#this started out as a tag thing and I realised that it was becoming a soapbox talk

[jaja-salute]

The truth lays at the bottom of the glass (pt.2)

summary: Boo Seungkwan is a flirty little brat in extreme need of attention. That's it. Continuation of part one!

pairings: boo seungkwan x reader

word count: 4k

tags/warnings: swearing, reader is part of Na PD staff, jealous Kwannie, SMUT, p in v, protected sex (wrap it up guys), dacriphilia, a tiny bit of praising kink, reader is same age as Dino or a bit younger, Seungkwan is a menace and the biggest flirt, TOUCHY BOO, reader and Dino are very good friends, reader is Jeonghan's second favourite child, sexual themes, MINORS DNI, the piiiiiiiniiiingggggggg aaaaa; tell me if I missed anything!

commentary: His face expressiveness makes me go feral, istg Boo Seungkwan you are uuUUUGH. I wrote this one wearing my lovely heart shaped and red tinted sunglasses, while listening to One thing by Lola Young, Up at Night by Kehlani and JBieber and I Wanna Be Yours by the one and only Artic Monkeys. Music influences my creative process too much.

First smut! I tried ppl, istg, maybe it will come off a bit strong. Once again, I kindly ask you to give me feedback, reblogs are very much appreciated 😊 <3

Enjoy!

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The ride in the taxi seemed to last an eternity. The light touches changed from comforting and grounding to eager, curious and needy, so needy. Seungkwan managed to get his hand on your thigh, at first just to mark his presence, then slowly started to feel up the meat under his palms, shamelessly groping your inner thigh. And the man was doing his best not to put on a vocal show for the driver, muffling his groans and letting soft sighs escape from his mouth, just because he had your thigh in his hand and he was dangerously close to your core.

And you let him. Let him feel you up and make you warm in the stomach, each squeeze earning that little choke in your throat and chest. That only emboldened you, spurring you on to feel him up too. Tracing your fingertips from the hand between your thighs up his arm to his shoulder, feeling his pecs under the still damp white T-shirt he was wearing. You could feel the dip between the two main muscles, joined by the sternum, his nipples were perked, poking at your palm when you brushed over them, earning a hiss from him. Your hand explored more of his torso, down at the beginning of his abs under his chest. Seungkwan had to bring you out of your headspace, because the driver was looking at the two of you now, and urging you to take your matters away from his polished seats.

The air was still chilly, even more after the heat of your body had risen drastically thanks to someone’s eager touches. Seungkwan is now holding you by the wrist, gently tugging you towards the entrance of the building. Then it hit you. You were here countless of times, on dinner and lunches, movie nights and pre-games on Saturday nights at Hannie’s. You completely forgot that Seungkwan and Jeonghan were living together.

You had to stop in your tracks for that, barely making it in the building. Seungkwan whipped his head at you, a glint of confusion and then almost panic in his eyes. He realised it too, becoming self-aware of where he was taking you and the memories you share with the place. He clears his throat, bringing you back down to earth. “Jeonghan hyung is not here, he will be spending the night at Joshua’s place.” That instantly calmed your nerves, and before you could even articulate the thought on how fishy Jeonghan’s timing is, Seungkwan pulled you in the elevator.

Once inside the elevator, your first thought is to hide, all the weight of the latest 30ish minutes events downing on you, but there’s too many mirrors in this damn thing, and you can only manage with burying your face in your hands. That earns a chuckle from Seungkwan. “Are you being shy now, love? You were doing so well in the cab.” And you feel him getting closer, the heat from his body progressively warmer each passing second. He then invades your personal space, with one leg between yours and palms planted on each side of your head. “Look at me love.” You shake your head, “I can’t…” you say in a small voice. One of his hands rests on your cheek, thumb stroking the plush of your face tenderly. “Come on love,  let me see those eyes.” He whispers, now closer to your face than you expected. You peek a glance between your fingers, taking in his features. Seungkwan flashes you a smile that drips with adoration and hunger, his eyes pitch black with want. “Hi baby.” He says it like he is out of breath, and before you know it your hands have released your face and are now resting on his shoulders and playing with the hair on his nape.

The kiss happens as natural as breathing, both of you getting lost in one another. All those months, almost a year of flirting, teasing, lingering glances and stolen touches poured in it. Seungkwan is on cloud nine, almost loosing it there in the elevator, if only he didn’t push into you more and came in contact with the cold surface of the mirror. The cold bite shaking awake his senses and reminds him to breath, unfortunately having to detach himself from you. This gives him the chance to look at you properly now, face flushed, panting and lips wet and red from the friction of the kiss. Then he looks up and sees himself towering over your figure. And that sends a whole new shiver down his spine and straight between his legs.

“And Hoshi thought that you and Chan looked good together?” He says scoffing, then he grabs you by the chin, turning you to face the mirror wall in the elevator. ��Take a good look baby,” eyes locked on yours in the reflection, “don’t you think I suit you better? Or would you rather have Chan here with you?” His hand slides from your chin down your throat, not gripping on it, just a light touch, keeping your attention on him spiked. His eyes don’t leave yours in the mirror until his head is tilted enough, so that his breath is fanning over the major blood vessels on your neck. “I can feel you,” he whispers against your skin, “thinking way too much about this”. He is slowly kissing your neck, and he sighs into your skin between kisses, as if he has reached pure bliss to be able to feel you under his touch. His glance is back on your face, “Talk to me, please tell me that you really want this as much as I do. Please.” Desperation looks good on Seungkwan, you think, but you make the terrible mistake to briefly look at yourself. Who are you to talk, with a flushed face, half lidded eyes tinted in pure lust. He has you melted as much as you have him. The only response you can manage is nodding at his question, mouth salivating too much, trying to not choke on the amount. Seungkwan finds that adorable and he smiles, “Love, I need words. I need to know that we are on the same page for this.”

You have to swallow the lump in your throat, your voice coming out smaller than intended. “I want this so much, I have wanted you for so long Kwan…I cannot wait for this anymore, I need to feel you on me.” If there was still any little thread holding together Seungkwan’s reason, now it has surely snapped. He groans and whispers under his breath how you are going to be the death of him, he spins you back so you’re facing him again, his hands placed on your sides, squeezing the plush of your hips, and groaning at the touch. “Fucking hell, you are perfect” he breath out, groping at you and feeling your body with his palms, his mouth is on yours or on the soft skin of your neck and décolleté, breathing in your scent. “You are driving me mad, all of you for me, only for me.”  You are putty in his hands at this point, drowning in all the attention he always wanted to give you, and it’s becoming increasingly overwhelming for your brain to take in all of him.

You are temporarily saved by the bell announcing your arrival at his floor. Seungkwan has the audacity to make an annoyed sound for being interrupted. You are the first one to exit the elevator, breathing some clear air that is not Seungkwan’s scent. Of course LoverboyTM had a totally different idea in his mind, because as soon you were close to his apartment’s door, he was in your space again and pressing into you, nibbling at your neck and shoulder as he enters the code to unlock the door.

You two stumble in his shared home and in a moment of pure bliss as he is administering his hungry touches once again on you, you throw your head back in pleasure. What you see next shakes you sober.

“What the hell is that?!” Seungkwan raises his head from your cleavage with a questioning look. “What is what?” he says uncharacteristically calm. “Oh my god that thing over there!” you release yourself from his grip and once you have fully turned you see the gigantic photo of Seungkwan and Jeonghan, posing as in a family photo. The sight is astonishing, it must be new because you have never seen that thing before. “What is thisssssss” you say as you start laughing without control. “Ya, it’s a fucking masterpiece.” And that just fuels your laughter more. “Now you have ruined the mood.” Grumbles Seungkwan. “Me?? I have ruined the mood? Not the massive photo of you and Hannie standing like two proud gay husbands?! It’s giving Power Couple LinkedIn Profile Pic.” You don’t have enough time to wipe the tears from you eyes when your eyes land on the other wall “OH MY GOD THERE’S ANOTHER ONE.” You spot the picture of the two of them holding hands in matching white shirts and jeans which screams “we shoplifted from the same minimalist K-pop boyfriend aesthetic.”

At this point you are on the sofa trying to catch your breath, and Seungkwan had you turned with your back to the pictures to avoid any more laughter bursts. “Are you done now?” he says in fake annoyance. “How on Earth di the two of you even manage to get the idea of taking those kind of pics?” you manage to say between giggles as you think about the photos again. “Hey, those are art pieces!” “Oh sure thing Picasso.” You say back to him. You are slowly calming down, and once your nerves have settled you look back at Seungkwan, whose gaze has not changed from the elevator ride.

The sight makes you shiver, he is not backing off. “Kwannie, can we talk?” “If you are going to reject me now, I think that no matter how I respect you and your decision, it’ll be ugly.” He says unwavering. “No you drama junkie, I am not rejecting you, trust me that the feeling is very much mutual,” he looks like he is ready to pounce on you, “but I hope that you understand that this is putting my career at high risk.” That makes him frown. “If you think that I’ll ever let you deal with it by yourself you are highly mistaken love.” The pet name he keeps using is growing on you and you start to like it way too much. “Kwannie I can’t have this a one-time thing, I think I like you way too much to keep this casual.” “One-time thing? Casual??” Seungkwan has both shock and anger on his features. “Do you believe that I would be able to keep this casual??” He is so bewildered, that he needs to stand up “I love you for fuck’s sake, I have wanted you the moment you managed to build a level of trust that comes close as the one that I have with the members. I could never manage to have you one time only. Casual? I can’t be casual in my daily life, how can I be casual with the woman I love?” He has an exasperated look on his face now.

“Y-you love, me?”

“Yes, you idiot, I love you. And don’t even start overthinking about it,” he comes closer, kneeling in front of you to be on your eye level, “because I have waited so long to the opportunity to give you this, and if you need it, I will wait for you, but I can’t let go. I can’t let you go now.” And his lips are on yours again.

He kisses you as if he was starved, and you let yourself go, forgetting the weight of his confession and the troubles that may arise on your workplace, letting yourself melt in his mouth and embrace. Seungkwan wastes no time to lift you with him and walk you into his room. His kisses keep you distracted, you can feel only him and his touch on you. His hands are everywhere, touching and groping at your curves, as he reaches your ass and gives it a hard squeeze he groans audibly. “Fuck you feel so good. You are so soft.” His breath is hot against your skin, nipping and kissing your neck. “Kwannie, please…” “What do you need baby, tell me and I’ll do it.” He is so out of it as his hands slowly slip under your shirt, feeling your bare skin. “I want to see you, I need these fucking clothes off,” you demand, and Seungkwan obliges, with a smile plastered on his face.

You knew Kwannie was not thick as his other gym rat members, but the man was a sport enthusiast, and it showed. He has a lean build, muscles not for show but they are indeed visible and very much tangible. You unconsciously reach for his shoulders and pecs, making him shiver as your hand slides down to his abs. You look up at him with those puppy eyes he adores, the look you have when you are asking for something to be given to you. “Fuck baby don’t look at me like that.” He rubs his face with one hand. That emboldens you “Like what, babe?” He curses under his breath as he feels your mouth on him, trailing your kisses from his chest up his throat and neck. “Like you want to eat me.” “Maybe I do want to eat you...” That annihilates the last resolve he had to stay composed and instead he lets his want for you take the lead. He is kissing you again, whispering filth in your mouth as he is groping at your skin under your clothes, finally tearing them off you. Seungkwan needs a moment to look at you in your underwear, then one to recollect himself. You do him the favour to turn his brain into a puddle by removing your bra to let your boobs giggle freely, the poor man just freezes.

Growing impatient you take matters in your own hands and coming closer to him you tentatively palm him through his pants, a low moan coming from him. “Careful love, you are going to make me come in my pants. Oh fuck look at those.” He whines as he reaches for your tits, pawing and groping them softly. You undid the button of his jeans and you are currently ogling at his tented boxers, a wet spot already present where his tip is pushing against the fabric. Seungkwan is dipping his head to take your tit in his mouth, full on salivating and impatient to taste you, but you drop on your knees and free his dick from his boxers, pulling them down to the floor along with his pants. “Woha there! Slow baby, slow dow- AH Fuck!” his words turn into a hiss when he feels your mouth around his tip. It’s not your fault if his pretty dick looks that yummy, girth slightly above average and length just right to not to be overwhelming but long enough that you are sure you are going to feel every centimetre of it. “Fffuuuck..yes fuck yes…” Seungkwan gives up his reason and throws his head back, enjoying the feeling of your mouth now sliding down his length. You are placing open mouthed kisses along his shaft, licking and sucking at his tip, then slowly easing him in your mouth. “Ooh God you are so good, why are you so good at his, shit,” you start to bob your head while sucking at him, the stretch helping your tears to pool in your eyes, and when you look up you see him staring down at you. His pupils blown, heavy breathing, and when his gaze locks on you and he sees the tears in your eyes he moans, hard and low, gripping your face and pulls himself out of your mouth.

You cough a few times at the the sudden pull, “Kwannie are you alright? Did I hurt you?” you ask  concerned.  Seungkwan chuckles breathlessly “I almost came, fucking hell baby, where did you learn that?” To his comment you sport a smug grin on your lips, “Maybe is just dick too good to suck.” You respond licking you lips. “You are such a fucking tease, you know that, brat?” He say stepping out of his bottoms and closer into your space. “I have a boyfriend that is a champion in attitude and teasing, sometimes he coaches me.” Your noses are brushing as he walks you backwards to the bed, pushing you lightly on the mattress. “Is that so? Then he must be a menace in bed.” “Don’t get ahead of yourself and overpraise you babe, is lame if you do it yourself.” You say teasing him, as he is kissing down your stomach and nuzzling in the soft flesh. “Let’s see how long you can run that smart mouth of yours…” he then slowly pulls down your panties and stares at your pussy. “That’s so unfair, even down here you are pretty. I want a picture of your pussy on my wall.” “Damn you really have a thing for those” you say as you snort. Seungkwan is kissing on your thighs now, earning soft gasps from you, and he keeps talking, “I wanted this so bad, to have you finally for myself…fucking hell Chan, I wanted to kick him when he got all over you. You are mine not his.” “Jealous much?” you laugh softly. “Maybe?”, he says as he keeps teasing your skin with kisses, not giving the attention you need on your now very wet pussy. “Are you going to do something down there or should you take a raincheck with my pussy?” “Mmh, I am enjoying these thighs, besides wasn’t I a champion in teasing?” he looks at you with a smug grin on his face, “That also means that you are my boyfriend.” “Like you could ever have another.” He counters.

As much as you love his voice and hearing him talk you were growing very impatient and started squirming under his touch. “Stay still love and let me have my fun.” He says, oddly collected. Yea but what about your fun? You manage to get out of his grip and roll him on his back by pulling his arm. “What the hell are you -OH.”

You legs are on each side of his head now, your dripping core in front of his face. Seungkwan has to swallow twice because of all the spit collecting in his mouth, still drooling at the sight in front of him. “If we are doing this, promise me to actually sit on my face.” As soon as he finishes the sentence you lower your hips and greet his face with your pussy. “Now be good and shut up.” You say in a whisper. Seungkwan’s arms loop around your thighs to keep you in place and himself grounded, as he moans loud into your folds, the vibrations of his voice shaking you. He is making out with your pussy at this point, lapping and sucking at your clit and pushing his tongue inside you. You are a trembling mess above him, and you start to grind on his face as pleasure starts to build, irresistible to let go.

Seungkwan keeps going, feeling you tremble above him and at some point, you shudder as a strong wave of pleasure hits you and he stops for a second. “Did you  cum?” he asks out of breath, eyes sparkling but unfocused from the lack of oxygen. You chuckle at the sight, “No babe, but I think I was close. I want to sit on that pretty dick of yours now.” Seungkwan groans and watches you slide from his face down to his hips. He pulls himself up on his elbows and watches you grab his leaking cock and start to sink down on him, when you are halfway down his dick he jumps startling you. “FUCK! The condom!” “Boo Seungkwan I swear to GOD –” “I know baby, I know, I am sorry, I am an idiot. Let me go get it.” As he removes you from above him, and gets down the bed to search in his clothes, you throw a pillow at him. He laughs and comes back by the bed, you interject him and as he is trying to open the condom you take his dick in your mouth again, taking out your frustration teasing his dick. “Baby as much as I love your mouth on my dick, I would rather fuck you stupid now.” And you happily release his cock at the premise.

He gets above you and between your legs, cock now with a condom and he slides into you easily. “Fuck even with the condom you feel so fucking good. So warm, squeezing me so good.” He drags out the first thrust and sets a steady pace, already moaning and groaning. “Fuck baby, fuck, I might get addicted at this pussy of yours.” His thrust get increasingly faster and deeper, churning your insides and angling his hips differently with each thrust as if he wanted to map out your insides. Still sensitive from the earlier head he gave you, you are feeling on cloud nine, tension rapidly building in your lower belly, clit spasming and you start to pulse around him. “Fucking hell, are you close baby?” he looks at you and he looses it the moment he notices tears again in your eyes. His brain changes gears at the sight, brutally fucking into you and earning a cry from you. His hand is cupping your face, lifting your ching so you can look at him. “Eyes on me babygirl, keep those eyes only on me.” You feel another wave of pleasure wash over you and your eyes shut at the feeling, but Seungkwan squeezes your face and gives a forceful thrust and you open your eyes again letting out a cry of pleasure. “I want them open baby, attention on me.” He groans when he hears you moan. “Yes baby like that, you are doing so good for me. You feel so good baby, fuck, this pussy all for me.” He is speaking horny nonsense in your ears, loosing himself into you.

With your eyes locked on his you feel your climax approach. “Se..ung-kwan, I’m so close” you say out of breath as more tears slide down your face. Seungkwan licks the tears off your face, “You wanna cum baby? Tell me what to do love, tell me what you need.” He pleads, his hips faltering a bit as his own orgasm is near. “Touch me, please, please, touch me and keep fucking me like this.” You answer panting. For Seungkwan your wish is his command, so he brings his hand on your clit and rubs his palm in a circle motion on it. That was enough to make you snap with a high pitched moan and clamp on his cock. “Fuckfuckfuckfuck, I’m cumming baby, yesyes fuck yes-” he groans and keeps fucking into you with mistimed thrusts until he stills and collapses on you.

You trace little paths with your fingers on his back as you two catch your breath. Seungkwan rises his head and kisses you tenderly. “That was amazing, I think you ruined me.” You laugh weakly at him and swat at his arm when he rises from you. “Wait here, I will bring some towels.” “I wanna wash up.” You say. “Can you stand up?” He asks. “With your help I can do anything.” You smile at him. Seungkwan helps you out of bed and into the bathroom, draws a warm bath as you sit on the toilet seat, and when it was ready he helped you in the bath, he then retrieves some of his clothes from his bedroom, and only then joins you.

After cleaning yourselves and helping yourselves to some water and take out Seungkwan ordered before the bath, you two are snuggled in the bed on crispy clean sheets, that he also changed beforehand. “You are pampering me, I am going to get spoiled.” You say against his jaw, as he lazily reaches for his phone. “I am only treating you like you deserve love.” You look at his phone with him for a bit as he scrolls through social media, them a message pops up.

|| Wonwoo owes Dino 150kKW and counting

Mingyu: You can’t expect that they only kissed, Kwan is not responding since they left the restaurant, they fucked 100%

Hoshi: What the hell do you know, Kwan may have shitted his pants and sent her home after kissing her cheek, I am still in the game.

Haohao: Sure thing, now are you being delusional because you are losing?

Hoshi: You shut up, you bet on only a kiss too.

Haohao: At least I know when to admit defeat.

Jun: I still think they just talked about it. You know, taking it slow, being romantic...that’s our Seungkwan <3

Mingyu: Bitch

Mingyu: They were ready to risk it all in a public place

Mingyu: ““Our Kwannie”” is a fucking horndog, face reality

||

You chuckle at Mingyu’s last message. “Did they really made a bet on us? They are unbelievable.” Says Seungkwan rolling his eyes. Then he starts typing.

||

Seungkwan: WTF

Mingyu: Bitch

Seungkwan: Don’t you dare to ‘bitch’ me, what the hell is going on in here

Hoshi: LOOK WHO FINALLY SHOWS UP

Haohao: Did you two had fun

Hoshi: TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED

Hoshi: (Haohao: Did you two had fun) -> NO THEY DID NOT

Seungkwan: What the fuck is happening?

Woozi: The idiots (Soonyoung, Minghao, Mingyu, Seokmin and Dino) made a bet, betting 774700.00KW each. Half of them said that you two were going to finally kiss, half that you will chicken out again. Jeonghan bet that you two will fuck.

Seungkwan: …

Seungkwan: You are unbelievable

Seungkwan: All of you

Woozi: Honestly it was fun

Seungkwan: What did you bet

Woozi: I don’t need money, I am a mere spectator

Seungkwan: Ofc you are above anyone else

Jeonghan: Tell me bestie, am I rich or not?

||

You are giggling like an idiot at the messages as Seungkwan rolls his eyes again. He then brings his phone above your heads and pulls the covers higher so that only your shoulder is peeking out. “Pose baby.” And you kiss his cheek as he snaps the picture.

||

Seungkwan: [picture] @Jeonghan

Seungkwan: Hyung, buy me dinner.

[sideblogdotjpeg]

hey guys does anybody know whats the date today

[loregirlsam]

Ikr! Especially because he was not technically supposed to survive possession. He was supposed to die in the fight so who knows what kind of side effects he's gonna end up with. Maybe he's left with some of Lucifer's tricks. Like he snaps his fingers once and the person next to him is instantly vaporized. That would be very fun for me personally

that would also be very fun for me <3 i love when sam is in pain and i think accidentally vaporising/killing someone with his powers would cause so much guilt for him, but also fear that dean will once again see sam as something to be hunted like he told him in s4. @supamerchant left some interesting tags about his emotions affecting his powers, so the more upset he gets with himself the more his powers fuck things up, a never ending feedback loop overwhelming him to the point where he'd do anything just to make it stop. and maybe his desire to make it all stop is fuelled by hallucifer taunting him that its his own grace left inside sam that's causing all of this, and sam thought being lucifers vessel was bad but having his grace linger in him might be worse.

i promise i do like sam i just like causing him pain ♥

[yourlocalmurder]

if u hear faint screams in the distance pls ignore its just me losing my shit. okay thanks

[babygirlbuckaroo]

.

[mandoalorian]

sweet like plums [bucky barnes x reader]

Pairing: Civil War!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Synopsis: In the heart of Bucharest, a quiet fruit stall holds the key to Bucky Barnes’ fragile peace. Beneath the surface of his daily visits, a connection begins to form with the stall’s owner, someone who unknowingly becomes his anchor. But when danger strikes, Bucky’s protective instincts—and a hunger deeper than he realises—unleash.

