#Apologies for taking so long to get back to you

[bodhiscurls]

waited all night for you, i'll wait forever. ( johnny storm )

after an long coming arguement with your boyfriend at dinner, you leave, desperate for space. forty thousand missed calls and texts later, you come back in the morning when you've cooled off only to find johnny storm slumped against your front door where he's waited all night for and will wait forever too.

human torch! johnny storm x fem! reader

themes: fluff, mainly angst, reconciliation, johnny being an absent partner.

masterlist.

if you ask johnny, he thinks it starts during dinner.

he turned up fifteen minutes late, saw your back turned to him at a table positioned in the corner- away from all the main attention and pressed a soft kiss to your hair before he slumped in the seat opposite you.

he murmured a sorry, delved into some story about reed holding him back after the attack and before he knew it his apology had turned into a whole recount of his really exciting, really scary day.

you nodded, let out a few "wows" that landed offhandedly and he tried not to let the fact that you were slowly pulling away from him ruin the ambience. you two didn't get to go out too much, with johnny being recognised almost everywhere he went- he wanted some normalcy, some privacy and to shelter you from the nasty opinions of losers in the world.

he wanted things to be just his- you, to be just his. and you smiled, laughed when he left a gap for a reaction but something was still playing on his mind, taunting him as you stared. it wasn't your usual look of adoration, a glance so soft it liquidifies his whole body till he's left in a puddle of love. this look feels detached, like you're there but you're not here until he catches it- and freezes.

"fuck me," he whispers and you murmur in agreement.

"took you long enough to notice," you sigh, the bite doesn't land the way you hoped it to- leaving the taste of fatigue and pasta die on your tongue. his gaze is still stuck on his supersuit he wasn't bothered to change out of- the white and blues roaring under his red jacket he threw on in a hurry to come and meet you.

"baby, i'm so fucking sorry, shit i didn't mean-" he starts but you just raise your hand gently, a subtle peace offering and bow your head.

"johnny, let's not do this now," you meet his gaze and he dies at the fading light. he's really fucked this up, he opens his mouth to plead, to prove you wrong to apologise- because if there's one thing about johnny storm it is that he doesn't back down- not without a fight. however, the earth comes to a standstill, stepping on the cracks of his heart till he's left holding his last breath at the sound of a faint, "please," you add to the silence.

so he lets it go.

he eats painfully slow, hoping to drag out this moment of half-hearted peace, savour the calm before the storm but the tide is creeping in and coming for him. you eat in silence, combatting his attempt to lighten the mood with updates about sue's pregnancy and his excitement to be an uncle but the smile doesn't quite reach your eyes. it doesn't burn like sunshine and bleed into his rising sky. its hollow and johnny hates himself for it.

you don't bother with dessert, you didn't reach for a drink you settled with water and when the bill comes, johnny slams his card down onto the table and rushes to bring the car out front. its a cowardly escape he knows, but some part of him just wants to get home and settle this before he loses you to something bigger.

you don't even have the care to shrug your jacket on, letting the cold evening air bite at your bare shoulders. it was your first date out in weeks and you wore the little black dress you knew johnny loved on you almost as much as he loves taking it off of you. he hadn't even given you so much as a glance before delving into his day.

so where johnny thinks this has happened mid-dinner, you know the truth. this has started in the weeks before- the busier days, the less truthful nights where he doesn't completely open up, the missed dinner dates albeit he is late to a few and more than anything, it feels like he's so content on hiding you that it upsets you more than anything. you've loved him your whole life- before he became the human torch, before he started joining his brother in law in saving the world, before he became someone elses, he was yours.

and its hard to feel like you're on the same page when he's starting an entirely new different chapter.

he pulls up outside the restaurant and though you stand there now you can't help but feel like you've lost a piece of yourself in there.

the you that found this place hidden a few blocks out years back, the you that would reenact the lady and the tramp scene with johnny over spaghetti, even though it embarrassed you you knew he loved it, the you who would sit by his side in closeness and never opposite. the you who didn't have to hide in the corner and pretend like your love was diluted into the walls.

he gets out of the car, opens your passenger door and you gingerly get in. he curses as a recognition of camera flashes and a few women scream "johnny!" and shoots you a look of pure desperation and regret.

the only thing you grace him with is a small thank you and a sigh as you nestle into the seat, the feeling of familiar wrapping around you like an old friend. you think his car is obnoxious, but slowly it grew on you and its seen too many of your best memories to hate it.

johnny reaches across and he's suddenly so in your space. he's inches from your lips, his skin dangerously close to yours and your heart, despite the earlier tense confrontation (if you can even call it that), skips a few beats, stuttering in a childhood blush. it kind of reminds you when you first started seeing each other, how he would always have his hands on you, never let you go, how he could spend forever in your orbit but still look at you like you took his breath away for the very first time.

you think he actually might kiss you- it's been weeks and you hate yourself for actually getting excited, for leaning in a little bit closer on the edge of pure want and need when you feel a strap pull. he stretched the seat belt across your body and it clicks with a faint tick into the holder before he pulls back a few milimetres.

"fuck," it's your turn to repeat the earlier sentiment this time as you wipe away the tears that gather at your waterline. the sniffle tears his heart in two and he looks over in concern.

"baby- look, i'm sorry, i didn't mean to upset you tonight- i know this was important and i just forgot- i didn't-" he gets out and when you don't rush to forgive him he just stares.

"i don't think you know what you mean, johnny," you look over, your brows raising and falling as the sentence leaves your lips. "it's not about you being late, or not bothering to even just change- i mean who gives a shit about clothes? i dressed all pretty for you and did that get me anywhere?" you scoff lightly, pausing to press your fingertips into your eyes and blot the tears brewing.

"honey, i-" and you hold up your hand again, asking for a moment to just get out what you have to say whilst the courage still flows through your veins.

"i know you're busy now johnny, you're busy saving the world and i get that. i love that you have this purpose and you're doing so much good but," you breathe, "we haven't been ourselves in a long time. i'm second in whatever game this is and i just can't do it." you look at him, reach over to place your hand on top of his on the gear stick and press your eyes closed for a second.

"you didn't even ask me about my day; you didn't notice the dress i wore for you or that i cut my hair a few days ago- i waited for you, the same way i wait every single night for you to come to bed and hold me like you still love me," you cry, it's no use holding them back.

"i do love you!" he counteracts back immediately, desperately.

"not in the way i need now," you sniffle, "and what hurts is i have to tell you that- you didn't just see that yourself."

"honey, i,"

"please stop the car," you whimper and he looks over in concern.

"baby, i can't let you just leave- not when you're like this, it's late!" he pleads, a wild look settling into his eyes and reaching the pits of his stomach. he interlocks your hands from where you previously placed it on his and kisses your knuckles. you relish lightly in the touch but pull back.

"stop the car," you drop the formalities and establish firmly, your hands interlocking your own in your lap, almost holding you together steadily. and he does with great reluctance and worry, he pulls up on the side, watches you get out of the car- what's worse is you don't even slam the door behind.

you just shake your head with a heart-wrenching exhaustion at johnny and disappear. his eyes widen when he sees you've left your jacket behind and he gets out the car at lightning speed, taking off in your direction.

"don't follow me, johnny, i really can't do this right now," you plead, the tears just falling and falling.

"honey, it's cold and you're gonna get sick, please just at least take your jacket," you pause, pressing your lips together to stifle a sob and nod, letting him help you back into the soft knit of your cardigan that doesn't actually do too much to keep you warm- it just looked pretty with your outfit. what a waste, you want to just laugh at yourself.

"baby, i know you don't want to see me right now but please, come back to the car, please let me talk this out i can fix this," he tries to place a hand on your shoulder but you shrug it off, not wanting to make any eye contact with him either.

"i don't think you can- not tonight at least," you press.

"then i'll take you home and i will leave- but please i need to know you're safe," he begs, "please."

"no," you whisper lethally soft. "i need to not be anywhere that reminds me of you right now so please just- i have my phone on me, i will find a place to stay but i'm not going anywhere with you tonight."

and the fierce determination in eyes lets johnny know you mean it, you've meant everything you've said tonight. so he lets you go, he gets back in the car and waits for you to start walking again. he follows you gingerly and you pretend like you can't recognise the faint purring of the engine that follows you around each street. it stops in the corner of your vision when you disappear through the doors of a hotel but johnny doesn't leave until he gets a notification from his phone; a transaction from your shared account by the hotel to confirm you have a place to stay tonight.

he doesn't want to go home- he has half a mind to drink his problems away or turn to sue- his sister would know what to do but it feels like a betrayal. he hasn't showed up for you in a long time and he can start by making things right tonight. he pulls up to your shared apartment and lets the way his heart burns and pounds in his chest at the feeling of you missing- because he deserves to feel a fraction of the hurt he's caused you, it's the bare minimum.

he has to be home, in case you decide you want to come back- in case you need him to come get you, in case you need him- he is here. where he is always meant to be. the door unlocks with its usual ratty metal squeak and johnny doesn't fancy himself a crier- he's fun johnny, light-hearted, doesn't take himself too seriously johnny, but tonight he lets the persona fall as he slides down the wall.

your home feels like a house without you and he doesn't deserve to sleep in your bed where the smell of you surrounds him a gentle lull goodnight, he doesn't even deserve the couch, he decides. he braces his back against your shoe rack that's missing your favourite pair of heels and his blood roars in agony. the first tears of many falls and he tries to catch them in his hands but they overflow and he takes over in a straight bawl. he hasn't cried in years but the loneliness that suffocates him now, to know that you've felt this way for weeks and he had been too wrapped up in himself to realise, he cries and cries till the tears dry and he slips in and out of sleep. he doesn't know at which point his eyes finally close as his head hangs between his knees but sleep comes for him.

and even in his dreams, he still tries to reach for you.

. . .

"babydoll, fuck i'm so sorry, i shouldn't have been so careless with you. you must've felt so damn lonely and i have been the worst- the worst, and i wish you could come back and we could talk this out- you don't have to talk, you can listen but i've got things i need to get off my chest-"

"fuck, it cut off. but what i'm trying to say is i've been so wrapped up in myself i forgot that there's two of us in this team. it's not an excuse how things have started picking up so quickly, this is all my fucking fault and i'm sorry-"

"what you said back in the car- i know what i mean now, i know that i mean that i'm sorry, for all the times i took advantage and didn't put you first. you deserve so much better than me- than how i've treated you. and i love you, fuck, i'll love you so much better if you could just honour me another chance-"

"fuck- stop cutting me off! (growl) gorgeous i can't breathe- this feels wrong not having you here, i don't deserve you- i don't. if you don't want to forgive me- that's fine. if you dont want to give me a chance- fuck, i understand- fuck, ah, oh my god, that'll be fine, i will make it fine-"

"but please, don't give up on us. don't give up on me- you don't owe me a single thing but i love you and i'll work through this, i'll earn back your trust, i'll be here every single second of the day and i'll remind you why we work so well together- i'll be so good to you baby-"

"baby please-"

"please come home and be angry at me, please just come home, please-"

"(ten seconds of crying)"

"hey gorgeous, haven't heard from johnny this morning he was supposed to swing by, he's not answering his messages, could you get him to call back? thanks honey, love you, come by soon, reed and i miss you!"

"hey honey, it's ben. johnny rang, cried for a second didn't say anything then hung up. i mean, i'll give him shit on it later but it sounded serious. is everything okay?"

. . .

you open the door with a faint nudge, and when it traps halfway you furrow your brows in annoyance, pushing it with all your might. it sends you flying a few steps and straight into a warm body that's scrambling from the ground.

"johnny?" you pull back in confusion, he has his hands planted at your waist, holding you upright from your ambush and lets go suddenly. you miss the warm sensation immediately as he takes a step back, giving you some space.

the distance makes your heart ache but it's what you've asked for and what he tries to honour. he scratches the back of his neck awkwardly and waits for you to address him.

"did you sleep on the floor?" the little gasp that escapes you does not go unnoticed by him and he blinks slowly, sleep still creeping on his features as he flushes a faint shade of pink.

"it didn't feel right to be in our bed without you and i uh, i wanted to be ready in case you called and needed me to come to you," his admission softens something in your heart.

"you've been there all night?"

"all night and i'll wait forever for you if i have to," he nods with quiet determination and at the intensity you pause, last night's memories fresh at the surface.

"i listened to your voicemails, all 82 of them," you confess and you cross the distance, placing a hand on his heart. he leans into your air, the air that wavers and circulates around you- his entire world orbits around you.

"and?" he asks hopeful, his voice the smallest you've ever heard him and it does hurt something raw in you. johnny storm- the embodiment of confidence? shrinking as you speak? impossible- "i really want to fix things, i can't take back what i've done, but- i want to be with you, if you'll still have me."

"oh johnny," you sigh and extend your arms, he steps in them a little unsure, waiting extra confirmation for you which you reassure with a nod, "we start slow," you whisper into his neck as he holds you close. he murmurs into agreement, "anything you need."

and when you break apart and meet his gaze of pure hope and adoration, you press your forehead to his, "i mean it baby," you press, "you can't make me feel like a background character in my own life," and he hangs his head low in a nod.

"i'll prove it to you- i'll never- i'll burn myself whole to keep you warm doll, i'm sorry," his voice cracks and you squeeze him tightly.

"hey now, we do this one step at a time," you pat his back, soothing him gently. "i'm not forgiving you completely but i'm not saying no, either," and he presses his lips together, biting the lower in anxious thought.

"thank you," he breathes.

"by the way, sue's asking for you," and the scoff that leaves his lips surprise you for a moment.

"they can all wait, there's a lot i gotta make up for first and you're my priority," he sways you in his hold, hesitating before pressing a soft kiss to your temple as you lean into him.

it's a start for sure, but the end is not coming because johnny storm is never going to let you go again.

riya saying hi: hellooooo!! another johnny fic woop woop!!! hope you like, hope you love- let me know what you think, thank you so much for even reading <33 i have one more in the drafts, might get it out in the next few days and its a scientist x flirty johnny fic, strangers to lovers and alllll the vibes ugh anyways have a great one!

likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated! 💘

[lexus-k4]

Dp x DC prompt/idea

What if: we combined 'little shit Danny' who looks like one of the bat kids, and Bruce running oon little to only 8 hours within the last 4 days.

Batman going home from patrol, having had only 8 hours if sleep withing the last 4 almost 5 days because of patrol, Work, galas and business meetings back to back.

Also batman, running into Danny sitting on a roof eating a sub sandwich.

Batman: what are you doing here. Your meant to be at home. Your benched remember. *heavy sigh* whatever I'll just take you back myself.

Danny: huh? Wait-what? No side, I think your mistaking me-

Batman: up we go. Home time. Then I'm gonna make sure your going to bed then me or else penny one is gonna have my head.

- - - -

Danny in the Batcave with a de cowl'd batman, revealing Bruce Wayne's face. Danny still eating his sandwich as Batman aka Bruce lectures him about properly watching your health and injuries especially with a missing spleen, which told Danny that whoever Bruce/Batman thought he was, was missing a spleed.

Danny quickly sensing a message to his sister jazz letting her know he's sorta been kidnapped by a new Fruitloop and activates his tracker.

Jazz: OMW

Also jazz- sprinting to Danny's location across roofs with a creep stick in hand and her eyes slowly starting to glow because of her liminality.

Tim walking down into the Batcave not long later but then pausing eyes directly on Danny as they have a stare off.

Tim: uhhh. B?

B looking at Danny thinking he spoke: hmm?

Tim: B...

B slightly confused: how are you talking. Your mouth isn't moving?

Danny still chewing on his sandwich lifting his hand and pointing to Tim behind Bruce.

Que Bruce looking back and forth between Tim and Danny, eyes squinted as he tries to clear his bleary eyes.

B: but. Your sat here. But your also stood there... What?

Tim: B. That's not me...

B looking at Danny: then who's this?

Tim: HOW AM I MEANT TO KNOW?!

Danny: Hi. I'm the kid you kidnapped, most likely thinking I was your son. But I'm not. And now I know that Batman is Bruce Wayne. Which honeatly. Did not see that coming. I owe Wes sooo much money... Oh god, I can't let Wes know. I'mma be broke. More than I already am...

Then you have Tim and Bruce stood there confused out of their minds as they slowly realise what's happened. Then Tim leave to go get Alfred leaving Bruce and Danny still in the cave.

Not long later jazz shows up running down one of the long entrances/exits for the vehicles holding the creep stick panting, out of breath, and then running up to Bruce about to swing.

B: Babs? Is that you? But. Your walking... Your legs are better. Oh I'm so happy. It's amazing. Your better again. Your dad must be so happy.

Also B- going up to a stunned frozen jazz and hugging her.

Jazz: huh?

Danny: I think he's either concussed or just mentally unwell. Or both. Who knows.

B: your standing again. It's amazing. It's-

Tim who just came down stairs with Alfred: B... What did you do now...

B turning around with a slight smile: TIM! It's Barbra. She's walking again! It's amazing!

Tim: B... That's not Barbra...

B: what? But...

Alfred with the most disappointed look known to man kind: Master Bruce. Miss Barbra is still in the library helping the other still on patrols.

B:... Then who...

Alfred : master Bruce. I'd advise you go to bed before you make more mistakes, you have already exposed your identity. Now, if you do notgo to bed within the next 10 minutes I will personally prevent you from patrolling. I have already been lenient these last 5 days.

B: but-

Alfred: NOW.

B: yup. Bed. Going. Got it.

The following minutes are filled with silence as Bruce hurries to get out of his costume and up the elevator all while Alfred follows him with his gaze alone.

