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pranabefall · 4 months ago

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⠀⠀QINGXIN IN THE MOUNTAIN.⠀⠀⸺ ⠀⠀zhongli.

syn. while the divine war rages on, you find yourself entangled in the company of a wounded god and reservations or not, you don't have the heart to let someone die on your watch.

TW. ⸺ beta read, long oneshot like seriously it's over 14k, mentions of war and past death, seclusion and wounds. this work contains 18+ contents so minors, you know the drill, unprotected sex, half-dragon zhongli, reader has no gendered pronouns but has female parts, 4k words worth of smut guys get ready.

LOG. ⸺ this is another repost of this fic after my old account got deleted on accident. taken from my old blog lol, a buffer as i work on my current wip XD. this work has been marked mature for containing smut. readers below the age of 18 / ageless blogs and antis, do not interact.

“i want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.”

— PABLO NERUDA.

Curiosity , you learned, was a reckless maverick in every right. Your mother told you of its consequences, of the people who wandered too far from the safety of your village and the watchful eye of your deity, and she told you of their death and the disaster they reaped alongside it.

Curiosity was what cost you — and you knew , you knew better than to indulge in its traitorous little tug when you wake, the scent of petrichor in abundance and the chill of a rainstorm’s aftermath prickling your skin.

“Forget about it.” you tell yourself when you rub the sleep out of your eyes.

“Forget about it.” you tell the reflection staring up at you, her brows furrowed with a familiar sternness. It scatters when you dip your hands into the basin, the icy water stinging your fingertips.

“Forget about it.” you breathe out as you lean against the doorframe of your small home, staring out at the expanse of green and the fog that had settled a few feet below.

Yet here you were , scaling down a mossy slope, your bare feet damp from the dew it trod over and your hair still messy from your sleep. You could dimly recall something the previous night between the rains, between the crash of thunder and the crackle of lightning. It was a sound too distinct and out of place in a storm, something akin to the beginnings of an earthquake before an unknown force cuts its life short.

Your head swivels to the side. You couldn’t see much past the mist save for what was in front of you and you clamber down with a little more prudence till the ground evens out a bit more and the screen before you dissipates. You could see nothing out of place, save for a few upturned trees and your shoulders slump. It was all for nothing , you realize and a tinier voice dares to whisper a spiteful little ‘dammit’ .

You turn, casting one last glance over the clearing, then make your way back uphill. It was a wasted attempt and as you stew in your own self-berating and disappointment, you almost miss the faint crackle behind you. It was just the wind , you reason. There was little cause for it to be anything else. What could possibly make its way up here ?

When you hear it a second time, you freeze, something cold jolting at your bones.

Well shit .

It doesn’t take too long to find the source, save for trudging through the mud and a few of the murkier parts past the tree line — but you find it by the time the sun shifts the barest fraction to the west..

“ Ah — ” was the most your throat could choke out as shock swallowed you whole, like ice water.

There is a trail of gold on the earth, and it leads up to the slumped form of a man, his robes stained with the same gilted shade and his breath leaving shallow puffs of air where he lay, motionless and seemingly dead.

Well — fucking — shit . You mind shudders, your thoughts screaming and splitting up against your head like some panicked beast. It was chaos at its core, it was the frenzied scrape of control.

You were no fool. The man before you, both massive in frame and presence, was one amongst the hundreds of those touched by divinity — god or not — whose names were uttered and praised amidst this war. There was nothing distinctly human about him; not his clothes, not the horns that curled atop his skull and the brown scales smattered across, not the ichor he bled out — nothing .

For a moment, or maybe more, you stare down at him, long and hard as you try to wrangle your rationality back and think of what move to make. You could not afford the trouble that comes with aiding a foreign being and the land you settled on could house any force hostile to the man at your feet. A shaky breath escapes, then another. You were trembling now, just a little, daring to take a step back, then one more.

Kill him , another voice snaps. It was twisted and its words breathed acrid revulsion. Get it over with, he’s not worth the pain.

You consider it, for the tiniest bit of a second till he lets out a shudder and shifts with tense shoulders, his grunts labored and streaked with muted agony — those darker thoughts quickly flatline to scattered anxiety and the hand that brushes the blade at your hip falls limp. Not now, perhaps . You could just leave him here, let nature run its course.

You could do that , you decide with a semblance of confidence.

Of course you could.

Of course .

Your shuffling comes to a stop and you're backtracking immediately, your pace holding an urgent bounce with every step. There is a feverish jerk to your movements when you settle beside him, and a storm of emotions raging in your chest. It does little to ease you — little does, these days — and you press up on his shoulders in an attempt to roll him over onto his back.

It happens so swiftly, a blur of gold and black that shadowed your periphery before you were slammed down with eyes like uncut cor lapis glaring down at you. You scramble, clawing at your neck, at the digits pressed up against your windpipe and your pulse and it beats faster and faster and faster . One tiny move and you’d be left for dead.

( A part of you is stunned — for even wounded and weakened from some unknown, unspoken battle, the quavering power within him seemed to beat strong. You feel a mix of thrilled awe and terror turn in your stomach. )

His gaze hardly falters, roving at your form before his grasp on you releases and he mutters something akin to an apology, collapsing again. His eyes were still open, watching you beneath a haze of pain and deliriousness, stiffening now and then when you so much as move. The strength he showed, no matter how small it was, is gone and there is the slightest hint of vulnerability beneath the stripped layers of stone.

Your instincts scream at you to run yet you stay rooted in place, coming to sit up and hover by his side. In the end, your own concern and pity won out. “Y-you’re wounded.” you try to reason, only to be met with a grunt. You find yourself wincing as you stutter over your words, your voice hoarse from months of disuse. “Please, l-let me help. My h-home is c-close b-by.”

Feeble , you chide yourself amidst it all, old, old regrets tearing at your mind and clawing at your thoughts. You shut your eyes, letting your muscles relax and you try again.

Tugging at his arm serves to be fruitless. He was too large for you to carry over and your first attempt gives that away well enough. The gold in his veins seems to dim with the passage of time and you fear his life slipping away under your watch. “I n-need you to w-walk…” your plea is almost caught in your throat and you have to wrench it out to let it be heard. He tilts his head your way. “You’re too h-heavy…” you try to reason.

Another grunt sounds out and thankfully , his form rises. You’re quick to move to his side, supporting him against your shoulder, the thrum of elemental energy strong beneath your hold. He practically oozed it and it feels like what the storm felt like — the trembling earth itself.

You don’t say much after that, leading him back to your home, your hand and clothes staining a bright gold.

Perhaps your house would have been a little cleaner had you known you’d have a guest over. When you lead the the being inside, you scan the small space with a sense of perplexity, hoping he wouldn’t scrutinize the sight too much ( your mother always seemed to emphasize the need for a well kept living space — should she see you now, you know she’d be rolling in her grave with indignity ).

He stumbles a little, letting out a guttural snarl and you flinch, almost dropping his weight onto the floor when you feel claws close down on your arm and press against your scarred skin. You hiss softly and he gives a little jolt, his hold on you releasing, leaving little but the crumpled sleeve of your tunic behind.

“How much — ” he cannot finish the sentence, his nose wrinkling up and he almost looks a little feral underneath the light.

“Just a l-little more.” you assure, cracking the barest of smiles as you cross the room and lay him down on your bedroll. He was tall enough as is, and you think his horns would scrape up against the ceiling of this house should he stand upright.

The bedroll itself was pathetically small beneath him, but you couldn’t throw a fuss about it, working away at his clothes in relative silence, steeling yourself up in preparation for the worst.

The clasps and the belts and sashes are undone by nimble fingers and as the layers peel away, you come to a stop. It was not a pretty sight, his wounds, the clawed lacerations criss crossing across his torso like patchwork. You doubt you could salvage much and you almost give up at the spot, pulling away the rest of his clothing. The worst one splits across his chest and you look to the side, battling out the vertigo and the nausea threatening to creep up.

He’d have been dead at this point, had the blood in his veins be that of a mortal’s and not something inhuman. In some convoluted sense, he was lucky.

Stop cowering , you hiss internally. Pull yourself together .

The sound of rustling clothes is all you could hear after, followed by the clinking of metal and the sharp tang of alcohol. Your movements are almost robotic — and you had done this plenty of times before, cleaning the wounds of children and soldiers. But this wasn’t home and you doubt any soothing words would stoke at the feelings of a god.

When you return to his side, his forehead is damp with sweat.

“ Shit — ”

His skin was warm . Could an immortal being fall ill? Was that even a possibility?

“I will be fine.” he rasps out and you jump, snapping his way as you hold the clothes closer to your chest in defense. He turns his head, peering at you and you think you see a stubborn glimmer beneath the usual masked strain and impassivity. “My wounds will heal in time…I…only seek shelter till they do…”

“Absolutely n-not.” you reply, splaying your palm out on his stomach to keep him still as you clean away the dirt and dried blood. The shallower wounds were slowly closing up again. “You’re in no state to argue right now.”

His mouth twitches and there is a momentary flash of teeth. You try not to let it frazzle you as much despite his initial protest, your movements slowing to a more delicate pace as you bathe the worst of his lesions till you were satisfied with the lack of dirt caking his body. “It seems choice no longer holds to be a luxury.” he utters under his breath.

“No.” you agree. “It does not.”

He falls silent, a petulant turn on his lips. “Are you a healer?” he asks. You bow down, unwinding the linen wraps you had stored away.

“My mother was.” you finally admit, your posture straightening. “I learned what I could from her to aid the people in my village. I never studied medicine formally, however…” you trail off. Talking seems to grow a little easier the more you speak. The hoarseness was slowly giving way and your stuttering grew less frequent.

“And I take it you shall try to help me as you do with any other human?” there was a sardonic sort of amusement in his tone that has you bristling. “Your medicines and methods will not work on an Adeptus. Put your tools away, you only waste your time.

“Adeptus…so you hail from the settlement south of Mt. Tianheng?”

“You’re ignoring my words,” he accuses. You bat your lashes at him innocently.

“Small talk.” you shrug. “You can tell me everything you want after I’m done tending to you.” you meet his gaze, tumultuous gold melded with an orange-red. He narrows his eyes, his unfocused vision scanning you, then the house, then at the bandages you held before he leans his head back with a defeated sigh.

By the time you conclude your task, he has fallen unconscious, his breathing deep and his heartbeat unnaturally slow for a human. You look down at your ruined clothing, at the stains at the hem of your tunic and at the sleeves and you hope you can salvage what you can from this, moving on to change out of them and fish out a cleaner pair of clothes.

The smell of petrichor still persists through the day, the sky brewing with the makings of a new storm. Perhaps you had lost track of time and the monsoons were sitting in sooner than expected and you move on to salvage whatever you’d left outside to dry and board your windows up for the incoming onslaught.

The man wakes when night falls, form set aglow against the dim lamp light.

“Let’s change your bandages.” you offer. He doesn’t protest this time, painfully sitting himself up with gritted teeth as you get back to work. His skin still radiates that uncomfortable temperature as you press up against it. You might need to get a wet rag ready lest he overheats

He speaks after the silence persists. “You shouldn’t see me like this.” it comes out as a whisper so soft, you almost miss it. His face however holds a distant look, with a hint of disappointment lurking within and you tug at the linen a little harder. You’ve heard that before, from the lips of men and women who had too much to hold and little weakness to show. You wonder what it would entail for a warrior, or a being whose years spanned farther than yours, to sink as low before a stranger.

It must be hard.

“We all get hurt sometimes.” you smile, hoping to lighten the air with a bit of humor ( it was getting too heavy, the air in the room ). “I’ve lost count of the number of times I've hit my head…and you think I'd be a little more cautious given my studies…”

A poor joke stays a poor joke no matter the delivery ( and yours was weak to begin with ). He does not say or do much, save for a slight twitch in his jaw and an unamused tilt in his head. You shrink back, skittishly throwing his used bandages aside in favor of new ones with a hasty “Nevermind.” on your tongue.

“Do you truely not know who I am?” he asks, his touch skimming the sheets absently. You shake your head, confusion and that damned curiosity slowly lurking and clawing its way to the light. You want to stamp the ugly feeling down and out of sight. You try to. It does not disappear. He continues, “What of the civilization south of Tianheng?”

A shrug was the most you could manage. You guess that was where he hails from. “I know it’s the domain of a geo god, and that beings touched by longevity, ally beside him. “My old home is far, however, and our god hid us away from the world…my knowledge on this is sparse.”

You’re almost ashamed to admit it, to acknowledge the bubble you had grown within, accepting the suffering of the men and women who ventured out and returned with broken bodies you and your mother had to fix. You weren’t sure what sort of terrible dichotomy it was, to live in ignorance amidst blatant horror and blood, and you don’t wish to return to it.

He seems to take this in, his eyes training up at the ceiling, then upon you with a lidded stare. “Who was your god?”

The icy set to your jaw was a hint he picks up on and he does not further the topic.

“...I am from there…from Liyue.” he says instead, in recollection of your previous question. The settlement was a distance from here, a few days worth of journeying by cart and hardly worth the risk of the travel with the demons that lurk and the gods that warred.

“What’s your name?” you ask.

His lips curl again, but it’s less of a grimace and more of a smile, his fangs tucked away to show a visage less feral, less dangerous. You find yourself relaxing a bit more unconsciously, seemingly charmed by this simple action ( and the thought almost scares you ). “What is your name, mortal?”

Ah, he wasn’t going to make this easy. You’re tempted to tug on his bandages a little harder if only to spite him.

You don’t reply till you are done with your chore and you lean back, massaging your stiff fingers. Your name slips out of your lips then, the action feeling natural in defiance of the years spent hardly having a friendly face within your home, save the occasional traveler. The adeptus seems satisfied. “You may call me Zhongli.” he replies, his voice softer, raspier.

“Zhongli.” you repeat. Zhongli .

There is a rustle of fabric and his fingertips brush against yours, the touch nearly having your arm lurch back in muted shock. He seems unphased but you — you watch a soft light shimmer through the dimness of your walls. When it fades, a single visage of gold stares back.

“It’s your reward. For aiding me.” there is a medley of pride and contentment and you liken it to that of a child offering a messily put together gift. Gold is coveted by most, but has little use here, and you have little use for it. But the gift is still cupped within your hands and you hold it as if it is something precious.

( Oh, your heart trembled just a bit and you feel a lump grow in your throat, bigger and bigger till you dip your head down out of his line of sight. )

His eyes bear down on you harder, set aglow and unyielding.

You smile to hide your trembling frame, thoughts revolting within your mind like the beat of war drums with a mix of unease and appreciation. Yet, who were you to question Zhongli’s secrets?

Maybe hypocrisy runs deeper in your blood than you initially assumed.

Mist dances at your fingertips.

It weaves and spreads and obscures the light and the woods around you and you run through blindly as the skin beneath your feet tears and the chill of the night clings to your skin and leaves behind dew and sweat.

You could see nothing; nothing save the pale glow of the moon above you as it tries to break through the barrier and light your way. It cannot, for Balam’s magic conjures obscurity, and obscurity was worshiped.

But you were human and you were curious and the voice that called your name was so familiar and warm and you wanted to weep and run towards it. The mist will not stop your folly and you will keep running to appease that growing thirst. In the end it will cost you.

The sound of your footsteps cease. The mist thins out and at the end of the veil, you poke your head out for the first time to witness the world outside. A set of teeth, white and sharp greet you. Then another and another, till the darkness itself glows as it does beneath the moonlight.

You hear her voice. It comes from the open maw.

The demons spot you and you run again, feeling their jaws clamp down and tear through muscle and bone and you scream and scream and scream at the white hot agony and the very feeling of your nerves set aflame before they numb.

Your curiosity cost you.

You wake to your fingers clawing at your shoulder with labored gasps and Zhongli panting, his fingers gripping at the sheets of the bedroll and his brow furrowed. You blink away the sleep in your eyes and tug the blanket off of your shoulders, shakily making your way to his side. His skin was hot again and panic lights in your chest, like the incoming winter.

“Fuck — it’s gotten worse.” you mumble a few more expletives as you stumble out to collect some more water and the few mistflower corollas you had stored away within your cabinets, hoping the elemental energy in them hadn’t dissipated completely. Setting the bucket down by his bedside with the corollas nestled within, you hiss at the cold pricking your palms and the frostbite coming to form.

Never mind that! The fucking adeptus is going to melt .

Oh my, thank you for pointing out the obvious!

The cloth bath was set to a near feverish pace as you feel him twitch and convulse through the chills wracking his body. “Hot — ” he groans.

“It’s the fever.” you mutter, tugging his pants down, your eyes unconsciously trailing down the slope of his waist and dip of pelvis, then avert your eyes before you could see any more, face flushed whilst a cloth was thrown onto his hips to spare him some decency. “You need to cool down…please, stay still.”

His hand comes to grip your arm and the dormant strength within it, one etched into his very being, was frightening. The adeptus’ sights were set upon you, the fever-addled state of his blowing his pupils out till only a thin ring of gold remains, shining through the light of the oil lamp, brighter and brighter. You pull away and rest your free hand on his with a soothing squeeze.

“You will be okay.” you assure. “It will come to pass soon enough. Let me take care of you for now.” You coax him to stay still as you continue the cloth bath, wiping away at his clammy skin while fatigue continues to weigh down on your shoulders and tug at your eyes. “I know you’re hiding something…and if you…if you’re one of the gods, then you must live. You’ll have people waiting for you…they need you, at a time like this.”

He lets out a weak exhale, shakily sitting himself up with sudden urgency. “ Liyue… ” he whispers, gait faltering and you steady him as he leans into you, resting his forehead against your shoulder. You struggle to push him back down atop the bedroll, his breaths growing pained with the passing seconds.

“Liyue.” you nod and repeat. “You need to go back soon, don’t you? You’ll have to heal first, and for that, you must rest.” The cloth is pressed against his temple now, wiping away sweat all while the smell of petrichor grows stronger. The searing temperature hasn’t subsided and hopelessness stirs inside, an ugly feeling, a familiar feeling ( it was worse than your curiosity — it always was ).

Zhongli leans into your touch, his fingers tangling against yours. “ Stay… ” he whispers. You cease your movement as his body shifts and presses against your lap. “Stay….” he repeats.

“I…I’ll stay.” you slump in defeat, resting his head on your lap. Lightning flashes outside your window and the walls seem to shake as the rain comes pelting down. You continue the bath, listening to a leaky spot in your roof and the incessant downpour rattling against the tiles. Zhongli seems to still, his breaths still weighed down by that terrible heaviness.

The rain continues. His fever grows worse.

Then the pattering slows down, and the flush on his skin comes to cool. By the time the rains stop, his fever breaks and you lean against the wall of your home, shutting your eyes as you nearly weep, your worries allayed.

Morax was the first to wake in the early hours of the morning, the scent of petrichor pervading his senses followed by the faint lull of jasmine. Then comes the warmth and the softness, one his claws unconsciously dig into with a groan shuddering out of his chest.

It was you , slumped against the wall, lost in your own dreams and too tired to notice and the sight makes him swell with a conflicting mess of emotion. Then comes the pain, the aftermath of his fever coming to tear at him, at his limbs and his tendons till he ceases his stubborn movement and lets his body fall slack.

He does not understand your intent, but the faint memory of that familiar care against a muddled haze stills his tongue and his suspicion. Your muffled words, your hand in his, everything, blurred away yet so clear.

Humans were strange, so fragile, so determined…

“Fool…” he murmurs. The last of his strength is used to draw the blanket over your shoulders. “But thank you, nonetheless.” Sleep calls him again, and Morax shuts his eyes.

The jasmine lingers, stronger than most. He lets it swallow him whole.

You come to realize how much you hated it, the loneliness.

Your home was far removed from civilization, settled between regions and away from main travel ways that weren’t blocked or destroyed. The quiet of your house was nothing like the bustle of the town you hailed from and the chaos that accompanies the stalls in the early mornings. The most noise that encloses your small plot of land were the local wildlife, the creaks and groans of wood born against strong winds and the weight of snow and the distant battles fought over the horizon.

During arbitrary moments of your routine, you question why Zhongli landed here of all places, in the midst of nowhere. You wonder if this is some grand scheme or punishment for your past mistakes and when you feel your curiosity dare to skitter forth and poke more holes into your blind acceptance, you drive it away with an angry hiss.

He is not an unwelcome guest, even if he holds a sense of urgency at times and a well kept secret whose nature you suspect . It’s almost comforting, no matter how contrived it seems, listening to him speak of an obscure plant or hearing his heavy footfalls a few days after his arrival.

How desperate are you? The bitter pride in your heart speaks up, and it’s seedy and unhappy as you straighten out the drying sheets over the heated slab. Where is your self preservation? Your brain cells? You’re smarter than this you fool —

“Is something wrong?”

Zhongli’s voice snaps you out of your reverie and you start, nearly dropping your laundry on the grass.

“Nothing!” and it is a weak save on your part as you straighten the worn down basket to move to an empty patch of stone, ducking under to check the state of the flaming flowers underneath. His hands come to rest on the surface and he lets out a soft exhale, his eyes slipping shut in a seeming moment of peace. “You should be resting.” you remind him.

“I believe I'm past the need for excessive bedrest.” he intones with an amused lilt. “Do you need help? It is partly my fault you have far more work to sort through.” He wasn’t lying. What little linen you had was used up to change the sheets on your bedroll before his fever broke. You had little clue how illness amongst higher beings were treated, but simply washing the contaminated cloth was the best option you had on your for now.

Ah, sometimes you regret not moving closer to a town.

Your reply was short, when you notice the silence being drawn out for a little too long. “That does not mean you should strain yourself. The less of a load you place on yourself, the faster you will heal. I’m sure you are needed back at your colony. The war is far from over.”

The comment seems to tug at his emotions, a stern moroseness settling on his face. “That is true…but I trust my fellow adepti to hold the lines in my absence.” you bend over to collect another sheet from the basket, the hair at the back of your neck prickling when he moves behind you. “Even so, I should hasten my return.”

“Then — ” The sheet is snatched from your hands and you watch Zhongli step beside an unused slab to lay it across the surface, a mischievous smile touching his lips. “Oi!” you snap, reaching out to grab it.

“However,” he continues, ignoring your protest with a look of innocent serenity. You want to squawk, to stamp your foot down childishly and you almost do, your movements stilled by you clenching your fist to curb it. “I’ve fought battles with wounds far worse and won. Menial chores are hardly a labor and if it means aiding you then I shall take it.”

You let out a groan in defeat and push the basket between the two of you. Zhongli was preening in his small victory, setting the clothes out to dry with relative ease. “Guests shouldn’t partake in chores like these.” you repeat the line your mother had uttered so many times, one amongst many of her favorite maxims.

He watches you from his spot behind the stone slab, a contemplative haze clouding his hues. “I simply return the favor. It is the nature of a contract, to balance out what is given with due compensation.”

He isn’t going to let up, is he?

“Fine, fine…you can help me collect a few mist flowers later.” you concede.

“What do you need them for?” he asks, collecting your laundry basket as you kneel upon the grass, blowing some air into a patch. One of the flowers is set alight and you sigh, letting them burn awhile as you feel your fingers retain a little more warmth in them.

“Preservation…I use them to make my herbs and food last a little longer…it’s not easy, coming across certain ingredients for a decent meal…” You let out a dry chuckle at that, which melts away into a mildly sheepish one. Even if you bear a slight annoyance to your choice of settlement, and even with the debilitating isolation that came with it — it was still home and it was still safer than most.

Zhongli takes this in, a hand resting against his chin. “I see…cooking is not a part of my skill set…unfortunately. But a friend of mine intends on relaying an old recipe of his should the war end soon. Perhaps I could pass it on to you, if you don’t mind it.”

It was an oddly sweet gesture coming from him and you hum, a genuine smile spreading across your face as you consider it. That also meant opening a tiny window of opportunity; a chance that you may see Zhongli again. The thought stirs a clash of emotion, of fear and of excitement and dare you say it, hope and it feels warm and cold and all sorts of things at once. “I’d like that…granted you don’t accidentally poison me.”

He feigns annoyance as his head tilts to the side, quietly regarding you. “You overestimate my inadequacy. The last time I did partake in the culinary arts, the worst outcome was an offhand crystallize reaction and a burnt stove.” he pauses. “Besides, my skill in brewing tea is decent.”

Oh Gods —

“I’m just being cautious.” you laugh a little louder at that, holding up your hands in defense. “Dear Lords though…I hope that friend of yours is prepared then. You might turn out to be a genius in cuisine or a hopeless case.”

“Then I hope for the former.”

You grin, hanging up the last of your clothes. “If you turn out decent…then I wouldn’t mind sharing some of the recipes passed down to me. I couldn’t indulge myself in them as much, but i hope you may come to like them.”

Something in Zhongli’s eyes softens and he nods. “And I would like that in turn…” he utters slowly, watching you clear away any dry branches and grass close by. His fingers absently brush over his torso, where the bandages stay wrapped around him. You catch the subtle purse of his lips and the twinge in his jaw. “Do not be concerned…” he snaps up to meet your worried face. “I am fine.”

“...Right.” you knew it wasn’t wholly a lie. Zhongli proved to be a quick healer, perhaps a trait passed down by his inhuman lineage. But these displays of vulnerability only played into the damning knowledge you knew before; of the hidden fragility the gods held. “Come on…I think it’s time we get those bandages changed.”

Zhongli smiles but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Another secret , you think sadly, taking his hand as you lead him inside, taking in the momentary warmth he held even if his skin didn’t quite feel like skin or that they glowed a bit too bright between the cracks of your fingers.

You don’t ask him to collect the mist flower corollas again, staying at home with him with some tea set at the table for him to sip on while you inspect his lacerations. There was some idle chatter over dinner and Zhongli spoke a little more about his home.

“You’re going to leave tonight, aren’t you?” you ask suddenly, your voice soft. His words die out and you try to still the sharp edged pain in your chest. It refuses to fade and you accept the growing weight with an unwilling gait.

“Yes.” he whispers, setting his cup down and he looks ashamed.

“Then go.” you mumble. He opens his mouth again but you hold up a hand. “I…I know your name is not really Zhongli…it’s not is it?” His silence was damning and you finally piece it together, the knowledge you learned from your village and from your travels, no matter how meager, painting a slow picture in broad strokes.

The stories depict Morax to be more of a beast and less of a man. You would have glossed over it as well,expecting a dragon instead of the visage of a handsome stranger.

“I take it you’ve come to a conclusion.” he muses, looking a little apologetic, a little ashamed. “I never intended on deceit but the nature of our meeting called for it.”

“You were afraid I was going to kill you?” you guess. Zhongli — Morax laughs and shakes his head.

“Even in my weakened state, you would have been incapable of it.” well damn . “I feared someone of greater power would catch wind of talk of a wounded god…but given your lifestyle, they held no merit. I apologize though…I know you may have suspected a while.”

Morax smiles and you try not to battle the disbelief that a good sat across you, eating your food and drinking your tea. “However, I have a question to ask you.”

A pause

“What became of your deity?”

Your breath seizes and you meet his gaze. His stare seems to hold so much more weight to it and you look down. Your old god was a memory you sought to bury away well out of sight. Recollecting them only brought in a bitter taste and a dull ache and Morax notices it. “That’s a story for another day.” you finally manage out after some deliberation. Your tea has gone cold by the time you take another sip out of it, the air feeling heavier again. You wrinkle your nose at the taste.

He nods. “Then I will return and pay my debt in whole as well.” he decides. “Your kindness is one I shall remember, little one.” You hate how a part of you melts into this buttery, weak mess and when he smiles, you hate how it’s so easy to feel yourself tear at the seams, to beg him to stay a little longer. “Thank you.”

He was gone the next morning, a fresh batch of mist flower corollas left behind in an earthen pot alongside a delicate flower preserved in amber.

“Good riddance.” you tell yourself, the words feeling forced.

You will miss him, you think.

He returns three months later, or maybe it was more. Time was easy to lose track of and the seasons were all you had to know of a passing year. By the time he arrived, the last remnants of winter had receded and you found yourself in the midst of spring, restocking your stores and setting soup to boil in the hearth.

Should I bow? You think when he appears at your doorstep. Extend a greeting? Address him by his title? Your great eminence…no that sounds pretentious… You reminisce about your old customs, of the times you spent watching your mother lay out scented flowers and fruits at the feet of your deity during festivals or during victory feasts. Morax however, steps inside with a smile in greeting, his hand coming to tuck some stray hair out of your face.

Then comes the deja vu.

You question why his arrivals were always timed on days when your home was a mess.

“Wait! We can talk outside.” saving the last few traces of your dignity is all you had in mind as you blockade the entrance. It would hardly do any good, you realize then; he was tall and he was far bigger and when he stops with a puzzled look and scans the room and the traces of stalks and unswept and unused parts of the herbs you were sifting through, a glint of understanding flashes in his eyes and he steps back.

You want to sink into the ground with the traces and remainders of you. Oblivion seemed a tempting option with the way your face burned and your heart hammers at a pace nearly hard to keep up with.

“My apologies.” he utters, letting you lead him outside. He does not seem as bothered or flustered, thankfully; nor does he pry as he erects a few makeshift seats sculpted from geo and sits himself down alongside you with a soft sigh on his lips. “I wish we could have met sooner,” he admits.

“Is that so? It’s hard to believe you’d bother…” you hum with a shy dip of your head. Morax considers this.

“Did you not ask for it?”

“I did…but I accepted the possibility of you not returning.” you cease for a second, recalling your promise to give him the answer he sought. It felt like a cheap trick, back then and it still does now, of you running away as you always did. “I'm glad you came back though…it was nice having someone around to speak to.”

Moax looks pleased with this. “I simply find your company enjoyable.” you feel a stirring in your stomach when he says that, and it feels like a wonderful sort of sweetness, like honey. “Even if our first few days spent together lacked any delicacy in approach.”

“You were quite stubborn.” you admit.

“I was, wasn’t I?” he agrees. You snicker.

“I wouldn’t blame you though. Even I had a hard time staying still when bedrest was forced upon me…how have you been?” your fingers slot together as you pull your knees closer to your chest, your cheek resting against your thigh as you watch the scenery in the distance. The mist had abated, just a bit and you could see the copse of trees expanding then scattering as the plains began.

Morax exhales. “As I’ve always been.”

“Stubborn?”

“ Busy .” he corrects, flashing you a look of warning. You grin innocently. “The war has come to a temporary standstill. Only smaller battles seem to keep up…with the weaker gods mostly weeded out, planning our next move is of importance. I only have a few hours to spare now before I leave for Liyue.”

“Oh…” you take this in. Perhaps this was a sign of the war slowly coming to a close. Maybe during your time, if you were lucky enough, or in another hundred years or so. “Then…tell me about Liyue.”

Morax raises a brow but he smiles, humoring your question. “What would you like to know?”

“Plant life? What’s it like there?” you supply, leaning forward in quiet anticipation.

He chuckles. “Not of the people? Or its history?” he asks.

“You can tell me that too!”

He hums, his gaze softening. “It’s not uncommon to see mountains in Liyue,” he admits. “To say our weather has a stark contrast in the plains and the peaks would be an understatement. Juehyun Karst, the realm of the adepti is pleasantly cool most of the time, but the plains are hot and humid. That being said, our flora seems to take on this diversity as well…”

He tells you about the yellow sand bearer and the gold ginkgo trees that spot Liyue’s landscape, of the horsetail that covets the marshes and the reclusive glaze lilies that grow within the terraces. He tells you about the silk flowers nestled amidst the red bushes, always found in pairs and the violet grass sprouting forth off of cliffs. And he tells you of the qingxins that turned away from the warmth of the plains and grew in the distant peaks, looking down upon Liyue as a whole.

There was a sort of magic, listening to Morax speak of his nation with a layer of fondness and sadness.

“Maybe when the war ends, I’ll visit. I think I'd like to start a garden some time.” you hum, surveying the empty patches of land in front of you. It would be nice to have a few more flowers around to brighten up the monotony you have grown accustomed to. His expression shifts, a brighter shine lighting up his eyes.

“You could stay there if you wish.” Disbelief rattles through your ribs and it steals your breath and pushes against your lungs. You fall silent, ceasing the anxious play with your clothes. “I could find a place for you amidst my people…would you like that?”

There was disbelief, yes, and a stutter in your words, but there is also the pang of appreciation and the tingle at your fingertips. However cold dread settles down ( for it is an old bedmate ) and Morax seems to catch on. “Have I misspoken in any way?” he questions, his hooded gaze appraising.

You jerk your head. He had it all wrong and the last thing you need is a messy misunderstanding to fall into your pile of terrible mistakes. “No, no…I don’t think I'm ready to return to a land ruled by a god…or even around so many people…not yet…” you couldn’t bring yourself to word it out and it shames you. You are an adult. You needed to speak like one.

There is a faint brush on your cheek, the barest hint of a touch and when you look up, you see the suspicion he holds paired with concern. You want to shrink back, make yourself smaller, unknowable, something you were before he came along and made you care and vie after company and something as simple as touch.

“I assume it has something to do with your old settlement?” he asks.

You nod.

“We were hidden behind our god’s mist and illusions…our people were cut off from the rest of the world save a few soldiers and those who joined our god in battle. My mother would accompany them sometimes…she’d tell me about the world outside and we promised to visit a lake just a short walk from the barrier…” you hold out your hands, trying to grasp the words she had tattered. “She called it starlight on earth…or…something like a mirror clearer than any metal she’d seen. I wanted to go, but we were not allowed to leave.”

“You were not?” Morax asks. He leans in, listening closer.

“We were not.” you affirm softly. “Or god never spoke it…but we knew. They talked about demons lurking out and we were scared. One day…I couldn’t find her amidst the returning line of soldiers she left with…I did later…and I couldn’t even stand to look at the state she was in.” you stare ahead, the weight of his gaze resting even harder now. “I don’t know why…if it was grief or curiosity or a mix of both…but I thought I heard her voice one day…calling out to me. And I knew it was a trap, but I ran towards it, out of the forest, and the mist…”

You swallow hard. You felt cold. Cold all over, like that night, where the silence was unsettling and the sound of your name was a taunting whisper. Your mother, it was your mother, rigid at some times with her own rough edges and flaws, but loving for the most part. Your mother — and it was an old hurt you had locked in a box a long time ago, that time had weathered down till it was the embers scraped to the side of the charcoal pit.

“They were right…my deity warded off those things that attacked me…but they were bleeding everywhere . Balam was strong , but as a god…I doubt they held much in par to some of the others who warred out there…” Like you , you almost add. “They were weakened…unfit to fight in a state like that and we tried what we could. The wounds didn’t heal as we thought they should. I was banished for endangering their life and as I traveled…I heard of Balam’s passing in the hands of an invading god.”

“...and now, I'm here.” you finish, wryness coating every syllable. You wished your apathy was more than a weak front to bury away the stab in your heart; you wish you could be stronger than the coward you are. Morax shuts his eyes, his arms crossing over his chest.

He looks a little more like the god you were told about; sharp, pragmatic, with a presence that looms over most. “If there was a law that stated so, that forbade stepping out of your deity’s territory, then yes, you have committed a wrong. I have heard tell of Balam, whispers of their whereabouts and they did try to protect your people from a harsher way of life…”

Ah, so that was his response. You wilt a little, feeling a mix of fury and defeat, at Morax, at the gods, at this war and at your own childish stupidity and audacity to even dare to feel this way. “I see…” you mumble. Morax holds up a hand, cutting you off. The words die in your throat faster than embers in snow.

“But,” he behind and his expression pulls into something gentler, lacking the initial rigid sternness it held. “Demons are still a force to be reckoned with. Even my adepti struggle with stifling down their noxious presence, whether it be the weight of karma or a disparity in power itself.”

Coherency is now a lost subject.

“I doubt you could have resisted its influence and Balam knew of the battle they would throw themselves into. Your god was willing to make that sacrifice, something of a rare sight amongst a few of the divine. Remember this well.”

A lump grows in your throat. It’s not an unwelcome one, quietly easing the nerves that crackled and frazzled beyond possible repair. You look down at your hands and your eyes slip shut as you take his words in, bit by bit. Balam was a god who, while distant within the front lines of battle, still loved their people.

It’s ironic how the gods can be capable of human sentiment and human error.

“Thank you, Morax.” you mutter. “I needed that.”

“The bitter truth, or the comfort?” he jests softly. “Because while I deal well with the former, my skill with the latter falls abysmally short.”

You laugh softly.

“For both .”

( His eyes light with surprise. Then you spot it, the faint flush on his cheeks and a dangerous thought enters your mind. You shake your head. It was best you didn’t raise your paltry hopes . )

He does not visit for a few weeks, but you spot a few saplings left behind at your doorstep, of plants and flowers you had never seen before.

You pick one up and a single word echoes in your mind — qingxins .

A smile tugs at your lips.

The distant noise of battle has grown reticent.

You tell it to Morax on one of his visits and he dares to flash a knowing smile in response. “The war is coming to its close. Only a few handfuls remain.” he states, tracing your bandaged hands; a new set of souvenirs from a stray whopperflower. You shiver involuntarily, leaning into him a bit more while longing tears your insides raw. “Hopefully you will come to enjoy an era of peace soon.”

“Will it end soon? The war?” you ask, wincing a little when he presses his fingertips down on the afflicted skin, bathing it in honeyed gold. “Ah! Gently!” you hiss, pulling back on reflex. Morax holds you fast, drawing you back to him with a playful tut and a sheepish glance your way.

“Apologies. Is this alright?” The pressure on your wrist still brings forth a sting, but it’s far more bearable. You nod. “Alright. Now hold still …” The glow returns, as does the tingling warmth and the tense nervousness gives way to a content sigh as the pain ebbs to obscurity. You watch your bandages fall away to skin mostly unblemished, save the faint traces of a scar left behind. “Better?” he asks.

You nod. “Much better…I wonder why you didn’t try healing yourself earlier. You’re not too bad at it.” he wasn't. Only a few humans were ever imbibed with the grace of divine power. You always longed to be gifted with the strength to heal, and you feet the slightest hint of envy as you take in the sight.

Morax blinks. “I was in too weak a state to do so. Healing is not my greatest strength either…I simply learned it, should it come to use amidst battle.” he flexes his fingers, the last flickers of gold falling away. His gaze meets yours with its usual intensity before he reaches for your other hand.

“Hm…I suppose this means you’ve paid your part of the debt?” you tease. “You’ve healed me as I've healed you, right?”

“True…” his lips quirk up as he mends the last of the burns, then presses a delicate kiss on your knuckles. “Does this mark the end of our contract?” The gesture only serves to fluster you further, bringing forth the feeling of fluttering warmth and the near lightness in your chest. Morax chuckles, his voice dipped to a teasing whisper as he calls out your name in a low, purring timbre.

“H-hold up!” you choke out, terrified of potentially overheating as you push his face away, stifling away the shy laughter that threatens to burst out. Morax shifts closer, closer still, his close presence having grown familiar through the meetings and the shared conversations and meals ( you missed the gentleness in his touch, you missed so much of him ).

“Hm? Stop what?” he teases, a cheeky glint lighting up in his gaze. “My, your face feels warm.” he adds with a soft simper, tilting your chin his way as he scans your features.

A desperate attempt to shift his attention comes to form. “Look at the qingxins you gifted me! They’re growing nicely, right?” you try to smile, looking at the flowers growing just a small ways from your home. Morax hums.

“They are. Give them a few months and they will come to bloom.” he replies, his wandering touch tracing up your arm, grazing at fragile skin and faint scars and the sensation has you shuddering. The glow in his eyes brightens and he huffs out something unintelligible, then asks you, “Would you like me to stop?”

You fall silent. “No it’s fine…” you sigh, reaching up to grasp his hand gently, ignoring the phantom stings as your finger splays out over Morax’s palm, at the dazzling gold dipped at the edges fading away to a spider web of veins and dark scales. “I like this.” you hum. Morax blinks, his cheeks coloring pink.

The intensity burns brighter in his gaze. It scorches at his touch and in the way he looks upon you now and as acute as it was, you felt blanketed beneath a safe warmth.

Morax speaks up, “I will make sure this war ends soon.” It was a promise, holding the weight of his blood. You feel it in every syllable, every rise and drop in his cadence. He leans in and the spice in his scent pervades your senses.

His lips are softer than you expected, mildly chapped from the heat and the battlefield, and between the buzz slowly beginning to sound off in your head and the feel of his touch brush away at your hair and rest on your cheek, your heart hammers hard in your ribcage. You feel the earth shift and watch the sky sweep away as you fall back on the grass and Morax palms at your hips and kisses you some more.

It feels like a distant dream, something you’d rather not wake from and when he pulls away to look you in the eye, you watch the smirk in his face grow as he dips down and buries his face into your neck, his pace languid, his claws gentle against the softness of your skin. You bite back a stray mewl when his teeth prickle down on sensitive flesh, slowly and deliberately making his way down down down, and his hand pressing flat on your thigh.

A glow flickers within his chest. He stops and tugs away with clear frustration, heaving as he watches you try to recover from the fog clogging up your thoughts, the memory of his touch warming every inch of you. Morax chews at his bottom lip. “I am needed again.”

“...oh…” you croak out, even if you wish to scream at the unfairness, to pull him back down atop of you and finish what he started. You shut your eyes, easing at your frayed nerves at the trembling and the traitorous dampness that was gradually settling in. The god in front of you holds a shadow of amusement and he kisses you again, gentler, with less teeth and tongue and more tenderness.

“I’ll come back,” he whispers. It holds another promise masked beneath the assurance, it’s cheekiness lighting his gaze.

When Morax’s form departs, you let out a shaky sigh, one hand delving into your heat while the other clamps over your mouth. The moment your slick coats your fingers, you moan into the silence, the promise persisting.

Morax thinks about you when the rains fall once more.

He thinks about you on the battlefield, waiting with that patient smile.

He thinks about you when his adepti fall and the last god is slain — when he finds his numbers dwindle, their blood staining his victory. He holds that memory of you close, that cherished warmth. His little flower.

Morax thinks about you. And he longs .

You came to know of patience’s workings through the days and months in between Morax’s visits, and this one is his longest thus far. The war persists still, the sound of the heavens screaming slowly growing quieter as deities were felled and the lands were stitched together by victories and defeats. You wonder where your old home lies now beneath the seven seats, what it would grow into in the near future.

Then one day, you wake to complete and utter silence.

The war is over. The roads had cleared. One day, when the world stills just a little more and the last few scars left behind have healed, you could try to visit the towns and cities beyond your isolated home.

Morax stays absent. You go on with your life. The qingxins he gifted you bloom in your garden. You wait, shedding away the accusatory remarks, the words that dare you to doubt his victory, that take your mind to darker spaces with the image of his still form and cold hands. No, absolutely not, you could not doubt him .

You repeat it over and over, beating down at the cynical whispering. Do not doubt him .

A storm rises again, blustering through the lands with the threat of tearing your home down from its stubborn foundations. You stay inside, the change in weather setting forth a persistent chill that your meager hearth could hardly hold against. Finally, after a few hours of running about, your body hunches over the blocks, feeding the fire with the last of your firewood.

“How much longer…” you mutter, storing away the last of your herbs when the rain refuses to cease and it grows harder to differentiate between night and day. The lightning thunders in response, asserting it’s long stay and you curl up by the warmth you fed, numb fingers gripping at old blankets and watching the rain beat down incessantly on your roof. It would be a long wait, you realize. It’s best if you find a way to pass the time.

There was another clap of thunder, then a crash that felt all too intimate with your memories. Then came the knocking and you scuttle up to let a drenched Morax in, his pupils blown wide and his body hot to the touch as he stumbles in. You’re almost afraid he’s fallen ill once more, but the insistent tug at your wrists has you follow him.

“Are you okay?” you ask, seating him down by the fire, moving to dry his hair after draping a sheet on his shoulder. “Morax, what’s wrong.” Despite the sudden appearance, you feel relief crash down and tug out a lump in your throat. You hold back the tears for his sake. You did not want to startle him in this state.

“A visit.” he shrugs.

“In this weather?” you question every ounce of wisdom he holds. He looks unbothered, pulling you closer to him while you squeeze the water out of his tresses, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder. Warm breath pools out and hits your neck and a shiver racks at your body. “Morax — ”

“I missed you…” The hoarseness of his voice steals the words in your mouth. You latch onto him tightly, fisting at his robes, uncaring of the silk wrinkling beneath your rough hands. Morax does not stay silent or stay still, his hands sliding down your sides, pulling you closer up against him. “I missed you…” he repeats feverishly. The hunger in his stare is an answer enough.

The fire crackles and lets out a sputter.

Morax lays you on your back with a gentle thump and hooks a hand beneath your knee, pushing it up against your chest as he steals a kiss from you, heated and impatient after weeks of mulling over his affection and lust. “Stay still.” he orders as you squirm a little, wanting more, needing more, trying to bury yourself into him as much as humanly possible.

Your open mouthed breaths did not help in the slightest as he steals another kiss, then another, the wetness of his tongue delving deep down your throat as he muffles out any sounds of shock from you —

— was it forked ?

You could not ponder over it for long, choking against the invading muscle while his lips caress yours with growing need and intensity. It made sense, for one like Morax — who adored talking about the origins of an obscure tea leaf to the festivities that littered the streets of his city — to fancy the act of kissing you. And he still keeps kissing you, over and over till your head spins and his body is pressed up flush against yours.

He noses at your neck with a noticeable huff, fingers dragging up the side of your hips, slowly, deliberately, till they tug at the hem of your clothes. Molten gold catches the anxious excitement bubbling within you and your eyes and you catch the smirk on Morax’s face.

“I’d like to continue.” he sounds breathless.

“ Go on then .” that threadbare line that held you together had snapped now. You do not think you could wait any longer than you have for him. Morax chuckles, bending down with a narrowed gaze till his nose brushes against yours.

“I haven’t finished my statement.” he chides and you don’t know what is worse, him dragging this out to a near painful pace, or the hand that caresses the inside of your thigh teasingly, drawing out a stray moan from your lips. “If you feel overwhelmed, or you wish to stop, we must establish a safe word.”

He waits expectantly and you scour your mind for the first word that pops into your head. “Squid.” you decide, shifting your hips closer to him. Morax lets out something between a wince and an amused chuckle, his hand leaving your thigh. You wine in protest, grabbing at his wrists to pull him closer.

“So needy.” he lilts. “Are you sure you want this?”

How cruel , you think unhappily, unsure of how to take his consideration; a loosely veiled attempt to drive you further into wanting or a call of sincere concern. You think you know Morax. You think it’s both.

“ Yes !” you cannot wait any more and neither could Morax, his claws curling round to clutch and tangle at the back of your head while he captures you in a devouring kiss. Your own experience hardly held a candle to his own practiced ease, but you do what you can, groaning into the clacking of teeth and the teasing little nips he leaves on your lower lip.

His thumb traces down the side of your neck and hooks at your clothes, tugging away at the fabric to stroke your now bare shoulder. Morax leaves no trace of skin untouched by his lips and he brushes down the line of your collar bone, his teeth flashing in the candle light till you feel him bite down at the spot with a muffled growl.

The rush of pain and pleasure has you pressing your face down into the mattress with reeling shock, any moan held back in the midst of the hazy shock lighting up inside you. The action was mostly unintentional, but you were glad it could have saved you any further embarrassment in Morax’s eyes.

“Not a sound?” he asks, licking his lips with a predatory tilt to his head, regarding every inch of you with voracity. You stubbornly refuse to respond, lips sealed tight with a set of eyelashes batting up at him. Morax likes a chase and you give it to him, no matter how small it may be. “No matter. We’ll see how silent you are by the end of the night.”

The words hang in the air like an impending omen. You do not doubt him.

His voice dips to a sultry whisper as he undoes your top and lets it slide past your shoulders and down your waist till it was bunched to the side and lay there forgotten. The storm rumbles outside your window, and the wind prickles at your skin. Between Morax eyeing you down, mapping out every detail with his fingertips and the chill in the air, your arms instinctively move to hug yourself.

“No.” His word was stern, absolute as he tugs at whatever covers your entirety from his gaze. “I’ve never seen you this shy before… adorable .” he purrs, stroking your cheek.

“ Tease .” you test out.

Morax’s expression lapses to a playful smile in the midst of your indignation, leaning back to watch you with clear intent. He guides your legs around his waist and shifts you partly atop his lap, gently moving your hips to a slow grind against his torso. The sudden stimulation draws out a squeak, your cheeks set aflush.

“ Beautiful… ” his claws linger over your chest before it trails down to stroke your stomach. “You’re so soft , little love…” they stop at your shoulder, raking around the scar settled there, gnarled marks and torn flesh left behind by talons and teeth. You feel the flare of doubt and self consciousness flare back up, but it fizzles out when he bends to leave a kiss atop it.

It was hard to find a spot that he did not touch. Morax was precise, diligent, learning what spots made your squirm and whimper and shake beneath him with white hot pleasure. The rain’s roar was a distant muffle between the pleasant buzz in your head and Morax’s ragged breaths sounding in the otherwise quiet room. He hunches over you, nosing at your neck with near obsessive need, nipping, kissing — anything to cast on some semblance of his scent and essence.

Your chin nestles atop his shoulder, your sight trained upwards, oblivious to where Morax may choose to touch you next. The clinking of metal does draw in a few questions, most quickly answered when you feel his clothes give way and settle on your stomach. Then comes his teeth, sharp fangs sinking into you. You hardly register the moan you let out, or the heat that you sink into, desperate for more, for more skinship, for more of Morax.

“ Beautiful .” he repeats, a growl bleeding into every syllable, down to the rumble in his chest. He still donned his pants, but most of his clothes now lay scattered across the mattress, pushed aside a moment later with an impatient huff.

You have seen Morax bare chested plenty of times before, when he first arrived wounded on the slope of your little mountain home. There was no denying he was a beautiful man, sharply lined with the faintest of silvered scars scattered beneath stark gold tattoos. “ Morax .” you mutter, lacing your fingers into his, tugging at him instantly. “Keep going.”

He smiles.

“Patience.” he croons. You squeeze your eyes shut and hold back the swear resting on your tongue. “I have waited for so long…” his teeth don’t hold the old hesitance it did, now wholly marking you with delicious bruises and love bites. “...and I intend on savoring… ” his lips linger on the line of your jaw, tickling your ear. “... each… ” they brush down, down, down. “... bite… ” and true to his words, he sinks his teeth down again.

Your hands tangle at his hair, his hair tie snapping to your insistent tugging till burnt brown strands pool around him. He looked a little wilder, with how his eyes glow beneath the shadow cast on his face. You comb through them with a soft “So pretty.” earning a flattered hum whilst he cups your breasts, chanting your name lovingly.

You gasp at the feel of a soft pinch on your nipples. Morax lights up, a dangerous splay of his fangs flashing in your field of vision before he engulfs one breast within his mouth, suckling, biting, devouring greedily and the other grows sensitive to his slow strokes. “M-Mor–AX!” Your mewls peak and your hands grab at his shoulders, his back, at the sheets — somewhere , trying to ground you to the sensation.

( He could hear your racing heart beneath his grasp and the sound of it makes Morax purr with an emotion so old and primal and possessive. )

He pulls away with a wet pop. “How do you feel?” he asks.

“H-hot.” you barely manage to blurt out. “Hot everywhere.”

That smile was back again, the one with the barest flash of primality. “Hot?” he repeats. You nod. It was hot, in your cheeks, your chest and your stomach and core — and you could hardly bring yourself to wait. With Morax’s resolve to take his slower pace. You curse his patience. You wish he was just as desperate.

“I am.” he muses nonchalantly, ducking down to take your other breast in his mouth. “I crave every inch of you. I want to hear you sing, wǒ qīn'ài de .” his hand drags down, teasing the inside of your thighs with circular strokes. You buck your hips into him with a pathetic whimper, and Morax pounces at the lapse, tugging your underwear down with a single fluid motion then pushing his fingers into your drenched heat.

“Oh how obscene.” he lilts, a delighted shine in his eyes, momentarily bringing his slickened digits for you to see. “You’re drenched.”

“ Shut .” you snap, a depraved cry cutting you off as he teases at your entrance with one finger, thumbing up your core till he settles on your clit with a peased grunt. Your hips snap and shudder, tears slowly pricking at your eyes. It was an odd sensation, a buildup of pressure far greater than what you could coax out that tightens in your gut.

Morax slides a finger in, slowly, gently. “ Ah — ” you bury your face into your mattress, spreading your legs further for him. He continues his slow thrusts, in and out and you revel in the sweet sensation. “Feels — f-feels good — ”

His scrutiny comes with its merits, stroking your walls with an out of place gentleness as he watches every shift, keen and whine with a deep found appreciation and yearning. “You’re quite tight , little one.” he rumbles. You warble in response, bucking your hips into him as the pressure steadily builds and builds and builds.

“I’ll be adding another.” he decides and he does, a second finger slipping in. the stretch stung and you fist at the sheets with a groan.

“N-no…t-too much — ah!” The broken whimper does elicit a sympathetic look from him and he kisses away the tears, thankfully easing his movements.

“I know, little love. I know.” you sink into his warmth, melting at the delicacy in how he holds you close. “But we’ll need to prepare you, don’t we? And you’re taking me so well too…” you think you are when the pain slowly subsides and the pleasure returns, your very being trembling when he scissors you. “Ah, witnessing the state you're in…it makes me wonder how well you’ll take something else of mine, hm?”

“M-morax!” you squeak, cheeks flushed. The embarrassing squelch from your core shuts you up immediately. You decide you’re better off muffling out your moans out of petty spite at this point and you seek your refuge in the covers, burying your face into your mattress.

Ha! You think, naively, foolishly, daring to assume that Morax would fold at the face of a challenge. A third finger slips through and the moan is smothered. You think you hear him chuckle and you think you see the excited flash in his eyes as he shifts and twists your body, laying you down on your stomach.

“So stubborn.” The delight is apparent in his cadence. His hand presses down at the small of your back, then his torso presses up against you, continuing his slow and agonizing thrusts with practiced pace. “The vitriol in your silence hardly diminishes how soaked you are. Your body is far more honest, it seems.”

“ MMPH !”

You gasp, feeling his fingertips stroke your g-spot, pulling you apart at the seams and chipping away at your mind. Everything feels distant and muddled and the pleasure was almost too much to bear. “Does it feel good when I touch you here?” you shut your eyes and curl up, bucking up into him uselessly. His weight restricted your movements and you doubt you could wiggle away for a temporary respite ( even if some masochistic part of you liked the deluge of sensations pile up steadily ). “I need words.”

Another thrust. You wail into your hands, whatever dogged decision to stay silent, now shattered. “Yes. Yes — P- please!” you haven’t the foggiest clue what you’re begging for at this point, but the fullness you feel from his fingers alone is enough. “L-like that. Morax please keep going.”

He adds a fourth finger.

“You keep tightening up…” he whispers, as if trapped in a trance of his own, your head lifting to press against his bicep while his movements momentarily slow to ease you in before his pace picks up and that slow, brutal torture begins again.

You squirm, squeal, bite into his arm with vigor. Morax laughs, kissing your temple with comforting croons. “Good.” he coos, dipping his nose into your hair with a victorious purr. Your thighs squeeze around him and your hips jolt forth. The pressure steadily building up in your stomach seems to crest while you chime out his name. Your orgasm seeps closer and closer and closer —

He pulls his fingers out and you bite back a cry, a protest, tears pooling out as dismay settles fast. Was it something you said? Was it something you’ve done? Why did he stop?

“Why…” you manage out, stroking his hair. Morax raises a brow then slides down, his lips latching onto your inner thigh with a groan. You fist at the sheets again, a vague idea coming to form between the haze and the jumbled confusion and disappointment and it sets a spark of excitement.

A pause.

Morax meets your gaze.

He smirks.

You stifle back a scream when he bows his head down and laves at your heat, catching the receding traces of your buildup and letting it reel in steadily. His tongue was greedy, warm, devouring you whole as he slicks it through your drenched folds, and — oh gods —

Whatever praise that you cry out turns into a feverish mantra being babbled out over and over, the sharp mountainous air taking on a headier scent. Your validation was enough to spur him on, it seems, every bit of Morax, from the practiced gentleness to his eagerness to undo you coming to shine with the fervor of a starved animal.

“ Good .” he growls out, claws digging down a little harder into the softness of your thigh, his teeth and tongue grazing and toying at your clit. You clap your hands over your mouth once more, a squeak cut short, only to have them pinned down by him. He flashes you a warning glare before gold light illuminates your wrists and you feel the weight of geo press them down to your chest.

The cuffs were heavy, and they did their job well as you could only grab at air while his licks grow more languid. Your thighs were pushed back with a single fluid movement and a flustered cry escaped with your sudden exposure.

“Ah — ”

You tug at his hair, drawing out another delicious moan from his throat. Liquid gold appraises you, taking every detail in, between your fucked out expression and your twitching body. Morax presses against your sweet spots, and you could have sworn some strange magic were at play, with every careful thrust and every slow vibration. You could hard;y word out the state you were in, your mind all cotton wool with little thought.

Overwhelming…indescribable…that was a way to put it.

Morax does not complain about your growing insistence, your moans growing louder, your thighs squeezing round his shoulders, your attempts to free yourself from the stone shackles he placed on you.he must be just as far gone with your arousal in his mouth ( and that was true ). You hope he won’t turn to cruelty like the last time and deny you of your orgasm. It was a delirious pitch in the back of your mind, a soft cry.

“I-I think i’m close — ” you gasp, feeling that knot grow tight as the tell tale spill of an incoming release shudders up your spine and fingertips. Morax looks at you, the gold of his eyes wide and his pupils blown out with suppressed mischief. A well-timed thrust from his fingers served your undoing.

