#too lazy to go outside? smoke inside

[fazcinatingblog]

What is a Bronx cheer compared to a normal cheer compared to a girl screaming TRENT TRENT TRENT AFTER THE SIREN WE WON WE WON

[strangerexee]

ꜱɪʀ, ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴛᴏᴏ ꜰɪɴᴇ | ʙᴏ ᴄʜᴏᴡ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Set in 1932 Reader x Bo Chow (Smut | NSFW | 18+ | Kissing | Light Choking —barely | F!Receiving) ᴡᴄ : 4ᴋ ᴘᴛ.2

The bell over the door gave a tired little jingle when you pushed it open, stepping in from the heat and dust of the street — 𝓑𝓸 𝓒𝓱𝓸𝔀 & 𝓒𝓸 𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐓𝐀 ɢʀᴏᴄᴇʀʏ & ᴍᴀʀᴋᴇᴛ Your shoes were worn thin. Your dress was simple cotton, sticking to the back of your knees.

And you were tired — bone-tired — from chasing one dead-end job after another across this godforsaken town.

You needed work. Or a miracle. Or both.

The store smelled like tobacco and dry wood, with a hint of something sweeter — maybe the candy in the jar by the counter, or the bright bruised apples piled up in baskets.

Shelves lined the walls, packed with everything from flour sacks to pistol rounds. It was the kind of place where a man could buy a loaf of bread, a hammer, and a coffin without walking more than twenty feet.

You adjusted your bag on your shoulder, wiping sweat from your forehead, trying not to look as desperate as you felt. It was quiet inside, but not empty.

There, behind the counter, sleeves rolled up over strong forearms, stood a man.

And Lord Almighty. You almost forgot how to breathe.

He was fine — broad through the shoulders, lean through the waist — and the worn suspenders crossing his chest did nothing to hide it. Dark hair, a little mussed like he'd run his fingers through it a hundred times that morning already. Sharp jaw. Sleeves pushed up. And a cigarette dangling careless between his lips.

He watched you over the top of the ledger he was scribbling in, one eyebrow tilting up slow, like he wasn't quite sure if you were real or a heat mirage rolling in off the road.

"You lost, darlin'?" His voice was rough, low. Not unfriendly. But not soft, either.

You swallowed. Your cheeks burned hotter than the sun outside.

"No, sir," you managed, clearing your throat. "I'm lookin' for work."

He tilted his head a little. The cigarette bobbed between his fingers as he tapped ash into a tin. There was a long, heavy pause, stretching thin between you like taffy pulled too far.

He leaned forward, arms braced on the counter, and you caught the faint scar along the side of his throat — a rough, pale line disappearing beneath his shirt. He smelled like leather and smoke and maybe something wilder, something you couldn’t name.

"Ain't much work left 'round here," he said finally. "Dust's got more jobs than we do."

Your heart sank. You started to thank him anyway — ready to turn, ready to leave with your pride shriveled up tight inside you —

But then he said, almost too casual:

"You know how to tally numbers? Take stock? Keep folks from stealin' when I ain't lookin'?"

You blinked up at him. Nodded fast.

"Yes sir. I can read, write, count. And I can run a register." (You prayed you didn’t sound as breathless as you felt.)

Bo Chow smiled then — real slow, real lazy. Like maybe he hadn't smiled all day until now. Maybe longer.

And damn if it didn’t feel like that smile was just for you.

"Might have somethin' for you after all," he said, nodding toward the back room. "Mornings, couple hours. Pay ain't much, but it's clean work. And you get first pick if any more fruit comes in."

You tried to smile back, tried not to look like a fool.

"I'd be grateful," you said. "Truly."

"Name's Bo Chow," he said, holding out a calloused hand across the counter. "Most folks just call me Bo."

You put your hand in his, and he squeezed it firm — just enough to make your stomach flip once, twice. His skin was warm. Rough in the right way.

Your name felt small and clumsy on your tongue when you said it. He repeated it once under his breath — tasting it — like he was putting it away somewhere safe.

You heard boots scuffing behind you — a couple old-timers coming in, hats low over their faces — and Bo dropped your hand slow, like he hated letting go.

"Be here six sharp tomorrow," he said, voice dropping a little lower. "Don't make me come hunt you down."

And Lord, the way he said it — like it was a promise, like it was a threat, like maybe he wouldn't mind hunting you down at all —

You walked out of that store with your heart rattling around in your ribs, a stupid grin tugging at your mouth. The dust hit your boots. The sun hit your eyes. But you hardly felt it.

All you could think about was him. About Bo Chow, the cigarette smoke curling around his smile. About how, maybe you'd finally found something worth staying for.

The next morning, you showed up just before six — hair pinned back, boots polished best you could manage, apron folded under your arm.

The sun wasn’t even fully up yet, just a pale silver smear over the flat line of the fields.

The streets were empty except for a stray dog.

You hesitated at the door, heart hammering. What if he changed his mind? What if he realized you weren’t worth the trouble?

But the second you pushed inside, the warm smell of tobacco and cedar wrapped around you like an old blanket — and there he was.

Bo Chow.

Behind the counter, sleeves rolled again over those damn forearms, shirt tucked messy into dark trousers, suspenders hanging low on his hips like he hadn’t bothered to fix them yet. He was counting cash, cigarette stuck lazy between his teeth, the smoke curling up in slow silver ribbons.

He glanced up when he heard the door — and you swear, you swear, for a half second he smiled. A real one. That soft kind, just at the corner of his mouth. Just for you.

"You're early," he said, voice rough with sleep. "Good."

You nodded, setting your things down behind the counter.

Your hands shook a little, but you kept busy — dusting, sweeping, checking the register like he told you. He didn’t hover. Just gave quiet instructions here and there, moving around the store slow and easy, like he had all the time in the world.

And it was the little things — God, it was the little things — that drove you crazy.

You noticed it first when he leaned down to pull a crate from under the counter — how his shirt stretched tight over his back, fabric whispering against muscle. How a lock of dark hair fell over his brow and he huffed it out of the way without even noticing.

You caught yourself staring. Snapped your head down fast, pretending to reorganize the fruits and vegetables.

Then it was the way he stood — shoulders wide, hips cocked lazy — arms crossed over his chest as he watched you figure out how to load the till.

There was something about the way he moved — no wasted steps, no fidgeting — like he didn’t have to try to own the space around him. He just did.

And Lord, when he laughed —

Low, unexpected — a real rough chuckle that rumbled from his chest when you nearly dropped the glass candy jar and caught it at the last second — God, you felt it down to your toes.

"Careful, sunshine," he drawled. "Ain't but one of you, and glass is expensive."

You ducked your head, face burning. But you couldn’t help smiling.

Around mid-morning, after he nailed up a new shelf in the back, Bo wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. You offered him the water you packed — nervous, feeling silly. He took it with a little nod, mouth brushing the rim where yours had been without hesitation.

And when he handed it back — his fingers brushed yours. Calloused. Warm.

You felt it like a jolt of lightning, sharp and sweet under your skin.

"You doin' alright?" he asked, voice low. "Ain't scarin' you off yet?"

You shook your head fast.

"No, sir."

That slow smile again — like he was proud of you, somehow. It made your chest ache.

The rest of the day passed in slow, golden hours. He showed you how to track inventory, how to read the order forms, how to spot the difference between good grain sacks and ones chewed through by mice.

And every little thing — the way he squinted against the sun when he stepped outside, the way he twirled the pencil between his fingers when he thought, the way he touched the brim of his hat polite to the older ladies who passed by — every little thing made you fall harder.

You were a fool. You knew it. But God help you, you couldn’t stop.

Near closing time, when the shadows stretched long across the floorboards, Bo lit the oil lamps and turned the sign to CLOSED.

The town settled into quiet outside, the cicadas starting up their low hum.

You packed up your things, heart heavy. You didn’t want to leave.

He leaned back against the counter, cigarette smoke curling around his head like a halo, watching you with that unreadable look. Not smiling. Not frowning. Just watching.

And before you left — just as you reached the door — he said:

"You did good today."

You turned, surprised.

He flicked ash into a tin, voice casual, almost too casual:

"Could use someone steady around here. Someone like you." "If you want it — job’s yours."

You tried to speak — tried to say yes, of course, yes, thank you, yes — but all that came out was a breathless little whisper.

"I'd like that."

Bo nodded slow, eyes never leaving yours.

"Good," he said. "Real good."

You just huffed and left the store.

You showed up early again the next morning. Couldn’t help yourself. You barely slept — just laid in your bed all night staring at the ceiling, heart banging around your ribs like a fist.

You kept seeing him — that rough smile, that lazy slouch against the counter, the way his hands moved — big and calloused and sure — like he could tear the whole damn world down if he wanted, but he didn’t. He was gentle with you.

You dressed careful — simple skirt, neat tucked-in blouse, hair tied back. Nothing fancy. But you caught yourself smoothing it down a dozen times on the walk to the store.

You weren’t scared of work. You weren’t scared of Bo, either. Not really.

What scared you — if you were honest — was how badly you wanted him to look at you again the way he had yesterday. Like he saw you.

The bell over the door jingled when you pushed inside — and there he was.

Bo Chow.

Good Lord.

You almost had to grab the doorframe to keep from sliding down it.

Today he had the vest on — rich brown canvas, snug over his shoulders and chest — shirt rolled at the sleeves again, forearms out, tan skin dusted with faint scars like old stories he never bothered to tell. Trousers fit firm around his slutty waist, boots scuffed from work.

He looked up from stocking the shelves — and when he saw you, a flash of something warm crossed his face. Almost hidden. Almost.

"Mornin’, sunshine," he said, voice low and gravelly. "Thought you might show."

You swallowed hard, managed a nod.

He stood up slow, dusting his hands off on a rag. That damn vest hugged him in all the right places. Made your stomach flip and knot in ways that felt dangerous.

You got to work without being told, moving behind the counter, checking the inventory list. Trying to pretend like your heart wasn’t about to explode out your chest.

It didn’t help that Bo kept brushing close — not on purpose, not really — but every time you turned around he was there.

At one point, you bent to grab a crate from under the counter — and when you stood up, you bumped right into him.

Hard, solid chest — vest scratchy and warm against your back — his hand catching your waist automatically to steady you.

Big palm. Firm grip. Fingers splaying wide before he yanked them back like he touched a hot stove.

You both froze.

For one wild second, the whole store was silent — just the sound of the clock ticking on the wall — his breath brushing the back of your neck.

Then he cleared his throat, stepping back.

"Easy, now," he said rough, almost scolding. "Ain't tryna bust that pretty nose, are ya?"

You flushed so hot you thought you might catch fire. Mumbled something — you didn’t even know what — and ducked your head fast.

Later, you were coming out of the storage closet — arms full of ledgers — right as Bo was striding in.

Instead of waiting — instead of shrinking back — you moved right past him. Real smooth. Real bold.

Except — the space was too damn narrow.

Your hip brushed his thigh — your shoulder scraped his chest — and your ass — oh, Lord — your ass skimmed right up against his front when you slid by.

You felt him go still — felt his hand twitch at his side like he had to physically stop himself from grabbing you. You didn’t dare look up.

You just kept moving, pretending you didn’t notice, pretending your whole body wasn’t screaming at you.

Behind you — you swore you heard him swear low under his breath. Real soft. Real dangerous.

You bit your lip so hard it hurt just to keep from smiling.

By noon, the air inside the store was thick and heavy with heat. Bo shed the vest finally, slinging it over a hook near the door. You caught a glimpse of the way his shirt clung to him — the long line of his back, the strong slope of his shoulders.

You caught yourself staring again — caught yourself wanting — and forced yourself to look away.

But Bo must’ve noticed, because a minute later he drifted close — reached past you for something on the shelf — his hand landing light on your waist to move you out the way.

He didn’t even think about it. Just did it. Like you were his already.

Your breath hitched so fast you nearly dropped the jar in your hands.

"‘Scuse me, sunshine’," he said, real soft in your ear. "You’re in the way."

You stood there dumb, blinking, as he brushed past — close enough to smell the salt and sun and cigarette smoke on him.

It wasn’t until later — after closing — when you were wiping down the counters and Bo was locking the door — that he spoke again.

"You work good," he said, voice low and thick. "Real good. Smarter than most the men that come through here."

You turned, heart hammering.

Bo was leaning back against the door — arms crossed — watching you. Face unreadable. Eyes dark.

You opened your mouth — to thank him, maybe — but he cut you off.

"How old are you, anyway?"

You stiffened.

You knew what he was asking. Knew why he was asking it.

You met his eyes steady, chin tilting up just a little.

"Turned eighteen last month," you said. "I'm grown, sir."

For a second — just a breath — something flickered across his face. Something hungry and dangerous and real.

Then it was gone, shuttered behind that calm mask he wore like a second skin.

He nodded once. Slow. Like he was making peace with something ugly inside himself.

"Alright, sunshine," he said rough. "Long as you know what you’re doin’."

You smiled — small and sweet and secret — because you did. You really, really did.

And Lord help you — you weren't planning on stopping.

The day dragged in slow — hot and heavy, same as always — but you didn’t mind.

Not when you got to watch him.

Bo moved like he wasn’t even trying. Stacking crates, counting stock, slouching against counters — and all you could do was sneak glances every chance you got.

The way his sleeves were pushed up to his elbows — showing off strong forearms, tan and scarred, veins running beneath the skin like little rivers. The way the muscles flexed under the fabric when he lifted something heavy.

His hands — God, his hands.

Big and rough, palms calloused from years of work. Knuckles scarred like he’d been in more fights than he’d ever admit.

You imagined what they’d feel like — skimming your skin, wrapping around your throat, curling in your hair.

It got harder and harder to focus on anything else.

You were wiping down the counter again — pretending to clean when you were really just looking at him — when you realized:

No customers.

None.

Just you and Bo. Alone. Heat swirling between you like smoke.

Your heart kicked up — wild, reckless.

And before you could talk yourself out of it — before you could remember to be scared or shy or good —

You moved.

Not too fast — a normal shaky pace.

You crossed the space between you in a few quick steps — grabbed his hand — and tugged him toward the back.

He let you.

No questions. No hesitation. Just a soft grunt, a half-smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he followed.

"What’s this, sunshine?" His voice was rough, curious, amused. "You stealin' me?"

You didn’t answer. You just pulled him through the narrow back door — into the storeroom, dim and warm and empty — and shoved him back against the wall.

You stood there, breathing hard. Heart hammering so loud you swore he could hear it.

Bo looked down at you — those dark eyes burning — and for a second you thought maybe he’d laugh, maybe he’d brush you off, maybe he’d tell you to run along like the little girl you weren’t anymore.

But he didn’t.

He tipped his chin down — lips brushing yours — and said low:

"You sure, sunshine?"

You nodded. Didn’t trust your voice.

That was all he needed.

He kissed you like he’d been waiting for it. Hard. Hungry. Hands grabbing your hips, dragging you against him.

Your head spun. The world tilted.

His mouth was hot and rough, teeth scraping your lower lip just enough to make you whimper — and God, the sound you made must’ve lit him on fire because he growled low in his chest and kissed you harder.

You clutched at him — hands fisting in his shirt, dragging him closer — and he let you, let you crawl all over him, like he was starving for it.

Like he’d die if you stopped.

At one point, you stumbled — tried to pull back to catch your breath — but he chased you, mouth claiming yours again, hands framing your face so careful, so tender even with how rough the kiss was.

You were dizzy with it — with him — with the feel of his body pressed against yours, all hard heat and steady muscle.

And then —

You did it.

Hands shaking, you grabbed his wrist — guided it up — placed his big, rough hand around your throat.

Gently. Like a question.

Like a please.

Bo froze.

For one hot, crackling second — everything in the room stopped moving.

His thumb brushed the side of your throat — slow, thoughtful. Not squeezing, just holding — just letting you feel the strength there, the weight of him.

He pulled back just enough to look you dead in the eye — something dangerous and filthy gleaming behind his gaze.

And he grinned — slow, wicked — all teeth and bad intentions.

"You into that shit, sunshine?" His voice was dark velvet, wrapping around you, making you shiver.

You nodded — breathless — grinding your hips against him like you couldn’t help it. (You couldn’t.)

His fingers flexed slightly, tightening just a fraction — not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who was bigger, stronger, in charge.

You whimpered — so soft, so needy — and he laughed, low and rough, like you were the best damn thing he’d ever seen.

"Goddamn," he muttered, voice rough and reverent. "You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me."

Then he kissed you again — deeper, dirtier — hand still cradling your throat, the other roaming down your spine to pull you flush against him.

You melted into him — opened for him — let him take whatever he wanted.

Bo’s hand stayed loose around your throat a moment longer — thumb brushing the edge of your jaw, his breath ragged against your mouth — before he finally let go.

Not because he wanted to stop touching you — no. Because he wanted more.

He gave you a rough, breathless little grin — one you could feel in your knees — then reached down and grabbed you by the waist like you weighed nothing.

Lifted you right up.

Set you down on the nearest wooden stool — still warm from the heat of the barn outside, a little unsteady, but solid enough.

Your hands grabbed the edge of the stool instinctively — steadying yourself — eyes wide, heart pounding so hard you could barely hear.

Bo leaned back a half-step — just enough to drink you in.

The way your dress rode up, baring the soft skin of your thighs. The way you sat there all breathless, pupils blown wide, lips kiss-swollen and desperate for him.

He dragged a hand down his face — as if trying to keep himself together — and then just said low, almost to himself:

"Christ, you're pretty."

You didn’t even realize you were doing it — but your eyes kept dropping.

To his hands. Those big, rough, dangerous hands — scarred and calloused and strong.

You could feel the strength of them from here. Could imagine them wrapped around your hips, your waist, your throat — holding you down, holding you up, whatever he damn well pleased.

Your mouth went dry.

And Bo noticed.

His mouth curled into a wicked, knowing smirk.

"Yeah?" he rasped, voice dropping. "You like the look of my hands, sunshine?"

You swallowed hard — nodded.

You didn't even try to hide it.

And that was all he needed.

Bo stepped between your knees — crowding you close, body heat washing over you like a furnace — and ducked his head down.

Started kissing along your jaw — slow, wet, open-mouthed kisses trailing lower and lower.

You gasped when he found the spot just under your ear — sucked there hard enough to leave a mark — and he grinned against your skin when you tilted your head for him, helpless and wanting.

"Good girl," he muttered into your neck. "Gimme that pretty throat."

You could’ve melted right then and there.

His hands were everywhere — roaming up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, dragging along the soft curves of your waist like he was memorizing you.

You arched into him — not even trying to play coy anymore.

You wanted him.

All of him.

And Bo — he was starving for you.

Before you could blink, he dropped to his knees.

Big, broad body sinking down in front of you — pressing your knees wider apart with those strong hands, pulling your panties down — looking up at you with something almost feral in his eyes.

"Gotta taste you, baby," he rasped, voice half-broken with need. "Been fuckin' dying for it."

You whimpered — hand flying to his hair instinctively — fisting in the thick dark strands as he shoved your dress up higher, higher, exposing you.

No hesitation.

Bo dove in like a man half out of his mind.

The first press of his mouth against you made you cry out — sharp and sweet — hips bucking up without you meaning to.

Bo groaned — like it was the best thing he'd ever tasted — and grabbed your thighs, holding you down, forcing you to stay right there for him.

His mouth was ravenous — lips and tongue working you open, devouring you like you were his last meal.

Messy. Loud. Absolutely, devastatingly good.

You tried to pull away once — overwhelmed, shaking, breath hitching in your throat — but he groaned and pulled you back down harder.

"Nah, baby." "You take it." "You let me eat this pretty little pussy just like this." "You fuckin’ taste how bad I want you."

You sobbed his name — it was pathetic, really. Hips grinding helplessly against his mouth — and Bo just groaned again, deeper, like he could come from this alone.

The wet slide of his tongue. The scrape of his teeth just barely grazing. The way he sucked your clit into his mouth and held it there until you were shaking.

He licked you like he owned you. Like he wasn’t gonna let you walk outta this storeroom until you knew exactly who you belonged to.

And when you finally came — loud and desperate, thighs clamping around his head — Bo just kept going.

Didn’t stop. Didn’t let up.

Made you ride it out — every shudder, every whimper, every sweet little broken cry.

When you finally slumped forward, boneless and ruined, hands still fisting in his hair —

Bo looked up at you — mouth slick with you, eyes dark and wild — and said, low and rough:

"Ain’t done with you yet, sunshine." "Not even close."

And you believed him.

You wanted him.

God help you — you wanted everything Bo Chow was about to give you.

A/N: LAWDDDD — I love me some Bo Chow...

[gweelczz]

“Roots and Remedies”

Elias “Stack” Moore x Honey (OC)

Genre: Fluff with slight violence

Summary: Somebody tries Stack’s woman and Stack ain’t fucking with it

The sun was low and hot, spitting fire across the cracked concrete outside Roots & Remedies. Honey was standin’ on a stepstool inside, fixin’ a jar of bay leaves onto a shelf when she heard the ruckus — a voice, loud and ugly, barkin’ out over the quiet hum of the evening.

“Witchcraft! Devil’s work!” the man hollered, spittin’ onto the sidewalk like the ground itself owed him somethin’.

Honey set the jar down slow, wiped her hands on her skirt, and stepped outside. The man was a wiry little thing, face already turnin’ beet red, sweatin’ through his cheap button-up.

Her deep cognac eyes narrowed. “Ain’t nobody botherin’ you, sir,” she said, voice smooth but firm, her thick 4c coils tucked away in a pretty deep-purple headwrap that caught the light. “You best go on ’bout your business.”

“Business?” the man barked, takin’ a step toward her. “This ain’t business, it’s blasphemy! You sellin’ evil! Cursin’ folks!” He jabbed a finger toward the sign painted on the window — Herbs, Remedies, Roots.

A few folks lingered at the curb, watchin’.

Honey didn’t flinch. “Ain’t no curses here,” she said coolly. “Just folks tryna heal a little. You don’t like it, you can move along.”

The man puffed up, lookin’ like a rooster about to pop a vein. “You better shut this place down ’fore somebody shuts it down for you!”

Before Honey could open her mouth again, she heard it — that low, heavy scrape of boots on pavement. She didn’t even need to turn around.

Stack.

He moved like a storm rollin’ in — tall, broad, dressed in a suit with a red tie and hat accompanied by a cigar. Smoke flanked him dressed in a tweed suit with blue, cigarette in hand that Stack had rolled for him, cut from the same rough cloth.

Stack stopped right between her and the fool, thumb hooked lazy in his belt loop, a dangerous gleam in his eye.

“You heard the lady,” Stack said, voice a slow southern drawl, gritty like gravel. “Get the hell on.”

The man sneered, takin’ in Stack and then Smoke, eyes bouncin’ back and forth.

“Y’all supposed to be twins?” he asked, snickering like he thought he was clever.

Stack smirked his voice low and laced humor. He tilts his head down a bit, grills showing, “Nah we cousins.”

The fool laughed — a nervous, ugly sound — and shoved Stack right in the chest.

That was it.

Stack’s fist cracked into his jaw before the man could even blink, knockin’ him flat on his back. He let out a pitiful grunt, lyin’ there, stunned.

Smoke stepped up, starin’ down at him, his gold tooth flashin’ when he gave a cold, sharp laugh. “Told you, you dumbass.”

Honey watched it all with her arms crossed, lips pursed, but there was a little curl of pride under it too.

Stack turned back to her, brown eyes softer now when he looked at her. He reached out, thumb brushing lightly over her jawline.

“You alright, baby girl?” he drawled, low and rough like molasses.

“I’m good, sugar,” she said, voice just as slow, just as thick. Her hand slipped up to lightly squeeze his wrist — strong, calloused, warm.

He dipped his head a little, like he might kiss her right there if there weren’t still folks watchin’. Instead, he tucked her close under his arm, leadin’ her back toward the shop.

Smoke lingered just long enough to nudge the groanin’ man with the toe of his boot, makin’ sure he stayed down.

The door to Roots & Remedies swung shut behind them, the bell jinglin’ soft-like. Outside, the street buzzed with whispers and side-eyes, but inside, it was just them — the sharp scent of dried herbs, the creak of old wood under their boots, and the feelin’ that, no matter what foolishness tried to stir up outside, this was Honey’s ground.

And Stack?

He’d fight the devil himself before he let anybody take it from her.

⸻

Inside Roots & Remedies, the air was heavy with the scent of cedar and lavender, the last light of the sun stretchin’ long across the wooden floors.

