee bumped yours.

Y’all talked a little—about work, your friends clownin’, the horses. But then that quiet settled again. The kind that buzzed with every breath. You felt it in your chest, in your thighs, in your fingertips.

He set his cup down.

Turned toward you.

“You still thinkin’ ‘bout what happened last time?” he asked, low and real.

You hesitated. “A little.”

He nodded, eyes dropping to your lips, then back to your eyes. “I been thinkin’ ‘bout it too.”

You tilted your head. “You still nervous?”

OJ let out a breath, leaned in a little closer. “Not nervous. Just don’t wanna mess up. But I… I want you, girl.”

That did somethin’ to you. The way he said it—I want you, girl—like it’d been sittin’ in his chest for days.

You reached out, slid your hand across his thigh. “Then show me.”

And he did.

First with his hands—warm and steady on your hips, your waist, your face. Then with his mouth—kissin’ you slow, deep, confident now, like he was finally lettin’ that quiet fire out. His hands didn’t tremble. His lips didn’t hesitate. He kissed you like he meant it.

Like he knew what he was doin’ this time.

You didn’t even make it to the bed at first. Just the couch, bodies pressed together, breaths tangled, heat risin’ between y’all like a storm about to break.

And when you finally did start headin’ toward the bedroom, he stopped you at the door, pressed you up against the frame, kissed you again like he’d been waitin’ his whole life.

This time—he was ready.

Y’all were halfway to the bedroom—him kissin’ you like he meant to carve your name in his breath—when your phone lit up on the couch.

Buzzin’ loud against the cushion.

You didn’t pay it no mind. Not at first. But it kept goin’.

And OJ… he noticed.

He pulled back just a little, chest still pressin’ against yours, breath warm on your neck. His brow furrowed, gaze flickin’ to the source of the noise. He leaned back, one arm still around your waist, and reached for the phone with two fingers.

Screen lit up bright in his palm.

And there it was.

🐍Snakes & Saints🐍

Keke 🖤: he couldn’t get up cause she was too fine 😭😭😭

Mel 😭: LAWD his dick said “nope”

Raye 💅🏾: 😭 don’t roast him too bad y’all

Keke 🖤: i bet he scared now. poor lil horseboy

Raye 💅🏾: girl don’t do too much he still cute. he just folded

Mel 😭: she gon have to carry this one sexually

OJ’s jaw locked.

Eyes shifted slow from the screen… to you.

That stoic glare settlin’ in. That unreadable stillness—like the kind the horses get when they sense a storm comin’. He didn’t speak for a beat. Just held the phone out so you could see it, the light from the screen flickerin’ in his dark eyes.

Then—real calm. Too calm.

“Oh. So you think I can’t get up?”

Your mouth opened. “OJ, no, I ain’t—”

He dropped the phone back on the couch with a thud. Stepped closer. His whole energy changed—still quiet, but with a weight behind it now. His voice low and even, but laced with somethin’ sharp. Somethin’ personal.

“You tellin’ your little friends I folded?” he said, eyes boring into yours.

You blinked, caught between flustered and frozen. “It wasn’t like that. I—”

He cut you off with a kiss.

Not like before. This wasn’t soft. This was declaration.

He grabbed your thighs, hoisted you clean off the floor like you weighed nothin’, and your breath hitched. He carried you down the hall, mouth never leavin’ yours, teeth grazin’ your bottom lip like a promise.

Dropped you onto the bed. Climbed over you, slow and sure.

“You so sure I can’t handle you?” he asked, voice like thunder rollin’ under his breath. “That what you think?”

Your lips parted, but nothin’ came out. All you could do was look up at him, heat floodin’ every inch of you.

OJ smirked.

“That’s alright.”

He slid his hand down your leg, lifted it over his shoulder, leaned in so close his words hit your neck.

“I’ma show you.”

He didn’t break eye contact as he lifted your leg higher on his shoulder, hand sliding beneath your thigh, thumb pressin’ slow circles into your skin. You felt the muscles in his forearm flex as he leaned in, weight sinking down over you inch by inch, until your hips dipped into the mattress, caught underneath the full heat of him.

That quiet, heavy air between y’all buzzed now—electric.

“You feel that?” he murmured, lips barely brushing your cheek, his breath thick and warm as molasses.

His hips pressed against yours, real slow, just enough friction to make your eyes flutter, your breath catch. The firmness of him against your core—still clothed but insistent—made your whole body ache. It wasn’t even him movin’, not yet. Just pressure. A slow, deep grind that pulled a gasp from your throat.

“Mhm,” you managed, hand clutchin’ at the back of his neck, the other slidin’ across his back like you could anchor yourself to the moment.

OJ kissed you again.

But this one wasn’t sweet.

It was deep. Hungry.

His tongue met yours with purpose now, his lips partin’ yours like he’d been studyin’ your mouth, waitin’ for this. That hand on your thigh slid down slow to grip the back of your knee, pressin’ it just a little further up so your hips tilted—givin’ him that perfect angle to lean his weight into the seam of you again.

You moaned into his mouth, hips twitchin’ against his.

He pulled back just enough to see your face, your eyes half-lidded, mouth glossy from his kiss.

“Still think I was nervous?”

“No,” you whispered, voice all shaky and sweet.

OJ smirked—just a little. His mouth dipped to your neck, tongue draggin’ slow along your pulse before his teeth grazed your skin, settin’ your whole body on fire.

“You gon’ stop tellin’ folks I folded now?”

You tried to speak, but all that came out was a soft, breathless sound when he rolled his hips forward again, the drag of his length through your soaked panties makin’ your thighs clench.

“That’s what I thought,” he said low, that Southern grit in his voice rumblin’ through your chest like a second heartbeat.

He kissed down your throat, across your collarbone, takin’ his time like he had somethin’ to prove with every inch of skin he claimed.

And you knew—this was just the beginning.

That slow grind?

Just a glimpse of what was comin’.

Because OJ Haywood didn’t need to talk big.

He just needed to show you.

His mouth was still on you when those big hands of his started movin’, one trailin’ up the soft of your thigh, rough calloused fingers draggin’ slow across skin that’d never been touched like this. The pads of his fingers were dry, textured from years on reins, rope, and rust—each pass up your leg makin’ your breath hitch, makin’ your core tighten with every inch he climbed.

His other hand cupped your lower back, slidin’ upward in a firm, possessive stroke that made you arch into him, chest pressin’ to his with a gasp. He was holdin’ you close like you was delicate—but you felt how strong he was. How easy it’d be for him to pick you up and walk through fire if you asked him to.

He leaned back, just enough to get a good look at you, and you saw it—that look like he was starin’ at something he couldn’t believe he got to keep.

Then he reached down and kicked off those beat-up boots, one at a time, heel to toe, not lookin’ away from you even once. He wasn’t movin’ fast—but he wasn’t lettin’ go of you, either. Just keepin’ one hand on your thigh, thumb circlin’ slow, steady. That pressure did somethin’—your hips rolled into his, just a little, and you felt him press back, thick and heavy through his jeans.

Your pulse fluttered hard.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low, chest vibratin’ against yours like a second heartbeat.

You nodded, tryin’ to catch your breath. “I’m sure.”

“Say it.”

“I’m sure, OJ.”

He grunted real quiet, almost to himself. Like maybe he’d been needin’ that.

Then those hands got to work.

He slipped your shirt up inch by inch, fingertips brushing the skin underneath, and God, you felt them like fire—like your whole body was waiting for this. The way his knuckles brushed your ribs, the drag of his palms across your back as he raised the fabric, not just takin’ it off but learnin’ you as he did it.

When the shirt hit the floor, his fingers found your bra strap. Didn’t rush. He slid it down your shoulder slow, lips followin’ the trail like it was a path only he got to walk. His mouth was warm and steady on your skin, open and reverent. When he unhooked your bra, he didn’t stare—he just leaned in and pressed his face between your breasts like he was home.

Then his hands found yours.

Placed them right at the hem of his shirt.

Didn’t have to say nothin’.

You looked up at him, breath tremblin’, and pulled it off.

OJ was solid. Thick across the chest, arms coiled tight with muscle that meant somethin’. Ain’t no gym-built show pony—he was a worker. You could see the strength in his forearms, the way they bulged slightly even when relaxed, veins prominent, hands so damn big they made you feel small just bein’ near ‘em. His chest was broad and warm, the lightest smatterin’ of hair across it, and when your fingers ran over his pecs, down that line between his abs—he shuddered.

Like your touch surprised him.

Like he wasn’t used to bein’ handled soft.

You kissed down his chest, lips skimmin’ his skin, and he let out a sound low in his throat. You could feel him twitch against you, hard and pulsin’ through his jeans now, nothin’ shy about it.

But he wasn’t about to let you take the lead just yet.

He caught your hand again—guidin’ it to the button of his jeans.

“Take ‘em off,” he said, rough now, his voice scratchin’ the base of your spine.

You popped that button, slid the zipper down slow, and he watched you the whole time. Eyes dark. Unblinking. When your hand brushed the outline of him through his boxers, he exhaled hard, jaw clenching just once.

You pushed his jeans down and he stepped out of ‘em, then tugged his boxers low enough to let it all fall free.

And Lord.

He was built like the rest of him—thick, heavy, real. Not just big but right, perfectly matched to that solid frame, hangin’ with weight and heat that made your thighs press together.

OJ didn’t gloat.

Didn’t smirk.

Just let you look—silent, grounded, present.

Then he stepped in close, pressed you back onto the bed like he was settin’ you down real gentle—but still heavy enough to let you feel what was comin’. He knelt over you, hand slidin’ down to your panties.

“You good?” he asked, voice soft now, but still scratchy and deep.

You nodded, whisperin’ yes before you even knew you were speakin’.

He pulled them down with both hands, thumbs draggin’ slow along your hips, not missin’ an inch of skin. You lifted for him, legs partin’ instinctively, barin’ yourself without shame.

And when he looked at you, laid bare beneath him, he leaned down—kissin’ your knee, then your thigh, then higher still—like he meant to devour you slow.

Like he was about to make up for everything he didn’t do last time.

OJ moved between your thighs with a weight that made your breath catch, one of them thick arms slid up under your knee, liftin’ your leg easy like you weighed nothin’ to him. His hand rested against the inside of your thigh, just above your knee, holdin’ you open, thumb strokin’ lazy circles into your skin. The pressure wasn’t hard—but it was final. You weren’t goin’ nowhere. Not till he was done.

He kissed the inside of your knee first.

Then a little lower.

Then higher.

Lips draggin’ warm and slow, the faint scrape of his stubble makin’ your skin feel raw and wanted. And he ain’t look away. He watched you—watched your mouth part, your back twitch, your thighs tense beneath his grip.

“Mm,” he hummed against your skin, his voice rough and low like he’d been savin’ it just for this. “You already shakin’, baby.”

You swallowed, tryin’ to breathe, but your chest was tight, your belly hot. His mouth found the crease of your thigh and lingered there, kissin’ and suckin’ like the taste of your skin alone was enough to undo him.

Then, finally—finally—he lowered his head.

You gasped the second his tongue touched you.

Warm. Firm. Slow.

OJ licked up your slit like he was feelin’ out the rhythm first, testin’ what you liked—then flattened his tongue and did it again, harder. He moaned into it, deep in his chest, and that vibration shook you right to the bone.

“Oh God—OJ,” you gasped, hand flyin’ to his head.

But he didn’t let up. Didn’t even pause.

His hand slid further under your thigh, holdin’ you open tight now, his other arm restin’ heavy across your lower belly, pinning you. That grip was solid—years of throwin’ bales and ropin’ wild horses translated now into keepin’ you still while he devoured you.

You tried to move.

Couldn’t.

Didn’t want to.

He flicked the tip of his tongue over your clit in slow, precise strokes, then sucked it into his mouth with a gentleness that wrecked you. Your legs twitched in his grip, your body tryin’ to curl in on itself, but he just leaned in heavier, buryin’ his face deeper.

“You gon’ keep runnin’?” he murmured against you, lips brushing your slick folds as he spoke. “Hm?”

You whimpered, tryin’ to answer, but the words came out high and broken.

He chuckled—low, gravelly, hungry.

“Can’t even talk now, huh?”

His tongue circled your clit again, slow and lazy, like he had all damn night. Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, diggin’ into the muscle there—real, thick under your hands, the way only a man who worked sunup to sundown could be. His back flexed when you squeezed him, but he didn’t lose focus. If anything, he doubled down.

“Wanted to tease me in front of your little group chat,” he murmured against you, kissin’ your inner thigh again before draggin’ his tongue all the way up your center. “Tell ‘em I couldn’t handle you?”

You sobbed out a sound—half moan, half apology.

“Tell me again,” he growled, “that I can’t get it up.”

You couldn’t. You couldn’t speak.

And he knew it.

He shifted, lifted your hips a little higher, his mouth sealin’ back over your clit while two thick fingers slid inside you slow, stretchin’ you open in a way that made your thighs shake, your whole body arch up into his mouth.

You cried out—choked and raw.

OJ just grunted again, fingers curlin’, tongue flickin’ in time with the roll of your hips. He owned you in that moment. Strong, solid, anchored between your thighs like he was built to be there and nowhere else.

“You gon’ finish for me like this,” he muttered, his breath hot, his voice thick with want. “Right on my tongue.”

You nodded, mouth open, gaspin’—but still couldn’t form a single word.

Didn’t need to.

OJ could feel the way your body was climbin’, twitchin’, tightenin’ around his fingers. He knew. He kept goin’. Harder. Slower. Deep.

And you? You came with a cry you couldn’t bite back, hips liftin’ off the bed, OJ’s arms holdin’ you down, still, while he drank every last drop of you.

Didn’t stop ‘til you were twitchin’, whimperin’, too sensitive to move. You ain’t know it could feel like that. Not just good—but shattering.

OJ kept goin’ even after your first climax broke through you like a wave crashin’ against the shore. That heavy tongue movin’ just right, those thick fingers curled up inside you, hittin’ that spot so steady your body didn’t know what to do but react. You were shakin’, legs twitchin’ around him, hands clutchin’ at the sheets—but he didn’t stop.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

“Come on,” he muttered low, mouth still workin’ your clit with purpose, voice thick with heat. “Lemme feel you gush, baby. I know you got it.”

You moaned—loud, helpless.

He adjusted just a little, hooked your hips tighter in his arms, spread you wider, and damn, it hit different. That pressure, that pace—tongue flickin’, then suckin’ gentle and slow just to snap back harder—until it was too much.

You cried out, eyes rollin’ back as your release hit, hot and wet and sudden, gushing over his mouth, your whole body jerkin’ against the flood of it. Your thighs clamped tight ‘round his head on instinct, hips buckin’ even as you tried to push him away, overstimulated and sobbing—but OJ didn’t move.

He grunted into it, breathin’ you in like that was exactly what he’d been after all along.

Your hands flew to his scalp, fingers diggin’ into those soft curls, scratchin’ at the back of his neck, then slidin’ down to clutch his broad shoulders, still tremblin’, still comin’.

Finally—finally—when your legs locked around him and wouldn’t let go, he slowed down.

Kissed you once, soft and wet, right on the inner thigh, his beard damp, jaw flexed from holdin’ back all that hunger.

Then he pulled back.

And Lord.

You looked down at him, sprawled between your thighs, his lips glistenin’, face flushed with heat and effort—and even then, his breathin’ was measured. Chest rising slow and deep like he just walked through a storm and ain’t even winded.

Light was low now, sun spillin’ in soft from the window, catchin’ on the slope of his shoulders, the sweat along his collarbone. His skin was golden, warm, almost glowin’ in the light—and he looked like he was carved from the land itself. A man who worked with the earth, slept under it, and rose every morning with purpose.

And damn, you admired him.

“Mm,” he said, voice raspy now, still thick from the taste of you. “All that talk…”

You blinked, lips parted, still breathless.

He licked his lips, wiped his beard with the back of his hand slow.

“You wanted me up?” he asked, standing now—towering, body casting a shadow across you. “Well, I’m up.”

His dick was hard—rock hard—hangin’ heavy and full between those strong thighs, and when he stepped back just a bit, you saw the twitch of it. The need. All that heat bottled up now ready to be poured back into you.

“Now go ‘head.” he said, voice low.

You pushed up, legs still weak, body hummin’ with aftershocks—and crawled to him on hands and knees.

Slow. Deliberate.

Head swimmin’ with everything he just did to you.

When you reached him, you looked up—his eyes already locked on yours. Hands restin’ heavy on his hips, jaw clenched, nostrils flared like he was fightin’ the urge to take over.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t rush.

Just let you come to him, earn it.

And baby, you were ready to do whatever it took.

You reached for him slow, hand wrappin’ around the base of his dick, thick and heavy in your palm. Your breath caught a little, just lookin’ at him like that—long, veiny, the tip already glistenin’ with precum. He watched you, his eyes dark and low, one hand draggin’ back through his curls, the other hangin’ loose by his side until—

You leaned in and kissed the tip.

Real slow.

OJ’s fingers twitched.

“Mmph,” he muttered, breath catchin’. “Aight.”

You looked up, lips kiss-slick, smilin’ a little. “Aight?” you teased, tongue flickin’ out again. “That all you got for me?”

He gave a low grunt—like a warning—but didn’t stop you. Just watched. Waited. Let you take the lead.

Your lips wrapped around him, and you started slow, suckin’ the head with soft pressure, hand pumpin’ his shaft, twistin’ just how you liked it done to you. He was warm in your mouth, salty on your tongue, and thick. It took a little effort to ease down, jaw stretchin’ wide, breath comin’ short—but you wanted all of him. Wanted to feel him in your throat.

“Shit,” he whispered, voice rough now, hand liftin’ to the back of your head. His fingers curled in your hair—not pushin’, just holdin’.

“You good?” you asked, voice soft, breathless.

He nodded, chest rising heavy. “Just like that.”