“Go on then.” he relents.

You sob into the sheets gratefully, pleasure rippling through as the coil snaps and you crumple and sink into a state of unawareness. You could only just register Morax sitting up, thumb swiping at his lips, licking away at the mess you made, smeared between his thighs and on him. “S-sorry!”

He shuts his eyes, quiet bliss washing over him. “I could devour you here and now…” he mutters in indulgence. He rubs your sore wrists down, pressing kisses against the expanse of skin with an apologetic smile. “You look tired. Shall we stop here?”

Alarm lines your features. “What about you?” you blurt out, bug eyed and still fatigued from your orgasm. Morax doesn’t respond, laying down next to you. You feel a bitterness line your mouth and you find yourself pushing your body up and crawling atop him. Morax opens one eye, amusement quirking at his lips.

“Oh?” he doesnt bother feigning surprise as his clawed grip settles on your hips. You try to hide yourself, embarrassment from your bold move hardly aiding in your focus as you slide his pants down and stare, he bore two of them, standing erect against your stomach. You helplessly glance at him.

“You’re…you’re big..” you tell him dumbly. “I-I don’t…I don’t think I can take both of them…” Morax chuckles.

“We’ll take it slow then. You only need one.” he decides, helping you up. You steady yourself on his shoulders, carefully laving your entrance with him before you lower yourself onto him, feeling the first telltale sting that has you stop with a whine. “Careful.” he speaks up, rubbing at your sides and you try to be, taking him bit by bit. Morax stretched you out in a way his fingers couldn’t and his second shaft rubs at your sore clit, leaving you jolting with sparks of pleasure.

He was roving every inch of you, biting down at his bottom lip when you clench around him. Every bit of him screamed of his self control hovering a step away from a more viscous beast. You don’t think you’re ready for what Morax tucks away in the corners of his mind, but you hope, hope that you could indulge him some day.

You were soaked enough for him to slip in with ease, a collective of your and his arousal trailing down with an audible squelch every time he dared to grind up a little more against you. “Fuck….” he whispers out, a rare lapse in demeanor. “D-does it hurt?”

“No.” you shake your head, a half lie. It stings, yes, but the slow haze of euphoria was pressing up and you knew he would stop if you showed the slightest sign of discomfort — and you did not want him to stop. Not with this lovely warmth, and with him holding you like you were the most delicate of flowers.

The sound he makes is animalistic and he thrusts, just a little, into you. He could hardly help himself, seemingly just as lost as you were ( and he was, with his parted lips and fluttering lashes ). You curl into him, pressing your face into his neck. “That’s it.” he whispers mindlessly. “Wonderful, y-you’re taking me so well…don’t rush now…”

You take the rest of him, seated snugly on his lap with a shaky mewl, tears pricking at your eyes. Morax bares his teeth, groaning freely as the air itself seems to crackle against you. You open your mouth, trying to say something, anything, but he pins you down with a single look. “Little minx .” he rasps.

A laugh bubbles up. You wonder if it’s from amusement, or from the overwhelming rush of dopamine or both.

He kisses the corner of your lips, gathering his bearings. “You’ve had your moment of fun, little love. Now move .”

“Yes sir…” you sigh, and do just that, lifting your hips just a bit before you rock back down onto him. “S-shit…s-so good…”

Morax hums, pursing his lips. His face was flushed and the tattoos on his arms were cast in gold and light. He takes matters into his own hands, pounding up into him with sudden force and your teeth chatter and your eyes roll back with a pathetic whimper.

A few marks of your own were delivered, from your nibbling as Morax continues to thrust up into your drenched cunt, and from your nails scratching at his back. His approval was punctuated by a particularly hard one, that made your head spin and had you see stars. You vaguely register the scent of petrichor through everything else.

“ Morax — ”

The state you were in only behind to sink in. That he was inside you, that he was taking every chance to draw out these obscene sounds from your lips. Even gods could not escape the perversion of mortal desires. Was this even considered blasphemy at this point, when he seemed to be stuck on the same boat as you were, sinking so fast into his lust?

“ — so good for me .” he guides your legs around his abdomen, whispering your name with a weak whine. He bites at your neck, at the marks he inflicted, then soothes them with kisses. He rubs your back and strokes your hair, his tender touch contrasting against his rough movements, grinding into your sweet spots and paired with his second cock rubbing at your clit, you could only lose yourself a second time.

That knot tightens and you feel the onset of your release. It was close, fast coming and you tug at his hair to warn him. Morax growls, his tail winding round your ankle. You try to keep up, try to ride him, but his pace far outmatches yours, stretching you out, pulling you flush against him. You let him use you, your monks reaching a feverish peak, grasping a taste of heaven on your tongue.

“Morax — ah!”

He curls into you, around you with an engulfing embrace with whispered words being uttered into your ear, “Do you want to cum?” You jolt your head. “Then cum… ”

And the bliss washes over you as you finally find it, slumping up into Morax;s patient arms with a near boneless stance. Your eyes met his, the hunger that still rages as he watches with awed fascination at how you come apart and piece back together again with teary eyes and a debauched smile.

“Beautiful.” he mumbles, then presses you face first into the sheets, still sheathed deep inside you. You only just realize he still has reached his own peak yet when he moves, absently reaching out for a pillow for you to grasp.

“God…M- morax — ” you were tired but with overstimulation settling fast and your own desires to see his pleasures being met, you bite into the pillow with a helpless whine. There was a rush in the pain you felt, from feeling all that pleasure wrap into a tight knot while he slicks back and forth into you, hitting your g-spot again with insistent grunts. His pupils were blown wide, like he was trying to take in as much of you as he could.

“M-more!” you blurt out then wince, feeling a hint of shame prick at you for being so greedy. It was about him now; sure you could put your own needs aside.

Morax however, smiles. “ More ?” he coos. “You want more?”

A gasp. You feel his hand settle on your clit, his untouched cock brush against your thigh. “Now who am I to deny you?” He continues his rough thrusts, godly stamina barely denting at his reserves and his pace. Perhaps that came with being an adeptus, this unending virility and endurance. Morax kisses at the back of your neck, laying down more marks to serve as a reminder for the next few days ( that you were, undoubtedly and irrevocably his now ).

Wanton moans pour out easily. Morax delights in them, carefully stimulating spots that were sure to bring the most out of you. The initial phase of searching and mapping out and learning was long gone — he was always quick to pick up on things, and things that make you fall apart into a quivering mess so easily were no exception.

It feels so good. So good —

“Do you want to keep going?” he asks. You feel sore in the best of ways and you nod. You don’t want him to stop. You don't ever want him to stop, drunk on the overstimulation, the euphoria, his cock, him —

Morax lets out a shaky exhale and slams even harder into you. “You’ll be my undoing...” he whispers and you turn your head, catching a glimpse of him. His straight faced composure was long gone, what careful parts of him he keeps hidden from sight having fallen over. Claws prickle at your ass, his eyes are trained on you, you you and when he meets your gaze, he captures your lips in a heated kiss.

“What kind of spell have you ensnared me with, little love?”

You could say the same thing. You try to, cut off by a rough grind on your clit. A lump builds up in your throat, vaguely recalling his small gestures of affection, his admissions, through your heat hazed mind and you arch your back into him to catch another kiss. Morax never needed to say the words and you were fine with it.

“I love you.” you tell him instead, taking everything you had to get your tongue to move. Morax freezes up. He shuts his eyes and strokes your cheeks and buries his face into your neck.

“My Qingxin.” he whispers, tenderly, lovingly. The faltering in his pace, the sloppier jerks of his hips, then undertones of strained control beneath his moans signal his release. You grasp at his free shaft, and the gasp that echoes out was a rewarding one as you stroke him along into his release. “In or out?” he grits out, stuttering for a second. You feel the drag of his cock against your walls. “In.” you blubber.

You blank out after, feeling the rush, the fullness, him spilling out of you, between your legs, onto the mattress, over your stomach. Morax lets out a shudder, his marks glowing a faint gold before he pulls out. His hand does not leave your clit. Coaxing your third peak out with gentle kisses and insistent mumbles. The pain was sharp but you drink it in, pride lining every crevice of you till you jolt, that pressure finally releasing.

“Thank you.” you mumble. Intimacy was always so foreign, and a kind touch was a far away thought. Morax settles down, pulling you to him as he kisses away the drying tears and the sated touch starvation. He kisses you on the lips. Then the tip of your nose. Then at the bites he inflicted.

“Rest.” he whispers.

The cadence of his voice made it hard to disagree with and you feel unconsciousness wash over you fast. You could vaguely make out the sheets being changed and a damp cloth washing you down.

Morax’s weight next to you was the last thing you register.

“Are you well?”

Morax could count the number of times you sought refuge beneath his arm, eyes roving the stalls in the harbor with caution and nervousness. Your jumpiness was an expected clause, and a slightly endearing one as he walks you along the streets as a mortal man and his lover. There were no gods in Liyue Harbor today, at least none the people were aware of.

“Zhongli.”

He turns his head. “Yes, love?”

You fall into earnest silence. “I think I'm going to freak out.” you say. As taught as a bowstring against him. You grip at his hanfu tighter. “They’re staring. Why are they staring?”

“I suppose a new face does bring raised brows. That…” he dips his head down, nose brushing against your cheek with a loving chuckle. “...and you look exceptionally beautiful today, love.” You tug at his sleeve. “Ah, would some food ease my flower’s nerves then?” another tug. He takes that as a yes.

Even so, Morax knew you. Qingxins were flowers that know the intimate dangers of the mountain side and the bustle of the harbor below. You will grow, as you do and you will adapt as you do, maybe slowly, maybe quickly. He knows not to rush it along and he contents himself with your company and your curious question and the bliss on your face when you try a skewer.

“Liyue is beautiful.” you admit after a while. “Crowded, but beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m not used to this.” you tell him for the umpteenth time, quick, apologetic and Morax has none of that ( why would he ever see it fit to fault you? ). He takes your hand, pressing a fluttering kiss on your palm.

You shoot him a flustered glare. He smiles. “We’ll take our time. This old man has much to spare.” and he does.

He’ll wait millennia if it is for you.

📼 — AUTHORS NOTES

reposting done XD.

TAGLIST ノ join the taglist. — @silentmoths @meimeimeirin @sleepynoons @meirvelle @endursent.

@jessamine-rose @ofoceansandtombsanew @chiyoso @4acoffee @loveliluc.

#📼 — entries.#zhongli x reader #zhongli #genshin zhongli #zhongli smut #morax x reader #genshin morax #morax x you #genshin impact #genshin #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #tw. m/dni

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shotmrmiller · 1 year ago

Text

Uninvited, Unexpected.

a/n: it's nice until the very end. it hints at baby trapping. one solid sentence that's kinda degrading (i couldn't help myself ok) this was in the works for so long, i did so much research just to use words. english is hard. and ignore the plot holes, for my sake. my sanity.

this is SMUT. 18+mdni please (if im missing anything else, lmk)

ty to my wonderful beta readers @waves-against-a-cliff & @xoxunhinged

wc: 3,1K

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!reader

my contribution to the @glitterypirateduck ghost challenge. idc if i wrote it much earlier lol.

You're awoken by a loud noise. At first, you think you dreamt it. Exploding head syndrome, maybe. You strain your hearing but it's quiet, save for the occasional creak of the house settling, its old bones creaking in the dead of night. Rain gently patters against the windows, blurring the world outside.

A flash of sudden light illuminates the bedroom, casting elongated shadows across the floor, followed by a loud crack that rattles the glass. Thunder. You should've guessed.

The frantic beating of your heart slows to a gentle roll, and your eyes leaden with sleep. The soft pillows beckon, the warm blankets cradle you as you sink back onto the mattress.

Only for you to be snapped back into reality, drowsiness dissipating like a morning mist.

Someone's knocking on your door.

Your heart is in your throat as you quickly peel off the blankets, the chill of the floorboards underneath your bare feet seeping into your bones.

In the bookshelf sits the gun Simon had given you before he had moved out, the rumble of his voice a ghost in your ear. "For protection," he'd murmured, placing the cold metal onto your open palms. "Jus' in case."

Your trembling fingers fumble as you search for it in the dark, flinching as a couple of books spill from the shelf onto the floor, pages rustling in your urgency.

The knocking persists.

The metal of the grip is unyielding in your clammy hands. You've never tested it before, never had the displeasure. As you hold it close to your chest with a quivering breath, you hope tonight won't change that.

Simon's instructions echo in your mind as you approach the front door. "Thumb the safety. Hold the grip with both hands. Do not, under any circumstance, put your finger on the trigger unless you're plannin' on sendin' hate. Clear?"

Your throat tightens, a phantom snake coiling around the narrow passage, and panic grips your heart as you reach for the blinds, slowly hooking two fingers and carefully pulling down to look at who is—

Simon.

Simon?

Sweat-slick fingers flip the light switch before quickly undoing the locks, the hinges groaning in protest as the door opens.

"What the hell?"

It's Simon, disheveled— maskless— swaying on his feet. His eyes are half-closed and unfocused. Johnny's holding him up by the arm, struggling to keep him upright.

"S'ry, bonnie. We wen' out fer a few 'nd clearly, he's out 'is face. Quite crabbit, too. He said ye'd let 'em sleep 'ere," he slurs.

Simon's not the only one who's pissed. With a resigned sigh, you gesture at the couch with your free hand. "There, I guess."

That he thought of you even in his drunken haze tugs at your fragile heartstrings.

Johnny guides him to the catch, a quiet C'mon LT to spur him forward. Heavy boots thud against the floor as they stumble toward the living room while you carefully place the gun on the kitchen countertop before reaching for a water bottle in the pantry. Johnny snickers under his breath as Simon collapses onto the sofa, the springs protesting his weight.

Two bottles, then.

You watch Simon's head loll as you hand Johnny the water. "Tell me you aren't the one driving, Johnny," you grumble.

He takes it with a quiet thanks. "Naw. Cap'n's stone cold sober."

Small mercies.

Johnny gives Simon a rough slap to the side of his leg as he bids him goodbye, pulling you in for an embrace tight enough that your spine pops before walking out the door.

You let out another sigh as the lock clicked back into place. The tangy, sour scent of stale alcohol mixed with stings at your nose, as does the invasive smell of smoke.

His boots are mud-caked, and you'll be damned if he stains your nice furniture with his mess. "Shoes off." He groans but complies. The laces come undone quickly, and you tug his shoes off with a grunt. "Simon."

His glassy eyes meet yours. "Drink your water." The burning need to chuck it at his head is one you have to vehemently smother into embers. Moron. Only Simon would have the gall to show up unannounced months after the separation. And drunk.

You push the bottle into his chest roughly and make to go back to bed when he encircles his hand around your wrist and the world spins on its axis, suddenly finding yourself beneath him with his face nestled in the crook of your neck.

Simon's breath is hot against your skin, the weight of his body pinning you down so achingly familiar. It stirs up past memories that would have you pressing your thighs together if he wasn't right there, using his broad waist to spread them apart.

"Missed ya, love." A confession. "S'much."

The breath you draw is jagged, his slow-spoken words hanging in the air. You want to push him away, scream at him for stumbling in and disrupting your night, your rest, your carefully crafted peace. But there's a part of you that can't help but soften at the tenderness in his tone.

"Simon," you whisper. "You're drunk. You don't know what you're saying—" his lips find your fluttering pulse. You find purchase in his shirt, shaky fingers grasping at the hem.

"'M drunk, no' no liar." Your resolve wavers. No, he never had been. Honesty hadn't been the reason for the split. It wasn't the truth he'd spoken but the truths he'd kept to himself. A fortress around his heart, the bridge to its gates raised. Unwilling to share a burden, share a life.

His warm tongue licks a hot stripe up your neck reaching the lobe of your ear where his blunt teeth sink into it. A choked gasp spills from your mouth, spine arching in reflex— your treacherous body remembering his touch, yearning for it.

"Simon—" your words get caught in your throat; snag like fishhooks when he undulates his hips, arousal creeping along your veins like ivy.

"Don't ya miss me, pet?" You've asked him to not call you that because it never fails to stoke the fire in your belly, to sodden your knickers. Before you can chide him on his choice of words, he shifts. One arm, an inked column under the soft light of the living room, holds him up just enough to bring his rugged face into focus. His eyes, like a stormy night's sky, swirl with untamed desire.

You know it's dangerous to play with fire. Touch it and burn, ache, blister. But the passion of this old flame beckons like a siren with sharp teeth. Each drag of his prominent erection against your core only succeeds in pulling you away from the shore of clarity. It's disorienting, insistent.

Relentless.

"My pretty little love," he mumbles. Simon's gaze drags from your glassy eyes to the delicate contours of your collarbone. His fingers trace lines of intimacy onto the swell of your breasts before using the pad of his thumb to swirl the stiffened peak of your nipple. "Say the word 'nd it all stops."

The scent of alcohol clings to him, a bitter reminder of the loss of inhibitions it brings as it warms one's chest. Blurred lines he might not mind, but you do. Lost boundaries. Rejection sits on the tip of your tongue, on the edge of your teeth when he says something that frays the last threads of your resolve.

It comes undone.

"Please. Jus' tonigh'. All I need." His words sound like footsteps in winter mire, slushed, syllables blending together.

You'll just have to kick him out on his arse in the morning.

"Okay," you breathe. Just one night, you tell yourself. He's always been good to you in the bedroom. One last hurrah wouldn't hurt. Maybe it'll allow you to finally close this painful chapter in your life and start anew, with pristine white pages and fresh ink.

Your hands, trembling with nerves and anticipation, cradle his face. The roughness of his stubble in contrast with the softness of your palms is grounding, keeping you from being pulled under your own swirling emotions.

" 'M righ' 'ere, love. You're safe with me, always." He whispers the last words reverently, a vow. Simon's breath mingles with yours as he leans in for a kiss.

The world around you fades, your senses tunneled on the feel of his lips, the taste of him— mildly sweet with a hint of peppermint. He slants his head to deepen the kiss, and the bruising ache in your heart is replaced by another, one that burns brightly and threatens to sweep you away.

The lulling sound of the pouring rain outside is drowned out by the beating of your racing heart.

The bed creaks when Simon perches you on the edge of it, quietly ordering you to take your top off.

"What about my bottoms?" You bite down on the gummy inside of your cheek when he pins you in place with a look— a predator eyeing its prey.

"Those are mine." Resounding. Final. A gavel in a courtroom.

You fling your shirt off, tossing it into some forgotten corner in the room, and cheekily watch Simon undress. It's not methodical like it used to be. No longer a means to an end. Experienced fingers undo the buckle of his belt before he takes it off, the leather material snapping in the air, slicing through the silence.

A quip tumbles out of your mouth faster than you can stop it. "Gonna spank me with that?"

The air around you thickens— or thins, you can't be sure— when his eyes flash to you. He kicks off his jeans, one foot after the other, wobbling as he does. "Tha' wha' you want?" The words he didn't say ring out loud and clear.

Don't rattle the cage, sweetheart. This dog isn't muzzled.

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip to keep from saying anything else, something that he might take you up on, instead focusing on the way his heavy cock hangs in between legs (dangling with each step forward—)

"M'eyes are up 'ere." Your nose scrunches at his joke. Cute.

He lowers himself onto his knees, your legs cradling his face as it hovers over your sex, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath on your heated skin.

The sleeping shorts you're wearing are ratty and worn. They're thin too, practically translucent from constant use. Which means that he can see that you're not wearing any undergarments underneath.

"Hope you know I can—" Heat licks up the sides of your jaw, pooling in your cheeks as you cut him off with a snappy remark.

"Yes. I know."

The tip of his pointed tongue drags along the seam of your shorts, right along your slit. Your breath hitches, and you clench your jaw to keep from making a sound. Your back bows involuntarily, the feeling startling, intense.

"Can see tha' clear as day, as if lookin' through a windowpane, pet," he taunts. The words that are forming, almost ready to spill out, freeze in place when his mouth comes in direct contact with your slippery cunt. He licks once, twice, through your folds, slightly dipping into your slick entrance, only pulling away to nuzzle your pearl with his misaligned nose.

"Sweet as a peach, jus' like I remember," he purrs, the timbre of his voice buzzing against your puffy lips. "Missed this." A mewl slithers past your grit teeth when he gently sinks one thick finger into you, curling and twisting. Arousal drips onto his knuckle, tracing a hot path down to his wrist. He coos at you when he adds another digit, hissing at the sharp but brief pinprick of the stretch.

"Bloody fuckin' tight." Simon rises off the floor, the quiet sound of his knees popping swallowed up by your harsh pants. "Gotta let me in, love. Relax."

He keeps the thrusts shallow, his fingers dragging deliciously along your nerve endings. The sting soon fades, giving way to a gentle warmth that unfurls inside of you, letting Simon reach deeper until—

Your muscles stiffen, tight like a spring when he brushes over the rough patch of skin that has bursts of light appearing across your eyelids.

"Look at ya. Droolin' like a mutt with my fingers stuffed up your pretty cunt."

There's a pressure in your lower belly that's steadily building with each sloppy thrust of his hand, pulling squelching noises from your sodden pussy. He finally, finally, latches onto your neglected clit, lightly sucking on it in tandem with his fingers.

Your chin drops to your chest as everything nears a breaking point. The pressure inside you has your body wound tight. The fibers of your muscles contract, almost painfully, preparing for the release of what's to come, what can't be ignored.

The swirling of his golden tongue pushes against the boundaries of your endurance, pushes you to the precipice, where you finally hit the point of no return. You can feel something about to give, ecstasy trickling through the cracks in your foundation, uncontrollable, raw. Your fingers thread through Simon's hair, curling tightly, pulling it taut when you feel something about to give—oh fuck—

Snap.

The structure that holds everything in place collapses.

A sudden release of pent-up energy and emotion erupts like a dam bursting, a cleansing flood that washes away the grime of old wounds, of bitterness, leaving the edges softened so they can heal; knit closed and scar over. Closure. It touches every part of you, filling you with a sense of liberation.

Your heart beats freely, it throbs with life as a wave of relief washes over you, soothing, a balm over scraped flesh, a rush of cool air into starved lungs.

A lightness that comes after being weighed down with burdens for so long.

Simon's hands encircle your arms firmly— fingers digging into the meat of your biceps— and effortlessly maneuvers you toward the center of the bed as if your lethargic form were a feather caught in a breeze; weightless, insignificant.

Gentle but unyielding.

There's a ringing in your ears that muffles his voice, blurring the edges of his words, an unintelligible hum, as if you were underwater. The sensation leaves you feeling adrift in a tranquil sea, cradled in its silken embrace. The only anchor you have to the muzzy reality is his warm touch.

"'M sorry, sweetheart. I can't," he apologizes, hooking your right leg over his shoulder. You let out a sibilant hiss as he leans forward, pushing your knee to your chest, the corded muscle of your hamstring pulling to its limit. "Can't wait anymore, 'm sorry."

Simon gives you a sloppy kiss as his heaving length prods at your swollen entrance, the tip breaching your pussy with a warm burn that starts from under your navel and only flares, radiating from your core outward. It's searing, the initial bite of the stretch disrupts the haze in your muddled mind, bringing the world around you into cutting clarity.

A guttural noise claws up his throat as Simon sheathes himself halfway, his growled words not the salve he was hoping for. It only grates at already raw nerves, abrasive.

"Jus' a little more, you can take it." He winds a hand downward to draw messy circles on your slippery clit, to stifle the roaring fire in your stomach, your chest. "You already have."

His jerky touch does its job, transforming the sharp burn of him wrenching your walls apart fiber by fiber into a quiet glow; smoldering heat now simmering. You soften, mellow and pliant, accept him into your body as he sinks to the hilt with a quiet groan.

"There's my girl. Takin' all of it like you were made f'me." Simon's words of praise tangle around your spine, electric, prickling. Your heart gallops like a herd of horses, wild and free. "Liked tha' did you? Jus' about strangled my cock with your tight cunt."

He rolls his hips once, twice, searching for signs of discomfort, but when only warm pleasure laps at your heels, when the barest of moans spill from your open lips, Simon begins to put his weight behind his thrusts.

Through half-lidded eyes, you see a raw, primal hunger reflected in his eyes— his soul, the one he'd claimed to have lost long ago, back with his reason, his sanity.

Yet he looks down at you as if you were his only salvation. A lifeline he grabs onto with an unyielding grip, his only tether to hope, purpose. A lighthouse shining in a raging storm, a beacon calling him home.

Simon presses a large hand onto your lower stomach, his work-worn palm pushing until you wince, brows furrowing at the fleeting whisper of pain.

"Can feel myself right here," he sluggishly mumbles, drunk of the feel of your cunt, the taste of your skin on his tongue— sweet like ripened figs. The sensory overload has him sinking his fingers into your flesh until it dimples.

He murmurs something under his taxed breath, something akin to mine, only mine as his lips leave a slick trail of saliva on the dip of your collarbone, the gentle curve of your shoulder, the thin, soft skin of your bicep up to your inner wrist, where he laps at your pulse.

As if savoring the present. The precious gift he's unwrapped, here and now. The last taste of you, which he hopes with a reverence that borders on prayer, lingers on his tongue long after the fruit— the sweet evidence of this one last intimacy— falls from the bough.

Simon comes with his teeth in the crook of your neck, biting down with a crushing pressure that has an acute pain digging its spurs into your consciousness, cutting the blazing euphoria of your own release short.

His cock is still twitching as he fills you with his spend when he takes his thumb and collects some of your slick to take you over the edge one last time.

"F'me. You can take it, yeah? I'll go slow, I promise."

Simon presses a kiss on your sweaty temple, his large hand cupping your jaw as he lazily watches you succumb to sleep, your breath evening out.

He reaches for your arm again, feeling for the birth control implant you'd had there when the both of you were still together.

Gone.

Sweet girl. You'd let him in without a fight. (He makes a mental note to wash the beer off of his clothes tomorrow.)

He knows your cycle better than the lines that are etched onto his palm. Better than the voice of the captain who rumbles in his earpiece, ordering him to go for the throat.

From the moment you'd stepped into his life with eternity in your eyes and the warmth of the sun on your lips, you were his. And he'll do anything to remain in your orbit.

(left unable to distinguish prison from paradise when each poison-coated kiss softens the world he'll build for you and for what's to come.)

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #cod mw2 #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley smut #cod smut #simon ghost riley x f reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley smut #GhostChallenge

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chantersboard · 3 months ago

Text

Lovely To Sleep With You

Word Count 5.8K. Joel Miller x f!reader. Immediately follows Lovely To Be Rained On With You but can be read alone. After getting caught in the rain and seeking shelter in a cabin, you fall asleep in Joel's arms only to be forced awake to a horrifying sight. We learn how Reader and Joel met and Ellie's there too.

Warnings: MDNI 18+, post-outbreak, canon-typical violence, smut, fingering female receiving, oral female receiving, finger sucking, unprotected piv, creampie

a/n: once again I am publishing this despite feeling it is not polished enough but I'm tired of it sitting in the drafts lol. Thank you in advance for reading, liking, and reblogging, it really means a lot. #chantersboardwritessometimes for other written stuff

Can be found on AO3 if you'd prefer to read it there

Lovely To Sleep With You

The dangerous torrential storm has finally weakened to typical bad weather. Rain batters the cabin, its weathered roof leaking and forming puddles on the dull and damaged flooring. The room is heavy with moisture, filling the space with musty air. The insistent wind shakes the windows and whistles through small opened spaces.

Night had descended. Yesterday’s crescent moon was gone and replaced with utter darkness. The heat of the day was gone too, causing a chill in the air.

You lay against Joel on the old, sagging mattress with your cheek against his chest. You are both dressed only in your undergarments, your wet clothes scattered around the cabin with the hope they would dry by morning. Despite your bare body pressed close against his warmth, a shiver runs through you. Joel rubs a rough hand over your thigh and drapes your leg over his waist, pressing you even closer to him.

“I can start a fire,” he says tiredly, thinking of breaking down the old furniture for firewood. You lift your head and press a kiss to his neck. Your hair, still damp from the trek through the rain, brushes against his shoulder. A pang of guilt washes over him. He should do more to make you comfortable.

“We shouldn’t risk it,” you say, yawning as you return your head to his chest to listen to his beating heart.

Joel tightens his arms around you in response. He hadn’t seen signs of raiders or infected around, but you were right. There was no need to call unnecessary attention to yourselves.

You sit in silence with Joel’s chest rising and falling beneath you as his palms mindlessly rub patterns on your skin. He marvels at how soft you feel against him. His hand runs down your spine, over the curve of your behind, then over your thigh. Your body fits so perfectly against his. Why had he waited so long for this?

Why had you?

“When did you know?” he asks, his hands finding their way back on your waist.

You lift yourself up to look Joel in the eyes. “When did I know what?”

He places a warm hand on the back of your neck and rubs small circles with his thumb. Joel always had a hard time expressing himself. He had an even harder time getting others to express themselves.

“When did you start…” he pauses, mulling over his words while he commits your face to memory. Your confusion is still evident in the way your eyebrows scrunch together. Your lips are slightly parted and he swallows at the recollection of those lips pressed against his. You are so beautiful, he thinks. Really? Why had he waited so long? He decides to just blurt it out. “When did you start likin’ me?”

Your beautiful lips curl into a smile before emitting a soft giggle. The sound fills his chest with a lightness he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. You return to your spot on his chest, your sleepy eyes falling shut. “The first night we met.”

Joel is caught mid-yawn by your confession. “Seriously?”

“Mmm-hmm,” you mumble, already drifting off to sleep. “‘member that night?”

Joel closes his eyes, the exhaustingly long day catching up to him. “Yeah, I do.”

----

Ellie drags her feet, her worn sneakers picking up the dry dirt and leaving a plume of dust behind her. The sound of the coarse ground crunching underneath her is deafening in the quiet of the cool night.

“Ellie!” Joel scolds. It’s been fifteen minutes of nothing but the maddening noise.

“Joel!” The teen says back with a wag of her finger, her tone seeping with mockery.

Joel inhales deeply and takes a moment to compose himself. “Lift. Your. Feet.”

Ellie pouts. “But I don’t wanna trip again,” she whines. “It’s so fucking dark. Can we stop for the night? Please?”

Joel looks down at her. He could see in her posture that she’s tired. Truth be told they have been walking for some time, but the landscape had been mostly barren and too exposed. Joel felt it was unsafe to settle here.

“Just a bit longer,” Joel reassures. He points to a lone, single story house in the distance, the only appropriate shelter he could see. “We’re almost there.”

Ellie straightens her back, lifts her feet, and quickens her pace. “Good. I’m exhausted.”

---

Joel is already armed with his pistol when they walk across the porch to the front door of the house. Ellie stands behind him, her hand fisted around a blade, ready for whatever may be behind the door.

Joel wishes this wasn’t second nature to him. He hates that it’s second nature to Ellie. The hypervigilance, the violence, the terror. None of this should be normal.

Joel turns the door handle with ease and pushes the door open. He raises his pistol as he crosses the threshold. He quickly scans the room for danger but only finds a dusty living room. It’s obvious the place was picked through and deserted long ago. Drawers are left hanging out of a desk against the wall, a pile of books rests near an overturned bookcase, shards of a broken mirror shine against the moldy, old carpet.

He walks through the house with Ellie a safe distance behind him, while room after room is searched and found just as empty as the one before. He glances at her when there’s only one room remaining, its door nearly closed against the frame. Ellie tightens her grip on her knife and gives Joel a nod before he nudges the door open with his foot.

“Don’t come any closer!”

Joel instinctively pushes Ellie back as he looks across the room and sees you.

———

You’re sitting on the floor by a small pile of pillows, a threadbare blanket is puddled by your feet. Your bloody hands shake as they hold a gun pointed at Joel’s chest. Despite the fear that tightens your throat, you square your shoulders. You stare at the man, stare at the gun pointing back at you.

He takes you in, his eyes looking past the barrel of the gun and towards your blood soaked arms. He can see where tears have left streaks down your dirty and bruised face. He looks into your wide eyes and sees the panic there. He’s all too familiar with that panic.

“We mean no harm,” he says, making no attempt to lower the muzzle trained on you. “We were only lookin’ for a place for the night.”

You say nothing. Too afraid to talk, too afraid to do anything at all.

“We’ll leave,” he takes a cautious step back. “We’ll find somewhere else.”

You watch him take the girl’s hand as he takes another step back. The gesture is protective and filled with care. It makes you envious. How lucky is this little girl to have someone protect her? He pulls her behind him, keeping the line of your gun only on him. You look into his eyes and in that moment you think he might be just as terrified as you are.

“Wait,” you whisper, lowering your weapon. You can let them go. You should let them go. In this world one wrong decision is the difference between living and dying. But something about them feels right. Something about them feels safe.

You point your weapon to the side and pull the trigger. The gun clicks, the firing pin striking against nothing. There’s no ammo. You haven’t had ammunition in weeks. With the charade of force exposed, you chuck the useless weapon aside.

“It’s not loaded,” you say, hoping your intuition was right, hoping this man shows you mercy. The pair stand still, neither advancing or retreating. You can tell the man is calculating the situation, weighing all his options as his eyes flit between the discarded gun and your open bloodstained palms. You try to push the scale in your favor.

“There were awful men around here before.” You wipe your hands on your thighs attempting to rub away the gore. “Were,” you emphasize. “You should still stay here. It could be dangerous out there.”

His eyes narrow. “It could be dangerous in here,” he says, but you notice the subtle change in the way his shoulders have relaxed.

You shake your head. “I don’t think you believe that.”

“Maybe I could be dangerous,” he says, his hostile words softened by the lilt of his accent.

You pause, looking him over. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, exposing muscled forearms and clean hands. The hair that curls around his ears leads to a strong jaw cushioned by a closely cut beard. Despite the scowl etched into his face his brown eyes are warm and soft.

“I don’t think I believe that.”

You watch each other, seconds ticking by with nothing said. In the far distance the distinct screech of a clicker rings out. You raise your eyebrows in a silent statement: See? It is dangerous.

“I’m Ellie.” The girl still guarded behind the man says. She ignores the man’s grunt of protest and peeks her head around him. You give an encouraging smile and she steps beside him. She places a hand on his wrist and lowers his gun. “And this is Joel.”

You nod your head and introduce yourself. “Nice to meet you,” you say, and you truly mean it.

A moment passes while Ellie looks at your arms. “Shit. That’s a lot of blood,” she says. “Are you hurt? We have bandages--”

“That’s enough,” Joel pulls the girl behind him again and motions down the hall. “Go out there.”

“But Joel--”

“Go. Now.”

In a huff Ellie turns on her heels and heads down the hall. Joel returns his attention towards you. With his fingers still wrapped around his gun he gestures down at you.

“People did that to you?” he asks. “You hurt?”

You shake your head understanding what he is truly asking. Are there bite marks underneath all of that? Are you infected?

“No, I’m not hurt.” You close your eyes and visions of your struggle with two raiders earlier in the day flash behind your lids. The memory turns your stomach. “I ran into some men that thought I’d easily give up my supplies.”

Joel nods but you can still sense his hesitance. “You’ll have to forgive me for not bein’ so trusting.”

“No, I understand.” You eye the gun in his hand and try once more to gain his trust. “You can check me for marks if you want.”

When his expression doesn’t change you take a deep breath and unsheath the knife from your belt clip. You handle the flat sides of the blade, still stained with blood, and offer the handle to Joel. “If it makes you feel any better you can have this too. It’s all I have.”

Joel looks at the knife and considers it. He wonders if any of this is worth the trouble. Surely he and Ellie could find somewhere else to rest. They didn’t need to stay here. They didn’t need to share space with a stranger. But then he looks into your eyes and finds sincerity there. He couldn’t remember the last time he saw genuine sincerity. With a sigh he shoves his gun into the holster on his hip and closes the distance between you. He gently pushes the knife back towards you and with a grunt he lowers to his knees.

“The girl out there? She’s very important.” Joel pauses as he looks down the empty hallway. “To me,” he adds.

You slide your knife back into its spot on your waist. “She looks like a good kid,” you tell him.

“She is,” he says and when his attention is returned to you there is a ferocity in his eyes. “I will do anything to protect her. You understand? Anything. ”

You swallow dryly and weakly nod, accepting the threat hidden in his words.

“Hey, Joel. You wouldn’t believe what I found!” Ellie comes down the hall, grinning from ear to ear, with a large bowl in her hand. “There’s a real life well in the back! You know, the kind you gotta pump and water comes out?”

“Yeah, I know the kind,” Joel says with a laugh as she places the bowl down between the two of you.

“I got some water in case you wanted to clean up.” She produces a clean piece of cloth and offers it to you. You hesitate to take it, somewhat in awe at her generosity. She really is a good kid.

Joel takes the fabric from her and motions out the door. “Go settle in. We’re leaving soon as the sun is up.”

Ellie waves her hand in a salute. “Yessir,” she says and marches back down the hall.

Joel dips the cloth into the bowl then squeezes some of the water out. “I’m gonna take you up on that offer to check you… just to be safe.” He waits for your hum of approval before he continues. “But I’m gonna clean your face first, while the water’s clean.”

You sit a little straighter and prepare for this stranger to touch you. “Yeah. Okay.”

Joel slowly raises the rag to your face and gently presses it against your cheek. The water cools your skin as droplets trickle down your neck. Joel takes his other hand and cups your chin, holding your head in place as his hand glides across your face.

His hands are large, so much so you nearly feel engulfed in them, but it surprises you how delicate he is. He moves smoothly, only applying enough pressure to loosen the dirt on your skin. He softly swipes the cloth underneath your eye with his thumb, not pressing too hard into the bruise that is blooming there.

He continues on, dunking the rag into the bowl and cleaning spots of your body with gentle, small circular movements then checking for abrasions. You watch him as he works, noticing the specks of gray in his beard and the broken face on his wristwatch. Your eyes follow the slope of his nose up to where his brows are furrowed in concentration. You notice his own face is covered in dirt and you recognize he smells of campfire smoke and sweat and greenery.

You wince when he brushes against your injured knuckles. “Sorry,” he whispers as he soothingly rubs your hand before continuing to scan your skin.

“I thought you were with them,” you suddenly say.

Joel pauses a moment to look you in the eye. “Hmm?”

“The men from earlier? The men I had to…” You leave the rest unsaid as you shake the thoughts out of your head. “I thought maybe there were more of them and they were coming back to kill me.”

You can feel the tears beginning to well in your eyes. You have lived in this terrible world for years but nothing prepares you for the grief and anxiety that comes after you’re forced to take a life. Nothing prepares you for the fear that crushes your soul.

Joel drops the cloth into the bowl and the displaced water splashes onto the floor. His features have softened, the look of concentration replaced with sorrow. He almost whispers when he asks, “was that your first time?”

You blink and the tears roll down your cheeks. “I’ve killed many of those things but actual humans? I’ve never needed to do that before.”

Joel considers you lucky. It isn’t safe outside the QZs. Hell, it isn’t safe inside the QZs, but out here it’s different. Wilder. Thugs, thieves, the demented. They roam this land freely and do as they please. It’s a wonder you’re just now experiencing this. But Joel remembers the first time he killed a man. He remembers the first time someone died in his hands. He sympathizes with you.

“It might not be tonight,” Joel says, swiping away one of your tears. “Or maybe next week, or next month. But one day this feeling won’t be so crippling. You do what you gotta to protect yourself and the ones you love. Ain’t no shame in that. That’s just how the world is now.”

You nod as you take in his words. You do what you gotta to protect yourself and the ones you love. Joel takes your hands in his and gives a comforting squeeze. It’s the first time in a long time someone consoled you. The warmth from his hands travels up your arms and settles in your chest.

“I think I’m done here. I don’t see anything.” He lets go of your hands, taking the warmth and comfort with him, and takes his time to stand up. “I’m gonna check on Ellie, make sure she’s alright.”

He heads out into the hallway but stops under the frame of the door. “I, uh… I don’t know what you’ve got going on but we’re headin’ west. You’re welcome to join us. If you want. Maybe use that gun to scare off some other poor fool?” He asks with a chuckle.

You laugh, your cheeks heating from his jab at you. “Yeah. I would like that.”

----

Joel’s yelling wakes you with a jolt. Again, he calls for you from somewhere within the cabin, his voice tense and worried as your name leaves his lips.

You rub your tired eyes, having barely slept. The cabin is still dark, the sky is still the color of coal, the rain is still pattering outside. You sit up in the bed, your pupils slowly adjusting to the darkness. Then, finally, your eyes widen at what you see.

Across the room stands a man, the barrel of his handgun pointed at Joel. Joel’s hands are raised in surrender as he stands between the two of you. The man’s clothes are soaked through, his wet stringy hair clings to his face. He looks sickly with a pallid face and an unsteady stance revealing a weak and tired body. But it’s the handgun steadily pointed at Joel that is most worrisome.

“Joel!” You breathe, your hands instinctively reaching to your side for the rifle that usually dangles there, only to grab at nothing. You look past the intruder to where your weapon rests against the wall near the open door where you left it earlier.

“It’s okay,” Joel reassures, turning slightly to look at you. His bare chest rises and falls quickly, his obvious worry betraying his calming words. “It’s okay,” he repeats.

The man erratically waves the gun. “Make her get up!” he shrieks. An alarmingly inhuman sound rattles in his chest as his body shivers. “Make her open the bag! I want the bag!”

The man points to Joel’s backpack slumped against the bed. Inside are the medical supplies that are much needed back at camp where Ellie waits for you. Some very good people could use those supplies. It’s unfortunate, but this man already seems too far gone to have any use of them.

You slowly shuffle towards the side of the bed, hesitating to get to the pack. “We can help you,” you manage to say despite your tight throat. “Just put the gun away.”

“Shut up! Shut up!” He takes a step to the side to get a better look at you, his gun following you across the bed. He eyes your barely clothed body and a look akin to lust twists in his wretched face. Joel places himself in front of the man again.

“Ay!” Joel yells to grab his attention. “Keep that thing on me.” He takes a small step towards him. “What do you need?”

The man wails, his skin looking even more sallow than it did only moments ago. “Sweater... sweater! It’s so cold, so cold…” His mind seems to fog as he curls his arms close to his chest. Joel inches closer before the man’s concentration returns, drawing his weapon forward again. “No! Water! I need water!”

You sit on the edge of the bed, your fingers digging into the mattress as fear beats in your chest and cements your feet to the floor. Joel stands tall, strong, and commanding but you worry nonetheless. What would you do if something happened to him? How could you explain to Ellie that something happened to him? The man slowly tilts his head, his eyes beginning to go glassy.

You have never seen it personally but you have heard stories of when people turn. They get volatile as they teeter between living and not quite dying. There is a short moment, before the infection takes over, before the animalistic urges and increased strength and stamina come forth, when the person is vulnerable. But at each stage the person can still transmit their infection, each moment must be handled with caution.

“Water,” the man softly repeats. He lets out a slow, sorrowful moan, his body quickly losing its battle with the infection.

“I have some right here…” Joel says sweetly. He takes another step, coming within feet of the other man. “Right… here…”

In a flash Joel bounds forward, startling the man to attention. He grabs for the weapon but not before a shot is fired. You wince, closing your eyes and covering your ears as the loud sound amplifies off the walls in the small space. After a moment, when the shock has subsided, you jump to your feet and turn towards the scuffle.

All you can see is a tangle of bodies as Joel wrangles for the gun. You look at him, trying to see if he’s been hit, searching for any injury, but they move too swiftly, you can’t see a thing. Joel pummels the man with his fists, shoving him closer to the door as he does so.

The man howls, the noise completely devoid of humanity.

They are near the threshold of the cabin when another shot rings out. The sound startles you, your panic increasing, as your ears ring. You move forward. You need to help Joel. You need to make sure he’s okay. You only need to get to your gun.

“Stay there!” he yells before you can advance any further. Joel has the man by the collar, and is pushing him through the doorway, darkness swallowing them as they tumble outside.

You stand there frozen, your ear facing the door as you strain to hear something, anything, other than the rain. It’s only then that you notice the stream of blood trailing out the door.

Your eyes follow the path, starting at the scattered droplets that increase into an unbroken line of crimson. You take cautious steps forward, your eyes beginning to fill with tears at the thought of this blood being Joel’s.

He is not hurt, you force yourself to think. He cannot be hurt. Since the day you met him he has been your source of stability and security. He has been your savior and your sanctuary. You can no longer envision a life without him. And now that your relationship has progressed, now that he has touched every inch of your body and you have felt every inch of him, you don’t want to think of a life without him.

You amble over to the bay window, your mind racing with horrible thoughts as your chest tightens. You lean into the windowed space, your knees knocking against the wood, straining your eyes to see through the darkness and through the rain. He is out there and you need to find him.

Just when you set your mind on grabbing your rifle and braving the blackened woods in search for him, Joel steps through the door. You pause, your breath caught in your throat as you take him in. His hands are still curled into fists, his dampened body glistens from the rain, but otherwise, he appears unharmed.

“Joel?” You whisper, your tears finally breaking through and falling down your cheeks.

His face softens when he looks at you, his hands relax at his side, the tension in his shoulders loosens. “Sweetheart,” he says, his accent a sweet song to your ears.

In a few paces he is quickly in front of you. He cups your face with both of his hands and uses his thumbs to wipe away your tears. You wrap your hands around his wrists. You need to touch him, you need to feel that he’s here.

“Are you hurt?” You ask, scanning his body for injuries.

“I’m fine. He didn’t get me.” He catches a falling tear with his finger. “I’m more worried about you.”

You sigh, pressing your face against one of his hands, the roughness of his palm grounding you. “I’m okay.”

Joel stares at you, weighing your words against the traces of dread that still lingers on your face. You do what you gotta to protect yourself and the ones you love. He pulls you in closer and presses his lips to yours.

You kiss him back, relief pouring over you knowing that he is alright. Your hands move to his chest, your fingers gliding across his wet skin as the kiss deepens. Joel’s hands leave your face to grab your waist where he pulls you close to him. His body heat envelops you as you moan into his mouth.

You love him, you think. You love this man and wish to be here in his arms for the rest of your life.

Joel breaks the kiss. “I’m glad you're okay,” he whispers against your lips.

You press your fingers into his chest, enjoying the feeling of the hair under your touch. You listen to the rain beat against the roof. “I love you,” you admit.

Joel smiles, the corner of his eyes wrinkling as he quickly responds, “I love you, too.”

And then his mouth is on yours again, hungrier this time, as his tongue pushes past your lips. He grabs handfuls of your behind and pulls you into his hardening crotch. You moan again as you rub yourself against him, feverish with the need to feel him.

Joel’s own fiery need to feel you has him unclasping your bra and freeing your breasts. He takes one in each of his large hands and gently pinches your nipples. Your back arches into his grasp, the sensation sending ripples of pleasure throughout your body. You lean back, lowering yourself onto the seat of the bay window, and push your chest forward.

Joel lowers his face and brings a pebbled peak into his mouth. His tongue dances across your nipple before he softly nips at it. You inhale sharply at the gentle pain and run your hands through his dark hair. Your breathing turns ragged when his mouth moves to your other breast, his tongue so warm and wet against you.

You rub your thighs together attempting to calm the ache that has been building there. Sensing your desire, Joel’s hand finds its way between your legs. You open yourself for him, moaning his name as his fingers drag across your panties, his fingertips finding you’ve already soaked through them. He moans against your breast as he pulls the fabric to the side and teases a finger between your lips.

“Already so wet for me,” he rasps as he looks up at you. His eyes are dark with desire. He watches you as he pushes a thick finger into you. Your walls tighten around him but your wetness allows his finger to smoothly continue on. “Look how fuckin’ wet you are.”

He begins to pump his finger in and out of you, your pleasure increasing each time he slips back inside.

Joel licks his lips. “I think there’s room for one more. But first…” Joel pulls his finger out of you and you whine at your emptiness. He wraps his fingers around the band of your underwear and pulls them down your legs. Once you're freed of the undergarment you spread your legs wide for him, pleading for him to return there.

Joel lowers himself between your legs. “What a beautiful pussy,” he whispers, running a finger across your slit. He places a soft kiss on the inside of your thigh. Then turns his face and kisses the other. He leaves a trail of kisses on your thighs, each time reaching closer and closer to where they meet.

You whine again, your desire for him breaking you apart. “Please, Joel,” you beg. “Please.”

“Beautiful, needy, pussy,” he says before his broad tongue licks up your slit and settles on your clit. You moan loudly as he sucks on your bud and slips two fingers back inside you. He hooks his fingers upwards as he pulls his hand out and slams it back in again.

Your eyes close as the pleasure builds. The tip of his tongue circles around your clit and you gush around his fingers as they piston in and out of you. “Oh, Joel,” you cry and he continues, mercilessly, sucking on you and pressing against that soft spot inside you until your pleasure peaks and you fall apart under him.

Your fingers tangle in his hair as your orgasm plows through you. You grind your hips into his face, riding every wave until they settle into gentle ripples. Once the tension in your body has relaxed, Joel presses a quick kiss on your clit and slowly pulls his fingers out of you.

Joel rises and brings his fingers, wet with your arousal to your mouth. “See how fuckin’ good you taste,” he says and you part your lips. He slips his huge fingers into your mouth, coating your tongue with your own release. You suck around him, massaging his fingers with your tongue until they’re clean.

“Good girl,” he purrs as he pulls his fingers out of your mouth. He leans in, his hard cock in his boxers rubbing against your mound, and brushes his lips against yours.

You wrap your arms around his neck, locking him in your embrace. You move your hips against his, demanding to be filled again, demanding the length of him.

Joel tuts. “Still needy?” He pulls down his boxers and lets them drop to his ankles. He takes himself into his hand and slowly pumps himself. Precum pools at the tip then slides down his thick shaft. He brushes himself against you, teasing your entrance with the tip of his cock and smearing your wetness onto him.

“Goddamn,” he whispers, lining himself at your opening. “So fuckin’ messy.”

Joel slowly pushes himself inside you, savoring the feeling of your tight walls making space around him. You gasp, tightening your grip around his neck as your body accommodates his girth. He pauses when he’s fully sheathed in you, his breathing already ragged.

“Goddamn,” he repeats, then slowly, inch by inch, he pulls out only to push back in just as slowly. Again and again he slips in and out of you, taking his time as he does so.

His pace is maddening. The slow strokes leave you wanting more. Deeper. Harder. Faster.

You wrap your legs around him. “Joel…” you don’t even care that you’re whining. “Fuck me. Faster. Please.”

Joel reaches a hand between you and softly caresses your clit with a thick finger. Stroke by stroke he increases his pace, snapping his hips deeper and harder into you.

“This what you want, sweetheart?” He asks as the room fills with the sound of his body colliding with yours.

“I…” Your thought melts into a moan as Joel increases his speed. He’s so big inside you, stretching you wide open while his finger remains between your legs. With each swirl of his digit you clench harder around him, your second orgasm approaching even quicker than the first.

“You what, baby?” Joel asks as he plants kisses along your face. He snaps his hips into you, the thickness of him splitting you in two. “You want to cum again for me, hmm? Let me feel this beautiful pussy tight on my cock?”

You attempt to answer, willing your mouth to form coherent words but all that spills out is a strangled moan. A satisfied smile spreads across Joel’s face.

Your fingers dig into his skin. “Yes!” you gasp between moans. “Yes Joel, make me cum again!”

And that’s all the motivation Joel needs. He grabs your legs, moving them until your ankles are pressed against his shoulders, positioning you so that his strokes are deeper. He slides in and out of you faster and faster, each stroke filling you completely.

You love him. You love him and you love how he knows your body. He knows how to angle his hips so that the length of him pushes against that soft spot inside you that leaves you moaning and breathless.

“F-fuck,” you gasped between deep breaths. Your pussy squeezes around his cock, sucking him in, pulling him in closer to his own climax.

“Yes, baby,” Joel groans as the head of his dick pushes deep into you. His rhythm is faltering, he’s close to coming. “You take my cock so well. Your fucking pussy is squeezing me. Gonna make me come deep inside you.”

You fingers deep into his skin as your body tightens. He continues.

“Go ahead, sweetheart. Let it go. Come with me. I want to feel this pussy squeeze the cum out of me. Can you do that for me? Can you cream on my cock?”

You nod weakly, your mouth agape in pleasure as the tension in your core finally snaps. You come again, your core holding tight to Joel’s cock as he continues to drill into you. In a few pumps he’s right behind you, his moans echoing through the cabin as he stills inside you and comes. Rope after rope of his cum spills inside you. His load coats your walls, mixing with your own arousal until your spent hole is leaking.

Joel remains like that for a while. His dick softens inside you while you both catch your breath. The rain patters against the window behind you.

You reach up and press a hand against his face, feeling the roughness of his beard beneath your fingers. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again,” you say, the fear from earlier renewing within you.

Joel pulls out of you and your empty pussy weeps with your combined release. He lowers your legs and bends down to press a gentle kiss against your lips.

“I can’t promise that,” he says, always pragmatic. “But I can promise to fight with everything I have to keep you safe so that I can come back to you.” He kisses you slowly, deep, and lovingly. “I love you and I will always come back to you.”

You look up into his brown eyes and pray he is telling you the truth. You can’t imagine a life without him. You extend a pinky finger into the air. “Promise?” You ask and wait for his response.

Joel smiles, the happiness glistens in his eyes as he hooks his pinky against yours. “Promise.”

#joel miller fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fic #chantersboardwritessometimes

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ctrlhope · 5 months ago

Text

Chasing Tornados (m)

synopsis: Ever since you were young, you found solstice in the clouds. Found haven in their winding winds, their chilling storms. Monsters of the air meant to destroy became your love— your safety. You know everything about the skies, yet you only want to know more about him. Wish for him to love you just as much as you do him. Your best friend. Your scorpion. Your impossible. Your Yoongi. -> part of the rest, relax, reserve series

m.yoongi x f.reader

⛆ ﾟ ⋆ : wc: 21.0k+

⛆ ﾟ ⋆ : genre: hybrid au, storm chasers au, soulmate au, friends/coworkers to lovers, idiots to lovers, angst, smut, fluff

⛆ ﾟ ⋆ : content: scorpion hybrid!yoongi x human!reader, storm chaser!yoongi+reader, angst, semi-public sex (bathroom), fingering, p in v, dom!yoongi, sub!reader, bratty!reader a lil, rough sex, thigh riding, sex under the influence (alcohol), multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, one mention of a breeding kink, yoongi has a tail, mates, misunderstandings, fights, jealousy, non-linear storytelling, reader and yoongi are both kinda stupid idk, but also v cute, angst but a happy ending <33

⛆ ﾟ ⋆ : notes: heyyyyy it’s ur girl, back with another mc let’s play video!! kidding lol, sorry this took so long to write, life has been really hectic. trust me on this fic lol. but i rlly fell in love with these two nd I hope you do too <33 and i hope u enjoy my attempts at comedy! remember!! my requests are always open nd you can always feel free to send asks to characters <33

18+ -> minors / blank blogs dni

Wind wraps in your hair, blowing it– making it form into some beastly, monstrous thing around your head. Tangling your face, your eyes falling askew as it finds itself messing around your very being. The howls of gusts form in your ears, sounding of ghosts that would haunt any normal person.

But you, no. Not you. You live for this. Live for the rain that beats into your skin. Live for the cracks of thunder roaring above your head. Find serenity in the dark clouds that hang overhead, the adrenaline pumping through your veins. In the knowledge that it's coming. That it’s coming soon.

The world acts as something greater- something more than yourself. A collective that has not a care for you or the people in it. A system acting for its own desires. A storm that takes and takes and takes until there's nothing left to give.

You love it. Love every second of it.

Even if you should be scared, even if you should be terrified– look for cover just like everyone else. To hide and cower away from the winding beast that destroys homes, takes down power lines. That kills. You can’t. Not when you feel this– this calling deep in your bones. This calling to know more. This calling to conquer a monster.

To chase the impossible.

You have always lived for that very thing. Have constructed your entire life around finding answers for beasts that are beyond reason, to construct something real from what can only be construed as fake. To look the storm in the eye, to live within it rather than to be consumed.

And that is exactly why you stand where you find yourself now. Tornado Alley. A storm brewing just in front of you. Warm air meeting cold, finding breath, coming to life.

Maybe you should be scared. Maybe you should let panic set you alight and carry you far, far away from the death spirals. Maybe you should do a lot of things, yet you can't. You can only stare in wonder as rain hits your flesh. As the wind tries to take your clothes, battering them in the breeze. As electricity cracks above your head, light debris flying past your form to entertain the forming tornadoes fury.

Bang, Bang, Bang.

Now that sound isn't from the storm, it can’t be. Sounds too much like metal, like a fist hitting it. Oh right, the car.

“(Y/n) get your ass in here, now!” His voice is loud, forced to so you could hear him above the storm. He would never yell otherwise. Never raise his voice a single decibel against you.

Your body turns to face him, a smile breaking across your cheeks without a second thought. Eyes turning to crescents, rain dripping down your cheeks.

Right, Yoongi.

The impossible.

You don’t know when it happened. It shouldn’t have happened. But you knew it did. Felt the shift in your soul whenever you looked at him, felt your blood pumping just a fraction faster whenever he was close. Felt yourself yearn to smell his signature Yoongi scent whenever you sat in his car, whenever he drove you around on one of your little escapades.

Maybe it was a year ago. Maybe less. Maybe more. You could never be sure– emotions never were your strong suit. But he knew that, and he didn’t care. Never pressured or pried, always just let the two of you be. Act in co-existence in a way you doubt two people could.

Your partner in crime, your solace among the disarray perpetuating every second of your job– your life. The only person you knew crazy enough to chase the storms with you. To risk their life driving you into the eye. Your right hand man. Your friend.

