#t&t: the road to obsession

[dianahwang]

Tracks and Trails: The Road to Obsession. EPISODE 1

produção by: Leong Ning. 2024

DANDO A LARGADA

[ABERTURA] (Cenas rápidas e dinâmicas mostram Diana e sua banda em diferentes momentos dos eventos descritos, intercaladas com imagens de estrada, palcos e fãs. A trilha instrumental de Chasing Sunsets cria um tom empolgante e emotivo.)

"O que acontece antes das luzes se acenderem, das vozes ecoarem e dos aplausos tomarem conta? Bem-vindo ao por trás dos bastidores de The Obsession, onde cada nota tem uma história, cada show é um novo capítulo, e cada viagem nos leva mais perto do que nos move."

Os primeiros raios do sol espiavam através das cortinas de um estúdio de ensaio em Los Angeles. O ar estava impregnado de expectativa, pontuado pelo som abafado da bateria de Oliver, que fazia os ajustes finais. NecroSynth, o tecladista conhecido por sua presença hipnótica no palco, testava uma sequência melódica enquanto murmurava algo para si mesmo. Joshua, o baixista, afinava seu instrumento com a expressão tranquila de quem sabia exatamente o que estava por vir. Ryu, sempre meticuloso, ajustava os pedais da guitarra, franzindo o cenho como se cada detalhe fosse crucial.

No centro de tudo estava Diana, de pé ao microfone, com seus cabelos ruivos vibrando sob a luz artificial, entregue as sensações únicas que cantar lhe trazia. Ela fechou os olhos, permitindo-se alguns segundos para absorver a energia dos colegas de banda. A música que surgiria dali seria o começo de uma jornada única — e todos sabiam disso.

SEGMENTO 1: PREPARAÇÃO PARA O THE KELLY CLARKSON SHOW (Câmera entra no estúdio de ensaio da banda. Diana está ajustando o microfone enquanto a banda faz o aquecimento.)

DIANA (OFF): "Performar ao vivo em um programa como o da Kelly é uma oportunidade única. É mais do que apenas música—é sobre me conectar com o público que não apenas ouve, mas sente cada verso."

O sol de outubro banhava Los Angeles em tons dourados enquanto o ônibus da banda de Diana estacionava em frente ao estúdio do The Kelly Clarkson Show. Lá dentro, a energia era palpável: uma mistura de entusiasmo e foco. Diana ajustava seu microfone no camarim, enquanto os outros membros da banda faziam os últimos preparativos.

Oliver batucava distraidamente nas pernas, criando um ritmo que parecia ressoar com o coração pulsante do grupo. “Pronto para mais um?” ele perguntou, com um sorriso.

“Só mais um?” Ryu brincou enquanto afinava sua guitarra. “Irmão, estamos só começando.” Joshua mexia no celular, revisando a setlist enviada pela produção. “Vai ser direto ao ponto, do jeito que Diana gosta. 'Chasing Sunsets' vai detonar ao vivo.”

Perto da porta, Dhew, ajustava os óculos de sol sobre a cabeça e ria com a descontração que só ele conseguia trazer à equipe. “Alguém viu meu teclado? Ou melhor, alguém viu meu café?” Diana, com os cabelos ruivos brilhando sob a luz do camarim, deu uma risada suave. “Se alguém não achou seu café até agora, é porque o Oliver pegou.”

"O primeiro passo na jornada foi o The Kelly Clarkson Show, onde Diana compartilhou não apenas sua música, mas também suas histórias."

(Cena de Diana conversando com Kelly no camarim, mostrando o tom descontraído e amigável da entrevista.)

A entrevista com Kelly foi um misto de profundidade e leveza. Diana falou sobre The Obsession com sinceridade: “É um álbum sobre encarar seus próprios demônios e encontrar a força para dançar com eles.”

Quando a hora da performance chegou, o palco foi tomado por uma aura mágica. Ryu puxou os primeiros acordes, enquanto NecroSynth criava um fundo atmosférico que parecia levar a audiência para outra dimensão. Diana, de olhos fechados, começou a cantar Chasing Sunsets. Sua voz carregava emoção crua, acompanhada pelo ritmo pulsante de Oliver e Joshua, que sustentavam a melodia com precisão e alma.

SEGMENTO 2: SPOTIFY FANS FIRST (Imagens dos bastidores mostram Diana revisando o setlist e interagindo com a equipe do evento.)

Cinco dias depois, a atmosfera no evento Spotify Fans First era íntima e calorosa. Diana e a banda estavam cercados por fãs que haviam sido selecionados para essa ocasião especial.

DIANA (OFF): "Uma sessão como essa é mágica. É uma chance de olhar nos olhos dos fãs e realmente conversar com eles sobre o que minha música significa para eles."

Com os membros da banda ao redor, Diana sentou-se em um pequeno palco e começou a tocar as primeiras notas de The Obsession. Cada música era precedida de uma história ou uma confissão.

“Essa aqui,” ela disse, olhando para Ryu, “foi construída em torno de um riff que ele me trouxe. Eu sabia que era especial desde o primeiro momento.”

Ryu, tímido, deu de ombros, mas não conseguiu esconder o sorriso. Enquanto tocavam, Andrew ria com Joshua e Oliver entre os sets, mostrando a leveza que a banda traz para todos os momentos, mesmo os mais sérios.

As perguntas dos fãs trouxeram lágrimas e risadas. “Quando você escreveu Dopamine,” uma jovem começou, “você sabia que ajudaria alguém a passar pelos momentos mais difíceis?”

Diana olhou para ela com ternura. “Eu só sabia que precisava escrever para me ajudar. Mas ouvir isso de você significa que fizemos algo certo.”

(Cenas do evento: Diana conversando com fãs, risadas durante o Q&A, e momentos emocionantes enquanto compartilha inspirações das músicas.)

"Intimidade. Essa foi a palavra que definiu o encontro no Spotify Fans First, onde histórias por trás de cada faixa de The Obsession foram reveladas."

SEGMENTO 3: WELCOME TO ROCKVILLE FESTIVAL (Cenas aéreas do festival em Daytona Beach, destacando a multidão animada e o palco principal.)

Quando chegaram ao Welcome to Rockville Festival, a atmosfera mudou novamente. Era o maior palco que haviam encarado desde o lançamento de The Obsession. No backstage, a banda estava focada. Diana afinava os vocais com Oliver batucando na parede, enquanto Ryu e Joshua discutiam os detalhes do setlist. NecroSynth, com sua energia inesgotável, brincava sobre como precisava “roubar o show”. Quando as luzes se apagaram e o público começou a gritar, Diana sentiu um arrepio percorrer sua espinha. “Estamos juntos nisso,” disse ela, olhando para seus companheiros de banda. O show começou com um impacto estrondoso. The Exorcism reverberava pelo festival, e o público respondia como uma força viva. “Daytona Beach!” ela gritou ao microfone, sua voz ecoando sobre milhares de cabeças. “Vamos fazer história hoje à noite!”

A banda respondeu com uma intensidade implacável. Oliver parecia se fundir com sua bateria, enquanto Ryu e Joshua criavam uma sinfonia eletrizante. NecroSynth, com seus movimentos fluídos, quase dançava enquanto seus dedos corriam pelo teclado

Após o show, o meet & greet trouxe momentos emocionantes. Diana abraçou uma fã que mostrou uma tatuagem inspirada em The Obsession, enquanto Oliver fazia piadas que arrancavam risadas de todos. Ryu, sempre atencioso, conversava com um garoto sobre técnicas de guitarra, enquanto Dhew distribuía autógrafos com um sorriso triunfante.

SEGMENTO 4: UM DESCANSO EM EDIMBURGO (Cenas de toda a movimentação no aeroporto LAX, onde Diana e Trevor são capturados adentrando no jatinho particular.)

Chegando à Escócia, a atmosfera mudou instantaneamente. As ruas de paralelepípedo de Edimburgo, cercadas por construções históricas, pareciam retiradas de um livro de fantasia. Diana, de braços dados com Trevor, olhava maravilhada para o horizonte enquanto o Castelo de Edimburgo se erguia em toda a sua grandiosidade. "Eu sempre quis visitar esse lugar,” disse ela, puxando o marido para uma foto, o sorriso de Diana era radiante e Trevor parecia completamente absorvido por ela.

O vídeo mostrava o casal explorando os pontos mais emblemáticos da cidade. Na Victoria Street, Diana se encantava com as vitrines coloridas das lojas locais. Trevor, por outro lado, estava mais interessado em encontrar a cafeteria perfeita. Eles se sentaram em um pequeno café com vista para a rua, onde Trevor pediu um flat white e Diana um chá de hortelã.

"Trevor e eu adoramos conhecer a culinária local e digamos de passagem que dessa vez estamos mais famintos que o normal." assentiu Diana quando arqueou ambas as sobrancelhas para Trevor, que respondeu com uma risada. Os olhares cúmplices e as risadas compartilhadas entre eles eram facilmente capturados.

DIANA (OFF): "Desde que nos casamos, Trevor e eu sempre tiramos um momento para nós, principalmente quando nossas agendas estão bem cheias e durante os dias não conseguimos ter um tempo de qualidade como um casal. Algumas vezes estamos bem cansados. Por isso, nada melhor que viagens de fim de semana para espairecer. Somos merecedores"

Um dos momentos mais marcantes da viagem aconteceu durante um passeio ao longo da Arthur's Seat, uma trilha que levava a uma vista panorâmica da cidade. O vento gelado bagunçava os cabelos de Diana, mas ela não parecia se importar. “Isso me faz lembrar das viagens que fazia para me reconectar comigo mesma, como também nas trilhas que Trevor e eu costumamos fazer em Los Angeles." disse ela, olhando para o horizonte. Trevor a abraçou por trás, oferecendo o calor que o clima não proporcionava.

“E agora, você se reconecta com a gente,” ele respondeu, com um sorriso sereno.

À noite, as ruas iluminadas de Edimburgo criavam um cenário mágico. Diana e Trevor jantaram em um restaurante acolhedor, onde trocaram histórias sobre as semanas intensas que tinham vivido. Diana comentou sobre a adrenalina dos shows, enquanto Trevor falou sobre os desafios em sua posição como CTO da NVIDIA.

“Eu amo sabe,” refletiu Diana, “mesmo nos dias mais difíceis, eu sei que posso contar com você.” Trevor segurou a mão dela, respondendo com um olhar que dispensava palavras.

Antes de voltarem para Los Angeles, uma última cena surgiu: Diana e Trevor caminhando de mãos dadas na manhã do dia 10, enquanto o céu nublado da Escócia criava um contraste com a energia leve dos dois.

“Foi curto, mas perfeito,” disse Diana, olhando para a câmera.

“Até porque descansar muito não é nosso estilo,” completou Trevor com um sorriso.

SEGMENTO 5: ENCERRAMENTO DO EPISÓDIO (Montagem de cenas da viagem entre os eventos, mostrando a banda em vans, aviões e se divertindo nos intervalos.)

"Três eventos, três cidades, três formas de conexão. Mas essa é apenas a largada para a jornada que nos leva ao coração de The Obsession. No próximo episódio, prepare-se para mais histórias, desafios e, claro, música."

De volta ao ônibus da turnê, a banda estava exausta, mas satisfeita. Diana olhava pela janela, observando as luzes que passavam. Ryu, com sua câmera em mãos, sentou-se ao lado dela. “Isso é só o começo, não é?” perguntou o guitarrista.

Diana sorriu. “É. E ainda temos muito para mostrar.”

O episódio termina com imagens capturadas por Diana: sorrisos, olhares cúmplices e a energia única que só existe nos bastidores de uma banda em ascensão.

[onesnoopyaday]

Snoopy #35

5/11/2024

[outoftheseine]

- BUCKY BARNES FIC RECS 4 -

i’m so obsessed with catws!bucky you have no idea | note: please be aware of the authors’ warnings before reading. fics include canon tw’s like: violence, death, grief. torture and ptsd. some fics have 18+ content so minors please DNI.

part one | part two | part three | main masterlist | also check my latest list: matt murdock pt 2

SERIES - MULTI-CHAPTERS

the blade and the crown • knight!bucky barnes x queen!reader

↳ by @fandoms-writings (smut, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, secret relationship)

avoidance | chaos | strangers | power • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @ultralightpoe (angst, hurt/comfort, tw: ptsd)

illicit affairs • biker!bucky barnes x stark!reader

↳ by @auroralwriting (enemies to lovers, age gap, angst, gangs)

between a dream | part two | part three • tws!bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @bcksbarnes (angst, comfort, fluff)

before i could say it • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @fawniswriting (angst, fluff, insecure!bucky)

lessons in lovemaking • bucky barnes x blackwidow!reader

↳ by @artficlly (smut, touch starved!bucky, fluff, angst, bickering, tw: trauma, sa)

foundations • bucky barnes x fem!reader

↳ by @vunblr (dad!bucky, fluff, a little angsty, smut)

not in that way • bucky barnes x fwb!gn!reader

↳ by @jaggedamethyst (smut, mutual pining, miscommunication, angst, fluff)

say don’t go • college!hockey!bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @the-winter-spider (angst, mean!bucky, pining, smut)

wake up | part two | part three • avenger!bucky barnes x avenger!reader

↳ by @marvelstoriesepic (very angsty)

the falcon, the winter soldier and static • bucky barnes x stark!reader

↳ by @theconstantsidekick

quiet down | stay quiet • roommate!bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @adrinktostopyourthirst (smut)

the soldier’s keeper • bucky barnes x doctor!reader | soldat (part of the universe)

by @pome-seed (angst, kidnapping)

ONE-SHOTS - BLURBS - HC’S

be(tter) in reality with me • bucky barnes x pregnant!fem!reader

↳ by @t-lostinworlds (angst, hurt/comfort, fluff)

dear lover • bucky barnes x fem!reader

↳ by @johnkrrasinski (very fluffy, slight angst)

my girl • domestic!bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @bucky-bucket-barnes (very fluffy)

the cure • bucky barnes x avenger!reader

↳ by @/bucky-bucket-barnes (very angsty, hurt/comfort, slowburn, fluff)

fast track • bucky barnes x fem!reader

↳ by @sidmakestuff (angst with happy ending, hurt/comfort, insecure!bucky, little explicit)

the rain is always gonna come if you’re standing with me • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky (angst, tw: harassment)

for as long as you need me • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @whatthetumblfck (fluff, hurt/comfort)

worthy • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @duuhrayliegh (fluff)

softened by time • bucky barnes x gn!reader

↳ by @heyitsme1040 (domestic fluff)

his girl • bucky barnes x enchanced!reader

↳ by @roguerogerss (fluff)

enemies • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @ro-is-struggling (angst, hurt/comfort, enemies to friends, tw: trauma)

the same thing • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @appocalipse (angst with happy ending)

rest had seemed the sweetest thing • bucky barnes x fem!reader

↳ by @violentdelightsandviolentends (sooo fluffy)

i know you • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @oneofstarkskids (angst, fluff)

road trip • bucky barnes x fem!reader

↳ by @munsster (fluff, a little angst)

come find me • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky (angst, hurt/comfort)

mercy kill • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky (very angsty)

unspoken • bucky barnes x fem!reader

↳ by @maevedoodle (comfort, nightmares, fluff)

sweet like plums • cw!bucky barnes x fem!reader

↳ by @mandoalorian (smut)

summer breeze • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @orithyia-eriphyle (very fluffy, hurt/comfort)

safe space • avenger!bucky barnes x avenger!reader

↳ by @helaintoloki (angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, tw: ptsd, trauma, torture)

echos • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @brokenbarnes (very angsty but fluffy end, hurt/comfort)

trouble • bucky barnes x fem!reader /

↳ by @marvelwitchergilmore (enemies to lovers, fluff, fake dating)

a place to land • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @cheekybarnes (angst, comfort, tw: sexual violence, ptsd)

lost for words • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @daxisyzz (fluff)

his girls • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @artficlly (very fluffy, secret dating)

lovesick • bucky barnes x maximoff!reader

↳ by @ang3ltine (fluff, little angsty, tw: torture)

sparing you • beefy!bucky barnes x avenger!fem!reader

↳ by @sergeantbarnessdoll (fluff, slight angst)

love bruises • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @multiversediaries (very soft, fluffy, domestic!buck, a little smutty)

hole in the earth• bucky barnes x mutant!fem!reader

↳ by @em1i2a3 (smut, angst, age gap, hurt/comfort, tw: panic attacks)

only you, doll • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @billionairebratenergy (fluff, kind of possessive!bucky)

home with you • roommate!bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @marvelstoriesepic (oh so fluffy, lots of pining)

creamy or crunchy • avenger!bucky barnes x avenger!reader

↳ by @marvelstoriesepic (so so so fluffy, protective!bucky)

mission mishap • avenger!bucky barnes x avenger!fem!reader

↳ by @mugglebornmarvelite (hurt/comfort, fluff)

bruised shadows • bucky barnes x fem!reader

↳ by @happy74827 (slight angst, hurt/comfort, grumpy x sunshine)

what you do to him • bucky barnes x fem!reader

↳ by @xxthelovelyopossumiixx (domestic, smut)

scars to your beautiful • bucky barnes x reader

↳ by @buckybarnesandmarvel (insecure!bucky, comfort)

blurred lines • bucky barnes x fem!reader

↳ by @ellemj (smut, angst, enemies to lovers, jealous,possessive!bucky, one bed trope)

[spikedfearn]

Under the Blood Moon

Part II

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: A year has passed since he took you—since the chapel became your prison, then your home. You love him now. You kiss him back. You call him husband. But when vampire hunters break in to “save” you, they’re not met with gratitude—they’re met with claws, fangs, and a wrath that leaves blood on the altar. In the aftermath, with his hands still stained and your body trembling in his arms, a quiet truth surfaces: you might be carrying something more than love.

wc: 7.1k

a/n: UTBM 2 has easily been my most heavily requested sequel, so I'm here to finally make good on that promise!! While this wraps the immediate arc, I do plan to write another part at some point, exploring what comes next now that something new is growing between them!!

warnings: heavy dubcon, dead dove: do not eat, blood kink, period sex, heavy breeding kink, monsterfucking, possessive behavior, coercive control, demon x human dynamics, religious imagery, breeding/ownership language, filthy talk, cockdrunk reader, forced orgasm, restraints/restraint kink, forced captivity, manipulation, southern gothic horror, explicit sexual content, obsession, violence, rough sex, blood play, dark romance, somnophilia undertones (reader too weak to consent properly), gore, murder, body horror, emotional manipulation, pregnancy themes, psychological conditioning, trauma bonding, devotion through violence, canon-typical Remmick unhingery, homegrown cult wife aesthetics

likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated!! Please enjoy!!

Fic Masterlist/Main Masterlist

M I N D T H E T A G S

Part II: And Lead Her Down the Rocky Road

The air hangs thick tonight—slow and wet and warm, the kind of heat that slicks your skin and clings to your lungs. Somewhere in the trees, a bullfrog sings loud and stupid into the night, and cicadas thrum so hard it feels like your bones vibrate with them.

You sit in Remmick’s lap like you’ve done a hundred times before—knees bracketing his thighs, your bare feet tucked against the curve of his calves. The ruined chapel has long since become home, no longer rotting but reclaimed—patched with pelts and scavenged velvet, dried herbs and bones hung over the windows to keep out things meaner than him.

His hands are on you. They always are.

One wide palm rests heavy at your hip, the other dragging idle circles across the base of your spine—not guiding, not restraining, just touching. Claiming. Reminding.

You’re in one of his shirts, faded and worn, the collar stretched from him tugging it down to bite at your shoulder earlier. Your thighs are bare, still sticky from the last time he touched you there.

He hasn’t spoken in a while. Just watches you.

You’ve learned he does that when something is brewing. When the heat inside him is less hunger and more...something else. Something quieter. Not softer. Just deeper.

You glance down at him. His head tilts.

"What?" you ask—barely above a murmur, throat tacky with wine and swamp air.

Remmick smiles. That slow, amused pull of his lips, eyes red in the candlelight.

"Nothin'," he drawls. "Just sittin here lookin' at my lil’ missus, wonderin' when she got so soft on me."

Your stomach does something awful and warm. You roll your eyes.

"Don’t call me that," you mutter.

He just chuckles. The sound wraps around your spine and pulls.

"Y'ain’t denyin’ it."

You scowl—but your hands are still on his shoulders. Your body hasn’t moved.

He leans forward just enough to nuzzle your jaw, the scruff of his face scraping your skin. When he presses his mouth just under your ear, you feel his grin against you.

"Used to flinch every time I touched ya," he murmurs. "Now look atcha. Ridin' me like a lil' house cat in heat."

You hate how hot it makes you—how your thighs clench over his hips, how you can feel your cunt ache at the sound of his voice.

"Shut up," you mutter, cheeks burning.

"Ain't lyin'," he says, voice slow and fond. "My good girl. My lil’ missus. All tamed now."

Your heart does something messy.

You stare at him.

He stares right back.

His mouth is right there. Still curved into that shit-eating grin.

You don't think about it. You don’t let yourself.

You just lean in—

and kiss him.

Your lips press to his before you realize you’ve done it.

It isn't hesitant. It’s not chased. Isn't a panicked, trembling attempt to appease him.

It’s real.

Your mouth touches his slow and soft—nothing performative, nothing pulled from fear. No trembling. Just a kiss. One that you gave.

And Remmick goes still.

Like a corpse.

Like something ancient that’s forgotten how to breathe.

The smirk dies on his mouth. His hands, always so sure and cocky and possessive, still against your waist. His body stiffens beneath you like a hound that just caught the scent of something delectable.

His eyes don’t close.

They just widen—red and round, stunned and wild.

You pull back only a breath—just enough to see him. His face. That quiet, wrecked look.

Like you reached into his chest and touched something he thought had long since rotted away.

He doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t move.

He just looks at you like you’ve undone him.

And for once, that silence doesn’t scare you.

You blink at him. “...You okay?”

The laugh that leaves him isn’t a real laugh.

It breaks.

Cracks.

Comes out wet and hoarse and unbelieving.

"You kissed me," he says, voice low and stunned.

You swallow. Nod. “Yeah. I did.”

His hands find your waist again—trembling now. Gripping you tighter, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold you down.

"You kissed me," he repeats, slower this time. Voice barely a breath. "My girl. My lil’ missus. Kissed me like she meant it."

You nod again. More careful this time.

"I did."

His head drops forward. Forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath gone ragged.

You feel the whole of him shake beneath you.

Then—He laughs again.

But this one’s real.

Low, cracked, joyful. Terrifying.

"Fuckin’ hell," he mutters, arms crushing you to his chest. “Ain’t no goin’ back now.”

And then he’s kissing you back—hard, open-mouthed, greedy.

It’s not like before. Not punishment. Not proof. Not a game of control.

It’s desperation.

His hands grip your face like it might disappear. His tongue pushes into your mouth like he’s starving, like it’s not enough, like he’s trying to crawl into you. His body shakes under yours with something almost childlike—frantic and raw and overflowing.

When he finally pulls back, he stares at you like he can’t believe you're real.

“You ain’t ever kissed nobody like that before,” he says, voice quiet. “Have you?”

“No.”

“Not even that boy y’was courtin’ b’fore me.”

You shake your head. “Didn’t love him.”

Remmick goes still again. Not stiff like before—but hunted.

You feel the air shift.

“You love me?”

You don’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

He exhales—slow, sharp, wrecked.

Then he leans in.

Not to kiss you. To whisper.

“Lay down f’me,” he says, voice trembling. “Right now, lil’ missus.”

He stands with you still in his arms—like nothing weighs more than you—and carries you toward the bed at the back of the chapel.

Not the mattress on the ground where he first claimed you. Not the one you bled on.

This one’s new—lifted off the floor, carved from salvaged cypress wood and lashed with thick rope. Still crude, still heavy, still his. But cleaner now. Softer. Dressed in scavenged sheets that smell like ash, sweat, and a little crushed lavender from the bundle you laid beside it last week.

He sets you down like you’ll break.

Then he just looks at you.

Like he doesn’t know if this is real.

You’re sitting on the edge of the bed now, legs parted slightly from where you were straddling his lap, the hem of his shirt barely covering your thighs. Your breath comes in quiet bursts. Your lips are swollen from his. Your heartbeat is racing, and you don’t try to hide it.

You don’t look afraid.

Remmick notices.

His mouth parts like he wants to speak, but instead, he sinks to his knees in front of you. His hands find your thighs—warm, big, shaking—and he presses his forehead to the space between them. He breathes in deep, like he’s been holding his breath for a year.

"Say it again," he rasps. "Please, lil’ missus. Just once more."

You run your fingers through his wild hair—slow, uncertain, but not shy.

"I love you."

He shudders.

One of his hands slides higher, under the hem of his shirt, dragging up the curve of your thigh, over your hip. He doesn’t rush it. His other hand moves to the center of your chest, resting right over your heartbeat like he needs proof.

"Lay back," he whispers. "Let me have ya proper."

You do.

You crawl backward until you’re stretched out across the bed, the worn shirt hiked up around your hips now, your legs still parted for him, your arms loose at your sides. Your eyes never leave his.

He pulls his shirt over his head—tossing it aside—and follows you onto the bed on his knees. Then over you.

He presses a kiss to your ankle.

Your shin.

Your knee.

Up, up, up.

"You don’t even know what you’ve done to me," he murmurs. "Kissin’ me like that. Sayin’ that shit."

He kisses your hip, your stomach, the edge of your ribs, dragging the hem of the shirt up as he goes.

"Been callin’ you my lil’ missus since the day you stopped cryin’ when I touched you," he says softly. "But now you callin’ me husband. Runnin’ your hands through my hair like you like me. Like you want me. Like you need me."

You lift your hips so he can pull the shirt the rest of the way off.

He stares.

He’s seen you bare a hundred times. Tied down, bleeding, begging.

But this is different. You’re open without restraint. Soft without fear.

"My Gods," he whispers.

You reach for him.

He moves over you like a prayer.

One hand comes to cradle your cheek. The other wraps around the back of your thigh, guiding it up, over his hip, opening you further.

He leans in.

"I love you," he says, voice low and steady this time.

He doesn’t say it like a confession.

He says it like a curse.

Then he pushes inside you.

Slow.

Not teasing. Not punishing.

Just deep.

He doesn’t stop until he’s seated fully, cock thick and hot inside your cunt, the stretch pushing your breath out in a trembling gasp.

Your arms wrap around his shoulders. Your legs wrap around his waist.

And Remmick breaks.

He buries his face in your neck and fucks you slow, deep, reverent.

Not hard. Not fast.

But like it matters. Like every thrust means something. Like he’s trying to etch this into your bones.

"You love me," he pants against your skin. "Fuck. You love me."

Your hand curls at the nape of his neck, fingernails dragging through his hair, and you whisper it again.

"I love you."

He groans—a wounded, desperate sound—and picks up the pace, still smooth, still slow, but hungrier now. His cock drags over that aching, tender spot inside you, again and again, until you’re writhing beneath him.

He reaches between your bodies, hand flat over your belly.

"Gonna fill ya up, sweet girl. Gonna give ya every drop I’ve got."

"Remmick—"

His thumb presses to your clit—tight, steady circles—and your back arches off the bed.

"You cum when I say it," he growls against your throat. "You cum when I tell you what you are."

You whimper, so close it burns.

"You’re mine," he whispers.

"You’re my lil’ missus."

"You’re my forever girl."

"I love you."

And you fall apart.

Your orgasm hasn’t even finished before he starts again.

Remmick doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t slow down.

He just keeps fucking you through it—grinding deep, thumb still on your clit, your body twitching and jerking beneath him like you can’t take another second.

But he knows you can.

"You’re doin’ so good, lil’ missus," he groans, voice breaking, sweat dripping down his temple to yours. "Came real sweet for me. So fuckin’ sweet."

You can barely breathe. Your body is tight and shaking and soaked with him—his sweat, your slick, the blood-warm mess of your own release. And he’s still so deep inside you, cock grinding against every swollen, tender spot like he’s memorizing the shape of your cunt from the inside out.

Remmick lifts his head.

His red eyes burn into yours.

"You know what I’m gon’ do now, don’tcha?"

You shake your head, but he grins—that filthy, feral thing—and presses his palm flat over your lower belly again, right where you feel him the deepest.

"Gon’ breed ya, baby."

You choke on a gasp. He fucks you deeper, slower, like he’s savoring it.