Stack let the door fall shut behind him, the little bell jinglin’ once, then nothin’ but the sound of their boots against the worn floorboards.

Honey pulled away just enough to turn and look at him — her thick lashes low, cognac eyes glintin’ warm but wary. She untied her headwrap slow, lettin’ some of her thick black coils tumble free down her back, a habit she always did when she needed to breathe deep.

“You ain’t had to do all that, Stack,” she said soft, but the way she was lookin’ at him said she wasn’t mad about it neither.

Stack shrugged like it was nothin’, shoulders rollin’ slow under his tank, tattoos catchin’ the low light.

“You know I ain’t gon’ let no man talk crazy to you,” he said, voice thick, drawlin’ rough around the edges. “Ain’t gon’ happen, not while I’m breathin’.”

Honey leaned her hip against the counter, arms crossed, watchin’ him like she was tryin’ to see right down into his soul.

“You always been hardheaded like that,” she teased, but there was a tremble in her voice. One she couldn’t hide.

Stack stepped closer, boots heavy on the old wood, until there weren’t no space left between ‘em. His hands found her waist easy, rough palms slidin’ over the soft curve of her sides, holdin’ her like he was afraid she’d slip away.

He dipped his head low, forehead nearly brushin’ hers. His breath was hot against her lips.

“I gotta ride out soon,” he muttered, voice grittier than gravel. “Handle somethin’.”

Honey’s heart kicked up hard. She knew Stack’s somethin’ was never clean. Never easy.

Her fingers twisted in the hem of his shirt, holdin’ on tight. “Stack, don’t you—”

“I ain’t makin’ no promises I can’t keep,” he cut in, his thumb strokin’ slow over her hip. “But I’m tellin’ you right now… when I get back?” He pulled her closer, voice low like a prayer.

“I’m puttin’ a ring on that pretty lil’ finger. You gon’ be mine, Honey. Whole town gonna know it.”

Honey blinked up at him, heart slammin’ against her ribs, tears burnin’ the backs of her eyes — but she didn’t let ’em fall. Not yet.

“You betta come back to me,” she whispered, voice breakin’ just a little.

Stack gave her a half-smile, all sharp teeth and reckless heart. He kissed her forehead slow — a kiss that felt like it was settin’ a mark only she could see.

But before he could step away, Honey caught his hand, holdin’ him still.

“Wait,” she said, voice steady now.

She moved behind the counter quick, grabbin’ a small velvet pouch and two tiny bottles filled with oil. She handed one pouch and one bottle to Stack, the other set into Smoke’s calloused hand.

“Keep these on you,” Honey said, voice low, almost sacred. “I blessed ‘em myself. For protection. For strength. For comin’ home.”

Stack looked down at the little pouch in his hand, then back up at her — somethin’ hot and tender flashin’ in his eyes that he didn’t dare speak on.

Honey stepped even closer, pressin’ her palm flat against Stack’s chest, right over his heart. She closed her eyes and whispered a prayer, her voice thick with old words passed down from her grandmama and the women before her — words stitched with faith, strength, and stubborn hope.

When she finished, she pressed one last kiss to his knuckles, the ones already bruisin’ from the earlier fight.

Then she let him go.

Stack headed for the door without lookin’ back, pushin’ it open so hard the bell above it jangled wild, like it knew somethin’ was comin’.

Honey stood there, chest tight, clutchin’ the edge of the counter, watchin’ him disappear into the blood-red dusk — feelin’ in her bones that whatever Stack was walkin’ into, it might not let him come back easy.

If he came back at all.

Next chapter

[leclerc-hs]

the prince of monaco - cl16

pairing: prince! charles leclerc x fem!reader summary: in which a sad prince and a common girl cross paths or charles and you find yourself in a forbidden romance warnings: ANGST, smut, language!!! idk what else I'm missing. ANGST ANGST ANGST. not proofread. word count: 5.6k authors note: SURPRISEEEEEE! FIRST CHARLES FIC OF THE YEAR FINALLY. i hope you guys like it & i know you might haaate my guts after but it had to be done LOL. let me know what you think!! love hearing from y’all ALWAYS. xoxo

The palace was too quiet at night. Not peaceful. Hollow.

The kind of silence that rang in your ears and made your own breath sound like betrayal.

Marble floors stretched endlessly beneath Charles’s bare feet, cold and gleaming under the antique chandeliers. He wandered them like a ghost…aimless, invisible, half-dead in a golden cage. A prince draped in silk robes and golden obligations, walking the halls of a kingdom he no longer wanted.

Every corridor smelled like lemon polish and old money. Every portrait he passed stared down with painted eyes. Kings and queens carved from duty, immortalized in oil and expectation.

But Charles wasn’t thinking of them.

His mind was across the city, far from the manicured courtyards and diplomatic smiles. He was with you.

In that cramped little room above Le Vieux Lion, where the wallpaper peeled and the sheets smelled like your perfume.

Where the sea didn’t sparkle for tourists, it slapped the dock with rage. Where the nights weren’t silent, they breathed. They lived.

Where he remembered what it felt like to be wanted, not needed.

He hadn’t seen you in a week. Not since the news.

His father, Sovereign Prince of Monaco, had announced the engagement over dinner, voice as calm as a guillotine dropping.

An alliance. A family legacy. A strategic merger in the form of a wedding.

His mother didn’t blink, just reached for her wine. His sister, seated to his left, squeezed his hand beneath the table…the only rebellion anyone dared to offer.

Charles didn’t say a word.

Not when they showed him the ring.

Not when the date was set.

Not even when the royal tailor measured him for the suit he’d wear to sign away the rest of his life.

He waited. Watched. Swallowed it all.

And then he left.

He didn’t take the servant’s route. Didn’t don a disguise.

He walked straight out the east wing, through the marble archway, silk robe replaced by a hoodie. Soft, frayed, yours.

He pulled it tight around himself like armor and slipped into the black car waiting at the edge of the drive. No driver asked where he was going. The guards didn’t move. They knew better than to ask.

-

Two Years Earlier

The night air outside was warm and heavy with salt. One of those late summer nights where the heat stuck to your skin like a secret. Inside the bar, the ceiling fan creaked in slow, useless circles, stirring nothing but stale smoke and the lingering bitterness of spilled gin.

You were behind the bar, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back, fingers aching from a double shift. The radio played some old French dude, warbling about heartbreak and cigarettes like he’d invented them. A few regulars lingered, quiet and slumped, clinging to their glasses like lifeboats.

That’s when the door creaked open, and he walked in.

Not stumbled, walked. Like he owned the damn place. Like Monaco wasn’t five miles of tight streets and old money and marble prisons, and he wasn’t one of the poor bastards with a crown stitched into his skin.

He looked wrong in the best way.

Dark jeans, leather jacket that probably cost more than your rent. Hair slightly tousled like he wanted it to look like he hadn’t just stepped out of a car worth six figures. And that face…familiar in the way a storm cloud is familiar. You know it’s going to ruin you before it even arrives.

He had that smile. The kind women warn their friends about. Lazy. Expensive. Designed for headlines.

“Got anything that won’t kill me?” He asked, voice smooth like old bourbon, like he already knew you’d give him what he wanted.

You didn’t even glance up. Just kept wiping down the bar with a rag that had fought too many battles.

“That depends,” you said flatly. “You allergic to alcohol, or just fragile?”

The silence that followed was sharp, then broken by a laugh. Low. Rich. Surprised. Like no one had spoken to him like that in years.

“I like you already,” he said.

“Tragic,” you muttered, finally giving him a look. “I already want you to leave.”

He blinked, caught off guard. And then his grin widened, teeth white against the soft shadow of stubble on his jaw.

“What’s your name?” He asked, eyes flicking down, then back up. Slow, deliberate, like he was cataloguing you.

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “What’s yours?”

“Charles,” he said smoothly, like the name should mean something.

You gave him a slow, unimpressed once-over. “Charles. No last name? No title? You forgot the part where you tell me you’re a libra and looking for a real connection.”

He leaned forward on his elbows, mouth tugging into a smirk. “I am a libra, actually.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.

“Of course you are.” You turned, grabbing the cleanest glass you could fine, and poured something sharp and unmerciful into it. “Here. Drink. Leave, Or don’t. Just don’t flirt with me like I’m stupid.”

He took the glass, eyes still on you. Sipped. Winced, just slightly, not used to the burn, but didn’t complain.

He liked it.

You could tell.

You were already walking away when he said it, voice low but clear:

“You still didn’t tell me your name.”

You didn’t stop. Just threw a look over your shoulder, that half-smirk you saved for people who thought they were too clever.

“If you come back tomorrow,” you said, “maybe I’ll lie and give you one.”

He stayed until close.

-

The door opened with a soft groan, that old, familiar hinge that had screamed a hundred comings and goings. But this time, it was different. The air changed. You felt it before you saw him.

The hum of the bar dimmed. Glasses clinked. Someone laughed near the back. But your hands paused, just briefly, over the half-dried wine glass in your fingers.

And then, there he was. In the doorway.

He leaned against the frame like he had all the time in the world—wearing the same leather jacket, but tonight it was zipped halfway down, revealing a black shirt that clung just enough to his chest to make your stomach tighten. His hair was messier, like he’d run his fingers through it too many times. Or maybe he wanted it to look like someone else had.

His eyes found you instantly. No scan of the room. No pretense. Just direct, deliberate contact, like he’d been thinking about you all day and came to see if the memory lived up to the real thing.

It did.

You didn’t look away. Didn’t smile. Just raised a brow and went back to your glass.

He crossed the room slowly, like he knew the weight of every step. Like he was aware that people were watching him but didn’t care. Or maybe he liked it. Maybe he liked knowing he could have anyone in the room. Except the only one he wanted still hadn’t given him her name.

He slid into the same stool as the night before, elbows on the bar, that same infuriating smirk curling at his mouth.

“I came back,” he said. Voice low, warm. Like a promise you shouldn’t believe.

“I noticed,” you replied, not looking at him as you reached for a fresh glass. “Didn’t expect Monaco’s golden boy to slum it two nights in a row.”

He chuckled…and God, the sound was dangerous.

“Slumming it,” he echoed. “That what you think this is?”

You finally looked at him…fully, openly. And it hit you like a slow, burning wave. He was too close. Too handsome. Too confident in a way that wasn’t just money or power. It was something in his eyes—that flicker of hunger, of loneliness, of knowing what he wanted and hating himself for wanting it.

“This isn’t your world,” you said quietly. “You don’t belong here.”

He leaned in a little. Not enough to touch. Just enough that your breath caught.

“No,” he murmured. “But it’s yours.”

Your heart stuttered. You hated the way he said it. Like it was a confession wrapped in silk. Like he didn’t mean to mean it, but he did.

You slid the drink in front of him, fingers brushing his just barely…and even that felt like too much.

“You being here is a bad idea.” You whispered.

His eyes were on your mouth now. His smile was gone. “Then stop me.”

You didn’t stop him.

And he didn’t leave.

- 

He kept coming back.

Not with fanfare. Not like royalty. 

But quietly. Always late, always alone.

There were no photographers waiting outside, no clipped palace escorts, no watchful guards trailing behind him. He wore anonymity like armor. Hood pulled low, hands in pockets, head slightly down like he didn’t want the world to recognize him. Or maybe he didn’t care if it did.

He came as Charles. Not as a prince. Not as a future king. Just…Charles.

Worn leather jacket, soft hoodie, shadows beneath his eyes, and the kind of smile that looked like it had forgotten how to be whole. He smelled like night air and something faintly bitter—like espresso left too long in the pot. And every time he looked at you, it would felt like you were being read, not watched. Like he saw every layer you tried to keep hidden behind sarcasm and smoke. 

You hated how much you liked it.

-

At first, he sat at the bar.

Always in the same stool, hands cradling a chipped tumbler of whiskey he nursed more for the comfort than the taste. He didn’t flirt. Not outright. He asked about your night, the music, the bar fights you’d broken up over that week. He smirked at your answers, raised an eyebrow at your insults. Said your name like he was trying to memorize the shape of it in his mouth.

You tried not to care.

Tried not to notice the way he leaned in, just slightly, whenever you spoke.

Tried not to wonder why a man with the world at his feet kept choosing your tiny corner of it.

But he did.

-

Then, one night, you turned around and he was behind the bar.

Not on the customer’s side, but on yours.

He leaned casually against the shelves like he belonged there, like he hadn’t just crossed the invisible line between your world and his.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” You asked, arms crossed, not bothering to hide the irritation, or the pulse suddenly roaring in your ears.

He held up a wine glass and a dish rag with a crooked grin. “Thought I’d lend a hand.”

“You’re holding that like it insulted you.”

“Could be worse,” he said, examining the stem with mock seriousness. “Could be holding my dignity. But I think I left that back at the palace.”

You snorted despite yourself. “You’re useless.”

He leaned in closer, voice lowering just enough to stir something under your ribs. “And yet…you haven’t told me to leave.”

You said nothing. But your silence felt like permission.

-

He started coming earlier. Staying later.

He’d drift in before your shift ended, slip through the back door like he belonged there. Sometimes he brought pastries, sometimes coffee. Once, inexplicably, a worn book littered with his handwriting on the pages.

“Though you might like this one,” he’d said with a shrug.

He’d sit in your space like it was second nature. Perching on the edge of the counter, watching you work, making soft commentary on your music taste.

“You play the same six songs,” he’d mutter, clicking through your ancient playlist.

“They’re classics.”

“They’re depressing.”

You glanced at him. “So are you.”

He smiled softly. “That’s probably why I keep coming back here.”

-

He asked you questions no one else dared.

Not the polite kind. Not surface things. He wanted the bones. The quiet hurts. The dreams you hadn’t spoken out loud before. Sometimes you answered. Sometimes you didn’t. But you never once, told him to stop asking.

And in return, he gave you pieces of himself. Unvarnished ones. The kind they didn’t print in the magazines.

“I hate the palace,” he confessed once, voice so soft it almost didn’t reach you. “Every room echoes. You start to wonder if you exist as all, or if you’re just…noise in a marble tomb.”

You didn’t reply. You just glanced at him until he did that thing with his jaw, the clench, like he’d said too much. Like he was scared of how much he wanted you to hear it.

-

There were moments when it felt like something would snap.

His hand brushing yours when you passed him a glass…not on accident, not anymore. His fingers would linger a fraction too long, just enough to let your pulse stutter, just enough to make you feel it later, alone in the dark.

The way he leaned in when he spoke, low and close, his breath grazing your neck, your jaw, the edge of your mouth like a secret he hadn’t confessed yet.

You stopped hearing his words. You only felt them.

You knew the shape of his mouth now. The way his bottom lip curved when he was trying not to smile. The faint pink of it after a drink. The way it moved when he said your name, like it was something he wanted, no needed, to taste.

And you hated it. 

How much you wanted him to.

-

One night, while you closed up, the lights were low, doors locked, just you and the hum of the city outside...you caught him watching you.

Really watching.

He stood behind the bar, hands in his pockets, posture casual. But his eyes were anything bit. They followed you like he was hungry. Like he was memorizing the way your shoulders moved beneath your shirt, the way your fingers gripped the edge of the counter, the way your lips parted whenever you sighed without realizing it.

He looked at you like he didn’t know how to stop.

You leaned on the bar, trying to keep your voice steady, playful. “You always this much of a romantic?”

He didn’t smirk. Didn’t even blink. Just stared, his gaze flicking to your mouth, then back to your eyes. It was so fast that you could’ve missed it. But you didn’t.

“No,” he said. His voice rougher than usual. “Just with you.”

Your breath caught. Just for a second. 

Your lips parted, something sharp and stupid rising. A comeback, a deflection. But nothing came out.

Your lips moved, then stopped.

And he looked away, jaw tight.

Not because he didn’t want to see what you were about to say. But because he already knew. And he couldn’t bear it.

-

The bar was quieter than usual. Only the hum of the cooler and the occasional creak of the old wood floor filled the silence. Rain tapped softly against the windows, more mist than storm, casting blurry halos around the streetlamp outside.

You should’ve been locking up. Should’ve told him to go.

But he was sitting at the bar again, legs swinging slowly, drink untouched, eyes on you like he was waiting for something neither of you could name.

And you weren’t moving. Not really.

You were pretending to count the bottles behind the counter, pretending your hands weren’t trembling just slightly, pretending you didn’t feel the way the air between you hadn’t changed.

Thicker now. Heavier. Laced with heat.

“I think about you,” he said suddenly, voice low—like he hadn’t meant to speak but couldn’t hold it back anymore.

Your fingers pause over a single bottle.

“In meetings. In cars. In rooms where I’m supposed to be someone I don’t even recognize anymore.” His voice dipped, softening, unraveling. “I think about this bar. About you.”

You swallowed hard. “Charles—“

"I know,” he cut in. “Don’t say it. Don’t say we shouldn’t.”

He slid off the bar in one fluid movement and stepped around it…slow, deliberate, as if trying to give you every chance to stop him. You didn’t.

Now he was standing in front of you. Too close.

The kind of close where the heat of him was brushing against your skin, where you could smell the rain still clinging to his clothes and the hint of citrus on his breath.

His hand hovered between you. Not touching. Just hanging there in the space that ached for more.

“Just…let me look at you.” He mutters, eyes sad.

You didn’t speak. Didn’t even breathe.

His fingers rose slowly, the knuckles of fingers brushed your jaw. Barely. Like even that felt too intimate. Too much.

But it wasn’t enough. God, it wasn’t even close to enough.

His hand turned, fingertips now tracing the line of your cheekbones. Featherlight. The kind of touch that wasn’t claiming, just asking.

He steps closer, close enough that your chests are nearly pressed together with every breath of air.

His thumb slid under your jaw, tilting your face up, and his eyes were fire and ruin and something devastatingly gentle all at once. Like he wanted to memorize you the way people memorize song lyrics. The way they memorize prayers.

His lips part and your heart nearly stops.

Then, he pulls back. Just an inch.

Just enough to break the spell. He stared at you like he hated himself for stopping.

His hand drops to his side like it weighed too much to carry.

Then, just barely, you whisper, “why didn’t you kiss me?”

He sighs, like your words physically pain him. 

“Because if I do,” he says, voice wrecked. “I won’t stop.”

-

It was the first time in weeks you’d let yourself be seen.

You didn’t know if it was the dress; midnight black, backless, clinging to you like it had been painted on, or the third drink warming your veins, but for the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t thinking about him.

Or at least, you were trying not to.

The music was low and sexy. Your friends circled you, glittering and laughing, pulling you toward the edge of the dance floor under the pink-gold haze of the club lights. You let them. You let yourself move. Let yourself laugh. Let your head tilt back when that guy James said something cocky but charming into your ear.

His hand found your hip, just light enough to feel like suggestion, not possession. And you let him keep it there.

Because Charles wasn’t here.

Because tonight, you weren’t the girl in the back of the run-down bar, aching for something she couldn’t have.

You were fun. You were untouchable. You were free.

And then, you felt it.

The shift in the room was subtle at first, like a low pressure drop before a storm. You felt it in your spine. In the way the air thickened, charged. In the sudden awareness that someone was looking a you.

You turned. Slowly.

And there he was.

Charles.

Backlit by golden light, framed by the glint of glass and sweat and movement, he looked like something that didn’t belong here. Or maybe something that the room had been waiting for.

Black shirt open at the collar, sleeves pushed to his elbows, hair falling just wrong over his forehead. Jaw tight, mouth set in something between a smirk and a snarl. Like he wanted to smile but didn’t trust himself to do it.

He looked like sin. Like power on the edge of unraveling. 

And his eyes. Locked on you.

Not the room.

Not the crowd.

Not even James.

Just you.

And when his gaze dropped. To the hand on your waist, the fingertips sprawled against your waist, to the way James leaned in a little too close. Something dark flickered across his face.

Something in him burned. You saw it. Felt it.

Like a wire snapped behind his ribs and now he couldn’t breathe.

His jaw locked. His chest rose once, slow and sharp, like even breathing had become too dangerous. Like just standing there and not touching you took every ounce of control he had left.

The heat in his stare could’ve burned a hole through you.

James leaned in closer. “You okay?”

You blinked and swallowed. Tried to smile. “Yeah,” you said. “Just—“

Your eyes flicked back to the bar. He was still there. Still watching. Still not moving.

James turned to follow your gaze. “I can’t believe he’s here. That’s so cool”

“Yeah…me either.”

People moved out of his way without realizing they had. They parted instinctively, like water bending around stone. Like the room itself knew who he was.

They didn’t see the crown. They felt the weight of it.

Royalty cloaked in rage and want, striding toward the storm.

Toward you.

-

The air was hot and heady, choked with perfume and alcohol and the sound of people trying too hard to feel something. The lights pulsed like a heartbeat. It was too fast. Too bright.

He didn’t want to be here. But anywhere was better than the palace.

He spotted her instantly. As if his body already knew where to look before his eyes did. The same way it always did. Like your presence had carved out a space in him long before he even touched you.

You stood near the edge of the crowd, black dress hugging you like a second skin, eyes bright, mouth curved in something that looked like a laugh.

And beside you. Another man.

The hand on your waist, the smug, lazy confidence of someone who didn’t know how precious what he was touching actually was.

The way he leaned in, lips grazing the shell of your ear, like your body was already his to own.

Like your heart didn’t already belong to someone else. Him.

Charles stopped breathing.

The sound around him blurred into static. His hands curled into fists in his pockets, nails biting into his palms.

Something sharp twisted low in the pit of his stomach.

Jealousy wasn’t the word for it.

This was grief. This was rage. This was how dare you.

How dare you let someone touch you where he should’ve touched you.

How dare you pretend you’ve forgotten what it’s like to stand one breath from kissing.

-

The club was still pushing behind you, the laughter and sweat and lights bleeding through the walls…but here, in this narrow, dim corridor, it was just the two of you.

Too close. Too quiet.

Too dangerous.

He’d pulled you through the curtain without a word, fingers laced with yours like a vice, dragging you past confused glances and stunned silence. You’d followed, furious, breathless, burning.

Now, you were pressed against the wall, your back flush to the cold stone, your heart thundering like it wanted out of your chest.

And he was standing in front of you. Pacing. Seething. Unraveling.

“What the fuck was that?” He hissed, his voice low and sharp enough to draw blood. “Letting him touch you like that…was that supposed to hurt me? Was that the point?”

You scoffed, folding your arms to keep from grabbing him by the collar. “You don’t get to ask me that.”

He stopped pacing. His head turned slowly, jaw locked tight.

“You think I don’t see it?” He growled. “The way you look at me? Like you’re still waiting for something to happen, even though you know it can’t?”

Another step. His body inches from yours.

“You shouldn’t have worn that dress.”

Your voice shook when you said it: “You shouldn’t have come here.”

“I know.”

His hand slams against the wall beside your head, not to scare you, just to steady himself. His face was too close now. The warmth of him coiled into your skin. His eyes search yours, wild and desperate and so goddamn full of want that it hurt.

“You’re not his,” he whispered.

You stalled. “Im not yours, either.”

He leaned in closer, mouth almost brushing yours, his breath warm and ragged.

“Say that again,” he dared.

You couldn’t. Not with the way he was looking at you.

“I hate you,” you breathed.

“I know,” he said, voice breaking.

And then he kissed you. 

Hard. Desperate. Starving.

His hands cup your face like he’d dreamt of this a hundred times and never thought he’d actually get to feel it. Your fingers tangled in his shirt, yanking him closer, closer—mouths crashing like waves, clashing with every single ounce of frustration and ache.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t even polite.

It was heat and fury and I’ve wanted this for so long tangled in every brush of lips, every muffled groan, every helpless moan he pulled from your throat.

He kissed you like it hurt.

Like he couldn’t stop even if he tried.

-

You don’t remember the walk to your apartment. Just the quiet tension between you. The warmth of his hand brushing yours but never holding it. The hum in your chest that hadn’t stopped since he kissed you.

You unlocked the door with trembling fingers. Left the light off. You didn’t need to see the room. You needed to feel him.

You tugged at his shirt, breath hitching as your fingertips brushed skin. His hands were all over you now, like he couldn’t decide where he wanted them. Your back, your hips, your jaw, gentle and desperate at once.

He knew he shouldn’t be here. Not in your apartment. Not in your bed. Not looking down at you like you were something he’d prayed for and never dared to ask.

But he was. And he couldn’t stop if he tried.

You were under him, lips swollen, pupils blown wide, your breath catching every time his fingers traced skin. And all he could think, over and over, was mine.

