#storm danger tw

[a-reader-and-a-writer-for-all]

Sweeter Than Revenge Part 6

Fandom: Twisters, Tyler Owens, f!reader, Scott's Sister!reader Summary: Today is the day! You are riding with Tyler and Boone directly into a tornado. Get ready for an experience you'll never forget. Word Count: 3303 TW: Flirting, Kissing, Developing Feelings, Storm Danger, Scott Sucks, Language Notes: A massive thank you to @blue-aconite and @green-socks for reading this over for me and for all the constant support! And to @mayhem24-7forever for always answering my late-night panicked messages

Series Masterlist

After breakfast, you helped Dexter and Lily clean up and prepare to leave for the first chase of the day. You gathered up the trash bags, jogged the short distance to the dumpsters, and tossed them in. When you turned around, you jumped as you found Tyler standing in front of you.

Clutching your chest, you swore, “Damn it! Why does everyone have to keep popping up and scaring me!”

He grinned, swaggering forward as he said, “I saw that little show you put on with Boone. It seems like you might not be over that revengeful streak of yours after all.” He stopped a few feet from you.

You lifted one shoulder as you tilted your head down so you could look up at him from under your lashes. “What can I say, some habits are hard to break.” Stepping closer until your chest almost grazed his, you lifted your head and stared unwaveringly into his eyes. “And sometimes people need to be reminded they aren’t the only ones who can tease or play games. Or that maybe they aren’t as smooth as they think they are and others can see through their bullshit deflections.”

Tilting his head, almost in a sign of deference, he murmured, “Good to know. Maybe you should take your own advice.” 

He leaned his head closer to yours…then pivoted and walked back towards his truck, once again leaving you flustered and your cheeks burning. As you silently cursed him, he yelled over his shoulder, “Oh, you might wanna have a talk with Boone about that little act before he shows up at your room with flowers and a box of chocolates.” 

You rolled your eyes and trudged after him.

It turned out, Tyler may not have been exaggerating. When you made it back to the camper van, Boone was there waiting for you, asking if you needed any help or if he could carry something for you or if you wanted something to drink or—

You couldn’t see Tyler, but you swore you heard him snickering somewhere nearby. 

As politely as possible, you explained to Boone that while you appreciated his offers, you were fine and that you hoped he didn’t get the wrong impression from your hug earlier. Boone’s face flushed as he stammered out a few “‘course not”s and “we’re cool”s before excusing himself and slinking away. You felt really bad at essentially using him, especially after he had been nothing but kind to you. Once again, you kicked yourself for allowing the old you to come to the surface and not having the self-control to stop playing games. 

Luckily, everything seemed to be forgotten by the time you joined Tyler and Boone at the red pickup a few minutes later. Boone was back to his usual excitable self as he prepared his camera and showed you how everything worked. Between his handheld with the live stream and the several other cameras mounted in the truck capturing video to be edited later, it was actually more complex than you had imagined. It seemed as if you really had underestimated Boone, and that made you feel even worse for involving him in your scheme earlier.

Then suddenly, it was time to roll out. You had been so focused on your behavior that morning that you hadn’t thought about what was about to happen next. As the last of the bags were stowed away in one of the vans and Dexter did one last run down of the current weather patterns, a knot began to form in the pit of your stomach. Telling yourself you would be driving into the middle of a tornado today had been one thing. Now facing the very real fact it was about to happen, you wondered if you should have skipped breakfast. 

On trembling legs, you walked over to Tyler’s truck and reached to open the back door. But just as your fingers closed around the handle, an arm draped itself across your shoulders. “Nuh uh, sweetheart. You’ve got shotgun.” 

You turned to face Tyler, the knot that had been forming in your stomach tightening. “But I thought Boone—”

“Boone can get plenty of footage from the back. But this being your first time wrangling a storm, we want to make sure you have a front-row seat to the action.” Tyler opened the passenger door for you. When you hesitated, he raised an eyebrow. “Unless you’re having second thoughts about riding with us? There’s always room for you in one of the other vans.”

Swallowing hard, you said, “No. I-I can do this.” 

You started to climb in, but Tyler grabbed your arm. Positioning himself so no one else could see you between his body and his truck, he softly murmured, “Listen, it’s okay if you don’t want to. You don’t have to do this to try and prove something to anyone, even to yourself. Just coming with us after the storm like you did yesterday already puts you on the list of the bravest people I’ve ever met. And no one—not me, not your brother—no one can ever take that away from you. But—” he leaned over so the brim of his hat brushed against the top of your head and his thumb caressed your arm “—if you do want to go, I promise I won’t let anything happen to you. It’s your choice.”

The sincerity in his tone left no doubt that he meant what he said. If you decided to ride with Lily or Dani and Dexter instead, there would be no judgment. Tyler wouldn’t look down on you or think less of you for it, and that was all you needed to make up your mind.

Shooting him a grateful smile, you said, “Thanks, but I really do want to do this. And I always feel safe with you, Tyler, so I know this time won’t be any different.”

He grinned. “Alright then. Let’s go wrangle us a tornado.” 

He squeezed your arm one last time before helping you climb into the truck. Then he shut your door and hurried over to the driver’s side. Boone hopped in the back seat with an excited whoop just as Tyler’s door slammed shut.

You quickly buckled your seatbelt—trying to not think about the thick harness you hadn’t noticed the last time you rode up here—and settled back into your seat. But you froze as you looked out the windshield and saw Javi and Scott standing the Storm PAR vehicles still parked next to the main office. They were both staring right at you: Javi’s expression somewhat concerned yet accepting while Scott’s was nothing but pure apathy. 

You wondered if Javi told Scott the two of you had talked last night, though you hoped he kept it to himself. Not for your sake (you doubted it would have changed Scott’s opinion of you) but you didn’t want Javi to put himself into an uncomfortable position playing mediator for his business partner and said business partner’s sister. 

Tyler noticed who you were staring at and asked, “We good to go?”

You sighed. “Let’s do this.”

He nodded and started the engine. Easing the truck forward slowly, he rolled down his window and when he pulled alongside the group from Storm PAR, Tyler shouted, “Hey, Scotty! Make sure you watch the stream today so you don’t miss out on your sister’s first time driving headfirst into a tornado!”

You maintained eye contact with Scott, waiting for him to demand you get out of the truck or refuse to let you do something this dangerous. But instead, he just scoffed as he folded his arms across his chest. “Yeah, I’ll believe it when I see it. She was scared of thunder until she was a teenager. Trust me, she’ll be begging you to turn the truck around before you get a hundred feet from a storm.”

Lowering your eyes, you sunk further into your seat. Not only had he shaken the little confidence Tyler had helped build up in you, but Scott had just revealed something utterly embarrassing to your new friends. It was true that you had cowered under your covers or hidden from all windows in the middle of bad thunderstorms well into your teenage years, but you had gotten past it. However, you didn’t want the people who faced some of nature’s most dangerous weather on a daily basis to know that!

For a long moment, Tyler just stared at your brother. Then, shaking his head, he asked, “What is wrong with you?” before pulling out onto the road. 

Once the motel had disappeared in the rearview mirror, Tyler reached over and rested his hand on your knee. “Hey, don’t listen to him, okay? He’s just trying to get under your skin. You got this.”

You nodded and tried to smile at him, but you could tell it didn’t look as confident as you hoped. 

From behind you, Boone let out a low whistle. “That dude’s really your brother?” You nodded. “Dang, no wonder you decided to hang out with us instead. He sucks.”

The unexpectedness of that assessment caused a burst of laughter to escape your lips. Tyler glanced over, grinning and squeezing your knee. Your smile widened, feeling less forced and more genuine. Looking at the other storm chaser in the visor mirror, you chuckled. “Yeah, Boone. He really does suck.”

Tyler had mentioned he was looking for a smaller EF1 or EF2 for your first time out. However, the storm the Wranglers ame across looked much bigger than that. It was at least twice as wide as the tornado you saw yesterday, yet Tyler and Boone didn’t seem the least bit concerned. If anything, they seemed more excited than you had ever seen them before.

As the sky grew darker and the truck began to sway slightly in the increasing winds, you dug your fingers into the interior of the truck so tightly that your knuckles cracked. Scott was right. You weren’t brave enough for this. What the hell were you thinking wanting to go on a chase? It wasn’t a game. Thousands of people were injured or killed in tornados every year and now you were going to just drive up next to one? Possibly even into one? This was insane!

Seemingly sensing your mounting fear, Boone leaned forward, his head poking between you and Tyler, as he looked at his friend. “You sure she’s ready for this, T? I mean, no offense, but this one might be a little much for someone who's never done this before.”

But Tyler just grinned. “Nah, she’ll be fine. Won’t you, sweetheart?”

You nodded, your eyes wide in terror as you stared at the approaching storm. “Y-yeah. I’ll be fine.” 

Your voice betrayed the anxiety that was flooding every cell of your body, but Tyler reached over and took your hand, prying it carefully off the center console and giving it a tight squeeze. The small gesture instantly caused the panic rising within you to mellow slightly. The idea of what you were about to do still terrified you, but knowing Tyler was behind the wheel made it somewhat bearable. 

He nodded to the harness hanging limply on the sides of the seat. “We won’t need those for a bit, but you might feel a little more comfortable if you strap in now. You know, just in case.”

Immediately, you slipped your hand from his and began fumbling with the harness. It seemed pretty straightforward but seeing how your hands were shaking, it’s more difficult than you initially thought. Without taking his eyes off the road, Tyler reached over and straightened the strap that was twisted across your chest. Then he helped you click it into place before taking your hand once more. However, this time, he raised it to his lips and placed a soft kiss on the back. It was more demure than the kiss he had placed there last night, but it still sent the same thrill through you all the way down to your toes. You quickly glanced in the visor mirror, but luckily it seemed Boone was too preoccupied with getting his camera set up to see what had just occurred. 

Tyler continued holding your hand until rain began pelting the windshield, the storm now looming so large in front of the truck that it seemed to block out everything else. You heard Boone starting his video introduction in the backseat but you didn’t register anything he said as you sat frozen in your seat staring at the approaching storm. It wasn’t until Boone nudged your shoulder rather forcefully that you realized he had been speaking to you. 

Shaking your head, you asked, “What?”

Boone chuckled nervously, glancing from the camera to you. “I said introduce yourself to the chat.”

“Oh, sorry.” You quickly said your name then continued to stare into the lens like a deer caught in the headlights as Boone left it focused on you, unsure of what else he wanted.

Luckily, Tyler came to your rescue. Grabbing Boone’s hand and swinging the camera to focus on him, he said, “Y’all probably remember me mentioning our newest Wrangler in yesterday’s stream. Well, she handled that storm like the pro she is so we thought we’d give her a shot at the main attraction today. Ain’t that right, sweetheart?” 

Tyler winked at you before turning the lens back in your direction. You smiled and nodded. “Yep! We’re gonna…wrangle us a tornado!”

It felt a bit stilted, but the pride and warmth radiating from Tyler as he looked at you made you feel like you had just given an Oscar Award-winning performance. You bit your lip and looked away as you felt the heat rushing to your cheeks. But then you remember what Tyler had said about you hiding your face when someone compliments you so you turn back and look him dead in the eye. The warm look on his face only intensified before he turned his attention back to the road ahead.

A few minutes later as he pulled the truck into the path of the storm, Tyler slowed to a stop. He flipped a few switches on the center console and pressed the red button on top of the joystick positioned there. You heard a whirring sound and the truck seemed to sink into the ground slightly. Tyler must have deployed the augers to lock the truck in place. Dani mentioned yesterday that they had never failed since they were installed and you prayed today wasn’t the day that changed.

But as the edge of the storm grew closer and closer, you felt a fresh wave of terror grip you. Placing both of your feet on your seat, you wrapped your arms around your knees, curling into yourself as much as the safety harness would allow. You focused all of your energy on your breathing, trying your hardest not to start hyperventilating. But as the tornado finally hit the front of the truck, you let out a small squeal and buried your head in your knees.

However…nothing happened. The truck didn’t flip wildly out of control. The windows didn’t shatter into a million pieces. The augers didn’t give out. 

Slowly, you raised your head. The entire truck shook and vibrated around you, the sensation sending tremors throughout your body. Outside, random bits of debris struck the truck but nothing seemed to be able to break through its upgraded structure. As the initial wall of wind passed by the truck and you found yourself deeper into the storm, you actually found yourself relaxing slightly, unfurling yourself where you had tucked into a tight ball. If something bad was going to happen, it would have been when the tornado first hit the truck. Right?

Tyler leaned over until his lips brushed the curve of your ear and he whispered. “Look up.”

You could just make out the words over the howl of the storm but you did what he said. Tilting forward, trembling as your face neared the windshield, you squinted up into the wind. For a moment, all you saw was dirt and debris swirling around. But then you noticed a smaller, tighter vortex dancing through the center almost as if there was a tornado within the tornado. And as you followed this swirl up, you gasped as you caught just a glimpse of the sky peaking through the opening of the funnel. It was one of the brightest blues you had ever seen and it was utterly magical. 

You looked over at Tyler. His face was beaming as he watched you and, in that moment, he was even more breathtaking than the storm. Time seemed to stop and nothing else existed besides the two of you. Not the storm, not Boone, not the camera, nothing.

Your eyes met…then so did your lips. You weren't even really sure who initiated it and you didn’t care. His lips molded against yours perfectly, his tongue dancing across the entrance of your mouth as he tested his boundaries. But when you parted your lips further, he slipped inside as he wrapped his hand around the back of your neck and drew you closer. He tasted like coffee with just the hint of peppermint. And as his stubble scraped across your skin, you hummed at the shiver it sent racing down your spine. 

The kiss was everything you had been imagining and so much more. 

Needing more, you tried crawling across the center console to straddle his lap but something hugging you tightly across your chest stopped you. It was only then that you remembered the harness holding you into your seat. Your fingers scrambled against the buckle, finally unhooking it—

“And they say there ain’t no love in Oklahoma! Well, if that ain’t love, I don’t know what is!”

You and Tyler both jumped apart, startled by Boone’s joyful exclamation from the backseat. Horrified, you realized he had just filmed your kiss and broadcasted it live on the Wranglers’ YouTube channel. You buried your face in your hands, only peeking through the smallest crack to see Tyler’s reaction. 

He ran his fingers through his hair, brushing the fallen strands off his face as he muttered, “Boone–”

But his fellow storm chaser paid him no mind. “You saw it here first! The tornado wrangler himself has been wrangled by a new beau.”

“Boone.”

“And if any of you out there has ever wondered if two people could kiss in the middle of a tornado, I guess we have our answer!”

“Boone!” Tyler shot you an exasperated look and you lowered your hands, chuckling softly at the silliness of the whole situation. It was only then that you also noticed the storm had passed and everything outside the truck was now calm. Too bad the same couldn’t be said for inside the truck.

Tyler reached into the backseat and wrestled the camera out of Boone’s hands. Then, he took a breath and aimed the camera at himself as he plastered on a smile. “Well, I guess that’s it for today, folks. Things took a bit of an unexpected turn but in the middle of a storm, you never know what might happen! Thanks for watching and as always, if you feel it—” he leaned across the center console until his face was next to yours in the shot “—chase it.” And he pressed his lips against yours once again.

You could feel Tyler grinning against your mouth as you returned his kiss. Without pulling away, you reached out and covered the lens of the camera with your hand. The world had seen enough of you and Tyler for one day. However, if you had your way, the two of you were just getting started. 

Part 7 coming 9/23!

[jazzyrazzy157]

Here some drawing that I was done with but forgot to post or drawing that was unfinished but I posted anyway

[bitch-spectrum]

Tornado

folks with special interests/hyperfixations NOT related to media (book series, tv shows, movies, etc), what are they and what do you like about it?

[tteotlma]

craving control

— neither of you could resist what was always meant to happen.

alpha!bucky x omega!reader (9.2kw)

TW: 18+ MDNI; nsfw, dubcon a/b/o dynamics, possessive behavior, biting/marking, power dynamics, including praise kink, size kink, rough intimacy, physical restraint, sexual tension, emotional dependency, desperation, and themes "feral, uncontrollable need.", elements of mating/claiming, explores intense feelings of vulnerability and submission.

a/n: honestly,, i have no words -- weeks in the making and im not satisfied w how this turned out. like when you stare at something for too long. and it starts to look weird

———

On the day of Bucky’s arrival, it was safe to say the only one truly excited was Steve. The air in the compound felt charged, heavy with anticipation and unspoken tension.  

Tony walked up beside you and Nat by the massive window, the sharp scent of machine oil mingling with his expensive cologne as he wiped stubborn grease from his hands. Years of working together had made their commanding presence familiar and comfortable, like the steady hum of lab equipment around you.  

The window shook as debris kicked up from the descending helicopter, which was landing in the middle of the field. Tony inhaled deeply, his dark eyes meeting yours and Nat’s with a characteristic assessing look that instinctively made others straighten their spines. Nat smirked and raised an eyebrow, prompting a small smile from you, though you couldn't fully shake the flutter of nerves in your stomach.  

The helicopter door slid open in slow motion as Steve emerged, his broad shoulders and confident stride capturing every gaze in the vicinity. He turned and, stepping out behind him, a dark figure followed—a stark contrast, night to Steve's day. The moment Bucky appeared, the air seemed to shift—a raw, untamed energy that made your breath catch and your pulse quicken. Even from a distance, there was something different, something dangerous about him, that made your skin prickle with awareness, and your fingers curl tightly around the tablet in your hands.  

"Disperse, disperse," Tony muttered, his natural authority causing everyone to instinctively move as he turned away. The others followed suit, including an omega technician who stumbled in their haste to appear busy at their station.  

You turned back to your workstation, pressing your palms to the cool steel table to ground yourself. You could feel Steve and his companion approaching—Steve’s familiar warmth contrasting sharply with the newcomer’s intensity.  

The familiar scents of solder and circuitry should have been calming, but they couldn't quite mask the oncoming storm of Steve’s sunlit warmth mixed with something darker and wilder—like pine needles and leather and crisp winter air.  

When the main doors opened, the room was flooded with alpha energy, subtle yet impossible to ignore, like fog rolling in at dawn. "Guys, this is Buck," Steve said, the sound of his hand landing on leather echoing in the sudden quiet.  

"Bucky," came the correction—a voice like gravel over silk, sending a shiver down your spine as you gripped your soldering iron tighter, the metal warm against your suddenly trembling fingers. It wasn’t their presence that unsettled you; it was the way your instincts responded before you could think.  

Nat’s silent approach gave her the air of a predator as she circled closer. "Barnes," she acknowledged, her voice cold and steely. The space between them crackled with unspoken assessment, neither yielding nor challenging.  

"Good to see you again, Robocop," Tony called out, his voice cutting through the tension. His hologram's blue glow cast shadows over his face as he peered over his glasses. "Make yourself comfortable, but not too comfortable." His words, casual yet sharp as ozone before a storm, hung in the air.  

“The rest of you, back to work—we have a deadline,” Tony added with a wave of his pen, and like magic, the lab resumed its rhythm, though the atmosphere had fundamentally shifted.  

You bent over your work, hyper-focused on the tiny components scattered across your station, but every nerve seemed attuned to Bucky’s presence. The familiar lab scents—hot metal, coffee, and sharp electronics—were muted beneath this new awareness.  

"Y/n~" Steve’s warm, knowing voice rolled through the space, and your fingers stilled on the circuit board, your heart stuttering. The approaching footsteps seemed to echo with your pulse, each step tightening the coil in your shoulders. That scent—leather and pine now mixed with something metallic and sharp—grew stronger, drying your mouth.  

You managed a confident smile and turned, only for Steve to pull you into an embrace, lifting you slightly off your feet. His familiar scent—soap and sunshine—wrapped around you like a blanket, momentarily drowning everything else.  

"Missed ya, kiddo," he murmured, affection coloring his tone. Warmth bloomed in your chest, and you relaxed into his comforting presence.  

"Missed you too, Cap," you managed with a breathless laugh as he set you down. Movement caught your eye—Bucky shifting behind Steve—and that new awareness crashed back like a wave. You met his gaze for a split second before he looked away, but that brief connection felt electric. His storm-gray eyes held something untamed that made your knees weak.  

“Buck, this is Y/n,” Steve introduced. “Y/n, Buck.” The contrast between them was dizzying—Steve's golden warmth beside Bucky's winter-sharp presence. Suddenly, your workspace felt too small, the air heavy with unspoken things.  

"Bucky," he repeated, his voice rougher up close, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine. He stepped closer, hands at his sides, yet his presence seemed to fill the entire space around you. The fluorescent lights reflected off the plates of his metal arm, casting shifting shadows. Your throat felt dry, and you resisted the urge to fidget with your tools.  

Steve’s voice cut through the thick tension, either unaware of it or ignoring it. "Listen, I tried the magnets again," he said, the sound of leather hitting steel making you jump slightly as he tossed his gloves onto your workstation. His worn leather scent mingled with Bucky’s, making focus difficult.  

You raised an eyebrow, grateful for the distraction. "And...?"  

"And I hate it." He rolled his shoulder, trying to ease the tension. "It's just not the same."  

You glanced between the gloves and Steve's sheepish expression, ignoring how Bucky’s gaze seemed to track your every movement. Even without looking directly at him, you felt his attention like static electricity, raising goosebumps along your arms.  

"Think you could just yank 'em out for me?" Steve asked with that irresistible smile, though your attention kept drifting to Bucky, who stood silent and watchful.  

You scoffed and shook your head, stepping around the counter to switch on the table light. Sitting on the stool across from Steve, you shot him a look.  

“Fine, fine,” you said, picking up the gloves. “Guess you still have a chance to dread the day I say no.”  

Steve grinned. “I don’t even wanna think about it.” He gestured subtly towards Bucky. “Figured you could handle this too. Bucky’s got some gear that might need adjustments.” It wasn’t a command, just Steve’s assumption that Bucky would be sticking close.  

“Sounds good. I’ll find some time this week to schedule you in, so we can see what I’m working with,” you said, motioning to his arm.  

“Okay,” Bucky replied, his voice low with a hint of warmth.  

---

That was two weeks ago. Since then, you’d been buried in projects with Tony and Banner, testing prototypes and troubleshooting quirks in Stark’s tech.  

Missions came and went, but you mostly stayed at the compound—tuning weapons, running diagnostics, and keeping Stark's experiments from exploding (again). The lab had become your sanctuary, where complex problems could be solved with enough focus. Yet lately, your normally steady hands trembled at unexpected moments, your concentration slipping at the sound of familiar footsteps in the corridor.  

There wasn’t much time for that one-on-one work with Bucky you’d promised, though you occasionally glimpsed him around the compound. Still finding his footing here, he was a shadow at Steve’s side, quiet and watchful. Tony would drag him into the lab occasionally to discuss modifications—if he wanted any.  

You tried not to notice how his eyes found you whenever he was in the lab, lingering until you accidentally met his gaze. At first, he’d look away, jaw tightening as he focused on whatever Tony was explaining. But minutes later, you’d feel it again—his attention like a compass pointing north.  

In brief hallway encounters, your greetings came out softer than intended, his response a quiet rumble that stayed with you long after he walked away. One time, both of you reached for the lab door handle simultaneously. His fingers brushed yours, sending electricity up your arm. He pulled back, muttering an apology before disappearing around the corner, abandoning whatever awaited him in the lab.  

It was ridiculous how such small moments left you distracted for hours.  

Then one morning, Tony burst into the lab, with Steve following closely behind, practically dragging a reluctant Bucky.  

“Hey, kid,” Tony called out, startling you. You lifted the magnifying goggles off your face, welcoming the cool air. Banner, hunched across the table with identical goggles, glanced up briefly.  

“Please tell me we have Barnes’ baseline readings from when he got here,” Tony said, his tone implying a slight scolding. You looked at Banner, embarrassed. When you shook your head, Tony groaned dramatically.  

“Seriously? Three weeks and—“ He took a deep breath, hands on his hips as he surveyed the cluttered lab, evidence of recent activity. “Okay, that’s on me. Fixed. Now.” He practically pushed Bucky onto the stool beside your workstation.  

“Do your thing. Science, data, all that—" Tony trailed off, looking at Banner, who took the cue and clumsily exited, engaging Tony in a transparently forced conversation about a new gadget. Steve left shortly after, flashing an encouraging smile that made your cheeks burn.

The moment they left, the lab felt impossibly smaller. Bucky shifted slightly behind you, and though he was quieter than quiet, his presence seemed to fill every inch of space around you. He kept a respectful distance, but it didn’t matter—you could feel him, each breath and subtle movement stirring the air, making your skin prickle with awareness.

Your hands trembled slightly as you pulled up the diagnostic programs. "I'll need to..." you began, voice softer than you intended, "run some basic tests first. It might take a while." Turning toward him, you found his storm-grey eyes already fixed on you, dark and intent.

“Okay,” he replied, his gaze heavy and unrelenting, as though he was trying to read the thoughts you couldn’t quite form. Your throat tightened under the weight of his stare, and your hands instinctively curled into fists to ground yourself.

“I’ll need you to…” You gestured vaguely, your voice catching. “You’re gonna have to take off your sh-shirt. Just... so I can get a better look.” Your voice faltered, and heat bloomed across your cheeks.

For a beat, Bucky didn’t move. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he reached behind his neck, tugging the navy henley over his head. The fabric slid away, revealing his broad shoulders and sculpted chest, veiled by the thin fabric of his white tank. The subtle shift of his muscles as he moved sent a quiet jolt through your system, making your breath catch.

He tossed the henley carelessly over his shoulder, and you tried—desperately—to stay focused.

“Extend your arm for me,” you murmured, the words coming out softer than intended. He complied with that same quiet grace, his frame stiffening as you gently adjusted his arm.

Without thinking, you stepped between his legs, close enough that your hips grazed his thighs. The heat of his body radiated toward you, and the scent of pine, winter air, and leather curled around you, heavy and dizzying.

Bucky shifted again—a slow, unconscious movement as he spread his legs a little wider, as if making room for you without realizing it. The gesture was likely nothing, but to you, it felt far too intimate, and it took all your willpower not to react to the heat pooling in your belly.

You focused on the smooth metal of his arm, running your fingers along the seams and joints, marveling at the precision of its construction. His hand found your waist. The touch was light at first, perhaps just to steady himself, but his palm lingered, broad and warm over your lab coat.

The weight of his hand sent a shiver up your spine, your pulse fluttering beneath your skin. His thumb brushed the hem of your coat where the white fabric met your wine-colored shirt, as if testing its texture. Your breath caught involuntarily.

Slowly, your gaze traveled from his fingertips up the seams of his arm to his face. When you looked up, his eyes were already on you—dark, intense, unreadable, but consuming. His gaze dropped briefly to the curve of your collarbones peeking through your shirt before flicking back to meet your eyes, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.

The room shrank around you, the tension pulling taut—an invisible thread tugging you closer. Neither of you spoke; neither of you moved.

The air between you stretched, heavy and charged, the weight of his hand on your waist making it impossible to focus on anything but him. His thumb grazed the edge of your shirt again—soft, deliberate—and you swore the world slowed down, teetering on the edge of something inevitable.

The comm system beeped, loud and sudden, shattering the moment. Both of you jerked slightly, like surfacing from deep water.