"Gon’ pump you full till you leak, till you’re heavy with me. Gotta make sure it takes."

You whimper—not from fear. From heat.

"You want that?" he breathes, kissing your jaw, your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth. "Tell me you want it."

"Remmick—"

"Tell me, sweet girl. Tell me you want me t’knock you up. Tell me you want t’carry what I give you."

Your voice cracks. "I—I want it."

He groans, cock twitching deep inside you. "That’s it. That’s my good girl."

"You gonna look so fuckin’ pretty, belly all round from me. Walkin’ 'round the chapel drippin’ with my spend. Gonna chain you up in my bed and feed ya on your back so nothin’ spills out."

You cry out—overwhelmed, overstimulated, aching—but your hips roll up to meet him.

"You want my babies?" he growls, voice gone hoarse. "Huh? You want what a man can’t give you?"

"Yes," you sob.

"You want what a demon puts in you?"

"Yes—Remmick, please—"

"Then fuckin’ take it, lil’ missus."

His pace breaks—sloppy now, brutal, grinding—as his cock swells inside you.

"You feel that? That’s my spend comin’. That’s what’s gonna stick."

You’re crying now, fingers clawing at his back, mouth open on a silent scream.

"Gon’ fuck a child into you," he pants, his forehead pressed hard to yours. "Gon’ breed my mark into your belly, into your fuckin’ bones."

You’re still coming—your cunt fluttering violently around him, trying to pull him deeper.

And then—

Remmick slams into you one last time and groans—a low, broken sound that shudders through his whole body as he spills inside you.

You feel it.

Hot, heavy, endless.

Spurt after thick, messy spurt flooding your cunt so full it aches. So full it starts to spill out around his cock and down your thighs.

You feel it run into the sheets beneath you, feel his hips grinding through the aftershocks like he wants to brand you from the inside.

He doesn’t move for a long time. Just breathes.

Your head is tilted back, mouth parted, body limp—completely, irrevocably wrecked.

And Remmick just smiles.

He strokes your stomach with the flat of his palm.

"You feel that?" he whispers. "That’s what forever tastes like."

You blink at him through the haze.

He leans in—kisses you soft and slow.

Then murmurs against your lips:

"Ain’t even turned you yet, lil’ missus. But when I do? You ain’t ever gonna stop wantin’ me."

The fire in the hearth has burned low, but the warmth lingers in the walls.

A damp heat clings to everything in the chapel—sweet with smoke, salt, and the scent of what he left in you the night before.

You’re still sore when you wake.

Your thighs ache. Your cunt throbs. Your belly feels full, even empty as you are now.

Remmick’s arm is slung heavy over your waist, his breath warm at the base of your neck, one thigh wedged possessively between yours. His cock rests thick against your lower back—soft but heavy, twitching every now and then as he dreams.

You don’t move. Not because you’re afraid. Because it’s comfortable.

The air outside is still tinted blue—just before dawn—the hour when the mists are thickest and the swamp holds its breath. No frogsong, no wind through the trees. Just the distant moan of the river and the creak of the chapel roof.

You stare at the rafters, eyes half-lidded, body loose under his.

You could stay like this forever.

You’ve said it before. He never believed you. Not really.

But last night, when you kissed him…when you called him your husband…

You felt it in the way his whole body locked up. You felt the worship behind every inch he gave you.

"Y’awake, lil’ missus?" his voice rumbles behind you—soft, sleep-rough, fond.

"Yeah," you whisper.

His nose nudges your shoulder. A kiss pressed there, lazy and warm.

"Still full of me?"

Your cheeks go hot. You don’t answer.

His hand slides down your belly, cupping over the spot he always touches when he’s fucking you slow—like he’s holding the future there. Like he’s trying to coax something into bloom.

You squirm beneath him. He chuckles.

"I gotta step out t’night," he says, voice a low murmur against your skin. "Won’t be long."

You tense. Just a little. Just enough that he notices.

He shifts you gently onto your back and leans over you, bracing himself on his forearm. His hair hangs loose around his face, dark and tangled, still smelling like sweat and the cedarwood oil you rubbed into his scalp last night.

You trace his jaw with your fingers.

"How long?" you ask.

He brushes his thumb across your bottom lip.

"Not long," he promises. "Just need to bring back some fresh meat. Maybe a jug of kerosene. I’ll be back ‘fore sunrise."

You nod. Swallow down the ache that rises in your chest at the thought of him leaving—even under cover of night, even just for a few hours.

His hand strokes your side, palm dragging from your ribs down to your hip.

"You stay inside," he says, not unkind. "Door stays locked. You hear anything that ain’t me, you hide under the bed like I taught you."

You nod again. Your hand grips his forearm.

He kisses you slow—not hungry, not teasing. Just soft.

"Say it again," he murmurs.

"I love you."

He shudders.

"That’s my girl."

When he gets up, you watch him dress—first the faded black jeans, then the shirt he ripped open two nights ago, which he tucks into a belt slung with knives. He moves with ease, humming some old hymn under his breath as he rakes his fingers through his hair to push it back from his face.

Before he leaves, he cups your face in his hands and kisses your forehead, your lips, your belly.

"I’ll be back soon, lil’ missus."

You nod. Smile faintly.

"Bring something sweet," you murmur.

He grins—that sharp, animal smile—and slips out into the dark before the light can touch him.

You don’t know then that you’ll be screaming his name before the sun even finishes rising.

The fire has long gone out.

You wake again sometime later, not to Remmick’s weight or voice—but to silence.

A silence that feels wrong.

The kind that presses up against your skin like a cold hand. Like breath held too long. The kind of silence the swamp never makes unless something is watching.

You sit up slowly, the sheet clinging to your sweat-damp thighs. Your body still aches, still sore and swollen from how he touched you last night—how he filled you. It should be comforting, the memory. But something about the air is…off.

The mists outside the chapel windows have turned a strange, milky grey. Not the usual pearl-colored haze that comes with dawn, but something thicker. Heavier. It creeps low across the floorboards where the chapel door doesn’t quite seal, curling like fingers.

You reach for the old cotton slip you usually wear and pull it over your head, ignoring the ache in your legs. The blood between your thighs is dry, flaked, a bruise on your inner thigh shaped like a mouth.

You tiptoe barefoot to the door.

You don’t open it. Just press your ear against the old wood and listen.

Nothing.

No birdsong. No frogs. No breeze.

Just a faint crunch of gravel—like someone stepping where they shouldn’t.

Your heart thuds.

One beat.

Two.

Three.

Not him.

You know the sound of his boots. The way the ground knows to hold still when he passes.

This is wrong.

You back away from the door, and that’s when you hear it—

A voice.

A man’s voice. Not Remmick’s.

"—up there. That’s the place. Just like she said."

Another voice, gruff, tight with tension. "You sure she’s in there?"

"Yeah. She ain’t left in weeks. He never lets her leave."

The blood drains from your face. Your knees nearly give.

You stagger backward. Your pulse bangs against your throat.

Two shadows flicker past the windows. Armed. Human. You see the glint of metal—rifles, stakes, something glassy and glowing blue like a warded bottle.

Your breath stutters out of your chest.

You try not to panic. Try to do what Remmick always says.

“You hear anything that ain’t me, you hide under the bed.”

You run.

The chapel floor groans beneath your feet as you scramble to the cot, lifting the faded quilt and sliding beneath the frame just as—

The door crashes open.

You don’t scream.

Not yet.

The sound of boots, cautious but fast. Voices hissing orders. Wood creaking. A blade drawn.

"She’s here. I smell her."

"You sure he ain’t still inside?"

"No blood in the bed. Just hers."

They’re inside.

And they’re not speaking like men trying to hurt you.

They’re speaking like they’ve come to save you.

You clamp both hands over your mouth. Try to be small. Try to be still.

A voice crouches close to the ground. Gentle. Too gentle.

"Hey. Hey, it’s alright. We ain’t gonna hurt you, I swear. We’re here to help."

You tremble.

Another voice: "We know what he did. What he made you say. You’re not in love with him. He fed on you, didn’t he? That’s what they do. They trick you."

Your body goes rigid. A sob builds in your throat, but it’s not from relief. It’s fear.

They don’t understand.

They think he’s the monster.

They don’t understand what it means that you love him.

That you chose to stay.

That he’s the only one who ever made you feel safe.

They lift the quilt.

Light floods in.

You gasp. Curl away from their hands.

One of them grabs your arm—"Come on, sweetheart. You’re okay. We got you—"

You scream.

"Remmick!"

Your voice cracks. High. Wild.

"Remmick, please—!"

You flail. Sob. Try to twist free. One of them tries to pin your arms and you bite him—hard enough to draw blood.

"Shit! Fuck, she bit me!"

They hesitate.

Stunned.

"Jesus, what the fuck—?"

You sob harder. Choking. Screaming his name again like a prayer.

"Remmick—Remmick—don’t let them take me—!"

Your voice rips itself out of your throat like a wild animal trying to claw its way free. Raw, high, panicked. You twist and scream and thrash in the stranger’s grip, your limbs flailing with reckless force, fingernails scraping down the length of his forearm.

"Please don’t take me—please, he’ll come back, he’ll—"

Your lungs burn with the effort. The sound of your own sobbing drowns everything out—your cries sharp and shuddering, chest hitching with each broken breath.

The man holding you—young, broad-shouldered, barely older than you—grunts, trying not to hurt you but clearly stunned by the ferocity behind your fight.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters. "She’s gone. She really thinks—"

"I told you," comes a deeper voice from somewhere near the chapel door. Older, rougher. Controlled, but taut with fear. "They charm ‘em. They feed, and they…root in. It ain’t love. It’s thrall."

"It is love," you gasp, voice high and wet with tears. "You don’t understand—I chose him, he didn’t make me—he’s not like that, he’s not—"

The younger man releases you too quickly—his hands shaking, guilt flickering across his face—and you stumble to the floor with a harsh slap of bare knees against wood. But you barely feel the pain. You scramble back like a cornered creature, breath hitching in your throat as you flee toward the altar, dragging yourself by trembling arms.

Your slip is twisted around your hips, nearly transparent in the gray morning light filtering through the warped stained glass. Your legs are streaked with dried blood, bruises shaped like fingerprints, like fangs, like teeth.

You press your spine against the altar, trying to make yourself small. Trying to make them listen.

"Please," you whisper, your voice cracked and bleeding at the edges. "You don’t know what you’re doing."

The younger one hesitates, uncertain now. You see it in the way his hand hovers near the shotgun slung across his back—how his eyes flicker not with certainty, but doubt.

He’s not cruel. He’s just scared. Maybe more scared of you than of what waits outside.

He crouches a little, hands raised in surrender. "Look, we’ve…we’ve seen this before. Stockholm. Blood compulsion. We know how real it feels, but it’s not. He’s not who you think he is."

You flinch as he takes a step forward. The floor creaks beneath his boot.

"He probably made you say all that," he continues, gentler now. "They get in your head. They make you want it. That’s what they do. When’s the last time you saw your family? Your friends? Anyone else but him?"

The words feel like broken glass in your ears.

Your throat works uselessly. You open your mouth. Try to speak.

But no words come out.

Because you don’t remember the last time you saw anyone else.

Because you don’t want to.

Because that’s not your life anymore.

Your life is candlelight and rough linens. Blood-warm baths and hands in your hair. Laughter at midnight. The taste of copper and salt. The press of his voice in your chest when he calls you his lil’ missus.

"This is my home," you say at last.

The boy flinches.

The older man curses under his breath. Scarred, hard-eyed, weathered from too many winters and too many dead. His voice is tight with judgment.

"She’s gone. He’s dug in deep. We’re not reasoning with her."

You start shaking again. Your fingernails dig into the altar behind you.

"I’m not gone," you whisper. "He takes care of me."

He watches you with cold pity, then looks back to the blond.

"You gag her if she bites again. We get her out, now. We don’t have time."

Your stomach turns over.

You know what’s coming. The shift in the wind. The scent.

You try again, louder now—desperate.

"No. No, please. He’s coming back. You have to go. You don’t understand what he’ll do if—"

The younger one takes another step toward you, reaching. "We’re not gonna hurt you—"

"Don’t touch me!" you scream, the words sharp enough to cut your own throat.

The air in the chapel stills.

Not like silence.

Like a warning.

Like the earth pulling back its breath.

The candles flicker on their wicks—twitching like they’re afraid.

The light filtering through the stained glass warps. Turns muddy, dark.

You freeze.

So do they.

Even the younger one—brave enough to touch you—is suddenly stiff. Alert. His eyes dart to the door.

"You feel that?" he whispers.

The older man slowly lifts a hand toward the shotgun strapped over his shoulder.

"...Yeah."

And then—

A sound.

Low. Guttural. Distant but unmistakable.

Movement.

Heavy. Cracking. Deliberate.

Branches shattering.

Undergrowth being trampled.

Something moving with purpose.

And not like a man.

Like a storm.

The younger man’s voice cracks.

"You said we had time—he only feeds once a week, you said—"

"I don’t know why he’s back," the older man hisses, yanking a bottle from his coat—something thick and glowing faintly blue. "He shouldn’t be—"

The chapel door slams shut behind them with an earsplitting crack.

They both spin.

It wasn’t wind.

It wasn’t you.

It wasn’t anything living.

The candles extinguish in perfect, unnatural unison. The smoke curls up toward the ceiling like serpents.

You’re on the floor, curled in on yourself, fists pressed to your mouth, rocking.

He’s here.

You don’t know how, but you know it like blood knows the vein. You know it the way prey knows the shape of the predator’s teeth.

He’s not outside anymore.

He’s in the walls. The roof. The shadows.

Watching.

Waiting.

And you, sobbing now, choke out the only prayer you know how to offer.

"Please," you whisper to the darkness. "Please don’t hurt them."

A shape flickers in the rafters.

A breath exhales through the chimney.

A shadow slides across the stained glass.

The younger one raises his gun.

"What the fuck was that—?"

You crawl backward, until your spine presses flush to the altar again. The wood is cold. Wet with dew.

Your mouth trembles open. You feel something inside you crack.

"He’s already here," you whisper.

But they’re not listening anymore.

They came to save you.

But Remmick doesn’t believe in salvation.

The silence inside the chapel is absolute.

Thick, pulsing. A silence that breathes—that lives in the walls, under the floor, inside your chest. You feel it like pressure in your skull. Like hands wrapping slow around your throat. Like the air itself has gone still in anticipation of something terrible.

You’re still on the floor, knees scraped and raw against the splintering boards, curled beneath the altar like an offering left to rot. The hem of your slip is bunched around your thighs, soaked with sweat, blood, and the stink of fear. You’re trembling so hard your teeth chatter, and your fingers are clenched so tight into the floor that your knuckles have gone white.

You don’t dare move.

The two men stand over you, their shadows long in the half-light—cut sharp by the flickering candles and the red wash of dawn bleeding through the stained-glass windows.

The blonde’s rifle is trembling in his grip. The older man is muttering prayers, his voice a tremor beneath his breath, lips pale and slick with spit.

"Do you see anything?" the blonde whispers, his voice cracking down the middle.

The older man doesn’t answer. He’s staring at the ceiling, at the rafters above the altar, eyes darting like a hunted animal. He knows something’s wrong. Something worse than you.

Because it’s already here.

You feel it first.

A shift. A drop in the pressure of the room, like the whole world just tilted.

Then—a thud. Somewhere above.

A dull, slow weight pressing onto the roof beams, creaking old wood. Like something enormous settling onto the bones of the chapel. Then another. Heavier. Closer. You see dust fall from the rafters. Feel the subtle vibration of something pacing above you—slow, deliberate. Stalking.

Your pulse hammers between your ribs.

And then—silence.

Not the silence from before.

This one is alive.

You open your mouth to speak. To beg. To warn.

But you’re too late.

The far window explodes inward in a blossom of jagged glass and roaring wind.

A screech rips through the chapel—like metal tearing, like a body dragged screaming across stone. Glass knives whirl past your face, biting into your arms, your shoulders. Candlelight goes out all at once, sucked into the vacuum of sudden chaos.

You scream. So does the blonde.

The chapel howls with air and motion—and then—

He’s there.

He doesn’t walk through the door.

He drops from above.

Remmick.

Not as you saw him last—soft, grinning, warm from sleep, still smelling of cedar and skin and sweat.

This is something else.

He crashes to the chapel floor like a thunderclap, knees bent, back arched. The earth groans beneath the weight of him. His body rises—slow and fluid, as if gravity doesn’t dare claim him. Like something born of the storm.

You see only pieces of him at first:

His fingers, long and curved, clicking softly as they flex against the floor.

His eyes—glowing red, not with light but heat, like coals packed deep inside his skull.

The twisted stretch of his mouth, pulled open too wide, baring a forest of crooked fangs, each one glistening wet, too many to count.

His skin is slick with sweat and blood—some of it his, some of it not. Veins pulsing beneath the surface, throbbing like live vipers inside of him.

He doesn’t look at you.

Not yet.

He looks at them.

The blonde screams again, jerking his rifle up toward his shoulder—but his hands are shaking too badly. His finger slips off the trigger.

He never gets the chance to fire.

Remmick moves.

Not like a man.

Not like anything living.

He doesn’t run.

He lifts—off the ground, silent and sudden, gliding forward like a shadow unbound by bone or gravity, and in one impossible blink, he’s across the room.

He crashes into the blonde with enough force to crack bone. They slam into the side pew, wood exploding in a spray of splinters.

The boy coughs once—blood wet on his lips.

Remmick doesn’t speak. He grabs the boy by the throat—lifts him clean off the ground—his claws puncturing his skin. The boy chokes, legs kicking. His face turns red, then purple.

You watch through your tears, sobbing, crawling on your belly toward them.

"Remmick—Remmick, please—don’t kill them, please, please—"

He doesn’t look at you.

He leans in, face inches from the boy’s. Eyes glowing brighter now. Fangs fully bared.

"Put your hands on my wife," he says, voice low and burning, like hot coals smoldering in his throat. "One. More. Time."

The boy gurgles something. Maybe a plea. Maybe a prayer.

Remmick snarls—and throws him.

Not to the floor. Not to mercy.

He hurls him through the stained-glass window behind the altar. Glass explodes outward in a cacophony of shards and light. The boy screams all the way down. You hear his body crash against the stones outside.

Silence.

Then—

"Christ," the older man gasps, stumbling back, drawing a long, silver blade from beneath his coat. His hand trembles, but his grip is firm.

He lunges.

You scream. "No—don’t—!"

Remmick turns before the blade touches him. Catches it mid-strike.

The metal hisses where it meets his skin.

It smokes. Sizzles.

But he doesn’t scream.

He grins.

Mouth stretched too wide, eyes burning bright enough to illuminate the whole chapel.

"You think that’s gonna save you?"

He closes his fist around the blade and bends it like it’s made of wire. The metal groans, squeals—and snaps.

The man stumbles back in horror, clutching what’s left of the hilt.

Remmick steps forward—slow, deliberate. Claws dragging down the wall. Gouging deep trenches into the wood.

"You step foot in my chapel," he murmurs, voice low, laced with something almost reverent. "You touch what’s mine."

He takes another step. You see his fangs dripping. His chest heaving.

"You make her cry."

The man raises a warding charm—crosses himself, muttering something desperate, barely audible.

Remmick stops inches away.

"You break into my home—my home—and you call me the monster?"

The man doesn’t answer.

He just trembles.

Remmick tilts his head. His face is inches from the man’s. He inhales slowly through his nose.

And then, softly—almost lovingly—he whispers:

"No. Preacher."

A long pause.

"You came lookin’ for the devil."

He smiles.

And it is awful.

"Now you found him."

The older man stares up into Remmick’s face—shaking, gasping, eyes wide in bone-deep terror.

He’s close enough to smell the blood on his breath. Not just your blood. Fresh blood.

And still, Remmick smiles.

"Now why’d ya go ‘n do that?" he drawls, low and slow like molasses poured over gravel. His voice is almost gentle. Almost sad. "Come stompin’ through my house, bustin’ up my door, layin’ your filthy hands on my wife."

His hand darts out—too fast—grabbing the man by the wrist. The preacher gasps, blade hilt clattering to the floor.

Remmick pulls him in close, chest to chest. His mouth brushes the man’s ear, intimate and monstrous.

"You know what I do to men who try ‘n take what’s mine?"

The preacher doesn’t answer. He’s frozen. The prayer charm slips from his fingers, hissing uselessly on the floor.

Remmick tilts his head, still smiling. The edge of his fang grazes the man’s cheek.

"Don’t worry. I ain’t gon’ kill ya fast."

He lifts the man off the ground like he weighs nothing. The old wood beneath his boots creaks. His legs kick, scraping the altar.

You’re still on the floor, arms wrapped around your knees, watching through a veil of tears.

You don’t look away.

Remmick drives his claws into the man’s gut—slow, deliberate.

There’s a wet, splitting sound—like raw meat tearing open.

The man screams. A high, raw, human sound.

Remmick doesn’t flinch.

He watches him writhe with a kind of fascination, his head cocked like he’s admiring his own work. His eyes never blink.

"You ever gut a pig, preacher?" he murmurs. "Takes a real steady hand. Gotta be careful not t’ nick the bile, else it ruins the meat."

The man sags, blood pouring down his chest in thick, syrupy ropes. It stains Remmick’s forearm, drips off the curve of his elbow.

"You bleed easy," Remmick says, voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Almost like you was meant for it."

He turns, still holding the man aloft, and throws him onto the chapel floor. The man lands hard, coughing blood, body twitching. One of his legs is bent wrong. His hands scrabble at the floor, reaching for anything.

Remmick stalks after him, slow and silent, bare feet stained with blood. His claws gleam. His coat fans behind him like something half-alive.

"You thought she needed savin’," he says, voice honey-thick with mockery. "Thought I musta had her bewitched. Is that it? Thought I cast some foul spell on that sweet little heart o’ hers?"

He crouches beside the man’s broken body.

"You ain’t never seen a woman loved proper."

His clawed hand slides beneath the man’s jaw, lifting his blood-soaked face.

"That girl chose me. Every damn time. An’ I’d burn the whole world for her. Tear out the throats of every fool that looks at her sideways. You understand me?"

The man gurgles. Tries to speak. Can’t.

Remmick leans in close. His glowing eyes narrow.

"You came t’ my door askin’ for the devil."

His smile is all fang and blood.

"Well, preacher...now you found him."

And then—

He rips out the man’s throat.

Claws tear clean through. A spray of blood paints the altar. Hot. Metallic. Wet.

You choke on a gasp. Cover your mouth. Your whole body shakes.

He doesn’t even flinch.

Just lets the man drop to the floor like garbage. Stands over him, chest heaving, glowing eyes still lit like hellfire. Blood drips from his hands. From his jaw. From the tips of his claws.

And then—he turns to you.

That wild, monstrous thing in him dims. Not gone. Just…quieted.

"Sweet pea?" he murmurs, voice hoarse, eyes softening the moment they fall on you. "You alright, lil’ missus? He didn’t touch ya, did he?"

You shake your head, tears spilling fast.

He kneels beside you, lowering himself slow, careful like he’s afraid you’ll flinch.

His claws are still slick with blood. But his touch is tender—he cups your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks, wiping away the tears.

"Shhh," he whispers. "You’re safe now, sugar. I got you."

His blood-wet forehead presses to yours. His breath is hot, sharp with copper.

You clutch his coat, fingers digging in like you’re afraid he’ll vanish. You can’t speak. You just cry.

"I’m here," he murmurs again, voice melting. "Ain’t nobody gon’ take you from me. Never again."

He pulls you into his arms—bloody, trembling, still half-naked—and gathers you to his chest like you’re made of bone china.

Outside, the swamp begins to stir again.

The birds return.

The wind shifts.

The sun climbs high over the trees.

But inside the chapel, all is still.

Blood pools beneath the altar. Flies begin to gather.

And Remmick, fanged and filthy, kisses your hair.

"That’s my lil missus," he whispers.

The bodies are still warm.

One lies broken just outside the chapel doors, face-up in the mud, eyes gone glassy, throat opened like a second mouth. The other is in pieces on the altar floor, still twitching—his blood soaking into the same boards where Remmick fucked you slow just nights ago.

The chapel stinks of death.

But you don’t move.

You don’t cover your face. You don’t flinch.

You sit in his lap, straddling him on the blood-stained floor, arms wrapped around his neck, your cheek pressed to the curve of his shoulder. His claws still long, his eyes still glowing like hot coal.

His heartbeat pounds slow beneath your ear—steady. Calm.

Not like someone who just committed murder.

Like someone who came home from work. Like someone who took the trash out.

He strokes your hair with one blood-wet hand, the other resting low over your belly.

Not possessive. Not lustful.

Protective.

He hasn’t spoken since you stopped crying. He doesn’t need to. The silence between you is thick with something reverent, something that glows warm beneath your ribs.

His mouth finds your temple. Kisses you soft.

"Still shakin’, lil’ missus," he murmurs against your skin, his voice a slow, Southern hush. "Ain’t nothin’ out there gon’ touch ya. You hear me? Nothin’."

You nod, but you don’t lift your head. You stay pressed to him, soaking in his scent—sweat, cedar oil, and the sharp copper of blood that’s not yours.

The chapel is dark again. The wind no longer screams through the windows. Even the swamp has quieted, as if the trees themselves are holding their breath.

You don’t ask what he did with the blonde boy’s body.

You don’t ask if anyone else is coming.

Instead, you find your voice—small, hoarse, buried in his neck.

"Remmick?"

"Mhm?"

You pull back just enough to look at him. His red eyes glow dimmer now. His fangs have withdrawn, but the blood still stains his mouth.

You touch his cheek with trembling fingers.

"What happens if I really am pregnant?"

The words hang in the air.

He stills.

His expression doesn’t change—not at first.

But his hands tighten around your waist, then smooth across your hips like he’s grounding himself there. You watch his throat bob. Watch the flame flicker behind his eyes.

"Say it again," he breathes.

You swallow. Nod.

"I think I’m pregnant."

His breath leaves him in a long, shaking exhale.

"Shit, darlin’," he says, voice thick, low, reverent. "You mean t’ tell me that pretty little womb of yours held on? Even after all the times I—"

You nod again, cheeks warm. Your lip trembles.

"I—I’m late. My body feels…different. I don’t know how else to explain it. I just…I know."

He groans. Presses his forehead to your collarbone, breath catching.

His arms crush you to him.

"Fuck," he whispers. "You gone and gave me a reason t’ stay alive forever."

You laugh, but it breaks into a sob. Not from fear. Not anymore.

You feel it now—settling in your chest like a seed in soil.

This is your life.

This monster. This chapel. This love.

And now…maybe something more.

He draws back slowly, hands cradling your face like he’s holding divinity.

"I’ll build you a nursery, sweet pea. A whole room just for 'em. We’ll paint the walls. You’ll pick the colors, I’ll do the rest."

You laugh again, and this time it sticks.

"I want yellow," you say, voice barely above a whisper.

He grins—wide and feral, but tender.

"Yellow it is."

The candlelight flickers as the wind shifts again.

You know you’ll have to bury the bodies. Maybe move the chapel. Maybe seal the doors.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he picks you up in his arms, cradling you like a bride, and carries you to the bed like something holy.

The world can wait.

Because in this place, under this roof, beneath the blood-washed moon—

You are not lost.

You are not stolen.

You are his.

And when he lays you down, his voice curls around you like a prayer.

"You keep that lil’ belly warm f’r me, ya hear?"

Outside, the dawn breaks over the swamp in soft gold and red—

but the only thing growing here now is you.

[lady-luckk]

how about a cowboy or a farmer with a bimbo city girl reader??

itd b so funny if she was just like “do brown cows make chocolate milk??”

or maybe she almost kills the guy by accident trying to rake some hay

i love the trope “she’s an idiot but she’s my idiot”

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ so like, what’s the wifi password?

# pairings: yandere farmer cowboy x bimbo / himbo reader

# synopsis: while making your way to a fun hangout with your friends your car suddenly breaks down. a kind farmer allows you to stay with him until someone can pick you up. but why are the roads weirdly empty?

# warnings: this will contain dark themes such as obsession, kidnapping, and murder. if you are uncomfortable, please block me. viewer discretion is advised. minors DNI.

# notes: reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated!

you’re not entirely sure what led to this. one second you were on your way to hangout with your girlfriends, the next, your pink convertible broke down next to the most farm-ass farm you’ve ever seen. and now? you're standing in front of a barn that smells like hay and something suspiciously meaty, trying to get a signal with your rhinestone-covered phone held toward the sky.