Word Count: 4000

Tags/warnings: 18+ explicit content, p in v, f recieving oral, overstimulation, Bucky is rough and touch-starved, Bucky goes between speaking English and Russian (but everything is translated), canon-typical violence, set pre-Civil War.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥Masterlist

The city always woke before you did.

Vendors lifted their tarps with cold-stiff fingers, breath curling in clouds as they arranged their wares — crates of oranges gleaming under dusted frost, tomatoes nestled in cloth, fish still slick from the morning catch. The scent of bread from the bakery down the street mixed with the tang of damp stone and cigarette smoke. Voices echoed off the crumbling concrete of apartment blocks, and the sound of passing trams rumbled like thunder in the distance. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was yours.

You arranged your fruit with care, lining up the apples and pears, brushing each plum until it gleamed like glass in the weak morning light. You were halfway through stacking crates when you felt him.

Same as always.

He never made a sound, but you knew the moment he arrived.

He kept to the edges. You didn’t know his name. Didn’t know anything about him, really—except that he came nearly every morning, sometimes twice, always quiet, always alone.

He wore the same outfits most days. Black cargos or muddy, worn-in jeans or sometimes grey sweatpants that looked just a bit too small on him. Today he was wearing a red henley under a gray coat, the sleeves pushed up just enough to expose the edges of a glove on his left hand. His hair was dark and long, tucked under a black cap, and his jaw was always dusted with stubble, like shaving wasn’t worth the trouble. He looked tired, but strong. Solid.

He always stood a few paces away from your stall at first, like he needed to ease into it.

Like he was afraid.

You offered him a smile, same as you did every day. Not too much—just enough to show you noticed him. That you didn’t mind.

“Morning,” you said softly.

He gave a single nod in return.

That was how it always started.

He never asked for anything. Just hovered near the plums until you held out a paper bag filled with the best ones. You always made sure to pick them just right—ripe but firm, slightly cool from the early air.

You held the bag out to him now. “First of the season. They’re a little tart still.”

He took the bag from your hand with surprising care, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment.

You felt it.

So did he.

“They help me remember things,” he said quietly, almost like it slipped out before he could catch it.

You looked up at him. That was the most he’d ever said to you.

“Plums do?” you asked gently.

He nodded, not meeting your eyes. “Sometimes.”

It was something about the sugar, the juice, the bite — they grounded him. Sometimes they sparked a memory. A flash of summer at Coney Island. His sister grinning with purple juice staining her chin. A paper bag splitting down the middle and the laughter that followed. He held onto moments like that the way a drowning man held onto rope.

You wanted to ask more, but something about the way he stood—shoulders tense, jaw clenched—made you hold your tongue. This wasn’t a man used to being asked questions. This was a man used to disappearing.

Still, you offered him a real smile. “Then I’ll make sure I keep the good ones aside for you.”

His gaze flicked up to yours, just for a second.

“Thank you,” he said, voice rough.

You watched as he turned away, crossing the square. He didn’t leave, though. Not completely. He stopped near the edge of a tall stone pillar, pretending to study the tram schedule posted beside it.

But you knew better.

He was watching you.

He always did that. Stuck around just long enough to make it obvious. Long enough to make your skin prickle and your heart beat a little faster.

And still—he never said more. Never lingered at your stall. Never asked your name.

Sometimes you wondered if he even knew how to.

It had been a quiet morning. You had greeted a few of your regulars and started making a shipment list to your supplier. The sun was golden and you basked in the warmth. You were open to spring-time heat, especially coming out of one of the coldest winters. 

You were organising a box of apples when the shouting started.

A loud bang. The scrape of boots against pavement. Then a voice—sharp and angry.

“Hey! Open the drawer!”

You looked up just in time to see three men rush your stall. One of them slammed a hand against the side of the table, knocking over a box of fruit. Another pulled a gun.

People screamed. Someone ran. Your chest locked up.

One of them grabbed your wrist.

And then—

He was there.

The man in the red henley.

Moving so fast, he didn’t seem human.

The man’s fingers dug into your wrist, nails scraping over your glove as he yanked you forward, hard enough to send your hip crashing into the stall. Apples and plums spilled onto the pavement, rolling beneath boots. The crate hit the ground with a loud crack, and your breath hitched.

“Open the drawer,” he snapped, his accent thick. He shoved the barrel of the gun toward your ribs. “Now.”

Your heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might crack your ribs from the inside.

You barely even noticed the crowd disappearing. They always did. The moment a weapon came out, people vanished like smoke, like survival instinct was stronger than loyalty. You didn’t blame them.

But you didn’t expect him to stay.

He had been watching the whole time.

The moment the first shout pierced the air, his body reacted faster than his mind. Muscle memory. Instinct. Violence uncoiling in his blood like something old and familiar.

He saw the way the man gripped your arm.

Saw the flash of fear in your eyes.

That was enough.

The paper bag hit the ground, forgotten.

He moved without thinking. Quiet as a ghost.

The first robber never saw him coming.

His shoulder slammed into the thief from the side, knocking the gun clean from his hand. It skittered across the stone. Before the others could react, the man had already turned, grabbing the second one by the front of his coat and lifting him off his feet.

He didn’t punch him.

He threw him.

Straight into a fruit cart.

Wood splintered. Oranges scattered.

The last one came at him with a knife.

The man caught his wrist, twisted—something popped—and the thief screamed. The knife clattered to the ground.

“Run,” He growled.

The thief didn’t need to be told twice. He scrambled away, limping, clutching his wrist. The others followed, leaving behind the wreckage of your stall and a trail of bruises.

You stood frozen.

The gun was still lying on the pavement, a few feet from your boot.

The man in the red henley stood there, chest heaving, shoulders squared like he was still in the middle of a fight. His eyes were wild—too blue, too sharp—and his gloved hand was clenched tight at his side.

For a moment, he didn’t look like the quiet man who bought plums.

He looked like something else entirely.

Something dangerous.

But then he looked at you—really looked—and his expression cracked.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, voice rough.

You blinked. It took a second for your body to catch up. Your heart was still racing.

“No,” you said quietly. “You—” Your voice caught. “You saved me.”

His gaze dropped to your arm, the one the man had grabbed. “He hurt you.”

“Just bruises,” you said. “I’m okay.”

He stepped back, jaw tight like he wasn’t sure what to do now. Like maybe he’d scared you.

“Wait,” you said, reaching out before you could stop yourself. Your fingers brushed his sleeve. “Are you hurt?”

He shook his head, silent.

Of course he wasn’t.

Of course nothing touched him.

He’d fought like a soldier. Like someone who’d done this before. A hundred times.

You glanced down at the mess—fruit everywhere, your crate broken, the drawer yanked open and empty.

“What’s your name?” You asked, stepping closer to the man, breaking the distance. The empty streets began to fill again, with people who had only just bolted away. The man looked away from you shyly. You offered him your name, and you saw the tension leave his body.

“My name is James, but people used to call me Bucky.” He said slowly, like he really had to think about it.

“Can I call you Bucky?” You asked softly, tilting your head to catch his gaze again. The man nodded ‘yes’. “Let me thank you,” you said, quieter now. “Come upstairs. I have something to drink. It’s the least I can do.”

He hesitated.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. You could see the war behind his eyes—this wasn’t something he was used to. Being invited. Being wanted.

But finally, he gave a slow, stiff nod.

“Okay.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

The hallway was narrow and cold, the steps creaking under your boots as you led him up to the second floor. The whole building smelled faintly of metal and cigarette smoke—old plumbing, older neighbors. You’d lived here long enough not to notice anymore.

Bucky followed you silently, his footsteps slow and heavy like he was waiting for something—like maybe this was a trap. Like at any moment, someone might step out from behind a door and drag him back into the shadows.

You unlocked your door and stepped inside first.

“It’s small,” you said over your shoulder. “But it’s safe.”

He paused on the threshold, his frame tense, wide shoulders filling the doorway. His eyes moved across the space—your tiny kitchenette, the sofa with the fraying throw blanket, the open window letting in cool air. His gaze lingered on the plum-scented candle flickering on the table.

He stepped in.

You closed the door behind him with a soft click.

“Sit,” you said gently, pointing to the couch. “Please.”

He didn’t sit right away. He stood near the window, head turning just slightly as if listening for footsteps in the street below. The war hadn’t left him, not really. You could see it in every twitch of his jaw.

You moved into the kitchen, filling two mismatched glasses—one with water, the other with a little vodka you kept stashed behind the tea tins. You handed the latter to him.

“Strong stuff,” you warned.

He took it from you without a word. His fingers brushed yours again—just barely—but it still made your breath catch.

Bucky sat down slowly, his massive frame sinking into the couch like he didn’t trust it to hold him. He kept the glass in both hands, staring at the clear liquid for a moment before finally taking a small sip.

“Not poisoned,” you joked softly.

A flicker of something—maybe a smile, maybe just relief—touched the corners of his mouth.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” you said after a beat.

His head turned sharply. “What?”

“Back there. With the men.”

His brows pulled together, like he was expecting a reprimand. A punishment. 

You crossed your arms and leaned against the wall. “You could’ve been shot.”

“I’ve had worse,” he muttered, almost to himself.

You believed that. God, did you believe that.

“But still,” you said. “It means something. That you helped me.”

He didn’t answer. Just stared down into his glass again, his expression unreadable.

“Why did you help me?”

A long pause.

Finally, in a voice so quiet you almost missed it: “Because it felt like the right thing to do.”

“Oh, Bucky.”

He glanced up. There was something in his eyes now—wary, but soft. Open. Like hearing his name in your voice cracked something loose in his chest.

You moved slowly toward the couch, sitting beside him. Not too close.

Not yet.

“You always came for plums,” you said. “Every day. Sometimes twice.”

He nodded.

“They really help your memory?”

“Sometimes,” he said again. A quiet, familiar echo.

“But that’s not why you came.”

It wasn’t a question.

His breath caught—just a little.

“I saw you,” you said, voice low. “I saw how you looked at me. You don’t talk much, but... I’m not blind.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy and intimate.

His voice came out rough. “I didn’t want to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” you said.

His eyes searched yours. Deep blue, guarded, hungry.

“You don’t scare me, Bucky.”

He blinked like he didn’t quite believe you.

Your hand brushed his arm, deliberate this time. He didn’t pull away. His breath hitched. His grip on the glass tightened. You saw the muscles in his throat work as he swallowed hard.

You leaned in.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” you whispered.

He didn’t say anything.

But his eyes dropped to your mouth—and stayed there.

You didn’t kiss him first. You just leaned in, lips parting slightly, waiting—offering.

Bucky froze.

His breathing changed—deeper, more ragged. His eyes flicked from your mouth to your eyes, searching for hesitation. For regret.

There wasn’t any.

So he kissed you.

It wasn’t tentative.

It wasn’t careful.

His mouth crashed into yours like a dam breaking. Like something inside him had snapped free and couldn’t be held back anymore.

He kissed you like it hurt not to.

And God, he was hungry.

His hand came up to cup your jaw, fingers shaking just barely. You felt the cool press of his metal palm at your waist—gentle, hesitant—like he was afraid you might flinch. But you didn’t. You leaned into him, into the kiss, into the heat of him.

He groaned softly, like the sound escaped without permission. Like he didn’t know what to do with it.

You could taste the vodka on his tongue—sharp and clean—and something else. Something lonely.

When you pulled back to breathe, his eyes were wild. He looked stricken, almost.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

His jaw flexed. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

You tilted your head. “Then tell me.”

He kissed you again. Slower this time, but no less intense.

“I haven’t—” he started, voice breaking. He swallowed hard. “It’s been a long time.”

You cupped his face. His stubble scratched your palm. “Then let me take care of you.”

His eyes closed, lashes dark against his cheek. And then—barely audible—he whispered, “Ты моя.”

Your heart stuttered.

“What does that mean?”

He opened his eyes. “You’re mine.”

A beat.

Then—

“Скажи мне, что это не мечта.” (“Tell me this isn’t a dream.”)

You kissed him again instead of answering. You pressed closer, climbed onto his lap without thinking. He gasped when you straddled him, hands automatically finding your hips. His metal one clenched like he didn’t trust it—like it might break you.

“I’m real,” you said softly. “I’m here.”

He rested his forehead against yours, breathing hard.

“Позволь мне.” he whispered. (“Let me.”)

Then his hands gripped you tight, dragging you against him. And there was nothing hesitant about it now.

He moved like a man starved.

Like someone who hadn’t touched softness in years, who didn’t know if he deserved it. And yet couldn’t stop taking it.

Your shirt was the first to go—lifted over your head and tossed somewhere to the floor. His mouth found your neck, trailing kisses like worship, like apology, like punishment.

You felt the bite of teeth. The graze of stubble. The hiss of air between his lips.

“Такая мягкая.” he groaned into your skin. (“So soft.”)

He tugged his red henley over his head with one sharp pull, revealing the scarred expanse of muscle and shadow. The sight of him—strong, beautiful, broken—took your breath away.

You ran your hands over his chest, pausing over the star near his shoulder. He flinched.

“Do you want me to stop?” you asked.

His voice cracked. “No. Don’t stop. Please.”

That please—it ruined you.

You kissed down his chest, tracing the scars, the stories he couldn’t say aloud. And when you reached his belt buckle, he let out a sound so low and wrecked it barely sounded human.

Then he said your name like a prayer.

Like a warning.

Like he wouldn’t survive this and didn’t care.

Bucky stood up and let you pull down his jeans, kicking off his shoes haphazardly and letting his discarded clothes pool on the floor, along with yours. His mouth was on yours in the next heartbeat, and you barely remembered backing toward the bed. You felt the firm weight of him, the unrelenting heat of his body as he walked you down until the backs of your knees hit the mattress. His fingers curled under your thighs, and he lifted you—lifted you like you weighed nothing—settling you in the centre of the bed as if you were something precious.

He stood above you for a moment, chest rising and falling like he’d been holding back for years. His hair was a mess from your fingers, lips kiss-swollen and parted.

“Ждал этого…” he murmured. (“I’ve waited for this…”)

Then he dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed.

Your breath caught. “What are you doing—?”

He dragged your pants and underwear down in one motion, slow but hungry, eyes never leaving yours.

“Let me taste you,” he rasped. He wasn’t asking.

Your heart stuttered. And then—

His mouth was on you.

He moaned into it, like he’d found salvation between your thighs. His tongue was unrelenting—broad strokes, then precise flicks that made your back arch and your fists twist in the sheets.

“Fuck—Bucky!”

He groaned, like the sound of his name on your lips made him even hungrier. His metal hand pinned your hips in place, holding you exactly where he wanted you while his other hand slid up your stomach, across your ribs, between your breasts.

“Такая сладкая…” (“So sweet…”)

Your legs trembled, your thighs clenching around his head, and he loved it—let you grind against his face like it was the only purpose he’d ever had.

You came hard—stars bursting behind your eyes, your hands tangled in his hair, thighs shaking around him.

But he didn’t stop.

“Too much,” you whimpered.

He looked up, eyes dark, pupils blown wide. “No. Not yet.”

And then he climbed up your body, kissing every inch—your stomach, the underside of your breast, your neck, your jaw—until he reached your mouth again.

You could taste yourself on his tongue, and the filthy thrill of it made your head spin.

“Bucky,” you whispered like it was a plea. “I need you. Now.”

He tugged his boxers down, and your breath caught at the sight of him—thick, flushed, aching.

He paused, forehead pressed to yours, chest heaving.

“It’s been so long,” he admitted, voice rough and raw. “I don’t know if I can—if I’ll be gentle.”

You reached down, stroking him softly. “Then don’t be.”

That snapped something in him.

He hooked your legs over his arms and buried himself inside you in one long, unrelenting thrust.

You gasped—he was so big, and the stretch was almost too much, but your body opened around him like it was made to.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, jaw clenched. “Squeeze me just right…”

He started to move—slow at first, then deeper, faster, harder.

Your bodies slapped together in a filthy rhythm, the bed creaking beneath you, the sounds of your moans filling the room.

“You feel so good,” you whimpered. “So fucking good—”

He growled low in your ear, his voice guttural.

“Я буду разрушать тебя каждую ночь…” (“I’ll ruin you every night…”)

You whimpered, clinging to him, your nails digging into his back.

“Please—don’t stop—”

“Никогда.” he groaned. (“Never.”)

He shifted your legs higher, hitting a new angle that made your vision go white.

You cried out, and he grunted, eyes wild. “That’s it. That’s the spot. Take it, Звезда моя…” (“My star…”)

You were both close—you could feel it, the way he trembled, the way your core clenched around him with every thrust.

“I want you to come with me,” he whispered, burying his face in your neck. “Come with me, baby. I need to feel you—please—”

You shattered.

Your whole body arched off the bed, your orgasm crashing through you like a wave. Bucky followed with a loud, broken moan, burying himself deep, shaking with the force of it.

He collapsed against you, both of you panting, sweat-slick and trembling, tangled in each other like there was nothing else in the world but this.

He didn’t move for a long time.

Just lay there, half on top of you, breath slowing, arms trembling as they wrapped around your waist. His cheek rested on your chest. You felt his heart pounding—still erratic. Like he couldn’t quite believe any of it was real.

You carded your fingers through his hair, slow and steady. He shivered under your touch.

Neither of you said anything.

Not at first.

Then, after several minutes, he finally spoke—voice low, muffled.

“Did I hurt you?”

You blinked down at him. “What? No. Bucky, you—”

He shifted just enough to look at you. His eyes were glassy. Open in a way you hadn’t seen before. Vulnerable. Frightened, even.

“I’ve never… done that. Not since—before.”

Before Hydra. Before the Winter Soldier. Before everything.

Your chest ached. You pulled him closer. “You didn’t hurt me. You were gentle. You were perfect.”

He breathed out slowly like you’d just released some tension he’d been holding onto for years.

Still, his eyes searched your face. “It was too much. I was too—”

“You were human,” you said firmly. “You needed it. I needed it too.”

He stared at you for a beat, then nodded—barely. His gaze dropped to your bare chest, his fingers brushing your side with careful reverence.

You pulled the blanket up and over both of you. He shifted to lie beside you, pulling you into his chest like it was instinct like he needed to. You felt the soft press of his lips to your forehead.

And then, softly—

“I didn’t come back for the plums.”

You blinked up at him. “What?”

His lips twitched, barely a smile. “At the market. I kept saying I needed plums. That I liked them. But…”

“But?”

He hesitated, then whispered, “They help with memory. That part’s true. But I came back because of you.”

Your breath caught.

“I didn’t know how to talk to you. I didn’t think I should. But you were kind. And soft. And every time I saw you smile at me… I felt like I wasn’t a monster.”

You reached up, cupping his face. His metal arm tensed at your waist, then softened.

“You’re not,” you whispered. “You’re not, Bucky.”

He closed his eyes like he didn’t believe it, but wanted to.

You laid there for a long time, tangled together, the city quiet around you. His breathing slowed. So did yours. Eventually, he fell asleep—arm heavy around you, face pressed into your neck like he didn’t want to let go even in his dreams.

The morning came in again, soft and gold, light slipping through the sheer curtain beside your bed.

You were still tangled up in him—his leg hooked around yours, his arms holding you like a shield against the world. His hair was messy, his face unguarded in sleep.

You just stared.

Because somehow, this man—this ghost, this soldier, this stranger—had carved a space into your life overnight. And you weren’t sure you wanted him to leave.

He stirred a little when you shifted.

His voice came, low and rough. “Still here?”

You smiled. “Yeah. Still here.”

He blinked at you, barely awake, and for the first time, he looked peaceful.

“Good,” he said.

Then he kissed you—soft and slow this time, without hunger. Just need.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

Taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella

If you want to be tagged in all my future Bucky/Sebastian works, let me know. <3

[giogiobb]

Off The Radar

Geum Seong-Je x Reader

tags: vulgar language, sadomasochism, smut, shotgunning, smoke play, choking, overstimulation, dacryphilia, scratching, biting, auralism, cream pie, pet names, mildly toxic relationship.

Takes place after the scene in episode 7 where Seong-Je saves Jung-Tae from the union members.

It has been a few days since you heard from Seong-Je, and honestly, it’s not a big surprise that he is off the radar again. However, he always calls you on the third day at the latest. He left you wondering why it was different this time, and the radio silence from him was starting to become troubling.

You sat at your desk, bouncing your leg up and down, anxiously chewing away on your fingernails. Reaching towards your phone, you hurriedly found his number and tried to reach him again. “The number you dialed is not available…” Voicemail, again.

You stood up and started pacing around your room, wondering what to do and how to find him. You weren’t the biggest fan of Na Baek-Jin, but he was your best option at this point.

You went through your contacts and found his number to call him. “Hello?” an uninterested voice came from the other side. “Hi, Baek-Jin. How are you?” You spoke with hesitation. “What do you want from me? Don’t know where Seong-je is?” He asked with annoyance. “Actually, yeah. Can you tell me where he is?” You asked nervously. “Hmm.” He said after a bit of silence and hung up on you.

A minute later, he texted an address. It’s an address to a warehouse that you had never heard of. You quickly thanked him and sneaked out of the house without alerting your parents. Though they wouldn’t even care if they saw you leave.

You ran your way there as it surprisingly wasn’t too far away, and your fear of not seeing him even tonight grew a pit in your stomach, making you rush. You reached there and took a moment to catch your breath before sliding the door open and walking in.

His head shot towards the sound of your foot shuffling in, almost dropping his newly lit cigarette onto the ground. He looked confused and stood up to walk towards you.

You let out a sigh of relief before lunging yourself at him and hugging him with all the strength you could gather. “I missed you. Were you here all this time?” You asked with a hint of worry. “What are you doing here?” He asked in his raspy voice. You let go of him and looked towards his face. Caressing a fresh scar on his face, you smiled softly until you realised that he hadn’t called you for days, for no fucking reason. Slowly, your expression changed from shocked to anger, and before you knew it, you slapped him across the face.

The cigarette in his mouth went flying to the other side of the room. He slowly turned his head to you with his jaw locked in anger. “What the fuck was that for?” He asked sternly. “You haven’t called me for days, what’s wrong with you? You usually send me a text at least.” You shouted at him with annoyance. However, slapping him and shouting at him was the last thing he needed from anybody, especially not from his girlfriend. His pent-up anger was not going to do either of you any good tonight, and he knew it.

He glared at you before reaching his hand to the back of your head and began dragging you towards the couch by your hair to push you onto it. It took you a second to realise that you had fucked up as he scowled towards you before reaching into his pocket and getting a new cigarette. He lit it and took a long drag of smoke from it before sighing.

He bent down to your eye level before gripping both your cheeks using his hand with bloody knuckles. It felt so harsh to the point that your eyes started to tear up in fear. Seong-Je isn’t a bad boyfriend, but he has his moments which make you fear him, and this was one.