"Y/N?" Tony’s voice crackled through the speaker. "Banner needs you in the main lab—now."

Bucky’s hand slipped from your waist, his jaw clenching as though grounding himself. You took a step back, heart pounding, the absence of his touch making the space between you feel colder and emptier than it should.

Clearing your throat, you looked anywhere but at him. “I–uh, I should go.”

He nodded once, slow and unreadable, as you turned quickly, your hand dragging hesitantly down his arm, slipping out of the room before the tension could pull you back in.

You slipped out of the room, heart still racing, Bucky’s presence clinging to you like static electricity. Even as you tossed and turned in bed later that night, the moment lingered—his hand on your waist, his scent in your lungs, and the weight of his gaze heavy on your mind.

That evening clung to you like a live wire beneath your skin, but the next few days brought subtle shifts in the compound's atmosphere. Where Bucky once moved like a shadow, now he inhabited spaces differently. During morning briefings, you noticed him leaning against workbenches instead of standing guard by the wall, his gaze still watchful but carrying something new—curiosity, maybe.

Since that evening in the lab, you buried yourself in projects with Tony and Banner, testing new prototypes and troubleshooting quirks in Stark's tech. Small out-of-town missions came and went, but you remained rooted at the compound—tuning weapons, running diagnostics, and preventing Stark's experiments from turning into full-blown disasters (again). The lab had become your sanctuary, where complex problems could be solved with enough focus. Yet, no matter how hard you tried, focus had become a luxury you couldn't afford. Your usually steady hands betrayed you, trembling at the worst moments, especially whenever familiar footsteps echoed down the corridor.

If Bucky did come into the lab, there weren’t many opportunities for one-on-one work, though you’d catch fleeting glimpses of him. He still seemed to be finding his footing, a shadow at Steve’s side—quiet and observant, as if measuring every person and place before stepping too close. Occasionally, Tony would bring him into the lab to discuss possible modifications, though Bucky seemed reluctant, deflecting with grunts and unreadable glances.

But it was impossible to ignore how his eyes always sought you out. Whenever he entered the room, your senses sharpened, drawn to him without permission. His gaze lingered a second too long—enough to make your stomach flip, your pulse flutter beneath your skin. But whenever you met his eyes, he’d glance away, his jaw tightening as if wrestling with something unspoken. Yet, moments later, you’d feel the pull again—his attention returning like a compass that couldn’t help but point north.

This awareness began to happen outside the lab too, in brief, inconsequential encounters that left you unraveled. Once, passing each other in the hallway, your soft greeting was met by his low, rumbling reply, curling around your senses long after he’d disappeared. Another time, reaching for the same door handle, his fingers brushed yours, the shock of contact sending electricity racing up your arm. He pulled back as though burned, muttering an apology before vanishing without explanation. You stood there, stunned, wondering how such a fleeting touch could leave you restless for hours.

Each day made it harder to maintain composure. It was as if your body had developed a traitorous awareness of him—heart stuttering beneath your ribs, skin flushing at the slightest thought of him, senses sharpening to track his movements before your mind even registered he was near. No matter how hard you tried to lose yourself in work, even Tony’s endless stream of projects couldn’t silence the way your pulse leapt whenever Bucky’s footsteps echoed down the corridor.

These changes appeared in fragments—a barely-there smile when Tony's prototype backfired, sparks shooting across the lab; the way his shoulders lost their rigid set when Steve drew out his dry humor during mission prep. Each small victory revealed another layer beneath the soldier’s facade.

Your paths began crossing more often. Sometimes, he’d appear in the kitchen during your late-night tea runs, nursing coffee while reading news on a tablet. His silent nods evolved into a new half-smile that never failed to make your heart race. His scent—pine and leather—began to carry warmer notes, softening from sharp winter to something more approachable.

Then, when Sam suggested movie night, every instinct screamed at you to decline. The thought of being in an enclosed space with Bucky—away from the clinical safety of the lab, surrounded by comfortable, dim intimacy—made your stomach flutter with anxious energy. But before you could find an excuse, Nat flashed you a knowing smile, firmly pulling you from your workstation. You barely had time to protest.

Now, nestled between Nat and Sam on the couch, you tried to focus on the movie, but your attention kept drifting across the room to him. Bucky sat in an armchair like he owned the space, his relaxed body only making him look more dangerous. His legs were spread wide, one arm draped over the back, the other resting on his thigh—a casual pose that somehow felt deliberate.

You told yourself to stay present, to engage with Nat and Sam’s easy banter, but Bucky’s presence made it impossible. His scent—faint but unmistakable—hovered at the edge of your awareness, a mix of pine, leather, and something deeper that spoke to a part of you beyond reason.

Then it happened. During a lull in the movie, when everything fell quiet, you felt it—his gaze.

A pulse of heat spread through your chest, as if an invisible thread had tugged you toward him. You risked a glance, only to find him already watching you. Even in the dim light, his storm-gray eyes were locked on yours, intense and unwavering. His expression was unreadable, but there was a weight to his stare that made your pulse stutter and breath catch in your throat.

The flickering blue light of the TV softened the sharp lines of his face, but it did nothing to dull the tension humming between you. For a moment, it felt like the room had fallen away, leaving only the two of you in the dark—silent, secret, caught in a moment neither dared to acknowledge.

You tried convincing yourself he wasn’t really looking at you, that maybe he was watching Sam or had drifted off into thought. But the flip in your stomach, the way your pulse fluttered beneath your skin, told a different story.

Bucky didn’t look away. His stare held steady, as if something deep and instinctual was keeping him tethered to you—as though he was drawn to you in the same way you were to him. The connection between you wasn’t just a passing glance. It felt ancient, inevitable, as if some unseen force had been guiding you to this moment long before either of you realized it.

The air between you felt heavy, charged with something you couldn’t quite define, and you were certain that even if you could name it, neither of you was ready. Your scent, warm and sweet, had changed in subtle ways—just enough for Bucky to notice, to make his chest tighten with a growing certainty. This wasn’t just attraction; it was recognition. Instinct. Raw instinct clawed through him, responding to the quiet, subtle shift in yours. You were close—too close—and every part of him, from the deepest part of his mind to the tension winding through his muscles, felt it.

The spell broke when Steve shifted on the couch beside him, dragging you both back to reality. You blinked, heart hammering as you tore your gaze away, heat blooming beneath your skin, spreading like wildfire, a faint sheen of sweat on your brow.

You swallowed hard, trying to refocus on the movie, but the moment lingered like a phantom touch. Even as you stared straight ahead, you could feel the weight of his gaze, its memory humming along your nerves, leaving you restless and aching in ways you didn’t understand.

When the movie ended, you escaped as quickly as you could, muttering a rushed “good night” and fleeing to your room, hoping the familiar comfort of your own space would ground you. But even surrounded by your belongings, wrapped in your own scent, you couldn't quiet the hum of awareness thrumming beneath your skin.

Bucky's scent clung to you, lodged in your senses like a memory you couldn’t shake. Pine, leather, and something darker—something wild that kept teetering you on the brink of losing control. There was something building inside you, a slow-burning awareness you weren’t ready to acknowledge, hoping no one else could sense the change taking hold of you.

Each encounter with him pulled at something deep within you, like a tide responding to the moon. His scent overshadowed everything, lingering in your senses long after he was gone.

And Bucky—you noticed everything now, every detail sharp and vivid, though you tried to convince yourself you were reading too much into it. The way his eyes lingered a second too long—but of course, people always stared at him. The slight flex of his fingers when you passed by—a habit, surely. The barely audible catch in his breath when you were near—probably just your imagination, heightened by whatever was happening to your body.

Maybe you were imagining the way his carefully controlled demeanor seemed to slip around you—those tiny cracks in his composure you couldn't stop noticing. After all, a man like him, always so disciplined, wouldn’t be affected by someone like you… would he? Yet, something raw beneath his surface called to you, making your heart race whenever he was close. The air felt electric between you, crackling with possibility—even as you tried to tell yourself it was just his effect on everyone, that you weren’t special, that it was just your body playing tricks.

After tonight, you couldn’t deny it any longer. During movie night, his stare had lingered like phantom touches, and your skin had felt hypersensitive, every nerve ending alive with awareness. Even in the sanctuary of your room, surrounded by familiar scents, you couldn’t escape the memory of pine and leather.

And as days passed, it only seemed to worsen. When Fury assigned you to oversee the team’s training equipment and Tony ensured you continued working with Steve, observing Bucky was already inevitable. Watching him felt different than those first weeks. You’d glimpsed the man beneath the careful control—caught fragments of dry humor in mission briefings, witnessed quiet camaraderie with Steve. The dangerous edge remained, but now it felt more… intentional. Like he was choosing to let people see beyond the soldier’s facade, revealing glimpses of the man underneath.

These glimpses made training observation even more daunting. Because now you knew what lay beneath his cool exterior—had witnessed the subtle humor in his eyes, the careful way he was learning to exist in spaces without defending them.

Your fingers trembled against the tablet's smooth surface at the thought of watching him work. Being that close to him during combat training, with his presence at its most intense… The thought alone made your mouth go dry.

Training sessions became their own kind of exquisite torture. Your role was simple—monitor the team’s gear, run diagnostics, and ensure everything functioned. But watching Bucky spar was anything but simple.

Between rounds, you brought him water—a straightforward task that became anything but as his eyes tracked your movement across the training room. Your fitted jacket clung to your curves, and you felt the weight of his stare as you approached. It was refreshing, seeing him like this. The quiet, brooding soldier was still there, but lately, there had been glimpses of something else—a playful charm that felt both dangerous and irresistible.

"Tryna’ keep me hydrated, doc?" His voice was rough from exertion, teasing in a way that sent heat pooling in your stomach. This was the Bucky emerging more and more lately—the one who’d somehow found his footing again, letting his guard down just enough to allow a trace of Brooklyn charm to slip through.

"Can’t have our best asset passing out from dehydration," you managed to reply, proud of how steady your voice remained. When you handed him the bottle, his fingers brushed yours, sending electricity skittering across your skin.

"Our best asset, huh?" He tipped his head back to drink, and you couldn’t help but watch his throat work, beads of sweat trailing down his neck. His eyes met yours over the bottle, darkening as they drifted to where your jacket dipped low. "Like what you see?"

This was dangerous territory—this newfound confidence of his, the way he was testing the waters between playful and flirtatious. "Just making sure you’re drinking enough water," you murmured, but the slight tremor in your voice betrayed you. You wondered if he could hear how your heart stumbled in your chest, if he sensed the hitch in your breath when he licked a stray drop from his lower lip.

He moved with a predator’s grace—smooth, controlled, and lethal. Each punch, each fluid shift of his body, sent a pulse of heat through you. Your throat felt dry as you watched the muscles in his back ripple beneath his fitted shirt, the metal of his arm gleaming under the lights. You told yourself this was normal, that anyone would be affected watching him move like this—but deep down, you knew this was different.

At one point, he had Steve pinned to the mat, his arm flexed, holding Steve in place with ease, chest heaving with exertion. His gaze flicked to you, locking eyes for a split second that sent butterflies surging in your stomach—and a darker, more primal flutter somewhere lower. That slow-burning awareness inside you flared hot and urgent.

Your fingers slipped, and your tablet clattered to the floor with a loud thunk. Everyone turned to look, including Steve, but all you could focus on was the faint grin curling at the edge of Bucky’s mouth. Your face burned with embarrassment, but there was no mistaking the glint in his eyes—a look that made you wonder if he could sense the changes in you, if he could feel how your body was betraying every attempt at control.

You couldn’t bear to face the team after that display—after dropping your tablet like some starry-eyed recruit. Your skin felt too tight, too warm, your body thrumming with an energy you couldn’t contain. You retreated to your room, but even buried in your own blankets, you couldn’t escape the memory of his knowing smirk, the way his eyes held yours like he knew exactly what was happening to you.

The next few days passed in a haze of mounting tension. Your skin felt hypersensitive, every nerve ending alive with awareness. Even in the sanctuary of your room, surrounded by familiar scents and belongings, you couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental was shifting inside you. Sleep became elusive, your body alternating between feverish and chilled, leaving you restless and aching for... something.

By the time you wandered to the kitchen at 3 AM, exhaustion clung to you like a second skin, but sleep remained just out of reach. The compound was eerily quiet at this hour, the hum of electronics the only sound as your slippers whispered across the cool tile.

You sat at the kitchen island, elbows resting on the countertop as you flipped through your options—tea or coffee. Settling on tea, you rose to grab your favorite mug from the cabinet. The dim lighting softened everything, making the space feel smaller, more intimate, as if the night itself carried a promise of something unspoken.

You were so focused on your task that you didn’t hear him approach.

"Can't sleep?"

His voice, low and rough with sleep, startled you enough to make you gasp softly. You whirled around to find him emerging from the shadows, stepping into a sanctuary—one where, in this moment, it felt like only you and he existed. The dim light traced the sharp lines of his face, deepening the shadows beneath his cheekbones and along his jaw.

He wore soft sleep pants that rested low on his hips, and the black shirt clung to his frame, leaving little to the imagination. The kitchen suddenly felt smaller, the air heavier with something you couldn't name—something that thrummed between you, waiting to be acknowledged.

"I…" Your voice faltered, throat dry under his gaze. You cleared your throat and tried again. "Just wanted some tea."

Bucky stepped further into the room, his movements slow and deliberate, like a wolf closing in. For someone so large, he moved with unsettling grace—silent and fluid. "Having trouble sleeping?" he asked, though his question held a depth, as if he were offering more than conversation.

You turned back to the cabinet, reaching for your mug, but your fingers trembled. Before it could slip from your grasp, his hand wrapped around your wrist, steadying you.

"You okay?" His voice was closer now, concern threading through the rough edges.

"Yeah, I’m—" you began, but stopped as you felt his thumb pressing unconsciously against your pulse. The gentle pressure sent electricity dancing up your arm, and you couldn’t help but track how his throat worked as he swallowed.

"Hey," he murmured, voice low. His eyes darkened as they searched your face, and you watched something shift in his expression—recognition, maybe, or realization. His nostrils flared slightly. "You’ve seemed… off lately."

"I'm fine," you managed, but your voice came out breathy, unconvincing. "Just haven’t been sleeping well."

He held your gaze a moment longer, then stepped back slowly, as if it took effort to put distance between you. The absence of his touch left your skin tingling, aching for contact you couldn’t afford to want.

"Maybe some chamomile, then," he suggested, his voice rougher than before. You noticed his fingers curling into fists at his sides, his jaw clenched as he worked to maintain the distance.

You managed a small nod, turning back to the cabinet with unsteady hands. Though he’d released your wrist, he hadn’t moved back far—still standing between you and the island, leaving you caught between his body and the counter. His presence lingered, heavy and warm, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his chest.

The small space between you crackled with electricity, making it impossible to focus on the simple task of making tea. The kettle felt too loud in the silence, steam rising like a physical manifestation of the tension thickening the air.

When you finally turned back around, gripping your mug like an anchor, you found his eyes stormy, his jaw set as if he was fighting something within himself. He took a deliberate step back, creating distance that somehow made the air feel even heavier.

"I should…" he started, voice rough. "Let you get some rest." But he didn’t move immediately, as if reluctant to leave.

Something in you wanted to tell him to stay, but the words stuck in your throat. The space between you felt charged, like the air before a storm. His scent—pine and leather—wrapped around you, stronger now, making your head spin.

He moved first, turning toward the entryway with careful control, his movements almost rigid. But he paused at the threshold, his metal hand gripping the wall frame with enough force to make the material creak softly.

"Get some sleep, doll," he said without looking back, his voice carrying something dark and hungry that made your skin prickle with heat. Then he was gone, leaving you alone with the cooling tea and the phantom sensation of his touch still burning around your wrist.

After standing frozen in the kitchen for what felt like hours, you finally forced yourself back to your room. Your skin felt too tight, every nerve hypersensitive as you stumbled through the doorway. The trek down the hallway was torture—his lingering scent clung to your clothes, your skin, leaving you dizzy with desire.

You barely made it to your bed before your legs gave out. The sheets felt rough against your fevered skin, and you kicked them off with a frustrated whimper. Your wrist still burned where he touched you, the memory of his thumb against your pulse making your breath hitch.

Rolling onto your back, you pressed your palms against your eyes, trying to ground yourself. But behind closed lids, all you could see was the way his eyes had darkened in the kitchen, the tension in his jaw barely contained. Your body thrummed with awareness, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths as waves of heat washed over you.

You forced yourself to breathe deeply, counting each inhale like Banner had taught you during training. One breath, then another, even as your skin prickled with need. The steady hum of the air conditioning became your focus, not the memory of Bucky's voice, rough and low in the darkness.

Slowly, exhaustion won over the fever burning through your veins. Your muscles ached from fighting against the tension, and eventually, your body surrendered to the pull of sleep. The last thing you registered was the ghost of pine and leather clinging to your shirt before darkness claimed you.

Consciousness returned slowly, like surfacing from deep water. The first thing you registered was warmth on your face—sunlight streaming through your windows, casting everything in hues of honey and gold. Your room looked almost dreamlike, dust motes dancing in the amber rays.

As your vision focused, you noticed signs of Banner’s care—a bowl of soup on your nightstand, now cold; several water bottles arranged within reach; and a damp cloth on your forehead, long since losing its coolness. The quiet thoughtfulness of it made your chest tighten with gratitude.

You sat up gingerly, testing your body’s response. The fever hadn’t broken—if anything, it burned hotter now—but the rest had given you enough strength to make you restless, to make the walls of your room feel like they were closing in.

The water bottles mocked you, lukewarm and useless against the heat coursing through your veins. Ice. You needed ice. The thought became an obsession, driving you to your feet despite shaky legs. You pulled on a thin robe over your sleep clothes, ignoring how even the silky material felt too rough against your sensitized skin.

The hallway stretched before you, bathed in that same golden light that made everything feel surreal. Your slipper-clad feet made no sound on the cool floor as you made your way toward the kitchen. The compound felt different—eerily still, as if everyone had vanished. No voices from the labs, no footsteps down corridors. Just silence, with the strange amber glow making everything look softened, dreamlike.

You moved as if in a trance, your body feeling both heavy and weightless. The fever made everything hazy, like you were watching yourself from a distance. Each breath drew in air that felt too thick, too warm, despite the steady climate control.

Your feet carried you forward without conscious thought, your path wavering slightly as you trailed a hand along the wall for balance. The golden light streaming through the windows turned the hallway into something otherworldly, making the simple journey feel infinite.

Then it hit you—pine and leather, winter air and something darker. Your body responded before your mind could catch up, drawn to his scent like a moth to flame.

As you reach the living room, your destination becomes hazy, forgotten. The room opens before you, bathed in honeyed light pouring through floor-to-ceiling windows. The hardwood floor gleams like liquid amber, stretching toward where Bucky sits, his broad frame sunk deep into the plush sofa, seeming to melt into the cushions.

His eyes lock onto yours over the book he’d been reading, and even through your fevered haze, you see the way they darken, storm-gray deepening into something darker. Neither of you moves. The air between you feels charged, heavy with unspoken words.

"Y/N," he breathes, your name a warning. His whole body tenses as if to rise, but something keeps him frozen, fingers white-knuckled around the forgotten book. You watch his throat work as he swallows hard. "You shouldn’t—you need to go back to your room."

To him, you must look like something out of a dream—or a nightmare, depending on his self-control. Your silk robe catches the light as you move, revealing glimpses of your tank top and shorts underneath. One sock has slipped down your ankle, and your hair falls messily around your face. Your cheeks are flushed, lips parted in shallow breaths.

You take an unsteady step into the room, looking as if you’re floating across the hardwood, each faltering step a deliberate tease. When you reach the armchair, your robe slips further off one shoulder as you grip the chair for support. "I needed…" The words trail off. Did you need ice? Water? Everything feels secondary to the pull you feel toward him.

The room sways slightly beneath your feet. Bucky shifts, fighting the instinct to reach for you. You watch his chest rise with a sharp breath as your scent reaches him, sweet and heavy in the golden air. A bead of sweat trails down your neck, disappearing beneath your tank top.

"You're burning up," he says roughly, his voice holding a darker edge that makes a heat pool in your stomach. His pupils are blown wide as he tracks every small movement of your body.

You attempt to lower yourself into the armchair, but the world tilts. Your knee catches the edge of the coffee table as you stumble, a breathless giggle escaping your lips at your own clumsiness, and your robe slips down to reveal more of your shoulders.

"Shit," Bucky mutters, finally breaking his careful stillness. "You're gonna hurt yourself." He rises in one fluid motion, crossing the space between you in two strides. His hands hover near your arms, not quite touching. "Let’s get you situated."

"M’okay," you insist, though your legs feel like jelly, and you sway into him unconsciously as your robe slips off completely. His hands finally make contact with your bare arms, and the touch sends electricity racing across your fevered skin. "Just needed to sit..."

"Yeah, I can see that." His voice is strained, almost amused, but you hear the concern underneath. He tries to steady you, guiding you toward the chair, but your knees buckle in that moment.

"Alright—" He catches you against his chest, the sudden contact drawing a small huff from you. You feel more than hear his sharp intake of breath. “You alright?” he asks, peeling you off him, holding you at arm's length.

“Mm—” Your body aches at the loss of heat, eyebrows scrunching in annoyance. You sigh, dragging your gaze up Bucky’s large frame until you meet his darkened eyes. “Yeah, m’fine.” Huffing, you look away.

“Don’t lie.” He steps closer, pulling you in. Your breath hitches.

“I’m not…” Sweat beads on the back of your neck, and a lump forms in your throat. You try to take a deep breath, but with Bucky so close, it’s unbearable. Unknowingly, you grab at Bucky’s shirt, fisting the fabric in your hand.

“Tell the truth.” His gaze drops to where your hand grips his shirt, and something unreadable flickers across his face. He gently pries your fingers from the fabric, his own hands lingering on yours a moment too long. His voice is low, almost a growl. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me, doll.”

The nickname makes your throat tighten, pulse jumping, skin prickling with awareness. You should step back, say something to break the magnetic pull between you, but the words stick in your throat. Instead, you lean in closer, closing the small distance between you. God, you wanted him so badly, and it was excruciating.

He inhales sharply, his hands settling on your shoulders, as if to steady you—or maybe himself. “Doll…” The word escapes him again, rough and raw, like he’s barely holding back. “Say something—tell me to leave.” The command is more a plea, his voice thick with barely contained desperation, brows drawn tight in concern.

He watches you, his words hanging in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. You feel their weight pressing down, his warning wrapped within the plea. Your mind races, considering every reason to step back, every way this could complicate things.

“I—” You rake your hands up his torso, fingers dragging lightly against the fabric of his shirt. Snaking your arms around his neck, you pull him impossibly close, sharing the air between you. Neither of you speaks, neither of you moves. You feel his chest heaving against yours.

“Y/N…” he whispers, almost painfully. His hand, still warm on your arm, travels up to cradle your neck, thumb on your jaw as he tilts your head. His hooded eyes linger on your lips, and you unconsciously lick them. He sucks in a sharp breath.

The golden light streaming through the windows catches in his dark hair, turning the loose strands framing his face into threads of amber. Your hands slide up, fingertips brushing the back of his neck, where his shoulder-length hair falls free, some pieces tucked carelessly behind his ear. You let your fingers tangle in the soft strands, feeling them slip like silk between your fingers. You hesitate for only a second before you whisper, “I need to know I’m not the only one.”

For a heartbeat, he’s utterly still, his eyes searching yours, and then his hand tightens just slightly on your waist, with a tenderness that steals your breath. “You’re not,” he murmurs, nuzzling his nose against yours, his voice rough and honest. “Not even close.”

The moment his words register, your last thread of control snaps. You finally, finally meet his lips with all the desperation that’s been building for weeks. A rough sound escapes him, vibrating through your chest as his other hand finds your waist, pulling you flush against him. The kiss is devastating in its intensity—wild, demanding, and absolutely consuming, like you’re both trying to devour each other whole.

His lips press firmly against yours, the scrape of his stubble rough on your heated skin, and a pained whine escapes your mouth—whether from pain or need, neither of you can tell, but it spurs Bucky on. He deepens the kiss, his hands pressing you closer, tighter.

Your fingers, tangled in his hair, tug at the strands as you push yourself up on your toes, arching into him, your body ignited by his touch. A wave of need crashes through you, driven by every instinct you’ve been holding back, and you’re already pushing him back toward the sofa, your movements frenzied as his hands trace the curve of your waist, his fingers firm and possessive.

As you push him toward the sofa, a flicker of guilt pierces through the fog clouding your mind. It’s quick but sharp, cutting through the pull that’s been building for weeks. Everything’s moving too fast, crossing boundaries you haven’t even had time to define, and the uncertainty knots inside you. But your body refuses to listen, as though it recognizes him in a way your mind can’t fully grasp, holding you close.

You stumble back with him until his legs hit the edge of the sofa, and he sinks down, pulling you with him until you’re straddling his lap. His hands slide up to grip your hips, steadying you as you settle over him. The moment you feel his body beneath you, hard and solid, a fresh wave of heat surges through you, causing you to grind your hips against his slowly, testing the waters.

The guilt slips through the haze once more, cutting into your thoughts like a knife. You press your hands to his chest, fingers splaying over his muscles, and pull back enough to see concern flicker in his eyes.

“Buck,” you whisper, caught between confession and apology. “I wanted us to take our time…” Your hands drift lower, grazing just beneath his shirt’s hem, brushing over the coarse hair trailing downward. The warmth of his skin under your fingertips makes your breath hitch, and a shiver runs through you as you continue, voice softer, more vulnerable. “To let this mean something.”

Your fingers trace over the waistband of his pajama pants, then dip lightly between the open buttons, your touch featherlight, drawing a sharp intake of breath from him. His body jolts beneath you, jaw clenching in response. His hands flex on your hips, holding you steady, his gaze dark and hungry, struggling for restraint.

“I can’t… I can’t stop myself,” you murmur, voice thick with need. Yet, your hands betray any hesitation, moving slowly, steadily, opening each button, exposing his skin inch by inch, the heat radiating from him only spurring you on. The admission escapes your lips, almost a whimper. “I feel like I’m losing control.”

Bucky’s breath comes out ragged, his fingers pressing into your skin as he fights to stay steady beneath your touch. “Then lose it,” he murmurs, voice rough with desire, his thumb tracing slow circles over your hipbone, sending warmth through you. “Take control, baby.” His tone is a low, commanding murmur, yet open, a willing offering beneath you. “I’m here to give you exactly what you need… use me, all of me.”

“God, you’re unbelievable…” You laugh breathlessly, but with his words, all your anxieties dissolve, the tight knot inside loosening as he smirks and pulls you down for another heated kiss.

With his permission, something inside you snaps, all restraint dissolving as his hands guide your hips down onto his, pulling you in close. You both let out a guttural moan as you sink into his lap, the thin layers of fabric between you doing nothing to dull the intense pressure of his thick length pressing up against you. Heat radiates from him, his arousal straining beneath his pants, sending a dizzying surge of need through you, leaving you breathless.

With each roll of your hips, you’re consumed by him, the ache pulsing through your core, tethering you to the warmth of his body and the intoxicating pull of his scent. He presses against you, hard and unyielding, a promise of everything you crave, every inch of him driving you closer to surrender. A shiver runs down your spine, every nerve alive with anticipation; it’s too much, yet somehow not enough.