Jazz: huh?

Danny grinning: turns out Batman is Bruce Wayne.

Jazz looking frazzled, confused and still holding her creep stick as if she's gonna swing: wha...

Alfred:my apologies. It appears master Bruce isn't in the best state of mind due to a lack of sleep. Would you like some tea? How may I address you two?.

Jazz: I uhh... Yeah. Tea...

Danny: I'm Danny. This is my sister, Jazz.

Alfred: very well, master Danny, miss Jazz. I will bring some tea shortyl, I hope master Tim is able to get you comfortable while you wait.

Tim: sure thing Alfie.

Following this you get Tim leading Danny and Jazz to a sitting area in the cave, then Alfred coming down with a tray of tea, and decaf coffee for Tim.

Tim proceeds to explain to the two that they were mistaken as him and a family friend who is similar to a sibling due to similar appearances.

Later on Dick, Jason and Steph walk into the cave before freezing realizing that there are civilians and they've take off their masks. They proceed to try and replace them before Tim stops them and tells them Bruce had already messed up.

Tim, Danny and Jazz explain what happened which leads them to bursting in laughter.

- - - -

Jason: wait. I get how Danny got in here. But, how did you get in here?

Jazz: oh... Well, Danny keeps a tracker on his phone in case of emergency that let's me know where he is when he activates it.

Jason: okay, fair. But that still doesn't explain how you got in here, because the exits are all blocked off or unaccesible because they're through the manor.

Jazz: oh, I just followed his tracker, realized he was somewhere that isn't available on foot so I just started phasing through the wall till I got in that tunnel.

Jason: you what?

Jazz: I phased through the wall.

Danny: Jazz... I think your for getting something...

Jazz: what?

Danny: normal people don't phase through walls...

Jazz: what do you- oh. Oh, fuck.

Danny: yeah.

Dick: well... That's cool. We've got metals in here. Duke's gonna be happy. He should be coming down in a few hours to start patrol too.

Duke: nope, already here. I noticed no one had come upstairs yet other than Bruce and got curious.

Steph: HOLY SHIT! Don't sneak up on us like that!

Duke: are you guys really metas? What can you do? I can control light and shadows.

Steph: hey don't just ig-

Jazz: well. Yeah I guess we count as metas, because that category is broad anyway. I can phase through stuff, have increase strength, and emotionally affected fire hair, glowing eyes and fangs, and mild pyro-kinesis.

Duke: swe-heet. What about you dude?

Danny: oh well, strength, fly, invisibility, intagibility/phase through shit, glowing,ice powers... And yeah. That's the basics, yeahthere is more but that other stuff. ... I'm less meta more half human though. So..

Duke: cool~

Dick: hey, why do you guys call it phasing and not density shifting. Isn't that the same?

Jazz: well not exactly. Density shifting is the act of being able to manipulate your density to a molecular level so that you can pass through the molecules of another object. However, it can be blocked with a night dense material.

Danny: whereas phasing is essentially the act of going momentarily intangible while maintaining your density, or more accurately control ably not just momentarily.

Steph: ... Yeah that's too much words for me.

Dick: basically, density shifting -you can still be touched and blocked by some stuff and change how physical you are on the tiny scale. Phasing- you ignore laws of science to not be able to be touched and ignore how thick something is. Right?

Danny: yeah.

Jazz: pretty much yeah.

Steph: sweet.

[honeybunnyale]

Breeding Program l C.K. & L.L.

w.c: 5.7k

t.w.: Dark-ish fic, Smut, P in V, Oral f receiving, Sex pollen Dub-con/Non-con, Voyeurism, Cucking,  Breeding kink (forced pregnancy), Lactation kink (brief), LuthorCorp Secretary!Reader, Mentions of Ultraman x Reader (one-sided), Lex Luthor x Superman (also one-sided and psychotic), Cum play/eating, Reader has glasses, slight spoilers, fuck or die!, angst

a/n: Please read all warnings before interacting with my works. 18+ only!

Summary: Ultraman wasn’t as successful as he expected. Lex Luthor is hoping to breed something new to defeat his nemesis, no matter how long the process may take. 

Cloning didn’t work. Ultraman was stupid. Incompetent. A failure. 

But he liked you. Lex Luthor would watch as he leaned closer to you. It made you uncomfortable, clear by the way you shifted on your feet and avoided his pointed gaze. 

Lex trusted you in maintaining him. You’d lead him, after hours, to his room, to the shower, to eat. You were his caretaker in a way.  Reluctantly so.  

The clone’s base instincts clearly indicated attraction judging by the hard ons he would openly display as he bathed with you standing by the door to ensure he wouldn’t make a mess. 

It gave Luthor an idea, an idea that would ensure the next Superman “clone” would be as perfect as possible. 

Luthor would pay you handsomely for the trouble. You who kept most of his secrets, you who he sends enough flowers to fill up your apartment, you who he has special meetings with while his girlfriend was off on a shopping spree. 

He almost feels tenderly towards you. You were a perfect candidate. 

…

You bounce on his lap, sinking onto his prick as he leaned back on his office chair. Peering at you as if you were on your knees and praying to him. 

You grunt quietly, he watches as you get yourself off, as he does nothing to help. 

Your fingers glide diligently over your cunt, the squelching sounds making you whimper as your clit throbs between your fingers. 

He’s not good at sex, he likes having it, likes getting himself off. But he is not inept at pleasuring others. 

You’re fine with it. No one has ever made you finish anyway. You only needed his dick. Like a dildo. 

You grind your hips against his pelvis, his cock pushes in deep as you pulse around him, your head falling forward to rest against his shoulder in a stifled final moan. 

He grips your hips as he pulses inside of you, you groan at the action. He always pulls out. You give him a look as you stand, he pulls your panties up against your cunt and pats your ass. 

“Keep it in.” 

You snort, he raises a brow, wondering where the joke was in his tone. Thank goodness for birth control. You’d rather die than have his demonic children. Even more spoiled brats and the world's riches would be divided within the Luthor family entirely. 

“Remember what the goal is today…” he says as he points a teasing finger at you. 

You nod as you straighten your pencil skirt and button up your shirt. Your hands drag against the wood of his desk to swipe your glasses teasingly. 

“I’m ready.” 

…

Being jostled around the air was irritating to say the least. The clone repeatedly evaded Superman’s moves, causing you to be caught midair several times. One second Ultraman, the other Superman. 

It was like tug of war, except instead of rope, your body was being pulled every which way. 

Another frightening possibility you didn’t think of before was that hands slip, butterfingers, people fumble. 

Superman drops you. You imagine Lex having a laugh. 

Superman apologizes as he recatches you, hands tight on your waist as he turns swiftly to take a hit to his back. You could see the way he grits his teeth and shut his eyes from the pain, the way his hands tightened over your body as he cocooned you. 

You get it, you realize. Despite the obvious threats around him, his focus was on protecting you, the civilian. It made your chest warm. You almost coo from how selfless he was. 

He flees from Ultraman, disguised as a villain of the week, in an attempt to put you down in a safe location. 

“You ok?” 

You grip onto his shoulders fearfully, feeling the taught muscle underneath. You get those who swoon. He was even bigger in person. 

You nod slowly, eyes wide, a hand pressing your glasses to your face to keep them from flying off. 

“Yea-“ 

It was like a train had hit him, the impact of the clone ramming into his side so strong it caused him to lose his grip on you. Again.

Jealousy you briefly wonder, you’re sure Lex didn’t tell him to do that. You’ve never seen that move before. 

You each go in opposite directions. You could hear Superman scream out a sharp no as you’re free falling in the air. 

The genuine concern won him points by you again. 

You think about Lex. About the way he practically begged you to accept the role as victim for his latest scheme. 

You’d slap him the next time you see him. 

Your attempts to scream are tampered by the rush of air, you couldn’t breathe in or out, the rush of adrenaline making it hard to focus on the action as you see the pavement inch closer. 

And suddenly you’re in someone’s arms again, held tightly against their chest. You take a harsh breath in, the rush of oxygen making your lungs burn.

Your eyes stayed unfocused from your lack of lenses. You look behind you to find metal armor facing right back at you. You sigh. 

You’re shaking as you’re deposited to the floor of the lab, located near a small town west of the city of Metropolis. 

Ultraman dropped you unceremoniously, making your knees buckle and causing you to fall. 

You glare up at him, narrowing your eyes as he refuses to look your way. Unlike him. He was most definitely jealous. 

Several lab techs surround you and Ultraman briefly to assess damages. They find none, they leave quickly, leaving you to reorient yourself in your lonesome. 

You stand, wiping your hands down your skirt as you grumble about the lack of adequate patient care they offered you.

You try the door closest to you, it was locked. For a moment you stare at it dumbfoundedly. This was supposed to be where Luthor was entrapping Superman. There was a bed in the middle of the room, a toilet to the side. This was a prison. 

Surely someone was coming to get you, or one of the doors will lock once Superman arrives. 

You try the other door, locked. You knock. Your polite knock turns into a slam of your palm. You shout that you couldn’t get out. That you needed to get out. That you were starting to freak out. 

You could hear metal bend. Superman was here. You shook the door knob desperately. 

“Lex!” 

The pounding was getting louder, you could hear his grunts as he attempted to make his way to you. To “save” you. 

What would he do once he found out you planned to imprison him for testing, then undoubtedly kill him afterwards. 

The sound of the panels behind you, curling in his hands like cardboard, made you think he wouldn’t be too happy. 

You turn your back against the door, chest rising and falling with each breath as he breaks himself into his own doom. He takes a breath of relief at finding you unharmed. His eyes scan over your form as he jogs forward, hand gently holding your glasses out to you. 

You take them shakily, placing them on to see his soft smile clearly. He puts his hand on your shoulder, your expression terrified. 

“You’re going to be ok.” 

Alarm bells ring, the room turns red and walls appear, layers and layers of metal sliding atop each other, just to stall him for the next part. 

You swallow thickly and shake your head in denial. There must have been a mistake, you weren’t supposed to be in here, no one other than him was. You were fucked. You step away from him, he looks around the room in confusion. 

The size of the room is cut in half by the strongest metal Luthor could find. Superman could easily punch his way out, but the amount of punches would be too much for him to get out in time. 

A greenish fog fills up the room. He reacts quickly, tugging you from the wall and covering his mouth with his hand, as if urging you to copy the action. 

“Hold your breath, I’ll get us out of here.” 

You stare at his back, hands at your sides, as he turns to pull his hand back and hit the wall. What a beautiful idiot. 

He didn’t realize that with each layer he destroyed more and more gas was being pumped into the room. It made you feel lightheaded. 

You stay put in the middle of the room, legs turning weak and arms barely holding you up against the bed. Superman calls for you to follow him, almost desperately as he feels himself weakening. 

He holds his breath, he could hold it for several minutes. But he was barely leaving a dent now. 

“Don’t breathe it in!” he shouts. It didn’t matter. The smog could be absorbed through the skin anyway. 

You fall to your knees. He stops and rushes to you. He could see that he wasn’t as close to breaking out as he liked. 

He could only think of one thing. Kryptonite. It was making him feel almost anemic. He starts to shake. But he didn’t feel any pain. He felt a strange rush go through his body.

“Don’t-“ you wheeze out as he kneels over you, hand coming up to touch your shoulder. 

The more you inhale the more you feel the effects of the gas. Your stomach clenches, your clothes feel suffocating, your skin sensitive. 

Lex said it was going to debilitate him. Make him bend to his knees and writhe. 

He grips your bicep, to stabilize you. 

Your sharp moan made the hero freeze. It was sensual, pornographic. Not of pain or agony. His breath stutters at the sound, he feels himself start to sweat, his face heating up impossibly in embarrassment and something else. 

What the hell did Lex put in this damn cell? 

Your stomach cramps. You could hear the room speaker turn on with a sharp crack. Superman stands, looking around the room, attempting to find it. 

“Hello, Superman.” 

“Luthor,” he says as a response, sounding tired, almost bored of the other man’s voice already. 

“Why don’t you or your people ever show themselves?” he asks after a moment, looking up towards the corner, knowing that a camera was pointed right at him. 

“I’m closer than you think.” 

Superman’s brows furrow. He turns to you and shrugs his shoulders with an incredulous look, obviously mocking Luthor’s ominous tone and words. You look away in shame, his face falls as you cower away from him. 

“Oh! I didn’t introduce you to my secretary. Say hi to my secretary. Isn’t she cute? Great actor too.” 

Superman’s eyes connect with yours and you pant as you drag yourself to the far wall. His eyes sharpen and his brows furrow, so deep creases formed in his perfect friendly face. The hint of a smile, gone. He was clearly upset by the setup. 

“What did you do?” he asked, voice raised. He stares directly at you, eyes roaming over your body. 

You’re not sure who he speaks to. Lex or you. By Lex’s snort, he assumes it was to him. 

“Do you feel it?” Lex’s voice reverberated around the small enclosure, you bite your lip to hold in a whimper. 

Your breath comes out in short pants. You feel your thighs slicken, each shift highlighting the fact that there was now a building dampness underneath you.

“It’ll take a while to set in for you.” 

You rock your hips, Superman watches you curiously. You fight the urge to press your hand between your legs. You turn in your embarrassment, your nipples were so hard they stung and pointed out against the fabric of your shirt. 

You press your face against the cool wall, it gives you brief relief. Another cramp in your lower belly hits you, you shake and groan. 

“It’s already set in for her. You’ll see soon enough.” 

He could smell your arousal, he exhaled shakily as he felt a warmth travel through his spine at your twitches and small noises. His eyes start to roam over your body, the way your back arches lightly, your ass curving out against the fabric of your skirt, now showing a growing spot of wetness. 

He licks his lips before refocusing. 

“What did you do?” he shouts with force. 

“Don’t worry, it’s harmless.” 

Superman looks at you, your back to him, he steps forward before stopping. His stomach tightens, his mouth salivates, and he feels his briefs tighten against his growing heavy bulge. 

His eyes were intense, pupils fighting between expanding and constricting. He holds a hand up, as if to calm you, maybe even calm himself. 

“You’ll be fine-“ he attempts shakily. His knees wobble. 

“Oh. She will die,” Lex’s voice cuts sharply, humorously. 

You moan out into the air, your skin prickles and itches. You refuse to look away from the corner, you didn’t want to give Lex the satisfaction of your tears, your panic. 

“You require the dosage of an elephant. I had to make sure it worked.” 

Your lower stomach tightens so much the rest of your body locks into place. You feel a rush like no other and yelp as the feeling makes your cunt’s walls constrict around nothing. Your body trembles in sweet erotic pulses, you pant openly as the rush fades into a low simmer. 

Did you just have a mini orgasm? 

“She needs an antidote, luckily for you Superman, you have plenty of it.” 

The comm clicks as it turns off. You groan as you flop against the metal floor, facing the ceiling, body spread out like a starfish. You could feel his heated gaze, he looked furious, huffing out like a bull ready to charge.

Lex had been testing weird shit on the clone. He’d figured this chemical out a couple of months ago. It affected hormones, made the body crave another. 

It wasn’t as bad as this. It wasn’t as intense. 

Sure, Ultraman had humped your leg when you were trimming his hair but you’re sure he never felt as if he were dying. 

Then again, Kryptonians, clone or not, wouldn’t be affected as fast as humans. You had a feeling this time would be different, you could see Superman pace back and forth, running a shaky hand through his locks almost pulling on it as his chest stutters with each gulp of air. 

“Bodily fluids,” you gasp.

A kiss made it better, Lex made you kiss the clone, on the cheek, to test it out. Lex had a boner as he watched the interaction. The freak.

He kissed the clone himself afterwards, right on the lips, to see which method worked best, according to him. Tongue on tongue worked the best for pacifying the chemical. 

You were used to seeing Superman’s face. You just weren’t used to him being able to speak back to you. He turns sharply towards you, he growls. 

“Don’t test me.” 

You roll your eyes, your body was shaking, your heart beating so fast you were starting to feel lightheaded. He could see your heart, so fast he fears you’re going to pass out at any moment now. 

Worse, you might get into cardiac arrest. He sighs in frustration. 

He kneels beside you, sitting you up against the wall roughly, pressing your shoulders into the metal despite your discomfort. 

The touch makes you shiver, you hold back a moan. He cages you in with his arms, hands planted on either side of you. 

“What can we do?” 

You lick your lips, and he follows your tongue with his eyes. His stomach flexes and he grunts. 

“It helps, saliva, sweat” you swallow thickly. He was so warm, your lips part lightly. You’ve never wanted anyone inside of you so badly before. 

Your hands weakly lift to grip his bicep, big bulging biceps that were so hard as you squeezed. You bite your lip and suppress a giddy giggle, your hand roaming over his chest. 

He shakes you from your daze. You drop your hand to the floor and swallow thickly. Focus. You take a moment, body flushing even further from humiliation. 

“Ejaculate, arousal fluid, I promise,” you stutter, you adjust your glasses. 

He narrows his eyes, you gush at his stare, a fresh wave of arousal almost squirting out of your cunt at his proximity. 

He closes his eyes tightly, his arms flex as he resists the urge to manhandle you. He didn’t know if it was from anger or something else. Maybe it was the half-lidded gaze you gave him, eyes wandering all over his body and lingering on his very prominent bulge. 

“So… what do I need to do?” 

You shrug. It was obvious. Your eyes blank as you lean back against the wall. 

“Just let me die, dude,” you mumble. He scoffs. Your head rolls to the side and your neck is exposed. He zeros in on the soft skin of your throat, his jaw tightens as he’s hit with your scent of fresh arousal. The musk was enveloping him, his hand cups your face. 