He took a slow drag of the cigarette, eyes locked in with yours, and blew the smoke towards your face. You felt yourself start to cough because of it, but his grip on you became stronger until he spoke. “Though you’re my girlfriend, what gives you the right to slap me, huh? You think you’re so tough, princess.” You began squirming in your seat, uncomfortable, scared, and aroused.

A little secret about you is that you love when Seong-Je is terrifying. You love when he speaks to you sternly in his low voice, because you trust him enough to know that he would never truly hurt you. He noticed your squirming before letting go of your face with a harsh enough push to be thrown onto the couch. 

You moved up towards the couch when you saw him get on the couch to climb towards you while taking a long drag of smoke. You didn’t know what his next move was and it made you curious. He grabbed your throat and bent down to kiss you roughly. Shotgunning smoke into your mouth, teeth clashing and saliva dripping from the sides. It felt as if you both were fighting for dominance but of course, he easily won and pushed his tongue into your mouth exploring it. You felt the smoke taste in the back of your throat and his glasses dug deep into your cheeks which hurt to the point that you reached towards it and pushed it over his head. He pulled away and reached for the glasses to set it down on the table next to you both before resuming with the kiss. Both your hands were now wrapped around his bloody hand that was on your throat to try and remove it. As the minutes went on, you felt the lack of oxygen in your body.

He finally lets go and you gasp trying to take in as much air as you can into your lungs. He looked at you with a smug smirk on his face as you struggled to breathe. You felt his hands reach towards your shirt and unbutton it slowly. You reached towards his zip-up hoodie and began unzipping it as your hands trembled with desperation.

He took his hoodie off and then pulled your shirt from your arms and tossed it to the side before unbuckling your bra and doing the same to it. You suddenly felt shy when you realised how naked you were compared to him. You tugged his shirt that was under the hoodie indicating that he should take it off. “What, should I be as naked as you now?” He asked teasingly. You nodded shyly, all while hiding your breasts under your arms.

He obliged accordingly, because he wanted you as badly as you wanted him. Maybe even more than you did. He grabbed your arms with one hand and pinned them above your head onto the couch before grabbing one of your breasts and squeezing it while licking the other like a hungry animal. You felt yourself become wetter, making you arch your chest towards his face, wanting more. He left little nips and hickeys across your chest and neck before moving to lick your stomach.

He let go of your hands and looked upwards at you before biting the elastic waistband of your shorts to pull it down. Your hand went onto his hand that was still on your chest, and you moved it to your nipple, wanting some more friction to try and relieve how aroused you felt. 

He used his other hand to take off both your panties and shorts fully and placed his cigarette on the table next to you both. Afterwards, he settled his hands on your waist, gripping it tightly as he dipped his face down towards your heat, giving it kitten licks just to tease you. Your hand flew towards his hair to try and push his face towards you more, wanting to reach climax. He began licking you more aggressively, mouth covered in your wetness.

You couldn’t help but start rolling your hips against his face and moaning loudly as he stimulated your clit. His one hand reached downwards and circled your entrance before plunging two fingers into you. He began fucking you with his fingers that reached deep inside you. You felt yourself going lightheaded with all the stimulation that was starting to become too much. You indicated this by trying to push his face away from you.

He looked up when you began trying to push him away from you. He began getting more excited feeling you try to fight the pleasure he gave you. His hand easily took both of your hands and locked them into place like before and began kissing you making you taste yourself all while fucking you with his fingers. He felt himself growing a boner in his pants, which was starting to become bothersome because of how aroused he was. Not even seconds after he began kissing you, the climax washed over you aggressively, making you moan into the kiss.

He slowly let go of your hands and lips to examine your fucked-out face that was filled with bliss as you slowly caught your breath. He removed his fingers from you, making you shiver a bit. He then moved to unbuckle his belt and jeans. He took his belt and brought your hands together to restrain it, before flipping you over onto your stomach. “Ass up, beautiful.” He quietly spoke into your ear before biting it. You felt the pain of the bite, making you quickly obey his words.

He gave his cock a few pumps before burying himself in your wetness. He groaned in satisfaction, because believe it or not, he missed you so much, even though he would never say it to your face. You felt so full and was trying to adjust to his size after weeks of not doing it, as you both had been busy even before he went off the radar.

He began a slow pace before fastening, creating a rough rhythm, making you whine and making him moan. He reached over to the cigarette to take long drags of smoke while fucking you. After all, doing it with you was ecstasy to him because he worshiped your body like no other. While he did love you so much, he also loved to see you cry in pain.

An idea popped into his head as he was fucking you, which caught you by surprise. Your eyes widened as you felt hot circles of burn on your butt. It didn’t take you long to realise that he was putting off the cigarette on your butt. You panicked and began fumbling with his belt on your wrists. “What are you doing?” You asked hurriedly, trying to see. He chuckled and said, “What do you think?”

He then tossed the cigarette to the side before licking his hand to calm down your burn marks. You quietly sobbed as he did it because, one, it hurt and two, it felt good at the same time that you felt embarrassed. He noticed that you were crying and couldn’t help but smile. He reached to your hair and pulled your head up from it and took a good look at your face before licking your tears and peppering your face with kisses. You couldn’t help but whimper as you felt loved, how ironic. He whispered in your ear, “You know I love you, right?” You knew very well, after all, he was always loyal to you no matter how he treated you at times.

He always looked after you when you felt down about anything. Whenever a guy would even look at your way or try to approach you, he would be like a guard dog ready to fight them off. He treasured you a little too much to the point that he was scared of how possessive he felt over you. “Yes my love, I know.” You croaked out weakly but happily.

He flipped you over to admire your face while he fucked you deep. He placed a palm of his hand on your lower stomach while holding your waist so he could feel himself fuck you. This pressure pushed you over the edge making you see stars and made him groan.

After a while of doing so, he got rid of his belt on your wrists so you could reach out to him and hug him as he fucked you to reach his climax, but Seong-Je always puts your sexual needs above his and makes you reach it before him.

He kissed you as he held you close, both of you moaning into each other's mouths as your fingernails scratched his back with aggression. He locked his eyes onto yours before giving a few final thrusts which made you both reach the climax together. You couldn’t help but bite his shoulder to mask your moan as he filled you up with his cum. This made him moan and groan a little too loudly than he would’ve preferred, which you loved.

You let go of his shoulder and peppered a few kisses from his shoulder to his face while caressing it. He pulled out of you and laid beside you while breathing heavily and hugging you close to him.

You felt his heart beat loudly against his chest. At this point, you didn’t even care for an explanation as to why he gave you radio silence for longer than you would’ve liked. He was there, and you were in his arms; it was all you needed to feel all the comfort in the world.

hope you guys enjoyed this. ♡

word count: roughly 2260 words

[mill3rd]

THERE’S A MAN IN THE WOODS

synopsis. you live on a farm with your father and two younger brothers on the outskirts of north carolina, just bordering the treeline. the days become rough as a wolf keeps returning to eat at your family’s livestock. not until you finally give chase to rid the farm of it’s nuisance do you realise the trees have eyes.

tags. mentions of religion and racism, you have a tragic backstory, brief talk of the klan…, remmick is a manipulative conniving dictator, implied to be woc reader but anyone can read, strangers to almost lovers, lovers if he wasn’t out to get you, open ending, vampire/human, slowburn, haunting, kinda spicy, definitely tension present, takes place a few months before the movie’s set, mindfuck cus i love psychological thriller

word count. 13k

© MILL3RD 2025 — all rights reserved. mature content. please do not steal my works

you wake with a start. your eyes are locked onto the morning sun’s intrusion through your bedroom window and your ears are chiming with the rooster’s wake up call. sitting up, you revert your stare to the pooling fabric of your nightgown in your lap.

for the last few months, you’ve been plagued with a recurring dream. at first, you barely remembered the events but as time went on you were able to put the broken pieces together.

it was not really a dream. more of a memory you’ve tried to block out and ignore despite it’s numerous hauntings during the nights. those piercing blue eyes that become veiled by scarlet once concealed in the shadows. you are consistently bedevilled by the way they glowed as if to taunt you, a reminder that he’ll come back.

during the depths of night, the same terrible memory of you being chased down the long, sandy road connecting daddy’s farm and the town is repeated the same way you’d rewind a filmstrip. white men on horseback hunting you down like a predator would their prey during the final hour of dusk.

your calves burned with every desperate step. breath tore through your throat in ragged bursts—panting wasn’t enough anymore. the adrenaline that had carried you this far had curdled into exhaustion, and the sight of the barn, distant and flickering on the horizon, loosened your limbs with false relief.

that’s when they got you.

the sun dipped behind the farmhouse like it was retreating, and the world went dim. shadows spilled across the ground, swallowing the path ahead. you didn’t hear the horse until it was already too close—hooves silent, like they rode on smoke. then a sharp jerk at your collar, and you were dragged backwards with unnatural speed.

you didn’t scream. just a yelp, strangled in your throat. the last thing you saw was white—horse, shirt, teeth—and then the ground. you hit it hard, skull cracking against a rock that jutted from the gravel like it had been waiting for you.

everything went dark.

when you came to, the sky was full of stars. too many, too bright—like they’d drawn closer in your absence. the air was thick, like it was holding its breath. you sat up slowly, head swimming, hands slick with grit and something warm.

no horse. no white riders. no sound.

just the road, and a trail.

thick red, glistening in the starlight, smeared back toward the treeline. not a splash. a drag. something had been taken, or something had crawled.

and then—you saw them.

it was thick. dark. a smear of red leading from where you lay into the woods, like something had been dragged. you followed it with your eyes until they met something else.

a pair of eyes. concealed in the trees. motionless.

they didn’t blink. they didn’t move. just watched. and you—broken, dazed, bleeding—you didn’t move either.

some things weren’t meant to be chased. some things you don’t call by name. and whatever it was waiting in those trees, it wasn’t finished with you yet.

even now as you get up from your bed, you still cannot remember your saviour’s exact features. just that pair of unsettlingly observant eyes. there’s more to the dream, to the memory but you cannot bring yourself to remember it no matter how hard you try.

as the day goes on, you eventually forget about the dream due to your duties on the farm. collect eggs from the chicken coops, let the cows out onto the field, shave the sheep for wool. your daddy took care of the more gruesome things like killing the livestock for meat. your brothers were still too young to have any real job on the farm so they played with and fed the horses.

recently, a wolf–that’s what your daddy suspected–had been sneaking in and out to pick at the lambs. it’s had you and your daddy on your toes for the last week. so far, it’s gotten ahold of two lambs and fatally injured a cow but you’ll be damned if you let it get ahold of another one.

you remember when it first started happening. you went into the barn to feed the animals just to find a lamb with it’s neck shredded and drained. it was seperated from the rest of the sheep, curled in the middle of the barn floor in a pile of hay. you could’ve mistaken it for escaping it’s pen and falling asleep if it hadn’t had a torn neck. you had called for your daddy and he advised you to be on the look out from now on. since then, it had outsmarted you twice more.

nighttime befell when you noticed a stir in the undergrowth. you were doing a final round of the coops and pens to make sure they were bolted tight when you caught the faint rustling of a stealth attempt just in your midst. the sunset cast sharp shadows on your back and onto the wooden door as you closed the large entrance to the barn. your eyes squinted, trying to decipher if it really was the so called wolf or just the evening breeze shifting the leaves.

there was a tense silence between you and mother nature. your body froze in wait as you stared at the base of the treeline. adrenaline flooded your veins while you began to call to whatever was hiding in the bushes.

as your teeth clicked, the beast emerged just like you suspected. it stalked forward, sniffing the fence. it was good luck that your brother was close by, walking a horse into the stables.

“leroy! go get daddy!” you shouted, voice sharp, eyes never leaving the wolf.

it stood just shy of the chicken coop, lit by the swinging lantern in your grip—eyes like coals, breath fogging in the thick heat of the night.

with slow, practiced fingers, you slipped the lantern onto your belt, the glow casting long, twitching shadows, and unhooked the shotgun from your shoulder. you leveled it. breathed in. fired.

the shot sang past its head, nicked its ear. the beast yelped, spun, and vanished—over the fence and into the snarled underbrush without a backward glance.

far behind you, the screen door slammed open hard enough to rattle its hinges. “what the hell you doin’?” daddy barked, storming down the porch. “chase after it, goddamnit!”

“it’s too dark!” you called, hoping that would be enough.

but he just waved a calloused hand, like darkness was a thing you could slap away. “you got a light, don’tcha? use it, girl!”

the lantern swayed against your hip like a pendulum, casting gold over the shotgun’s barrel. you stood there, breath caught in your throat, listening to the rustle of leaves where the wolf had gone. you didn’t want to follow—but you knew better than to let something like that slip away. not out here. not again.

so you broke into a sprint, hopping over the fence and chasing the beast that stole from your farm.

the lantern repeatedly swung between the air and your thigh as you ran between trees and over fallen logs. you could see the pathway ahead, the moon breaking through the trees and giving you a clear visage of what was ahead.

you’d chased the sound—rustling, footsteps that aren’t heavy enough to be a dead giveaway but just enough so that they could be heard. at first, it had seemed like an ordinary cat and mouse game, the kind of game you and your peers would play around the schoolhouse. but this animal was not playing an ordinary game of cat and mouse. you realize that now.

you’d gathered your skirt high with your free hand, breath sharp in your chest. the ground was uneven, soft in places, snagging your boots and your hem. once, you thought you saw it—a flash of dark fur between the underbrush. you pressed forward. but as you turned sharply around a stump half-hidden in dead grass, something yanked at your side with a sudden hiss of tearing fabric.

you staggered. when you looked down, a long strip of blue had been torn clean from the lower part of your skirt. it dangled for a second, caught on the bark behind you, before the wind—or something else—pulled it loose and carried it into the dark. you didn’t go after it. you only stood there, hand pressed to the frayed edge, chilled by how deliberate it had felt.

you’re not sure when the game turned into something else—something other, colder. but it had. and now, with every sound swallowed by the night, you understood you were no longer meant to be the cat.

animals have instincts. they play more survival ‘games’ than you ever had to. it’s part of their dna to survive.

it moved too fast. too clever. it had led you deeper than you intended, into a section of the woods you don’t remember walking through during the day, past groves of gnarled hawthorns and skeletal ash trees that creak as if whispering to one another.

you shouldn’t be out here.

the trees murmur it, their bare limbs tapping against one another like brittle fingers. the wind pulls at your shawl and hair, cold and sly, as though trying to tug you backward. as if to convince you to immediately turn back home. but you walk on, boots slick with mud, heart thudding like hooves in your chest.

your chest rose and fell when you stopped at a small, thin ravine. the drop itself was barely a few inches but the water was waist high. the nighttime chill wouldn’t mix well with damp clothing.

you glance down. the water is black—a reflection of the above. not wide, but fast. too fast that if you were to jump it would not guarantee your safety. especially in the dark. the stones gleam like teeth beneath the surface.

you sigh, clutching the shotgun in your palms and looking around. the trees happened to close in and block the shine of the moonlight except for one single ray, enclosing you in near darkness. you weren’t afraid of the dark, you figured you had other things to be wary of.

like what’s inside the woods itself. the woods aren’t meant to be this silent.

you sway with unease, surveying your surroundings. it was too dark.

at this time, you’d realised that the fire in the lantern had been knocked out during the sprint. you put your shotgun back over your shoulder before rustling in your pockets for a lighter.

“there we go..” you murmur, flicking it a few times infront of you until it stays alight.

“i’s a lil’ late for someone like you to be out here so late, don’cha think?” a voice says from the other side of the ravine. the suddenness startles you, making you almost drop the lighter. your fumble to catch it causes the flame to lick at your palm. hissing, you close the metal lid of the lighter and hold your hand in pain.

“dear lord,” you whisper, squeezing your hand and backing away from the revine ledge.

“sorry, i ain’t mean to frighten ya, ‘was genuine curiosity,” the owner of the voice stepped into the light, revealing a white man with a toothy grin. he stared at you like he was examining you. it gave you the creeps. he’s mainly standing in the shadows across the gap. perfectly still. taller than you, albeit not by very much. pale-skinned. dressed in suspenders and a loose shirt. his shoes are polished even in the dirt. his hair is dark, sticking onto his forehead. you can’t tell his age, but something about him feels ancient.

“you one of them?” you squint, your left hand holding the gun for a sick sense of comfort. the man tilts his head, “one of who?”

you swallow, “the klan.”

you are almost surprised by the expression of shock and almost offense that explodes onto the man’s features. his eyebrows raise with his hands, “ma’am, i can assure you that i believe in equal rights between all people.”

you scoff like you don’t believe it, but you freed the gun of your grip nonetheless, “okay.”

“i’m glad we have no problems,” the man smiles but your brows furrow. the river rushed, exchanged for the silence that followed. your eyes drifted over him. he wasn’t dressed in anything fancy and his appearance wasn’t anything you hadn’t seen before but there was something about him that caught your eye.

“we met before?” you ask, eyes glinting with curiosity. the stranger laughs, “why don’cha answer my question first?”

your chest drops with a breath you didn’t know you were holding. you stammer, “sorry, what was the question?”

“what’re ya doing out here so late?” he asks once more. your boot toes the dirt beneath you, “huntin’ is all.”

he raises an eyebrow, amused more than skeptical. “at this time?”

you nod, though it feels flimsy now. “damned mutt keeps eating at the livestock n’ it caught my eye this evenin’. dark thing. fast. had me and my daddy on our toes a lot this week.”

he tilts his head, like he’s testing the truth of you. “and you figure it’ll lie at ya feet if you started chasing it?”

you swallow, “my daddy sent me after it, told me to track it down before it gets brave.”

“n’ how’s that workin’ out f’r ya?” the stranger mocks with a grin. you swallow. the woods press in close, too silent now. not a single cricket. not even wind. just the rushing water from the revine below.

“clearly outsmarted me,” you exhale, putting your hand on your hip and squeezing it out of nervous habit, “it’s a clever wolf.”

that gets a gleam in his eye,“clever’s dangerous.”

you nod, glancing behind you at the narrow path that wound you here. you’d barely seen it in the dark, half-choked with brambles and vines. “yeah. that’s why I brought this.” you lift your shotgun slightly—not in threat, just to show. a gesture.

he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t even look at the gun.

“what about you?” you ask, trying to keep your tone light. “you got a reason to be out here, or you just like loiterin’ in places folks try to avoid?”

he smirks, not answering right away. “maybe i live out here. y’ever think of that?”

you chuckle. “in the trees?”

“could do.”

a silence passes between you, thin as frost and twice as cold. you watch each other in the gloom. he’s still half-shrouded by shadow, leaning against a tree like he belongs to it—like it grew around him and he just never left. his suspenders are dark and long, damp at the hem, and his boots don’t make a sound when he shifts his stance.

“what’s your name?” you ask, heart drumming a little harder now. you’re not sure if you’re curious or just stalling.

“people ‘round here don’t ask names when they meet strangers in the dark,” he says, voice smooth but taut, like a wire stretched too tight. “you learn things ya can’t forget.”

“maybe I wanna remember,” you say, trying to hold his gaze.

he leans his head slightly, amused. “do ya now?”

your jaw tightens. “depends.”

“on what?”

“on wha’cha are.”

that gets him. the smile fades, just a flicker, and he studies you like you just said something in a language he hasn’t heard in a long time.

“ya ask a lotta questions for someone with a gun in their hands,” he murmurs, stepping closer. you raise the shotgun just slightly—not to aim, just to make the distance clear. he doesn’t flinch.

“i ask when things don’t line up,” you say, “like how i’ve lived out here my whole life and never seen you ‘til now. or how there’s not a single sound in these woods since you showed up.”

he grins, wide again, but not kind. its cold and holds secrets, “maybe ya ain’t listenin’ right.”

you bite your lip. something scurries up your spine like vermin, something you don’t want to name. “maybe i don’t wanna hear what’s out there.”

he steps closer still. just one more pace before he’s out of the moonlight, but it steals your breath. his eyes are strange—too dark, like a dormant volcano that threatens to leak red for the first time in one hundred thousand years. you feel like if you look too long, you’ll erupt with it.

“then why’d ya come out here?” he asks, voice low, like the hush before a storm. you hesitate, eyes tracing the shifting shadows. “i already told ya why.”

he nods, slow and deliberate, like he’s weighing your words against something heavier. “alright. i’ll believe ya… for now.”

you scoff, but it comes out softer than you intended. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he doesn’t answer. just pushes off the tree without a sound, as if the forest itself makes way for him. the air changes—cooler, stiller—as he lifts his face toward the canopy, the trees arching like they want to listen.

“ah, ah,” you call, pointing at him. “you said you’d answer my question.”

he glances at you over his shoulder, and there’s a flicker in his eyes—something unreadable, almost curious.

“we could be acquaintances,” he says carefully, “or maybe ya like talkin’ up strange men in the woods.”

your frown deepens. “that’s not an answer.”

“no,” he agrees, voice low as a secret. “but it’s true.”

something in his gaze catches the light, and for a second, you’re not sure if it’s a glint of mischief—or something else entirely.

he goes to walk off again, swaying merrily from side to side like the night belongs to him, like nothing in the world could ever touch him.

“and i don’t even get your name?” you call out, half-marveling, half-exasperated. for someone so wrapped in mystery, he still manages to come off rude.

he stops. turns one last time.

and somehow, you know—it’s the last time he’ll respond. the certainty hits you like static in the air, a charge that zips across your skin and settles deep in your bones.

“sweetheart,” he says, eyes trailing over you with a lazy kind of mischief. a smirk crawls onto his face like it’s always been there, waiting. “you know it.”

your brows pull tight. confusion blooms. before you can shape the question forming behind your teeth, he cuts in—like he’s pulled it straight from your head.

“take a dip into your mind tonight,” he says, voice low and distant, like it’s already drifting away. “you’ll remember it.”

and then—it’s there. right at the edge.

your lips part. they quiver. you bite down to stop the habit you’ve never managed to break.

“damn it,” you whisper.

it’s right there. you can feel it pressing against your tongue. but somehow, you still can’t speak it.

you watch him vanish, slipping between the trees like the forest opened just for him. like he expects you to follow.

he never says it—but the way he walks, the ease in his stride, the smirk half-thrown over his shoulder—it all says you will.

but you don’t.

you’re more than happy to deflate his ego. so you turn on your heel and make your way home, the night thick and humming around you.

when you reach the porch, your daddy’s already waiting, arms crossed, lantern glowing at his feet like a tame fire.

“you didn’t get it,” he says—not accusing, just certain. like he already knew.

you nod. no use pretending otherwise.

“i lost track of it,” you admit, quiet.

he studies you a moment, then sighs. it’s not disappointment you hear—just the tired kind of knowing that comes from a life lived close to danger.