None of it should have happened. But it did anyway. Isn’t that always the way life goes? The same way the storms control the skies, he found himself controlling your heart with no will of his own. No knowledge of the underlying flutter that found its way into your guts the second he looked at you, nor any knowledge of the way your eyes fell into adoration when they fell on him.

Why did you have to fall in love with the storm?

You weren’t sure– never cared to look deeper into the fact. Never cared to think about why you couldn’t fathom a future without him. Never dared to dip into why the scrawny kid from your college has suddenly become a man before you. Never even thought to challenge the pre-disposed ideologies that held your friendship by its core.

No. You would never do anything as stupid as that.

Yes, you were a creature of impulse. Never the type to take into account the consequences your actions disclosed. But you like to chase the impossible. You would never think to actually attempt to change it. Especially when you could lose everything in the process. Lose him.

In more ways than one.

Plus, you know where he stands. Know he could never see you as anything more than a friend– a little sister. The hair ruffles, the slight glares he gives when men talk to you in the bars, the way he puts up with your ‘overly affectionate’ cuddles– as much as you wish the simple actions meant more, you knew they simply didn’t.

A big brother. Unfortunately for you, he knows that’s the role he plays in your life too well.

But he’s not your big brother. He's a man, you’re a woman. It’s not like you ever asked to get caught up in the stringers that tangled you together. Not like you ever asked for this crush to form.

“For fucks sake! (Y/n)!” His voice is louder now, a harsh yell pulling you from the thoughts that sunk you under the waves. His body forcing itself through the wind to get to you, arm raising to shield his face. “We have to fucking go!!”

He would admonish you later for getting too caught up in your own thoughts again– something you knew all too well. But when the storm was raging around you, it was almost easier to think. To get lost in the recesses of your brain until you drew the conclusion you had been looking for all along.

His hand grips your wrist now, dragging you back to the safety of your company truck all while scolding you harshly with words he never actually meant. Just his salt-coated concern peaking through the surface. And well, his concern about getting swallowed up by the storm. Yeah, most people worry about that kind of stuff. At least that’s what you suppose.

“Are you that fucking stupid?” He shouts roughly at you, forcing you to get in the passenger seat. His touch is gentle even if his words are strong. He always has been strong. “You’re going to get yourself killed!”

He slams the door closed before you can say anything back– frustrated but not mad. Never mad at you. And for that you can’t help the giddy feeling on your lips. Your eyes watching him as he quickly walks to his side of the car, tail curled close to his back almost as if to protect himself.

Right, his tail. You forget about it a lot of the time– but at the same, you are so very fond of it. Smile whenever it moves in response to his emotions, giggle whenever he forgets about it himself, tripping over the thing.

You often forget Yoongi isn’t a full human. But it’s never played much of a role in your life, in your friendship. So you don’t really see the point to care. Choose to ignore the scorpion blood that runs through his veins and view him as any other person walking the face of the earth. It’s never bothered you.

Most people around you call you a fool anyway, it’s not much to add another reason to it.

“Ah~ Don’t worry, King Yoongi. I don’t plan on getting myself killed anytime soon.” You let out a gentle giggle as he finds his way into the car, pressing on the gas almost immediately and driving as fast as he can away.

His body is so rigid, so stressed. Yet you can’t be further from it. Your legs propped haphazardly on the dashboard, your body sinking deeper into the seat. You trust him. He always gets you out. Something about his special senses, probably. Maybe.

Actually, you don’t know. You should ask him about it later– how he can see in such horrid conditions.

“You will if I just leave you there.” He rolls his eyes, glancing over to you for only a second before managing back to the road, “Don’t think I won’t.”

“You won’t though.” He only scoffs, but you can see the smile at the corner of his mouth. It warms you almost as much as the sound of the rain– or maybe it's hail now, pelting the roof of the car.

“I could and I will.”

“But you won’t.”

“Just put your fucking seat belt on.” He grumbles, his voice getting a fraction louder as he turns the wheel harshly, a last second manoeuvre. A stick flying through the air past your window. A narrow avoidance.

The car bumps harshly as it drives, the roads narrow and in disarray. Swerving to avoid debris that litters the ground and jumping as it dips into potholes. It feels like a race. Makes you feel alive even as you click the belt into place– as he moves his tail across your frame to act as a second one.

You should be scared. Should be terrified of getting caught in the storm. But you trust Yoongi. You know he’ll always protect you.

“Did the other teams drop their equipment on time?” You ask, reaching below your seat and grabbing the computer. He sends you a pointed glance.

“According to the sensors we were the last ones.”

“Well we always are~” You mumble back, a little sing-song in your voice while your head tilts towards your chin. Eyes scanning the array of measurements that pop up on the screen– reading them, taking in their meaning.

It is your job, anyway.

“Who’s fault is that?” His words don’t perfectly cross your ears, never do when you're trying to focus. An input of too much information at once and a computer might explode! Aka your brain, aka he’s known for years you have selective hearing when trying to understand complicated things.

“Mhmm…” You quietly mumble out, fingers moving quickly to type as he finally drags the car out of the storm. Slows down to a more human speed as you type out a few observations, input pieces of code to make your readings more sensible.

You completely miss the small smile he sends your way, the tilt of his head trying to check. “Anything interesting?”

“Mmm… Nothing we haven’t seen before. Got a couple of cool 3D models of the storm your screen, though…” You tilt the laptop in his direction, showing him the model of the storm. Exactly how big it was, how fast it was moving. “Just an E2, but still pretty.”

“Yeah, had to’ve been to almost let it eat you.”

You roll your eyes, shutting the laptop as he pulls over to the side of the road, “Of course, I’d let anything as pretty as that take me out.”

He scoffs, “Anything, really?”

“Yeah, you know that guy on Attack on Titan that's like ‘oh i’d let a pretty female titan eat’-- Wait a second it is not my fault!” You suddenly announce, his words before finally registering in your mind, “You’re always tinkering with the the the bits!! That’s why it takes so long!”

You grump, crossing your arms. A fond smile finding its way to his lips.

“Yeah, cause the ‘bits’ are the real issue, aren’t they? Not you playing out music videos in your head while a tornado is hurrdaling at us?”

“Okay! That was one time! And totally not my fault!” You huff, not in any real annoyance, just simply banter. Yoongi always seemed to like your over-dramatic reactions anyway. “You said we could play Hurrcane!! By my girl Bridget Mendler! You know what that song does to me!”

He can only laugh in response, the gums of his mouth showing as he tilts his head back. Long black hair falling lower against his shoulders. Tail falling lax for the first time in forever. Crests shown in his eyes.

You like giving Yoongi your reactions if it means he can smile like this.

When he looks in your direction for a breef second, you can’t help but puff out your cheeks and stick out your tounge in pestilence. The action only causing him to shake his head, eyes returning to the road a little brighter than before.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. How could I possibly forget.” A thousand words are said behind his tone that you could never pick up on. Never notice. “You get so excited, like a kid. It’s funny.”

Your head jerks to look at him, a pointed glare in your eye, “She makes me feel things you can’t even hope to understand, Min.”

He rolls his own, “Uh huh. I’m sure.”

College. Senior Year. The perfect hell it bestows on all of its captors.

The combined effort of senior thesis’s, grad school searches, advanced level course work, and the unyielding need for money after graduation, as it turns out, is the best possible combination for stress any one person can find! How wonderful. Especially for you, with a stupid gpa you need to upkeep to keep your stupid scholarships, so you can get your stupid degree and get your stupid job–

Well, okay. Now you’re just spiralling.

Annoyed and tired has never been a good combination for everyday dreamers. Especially those that have been working their entire lives for a single goal. To chase their every last dying hope since they were a child. To become the very person they could only wish to be in their youth.

But in all fairness, your ass has been handed to you on a silver platter after your last exam grade was horribly, terribly slid to you face down against the table. A quiet note of “see me after class” listed on the top without reverie. Your thoughts a sudden cyclone vortexing you inward and onward, wishing you could tell the sweet summer child of your adolescence that you had failed her. That you were never going to be able to live inside a tornado as she had wished.

Oh. The monster that you were.

That was, at least, until you did meet with your professor. And, apparently, he wasn’t going to drop you from the class and (somehow) get you removed from the college like you had thought! Even better, he saw how hard you worked– how much you truly care. Deciding to lend a hand rather than pull it back. Giving you a building and a time to meet with a tutor he specifically picked out.

Someone he would apparently trust his life to. Your life– okay, academic career, to as well.

That’s how you found yourself now. Walking through a library that had to be older than your great grandparents– the scent of mildew filling your nose as you moved farther and farther into the recesses of the building.

Why, exactly, you had to meet in the deepest, darkest corner of the library at an absurd hour of the day confuses you even now. Annoys you a little, quite frankly. Leaving your dorm past 8pm feels like a nightmare.

But you trust your professor, you trust that he wouldn’t steer you wrong. Well, hope is probably a better term. One that more accurately portrays your inner conflicts as you make your way to the back conference table nestled deep within walls of encyclopaedias. Dust entrapping the air you sit in– age and memories baked in the walls.

At worst, that’s all you shall make. Memories. Call the whole thing a bust and look online for some tutors or go to a used bookstore and buy a few more outdated textbooks. At best, you’ll pass the class and become one of the best meteorologists the world has seen. No pressure on Mr. Mystery Tutor or anything. Obviously.

None at all.

Your fingers find themselves tapping against the table as you think; seat already taken, items already spread out as you wait. Just your ring finger over and over in a repeated motion– the beat of wind speeds picking up on a desert plane. The bubbling of magma under the surface of the earth. The–

“(Y/n)?” A husk of a voice breaks your almost monotonous silence, your tapping suddenly ceased as a chill travels down your spine. A chill from the tone of someone's voice alone– can you believe that?

Somewhere, once, when you were little, you heard that a chill runs down your spine whenever a serial killer passes by. But this isn't that. No, this is something entirely different. More familiar. More recognizant.

Your eyes shoot pitifully fast up at him, almost tilting your head as you take in the features. Black hair– maybe brown, baggy hoodie, slouched shoulders. One hand supporting the shrap of his bag that hangs over his shoulder.

No, you don’t know him. Maybe a future you does– one where a timeline passes over this exact spot. Where you’re friends already, maybe something more. Something safe. Though, that isn’t a very scientific explanation. One colleagues and professors may make fun of you for. You disregard the notion, only nodding your head to confirm.

He only mirrors the motion in return, seemingly not one for conversation himself. Finding himself pulling out the chair across from yours, setting himself inside of it. Wasting no time in pulling out his own belongings.

Laptop, textbook, notebook.

“The professor said you were having trouble with qualitative analysis of…” His voice trails off, and you can’t help but wonder how someone's voice can almost sound like a well-loved record. A tune that can’t quite find its sink– almost too rigid to hope itself melodic.

You listen to the same voice as it sings out the songs of your lessons. As he goes over the failed exam beat by beat. Explaining the first few questions in such simple terms anyone could understand them. Not in a way that felt condescending, no. Again, it just felt so warm that you couldn’t do anything but listen to him quietly. Absorbing everything without a single interruption.

Well, until question 7 at least. That is when you feel two synapses connecting in your brain reminding you of an ultra-important task that absolutely cannot be forgotten. A handshake. Your small hand cutting him off, reaching across the table without a second thought.

He stares at the pervasive hand as if it is something he’s never seen before. Never been offered in the first place. Something offensive to hurt rather than anything else.

Interesting.

“My dad always said you have to shake hands when you’re meeting someone. Or else it’s bad luck down the road. So…” You explain away simply, like it should be obvious to every person on the Earth. It should, honestly. But you’ve been told you have issues with thinking that way– that things obvious to you should be obvious to everyone else. That everyone else lives within the same bubble you’ve found yourself residing in your whole life.

You know it isn't true– that the bubble you’ve created is something you simply live in alone. Periphery finding itself resident to everyone else. But that’s awfully lonely, isn't it? You choose to think the former.

His shoulders slowly unfurl, defences slowly lowering as he meets your hand in the middle. Rough palm meeting yours, shaking slowly up and down before both sides pull away. A magnet short of attraction of two bodies as you pull away.

“Good.” You nod, pulling your knees up to hover off of the ground. Resting them against the edge of the table instead. “I don’t like bad luck either.”

There's a beat of silence, one that you don’t mind.

“Do you not like black cats then either?” His tone has an edge of pessimism to it. His defences considering a raise.

You, on the other hand, feel immediate offence. How dare he! “What?! Are you crazy! Or course I like them.”

You miss the crook of his lip into a light smirk, defences gone once more, “Well, normally they’re seen as bad luck…”

“That’s just a stereotype!” You instantly defend. Your body leaning over, moving your face closer to his.

He holds his arms up in defence, pencil still wedged between his fingers, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. My bad completely.” He lets out a quiet chuckle at the end, you only puff out your cheeks.

“Entirely.” You huff quietly, almost sounding like a petulant child, “I would never judge something just off of how they’re born.” At that, he almost perks an ear.

“Really?” He asks, his eyebrows slowly raising, “Not even hybrids?”

Ah, hybrids. A common discussion other people find themselves having, one that you never really found the purpose of. Arguments on their rights, the ethics of keeping them as pets, on if they should even be classified as intelligent life. You hated all of them. Didn’t understand for a second why people kept themselves concerned with class divisions or keeping others subservient at all.

As far as you care, they’re the same as humans. Think like humans, act like humans. Another creature just as deserving the right to live and exist as all others. You don’t concern yourself with the difference in their existence– seeing them, treating them the same as you would any other person.

You can’t stand that others find different opinions than yourself. Cutting them off entirely for treating another living, breathing creature with the capacity to think for itself as less. Reminding you desperately that you live on the periphery.

“No, why should I care.” You scrunch your nose up at the notion you’d think otherwise. He takes the action differently. “They’re the same as everyone else.”

You surmise your ideologies simply, though you’re never sure if your words construe correctly. His results are inconclusive as well, letting out a quiet grunt. Dropping the subject. Keeping his words from revealing what is true.

“What else is bad luck then?”

You don’t notice the quick subject change, “Walking under ladders, whistling in the woods, doing your laundry on a sunday. …I can’t imagine saying Bloody Mary in a mirror 3 times is much help either.”

He pauses for a second, his eyes just looking at you. They’re sharp things– knives against a grinder maybe. Could even be too sharp to be human, if you cared to look a little closer. Cared to notice the differences between you and him.

But you don’t, nor will you probably ever. Just allow him to shake his head simply, let him return to your test questions without a single other thought leaking into that brain of yours. Only this time, you feel comfortable enough to ask a few more questions. Let him delve more deeply into the work without the threat of your mind wandering off to useless things. Allow the clock to tick later, later, later into the night– moving from your exam, to the most recent concept your class has been working on. Carefully treading the water, staying afloat as you finally begin to understand.

You hate to admit it, you really do for the sake of your pride alone, but he really is a good teacher. He doesn’t seem upset when you ask questions– no matter how stupid you are. He stays calm whenever you start to get frustrated, carefully talking you through it instead of getting upset himself. He seems so peaceful you almost want to hate him for it.

Almost, because between the gentle instructions and messy handwriting as the hours tick late into the night, jokes begin to crack freely between both of your tongues. Gentle jabs that mean nothing, topics construing into obscurity flowing into something more entertaining to discuss.

Though– he did seem to have pause when you told him you don't trust fish. Something about them thinking they’re better than you– of which he agreed. Not that they’re better than you, of course not. But that yeah… they do seem to have that kind of look in their eyes.

He feels the same way about birds, you learned. Interesting.

It isn’t until midnight that he calls it, a time you didn’t even think was plausible. You thought it was 9:30, 10 at the latest! There’s no way midnight could have come so soon! Just the idea of it sounded fake. But then you checked the clock in the library, then your phone, and now you don’t know what to think.

Time has never flown so simply with another person.

“I told you I wasn’t lying.” He has that stupid smirk on his face, the one you’ve decided means he’s feeling cocky and amused.

“You could… you could have changed all of them when I wasn’t looking! To trick me?”

“Yeah.. mhmm.. And what would that do.. For either of us..?”

“. . . I haven’t gotten there yet.”

“Right.” He smiles, a real smile that shows off his gums. You can’t help but reflect a smaller one back at him.

Once again he moves first, standing after he’s collected all his belongings. Tossing his bag over his shoulder while you hurry to catch up. Sliding your laptop inside before making sure your pens know their correct homes in the case–

What was that?

It was something so subtle anyone could have missed it. A mouse scurrying between cases, a piece of trash floating by. Something brown moving quickly in the corner of your eye. Something you neglected to notice. How could you not notice something so obvious?

When you look up at him– finally take the man you’ve spent the night with in his entirety, you see it. You missed it while he was sitting down, obviously trying to keep the thing from view, but now there was no hiding it. It was impossible to hide the thick brown tail that hung behind him in such a relaxed posture you wonder if he forgot about it, too.

You couldn’t help the instant fascination as you took the form of it in. The pretty segments it appeared to be broken into– 5 if you counted them correctly, all stacked neatly upon one another. All leading to a stinger resting at the end, gently curled inward rather than held in defence.

The gentleness of the man himself contrasted so nicely with the firmness of the tail.

So pretty.

It was only then that he must’ve realised his mistake. Must’ve noticed your silence, followed your eye line to see exactly where it was laying. Realised that he let his guard down too quickly– understood too quickly that you didn’t already know about his… condition. His state of existence.

The professor must’ve not told you. Probably thought it was a negligible factor even though it never is. Maybe when he came in you missed it, you didn’t actually look up at him until he sat down anyway. Until his tail was already tucked deep under the chair for protection.

Without realising it, his tail raises. Curing behind his back, the tip looking even sharper than it normally does. Meanwhile his body tenses up entirely. Defence utterly encasing his form.

Fuck, and then your eyebrows are raising– and next you’re gonna start screaming and he’ll have to run so he doesn’t get taken in by hybrid services and–

“Can I touch it?” Your voice brings him back to reality, back from the ‘end-of times’ it found itself careening towards. Now he’s just, he’s just confused. Did you just ask him if you could touch it? Why aren’t you acting like he’s suddenly the scum of the earth? That’s how hybrids are treated anyway.

Even if you said otherwise earlier, that doesn’t mean much to someone who's never experienced otherwise.

“. . . oh… or maybe that’s rude. Forget it. Sorry.” You rush out instead, taking his appearance softly. Honestly, you don’t know much about what could be considered ‘rude’ to hybrids… you don’t have much experience with them at all, actually.

“You’re not…” He fumbles with himself, his tail remaining raised like a predator. He forces himself taller, forces himself to appear more together. More ready to ‘strike’-- figuratively. He clears his throat, “What, you have something you want to say?”

You cock your head back sharply, rising to your feet, “No, why would I?” You feel just as confused as him. Maybe asking to touch a hybrid’s parts is more taboo than you thought…

“Look I didn't mean any offence it was just pretty and–”

“Just fucking run off and report me if you’re going to–”

Both sentences are said at the same time from each party, the response mirroring exactly as well. Both faces twist into that of almost confusion and offence, upset that the other would dare say something like that for entirely different reasons.

“What are you talking about?” Your question comes from annoyance, almost anger that he would think you would do something as nasty as reporting him when he was just trying to live his life.

His comes from the simple word pretty. Why would you think his appendage was anything of the sort? The one thing his entire life that’s set him back– the very blood in his veins betraying him. The reason he can’t be accepted by normal people. The reason he has to take stupid night classes at this university with any professor that is actually willing to accept him. To accept his under the table payments.

The very reason he’ll never get a real job– just hope to be adopted by someone who will let him do what he wants. Just hope that the authorities don’t find him, or that his own landlord won’t turn him in before he can do that.

And you think it’s pretty? No fucking sane person would.

“Why would you think I’d report you?” Your tone is hurt, the pang in his heart hurting just as much. He hates that he feels it, and he hates that he wants to comfort you more than anything else. Stupid fucking scorpion genes.

“What else would you do?” He scoffs, crossing his arms.

“Literally nothing. I would do nothing.” You glare at him slightly, “I don’t care that you’re a hybrid, why would I?”

“Why wouldn’t you?” His tone is accusatory, but he doesn’t quite know what else to make it.

“Okay, let’s go down the list, yeah?” The spite in your tone lets the both of you know this night is taking a sour turn, “You can think, you can feel, oh right, you’re your own fucking person.”

You roll your eyes, “I know words don’t mean much, probably, but I view literally every creature as equal.” He still stands firm, your words and his life experiences battling in his mind. You sigh, this isn’t going anywhere. “Listen, I know it probably doesn’t mean much, and like, we both just met so I know it doesn’t hold much value. But I’m really sorry for whatever you’ve gone through in your life. It couldn’t have been easy. But I really, truly don’t care about whatever laws are in place. As far as I’m concerned, you’re equal to me.”

Your tone had gone soft, more gentle. Trying to dispel the hostility that hung fragrant in the air. But it looks like he can’t move. Doesn’t really know how after all of that. You probably wouldn’t either– though you’re not sure, you’ve never been good at putting yourself in other people's shoes. You just hope he believes you… that’s all you can do.

“I’ll head out first. You have my number, text me if you want to meet again.” You start towards the door, the ball left in the other man’s court. You wish you could’ve at least got his name first but.. He never introduced himself. Hmm, maybe you did the handshake too late, that’s why the bad luck kicked in.

“You think it’s pretty?” You almost don’t hear his words, too far away.

You turn your body back to face him, a gentle smile crocheted onto your lips, “Of course I do. Exquisite.”

The two of you stand in silence for a minute longer, trying to navigate the confusing energy moving between both of your forms. It’s only when you turn back around again to leave that he finally speaks. The simple word of his name.

“Yoongi.”

“Well, it was very nice to meet you, Yoongi.” You say softly, tilting your head to look at him once again, “I really do hope we can be friends.”

But that was years ago. Friends came and went; now you want so much more. More than you could ever quite articulate. You know it now as you sit with him, an after-chase ritual in whatever cheap roadside bar you can find. Never finding yourselves regulars, always on the move– save for the presence of each other.

“I don’t think luck is real, you know.” Yoongi drawls into your ear, the scent of alcohol heavy on his tongue. His body leaning against yours in the crowded bar, hair dancing against the side of your neck all while his tail finds itself curled around your back. A simple motion that could only be described as protective, possessive.

“What?!” You dramatically slap your hand against your mouth, an action you picked up from him. Alcohol inhibiting both of your minds only slightly, letting words flow a little easier than they otherwise might. Letting touch feel a little more commonplace.

An afterwork tradition, if you will.

“You’re insane!” You announce, slapping his shoulder playfully, “You’re gonna make bad luck get us Yoongi!! Take it back!”

Your voice is almost a whine, and he wants to fold because of it.

“You say that like you aren’t a stem major!” He laughs, his eyes shining like crescent moons you want to live on. Wait, does that even make sense?

“That doesn’t matter! We're like– the least scienc-y!! Our whole job is practically based on luck! Oh my god!” Now you’re stopping your foot a little, and his tail finds itself pulling you closer.

“Yeah, but you have no idea how many ladder’s I’ve walked under and you still say I have the best luck.” He giggles– fucking giggles!! Can you believe the audacity of this man?!

“Yoongi!! How dare you!! Do you know how many E5s’ you’ve cost us?! Probably like.. Like 20!”

“Mm, maybe yours just keeps it up for the both of us. Huh?” You humph, you fucking humph, and maybe– just maybe, Yoongi feels himself going a little insane. Forgetting himself– what you are meant to be to him.

“That’s the only plausible explanation… obviously…”

He hums, “Obviously.”

There’s a brief moment, a flicker in the air of something indescribable. Something that makes your skin feel a quiet, humble flame strumming under the surface. That makes you feel as if there's electricity pulsing through the space left between your noses. That makes you feel almost invincible as your eyes meet his warm brown tones.

You’ve come to love earthy hues since meeting Yoongi. He’s full of them, after all.

But, the flame of the match is blown out far too quick for you to truly comprehend what that moment was. Why it felt the way it did. Instead, your left sputtering with the absence of Yoongi, the slow withdrawal of his form.

“I’ll go get us more drinks.” His gravelly voice mutters just loud enough to hear over the music. You can only nod along, already missing the security of the tail curled around your back.

At least he isn’t so shy about it’s presence anymore. At least not like he was back then– trying to hide it, trying to make the rest of the world forget about it. You never understood why, no, how could you when you love it so much? Find it just another integral part of Yoongi for you to love.

You can even smile now, thinking back to how cute he got the first time he let you touch it. How he turned red to his ears, the chill that travelled down his spine. The flick of it as it chased after your hand when you retreated. It was too fucking cute back then… mm. Maybe that’s when you first started to grow a crush on the man.

Or maybe it was always how struck he was when you complimented him. Pushed it aside like it meant nothing, yet he always seemed a little out of it for the rest of your time spent together. You suppose Yoongi has always been reticent to your gaze; but then again, he was always aloof when it came to his feelings as it was. Nothing to dwell on, honestly.

You’ve never tried to hide your feelings– have never wanted to, really. You don’t think you even know how. But you’re not going to force them on him either. If he wants to act, the door has always been open. And it will remain open to him, probably forever.

“How’d the chase go this time?” A voice carries you from your head, your feet returning to the solid ground. Jisung, a fellow chaser finds himself in the seat next to yours– the seat Yoongi used to fill. A friend in the industry, you could say. Though, you take to thinking he probably wants more.

“Mmm… ‘bout as good as any other this late into the season…” You hum, taking a sip from your half-full glass, “Never as good around this time of year.”

Your sigh makes a gentle smile grow onto his plush lips, “Really? I thought you fell in love with every storm.” He lets out a quiet snort, swirling his own cup. His eyes seem to remain focused on you, though.

“Of course I do. Everyone is perfect and special!” You declare a smile stretching back, “However, like every caring mother, I do have favourites.”

“I don’t think– that’s not–” He laughs, “Aren’t parents not supposed to have favourites?”

“You really believe that Lie, Sung? Bold of you.”

“Well, do you have favourite pets?”

“Of course not!! How dare– okay, yeah. It’s the goldfish. His name is Guppie and he is my pride and joy. Named after my first love in elementary school~ imagine I let out a dreamy sigh here.”

His laugh makes your own come out as well, “Your first love was a… fish?”

“What, no?”

“They were named Guppie? … Like a fish…”

“Nickname, of course.” You giggle, girlish and cute.

“Do you give nicknames to everyone then?” He moves his face closer in wonder, excitement, “What’s mine? You have to tell me.”

You hum, tapping your chin in contemplation, “I don’t know ‘Sung, nicknames are reserved for extra special people in my life…”

“Ah!” He clutches his chest, looking down before popping his head up. Puppy dog eyes, “I’m not extra special? You wound me (Y/n)! You really do! And I really thought we had something, I can’t believe this.”

You laugh loudly at the dramatic act– emotions on the sleeve are so much more fun to display. You know he probably means none of it, but it’s still adorable. You can’t help but lean in closer, slapping his chest gently.

“Shh! Shh! You’re too loud! Too loud! You’re extra special!” The conversation is easy, just as it always is with Jisung. Though it isn’t the same– you can’t help but notice that fact. It feels easy, smooth… though like there is a wall in the way of true connection. Like there is a way you are meant to act. Just like there always is.

Always is with everyone but Yoongi.

It’s strange. But something you’ve grown attached to. Fond of.

He clears his throat behind you– think of the devil and he shall appear. Or however the saying goes. You’ve never been good with them, anyway. Your strengths and your faults, the simple facts have become all too aware of over time. Not that you mind them, of course. You just accept them as a fact of ‘you’. Just like your bubble, just like your impossible.

“Oh, hey!” Jisung is bright as always, giving a gentle wave to the man behind you.

“Poongie!” You smile, your inebriated mind already attempting to wrap itself around his torso. It’s not your fault you already missed him!

Jisung erupts in a fit of giggles, “Poongie?! That’s his?!”

“Yep! Mixture of Pookie and Yoongi. He loves it.” He certainly does, but he would never admit it. Actually, he feels kind of odd right now. More… stiff than he was before he left. Like something… darker? Is radiating off of him. Though, it’s not actually dark. Just kind of… displeased. You can't seem to find the right word.

“I can tell.” Jisung rolls his eyes, “He looks thrilled.”

That only seems to further upset the man, his tail slowly curling around itself on instinct. Moving to find purchase on your waist. To pull you closer. To claim you. Sober thoughts slipping into a drunk mind, his actions freer than he normally allows them to be.

Jealousy. That’s all he feels. Jealous that you just called someone who’s been openly hitting on you the entire season ‘extra special’. How fucking childish of him. He knows that even now, but he doesn’t want to stop. Everything that normally does feels as though they’ve gone into hibernation at this very moment.

He just wants you.

The next thing the Scorpion knows, he’s setting the drinks on the counter while you gaff away. Lifting you by your hips, sliding his form underneath yours with a grunt. Placing you on his lap and finally, making sure you’re secure to him with a hug of his tail around your midsection.

He almost feels proud at your little squeal of surprise. At the blush on your cheeks. That’s right. He’s the only special one to you. This other man– other predator should know it.

He knows he’ll regret this display in the morning. That he’ll feel utterly embarrassed by the whole thing. But right now Min Yoongi feels on top of the world.

“Yoongi! What are you doing!” You hiccup out in surprise, trying to turn to face him. But he holds you still, holds you secure. Holds you safe just like he always makes sure you are. Gives you a response only by the shrug of his shoulders, his chin finding purchase in the crook of your neck.

“W-well.. Fine then!” You huff, puffing out your cheeks just a little, “I’ll stay, but… just for a little! I’ll stay here for a little…” You grow a little quiet near the end, a little nervous. But you couldn’t feel more warm than in this moment. So heavenly.

Jisung only laughs, what else is he meant to do anyway? A small, petulant part of Yoongi was hoping he’d run for the hills– he would with such aggressive scent marking. But then again, the other man is a human, probably doesn’t know anything about such a thing.

The other part of Yoongi almost wants him to watch. Wants the other man to watch you drown in your own blush, watch as you learn more and more into the firm chest behind you. Feel the connection you two have that–

Oh, you’re laughing again too, what a pretty sound. The conversation picking up once again– Jisung is a conversationalist isn’t he. Yoongi almost wishes he was the same. Jealousy is an ugly emotion. It makes people do drastic things. It makes Yoongi want to do even more drastic things.

If only he was human.

If he was human he'd do so much more. Would have already done so much more. But now, in his current state of being, he couldn’t handle it. He wouldn’t be able to handle the rejection. He knows it. Knows it in the way mother’s comfort their children after one look at his tail, and knows it in the way you look at storms.

Yoongi isn’t a tornado. You would never look at him the same way you look at them. With such love and light in your eyes.

But god he wants you to, he wants you to more than anything. He wants to be an option. He wants to be the center of your universe just like those dumb fuck storms are. He wants to be the wind that plays with your hair, the rain that kisses your skin. He wants to be the very thing that envelopes your entire consciousness just like those storms do.

And maybe, just maybe if he presses himself close enough to you he can. He can pretend with the poison in his blood that you like him. He can be yours, even if it's only for a night.

He would always be yours. You never his’.

And as the night ticks on, venom bubbling up every second that ticks, he feels himself becoming looser. Feels you melting into his grip as pretty drinks and florals fill your mind. Feels your scent starting to overpower his nose as his mind blurs with thoughts of you. Almost feels the tangle of souls joining in the way he’s always wished them to.

“Yoonie..” You hum, fingers coming up loosely to move through his hair in a way they only do when the two of you are alone, “He went to get a drink, can let me go now…seats open.”

He almost feels annoyed at your words, and you can’t help but let the disappointment of them bubble, too. You don’t want him to let you go. In fact, you’d be happy staying like this forever. But you know Yoongi, you know he doesn’t like to be so… affectionate in public. He’s one to show his love quietly, something else you’ve come to find endearing over the years you’ve spent by his side.

Only, you don’t feel relieved movements like you expected to, no. While his arms go lax, his tail almost pulls tighter. The two sides of him fighting, arguing over what to do next. And next, next you feel something so warm. So soft against your neck that you don’t know what to do.

Lips. His lips are against your neck. A gentle press to the side of the column robbing you of your ability to breath, ability to think. Normal affectionate pecks are common, sure, when the two of you have spent too long reaserching and analysing the your brains are working a little slower than they normally do, they might even be seen as common. But this kiss, this kiss was slow. It was languid. It was so much more. Everything you’ve ever wanted.

“Have to?” His words are quiet, gruff. Lips moving against your neck as he talks. Spoken to you alone in the world, emboldened by the alluring mix of jealousy and alcohol.

You shake your head, much emboldened by the same. He never has to let you go.

“Good.” You feel your heart in your ears, ready to explode as he moves his arm back around you, back to your hip to hold you steady, “Mine.”

Neither of you ever expected that single, life altering word to ever leave his lips.

“Y-Yours?” You can’t help yourself, you need to make sure you heard him right. Needed to make sure this whole thing wasn’t a dream. That his lips, slowly kissing along the ridge of your shoulder are real and not a figment of your imagination.

Though he doesn’t say it again, doesn’t will himself to. Instead the sound you hear is something low, one you’ve never heard him use against you. A gentle growl lodged in the back of his throat, confirming it. Confirming everything for your head and your heart to hear.

“Yours…” You try again, tilting your head to the side, giving him more room. He hums in assurance, in want.

You think you could die happy.

The impossible. The impossible is claiming you for himself. Is holding the heart of the love struck college student, the nervous new-hire, the assured scientist all in the palm of his hand. Is confirming your affections. Confirming the fire brewing deep in your belly. The coals that have been slowly and tenderly cared for over time.

Yoongi and the storms– they’re both your impossible, your fate finding reality.

“Y-Yoongi I—” He tilts your chin, cutting you off mid sentence. Passion alight beneath the subtle glow of amber that robs you of your words. Lets you know exactly what you need to. Makes the fire burst into flames as his fingers gently dig into your hip, makes your entire body heat as he rubs in gentle circles.

“I don’t like him.” He grunts, letting his forehead rest against yours, “Keeps you from me.”

“No one can keep me from you.” The reply is instant, your lips barely missing his. “You’re for me.”

God, and at that moment you know that the prettiest noise in the world is Yoongi’s quiet groan. The way his eyes close, the way he practically pulls you down into his lap sends you into overdrive. The way he slowly rolls his own up is enough to send you into a puddle of your former being.

The rest of the world is gone, entirely melted away from reality. Now, now it’s just you and Yoongi. Cornered away from the rest of the bar, out of sight. Out of mind. Just his hands slowly moving your hips to be seated on just one of his thighs, his tail making sure you’re secure. Just your scent driving him crazy.

He can tell how wet you already are. He can tell how much you want him, just as he wants you.

The contact is rough, a little maddening. His jeans pressing up against yours, the thin cotton of your panties not doing much to stop the harsh heat. But you don’t want it to stop. You want him to do whatever he wants.

“You’re wet.” He isn't shy to admit it. Isn’t shy to admit the smell invading his nose. Isn’t shy to let you know exactly what it’s doing to him with the rock of your hips. Letting you feel something hard pressed right against your back.

“Shut up…” You instantly complain, whining as you lean your back against his chest, further into his touch. He cracks a soft smile at your words, rocking you back and forth so slowly, so carefully. Letting you feel every flex of the muscle, every rough movement of the jean against your clit. Savouring every second now that the threat of the other man has dissipated. Taking his time in case all of this is a dream and he will have to give you up tomorrow.

“Why? Not cute when I say it?” He chuckles, jumping his leg slightly off the ground, sending a wave through your body. A shock of pleasure to the system that has a gentle moan tumbling from your lips. That has your hips sending a gentle buck back. That has your brain feeling as though it might become mush.

Yoongi is going to be the death of you, you’re sure of it.

“Hey guys I…” Yoongi’s eyes find Jisung before your own do. Before the flushed expression on your face can quell and certainly before you can find a coherent thought. And suddenly the lazy foreplay in the corner of the bar is gone. Suddenly Yoongi is no more than an animal once again.

“O-Oh! Jisung! S-sorry let me just–” You try, but there isn’t any use. No, Yoongi is pissed you even said his name. Pissed you tried to move away from him. Why would you try to move away from him? A predator with his m– prey being stolen right out from under him. A predator that has everything to gain and everything to lose.

Yoongi isn’t thinking anymore as he stands, just barely keeping you upright as he pulls you away. Grabs your hand and leads you to the bathroom, locks the door once you’re both inside.

Sanity is no longer present. Only the jealousy he feels inside. Only annoyance at the other man for trying to take you away from him. You said he was yours, that he was made for you. And the other predator dared try to take you? Take you from him when you were about to share something so sweet?

Yoongi knows he isn’t thinking right. Knows he might regret it in the morning– but he also knows if he doesn’t do something now he’ll regret it even more. For once, for once in his life he wants to be selfish. For once in his life he wants to forget he can’t ever have you because he’s a hybrid. For once he just wants you.

You’d let him have you. Over and over again. For the rest of your lives.

“Yoongi what are you–” He cuts you off with his lips against your own for he doesn’t know the answer. He’s letting himself just exist for once. Exist in the way he wants to without care. And all he wants right now is to kiss you.

You couldn’t want anything more. Have been waiting your entire life to feel the press of his lips against your own. Kiss him back without a second thought– without reprieve. Let your mouth slip open easily for him, let everything get as messy as he wants.

The time for gentle foreplay is over. No, now is the time to consume.

Without a second thought he lifts you by your hips, your hands falling into place against his shoulder. Letting him lead, letting him take control as he fits his body against yours with such perfect harmony. Nobody would doubt you’re two pieces of the same puzzle, ready to fit together for the rest of eternity.

He groans when he feels your hips press against his, as he feels your heat seep through layers of clothing. Cusses when he finally pulls back, sees the saliva collected at the corner of your lips. The hazy look in your eye that tells him you need him just as much as he needs you. That you want him so terribly you can’t help but fall against him for love, for safety.

It’s just the alcohol.

Yoongi practically growls at his own thoughts, his tail rising in defence, in defiance against his own brain. Forcing the thoughts away, forcing everything away other than your body in the room. Other than your desire in the room.

When his mind is no longer clouded he can come to terms with all of this, come to terms with his feelings and shove them so far back down they’ll never see the light of day– but now, right now he needs this. Needs it more than anything.

“Want you.” He grunts, his knees falling onto the dirty bathroom floor. His hands splay against your thighs, feeling them. Worshipping the skin as if it is an altar. As if you’re his religion. “Can I?”

He doesn’t have to ask, he doesn’t need to. He would never have to ask you. Every single time you’d fall for the storm that is Min Yoongi. Over and over again. As if it’s as easy as breathing, as easy as thinking.

The answer is even easier now– as your heart beats in your ears, as arousal pools in your gut. As his blunt fingernails dig themselves ever so slightly into your flesh, begging for entry. Begging for you to just give in. His cheeks a flush, his hair already a wreck. His chest rising and falling and thinking just for you.

He looks like a god.

“W-want you.” Your stutter makes you feel meak, but his groan of approval makes you feel strong. Makes you feel like your bubble has been popped, like the world finally has meaning past tornados and cataclysms.

He takes your approval without any grace. Without a second to even think before he’s pulling your pants down with such hunger, such carnal need. His throat releases a groan of desire as your scent hits him at full force, as you give yourself to him.

He can’t help himself as he presses his face against your panties, his nose right against your clit as he inhales. Takes in all of you for himself. Lets himself be greedy.

“Y-Yoongi!” You squeak in surprise, the noise tapering into a whine. How could he do something so embarrassing! What is wrong with–

You can’t even finish the thought before his fingers pull your panties to the side, his eyes focused directly on your wet, needy cunt. “Smell good.”

If you weren’t entirely red before, you certainly are now. There is no way you couldn’t be. Not with the hunger in his eyes. The fire in your belly.

His tongue darts out, licking your pussy directly without a second thought. Parting your lips, collecting your arousal on his tongue. Tasting you, basking in everything you. Listening to the pretty little moan that comes from your parted lips. Falling apart without a second thought.

And suddenly he’s hungry. Hungrier than he’s ever been in his entire life. Hungry in a way that he’s sure can only be satiated by you. By making you his.

“Fuck, (Y/n)...” He almost sounds more affected than you are, like he could cum from your taste alone. But he can’t, he won’t let himself. He wants, needs to be inside of you more than everything. Needs to fuck you, consume every part of you like he so selfishly craves.

“Gotta get you ready…” He’s talking to himself more than to you as he stands again, trying to keep himself from succumbing to the scorpion screaming at him to just claim you as his. He can only be selfish for tonight. This night. “You gonna be quiet for me? Can’t get caught.”

“Please…” Your voice is practically a whimper, practically begging him to just do something, anything. And who is he to deny you of such simple pleasures? Especially when you whine just for him, moan just for him. Jut your hips out ever so slightly to present yourself just to him.

His thumb finds your clit almost instantly as you call out to him. Rubbing circles into the bundle of nerves with quick, fast precision while another digit presses against your leaking hole. Preparing you, getting you ready for the intrusion.

Your voice is a siren’s song, and Yoongi then knows why pirates used to get lost at sea. Used to become entrapped by the mermaids that sang for them. He feels himself going crazy now, as your head tilts back. As your cunt flutters around nothing, begging him to slide his finger inside just as you both desperately crave.

A buck of your hips is all he needs to fuck the digit inside, trusting it in and out slowly. Making sure it goes as deep as it can before curling and slowly retracting. Increasing pace with the volume of your sounds, with the circle of your clit. Combining sensation, driving you further and further into the clouds with every movement.

It is then you know that his hands are a deadly poison, one you know you will fall apart to. Especially with the gentle sounds of his grunts, with the push of a second finger into your hole. With his heated gaze focused on nothing but how well you’re taking him, how you’re stretching so prettily around his fingers.

You place your hand over your mouth, try to keep your moans to a minimum. Try to suppress every little sound that threatens to spill past your lips. Yet you can’t help it, how could you when he knows exactly where to curl his fingers? When they press right against that little bundle of nerves inside. When they rub against you so perfectly.

“Y-Yoongi!” You accidentally shout, your hips bucking in surprise. The band growing tighter and tighter in your lower abdomen. Your eyes clouding with pleasure as your head feels lighter and lighter.

He only smirks, gentle and sinful. “Found it.”

He thrusts his fingers back in the exact same way, their pace hurried. Concise. Locating that exact same spot over and over again, curling his fingers up just right. Timing the strokes perfectly with a roll of your clit. You feel like you could scream, you’re going to scream.

“Y-You’re so mean!” You whimper, the hand on your clit moving to hold your thighs down. To resist your messy bucking. Resist your adorable begging for more. This other thumb moving to press against your clit instead.

Then you see it, see the pretty brown thing that had you so enamoured to begin with. Remember just how sensitive it was when you touched it first, and just how mean he’s being to you now.

With all the clarity you have left in your little brain you reach for his tail, hold it in your tiny hands. Whimper at how big it is, how strong it feels. How much it protects you. And without a second thought, you wrap your lips around the tip of it and moan. Using it as a gag, using it to stop your cries.

Yoongi suddenly tenses below you, his entire frame shifting as your mouth sucks on the tip. Your eyes closed in concentration, little tears bubbling up in the corners as you whine around him. Fully focused on your pleasure, the feeling of his fingers inside of you– so close to falling apart.

He thinks he could cum at that second. He’s sure of it.

A choked groan leaves his own lips as his fingers resume their pace, his senses going into overdrive. No longer thinking, no longer able to do anything but act. But take and take and give and give until there's nothing left.

And god he wants to burn this picture into his brain. Wants to cement it into the rest of his thoughts, his very being. His movements are messier, faster as he fucks his fingers into your cunt. Doesn’t care about the noise as his tail moves on its own, slowly thrusting in and out of your mouth. Your g-spot battered, you clit burning with pleasure.

Sounds that resemble words fall deaf on your tongue as the band finally breaks, as the world around you spins. As you find euphoria from Yoongi’s fingers. The eye of the storm befalling your very being as electricity moves down your spine as the winds subside.

You’re left panting in front of him, your walls tightening as he slowly coaxes you through it. Helps you feel every ounce of pleasure that you deserve. Kisses your shoulder gently, softly, watching you come down from your high.

You can only whine at the affection, the fog lifting for a brief second as he slowly pulls his fingers out of you. You feel so empty– too empty. You still want him. You still want so much more.

You try to say his name, try to vocalise but it only sends vibrations down his tail. A groan leaving his lips, heat still heavy in his eyes. You realise his tail is still moving, still slowly moving in and out of your mouth. You know he isn’t finished.

You know you never want him to be.

You raise your leg up, kicking, trying to push his pants down. Begging them to just drop a little lower. To get his cock out so he can fuck you properly. So he can make you feel so much more full of everything him.

He lets out a chuckle of a scoff, his bangs falling in front of his eyes as he shakes his head, “Needy.” He grunts, yet he feels the exact same way. Removing his tail from your mouth, finally letting you speak. Ignoring the way his heart hammers at the sight of your puffy, glossed lips.

“Shut up.” Is the only reply you can muster, hands quickly moving to try and shove his pants down. To try and get him inside of you. He just smiles, the predatory glint never leaving his eyes. The dig of his nails never leaving your thigh.

Finally, with your messy attempts you urge them down, force the annoying material down his thighs, his boxers moving right along with it. And fuck, you can’t help but gawk. Can’t help but whine because shit, you’ve never seen a cock so pretty! What the hell! That isn’t fair! None of this is fair and he hates you!

“You hate me.” You whimper, letting him take the lead once again. Following as he slowly leans you back, manoeuvres your hips in exactly the way he wants. Presents your puffy, fluttering cunt just for him. Messy and aching, desperate for more.

“Maybe.” He smiles, teasing you. He’s teasing you! Can you believe that! You certainly can’t, a whine and a gentle smack to his chest telling him everything he needs to hear. Yet you’re forgetting about it all too quickly as you feel the head of something hard gently press against your lips.

In your hazed stupor, you completely missed the action. The way he gripped his cock in his hands, the languid strokes he’s made up and down the length. The way he flicked his thumb over the head just before he decided to so sinfully trace it along your slit. Teasing himself, tracing around your hole with the head. You think he might kill you.

He thinks much of the same.

“I’m on birth control.” You messily squeak out of the blue, eyes trained between your bodies where he��s so close. So very close to fucking himself inside. Into being exactly where you want him. Snapping that final line you two could never come back from.

His eyes dart up to your face, something dark in the iris. Something neither of you address as he finally lets go of his last bit of reserve. As his lips slam into yours, consuming your very being.

His hand finds your leg, pulling it up, resting it against his hip to draw you closer. In one single thrust drawing all the air out of your lungs, removing all thoughts from your head as he thrusts his entire length inside. Filling you, stretching you in the most perfect way. In a way you never imagined another person could do.

Your cries are drowned by his lips, his own curses lost in the same. The stretch, the burn is subtle, yet you could never want anything less. Anything more than the euphoric feeling of Yoongi feeling your ever being.

“Shit…” He finally lets himself breathe, let himself have a moment to feel you. Feel your plush walls wrapped around his length, feel you fluttering around him so perfectly. You’re going to make him insane.

He pants softly, trying to wait– trying to hold himself back from fucking you so hard you can’t walk. So hard he’ll have to carry you out of this shitty bar. So that everyone will know what the two of you did. Just who you belong to.

You give an experimental wiggle of your hips, a signal to move. A signal to stop holding back. The only signal that he needs.

“Yoongi!” The cry is loud, but he can’t seem to care anymore. The pace he takes is anything but slow. It's fast, hard. Rushed. Like he can’t wait a single second longer. Can’t waist a fucking millisecond doing anything else other than laying claim to your soul.

His hips snap against your own, his cock practically hitting your cervix with every thrust. His cock pressed against that same bundle inside every time he draws back, every time he fills you again and again. It’s messy– messy and so wet. So perfect.

“Fuck, fuck.” He mutters to himself, damp hair falling into his eyes, “Have to be quick, gonna fuck you hard, okay?”

He drawls, scratchy. Rough. Pressing his hips fully against yours, fully feeling your slick heat. The lewd noises bouncing against the walls, filling the space. Sending a symphony into your strumming ears. Into your already worn out frame.

You nod in agreement quickly, almost dumbly as you try to fall into a rhythm. Try to meet his movements the best you can. It feels pointless, all of it does. Trying to do anything feels so pointless when he’s fucking you so relentlessly. Like he’s waited his entire life for this moment and he’d rather die than waste another second.

Fucking you like it means something. Like you mean everything.

“Shit, (Y/n). So fucking wet.” He groans, his head rolling back, no longer able to look at the mess between your legs, “So needy.”

You whine, shaking your head. Trying to gain a semblance of reality when it feels like it has been shattered in the most beautiful way.

“Sh-Shut up!” You whine, your walls clenching around his cock, “A-Am! Am not!”

Your denial sends a wave of something through Yoongi. Something that makes him growl, that makes his sight darken just a bit more.

“You’re not?” He scoffs, his eyes finding your own, reading you like an open book, “Little fucking liar.”

His pace changes, taking shape into a different beast entirely. Something new. His thrusts turn from messy, hurried to sharp and precise– the pace never changing. Every single thrust knocking the wind from your lungs, changing the very shape of your DNA to scream for him and only him.

“Y-Yoongi what the fuck?!” You whine, your head knocking back, hitting the glass behind you. Even more of your brain cells scrambling, trying to stay in reality. Trying not to float off in the great beyond where Yoongi wants you to stay.

“Hmm?” He grunts, his eyes focused back downwards. Right to where your slick coats him, to where a pretty white ring has formed around the base. He won’t last long. Even if he wants to keep fucking you forever, he knows he’s done for. “Thought you weren’t needy.”

You whine, unable to stop the band from pulling tight in your gut once again. Unable to stop the pleasure from coursing through your veins. Already a wreck– your body warm with sweat and your hole fluttering uselessly around him. Trying to draw him back in over and over.

Never get him to leave.

His voice is suddenly in your ear, far closer than you remember him being. Far closer than you can manage him being. Fuck, and now his thumb is pressing against your clit again. You don’t know what you can do, what to do.

“You can cum if you just admit it, human.” You’re going insane. “Tell me how fucking needy you are for me. C’mon, do it. I know you can.”

It’s over for you. You had no clue Yoongi could ever be like this, no clue just how much you’d want it. How much you’d love it. Even as tears bubble in the corners of your eyes from the pleasure, even as your hips buck up weakly to meet his thrusts. As his cock makes you feel like you’re about to enter the pearly gates.

You know you love it.

“Y-Yoongi!” You whimper, your hands gripping his shoulders with so much strength you think they might bruise. Hell, you’re sure he’s bruised your hips. There isn’t much difference. “I-I!”

“Mhmm..” He hums, sounding entirely unaffected on the surface, yet it’s clear he’s falling apart just as much as you. Clear in the way his hips stutter so slightly, losing their pace. Clear in the way he holds you tighter and tighter. The way his tail curls possessively around your leg. “You can do it. Say it, human.”

“I-I’m needy!” You whine, forgetting your volume, “I-I need you, Yoongi!”

Just like that, he’s tumbling off the edge. Your words acting as an anchor, as the very thing he’s wanted to hear for years. His hips stuttering inside of you, filling your cunt with his cum without a second thought.

“Cum, pretty thing.” His voice is guttural. A command as your legs lock around him. His thumb never giving your clit reprise. while he doesn’t stop the movement of his thumb. Your own release finding you the second you feel his cock twitch inside of you, the moment you feel his cum leak inside.

Winds swirl at your very being. Lifting you higher and higher into the clouds as your walls clench around him. Milking him for everything, for all he’s worth. Making sure every drop lands inside, making sure you stay nice and full of him while your head wanders into the clouds. While every bit of your being feels fireworks.

Your legs don’t even let go as the two of you slowly begin to calm down. As your heart rates try to return to normal and air returns to your lungs. As Yoongi’s length slowly begins to soften inside of your cute, worn little cunt.

You don’t want to let go. You never want to let go.

His grip slowly softens on your hip. Thumb working to rub slow, gentle circles in their place. His lips finding the column of your throat once more– gentle, nipping kisses find home over the marks he left while sitting at the bar. Not any real bonding marks like his scorpion may have wanted, but pretty red things that claim your skin in a human way.

Your fingers find his strands, knotting themselves in them. Keeping his head where it belongs. You’ve never felt more loved, more wanted in this moment.

You never want it to end.

“Needy…” He smiles to himself, shaking his head softly. His hair tickles your ear. “Can’t believe you actually said it.”

“Y-you!” You try, realising how severely you’re still out of breath. You hate how quickly he’s bounced back. “You made me! You ass!”

He only smiles, shaking his head. Still in complete and utter disbelief that this is real, “I wanted to hear it. You were cute.”

Your legs finally relax when you whine. They easily fall on either side of him, kicking slightly in petulance as he pulls away from your cunt. Removing himself from you, smiling as his cum starts to collect at your opening.

This still all has to be a dream for him, it has to be.

“You hate me!” You repeat again, warmth coming to your cheeks once more as his hands find your cunt. One thump pulling your lip open, letting him see just how much of a mess he’s made you. Letting him watch as his cum drips from your core.

“Maybe.” He can’t help the fond glow in his eyes as he kisses your cheek. A thought coming to the forefront of his brain that he forces back. Another thought he could never let surface, not even now as you’re stuffed with his cum.

His scorpion still preens all the same, though. Filled with thoughts of kids. Thoughts Yoongi, the human, not the scorpion, would never say aloud. Drunk, tipsy, or sober.

He reaches for the dispenser, grabbing a few paper towels before turning on the sink and running them under. Not the best tool, but it will do.

“Well, I don’t hate you…” You’re blushing as you say the words, almost embarrassed without real reason to be. What you just did, it was so much more than ‘I don’t hate you.’ At least, it wasn’t to you. You hope it wasn’t for him either.

You help him with his pants, reaching your hands down and pulling them up slowly for him, “I don’t hate you either.” He rolls his eyes, gently cleaning the space between your legs.

“Awkward if you did.” You huff, lifting your hips as he moves your underwear back in place. Stay hovering as he slides your jeans back up as well.

He leaves a gentle press against your temple, offering you a hand as you hop off the counter. Hips and legs already entirely too sore, a whine shedding your throat as you let him know the pain. All while he only laughs, patting your butt as he helps you walk.

The picture of domesticity.

Neither of you address the elephant in the room, both for entirely different reasons. For radically different realities. The morning would be better anyway, you surmise. With fluid thoughts and no liquor in your system.

You assume Yoongi feels the same way as you both walk home. Gentle shoulders and banter thrown around as casually as ever. The only solid thing the both of you know: you can never go back to that bar again.

God, your fucking head hurts. Maybe?? Maybe everything hurts? When the hell did the sun get so loud?! Since when did light feel like fucking screaming, man?! This isn’t fair! Nothing is fair and the world hates you! Exclusively you, and no one but you!

No, that’s not true. That’s completely illogical, actually. But you can’t find it in yourself to care. Especially when your head is buzzing and your stomach is already growling for some kind of food.

Oh god, food would be so good right now. Warm steamy pancakes, eggs, some kind of potato with a dash of Yoongi to eat it with like you do every morning.

Suddenly, the other side of the bed feels entirely too cold. Freezing. A void empty where the warmth you felt last night should reside.

He fell asleep there, you're sure of it. You remember the feeling of his arms around you, the soft snores that left his lips after you both stumbled into bed. Barely getting undressed before falling into your bed. You remember everything about last night. So much so that you can’t help the heat that rises to your cheeks at the memory. The thought of everything done in that dingy bathroom, all the words spoken, the care professed.

Even if you were tipsy, you would never forget it. You would never regret it. Were waiting to wake up in his arms to make everything official– a long overdue conversation that would finally set in motion your lives together.

So where the hell is he?

A pout forms on your lips as you stretch, your body too tight for the morning and even more so for your search. The soreness in your hips, the bruises he left from his grip a brutal reminder of his absence as you sit up, your eyes squinting as you scope the scene.

You don’t think you like what you see– it’s a weird feeling, honestly. His bag is gone, his shoes are gone, his clothes are gone. For the first time in all the years you’ve known him, he feels utterly gone. Not a speck of him in your room, not a single sign he was even on this trip with you.

Does he regret…

The frown pulls deeper as you reach for your phone. You definitely don’t like this feeling. Like he wasn’t even there to begin with after everything that just happened.

“Ah, stop it.” You say to yourself, one of your hands coming up to gently pat your cheek. You hate where your brain is going so quickly. Maybe you’re just a sop that needed more aftercare than he knew about– yeah, that's probably it. He probably just wanted to go back to his own room and shower before you had to work today. See, that makes much more sense, doesn’t it? You nod your head, almost in agreement with your thoughts. Set on your decision, on the most-likely-possible solution.

[9:27am] To: Poongie

> Goodmorning :> I hope you slept well

> Did you wanna go get breakfast at the diner? I think I’m dying and only hashbrowns can fix me unfortunately

You wish you could say you weren’t affected– wish you could say you weren’t sitting there, waiting for a response. Heart beating out of your chest like a schoolgirl in love. It’s silly, isn’t it? What emotions can make you feel inside and out. How they can seem to affect every part of your being without even trying.

You suppose storms are the same way. Suppose all natural forces are– the sun, the moon, the stars. They all have their own cosmic power that distils someone at their very core. Leaving them waiting, abating in agony over a simple text back from the man you like.

You toss your phone to the side, choosing to get ready instead of imagining anymore fantasies. You live in reality, a woman of science. There’s no sense in trying to explain everything you feel, only accepting that you feel it.

Mmm. As you get dressed, you wonder how long you’ll be able to go on like that for.