"phone ain't gonna save you out here, princess."

you nearly jump out of your glittery crop top. standing behind you is a tall, broad, sun-scorched wall of man with stubble, a permanent scowl, and arms like they personally fought god for dominance. he's wearing a stained flannel shirt, worn jeans, and a scuffed cowboy hat pulled low like he’s hiding from the law—or just the concept of smiling.

you blink up at him. "omg, hi! are you like, the farmer or cowboy guy?"

he snorts. "i’m the farmer. ain’t another soul within miles, and i sure as hell didn’t call for no... barbie doll on a breakdown."

you gasp, offended. "excuse you, this is Y2K chic. and my name isn’t barbie—it’s..."

"...of course it is."

“you’re not from around here, are you?"

"nnooope. GPS brought me out here for, like, reasons. and then my engine started making this very dramatic sound. sooo now i'm, like, a damsel."

he crosses his arms, face unreadable, then sighs. "you standin’ out here in the heat for long?"

"i mean, i guess? i was gonna call someone, but I’ve only got like, one bar and a lot of hope."

another pause. then he turns and mutters, "c’mon."

"huh?"

"you want heatstroke or you want a glass of water?"

you blink. "omg, you’re nice."

"i ain’t nice," he snaps, opening the screen door wider. "i’m just not leavin’ some glittered-up stranger to roast in a ditch."

inside, it’s a mix of rustic charm and obvious bachelor chaos. he pours you a glass of water without asking, sets it down in front of you like he’s done this a hundred times, and leans against the counter like he’s regretting all of it.

although internally he’s a whole different story. he can’t believe his luck meeting someone as cute as you in this area. he swore he felt his heart leap out of his chest the minute he saw you. 

"name’s eli," he says at last. "i’ll take a look at your car. if it’s fixable, i’ll fix it. if not… guess you’ll be stuck here a bit."

you bat your lashes. "you wouldn’t mind that, would you?"

he shifts, jaw flexing. then: “don’t get ahead of yourself, sweetheart.”

but he won’t meet your eyes. and he doesn’t notice he poured you a second glass of water before you even finished the first.

you follow eli outside, trying not to trip on your own wedges as you strut across the gravel like it’s a runway and not, in fact, a minefield of dirt and despair.

he walks a few steps ahead, toolbox in one hand, broad shoulders shifting beneath that flannel like they’ve never known a day of weakness. he doesn’t say much, but you catch him glancing back once—just once—to make sure you’re not lost or dead or doing something ridiculous.

you're doing all three, probably.

when he reaches your car, he pops the hood with one rough tug and peers inside like he’s about to deliver bad news to a family of four.

after a beat, he grunts. “when’s the last time you had an oil change?”

you blink. "what’s that?"

slowly, so slowly, he turns his head and looks at you.

his face is completely blank. emotionless. a man on the brink. like he’s just been told that gravity is optional now. or that the cows have unionized.

you smile up at him, unbothered, chewing your bubblegum. “is that, like, something you get at a drive-thru? because i only do drive-thrus if they have fries.”

he says nothing.

just stares.

a long, long pause.

then: “you shouldn’t legally be allowed to own a vehicle.”

"that’s what my driving instructor said!" you chirp.

eli shuts the hood and mutters something to the lord, probably begging for patience, strength, or a strategic lightning strike.

“you’re lucky i don’t believe in abandoning helpless creatures,” he mutters, already walking toward his truck. “i’m gonna get the part you need. stay put. don’t touch anything. don’t lick anything. don’t—just... don’t.”

you wave sweetly. “k love you, byeee!”

he stops mid-step. shoulders stiffen.

and without turning around, he mutters under his breath, "you’re gonna be the death of me."

later that day, eli returns with what looks like half a junkyard and a grim set to his jaw. he spent hours elbow-deep in your car, occasionally muttering things like “what the hell is this glitter doing in the engine?” and “is this a sticker of a unicorn on the oil cap?”

finally, he slams the hood shut, wipes his hands on a rag, and delivers the verdict with the gravity of a man announcing a funeral.

“pinky, she’s dead.”

you gasp dramatically. “pinky? you named her??”

he squints at you. “she named herself the minute i saw the pink steering wheel cover. and now she’s toast. fried the transmission, shredded the belt, and i’m pretty sure the air freshener doing psychic damage.”

“oh noooo,” you moan. “so what do i dooo?”

he sighs. long and loud, like you physically pained him. “you’ll stay here until i can find someone to tow it and get you back to civilization.”

"yay!" you beam.

“that wasn’t meant to be exciting.”

as the days go by, eli gains a large affection for you. he believes that since you’re “living” with him now, that practically means that the two of you are married. 

when you two finally travel into town. he doesn’t like people looking at you. not the guy at the gas station who dared compliment your lip gloss, not the mailman who called you “darlin’” with too much sugar in his voice, and definitely not the tourist who asked if you were “lost” with that fake concern dripping off his words. 

eli’s a walking warning sign the second you step into town with him. the locals know him—eli carter, the mountain of a man with a scowl carved into his face and hands that could bend steel. most folks keep their distance, half-respecting, half-fearing him.

they say he’s good with his work, bad with people, and meaner than a rattlesnake if you push the wrong buttons. so when he rolls into town with you, all glitter and sunshine and questions like “do horses get cold?”—yeah, people notice. the butcher’s wife whispers that he’s gone soft. the old mechanic raises a brow like he’s seeing a ghost. when someone chuckles a little too long at your rhinestone boots, eli’s jaw ticks. when a guy at the feed store offers to help you lift a bag of seed, eli’s already there, grabbing it with one hand like it weighs nothing. “they’re good,” he says flatly, not even looking at the guy.

even when you try to chat with the locals, eli’s always close—never rude, but not exactly inviting either. he doesn’t trust easily, especially not when it comes to you. and if someone even looks at you sideways, he’s suddenly all sharp glances and low muttering, hand at your lower back like a silent claim: they’re mine to worry about.

eli’s jaw gets tight, voice real low when he steps between you and anyone who so much as thinks about flirting. once, a farmhand from a neighboring ranch tried to strike up a conversation with you at the feed store—eli didn’t say a word, just calmly picked up a full grain barrel, one-handed, and moved it like it weighed nothing. the guy left before eli even had to speak. you giggled, called him “jealous,” and he growled something about “men like that not knowin’ how to treat you right.” 

he won’t say this out loud , but every time someone shows a little too much interest in you, he finds a new chore to do right beside you. fencing, fixing the barn door, chopping firewood shirtless in the sun like that’s normal behavior. once, you saw him bend a crowbar back into shape like it was a breadstick and he acted like it was no big deal. he claims he’s just “lookin’ out for you,” but you’ve noticed how fast his mood shifts when someone else tries to.

eli always has an eye on you. he always seems to know exactly where you are. no matter what he’s doing, his eyes find you like it’s instinct. you’ll be picking flowers by the fence or sneaking another cookie from the jar, and somehow, he’s already looking. not hovering, not smothering—just always aware. like keeping you safe is a reflex, not a choice. it’s subtle, but constant. protective, almost possessive. like some part of him’s decided you’re his to watch over, even when you don’t realize you need it.

he can’t keep his eyes off you. to him, you’re just his precious darling.

eli gives you a curfew like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “sun’s down, you’re inside,” he says one evening, arms crossed and eyes steady like he’s expecting a fight. you blink at him. “wait, like... a bedtime?” he grunts. “ain’t about sleep. it’s about not wanderin’ into a coyote den in your platform heels.” you try to argue, but he doesn’t budge—just mutters something about you being a “walking hazard” and how “ain’t nothing good happens after dark out here.” and true to form, every evening as the sun dips low, he’s there on the porch, arms folded, waiting.

if you’re even five minutes late, he’s already out with a flashlight like a grumpy dad looking for a runaway puppy. he won’t admit it, but the curfew isn’t just about safety. it’s about knowing exactly where you are. keeping you close. keeping you his.

every night, without fail, you end up in the kitchen with eli—him cradling a mug of coffee, you wrapped in one of his old flannels, sitting on the counter like you belong there. the light is soft, the air warm, and he’s always gentle with you at this hour, like the quiet makes him softer. he’ll brush your hair back without thinking, pass you the sweeter drink without asking, and murmur low little comments that sound more like affection than teasing.

sometimes he rests his hand on your knee when he walks past, like anchoring himself to the moment. he doesn’t smile much, but with you like this—half-asleep, blinking at him under kitchen lights—there’s a warmth in his eyes that says more than he ever will.

there’s always a comfortable silence between you, broken by the occasional sarcastic quip or dry comment from him when you ask if cows dream or if the moon looks closer out here. sometimes he’ll pass you a spoon to taste something he’s cooking, or nudge your knee with his hip to get you to move over so he can reach a cabinet. it’s quiet, almost domestic. like this little nighttime routine just… happened. and neither of you questioned it.

and just like that it’s been a month. you no longer notice how the roads seem to “get worse” whenever you mention leaving, or how eli’s smile always grows just a little too warm when you say, “maybe i’ll try calling a tow service again.”

you’ve stopped wondering why your cell service hasn’t come back. you’ve accepted that the mountains are just “that bad,” as eli puts it. eli’s a good guy, there's no way he’d do anything to sabotage you from going back home. like eli totally did not install a signal jammer two days after you arrived or that he's murdered everyone who ever offered to take you home. there's just no way. 

now, you’re completely settled in—no wifi, no car, and definitely no cute outfits from home. but honestly? you’re so content. the cozy flannel shirts, freshly baked cookies, and endless cups of lemonade have turned life here into a dreamy routine.

but something nags at you.

you’ve been living with eli, enjoying his hospitality, but you don’t want to feel like a useless freeloader. so one afternoon, you decide it’s time to step up and offer to help around the farm. you can’t just keep eating his food and just looking pretty, right?

you walk up to eli, who’s messing around with the tractor, and clear your throat.

“eli, I was thinking… i should help out more around here. you know, so i don’t just sit around all day being a freeloader.”

eli glances up, his face a mix of surprise and a hint of reluctance. he wipes his hands on his pants, a sigh escaping him.

“you sure about that?” he asks, his voice gruff. “you’ve been here for a month and you’re just now deciding to help?”

you nod, determined. “yeah, i wanna pull my weight.”

he doesn’t seem convinced but shrugs. “alright, fine. you can start by feeding the animals. that’s simple enough.”

you beam. “great! i can totally do that!”

you were definitely not cut out for farm life. after eli told you to help with feeding the animals, you felt determined, but that determination quickly turned to chaos.

you squinted at one of the cows and asked, "so, uh... do brown cows make chocolate milk?" eli froze mid-step, gave you the most soul-dead stare, and muttered something about regretting every decision that led him to this moment.

then the chickens got involved. you tried to scatter feed like in the movies, but instead slipped on your own glittery flip-flop and fell right into the middle of their breakfast—cue one chicken hopping onto your back like it was claiming a new roost. 

the goats were no better; one of them chewed on your hair extensions while you screamed, "sir, boundaries!" and the pigs? the pigs chased you across the yard when you accidentally dropped a granola bar from your purse. eli didn’t even try to hide his grin as you ran by him yelling, “they smell fear, eli, they smell fear!” 

by the time it was over, you were covered in hay, dirt, feathers, and regret, and eli just handed you a wet rag with a grunt, like this was all perfectly normal. 

but this wasn’t the first time you’d gotten yourself in a mess. oh, no. this was just the latest installment of “you vs. farm life.” you had managed to almost flood the barn by forgetting to turn off the hose, break a shovel trying to pry open a stubborn gate, and somehow trip over a rock and sprain your ankle—while sitting down. eli had bailed you out every single time. and he didn’t even seem to be all that surprised anymore.

like that one time you got it in your head to “help” eli with a small fix on the tractor. it involved welding, and you’d sworn you could do it. five minutes in, you had almost burned off your eyebrows and started a small fire by the side of the barn. eli was on you in an instant, throwing a bucket of water over the flames, shaking his head like you’d done this a million times before. “i swear to god, you’re gonna burn this place down before we even finish building it,” he grumbled as he handed you a fire extinguisher.

"you really know how to ruin a moment, eli," you pouted.

“moment?” he muttered, sounding exhausted. “you were about to become a human torch.”

there was that time you tried to be helpful in the kitchen by making dinner, only to end up dropping an entire pot of spaghetti on the floor, then attempting to "clean it up" by throwing it into the trash—half of it splattered on the walls and the other half stuck to the ceiling. you’d been standing there, horrified, when eli walked in. “don’t even ask,” you said weakly.

he’d just sighed, rolled up his sleeves, and got to work fixing it. “get out of the kitchen before you burn yourself,” he grumbled, tossing you out of the way with a gentle nudge, as if you were a ragdoll. “and don’t try cooking again until I’m here to supervise.”

you gave him a smile that could’ve melted the coldest of hearts. “you love me.”

he grumbled something unintelligible, but you could see the hint of a smile beneath his gruffness.

and it wasn’t just accidents. oh no. it was your sheer ability to get into trouble. like the time you wandered off into the woods to “explore” and ended up trapped in a thorn bush because you thought you saw a unicorn. yes, you. a unicorn. by the time eli found you, you were stuck, practically covered in thorns, and looking like a glittered-up forest creature. “if I hadn’t come to find you,” he’d said, grinning slightly, “you’d still be out there, trying to make friends with a unicorn.”

you had the decency to look sheepish. “i was trying to be imaginative.”

"yeah, well, next time, try not to get stuck in the thorn bush before you start trying to talk to magical creatures.”

safe to say after that incident eli forced you to wear and carry an airtag with you permanently.

then came the day you decided to help eli with manual labor—big mistake. you tried lifting a hay bale and almost dislocated something. when you grabbed the post hole digger, it practically dragged you across the yard. eli didn’t even let you finish struggling; he took it from your hands with a grunt, muscles flexing like it was nothing, and muttered, “you’ll break before the tools do.” you huffed, but he didn’t budge, already finishing the job in half the time. apparently, your job was now “supervising,” which mostly meant staying out of the way while he manhandled the entire farm.

and then there was the one time you decided to “fix” your own car because you were “bored” and “needed a project.” that involved you somehow locking yourself inside the trunk while trying to find your spare tire. it was a whole dramatic saga that ended with you yelling for help from inside the trunk, much to eli’s amusement. when he finally popped the trunk open, you had the nerve to ask him, “how’d you know i was in here?”

“because you’ve gotten yourself in a mess, like, again,” he replied, his tone dry.

you beamed up at him. “i’m just that special.”

“special? yeah, that’s what we’ll call it.” he smirked before pulling you out of the trunk and checking over your car like he wasn’t wondering why he didn’t just lock you in there himself.

but despite all the chaos you caused, despite the non-stop antics and trouble that seemed to follow you, there was something comforting about it all. eli might grumble, he might make fun of your messes, but he never left you to fend for yourself. he had this way of always being there—whether it was pulling you out of a thorn bush, rescuing you from your own cooking disaster, or simply watching over you while you made another mess in the barn. eli didn’t get frustrated. he just dealt with it—and, in his own way, he took care of you.

you were a disaster, sure, but you were his disaster. and maybe, just maybe, that was enough for both of you.

[noirscript]

Lavender and Powder

Pairing: Yandere!Farmer x City Girl!Reader Description: Isaiah, a farmer with a quiet intensity, becomes an unsettling presence in your life after a chance encounter. What starts as neighborly kindness spirals into a chilling tale of control and obsession, leaving you trapped in a nightmare you never saw coming. Warning/s: Yandere | Psychological Manipulation | Obsession | Emotional Coercion | Stalking | Non-consensual Confinement | Forced Domesticity | Dubious Consent | Threats | Intimidation | Mild Physical Violence | Implied Babytrapping Note: I tried to make the reader bratty in the drafts but it doesn't feel right T^T I don't know if the anon who requested this is still lurking here or not, but enjoy! Also, join the taglist by clicking this link! (My interview ended few minutes ago. My brain is toasted af. T^T)

Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar | Dark Roast 50% off

You’d only been in town for five days, and already you were part of the scenery at Gracie’s Diner.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was honest work. You didn’t mind the grease that clung to your skin, the clatter of dishes, or the sting in your legs after double shifts. What mattered was that you were earning your keep—paying your bills, fixing up the wreck of a farmhouse your mother left behind, and doing it all without help.

You weren’t here to be rescued.

“You sure you’re not overworking yourself, sweetheart?” Gracie asked as you refilled the sugar jars. She was a woman who wore her sarcasm and worry with the same ease as her eyeliner.

“I’m fine,” you said with a smile, rolling your sleeves up higher. “Gotta pay for a new water heater somehow. Thing practically screamed when I tried to shower this morning.”

“Thought your neighbor offered to help with all that?”

You stiffened.

You remembered him well. Isaiah. The farmer with shoulders like barn doors and calloused hands that looked like they could crush rock. He came to welcome you on your first day with a crate of eggs and a bashful smile. In return, you gave him a plate of spaghetti you made that night, more out of politeness than interest.

You hadn't realized the way his eyes lingered as you handed him that plate.

That in his mind, that gesture sealed a bond deeper than you’d ever intended.

“I told him I had it under control,” you said simply.

Gracie gave you a look. “I know you city girls are all about that independence. Just be careful. Some men ‘round here get ideas.”

You laughed softly. “I can take care of myself.”

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Your shifts were long. The tips were modest. And the farmhouse was stubborn in its disrepair. But you were managing.

Until your truck died.

You were halfway down the lonely road toward your house after closing the diner when the engine sputtered and gave out. No signal. No cars. Nothing but the humming of bugs and the distant rustle of trees.

You grabbed your backpack and kicked the tire, muttering curses.

Then headlights pierced the dark.

Isaiah pulled up beside you, leaned out the window with a smile that looked just a bit too pleased.

“Well, now. Looks like you need a hand.”

You blinked. “Yeah… my truck just—stopped. No warning. Can I get a lift home?”

“Of course,” he said smoothly. “Was just headin’ back from drinks with the boys.”

You got in.

The silence stretched as you talked. You were tired, but adrenaline kept you going. You talked about the renovations, your job at the diner, your plans to eventually turn the farmhouse into something self-sustaining. You didn’t notice the silence behind the wheel. Not really.

“I just think women shouldn’t have to rely on anyone,” you said, stretching. “It’s freeing, you know? To build something yourself.”

His hands clenched the steering wheel.

You didn't notice.

But he did.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Three days later, the farmhouse was broken into.

You came home after your shift and found everything ransacked. Nothing stolen—just destruction. Dishes shattered. Curtains torn. Couch cushions ripped open like animals had clawed them apart. Your knees gave out. You screamed.

Isaiah arrived before the sheriff.

“Jesus,” he said, crouching beside you. “You alright? You’re shaking.”

“I—yeah—I think—” You gasped. “They didn’t take anything. Just trashed it.”

“No way you’re sleeping here tonight,” he said. “Door’s broken. You’re vulnerable.”

“I’ll go to a motel—”

“They’re all booked for the rodeo this week,” he interrupted gently. “Look, I’ve got a guest room. Just for a night or two.”

You didn’t want to. But your nerves were shot, and there was nowhere else to go.

“Just a night,” you agreed, voice hollow.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Isaiah’s house was too perfect.

Pristine. Polished floors. Dishes stacked in neat rows. A faint floral scent lingered—lavender, maybe.

“Bathroom’s down the hall. Towels are clean. I’ll get the bed ready,” he said, walking away with your overnight bag like it already belonged there.

You spotted a mug on the counter with your name on it. Painted in soft pastel blue.

“You… had this?”

He smiled. “Felt right. Made it when I heard you took the old place.”

You tried to joke. “That’s… thoughtful.”

He smiled wider.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

You tried to offer him money the next morning, after breakfast. Scrambled eggs. Homemade biscuits. Too good.

“Don’t insult me,” he said quietly. “Just help out around the house, alright? You’re already doing so much.”

So you did. You swept. Cleaned. Cooked dinner once or twice. Anything to repay him for the roof over your head while you called contractors and scraped together the funds for repairs.

But the contractors never called back.

Your calls went unanswered.

The mechanic said your truck was totaled.

You didn’t realize someone else had made sure of that.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

It was a week later when you heard Isaiah on the phone.

The kettle had just started to scream when his voice reached you from down the hall, muffled but distinct. You weren’t trying to eavesdrop—not really—but something in his tone made your body freeze.

“…No, she hasn’t figured it out yet. Sweet thing still thinks this is charity.”

A low chuckle.

“I’ve been teaching her… slowly. She’s adjusting.”

A pause. His voice dropped lower.

“Not yet. But soon.”

You stood there for a second too long. Long enough for the kettle to whistle sharply, loud enough to cover the sound of the ceramic mug slipping from your hands and smashing against the floor.

The tea scalded your bare feet. You barely felt it.

Your breath hitched in your throat as his voice stopped mid-sentence. The sudden silence on his end was deafening.

You moved.

Bolted.

You didn’t think—just acted. Your legs carried you on instinct, slipping on the wet floor, catching yourself against the wall, fingers fumbling for balance. The hallway felt longer than usual. Your vision tunneled, the walls squeezing closer with every second.

You reached the back door.

Unlatched.

Unlocked.

Hope surged in your chest so violently it made you gasp.

You wrenched it open.

Cool air hit your face, the smell of soil and pine and freedom burning in your lungs. You were halfway out—one foot in the grass, fingers scraping the edge of the doorway—

And then a hand, large and brutal, slammed the door shut.

With you halfway through it.

You screamed.

The edge of the frame cracked against your ribs as Isaiah yanked you backward, one arm wrapping tight across your waist, lifting you as if you weighed nothing. You kicked, flailed, clawed at his skin, but he held you firm—an immovable wall of muscle and determination.

“I knew you’d run,” he muttered, breath hot against your ear. His voice had lost the syrupy sweetness he wore like a mask. Now it was raw, cracked, and furious. “Ungrateful little thing.”

He turned, carrying you effortlessly despite your thrashing.

“I’ve done everything for you. Gave you safety. Gave you warmth. A home.”

He slammed the door behind you both with his boot, the echo like a gunshot.

You fought harder.

“I was gonna ease you into it,” he snarled, dragging you past the kitchen. “Let you feel like you chose this. But you just had to snoop, didn’t you?”

He didn’t take you to the guest room.

He took you down the hall, past the door you’d never seen open. The one that was always locked.

He kicked it in.

And there it was.

The cradle. A handmade wooden crib, nestled in the center of a room painted in soft yellows and sage green. The mobile above it spun slowly, creaking on its hinges, casting distorted shadows across the walls.

Everything smelled like baby powder and lavender and something far too clean.

Your stomach turned.

“No—no, let me go—!”

“You’re mine,” Isaiah hissed, slamming the door shut behind you. He twisted the lock before pressing you against it, pinning you there with the full weight of his body. “You fed me that day. You smiled. You looked at me like I mattered. What the hell did you think that meant, huh?”

You shook your head, tears blurring your vision. “It was just dinner—it didn’t mean anything—”

“It meant everything,” he growled, gripping your chin so hard it ached. “It was a promise. A bond. You gave yourself to me when you fed me. You just didn’t know it yet.”

You whimpered as his hand dropped to your hip, then your wrist, guiding you toward the crib with terrifying tenderness.

“You’ll see. You don’t need that diner. You don’t need money or dreams or whatever garbage you believe in. You need me. You need this.”

He pressed your palm flat against the cradle’s wooden edge.

“You need to understand your place, wife.”

You sobbed, body trembling, but there was no more strength left to fight.

His voice dipped lower, reverent and sickeningly soft.

“…And maybe it’s time you give me what I’ve waited for.”

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @fandangoballs @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger

[chanelrolls]

blizzard? i hardly know her

pairing. afab!fem reader x CALEB (modern college au)

tags. fluff, nsfw, smut, mature content, cheesy romance, forced proximity, slowburn, unestablished relationship, plot-based, tension, so much tension, accidental sleepover, zayne & caleb are sibs with a mum, eventual smut, oral, t!tplay, f!ngering, penetration, missionary, slight manhandling, 18+

synopsis. what happens when you get stuck inside your crush's house?

wc. 6.9k (lmao)

crunch. crunch. crunch.

the frosty snow lies thick beneath your boots, making a satisfying crunch with every heavy step you take. your thick fur boots keep you warm as you wander up the quiet street, heading toward the center of town. each house you pass is decked out in bright, cheerful christmas lights, shimmering merrily. it’s still early, just 2 o’clock, but it feels like the entire town is already wrapped in the christmas spirit.

well, it is the 22nd of december. with only three days left until the long-awaited 25th, it’s no surprise that festive excitement lingers in the air.

ah, winter. the season that always felt like magic. your favorite time of the year. but this time, something was different. this time, you were actually doing something bold.

you held the small, carefully wrapped package tighter between your gloves, heart pounding as you took in the cold air. you knew exactly where you were headed and who it was for.

caleb.

he was the kind of guy every girl dreamed about; smart, charismatic, manly, athletic, and ridiculously good-looking. a bit older than you. you'd been lowkey obsessed with him for half a year. yes, you kept track.

you wanted to talk to him so many times, but every chance slipped past. you didn’t have the guts. you had no idea how to even start a convo with a guy you liked. were you supposed to act casual? or make it obvious? how do people even do this?

the funny part? caleb and you had never even spoken. not once. you were practically strangers. but he was popular, the kind of guy people naturally gravitated toward. everyone liked him. which meant if you didn’t make a move soon, someone else definitely would.

so yeah, you needed to act. fast.

and somehow, through sheer force of will and probably a touch of delusion, you came up with a plan: give him a christmas gift. nothing huge. just something small... and anonymous. no pressure, just a gesture.

luckily, you knew something most people didn’t. caleb’s family owned that cozy little bakery down the street. they lived right above it, in the apartment on the second floor. which made things easy since there was a letterbox right next to the bakery door. accessible and just perfect. the plan was really simple: drop off the gift, then vanish. just you, taking a tiny step closer to the boy you couldn’t stop thinking about.

your stomach started doing that weird twisty thing again the closer you got to caleb’s bakery. the street was quiet, but the snow was beginning to fall faster now, tiny flurries brushing your cheeks, clinging to your coat. you picked up the pace. if you dropped the gift off fast enough, you could make it home before the snow really picked up.

except... you didn’t. because just as you stopped in front of the bakery, frozen and staring at the familiar brick facade, you heard a faint voice that sounded like it was calling for somebody.

your heart practically jumped out of your chest. you spun around, eyes wide. there was no one around. but the snow had gotten worse. way worse. you could barely see down the road now. great. just great.

you were such an idiot. there had been blizzard warnings all week. and you, genius that you were, had thought today of all days was the perfect time to sneak out and play santa.

this was bad. really bad.

you whimpered when something sharp, maybe a twig or a chunk of ice, scratched across your cheek. the cold bit harder now, winds screaming past your ears. panic rose like a wave. you spun around, searching, desperate, but there was nothing. just white. endless, suffocating white.

and then, arms. strong ones, wrapping around you before you could even scream. you kicked once, tried to twist away, heart hammering like a drum, but your body was too numb to fight back.

you were being dragged, somewhere. and then, just as suddenly, it stopped.

a bell chimed overhead. warmth hit your face. your nose filled with the smell of cinnamon, sugar, and something buttery. the sound of the wind dulled behind you.

a bakery...

you blinked the snow out of your eyes, breath uneven, still bracing to fight whoever had grabbed you. and then, "are you alright?" you instantly looked up at the familiar voice. standing there, a towel in hand, snow in his dark hair and a concerned frown on his face—was zayne. caleb’s older brother.

so there you were.

the older brother of your crush was standing right in front of you, waiting for an answer. and oh, you were inside his family’s bakery. and above this very shop? their house. which meant... caleb was probably somewhere upstairs right now. maybe even within earshot. oh, and let’s not forget the tiny detail that a literal snow blizzard was raging outside. no one in their right mind would be out in that. except you, naturally.

and in your hand? a poorly hidden, slightly crumpled gift you were now awkwardly trying to shield behind your back like some suspicious cartoon character. how dandy could things possibly get?

you nodded at zayne, way too eagerly. like, suspiciously eagerly. like those nodding dogs that people placed in the dashboards of their car.

zayne narrowed his eyes at you doubtfully,

“[name], right?” he asked, arms placed at his sides loosely. you nodded again. silent. awkward. praying the gift behind your back would suddenly vanish into thin air.

it wasn’t surprising that he knew your name. in a town like this, everyone knew everyone. gossip traveled faster than snowstorms.