A low chuckle escapes him, his chest vibrating beneath your hands as he watches you grind on him, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. His hands wrap firmly around your hips, guiding your movements in a possessive grip that leaves no doubt he’s claiming you in every way. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice dark and rich, gaze sweeping over every inch of you. “Such a needy little omega, strung out and desperate, aren’t you?” The words ripple through you, sparking heat that surges through your body, making your heart pound, filling you with a warmth that blurs your vision.

A soft whimper escapes your lips, each grind amplifying the tension clawing through your chest, and it’s overwhelming—almost too much. You’re losing yourself, each moan growing louder, desperate, until Bucky’s thumb presses over your lips, quieting you.

Bucky’s hand covers your mouth gently, a warning smirk tugging at his lips. “Keep it down, sweetheart,” he whispers, his tone edged with danger, but you can’t help the needy sound that slips past his hand, your body bucking in response. You pull back slightly, eyes wide, voice a breathless murmur as you ask, “Where is everyone?”

The gleam in his eyes darkens, and he grabs your jaw, pulling you close until his breath brushes your lips. “Forget them,” he growls, voice low and possessive, “Focus on me. Eyes on me, omega.” His grip tightens, his words sending a rush of warmth through you, making your hips grind harder, a needy whimper spilling out as he pulls you into a hungry, messy kiss. Teeth graze, tongues tangle, his control evident in the way his hand holds you in place, claiming every shiver, every gasp.

“Alpha… please…” you gasp, voice cracking as you press yourself harder against him, slick soaking through the fabric, feeling the thick, throbbing bulge of his knot beneath you. “Need you… need it so bad.” Your words spill out, desperation lacing every syllable, your body responding to his presence in a way that both thrills and terrifies you. The pressure, the heat, his intensity—it’s everything, almost too much, yet somehow not nearly enough.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he growls, voice dark with possession as his hands slide up to grip your waist, fingers pressing with a force that makes your skin burn. “You’re mine, all mine… dripping for me just from grinding on me.” His words spark something wild and primal, your body moving without thought, surrendering to the rhythm, feeling yourself unravel beneath his gaze.

But as the tension mounts, something inside you starts to break. It’s overwhelming, an aching need so intense that your chest tightens, a gasp escaping as tears begin to blur your vision. It’s too much—the pressure, the pleasure, the helplessness of being so completely in his hands, needing him but unable to take it all just yet. A single tear slips down your cheek, and then another, and soon you’re trembling in his hold, soft, helpless sounds falling from you as you press closer, uncertain if it’s pain or pleasure overtaking you.

Bucky’s eyes narrow as he notices, his thumb brushing over your cheek, his gaze softening for a moment. “Look at you, all worked up,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, yet laced with something almost tender. “Can’t handle it, can you? My little omega, so sensitive.” His words make the ache worse, the tears coming faster as he leans in, pressing a possessive kiss against your lips, swallowing the soft, broken sounds you make.

“Shh… you’re okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice dark and rich in your ear, a shiver coursing through you as his hand steadies you, grounding you in his hold. “Not yet, but soon. I’m going to give you everything,” he promises, his tone thick with possession as he presses you firmly to him. “Fill you, claim you, mark every inch of you until there’s nothing left but us, nothing left but me inside you.” His grip tightens, his words a dark promise, and your pulse quickens.

Slowly, Bucky shifts, guiding you back as he leans forward, tilting you until your neck is exposed. Your breath hitches, anticipation winding tight within you, thinking for a split second he’s going to mark you. But instead, he presses a hot, lingering kiss to your collarbone, his lips grazing down your skin as his hand holds you steady. Each soft kiss along your collar sends a thrill through you, his mouth tracing up to the nape of your neck, where he lets his teeth graze lightly, nipping just enough to make you shiver.

Then, with a low growl, he pulls you closer, thrusting hard against you as his teeth sink into your skin, just shy of a mark. The sharp bite sends you over the edge, your body trembling, every nerve igniting as you come undone in his arms, shaking as he holds you steady, his possessive touch grounding you through each wave of pleasure.

Your body quakes in his hold, tremors rolling through you as you cling to him, breathless, every pulse of pleasure leaving you weightless, completely taken. Bucky’s arms stay wrapped around you, grounding you, his lips brushing tenderly over the spot he just bit, his tongue soothing the faint sting as you gasp softly against him.

“There we go… that’s my girl,” he murmurs, his voice thick and velvety as he strokes your back, one hand pressing into the small of your spine, holding you close as your breaths slow. His eyes are dark, filled with satisfaction as he watches you, savoring the sight of you so vulnerable, so utterly his.

Your body settles against him, the intense high fading into a soft, hazy warmth. Almost instinctively, you continue to move your hips in slow, gentle circles, soft whimpers escaping as you melt into his shoulder, eyelids growing heavy, drifting somewhere between bliss and sleep.

His hand strokes up your spine, grounding you with each possessive touch. “You feel that?” he whispers, his mouth brushing your ear, his words sending another shiver through you. “This is just the beginning, sweetheart. You’re mine, and I’m far from done with you.”

A small, needy sound slips from your lips as your hips press against him, despite the exhaustion pulling at you. He smirks, fingers tracing slow, possessive patterns along your waist. “Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice a low, satisfied growl. His hand grazes your hip, drawing gentle circles. “But I want more. Think you can handle that?”

You manage a nod, a sleepy, eager response, melting further into him as your eyelids flutter shut. Just as you’re drifting toward sleep, he chuckles softly, pressing a warm kiss to the top of your head. “First, let’s get some rest, sweetheart,” he whispers, voice a gentle command as he lifts you effortlessly, cradling you against his chest.

The golden hour light that once bathed the room has deepened into the cool, quiet blue of night, shadows settling around you as he carries you to the bed. The ache in your body has softened, replaced by a warmth, a certainty that relaxes you in his hold, knowing you’re exactly where you belong.

As he lowers you onto the sheets, your fingers instinctively curl into his shirt, needing to keep him close even in your drowsy haze. His hand brushes tenderly over your cheek, the glint in his gaze a promise that makes your heart race yet leaves you calm, knowing he’s yours, that you’re meant to be right here in his arms. The last thing you feel is the weight of his touch grounding you, a promise of what’s to come as sleep finally pulls you under.

---

a/n: all i feel is frustration

[byakuyasdarling]

I find it so funny (sad) overhearing my dad talk about me on the phone to a friend. He’s like “she’s 18 and 3/4 now” (I assume that’s in relation to my lack of motivation), “what she feels is different to what I think.”, “I snap sometimes but it’s only because x, y, z” (didn’t hear it), “can’t get her up in the morning” (not true, I just prefer to get-up late as opposed to my old 6am start, “she relied on school to validate herself” (genius /s), “she really hates herself” (not really. I guess in comparison to who I was, yes. But I still think I’m that same person mostly).

[call-sign-shark]

Of Bending and Breaking || Tommy Shelby x Reader

Summary: Always being the one who cares for others comes with a price: you break down, but the most unexpected person is here for you: Tommy, the man you were forced to marry.

Words: 2,3k

TW: Hurt/Comfort, very tiny mention of past sexual assault, no proofreading 'cause it comes from clearing my drafts.

Notes: Aunt Isabella's is a tribute to my own aunt Isabelle who, unfortunately, died because of cancer a few years ago.

It all started with Polly shaking Tommy like a tree, her thin hands firmly grabbing his nephew’s broad shoulders: “You can’t keep sabotaging yourself like this, Tom.” These were the words that left her quivering lips as she dragged his staggering frame to the bathroom and pushed his face into the bathtub right under the tap. When the freezing water splashed all over his neck, Tommy opened his blank eyes wide and inhaled sharply, as if he had suddenly come back to life. Since Grace’s awful death, the gangster was the shadow of his former self. When he wasn’t waging a senseless war with Father Hughes and the Italian, or when he wasn’t keeping his buzzing mind busy with work, Tommy usually numbed himself with a deadly combination of whisky and opium until his deep-seated pain became bearable. It was the night he almost overdosed that Polly decided to take charge of his nephew and found him a new wife, in the hope of soothing his nephew’s mind and finding a mother figure for poor little Charlie. The idea had obviously sent Tommy in a fit of anger but Polly Gray couldn’t care less.

Regarding your own situation, it was not the opium nor the loss of a dear lover that had led you to Birmingham’s most dangerous man but rather the bump in your belly. Aunt Isabella had understood what you were suffering from the moment you had stormed out of the vardo to throw up your breakfast in the nearest bush. The tall and lean woman, whose light brown and curly mane danced in the cold autumn wind, had looked at you right in the eyes and raised one of her thin eyebrows. If there was something pleasant with her, it was that words weren’t necessary.

Yet, later she encountered Polly, with whom she had been a great friend since childhood, and explained that a powerful American man had forced his seeds in you during his stay in England. Not willing to go through the traumatic experience of aborting, Isabella only saw one solution to your problem: you needed a husband who could protect you and your future baby from the evil man with his scarred lip. A wedding would be your salvation. At the realization of what Aunt Isabella had planned for you, you tried to run away from the camp in the middle of the night but she knew you too well and soon caught you, her sly hand firmly grabbing your wrist: “Y/N! It’s for your sake! He’s rich, he needs a wife and he is feared! You’ll be safe with him, don’t you understand?” She explained, cupping your face with her long fingers adorned with claws painted in red and far too many rings. “I don’t need a man to protect me! I don’t need anyone. He’s older and he’s a criminal! Who’s going to protect me from him eh? Have you think ‘bout that?” You cried, the soft light of the sunrise turning your tears into liquid gold.

But still, you wedded him and what was supposed to be the happiest day of your life turned out to be a dull event during which you dissociated the whole time. The only memories you had in mind were two piercing and frightening turquoise eyes staring right at your soul and soft whiskey-tasting lips stealing a quick peck from your cherry lips. A kiss devoid of any form of affection. And then, the groom left.

From what Aunt Isabella told you, your husband had spent most of the celebrations with his brothers, drinking and taking bets outside of Arrow House. Months had passed and still, you felt estranged to this place and its staff. The only moments your heart lightened were when Aunt Isabella visited you, or when Charlie spent time with you, otherwise you remained emotionally closed, trapped in your own mind. Overall you could not complain: You had a house far too big for you with plenty of workers willing to exhaust every one of your wishes. Charlie was a sweet boy, who loved you with all his heart even if you were well aware that you’ll never replace his mother. As for the Shelby clan, they were cordial with you without being really friendly either. And there was Tommy…

Cold and distant Tommy, who you only saw late at night when he discretely slipped under the bedsheet and turned his back to you without uttering a single word. Busy Tommy, whose replies remained concise and spoken with a quiet husky voice each time you asked him something — at least he talked to you a little bit. Trapped in a loveless marriage, that was what you were: Tommy was more a stranger, a mere gust of wind in your life, than the love of your life.

Still, the gangster stayed true to his words and he provided for everything, never refusing to give you money when you asked, and protecting you from the man who had taken your innocence. He even gifted you a wonderful stallion because he knew how much you missed riding. In exchange for his protection and riches, all you had to do was take care of Charlie and do your best to be there for your husband when his darkness threatened to swallow him whole.

You found out about the nightmares shortly after your wedding and quickly decided to do something about it. When he woke up screaming and drenched in sweat after tasting the tunnels’ dirt and Grace’s crimson blood in his troubled sleep, you always cradle him, your fingers losing themselves in his wet dark hair to pet his head gently. At first, you feared his reaction, expecting the infamous Tommy Shelby to push you and not-so-kindly ask you to keep your distance but, to your greatest surprise, he never did. Instead, he would bury his face in your cleavage, panting and trembling, and let you reassure him. Just like he let you bring dinner to him each time he drowned himself in paperwork and forgot to eat. He never commented on your cooking skills though, even if he always handed back empty plates.

The blood on his skin? You cleaned it.

The wounds of his flesh? You never failed to patched them up.

The hole in his heart? You tried to seal it off with caresses, soft kisses, and shoulder massages. Maybe one day he would slowly turn his iciness into affection. Little did you know that he needed it. And by it he needed you. Just like the whole family. How many times did you walk the streets of Birmingham at night, seeking for Arthur and then bringing him home to take care of a wasted and high him? Far too many to keep track. Similarly, you had spent countless evenings helping Ada when she felt overwhelmed, either nursing Karl or cleaning her house when, just like her brother, she overworked herself. And finally, Polly could never thank you enough for everything you did to soothe her mind after the gallows, still haunted by the bite of the hanging rope on her throat.

“Thanks Poppy.” Arthur muttered, the gravel in his voice coated with shame now that you were down clearing and disinfecting his split knuckles. The oldest brother had started to affectionately call you so for the sole reason that, according to him, you must probably grow better when blood was considering how much you had seen when patching the Shelby siblings. “Sorry for errr… For the mess.” He went on, his steel blue eyes fleeing yours.

“That’s okay.” You replied in Romani, “You, sweet idiot.” Endeared by how surprisingly soft Arthur’s harsh complexions could turn, you couldn’t help but gently put your hand on one of his cheeks. And during this tender display of affection, Arthur was convinced he had caught sight of a smile — a scarce event barely happening on your beautiful but resigned face. Comforted by the warmth of your palm, he leaned into your touch and looked at you through dark lashes, his lids half-closed.

“Tommy’s one lucky bastard to have ya for himself, eh."

"Let's both flee together then." You teased, the familiar tone of Romani language rendered even more melodious by your siren-like voice.

"Don't tempt me, little one." Arthur replied, softer than intended and probably only half-joking.

The oldest Shelby brother had barely closed the door when your smile disappeared and tears flooded your eyes. Admittedly, spending months of repressing your own anguish didn’t do any good to you despite thinking that focusing on others would have helped. Quite the contrary, all those negative emotions you had left on the back burner turned into a silent and deadly parasite that was eating you up. Dragging your tired frame to the cold and empty marital bedroom, you curled up in a ball in a corner of the room, your bruised knees pressed against your chest, “Positive. You gotta stay positive and push forwards y’see Y/N? Do the right things for the family…” You whispered to yourself as your breath started to quicken for the ball of sorrow in your throat was growing more and more. Yes, you had to smile and say that all was just fine because you knew you were lucky to be here and that you hadn’t any real reason to complain now according to the rest of the world. And yet, the truth was you were tired. So tired and overwhelmed by everything around you. With your wild soul trapped here in the mighty walls of Arrow House, you could not help but drown in an excruciating feeling of worthlessness.

You were lost in a world too difficult for you to understand. Lost and unprepared for a life that asked for too much. When you were living in the vardo with Aunt Isabella life seemed so much easier despite the lack of money and, sometimes, food. Prior to your wedding, she used to tell you that everything would become clear once you’d be a wife and a mother. You’d be an adult adult, you see? But she lied. They all lied. Even with a husband and kids, you still felt like a scared and confused child, who wanted to hide under the blanket of her warm bed and never face the world ever again. These concerns of yours? You never shared because you wanted the Shelby to keep seeing you as a reassuring presence— moreover, God knew how much their broken hearts needed your silent care.

Bringing your trembling fingers to your mouth, you muffled a first sob, convinced it would be enough to keep you from crying. What you didn’t expect was to burst into tears, uncontrollably weeping. After all this time forcing yourself to be strong, your mind had enough. As your heart-wrenching cries echoed in the room they muffled Tommy’s footsteps that were coming closer and closer. When the door flung open, you did not even move, lost in a spiral of pain and psychological exhaustion.

“Y/N?!” Tommy called you, his usual coldness swept away by a surge of panic. He closed the distance between you and him with hastened steps, and put one of his knees on the floor to be at your level, “What’s wrong, ay?” His husky voice asked, worries thickening his Brummie accent even more. You hiccuped and raised your flooded eyes towards him, parting your lips to answer. Yet, as soon as your gaze met his turquoise iris you started weeping again, louder this time. Words were at a loss by dint of never having the chance to express what you felt throughout your life. “Bloody Hell, Y/N! Speak!” Tommy hissed, his heart now drumming in his chest at the sight of his young and always-so-strong wife crumbling in bits in front of him. Never in his life, he had felt so powerless, not even in the tunnels… And, God, he hated it.

“N-nothing. I don’t… I don’t even know it’s just that— I’m so fucking tired, and lost, and confused, and afraid!” You spoke with a very fast pace, spitting years and years of repressed emotions flowing from you all the while feeling deeply ashamed of your mental breakdown. When you were done venting, you simply turned your head and waved off the topic, tears still rolling down your reddened cheeks “Anyway! You’ve got — more important things to do.”

“Stop it, Y/N,” He scolded, low voice rumbling in his chest. His strong and calloused hands, damaged by the war and hard work, cupped your face with a softness you didn’t know he possessed. For the first time in your life, his grip felt utterly reassuring as if you knew these scarred palms were not going to let you fall apart. Never. “You’re what’s important right now.” With that being said, Tommy leaned his forehead against yours and his enchanting eyes soon met yours to force you to focus on nothing else but the vast blue oceans which composed them. “I want you to calm down.”

“I can’t, I can’t—“ You tried to speak but you couldn’t, struggling to breathe under the crushing weight of your panic attack. Your mouth gaped, looking for the oxygen it couldn’t find.

“Oi!” Tommy said louder. So loud that his voice managed to overcome the cacophony of your beating heart and the buzzing sound of your anxiety that filled your head, “I want you to breathe with me, Y/N. Alright? You can do that for me, ay?” He asked, his eyebrows slightly frowned and charming crowfeet appearing at the corner of his eyes — how odd it was to see Tommy’s face veiled with something else than unsettling placidity. Caught off guard by the sudden realization of how close he was, you quieted down a little bit and soon followed the pattern of his breathing.

One long inhale through the nose, one longer exhale through the mouth, and a short pose.

Do it again.

Your shaky hands slowly grabbed his wrists in a desperate attempt to anchor you to reality. This, as well as the focus you had on his mesmerizing complexions.

His long dark lashes — you inhaled slowly.

His cat-like turquoise iris — you exhaled.

His salient cheekbones — You stopped breathing for a very short while.

The myriad of freckles — “Breathe with me, Y/N.”

The soft, hoarse lilt guided you through the dark and thick fog of your own brain, just like a lighthouse. Coming back to clearer waters, your body finally relaxed and fell almost limp in his arms. And once again he caught you, keeping you all safe against his chest. Tommy’s voice, low and steady, resonated one last time in the bedroom with a reassuring warmth as he uttered the simple yet powerful phrase, "I'm here." Each word carefully enunciated, carrying a quiet strength that soothed and reassured, like a comforting anchor in a stormy sea.

Keep your writers motivated: Reblog and/or comment if you liked it, you filthy animal! o/ English is not my first language btw.

Taglist: @adaydreamaway08 @theshelbyclan @jomarch-wannabe @esposadomd @zablife @woofgocows @anathemasworld @anastasia000 @kate654 @kxnnxy @babayaga67 @meowtastick @shelbyssins @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @bluevenus19 @raincoffeeandfandoms @kishie8 @zablife @alexandra-001 @dearshelby @alexizodd @helen06dreamer @kmc1989 @emotionalcadaver @peakyswritings @peakyltd @chaosinkest1996 @vanhelsingsbigtoe @red-riding-wood

[bandsofmarv]

Mine to keep

After a tense mission, Bucky’s jealousy boils over.

TW- very smutty, jealousy and possessiveness

The mission had gone sideways, but that wasn’t what had Bucky Barnes fuming. It was the way you’d laughed, soft and sweet, at Sam’s jokes over comms. The way Sam had gotten a little too close when patching up a scrape on your arm.

He knew he was being ridiculous. He knew better than to let the spiraling thoughts take hold. But when he saw you smile at Sam like that—like he was the center of your world—something in him cracked wide open.

You didn’t notice his storm-cloud mood until you all made it back to the safehouse. While Sam prepped dinner in the kitchen, you cornered Bucky in the small, dimly lit living room.

“Okay, what’s your problem?” you demanded, crossing your arms. “You’ve been glaring daggers at me and Sam all day. Did I do something wrong?”

He stared at you, blue eyes dark and wild. “Wrong?” he repeated, voice low and dangerous. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong. Except maybe drive me insane.”

Your brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

He took a step closer, the air between you crackling with tension. “Do you have any idea what it does to me, watching you laugh with him? Watching him touch you?” His jaw clenched, his metal hand flexing at his side. “It makes me want to tear the whole damn world apart.”

You blinked, stunned into silence. “Bucky, Sam’s just—”

“I don’t care,” he interrupted, voice rough with emotion. “I don’t care if it’s Sam or anyone else. You’re mine.”

The possessiveness in his tone should have made you angry. Instead, it sent a shiver down your spine.

“Yours?” you repeated, your voice barely a whisper.

His hand shot out, cradling your jaw with surprising gentleness given the storm raging in his eyes. “Yeah,” he growled. “Mine. Say it.”

Your breath hitched as his thumb brushed over your bottom lip. “I’m yours,” you murmured, the admission setting a fire in his gaze.

Something in him snapped. His lips crashed against yours, devouring you with a hunger that left you gasping. His hands were everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding under your shirt, pulling you flush against him.

“Say it again,” he demanded against your lips, his voice rough and ragged.

“I’m yours,” you moaned, the words turning into a gasp as his mouth moved to your neck, his teeth scraping against your pulse point.

Before you knew it, he had you pinned against the wall, his metal arm braced beside your head while his flesh hand slid beneath your shirt, palming the soft skin of your waist. He tore the fabric over your head in one swift motion, his eyes darkening as they roamed over your bare skin.

“You’re perfect,” he rasped, his voice thick with reverence and need.

He leaned in, his lips brushing over the swell of your breast before wrapping around your nipple, sucking gently. The sensation sent a jolt of pleasure straight through you, and your fingers tangled in his hair, holding him closer.

“Bucky,” you whimpered, your hips pressing against his.

The sound of his name on your lips seemed to unravel him. With a low growl, he lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the couch. His hands roamed your body as he laid you down, his lips trailing fire along your skin.

Clothes disappeared in a blur—his shirt ripped over his head, his pants kicked to the floor, leaving you both bare and exposed. His body was solid, his metal arm cool against your heated skin as he hovered over you, his gaze searching yours.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice unsteady.

You reached up, cupping his face as you pulled him down for a kiss. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

That was all he needed. He slid a hand between your thighs, his fingers finding you warm and ready for him. His touch was gentle at first, teasing, until you arched into him, desperate for more.

“Bucky, please,” you begged, your voice trembling with need.

He groaned, his control snapping as he positioned himself at your entrance. He pushed into you slowly, inch by inch, stretching you in a way that left you breathless.

“God, you feel so good,” he muttered, his forehead resting against yours as he filled you completely.

He stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust, before pulling back and thrusting into you again, harder this time. Your nails dug into his shoulders as he set a relentless pace, each movement driving you closer to the edge.

“You’re mine,” he growled, his metal hand gripping your hip to keep you steady as he pounded into you. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you cried, the words breaking as pleasure built to a fever pitch.

“That’s right,” he rasped, his lips capturing yours in a bruising kiss. “Only mine.”

His hand slipped between your bodies, his fingers finding that sensitive bundle of nerves that sent you spiraling. The pleasure crashed over you in waves, your body tightening around him as you came undone, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

The sensation of you trembling beneath him pushed him over the edge. With a low, guttural moan, he buried himself deep inside you, his body shaking as he followed you into bliss.

For a long moment, the only sound was your mingled breaths as he collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms. His hand brushed over your hair, his lips pressing soft, lingering kisses to your temple.

“You’re mine,” he murmured one last time, his voice a mix of possessiveness and tenderness.

And in that moment, you knew you always would be.

[faesdreaming]

Yandere Fae - Temptation

he just wants to know your name, that’s all. he promises.

tw: yandere themes, possessive behaviour, reader is lowkey okay with it, implied murder, unhealthy relationships, stockholm syndrome (?)

“Come now, darling,” he croons, so very sweetly, “it’s just a name. I promise I won’t tell.”

He leans his cheek against your arm, gazing up pleadingly. You sigh as you feel your resolve waver. He— the fae— Lucian, he says his name is but you don’t know if he’s telling the truth.

Fae can’t lie, you’d been told as a child. The people of your town nary spoke of the faekind, save in warning tales. They’d told of weaknesses, of iron and salt. Lies. Falsehoods born from ignorance. Fae could lie, could weave truths of honeyed poison sweeter than any ambrosia. One thing you did know was not to tell one your name. Your grandmother had told you. She was the same woman who warned you of the dangers, who thwarted the ignorant claims of the fellow villagers

“Please.” Lucian all but whines. You can’t help but giggle in amusement. For such a powerful creature, he’s acting as though he were a puppy. “It’s just a name.”

But it’s not just a name. Name’s are powerful. They hold history, stories, one’s very being. So, you’ll refuse him once more. “I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?” Lucian tilts his head. The slightest hint of venom tinges his tone. His slit pupils are dilated double their size, like a predator catching sight of its prey. “Tell me your name.”

Lucian’s been persistent in his efforts. Ever since you moved into a cottage deep within the forest. Unable to bear the repetitive, noisy life of your village, you left. He’s been following you ever since you moved in. He’s bound, tethered to the place. To the land. Through magical means you don’t understand. Lucian adores pestering you with questions, and inane conversation, that you’ve grown to enjoy. But above all else, he seems determined to get your name. Not that you plan to give it to him.

He makes a frustrated noise, a pout forming on his lips. “You’re so stubborn.” Lucian complains. “Just tell me. I won’t tell anyone else, I swear.”

Liar, you think fondly, It’s cute, really, the effort he puts in.

Biting your lip, you briefly contemplate your sanity. Should others find themselves in this situation they wouldn’t be as calm. They’d panic. You should panic. You should probably run for the hills. For it’s not his status as a fae that forebodes danger. He’s— Lucian is complex.

The good-natured mask he wears is just that. A mask. One he wears for you. Your relationship with Lucian is multilayered. Surface level, it is a give and take. What he gives and what you take remains unclear. Surface level, you’re companions. But that implies trust. You don’t trust him. You’re smart enough not too.

“I’m heading out to town.” You tell him. “To the market.”

Lucian huffs. He storms off like a petulant child, intelligibly whining and a pout on his face. You roll your eyes. Gathering a basket and pulling on a cloak, you step out of the cottage. The way to town isn’t marked by a path. You memorize trees and large stones. Landmarks. You trek through the woodlands, thoughts of Lucian occupying your mind.

You hold a certain fondness for him. For the little game you two indulge in. It’s an odd affection, a tired, old one. He makes you cook for him, bemoaning your atrocious mortal cuisine as he eats all of it. He follows you around the cottage with seemingly no concept of personal space. He lingers around you, as if he were a ghost and you his haunt. He entertains you. With tall-tales spun from silk. He offers you gifts in the form of odd trinkets, flowers, nuts, sometimes gems.

Lucian perplexes you. Because despite the casualness of your relationship, you’d be a fool to not be aware of the power imbalance in between the two of you. There’s something dark, dangerous. An ancient, primal magic tethering him to the cottage. To you.

You shake off your wonderings as you reach a clearing. Down, to the left is a quaint little town. It’s sparsely populated, everyone knows everyone, at least everyone who inhabits the area. Locals are wary of travellers, yet they are not so foolish to deny potential patrons business. Their market, tavern, and inn are what’s to be expected of a place such as this. It’s sufficient for your needs, though. Far be it for you to complain.