[10:02] From: Poongie

> gm

> i already ate

Oh. You don’t like that. In fact, you hate it so much you want to start making a powerpoint presentation on how to text just for him. But, you give him the benefit of the doubt once more. Yoongi has never been a good texter, anyway. You’re lucky if you can get more than a two word reply from him. He prefers phone calls.

[10:03] To: Poongie

> So u hate me okay

> Come sit with me tho, I don’t want to look like a loser

> Meet me down there in 5 ;P

You give a soft smile as he reacts to your final text with a thumbs up. It doesn’t leave you feeling the best, but he’s not avoiding you entirely. And he never has been a morning person. Plus, he’s probably hungover too and doesn’t wanna look at his phone screen. You two are fine and last night was amazing. And soon you could make everything official.

Your smile grows. Yeah. Yeah, that all makes perfect sense.

You know what doesn’t? A lot of things, actually. Too many to count, but you try anyway.

One.

Yoongi walking in 10 minutes late acting like nothing happened. Like you didn’t happen. Just sliding into the seat across from yours, the thick plastic of the booth squeaking while he does so. His hands stuffed in his pants, nothing but a nod in your direction to acknowledge your existence. His face utterly blank, entirely neutral.

Never once has Yoongi greeted you with less than a gummy smile. A ruffle of your hair. A jab at your tired appearance. But you ignore it– ignore the sense of unease, of dread already building inside. He must really have a bad hangover, poor guy.

“Goodmorning!” You chirp brightly, a smile of a thousand suns cast in only his direction. Your usual greeting, of course. Maybe just a little extra chipper to balance him out. To try and prepare yourself, maybe to get a little excited for the conversation to come. Pull him out of any awkward tension he may be feeling.

“Goodmorning.” He simply replies back, his eyes following the waitress as she places a cup of coffee, extra sweet, in front of him. His usual order. Something you’d never forget. Something he knows you’d never forget, but the way he stares into the warm liquid says otherwise.

His eyes never stray from the cup, like he's thinking. Like he wants to say something but doesn’t quite know how. Like he isn’t sure whether to ignore it or bring it to light.

You know that look well, and you don’t want to ignore it.

Two.

He calls the waitress back and orders another coffee. Black.

He hates his coffee black. You know this. Everyone does. He hasn’t had the stuff since before he met you. You opened him to the world of how delicious sweet drinks can be. So why the hell is he planning on pretending to like something he doesn’t? It makes no sense to you– your expression shows it all. Eyebrows quirking together, lips pushing outwards slightly.

“Wow, the great Min Yoongi is changing up his order?” A creature of habit never does, you would know yourself, “Hangover that bad?”

You try to lighten the mood, raise the cloud that hangs above the booth. Or maybe it’s a cloud only you feel, you’re not sure. It doesn’t matter anyway, does it?

“Mmm, you could say that.” He grunts, his chin tucking ever so slightly to his chest. His tail curling closer. Almost defensive. Almost.

“God yeah,” The conversation feels stunted, and you hate that even more. “My head has been throbbing since I woke up. I don’t know if I drank too much or not enough.” The banter isn’t flowing as easily, and he curls in on himself even more. Almost like the mere mention of last night rings alarm bells in his mind.

Oh! Okay, yeah. Maybe he’s just nervous about everything that happened, you know? Maybe he’s worried that you don’t remember, or that you’re having different feelings about it. Maybe his brain is playing the same tricks on him that trickled into your consciousness that morning!

Yeah, okay. That makes so much more sense now that you think about it. You have to stop beating around the bush, just come out and say everything you think. Everything you feel and you can talk about it. You’ll just bring it up– he obviously isn’t going to, but then you’ll be in a relationship by the time your pancakes come out! Perfect!

Yet as you look up at him, find his face utterly void of anything, your confidence wanes.

Three.

He’s refusing to look at you. Another thing he never does. You’re always the one to avoid eye contact, never him. You’re always the one to stare out the window, not him. He normally looks at you. Normally basks in you.

You feel your mouth drying, all words becoming lost on your tongue the longer you stare at his disposition. You don’t break it as the silence becomes awkward, as he doesn’t try to do anything to fix it. Simply sips at his coffee. His disgusting coffee.

Drinks it until it empties. Until the pancakes now in front of you remain nearly untouched and cold. Until the world stops spinning and time freezes. As the comet hits and the world ends. As society descends into chaos yet you can’t do anything but look at him.

Okay, maybe you’re exaggerating. But that’s exactly how it feels for some strange reason. How it feels to be unable to reach him.

It isn’t until he grabs his coat, sliding $30 across the table that you finally gain the courage to speak. Finally blurt out the words sitting on the tip of your tongue for the last 20 minutes.

“We should talk about last night.” You didn’t expect to say anything honestly, shocked at the air leaving your lungs.

And finally, finally he looks at you. The diner is still frozen, yes, but now he’s looking at you and for some reason that’s all that matters.

A deep drag of air fills his lungs as he sags his shoulders, rigid disposition weakening in attempt to show signs of aloof. His tail gives everything away. Sharp and pointed. Unnerved.

“What is there to talk about?”

Oh.

“What?” You feel blood leave your face, “Everything. There’s everything to talk about.”

He sighs, his eyes almost rolling at your words. Everything he does is ten times louder. Ten times greater than any storm, any power in the entire universe.

Four.

“Listen, (Y/n). Last night was a mistake, okay?”

Oh.

Is it possible for the Earth to stop rotating around the sun? For the moon to find home in another planet? Is it possible for the rings of Saturn to disband, to crack and shatter, leaving the planet feeling hollow? No more than a gaseous ball floating around an unyielding core forcing it to stay together?

It has to be. Because if it’s possible for Yoongi to say those very words, say the very words that are able to rip your soul from your body, you think anything is.

You feel something in you crack. Something so fragile and innocent that you want to protect it with your everything. Run far and hide. Nurse it alone until it stops kicking and screaming for its unending pain to yield. For it to have rest in a world that only seems to take and take and take.

“What?” You don’t even care that your voice cracks.

He sighs again, his gaze dropping to the table. “I just don’t think there’s anything to talk about, okay?”

“There’s a lot to talk about.” Your eyebrows crinkle, your mouth moving into a frustrated frown. Red isn’t a colour you feel often, but your walls are up. Your bubble now a sphere frozen in time– a place with room for no one but you. Your body curled around that innocent glow. Protecting it. Keeping it warm. “For one, calling it a mistake.”

He’s rigid again too, maybe red glowing around his form as well. But you can’t seem to care. Not right now. Maybe not ever. Not able to sense the danger. The tail pointed in your direction. Venom dripping from his lips.

“Wasn’t it? We’re friends (Y/n). One stupid night shouldn’t change that shit.” It changes fucking everything. Especially with your pining. Especially with your heart on your sleeve. With your affections for him always oh-so-fucking obvious.

“Like hell it–” He cuts you off.

“We’re done with this conversation. Just forget last night ever happened.” He stands, not planning on waiting around anymore. Not waiting for you anymore. “Just act like it never did. Nothing has to change. We’re not talking about this anymore.”

With that he leaves without letting you speak. Without letting you talk. Shutting you down entirely in a way he never has before. In a way he promised he would never do to you. And for the first time since you discovered your crush on him, you feel something negative simmering for Min Yoongi.

Q/Hybrids_Humans

U/YGS_Min • posted 5y ago

Can Hybrids and Humans actually fall in love? -> Advice

> Hi. I’m new to this page so I might get things wrong with this post. Sorry in advance if I do.

> I am a Hybrid and I recently met a girl who I think is my mate. I get all the classic mate feelings someone does when I’m around her. When we first met, a few days ago in the library, I automatically felt a pull towards her. Like I needed to be close to her. Everything in my body, my hybrid side especially, was begging for me to make her my mate right away. She even complimented my tail. Does she even know what that means? What it did to me?

> After that, she gave me her number (I’m helping her with a few things) (we're both ‘in’ college) and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her. Whenever I open my phone my brain automatically fries and moves to open her contact so I can text or call her. It actually feels a little crazy.

> She said she wants to be friends and I don’t know what my brain is going to do if we actually get closer.

>The issue is that she's human, though. So I already know she doesn’t feel the same way about me. She doesn’t feel the bond or the pull to get closer. And she already knows I’m a hybrid so there’s no way to avoid it.

> I’m also not the most friendly Hybrid, I guess. People don’t like my species. My mom doesn’t even like the way I was born. And I’m lucky enough to get away from where I was before and am living my own life now. Trying to do good things with it. Maybe be human with it, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter anyway.

> Point is, I’ve looked online and while I know legally it is possible to be mates with a human, I haven’t found anything about Human’s with more odd species. And I really just want to know if this could be possible, or if I should give up before things even start. She’s the prettiest person I’ve ever seen. Her mannerisms kill me– I love them. She’s so cute. And she acted like I was just like everyone else.

> I don’t know. I want her to be my mate. But I just want to know other peoples experiences. I know she’d never be able to love me in the way I automatically do her, but if I told her she was my mate would she feel forced into it? Would she feel like I actually care? Could she ever actually care? Should I do anything about it or just pretend that it was never there in the first place?

> I never thought my mate might be human. I never thought I'd find my mate. Any advice would be appreciated. Thanks.

6 am.

Yoongi isn’t sure if he’s slept. He’s not sure he’s ever slept with the exhaustion weighing on his bones. His consciousness. His very being. In fact, all he’s had is his thoughts as the hours have ticked by, unrelenting. Unwavering. As the sun starts to shine through the curtains and the reality of everything that transpired rushes to the surface. Past the alcohol. Past your adorable soft snores.

He had you. He fucked you. For one night, you belonged to him.

The first thing he felt after he held you in bed was peace. Complete and utter satisfaction with life, with you. Everything itching at him, pulling him towards you was, for once, content. He no longer felt the burning in his heart or the pulling at his skin to get you closer. The fuzziness in his brain whenever you smiled. All of it was gone. There was nothing but happiness in his being.

Nothing but the ideas of his dream being true. Of getting to hold you like this every night. Getting you to smile for him, only him. Getting to belong to you in ways humans could never understand.

In ways you could never understand.

Something else starts creeping into his consciousness, then. Something starting in the pit of his stomach, rising until it feels like he's choking. Until not even the scent of your shampoo can calm the race of his heart. Not even the pull of his tail drawing you closer to his body– his hybrid side trying to calm him down in ways it only knows how.

How could Yoongi let himself live in such a sick dream?

You’re a human. He’s a hybrid. You would never actually love him.

Your words were drunk– of course they were. Influenced by the alcohol and the idea of a warm body next to your own. Maybe you didn’t even realise it was him, maybe it could have been anyone and you would have been satisfied.

It’s such an ugly thing, the words he thinks. The ideas that form behind his skull, twisting and turning. Forming an amalgamation of tangles and death defying drops to nothingness. Of the reality of things, his reality that is. One where he’s worthless. One where you are the sun and he is nothing but an asteroid following the orbit of someone else.

Hybrids are never meant to be with humans.

He knows that for a fact. Has read all the history books, looked at all the articles, scoured for any sign that the two of you could be together in a society that hates him only to be left with mockery. Left with anonymous strangers telling him that scorpions are meant to kill. Meant to destroy. How could a human ever care about him when his entire life he’s been told it’s the worst parts of himself? How could you care about him?

Well, he knows that isn’t all true. He knows you care in some ways. But they aren’t mate ways and–

Fuck. Fuck Yoongi, he knows he’s not supposed to think of those things. He’s never allowed to think of you and that word together. He forbade himself of it. Promised himself it couldn’t be true. That he would never admit it to you or anyone else.

You are not his mate.

But you are.

But–

He wishes he could get his head to shut the fuck up for a fucking second so he could think. Think about anything other than those two words together, even if he knew them to be true from the moment he met you in the library. When he agreed to be your tutor. When he fell in love the moment you looked his way.

And even then he thought that maybe, just maybe if you didn’t know he was a hybrid he would have a chance. That if he could keep it hidden for long enough, if you saw him as a human and not a terrifying creature bred only to kill, that you could fall for him. That he could be your mate– boyfriend. That he could be your boyfriend.

But then you saw it. Saw the fucking thing he wishes he never had, wishes he could live without. The very thing he has been hated for his entire life. His genetic abnormality, originally bred to be used for attack, used by the government to kill. The very piece of his being he rejects time and time again to try and just feel a little more normal, a little more human. And you… you said you liked it.

And no, you didn’t have any clue what those words meant at the time. Of course you didn’t. Didn’t know what they implied– didn’t know the true meaning they held. The acceptance of courtship behind their very tone.

A nice tail to a human? Nothing. A nice tail to a scorpion? The very thing used by the hybrid to attract mates? To show their viability and strength as a partner? Everything.

In that moment, you were everything.

But you didn’t know the meaning behind those words. You didn’t love him the way he so implicitly did you. And while you accepted him as a friend, you would never accept him as more. He would never let you.

That night was the night he promised himself you weren’t his mate. Promised himself he had no mate.

Last night was the first time he ever broke it.

Last night he could have killed you.

You had his tail in your mouth. His tail. The tail that carries his venom. The venom bred into his cells meant to kill others. If he let any of it out by accident… if he…

Fuck.

The heaviness that realisation brings is what finally makes him get out of bed. Finally set in motion reality. Stop himself from living in whatever dream he was playing with. Stop playing house with a girl that would never be his. That would probably think the entirety of last night was a mistake.

Who gives a shit what you thought. He could’ve killed you. He could’ve killed his fucking mate.

Societally, he could’ve never had you. He wouldn’t have been able to live with himself if you had to face the same things he did on the daily. What others thought of you. What they would say about you if they saw you two together. What would happen with your kids. How much hate and fear you would receive by being with him.

He could sacrifice his own life for you a thousand times, but he would never let you do the same for him.

And last night. Last night his venom could’ve been your end.

He doesn’t need to think anymore. He knows what he’s going to do. Even if it hurts him. Even if the grenade is set to go off and destroy his very being, it’s worth it to keep you safe. To keep you content. To keep you away from him.

Best case, you don’t remember last night or don’t bring it up. Worst…

Yoongi knows the ship he’s boarding is bound to sink– that he’s destined to drown. But if it means your happiness, he’d do anything.

The car feels cold. The heat is blasting, but it still feels frozen. Decrepit. All fireplace memories hazing into ice as you ride next to him.

Him.

Fucking him.

Fucking Min Yoongi. The fucking asshole that tore your heart out and stomped on it. The fucking asshole that didn’t even have the decency to talk to you. To explain why the fuck he was being so cold. The fucking asshole that made you feel loved. Like you weren’t alone in the entire universe, only to make you realise you were trapped in a metal box– steaming. Bubbling.

Maybe you aren’t cold. No, you definitely aren’t. You’re steaming. Burning up– ready to explode at the slightest thing. Still a burning blaze because he didn’t fucking let you talk. Just shut you down without a second thought. Without fucking anything.

Not that he owes you anything– he doesn’t owe you a relationship. He doesn’t owe you love, of course not. You’re not dumb enough to think that. But you do know he owes you an explanation. A chance to speak. Years of friendship tell you that much.

Promises tell you that much.

And you can’t fucking stand broken promises. Can’t stand acting like strangers after years of friendship. After all the time spent together. After all of the memories formed, all the bonds created. You don’t deserve to be treated like nothing.

Hell, he probably wouldn’t have even come with you today if you hadn’t texted him. Probably assumed you’d rather go alone or with one of the other people on the crew. Probably– shut up, you decide in that moment to stop making excuses for him. To stop giving him the benefit of the doubt when he treated you as no less than a one-night-stand. A fuck that meant nothing.

Were fucking years of friendship just for that? Just so he could fuck you? This fucking–

You scoff to yourself, crossing your arms over your chest. Shaking your head. An outloud reaction to the continued spiral that started this morning, that will continue to brew until it inevitably boils over. Until the pot filled with too much water gets too hot and just boils over.

You never have been able to keep your opinions in. Open book pages laid out for the world to see. Another reason you’ve always been alone– should have stayed alone in your bubble.

“What?” Oh, he wants to talk to you now?

Your eyes shoot over to his figure from the corner of your eye. You can’t believe that yesterday you were smiling at him. You hate that today a piece of you still frets at the trapping of his fingers against the wheel. At his apparent aloof demeanour is automatically disillusioned by the simple movement indicating his nerves.

He always does that when he knows a big storm is coming– when he’s worried about safety, your safety. When he's concerned about whatever events are going to follow. A tick tick tick, fingers tapping delicately one after the other. Not a harsh grab against the wheel, not an unease of temperament. Yoongi, even when nervous or agitated, has always been gentle.

Well, every time except for this morning.

You roll your eyes.

As much as you hate how self destructive you become in times like these, you hate the bubbling feeling even more. Hate the strong emotion that floods your veins, the same one that makes you feel oh-so weak. The same one that makes you need to be strong. Need to be more.

Maybe you wish you could be more like Yoongi– be entirely unaffected by the strong feelings that permeate your being. Maybe you wish you could act as ‘chill’ as him. To separate how you feel from who you are. To be calm even if you want to be brash.

But you can’t. Not when it's about him. Never when it’s about him. Almost like a piece of you continues and will always pull you towards Min Yoongi.

You turn away from him, back to the laptop resting in your lap. “The PAR says a tornado is forming north-east. Head North so we can drop the doppler in the right position.”

“Mm.” He grunts. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t do anything.

You don’t know what you expect him to do anyway. You didn’t give him anything to work with. Yet it doesn’t seem thinking logically is on the table, and you can’t help but get more mad, more frustrated by the second.

“Are we really not going to talk about this?” You’re quiet, almost vulnerable when you ask the question. So quiet he might not even hear. Hanging on the precipice, two winds twisting against each other in equal strength.

Never have you felt this way about another person before. Dejection and anger weigh equally on the soul. You don’t quite know how to handle it. Don’t know how to combat what you’re feeling inside, just knowing the kettle is set to boil.

He doesn’t answer your question.

It was probably a bad idea to text him. Probably equally bad for him to answer and take you. An even worse idea to let the words slip out of your mouth without holding them back.

“Asshole.” The wind starts to pick up speed around the car, sucking you in. Pulling you deeping into the void. It’ll be no time at all before the tornado hits.

“What?” His head jerks backwards, chin tucking ever so slightly to his chest. His tail coiled firmly behind him, acting like it isn’t even there. Trying to pretend he isn't there, maybe.

“I said you’re a fucking asshole.” You can’t help the rumble that forms in your heart, the twisted words that spew from your mouth. The subtle ache from every insult you fling.

Almost like you’re attached to him. Like you’re attempting to sever a chain never meant to come undone.

“What the fuck?” Why he’s acting so scandalised, flinching at every word, leaves you almost confused. Almost. Because he has no reason to be confused, at least not in your eyes. Not in the storm's eyes either.

The rumble of thunder hammers outside, deeper into the freeze. Deeper into ash.

“I thought we were going to move past this, (Y/n). We need to be adults here.” He sighs that stupid fucking sigh that you hate. The same one he used in the diner. The same one he used to brush off your feelings. Your chance to speak.

Maybe later you would reflect on how selfish you’re being. Maybe later you would realise how childish you actually are acting. But right now all you can see is red. Right now all you can feel is a part of yourself trying to rip away.

Maybe later you would find out Yoongi is feeling the exact same thing.

But right now, right now all you see is red. All you hear is the beating of hail against the car roof, the image that it is your own heartbeat set in your own mind. Right now all you know is the soul crushing weight of the only man you ever loved pulling away.

Your soulmate– if such things were real, breaking the bond.

“Are you serious? I’m the one that needs to be the adult here? Me?” You scoff, indignant. “You’re the one playing pretend, acting like nothing happened!”

“I told you that we shouldn’t talk about it.”

“You said it was a mistake.” Your eyes are set firm in a glare pointed at him and no one but him. Petty and Spite are your new best friends. Congratulations! “Just tell me if you fucking regret it Yoongi, just tell me.”

“(Y/n).”

“Was it a drunk accident? Did you think I was someone else? Please! I rather you say fucking something than nothing at all! Please just let me be selfish for once! I’m begging for something! Anything!”

…

“We have a job to do. Focus on it rather than us.” You hate that he paused before he spoke, that it gave you some sort of hope. You hate even more that his tone has not once changed– settling from incredulous to neutral. Almost like he exists as nothing but a robot reciting lines. You hate it. You hate it. You hate it.

He makes you feel like a child throwing a tantrum. He makes it feel like your feelings mean nothing. Like everything you trusted him with was all for naught. Are you not expressing yourself well enough? Are you a complete idiot? What the fuck are you doing wrong?! What's wrong?!

“You’re serious?” The logical side of you says he’s right, your job is more important than anything else. But the piece of you falling apart, pulling away and leaving an empty hole inside feels otherwise. You’re convinced you’ve never felt any emotion other than frustration and annoyance.

The car rolls to a stop as a clearing hits– hail ceasing, wind slowing even if it's just a fraction. A calm before the storm. Where you’re meant to ‘dO yOuR jOb’-- fucking asshole. Does he really think you don’t know that? Does he really think that little of you?

“Fucking joke.” You can’t help the dry laugh that exits your lungs as you step out of the car. Your peace, the time you love to spend most in the world set askew, your feelings anything but. You love your time in the storms, but the tornado brewing inside casts a much larger shadow than the one overhead.

Your hands fumble as they move the DOW out of the trunk– an action you’ve done time and time again feeling entirely foreign. Your body clumsy as it carries it to the front, your mouth spewing annoyed half thoughts all the way.

“What?” Yoongi’s window is rolled down, his head leaning out of the front as he asks.

Your eyes circle your skull again, “Fucking joke!” You call, trying to set up the radar. Your body only half in the moment. Half in the clouds.

“This whole thing is one big joke!” You shout, foot kicking the dirt beneath your feet. The storm beginning to dissipate, a swell of rain forming behind your eyelids instead.

“(Y/n) are you serious?!” You hate that his own frustration feels like a punch to the gut.

“I have been this whole time!” You shout, brain finally working to kick the last pieces of the radar in place. In good time too, the wind is picking up again. The tornado will be coming soon.

“Are you?! Are we seriously not going to talk about this?!” Your voice doesn’t feel like your own. It feels foreign, like something deeper inside is speaking for you– like it’s taking control. “Am I seriously just a cheap fuck to you?! Was I really a mistake, Yoongi?! Please, please just tell me.”

“(Y/n), don’t do this to me…” Don’t do this to him? Don’t do this to him?! Does he realise what he’s doing to you? Does he even fucking care? You told him you want him! That nothing could keep you from him– and he doesn’t even have the decency to reject you properly.

Maybe you're the bad guy– the villain for forcing this. For the path of destruction it might cause. But you truly can’t stand this. And maybe, just for once, the consequences mean as little to you as getting swallowed by the storms you’ve always cared for.

Yoongi is your impossible, remember? “But it’s always been about you! Don’t you get that, Yoongi?! It’s always! Always been about you from the second I met you!” You yell, not holding back your shouts. Letting them echo with the thunder coursing through the skies, coursing through your veins. “I’m not asking you to love me! I’m not asking for any of that shit! I just want a rejection!”

What? What the hell are you saying? Why are you asking him to do that? Why are you asking him to do the one thing he can’t do?

He loves you. He loves you so much it keeps him up at night. That it infests his days like a parasite. You’re not asking him to love you? Are you crazy? Do you not see how he looks at you? Do you not see that you’re the person that’s hung all the stars in the night sky?

He can’t reject you. He can’t. His brain won’t let him form the words– his lips never to curl in the right shape to let them out. He can’t reject you because he doesn’t want to– because it would practically kill him to.

He loves you. You’re his mate.

Why couldn’t you just make this easy? Why couldn’t you reject him? Why did you have to look so broken this morning? Why did you like him back? What does it mean? What is he supposed to do? How is he supposed to keep fighting when he knows he could have you for himself, for real?

How is he supposed to protect you from him when it feels like he’s ripping a part of himself out when he tries to? He doesn’t want to hurt you. He never wanted to hurt you. He just wants to keep you safe. Why can’t you see that? Why can’t you understand that? Why can’t he just have you?

‘No one can keep me from you. You’re for me.’

Your words from last night ring in his ears. Existing as the only thing he can hear, the only thing that matters. Maybe it is. Maybe he’s wrong, maybe–

A sharp beeping suddenly penetrates his ears, a sound resonating from your laptop. A map laid out of the tornado's path.

It's formed– its body barrelling straight for you.

Yoongi looks scared, nervous. His tail uncurling from behind him. Reaching out the window, reaching out to you. “(Y/n)! Get in the car!”

“Shut up!” You’re not listening to him, not listening to a word he says, “I’m not even worth a rejection?! Our friendship means nothing, huh?”

“That’s not what I’m saying!” His breathing is accelerating, his heart rate going crazy. He needs to get to you. He needs to protect you. To get in the car and drive as fast and as far as he can so nothing bad happens. “Get in the car!”

“Why does it even matter if I do or not?!” You yell over the sounds of rushed winds, ignoring debris that begin to fly past. Ignoring everything but the man in front of you, just like you’ve done time and time again. “If I get in, you’re just going to pretend nothing happened! You’re going to– you’re going to–”

Tears begin to clog your vision, your words welling up in your throat. Scratching the inside, making you feel like you can’t breathe. Can’t think. Where you want to be strong, you are weak. And where you want to be weak, you feel strong. It’s a strange sort of feeling.

“I can’t just fucking pretend like nothing happened last night, Yoongi!” A sense of peace washes over you, a complete contrast to the storm surrounding, enveloping the world. Acting as a monster, not caring about your feelings, swallowing everything whole. You finally feel at peace, oddly enough.

“I can’t– I can’t just act like everything’s fine! I’ve always been so fucking shit at that, you know that!” You throw your arms up in defeat, standing right in the path of the storm. Almost ready to watch the tornado come into view, to become the storm yourself. “But it feels like– it feels like you’re killing a part of me! Like you’re, you’re pulling out a piece of my very being and I don’t know why! It doesn’t feel real! And I don’t know if I can live without it!”

What? It feels like– it feels like that for you?

Yoongi steps out of the car, his tail curling almost too pleased at his human side’s actions. If it was anyone else, they would think you’re crazy. They would think you’re just being manipulative without a care in the world– but to Yoongi, to hybrids, he knows exactly what you're talking about. He knows the exact same thing. Has felt it every day of his life since he decided he couldn’t have you.

The mate bond. The soulmate tie that will always lead two halves of a conjoined soul together over and over again.

You feel it. Humans aren’t meant to feel it but you do. You feel the same pull, the same bone crushing heartbreak upon rejection from your mate. The same– the same everything Yoongi feels.

He’s the one that's been hurting you like this, the one hurting himself by acting the same. In his bid for protection, he did the opposite. What kind of fucking mate is he? Why didn’t he just listen to the bond? Why didn’t he just let himself follow his heart?

Everything he’s dealt with in his past no longer carries any point. The comments under his stupid post to that stupid forum mean nothing. The words of his “family” are jack shit. The societal implications of him being less than human mean even less– you never saw him as less. His mate cares. His mate sees him.

This is what having a mate feels like? Yoongi thought he would never know. Never understand. But the warmth that feels him now, the subtle yearning he’s suppressed rises to the surface. His feet carrying him automatically, urging him to find you. To take care of you. To keep his mate safe.

“We have to go!” He rushes, his legs moving quickly to try and meet your form. To try and find you.

“No! No!” You shout, your foot stomping into the Earth. In any other scenario, he’d be shaking his head. Laugh at your antics. But right now, all he cares about is getting you to safety, and working on both of your communication skills. “I need you to tell me I’m a mistake! I need you to say I meant nothing!”

There you stand, arms open. Wind rushing past you, eyes closed yet looking straight ahead. You could never mean nothing, you mean everything. It’s his own stupid fault he ever let you think otherwise.

“I just said what I needed to say!” He shouts, his body finally meeting yours in the open field. His hands land on your shoulders, trying to ground you. Hair blowing around him, sticks flying past but never hitting the two of you. Almost like this needed to happen, like fate was set in stone for this very moment.

Your eyes slowly open, and Yoongi thinks the world freezes around him. Misty watersheds sit in your tearline, your eyebrows forming together in confusion with his words. Your lungs raising and falling quickly, chest panting with effort held back. Emotions yet to be unraveled.

If you feel the bond now, how long have you felt it? How confused you must’ve been. Yoongi feels awful.

“Wh-what?” Your voice cracks, cheeks warm and irises searching for an answer. What is he doing? Why is he saying this now? Why does some part of you feel whole again?

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t quite know how to articulate his words. But his body does. His body does what it’s been begging to do since he met you in that library. That he’s been holding back from every day of his stupid, (Y/n)-lacking life.

He leans in, his lips pressing against yours roughly. Trying to tell you all the words he never said, trying to put everything, all of him into one measly kiss. One that means something. One that tells the story of the two of you.

You, you can’t do anything but listen. Your eyes closing, your body returned whole. The piece of you pulling away settling back into your heart like stone. Warmth flooding your veins, home filling your very being. Making you feel safe, making you feel cared for.

And when he finally pulls away, you hear the words you’ve always longed to know, “I love you and I’m sorry.”

Yoongi feels free upon their utterance. A ball chain holding him back breaking– reality setting the world into motion once again. The earth that needs to keep spinning, that needs to keep the two of you afloat.

You should feel mad, but you can’t feel anything but peace. But feel like your soulmate has returned home from a voyage you would never understand.

Before anything else can be said, Yoongi snaps his head to the left. His eyes going wide as the winds begins to form in front of him. Looking as if they’re not moving. As if nothing is moving. “Fuck, fuck.”

He grabs your hand, pulling you back to the car as it starts to take focus in front of your mind, too. Fuzzy feeling fading, eyes going wide as you scramble from his door into your seat. He follows in quickly after you, not even thinking to buckle before taking off. Driving as if his life depends on it– your life depends on it, too.

Sticks flying past the windshield, hitting against the body. Thunderous roars of the world being consumed outside. A tail pressing against your frame, holding you steady. Keeping you in place.

It’s only when you come to safety that all the words needing to be said finally spill out from both of your mouths. When everything is set ‘right’ again instead of feeling oh-so-wrong. It’s only then that he explains everything. That he explains his logic, that he explains how hybrids have soulmates. Don’t forget the scolding he gave– the promises made to each other that the other would never do something so stupid again.

He knows you meant them.

He’ll never forget the way you smiled at him then. When the heaviness left the air and the freedom surrounding the car became almost overbearing. He wishes he could tattoo the places you playfully slapped into his arm. Where you scolded him for keeping this from you. When you told him you would never have a second thought about rejecting him.

When you told him you could never think of a life where he isn’t your mate.

“...Or boyfriend. Or partner. Whatever you wanna call it.”

You’ll never forget his gummy smile in that moment, when he has a possessive hand on your thigh.

“I don’t care. I just want to be yours.”

Wind wraps at your hair, blowing it– making it form into some beastly, monstrous thing around your head. Tangling your face, your eyes falling askew as it finds itself a messing around your very being. The howls of gusts form in his ears, sounding of ghosts that would haunt any normal person.

And Yoongi? He can’t help but think you look like an angel enthralled in the storm. One that came to earth. One that was meant to find him. One that was created just for him.

He can’t help but bask in you– bask in his mate as you live in your freedom, your happiness. Gets to be one of the lucky few finding sanctuary in your world. In your bubble made just for you.

He smiles to himself as he watches. Shakes his head like a stupid boy in stupid love that couldn’t be happier. He’s so happy.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket, opening a familiar app that he once looked to for advice all those years ago. Going to the same post he read the replies to over and over again– convincing himself that his impossible couldn’t be reality. He shakes his head as he reads them now, almost feeling foolish for believing him in the first place. Why should he have asked on a human forum anyway? It’s like he was asking to be let down.

As he scrolls, his thumb comes to a stop above a comment he’s never seen before— a recent one. Posted just a few months ago.

RMB_Joon

> Hey! This post is being talked about a lot on another forum specifically for hybrids! :-) I left the link for you as I think it would be a lot more helpful getting perspectives over there! :-) PM me if you ever want to talk.

Yoongi feels a curl of interest grow in his gut. Other hybrids? Interest in his post? He almost wants to know more. Almost wants to follow the inkling leading him to delve deeper into the world of others.

“Yoongi!!” You shout, waving his attention over to where you stand. And suddenly, he doesn’t care about anything else anymore. How could he when he has the whole world in front of him?

He chuckles to himself, marking his post as ‘resolved’ before tucking the device into his pocket. His legs catching into a jog, joining you at your side. Exactly where he should be. Where he’s meant to be.

⋆𐙚 WAHH THERE IT IS!!! I hope you all enjoyed <\\33 pls let me know any of your thoughts!! this is officially the longest fic I’ve ever written, and I put a lot of myself into this piece so I hope u all love it and it isn’t too skdhsksks yk?? MWAH ily © all rights reserved to ctrlhope 2019-2024 ; do not copy, plagiarise, or translate.

616 notes · View notes

kotoku · 10 months ago

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Hello, can I request Aven, Ratio and Sunday with an s/o who's like Komi from “Komi can’t communicate?” Basically, their s/o is socially anxious and finds it incredibly hard to talk but is expressive in emotions and usually communicates through writing on paper.

Also if its not too much, could you write a lil scenario in how they would react when someone says something rude about s/o’s social anxiety?

ꜱᴜɴᴅᴀʏ, ᴀᴠᴇɴᴛᴜʀɪɴᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴅʀ ʀᴀᴛɪᴏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ᴋᴏᴍɪ! ꜱ/ᴏ

pairings - sunday x komi! reader / aventurine x komi! reader / dr ratio x komi! reader

content - reader is gender-neutral/ komi! reader/ pre and established relationships/ reader getting shit-talked by people/ socially anxious! reader

warnings - swearing lol

⋘ ʟᴏᴀᴅɪɴɢ... ⋙

↻ Sunday would be a wonderful partner to have, he’s very understanding of your struggles communicating with others and participating in activities with your peers

↻ He’s super encouraging and supportive, giving you a small push when it comes to interacting with people (besides him, his sister was the first person you successfully managed to hold a conversation with lol)

↻ At first glance, Sunday found your appearance attractive, the air around you held that sense of authority and grace, enamoring everyone within your reach

↻ However, when he introduced himself to you, you could only stare at him blankly which made him a little concerned…

↺ Were you deaf? Mute? He really did try his best at getting a word out of you but you could only stutter in response, quickly leaving him due to your embarrassment

↺ Gradually, he began to understand what you would try to say by your body cues and expressions

↻ Sunday ended up gifting you, soon after your first meeting, your own personal notebook to write in that way you could communicate your thoughts easily

↺ You were overjoyed, chatting non-stop with him throughout the day

↻ Unbeknownst to the both of you, it seemed you had quite the reputation with the way people would gawk and stare at you like you were some sort of goddess

↺ Sunday could understand them, you were not only attractive, but smart and kind, offering your help to those who need it despite being afraid of approaching others (it just came to you naturally)

↻ Sunday finds the sounds you make cute, especially when you’re embarrassed or flustered, he can’t help but tease you when he can

↺ He also finds the way you express yourself very endearing, reminding him of a kitten

↻ You love petting his wings and taking care of them, it's one of your favorite things to do to help calm yourself down

↻ If someone pokes fun or insults you for being socially anxious, he’d be ready to rain hell on them (you’re trying your best and that’s all that matters !!)

↺ Those kind of encounters would bring your spirits down, but eventually, you’d gather up the courage to keep trying thanks to the support of Sunday and the few friends you made

-----

“I don’t know why it’s so hard for you to speak up for yourself. Just say something.”

You had thought you were beginning to make a new friend, but noticing the way they treated you… You knew you didn’t want to be around them any longer.

You nervously fidgeted in your seat, staring down at the half eaten sundae in front of you. The sudden announcement had spoiled your mood and appetite, feeling too uncomfortable to even eat near someone like them. You just wanted to escape the situation now before it becomes too tense.

Your ‘friend’ was about to continue what they were saying, but was interrupted by a stern voice.

“It’s harder for some people to voice their thoughts, it doesn’t always come naturally to them.”

You breathed a sigh of relief, it was Sunday. Turning to face him with a relieved expression, he understood your silent appreciation for his interjection.

“People work at their own pace, don’t try to rush them into doing something they aren’t comfortable with.” Sunday’s eyes narrowed at them, your ‘friend’ at a loss for words. “Come now, _____, a new place has opened up and I’d like to take you there.”

Sunday had offered you his hand to help pull you up which you gratefully accepted, leaving the half eaten sundae with your friend. It was now something they would have to deal with, whether they liked it or not.

-----

↻ Speaking of friends, if you had a goal to reach a certain number of friends, he’d happily help you and introduce you to some of his closest friends

↺ The astral express would be super welcoming and friendly to you; I can imagine you spending time with them on the express while silently chatting with Pom Pom (the crew wonders how they can understand you, but are happy you are enjoying yourself)

↻ Sunday would love spending time with you, bringing you to different events or to an amusement park that way you could experience the thrill of the rides

↺ He knows that if you’re lost, you start to panic, so he tries his best to never lose sight of you in crowded situations

↺ If you do end up losing him, he’ll have a family member escort you to where he; if he’s busy, he’ll have a family member accompany you whenever you go out if you aren’t comfortable doing so alone

↻ All in all, Sunday is your biggest supporter and wants you to be comfortable !

↻ Aventurine thinks you’re very interesting and fun to tease

↻ Although you normally intimidated people by accident at first glance, he wasn’t thrown off by your blank stare or silence

↻ At first he was just messing around with you, he never would’ve thought that he would be in a relationship with you but he’s quite happy nonetheless

↻ If you know the dynamic between Komi’s parents, I feel like that would apply to both you and Aventurine

↺ He’s the talker of the both of you (of course) and is much more energetic compared to you who silently gazes at people and can only manage a couple sentences

“They asked for no pickles.”

“Thank you..Aven.

↺ Aventurine definitely speaks up for you in tense situations (like when your order is wrong but you don’t want to say anything)

↻ Aventurine doesn’t mind your shyness and is willing to help you develop social skills

↺ He introduces you to Topaz and Ratio, who both get along with you just fine

(you were intimidated by Ratio, but you slowly warmed up to him and enjoy his lectures)

↻ He finds your quirks cute, purposely teasing you so he could get a reaction

↺ Aventurine is pretty observant, so he was able to pick up on the small habits you have fairly quickly

↻ I feel like you wouldn’t need to communicate your thoughts with him as much because he knows how to read you like a book, but he’d end up giving you a small notepad anyways

↻ Aventurine would definitely shower you with gifts and bring you to his favorite spots, hoping to slowly inch you out of your shell (it works a bit)

↻ Like Sunday, Aventurine would notice your popularity (you’re completely unaware) and keep a keen eye on your surroundings, especially if you visit the casino he frequents

↺ He keeps you close to him so people don’t try anything funny with you

↻ If someone were to insult or poke fun at your social anxiety, he’d be really irked and would show it passive aggressively, making sure to not confront them in front of you because he knows you would heavily discourage him

-----

“Ugh, they’re so silent it’s creepy… Why don’t they say anything?”

Aventurine’s ears perked up, listening in on a conversation two workers were having as you walked beside him down the hallway.

“I know. What does Aventurine even see in them?”

They continued their conversation through hushed whispers and secretive glances. Yet Aventurine was able to hear every last comment and insult thrown at you. It made his frown deepen and brows furrow, but he knows if he did anything now you’d stop him. He’ll have to deal with the two of them later.

-----

The next day, Aventurine was back at the casino with you by his side. As expected, he had a bountiful amount of chips on his side, proof of his winning streak.

A new game was about to begin, and as he peered up through his rose-tinted glasses to gauge the participating opponents, he saw two familiar faces. The workers from yesterday, how fortunate for him.

Throughout the game, a new, tense air had surrounded Aventurine, something you picked up on. He was much more competitive than before, losing his aloof demeanor and focusing on the game at hand. Was there something wrong?

Before you knew it, the game was over. Aventurine had come out victorious, watching his opponents’ faces drop at the huge sum of money they lost with a sly smirk.

He was satisfied, for now.

-----

↻ If you end up getting lost somewhere, Aventurine would be your first contact and he’d drop everything to help you (The next people for you to contact would be Topaz and Ratio)

↻ Sometimes I think Aventurine would overwhelm you with his antics, especially with his “all or nothing” mindset (your poor heart)

↺ Aventurine would eventually cave in due to your huffs and frowns because he finds you too cute

↻ He’s happy to have you and will always be by your side when you need him (you’re his first priority)

↻ Goodness, poor you would be pretty intimidated by him and his strict nature at first meeting

↺ Ratio would have to be the one to approach you first since you’re too scared to even utter a word to him

↻ I don’t think Ratio would fully understand your anxieties, as he personally never dealt with it

↺ However, he would slowly start to understand and even try asking you questions in which you can provide him a simple answer (usually yes or no questions)

↻ He begrudgingly helps you socialize with people, even though he hates to interact with idiots himself

↺ I can imagine him giving you lecture about human behavior and social relationships, which you listen to attentively but also blankly stare at him (he shakes his head at this but continues anyways)

↺ His lectures actually end up helping you understand people though, and his lessons about social skills has helped you with introducing yourself to new people

↺ He forces Aventurine to help him with your social skills since he’s pretty upbeat and friendly

↻ If you’ve made some improvements with social interactions, Ratio would feel pretty satisfied and happy that he helped you (he’d never tell you directly but he’d give you rewards)

↻ Being Ratio’s significant other would be interesting

↻ By this point, he probably has all your little quirks and habits memorized, knowing what may be troubling you or what caught your interest

↺ He finds your habits and actions quite endearing, it brings a soft smile to his usually stoic face

↻ Ratio likes expressing his affection for you with gifts he finds useful and interesting, recounting the history behind the item or how it was manufactured (you enjoy listening to his rambles and he’s happy that he can tell you these findings)

↻ If someone were to make a snide comment about your social anxiety, he would have zero hesitation is giving them a lecture or throwing a chalk their way

↺ He’d probably make them cry or shit themselves

-----

“THE Veritas Ratio is dating someone? Who??”

“Just some freak. Seriously, I heard they never speak and all they do is just stare at you.”

“Wow… That’s pretty creepy.”

“Exac–”

“Excuse me.”

The two girls who were just gossiping about you jumped, smiling nervously at the source of the intrusion.

“Ah, Doctor Ratio! Fancy seeing you here…”

“I work here.” Ratio deadpanned, eyes glaring down at the two. “I couldn’t help but notice that the topic of your conversation pertained to me and my partner. I suggest that you keep your noses out of our business and quit these idiotic assumptions.”

“I- We were just–”

“Stop your incessant ramblings. If I hear another word about anything regarding my personal life, I will be sure to have you both taken care of. Understood?” His authoritative tone made the two girls quiver in their spot, nodding their heads frantically.

Ratio turned to leave, making his way back to you who was sitting on a nearby bench staring at the ground. At the sound of his footsteps, you looked back up at him, getting up from your seat.

“Are you..ready to go, Veri?”

“Yes, let’s go, My Love.”

-----

↻ Ratio is pretty protective of you, especially since he’s aware of the attention you garner (your hands are also interlocked so you don’t get swept away from him)

↺ If you get lost, you both would identify a landmark to meet by so you don’t bump into as many people

↻ To make communication easier for the both of you, he bought you a notebook to write down your thoughts in so you could show it to him whenever you wanted (he’ll make sure that it’s always on hand for your peace of mind)

↻ Ratio is a proud significant other, he admires your motivation to learn and improve on your social skills

⋘ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ! ⋙

note - i love komi can't communicate, it's such a cute anime series and i can't wait to watch season 3 if it comes out. :)

#writing➠#hsr #honkai star rail #hsr aventurine x reader #aventurine x reader #hsr sunday x reader #sunday x reader #hsr veritas ratio x reader #veritas ratio x reader #dr ratio x reader #hsr dr ratio x reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #fluff #socially anxious! reader #komi! reader

922 notes · View notes

justarkive · 2 months ago

Text

MAGIC | jeon jungkook

pairing : jungkook x f!reader

genre: smut smut smut , angsty ? minimal fluff tbh 18+

warnings: nudity, infidelity, swearing, cheating, jk is such a dick and so is oc tbh! (i do NOT support these actions lol)

smut warnings: jerking off, unprotected but not p in v, mean jk during sex, grinding, choking ¿ nipple + boobies play, i hate warnings sm pls lmk if ive missed any lol

wc: i have no idea how to check im so srry

this fic does not reflect the real jungkook/other members involved and is simply fiction!

A/N: this is my first fanfic guysss!!! pls pls pls dont b afraid to lmk what you think, idk if ill make a pt2 but if anyone even reads then i might! im not too sure if i like this myself though!! also not proofread sorry about any mistakes!!! ill stfu now!!

read part 2 here: MAGIC pt II

read my other work here: masterlist

It’s raining today, and you can’t help but shuffle your legs around under your blanket, gravitating towards the miniscule warmth that he had left there last night. That manly, musky scent clutches onto the fibres of your silk sheets. Though your not sure if its just burned into your memory, with your desperation for a small slither of his essence convincing you its still all over your sheets.

The rain patters against the window the same way it did when he was here, when you’d had reconnected, the sheets were still rumpled in the way he was laying there, only the candles which had given up within the night and him were no longer there.

Its cyclical, comical, hilarious. He’ll come, plushie in hand and a stupid grin on his face asking to, in Jeon Jungkooks word’s: chill. Then you’d tangle up in your sheets, he’d call his girlfriend saying he’s caught up with work, and leave before you wake up.

It’s pitiful for you, and you cant help but laugh at yourself every morning.

Eventually realizing that there is stuff to be done, your legs are thrown off your bed and you mewl while rubbing your eyes, a quick glance to the mirror beside you gives you a clear view of your bare body. Your knees are bruised and there are hickeys all over your neck.

You guess its time to go mormon style.

———

You ignore the comments from your fellow workers asking what the fuck you have on right now. This morning, the sulk session lasted an hour too long resulting in you turning up late to work in a bright red turtleneck and leggings. Your day went by quick, your boss giving you the simple tasks of cleaning tables and restocking the display fridge.

But with an hour of your shift, you’d realised you spoke too soon when you see an all too familiar tattooed hand swinging in your peripheral vision.

Your heart is literally in your stomach, swimming in the acid once you also realise he is not alone and she is with him.

Shes clutching onto his hands like a koala, hair curled and face rubbing against his chest. For now, he hasn’t seen you, and you really fucking hope he do-

“__?”

Shit.

Immediately, you scuffle around, dropping the mop you were using to clean up one of your regular’s coffee spills. Sending him an awkward nod and smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, you bend down to grab it, quickly coming back up mentally preparing yourself for this awkward interaction coming.

“Jung-kook… what are you doing here?” Annoyed since he’s chosen here out of all places to get coffee with his girlfriend. You make sure to keep your noise level down, considering she’s ordering just a couple feet away.

He smirks at you, taking the mop from your hands and twirling it around. Classic Jeon Jungkook, cocky bastard.

“What? I cant get coffee with my girl?” You roll your eyes, trying to cover up the fact he’s casually talking about his girl dosent make you feel like hes sharpened the mop and stabbed it through your stomach.

“Yeah? Add: coming to the workplace of the girl you fuck behind her back to that.”

You both immediately shut up when you hear a clacking of heels coming your way, Jungkook giving you an eyeroll whilst handing you your mop.

“__! Its great to see you, how have you been? I see your still working here, what happened to getting a better job?”

Eunbi. Arrogant, cocky, bitch! You seriously dont know how he puts up with her.

“Actually Eunbi im still studying before i get a better job, and if your so interested, Im sure Jungkook can tell you all about it, i have stuff to do, enjoy your food.” I hope they poisoned it.

For some context, You and Eunbi met first through your brother since they being in the same social circle, she quickly became good friends with him. Eventually, she got kicked out of her college dorm and moved in with you and Taehyung for a bit.

Then she starting bringing Jungkook there.

Jungkook and Tae then got really close, which led to him sometimes coming over without Eunbi and well… The rest is obvious.

Your situation with Jungkook happened one night when you, him and Tae got really drunk. He’d passed out on your bed and you refused to sleep on your brother’s. Innocent brushes of skin led to heavy makeout sesh’s and then the ripping of condoms.

The reason you hate Eunbi so much was because she invaded your space, even before she’d gotten with Jungkook, she’d treat you and Tae as if you were her personal maids which is what eventually led you to saving your money and getting a small student flat a few minutes away from yours and Tae’s apartment. Now, he lives with Jungkook and Eunbi.

Before you’d moved out, you had a serious talk with Taehyung insisting that she’d pay the rent once you’d left and to no longer be leeching off of him. With a sad goodbye, he’d promised you it wouldn’t happen ever again.

———

Its 9:00pm, after a shit-show day at work you seriously need some junk food in your system to make some part of you feel good. You procrastinate for a minute, the couch feeling far too warm to get up and grab your phone, but a knock on the door has you getting onto your feet quickly.

You already know who it is, but you check the peephole before opening. Safety first, duh!

A large, doe-eye is taking up your viewpoint. Making silly faces to the door as if he knows you’re looking… (he does.)

A part of you imagines what would happen if you just didn’t open the door. You cant help but feel the pangs of guilt every time he comes over, but whatever magic spell he’s casted on you has got you twisting your keys around and welcoming him in… The spell being a bag of takeout of course!

“I guessed you were hungry since you left your shift late, also Eunbi wont get off my back, She wants me home before 12:00, told her I was meeting up with friends.”

Huh. Explains why he’s so dressed up. You arent complaining though, the double denim is seriously doing something to you right now.

You bite your lip before contemplating what your about to say to him, worse that can happen is you he’ll storm out and the dick appointment will then be cancelled.

“It’s still a miracle how we get away with this shit, Kook. Why don’t you just leave her? You know she treats you like shit.”

You straighten the shoes he removes off his feet by your door before following him to your kitchen where he takes a seat on the island. His jaw clenches for a mere second before he looks at you before scoffing.

“And get beat up by your brother? No thanks. __ Im not having this conversation tonight, so just eat.” Opening the bag of takeaway, he pulls out a box for you and for him.

“Im being serious Jungkook, the more we keep fucking around like this the more likely we’re both getting beat up! And your excuses? They’re getting shitter by the minute.”

“Tell me __, are you asking to stop this?” He’s motioning his fingers between you, and your breath catches in your throat.

“W-what? Im not-“ Stepping out of his chair, hes coming towards you and before you know it, hes tilting your chin up and boring into your eyes with a grin.

“Spit it out, baby.”

You take a hold of his hand, shoving it off of your face and willing yourself to speak up. “Kook- stop. This is seriously not right, we cant do this any lon-“

Before you know it, his lips are on yours. And just like always, you give in. Kissing back, yet when he pulls away ever so slightly you find yourself whispering against his lips about how much you cant do this.

But like clockwork, you end up on the kitchen counter with one of his hands in your pyjama shorts and his tatted hand around your neck.

Your mewling in his mouth when his fingers finally slip into your soaked panties and start rubbing your clit. He pulls back and chuckles when you chase his lips.

“C’mon baby, tell me, you wanna stop? Cause this pussy’s telling me something else,”

And for some reason, you tell him you do.

You immediately regret it when his hands leave your panties. The warmth which was from his breath fanning on your face and his hands around your neck is suddenly replaced by air which feels far colder than usual.

Something in Jung-kook’s demeanour seems to have changed, he seems almost, mad?

“Alright, I wanted to be nice to you tonight baby, but it seems like you wanna be a brat, and so be it, strip.”

Jeon Jungkook and his damn magic.

Your camisole and shorts are on the floor in seconds, he’s watching you intently. Casually leaning his hands against the counter behind him. Tatted fingers unzip his jeans, pulling out his semi hardened cock giving it a few languid strokes before taking a few steps before he’s towering over you again.

Your hand reaches for his dick, but he stops you. “Wha-“

“Sit on the counter.”

“But its cold! Ah!” Your protest was useless, his arms effortlessly picking you up and plopping you on the counter. The cold marble chills your ass cheeks before he’s spreading your legs apart and staring at your pussy. Like this, a wave of embarrassment washes over you from the feeling of being exposed and you instinctively try to close your legs, but his iron fucking grip on your thighs makes sure that’s not happening.

“You’re gonna sit there, with a wet fucking pussy, and watch me jerk off, and then i’m gonna cum on it. Im gonna cum on it and if you’re good, i’ll consider fucking it into you after.” He seethes, dropping his jeans to his knees and fisting his cock rapidly in front of your pussy.

You mentally scream at yourself to never pull this shit again, cause the sight of his wet cock being jerked off by the same hand that was in your pussy makes you leak out even more onto the counters. Youre subconsciously grinding your hips into the air, whimpering cause your so touch deprived and watching Jeon Jungkook Jerk off in front of you was seriously not helping.

Suddenly, hes pulling you off the counter and turning you around. You squeal while preparing for the intrusion of his cock however you feel it being jerked between your ass cheeks and you ultimately just wanna scream.

“Please, Kook I- i need-“ His hands come around to your neck, applying pressure to it, the other travelling to your tits and squeezing them.

“Fuck.” His lips press against your ear as hes sloppily licking and kissing your earlobes, pinching your nipples and moaning right into your fucking brain. “Im gonna come fuck.”

Immediately, you turn around, getting back onto the counter with his help, his moans increase in volume as he jerks off his angry cock faster and faster in his fist, before suddenly hes pressing his lips to yours and moaning louder than ever tonight and cumming all over your pussy.

You moan into his mouth, watching lines of cum stream onto your stomach and down to your ass, revelling in the slight stimulation you get from the warmth of his cum on your long forgotten clit.

“Please.” You’re begging, on the verge of tears. You sloppily kiss his lips, frantically sucking on them and grinding against his still hard cock to the best of your ability in this position before a phone ringing in his jeans pocket interrupts.

You frown, seriously hoping its not who you think it is.

“Wait baby, let me jus-“

“Please, Kook”

He picks up the phone regardless, “Baby?”

The re-use of the pet name has your stomach twisting in regret. “Yeah? Are you okay?… Eun-… I’ll be home in 10.”

His phone is placed back down onto the counter, “Are you seriously leaving?”

He looks at you for a long time, his own heart twisting at how your eyes have suddenly gotten glossier. “You know i can’t stay after she’s called me, and it’s almost 12, baby. Tomorrow?”

He says it so fucking casually it makes you blink back your tears and pick up your soiled panties off the floor. You quickly move behind him to pack the takeaway back into the bag, as he watches in confusion.

“__? What are you doing?”

“Just leave, Kook.” You try your hardest to ignore the feeling of his cum sandwiched between your folds and panties, but its like a constant reminder that Jeon Jungkook will always be there.

He’s throwing his jeans on and gives you one last look before walking to your door. “Im sorry. Ill text you,”

You don’t say anything, stretching your arm out to give him the takeaway, “You don’t want it?”

“No, I’ve lost my appetite.”

“Im sorry, __”

You exchange one more glance at him standing in your doorway before closing it, realising that he’s going home and it wont be with you.

—

That night, you spend an hour on your shower floor, the cum washed away and long forgotten in the drains.

That morning, you will reply to Jeon Jungkook when he messages you.

Him and his damn magic.

265 notes · View notes

librababe99 · 8 months ago

Text

Healing Touch

cw: MDNI, 18+, Smut, Fluff, Young!Charles Xavier, Fem!Reader word count: 2.7K Summary: In the mid-1970s, Charles Xavier is a man haunted by loss and burdened by the weight of his own mind. When you, a fellow mutant, offer him not only companionship but a love he never expected, the walls he has built around his heart begin to crumble.

A/N: Since I wrote for Erik I felt that writing for Charles balances everything out <3 Forgive me if mentioning the cuban missile crisis at the beginning throws off the timeline in anyway, we don't have to jump into technicalities...lol! Anyways, please feel free to comment, reblog or like this <3 happy reading!

(Marvel Masterlist)

The 1970s had a way of weaving magic into the air—rife with a rebellious freedom, spinning off the back of a decade of upheaval. Amidst the intoxicating haze of civil rights movements, psychedelic music, and ever-changing fashion, there was something magnetic about this era, as if the world were in the throes of rediscovering itself. And in that same time, tucked away in the heart of Westchester County, Charles Xavier was a man rediscovering himself too—one who had seen the world both at its brightest and at its darkest.

The Xavier Institute for Higher Learning had become more than just a school. With the Cuban Missile Crisis a decade behind them and the threat of mutants still very much real, Charles had been pulled into a storm that had rocked him to his core. The man who had once been so full of optimism and hope had become someone else—someone hardened by loss, crippled both physically and emotionally. He had found himself retreating from the world, isolating behind the walls of his mansion, letting the noise of the outside world fade into a dull, muted hum.

But then there was you.

You had come into Charles’s life by chance, a fellow mutant with abilities that he couldn’t help but be drawn to. He had noticed you first because of your power—something akin to empathy, the ability to feel and manipulate the emotions of others. It was subtle, nothing explosive like fire or ice, but it was potent in its own right. In some ways, Charles found it even more fascinating, for it spoke to the heart of what he had always believed—that mutants were more than just their powers; they were people with gifts, capable of great good or terrible destruction depending on how they wielded them.

But it wasn’t just your abilities that caught his attention. There was something about you that stirred something long-buried inside him. You were strong, yes, but kind too—empathetic not just because of your powers but because of who you were at your core. And in a world where Charles had grown tired of fighting, tired of losing, you had become a beacon of warmth in the cold. Your presence began to thaw the ice he had encased himself in, and though he resisted it at first, that pull between you was undeniable.