You arched into him, and he couldn’t stop the sound that tore from his throat.

Every inch of you was fire and familiarity, like his hands memorized your body before even touching it. Your thighs wrapped around his hips, nails dragged down his back. 

He groaned into your skin, forehead pressed to your collarbone.

“Are you sure?”

She nods, breathless. “You’re already here.” 

It was more than permission. It was a confession.

And when he sank into you slowly, carefully, the world full on stopped.

It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t rushed.

It was slow. Intimate. Almost painful in how good it felt, like every thirst was peeling back layers they’d spent building.

Moans swallowed into kisses. Skin against skin. Fingers tangled. Whispers like promises neither of them could keep.

He touched her like she was sacred. She kissed him like she’d never get the chance again.

“You look so good like this,” he murmured, voice thick with awe, like the sight of you beneath him had knocked the breath clean from his chest.

His lips trailed along your jawline, slow open-mouthed kisses dragging fire across your skin. He wasn’t in a rush. He wanted to taste every inch of you. To savor.

You gasped softly when he reached the hollow beneath your ear, and he felt it. The sharp intake of breath, the way your body arched, the flutter of your pulse under his tongue.

His hand slid along your waist, fingers pressing gently into your hip as he anchored himself to you, like he didn’t trust that this moment was real.

He lifted his head just enough to look at you.

Your eyes were heavy, glazed with want, lips parted and trembling.

And he couldn’t help it. He smiled. Not his royal smile. Not the careful, curated one they taught him to wear.

This one was raw. Private.

Just for you.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he whispered, brushing his nose along yours.

Your fingers reached up, sliding into his hair, and you pulled him back down. Kissed him like he was air, like he was yours. 

And Charles, normally composed, trained, restrained. Melted.

Right there, into your mouth. Into your body. Into you.

-

Present Day

You’re pacing now, your bare feet silent on the floor that suddenly feels too cold, too clean, and your hands are shaking. Not violently or visibly, but enough that you can feel your pulse throb between your fingers.

“You should’ve told me,” you say, your voice not quite a scream but not quiet. 

You turn to face him and he’s just standing there. Standing in the middle of your living room like he doesn’t belong to any part of it, like he’s not the reason everything in your body burns and aches.

“You should’ve looked me in the eye,” you breath is shaking now, “and told me you were going to marry her before I had to read it on a fucking television screen.”

He winces. But he doesn’t argue.

Of course he fucking doesn’t.

He never fights when it counts. He just lets things happen.

“I was going to tell you,” he says quietly. As if saying it softer will make it less cruel.

“Oh,” you laugh now. It’s sharp and ugly. “You were goingto?”

You arms fold across your chest because you need something. Anything. To hold on to.

“When?” You ask. Its a quiet kind of fury, tighter and more precise. “After the ring was on her finger? After the palace sent out save-the-dates? Or were you planning to do it after your wedding night, when you needed someone else to fuck.”

His eyes flash and there’s something wild there now, wounded and defensive, but he doesn’t move.

“You don’t get to do this,” your voice trembles. “You don’t get to kiss me, hold me, say things to me like they meant something, and then just leave.”

His jaw tightens but his hands are clenched at his sides. He won’t interrupt you and it only makes you angrier. Because he’s so calm. So composed.

“You were never a detour,” he says. Finally. 

“Then what was I?” You ask, and your voice breaks. “What the fuck was I to you?”

His voice rises now, like he’s been holding it in for hours, for years.

“I didn’t want this!” He shouts. “Do you think I wanted to fall in love with you? To walk into a bar and meet someone who made me question everything I’ve spent my whole life being told I have to be?”

You blink, completely startled by the honesty in his voice. With the way it sounds like he’s choking on his words.

“Then why are you still choosing her?” Your voice softer. “Why are you marrying someone you don’t love?”

He looks at you like he’s bleeding. “Because I don’t have a choice. Because if I don’t marry her, everything I’ve spent my entire life preparing for. The crown, the country, the people. It all falls apart.”

“No,” You say, eyes locked on him. “It doesn’t fall apart. You’re just afraid.”

He doesn’t deny it.

“God,” you laugh. “You’re a fucking coward.”

He’s still just standing there. Looking at you like he’s drowning, like he knows what he’s about to do will haunt him forever. But he’s going to do it anyways.

That’s what love looks like.

A crown. A cage. And the person you would burn for walking away because the fire scares them.

“You don’t get to look at me like that.”

His brows furrow, “Like what?”

“Like I’m the one breaking your heart.”

He flinches. Just barely.

But you see it. You always do.

You walk to the sink, turning away from him, and turn the faucet on just to do something. “I hope she’s worth it.”

Charles swallows hard. “Don’t do that.”

You spin, your hands still dripping with water. “Don’t what? Don’t act like I’m the one being unreasonable while you walk away from the only thing that ever made you feel something?”

“I feel everything with you!” He yells, words bursting from his throat. “Every time I’m with you, I can’t fucking breathe. I can’t think. I can’t fucking sleep. I walk into the palace and I feel your hands on me like they’re branded there. I see your face in every goddamn crowd. I dream about you when I have to lie next to her, and I hate myself for it.”

You blink. Staggered. But he’s not done. 

“You think this is easy for me?” His voice breaks now. “You think I don’t want to choose you? That I haven’t stopped and stood in front of almost every mirror rehearsing how I’d say the words I’m done? That I haven’t imagined running, just running, until I could crawl into your bed and never leave?”

“Then do it,” you cry. “Fucking do it!”

He stares at you, breath heaving, soaked in silence.

And then softly he says, too softly. “I'm not brave enough.”

And that’s what finally does it. Your heart breaks in full. Like a dam giving way.

You let out a harsh sob that tastes like surrender. You push past him, hand over your mouth, body shaking as you try to hold yourself together.

But he follows.

“Don’t,” you say. “Please don’t—“

But his hands are already on you. Not to claim, not to kiss. Just to hold. Just to feel you. His arms wrap around your back like he doesn’t know what to do. His face buries into your neck, and you feel it. His breath hitching, his shoulders trembling.

He’s crying.

“I love you,” he says, muffled. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

And you sob harder. Because that’s what makes it worse. 

Because he means it. And it’s still not enough.

[i2rizz]

Undercover Hearts

Synopsis:On an undercover mission in a demon-infested nightclub, you and Dante have to fake being a clingy couple - except Dante's way too good at pretending, and you're one whispered flirt away from forgetting the mission entirely.

He's so hot a devil may cry🙏🙏

The bass from the nightclub shook the ground under your boots—deep, pulsing, and wild, like the heartbeat of something alive and nasty hiding under the city.

You leaned against the brick wall outside, trying to ignore the way the neon lights cast a sweaty, wicked glow over everything. Your eyes scanned the entrance where a heavyset bouncer stood, arms crossed, blocking the door like a wall of muscle and bad attitude.

"You sure this is the right place?" Dante asked, stepping up beside you. He tugged on the leather jacket he’d thrown on for the night—worn, cracked at the seams, but somehow making him look even more lethal than usual.

You nodded. "Demon’s been spotted feeding inside. Disguised as a human. Likes to hang out in the VIP lounge"

"And no weapons allowed" he said, grimacing like it physically hurt him. "I feel naked"

You gave him a smirk. "You’ll live, tough guy"

The bouncer’s voice barked through the line of partygoers.

"Couples only tonight. No solo entries"

You and Dante exchanged a look.

He grinned. Slow. Dangerous.

"Guess we’re gettin’ cozy, baby," he drawled, looping his arm around your waist without hesitation. His hand slid down, bold, landing low on your hip. "Hope you don’t mind a little public display"

You rolled your eyes, but your skin was already heating up under his touch.

This was a mission. Focus.

"Play it up," you whispered, pressing close. "But keep it believable"

Dante’s smile turned wicked.

"Oh, sweetheart. I’m very believable"

You shoved him lightly with your elbow, but you were laughing under your breath as you approached the door. The bouncer gave you both a once-over—his eyes lingering on the way Dante’s hand clutched your waist, the way your body fit against his side like a missing piece.

"Alright, lovebirds," he grunted. "Go on in"

Inside, the club was chaos.

Lights strobed overhead. Bodies moved like shadows in the thick smoke. The air reeked of booze, sweat, and something darker—something wrong. You could feel it crawling over your skin, under your nails. The demon was here. Watching.

You tried to move forward, scanning the crowd, but Dante didn’t loosen his grip. If anything, he pulled you closer, practically flush against him.

"Gotta sell it, right?" he murmured into your ear, voice low and warm. His breath tickled your neck. "You’re supposed to look like you can’t stand being apart from me"

"You’re enjoying this way too much" you muttered, feeling your heartbeat pick up.

He chuckled, deep and sinful. "Can you blame me?"

You shoved him again half-heartedly, but his arm tightened. His hand slid around to the small of your back, fingers splaying wide, thumb tracing lazy circles along your spine.

Your brain stuttered.

Focus. Mission. Demon. Not Dante’s hands.

Then—he leaned in closer. Mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

"Baby," he said, voice dripping fake sweetness. "If you keep lookin’ at me like that, I’m gonna start thinkin’ you want me to make a scene"

You swore your knees almost buckled.

"You're shameless" you hissed, but even you heard how breathless you sounded.

Dante just laughed, soft and rough. He pulled you into a darker corner, hidden from the main floor, the pulsing lights turning his smirk into something feral.

"Think the demon bought it?" you asked, trying to regain control of your voice.

"Oh, babe" Dante pinned you gently against the wall with his hips, his hands framing your face now, thumbs stroking your cheeks like you were made of something precious. His forehead dropped to yours. "I’m starting to forget we’re even fakin’ it"

For a moment, the world shrank.

No music. No demon. Just the two of you breathing the same heavy air, inches apart.

You closed your eyes for half a second, feeling the thud of his heartbeat against yours.

Then—you spotted it. Over Dante’s shoulder. A flicker of something unnatural, slipping into the VIP area.

"Target’s moving" you whispered, forcing yourself to slide out from under him, though every nerve in your body screamed to stay.

Dante grinned like he already knew the effect he had on you. "Guess we’ll have to finish our little dance later"

You shot him a dry look. "You little hoe"

"You still love me"

He offered you his hand with a mock-bow, all theatrics and trouble. You smacked it away playfully and marched toward the VIP entrance, your mind snapping back into the mission—but your heart still racing from more than just the hunt.

Behind you, Dante chuckled and followed, cocky and head-over-heels in the most obvious way possible.

And maybe... just maybe, you were just as bad.

[paceprompting]

a knot problem

written for ‘alpha/alpha’ | wc: 2,519 # | rated: e | cw: no archive warnings apply | tags: alpha!steve, alpha!eddie, past stommy, knotting sex, alternate first meeting

@stmarchmm

It was a secret he needed to keep hidden.

That Steve Harrington liked hanging off a knot.

It had happened by accident the first time. Not the fucking part—he and Tommy got horny when they smoked and handjobs had escalated to blowjobs, and then escalated again to lazy fucking in Steve’s bed.

Steve didn’t mind bottoming for Tommy, even if they were both alphas—and honestly, probably should have been his first clue—since Tommy still wanted to maintain every public image that he was straight while he and Carol were currently off.

When it happened, Tommy had Steve pressed face down into the bed, thrusting into him from behind. Steve had his face shoved into a pillow to muffle his moan, since Tommy didn’t want to hear them, and had otherwise let himself fall deeper into the feeling of Tommy’s dick hitting his prostate. Par for the course.

He hadn’t been paying attention. And all Tommy cared about was getting off.

So, neither of them realized that the base of Tommy’s dick had started to swell, catching on the rim of Steve’s hole. All they knew was that it felt fucking good, and so Tommy thrust in hard…and locked them together as he came.

Swearing from the orgasm and the dawning realization of what he’d done, Tommy had nearly tried to pull out.

Steve managed to stop him before he caused any irreparable damage, and it nearly sent the two of them careening off the edge of the mattress. But, for thirty minutes, they rode out Tommy’s orgasm together. Every wave of cum spilling inside, filling Steve to the brim with a heavy load of alpha spend for being outside of a rut.

So distracted with his own release, Tommy didn’t notice Steve spill onto the comforter underneath with a surprised gasp.

And when Tommy finally eased his cock from Steve’s pliant body, and the sheer amount of cum spilled out after, Steve was fully hard again.

“Sorry about that, Harrington. Think I’m just pent up. But Carol and I should be getting back together soon, so…better not to mention this, huh?” Tommy had said immediately, dismissing the whole thing with a few sentences.

Steve only nodded, his voice gone, while keeping a blanket over the damning evidence of his erection. Which only twitched with interest as much of Tommy’s release gushed out of him.

Tommy fled to sleep off the rest of his high on the living room couch.

Steve had turned back over onto his front, stripping his cock with one hand while he shoved two fingers of the other into his messy, ruined hole—cumming again to the thought of Tommy Hagan’s knot stretching him out.

It was a secret that could ruin him.

And yet, he kept wanting other alphas.

He couldn’t go to Tommy again. Not only had Carol taken him back not long after that, but to Tommy, the whole knotting thing had been a result of too much weed and his dick not being able to tell the difference between a warm alpha body and an omega.

And he didn’t dare ask around school. One wrong word to the wrong person, and all of Hawkins would know that Steve Harrington wanted to get dicked down hard.

He subsisted on the memory of his one night with the real thing, up to four of his fingers at a time, and growing fantasies of nearly every other alpha in school.

Then, the summer he worked at Scoops, he met Robin.

An omega who only liked other omegas.

And she was a hell of a lot more in the know than he was. She knew of a couple bars in Indianapolis where he could ask around for what he wanted, without worrying about getting jumped.

Which was where he met Eddie.

Eddie Munson, Dustin’s new best friend and dungeons & dipwads game master. Eddie Munson, two-time super senior who stood on top of lunch tables and shouted about the state of the world.

Eddie Munson, alpha.

To his credit, Eddie immediately assumed Steve was messing with him and blew him off with a harsh scoff. Steve hadn’t even gotten to potentially hooking up—just the fact of Steve talking to him after four years of otherwise treating Eddie like he didn’t exist was enough.

Steve tried his luck with someone else, an average guy with blond hair and rough hands. Was more successful, getting as far as making out in the corner and the question on his lips to go back to his motel room and finally get what he’d been looking for.

And then the guy’s boyfriend had showed up.

And the guy threw Steve under the bus, shoving him toward a furious alpha with no time to throw his hands up and block the boyfriend’s fists slamming into the side of his face.

The bouncers caught on pretty quickly by then, and both the guy and his boyfriend were dragged off toward the door while Steve waved them off and headed for the back exit.

He stumbled out into the colder air, face throbbing and a thread of blood spilling down from a split near his temple. He wiped it off with the heel of his hand and swore into the relative silence of the empty alleyway.

Well, almost empty.

“Strike out in a bad way this time?” another voice called out, and Steve’s head snapped up toward it.

Behind an exhaled plume of smoke, Eddie Munson’s face came into view, smirking haughtily with a raised brow. Half a lit cigarette hung between two fingers, providing a barely-there glow of light for the darker side of the alley.

Steve, on the other hand, was directly underneath the light by the door, his disastrous appearance in clear view.

“What do you care?”

His head still fucking hurt where a bruise was definitely forming, and Steve knew he was leaving tonight without finding anyone to scratch his itch. So, sue him if he wasn’t in the mood to be polite to the other alpha that had rejected him.

Eddie let his eyes travel over the current state of Steve, the disconnect between his pressed red and blue-striped polo and jeans, and the half-twisted sneer on his face, along with the blood and bruising.

“Hard to see you as prom royalty with your face smashed half to hell. Lost some of your shine there, Harrington,” he said, pulling a drag off his cigarette.

“I never won prom king.” Steve stood up straight, but the light from above the door made his bruised eye sting and he shied away with a hand raised to block it. “And don’t call me that.”

Eddie cocked his head as Steve stumbled from the light, lowering his cigarette from his mouth. He stepped forward to get a closer look at the state of Steve’s face. Steve tried to turn away, but Eddie grimaced at what he saw.

“What happened?”

Steve rubbed at a spot in his jaw that ached. “Asshole clocked me.”

“Mackin’ on his boyfriend?” Eddie said, immediately back to being an annoying nuisance. Like maybe Steve had it coming in the first place.

“I didn’t know that. Dude basically set me up.” Steve sighed and searched for somewhere to sit on some empty crates beside him. Eddie stayed where he was, taking long drags and watching Steve with a curious, focused gaze.

“So, you’re really here. Looking for another alpha.”

Steve nodded, risking a glance toward Eddie. He stood with his weight resting back on one hip, arms crossed over his chest. The last bit of his cigarette rested in his hand, and Steve nearly grabbed it to finish it off himself.

“Run through the omega population in Hawkins already? Trying out the next best thing?”

“No, I—” Steve rubbed at his temple, forgetting that it was currently bruised and a little cut-up. He flinched and let his hand fall back down to rest on his knee. “I’m not looking…for that.”

“Then what are you—” Eddie narrowed his eyes, curls flying as he stood straight up, remnants of his cig falling to his feet. He didn’t seem to care, mouth hung open and brown eyes wide as deer. “Holy shit.”

Steve shot to his feet, even as the rush made his head throb. “Eddie, wait, it’s not what it looks like.”

Eddie was grinning now, his eyes alight in that way they did in the cafeteria when someone tried to tell him to shut it, when really then his tirade had a live victim. “You want an alpha. You want to be knotted.”

Okay, it was exactly what it looked like.

And Steve hadn’t really even said it to himself. Not so much more than saying he wanted to sleep with an alpha. Not that he didn’t want to be the one dominating, but to be…well…

“Please don’t tell anyone.”

Eddie let a sharp laugh, and Steve’s attention caught for a moment on the deep dimples that formed at the corners of his mouth. Eddie’s deep voice brought him back, laced with sharp sarcasm. “Oh my God, who the fuck would even believe me? Between the two of us, you are not the one who’s reputation precedes them as being unconventional.”

Steve frowned. “And you’re protecting that reputation? Don’t you belong to a satanic cult or something?”

“Hey, now. I thought we were starting to get along. Breaking down cultural barriers. Opening our hearts and souls on this fine evening, alpha to alpha.” Eddie spread out his arms, clearly not taking the situation that he’d just figured out the blackmail material to end all blackmail material seriously.

“Well, my face hurts. I’m going back to find my friend.” Steve sighed, turning back toward the door—only hoping that it wasn’t locked from the outside and he didn’t have to sidle past Eddie to get out of the alley.

He’d just have to deal with the ever-present knowledge that someday, Eddie might finally cash in on what he knew, and Steve would have to find a way to deal with that so he wouldn’t tell.

“Y’know, if you asked nicely, I might just invite you back to my motel room. Has a decent ice maker.”

Steve froze, having barely started his path to the door. He looked over his shoulder enough to see that Eddie had not moved, except to crush whatever was left of his cigarette under his boot. He asked, “And do what? Let you belittle me until morning?”

“I mean, if you’re into that.” Eddie shrugged.

“Jesus Christ, Munson.” Steve grabbed and yanked the door open, the heady warmth of a crowd of bodies and intense lights washing over him full force. His grimace had the bruise on his face throbbing, and the pause he made was enough for Eddie to call out to him again.

“Or I could knot you.”

Steve whipped around to face Eddie, the door slamming shut behind him. For his dark clothes and wild curls, Eddie had dropped all his teasing and his back and forth with Steve—leaving only his brown eyes staring wide and…goddamn it, maybe hopeful.

“That is what you want, isn’t it?” he asked, stepping closer. The light over the door shined on him, revealing a denim vest over his leather jacket, covered in pins and patches. His hands hung at his side, not reaching. His steps were slow as he approached.

“I…What?” Steve’s head swam with Eddie’s offer, the words echoing around in his head. Maybe that hit to the face was harder than he thought.

“Didn’t believe you, when you started hinting at it inside. I’m sorry about that. You and me, y’know, not exactly the usual. But if you’re serious…well, we could have some fun together.” Eddie bit at his bottom lip, one hand pulling at the hem of his jacket. Nervous.

Steve exhaled, and wasn’t sure if he’d done that for a while. “You’re really okay with this?”

“Like you said,” Eddie let out a soft laugh, a bit of his earlier bravado returning. “My reputation tends to precede me. I’m all in if you are, Harrington.”

Steve’s feet seemed to move on their own, pushing him forward now that he had the permission and the invitation to finally get what he had been chasing for years. He crossed the last foot between he and Eddie, grabbing onto the denim fabric of his vest.

“Don’t call me that,” he said, and then planted his mouth on Eddie’s.

For a second, Eddie’s surprised made him freeze against Steve. His eyes shut, but his hands were slow and hesitant to find a place on Steve’s hips or his shoulders. Steve let a rumbling moan echo in his chest and pushed against Eddie, forcing him back a step.

Whichever one worked, it knocked Eddie back into the present. His hands clamped hard on Steve’s hips, hooking in his belt loops and using the grip to roll their hips.

Eddie bit and licked at Steve’s mouth, trading playful growls between them that Steve had never done before. He’d always been in charge, with girls and omegas, and then as close to submissive as he could get with Tommy.

This was different. Trading the lead with wet togues and rough teeth, the back and forth swell of them clutching at each other’s clothes and hair. He wasn’t giving anything up that he didn’t want to wasn’t taking any more than Eddie was willing to give.

Eddie didn’t care to hide that he was an alpha, hands rough as one grabbed hard at the swell of his ass and the other slid into Steve’s hair. He tugged until Steve growled into his mouth again and then kissed it away.

And he didn’t seem to care about letting Steve be one, either. Got this dazed look in his eyes for a second when Steve pulled at his shirt so hard he tore it a few inches from the neckline. Seemed to like it when Steve dragged his teeth along the side of his neck.

He was doing that to the sharp tendons in Eddie’s throat, his head tilted back to give Steve room when Eddie spoke, breathless and half-laughing.

“I might just think I was dreaming, but even my subconscious knows better than to imagine something like this.”

Steve huffed against his skin, and pressed the hard line of his dick straining through his jeans against the sizable bulge of Eddie’s. He knew he shouldn’t get too excited just yet, but he also knew it was going inside him pretty damn soon and he was starving for it.

“Am I going to have to imagine your dick?” he said back, with a small bite at Eddie’s collarbone.

“No,” Eddie answered, his hand in Steve’s hair tugging again. Steve let out a warbling moan and Eddie preened at the noise. “You’ll get it all.”

“Have you…done this…before?” Steve asked, panting, through lazy kisses.

“Both ways.” Eddie winked, and Steve shuddered. His hands tightened so hard in Eddie’s jacket, the leather creaked, and he was already a goner before Eddie said, “Don’t you worry, big boy. I’ve got you.”

[vunblr]

A Star Without a Sky (#3)

Pairing: Sheriff! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Slight angst. Comfort. Fluff. Slow Burn. Smut.

Summary: A wounded Sheriff Barnes seeks shelter in a young widow’s home, and finds himself wrapped in a warmth he no longer believes he deserves, and longing for something he thought long buried.

Word Count: About 6.9k.

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

She slowly tied the mare to the post outside the general store, hands cold despite the wool gloves. She patted the crate of preserves at the back of the cart, then hoisted it down and walked toward the porch, as her skirts brushed dust and straw.

The bell above the door let out a lazy chime as she stepped inside. The familiar scent of old wood, pipe smoke, and dried grain greeted her like always. Mr. Bell stood behind the counter, polishing his spectacles with the hem of his vest, while Brock Rumlow leaned on the far side, thumbing through a pouch of tobacco like he had all the time in the world.

His head turned the moment she entered, and his gaze dragged over her like molasses, slow and deliberate. Stopping at her bosom, lingering there just a hair too long.

Same as always.

She chose to ignore it.

“Well now,” Rumlow drawled, curling his lips. “Was wonderin’ if the little homestead swallowed you whole. Been a stretch since you graced the town with your smile.”

She kept her tone light, and polite, but clipped. “Hi, Mr. Rumlow. Been busy.”

“Busy,” he echoed, the word was slow on his tongue like he meant to chew it. “Takin’ care of your land all on your lonesome? That must get… exhausting.”

Mr. Bell cleared his throat pointedly. “Brock,” he warned him without looking up from the ledger.

She set the crate on the counter with a soft thump. “Three of the plums, four of the pears.”

“Appreciate it, Miss L/n,” Bell said, moving to check the jars. “Been running low. Folks keep askin’ for your pear preserves.”

“Might bring more next week if the weather holds,” she answered, feeling Rumlow’s eyes on her like heat off a pan.