You went down again—deeper this time—and your eyes watered when the tip brushed the back of your throat. You pulled back with a gasp, drool stringin’ from your lips, hand pumpin’ him a little faster now.

“Goddamn, OJ,” you said, half-laugh, half-moan. “What you feedin’ this thing?”

He chuckled, breath stutterin’, hips shiftin’ just a little forward. “Hay bales and stress,” he muttered.

You grinned—then took him back in.

This time, you went slow—deliberate. Learnin’ the weight of him, the way his body flexed when you moaned low, the little twitch of his fingers in your hair when your tongue swirled just beneath the head.

He groaned deep in his chest. “Shit—yeah. Yeah, right there.”

His hand gripped tighter, not hard, but firm, guidin’ you into a rhythm—his rhythm. You caught on fast, lettin’ him lead just a little, your mouth gettin’ wetter, throat startin’ to relax into him. He started mutterin’ under his breath then, voice low, breathless.

“You tryna kill me?” he said, barely audible.

You popped off him, gaspin’, hand still strokin’ him wet. “Not kill. Just humble.”

That made him grunt, deep and dark, his eyes burnin’ low as he looked down at you.

“You talk too much.”

You smirked, lickin’ up the underside of his shaft real slow. “Then shut me up.”

That flipped a switch.

OJ gripped your hair a little tighter, guidin’ you back down on him—and you let him. Mouth open, takin’ him deeper now, eyes locked up on his while you moaned around him.

“Fuck,” he whispered, hips startin’ to rock. “There you go… just like that. Keep goin’.”

You did. Mouth workin’, tongue rollin’, hand followin’ every stroke your throat couldn’t take. He was losin’ that calm now—his face tense, body flexin’ beneath your hands, his abs tight, thighs twitchin’ when you hollowed your cheeks.

You loved the way he sounded like he was tryin’ to stay quiet but couldn’t.

Loved the way his voice cracked when he said your name, the way he cursed under his breath, the way he groaned when you swallowed around him just right.

You had him deep—his hips twitchin’, breath catchin’, that steady quiet unravelin’ the longer you kept him in your mouth. You were takin’ your time with it, makin’ it messy, moanin’ low just to feel him pulse on your tongue, suckin’ him like it was the only thing that could keep you full. You didn’t care if your mascara ran or if your jaw ached. You wanted him wrecked. Wanted to make him lose that calm he wore like a second skin.

But just when you were pickin’ up speed, eyes waterin’, moanin’ around him, about to finish the job—

His hand slid down.

Not rough—deliberate.

Fingers grazin’ your cheek, then slidin’ under your chin… down the soft curve of your throat.

He wrapped his hand around it, firm but gentle, and pulled you up.

You gasped, mouth still wet, lips parted, brows raisin’ in surprise—but you didn’t fight it. You looked up, breathless, flushed, and ready.

OJ’s eyes were locked on yours.

And that quiet look he always had? That far-off, steady-cowboy stillness?

Gone.

He stared at you like you’d just lit a fire under his skin.

Then—real slow—he smirked.

“Look at you,” he muttered, thumb brushin’ your lower lip. “Mascara all down your face… pretty lil’ mouth all messy.”

You didn’t blink. Just licked your lips, eyes locked on his. “You ain’t stoppin’ me ‘cause you scared to finish, are you?”

He let out this low grunt of a laugh, deep in his chest. That was your only warning.

Then he kissed you.

Hard.

Heavy.

Like he needed to taste himself on your tongue. His hands slid to your hips, and the second he pulled back—his breath was ragged now, lips still brushin’ yours—he whispered:

“Turn over.”

You shivered.

Didn’t argue.

Didn’t need to.

You turned around slow, heart poundin’, layin’ on your stomach, ass up just enough to let him see what he was about to claim.

OJ didn’t rush.

He took a second—hand draggin’ down your back, his calloused palm slidin’ over the curve of your ass, down to your thigh. He gripped you firm, fingers sinkin’ into soft flesh, and damn if it didn’t make your whole body hum.

“You think you in charge?” he said low, leanin’ over you now, his voice draggin’ heat across the back of your neck.

“Nah,” you whispered back, eyes flutterin’. “I know I am.”

Wrong move.

He growled low, grabbed your wrists, and pinned ‘em behind your back, his weight pressin’ into you just enough to remind you he was built for this—all that strength, all that quiet control comin’ down hard and real now.

“You gon’ feel me now,” he murmured, kissin’ the back of your shoulder. “You want me up? You got me up.”

His hips aligned with yours—and baby, you felt that thick length just pressin’ against your soaked folds, not even in yet, but your body already aching for it.

“Say you ready,” he said.

You whined, archin’ back against him. “I’m ready, Jay, Please…”

“You sure?” he asked, teeth grazin’ your ear, hands still holdin’ you down.

You moaned, desperate now. “Quit teasin’—fuckin’ do it.”

He slid in slow—that stretch hittin’ you deep and thick, makin’ your mouth fall open, makin’ you claw at the sheets while he pushed in to the hilt.

Didn’t stop.

Didn’t ask again.

And once he was buried deep inside, he leaned down, mouth warm against your ear, his voice quiet but cuttin’ clean through your breathless moan.

“You talk too much,” you managed to whisper, a shaky grin pullin’ at your lips.

He let the silence stretch for just a second—just long enough for you to think you’d gotten away with that.

Then he smirked.

He pulled back—and drove into you hard enough to knock the sass clean outta your throat.

You ain’t sayin’ nothin’ now.

And OJ? He planned on keepin’ it that way.

Your face pressed into the pillow, mouth open, breath already catchin’ off that first stroke—and he was still deep inside you, not movin’, just lettin’ you feel the weight, the fullness of him. That stretch made your legs shake, made your hips buck back involuntarily, like your body couldn’t believe it finally had him—all of him—right where it needed.

OJ leaned over, chest draggin’ heat down your spine, one hand comin’ up to your arms and lockin’ both your wrists in his grip—firm, unmovin’. That thick forearm settled over yours like a damn armband, holdin’ you in place, claimin’ you like it was just another piece of the ranch he meant to keep.

“Still feelin’ in charge?” he murmured, his voice low, steady, and laced with that quiet fire.

You turned your head, lips grazin’ the sheets, your voice breathy but defiant.

“Might need a few more strokes to convince me.”

OJ let out the kind of laugh that sounded like a threat.

“Aight.”

He pulled back.

Then sank into you again—slow and deep, like he was diggin’ for something inside you.

Your mouth dropped open, a sob mixin’ with a moan, back archin’ hard. But he didn’t let go. That arm around yours tightened, holdin’ you down like he was wrestlin’ a wild thing.

“Yeah, keep talkin’,” he growled, hips rockin’ now in a hard, slow rhythm that had your thighs tremblin’. “You got all that mouth ‘til I get up in it. But now look at you.”

You tried to answer, tried to throw somethin’ back—but it came out a whimper, high and helpless.

“Uh huh,” he said, lips right against your shoulder now. “What happened to all that sass?”

You writhed under him, eyes rollin’, toes curlin’ into the sheets, and he loved it—loved the way your body met him stroke for stroke, even as your arms stayed pinned, helpless under his weight.

“Fuck—OJ—damn,” you gasped, voice crackin’.

“I know,” he rasped, rollin’ his hips deeper, slower, draggin’ every inch through you like it was the last one. “That’s why you was actin’ out. Wanted it rough. Wanted me to hold you.”

And he did.

That arm didn’t budge—held your wrists like you was nothin’ but his to use, his to keep, his to wreck.

Your hands flexed against his forearm, tryin’ to get leverage, but he tightened his grip and drove into you hard, makin’ your whole body jolt up the bed.

You screamed into the mattress.

“Y’all hear that?” he mocked, low and breathin’ heavy, sweat drippin’ down his back. “She was real bold earlier. Now she cryin’ into the sheets.”

You looked back at him, dazed, makeup smeared, sweat glistin’ on your skin.

“ain’t cryin ,” you managed, voice hoarse.

He grinned—eyes dark and dangerous.

“Look at you. Still runnin’ that mouth.”

Then he let go of your arms—and before you could move, grabbed your hips with both hands, spread your legs wider, and picked up the pace. Slow no more.

Ruthless now.

Heavy strokes, hips slammin’ into yours, skin clappin’ loud and nasty. The sound of it echo’d in that room like gospel and sin.

You clawed the sheets, eyes wide, mouth open—but the moans wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t slow.

“God—OJ—please—”

“You want me to stop?” he said, damn near daring you to lie.

You shook your head frantically. “No!”

His fingers dug into your hips, pullin’ you back into every thrust, makin’ sure you took all of him.

“Good,” he said, leanin’ over you again, his breath hot and jagged against your neck. “Cause I ain’t done.”

He reached around, hand slidin’ down your belly—then lower—fingers findin’ your pearl and rubbin’ slow, small circles just as he kept that brutal rhythm goin’. Your whole body jolted.

“You feel that?” he said, voice growlin’. “Soaked for me.”

“Shut—shut up,” you moaned, eyes rollin’ back.

“Make me,” he muttered, and slammed into you harder.

You couldn’t. You didn’t.

And he knew it.

You ain’t even know what words you were sayin’ anymore—just syllables, gasps, little half-sobbed “right there” spillin’ from your lips as he kept strokin’ you deep, his grip bruisin’ your hips, his fingers rubbin’ your pearl with that same steady, maddening rhythm.

It was too much.

Too much and just enough.

Your thighs were tremblin’ uncontrollably, stomach tightenin’ down, vision goin’ blurry. Your hands reached back, grabbin’ anything you could—his wrist, the sheets, air—and your voice cracked as your whole body locked up.

You came hard.

With a scream and a sob, your legs locked around him, back archin’ high, pleasure crashin’ through you like a goddamn flood.

You shook.

trembled.

cried.

And OJ ain’t stop—not until your body went limp under him, until your breath turned ragged and your hands finally fell away, open and empty.

That’s when he slowed.

Pulled out gently, breathin’ heavy himself, eyes trailin’ over your wrecked, boneless form like he just tamed a wild thing.

He leaned over you, one hand slidin’ up your side, the other brushin’ over your cheek.

You was still sniffin’, tearin’ up, chest risin’ fast from all that overstimulation.

And OJ?

He looked over your face slow.

Gentle.

“Look at you,” he whispered, low and almost sweet. “Told you I had it in me.”

His hands slid down your thighs, grippin’ ‘em just above the knees, slow and steady—then he turned you over, gentle but strong, flippin’ your limp body onto your back like you ain’t weigh a thing.

You blinked up at him, eyes glassy, chest still heaving.

OJ hovered over you, breathin’ heavy, sweat slickin’ down his chest and abs, that quiet look in his eyes still there—but darker now. Focused. Hungry. That kind of hunger you don’t just feed once.

He leaned down, thumb brushin’ under your eye, catchin’ the tear trail before it could reach your ear. His other hand cradled your jaw, fingers slidin’ behind your neck to pull you into a kiss.

It wasn’t rushed.

It wasn’t soft, either.

It was full—like he wanted you to taste what you’d done to him.

He pulled back just enough to whisper, “You still with me?”

You nodded, voice barely a breath. “Mhm…”

“Good,” he said, smirkin’. “Don’t go nowhere.”

Then he hooked your legs—lifted them up just like when y’all was kissin’ earlier, bendin’ your knees high, pushin’ them back ‘til your thighs nearly kissed your chest.

He lined up again, thick and soaked with your mess, and this time when he slid in?

Slow.

So slow you could feel everything—every ridge, every inch, every place your body stretched and welcomed him back in like he never left.

You moaned loud, hand grippin’ his forearm while the other slapped over your own mouth.

“Nuh uh,” he muttered, knockin’ your hand away, eyes locked on yours. “I wanna hear all that.”

He moved deliberate now.

Long strokes.

Deep.

The kind that hit up—not just in—kissin’ that sweet spot with every push, makin’ your eyes roll back and your hands clutch at the sheets again.

You could barely speak. “O-OJ… baby—fuck…”

He licked his lips, jaw tight, arms flexin’ as he braced himself over you, muscles workin’ like a goddamn machine. “Yeah. Right there, huh?”

You nodded, whimperin’. “Yesyesyesyes—right there, don’t stop—”

He didn’t.

Just worked you, hips rollin’ like waves, that slow rhythm punchin’ deep and dirty, like he was diggin’ into the part of you that only he could reach.

Your legs trembled in his grip, feet twitchin’ in the air, and he loved it.

“Keep ‘em right there,” he muttered, pushin’ your knees back further, foldin’ you up and sinkin’ even deeper. “Let me in all the way.”

You choked on a sob.

“God—OJ—”

“Shhh,” he whispered, thumb slidin’ over your lips. “You wanted me up… I’m here now. You gon’ take all this.”

He circled his hips, grindin’ against that spot so slow, so filthy, your toes curled and your back bowed off the bed.

You couldn’t do nothin’ but feel. Hands in his hair, mouth open, body fallin’ apart under every thick, relentless push.

“You feelin’ that?” he growled, one hand slidin’ down to grip your thigh tight. “Feelin’ me all up in it?”

You nodded, cryin’ out, “Yes—fuck—yes I feel you—”

He kissed you hard, deep, tongue slidin’ into your mouth like he owned every part of you.

“You gon’ remember this,” he grunted between thrusts. “Next time you get smart, next time your girls start runnin’ they mouth—gon’ be thinkin’ ‘bout this stroke. This dick.”

You moaned into his mouth, legs startin’ to shake again, pressure buildin’ fast.

“I’m close—I can’t—OJ—”

“Yes you can,” he breathed, voice tight, grittin’ his teeth as his pace picked up, rougher now, hips slammin’ into yours just right. “You gon’ finish again. Just like this. With me watchin’.”

And you did.

Right there, legs up, body folded beneath him, mouth wide open as pleasure broke over you again, shakin’ through every limb.

And OJ?

He held you there.

Your body was tremblin’, eyes wet, chest heavin’ like you’d run a mile—but OJ didn’t slow.

Didn’t pull out.

Didn’t even blink.

He watched you finish—watched it wash over you like a storm, those hips still rollin’ steady through every aftershock while your breath caught in your throat. Eyes dark. Focused. Possessive.

Sweat dripped off his jaw to your chest, slid down between your breasts, and he licked his lips slow before that same calm, dangerous smile curved across his face. Not wide. Not cocky. Just sure.

Like he knew—you his now.

“Finished?” he asked, voice low and rough.

You nodded, legs twitchin’.

He raised a brow. “Nah. Tell me.”

Your voice barely made it out. “I—I finished…”

He leaned in, lips grazin’ your ear, heat from his breath makin’ you shiver again.

“Good,” he said. “Now lay back. I’m gon’ take mine.”

And before you could even breathe, he pulled out halfway—then slammed back in, thick and hard, the stretch meaner now, draggin’ a sharp gasp outta you.

You tried to reach for his chest.

“OJ—!”

But he caught your wrist mid-air and pressed it back down against the sheets, firm and final.

“Nah,” he said, voice dark as Mississippi mud. “Don’t touch. Just relax. You wanted this, right?”

You nodded, eyes wide.

He pushed your knees higher, planted them up by your shoulders, and folded you—deep and tight. Then he snapped his hips forward again, slow but powerful, grindin’ so deep it felt like he was tryin’ to reach your damn soul.

“So take it.” he muttered.

His strokes got deeper.

Longer.

His strength—unreal.

Built off years of wrestlin’ horses and haulin’ feed, them thick arms flexed every time he moved, his hips hittin’ like thunder rollin’ across open pasture. You could feel the control in him—the rhythm, the pace, the way he held back just enough to keep you right on the edge again.

You tried again, fingers brushin’ his side, but he grabbed your hand and pushed it back.

“I said don’t. Let me handle it.”

His tone didn’t raise. Didn’t need to. The weight in it alone had your thighs shakin’.

“Just take it,” he said again, lips by your throat now. “Ain’t no need for nothin’ else.”

You moaned—soft, near soundless—while he started really workin’ you.

He locked your legs around his waist and rolled his hips slow but heavy, hittin’ that same spot over and over ‘til your whole body went tight again.

“Nah,” he muttered when he felt you start to clench again. “I ain’t done.”

You whimpered, already past the edge, but his strokes just got deeper.

“Yeah,” he grunted. “Thought you was finished? You gon’ finish with me. I want all of it.”

You shook your head, words lost.

He grabbed your thighs tighter, rolled forward harder—so deep it felt like you was splitting open again.

Your hands clawed at the pillow, mouth open in another silent cry.

“Tell me you mine,” he growled.

“I’m—OJ—I’m—”

“Say it.”

“I’m yours!”

He kissed you—hard, tongue in your mouth, breath hot. Then he pulled back, that storm in his eyes finally breakin’ loose.

“That’s right,” he whispered. “You mine. So finish wit’ me.”

His body locked up then—hips stutterin’, abs flexin’, that thick vein down his arm poppin’ while he dug in deep.

You felt it.

That final build in him.

His moans—low and full of gravel.

The heat—the pressure—the stretch.

You finished again, whole body tight, back archin’ up into him while your legs shook. You cried out his name while his thrusts lost rhythm, gettin’ messy, desperate, like he was chasin’ that final high with everything in him.

Then he buried himself in you, full and deep.

Groaned into your shoulder.

You felt the heat—all of it—and the way he held still for a beat, lettin’ it wash over him like a man who finally got what he’d been fightin’ against.

“Damn,” he whispered, jaw clenched, breath caught.

He let your legs down slow, movin’ like his body still remembered every stroke. Stayed on top of you for a minute, lettin’ you feel that weight, that heat, that strength still pressin’ into you.

Then he pulled back—kissed your cheek, your jaw, your temple.

You blinked up at him, dazed, tears still slidin’ down your face from all that pleasure.

He wiped them with his thumb, leaned close, whisperin’ into your ear like it was a prayer.

“You good?”

You nodded, chest still flutterin’. “Better than good…”

He smiled, a little more of it this time—soft and satisfied. He laid down beside you, slid his arm around your waist and pulled you into him, lettin’ your bare skin meet all that heat and strength.