It was a Friday night, and the mansion was quiet, the students having all gone off for the weekend. The air outside was thick with the scent of rain, the clouds heavy and swollen, but inside, there was a warmth that clung to the air. You had found Charles in his study, a glass of scotch in hand, seated behind the large oak desk that had become almost a throne for him. He was disheveled, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, hair slightly out of place in a way that made him seem more human, less like the esteemed Professor Xavier he had always tried to be.

You knocked softly on the doorframe, leaning against it with a playful smile. "You look like you could use a break."

Charles glanced up from his drink, his eyes settling on you in that way that always sent a shiver down your spine. His eyes—those sharp, piercing blue eyes—were tired, but they softened when they met yours. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "A break from what, exactly?"

You shrugged, pushing off the doorframe and walking toward him. "From thinking. From brooding. From being Charles Xavier, mutant extraordinaire." You reached his desk and perched yourself on the edge of it, your knee brushing his thigh as you did so. His eyes flickered down to the point of contact, and you saw the briefest hitch in his breath.

“I don’t brood,” he replied, though the smile that followed betrayed his words.

“Oh, you most certainly do.” You leaned forward, teasingly close, just enough that he could feel your presence in the air between you. “You sit in this big, empty mansion, all alone, with your thoughts and your scotch, and you brood.”

Charles chuckled softly, though there was something in the sound that was darker, more resigned. “Maybe I do.” He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, his eyes distant for a moment. “There’s a lot to think about these days.”

You watched him for a moment, your gaze softening. Charles had always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, even before the accident that had left him in a wheelchair. But now, that weight seemed heavier, as though the world had taken too much from him.

You reached out, your fingers brushing against his wrist, and the moment you touched him, you could feel it—a deep, aching sadness, buried beneath layers of composure and strength. It was like touching a wound that had never quite healed.

“I can feel it, you know,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Charles looked up at you, and for a moment, the walls he had built around himself seemed to crumble, leaving behind the man he had tried so hard to hide. “Feel what?” His voice was just as soft, but there was an edge to it, a vulnerability he rarely let anyone see.

You smiled gently, your fingers trailing up his arm, barely grazing his skin. “Everything. The pain, the loss, the weight of all of it. You’re carrying so much, Charles. You don’t have to carry it alone.”

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly as he did. “And what if I don’t want you to feel it?”

“Then I won’t,” you whispered, your hand now resting against his chest, right over his heart. “But I want to help you carry it. I want to be there for you.”

Charles’s breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, he seemed to struggle with something deep inside him, as though he were warring with himself. Then, slowly, he reached up, his hand covering yours as it rested on his chest. His touch was warm, gentle, and yet there was a tension in the way he held you, as though he were afraid to let go.

“I don’t deserve that,” he said, his voice barely audible.

Your heart clenched at his words, and without thinking, you leaned forward, closing the distance between you until your lips were inches from his. “You deserve so much more than you think, Charles.”

And then you kissed him.

It was soft at first, tentative, as though you were testing the waters, waiting to see if he would pull away. But he didn’t. Instead, his hand tightened around yours, and you felt him respond, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that surprised you both.

The kiss deepened, the years of longing, pain, and desire pouring into it with a ferocity that neither of you had expected. You could feel the way his body tensed beneath you, the way his breathing quickened as he lost himself in the moment.

Before you knew it, you were climbing into his lap, straddling him as your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more. Charles groaned against your lips, his hands sliding up your thighs, gripping your hips as though he were afraid you might disappear if he let go.

“Are you sure about this?” he murmured against your mouth, his voice thick with desire and hesitation.

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, your forehead resting against his as you smiled softly. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

His response was a low, guttural sound that sent a thrill racing through you, and before you knew it, he was kissing you again, more desperate this time, as though he couldn’t get enough of you.

Your fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, and Charles let out a breathless laugh, the sound vibrating against your lips as you finally managed to push the fabric aside, revealing the hard planes of his chest. You ran your hands over his skin, feeling the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch.

“You’re beautiful,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

Charles let out a soft, disbelieving laugh, but there was a vulnerability in his eyes that broke your heart. “You’re the first person who’s ever said that to me.”

You smiled, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his neck. “Then they’re all fools.”

His hands were everywhere, exploring your body as though he couldn’t quite believe you were real. His touch was gentle at first, almost reverent, but there was a fire behind it, a need that he had kept buried for far too long.

When you finally peeled off your shirt, you heard him suck in a breath, his eyes darkening with desire as he took you in. “God, you’re—” His voice broke off, as though he couldn’t quite find the words, but you didn’t need him to.

You kissed him again, your hands sliding down his chest, feeling the way his body responded to you, the way he trembled beneath your touch. You could feel the tension between you building, the air thick with anticipation.

And then, slowly, you began to move against him, your hips grinding against his in a rhythm that had both of you gasping for breath. Charles’s hands gripped your hips, guiding you, matching your movements with a desperate need.

“Please,” he breathed, his voice ragged.

You didn’t need to ask what he wanted. You could feel it, the desire, the longing, the need for release that had been building between you for so long. You reached between your bodies, your fingers making quick work of the zipper of his pants.

When he finally slid into you, the sensation was overwhelming—an electric jolt that sent shockwaves through your entire body. Charles let out a broken gasp, his hands gripping

as he pulled you closer, his body trembling beneath yours. You could feel the tension in him, every muscle wound tight, as if he were barely holding himself together.

You both paused for a moment, the sheer intensity of the connection stealing the breath from your lungs. You hadn’t expected it to feel like this, like every nerve in your body had come alive, attuned to him and only him. Charles's forehead pressed against your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin as you both adjusted, savoring the feeling of being so intimately joined.

“God,” he whispered, almost reverently. “I’ve wanted this—wanted you—for so long.”

Your fingers slid up into his hair, cradling his head, and you pressed a soft kiss to the top of it, your heart swelling at the vulnerability in his voice. “Then take me, Charles. I’m yours.”

That was all the permission he needed.

With a low, guttural sound, Charles’s grip on your hips tightened, and he began to move beneath you, slow at first, a steady rhythm that made you gasp with every roll of his hips. He filled you so perfectly, each movement sending waves of pleasure through your body. You matched his pace, rocking against him, savoring the slow burn that built between you, the friction pulling you both closer to the edge with every passing second.

Charles’s hands roamed your body, sliding up your back, tracing the curve of your spine, then slipping lower, his fingers digging into your skin with barely restrained intensity. His lips found your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point, and you felt your breath hitch in your throat.

“Charles…” you gasped, your head tilting back as you gave him more access.

His lips parted against your skin, and you could feel the groan that rumbled in his chest. “I can feel you,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. “Every thought, every emotion—it’s overwhelming.”

You leaned back, meeting his gaze. His eyes were heavy-lidded, dark with need, but there was something else there too—something raw, something so deep and primal that it made your heart race.

“Don’t hide from me,” you whispered, your hands cradling his face. “Feel me. All of me.”

Charles’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, as if letting go of the barriers he had so carefully constructed. And then, all at once, it hit you—the full weight of his mind brushing against yours, the flood of emotions crashing over you like a tidal wave.

It wasn’t just desire you felt—though that was certainly there, sharp and electric, searing through your veins. It was everything. His longing, his fear, the deep well of sadness that had haunted him for so long, and underneath it all, a love so profound it left you breathless.

You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders as the sensation of his mind intertwining with yours sent a jolt of pleasure through you, heightening everything. The room around you seemed to fade, the only thing that existed in that moment was him—his body, his mind, and the way he was utterly consuming you.

Charles groaned, his hips bucking up into you with a sudden intensity that made you cry out. “I’ve never felt anything like this,” he panted, his voice strained, as though he were on the edge of losing control.

You could barely form words, the pleasure building inside you almost unbearable. “Charles, please…”

He understood without needing to ask. His hands slid down to your hips again, guiding you faster now, his movements more urgent, more desperate. You could feel the tension in your body coiling tighter and tighter, like a spring wound too far, ready to snap.

And then, with one hard thrust, you shattered.

A wave of ecstasy washed over you, white-hot and all-consuming, leaving you trembling in its wake. You cried out his name, your body arching against his, and you could feel him lose himself in the moment too, his hands gripping you so tightly it almost hurt as he followed you over the edge.

For a moment, the world seemed to stop, the only sound in the room your ragged breaths and the thrum of your racing heartbeat. You slumped against Charles, your forehead resting against his shoulder as you both came down from the high.

His arms wrapped around you, holding you close, as though afraid to let go. You could still feel the echo of his mind against yours, the connection between you not quite severed, and it brought a sense of intimacy that was unlike anything you had ever known.

After a long moment, Charles broke the silence, his voice soft and hoarse. “I didn’t know it could feel like that.”

You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “Neither did I.”

He pulled back slightly to look at you, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. His eyes were still dark, but there was a softness to them now, a vulnerability that made your heart ache.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing over your cheek.

You frowned slightly. “For what?”

“For reminding me what it’s like to feel something other than pain.” His voice was filled with a quiet reverence, as though he couldn’t quite believe it himself.

You leaned forward, pressing your lips to his in a slow, tender kiss. “You don’t have to do it alone anymore, Charles. I’m here.”

He smiled, a real, genuine smile that made your heart flutter. “I know.”

You shifted slightly, still straddling his lap, and Charles let out a soft groan. The movement stirred something in you both, a flicker of desire reigniting as your bodies remained entwined.

“You know,” you said playfully, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest, “we’ve got the whole mansion to ourselves tonight.”

Charles raised an eyebrow, his smile turning into something more mischievous. “Is that so?”

You leaned in, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as you whispered, “Maybe we should take advantage of that.”

His breath hitched, and you felt his hands tighten on your hips. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

You smiled against his skin, pressing a soft kiss to his neck. “Then I’ll make it a night you won’t forget.”

With that, you began to move again, slow and teasing, savoring every moment of the night ahead.

#charles xavier #charles xavier x reader #xmen fandom #xmen fanfiction #xmen comics #x men movies #charles xavier x fem! reader #young! charles xavier x reader #charles xavier smut #xmen dofp #james mcavoy #marvel comics #mcu fandom #charles xavier imagine #young! Charles Xavier

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jaeyuniversal · 5 days ago

Text

anxiety - n.rk

pairing: stranger!nishimura riki x fem!reader

synopsis: you meet him on a quiet night — a stranger with sharp eyes and a colder edge, nothing like anyone in your sleepy suburb. he won’t talk, barely looks at you, but something about him lingers. maybe you’re just curious. or maybe you’ve seen him before.

featuring: ni-ki & jake of enhypen

genre: childhood friends to lovers, a sprinkle of angst, smut, skinship, kissing, etc.

warnings: smut (18+), difficult relationships with parents, love at first sight lowk, vulnerability, themes of implied watching (not rlly stalking) but it isn't graphic, riki smokes cigs, uhhh i think that's it?? lowercase intended heh

playlist: anxiety by doechii, clarity by zedd & sacrifice by enhypen

(smut warnings under cut)

wc: 9.120k

a/n: this is way longer than i expected but it came to me in a dream... enjoy! also i'm gonna start a perm taglist! comment on any of my fics or send an ask to be added! <3

smut content: riki's PACKING, they cum in their pants lol, dry humping, deepthroating kinda, backshots LMAO, missionary, dom!riki x sub!reader, degradation & praise kinks, creampie, like SO MUCH cum... n e ways! fluffy aftercare, unprotected sex (wrap b4 you tap), tit fucking, oral (m. receiving), choking, everything is consensual, riki and reader are both so down bad for each other... lmk if i missed anything :3

(not proofread)

-ˏˋ⋆ 7 months ago ⋆ˊˎ-

it was raining the day you first felt it — that creeping sensation at the back of your neck, like invisible fingers brushing against your skin.

not a storm, not anything dramatic. just that kind of soft, cold drizzle that seeped into your clothes and made the world feel like it was holding its breath. gray sky melted into gray pavement, the horizon smeared like a half-finished painting. you were standing under the chipped awning of the old bakery on the corner, the scent of yeast and sugar mixing with the rain, waiting for your usual thursday pastry that was always slightly overbaked but comfortingly warm.

you remember scrolling through your phone, aimlessly, as your friend, jake, rambled beside you about something he saw on tv. you weren't listening. you were too aware of the feeling — that hum beneath your skin. subtle but unshakable.

“there’s someone watching me,” you’d said earlier that morning, trying to brush it off with a laugh as you stirred milk into your coffee. “it’s my anxiety.” jake didn’t look up from his phone. “or maybe you’re watching yourself spiral.”

you’d rolled your eyes. maybe he was right. midterms were looming, you hadn’t slept in days, and your brain felt like it was being slowly pulled apart by rubber bands. but still. the feeling didn’t go away.

it got worse.

you’d been fidgeting, switching the weight on your feet, chewing the inside of your cheek. and then, like something calling your name without a sound, your eyes had drifted across the street.

that’s when you saw him.

a boy. or maybe a man — it was hard to tell, the rain blurred everything. tall, impossibly still, wearing a black hoodie that clung to his shoulders. he wasn’t under any kind of shelter. he stood alone, soaked to the bone, his face half-hidden by the hood, his gaze fixed. not on the road. not on the buildings. but on you.

you stared. you didn’t recognize him. not really. and yet something deep in your chest stirred like a memory. like a name you almost remembered. like a dream you’d had once and forgotten by morning.

you glanced down for a second — a message lighting up your screen.

when you looked up, he was gone.

no footsteps. no splash. just… gone.

you never told jake. what would you say? you didn’t even know what you’d seen. maybe nothing at all.

maybe your anxiety really was watching you. maybe it had grown arms and legs and a face hidden under a rain-soaked hood. maybe it had always been there, just waiting for the right day to show itself.

either way, it started then.

and it never really stopped.

-ˏˋ⋆ present day ⋆ˊˎ-

the hallway is too quiet for a friday night.

you shuffle down the corridor with a tied-up trash bag swinging limply at your side, socks stuffed in your duck slippers, slapping against the cool tile floor. the overhead light flickers once, buzzing faintly. classic.

you reach the stairwell, already bracing yourself for the sharp chill of the outside air, when you stop short.

he’s there.

leaning against the railing of the third-floor landing, hoodie pulled up over his head, cigarette dangling between his fingers — even though this is strictly a no-smoking building. he doesn’t flinch when you turn the corner. just keeps staring out at the dim skyline, face barely visible under the shadow of his hood.

you slow down, blinking.

he’s not familiar — not really. you pride yourself on knowing every face in this sleepy apartment complex, whether through polite nods in the mailroom or awkward elevator silences. but him? nothing. no name. no room number. just angles and silence.

and yet… something about him rings in your head like a half-forgotten dream.

his profile is soft, almost too pretty to be real. sharp jaw, dark lashes, bangs dipping into his eyes. he looks like he doesn’t belong here — like someone plucked him out of a bigger story and dropped him into yours by mistake.

"hey," you offer, voice casual, just above a whisper. "you new here?"

he doesn’t look at you. doesn’t answer.

awkward.

you shift the trash bag in your hands, trying again. “i live on the second floor. don’t think i’ve seen you around before.”

still nothing. just a small exhale of smoke that curls into the cold night air.

rude, you think. but not in a mean way. more like… distant. careful.

you lean against the opposite railing, letting the silence stretch for a few seconds.

"you look familiar," you say, eyes narrowing. "have we met before?"

this time, his gaze flickers. not quite to you — just past you. a twitch of recognition, maybe. or annoyance.

you can't tell.

but your brain is racing. you know him. you must. maybe in passing. maybe in a memory. maybe you’ve just seen him out here before, on the edge of your vision, existing quietly in the corners of your routine. maybe your subconscious noticed him long before you did.

he stubs out the cigarette and walks past you without a word.

you don’t move. you just watch him disappear down the hall, hoodie covered by a black jacket, hands stuffed in his pockets.

"okay then," you murmur to yourself, staring after him. and you can’t help it — the way your eyes linger on the spot he stood, heart ticking a little faster.

there’s something about him.

you just don’t know what. yet.

───

it's raining the next time you see him.

you’re standing under the overhang by the front entrance, fumbling with your umbrella, when the door swings open behind you. you glance back — and it’s him. again.

hoodie. same brown timberlands. same unreadable expression.

you swear he pauses when he sees you, just a fraction of a second. but maybe that’s in your head.

"you smoke a lot for someone living in a no-smoking building," you say without thinking, half a joke.

he doesn’t laugh. but his lips twitch, barely, like maybe he almost did.

he steps out into the rain without an umbrella.

"hey!" you call, surprised. "you're seriously just gonna walk in that?"

he doesn't stop. doesn't answer. but this time, he does glance back at you over his shoulder. eyes dark. thoughtful. like he’s trying to decide something.

“i’ve seen you before,” you say — louder, more certain now. “i just don’t remember where.”

his mouth parts, like he might say something. but then he turns and keeps walking, rain soaking into the fabric of his hoodie, blending him into the gray of the street.

and you're left standing there, umbrella unopened, heart kicking strangely against your ribs.

───

it’s quiet in the laundry room — too quiet. the kind of quiet that settles in your chest and presses down, like you’re underwater. the overhead light flickers occasionally, buzzing in protest, but no one’s bothered to fix it. you wouldn’t usually be here this late, but your sheets were stained and the smell was driving you insane. so here you are, half-past midnight, leaning against a rickety folding table, waiting.

your phone barely gets signal this far in the basement, and the wi-fi’s always spotty. it’s just you, the low groan of the washer, and your own thoughts trying to make conversation.

until the door creaks open.

you don’t jump, but your spine straightens on instinct. you don’t have to look up to know it’s him — the presence is immediate, unmistakable. that stillness in the air that follows him like a shadow. you finally glance up, and there he is. same black hoodie. same too-quiet footsteps. same face that looks like it doesn’t belong here. like it was carved into something older than this tiny suburban building.

he doesn’t say a word. just drops a bag on the floor and begins sorting laundry like it’s the most normal thing in the world. like you haven’t already seen him twice this week, always at night, always alone, always watching without watching.

“seriously?” you say, trying to keep your voice light. “do you just hang out in weird corners of this complex to freak people out?”

nothing.

he lifts a pair of dark jeans, shakes them out. you watch his fingers. they're pale. long. too clean for someone who lives in this building. you’ve lived here your whole life and never seen him before last week — and yet...

he feels familiar.

“okay,” you continue, stepping off the table now. the room feels colder suddenly. “do you live here? or are you like... a freak with laundry privileges?”

still nothing. you laugh under your breath, but it sounds too loud in the silence. your heartbeat starts to climb your throat.

then he says it. quiet. low.

“you used to wait outside the bakery every thursday. same dark purple coat. hair in a slick bun. you never looked both ways when you crossed the street.”

the words stop you cold.

“what?” you ask, your voice barely audible.

he still doesn’t look at you. he presses a button on the washer. it whirs to life.

“i remember,” he says simply.

and then he walks out.

no explanation. no glance back. just leaves you standing there, spine prickling, air thick with something you can’t name.

you don’t move for a long time. the washer keeps spinning. and somewhere in the back of your mind, a door creaks open — something old, something buried. you know that voice. you know it.

but from where?

and why now?

───

you see him again the next week.

it’s late. everything always is these days. late nights, late thoughts, late feelings that come crawling out of places you’ve spent years trying to bury.

he’s there again by the mailboxes, half-shrouded in the dim glow of the overhead light. same hoodie, same stillness. like he’s always belonged to the dark. like the world moves around him, but never through him.

you don’t say anything this time. just glance at him, let your eyes linger a little too long. the silence stretches like fog between you, thick and almost heavy.

when you get back to your apartment, you sit on the floor of your room, knees to your chest, staring at nothing. trying to remember.

because it’s not just déjà vu. it’s more insistent than that. it’s something sharper. something that presses at the edges of your mind like a dull knife.

you know him.

or—at least, you’ve seen him before. not in this life maybe, but in another version of it. in a hallway, maybe. in a photograph. in a moment you never thought would matter until it does.

you try to pull it apart, memory by memory. but your brain is tired and tangled, the way it always is when you think too hard about the past. especially your own.

your mom used to say you were dramatic. that you let small things become monsters under the bed. “don’t be so sensitive,” she’d snap, when you cried over things she didn’t understand. “you make everything so hard for yourself.”

your dad never said much at all.

they were loud in the wrong ways. silent in the ones that mattered. and you learned early how to turn your feelings into puzzles with missing pieces — complex enough to keep you distracted, but unsolvable enough to stop you from ever really facing them.

and yet, riki… there’s something about him that pulls at those missing pieces. like maybe he was one of them. like maybe he slipped into your life through a crack in the wall and waited, patiently, for you to notice.

was he from your old school? a kid from your neighborhood? someone you passed in a crowd once and never forgot, even if you didn’t realize it?

you hate not knowing. hate how it makes you feel like a child again — helpless and unsettled. desperate for answers no one’s willing to give.

maybe that’s what this really is. not fear. not obsession. just the ache of a memory that refuses to resurface.

he’s a question mark in human form. and you’ve never been good with uncertainty.

you don’t see him again for days.

which should be a relief. it should give you space to think, to forget. but it doesn’t. it just makes everything louder. the silence, the questions, the feeling in your gut that something is watching you — or waiting.

your sleep turns thin and restless. shadows stretch too long across your walls. you start leaving your bedroom light on. just in case.

one night, you wake up at 3:12 a.m., heart racing for no reason at all. it takes a second to realize what pulled you out of sleep — a sound. something light. deliberate.

a knock?

you hold your breath. wait. nothing.

you get up anyway.

there’s no one at the door. of course not. but something catches your eye as you start to turn back — something lying just at the edge of your doormat. small. folded. a piece of paper.

you hesitate, then pick it up. it’s blank on the outside. no name. no writing. nothing.

you open it slowly.

inside, in rushed, almost messy handwriting, are six words:

“do you really not remember me?”

your throat goes tight. your first instinct is to look around, scan the hallway, check the peephole twice. there’s no one.

no sound.

just that question burning in your hands.

do you really not remember me?

your fingers shake a little as you fold it back up. your brain is moving too fast and not fast enough at the same time. and that feeling — the one that’s been gnawing at you for days — it blooms in your chest like a scream that never makes it out.

because now it’s real. now you know you aren’t imagining it. the familiarity, the tension, the way your spine goes rigid every time you see him —

he knows you.

he’s known you.

and maybe you did know him once, too. maybe you still do, buried under everything you’ve forgotten on purpose.

you think about the look in his eyes that first night. the way he never said a word. the stillness of him.

you think of the hallway. the sound that woke you. the note.

you think of how you told your friend the other day, half-laughing, half-serious: “there’s someone watching me, it’s my anxiety.”

but what if it’s more than that?

what if it’s not just in your head?

what if it’s him?

───

it hits you in the middle of folding laundry.

something about the way your fingers move. something about the light slanting in through the kitchen window. warm, but not comforting. and all at once, you’re not in your apartment anymore.

you’re in a house. someone else’s. maybe your own. there’s music playing — muffled through a closed door. a cheap stereo with tinny speakers. old j-pop, the kind that loops endlessly on cassettes. the wallpaper is peeling in one corner.

and then—

a voice. soft. younger. yours.

"why do you always hide when they come home?"

someone's sitting in the hallway. knees pulled to their chest. head down. shadows in the space between them like they’re both in different dimensions.

and then he looks up.

not the man in the stairwell. not riki, not yet. just a boy. sharp eyes, hollow cheeks, hair too long in front. there’s a cut on his lip. fading purple under his eye.

“because it’s safer,” he says.

the air warps around that line, like heat off asphalt. she wants to reach for him, wants to say something back, but the memory curls tighter around her, swallowing the end of it before she can hold on.

then it’s gone.

just like that.

you blink down at the pile of laundry in your lap, hands gone still.

your chest feels tight. throat aching, like you swallowed something heavy. the apartment feels colder than it should. that voice — his voice — still rings somewhere in your bones.

because you’ve heard it before. not recently. years ago.

and suddenly you’re thinking about your father’s anger. how he used to break things before he yelled. how sometimes he didn’t yell at all. how the silence always scared you more. how you stopped inviting friends over after age ten. how there was one boy you let in. once.

his name—

you press the heel of your palm to her forehead, hard, like you can shake it loose.

it won’t come. not yet.

but the shape of it is there, curling at the edges of a memory like smoke. and the boy with the bruised mouth and quiet eyes — he's not a stranger.

not even close.

later that night, you can't sleep.

there's a weight on your chest that won’t lift no matter how you shift under the sheets. it’s not insomnia — it’s memory. something clawing at the back of your skull, begging to be seen.

so you get up.

the air in the apartment is too still. even the hum of the fridge feels distant. you don't bother with the lights. just moving barefoot and slow, like any noise might scare the truth away.

the closet in the hallway creaks when you open it. you kneel. pushing past shoeboxes, tangled cords, the mess of forgotten things. until your hand hits the one you’re looking for.

a red box. scuffed corners. cheap velvet peeled at the edges. inside: scraps of a childhood. yours.

old keychains, broken friendship bracelets, polaroids faded to brown. concert tickets. a snow globe from sapporo. and then—

a photograph.

creased down the center. color bleeding with age. a summer day, maybe. you’re younger. seven or eight. awkward teeth, sunburnt nose, some awful haircut her mother swore looked cute. and beside you —

a boy.

not smiling. just… there. close, but not touching. eyes dark and watchful even then.

and it’s him.

riki.

only it wasn’t his name back then, was it? he went by ni-ki.

your breath catches. you sit back on your heels, heart thudding in your ears.

how could you forget? they lived on the same street. just four houses down. his mom used to walk him to school until she didn’t anymore. and then he stopped coming altogether.

after that, he vanished. until now.

until the stairwell. until the way he didn’t speak but looked at her like he knew everything.

you swallow the sick twist in your stomach. the sudden, sharp cold shivering down your spine.

why was he back?

and why you?

you leave the photo on the kitchen island.

maybe it’s careless, maybe even stupid, but you tell yourself it’ll make more sense in the morning. you’ll wake up, look at it with clearer eyes, and it won’t feel like your chest is caving in. besides, you live alone. and it’s just a photo.

just a photo.

you drag yourself to the couch, the blanket scratchy against your legs, exhaustion curling into your limbs like smoke. you fall asleep fast — but it’s the wrong kind of sleep. thick, dreamless, heavy with something you can’t name. a noise pulls at you. a door. or a voice. or your own heart cracking open.

you wake up just as the first light creeps through the windows. your mouth is dry. your tongue tastes like copper.

something is off.

you walk into the kitchen, still half in a fog—and stop.

the photo is gone.

you freeze, staring at the empty spot where it had been, your thoughts moving too fast and too slow all at once. the red box is still there. untouched. the lid sitting open like a mouth waiting to swallow more. you check the floor. under the fridge. between papers. nothing.

no one could’ve taken it.

the door was locked. the windows haven’t budged. you were here. you were alone.

a chill slides down your spine, sharp and crawling. you think of him again. the way he looked at you in the stairwell. not confused. not curious.

just watching.

like he already knew what you would find.

your breath catches. you don’t even realize you’ve backed up until your shoulder hits the wall.

you don’t understand what’s happening, but something is— and it’s closing in.

the silence hums in your ears. the wind slips against the glass like breath. and then you see it.

something on the kitchen table.

not the photo. but something folded.

small. white. placed exactly where the photo had been.

your name is written on the front.

in handwriting you almost recognize.

you stare at the folded paper like it might burn through the table. your name, in soft, slanted letters—almost familiar, like a half-remembered dream. the kind you wake up from with your chest tight and eyes wet, but can’t explain to anyone without sounding insane.

your fingers hesitate.

you don’t want to touch it. you want to burn it. you want to leave the apartment and never come back.

but your hand moves anyway, like it isn’t yours. like you’re being pulled by something older than memory.

the paper is heavier than it looks. the kind of paper someone saves. the kind that lives in boxes under beds, waiting to be found.

you unfold it slowly. deliberately.

the first line makes your stomach drop:

“you used to laugh with your whole face.”

your throat tightens. your vision blurs at the edges. you keep reading.

“i remember when you were afraid of thunderstorms. you’d hide under the table with that stuffed bear. the one with the missing eye.”

you sink into the nearest chair. it creaks beneath you. your heartbeat pounds in your ears like thunder.

how does he know that?

no one remembers that.

not even your mother—too busy fighting shadows of men who never stayed long enough to learn your name.

you blink hard, trying to push away the sting in your eyes. your hand shakes as you reach the last line:

“it’s okay if you don’t remember me. i remember you.”

the note isn’t signed.

but you already know who it’s from.

and you’re not sure if that makes it better… or so much worse.

you find yourself standing at the corner of the street, unsure of where to go or how to breathe. the note is heavy in your hand, the words on it are still too real. still too impossible to wrap your mind around.

but you can’t ignore it anymore. you’ve been running from something, running from the truth, but it’s all catching up with you. and it starts with one thing—one person—who might just hold the answers.

you text jake. i need to talk to you.

he replies almost immediately: come over. i’ll make coffee.

you don’t hesitate. your body moves before your brain can catch up.

jake’s apartment smells like coffee, like books, and like something homey you can’t quite place. you’ve always liked it here—quiet, safe, with jake’s easy smile and the way he always listens like he doesn’t have a million things on his plate.

but today, when he opens the door, his smile falters. his eyes linger on the note in your hand before he invites you in.

“what’s going on?” he asks, his voice soft. “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“worse,” you murmur, sitting down at the kitchen table. “riki. the guy from my apartment building. the one i’ve been thinking about.”

jake’s face changes. his usual calm demeanor cracks for a split second, but it’s enough. enough to make you sit up straighter, enough to make your heart skip a beat.

“what do you mean, the guy you’ve been thinking about?” he asks carefully. “y/n, you’ve been telling me you’ve never met him before. he’s just some weird guy who shows up at random times. are you sure you’re okay?”

you hesitate. the note is still in your hand. you want to show it to him, but something holds you back. you can’t explain this to him without sounding insane.

“he knows things, jake. about me. about my childhood. stuff no one would know.” you pause, swallowing hard. “it’s like he’s been... watching me.”

the silence in the room thickens. jake stands still, his hands gripping the edge of the table. you can feel his mind working through it, piecing things together. finally, he exhales sharply.

“you know who he is, don’t you?” jake’s voice cracks just a little, and you hate that you can hear it.

“he’s riki,” you whisper. “i know it.”

jake looks like he’s just seen a ghost too. but it’s worse than that. it’s betrayal, old wounds you never knew were still there.

“how do you know him?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

jake runs a hand through his hair, his face tight with something you can’t read. "riki... he was my best friend back home. we were inseparable when we were kids, after he randomly showed up one day. before everything in his home town happened. before he disappeared from there."

you lean forward, your heart racing. "why did he disappear?"

jake looks away, his eyes shadowed with memories. "riki got tangled up in some bad stuff, y/n. things that don’t go away, things that ruin people. he got in with the wrong crowd—gangs, debts, all kinds of shit. he disappeared from there too and... no one ever really knew what happened. but the rumors started. they said he ran. he left everything behind."

your throat tightens. “but... he didn’t.”

jake’s gaze is heavy, dark. “no. he didn’t. he’s been trying to stay hidden ever since. but some ghosts don’t stay buried, y/n.”

your chest tightens. you’ve been living in the shadow of something you can’t even remember fully. and now it’s back.

───

later that night, you find yourself standing in front of riki’s door, your heart hammering in your chest. you knock once, twice, and wait.

the door opens slowly, and riki stands there, eyes wide, almost guilty. he looks different in the light, darker somehow, worn and tired. but the same fire is still there. it’s still riki.

“you know, don’t you?” he says, his voice tight, like he’s holding something back.

you nod, your voice barely above a whisper. “you disappeared. you ran. kept running. and i don’t understand why.”

riki’s eyes flicker with something—pain, maybe. “it’s not that simple. there’s things you don’t know, things i can’t tell you.”

you step closer, ignoring the hesitation in your chest. “i need to know, riki. everything. i need you to tell me.”

his jaw clenches. but then he opens the door wider, his shoulders slumping as he gestures for you to come inside.

you step into his dimly lit apartment, your heart racing. the room feels charged with something unspoken, like the air is holding its breath.

“i didn’t want you to get involved in all of this,” riki says, his voice raw. “but now that you know, i can’t just leave you hanging.”

you take a step forward, your hand trembling as you reach for him, the tension between you unbearable. “you’re not alone in this anymore, riki. i’m here.”

he looks at you, eyes haunted, like he’s trying to decide if he can trust you. then, without warning, his lips crash against yours.

you freeze for a second, the intensity of it taking you by surprise. but then your body reacts, pulling him closer, kissing him back with everything you’ve been holding in. it’s messy, desperate, like neither of you knows what’s happening but can’t stop it.

his hands are everywhere—on your waist, your back, your neck—like he’s trying to memorize you, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

your heart is racing, your body pressed against his, and for a moment, everything feels like it’s on fire.

riki pulls back, his breathing shallow, his forehead resting against yours. the tension between you two is still there, but it's different now — softer, like a thread connecting you in a way neither of you can fully explain.

"y/n," he says, his voice low but intense, trembling slightly. "there are things i never wanted to tell you, things i couldn't bear to say. i thought it would be easier to push you away, to make you hate me before you found out... but i can't do it anymore. i can't keep lying to myself."

you step back a little, your chest tightening as you watch him. his eyes are full of so many emotions—regret, pain, love—but it’s the last one that makes your heart ache with something you didn’t expect.

"i’ve been in this dark place for so long, y/n. i never thought i could get out of it. i pushed everyone away, especially you, because i knew if i let you in, you’d see the mess i am... but you’re the only one who’s ever mattered. i’ve always known it, even when i was too afraid to admit it. i love you."

his words hang in the air, raw and vulnerable. and you feel something inside of you break wide open—something you’ve been trying so hard to protect, trying to hide.

“i’ve always loved you,” riki continues, his voice softer now, almost like he’s confessing a secret that’s been buried for too long. “even when i tried to run from it, even when i tried to push you away... you were always the one. always.”

you can barely find your voice, overwhelmed by the tenderness in his words. "riki, i—"

but he shakes his head, cutting you off gently. "no, listen. i know i’ve hurt you. i know i’ve been distant, but everything i did... i did it because i was scared. scared of losing you. scared of what you’d think of me if you knew everything. but i can’t hide anymore. not from you. i’ve never stopped loving you. not even for a second.”

tears sting the back of your eyes, but you blink them away, letting his confession settle inside you. your heart feels too full, too full of emotions you don’t know how to contain. you take a deep breath, your voice trembling when you finally speak.

“i’m not going anywhere, riki,” you whisper, the words catching in your throat. “i never was. i don’t care about the past... i don’t care about what happened before. i care about you. i’ve always cared about you.”

for a moment, neither of you moves. the world feels so quiet, like everything has stopped, and it’s just the two of you in this space—this moment where everything you’ve both been hiding finally comes to light.

riki steps closer, his hands gently cupping your face, his thumbs brushing over your skin. his eyes are soft now, almost like he’s memorizing every detail of you, like he never wants to forget this moment.

“can i kiss you again?” he asks, his voice so soft, so unsure. it’s like he’s asking for permission, like he’s afraid of making the wrong move.

you nod, your breath catching in your throat. “please,” you whisper.

and then, his lips are on yours, gentle but urgent, like everything he’s held inside of him is pouring into this kiss. his hands slide to your back, pulling you closer, and you melt into him. you kiss him back with everything you’ve been holding onto, everything you’ve been feeling but never knew how to say.

when you pull back, both of you breathless, riki presses his forehead to yours, his hands resting gently on your hips. his eyes are full of that same tenderness, that same love that’s been there all along.

“i love you, y/n,” he whispers again, this time with more certainty, more peace. “and i always will. no matter what.”

and in that moment, you know, without a doubt, that everything—every question, every fear, every hesitation—has been worth it. because now, in this space, with him, everything feels right.

“i love you too, riki,” you say softly, the words more sure now. “i always will.”

and the kiss that follows is more than just passion—it’s a promise.

he breaks the kiss and leads you to his bedroom, sitting on the edge of his bed. he pulls you onto his lap and crashes his lips against yours once again.

but this kiss, it’s different than the others.

it’s hot. fiery. desperate.

his tongue bullies its way into your mouth, fighting for dominance which you happily give him. as you continue making out, he becomes increasingly handsy. they fly from your jaw, to your shoulder blades, sliding down to rest on your ass. he grips your clothed flesh with desire.

and that's when you feel it—the unmistakable hardness settled between his legs. pressed against your burning hot core.

you gasped into his lips and he swallowed it up eagerly.

he rolled your hips down onto his crotch, seeking friction to ease his hard on. groaning into the kiss, he broke it, tilting his head back.

you carefully observed how his adam’s apple bobbed each time he swallowed, your self control fading into nothing. reaching out to grab his neck, you lightly apply pressure as you leave sloppy, wet kisses all over his jaw. your eyes drop to his collarbones, noticing his hoodie getting in the way.

you shift in his lap, knees sinking further into his bed as your hands find his shoulders for balance. riki looks up at you, eyes half-lidded, lips parted slightly like he’s caught between breath and want. his hoodie is bunched up from where your fingers had tugged at the hem earlier, and when you reach for it again, he doesn’t stop you.

you pull it over his head slowly, your fingers grazing warm skin as the fabric slides up and off. beneath it, he’s wearing a black tank top that clings to him in all the right places—soft cotton stretched over lean muscle, tracing the shape of his chest and the dip of his waist.

his collarbones catch the low light of the room, sharp and defined, leading down to the elegant curve of his neck. you can see the slight rise and fall of it as he swallows, your gaze drifting lower to the sculpted line of his biceps, muscles flexing subtly under your weight, like he’s holding back.

he looks devastating like this—relaxed and bare in a way that feels forbidden, like you’re seeing something no one else is allowed to.

"you’re staring," he says quietly, a flicker of amusement in his voice, but there's a softness to it too, like he doesn’t mind being seen this way. like he wants you to look.

you smile, brushing your fingers across his shoulder, down his arm, feeling the strength beneath the surface. "can you blame me?"

he laughs under his breath, hands settling at your hips, warm and steady. "not really."

you lean in closer, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck, right where it meets his collarbone. he shivers under your touch, and you feel it in your core—how easy it is to fall into him, how right it feels to be here like this.

you push him further on his bed, his back hitting the soft comforter, hands never leaving your hips.

he captures your lips once again in a kiss that's delicate, like he’s trying to process everything but he can’t. are you really here with him right now? his childhood best friend who he forced himself to cut contact with—but then again, did he ever really cut contact with you? he had to make sure you were okay one way or another, so he watched from the shadows. even if it meant sacrificing his greatest love. you.

as if you could sense the gears overheating in his brain, you pull away from him and stare into his familiar brown eyes. he pouts and you see a glimpse of ni-ki. the scared, eight year old who you’d give up anything to protect.

he cradles your face like you’re made of glass and whispers, “are you sure you want this, angel? because once i start… i don’t think i’ll be able to stop.”

you nod your head, but that doesn’t seem to be enough for him, “words, baby. i need words, hmm?” you bite back a flustered smile, “yeah ni-ki, i want this. you.”

he grins hearing his childhood name fall out of your soft, sweet lips and picks you up off his lap so he can rest with his back against the headboard.

settling back on his thighs, and becoming increasingly impatient, you roll your hips against his, surprising him.

he lets out a breathy moan, urging you to continue. you want to hear each of his pretty sounds.

pressing your clothed clit into the tip of his dick, he closes his eyes, biting his lip. you feel him pulsing beneath you, the thin layer of his sweats not doing much to hide his arousal.

neither of you have ever been this turned on just by kissing, heavy petting, and grinding. but neither of you dare to stop. it feels too good, like a craving you’ve subconsciously had.

riki pauses the movement of your hips, being the first one to break this careful, but familiar, tension between you two. “baby, give me a sec. i’m c-close,” he mutters.

wanting to see what he looks like when he finishes, you grin, dragging your hips down harder and slower, in a teasing manner. he groans, but with the same teasing energy, bucks his hips up into yours, allowing you to feel just how big he is—and he knows it, too. judging by your reaction, he can tell it’s been a while since you’ve both been intimate with someone else.

feeling his release closer than he’d say out loud, he takes control of your movements, speeding them up. you can feel how badly he needs this. how desperate he needs you.

the friction of his covered cock rubbing repeatedly on your sensitive clit, feels better than anything you’ve ever tried with others or yourself. you’re both panting, forehead to forehead, when everything comes crashing down. riki releases into his gray sweats, making a mess. he swears he’s never cum that hard. and your panties get increasingly sticky and uncomfortable.

basking in the aftermath of your shared orgasm, riki gently holds you by the waist, whispering sweet nothings into your ear. lots of “you did great,” “that felt so good, baby,” and a lot of whining. “i need you so bad,” “please, angel, i’ll make you feel so so good.”

who are you to deny your first and only love?

you slowly stand on wobbly legs, stripping, giving riki a show.

he gawks as you remove each item of clothing, starting with your shirt. he’s surprised you aren’t wearing a bra but when your perky tits come into his eyesight, he’s right in front of you. grabbing—licking—whatever’s closest to his mouth and hands.

feeling a bit exposed, while he’s still fully clothed, you whimper into his mouth, silently asking him to take his clothes off as well.

speeding up the process, he rips his tank top off and finally. finally. you get a glimpse of what he always hides under his baggy hoodies. sculpted by the greek gods, you nearly drool at his defined torso. reaching out to drag a hand down his abs, riki shivers at your gentle, yet burning, touch.

you back him up so he sits on his bed and slowly sink to your knees. he leans back on his palms, quiet, but watching you like a hawk. you bring a hand up to cup his bulge, not caring about the sticky stain he’s left.

he groans, low, hot, and it goes straight to your wetness, practically leaking on his floor.

with your hands gripping his waistband, you look up into his dark eyes, clouded with lust, and he nods lifting his hips. yanking his sweats down, you’re met with his hard cock, slapping his abs. “no boxers, huh?” you smugly ask, as if he anticipated this. “nah, not when i’m relaxing, sweetheart.” sweetheart. the name he called you the last day you saw him as kids.

staring at his flushed cock, you lick your lips, ready to devour the man sitting in front of you.

you start by gripping his base, your fingers not fully wrapping around him. how the fuck are you supposed to fit him inside your mouth? a problem you’ve never faced, but for riki? you’d be stupid not to choke on it.

giving his tip sweet little kitten licks, you dig your tongue into his slit, as if you were trying to drink up all his precum. “fuck,” he grunts out, hoping you didn’t discover how sensitive he was at his tip.

he thinks you didn’t, but he should really know better.

you focus all your attention on his swollen head, sucking softly and jerking off the rest of his lengthy dick. his back falls flat, resting on his bed, while he lets out a symphony of moans.

abruptly, you pull off him and when he leans up on his elbows to see why, he’s met with the sight of spit falling from your lips, landing right on his tip. then, his vision goes white.

you lean down, shoving him in your mouth, lips stretched around his girth.

you take him halfway, and the stretch alone is painful already. knowing this might be an issue, riki speaks up, “fuck, you don’t have to take all of me, this already feels so—” but you cut him off, when you sink your mouth further, his tip hitting your throat.

you swallow around him and he whimpers. he’s never felt anything like this before.

when he’s tried to hook up with girls in the past, they normally gave up after a minute of trying to unhinge their jaw to please him.

but with you? he should’ve known you’d be the one to make him proud.

noticing how surprised he is, you start bobbing your head up and down, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth.

it’s messy, wet, and loud. but neither of you care. not when riki is whimpering beneath you so prettily.

his tip repeatedly slams into the back of your throat, making you gag but it just turns him on more. his thighs start to tense and he knows he’s close to his second orgasm.

feeling him twitch in your mouth, you hollow your cheeks and ignore the tears streaming down your face. only focused on his pleasure. you know exactly what will push him over the edge, so you bring your mouth up his cock, lips wrapped carefully around his tip.

swirling your tongue around it, occasionally focusing on his slit, you bring one hand up to his balls and the other to wrap around his base, applying pressure to the vein running along his shaft.

one second later, your mouth gets flooded with his sticky, hot cum. rope after rope shooting from his enlarged tip. his dick is pulsing in your mouth and his cum never ends. it’s spilling out of your mouth onto the floor, but you try and swallow everything you can, not wanting to waste even a drop.

his chest is rapidly rising and falling when you pull off of him with a pop. you wipe your mouth with the sleeve of your shirt and smile sweetly at him, acting like you didn’t just suck him so good his soul left his body.

“damn, baby, didn’t know you wanted me that bad.” he says through a smirk. “calm down nishimura, i could’ve filled up a gallon of water with how much you came,” you bite back. he just looks at your tear stained cheeks and a sense of pride swells in his chest.

while he’s lost in his thoughts, you stand up, knees bruised from his hardwood floor.

glancing between his legs, you notice he’s still hard. how much cum does he have for you? you wonder, taking off your jeans and panties in one go.

now that you’re both fully naked, riki gets up off his bed and approaches you, holding one of your hands. he spins you around, taking in your fully nude body for the first time.

noticing his staring, you open your mouth, “are you just gonna stare or fuck me?”

smoothly, he leads you to lie down on his bed, “patience, princess, be good for me while i take care of you, yeah?” oh you’re gone already.

he leans down to kiss you and your hands find his nape, gently grabbing the hair trailing down his neck.

you mistook riki for an ass guy, when his fascination with your tits makes you break the kiss. he’s sucking gently on your right nipple, his free hand finding your left boob.

moaning gently, you tip your head back into his pillow that smells like comfort, and something musky, but it’s something extremely riki. you instinctively arch into his touch, bare core desperately grinding into the air of his bedroom, desperate for friction.

he senses your neediness, bringing his stiff cock down to rub between your soaked folds. his tip catches your clit, eliciting soft whimpers from your parted lips. using your slick as lube, he lines himself up, stopping before he goes further. “condom?” he sweetly asks. you whisper, under your breath, “n-no, i’m on birth—,” however, you don’t get to answer him when you feel his tip slide into your awaiting hole.

both moaning in relief, he stays with just his tip in, preparing you for the stretch that’s about to come. you relax a bit, a signal for him to push a bit further, cutting off his action with a loud moan.

it’s better than any porn he could dream of, and he’s only about two inches in. the sheer girth of him alone makes it feel like he’s splitting you open in the best way possible.

you look down, thinking he’s halfway in, when in reality, he’s about a fourth of the way inside you. meeting his eyes, he senses your nerves, bringing a hand down to rub your sensitive bundle of nerves.

it helps distract you from the pain, allowing him to slide half way in. he groans at the sensation of your warm, wet walls, engulfing his aching cock. “baby, you gotta relax… you’re s’tight,” he drunkenly mumbles. you can only whimper in response, exhaling as you try to calm down.

once your breathing has returned to a normal state, riki slowly pushes in more, but it all comes to a halt when you wrap your legs around his torso, pulling him all the way in.

he moans, caught off guard, guessing your patience snapped like a thin wire.

as his thick length rests inside you, you can’t help but let out a string of moans, incoherently babbling about how big he feels, and how deep he’s reaching.

“f-fuck. baby, please, can—can i move?” he forces out. you hum in agreement.

he slowly pulls out until only his tip is sheathed inside your warm pussy, then pushes back in all the way. your eyes roll into the back of your head, “fuck. s—s’big, riks.” his pace steadily increases until he notices how your boobs bounce with each thrust he gives you.

he brings his head down, lips wrapping around one of the perky budd, giving you even more pleasure than you knew what to do with.

loud moans grace his ears, the only other sound being skin slapping.

his attention is dragged back to your face when one of your hands reaches for his and brings it up to your neck. his pace falters for a bit until his face contorts, realization dawning over his lust filled features. “oh? does my baby wanna be choked? dirty slut.” you nod in response.

feeling the pressure of his cold ring clad fingers wrapping around your burning flesh, you let out a sigh of relief, the tension in your tummy building at a rapid pace.

riki suddenly pulls out of you, flipping you on all fours, placing a pillow under your stomach. he drags your hips up, kneading the plumpness of your ass. he slams back into you, reaching even deeper in your guts, as he hovers over your back.

“you like feelin’ me this deep, hm?” he takes your hand and places it over the bump you feel with every thrust. your noises are muffled by his bed, which ticks him off—he wants to hear every sound that slips through your mouth. noticing that you liked things a bit rough, he pulls your hair, bringing you flush against the hardness of his chest.

he stills inside you, letting you feel every inch, twitch, and pulse. he’s holding off his orgasm for as long as he can, but he’s not sure how long he can last when you keep clenching around him.

he knows it’s unintentional, but it feels too good, he just needs a second.

you can feel him breathing down your neck when you begin to move. he tries stopping you, but to no avail, you start bouncing on his stiffened cock.

“f-fuck. gonna—cum,” he moans when he attempts to pull out. you push him back down, needing to feel him fill you up. “no. inside,” is all you can muster when he makes a sound of confusion.

slowly gaining confidence, you turn around, and flip him over so you’re on top of him.

flustered by the change in positions, riki gasps when you start to move. his hand finds your clit, rubbing in tight circles.

the band in your stomach starts building, fueling both of your desperation.

your orgasm comes crashing down in waves, pushing riki to buck his hips up, fucking you through it. “that’s it, baby, let it out. c’mon, be a good girl f’me and make a mess,” he mutters out, wanting to prolong your pleasure for as long as he can.

as you cum, your walls uncontrollably clench around his dick, making it harder for him to slide in and out. he starts to chase his own high, gently placing your head back on his pillow and picking up your legs to rest on his shoulders.

he pistons in and out of you, mind hazy, consumed with the need to cum inside of you.

groaning, he stills in your abused cunt, flooding you with the gift of his cum. each pulse, you clench around his hard cock, milking him dry.

he’s on cloud nine, feeling the way you’re taking everything he could possibly offer you.

just as he thinks he’s nearing the end of his high, you whisper in a sultry voice, “you’re still hard, riks,” which makes his skin flush a deep red. his balls tighten and somehow a couple more ropes of cum shoot into your womb. he doesn’t know what you do to him, “take it out on me, baby, i can’t imagine how pent up you must be…” and that does it for him.

wanting to try something new, he straddles your torso, pushing your plush tits together. he aligns his sensitive cock between the flesh and slowly slides through. you stick your tongue out, trying to lick his tip each time it peeks between your boobs.

his cock is nearly too thick for your tits to wrap around him, but he doesn’t care. the sight is more than enough for him to finish.

he’s already close.

the sensitivity gets to him when you begin to hold your tits together, giving him an unobstructed view of you. each time your tongue laps at his slit, he feels himself growing closer to the high he so badly craves.

what really does it for him, is when you spit between your breasts, further lubing his cock. with a low, drawn-out moan, he paints your tits and face with his cum. the sight is too much, his balls go into overdrive, pulsing out more and more ropes of his white, messy load.

your mouth hangs open, wanting to taste more of the salty substance. he thinks you’re perfect.

he collapses on top of you, feeling spent and tired. it’s only when you whine about the stickiness between your legs, on your boobs, and on your face that he gets out of bed, rushing to his bathroom.

he makes his way back over to you with a warm washcloth, and the softest touch you’ve ever felt. he gently cleans the mess he made, only now realizing how much cum he gave you.

and you took all of it. his good girl.

once he’s done wiping away his mess, he picks you up bridal style, heading back to his bathroom. to your surprise, he drew you a bath, with scented candles—lavender. he remembered your favorite.

he helps you into the tub, climbing in behind you. he shampoos your hair, conditions it, and even washes your body with such care, it brings tears to your eyes.

after many hushed whispers, he drains the bathtub, helping you dry off and get into your (his) clothes.

you both get back into his bed, snuggled against one another, riki’s embrace wrapped around you warmer than any blanket could provide.

“riki?” you whisper, afraid to shatter the delicate silence. he hums in response. “please don’t leave me again,” you say trembling, a silent tear slipping down your cheek.

he turns you to face him, “hey, hey, hey, baby, i’m right here. and i know what i did was shitty, you deserved an explanation. but. i couldn’t let you get caught up in what i was doing. it was risky, i couldn’t be what you deserve,” he croaks out, tears wetting his lashes. now it was your turn to comfort him, “oh my riki,” you cooed, cradling his face.

“you did what you had to do, but what’s important is that you’re here now. with me. okay?” you plant the softest kiss on his plump lips. “okay,” he says with a small smile.

you don’t let go. neither does he. his hands stay on your waist, tentative but needing, like he’s still trying to memorize the feel of you. your fingers linger against his jaw, your thumb brushing the damp skin beneath his eye. there’s silence between you, but it’s no longer heavy—just full. thick with everything that couldn’t be said before.

his lips brush against yours again—slower this time, deeper. like a question. and an answer. you lean in, the way you sigh into him. it’s not desperate, not rushed. it’s reverent.

when he pulls back just slightly, his forehead resting against yours, his breath is shaky. “i missed you,” he whispers, voice barely audible. “missed you so much i forgot how to breathe without it hurting.”

you cup his face in both hands now, heart aching in the best way. “i’m here. i’m not going anywhere.”

and then you kiss him again—like a vow sealed in warmth and want. like a beginning.

reblog if u enjoyed this! and comment or send an ask to be part of my perm taglist <3

[ @jaeyuniversal ] prod. 250419

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the-winter-spider · 22 days ago

Text

Lucky | Bucky Barnes

Bucky x Movie star!Reader

Part:2/2

Word Count: 17k

Warnings: Angst, ect

A/N: Found this in my google docs when i was looking for my layout of Yours, Always, it was supposed to be a long one shot but Tumblr wont let me post a 35k fic lol so its broken up in two parts, Its not proofreading it or edited.

First Part

Masterpost

---

Bucky leads you deeper into the party. Past tall glass windows that overlook the skyline. Past agents in sleek suits, Avengers in tailored jackets, CEOs trying too hard to blend in.

You clock it all without flinching.

But Bucky can feel the faint tension in your hand, the way your fingers flex slightly in his every few steps. Like you’re trying to stay rooted. Like this, even this, is still unfamiliar ground.

“There,” he says quietly, nodding toward a corner cluster of couches.

Steve is leaning back with a drink in his hand, laughing at something Sam just said. Sam is mid-story, animated as ever, gesturing with both hands like the fate of the world hangs in his delivery and next to them, half-listening and half-smirking, is Natasha, dressed in black, her heels kicked off and tucked under the couch, one eyebrow lifted in mild amusement.

They haven’t noticed you yet, until they do. Sam spots you first and his eyes go wide. “No,” he mouths. “No way.”

Steve follows his gaze. His expression shifts slowly, surprise, then curiosity, then something warmer. Something almost like… pride?

Natasha, she doesn’t flinch. Just leans forward, tilts her head, and narrows her eyes like she’s reading a file only she’s allowed to see.

Bucky clears his throat.

“Guys,” he says, like this is any other day. “This is Y/N.”

Sam’s already halfway on his feet. “THE Y/N?” he asks, pointing. “Like… you?” You smile politely, but something about the way he says it makes you laugh, an actual, soft laugh, slipping out before you can stop it.

“Depends which one you mean,” you say.

Sam grins. “I mean the one who ruined my life in that indie film where you died at the end.”

“Ah,” you say. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“I had to lie to my therapist about how much I cried.”

You laugh again. “I cried shooting it.”

Sam turns to Bucky. “Man, you didn’t say she was cool.”

Steve stands and extends a hand. “Captain Steve Rogers. It’s a pleasure.”

You take it. “The pleasure’s mine. Big fan of your whole ‘punching Nazis’ arc.”

Steve chuckles. “Thanks, still working on the sequel.”

You’re all still standing in that gentle, easy circle when Natasha finally speaks.

“You’re prettier in person,” she says simply.

You blink, caught off guard. “Thank you?”

“It wasn’t a compliment,” Natasha replies, and smiles.

You smile back. “I like you already.”

There’s a pause and everyone laughs. Even Bucky, especially Bucky. The moment settles like it was always meant to be this way.

You’re curled into the couch now, drink in hand, laughing into the rim of your glass as Sam launches into a dramatic retelling of the time he got caught watching one of your movies on a quinjet, mid-mission.

“I swear to God, the mission brief was boring,” Sam says. “So I’m scrolling through the in-flight stuff, and boom, there you are. Staring out a rain-covered window. It was over after that.”

You grin, chin resting on your hand. “Which ones have you seen?”

“Oh, uh….The Last Goodbye,” he says, then adds immediately, “But also Glass Garden, Something in Autumn, The Moth Room, that space one, the one with the piano, what was that called?”

“Reverie,” Steve offers helpfully.

“Right! Reverie!” Sam snaps his fingers. “And Kingdom Come….And, oh, Marrow. That was dark.”

You blink. “You’ve seen all of them?”

Sam puts a hand on his chest. “Ma’am, I am emotionally invested.”

You’re still laughing when Sam says, “We actually just watched one a couple weeks ago. Me, Steve, and Buck, In The Quiet After.”

Your eyes slide to Bucky instantly, the laugh dying in your throat. “You watched it?”

Bucky clears his throat, nods. “Yeah.”

Your smile softens, eyes searching his. “What did you think?”

Bucky glances down for a second, then looks back up at you. “That you’re amazing.”

Your heart stutters behind your ribs. That word, amazing carries more weight than it should. But from him? It sounds like he means it.

Before you can say anything, Natasha leans in from the other couch, studying your lips. “What shade of red is that?” she asks casually.

You blink, caught off guard again. “Oh. Um, Monroe by Verre.”

Natasha nods, satisfied. “Figures. I use Vesper. Yours is more of a ‘kiss-me-in-the-dark-alley’ red. I like it.”

You laugh, a little breathless. “Thanks.”

Steve claps his hands once, standing. “Alright, let’s get the ladies another drink.”

Bucky looks over at you, brow raised like he’s checking in, asking without words if you’re okay to be left for a minute.