“take a seat,” he said, gesturing to a chair near the counter. “i’ll go get my mum. she’ll know what to do.” you hesitated, but your legs were too cold and tired to argue. the gift stayed clenched in your hands behind your coat as you shuffled toward the seat, cheeks burning. zayne turned and walked off, calling out, “mum!” as he disappeared into the back.

you were alone now. in his bakery. with his gift. and his family upstairs. great. just great.

moments later, footsteps echoed from the stairs behind the counter. then came a voice, warm, lively, and full of disbelief. “zayne, who in their right mind would even be outside right now? the news said—” she stopped mid-rant when your eyes met hers.

“oh, my stars!” mrs. xia gasped, practically flying toward you with a flurry of movement and a hand pressed to her chest. “darling, what happened? are you hurt? are you frozen? do you even have gloves? look at your face, it’s all red—”

“mum,” zayne cut in, clearly used to the routine as he placed a hand on her shoulder. “you’re overwhelming her.”

“nonsense,” she said, swatting a hand at him, still hovering over you, staring at you with the eyes caleb had inherited from, while zayne probably got his from their father. “go make her some hot chocolate. extra marshmallows.” zayne sighed at the sudden obligation, but nonetheless vanished back into the kitchen with reluctant acceptance.

you were officially alone, with the mother of your crush. and she was observing you like you were a lost duckling. “well then,” she began, folding her arms and leaning just a little too close. “how are you feeling?”

"i... i'm okay. just a little cold..."

"well, i'll bet you are! whatever were you doing wandering outside?"

your grip tightened around the gift behind you. you smiled, then lied. “i… i just wanted some air.”

her eyes narrowed, suspicious but amused. “in the middle of a snowstorm?”

you forced a chuckle, trying to look casual. “y-yes. it was… a really strong urge.”

"ah, now look at you," she laughed, before noticing your uncomfortable expression. "oh my dear, i'm so sorry, i'm such a scatterbrain! here, give me your coat," mrs. xia's outstretched hand made you suddenly aware of your shivering frame. with trembling hands, you undid the buttons of your coat, shrugging out of the soppy mess. instantly, you felt the warmth of the bakery's cozy atmosphere seeping through the fabric of your long-sleeved top. you're still holding caleb's gift protectively.

mrs. xia took your coat, draping it over a radiator. "there, there, now once you've got some hot chocolate in you, you'll be warm and better in no time!" she beams at you, clasping her hands together. "that's if my incompetent son manages to make it for you."

the thudding footsteps coming down the stairs rang out, and then revealed a frowning zayne with a cup of steaming hot chocolate between his fingers. his obvious scoffing received a light chortle from mrs. xia, watching as zayne turn towards you. you gently take the beverage from him, pinkies faintly brushing against one another. you try to hold yourself back from taking a long sniff of the mouthwateringly sweet aroma across your watchful saviours, so you slowly take a sip. "it's lovely," you look up at them. "thank you..."

zayne crosses his arms while sneaking a glance at his mother in response, the corner of his lips subtly lifted. all mrs. xia could do was to raise her hands up in defeat.

after getting scolded by your mother on the phone call, you passed the phone to mrs. xia when she gestured for it, and the shift in atmosphere was immediate. the motherly concern turned into light banter, like two women slipping into a shared rhythm. the volume of their voices carried, but the meaning was distant now. their laughter settled into the corners of the room.

you sat curled on the edge of the chair, a blanket draped over your shoulders like a lifeline. the mug of hot chocolate sat on the table in front of you, its surface now still, save for a lone marshmallow melting into the brown. your hands were no longer trembling, but your mind hadn’t caught up.

the gift was tucked underneath the blanket now, safe but painfully present. its shape still pressed against your side. you hadn’t decided what you were going to do with it yet. the original plan had evaporated with the first gust of wind that knocked you off your—

footsteps.

zayne approached you quietly, though there was a kind of presence to him that made silence feel heavier. you looked up just as he stopped beside your chair. his hands were shoved into the pockets of his dark sweater, and the light caught in the glint of his cuff. his eyes flicked down to the mug, then returned to you. no smile. just that same unreadable calm.

but then he said, with a voice that was quieter than the rest of him. “be honest. did it taste good?”

you blinked, taken off guard. his tone wasn’t sarcastic. it wasn’t cold, either. it was... curious. like your opinion actually mattered. you nodded after a moment, the corners of your mouth lifting, unsure. “yeah. it did. just sweet enough.”

there was the smallest shift in his posture.

“good,” he looked away, “mum always makes it too sugary. i adjusted the recipe a bit.”

"don't you mean caleb adjusted it?" a voice sounded from the entrance of the backroom, and your head snapped to the source abruptly, zayne mirroring your actions, although less frantic.

don't blush. act cool. nonchalant. not a big deal.

oh, who are you kidding? of course, this is a big deal!

because standing right there, leaning against the doorframe so effortlessly, and looking so extremely attractive, was caleb. caleb xia. the whole reason why you were in this mess in the first place.

tall and loose-limbed, with the kind of posture that made everything about him look unbothered. his brown hair was tousled in that way that looked intentional but probably wasn’t. soft strands fell across his forehead, catching the light like autumn leaves. but it was his eyes that held you the longest. a pale lilac that didn’t quite belong to this world. they were beautiful.

his gaze swept over the room slowly before settling on you, and though he wasn’t smiling, there was something playful in the tilt of his mouth, the subtle raise of one brow.

it took you a few seconds to process what he had said.

hang on a minute...

"i... thought zayne made it for me?" you dragged your words, your voice coming out louder than you intended, more so to yourself than to anyone in particular. now all of your nerves that were previously panicking was replaced by confusion.

caleb gives zayne a dry look, before turning to face you fully.

oh, that gorgeous, sexy, amazing, and handsome face!

"there are two things you should know about my brother," caleb told you, the sound of your name in his slow, steady voice completely warming your insides.

oh my GOD. he's talking to me. he's talking to ME and looking at ME.

his footsteps dragged on across the floorboards while he stepped closer. "one: zayne plus the kitchen equals a disaster, and two: he may appear like a knight in shining silk but he's a total liar."

zayne only stared at him with a cold glare, and caleb smiled back cheekily at him. his gorgeous amethyst eyes holding a spark of mischief, "so who's mum on the phone to?"

"my mum," you replied, (even though it looked like it was zayne he was asking) to which caleb nodded in quiet understanding. a brief silence fell upon you, so you took another sip from the hot chocolate, the knowledge that your crush being the one who actually made it, now heartwarmingly sitting in your head.

caleb noticed.

"i make a pretty good hot chocolate, huh?" caleb chuckled handsomely, striding through the room and hopping on one of the chairs across the shop counter.

"better than pretty good, actually..."

"better than pretty good actually." you hear zayne mutter beneath his breath as he walked past you, now making a beeline for the stairs at the back. whether he was mocking or teasing you, you didn't know. you couldn't make a judgement for now with insufficient knowledge of how zayne is. but his eyes earlier held a teasing spark, you try to convince yourself.

you steal a glance from caleb, who was currently texting in his phone.

"honey, are you alright?" the concerned voice of mrs. xia broke through your thoughts, and you look up at her worried eyes.

"i, uh, am okay. sorry for spacing out..."

she gives you a warm, motherly smile. "oh, don't worry bub, you must still be in a little shock. how about we all go upstairs, where it's more warmer, hm?"

you nodded in reply, returning her smile.

when you reached upstairs, you watched how caleb flopped himself down the recliner to prop the seat up, before reaching into the pocket of his bottoms and proceeding to text again, seemingly at lightning speed. mrs. xia made her way over to the sofa, and so you decided to settle yourself down across from her.

"well then," the mother spoke up, her eyes holding yours. "i spoke to your mum, and... we've agreed that you should stay here until the blizzard passes." you visibly stiffened, eyes automatically glued on the floor as a sudden rush of heat coursed through you despite the weather. "the roads are in no state to be driven on, and the way how things are looking, you'll probably be safe and sound in your bed by tomorrow night."

what a relief. you released the breath you didn't realize you've been holding in. if you could just keep your way out of zayne and caleb, then everything should work out just fine. no awkward conversations, nothing alike, and no one will find out about the wrapped gift you're sitting on right now.

"thank you, mrs. xia. you're very kind, i really appreciate it,"

"oh please, it's absolutely no trouble at all!" mrs. xia waved it off nonchalantly, "your parents are an old colleague of mine, and you're an absolute angel yourself, my dear. and ever so pretty, might i say."

you blushed, cheeks going warm, "thank you, mrs. xia, you really are too kind."

"now what's the time, i wonder?" she mused brightly, sauntering towards the kitchen side of the room.

"three o'clock." caleb suddenly voiced out from his position on the recliner, his eyes flicking to you, but quickly averting his gaze back to his phone when he caught your eye.

mrs. xia wiped her hands on her trousers, before leaning against the breakfast bar. "right, well dinner should be ready in about an hour, but first i think we should discuss [name]'s sleeping arrangements," she announced, her voice sounding like she was talking to herself more than anything.

"she can sleep in my room," caleb blurted suddenly, looking slightly bashful despite his easygoing nature. "i can sleep in'ere, on the sofa, i don't mind."

oh my gosh.

caleb just offered me his room! which means... i'll get to sleep in his room, i'll get to see his room, i'll be lying down on his bed in his room.

fate just keeps on surprising you today, huh?

caleb's room was near exactly what you had imagined.

dark green walls complimented a neutral soft carpet, with plain wooden furniture balancing out everything so nicely. there were a few posters on the wall, of various basketball players and teams, along with the odd photograph or two of caleb with his family and friends. there were a few golden medals, their ribbons strung around some old nails lined up in a row against the wall.

you've always known, that caleb is a natural-born athlete.

glancing down at the present that rested snugly in your palm, you sighed, placing it carefully onto the desk beside you. so much drama, all over one tiny little gift.

suddenly, a gentle knock on the door sounded, startling you. your head snapped towards the door, but it remained silent and still for like 10 seconds. narrowing your eyes at it, you turn your gaze away.

were you starting to hear things?

"hey, new tenant?" the muffled voice of caleb sounded through the door, and you instinctively widened your eyes. also, what kind of nickname was that? "can i come in, please?"

"um, yep!" you shouted back in a squeaky, high-pitched voice. quickly, you lunged for the present which was sitting on caleb's desk, concealing it in the first place you could find—which was behind the desk. it was a bit of a tight squeeze lodging it there, but miraculously, you managed to squeeze it in before the door creaked open with a groan.

caleb's head popped around the door, his face visibly relaxing once he caught sight of your figure. then, he steps in, a little hesitant, holding something in his hand. he held up the item, and it appears to be some sort of clothing. "mum told me to give you this, since you don't have pajamas."

"oh, thank you..." you replied, trying a soft smile. slowly, you accept the clothing from his hands, and you could feel the way your fingers brushed for a split-second. it made you warm.

"it's no problem. anything for a pretty girl like you." you stood in shock for a few seconds, staring wide-eyed at the boy standing right infront of you. it took a few more moments before caleb realized the nature of his words, and when he did, his ears turn red. clearing his throat, he brings up something else, "cough, need help setting up the bed?"

he was already at the edge of the bed, sleeves rolled past his forearms, the faint scent of vanilla and warm bread still clinging to him like a ghost.

you nodded before your brain could catch up. the bed creaked softly as the two of you worked in silence, tucking in corners, fluffing the pillowcases. and for a while, it felt almost so oddly domestic.

but then, as you smoothed your palm over the top sheet, his hand stilled. his eyes were on you. "uh... hold still for a sec," he murmured, stepping toward you.

you blinked, unsure. "yes?"

he didn’t answer right away. instead, he closed the distance in slow, deliberate strides. and then, without warning, his fingers reached up, calloused and careful, his thumb brushing lightly along your cheek.

"spaghetti," he muttered, almost amused. "bolognese. right here." a quiet laugh left him, soft and stunned, like he hadn’t expected it either.

instantly, you turned beet red. not just from the proximity, not just from the way caleb was so close that you could start counting his lashes from this distance, but because you've revealed a rather unpleasant side of yourself to him. the spaghetti bolognese his mother had cooked for dinner earlier satisfied your taste buds so well that you hadn't noticed it smearing on your cheek.

his thumb hovered, not quite done. then, his gaze dropped. first to your eyes. then lower... to your lips.

and for a second, just a breath, he didn't move.

but then, he blinked, stepping back. the warmth snapped away with him. "there," caleb said, though his ears were tinged pink again. "you’re good."

he turned back to the bed, adjusting the edge of the blanket like it suddenly needed fixing. like he hadn’t just looked at you like that.

you stayed still after he stepped back, eyes trained on the bed like it might offer some kind of guidance. your cheek still tingled a little where his thumb had brushed, and you could feel the heat lingering there.

he cleared his throat. "sorry, by the way. i didn’t mean to, like, get in your space.”

you shook your head quickly, looking up at him. “no, it’s okay. i didn’t notice it was there.”

he let out a short breath. “guess that’s what happens when you really go in on pasta, huh.”

you laughed under your breath, a little embarrassed. “it was good, okay? i wasn’t thinking about my face.”

“really?” he says in a sing-song voice, "next time y'should try my cooking."

you both stood there for a second, the quiet kind of hovering. caleb shifted his weight onto one foot, rubbing his hand along the back of his neck.

“well,” he said, glancing at the bed, “this should be fine for you, i think. the heater’s already on so you won’t freeze.”

“looks good,” you said. “thank you.”

his eyes flicked toward the pajamas still folded in your arms. “those might be a little big, just saying.” ugh, when will he leave so i can release this jittery feeling i've been holding back ever since he came in here? i already want to roll around the bed and squeal!

“i’ll survive.” you manage.

he nodded. his hand hovered near the doorknob, but he didn’t open it just yet. “alright. i’ll, uh, leave you alone now. let you get settled.”

“mhm, okay.”

“cool. night.”

“night.”

and then he was gone. the door clicked shut, the sound quiet against the hush of the snowstorm outside. you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, then looked down at the pajamas in your hands.

and then you flopped. face-first onto the bed. a full-body, limbs-splayed-out, dramatic flop. a squeal escaped before you could stop it, muffled by the sheets.

"what just happened," you whispered into the blanket, voice high and panicked in the most ridiculous way. "what just happened."

you kicked your feet a little. rolled onto your back. then onto your side. then back again.

you had talked to caleb. you had brushed hands. he wiped food off your face. he looked at you. and he called you pretty. like, casually! like it was nothing. like your heart wasn’t going to launch itself out of your chest.

you groaned, throwing a pillow over your face. this was not how you expected your evening to go when you walked across their bakery holding the gift.

and now you were in his room, with a blizzard locking you in for the night. "i’m gonna die," you muttered to the ceiling.

but you were smiling. so much it kind of hurt.

3 hours.

you laid there, flat on your back, eyes dry from staring too long at the same stupid spot on the ceiling. the room had long gone quiet, no more creaking footsteps outside, no muffled laughter from mrs. xia and her husband. even your phone screen was starting to burn your retinas, the endless doomscrolling doing absolutely nothing to help.

you sighed and flipped to your side again for what had to be the hundredth time.

the blanket was warm. the pillows were soft. the bed even smelled like vanilla and something familiar and safe. but none of it mattered. because one very important thing was missing.

your plushie.

your stupid, irreplaceable, well-loved plushie that you had dragged around since you were ten. the one with the slightly lopsided button eye and the torn little ear you never quite got around to sewing back on. the one thing that could ever get your body to relax enough to actually sleep.

you groaned, shoving your face into the pillow. how were you supposed to survive the night without it? your arms felt weird. your chest felt cold. everything just felt… off.

you opened your eyes, staring blankly into the dark. there was no way you were going to sleep tonight. not unless you found a way to hug something.

maybe you could steal a pillow from the hallway?

…or, god forbid—ask caleb if he had a spare?

nope. absolutely not. you would rather freeze. you rolled onto your back again, sighing deeply. “this is so dumb,” you whispered to the ceiling.

it didn't take you long enough before you find yourself standing, your toes barely making a sound against the carpet while you crept out of the room, pajamas just a bit too long, sleeves brushing past your fingers. the hallway was dim, lit only by the soft blue glow spilling in from the living room.

you told yourself it was just for water. just something to sip so you could trick your body into thinking it was okay to rest. nothing more.

but just as you turned the corner, there he was.

caleb. curled up sideways on the sofa, legs hanging off the armrest like he’d melted into it, his phone casting a cool glow across his face. he looked cozy. a little sleepy, but still very much awake.

and he saw you immediately. your eyes locked like it was choreographed.

you froze.

so did he.

for a second, neither of you said a word, just two stunned statues in the quiet of midnight. “…can’t sleep?” he finally asked, voice husky and rough with tiredness, but not unfriendly.

you blinked. your fingers gripped the hem of the oversized top. “not really,” you admitted. “uh. was gonna get some water.”

he sat up slowly, the phone slipping onto his chest. “kitchen’s free.”

you nodded, but didn’t move yet. then he tilted his head, eyes scanning your face like he already knew something was up. “you okay?”

you hesitated. should you lie? brush it off? make some excuse? or maybe, just maybe, you could admit the truth. the ridiculous, embarrassing truth. your lips parted, unsure. “…okay, yeah, i can't sleep. not without my pillow.” your plushie, actually.

his mouth quirked, but not in a mocking way. “really?”

“yeah. laugh all you want.”

“i’m not laughing.” he stretched his arms over his head, then let them fall onto his lap with a sigh. “kinda cute, honestly.”

your face warmed. “don’t call it that.”

“but it is.”

you clicked your tongue and started walking toward the kitchen just to escape the way his gaze felt on you. “i’m just gonna get that water now, thanks.”

you heard him chuckle as you stood by the sink, cold glass in hand, the sound of water trickling in almost louder than your heartbeat. everything felt surreal. you used to just watch him from the far end of classrooms, pretending not to look. used to catch glimpses of him laughing with his friends and wonder what it would be like to be that close.

and now? now you were here. in his house. talking to him. because of a stupid snowstorm.

you tightened your grip on the glass, grounding yourself. you took a quiet sip, trying to calm the storm inside for once.

then you felt a shift beside you. a soft presence. the quiet scrape of socked feet on tile.

caleb, leaning casually against the counter, arms crossed, the glow from the overhead light catching in the warm violet of his eyes. “the rest are already fast asleep,” he murmured, voice low like he didn’t want to disturb the quiet.

you glanced up at him. and god. why did he have to look that good under sleepy kitchen lighting?

he wasn’t even doing anything, just standing there in sweatpants and that loose black shirt, like he’d stepped out of a dream you forgot you were having.

your eyes lingered a second too long, before he noticed. his brow arched slightly, amused.

you quickly looked away, down at your glass like it suddenly held the secrets of the universe. “right. yeah,” you said, voice tight and awkward. you looked down at the rim of your glass, fingers tracing along the condensation, anything to keep from meeting his eyes again.

then, quietly, almost sheepishly, you asked, “do you feel okay sleeping on the sofa? sorry for having to take your bed away…” your voice barely carried over the hum of the fridge.

for a moment, caleb didn’t respond. you glanced up, and he was already looking at you. that same soft, unreadable expression on his face. then he shrugged a shoulder, lips tugging into a small smile.

“it’s not a big deal.”

“still. you didn’t have to.”

he scoffed gently, amused. “what, should i let you sleep on the couch while it’s practically snowing knives out there? nah. not happening.”

you bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to smile too obviously.

he leaned his elbow on the counter, his body angled toward you now, casual, but his gaze still settled on your features like you were something he couldn’t quite figure out. “besides,” he added, quieter this time, “if it means you’re here… i think i’m okay with it.”

your heart stuttered. you blinked. “...what?”

he looked down, like he couldn’t believe he said that either, brushing a hand through his hair. “i mean, like, i don’t mind. i like... talking to you. and stuff.” his voice was flustered now, the same one you heard when he complimented you earlier, and you knew that your face was fully red again.

you set the glass down carefully, pulse loud in your ears. “i… like talking to you too,” you mumbled, so quietly it was barely audible.

but he heard it. and he smiled again, looking away, like really tilting his head away from your direction. “aaalright,” he sings, stepping back from the counter with a stretch, “since neither of us is sleeping anytime soon… wanna play something?”

you raised a brow, a little wary. “play what?”

he shot you a look like you’d just challenged him. “cards. i’ve got a deck in the drawer. loser has to pick truth or dare.”

“truth or dare? seriously?”

“hey,” caleb said, already moving toward the living room, that smug little smirk growing, “don’t act like you’re not curious. or scared.”

you scoffed, setting your glass down and following him. “i’m not scared.”

“uh-huh,” he called over his shoulder, crouching near the TV stand to rummage through a drawer. “we’ll see how brave you are when i ask if you’ve ever had a crush on someone in this house.”

you choked a little. “that’s—”

he turned, waving the deck at you with a grin. “then don’t lose.”

and with that, caleb plopped down onto the carpet by the coffee table, legs crossed, a flicker of excitement in his eyes. the snow outside still raged on quietly, blanketing the world, but inside, the only storm was the one building between your shared glances and half-laughs.

you sat on the carpet as well, across from him, heart thudding in anticipation. “ready to lose?” he teased, shuffling the cards.

but when you actually started to play now, caleb was the first one to lose. you tried not to gloat, but your grin said it all.

he rolled his eyes with a lazy smirk, leaning back on his palms. “alright, alright. truth.”

you tapped your chin, pretending to think. but really, the question had already been burning in your chest, because this was a golden opportunity! you leaned forward slightly, voice a little too soft. “what do you think of me?” alright. yeah. it was a cheesy question, but what else can i ask?

he didn’t flinch, nor did he shy away. caleb just looked at you, straight on. “i think you’re cute.”

you malfunctioned. why is he so blunt?

he went on, calm, unbothered. “fun to talk to. smart. a little chaotic, in a good way. definitely my... type.” your brain stalled. but caleb just shrugged like he just told you the weather. “why?”

you opened your mouth, closed it again. “i—um. nothing. no reason.”

he gave you a little smirk, already reshuffling the cards. “you asked. don’t get shy now.”

you stared at him, fully malfunctioning while he just dealt the next hand like he didn’t just flip your entire world upside down in five seconds flat.

"hey, continue playin now." he called over, but caleb lost again. you had to stifle your laughter, but there was a spark of excitement inside you. it was like luck had completely turned your way tonight after all the previous events.

"seriously?" caleb squinted, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. "again?"

"looks like it,"

he sighed dramatically, as if he were going to quit the game, but then perked up. "fine, dare me."

you hesitated for a second. part of you wanted to go big, do something wild, but then you remembered just how much chaos he'd already caused. instead, you decided to play it safe. "pinch yourself," you said, trying to keep a straight face.

caleb blinked, eyes widening for a split second as he processed the request. then, he gave you a flat look. "that's it?"

"yep."

he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he looked at you with that trademark smirk. "aw, disappointing," he said, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm. "kinda expected you to..."

you blinked, your heart pounding a little faster as his gaze lingered on you. "to what?"

"nuthin', nuthin'," he said, waving it off with a small shrug. he then proceeded to pinch his own arm, and you couldn’t help but watch as he did it.

the next round, you actually lost now.

caleb's grin was wide as ever, but then, as you looked at him, you noticed something shift. for a split second, his expression faltered just for a moment, but it was enough to make you wonder what was going through his mind. it was almost like he was thinking about something different.

he cleared his throat quickly, wiping that flicker of uncertainty away, and leaned back in his chair with that same smug look. "looks like you lost. truth or dare?"

you didn’t have the energy to be annoyed. "dare," you said, hoping you'd make it through this round without too much embarrassment.

caleb’s gaze locked onto yours. there was something in his eyes now, something that made you feel a little unsteady. his usual playful teasing was still there, but now it felt sharper, like he was testing you.

after a long, deliberate pause, he finally spoke, his voice a whisper. "kiss me."

your heart stopped. time seemed to freeze for a moment, and your eyes widened as you stared at him in complete shock. did he really just say that? your mind raced, trying to catch up. there was no way he could be serious, right?

but caleb didn’t move, his gaze was still intense, waiting for your response, keeping the ball at your court.

you felt heat flood your face, your stomach flipping in a way that made you feel like you might combust. your breath caught in your throat. what do i even do? “w-what?” you stammered, trying to keep your cool.

"what?," he repeated sardonically, voice calm but with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "it’s a dare, ain't it? nuthin' serious. unless you want it to be?"

you were frozen, the tension thick in the air. caleb’s gaze hadn’t softened, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he was messing with you. or was he actually being serious? you swallowed hard once more, trying to gather your thoughts, but your mind was a whirl of confusion, embarrassment, and... something else. something like desire.

but you couldn't back out now. not in front of him. so slowly, you crawled to him, and as you drawled closer, your heartbeat pounded in your ears, each one louder than the last. you barely even realized your hands were trembling.

as you reached him, your face inches from his, you could feel the heat from his body. caleb's eyes flickered down to your lips for a split second, and for just a moment, everything felt unbearably charged.

then, as if to break the tension, he cracked a grin and leaned back just slightly. "hey, you really don’t have to. just a dare, remember?"

you blinked, your mind still reeling. your heart was still racing. "this isn’t funny," you muttered, pulling away quickly.

caleb chuckled softly, clearly amused by the whole situation, but his eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than usual. “sorry, sorry,” he said, the teasing tone still there, "go on now."

you didn't think. you just did it.

your heart pounded as you leaned in, closing the distance, and pressing your lips against his, just a quick peck. nothing too intense. just a soft, fleeting touch.

but caleb... caleb twitched. his whole body stilled for a second, like he'd been struck dumb. his eyes widened just a fraction, and for the briefest of moments, you could have sworn there was something raw flickering in his gaze.

you pulled away quickly, your breath hitched in your throat, and you quickly tried to turn away, heart still racing. what the hell did i just do?

but then, caleb didn’t look the way you expected. he didn’t laugh, nor did he make an attempt to tease. no, his gaze was fixed on you, intense and unblinking. his lips parted slightly as he looked at you like he was waiting for something.

there was a brief silence, and then, with a shift in his tone, he asked, "am i allowed to have a follow-up dare?"

you blinked, caught off guard. "huh?"

caleb didn’t smile this time, his eyes softening just a little, as if something unspoken passed between you two. "yeah." his gaze lingered on your lips for a moment, and you could feel the weight of it, “kiss. not just a peck.”

you froze.

“come on,” he said, his voice practically dripping with that same confident teasing. but it was different now. there was a quiet longing beneath the playfulness. “just a kiss. no big deal. it’s just a dare, right?”

your mind went blank. this is not just a dare. he’s... he’s serious.

you swallowed hard, your palms starting to sweat. the room felt smaller. everything felt louder; the way his heart beat, the way your pulse raced, the sound of your breath mixing in the silence between you two.

and then, just like that, with no further hesitation, caleb closed the distance between you again, leaning in as his eyes searched yours for any sign of hesitation.

you didn’t stop him. the kiss was different this time. deeper, slower. there was no teasing now, it was just the two of you, caught in a moment that neither of you had really expected, but neither of you could seem to pull away from.

when you finally broke away, both of you were breathing heavily. caleb’s fingers curled tightly at his sides, like he was trying to restrain himself from doing something impulsive. his body was completely tense, and his eyes avoided yours for a brief moment, focusing on the space between you two.

he exhaled, the sound of his breath almost imperceptible, and then his gaze flicked back to you. his voice was quieter now, a little more controlled, as he whispered, “you should go and sleep now, gettin kinda late..”