His lips pressed to your shoulder. “Mmm,” he hummed. “Next time you text them girls… tell ‘em this country boy handled every inch.”

You laughed, breathless.

Still twitchin’.

Still feelin’ it in your gut and in your chest.

And the way he held you after?

You slept like you ain’t never had a worry in your whole damn life.

————————————-

Wooohhhhh 200 followers yall gimmie a kiss.😏💕💕 I’m finna be writing for 200hours

[tidalparadigm]

Early Bird

Pairing: Bang Chan x Reader (Gender neutral)

CW: Explicit sexual content (Minors DNI), Explicit Consent, Alcohol consumption

WC: 3.1k

Summary: Waking up at home after a long night out is already an ordeal. But waking up in someone else's bed with no recollection of how you got there is another can of worms entirely.

Sunlight streamed in through the windows, glaring unpleasantly into your eyes as you blinked. You had just woken up, body stiff and throat sore from partying with your friends all night. 

You had gone out as a group to celebrate one of your close friends' birthdays. You’d exchanged presents and gotten ready together at her apartment before heading out. Fast forward several bars later, and you were feeling better than you had in months. 

The alcohol in your system had gotten rid of almost all your embarrassment as you danced and flirted unabashedly with strangers. 

There was one guy in particular that you had been eyeing up from your table. He was with a group of men that had arrived shortly after you and your friends.

You had watched him talk animatedly to the people surrounding him. Raising his hands and gesturing in ways that made his biceps flex tantalizingly. 

The rest of the night passed in a blur. You remember eventually building up the courage to go talk to him and then nothing. You couldn’t remember how you got home, where your friends were, or what happened to the (hot) man at the bar. 

You blinked again into the sunlight and sat up in bed. Yawning, you stretched out your arms above your head until you felt the stiffness start to abate. It wasn’t until you blinked again and took in your surroundings did you start to panic. 

The bed you had slept in was not yours. The sheets were a dark grey and the unfamiliar blankets were messy where they wrapped around your legs. The desk shoved in the corner of the room was unfamiliar, as was the nightstand next to the bed. 

Your feet were bare, shoes most likely discarded at the entrance to the apartment but your clothes were still on. Still, you wrapped the sheets around you in an attempt to cover yourself more. 

Your eyes were still darting across the room trying to figure out where you were when the door creaked open. 

Standing there, bathed in sunlight, hair still messy from sleep was the man from the bar last night. He smiled shyly at you when he noticed you were awake before walking over and placing a glass of water down on the nightstand beside you. 

“Good morning, I hope you slept well. I uh, brought you some water, but please let me know if there’s anything else you need,” he chuckled to himself quietly. “I guess you had a long night last night so…” he let himself trail off. 

You gratefully took a sip of the water as he spoke, cheeks flushing as he finished his sentence.

“Would you mind telling me what happened last night? The way you’re putting it makes it seem like we…did something.” 

“Oh my gosh, no, not like that, I’m so sorry, I should explain.” He started, the look in his eyes clearly panicked as you stared at him in horror. 

“Nothing happened last night, well, stuff did happen last night, but nothing like that.” At this point, the man was stuttering, blush high on his cheeks as he tried to look anywhere but at you. 

“The way you're talking, you're not making me any less concerned.” You began, “I can’t remember much from last night, so please just tell me what happened.”

“Ah, alright, that sounds like a good idea.” He took a long breath, trying to gather himself before he started talking. “First of all, my name’s Chan, and this,” He gestured around the two of you, “is my apartment.” 

You nodded, having gathered most of that from your surroundings, but pleased to put a name to the handsome stranger's face.

“So last night,” he continued, “Some of my friends and I went out to a bar, just for drinks and to catch up. By the time you came up to me, most of them had already left. Actually, I was just about to head home myself.” He chuckled. 

“Ah.” You nodded to yourself, burying your face in your hands. “I think I remember that part, god, this is so embarrassing.” 

“It’s not too bad,” Chan said, smiling sympathetically, “But we talked for a while and drank some more. By the time you said you wanted to leave with your friends, they were already gone. I think they might’ve texted you, but your phone was dead, so we couldn’t check.”  

Instinctively, you reached towards your back pocket where you always kept your phone, only to find it empty. 

“Oh, I um, plugged it in when I got up this morning, it's on the bedside table.” Chan rubbed the back of his neck, obviously self-conscious of touching your belongings. 

Quickly reaching towards the table to your right, you powered on the device. Sure enough, your lock screen was flooded with missed calls and texts from your friends telling you that they were leaving and making sure you got home safe. 

You sent an apologetic text to the group chat and assured them you were okay before plugging your phone back in and setting it down once again. 

“So after that,” Chan started again, “I didn’t really know what to do, and you were drunk, so I just brought you back here and slept on the couch because I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” 

“Ah, I really appreciate it.” You said, before stretching your arms and legs again. You pushed the covers off of yourself and stood up. “Honestly, I feel horrible for intruding and making you sleep on the couch in your own home. Is there anything I can help with before I head out?”

“I um,” Chan’s face was bright red again. 

It was only then that you noticed you were still in your outfit from last night, a cropped shirt that rode up your stomach as you stretched, and short, tight-fitting shorts that hugged your thighs and ass. 

“There shouldn’t be anything really,” Chan said, and your attention snapped back to him, face still flushed but now slightly turned away from you as if he was trying to protect your modesty. 

He cleared his throat. “If you want to stay a little longer, you can.” He offered. “I made breakfast, and I have some medicine if you have a headache at all. 

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to intrude, and you’ve already done so much for me.” You trailed off, hesitant to accept his offer. 

“It wouldn’t be a bother at all,” Chan stated confidently, as he turned to face you once more. “Besides, I already made too much food to eat by myself, so it’d be a waste if you left.”  

“In that case, I’d love to stay for breakfast.” You paused, “But, do you think you could show me to the bathroom first?” 

He smiled and nodded, escorting you to the restroom in the hallway outside his bedroom. 

“The kitchen is just this way,” he gestured vaguely to the right. “I’m going to set the table, so just come find me when you’re done.” 

As he left, you shut the door behind you and stared at yourself in the mirror. For after a night out, you looked pretty good. You had slept well enough that you couldn’t see any dark eye bags below your eyes, and your head wasn’t pounding like it usually would. 

You finished up in the bathroom quickly after that, stealing a towel to wash your face and scavenging a spare toothbrush from its packaging in the drawers below the sink. 

Chan was sitting at the kitchen table when you finally made your way to the kitchen. He greeted you with a smile as he gestured over to what you assumed was your plate. 

The food almost looked too good to be true. It was hard to believe that he had cooked it in the short time he had in the morning. 

You ate in relative silence, only talking once you were both finished. He waved you off when you tried to do the dishes, insisting that it was alright. 

“I just feel bad, you’ve helped me out so much this morning, doing the dishes is the least I could do.” 

“I don’t mind.” Chan countered. “It’s a chore I actually enjoy.” He paused briefly, looking thoughtful. “You could clean off the counter, though, if you want. It got a bit messy while I was cooking.” 

You accepted eagerly, wanting to be helpful in some way. 

“So,” Chan started, “What were you doing out last night?” He asked, trying to sound casual.

“I was celebrating a friend's birthday.” You replied. “We had actually been to several other places, I’m glad we ended up at the bar though.” 

“Oh, why’s that?” 

“Because I got to meet you.” You said. Being careful to keep your expression neutral as you try not to blush. 

“Yeah,” Chan responded with a hum before turning towards you. “Why’s that?” 

You gave him a pointed look up and down, letting your eyes linger on his arms before meeting his eyes and biting your lip. 

“There’s a reason I talked to you last night, you know.” You took a cautious step forward, hoping that you weren’t reading the situation wrong. 

“Yeah,” Chan repeated, stepping forward and effectively closing the distance between the two of you. You were in each other's space now, almost chest to chest. “There’s a reason why I took you back here last night, you know.” He smirked as he maneuvered you so you were pressed against the counter.

“And why’s that?” You asked innocently, blinking at him as he placed his arms on either side of you, caging you in. 

“Because you looked absolutely stunning, baby.” He stated, pressing his face to the side so he could speak directly into your ear. “Because I wanted to do things to you that would’ve gotten us kicked out of the bar.”

You had had enough, you reached out to thread your fingers in his hair and pulled his head back before slamming your mouths together. He gasped in what seemed like surprise before reaching up to cup your face gently in his hands. 

He groaned into your mouth and rolled his hips up against yours. You gasped at the friction, grinding back down to chase after him. 

“God I wish you were sober last night.” He moaned against you, pressing sloppy kisses to your lips before trailing his mouth down your neck.

“Would’ve made you forget your own name darling.” He licked up your pulse, feeling the rapid beat of your heart. “Would’ve made you scream for me.” 

You gasped, throwing your head back as you lifted yourself onto the counter. You wrapped your legs around his waist pulling him closer as you let out a high-pitched whine. 

“Doesn’t matter now,” he grumbled as he pulled away briefly to fiddle with the hem of your shirt. “I can make you scream today.” 

You gasped, reaching blindly for his hands to help pull the shirt over your head. He followed suit, practically ripping his own off as you started to unbutton your shorts, eager to feel him deep inside you. 

You managed to get the button undone and the zipper down before Chan grabbed your chin and forced you to meet his eyes. He looked like a man starved, eyes hungry, practically drooling at the sight of your exposed chest. 

Your own eyes dropped to his now exposed torso and you almost drooled. You should have expected it, given his biceps, but his whole stomach was toned. Hard muscle shaped into a mouthwatering form. You let your hand trace his stomach, one trailing up to give his pec an appreciative squeeze. 

He groaned at that, catching your wrist in his own hand and bringing it up to his lips to press a sweet kiss there. But Chan didn’t stop there, he kept trailing kisses up your arm till he reached your chest. 

“Are you sure you want this, darling?” 

The words took you by surprise but you nodded, unable to form words and Chan practically whined, letting his mouth have free reign over your body. 

He bit and sucked until you were sure that your torso had been transformed into a work of art. The sensation was everywhere, his tongue, lips, and hands were all over your body, seeming to leave scorching trails in their wake. You couldn’t help but let your mouth fall open as you panted and moaned for more. 

“Ah, you’re so filthy, baby.” He punctuated each word by trailing a kiss further down your chest. “Letting me have you like this on the kitchen counter.” You groaned, and he reached where your shorts still clung to your hips. 

Without hesitation he pulled them and your underwear down your legs, letting you shimmy them off as he stepped between your legs again, pressing right up to your now-exposed skin. 

“You have no idea how good you look right now do you?” He whispered in your ear, nipping at your neck before smiling into your skin. 

You could hardly think, all he had done was kissed you but you were so far gone already. He was standing right between your legs, so close to where you wanted him. You tried to loop your legs around his waist again to pull him closer but he caught you by your thighs, spreading them apart and letting your arousal drip onto the counter, soaking the freshly cleaned surface below. 

“You’re so wet for me baby. Is this what you want darling?” He smiled sweetly at you, a stark contrast to how he ground his still-clothed dick into you. “You want me right here.” 

You gasped and nodded, leaning back until your shoulders hit the countertop and Chan was looming above you from where he still stood between your legs. 

“Words darling.” he prompted, teasing his fingers along the inside of your thighs. Feather-light touches that made you shiver in anticipation.  

“Ah, yes Chan please!” You babbled, “God, want you so bad, please I’ll do anything.” 

“Just like that baby,” He grunted clearly not unaffected. “Keep talking like that, I wanna hear you.”

“Fuck, please Chan, I need you!”

You gasped as you felt a finger circle your entrance, dipping in just slightly before retreating. The sensation made you groan in pleasure as Chan drank in each and every one of your expressions and noises. 

He leaned down once again, letting your mouths mold together as you moaned into each other. Chan fingered you open like his life depended on it, teasing and crooking his fingers just so until you were gasping into his mouth and seeing stars. 

He moved down to your neck, biting a sucking in earnest until you were drooling and whining uncontrollably from all the sensations. 

You almost cried when he pulled his fingers out feeling so empty. You didn’t know why he pulled away until you saw him a few steps away discarding his sweatpants and boxers. He’d procured a condom from some unknown drawer and was busy rolling it over himself before he stepped back into your space and you felt the press of his cock against your entrance. 

“Please tell me I can.” Chan started, looking at you with eyes full of want. “I need it so bad please let me fuck you.” 

“Chan Please.” You whined, voice cracking as you begged. “Please fuck me, I need you too.” 

That was all it took for him to snap. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, bullying himself into you as your jaw dropped and your eyes rolled back in your head. The world had narrowed down to just him. Chan was all you could feel and think about. 

His hips met yours and he gave an experimental grind, pushing even deeper into you as your hips were pressed flush together.

“Are you ok, baby?” He panted above you, his jaw was clenched almost like he was holding back and you couldn’t help but thread your fingers into his hair and pull him down to kiss him. 

“Please…” You whimpered, wanting nothing more but for him to let go. 

He groaned pushing his face into the crook of your shoulder so he could bite and suck at your collarbone.  

It started off slow; he pulled out carefully, like he was scared that you would break before pushing back in slowly. The sensation made your back arch as you tried to push his hips back to meet him, urging him to go deeper, harder, faster. 

He obliged quickly, speeding up until he was practically pushing you up the counter. He grabbed your waist with enough force to bruise as he pulled you down to meet him. 

You were moaning unabashedly, head fuzzy as you could feel a familiar pressure building within you. Your moans increased in volume and soon you were damn near screaming his name as he continued to thrust into you, somehow increasing in speed as you cried out for him. 

“God baby…” he sounded breathless, “You make me feel so good, so tight for me.” he gripped your waist harder and repositioned himself so that you two were face to face. 

Chan looked so gorgeous, eyes heavy-lidded and hair sticking to his forehead as he panted into your mouth.  

“Please, darling, please,” he started, though you didn’t know what he was begging for. “Need you to cum, need to make you feel good.” 

He moved one of his hands down to your lower stomach and pressed down right where his cock was settled inside you. 

You moaned high and loud into his mouth as you tumbled over the edge, squeezing your eyes shut, and instinctively tightening around his cock as he thrust a few more times before cumming as well. He collapsed on top of you, pressing every inch of his body against yours and relishing in the post-orgasmic bliss. 

You would’ve stayed there much longer if your back didn’t start aching in protest. He pushed lightly at his shoulders, and he got off of you easily, wincing slightly from overstimulation as he pulled out and discarded the condom.  

You rolled your shoulders and hopped off the counter. Chan embraced you as soon as you were standing, practically picking you up as he hugged you. 

“I don’t know what you have going on today, but I’d love it if you wanted to stay a bit longer so I can take care of you.” he smiled at you, the corners of his eyes crinkling as you kissed him on the cheek. “We could cuddle and watch a movie. And I could cook dinner for you later.” He offered.  

“That sounds wonderful.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

a/n: This is my first post on Tumblr and my first time writing smut, so hopefully I did alright. Comments and kind feedback are always appreciated :)

-T!dal

[kawhh]

this will be a lil long im sorryyyy but i thought u might like some of my really pervy thoughts abt being jack's cute little best friend <3

him buying his 'Angel', as he always called her, a stuffed animal w/ a voice recorder box. he'd hear all the little sounds she makes in her sleep and the moans as she touched her innocent holes before bedtime.

jack coaxing her into their first sleepover. sure they were best friends but she wasn't so sure as to why he couldn't just drop her off at her place. he'd make up a random excuse then, once she fell asleep, he'd touch her cute pussy through her lil pajamas. his Angel would think she had a wet dream and wake up all embarrassed and shy but she'd have no idea that it was no dream at all. it was Jack planting a seed in her mind to view him in that way <3

that same night he'd snap some pictures of his Angel in his bed, her little sleep shorts riding up and showing her butt. the way she slept through it all put crazy thoughts into his head - thoughts about fucking her in her sleep. would she even know?

sorry for bad grammar or typos or anything!!! i'm sick in the head and sleepy and english is not my first language 🌀

Angel is forever my favourite pet name for him and nobody can change my mind. It just fits. It's just right.

Warnings: recording you without permission, touching you in your sleep, grinding against your skin until he cums, hints at kidnapping you to keep you with him, fantasies about fucking you in your sleep

He'd be paying outta the ass for storage space, needing every single little noise recorded from you permanently saved. It makes him feel insane, every single noise from you shooting straight to his cock. Such a mess every single night, headphones in, his face buried in his pillow thinking about your pretty tits, his cock grinding against the bed.

He can't think straight. Hearing you exist is enough to make him leak, but he's fucked when you start exploring your body. His innocent angel, building her self-confidence.

He hears the squelch as you dip your fingers cautiously inside of yourself, the little circles around your clit obvious to his ears. The need to be inside you makes him want to scratch at his skin, has him panting into the pillow, his saliva drenching the fabric.

He can't control it. His mouth filling at the idea of his tongue tracing patterns around your tits, his cock head weeping at the thought. Mouthing around nothing, pretending he's flicking against your clit, consuming you.

You're fucked the minute you're trapped in the same room with him at night, even if you don't understand the danger you've been placed in. You don't see the way his mouth waters, how he shakes with restraint while he waits for you to fall asleep.

You have no way of leaving him. Even if you found where he'd hidden his keys, you have no other way home. You need him. He's unconcerned about the consequences of touching you while you're asleep. He'd just keep you here until you calmed down if you stir.

All the nights alone, cumming against his bed sheets is worth it for how adorable you look when he drags your teddy bear pyjama shorts down your legs. It's hard for him to not cum just from how you look in your underwear. The way he can see every part of you through the material.

Hyper focused on his finger as he drags it softly across your clit, watching your sleeping body jerk towards the contact, the way a wet patch instantly starts forming with his touch. He swears your pussy's trying to suck him in, pleading for him to come in.