You stop by the market, examining items being sold by the vendors. As you take an apple in hand, trying to determine whether the produce is worth it’s price, a hand reaches by you. Curiously, you sneak a glance to the person it belongs to.

You’re met with the appearance of a rugged, rogue. Weary from his travels, if you’d have to guess. He gives you half-grin half-smirk that makes your insides flutter. Normally, you’d offer him a flirtatious smile. Perhaps he’d ask to take you out for the night, to the tavern. You’d drink sweet mead and suggest stopping at an inn for the night. Spend it together. Alas, the sanctity of your normal ended upon your meeting with Lucian.

“‘Scuse me, love,” he says, voice a rough timbre. It’s so different than Lucian’s smooth, honeyed lilt. You like it. “You ain’t from ‘round here, eh?”

You nimbly step aside, appreciating the view. You should leave, you know the consequences if you stay. “No.” You tell him. “I live a little ways away.”

He smiles at that. A small little grin that’s almost a smirk. What a dangerous thing, he is. He starts chatting you up. You know what he wants from you and you’re quite certain he knows what he wants from you. You should be beyond such inhibitions— but it’s been so very long since you’d indulged in a bit of fun. So you let him take you back to his inn, slip something in his beer so when he’s done and your sated, he’ll slip right off. The moment he does, you slink away, trekking through the woods back home. Most people wouldn’t, scared of the dangers lurking. But the forest knows that the true danger resides within your home, guaranteeing your safety.

The moment you make it back, Lucian appears, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Entertaining night?”

His tone is frigid and cold, almost the same as his usual indifference. But you know him better than that. “Very.” You hum. “And yet, I’m here with you.”

“Yet you’re here with me.” He parrots. The shift in his demeanour is almost imperceptible, a change so subtle it appears meaningless. You watch as he slinks away, the satisfaction of his tone lingering throughout your mind. The affirmation, to both him and you, that you were here. That you came crawling back to him. That the pull, the tether he held on your being remained tight as ever.

That you were—

Not his. You were still your own being. You let out a shaky sigh and head up to bed. You’ve had too much to drink, you tell yourself. The next morn, when you awaken, groggily blinking, something immediately feels off. After living like this— after living with him— for so long, you’ve come to understand to trust your intuition while ignoring the warning bells ringing in your head.

You head down the stairs. Your body is heavy from your hang over. It dulls your senses. You know you need to be on guard, lest Lucian have his way. Speak of the devil, you muse, as he leans on the kitchen island smugly. “Rough night?”

“Don’t.” You warn, grabbing a pot and filling it with water to boil. Lician laughs. His laughter sharp and smooth. “Forgive me, lovely.” He croons. “I do not intend to rouse that temper of yours.”

You eye him suspiciously. Of course, you’re always suspicious in regards to him, but this behaviour is odd. Odder than usual. He usually demands you cook for him, asks for your name, then huffs when you rebuff him. It’s routine and Lucian isn’t one for breaking routine. You rake over his handsome, pointed features. He sports an usual grin. Self-satisfied and almost victorious. Then, you spot a crimson splatter along the underside of his throat.

“Is there something wrong, lovely?” He inquires, tilting his head almost as if to show you the blood stained on his neck.

Don’t give in. Don’t pay attention to it. You learned early on giving in only worsens his behaviour. “No.” You answer firmly. You avoid his question, evasive and ignorant. Your ignorance serves as a shield. “I ought to make something, barely ate yesterday.”

Lucian’s eyes flicker with both annoyance and pleasure. “Make me some too.” He orders, before sauntering off.

It sends a shiver down your spine, your compliance. Barely able to deny him, yet unable to give into him. It irks him. It also pleases him. It’s a game between the two of you. One neither of you can quit. You tow the line each time, out of selfishness. The desire to be free. To be as it was. It ends in his possessive fits, with blood shed, staining your hands crimson. Yet you continue. His attention is intoxicating. As addicting as mead. It drives you mad, tantalizes you, taunts you. But you don’t give in fully. Can’t. At least, not yet.

“Come now, lovely. I know you wish to fall into temptation with me.”

[starsofang]

CALL OF THE SEA / PART TWO

pirate poly!141 x f!reader tw: NSFW, MDNI, kidnapping, 141 are mean pirates, brief mentions of gore/death masterlist

When a group of unhinged pirates invade your small village, you're whisked away from your peaceful home and thrown on to a voyage out at sea. Forced to obtain a new role as their medic, you have no choice but to accept your fate as you join their forces and aid them in their treacherous travels.

The time you spent in the brig was frigid and isolating. Despite it being summer, the cold gusts of the sea had crept in through the thin cracks of the wooden ship, rising goosebumps on your skin and sending shivers wracking through your body. You were in no attire to accommodate the chill, only dressed in your barest of summer garments, thin and dirtied from the poverty your village lived in.

Silence became your new friend, while also your enemy. As much as you were one to appreciate the quiet of the world, the waves crashing along the sides of the ship were far too loud, taunting you with a grim reminder that you were lost at sea with no home to return to.

Your home was burned down to ash, surely with no survivors, given the state of havoc you’d returned to when Ghost told you to fetch your things. Your home didn’t treat you kindly, but it was still the place you’d grown up in and planned on dying peacefully. Now, you were a prisoner to pirates, ones only told about in silly fairy tales.

The stories of pirates had scared you when you were a young child. The elders had grouped together all children on summer nights such as this one, feeding them useless fables of the dangerous men and women that ruled the seas. They were ruthless, showing no remorse for the ones they tormented, uncaring of the bloodshed they splattered along native lands of the innocent.

That’s all they were when you were a child. Stories. Only meant to keep the youth away from the seas as not to witness them fall in and succumb to a painful death of drowning.

Now, though, it was your cruel reality. A nightmare. The pirates from those tales had been plucked straight out of the book and planted right into your life, erupting it into living hell.

Nobody had come to check on you after Ghost left you locked up in the cell. It had been hours since, the only telltale sign being the peek of sunlight poking through the small brig window and illuminating the room enough to shower you in a faint glow. There was nothing but a cot in the cell, the lower deck bare of anything useful.

Your escape would be fruitless. You’d thought about squeezing through the tiny window, but even if you managed, where would that leave you? Captured in the waves of the sea until you’d sink to the bottom in exhaustion.

You had to play it smart. Staying awake for hours alone had left you with plenty of rapid thoughts, some irrational. The best thing you’d decided in the end was to play along, gain their trust, and fulfill your role. As much as a part of you wished you were dead, it would be betraying your village, betraying Mary.

They needed to be caught. These pirates needed to pay for their crimes.

Gain their trust. Get off of the ship. Inform the nearest guard station.

When daylight fully broke, the sound of a creaky door caught your attention. More sunlight poured through the open doorway from the top of the stairs, showcasing one of the pirates. This time, it wasn’t Ghost, but instead, the one who had tossed you over their shoulder like a weak sack of potatoes.

Gaz said nothing as he descended down the stairs. In his hand was a steaming bowl, swirling around him like an ominous mist. His eyes locked on to yours, hardened from years of thievery and slaughter. There wasn’t an ounce of kindness in them, nor indication that he was anything besides a sailing machine designed to follow Captain’s orders.

You watched keenly as he approached your cell. He stood over you like a brewing storm cloud, shadowing you from the stretch of light behind him.

For a moment, the two of you sat there frozen. You, terrified and cautious. Him, off putting and brooding.

Breaking the tension, his free hand scrambled for the keys latched on to the loops on his trousers, inserting one of the keys into the lock. He paused, eyeing you as a warning not to pull a brainless move. When he was satisfied you wouldn’t dare, he tugged the cell door open before stepping inside.

“Here,” he muttered, crouching down to place the bowl of food in front of you. Upon further inspection, you realized it was porridge. Bland and colorless.

You had no appetite after the horrors you’d seen. The sight of food had your stomach twisting, filling with rotten bile that begged to escape you and paint the floor beneath you.

Brimming with rage and seethe, you did the first thing that came to mind. Your hands picked up the bowl, carefully guiding it up to your mouth in attempts to seem starved. Gaz watched carefully, face set in firm lines that bristled a resentful itch inside of you.

With a turn of your hands, you tossed the porridge directly at Gaz, coating him in the piping liquid, chunks of vegetable that had been carelessly tossed in for flavor slipping down his front. His shirt and trousers were drenched, staining with the lifeless meal.

His face morphed into one of surprise before quickly shifting course. Instead, he was angry, eyebrows pulling taut, scowl curling on his lips. His eyes darkened impossibly more, filling the warm pupils with a menacing black.

“You fuckin’ wench,” he hissed, standing from his crouch to angrily swipe at the food that littered his clothing. It fell to the floor in a mushy mess right in front of you. Due to his aggression, a few stray chunks splattered back on to you in retaliation.

Realizing what you’d done, you tensed up, shuffling back from your place on the floor until your back hit the splintering walls of the ship. Gaz let out a roaring groan in irritation, sending a daggering glare your way.

“You are not hungry?” he asked tauntingly. He stepped out of the cell, slamming the door shut and locking it up tight. “Starve then. You will learn soon enough.”

Watching with widened eyes, he left the brig, grumbling angry curses to himself. When he shut the doors of your escape, you were met with sickening silence once again. The sound of waves taunted you, whispering insults in your ears for being such a stupid girl.

The pact you’d made with yourself was already in ruin. Befriending the pirates would be a difficult task if you couldn’t swallow down your enmity, and now you’d gone and made a foe.

Nobody returned to your cell for the rest of the day. It was punishment, that much you could figure out. Your stomach grumbled with desperate pleas, yet you could do nothing but wallow in your own acrimony for the remainder of the night.

When morning rose, you were awakened by the sound of the door once again. The light was blinding as it invaded the room, temporarily blocking your view of the person who’d stepped inside. When your eyes adjusted, you were faced with another pirate, the one who had held Mary down while you pleaded with him to release her.

Gaz stood beside him, arms crossed to appear larger. His face was unreadable, but you could feel the tease of resentment fluttering in his eyes.

“Not goin’ to toss yer breakfast on me, are ye?” the other snickered, eliciting a glare from Gaz. The pirate stepped forward, unlocking your cell and slipping inside. This time, he held the stale porridge while Gaz remained a pace behind him. “I know yer starvin’, so don’t be a prude. Eat up, aye?”

He set the bowl in front of you, just as Gaz had done. Remaining crouched in front of you, he made a gesture of his head towards the steaming meal, a toothy grin on his face.

You knew better than to feel relieved at the kindness. He was a pirate, just as the others, and he was cruel and unruly. Though, thinking back on your plan, his youthfulness may be a much easier one to befriend.

“Thank you,” you mumbled quietly with a respectful bow of your head. You reached for the bowl, gathering it in both hands. Gaz and the other studied you, seemingly waiting for a repeat of dirty laundry. It never came, though, and you lifted the wood spoon to your lips, swallowing down the first bite.

Just as you thought, it was bitter. How one could even make porridge bitter, you were unsure, but your stomach made no protest to the grainy oats. In fact, it was rather appealing, having been starved for two days.

“Take it ye like it, then?” the one pirate hummed, cocking his head at the display. “Get used to it, birdie. It’ll be yer meal for majority of yer time here.” He shot you another grin, resembling a mangy cat.

The reminder of your permanent stay was a difficult one, but your plan played over in your head. You wanted to go home, though it was no more, and you wanted your freedom back. Neither would be possible if you didn’t show kindness in return.

“What’s your name?” you questioned, making a poor attempt at conversation.

“Soap,” he introduced proudly. You didn’t mean to, but the name made you snort, triggering a light cough from the porridge you’d been in the middle of swallowing down.

“Soap is an… interesting name,” you grimaced. Soap didn’t seem to mind the back-handedness, only keeping that signature grin that was beginning to grow a bit hard on the eyes.

“Aye, got the name from bein’ a bit too rowdy. Price wanted to wash my mouth out.” His own words had him cackling, loud and boisterous in the cramped brig. Gaz had no reaction, opting for the hardened look that was practically piercing into you like thousands of knives. “What’s yer name, birdie? Got to learn who our new medic is.”

You wanted to remind him that you weren’t a medic. Not a professional one, anyway. You knew the bare minimum of proper medical etiquette and your medicines Ghost had told you to bring with were simply experimental mixtures. But you also knew that he wouldn’t listen nor care.

“The village called me dove,” you explained, swallowing down more porridge. It was warm in your mouth, coating your throat with gooey goodness. “Though, I don’t think it was much out of kindness.”

Soap hummed in acknowledgement, shooting a lopsided smile and a nod of his head. “Not quite a pirate name, dove, but it’ll do.”

“I’m not a pirate,” you defended with a frown.

“Ye are now,” he reckoned mindlessly, shrugging a lazy shoulder. Soap stood from his position, straightening up next to Gaz. “I’ll give ye some advice to be a part of this crew, dove. It’s not nice to throw porridge at a poor lad like Gaz.” Soap clapped Gaz on his shoulder, earning a scowl, which he ignored.

Your eyes shifted from Soap to Gaz, taking in the pure annoyance radiating off of him in waves. It was undeniable, practically filling the room’s atmosphere with black mist.

“I apologize,” you forced out, though that bitter part of you denied it. You wouldn’t feel sorry for these pirates. After all, they didn’t feel bad for the innocent lives they ruined.

Gaz’s nose twitched at your faux remorse, staring at you for a beat too long before turning away. He made no move to talk to you, but it wasn’t a blatant refusal of your apology. Perhaps he was just a tough nut to crack with a soft sweetness on the inside, even for a pirate.

The two men left you alone in the brig once again, only returning to give you meals as needed. It was terribly lonely the more the weeks went on with no move to release you from your cell. It was as if none of them trusted you, despite them being the ones to kidnap you. They burned down your home, slaughtered your people, and yet, wouldn’t allow you a chance to taste a sliver of freedom.

It was agonizing to wait, but you kept up your facade as much as you could, dripping with poisoned honey every time Gaz or Soap entered the brig with means to feed you.

Price or Ghost hadn’t made an entrance to see you. For the most part, you were grateful for it. In just the couple of weeks Soap and Gaz had been feeding you, they were warming up to you, slow and steady — Soap more than the other.

Gaz still had his reservations about you. He was reclusive, always standing on guard as if the shadows in the wall were prepared to attack at any given moment. It was better than before, where he had treated you like a burdening dog who he couldn’t rid himself of, but the progress was dwindling.

Soap was much more gracious. While he was obnoxious, he was much more welcoming company. You had no desire to truly befriend these pirates, but if any were to be the most tolerable, it was Soap.

Price and Ghost, though, were a mystery. Their absence made crucial falters in your meticulous plotting. You wanted out of the cell so you may roam the creaky decks of the ship, but the dream simply wouldn’t be possible without their trust.

It wasn’t until the fourth week of your imprisonment that the storyline had shifted. Rather than Soap bringing you your meal for the night, it was the Captain himself, standing tall and brute in front of your barred enclosure.

Unease rattled through your bones at his sudden appearance. You weren’t expecting him, nor were you prepared to face the very man who had slain your village with the help of his men.

He observed you like a lab rat, studying every movement like a variable in his experiment. It was prodding and exposing, leaving you sitting in your cell with a heavy lump in your throat.

“Soap tells me you’re warmin’ up to him,” he claimed, breaking the thick silence that smothered the air. He paced back and forth in front of your cell, eyes focused in on you. “Figured I’d properly introduce myself, seein’ as we’ll be spendin’ a lot of time together.”

You swallowed the rock in your throat, unmoving from your position on the floor. It was far from comfortable, but the cot was worn and dirty, so the floor became your only friend in the midst of all your dispair.

“I see,” you managed, clearing your throat. Price continued his relentless pacing, hands crossed behind his back in a formal manner. Ironic, really, considering his ruthless occupation.

“Dove, was it?” he asked. You nodded wearily. “A shame, really. Doves are lovely things, beautiful creatures made up of the purest white. Yet your village had called you it in ridicule. Or so I heard.”

Price was a man that spoke in riddles. He spouted conversation in the form of poetry, only tainting its beauty when angered. It was both unnerving and intriguing for a pirate. He wasn’t dirtied like you’d heard in childhood tales.

“I suppose they did,” you agreed with a small frown. The anxious pit in your stomach only grew, triggering alarm bells telling you that this man was an enigma. He wasn’t to be trusted.

“And why is that?” Price questioned. He ceased his pacing to face you properly, and you wished he’d return to it. His stature was that of a behemoth, overpowering and menacing, much like Ghost had been.

“Why did they call me dove?” you responded in confusion.

“Why did they ridicule you,” he corrected.

The statement made you pause. You hadn’t really thought about your townspeople dumbing you down to a mere crazy girl with too much ambition. You were the talk of the village within your age group as well as the occasional elder who tsked at you for never marrying.

The relationship between you and your people was one of complexity. While you loved them as your own, they battered you every chance they had. Hell, even Lucius himself had outed you to a group of pirates without care in the world. The very man who had spent countless months in attempts to make you a pretty village wife had sent you to your early grave to save his own ass.

“They thought I was different,” you explained woefully. “It is not normal for a woman to partake in medicine, let alone education. Doves are beautiful, yes, but they’re also adventurous. It is a dangerous conviction to be compared to as a woman.”

Price cocked his head to the side, filling the air with silence. You weren’t sure why you felt the need to explain yourself to a dingy villain such as him, but you feared that if you weren’t honest in your conversation, he’d be able to sniff out your deception from miles away.

“Who has told you it is not normal?” Price asked, and once again, he had stumped you.

“It is not a difficult thing to digest, Captain. Women do not involve themselves in ambition.”

“They quite do,” he retorted. You stared up at him through the bars, your own head cocking. You didn’t trust his word, but a shriveled piece of you was curious. “Sure, it is not acceptable in certain places, but it is quite popular.”

You blinked at him, before staring at the wooden floor, pondering.

You had been expecting the Captain to treat you with hostility, to throw nasty words your way with the excuse of being a pirate. That was what you had been told in adolescence, how dirty they could be, but he was calm.

“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Price said. He leaned forward to rest his forearms on the bars of your cell, standing over you with only that barrier separating you. “I am not a cruel man. You may think differently, and for that, I do not care. But I will say that I believe you will have a much better life upon my ship.”

His words were a mix of sweet venom being spat at you. While they could be perceived as kind, there was an underlying message, one you couldn’t decipher.

“You burned down my village and killed my people. You kidnapped me to be your medic on your ship,” you defended, unable to hold back the taste of lingering resentment.

You had nearly forgotten why you were there with Soap and Gaz visiting to shift your mind elsewhere. You almost dismissed your own plan of escape. Price had reminded you without realizing, and now, your heart felt heavy once again.

“Ah, yes. The people that willingly sacrificed their own in effort to save themselves,” Price mused mockingly. The words stung. “Yes, we took you against your will. I will admit that. But your people treated you far worse.”

“You do not know a thing, Captain,” you spat.

Price cocked his head once more, resting his forehead on the forearms that lay upon your cell. “Aye, I do not,” he admitted. “But I know a bird with clipped wings when I see one. Perhaps you’ll be grateful when you learn to accept things as they are.”

You wanted to retort, wanted to get the last word in, but he was right. You barely knew the Captain and yet, he had read you like a novel, flipping through your pages and memorizing them from one single look through.

It felt dehumanizing. He was cruel and vicious, as were his men. They were nowhere near saviors, yet he spoke to you as if he was. It sickened you to the core, but there was no denying his brutal honesty.

Price offered you a lazy smile before standing straight, arms falling to his sides. “I suggest gettin’ used to your new life. You’ve got no home to return to anyway.”

He retreated from your cell as if he hadn’t slapped you in the face with a dose of reality. His boots were heavy and aggravating as they trudged up the stairs towards the upper deck, where he promptly shut the door on you, leaving you alone once again.

Your escape plan was falling into shambles before it had even began to fester. 

[yv0nn1e]

"'cause i don't feel alive 'til i'm burnin' on your backburner."

backburner — rafayel

summary: in every life, in every timeline, the god of the sea is doomed to sacrifice everything for his beloved, angering the deep sea, and causing lemuria to fall. in every timeline, the sea god's most dedicated follower cannot stop that from happening.

pairing: rafayel x (non!mc) fem!reader

cw/tw: pure angst? and blurry timeline & lore (heavily implied relation to myths and anecdotes from the game, but will have some non-canon twists of my own)

note: have i been gone for 2 years only to come back to write a gut wrenching thought i can't contain anymore about my beloved fishboy? yes.

wc: 2k+

thinking about non!mc reader who can see and remember every timeline she has ever been in. with those timelines being intertwined with lemuria and the sea god, rafayel, her beloved but not his.

non!mc reader starting in the forgotten sea timeline as a lemurian herself whose family is closely associated with the sea god, rafayel. when young, she finds herself unexplainably infatuated with an adolescent version of rafayel himself and his aura. he was just so mischievous and cheeky in a way that it made her admire his bravery and eagerness to just explore the world. she becomes close friends with him and eventually, she realizes the underlying danger she has put herself into.

"when lemurians fall in love with someone, all our senses are committed to perceive them."

at first, she found it sweet. cute even. she adored rafayel. even if she had no oath or celestial bond that bounds her to follow anything rafayel asks, she knows it deep down that she will still obey and do whatever he wants. rafayel, ever so kind, kept her near and considered her as one of the closest companions he's ever had in such a large yet lonely position as the next sea god. their bond was somehow intimate—with her keeping rafayel stable whenever the pressure of lemuria's expectations get to him and rafayel accepting her for who she is whole-heartedly. every flaw, every freckle, and every scale in her body and soul that he could see, he could understand.

but then one faithful day, years after their younger selves have formed their close friendship, a loyal group of humans who simply idolized the god of the sea set out to offer a sacrifice to rafayel. unknowingly, when their mission goes south due to a storm, this sacrifice of theirs manages to escape and unknowingly meet the sea god himself, asking if he were lemurian and for him to help her, only to get teasing from rafayel in response. then everything happens so quickly with a kiss that sets off the mark of their oath. to the girl, mc, it may seem as though she was just trying to survive since legends held tales of a lemurian's kiss blessing one with the ability of breathing underwater. yet to non!mc reader and rafayel, they knew that it was something much deeper. something binding. sooner, the sea god then chooses mc to become his 'devout follower', failing to see that there was already one who was so willing to be in that position. with that, non!mc reader realizes she's already lost rafayel, her beloved. their ever so holy tome (tome of the sea god) states the everlasting bond that the sea god has when he has chosen his devout follower—meaning, he is bound to that very person. every command and ask must never be disobeyed or rejected; otherwise, the bond breaks.

and non!mc reader's heart breaks, especially with that girl down in lemuria and the sea god's ceremony approaching where the sea god, rafayel, and his devout follower exchange vows. jealousy was an understatement. whilst all of lemuria await in excitement, she wallows in the truth that rafayel has undoubtedly chosen mc as his beloved and his bride. before the ceremony, rafayel meets non!mc reader one last time, jokingly teasing her to not worry for he won't forsake his friendship with her which only earns him a soft chuckle and a hidden pained smile. he then thanks her for all those years he stuck by her side, that he could not have gone past the challenges and hurdles of his training and his pursuits if not for her. 

"you mustn't forget to bestow us your utmost protection when you ascend to a higher level of godhood." she jests, trying to make light of the situation and distract herself with some light banter than she hopes might just change his mind and choose her to become his devout follower instead. 

rafayel could not promise her that. with the slight shift of his eyes, flickering a hint of guilt, non!mc reader supposes that she knew that too.

"to love you is a privilege." that i do not have. non!mc reader says to rafayel with a soft smile, her eyes calm yet hurt, somehow helpless too. she is unsure of what he plans to do but something within their conversation told her that perhaps, it would've been the last.

and it was.

outside the temple of lemuria, the civilization starts to shake and crumble. the lemurians run with panic, wondering what could have made the deep sea enraged on such a momentous occasion. as bloodshed stained the waters of the city, non!mc reader stood amidst the chaos, shutting her eyes in disappointment and regret that she could not have stopped rafayel from whatever he was planning to do. that she could not stop rafayel from giving his heart away to his beloved costing him lemuria and his most treasured friend.

non!mc reader remembering her life during the sea of golden sands timeline where she is a guide with abysswalker!rafayel. in this timeline, they strive hard to find a way to restore lemuria and when they find out that the princess of philos has what they need to achieve that, she insists on coming with rafayel to visit her, only for rafayel to refuse. 

she warns rafayel that it's dangerous. that he was already caught once when he was younger. that he was lucky for the princess to be kind enough to let him go. rafayel reassures her by telling him what happened that faithful day when rafayel was gifted to the princess of philos. he told her that one day, he'll come back for her. 

non!mc reader knew that rafayel would only be captured if he wanted to. meaning that he purposely wants to be caught just to see the princess. then it hits her. the princess of philos was the same girl who became the sea god's devout follower in another life. she doesn't know how or why she knows this kind of information but something in her just recognizes the emotional and literal agonizing pain of lemuria falling and her heart being torn to shreds. she then sets out a theory that she may have gained the ability to see her past lives. 

non!mc reader only finds herself becoming angry when rafayel brings the princess to the sand ruins, telling her his plans of reviving their homeland, lemuria. it angers her even more when the princess mentions dreams of the strangely familiar land. that's when she confirms that the princess was indeed rafayel's devout follower. when the princess regains her past memories after the tome reveals the symbols that stated the god of the sea killing his beloved to awaken the seas, non!mc reader knows that she's lost rafayel in this lifetime again. with much love for lemuria, she tries to set rafayel back to the right track, ignoring the fact that the princess was rafayel's beloved and convincing him to just take her heart already and revive lemuria. the princess then wished to return rafayel's heart after it is revealed that in the past life, during the ceremony of the sea god, rafayel had given his heart to mc instead of the other way around. this revelation lights fury within non!mc reader due to the clouding judgement that lemuria had fallen underneath its own god's sacrifice, seeing it as an act of betrayal on rafayel's part. yet, she said nothing. she said nothing even when rafayel refuses to take the princess' heart, even resorting to erasing her memories so that she'd forget this encounter. 

"you are such a paradox, rafayel." she says with underlying venom under her voice as she sits down on a dusty rock. "you wish to revive lemuria and yet you cannot make the one true sacrifice you need to do so."

"perhaps there are other ways." rafayel gently yet assertively says.

"perhaps." she responds which may seem polite and complacent enough, yet anyone with delicate ears can definitely dissect the mockery in her voice.

days later, as their crew prepares to leave, non!mc reader notices the light glow of the fishtail beacon rafayel carries with him. with amund questioning whether or not rafayel and the princess' bond was truly even broken, non!mc reader silently scoffs in irritation, especially when the princess somehow just arrives in their hideout. despite the anger she had for rafayel, her heart gets deja vu with the way the princess declares her wish to follow rafayel wherever he goes, as if swearing she'll be his devout follower in this life too. 

non!mc reader who swears she will not fall for rafayel in the next timeline she falls into when rafayel manages to put her life in death's door on this universe once more.

non!mc reader in the current timeline who, after the tsunami that revealed the reappearance of lemuria southeast of linkon, leaves the sea. leaves rafayel. leaves lemuria and her mermaid form to pursue becoming an actress on land, proceeding to be one of the most popular actresses as rafayel travels around the world, becoming a well-renowned painter who took revenge for those who wronged lemuria and his people on his own, secret ways.

non!mc reader whose heart stops on a windy day, with the sun setting and the waves of linkon city's beaches were playful once she sees rafayel walking towards her with a cheerful smirk. 