He kisses you, face scrunched as if he hated the idea of being near you. You gasp, his tongue swipes through the roof of your mouth before swirling over yours. 

You moan, fighting to keep your hands on the floor, curled into tight fists as he pulls your head closer. 

“You smell good,” he mumbles offhandedly, voice low and tense, as if he could be doing anything other than this. His actions said otherwise, his tongue splays over your skin, lips pecking down your jaw. His hand grips your hips and pulls you forward. 

“Thanks,” you groan out. 

His head pulled away from you, his pupils were dilated. He was breathing heavier. His body twitches, neck straining. He was starting to feel the effects intensify. 

“You feel better?” he asks softly, eyes roaming over your face, stalling over your lips. 

In fact, you were starting to feel worse. You nod, despite the way your face twisted in pain, the cramps intensity almost debilitating. 

“Liar.” 

He kisses you again, the make out evolving as he pulls you to his lap. He guides your hands to touch him, sliding your fingers up his chest, over his neck. He guides your fingers to the buttons of his suit, right at the nape of his neck. 

Your skirt rides up and he starts to unbutton your blouse. His mind started to cloud, almost as if he didn’t realize that you were being watched, as if you weren’t both trapped. 

Lex sits in the surveillance room alone, having dismissed everyone else once the gas had been pumped into the cage. 

He has cameras for every angle of the cell, he zooms in between your bodies. 

He unbuttons his trousers, palming himself as he focuses in on your ruined panties grinding against the pronounced outline of Superman’s cock and balls. 

Superman presses you against his chest, you tug your arms out of your dress shirt, hands going to his face as your tongue caresses his, wanting to be impossibly closer. 

Luthor chortles as he hears your underwear rip, flinging to the other side of the room. Your bare cunt was spread open by thick digits. His fingers press into you, making your head fall back in delight. 

Superman’s thumb rolls over your clit, you gush around him, so sensitive that a mere touch makes you fall off the edge of pleasure. 

Lex jerks his cock in his hand, thumb running over the head as he spreads his spewing pre over his shaft. His cum was inside of you, Superman was playing with his cum already in your cunt. 

What a sight. 

…

You pant out heavily, he licks up your juices from his fingers and watches as your heart slows, only to start up again. His hand roams all over your body, pressing into your soft skin, groaning as you ground down on him. 

“I’m sorry I have to…” he trails off. Eyes connecting to your breasts. He rips your bra quickly, hands coming up to squeeze the soft mounds. 

His mouth hangs open, he feels himself drool at the sight of your bare body. He was delirious. 

“I have to save you,” he mumbles, as if he were drunk. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, pulling you closer, his nose trailing down the middle of chest, nuzzling softly between your breasts as he breathes in deeply. 

“Jes- jeez-“ he stutters. His tongue flicks out to taste your sweat, your breasts smelled like heaven, a certain musk that guided him to suck the soft flesh in his mouth. 

His nose sinks into the softness, as his lips suck around your nipple. The other hand cups your breast and squeezes, his fingers holding your nipple in place as he presses the surrounding area. Almost as if urging something to drip out. 

And something does. It must be an adverse effect of the gas, you see pearls of white dribble from the nipple he grasps in hand. 

You instinctively attempt to push him away, but he holds you in place. 

You flush in embarrassment as he groans, sucking harder, having just tasted what you’ve seen. He holds the small of your back against him, pressing you closer, his face smothered in your breasts. 

You cup his head, mouth wide open as you moan out into the air freely. 

You grind against his lap, tugging at his briefs. Your weak pawings towards his cock made him ache further. He stands, your limp body pliant in his hold as he makes his way to the bed in the middle of the room. 

You fall harshly against the mattress. Your attempts at unbuttoning your skirt left you feeling winded and weak. You close your eyes and your breath gets caught in the back of your throat. Desperate for him. 

He rips your very expensive and very vintage pencil skirt as if it were wrapping paper. In a blink his suit was gathered on the floor in a heap. 

His chest rises and falls with each breath. The cool air gave him a bout of clarity.  

He was still so upset. He stares down at you, almost in a scowl. He jerks himself, he can’t believe the amount of pre-cum that was coming out of him, almost like a fountain. He pulls your legs, making your back slide towards the edge of the bed. 

His eyes soften as you writhe against the sheets. He palms your breasts and squeezes, he swallows thickly at the milky pearls that bead out. He tests the pliancy of your body. He could break you if he’s not careful enough. His stomach tenses and his heart quickens, almost making him keel over. 

“We dont have to do this- we can-” 

He stares at your cunt as you spread your legs. He swallows thickly. He feels himself fight the urge to sink into you. But his mothers words dig into the back of his skull. Do not get a girl pregnant before marrying her. He stalls. 

He could put his mouth on you for hours, he’s sure he genuinely could do it for hours. He’d love to even. 

But sperm was proven to be the most effective antidote. Who knows what Lex had to figure that out.  You glance at his dick, so hard it looked almost painful. He was about to speak again but you cut him off quickly. 

“I’m on the pill,” you whimper. 

He’s on you quickly, knees digging into the soft mattress as his mouth leads a path up your body to your lips. He thrusts into you. You squeal, a mix of pain and intense pleasure. 

“Holy- goodness-“ he groans, mouth wide open as his hips flex into you. Your pussy was so wet, and so tight as if it wanted to milk him for each drop. 

Lex didn’t have anything to hold onto. Superman's hair was out of its usual gelled back style, pieces of his hair tickling against your skin as he places his forehead against yours.

Your fingers curl into his locks so tightly you fear if he wasn’t nearly invincible, you’d rip them from their roots. 

He groans, eyelids heavy as he gazes down at you. You were such a mess, your eyes were wet, body covered in sweat, a pool of your juices staining half of the mattress. With each of his orgasms, he could feel your body calm further, as if his seed were a salve.

His arms were underneath you, lifting you lightly for more leverage. The squelch of his cock, pumping into you as he held your body below him possessively was so arousing to you. 

You’ve never had an experience like this, someone so attentive and desperate for your body. Although in the back of your mind you knew that he wasn’t exactly desperate for you. You were both so unbearably horny, chemically enhanced hormonal shifts. 

His mouth sucks at your nipple, he groans as you wrap your legs around his waist, your hand reaching to pull his ass onto you. 

His weight was pushing you down as he changed position, pulling your legs up in the air and pressing his chest to the back of your thighs. It was obscene, his spunk spews from your pussy, your lower half seemingly covered in the milky white. 

Lex Luthor watches the whole thing, it lasts hours. He’s almost impressed. It infuriates him. 

Superman did everything in his power to get the chemicals out of your system, through sweat, tears, your cum. And he did everything to feel normal again, to stop craving the feel of your plump heated flesh, the tightness of your cunt, the softness of your lips. 

You were pretty for a LuthorCorp goon. Especially with your glasses all slanted as he pounds you into the mattress. 

By the end of the day Superman was spent, your heart has finally calmed. The last spurts of his cum pump into you weakly. He falls on his side, facing you. 

You both catch your breath, staring into each other's eyes, shifting closer until his arm wraps around you to pull you to his chest. 

His fingers press against the curve of your cheekbone as you lay on your side. He takes your lenses off gently, placing them on the pillow beside your head. 

You stare at him, finger pressing against his chin, his lips, his brow. 

“You’re so different,” you mutter. His eyes look over your features, not hiding his confusion. He imagines you mean different from Lex Luthor. You meant a lot of people. His clone was fucked up, cute, but the bridge of his nose and chin were slightly different. 

“Why do you work for him?”

You shrug. Lex Luthor was a good boss. At least before today. 

You had great health care, optometrist, dermatologist, endocrinologist and many more ists included. Pay was great, company products were free. Lex would get you flowers, he’d listen to your opinions, he’d take you to expensive dinners. 

But it was never intimate, not like the way Superman was pressed against you now. He hums, his hand traces over every mark he left on your body. 

Your expression was grim. 

“You should find another job.” 

You shrug again. He rolls his eyes, disappointed by your nonchalant response. He points between you both. 

“This is pretty messed up.” 

You nod. 

“I know.”

He stands, you stare at the ceiling. He gives you one last look as he changes. He feels better, stronger now. He looks down on you. He looks at the length of his cape. He could wrap you in it, fly to his apartment or Kansas. He’d make sure you were safe. 

“You should come with me…” 

You shake your head, turning on your side. Back turned away from him. He could sense the sadness, the betrayal. He’s sure you’ll leave LuthorCorp on your own. He’d find you. To find out more about what happened, to maybe even take you out for coffee. 

He’s hoping you would confide in Clark Kent.

You hear him tear through the metal. You cocoon yourself into a ball and finally succumb to your fatigue. 

…

You wake up in a hospital bed, the heart monitor beeping loudly beside your ear, making your head thrum with a headache. 

Lex was sitting next to your bed, analyzing your face as you scowled at him. He remains neutral. Your hand whips out faster than even you expected, his head whips to the side as your palm lands on his cheek. 

He rubs his jaw, amusement in his eyes. He takes your hand.

“How do you feel?”

You scoff, pulling your hand away from him. 

“I’m done.” 

He snorts, he gives you a look, as if you were stupid. Class Lex. He always makes you feel so small. So useless sometimes. 

“You’re not done,” he says, shaking his head as if he were speaking to a toddler who didn’t want to eat their vegetables. 

You sit up furiously. “I am done!” 

He doesn’t react to your tone. His eyes look over your body as he speaks. 

“You signed the contract. You work for me for another year.” 

You fume. Your hands ball into fists. He passes you your glasses but you slap the offer away. 

“Unless you want to void the contract. That’ll cost you 50,000, darling.” 

Tears well in your eyes. You couldn’t afford to void the contract, or the NDA. Or pay for legal fees if you want to get a lawyer. You stare up at the ceiling, the pillow is soft.

He holds your hand once again, this time tighter than before, not allowing you to pull away. He pulls in close next to you, he grips your chin to make you look up at him. 

“I own you.” 

He kisses your lips lightly, you face twitches in irritation. 

“You did good. We got what we needed.” 

His lips skim over the marks left by Superman, kissing the bruises and darkened spots so delicately it sent shivers down your spine. Your body soften against the mattress, giving in. 

Your hands were planted against the cushion of the medical bed as he lowered down between your legs, pulling your hospital gown up to expose your pussy. 

He groans at the sight. You let out a shaky breath and spread your legs. Your mound was swollen and as he spread your folds he could see streaky white slick drip out. 

He asked them not to clean you there as medical staff crowded over you after Superman had left.  They understood. It would make for a viable pregnancy if the sperm were to last longer inside of you. 

He licks you, sucks your cunt, slurping Superman’s cum from your gaping hole. There was so much of it. 

Your hands grip the medical bed, his head underneath your soft gown and shifting as he mouths at you. 

He’s never touched you like this, fucked you like this. 

He almost couldn’t believe it worked. Almost. Your pills were switched out months ago, there was no protection and judging by testing done on his clone. Superman’s sperm was potent. Statistically, way more potent than his own. 

He sucks your clit, you muffle a moan with the back of your hand. He stuffs the seed back into you, you succumb to a back arching climax. 

He wipes his mouth with a handkerchief and walks out of the room. 

…

You sit up in Lex’s bed. It’s been a month. 

He’d become more caring, in his own strange little ways. He broke up with his girlfriend, he asked you out on a date. 

He apologized. 

You think something was wrong with you. You stayed. You’d rather reap the benefits of a rich boyfriend than deal with the legalities of quitting your job. 

He touches you as if you were a delicate thing. Precious. You moved into his penthouse. You had access to most if not all of his belongings. 

It was fishy. You’ve asked him about why he did what he did. He said it was to collect more DNA, which was left all over the mattress. 

He wanted to create a better clone of Superman. 

You swipe through your phone, ignoring emails of this so-called Clark Kent from the Daily Planet who wants to discuss your kidnapping the month before. 

He’s been trying for weeks now. 

You trudge through the bedroom door to see Lex in the kitchen. You sniff and your stomach twists. You get closer and you have to stop. 

Bile collects in your mouth, and you rush to the bathroom. He calls out for you in concern, rushing towards you as you keel over the toilet bowl. 

“What were you making that smelled so disgusting?” you groan. His cooking skills were mediocre at best. You weren’t surprised by the horrible smell. 

“Eggs.” 

He could see the wheels turning in your head. You missed your period, but you’ve always had irregular months. 

Your ears ring, you want to puke but not from the smell of breakfast. 

Now that you thought about it. Your boobs were sore, you brushed it off as a long-term side effect of the chemicals. You were spotting for a few days. You felt off. 

You slam the door on Lex’s face and scour through the drawers underneath the sink. A fresh box of pregnancy tests was almost gleaming at you. 

You curse Lex. The bastard planned this. 

You sit on the toilet for more than two minutes. Your legs shake, your hands smooth over your thighs anxiously. 

You’re pretty sure it was Superman’s. You hoped it was just to spite Lex. 

You shake your head and put your head in your hands. You hope it wasn’t anybody’s! 

You pick up the test and close your eyes tightly. You open them and your heart drops. Your body goes cold. 

Lex gleams with joy as you scream in a mix of frustration and pent-up anxiety. You open the door and shove the test to his chest.

He watches you pack your belongings.  

It was positive. 

——————————

Baby daddy needs to lock in… Lex Luthor is so freaky I fear he would make a scheme to carry the child himself if he biologically could. Anyways, I don’t feel great about this one. Idk. Let me know if y'all want more of this reader. 

Requests and asks open! 

-Alejandra 💋 🐇

[blooddlusts]

EVEN THOUGH YOU AIN’T MINE ⋆｡°✩ ot7

( 𝙄 𝘿𝙊𝙉’𝙏 𝙒𝘼𝙉𝙏 𝙔𝙊𝙐 𝙏𝙊 𝙎𝙀𝙀 𝙉𝙊𝘽𝙊𝘿𝙔 ) ── no label to your relationship, no status confining you to one another. just pairs of eyes that linger from across the room like a silent prayer in the night. just because you two aren’t dating . . . it doesn’t mean that no one else can have you

(𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐕𝐄) enha x fem! reader, established feelings, friends with benefits (?), suggestive comments, cursing, nothing but pure jealously & possessiveness between both of you / w.c 4.9k

𝐤𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐚’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 ! this has been long overdue in my drafts (and i've been kinda inactive) so it’s finally time to bring this fic idea out of the vault. also i apologize if this does have typo errors (i finished writing this at 1am lmao) but i hope you guys enjoy!

LEE HEESEUNG

your lips curled into a grimace as you saw a girl laugh at one of his jokes and place her hand on his chest. it shouldn’t make you mad, it shouldn’t have made your blood boil but it did. and that’s what bothered you. the forbidden kisses, the way that his hands knew every inch and curve of your body —and yet, the two of you wholeheartedly agreed that it was better this way. no feelings, no strings attached. verbally, the two of you acknowledged it would be easier. so why was your heart so set on denying it? it didn’t take long for you to shake the whispering thoughts out of your head. a party was no time to dwindle on your insecurities. this was a decision that the two of you had taken into careful consideration. a relationship would only lead to disaster, it was better this way.

so maybe that’s why you didn’t have an issue grabbing a random stranger by the tie and dragging him out to dance with you. maybe that’s why you found it exhilarating to have his hands caressing your body as you two grinded against one another. the rush was exhilarating, but what made it all worthwhile was seeing heeseung look at you. the way he had his hands wrapped around the girl he was dancing with, the way she was so possessed by him, kissing his neck. perhaps in another lifetime he would be captivated by the girl in front of him —but in this universe, his eyes were only locked on you. watching you, wishing that was him instead of the stranger in front of you.

a smile touched your lips as you allowed yourself to roll your hips back, feeling the hands of the stranger press into your thighs. this was what it was like to be on the other end of jealously. the smile turned into a grin as you saw heeseung’s hand go up to his hair, his fingers clenching into a fist the more he watched you tease him from a distance away. it was all a twisted game you two played. while you both wouldn’t admit the feelings that lingered in the air, it was seeing who would be the first to fall. who would be the one to break, the one to get on their knees, to submit and accept that they were possessive and wanted no one else.

and he broke. heeseung pushed himself away from the girl that was still gouging his neck, grabbing you by the wrist and pulling you away from a dance that he knew was meant for him. his grip on your wrist tightened as he led you down a labyrinth of hallways, walking past people while the music blared into your ears. until he found an empty room and pulled you inside. shadows fell over his face as his fingers trailed down to your chin, gently caressing it until he pulled you close, heartbeats slowly fluttering in synch until his lips crashed into yours.

a kiss of desperation, one where you two grabbed for one another like you were the last people on earth. where you the two of you could release the silent yearnings that you both had been holding in for so long. and when your lips finally pulled away from his, he only gave you a millisecond to breathe before his lips touched yours again. you smiled into the kiss, pulling away so you could hear him pant as the two of you locked eyes in a room with the shadows casting as light.

“don’t ever fucking do that to me again,” his words weren’t a beg, they were a command. a desperate command that had you trailing your hands up to the hem of his shirt and kissing his neck. he groaned, his hands running down to grip your hips as you continued to trail kisses down him.

“you’re mine,” heeseung said as his hand moved up to your hair, caressing it before pulling you back so your eyes could meet his. “you’re mine,” he repeated, his lips hovering over yours before you closed the gap between them.