“you were brave tonight,” he says finally, voice rough with something close to pride. “braver than most.”

then, with a nod, he picks up the lantern and waves you off.

“go on. get some sleep.”

and just like that, it’s over. no lecture. no second thought.

but as you climb the stairs to your room, you can’t shake the feeling that nothing’s really over. not yet.

sleep doesn’t come easy, but when it does, it swallows you whole.

you’re standing in the woods again, only this time it’s not foggy—it’s still. unnaturally so. no wind, no crickets, no sound at all. even your breath feels like it’s being swallowed by the trees.

ahead, something glows—a slow, golden flicker, like candlelight caught in water.

you move toward it, barefoot again, leaves slick under your feet. the light leads you, and somehow, you know it’s him. he’s waiting. he always is.

you find him by a half-dead oak, one hand resting on the trunk like he’s listening to something in the bark.

“you came,” he murmurs, not turning.

“i didn’t mean to,” you say, though you’re not sure if that’s true.

he smiles without looking, and then—finally—he turns to face you.

“y’know my name yet?”

his voice is soft, almost kind, but something behind it scratches at the edge of your mind, like claws against wood. you shake your head, “tell me.”

he steps closer. close enough that you see the stars in his eyes—but they aren’t reflections. they’re inside him. burning.

he leans in, mouth near your ear. and he says his name.

the sound of it splits something in you. not pain, not quite. more like a door opening in a place you didn’t know you had. it echoes. it settles.

you try to repeat it—but your lips won’t move. your throat won’t open. something inside you resists, like speaking it would let him inside for real.

“there it is,” he whispers, brushing a finger down your jaw, to your neckline. “just don’t forget it again.”

you jolt awake, cold sweat clinging to your skin.

his name pulses in your mind, louder than your heartbeat, as clear as if you’d just heard it again—and you replay it on your lips, it feels right. feels good. remmick..

you sit up. the farmhouse is quiet. too quiet. no wind through the rafters, no cluck of hens, no groan of the wood beneath your father’s boots. the silence feels stretched. unnatural.

the dream has left you dazed. his face, the stranger’s—remmick’s—is imprinted behind your eyes like a thumb pressed into soft earth. his voice had called to you—not with urgency, but with strange familiarity. like he’d known you longer than you’d known yourself. like you’d promised something.

you go to the window.

outside, the fields ripple under low morning mist, and the corn stalks stand tall but motionless. the barn’s doors are open. not wide, but just a sliver, like they were curious enough to peek. a jagged piece of blue cloth—the fabric that’d been torn last night—flutters from the fence post by the coop. it's knotted tight, as if someone had left it there for you.

you dress slow, careful. the house groans once, somewhere behind the walls, and then settles again. you don’t call out for your daddy. not yet. something about the air makes you feel like if you speak too loud, you’ll break it.

on the porch, the world smells damp and sweet, like rain that hasn’t fallen. a crow watches you from the clothesline, head tilted. you give it a nod like you’re greeting a neighbor, and it caws back, once, like it understands.

you go to the barn first. always best to check the odd things before the expected ones. the cloth flaps lazily when you pass it. the barn doors creak when you pull them open, revealing dust hanging thick in beams of light. nothing is out of place. not really. but the hay has been arranged into a spiral—wide and looping, like something moved through it, not walked. slid.

you step inside anyway. your boots crunch soft over the hay, and the spiral breaks under you. there’s no fear. just that deep feeling you get when you know you’re part of something, but you don’t know what yet. like a play you walked into halfway through, and everyone else already knows their lines.

in the corner of the barn is a chair you don’t remember putting there. an old rocker. you’ve never seen it before, but it doesn’t feel unfamiliar. when you reach out to touch it, there’s warmth still in the wood.

daddy’s voice finally calls from the field.

you leave the barn without looking back, and you don’t tell him about the hay spiral or the warm chair. you just listen as he complains about the cows not coming in for feed, and the fence posts shifting again overnight. the dirt smells too rich, he says. too sweet. like sugar rotting.

the whole day is like that. small things. a second plate set out at breakfast though you swore you didn’t do it. a mirror in the hallway catching someone behind you that isn’t there when you turn. the wind blowing your name once, low and fond, when no one else is near.

you walk the edge of the fields after supper, watching the sky go pink behind the trees. there’s movement between the rows—subtle, almost like someone walking beside you just out of sight. but you don’t look. not tonight. it doesn’t feel threatening. just… familiar.

that night, the dream comes back.

he is there again, just where you left him. standing in the woods, shirt open at the throat, lantern glow behind him. “you remembered,” he says. like he knows.

“that’s alright,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “there’s still time.”

when you wake, the blue cloth is fluttering outside your open bedroom window. the knot so neat it looks deliberate, like a ribbon on a gift. your hand trembles slightly when you hang out of the window to untie it. the fabric is soft, finer than anything you own. it smells faintly of smoke and cedar and something else, like remmick added his own scent to it.

you don’t tell your brothers or your daddy.

he’s already at the edge of the pasture, trying to coax the cattle back toward the barn. they’ve taken to lingering near the woods, eyes wide and wary. he curses under his breath as one bull shakes its head and turns away, refusing to come.

you stand at the back steps and watch the tree line.

you don’t know what you’re waiting for, but your heart seems to. it beats a little faster when a shadow shifts behind the branches. nothing emerges. nothing moves, really. but the stillness feels full, like the pause before someone speaks your name.

at dusk, the sky bruises violet and gold. you walk the perimeter of the fields again, pretending to look for signs of broken fence or paw prints. instead, your hand drifts to the red cloth in your pocket. your thumb brushes it like a worry stone.

when the night falls, you wait.

you leave your window open. just a crack.

the dream doesn’t come.

instead, it’s the tapping that wakes you. soft. rhythmic. like someone gently drumming their fingers on the glass. when you sit up, the room is silver with the moonlight that breaks through the thinness of your curtain. the tapping stops.

you move to the window, slipping your hand between the hanging fabric toward the latch. your heart sinks the moment you see it—a shadowed hand, reaching for yours from the other side of the glass. your breath catches. instinct yanks your hand back, but the shadow doesn’t move. it lingers there, pressed against the pane, too still to be real, too solid not to be.

you stand frozen, heart pounding so loud it muffles the quiet.

finally, once the panic settles into something like courage, you part the curtain.

the shadow is gone.

but just beyond the yard, near the edge of the barn, a figure stands—motionless, watching. not approaching. not retreating. just waiting in the dark, exactly where the lantern light can’t reach.

he doesn’t wave. doesn’t speak. but you know it’s him. remmick. same silhouette. same impossible stillness, like the air around him holds its breath. your own breath fogs the glass.

he waits. for you. he waits for you.

you pull your shawl around your shoulders and slip outside barefoot. the earth is cold, damp. you don’t call to him. you just walk.

as you get closer, you realize he’s not standing in shadow—he is the shadow. moonlight should strike his face, but it doesn’t. it bends around him like it’s shy. only his eyes catch the light, glinting like something not quite human.

“you came,” remmick says, like it surprises him, though something in his eyes suggests he expected nothing less. like he’s been waiting—patiently, deliberately—every night since the first, and would’ve kept waiting, too, just to prove that you would return eventually.

you nod, uncertain, and remmick smiles as if you’ve confirmed something important without realizing it.

“you remembered something,” he says, voice like low thunder, warm and unsettling. “even if you’d rather forget.”

“your name,” you whisper, but the word thickens in your throat. it doesn’t rise. it sinks—heavy and warm—curling behind your ribs like a secret you’re ashamed to know.

his smile deepens, indulgent, knowing. “it’ll come,” he says. “when it needs to. you ain’t need’ta force what already belongs to you.”

you flinch slightly as his gaze shifts, sharp and cold, to the trees behind you.

“the land’s wakin’ up,” he murmurs. “things buried never stay buried long. not here.”

“who are you?” you ask, though the question feels small now, almost childish.

he steps closer, slow, deliberate. the air turns cool—not biting, but intrusive. it slips under your skin like water seeping through cracks. you shiver, but he watches you with quiet satisfaction, as if your discomfort proves something to him.

“a memory,” he says softly, “a promise you made when you thought no one was listening. a consequence you invited.”

you shake your head, instinct tightening your chest. “you’re real.”

he studies you, tilting his head like a curious animal. “yes,” he says, “and no. i’m whatever plagues you.”

his hand lifts—gentle, too gentle—and he brushes a strand of hair from your cheek. his touch is cool, precise, and lingers just long enough to leave something behind: a tremor, a question, a pull.

“you believe in fate?” he asks, voice low, coaxing. like he already knows your answer and wants to hear you say it wrong.

you don’t speak.

his smile returns, quieter now. almost pitying. “you will.”

you step back. the stars seem brighter now, like they’re watching. the barn behind him groans once, the sound old and wet, like wood remembering water.

you don’t see him leave.

you turn around, heart thudding, and walk back to the house.

the morning comes quiet.

you wake with the feeling that something is watching you, but when you open your eyes, there’s only the ceiling above. no shadow at the window, no whisper in your ear. still, your chest is tight like it hasn’t stopped bracing.

you get up slower than usual. your limbs feel like they’ve been moving in your sleep. your feet are dusty, though you could swear you never left the bed.

in the mirror, your face looks the same. but your eyes… they look like you’ve seen something you shouldn’t have.

downstairs, the kitchen is hushed. even the old house seems uncertain how to greet the day. the stove clicks when you light it, and the kettle moans like something waking from a bad dream. you drink your tea standing, watching the trees through the window over the sink.

they move too much for a wind this mild.

the blue fabric is in your pocket. it hadn’t been there when you went to bed, but it’s here now—creased and stained with something that isn’t quite dirt. you smooth it out on the table, trace the threads with your finger. they look newer than they should, like they were stitched last night.

like someone left it for you.

you try the chores anyway. the chickens are uneasy. they don’t peck at your boots like they usually do. they cluster near the fence and watch the treeline, like they expect something to come crawling out.

the barn’s doors are closed now. they weren’t, last night.

you stand outside them for a long time, hand on the latch. you expect the air to be heavy again, or that strange chill to slide down your back like a breath. but it’s just quiet.

too quiet.

inside, everything’s in its place. the tools haven’t moved. the hay is dry. there’s no sign of the figure you saw near the fence. and yet—there’s a smell. faint. metallic. sweet in a way that doesn’t belong in a barn. like rust and roses.

you don’t linger.

back at the house, you find yourself staring at the window where the hand had touched the glass. it should be smudged, but the pane is spotless. cleaner than it’s been in months. you touch the same spot. the glass is cool, colder than the room around it.

dinner time is no different at first. the clatter of forks against chipped ceramic fills the silence. stew’s gone lukewarm in your bowl, but you’ve barely touched it. every now and then, the wood of the chair creaks beneath your shifting weight, and you can feel their eyes on you—watching too long between bites.

“you alright?” leroy asks first. his voice is casual, but his brow’s tight. you glance up, startled by the sound more than the question.

“i’m fine,” you lie, offering a short smile. it doesn’t reach your eyes.

“you been sleepwalkin’ again?” daniel mutters, not looking at you. his spoon scrapes the bowl. “saw the back door open this morning.”

you stiffen. the knot in your stomach pulls tighter.

“door was just unlatched,” you say, “must’ve been the wind.”

daddy lays his fork down slow. “girl, ain’t been wind strong enough to blow open that door since last spring. and your boots were wet this mornin’, tracked mud right through the back hall.”

you blink. you don’t remember putting boots on. you don’t remember walking, either—not really. just the barn. his voice. the candlelight stretching like fingers across the walls.

“you ain’t said a word all day,” leroy notes, “been starin’ at nothin’. mutterin’, too.”

“you’re all lookin’ at me like i’ve grown a second head,” you snap, sharper than you mean to. your heart’s racing, your chest too tight. “i just didn’t sleep well.

“that’s more than no sleep,” daniel analyses, voice low. “you been actin’ strange. and the animals been actin’ strange, too.”

“enough,” daddy demands, but his tone isn’t scolding. it’s quiet. concerned. like he’s been thinking the same thing.

you press your palms flat to the table, trying to steady yourself. the grain of the wood feels unfamiliar. everything does. even the way your family’s looking at you—too still, too measured.

“why’re y’all askin’ me like i did somethin’ wrong?” you ask, eyes glassy.

“we didn’t say that,” your daddy frowns. but something shifts in the room. daniel won’t meet your eyes. leroy’s stopped eating. daddy’s hand is still on his fork, but he hasn’t picked it back up. you can feel the sweat gathering at the back of your neck.

they’re watching you. not like family. not anymore.

they look at you like you’re a reflection in water—familiar in shape, but something’s gone warped beneath the surface. leroy’s jaw is tight. daniel won’t stop glancing your way, then glancing off again. daddy’s fork hangs in his hand like he’s forgotten what to do with it.

the candle flickers once, casting long shadows that stretch over their faces and make them look like someone else entirely.

outside the window, a figure slips past. silent. too smooth. just a smear of shadow. you go still, eyes locked on the glass. no one else reacts. like they didn’t see it. or like they did—and don’t want you to know.

your chair scrapes the floor as you stand. it sounds too loud in the quiet.

“i’m goin’ to bed,” you announce, no one stops you. just three nods.

that night, you light a candle before you go to bed. not the usual lamp, but a tall, white taper that you found tucked in the bottom of the drawer. you don’t remember putting it there.

as the flame flickers, you think about what he said.

a memory. a promise. a consequence.

you whisper the name again, just to try it. you repeat it until it’s all your tongue feels comfortable saying. like a comfort.

outside, a fox screams in the woods. or maybe it’s something else.

you don’t sleep. not really.

you lay with your eyes open, staring at the ceiling while the candle burns down, and the red fabric curls like it's trying to remember what it used to be.

just after midnight, the barn door creaks open again.

you hear it from your bed. and this time, you don’t move.

the sheets snap in the midday wind, pale ghosts dancing between the trees. you pin them to the line with fingers gone stiff from the morning chill, shoulders hunched against it. the scent of soap and woodsmoke clings to the fabric. behind you, boots crunch slow through the patchy grass.

“ain’t dryin’ proper if you bunch ’em up like that,” your daddy says gently.

you don’t look back, “they’ll catch the wind.”

he stops beside you, arms crossed. for a moment, neither of you speak. the wind hums low. a crow calls out once from the trees.

“i know you’re still grievin’,” he says after a stretch. “and i know that’s... partially my fault.”

you pause mid-pin, fingers caught in the act. his voice sounds older than it used to.

“she loved ya,” you say quietly, “and ya loved her.”

“yeah,” he breaths, “and it got her killed.”

the words fall heavy. you move to the next sheet without answering.

“life ain’t been easy for you. or your brothers. not since we came back here. i know that. know what folks say. what they whisper. ‘bout a white man an’ a coloured woman.”

you glance at him then. his jaw is set, weathered. the gray in his beard wasn’t always there.

“we hear it, too,” you say, “we always did.”

he nods. “you were just little when it all happened. but even then, you knew what people looked like when they hated quiet.”

the sheet in your hands slips, and you catch it by instinct. your throat feels tight.

“you think it changed me?” you ask. “mama’s death?”

his gaze doesn’t flinch. “it had to.”

a gust of wind lifts the edge of a shirt on the line. it flaps like a flag, the sleeve brushing your arm.

“you’re different now,” he says. “quiet. faraway. and lately... you’ve been lookin’ like her. when she was scared but wouldn’t say so.”

you swallow hard. “i’m not scared.”

he studies you a long moment. “then what are you?”

you don’t answer. you can’t. not with how your dreams feel like they’re bleeding into the day. not with how you wake up with dirt under your nails and your name whispering back at you in a voice that doesn’t belong to anyone you know—but feels like home.

“if there’s somethin’ you need to tell me,” he says low, “now’s the time. before it gets too deep to dig out.”

you turn your face toward the trees, where the edge of the woods lies waiting

“not yet,” you sigh.

and he doesn’t press you. he just helps hang the last of the laundry, quiet as the sky.

you wake before midnight, but not in the way waking should feel.

it’s that in-between space again—eyes half-lidded, body moving before your mind catches up. your feet know where they’re going. your nightdress brushes against your shins, it sticks to your body, damp with sweat. your fingers twitch open and closed like you’re still holding onto something you can’t see.

the air is thick, humming low like the world hasn’t quite started turning yet.

then you hear him.

not a voice, not clearly. but something rides the wind—soft, drawn out, curling around your ear like smoke. not words, but a shape your soul remembers. something that tugs at you like thread pulled taut.

you don’t stop to put on boots. don’t think to grab a lantern or a gun.

you pass the tree line, where the woods lean in close like old men with secrets. they remember you. they creak and hush, and still you move deeper.

the stream lies just ahead. you don’t need to see it—you feel its presence in your bones. that place where you first saw him, where he first looked at you like he’d known you across lifetimes.

your feet find the slick stones at the water’s edge without stumbling. the current murmurs softly, swollen from last night’s rain, but not fierce. it parts before you, like it knows to let you through.

you cross, the chill biting into your skin. your breath hitches, but you don’t turn back. can’t.

the ravine is shallow here, but the banks rise high and steep as you climb the other side. bramble and brush tug at your soaking nightdress. a loose thread catches on a branch, rips free—white cloth fluttering like a flag left behind. more fabric that this section of wood wants from you.

and still, you follow the sound.

he’s closer now. not behind you. not ahead. just... around. in the trees. in the mist coiling through the undergrowth. the sky above is a hard, dark blue, and you swear the moon lingers too long, watching.

when you reach the clearing, your breath leaves you at the same time that your eyes fall from their rolled back positions in your skull.

he stands beneath a split tree, backlit by silver light. unmoving. not waiting—expecting. your bare feet pause in the moss, but your body leans forward.

“you called me,” you murmur, though you don’t remember opening your mouth. his head tilts.

“ya heard me,” he replies, like it was never in question. his voice is different here—fuller, warmer, yet it chills every part of you it touches. he doesn’t come closer. he doesn’t need to.

“i ain’t mean to come,” you say, though the words sound hollow, like you already know they aren’t true.

“but ya did,” he says. “‘cause ya always do. even when you try not to.”

your fingers twitch at your sides. your heart beats faster now, like it knows it shouldn’t be here. like it remembers something your mind has buried too deep.

“d’ya know why?” remmick asks, like he was finally getting the answer he’s been waiting for…! but you shake your head. he smiles—sad, or amused, or both.

“you will,” he says. the wind stirs. the trees sigh. the sky twinkles as he offers his hand. you take it, shivering from the coldness of his palm.

none of you speak when he turns, just gives a glance over his shoulder, to make sure you’re really there in his hold.

barefoot, breath fogging in the chill before dawn, you trail behind him into the woods with your hand still gripping his. your nightdress clings damp around your legs, torn slightly at the hem where brambles caught you. the ground beneath your feet is soft, moss giving under each step like the earth itself is breathing. it cushions your bare feet.

remmick moves without sound.

no twigs snap under his boots. no rustle from his coat. he walks like he’s always belonged here, but not like he’s part of it. no. there’s something in the way he walks—like he could leave whenever he pleased. like he never intended to stay.

the path curves past a shallow river, down into the belly of the forest where the trees grow taller and closer together. it’s there you see the shack.

not run-down, not quite forgotten, but something older than it should be. wood silvered with time. windows small and round like eyes. smoke curls gently from the chimney, thin and pale.

he doesn’t knock. just opens the door and steps inside.

you linger on the threshold. you don’t know why your heart pounds the way it does—like the bones of this place remember something your body forgot. still, your hand finds the frame, and then you’re inside.

the scent of pine resin and ash wraps around you. herbs hang in bundles from the rafters, casting twisted shadows on the walls courtesy of the many candles. books are stacked in quiet towers. glass jars filled with dark things line the shelves. it smells like memory. like quiet.

you glance around the room—definitely a living room, though worn thin with time—and your eyes catch on a banjo hanging from two rusted hooks above an old rifle mounted on the wall.

you nod toward it, amusement tugging at your lips. “didn’t know you were the musical type.”

remmick follows your gaze. “oh, that? yeah. i like to play when the mood’s right.”

you tilt your head, smirking. “what about the rifle? you strum that too?”

he huffs a quiet laugh, one brow raised. “got jokes, huh?”

you grin, wide and unrepentant.

he shakes his head, chuckling as he steps aside to let you pass. “go on, then. before i show you what a real duet sounds like.”

his smile lingers, and for a brief moment, so does yours.

you take the chair remmick motions to—an old rocker with worn fabric. he moves slowly, not because he’s tired, but because he doesn’t need to rush. everything he does feels intentional. like time obeys him, not the other way around.

“you don’t look surprised to see me,” you chuckle softly.

remmick gives a faint shrug. “you always find me, one way or another.”

a gasp slips accidentally from your throat. your first conversation from a month ago flashes across your mind.

“we met before?”

“we could be acquaintances,” he says carefully, “or maybe ya like talkin’ up strange men in the woods.”

“we’ve met before.”

“in pieces,” he admits cryptically. “in dreams. in other places… but you know where we’ve met before.”

“how long have you been here?”

he glances toward the trees beyond the window. “not long.”

“before that?”

a small smile touches his lips. “everywhere else.”

you don’t know what that means. the kettle hisses over the fire, and he pours the tea without looking at it. hands you a chipped mug without asking if you want it.

“why me?” you ask.

“because you came,” he says, settling into the chair across from you. “that’s all it ever takes.”

you shake your head. “i don’t remember choosing to.”

“doesn’t mean you didn’t.” he leans forward. “some things in us reach out, even when we don’t know why.”

you sip the tea. it’s bitter and grounding, full of something you can’t name. it spreads warmth into your chest.

“you’re not like them,” you say, reffering to hunters and poachers, “not like the others in the woods.”

his eyes glint with something unreadable. “no. i’m not.”

“you’re not bound to this place.”

“nothing holds me,” he says quietly. “not the land. not death. not even time, if i don’t let it.”

you set your cup down. “then why stay?”

his gaze doesn’t waver. “because you’re here.”

a silence falls between you, long and soft.

you study the lines of his face. pale, like moonlight under skin. beautiful, but in a way that feels wrong if you look too long. a beauty sharpened by grief or hunger—something left unfinished.

“i’ve dreamed of you,” you whisper, like if admitting it too loud would offend him.

“you always do.”

“do you dream of me?”

remmick’s lips twitch, not quite a smile. “you’re harder to forget.”

outside, a crow cries. the sound stretches over the treetops and fades.

“you’ve always followed me,” he says, standing. “for a long time. y’don’t remember now, but ya will soon.”

he walks to the window, pushes it open. wind creeps in around the frame.

“they’re stirring again,” he warns, voice lower now. “them old things. nuisances beneath the roots.”

remmick speaks like he’s telling a story, like he’s reading to a child.

“who are they?”