Before you can answer, Natasha waves a dismissive hand. “Relax, Barnes. I’m not gonna bite her.” She leans back. “She’s safe with me. Now go, we’re thirsty.”

You nod, smiling at him, he hesitates slightly then follows Steve toward the bar.

Sam rises too, stretching. “I’m gonna go see if I can steal one of those mini food trays. The one with the prosciutto thingies. Don’t leave me out here without carbs.”

Now you’re alone with Natasha, she doesn’t say anything at first. Just sips what's left of her drink, eyes scanning the room, lashes heavy. Without looking at you she says, “You have sad eyes.”

You blink. That catches you clean in the chest. No warning, no preparation. Just the truth, dropped like a pin in the middle of a marble floor.

You turn to her, unsure what to say. But she’s already leaning in slightly, hand gentle as it lands on your knee, warm and grounding.

“I’ve worn that look,” she says. “It’s heavy. The world thinks it’s mystery. Men think it’s glamour. But really? It’s just loneliness. The kind that lingers even when you’re smiling.”

You swallow, no words come.

Natasha doesn’t press. She just sits with you in that silence like she’s been there before. Like she knows exactly how far down it goes. She says, quieter this time, “Sometimes people need to see through you to actually see you. It’s not a weakness.”

You don’t answer. But your fingers curl slightly into the hem of your dress, and for once, the tears that prick at your lashes aren’t from exhaustion. They’re from relief, someone saw you and didn’t look away.

Steve leaned against the counter, watching Bucky out of the corner of his eye as the bartender slid two drinks their way.

“You like her,” he said, not accusing, more like just stating.

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed fixed across the room, on you, the way your head tilted back when you laughed at something Sam said, your hand still loosely curled around your drink.

“I care for her,” he said, voice quiet and rough. “A lot.”

Steve nodded once, like he already knew. He didn’t push.

Bucky kept watching you from where he stood, the soft curl of your smile, the way you were actually relaxed for once. The version of you no one else ever got to see. His chest ached with it, with the weight of wanting to protect something so fragile, so hidden.

Steve shifted, reaching into his blazer. “About her stalker, I know they have him but—”

Bucky turned slightly. Steve pulled out a slim folder, not thick but heavy in implication. “I’ve got the file, from when you asked before. You can take it after the party.”

Bucky nodded. “Thanks.”

Natasha approached, still barefooted and drinkless. She snatched the glass from Steve’s hand with a small smirk. “Mine,” she said, raising it toward him. Steve let it go without argument.

“I’m going to mingle,” Natasha said, glancing toward the dance floor. “Maybe scare a few billionaires.”

She turned to Bucky. “Be careful with her.”

That pulled his eyes up. “What?”

Natasha just stared. “I’m serious,” she said. “She’s about one sharp word away from crumbling.”

He bristled. “She’s stronger than you think.”

“I know she is,” Natasha replied evenly. “That’s the problem, people like her… they don’t fall apart when they should. They wait, they stack the weight until it’s too late.”

Bucky clenched his jaw.

Natasha leaned in slightly. “She’s been in survival mode so long she doesn’t know how to stop pretending. You’re the only thing I’ve seen her reach for that wasn’t scripted.”

Bucky didn’t say anything.

“Relax, Barnes,” she added with a little smirk, “I’m not questioning you. I’m warning you.”

She turned, drink in hand, and disappeared into the crowd with all the quiet confidence of someone who’s seen too much. Bucky stayed there for a second. Two drinks in hand. Just… staring.

You were across the room, sitting alone now, Sam had run off for food or a drink or who knows what. Your posture was graceful, elegant even, but now that Natasha had said it, he saw it.

The quiet twitch in your fingers. The way you kept fixing the hem of your dress, then your bracelet, then the ring on your finger, all muscle memory. Nervous energy dressed up as poise.

Sam reappeared, triumphant, holding an entire tray of tiny hors d’oeuvres like he’d just won a war. Your face lit up, really lit up. Like a kid, like a person, like someone who has been told “no” for a long time and forgot what “yes” felt like.

You laughed when he offered you one with an exaggerated bow. Then you actually ate it, it was the first real bite of food you’d had in days, you reached for another and Bucky just stood there. Watching you come alive in real time.

Steve slapped a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go,” he said, nodding toward the couches. “Before you stare a hole through her.”

Steve was halfway through a story about how Bucky once punched a guy twice his size for stealing a kid’s lunch money, and Bucky, deadpan, fired back with a story about Steve getting his ass handed to him by a twelve-year-old with a skipping rope.

You’d laughed so hard you wiped a tear from the corner of your eye. You were still laughing when it hit you, hard, the realization of it all.

It happened so quickly, most people wouldn’t have caught it. But Bucky did, he watched your smile falter just slightly. Your eyes didn’t crinkle the same way.

You glanced around the couches, at Steve and Sam, then the whole room. The warmth between them all, the way they moved like puzzle pieces that had already figured out where they belonged.

Family and friendship. Years of love and memory and stupid inside jokes and unspoken glances.

You had none of that. No one who remembered your birthday without a calendar invite. No one who knew what your laugh sounded like when you weren’t acting. No one who would talk about the time you stayed up all night building a pillow fort or snuck out to see a concert. You didn’t have stories like that because you hadn’t had a life like that,

Your whole face dropped. Not dramatically, quietly. Like the light inside you dimmed just enough for Bucky to feel it like a punch to the ribs. He swallowed. Something twisted behind his breastbone.

He didn’t want to see your face fall ever again, not like that. Not when you’d only just started to smile for real. He cleared his throat. Before he could talk himself out of it, he stood, turned to you and did something he hadn’t done since the 1940s, since before.

“Dance with me.”

Steve’s glass paused halfway to his mouth, slowly, a grin stretched across his face, wide and warm, like he’d just watched a ghost come back to life.

“Really?” You blinked. "You wanna dance with….me?”

Bucky nodded, his voice was softer this time, low so only you could hear it. “You’re the only one I wanna dance with.””

Your expression broke into something unguarded, pure surprise wrapped in soft disbelief. You took his hand, his fingers curled around yours with so much care it made your chest ache.

He led you gently toward the open space near the center of the room, a place where the music swelled just loud enough to pull you both into something quieter.

You moved close, almost chest to chest. Muscle memory took over, he spun you once, your laugh trailing behind like stardust and pulled you back in with a grace he didn’t know he still had.

Bucky, he was smiling. Not the crooked half-lift he usually gave when he was amused or tolerating someone.

Sam stood there watching, eyes wide. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile like that.”

Steve’s voice was soft. “In all the years I’ve known him… I’ve never seen that smile.”

The song changed, slower now more tender. But neither of you stepped away. You stayed in his arms, swaying like the world didn’t exist.

Your voice came barely above a whisper. “I don’t want this to end.”

His eyes glanced down at you. “It doesn’t have to, y’know.”

You looked up at him, eyes glassy. “I’ve never been this happy in my life.”

Bucky’s hands slid gently around your waist, pulling you just a little closer. “Then stay in it, with me.”

You didn’t answer, you didn’t have to. It was all in the way you looked at him like maybe you were starting to believe happiness wasn’t something made up for movies.

The night blurred at the edges, dulled by warm drinks, real laughter, and a little too much Asgardian liquor. Your hand was in his, fingers laced, and you stumbled a little in your heels when you reached the hallway. Bucky caught you without thinking, steady hands at your waist like it was instinct.

You looked up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. “I’ve been thinking,” you said, voice low, thick with mischief.

He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? About what?”

“Your lips.”

That threw him. “My… lips?”

You nodded, smiling, drunk on wine and happiness. “I’m gonna kiss them.”

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move, just stood there, caught somewhere between surprise and anticipation.

Your hands slid up to the back of his neck, soft and sure, and then you leaned in. Pressed your mouth to his, warm and slow and a little clumsy but real. His hands rose instinctively to your face, palms bracketing your jaw like you might disappear. He kissed you back like he was afraid to break whatever spell this was.

When you pulled away, your smile was quiet, a little dazed.

“I’m gonna go lie down,” you whispered, voice light. “Before I do something really embarrassing.”

He didn’t tease. Just opened the door to his room and nodded toward the bed. “Get some rest.”

You nodded too, suddenly shy, and padded inside, kicking off your heels. You curled onto his bed like you’d been there a hundred times, back to him, arm tucked under your cheek. You didn’t say goodnight. You didn’t have to.

He didn’t watch you sleep.

He sat on the couch instead, ran a hand through his hair, and reached for the file waiting on the coffee table. The moment was still in his mouth, soft and slow and lingering, but the words on the page stole the warmth from his chest.

Elias Corrin.

He turned the page.

A series of disturbing notes, scrawled handwriting. Photos, too close, too focused. Mailroom logs. Security reports. Mental health history flagged. Prior arrests. Declared unstable. Released on condition of monitored care, care that clearly didn’t happen. A restraining order ignored. GPS trackers found on two former assistants. One note, timestamped just last week: If I can’t have her, no one will.

Bucky exhaled, slow through his nose. They said they caught him, they swore he was in custody.

But something about it didn’t sit right. Not with that last message. Not with how your shoulders still tensed when you thought no one was looking. He closed the file, thumb brushing the corner of the last page.

He looked over at you, asleep in his bed, curled into yourself like a secret and felt something quiet and sharp settle behind his ribs.

If he’d let himself believe in promises, he would’ve made one right then. Instead, he just stayed awake and kept watch.

You woke up disoriented. For a second, you thought you were home. The sheets were warm, soft. The light filtering in was gentle, not sharp like it usually was.

Your eyes caught the unfamiliar ceiling. The heavier weight of the comforter. The sound of someone breathing, slow, steady.

You sat up, blinking. There he was.

Bucky, slouched on the couch, legs stretched out, one arm tossed over the back. His metal hand was relaxed for once, not clenched like it usually was. His face was soft. Peaceful in a way you didn’t think he knew how to be, just like that, it all came rushing back, the party, the dancing, the kiss, the way you laughed like you weren’t scared of anything.

You reached for your purse and fished out your phone. It was a warzone. Dozens of missed calls, texts, emails. All from your team.

Some angry, some cruel.

Where the fuck are you.

Do you have any idea what you’ve done.

We protect you and this is how you repay us?

You think being seen with him is going to help your image?

God, you're such a dumb bitch.

Your chest tightened, not wanting to read the rest. You locked the screen and put the phone down like it might catch fire. Your fingers itched, and before you could stop yourself, you opened your browser. Typed your name.

Nothing.

No headlines, no photos, no video clips or shaky footage from partygoers. The Tower was clean, you knew it would be, but you still had a little part of you that didn’t trust it. You exhaled, the breath caught halfway up your throat.

You slid off the bed and padded into the bathroom. The makeup was still there. Smudged eyeliner, faded lipstick, glitter, clinging to your cheekbones. You leaned over the sink and turned the faucet on, cupping water in your hands and scrubbing everything away.

When you looked up at your reflection, there you were. No filters, no lashes, no red carpet armor. You left the bathroom and opened one of Bucky’s drawers. Took a pair of sweatpants that looked like they could fit two of you and a soft, worn t-shirt that smelled like him. You rolled the waistband twice and tied the drawstring tight, brushed your hair back with your fingers, and walked barefoot into the living room.

He stirred on the couch, blinking slowly.

When he looked up and saw you, no makeup, messy hair, standing in his clothes like it wasn’t the most vulnerable thing you could’ve done.

You held his gaze. “I gotta go home,” you said softly. “I’m in trouble.”

He sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. “You wanna eat first?”

You hesitated, nodded. “Sure.”

In the kitchen, Steve was flipping pancakes. Sam was leaning against the counter, drinking coffee straight from the mug. They looked up when you walked in.

You in Bucky’s shirt, sleeves past your hands. His sweatpants dragging a little at your ankles.

They both paused, didn’t say anything. Bucky followed close behind and shot them a look, sharp, silent, don’t start.

Steve smiled anyway, all soft and casual. “Hope you’re hungry.”

You slid onto a stool at the island, tucking your legs underneath you. “I don’t remember the last time I had breakfast that smelled this good,” you said quietly. You didn’t say it for sympathy. It was just true.

Steve plated pancakes, eggs, bacon. Sam pushed a glass of orange juice your way. No one made a big deal about anything. They just… let it be normal. It felt strange and kind of perfect.

After a while, after the food and the small talk and the brief moment where you forgot what waited outside, you stood, napkin in hand.

“Thank you,” you said to Steve, sincere. “For the food and….just everything.”

Steve just nodded. “Anytime.”

Bucky grabbed his keys. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll get you home.”

When you got back to your house, they were already inside. Not waiting, just there like always, like they never left. The moment the door clicked shut, the noise started.

“You disappeared.”

“You embarrassed us.”

“You know how hard we work to protect your image? And that's how you treat us?! Like garbage?”

“I’ll tell you who's garbage!”

Bucky stood just inside the entryway, jaw tight, arms crossed. He didn’t say a word.

“You don’t answer your phone for one night and we have to put out ten fires.”

“You think people won’t talk?”

“Stupid girl.”

Gina steps forward, “Enough,” she said, voice sharp. “We’ll talk about this later. In private.”

They backed off immediately, like soldiers hearing a command. Not because they respected her. But because who else was in the room with them, Bucky.

Brett handed you a clipboard, like a weapon. “New schedule.”

You glanced at it, top to bottom, packed. Your eyes hit one line. Bold.

Nude Scene — 3 Weeks.

Clipped to the back: a single sheet.

Diet Breakdown. Daily Intake. Weight Targets.

You didn’t blink. Just nodded and held the papers at your side like they didn’t burn your skin.

“Phone,” Gina said.

You pulled it from your pocket, handing it over.

Just like that they were gone, moved to the kitchen, already fighting about something else. The second the door shut behind them, Bucky looked at you.

“Why do you let them treat you like that?”

You didn’t answer right away. “It’s easier,” you said finally. “If I push back, it just gets louder.”

He stepped a little closer. “You said you didn’t want to do that scene.”

“I say a lot of things,” you muttered, eyes still on the floor. “Doesn’t mean it matters.”

He frowned. “You don’t get to say no?”

Your laugh was soft and dry, “There are a lot of things I don’t want to do,” you said. “That doesn’t mean I get a choice.”

You didn’t tell him what you gave up to be at the Tower last night. That one night of normal, dancing, pancakes, his hands on your waist, it had a cost. You made peace with it already.

“Might as well suck it up,” you added. “Right? Give the people something they apparently can’t live without, my body.”

Bucky didn’t answer. Just stared at you like he didn’t know whether to hug you or break a wall.

The door creaked open again. Leah stuck her head in. “Barnes. You can go, we don’t need you anymore today.”

Bucky’s eyes didn’t leave yours. “You gonna be okay?”

You nodded, offered him a small smile the kind of nod you give when there’s no fight left in you.

“I’ll text you,” you said.

He nodded too, he hated that he did, he hated leaving you here. He turned for the door. Leah, behind him, smirked just a little. “No, she won’t.” and then she shut the door in his face.

---

The next day, you were on set, sort of.

It wasn’t a full shoot, just screen testing. Wardrobe, lighting, a camera rigged to capture how you looked under three different kinds of studio sun.

You sat in a folding chair in the corner, hair pinned up, silk robe over a vintage slip dress, drinking lukewarm coffee while a production assistant ran cables behind you. You looked tired, but not fake-tired. The kind of tired that lived in your bones.

Bucky stood nearby, hands in his pockets, watching the swirl of controlled chaos.

“What’s this one about?” Bucky asked, nodding toward the bustle of the set.

You didn’t look up. Just took another sip of the coffee that had gone cold an hour ago.

“Some sad Hollywood star,” you said, flat.

He looked over at you.

You gave a small, half-laugh the kind that didn’t touch your eyes. “Fitting, right?”

Bucky didn’t laugh, didn’t joke. He just watched you, the way your shoulders stayed tense even when you were sitting, the way your eyes flicked across the room like you were searching for something that wasn’t there.

“She’s famous,” you added, voice quieter now. “Everyone knows her face. But no one actually knows her.”

You paused, then gave a faint shrug. “It’s called Lucky.”

Bucky didn’t say anything at first, finally under his breath: “Doesn’t sound like luck.”

Later on that week, maybe two days, maybe three, Bucky knocked on your door. Not for work, not because he had to, they gave him the day off today.

You opened it in socks and a crewneck, eyebrows raised like you weren’t expecting him.

He rubbed the back of his neck, awkward as hell, deciding after hyping himself up all day that he was just going to say it. “I was thinking,” he said, “maybe I could take you to dinner.”

You blinked. “Like…”

“Not as security,” he cut in, fast. “Just, me. Taking you out, like normal people do.” He looked nervous. “Like a date, I wanna take you on a date, it’s fine—”

He felt stupid like you might laugh, you didn’t. You smiled, that small, real one he was getting addicted to and said, “Yes.” So fast he didn’t even finish his sentence.

The place wasn’t fancy, it was barely even modern. A little hole-in-the-wall diner tucked down a side street in Brooklyn, the kind with cracked vinyl booths, fries that came in paper baskets, and a jukebox that only played songs recorded before 1975.

You wore jeans and a hoodie. Hair pulled back, no makeup and he couldn’t stop looking at you. Not because of what you were wearing. Not because of what anyone else would’ve noticed. But because this was the first time he’d seen you like this, out and about. You looked… happy. Like you were in on a secret no one else knew.

You ordered pancakes for dinner and stole fries off his plate. You told him a story about a role you almost got when you were nineteen and how you sabotaged the audition on purpose because you didn’t want to play “a girl who dies from a broken heart.”

“Ironic now,” you’d said, biting into a fry.

He didn’t argue. But he reached across the table and nudged your hand with his and when your eyes met his, something soft passed between you. Just two people trying to figure out how to breathe again.

You didn’t rush through dinner, you lingered.

The two of you talked like there wasn’t a clock in the world, about music, movies, what Coney Island used to look like before it got cleaned up. You told him about your favorite director (he hadn’t heard of them), and he told you about the first movie he ever saw in theaters before the war.

“It was a double feature,” he said. “One reel broke halfway through, so the whole audience just sat there waiting like someone died.”

You laughed. “That’s very on-brand for you.”

When the check came, he tried to pay, stubborn about it, you told him you considered this your first official fight but you let him, just this once.

The sky was already dark when you stepped outside, the street was quiet. Empty enough to feel like it belonged to you then it started to rain.

Not a downpour, just that light, misty kind of rain that clings to your lashes and makes the streetlights look like halos.

You looked up at the sky, then back at him. “Of course,” you said, smiling. “Feels fitting.”

Bucky pulled off his jacket without a word and draped it over your shoulders. It was warm from his body heat, and too big, and perfect.

He walked beside you in a black t-shirt, not caring about the cold or the rain. His hand brushed yours once, twice, until finally, he just reached over and held it.

Not tightly, not like a claim. Just enough to say I’m here and you didn’t let go, you never wanted to again.

You walked like that the whole way back. No security, noentourage. Just the city, the rain, and the two of you.

At your door, he hesitated. You stood there in his jacket, fingers curled at the sleeves, and said, “That was the best night I’ve had in… maybe ever.”

He smiled.You looked up at him, nervous suddenly, and said, “Wanna come by tomorrow?”

He blinked. “You mean, like—”

“Just come over,” you said, softer now. “I don’t have anything scheduled. No press, no meetings. I figured maybe we could… I don’t know. Be normal.”

Bucky nodded. “What time?”

“Ten,” you said. “Bring coffee.”

He smirked. “Anything but craft services?”

You grinned, stepping back toward the door. “Exactly.”

You started to turn toward the door, then paused. Looked back. “Hey, Bucky?”

He turned his head, eyes on you. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

The name hit low in your stomach. You smiled, cheeks flushing, but didn’t look away.

“I’ve been in so many movies,” you said. “Played every kind of love story… but I’ve never had a kiss in the rain before.”

He paused, just a breath then his smile deepened. It wasn’t teasing, It was soft, slow, like something old and familiar settling into place.

He stepped forward, closing the space between you. His hands found your waist, yours lifted to his chest and then he kissed you, like something out of a movie.

Not like before. This time it was deeper, wetter, with the rain clinging to your skin and your breath catching somewhere between his mouth and your heart.

When he finally pulled back, he stayed close, noses brushing, rain dripping from his lashes.

“Glad I could be your first, ” he murmured.

You smiled, barely breathing. “Hopefully my only.”

He let that linger between you. Didn’t say anything, just smiled, that quiet, just-for-you kind of smile that you were already getting addicted to.

You stepped back, still wearing his jacket, fingers trailing down his arm as you turned toward the door.

“See you tomorrow, Sarge.”

Bucky stood there after you shut the door, soaked to the bone, smiling like a man who finally had something worth getting caught in the rain for.

---

He showed up at ten on the dot. Coffee in hand. Hoodie slung on. That soft, unsure look in his eyes like he wasn’t totally convinced you hadn’t changed your mind.

You opened the door in his jacket, the same one from the last night and a messy bun that was maybe more sleep than style. Your eyes lit up at the sight of him.

“Good. You’re punctual. I like that in a man,” you teased, taking the coffee from him with both hands. “You remembered.”

“I remember everything,” Bucky said, stepping inside. “Especially when it comes with threats about craft services.”

You smiled into the lid of your coffee. “You hungry?”

He shrugged. “I could eat.”

You’d already made eggs. Just because. Toasted two slices of bread, burnt the edges on one, blamed the toaster, he didn’t care he’d eat anything you made.

He sat across from you at the kitchen island while you finished scrambling the last bit of eggs in the pan. The light streaming through the windows caught the edges of your hair. He watched it for a little too long.

After breakfast, you disappeared for a minute. When you came back, you were holding a shopping bag. A mischievous smile spread across your face.

“Wig day,” you announced.

Bucky blinked, choking on air. “Wig what?”

You reached in and pulled out a bright hot pink bob for you and a ridiculously curly blonde one for him.

He stared at it like it might bite him. “I am not wearing that.”

“Oh, you are,” you said, already pulling yours on. “We’re going incognito.”

“I already have a disguise,” he argued, gesturing to himself.

“Buck,” you said seriously, walking up to him and holding the wig just over his head. “Please, for me.”

You hit him with the full force of a pout. The kind of expression that could level buildings.

He sighed. “If you ever tell anyone—”

“Swear on my Oscar,” you said solemnly.

He gave in and twenty minutes later, the two of you were walking hand-in-hand through the Saturday morning farmers market, you in oversized sunglasses and hot pink hair, Bucky in a blonde monstrosity and didn’t even try to blend in.

You were laughing before you even made it to the first vendor.

“God, this is so freeing,” you said, grabbing two honey sticks from a basket and handing him one. “This is the most fun I’ve had in public since I was seventeen.”

“Do people even recognize you?” Bucky asked, chewing on his stick.

“Not unless they’re really looking.” You popped yours into your mouth. “You’d be surprised what a wig can do. That and not smiling for cameras.”

He smiled a little at that.

You made him buy sunflowers, a whole bunch of them and when he rolled his eyes, you shoved them into his arms and said, “For the compound, It needs color.”

“Its gray.”

“Exactly.”

You made him try a slice of fresh peach from one of the stands. He groaned, visibly impressed. “This might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

You nodded, smug. “I have excellent taste, in fruit and men.”

He coughed, caught off guard, and you just kept walking like you hadn’t said anything at all.

A little boy walked by holding his mom’s hand, eyes wide. He looked up at Bucky’s wig and said, very seriously, “I like your funny hair.”

Without missing a beat, Bucky deadpanned, “Thanks, it’s natural.”

You lost it, laughed so hard you had to stop walking, one hand on your stomach, the other on Bucky’s arm for support.

“God,” you wheezed. “I think I pulled something.”

He smiled, not a small smile but the kind that showed just how old he was, wrinkles and all. He couldn't stop watching you, all teeth, all light.

“You’re ridiculous,” he said.

“You love it.”

“Maybe I do.” He whispered

You looked up at him then and for a second, it felt like a normal life. Like this wasn’t temporary. Like this was the part people forget to write about, the joy that lives in quiet places. In stupid wigs and sticky fruit fingers and hand-holding.

You walked a little closer after that and when the sun dipped behind a cloud, Bucky looked over and thought: Yeah, this is what it’s supposed to feel like.

You got back to your house with sunflowers in one hand, a bag of peaches in the other, and your wigs still barely hanging on.

Bucky tugged his off the second the door shut. You kept yours on just to make him laugh one last time before finally giving in and tossing it onto the entryway bench.

“God,” you groaned, kicking your shoes off. “We looked like walking satire.”

“You bought them,” he pointed out.

“Exactly,” you grinned, “I have no one to blame but myself.”

He set the peaches on the counter and opened the fridge, standing there like he lived here, like this wasn’t weird and it wasn’t. Not with him.

You poured two glasses of water, handed him one, and nodded toward the back patio.

“Come on,” you said.

Your backyard was ridiculous.

Big enough for events. Empty enough to echo. Most days it just sat there, silent and underused, like a stage no one had written a scene for.

But tonight you made it yours. You laid a thick blanket right in the middle of the lawn, a bottle of water and two peaches between you.

Just you two and the stars, you dropped down first, looking up, arms folded under your head.

He hesitated briefly before lowering himself beside you. The sky above was endless, crisp and clear. You sighed. “So… that one’s called ‘The Sad Actress Who Bought Too Many Wigs.’”

He turned his head. “Is it?”

You nodded solemnly. “Legend says she cried on cue and never learned to cook.”

Bucky snorted. “Sounds tragic.”

“Deeply.”

He pointed upward. “That one’s Cassiopeia. Queen of vanity, everyone thought she was prettier than the gods.”

You squinted. “Is that a compliment?”

He smirked. “No comment.”

You laughed and rolled closer to him, propping your chin on his shoulder. The warmth of his body seeped into your side. He didn’t pull away. You kept pointing, making up fake names, dumb stories about the sky.

He chimed in with the real ones. Orion, Lyra, Andromeda. He told you about them softly, like they were old friends he hadn’t seen in a long time.

Eventually, you went quiet. Your cheek was against his shoulder now. His hand rested lightly on your waist, not holding you there just being there. You could feel his heartbeat where your arm brushed his chest.

You tilted your head, voice small, tired in a different kind of way. “Do you ever think we were meant to make it here?”

He was quiet for a second. “Not until now.”

--------

They were setting up for the next shot, bright lights overhead, crew darting around like bees and Bucky had been pulled aside by one of the stunt coordinators. Something about camera angles and needing a second set of eyes.

He kept glancing over his shoulder, trying to keep you in his line of sight. You were across the stage with Leah, Brett close behind, flipping through notes and talking too fast. You were nodding along, too much, too quickl like a wind-up doll that forgot how to stop.

Then something changed. Your smile, the one you wore like armor slipped. Not all at once. Just… a flicker. A soft stutter in your face like something cracked. You said nothing, but Bucky saw it. He saw you and then you turned, walking off set. Not storming, just… gone.

Bucky’s head snapped to follow you, heart picking up. He moved to go after you, but Brett stepped in, gesturing toward a mark on the floor. “She’ll be back, don’t worry about her trust me, she’s not worth it. Just being a diva again. This always happens when she doesn’t get enough sleep.”

Leah added without looking up from her phone, “Let her wear herself out. She’ll come back ready to work, it's nothing."

Something in Bucky’s chest clenched. “She’s everything.” He spoke, giving them the coldest look he could, they rushed away.

He barely finished what he was doing, his heart racing, barely listening then ducked out. The set was a maze, allways of prop rooms, makeup trailers, walls plastered with posters from old releases and peeling tape marks from years of taped call sheets.

It took him longer than he liked. But eventually, he found your dressing room. The door was cracked, he didn’t knock but didn’t barge in either. He just stood there, quiet in the hallway, watching through the sliver.

You were sitting at the vanity, that wide, glowing mirror with the bulbs lining every edge. The kind they use in every movie to say this is what fame looks like. But you didn’t look like the girl they all talked about. You looked empty.

Eyes glassy, staring at your reflection like you didn’t recognize yourself. Your back was straight, shoulders set, trained posture. The kind they drilled into you, but your hands were shaking in your lap and then the tears started.

No noise, no breakdown. Just quiet streams falling over your cheeks like they’d been waiting all day for permission. Then your breath hitched. Once. Twice and suddenly it wasn’t quiet anymore.

You were sobbing. Body curled forward, heels digging into the rung of the stool, hand coming up to cover your mouth like you were afraid someone might hear. As if feeling was the real shame.

That’s when Bucky moved. He stepped inside, gently, not saying anything. You didn’t see him at first. Not until the door clicked shut behind him, he locked it too.

You flinched, turned, eyes red, cheeks blotchy, makeup streaked down like melted glass.

“Sorry,” you breathed, voice hoarse. “I didn’t want anyone to—” You stopped, shook your head but it was just all too much and it was Bucky. So you let it out, finally. “I don’t wanna do this anymore.”

Bucky froze, heart pinched in his chest.

You looked down at your hands like they weren’t yours. “I can’t keep doing this. I feel like I’m disappearing. Like they hollowed me out and left this thing behind and everyone keeps clapping for her but I don’t even know her, I don’t wanna be her.”

You were trembling now, but still trying to hold it in.

“They don’t care if I’m tired, or scared, or if I don’t wanna be touched. I just smile. I go where I’m told. I let them touch my hair, my face, my body and they say it’s mine, but it’s not. None of it is.” You looked up at him then.

“I don’t wanna be lucky,” you whispered. “I just wanna be okay.”

Bucky crossed the room in two steps. He didn’t grab you, he didn’t rush. He just knelt down in front of you and reached for your hands, carefully, like he was afraid to scare you off and wrapped both of his around yours.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” he said, voice low. “Not like this, not for them.”

You looked at him, eyes swimming. “What choice do I have?”

“You have me,” he said. No hesitation.

You blinked.

He gave your hands the gentlest squeeze. “You have me.”

You stared at him, throat tight, hands trembling inside his. You wanted to say something, anything. But nothing came. Just silence and the hum of the dressing room lights above. His thumb brushed over your knuckles lightly, grounding.

“I didn’t think I would ever deserve to feel this way, ” he said quietly. “Didn’t know if I could, not after everything.”

You looked up slowly, surprised.

“I thought what I have was it, just Steve and Sam, I thought… maybe that was all I got, that this was it for me.”

“I didn’t think I deserve anything good,” he added, his voice rougher now. “Not after what I’ve done, what I’ve been.”

Your lip quivered. Not because of what he said. But because it was you he was saying it to.

“But then I met you,” he continued. “And I didn’t see it at first. Not the real you. Just the version they sell, all glam and armor. You were like… smoke. I couldn’t hold on to anything.”

You let out a soft laugh through your tears, the kind that hiccups on its way out.

He smiled gently. “But this? Right now. This you? The you that’s sitting here trying to breathe? That’s the one I want.”

You swallowed hard.

“I want this you forever or however long you’ll have me.”

You didn’t speak, couldn’t. Not with your heart beating like that, instead you took your hands out of his and tossed them around his neck and his went around your waist and you just held each other.

The doorknob jiggled, fast and impatient. Then came the banging. “Why is the door locked?”

You froze. Your body instinctively straightened. That trained tension snapping back into your spine.

Bucky pulled away, holding your face in his hands, and looked at you.“We can figure this out,” he said. “If you don’t want to do this, you don’t have to. You don’t owe them anything, you’re not a brand. You’re not a puppet, you’re a person.”

More banging.

“If you wanna stop, we stop.”

“Give me a second!” you shouted, voice cracking.

“We don’t have a second!” Leah’s voice, sharp and slicing through the wood like a blade.

You closed your eyes, inhaled. Wiped your face. “I have to finish today,” you whispered.

He hated it. God, he hated that sentence. Hated how defeated it sounded. But he understood it. He’d been there. He knew what it meant to survive one more day just to make it through the night.

So he nodded and you nodded back, he placed a kiss to the top of your head before standing up.

You turned back to the mirror, and stared at yourself like a stranger. You smoothed your hair. Blotted under your eyes, swallowed everything.

Three breaths.

You put your mask back on. Not the glamorous one, the functional one the one that let you live.

You turned to him. “Okay.”

He hesitated, then walked to the door, unlocked it. It burst open like a war zone.

“Oh my God, your makeup,” Leah groaned. “What the hell happened?”

She waved the makeup artist over like a soldier summoning backup.

Bucky didn’t say a word. He stepped back into the corner, jaw locked, watching them descend on you with powder and brushes like you were a problem to be fixed.

But you weren’t, he knew that now. You were someone trying to survive and he wasn’t going anywhere.

The sun was just starting to set when the last shot wrapped.

You stood off to the side, arms crossed, exhausted but wired the kind of tired that lives in your bones. You kept looking at the car they’d sent for you, engine humming down the block, driver waiting, door open.

But you didn’t move. Bucky walked up behind you, silent as always.

You didn’t turn, just asked, “You heading home?”

He didn’t answer, just asked. “Why?”

Youlooked at him. “I don’t really wanna go back to the house,” you admitted, voice low.

He didn’t ask why. He just nodded once, then said, “It’s movie night at the Tower.”

You blinked. “Is that code for something?”

“No, just pizza and Sam forcing everyone to watch The Mummy again.”

You stared at him.

“Do you wanna go?” he asked, more careful now. “I never go. They’ll be shocked.”

You chewed your bottom lip. “Would that be… okay?”

Bucky tilted his head, like he couldn’t believe you were actually asking. “Would that be okay?” he echoed. “Sam probably won’t even watch the movie. He’ll just stare at you the whole time.”

You laughed, shoulders relaxing. “Okay.”

He smiled, small and soft. “Okay.”

You glanced once more at the waiting car, then pulled your phone from your bag and shot off a quick text to Leah: Don’t need a ride. Going home with a friend.

Then you turned the phone off, it was the most rebellious thing you’d done in years.

Outside the studio, you followed Bucky across the parking lot. The sky now streaked with blue and gold, the city soft around the edges.

Then you saw it, the bike, his bike. You stopped walking. “You’re kidding.”

Bucky turned, confused. “What?”

“You ride a motorcycle?”

“I mean, yeah. You thought I drove a Prius?”

You laughed and it echoed in the open air.

“If you don’t want to take it I can get one of the guys to come get us,” he offered. “We can Uber—”

“No.” You were already walking toward the bike. “I’ve always wanted to go on one.”

He blinked. “Seriously?”

You nodded, already tugging his helmet from the handlebars.

“You’re gonna want to hold on tight,” he warned.

“Was planning on it.”

He handed you the helmet, watched you adjust the strap like you’d done it a thousand times, then swung his leg over the seat.

You climbed on behind him. Your arms slid around his middle like you were built to fit there.

He revved the engine, and the bike took off, smooth, fast, cutting through the night with wind in your hair and something wild in your chest.

You didn’t want the ride to end.

But it did with the Tower glowing against the skyline, warm and gold like a beacon. Bucky parked just outside and helped you off, his hand lingering just a second longer than necessary at your waist.

You walked in together still laughing at something dumb he’d said when you passed a billboard with your face on it.

The elevator dinged open, you stepped inside and the second the doors opened to the communal floor, voices carried through the hall.

“I’m not watching The Mummy again, Sam!”

“Then get your own movie night!”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Every week,” he muttered.

You were still smiling when you stepped into the room both of you and it took about three seconds for all conversation to stop.

Sam’s mouth dropped open. Steve nearly choked on his drink. Natasha raised one eyebrow, very slowly.

Tony blinked. “Well, look who’s got himself a plus one.”

You stepped in carefully, wearing a sweatshirt two sizes too big, still Bucky’s the one you stole the first night you were on lock down, the night he got to see a glimpse of you. You looked real, you looked like you.

“Hey,” you said, shy but calm.

Sam stood up like he forgot how legs worked. “I…you…again? Is this real life?”

“She’s not a unicorn, Wilson,” Bucky muttered.

Tony clapped a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Proud of you, Barnes. First soul you’ve shown in seventy years.”

You smirked, cheeks flushed, and followed Bucky to the couch. Someone handed you a slice of pizza. Natasha tossed you a blanket without saying a word. You thanked her softly, when the movie started, you barely watched it.

Halfway through the second one, your legs were draped over Bucky’s lap, your head resting against his chest. His arm was around your shoulders. He wasn’t even watching or paying attention to the movie. At one point, he glanced down and found your eyes half closed.

“You can sleep,” he murmured, voice barely above the hum of the movie.

“I don’t sleep in front of people,” you mumbled, already drifting.

“’S’ just us.”

You didn’t answer because you felt safe enough to close your eyes and sleep.

You woke up in a bed that wasn’t yours. The sheets were soft. The room was quiet. Familiar, now. Too quiet for a Tower full of Avengers.

You blinked against the light seeping through the windows, sitting up slowly. Bucky’s hoodie was still wrapped around you and you definitely weren’t on the couch anymore.

You smiled to yourself, just a little, realizing he must’ve carried you in. A second later, you heard the bathroom door open, steam rolling out into the room and then he stepped out in just a towel, wrapped low. Water still dripped from his hair, sliding down his chest, his arms, every inch of him sculpted like a man made of war and time.

Your mouth dried instantly. You tried, god, you tried not to stare. But then he caught your eye and he smirked. His cheeks flushed just slightly. “Steve’s cooking,” he said, casually like he wasn’t standing there a walking Greek statue. “Do you wanna eat?”

You swallowed. “Uh…no. I mean…yes. I just…” You cleared your throat. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll eat.”

He nodded, turning back into the bathroom. “Just give me a second.”

You sat there in the quiet, heart still thudding in your chest like a traitor. When he came out, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt now, hair still damp but combed back, you stood and followed him down the hall.

The kitchen was already alive with the smell of something warm and buttery and Steve muttering to himself about how “Sam never remembers to buy enough eggs.”

You stepped in behind Bucky, barefoot, eyes still adjusting and they started clapping, Sam whistled.

You blinked. “What’s… happening?”

“You haven’t heard yet?” Natasha asked from the stool, sipping coffee with one brow raised.

You shook your head slowly. “I haven’t turned my phone back on.”

Steve gave a tight smile. “Friday?”

“Yes, Captain Rogers?” the AI chirped.

“TV on.”

The screen lit up above the counter and there you were.

Big and bold on a news segment, not a paparazzi shot, but a full-blown entertainment headline.

“—confirmed just this morning that Y/N L/N will be receiving the lifetime achievement award at this year’s Global Arts Guild ceremony…”

Clips started playing, you on red carpets, you in films. Montages of you crying, dancing, bleeding on screen every performance they could scrape together for the sake of a narrative.

Bucky looked over at you, you were still. Still watching, barely breathing. The music cut, then the anchor changed.

“But not everyone is celebrating…”

Images now of you on set arguing, looking exhausted, distraught, one clip of you snapping at someone off-screen, another where you were just… sitting, crying, not acting. They spoke over it all.

Critics questioning your mental state. Saying it was “ungrateful” to be sad when you “had everything.” Comparing you to people “with real problems.”

“Friday, turn it off,” Bucky said sharply.

The screen went black, silence rang in the room. No one said a word. You stood there, chest tight, face unreadable. Then you turned toward the stove, putting on one of your best performances. “It smells delicious.”

Steve’s expression faltered. His brows pulled together, regret softening his mouth. “I didn’t know they’d play that stuff,” he said quietly. “I just thought you’d wanna know about the award.”

You nodded once, calm and composed. “It's okay.”

He slid a plate toward you, warm and full. “It tastes even better.”

You smiled. “Thanks,” you whispered.

Steve’s hand brushed your wrist as you reached for the plate. “Of course.”

Across the kitchen, Bucky watched the way you sat down slowly at the island, fork in hand, holding yourself together like a paper bird in the rain.

He drove you home with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on his thigh, knuckles flexing like he was trying to keep himself from reaching for you.

The ride was quiet. Not awkward, just heavy. Everything that had aired that morning was still hanging between you like fog.

When he pulled up to the gate, he didn’t cut the engine right away. He looked at you. You were already unbuckling, eyes on the road ahead.

“You gonna be okay?” he asked softly.

You gave a small, practiced smile. “Of course. I’m receiving the biggest award I possibly could. I’m living the dream, remember?”

He didn’t smile. He tilted his head just a little, brows drawn together. “You can tell me.”

You blinked and then a single tear slid down your cheek.

You wiped it away quickly with your sleeve. “I just think I need to be alone for a few days. Please don’t take it personally.”

He shook his head. “No, I get it.”

You turned to open the door, but he caught your wrist gently.

“Call me if you need anything, alright?” he said. “I’ll be here in a second.”

You nodded. He pulled you in, wrapped his arms around you, not too tight, just enough. His lips pressed against your forehead, soft and grounding. He stepped back and let you go. You walked up the steps and opened the front door, turning once to look at him.

He was still there. You gave him the smallest smile, and then disappeared inside.

The moment the door shut, your knees buckled. You didn’t cry right away, you didn’t scream, you just sank.

Right there in the front entryway, curled on the cold marble floor, eyes staring at the ceiling like it might answer all the questions in your chest. You didn’t know how long you laid there.

But eventually, the silence cracked open inside you and the tears came hard and fast, your palms pressed over your face as your shoulders shook.

When it stopped, you got up slowly and went to the piano. Your fingers hovered above the keys. Then pressed down, soft at first something mournful, aching. But it shifted, the sound built, heavier, angrier, not chaotic, but alive. In the middle of it, you realized something: You didn’t want to do this anymore, not like this. You weren’t going to.

You threw on one of those stupid wigs from the market, the blonde curly one this time and sunglasses. Hoodie up, disguise solid in your opinion. You went into a cell phone store, calm as ever. “I need a new phone, new number.”

The guy barely looked up. “You switching carriers?”

“No, just my life.” You paid in cash. That night, you sat on your couch in the dark, lit by the glow of your new screen and started making calls..

You slept 6 hours that night and Saturday morning rolled around and you called a realtor first thing.

“Yes, of course we can keep it private,” she said. “Off-market, no press, no walkthroughs.”

“How soon can we list it?” you asked.

She paused. “Depends how quickly you want to move.”

“Immediately, I want it gone.”

“And where are you looking to move to?”

You smiled faintly. “Something smaller, quiet. With a porch and a real kitchen.”

Saturday afternoon, you called the director of Lucky. You hadn’t signed anything thankfully, just did the screen tests.

“I’m not taking the role,” you said, calm.

There was a beat of stunned silence. “Is this a joke?”

“Nope. Just… give it to the next girl. I hope she kills it.” You hung up before they could ask why.

Saturday night, the old phone, the one you were supposed to use wouldn’t stop ringing.

Brett. Leah. Your team. Unread texts stacked like bricks:

What are you doing.

You can’t disappear.

You are under contract. You don’t get to do this.

Call us now or else.

Responses now or we’ll walk, you need us!!

So you called them. “You don’t have to walk. I’m parting ways.”

They reminded you of your contract fees, the legal hit, the money it was always about the money.

You didn’t flinch. “Who do I send the check to?”

Sunday morning became one of your favourite days. You already felt freer, and you couldn't wait to tell Bucky. You’d heard nothing from him not because he wasn’t trying, but because he was respecting you and your space.

But Bucky was freaking out on the inside, Steve told him not to worry.

“She’s fine, Buck, she’s a tough girl.” he said, calm, sipping coffee.

But Bucky was pacing, he hadn’t slept. That’s when his phone buzzed.

Unknown number: Can you come over?

He froze, then another message: It’s me. I got a new phone. My own phone.

His chest loosened, he turned to Steve. “She texted me. She wants me to come over.”

Steve smiled behind his mug. “Then what are you still doing here?”

He got there fast, you were already waiting by the door. Your hair was cut. Still long, but no longer the red-carpet glamour length. Just to your shoulders. You were barefoot. Wearing jeans and a plain tee.

You smiled, small but sure. “Come in, Sarge.”

Bucky stepped inside, closing the door behind him slowly.

You were already in the middle of the room, arms crossed, bare feet tucked beneath you on the rug. You looked nervous, but there was something else in your eyes, something lighter.

He opened his mouth to ask what was going on, but you spun around first, your voice lifting the silence:

“So… you’re fired.”

He froze. “What?”

You were smiling but he still looked stunned. He tried to say something again, but nothing came out, just confusion.

Before he could spiral, you stepped forward, both hands reaching out to grab his. “And before you start panicking, because I can see it written all over your face,” you said, gently, “let me explain.”

You gave his hands a small squeeze and guided him toward the living room. You both sat down on the couch, and for a second, you just sat there, facing forward, fidgeting with your fingers.

Your heart was thudding, saying it made it real, saying it to him made it real, but you were ready. “I turned down the movie.”

He blinked.

You kept going. “I broke my contract with Brett, Leah and Gina, the whole team. I have a new phone, a new number, only you have it.”

He stared at you, barely breathing.

“This house is getting sold,” you continued, voice shaking slightly now. “And at the awards… I’m announcing my retirement.”

You couldn’t look at him. You stared down at your hands, picking at a loose edge of skin by your nail, trying to stay steady.

“I’m done, Bucky. I’m really done.”

There was a long pause, his voice came in low and careful. “This is what you want?”

You finally looked at him. And for the first time in a long time, your voice didn’t shake. “This is what I want.”

His eyes softened, shoulders dropping like he’d been holding his breath for months.

You smiled, smaller now, but it reached your eyes. “There’s just one more thing I want.”

He tilted his head. “What’s that?”

You smiled wider, heartbeat climbing. “You.”

Your smile grew, his did too. Without thinking, he pulled you into his lap, arms curling around your waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You giggled, straddling him, your hands on his shoulders, foreheads nearly touching.

“You, Bucky Barnes,” you whispered, voice thick with love, “are the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Something in him broke, not in a bad way, never in a bad way, not with you, but like a dam that had been waiting to fall, he didn’t speak but just one tear slid down his cheek.

You reached up and brushed it away.

He closed his eyes, leaned into your touch like it was the only thing holding him together.

“I’ve never…” he started, but had to stop. Reminding himself to swallow and breathe. “I’ve never had anyone say that. Not to me, not like that.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth, then again pressing your forehead to his. “You deserved to hear it, every word.”

His arms tightened around you, like he was afraid to let go. Like he’d finally been handed something he thought he’d never get and he wasn’t about to lose it.

And you? You finally felt safe, you felt free, you felt like you.

-----

Monday morning the house was still the kind of still that only came after a long week of too much noise.

Bucky woke up in the guest room. He laid there for a while, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of something distant the fridge, maybe or the house itself breathing.

It was always like this here. Quiet, not in a peaceful way, but in a way that felt… empty. The ceilings were too high. The air too clean. No signs of life except for the woman asleep down the hall.

He sat up, bare feet hitting the hardwood. It was early. Light hadn’t fully made its way through the blinds yet, but he could see the faint glow of it creeping up over the hills through the tall windows in the hallway.

Your door was cracked open.

He padded down the hallway, moving like he had a hundred times before in a hundred different safehouses, alert, careful. But this wasn’t a mission. It was just you.

You were curled up in the middle of your massive bed, half-buried in the covers. One leg kicked out from under the sheets, hair a soft mess across the pillow. Face turned slightly toward the window.

You looked like someone who belonged to the morning. Not the cameras, not the lights, not for anyone else but him.

Just here….just you.

He didn’t come in. Just leaned against the doorway and watched for a minute, arms crossed loosely over his chest. Then you stirred.

A soft stretch, a furrow in your brow, a breath pulled in through your nose, slowly, your eyes opened. You blinked once, then again and then you smiled, slow and sleepy.

“Good morning, Sarge,” you said, voice gravelly from sleep.

It made something in his chest twist.

“Morning,” he said softly.

You yawned and rolled onto your back, your arm flopping out dramatically. “What time is it?”

“Early.”

“Too early?”

He smirked. “Little bit.”

You turned your head toward him fully now. “You watching me sleep, Barnes?”

“Maybe.”

You smiled again and tucked your hands beneath your head.

“Don’t make it weird,” you added, teasing.

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head, and finally stepped into the room.

“You hungry?” he asked.

You made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a dying cat.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, already turning back toward the kitchen.

You sat up slowly, hair wild, sheets pooled in your lap.

“Hey, Bucky?” you called after him.

He paused, looking back over his shoulder.

Your voice was soft. “Thanks for being here.”

His jaw tightened, just a little and he nodded once. “You don’t have to thank me,” he said. “I wanna be here and I’m not going anywhere.”

---

On Tuesday the sun was starting to fall, soft and gold, casting long shadows across the back patio. The heat of the day had slipped into something gentler, warm enough to still sting your skin, but lazy enough to feel like summer was finally exhaling.

You padded barefoot onto the tile, hair pulled back, sunglasses perched on your head. Bucky followed behind you slowly, his t-shirt loose, sweats hanging low on his hips. He hadn’t quite figured out how to be in a house like this, so clean, so open but with you in it, it didn’t feel so empty.

“Pool’s too quiet,” you said, glancing over your shoulder. “It’s depressing.”

You walked to the edge and dropped your towel, standing there in a black bikini that wasn’t even trying to be dramatic, just simple, flattering. You didn’t pose.

You just stood there in the sun like you belonged to it. He tried not to stare.

Tried.

You caught him anyway.

“Like what you see?” you asked, not coy, just curious, a small smirk pulling at your lips.

He didn’t look away, he didn't pretend, “Yeah,” he said simply.

You smiled wider. “Good.”

You dove in and disappeared under the water. Bucky watched the ripples spread, standing there for another beat before finally tugging off his shirt.

He didn’t say anything as he jumped in, just hit the water with a clean splash and surfaced to see you laughing.

He hadn’t heard that sound from you enough.

“You’re slow,” you called, floating on your back now.

“You cheated.”

You swam laps, you raced, you lost on purpose. You climbed up onto the edge just to cannonball in again. You teased him, splashed him, laughed when he tried to dunk you and failed.

In the deep end, you drifted toward him. The water was cool now, the sky streaked in purples and pinks. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, let your fingers slide down his neck.

“Hey,” you whispered.

He looked at you, then you kissed him.

It wasn’t heated, you weren’t there, not yet. It was soft. Wet lips and wet skin. Your hands resting against his jaw like you were scared he might disappear.

When you pulled back, he was still looking at you like you were something he couldn’t believe was real.

After dinner and fresh clothes, you sat at the piano with a towel still around your shoulders, hair damp and curling at the ends. The living room was dim, the night coming in soft through the glass doors.

Bucky sat on the couch behind you, arms stretched across the back, fingers tapping lightly in rhythm as you played.

No lyrics, just music.

Something low and steady, with dips in all the right places. Sad, but not broken. Hopeful he liked to think or at least almost.

He closed his eyes.

When you finished, the final note hanging in the air like something unsaid, his voice came low. “Play it again.”

You didn’t hesitate, you just started from the top, you realized you would do anything for Bucky Barnes.

He sat there, still as stone, listening like he was hearing you for the first time all over again.

Wednesday morning was quiet until it wasn’t. You made the mistake of opening your laptop.

You told yourself you wouldn’t check. You told yourself it didn’t matter. But your fingers had a mind of their own, typing your name into the search bar like you were bracing for a punch.

And there it was, headline after headline, stacked like a wall you couldn’t climb over:

“Y/N L/N FIRES ENTIRE TEAM: PR STUNT OR BREAKDOWN?”

“Former Publicist Speaks Out: ‘We Couldn’t Help Her Anymore’”

“Too Much Too Fast — A Cautionary Tale.”

“Not even The Avengers can save her!”

They didn’t care about facts, they cared about drama.

You stared at the screen until the words blurred. Your throat felt tight, like it was closing in on itself. You didn’t even notice Bucky at first, not until the soft sound of ceramic on wood made you flinch.

He was standing there in the doorway with two mugs. One for him, one for you. He didn’t ask what you were reading. He didn’t need to, he could see it all over your face. He just walked over, set your coffee down without a word, and disappeared again into the other room.

You sat frozen, eyes still on the screen. Still seeing all the words: unstable, ungrateful, too much.

Then the sound of music pulled you out of the haze, the soft scratch of vinyl spinning up. Not your playlist, his.

Low, slow jazz. Ella Fitzgerald humming through the speakers like the world wasn’t trying to tear you apart.

He came back into the room and held out a hand. “Come here.”

You didn’t speak. Certainly didn’t argue, didn’t hesitate. You walked right into him like your body already knew what to do. Like this had always been the escape route you never knew you had.

His arm slid around your waist, his fingers laced with yours, and he began to sway barely moving, just shifting with the music. You let your cheek press against his chest.

The headlines were still on the screen across the room. But they felt a million miles away.

“You really know how to shut up a spiral,” you mumbled into his shirt.

“I’ve had practice,” he said.

He kissed your temple gently, like a period at the end of a sentence. “Steve told me to never type my name into any search bar.”

Your eyes fluttered closed, you hummed. “He’s smart, why he's the Captain.”

Bucky just held you tighter as the music crackled and the world faded. The silence inside your own head wasn’t heavy anymore, it was just filled with him.

---

The house smelled like citrus and sunscreen on Thursday, with hints of something sweet baking in the oven that you absolutely did not make yourself. Bucky was lighting the citronella candles out back. You were fluffing pillows on the deck furniture like it mattered. You wouldn't admit it but you were nervous, you never had anyone in your home before that wasn’t paid to be here, beside Bucky now. But even before he was paid to be here. So having Sam and Steve willingly wanting to come hang out with you, your nerves were out of control.

“They’re gonna love you,” Bucky said when he caught you anxiously smoothing out the same throw blanket for the third time. “It’s gonna be fine.”

You didn’t look at him. “They already know me.”

“I know,” he said, stepping closer, brushing your hand away so he could take over. “But I can hear your heartbeat sweetheart,”

You swallowed, remembering he was enhanced, you nodded. “Okay, yeah, right.”

You were still nervous. They showed up at 4:37pm, three minutes early, which somehow felt very Steve.

Sam walked in first, sunglasses still on, stopping in the foyer like he forgot how to speak.

“Holy shit,” he said slowly. “This place is insane.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Told you.”

Steve came in behind him, eyes roaming across the clean lines and open space, the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out into the backyard. “Didn’t expect this.”

You leaned against the banister, arms crossed. “What were you expecting?”

Sam shrugged, still glancing around. “I don’t know. More… velvet? Dramatic drapes? Maybe a spiral staircase.”

You snorted. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“No, no,” Sam said. “This is classy. It’s like if Restoration Hardware had a baby with a Bond villain’s hideout.”

Steve grinned, patting Sam on the shoulder. “Ignore him. It’s beautiful…It’s—”

“It's not me.” You cut him off, “They uh made me buy it, I’m selling, gonna find something more….me.”

Sam smiled, “You gotta have velvet at that place, screams you.”

By sundown, you were all out back Bucky’s arm slung comfortably around your waist, Sam mixing some kind of weirdly decent cocktails from the little bar cart you never used, Steve manning the fire pit like he’d trained for it.

“Alright,” Sam said, clapping his hands together after his first drink. “Somebody better tell me how this happened.”

“What?” you asked, smiling into your glass.

He gestured between you and Bucky. “This, you two. The world’s grumpiest man and Hollywood’s most untouchable starlet?”

You looked at Bucky. “We’re a romcom waiting to happen.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “You think we’re a romcom?”

“I think you’re the broody lead who doesn’t realize he’s in love until like… minute seventy-five,” you teased, glancing up at Bucky with a grin.

Steve let out a deep, genuine laugh. “That sounds about right.”

Sam leaned back in his chair, swirling the ice in his drink. “So, you excited for Saturday? Google told me you’re the youngest person to ever receive the award.”

You fidgeted with your glass, not quite meeting anyone’s eye. “I mean… I’m honored, of course. It’s huge. But I can’t wait for it to be over.”

Sam raised a brow. “Over?”

You exhaled slowly. “No more movies. No more red carpets. No more flashing lights, or interviews, or pretending to be something I’m not every day.”

There was a small pause. Sam blinked. “Wait, hold up. I think I missed a scene. What are you talking about?”

You glanced between them. “I’m retiring. I’m announcing it during the speech.”

Steve sat up straighter, eyes cutting to Bucky, then back to you. “That’s… huge.”

You nodded once. “Yeah, it is. But I’m ready. I never really wanted all of this…not in the way people think I did. I just want to breathe again.”

Sam looked honestly bummed. “Damn, you’re my favorite actress.”

You swallowed, guilt brushing the edge of your chest. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

He waved it off, even if his face still read like he’d just been told his favorite show got canceled. “Nah, it’s cool. Whatever makes you happy. But I’m gonna need you to sign every single one of my DVDs. Make ‘em collector’s items.”

You laughed, “Of course, anything for you.” Bucky squeezed your knee gently, and when you looked over, he was already looking at you.

“Anyway,” you said, holding up the bag, “who wants to roast marshmallows?”

“Hell yeah,” Sam grinned, already reaching for a stick.

You burned yours on purpose just to make Bucky eat them, because you found out two days ago that he hates them crispy.

“You’re evil,” he muttered, chewing the blackened sugar like it might kill him.

“Character building,” you said sweetly, sliding another one onto your stick.

Steve was telling a story about the first time he ever saw Bucky try to flirt, something involving a newspaper stand, a broken heel, and a pie and Sam was howling.

The fire crackled and night got softer. Your head eventually found its way to Bucky’s shoulder, your legs tucked up under you.

“You alright?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

The fire started to die down and Steve and Sam had claimed their guest rooms, you stood on the back deck with Bucky, looking out over your massive, mostly unused backyard. The air smelled like wood smoke and jasmine. You wrapped your arms around yourself, and he came up behind you, wrapping his around you too.

“This has been…” you started, then shook your head. “I don’t have the words for it, actually…”

He didn’t push. You turned in his arms, looking up at him, eyes searching his face in the low light, you swallowed heavily.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” you said quietly. It was the first time the words left your mouth. The first time you didn’t choke on them.