PARK JAY

you admittedly knew that your relationship with jay was one of stolen kisses, lingering touches, and the echoes of pleasure behind closed doors. it was always meant to be that way, private, secretive, and unofficial. in other words, this should have been a relationship that you two could have walked away from with no regrets —only you both lingered longer than expected. it didn't help that you would find a new floral arrangement in your kitchen counter every morning, or an outfit, a piece of jewelry wrapped up waiting to be unopened at the foot of your bed. but it was a silent confirmation that jay knew you. he knew what you wanted, what you liked, and he most certainly knew what you looked good in.

for a man that knew you so well, he had no trouble knowing how to make you squirm in your seat. jay couldn't help but find ecstasy in seeing your eyes narrow at him from across the store as he would help a random girl pick out the perfect necklace. to him, your glares were a way of confirming that he still had you wrapped around his finger. that you weren't going anywhere. that you were his, and his alone.

only two could play at this game. that was something that jay underestimated about you. which made your lips curl into a smile as you immediately went to the clothing racks. your fingers traced over different types of fabric, eyeing the dresses in front of you until you settled on two different pieces. your eyes flickered up to address the crowd of men that lingered in the store. it was a rush of adrenaline finding a somewhat attractive stranger and making your way towards him with your options in hand. from the corner of your eye, you could see jay watching you and that was all that mattered.

it didn't take much, just batting your eyelashes and looking like the most innocent girl in front of the stranger for his cheeks to flush red and help you pick between the two dresses you held in your hands. it didn't take much to get him to pay for the dress either, just cocking your head to the side, looking at his lips and pretending to be completely head over heels desperate. at the end of the day, you secured yourself a new dress and the wrath of jay park as he glared daggers at the bag in your hand as you flashed a wink while walking past him as you left the store.

there was something about wearing a dress that wasn't bought by jay that made your heart skip a beat, wondering what he would say, how he would react to seeing you wear it. after all, the two of you had made plans to him coming over to your apartment prior to your shopping trip. slipping on the silk black dress that clung perfectly to your body felt unreal —an act of betrayal to see him jealous.

the knock on the door sent butterflies into your stomach as you made your way to let jay in. no words, no small talk was said between the two of you as you opened the door. his eyes immediately went to the dress that was on your body. he was taking in every inch of you in that outfit, unable to imagine that someone else, someone that wasn't him, was able to pick a dress for you. and as he looked up at your eyes, the possessiveness filled him up like a drug as he walked inside your apartment, his eyes still on your dress until his hands went up to touch the thin straps on your shoulders.

jay closed the gap between you, his gaze trailing up from the straps on your shoulders to staring at you with a jealously that you had never seen before. his hand went up to cup your face as he pulled his lips to yours. "take this off," he muttered against your lips as he started to pull the straps of your dress down. "no one is allowed to buy you anything but me,"

SIM JAKE

to anyone else, making out in the backseat of someone's car on multiple occasions and having "sleepovers" could be considered things that happen in a relationship. but not with jake. and maybe that was the thrill that lingered in your stomach when you spent time with him. at the same time, it was almost a curse knowing that you two would spend so much time together for it to amount to nothing. what you two had was for fun only. nothing serious to come out of it. the two of you had been previously screwed over by your exes in the past, what you two had was the fun physical stuff that didn't include the emotional shit involved in a relationship.

in the beginning, it didn't pain you as much. it was nice to wake up with someone in bed. getting to play with jake's hair as he trailed kisses down your skin. or the idea of parking in the middle of nowhere and leaving the car foggy and seeing your handprints on the windows the following day. it was meant to be fun and games, no harm done, no feelings attached. until you felt him becoming distant. until, at the club, you had to see another girl place her hands on his hair, as he trailed kisses down her neck that it left your fingernails leaving prints in the palms of your hands.

you shouldn't be jealous. you tried to calm yourself down, but the image played over and over in your head. it wasn't like she had kissed him, she had just placed her hands in her hair. but you had been doing that for so long. you had always done that to jake after every heated moment that the two of you shared. but he had marked her, there was no denial about it. if this is what jealousy felt like, you hated it. because it meant that your feelings weren't just some fucked up illusion, but a reality. in your mind, he was at fault. he was yours and yours alone. which made the pain in your stomach sink deeper. jealous and possessive, two traits you never thought would come back to haunt you again.

it had corrupted your mind and soul. going to bed with him, knowing that the scenario was playing in your head constantly. until a moment of clarity washed over you as you looked at yourself in the mirror after taking a shower. the hickeys that jake would leave on your body were fading. maybe it was time for you to haunt his thoughts instead.

he could talk to any girl he wanted at the club. it didn't matter. not while you found some random man that same night and let him mark you. it felt euphoric knowing that you would return to your bed that night, knowing that the plague of possessiveness had washed away from you. you thought of jake as the stranger pressed his lips against your neck, your chest and your thighs. what would he say? what would he think? it felt completely surreal.

that night, once you both returned from the club, you didn't hesitate to get changed into your pyjamas while jake was in the room. stripping in front of him, the purple and red bruises felt like golden stickers on your body as you casually ignored their existence. but he noticed —and he didn't look away. rather, jake made his way toward you, his hands lingering on your neck, trailing down your skin as he looked at all of the hickeys that were left on your body. "who did this to you?" he asked as his grip tightened on your thighs as he was touching one of the bruises. he felt betrayed, like a slap to the face seeing that someone else's lips had marked your body. while he didn't understand what he had caused for another man to mark your body, the spark of possessiveness was ignited as his hands continued to trace the hickeys left on your body.

it was desperation as he started pressing kisses to your body, as he wrapped his arms around you, his hands clutching to your skin and making you moan into his grasp. his lips trailed to places that weren't marked, weren't covered in foreign hickeys. and that night, he made sure for you to know how jealous he was. how you were completely his. "cover up these hickeys up," he said as he pointed to the ones on your skin, as you were a breathless mess beside him. "the only ones i want to be seeing are mine,"

PARK SUNGHOON

sunghoon would rather die on his grave than admit that he was jealous. the last thing he wanted was to give you the satisfaction of knowing that he cared. what you two had was not meant to be an emotional pursuit. just something to keep you both entertained. he didn't like being vulnerable and you didn't like communicating any problem that stemmed in a relationship. even though you both agreed that you two would treat each other better than any of your exes, what you had was easier. being there for each other while not literally being there for each other. okay, so maybe it was actually more complicated but it was saving you two from emotional attachment —at least, that's what he kept telling himself.

he didn't know how it started. maybe it was when your kisses started feeling short against his lips. or how you didn't have that look in your eye that made his heart flutter every time you pulled back to catch your breath. the distance was driving him insane. and the constant drillings into his head that what you two had wasn't meant to be serious made him feel even worse. because slowly and surely, sunghoon would catch himself staring at you more intently. his fingers delicately tracing your skin as you laid in his bed with his arms wrapped around your bare torso. how he would clench his fist as you would laugh at someone else's joke or casually place a hand on someone else's chest when you both would go out with your friends. sunghoon was slowly spiralling into jealously and he hated that you didn't know what you were doing to him.

it became more frequent over the weeks. he hardly saw you in his apartment or on the other side of his bed anymore. sometimes you didn't answer his calls, other times he would find himself clenching his phone as the words "seen" were underneath the text that he sent to you. what were you doing? what was more important than the stolen moments that you two would spend together?

it came to the point where he started stalking your socials constantly, looking for any type of clue to answer this puzzle that was racking his brain. but the answer came sooner than expected when you were all gathered together for lunch with some friends. his fork had fallen to the ground and that was when he noticed someone else casually resting their hand on your thigh. without even thinking, sunghoon immediately wrapped his arm around the nearest person to him that wasn't you, pulling them close as his eyes locked with yours. and in that brief moment that your gazes were fixed on one another, a tang of possessiveness enveloped into your veins. but you brushed it off with a smile. so it turns out sunghoon could get jealous after all.

the next time he asked for you to come over to his apartment. you didn't give much thought into his request. after all, that's normally how it was between the two of you. but your mind couldn't stop playing the events that happened between the two of you at lunch. sure, the two of you didn't have a label. hell, you two weren't even in a relationship —but everything about the events tasted like charred coal as you ran them over in your head. you weren't jealous, were you? no, it was just a trick. your heart playing games. that's what you said in your head over and over again as you knocked on his door.

only seeing sunghoon in a black compression shirt almost made you fall to your knees. he didn't say anything to you as he let you into his apartment. silence lingered in the room as you two just stood there looking at each other. that was of course, until sunghoon finally broke the space between you two, his hands going to the nape of your neck, his fingers just tracing your skin as he continued to look down at you. was he asking you to make the first move? acting on your instincts, you leaned up to kiss him, only for your lips to touch his hand instead.

"i don't want to see anyone else's hands on you. do you understand?" sunghoon said as he tried to read your facial expressions. he moved his hand away from your lips, running it down so that it was resting on your hip. "i'm the only one who gets to touch you,"

KIM SUNOO

his cologne would always linger on your clothes every time you would leave his apartment. that's how sunoo knew that you were his. the same way you knew that sunoo was yours was based on the type of candles he had his home. he would only light the ones that were your favourite scents. call it an unspoken rule, but it was one that you both kept a secret from one another. after all, what you two had wasn't meant to go beyond closed doors. a mutual exchange, for you two to feel ecstasy without the labels or demands of being in a relationship that would pin you two down. it was better this way.

he loved catching a glimpse of you with your friends, knowing that only hours ago, you were a complete mess under his arms, saying his name like a prayer. but what took the cake was knowing that even if you showered, he could still smell his cologne on your body. it was like a calling card of some sorts. which fed into sunoo being completely possessive over you. knowing that wherever you went, the faintest scent of cologne would remain on your skin —a sign that you were his and his alone.

that was, of course, until his scent vanished from your skin. replaced with a new cologne. maybe it was a mistake, maybe you were just around someone that day who had heavy cologne. the solutions came into his head for why he couldn't smell his cologne on your body when you buried your head into his chest when you came over to his apartment. but none of them could explain why it was a reoccurring thing. why you would leave his bedroom, tainted by sunoo, only for him to see you completely unrecognizable with a new scent on your neck instead. it made his head spin trying to come up with possibilities, answers to the question that was taunting his brain. you were supposed to be his. so why did every touch of your skin feel foreign to him when you were beneath him?

jealously was consuming his brain, it was polluting his soul the more you would arrive to his place smelling like someone else. and if the hunch that was continuing to rot in his stomach was true, sunoo bought the candles with scents that weren't to your liking. he was going to catch you slip up. he needed answers to why the girl in his sheets felt like a stranger. was it jealously? or did he have every right to question the person that he had be slowly become so possessive of?

you entered his apartment like usual that night. only what instantly threw you off was the scent that filled the room. it made you take a step back, trying to re-evaluate what had happened. had he been sleeping with another girl? after all, that was the unspoken rule that made you know that he was still yours. who was he sleeping with? how long? the thoughts flooded into your brain, one after another as the aroma continued to flood your nostrils. all while sunoo was leaning against the doorframe of his bedroom, his arms crossed over his chest, watching you take in the change of the environment.

"you've changed the candles," you said slowly as you turned to lock eyes with sunoo. he didn't say anything, just continued to stare at you with a faint smile on his lips, as if he had been planning on you to make that observation. why was he so calm about it? jealously bombarded your thoughts as he continued to stare at you with the calm demeanour. you followed his gaze to see him staring at your clothes then back to the candles. and then it finally clicked.

he made his way toward you, his eyes lingering down to your clothes, knowing that he could smell the foreign cologne on your body. his fingers went up, trailing down from your shoulders to where your sweater rested on your hips. his fingers pulled at the fabric, slowly tugging it up while he looked at you. "i don't ever want to smell someone else's cologne on you again," he started while his hands went down to the waistband of your pants. "you understand?'

YANG JUNGWON

he hated seeing you look at men with that doe-like expression. it wasn't like you meant to do it on purpose, but to jungwon —it was the look that you would give to him in bed. and he hated the thought that something he considered so private, something that was his, was so easily shared when you were out chatting with strangers in public.

so maybe the two of you weren't in a relationship, in fact, you both mutually agreed that you both weren't in the right mental state to be dating. henceforth, why you and jungwon were with one another for all the wrong reasons. and you both knew it. but that didn't stop you from having the most intimate moments, both physical and emotional. even if there was no label that tied you two together, you two had gone down the deep hole of investment into something you both agreed would never work out. which only made things harder, he shouldn't be jealous, he shouldn't claim that facial expression you make as something that was only his. but the pit of resentment continued to curl into jungwon's stomach the more casual it became.

it made him livid to see you use it so casually. were you doing it on purpose? you were just as aware as jungwon was that what the two of you had wasn't a committed relationship. were you just toying with his head? the thoughts slowly formed into a whirlwind in his head the more he took note of your conversations with strangers. seeing how you would tilt your chin up, your eyes doing that thing that made him clench his fists. how many times had you looked at him like that in bed? begged for him, called his name out, only for you to use it as a part of your facial vocabulary. it made him absolutely livid. that was something only he was supposed to have with you. him and no one else.

on the other hand, you couldn't stop noticing jungwon's frustration. it was exhilarating to see him getting mad, how his brows would crease and how he would clench his fists. he would never say it outloud, but you knew that he was jealous. after all, the was the look of desperation, one of submission that you would give to him pleadingly behind closed doors. and here you were, using it like it was nothing. and it itched you to know how upset it made jungwon feel. he had no right to feel jealous, or claim that expression as his own —yet, he was going against his own wishes and falling deeper into his emotions. not like he was going to acknowledge it.

it was as if you were riding on cloud nine knowing that he was jealous. knowing that you had him wrapped around your finger. that the slightest facial expression could send him spiralling. which made going to his apartment all worthwhile as soon as the door to his bedroom closed. you could be raw with him, open, and completely possessive knowing just how much he paid attention to you.

as his lips pressed against yours, it wasn't soft like the previous ones. no, this one was forceful, desperate, almost like jungwon wanted you to know that your lips were his and for no one else. you could feel his hands tracing your body, clinging to you like he wasn't planning on letting you go. you slowly pulled back from his lips, turning to look up at him with that same doe-like expression that you had been using so casually only a couple of hours prior. and he noticed, he fucking noticed.

his hands trailed down to your hips, his fingers slowly sliding your shirt up before running his hands to touch your skin. "we're going to have a problem if you ever look at someone else like that," jungwon said as his lips slowly brushed your neck. his eyes locked with yours, his other hand going to tilt your chin up until your lips were only inches from touching his. "i only want you to look at me like that, no one else. just me,"

NISHIMURA RIKI

keeping it casual with niki seemed like all fun and games until the two of you realized just how much repressed emotions you were hiding from one another. you two were the perfect example of understanding that you two weren't meant to date that this present moment, but oh how you could treat each other right.

with that mentality in mind, it was so easy to be jealous, to be possessive. there was no one else that could do it better, to make you feel better. what made matters worse was how you two weren't verbal about your feelings. emotions were forbidden, it was the only way you two wouldn't fall in deeper for one another. but jealously has a way of making you fall deep. at least, that's what you try to ignore every time you're both at a party. it's closed doors when you're together, which means out in public, the idea of you two being a couple is completely non-existent.

so niki hates it when he's seeing you at a pool table, letting a guy get completely handsy with you as he's teaching you how to play. he hates seeing how this man has his hands on your waist, how he's letting his hands linger as you're leaning forward to line up the short. he hates seeing how your ass accidentally brushes his leg and how there's a stolen glance exchanged between the two of you. his fingers clench the red solo cup in his hand, you'd think he'd choose to look away, but no —his eyes are on you 24/7, watching your every move.

at the same time, you hate it when you see him talking to other girls. how they casually inch themselves closer towards him, placing their hands on niki's chest and dragging him to the dance floor where you can see him place his hands on their hips, as their back is pressed against his chest and they're grinding on one another. it's almost like a competition between the two of you, who can get the other person more riled up with jealously. or will you both give in at the same time?

your eyes lock with him from across the room. his hands still on her hips, your ass still pressed against this guy's leg. it isn't until the man behind you starts wrapping an arm around your waist that niki's eyes narrow at the sight. his hands immediately drop from the girl he's dancing with and he starts walking away. you give into the chase and follow him. his tall figure his easy to spot as you head down the halls, seeing where he's going. niki leads you into an empty room, you close the door and to see him staring at you, a lamp being the only thing illuminating your faces from the darkness.

"don't tell me you were jealous back there," you smile as you make your way towards him. you casually wrap your arms around his waist, leaning up so you can see him looking down at you. he doesn't give you a chance to say anything else, his lips are crashing on you, kissing you with such desperation, reminding you that he's yours. his hands trail down to your hips, slowly going to cup your ass before he pulls away from your lips.

"and what if i was?" he says as a smirk etches on his face. he eyes your body before looking up at you one last time and giving you a long kiss. "i don't like it when other guys touch my girl,"

likes, reblogs, feedback & comments are appreciated!

[hatethysinner]

hi mamas !!! I'm the one who asked when your reqs would be back open :) and be prepared, this is kind of... detailed. (again, no rush) anyways, I had an idea where remmick would kind of stalk the reader- like straight up BEGS the girl every night to be let in. but, reader lives with her mama and maybe siblings, so she's worried he'll hurt them and she says no every time. but then this MANIPULATIVE ASS HO gets in anyway bc he deep fries himself in sun like how he did in the movie, and reader's MOTHER lets his dumbass in. and reader's mom is all nice to him and trying to patch him up, and reader's worried af but maybe pretends to not know this burnt up white man in her mama's kitchen. and later, it's nightime and all, and reader's tryna sleep but is scared for her family. and ofc, remmick's crazy ass is watching her in the dark. but then he comes into her room, and they talk, which calms reader down a bit. eventually, she's comfortable enough to start getting curious abt remmick being a vampire, so she ends up in his lap while checking out his fangs and claws… all of which leads to thigh-riding while remmick teases and kind of taunts reader. then, it gets spicier (ofc) and they do whatever you want them to do. but PLEASE at least once, let that man's hand be around reader's neck. (again, for the like third time, there is no rush, and ik if you do write this it'll be AWESOME bc you're just that iconic <33 i hope this isn't too much btw and ty for taking the time to answer my first question :)))

ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀ ᴏᴘᴇɴ

ᴡᴄ: 8.1k

ᴀ/ɴ: no because why is this song so delulu remmick coded. but don't give me such good requests yall because i will get carried away and completely twist the ask into absolute degeneracy. i also took some (many) creative liberties so i hope that's okay with you anon :3! please mind the warnings and do not interact if dark themes aren't your cup of tea (totally valid)!