It's saturating his finger, the slick forming a bridge to his finger when he pulls away. He's panicked trying to rush to suck his fingers, needing every taste of you he can get until he can fully manipulate you.

He can imagine the look on your face when you wake up. Your underwear sticking to you, the way the fabric would be ruined from how wet he'll make you all through the night. It's already almost transparent and he's barely touched you.

It's impressive how you don't stir in the slightest, with how whoreish your pussy is acting. Your hips on a mission, the little moans and whimpers he drags out of your mouth. The way his circles around your clit quicken, the way your thighs spasm. You don't even slightly stir. Your hands don't even twitch.

He can't resist his desires, his confidence growing when you don't react. Grinding his bare cock against your inner thigh, thrusting up against your skin, occupying the gap between your thigh and cunt.

You're too innocent to know what his cum'll look like mixed with the mess you've already made in the morning. You'll be too flustered, worrying too much about what you did. Not him. You'll be convinced it's your fault and he has no intention of confessing until he's confident that you've fallen for him.

He'd be recording you the minute he got close to cumming. The camera shaky as he tries to capture every second of your face and your pussy, every thrust of his cock. He can't decide what to focus on, what he needs to immortalise.

He's panting as his fantasies overload his brain, driving him further and further to the edge. It's a fucking miracle how you don't wake up. An aphrodisiac injected straight into his veins. He could ruin you. Ruin you for everyone. Mould you to himself. Mould you to his dick. You're so wet in your sleep from his touch. He could have you over night after night.

Sinking into your cunt, feeling you squeeze around him, being ever so gentle with you until he'd lose his mind, his grip would tighten on you before he'd start attacking your pussy, crashing into the deepest depths of you.

His eyes rolling back in his head from the thoughts, his cock throbbing as he releases against you, painting your innocent, sleepy little body with his cum.

[kieranduffysgirl]

Hear me out. Reader gets really hurt one day, like they were coming back from a job and they get jumped by a bunch of O’Driscolls. They manage to outsmart them and get back to camp. And you can do what you will with that

a/n: I loved this request sososo much got me thinking for lots of the gang so I wrote a little snippet for everyone and I'm hoping to do a bit more content like this so please do offer some requests. Also, I'm working on the next chapter of ONE YEAR and also a request so more bits and pieces on the way, mwah 💘

featuring: arthur, john, charles, kieran, sean, javier, abigail, sadie

Arthur Morgan: He would be all stoic and calm when you arrived home, helping the others clean you up and settle you down but the minute you were settled in bed he would cry. After his experience with them he knew how brutal they could be so he would be crying and holding you and whispering the kindest and gentlest words, "You were so brave, baby...so strong and careful, yer safe now...back in my arms and out fo harms way...ain't no one laying a hand on you again." He would look after you like a damn nurse, anything you asked for or needed he's done it before you even finish asking. His hands would be gentle and his words loving as he would rock you to sleep and kiss every sore spot and scar left behind. But once you were settled and calm, he would find every single O'Driscoll who dared to lay their finger near you, hell even breathe near you, because no one else should even dare to hurt his sweet girl.

John Marston: He would be panicked like anyone who came back to camp he'd be asking where his wife is (even though your not his wife yet). The minute you came back he'd pick you up and hold you and press kisses to your cheek even is Arthur was muttering and laughing at him. "Darlin'...was so worried, I'll get Ms Grimshaw to patch you up...oh baby, what happened?" He would murmur as he settled you on his bed. He would let her fix you up but the minute she was gone he would be all over you, his arms around you as he lay down next to you. Even if you were in pain you'd let him hold you and plant kisses on the scars and sore patches. He would probably get a bit sniffly and clingy just because he was so scared of losing you. If you were upset about lasting scars I can just imagine him gently tracing and kissing the scars and whispering, "Hey...it's okay darlin'...look at me, I'm all scarred and rugged and you think I'm handsome..." as he smiled softly.

Charles Smith: He'd be so worried the minute you were late back to camp, he's so kind and lovely that he would be the one person in camp who would like know when everyone should be home and safe due to being on watch most nights. He would be stood by the edge of the camp waiting for you, whether or not it was his night to watch out. The minute you came stumbling back he'd be pulling you into his arms and asking you what happened, he wouldn't let anyone else touch or help you, Only him. His gentle hands would wrap up your wounds and gently stroke calming circles into your skin to help you breathe and calm down. Once you were calm and were no longer flinching he would pull you close and gently kiss along your hairline and mumble softly about his day to distract you from what had happened. He would rock you gently in his arms until you fell asleep, he would barely move and simply just fall asleep in your bed holding you against his chest so you could feel his heartbeat whilst you slept.

Kieran Duffy: He would scoop you up in his arms and hold you close, whispering “My brave girl, I love you so much…shouldn’t be out on your own…they won’t get you now, honey”, he’d most likely sob into your hair and cling to you so tightly, he would be so scared they'd come back and take you from him. He'd also nurse your wounds and change your dressings, making sure he wiped your sore skin with a warm flannel to keep you healthy and clean. He wouldn't leave your side for a single moment and his arms would be secure around you every second whether it was night or day, he also definitely would mumble quiet, sleepy little "I love yous" against your skin. He would be so scared due to his time with the O'Driscolls and his awareness of them, so he would cling to you and probably get overly tearful if you weren't close to him as the pure fear in this mans body would be insane. After all, he has been a victim to the O'Driscolls in his time.

Sean MacGuire: He would probably be singing and pissing about when you got home but the minute he saw his sweet missus all injured and scared. He would be lingering awkwardly as everyone fussed over you, but the minute the cleared off he would check you over. He would definitely like poke your arm and whisper, "Does that hurt, sugar?" or like gently wrap his arms around you and whisper, "Tell me if it hurts..." He would shower you in cheeky little kisses, each time he would cuddle closer and kiss your jaw and neck as he whispered, "No one lays a hand on Mrs Maguire," as you would giggle and hold him but keep having to remind him you were in fact in pain.

Javier Escuella: He would be so worried, despite him being busy playing his guitar, his eyes would scan camp for you constantly for the evening. He would be waiting out for his girl to come home, but the minute you came stumbling in he would disregard everything to check on you. "Amor...amor what happened?" He would ask through pure panic as he watched the girls tend to your injuries. He would sit beside you holding your hand as the others fixed you up for him, his thumb gently brushing circles against your palm. As soon as your bandaged up and tucked up in bed he would lay down next to you and murmur, "I'm not going anywhere okay...going to keep you safe, mi amor." before gently humming under his breath as he gently presses kisses to your cheek and jaw as he rocked you to sleep.

Abigail Marston: She would be worried sick, she would be pacing camp and pestering Sadie or Arthur to go and find you. The pair would probably have to drag you back to camp, and Abigail would be rushing over and taking care of you. She would most definitely kiss your forehead and sniffle softly as she tried to settle you down and make sure you have a good dinner. She would lay you on her and gently stroke your hair and murmur softly to you, probably softly scolding you, "you silly, silly woman I was worried sick...had me panicking," as she gently kisses your cheek.

Sadie Adler: She would sit beside you whilst the others fixed you up but she would be seething. She would disappear for a bit but come back after sunset in a different set of clothes murmuring that there's nothing for you to worry about now. She'd lay down next to you and pet your hair as she let you explain what happened, before she would lean down to kiss you. She'd wrap an arm around you and whisper, "My brave girl...so clever," as she kissed your cheek and held you to help you fall asleep. She would lay next to you and fall asleep beside you, and she most definitely wouldn't let you go anywhere without her from now on.

[pure-smut]

addicted.

featuring: Ryomen Sukuna x f!reader

contains: college!Sukuna, groping on public transport (exhibitionism maybe??), a smidge dubcon, orgasm denial, missionary, mating press, size k*nk, Sukuna is a stalker and super possessive/toxic, unprotected s*x

word count: 2.6k

note: all characters are aged up to 21+!

MDNI | 18+ content

series: 1. infatuated | 2. obsessed | 3. addicted | 4. toxic | 5. feral

masterlist

a/n: thank you so much for all the love this series has gotten!! kinda feel like this maybe isn't the end?? idk i feel like sukuna's got more tricks up his sleeve so lmk if you'd like to see more~

It’s been a few days since you had that wet dream about Ryomen Sukuna and you still can’t get it out of your head.

Weird enough that it had come completely out of the blue – it’s not like you’d really thought about him since you slept together – but it was so vivid. The feel of his tongue on your throbbing clit, broad and deft as he made you cum on his tongue.

You shudder, growing wetter even as you remember it.

You’d seen him around campus a few times but despite his usual intense look, he hadn’t acted any different to before. You didn’t mind – despite being a great night, you knew Sukuna was a fuckboy through and through. You have no interest in spending more time than necessary with a guy who couldn’t give a shit about you.

So, you’d ignored him back.

Except for that wet dream.

You shake your head, trying to rid yourself of the memory, wrapping your arms around yourself. You’re at the train station, waiting with a thick crowd of commuters as you wait on your train home. You usually leave class a bit later than everyone else, staying behind to study, specifically so you could avoid the crush of people at rush hour. But today, your textbooks were getting delivered and the timeslot was less than convenient, forcing you to rush home with everyone else.

You try to make yourself small as the train arrives and you’re swept up with the crowd.

Everyone files on quietly, squishing themselves into the cramped space. You mumble a few apologies as you press into the commuters around you, finding a corner that you can face, hugging your bag to your chest. The train shudders as it starts up but you’re so crushed into the corner, you don’t even sway at it moves. You sigh heavily. It’s going to be a long journey home.

You start to zone out, wishing you’d thought to bring your earphones so you could at least listen to some music. When you feel a hand on your hip, you don’t even register it, assuming it’s someone in the crowd squeezing past. It’s only when you feel hot breath on the top of your head and the hand slides lower, touching your bare thigh, that you jolt.

You try to turn around but you’re pressed into the corner, not able to move. You heart hammers in your chest, your breath catching. Some random pervert is feeling you up!

What do I do?! You think to yourself, panicked.

And then you hear him.

“Relax, baby.” Sukuna’s voice is low so only you can hear, his mouth against the shell of your ear.

You freeze.

“S…Sukuna?!” you squeak.

“Shh,” he hushes you, his thumb tracing circles on your thigh. “Keep quiet for me, angel.”

You risk a quick glance behind you, but Sukuna’s large frame covers you completely, blocking you from view. You twist your neck to look up and see him grinning down at you.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” you say back, blinking. “What are you-?”

Before you can even ask, he’s answered you. Sukuna’s hand moves up your thigh and under your skirt, cupping your panty-clad pussy. You gasp and Sukuna tuts in your ear.

“Be quiet, remember?” he says firmly.

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry, but give a small nod. Despite the absurdity of the situation, a weird thrill runs up your spine at how brazen he is. You’re in public. Anyone could see. The train rocks on the tracks and Sukuna takes the opportunity to slip his fingers under your panties.

You bite back a gasp.

“Good girl,” Sukuna purrs.

He starts to stroke small circles around your clit, already slippery with your arousal. Your body responds to him on instinct and you spread your thighs slightly, allowing him more access.

The train stutters to a halt. You remain rooted to the spot, unmoving, as people file off and on the train. Thankfully, it remains full to the brim, so no one notices Sukuna groping you in the corner. You only breathe when the train starts moving again.

“Tell me something,” Sukuna says lowly. “Who were you speaking to earlier?”

Your mind is foggy with lust, too focussed on his fingers playing with your pussy in public. You blink several times, trying to understand his question.

“Um…” You falter as he applies more pressure, sending a jolt of pleasure through you. “W-who?”

Sukuna growls in your ear and he pulls his fingers away. You fight the urge to whine, your clit still needy.

“Don’t play dumb.” His voice is quiet enough for only you to hear but has a dangerous undercurrent. “That white-haired jackass.”

You furrow your brow, confused. You had bumped into one of your classmates earlier outside your work and had ended up chatting to him for maybe ten minutes. But how did Sukuna know about that? And why was he angry?

You’re jolted from your thoughts as Sukuna lightly slaps your pussy.

“Well?”

“T-that was just a c-classmate,” you stammer out.

“You seemed awfully cosy with him.”

“How would you know?” you shoot back, a nugget of defiance forming in your chest. “And why do you even care?”

“I care,” Sukuna whispers in your ear and it sounds more like a threat than reassurance. “I care a lot.”

Your breath catches in your chest as Sukuna’s fingers return to your puffy clit, stroking it again. You nearly groan but bite your lip to contain it.

“Does he get to do this to you?” Sukuna asks. “Does anyone but me get to touch you like this?”

“N-no. Of course not.” You’re trying to keep the waver out of your voice but the way he’s rubbing your sensitive bud is making your knees weak.

His deft fingers quickly bring you to the brink. You press your back against his hard stomach and chest, stifling your moans as Sukuna dips a finger between your folds to gather more of your slick. You tilt your head back, resting it against his chest as your breathing turns ragged. You’re nearly there. You’re so close.

And then Sukuna pulls his hand away, withdrawing out from under your skirt completely.

“What…” you puff out, frustration and surprise colouring your cheeks.

Before you can twist your head to ask him what he thinks he’s doing, Sukuna intertwines his fingers with yours. As the train stutters to the next stop, he pushes through the crowd like a battering ram, pulling you by your hand behind him.

“Where are we going?” you protest. “I don’t live at this stop.”

“I do.”

Sukuna drags you out of the station but once you’re free of the rush hour crowds, he slows his pace, letting you walk in step beside him. You notice he doesn’t drop your hand.

You open your mouth several times to ask what he’s doing but the answer is obvious. He wants to fuck. Why, is the bigger question. Why when he could have any girl he wants, at least for a night. So that's what you ask him.

“Why me?”

Sukuna brings you to his front door, an eyebrow cocked as he pulls his keys free.

“What kind of a question is that?” He rolls his eyes.

“Why do you want me?” you insist.

Sukuna sighs, slotting in his keys and opening the front door. He drags you in, slamming the door closed before pushing you against it.

“Because you’re mine,” he states plainly.

Mine.

The word echoes in your mind as Sukuna dips his head to kiss you roughly. His lips part yours, his tongue demanding entrance. You open yourself to him as he grabs you loosely by the throat.

“You’ve been making me wait,” Sukuna groans into your mouth. “You’ve been testing my patience.”

Before you can question him, he scoops his large hands under your ass and picks you up, forcing you to wrap your legs around him.

“You’re not working tomorrow,” he says, almost a question but not quite.

“How do you know that?”

“Yes or no?” he ignores you, carrying you through the hall and into his bedroom.

“N-no.”

“Good. We’re not leaving this house for two days.”

Sukuna doesn’t ask you. He tells you.

He throws you on the bed before lying on top of you, pressing his mouth against yours to swallow any protests. His hand tangles in your hair at the back of your head, cradling your skull against his palm. His lips are soft even as his kisses are rough, teeth nipping at your bottom lip. Between his prolonged teasing on the train and his annoyingly good kisses, you feel your thighs growing slick with how turned on you are.

You snake a hand to the back of his neck, fingers gliding through his soft, pink hair. Sukuna grinds his crotch against yours, the friction making your clit throb. You whine with need.

“Let me cum,” you beg. “You got me so close before.”

“Say it again.”

“Let me cum, Sukuna.”

“Again.”

“Please! Please let me cum, Sukuna.”

He pulls back to grin at you.

“That’s all you had to say, angel.”

Sukuna reaches down to undo his jeans, pulling his cock free. You know he’s big, the memory of working it inside you still imprinted on your mind, but seeing it in person again makes your eyes widen.

“You were too tight last time, baby,” Sukuna coos, stroking himself. “Need to loosen you up first.”

Sukuna moves his hand from his cock to your clit, resuming his previous tight circles. Your back arches and your nails sink into the hard muscles of his shoulders. Sukuna uses his other hand to tug your shirt up, exposing your breasts. Still playing with your pussy, he latches his lips around one of your nipples, sucking and nibbling at it.

“Ah!” you whimper, the combined sensations overcoming you.

Sukuna feels you wriggling beneath him and pins you down at your hip, forcing you to stay in position. Your breathing gets short as you squeeze your eyes shut, your orgasm hitting you like a freight train.

You cry out Sukuna’s name as he makes you cum on his fingers, finally fulfilling the promise his touch made on the train. Sukuna talks you through it, his cock responding to the sweet noises you make because of him. With a satisfied smile, he pulls his hand back.

You collapse back onto the bed, dazed, as the head of Sukuna’s hard cock nudges at your entrance.

“Keep your legs spread for me, baby,” he commands. “There’s a good girl.”

Still coming down from the high of your orgasm, you’re pliant and obedient. You push your thighs apart, resting them on the cut of Sukuna’s hip muscles as he leans forward over you. Sukuna’s fat mushroom tip meets your hole and then slowly, so slowly, he pushes it inside you.

Your breath hitches, your brows scrunching up in the middle. You look down to see him splitting you in half, his cock stretching you so deliciously.

“Ah-!” you gasp. “Fuck, it’s so big…”

Sukuna doesn’t stop himself from grinning. He’s never been on top before, never thought anyone could take him like this. But he knows you can. And he’s willing to be patient for it.

Your pussy is slick and relaxed from your orgasm, stretching to accommodate Sukuna as he sinks himself another few inches inside you. He’s only halfway but the feel of your walls pulsing around him is setting his skin on fire. He grits his teeth and pulls back slightly, fucking you with a few shallow pumps to spread your juices along his cock.

You feel heavenly. He could cum just like this but he knows you can do more. He can wait.

Sukuna pulls your legs up, hooking your ankles over his shoulders so he can go deeper. He presses himself further, your welcoming pussy swallowing another few inches, your lips wrapping around him so tight.

You fist the bedsheets next to you, his cock rubbing against every nerve along your walls.

“S-Sukuna!” you cry out.

“You can take it, baby,” he soothes you, holding himself agonisingly still to let you get used to him. “You did before.”