Bell gave her a kind smile. “Glad to hear it. Figured you were due for a trip, truth be told. Just didn’t expect you to roll in with the sheriff.”

Her mouth went dry for a heartbeat. She adjusted the strap of her satchel. “Found him on the road, near the ridge. He said he was walkin’ back from some job. He looked like hell warmed over, if I’m honest. Thought I’d give him a ride.”

“Kind of you,” Bell nodded.

Rumlow snorted under his breath, stuffing the tobacco into his coat pocket.

She didn’t look at him, but still, he talked anyway. “Didn’t know he was the ridin’ sort. Looks more the skulkin’ kind to me.”

Bell frowned. “Don’t start, Brock.”

Rumlow raised both hands in mock surrender. “Hey now, I ain’t sayin’ nothin’. Just thinkin’ it’s curious, is all. You keep to yourself, Miss L/n… and suddenly you’re givin’ rides to the sheriff, bringin’ him into town lookin’ like he’s fresh off the gallows.”

Her jaw worked. “I didn’t bring him in. He was already headin’ here.”

Rumlow’s grin didn’t falter, but his eyes lost all pretense of warmth. “Maybe you ought to think twice ‘bout bein’ seen with the likes of him. Even if he is wearin’ a star now.”

She stilled in the motion of adjusting her shawl. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He leaned an elbow on the counter, grazing his belt with his thumb. “Rode with some fellas, types that don’t get invited to Sunday supper. Vigilante crew, some say. Kept killin’ long enough someone finally handed him a badge and said go ahead, make it legal.”

She turned, slowly and deliberately, resting her hands on the crate of preserves she was arranging. “Didn’t know the law required saints now. And no offense, Mr. Rumlow, but you’re not exactly a cherub yourself, and here we are, talkin’ like always.”

His expression twisted, not quite a scowl, not quite a smile. “Least I know who my folks were.”

Her breath hitched.

He leaned in, and his voice dropped a note, all honey and venom. “Ain’t no secret Barnes is a bastard. Left behind, orphanage-raised. And you know what kind of temper grows in a man made from nothin’.”

For a beat, the store was silent but for the creak of the settling wood. Bell busied himself in the back, pretending not to listen.

She straightened her back.

“I’ve known men with fathers who were monsters,” she said. “And I’ve known bastards who’d give their coat off their back to a stranger. So unless you’re holding something real in your hand, I’d think twice about spreadin’ dirt just to feel taller.”

Rumlow studied her, and his lip twitched a bit like he hadn’t expected her to bite back.

“Just tryin’ to help a lady keep her name clean,” he said, mock-gentle.

She stared him down. “My name’s clean, Mr. Rumlow. And I’m not the one slingin’ mud.”

He stepped away with a low chuckle, tapping his tobacco pouch with his thumb. “Suit yourself.”

When the door closed behind him, Mr. Bell cleared his throat from behind the shelf. “He thinks Banker Pierce’s coin makes him untouchable.” He muttered.

She didn’t answer. Just picked up the last jar and set it on the shelf behind the counter.

But Rumlow’s words swirled in the air like woodsmoke. For how easily men like him wielded rumor like a blade.

He’d called Bucky a bastard like it was a curse. Like it meant he was made wrong.

She pulled her shawl tighter as she stepped back into the morning light.

He didn’t know a thing.

----

The sheriff’s office smelled like old coffee, dust, and iron oil. The usual. Bucky stepped through the doorway with a stiff roll of his shoulders, his coat still damp at the hem from the morning frost.

Sam looked up from behind the desk, as usual, with a sandwich halfway to his mouth. He blinked once.

“Well,” he drawled, chewing slowly, “look what the cat dragged back in.”

Bucky didn’t smile. Just set the rifle gently against the wall and pulled off his gloves, one finger at a time, like he had all the time in the world and no interest in small talk. “Mornin’.”

“You smell like pears and pine,” Sam added, leaning back in his chair with a lazy sprawl. “What’d she do, bathe you in preserves?”

“Don’t,” Bucky said quietly.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were gonna.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

Sam sighed exaggeratedly and stood to unlock the armory with a key. “A week holed up with a lonely widow out in the hills, gettin’ fed and patched up? Some folks got all the luck.”

Bucky shot him a look. Slow, flat, and unimpressed. The kind that emptied rooms and quieted fools.

“I said drop it.”

Sam’s grin just widened. “Oh, I’m just gettin’ started.”

“You really missed me, huh?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. Jail’s been real quiet without you brooding in every corner like a cursed statue.”

Bucky finally cracked the ghost of a smile, rubbing a hand through his wind-tangled hair. “Good to be back.”

Sam leaned on the doorframe of the armory with his arms folded. “So, about your ladyfriend-”

Bucky turned.

Slow. Sharp.

“Sam.”

That was the third time.

The deputy lifted both hands in surrender, with the grin still perched on his face but softer now. “Alright, alright.” He let the words hang just long enough to keep Bucky’s pulse on edge. Then- “Just figured you should know. Your buddy Rumlow’s been sniffin’ around her skirts since the minute she put on the black.”

Bucky froze. Took one breath. Then another.

Sam didn’t push, just sat into the desk chair again, elbows on his knees, “Walker told me. Word’s been floatin’ around since before either of us showed up. Banker’s lapdog’s got a habit, and her porch light’s been on too long for him to ignore.”

Bucky’s jaw ticked. His gaze dropped to the floor, then to the rifle by the door. One hand flexed.

Sam leaned back further, crossing his arms loosely. “Funny thing is… every man who tried callin’ on her after the mourning period ended, far as I’ve heard? Well. They either backed off real quiet or had themselves a little misfortune.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked up, sharp and dark.

Sam nodded once, slowly. “Tripped horse. Busted hand. One fella’s barn mysteriously burned halfway to ash. Nothin’ anyone could pin. Just… bad luck. It ain’t a secret Rumlow don’t like to share what he thinks is his,” Sam finished. “Seems like the only person who hasn’t noticed is her.”

Bucky’s hand curled tighter. He didn’t ask for details. Didn’t need them.

His jaw ticked, and his gaze dropped to the floor for a beat. When he looked up, there was something colder behind his eyes. “You tellin’ me this for a reason?”

“I’m tellin’ you,” Sam said, no grin this time, “because things in this town’ve been cookin’ a long while. You just stepped into the kitchen.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

The silence between them was heavy with meaning. The way his shoulders tensed, the slow clench of his jaw, and how his fingers hovered, just a second too long, over the rifle’s stock.

Sam watched him, then let out a low breath and pushed off his knees. “Yeah,” he muttered, brushing crumbs off his vest. “Figured you’d take it that way.”

Then he stood, brushing crumbs from his vest, and walked back toward the little back room without another word.

----

The bakery door creaked softly as she stepped inside, and the warmth of the oven was certainly appreciated by her chilled cheeks. The air was thick with cinnamon, butter, and rising dough, comforting.

Mrs. Marshall looked up from behind the counter, with her hands dusted in flour. “Mornin’, dear! I saw your cart earlier. You brought the preserves?”

“Sure did. Plums and pears this time.” She managed a smile, tucking a windblown curl behind her ear.

She barely had time to step forward when someone turned from the display near the window.

“Why, if it ain’t the lady of the orchard herself, what a coincidence,” came Rumlow’s voice, syrupy sweet and dressed in charm.

He held a small paper box of tarts in one hand, the other resting loose at his hip. No spurs now. No hat. Just that too-smooth smile and a casual lean against the counter.

“Mr. Rumlow,” she said with polite reserve, gripping the crate tighter in her arms.

He glanced at her, slowly and deliberately, then looked back to the tarts like they required deep thought. “Hope I didn’t come off too sharp earlier. Just tryin’ to look out for folks, is all. Rough place, this town. Rougher men in it.”

She blinked, caught off guard. He sounded sincere, contrite, even. No trace of the earlier sneer. Not a hint of lechery. Just concern, well-practiced and polished, clean.

“Didn’t mean to give offense,” he added, glancing up through thick lashes. “I’d hate to think I made you feel uncomfortable. Wasn’t my intent.”

The baker moved behind them, sliding loaves into the oven.

“I appreciate that,” she said after a beat, softening a little. “It’s easy to speak without thinkin’. We’ve all done it.”

He nodded slowly, tucking the pastry box under one arm. “You’re gracious. That’s a rare thing these days.”

His voice carried the right amount of warmth, and deference. It felt measured, not too eager, not too slick. The kind of tone a man used when he wanted to be trusted.

Still… something didn’t sit right. It wasn’t just about the way his eyes had lingered on her body in the general store. It was a wrongness she couldn’t name. But she smiled politely, thanked Mrs. Marshall, and turned toward the door.

Rumlow was already there, stepping ahead to hold it open.

“Let me,” he said, almost gallantly, the gentleman act slipping on like an old coat. “Least I can do.”

She hesitated, but walked through, nodding once as she passed.

“Actually,” he said once they were outside, “I was wonderin’... Would you let me make up for my tone earlier?” His gaze flicked sidelong, all soft lines. “There’s roast at the hotel restaurant today. Real nice. You let me buy you a plate, and share a civil conversation. Just neighbors, makin’ peace.”

She stopped on the sidewalk, lifting her chin just a notch, the crate against her hip.

He didn’t push. Just waited, still smiling. Still polite.

She stood there a beat too long.

The cold nipped at her shawl, and her hands pressed harder on the handle of the crate. Rumlow’s eyes didn’t press, but they didn’t look away either. Waiting. Open.

Maybe she was too quick to paint everyone with suspicion.

After all, he’d apologized. Earnestly. And while the way he’d spoken about Bucky earlier had crawled beneath her skin, wasn’t it, sadly, the sort of thing most decent folk thought? Especially with a man whose past came tangled in blood and bounty?

He had been trying to look out for her. In his own rough, clumsy way.

And maybe it wouldn’t hurt, just once, to indulge that peace offering. Squash whatever awkwardness might fester between them. Ensure she wouldn’t find herself whispered about in the corners of the general store or glared at by the banker's men.

You and the gunman got bad blood now? That’s not wise.

She adjusted her shawl and shifted the crate to her other hip. “Alright,” she said lightly, like she hadn’t just talked herself down from a dozen misgivings. “Lunch, then. Neighbors making peace. Let me leave the crate in the cart.”

He smiled widely, wider than she would have liked, though she told herself that was just his normal expression.

“Glad to hear it,” he said, offering his arm.

She didn’t take it.

Just walked beside him, with her back straight. Letting herself believe that maybe, she’d imagined that little flicker in his eyes.

----

Just across the road, down the mouth of an alley, the edge of a dark coat shifted with the wind.

Sheriff Barnes watched from a shadowed corner, with crossed arms, an unreadable face under the brim of his hat. A flicker of movement, a flash of her shawl as she walked beside Rumlow.

His jaw clenched once. Hard.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t follow.

Just watched them disappear into the warm light of the hotel’s front door.

Then turned, slow and silent, and walked the other way.

----

The hotel’s restaurant was quiet at midday, just a few men nursing coffee or waiting for stew. Rumlow waved off the waiter like he owned the place and guided her to a corner table with a hand lightly at her back, too lightly to protest, too familiar to ignore.

She sat across from him, smoothing the napkin across her lap, fussing her fingers with the edge of her spoon.

Rumlow ordered for them both without asking. “Beef’s decent today,” he said, flashing a smile full of teeth. “And I remember you don’t eat pepper bells.”

She blinked. “That’s… thoughtful.”

“Just observant,” he said, leaning back on the chair. “Always tryin’ to be of service. Like I always tell you on Sundays, if you ever need anything out there on your land, being alone and all… just send word.”

He smiled again, broader this time. His eyes didn’t leave her face.

She gave a soft, noncommittal hum, reaching for the glass of water. “I appreciate the sentiment, truly. And if I find myself in a bind… I’ll ask.” A pause. “I do have neighbors. And folks in town have been decent enough.”

“Sure,” he said, tapping the table with one finger. “But not everyone’ll come runnin’ without askin’ questions.”

She managed a polite smile, but the way he said it turned in her stomach. She kept sipping the water, cool against her tongue.

It wasn’t that he said anything wrong, exactly. But the idea of sending for Rumlow, having him alone at her property, with no one else around...

It didn’t feel right. Not like it had with Bucky.

Bucky had been half-dead, bleeding out, but somehow, even when he was better, she hadn’t felt unsafe. Never once worried what he might do, even when she’d undressed him, fed him, tended his wounds.

She forced her thoughts back to Rumlow, nodded once more. “That’s generous of you. I’ll keep it in mind.”

After all, Alexander Pierce was a respected man. A generous pillar of the community. He wouldn’t keep untrustworthy men around.

Right?

Still… her hands remained folded neatly in her lap. And she didn’t finish the stew.

----

An uneventful week came and went until one morning, when the sun had barely cleared the eastern ridge, she reached the edge of the orchard and stopped cold.

Ten trees. Maybe more. Splintered stumps jutting from the ground like broken teeth. Pears crushed into the dirt, sticky and swarming with flies already.

She dropped her basket without realizing it.

She hadn’t heard a thing. Not a damn thing. No dogs barking, not the trees falling in the dark. But someone had been here. Someone had taken an axe to her land like it meant nothing. And done it close enough to her house.

Her trees. Years of work reduced to kindling. She clenched her fists.

She should’ve gone to the neighbors. Asked if one of their men saw something. But her mind snapped instead to a voice quieter than most, one that still echoed in her ears some nights.

If you ever find yourself in trouble... even if it seems foolish... come to me.

So she hitched the mare to the cart, fast and sloppily, threw her coat over her dress, and did a quick braid on her hair. She rode hard toward town, the wind biting her cheeks, dust and snow kicking up under the wheels. The orchard flashed behind her eyes with every jolt of the road.

By the time she reached the main street, the town had already stirred to life, doors propped open, smoke curling from chimneys, folks tipping hats in greeting. She didn’t slow down.

She pulled up hard in front of the sheriff’s office, and her boots hit the ground before the cart had even settled. The door creaked as she stepped inside.

Sam was behind the desk, polishing the handle of a shotgun with a rag over his knee. He looked up, blinking once.

“Morning, Ma’am,” he said. “You alright?”

Her chest rose and fell with uneven breaths. “Where’s the sheriff?”

Sam set the shotgun down slowly. “Ain’t here. Went to check somethin’. Why?”

She stepped forward. “Someone’s been on my land. Cut down half my pear trees. Fruit ruined.”

Sam stood now. The chair scraped back against the floor. “When?”

“Last night,” she said. “I didn’t hear a thing.”

He grabbed his hat from the peg behind him and motioned toward the bench along the wall. “Sit a spell. Let me ask you a few things. Bucky’s out workin’ a lead, but he’ll be back soon. Might help to have the details ready for him.”

She nodded and sat, folding her hands tightly in her lap. The office smelled like tobacco and oil, and the clock on the wall ticked too loudly in the quiet space.

Sam settled back behind the desk, already reaching for paper and pencil. “Now… you said trees were cut. You see tracks? Anything else disturbed? Tools left behind?”

She shook her head. “Nothing I could see. Just trunks, clean cut. Fruit all over the ground like someone went outta their way to ruin it.”

He hummed, jotting notes. “Any trouble with neighbors? Workers? Someone pass by lately that didn’t sit right?”

She hesitated. “No. Nothing like that. It’s been quiet.”

Sam gave a thoughtful nod. “Ain’t the kind of damage you do unless you’re lookin’ to send a message.” He tapped the pencil once on the desk. “Don’t worry, ma’am. We’ll get to the bottom of it.”

She offered a tight smile, but her insides were churning.

The longer she sat, the more the walls pressed in. The louder the clock ticked than it had any right to, and the lamplight made the air feel thick. Her mouth had gone dry, but her palms were damp in her skirt.

Sam noticed. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, then stood. “I think… I should go. Need to get back. If the sheriff -or you- come by later, just knock.”

“You sure you don’t wanna wait a little longer?” Sam asked, standing too, “He might be back any minute.”

She shook her head. “I’m just tired. I’d rather be home. Thank you, deputy.”

He gave a polite tip of his head, watching her go with a thoughtful frown as she stepped out into the sunlight.

The town was louder now with creaking wagons and raising voices. She moved down the steps, trying to clear her head, focusing on each step.

Then, a smooth and too familiar voice startled her.

“Well, now. Didn’t expect to see you in town this early.”

She looked up.

Rumlow.

He was standing near the water trough, with his arms folded, chewing something leisurely. His eyes flicked over her -lingering too long, as always- before returning to her face.

“You alright?” he asked, all concerned, all charm. “You look rattled.”

She froze for half a second before forcing her shoulders back, smoothing her skirt. “Just had a bit of trouble at home,” she said, cautiously but politely.

“That so?” he said, stepping closer, narrowing his gaze just slightly. “You know, if you ever need help out there…”

She offered a tight smile. “That’s kind of you, really. I’ll ask if I ever need anything.”

But she wouldn’t. Not from him.

Still, she told herself not to overthink. He was just being nice. Maybe a little crude sometimes, but it wasn’t rare in those lands. Maybe he just didn’t know how to talk to women like normal folk. So she said thank you, gave a small nod, and stepped around him, her heart ticking a little faster as she went.

Because no matter how calm his voice was, or how polished the apology, something about Brock Rumlow had always made her skin crawl.

And today, that feeling was worse.

----

She hadn’t meant to fall asleep.

The fire had burned low, casting soft golden fingers across the floorboards. The weight of the day, the trees, the ride, the faces in town, it all felt heavy across her shoulders, and when she sat on the old chair near the stove, just to rest her eyes… her body had decided for her.

She woke with a small jolt.

The fire was dimmer now. The room, colder. Outside, beyond the window, snow was falling in slow spirals, coating the ground. It took her a moment to place the faint sound she’d heard beneath the rustle of wind.

Knocking.

Not frantic, but insistent. Three times.

She sat up, with her heart climbing slowly into her throat, with one hand still tangled in the folds of the blanket.

It could be Bucky or Sam, or-

Another knock. Louder now. More forceful.

She rose slowly and turned slightly, squinting toward the window near the door. She couldn’t see much past the snow, but a tall figure stood on the porch, low hat, black coat pressed flat to a solid frame. Her pulse kicked up.

Then she heard his voice, low and unmistakable, behind the door.

“It’s me.”

----

She motioned him inside. He looked windblown and a little agitated, like he’d galloped the whole way and hadn’t let himself breathe since. The snow clung to his coat hem and melted in his hair, dampening the ends that curled against the collar of his long coat. His eyes were unreadable.

“Your horse-” she started.

“Took the liberty,” he cut in, his voice was low, rough from cold and something more. “To put him in the stable with the mare.”

She nodded, stepping back so he could pass fully inside. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing them in the warmth of the house. He stood awkwardly near the threshold, like he didn’t know what to do with himself now that he was here.

“Sam filled me in,” he said after a pause. “Before coming, I spoke with the closest neighbor. Just makin’ the rounds. Gotta ask a few questions myself, in case anything got missed.”

She gestured toward the sitting room. “Well, come on then. No use freezin’ in the entry.”

He slowly followed her in, removing his hat, pressing his fingers at the brim. The fire snapped softly in the hearth. She’d tucked the blanket tighter around her shoulders, motioning for him to sit. He did, stiff-backed, resting his hands on his thighs, eyes on the fire instead of her.

She studied him for a moment. He looked guarded. More than usual. Not just tired or worn down, but distant, like he’d put something between them and couldn’t find the words to move it.

“Something wrong?” she asked quietly.

“No,” he said too quickly. “Just doin’ my job.”

Except he wasn’t. Or he was, but this wasn’t the man who’d laid half-dead in her bed. Not like the one who’d eaten preserves with careful hands and watched her when he thought she wouldn’t notice.

This version of him was tense and cold. Polite, but brittle.

She tried not to let it show. “You said you had questions,” she offered softly.

He nodded, like he had to remind himself why he was here. “Right.”

And then came the usual list: had she seen anything, heard anything, remembered anything new? She gave the same answers she’d given Sam, almost word for word.

Until he shifted in his chair. Cleared his throat. Didn’t meet her eye.

“Has anyone new been here the last few days? Spent time with you in town?”

She blinked. “New? No. You were the last new person here. Before you…” She shrugged. “Just the neighbors. Their wives.”

He swallowed hard, flexing his jaw. “Let me rephrase,” he said, and something in his tone turned pointed. “You spend time with anyone lately? Had a conversation that got… close? Maybe a disagreement? Some kind of confidence?”

Her brow furrowed. “Not that I recall.”

He exhaled sharply, and sat back like he didn’t believe her, or didn’t want to. “This won’t work if you play coy.”

The room went still. The crackle of the fire filled the gap he left.

She stared at him, clutching the blanket in her lap, as something cold crawled beneath her skin that had nothing to do with the snow outside.

“I’m not playin’ anything, Sheriff,” she said firmly. “And if you think I am, maybe you should try askin’ plainer.”

He raked a hand through his damp hair, his face shadowed in firelight. “I didn’t mean it like-”

“No?” she cut in. “Because it’s starting to sound like you did.”

A beat passed by.

“Sorry,” he said, dropping his gaze. “I shouldn’t’ve said it like that.”

She let out a breath through her nose. Nodded once.

He hated this. Hated that his chest felt tight over something he had no business feeling.

He didn’t tell her that seeing her step into the hotel with Rumlow, with his hand hovering too close to her waist, had lit something ugly in his chest. That made him feel stupid, boyish. Like a stray dog sniffing around a place he didn’t belong.

It wasn’t jealousy. He didn’t have that right. Hell, they weren’t anything. She’d helped him. Cared for him. He’d held onto that feeling too long, long enough to let his thoughts wander where they shouldn’t.

But damn it, something in him had imprinted on her. And now here he was. Snapping at her like she’d betrayed something between them, like she’d wounded a bond they’d never named.

It wasn’t fair. Not to her.

It wasn’t even like he had a clean slate to stand on. He was a man with a past soaked in ash and blood. A man most decent folk crossed the street to avoid, badge or not.

He scrubbed a hand down his face. The stubble rasped against his palm.

“I just think you’re leavin’ something out,” he said, the words coming out too rough, too flat.

She looked at him like he’d just insulted her straight to her face. “Well, think again. Because-”

“I saw you,” he said. The breath in his chest caught halfway through, but he forced it out anyway. “The day you dropped me off.”

That made her blink. “I went to the general store. Then the bakery-”

“The hotel,” he cut, and that stopped her cold.

Something shifted behind her eyes, confusion, maybe. But that didn’t matter. Not to the part of him that had ridden out here with this iron weight pressing deep in his chest. The part that saw her walking past those swinging doors with Rumlow on her heels like a man walking where he was welcome. Too welcome.

She stared at him, the corner of her mouth twitched, maybe with realization, maybe with anger. “I had lunch,” she said, incredulous. “At the restaurant.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t blink.

She scoffed, a breath of disbelief. “Jesus. Is that what this is? You think-?”

“I don’t think anything,” he said stiffly, gaze burning into the dark of the fire instead of her face. “It’s not my business what you do, or who you see.”

Except it was. Except his guts had twisted since Sam mentioned Rumlow’s name. Since he’d watched that hotel door open and seen her coming in with a small smile. Like they were gonna-

His jaw worked, tight.

“Unless it has something to do with your land being torn up,” he added, quieter now. “Unless it puts you in danger.”

But that wasn’t why it haunted him. Not really.

He hated that the thought even crossed his mind.

And most of all, he hated that he’d ridden all this way, with a badge and a reason, and still couldn’t look her in the eye.

She didn’t move for a moment.

Just sit there until she finally looked up. “So that’s what you think of me.”

Bucky’s jaw twitched. “I didn’t say-”

“No, you didn’t. You didn’t say it. You just asked around it, circled it, hoped I’d fill in the blanks for you.” Her voice was calm, but it cut straight through the dim room like a knife.

She crossed her arms, not defensively, more like she was holding herself together. “You think I’d do that. After what we- after the way we sat under the same roof, broke bread, shared the quiet without needing to fill it? You think I’d let a man like that in my bed just because he looked my way?”

He winced; the soft tone she used did more to shake him than if she’d raised her voice.

“I don’t know what I thought,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “I just… saw you with him. Walkin’ into that place. And my head ran with it.”

“I went for roast,” she said plainly. “I sat across a table and let a man I don’t like tell me I should be grateful he looks out for me, like he owns the right. And I smiled through it because sometimes that’s easier than making an enemy in a town too small to disappear in.”