"it's been a while. if i didn't know better, i'd think you were avoiding me all this time." rafayel teases to which she shakes her head to ground her thoughts.

"if only i could truly avoid you." she responds with a well-practiced smile, feigning a friendly banter that long calls back to their very first timeline. 

"have you been well?" at this point, rafayel invites her to walk along the shores of linkon city, catching up on the years they've been apart. she could not deny it no matter how much she tries. she was fated to always be next to rafayel.

perhaps, it was also destiny's fault that she inevitably falls for him in every one of her lives.  

"i couldn't be happier." she lies. after the multiple lives she's lived, hiding her true feelings for the man, she's learned the skill of lying so swiftly as if she were actually uttering what she convinces herself was the truth. perhaps that was why she had grown to obtain a penchant for acting.

because in every universe, she has had to act as though she was not broken by the fact that she was undeniably in love with a man who was forever bounded to his beloved.

non!mc reader who foolishly accepts rafayel back into her life when he mentions that he's staying in linkon, even though something in her already knew that he was there for a reason. even though she long realized that rafayel agreed to also leave lemuria to travel the world only to search for his devout follower, his bride, his soulmate.

non!mc reader who is no longer surprised when rafayel introduces his new bodyguard, a young woman with a heart condition. she could only smile at the girl, knowing that rafayel, has once again, found her. that, once again, destiny has shoved it in her face that she was only meant to yearn for rafayel's love, forever by the sidelines.

a celebratory party was held for yn when she just reached a greater height for her acting career. she finds herself walking the shores of linkon at night in her velvet blue dress, the mermaid cut of the skirt softly brushing against the white sands. she adores the warmth of the yellow string lights within the trees and posts, engulfing herself in the solitude and respite she needed. truth be told, despite her love for her career, one of the main reasons she even pursued the thing was to distract herself from the impending doom and painful fate she was destined to go through, like in every timeline she was ever in. to be killed under her own deity's hands. 

"i never took you to be such a loner." a familiar voice takes her out of her trance, eyes shifting from the whispered waves of the beach and towards rafayel.

"just thanking home, i suppose." she responds elegantly, head tilting a bit to point to the ocean.

there was an awkward silence when she turns her body away from rafayel, her back facing him as she hugs herself to give some warmth from the cold brush of the sea breeze. 

"afraid to get in the water?" rafayel gently teases as he walks closer to her, arms already taking off his dark blue blazer, not even giving her a chance to react as he wraps the garment around her shoulders.

taken back, she tilts her head to look at him, eyes slightly wider than normal but not enough to show shock. 

"you looked like a cold fish." rafayel points out, justifying his actions. 

for a moment, she takes rafayel in once more. it's been so long that she's avoided true connection with him to lessen the pain she would have to endure in this timeline. he seemed the same. different yet the same. his purple hair softly brushing against his forehead, bringing out the multiple hues within his eyes, and the glint of different colors making up his skin under the glow of the moon. 

the longer she looks at him, the more she remembers every life she had suffered because of him. 

destiny is far too cruel with fate to let her fall in love with him over and over again.

destiny and fate be damned.

"i love you, rafayel." she didn't expect her voice to quiver but as soon as those words slipped past her lips, her eyes blinked with crystalline waters pooling above them, almost teasing their fall.

"i wish i didn't, but i can't help but fall for you in every life i can remember." rafayel, still taken back with what she said could only stand there.

"i don't know if you can remember but i certainly do, as if they were just memories of yesterday." biting her lips, she lets out a heavy breathe, letting the weight of centuries of pain after every timeline and every life go. "and i am most definitely tired of having to endure those lives standing by your side and keeping quiet of what i truly feel."

"i love you, rafayel, and words can not begin to describe the longing that my heart must go through just by standing next to you. i can not continue moving on from one life to another and pretend as though my heart does not beat for you. as though i am not ready to carve it out and serve it to you if that's what it took to open your eyes. it pains me, so to know that i am destined to a sad ending of being alone, without you. but perhaps, it's high time i fight against it."

non!mc reader who fails, falling in love for rafayel in this life and realizing that she will keep falling for him in every other one that may come.

"destiny had always been my biggest enemy, with you as my greatest regret."

[fangdokja]

The predator never leaves empty-handed.

❤︎ Synopsis. Trapped in a dangerous game of wits and desire, you face a relentless predator who revels in breaking your icy facade—one kiss, one bruise, one twisted taunt at a time. But as his obsession deepens, the line between captor and captive begins to blur, leaving you to wonder who’s really in control.

♡ Book. World Ablaze (WA): For You, I'd Burn the World.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Childe (Tartaglia) x Fem. Reader

♡ Novella. Blood and Salt - Part 1

♡ Word Count. 10,626

♡ TW. dom + top + older yandere, general non-con, manipulation and conditioning, suggestive themes, fear play, rough play, isolation, monitoring, lack of boundaries, non-con kissing and/or touching, forced relationship, BDSM, descriptions of gore, medical malpractice

The Fatui base reeked of damp stone and iron, the stench of blood mingling with the sterile tang of antiseptic. Tartaglia—No. 11 of the Harbingers, Childe to the outside world—dragged himself through the winding corridors, his bloodied boots leaving a crimson trail on the cold floor. His breath came in ragged bursts, his body screaming in protest with every step. Yet his grin was maddening, all sharp edges and dangerous delight, a testament to the high of the battle still coursing through his veins.

When he reached the infirmary door, he kicked it open with a violent thud, collapsing onto a nearby cot with an exaggerated groan. The chaos he exuded seemed almost calculated, like a wolf throwing itself into a den of lambs just to watch them scatter. But here, there was no panic—only your unflinching, cold stare as you emerged from the shadows.

“Number Eleven,” you said, your voice devoid of warmth. It wasn’t a greeting, merely an acknowledgment of his presence. Your white coat rustled faintly as you approached, a scalpel glinting in your hand, more an extension of your being than a mere tool. “Still alive, I see. How tedious.”

Childe’s grin widened, teeth flashing like a predator who’d found something intriguing. “Don’t sound too excited to see me, Doc. I might think you care.”

You didn’t respond, instead peeling away the layers of his blood-soaked uniform with methodical precision. Beneath the fabric, his skin was marred by deep gashes and burns, the aftermath of his clash with the Traveler and the betrayal he’d been unwittingly ensnared in. Your gaze lingered on the wounds, but not out of sympathy. No, your interest was clinical, as if dissecting a particularly perplexing specimen.

“You’ve sustained second-degree burns on your left flank, a puncture wound dangerously close to your liver, and a laceration here that’s…impressively idiotic. Did you aim for the blade yourself?”

Childe chuckled, wincing as the motion tugged at his injuries. “You’re sharp as ever. Maybe that’s why they keep paying your absurd fees.”

“They pay because I’m competent,” you corrected, pressing a cloth soaked in antiseptic against his side. The hiss of the disinfectant biting into his flesh drew a sharp intake of breath from him, but you didn’t waver. “Hold still, unless you want me to accidentally sever an artery.”

“You say that like it’s not intentional,” Childe muttered, watching you work with an unsettling fascination. There was something almost hypnotic about your precision, the way your hands moved with unerring certainty. It was as if you operated on instinct alone, devoid of the emotional tremors that plagued lesser medics.

But it wasn’t your skill that intrigued him most. No, it was the way you refused to flinch under the weight of his presence. Even now, as he bled all over your pristine floor, his very existence a storm of chaos and carnage, you treated him like an inconvenience. Like he was nothing.

“You’re a curious one, Doc,” Childe said, his voice softening to a murmur. “No Vision, no extraordinary strength…and yet here you are, holding your own among the likes of us. Tell me, what keeps you going? What makes you tick?”

You didn’t answer immediately, your focus remaining on the sutures you were threading through his torn flesh. When you finally spoke, your tone was as icy as ever. “Gold and knowledge. Nothing more, nothing less.”

His laughter echoed through the infirmary, low and almost mocking. “That’s it? No grand ideals, no hidden motives? Just greed and curiosity? How dull.”

“And yet you’re still here,” you countered, your eyes meeting his for the briefest of moments. In that instant, something unspoken passed between you—a clash of wills, a silent acknowledgment of the chasm that separated you. “Perhaps you find dullness comforting. Predictable. Unlike your life, which seems to be a perpetual spiral of self-destruction.”

Childe’s grin faltered, his expression hardening. For a moment, the playful veneer slipped, revealing the abyss lurking beneath. The bloodlust, the hunger for chaos, the undeniable truth that he thrived on the brink of annihilation.

“Careful, Doc,” he said, his voice a dangerous whisper. “You’re starting to sound like you know me.”

“I know enough,” you replied, tying off the final suture with a practiced flick of your wrist. “Enough to understand that people like you only survive because of people like me. Now, if you’re done bleeding all over my floor, get out. I have more important things to do.”

Childe sat up slowly, testing the limits of his freshly mended body. He winced but didn’t complain, his gaze lingering on you as you cleaned your instruments with the same detached efficiency as before.

“You’re cold, Doc,” he said, his grin returning, though it was tempered now, quieter. “But I like that about you. Makes me wonder what’s hiding underneath all that ice.”

You didn’t dignify him with a response, turning your back on him as you prepared for your next patient. For all his bluster and bravado, Childe was just another Harbinger—a cog in the Fatui’s relentless machine. And you? You were the blade that kept the cogs turning, sharp and unyielding.

As he left the infirmary, his footsteps fading into the distance, you allowed yourself a single thought:

“Nothing hides beneath the ice. Because there is nothing left to hide.”

────────────

The Fatui base had always been your world. Its cold, labyrinthine halls seemed endless to outsiders, but to you, they were a map etched into your very being. You had grown up here—an anomaly of sharp intellect and colder disposition. From the moment you were brought into this machine of violence and control, you had known your place. Not a soldier, not a pawn, but something altogether more useful: a scalpel, precise and unyielding, in the hands of a master.

That master was Pantalone.

Even now, years later, you could recall the first time you met him. You had been a child, barely old enough to comprehend what survival truly meant. Yet, even then, your eyes had been sharper than most—quick to discern the falsehoods in promises, the flaws in logic, and the danger that dripped from every word spoken by the Fatui. But Pantalone? He had been different. Not warm, not kind, but steady. His gaze had swept over you with the same calculating precision you’d later adopt for yourself, as if weighing your worth in coin.

And you had passed his test.

He had taken you in, molded you into something far greater than the sum of your small frame and deadened eyes. He taught you not to fear the dark but to wield it, to recognize that knowledge was not only power but currency, and that currency could buy anything—even safety. You became his tool, his protégé, and, in time, his shadow.

People whispered about the two of you, calling your relationship “off,” as if they could fathom the intricate balance you shared. Pantalone was both protector and architect of your existence. You owed him everything, and you had never questioned it—not even when he had sent you to the medical sector, claiming your talents could serve the Fatui better there. You hadn’t argued, though the move had felt like being severed from the foundation of your being. If Pantalone willed it, you obeyed. Always.

———

The infirmary door swung shut behind Childe, but his presence lingered like a toxin in the air, a reminder that your life in the Fatui was never free from chaos. You cleaned the blood from your hands with practiced efficiency, the motion automatic, mechanical. The crimson stains washed away, but your thoughts did not. They lingered on the Harbinger’s grin, the predatory glint in his eyes, the way he spoke as if he were unraveling you with every word.

He wouldn’t be the first to try.

You were younger than most of your peers in the medical sector, but none of them questioned your authority. Your skill had silenced the skeptics long ago, and your unflinching demeanor had done the rest. You had no need for their approval, no use for their camaraderie. You worked for coin and knowledge—nothing more, nothing less.

And yet, as you dried your hands and prepared for the next patient, your mind wandered to Pantalone. He had always been your constant, the one unshakable pillar in a world of shifting alliances and blood-soaked deals. Even now, when you were technically independent, you found yourself drifting back to him. After every shift, you would seek him out, trailing in his shadow like a phantom. You never spoke unless spoken to, never imposed. You simply existed in his orbit, waiting.

Waiting for what, you didn’t know.

———

Pantalone was waiting for you when you returned that evening. His office was immaculate, as always, every surface polished to a mirror-like sheen. He didn’t look up as you entered, his attention fixed on the stack of ledgers spread before him. But he didn’t need to acknowledge you; he knew you were there. He always did.

“Busy day?” he asked without looking up, his voice as smooth and calculated as ever.

You didn’t answer. You never did unless the question required it. Instead, you stepped closer, your hands clasped behind your back like a student awaiting instruction.

“You’ve been spending more time in the infirmary than necessary,” he continued, finally raising his gaze to meet yours. His dark eyes were unreadable, his expression carefully neutral. “Is there something—or someone—keeping you there?”

It was an innocuous question, but you felt the weight of it like a blade against your throat. Pantalone’s words always carried an undercurrent of calculation, as if every syllable was part of a grander equation only he could see.

“No,” you replied, your voice steady. “I go where I’m needed.”

His lips quirked into a faint smile, though there was no warmth in it. “Good. It would be… unfortunate if your priorities were to shift.”

The unspoken warning hung in the air, a reminder that your loyalty to him was not only expected but required. You nodded, accepting it without question. Whatever else you were—doctor, tool, scalpel—you would always belong to Pantalone.

———

Later that night, as you lay awake in the sterile confines of your quarters, you found your thoughts drifting once more.

To Childe, with his maddening grin and unrelenting chaos.

To Pantalone, with his icy precision and the unspoken bond that tethered you to him.

Two men, as different as fire and ice, yet both carving their marks into your carefully constructed world.

You closed your eyes, but sleep did not come.

Instead, the shadows pressed in around you, whispers of something darker, something inevitable.

You had always thrived in the cold, but now, for the first time, you wondered what it would feel like to burn.

────────────

The smell of blood and ozone clung to Childe like a second skin, a testament to the carnage he wore as naturally as his smile. When he entered the infirmary this time, the tension that followed him wasn’t just from the wounds he carried but the weight of his relentless curiosity. He wanted something from you—something more than stitches and silence—and you could feel it in the way his gaze burned into your back.

You didn’t look up as he stepped inside, your gloved hands deftly arranging a tray of sterilized instruments. His boots scuffed against the floor, leaving faint streaks of dirt and blood in their wake.

“Back again so soon?” you said, your voice devoid of emotion, a monotone laced with quiet disdain. “I’m starting to think you enjoy being carved apart.”

Childe’s laughter was low and almost melodic, but it carried the edge of something darker. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s accused me of that, Doc. But hey, if it means seeing your lovely face—”

“Sit down.” Your words cut through his like a scalpel, sharp and unyielding. You turned toward him, your expression unreadable beneath the cold veneer you wore like armor. “You’re wasting my time.”

His grin faltered for a fraction of a second before he recovered, sprawling onto the nearest cot with a theatrical groan. He tugged at his shirt, revealing the gash across his ribs that oozed crimson with every shallow breath. The wound was jagged, messy, and fresh, though your eyes flicked over the faint scars crisscrossing his skin with a precision that missed nothing. Some of them were old, but others—fainter, more deliberate—were far too recent.

Self-inflicted.

You said nothing, your hands moving with mechanical efficiency as you began cleaning the wound. The antiseptic hissed against his skin, drawing a sharp intake of breath from him, but you didn’t pause. Your focus was absolute, your hands steady as you worked.

“You know,” Childe said, his voice lilting as he tried to draw you out, “most people would at least try to make conversation. Ask me how I’m feeling, maybe. Offer me a lollipop when it’s all done.”

“I’m not most people.” Your reply was clipped, your gaze never leaving the sutures you were threading through his flesh. The needle pierced his skin with a precision that bordered on inhuman, the thread weaving through the torn muscle like the strings of a marionette.

“That much is obvious,” he muttered, watching you with a fascination that bordered on unsettling. “You’re like a ghost, you know that? Always here, but never… there.”

You didn’t respond, your silence as sharp as the scalpel resting on your tray. It wasn’t the first time someone had tried to unnerve you with idle chatter, and it wouldn’t be the last. But Childe was persistent, his curiosity gnawing at him like a dog with a bone.

“Come on, Doc,” he pressed, his tone turning almost playful. “What’s the harm in a little small talk? You could at least tell me your favorite color. Or your name. I’m dying to know.”

“You’re not dying.” You pulled the thread tight, tying off the suture with a finality that left no room for argument. “Though, at the rate you’re going, that may change.”

He winced as you pressed a bandage against the wound, your hands moving with a swiftness that left him no time to react. “So cold,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something softer, more dangerous. “It’s almost like you enjoy this. The blood, the pain… the control.”

You straightened, peeling off your gloves and tossing them into the waste bin with practiced ease. “I enjoy being paid,” you said flatly, turning away from him. “As long as your mora is good, I’ll keep you alive. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“And if I stopped paying?” he asked, his grin returning, though there was a sharpness to it now, a glint of something feral in his eyes. “Would you let me bleed out on your floor, Doc? Would you even blink?”

You paused, your hand hovering over the tray of instruments. For a moment, the room was silent, the only sound the faint hum of the infirmary’s ventilation system. Then you turned back to him, your gaze meeting his with an iciness that froze the air between you.

“Try it,” you said, your voice soft but laced with steel. “See how far your charm gets you when the mora runs out.”

His laughter echoed through the room, low and almost mocking. “You’re fascinating, you know that? I’ve faced gods, monsters, and everything in between, but you? You’re an enigma.”

You said nothing, your silence more damning than any reply. You had seen men like him before—thrill-seekers, chaos incarnate, desperate to shatter anything they couldn’t understand. But you weren’t something to be broken. You were the scalpel, the blade that carved through the chaos with ruthless precision.

And Childe? He was just another wound to stitch shut. Another patient to patch up and send back into the fray.

As he slid off the cot, testing the limits of his freshly mended body, he flashed you one last grin. “You can’t stay silent forever, Doc,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “One day, I’ll get under that icy skin of yours.”

You didn’t reply, your back already turned to him as you cleaned the instruments. His footsteps echoed as he left, the sound fading into the distance. And when the infirmary door swung shut behind him, you allowed yourself a single thought:

Some wounds weren’t worth healing.

———

The first time Childe tried to woo you, he began with something grand—fireworks in the desolate tundra of Snezhnaya. The sound cracked through the frozen air like gunshots, brilliant bursts of red and gold illuminating the oppressive gray skies. It was loud, jarring, beautiful, and utterly wasted. You didn’t even glance at the window. Instead, your focus remained on the gory mess of a Fatui soldier who had botched a mission and returned in shreds, your gloved hands threading sutures through his mangled flesh without a flicker of distraction.

“Really?” you’d muttered, your tone laced with quiet irritation as the walls rattled from the explosions outside. “Do you think this is the time or place for such nonsense?”

Childe, standing in the doorway, had grinned. “Come on, Doc, don’t you think it’s romantic? You and me, blood and fireworks. What could be better?”

Your only response was a glare colder than the frost creeping up the infirmary windows. It wasn’t disdain; it wasn’t even anger. It was complete and utter disinterest, as if he were nothing more than a shadow on the periphery of your world.

But he wasn’t deterred. Childe was nothing if not persistent.

———

The next week, he tried subtlety. He left small tokens for you, each more thoughtful and intimate than the last. A book of medical texts older than the Fatui itself, its leather cover worn and cracked. A jar of rare herbs cultivated only in the depths of Enkanomiya, their use obscure but undoubtedly valuable. Even a delicate scalpel forged from Orichalcum, its blade so sharp it could slice through bone as easily as paper.

You accepted each offering with the same detached efficiency you applied to everything else. The book was shelved without comment, the herbs labeled and stored in your inventory, and the scalpel placed neatly among your tools.

“Do you like it?” he’d asked one day, leaning casually against the doorway as you cleaned instruments. His tone was light, but there was a razor edge beneath it, a hunger for validation that he masked poorly.

“It’s adequate,” you replied, your gaze never leaving the bloodstained tray before you. “Thank you.”

That was the first time he saw your lips move in something resembling politeness. But the faint spark it ignited within him was immediately extinguished by the icy void in your tone.

———

When subtlety failed, Childe turned to extravagance again. He stormed into the infirmary one day with a wolf pelt draped over his shoulders, its fur as white as freshly fallen snow. Behind him, a Fatui recruit dragged the hulking carcass of the creature, its size dwarfing that of any normal beast. Its eyes stared lifelessly into the void, its jaws frozen in a snarl even in death.

“For you, Doc,” he said, his grin feral, the blood of the beast still splattered across his face. “Thought it might make a nice rug. Or maybe a coat. Something to keep you warm, since you seem so damn cold all the time.”

You didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. You simply looked at the beast, then at him, and said, “Dispose of it. You’re contaminating my workspace.”

For the first time, he faltered, his grin slipping into something closer to frustration. But he recovered quickly, chuckling as he signaled for the recruit to haul the carcass away.

“Playing hard to get, huh?” he muttered, half to himself. “Fine. I like a challenge.”

———

By the third week, his persistence had taken on an edge of desperation. The gifts became more frequent, the gestures more elaborate, and his presence more intrusive. He appeared in the infirmary at all hours, sometimes with fresh wounds and sometimes with none at all, just for an excuse to linger in your space.

“You know, most people would’ve fallen for me by now,” he said one evening, lounging on a cot as you stitched up yet another gash on his arm. His voice was smooth, but there was an unmistakable tension in it, a crack in the facade. “I’ve got charm, looks, power… What’s your deal, Doc? Are you even human under all that ice?”

Your needle paused for the briefest of moments, so subtle it was almost imperceptible. But Childe noticed.

“You’re wasting my time,” you said, resuming your work with the same detached efficiency as always. “If you have nothing useful to say, keep your mouth shut.”

His grin turned sharp, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “You’re good at shutting people out, aren’t you? Makes me wonder what you’re hiding. What’s so broken in there that you won’t let anyone in?”

You tied off the suture and stood, your gaze meeting his for the first time that night. There was no anger in your eyes, no hint of offense. Only an emptiness so profound it was almost suffocating.

“You misunderstand,” you said, your voice as cold and unyielding as the Snezhnayan winter. “There’s nothing to hide. Nothing to break. Now leave.”

For a moment, Childe said nothing, his grin frozen on his face like a mask. Then he laughed—a low, bitter sound that echoed through the infirmary.

“You’re really something, Doc,” he said, standing and rolling his sleeve down over the freshly stitched wound. “But I’m not giving up. Not yet.”

As he walked away, the air seemed to thaw in his absence, but you felt no relief. You knew he’d be back. Childe was like a storm—relentless, chaotic, and impossible to ignore.

But storms could be weathered. And you were the unyielding mountain in their path.

────────────

The infirmary was silent, save for the rhythmic drip of water leaking from somewhere in the cracked stone ceiling. It was late—too late for anyone but the most desperate to seek your aid. Yet there he stood, leaning against the doorway, his grin wolfish and unsettling in the dim light.

“Doc,” Childe said, his voice a soft murmur, edged with something dark and teasing. “I think I’ve finally figured you out.”

You didn’t respond, didn’t even look up from the scalpel you were meticulously sterilizing. His antics had long since become white noise, something to endure rather than acknowledge. But then the sharp, metallic scent of blood hit your nostrils, stronger than usual, and the faintest flicker of curiosity crossed your features.

When you finally turned your head, you saw it.

The corpse was slumped in a wheelbarrow, its flesh discolored in ways that defied the natural progression of decay. Greenish-black veins spiderwebbed across its chest, branching out from a festering wound that pulsed faintly with some unholy residue. Its face was twisted in agony, frozen in the grotesque contortion of its final moments.

“This one,” Childe said, gesturing toward the body with a dramatic flourish, “wasn’t easy to find. Some poor bastard from the Abyss, infected with something… interesting. Don’t ask me what it is—I figured I’d leave that to you.”

He stepped closer, dragging the wheelbarrow into the center of the room. The corpse’s arm flopped out limply over the edge, leaving a wet smear of blood and ichor across the pristine floor.

For the first time since you’d met him, you froze. Not in disgust or revulsion, but in something far more profound. Your cold, unfeeling mask cracked—just a little—as your gaze locked onto the body. Your eyes lit up, faint but undeniable, with something akin to excitement.

Childe’s grin widened, sharper now, predatory. “You like it, don’t you? I knew you would. You’re not like anyone else, Doc. You see beauty in things that’d make most people vomit.”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you approached the wheelbarrow, your footsteps slow and deliberate, as if drawn by an invisible force. You knelt beside the body, your gloved hands ghosting over its mottled skin.

“This… decay pattern,” you murmured, your voice almost reverent. “It’s… unusual. The infection—it’s accelerated, but localized. Post-mortem processes are suspended in some areas and hyperactive in others. This isn’t natural.”

Childe leaned against a nearby table, watching you with a mix of amusement and fascination. “Took me days to track him down. Thought it might be worth your while.”

You glanced up at him, and for the first time, your expression wasn’t entirely empty. There was no smile, no overt display of emotion, but the faintest glimmer of gratitude lingered in your eyes, fleeting yet unmistakable.

“This… will require thorough examination,” you said, your voice steadier now. “It’s rare to encounter something like this. You’ve done well.”

His grin faltered, just for a moment, replaced by something softer. But the feral edge returned quickly, his satisfaction bleeding into his words. “That’s the closest thing to a compliment I’ve ever gotten from you. I’ll take it.”

You ignored him, already lost in the intricate web of disease and decay before you. The scalpel in your hand gleamed under the flickering lamplight as you made the first incision, your movements careful and precise.

Childe didn’t leave. He stayed, watching as you dissected the corpse with a surgeon’s grace and a scholar’s fervor. There was something hypnotic about the way you worked, your focus absolute, your cold detachment melting into something closer to passion.

“You know,” he said after a while, his voice softer now, “you almost look happy.”

Your hands paused mid-cut, but you didn’t look at him. “Happiness is irrelevant. This is… intriguing. That’s all.”

He chuckled, low and almost smug. “If this is what it takes to make you intrigued, I might have to start raiding morgues more often.”

You said nothing, but the faintest tilt of your head suggested you’d heard him. For Childe, that was enough.

As the hours stretched on, he remained a silent observer, his usual bravado muted in the face of your singular focus. The corpse became a canvas, each incision revealing new layers of mystery and horror.

And for the first time, Childe felt like he’d won. Not completely, not yet—but he’d found a crack in your armor, a weakness to exploit.

In the end, it wasn’t charm or extravagance that piqued your interest. It was the grotesque, the morbid, the unknown.

He could work with that.

———

The first time he brought you a corpse, you hadn’t spoken, but your gloved hands trembled faintly as you reached for the scalpel. He didn’t miss it, the subtle shiver of anticipation. Since then, Tartaglia had made it his mission to unearth the macabre, dragging the dead and the dying to your doorstep with an unrelenting grin.

And you let him.

It wasn’t that you encouraged him. You never spoke more than necessary, your tone clinical and stripped of anything personal. But Childe was a hunter, and he recognized the thrill of a chase when he saw it. Each corpse, each grotesque offering, became a challenge. How far could he push? What limits could he break to see that faint flicker of interest in your otherwise impenetrable gaze?