"yeah… good night,” you whispered back, pulling away and standing up to settle back into his bedroom down the hallway.

before you could even take that step away, caleb was already on his feet. his hand caught your wrist swiftly, and then his other hand found the side of your face. there was no pause, no breath between. he instantly kissed you. "mmn—"

your eyes fluttered shut, body frozen in shock before melting into the sudden heat of it all. his lips pressed against yours like he was trying to make up for every second he didn’t. like he didn’t want to stop. and he didn’t.

instead, he broke the kiss only for a heartbeat, his forehead resting against yours, breath ghosting your lips. “come with me,” he whispered, voice husky.

you barely nodded, barely processed it, before he was gently tugging your hand, leading you back toward his bedroom in silence. it was sudden. so fast you didn’t even get to question it. the moonlight through the windows washed softly over the both of you as you stepped in.

the moment the door clicked shut behind, the world seemed to fall away. caleb’s lips were back on yours before you could even think to process what was happening, his hands gripping your waist, pulling you closer.

he kissed you with a hunger that took you by surprise, each kiss deeper, more urgent than the last, as if he couldn’t get enough of you. his hands roamed to your back, to your hips, to your waist, tugging you toward him until there was no space left between your bodies.

the kiss wasn’t soft anymore, it was messy, passionate, as if he was trying to savor every second, devour every inch of you. your mind was a whirlwind, overwhelmed with sensations, but your body responded before you could even stop it, your hands coming up to grip his shirt, pulling him closer, if that was even possible.

his fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss even more, and for a moment, you forgot everything else. the snowstorm outside, the awkwardness, the game, everything was gone.

caleb’s lips trailed from your mouth, leaving a trail of warmth as they moved down to your neck. the sensation of his kiss against your skin made your breath hitch, and a soft, involuntary whimper escaped you.

his lips paused just below your ear, and he pulled back slightly, his breath warm against your neck. "shhh," he whispered, his voice low and almost possessive. "wouldn't want them to hear you now, do you?"

without breaking the gaze, he pushes you onto the bed, his body following as he hovered over you. his hands framed your face, as if making sure you had nowhere to look but him.

he watched you carefully, breath a little heavier now, the weight of the moment pressing down on both of you. your face was flushed, lips slightly parted, and for a second, he just studied you, making sure he didn’t move too quickly.

“tell me if you wanna stop,” caleb murmured, his voice softer than before, but still full of that same heat. he leaned down, brushing his nose against yours, a quiet gesture of reassurance amidst the tension. “i won’t push you, okay?”

"it's okay, keep going.."

caleb's eyes narrowed with desire as he heard your breathless consent. a slow, small smile spread across his handsome face, his dimples flashing in the moonlight. "mkay," he murmured, his voice a low, husky rumble that sent shivers down your spine.

he leaned down, lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck once more. you gasped as he began to trail kisses along your jawline, his mouth hot and insistent against your flesh. his teeth grazed your skin, nipping and biting gently as he made his way down to your collarbone.

your fingers tangled in his hair, gripping the soft locks as you arched your back slightly, giving him better access to your neck. a soft moan escaped your lips as he suckled on your pulse point, no doubt leaving a mark of his possession.

you couldn't believe it, from a snowstorm to a make out session with your crush. you couldn't believe it. but you wanted to keep on going, despite your lack of experience.

caleb's hands roamed your curves, his fingers splaying across your ribcage before sliding down to your hips. he hooked his fingers in the waistband of your bottoms, tugging on them slightly as he continued his sensual assault on your neck and chest.

while he kissed lower, his tongue flicked out to taste the soft swell of your breasts, his teeth catching on the lace of your bra. he looked up at you, eyes filled with a hunger that made your core throb with need. without breaking eye contact, he reached behind you and unhooked your bra with deft fingers, tossing it aside carelessly.

your breasts spilled free, and caleb's mouth was on them in an instant. he laved his tongue over one hardened nipple before drawing it into his mouth, suckling greedily. his other hand came up to knead the soft mound of your breast, his fingers sinking into the pliant flesh.

he's doing it all so quickly and effortlessly like he'd been practicing.

then, he worked his way down your body, kissing and nipping at the soft skin of your stomach, his tongue dipping into your belly button. he paused when he reached the waistband of your shackles, looking up at you with a teasing grin.

"lift your hips for me," he commanded, and you complied, lifting your hips off the bed as he tugged your undergarments and slid them off your ankles.

he paused for a moment, taking in the sight of you laid out bare before him, his eyes roaming hungrily over your naked form.

"shit, you're gorgeous," he breathed, his voice filled with awe and desire. his hand came down to rest on your inner thigh, his thumb brushing maddeningly close to your aching core.

unable to resist any longer, caleb leaned in and pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your thigh, his tongue darting out to taste your skin. he worked his way further slowly, your breath hitching and your back arching off the bed as he drew closer and closer to your dripping center.

without warning, he pressed a kiss directly to your clit, making you cry out in surprise and pleasure. "caleb—" his tongue circled the sensitive bundle of nerves before he drew it into his mouth, suckling hard. your hands flew to his hair, gripping the strands tightly as your hips bucked up against his face.

while he licked and suckled your clit, caleb's hand came up to tease your entrance. "you're wet," he ran a finger along your slit, feeling the slick heat of your arousal coating his digit. unable to hold back any longer, he says, "i'm gunna put it in, okay?" he pushes a finger inside your tight channel, grunting against your clit as he felt your walls clench around the intrusion.

he began to pump his finger in and out, his pace slow and steady. at the same time, caleb pulls away to bring his other hand down to his own aching cock, wrapping his fingers around the thick shaft. he grunted as he began to stroke himself simultaneously with the thrusts of his finger.

"can you look at me?" he moaned, staring down at you with a feverish gaze, you could see the beads of sweat trickling down his collarbone. he sweats so easily. he added a second finger the moment your eyes meet, pumping them in and out of your dripping cunt faster with increasing fervor.

his thumb rubbed firm circles over your clit, the rough pad of his finger stimulating the sensitive nub with each pass. "ahh, fuck!" you gasped, your head thrashing against the pillow as the intensity of your pleasure mounted. your hips bucked and writhed beneath his touch, seeking more of the delicious friction.

"quiet," caleb hissed, but nonetheless too spurred on by your enthusiastic responses that he doubles his efforts. his hand flew over his aching cock, stroking the thick shaft with fast, tight pumps. the lewd sound of squelching noises filled the room as he jerked himself off, growing louder and more urgent with each passing second. beads of pre-cum leaked from the swollen head, dripping down to coat his pumping fist.

"oh god, caleb..." you cried out again, your voice breaking as he brought you closer and closer to the edge. your inner walls fluttered and clenched around his pistoning fingers, gripping them like a vice.

acting quickly, he brought his free hand up to cover your mouth, "you're gunna wake the house up," his palm muffling any sound that threatened to escape from you, then simultaneously, he slams his throbbing cock deep into your spasming pussy with one powerful thrust.

"mmph!" your scream of ecstasy was reduced to a strangled moan against his hand as caleb's thick shaft stretched and filled you in an instant, reaching depths you'd never felt before. your slick walls, still fluttering from your climax, clenched down around him like a hot, velvety vise.

"fuck!" caleb hissed through gritted teeth despite himself, his eyes squeezing shut at the sudden, exquisite sensations of your tight, dripping cunt gripping his cock. he stilled for a moment, allowing you both to adjust to the intense sensation of being so utterly filled and connected.

his hips pressed firmly against yours, the coarse hair at the base of his shaft tickling your sensitive skin. his chest heaved against your own as he struggled to maintain control, his heart pounding wildly in his chest.

"jesus christ you're tight," caleb breathed, his lips brushing against your ear. "we don't wanna alert the whole house to what we're doing. so..." caleb began to move, "keep quiet, alright?"

yeah, you're totally gonna keep quiet about how three days before christmas your plan of giving your crush an anonymous gift during a snowstorm led you to having sex with him in his bedroom. absolutely. you're going to keep quiet about how you used to just observe caleb playing basketball from the bleachers and now you're watching him tease his dick into your hole. those irises that only used to meet your gaze in hallways, now eyed you down while he rubbed his tip against your womb.

"mmh...!" you continued whining. how couldn't you? he stretched you out so perfectly, and he looks so hot doing it.

"i told you to keep quiet, right?" caleb pressed his hand on your lips even more harder. "right?"

yeah, you're gonna keep quiet about this.

[icaruspendragon]

lemme tell ya fellas, having a mental illness that is heavily stigmatized and dangerously misrepresented in media sure is hard sometimes.

random strangers on the internet will be like, “i’m so ocd! i just can’t stand it when things get messy!”

so cool! but i think the word you’re looking for is actually “organized.”

because then i’ll get on the internet and be like, “i’ve had ocd episodes so bad i considered seeking inpatient treatment.”

and then a random stranger online will say, “if you say you have ocd, then why is your space so cluttered and disorganized?”

and to the random stranger i say, “the clutter exists because my object permanence skills are ass. and besides, there are lots of different types of ocd, the kind you see on tv isn’t the only kind.”

and then i will be asked, “how do you have ocd, then?”

to which i reply, “it’s an anxiety disorder that makes me have lots of awful and disturbing and upsetting intrusive thoughts, mainly centering around death and dying (amongst other things). like i had an episode in the past two years or so that stopped me from being able to drive anywhere.

i couldn’t drive bc i was convinced i was going to be involved in a car accident and be completely fine whereas the other driver would be terribly injured and i wouldn’t be able to help them and instead i’d just have to stand there on the side of the road watching them bleed out in a ditch.

because for me. that’s the obsessive part of the disorder. my brain conjures an upsetting intrusive thought that i very much don’t want to think about, which means all i can do is think about it. and i know i can’t make something happen by thinking about it too much, but also i can girl boss #manifest a fatal accident.

there was episode where i didn’t leave my house for weeks because i was convinced my presence in the general public would cause a mass casualty event and i’d be helpless while being forced to watch people die and it’d be all my fault because i thought it into existence.

so yeah my desk may be messy, but to be fair, i am constantly plagued by thoughts of death and try to cope with it by coming up with every single contingency plan and then some. that way i can be prepared to help the victim of the accident i’ve caused by existing.

another quirky fun non-cleaning my bathroom symptom of my disorder is picking at the skin on my head to the point it’s covered in sores and bald spots. bc body focused repetitive behavior self grooming habits are the self soothing technique my brain picked. so i don’t even notice i’m doing until someone smacks my hand away from my head or i need to use my right hand for something and see my fingers have blood on them.

the bfrb is a manifestation of anxiety, not self harm. but i am so self conscious and embarrassed by it that i stopped getting my hair done for like a year because i didn’t want anyone to see the 15 plus sores i have on my head at any given time.

so yeah. a dirty countertop “bothering your ocd” must be incredibly difficult for you to manage. i’ll be sure to ask you for advice the next time i go across an intersection with my eyes glued to my speedometer because if i don’t look at the road i can’t make a car appear out of nowhere to t-bone me, subsequently forcing me to watch someone die.”

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

You would hit BELIEVE how happy I am that you’re writing fics for Declan O’Hara he’s my new DILF obsession!!! Also it was so well-written and in-character, oh my goodness!

I was wondering if I could request a fic where Declan and female!reader are having an affair, and she’s super nervous because she’s Taggie’s best friend. She meets Declan one night in his car, and he calms her down and, obviously, they have car sex.

Ending this with a huge I LOVE YOUR WORK

Shut Up and Drive.

It’s a funny thing, isn’t it? The one person who riles you up the most is also the only person that can calm you down.

declan o’hara x female reader

warnings - smut. cursing. age gap. cheating. declan and his dirty mouth. one use of the c word. overuse of the nickname sweetheart.

word count - 3k

authors note - the minute he put that baby blue t shirt on… I was suddenly on my knees. funny how that happens. can’t and won’t stop with the fics for this man. I am riding the rivals train to the ends of the earth, baby. thanks for being so sweet, anon <3

masterlist. inbox.

The phone is shaking in your trembling hand, cord all tangled where you keep twisting it around your finger nervously.

“Hello?”

You almost drop the receiver at the sound of that familiar Irish accent, despite the fact that you were the one that rang him. It has your stomach churning, in a different way than usual.

“H-hi,” you barely whisper, before clearing your throat and trying again. “Hi. It’s me.”

“Hi, sweetheart,” he breathes, as if it’s the first time he’s taken a lungful of air all day.

“I, um… I’m sorry to call you on the house phone. I know it’s not how we do things usually.”

“It’s alright. What’s the matter? Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. I just, uh… I called to say that I can’t do this anymore.”

“Sweetheart-”

“I would have told you in person, but I didn’t know when I was going to see you next, so.”

“Can we-” he begins, before lowering his voice so as not to be overheard, “-can we talk about this properly? Please?”

“We can’t. I can’t. We shouldn’t.”

“Sweetheart, I’m beggin’ ya. One conversation. You’re not ending this in a quick phone call on a Wednesday night, you hear me?”

You inhale deeply, biting at your lips. There’s pure anxiety radiating through your body, prickly and unrelenting.

“I hear you,” you murmur down the receiver. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he sighs in relief. “I’m gonna come and get ya - we’ll go for a drive, alright?”

“Sorry you have to lie,” you whisper, guilt colouring your tone.

“I’d lie for you a thousand times over.”

His words shouldn’t make you feel as giddy as they do, but alas. Here you are.

“I’ll put some shoes on.”

“And a coat. It’s cold as fuck tonight.”

You half laugh, half snort at him down the phone, dreamily imagining the grin he most likely has painted on his face listening to you.

“Yes sir,” you tease, giggling. “I’ll see you soon.”

“I’ll drive up without my headlights on. Look out for me, yeah?”

“I will.”

I always do, you think to yourself. I always do.

The line goes dead abruptly, the buzzing vibrating straight into your temples. You slip your shoes on, quickly fixing your hair and touching up your makeup in the mirror in the hallway while you’re there. You shrug your arms into your coat at Declan’s orders, knowing he’d tell you off if you turned up without it on.

You’ve almost forgotten the entire reason you called in the first place was to break things off with him.

Almost.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

True to his word, Declan drives up your road without his headlights on, slowly and with practised precision.

You’re waiting at the window for him, patiently anticipating the sight of that stupid yellow car. You’re out of the door in seconds as soon as you see him, bounding towards the passenger side and slipping in before anyone notices. He drives off quickly, not taking any time to say hello before he’s taking off out of the town and towards the rolling countryside.

You drive for a good fifteen minutes, to a spot the two of you frequent on your drives. It’s a dirt track, leading to nothing but fields for miles on end. Declan pulls the car around the bend and out of sight from the busier road, knowing that it has more than enough privacy. You’ve never been caught here before, and you don’t plan to start.

Finally turning off the engine, he turns to face you, taking in how the moonlight illuminates your features in the lowlight of the car.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“Hi.”

You’re refusing to look at him, knowing that if you do, you’ll surge over and kiss him until you’re both dizzy. You can feel his gaze on you, though, intense and unwavering. As it always is.

His thumb and pointer finger hook under your chin, forcing you to stare straight into his determined brown eyes. You’re willing yourself not to crumble, but you can feel your resolve starting to slip already.

“I missed you,” he whispers, careful not to spook you.

“I missed you too,” you say before you can stop yourself. “Shit.”

He chuckles, and the low timbre of it settles right in the pit of your stomach.

“What’s all this about then, hmm? The phone call?”

“What did you tell Taggie? Where did you say you were going?”

It’s your least favourite part about all of this, the lying. Lying to Taggie, to Patrick, to Caitlin, to Rupert, to your friends, to your family. Coming up with excuses has become second nature - something you hate about yourself now. You hate how it comes so naturally to both of you these days.

“Told her I was going to meet someone about some potential research for a show. She had evening plans anyway, she’s off out to Lizzie’s.”

You’re fiddling with your fingers, picking at your nails in a nervous habit as you chew your bottom lip. If anxiety was personified, it’d be you.

“You avoided my question. We need to talk about what you said on the phone, sweetheart.”

Taking a deep breath, you turn in your seat to face him properly, going over the speech you’ve practised in your head dozens of times.

“Okay. I’m… I’m not sure we should do this anymore. I- I just… I feel guilty. For lying to Taggie, mainly. And because you’re technically still married, but mainly for lying to Tag. She’s the closest friend I have, and I’m sleeping with her father. It makes me a terrible person, Declan. I have to put a stop to it.”

He processes your words for a moment, looking at you intently.

“Do ya want to?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you want to? Put a stop to things? Or do you just feel like you should? For other people.”

You want to lie, tell him exactly what you had planned out, feed him what you know will work. But you can’t. You can lie to everyone… except Declan.

“I don’t want to,” you whisper. “But I should. We should.”

“Why now? Did something happen? Did someone say something?”

“No, no. I just… Taggie said something really sweet the other day about how she was glad that she had me, because making friends here hasn’t been easy for her. And it should have made me happy, and instead, it broke my heart.”

“Oh, sweetheart.”

Declan cradles your face in his rough hands, resting his forehead against yours. It’s like the whole world melts away for a moment, leaving just the two of you in the tiny yellow car.

“I’m a horrible person,” you mumble. “And a horrible friend.”

“You’re speaking as if it’s just you. And it’s not, you know. There’s two of us in this affair - I’m just as guilty as you are.”

“Fine then. We’re both horrible people.”

He chuckles, breath tickling your face, and you can’t help the giggle that escapes you. His lips are brushing yours every time he speaks, meaning you can practically taste the cigarette smoke and spearmint on his tongue.

“I never claimed otherwise,” he retorts, still smiling.

“I don’t know what to do,” you admit as his thumbs sweep back and forth across your cheekbones. “It’s weighing down my conscience, and I don’t want to hurt Tag. But… I can’t give you up, Declan. I need you. I need you more than anything.”

“You make me crazy. God, I think about you night and day, sweetheart. My thoughts revolve around if I’ve seen you and when I’m going to see you next.”

“So what do we do? I can’t quit this. I can’t quit you, I can’t quit us. I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”

“I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t know. I wish I had the answers… I wish I could make all your worries go away. But I can’t.”

“I don’t expect you to. I just… I thought that I could do it in one clean sweep. Get it out the way, you know? Call you, end things, be done. And then the minute I heard your voice over the phone… I knew I couldn’t do it. Because deep down, I didn’t want to.”

He leans in to press a lingering kiss to your forehead, desperate to be close to you.

“Declan.”

“If I could fix it all for you, I would,” he murmurs against your skin. “You know I would.”

You pull back to put some distance in between you, watching him carefully for his reaction to what you say next.

“You should break things off.”

He flinches as if you’ve punched him in the stomach.

“What?”

“You should. I clearly can’t, so you have to be the one to do it. Do it, Declan. End things with me right here, right now. Please.”

Your tone is weak and unconvincing, as if you can’t even bring yourself to say the words with any conviction.

“I can’t,” he confesses, voice breaking on the last word. “I can’t do it.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, exhaling it slowly as if he’s buying himself some time. You wait patiently for him to continue, nerves frayed at the edges.

“Because I love you.”

Now it’s your turn to flinch, his admission smacking you across the face violently.

“You-”

“Yes. I love you, sweetheart. It’s taken me a while to figure all of this out, but I know it now. That’s why I’ve never been able to end this. Because it’s not just incredible sex… it’s something more. Something real.”

There are tears welling in your eyes as you look at him, watching the way he lays his heart on his sleeve in the moonlight just for you.

“I’m scared,” you confess. “I love you too and it scares me.”

You don’t miss the way his face lights up as you say it, but he’s trying to keep a careful lid on his emotions for now.

“I’m not going to let anything bad happen to ya. You know that.”

All you can do is nod in response, digesting everything that has happened in the last five minutes. You do know that. He’s proven time and time again that you’re not just some fleeting fling to him.

“Declan?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you.”

Now he grins like an idiot, eyes alive with adrenaline and hope.

“That’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever heard ya say.”

You tuck some hair behind his ear before leaning in to gently press your lips to his, wanting to seal the moment. He kisses you back sweetly at first, before taking control with more force, slipping his tongue into your mouth cheekily. You happily let him take the lead, sighing in contentment as you melt into him.

“C’mere.”

Climbing over onto his lap, you hinge your legs on either side of his in the drivers seat, straddling his hips. You try to straighten up but end up hitting your head on the roof of the car, which makes you both wheeze with laughter.

“This car is too fucking small,” you grumble, rubbing the spot that you smacked.

“Y’alright? Want me to kiss it better?”

You hate the way the teasing tone in his voice shoots right to your core, shaking your head in defiance.

“Fuck off,” you mumble, leaning your head on his shoulder. “Patronising bastard.”

“I like it when you get your claws out,” he chuckles, tracing patterns on your thighs over your jeans. “S’hot.”

You kiss him again to shut him up, biting at his bottom lip in punishment. He groans all low and slow, which makes you grind your hips into his, despite the multiple layers of clothing separating you.

“Backseat,” he whispers, pushing you off of him gently. “More room.”

You splay yourself across the wide back seat, opening your legs so Declan can slot in between them.

“You’ve got too many clothes on,” he prompts as he shrugs off his own jacket and undoes his belt.

You can’t help but chuckle at his impatience, happily taking off your coat and jumper and unbuttoning your jeans. Your breath catches in your throat when you look back up at him - he’s wearing the Venturer t shirt that hugs his biceps just right, accentuating every delicious muscle he has to offer you.

“Wore it for you,” he mutters against your lips. “Know you like me in a t shirt.”

You roll your eyes but kiss him with determination anyway, all teeth and tongue and clashing bodies. You’re clawing at his clothed shoulders, wrapping your legs around his waist to buck your hips into his.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” he mumbles into the skin of your neck, pressing kisses wherever he can reach. “Lying awake at night thinking about your thighs, your tits, your cunt.”

All you can do is sigh, fingers digging into his biceps in desperation.

“Wish I could take my time with you like you deserve. These quick fucks just aren’t the same.”

He sounds almost upset about it, voice staying deep and low.

“Remember that time I stayed the night? And you couldn’t walk in the morning?”

You laugh breathily, thinking back fondly to that night a few months ago. You’d both orchestrated it so carefully, crafting cautious lies and fabricated stories to snatch a good sixteen hours of time together.

“Need that again soon. Might have to start sneaking ya into my house in the dark, make you climb the gutters like we’re in a film. Although, it is a bit hard to keep you quiet.”

You try valiantly to ignore the heat that flushes across your chest as he teases you, knowing that he’s right.

“Declan?”

“Yeah, baby?”

You grab his hand and shove it down your underwear, jeans trapped around your thighs. There’s very minimal room in this tiny car, but you’re both determined to make it work. He groans when he feels how wet you are, swiping through your core.

“Fuck me. Have you been like this the entire time?”

“Since this afternoon,” you whimper, trying to grind down onto his fingers. “Couldn’t stop thinking about when you ate me out on my kitchen worktop last week. My legs were shaking for two days afterwards.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, slipping a finger into you as he drops his head onto your shoulder. “I got myself off thinking about that yesterday. I swear if I concentrate, I can still taste you on my tongue.”

All you can do is whimper, desperate to have him in any way you can. The fact that you have the same effect on him that he does on you makes your head spin, dizzy with want.

“Don’t make me wait,” you beg, cradling his face so he has to look you in the eye. “Fuck me, please. Please, Declan.”

“Okay, pretty girl. I’ll give ya anything you want. Anything.”

He shuffles around so he’s sat back on his knees, pushing his jeans and underwear down just enough to free himself. You spread your legs as wide as you can, trying to give him as much room as possible. It’s not the first time you’ve found yourself in this position in this car with him - and it won’t be the last.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs as he leans down to kiss you, licking across your teeth with his tongue. “Most gorgeous girl I’ve ever seen.”

He slides into you with ease, both of you gasping at the familiar sensation. Your nails are digging into his shoulders as he holds your hips in a bruising grip, pads of his fingertips biting into your flesh.

Declan doesn’t waste any time, setting a relentless pace that has you bouncing across the seat. The car is shaking like crazy, all the windows fogged up - anyone who passes will know exactly what’s happening inside.

The man above you can read you like a book and play you like a fiddle. He knows the exact angles of his hips that’ll have you keening, the certain spots to focus on that’ll have you seeing stars. He knows you better than anyone, in more ways than one.

“That’s it,” he soothes, pressing a kiss to your sweaty forehead. “Atta girl. Taking it like you were made for me.”

“Maybe I was,” you breathe, tipping your head back to give him access to your neck. “Just for you.”

He groans all melted and golden like molten honey, the vibrato of it rumbling through your bones. You’re holding onto him for dear life, as if he’s the only thing tethering you to this reality. When his thumb finds your clit to rub firm, slow circles, you’re convinced you’re floating on another plane of existence.

The only word you can seem to formulate is Declan, which only pushes him closer to the finish line. He’s determined to get you there first, angling his hips upward to hit that one spot that has you gasping. When he moves one hand to your throat and gently squeezes, you fall apart instantly, taking him with you.

“I love you,” he breathes as he comes, forehead resting on yours. “My girl.”

You’re shuddering and shaking as you lie underneath him, panting like you’ve just ran ten miles. Declan collapses on top of you, laying his head on your chest comfortably. Your fingers rake through his hair, fingernails scratching at his scalp like you’ve done so many times before.

You both allow yourselves to close your eyes for a minute, recovering and attempting to catch your breath. You’re convinced, for a moment, that you’ll never feel more peaceful than you do right now. You breathe each other in, satiated and content.

You finally open your eyes, expecting to see nothing but fogged windows and starlit darkness. Instead, you see a man bending down, looking straight at you. Arguably the worst possible person that could see the two of you in the position you’re in.

Rupert Campbell Black.

He’s grinning like an idiot, shaking his head in disbelief.

You’re about to warn the man in your arms when Rupert opens the car door, slipping himself into the drivers seat and spinning so he’s facing you. Declan has jumped out of his skin, jolting upwards to cover you as best he can.

Rupert smirks all dirty and knowing, eyes dancing over your half naked forms.

“Well, well, well. Secrets out, lovers.”

@graceflorence @dionysus-drabbles

as aaaaaaaalways… reblogs are golden!! they’re the currency of tumblr, my loves. you reblog, and your favourite writers will write you more fics. simple as that. mwah. <3

[iamasaddie]

speed limit

lot lizard!Joel Miller x truck driver!f!reader

summary: different truck stop, same outcome. you meet Tommy’s brother down the road and learn that charm runs in Miller family warnings: again just a PWP nothing more; PinV; dirty talk; sex for money; mentions of past encounter with Tommy; no y/n or reader description wc: 3,9k a/n: I've tried writing in present tense and i am obsessed? hope u don't mind that change. thank you for the love and excitement over this silly idea <3 this is not heavily edited and once again, English is not my first language so mistakes are... there. most likely. previous part | series masterlist | next part

lot lizard (slang, US) — A prostitute at a truck stop.

Fate itself forces you to stop in Texas when a small red icon on the dashboard of your truck lights up, informing you of a plummeting tire pressure. You swear softly to yourself, turning the steering wheel and driving towards the first parking lot you see. Fortunately, even if you have a punctured tire, it will not prevent you from reaching your destination point, still, it will be useful to check all the others before you set off.

Before you jump out of the cab, you look behind the seat and fish out a red case where you kept necessary tools. You find the gauge quickly and jump out of the truck.

It's quiet in the half-empty parking lot, and from where you are standing you can see a heavyset man in his sixties dozing with his head thrown back in one of the trucks. A few more parked trucks look empty at first, but you know the drivers can well be napping in their cabins or having breakfast in the small shabby-looking diner. At the thought of breakfast, your stomach rumbles and you automatically squeeze the fabric of your T-shirt there, as if trying to stifle the shameful sound. That morning you drove off so briskly at first light that you completely forgot that the last time you ate was about twelve hours ago.

You quickly decide to stop by the dining room as soon as you've dealt with the tires. The road was empty in the early morning and you were already a couple of hours ahead of schedule.

The anticipation of breakfast—your mouth watered at the thought of fresh waffles and hot coffee—made you move faster. One by one, you approached each of the 18 tires until you found the one that failed you. As you thought, only one of the tires was showing pressure below normal, so you decide that you will be able to get to Iowa in the next couple of days no problem, unload and see a mechanic before going back to New Mexico.

  Still, you shake your head in frustration. It was damn irresponsible not to check the truck before leaving. You had your head in the clouds all early morning, the effects of a more than pleasant night in the company of Tommy were spreading under your skin like warm bliss. Your lips stretch into a silly smile when you remember how soft his curls felt under your fingers, and his lips on your-- You pinch the thin skin on your wrist, forcing yourself back to reality. Damn, just thinking about him made your panties wet and your eyes blur. He knew exactly what he was doing. Best 50$ spent in your life, you giggle to yourself.

You quickly realize that when you turned into the parking lot, you didn't even notice where you were. You remember that you saw a sign for Brookshire, and looking around the parking lot, you finally notice a huge, worn sign that says “Flying J”. Amazing how you haven’t noticed the huge red roof and the airplane logo earlier.

“Flying J, Brookshire. Texas.” When you say the words out loud, it suddenly dawns on you why they seem so familiar. The man, Joel. Tommy wanted you to say hi to him, but he didn't even tell you how to find him, just gave you the name of the place. You couldn't help but laugh with irony, you were taken to a place where only your curious pussy was planning to go.