She took a breath. “If you wanted to know, you could’ve asked. You didn’t need to look at me like I’d proved something ugly.”

His throat worked around a word he couldn’t get out. His hand flexed once at his side like he wanted to reach for something but didn’t know what. He looked down.

“I’m sorry.” It came rough.

She didn’t speak.

He forced himself to meet her eyes, even if it made something twist in his gut. “I ain’t good at this.”

Still nothing from her, but she wasn’t walking away. That was something.

“I saw you with him, and I knew what it looked like, but I also knew it didn’t mean what my head started sayin’ it did. But I let it talk anyway. I ain’t used to bein’ in the company of decent folk, ma’am,” he added, reverting without meaning to, the word slipping out like armor. “I should’ve known better.”

Her stance relaxed a little, just enough to notice.

“Damn right you should’ve,” she said.

Well, it wasn’t cold. Not quite.

And it wasn’t a door shutting in his face.

Bucky sat there, with his hat hanging in his hand, rubbing his thumb slowly over the brim. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else than under her gaze, but he stood his ground all the same.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, voice quieter this time. “I was wrong to think it. Or to speak it. Either.”

Her arms folded tighter across her chest.

“I know what that sounded like,” he said, trying again. “And I’d take it back if I could. You… didn’t deserve that. You deserved better than me makin’ you feel low in your own home, after all you’ve done.”

He paused, looked down again. He shook his head, like the words failed him.

She didn’t speak for a long moment, studying him, how his fingers twitched around the hat brim, how his boots didn’t quite plant firmly on the floor like they usually did. He wasn’t looking at her now, with his gaze fixed on the corner of the room like it might forgive him if she didn’t.

“You always call me by my name,” she said finally. “Except just now.”

His jaw flexed, and his mouth worked once before answering. “Didn’t figure I’d earned it anymore.”

The quiet stretched again.

Then came the smallest exhale. Not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh.

“Sheriff,” she said dryly, “you have the backbone to drag a half-dead body into law and stare down a gun barrel, but the moment a woman looks disappointed in you, you start unravelin’ like a spool.”

That got his eyes to lift, just barely.

“And I’m not sayin’ I’m ready to be all smiles and pie,” she added, softer now. “But I can see when a man’s trying.”

He swallowed. Gave a small nod.

She got up and reached for the kettle without looking at him. “Might as well stay a bit. Snow’s still fallin’.”

And that -more than anything- was her way of saying he was forgiven.

She smoothed the skirt of her dress with one hand, though it didn’t need smoothing. Her voice was calmer now, even, but not cold.

“Answerin’ your question… I didn’t have an altercation with anyone.”

His eyes slowly lifted to her at that.

She met his gaze without flinching. “Mr. Rumlow invited me to have lunch. Said it was a way to make amends for somethin’ he’d said earlier. A misspoke, that’s all.”

Her tone wasn’t defensive, but measured. Like she was offering him the facts and not asking for approval.

“And before you ask-” she added, tilting her head slightly, “it was nothin’ that matters to the issue at hand.”

He was quiet. Too quiet.

Then, low: “Without due respect, I’ll decide if it’s not important.”

His thumb rubbed slowly along the edge of his belt. “What did he say, that needed apologizin’ for?”

There was no heat in the question, but something in his posture had stiffened, and his gaze pressed on her. Heavy. Blue and unreadable.

She sighed, slightly curling her fingers around the fold of her skirt.

“He said… I oughta be careful who I’m seen with.” Her lips pressed into a line. “Then went on about your past. What you used to do before you came here.”

A flicker of reaction passed through his body -barely there- but she saw it. A twitch in the jaw, the faintest crease between his brows. Still, he didn’t speak.

“I told him I didn’t see how that was any of his business,” she added quietly. “He backed off. Seemed sorry. And I figured… I dunno. Maybe he was tryin’ to look out for me in his own way.”

He nodded once, slowly and shallow, and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing a hand over his mouth.

Something about his silence didn’t feel like judgment.

It felt like shame.

He needed to get a hold of himself. Do his damn job.

But he wasn’t made of stone.

He leaned back slightly, fixing his eyes somewhere near the wood grain on the floorboards, working his jaw like he was grinding down a thought that wouldn’t settle.

Rumlow and he had been oil and water from the start. The second he stepped foot in that town wearing the badge, Rumlow had made it clear he didn’t much care for new dogs sniffin’ around old territory. Tried to undermine him from the first week, worded suggestions like they were orders, challenged decisions with a smile too thin to be friendly.

The man was used to a softer sheriff, someone who knew how to look the other way when Pierce’s interests didn’t align with the law.

And Bucky… didn’t look away.

It had come to a head not long after he took the post, in the middle of Main Street, hands twitching toward pistols. Townsfolk froze in their tracks. No bullets flew that day, but it was a close thing. Banker Pierce had stepped in, of course. Smoothed it over with the mayor, all shaking hands and backroom talks, calling for a “more amicable coexistence between two capable and trustworthy men.” That’s what he’d said.

He never forgot the wording. Nor the way Rumlow smiled afterward, all teeth and threat. They hadn’t traded words since unless it was required, but that cold simmer never left. And now…

Now that son of a bitch had gone and put his name in her mouth. Dug up pieces of his past and handed them to her like stones, waiting to see if she’d throw them back at him.

He swallowed slowly and tightly.

“And you suppose he told you all that just to be helpful,” Bucky said, tone clipped. “Lookin’ out for you.”

Her lips pressed into a line. “That’s what he claimed.”

Bucky’s hand flexed once on his thigh.

“Alright,” he said after a beat. “Did he say anything else to you that might be… meaningful?”

She shrugged, like she hadn’t thought twice about it. “Sincerely, no. It’s the same speech over and over about me being alone.”

That caught his attention. Subtle, but sharp.

He straightened slightly. “And what speech is that?”

She turned to remove the kettle from the heat. “Oh, you know. That I oughta ask for help if I need it. That I can count on him for anything.” She paused, poured water into the mugs. “He always says it like he’s doin’ me a kindness.”

Bucky narrowed his gaze. The warmth from the fire didn’t reach the knot forming low in his gut. “You say ‘same speech.’ Does he bring it up often? That you’re alone. That you- need a man around.”

She furrowed her brow, like she hadn’t thought of it that way before. “I mean... yeah, I guess he does. Just figures it’s odd I’m still by myself out here.”

“Hmm.”

Just a sound. Nothing else.

But behind his eyes, the gears turned. Slow. Steady. Ugly.

The day she brought him to town, Rumlow saw them together. Saw her at his side, blanket on their laps. Not even two hours later, the man had cornered her with a mouth full of sugar and tried to tear Bucky’s name to pieces. Then offered himself up instead. Big-hearted. Concerned. Eager to step in.

If that was something he did often, subtle, polite, persistent… and if Sam’s warning was true… other men had tried before. Men who'd backed off too fast. Or had little accidents. Coincidence, maybe. But now?

Now, it was starting to look like something else.

Because maybe Rumlow wasn’t just tryin’ to win her favor.

Maybe now he was trying to scare her into his arms.

The thought curled like smoke in the corners of Bucky’s mind, foul and slow. He didn’t let it show, just kept his eyes on her face, his voice quiet.

“And… have you ever taken him up on it?” he asked. “Relied on him? Brought him out here?”

She turned halfway, with the kettle still in her hand, furrowing her brow as if the question caught her off guard.

“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head with a little laugh. “No, I never have. I mean… I can’t name it, and maybe it is silly, but I don’t-” her fingers pressed a little harder around the kettle’s handle, “there’s something about him that rubs me the wrong way.”

Bucky watched her carefully and didn’t interrupt.

“It’s not that he’s done anything wrong,” she added, like she was trying to be fair even to her discomfort. “On the contrary, he’s polite. Apologetic. Always offers help.” She exhaled, looking at the wall like it might explain what she couldn’t. “But he makes me uncomfortable.”

He nodded once, slowly. Said nothing at first, just stared into the fire like he was measuring its heat.

But inside him, a match had been struck.

Because she had no idea how well her instincts were working. How lucky, maybe, that she hadn’t needed help yet. That she hadn’t given that vulture an inch to take.

He cleared his throat and looked at her again, voice rougher than before. “Trust your gut.”

She blinked. “What?”

“If he makes you feel that way. Don’t second-guess it.” His gaze met hers, firmer now. “Ain’t silly.”

She held his stare for a breath, slightly softening her posture. “…Alright,” she murmured. Then, quieter, “Thank you.”

And he gave her the smallest nod in return.

But inside?

He was already thinking about how fast a man could lose a hand for reaching too far.

Next Chapter

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[mejaemin]

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untitled - park jisung

wc: 0.3k summary: ji looks so good when he’s wet >< warnings: very suggestive, marking + hickeys, cutie but also very hot jisung, this was v lazy and low effort !!! an: listened to le sserafim and carti’s new albums while writing this.. both were 7-8 out of ten i’d say

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jisung’s skin is perfectly dewy, covered in the bubbly water droplets of the hot tub that pool in the divots of his collarbone. contrary to the heat of the water, the air outside is freezing cold, leaving a smoke cloud around yours and his bodies. his hair is wet, framing his face perfectly despite not being styled.

“..why are you staring? is there something on my face?” he asks, immediately going to wipe at the corners of his mouth.

you hum, shaking your head as you make your way to sit on his lap. your entire upper half comes out of the water, sending a shiver up your spine, but jisung’s large hands cover nearly the entire lower half of your body, pulling you into the warmth of his own.

“you just look so handsome right now..” pushing his sunglasses up to the top of his head, all it takes is one look into his eyes for you to dip your head down into the corner of his neck.

his voice gets caught in his throat the moment your teeth graze his skin, gently nipping and biting at the endless amount left available to you. his fingers flex against your waist, one sliding up to your head to keep you in place.

suddenly, your upper halves are no longer cold, matching the water’s temperature. jisung’s gentle whines keep spilling right next to your ear, and it takes a lot of willpower to keep your hips from moving against his own, thin swimsuits leaving little to the imagination.

your lips and teeth leave a trail of love bites, red and purple markings leaving a trail from his shoulder, to his collarbone and all the way to his jawline. sometime along the way jisung grabbed your hips, dragging them against his own almost desperately.

eventually, the feeling is too much to ignore, so you pull away, catching your breath as you trace lines over the marks you left behind.

“inside?” you ask, reaching for a strand of his hair to twirl around your finger.

all he does is nod, standing up with you still in his arms to take you back to your room.

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nct 🏷️ @chenlezip @coquettejunnie

[taurasiluvr]

how you can help palestine

★ been thinking about high sex with paige bueckers...

 ⠀ ── ⠀warnings ;; nsfw under the cut, mdni. fingering and substance usage (blunt/weed)

the blunt was in between paige's pink lips, her eyes fluttering shut as she inhaled. you watched her carefully, taking note of everything – the way her blonde hair was pulled into the loose bun she knew made you go insane, the way the smoke curled around her face, highlighting the soft curves of her cheeks and the delicate line of her jaw.

she exhaled slowly, the cloud drifting lazily towards the ceiling. paige opened her eyes and caught you staring as a smirk began tugging corners of her lips.

"you always watch me like that," she said, her voice a low murmur, sending shivers down your spine.

"can't help it," you replied, leaning back against the couch. "you look so damn beautiful."

paige laughed, a sound that was both light and intoxicating. she took another drag from the blunt and leaned forward, her gaze locked onto yours. the air between you felt charged, the room suddenly too small for the both of you.

"c'mere," she whispered, beckoning you with the tilt of her head. you moved closer, feeling the magnetic pull that paige always seemed to have on you.

she then handed you the blunt, her fingers brushing against yours. "your turn," she said, her eyes foggy as her lips turned upward into a lazy smirk.

you took the blunt and brought it to your lips, inhaling deeply. the smoke filled your lungs, and for a moment, everything else faded away. when you exhaled, paige was still watching you, her expression unreadable.

"y'know," she said, her voice soft, "i think about you, like all the time."

your heart skipped a beat. "yeah?"

"yeah," she hummed, her fingers trailing lightly along your arm. "you're always on my mind."

you set the blunt aside and cupped her face in your hands, your thumbs brushing against her cheeks. "'m crazy about you, p."

she leaned into your touch, her eyes fluttering shut again. "then show me, baby," she whispered.

you didn't need any more encouragement. your lips met hers in a slow, lingering kiss, the taste of weed and desire mingling between you. paige sighed into your mouth, her hands tangling in your hair as she pulled you closer.

she pulled you into her lap, your legs wrapping around her as if trying to meld your bodies together. the kiss deepened, growing more needy. paige's fingers trailed down your back, sending shivers through your entire body. you could feel the rapid beating of her heart against your chest, matching the rhythm of your own.

her lips moved to your neck, planting soft, wet kisses along your jawline and down to your collarbone. you let out a soft moan, your hands gripping her waist, pulling her even closer. paige's breath was hot against your skin, each exhale sending waves of warmth through you.

"you're driving me wild," you murmured, your voice breathless and filled with need.

paige looked up at you, her eyes red and dilated. "good," she replied, her voice a seductive whisper. "cause i want you just as much."

you captured her lips again, your kiss filled with all the passion and desire that had been building between you. your hands roamed over her body, exploring every curve, committing each sensation to memory. paige's touch mirrored your own, her fingers tracing patterns on your skin, igniting warmth wherever they went.

the world outside ceased to exist; it was just you and paige, lost in each other, in the intoxicating blend of smoke and lust. your movements became more frantic, your bodies pressing together, seeking relief from the burning need that consumed you both.

"god, i need you," paige rasped, her voice breaking the silence that had enveloped you.

you pulled back slightly, looking into her eyes. "'m here," you said, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging inside you. "i'm yours, paige. always."

her hands found your hips, looking up at you as she sniffled. paige grabbed your wrist, pulling the blunt into the mouth as she inhaled. after she took a hit, she grabbed your head and blew the smoke into your mouth before pulling you into a deep kiss. the combination of her lips and the lingering taste of weed made your head spin in the most delightful way.

you began grinding against her lap, desperate for any kind of friction. paige hands gripped your hips, guiding your movements as she kissed you with a fervor that matched your own. she grabbed the blunt, placing it in your lips. you inhaled, feeling the smoke fill your lungs as you moaned. the sensation of her body pressed against yours, the heat between you both, was almost too much to bear.

"feel so good," you whispered against her lips, your voice trembling with need. the blunt was now long forgotten, placed on the coffee table.

paige's eyes fluttered open, her gaze intense and filled with longing. "want you so bad," she murmured, her hands sliding under your shirt, fingertips dancing across your skin before she found your bra.

she began gripping your boobs, your head falling back. every touch was heightened, you knew it was because you were both high off your minds but still. the touch sent a shiver down your spine, and you arched into her, craving more as your hands tangling in her hair, you pulled her into another kiss.

paige responded with a low growl, her hands exploring your body with a newfound urgency. she tugged at your shirt, pulling it over your head, and you followed suit, eager to feel her skin against yours. the moment your shirts hit the floor, paige's lips were on you again, trailing kisses down your neck and across your collarbone.

you let out a soft moan, your hands roaming over her back, feeling the muscles tense and relax under your touch. the need for her was almost overwhelming, every fiber of your being aching for more of her.

paige's mouth found its way to your boob, her tongue teasing your nipple, sending waves of pleasure through you. you gasped, your fingers digging into her shoulders as you ground harder against her lap, the friction driving you wild.

"please," you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath. "need you, p."

she looked up at you, her eyes dark with desire. "need you too, pretty," she replied, her voice husky. she shifted, guiding you to lay back on the couch as she positioned herself between your legs.

her hands trailed down your body, her touch both gentle and commanding. she leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was both tender and demanding, her body pressing against yours in the most delicious way.

you wrapped your legs around her, pulling her closer, desperate to feel every inch of her against you. the world around you faded into oblivion as paige's fingers found their way between your thighs, her touch sending shockwaves of pleasure through you. she dipped her finger in your waistband, before she pushed a finger into your sopping pussy.

you arched into her, your breath coming in ragged gasps as she moved her fingers with expert precision. "oh, fuck," you moaned, your body trembling with the intensity of your need.

paige's lips found your ear, her breath hot against your skin. "i've got you," she whispered, her voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. "just let go."

with those words, you felt the tension within you snap, your body convulsing with pleasure as you cried out her name. paige held you close, her touch never wavering, riding out the waves of your climax until you were spent and trembling in her arms.

she grabbed the blunt from the table, taking a deep inhale before passing it to you. the room was filled with a hazy glow, the remnants sex mingling with the lingering smoke. you took the blunt from her, your fingers brushing against hers, and brought it to your lips, the familiar warmth of the smoke grounding you in the present moment.

if you enjoyed, any interaction is greatly appreciated!

with love, rylin 𝜗𝜚

[winwintea]

my funny valentine

PAIRING ↬ best friend!lee donghyuck x fem!reader

TAGS ↬ thriller, horror, suspense, romance, crack, tooth fairy haechan, <- trust me that'll make sense, they play detectives, stalker au, valentines au, flirty jaemin, songwriter and poet mark lee, painter renjun, they all kinda down bad for y/n a little though

WARNINGS  ↬ teeth. and it's gross. also stalkers !!

SUMMARY ↬ for valentines day all you wanted to do was chill with your best friend. unfortunately for you, there's a little someone claiming to be your secret admirer bringing you cryptic valentine's day gifts. you brush it off until the gifts start getting more and more sinister. can you and haechan solve this mystery before it's too late? (and can he confess some of his own feelings to you while he's at it?)

WORD COUNT ↬ 4.8k words

AUTHOR’S NOTE ↬ while this may not be a FUNNY fic, it’s very heavily inspired by MISAMO’s “Funny Valentine” so please go check that song out and give it some love <33

PLAYLIST ↬ the wolf - siames; stalker’s tango - autoheart; bust your knee caps - pomplamoose; smoke and mirrors - jayn; tag, you’re it - melanie martinez; funny valentine - misamo

The air outside is crisp, a reminder that winter hasn’t fully let go, despite the pink and red decorations plastered across storefronts. Valentine’s Day is a week away, and yet, as you step out of your apartment, the holiday is the furthest thing from your mind.

Until you nearly trip over something at your doorstep.

A single red rose rests against the welcome mat, its petals velvety and deep, almost too perfect to be real. A small, cream-colored card, tied around with a black ribbon sits at the center.

You bend down, fingers brushing over the card as you flip it open.

“You don’t see me for who I am, but I see you.”

A strange shiver trails down your spine.

You glance around the hallway of your apartment complex. The usual dull lighting flickers slightly, and the air is still. No sounds of footsteps, no hushed whispers from neighbors. Just silence.

A prank? A weird marketing gimmick? Maybe even a mistaken delivery? You don’t have a secret admirer. Or at least, not one you know of.

Still, you tuck the note into your pocket and step back inside, leaving the rose on the counter as you grab your phone. Without thinking, you call the one person who would get a kick out of this.

The line barely rings before Haechan picks up.

"Yo, what’s up?" His voice is warm, laced with the lazy charm that makes it impossible to tell whether he's just woken up or has been up scheming since dawn.

“You’ll never guess what I just found at my door.”

“You finally got that Amazon package you forgot you ordered?”

“No, you idiot.” You roll your eyes, staring at the rose. “A gift. A creepy one.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, Haechan’s intrigued hum. “Creepy, huh? You have my attention. Spill.”

You quickly relay the details—the rose, the note, the unsettling feeling gnawing at your gut. You half-expect him to laugh it off, but instead, his voice drops into something quieter, more serious.

"And you're sure it wasn't left at the wrong door?"

"I’m not sure about that. My name wasn’t on it, but my neighbors are men. Who would do this to a guy?”

Another pause. Then, a small chuckle. "Well, well. Looks like you’ve got yourself a secret admirer."

"Not funny."

"Are you kidding? It’s hilarious." You can practically hear his grin through the phone. "You're living in a real-life romance movie. Or a horror movie. Either way, I’m invested."

You sigh, rubbing your temple. "So what do I do? Just… ignore it?"

"Absolutely not. We investigate. Duh."

Your brows furrow. "Investigate? It's probably just some dumb joke."

"Or," he counters, voice dripping with amusement, "it's the beginning of something way more interesting. C'mon, don't you wanna know who’s behind this? What if it’s some insanely hot dude or chick who’s just so in love with you but socially inept?”

You scoff. "Yeah, because nothing says romance like borderline stalking."

"Hey, some people are just dedicated," he teases. "Look at those BookTok people. And tell you what—meet me at the café in an hour. Bring the note. I wanna see it."

"You’re actually taking this seriously?"

"Of course! A mystery has landed right at your doorstep. And as your best friend, it is my duty to help you solve it."

You sigh. Haechan has always been dramatic.

"Fine," you relent. "But if it turns out to be a stupid prank, you owe me coffee."

"You got it, Valentine."

The café is buzzing with the usual mid-morning crowd: college students hunched over laptops, couples sharing pastries, baristas calling out names over the hum of conversation. The scent of coffee and warm vanilla lingers in the air, comforting and familiar.

You spot Haechan immediately. He’s lounged in the corner booth, one arm draped over the back of the seat, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips as he watches you approach.

“Took you long enough,” he teases as you slide into the seat across from him. “I was starting to think your mystery lover got to you first.”

You roll your eyes, fishing the note out of your pocket and dropping it onto the table in front of him. “Here. Do your thing, Sherlock.”

Haechan picks up the note with exaggerated care, holding it between his fingers like it’s a sacred artifact. He squints, tilts his head, even sniffs it dramatically before nodding. “Yep. Just as I suspected.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Which is?”

“This is definitely paper.”

You snatch the note back, smacking his arm with it. “Wow, incredible deduction dipshit.”

He laughs, dodging your hand before leaning in, his expression shifting into something more thoughtful. “No, but seriously. This is weird. The handwriting is neat, almost too neat. Like someone either really took their time or… copied it.”

You frown. “Copied it?”

“Yeah. Like, I dunno, tracing someone else's writing. See how the pressure is kinda uneven in some spots? It’s like they were trying too hard to be precise.”

You blink, staring at him. “Since when are you an expert in handwriting analysis?”

Haechan grins, tapping his temple. “I watch a lot of crime documentaries. Also, Renjun had a forgery phase in middle school, so I picked up a few things.”

“Of course he did,” you mutter, shaking your head. “Okay, so say you’re right—what does that mean?”

“It means whoever wrote this was really careful about not being recognized.” He leans back, drumming his fingers on the table. “Which makes me think this isn’t just some dumb prank. They don’t want you to know who they are.”

That unsettling feeling from earlier creeps back up your spine.

“What if it’s someone we know?” you ask, voice quieter now.

Haechan tilts his head, considering. “Could be. Or it could be some rando with a crush. Either way, we have a mission. I’ll show you just how good a duo we’ll be.”

You exhale. “And that mission is…?”

“To find out who’s been leaving you love letters, obviously.” He grins, reaching for his coffee. “And if they turn out to be hot, I take full credit for setting you up.”

You snort, shaking your head. “Unbelievable.”

“Hey, I take my best friend duties very seriously.”

You roll your eyes, but still can’t help but feel a bit uneasy by it all.

The uneasy feeling from the café lingers as you make your way home.

"They don’t want you to know who they are."

"What if it’s someone we know?"

You shake the thoughts away as you unlock your door, stepping inside. The first thing you notice is the rose, still resting on the counter where you left it. Something about it feels different now—less like a mystery and more like a warning.

You inhale deeply, trying to push the paranoia aside. Maybe this is all just a prank. Maybe Haechan’s just hyping it up because he loves drama. Maybe—

Your phone buzzes.

[Unknown Number]: Did you like my first gift?

A sharp jolt of fear twists in your stomach. Your fingers tighten around your phone as you stare at the message.

Not a prank.

Your mouth runs dry as you hesitate before typing back.

[You]: Who is this?

Three dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again.

[Unknown Number]: You’ll see soon enough.

Your heart pounds.

And then… three quick knocks on your front door.

You jump, whipping around to stare at it. The knock surprisingly wasn’t loud nor aggressive. However it got the message across.

Slowly, you step forward, peeking through the peephole. The hallway is empty. With a shaky breath, you unlock the door and crack it open just enough to peek outside.

A small, velvet box sits on your welcome mat.

Another gift.

You glance both ways down the hall—still empty. Whoever left it is already gone. 

Heart hammering, you crouch down and carefully pick up the box, stepping back inside before locking the door behind you. Your fingers tremble slightly as you open it.