He started small—a soldier infected with a rare disease, his body a roadmap of bloated veins and necrotic flesh. You dissected him with mechanical precision, but there was a spark of intrigue in the way you lingered on the abnormalities, your fingers tracing the patterns of decay like a sculptor studying a masterpiece.

Then came the elders, their bodies twisted by experiments gone wrong, their deaths soaked in cruelty and despair. When he placed the first one on your table, your fingers stilled for a fraction of a second. He swore he saw your lips part as if to speak, but the words never came.

“Not enough?” Childe asked, leaning against the doorway like a specter, his voice low and dripping with mockery. “Don’t worry, Doc. I’ll do better next time.”

And he did.

He brought you a man who had died screaming, his throat raw and his eyes bloodshot from ruptured vessels. He brought you a corpse riddled with scars—self-inflicted, deep grooves carved into flesh by hands trembling with desperation. He brought you a woman whose limbs had been twisted and reshaped into something monstrous, her body a canvas of agony.

Each time, you remained silent. But your actions betrayed you.

You rearranged your office with meticulous care, creating more space for the specimens you insisted on keeping. Your tools gleamed under the harsh lamplight, organized with obsessive precision. Chests appeared, their contents locked away and guarded like treasure.

When you thought no one was watching, you would pause to run your fingers over the edge of a scalpel, or linger just a second too long over a particularly grotesque dissection.

Childe was always watching.

“Death,” he said one evening, his voice soft but laced with something unhinged, “is what makes you tick, isn’t it? You don’t care about life. You care about the end of it.”

You didn’t look up from the corpse on your table, its chest cavity split open to reveal the mess of rotting organs within. But your hand faltered, the scalpel freezing mid-cut.

He grinned, sharp and triumphant. “I knew it.”

The next day, he didn’t bring you a body. Instead, he brought you something… alive.

The man was barely breathing, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven gasps. His skin was pallid, his lips tinged blue, and his eyes—wide, bloodshot—darted around the room like a cornered animal.

“I found him in the Abyss,” Childe said, his voice almost conversational. “Something about the air there eats away at the lungs. He’s got maybe an hour, tops. Thought you’d enjoy figuring out why.”

You turned to him, and for the first time, he saw something that wasn’t cold indifference. There was a faint, almost imperceptible light in your eyes—a glimmer of hunger. Not for the man’s suffering, but for the knowledge buried in his dying body.

Without a word, you moved to the table, gesturing for Childe to lay the man down. Your hands worked quickly, methodically, cutting through flesh and peeling back layers with a precision that bordered on artistry.

“You don’t say much, do you?” Childe murmured, leaning against the wall as he watched. “But you’re fascinating, Doc. You think I don’t notice, but I see it—the way your eyes light up when you’re unraveling the mysteries of death. It’s almost… cute.”

You didn’t respond, but your fingers tightened briefly around the scalpel.

The man died less than thirty minutes later, his body convulsing as whatever toxin the Abyss had left in him completed its work. You didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, as you cataloged every detail of his death.

When it was over, you turned back to your tools, your face unreadable. But as you reached for the next specimen, Childe caught the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

For anyone else, it would have been horrifying. For him, it was victory.

He kept going, kept digging deeper into the grotesque and the morbid, searching for the perfect gift to draw out more of those fleeting reactions. A cursed artifact that reeked of death. A vial of blood that wouldn’t clot, its origins unknown. A severed hand that twitched on its own.

Each time, you accepted his offerings without a word. But your actions spoke volumes.

You started locking your office door when you weren’t there, a sign that the items inside were too valuable—or too personal—to be left unguarded. You began staying late into the night, the faint glow of your lamp visible from the hallway as you worked in silence.

And when Childe brought you a corpse so riddled with death that the very air around it seemed to decay, you didn’t hide the way your hands trembled as you reached for it.

For the first time, you spoke without him prompting you.

“This is… adequate.”

It was the closest thing to praise you’d ever given, and Childe’s grin widened, feral and triumphant.

“You’re welcome, Doc,” he said, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “Anything for you.”

──────��─────

The room reeked of formaldehyde and rot, a scent so cloying it seemed to stick to the walls like tar. Instruments gleamed under the sterile glow of the overhead light, sharp and surgical, reflecting faint silhouettes of the monstrosity on the table. The corpse was extraordinary—a tangle of twisted limbs and decaying flesh that almost pulsated with the remnants of a life steeped in agony.

Your gloved hands worked with meticulous precision, slicing through cartilage and peeling back tissue as though unwrapping a gift. Every movement was mechanical, devoid of hesitation, and yet, your voice—low and steady—cut through the silence.

“Why?”

It was the first word you’d ever directed at him unprompted, and Childe, leaning against the far wall, froze. His usual grin faltered, replaced by a flicker of something darker, something less rehearsed.

“Why what, Doc?” he asked, though the rasp in his voice betrayed him.

“Why are you doing this?” You didn’t look up, didn’t pause in your work. The wet squelch of flesh beneath your scalpel filled the air. “Your motives don’t align with anything rational. It’s not charity. It’s not loyalty to the Fatui. So why?”

It wasn’t suspicion in your voice, nor curiosity, but something colder—an analysis, a dissection of his intentions as sharp as the blade in your hand.

He chuckled, a sound too light, too rehearsed, for the weight of the question. “You think I need a reason to spoil you? Maybe I just like seeing you happy.”

“You’re lying.”

His grin faltered again, but you didn’t give him time to recover.

“You’re a harbinger. A soldier. A predator. You don’t invest time and resources into something unless you expect a return. That much is obvious. So what return do you expect from me? What does someone like you want with someone like me?”

Childe pushed off the wall and took a step closer, his boots echoing against the cold, sterile floor. “Maybe I just find you interesting. Ever think about that? You’re not exactly easy to impress, Doc. It’s a challenge.”

You finally paused, your scalpel poised mid-air as you turned to face him. Your gaze was unreadable, cold, and clinical, like a microscope zeroing in on a specimen.

“A challenge?” you repeated, the words slow, deliberate. “Challenges are fleeting. This… obsession isn’t.”

Childe tilted his head, his grin sharp and fox-like. “Obsession, huh? Big word for someone who doesn’t like to talk.”

You ignored the jab, your tone unchanging. “Let’s enumerate the possibilities, shall we? One: this is a power play. You want leverage, perhaps to undermine Pantalone or someone higher. Two: it’s a trap—an elaborate game meant to sabotage me in the future. Three: it’s personal, though your reasons for targeting me specifically remain unclear. Four—”

“Doc, you’re overthinking this,” he interrupted, his voice laced with mock exasperation.

“I don’t overthink,” you shot back, your words cutting through his like a scalpel through flesh. “I calculate. And you don’t fit any predictable pattern. You’ve given me resources, specimens, and opportunities that no one else would, and yet you’ve asked for nothing in return. Why?”

He took another step closer, the dim light catching the sharp edges of his face. “Maybe I do want something in return. Ever think of that?”

“Then state it plainly,” you said, turning back to the corpse on the table. Your hands resumed their work, steady and unbothered. “I’m a scientist first, an entrepreneur second. I don’t play games. If there’s something you want, say it. If not, leave. I don’t have time for irrationality.”

Childe was silent for a long moment, watching you as you worked. The sound of the scalpel slicing through sinew filled the air, almost rhythmic.

Finally, he laughed, low and humorless. “You’re something else, Doc. You really think I’d try to sabotage you? If I wanted you dead, you’d already be dead.”

“Precisely my point,” you said, not looking up. “You’re not stupid enough to waste time on something pointless. So why?”

He stepped closer, until the scent of blood and steel mingled with the faint trace of ocean salt that clung to him. “Maybe,” he said, his voice soft but edged with something dangerous, “I just like you.”

You didn’t pause this time, your scalpel slicing cleanly through a tendon. “An irrational answer.”

“But not untrue.”

Your hands stilled for the briefest moment. You didn’t look at him, but your voice softened, just slightly. “If that’s your reason, then you’re more unhinged than I thought.”

He chuckled, stepping back. “Maybe I am. But you’re still keeping the gifts, aren’t you?”

You didn’t answer. But the faint glint in your eyes as you focused on the corpse before you spoke louder than words.

────────────

The metallic tang of blood was faint in the air, masked by antiseptics and the sterile chill of the room. Childe sat perched on the edge of the examination table, his shirt hanging in tatters around a freshly bandaged wound that seeped sluggishly through the gauze. The injury was deep—slashed through layers of muscle—but it didn’t stop the faint smirk pulling at his lips.

“You know,” he drawled, tilting his head to watch your hands as they methodically wiped down your instruments, “for someone so cold, you sure know how to bleed a guy dry.”

You glanced up, your expression unreadable, though your eyes flicked briefly to the absurdly large stack of bills he’d laid on your desk. “A fair price for the quality of treatment,” you said flatly. “Unless you’d prefer a hospital’s guesswork and subpar sutures.”

“Fair?” he scoffed, though his grin only widened. “I’ve paid assassins less than this. What’s next, Doc? You going to charge me for breathing in here?”

You didn’t look at him as you packed away your tools, your tone calm and clinical. “Considering how much oxygen you waste talking, it’s not a bad idea.”

The laugh that burst from him was sudden and sharp, echoing off the stark walls. “You’ve got a sense of humor under all that frost, huh? Cute.”

You ignored him, stepping to the side to retrieve a sealed vial from your supply cabinet. “Hold still. The last thing I need is you bleeding all over my floor.”

“Careful,” he teased, leaning closer as you prepared a syringe. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re worried about me.”

“I’m worried about pathogens,” you retorted, plunging the needle into his arm with mechanical precision.

Childe winced, though the smile never left his face. “See? Always so gentle with me.”

“Hold pressure on that for ten minutes,” you ordered, handing him a sterile pad before turning back to your desk. “And don’t touch anything. The last thing I need is your germs contaminating my workspace.”

He watched you, his blue eyes gleaming with that familiar spark of mischief. “You’re all business, huh? No time for pleasantries? Not even for this?”

The sound of something small and metallic clicking against the edge of the table drew your attention. You turned, your gaze locking on the object he held—a small, unassuming box, worn but intact, its surface etched with ancient runes that pulsed faintly in the low light.

Your composure shifted imperceptibly, but he caught it: the faintest widening of your eyes, the slight hitch in your breath.

“You recognize it,” he said, his voice softening into something almost triumphant.

You stepped closer, reaching for the box, but he pulled it back, holding it just out of your reach.

“Childe,” you said, your tone neutral but firm, “don’t play games.”

“Games?” he echoed, his grin turning sharp as he looked down at you. “This isn’t a game, Doc. It’s a gift. But I think I want to see you work for it.”

You frowned, narrowing your eyes. “You’re bleeding out and still find time to play childish tricks. Hand it over.”

He tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Hmm, let me think about that… No.”

Your frustration was palpable, though you refused to show it. Instead, you straightened your posture and regarded him with cold calculation. “If you want me to analyze it, delaying only prolongs your ignorance. And if you’ve damaged it in the process of acquiring it, there’s a high likelihood it’s already unstable. Do you want it studied, or do you want it destroyed?”

His laughter was sudden and sharp, filling the room like a jagged blade. “You really are fun, Doc.”

When you reached for the box again, he held it even higher, forcing you to step closer, your fingers brushing against his arm. He smirked down at you, clearly enjoying the contrast between his towering frame and your smaller stature.

“You asked me once what I wanted in return,” he said, his voice dropping into something quieter, more dangerous. “Do you really want to know?”

You met his gaze, unflinching. “What I want is irrelevant to this transaction. If you want something, state it plainly. Otherwise, leave.”

His grin softened, but the intensity in his eyes only deepened. “What I want…” he trailed off, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “…is to see what happens when someone finally breaks you.”

You stared at him, unblinking. Then, as if his words were nothing more than static, you extended your hand again, your tone clinical. “The box, Childe.”

For a moment, he didn’t move, his eyes searching yours as though expecting some hidden reaction. But when none came, he let out a low chuckle and finally handed it over.

The moment it was in your grasp, your demeanor shifted ever so slightly. You turned it in your hands, your fingers ghosting over the intricate runes with a reverence you hadn’t shown to anything—or anyone—before.

“Careful,” Childe said, watching you with a mix of amusement and something darker. “Wouldn’t want you to fall in love with me, now.”

You didn’t respond, already engrossed in the artifact, but the faintest ghost of a smile flickered across your lips. Not for him, not even for the jest, but for the promise of discovery in your hands.

———

The air hung thick with the faint hum of restrained energy. Your hands moved with practiced precision, fingertips ghosting over the etchings on the artifact’s surface. Its texture was cold and alien, the runes faintly pulsing beneath your touch like a dying heart. You had already spent hours analyzing its composition, mapping its structure, tracing its origins in the decayed husk of ancient civilizations. And yet—no matter how you probed, no matter what tool or technique you applied—it would not open.

Your patience, like the artifact, was wearing thin. You sat back, your fingers pressing into your temples as if to physically suppress the rising irritation. The solution hovered just out of reach, taunting you like a phantom, and it infuriated you.

“That’s a new look on you, Doc,” Childe’s voice cut through the oppressive silence, sharp and teasing, as he leaned lazily against the doorway. His bloodied shirt hung loosely around his waist, exposing a web of bruises and neatly bandaged cuts. His smirk widened when you didn’t respond. “Frustrated, are we?”

You ignored him, your focus locked on the box. “It’s not frustration,” you said evenly, though the edge in your voice betrayed you. “The mechanism is deliberately obscured—hydro-based in nature, reinforced with a layer of delusion energy. It’s intricate. Too intricate for brute force or conventional methods. I need—” You stopped abruptly, realizing your mistake.

Childe straightened slightly, his eyes narrowing with interest. “You need… me?”

You looked up, fixing him with an icy stare. “I need you to deactivate the hydro lock.”

He stepped closer, his smirk softening into something almost boyish, though the mischief in his eyes remained. “What’s the magic word?”

You blinked, deadpan. “Deactivate it, or I’ll find someone who will.”

“Aw, come on,” he said, feigning a wounded expression as he closed the distance between you. “Don’t be like that. You’re always so formal with me, Doc. What happened to sweet-talking your favorite patient?”

“You’re not my favorite,” you said, your tone clipped.

“Ouch,” he said, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “You really know how to hurt a guy. But seriously—” he leaned over, his voice dropping into a low murmur, “—you’ve got to give me something in return. You’ve been running up quite the tab on me lately, you know.”

You straightened, glaring up at him. “You’re already compensated.”

“Am I?” he asked, tilting his head in mock confusion. “You charge me a fortune to fix me up, and now you want me to hand over this for free? Doesn’t sound very fair, does it?”

“Fairness is irrelevant,” you snapped, your patience thinning dangerously. “If you don’t deactivate the lock, this artifact is worthless. And if it’s worthless, so is whatever leverage you think you have.”

He laughed—a deep, rich sound that reverberated through the sterile room. “Oh, Doc, you’re adorable when you’re desperate.”

Your expression darkened, but the heat behind your irritation only seemed to fuel his amusement.

“You’re always so cold, so composed,” he continued, circling you slowly. “But now? Now you’re practically begging. It’s cute. Like a little kitten swiping at something it can’t reach.”

“I am not begging,” you said sharply, though your tightly clenched jaw betrayed your simmering impatience.

“Not yet,” he teased, his voice dropping to a whisper as he leaned in closer. “But you’re getting there.”

Your hands clenched at your sides, but you forced yourself to remain still, your voice sharp and cutting. “If you’re not going to help, then leave. You’re wasting my time.”

He chuckled, stepping back just enough to stay out of your reach. “Fine, fine. I’ll help. But—” he held up a finger before you could speak, “—only if you give me something in return.”

You frowned. “What do you want?”

He grinned, his expression turning wolfish. “Oh, I don’t know yet. But I’ll think of something.”

“Then we have no deal,” you said curtly, turning back to the artifact.

His hand shot out, catching your wrist before you could pull away. His grip was firm but not painful, his tone playful yet edged with something darker. “Easy, Doc. I’m not here to cheat you. I just want a little… cooperation.

You yanked your hand free, glaring up at him. “Cooperation implies mutual benefit. I fail to see how indulging your whims benefits me.”

“That’s because you don’t trust me,” he said, his tone mock-solemn. “Which is fair. I wouldn’t trust me either.”

“Then prove yourself useful,” you said, your tone colder than ever. “Deactivate the lock.”

He tilted his head, his grin widening as he stepped closer, until you could feel the faint warmth radiating from him. “You really don’t get it, do you?” he said softly. “I like seeing you like this. All that frost finally cracking.”

You stared at him, unblinking, your voice low and dangerous. “If you’re trying to provoke me, you’re wasting your time.”

He smirked, leaning in until his lips were inches from your ear. “You sure about that?”

———

The silence stretched, charged and crackling like static between you, his smirk still curling at the edges of his lips as his eyes bore into you, sharp and glittering with something dark and unrelenting. Childe stepped closer, the faint scent of blood and salt clinging to him, a predator inching into his prey’s personal space.

“Tell you what,” he murmured, his voice low and playful, a dangerous lilt underscoring his tone. “I’ll deactivate the lock if you give me something first. Let’s say… a kiss.”

You stiffened, the cold detachment you clung to like armor flaring to life in the icy glare you shot him. “You’re joking.”

“Not at all.” His grin widened, toothy and unapologetic. “Come on, Doc. It’s a fair trade. One little kiss, and you get what you want. Or…” He tilted his head, the faint glow of his delusion sparking faintly at his fingertips. “I could just walk out and leave you with this unsolvable puzzle. Your call.”

Your hands clenched into fists, the frustration pooling in your chest threatening to spill over. “This is ridiculous.”

“Is it?” he asked, his voice mockingly sweet as he leaned in, the heat of him a sharp contrast to the coldness you tried to exude. “Or are you just afraid you might like it?”

“I won’t indulge your games,” you snapped, shoving him back, though it was like trying to move a boulder.

“Oh, but you already are,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement as he caught your wrist in a firm grip. “And that’s what makes it so fun.”

Your glare could’ve cut glass, but Childe only found it endearing, his eyes alight with a predatory glee. “You’re cute when you’re mad, you know that?”

“Let go,” you growled, yanking at your arm, but his grip held firm, his thumb brushing the inside of your wrist in a way that sent an unwelcome shiver skittering up your spine.

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that curled like smoke around your ears. “Not until I get what I want.”

Before you could retort, his lips crashed against yours, hard and unyielding, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck and pull you closer. The kiss was hungry, almost brutal, his teeth catching on your lower lip and tugging just shy of pain.

Your initial shock froze you in place, but when his other hand slid down, gripping your waist and pulling you flush against him, your instincts kicked in. You shoved at his chest, but he didn’t budge, his strength a wall against your resistance.

“Stop—” The word barely left your lips before his mouth was on you again, his tongue sliding past your defenses to taste you, hot and invasive. His hands roamed, one trailing up to tangle in your hair while the other slid lower, gripping the curve of your hip.

“You’re so tense, Doc,” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and teasing as his teeth grazed your jaw, trailing down to nip at the sensitive skin of your neck. “Relax. I promise I won’t bite—well, not too hard.”

———

Childe’s lips descended on yours again, this time with an aggression that bordered on feral. He shoved you back against the cold metal of the vivisection table, the force of his body pinning you down as his mouth claimed you. The taste of copper bloomed between your lips—a mix of his split lip and the sharp nip of his teeth against your skin.

“You’re so fucking stubborn,” he growled against your lips, his voice low and ragged, his hips grinding down against yours in slow, deliberate movements. “Always acting like you’re untouchable.”

Your protests were muffled as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with an almost punishing fervor. He tasted of salt and blood, the metallic tang mingling with the faint scent of iron that clung to the room. His hands were everywhere at once—one tangling in your hair, pulling your head back to expose the vulnerable line of your throat, the other gripping your waist with bruising force, his fingertips digging into your flesh as if to brand you.

The vivisection table’s sterile, cold surface pressed against your back, amplifying the heat of his body on top of yours. He shifted his weight, pressing his knee between your legs to force them apart, his hips grinding down against you with a primal urgency that sent shockwaves through your body. His breaths came hot and ragged against your neck as he pulled away just enough to trail his lips and teeth down your jawline, his tongue lapping at the blood he’d drawn from the bite marks he left in his wake.

“You don’t even realize, do you?” he murmured, his voice a low growl as he licked the streak of blood from your collarbone, his teeth scraping against the delicate skin. “How damn irresistible you are like this—cold, detached, thinking you’re above everyone else. It just makes me want to ruin you.”

You squirmed beneath him, your body stiff as you tried to push him off, but he only laughed darkly, catching both of your wrists in one hand and pinning them above your head. “Ah, ah,” he teased, his free hand tracing the line of your hip before sliding under the hem of your shirt. “You’re not going anywhere, Doc. Not until I’ve had my fill.”

His fingers brushed against the bare skin of your waist, his touch both searing and possessive as he explored every inch he could reach. The contrast of his rough callouses against your unmarked skin made his blood sing. He’d expected resistance, of course—anticipated the cold glare you’d level at him, the sharp words you’d try to cut him with. But what he hadn’t expected was the sheer thrill that surged through him at the realization that you were so inexperienced. Untouched. Pantalone hadn’t even laid a finger on you.

It made him feral.

“You’re so pure,” he murmured, almost reverently, as his teeth grazed the shell of your ear, his hips grinding down against you again, harder this time, as if he couldn’t contain himself. “So perfect. And all mine.”

Your sharp intake of breath was the only response you managed as he pressed his full weight against you, his movements becoming more frenzied, more desperate, like an animal in heat. His lips found yours again, his tongue tangling with yours as he kissed you with a hunger that bordered on violent, his teeth biting down on your lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

He pulled back just enough to admire his handiwork, his thumb swiping across the bead of blood that welled up before he pressed it to your lips, forcing you to taste it. “See that?” he said, his voice rough and dripping with satisfaction. “That’s what you do to me.”

You glared at him, the fire in your eyes only fueling his desire as he leaned down, licking the blood from your lip before trailing his tongue down your chin, your neck, and lower still. His hands roamed with abandon, one sliding beneath your shirt to cup your chest, his thumb brushing over the sensitive skin with a pressure that made you gasp despite yourself.

“Fuck, you’re so responsive,” he muttered, his voice low and almost reverent as his fingers explored further, memorizing the curve of your body beneath his touch. “You try so hard to hide it, but I can feel it. The way your body reacts to me, no matter how much you try to fight it.”

The metallic tang of blood filled the air as he bit down on your shoulder, his teeth sinking into the flesh just enough to leave a mark but not enough to break the skin. His hips ground against yours again, harder this time, his breath hot and heavy against your ear as he whispered, “You drive me insane, you know that? I’ve been holding back for so long, but now that I’ve got you like this…”

He trailed off, his lips finding yours again in a kiss that was as much about possession as it was about desire, his hands tightening on your wrists as if to remind you that you were completely at his mercy.

You bucked against him, anger and desperation flaring in your chest as you tried to twist free, but it only made him chuckle, his voice low and almost affectionate. “Go ahead,” he said, his breath brushing against your ear, nipping and sucking at your earlobe. “Struggle all you want. It just makes it more fun for me.”

His tongue darted out to lap at the blood from the bite marks he’d left on your neck, the sensation sending a shiver down your spine despite the fury burning in your veins. His hips moved against yours with a rhythm that was almost punishing, the weight of him pressing you into the table as his hands continued their relentless exploration.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, his voice raw and filled with a dark kind of satisfaction. “Every inch of you. Mine to touch, to taste, to ruin.”

His words sent a chill down your spine, the raw intensity in his voice making your stomach twist in ways you refused to acknowledge. But the irritation bubbling beneath the surface finally boiled over.

———

Your body tensed, muscles coiled like a spring, your mind rapidly calculating trajectories and weak points as his weight pressed you against the cold steel of the vivisection table. The air around you was thick with the scent of blood, copper and salt mingling with the sterile tang of antiseptic. His breath was hot against your ear, words teasing and playful, but there was a weight beneath them—a hunger that set every nerve in your body screaming.

You bucked against him, your movements sharp and purposeful, but he didn’t so much as flinch. His hands were unyielding, his grip ironclad as he laughed softly, his voice dripping with amusement. “Is that the best you’ve got, Doc? I thought you were supposed to be clever.”

Your lips curled into a snarl, your calm composure cracking like thin ice under pressure. “Get off me,” you hissed, venom dripping from every word.

But your resistance only seemed to spur him on, his grin widening as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “Why would I, when you’re finally letting me see the real you?”

With a sharp twist, you freed one hand and reached for the blade you’d hidden beneath the table—a weapon forged in desperation, its edge honed to lethal precision. The movement was fluid, seamless, the blade slicing through the air toward his neck in a blur of silver.

He caught your wrist effortlessly, his reflexes honed by years of bloodshed and battle. His eyes gleamed with a predatory light as he pinned your arm back down, his smirk returning, sharper and more dangerous than before. “Really? You’re trying to kill me now?” His voice was filled with mock disappointment, but there was a spark of something darker beneath the surface, a flicker of genuine thrill. “I’ve got to admit, Doc—that’s kind of hot.”

You glared at him, chest heaving, your mind racing as you struggled to find another opening. But he simply held you there, his weight pressing down on you like a predator savoring its prey. “Relax,” he murmured, his voice low and almost affectionate as he leaned down to press a lingering kiss to your lips. It was slow and deliberate, his tongue brushing against yours in a way that was as much about control as it was desire.

When he finally pulled away, your breath hitched—not from lack of air, but from the sheer audacity of it. He chuckled softly, his gaze raking over you with a lazy, shameless intensity. His fingers brushed against the marks he’d left on your neck, his expression turning almost reverent as he took in the sight of you—hair disheveled, clothes rumpled, lips swollen and tinged with blood.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice filled with dark amusement. “All messed up like a common street whore. And it’s all because of me.”

Your eyes narrowed, but the heat rising to your cheeks betrayed you. You clenched your fists, willing your composure to return, but it was like trying to hold back a flood with your bare hands.

“You’re disgusting,” you spat, but your voice lacked its usual sharpness, the words trembling ever so slightly as you forced them out.

“And you’re beautiful,” he countered, his gaze burning into you with an intensity that made your stomach churn. “Especially like this. Messy, flustered, and pissed off. Damn, I could keep you like this forever.”

You shoved at his chest, finally managing to put some distance between you. He stepped back reluctantly, his hands raised in mock surrender, but the way his eyes lingered on you made your skin crawl. He looked at you like a starving man gazing at a feast, his breath coming faster as he debated something silently.

“Don’t even think about it,” you warned, your voice low and dangerous as you grabbed one of your smaller inventions—a compact firearm designed for precision and lethality. You leveled it at him, your grip steady despite the whirlwind of emotions raging beneath the surface.

He whistled low, his grin widening. “You’ve really got a thing for sharp little gadgets, don’t you? That one’s new, isn’t it? Packs quite a punch, I bet.”

“Do your part of the deal,” you said coldly, your finger hovering over the trigger.

He held up his hands, his movements slow and deliberate as he stepped toward the artifact. “All right, all right. Don’t shoot, Doc. I’ll play nice—for now.”

You watched him warily as he placed his hand over the artifact, the air around him shimmering faintly as he deactivated the hydro lock. The runes flickered and dimmed, the mechanism clicking softly as the artifact opened at last.