With a grin on your face, you pull open the heavy door of the diner, the ringing of the bell informs everyone of your presence. After a quick inspection, you realize that “everyone” is an elderly waitress who is arguing with a guy in a dirty chef's hat, and a man who is sipping a cup of black coffee, if the half-empty coffee pot on the table is a sign.

 Without giving it much thought, you fall into the next table and wait for the waitress to bring you a slightly sticky laminated menu. While she dusts off her apron and quickly checks with a chrome spoon whether she has stained her teeth with her bright coral lipstick, you begin to study the man.

It strucks you almost immediately, that feeling. His skin is an almost familiar shade of golden, the curve of his strong nose and the curls that remind you so much of the ones you squeezed and pulled hours ago. 

Was he really? 

For a moment you stop yourself, taking the situation for just wishful thinking, even though you haven’t really been wishing for anything. And then, as if sensing your stare, he glances back at you. When he gives you a smile, you're ready to bet your entire salary that it is the man Tommy’s sent sleepy greetings to. He was right, they really do look alike, but somehow not so much in appearance—although the brown of their eyes is so memorable you think you could draw it from memory if you knew how—but more something inexplicable united them. The same vibration came from both men, a wave that penetrated you faster and deeper than you could understand and control.

“Y’know he can charge you for starin’, that one.”

The rattling voice of the waitress—Denise, as her crookedly pinned name tag said—pulled you out of daydreaming. The heat of shame rushed to your neck and you hurried to pretend a fool.

“Sorry?”

“‘m askin’ if you made your choice. Food?”

“Right!” Your eyes scan the menu quickly, but the words blur in one unintelligible line. “Sorry, yeah. Can I have some waffles and coffee?”

“No waffles, sorry, sweety. Not sure that punk can make anything besides biscuit an’ gravy.”

“Oh,” a slight disappointment settles at the bottom of your stomach, but it isn’t enough to satiate your hunger, so you just nod.“It’s okay, biscuit and gravy sounds great.”

Denise gives you a sympathetic smile and scribbles something in her crumpled notebook for show. “You need cream with your coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

“Okay, I’ll be back in a moment.” She only takes a couple of steps away from your table before she starts shouting your order out. Apparently, the cook's name was Jack.

Curiosity, or maybe not enough sleep, pulls you out from your own table and forces you to fall at the next one, settling down next to a familiar stranger. He doesn’t bat an eye, but smiles into the cup, giving you the opportunity to speak first.

“You’re Joel, aren’t you?” 

You’ve been expecting a surprised look, or at least some reaction to the fact that you know his name, but apparently he is quite popular in these parts and therefore he just smiles, puts the cup on the table and throws his arm over the back of the chair, half-turning to you.

“Sure am, ma’am. What can I do you for?”

His voice is thick as fog on the road after a cold and humid night. It seeps under your skin with goosebumps, raising your hair on the back of your neck. A slight southern accent and morning hoarseness makes you squirm in place, and the seam of your jeans, pressing right into your pussy, reminds you of the arousal that has not left you since you woke up.

“You can do me.” You don't know who said it, but it was definitely your voice. Your bluntness even made Joel choke a little. Perhaps he is a little more modest than his friend after all. “Tommy said hi.”

You can see the cogs in his head turning until everything falls into place. His face changes before your eyes: a slightly sleepy, morning smile turns into a predatory grin, and eyebrows that have been raised in surprise droop, casting a shadow over almost intimately familiar brown eyes.

“Mighty nice of him,” He nods, and pushes the empty cup away from the edge of the table—the sound cuts into your ears—and you're already too caught up in the man to twitch. “And how's my baby brother doin’?” 

Brother, of course. As if reading your mind, his broad palm finds your thigh under the table and boldly squeezes your soft flesh. Feeling under some spell you've cast on yourself, your legs spread slightly, telling Joel everything he needs to know. “He still treats little ladies nice?”

“He sure does.” Your voice is trembling, but it's not from fear or embarrassment. For the first time, you hear it tremble with excited impatience.

“Good,” he nods more to himself than to you. His hand doesn't leave your leg, his thumb draws small circles through the thin material of your jeans. “Otherwise I'd have to go over there and kick his lazy ass.”

You’re not sure how, and more importantly why, but you already know where you want this meeting to go. And Joel's narrowed eyes and lips, spread in a cheeky grin, tell you that he doesn’t mind. “Do you treat little ladies nice?”

He moves closer to you, fanning your ear and neck with his hot breath, which smells a little like the bitterness of black coffee. “Only if they ask for it.”

When Deborah puts your plate in front of you, she has a knowing grin on her lips.

It takes you about fifteen minutes to get from your table to now an even more empty parking lot. Your truck stands out like a sore thumb, giving Joel an understanding where to go. 

His hands don't let go of your waist, and you constantly trip on your way, distracted by the wet kisses he insistently leaves on your neck throughout the walk. 

When you finally climb into the cabin, you shrink a little, as if looking around through new eyes at a miniature room that accommodates only a mini mini-refrigerator; a single bed, which sometimes felt cramped for you alone; and a portable TV that you inherited from your uncle.

“Sorry, it’s pretty tight in here,” you purse your lips, but Joel stops you almost instantly, running his thumb over your lower lip and forcing you to release it from the captivity of your teeth. He wraps his hands around your neck, their imprint is hot, like an engine after a day of driving non-stop. 

When he leans towards you, for a moment, you think he's going to kiss you.

 “I like when it’s tight.”

Instead of pressing his mouth against your lips, his teeth bite your jaw, your earlobe, and descend with biting kisses to your neck. He cures each bite with a wet swipe of his tongue, and you feel like your nipples can cut through the soft cotton of your old T-shirt.

“Wait, the...fuck, the money.” You're almost suffocating, your brain is shutting down under the attack of skillful lips.

“50$ oral, 100$ sex,” he whispers as if it's something mundane, but as sexy as complimenting your soft breasts or wet pussy. “I’ve got condoms.” He finds your hand, which is clinging to his denim vest, and puts your palm on his jeans, where his cock is practically bursting through the hard denim. You can almost feel the way he thrums under your touch, all swollen and ready for you. “You want him?”

“Fuck, yes. Yes, god, yes, I want him.” You squeeze his cock slightly through the material, pulling a soft moan out of Joel.

“Good,” he nods and presses his forehead to yours, your eye-contact is so charged that the air between you is about to sparkle. “He wants you, too.”

As if following an unspoken order, you begin to pull off your clothes. You're doing it faster, considering you are only wearing a T-shirt and jeans. Your busted sneakers are thrown under the bed along with your socks, and you fall on the bed in your panties, enjoying an impromptu performance from Joel.

He pulls off his vest and T-shirt that had its sleeves cut off, exposing his strong, but at the same time soft body to your eyes. The golden skin of his chest, a couple of shades lighter than his arms, was dotted with sparse hairs that grew thicker, descending to his navel and hiding behind the waistband of his jeans. His stomach bulges slightly above the belt and you want to sink your teeth into the yielding flesh, but instead you just reach out and run your hand over the skin, which immediately explodes with goosebumps under your touch.

Joel keeps his hungry eyes on you as his big fingers reach for his fly, finally getting rid of the rag shackles. Underneath, he's wearing white briefs that feel uncharacteristic and do nothing to hide the hungry monster that is leaking in excitement to feel you.

Having lost all three drops of shyness that you had, you reach for the waistband and gasp when he gently slaps your palm and clicks with fake disapproval. “Impatient.”

You almost burst out laughing, they really are brothers, no matter how fucked up it is in your situation. “I’ve been told.”

Instead of letting you finish undressing him, he starts to get down on his knees, and you notice how his eyebrows tighten when he hits the hard floor of your temporary home. You immediately understand what he wants to do when he puts his palms on your knees and spreads them apart, so you grab one of his hands and try to pull him towards you, causing him confusion.

 “Wait, no,” you tremble like a leaf, your nipples are hard buds that beg to be touched and played with, “I need something else, somethin-”

He shushes you softly, leaving a small kiss on your knee. “It’s okay, I know exactly what you need, little lady.” The nickname is gentle and sweet on his tongue that promises you nothing but wicked things. “But can I at least feel her first?”

His hand creeps up to your pussy, hidden behind the cotton of your plain panties. Along the way, he tickles the inside of your thigh with the tip of his index finger. There is a quiet thought in the back of your brain how Tommy’s fingers felt much softer, yet both of them elicit the same whimper from you. “I wanna know what it’s like to have your pretty pussy wrapped around my fingers before I split you with my cock. Trust me, it won’t be the same after.” 

“You’re cocky.” And after squeezing what he had in those jeans you know he had every reason to be, however you just can’t let that slide without saying something, without tickling him in a way. Everything about him is unexpected, and so is his reaction to your words. Joel lets out a soft laugh, and traces your slit with the same fingertip he teased your thigh with.

“Soon you’ll be, too. Can’t stay humble when you’re full’a cock like mine.” His eyes go pitch black at the promise, lips wet where he licked them in anticipation. “Know you’ll take it like a good girl.”

Your legs spread wider, and instead of baring your cunt, he tugs on the waistband of your panties, swiping his thumb over the place where a wet stain already blooms. 

He pulls on your panties so that they stick to your pussy like a second skin. The friction makes you moan and you almost bump your head into the wall when he caresses your clit with his finger, moving the pad up and down over the panties, teasing you relentlessly.

“So pretty, bet she’s tasty too.”

“I- -”

“Don’t worry, little lady, I remember how needy and impatient you are. Wanted me to fuck you before you even had your breakfast. That’s so hot.”

Then he hooks his fingers over the underwear, tugging it down. Your wet skin becomes cold when the air hits and for a split second you wish he would put his mouth on you, if only just to warm you up.

Instead, he glides his finger along your slit again and again, lathering it in the slick that covers your skin. Gently, he probes at your hole that welcomes him easily, the soft moan of your partial relief prompts Joel to move his digit in and out a few times before pushing a second one next to it.

“Mmm, she feels even more perfect than I imagined.”

“You imagined how my pussy feels?” You whisper, breathless, your body pushing itself on his fingers on its own accord.

“The moment you walked your pretty braless tits into that diner.” He hums, enjoying the squeeze of your walls and starting to feel impatient himself. Before he slides his fingers out, he places a kiss on your mound, just above your begging clit, tickling your skin there with his mustache.

You try to catch your breath, your hand involuntarily reaches out to where Joel has just been now to soften the feeling of his absence. He pulls off his boxers without a drop of grace, and bends down to a pool of his jeans on the floor, revealing to your gaze a juicy pair of his buttocks. Watching the muscles tense under his skin, your fingers enter your sticky wet hole, and you roll your eyes, fucking yourself.

“Uh-uh,” Joel shakes his head in mock displeasure. His massive cock is squeezed into a condom, and it's a little disappointing, but necessary. However, the white rubber can't hide the large, cum-filled balls covered with fluffy dark hair, and you almost drop your jaw when he starts to come closer to you, his cock swaying heavily.

“Nothing is stuffing that pretty pussy except for me while we’re together, little lady.” 

“Don’t leave me empty for so long, then,” you bit back flirtatiously, and drag your soaked fingers up your navel, leaving a wet path on your skin.

He’s on you in mere seconds, your bed barely holding the weight of you both and it’s just limbs, touches and wet kisses before he pushes inside you in one smooth movement, stilling for a second. 

You both forget how to breathe, as you grip his cock tightly and bite into the crook of his neck. It’s too much, it’s not enough.

He finds your eyes, swiping a strand of hair off your forehead, and you can almost hear him grit his teeth as he tries to stay still.

“Okay?”

“Please, move.” You beg, close to crying from your need.

His hips move gently at first, unexpectedly so. He cages you with his body, taking all of the space you’ve had and you don’t mind it. On the contrary, you want to carve more hollows inside you so he can get more of him in.

The wet squelches of your pussy taking him in are vulgar in the tiny cabin. You both let them fill the space, your eyes never leaving each other making the moment more intimate than it should be. Momentarily coming to his senses, Joel begins to build up the rhythm, the thrusts of his hips become sharper and more confident. When your pussy pulses around him, he bares his teeth and almost growls.

“Fuck, what a great fucking pussy, so wet and hot around me, drives me mad even through the rubber.” Joel drops his head, covering your outstretched neck with kisses and moving lower. His teeth bite your collarbone and you cry out softly, the sharp pain recedes as soon as he starts caressing the bite with his tongue. Soon, his lips are enveloping your nipples, first one, then the other. He nips at the delicate buds with his teeth, lightly biting the hard flesh. You writhe under him like a snake, but he doesn’t let you escape from his captivity.

His nicely trimmed pubic hair teases your clit and his cock feels even bigger when your pussy starts to shudder in orgasm. It lasts so long that it feels like you're cumming several times in a row and Joel continues coaxing pleasure out of you by sucking and nibbling on your skin, while his cock doesn't stop the rhythmic movements in and out of your puffy, sleek cunt.

“I, fuck, that’s too much.”

He doesn't stop moving, but grabs your chin, forcing you to look into the black depths of his eyes. “Do you want me to stop?”

Stop? Slip out of the tight embrace of your pussy leaving it empty and gaping without him? Nothing sounded worse.

“No, please,” at that moment you think you can give all the money you have just to keep him inside you forever. Stretching you, pushing you over the limit again and again until you cry, powerless.

“Good girl,” he whispers in your lips, like it is the only right answer. 

He changes his position without slipping out of you, and rests on his knees, lifting your hips higher to make it easier for him to move. When he returns to pounding your pussy, you're half out of it, your brain is completely useless and only your body responds to Joel with moans and twitches.

He freezes as suddenly as he started moving. With your tender inner walls, you can feel his cock twitching inside you, pouring into the condom. You watch the veins in Joel's neck and forehead bulge with tension, his teeth clenched tightly and his eyes squeezed shut. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He whispers, his hips continuing to jerk erratically before he collapses on top of you, leaving a barely there kiss on your sweaty neck.

 “I should work mornings more often.”

You’ve covered your nakedness with a thin sheet and now watch as Joel pulls up his jeans and stuffs his underwear into his back pocket. Your throat is dry and, as if he's read your mind, he hands you a half-empty bottle of water from the top of your refrigerator. You feel a strange pang of sadness as the thought of never seeing Joel or his sunny brother, Tommy, again hits you.

“Remember when you said about going to Tommy?”

Joel jerks his head up, looking up from turning out his T-shirt. “Y’want me to kick his ass? He grins and continues to pull on his clothes as if nothing had happened. There's a crisp hundred sticking out of the back pocket of his jeans.

“No.” You smile back and hesitate before continuing. “But maybe we can go down there sometime for a different kind of activity.” Devils glint in his eyes when he looks at you again, and for some reason it makes you feel shy, perverted all of a sudden for your rush of desire to have more when you’ve just had an overflowing cup of orgasms. “If that’s... If you’re okay with that.”

Joel doesn’t look phased by any part of your suggestion, so he leans to you and pinches your cheek gently. “Ain’t had a better preposition my whole life.” He places a kiss where the sting of his pinch still burns and grabs his vest from the floor. “You come over on your way back, I'll be waitin’ right here and we'll see what we can do.” He winks at you and leaves the cabin without further ado.

When you get behind the wheel, you have no doubt that you will see them again.

PLEASE, LEAVE A COMMENT AND REBLOG IF YOU LIKED THIS WORK. IT TRULY MEANS A LOT!

[some tags in the comments]

[dianahwang]

Tracks and Trails: The Road to Obsession. EPISODE 3

produção by: Leong Ning. 2024

A JORNADA CONTINUA

{ABERTURA] (Planos de detalhes mostrando uma mão delicada colocando pulseiras e anéis de design sofisticado. A câmera se move para revelar Audrey Ziegler em uma pose elegante, seguida por Diana ajustando uma gargantilha prateada. Luzes suaves alternam entre tons escuros e claros, criando uma atmosfera que reflete os temas "Twilight" e "Dawn".)

“Cada detalhe dessa campanha é um pedaço de quem somos, de nossas histórias e de tudo que acreditamos."

SEGMENTO 1: TWILIGHT & DAWN: UMA COLABORAÇÃO DE IRMÃS (A câmera abre para os bastidores do ensaio fotográfico, com Audrey ajustando a barra de seu vestido e Diana rindo enquanto experimenta um par de brincos. Entre flashes e direções do fotógrafo, as irmãs conversam animadamente.)

Em meio as risadas e as poses para as fotos, as irmãos Zieglers eram capturadas com perfeição pelos profissionais que entregavam um trabalho impecável. Estavam realmente brilhando naquele estúdio. Era exatamente sobre isso, como Diana e Audrey brilhavam em soma com as jóias da Pandora.

DIANA (OFF): "Eu e Audrey sempre tivemos essa conexão que vai além das palavras. Trabalhar com ela nessa campanha foi como capturar a essência de quem somos: luz e sombra, dia e noite, mas sempre complementares."

As irmãs posam juntas, cada uma refletindo as campanhas "Twilight" e "Dawn". Audrey representa o brilho suave do amanhecer, enquanto Diana personifica o mistério da noite. A cena se encerra com as irmãs juntas, posando para a campanha de Twilight. O take focou em closes dos detalhes das joias, enquanto as duas sorriam, unidas, com um fundo de luzes cintilantes.

SEGMENTO 2: ANÚNCIO DO SHOW "THE OBSESSION LIVE: THE FINAL CHAPTER OF PART I" (Diana aparece em uma reunião com sua equipe, discutindo os preparativos para o show. A câmera captura quadros com anotações em um quadro branco, protótipos de ingressos e ideias para decoração.)

Em uma sala de reuniões iluminada por telas e luzes quentes, Diana e sua equipe discutiam fervorosamente os preparativos para o show. A câmera passeava pelas anotações em um quadro branco, protótipos de ingressos e maquetes do palco. Diana, com energia contagiante, descreveu sua visão: "Eu quero que as pessoas sintam como se fossem parte dessa jornada. Não é apenas um show, é uma celebração."

Enquanto a equipe de marketing finalizava o post oficial nas redes sociais, a câmera capturpu o momento exato em que os ingressos foram liberados. Em questão de minutos, notificações inundaram as telas, e as reações dos fãs começaram a aparecer em um mosaico de comentários.

"A música sempre foi meu refúgio, mas estar no palco é onde eu realmente vivo."

A cena cortou para Diana no ensaio com sua banda. Close-ups mostravam o suor em sua testa e a intensidade em seus olhos enquanto ela cantava "The Exorcism". As luzes do estúdio piscavam no ritmo da música, criando uma atmosfera que já antecipava o espetáculo que estava por vir.

SEGMENTO 3: A ALIANÇA COM A NVIDIA (A câmera foca em uma mesa de reunião repleta de dispositivos de alta tecnologia. Diana está sentada ao lado de Trevor Hwang, seu marido e CTO da NVIDIA, enquanto ele apresenta os detalhes da transmissão ao vivo em 4K.)

Com um frame exato tendo Trevor por completo na tela, o CTO não apenas citou mais sobre os benefícios daquela parceria, como também agregou: "Queremos garantir que cada detalhe do show seja capturado com perfeição," ele explicou, enquanto a câmera focava também no rosto de Diana, que o observava com admiração.

DIANA (OFF): "Isso é mais do que tecnologia; é sobre conexão. Ver Trevor trabalhando nesse projeto comigo foi como unir dois mundos que amo."

A sequência mostrou uma simulação de como a transmissão será feita, com cortes rápidos entre monitores exibindo gráficos e cenas de ensaio. A câmera se aproximava de Diana enquanto ela revisava os planos, o rosto refletindo uma mistura de concentração e empolgação.

"Não importa onde você esteja; quero que você sinta como se estivesse na primeira fila comigo."

SEGMENTO 4: PREPARAÇÃO PARA O BILLBOARD MUSIC AWARD (A cena começa com frames de toda Los Angeles em cenar áreas, até acrescentar alguns dos bairros mais comerciários da cidade, parando por fim na fachada do salão querido que Diana sempre frequentava.)

Diana entrou no salão iluminado onde Chris Appleton, renomado hairstylist, a aguardava com um sorriso. "Vamos fazer algo icônico!" ele disse, enquanto a câmera captava o brilho nos olhos dela. "Por favor! Penso em um cabelo mais liso, mas marcante do mesmo jeito. Eu sei que você vai me entender, Chris." Takes em câmera lenta mostravam a transformação de seu cabelo, seguido por close-ups do vestido all black que exalava elegância e mistério.

"Moda é arte, e hoje quero que cada detalhe conte uma história." Diana comentou enquanto ajustava os últimos detalhes de sua aparência.

Sua entrada no tapete vermelho foi nada menos que triunfante. Flashes iluminavam cada passo enquanto jornalistas gritavam seu nome e fãs vibravam à distância. A câmera acompanhava cada movimento, capturando a sofisticação em ângulos majestosos.

Quando seu nome foi anunciado como vencedora do Best Rock Album, a emoção transbordou. O auditório irrompeu em aplausos enquanto Diana caminhava até o palco. Sua voz tremia levemente, mas seu discurso foi carregado de sinceridade: "Esse prêmio é nosso. A música me salvou, e espero que ela salve vocês também." A câmera focou nos rostos emocionados da plateia, destacando o impacto de suas palavras.

A noite continuou com Diana sendo rodeada por colegas de profissão e amigos, todos a parabenizando. Entre sorrisos e abraços, ela refletia em um take final: "Esse é o poder da música: ela nos une, mesmo nos momentos mais solitários."

SEGMENTO 5: ENSAIOS FINAIS E O GRANDE SHOW (Em vários frames feitos pela equipe de filmagem e da produção, imagens do KIA Forum eram trocadas no layout. Mostrando a montagem do espaço do estádio com fotos e decorações para o grande Show.)

Os ensaios finais para "The Obsession Live" estavam a todo vapor. Diana, Audrey e Hyunwoo ajustavam harmonias e coreografias meticulosamente. Diana, usando roupas casuais e com um brilho nos olhos, ria enquanto ensinava um método diferente para controlar a respiração ao alcançar notas mais altas para Audrey. "Vamos fazer história." ela disse, transmitindo sua energia contagiante para todos ao redor.

O dia 15 finalmente chegou. Os bastidores fervilhavam com uma mistura de nervosismo e excitação. Técnicos ajustavam luzes, músicos faziam os últimos ajustes em seus instrumentos, e Diana, em seu camarim, se preparava em silêncio. Ela olhou para o espelho, respirou fundo e murmurou: "É agora."

A cena cortou para o palco, onde um silêncio absoluto tomou conta do público. As luzes se apagaram, e o som de batidas rítmicas começou a preencher o estádio. De repente, Diana emergiu em meio a uma explosão de luzes e efeitos visuais, e o primeiro acorde de "Chasing Sunsets" ecoa pelo local. A câmera alternava entre planos gerais da multidão em êxtase e closes intensos de Diana, que domina o palco com sua presença magnética.

O setlist incluiu faixas como "The Exorcism" e "Dopamine," cada performance acompanhada por elementos visuais espetaculares, desde hologramas a explosões de fogos sincronizados. O público canta junto com fervor, criando uma conexão visceral. O show tivera tantos pontos altos, mas claro, a presença de Audrey e Hyunwoo junto a Diana no palco, elevaram e muito os picos da transmissão do show.

Nos bastidores, após o show, Diana abraçou sua equipe, com lágrimas escorrendo pelo rosto. "Vocês fizeram isso acontecer. Esse é apenas o começo. Obrigada por tudo, sério." ela disse, encerrando o episódio com uma sensação de antecipação para o que está por vir.

[wvyik]

RUINED IN MORE WAYS THAN ONE.

dean winchester x fem! reader

ꕤ summary: a lazy morning with dean turns sinful fast — filled with touches, soft laughter, and the kind of love that lingers long after… until sam walks in, coffee in hand, and instantly regrets his life choices.

♯ warnings: mdni!! explicit content, fluff & smut mix, oral sex (reader receiving), light swearing, unwanted coffee delivery, heavy doses of dean’s cocky charm, sam trauma™ (poor guy needs therapy), mild afterglow cuteness, a lot of giggling and awkward eye contact, motel room shenanigans.

♯ notes: LMAOO sam, mah poor sweet baby, did NOT sign up for this. “(ノ _ <,, ) HE JUST WANTED TO BRING COFFEE..

Mornings with Dean were usually slow, lazy things — filled with tangled sheets, warm skin, and the scent of coffee lingering in the air. But today… Today, Dean was in a mood.

You felt it before you even opened your eyes. The warmth of his body pressed against your back, the scratch of his stubble as he nuzzled into your neck. Then— his hand. Wandering.

“Mm,” you grumbled sleepily, trying to burrow deeper into the pillow. “Dean, it’s too early…”

“Too early for what?” His voice was husky, thick with sleep, lips brushing over the shell of your ear. “For me to touch my girl?”

His hand dragged lazily down your stomach, fingers skimming over your bare thigh. You shivered.

“You’re insatiable,” you murmured, a sleepy smile tugging at your lips.

Dean chuckled, his breath warm against your neck. “Nah, just obsessed with you.” His hand slipped under the hem of his own t-shirt that you’d stolen to sleep in, fingertips teasing over your hip. “You gonna stop me, sweetheart?”

You let out a contented sigh, tilting your head to give him more access as his lips trailed slow, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. “I’d be an idiot to stop you.”

“Damn right.”

And just like that, you were flipped onto your back, Dean hovering over you, that signature cocky grin on his face. His green eyes sparkled with something both mischievous and downright sinful.

“You’re unbelievable,” you huffed, running a hand through his messy hair.

Dean leaned down, lips barely brushing over yours. “And you love it.”

Yeah. Yeah, you did.

His kiss was slow, deep, like he had all the time in the world. His hands roamed, tracing every inch of you like he was committing it to memory.

Dean was all over you— hands wandering, lips pressing slow, teasing kisses along your jaw, your neck, the dip between your collarbones. His weight caged you in, keeping you right where he wanted you, but his touch? That was gentle. Worshipping.

“Mmm, I could stay here all day,” he murmured, nipping at your skin just enough to make you squirm.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, sighing as he kissed his way down your chest. “Who’s stopping you?”

Dean chuckled, voice low and lazy. “Sam’s gonna kill us if we don’t hit the road soon.”

You grinned, dragging your nails lightly down his back. “Then maybe you should stop teasing and get to it, Winchester.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, dark with amusement. “Oh, sweetheart… you know better than to challenge me like that.”

Before you could process his words, he was shifting lower, trailing his lips over your stomach, hands gripping your thighs as he settled between them. His smirk was downright sinful.

“Dean—”

“I got you, baby,” he murmured against your skin, his voice sending shivers down your spine.

And damn, did he.

He took his sweet time, teasing you with his mouth, his hands. Dean wasn’t in a hurry, that much was clear. He was enjoying taking you apart piece by piece, relishing in every little reaction he drew from you. Every moan and shiver, every whispered plea for more—it all fueled his own hunger.

His lips found the soft skin of your inner thighs, and he sucked a mark there, his stubble leaving a delicious burn in the wake of his mouth. You bucked against him, but his grip on your hips was relentless, holding you down as he continued his slow, torturous path up your body.

“Patience, sweetheart,” he drawled, his gravelly voice sending heat pooling between your thighs. He nipped at your thigh, the sharp edge of his teeth just shy of pain, just enough to make your toes curl. “Gotta enjoy my dessert first, right?”

"Damn, you look good like this," he murmured, his voice a rough caress in the intimate space between you. His fingers flexed on your hips, like he was physically holding himself back. "So pretty, all spread out for me..."

He let his nose brush against you, inhaling deeply. “Smell so good too, baby. So sweet, just for me.” His lips curled into a wicked grin as he added, “Now, let’s see how you taste…”

Without another word, he hooked a finger under the fabric, slowly pulling your panties down, past your hips, down your thighs, off your legs, and tossing them away. He took a moment to admire the view, licking his lips in anticipation.

“Mmm… so desperate for me already,” he murmured, and you could hear the smug satisfaction in his voice. “Look at you… all wet and needy, just for me.”

And then he was on you, his tongue parting your folds, and your brain short circuited. His name left your lips in a broken whimper as he coaxed pleasure from you with slow, measured strokes. Heat coiled low in your belly, building with every movement, but he wasn't letting you reach that peak just yet. He was taking his time, like savoring a fine wine. Every touch was calculated, designed to keep you right at the edge, but not quite yet.