Bucky didn’t flinch, he didn’t even look surprised. He just smiled, “Well,” he said, brushing your hair behind your ear, “I’ll catch you.”

Your heart stopped.

“Because I’m already there, sweetheart.”

He kissed you like he meant it this time, not rushed, not hungry, just slow and deeply. Like he wanted to memorize it, like he didn’t care about anything except the way you tasted or the way your breath caught in your throat when his hand slid up your spine.

His lips moved against yours with the kind of patience that said he wasn’t going anywhere. That you weren’t just a moment he’d lose when the lights came up.

Later, you fell asleep tangled in each other’s arms, your limbs wrapped around him like you were afraid to let go. The sheets were kicked down to your ankles, skin warm from the heat you shared. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back until your breathing slowed, evened out.

You fit into him like the part of a story he didn’t realize was missing and now that he had you, he couldn’t imagine the ending without you in it.

-----

Friday started quiet. You were making breakfast in one of Bucky’s old t-shirts, one he claimed you stole but never actually asked for back. The sleeves hit your elbows, and the hem barely grazed your thighs. You kept dancing around the kitchen barefoot, humming along to a playlist you threw on without thinking.

Bucky was pretending to read the paper, but his eyes weren’t on the headlines, they were on you.

“Stop staring,” you teased, flipping a pancake, “it’s creepy.”

“You’re in my shirt,” he said, not bothering to look away.

You rolled your eyes. “You left it here.”

“You stole it.”

“Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

“You know that doesn’t apply to my clothes, right?”

You turned around slowly, one brow lifted. “Are you gonna take it back?”

He just leaned back in his chair and smirked. “Not a chance.”

You spent most of the day in the pool. You dunked him once, and he swore vengeance for at least an hour after. You swore he cheated when you raced. He said you were just a sore loser. It was the kind of day that made the rest of the world feel like background noise.

At some point in the late afternoon, you collapsed into a pile of towels on a lounge chair, your hair still damp, cheeks warm from the sun.

“Everything’s gonna change tomorrow,” you murmured.

Bucky leaned over from the chair beside you. “Why do you say that?”

You looked at him, eyes soft. “Because once I say it out loud, I can’t un-say it. Y’know the retirement, the house, leaving it all behind.”

He was quiet for a second. “You’re not leaving everything.”

You swallowed. “It feels like I am.”

His hand reached over, found yours. “You’ve got me, that part isn't going anywhere.”

It was almost midnight when it shifted.

You were curled into him on the couch, both of you still wearing barely anything, skin warm from the day. You made a dumb joke about his middle name again, and he made a worse one about your acting in that one drama you hated. You pushed him, he pulled you back.

The laughter faded slower this time. Not awkward, just… softer. Like you were waiting for something.

You were already facing him, his palm against your bare thigh, thumb moving in slow, thoughtless circles. You traced a finger down his chest, eyes on the line of his jaw.

“Come here,” he whispered.

You did. Of course you did.

You kissed him first, slow and easy, mouths finding a rhythm you’d been circling for days. Weeks. Months. It wasn’t frantic, wasn’t rushed, it felt more like relief.

When he lifted you into his lap, you wrapped your legs around his waist like you’d always belonged there. His hands slid beneath the shirt you were still wearing, his shirt, his fingers grazing skin like he was memorizing it. You pulled back just far enough to look him in the eye, your forehead resting against his.

“I love you,” he said.

You froze.

It wasn’t a whisper, itt wasn’t an accident. He said it like he meant it. Like he’d been holding it in for days, maybe longer.

You smiled, eyes glassy but steady. “Say it again.”

His hand cupped your cheek. “I love you.”

You kissed him again, harder this time and everything that followed was slow. Worshipful. Hands and mouths and sighs, skin against skin, all of it quiet and deliberate. He touched you like you were something precious. You held him like he was something you’d waited a lifetime for.

There were moments when neither of you said a word, just breathing into each other’s mouths and there were others when you couldn’t stop, when you told him how safe he made you feel, how real this felt, how badly you wanted him to stay. He didn’t promise anything he couldn’t give. He just stayed.

After, you lay on your side, head on his chest, your fingers tracing slow circles over the scar near his collarbone. His hand moved lazily along your spine, down to your hip, back up again. Your legs tangled beneath the sheets.

“I could stay here forever,” you whispered, not even meaning to say it out loud.

“You could,” he said, kissing your forehead. “I’d never stop you.”

You smiled into his skin. “I love you too, you know.”

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmured.

“You deserve the world Bucky.”

---

The Saturday morning sun filters softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the bedroom. You stir, the familiar scent of coffee and something delicious wafting in from the kitchen. Stretching, you realize the bed beside you is empty, the sheets slightly cool where Bucky had been. A sleepy smile tugs at your lips as you sit up, the oversized shirt you borrowed from him slipping off one shoulder.

Padding barefoot into the kitchen, you find Bucky at the stove, his back to you. He’s shirtless, wearing only a pair of sweatpants that hang low on his hips, and his hair is still tousled from sleep. The sight of him, so at ease in your space, sends a flutter through your chest.

He turns as he hears you approach, a spatula in one hand and a tender smile spreading across his face.

“Morning beautiful,” he greets, his voice still husky. “Hope you’re hungry.”

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed, feigning nonchalance. “You really didn’t have to cook,” you tease, though the affection in your tone is unmistakable.

He sets the spatula down and crosses the room to you, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “Yes, I do,” he murmurs against your skin. “Today’s a big day.”

Your heart swells at his thoughtfulness. Together, you sit down to a breakfast of perfectly cooked eggs, golden toast, fresh strawberries, and steaming coffee. The conversation is light, filled with shared smiles and the occasional brush of hands. Despite the significance of the day ahead, there’s a comforting normalcy in this moment, a grounding calm before the impending storm of the awards ceremony.

After breakfast, you retreat to your bedroom to get ready. The absence of a glam team, stylists, and handlers is both liberating and daunting. Standing before the mirror, you take a deep breath, embracing the solitude and the authenticity it brings.

You curl your lashes, apply a subtle touch of makeup, just enough to feel like yourself, not someone they’ve painted on you. No red lipstick tonight, just soft pink. Something gentle, something you.

Then you step into the satin cream dress you chose yourself. Your favorite, because of its quiet elegance… and because it has pockets. You slip your hands into them automatically, fingers brushing over the small carved bird Bucky made for you. It’s warm from sitting on the dresser, shaped perfectly to your palm. You slide it into your pocket and let it stay there, a piece of him with you, grounding you.

You smooth the fabric over your hips, checking yourself once in the mirror. You look like… you. Not just some actress, not a product but…you.

Your phone buzzes.

You cross the room in bare feet and check it: a message from Sam, full of emojis, clapping hands, a star, a winking face, a rocket, a slice of pizza. You laugh under your breath.

Before you can respond, another message comes through. A selfie of Sam and Steve on the couch, grinning like idiots. Behind them, the awards show is already playing on the TV. There’s popcorn in Steve’s lap. Sam’s doing peace signs with both hands.

You cover your mouth with one hand, not to hide your smile but to keep from crying. You’re not used to this. The support, the friendship. Love that isn’t transactional. For so long, you thought this kind of thing didn’t exist. Now you know better.

A knock at the door pulls you out of your thoughts, it opens and Bucky’s standing there. Black suit. Crisp white shirt. Tie just slightly undone and he’s holding something, a little velvet box in one hand, something he’s not drawing attention to. His eyes lock on you and he just stops.

He stares. Takes a slow breath like he needs to restart his heart.

“You…”

His voice is rough, low, and a little stunned.

“You look beautiful.”

You feel your cheeks warm. Your pulse skips.

“I mean it,” he says, stepping into the room. “You don’t even look real. You look like… like every dream I ever had before the war.”

Your eyes flicker down, shy and soft. “You clean up alright yourself.”

He walks toward you, slow. With one hand, he lifts the box and opens it.

Inside, is a delicate gold bracelet. Simple, elegant, with a single little charm, a star. He doesn’t explain it, you just know.

“For luck,” he says.

Your fingers tremble just a little as you hold out your wrist. When he fastens it, his thumb brushes over the inside of your skin, and you feel it down to your ribs.

You whisper, “Thank you.”

He meets your eyes again. “Thank you,” he says back.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod.

“Let’s go get your goodbye.”

Opting to forgo the chaos of the red carpet, you and Bucky slip into the venue through a side entrance. The auditorium is a sea of elegantly dressed attendees, the air thick with anticipation. Cameras flash, capturing moments that will soon flood the media. Despite the grandeur, Bucky’s hand remains a steady presence on your lower back, grounding you amidst the whirlwind.

The ceremony progresses, awards presented, speeches delivered. Each moment brings you closer to your segment. Your heart pounds, a mix of excitement and apprehension. Then, the lights dim, and a hush falls over the crowd.

The screen illuminates with your name in bold, golden letters, accompanied by a swell of orchestral music. The montage begins, a journey through your career, meticulously curated to encapsulate years of dedication and artistry.

It opens with a clip from your breakout role, a younger version of yourself delivering a line that, at the time, felt like just another script but now resonates with profound significance. The scene transitions to a red carpet moment, flashes of cameras capturing your wide-eyed wonder as you navigate the newfound fame.

Next, a montage of roles showcasing your versatility, an intense courtroom drama where your impassioned monologue left audiences spellbound; a lighthearted romantic comedy, your laughter infectious; a gritty independent film, raw and unfiltered, revealing depths of emotion you hadn’t known you possessed.

Interspersed are behind-the-scenes snippets, laughing with castmates, moments of vulnerability during rehearsals, candid interviews where your passion for the craft shines through.

The montage crescendos with a recent scene, one that garnered critical acclaim. Your character stands alone, gazing out over a vast landscape, a single tear rolling down her cheek. The camera lingers, capturing the depth of emotion in your eyes, a testament to your growth as an artist.

As the screen fades to black, the audience erupts into applause, the sound thunderous and heartfelt. You sit frozen, emotions swirling, pride, nostalgia, a tinge of sadness. Bucky’s hand finds yours, his grip firm and reassuring.

Leaning close, he whispers, “That’s you. All of it and it’s incredible, you’re incredible.”

The applause echoes through the theater like a wave, rising and rising, refusing to settle. You sit still, breath caught somewhere in your chest, your fingers laced tight with Bucky’s. His palm is warm, grounding. You glance at him for just a second, long enough to see it in his eyes, that he means every word he just whispered.

You blink forward again, lashes damp, as the lights shift on stage. The host steps back into the spotlight.

He smiles, holding a small stack of note cards that he doesn’t even glance at.

“There are careers,” he begins, “and then there are lives and every once in a while, someone comes along who blurs that line so seamlessly that you can’t tell where the performance ends and the person begins.”

The crowd quiets again. No rustling, no coughing. Just breaths, held.

“We watched her grow up on screen. We’ve seen her fall in love, lose it, rage against it. We’ve seen her die a dozen different deaths and survive all of them in the hearts of her audience. She gave us everything. Every tear, every laugh, every look that didn’t need words.”

You feel Bucky’s thumb trace a slow circle over your knuckles.

“She made it look effortless. But it wasn’t, we know that now and still, she gave, and gave, and gave. For over two decades, she has captivated the world… and tonight, we honour her for it.”

You feel your throat tighten.

“She taught us that beauty isn’t perfection. It’s honesty. It’s vulnerability and she did it all while carrying the weight of fame with the grace of someone born to do it and the soul of someone who never wanted it.”

He pauses, lets the words sink in. You swear your heart stops.

“Please join me in celebrating a once-in-a-generation talent. An artist. A survivor. A woman who changed the face of cinema… simply by being real.”

He turns toward the front row.

“Y/N L/N, recipient of this year’s Lifetime Achievement Award.”

The room erupts. Bucky stands first.

The sound swells, applause, cheers, a few people whistling. Some are already on their feet before you even move.

But Bucky doesn’t rush you. He stays right beside you as you rise, his hand slipping from yours only when you’re steady on your feet. He whispers again, just before you go: “Go take what’s yours.”

With the carved wooden bird in your pocket and his love wrapped around your shoulders like a second skin you walk toward the stage.

The stage is gold-drenched.

Warm light spills across the floor, catching the satin folds of your cream dress, the one with the hidden pockets and just enough weight to feel like armor. You stand steady, heels grounded, the carved wooden bird nestled in your hand.

The glass award gleams beside you. The room is silent now, waiting. Holding its breath.

You inhale slowly. Feel the rise and fall of your ribs. The steadying ache of what it took to get here.

“I don’t think I ever believed I’d stand here. Not because I didn’t want to but because for a long time, I didn’t believe I’d survive long enough to see it.”

A pause. Soft laughter from the crowd, unsure, uncomfortable.

You smile faintly. But it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I’ve spent more of my life playing other people than I have playing myself and that’s the thing no one tells you about this industry if you do it long enough, you forget where the role ends and where you begin.”

Bucky hasn’t taken his eyes off you.

“I was good at pretending. I won awards for pretending. I got paid to smile, to be beautiful, to be likable. But I wasn’t any of those things. I was just… tired.”

You glance down at the bird in your hand. Curl your fingers around it.

“For a long time, I thought love wasn’t meant for people like me. Not the real kind, anyway. The kind that sees you, I mean really sees you and doesn’t run.”

Bucky’s chest tightens.

“I thought quiet meant failure. That if the cameras weren’t flashing, if the crowd wasn’t clapping, I was nothing. But then I learned something.”

You lift your head. “The quiet? It’s where everything real lives.”

“So… I’m stepping away. Tonight, I’m saying goodbye to all of it. I’m retiring. Not because I’m not grateful but because I’m ready to start living.”

Gasps and murmurs fill the arena, flashes from cameras and phones go wild.

You don’t flinch. “I’m done playing someone else’s idea of me. From here on out, I’m just gonna be me.”

The audience rises. Applause fills the room, crashing over you like thunder and you smile.

You reach for the award, fingers closing around the smooth glass.

POP.

A sound that doesn’t belong. It’s sharp and violent. The applause doesn’t stop, not at first. But your smile falters. The glass in your hand shatters and so does the world.

Your body jerks, like something pulled you backward. You stumble, a gasp ripping from your throat. Your eyes wide, disoriented.

You look down, the silk of your dress turns red, blooming like a rose from the center of your stomach. The warmth spreads fast, too fast.

The award fully slips from your hands and crashes to the stage in shards. The room turns into chaos, you barely register the screams. You only see him, Bucky. He’s already moving, another shot rings out, not at you this time, from Bucky raising his gun with no hesitation.

When he turns he sees him, Elias. He’s not in custody, he bets he never was. He’s in the back of the theater. A face twisted in obsession, mouth open in something like a smile, but it’s gone in a blink. Bucky makes sure of that, one shot. Clean. Between the eyes, Elias drops.

Bucky’s already on stage about to grab you when your knees buckle. He catches you mid-collapse, lowering you to the stage with shaking hands, already slick with blood.

“Hey. Hey. No—no, stay with me.”

He presses his hands to the wound, hard. There’s too much blood.

“Don’t do this, baby. Please. Please don’t—”

His voice cracks.

You blink up at him, eyes glassy. Your lashes tremble.

“I’m glad,” you whisper, voice a ghost. “That I got to feel something.”

Your hand reaches for his cheek, leaving a smear of blood.

He leans into your palm like it’s the only thing tethering him.

“And I’m glad I got to feel it… for you.”

“No,” he chokes. “No, no, you’re okay. You’re okay—help is coming—just stay with me—please.”

Your breath hitches.

Once.

Twice.

Your eyes don’t close dramatically. They just… soften, drift.

Your hand slips from his cheek and Bucky, he pulls you into his arms, cradling you like something sacred. People are screaming, running. But no one helps and on a stage built to honour you, surrounded by flowers and flashing lights and the echoes of everything you gave all Bucky can do is whisper your name like a prayer he knows won’t be answered.

Everything goes quiet.

The carved wooden bird falls from your pocket, landing softly in the blood.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #sebastian stan x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes angst #bucky x y/n #bucky fanfic #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky x steve #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x reader angst

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reidssluttywaist · 1 year ago

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Spencer's lap.

In which you grind against your boyfriend.

fem!reader, season 2 Spencer, +16.

tags: dry humping, a little bit of dirtytalk.

a/n: guys this is so bad I've never written smut before but i had this idea while rewatching season 2 and tried something, this must have a bunch of mistakes and it's not proofread at all, also if anyone wants to rewrite this better please message me lol.

You never thought you'd have to sit for a physics class ever again since you left high school, and here you are, a half hour into your boyfriend explaining very throughly to you how he can make a rocket with 'physics magic', he also made you swear you would never tell his tricks to anybody, 'cause a magician never shares his secrets, right?!

Except you didn't get sleepy like you did in high school, you never paid that much attention to physics since now, the way Spencer's smile explains every detail, the giggle he lets out as he rumbles about different facts of all the physics laws, you're amazed by how happy he is, how his brain is extraordinary.

Hearing his humbles is better than any music you could think of, and paired with the soft sound of the rain falling outside Spencer's place, you feel so cozy and safe.

You and Spencer have been together for a couple of months now, he is your first real boyfriend, both of you are inexperienced in every single part of being in a relationship, sometimes the feeling of love you feel towards him overwhelms you, almost leaving you out of breath, you can't believe how good it is to love somebody, how god it is to love Spencer.

"Wow, that one might be your best! Look how high it went" you said after his most recent "rocket" made its way to the ceiling, Spencer smiling so big and laughing, making you laugh as well.

"Did you see that? I think I've perfected my measurements it's so high!!" Spencer says with a high-pitched voice, too excited to contain himself.

"The only bad thing about this is that you have to clean this mess up" You make a sad face, looking at the place that has little bits of water splashed all over.

"Nah, it's fine! It'll dry out soon enough" he says pretending that he doesn't care about the mess, except he does.

"C'mon, I'll help you clean and make us some dinner after, ok?!" You get up from your side of the couch, and hold Spencer's hand, trying to pull him up.

"I don't wanna get up now, it can wait," He says seriously, you can almost believe him.

You try pushing him up again, but this time he pulls you against him, being more successful than you do you end up falling onto him, sitting on his lap facing him.

"I said it can wait, I can clean up later, ok? I wanna spend some time with you now." He said holding your waist and looking at you.

You've never been on his lap before, you guys make out now and then, but never in that suggestive of a position, and Spencer never makes the first move like that, you feel your stomach filling with butterflies.

"You look so good with your glasses on" You blurt it out looking at him, analyzing his face as he looks at you.

"Can I kiss you?" Spencer says, you don't need words to respond as you press your lips onto his, starting a gentle kiss.

You'll never get accustomed to kissing Spencer, his soft lips, he's so gentle almost like he's afraid you'll run away if he makes any sudden moves, little does he know you won't, you'd never run away from him you feel like you could never get enough from him.

The kiss was now way more intense, your tongue exploring his, his grip on your waist a lot tighter now, one of his hands let go of your waist and made its way to the back of your neck, making you let out a soft moan into Spencer's mouth, making his body shiver under you.

Your hips start slightly moving over Spencer's thigh, the light friction making you want more.

Spencer was breathing heavily, and you could also feel him growing against your leg, he pulled you harder against him, adjusting your cunt to be right on top of his cock, applying pressure to your hips, you moan again, and you could feel yourself get wetter by the second.

"Spence, wanna feel you." You say in between kisses, making him whimper and push you harder against him.

"Fuck" he swears under his breath, both of his hands going to the waistband of the sweatpants you were wearing. "That okay?" he asks.

"Yes, please." You've never agreed to something so fast in your life, helping him take your pants away, after a few seconds of struggling you were back to kissing him like your life depended on it.

"C-can I take yours?" you whisper, almost scared to say it, he agrees by guiding your hand to his waistband, also helping you take his pants now, you were both only with underwear now, not even bothering to take your tops off, you went back to humping him, your thin underwear fabric soaked.

Spencer's shaky hands made their way onto your shirt, both of them massing your breasts, making noises come out of your mouth and the man under you groan.

"N-need more, Spence." You say grinding your hips harder against him, and bring your hands to his underwear pushing it down just enough so his cock is free.

You start to use your hands on him, slow up and down movements just enough so he can't even keep his eyes open.

"Want your pussy, please, wanna feel you" Spencer mumbles taking your hands off his cock, his hand going to your panties and ripping them out.

That made you gasp, making your pussy even more wet.

Spencer positioned you on his cock, which was resting on his stomach, you started moving your hips up and down, both of you moaning even louder now.

"You feel so warm, baby, you're so wet for me," He says, looking at where your bodies are rubbing against each other, he looks mesmerized by this sight, mouth slightly opened as he applies more pressure to your hips, making you shiver.

Spencer never dirty talked like that before, you could see the blush on his cheeks as he did, this new side of him making your mind blurry and a not start to form on your stomach.

"I'm so close," he says, biting his lips as you try to move even harder for him.

"N-eed more, please, your fingers," you say and he immediately knows what you mean, taking one of his hands out of your hips and bringing it to your pussy, his thumb finding your clit with ease, start moving it in circles making you let out a loud moan.

"Fuck" You let out, not able to keep your eyes open.

"Can you cum for me? Please baby wanna see your pretty face as you fuck yourself on me." Spencer says, that added with his movements in your clit make your mind fuzzy, you felt the heat on your stomach spread to your legs and your body starts to shake, releasing all the tension you were feeling.

"Oh, you're so pretty like that, so pretty when you cum for me," Spencer says, helping you ride out your climax, you were so sensitive by the recent orgasms but you started to move your hips harder and faster on Spencer's cock.

He bites his lips and you feel him grip your ass, his glasses were blurry and it was so hot that he didn't take him out.

He groaned when you felt his dick twit under you, you helped him through his orgasm, kissing him when you were both done, his hands when to your back caressing it, slowly moving up and down.

"That was so good" He whispers to you.

"A dirty talker, huh?! Who would've thought?" you joke, making him laugh.

"Most men are dirty talkers so it's not that uncommon" he rumbles.

He switched up to nerdy Spencer again, making you smile.

You spend a couple more minutes just talking before getting up, you make sure to point all that he must buy you a new pair of panties to pay for the one he ripped, he agrees, saying he would buy more than one because "you'll never know what might happen, right?"

#spencer reid smut #spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid oneshot smut

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jessiso · 7 days ago

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"Fracture Point"

A Criminal Minds one-shot |Spencer Reid x Reader (18+)

Tension had been brewing between you and Spencer Reid during a high-stress case, but when an argument and shared motel room push you both past your limits, the simmering frustration finally erupts into something raw, dominant, and unforgettable. In the privacy of the motel walls, Reid shows a side of himself you’ve never seen — and never want to forget — followed by surprising tenderness when the storm between you calms.

cw: smut 18+ minors dni, pinv, oral, fingering, brat taming, dominant! spencer

w/c 1,142

(please enjoy i am no good at writing smut but i had fun!! once again did not proof read lol)

...

The tension between you had been crackling since the moment you stepped out of the SUV — the argument in the field still fresh, the storm rolling in as thick and charged as the air between your bodies.

Neither of you spoke on the walk to the motel, but the glances were loud enough: sharp, heated, lingering far too long. His jaw clenched every time you challenged him, and you swore you saw his fingers twitch like he wanted to grab you - push you against the hood maybe, settle the score with something far less professional.

The rain had started again by the time you reached the door, a soft drizzle that slicked your skin and made the heat between you even harder to ignore.

Your heart was pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with adrenaline or profiling. He unlocked the door with a flick of the keycard, pushed it open, He looked over his shoulder at you with a dark, unreadable expression.

"Get inside," he said — not a request. A command. You felt it hit low in your stomach, the kind of directive that promised things you shouldn’t want from a coworker. But you obeyed, stepping past him into the room, pulse thudding like a war drum in your chest as the door clicked shut behind you.

The motel room was dimly lit, the air thick with humidity and unsaid words. You had been bickering with Reid all day — over the profile, over tactics, over nothing really. It was the case. The stress. The way his shirt clung to his chest after running through the rain.

He had barely closed the door before he was on you.

"You like pushing my buttons, don’t you?" His voice was low, controlled, but his eyes were fire. He had you backed against the wall in seconds, hands gripping your waist tightly, possessively. "All day with that mouth. You think I wouldn’t notice?"

His lips crashed into yours, tongue claiming, demanding. His hands slid under your shirt, rough and insistent, fingers digging into your hips like he owned them.

"I should’ve done this in the van," he muttered against your neck, biting hard enough to make you gasp. You felt your knees weaken, but he caught you — he always did.

Clothes were a blur. He didn’t bother with finesse, just need — tearing your shirt over your head, yanking your pants down without ceremony.

He pushed you onto the bed, eyes dark and ravenous.

"Keep your hands where I can see them," he growled, undoing his belt with practiced ease. "You’ve been such a brat today. You don’t get to touch me until I say."

You whimpered at the command, back arching as he spread your thighs and sank to his knees. The sharp edge of his jaw scraped along your skin as he bit and kissed your inner thigh — slow torture before his tongue met its target.

"You taste like trouble," he murmured, smirking up at you before diving back in. The rhythm was relentless, his hands pinning your hips when you tried to buck against his mouth. He didn’t stop until you were sobbing his name, shaking, begging for more.

Your thighs slick and trembling from the relentless strokes of his tongue, every nerve raw and exposed. You could barely form words, only desperate gasps of his name mixed with curses and pleas.

"Please, Spencer—need you—" you choked out, fingers curling into the sheets, trying not to break the rule he set. No touching. No control.

He pulled back just enough to smirk against your thigh, his lips swollen, chin glistening with you. "Now you ask nicely?" he taunted, breath hot and voice rough. "You don't get to tease me all day and then beg like that without paying for it."

He stood slowly, deliberately, letting your eyes trail up his body. His belt dropped to the floor with a soft clink, then his pants, his boxers — everything gone until he stood over you, dark eyes raking over your ruined form like a predator admiring the aftermath.

You whimpered at the sight of him, aching and so wet it was embarrassing. But his gaze wasn’t mocking now — it was hungry. Possessive.

"You’ve been dying for this, haven’t you?" he muttered, crawling over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other trailing between your legs. He slid two fingers inside with no warning, curling them perfectly.

"So wet for me. You think I didn’t notice you watching me at the precinct? Biting your lip every time I talked?"

You cried out, arching, grinding into his hand without shame now. His fingers thrust deeper, harder, pace matching the raw intensity in his voice.

"I’m going to fuck you so hard, you’ll forget the goddamn profile."

And he gave it to you — all of him.

Rough, deep, the mattress slamming the wall with every thrust. He gripped your wrists, holding them above your head, his breath ragged against your ear.

"You’re mine tonight. Say it."

"I'm yours, Spencer. God, I’m yours."

You’d never seen him like this — unfiltered, primal. But damn, you didn’t want it to stop.

Each thrust was punishing, relentless, his name spilling from your lips like a mantra between moans. Your body shook beneath him, stretched and overwhelmed, caught in the firestorm of him — the scent of his skin, the drag of his teeth against your throat, the sting of his grip on your hips.

You could barely breathe, barely think, everything melting under the rhythm of his body driving into yours. "You’re so tight," he growled, voice nearly breaking. "So fucking perfect."

You came undone with a scream, back arching, legs trembling around him. He didn't slow — if anything, he pounded harder, chasing his own high with single-minded focus until he buried himself deep and came with a low, guttural groan, collapsing over you with the force of it.

For a moment, all was still — just the sound of your shared breathing, his weight heavy and grounding on top of you.

Then, gently, he shifted, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder as he pulled out and eased down beside you. His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you close as if afraid you’d vanish.

"You okay?" he murmured, brushing hair from your damp forehead.

You nodded, chest still heaving. "Yeah. I—yeah."

He reached over, grabbed the motel towel from the chair, and began cleaning you up with slow, careful strokes, whispering quiet reassurances as he did.

When he finished, he tucked the blanket over you both, drawing you into his chest.

"You drive me crazy," he whispered into your hair, voice low and tender now.

"But I don't want anyone else doing it."

You smiled against his skin, heart still pounding but warm now, steady. Safe.

#criminal minds #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #smut #spencer reid smut #criminal minds smut #fanfic

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obamas-eyebrow · 2 months ago

Text

Wilted lemon trees

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The recruiter x Female reader

Summary; He roped you into his world, you crawled out. Now he’s sent to kill you. In a game of cat and mouse with way too much feelings for either of you, assassin vs assassin. (think Ada Wong and Leon Kennedy except idk who’d be who) The story follows the plight of trying to kill you as well as flashbacks of better days. This is angstyyyyyy

Wc; 20k...I think I blacked out writing this. (I added breaks though dw)(I added a lil more to the ending lol)

Warnings; Violence, blood, guns, one mention of DMV (not against reader), stalking, one mention of weight gain, recruiter being a creep, they match each other's freak tho, sfw, kissing. Non sexual nudity. All ‘smut’ is just fade to black or mentions. Drinking. Breaking glass, breaking hearts. Death, a lot of it. MAJOR ANGST THERE'S LIKE V V LITTLE FLUFF. No happy ending. Kinda graphic descriptions of injury at the end. No reader body/race/age descriptions (if any pls lmk), but in my mind there’s an age gap. A little ooc at the end I guess. NO USE OF Y/N. English is not my first language, also this is like only kinda proofread so lmk if something is wrong :D

Reader is referred to as 038, Recruiter is referred to as 013, ex gf oc is referred to as 024.

Other ending 🫶🏻

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The pitter patter of rain hit the top of your umbrella with a heavy force, picking up speed as your boots squelched in various little puddles. You hurried under the little bus stop, kneeling down to grab the can of tuna from your handbag. The strays had been following you for a minute or so as you tried to find a dry spot for them to eat. They meowed in affection and contempt, allowing you a few headscratches each before they swatted your hand away, your cue to leave. You walked back out under the rain, still bearing down with intensity as you crossed the empty street to make your way to the narrow back alley where the door to your building was. It was warmer inside, but only by a degree or two. You kicked your shoes off, albeit prematurely, but you knew climbing all these stairs in them would be a mistake.

You sniffed slightly as you fished your key out of its hiding spot, the metal cool on your already freezing hand. Before opening the door, you noticed the carpet in front of it being a little damp. Not enough for anyone to notice, but you did. Mostly because you’d stepped on it barefoot. The apartment door croaked open inwardly, revealing your place just as you’d left it; dark and stuffy. The far window was opened slightly, just a centimeter or two. But you knew for sure you’d always kept it shut, meaning only one thing.

Your view of the studio was obstructed by the wall on the left, only allowing you some vision of the foot of the bed and the bathroom by the door. You were at a disadvantage here, gun in your belt useless if you couldn’t see your target. You flicked the central lights by the door on, the room falling into an eerie yellow glow allowing you to catch a hint of his reflection in the window. Your shoulders relaxed slightly and you allowed yourself to fully step into the place and shut the door.

“You’ve gotten real sloppy.” You shrugged your flimsy coat off and hung it on the hook by the entrance. Dislodging your gun from its spot, you rested it by the table opposite to the bed alongside your keys, paying him no mind.

“Maybe I wanted you to know I’m here.” He spoke plainly, eyes trained on your movements from his comfortable position on the bed. You looked at him then, willing yourself to soak in the man that had been haunting both your nightmares and dreams. Had it been that long since you last saw each other? The fine lines at the corners of his eyes tell you so. Maybe he’d just been smiling more often in your absence, but that's doubtful. You trailed your eyes over the rest of him, pristine suit contrasted by your cheap bedsheets, gun safely within reach by his hip.

“Take your shoes off the bed.” you gave him a tired sigh and he pouted, tilting his head slightly but ultimately humouring you.

You moved to grab a bite from the minifridge by the window, opening it to grab some leftover bread and the nearly empty jar of jam, when an unfamiliar smell hit your nose.

“Did you- Smoke in here? You know I don’t own the place my landlord’s gonna kill me-” “You’ve had quite the fall from grace.”

“Shocking isn’t it.”

He stood up, rocking slightly on his heel with his gun in hand, arms crossed over his chest. You followed his eyeline to a spot where paint was chipping on the ceiling.

“Why do you allow yourself to live like this?”

You turned back to the fridge and grabbed the half-full bottle of cheap whiskey, standing up to grab two of the clean cups on the table and pouring some into each. Swinging your hips softly to shut the fridge door, you turned around to fully face his intense gaze, offering his share. His eyes shot down to the cracked glass and back to you in a mocking manner. He ultimately took the drink though, sipping on it with more class than it deserved.

“How do you drink this crap?” He grimaced.

“It gets the job done. Any more questions for tonight sherlock?” You raised the glass to your head, an attempt to ease the headache that he’s about to cause.

“Yeah. You don’t even have ice?”

You didn’t reply, only watched as he let go of his pride and downed the fluid in the cup, his expression turning into a slight frown as he put the cup down on your bed. You knew this wasn’t him being unable to handle his liquor, just pure disgust at the drink you gave him. And at you, just a little.

“You looked like you needed that.” you chuckled, pointing out the tenseness in his jaw.

“Yeah well, I have a very big job today.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” You feigned innocence, moving closer to him slowly, not that the distance was already that large. He gave you a half lidded look, watching intently as you inched closer to him.

“I think you know,” he smiled slightly.

“Say it.”

“I’m here to kill you.” he whispered, the distance between you now less than a breath’s worth.

“So do it.”

He didn’t move and neither did you, both holding your positions in determination. Or maybe this was a fight for dominance. His hands were rigid at his sides, gun in one and fist balled up in the other, his head was tilted to look at you, gaze finding the contrast between your lips and eyes an interesting sight to compare time and time again. You were getting a little bored, so your hand found it’s way to the one with a gun and brought it up to your torso, aimed straight at the heart.

“Shoot. Me.”

He took a deep breath in and let it out slowly, air hitting your face as he held his place. You felt his fingers move around the gun, placing an index on the trigger. You moved your face ever closer to his, lips almost touching as you both stood in the stillness of the room. He met your eyes, conflict and turmoil simmering in his.

“You gone soft on me?” You challenged. “How boring, I need a shower,”

You pulled away from his warmth and he watched as you turned around and began undressing, stripping casually and folding your outside clothes neatly on a nearby chair with other garments. You turned back to him once more, finding his gaze begrudgingly fixed on your face rather than your naked form. Once he made sure you were watching, he lazily took in the rest of you, a new tally of scars peppering your arms and abdomen, and one particular nasty one near your hip bone. His eyes stopped at it, observing the irregular healing and stretched, discolored skin in an almost circular shape.

“That one didn’t heal quite well.” He commented.

You chuckled mockingly, stepping towards the tiny closet space to grab a towel and stepped back into his armreach slowly.

“Well the guy who shot me used a shotgun that day, close range too.” You were ever so close to him again. “Ain’t he cruel?”

His nostrils flared slightly, recalling the actions you were referring to. His hand moved to grab you on its own but you slipped away, as you usually did. His gaze never left your back as you disappeared from his line of sight into the bathroom.

“You’ve gained weight.” He said playfully, eliciting a loud laugh from you in the adjacent room. He strolled the short distance to where you were slowly, habitually avoiding making any noise.

“You like?” You leaned your head out of the bathroom door, tilting your head innocently, as if you two were just some couple flirting with each other. “That’s what happens when you stop seeing death so often, you start regaining your appetite. It’s crazy, you should try it sometime.”

You whipped back into the small room. He made his way to its door leaning slightly on the frame, observing as you stepped under the water stream in the far corner. Far is an overstatement actually, it was only a step or two away from him. A singular white light bulb lit the overhead, hanging from some loose wires. Quite the fire hazard. One hand found a way into his pocket whilst the other rested by his side, gun still heavy and presumably loaded. He watched you curiously, your trembling muscles telling him the water was cold. You had your body towards him, head angled away from the water to avoid wetting your hair. You brought your hand over your face, rinsing it with some of the cold, a sobering motion it seemed, as you then quickly met his looming figure.

“You gonna join me or just stand there like a creep?” You finally acknowledged him.

He didn’t know why he obeyed, why his feet made their way into your embrace, stepping under the stream with you, causing his clothes to get soaked. His hair was getting wet too, though he didn’t really mind. Your back hit the cool shower tile, allowing him to step fully in and lean over you. He began shivering a little, too. The cold finally found his skin through the thick suit. Your hands smoothed over his toned abdomen from above the wet dress shirt, roaming up to his shoulders to help him out of the jacket and tossing it onto the ground. He kept his eyes on you, watching as you soaked him all in. His teeth started clattering a little.

“You can’t afford warm water?” he whispered, the distance between you not calling for his voice to be louder than that. You didn’t answer, instead grabbed his tie and pulled him in. He took the initiative to slot his lips onto yours then, soft and unsure. You pulled back momentarily, allowing only a whisker of space between you.

“Why are you being so gentle?” You poked at him. “I’m afraid you’ve really lost your touch.”

“You used to be more polite last I left you.”

“Oh don’t go telling people you left me now, it’ll ruin my image.”

“Do you always have to have the last word?”

“How many more questions are you asking me tonight?”

You were pissing him off, he knew this was purposeful. You loved to get on his nerves, rile him up over the littlest things. He’d abandoned this part of him so long ago, and now here you were forcing it back out of the depths of his being.

He used his free hand to grab your cheek harshly, pulling you into his lips once more. Only this time, the kiss was bruising. He was not letting you get one single breath in, biting at your bottom lip a little causing it to draw blood. He lapped up that flavour like a man starving. Still deep in your air, his loaded hand traveled up with the gun, aiming it at your chin from below. He pulled away only when he physically couldn’t breathe anymore. You were in a very compromising position, you both knew that.

“There he is.” You panted with a small smile, a hand coming up to brush a stray hair off his face. “I’ve missed you, you know.”

He knows, of course he knows. You didn’t acknowledge the threat at your neck, whether this was trust or a challenge he wasn’t sure. He isn’t ever when it comes to you anyway. The water above you two sputered, signaling the end of the reserve. You snorted at his face, he must’ve been appalled or something, and turned the tap off, stepping off to his side leaving his warmth. He stared at his shoes, back to you as you dried yourself and left the room, water dripping down his head and to his feet. He willed himself to just get this over with, end this game you two have going on. Push the memories back down to where no one could elicit them again. His grip on the gun tightened, but what good does that do if he can’t twitch his finger on the trigger.

1. . .1

He stared at the range from behind the thick pane of glass, using the cold cup to ice the bruises on his knuckles. The place was really nothing more than a hole in the wall, but it had it’s charm. A combination bar-gun range with some pool and poker tables, likely a front for money laundering, considering it was only ever busy on weekends. Otherwise it would just be him and the bartender of the night, but he enjoyed the break from the outside world. Plus he could watch amateurs give it their all in a macho-off, usually ending in some form of fight. They disgusted him, the people here. He’d people-watched long enough to know who most of them really were beyond these walls, pathetic and indebted to a vast array of people, yet they blow thousands on stupid bets and rigged games of poker, he can’t get that much entertainment elsewhere really. His spot in the corner gave him quite the view of all the commotions. Occasionally, he’d venture into the poker tables and play a few rounds. Losing his first couple of hands only to win big when the players got cocky. Something about watching low-lifes lose their entire net worth gave him satisfaction. He’d leave the winnings for the waiting staff that night anonymously, though he’s got a feeling they’d caught on to him. Other times, he’d watch as patrons came up with their own gun-shooting competitions, placing silly bets and risky prizes. He always joins those, they’re quite rare. Like tonight. There was a particular man in his mid-thirties that would spark these contests. Ex-policeman, that much he told everyone. Through a little more homework he found out that his wife left him and now he’s running away from several domestic violence charges. Unfortunately, the man had never given him the chance to drain him dry, always refusing to bet any real money on these contests. That’s why he’s resorted to staying at 3rd to 4th place when they play, waiting for the cop to let his guard down. Laying the trap so that he could pull the rug from under him. Yes, he plays the long game here, no matter how often they trash talk.

That’s where he first fully laid eyes on you. You were usually behind the bar, so seeing you waiting tables meant that they were likely very short staffed. You smacked a piece of gum as you maneuvered around drunk patrons to reach the tables. You made it to the gun area with the beers that the men had ordered, looking captivating as ever in your unassuming uniform. Something about you drew his attention, though he couldn’t quite place it. You set the drinks down in front of the loud men, your gaze finding his for only a fraction of a second.

“Thank you doll,” the older policeman said with a bit too much honey in his tone. “Oh and uh one more thing,” causing you to turn around, notebook in hand ready to take the next order.

“How bout that kiss huh,” smooching sounds came out of him and you made a very obvious face, the drunkards around him roaring with laughter. You didn’t say anything, only turned back around to wait more tables.

Later on in the night, after the contest had ended leaving the policeman, once again, victorious. He placed 5th, already almost feeling the fruits of his patience start to blossom as some of the guys had begun discussing re-matches with serious money involved. Oh how he could not wait to drain these fools dry. Bye-bye college fund. You made your way back to their place with refills of their drinks. The bar was a lot less busy now, considering the approaching dawn. Most of the other staff had left, and now that he looked around, most of the bar goers had gone too. Leaving you and the group he sat with. The man couldn’t resist taking another shot at you, now more vulnerable with less people around.

“Cmon sweetheart, what’s a man gotta do to earn your affection?”

You ignored him, continuing to slowly place the cups onto the table. He then slapped two 50,000 won bills on the table. “Cmon baby, how much for the night.”

“Not for sale,” you grumbled.

“Let's make it a bet then. If you win, I’ll give you double the amount” he said, slapping two more bills on top. That piqued your interest. You looked at the money then back up to him.

“And if I lose?”

“You know what, but I’ll be nice. Maybe tip ya after.”

You swallowed thickly, weighing your options carefully.

“What’s the bet?”

“If you could shoot better than my buddy here,” the man pointed back to him, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Then you win.”

You smiled a little.

“Why him? Why not you?”

“Just giving you a fair chance sweet thing,”

You sucked on your teeth a little, smirk evident on the corner of your mouth. You shoved your hand into your pocket and pulled out some bills, tips he assumed, and stacked them onto the money on the table.

“No, I'll shoot against you.”

Ooohs erupted from around. If the man had a little less ego he would’ve seen your confidence and took it as a sign to back out. But he didn’t, instead he sneered and motioned for one of the other men to grab two handguns, 10 bullets each.

The officer went first and the other bartenders huddled in with the group to observe. Out of the ten bottles they used as targets, the man shot down 5. Yes, 5. That was the high score for the night. Though, most of them were drunk and probably struggling with diplopia so that’s impressive enough. They reset the bottles and everyone held their breaths.

He observed your stance, way too comfortable with the weapon to be just a waitress. You shot bottle after bottle, missing not a single one. The dim lighting of the place coupled with the breaths of a dozen men down your back should've thrown you off, but it didn’t. Color him impressed. Cheers of bewilderment rose through the crowd as you moved to grab your money but a hand stopped you, causing the roars to quiet down.

“You cheated.” the officer accused.

“How? I made the bottles blow up?” You mocked.

“One more round, this time we use the bullseyes”

“Hmm I don’t really feel like a rematch,” you pouted, causing the angry man to slap a few more bills onto the table.

“No that won’t do…How about that card?” You smiled innocently and the man’s jaw clenched.

“Fine, but if I win, you won’t like how you’ll end up tonight.”

That statement didn’t scare you, only disgust present on your face as you continued chewing the gum.

He watched in awe once more as you handled the bullseye with ease, the skills of a marksman present in your grip. Though he could tell you were holding back. Ultimately, you had the winning paper. He stood by you as you watched the angry man get escorted away by security as you gave his credit card an obnoxious kiss, followed by waving an enthusiastic goodbye.

He was so intrigued by you, just itching to know more.

2. . .2

He made his way back to where you were, clothes dripping onto the floor with every step he took, panting a little with frustration. It was neither the water nor the cold that bothered him, but the effect you hold over his being. He observed your movements with tongue in cheek, looking at you with his head tilted to the floor slightly as you waltzed around the small space as if nothing happened. As if he wasn't here to end you. As if you hadn’t spoken in almost a year. He spent the better part of it clawing your ghost off his skin, promising himself self control if he ever saw you again.

“Why didn’t you run?” He sneered.

“This is me running.” You replied plainly. He hugged himself a little as he leaned on the wall, crossing one leg over.

“You’re doing a terrible job.”

“Hard to flee the country when you’re legally dead.” You handed him an item of clothing but he refused it before even checking what it was, convincing himself he would not be staying that long anyway. He gave you a mocking sympathetic expression as he decided to pull himself deep into his thoughts to build up the strength to just shoot you.

You took the item back and turned away from him on the opposite side of the room, rummaging through a bag on the floor. He thought of everything he had on the line, everything he was risking by letting you live this long and it fueled his grip on the gun. You’d both gone silent now, the room only filled with the loud clicking of a beat up clock you have on the wall. He cocked his weapon, allowing you the warning to say any last words. Your hands slowly came up from your sides, showcasing their emptiness as you turned around with wide eyes. He didn’t ever gather how you’d been able to read him so well, how you know when he’s weak and when he’s willing to take the shot. You stared at him with a hurt expression.

“Any last word-”

“You won’t make this a game at least?”

“I have a job to do-” His words were cut off by a swift trick of your hands, pulling out a throwing knife from its hiding spot in your sleeve and lodging it in his shooting shoulder, causing the first bullet to miss and break the window instead. His free hand came up to clutch the bleeding joint as his grip weakened in pain, though he kept it aimed at your head. In the meantime, you pulled out a gun yourself, yours aimed directly at him, too. Your expression had changed from fear to determination and he noticed you’d put outside clothes on. He must’ve been distracted while you were changing.

“Is this why you took my jacket off?” He laughed a little and you smirked. Of course you did, ridding him of the only form of protection he had on, leaving him just as vulnerable as you were. Evening the playing field, clever girl.“I don’t want to die,” You shook your head slightly, silently telling him this wasn’t going to be an easy win.

“No hard feelings, 038.” He used your guard ID, further driving a wedge between the two of you. The sudden change in demeanor like a punch in the gut.

“Ditto.”

Time stood still once more as his hand clutched the firearm, carefully weighing the options here. Last time you two had a standoff like this you ended up with that scar and he wasn’t unharmed either, but you both lived. He can’t let that happen again. The yellow bulb casted a weak glow on your face making you look quite ethereal. He couldn’t come up with a way to move things forward. He knew that the moment he took the shot, you would too, leaving you both dead. He also knew that he couldn’t dodge it from such a short distance.

You could though, because you wouldn’t wait for him to take initiative. Another concealed knife made it’s way into his arm as he shot in reaction to your sudden movement, lodging itself near the elbow causing his muscles to misalign and miss you, the shot landing in your biceps instead. You took this opportunity to lunge at him, knocking him to the ground in the process. Your undamaged hand wrestled with his twice injured one in an attempt to disarm him as you straddled his abdomen, but he managed to toss the gun into the other palm and hit you on the head with it throwing you off balance. He moved quickly to position himself on you but not before you managed to grab the weapon embedded in his shoulder, soaking his formerly white shirt with even more red. He re-positioned the pistol to your head as he noticed his blood staining your face, but you managed to stab him in the same arm once more, twisting the knife causing him to cry out in pain. The blood from your little trick dripped onto your lips and you smiled, then took this opportunity to knee him right where the money’s at, hindering him enough to be able to wiggle out from beneath him and get up. 3-1, to you.

The front of your boot collided with his sternum causing him to fall back as you reached down for his gun. You kept your foot there as he panted beneath you, and you made a show of unloading his gun of its ammo all around him, tossing the weapon out of the broken window, your hand then coming up to clutch your injured arm.

“You haven’t changed at all,” he laughed, defeated and bleeding from three different wounds in the same arm.

“You, however, have gotten real rusty.” You kept your own firearm aimed at his head, knowing that logically, this is the only out you have.

“Is it too late to convince you to change your mind?”

“What? And come back to the games?” you asked and he nodded softly. “I left for a reason, 013. Plus they’d have my head the moment I step on the island, I’m not stupid.”

“I could put in a real good word for you,”

“I don’t think you’re as significant as you think you are.”

“Got you in, didn’t I?” That caused you to ponder. “Back then I was even less significant.”

You frowned a little, unsure where he was going with this.

“Is this fear talking, 013? You scared to die? Scared I’ll shoot?”

He laughed, tossing his head to the side a bit before re-meeting your amused expression.

“No. I know you won’t shoot,” He smiled. “Maybe I just miss you too.”

He propped himself onto his elbows as you both panted in frustration, sweat dripping down either of your bodies as you contemplated his words. He was pretty like this, so harmless. It often makes you forget who he really was, so the little weasel wasted no time in reminding you.

In one quick movement, he grabbed the knife in his forearm and stuck it in your leg, hitting bone in the process, you yelped at the sudden pain.

He took the opportunity to volt back up, grabbing an empty bottle from the floor and throwing it at your head, you managed to duck though, the glass shattering on the wall behind. You used this moment to run for the door, bag of belongings slung on your good shoulder. You reached the knob before he grabbed the glass you’d been drinking from earlier and charged at you, smashing it on your head, causing bright blood to drip from your scalp onto your face. He used his position behind you to wrap a strong arm around your neck, his other hand stabilizing your head as he began ridding you of your air supply. You struggled once, twice, smacking his forearm with all your might, then went limp in his embrace. He loosened his grip on you at the relief of your unconsciousness. He hadn’t though, anticipated the shot that rang out. You were only pretending to go limp and the relief he grated you allowed you to snake your arm around yourself, shooting blindly into him. The shot landed near his liver, but he knew it likely missed anything important, you weren’t shooting to kill after all. He clutched his side, vision going a bit blurry from the accumulated blood loss, causing him to drop down against the wall, staining it red.

He watched as you wheezed violently, coughing up blood as you clutched your trachea for relief, your injuries exciting him a little, especially your painted face. You both heaved in unison, either one of you unable to take the winning shot. You kneeled down next to him and stuck a hand in his pocket, he didn’t have the energy to stop you.

“Take me out to dinner first,” he chuckled, earning no reaction from you. You made a show of jiggling his car keys in front of his face, clutching them back in your palm before he could snatch them away. Before you turned to leave you leaned in close and planted a feverish kiss from your busted lip onto his. His hand instinctively cupped your face, dyeing it with some of his blood to match yours. Your bleed seeped slowly into the kiss and he couldn’t get enough of the flavour, chasing your warmth a little when you pulled back, wiping your face and sniffing.

“Don’t keep me waiting for you that long again, baby.” You pecked him harshly once more and rose back up to pull the door open, letting the building’s cold in. This occurrence must not be that rare since none of the residents cared enough to come check or even filter into the hallway. You turned back to him once more, shooting him a smirk-wink combo before slamming the door shut in his face.

His tongue wiped his teeth free of your taste, tangy and metallic as he sighed, laughing a little maniacally to an empty room. The events of the night being the highest form of entertainment to him. Baby. What an odd word, he chuckled. He reached his hand into his pocket to call for backup, something he’d never usually do but he’d rather not bleed out here, all alone. His fingers stilled in his pants as a realisation dawned on him.

You took his wallet too

3. . .3

He’d spent the last few weeks watching you intently, finding out all there was available to know about you. Your name, how old you were, where you grew up, went to school. Basic stuff. He’d also made a habit of following you along your daily routine. It was fun, always being around without your knowledge. He knows where you live and on which floor. He knows what time you get off your morning shift and he’d watch you change into a different uniform for the next. 2 different jobs a day and sometimes you’d add the extra night at the bar. Your favorite coffee spot became his and the store you stop by regularly had started to recognise his face. All information available about you, every routine, every like and dislike, every hobby and nervous habit, he had memorised to heart. He’d held out for this long cause not a single pattern in your past or present gave him a clue about your skills. Not military service, not an ambitious parent, not self defence classes and not even a pastime. Away from that one night at the bar, you’ve never picked up a gun again in the last weeks. How could someone so ordinary hold such a specific skill? Fascinating. He skimmed your medical records looking for any slip up he could find, a wound unfitting for a simple waitress, finding nothing but endless bills piling up in debt. The only logical next step was to just ask, but he had bigger plans.

“She’d have to join circle and work her way up”

He sighed. No, that wasn’t satisfactory. He tried pleading once more with the head guard, his position as head triangle guard not strong enough to make a case, but his charm has gotten him way bigger things before.

“That would be a waste of quite the sharpshooter.”

“When she comes in and is able to display these skills you speak of, we can talk then.”

That's The best he could get.

You got off work, as usual, at around 2am. He waited in the quiet corner of the bar as you rid yourself of the apron and packed your things. He followed from a safe distance, your first stop on a sunday like this being the 24hr convenience store a few streets down. Then you’ll take an extra five minutes to pet the sickly dog whose owners won’t feed him at the end of the street, leaving him some sort of processed meat before you turn back to the actual way home. Near the end of your tour there’s a particular alleyway you have to cross to get home. He’d noticed how you always tense up then, likely due to the constricting and dark nature of the path. He’ll strike you then, it’ll earn him the best possible reaction, scared and alone. That part is for his own enjoyment, nothing more.

Tonight though, weather much warmer and no breeze in the air, you’d taken several unplanned detours to seemingly random places all around. This angered him, following you like a lost puppy, briefcase heavy in hand as he tried to keep up appearances, but your sudden spontaneity put him on edge. He trailed you errand to errand, though you never seemed to have a reason for them. Clothes store then a jewelry one then you went fruit shopping, he really couldn’t fathom what you could be preparing for. At the end of the night though, you fed the ugly dog and treaded back to his made up meeting point. You were several paces ahead of him as you turned the corner into the alley, disappearing from his sight momentarily. He took a deep breath, willing himself to keep the excitement inwardly. He turned the corner in your steps only to be confronted face to face with you. The coldness of your revolver an unexpected feeling on his forehead, doing its best to ward off the summer heat. You stared at him with a tense expression, hand steady around the firearm you were pushing into his temple.

“Drop it.” you ordered, motioning to the bag in his hand, so he obeyed and you kicked it far out of reach across the dirty street floor. Both hands came up in surrender.

“Game’s over pretty boy.”

He shot you one of his million dollar smiles, the one he usually resorted to to get what he wants. It didn’t seem to affect you though, only clenching your jaw as a response.

“I come in peace.”

“That why you’ve been following me for the last month?”

So you noticed him. Did you also notice him watching you change? And jump from job to job? Or just following you home? You were a lot more vigilant than he’d given you credit for. His chest filled with admiration.

“You are not at all who you seem to be, ms…”

“Oh you know my name too?” You scoffed. “You wanna stop flashing your teeth before I make a hole in that head of yours?”

“My apologies,” he cleared his throat, amusement still evident on his face. “So aggressive…” he whispered, but at the distance you two stood at, he knew you heard him. Your expression remained unchanged.

“I’ve come with a proposal for you.”

“I decline.”

He bit his tongue to suppress his smile, letting out a shaky breath of pleasure. He wants nothing more than to break you apart, bit by bit, your strong attitude making the image in his mind ever more satisfying.

“I beg you to let me convince you then.”

You rolled your eyes, “I’m not interested in drug schemes,”

“Do I look like I would approach you for that?”

It was that statement that caused you to take a good look at him, recognition finding its way into your face. Yes, the man from the shooting range.

“Ah, you’re the scammer.”

“I am no such thing.”

“Right, you pretend to be bad at poker so they play their life savings onto the table then win, scamming them out of their money. You’d been doing that at the range too right? But they won’t give you the chance.”

He smiled ear to ear, you knew him a lot more than he anticipated.

“You call it scamming, I call it a fun night out. Besides, I assure you my employer has nothing to do with that.”

“And what makes you think I’m buying whatever you’re selling”

“The fact that you haven’t shot me yet, anyone else wouldn’t have given the strange man following them a chance to speak, let alone converse. So either you’re morbidly curious to what I have to say or you’ve got no sense of self preservation.”

It was your turn to smile, flustered a little as you bit on your bottom lip, his effect now impossible to deny.

“May I ask you lower your weapon?”

“No you look good like this.”

That caught him off guard, causing a little blush to rise to his cheeks.

“We’ll be needing your skills-”

“My shooting?” you interrupted.

“Yes, you can say you’ll be ridding the world of its filth.”

“Sounds like community service.”

“You could call it that.”

Your gun finally went down to your side as you pulled away from him, turning to give him your back “I’m good, thanks.”

“10 million won for around 2 weeks a year. More, if they like you.”

That stopped you in your tracks.

“I know what that kind of money could do for you ms…, the hospital records are easy to access.”

“What’s the catch?” you turned around slowly.

“There’s no catch.”

“What kind of community service is it?”

He crossed the distance between you, picking up his long forgotten case in the process. He smoothed his clothes over and reached into his chest pocket, pulling out a brown business card.

“You’ll just have to find out for yourself.” He offered you the card between two fingers, neat and trimmed. You grabbed it, going to inspect what exactly it says.

3 shapes and a number on the back.

“Hey this doesn’t really-” You looked back up from the paper, finding no trace of the man you’d become familiar with. You never even caught his name. The card in your hand felt heavy, as if it was calling for you to sell your soul to it. Ok that’s a bit dramatic, but the nature in which you were handed it didn’t really ease your worries. What kind of work has their - albeit, smoking hot- representatives stalk potential employees? And they’d take you based on just this guy’s word? He must be important.

You stood dumbly in the dim corridor, gun in one hand pointed at the ground and the card in the other. The kind of money he speaks of…it could change everything, it could give you a new life.

What’s the worst that could happen?

4. . .4

He clutched his side, chasing any form of pain relief he knows won’t come. The streets were empty aside from the occasional bar or party. The car was window sprinkled with raindrops from earlier. They zoomed past the dingy part of town he’d cornered you in, heading back to the main quarters he presumed. The silence was deafening, he waited for anyone to say anything, though there was no one in the car. He was expecting a call from one of the higher guards, though his position granted him a lot of immunity from them.