You know he’s right – in fact, you made a point of taking his entire cock last time, just to spite him. And you don’t want him to stop, not really. You’ve never been with anyone who’s reached so deep inside you before. It feels strangely intimate, this secret thing that you only share with Sukuna.

Sukuna waits until you stop squirming before moving again. He’s so close, only an inch or two left. He thrusts in and out a few more times, drawing another whimper from your lips, before sinking in fully.

The front of his thighs meet the back of your ass, pressed together as he leans some of his weight down on you. Your lips fall open, a million curses waiting at the back of your throat, but all you can think is – you feel so full.

“Your pussy was made for me,” Sukuna groans, teeth gritted.

That’s exactly how you feel. He fits so snugly inside you, so tight and stretched, the thick ridges of his cock dragging so perfectly along your plush walls. Sukuna starts to thrust, keeping himself deep, never wanting to leave the warmth of you for long, and every stroke sends you hurtling towards another orgasm.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Sukuna’s eyes are glued on where your bodies meet, at where his girth slides in and out of you, coated in your juices.

He’s addicted to the way you sound, the lewd squelch of your pussy, the desperate moans from your lips. He’s obsessed with the feel of you around him, swallowing him whole. He’s infatuated with how you look, folded beneath him as he fucks you, your face contorted in the pleasure he’s giving you. Beautiful. Perfect.

He is never letting you go.

Sukuna picks up his pace, hips rolling. Your bodies are both coated in a thin sheen of sweat, the sounds of slapping flesh filling the room.

“You’re mine,” Sukuna growls. “Say it back to me.”

You’re delirious, drunk off the feel of his cock pistoning in and out of you. When you look up at him, your eyes are half-lidded and glazed.

“I’m yours,” you breathe.

“You going to ignore me again?”

Sukuna punctuated each syllable with another brutal snap of his hips. You cry out, so close to cumming even as your pussy aches.

“No!” you sob. “Never.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m yours, Sukuna. I belong to you!”

“Good fucking girl.”

Sukuna leans down further to kiss you roughly, his tongue lapping at yours without breaking pace. His cock rubs against just the right spot and you dive headfirst into another orgasm.

Sukuna feels you cream on his cock, your pussy like a vice grip around him. It’s enough to bring him to his own finish. He tips his head back, a flurry of curses falling from his lips as you feel him spill thick ropes of cum inside you.

Your thighs fall to either side of him as Sukuna half-collapses on top of you, chest heaving. You hold him to you, pressing soft kisses against his neck.

“Sukuna…” you say quietly, unsure.

He rolls over to the side of you, pulling you with him so you’re lying tucked into the side of him, your cheek pressed against his chest.

“I meant it,” Sukuna says, seeming to understand you even without you asking. “You’re mine.”

He looks down at you, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“And I’m yours. Always.”

Taglist: @tojis-ball-sack @moonjellyfishie @kalulakunundrum @benimarusimp33e @samoankpoper21 @travistheaussie @jazzywazzzy @cla1r20 @namjooningera

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[idkdudethisisntpermanent]

Over the Limit - pt.v

jenna ortega x female reader

part i | part ii | part iii | part iv | part v | part vi

summary: An unlikely group forms—did someone say road trip?

word count: 10.8k

a/n: It's officially been a month since I've started posting Over the Limit on Tumblr! Thank you everyone for the overwhelming amount of support💚

————

How are weekends meant to look for the average 20-year old? Finally sleeping in after having a week of 8am classes? Scrambling to your job that funds all your stupid vices? Maybe it was stressing over picking the sluttiest outfit you can wear since you had a frat party and needed all eyes on you?

That realm of life seemed impossible for you. When you’re from Brimstone you don’t have the privilege of worrying about those things—no, instead on this fine Saturday morning you’re groggily rubbing your eyes open at 6am, while Hunter is panicking about the land lord who’s five seconds away from knocking the door down.

“Dude just answer,” you say annoyed, you could barely sleep last night and the last thing you needed was this antsy land lord playing drums on the door.

“I fucking can’t!” Hunter whisper yells, crouching down to your position on the floor where you had slept the night prior. “He’s gonna hand me an eviction notice when he sees me!”

And that is how your weekend begins when you’re from Brimstone.

After ignoring the loud knocks for some time, the land lord left grumbling angry curses at Hunter.

“So you’re backed up on two months of rent?” you ask, learning the information from the man that was once outside the door.

The older guy sighs with a nod, “Yeah, you know how it is. I haven’t been getting much races lately. I should’ve put a wager on you when you raced that Blond douche,” he says with a hollow chuckle.

You frown. You know exactly how it is. It’s not rare for you to walk into the garage and hear the whispers of unhappy Sinners about their pay cut.

Race clubs had their own economy. The quickest way for racers to make money was by paying an entry fee to compete, with the total pool going to the winning racer or crew. Crews like the Sinners also occasionally hosted parties, collecting entry fees to boost their earnings.

But gambling was the bread and butter—side bets, wagers, and deals made on the outcome of races. Anyone could place a bet, whether it was on their own crew or against them, but most of the money came from outsiders: third-party crews or devoted townspeople.

And then there was the fastest, most dangerous way to make cash.

“Didn’t you have a sponsor?” you asked.

Hunter's jaw tightened, and a shadow of bitterness crossed his face. "Yeah, I did. But things went south," he muttered. "Sponsors aren't what they used to be. They're too caught up in politics, or they want a cut so big it's not worth the payout."

You nodded, understanding that finding and keeping a sponsor was a double-edged sword. While they offered financial stability and access to better equipment, they came with strings attached—controlling interests, unwanted appearances, and expectations that sometimes choked a racer's freedom. You had to be in at least the top 5% of racer's to even be considered by a sponsor, and Hunter was just that good. But that lifestyle was clearly not worth it for him. You don't blame him, you've heard the stories of sponsor's having crazy asks for their prodigies.

"You'd be a sponsor's dream you know?" he suddenly says.

You quirk a brow up, not knowing how so.

"You're a great racer, you get along well with the rich, you're submissive—

"I am not submissive!"

————

After some more banter with Hunter you finally proceed with your morning and freshen up. As you're standing in front of the bathroom sink, wondering how you're going to brush your teeth, you noticed two toothbrushes in the holder.

Hunter lived alone.

Not knowing the origins of the second toothbrush and not willing to risk it, you opted to brush your teeth using your finger, and splashed some cool water on your face, trying to chase away the exhaustion and pull yourself together.

As you stared at your reflection in the mirror, a chill slid down your spine. Shock had a strange way of altering a person’s expression—jaw locked, eyes hardened, gaze steely. The revelations of last night were etched into your face like battle scars.

You were scared. Everything you heard last night was real—things that will directly impact you and your loved ones. It wasn’t just some joke, it was real life. And about your father...ever since the revelations of last night, it's been weighing on you—if you should tell your mom about the foul play in her husband’s death. How do you even tell someone that?

Your hands tightened around the edge of the sink, water dripping off your face and pooling on the counter. You thought about how it didn't shock you more to learn that your father’s death was no accident. Did that make you a terrible daughter? You thought of Anton, always armed, always prepared for whatever might come his way. Of course this life was brutal. Your father had been a founder, a leader—how could it not be dangerous?

But who wanted your father dead?

That was rather the question that gnawed at you, digging deeper with every passing second. Who could have wanted him gone, and why? Your fingers clenched the porcelain sink harder, the tremor in your hands matched by the anger coursing through you. And then the tears came undone, streaking down your face and mingling with the water already on the counter.

“Y/n?” Hunter’s voice cut through the fog of your mind, followed by a knock on the bathroom door. “Hey, you okay in there?”

You sucked in a shaky breath, fighting to steady yourself. Now was not the time nor place for breaking down.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you called out, forcing your voice into something resembling normalcy. You wiped your face with the back of your hand and swung the door open. Hunter stood there, a towel draped over his arm, eyes shadowed with worry.

He frowned as you brushed past him, taking the towel and pressing it to your damp face. The silence hung between you.

Hunter’s gaze followed you as you moved, his eyes full of questions. “Y/n, look” he started his voice soft, hesitant, as if he was afraid that speaking too loudly would shatter you. "I don't know what's going on with you. But I know it's a lot. I already know that Jenna is a Viper and now this Ghost Smoke shit. You can talk to me about whatever you're dealing with if you want."

You paused, towel clenched in your fists, staring blankly at the wall. The weight of everything threatened to crush you, but you felt the warmth of Hunter’s hand as he reached out, resting it on your shoulder. That simple touch was enough to crack the fragile shield you’d tried so hard to maintain.

Tears welled up again, this time falling freely. Before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out, each one tugging at the raw wound inside you. “Hunter, I don't know what to do.”

He stepped closer and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a firm embrace. The warmth and steadiness of him anchored you as you broke down, sobs shaking your frame.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he whispered, his hand gently rubbing your back. “We’ll figure this out, I promise. You’re not alone.”

The floodgates opened, and you told him everything—how you met Jenna, her request to find dirt on Percy, your dad supposedly wanting out of the Sinners, and the revelation that Bullet and Apex weren’t just names, but legacies tied to betrayal and death. Hunter listened in silence, holding you tight, his own expression darkening with every word.

In that moment, the fear and uncertainty didn’t vanish, but they felt a little more bearable. You had someone who knew, someone who would stand by you.

————

You and Hunter sat side by side on his worn couch, the late morning sun casting a soft light through the window. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable now; it was a shared reprieve after an outpouring of truths.

Hunter leaned back, one arm resting along the back of the couch, the other in the bag of chips he pulled out for you two. Your breakfast. He let out a breath, shaking his head slowly. “So, Jenna came to you with this whole thing about Percy and the Ghost Smoke operation, and you just… jumped in? Talk about submissive.”

You punch his shoulder lightly, and managed a small smile, the relief of finally sharing the truth giving your chest room to breathe. “I didn’t think it would spiral like this,” you admitted. “It was supposed to be simple—find out what Percy was up to, help Jenna. But now, with what we know...”

Hunter’s eyes darkened as he nodded. “It’s more than just racing politics. It’s deeper, more dangerous.” He glanced at you, concern still etched into his features. “And you’re sure Anton has no idea you’re involved?”

The question hung heavy between you, but you felt more grounded now. You nodded. “For now, he doesn’t. But I don’t know how long that will last.”

A sudden thought crossed your mind, and you straightened. “Do you think Mikey knows Jenna is with the Vipers?”

Hunter shrugged, "She give you any reason to think that?"

"She was just... observant man. The other day—when we went on the drive. She remembered the Aston from the footage she saw of me and Jenna. Said something about how it was the car I rolled in with 'my girl' in."

Hunter’s smirk returned, and he nudged you again, playfulness edging out the tension. “Maybe she’s paying close attention because she’s totally into you.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile lingered. “I’m being serious, Hunter.”

“Alright, alright,” Hunter said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “But on that note... we need to talk about the Aston.”

You frowned, a hint of confusion crossing your face. “What about it?”

Hunter leaned forward, the playful glint in his eyes replaced by seriousness. “Think about it. We crashed that meeting last night and got caught snooping around. The only lead they have on us is the car. They know we escaped in the AM. If they’re looking for anything, it’ll be that.”

Fuck he was right.

"I say we demolish it. Scrap it for parts or something."

"—no!" you exclaim interrupting his thought. "I'll find a place to have it stashed. Don't worry."

The older guy squinted his eyes in confusion. You were a mechanic, you never got attached to your cars. You knew better than anyone that cars come and go. Yet you couldn't let go of this one.

————

Being a mechanic had its perks, and one of the best was the network of wealthy clientele you’d built over the years. If someone had enough money to buy a custom-built, fully modded car from you, chances were they also had plenty of land—land that could discreetly store a car like yours. Now, you just had to hope their generosity matched the size of their bank accounts.

You stepped out onto the balcony as you scroll through your phone, siffling through your contacts.

"Hmm, maybe John might help me out," you mummer to yourself pressing call.

John was one of your more calm clients. He was the proud new owner of a 1969 Ford Mustang Mach 1. You’d delivered the car just over a month ago—the same night Anton nearly gave you a heart attack by pulling a mock robbery, complete with a gun pointed at you. You shook the memory from your mind, focusing instead on the call as it began to ring.

You first engaged with some small talk before you asked him for help. For all you knew he was a sponsor involved in some shady shit, maybe even involved in Ghost Smoke. Is this what paranoia is?

"I hope there's no complaints about the Mustang," you laugh lightly.

"No complaints Y/n."

"Amazing...so I actually need a favour," you said, leaning on the balcony railing. “I’ve got a car I need to tuck away for a while. Somewhere discreet. Think you could help?”

There was a brief pause, then a hum of consideration. “Hmm, yeah, I’ve got a lake house not too far from here. You can stash it there. No one will bother it.”

“Appreciate it. I’ll swing by later today.”

“Anytime kid,” he said before the call ended.

You exhaled, relief washing over you. One less problem to worry about—for now.

————

After letting Hunter know you’d secured a spot for the car, you set out for the address John had texted. The drive felt almost reflective, the Aston Martin humming beneath you like it understood the significance of this moment. Arriving at the secluded lake house, you carefully parked the car— the car that had genuinely started it all for you.

The Uber ride back to Hunter's was quiet, except for occasional small talk with the driver and faint chatter of the radio. You leaned your head against the window, letting the scenery blur as you reflected on everything that had unfolded.

Your phone buzzed, snapping you out of your thoughts. Hunter’s name flashed on the screen. You swiped to answer.

"Hey," you greeted.

"Hey, where are you?" Hunter's voice was calm but direct.

"In an Uber. On my way back to yours."

"Cool, change of plans. Head to Brenda’s Diner instead."

You frowned, the name clicking in your memory. "Brenda’s? That’s in the next city, like forty minutes away. Why there?"

"Just meet me. We’ll grab breakfast, Hunter said nonchalantly. "I’m almost there already,"

Your confusion deepened, your brows furrowing. "Why are you suddenly all the way out there? And why can’t we eat closer to your place?"

He sighed, "Jenna texted me, okay? She asked me to come here, so I’m here. So just come.”

You blinked, caught off guard. "Wait, what? Jenna texted you? Why does she even have your number?"

Hunter chuckled lightly, clearly amused by your confusion. "Relax, Y/n. Just come here. Who knows, maybe she’ll butter your biscuits or drizzle your pancakes."

"Excuse me—what?" you sputtered, but before you could say more, he hung up, leaving you staring at your phone in disbelief.

You slumped back in the seat, your mind racing. What in the actual hell is going on?

————

“Thank you sir," you say as you get out the Uber. You squint your eyes as you take in the red and yellow sign that said that read Brenda’s. Even the sun shined brighter in this town, from what you knew the town you were currently in—Countsville, wasn’t tainted with race crews and class differences. It was an average suburban town.

You couldn’t help but wonder why Jenna had called you here of all places. Did she have some secret life here? A hidden family? The absurd thought made you chuckle under your breath as you shook your head.

Pulling out your phone, you caught your reflection in the camera and quickly fixed your hair. A pang of nervousness hit you out of nowhere, making you hesitate. Why were you even nervous? Shaking off the feeling, you squared your shoulders and stepped inside.

“Ah, there she is! Y/n!” Hunter’s voice boomed, his arm shooting into the air to wave you over like you were lost in a crowd.

Your eyes darted to him, already settled comfortably in a booth, and then to the two women seated across from him—Jenna and the girl from last night. The one whose name you still didn’t know.

Your steps slowed as their hushed conversation came to an abrupt halt. Without a word, you slid into the booth next to Hunter.

Hunter leaned back in the booth, a smirk playing on his lips. “Took you long enough. Thought maybe you needed a treasure map to find this place.”

“Ha ha,” you deadpanned. Your gaze darted to Jenna, sitting across from you with her arms crossed and her focus firmly planted on the coffee in front of her. She didn’t even glance up when you sat down.

The girl sitting next to her, however—was the complete opposite. She was all smiles, her gaze bouncing between you and Jenna like she was waiting for something to happen between you both.

“Uh, hey. I don’t think we’ve been introduced?” you said, leaning forward slightly.

“I’m Aliyah,” she replied, her grin widening as she reached across the table, hand outstretched.

You took it, chuckling softly. “Nice to meet you.”

Aliyah’s smile turned teasing. “I’m Jenna’s sister.”

“Sister?!” Your jaw dropped as you let go of her hand, the word practically punching its way out of your mouth. Was she a Viper too? Did you get caught up in a family of snakes?

“Well it's nice to meet you,” you muttered, your attention flickering to Jenna. “So, uh, what’s this all about?” You doubt she invited you here to introduce you to her family.

Nothing. Not a word. Jenna’s silence was loud, deafening even, as she swirled her spoon in her coffee like you weren’t even there.

Hunter glanced between the two of you, clearly picking up on the tension. “Oh, this is fun. Should I just grab some popcorn, or…?”

You shot him a glare. “Not helping.”

“Not trying,” he quipped, leaning back with a lazy grin. “Anyway, why don’t you ask Jenna why we’re here? She’s the mastermind behind this little breakfast summit.”

You turned back to her, trying again. “Jenna?”

Still nothing.

“Seriously?” you asked, the irritation creeping into your voice. “You’re just going to ignore me?”

Jenna finally looked up, her expression cool and indifferent. “Oh, I’m sorry. Were you talking to me? Hard to tell when you’ve been acting like I don’t exist for the past few days.”

Hunter snorted, barely holding back a laugh. “She got you there.”

You sighed, sinking back into your seat. This wasn’t what you had anticipated. Sure, you figured she’d be upset about you ghosting her, but you thought you’d moved past that. Last night at the meeting, it felt like you’d reached some kind of unspoken understanding. Yet here she was now, stone-faced and silent, her cold shoulder speaking louder than words.

“Anyways, can we get some actual food in here before someone combusts?”

Aliyah snickered, clearly amused by the dynamic. “Sure, Hunter. Anything to save the day.” She turned her attention to you. “You have to try these pancakes, Brenda’s makes the best pancakes in town!"