“nothing you need to worry over. not now, or ever.”

he turns back to you, crossing the room with that quiet grace, like he could vanish at any moment.

“stay here, just until the sun’s high,” he pleads, “you’ll be safer here for now.”

you hesitate. “and if i stay longer?”

his smile is slow. “then you’ll start to remember more than jus’ my name.”

you swallow hard, the room suddenly warmer despite the fire having long died to embers. he steps closer, bending down to level with you, quiet as the hush between tree branches, and your breath catches before you even realize you’ve stopped breathing.

his hand lifts, careful, deliberate, fingers brushing along your jaw, cold at first—like creekwater in early spring—but gentling into warmth the longer he lingers. your skin hums beneath his touch, like it remembers him even if your mind won’t say how.

“y’still don’t know,” he murmurs, “but those bones do.”

he leans in slow enough for you to turn away. but you don’t.

his mouth finds yours, soft at first—testing—then deeper, like he’s waited years for you to let him back in. something stirs in your chest, blooming heat behind your ribs, like you’ve kissed him before beneath a hundred moons, in lifetimes neither of you ever got to finish.

when he pulls back, barely, your forehead rests against his.

“doesn’t feel like the first time,” you whisper.

“that’s because it ain’t,” he says, and you believe him.

his breath mingles with yours—cool and steady, unlike the wild rhythm hammering behind your ribs. for a moment, you say nothing. just let the silence cradle you both while your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself in the solidity of him.

his other hand moves to the small of your back, not possessive, but certain. like he knows where you fit best. like he’s done this before, maybe many times, and every version of you always leaned into him just the same.

the air is thick with something unsaid. your pulse flutters like the wings of a moth brushing too close to flame, and you wonder—absurdly, truthfully—if he feels it too.

remmick presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth this time, softer than the last, like he’s memorizing the shape of you piece by piece. “you used to meet me at the edge of the trees,” he murmurs against your cheek. “you’d wear a red ribbon. always that same one.”

your heart stutters. you don’t remember a red ribbon. but the color flares bright in your mind, sudden and warm.

“how do you know that?” you whisper.

his smile is faint, almost sorrowful. “because you gave it to me.”

he pulls back just enough to look at you, searching your face. “i could show you,” he says. “what you’ve forgotten.”

you nod before you can talk yourself out of it. your body answers for you. your memory might be shrouded in fog, but your soul has already started to clear the path.

his lips return to yours—firmer now, more familiar. this time, when his mouth parts yours, you open to him like you’ve done it before. like instinct. there’s no awkwardness, no hesitation. just the steady burn of something old being remembered.

the warmth of the kiss lingers as he leans back and smiles, “you want a song with that too?”

it sounds like hes joking, but you both know that if you asked, he’d do it.

you open your eyes, eyelashes fluttering as the effects of the kiss wears off. you smile, “i’d like that.”

the fire in remmick’s hearth is low, casting gold and amber against the rough-hewn walls of the cabin. you’ve curled yourself into one of the old wool blankets he keeps stacked near the door, still half-dressed from the day, hair mussed, skin kissed by sleep. he sits by the flames, banjo propped against his thigh, tuning it in that careful, distracted way of his—like the motion brings him comfort.

then, without warning, his thumb strikes the strings in a gentle rhythm. slow at first, almost hesitant. and then he begins to sing:

“oh, the summertime is coming,

and the trees are sweetly bloomin’,

and the wild mountain thyme

grows around the bloomin’ heather—

will ye go, lassie, go?”

his voice is rough in places, worn and lived-in. not polished, but real. it slips into the room like fog through the trees, curling around you, settling somewhere deep in your chest.

you shift in your seat, watching him more closely now. “i don’t think i’ve ever heard that one before,” you say, quiet. “what’s it called?”

his fingers don’t pause. “will ye go, lassie, go. old tune.”

you nod slowly. “sounds old.”

remmick smiles, but it’s faint. the kind of smile someone wears when their mind’s somewhere far from here. “it is. from the old country.”

you tilt your head. “england?”

“nah,” he says, shaking his head. “farther west. ireland.”

you blink. “ireland?”

he finally sets the banjo down gently on the floor, resting his hands on his knees. “me ma used to sing it when the wind howled through the slats of the shack we had. back before we came here. before the land was kind or the neighbors were quiet.”

you study him. “i didn’t know you were irish.”

“most folk don’t,” he says, brushing a hand through his hair. “folk like to forget where they came from once the road’s long enough. but i remember. and that song…” he trails off, looking into the fire, “...that song brings it all back.”

you feel something in your chest twist. maybe guilt for not knowing. maybe awe. maybe just the weight of the way he speaks—like the past lives right behind his eyes.

“what was it like?” you ask. “growing up that way?”

remmick breathes out slow. “hard. poor. different. some english patrol caught wind of what he was doin’—smugglin’ food to a rebel priest. that was enough. they made sure mama knew what happened to him. made her scared enough to leave.

he glances at you, the fire casting amber across his cheekbones. “ain’t nothin’ romantic about it. just runnin’ from one fear to another.”

you don’t say anything at first. just nod. and for a while, the cabin is quiet again.

then you whisper, “but the song... it’s beautiful.”

remmick hums in agreement. “aye. it is. even after everything.”

he picks the banjo back up, plucks at a few strings, then says with a half-smile, “want me to sing it again?”

you nod, and lean closer toward the fire.

and when he sings this time, you hear more than just a tune. you hear longing. resilience. a boy buried beneath centuries of struggle, still holding tight to the one thing that couldn't be taken: memory.

remmick is watching you with a stillness that feels ancient. reverent.

“you said you’d always find your way back,” he brings up softly through the quiet.

you don’t answer. not with words. instead, you lean forward again, this time of your own choosing, and kiss him like you’re trying to make up for all the years lost in silence.

and outside, the wind picks up—carrying the scent of pine and riverwater—and the woods seem to sigh, like they too remember.

you wake before the light fully breaks. the cabin is quiet, wrapped in that strange hush that comes just before dawn. not silence—no, it’s thicker than that. like the whole world is holding its breath.

your limbs are heavy, not with sleep, but with something else. warmth. surrender. the ache that follows closeness.

remmick isn’t beside you, but his shirt is. you drape over your bare shoulders, thick and smelling of smoke, pine, and the faintest trace of something human and dark and steady.

you pull it tighter. there’s a soreness in your hips, a looseness in your chest, but it isn’t unpleasant. just… real.

the fire’s burned low, a few embers crackling quietly in the hearth. your clothes are folded neatly at the foot of the bedroll, as if last night had been gentle. it hadn’t always been—but it had never been cruel.

you rise slowly, muscles remembering the weight of him. the way he touched you like he’d done it before, like he would again. like you were something known, and he’d only been waiting for you to remember.

you find him standing by the window. not moving. just watching the woods, his arms folded, jaw slack with thought.

he doesn’t turn when he hears you, but his voice finds you anyway. low. warm.

“you stayed.”

you hesitate before answering. “so did you.”

he glances back at you then, his eyes dark and unreadable in the pale morning light.

you walk toward him, the floor cool beneath your feet. every step brings you closer to that hum, that quiet pull he carries like a second skin. you don’t know what it is—not really—but you want to be near it. near him.

he watches you come closer. doesn’t move to touch you. not yet.

“you’re not afraid of me,” he breathes, like he was expecting something different.

you reach out and carress the outside of his arm, fingers curling around his biceo. “should i be?”

he looks at your hand, then back at your face. his voice is barely more than breath. “not yet.”

you lift his hand and place it at your waist. guide it there, slow. his fingers tighten, tentative but wanting.

“what was last night?” you ask quietly, “for us..”

he leans in, not quite touching, mouth close to your ear. “a beginnin’,” he notes, “or maybe a return.”

you close your eyes. breathe him in. everything about him makes the world blur at the edges. time slows. thought slips.

you press your forehead to his collarbone. he rests his hand against the small of your back, grounding. reverent.

“you feel like something i lost,” you whisper.

“maybe you did,” he answers, “maybe we both did.”

you stay like that for a long time, standing in the stillness, wrapped in warmth and the quiet, unbearable tenderness of being remembered by someone you forgot.

outside, the light finally shifts. dawn creeps in slow. eventually, you step back. his hand trails away from you reluctantly, “stay an’ther day?”

you take a small step back, eyes still on him, breath just a little uneven.

“i don’t know…” you murmur, voice light with mischief, “my daddy’s probably already pacing the porch, mad i didn’t come home.”

there’s a smile tugging at your mouth—teasing, inviting. the kind that says you know exactly what you’re doing. and that, for once, you don’t particularly care about the consequences.

remmick watches you with a look that walks the line between restraint and hunger. “you’re not worried,” he says, stepping forward, slow and sure.

“maybe i am,” you offer, tilting your head, the smile deepening, “but not about him.”

he moves before you can finish that thought, one hand reaching past to tug the curtain shut with a snap. the next second, he’s on you—arms locking around your waist, lifting you with a strength that still surprises you.

you gasp, but the sound is lost as his mouth meets yours—firm, certain, a kiss that spills over into something deeper, something older.

your hands find his shoulders, gripping tight as he carries you across the room with practiced ease, only stopping when the backs of his knees hit the bed of blankets and cushions near the hearth.

you fall into them together, tangled in limbs and heat and laughter that catches in your throat as he kisses you again, slower this time, but no less hungry.

the firelight casts soft shadows around the room, catching on the curve of your jaw, the line of his hands as they smooth over your sides. every breath feels shared, every shift in movement more like a conversation than a collision.

whatever waits outside that cabin—your father’s temper, the questions, the ache of returning to something half-lived—you leave it behind for now.

here, in the quiet hush of the woods and the warmth of him around you, you let yourself disappear into the moment.

just for a little while longer.

remmick’s touch ignites something in you—sharp and consuming, like striking flint to dry leaves. his hands move with reverence, but there’s hunger there too. a need. he reads your body like a language he already knows by heart, coaxing every sound from your throat with precision.

his fingers press into your skin, mapping the lines of your ribs, brushing over your chest in a way that sends heat pooling low. you arch into him before you realize it, breath hitching, your body chasing his touch before your mind catches up.

the fire crackles behind you both, a steady rhythm, but it fades as he focuses on you—and only you. your world shrinks to the space between his breath and yours. the room tilts with every movement, every press and roll of hips that leaves you dizzy and clinging to him.

his mouth finds yours, open and wanting, and you take him in—soft and then demanding, until you’re both breathing the same ache. there’s a strange taste on your tongue, rich and coppery, but it doesn’t startle you. it only makes him groan low and deep, like he’s unraveling at the seams.

you lose time in the tangle of limbs and whispered gasps, in the give and pull of bodies learning each other by instinct. when it crests, it does so in waves—slow and spiraling, until all you can do is hold on.

after, you lie in the hush of morning. skin damp, hair clinging to your temples, your legs still wrapped around his. remmick’s fingers trace lazy circles along your sides, grounding you. you don’t speak. you don’t need to.

the warmth between you is quieter now, but no less powerful.

something has changed. something has opened. and though you don’t yet know what to call it—you know it’s his, and it’s yours.

the fire burned low by the time your eyes cracked open, light from the hearth still flickering faint on the cabin walls. the air was thick—still scented of pine, smoke, and something older. dusk was pressing in outside, and for a moment you didn’t know what time it was, what day it might be.

you shifted under the quilt, still warm from the cocoon of blankets and from remmick’s body—except now he was gone.

you sat up, disoriented.

a floorboard groaned.

the door creaked open.

you looked.

and there he was.

remmick.

but not the remmick you remembered falling asleep beside. not the one who whispered your name like it was something sacred.

this one stood with his shoulders hunched, breathing heavy. blood slicked his jaw, stained the corner of his mouth. it dripped slow from the side of his chin to the base of his throat. his eyes weren’t soft—they glowed faint, scarley and wild.

your breath gets caught in your throat. you know where you’d seen remmick before. that night on the dirt road. he was no man, he’s not who you believed he was.

and his mouth… you saw them. the fangs. not long, but enough. enough to change everything.

he stilled when he saw you awake. like a child caught red-handed.

“i didn’t mean for you to see me like this, mo stór,” he muttered, voice low and rough as gravel. that southern drawl still there, but coarser now, heavier with something feral. like he’s finallt given up the facade, “thought you’d be sleepin’ through the night.”

you stared. breath locked in your chest.

“what did you do?” you whispered. it wasn’t a question. it was a statement.

he stepped forward. you flinched.

he slowed, held up a hand—bloody fingers trembling just slightly. “now hold on, darlin’. don’t go lookin’ at me like that. it ain’t what’cha think.”

“then tell me what it is,” you snapped, the weight in your chest crumbling. “what are you?”

he didn’t answer. not right away. just kept walking until he was in front of you, crouched low by the bed, his head tilted.

“you remembered me,” he said instead, “you felt it. the pull, my call.”

“you made me think we had a past,” you hissed, throat tightening. “you made me think i—that i meant something to you.”

“you do remember,” he said gently, like trying to soothe a spooked horse. “just not the way you want to. i just… gave it a nudge.”

the realization hit you like a stone to the ribs.

“you lied,” you breathed.

his eyes darkened, something hollow flickering behind them. “i gave you a story you wanted to believe. that’s all any of us are ever doin’.”

when he leaned in again, you turned your face—but he caught your chin with blood-slick fingers and kissed you anyway. rough. hungry. it tasted of iron. it burned. you tried to pull back and his hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you there.

you felt him nip at your lip and you winced, pushing his face away but his grip on you still remained

he growled low in his throat—not pain, but something else. something dangerous. “you still got fire,” he rasped, close against your skin. “that’s why i liked you then. why i still do.”

you shoved him off with all the strength you had. scrambled to your feet, heart pounding like a drumline in your ears. you didn’t look back—you went for the mantle.

your fingers closed around the rifle.

“don’t do that,” remmick said, a warning under the twang of his voice now, “you don’t wanna turn this into somethin’ it don’t need to be.”

“you turned it into somethin’ the moment you walked into my life with blood on your goddamn mouth.”

he flinched, just a little. then smiled. slow. almost admiring.

“go on then,” he said, stepping aside. “run if you need to.”

you didn’t wait. you bolted, feet hitting the floor, body numb but moving fast. you burst out of the door and into the woods, not caring where you landed. not anymore.

behind you, the door remained open with remmick’s shadow-veilled form remained. his eyes glowed, staring at your fleeting form. his head tilted, as if to mock you and as if the wind still carried his voice, it told you this was only a headstart.

the woods swallowed you fast.

you didn’t wait to see if he followed—couldn’t bear to look back. branches snagged at your—remmick’s—clothes and scratched your arms, the damp underbrush pulling at your ankles like it, too, wanted to keep you. the rifle was heavy in your grip, but you held onto it like it was the only truth left in a world turned sideways.

behind you, the door to that old shack groaned shut. and then nothing.

silence.

until the sound of him came.

not footsteps—no. nothing so human.

just the breath of the woods shifting. the hush of something too still.

“you always did have a pretty way of runnin’, mo ghrá.”

his voice was soft, distant—but it was close. too close. it echoed through the trees like wind through hollow bones, “no point hidin’, i can hear your heartbeat.”

your heart pounded in response. he was right. he could probably hear it.

you pushed yourself harder. the path ahead was no path at all—just tangled brush and fallen branches, moonlight flickering through thick pine. still, you knew these woods better than he did. this land raised you, rough and cruel as it could be. you ducked through a thicket and atopped at the shallow ravine, the same one where you met him that first time—where it had felt like fate.

fate was for the doomed.

the mud is cold, and it clings to your skin like a second breathless silence as you slip down into the ravine, hiding under the rocks protruding from the sides, heart hammering. the rifle lies half-buried under your arm. it’s quiet now, but you can feel him near—close enough that even the insects have stopped humming.

then you hear him.

his voice slips through the trees like honey through cracked bark.

“i’m gonna tell you how it’ll go, mo ghrá,” remmick says, slow and clear, not shouting—he knows you’re listening. “so when it happens, you won’t be so afraid. it’ll be like steppin’ into water you already tested.”

you don’t move. not even a twitch.

“first, i’ll find you,” he says. “don’t matter how long it takes. i’ll hear the tremble in your breath, the quake in your bones. you can’t hide that from me. not forever.”

a pause. you think he’s closer now.

“then i’ll touch you, soft like before. like a prayer. i’ll hold your face in my hands so you can’t look away, and i’ll ask—just once. ‘cause even creatures as i remember their manners.”

your fingers dig into the earth.

“and when you say yes—and you will, sweetheart, ‘cause the fire’s already in your blood—i’ll bite. not hard. not cruel. just enough.”

you clamp your jaw shut, willing yourself not to cry.

“you’ll go quiet first. the world’ll spin. like drownin’, but there’s air somewhere deep. you just gotta trust me to bring you back.”

his voice lowers—softer now, like a secret between lovers.

“then i’ll give you mine. my blood. my curse, if you wanna call it that. but i call it freedom. no hunger, no time, no dyin’. just the two of us. for however long the dark lets us stay.”

the leaves rustle. you swear you see his boots move past the edge of the ditched revine—but he doesn’t stop.

“you think you’re still runnin’, but you crossed the line a long time ago,” he says. “and now, sugar, you’re just walkin’ toward your end. or your beginning. depends how you see it.”

his steps drift away, slow and sure.

“you think that rifle gon’ save you?” he called, voice lilting, almost amused. “you got grit, i’ll give you that. but you ain’t the hunter, sweetheart.”

you didn’t answer. you didn’t dare.

your breath came out in ragged exhales as you decided now was the time to make your move. you trudged through the quick water, holding back your sobs of fear. your legs felt weak against the current but your will to live kept you going, was what made you climb back out and keep running.

somewhere to your left, a bird shot up from the ground. your breath hitched. he was circling.

you crouched low behind a rotted stump and held your breath. the forest pressed in, thick and watching. you swallowed hard, pulse thudding in your ears as your mind worked quick and sharp. remmick was faster than you, stronger too—but he moved like a creature, not a man. instinct ruled him. sound, scent, sight. if you could take those from him—his senses—you might just have a chance.

your fingers tightened on the rifle.

one shot to the eyes. another to the ears, if you got close enough.

he hunted like a beast. so you'd fight like someone who knew how to kill one.

“see, i tried to be patient with you,” remmick’s voice drawled, “gave you time. gave you space. hell, i even gave you a head start. that’s love, darlin’. that’s mercy.”

the wind shifted—and so did the air.

he was close.

you peered around the stump, heart hammering. the forest held its breath. nothing moved.

then something snapped to your right.

you fired.

the sound cracked through the woods, echoing sharp and mean. a shout followed—a grunt of pain, rough and guttural. remmick shot up, clutching his nose.

you’d hit him.

your stomach twisted—not from guilt, but grim satisfaction.

you ran again, faster now.

“well now,” he hissed, voice ragged, furious. “that ain’t very ladylike.”

your lungs burned. thorns clawed at your shins. the sky above was painted gray-blue, dawn pressing at the edges of night—but still not enough light to guide you.

“you think you’re gonna win this?” he snarled from somewhere too near. “you can’t hide from me. i can smell your skin in the rain, hear your blood singin’ in your veins.”

you stumbled, caught yourself on a low branch. sweat ran into your eyes, your mouth dry with panic.

“you thought i was soft, didn’t you?” he said. “thought i was just a memory. just a pretty voice in the dark. but no—i was the dark.”

it irks you—how he hypes himself up and turns himself into this amazing stellar being.

the trees swallowed your breath.

every twig underfoot betrayed you. every branch above you watched. the only sound sharper than your heartbeat was the distant rush of the river far behind you now—and his voice, rising like smoke.

“is that any way to repay your savior?”

you stopped. the echo of his shout trembled through the woods, full of fury and something worse—wounded pride.

“i saved you,” remmick said again, closer this time. “you don’t even know how much yet.”

you spun around, rifle shaking in your hands. shadows shifted, but you couldn’t find him. not fully. just the sense of him—moving like a second wind through the trees.

“stay away from me,” you warned, voice dry, weak.

he laughed, low and bitter. “you already know what i did to the cultists.”

your blood went cold.

“they would’ve bled you like livestock,” he growled. “i stopped ‘em. broke their ribs in and salted the ground where they laid. for you.”

leaves rustled to your left. you aimed, breath caught, but he wasn’t there.

“you think i’m the danger?” he hissed. “you think this—this game you’re playin’—ends with you runnin’?”

then suddenly, he stepped out from behind a tree, maybe ten feet away, breathing hard, mouth smeared with dark red. his eyes caught the moonlight like a predator’s.

“you lied to me,” you whispered, tears welling unbidden. “you made me think there was something—something good in you.”

his expression softened just a flicker. “there is, darlin’. i kept it soft for you.”

“but you—” your voice broke.

he took one slow step forward, arms out slightly. “you ain’t seein’ the whole picture. you’re still sleepin’ through it.”

“don’t come closer.”

“you called me in your dreams, sweetheart. don’t you remember that? i came when you needed me. i always come.”

he took another step.

you stepped back, falling backwards into the gully that bordered your daddy’s land, and slipped down the bank, half-falling. mud coated your hands and knees. crying out, you scrambled backwards the rifle strapped tight across your back as your eyes darted to find remmick.

you raised the rifle.

a blur of movement to your left—and suddenly he was there.

remmick lunged, fast and wrong, too fast for a man. his eyes burned gold in the dark. he must’ve been angry and unsatisfied. you’d only seen his scarlet irises, never ones of pure gold.

you whipped around and struck out with the butt of your rifle—caught him square across the temple.

he snarled, reeled back. blood splashed across your shirt. you didn’t stop. you jammed the barrel toward his face and pulled the trigger again.

bang.

straight through his ears. one side to the other. he stumbled back, yelling as his ears bled.

bang. once again.

his left eye. it knocked him down into the mud. one more shot and he’d be out of commission for a good, good while.

click.

your heart dropped and you ran without giving one more thought to the fact that you ran out of bullets.

his lips peeled back into a grin as he watched you run.

“clever girl,” he rasped.

he lunged again and you ducked, scrambling back up the ridge. pain flared in your thigh as you slipped, bark tearing into your skin.

his laughter followed you—cruel, sharp as thorns.

“crazy, ain’t it?” he called, breathless with the thrill. “how the hunter becomes the hunted?”

you ran toward the house lights barely flickering in the distance. only a field stood between you and the porch—but your legs were heavy, your breath ragged. you didn’t know if you could make it.