Inside is a delicate silver locket, its chain coiled neatly in the box. You hold it up to the light, examining the intricate engravings along the edges. It’s beautiful—almost vintage.

But when you pry it open, your breath catches in your throat.

Inside is a tiny photograph. One you recognize immediately.

It’s you.

You, standing outside your apartment building, smiling at the camera. But what makes your stomach turn is the person beside you.

Because there was someone beside you. But their face has been completely scratched out. And you have no idea who it is.

Your pulse roars in your ears as your grip tightens around the locket.

This isn’t a joke.

You fumble for your phone and dial Haechan’s number. He picks up almost immediately.

"Yo, miss me already?"

"Haechan." Your voice comes out unsteady, breathless. "It happened again."

A pause. Then, his tone shifts. It’s calm, but sharper now. "I’m coming over."

Fifteen minutes. That’s all it takes for Haechan to show up at your door, slightly out of breath, a bag of convenience store snacks in one hand and his phone in the other.

“Okay,” he says, pushing past you into the apartment, “give me the rundown. And before you ask, yes, I brought emergency snacks because I know you stress-eat.”

You let the door swing shut behind him, arms crossed. “Haechan, this is serious.”

“I am taking it seriously.” He tosses a bag of chips onto the counter before turning to you. “Now, tell me everything before I assume you’ve been cursed by a Victorian ghost.”

You exhale, pulling the velvet box from your pocket and flipping it open. “I found this at my door. Look inside.”

Haechan steps closer, peering down at the locket. He picks it up, flipping it open with careful fingers. His expression shifts immediately—the usual mischief in his eyes dims, replaced by something darker.

“The hell…?” He traces a thumb over the scratched-out face in the photo. “Okay. This? This is officially creepy.”

“No kidding,” you mutter, rubbing your arms as if that will rid you of the lingering unease. “It’s my photo, Haechan. And someone ruined it.”

He doesn’t say anything at first, just stares at the image. When he finally looks up, his gaze is sharp. “Where did they even get this picture?”

“I don’t know. That’s what freaks me out.” You sit on the edge of your couch, fingers gripping the fabric of your sweater. “Someone had to have taken it themselves. But I don’t remember anyone standing next to me like this.”

Haechan clicks his tongue, flipping the locket shut. “Alright. That settles it. We need a suspect list.”

You blink. “You say that like this is some kind of crime show.”

“Well, yeah,” he deadpans. “Except way more fun because it’s happening to you.”

You throw a pillow at his head. He dodges it effortlessly, grinning.

“Okay, okay,” he says, plopping down next to you. “Real talk. Do you know anyone who might be obsessed with you? Secret admirer type, or maybe even an ex with attachment issues?”

You think for a moment. And then—

“…Jaemin.”

Haechan’s brows shoot up. “Jaemin?”

You nod, stomach twisting. “He flirts with me constantly, even when I brush him off. Plus, I know I’ve caught him taking pictures of me before, but he always plays it off like it’s just a joke.”

Haechan leans back, considering. “Okay. Solid lead. What’s our game plan?”

You chew on your lip before standing. “We ask him directly.”

Haechan grins, standing up beside you. “Ooooh, an interrogation? Spicy.”

You roll your eyes, shoving your phone into your pocket. “Let’s just get this over with.”

And with that, the two of you head out—ready to confront the first suspect.

Jaemin’s usual hangout is the campus library, though calling it “studying” is generous. More often than not, he’s lounging in one of the oversized chairs, scrolling through his phone, pretending to be busy.

That’s exactly where you find him now, stretched out with his feet propped up on another chair, earbuds in, humming to himself.

Haechan nudges you. “Your not-so-secret admirer is in his natural habitat.”

You sigh, straightening your shoulders before striding over. Jaemin looks up just as you plant your hands on the table in front of him.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greets smoothly, pulling out an earbud. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Haechan plops down beside him. “We have some questions.”

Jaemin raises an eyebrow. “We?”

“Yeah,” you say, crossing your arms. “And you’re going to answer them.”

His lips twitch, amused. “Sounds serious.”

“It is serious,” you snap, pulling out the locket and placing it in front of him. “Know anything about this?”

Jaemin’s gaze flickers to the locket, and for the first time, his smirk falters. His fingers twitch like he wants to pick it up, but he hesitates.

“What is this?” he asks, voice quieter now.

“You tell me,” you say. “It showed up at my door today. Someone left it for me, along with a creepy note. And considering how often you love taking pictures with me, I thought I’d start with you.”

Jaemin’s jaw tightens. “You think I gave you this?”

Haechan tilts his head. “Well, you do flirt with Y/N like it’s your full-time job.”

Jaemin exhales through his nose, leaning forward. “Okay, yeah, I flirt. But this?” He taps the locket. “This isn’t me. I’d never scratch out my own damn face.”

Your stomach clenches. “So you recognize the picture?”

Jaemin hesitates for half a second too long. Then, he shakes his head. “No.”

You and Haechan exchange a look.

“You’re lying,” Haechan accuses. “Dude, you hesitated.”

Jaemin runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “I don’t know where this came from, but I’ve seen that photo before. Just… not like this.”

Your pulse quickens. “Where?”

Another pause. Then, reluctantly, Jaemin mutters, “Renjun’s phone.”

Both you and Haechan freeze.

“What?” Haechan blurts. “Why would Renjun have a picture of Y/N on his phone?”

Jaemin shrugs. “No clue. It was a while ago. I remember seeing it and asking why he had it, but he just brushed me off. Thought it was weird, but not, y’know—this weird.” He gestures to the locket.

You stare at him, heart pounding. Could it be Renjun?

Haechan crosses his arms. “Alright, Nana. We’ll put you on the ‘maybe’ list for now. But if we find out you’re lying…” He drags a finger across his throat dramatically.

Jaemin rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Can I go back to existing now?”

You nod slowly, mind already racing ahead.

If Renjun had that photo… What else did he have?

And what would the next gift be?

The walk back to your apartment is tense. Haechan is uncharacteristically quiet beside you, hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets, his brows furrowed in thought.

"You okay?" you ask.

He exhales through his nose. "Just thinking. If Jaemin’s telling the truth, why would Renjun have that picture?"

"That’s what we’re going to find out," you murmur.

When you finally reach your apartment door, a chill runs down your spine. Sitting on your welcome mat is another small box, this time heart-shaped and a deep shade of crimson.

"Of course," Haechan mutters. "Right on schedule."

You swallow hard, exchanging a wary glance with him before bending down to pick it up. Unlike the velvet box from before, this one is heavier. With trembling fingers, you lift the lid—

A soft, eerie melody drifts into the air.

A music box.

But something is… off. The tune warbles and distorts, as if the mechanism inside is struggling to play correctly. It’s haunting, a melody that should be sweet but instead sends a shiver down your spine.

Inside, nestled among the delicate gears, is a small folded note.

A song just for you.

You stare at the words, your pulse hammering in your ears.

Haechan leans in. "Okay, I really don’t like this one."

You shut the lid abruptly, cutting off the melody. "Me neither."

"Who the hell writes you a personalized creepy lullaby?" he mutters. Then, his eyes widen slightly, realization dawning. "Wait. Music. Writing. Oh, come on—"

"Mark." You say his name at the same time Haechan does.

Mark has always been the sentimental type. From writing poetry to composing random melodies in his free time. If anyone had the skills to create something like this, it was him.

You grip the box tighter. "We need to talk to him."

Haechan nods. "Now."

You and Haechan find Mark exactly where you expect him, tucked away in a corner of the campus music room, hunched over a notebook, a pencil pressed against his lips. His fingers tap absentmindedly against the desk, keeping rhythm to whatever melody is playing in his head.

Haechan nudges you. "Caught him in the act. Very suspicious."

You shoot him a look before stepping forward. "Mark."

Mark glances up, blinking in surprise. "Oh, hey. What’s up?"

You waste no time, setting the music box down on the desk in front of him. His eyes flicker to it, then back to you.

"Did you make this?" you ask.

His eyebrows pull together. "Uh… no?"

Haechan crosses his arms. "You sure? Because we know you write songs. And poems. And you definitely know everything about Y/N—"

"Okay, dude, chill," Mark interrupts, looking bewildered. "What’s going on?"

You exhale, rubbing your temple. "Someone’s been leaving me gifts. Creepy ones. This music box was the latest, and since you’re literally the most musically gifted person I know, I thought—" You hesitate. "I thought maybe it was you."

Mark stares at the box for a moment before shaking his head. "It’s not me."

"Not even a little?" Haechan presses.

Mark sighs. "Look, yeah, I write songs. And sure, I might notice things. Like when you change your coffee order or cut your hair. Maybe I think you’re really cute. But that doesn’t mean I’m stalking you."

Haechan raises a skeptical brow. "Then what about your latest poetry post? The one about ‘loving from afar’?"

Mark’s expression shifts. His ears turn red.

Oh.

You narrow your eyes. "Mark?"

He groans, rubbing the back of his neck. "That wasn’t about you, okay?"

Haechan gasps, dramatic as ever. "Then who?"

Mark hesitates, then mutters, "My ex."

You and Haechan exchange a look.

"Oh," you say.

"Oh," Haechan echoes, slightly disappointed. "So you’re the heartbroken one, not the creepy one."

Mark shoots him a glare. "Obviously."

You sigh, dragging a hand down your face. "Okay. Sorry for accusing you. This whole thing is just messing with my head."

Mark softens. "Yeah, I get it. But seriously, if someone’s messing with you, you should be careful."

You nod, but your mind is already racing ahead.

The moment you step into your apartment, you feel it.

Something is waiting for you again.

Your breath catches as your eyes land on the small, folded piece of paper slipped under your door. The edges are slightly frayed, as if it had been torn from a notebook in a rush.

Haechan picks it up before you can. His fingers brush over the paper before carefully unfolding it. His eyes scan the words, his expression darkening.

You take the page from him and read:

"I see you even when you don’t see me.I wonder if you know how much you mean to me.If I could just tell you—”

The words stop abruptly, the last sentence unfinished.

And at the bottom, only a single initial is signed:

“R.”

You stare at it, heart hammering. "R."

Haechan exhales. "Renjun."

It makes sense. Jaemin had mentioned Renjun having your picture. And now this, a love confession, hesitant and unfinished.

You swallow hard. "We need to talk to him."

Haechan nods. "Before another one of these shows up."

Renjun is easy to find.

The art studio on campus is practically his second home, and sure enough, when you and Haechan arrive, he’s hunched over a sketchbook, completely lost in his work. His pencil moves in steady strokes, the faintest furrow between his brows as he concentrates.

Haechan leans in. “Bet he’s sketching you right now.”

You elbow him before clearing your throat. “Renjun.”

Renjun jumps, startled, before snapping his sketchbook shut. “Oh—hey. What are you guys doing here?”

Haechan plucks the journal page from your grasp and drops it onto his desk. “Care to explain this?”

Renjun’s gaze flickers to the torn-out page. He lets out a sharp inhale, as his shoulders start tensing.

“So it is yours.”

Renjun stays silent for a beat too long before he exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “Where did you get this?”

“It was slipped under my door,” you say carefully. “You signed it with ‘R.’”

Haechan crosses his arms. “Looks real bad, dude.”

Renjun lets out a quiet laugh, but it’s more of a nervous laugh than a humorous one. “Yeah… I can see that.”

Your pulse quickens. “So you did write it?”

Another pause. Then, finally, he nods. “Yeah. But not for you.”

You blink. “What?”

Renjun sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I did write that confession. But it’s old…I wrote it last year, for someone else.” He taps the page, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I threw this out months ago. I have no idea how you ended up with it.”

Haechan whistles low. “Okay, that’s actually kinda messed up.”

Renjun shakes his head. “ If someone dug this up just to mess with you… That’s not romantic. That’s obsessive.”

You grip the edge of the desk. “Then what about those photos you took of me? 

Renjun looks at you, his expression not wavering, “I take photos of everyone. It’s practice for more naturalistic portrayals of human figures.”

A chill runs down your spine.

If Renjun didn’t leave the page for you… then the real admirer wasn’t just watching you. If they had gotten their hands on Renjun’s photos then…

They were watching everyone.

That night, you barely sleep.

Renjun’s words keep replaying in your mind. ‘That’s not romantic. That’s obsessive.’

The pieces aren’t fitting together. The gifts, the messages, the calculated way they’re being delivered. This isn’t just someone with a crush. This is someone who has been planning this.

You’re still lost in thought when you hear it.

A soft thud outside your door.

Slowly, you sit up, heart pounding in your ears. Haechan, asleep on your couch, stirs slightly but doesn’t wake. You swallow hard and push yourself to your feet. Step by step, you inch toward the door, pulse hammering with every movement.

You already know what’s waiting for you.

Another gift.

With trembling hands, you open the door.

Sitting on the welcome mat is a small, heart-shaped box, identical in size to the one that held the music box. But this time, the deep red velvet is stained. Dark splotches sinking into the fabric, like something wet had been resting there before drying.

Your stomach turns.

Slowly, you pick it up. It’s heavier than you expect.

You hesitate. Then, you lift the lid.

Inside, cushioned in soft silk, isn’t chocolate.

It’s a tooth.

A human tooth.

Your throat felt dry as you wanted to retch in disgust, while the box nearly slips from your hands. Your vision blurs as you stare at it, uncomprehending, unwilling to believe what you’re seeing.

Beneath the tooth, there’s a note.

"Now you’re mine."

Your fingers shake as you unfold the small slip of paper.

And that’s when you see it.

The handwriting.

It’s Haechan’s.

Your body goes cold.

Behind you, the couch creaks as he shifts in his sleep.

And you realize—

You’re trapped inside your apartment.

With him.

Your fingers tighten around the note as your heartbeat thunders in your ears.

Every nerve in your body screams at you to move. But you’re frozen. The weight of the realization crashes over you in suffocating waves.

It was him.

It was always him.

A slow creak fills the silence. The sound of someone shifting.

“Hm… you’re up?”

Your breath stutters as you whip around. Haechan is sitting up on the couch, rubbing his eyes sleepily. His voice is laced with drowsiness, but his gaze—when it lands on you—is sharp.

Too sharp.

His eyes drop to the box in your hands. He sees the note. The tooth. And then… he smiles.

A lazy, knowing smile.

Your stomach twists. “Haechan…”

He tilts his head, still watching you. “You don’t look happy to see your gift. But don’t worry I’ve improved on it.”

Your grip tightens on the box. “Why?”

Haechan exhales through his nose, shaking his head like you’ve just asked something ridiculous. “Come on, Y/N. You’re smart. You’ve been smart this whole time. Figuring out clues, questioning the right people.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Except you never questioned me.”

You take a step back. “You helped me.”

“I guided you.” He corrects, his voice smooth. “I made sure you followed the right trail. I led you to suspects just to watch your reactions. Watch you look at them instead of me.” His smile widens, his dimples deep but unsettling. “And you fell for it. Every time.”

Your skin crawls. “The rose. The music box. The torn-out page?”

“All me,” he confirms easily. “Jaemin? Mark? Renjun? They were never real threats. Just distractions. I needed to make sure your eyes weren’t on me until the right moment.”

“And the tooth?” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

Haechan’s smile fades slightly, his expression unreadable. “That one’s special.” His fingers brush over his lower lip, and something dark flickers behind his gaze. “A part of me. It’s yours now.”

No way.

"Now we match."

A sick realization slithers through you.

Haechan… pulled out his own tooth.

For you. 

A cold sweat prickles down your spine. “You’re insane.”

Haechan only grins. “I’m in love.”

You feel the blood drain from your face.

He sighs, standing up slowly. “I knew you wouldn’t understand right away. That’s why I took my time. I sent gifts and gave you a story to follow.” His voice softens, almost affectionate. “I wanted to watch you figure it out. I wanted to see the exact moment you realized it’s always been me.”

He takes a step forward.

And you take a step back.

His eyes flicker with amusement. “Still running from me?”

Your fingers curl into fists.

You need to get out.

Now.

Haechan watches you like a predator sizing up its prey. His smile is still there, but now, you can see it for what it truly is. A mask. A carefully crafted performance. And you were his favorite audience.

Then, he moves.

Slow, deliberate. Like he has all the time in the world. From his pocket, he pulls out a small velvet box. A jewelry box. He rolls it between his fingers, eyes never leaving yours, before sliding it across the coffee table toward you. “I saved the best for last,” he murmurs.

You don’t want to look.

But you do.

Your hands tremble as you reach for the box, flipping it open. Inside, nestled in dark velvet, are a pair of earrings.

The charms dangle from delicate gold hooks, polished smooth. But even in the dim light of your apartment, you can see them for what they are.

Teeth.

Human teeth.

Your stomach twists violently.

Haechan hums, tilting his head. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they? I worked so hard on these.” His voice drops into something softer, almost coaxing. “You’ll wear them, won’t you?”

Your breath comes in shallow gasps.

You need to get out.

Haechan sees it before you even move. His lips curl into a knowing smirk, and then—

The lights flicker.

A click.

Your front door.

Locked.

Your heart slams against your ribs. “Haechan—”

He only smiles, stepping closer.

“Shh,” he soothes. “It’s Valentine’s Day, baby.”

A flickering TV screen bathes the darkened room in cold, artificial light. The newsroom anchor, a solemn-looking woman, speaks in a measured, professional tone.

"Breaking news tonight—local authorities have launched an investigation into the disappearance of Y/N L/N, last seen on February 14th. Friends report that they were searching for a secret admirer who had been leaving a series of mysterious gifts. However, they never returned home. If you have any information regarding their whereabouts, please contact—"

The report continues, but the sound is drowned out by the hum of a familiar tune.

A figure strolls past the display window of an electronics store, hands tucked casually into his pockets. His hoodie shields most of his face, but the dim glow of the screens flickers against his features.

Haechan.

A soft, lilting hum escapes his lips.

"My funny valentine…"

He walks on, disappearing into the city’s shadows.

The TV screen flickers.

The missing person poster flashes across the screen.

“The case remains open.”

“For now.”

me when i basically lied in the summary but not really 🫶🤗 love u guys too !!

TAGLIST ↬ @lyvhie @aquaphoenixz @galacticnct @yizhrt @polarisjisung @multifandomania @spacejip @peterm4rker @viasdreams @mango-bear

[fic-girlie]

Home Isn't a Place

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader

Summary: Javier Peña, haunted by his past, finds comfort in the quiet intimacy with you in Laredo. As he struggles with his fears of losing you, a tender night together helps him finally embrace the love and peace you've both been seeking, building a refuge away from the chaos of his former life.

Warnings: fluff, established relationship angst, swearing, smut, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, p in v sex

The Texas sun burns low, the sky stretched out in a bleeding bruise of oranges and purples when you find him on the back porch again. Same spot. Same slouched posture. Same cigarette half-gutted between his fingers, its thin trail of smoke curling lazily against the fading light.

He doesn’t hear you at first. Doesn’t move when the screen door creaks behind you. Just stares out across the stretch of dry field that crumbles into the horizon, like he’s trying to find something out there that he lost a long time ago.

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed over your chest, feeling the heat of the air cling to your skin. It’s the kind of dry, sticky heat that makes you feel trapped — like the world is holding its breath. And you know he feels it too. You’ve both been here long enough to know how time bends in this heat, stretches into endless afternoons and pulls the light out until it feels like it’ll never go away.

The porch smells like old wood, a little stale from the summer’s relentless sun, but the faint scent of tobacco lingers in the air around him, making your heart tighten. You watch him, the set of his shoulders rigid, his jaw tight like he’s chewing on something, something that keeps him here in this quiet limbo.

His presence is like the night — heavy, full of unspoken things. You’ve learned how to read him, how to see beyond the surface, even when he tries to hide.

“Javi,” you call softly.

He flicks the cigarette into the dirt, grinding the ember under his boot. When he finally looks over at you, his mouth pulls into a tired half-smile.

“Cariño,” he says, voice a low rasp from smoke and silence, the sound of it rough like gravel but familiar in the way it always is when he speaks your name.

You step outside, the warm wood of the porch creaking under your feet, and cross toward him. He's sitting on the bottom step now, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped in front of him. He watches you approach with a kind of weariness in his eyes, like he's both relieved and hesitant to have you so close.

“Still brooding?” you tease lightly, but there’s no heat behind it. Just a gentle prod to pull him out of himself.

He smirks — that lazy, devastating thing he’s always had. There’s a sharpness to it, though, something you can’t quite place. When his eyes meet yours, it’s like he’s seeing you through a fog, but not quite the way he wants to.

"Guess so," he murmurs, voice low. He lifts his gaze back to the horizon, his fingers twitching at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to reach for something. Or someone.

You cross the porch and stop in front of him, taking a moment to look at him in the dying light. His T-shirt is clinging to his frame, damp with sweat from the heat of the day. His jeans are worn through, almost faded past their original color, and the dirt from the field is still caught in the seams of his boots. The clothes tell you nothing about what’s inside him right now — just the story of a man trying to blend into a world that doesn’t want him.

He looks up at you, eyes shadowed but soft, as though he’s not sure how to handle your presence here. With him.

“Ven aquí,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, a quiet plea hidden in the tone. (“Come here,”)

You don’t hesitate, stepping toward him and letting him pull you down into his lap. His arms are warm, his hands large and heavy as they find your hips, steadying you, drawing you closer. The tension between you both is thick, a barely contained storm, and you can feel it in the way his fingertips brush against your skin, as if he’s testing how much pressure you’ll bear.

There’s a hesitation — a fraction of a second — before he buries his face in your chest, exhaling a heavy breath. He smells of tobacco and sweat, but there’s something else underneath it, something deeper. A scent that’s entirely him. And it settles into your bones in a way you don’t quite understand.

“You’re gonna break my heart one of these days,” he murmurs into your skin, a wry smile on his lips but pain lingering in his voice.

You brush his hair back gently, your fingers tangling in the soft strands. The scent of his shampoo mingles with the roughness of the day’s sweat, and you can’t help but notice how human he is when he lets his guard slip like this.

He’s quiet for a long time, but you know better than to ask him what’s wrong. When he’s ready, he’ll tell you. But for now, you just let him hold you. Let him feel the steady beat of your heart, the warmth of your skin, the way your breath catches in a way that’s almost unnoticeable.

“Sometimes,” he says eventually, his voice tight with something unsaid, “I wonder if I’m gonna be okay. After everything.”

Your hand moves to his jaw, cupping it gently, forcing him to meet your eyes. His gaze is intense, almost desperate in a way that surprises you.

“You are, Javi,” you assure him softly. “You’re here. And that’s enough.”

The quietness that follows is comfortable but heavy, like the space between you both is thickening with unspoken words. You rest your forehead against his, letting your breaths match. The silence between you both isn’t awkward — it’s full of understanding. Full of all the things you both still haven’t said.

Finally, he breaks the silence, his voice barely more than a rasp. “You still love me, right?”

It’s a simple question, but it cuts through the air between you like a blade. He’s not asking for reassurance, not in the way most people do. This is something deeper, something real — an acknowledgement of the darkness he’s been living with, and the fear that he’ll lose the one person who truly understands him.

You smile softly, brushing your lips across his forehead. “Por supuesto que sí, Javi.” (“Of course I do, Javi.”)

But he doesn’t seem to believe it, not fully. He searches your face, as if he’s looking for something — an answer, a sign.

“Even after everything I’ve done?” he asks, eyes searching yours, haunted.

You nod, wrapping your arms around him tightly, pulling him in close. “Even after everything.”

His breath shudders, and he holds you tighter, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. And in that moment, all the walls between you both dissolve. The noise of the world, the weight of everything that’s happened, fades into nothing. It’s just you and him, raw and real in a way that only the two of you understand.

Javier leans in slowly, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that feels like coming home. It’s slow, careful at first, the pressure of his mouth gentle as he tests the waters. But there’s something building beneath it, a quiet fire that’s been smoldering for too long, hidden beneath layers of silence and unspoken truths.

When his tongue slips into your mouth, it’s hungry, needy, the taste of him deep and familiar. His hands find your back again, sliding under your shirt, his fingers burning against your skin as he pulls you closer.

You respond eagerly, meeting his kiss with equal hunger, your hands tracing the hard lines of his shoulders, his chest. The man who’s always been in control, always the one with the upper hand, is suddenly lost in you, a prisoner to the softness you offer.

His kiss deepens, desperate now, but still filled with that strange gentleness, as if he’s afraid of breaking something.