Jenna muttered under her breath, just loud enough for you to catch. “Probably too busy to eat pancakes these days.”

Your jaw clenched, but you forced yourself to stay calm. This wasn’t the time or place to start something. Instead, you turned to Aliyah, doing your best to ignore Jenna’s jab. “Yeah, pancakes sound good. Let’s do it.”

Hunter raised his hand to flag down a server. “Pancakes for the table, and maybe a side of good vibes, yeah?”

————

For the past 20 minutes, the table had been quietly enjoying their pancakes, the clinking of cutlery filling the gaps in conversation. You caught Hunter sneaking a glance at your plate, his eyes drifting to the fluffy stack of pastries and then to the glass jar of maple syrup conveniently sitting right next to Jenna. With a sly grin, he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, clearly not letting his earlier joke die.

Aliyah finally broke the silence, her voice cutting through the calm. "Alright, since Jenna's committed to this whole silent act, I guess I’ll get us started. Last night was absolutely insane, and I think we seriously need to talk about everything we learned."

You frowned, glancing between the two girls across from you. “Wait, we? What do you mean, we?”

Aliyah looked at you like you’d asked a ridiculous question. “I mean we, as in all of us sitting here. Jenna, Hunter, me—you. We’re in this now.”

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, your brow furrowing deeper. “But… Jenna got her dirt on Percy, didn’t she? That’s what all this was supposed to be about. What more does she have to do with any of this?”

The words came out sharper than you intended, and for the first time since you’d arrived, Jenna’s eyes snapped up to meet yours. Her expression was calm but laced with a distinct edge—and some hurt?

“Are you serious?” she said, setting her coffee cup down with a soft clink. “You think I can just walk away now?”

“Why not?” you shot back. “You wanted proof of what Percy was doing, and you got it. That’s what you asked me to help you with. This whole Ghost Smoke thing—it’s not your problem.”

Jenna’s jaw tightened, and her lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, it looked like she was biting back a retort. Aliyah, however, was quick to jump in.

“It’s everyone’s problem,” she said firmly, her voice cutting through the tension. “Ghost Smoke isn’t just some petty racing drama, Y/n. It’s destroying lives, and if the Vipers start pushing it harder, it’s going to get worse. Way worse.”

Hunter nodded, his usual laid-back demeanor replaced by something more serious. “Aliyah’s right. Last night wasn’t just some casual run-in with Percy’s people. That dealer wasn’t joking around, and you saw how he talked about the ‘boss.’ They’re planning something big.”

You leaned back in your seat, the weight of their words sinking in. But still, a part of you couldn’t shake the nagging thought that none of this should fall on Jenna—or you, for that matter.

"I don't want you two getting involved," you said, your tone flat and detached, though the tightness in your chest betrayed the storm underneath. You stared at your plate, pushing a piece of pancake around with your fork, avoiding their eyes.

Jenna scoffed, the sound sharp and cutting. “Are you serious right now? You don’t want us involved? After everything last night?”

Your gaze remained fixed downward, even as her frustration bristled against you. “It’s not your fight,” you muttered.

“Not my—?” Jenna’s voice rose, and you finally looked up to see her glaring at you, her hands gripping the edge of the table. “You don’t get to make that call! You think you can just decide when you want me around and when you don't? Newsflash—you’re already in deep, and so are we. There’s no undoing it now.”

You stayed silent, your jaw clenching as you tried to tamp down the surge of emotions threatening to surface. She wasn’t wrong, but she didn’t understand. Couldn’t understand.

You couldn’t drag them further into a world where people are pushing drugs—where people are capable of taking lives, just like they had taken your father’s and uncle's.

“It doesn’t matter why,” you said finally, your voice still low. “I just… I don’t want you involved. Either of you. That’s all.”

Jenna let out an incredulous laugh, throwing her hands in the air. “Unbelievable," she muttered, pushing back her chair abruptly and standing up, her frustration was palpable as she strode toward the diner’s exit.

You watched her leave, a pang of guilt twisting in your stomach. Hunter sighed beside you, leaning back in his seat.

“She’s not wrong, you know,” he said quietly. “You can’t do this alone. They were there last night. As much as you don't it to be true, they're now part of it.”

You didn’t respond, the weight of your own thoughts pressing down too heavily. Even though your intentions were to protect them, you couldn’t help but feel like you were only making things worse.

————

"If you grip the wheel any harder, it’s going to fuse with your hands," Aliyah quipped, casting a cautious glance at her sister.

Jenna shot her a sharp side-eye but said nothing, her focus fixed on the road ahead as they made their way home.

When it became clear that Jenna wasn’t going to return to the table, Aliyah had reluctantly followed her, leaving behind the unfinished business that had brought them all together in the first place.

“I don’t get it,” Aliyah said, breaking the silence. “I thought you two were fine last night. What’s with the sudden mood swing?”

Jenna’s grip on the wheel tightened even further, her knuckles white against the leather. She thought she had been fine too. Last night, things had felt different—maybe not perfect, but at least... manageable. But seeing you again today had stirred something raw and unexpected inside her.

It's not your problem, you said.

“I don’t know,” she muttered, her voice strained, as though admitting it hurt.

"Well I don't think your girl—sorry Y/n had any bad intentions. And if you really want to get involved in this Brimstone drama, then you have to make up with her eventually" Aliyah said, her tone gentler now.

Jenna let out a slow breath through her nose, her eyes never leaving the road. “It’s not that simple,” she murmured. “She ghosted me, Aliyah. And now she’s acting like she has to carry everything on her own, like I can’t handle myself. She wanted me around at first and now she decides I'm out? Oh I'm sorry I wasn't aware I was some fucking doll.”

“Or,” Aliyah countered, “maybe she’s terrified of something way bigger than you realize and doesn’t want to drag you—us into it.”

That struck a nerve. Jenna’s fingers twitched against the steering wheel as she mulled over her sister’s words. Was it fear? Was that why you were pushing her away? Her frustration softened slightly, but the knot in her chest didn’t loosen.

“Even if that’s true, she’s going about it the wrong way,” Jenna said after a moment. “I can’t help if she keeps shutting me out.”

Aliyah smirked faintly, crossing her arms. “So tell her that. You’re not the type to sit around and wait for someone else to fix things, right? Go confront her, like the fiery little Viper you are.”

Jenna rolled her eyes at her sister’s teasing, but the words stayed with her. Maybe Aliyah was right—waiting wasn’t getting her anywhere, and the Brimstone situation wasn’t something she could handle without you. As much as she hated to admit it, you were already too entangled with one another for her to pretend otherwise.

She exhaled sharply, determination taking root. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll figure it out. But if she tries to pull some shit on me again, I won't hold back."

Aliyah grinned. “Now that’s the Jenna I know.”

Aliyah sighed in relief, glad her words had managed to ease her sister’s frustration. She could have kept up the teasing, sure, but she knew better. Deep down, she understood the root of Jenna’s anger—it wasn’t just about the danger or the argument at breakfast.

You weren’t wrong, after all. As far as Aliyah knew, the terms of whatever arrangement you and Jenna had were clear: you’d help her get what she needed, and once she had it, that was that. Simple, transactional, with no strings attached. But that simplicity seemed to be the very thing eating at Jenna now.

It wasn’t just frustration; it was hurt. Hurt because Jenna realized you seemed okay with it all ending there—with the two of you going your separate ways. And it wasn’t okay for her. Aliyah could see it—the sadness in Jenna’s eyes, the way her jaw clenched just a bit tighter than usual. It wasn’t about the Ghost Smoke or Brimstone drama anymore. It was about you.

Her sister wasn’t mad at you for walking away. She was sad that you didn’t seem to need her the way she found herself needing you. Sad that she no longer had a reason to stay connected.

Aliyah glanced at her sister, who was staring straight ahead, her grip on the wheel lighter now but still firm. Jenna didn’t want to admit it, not yet, but she was falling. And Aliyah could only hope she didn’t hit the ground too hard.

As Aliyah mindlessly glanced at her side view mirror, she noticed something.

"Uhm sis, do you think that car's been following us?"

Jenna raises her gaze up to the rear view mirror and she spotted the same car that had been trailing them for a while now—a solid black Escalade. But California traffic is like that, the typical resident wasn't going to lane change like a racer. "I'm sure it's nothing."

Still, to be safe, she made a series of deliberate right turns, one after the other, her pulse quickening with each corner. When she glanced at the mirror again, her fears solidified. The car was still there.

“It’s not nothing, Ali. They are following us,” Jenna said, her voice low but tinged with rising panic.

Aliyah stiffened beside her, her wide eyes darting to the side mirror. “W-what? Who do you think it is? Percy? Or those guys from yesterday?”

Jenna’s jaw clenched as she considered their options.

"Aliyah, call Y/n. Now," Jenna ordered, her voice steady, tossing her phone to her sister.

Aliyah fumbled with the phone, her fingers trembling. “What do I even say? ‘Hey, someone’s following us, want to join the party?’” she muttered nervously, trying to mask her fear.

Jenna shot her a sharp look. “Just tell her where we are and what’s happening. She’ll know what to do.”

Aliyah hesitated for a split second before dialing your number. “It's ringing.” Aliyah whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of her own heartbeat.

"Jenna?"

The girl driving couldn't help but feel relief upon the sound of your voice, maybe it was because you both have faced many high stakes situations together and have always made it out on the other side. And in that moment, she felt certain you’d all make it through this one too.

“Okay, so, there’s this car, and it’s been following us for a while. Jenna took a bunch of right turns, and they’re still there. We don’t know who they are, but—”

“Aliyah,” you interrupted, your tone sharp with focus. “Put Jenna on.”

Aliyah quickly handed the phone over, and Jenna brought it to her ear without taking her eyes off the rearview mirror.

“Jenna, can you lose them?” you asked, voice soft, sensing her hesitation.

“I-I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “I’ve never done this before—what if I mess up? What if—”

“Jenna,” you interrupted gently, but firmly. “Take a deep breath. You’ve got this. But I need you to help me help you, okay? What’s up ahead?”

Jenna blinked, her focus flicking back to the road. “Uh, there’s a left turn coming up, and... a main road with a lot of traffic.”

“Alright, take the left. Make it clean.”

She nodded, her hands slightly shaky as she turned the wheel, the tires squealing lightly.

“Good,” you encouraged. “Now tell me what’s next. What do you see?”

“There’s an on-ramp to the highway coming up,” she said, her voice tight with nerves.

“Perfect. Get on the highway. Blend into traffic and use the cars to block their line of sight.”

“Okay,” she whispered, guiding the car toward the ramp as Aliyah sat rigid in her seat.

“You’re doing great, Jenna,” you said, keeping your voice calm and steady. “Just focus. You’re faster and smarter than them. Trust yourself.”

Jenna weaved into traffic, her grip still tight on the wheel. She glanced in the rearview mirror and tensed. “They’re still back there.”

“Stay calm,” you said. “What’s in your lane? Any big vehicles?”

“Yeah... there’s a semi up ahead,” she replied, her voice rising with nervous energy.

“Good. Get in its blind spot. Use it as cover. When you’re close to an exit, slip off. They’ll have to stay on the highway.”

She exhaled shakily, maneuvering into position as you guided her through. The tension in the car was thick, but she followed your instructions to the letter.

“Whenever you’re ready,” you said softly.

Jenna swerved off the highway, her heart pounding as the pursuing car sped past the exit.

“They’re gone,” she whispered, her voice thick with disbelief.

“You did it, Jenna,” you said, pride clear in your tone.

She let out a shaky laugh, her shoulders finally relaxing. “We did it,” she corrected, a small smile tugging at her lips.

The line went silent for a moment, the weight of what had just happened hanging in the air. Then, breaking the tension, your voice cut through with a sudden, determined tone.

“Jenna, listen. Can you go home, pack a bag for you and Aliyah, and meet me and Hunter at the mall we went to?”

Jenna’s brow furrowed in confusion. Moments ago, you were adamant about keeping her out of your life, and now you were asking her to pack a bag? She glanced at Aliyah, whose puzzled expression mirrored her own.

Aliyah shrugged dramatically, mouthing, “YOLO.”

“Why?” Jenna asked, her tone cautious.

“I’ll explain everything when we meet. Just trust me and do it, okay?”

Jenna hesitated, her mind racing with questions, but something in your voice made her pause. Finally, she exhaled. “Okay. We’ll meet you there.” And hung up the phone.

“Well, would you look at that—your little lover’s quarrel is finally wrapping up,” Aliyah teased, her grin wide.

“Shut up,” Jenna shot back, though the corners of her lips betrayed her as they curved into a reluctant smile. “I’m still mad at her.”

————

“You two are so confusing,” Hunter chuckled as he drove, his laughter filling the car. “Do you hate each other? Or are you about to jump each other’s bones? Seriously, I can never tell.”

You rolled your eyes, but deep down, you couldn’t help but think he had a point.

“So, care to explain why we’re all packing a bag and meeting up with them again?” Hunter asked, his tone laced with curiosity.

“We’re going on a weekend getaway,” you replied nonchalantly.

Hunter’s head whipped toward you, excitement lighting up his face. “No way! I’ve always wanted to do the Bahamas.”

You laughed. “Not the Bahamas, Hunt. Just somewhere a few hours away. After everything that went down—the meeting, the girls being followed—I think it’s smart for all of us to lay low for a few days. I’m not taking any chances.”

Hunter nodded dramatically, placing a hand over his chest like he was pledging allegiance. “Protecting your girl and your sister-in-law. I respect it.”

Ignoring his teasing, you redirected him. “Just drive us to the garage,” you said firmly. “I need to let Anton know we’ll be out of town for a few days. The last thing I need is him freaking out and sending a search party.”

————

As Hunter pulls into the garage, you take in the sight of the Sinners hard at work, each one laser-focused on their tasks. Was there a race coming up?

Stepping out of the car, your eyes land on Anton at the back, working on a car with Mason. You hadn't seen Mason in a while—not since the Sinner-Viper race nearly two months ago. Not that you missed him; Mason was one of the most aggravating members of the crew. Apparently, Anton in the moment thought so too, judging by the way he was yelling at him for some reason.

"Hey! Long time, no see."

You turned to see Mikey approaching, her brown eyes bright with curiosity.

She tilted her head, eyes scanning both you and Hunter. "So, what have you two been up to?"

"Oh, you know," Hunter chimed in, "just the usual. Saving the day and eating pancakes"

Mikey raised a brow, her skepticism softened by amusement. “Uh-huh. Sounds like you two are living the dream.”

She shifted her attention to you, crossing her arms. “Haven’t seen you around for a few days. No more late nights at the garage?”

You felt a flicker of unease. Something about Mikey always made you cautious, as if she could see right through you. Keeping your tone casual, you rubbed the back of your neck. “Yeah, the Aston’s finished, so I’m finally catching up on sleep. Not much reason to be here right now.”

Mikey tilted her head, clearly not satisfied with your vague answer. “Really? And here I thought this place was your second home. What’s been keeping you busy?”

Before you could formulate a response, Hunter swooped in. “Oh, don’t worry, we’re not slacking off. We’re just gearing up for a little road trip.”

“Road trip?” Mikey repeated, her interest clearly piqued.

Hunter nodded, grinning. “Yeah, figured it’s time for some fresh air and open roads. Recharge the batteries, you know?”

You shot him a subtle glare, but he just winked at you, unfazed.

Mikey narrowed her eyes slightly, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. “Interesting. Well, have fun with that. Don’t get into too much trouble.”

“Us? Trouble?” Hunter gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “Never.”

"We actually came here to let Anton know we’ll be gone for a couple of days,” you say, flashing Mikey a polite smile. “Catch you later.” Without waiting for a response, you grab Hunter’s arm and drag him along.

“Would it kill you not to spill everything?” you hiss under your breath.

Hunter shrugged, his usual carefree grin firmly in place. “Relax. It’s gonna get out eventually that we’re taking a couple days off. If we act shady, it’ll just make people more suspicious.”

You sighed, shaking your head at his nonchalance. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

Together, you made your way toward the back of the garage, where Anton and Mason were knee-deep in their latest project.

“I don’t know why I keep you around, Mason,” Anton groaned, his hands dragging down his face in exasperation. “You incompetent fool!”

Hearing your footsteps, he glanced up, his frustration momentarily melting into surprise. “Y/n? What are you doing here?”

“Hey,” you greeted, keeping your tone light. “I'm kind of in a rush, but just wanted to let you know Hunter and I are heading out of town for a couple of days. Figured I’d let you know so you don’t worry.”

Anton’s brows furrowed as he straightened up, eyeing the both of you. “Heading out? What for?”

“Just a road trip,” you said casually, shrugging like it was no big deal. “You know, get some fresh air, clear our heads. Nothing major.”

His eyes flicked to Hunter, then back to you, his suspicion barely veiled. “Where to and who’s going?”

"We don't really know yet, wanna see where the road takes us you know? And just us two," you replied smoothly, lying without hesitation.

Anton’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he was going to press harder. Finally, he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Alright, fine. But something feels off about this, and I don’t like it.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “If this is about something dangerous, you better tell me now. You know I’ll have your back.”

You swallowed hard but maintained your composure. “It’s not, I promise. We’ll be fine.”

He didn’t look convinced. Anton studied you for a moment longer before nodding, though his concern was evident. "Alright. Just be careful out there, okay? Keep your phones on and don't do anything stupid."

"Got it," you promised, trying to sound reassuring.

Hunter gave Anton a mock salute. "We'll be model citizens, swear."

Anton rolled his eyes but didn't press further. As you turned to leave, Mason chimed in from where he was leaning against the car. "Bring me back something cool! Like a souvenir or somethin'!"

Hunter snorted. "Sure thing, buddy. How about a map so you can finally figure out how to navigate a racetrack without crashing?"

You couldn't help but laugh as you walked away, though Anton's lingering concern weighed heavily in the back of your mind.