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: 18+ MINORS DNI!!!!, shamelessly nasty smut, minimal plot all porn, dark themes, noncon, degradation, groping, fingering, p in v, rough sex, choking, breeding kink, dacryphilia, babytrapping, cockwarming, fantasies of exhibitionism, threats of violence, dom!remmick, creep!remmick, delusional!remmick, feral!remmick honestly, sub!reader, poc!reader and the 1930s suspicions that follow, stalking, manipulation of a sweet old lady, slightly excessive divider usage, i got addicted to italics again, overall depravity in every sense of the word

It started with flowers.

Wild ones, mostly—asters, cosmos, bluebells with tangled stems. Arranged without rhyme or reason, more a fistful than a bouquet. Always fresh. Always different. Always left somewhere you couldn’t ignore.

Tucked into the curve of your fence.

Balanced on your windowsill, pressed in place by a rock so they wouldn’t blow away.

Dropped just outside the screen door, nestled like an apology beneath your feet when you stepped out in the morning.

You never brought them in.

You crushed the first bunch with your heel, left the second to rot. The third, you flung into the weeds and didn’t even bother to look back. You knew where they came from. What they meant. And he knew you knew, because the next one came with a note.

“It hurts when you don’t look.”

You tore that one up before your mama could see it.

And still—he kept coming.

You never saw him outright. Not at first. It was always shadows. Footsteps. The soft rustle of leaves behind you on your walk home from the grocer’s. A shape moving just past your periphery when you passed the fields. A cigarette still burning in the woods across the road when you shut the gate behind you at night.

You told yourself you weren’t scared.

You told yourself he’d get bored.

But one night, after a long shift and an even longer walk, you turned onto your road and saw it.

Right there at the bend before your porch steps, where your shoes always scraped the gravel just so.

Your necklace.

The one you lost weeks ago. The one your mama swore must’ve slipped down the drain. The one you’d already stopped looking for.

It was laid out neat, untangled, gleaming under the moonlight like it’d just been polished.

You didn’t sleep that night.

Your mama called him a “godsend.”

Said it with a sweet smile and her hands buried in the laundry basket, humming as she folded clothes and made her neat little piles. You stood frozen in the doorway, the sun hot on your back, heart sinking as she said it again.

“He came ‘round again this mornin’, right before the sun came up. Said he was passin’ by and saw the yard needed work. Ain’t that somethin’? Didn’t even ask for nothin’ in return.”

“Mama…” You didn’t even know where to start.

She waved you off, smile deepening.

“I know that tone. And I’m tellin’ you now, you hush with that. Just ‘cause he’s a stranger doesn’t mean he’s bad. You oughta be grateful someone’s willin’ to help. The weeds were up to my knees out there.”

You gritted your teeth. Tried to keep your voice soft.

“What’d he look like?”

She thought on it.

“White boy. A little short. Lean, too. Pale as could be, no wonder he doesn’t like the sun. He’s got the sweetest face. Oh, and you should hear his accent. It’s so silly! He’s not a talker, but real polite. His name was... Remmick.”

You didn’t say a word.

Ran out the back door so fast you almost left your shoes behind.

And there he was.

Right outside the fence, crouched low by the overgrown roses, a pair of gardening gloves tugged tight over his hands.

Remmick.

He looked up like he didn’t recognize you.

Like you were just some stranger walking out into the yard.

And then he smiled.

God, that smile.

Soft. Gentle. Like sunlight on water. Like apology in the shape of a man.

You wanted to claw it off his face.

But your mother was at the screen door already, waving at him.

“He’s gonna finish up the hedges,” she called. “Ain’t that kind of him?”

“Real kind,” you murmured, eyes locked on him like you could peel him open with your gaze.

He dipped his head—humble, almost bashful—and gave you a nod.

Didn’t say a word.

Didn’t have to.

Because you saw it.

The glint in his eye.

The curl of his fingers around the shears a little too tight.

The way his gaze flicked back to your mother just long enough to remind you that he knew.

Knew who she was.

Knew where you lived.

Knew how to worm his way into her soft spots, the same way he’d been trying to worm into yours for months now.

And you couldn’t say anything.

Couldn’t call him out.

Not without seeming crazy.

Not without hurting the woman who still smiled when strangers offered help, who still believed there were good men just walking the streets, who still thought angels could come in the form of a neighbor with strong arms and nice teeth.

So you stood there.

You watched him trim the hedges.

You watched your mother bring him lemonade.

You watched him wave goodbye and promise to stop by again tomorrow if the weather held.

And when he looked at you—just for a second—he smiled again.

Not sweet this time.

Not bashful.

Just knowing.

Like he’d already won.

A week passed, and with it, your sense of control.

It started small. It always did.

Remmick became a fixture.

He came by each morning just before sunrise, long before you woke, and stayed through the overcast days. Always outside. Always busy.

If he wasn’t mending the fence, he was hauling brush or tending to the many, many gardens he’d set up. One morning, you caught him beneath the house, dragging out years of junk like it was his duty—like he belonged there, under your home, under your skin.

Your mother fed him like a stray.

Brought him biscuits and bacon wrapped in a dish towel. Let him take water from the pump, even gave him a chipped mug to keep so he wouldn’t have to drink from his hands. You never saw her treat anyone like that before. Not the neighbors. Not her own family.

Just him.

Remmick never took more than he was given. He always smiled, always thanked her with that soft lilt in his voice—like honey caught on something colder underneath. You saw it clearer every day. The way he shifted when she wasn’t looking. The way his posture changed when it was just the two of you in the same breath of space.

He started speaking more.

To you, not her.

Small things, tossed off like threadbare compliments.

“Mornin’. Pretty out today, ain’t it?”

“Must be hard carryin’ all that weight in yer shoulders. Want help with the bags?”

“Y’look tired. Ya sleepin’ alright?”

You ignored him the first time.

The second, you muttered something sharp, just enough to sting.

The third, he got bold.

Tried brushing past you in the backyard, even though there was plenty of space. His hand didn’t just graze your side—it pressed, firm at your hips, fingers splayed like he had every right. For a split second, he dipped lower, just enough to make your skin crawl.

You spun so fast he nearly lost his footing, but he only chuckled, soft and low.

“Yer awful jumpy.”

“You’re awful close.”

He lifted both hands like a preacher at the altar, all innocence and soft retreat. Didn’t matter. You still went to bed that night with your dresser shoved against the door.

Now it was Friday.

Too long since he first walked into your mother’s good graces with dirt on his knees and a saint’s smile. The sky hung low that morning, heavy and gray. Rain tapped soft against the awning, not quite steady—more a hush than a downpour.

The kitchen was dim but warm, lit gold by the bulb above the stove. Your mother stood at the sink, wrist-deep in suds, humming something low and wordless while the faucet ran. Steam curled from the dishwater. Her breath fogged the glass when she leaned toward it, squinting through the haze to watch him work.

You leaned against the counter, arms folded tight.

Remmick was out back again, kneeling by the raised beds he’d built himself. From the window, you could see him—shirt rolled to his elbows, sweat darkening the collar, hair damp against his temples. He looked up at the glass like he felt her gaze, and when he smiled and waved, your mama gave a little wave back with the sponge still in hand.

“Lord, he’s somethin’,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Boy works like he’s got a home here.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just watched the way his hand settled at his waist. Right over the spot where he’d touched you.

“Mama,” you said, quiet but tight. “Don’t it strike you as strange?”

She blinked at you, then returned her attention to the dishes.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean—” You shifted your weight. Bit back the worst of it. “What business does a white man like him have hangin’ around here every day? Doing yard work? Building things for free? Doesn’t that sound off to you?”

She sighed, more tired than annoyed, but not without edge.

“You’re startin’ to sound like your auntie.”

You frowned. “I’m bein’ serious.”

“So am I,” she said, rinsing a plate with sharp swipes. “You think I don’t notice the way you watch him? The way you stiffen when he comes near?”

“He ain’t done nothin’ wrong,” she went on. “Not once. Been nothin’ but respectful to me. Doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t look me over. Doesn’t even take his eyes off the dirt when I’m speakin’. That’s rare, baby. I don’t care what color a man is—when you get kindness that steady, you don’t spit on it.”

You stared at the counter, jaw clenched. The hum of the faucet suddenly felt too loud.

“He feels wrong.” you whispered.

“Maybe you just ain’t used to good things.”

The words cracked through the quiet like a snapped branch. You looked up fast, but she wasn’t angry. Her eyes were soft, sad even, a little damp from the heat curling off the dishwater.

“It’s okay to be suspicious. I taught you that. Taught you to keep your guard up. This world doesn’t love girls like us.” Her voice shook the tiniest bit. “But if all we do is wait for things to go bad, we’re gonna miss when they’re actually good. And he’s been good.”

You almost told her then.

Almost grabbed her by the shoulders and said it plain—he touches me when you’re not looking. He says things with his eyes that I don’t like. He’s not here for you, Mama. He’s here for me.

But you didn’t.

Because you’d already tried convincing her, and all it did was make her dig in her heels.

At least now, he stayed outside. That much you’d managed. No matter how she fussed or insisted he ought to come in for supper or take a break from the sun, you always found a way to stop it. Quick lies. Fabricated errands.

“He said he’d rather eat out back.”

“He’s got somethin’ to finish before the light fades.”

You were always watching.

Because you had to be.

Now, your mother dried her hands and gave you a gentle look—the kind she used when you were little, when you scraped your knees and wouldn’t stop crying.

“We’re allowed to have good things, baby,” she said. “Even here. Even now.”

You didn’t answer.

Just turned to the window and watched him crouch again, hands in the soil, head tilted low. He wasn’t waving this time.

He was staring.

And this time, he didn’t stop when you caught him.

It was only a matter of time before Remmick got tired of waiting.

You felt it before you saw it. A stillness in the wind. A shift in the birdsong. The way the air hung heavy, too warm for the hour, too silent for how bright the sun was burning overhead. Even your mother felt it—her hands moved slower over the fabric she was folding, her eyes flicking to the window again and again.

He didn’t come that morning.

Not at dawn. Not by nine. Not by lunch.

He never missed a morning.

Not once in that long, crawling week. No matter the heat or the rain, he always found something to do. Always had dirt under his nails and a tool in his hand. Always checked in with your mother like he cared—“drinkin’ enough water today, miss? y’shouldn’t be out in this sun too long”—like he belonged there in her routine, like he had the right to speak to her soft and sweet like the son she never had.

His absence brought silence.

Sweet, golden peace.

You sat on the back steps with a cool drink in your hand, listening to the cicadas buzz in the trees. No shadow shifting behind the fence. No footstep just out of view. No eyes crawling up your spine.

It was the first time in days you’d been able to breathe.

Mama, though—she kept checking the window. Wringing her hands on the dishtowel. Muttering little nothings like “maybe he’s sick,” or “he said he’d be painting the tool shed today, didn’t he?” Her voice never rose, but the worry pressed itself into every syllable.

Then the scream came.

It was low at first. Hoarse. Animal. Like something dying slow just out of sight.

You were halfway up from your seat when it rose into a full, guttural shriek that made your skin crawl and your mother’s head snap toward the front door.

She didn’t even hesitate, already running before you could turn around.

You followed, legs stiff with dread, stumbling down the hallway behind her. By the time you reached the porch, she was already down the steps and into the yard. And there he was.

Remmick.

Writhing on the gravel like he was on fire.

Because he was.

The sun clung to him like acid, his pale skin bubbling and blackening in streaks, peeling back in sick, wet curls as he thrashed. His mouth was open wide, teeth clenched hard, and that scream—God, that sound—didn’t stop. You could hear the sizzle, the meat of him cooking under the light.

You froze.

Your heart leapt, not in fear, but—

Relief.

He wasn’t invincible.

“Help me!” your mother cried, dropping to her knees beside him, trying to shield his body with her arms like she could block out the sun with her shadow. “Get him inside, now!”

“Mama, no—”

“NOW!” she snapped, and that was it.

No room to argue.

No space to resist.

You clenched your jaw, grabbed him beneath the shoulders with shaking hands, and started dragging. His shirt came away in your grip, damp with blood and something worse. His whole body shook. The smell was awful—burnt skin and smoke and sweat and the iron-thick stink of his ruin. You gagged once, but kept pulling. Your mother had his legs. Together, you got him to the porch. Up the steps. Through the door.

And the moment you crossed the threshold—

He stopped screaming.

His back arched once, sharp and sudden, and then he slumped into your arms like a puppet with its strings cut. You almost dropped him right there.

Because he was smiling.

Not wide. Not obvious. Just a tiny tug at the corner of his mouth.

Like it had all been worth it.

Like you were the reward.

Your stomach flipped.

“Lay him down—careful, now, careful,” your mother barked, already dragging the cushions off the couch, already reaching for a towel to cover him with. “Get me the first aid kit. The big one. Under the bathroom sink.”

You hesitated.

“Go!”

You went.

But your hands trembled the whole time.

When you came back, she had a bowl of water ready, a stack of clean rags, bottles of aloe and burn salve and something else that smelled like alcohol. She worked like she’d done it a hundred times before, as though treating a man whose flesh melted under sunlight was no different than nursing a fever or bandaging a scraped knee.

You hovered by the doorway, clutching the kit like a lifeline.

“Don’t just stand there,” she snapped. “Hand me the salve.”

You moved toward them, each step heavier than the last. He was watching you. Of course he was. His eyes tracked you like a snake in the grass, lazy and slow and certain. One hand slipped from beneath the towel when you passed him the bottle.

Brushed your thigh.

Light. Deliberate.

You flinched so hard it nearly toppled the basin.

“Oh, stop bein’ dramatic,” your mother said, not even looking up. “He’s hurt. He ain’t thinkin’ straight.”

But he was.

You could feel it in your bones.

His fingers lingered every time you came near. When you handed her a rag, his knuckles brushed your wrist. When you brought over clean towels, his foot slid just close enough to touch yours. Always soft. Always gentle. Never enough to call out. Never enough to prove.

But you knew.

He was enjoying this.

Letting her see his ruin.

Letting you feel it.

You stood still, fists clenched at your sides, every part of you screaming to run—to scream yourself—but she looked so worried, so desperate to keep him breathing, and the only way to make sure she stayed safe was to play along.

So you passed the towels.

So you fetched the ice.

So you swallowed the bile rising in your throat every time he touched you.

And eventually, things calmed down.

The air settled. The heat broke. And the sun, as if it had seen what it had done and felt guilty for it, dipped below the trees earlier than you expected—leaving the house in the kind of dim amber that made everything feel quieter than it was.

Remmick sat upright now, stiff and still, perched in the worn armchair by the window like a doll someone had wrapped in gauze. His torso and arms were nearly mummified in clean white bandages, only his neck and the tops of his hands left bare. Every inch of him smelled like aloe and ash.

Your mother stood by his side, fretting with a teacup in her hands, eyes scanning him like she still couldn’t believe he was alive.

“Thank ya,” he said, voice low and hoarse but steady enough to carry. “Truly. For everything. I—I don’t know what I would’ve done if y’all hadn’t found me when ya did.”

He turned his gaze to you as he spoke.

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t look at him.

Didn’t trust yourself to.

Your mother, of course, just waved off his words with a hand to her chest, her voice tender with concern.

“Oh, hush. We weren’t just gonna leave you out there to burn. What kind of people do you think we are?”

“The good kind,” he said, smiling gently, even through the cracks of pain. “That’s rare.”

You almost scoffed.

But then she said it.

“Why don’t you stay the night?”

He blinked like it hadn’t occurred to him, like it wasn’t exactly what he wanted, like he hadn’t orchestrated the whole thing with timing so precise it turned your stomach.

“Oh—Miss, I couldn’t. That’s too much. I’ll be fine once the pain goes away—”

“Nonsense,” she interrupted, her hand already reaching to straighten the blanket tucked over his lap. “You need rest. Proper rest. Not curled up in somebody’s barn or huddled on a porch. You’re stayin’. No arguments.”

He gave a sheepish little smile.

“All right,” he murmured. “If y’sure.”

“I’m sure.” She turned to you then, unbothered, cheerful even. “Show him to the guest room, baby. Make sure the windows are shut.”

You froze.

Swallowed so hard it hurt.

Biting back what you wanted to say.

What you needed to say.

That he wasn’t helpless. That he was a liar. That she’d invited the devil straight into their home.

But you bit your tongue. Hard. Bit it until you tasted copper. Bit it because if you didn’t, she’d see it. She’d see the panic. She’d see you crack.

So you nodded.

Gestured with a tight jerk of your head.

“This way,” you muttered.

He stood slowly, stiff but sure-footed, bandages rustling with each step. He didn’t reach for you this time. Didn’t let his fingers drift or graze. Just followed behind you quietly, the floor creaking soft beneath his feet.