Javier's breath comes faster now, matching the rhythm of your own heartbeats, a steady thrum between you both. His hands trail down your sides, tugging you closer until you can feel the heat of his body against yours, the sharp line of his muscles pressing into you with every movement.

The kiss breaks for a moment, both of you gasping for air, and he looks at you — eyes dark with desire but still searching, still seeking reassurance. There’s a tenderness in his gaze, something raw and vulnerable that’s rare for him. He might have fought wars, dealt with death, lived through betrayal and loss, but in this moment, it’s you he’s fighting for.

His lips find yours again, softer this time, slower, as though savoring the taste of your mouth, the feel of your body against his. His hands, once so steady and certain, are now trembling ever so slightly, as if he’s afraid of breaking the moment — afraid of losing you, losing control.

You pull back just enough to look him in the eyes. “It’s just us now,” you whisper, fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “No one else. Just us.”

He closes his eyes, letting out a slow exhale as if your words are grounding him. His hands move lower, fingers dancing along the hem of your shirt, testing, questioning whether you’ll let him. His lips brush across your throat, down the curve of your collarbone, and you shudder at the sensation, your pulse racing under the heat of his touch.

He takes a shuddering breath, as if trying to compose himself, but the tenderness in his movements betrays him. His hands are slow, gentle as they slide up your back, sending sparks of sensation trailing after his touch. You tilt your head back, giving him access, and he presses his lips against the sensitive skin of your neck, kissing you softly, lovingly, as if he’s afraid to be too rough with you.

“Dios,” he breathes against your skin, lips still grazing you. “I just… need to feel you.” (“God,”)

He groans, a low, deep sound that vibrates through your chest, and in one smooth motion, he stands up, lifting you effortlessly in his arms. The movement is fluid, sure, and you cling to him, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carries you into the house.

Javier’s hands are still on you as he carries you through the house, your arms locked around his neck, your bodies pressed so close that you can feel the heat of him through his clothes. His movements are deliberate, purposeful, but there's an edge to them now, a rawness in the way he handles you, like he needs this — needs you — to remind himself that he’s still here, still alive, still able to feel.

He doesn’t stop until you’re in the bedroom, the door creaking softly as he kicks it shut behind him. The light in the room is dim, the only illumination coming from the soft glow of the streetlights outside, casting shadows across the walls. The air is cooler in here, but the tension between you both is thick, a palpable heat that feels like it could burn through everything.

He sets you down gently on the edge of the bed, his hands lingering on your waist for a moment, grounding you both. There’s a shift in the air — an unspoken understanding that what comes next is more than just physical. It’s a slow dance, a melding of minds and bodies, and neither of you is willing to rush it.

Javier steps back for a moment, his chest rising and falling with each breath, as though he’s giving himself a second to gather his thoughts. His eyes are dark, haunted in a way that tells you everything — tells you what he’s been through, what he’s afraid of losing, and what he’s desperate to hold on to. And right now, that’s you.

“You still sure about this?” he asks, his voice low and strained, his words hanging in the air between you like fragile glass. He’s vulnerable now, laying himself bare in a way he never has before.

You rise from the bed, your fingers brushing across his chest, feeling the heat of him beneath the fabric of his shirt. “I’ve always been sure about you, Javi,” you reply softly, guiding him back toward you. You feel his breath catch when your hands slide up to the back of his neck, pulling him down for a kiss. This time, it’s not slow or hesitant. It’s deep, urgent, as if he’s trying to tell you everything he’s been holding back — all the emotions, all the fear, all the longing.

His hands come up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks, as if memorizing the curve of your skin. When he pulls away, his eyes search yours, flicking down to your lips and back to your eyes, needing the reassurance you’ve given him over and over again.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers, his voice cracking. It’s the same refrain he’s been repeating in his mind for years, the one that always hangs in the air between you both. But you won’t let him believe it. Not now. Not when he’s looking at you like this, vulnerable and open, raw in a way that only you’ve seen.

“You’re wrong,” you say, pressing your lips to his in a tender kiss before breaking it. “You have me. And that’s enough.”

You guide him back to the bed, both of you falling into it together. Javier’s hands are trembling now as he undoes the buttons of his shirt, each one slow, methodical. His gaze never leaves yours, his eyes searching, asking for permission without needing to say the words aloud. And you give it to him, not through words, but through the way you move closer, the way your body reacts to him.

His shirt falls to the floor, revealing the little scars on his chest — old, faded marks from battles fought long ago. You trace the lines with your fingertips, feeling the remnants of his past beneath your touch. Javier lets out a breath at the contact, his hands resting on your waist, but his eyes are still focused on you, searching for something you don’t quite understand.

“What is it?” you ask softly, your hand moving to his cheek, feeling the roughness of his stubble under your palm.

“I don’t want to break you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to give you all of me without losing everything else.”

You kiss him again, soft and slow, your lips moving against his with a tenderness that silences all his fears. “You’re not going to break me, Javi,” you murmur. “I’m not going anywhere. I want all of you. All of it.”

His breath catches in his throat, and before you can say another word, he’s kissing you again — deeper this time, harder, as if he’s trying to lose himself in you. His hands roam down your body, touching you like he’s been starved for years, his fingers brushing against the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist. His touch is electric, sending waves of sensation through you, and you let out a breathless sigh when he pulls you closer, pressing you into the bed.

The heat between you both intensifies, the room feeling smaller with every passing second. Javier’s lips trail down your neck, over your collarbone, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. His hands are steady now, but there’s still that urgency in his touch, the hunger in his kiss that tells you how much he’s been holding back.

You let your hands wander, sliding up his back, feeling the muscles tighten under your fingertips. He shivers at the contact, his lips pausing over the sensitive skin of your throat. “God, I’ve missed you,” he breathes, the words coming out in a desperate rush.

You pull him back up to kiss him again, your hands working at the waistband of his jeans, unbuckling them quickly, feeling the tension in his body as he allows you to take control for a moment. His jeans fall to the floor, and you can feel the heat of his body pressed fully against yours now, the evidence of his desire hard and unmistakable.

Javier’s hands move to your clothes, tugging at the fabric of your shirt, his fingers trembling as he undoes the buttons. His touch is gentle, deliberate, and when your shirt falls away, he takes a moment to look at you, his gaze soft but filled with longing. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost reverent.

You smile at him, cupping his face in your hands, and kiss him again — slow, soft, as if you’re reminding him that he’s home.

Then, the kiss breaks. His fingers trace the curve of your body, and as you lean back, he follows you, moving between your legs, his breath ragged against your skin as he kisses his way down your body.

Javier’s kisses grow more urgent as he moves lower, his lips leaving a trail of heat in their wake, his touch moving with reverence as if he’s memorizing every inch of your skin. You gasp softly as he presses his lips to the sensitive skin of your stomach, his hands running up your thighs, his fingers brushing against your bare skin, sending waves of warmth through you.

His touch is reverent, but his hunger is undeniable, as if he’s been starved for far too long, not just for you, but for the connection you share. You can feel it in the way his hands grip you, in the way his lips are feverish against your skin, but there’s still that tenderness there — that unspoken care that makes everything feel more intimate, more real.

When his lips reach the waistband of your underwear, he pauses, looking up at you, eyes dark with desire but still filled with something else. Something deeper. His hands rest on your hips, fingers digging gently into your skin as if he’s holding you here with him, in this moment, like he never wants to let go.

His hands move with a renewed sense of urgency, unbuttoning your pants, sliding them off your legs, and tossing them aside before he leans down to press his lips to your inner thigh. The touch is gentle, tender, almost teasing, and you feel your breath hitch as your pulse quickens under his touch.

His lips move higher, kissing along the sensitive skin, until he’s hovering just above where you want him most. He pauses, his eyes meeting yours, his expression soft but hungry, as if he’s asking for permission, for a silent affirmation that this is what you both want.

You nod, pulling him closer, urging him to give in to what you both need. “Por favor, Javi…” you whisper, the plea escaping your lips before you can stop it. The sound of his name, filled with desire, seems to shatter the last of his restraint.

Without another word, he moves lower, his breath hot against your skin, and you arch into him, your fingers threading through his hair as you pull him closer. His lips press to you, soft and slow, as if he’s savoring the moment, the feeling of being so close, so connected to you. His tongue brushes against your skin, sending a shiver of pleasure down your spine as he takes his time, exploring, tasting.

You gasp as his hands slide under your hips, lifting you slightly to give him better access. His movements are deliberate, almost reverent, as if he’s worshiping you, and the intensity of it is overwhelming. You tangle your fingers in the sheets, your breath coming faster, as every movement of his sends shocks of pleasure through you.

"Javi..." you whisper again, the word a breathless plea, but it’s more than just desire. It’s a declaration. A promise. You belong to each other.

When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are dark, filled with a wild hunger that matches the storm brewing inside you. He leans over you, kissing you fiercely, his hands moving to undo the clasp of your bra, pulling it off and tossing it aside before he takes a moment to look at you once more — this time with awe in his eyes.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs against your lips, and then, without another word, he lowers himself to you again, kissing you deeply, his hands tracing every curve of your body, as if he’s trying to memorize you.

The heat between you both grows unbearable, each kiss more desperate than the last, as you both give in completely to the overwhelming need to be together.

He pulls back for a moment, his breath ragged, his eyes flicking down to your body as if he can’t believe you’re really here, really with him. And then, with a soft growl, he positions himself between your legs, kissing you one last time, slow and deep, as if this is the last kiss he’ll ever get.

When he finally enters you, it’s like everything stops. There’s a moment of perfect stillness — a breathless pause where neither of you moves, neither of you dares to breathe, because the connection between you both is so intense that it feels like the world has fallen away. All that exists is you and him, in this moment, lost in each other.

He begins to move slowly at first, testing the rhythm, his gaze never leaving yours. His hands are gentle as they rest on your hips, guiding you closer to him, pulling you deeper into the moment. His breath is ragged against your ear as he whispers your name like a prayer, his voice filled with awe, filled with wonder.

You pull him closer, urging him on, and he responds, the pace quickening, the heat between you both intensifying with every thrust. The room seems to pulse around you, the world outside forgotten as you lose yourselves in each other, in the slow, sweet rhythm that builds and builds, until you can feel the tension tightening in your chest.

It’s not just about pleasure anymore. It’s about connection. About needing each other in ways that go beyond the physical, beyond anything either of you have ever experienced before. His name escapes your lips in a soft gasp, and that’s all it takes — he comes undone, his body shuddering against yours as he finally lets go, completely and entirely, the last of his restraint slipping away.

You follow him soon after, your body trembling as you reach your peak, and for a moment, everything is perfect. It’s just you, and it’s just him, and nothing else matters.

As you both come down from the high, he collapses beside you, his body still trembling, his breathing slow but steady. You curl up against him, his arm pulling you closer, holding you tight like he never wants to let go.

For the first time in a long time, you both feel at peace — like nothing in the world can touch you, like you’ve finally found a place where you both belong.

[nhmkhnh]

jock!vi (hockey team captain) x heart throb!fem!user

preface: the things she would do.

author's note: i wrote each in small scenario so i decided put all of them in this post. if you want to, there is also my bot (on janitor ai) abt this topic, too, here!

wrn: lowercase, mentioning about smoking.

masterlist / janitor ai / c.ai / carrd

when greeting you.

vi leaned back against the wall outside the lecture hall, one boot kicked up behind her, a lazy grin tugging at her mouth the second she spotted you in the crowd. she pushed off and strode straight toward you, zero hesitation, zero shame.

"well, well," she drawled, eyes raking over you shamelessly. "ain't you the prettiest thing i've seen all day."

she bumped your shoulder lightly with hers — casual to anyone else, but she lingered, close enough for her scent (clean sweat, a little vanilla) to wrap around you.

"you miss me, sweetheart?" vi added, half-smirking, half-serious. "'cause i sure as hell missed you."

when she sees you talking too much with someone else.

vi stood a few feet away, hockey bag slung over one shoulder, pretending to mess with her phone. her jaw clenched tight as she watched you laugh — laugh — at something some random guy said, like he was the funniest bastard alive.

when you finally looked over and caught her eye, she didn’t smile. she just tilted her head, slow, deliberate, and said, voice low:

"you makin' new friends, huh?"

vi's eyes narrowed, mouth curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "careful, sweetheart. not everybody's got good intentions around here."

she said it lightly, almost teasing — but her knuckles had gone white around the strap of her bag.

when she leaves an anonymous gift for you.

it was raining when you opened your dorm door — and there, sitting in the middle of the welcome mat, was a little box.

inside: a small silver pendant shaped like a hockey puck, delicate and pretty, with your initials carved into the side. no note. no signature. just the faintest trace of a scent you knew too well — vi's cologne.

down the hall, half-hidden in the stairwell shadows, vi watched you pick it up, heart slamming against her ribs. she whispered under her breath, knowing you couldn’t hear:

"happy birthday, baby."

and then she turned and disappeared down the stairs before she could do something reckless — like run to you and beg you to wear it just for her.

when she offers her jacket. (but it's so much more)

you were shivering at the bus stop, arms wrapped around yourself in the late-night rain. before you could even complain, vi was there — tossing her heavy hockey jacket over your shoulders without a word.

"put it on," she muttered, not meeting your eyes.

the fabric was warm, still carrying her heat, her smell — leather and sweat and something achingly her. you opened your mouth to say thank you, but vi cut you off, voice rough:

"don’t. just… stay warm, yeah?"

under the streetlight, her ears were burning red.

when getting in a fight. (because someone touched you)

it was supposed to be a normal party. until some drunk idiot brushed too close to you — and vi saw red.

the guy didn't even get a second chance. one second he was laughing, and the next he was slammed against the wall, vi's forearm across his throat, snarling:

"you don’t touch her."

everyone was staring. you were frozen. vi didn’t care. didn’t even see them.

she only looked at you, chest heaving, voice shaking:

"you good, sweetheart?"

when pulling you into the hockey locker room (to hide)

you were running from a security guard (don't ask), heart hammering, laughing breathlessly — and vi yanked you into the dark locker room, hand clamped over your mouth.

you landed chest-to-chest against her.

"shh," she breathed against your ear, her body a wall of heat against yours.

the smell of sweat and soap clung to her skin. her fingers splayed at your waist, steadying you — but they stayed there, lingering, like she couldn't let go even if she tried.

her voice was barely a whisper:

"you’re killin’ me here, baby."

when singing (drunk) and accidentally revealing her feelings

the dorm party was dying down. someone shoved a karaoke mic into vi's hand — and to everyone's shock, she actually took it.

she sang low, gruff, kinda off-key — but when her eyes found yours across the room, the world went still.

she changed the lyrics mid-song:

"i’d give up everything… just to call you mine."

your breath caught. vi smirked crookedly, but there was a desperate edge to it — like she knew exactly what she’d just done.

when lighting a cigarette and offering you the first drag.

vi leaned against the railing outside the dorms, cigarette dangling from her lips, looking every inch the bad girl she pretended to be.

when you walked up, she plucked the smoke from her mouth and held it out to you, two fingers poised.

"first hit’s yours, sweetheart," she said, voice lazy and low.

when you hesitated, she smirked.

"or you scared you’ll get addicted?"

she wasn’t talking about the cigarette. not really.

when she takes you on a motorcycle ride.

"you ever been on a bike before?" vi asked, tossing you a spare helmet with a grin.

before you could answer, she was straddling the seat, revving the engine.

when you climbed on behind her, she grabbed your hands and placed them firmly around her waist.

"hold on tight, yeah?" she said, glancing back, a wicked glint in her eye. "i don’t want you flyin’ off unless you’re fallin’ for me."

the way she laughed after didn’t hide the fact she meant every word.

when teaching you to fight (way too hands-on)

you asked her, half-joking, if she could teach you how to throw a punch.

vi didn’t even blink.

she grabbed your hands, positioned them carefully, her big palms swallowing yours.

"loosen up, killer," she murmured, so close you could feel her breath on your cheek.

when you tried to pull back, embarrassed, vi’s grip tightened — gentle but firm.

"you wanna learn or you wanna run?" she said, smirking — but her voice was thick with something heavier. something like hope.

when getting jealous at a bar.

you were dancing. laughing. living. and vi? vi was three beers deep and seething.

when some random put his hands on your hips, she saw red.

she shoved through the crowd without thinking, grabbing your wrist and spinning you toward her.

"enough of that," she growled, dragging you off the floor like you were hers — and maybe, maybe you were.

you stumbled after her, heart racing, hearing her mutter under her breath:

"fuck if i’m gonna watch someone else touch you."

vi watching you sleep.

you fell asleep on her bed mid-movie, a blanket half-kicked off, lips parted slightly in the softest breath.

vi sat at the edge, frozen, just… staring.

she reached out — then pulled back. reached again — then brushed your hair back with the lightest touch, scared to wake you.

"you don’t even know," she whispered, voice cracking in the dark.

"you don’t even fuckin' know what you do to me."

she sat there the whole night, guarding you like a secret.

vi showing up after a nightmare.

you called her at 2 am. didn’t even explain. just said: "please."

vi was there in ten minutes, hoodie thrown over pajamas, eyes wide and wild.

she didn’t ask questions. just climbed into your bed, wrapped you up in her arms, and held you like you might break if she let go.

"you’re okay," she whispered, over and over. "i got you. always got you, baby."

and when you buried your face in her chest, clinging tight — she shut her eyes and pressed her mouth to your hair.

like a prayer. like a promise.

when she’s angry.

vi slammed her locker shut so hard the metal rattled down the hallway.

"un-fuckin'-believable," she muttered, voice low and dangerous.

you blinked at her, surprised, but she stalked up to you, fire in her eyes — not at you, but burning for you.

"you think all these assholes lookin' at you give a damn about you?" she snapped, voice a rough growl. "you think they'd stay when shit gets real?"

she grabbed your wrist, not rough, just desperate, grounding herself.

"i would," vi said, barely above a whisper. "i’m right fuckin' here."

her jaw tensed like she was holding back more — a lot more — but she let go and stepped back, running both hands through her hair like she wanted to scream.

"just—" she bit down on the words. "just stop lookin' at everyone else like that, yeah? before i do somethin' stupid."

when she’s desperate.

it was late. way too late. you were curled up on your bed, barely keeping your eyes open, when vi just snapped.

she sat down heavy on the edge of your mattress, voice rough and ragged:

"can you just… look at me? just for a second?"

when you did, confused and sleepy, vi dragged a hand through her hair, restless, broken.

"i can’t — i can't fuckin' keep actin' like you're just my friend," she said, almost a whisper. "every time you smile at me, i feel like i'm gonna fuckin' lose it. and you don't even know."

she laughed — a low, painful sound — and looked down at her hands like they might steady her heart. "i’d burn down the whole damn world if you asked me to. and you’re sittin' here thinkin' i’m just your hockey buddy."

bonus: when she pins you against the wall (finally snapping).

it happened too fast.

one second, you were laughing at something stupid, trying to slip past vi in the narrow hallway outside your dorm — and the next, your back was pressed flat against the cold wall, her body crowding yours, big hands braced on either side of your head.

vi wasn’t smiling. not even a little.

her breath hitched, chest heaving like she'd just run ten miles, fists curling against the wall like she needed something to punch just to survive standing this close to you.

"you drive me fuckin' crazy, you know that?"

her voice was low, shaking with something she couldn’t name, something too big to hide anymore. those sharp blue eyes bored into you, burning, furious, desperate.

"you walk around, all sweet and soft and fuckin' perfect, and you don't even know," she growled, dipping her head lower until her forehead nearly touched yours. "don't even fuckin' see what you do to me."

her hands trembled — barely — but she held herself back, still not touching you beyond the brutal cage of her arms.

"you think i don't notice the way you look at everybody else? laughin', flirtin' — like i ain't right fuckin' here, starin' at you like you hung the goddamn moon."

vi sucked in a breath, nostrils flaring, jaw clenching so hard it hurt.

"i can't do it anymore," she rasped. "i can't keep pretendin'. i can't keep lettin' you be this close without… without fuckin' claiming you, sweetheart."

her words echoed between you, ragged and raw.

and still — still — she didn’t touch you.

because she was giving you a choice. because no matter how much she ached for you, she would never take what you didn't want to give.

but her eyes? her eyes screamed: say something. take me. i'm yours if you want me.

[enemiestolovershoe]

JJ & Reader going night surfing and falling asleep in a hammock together, only for John b to find them in the morning and tease tf out of them about it?

More than just friends

JJ Maybank x bsf!reader

Summary: After a night of surfing and stargazing, JJ and the reader share a quiet moment that doesn’t go unnoticed the next morning.

Words: 1.4k

Warnings: Not proofread, minor drug use (smoking a joint)

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The sun was dipping below the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over the Pogues’ little setup by the bonfire outside the Chateau. The night was calm, almost hypnotic, and the waves lapped softly in the distance as the fire crackled. You, JJ, John B, Pope, and Kiara sat around, laughing and recounting stories, the kind of simple, perfect night that only really happened with this crew.

Kiara stretched, yawning, as the night wore on. “Alright, I’m calling it. I’ve got to get some sleep if we’re hitting the water tomorrow.”

Pope yawned as well, rubbing his eyes. “Same. I’m wiped out.”

John B gave you and JJ a lazy wave as he and the others trudged inside. “Don’t stay up too late, you two,” he called, smirking.

JJ just chuckled, kicking back against the log he was leaning on. “As if you can tell us what to do, JB.”

Soon, it was just you and JJ, sitting by the fire, watching as the embers glowed red-orange against the night sky. There was something peaceful about it—just the two of you, the soft crash of waves, and the dim glow of the fire.

After a few minutes, you got an idea. You nudged JJ, your eyes bright with mischief. “Hey. Wanna make this night even better?”

JJ raised an eyebrow, already grinning. “What, you got something up your sleeve?”

“Night surfing,” you said, practically bouncing with excitement. “The waves have been perfect all evening. Let’s hit them before they die down.”

He laughed, eyes lighting up at the idea. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” you replied, challenging him. “Unless you’re too tired, of course.”

JJ gave you an exaggerated scoff. “Me, too tired? Never.” He jumped up, pulling you with him. “Come on, let’s grab the boards.”

With a shared, excited look, you ran to get your surfboards, adrenaline already beginning to pulse through you both. The ocean looked almost mysterious in the dim moonlight, dark yet welcoming, as if it was inviting you two to take on one more adventure.

Once you waded into the water, JJ looked over at you, his grin barely visible in the dim light. “Ready to get smoked?”

“Please,” you said with a smirk, paddling out past him. “Let’s see if you can even keep up.”

The waves were just right—big enough to give you a challenge, but soft enough to make it fun. You rode wave after wave, the two of you laughing and occasionally shouting as you tried to one-up each other, the sound echoing over the water.

After a particularly good ride, JJ turned to you, still out of breath, his hair wet and clinging to his face. “I have to hand it to you, you didn’t wipe out as much as I thought you would,” he teased.

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, please. I was waiting for you to keep up.”

He shot you a lopsided grin. “Guess you’ll have to wait forever then, ‘cause I’m untouchable out here.”

As the waves finally began to die down, you both paddled back to shore, breathing heavily and grinning from ear to ear. Back on the sand, you stretched out, laughing as you both tried to catch your breath.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

“That was…awesome,” JJ said, staring up at the stars.

“Right?” you replied, lying back on the cool sand beside him.

After a few moments of quiet, JJ sat up, brushing sand from his board shorts. “Come on, let’s head back.”

Back at the Chateau, you both paused on the porch, feeling the night wind down. You looked over at JJ, and he held up the joint he’d pulled from his pocket with a grin. “One last thing to top off the night?”

“Only if you’re sharing,” you teased.

“Always,” he said, and motioned to the hammock. “Best seat in the house.”

You climbed into the hammock beside him, finding your balance as it swung gently with both of your weights. You took the joint from him, inhaling deeply, and watched as JJ lit up, the flame flickering in his face.

“Sometimes I think this is what I’d do forever if I could,” JJ murmured, looking up at the stars through the trees.

You exhaled, passing the joint back to him. “What, get high in a hammock every night?”

“No,” he laughed, nudging your shoulder with his. “I mean… just this. Just chilling out here with you guys, like this is all that matters.”

You looked over at him, seeing a side of JJ you didn’t always get to see. “You know… you’re kind of a sap,” you teased, though your voice was soft.

“Don’t let it get around,” he muttered, looking at you, his eyes softened. “Can’t have everyone knowing I actually have feelings.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” you said, smiling, a warmth in your chest that you couldn’t quite place.

He took another hit, handing the joint back to you. “You’re not too bad yourself, you know that?”