————

The SUV you “borrowed” from the garage rumbled along the highway as you adjusted your grip on the wheel, glancing at Hunter slouched comfortably in the passenger seat. Your packed bag sat in the back alongside his, evidence of your brief pit stop at home. 

The memory of Anton’s concerned expression lingered, gnawing at you. You hated that you hadn’t told him the truth. He’d lost his father too—same as you—and you knew better than anyone how much that loss shaped him. How much it shaped both of you. But unlike you, Anton didn’t know there was more to the story. That it wasn’t just a tragic accident.

You felt awful for keeping it from him, for standing there and letting him believe everything was fine. But what were you supposed to do? Drop that bombshell and then tell him you were heading out of town for a few days? There was no way he’d have let you leave. No way he wouldn’t try to step in, to get involved.

And as much as it tore you up inside, you couldn’t let that happen. Not yet. Protecting Jenna—and by extension, your fragile alliance with her—had to come first. There was too much at stake, and dragging Anton into it now would only complicate things further. Still, the weight of your silence felt heavier with each passing mile.

“You good?” Hunter’s voice broke through your spiraling thoughts, pulling you back to the present.

“Yeah,” you muttered, though the word felt hollow.

He raised a brow but didn’t push, thankfully. Instead, he leaned back in his seat, letting the conversation from earlier drift back in.

“I gotta admit. I thought Anton would take a lot more convincing.”

Hunter glanced at you with a smirk. “What, you thought he’d put his foot down? He knows you’re stubborn as hell. Probably figured there was no point fighting you on it.”

“Maybe,” you murmured, though a part of you wasn’t so sure. Anton letting you go that easily still didn’t sit right. He’d been wary, his words cautious, but ultimately, he hadn’t stopped you. You wondered if he trusted you more than you expected—or if he had reasons of his own for letting you leave.

Shaking the thought from your mind, you shifted the conversation. “By the way, you seemed pretty comfortable with Jenna and Aliyah back at the diner.”

Hunter shrugged nonchalantly. “They’re cool. Aliyah’s funny, and Jenna’s… well, Jenna. We were just chatting for a bit before you showed up.”

“Before I showed up?” you echoed, glancing at him skeptically. “She didn’t seem in a chatty mood when I got there.”

Hunter chuckled. “I guess I have that effect on people. Smooth-talker, remember?”

Something about the way he said it made you pause, a memory resurfacing. “Wait. Jenna texted you, didn’t she? How do you even know her?”

Hunter tensed ever so slightly, and you didn’t miss it. “Uh… well…”

The gears in your head were starting to turn. “Hunter,” you pressed, narrowing your eyes. “How do you know Jenna?”

He fidgeted with his hands, clearly stalling. “It’s complicated, alright? Don’t worry about it.”

Before you could demand an answer, the bright lights of the mall parking lot came into view, and you spotted Jenna and Aliyah parked and waiting near the back of the mall. Hunter exhaled dramatically, clearly relieved to be off the hook—for now.

"We're here," he announced unnecessarily, pointing out the obvious.

You rolled your eyes but focused on parking the SUV. As soon as you stepped out, Jenna's sharp gaze locked onto you, her arms crossed, while Aliyah waved with a cheeky grin. Whatever Hunter was hiding would have to wait.

You park the SUV next to their car and step out, heading straight for the trunk. Without a word, you pop it open before turning toward Jenna and Aliyah. Stretching out your hands, you motion for their bags.

Aliyah hands over her duffle bag without hesitation, but Jenna hesitates, squinting at you with suspicion. Her scoff cuts through the quiet as you turn around and load the bags into the trunk.

Following you to the back of the SUV, she crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow. "Uhm, are you planning to explain what's going on anytime soon?"

You close the trunk with a sharp thunk and meet her gaze, keeping your tone steady. "I will."

You glance over your shoulder, flashing her a grin. "Oh, and hey—nice work shaking those guys. Not everyone's got those skills. Seriously, you were impressive."

As you turn back to the SUV, Jenna's voice comes softly, almost shyly, "Thanks."

You don't catch it, too focused on adjusting the bags in the trunk, but Aliyah and Hunter exchange knowing looks. Jenna's rare vulnerability wasn't something they saw often, and the faint pink dusting her cheeks didn't go unnoticed either.

————

You merge onto Interstate 5, the highway stretching south through California. The evening sun dips lower on the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of gold and fiery orange. Hunter has his window down, one arm draped lazily over the edge, while Aliyah hums along to a faint tune playing on the radio. Jenna sits diagonally across from you, arms crossed, her gaze fixed out the window. The soft pout on her lips and the sharpness of her glare suggest she’s deep in thought—and likely still mad at you.

You glance at her through the rearview mirror, unable to help the small smile that tugs at your lips. Even in her frustration, she looks ridiculously adorable.

As you bring your eyes back to the road, they flicker back to the mirror—and that’s when it happens. Jenna catches your gaze, her sharp brown eyes locking onto yours.

Crap.

She breaks the silence, her tone firm but tinged with curiosity. “Alright, enough stalling. Are you going to tell me where we’re going now?”

You’re relieved she doesn’t make a snarky comment about catching you staring. Instead, you sigh and focus back on the road, deciding it’s time to answer her question.

“I’m sorry,” you start, glancing briefly at her reflection, then at Aliyah. “To both of you. You were right earlier… about being involved in all this.”

Hunter nods in silent approval from the passenger seat, encouraging you to keep going. “…As much as I don’t want either of you involved,” you continue, catching him facepalming out of the corner of your eye, “there’s no avoiding it now.”

"Neither one of can help it, and that car following you? It kind of put things into perspective for me. So I think the safe option for all of us to get out of town for a few days."

Jenna raises a brow, her expression unreadable, but she doesn’t respond right away. Aliyah and Hunter both glance at each other, waiting for someone to fill the silence. When Jenna finally speaks, her voice is softer than you expected. “Still didn’t answer the question,” she says. “Where are we going?”

You shrug one shoulder, keeping your eyes on the road. “I don’t know,” you admit with a lopsided grin. “I’m just driving.”

Jenna stares at you for a long moment before exhaling and shaking her head. She doesn’t voice the acceptance of your apology, but something in her gaze softens, and you can tell she’s made her peace with it—for now.

“Unbelievable,” she mutters, loud enough for everyone to hear. “We’re on the run, and you’re winging it? Great plan, genius.”

Aliyah bursts into laughter, and Hunter cheers, “This is classic! Road trip roulette—who needs a destination when you’ve got vibes?” 

Jenna pinches the bridge of her nose, mumbling something under her breath, but you swear you catch the faintest hint of a smile.

————

The next hour passes surprisingly smoothly. Everyone keeps themselves entertained in their own way, avoiding any mention of the issues that pushed you all to leave town in the first place. Aliyah has her headphones in, swaying gently to whatever music she’s listening to, while Jenna scrolls through her phone, occasionally glancing out the window. Hunter fiddles with the radio, switching stations until he finds a faintly decent song, only to switch it again moments later.

You keep your focus on the road, but your mind drifts. A part of you wished you could bring back the easy banter you used to have with Jenna—back before you ghosted her. It would've made the drive so much more fun. Instead, there’s this quiet tension hanging in the air between you two, one you’re desperately hoping will dissolve sooner rather than later. At least Hunter agreed to take over driving on the way back. Maybe by then, things between you and Jenna will be better.

Suddenly, Hunter starts humming, his voice cutting through the silence. At first, it’s aimless, but then it takes shape.

“Ninety-nine bottles of milk on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of milk!” he sings loudly, grinning as he looks around at everyone.

You groan. “Oh, no. Don’t.”

Aliyah chuckles behind you, joining in softly, “Take one down, pass it around, ninety-eight bottles of milk on the wall!”

Jenna sighs dramatically but mutters, “This is so dumb,” just before she jumps in on the next line. Within minutes, the whole car erupts into an awkward yet oddly harmonious singalong, voices overlapping and laughter spilling between verses. By the time you hit ninety-five bottles, everyone’s belting at the top of their lungs.

It’s ridiculous, it’s cheesy, and it’s exactly what you all needed.

When the laughter finally dies down, Jenna clears her throat. “Uh, I need to pee.”

You glance at her through the rearview mirror, raising an eyebrow. Internally, you can’t help but think, Really? We’ve only been on the road for an hour. Did she not go before we left?

But you don’t voice the thought. Instead, you nod, spotting a route stop up ahead. “Alright, we’ll pull over.”

As you exit the highway and roll into the rest stop, Hunter claps your shoulder. “Road trips, man. This is what it’s all about.”

You just shake your head, chuckling as you park the SUV.

————

As everyone steps out at the route stop, the golden light of the setting sun casts long shadows over the parking lot. Hunter stretches dramatically, mumbling something about his aching legs, while Aliyah is already darting toward the brightly lit convenience store, proclaiming her hunt for snacks. Jenna heads to the bathroom, and once she returns she lingers by the SUV, her arms folded, her body language closed.

“Need anything?” you ask, hesitating slightly as you approach her.

She shakes her head but doesn’t look at you. “I’m good.”

You nod, biting back the urge to say more, and join Aliyah and Hunter into the store. The shelves are stocked with everything from bags of chips to questionable gas station sushi.

Hunter immediately gravitates toward the candy aisle, gleefully holding up a pack of gummy worms. “You know you want some,” he teases, tossing a pack at Aliyah, who yelps and tries to dodge.

You chuckle at their antics but can’t help glancing back toward the SUV, wondering if Jenna’s still standing there, or if she’s wandered in.

She hasn’t.

Grabbing a couple of bottled drinks and a bag of chips, you head to the register. Aliyah sidles up beside you, arms full of snacks. “Do you think we should get something for Jenna? She barely ate earlier.”

You hesitate, and recall her eating a chocolate the day you both hung out at the mall and then grab that brand of chocolate from a display near the checkout.

Outside, you find Jenna leaning against the side of the car, scrolling through her phone. You hold out the candy as you approach. “Figured you might want this.”

She glances at it, then at you, her lips twitching like she’s suppressing a thank-you. “Thanks,” she says quietly, taking it without meeting your eyes.

There’s a pause. The others are still inside, their laughter faintly audible from the store. For a moment, it’s just you and Jenna in the fading light.

“You okay?” you ask softly, unsure if you’re even expecting an answer.

She finally meets your gaze, her expression guarded but not unkind. “I’m fine,” she replies, but her tone doesn’t match the words.

You want to push, to ask what’s really on her mind, but something about the way she holds herself stops you. Instead, you nod and step back, giving her space.

She seemed fine interacting with you in the group, she was more vocal. But once it was just you two she got all quiet. But she surprised you with her next words.

She finally glances at you properly, her eyes searching yours. “Thanks, by the way. For this. I know you didn’t have to.”

You swallow, suddenly aware of how close she’s standing. “You don’t have to thank me, Jenna. I just… I want to make sure you’re safe—and your sister!”

She nods faintly, looking down at the ground. For a second, it feels like the rest of the world fades away, leaving just the two of you under the flickering lights.

Before the moment can stretch too long, Hunter sticks his head out of the car window. “Yo! Are we road-tripping or setting up camp here? Let’s go!”

Jenna chuckles, the tension breaking as she steps back. “Guess we should get going.”

“Yeah.” You push off the SUV, giving her a small nod. “Let’s hit the road.”

As you both climb back into the car, you can’t help but glance at her through the mirror again. She doesn’t notice this time, and you’re glad she doesn’t.

————

"Hey, Y/n, remember the car I was driving yesterday?" Aliyah asks, her voice breaking the comfortable silence that’s fallen over the SUV.

It’s been about two and a half hours since you hit the road, and everyone is busy with their snacks. Conversations drift in and out, short bursts of chatter punctuated by the rustling of wrappers.

You hum softly, urging her to continue.

Aliyah glances at you in the rearview mirror, her tone casual. “It’s pretty cool that you own that car. My dad used to have the same one, and I remember him always going on and on about how rare it was. Small world, huh?” She shrugs, clearly amused by the coincidence.

You and Jenna freeze. For a moment, no one says anything, and the awkward silence hangs in the air like a weight.

You glance at Jenna through the rearview mirror, and she avoids your gaze. Great, you think. Of all the things to come up right now, this had to be it.

“Well…” you clear your throat, deciding Aliyah deserves to know at this point. “That was your dad’s car.”

Aliyah’s brows furrow in confusion. “What? No, his was black.”

“Yeah,” you admit with an awkward laugh, “and then I wrapped it green.”

The realization dawns on her, and she turns to Jenna, her jaw dropping as she whisper yells, “Oh my God! You like the girl who stole Dad’s car?”

Jenna’s eyes widen, and her face flushes. “Aliyah, shut up!” she snaps, but her tone lacks bite.

Aliyah smirks, clearly reveling in her discovery. “I mean, this is peak comedy. She stole Dad’s car, and you’re just fine with it?”

“I’m not fine with it,” Jenna retorts, but her lips curve slightly as if she’s holding back a smile. “And for the record, it was both of us who stole it.”

Aliyah raises her hands in mock surrender. “Oh, so now you’re an accomplice? Love that for you.”

While they bicker in their private conversation, Jenna’s eyes soften, and her gaze turns nostalgic. “That day was insane,” she murmurs, more to herself than anyone else. “We had no idea what we were doing, but it was... kind of thrilling."

Not knowing what the two girls were talking about, you glance at her in the mirror for the millionth time today. Jenna’s smile, faint and genuine, tugs at something deep in your chest, but before you can dwell on it, Hunter’s voice cuts in.

“Well, look at you,” he says with a laugh, nudging your arm. “Stealing the car of the dad of the girl you like. That’s one for the books, huh?”

“Shut up, Hunter,” you groan, shoving his arm off you.

He just grins wider. “Nah, I’m serious. You’ve really outdone yourself here. Romantic and criminal—who knew you had it in you?”

Rolling your eyes, you lean back into the seat, but an idea suddenly strikes you. "Alright, since we're all in a sharing mood, how about this—Hunter, how exactly do you and Jenna know each other?" Your tone pointed, almost teasing.

Silence.

Not a word, not even the rustle of snack wrappers from the backseat.

Aliyah breaks the tension, her brows knitting as she glances at her sister. "Wait...what? I thought we both met Hunter this morning?"

You glance in the rearview mirror. Jenna’s expression is stone cold, her face unreadable, like she’s mastered the art of giving away nothing. She doesn’t so much as blink, just stares out the window as though the question didn’t even register.

Hunter, on the other hand, looks like he’s sweating bullets. His hand fidgets with the strap of his seatbelt, and he clears his throat awkwardly. “Uh, well… you see…”

Before Hunter can dig himself into an even deeper hole, Jenna suddenly bursts out laughing. The sound is so unexpected, so completely jarring after the tension-filled silence, that your head whips around to look at her.

Her laughter is light and melodic, the kind that shakes her shoulders and makes her eyes crinkle at the corners. For a second, you forget about the chaos in the car and just stare.

Her laugh is kind of… cute, you think, catching yourself and quickly looking back at the road before anyone notices.

Jenna waves a hand, her laughter dying down just enough to speak. “Relax, Hunter. Seriously, it’s not a big deal. Go ahead, tell them.”

Aliyah sighs loudly from the backseat, crossing her arms. “Okay, my patience is wearing thin. Someone better spill before I start throwing snacks.”

"Okay fine, you tell them Jenna, since you think it's so funny," Hunter mumbles defeated, shrinking into his seat.

Jenna glances at Hunter, who is clearly trying to become one with his seatbelt. With a small shrug, she answers casually, “I walked in on Hunter… being intimate.”

You blink, nearly missing your next lane change. “Oh, wow. That’s… embarrassing,” you mutter, trying not to laugh. But then your brain starts piecing things together, and you frown. “Wait a second. How does that even happen? Like… was this in public or something? Did you come to Brimstone, or were you—”

Hunter interrupts, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I was in Summer Valley, okay?”

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. “Oh, okay. Get that bag, I guess. But, man, from the way you were sweating, I thought it was something really bad.”

For a second, you think the tension has finally lifted. But then Hunter lets out a resigned sigh, muttering, “I was with someone from the Viper's crew.”

It all made sense now, why Hunter was so understanding of the idea of you being affiliated with a Viper—why there was two toothbrushes in his bathroom.

He had his own fucking Viper.

“What the fuck?!” you shout, your voice climbing a whole octave as you instinctively swerve the car.

Hunter grabs the oh-shit handle. “Whoa, whoa, focus! You’re driving, not judging!”

“What the fuck Hunter?!” you yell again, steadying the wheel as the SUV veers slightly back into the lane. Thankfully, it’s almost 8 pm, and the highway is relatively empty, so you narrowly avoid disaster. "You're fucking a Viper?! What the actual—"

Hunter throws up his hands defensively. “What’s the big deal?! You are too!”

You slam the brakes—figuratively, of course—your head whipping around to glare at him. “EXCUSE ME?!”

Your face goes red-hot, and you stammer, “I’m not—what—literally who?! I’m not fucking anybody!”

Hunter smirks, sensing your flustered state. “Oh, sure. But you wish you were fucking a Viper.”

If you thought you couldn’t blush any harder, you were wrong. From the backseat, Aliyah is howling with laughter while Jenna buries her face in her hands, her own ears tinged pink.

“You’re delusional,” you snap at Hunter, but your embarrassment only fuels his laughter. “Seriously, who even—"

“Doesn’t matter!” Hunter interrupts, his grin practically splitting his face. “I’m just saying, don’t judge me when you’ve got your own Viper situation brewing back there.”

“Hunter, I swear—”

Aliyah cuts you off, gasping between giggles. “Oh my God, I can’t breathe. This is the best road trip ever!”

Jenna groans softly, pressing a hand to her forehead, but the small, stupid smile tugging at her lips betrays her. She hated being teased, especially by Aliyah, who had the precision of a sniper when it came to embarrassing her. Yet, as the chaos bubbled in the backseat, Jenna found her thoughts wandering to the things Hunter had been saying to poke at you.