“013.” a voice came over the speaker and he tensed up, knowing exactly who this belonged to.

“Mr. Frontman.”

He sat up straight, knowing he was likely being watched at the moment, wincing in pain as some blood oozed out at the sudden movement, his vision growing more blurry by the minute. The matter was a lot more serious than he’d given it credit then, to have the man himself discuss what happened with him could only mean one thing. You’d been causing more trouble, running your mouth and needed to be put down. It’s not a lot that could spike his nerves like this, but the thought of losing everything he worked hard for because of some girl, it tore at him.

“What happened tonight?”

He had a feeling the man already knew.

“A slip up, it won’t happen again.”

“I took quite the risk sending you, 013. But you’ve let her get under your skin, again.”

He opened his mouth to protest but only groaned in pain.

“I’ll find her again, and this time I won’t-”

“I’d like you to take backup.”

Backup? He scoffed. He was not a child needing babysitting.

“I assure you-”

“Take 024, that’s an order.” The line clicked and he sighed, grabbing one of the glasses on the armrest and smashing it in anger, both hands then coming up to rake through his damp hair in frustration. He tried to even his breathing, recollect himself and not allow you to have this effect on him, failing miserably. The car screeched to a halt in front of his own building, guess he won’t even get good treatment tonight.

He limped his way to the elevator and smacked the button with a closed fist, leaving blood everywhere he stepped. He leaned back on himself a little, head tilting up to observe the numbers decrease then a ting! His feet shuffled in and punched in his code, the elevator closing shortly after as he began the ascent to the penthouse. With his back against the wood of the elevator wall, he observed his reflection in the metal of the door. Bloody, tired, defeated.

Pathetic.

He couldn’t help but recall the way your hands moved over him earlier, already stupidly missing your touch. Another ting! And he was at his place, cold and empty. His finger flicked the central lighting by the elevator, bringing the place to life. He kicked off his shoes, walking barefoot to the nearby guest bathroom. Guest… yeah. The room was relatively small, in comparison to his main bathroom anyway, but he didn’t want to taint the whole place with blood. He’d hate to get rid of yet another cleaning lady. He stepped into the shower, not bothering to toy with the water settings as he turned it on. For the second time that night, he’d found himself under a stream, only this time the temperature was much more humane. Usually he likes cold showers, but the warmth was a lot more efficient in getting rid of your icy memory. He stripped off his blood-soaked garments, red fluid flowing down his legs and into the drain, tossing the clothes to the side. He rested his pounding head on the tiled wall, sighing as the heat eased his aching muscles. Then he pooled some water into his hands, bringing them over his face and head a few times to wash away all impurities. The injuries littered across his body burned a little causing a shiver to crawl down his spine, he needs to take care of those.

Back out in the kitchen, he made skillful work of the needle and thread through the deep wound as the dirtied clothes sat by the door waiting to be taken care of. He had a towel wrapped around his waist, hair still freshly wet from the shower. He’d fished the bullet out, placing it next to him as a token of defeat. The needle pierced his abdomen easily and he pushed it back out the other side with impatience; he still had a few stab wounds he needs to get to. But at the rate he was going, it would heal quite badly, then you two would be matching. How revolting. Once he was done with that mess, he moved onto using surgical staples for his arm, since there’s no way he could fix that himself.

He used some bags and gloves to handle the clothes next, transporting them to his disposal oven. He tossed everything in there, his shoes, pants and shirt. The door of the furnace slammed shut and he observed the rising fire through the little window. He ought to do that to you, he thought, lit cigarette in hand. He hates smoking, the smell of it and the aftertaste don’t go well with him, but its effects as a stress reliever are undeniable, considering the other option is on the run at the moment. At the image of you sneaking back into his mind, his body slumped a bit forward as he kept his eyes trained on the dancing flames. A thousand thoughts raced through his head, mostly memories of better days and yearnings of what ifs, things that he did not want to dwell on right now. The phone in his hand read the familiar number, one that often left a sour taste in his mouth, but he had to click dial. Captain’s orders. He took a long drag in.

The tone rang once, twice then,

“Hello?” A soft female voice enthusiastically replied from the device, clearly anticipating his call. He could only stare at the contact, grimacing a little at the prospect of who was on the other side, blowing some smoke at the screen.

“Hellooo?” The voice called again, then laughed, “I know it’s you 013,”

“Hello, 024,” he replied finally. “I trust you got the memo,” He took another inhale.

“Yeah I did, wanna come over to discuss?” the voice a little too sultry for him to deal with right now. He knew what she was insinuating, he’d tried to find comfort in her at your disappearance. Big mistake seeing as he spent their fleeting moments together looking for hints of you in her, wasting both of their time. Exhale.

“That will not be necessary, I’ll see you at headquarters tomorrow morning.”

“Aw, sugar, why so cold? She hurt you that bad? I’m always here to kiss it better.” He rolled his eyes, not needing to be present to feel her winking.

“Goodnight 024.” He ended the call before she could get another word in. The fire was long gone now, leaving only ashes and a burnt out cigarette as a testament to the night’s shenanigans.

5. . .5

You woke up groggy in a pristine red and white room, mind scrambling to try and recall where you were and how you’d gotten here, though you could only remember the latter. You took the man in the suit up for his offer, dialing the number a few days later and getting into that weird storage container. Everyone else there knew what to do, leaving you the sheepish odd one out. You considered backing out then, since no one would tell you what the hell was going on, but for some odd reason, you pushed through. Maybe you were worried you wouldn’t see his pretty face again otherwise…maybe. There was a blinking camera in the corner, indicating your every move being watched. You moved the covers off your body to reveal a black set of loungewear underneath; a tank top and leggings. To your right there was a toilet with its cover shut, a red uniform placed neatly on top of it and a black mask with a huge circle on it. You looked around for any instructions, explanations but found none, so you sat cluelessly, weighing the options. But by the time you decided to try the door, a knock came from outside. You shot up, ready for anyone to tell you what the hell was going on. The door cracked open to reveal a looming figure in the same uniform that rested in your room, his face covered by a triangle mask. The whatever pushed past you, welcoming themselves into your room. They turned to the camera to reveal their identity, discarding the cover to the side. You shut the door softly, leaning back on it as you observed him turn around with an eager smile on his face. His presence was oddly comforting.

“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show up.” you mirrored his expression.

“You’ve been awake for all of 5 minutes, plus I had things to do.” He teased.

“Well?” You gestured to the surroundings.

“Well,” he parroted. “Just put your uniform on, I’ll get you shooting soon enough.”

You nodded and he left the room with determinants in his movements, face once again covered.

He maneuvered through the empty hallways he had access to, mind set on reaching the head guard to work his magic for you. He was evidently excited, hoping for a front seat view of presumably your first kill. The door to the room slid open upon identification, revealing some of the other heads as well as the main one readying up for the game in their lockers. He skipped past everyone and aimed for the highest ranking man in the room.

“She’s here.” he stated.

The other guard sighed, “She can join circle for now-”

“Red light, green light is the best time for her to show you what she could do.”

The man stopped his movements and turned to him, despite having his face hidden and a voice changer on, he could tell that he was tired of his antics.

“013, as head triangle you know we’ve got a full house,” the man said sternly. “If someone drops out for any reason, you could have her fill in.”

That’s all the motivation he needed, he left the bathroom stalls in search of you once more, leaving that lanky kid’s unconscious body in a locked stall. He doesn’t really feel bad for him, he’s a terrible shooter so there’s no net losses anyway.

He knocked on your door once more, an extra mask in hand to be gifted to you. You opened and he observed your figure in the unflattering uniform, face still uncovered. You took a small step to the side to allow him in and shut the door.

“Ok, put this on. Your number is 038, for now.”

Your identity was now fully concealed, the only difference between the two of you being the height.

“Follow my lead, don’t ask questions till we get to the shooting range.”

You nodded and he reached for the door handle but your voice stopped him.

“Wait, I never caught your name.”

“That’s confidential.”

Actually, it's been so long since someone referred to him by his actual name, the people here use guard IDs for ease of recall.

“Oh come on,” you lifted your mask to get rid of the stupid voice changer. “You know all there’s to know about me and I know absolutely nothing! I can’t keep referring to you as ‘gun guy’ in my head.”

He chuckled quietly, appalled at your insistence of finding out who he was. He mirrored your previous action, moving the cover of his face so that you could see him.

“Just call me 013 for now, ok?” He put the cover back on, referring to the number on his chest.You rolled your eyes, “Sure.” and fixed your mask once more.

You trailed behind him as he led you through colourful passageways and winding corridors. Nothing about the place could give you any indication as to where you were or what the task was. Or what’s with the eyesore for uniforms. A few people passed you on your journey, all wearing the same uniform save for different shapes on masks and numbers. He finally brought you over to a small room with black walls and a singular window on the opposite side. The area was tiny, barely leaving any space for you two to stand side by side. The walkie talkie on him made a sound but no words came out, only a sort of code you assume.

“Wait here,” he turned back to deal with whatever that was. “You can take the mask off.”

Didn’t have to tell you twice, that thing is so stupidly suffocating it’s insane. Sweaty too. You have a feeling someone was wearing it before you put it on. Ew.

You crouched to inspect the view from the little hole, sitting on your knees. It looked out onto a vast desert-like arena with painted walls, huge. It was also made so that you’d have to be laying down to shoot, well, like a sniper. Near your side of the arena there was a large doll-like statue with its back to you. Some red guards began filtering into the from the sides, contrasting the dull blues of the place, like blood on a surgeon’s scrubs. The heat was unbearable in the uniform, they really could afford all this but made the thing out of polyester? Was cotton out of budget? Maybe it doesn’t come in this ugly colour.

Your fashion critic moment was cut off by ‘013’ sneaking back into the room, a black case in his hand. He dropped it gently at your feet before taking his mask off and fixing his hair, beads of sweat dancing on his forehead.

“I trust you know how to handle this?”

You popped the case open to reveal a sleek black sniper rifle, the kind way too expensive for you to have ever held it. But you knew the concept.

“More or less.” you grumbled as your hands went to work assembling the piece as he stood over you with his arms crossed, watching with intense eyes. He saw you struggle a little with the support tripod so he leaned down to help you. You both worked in silence and efficiency, moving the completed puzzle to the window. You took your position behind the trigger, patiently awaiting instructions. He sat down by your side, mumbling something into the device in his hands.

The small doors opposite to where you were opened allowing teal blue figures to move in. You used the scope to observe the targets closer.

“People…?” You questioned out loud. “People??”

“I wouldn’t call them that” the gruff voice from behind you replied as you began piecing the situation together.

“What the hell is this?” You turned to find him smiling sickeningly at you, his hands toying with a smaller weapon.

“Red light, green light.”

“The children’s game?”

“If the players move when they shouldn’t, I’ll tell you a number, you find them, then shoot.”

“I’m not killing anyone.”

His jaw clenched in frustration, suddenly making you feel fear in the compromising position you’re in. A voice outside began explaining the game rules.

“The game is simple enough, really, but you’d be surprised how often they mess up.”

He cocked his gun.

“My instructions were also pretty simple but I’ll clarify them for you. They move, I tell you the number, you shoot.” His eyes were fixed on your terrified ones. “Or else I shoot you.”

He pointed the gun at you and something about the whole circumstance made you sure he wasn’t just talking. You turned back to the scope, observing as the players readied themselves for the task and he lodged the gun into your side, keeping it there.

“Do they know?” Your shaky voice betrayed you. You didn’t have to turn around to see the smile on his face, coupled with a short laugh.

“No. Not yet.”

The doll sang her melody and the victims began to play. Stopping at red, going with green. Your palms were sweaty on the trigger as you tried to come up with a way to back out of this, finding no escape. You saw the man move out of turn before 013 relayed the number to you.

“255”

You had the shot aligned to his head, breath getting quick and frantic. He pushed the gun further into you.

“Do it.”

So you did, jumping back a little at the loud bang.

“Domino down.” He laughed into the walkie talkie and you weren’t sure what he meant. Soon enough though, the realisation came to you.

The arena descended into chaos, almost half of the players had now started running the way they came from, breaking the rules.

He leaned in close to your ear.

“Cmon now, don’t disappoint me.”

You blocked it all out, the screams and cries of fear, the blood splashing all around outside, the clothes sticking to your skin, all of it, and began to shoot.

Moving targets were always your favourite anyway.

Shot after shot after shot. You became numb to it, the thought that these were real people, bargaining with the idea of it being either you or them. No longer waiting for the numbers to be called out, you can tell who lost yourself. The machine in your hands made headshots a breeze, the scope making it impossible to miss, or maybe you were just getting cocky, knowing you’ve shot better with much more rudimentary equipment.

“013,” a voice came from behind you, “tell your girl to leave some kills for the rest of us.”

He laughed into the device, “get better.”

You were not his girl.

The rush died down and the doll explained the rules once more to the surviving competitors.

Red light, green light.

You watched closely for any more losers, shooting a handful in the remaining game time. Your lip was bloody from how hard you were biting it as you got back up with a vacant look in your eyes. He got up as well, grabbing your discarded mask and handing it to your shaking grip. His hand came up to your face, brushing some of the blood on your lips with his thumb. You swatted his arm away and looked at him, a sick smile plastered on that perfect face of his. You turned back to the door and quickly left as he watched you in amusement, bringing the bloodied digit onto his tongue. Kneeling back down to dismantle the weapon, he wondered with a smirk if you’d even be able to find your way back, or if he would find you in some empty corner all scared and alone, easy prey. He put the gun back into its case and exited the room, being met with a short triangle guard’s presence blocking his way. 024.

“Who was that?”

“New recruit.”

“You don’t sneak into new recruits’ rooms or personally oversee their stay. Who is that?”

“Why does it matter to you?”

“I’m…curious.”

“Sounds like jealousy.”

The woman only shrugged.

“I made whatever was between us clear, 024. Don’t interest yourself in my personal life.”

“Personal?”

He pushed past her, berating himself for giving too much away. But he only had one thing on his mind at the moment and he wanted to be there to watch it.

You didn’t end up seeing him again for the rest of your time there, falling back into ‘circle guard’ duties. From laundry to cooking and cleaning the arenas, this was much more tame than the excitement you had that first day. 6 nights went by in a blur, moving from one duty to the next. You didn’t actually know what the protocols were like here but some of the other circles were kind enough to show you the ropes.

Kind.

Funny word.

From your interactions you’d learnt that most of them were in similar situations to you, broke and struggling, which really conflicted you but you tried not to think about it. You heard them speak of talks of making routines stricter, limiting interactions between guards. Maybe someone got pregnant.

At the end of the week there was a celebratory gala that you had to cater at, as the lowest guard rank of course. They switched out your uniforms in favour of sleek black suits and decorative face masks. You saw him then.

He had a different mask on, but you knew it was him, looking care-free as ever with his arm draped around some girl. All you could think about is what he made you go through, the stuff he put you in. You were so incredibly angry at him for acting like nothing happened at all. You totally spilt wine on him that night, ruining his outfit then scurrying away in giggles to one of the staff rooms.

You heard he looked for you all night.

The next time you crossed paths again was the night you were leaving. You only knew it was him because of his number and that obnoxious stance of his. He made you sick. Still hot though, unfortunately. He was standing next to some other guards and a man dressed in all black as they bid all circle guards goodbye. The man in black, who you’d come to learn was the frontman, gave some sappy, thank you for your service type speech and left you on your way.

You promised yourself you’ll never trust random men in dark alleyways again.

6. . .6

He remained quiet, allowing the unknown number to identify themselves first. He was, afterall, used to receiving key info from burner phones and unsaved callers.

“Is this supposed to make me feel jealous?”

He smiled, biting his lip a little to prevent himself from alerting his partner. Your voice was music to his ears, a welcome comeback after a little less than 3 months of silence. His wounds were a lot better now, his mind way more set on the goal. For the past weeks he’d been working with 024 to pin you down on the map, attempting to pull on leads and follow weak clues to where you were. You hadn’t been making things easy, he expected no less. You were at least decent enough to leave his car in pristine condition at some junkyard and he was able to retrieve it before they tore it apart. Barely. You were more clever than he often gave you credit for, disappearing without a trace on such short notice, but you were bound to slip up eventually. Currently, he was sat with her at a lively cafe, observing your meeting with a friend of yours. They thought you hadn’t spotted them, leaving shortly after a quick exchange and heading to your motorbike, rented and license plate-less of course, back to your hideout. Following you would be difficult, especially in a vehicle so obvious to you as theirs, so they needed to come up with another way.

But here you were, dropping it at his feet.

Amatuere work.

“Hello again, 038,”

“I suggest you get rid of her.”

“...Or?”

That seemed to shut you up, long enough for him to signal to 024 for help in tracking the number. It was a temporary phone no doubt, but it could give a clue.

“You need a nanny to help you find me 013?”

He knew you were just trying to rile him up, but his plan was working so he wouldn’t quite give in yet.

“You’re very slippery,”

That earned a chuckle.

“I warned you.”

The line cut off, but the location was already obtained. And, stupidly enough, it seemed you were keeping the phone on you, giving away your temporary escape. A busted motel in the outskirts of seoul, a place where there's more shady people than not, allowing you to blend right in. You’d done everything right up until now; used cash, avoided cameras, changed your gait but it was jealousy, jealousy that was your ultimate demise. He moved the cup of cold coffee to his lips to avoid the smirk catching the other woman’s attention.

The location was just as he’d imagined; cheap and with a laughable amount of security. All he had to do was bribe the front desk with a stack and they gave your room number up immediately, 8F, the money probably worth more than your entire stay’s worth. The key felt light in his palm.

“I’ll take the inside, you wait out here in case she gets away.”

“No, I'm coming in with you.”

He sighed, already feeling suffocated in the car at the thought of confronting you again, he’d really rather not have the other woman in there too.

“And if she manages to escape? Or never even enters the room because she caught us?”

He wasn’t really making sense, prompting 024 to give him a look.

“From the moment she walks in, I’ll give you 5 minutes. After that I’m coming in to finish the job. I know you won’t.”

He rolled his eyes, opening the door and stepping out into the cool night air.

“You better not screw each other!” She called out, he pretended not to hear it.

There was not much inside that caught his eye, the place as unwelcoming as your last one. It was, however, an absolute mess. Clothes strewn about all over, unmade sheets and leftover takeout on the bed. The place was, well, filthy. Very unlike you. On the nightstand sat your notepad, a habit he noticed you always held close. He couldn’t stop himself from looking through it. It was filled with random entries and detailed sketches of everyday items. There was a page for the night you saw each other again, three months ago. The paper was stained with tears.

He hasn’t changed a bit, still a psycho freak and still so. hot. It’s actually infuriating now. Left my mark on him though, physically and emotionally. My leg hurts like hell, my head too, but you should’ve seen the other guy, haha.

Seeing him again was…oh I don’t know. Everytime I pretend I’m over him he sneaks back into my mind one way or another. If only he wasn’t trying to kill me. Sigh, maybe in another life we end up together, the normal way. I know I shouldn't, but I miss him. So, so, so, so, so, you get the point, much. I think he missed me too, doubt his pride would let him admit that though. Wait he actually did admit that, but I think he was just talking. I feel so empty, he’s left a print on me I can’t freaking get rid of. He’s trying to K I L L you you idiot, pull yourself together. I should've killed him when I got the chance. But I always wonder, you know? What if he could change? What if we could be? I feel so silly, thinking of white picket fences and wrap around porches with a man who can’t wait to put a bullet through my skull.

He tried not to let your words get to him, tried to ignore the feeling it made in his chest. Longing. You weren’t the only one dreaming of different circumstances. Though he hates to admit it, he’d been looking for your face in every crowd and your voice in every song. He may be a maniac, sure. But that didn’t stop you from sneaking into his barren heart. What a mess.

The following page had a drawing of your kiss in the shower, done in pencil and with an amazing attention to detail, reminding him of the exact woman you were before he roped you into his world. He doesn’t regret it though, it gave him the pleasure of knowing you. He ripped the page out, keeping it as his personal souvenir of you.

He flipped through the next few pages.

Meeting with x at 9;00PM, by the nursery

Flip,

Need to buy some metoprolol, DON’T FORGET!!!!

Flip,

Total spent; 6k! Girl get it together.

Flip,

Saw him again today, he is so fine ffs. 024 was with him, lol. Gonna have to work harder than that to get me mad, babe.

Flip,

Though it is a bit unfair don’t you think?

That one caught his eye, flip,

2 against one? Low blow.

What? Flip,

Surely you’ve gotten it by now.

His breath grew quicker. Flip,

If you’re reading this, it’s too late.

See you soon ;)

The smile on his lips remained as he shut the notepad forcefully, feeling himself slowly lose it.He turned on his heel, the journal still in his hands, toward the widow that was covered by blinds. It overlooked the parking lot, allowing him to have a direct view of his car.

Empty.

Whatever you had planned involved 024, apparently. His jaw clenched so hard he felt his teeth might shatter. The anger got too much, you were, once again, two steps ahead of him. This time, he genuinely had no idea what you might be up to, or where you were. He yelled in frustration, slamming the notepad against the far wall. But it wasn’t enough. He picked up the bedside lamp and shattered it on the window, pieces of glass flying everywhere, cutting him all over his face and chest. His hands shook as he did a final sweep of the room and adjoining bathroom; no sign of you. This was a setup, and he fell for it. Of course you’re smarter than to leave your location on, so easy to access. He should’ve guessed.

Now though,

Now this game ends.

He stormed away to his vehicle, hair a mess and blood staining his shirt. He tried not to feel hurt over the words you wrote, assuming now that you only put them to mess with him. Of course you don’t love him.

He doesn’t either.

In fact, he can not wait to watch the life drain from behind your eyes as your body lays there helplessly, at his mercy.

He was in for another surprise at the car though, looking down to find it nearly touching the ground. Slashed tires. These were custom made, you moron. But of course you wouldn’t let him find you that easily, you had to slow him down somehow. He kicked the stupid thing, turning back to wipe a hand over his face and through his hair. He had to think of something, fast.

4 cheap tires and a long 50 minute drive later, he parked his car carelessly at the foot of his building. He wasn’t sure what he was hoping for, only thing he knows is that if the plan went sour, 024 was meant to meet him back here. He gave her a temporary code that his phone notified him of it being used, meaning she was back here. Maybe she overpowered you somehow and brought you back here for him to kill you himself, but why not call? Whatever it was, he knew they’re regrouping now. The 10 second ride up felt longer than usual, the uncertainty of what to expect kept him on edge. He tried 024’s number again and again, nothing. The doors to his place slid open, revealing a dark and empty apartment, though that only worsened his worries. He flicked the lights on and did a quick view of the immediate environment; peaceful. Nothing out of place. Well, nothing except the sleeping figure on his couch. He pulled out his revolver, only 2 bullets inside because of an altercation he got into on his way here. The figure was completely covered and he couldn’t really make out who it was, he approached from behind the couch, shoulders relaxing a little at the sight of 024’s shoes. Then he saw it.

Blood.

So so so much blood. Dripping from the body down to stain his perfectly white carpet. He moved the cover quickly, cringing a little at the sight. It was 024, slashed and torn from multiple places, a handful of bullet wounds all around. She was still breathing, somehow, though she was definitely unconscious. He saw something move out of the corner of his eye on the upper floor, making the hair on his arms stand up. He whipped around quickly, but his gun was shot out of his hands before he could do anything.

You emerged from your hiding like some cartoonish villain, twirling the gun in your hands a few times before blowing off imaginary smoke. You rested against the black railing, giving him a clear look of your face. Bloodied, bruised with a few cuts, but so cocky.

“Surprise!” You said in a sing-song voice.

“Missed me?”

7. . .7

The bar was less busy than usual, regulars turning in for the night rather than stay their normal hours, leaving you and just a few more patrons who were closing their tab for the night. It was nice like this, quiet. No big fights or smashed glass, just a few drinks and counter wipe-downs. The days seemed to have been blending together these past weeks, routine just barely changing, if at all. You were at peace with all this though, guilt of the blood on your hands slowly being washed away with the ordinary day-to-day.

Money though, now that’s another issue.

The not so small payout you’d gotten was always on your mind, seeing as to how your life greatly improved afterwards. You slept more soundly at night, knowing that the next meal will be warm and within reach. Sure, it didn’t really affect your debt on the grand scale of things, but it did make you more comfortable. You know you shouldn’t consider going back, calling that number again and putting in a better effort, you were better than this. Better than killing for dirty cash.

Or you tried to be anyway.

The bar had been barren for almost an hour, but you had to stay open for at least another two, management’s orders. You could risk it, just leave and deal with it next time, but you preferred having a stable source of income to gambling it. You hadn’t heard anyone come in, not even that obnoxious bell by the door. You had your back to the bartop, inspecting the bottles with hyper focus, trying to decide if you should re-arrange them..for fun. Or boredom. But you were taken out of your trance by a firm knock on the bar behind you. You turned around only for your eyes to meet his.

“You.” You sneered, causing him to smile a little.

“Missed you.”

Your expression didn’t falter, pure anger evident on your face. You crossed your arms over your chest, unsure what to do now. You hadn’t seen him since that day, 2 months ago. He looked so different in this lighting, almost like a normal person, rather than a mass murderer. The grey shirt he wore was two sizes too small for him, suffocating his biceps. His hair was neat, as it usually is and he wore a pair of black combat pants, with boots to match, he almost looked human.

“What the hell do you want?”

He raised his arms up in a mock surrender, “Just wanted to see how you’re doing, that’s all.”

“I’m well, you can leave now.”

“Oof, ice cold.” he pretended to get stabbed in the heart and you huffed in annoyance.

“I wanted to talk to you actually, but how about we make it fun. Let’s play poker-”

“I will not be doing that.”

“How about pool then?”

That got you thinking. With poker, a liar like him would easily beat you, but you were pretty good at pool, meaning you could beat him at whatever his ulterior motives were. It’s not like you had anything better to do anyway. Realistically though, you should be telling him to piss off, not allowing him access to you again. But that charm of his…unfortunately difficult to resist.

“Sure,” you sighed.

“But we need to make it interesting. How about this; everytime someone gets a ball in, they can ask the other person a question. If the person refuses to answer then they have to-”

“Strip.” You pushed past him to set the table up.

“Bold. I was going to say take a shot but, as you please.” he smiled.

You set the balls in their place and handed him a stick.

“Ladies first,” ever the gentleman, you rolled your eyes.

Conversation between plays was kept to a minimum, the place was so silent, filled only with the sounds of balls rolling and colliding. You got the first point in. He gestured with his hands, almost like he was a bit excited, then leaned onto his stick, awaiting your question.

“What’s your real name?” You smirked a bit, knowing that his body is about to go on display. He sighed loudly before resting the stick to the side, arms coming to pull his shirt off of his head, revealing a very toned, well-looked after chest.

He whistled “Eyes up here.” smirking a little. This atmosphere allowed you to loosen up, quipping back at him with

“Nice tits.”

He won the next point.

“Where did you learn to shoot like that?”

So your apron came off.

“Oh come on now, no cheating,” he winked, prompting you to unbutton your work top as well.

He whistles again, “Anything else you hiding down there?”

“You’ll just have to work hard to find out”

The next few rounds were spent blocking each other’s wins, the air was getting tenser with neither of you willing to break the silence between, neither of you wanting to strip nor spill. Well that was broken by a smug victory smile on his face, you slumped a bit, ready to likely have to strip again. You stared at him and you could almost catch the amusement behind his eyes, like the question had been eating up at him for a bit.

“Was that your first kill?”

Of course that’s what he wants to know. It wasn’t, but you’d put that part behind you a while ago, hoping to never fall back into old habits, blood money. You’d built up a new life for yourself, albeit a bit pathetic compared to how you used to lavishly spend. You’d strayed so far away from your old ways, you’d almost started to believe you were a good person. Almost.

“Yes.” You breathed out.

“Strip.”

“What?”

“I said strip.”

“No I heard you- I answered the question; I’m not stripping.”

He stalked towards you, a sure and entertained look on his face.

“Liar.”

“I don’t follow?”

“That was most certainly not your first kill, you were way too comfortable with that trigger. Fast too. Would’ve taken a little more hesitation from someone clean, don’t you think? I mean-”

He laughed, bringing his free hand up to squeeze his lips. He leaned on the table only inches away from you. “You killed those people no problem, headshots and all. Anyone else would’ve shot one or two at most, you capped off at 76, almost as high as my high score! Very-”

“You had a gun to my side you ass,”

“Wasn’t loaded.”

“What?”

“Wasn’t loaded. If you gave a little more resistance I would’ve let it go, let you go. I would never shoot my new favourite thing so early on. I’ve still got plenty of ways to break you and you’ve still got plenty of ways to disappoint me.”

The air in the room was getting tighter, the way he spoke made you gag, your eyes held his with disgust. You knew he was just toying with you, that the gun was more than likely loaded with bullets with your name on them, and that he was just trying to put the blame on you. You tried not to let him get to you, with that satisfied smile and look of admiration he had on at the moment, but it was difficult.

What if?

What if your finger hadn’t been so itchy in the trigger? What if he wasn’t lying?

Someone else would’ve killed them dummy, don’t let him mess with your head.

Yeah, but the blood wouldn’t be on your hands.

The rest of his words registered then. ‘ I would never shoot my new favourite thing so early on. I’ve still got plenty of ways to break you and you’ve still got plenty of ways to disappoint me’

Who does this dude think he is? He’s got you all up in your thoughts conflicted between what you see and what you hear. You could swear he was blushing a little.

What kink is this? Weirdo.

“Who do you think you are?” You picked up one of the balls and angrily threw at him with full force, aiming for that big head of his.

He caught it.

“I’m not your thing, and I think you should leave.”

You began to walk away, setting the stick to the side.

“So it wasn’t your first kill,”

“Piss off,”

He quickly got in front of you to block your little escape.

“You are so very entertaining,”

“Don’t you have something better to do with your life,”

“I do. You can say this is my new hobby.”

“Seek therapy.”

He pouted “You think I’m crazy?”

“A psycho actually.”

“I’m very flattered.”

“Of course you are,” you rolled your eyes, stepping past him to find your long discarded top.

“Didn’t it feel good though? All that money.” He called out, taking a few steps in your direction.

It did, it really did. You faltered a bit. Warm meals and hot showers were a luxury you didn’t realise, along with paid off prescriptions. The fat stack they handed you had left you way more than comfortable, stress about bills gone for a nice period of time. It was the only thing, the only reason, you hadn’t ran away from him until now. The money. You knew it was wrong, to be willing to kill again to have a roof over your head that isn’t leaking, but the comfort was so tempting. Your hands picked up your blouse and began buttoning it, trying to come up with some escape so that his words don’t find their way into your mind. It was difficult, this internal monologue fighting itself, and he could tell.

“You aren’t as moral as you pretend you are, you know?” He chuckled, but you still had your back to him, still refusing to talk. After finishing your top, you picked up his shirt and turned to toss it at him, surprised to see him standing very close to you now. You tensed a bit at the proximity and shoved his shirt into his bare chest.

“Don’t come looking for me again.” You tried to sound sure of yourself.

“Or?” He pulled his shirt over himself, messing his hair up even more in the process.

“Is this what you came here tonight for? A game of pool and one worded replies?”

You moved behind the bar to grab your things. You knew he won’t let you go that easily, you’ll either have to kill him or yourself. Or fake your death and change your name, again.

“I came with an offer actually,”

“I’m not killing more people, you creep.”

“Is it fun to call me every name in the book?”

“I don’t know what you’re actually called, so, yeah.”

“No killing involved this time,” he sighed from the other side of the bar and you shot him a questioning look. He threw his hands up in surrender, “I promise,”

“Oh good, your word means so much to me.”

He made a betrayed expression with his face, lips pouting a little and brows furrowing in sadness. You only stared in annoyance.

“Goodbye, weirdo.”

“We need a helping hand in training new recruits, shooters. I’m sure you could guess why we have a high worker turnover. You’ll only be helping them shoot targets, not humans. Not animals either.” He cut you off before you even spoke, “It’ll be good pay, you might have to help with a few other duties as well. The rules are a lot more relaxed between games, in relation to masks and uniforms. I knew you couldn’t stand them.”

“I would still be helping someone kill someone; a killer by proxy.”

“Don’t go pretending to be noble now, you’re already a killer.” He rolled his eyes, getting a little mad. “Plus if you don’t do it, someone else will. These ‘people’ will die anyway. Might as well get paid for it.”

You paused for a beat. He was, unfortunately, making a good point, to you at least. You were a killer, hands stained with more red than he could imagine, what’s another shade deeper at this point. That or you starve in a cycle of debt and pitiful repayments.

“Why me? Why not someone more willing?”

That was the first time this whole night that he stuttered. Opening his mouth and closing it, trying to find something to say to your question. That caught you off guard, you’d never seen him so…flustered?

Oh.

OH.

“Someone’s got a crush,” you giggled in a sing-song voice, your coat snug around you as you moved close to him, swaying a little, until you were face to face.

“Don’t flatter yourself, I’m just…intrigued by you.”

“Intrigued oh-” you couldn’t stop giggling. “Oh you wanna sleep with me so bad.”

That shut him up, fully, instead just keeping his gaze cast on your face, momentarily jumping to your lips then back up. He didn’t even try to deny it. Leverage, you’ve got leverage over this hot piece of work. Bingo. He was smiling with his jaw tensed forcefully, attempting self control-you guessed.

“Your higher-ups know you’re here, 013?”

Once again, no reply. You moved in closer, just so your lips were barely brushing his.

“Where’s your tough guy act now, hmm?”

You pulled away after a beat, watching as his lips chased yours for a second, but failed.

“I’ll think about it.” You sped a little towards the exit, leaving him with a problem he’ll have to take care of himself.

8. . .8

He observed as you descended the steps lazily, shrugging off your coat to reveal a very provocative dress underneath.

“You wore that to a gunfight?” he questioned the ridiculousness of it all.

“Of course not, it's freezing out.” You chuckled, moving towards his discarded gun. “But you took so long and I got bored. You sure know how to keep a lady waiting”

His jaw clenched as you picked up the weapon and moved towards the open kitchen. He took the moment with your back to him to quickly grab the spare gun under his couch; one of many around the place. But the moment it came into his hands, he could tell something was wrong. It was empty, the glock’s amo cartilage taken out of it. He stared at the thing in defeat, turning around to find you with a smug expression on your face.

“I wouldn’t bother with the rest of them by the way. Or the knives, though I know you can’t aim those to save your life anyway.” you smiled. “Can we not just have a nice night, like normal people?”

“My ex is dead on the couch.”

“Oh she isn’t dead.” you snorted, then your expression suddenly dropped. “Why does this bother you anyway?”

There it was, jealousy. It was such a lovely colour on you, filling him with butterflies. Your jaw tensed, your legs moving closer to where he was.

“You jealous?” he chuckled.

“No, just possessive.”

“Same thing.”

“It wasn’t ‘same thing’ when it was you speaking, no?”

He laughed a little, a smile finding its way onto his lips. He wanted to get it all over with, get rid of you. But something about how you looked in this light, at this hour, some blood on your body born from desire. He saw something then, a future perhaps. You were so similar, two souls meant to be. He couldn't help but allow himself to indulge in you tonight, just this once he’ll let his resolve crumble in favour of his hunger. He drank in your appearance, eyes stopping at all the scratches all over. He wanted to kiss it all better, wipe the stains from your skin. Your eyes scanned him as well, finding the cuts from the glass from earlier. You both stood there in silence, leaning into eachother’s warmth subconsciously. He captured your lips with his with the force of years of yearning, your hands coming up to find his face-

A groan stopped you both, the injured woman behind you struggling to pick herself up. You rolled your eyes, turning your head to shoot her square in the face, ending her run immediately. You turned back to him, a look of lust and admiration painted all over his face.

“Where have your manners gone, sweetheart?” he pretended to be upset. “I mean-really? My white carpet, my tires, you’re milking me dry.”

“Wanted to leave my mark.”

“I think…” he hesitated. “I think you’ve already done that.”

There was a moment, where just everything seemed so normal, regular. Like you two were star crossed lovers who met at the wrong time. Like, if you two worked hard enough, you could have a life of laundry and burnt pancakes.

You slammed your lips onto his once more with desperation and want, air being sucked out of your lungs with passion. Your hand came up to rest on his chest and he winced, causing you to break apart once more.

“We should get you cleaned up, there could be some shards inside.”

He chuckled, “After you.”

You sat in the balcony, the air a lot cooler from how high up you were. He poured you a pretty glass of aged red wine.

“How do I know this isn’t poisoned?”

“Poisoned? You think I’d stoop low enough to poison. That is such a lazy way to kill, you know I’d rather have my fun.”

You worked a soaked gauze on the cuts littering his chest, one particular one having a few shards that you had to pick out of the wound. Nothing needed stitches though. He rested a warm hand on your bare thigh, eyes watching the knot in your brows form in concentration, a sheet of sweat and dirt dried over your face. You avoided his gaze in nervousness, fearing your heart may break out of your chest. He grabbed your forearm, noticing the deep cut in it.

“This needs stitches.”

“It’s ok I’ll do it later-”

“No. It’ll get infected if you leave it like this, let me.”

So you switched roles, sitting back to watch his attentiveness to your pain, hand more gentle than he ever was with anyone or anything ever. Afraid to hurt you. Everytime that needle pierced your skin, you’d tense, to which he’d apologise. Every time. It was like something was different that night, the occasional distant car horn being the only other break in the silence. He finished you up and wrapped your arm, kissing your hand afterwards. His lips were rough and broken on your equally calloused skin, dreary eyes looking up at you. There was a sadness to it all, knowing this won’t-can’t last. Doomed by the narrative, you two were destined to end prematurely. But you pushed it all to the back of your mind, willing yourself to just enjoy the night to come. But first,

“We should burn the body.” You looked over through the glass at the now permanently red stained area. He leaned back on his chair next to yours, spreading his legs until he got comfortable. His dress shirt was unbuttoned, pants hugging his knees as the jacket hung loosely around your bare shoulders. Sighing, he pulled out a cigarette from his pocket along with a lighter, covering the flame to light the smoke.

“Yes, that would be best.” he inhaled a puff, blowing it out towards the night sky.

“You won’t offer me one? Chivalry really is dead.” you teased. He turned to you, firm grip grasping your chin to bring it to his face. He took another inhale then tapped his thumb on your bottom lip and you obliged, opening your mouth to allow him to exhale into it. He then slotted his lips against yours once more, recycling the same breath. He repeated all this a few times, till the cigarette was burnt out, once your breath and the next his, a little game of who could taste sweeter.

“Let's go take care of that.” His forehead rested on yours, but neither of you moved. Another blanket of silence

“We should-”

“Yeah.”

You don’t really know what’s with the awkwardness all of a sudden. You two moved in tandem to transport the dead woman to the little furnace, blood staining both of your bodies. You watched the flames dance around the corpse, the day’s events weighing on your soul, causing you to lean onto him for support. He stood rigid, arms crossed as his breathing slowed with your touch. You hugged yourself for a little warmth, before taking a deep breath to break the silence.

“Are you still going to kill me?”

He sighed, “I have no other option, you killed 024, they’ll have my head otherwise.”

“We could run away,” You stood back up and his hand came to rub his eyes, already not convinced with whatever you wanted to say. “We could leave Seoul, leave korea all together and-”

“And go where? Huh? Run for the rest of our lives?”

“I’ll figure something out, we could go anywhere in the world 013-”

“They’ll find us.”

“We’ll change our names and-”

“Where would we get the money?”

“Same way I always did, odd jobs and daily wages.”

“We’d be dirt poor.”

“But we’d have each other.”

As cheesy as it sounds, you really thought you two could be something more, something permanent. No-one got you like he did, no-one got him like you did.

“Why did you come here tonight 038?”

Tears had built up in the corners of your eyes. “I don’t know I just- I thought you could change, that we could be.”

“You meant it? What you wrote in that notebook? White picket fences and wrap around porches?”

“Yes! Of course I did.” The emotion had leaked from your eyes and streamed down your face. He cast his gaze to the floor, avoiding your sad eyes.

“But you know it won’t be like that, we’d have to slave for our next meal.”

“I don’t mind.” You sniffed.

“I do!” He yelled out suddenly, brushing a hand through his hair and panting in an attempt to compose himself. “I can’t go back to that, 038, I can’t. I don’t- want to. I love my job, I have never felt more fulfilled, ever-”

“You send people to their deaths!”

“They deserve it! Don’t you get it? It’s the one system where they get what they deserve. They could choose not to go. Chose to get up off their ass and crawl their way out, but they chose to-”

“The system doesn’t work that way.”

“It did for me!”

“That’s cause you have charm and a pretty face, 013, you got lucky.”

“It was not luck.”

“Yes it was! The sooner you realise this the sooner you’ll be face to face with the fact that they’d replace you the moment you die.”

“I’m not abandoning my dream life, that is final. So if that’s what you were here for, then go.”

You turned away, makeup running all over your cheeks, but it took him all of 1 second to change his mind, grabbing your wrist and pulling you back into him. His eyes were glassy as he pushed you up against the wall, his hands tangling in your hair as his mouth sought you out once more. Rough, desperate and aching, that’s what this kiss was. You let yourself get lost in his smell as he placed open mouthed kisses on your shoulder. His eyes came up to meet yours for a moment and you both knew what this was. Your final night together, that’s for sure.

Might as well go out with a bang.

His muscles were sore the next morning, he was never really one for sleeping in, but your touch had left more than just surface bruises on him. He got up slowly, finding his phone barren of any indication of the boss finding out what happened, for now anyway. The cold water helped wake him up fully as he recalled last night’s events, cuts burning a little causing a shiver to dance down his body. He slumped against the sink, bloodshot eyes in the mirror stared at him with determination. 024 wasn’t any help, no. He needs to play dirty, do things his way.

Next time he sees you, either one of you will end up dead.

9. . .9

The gala was in full swing, a celebration of yet another successful round of games. You stood off to the side, a drink in hand long forgotten. The gown you were wearing was quite a sight, adorned with hand embroidery and fine stitching that you would otherwise never be unable to afford. It was meant to make you more appealing to the guests of honor; the rich men behind this all. The mask on your face was itchy, but it was better than the dumbass one they usually have you wear. It only covered the top half of your face, allowing you a much more comfortable experience, and a nicer voice. Most of the time, these galas were a gateway for these men to enjoy some of the staff before they departed to their respective countries. You were always spoken for though, 013 making sure none laid hand on you except him, of course. You knew how this night always ends between you two, a week’s worth of pent up frustration on both ends with no other way of contact except short nods in hallways. Usually by this time you two would be sneaking off for your own celebration, but tonight, 013 had been the centre of attention. Praises showered him from VIPs and guards alike, congratulating him on his one of a kind achievement. “He shot his own father?” “Yeah! No hesitation!” “His self control is so admirable.” “Hope I can get to his level one day.” “He’s so hot too, truly has it all” “Is he still with that-”

You zoned back out.

They were bumping him up to ‘recruiter’, a position you were unfamiliar with. He’d refused square/head guard positions, citing them being way too ‘desk job like’ for him. You two hadn’t really talked since his achievement, it all left a sour taste in your mouth. This wasn’t envy-no, this was the realization that the man you were slowly falling in love with was so far gone. So out of it that he shot his own father. You were familiar with their relationship, he was just a poor man’s son. His father was a hard worker, though it never amounted to anything, that’s where the resentment grew. You could tell that 013 was so deluded with this so-called system that he held a grudge against his own father for not being rich. You couldn’t convince him that this ‘get rich quick’ scheme only worked for him by chance. Only worked for you by chance. He cut that awkward conversation short with a little more than a kiss, so you abandoned the topic, seeing as he was unwilling to push it further.

He would shoot you too, if he felt like it. If he felt you’re deserving enough. That was your rude awakening. The only difference between you and his father is that he approached you under different circumstances. Had it been a different person, an actual recruiter back then perhaps, you’d be dead. For sure. It was only chance that you ended up on the other side of the gun.

You’d already been toying with the idea of running away, leaving it all behind and starting over again. Avoiding trouble for real this time. Maybe you’d even snitch on their whole operation. You have enough evidence, polaroids and such, of the place, the deaths. You could attempt to put an end to it all, the weight of the innocent lives lost on this island was beginning to get to you. This was the straw that broke the camel’s back, your sign to leave it all behind.

You can’t pretend you won’t miss him though.

During your years working here, you’d grown impossibly closer. Bunking together secretly during the games and him finding you after. Always. You’re not sure if you could label it, since you never really discussed it, but no-one approached you and no-one approached him. You were both unofficially off limits.

In a better world, you’d call it love.

He showed you parts of him no one else had ever seen, swore up and down that his name was a fact lost to the test of time, and held you in his arms as you cried. He always knew how to make it all better; the guilt, shame. You try not to let yourself wonder how things would’ve been if you’d met him earlier, before all this. If you could’ve somehow saved him from the lie he was living, built a life for the two of you far far away from all this death. He loved cats, though he wouldn’t admit he loved anything in this world. There was a certain softness in how he handled strays that would cross your path, he treated you like that, too. Sometimes. You’d have a house full of kittens with him if he’d let you. Best not to dwell on it, seeing as he was being fawned over by everyone at the event. It was too late for him now, but maybe you could save yourself. You spent the rest of the night in the corner, people watching, and he spent the rest of the night being swept away from your proximity by fans.

By the end of the party, you walked back to your room barefoot, heals in hand to avoid sore feet later. It would be best to slip away tonight, before any attention is drawn to you. It wasn’t forbidden to leave, but 013 knows you won’t be quiet, leave peacefully. He’d either force you to stay or convince the higher ups to kill you, now that that's so easy for him to do. You needed to make your getaway tonight, allowing some distance before he starts hunting you down. With everyone high on festivities, you were sure no-one would stop you. In your room, you’d packed up all your belongings that they’d allowed you to bring, along with all the cash you could find. It wasn’t a lot, but you’ve survived with less. You knew where they kept spare speed boats for emergencies, and the air was clear enough to give you a smooth ride. Yes, it was perfect, all of it.

Tonight had to be your getaway.

A knock on your door pulled you out of the excitement, tensing a little, as it could only ever be one person. You opened the door slightly, allowing only yourself to be viewed and not your escape backpack. It was him, 013, glowing from the party’s flattery. His mask was off and he had a shotgun slung over his shoulder, still wearing his party clothes; a nice dress shirt, unbuttoned to his belly button and a pair of beige pants. You didn’t say anything, fearing that your voice would betray you. You weren’t as good of a liar as he was, and he’d be able to smell you out if he lingered for long enough. He leaned on the door frame, a smile crept up his face.

“Well, you looked gorgeous tonight” he slurred a little, clearly tipsy from all the drinks he was offered. It caused you to giggle.

“You didn’t look so bad yourself.” you bit your lip. “Congrats on your uh- promotion”

“Gonna treat you to something real nice with it,” he winked, laughing to himself.

“013, are you- ok? I know everyone is celebrating, but this is quite a heavy thing that you did, do you wanna-”

“I’m fine, better than ever actually. Some of the triangles and I are going shooting,” he pointed to the shotgun. “Join me-us?”

“I’m calling it in for tonight actually,”

“What’s wrong?”

Shoot, he’s sobering up.

“Nothing, just tired.”

“Well if you let me in, I’ll make you feel better.”

You tensed, he noticed. “No uh, you wanted to go shooting, no? You should enjoy your big night.”

“Who’s in the room?”

“What? No-one, what are you on-”

He pushed past you, finding no-one, like you said, instead spotting your getaway bag by the door. Your hands shook, he had his back to you so you weren’t able to read his expression. You moved to the bag, zipping it up and trying to save face.

“Just packing up for next week.”

“A whole 5 days before we leave?”

“I like a tidy room.”

“I suggest you stop lying to me.”

He had turned to face you, bag in your hand as you stood by the slightly opened door. You swallowed your fears, knowing there's no way out of this situation except through it.

“I…don’t want to do this anymore.”

“What? The games? No one is forcing you to come back, you do that out of your complete free will.”

“I know but, it’s all too much, I want to leave, now.”

He stared at you for a moment, tongue pushing the inside of his cheek as he pieced your story together.

“You’re going to rat us out.” he stalked towards you, grabbing the gun off his shoulder.

You took that as your cue to-

“Run sweetheart, cmon, make this entertaining. Run.”

So you did, through winding passageways and long, empty halls, you ran with all your might. You weren’t out of shape; much more agile and faster than he was, allowing you a good space between you two, but the adrenaline and fear of it all made your lungs burn. You made it out of the building complex without hearing a single shot ring out. This was way too easy.

You headed through the woods straight to the emergency dock, leaping over bushes and fallen trees left and right. You had made it all the way to the sheds near the boats when you spotted him.

He must’ve taken a shortcut, must’ve known you were coming through here. He had the gun cocked in his hand, it was a disadvantage for sure, the smaller gun in your possession easier and faster to shoot with. But just as you don’t miss no matter the weapon, he doesn’t either. It worried you, how willing he would be to shoot you dead. But it can’t end here, you won’t allow it. The air was humid this time of year, causing your desperate breaths to be inefficient. You figured taking him head-on would be useless, you needed to-

He whipped around suddenly, gun aimed at your head.

“Found you.”

You got up with your hands in surrender, a little defeated at your failed escape.

“Come here.”

You obeyed, avoiding the last few lines of bushes before it turned into sand. He didn’t ask you to stop, allowing you to reach all the way to feel his breath on your face.

“I can forgive you for this, but-”

But you had one more trick up your sleeve. You slammed the gun in your hand onto his head, banking on the alcohol from earlier already making him loopy, effectively knocking him out. You wasted no time in rushing to one of the boats, turning the keys into the ignition and starting the loud machinery. Victory was within reach.

Bang!

You had your back turned to him, so you hadn’t seen nor heard him get up and stalk towards you. He was standing just off the side of the boat, shotgun emitting some smoke from where he fired it. It had hit you in the abdomen, shots dispersing only a little due to his proximity. You fell back onto the wheel, bringing a hand up to push the boat forward.

He watched you disappear into the night, not attempting to attack again.

10. . .10

ALT ENDING (FLUFF)

He watched through the scope as the car approached his made up end spot. Welcome to the final show. The car you picked out was unassuming, grey and very much a family car but he caught your alias pretty easily. You were speeding down an empty backcountry road, almost at your sweet sweet escape, not on his watch though. He shot the bullet, hitting your tires immediately, causing the car to flip over into a nearby ditch. He abandoned his position, taking his gun with him to ensure the job is done. The wreck caught up in flames, the light from the fire casting a yellow glow onto the surroundings. He approached your position under the turned-over car. Your back was to the ground as your hands were reaching for your gun, but it was too far away, plus he kicked it from your line of sight with his polished shoe. You panted, looking down at your immovable lower body with defeat. He watched you, so helpless and at his mercy and he couldn’t help but feel a little bad. Just a little.

“Bad time to say that suit looks great on you?” You coughed. “Brings your face out.”

“Get up.” he kicked your side softly, causing you to cough more.

“Way to kick a woman when she’s down.”

The heat from the flames was becoming unbearable, even in the cool spring night air. The fire was inching closer to where you were, and he’d really rather not have to hear you burn to death.

“Get. Up.” He picked your gun back up, tossing it at your side once more, allowing you a ‘fair fight’.

“I can’t-” a sob got caught in your throat. “I can’t feel my legs.”

The crackle and whooshing of the fire were the only sounds heard, both of you silent as the situation set in. You didn’t have it in you to fight, to grab the gun and shoot him, because you were already dead. Tears began streaming down your face, sobs wracking your already battered and bruised body. He stood there with his hands at his sides, hesitant and awkward. He hadn’t imagined it being this easy, this quick, hadn’t pictured you going down without a fight.

Hadn’t truly come to terms at the thought of losing you, permanently.

“Cmon now, don’t give up so easily.” His voice shook, the weight of his actions slowly dawning on him.

“I can’t- 013, I-” You were fully crying now, “I don’t want to go like this.”

He knew what you meant, the fire was likely already at some part of you. He dropped his weapon, hurrying over to attempt to lift the car a little to give you crawl space. The metal of the door burnt his hands, but he endured, for you.

You made it out, crawling on your cut up forearms and collapsing when your legs were free. You couldn’t see them, obviously, but he could. They had burns and deep wounds all over, he could see the bone in a few places from the severity of the cuts. They were also twisted and contorted in terrible ways, meaning multiple breaks and fractures. It was a good thing you couldn’t feel them.

Your breaths had become wheezes, more desperate gasps for air. He felt dizzy, his eyes welling up with tears.

“Come- Come on now sweetheart,” he sniffed. “Let me help you up.”

He doesn't know why he did that, why he supported your upper body with his since your legs couldn’t. You rested your head on his chest, your body slumping a little from lack of leg support. You sobbed into his shirt, afraid and in pain. The stupid car’s radio sputtered on, playing some slow classical song that was filled with static due to bad service. You chuckled between sobs.

“How poetic.” You looked up at him, eyes finally meeting the one’s of the man that took your life. He began swaying you two gently to the tune, arms doing their best to keep you up. You looked at him with so much sincerity, admiration, as if he wasn’t the one that’s been trying to kill you all this time.

“We would’ve made quite the couple you and I, 013. I wish that I could’ve met you sooner, kept you from all the horrors they let you stain your hands with.”

That’s when it all got too much for him.

Now more than ever, he wanted to sweep you away, take you to some remote countryside and build that stupid house you wanted with his own bare hands. He wanted to wake up next to your sleeping figure, rush to make you breakfast before you got up to scold him as to why he wasn’t in bed. He wanted to hold your hand on bad days and listen to your endless lame jokes. He wanted his every moment to be filled with your air. The years you two had spent together may have not been conventional, but, for the first time in his life, someone got him. Someone understood him for what he was, not what he was pretending to be. You’d brought so much life into his days that it completely changed him. People would tell him he’d gotten softer, and though he would deny it, you must’ve had some invisible print on his actions. He should’ve spent his days protecting you, warding off evil like some knight. Should’ve grown old with you, watched you croak and grey, instead he has to watch the life drain from your eyes in this very moment.

It was only now he’d realised how deep a scar your death would leave, and he brought it on himself.

“Hey- keep your eyes open for me” he tapped a little on your cheek, hoping to prolong your final dance for a little bit.

No ambulance would make it in time, you’d already lost way too much blood.

You smiled at him, “Kiss me.”

He didn’t waste time in humouring your request, capturing your lips in a matter too gentle for who he was.

You pulled back for a moment, both of your foreheads touching and eyes shut.

“I love you.” You croaked, finding his lips again.

“I love you too.” His tears mixed in with yours, seeping into the kiss with their salty awakening.

He wanted to cry out, now more than ever regret had taken over his soul, but nothing came. He had nothing to offer you; no ambulance, no pain relief and no escape.

“I’m sorry-“ he choked, “I’m so so sorry, sweetheart. I should have- I-” he was struggling to find the words, to articulate his remorse and self hatred in the moment. To make it all better. You only looked at him with so much love in your eyes, as if you were seeing right through him, as if he was the man you wanted him to be. The years you two shared were nothing short of cinematic, he longed to jump back into any of the moments you shared now, un-do it all. It was too much, you tried to ease his turmoil by shushing him softly, shaking your head to stop his rambling.

“It’s ok. It’s ok.” You soothed.

You were leaving, and taking a huge piece of his cold, cold heart with you. You’d left him with so much, and in return, he gave you nothing. It was as if enlightenment had befell him in that moment, allowing him to give you the one piece of himself he’d kept from everyone. Of course, how could he forget.

“My name is-” but by the time he’d put together what he wanted to tell you, you’d gone limp in his arms.

The music from the car sputtered to a stop as the new day’s sun began peeking out from the horizon. This was it. You were dead. He got what he wanted, only to realise what he really wanted too late. He collapsed with your corpse by the wreck, tears dried up and hands shaking uncontrollably. He was covered in your blood, everywhere. His palms, his nails, his face, the shirt. It was the whisper he had of you. He stared at your limp body, still as beautiful as the day he laid eyes on you. He wished he’d never walked into that stupid bar, then you’d still be alive.

He didn’t have much in this world, his character a tough one to handle, but he had you. Used to, anyway. He recalled your words from earlier, about the system that was bound to fail and replace him. He has nothing but that system now, nothing else to give his life to. He wouldn’t ever be able to give what he gave you to anyone else anyway.

“Good work, 013.”

That’s all he got in return for ending your life, the mission file being wiped clean moments later. On his way out, people would congratulate him, pat him on the back for cutting off the last human part of himself. He couldn’t speak, only giving them tense smiles in return. Back at his place, he’d stare at himself in the reflection in the glass, sat by his neatly made bed where he had you last. He hadn’t anticipated the quiet that followed your goodbye.

It was strange, really. Considering you weren’t usually around to drown out the silence with your laughter. But it was the loud thought of you that had kept him distracted.

He fell back into routine, running errands and doing tasks for the games, taking his anger and self loathing out on the participants, never fully being able to recover from your loss.

No one came to your funeral; there was no-one to invite in the first place. He held it mostly for himself, burying the body he was meant to burn, giving you a proper rest. He looked through your records for a long long time, finding himself faltering at every picture of you. For his own peace of mind; he wiped it all. Burnt all the physical copies, keeping only that notebook of yours from the motel. He’d love to say something cheesy like ‘it rained the day of your funeral’ but it didn’t, he held his black umbrella under bright sunlight. That’s what you were, he guesses, warm. He stood there solitarily, he was the likely the last person that will ever speak your name.

And you didn’t even know his.

Nice ending 🤧

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