“you can’t run forever, darlin’,” he called, voice rough and ragged now. “and even if you do… i’ll always be just behind you.”

you turned, raising the rifle like a club.

but he wasn’t there.

only silence.

only night.

and then a whisper against your ear, too close, too cold: “found you.”

you screamed and swung the rifle again. this time it caught something. he grunted, stumbled back—half-shadow, half-man.

you didn’t wait to see if he’d rise again.

you bolted across the field.

your daddy’s house loomed like a savior. you hit the steps hard, burst through the door, heart in your throat, eyes wide and wild. no one else was awake. only you. only him. outside, the wind howled.

and somewhere in the trees, remmick was still smiling.

the front door slammed open before you reached the porch, the screen door bouncing off its hinges.

your daddy stood there barefoot in the dirt, shotgun clutched in both hands, wild-eyed and heaving. he must’ve heard the scream—your scream—and come running. he squinted into the night, trying to make sense of the shape tearing across the field.

you.

you, in another man’s shirt, your nightdress nowhere to be seen, your face streaked with blood and sweat. the rifle hung limp in your hand, your bare feet cut and muddy. you looked nothing like the girl he kissed on the forehead two mornings ago. the one who he never would’ve suspected would up and leave so suddenly.

“what in god’s—”

you didn’t give him time to finish.

you hit the steps like a storm breaking and threw yourself into his chest, burying your face into the familiar, sweat-salt smell of him. the shotgun clattered to the porch floor.

“please,” you sobbed, fists clinging to his shirt. “please let me come home, please let me in—please.”

he caught you like he’d done when you were little, arms steady even though his whole body had gone stiff with confusion and fear.

“baby girl,” he muttered, voice caught somewhere between a growl and a prayer, “who did this to you? who—”

“don’t let him get me,” you begged. “please.”

his hand cupped the back of your head, rough and warm. “ain’t nobody gonna touch you now, y’hear me? i got you. i got you.”

he held you up when your legs gave out and kicked the door open wider with his boot. you sagged against him like your bones had gone soft, breath catching in wet gasps.

“leroy! daniel!” he barked over his shoulder. “get the goddamn lanterns. somebody’s comin’—and it ain’t somethin’ good.”

but all you could do was whisper again, voice trembling: “please let me come home.”

and for the first time in a long while, your daddy didn’t ask questions. he just held you close and took you inside.

after that night, things changed.

you slept long into the day. the light stung your skin. you stopped laughing. the world felt too loud, too bright, too much.

daddy kept the rifle by the door and said nothing.

leroy tried once—just once—to ask what happened.

you didn’t answer. you just looked at him long enough for him to regret it.

and still, none of them touched the button-up.

you folded it up and tucked it into the chest at the foot of your bed, though some nights you swore you heard the buttons rattle when the wind blew wrong.

they found your dress by the river a week later. one sleeve torn. hem stained red with something that wasn’t quite blood.

no tracks. no signs of pursuit. just absence.

it was like the woods had swallowed you whole and spit you back out a changed woman.

some nights, you stand at your bedroom window and listen.

the wind drags through the trees like it’s calling your name. sometimes it almost sounds like him.

sweetheart, it coos. i gave you somethin’. you just ain’t figured out what yet.

you close the curtains.

you tell yourself it’s over. that you’re safe.

but deep down, you know the truth: whatever happened out there in the dark, it wasn’t finished.

not yet.

okay we made ittt !! what remmick wants hell get. i saw someone say that because hes yearning for a community, instead of being all nonchalant and swuave, he’d be all clingy and stuff and do anything to make their partner stay and would defo turn them (are you a vampire??? hmmm) so that kind of inspired me.

[parfaitblogs]

over the moon ❀ s. reid x reader

in which a bout of insomnia prompts the usage of your arguably overworked baking equipment. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: fluff tags: established relationship. cliché flour fight into kissing... sorry... no i'm not. use of pet names. make out sesh (obviously).  word count: 1.4k a/n: also known as spencer and reader take on the margotlia bucket list for margovember!!! happy birthday to my lover @pathologicalreid!!! who has very quickly become my other half on this silly little side of tumblr. a prophet told me there are snickerdoodle cookies and a smithsonian date with our names on it in our futures ♡

"Honey, please tell me the light on in the kitchen is you getting a glass of water."

Like a deer in headlights, you're frozen in your beelined pathway between the fridge and the countertop of Spencer's kitchen, the carton of eggs in your hands preventing any attempt of a lie to him.

"Uh..." Your eyes lock with his, and he's visibly deflating upon spotting the pantry's baking ingredients arranged in front of you. "I'm just getting water?"

"I didn't realise you put sticks of butter into your water," he counters, voice meticulously picking apart your lie in front of your face. "Does that taste good?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sure," he nods his head, his feet carrying him over to you behind the counter. "What recipe have you chosen to victimise today?"

"Snickerdoodle cookies," you mumble, as his arms wrap around your waist, and his chin sits on your shoulder, eyes peering at your phone screen that had the cookie recipe open. 

"Any particular reason?" 

"I couldn't sleep," you explain. "Did I wake you up?"

"Yeah," he nods, and a beat passes where you mumble a quiet apology to him, before he's pulling away from you and picking up your phone. "Where do we start?"

It wasn't the first time you had baked instead of sleeping, and it certainly wasn't the first time Spencer had woken up to the sound of your hand mixer combining sugar and butter, or the oven timer dinging to accompany the smell of freshly baked muffins. In fact, he had become accustomed to not getting through an entire fortnight without at least one tray of baked goods taking up counter space. 

It was the first time he had offered to help you, though. He either accompanied you and watched you bake, or sat at his desk to get paperwork done (he said he should use the extra time spent conscious wisely). 

"You don't have to help," you're shaking your head, but he's already going to the sink to wash his hands. 

"You only slept for two hours before waking up to do this. I'd like to get you back to bed sooner rather than later," he answers, patting his hands dry. "I won't sleep until you do, anyways."

"Okay," you relent, staring at him almost stunned, before you return to the recipe you had up on your phone. "Um... could you combine the sugar and butter?"

Baking with Spencer Reid seemed to make everything a lot easier. Ignoring the obvious (the help an extra set of hands provided), his eidetic memory meant you could throw a step his way, and he'd know exactly what he was doing. Having asked him to add the eggs to his sugar and butter mix, he was already separating the yolk from the whites before you needed to say a thing.

"Have you ever stuck your hand into flour?" you ask him, and he lifts his head, eyebrows frowning together. 

"No. Why would I do that?"

"To know what it feels like," you say, dryly, though there isn't any malice behind it. "Have you never wanted to know what it feels like?"

"You can use context clues to figure out what it would feel like," he replies. "Correct?" 

"Spencer, you're entirely missing the point," you shake your head, and though he lifts his head from his sugar-butter-and-egg mixture to question you, he doesn't even remotely expect a large fistful of flour to explode across his chest. 

Then, you're laughing, and he's still battling with the initial shock of your flour attack for a few more seconds to laugh with you. But, when he does, he's almost mocking with it, and your face falls when he's putting his own hand into the container labelled flour, lifting it, and dragging his hand over your stomach. 

"Oh my God!" you say through a laugh, looking down at the smear of flour on your t-shirt. "Spencer!"

"Reap what you can sow," he retorts. 

So, you do.

You aren't too sure when the flour fighting gets more intimate. Somewhere between your fingers running it through his hair, and his hands landing on your ass, as he tugs you into him.

You're heaving, though the smile on your face is perfect, and he's certain he might be falling in love with you all over again. Cheeks stained in flour and all. 

"Hello," you sing, lifting your chin up to smile at him.

"Hi, sweet girl," he replies, ducking his head down to brush his lips against yours, and you pull a face at the faint taste of flour on them. 

Your finger lifts up to brush his lower lip, face growing concentrated as you brush the powder off it. "You've got a little... something..." 

"Do I?" he asks, condescendingly, and you're firmly nodding your head. 

"Yep. This is why I bake alone, Spencer Reid," you tut. 

His eyebrows raise. "I don't know if I want to even try to prove you wrong."

"I wouldn't recommend it."

"Duly noted. Anything you do recommend?"

You pause. "Kissing me might help in my journey of forgiving you for this mess."

If he's got any plan to defend himself, it crumbles beneath the words of your request, and his lips are stretching into a smile. 

"I'll do whatever I can."

His lips have a film on them from the brushed away flour, making them softer than they usually are, as he presses them against yours. Hands that were once resting almost teasingly on your ass lift to your hips, and your own drop to the countertop behind him as you lean into him.

As you usually feel in your slow moments like this with him, you feel your heart soar, your head tilting to the side as you accomodate his face being so close to your own. 

Arguably, his favourite thing about kissing you for longer than half a second, is the mewls and hums that leave your lips. Never too much to prompt anything more, but instead just enough to tell him just how much you enjoy kissing him. A feeling that is entirely mutual.

As soon as it starts, it's over. Which can't really be true, for you are panting when his head pulls away from yours,  and he's got that glassy look in his eyes that always makes your body warm. 

"We need to go shower," he murmurs, breath warm against your skin. 

You want to decline, just to stay standing right there in the kitchen with him, the urge to keep kissing him almost overwhelming. But his fingers have lifted to brush against a patch of flour on your neck, and you're surrendering at the feeling. 

"Okay."

Thus, forty-five minutes and one unreasonably long shower later, you were standing back in the kitchen, a bowl with cinnamon and sugar in front of you. Spencer's t-shirt hanging off your body — after you had expertly coerced him into letting you wear it — and a fork in your hands as you whisk the two toppings together. 

He's sitting on a stool on the other side of the bench, stirring the dough together after you had complained it was too thick. He argued it was supposed to be. 

Heading over to Spencer once the cinnamon and sugar was combined in a bowl, you mumble, "Okay. 'm tired," your head buried into the crook of his neck. 

"Yeah, weaponising that flour probably exhausted some energy," he muses, letting go of the wooden spoon to wrap his arms around you. "We still need to bake these, though."

"Cookie dough is yummy too," you retort, hand reaching out to pinch a piece of the dough. 

"Cookie dough isn't safe for you to eat," he answers, catching your wrist before you can get ahold of any batter. Upon seeing your pout, combined with the tired look in your eyes, he relents, letting you pick up a small piece just to eat. "How about we put this in the fridge, and we bake them tomorrow?" 

"I like that plan."

"I thought you would."

Helping him with the clean up consisted of you putting the dough in the fridge and cinnamon sugar in the pantry, and him doing... everything else. He didn't seem to mind, though, and his hands found their place on your waist as he walked you back towards the bedroom. 

"C'mon, sleepy girl."

He laughs at your incoherent grumble towards the name calling, letting you drag him back into the bed adorned with wrinkled sheets. 

"Thanks for baking with me," you say, voice layered with your exhaustion as you're curling up next to him. 

"Thanks for attacking me with flour."

"And I'd do it again."

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

[cuppajoel]

first fruit since winter

pairing: modern!acacius x reader

synopsis: You come out of the shower and apply lotion. Marcus wants to help.

w/c: 2.8k

warnings: 18+ (MDNI), unprotected pnv sex, established couple, slight (legal) age gap, v fingering, pet names, slight religious imagery, p pronouns, breeding kink?, size kink, rubbing?

a/n: my wip list is so fkn long but I cannot get this man out of my head. This is a continuation of the same universe as this fic.

If you’d like to hear more about these (almost) love birds/ more modern!acacius pls let me know and I can tag you next time. This is unbeta’d and barely proof read.

Read on AO3

Steam chases you from your en-suite bathroom. Smells of coconut and jasmine trailing closely behind. Your hair is bundled into a towel which is precariously balanced on your head, not helped by the jiggling as you brush your teeth.

There’s nothing that you enjoy more than coming home after the gym to use your own shower. The rainfall setting on the shower head acts as a masseuse and works out the knots on your back.

As always after a workout, your body is tired but your brain is playing pinball with all of the endless tasks that await you tomorrow. You thought a shower would wipe those out but to no avail.

A black, terry-cloth robe is tied loosely around your waist, creating a v between your breasts as you saunter into your closet. You pinch the silken material of your pyjamas between your fingers, holding your toothbrush steady in your mouth as you walk again through to your bedroom.

Without realising it, you're murmuring to yourself. It almost sounds melodic. The white foam around your mouth threatens to spill out from the sides as you set your pyjamas onto your bed before returning to the bathroom to wash it all away.

Marcus sits upright in your bed. Cheaters perched on the bridge of his beautiful nose as he glances at you over his paperback. It’s something historic, war-related. He allows the book to fall softly to his chest, his attention piqued as your return from the bathroom. Your robe has become more undone, exposing the full curves of your body and your hair is still damp, creating a slight chill on your neck.

He takes a deep, audible breath and then releases it. He enjoys watching you exist within your own space as if he wasn’t there. For so long, he had partners who relied on him for so many things that by the end of it, their personality faded to what they thought he wanted from them- but not you.

Your routine was impacted minimally from this new situation that you found yourself in. For the first time in your adult life, you had swapped keys with someone, allowing the other access to your homes.

Despite having shared every inch of each other's bodies, this was somehow the most intimate thing you think you’ve done with this man. Eyes catching in the mirror as you brush your teeth; ironing his shirt because you were ‘doing yours anyway’; a call from the other end of the apartment that there was a ‘band-aid emergency’. Domesticity had shown you the soul of this man and you were falling hard.

Over by your vanity, you retrieve a bottle of your coconut body oil. You undo the tie of your robe, which was already hanging by a thread, and allow it to slip off your shoulders to the floor below. You pump the oil into your hand, set the bottle back on the side, then rub your hands together, warming the liquid. Lifting your leg to the small stool in front of the vanity, you start at your ankles, rubbing deep, thorough circles up your calf, shin and then knee.

“If I could have a picture painted on the back of my eyelids forever, it would be this.”

You glance up at Marcus. The paperback is closed, to one side of his bedside table. His head is cocked as if trying to get a better view of what you’re doing. His smile is lazy, eyes hooded from a long day at work but there’s a spark in them that tells you that something’s about to explode.

The circling doesn’t falter as you pump more oil into your hands, beginning to knead your plush thighs. “Mmmmm, I’m sure there are a million other things you’d rather look at than me putting lotion on…” your idle hands continue.

Slowly, he pulls off his round-rimmed glasses, folds the arms inwards and places them alongside his book. He peels back the covers from the lower-half of his body, revealing the fact he’s wearing nothing but a pair of briefs, swings his legs out of bed and floats over to where you stand.

He picks up the bottle of body oil and waves it under his nose. Eyes fluttering, he knows this is one of the undertones of you. The coconut mixes so well with your warm muskiness which elicits a Pavlovian response in him. Marcus feels his cock twitch from the tight fabric he’s confined in. He hums, vocalising his appreciation for the smell before placing it back down, exactly where he found it.

“Can I help?” He looks down at your hands with pouty lips, then flits back up to your heavy-lidded gaze. Under the soft glow of the bedroom light, the oil makes your skin glimmer and shine. It almost makes it look wet.

Marcus prides himself on being a man of strong wills. Able to wait and savour the moments of anticipation that make the moments of pleasure even more heightened. But looking at you here, warm and slick, anticipating the feeling of you under his touch, is making his strength falter.

He tries to keep his mind on the here and now, but viewing you in all of your naked glory, Marcus’ mind begins to conjure up the most carnal of images as his cock becomes harder than stone.

Narrowing your eyes at the man towering above you, you remove your foot from the soft cushioning of the stool then gesture for him to sit on the vacant seat, which he does so obediently. His dark eyes somehow grow larger as you now stand above him, like he’s just been presented with a giant present to unwrap.

The size difference between your hand and Marcus’ is laughable, as you take his in yours, turning it so his palm faces the ceiling. Reaching behind him you pick the bottle up once more and pump the liquid into his palm. He cups his hand slightly, moving it so the oil doesn’t escape.

Neither of you move for a moment. You can feel the heaviness of his gaze as it roams across your full, heavy chest, down to the curve of your stomach and waist. Under his gaze you are a goddess; something to be revered and worshiped.

You grab both of his wrists and force his palms together. His eyes don’t drop from yours as he warms the oil in his praying hands. He is ready to sink to his knees at your alter. “There is no better sight than you.” His lips curl upwards, he hasn't moved from the position you manoeuvred him into.

Spinning, you present him with your back. Rolling your shoulders deeply, you try to keep your heart steady and your brain relaxed as his strong, wide fingers find the indents of your hips. “I feel like you may be a little biased, given I’m all naked and lubed up…” you chuckle, looking down at him from over your shoulder.

“I cannot do your beauty justice with words.” He starts, spreading his fingers wide and rounding them back and forth, kneading your cheeks. The movements he makes are not soft but also not punishing; calculated and steady. You can’t bare to look away from him, though his eyes follow his hands as they push and pull at your body.

“Every part of you surrounds me and fills up each of my senses so that I lose control…” he slowly moves his thumbs in circles until they reach the small of your back. He increases the pressure, knowing that you have trouble with that area.

“I see you, and I’m in awe.” His grip is unrelenting, he rises from the stool so that your back is to his chest. “When I touch you, my whole body burns.” He holds you as he pushes his hips forward, you can feel the warmth of his cock. A hum passes your lips and you can’t help but to push your slicked ass back into him.

A throaty moan turns into a chuckle as Marcus realises that you are just as ready for this as he is. His lips hover at your ear and you can feel him smile against you. “To smell you…” he inhales, the soft breath tickles the fine hairs on your neck and shoots goosebumps all down your arms which he smooths over with his oil-slicked palms before they settle on your rib cage.

“To hear you…” his hands travel further up, cupping your heavy breasts and squeezing them roughly, eliciting a sweet whine from your lips. The oil from his hands has all but depleted but with what’s left he spreads all over your tits, pushing and pulling with his calloused hands.

“Mmmfuuuuck” you allow your head to roll back onto his shoulder, your eyes fluttering closed as he twists and yanks at your hardened nipples, his breathing deepening.

“But d’you know what makes me lose it the most?” He rolls your nipples in between his thumb and fore fingers as the rest of his hands move the heft of your tits with his palms.

Your brain is still two moves behind him, nerve endings still firing off from the sensation of the body oil swirling under his relentless fingers.

A faint rumble at your back paired with stilled hands on your chest brings you back in the room. Marcus nips at your earlobe before soothing it with his hot mouth. Gently, he lets your punished bosom fall from his grasp as he turns you by the shoulders to face him.

Heavy-lidded, panting, and jaw-slacked is how Marcus finds you. He bites the inside of his cheeks, trying to hide how giddy your pliancy makes him. Lifting your chin with his knuckle, he ensures your gaze meets his and stays as he guides you backwards to the bed.

“What makes me lose it the most, the thing that taunts me every day when I’m sitting at my desk, daydreaming about coming home to you…” he lowers you to the pillowy softness of your comforter, hovering above you so that the tip of your noses are touching. “The thing that makes me run faster every morning?” Maintaining eye contact, you can feel him slowly walk his fingers from your kneecap up to the crease between your thigh and pussy.

Sucking in your cheeks, you bite down hard, trying to keep your breathing even. Marcus’ thick first digit swipes slowly up and down your drenched core spreading your wetness. “Fuuck, Marcus-“

“Ohhhhh, there she is.” He sucks in a deep breath as he adds his second finger rubbing slow, deep circles around your clit. “Tasting your sweet cunt is the first fruit since winter.” He pushes both fingers inside of you, his own eyes flickering closed as your tightness wraps around them. Marcus fucks his fingers in and out of you with careful precision, his honey-glazed eyes half open and staring deeply into yours.

Steadily, he slides his fingers from you. Leading a trail of wetness up your naked body, across your tummy, circling your poor nipples, before bringing them inches from your faces. His lips envelop his digits, a throaty rumble passing through him as you feel him rut his covered cock against your inner thigh.

Extending your neck, you lick at Marcus’ fingers and tongue, needing to know the taste of you in his mouth. He appeases you for a moment, licking a swirling his own tongue against both his fingers and grazing it past your own before it all becomes too much. “I need to be inside you.” He mumbles after removing his fingers from both your mouths.

Marcus shucks off his light grey briefs now stained a darker tone from his leaking cock. Holding himself up on a forearm, he takes length in his hand, pumping himself back and forth allowing his flushed tip to caress your clit, before notching himself at your entrance, pushing in half an inch.

Rapidly, he sucks in air through his teeth, trying so desperately to keep his eyes open and on you. “Your cunt is so greedy for me, sweetheart.” He dips his head to look at the point where your bodies are meeting.

He pushes in a little further, licking his lips as he does so. “Mmmmmfuck, look at us.” He brings himself out of you just to push forward again, only his tip inside. The wet sound of your soaked core bouncing off the walls, only highlighting how feral this man makes you.

Following his instruction, you brace yourself up onto your elbow, you look down to see Marcus’ thick, weeping cock tease in and out of you.

Surveying the toned roundness of his stomach, your man puts on a show for you. He allows the swollen crown of his dick to catch your opening, stretching you with the giant girth of his tip, only to pull out again.

It is obscenity at its finest. The heady sounds and smells of you both perfume the air, all with the sweetness of coconut oil.

At the same time, you look up, holding each other there in the moment. The older man pushes himself in, inch by aching inch as you wrap your legs around his waist and push down on his lower back, trying to feel him even deeper. Finally, he is seated within you, the burn of his stretch only adding to the carnal desire.

“You Goddess; you take me so fucking well.” Marcus’ head falls in the space beside yours, his breath hot and ragged as he stills his hips. You can feel yourself flutter and squeeze against his giant cock, willing him to move. He does, but only circles his hips, savouring the feeling of your tight cunt squeezing him like a fist.

Just when you think you can’t take anymore, the broad backed man takes pitty on you, pushing your left leg back and up over his shoulder as he starts his legato movements.

In all your years you have never been fucked in a way like this. College boys with the stamina of Olympians have nothing on the animalistic urge that you awaken in one another.

“Do you like it when I stretch you out?” Marcus’ deep timbre brings you back into the room as he licks at his lips. His eyes snake slowly from your own to the point where his giant cock is testing your limits and then back up again.

“Hmmm?” He goads, a smirk slowly developing as he feels you tighten around him over and over. “Feel us together, sweetheart. Feel how my cock stretches your tight little pussy.” He takes hold of your wrist and brings it down to the fusing point.

With a sly smirk of your own, you grab the base of his dick and slowly pump the part of him that can’t quite fit. A deep throaty moan rumbles from his chest as his deep eyes turn a darker espresso colour. “Fuck, you stretch me so much…keep going, please.” You can feel the faint twitch of his dick as you know you’re both not going to last long.

“You play with that swollen clit but don’t you dare come yet. I need to feel you squeeze around me as I’m filling you with my cum.” You should feel embarrassed as the type of moan that passes your lips, breathy and deep, but you don’t have the brain function to care. This man is fucking you dumb.

As any good soldier would, you follow your clear instructions from the man in charge as you roll your clit in quick, tight circles. “That’s it, my sweetness, you like the idea of me filling you right up don’t you?” His thrusts become faster and deeper. The leg that was up on his shoulder, now fallen slightly but hooked over his back as his relentlessness never falters.