“There,” he said, turning back to you with a grin. “Happy now?”

Your eyes remained fixed on him, your gun still trained on his chest. “Leave,” you said, your voice as steady as the weapon in your hand.

He tilted his head, his grin turning almost wistful. “You really didn’t like it? The kissing, I mean. I thought we had something special.”

Your glare was answer enough, but he only chuckled, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement. “Fine, fine. I’ll go. But don’t miss me too much, Doc.” He stepped toward the door, pausing just long enough to glance over his shoulder.

“Oh, and by the way,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, playful drawl, “you look even sexier when you’re ready to kill me. Makes me want to stick around and see what else you’ve got.”

Before you could respond, he slipped out of the room, his laughter echoing faintly in the air behind him. You lowered the gun slowly, your hands trembling as you tried to process everything that had just happened.

The artifact sat open on the table, its secrets finally laid bare—but your mind was anything but clear.

♡ A/N. This is a request, but I have yet to complete the required full story (hence, why the proof of request isn't present at the moment). This will most likely have 3-4 parts in total (of course, assuming people don't ask for sequels, but that's unlikely based on my experience...). This first part serves mostly as an intro, the following parts will have more NSFW yandere-centric content.

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of World Ablaze (WA): For You, I'd Burn The World. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “World Ablaze”: @berry-berry-beam , @magica-ren , @hyakki-yosai

[a-reader-and-a-writer-for-all]

Happy Together

AI-Less Whumptober 2024: Day 16. Hostile Environment Fandom: Twisters, Tyler Owens, f!reader Summary: From the moment Tyler met you in your karaoke bar, he was smitten. However, he's terrified to tell you how he feels even as you start a friends-with-benefits situation. Will he find the courage before it's too late? Word Count: 4906 TW: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Whump, Storm Damage, Storm Injuries, Undefined Relationship, Friends with Benefits, Implied Smut, Communication Issues, Love Confession, Character Death, Language, Tyler's POV Notes: Part of @ailesswhumptober's whumptober event.

“Come on, Ty!” Lily whined, pulling at his arm. “We’ve been coming here for months and you’re the only one who hasn’t sung yet.”

“Yeah, T!” Boone nodded his agreement. “If they made me sing that song from Frozen, you can at least sing some George Strait.”

Dani rolled her eyes. “First of all, Boone, no one made you sing that song. You picked it yourself. And if I remember correctly, you barely needed to look at the lyrics.” Turning to Tyler, she added, “But they’re right! Tonight, you are getting on that stage!” 

Tyler shook his head as he rested the mouth of his beer against his bottom lip. “Not gonna happen. When I first agreed to come here, I told y'all that it was only on the condition that I don’t have to sing. Ever.” 

His friends looked like they were going to continue arguing, but then Boone perked up in his seat. Calling out to someone behind Tyler, Boone said, “Hey, MC!”

Tyler froze, nearly choking on his beer, as he heard someone approaching the table. The person stopped just behind his chair and he caught a faint whiff of cinnamon and vanilla. It was a smell he had come to both crave and loathe these past few months.

He’d been flirting with you since the first night the Wranglers stumbled into your karaoke bar, but so far he’d only ever struck out. You always seemed super receptive to it, often returning his advances and even upping the game. Yet, every time he was just about to move in for a kiss, you would turn and sashay away. 

You stopped just behind Tyler’s chair and your melodic voice—always containing a smile—rang out, “Howdy, Wranglers. How can I help you guys tonight? Anyone wanna sign up for a song?”

“Tyler!” Dani, Dexter, Lily, and Boone all said at the same time. 

You chuckled and nudged the back of his head. “Well, Mr. Owens, it sounds like your crew has spoken. What do you say?”

Leaning back in his seat so he caught a glimpse of you out of the corner of his eye, Tyler answered, “I say the same thing I say every time: I don’t sing.”

Your eyes narrowed and he instantly knew he was in trouble. Quickly scribbling something on the notepad resting on the tray in your hands, you ripped it off and slammed it down on the table. “Well, sorry to have to tell you, but we have a new rule around here.” 

Everyone leaned in to read the paper. It had Everyone sings by their 5th visit. Refuse and you’re banned for life scrawled across it. Tyler’s stomach sank as everyone else snickered at the dread on his face. 

Giving him a dazzling smile, you said, “If I counted correctly, you’re well overdue for a song. So you either get up on that stage tonight, or you don’t come back. What’ll it be?”

The thrill-seeking part of him wanted to call your bluff and refuse to sing just to see what would happen. However, he had gotten to know you well enough these last few months to know that there was a very good chance it wasn’t a bluff and you would indeed ban him. And this had become one of his crew’s favorite places to stop while on the road so he couldn’t jeopardize their fun just because he was being stubborn.

So, reluctantly, he sighed. “Fine. One song.”

The Wranglers all cheered, and you patted his shoulder. “Atta boy. And, hey, since I’m feeling generous, why don’t we make it a duet? Me and you, and you and me. I’ll make sure to take care of you up there.” You winked at him, and most of the annoyance that had been building in Tyler’s chest towards you melted away. He just couldn’t stay mad at you however hard he tried. 

Giving his shoulder a quick squeeze, you looked over at another table. “I gotta go, but I’ll meet you backstage a few minutes before the start of the show.”

You turned to leave, but Tyler grabbed your wrist. “Wait. What do you mean ‘the start of the show’?”

Your smile took on a slightly more mischievous edge. “Don’t you know, cowboy? I always sing first.”

And just like that, his annoyance returned.

Half an hour later, Tyler found himself behind the curtain that was currently closed across the stage. He kept wiping his hands on his jeans as he peeked through the crack in the middle where the two sides of the curtain met. It was a full house tonight which meant he was about to make an absolute fool out of himself in front of more than a hundred people. He couldn’t do this.

But as he turned to flee, he crashed into you as you skipped up onto the stage. He grabbed your arms to steady you but you just laughed. “Where you running off to, partner? It’s showtime!”

Tyler shook his head. “I can’t do this, MC. I’m sorry. I really did try but singing…it’s just not my thing. Not even in the shower when I’m alone, let alone in front of all these people.”

“Didn’t you used to be in the rodeo or something for a long time?” you asked, your brow furrowed causing your nose to scrunch up adorably. “And you have a world-famous YouTube channel where you drive into deadly natural disasters! Now you’re telling me you can’t stand in front of these people for three minutes and sing a little song? Come on, Ty. You’ve heard some of the people that get up on this stage after three or four too many drinks. However bad you think you are, they’re worse.”

Tyler looked back at the curtain, his jaw clenched. Placing a soothing hand on his arm, you cooed, “Hey, it’s okay. I picked us out the perfect song for beginners. Everyone knows it. And you don’t even really have to sing. Just say the words, use the monitor if you need it, and, when it gets to the chorus, yell it at the top of your lungs. Trust me, they’ll eat it up.” The spotlights turned on, illuminating the center of the curtain. You gently shooed Tyler off the stage and whispered with a smile, “You’re gonna do great!”

The curtains opened and you strutted out to the middle of the stage. “Hello everybody! Thank you for being here! And welcome to another night of music and drinks at The Crooning Cowboy! I’m your lovely Mistress of Ceremonies, but y'all can call me MC.” You gave an exaggerated wink to the crowd who went wild. It was the same intro you gave every night to a room of mostly the same regulars, and yet, it brought the house down every time. There was just something about your confidence, your spark, your attitude, that made it impossible for people to not fall under your spell.

And Tyler had fallen. Hard.

He watched you play it up for the crowd, telling a few naughty jokes and poking fun at a few familiar faces. And soon, he was so engaged in your act, that he forgot to be nervous. 

That was until you held out your hand and gestured for him to join you. Suddenly, all the nerves and fear came surging back. But Tyler stepped out from behind the curtain and grasped onto your hand. He knew his was sweaty and warm but you didn’t seem to mind. You just handed him a microphone and pointed at the monitor. 

Then, the two of you began your duet.

As promised, it only lasted three minutes, but the moment the music ended, Tyler wanted more. Not of him singing—that he would never feel comfortable with—but singing with you. It was electric! The way you stared deep into his eyes, never once needing to look at the words. How your energy transferred to him and he found himself jumping up and down alongside you as you both belted out the song. He had never wanted you more.

And you must have felt the same because you grabbed his hand and dragged him off stage as the next performers set up. Leading him into your office, you shut the door and lunged at him, your lips slamming into his. Immediately—hungrily—he kissed you back just as he had dreamed of doing for the past several months. His hands grabbed your hips and he pulled you flush against his body. You groaned into his mouth as you felt him hardening against you and you broke away only long enough to swipe everything off your desk (something Tyler thought people only did in the movies). Then you hopped on top of it and crooked your finger at him, beckoning him over. And he happily obliged.

From that day forward, every time the Wranglers stopped by your bar, the same series of events would occur: You would welcome them in and serve them drinks. Tyler and you would sing a duet (the same song every time). You would take him back into your office and the two of you would fuck each other’s brains out. 

Afterward, you would sometimes come sit at his table and talk with the other Wranglers (often sitting on Tyler’s lap). No one knew exactly what your relationship was—hell, even Tyler wasn’t sure—but it was obvious to everyone that something had happened after Tyler’s first performance, and, thankfully, no one questioned it. 

For almost a year, this continued. Even when the storm season was over and the Wranglers had returned to Arkansas, they would all make a road trip to The Crooning Cowboy a few times a month to have some fun and to see you. It seemed like a perfect arrangement….until it wasn’t.

“Well, well, well. It looks like the Wranglers are back in town,” you smirked as your latest patrons filed into the bar. 

Tyler grinned and placed a soft kiss on your cheek. “How you doin’, sweetheart?”

“Fine. But you’d know that if you ever answered any of my calls,” you said, placing one hand on your hip while the other balanced a tray full of beers. 

Tyler’s face grew hot, knowing what you were referring to. “I’m sorry but you know this is our busiest time of year.”

“Mhm,” you hummed, rolling your eyes. “I’m sure that’s it.” You turned your back on him to address the rest of his crew. “Your usual table should be open and I’ll be right over with some drinks.”

“Thanks, MC,” Boone said as he gave you a side hug, narrowly avoiding knocking the tray from your hands. Dropping his voice, he muttered, “Sorry T hasn’t been keeping up with you. We really have been having a busy season these last few months.”

Smiling, you patted his cheek. “Oh, honey, I know exactly what Tyler’s problem is. And until he decides to do something about it, I don’t give a fuck what he does or doesn’t do.” Tyler dropped his eyes to the beer-soaked floor but you didn’t give him a second glance as you said, “Now, if ya’ll excuse me, I’ve gotta drop off these drinks before I get a table of thirsty bikers on my hands.”

As soon as you walked away, all eyes turned towards Tyler with annoyed glares. Dani crossed her arms over her chest. “What did you do?”

Tyler held up his hands, pleading innocence. “I didn’t do anything!”

“Well, obviously you did something based on that response,” Lily said. “So, what was it?”

“Can we at least sit down before we get into this? Please?” Tyler asked, looking around the room to find where you were. He couldn’t see you on the floor but you could return at any minute and he didn’t want this conversation to turn into a huge thing in front of the whole bar.

Still giving him the stink eye, the rest of the Wranglers agreed and they went to settle into their favorite table on the side of the room. It still provided a great view of the stage and the performances but offered more privacy than the tables in the middle of the room.

Once they were all seated, Tyler placed his cowboy hat on the table, then sighed as he ran his hand through his hair. “So…MC found out about me and that girl in Enid a few weeks ago.”

Boone, Dani, and Lily all exchanged a look. Then Dani asked, “That’s it? I mean, I didn’t think you guys were exclusive so why does it matter.”

“It matters because I had a video call planned with her that night and I forgot to cancel before I took that other girl back to the motel. I turned my phone off so I never saw her calls. After an hour or so of getting sent straight to voicemail, MC got really scared that I had gotten hurt on a chase or something. So…she called someone who would know what had happened.”

Three pairs of eyes scanned the table…only to land on Dexter who had sunk low in his seat. 

Dani slapped the older man’s arm. “How did you not tell me!”

“It’s Tyler’s business. I figured if he wanted you to know he would tell you.” Dexter lifted his eyes to look at Tyler. “I’m still sorry I got involved in the first place. I didn’t mean to—”

Tyler held up his hand. “It’s not your fault. I messed up. I still don’t know what this is between me and MC, but I should have let her know something came up instead of just ghosting her.”

Boone nudged Dani in the side and muttered, “Something came up alright.” The two of them snickered as Tyler rolled his eyes.

“Haha, very funny.”

“What did MC say when you explained everything?” Lily asked.

Staring down at the table, Tyler fidgeted with his hat. “I haven’t talked to her since.”

“What!” Boone, Dani, and Lily exclaimed at once.

“I was embarrassed! I didn’t know what to say. So…I had Dex call her back the next day.”

“Tyler…” Lily covered her eyes with her hand, letting out an exasperated sigh. “I’m surprised she let us back in here.”

“When I talked to her, she seemed okay with the whole thing, all things considered,” Dexter said. “I think she was so afraid something had happened to him that it was just an extra shock to find out the truth.”

“So, what does this mean?” Boone asked, looking from Tyler to Dexter to Tyler again. “Are we not gonna be able to come here anymore? Because this is the only place we go to that doesn't kick me out when I get drunk and start singing.”

Tyler sighed, picking up his hat and placing it back on his head. “It means we just see what happens and act accordingly. 

A few minutes later, you came over with a tray full of everyone’s usual orders. The air was tense, no one was sure where to look or how to act now that they knew what they knew. But if you noticed, you didn’t react.

Instead, you smiled at Tyler and asked, “We singing tonight?”

Tyler leaned back in his seat and peered up at you from under the brim of his hat. “Oh, I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”

All the other Wranglers stared at him like he was the biggest idiot in the world. This kind of banter and teasing was common between the two of you, but after what happened, he should be groveling at your feet instead of playing coy. Tyler realized his mistake immediately but it was too late to take it back.

You pursed your lips as your fingers drummed on the back of Boone’s seat. “Ty, I have fifty guys in here right now who would trip over themselves to get on that stage with me. So if you don’t want to—” 

You turned to leave but Tyler grabbed your arm. You raised your eyebrow at him and he held up his hands with a sheepish smile. “Okay, okay, point taken. You know I wouldn’t miss our duet.”

“That’s more like it.” You walked away, calling over your shoulder, “Be ready at 9 or I’ll have Boone take your spot.”

The younger man’s eyes grew wide as he choked on his beer, sputtering and coughing at the proposition. By this point, everyone knew that your duet was always followed by an encore performance in your office. And if you wanted Boone to replace Tyler there as well as on the stage….

Luckily for all involved, Boone was not needed. Tyler took his usual place next to you on the stage, and then on top of you back in your office. Everything felt exactly like it always did and he should have just let things be.

However, Tyler once again decided to put his boot in his mouth and decided to poke at the wound instead. As you slid off the desk to get dressed, he sat up and asked, “So…we gonna talk about what happened?”

With your back still towards him as you put your bra on, you said curtly, “Don’t see why we need to. Apparently, it wasn’t important enough for you to call and explain yourself. Instead, you had Dexter try and smooth things over.”

“I’m sorry. I just didn’t know what to say.”

“How about ‘Hi. I’m not dead. I was just banging some chick I picked up and forgot I was supposed to call you.’” Your head emerged from inside your blouse and you looked over your shoulder at him. “I don’t see what’s so hard about that.”

Thinking about it for a moment, he asked, “And you would’ve been okay with that?”

You sighed, putting your hand on your hip. “Ty, I see you two, maybe three times a month. What do you think I’m doing the rest of that time?” Tyler shifted uncomfortably on the desk. He had never given much thought to who you might be spending your time with or what you might be doing while he wasn’t around. “I didn’t have an issue with the girl. I had an issue with the fact you didn’t respect me or my feelings enough to even send a text saying you were busy. That’s all I needed but I guess I don’t even warrant that in your eyes.”

“I’m sorry. I should’ve handled the entire situation differently. And I promise to work on my communication.” He handed you your skirt where it had fallen behind the desk. Then, tapping his finger on the wooden desktop, he asked, “So is what you said earlier true? You’ve got fifty other guys hanging around who you sing with then bring back here? I thought what we had was special.” 

You rolled your eyes as you tucked your blouse back into your skirt. “How special can it be when I only hear from you when you’re walking in the door to my bar? What did you expect? That I would be pinning away for you, just hanging on to the hope you might grace me with your presence again?”

“No…That’s not…” Tyler slid off the desk and took your hands in his. “Sweetheart—

“No! Don’t ‘sweetheart’ me!” You ripped your hands away as your voice began to rise. “Tyler, I have never once asked you to define what this is between us or pressured you into giving me more attention than you do. But you better believe I’m not just sitting here on my ass, twiddling my thumbs waiting for you to show back up. If you’re allowed to have a life outside of us, then so am I.”

“What if I don’t want a life outside of us?” he whispered, his eyes boring into yours. “What if I just want you?”

All of the fiery attitude you had seconds before faded until you stood before him more vulnerable than you had ever seemed. Swallowing, you murmured, “Then you just need to tell me that and I’m yours.” 

There was a long pause as you gave him a chance to speak. But he couldn’t. He had stared down 1000-pound bulls and driven head first into some of the deadliest storms imaginable, however, none of that ever scared him as much as the depth of his feelings for you. Even now, the words sat on the tip of his tongue begging to be set free, yet try as he might, he couldn’t open his mouth to release them. You deserved more than someone who could only give themselves to you a few days a month, and he would rather disappoint you as a fling than as a boyfriend.

When he remained silent, you set your jaw, straightened your shoulders, and nodded. “Right. Well, until then…I guess I’ll see you the next time one of your storms blows you into town.”

You walked out of your office, slamming the door behind you. 

“Tyler! T, be careful! You can’t just charge in there until we know it's safe!” Boone yelled, scrambling out of the truck after his best friend.

But Tyler barely heard him as he tore down the road, jumping over debris and dodging the wreckage of the once vibrant town. All he knew at that moment was that he needed to get to you—now. Nothing else mattered until he was holding you safely in his arms. 

Everything that could have gone wrong today did. First, he had woken up with a hangover and a world of regret from how he handled the situation with you the night before. He wanted to tell you how he felt—he needed you to know—but he just couldn’t. Then you were gone and refused to speak to him the rest of the night. So he drank…a lot.

At first, the hangover didn’t seem like a big deal considering the storm he was chasing was only supposed to be an EF1, EF2 at the worst. Yet the moment he spotted it on the horizon, it was clear to Tyler that the storm was much bigger than that. Then, the storm changed paths, putting it on a direct course for town. Tyler had tried calling your phone and then the bar, knowing you’d be in by now getting everything ready for that night’s customers. But the call never went through. He was on the other side of the storm and couldn’t make it in time to try to warn you in person. Instead, he and the other Wranglers were forced to watch as the town that had become a safe haven for them on their chases was decimated.  

The moment the storm had finished its destruction, he floored the gas and weaved in and out of debris as he tried to reach your bar. But eventually, he reached a point where even his modified, reinforced truck couldn’t make it through. So, he threw it into park and took off running even as Boone called after him.

He was just a block or two away but the utter devastation around him made it hard to maneuver. He felt horrible running past these places where he knew people may be trapped or in need of help, but nothing and no one mattered until he knew you were safe.

As he rounded the corner, he stumbled to an abrupt stop. 

In the place where The Crooning Cowboy had stood the night before, there was nothing but a pile of rubble. 

As Tyler’s legs almost gave out beneath him, the only thing that kept him standing was the near-impossible hope that you might still be alive under there somewhere. Waiting for someone to come to your rescue. 

He surged forward, screaming your name as loudly as he could. When he reached what was left of the bar, he dropped to his knees and began digging through the debris. Broken glass from windows and bottles sliced his fingers and wrists, twisted nails stabbed into his palms, and splinters embedded themselves deep under his skin—yet none of that stopped Tyler from searching. 

He dug and dug and dug and dug but there was no trace of you, alive or dead. The area he would have to cover in addition to how deep the layers of wreckage were made this a nearly impossible task. Without some sort of clue of where to look, there was no way he could find you in time. 

Collapsing to the ground, Tyler buried his head in his hands as tears began to stream down his face. This couldn’t be happening. You couldn’t be gone. Not like this. Not after he shattered something that meant the world to him and he hadn’t had the chance to try to put it back together again.

How could that have been the last conversation he ever had with you? How was it possible he would never get to tell you how he really felt? What you really meant to him?

“...matter how they toss the dice, it had to be.”

Tyler’s head bolted up, tears still clinging to his eyelashes, making his vision blur. Was that…? Holding his breath, he closed his eyes and listened.

“The only one for me is you, and you for me. So happy together…”

“MC!” 

Tyler was certain now. That was your voice singing your song—the only song you ever managed to get him on stage for. Your duet. You were calling out to him.

At the top of his lungs, Tyler shouted, “Sweetheart, keep singing! Please! Help me find you!”

For a moment, there is only silence. Then…

“I can’t see me lovin’ nobody but you for all my life…”

It was faint—not just from the distance or debris, the voice itself was weak—but Tyler heard it coming from off to his left. Nearly sobbing, he scrambled towards the sound.

“When you’re with me, baby, the skies will be blue for all my life…”

When he thought he was right above the sound of your voice, Tyler began to dig with everything in him. Glass, wood, and concrete were thrown to the side as he prayed to anyone who might hear him that he would reach you in time.

And then, he saw three fingers poking up through the rubble. Grabbing them, he squeezed them tightly and was flooded with relief when they squeezed back. After another few minutes of digging, his knuckles hit something wooden, and, with a start, he realized he had found your desk. When the storm hit, you must have hid under it for protection. His brilliant girl.

Finally, he moved a large slab of concrete and he saw your face, eyes blinking in the bright sunlight. There was a large gash on your forehead that was leaking blood, and you were covered in dust, but amazingly, you seemed relatively okay from what he could see. 

When your eyes adjusted and you saw him, you let out a shaky chuckle. “Ty…you actually answered my call this time.”

Tears streaming down his face, Tyler grinned. “You know me. I wouldn’t miss our duet for the world.”

You smiled but then gasped in pain. Tyler’s face fell and he moved some more debris to try to get you out. As he worked, you muttered, “I don’t know what happened. One second everything was fine, the next, the building was falling down around me.” 

“It’s okay now. You’re gonna be okay,” Tyler murmured as he continued to uncover your body.

A piece of debris laid across your chest and Tyler grabbed it to lift it off you—only to immediately recoil as his fingers touched something sticky and wet. Trembling, he looked down at his fingers to see dark, crimson blood coating them and dripping steadily from the tips. 

Smiling sadly, you whispered, “I’m sorry. Piece of the stage broke off and went all the way through from my back. I knew it was over before I made it to the desk. But I had to try. I…I knew you’d look for me and I—I didn’t wanna be alone when it happens.”

Tyler’s tears of relief turned to tears of sorrow. Staring at your blood still coating his hand, he choked out, “MC…I…”

“It’s okay, Ty. You found me. You came through when I needed it most.” There was an odd peacefulness to your face as you stared at him, as if you truly had accepted what was about to happen.

But he hadn’t. There was so much he still wanted to say to you. So much he wanted to do. He had wasted so much time you could have spent together all because he was too scared to tell you how he felt. 

“Ty?” His eyes darted to your face and he saw blood slowly dribbling from your lips. “I need you to know…after the night we had our first duet, I never wanted to sing with anyone else ever again.”

Tears streaming down his face, Tyler cupped your cheek in his hand. “I felt the same, sweetheart. I would have sung with you for the rest of my life. And only you. I’m…I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. ” 

You smiled as you leaned your head heavily into his palm. “I’m just glad you finally did.” 

As your eyes fluttered closed, you whispered, “So happy together…how is the weather…… so happy together……. we’re happy toget……………”

In case anyone was wondering, their song is Happy Together by The Turtles

[sofiaswrittendelusions]

“mine. always”

(aka you get hurt and Caleb is pissed 😍)

tw: mentions of injuries, possessive Caleb 😝, post-disappearance Caleb.

you are.

The first thing you know, before you see anything, before you hear anything, is that you are.

It’s not a comforting feeling at first. It’s just a fact, a presence that is there, undeniable. You don’t smell anything—no familiar scents of home or the usual warmth of Caleb’s jacket. You don’t hear anything—no hum of the air conditioner or the soft breathing of those around you.

But you are.

You are, and that simple truth is like a small, flickering light in the darkness, reminding you that you exist. That despite the ache in your body, despite everything that has happened, you are still here. You are still alive.

It’s almost a relief, but it’s also jarring. The absence of everything you normally rely on leaves you with the raw, fundamental truth: you are here, in this moment, and that is all you know for sure.

But you are.

You exist.

And something else exists right alongside you.

Warmth presses into your side, not gentle but consuming. A presence, overwhelming, solid, him.

Then, his voice—low, raw, dangerous in its quiet intensity.

“You’re awake.”

The words are calm, but there’s nothing calm about Caleb. Not really. His face hovers close, too close, his storm-blue eyes drilling into yours like he’s trying to anchor you there, to keep you from slipping away again

You try to speak, to ask what happened, but your throat is dry, and the words catch. His grip tightens ever so slightly—not cruel, just firm, as though he can’t bear the thought of you slipping away even for a second.

“Don’t.” His breath is ragged, but the command is absolute. “Don’t speak. Don’t move. I’ve got you. I’m not—” His voice breaks, just for a heartbeat. “Just don’t.”

there’s an uncomfortable silence for a minute, then another, none of you say anything as you fidget with the sheets of the hospital bed- you hate the texture of these. they make your skin feel itchy.

You try to sit up, but his hand- warm, rough and calloused stops you, he pushes you down and makes you lay back down.

then, he speaks.

“I’m going to ask you who did this to you,” he starts, his voice barely shaking. In a way that it’s barely noticeable. Maybe you notice because you’re you. Because- maybe deep down he is who he used to be. “And you’re going to tell me so I know who exactly I’m dealing with and so that I can-”

He stops himself when you take his hand.

He stops himself when you look up at him with those big damn eyes he loves so much.

And then he’s holding you.

Not carefully, not like he’s afraid of hurting you, but like he’s afraid of losing you. His arms crush you against his chest, his face pressing into your neck, and you can feel it—how hard he’s breathing, how his heart hammers against yours like it’s still trying to outrun the fear of losing you.

You hear him whisper your name. Once. Twice. A desperate mantra, as though saying it enough will prove you’re really here. Really alive.

“I thought—” His voice cracks again, harsher this time, his breath hitching. You feel damp warmth where his face rests against your shoulder.

He doesn’t finish that sentence either.

Instead, his grip tightens, just a little, and you realize it’s not just desperation—it’s relief. He’s holding you like he’s memorizing the shape of you all over again, as if to convince himself you’re real, safe, breathing. Alive.

And you hold him back.

[w1ll0wray]

I'm not sure if your requests are open but I loved your last vampire!jinx fic and I was wondering if we could maybe get another vampire!jinx smut but where she turns the reader? If you do it, thank you!

MY NEED FOR YOU ft. vampire jinx x fem!reader

⊹₊⟡⋆ summary: classic nepo baby, spoiled with the most exquisite pearls that ever touched earth. your father always spoiled you with anything you wanted, but one thing he always stood by was ‘no meddling with his coworkers’. Well father… does the one with the dashing looks and dangerously adorable smile count?