It was almost too much. The heat, the pressure, the way he knew just how to move to make you see stars. Your hands found his hair, fingers tangling in the short locks as you gasped his name in a ragged moan.

He groaned against you at the sound of his name, his grip on your thighs tightening. “Mmmm, I like that,” he murmured, his voice sending vibrations through you that left your legs trembling. “Say it again, sweetheart.”

You obeyed reflexively, your voice a breathless whisper, “Dean… Dean, Dean—”

He hummed in approval, the sound sending tremors through you. “That’s it,” he growled, the scrape of his stubble deliciously pleasurable. “Damn, you’re beautiful like this.”

You felt like you were losing yourself in the sensations, your body writhing under his touch. Dean seemed to know every sensitive spot, his mouth finding them and lavishing attention on each one, until you were mewling with desperation.

“Dean, please…” you gasped, your fingers clenching more tightly in his hair. Your body was trembling on the edge, needing his permission to fall apart.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of your ragged breaths. “Just let go. I’ve got you.”

His words were like a command, sending you spiraling over the edge. A shudder rocked through you, leaving you wrecked beneath him. Pleasure washed over you, hot and sweet, and you couldn’t hold back the strangled cry that escaped your lips.

Dean finally made his way back up your body, looking far too proud of himself. You were still catching your breath when he leaned in, lips brushing against yours.

“You awake now?” he teased.

You huffed, shoving his chest playfully. “Cocky bastard.”

He grinned, rolling onto his back and pulling you with him so you were sprawled over his chest. His fingers traced lazy circles on your spine. “You love that about me.”

You kissed his jaw, settling against him with a satisfied hum. “Yeah, yeah.”

Dean’s hand brushed over your hip as he leaned his forehead against yours, his voice a rough whisper. “You’re incredible. Fucking incredible.”

You giggled softly, lazily kissing him back. “I could say the same about you.”

Dean smirked, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. He didn’t move from his spot, content to just be with you.

The afterglow was perfect. You were all tangled up in Dean, his hand tracing lazy circles on your bare back, his lips brushing over your temple. It was warm, safe, domestic— something neither of you got enough of.

Until it wasn’t.

Because suddenly, the motel door swung open.

And there stood Sam.

Holding a few cups of coffee.

Looking like he’d just witnessed a crime scene.

You were both still tangled in the sheets, Dean’s body half over yours, your legs intertwined. You were both spent, breathing heavily, the evidence of your time together all too clear on the both of you.

Sam blinked. His hand faltered with the coffee cup as he took in the scene— his big brother and his best friend, completely out of it, looking like they’d been worn out.

“Oh, come on—” Sam’s voice cracked as his eyes widened in horror.

You barely had time to yank the blanket up to cover yourself before Dean— completely unbothered— grinned up at his brother. “Mornin’, Sammy.”

Sam made a strangled noise in the back of his throat, immediately slapping a hand over his eyes. “I knew this would happen one day. I knew it, and yet somehow, I wasn’t prepared.”

Dean chuckled, stretching lazily beneath you like he hadn’t just traumatized his little brother. “C’mon, man, we’re all adults here.”

Sam was frozen. His face was a mix of disgust and sheer confusion. He slowly took a sip of his coffee, looking as if he was trying to will himself into believing this wasn’t his reality. “I swear to God, I just wanted to bring coffee.”

Dean stretched lazily, like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Well, you could’ve knocked, Sammy. Instead, you’re ruining my post-coital glow.”

Sam’s jaw dropped, his eyes darting between you and Dean. “Post-coital glow? What is wrong with you two?”

Dean only shrugged, completely unbothered. “Nah, you’re right. Should’ve just locked the door. But hey, it’s not my fault you barged in at the wrong time, man.”

Sam groaned, turning on his heel so fast you thought he might trip over himself. “I live with you two. I share motel rooms with you two. I just wanted to be nice for once and bring coffee! That’s it! That’s all I wanted!”

Dean smirked, amused by the whole situation. With a lazy grin, he looked over at Sam like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Appreciate it, Sammy.”

“I hate you.”

You were dying at this point, burying your face in Dean’s chest to muffle your laughter. Dean just wrapped his arms around you, clearly enjoying this way too much.

Sam groaned again, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I’m leaving. I need bleach. For my eyes and my brain.”

As he stormed out, Dean just called after him, “You sure you don’t wanna stick around? We could use a referee!”

The door slammed.

You swatted Dean’s chest, still laughing. “You love torturing him, don’t you?”

Dean just grinned, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Best part of my day.”

You, still in a fit of giggles, buried your face in Dean’s chest, not sure whether to be mortified or entertained.

Dean’s hand stroked your back soothingly as you calmed down. “I think we ruined him. And I’m here for it.”

You snorted, playfully shoving him. “You’re terrible.”

Dean smirked, clearly so pleased with himself. “You love it. Just wait ‘til he gets over his trauma and we’re on the road. Then we’ll talk.”

And with that, Dean kissed your forehead, settling back into the sheets with you, as if the world hadn’t just gone off the rails for both of you.

But Sam? Well, Sam was gonna need some serious therapy.

taglist; @lieutenantchaos @bejeweledinterludes @ambiguous-avery @mostlymarvelgirl @freeluigihesbae @brutuuallove @impala67rollingthroughtown ⊹ ࣪ ˖

⤿ wanna be tagged in my fics?.. don't be shy! @ taglist.

tysm for reading! more works incoming @ library. ⊹₊⟡⋆

[spikedfearn]

Under the Blood Moon Masterlist

summary: in the humid belly of the night, you flee through the wild woods, breathless and bleeding, chased by a monster dressed in the skin of a man, and when he inevitably catches you, it's not to kill, but to keep. What follows is neither rescue or ruin, but a slow, savage claim written in blood, hunger, and heat.

wc: 15.2k (wip)

warnings: heavy dubcon, dead dove: do not eat, blood kink, period sex, heavy breeding kink, monsterfucking, possessive behavior, coercive control, demon x human dynamics, religious imagery, breeding/ownership language, filthy talk, cockdrunk reader, forced orgasm, restraints/restraint kink, forced captivity, manipulation, southern gothic horror, explicit sexual content, obsession, violence, rough sex, blood play, dark romance, somnophilia undertones (reader too weak to consent properly), gore, murder, body horror, emotional manipulation, pregnancy themes, psychological conditioning, trauma bonding, devotion through violence, canon-typical Remmick unhingery, homegrown cult wife aesthetics

M I N D T H E T A G S

Part I: Hunt the Hare

Part II: And Lead Her Down the Rocky Road

Part III: (tbd)

[muwapsturniolo]

1979 🍂 M. Sturniolo

“Do you want to see my period app?”

⟢ no warnings really, just a small bit of angst, mentions of periods, and cigarettes.

divider by @bernardsbendystraws

Matt tried not to get too excited about his upcoming date with Cider. He kept reminding himself it was just a casual hangout between friends, a new friend, nothing more. They were still practically strangers who’d just so happened to cross paths and part on friendly terms.

Still, something lingered. A spark, subtle but undeniable, something they both couldn’t quite ignore.

The days leading up to Friday dragged by at an agonizing pace. He filled the time by unpacking the last of his moving boxes, arranging trinkets on shelves, only to move them again minutes later. He met up with his parents on Thursday, catching up over lunch, grateful for the distraction, but it wasn't enough.

Then came Friday.

He woke up early, lingering in the bathroom longer than he usually would. In the shower, he scrubbed every inch of his skin obsessively, determined to eliminate any trace of bodily odor. For once, he blow-dried his hair, something he never bothered with, experimenting with a new style. He considered shaving the scruff along his jawline, but after a moment of hesitation, he chose to leave it.

He decided to stick with his usual outfit—blue jeans and a sweater. It was nothing special, but it was comfortable, and it suited the weather just fine. No need to overthink it, and yet he did. He went through his whole closet, trying on different outfits and posing in front of the mirror, only for him to put back on his original outfit.

The hours crawled by, each minute feeling longer than the last. He kept checking the time on his phone, only to find it had barely moved. Restless, he lounged around the house, trying to distract himself but failing horribly.

He had decided to write in his journal, figuring it would help pass the time- and it did. His alarm went off at exactly 6:30 pm, scaring him half to death, but exciting him at the same time. He basically flies out of the house, grabbing his car keys and rushing to the car. The roads were basically clear, giving him the ability to arrive at Mazzys in record time.

Just like Tuesday, he walks into the comforting coffee shop, smiling and waving as a few people greet him. He finds the booth he claimed as his empty, making his way over and settling down.

He waits to order, figuring that when Cider is done with her set, the two of them could enjoy a drink with each other.

But that never came.

He thought she was running late at first, but as time went on, he began to think otherwise. Maybe she was just being nice to him on Tuesday. Maybe she didn't want to see him again. The butterflies and fireworks he felt in his stomach turned into moths and thunder, a sad feeling settling in his chest.

He felt as if everyone was looking at him, knowing and laughing that he was stood up. Not wanting to wallow in his embarrassment, he stands up and leaves, keeping his head down in the process.

Despite how the day had gone off track, he couldn’t shake his sense of eagerness. Something in him refused to give up— his hope clung stubbornly, even in the face of disappointment.

So what did he do?

He went to Mazzys again on Saturday.

On Sunday.

On Monday.

On Tuesday.

Each day he returned, hope flickering stubbornly in his chest, only to be dimmed a little more with every visit. What began as quiet optimism slowly crumbled into something bitter. Eventually, he stopped going. He felt foolish for showing up day after day, chasing a moment that clearly wasn’t meant to be. The sadness that had settled in his chest hardened into frustration, then resentment. He hated that he’d let himself believe in something sparked by a stranger. Hated that someone so random could leave him feeling this hollow.

"Well, did she seem into you?" Nate questions as they walk up to the front door of his home. Matt sighs and runs his free hand through his hair, proceeding to use his other to carry in the groceries.

"I-i don't know? I mean I thought so...It seemed like we clicked well, and she seemed up for the idea of hanging out." They set the groceries down in the kitchen, starting to put them away. "I honestly wouldn't even dwell on it then man. There are plenty of women out there, why fret on her? It's her loss, honestly."

"Yeah... you're right."

However, what Matt didn’t know was that Cider hadn’t stood him up.

She had every intention of meeting him—she really did. But the force of Mother Nature had other plans. Despite downing ibuprofen and cranking her heating pad up to the highest setting, it just wasn’t enough. The cramps were brutal, leaving her bedridden, curled into a ball. Every attempt to stand brought a fresh wave of nausea that knocked her right back down.

She felt awful.

The guilt ate at her, swirling through her thoughts like a storm. She wished she’d gotten his number—or even just his last name—so she could find him on social media and send an apology, maybe explain what had happened.

By Wednesday morning, the five-day nightmare had finally passed. She wiped and saw clean toilet paper—no more blood. Practically jumping for joy, she got ready in record time and bolted downstairs, heading straight into Mazzys.

"Kat!" Cider called out, waving enthusiastically at the brown-haired barista as she rushed up to the counter, eyes shining bright with urgency.

Kat glanced up from the register, already starting to smile. "Hey, feeling be— Has anyone come looking for me?" Cider cut her off, practically bouncing on her toes.

Kat blinked, thrown off. "Looking for you?"

"Yeah! I, um... I had a date—well, not a date, more like... okay, whatever. A guy. About yay high, brown hair—kind of curly but messy? Blue eyes. His name’s Matt?"

Recognition flickered in Kat’s eyes as she slowly began to nod. "Yeah... yeah, actually, he’s been coming in the past few days. I was wondering why he kept sitting in the corner booth, just kind of... waiting. Then leaving without ordering anything."

Cider’s face lit up and crumpled all at once. Kat tilted her head slightly, raising an eyebrow. "So... you had a date with him?"

"Technically, no. It was just two people hanging out... as friends..." She waved her hands, flustered about the idea of it being an actual date.

"Right..." Kat said with a smirk. "Well, you just missed him. He was in not that long ago."

Cider’s head whipped toward the door, scanning the street like she might spot him walking by.

"Did he say where he was going?" she asked, urgency creeping into her voice once more as she tapped the wooden countertop with her fingers.

"Said something about a park," Kat replied, grabbing a cloth to wipe down the counter. "Didn’t say which one, though."

Cider stood frozen for a moment, her brain flipping through every possibility at lightning speed. Then, without warning, she darted toward the side exit of Mazzys, startling Kat behind the counter.

"I’ll be right back! Two muffins and a jug of cider—please!" she shouted over her shoulder before disappearing through the door and scrambling up the cluttered stairs to her apartment.

She burst inside and made a beeline for the linen closet, yanking open the door and digging frantically through the mess of blankets and storage bins. After a few chaotic minutes, she finally pulled out what she’d been looking for:

A picnic basket.

Within seconds, she was back downstairs, breathless, slapping a crumpled handful of dollar bills on the counter. She grabbed the muffins, stuffed them into the basket, and dashed outside, circling around the building and jumping into her car—a vintage, burnt-orange Bronco, lovingly restored with modern upgrades.

As she drove, she made a few quick pit stops—grabbing odds and ends, things she thought might matter—but her focus never wavered.

“What park, what park, what park?” she muttered under her breath, her fingers tapping the steering wheel as her eyes flicked between signs and exits. There were several parks nearby, each one peaceful, secluded, and very... Matt.

She tried three. No luck.

At each one, she asked people—always the same description: brown hair, messy curls, blue eyes, leather satchel. And every time, she got the same response: a polite shake of the head and a quiet apology.

Her hope was starting to fade, but she wasn’t ready to give up. Not yet.

One last park.

This one was more tucked away, less manicured. A preserve, really. Trees stretched toward the sky in every direction, their leaves burning brilliant shades of red and orange. The air felt quieter here, like the world had slowed down. Deer grazed lazily in the distance. Squirrels darted through fallen leaves. Rabbits hopped along unbothered, unafraid.

It was one of her favorite places.

She stepped out of the Bronco, her Converse crunching on the soft dirt path, and began to walk. For minutes, she followed the winding trail before veering off, figuring if Matt was anywhere, he wouldn't be sticking to the main path.

Eventually, she reached the edge of a wide, still pond. She stopped there, catching her breath, taking it all in—the colors, the silence, the softness of the world around her.

Then, across the pond, she saw someone crouching down, snapping photos. Even from a distance, she recognized the worn leather satchel slung over his shoulder.

Her eyes lit up.

“Matt!” she shouted, voice ringing out across the water, full of hope and adrenaline.

Matt didn’t hear her enthusiastic shouts—her voice was lost to the wind and the constant chatter of the birds. Focused, he kept his eye pressed to the viewfinder, capturing the way the golden light danced across the leaves.

When he finally pulled back to review the shot, something unusual caught his attention.

A figure.

Blurry, off to the side, but unmistakably there.

He looked up, eyes scanning across the pond.

His brows knit together in confusion and curiosity as he spotted someone on the far bank, waving their arms wildly and jumping up and down like a lunatic.

He strained to hear over the rustling trees and birdsong.

“Matt... wait... there... hold!”

He blinked, stunned—and then the figure turned and vanished back into the preserve, swallowed by the trees.

He stared at the spot across the pond, confusion flickering in his eyes, a ripple of unease settling in his chest. Slowly, he rose to his feet, fingers tightening around his camera. He took a cautious step back, then turned fully and began to walk away, the gravel crunching softly under his shoes.

Just as he stepped onto the main path, a body collided into his. Both gasped in surprise, stumbling backward from the sudden impact.

“Oh my god, I’m so—” Cider’s apology cut short as she looked up, recognition lit up her face instantly. “Oh! It’s you!”

Her smile spread wide and bright, the kind that came from pure relief.

Matt.

But Matt didn’t return it.

He stared at her in silence, confusion etched across his features—alongside something colder. His eyes held a flicker of hurt, hardened into something that looked a lot like resentment.

“What are you doing here?” he asked flatly, his voice void of warmth. His expression was unreadable.

Cider’s smile faltered, but she still managed a quiet reply. “I was looking for you…”

“Crazy,” he said sharply, “because I was looking for you at the coffee shop for five days—and you were nowhere to be found.”

Her fingers gripped the woven handle of the picnic basket tighter. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, the guilt pressing heavier on her chest now that she could see the disappointment behind his anger.

“I-I”

Matt cut her off before she could explain. “Look, if you didn’t want to hang out, you shouldn’t have asked me to in the first place.”

“But I did— I do wan—” she stammered, but he shook his head, already brushing past her and heading down the trail, his strides fast and final.

“Just forget it. It’s stupid to even talk about now.”

“Matt, wait—please—just let me explain!”

She followed after him, voice rising with each step, but he didn’t turn around. He didn’t slow down. It was like her words bounced off of him, unheard and unwelcome.

Finally, she stopped, her worn-out Converse digging into the dirt path as frustration and desperation reached a boiling point.

“I was on my period, Matt!”

An awkward silence followed her words, thick and lingering. Cider’s cheeks flushed with heat as Matt came to a stop. He slowly turned around, blinking at her like his brain was struggling to process the sentence.

“Your… period?” he repeated, clearing his throat awkwardly. His eyes darted everywhere—trees, dirt, sky—anywhere but her face.

Cider pressed her lips together and gave a small nod, rocking back and forth on her feet. “Yeah...Cramps, nausea, the whole package.”

Matt stared for a moment longer, processing. Then, hesitantly: “So… you didn’t just ghost me? You’re not making this up?”

She raised an eyebrow, deadpan. “Do you want to see my period app?”

The tips of Matt’s ears turned bright red. He coughed and rubbed the back of his neck, clearly flustered.

“Nah, nah… it’s—it’s good. I believe you.”

She takes a few steps closer to him, her voice softer now. "Good, because I did want to hang out with you..." She lifts the basket next to her head, a playful glint in her eyes.

"...And I plan on doing that today, if you'll let me."

Matt's figure, once tense and distant, begins to soften. His eyes flicker toward the basket, and for a moment, he looks almost relieved.

"Yeah... that sounds good."

And good it was.

They set up the picnic blanket with an easy familiarity, immediately diving into the spread of food and snacks Cider had picked up before her search for him. The impromptu picnic felt effortless, the energy between them light, just like the first time they met last week.

They laughed and talked over glasses of cider, Matt even sharing a few pictures he’d taken that morning.

“These are really good, like actually,” she said, her voice genuine. “I’m not just saying that because you’re here.” She leaned in a little closer, her arm and shoulder brushing against his.

“Thanks... it means a lot,” he says softly.

As the golden hour approaches, a warm glow blankets the park. The air feels calmer, quieter, as if time itself slows for a moment. They decide to pack up, with Matt helping her put everything back into the basket. Together, they head down the main trail, walking side by side toward the parking lot.

“I’m sorry, by the way... I shouldn’t have gotten so worked up,” Matt says quietly, his voice tinged with guilt.

Cider shakes her head, not wanting him to feel bad for emotions she believes are valid.

“No, no, no. Don’t apologize. You had every right to be upset with me.”

Matt shifts uncomfortably, his words coming out almost like a shield. “Yeah, well... it wasn’t like this was a date or anything…”

Even though he’s the one who spoke the words, a dull ache forms in his chest. Cider feels it too, a quiet tug of something unspoken. But neither of them acknowledges it. Instead, they let the moment pass, both brushing it off as they continue walking.

“There was no reason to be mad,” Matt says, his voice quiet as they reach the edge of the parking lot. “Especially knowing it was because of your—” He trails off, gesturing vaguely with his hands, clearly referring to her period.

Cider snorts softly, amused by his awkwardness, and keeps walking toward her Bronco.

“I just feel guilty,” he continues. “This is the second time I’ve been a dick to you... and the second time you’ve gone out of your way to make up for it.”

Seeing the tension still in his shoulders, she does what she does best—defuse it with humor.

“Got cheated out of my payback drink twice. A damn right shame.”

To sell the bit, she stomps her foot and swings her arm dramatically in a cartoonish ‘darn’ motion. Matt can’t help but crack a smile, a quiet chuckle escaping his lips. He licks them once, then glances at her.

“Well... the offer still stands. How about I buy you a drink tomorrow?”

She smiles, nodding as she reaches into her back pocket for a lighter and a weathered box of Marlboro Reds.

“That works for me. And I promise I won’t stand you up this time.”

They both burst into laughter, the once awkward memory now something they could actually joke about—a shared inside joke rather than a sore spot.

As the laughter fades, Cider slips a cigarette between her lips, shielding the tip with her hand as she lights it. The golden light catches in her hair, smoke curling upward into the fading sky.

Something about the moment catches Matt’s eye. Without thinking, he reaches into his satchel, pulling out his camera. He steps back slightly and lifts it to his face.

“What are you—?”

“Taking a picture of you,” he says, grinning behind the lens.

Cider usually hated having her picture taken. She was the type to duck out of frame the moment a camera came up, always dodging lenses and flashes like they were spotlights she hadn’t agreed to step into. But with Matt, it felt different.

There was something in the way he looked at her through the viewfinder—like he wasn’t trying to capture a posed version of her, but the real one. The one in motion. The one laughing mid-sentence, lighting a cigarette with the last of the sun behind her, existing without trying to perform.

He didn’t shoot her like everyone else did—for show, for some curated memory that never really happened. Matt just seemed... eager to catch her as she was. And somehow, that made it okay.

He takes a few shots, the shutter clicking softly in the quiet. Then he lowers the camera, eyes scanning the screen. A smile tugs at his lips as he scrolls through the photos.

Cider leans in, trying to peek. “Hey, let me see!”

Matt immediately angles the camera away from her, grinning like a kid guarding a secret.

“No looking just yet!”

“Oh, come on! I want to see how they turned out!”

He shakes his head, smug as ever, and powers the camera off with a dramatic flourish before slipping it back into his satchel.

“Nope. You’ll have to wait until I edit them. Patience is a virtue.”

Cider rolls her eyes, clearly unimpressed. She flicks the ash off her cigarette, exhaling smoke through a crooked smirk.

“Well, get to editing tonight. I better see them tomorrow,” she says, giving him a pointed look.

“Yes ma’am…” Matt grins, then hesitates just a beat before adding, “Speaking of tomorrow—just to make sure you don’t flake on me again… can I get your number?”

Cider raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Oh? You don’t trust me now?”

“Hey, I’ve learned my lesson. Insurance is important.” He teases her, giving a playful, pointed look that earns an eye roll and a smirk in return.

The golden skies that had lit up the park now fade into a dusky blue. A few lampposts near the trail flicker on, casting gentle pools of light across the path.

“Well, I think that’s my cue to head back and get ready for bed,” Cider says as she finishes the last drag of her cigarette, flicking it away and crushing it under her Converse.

Matt nods. “Yeah… I should probably head out too.”

They stand there for a moment, the silence settling in—not heavy, just uncertain. Both of them shift, glancing at each other, then away. A shared awkwardness hovers between them as they try to figure out what to do next—hug? handshake? a wave?

Cider shuffles her feet, stuffing her hands into her jacket pockets. “Sooo…”

Matt lets out a quiet breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I’ll, uh… see you tomorrow?”

She nods. “Tomorrow.”

They exchange one last look—something warm and lingering—before finally turning in opposite directions towards their respective cars, the soft crunch of gravel beneath their feet filling the space they didn’t quite know how to close.

[alienseasfanfics]

Friction - Part 1

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!traumatized!Reader

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | AO3

Summary: When you're targeted by a violent stalker, Sam Wilson hires Bucky Barnes to guard you in an isolated safe house. This causes tension as you both get on each others nerves in an increasingly dangerous situation. But, you slowly come to realize you're more alike than you thought. Will it be too late when you finally let yourself trust him?

Word Count (for Part 1): 2.3k

Tags: Slowburn, reluctant attraction, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, bodyguard, hired to protect, fluff and angst, nightmares and comfort, eventual smut, reluctant attraction.

T/W: Some non-graphic depictions of violence, guns, eventual smut.

A/N: Hello. This will be just a few parts. I'm envisioning 5. Who knows though. Will be posted on my AO3 as well (linked here). Also, feel free to send short one-shot requests. I may not answer them all but if one inspires me, I'll write. Enjoy!

“If you keep staring at me, I’m going to sprint down the hill into oncoming traffic.”

“There is no oncoming traffic.”

“I’ll keep running until I find some.”

“Good luck.”

“Shut up.” You mutter, taking another swig of your coffee. Bucky Dumbass Barnes leans against the porch railing, watching you. You flip him off and he rolls his eyes, looking instead at the dirt road ahead.

The day is calm and cicadas are buzzing loudly. You draw your knees up to your chest as you watch the wind play with the grass, making it flatten and swirl into ever-changing circles.

It’s so incredibly boring out here, away from the city. There’s no coffee shops, or long walks down busy streets, or movie theatres. The lack of movie theatres hurts the most.

All you want to do is sit with people, too many people, anonymously sharing a laugh or a cry in a dark room. Free people don’t appreciate the amount of community that is shared within the walls of a theatre. The insight gleaned from hearing their murmurs to their friends about the attractiveness of the actors or the stupidity of the dialogue. You miss connecting with them and feeling, finally, like one of them. Anonymously. With the ability to leave afterwards, free to go about your business.

But now, all you do is watch the grass as Bucky watches you. Solely because of one stupid person with an obsession.

You chug the rest of your coffee and get up, limping past Bucky and letting the screen door slam behind you. He huffs, but you couldn’t care less.

The safe house has a rudimentary kitchen. Though, fancier than your own due to the coffee machine Sam brought as an apology for forcing you here. As you start another cup of coffee, you tap the counter with a finger. Sam said this would only be for a month. Just until they found out how He was tracking you. Then you could go back to your blissful anonymity in New York.

That is, if they could even find who He is.

That’s the flip side of the coin. You can disappear, until someone wants to find you. Then, it’s all that much easier for them to never appear to you at all, except when they want to.

The little voice in the back of your head whispers his name to you, but you close your eyes and silence it. He’s gone. He must be.

The coffee drips from the machine. It’s been overworked the past two weeks, both from you trying to cling on to whatever sense of normalcy you’ve cultivated outside of this house, and from Bucky trying to stay awake.

How long did Bucky say he was going to stay here for? Couldn’t have been more than a month. He’s always been sick of you within the hour in past missions. It’s a miracle he’s still around two weeks in. Once he’s decided he’s done, you can go back. Or when whatever Sam bribed him with is gone. And then, who else does Sam trust enough to know where the safe house is? He barely let you know. You’ll be going back in no time.

Sure, there’s a homicidal maniac after you, leaving traps that have caught you twice already and broken your leg both times, but now that you know his M.O. you can catch him. You’ve handled yourself before, who’s to say you can’t again?

The coffee machine beeps, and you take a sip from the cup. Your bad leg twinges, angry at supporting you for this long, and you grit your teeth. Your own body doesn’t believe in you. That’s a tough pill to swallow.

The screen door slams again as Bucky comes inside.

“There’s no more coffee.” You mutter, and he reaches into the cupboard by the door and pulls out a bag. Opening it, he comes over to the machine to refill, and you move gingerly out of the way. He doesn’t notice, or care, and continues.

“This is the last bag, though. We’ll have to go into town to get more.” He says to the coffee machine.

“I don’t think it’ll answer you.” You say.

“You don’t want me looking at you. I’m happy to grant that request.”

“I don’t want you watching me. That’s very different.”

“You’ll have to get used to me doing that.”

“Not for much longer.”

“Thank god. You’re the most irritating woman I’ve ever met. I don’t know who’s stalking you, but it must be the only person in the world who could put up with your bullshit.”

“At least someone can put up with mine. I don’t think anyone can handle this long with you.”

“I’m okay with not having a psycho leaving bombs on my doorstep.”

“My balcony. He left them on my balcony.”

“Touchey. Or however the fuck you say it.”

“Touché.”

He rolls his eyes, not answering you and instead methodically glancing over the sparse living room. After two weeks you know what he looks at. The boarded up back door, the windows with trip-wires stretched across the sills, the cameras blinking red and pointed at every egress point. If he wasn’t such an ass, you’d be impressed by the level of care he’s putting into his job. You know it’s just about the money, though. Money that’s quickly running out.

“How much did Sam pay for?”

“Coffee? Two months supply. You’ve been drinking it like the damned Energizer bunny, though.”

“No, your money. For your ‘services’, or whatever you call the peeping tom bullshit.”

He closes his eyes and sets his jaw. His neck muscle flexes beneath his collar. You’d think it was attractive if it wasn’t his jaw.

“That was one time. I knocked, and you didn’t answer. I told you to always answer. I didn’t ‘peep’ at anything, anyway.” He finally says after a minute of counting.