At the doorway, you turned the knob and opened the door, the guest room dim and still and far too welcoming.

He didn’t cross the threshold just yet.

He looked at you.

Not smiling. Not scheming.

Just looking.

And when he spoke, there was something strange in his voice. Something that sat too close to sincere.

“Thank ya,” he said again. “Really.”

It landed differently this time.

Less like a trick. More like… a confession.

It made your chest tight.

Made something flicker, weak and unwanted, at the back of your ribs.

But you didn’t answer.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t breathe.

You just stepped back, eyes flat, and shut the door.

And then you ran.

Not fast. Not loud. Just swift enough to let your hands tremble once you reached your room. Just quiet enough that your mother wouldn’t hear the way your breath hitched as you closed your door, leaned against it, and slid slowly down to the floor.

Heart pounding. Mouth dry. Skin crawling.

You stayed there for a long while, listening to the creak of the hallway floorboards, the distant clatter of dishes in the sink, and the whisper of wind against the windows.

Waiting for him.

Waiting for the next move.

But eventually, you felt safe enough to sleep.

You woke with the weight of it already on your chest.

That sick, bloated heaviness of being watched.

It clung to your skin like heat, like sweat that hadn’t come from any dream. Your eyes blinked open into the dark, and even before you could move, before you could think or breathe or cry out—

You knew.

It was him.

The clock hadn’t chimed. The sun hadn’t even thought about rising. It couldn’t have been past four, the whole world still deep in its hush, but he was awake. He was here. You kept your eyes trained on the window, on the soft, pale square of moonlight pressed against the pane like a prayer. You didn’t dare turn around. Didn’t even blink.

Your fingers curled into the sheets.

Your throat felt sealed shut.

There were no footsteps. No breath. Not even the creak of a floorboard to warn you. But something shifted. The air itself felt startled. As though the house knew it too—he’s here—and recoiled.

The door opened.

You didn’t hear it.

You felt it.

The space behind you changed. The air moved, warm and sour with something that didn’t belong, and even though your back was turned, you could picture it perfectly. The door swinging inward with unnatural grace. The shadows folding back to let him through.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t have to.

He just stood there, watching.

You couldn’t tell for how long. It could’ve been seconds. Minutes. Hours. Long enough for your arms to numb beneath the pillow. Long enough for your heart to slam itself to pieces inside your chest. Long enough to know he was enjoying it.

And then—

He moved.

Silently.

Not walking. Not stepping.

Gliding.

Like something unbound by the rules that governed the rest of the world. You didn’t hear his weight shift. You didn’t hear the floor sigh. Just the soundless, aching knowledge that he was getting closer.

And closer.

And closer still.

And then—nothing.

Until the bed dipped.

So slight at first you almost thought it was your breath catching wrong. Then deeper, firmer. The mattress giving under a body that didn’t sound like it had one. Your spine stiffened, fingers white-knuckled in the blankets. You kept your eyes on the window. Don’t turn around. Don’t give him that.

The heat of him soaked into the room. Not warmth like a person. Warmth like breath in a crypt. Damp. Dense. Lingering.

And then he breathed.

Right against your shoulder.

A long, slow exhale, like he was savoring the shape of you beneath the sheet. His nose might’ve been inches from your skin. You didn’t dare flinch, though your stomach twisted so violently you thought you might vomit.

You wondered if your mama was still asleep down the hall.

You wondered what he’d do if you screamed.

You wondered how loud you’d have to be for someone—anyone—to hear.

But all those thoughts—every one of them—snapped like twigs under a boot the moment his hands moved.

One of them was already slipping beneath your nightgown, slow and certain, like he had every right. Like it was just something he did every night and you were just late to remember. The other moved to your chest—slow, deliberate—and cupped your breasts with such a terrifying familiarity it made your blood turn to ice.

You inhaled sharp, a scream already rising, raw and ragged, but before you could get it out—

His hand snapped up.

Covered your mouth in a single, practiced motion, calloused fingers pressing firm against your cheeks, his palm sealing the sound inside you like he’d done it a thousand times before.

You froze.

He leaned in.

Close enough that you felt the smile before you saw it.

Close enough that his breath hit your ear, still thick with the smell of your mother’s tea and something far too close to blood.

“Shhh,” he whispered. “Ain’t no need t’be carryin’ on like that.”

You bucked once—jerked hard—but he didn’t budge. Didn’t struggle. Didn’t even raise his voice. His grip didn’t waver. The hand under your gown simply kept climbing. Past your thigh. Your hip. Stopping at the soft of your stomach like he was praying over you.

“Been waitin’ on this,” he murmured, forehead pressing to your temple now, his voice pouring down your spine like molasses. “Waitin’ so damn long. Y’don’t even know, do ya?”

You tried to scream again, a muffled shriek choked back by his palm. He chuckled. God, he laughed—low and lazy like it thrilled him, like your panic was his favorite lullaby.

“Oh, darlin’,” he breathed. “Ya been mine.”

His nose dragged along your cheek, slow as sin. His thumb found your jaw, pried it down just enough to make you feel helpless, open.

“Was mine the minute you saw them flowers,” he went on, voice deepening, almost cutting. “Knew it then. Knew ya felt it. Y’ain’t never looked at nobody else the way you looked at me. Not once.”

His hand under your gown was moving again, lower this time, but not hurried. Not frenzied. Gentle. Reverent. Like he thought you ought to thank him for it.

“Y’don’t gotta act scared,” he said, and there was real pity in his voice now—something soft and condescending. “I know what ya been dreamin’ about. The way ya stare at me when y’think I ain’t lookin’. The way ya breathe when I walk past. Y’think I don’t smell that on ya?”

He pressed his face to your neck. Inhaled deep.

“I know ya,” he whispered. “Better than anybody.”

You whimpered—high, panicked—and he shushed you again, slower this time. Soothed his hand over your cheek like you were breakable and beloved all at once.

“No one else gets to touch ya like this,” he murmured, the words dragging wet against your skin. “Ain’t nobody else that deserves to.”

The hand between your legs slipped beneath your panties with a slow, sick grace—fingers sliding straight to your soaked folds, rubbing over them in lazy strokes.

“Ya feel that?” he asked, the growing smile present in his tone. “That’s how I know. Ya say y’don’t want it, but yer body don’t lie, sweetheart. Never has.”

You choked on a sob beneath his hand.

“I been patient,” he offered, like it meant something. “So, so patient. Sat out in the rain for you. Burned for you. You think I don’t deserve a little sweetness after all that?”

His mouth brushed your ear. Lips soft. Voice breaking open into something more desperate.

“You owe me.”

You bucked again. Harder.

Every fiber in you twisted toward the door, toward the window, toward anywhere that wasn’t here—beneath him, beside him. Your hips shifted with sharp panic, legs kicking, your whole body writhing like it could shake him off if only you could move fast enough.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Just let you squirm beneath him like it amused him.

“That’s enough of that now,” he said. “Y’can give it sweet, or I can take it rough. Don’t make me choose, sugar.”

His voice—so soft, so measured—broke you more than his grip. It was the way he said you can give, like this was still yours to offer. Like he hadn’t already peeled your control off in layers and folded it into his pocket.

You twisted again anyway, but this time, he caught your wrists. Pinned them easy. His strength didn’t show in his arms—it showed in his patience, in the lazy drag of his breath against your cheek, in the way he settled over you like weight, like heat, like ruin.

His head dipped lower, breath hot against your jaw. “Y’think ya can lie to me? Lie to yerself? Yer drippin’ want all over these sheets, darlin’.”

You sobbed. Quiet. Helpless.

He chuckled again, deep and fond.

“Bless yer heart,” he murmured. “Still thinkin’ thissus about choice.”

His hands dragged down—slow, so slow—settling at your hips like he could feel your heartbeat thudding through the bone. His fingers twitched. Adjusted. Pressed.

And you flinched again.

“Mm-mm,” he tutted. “You act like I’m doin’ you harm, but you and I both know you opened the door a long time ago. Ain’t my fault you didn’t know what walked through.”

He shifted behind you, breath dragging ragged across your neck now, his hand sliding higher—hovering just beneath your chin.

“Go on,” he murmured. “Open that mouth, darlin’. You know what I want.”

You clenched your jaw.

Hard.

His breath stilled.

Then cooled.

Then turned mean.

“Oh,” he said, soft with danger. “Yer playin’ coy now...”

His fingers pressed firmer against your chin.

“Y’know,” he went on, voice shifting to something quiet and thoughtful and casual. “I reckon if your mama walked in right now, saw her baby girl laid out like this—pantin’, sweatin’, shakin’ under me—”

You made a choked, guttural noise.

“—well, I’d have to kill her.”

He said it like a shrug.

Like a truth.

“Not ‘cause I want to. Wouldn’t be personal. But can’t have her knowin’. Can’t have her ruinin’ what we got here.”

You sobbed, letting your mouth fall open.

Just enough.

Just barely.

“There’s my girl.”

Two fingers pressed against your lips.

He didn’t shove. He waited. Waited until you gave a little more. Until your lips parted around them like instinct, like defeat.

He pushed in. Slow. Deeper.

Further.

You gagged.

He cooed.

“Shhh, now. Relax that throat,” he whispered, voice dipping low again, syrup-thick. “Gonna be puttin’ that pretty mouth to good use real soon.”

The room swam.

Your pulse throbbed in your ears.

And still, he smiled.

That same awful, patient smile. The kind that didn’t need teeth to be cruel. The kind that knew you. That had waited for you. That had earned this.

“You make a mess of things, y’know that?” he murmured, slipping his fingers free from your mouth—slick and shining in the dark. He dragged them down slow, trailing your chin, your throat, your sternum—like you were something he built. Something he owned.

His hand found your hips again.

Then lower.

And lower.

You felt him part you with practiced ease—no hesitation, no tenderness—and the sound he made when his fingers met your folds again was nothing short of triumphant.

“Well now,” he breathed, almost laughing. “All this trouble ya give me, all that hollerin’—and look at ya.”

His fingers moved, just enough for you to feel it. Just enough to make you seize up from the inside out.

“Drippin’ like honey in July.”

You shuddered.

Not from pleasure.

From shame. From helplessness. From the way he moaned at the feel of you, low and giddy and proud like he’d won something sacred.

“All them nasty little things y’said. All that runnin’. All that fightin’ me.”

He curled his fingers inside you.

You choked on a gasp.

“And here ya are,” he whispered, dragging his tongue against your ear. “Soakin’ my fingers like a bitch in heat.”

“Yer mouth says no, but this sweet little thing here?”

He fucked his fingers harder.

You bit back a sob.

“This part knows. Knows what she wants. Knows who she belongs to.”

He set a rhythm, brutal and unrelenting, fucking you on his hand like you were something empty he meant to fill. Every drag of his fingers was followed by his voice against your cheek.

“Gonna make y’come on my fingers, sugar. Gonna make ya fall apart just right. You’ll love it. You will. I’ll tear that pride right outta ya, piece by piece, till all you got left is me.”

Then he added a third.

No warning.

No gentleness.

Just the hot, sharp stretch of it forcing you wider, making your back arch and your breath stutter out of your lungs.

“There she is,” he said, voice gone breathless with awe. “Takin’ it like y’were made for me.”

And you couldn’t stop the tears now.

Couldn’t stop the way your body betrayed you, over and over again, no matter how hard your mind screamed.

He leaned in closer.

Kissed the corner of your wet, trembling eye.

“Don’t cry, baby girl,” he whispered. “You’ll be screamin’ for more soon enough.”

But it wasn’t the words that broke you.

It was the sound of them.

Because he wouldn’t stop. Wouldn’t give you even a second to breathe, to blink, to vanish inside yourself. He didn’t let you have silence—not even that. Not the last fragile scrap of dignity you’d tried to keep folded between your ribs.

His mouth never left your ear.

If he wasn’t talking, he was kissing. If he wasn’t kissing, he was licking. And if he wasn’t doing that, he was just breathing—loud and wet and there, fogging up the shell of your ear until you couldn’t tell the difference between breath and spit and sweat and tears.

His voice was everywhere. His hands, his mouth—him—filling the room, filling you, dragging you to a peak you clawed to resist. But your body had already betrayed you, your muscles tightening around his fingers like they needed him, like you wanted this.

You didn’t.

You didn’t.

But that didn’t stop the sharp, harrowing bloom of pleasure as your climax hit, ripping through you like lightning in a bottle.

And though you clenched your teeth, though you bit your tongue till you tasted blood—

A sound escaped.

Just a whimper. A choked little moan. Barely a breath.

But Remmick caught it.

“Ohhh,” he purred, triumphant. “There she is. Knew ya’d sing for me eventually, darlin’.”

His fingers slid out slow, glistening in the half-light, and he moaned again, louder this time—for your benefit. His tongue flicked out, licking at his knuckles, then dragging between each digit like a starving man savoring a feast.

He slurped. Loud. Deliberate.

A wet, obscene sound that filled the air and made your stomach twist.

“Sweetest damn thing I ever tasted.” he murmured, licking the last of you from his fingers like a dog cleaning bone.

You barely had time to breathe before he was on you.

His chest pressed to yours, hips pinning your spent thighs apart, his breath gone ragged and too fast, too hot against your throat. You tried to scramble back, but there was nowhere to go.

Then you saw his face.

Your heart dropped.

His eyes were near colorless now—bleached out, drained of anything human. Only a single, glowing dot of red burned in the center of each pupil, pulsing like fire in the dark.

And his mouth—God.

His fangs bared wide, lips split in a snarl, froth at the corners. He was drooling, shameless and bestial, saliva falling in thick, stringy ropes onto your chest, your stomach. Pooling in your navel. Smearing down the curve of your belly with every panting breath.

“Look at ya,” he rasped, voice full of awe and hunger. “All soft and shakin’ for me.”

He ripped off your nightgown like it was paper, shredding it in one swift motion until it hung in tatters beneath your back. Cold air met bare skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating off of him. He pressed in closer, the head of him nudging against your entrance, greedy and pulsing and there.

“This is mine,” he whispered, eyes locked on yours, voice full of some manic, devotional tremor. “All this—you—it’s all for me. All this waitin’, all this work, all this cravin’—worth every second.”

He lined himself up, hand shaking, mouth slick and dripping.

“Gonna split ya open, sugar,” he breathed. “Gonna fill y’up ’til you forget who you ever were without me.”

And he did.

He didn’t tease. Didn’t ease you in. Just thrust—hard, deep, to the hilt—without warning, without kindness, without a single goddamn thought for your whimpering body’s limits.

The air left your lungs in a ragged gasp, a cry caught on your tongue that would’ve broken every window in the house had he not slapped a hand over your mouth and held it there.

Too much.

Too deep.

Too fast.

You thrashed under him, body trying to squirm away from the stretch, the pain, the hot-sharp intrusion that burned through your gut like an inferno. He was bigger than you could bear, and he gave you no chance to adjust, no moment to breathe—just the deep, full pressure of him inside you, grinding bone against nerve until your legs spasmed and your head kicked back into the mattress.

And still he groaned.

Loved it.

“Fuck, yer tight,” he hissed, his breath shuddering out against your ear as his hips ground forward again, grinding at the very edge of cruel. “Like y’was built for me.”

He stilled a moment, just long enough for you to hope—just long enough for your body to start trembling toward that desperate reprieve.

He rocked into you slow. Once. Twice.

A lie.

Then he started to move in earnest—snapping his hips into you, one after another, hard and fast and mindless, losing himself in the wet clench of your cunt. His hand stayed locked over your mouth, muffling every sob, every scream, every choking little sound your body couldn’t stop from making.

He growled with every thrust.

Slick filled the air—his, yours, spit and sweat and drool all dripping down like rain. The wet slap of flesh-on-flesh echoed through the room, lewd and obscene, shaking the bedframe with every brutal stroke.

“Oh, listen to ya,” he rasped, pulling his hand away just long enough to let your broken voice slip through. “Cryin’ so pretty. Y’hear yerself, sugar?”

You did. That was the worst part. You could hear it—ragged and high-pitched and shameful. The kind of sound a body made when it was unraveling.

He leaned in.

Licked the tears off your cheek, lingering as if he was savoring the taste.

“Keep screamin’, baby girl,” he grinned against your skin, voice breaking with delight. “Wake the fuckin’ house.”

His hand slipped down again, caught your jaw, forced your mouth open as his tongue shoved its way inside—wet and invasive, tasting your throat like he meant to lay claim to your very breath. You choked against it, but he didn’t care. He devoured you like you were his last meal, grinding against you harder, faster, tearing groans from his own chest like he couldn’t help himself.

“Think yer mama can hear us?” he whispered when he finally pulled back, voice thick with spit and pride. “Think she’s sittin’ up in bed right now, wonderin’ what kinda sounds her little girl makes when she’s gettin’ her brains fucked out?”

You gagged.

He laughed.

“Wouldn’t mind an audience, if I’m honest,” he said, tone filthy with delight. “Wouldn’t mind lettin’ her see what a mess y’make on my cock. Wouldn’t mind lookin’ her in the eye while I make ya come.”

You nearly vomited.

The sound that tore out of your throat was nothing human—high, broken, wet with bile—and he shuddered, hips stuttering from the sheer joy of it.

He dragged his fangs down your shoulder, testing just how hard he could press before drawing blood. “Ya feel that? How yer clenchin’ on me now? Yer body’s greedy. Wants every inch. Don’t matter what that mouth says—this pussy knows who owns her.”

He snapped his hips again, harder this time—so hard your spine arched off the mattress, your heels dug into the sheets, your hands grasping for anything solid.

He gave you nothing.