What had you two been talking about? Hunter clearly knew something she didn’t, and now, curiosity gnawed at her despite herself. She glanced at you, watching as you muttered under your breath and tightened your grip on the steering wheel like it might save you. It wasn’t just the teasing; something else was making you squirm, and Jenna couldn’t stop the faint curve of her lips from growing into a fuller smile.

She didn’t know what Hunter was hinting at, but the way your ears burned red and your gaze stayed glued to the road… she couldn’t help but find it a little endearing.

————

The freeway stretched ahead in an endless ribbon of asphalt, swallowed by the inky darkness of night. The faint glow of distant city lights barely pierced the dark sky, leaving only the occasional flash of headlights to illuminate the passing road signs and surrounding emptiness. It was quiet now, except for the hum of the tires against the pavement and the faint sound of Aliyah’s soft snores from the backseat. The earlier chaos had subsided, leaving the SUV calm in stillness.

You glanced over at Hunter, slumped against the window with his head bobbing slightly with the movement of the car. He and Aliyah had devoured the candy earlier like children on Halloween and, predictably, crashed hard. For the last thirty minutes, they’d been completely out, and you were silently grateful for the reprieve. Any more teasing, and you were sure your heart would’ve leapt out of your chest.

Your heart was still pounding, though.

You sigh as you wrestled with a thought you’d been avoiding for a while. You never addressed ghosting Jenna. You mentioned to her at the meeting that you’d talk later, but then you didn’t. And now, things between you were stuck in this strange, awkward limbo. You hated it. You hated the distance and the way your banter had evaporated into stilted exchanges.

More than anything, you wanted this trip to be enjoyable for both of you—for her.

“Hey, Jenna you awake?” you said softly, testing the waters. You knew she was awake. Her breathing wasn’t even enough to fool you. You just needed something to break the ice.

“Yeah, what’s up?” she muttered, her voice low to avoid waking her sister.

You hesitated for a moment, your hands flexing nervously against the steering wheel. Then you took a deep breath and decided to do what needed to be done.

“I just… I want to apologize,” you began, keeping your eyes fixed on the road ahead. “For ghosting you. I know it was shitty, and you didn’t deserve it.”

She didn’t respond immediately, but you could feel her eyes on you, listening.

“I… I had a conversation with my mom the first day I didn’t reply to you,” you continued, your voice soft and unsteady. “And it—it messed with my head. I found out my dad wanted out of the Sinners. That completely flipped everything I thought I knew. I was already so confused, and it just made things worse. And then…” You paused, forcing yourself to push through the lump in your throat. “It made me feel terrified. Of everything. Of this whole situation. And of you. Of what you made me feel—what I felt for—”

You clamped your mouth shut, cutting yourself off realizing you spilled too much. Your mind was already coming up with excuses for what you meant by what you made me feel. Heat crawled up your neck, your knuckles stark white against the dim light from the dashboard. You scrambled internally for a way to gloss over your slip-up, but the words weren’t coming.

“I’m not trying to excuse what I did,” you said after a beat. “There’s no excuse for it. I just wanted to explain, to tell you why I acted the way I did. And to say I’m sorry. Really sorry.” 

She's not saying anything. The silence stretched uncomfortably, and you risked a quick glance in her direction, her expression unreadable in the faint glow of the passing headlights.

Panic began to claw at your chest.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” you blurted out, your words rushing now. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I know what I did was shitty, and I know I have no right to expect forgiveness—”

"I know you didn't mean to hurt me, Greaser."

Greaser.

You smile.

And that was all she said until Hunter and Aliyah awoken from their slumber twenty minutes later. But it was enough.

————

"Damn, how long was I out?" Hunter grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck as he shifted in his seat.

Aliyah stretched with an exaggerated groan, yawning as if she'd been asleep for days.

"Only about forty minutes," you replied, glancing at them. The weight in your chest felt lighter after your moment with Jenna, but a part of you braced for the teasing chaos that might erupt now that they were awake.

Aliyah groaned dramatically. "Ugh, I was hoping the driving part would be over when I woke up. Are we seriously just gonna spend days cooped up in this car?"

"We’ve only been driving for like three hours," Hunter pointed out with a shrug.

"And that’s not far enough?" Aliyah raised a brow.

Hunter nodded, turning his gaze to you. "She’s got a point, you know."

"...I have a suggestion." Aliyah finally says.

"Shoot," you encourage her.

She leaned forward slightly, a mischievous grin spreading across her face as she looked at Jenna. "How about we visit Markus? We’re probably close to him already."

Jenna’s face lit up instantly, her smile matching her sister’s excitement. "That would be amazing, Ali, but… are we really gonna risk leading trouble straight to him?"

Aliyah waved the concern off with a dismissive hand. "Come on, you really think those bad guys are gonna follow us all the way to LA?"

While the sisters debated, you leaned toward Hunter, lowering your voice. "Who the fuck is Markus?"

Hunter smirked, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "What’s the matter? You jealous?"

"What? No!" you snapped, scoffing like the idea was ridiculous. But your mind betrayed you, lingering on Jenna’s radiant smile. Who was this guy, and why did she look so happy talking about him?

The sisters’ conversation quieten down, and Aliyah finally addresses you, her grin still firmly in place. "Y/n, how does a trip to UCLA sound?"

next chapter

Taglist: @godamnityess @machyishere @freakshow2501 @nwestra @mcchicken88

@101rizzlrr @snowdrop1026 @ilovesneezing069 @btay3115 @burntoutghost

@cobaltperun

[wordsofwhimsy]

【Ｏｐｐｏｓｉｔｅｓ　

Ａｔｔｒａｃｔ】 - Part Eight

Pairing: Mohawk!Mark Grayson x f!Reader

Warnings: None

Tags: Fluff, slice of life, Mark’s all “duoyy” about your tits lmaoo

Word Count: 2,328

Chapter Synopsis: It’s game day and your roommate convinces you to wear something WAY out of your norm. It’s got Mark all fucked up.

a/n: ugh i really like this chapter – also i wasn’t lyingggg when i said this shit would be slowburn. reader’s ol’ dense ass hasn’t even clocked the way mark be looking at her yet.

Part Seven

Mark had stayed with you late into the night. He didn’t say much. Just lingered in the same room while you flipped through textbooks and typed furiously at your laptop, muttering the occasional curse under your breath when you couldn’t get a paragraph to sound right. You looked exhausted—like you hadn’t slept in a week—but you were clearly trying to push through it.

He didn��t get it.

Not the school stuff, not the effort, not the way you ground yourself down to the bone like it would all fall apart if you didn’t. He couldn’t imagine wasting that much energy on a bunch of overworked professors and a system that, in his opinion, was mostly built to break people down and leave them in debt.

Still, he didn’t say anything. Just sat on your bed and watched the curve of your shoulders as you worked, how your brow furrowed when you mentally hit a wall, how your tongue poked out when you finally found a rhythm again. Pesto had eventually relocated to your desk, curled in a loose half-circle beside your laptop.

It wasn’t until your head slowly dipped, your movements stalling entirely, that Mark realized you'd passed out.

You’d fallen asleep right there—half-upright, cheek smushed against the keyboard, one arm dangling limply over the side of your chair.

Mark stared at you, then let out a long sigh. “Seriously?” he muttered under his breath.

Pesto gave a concerned little chirp and padded closer to you, licking at your cheek with small, sandpaper-rough strokes. You didn’t stir. Just let out a tiny snore and went boneless in your chair.

Mark rolled his eyes. “God. You’re gonna give yourself a hunchback by thirty.”

Still, he got up. And with careful, practiced ease, he hooked his arms under your legs and shoulders and lifted you like you weighed nothing at all. Pesto gave a little squeak and leapt back onto the bed, eyes wide and blinking as Mark crossed the room and gently laid you down.

You curled automatically into the blankets as soon as you hit the mattress, a soft sound escaping your throat—peaceful and worn out in equal measure.

Mark stood over you for a moment, lips pressed into a thin line. You looked so small like this. So tired. And even though it wasn’t anything new—wasn’t like he hadn’t seen you doze off many times in high school gym class before—something about it now made his chest feel tight.

Like maybe he didn’t like seeing you this way.

Like maybe he hated that you kept pushing yourself so hard when no one else seemed to notice.

He tugged the blanket higher, smoothing it over your shoulder. Pesto blinked up at him from the corner of the bed. Mark glared. “What.”

More blinking. Very owl-like.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered. “Stop it now, I’ll squash you I swear to god...”

Pesto, unfazed, licked his paw and gave him the slowest, most condescending blink he’d ever received from a barely sentient creature.

Mark huffed and turned toward the window, ready to slip out the way he came in—but froze when the doorknob rattled.

Crap.

The door cracked open and Emily stepped inside, still in her lab gear, earbuds dangling from her neck. She paused when she saw the room—your unconscious form tucked in bed, textbooks scattered about, Mark halfway through a panicked turn. Pesto had made themselves scarce, slipping beneath the covers.

Mark’s eyes flicked to the window, then back at Emily. Nope. Not worth it.

“…Hey,” he said casually, like he hadn’t just been caught trying to sneak out like a vampire.

Emily blinked. “Uh. Hi?”

He cleared his throat and adjusted his jacket. “She passed out at her desk. I put her in bed.”

Emily arched a brow. “Thanks?”

Mark made a vague grunt in acknowledgment, then walked past her and out the door with a rigidity that would put dames to shame.

Emily watched him go.

“…Okay then.”

Still, as she kicked off her shoes and crossed the room, her gaze softened when it landed on you. She whispered something about “absolute goblin girl,” then tucked the blanket tighter around you, and flicked off the light.

At least you weren’t alone.

—

The next morning arrived far too quickly.

You rolled out of bed with your hair in twelve directions, your laptop blinking low-battery warnings at you, and Pesto somewhere still tangled in your blanket like a sea creature.

Emily was already wide awake. She perched on her bed like a pristine barbie doll, eyes sparkling, holding two hangers up like she was planning a fashion heist. “Today is the day,” she said gleefully. “Prepare to be hot.”

You blinked at her. “What.”

“The game,” she said, like it was obvious. “Kyle? Nachos? Sunburn? Public awkwardness? Ringing any bells?”

You squinted at her.

She sighed dramatically. “You need something to wear.”

You looked down at yourself—oversized hoodie, pajama pants, socks with little cats on them. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“Girl,” she said almost sympathetically. “Be for real.” She stood up and crossed the room in two strides, throwing open your closet.

You groaned and got to your feet, murmuring that you were going to the bathroom. She just waved you off, clearly too invested in her own mission.

You shuffled off toward the dorm bathrooms, clutching your towel and your caddy like armor. The floor was quiet this early—just the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant sound of someone brushing their teeth. You took your time showering, letting the warm water ground you. You weren’t sure if you were nervous or excited. Maybe both.

Kyle had invited you. You were going to your first baseball game. In public. With people. That was weird. Good-weird, but still weird.

By the time you came back, hair damp and twisted up in a towel, everything in your closet had been ransacked.

“Emily,” you said slowly, eyes sweeping the scene. “What. Did you do.”

Emily didn’t even look up—she was shoulder-deep in her own wardrobe now, holding up shirts and muttering under her breath. “You own like five outfits and they’re all from the discount bin of a high school anime club.”

You clutched your towel tighter. “I like my clothes.”

She turned around holding a bright yellow summer dress. “Yeah? Well I like seeing you not dressed like a depressed librarian. C’mon, try this.”

You stared at the dress like it was radioactive. “That’s... short.”

“And cute,” she said, tossing it at you before you could protest. “You’ve got the legs for it. And the boobs. Honestly, I don’t know why you hide under all that fabric like a Victorian ghost.”

Your face flushed. “I’m just... not used to showing stuff off like that.”

“Well, you should be,” she said with zero hesitation. “Now get your hot butt into this dress before I forcibly put you in it.”

You groaned but gave in, slipping behind your closet door to change. The material was soft and breezy, the skirt falling mid-thigh and the neckline dipping just enough to feel mildly illegal. You tugged at the hem, your face burning.

“I look ridiculous.”

“Let me see,” Emily said, crossing the room. You hesitated, then stepped out. Emily froze. Her eyes scanned you from head to toe, and then she let out a long, impressed whistle. “Holy hell.”

You immediately folded your arms over your chest. “Don’t—”

“No, no, no. Shut up. You’re hot.”

“Emily—”

“I’m serious! If I saw you across a bar like that, I’d assume you were about to ruin someone’s life. Kyle’s gonna die.”

You tried to shrink into yourself, but a laugh bubbled up despite your embarrassment. “You’re insane.”

“And you look amazing,” she said firmly. “Now twirl.”

“What? No—”

“Twirrrrrl.”

You gave her a half-hearted spin, and the skirt flared up slightly with the movement. You couldn’t help but laugh, a little breathless and pink-cheeked. Maybe… you did look kind of good.

And maybe it felt really nice to have someone see you and say it out loud.

You were still mid-laugh when someone knocked on the door. You and Emily paused, exchanging a look. “That’s gotta be Kyle,” she said, already moving to open it. But when she pulled the door open—it wasn’t Kyle at all.

It was Mark. He stood there in his usual jacket, hands shoved in his pockets, expression sharp and unreadable. Emily blinked, clearly caught off guard.

“Oh. Uh. Hey?”

Mark stepped inside without a word, and then he saw you. His body turned to stone.

His gaze snapped to your legs first—bare, tan, almost shinning under the hem of the dress—and then to the curve of your waist, the subtle line of your collarbones, the dip of skin just above the neckline that knocked a fuse loose in his brain.

And then his eyes dipped lower. For a moment, he just stared—like his brain had rebooted mid-thought.

What the hell.

You had tits. Not just vaguely-there, hidden-under-a-sweatshirt boobs. Real ones. Perfect, soft, gravity-defying, distracting ones. On display. In a dress that clearly had zero concern for his ability to stay normal.

Where the hell had you been hiding those?

Oh. Right. Under three layers of hoodies and a self-deprecating sense of style.

Mark felt something short-circuit behind his eyes. There was a moment of honest-to-god panic, the kind that only came from the realization that you were no longer safe in his brain. Not even a little. Not when you looked like that.

You shifted under his stare, tugging awkwardly at the skirt. “Emily’s letting me borrow it.”

Mark’s jaw flexed. “Why?”

“For the game,” you said, oblivious to the storm cloud forming in real time. “Kyle invited me, remember?”

Silence.

His brain, still fried, took a moment to catch up. Right. The game. With Kyle. You, in that dress. In public. With him.

“No,” Mark said flatly. “You can’t wear that.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You should change.”

Emily blinked, eyebrows shooting up. “Excuse me?”

Mark didn’t take his eyes off you. “It’s too much.”

Emily scoffed. “What are you talking about dude, it’s just a dress.”

“It’s not just a—” He stopped himself, nostrils flaring slightly. “You’ll kill somebody.”

You looked at him, almost mildly concerned that someone might actually lose their life for reasons unknown. “Kill who?”

Mark opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again, like maybe if he just kept rebooting, the right words would eventually show up in his head.

Emily looked between the two of you, mouth twitching. “Oh my god,” she said. “You’re serious.”

“I’m just saying,” Mark huffed, crossing his arms like that would make him sound less unhinged, “maybe don’t go out in something that looks like… that.”

You stared at him. “Like what?”

He looked pained. “Like—legs. And skin. And tits.”

Your face lit up like a Christmas tree at how blatantly he called out your chest. “I’m sorry—”

“I meant—your boobs,” he amended quickly, like that somehow made it better. “I mean—not yours specifically, just—ugh, you know what I mean.”

Emily was openly laughing now. “No, this is good. Let’s see how far down this rabbit hole he goes.”

“Listen, I mean,” Mark snapped, cheeks faintly pink now. “You’ve got people out there. In the world. With eyes. And blood pressure. And I’m not saying they’ll spontaneously combust but like. You never know.”

You stared at him for a second longer, then slowly raised an eyebrow. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You seem… weird.”

“I’m fine,” he repeated, clearly not fine. “It’s the dress that’s weird. You’ve never worn anything like that before.”

You glanced down at yourself, the swell of self-consciousness suddenly creeping in like a chill under the door.

“I mean… yeah,” you said, more uncertainly this time. “That’s kinda the point, right?”

Mark didn’t respond. Not really. Just gave you this look—tight, unreadable, heavy. The kind that made your stomach twist without knowing why. You tugged the skirt down again, nerves starting to itch just beneath your skin. “Do I look stupid?”

Mark’s head snapped up. “What? No.”

“But you said—”

“I didn’t say you looked stupid,” he said quickly, tone sharp. “I said people are gonna look. And… they don’t need to be doing that.”

That last part came out quieter. Like it had slipped past whatever filter he’d tried to use. You blinked at him, lips parting—but before you could say anything, there was another knock at the door.

Emily moved to answer it, and your heart lurched, caught in this weird limbo between feeling ridiculous and wanting to disappear entirely. You looked back at Mark. “Should I change?”

Something flickered in his expression. Something complicated. His mouth opened—but Kyle was already stepping into view.

“Hey,” Kyle said, smile bright as the sun. “Wow. You look—”

“You don’t have to finish that,” you cut in quickly, brushing past him. Your hands fidgeted with the edge of the dress, pulling at fabric that suddenly felt too thin, too short, too much.

You didn’t wait to hear what Kyle had to say. You weren’t sure you wanted to.

Kyle barely had time to catch up before you were out the door, leaving a silence that felt far heavier than it should have.

Behind you, Mark stood unmoving, jaw tight and fingers curled into fists. Emily gave him a long, knowing look.

“You really could’ve said literally anything else,” she muttered.

Mark exhaled, low and sharp. “She looked uncomfortable.”

“She looked excited. And hot. And for the record? She still looked like herself. Just a version of her that actually lets herself exist in the world for once.”

He didn’t answer.

Emily rolled her eyes. “You’re not mad at the dress. You’re mad it’s not for you.”

Mark didn’t deny it.

———————

Part Nine

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