“You’re not my keeper.”

“For the next two weeks, I am. And then it some other poor idiots job to watch you.”

That makes you freeze, putting your coffee down.

“What?” You say, and he glances over at you.

“What, you want me to stay now?”

“No! What do you mean someone else will be watching me?”

“Well, if Sam and them don’t find Him, you’ll still need to stay here.” He’s talking slowly, as if talking to a particularly dumb child.

“That wasn’t the agreement. Sam said a month.”

“You’ll have to take that up with Sam. Besides, you want to go back there? Back to your apartment, that He knows about? Hell, He knows the security camera blindspots. And you want to waltz back in like everything is fine?” Now, he’s looking at you. You really hate it when he does that. He seems to always be studying you, picking you apart with his ice-cold eyes. It makes your heart jump into your throat.

You break the eye contact by looking into your coffee.

“I just want to go home.” You finally say into its dregs. You swallow the rest of it, putting it on the counter harder than you meant to. “I’m taking a shower. Try not to come in, weirdo.”

“Easy enough.” He mutters as you walk up the stairs.

- - -

That night, you’re running.

You don’t need to look behind you to know He’s there. You’re barefoot again, running on the rough cement of the lab, scraping your bare skin against the walls as you round the corners of the never-ending basement prison. The burn from your wounds is nothing to the one in your head. It’s making your vision blurry and your eyes red-hot, and you know he’s closing in on you.

Sprinting now, the lights behind you close one by one with an electric thud, like a giants footsteps getting closer to stomping on you by the second.

Thud. You’re blinking back fire. Thud. Your heart is giving out.

Thud. You can feel his breath on the back of your neck, sending chills down your spine as he finally-

Crash. You startle awake, a scream still ripping through your throat. You grab the closest thing to you -another coffee cup- and throw it towards the door that just smashed open. It narrowly misses a barely clothed Bucky as he ducks backward.

“Fuck!” He shouts, “Don’t surprise the guy with a gun! Gun safety 101!”

You notice now that he is holding one, its metal nose glinting off the moonlight coming through the bent blinds. His steel fingers share the same gleam.

“Don’t break into a sleeping woman’s room!” Is the only thing you can manage to yell back, turning away from him to wipe hot tears from your face quickly.

“I think the fact you were screaming loud enough to wake the dead is reason enough to come in here! I told you to not lock this door, by the way, so the whole breaking and entering thing is your fault.” He barks.

“Shut up, Bucky.” You whisper.

“Is someone in here? Why were you screaming?” The floor creaks under him as he steps into the room, looking around the corners.

“No one is in here, just go back to bed.” You’re gripping the mattress now, trying to calm down. He’s not making it any easier as he stops to stand behind you. There’s a soft ting of a bullet hitting the ground as he uncocks the gun, but he doesn’t leave.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Yes I did.”

“There were two questions.”

“I’m glad you know how to count.” You need to breathe. 1, 2, 3- shit. 1, 2- shit! Do you know how to count?

He’s quiet for a moment, and you almost think he’s left until he speaks again.

“Why do you insist on being so difficult?”

“Because I need to be.” You say breathlessly. Running a hand through your hair you stand up shakily, moving around the bed and going to the door. He’s standing in front of the doorway, not moving. In the dim light of the moon, the only part of him not shrouded in shadow is his metal arm. You try to avoid looking at it, knowing somewhere deep down that he hides it from you for a reason, with long sleeves even in the harshest sunlight. But the only other place to look is his chest or his face, which makes your cheeks feel hot even now. You settle on looking down at the bullet on the ground between you both.

“I need some water.” You murmur after a moment of him staring down at you.

“You need to answer me.”

“Please, Bucky.” You plead. Your defences fall for just a moment, but your lungs are starting to collapse. The world is starting to swim, and you’re not sure if its panic, tears, or the pain in your leg screaming at you to sit back down. Whichever one, you really don’t want Bucky to see it.

“Go back in bed. I’ll get it for you.” His voice is calm now. Quieter. Exhausted, the only answer you can manage is a nod, doing as you’re told and laying back down. You stare at the crack in the blinds and try to blink away tears as you listen to him rummaging in the kitchen.

He comes back too soon. He sets the glass on the nightstand behind you, but you don’t hear him leave. Sighing, you turn around, and finally look at him in the face.

His eyebrows are knit together, and as he looks at you, you can feel him studying you again. This time your stomach flutters.

You break eye contact again, sitting up and sipping the water quietly.

“Thank you, Bucky.”

“Sorry for crashing in.”

“Sorry for screaming.”

“Not for the coffee mug?”

“I’ve been wanting to do that.”

You flick your eyes up at him, and you think for a moment you see a smile, but it quickly falls away once he looks in your eyes. You both look at each other for a second, two, three, before its his turn to break contact. He runs his metal hand through his tousled hair, glancing down at his gun, the bed, the window, anywhere but you.

“When I, hmm.” He takes a deep breath. “When I have a bad night, I have to ground myself.”

“Ground yourself? Like a naughty kid?”

“No.” He pinches the skin between his eyes. “My senses. Y’know. Five things I see, three things I hear, one thing I feel. Until I calm down.”

“Oh.”

“Are you still on edge?” He glances down at your free hand gripping the mattress. You loosen it.

“I guess.”

“Do you want me to stay in here?”

“What?”

“Do you want me to stay in here. To...watch over you.” He’s still looking away from you.

“Aren’t you already doing that? Hence the gun?”

He rolls his eyes.

“If you don’t want me to, I’ll just-”

“Yeah. If you can. Stay here, that is.” The permission comes from a part of you that you’ve shoved down. Or thought you shoved down. Now, it’s speaking from the middle of your throat, stealing any breath you have with it.

He finally looks at you again, then slowly nods.

“Okay. I can. Let me grab a blanket.” He walks out of the room, and you’re finally able to breathe again.

Laying back down, you try to ground yourself. You see the armchair across from the foot of your bed, the window, the bent blinds, the broken patch of ceiling above you, the barely touched glass of water on the nightstand. You hear the croon of an owl outside, the orchestra of a grasshopper, the creak of the floorboards as Bucky comes back in. Closing your eyes, you try to focus on sleep.

You feel Bucky’s warm hand brushing against your skin as he pulls your blanket up to cover you, leaving you cold when he moves away.

Your muscles relax as you hear him settle into the armchair. Inexcusably, your brain tells you, he calms you. Happily, your heart slows, letting you fall into a dreamless sleep.

[notsodailycake]

Part 3 for the fitclet I did for @keferon 's mecha pilot jazz au! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

For those who missed it:

Part 1 || Part 2

This is probably the longest out of all the 3 parts, dear god, I went all in. It came out bigger than I ever expected it to be. I was not expecting it to go this far honestly, but the parasites in me, they begged for more. So here we are! :D

Again tho, idk how in character they will be here, but I tried my best ＼(*T▽T*)／. Also, kinda bullshitted my way through in worldbuilding bc idk how things work exactly- and I had to come up with stuff on my own, even tho I'm not that good in mecha world stuff, so I'm sorry for any inaccuracies ^^;;

Now, to give credit to those who so desperately deserve it:

My sister @saltynsassy31 for helping me when I couldn't write out some of my ideas and doing it herself (so consider this as a bit of a frankenstein monster of both our writing styles, mainly during intense scenes. If there is any fancy words in this, it's cuz of her) and being my beta reader for this part. Seriously yall, this wouldn't have been as coherent and well written without her help!

Also huge thanks to my online sister @yayadrawsthingz for helping out when I hit a few road blocks during this!

And finally, a huge huge thanks to my honorary online uncle @hexyz09 for helping me finish off the final fight scene when I got stuck during some plot holes and road blocks, or generally just writing myself into a corner and having to help me leave it, despite not knowing jackshit about the au, let alone the ship and characters themselves, but was still willing to help me through in working on the plot, in this crazy obsession of mine XD

Yall have no idea how much help these guys were. Probably wouldn't be able to finish without either of their help ᕦ(òωóˇ)ᕤ

Oh and an honourable shoutout to the song "Headlock" by Imogen Heap! Kept listening to this on loop as it kept my drive up to write this.

Now onto the fic!

---

Prowl ignored Jazz's various attemps to push out his servo from the cockpit. Despite the mech being weak himself, the human was still no match against thousands of pounds of metal, especially in his own weakened state.

Which was a matter of its own at the moment. Prowl knew he had very little time to be able to run ahead before the other humans caught on to them, having noticed the alarm bells ringing through the facility.

So he ran towards the exit Jazz had initially pointed out, the only plan they had at the moment.

...

"Prowl! Prowler, hey! I know you can hear me! Prowl!" Jazz shouted as he slammed yet another fist in a failed attempt to nudge the bot's servo out of the way. He hasn't said a word since picking Jazz up, and he wasn't sure how long that was, maybe not that much, but it felt too long yet too little at the same time (what a headache).

Sliding down, he gently hit his forehead over the protective servo and let out a sigh of defeat. No way he could get him to move like this.

Why was he trying to anyways? Didn't he want to be with Prowl? He certainly did, but somehow, something in him made him feel like he shouldn't just be accepting this.

And maybe Prowl also knew this, which is why he took off and hasn’t said a word since. Both held conflicted feelings about the whole thing. If only things didn't feel so blurry right now!

Suddenly, a hard shift made Jazz stumble a bit, grasping at whatever he could so he didn't fall back, loud noises of metal scrapping metal could be heard as something got kicked open on the outside. Jazz scrambled over to the small crevice that opened between Prowl's digits, not enough for him to fit anything over other than his hand, but enough to get a glimpse of what was happening outside.

Prowl had kicked down the exit door to the lab ('not like he had the hands available to properly open the damn thing anyways' Jazz thought to himself). It was meant for mechas to exit the room after they finish off whatever it is they do in here, that Jazz knew, and if he was right, just down the hall there will be another exit leading to the backroom where they stockpiled the mech suits. No one but the technicians were usually supposed be there, it would be an easy fight to get to the big gate that lead to the outside training grounds, which is why Jazz had pointed for the mech to go down there in the first place.

There shouldn't have been a problem besides giving him time to leave unscathed. Which Jazz assumed would not be the case as he was currently inside Prowl and not buying him time to escape. But, to Jazz's surprise, nothing had come close to attacking them, yet.

The pilot did not have much time to contemplate it as suddenly he heard Prowl rumble an annoyed grunt.

"Don't move."

In shock, Jazz stumbled back as Prowl removed his hand and reached for the end of the overhead gate, seemingly alot harder to kick down than a two way door. The only thing it would really do would be to bend the metal a bit but it wouldn't give an open entrance. Jazz didn't dare leave, not like he could from this hight, but even if he could, Prowl would probably just pick him up again; it be a waste of energy really (just admit it, you don't want to leave him). But something about this felt wrong, so far they haven't had a single guard come down the hall, just this small pause would give them enough time to catch up to the two runaways, Jazz was sure that guards had been on his tail when he was under his rampage.

Unless...

Wait.

"Prowl! Wait don't open that gate!" But he was too late, the moment he uttered those words the mech had already been in motion and pushed the gate up with all his might and as quickly as he opened it a gun shot came through the otherside. They had been waiting for them, they knew where they were heading. The bastard he kicked down prior to this probably saw them and reported it, dammit.

Prowl let out a strangled cry of pain as the shot landed right on his left shoulder (like it wasn't damaged enough by the lack of arm), Jazz fell backwards with the harsh motions, hitting the back of the pilot's seat, the impact leaving his vision to go dark for a few seconds before he collected himself as quickly as he could. In an instant though, just as he tried to get back up to see what was outside, Prowl had put his hand back over the open cockpit.

No...he wouldn't be able to fight like this, protecting him as he is would only hinder the bot to more damage. And that's exactly what Jazz intended to express to the other. "Prowl! You won't be able to fight with your hand over me! Forget about holding me inside, I won't leave, I promise!"

"That's not the point!" Prowl growled, letting out another hiss of pain as more shots were loaded, someone shouting out for them to stand down.

Prowl couldn't risk leaving Jazz exposed. Unlike the human, Prowl could take a few shots, their weapons not being strong enough to inflict any serious damage to his plating (though perhaps a bit to his exposed protoform, though he could handle it for a little while longer). But it would take one lucky shot on Jazz to have him dead in an instant, and Prowl couldn't take that chance.

It seemed like Jazz got the message, not spitting back any sort of remark about Prowl's lack of explanation.

But the mech couldn't linger too much on those thoughts, he had to get out, and fast. He was losing too much energon, and his vision was starting to get blurry, which wasn't a good sign. It didn't help that his thoughts were a hazy mess, his usual ability to think logically overthrown by the panic of needing to get out of this place while ensuring Jazz's survival.

It's not like he had much to do, though. Any possible escape hindered by the fact he couldn't use his weapons unless he risks Jazz's life to one lucky shot. Perhaps he could make a run for it, knock through the mechas in front of him and let them tumble over as he reached the final exit; it wasn’t the best plan perhaps, with at least a 19% rate of success, given he isn't in the best physical state at the moment, he probably wouldn't be strong enough to knock them over. Added to the fact the exit wasn't shut by a gate he could simply knock over easily either, like the previous one. He'd have to push it open from the bottom, and there wasn’t enough time for him to act on it.

But he'd have his back turned to the shots, reassuring Jazz's own safety, so he could perhaps risk removing his servo to push the gate open once more.

With a quick warning from his HUD telling him his energon levels were getting dangerously low, Prowl decided to take the risk, with little time left, he took a step forward making a run for it.

The mechas seemed to ready themselves for his attack, quickly positioning their weapons to target him, closing any narrow space they had between each other.

What they didn't expect was for the mech to charge his whole body weight onto them. Despite not feeling any pain, they certainly could not fight against gravity itself. They all stumbled against each other as Prowl made a mad dash to the gate. He slid on his knees and made a quick reach for the bottom of the gate, anxiously removing his hand from over the cockpit, bending over protectively as to not have anything be able to aim inside.

He could feel his spark beating fast from anxiety, they were so close, they'll be able to leave soon enough. Jazz was most certainly having a good feel to Prowl's anxious beat, the loud thruming reaching the bot's own audials was most certainly deafening to the human sitting near it.

Then, a shot.

A pop.

A blinding light.

And the beat stops.

Jazz was curling in on himself as an instinct to protect himself from the sudden burst behind him. It only took a few seconds for him to realise what that was once he couldn't hear a single beat of a spark, or the burning sensation it left, feeling his own heart stop and drop to his gut.

It felt like the world around him suddenly stopped, everything going into slow motion, with no sounds to accompany the dread. Feeling as Prowl's body leaned foward to crash on the ground.

But just as quickly as the silance came, it left. Prowl catching himself from hitting the ground with a grunt, a slam could be heard as his arm and elbow made contact with the concrete floor. His spark beating, weakly, but beating nonetheless. What felt like hours of silance was only a quick few seconds of deafening dread.

"Prowl!" Jazz called out in desperation, reaching out to hold the edges of the cockpit, so not to fall out, but to also try and comfort his anxiousness as he tried to look up at the mech's face. The mech made a sound of acknowledgement, which came out more like broken static, but didn't make much effort to move, his face scrunched up in pain, optics shut. They shot him on his back, too close to where his spark would be, causing him to skip a beat, and busting a bit of his left doorwing, but it still seemed to function somewhat.

Suddenly, both of them picked up on the sound of something opening, giving no time for either to fully process what had just occurred. Prowl made a quick move to get his hand over the cockpit once more (with slight struggle as he stumbled and fell on his aft) as a thick metal slab emerged from above and beneath, right in front of the gate, shutting it close with a protective layer of metal. Guessing by the red alarm ringing around them, an emergency protocol to keep anyone from leaving. Slag.

The mechas surrounded them, guns all aimed to shoot at the alien mech if he didn't comply.

It was silent for a brief moment, in exception to Prowl's anxious beating spark (which wasn't a problem for Jazz at the moment, the burning warmth being somewhat comforting) and Jazz's own heart beating over his ears. Both catching their breaths.

"There's no point in fighting. So make this easy for all of us and surrender yourselves." A nobody pilot finally spoke out, weapon leaning a tad closer than the others.

The atmosphere felt heavy, they were pinned down. Really, the only thing they could do was surrender, but Jazz would sure as hell be reprimanded for his actions and Prowl.....he didn’t want to think about that. No, he wouldn't even allow that thought to become any sort of reality.

"Prowl" he whispered, knowing only the mech would hear him, leaning a gentle souch to his servo as if to beg, "I know you might not have alot of trust 'n me, but this might be our best shot." There was a tense shift, not too noticeble unless you could see the mechanisms from the inside, Prowl knew what he was about to suggest. "You need to let me pilot you." He cringed as he felt the other's servo stiffen, he wasn't pleased with the idea, and neither was Jazz, but he knew this place alot better than Prowl did, and knew how to properly defeat the mechas, knowing their weak spots. And Prowl was all too aware of that too, Jazz knew it. They both were very aware of it all.

"Please," he begged, leaning his forehead on the mech's servo yet again, "I can't lose you again." There was slight shift, Jazz looked up, though he obviously couldn't see the mech's face, the sigh he let out was loud and clear. The controls on the pilot's seat shifted, Jazz got the message:

'Alright'

He couldn't help but let a small smirk creep over his face, making way to sit down and start piloting.

"Under one condition though," Prowl suddenly whispered to him, though it was alot louder to Jazz on the inside.

"And what would that be, partner?" The title flew out too fast for Jazz to stop himself, feeling so natural to call Prowl partner once more. The mech didn't seem against it though.

"No removing my hand."

Jazz was left stunned for a quick second, though it felt like a minute for Prowl as he waited for a reply eagerly.

"I can work with that." Prowl let out a sigh of relief at that, allowing the human, his partner, to take control of him again.

It took a moment for Jazz to adjust himself, in the meantime, the people waited outside anxiously for the other to make a move. When Prowl finally started to shift around to stand up with a small grunt, everyone raised their guns and loaded them up, but didn't shoot just yet. The mech looked up at them with a deadly glare, but made no move to attack, his remaining arm not leaving the open cockpit for a second, he simply stood up with a slight slump to his posture, doorwings drooping down slightly. In all possible ways, he looked weak and defeated, no signs of fighting back.

One of the mechas walked closer, gun still aiming at Prowl, but it was lowered slightly. They reached a hand out expectantly.

"The pilot, hand him over." They demanded, no sympathy whatsoever.

Prowl clutched his chasis, anger pooling over in his spark, doorwings twitching up slightly, but he made no move to attack. Not yet. He heard Jazz speak to him in a low tone so only he could hear it, with a sigh, he relaxed. He slowly, very slowly, drew out his hand from the cockpit, the action in itself having the other mecha have their body relax slightly as they approached the mech, weapon being put down slightly enough, and so did the others around them. Jackpot.

Before he fully removed his servo, the mech made move to crouch down and in a swift motion swung a peed over to the mechas own, catching them off balance and knocking them down. Jazz let out a small hiss to the action, forgetting his own injured leg, but pushed on regardless.

Using the thrusters of his doorwings, they were able to balance themselves back up, Prowl's servo going back into fully protecting it's pilot once more. With most weapons being aimed up and not down, it took a delayed second to aim correctly, but it was enough time for the human and cybertronian duo to twist themselves out of harms way.

Before the fallen pilot could attempt to get up, Jazz made move to aim over the weak spot of their mecha's knee and stepped hard enough to break its mechanisms so they couldn't stand back up easily. But the glory was short lived as more shots were fired their way.

Jazz's hand twitched to move and use its weapons, but he resisted the urge with a slight huff, "Man, 's hard to fight without an arm!"

"This is none negotiable, Jazz." Prowl hissed as they made move to avoid more shots.

"I know, I know! Don't mean it makes it easier!" Jazz tried to analyse their surroundings, though it was made difficult with the many HUD warnings from all the injuries (the pilot couldn't help but mutter a broken "I'm so sorry" to his partner, whether the mech heard him or not he wasn't sure), but pushing through it, he took note of a few key details. There was a metal catwalk grate near above the mechas' heads, running with a few on ground troops, the bastard of a boss being one of the few amongst them. Near a corner stood an elevator to go up and down the area.

How that could help, Jazz wasn't sure yet.

A shot hit Prowl's arm, pain flowed through the mech as he moved out of the way once more. Jazz looked around in a frenzy to find a place to shield themselves....the mechas! Making a run for to the lifeless husks, he swivelled around between them and hid behind the many rows of mechas knowing full well that they would not risk such precious resource and money just to reach them. At least he hoped not, because he just needed a little bit of time to figure something out.

Hearing the big man call out to hold their fire was good enough indication that his idea worked.

"Ok, now we just need somethin' to distract them long enough for us to make a jump to the ceiling." Jazz explained

"The ceiling?" Prowl inquired, not so certain about his partner's ability to properly think at the moment.

Jazz rolled his eyes, but didn't make mention of the mech's tone. "It's the weakest point here, plus" he made way for Prowl to look up to where he remembered the area to be at, "there's a trap door for flying mechas and emergencies. One quick press of a button will open it up, even under "safety protocols."" Prowl let out a hum in thought, seeming to analyse the situation.

"Possible, but where is this said button?"

"Behind the elevator, by the catwalk grating on top. There's a control panel, and one big red button, can't miss it."

"Would smashing it still get it to work?"

"Yes."

"Then I don't have any complaints."

"Good, now," Jazz went back to scanning the area, "how to cause a distraction?"

"Would that broken pipe be of any use?" Prowl made an effort to twitch his head over to the direction of what he wanted Jazz to see. And just as the mech stated, there, by the first floor of the elevator, stood a broken pipe, steam coming out of it.

Jazz smirked "it would actually. If we can get somethin' to shoot at it, we might cause an explosion, giving us time to jump up without being the target anymore."

"Sounds like a plan." Prowl shrugged.

"Don't have anything to add?" Jazz asked a bit surprised.

"No, I don't." The pilot didn't push.

"Okay. Well, let's get these bastards shootin." In quick motion, they made way to the elevator, already hearing the commands to shoot fire, 'but watch for the machines!' Weapons were loaded from above as well, shooting down at the two runaways once again.

Jazz made sure to move swiftly behind the mechas, making sure they were shielded properly. Any gaps they had to cross was a small risk they needed to take, scrapes and scratches being left in its wake, but tried not to do it too often, just enough that they could follow them. They eventually reached where the pipes were, Jazz took a deep breath.

"Ready, big guy?"

"Ready."

They stepped foward, making sure to call the attention towards where they were, but quickly retrieting back behind the mechas suits as they shot directly where they wanted to hit. "Bingo."

Quickly, activating Prowl's thrusters, they leaped over to the metal grates that stood above them as the pipes behind them burst, causing a huge commotion as empty mechas fell down and whatever machine near the crossfire tumbled down. Prowl let out a gasp as he felt the world around him spin, the grating beneath them not being of any help as it shook with his weight. Jazz was quick to hold on, helping the mech stablise himself before aiming with his left foot to kick the big red button with their ticket out of here, the motion causing his vision to flash in pain, but he bit his toung until he could taste iron and pushed forward.

Hearing the metal door above them open up, Jazz readied himself, but hesitated with the warning he'd received from Prowl's HUD from his low energon levels. He didn’t even get the chance to fully check on it though, Prowl quickly pushing them out of the way himself.

"I'll live, just one more push." The mech hastily reassured the human. Jazz wasn't inclined to belive it though, feeling the other's spark beat anxiously (and for some reason that made him feel slightly dizzy. Though he chalked it up to it being his possible concussion).

It took one shot to slip an inch away from Prowl's face for them to finally snap out of it and jump. One more push from his thrusters as they flew up through the trap door and landed on top of the roof with a grunt, the mech's left wing finally giving out.

But they weren’t in the clear yet. Looking out, a wasteland of a forest awaited them, with dense trees at the bottom.

"We'll have to make a jump for it. If we're lucky enough the trees will be big enough to hide us." Jazz supplied.

"45% of that happening. But we don't have much of another option at the moment." Prowl added

With all that being said, Jazz moved into action. With so much at stake, he had to, he couldn't waste another second in debating. Hefting Prowl up, he used all remaining strength to jump where they needed to go, but as the training grounds began to get closer than anticipated, Prowl knew they didn’t make the jump and that made the mech almost freeze.

Though Jazz had other plans, because as their impending flat doom approached in rapid speed, Prowl's remaining thruster burst to life and gave that final impusle they needed to reach the slope. They both braced themselves as they were thrown up and over to their intended destination, Prowl having half a mind to tighten his hold over his chest so none of the debris and impact could reach the fragile human still in his care.

They rolled down the slope, Prowl just barely being able to shift himself so that he was sliding on his back instead. The aggresive motion of going down a not so smooth path causing bigger cuts and slashes against his already damaged frame. But the only thing he could think of at the moment was that they made it.

Jazz was quick to let go of his control over Prowl, who in turn made an effort to sit properly. Though the sudden slamming to his servo made him look down worriedly, moving it slightly to see Jazz leaning on it desperately.

"Prowl-" he heaved, "Prowl put me down I'm feeling sick."

The mech panicked and quickly made move to help the human down, gently placing him on the grass below. Jazz made no effort in being graceful as he hurled over and puked his guts out, luckily avoiding Prowl in all of this.

Clutching his stomach in pain, his heaving and coughs agitating the injuries on his abdomen. Everything around him felt blurry and muffled as his body made sure to get everything he had eaten in the past day out of him.

What made him panic was the sudden taste of iron in his mouth as he coughed up whatever he had left inside. That's not good. And that definitely didn't escape the giant mech's notice, who kept a hovering servo near him.

"Jazz! Is that blood?!" His voice sounded so broken, static lacing over his words.

"Uh- Yeah. Yeah it is." He wasn't sure how to deny that really, and he felt too light-headed to try. But his attention diverted to the sudden pink glow that landed at the side of his vision.

Energon.

Quickly looking up, he finally got a glance at his partner's battered condition. Energon leaked from many different parts of his body, but the main source being from his missing arm. Jazz couldn't help but cringe at that.

But what hurt him the most to see was the weak light from the mech's optics, which still held visible concern on them. Despite being close to going into offline, he still looked at Jazz as if he's about the crumble into dust and leave him. Which he honestly, maybe, felt like. But seeing Prowl's optics flicker as they fought to stay online, Jazz panicked

"What 'bout you?!" He called back, catching the bot off guard. "You're losing too much energon! You look like you're about to go offline!"

Prowl cringed a little, not having anything to counter that. "Well that's because I-"

"No! I'm only a little bit dizzy, but I'll live. We need to patch you up right now!"

"I can help with that."

The new voice catches the duo off guard, Prowl immediately reaching out to Jazz, hand shielding the human from whoever that might be. Jazz looked down from where he was looking at Prowl and turned to see who it was that the voice came from.

There standing in front of them was a human carrying a simple tool box and a huge backpack strapped over one shoulder, filled with questionable things.

---

BEFORE YOU LEAVE, a little something I would like to point out for the fic, that some of yall with either like or not, during the process of writing this, I've seen a few posts keferon made about the spark being radioactive and such, and it sorta made me think a bit while developing Jazz's condition. So well, take Jazz's health in this as you will with this info :)

But anyways, yippie!! That's all for today folks! I hope yall enjoyed this one bc I definitely had a heck of a time writing this one XD

It got alot bigger than I anticipated and took much longer to finish than I originally planned (was supposed to be done 2 days ago).

Now, I know I keep saying "not sure if I'll make another part to this" but then proceed to do so anyways. But I mainly do so because everytime I shared it someone said something that added to the story somehow and gave me ideas to continue foward.

So like, if yall liked this and wanna see more, don't be shy to suggest/add anything to this as it may help inspire me to add more onto this, cuz honestly idk what the fuck I'm doing rn, I'm just going with the flow ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

Also, a bit of note for the doodle, holy shit I did not expect it to look this good!! Tho I suffered with Jazz's suit, plz ignore any inaccuracies tee-hee. Prowl's knee and hands were hell too, especially his knee, but i could like, hide most of it lmao. Actually mainly struggled to not have his hand cover Jazz too much bc it kept covering the parts I actually wanted to show off lmao.

Oh and the guy at the end? Yall can take a good guess as to who it is :)

But since he doesn't have any official design, I kinda went with whatever felt right lol.

I also really wanted to draw out more scenes to add to the fic, but then it would take me a lot more time to actually post the fic as I figure out how to draw robots :'). But maybe I can try and doodle them out another time if I can, no promises tho-