Not reprieve.

Not mercy.

Only the low, maddened hum of his voice and the hot, relentless slam of him inside you.

“This is mine,” he whispered, low and ragged. “All of it. Every breath. Every sob. Every fuckin’ pulse of this sweet little hole. Say it. Say it’s mine.”

You couldn’t.

So he said it for you.

Again. And again. And again.

Fucking it into you like gospel. Breaking you open with every syllable.

Then his hand found your throat like it was always meant to be there.

No warning.

No question.

Just the sudden press of calloused fingers around the column of your neck, his palm hot and unforgiving. Not squeezing yet—just holding, like he was weighing something. Like he was testing the shape of you in his grip.

Then pressure.

Steady. Crushing.

Your mouth fell open on instinct, a gasp caught somewhere between shock and submission—and that made him grin.

“God, yer pretty like this,” he rasped, voice soaked in filth. “Eyes all wide. Mouth all quiet. S’like ya finally learned yer place.”

Stars burst behind your eyes. You clawed at his wrist without meaning to, hips twitching under his weight as he thrust deeper, harder, choking the sound from your throat like it thrilled him.

“Keep squeezin’,” he groaned. “God, ya feel divine when yer scared.”

And when your vision blurred, when your body went taut and fluttered around him—he loosened his grip just enough to let the air rush back in.

“Atta girl.”

He was close now.

You could feel it in the way his hips jerked, rhythm faltering—messier now, more desperate, like something inside him had broken loose and was tearing its way out.

“Fuck, fuck—darlin’—” he gasped, head falling to your shoulder as his thrusts grew frantic. “Y’feel that? Y’feel me throbbin’ in ya?”

You tried to answer, or maybe you tried to breathe, but neither came out right.

There was too much.

Too much of him, too much of this, of the thick, obscene drag of his cock in your aching cunt and the sound of it—slick and loud and soaking the sheets beneath you.

And he just kept talking.

“Gonna fill ya up,” he breathed, near mindless now. “Gonna knock ya up proper, sugar. Gonna watch ya swell with it—my baby. Keep y’like that. Forever.”

Your breath caught.

Your pulse spiked.

His words came like a punch to the chest, like a hand around your throat you hadn’t seen coming. Your legs tensed, body stiffening beneath him, but it only made him groan—low and guttural—like your panic excited him, like it drove him further off the edge.

“Don’t run,” he panted, licking at your throat, your cheek, your temple, leaving your skin sticky with spit. “Don’t fight me now, girl—y’already said yes. Ya begged for this. I’m just givin’ ya what ya asked for.”

You hadn’t.

Not this.

But he kept rutting into you like a man possessed, every thrust brutal with intention, like he could mold your insides to fit him. Brand you from within.

“Gonna keep ya all barefoot and full,” he growled, mouth dragging to your ear again. “Wanna see ya waddle through this house with my kid in your belly, cryin’ every night ’cause yer so fuckin’ needy for me. That sound good to ya?”

You shook your head, lips trembling.

But he only smiled and laughed, delighted.

“Y’don’t gotta answer,” he whispered, shoving his cock deeper, grunting when your body gave another helpless clench. “Yer pussy already did.”

You gasped, shuddering beneath him, helpless to stop the tears that slipped from your lashes. You were full—so full it felt like your ribs would crack from the pressure, your lungs too small to carry your fear. Your hands pushed weakly at his chest, but he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just grabbed your wrists and pinned them down beside your head, bearing his weight over you like a coffin lid.

He licked a tear from your jaw, shivering with something close to ecstasy.

“I’m gonna come, sweetheart. Y’feel that? Y’feel it buildin’?”

You did.

Every muscle in his body was coiled tight, trembling like he was on fire from the inside out, like he might burst.

And when he did—

God, when he did—

He didn’t stop.

Even after his body convulsed, even after that guttural groan tore from the depths of his chest and his cock pulsed violently inside you—he didn’t pull out. He only buried himself deeper, impossibly deep, like he could carve out your very soul with the head of it, like he could scrape you clean from the inside and replace it all with him.

Hot. Heavy. Endless.

You felt it.

Every twitch.

Every throb.

Every thick, molten spill of him pouring into your womb like it was where he’d always belonged. You could feel the warmth of it pooling, the unnatural weight of it, like your body already knew it wouldn’t be able to hold it all.

And still—he didn’t move.

Didn’t so much as flinch.

His cock stayed nestled deep, buried to the root, like he wanted to seal himself inside you.

You couldn’t breathe.

Not under his weight, not under his heat. Not under the reality of it.

Remmick’s chest heaved against yours, damp with sweat. His breath came out in ragged little pants, fanning hot across your throat as he shifted only to press deeper—like he thought there might still be some hollow pocket inside you that hadn’t been claimed yet.

His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke, broken by exhaustion and euphoria both.

“I know ya love me,” he murmured, words warm and wet against your jaw. “Even if y’don’t know it yet.”

You turned your face away.

But he only nuzzled closer, lips brushing your temple, sticky strands of his hair clinging to your skin like spiderwebs.

“S’okay,” he breathed. “You’ll see. Gonna be the perfect little family, you ’n me.”

You wanted to scream.

You wanted to shove him off, tear him limb from limb, claw your own skin off to erase the sensation of him still inside you. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t even move. He had you pinned—physically, yes, but worse than that, he had you trapped.

You were full of him now.

And you knew—somewhere, deep in your bones, in the trembling, ruined edges of your mind—you always would be.

Remmick tilted your chin back and kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t even hungry.

It was complete. The kind of kiss you’d give a corpse before closing the casket, sealing it with a promise that no one else would ever touch what was inside. It consumed you. Smothered you. Left no oxygen in your lungs, no room for thought.

And then—

He sighed.

Satisfied.

Collapsed right onto your chest, cheek nestled over your hammering heart like it soothed him to hear it fight.

His cock softened inside you slowly, twitching one last time before going still. The slick warmth of his come leaked out in slow pulses, smearing your thighs and soaking the sheets, a filthy halo beneath your hips.

He was asleep before you could say anything.

Before you could even process it.

Just—gone.

Heavy and warm and content, like he’d just had a long bath. Like he hadn’t just hollowed you out and crawled inside.

You stared up at the ceiling.

You didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe right.

Didn’t even try to move.

The tears came quietly—just a shimmer, at first. A sting. Then a drop. Then another. Until they streamed down the sides of your face into your hair, salt soaking the pillow beneath you while your body lay frozen, trembling beneath his deadweight.

And that ceiling…

You swore it tilted.

That old plaster warped like heat mirage, curling in on itself. Suffocating. Crooked.

This was your life now.

This room.

This bed.

This man.

You would never be alone again.

You would never be free again.

And all you could do was sob, soundless, eyes wide to that sagging, silent ceiling—while Remmick snored soft against your chest, dreaming of forever.

[sharieb]

Can I request headcanons where Lads men reacting to shy Non MC Reader kissing him on the lips to cheer him up from a bad/long/tiring day please? She's been dating him for a few months but it's the first time she kissed him! - 🌕 anon

First Kiss After a Rough Day

Setup: You've been dating him for a few months, and after a long, hard day, you surprise him with a soft kiss on the lips, your first ever with him, hoping it'll bring him some comfort. You think it's a small gesture, but to him, it's everything. And he is absolutely whipped.

Pairing: LADs x Non-MC reader

Genre: Fluff

Completely speechless, completely gone

You found him in the Skyhaven command wing, just finishing a long debriefing. His expression was blank, stiff. He didn’t even notice you right away. That alone told you how bad the day had been.

You stepped into his space, touched his arm, and whispered his name. When he turned, eyes tired but warm, you leaned in and kissed him.

He didn’t move. Not until you pulled back, fidgeting and murmuring an apology. “...Sorry, I just… you looked like you needed it.”

His hand gently cupped the back of your head. “That was your first kiss.” “...Yeah.” “And you gave it to me.”

He repeated the words softly, like he didn’t believe them.

His voice broke just a little. He pressed his forehead against yours and exhaled slowly, shakily. “You have no idea what you’ve just done to me.” Her first kiss. She gave me her first kiss. My heart hasn’t beat this fast since basic flight school. She’s so small. So shy. So unbelievably precious. And she looked at me like she trusted me with something sacred. If anyone so much as looks at her wrong tomorrow, they’re getting launched into orbit. I need to hold her. I need to wrap her in every blanket we own and never let her go.

Stunned and still. The world gone quiet

He hadn’t complained, but the tension in his jaw and the bruises on his knuckles said enough.

The kind of day that makes you lose faith in people. The kind that would usually push him to isolate himself, but today, he stayed where you were.

You approached him quietly in the dim-lit base corridor.

He didn’t expect anything from you. You never pushed.

So when you suddenly stepped close and pressed a kiss to his lips, Sylus didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

His eyes opened slowly as you pulled back, shy and pink-cheeked, barely able to meet his gaze. “…That was your first,” he said quietly, voice heavy with disbelief.

You nodded, nervous. “You looked like you needed it.”

He grabbed your hand, holding it to his lips, voice low and steady. “I did. And I need more of you now, always.” He didn’t say it like a plea.

He said it like a vow. She kissed me. She actually kissed me. No games. No power plays. Just her, soft and real, offering herself to me because she saw I was hurting. How dare she? How dare she make me feel this human? This wanted. I would give her the whole base. Hell, the whole N109. All of it. It’s hers now. She’s mine. I don’t care how long it takes, she’s mine.

Tired hands, gentle heart, and stunned silence

He hadn’t said much since coming home.

The day at the hospital had left his eyes dim and shoulders slouched.

Even the tea you brewed together didn’t earn his usual quiet smile.

He looked like he was carrying the world on his shoulders, and for once, not even your shared silence could bring him peace.

You reached up as he sat at the edge of the bed, his brow creased, hands still cold from the walk home. With one shy hand on his cheek, you leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

It lasted only a heartbeat. But he froze like the world stopped spinning.

As if time had chosen that moment to pause just for the two of you. “...That was your first,” he murmured, voice hoarse with realization. “You… gave it to me?”

His arms slowly pulled you into his lap, one hand curled around your head, the other pressed protectively to your back.

He kissed your forehead once, then again, and again, like a man anchoring himself back to the earth. “I’ll be okay now,” he whispered into your hair. “You always know exactly what I need, don’t you?” She kissed me. She kissed me. She kissed me. Her first kiss. For me. I feel like I should get on one knee and propose right now. She looked so nervous, so soft, and still did it because she thought it might help. My heart is never recovering from this. I’m gone. She owns me now.

Dramatic gasp, Starstruck silence, then Absolute gushing

“Do I look that pitiful, sweetheart?”

He joked earlier when you asked if he was okay. His smile was lopsided, but his eyes weren’t sparkling the way they usually did.

He didn’t expect you to actually walk over, cup his face in your soft little hands, and plant a shy kiss right on his lips.

He froze. His eyes widened. He blinked twice. His jaw went slack.

Then he gasped. “Angel,” he said, in the most scandalised-yet-awestruck tone. “Did you just… kiss me? Kiss me?” You nodded, cheeks red, about to retreat.

But he chased your lips and kissed you back, slow and tender this time, with a reverence he hadn't shown since his last masterpiece. “I must be dreaming. This day was an abyss, but now... now you’ve saved me. I am reborn.”

He collapsed dramatically onto the couch, pulling you with him like a prince welcoming his queen. “No more sadness. Only kisses. Exclusively yours.”

I don’t care what time it is, I need a giant painting of her face immediately. Or a marble statue. Or a mural across the Linkon skyline. Her lips. Her hands. Her trembling little voice. I am yours, sweetheart. You’re going to have to pry me off with a crowbar because I’m not leaving your side again. I need more kisses. For science. For healing. For romance.

Dreamy daze, Still processing, Completely gone

His studio was dim, filled with scattered notes and silent music. Xavier hadn’t touched his instruments all day.

You found him hunched at the piano, hands resting on unmoving keys, his expression a cloud of exhaustion and self-doubt.

You walked up quietly, heart pounding, and crouched beside him.

Then, after a few seconds of hesitation, you tilted your head up and kissed him.

Just a soft, sweet peck.

Just once.

The room held its breath.

His lips parted, but no words came. He blinked slowly like he wasn’t sure if he imagined it. “Wait… did you just—? I mean—was that for real?”

When you nodded, flustered, his ears burned pink and he immediately buried his face into the crook of your neck with a dazed laugh. “You—you kissed me… because I was sad?” “I’d like to be sad more often if this is how you’ll cheer me up…” he teased, but his voice trembled.

He pulled you close, resting his forehead to yours, his fingers gently laced with yours. “...You’re a dream. You know that, right?” My moonlight kissed me. She kissed me. That was her first kiss. I could die right now, and my soul would compose a symphony about her. She’s so cute when she gets all shy like that, like she doesn’t even realize the chaos she just caused in my chest. I need to hold her forever. Literally forever. I’ll build us a blanket fort and never leave.

[occamstfs]

Company Gym

Not wanting to cede any ground to admin, Donovan stubbornly decides to use the company gym for the first time. Bumping into an old friend who frequents it, with every breath of the gym's overpowering odor he sees the world more from the bro's point of view.

Musk heavy gym bro TF! Hope you enjoy Donnie's hairy journey far away from accounting he can no longer understand! Best! -Occam

Donovan knew that they had a company gym in the abstract. Usually more of a walk to work and call it exercise guy, the idea of trudging to some unused remote corner of their complex, getting sweaty and tired, and then going to work is the furthest thing from appealing to the accountant.

However, when the company threatened to get rid of the suite unless there was more interest from the employees, Donnie’s irritation at something he’s never wanted being taken away wins out in a way that countless New Year’s Resolutions have not. After a long day of floating the idea, that is pestering his coworkers, to try and find a partner, it becomes clear that no one else is interested in saving their neglected gym.

Of course, neither was he. Guided only by principle and a stubborn streak in need of a victory, Donovan buys some gym clothes on the way home and spends far too little time looking into actual information for starting out at the gym. Scarfing down whatever he can find in his fridge and heading to bed early, the hour of Donovan’s protest gym session rapidly approaches.

The next morning he stumbles in to work earlier than he usually wakes up, housing a breakfast sandwich and a tankard of black coffee. Lost already, Donnie has to awkwardly ask the receptionist where exactly the gym is. Taking it as a victory that he wasn’t laughed at drowning in gym clothes he was optimistic to purchase, he wanders to the elevator and pushes the button to the R&D floor that apparently also holds the seldom used gym.

In between rushed bites and passing floors, the accountant muses on a litany of half-formed ideas to ignore his nerves about venturing out of his comfort zone. ‘I mean she is paid to not laugh at me right? Why do we even have a research department? How are they even checking to see if the gym is used?’ Wasting no time actually investigating these stray thoughts as the elevator climbs, just as he finishes the highest protein breakfast he could think of, the elevator dings and deposits him.

Sucking on his teeth through pursed lips, Donnie doesn’t see any signage and whines to himself, “Well! No wonder no one uses it!” Grumbling as he wanders to one end of the hallway, away from a keycarded door, coming to another turn Donovan smells something slightly acrid in the air. 

Squirming in displeasure, he takes an unfortunate deeper breath and gasps as he realizes, clear as anything, that the odor is sweat. Turning towards the scent he hazards a few steps closer and with each one the unpleasant smell grows stronger. Some repressed part of him quietly wonders how powerfully it must stink in the gym proper if he can smell it this far away, but that meek craving is promptly silenced by every other part of his brain shouting to fuck this.

Sure he’s stubborn and hates being walked over by administrators, but he is not about to suffer through what seems akin to gas leak to stick up for a privilege he doesn’t even care enough to use. Already crafting a very strongly worded email demanding they deodorize the gym so he may use it, Donovan’s distracted as he turns on the spot and begins storming back to the elevator.

Immediately his progress is halted as he instead walks squarely into the chest of a man downing a pre-workout shake. The brutish man grunts, threatening to spit up as Donnie stammers out an apology, “Oh my word! So sorry sir I was just um- err?” Blushing at finding his chest in between pecs in a manner he didn’t think possible, Donnie quickly stumbles backwards and does a double take as he looks closer at the man wiping a thick stream of shake from his mouth.

“B- Brett?” 

Finally the impressive man’s attention shifts from his shake to the small obstacle before him. Eyes lighting up like a dog’s hearing ‘good boy,’ Brett smiles as he too recognizes the little guy before him, “Yoooo! Donovan! Donnie!” Arms almost twice the size of Donnie’s chest quickly enrapture him as he nervously eyes the shake wont to spill.

Trapped in those arms that did not befit the Brett he remembers, through grunts, Donnie tries to find out when the little guy from legal became a lunkhead. They had been hired at the same time and were two mousy queens against the world at the company orientation. Though even then when they were at their closest, Brett wouldn’t have hugged him like this?

Eventually the hopefully gentle giant drops him and before mind-addled Donovan can decide which question to ask of the man almost unrecognizable, Brett speaks first. His default volume a brash shout, “Sorry sorry dude! Kinda forgot myself there, you know how it is haha!” Staring at him Donovan clearly remembers they were the same height. Or maybe Brett was a few inches taller? Every moment spent thinking on the matter adds another inch to the Brett he remembers.

“So what brings you up to R&D? Looking for a break from all that money math are ya?” Smiling as if nothing is off with the world, Brett looks down and awaits an answer. Overwhelmed trying to make sense of his memories as the Brett in his mind bloats bigger, the titan’s question is a lifeline. This he knows.