Marcus smiles down at you, his bright pearly whites unable to be hidden as he peers directly into your soul. Slowly, he brings his lips down to yours, your body almost folded in on itself as he fucks up into you.

The warm heat of his tongue glides and smooths against your own as you hear him moan into you which is the thing you both need to push you off the edge.

Your tongues become sloppy but never still as you feel his cock jerk inside of you, filling you in the way that you need him to.

The sound of your heartbeat rings in your ears as you both continue microscopic movements of your hips, only prolonging your highs as the hormones rush through your bodies.

Marcus throws his broadness and takes you with him as he rolls onto his back and manoeuvres so that you straddle him.

Too exhausted to sit up, you press yourself to him, chest to chest. The deep thudding of his heart brings you both back down to earth.

After a while of soft touches and lingering kisses, Marcus can hear your breathing even out, a whisper of a snore coming from you. He presses a kiss to your, nearly dry, hair. “I’m falling in love with you…” he whispers to the otherwise silent room. The confession that will be heard on another day.

Np tags:

@guiltyasdave , @baronessvonglitter , @mandaloriankait , @ohhoneypascal , @gothcsz , @iknowisoundcrazy, @stellamarielu

[fairyhaos]

seventeen's "loser line" in a relationship

[ requested by @valenhui ]

based off of the "losers when in love"* bullet point in this headcanon! theyre literally SO fuckinfg cute oml i might write full fics for them if i have time ><

*consists of junhui, mingyu, chan.

junhui

pathetic and adorable kind of loser. pathetic really.... is genuinely the best way to describe it. he's so desperately, pathetically in love with you and literally acts like he's still hopelessly pining over you even though you've already started dating. laughs super hard at your jokes and stares at you with sparkles in his eyes and flirts with you at every given opportunity like he isn't already dating you and hasn't already won over your affections ages ago. but hey, he's dedicated, and you can't exactly complain at being showered with all of his attention.

also randomly informs you that he's in love with you at any time of day. you'll be watching a movie in the theatre and he'll tug your sleeve, leaning into your space almost shyly and being like "hey. hey. i just wanted to let you know... im kind of in love with you" before scrunching his shoulders up all shy and leaning quickly away from you again. hes always so adorable, ears turning pink even as he flirts with you into oblivion before tacking on a cute "im in love with you, by the way" at the end. every time he says it, you feel so overwhelmed because god, you're so in love with him too

mingyu

wet puppy kind of loser. i'm talking whining 24/7, pouting dramatically whenever you're not clinging to his side, and snuggling into you whenever possible. it's like dating a large, overgrown puppy that doesn't realise he's as big as he is, if that puppy suddenly found out how to talk and cook and do the laundry and looks up at you with big, shining eyes when you come home and goes "hello!! i made every single one of your favourite foods when you were gone bc i missed you so much. how was your day??" at least twice a week. (you're beginning to worry that mingyu might have some sort of separation anxiety.)

also he Does Not care if the other members tease him for being so in love with you, bc hey, yoon jeonghan's just jealous of your lurrrve anyway. but he will sulk if You tease him about it bc hey :(( you're the love of his life :((( don't be mean to him :((( gives you those big, wet, sad eyes every time you tease him until you finally laugh and give him a big kiss to placate him. tells you he loves you every single hour of the day. the members can tease him all they want, but all that matters to him is that you're aware that he Genuinely loves you to pieces.

chan

devastatingly infatuated kind of loser. he literally just. ADORES you so much in a kinda adorable, kinda incredible way because it surprises you again and again when he does something and you realise he loves you so much. and he does things, a lot, because this man is literally doing everything for you. hangs onto your every word like they hold the secrets to the universe, and remembers everything you tell him like it's his life's mission to become an expert on your likes and dislikes. has definitely zoned out whilst staring at you too many times to count.

i gotta stress how in love this man is tho, like. would 100% change his profession into loving you 24/7 if he could. no one wants to go out drinking when the two of you are together bc when chan gets drunk, he just repeats how in love with you he is over and over again like a broken record. (hoshi made the mistake of joining you two, once. he recounts the incident with a look of mild horror every single gathering the 14 of you have.) he doesn't say ily to your face a lot, but it's mostly bc he just forgets cuz he's been staring at you in an utterly lovesick way for far too long.

request guidelines

reactions tags: @weird-bookworm @minhui896 @bunnyiix @slytherinshua @haowrld @belladaises @newgirlygirl @moonlitskiiies @mirxzii @wonranghaeee @yonabutnotyuna @crackedpumpkin @wqnwoos @kthstrawberryshortcake-main @kawennote09 @a-wandering-stay @icyminghao @valenhui @sweet-like-caramel @odxrilove @kyeomyun @chansburgah @pepperonijem @jeonride @kellesvt @kikohao @astrozuya @eightlightstar @onlyyjeonghan @aaniag @starshuas @all-american-fangirl @f1uffyjun @sea-moon-star @nonononranghaee @isabellah29 @mcu-incorrect @hrts4hanniehae @suraandsugar @pan-de-seungcheol @dokyeomkyeom @melodicrabbit @bunnliix @bananabubble

[marvelwitchergilmore]

Lunch Date

Summary: Steve Rogers x fe!Reader -> You have a lunch date with Steve Rogers before you realise who he is to the rest of the world.

Disclaimer: This has been sat in my WIP for a while. Mostly fluff, humour? Reader works as a historian. I haven't written for any MCU characters for a while so hopefully this isn't terrible. Not Proof Read.

If someone had told you when you were six years old and running through the park playing superheroes that one day you would be having lunch with the Steve Rogers…

You probably would have believed them since you were six and was going to have lunch with your next door neighbour who was the one with the trash can lid as a shield. 

But it was true. 

You’d been working at the museum since you graduated from University. First as just a tour guide but it wasn’t long before a spot opened up to become one of the curators. Mostly you worked with war artifacts. You still did the tours, though. 

You found it fun, walking a new group around every couple of hours, seeing their faces light up with wonder as they looked at the plane parts and the genuine diaries of some of the soldiers. 

Then one day after finishing the second tour of the day, you took your lunch break. 

“I’m sorry, is this seat taken?”

You looked up and found a man dressed in a blue shirt and black trousers. He was handsome, but the thing you noticed was the look in his eyes. 

Kindness. 

“No, go ahead.”

You were a little surprised when he sat down, rather than taking the chair to another table. But when you looked around, you noticed how busy the place had gotten. 

“Sorry for disturbing you.” The stranger nodded over to the book that was laid open at the side of you. 

You shook your head. “It’s no issue. Besides, I think I’ve read the same page three times.”

It was from him asking what you were reading that you started continuing the conversation to the point where you’d learned he’d actually taken one of your tours once. 

“Be honest with me, is it boring?”

“Boring?” He shook his head. “No. Not at all.”

You gave a sigh of relief. “Are you sure?”

He gave you a genuine smile. “Of course, I’m sure. Why? Did someone give you a bad review?”

You shrugged. “Something like that.”

“Sounds like there’s a story there.”

You laughed a little. “There is-” 

You caught a glimpse at your watch and almost died. “Shit- sorry. Shoot, I’m gonna be late.”

He panicked along with you. “I’m sorry if I kept-”

You shook your head as you went to stand and pack your things away. “No, no. Trust me, it’s not often I enjoy a conversation so much that I lose track of time. I-I have to get to another tour but if you…” You were about to offer him your number but then you thought of something a little better. “Actually, would you like to tag along? I-I know you’ve seen it before but if you’re not doing anything…”

And for a moment, you thought you’d fucked up. But then he smiled. 

“I’d love to.”

“Great.” You looked at your watch again. “I-I will meet you there. I have to hand out the fact sheets and- you already know. See you there?”

He smiled. “See you there.”

You smiled too before rushing off in the opposite direction. By the time you were catching your breath, half way through handing out instructions, facts sheets, some promotional sheets, too, he met you there. 

“Hi, again.”

You smiled, handing him his pile. “Hi.”

And for the next hour you led him and the rest of the group on a tour of the museum giving every fact you already knew and each time you looked back to the tour group, he caught your eye and you found yourself unable to stop smiling. 

You probably looked like some mad cheshire cat by the end of the tour; especially after you and him continued your conversation privately as the tour group were given freedom for ten minutes to look around one of the larger exhibits. 

“You know what I’ve just realised?”

“What is that?”

“I don’t know your name.” You said as you looked up at him. “I’m Y/n, by the way.”

He smiled and shook your hand. “Steve.”

“Nice to officially meet you, Steve.”

“Same to you, Y/n.”

By the time the tour finished and everyone dispersed either to go home or return to the exhibits they wanted to spend more time in, you and Steve took a walk back around the museum. 

“So, what brings you here? If you’ve already been before, why come again?”

Steve shrugged. “I had free time and I was in the city. Plus, it’s nice to come somewhere that feels familiar.”

“Familiar?”

Steve didn’t know how to answer your question without completely telling you who he actually was, or completely lying. 

“I grew up with a lot of historical stuff so sometimes walking around a museum can feel like home.”

You smiled and looked around. “I know what you mean.”

The museum, ever since you were a kid, had felt like a second home. One filled with even more wonder and amazement. 

Then Steve asked you a question. 

“Forgive me if this is a little forward, but would you like to have dinner with me this week?”

You stopped walking and turned towards him. 

“I’ve been told I’m meant to direct message and do a lot of ‘in between’ conversations but, if I’m being honest, I don’t see the point in it.”

You couldn’t help but smile. 

“But if you have someone already, or if you don’t want to, you can just…tell me to leave and you never-”

You stepped forward a little and laid your hand on his arm. “Steve, Steve, Steve. Stop. I would love to have dinner with you. And thank you for asking me.”

Then that smile that you’d come to find comfort in, despite only meeting him a few hours ago, flashed onto his face. 

“Thank you for saying yes.”

It took two days from swapping numbers at the museum for you to both find a time you were available and for Steve to turn up outside your apartment with a bunch of flowers in his hand. 

“These are for you. I-I didn’t know if you were allergic to any so I picked the ones that shouldn’t affect you as much if you were.”

You politely took them from him and smiled. “They’re beautiful, Steve. Thank you. Let me just find a vase.”

You invited him in and he slowly walked a little further into your apartment, taking everything all in. Your walls were lined with dark wooden bookshelves where an array of different books were stationed. A desk was under one of the windows where sheets of paper were cast. Your sofa was worn in, but not in a bad way. It was well-loved and looked after. Your kitchen was similar. He could imagine you on a Sunday morning cooking yourself dinner as one of the movies from under your TV were playing inside the DVD player. 

Placing the flowers in the centre of the kitchen island, you grabbed your bag and Steve followed you out of the door. 

Every door you came to, Steve held it open for you. He walked on the outside of you as you both walked down the street since the restaurant wasn’t too far from your apartment block. He held out your chair for you before seating himself. It was the first date you’d been on in a long time where the guy hadn’t ordered for you. The conversation was constantly flowing, so were the smiles and the laughter. At some point between you going to the bathroom and coming back, the bill had been paid for. 

If he had waited, you would have fought him to split it, but it was nice to accept something for a change. He helped you get your coat on and for the next hour, you both just walked through the city. 

It was still relatively early so you just walked and talked. At some point, he’d taken your hand in his. Your gut had erupted in butterflies, and so had his. Especially when you leaned a little into him and held onto his arm. 

And as you both reached a small community park, you sat on the bench together. 

That was where you had your first kiss. It was equal parts shy, unnerving and steady. With his arm around your shoulders and his other hand holding onto yours, you found something in your kiss with Steve. 

It was unlike any other you’d experienced. It wasn’t lustful or yearning. But it was…strong. Your head, heart, gut and lungs were doing summersaults inside your body, but at the same time, you felt safe. 

Almost as if, despite it being your first kiss, it also felt like your millionth with him. 

And you both couldn’t help but want more. 

However, that was cut short by the ringing phone in your pocket. 

“Shit, sorry.”

Steve just laughed a little. “It’s okay.”

Pulling it from your pocket, the Museum ID badge flashed across the top. “It’s work.”

“Answer it.”

You did so and pulled the phone to your ear. 

“O-okay, just, stay calm. I’ll be right there.”

“Is everything okay?” Steve asked. 

“There’s something about a shipment. I think I need to go.”

Steve just nodded. “I’ll come with you.”

“Thank you.”

Taking his hand, you both hurried back towards your apartment where Steve helped you onto the back of his motorbike. 

“Are you sure this is safe?”

Steve gave you a reassuring smile. “I’m sure. Just hold on tightly.”

And you did. 

By the time he pulled up outside of the museum, the lights were still on inside but all the shutters were down except for one. You unclipped the helmet and hopped off before hearing your heels click up the stone stairs towards the door. 

Steve was quick on your tail following you through the museum and towards the employees only area. Finally, you both made it to the storage lock-up. 

“I’m here, what’s going on?”

“We’ve been sent these but there’s apparently been a mix up with the deliveries. All the fact cards and processing files are missing and the exhibits are meant to be ready for Monday.”

You took a breath and looked at all the new crates surrounding you. “Okay. Okay, it’s okay.”

Immediately, you got to work. 

“I’m sorry about this.”

“Don’t apologise. Do you want some help? I don’t know what I can do but I might be able to do something.”

You nodded. “That would be amazing.”

Setting Steve to work helping move some of the crates out of the way so they could be opened. Most of the items were from the thirties and forties, but mostly early war days. 

Which, you soon came to find out, was a personal favourite of Steve’s when he, somehow, knew what each item was and where it was from. Between the heavy lifting, directing and processing, you heard him mention something about cereal numbers and a manufacturer he had met. 

But despite all of that, the biggest shock was still yet to come to you. 

There was a piece of a plane that was delivered. You had made some estimations for when it was made and who for when Steve had given you an exact date and a few different locations. 

That was when something clicked. 

You didn’t know why it had only just clicked, or why it had taken you so long to realise, but it had. 

And something must have clicked for Steve, too. 

You gasped. “Oh, my god!”

One of the other curators looked at you. “What?”

You looked at some of the artifacts before looking at Steve and back again. Between the shock on your face that you tried to swallow back, Steve grinned. 

“N-nothing.” You plastered a smile on your face. “Nothing. I just thought I’d seen…” You looked at Steve and your words trailed away, but you snapped yourself back into reality. “Nothing, it doesn’t matter. Sorry.”

The curator just shrugged and went back to trying to contact the shipping company of the items. 

“Oh, my god. I can’t believe it…no, no you’re not. Are you? No, you can’t be. But the…” You put your head in your hands, finally accepting it. “Oh, my god, you are.”

Steve just chuckled and walked over to you. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

“Didn’t tell me?” You lowered your hands and looked at him. “I’m sorry it didn’t click sooner. I’m a historian for crying out loud, I should have known. I’m so sorry.” 

You hid your head in your hands again as you heard Steve chuckle. Gently holding onto your wrists, he lowered your hands from your face.

“Does this change anything?”

“Steve,” you lowered your voice. “You’re freaking Captain America.”

“But does it change anything?”

“Not particularly, no. But you’re…you’re a superhero. You-you’re an Agent and a superhero. You rescue people for a living and put your life on the line. Oh, my god, I can’t believe I asked you what you did for a living. Is this even legal? Are you allowed to go on dates with total strangers who don’t do some kind of highly secure, world-saving, job and, like, Shield level background checks?”

“Why? Is there something I should know about?”

You leaned back, realising how it sounded. “What? No. No, nothing. Not unless I’ve done something I didn’t realise I did. No, nothing.”

Steve smiled. “Relax, I was kidding. God knows I lied enough times to try and get into the army.”

“Wow, is Captain America a rule breaker?”

He just chuckled. “I’ll tell you some other time.”

“Does this mean I have to salute you?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Good, because I don’t know how to salute. I’d probably do it wrong anyway.”

Steve laughed once more before pulling you into his chest. “I can’t believe I didn’t realise.”

“Don’t be embarrassed. It was nice for someone to treat me as me without them treating me like Captain America.”

As you leaned back from him, you admitted something to him. “I feel like my history degree is going to be taken off me for not knowing.”

Steve laughed, rubbing his hand up and down your spine before pressing a quick kiss to your lips. “Come on, let's get this packed away.”

A few hours later, items that could be given an info card were before being locked away safely with the rest. 

Steve drove you home and walked you to your front door. 

“I’m sorry our date got cut short.”

Steve just shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. Besides, it was kinda fun having it come full circle with us back at the museum. It was also fun seeing you figure out how I knew what everything was.”

You groaned a little. “I can’t believe it never clicked with me, but I am kinda glad it didn’t. It was nice to get to know you.”

“Do you still want to?”

You nodded slowly. “So long as it’s Steve and not Captain America.”

Steve smiled and nodded. “It will be, I can promise you that.”

You smiled. “Good, I’m glad.”

Kissing you goodnight, Steve waved up at you from the street below before riding back home, already planning your next date. 

[starryylies]

I don’t know how to explain it but I would love to see your take on a shy reader asking Simon to roleplay something with her💘💘💘 Maybe him not being so sure of the idea, kind of laughing at it at first but then enjoying it more than he thought he would:)

Also I love your blog and adore your writing style so much!!! xx

Simon and shy reader who wants to try roleplay

OHMGEEE THANK YOU SOOO MUCH!! Im so glad you think i can pull it off. Thank uuu 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷. Also im so sorry this ask is being answered so late, i just saw that it was in my drafts 😭😭

He wasn’t really a roleplay guy, never felt the need to be someone else, never wanted you to change anythin’ bout yourself.

He didn’t think you were into it either. I mean look at you

You’re his sweet little baby, always wearing frilly pink tops and your signature white stockings, who would’ve pegged you to be someone who’s into that stuff.

But you were, oh god you were in way too deep. You needed it, you craved it.

Some part of you always knew you had a thing for men in uniforms. You never knew how bad it was though, not until now.

Ever since you saw Simon in his military gear, all you can think of is him taking you, his new recruit training you to become the big bad lieutenant’s perfect soldier.

You didn’t know how to bring it up in a normal conversation so you did what you thought was best.

You wore his extra oversized military uniform and dog tags and sprawled your body across the bed trying your hardest to look seductive as you waited for him to come home from work.

As you heard the door open you started to second guess if doing this was a good idea but it was too late, Simon’s heavy footsteps reached the master bedroom and there he was standing infront of you.

Sweat dripping off his neck while he was wearing his full military gear, without the mask though. As always.

“Welcome home sir” you chirped out

“What ya doin’ wearin that love” he grumbled out, taking a Quick look at your lacy bra that was peeking out from his uniform before heading towards the bathroom.

“Um I just wanted to try it out ya know?” You said meekly, a deep blush covering your face as you tried hiding yourself.

“Try what love?” He looked at you while he dried his face with a towel,

Your eyes went on the droplets of water dripping down his tactical vest, your train of thought was interrupted by his big hands now reaching your face. Cupping your cheeks as his deep voice rumbled through his chest

“use your words baby”

“Oh I just you know, wanted to like try out like um roleplay?” You said it, you finally said it!

In hopes of an answer you looked up at him, to your dismay you saw him holding back a smile. Not the normal one he gives you, this felt like he was laughing at you.

Suddenly realising that you made a fool of yourself you quickly got off the bed. Only to be trapped by his big arms.

“Where ya runnin’ off to lil bunny”

“Fuck you, yer making fun of me” you cried out. His big arms now encasing you in a hug.

“M’ sorry baby, js’ didn’t expect ya to be into military stuff ya know? it’s not exactly rainbows and sunshine like you princess”

He cupped your face, wiping away the tears carefully, “stop cryin’ lovie, remember soldiers don’t cry on the field yea?”

With that your ears perk up, your eyes meeting his which are now sparkling with a hint of mischief. His hands gripping your ass as he leads you to the bed.

Removing his vest, keeping the rest on for you.

His kisses are deep and desperate, messy with the tongue and all.

His hands find a way to your clit, rubbing right circles on it as he unzips his pants, freeing his angry cock.

“See what ya did soldier? Gotta punish you fo’ that now shouldn’t I?” He groans into your mouth. His cock finding your entrance as he fucks you in a violent pace.

“Hm yer taking me so well soldier, wan’ me to go faster? Wan’ me to finish inside your lil cunt as a punishment?” he slurs out,

“Ye yes lieutenant yes please yes” you moan out, the obscene sounds of skin slapping and deep groans filling your ears and fueling your arousal as you find yourself nearing to your high.

“Lieutenant, sir please lemme cum please sir I beg you”

“Yer gonna cum so easily eh soldier? Guess ya need some endurance training”

he finds himself rutting into you like a wild animal, his hands bruising your waist as he mouth bites onto his dog tags, the metallic taste and smell of sex filling up his senses.

“Fuck soldier m gonna cum” he hisses out as he fastens his pace, rutting inside of you one last time, a loud slap noise echoing in the room as he empties his load inside you.

The after haze making both of your minds blurry as you cling onto one another like koalas.

“Guess we both need some endurance training don’t we love?”

[strwberri-milk]

hiii could i request a sylus x reader where he’s genuinely trying to court her not just for her aether core but she doesn’t buy his act and assumes he’s still going after the aether core ? angst with no comfort or comfort at the end is fine uty !! ( feel free to ignore if you dont want to write this thank you !! )

You doubt Sylus' intentions and honestly, nobody would blame you. He isn't exactly known for his heart of gold and strong sense of moral justice. You're careful around him, not wanting him to charm you into some sort of death trap. Him dealing with aether cores and the one inside you keeping you alive just makes you think that he's wanting to use you.

Syluse doesn't think anything of it, oblivious at first to why you're so reserved around him until he slowly realises what you're thinking about. You purposefully push his buttons, showing up late whenever he invites you places or consistently challenge him on the dumbest things. He entertains you, thinking nothing of it at first until you start being actively difficult with him.

He thinks he'd rather you do that than outright ignore him though. You decide that he's no longer worth your effort, not wanting to give him the wrong message. He can try to convince you to visit him, leave whatever gifts on your doorstep that he wants but you just keep ignoring it. He feels his heart break every time he checks in on a new gift he bought you just to find out it's sitting on your doorstep, abandoned.

However, he's not a quitter. He'll keep going, buying you gifts and leaving short, yet affectionate messages on the tags. You note his perseverance but also the fact that he doesn't seem to be actively engaging with you when the two of you are in person. You can't tell how his face softens whenever he looks at you, the way his fingers twitch with a need to hold you.

You struggle to comprehend what it is about you that he likes or even wants outside of the aether core. You decide to confront him about it directly, telling him that you know exactly what he's after. He has no idea what you're saying of course, telling you that you're imagining things when you tell him you know he doesn't actually love you. He looks hurt, the slight furrow of his brows paired with the disbelief making your assumption waver the slightest bit.