⊹₊⟡⋆warnings: coworker!jinx x boss!daughter, vampire!jinx x fem!reader, jinx turns reader into a vampire, men or minors dni, nsfw, blood tw, sharp fangs, blood exchange, spoiled brat reader, jealousy, banter, fem!reader receiving, smut, kinda enemies?

wc. 2.3k

𐙚 note | I’d really appreciate it if you would not only just like, but also reblog & give me feedback. thank you:)

this was a request; I hope this reached your expectations!

Staring at your father’s coworker, you sneered. Of course she’d be invited to the event.

Ignoring the ladies cooing at your cat, you continue running your fingers through her fur, eyes stuck on the blue-haired girl’s silhouette. She looked so…irresistible. 

Biting on the inside of your cheek, you squint your eyes at her attire— a dress shirt, a pair of dark pants and coat hanging off her shoulder. She was in the middle of a conversation with older people, a dangerously attractive grin spreading across her face. 

Glancing away, you turn your attention to your ladies pampering you with all the compliments in the world— eager for your acknowledgment. You were dressed in an off-the-shoulder black gown with lace and bow accents, paired with long dark gloves. Your outfit is adorned with Vivienne Westwood’s pearls.

Your cat had a similar choker, Vivienne Westwood’s team gifted it. To be fair, you outshined everyone in this event, even if you were seated on a couch in the living room. The mansion was huge, perfect for the gatherings your father held. 

Though, the only thing on your mind was Jinx lingering around. Your father’s young coworker, she was known for her insane creativity in the technology industry— of course she’d be here.

Feeling her presence come near, you snap your head up, watching her grab from the snack table a macaron. You scoffed a little too loud, because her gaze finally meets yours. 

“If it isn’t Jinx.” Your ladies look up, noticing the woman you were addressing to. Jinx pauses, the macaron half eaten in her hand, brow raising in amusement. 

She chuckles, taking a few steps closer towards your seated form, “Lazying about, as usual?” Her words prompt you to frown, but your lips immediately curved into a sarcastic smile, “And yet, I’m still the highlight of the room. Funny how that works.” You smirked, eyes momentarily trailing down to her lips. 

Jinx rolls her eyes, hand on her hip, “Oh, please. Do you seriously think anyone’s impressed by you just lying around?” She gave you a pointed look, a hint of annoyance in her voice. Your grin doesn’t falter, “Well—”

“—Jinx!” A woman’s voice cuts through the banter, arms wrapping around Jinx in an instance. You narrowed your gaze at the woman’s proximity. She then faces you, her brows raising, “Oh sorry— who are you?” Jinx waves a hand at your direction, “Just my coworker’s daughter. Here, let’s go grab drinks.” 

Your cheeks flushed with heat, a fire burning in your chest at the girl’s hand wrapping around Jinx’s arm. She was nothing compared to you, so why was Jinx hanging around a woman like her? The way she had dismissed you as her coworkers daughter made your blood boil, a storm of rage crashing inside you. 

Huffing, you push away the hands from caressing your cat, “Go away, all of you!” Your ladies frown, but obey, leaving you alone. Glancing at Jinx joyfully chatting with the woman, you abruptly stand up, cat in arms. Making your way to your father, you pulled him aside. 

“Father, i want that lady gone.” You point at the woman with Jinx, her disgusting laughter heard from a mile away. Your father frowned,

“Has she done anything?” 

Pausing for a split second, you quickly compose yourself, “She’s not dressed modestly enough and…she hurt my feelings.” He glanced at her dress, before mindlessly nodding to his body guard, “Go get that woman out.” 

He rubbed your arm comfortably, “Tell me if anything bothers you, darling.” He warmly kisses your forehead before continuing his business chat. You nodded, an innocent smile crept on your face as the body guard forcefully pushed the girl out. You turned to glance at Jinx, only to freeze under the weight of her glare—sharp and unimpressed, like she’d been aiming those daggers at you the whole time. 

Pulling your cat closer, you narrow your gaze as she stormed towards you. Once her musk cologne surrounds you, you brace for the argument you’re both about to have. But, regrettably for you, she only shoved your shoulder as she made her way out. Pouting, you stared at the grand door she just left from, puzzled by her behavior.  

For the next couple of hours, you scrolled through your phone in the filled living room, ignoring everyone even if they greeted you. You wanted Jinx. 

Even if she hated you— her attention was everything you craved for ever since meeting her last year. She never spoke to you like others, cautious of her coworker’s daughter. It annoyed you, how could she not get the hint? 

As you began taking your leave from the living room, wanting to cool off in your room, Jinx’s presence entered the room. Snapping your head towards the entrance, her glare met yours. She seemed furious, her strides quickening as she got closer to you. Noticing her palms clenched, her teeth gritting, you took hesitant steps up the stairs. As she reached you, you let your cat go, running up the stairs and through the halls.

Something about the way she was staring at you— as if she was hunting her prey, it made the hair on the back of your neck rise up. Running in heels was difficult, especially when you could hear her rapid footsteps behind you. Forcefully entering your room, you locked the door behind you. 

Sighing in relief, you squeezed your eyes shut and rested your body against the door. Once you stop hearing her footsteps,  you blink open your eyes, ready for a warm bath. 

“Thought you could get away with that, hm?” 

You snapped your head up in alarm. To your utter shock, she was standing right in front of you, her gaze piercing, like she’d been there all along. Your heart skipped a beat, confusion washing over you—how did she get in here?

Gulping, your eyes widened at her irises glowing pink. She took cautious steps towards you, impressed by your calm demeanor. The tip of her finger landed on your chin, lifting your head up, “I know it was you.” Her tone was harsh, indicating that she was upset. Trying to seem unbothered, you shrugged your shoulders, leaning your face closer, “It’s my house. I get to choose the guests—especially if they’re sluts from the streets.” Her jaw clenched, eyes wide. 

“And plus,” You continued, pushing her off, fingers lingering on the fabric of her shirt before walking off to your vanity. You sat down, unclasping your choker, rubbing on the bare skin of your neck, “...I didn’t appreciate the way she laid her hands on you." Hearing Jinx scoff, you dart your eyes at the mirror of your vanity, expecting to see her reflexion. 

But there was nothing. 

Whirling your head around, confusion flickers across your features at her still standing behind you. Your eyes flicked back for a double-take, panic arising. 

Abruptly standing up, your chair tumbled to the side,  “Something’s up with you.” Your head turned to the side, gaze on Jinx. Finally facing her, you took reluctant steps towards her, eyes squinting on her gorgeous appearance. Face-to-face, Jinx’s brow raised, amusement clear in her sinful smile, “Oh, really?” That raspy voice of hers prompted the inside of your stomach to do flips. 

Still watching her, you pointed at your vanity, “Your reflexion,” She glanced at the mirror, her teeth peeking through to bite her bottom lip, as if anticipating your response. Your heart hammered in your chest, “You have no reflexion—how’s that possible?” She only scoffed, but suddenly started laughing. 

 Her laughter was unsettling—too loud, too sudden, a burst of chaotic energy that filled your room. Your brows knit together, nose scrunching, “I asked you a question—?”

Her cackling stops out of nowhere. In a blink of an eye, her face is only a few inches away from yours, a mischievous glint in her eyes, “You’re so naïve.” Her voice was sugar-coated, making the insult hit harder. 

Sneering like a spoiled toddler, you stuck your face dangerously close, “Stop acting so high and mighty and answer my—“ 

The words died in my throat as she hissed, lips curling back to reveal sharp fangs that you swore could tear through your flesh. You froze, every instinct screaming at you to back away. Her eyes gleamed a magnetic pink, somehow luring you in. Your breath hitched, a cold chill running through your spine.

You’ve never seen a vampire before— but you seriously wanted to know if they all looked this breathtaking. Indeed, she looked terrifying but somehow, your heart betrayed you, pounding harder. 

She looked so ravishing, a dangerous beauty that stole your breath. Against all reason, a smile spread across your face, surprising even her. Jinx paused, her fierce expression flickering with confusion, as if she couldn’t understand why you weren’t trembling but smiling instead. 

Drawing closer to her, you catch a whiff of her addictive cologne, causing the erratic pounding of your heart. Grinning, your hands come up to rest on her collarbone, fingers tracing the fabric, “I don’t care if you’re some lunatic bloodsucker,” Your lashers flutter as you flick your gaze upwards, meeting her shimmering pink eyes. She doesn’t realize, but determination gleams in your expression. 

All at once, you seize the fabric of her collar, forcing her down, “,because it only increases my need for you.” Cutting off her gasp, your lips crashed into hers, swallowing the sound in an instant. 

Feeling her falter for a split second, you tangle your hand into her hair, pressing her closer, needing her lips. Though, she pushes you off, taking a few steps back. 

“You don’t know what your—“ 

You groan, fed up with her stalling, yanking her back by her collar, “Then turn me, Jinx.” She stares at you, stunned by your request. Raising a questioning brow, you let your lips linger a few inches away, hearing her breath hitch, “You belong to me, and only me.” You knew your father would probably disown you for doing this with his coworker, but his opinion didn’t matter to you. Only she did.

In a flash, her lips smash against yours, tightly cupping your face as she navigated you both scarily fast to the bed. Your back meets the mattress, dress riding up as your knees bend upwards, your heels falling off. Jinx’s lips attached to your neck, leaving a wet trail down your chest. Impatiently nudging her head, you force her up, “Kiss me.” Your lips nearly touch hers, but she pulls away. 

Tsking, she begins to tug at your dress, almost ripping it, “Take this off.” Her tone harsh. You only scowl in exchange, slapping her hand away, “It’s designer, don’t you dare rip it.” You pull up your dress, revealing the lace lingerie you had put on incase of this situation. Jinx stared at the bottoms doing practically nothing to hide your pussy, biting her lip in excitement, “You brat.” She huffs, spreading your legs and pulling the lingerie to the side. 

Immediately, your lips part to let out pleasured moans once her tongue steadily traces your folds. She doesn’t go easy on you, her lips sucking on your clit directly, prompting you to arch your back. Head tilting back, your fingers grab her hair roughly, making her wince. Out of nowhere, she backs away, your lips pouting as she stands beside the bed, leaving you bare. 

But a smile tugs at your lips when she rids of her layers, her finger tilting your head up when she spots you trying to peek down. Suddenly, she pulls down your underwear, raising one of your legs onto her shoulder. You bucked your hips, wanting her on you already. After making a noise of displeasure, Jinx finally grinds her cunt against yours. Letting out a gasp at the sensation of her pussy, you spread your legs further, whimpering when she began kissing up your leg. 

Your leg still over her shoulder, her head bent down, lips tickling your neck with feathered kisses. Having enough, you forced her head up, your lips hungrily latching into hers and your tongue entering her mouth. Letting you take control, she continued grinding against you, leading to you whining and partially pulling away. Her lips then trail down to your neck, licking on the spot directly above your pulse. 

“Do it.” You mumble, staring at the ceiling, feeling her pause. She then placed a soft kiss on your cheek, lifting her face till your foreheads touched, “It’s not a simple thing.” She flinched when your hands rested on the side of her head, a roll of your eyes following after, “I’m only doing it  if it means we get to live together.” 

She frowned before letting a small smile spread across her face, huffing, “..you really are a stubborn brat.” Her head then lowers to the crook of your neck, letting out a hiss before sinking her fangs into your skin. 

Wincing, you grabbed her hand as she drank your blood, tightening your hold as your vision began to blur. In the midst of your dizziness, you felt her pull away, spotting her sink her teeth into her wrist. Blood trickled down her wrist and onto your chest, coating it with the crimson liquid. She then approached her wrist to your lips, holding your head, “Drink up.” 

Obeying, your lips suck around the wound, swallowing down her blood. You didn’t know how to admit it— but her blood tasted sweet. Not noticing the time passing by, she tugged your head back, your dizziness gone. 

“…welcome to being immortal.” She hummed out, her lips still red from sucking you off. Grinning, you sat up and wrapped your arms around her. 

Locking eyes with her, you pushed a loose stray away from her face, addicted to that scent radiating off of her, “You better workship me for this.” 

banners creds. not my best work oops but hope u enjoyed!! I’m also aware my masterlist doesn’t exist haha I’ll get around to doing it. requests r still open n reblogs r appreciated!!

[cjayius]

INTO IT — LEE HEESEUNG

SYNOPSIS. you have always hated heeseung. unfortunately, he's a world famous racer, and you're his team manager. but when he crashes during a race, you're met with feelings for him that you don't quite recognize.

pairing. racer!heeseung x f!reader wc. 0.52k tw. mentions of hee crashing , hugging genre. fluff , e2l (?) ( CATALOGUE )

as you both step out into the bustling racing area, you can feel the tension in the air. the pitwall is abuzz with activity as you and heeseung stand among the important figures of the racing team.

arguments aren't uncommon between the two of you, and today is no exception.

heeseung's frustration is palpable, his jaw set firmly as he glares at you, hands clenched into fists at his sides. " you can't be serious about this, " you retort, your voice edged with exasperation, arms defiantly crossed over your chest.

" you're taking unnecessary risks out there, heeseung. " his response is sharp, a scoff escaping his lips as he steps closer, his face mere inches from yours.

" i know what i'm doing, okay ? stop treating me like i'm some rookie driver who needs babysitting. "

your eyes narrow at him, anger flashing through them. " you're being reckless, heeseung. i won't stand by and watch you put yourself in danger. you're not doing it. "

with a dismissive wave of his hand, heeseung turns away, stomping toward his car, jaw clenched. you watch him go, a knot of anger only tightening in your chest as he climbs into the vehicle, movements tense and aggressive.

as heeseung's car speeds around the track, you can't help but feel a sense of anxiety. despite your frustration with him, you can't shake the worry that gnaws at you as you watch him twist around the course.

suddenly, a collective gasp ripples through the crowd as his car swerves abruptly, crashing into the barriers with a sickening thud.

your heart leaps into your throat as panic courses through you, hands gripping the edge of the pitwall with a force so strong you could have broken it. frantically, you reach for the radio, voice trembling as you call out, " heeseung, are you okay ? answer me, please ! "

no response.

" heeseung, please ! " but there's no response, and dread settles heavily in the pit of your stomach and you watch, helpless, as the race officials rush to the scene. time seems to stand still as you wait for any sign of movement from his car.

your mind was already racing with the worst-case scenarios.

finally, relief floods through you as you see him emerge from the wreckage, seemingly unscathed. but any relief is quickly replaced by anger as you realize he's smirking, reveling in the worry he's caused you.

storming towards him, your frustration boils over as you slap his chest. " what the hell were you thinking ? do you have any idea how worried i was ? you could've gotten seriously hurt ! "

his smirk falters, but before he can respond, your anger melts away, and without thinking, you wrap your arms tightly around him, pulling him into a hug.

for a moment, there's a stunned silence between you, the weight of the moment hanging in the air. heeseung's surprise quickly gives way to a soft chuckle as he returns the embrace, his arms enveloping you.

" i'm okay, stop worrying so much. " he hums into the crook of your neck as he wraps his arms tighter around your figure.

for a moment, the world falls away, but then reality comes crashing back, and you hastily pull away, cheeks burning with embarrassment as you remember that you're supposed to hate each other.

clearing your throat awkwardly, you take a step back, avoiding heeseung's gaze as you try to compose yourself. " well, um, i'm glad you're okay, " you mutter, voice betraying you as you let out a shaky breath.

he watches with amusement, as you rush away from him, cheeks flushed. he was going to get you to say it.

taglist : @so-lychee @mellowdyverse @bambisnc

[kisses-for-you]

shot - e. buckley

evan buckley x gn!reader

summary: a visit to the 118 goes wrong when a grief-stricken man with a gun storms in.

w/c: 2.4k

⚠️ TW: gun, shooting

You made your way to the 118 firehouse, a container of cheesecake cradled in your arms. You'd baked it especially for them, making sure to save an extra slice for Chimney, who had raved about it last time.

As you stepped inside, Buck greeted you with his signature smile, his blue eyes lighting up as he noticed the dessert in your hands. "You really didn't have to," he said, pulling you into a hug. "I wanted to," you replied, enjoying the comfort of his embrace. "Besides, Chimney practically begged for more last time."

Buck laughed, taking the cheesecake from you and leading you upstairs to set it on the table where the rest of the crew was gathered. "You should stay awhile," he suggested. "At least until the next call." It didn't take much convincing. Spending time with Buck and his team always made you feel like you were part of something special - they were like a second family to you.

But the peaceful atmosphere didn't last.

About fifteen minutes later, a shout echoed from downstairs, shattering the mood. Everyone turned their heads toward the commotion, a collective unease settling over the group. Everyone exchanged wary glances before rising to investigate. As you all gathered at the top of the staircase, what you saw sent a cold chill down your spine. A man stood at the bottom, brandishing a gun, his voice trembling with rage and desperation. "You killed my wife!" he screamed, his face contorted in agony. "Now you're all going to pay!" The man's behavior sent a wave of fear through you as he ordered everyone downstairs.

Your heart pounded in your chest, but you couldn't afford to panic. Slowly, you began descending the stairs with the others, taking note of the man's shaky hands, the sweat beading on his forehead, and the wild look in his eyes. You leaned toward Buck, your voice barely above a whisper. "Look at him closely, babe. He looks like he's under the influence of something."

Buck followed your gaze, his brows furrowing as he observed the man more closely. You continue, "His hands are trembling a lot, he's sweating excessively and his eyes look wide and panicked. That can't be normal." Buck nodded in agreement, whispering back, "You're right. If he really is under the influence, it makes this ten times more dangerous because he could be unpredictable. We need to be careful."

Before you could say anything else, the man's eyes snapped to you. "What are you whispering about?" he demanded. "N-nothing," you stuttered, hating how fear made your voice falter. "Better be," he growled, his eyes darting between you and Buck.

Buck gently put his hand on the small of your back, his touch bringing some comfort to you. ‌"It's okay, baby. We'll be fine," he tried to reassure you, but he didn't seem so certain himself.

Once you were downstairs, everyone spread out slightly, but Buck stayed close, his touch never leaving you. The man's breathing was erratic, and he was clearly unstable. You kept glancing at Buck, who kept his hand lightly on your back, a silent promise that he wouldn't let anything happen to you. "Stay calm," Buck whispered again, his voice low and controlled, even though you could feel his pulse quicken through the light pressure of his hand.

The man's gaze darted between the firefighters, paranoia swirling in his bloodshot eyes. His grip on the gun tightened, knuckles white against the metal. "You think I'm bluffing?" he growled, eyes wild. "You think I won't do it?"

‌Behind you, Eddie slowly moved to your right, his movements so subtle that you almost didn't notice. You could tell he was preparing for something, but you weren't sure what. ‌Chimney tried to reason with the man, "We're not the ones who hurt your wife, man. Let's talk about this, figure out what happened. There's no need for this to get worse."

‌The man's hand shook even more violently, the gun bobbing in the air. "Shut up! You don't know anything!"

Hen had positioned herself slightly to the left, closer to the phone. The man glanced away for a moment, his focus faltering. ‌But then, suddenly, he snapped back to you and Buck, eyes narrowing. "You two," he snarled, pointing the gun directly at you. "You were whispering. Come here."

Buck stepped forward in front of you, shielding you instinctively. "Leave her out of this. She's not the one you want," he said, his voice dangerously steady, but there was a tremor underneath that only you could hear. The man's eyes darted between the two of you, flickering with uncertainty. His breathing grew more erratic by the second. You knew Buck was ready to move if he had to, but the wrong move could end disastrously.

‌You took a deep breath, trying to keep your voice steady as you started to speak, hoping to diffuse the situation as best as you could. "We don't want any trouble. Please, just put the gun down. We can talk this out, okay?"

‌The man wavered for a split second, his grip faltering. His eyes flickered to you, and for a moment, you saw some uncertainty, or even hesitation. His grip on the gun loosened slightly, his stance wavering. You hoped this would de-escalate or else this would all spiral out of control.‌ "You don't have to do this," you said softly, keeping your hands where he could see them. "Whatever happened to your wife, it wasn't their fault. They're just here to help."

‌For a moment, the man looked confused at your words. He probably assumed you were also a firefighter but he seemed to realise that you weren't. Then, his face twisted in anger. "Help? You call letting her die helping?" His voice cracked, desperation leaking into his words. He looked over at the rest of the 118. "I trusted you guys. She trusted you!"

‌Eddie inched a little closer, but the man suddenly noticed the movement, snapping his attention back to Eddie. "Stop!" he yelled, pointing the gun wildly between all of you. "Stay where you are! I swear, I'll shoot!" ‌Eddie froze, hands up, and you felt your heart hammering in your chest. Buck stepped closer to you again, his body tense, ready to move if needed. ‌"Listen," Buck said, his voice calm but firm. "We're sorry about what happened to your wife. But this isn't going to help. This isn't going to bring her back. Please, let's just talk."

‌The man's face contorted with pain, his eyes glossy, filled with unshed tears. His arm was trembling so badly that you feared he might pull the trigger by accident. His voice wavered, "I-I don't know what to do anymore..."

‌Hen, who'd managed to get a little closer to the phone, locked eyes with you. She signalled for you to keep him talking. The longer you stalled, the better chance you had of getting help. ‌Taking a breath, you spoke gently. "I can't imagine how much you're hurting. Losing someone like that... it's unbearable. But this isn't what your wife would want."

‌He lightly flinched at that, and you knew you'd struck something deep. Did you say the wrong thing? You hoped you hadn't or you could end up dead - or even worse, one of the 118. "You don't know what she'd want," he muttered, though the conviction in his voice was fading.

‌"I don't," you admitted. "But I can tell you loved her. And I know that if she was here right now, she'd want you to be safe. She wouldn't want you to throw your life away."

‌Tears slipped down his cheeks, and his hand shook violently, the gun lowering just slightly. But then, almost out of nowhere, a sharp ring pierced the air - the phone. ‌The man jumped, startled by the sound, and in his panic, his finger tightened on the trigger.

Bang!

Everything happened in a blur. You felt Buck pulling you to the ground as the shot rang out. There was shouting, movement all around, and you didn't even know where the bullet went. Your ears rang from the sound, and your heart felt like it was about to burst out of your chest.

‌When you finally managed to focus again, you saw Eddie and Bobby rushing toward the man, disarming him as he stumbled backward in shock. Hen and Chimney were already moving to check on everyone.

‌Buck looked down at you, still shielding you even though the danger had passed. Until he felt something. ‌Buck pulled away slightly, his eyes widening in horror as he noticed the blood soaking through your shirt. "No, no, no..." he muttered, his hands trembling as he pressed down on your abdomen. You hadn't even realized you'd been hit, the shock of everything numbing the pain.

‌"Buck?" your voice came out weaker than you intended and the moment you heard it, the reality started to sink in. The bullet must have hit you. You tried to focus, but the pain was spreading, sharp and hot.

‌"Hey, stay with me," Buck said urgently, panic creeping into his voice. "You're gonna be okay. Chim! Hen!" His voice cracked as he called for help, but you could barely focus on him anymore. The world felt fuzzy at the edges, the sound of everyone around you starting to blur.

‌Chimney was beside you in an instant, his hands moving quickly to assess the wound. "Alright, we've got you," Chim said, his voice steadier than Buck's, but you could see the worry etched in his face. Hen was already rushing to grab supplies and Eddie tried to move Buck to the side but Buck refused to budge, his hand still pressed against the wound, his eyes locked on yours. "Stay with me, please," Buck whispered, his voice breaking. You could see the desperation in his eyes, his fear for you palpable.

‌Chimney spoke more urgently now. "Buck, you need to let us work. We need to stop the bleeding." ‌Buck hesitated, his grip tightening as if letting go of you would mean losing you, but finally, he stepped back, allowing Chimney to take over. Hen was back in seconds, placing pressure on the wound as Chimney worked quickly, his face calm but focused.

‌You felt Buck's hand grasp yours, his fingers trembling. "You're gonna be fine," he kept saying, over and over, as if trying to convince himself as much as you. But your body felt heavy, the pain sharp. ‌You tried to speak, to tell him you were okay, but the words wouldn't come out. Instead, you just squeezed his hand weakly, hoping it was enough.

‌"Hang in there," Hen said as she prepared an IV, her hands moving swiftly. "We'll get you to the hospital soon."

‌Everything felt like it was moving in slow motion. The world around you was dimming, the edges of your vision going dark. You could hear the sirens in the distance, you knew help was coming but it felt so far away. Buck's voice was the only thing grounding you, the only thing keeping you from slipping away entirely.

‌"I love you," Buck said, his voice barely above a whisper, the words laced with fear. "Please... don't leave me." ‌You tried to hold on to that, to his voice, to the warmth of his hand, but the pain was overwhelming. The last thing you saw before the darkness took over was your boyfriend's face, tear-streaked and terrified, as the world faded to black.

(TIMESKIP - the next day)

When you finally woke up, the harsh lights above blurred into focus. Your body felt heavy, your chest tight with pain. For a moment, everything was hazy, and you couldn't remember how you got there, but then it hit you like a truck. The gunman, the shot, Buck's terrified voice.

‌You blinked, your vision clearing just enough to see Buck sat beside you, his eyes red and puffy from crying. His hand was wrapped around yours, his grip so tight you wondered if he'd been holding it like that the whole time.

‌"Buck," you whispered, your voice weak. The simple act of speaking made your throat burn, but you needed to let him know you were here, okay - or at least alive. ‌"You're awake," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. He sat up straighter, leaning closer to you. "Thank God, you're awake."

‌You managed a weak smile, though every movement felt like a huge effort. "Hey," you whisper, "It's okay, Buck. I'm okay."

‌Buck let out a breathy laugh, though it was laced with a kind of relief and disbelief. "You scared the hell out of me," he said, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand. "I thought-" He swallowed hard, his voice cracking slightly. "I thought I was going to lose you."

‌Buck looked like he was barely holding it together. "Baby, your heart stopped. It-" he paused, his voice shaking. "But they brought you back. You're okay now. You're going to be okay." He said it like he's reassuring himself. ‌You glanced down at yourself, seeing the bandages across your abdomen. It hurt but the pain was nothing compared to the fear you had felt before everything went black.

‌"I was so scared," Buck continued, his voice breaking as he squeezed your hand again. "I couldn't do anything but watch you bleed, and I..." He trailed off, shaking his head as if trying to shake away the memory. "I don't know what I would've done if we lost you."

‌"Shh," you murmured, managing to lift your other hand weakly to touch his face. "I'm right here." ‌He closed his eyes at the touch, leaning into your hand. "I love you," he whispered again, like he needed you to know, like you might forget if he doesn't say it enough. "You mean everything to me."

‌Tears stung your eyes, the overwhelming emotions mixing with the pain in your body. "I love you too, Buck," you whispered back. The words were weak, but they were all you could give him in that moment.

‌He smiled, though it was shaky, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. "Just rest, okay? The doctors said you're going to need time to heal."

‌You nodded slowly, exhaustion starting to pull at you again. The pain meds were dulling the ache in your body but your body was craving rest. As you closed your eyes again, Buck's hand stayed firmly in yours. He promised himself he would stay with you however long you needed him to.

911 masterlist