You gave him a look. “Wow, what a compliment.”

“Hey,” he said, laughing, his hand resting just beside yours, close enough that you could feel his warmth. “I don’t just give those out to anyone.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help smiling. It felt so easy, lying there with him, like it was the most natural thing in the world. The two of you drifted into quiet conversation, talking about anything and everything until the night started to blur around the edges. Before you knew it, the world was growing hazy, your eyes beginning to close as you felt the gentle sway of the hammock.

At some point, you felt JJ’s arm around you, his breathing deep and steady as he fell asleep beside you. You leaned into him, the warmth of his presence making you feel safe and content as you drifted off.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The next morning, sunlight filtered through the trees, slowly waking up the Pogues inside the Chateau. John B was the first to stir, stretching and blinking as he got up, wandering outside to see what mischief you and JJ had gotten into.

What he found made him pause—and then grin.

You and JJ were still tangled up in the hammock, your head resting on his shoulder, his arm securely around you, both fast asleep and oblivious to the world. John B stifled a laugh, fishing his phone out of his pocket to snap a few quick pictures.

“Too good to pass up,” he muttered, trying not to laugh too loudly. With one last amused glance at you both, he slipped back inside, shaking his head with a smirk.

An hour later, you stirred awake, blinking against the bright sunlight. It took a moment for you to realize where you were—and that JJ was still beside you, his arm comfortably around your shoulders, your hand resting on his chest. Your heart skipped a beat, but before you could move, JJ’s eyes blinked open, a sleepy smile spreading across his face.

“Morning, surfer girl,” he murmured, his voice rough from sleep.

“Morning,” you whispered back, feeling your cheeks warm, though you made no move to pull away.

Eventually, the two of you untangled yourselves, reluctantly climbing out of the hammock and making your way back inside. As you entered, John B was leaning against the counter, watching you both with an obnoxiously smug grin.

“Well, well, look who’s up,” he greeted, his tone thick with amusement. “Good morning, lovebirds.”

You rolled your eyes, though your cheeks flushed. “Shut up, John B.”

JJ just grinned, trying to brush it off. “Real funny, man. Keep it up.”

“Oh, I will,” John B said, laughing. He folded his arms, giving you both a knowing look. “So… how’d you two sleep?”

JJ narrowed his eyes, clearly suspicious. “What’s with the interrogation?”

Without a word, John B pulled out his phone and held up the pictures he���d taken. “I don’t need to interrogate you when the evidence speaks for itself.”

Your jaw dropped. “John B, what the hell?”

John B raised his hands innocently, grinning. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just saying, the proof is in the photos.”

JJ rubbed the back of his neck, laughing it off. “Dude, come on. We were just…you know, we were tired. It was a long night.”

“Right,” John B said, his tone laced with sarcasm. He gave you both a serious look, his voice dropping slightly. “I don’t know if you’re really that blind, but you two are clearly more than just friends.”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

A/n: I hope you like it. :)

[gweelczz]

“Paula”

Bo Chow x OC (Rosetta)

Genre: angst, hurt and comfort, happy ending

Warnings: vampiric turning process, Rosetta shoots a gun

Summary: Rosetta has a traumatic experience and Bo steps up as a husband

The shotgun blast echoed like judgment through the backwoods. Smoke curled through the trees and settled like a veil over Rosetta’s face, over her soul. The air went still. Even the frogs fell silent.

Paula’s body hit the ground with a thud too soft for the weight of what just happened. Her friend. Her sister in spirit. Her prayer partner. Her keeper of secrets on long Sunday walks.

Now gone.

And worse than gone—turned.

It had all happened so fast.

Rosetta and Paula had stepped outside the juke joint for air. The heat had been thick as stew and the music inside loud enough to rattle ribs. Rosetta had laughed at something Paula said, head thrown back, eyes catching moonlight. It was just like old times—until it wasn’t.

That’s when Stack came staggering out of the shadows, eyes wild, shirt torn, blood trailing from his mouth.

“Stack?” Paula had asked, brows furrowed.

But it wasn’t Stack anymore. Not really.

He lunged.

Rosetta screamed, tried to pull Paula back—but he was too fast. His teeth sank into Paula’s neck before she could even raise a hand.

The sound Paula made — a wet, gurgling cry — would haunt Rosetta ’til her dying day.

Rosetta had fired once, hitting Stack in the shoulder. He hissed and vanished into the dark like a demon scorned. But it was already too late.

Paula turned.

Her eyes changed first — no longer soft brown but milky, hungry, wrong. Her mouth dripped blood, her movements jerky and too fast. Rosetta backed up, hand trembling on the shotgun.

“Paula… baby, it’s me… it’s Rose…” she pleaded.

But Paula growled low in her throat and charged, hands clawed, teeth bared.

Rosetta screamed.

And pulled the trigger.

The blast knocked Paula backward into the dirt. She lay still, a trickle of blood running from her lips. The air filled with gunpowder and grief.

Rosetta stood frozen at the doorway of the juke joint, her shotgun still hot in her hands. The blood on her skirt wasn’t hers. The tears streaming down her cheeks weren’t new. But this grief—this pain—felt ancient. Felt like something her ancestors had cried over before her.

She leaned back hard against the door, let the wood hold her up, and the dam inside her finally broke.

Her sobs came loud and raw, torn from somewhere so deep it made her knees buckle.

That’s when Bo came.

He didn’t ask no questions.

Didn’t need to.

He saw the blood. He saw the gun on the floor. He saw the way Rosetta’s hands shook and how her gold eyes were drowning.

He moved fast, like a man made of stone and fire.

“Rosie—” he breathed, catching her just as she collapsed.

She reached for him like she was drownin’. And he was the only thing keepin’ her above water.

Bo caught her in one arm—just one, strong and sure—and lifted her clean off the floor like she weighed nothing at all. Cradled her bridal-style, like a man holdin’ somethin’ sacred. She pressed her face into his chest, sobs shakin’ her whole body.

“I had to, Bo… she was gone… she was gone, baby,” she wailed into his shirt.

“I know, baby,” he said low, his voice thick. “You did what you had to.”

He carried her past the dim tables and half-spent candles of the juke joint. Past the door where the blues still buzzed low and lazy. Into the back room, quiet and warm, where the world couldn’t reach them.

He sat down slow in the old chair nestled by the window, still holdin’ her in his lap like a child.

Rosetta curled against him, fists full of his shirt, tears soaking through the fabric like rain on dry earth.

Bo wrapped both arms around her now, rockin’ her gentle, one hand slid up into that big curly afro of hers, cradlin’ her scalp like he was prayin’ through her pain.

“I’m right here,” he murmured. “Ain’t lettin’ go. You hear me, Rosie? You safe. You with me.”

He kissed her temple. Her forehead. Her cheek.

Each kiss like a promise.

Her sobs slowed, but didn’t stop. She was still tremblin’. Still grieving. Still fightin’ ghosts.

Bo didn’t try to hush her.

He let her cry. Held her tighter. Let her fall apart in his arms so he could piece her back together.

Because that’s what he did.

That’s what love did.

———

The morning came slow, like honey poured from a cold jar.

Sunlight pushed gently through the cracks in the juke joint’s walls, cutting soft gold lines across the dusty wooden floor. The blues had long faded into silence. Folks had gone home, and the air was heavy with the memory of the night before.

Bo was still asleep in the chair, head tilted back, his arms slack but warm around Rosetta, who hadn’t moved in hours.

She stirred first.

Her eyes opened, red-rimmed but steady now. The weight of the night still sat on her chest like a stone, but underneath it—like roots pushin’ through hard ground—there was something stronger.

Purpose.

She rose slow, careful not to wake him.

He mumbled in his sleep, brows furrowed. Rosetta kissed the corner of his mouth and whispered, “I ain’t goin’ far, baby.”

She moved through the back room barefoot, her long nightdress brushing the floor like a whisper. Her hands found her satchel, the one she never traveled without, full of things passed down through the women in her bloodline—blessed herbs, scraps of cloth, red thread, bones wrapped in linen, river stones, and oil pressed from roots she’d dug herself.

She laid them out on the table one by one, like she was settin’ a place for God.

First, she lit a white candle. Let the flame rise clean and bright.

Then she pulled a sprig of dried rosemary and crushed it between her fingers. For remembrance and clarity.

A few drops of oil on the cloth—clove, for protection. Patchouli, for strength. Myrrh, for the dead.

Then, she reached up and unhooked one of her gold earrings—a small hoop that had once belonged to her mama. The metal was warm from her skin, still pulsing with her spirit. She kissed it, placed it gently at the center of the cloth.

So he always carries a piece of me close.

Then, without hesitation, she reached into the folds of Bo’s shirt—still draped over the chair where he’d laid it—and took the button closest to his heart. The thread snapped with a tug. She kissed it before pressing it into the bundle.

She worked in silence, murmuring low prayers in Gullah, in Creole, in the deep Southern tongue of the women who came before her. Words not meant for ears, only spirit.

When the bundle was tied tight with red thread, she held it in both hands and breathed into it—slow, deep, powerful. Her tears fell on the cloth, baptizin’ it.

She pressed it to her heart.

Then walked back to him.

Bo stirred as she kneeled beside the chair, reaching up to cup his jaw with one warm hand.

“Baby,” she whispered, voice thick but sure, “I made somethin’ for you.”

His eyes blinked open slow, soft with sleep and love. “What’s that, Rosie?”

She placed the little mojo bundle in his palm and closed his fingers around it. “Somethin’ to keep you safe. Somethin’ to keep you close.”

Bo looked down at the cloth bundle like it was holy. “You always watchin’ over me,” he murmured.

Rosetta nodded, gold eyes gleamin’ in the sun. “Ain’t gon’ stop now.”

She kissed his forehead and pressed her own against it, their foreheads touchin’, breath minglin’.

And as he pulled her into his lap again, arms wrapped tight around her, she prayed—not out loud this time, not for the dead or the darkness—but a silent prayer, just for them.

Let him always come home.

Let him always know I love him.

Let this charm hold what my heart cannot say when I’m too afraid to lose him.

And in that morning hush, with the blues sleepin’ in the walls and her spirit curled around his, Rosetta held Bo close.

Because love in Clarksdale was never gentle.

But it was real.

And that was more than enough.

[satinchicz]

BURNOUT

musician!Se-mi x fem!reader

TW: smoking

The ballpoint pen went flying against the wall, Se-mi groaned in annoyance before letting her back fall against the chair…she’d been trying to write music lyrics for practically the entire day, yet it seems the muses had started a riot against her because everytime her eyes glanced at the blank piece of paper her brain turned into red jelly.

Perhaps she wasn’t cut out for this

But if not this then what else? Music was her life- well you were her life too but that was different, the bin by her desk was practically overflowing with torn pages by now, god why wasn’t anything coming to her?!

Today- when she decided to dedicate the day to her lyricism, of course everything had to go to shit. Se-mi got up from the chair, her movements lazy, like her muscles were glued together creating a sticky uncomfortable feeling. Looking out the window in the kitchen she sighed once again, before reaching for a half empty box of Marlboro cigarettes, opting to relax a tiny bit with the tobacco instead of having another tantrum that included abusing her poor pen.

She watched the smoke moving as elegantly as a dancer, from her mouth to outside the window…mingling with the purple-y setting skyline.

Just then the sound of the front door being opened echoed through the flat, the very familiar harmony of your silly key chains ringing through her ears, Se-mi put out the cigarette before heading to seek you out, your bodies meeting right in the kitchen doorway, she smiled as she saw you- finally one good thing about her day.

“Hey, sweetheart” the brunette purred against your lips, you chuckled at the affection, your lips finally meeting in a sweet home-welcoming kiss.

“Hey, I missed you” you replied, before placing your bag down on the kitchen table. “Long day…god I’m so tired” to further showcase your fatigue you playfully fanned yourself with your hand…Se-mi chuckled, a very quite sound, before she sat down on the other chair. You could see something was bothering her, Se-mi your oh so energetic girlfriend that loved to joke around was suddenly like a snail hidden inside it’s shell.

“Se-mi?” You leaned in closer, your eyes going to her face, clear worry evident in your tone “Is everything alright?”

She glanced at you, before moving her gaze onto her hands, it was no use to lie, maybe a little confession about her feelings would help her feel more at ease.

“It’s just- these goddamn lyrics…” Se-mi started “I’ve been trying to write all day, but everytime I try and think of at least ONE line then it’s like I forgot how to write!”

And so she kept on going, by the time she finished sharing her failed attempts she felt more lighter, physically and emotionally. Maybe a minute of silence stretched out before the two of you, like some indicator getting rid of all the negative energy Se-mi had just thrown out of herself. “Se-mi…you know it’s fine to have days like this? I mean, I know how frustrating it is, but some burnout isn’t bad for you, you write amazing, beautiful, fucking soul haunting lyrics…I think you just have to let your mind rest a little” you assured your girlfriend, who was now looking you straight in the eyes, “I guess you’re right…thanks babe” Se-mi smiled lethargically.

“How about we cuddle? Let me just change out of these clothes, I must reek of office grime” you grinned, “Yeah…I’ll be waiting for ya” she agreed before moving into the living room.

“It’s beautiful isn’t it?” The brunette looked up at you as you began to speak, she was contentedly laying atop you, your arms wrapped around her waist, ah yes- you were talking about the sunset…it was beautiful, she loved all the gradient hues but as of now she wasn’t interested in looking out the window, her gaze stuck on you, “You’re more beautiful” the girl murmured against your neck, you giggled “That’s so cheesy…don’t stop”, a light kiss was pressed onto your skin, then another one, and another and another and another…the intensity growing with each one, “I won’t stop, I don’t even want to do don’t worry about that!” she smiled and you ruffled her hair

“I love you, you dummy.”

[sixeyesonathiel]

ivy — g. satoru x married reader

“my house of stone, your ivy grows and now i’m covered in you.”

cw : emotional cheating (reader), emotional manipulation, possessive behavior

roughly based on ivy by taylor swift except i made gojo have some yan traits.

i. snowstorm

you meet him in a snowstorm, quite literally.

it’s late, the university nearly silent beneath the weight of fresh snow, when you find him outside your faculty building—stranded, hands tucked into the pockets of a too-thin coat, white hair dusted with frost. the wind bites at his cheeks, leaving them tinged pink, and his breath unfurls in the cold air, curling like smoke. you shouldn’t stop. shouldn’t care. but you do.

you push open the door, the warm light spilling out onto the snow, casting long shadows across the frozen ground. the air between you shifts, a fragile thing, brittle as the frost clinging to his lashes. “you’ll freeze to death out here.” your voice is steady, but your fingers tighten against the doorframe, a hesitation he doesn’t miss.

he lifts his head, grinning, sharp and lopsided, like he’s amused by the idea. “wouldn’t be the worst way to go.” then, softer, his expression flickering like a candle in the wind, “you’re still here.”

it’s been years since you last saw him. the last time, he was younger—warmer, sharper, his touch careless but deliberate, fingers skimming over the curve of your wrist like he had all the time in the world. back then, he belonged to you, in the way fire belongs to the air it consumes. back then, he had left you behind, and you had let him.

but tonight, it’s different. you, married. him, a stranger in the cold.

he steps inside without waiting for permission, as if drawn by the lingering heat of your presence. the scent of snow and something faintly sweet clings to him, and when he reaches for you, his fingers are ice against your skin. “you’re colder than me now,” he murmurs, tilting his head, studying the way you shiver under his touch. something unreadable lingers in his gaze, the blue of his eyes bright against the dim light. “that’s a shame.”

you laugh, breathless, the sound slipping past your lips before you can swallow it down. later, when you lie awake in bed, his touch still burning phantom-cold against your skin, you regret it.

ii. echoes of the past

he’s a guest lecturer now—philosophy, naturally. he’s everywhere. in faculty meetings. in the library. seated two rows behind you at seminars, the weight of his gaze pressing into your spine.

he never says much. never brings up the past. but he doesn’t have to.

instead, it’s in the details. a book left on your desk, its margins inked with notes in a hand you recognize. a comment in passing, “you never did like endings, did you?” a look, sharp and knowing, when your husband kisses your temple at a faculty gala and you don’t lean in.

it starts slowly—his presence weaving into your life like ivy through stone. at first, you think it’s coincidence. then, you realize it’s deliberate.

he lingers in doorways, his silhouette a ghost in your periphery, waiting for you to acknowledge him. his voice is never directed at you, but always close enough to hear, threading into the spaces between your thoughts. when he does speak, it’s measured, quiet, as if testing the weight of each word before offering it up to you. he never demands, never chases—just waits, unshakable, unwavering, as if he already knows the ending.

one evening, you find a note tucked inside your lecture materials, his handwriting unmistakable. "did you ever finish that argument we started?" it’s unsigned, but it doesn’t need to be. your fingers linger over the ink, the paper’s edge crumpling slightly under the press of your grip. when you look up, he's already watching, a slow, lazy curve to his lips when your eyes meet his.

he’s waiting.

waiting for you to remember.

waiting for you to miss him.

iii. fire meets stone

your husband is not a kind man. he is intelligent, respected, fiercely possessive. his love is something to be endured—a constant weight, a gentle hand that turns bruising when no one is looking. the kind of love that seeps into your bones, making itself a part of you whether you welcome it or not.

he sees the shift in you before you do.

“you’re distracted lately,” he says one evening, fingers tilting your chin up with the ease of someone who has done it a thousand times before. his thumb lingers at the edge of your jaw, a slow, contemplative movement that betrays nothing but calculation. “something on your mind?”

you smile, practiced and polished, the kind that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. you shake your head, a small denial, careful and measured. you think it’s enough. but then his grip tightens, a fraction too much, just enough to remind you who you belong to, just enough to leave an ache beneath your skin long after he lets go.

it’s the same night satoru slips you a book at the library, a pressed clover tucked between the pages. he doesn’t announce himself when he appears at your side, merely exhales a soft chuckle when you flinch, when you tense at the sudden warmth of him in your space.

“relax,” he murmurs, his voice dipped in something teasing, something knowing. “i don’t bite.”

he presses the book into your hands, his fingers slow to withdraw, fingertips grazing your wrist, your palm, your knuckles. it is fleeting, the touch barely there, but it lingers in the way his gaze does, unwavering, relentless, like he is searching for something in you that you have long since buried.

later, when your husband is asleep beside you, his arm heavy over your waist, you stare at that clover for a long, long time. the paper is fragile between your fingers, the green faded, yet still vibrant enough to stand out against the dim glow of the bedside lamp. you trace the edges, press the stem between your thumb and forefinger, wondering what it means, wondering if satoru had chosen it carefully or simply on a whim.

but the thought that lingers, the one that settles deep in your chest, is far more dangerous than the rest.

because for the first time in a long while, something within you stirs—a whisper of longing, of memory, of a past that refuses to stay buried.

iv. the gala

the unraveling begins at the faculty gala.

satoru arrives late, dressed in black, the sharp lines of his suit tailored to perfection, an unsettling contrast to the usual insouciance in his posture. he stands just beyond the golden glow of the chandeliers, white hair catching the light like frost beneath the moon. his smile is there, ever-present, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. no, his gaze is something else entirely—something tempered, something meant for you.

he watches from across the room as your husband guides you through a waltz, his hands firm at your waist, grip just shy of possessive. the silk of your gown whispers against the polished floor as you move, each step practiced, rehearsed, perfected. your husband leans in, murmurs something against the shell of your ear, and though your face remains composed, your fingers stiffen slightly against his shoulder. you don’t have to look to know satoru is still watching. he never looks away when it comes to you.

later, when the air inside grows stifling, when the weight of your husband’s touch lingers too heavy on your skin, you slip away into the garden. the night is crisp, the scent of winter clinging to the air, and for a moment, you let yourself breathe.

“you’re not happy.”

his voice is a low murmur, a certainty, not a question. when you turn, he’s already there, leaning against a stone balustrade, hands tucked into his pockets. his tie is slightly loosened, a single button undone at his throat, but his gaze—his gaze is sharp, assessing, cutting through you as if he’s peeling back every layer you’ve built between you.

you exhale slowly, watching the ghost of your breath dissipate into the night. “that’s a dangerous assumption.”

he hums, stepping closer. close enough that the scent of his cologne—cool, clean, edged with something faintly sweet—lingers between you. close enough that if you moved, just a fraction, you’d be touching. his head tilts, studying you, the way he always has, as if searching for something just beneath the surface of your skin.

“it’s not an assumption,” he says at last, quieter now, coaxing. “i remember what you look like when you’re in love. this isn’t it.”

your breath catches. your fingers curl slightly at your sides. you should leave. go back inside, return to the warmth of the ballroom, to your husband, to the life you chose. it would be easy—effortless—to walk away.

but you don’t.

because he’s right.

and worse, he knows it.

so you stay. and when he reaches up, fingers just barely grazing your jaw—not touching, not yet—you don’t pull away. his breath is warm, his presence overwhelming, and for the first time in years, you feel something shift within you.

something roots.

something cracks open, wide enough for him to slip through.

v. the breaking point

it happens in your office, days later. late enough that the hallways are empty, the university steeped in silence, save for the muffled tick of the clock on your wall. your husband stands across from you, his patience finally worn thin, the weight of unspoken accusations thickening the air between you. the argument has been brewing for weeks, months even, and tonight, it finally spills over.

“you think i don’t see it?” his voice is low but seething, his fingers digging into the edge of your desk. “you think i don’t know?”

his face is set in shadow, harsh beneath the dim lighting. his eyes gleam with something dark—something possessive, something furious. you know better than to answer, so you don’t. because you don’t have to. because the truth is already there, unraveling between you in the silence you refuse to break.

“she’s never been particularly good at hiding things.”

the voice that cuts through the air is lazy, amused. undeniably familiar.

satoru is in the doorway, one shoulder pressed against the frame, his arms crossed as if he’s been there all along. he looks infuriatingly at ease, the faintest smirk curling at his lips, his presence a stark contrast to the storm inside your office. the overhead light catches in his hair, the white strands almost iridescent, and his blue eyes—cold, assessing—settle on your husband like a predator sizing up prey.

for a moment, no one speaks. the silence pulses.

then, your husband turns, his face twisting in something close to rage. “you.” he breathes, low and lethal, fists clenching at his sides.

satoru tilts his head, unbothered. “me.”

it’s unbearable, the tension. you feel it like a vice around your ribs, pressing against your lungs, making it hard to breathe. your husband is still looking at satoru, but satoru is only looking at you.

always.

“do you want to leave?” he asks. his voice is soft, but there’s an edge beneath it, something unyielding. something dangerous.

it’s a simple question. deceptively light. but beneath it, a promise. a way out. a door you aren’t sure you’re brave enough to walk through.

you hesitate.

and that hesitation is everything.

your husband sees it. his face goes still, his fury shifting into something colder, sharper.

but satoru only smiles.

it’s not a kind smile. it’s something knowing, something patient, something devastatingly sure. his gaze sharpens, and for a second, just a second, you know exactly what he’s thinking. he’s remembering. remembering how you once looked beneath him, your breath catching on his name. remembering how he once had you, wholly, entirely, before he left and let another man put a ring on your finger.

it must drive him mad.

he tilts his head, considering. then, voice low, steady, he says, “you don’t have to choose tonight.”

your husband exhales sharply. “she already—”

“but you will.” satoru’s voice is a whisper of steel, unrelenting. “and when you do, we both know who it’ll be.”

it’s the final crack in the foundation.

your husband lunges.

vi. the aftermath

the house doesn’t burn. but the marriage does.

the next morning, your husband is gone. his things packed in neat, methodical precision. the only trace of him left behind is a note on the counter—two lines, impersonal, as if the years meant nothing. as if the unraveling wasn’t inevitable.

satoru, however—he lingers. as if he hadn’t left your life in the first place.

he finds you in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, a glass of wine cradled between your fingers. the weight of the night before sits heavy in your bones, exhaustion curling at the edges of your resolve. he doesn’t say anything as he steps forward, as he plucks the glass from your grip and brings it to his lips, drinking from the same place yours had touched.

his eyes never leave yours as he swallows.

he sets the glass down beside you, fingers grazing the counter. then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he reaches for your wrist. his touch is warm, seeping into your skin, his thumb brushing over the pulse point beneath it—steady, grounding, inevitable.

“you’re free now,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady, but there’s something in his tone that makes your stomach churn—an undercurrent of something darker, something more possessive. something that says: not really.

because his roots are already too deep.

because you aren’t stone.

because you were his first.

and you will be his last.