He's devoted to convincing you that he loves you, growing to become more affectionate with his words, not just his actions to communicate better. He knows that just doing things and assuming you know his feelings for you through gestures. You watch him love you patiently, slowly beginning to understand the true depths of his feelings for you.

[bullet-prooflove]

Jinx: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @flyinglama @yousigned-upforthis @oklahomapeach @queensland-lover93

Companion piece to:

Lipstick (NSFW) - It's love at first blow job for Dr Robby.

Crisis - Robby has a bad day.

ASMR For The Soul - Robby doesn't sleep when you're not around.

Bunny - Robby discovers you've been keeping secrets.

Something To Complain About (NSFW) - You ignite the ire of Robby's neighbour with your bedroom noises.

Noise Cancelling - Robby discovers his neighbour keeps a spreadsheet of your antics.

Poolside - When Robby's had a really shitty day he always ends up whereever you are.

The Betting Pool - Robby discovers that his collegues have been taking bets on his relationship.

Fifty Shades of Robby - Robby's collegues see the truth of his relationship when they find your Instagram.

Dumb Bitch - Robby exhibits his protective side when another man steps on his territory.

Stop Compressions, Start Compressions - Robby loses everything in the aftermath of Pittfest.

24 Hours - Robby refuses to leave your side in the aftermath of the shooting.

Saftey Rail - Abbot gets real with Robby when he finds him on the roof.

Baby, It's Gonna Be Alright - Robby wonders if he's fucked things up with you for good.

Exorcism (NSFW) - Robby and you finally find a way to be honest with one another.

Ready - Robby tells you he's ready to try again.

The Rose - You give Robby a special gift for your anniversary.

Heartbeat - Robby finds something to help him sleep.

The baby likes to play.

He likes to follow the sound of Robby’s voice as his lips ghost over your abdomen and kick when he hears that deep rumble. It’s the game the two of them have been locked in while you rest on the bed with your back against the headboard, reading Where The Crawdads Sing.

“I think he’s gone to sleep.” Robby murmurs, his thumb rubbing loving circles over the bump as he presses his ear to it.

“Well it is past his bedtime.” You say, your fingers combing lightly through Robby’s dark hair. He places a final kiss to your stomach before he pulls his Pittsburgh Penguins t-shirt back down over it. His palm comes to rest on the bump as he nuzzles in close, his lips brushing over your cheek.

“Do you wanna discuss what happened yet?”

He’s talking about your reaction to the list of baby names he’d written down. You’d scrunched up the post-it in your fist, said the word ‘nope’ and then peaced out to the bedroom. It had taken him an hour to realise that maybe space wasn’t actually what you needed so he’d broke the stalemate, climbed onto the bed with you, started a conversation with the baby, waiting for you to vocalise what’s going on in that head of yours.

“No.” You say, your gaze focused on your book although you haven’t turned a page in the last couple of minutes.

“Alright.” He says as he lies back down beside you, his palms tapping out a rhythm on his diaphragm as he stares up at the ceiling. His eyes close and you sigh as you set down the book on your lap.

“If we pick a name, it feels like we’re jinxing it.” You tell him your husband. “He becomes a full little person and I...” Robby tilts his head towards you as your knuckles turn white clenching the paperback in your hands. “I know it’s fucking dumb but I picked a name for the last one and six hours later…”

You lost her.

You lost Joanne…

That’s the name he’s found on a pink post-it attached to the lunchbox you’d made for him the morning of Pittfest. Jojo for short.

“Ok.” Robby says swallowing hard against the ache in his chest as he shifts into a sitting position beside you. His thumb traces along your jawline as he cradles your face between his hands, his forehead coming to rest upon yours. “No names until after he’s born. We’ll look down at him, he will tell us who he is.”

“He will.” You say softly, your palm coming to rest on your stomach, smoothing over the space where that precious little life resides. “I just know he will.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[chahnniesroom]

cross my heart

pairing: bang chan & female reader, hwang hyunjin & female reader

summary: chan has quickly become one of your closest friends at university. too bad his girlfriend, hayoon, has him wrapped around her little finger and she's determined to make your life miserable. hyunjin is just enjoying watching the drama unfold.

word count: 4.0k

tags/warnings: angst!!! hurt and maybe some comfort?, infidelity (not between the reader or chan/hyunjin), arguing, the relationships with the reader are more like friendships than dating (please let me know if you think there should be more tags/warnings)

a/n: totally thought this was going to be a short fic (like less than 1k words) but it blossomed into something more. i wanted to try something different with this fic but not sure if i pulled it off lol please be kind if you comment! i also did not to bother with honourifics so... you can pretend that chan, hyunjin, and y/n are all the same age 😅

read it on ao3 | masterlist

It's almost funny how quickly you and Chan become friends. 

You hadn't really been looking forward to taking a technical writing class, but it's one of the requirements to get your degree and at least the lecture is large enough that you won't have to do any in-class participation. When the professor announces that one of the very first assignments is going to be completed in random pairs, you're instantly nervous. It’s only after meeting Chan, who is easygoing yet studious, that you feel better.

Although the group assignment only takes a couple weeks to finish, you find yourself hanging out more and more. Chan has a natural way of writing, he's intelligent and efficient with his wording without sacrificing clarity. While you can eventually write something that’s fairly clear and concise, it takes a lot of effort and a lot of time so you're grateful to be working with Chan who doesn't struggle with tight timelines like you do.

The two of you grow close together, especially once you realise that you have a similar sense of humour and taste in music. It doesn't take long before technical writing is your favourite class. Chan always saves you a seat beside him, even though he has quite a few friends that are also taking this course. You’re not used to it at first, but you grow comfortable with the way that he leans over to make quips about whatever the professor is saying or pointing out if someone in the lecture hall is falling asleep. You sometimes bring him snacks and in exchange he brings you a drink.

The more you learn about Chan, the more you're convinced that he's perfect.

Well, apart from one thing.

The worst thing about Chan is his girlfriend. Jung Hayoon absolutely hates you and, behind Chan's back, never fails to make sure you know it too. While the two of you have never shared any courses, she regularly meets Chan after class is over and you've been invited to join them and some other friends for a meal or to study so you've interacted with her more than you want to.

You’re not quite sure what you've done to earn Hayoon's ire, but you can only guess that it's your blossoming friendship with Chan as she’s never seemed to care about you before you met him. She takes every opportunity to make backhanded compliments, pointed comments about how much or what you're eating, or loudly exclaim when you have something stuck in your teeth. You try not to let it get to you, but you've always been a bit too sensitive.

You start declining offers to hang out with Chan and the rest of his friends after class, trying to ignore Chan's disappointment and Hayoon's smug smile every time that you make excuses.

Of course, she's sickly sweet around Chan, constantly hanging off his arm, batting her eyes at him, and trying to hold his attention. You can't really stand her obviously fake behaviour, but she makes Chan happy so you don't say anything negative about her when Chan's around.

You aren’t the type to keep up with school gossip, but even you know that Hayoon's track record is far from pristine. In fact, you were surprised to hear that someone as genuine and kind as Chan was in a relationship with someone like Hayoon.

—

The library isn't your favourite place to study, but partway through midterm season you're desperate for a change in scenery. You spend the better part of the day completing practice exams for the course you're the most worried about until you finally feel more confident. Satisfied with your progress and excited at the prospect of eating a proper meal rather than the snacks that have kept you going so far, you quickly pack up.

There aren't too many people in the library since it’s so close to the weekend, a lot of students have either finished all of their exams for the week or just given up studying. Maybe that's why your attention seems so drawn to the couple that you pass on the way to the door.

You don't mean to do anything other than quickly glance at them, but the familiarity of the girl catches your eye. The carefully styled hair and slim figure is a common combination to see at your university, but after weeks of trying to avoid her, there’s no mistaking Jung Hayoon.

And it's not Chan that she’s currently kissing.

You stumble away from them, but not before Hayoon looks up and spots you. Instead of panicking or stopping, she continues making out with the boy, maintaining eye contact with you. She even has the audacity to wink. You stare at her for a second, stunned, then bolt out of the building.

You're so flustered that you don't know what to do or where to go. You end up walking to the nearest bench and sitting down heavily in it.

You knew that you didn't like Hayoon, that she was two-faced and had likely cheated on past partners, but you hadn't expected to ever catch her in the act, especially while she was dating Chan. You couldn't fathom why anybody would want anything else when they had him and you had never been able to understand cheating in the first place.

You have to tell Chan, you decide. As much as you hate difficult conversations and it kills you to be the bringer of bad news, you know that you'd never be able to sleep at night if you tried to hide this from him. If you were in his position, you would prefer to know as soon as possible.

You call him as you start heading in the direction of his dorm.

“Hey,” Chan picks up after only a few rings. “Is everything okay? You don't usually call.”

“Uhm-” You have no clue what to say, you didn't think this through enough before dialling. “Where are you? I- Can I come talk to you?”

“Y/n? What's wrong?” Chan's instantly concerned.

“Nothing, I just- I really need to talk to someone right now,” you say quickly. “I'm fine, I mean.”

“Okay. I'm at home right now, but I can come meet you if you need? Where are you?”

“Don't worry about it, I'll head over, if that's okay.”

“Sure,” Chan says, sounding extremely worried. “Be safe, Y/n. I'll see you soon.”

After you hang up, you don't quite run to Chan's place, but you're out of breath and sweaty by the time you make it. You take a moment to compose yourself before requesting access into the building, but you know you still look frazzled. Chan buzzes you in immediately and he’s waiting in the hallway when you step out of the elevator. He guides you into his room, but only after checking you over and making sure that you're physically okay.

“Y/n, you're scaring me,” he says after leading both of you to sit down at his tiny kitchen table. “Tell me what's got you so worked up.”

“Do you know where Hayoon is today?” you ask, probably sounding insane. Chan pauses for a moment, brow furrowed before he responds.

“I know that she has an exam tomorrow, so I assume that she's studying. Why, what's up?”

“She didn't say where or who she was going to be with today?”

“No, but it's not like I'm tracking her all the time. She's her own person, she's not obligated to constantly update me.”

“I saw her at the library.”

“Okay,” Chan says slowly.

“She was with someone else, a guy.”

“Why are you telling me this, Y/n?” Chan asks, starting to sound annoyed. His tone catches you off guard.  “This is why you called me, why you ran over to my place? If you think I'm that controlling-”

“They were kissing,” you interrupt. “She’s cheating on you, Chan.”

“Who was the guy?”

“I- I didn't see him well, his back was towards me so I couldn't recognize him,” you falter.

“Did you take a picture? Was there anyone else around?”

“No- but, I-”

“So I'm just supposed to believe you,” he says flatly.

“What? Why would I make this up?”

“I know that, for some reason, you don’t like Hayoon.” Chan's usually friendly voice is cold and his face is stony. “I can live with that. I mean, of course it would be nice if you were at least civil to her. But at the end of the day, you don’t have to, she’s my girlfriend and not yours.”

“Okay,” you say slowly, “but how would lying about this benefit me at all?”

“She warned me about this, you know. She said you were jealous. Of her. Of us. That you would do something to try and break us up.” Chan laughs, but the sound is empty. “I always defended you, which she hated. I don't know how many times I told her that you weren't like that, that there was nothing going on between us.”

“Well I can assure you that I’m not jealous. That I’m not trying to break you two up.”

“I know that there’s… chemistry between us,” Chan acknowledges. “I don't have that many close female friends and I didn't before I started dating Hayoon either, but I know that I like your company and that you're easy to talk to. But that's all. It's fine if you're interested in me, you can’t help your feelings, but accusing my girlfriend of cheating? That’s sick, Y/n.”

“Are you kidding me? There is nothing going on between us.” you say incredulously. “Listen Chan, I’m saying this, I'm here as a friend. You think I'm lying? You think I want to hurt you?”

“I think that maybe Hayoon had a point when she said you wouldn't be satisfied with just being friends.”

“That's what you think of me?” you ask, feeling hurt. “Even if I was interested, I wouldn't do that. I respect you as a friend, I respect you as a person, and I respect your relationship whether I like your partner or not. But if that’s how you see me, I’m not sure that we were ever really friends. I would never try to sabotage you or anybody that's happily in a relationship.” Chan's face drops at your words.

“Y/n-” he starts to say, but you've had enough of this conversation.

“Look- I came here because I knew I would feel terrible and guilty if I didn't, but I can't convince you of something you don't want to believe.” You shake your head and walk towards the door.

Chan doesn't try to stop you as you leave.

 —

The next day you get to class 15 minutes before it’s supposed to start. You're exhausted, have your eyes swollen from crying when you got back home last night, and most of all, feel hurt. You had been a little worried about how Chan would react to what you had to tell him, but you never expected that he would dismiss you without a thought. It's hard to reconcile with the upbeat and kind seatmate that you're used to.

Instead of your usual seat near the middle of the classroom, you opt for one off to the side that’s often emptier, not wanting to have to talk to or even see Chan. You pull up an assignment that you’ve been procrastinating working on and manage to ignore the rest of your classmates as they filter into the lecture hall. It’s only when someone slides into the seat right next to you that you look up, surprised anybody would approach you when you’re clearly being unsociable and look awful.

“Hyunjin.” You’re too shocked to even say hello.

“That’s my name,” Hyunjin replies, looking unimpressed by your greeting as he pulls out his laptop. “Good morning to you, too.”

“Sorry, good morning. You don’t usually sit with me.” You can’t help but point out the obvious. 

In fact, Hyunjin usually doesn't sit with anyone. He's popular, it'd be hard not to be when you look as good as he does, but it's in a different way than Chan. While Chan seems to know practically everybody on campus, Hyunjin is almost untouchable.

While there are hoards of girls and guys that would love to have even a sliver of his attention, Hyunjin has a small circle of friends and is more interested in escaping the lecture hall to paint or dance than socialise. The only reason that you know him is because one of your closest childhood friends, Minho, is on the same dance crew as him and the three of you sometimes hang out. You wouldn't say that Hyunjin is more than an acquaintance though, he still intimidates you enough that you never would have tried to approach him first.

“And you don’t usually sit over here.” Hyunjin pretends to stretch and turns to look at your usual spot. “Avoiding someone?”

“Maybe.” You blush, embarrassed to be so easily seen through. “Is it that noticeable?”

“Nah, I just figured it was a matter of time before Hayoon got under your skin enough. I'm actually impressed you lasted this long, she really has it out for you.” While Hyunjin is surprisingly perceptive, you've also spent a fair bit of time ranting about Hayoon to Minho, and as a result, Hyunjin is kept up to speed on everything that Hayoon has done to antagonise you. You never realised that he actually paid enough attention to remember or that he agreed that Hayoon treated you like dirt.

“Actually, she’s not the one that I don’t want to talk to. Well, I never want to talk to her, but I’m not avoiding her.”

“No way,” Hyunjin crowds into your personal space, eyebrows raised dramatically. “Chan?”

You’ve had a pit in your stomach since last night’s argument and your mouth dries up at the thought of being so vulnerable, but something about the way that Hyunjin's eyes have widened to the size of dinner plates and his mouth has formed a little shocked ‘o’ is so disarming. 

“We had a disagreement last night,” you admit.

“Hayoon cheated?” he guesses.

Now it's your turn for your mouth to drop open in shock.

“Don't say it so loud,” you hiss. “How did you know?”

“Well, as much as I usually like to give people the benefit of the doubt, especially for something this serious…” Hyunjin grimaces slightly. “I’ve been kind of expecting it. Hasn't she done the same on her past three or four boyfriends?”

“Oof, that bad? I've heard some things, but never really knew for sure.”

“At least,” Hyunjin confirms. “Honestly, I'd be more shocked if she didn't cheat at this point. I'm guessing Chan didn't take it so well if you're upset with him.”

“He's loyal to a fault, literally!” you complain. “In his eyes, Hayoon can’t do anything wrong, he's able to explain away everything she does. He didn’t believe that it was her that I saw.”

“So what are you going to do?” Hyunjin asks curiously.

“Nothing,” you say sullenly. “As much as I'd like to shake some sense into him, he's an adult. He can make his own decisions and if he wants to live in denial, that's up to him.”

“You're a good friend.” Hyunjin reaches out tentatively and after an awkward second, pats your shoulder. “Not everyone would be brave enough to have that kind of difficult conversation. Chan may be stubborn right now, but he'll appreciate it later.”

“Well based on yesterday, I don't think I'm his friend at all,” you huff. “Anyway, if it's okay with you, I don't think that I will make it through the rest of the term if I have to sit over there.”

“Be my guest.” Hyunjin grins and the sight of it makes the lecture a bit easier to sit through.

—

You don’t talk to Chan for the rest of the term. While you stopped outright avoiding him, you’re pretty sure that he’s purposely steering clear of you. Instead, you continue to sit with Hyunjin and pretend that Chan doesn’t exist.

It feels silly that you miss him or that you can’t seem to get over how things ended between the two of you. You had only been friends for two months, you shouldn’t be so hurt every time he purposely turns away from you or when his eyes seem to slide over you like you’re not there.

Hyunjin basically becomes your part-time therapist. Most of the time, it’s enough that he keeps you distracted. He shares all the latest campus gossip with you, allows you to work while he paints, and invites you to hang out with Minho and the rest of their dance crew more than a few times. On the rare occasion when you’re feeling more fragile than usual, he would be willing to spend an evening at your place and listen to you wallow.

“It’s fair that you’re still upset,” he had comforted you once. You had run into Hayoon in the bathroom that afternoon and she had gloated about how nothing and nobody would be able to break her and Chan apart. It had made you feel sick to the stomach. “There was never any resolution. Chan didn’t believe you, doesn’t believe you, even though you went to him with good intentions and it’s reasonable that you would feel hurt or frustrated.”

“I feel so stupid,” you had sniffled. “It’s not even like it was a break up. We were just friends.”

“That doesn’t make it any easier, you’re still missing someone who used to be in your life. It’ll get easier next term when you don’t share a class, I promise.” Somehow, that actually had made you feel better.

“Thanks, Hyunjin,” you had said with a watery smile.

The two of you work out well together, not just because you enjoy each other’s presence, but also because there’s no expectations or pressure. Hyunjin has slowly started to share with you stories about his previous relationships, how he’s hesitant to start dating again after having his heart broken so many times. Even though there are rumours swirling about the two of you, you know that neither of you are ready for it yet and that’s partly why it's so easy to hang out with him.

Tonight, the two of you are just hanging out in his art studio. You're mindlessly scrolling on your phone, you’ve just finished the exam that you've been dreading the most and don't have the brain capacity to even think about school. You know that Hyunjin is doing the same, you can see it out of the corner of your eye, but he's trying to pretend that he's working since his painting is due the next day.

He drops all pretences when he gasps loudly at something that he sees on his phone.

“Y/n,” he says gravely.

“What?” you ask, only slightly curious. By now, you've gotten used to the fact that Hyunjin would react the same way to seeing a cute puppy video as he would finding out about some terrible news.

“A friend just texted me,” he says, still in shock.

“Okay? What did they say?”

Hyunjin looks up at you for a moment, down at his phone, then back up at you.

“ChanandHayoonbrokeup,” he says in a rush, before wincing, clearly afraid of what your reaction is going to be.

“What?” You can't believe your ears.

“Chan and Hayoon, apparently they broke up this afternoon. Someone heard them shouting at each other.”

You put down your pencil slowly, not sure what to think.

“Do you know why?”

“Someone said that they heard that yesterday, Heeyeon and Yikyung broke up because Yikyung cheated on her. I think it must be related,” Hyunjin says quietly.

“Oh.”

“I think there's pictures or a video out there, I haven't seen anything yet though,” Hyunjin continues on, starting to get excited while typing away on his phone. 

“Oh,” you say again, at a loss for actual words.

“Right before the holidays too, that's so-” Hyunjin cuts himself off when he looks up and sees you frozen in place. “Y/n, are you okay? Sorry, I'm sure it's a lot to process-”

“No, it's fine.” You force a smile. “I just- I think I have to go home now.”

“Y/n-”

“Really, it's okay. I just forgot that I have something to do. At home. Sorry.”

Hyunjin stares at you with eyes filled with something akin to pity, but doesn't say anything else. You try to ignore it as you hurriedly grab your things and leave.

—

A few days later you're packing up your bags in preparation to go home for the winter break when you hear a knock at your door. You weren't expecting anybody, but there's a few friends that you have that like to show up unannounced. 

You're not prepared to open the door and find Chan standing behind it.

He looks terrible. He's wearing a huge hoodie and his hair is tucked away behind a beanie, but nothing can hide the way that his eyes are swollen and his skin is lacking its usual colour. You can only guess that he hasn't been able to eat or sleep much judging from the gauntness of his face and dark circles.

“Chan,” you say carefully. “What are you doing here?”

“I'm sorry,” he says with a hoarse voice. “I was wrong.”

“Ah, Hayoon.”

“You heard?” he asks, face crumpling a little at the mention of his ex.

“It's-” You pause for a moment, trying to figure out how to put it delicately. "Someone mentioned it to me.”

“You must hate me.” Chan laughs humourlessly. “I know that I do. I was such a fool for not trusting you. I just didn't want to believe that she would do that to me. Stupid, I know. I'm really sorry that I said all those things to you, that I avoided you as if that would change the truth.”

For months, you've been waiting, hoping that Chan would come back to you and apologise. But actually hearing it isn't as satisfying as you thought. In fact, you don't really feel anything at all.

“I want to make it up to you,” Chan says earnestly. “Are you free? We can go for a meal and catch up. I missed you.”

“Uhm,” you say, not quite sure how to respond. You don't want to say yes, but you're scared to lose this opportunity.

“Actually, she's busy,” Hyunjin says. He steps out from behind Chan and wraps an arm around your waist possessively, nudging you behind him in the process. “I think it would be best if you leave.”

Normally you hate it when other people talk for you, but right now you're grateful that Hyunjin appeared. You're not even sure why he's here, although you mentioned that this was your last day on campus, the two of you didn't have plans to hang out.

“Oh.” Chan falters. “Are you two… together?”

“And if we are?” Hyunjin asks challengingly. You've never seen him this defensive before. “Frankly, it's none of your business. I'm tired of listening to your half-hearted apologies that are months too late and I'm pretty sure that Y/n isn't interested in them either.”

“Y/n?” Chan pleads.

“Hyunjin's right, I think that you should go,” you say from where you're still hidden behind Hyunjin. You're glad that you don't have to look him in the eyes. “I can't- I'm heading home today. I have to pack before my train leaves this afternoon.”

“Right,” Chan says thickly. “Sorry. I- I'm sorry, Y/n.”

You lean into Hyunjin's back for support, squeezing your eyes shut as you hear Chan's footsteps trail away. You don't open them for a long time, even when you feel Hyunjin turn around and wrap his arms around you. Instead, you just focus on the steady thump of Hyunjin's heartbeat and try to remember how to breathe.

read it on ao3 | masterlist