Awkwardly scratching the back of his head. “Well, I’ve never been much for the gym, but I kinda got a little miffed when they threatened to trash it so…” Letting it hang, he finally returns his shifting eyes to see how Brett’s face has lit up even more. Hands that easily eclipse his shoulders suddenly do so and shake him with far too much force, “Dude shut up! You were comin’ to use the gym!”

Donnie can feel Brett vibrating with excitement at the idea. Some part of him tries to remember less than a minute ago he had resolutely decided to leave, but faced with a man hotter than he’s chatted with in years that seems to have been washed away. Even when he smells that maligned musk peeking out from behind Brett’s deodorant, he can’t seem to find the same revulsion. 

Brett draws him in more with every anxious breath and soon enough all hesitation melts away. Surely he can power through a single session. The gym bro apparent has to stop himself from carrying Donnie like a piece of equipment as he instead puts a heavy arm on his shoulders and forcefully walks him towards the gym.

As he nears the epicenter of that odor that quite lacks the appeal from being attached to Brett, Donovan feels his qualms return to haunt him. Though with a bicep heavier than a gate arm pressing him onward there is little at all to be done. Before he even has a chance to complain they’re standing at the fogged up door. And then they’re in.

The place has what can only be described as an atmosphere of sweat. Muggy as a swamp it takes more than a few struggled breaths for his lungs to even begin to breathe the fetid air. Clutching at his thin chest, Donnie looks over to his friend to see him happily stretching, taking deep measured breath after breath. 

Watching Brett’s thick chest rise and fall, Donovan has to stop his mouth falling open as focuses on the man’s nipples poking through his tight shirt. Pointedly ignoring a twitch in his pants and shaking off the stupor, he tries to get Brett’s attention to ask about the elephant in the room. But then he looks at the man’s eyes and sees as he continues to stretch, that ecstatic expression begins to fade to something blanker. 

Then Brett looks down at Donnie, his vacant smile barely tinged with mirth as he almost moans out, “Arms?” Donnie’s pupils dilate as everything within him shouts to leave, to flee. Mouth dry, his racing heart compels him to frantically breathe as he stares at the brute in between him and the door. There is no escape.

Brett raises his own arms in a flex, clearly as a honeypot for the needy accountant. Try as he might to slam his eyes shut as soon as even glances at the man’s bulging bicep, the deep pit of dread in his stomach is severed. More than anything he needs arms like that. He needs to look like Brett. Needs to feel Brett’s corded muscle against his own. 

From that moment on the world exists as something to watch for the accountant, something happening to him. He follows the titan’s instructions to a tee, laying down on filthy benches and using unwashed machines as if he had no other purpose in the world. With perfect precision, rep after rep, he feels the burn of unused muscle for the first time being exercised. 

Often Brett sets him to do dumbbell flys or hammer curls before getting lost in his own bodybuilding, simply forgetting to tell him when to stop. Immediately Donnie’s sweaty body was adding to the humid musk of the gym and it’s not long at all before the man has sweat more than he has in his entire life. Shirt soaked completely through as he works well beyond what his body is capable of.

Swimming in his own mind as he watches his arms shift up and down with weights he feels he shouldn’t even be able to lift, Donnie notices his arms are itchy. Already he had grown used to watching his biceps bulging, muscle forming, throbbing larger. Already his briefs were soaked through with pre from watching how his arm dances with new strength. 

What draws his attention however is the new hair that seems to be growing from his wrists. There are just a few dark strands at first, easily pluckable, barely noticeable. But soon enough, with every rep, they spread further afield growing into a patch before they race down the whole of his forearm. Thick curly hairs like those he always admired on burlier men. Just like those masculine arms he has always hungered for.

His heart jumps as he feels a similar itch building deep in his pits and he knows just what it means. Stealing a glance of his own arm, he can’t quite make out the jungle clearly stewing under his arms. Grunting in frustration, his body moves emboldened with more force. The weight in his hand pounds heavier as the hidden bush in his pits shoots beyond his sleeve, curls inching down almost the whole of his bicep as his hips start thrusting on the bench.

Alerted by his trainee’s groans, Brett realizes the time and quickly rushes to get Donnie’s attention before he creams his pants. “Fucking killer first day dude!” Donovan blankly smiles as he forgets himself in front of his inspiration, the man he needs more than life. Brett sniffs his own pit and smiles before continuing, “I’m probably gonna just head to R&D, but you should probably go wash up before heading back to work? Bet those wimps in accounting can’t handle all your progress.” He tosses on with a wink 

Donovan just sleepily nodded along, watching Brett’s powerful ass as he left. Almost sleepwalking now that his trainer has left, he meekly follows the man’s instructions and wanders into an empty locker room that smells just as wretched as the gym floor.

Free from Brett’s presence if not his musk, the accountant’s faculties begin to slowly return. Donnie can scarcely move his arms for burning soreness that envelopes their every fiber. Trusting his usual soap to cover up his own shockingly powerful body odor, he cleans up as swiftly as he can. Head pounding like he has a hangover, Donnie spends far too little time cleaning up before changing into his work clothes.

The sleeves catch on every inch of his thicker forearms. As soon as he forces them to cover his clearly thicker biceps, a seam tears down the center. Looking at the skin poking through he has to bite his lip to avoid focussing on the chub returning in his pants. Groaning, he throws on a jacket that will simply have to stay on all day, hiding both the tears and his powerful arms. Through a headache that’s not going away, Donovan realizes he’s already late and hops out the door, still struggling to get clothes on skin he wasted no time drying.

Adjusting his tie in the reflection of the doors, he is having trouble focussing on anything. He remembers working out sort of, and his infatuation with Brett, but other than the world seems almost confusing. Cutting through it all though, there is one realization that sets him slightly on edge. Brett doesn’t work in R&D? 

Muttering to himself about the man who forced him into that gym working in legal, Donnie stumbles out of the elevator and crashes into his desk. His neighbor, whose name Donnie can’t quite recall, leans on his cubicle to rib him about being late, but as soon as he opens his mouth he recoils. Face squirming as he takes another test sniff, it’s clear that Donovan doesn’t realize how little his 2n1 body wash did to mask the musk that clings to his skin.

“Hey Donnie? Did you uhhh- Oh I don’t know, wander through sewage on the way to work this morning?”

Tilting his head, Donnie pulls up his shirt to smell himself and finds that beneath a fading scent of laundry detergent is that stench of that gym. Under the eyes of his neighbor, he moves his head downward and takes a purposeful sniff of his pits and his eyes cloud over from the hypnotic delight he finds there. 

Uncomfortably watching Donnie take a few more sniffs of his pits, his coworker clears his throat to  try and stir him from whatever the hell he’s doing. Realizing that he’s acting like an animal, Donnie shakes it off and straightens up. Even so there remains a dense fog behind his eyes, like he’s not completely present. When he speaks there’s a slowness to his words as if forming thoughts seems slightly harder.

“Ohhh man yeah? Uhh sorry, I went to the gym this morning and I guess I forgot to put on deodorant after?” 

The neighbor thinks this is a joke and laughs accordingly, though after a beat of Donnie staring dumbly at him, almost beyond him, he suggests what anyone would. “Well Don? Why don’t you go put it on now?”

Hearing the judgement in his voice Donovan, again, shakes to his senses and nods fervently. Yeah, yeah he should. He’s not himself, he needs to fix it. Standing up into his desk, Donovan doesn’t do nearly a good enough job masking the erection in his pants as he waddles to the company bathroom, his neighbor sneering in discomfort and wondering if he should send his usually too tidy office buddy home.

Donnie departs, barely keeping his hands off the cock bouncing between his thighs. Unfortunately for decency’s sake, by the time he makes it to the restroom he’s forgotten why exactly he was coming. Taking a quick piss he’s apathetic to how his semi makes it a scattershot as it splatters against the seat. Leaving without washing his hands, his neighbor doesn’t mention how he still smells Donovan’s distinct musk. How it’s even stronger now. 

Work is no walk in the park for Donnie. For a few weeks now he’s been biting off more and more just to see how much he can chew, now sitting before a pile of reports due, he’s having trouble even finishing one. Chewing on his lip as he struggles doing what he knows should be routine, his brow is furrowed so long looking at figures he can’t quite make sense of.

Looking for reprieve, he does what he always does to calm himself, deep breathing. The still building stress has done little to slow his sweating, and as soon as the nervous accountant takes his first intense breath, as soon as he inhales that comforting musk rising from within him, the serenity brought is greater than he can understand.

Lungs fill with his own rich stink, and as they do a slight itch returns to his chest. The numbers swimming on the screen rapidly lose whatever meaning they still held. Donnie doesn’t care as he instead wrenches at his tie to lose and undoes a couple buttons to look down his shirt. This in turn shoots a puff of his sweaty scent straight up, only heightening the burning sensation in the center of his chest.

The itch had been rising for some time now, decidedly lower than on his chest. But what little energy wasn’t spent trying to run interest rates and repayment plans was on keeping his attention away from his needy cock. In the meantime his pubes have spread well beyond their usual borders, creating a dense bush in his crotch before sending a deliberate and dark treasure trail upwards. Thicker strands tinge darker as they completely bury his bellybutton and continue rushing upwards to where Donnie’s attention lies now. 

Circling nipples he doesn’t remember being so big or dark themselves, Donnie’s mouth squirms as he sees chest hair sprout across the whole of new slightly muscled chest. His hips reflexively flex as he only knows one response to this level of excitement, casting a new profile across his heady musk. Hands go to his neck as a few strands creep above his neckline, always visible, always showing everyone what a man he is.

He couldn't help but moan as his cock pushes out into his dress pants, hoping to create a stain as it drips with a thick trail of pre. But a cubicle over, Donnie’s neighbor had been doing his best to ignore the steady chorus of confused murmuring and uncomfortable grunts of frustration, but when he hears a full throated moan, he can’t help but look.

Finding the once orderly Don half undressed with his head stuffed down his shirt, he guiltily regrets not sending the man home earlier. Waiting for the proper time to insert himself, he sees stubble start to creep across Donnie’s jaw, sideburns clearly bursting out onto his cheeks. When he hears a tear and sees arms straining the suit jacket he worries his own eyes are playing tricks on him and speaks up.  

After a few seconds of blank staring, waiting for the words to sink in, Donnie nods slowly and packs up. Guess everyone is leaving early today? His unbuttoned pants pull strangely on his thighs as he heads to the elevator. Waving goodbye to his friend as he does so, his arm extends a good few inches past his sleeve exposing hairy wrists that he had forgotten about.

When at last he makes it home, Donnie checks his phone to find a message that had been lying in wait for him. From Brett, ‘see u 2morrow at the gym 💪💪💪’ The memories of his asserting to himself that it was a one time thing, that he didn’t even want to go, that he wasn’t a gym guy, are all washed away as he smiles in excitement of his session that next morning. 

He sleeps like a log. Snores echo through his apartment as it slowly empties overnight, what need has Donovan of such things like books or games, decorations even. Dirty laundry decorates the floor as the place begins to reek just like the gym. The man smiles as he dreams of Brett.

Waking up with his hand stuffed in his pants, Donnie runs as if on autopilot. Propelled forward with every breath of his own musk. Scarfing down protein like an animal, he packs a gym bag with clothes he didn’t own yesterday and rushes to meet Brett, to meet his, uhh trainer? Jogging to work, he smirks at getting cardio out of the way, he’s always hated cardio. With every block his sprint accelerates as he leaves a trail of sweat in his wake.

Overnight his legs had gone through their own growth spurt, the sparse forest of hair that lightly decorated his calves quickly became overgrown as a thick coat rushed to drown the entirety of his lower body. From his inner thighs to his ankles as thick muscle bounces with every step, his darker pelt of curls drips with sweat and catches against the wind.

The receptionist is taken aback by the haze of musk that surrounds Donnie, physically recoiling in shock as the man offers a nod en route to the company gym. The mirrored walls of the elevator quickly steam from the heat of his body and the humid, almost visible, aura of sweat that surrounds him. 

In the back of his mind something sets him on edge, something feels off. Deeply wrong. But then he takes another breath and inundated with that ambrosiac air he hasn’t a care in this world besides getting to the gym with Brett. His pulse rises with the floor as he stretches in the elevator so he may get right to it. His back cracks as his form creaks taller, bones cracking as his body simply demands more room for growth. 

No need to follow the scent as he exits onto the R&D floor and rushes to the gym as if it was the only thing in the world. Had that been a conscious thought perhaps he would agree that it is. Donnie finds Brett already there waiting for him, playfully popping his pecs on a machine. Before his mind even processes watching, Donovan’s chest is already dancing back in turn.

With a deep breath of air that is more sweat than oxygen, Donovan feels that comforting numbness wash over him. Returning to the fold he realizes how unpleasant it was to subsist on breathing his own sweat alone. It’s as if his lungs were made to breathe this humid, sticky atmosphere. Finally back, his body thanks him by relinquishing him of those pesky troubles such as thoughts or decisions. 

After taking a quick pre-workout selfie in a mirror permanently fogged from the humid heat of the gym, Donovan begins his self-improvement. No longer does he need tips or advice from his bro as he simply exercises in almost perfect mimicry. As if they were of one mind. 

Without word Brett leads his new trainee through a routine more rigorous than most athletes do. As he lifts weights, so to does Donovan. When the new gym bro struggles to match his speed, he simply grows. Arms that have already doubled in size since yesterday morning bulk larger as he has no choice but to follow Brett’s lead. 

Intense effort sends searing pain more pleasurable than anything he has felt before coursing through his arms as they throb with growth. The already tight outfit he forced himself into this morning quickly strains as his body surges larger. Sweat pours down his shining skin as his tank and tearing shorts are already soaked through.

As his skin is increasingly exposed to the gym’s odorous air, his already hirsute form is coated with even denser body hair. The dark curls that erupted on his chest spread wider to completely envelope his pecs as they hang larger with every press. Pits that have their own atmosphere of odor connect with the jungle of fur that encompasses the whole of his torso.

Jaw clenched from exertion his mind couldn’t comprehend, the stubble that slowly trickled down his face explodes into a messy 5 o’clock shadow. Though quickly it lengthens and spreads thicker across his face. As he continues to mindlessly follow in Brett’s plodding footsteps, the dark curls form into an unquestionably impressive beard. Thicker than the hair on his head as it slowly recedes as his testosterone fueled form continues to morph larger.

Grunting and growling as he pounds weights to exercise every muscle he can conceive, it isn’t long before Donovan eclipses his trainer in masculinity if not size. His harsh voice a bass to Brett’s baritone, his hairy pecs heavy to the other’s perfectly formed physique. Though this is no dick-measuring contest it is clear whose pendulous package reigns supreme as it bulges through a forest of pubes thicker than any foliage could dream. 

Eventually, the more experienced of the pair begins to come down from his mindless workout and sees Donovan through the fog that has compelled them both into their new superhuman forms. Immediately his body is pumping with adrenaline as he takes in Donnie’s growth with both lust and friendly envy.

“Fuck bro! You’re the fuckin’ man look at you! I’d kill for a beard like that!” Brett’s hands feel around Donnnie’s every hair-covered curve as he too slowly wakes from the stupor induced by getting this impossible pump in. His mouth hangs open, not rare for the new mouth breather, but as Brett’s praise seeps in through the trance, his lips curl into a prideful smirk.

He can feel his vocal folds vibrate as he croons out, “I am the fuckin’ man aren’t I?” He raises a meaty bicep up in a flex for Brett to feel. Neither man questions as Brett does the same, they simply feel each other up, rough calloused fingers dance across burning, sticky muscle. Their actions mirror each other as their thoughts exist in harmony. Smelling each other's musk straight from the source, they can’t help but slowly drift closer together. 

At once they both lean in for a taste before Brett shakes out of it, “No uhhh- Not that I don’t wanna bro! I ugh- really do. But those R&Dweebs’ll throw a shitfit if we’re late y’know?” Donovan blankly stares, obviously not knowing and slightly irritated as the source of further pleasure wanders off to the exit. Uncomfortable as Brett acts out of sync from himself.

Just before leaving he turns back, similarly disquieted by Donnie still sitting there, “You coming bro?” On instinct Donnie starts to follow, stumbling slightly as he’s absolutely not used to lugging around a body almost a foot taller and well over a hundred pounds heavier. Perhaps this is what affords him the moment to realize that he doesn’t work for R&D.

“Wait bro? I’m an accountant, yeah?”

There’s a beat before both men laugh, eventually Brett gives in. Some part of him believing it because he knows Donovan believes it. “If you say so bro-bro. I’ll try to keep them off your case until you come back down though huhuh!” And with that he departs, left behind Donovan feels himself torn between following Brett or going to where he thinks he works. 

He takes a step towards the showers before laughing off the idea, he’s not about to let the product of his best session yet go to waste. After about half a second of trying to squirm into the shirt he packed it tears to tatters as he forces his arm through it, grunting with confusion he opts to throw the suit over his bare, sweaty skin and hops in the elevator.

Stepping out of the gym, the imprint of his cock in his pants is unmissable as it throbs into the scratchy fabric. By the time he makes it down to his department, he’s harder than he’s been in his life and biting his lip not to just lose control then and there. Exiting onto the floor he bumps into some mousy man that he feels he should recognize. 

The wimp stammers over himself saying something about propriety as he covers his nose, but his eyes tell a different story. Donnie picks off a chest hair that had stuck to the smaller man’s face and smirks as his face burns red and he goes weak in the knees. Man- Brett was right, what was he thinking? No way does he work with these pencil pushing pushovers. Brett was right, no shocker of course, Brett was always right.

Looking around for half a moment longer he sighs as ideas that are not his own pop into his head. Vivid memories of being chastised for impunctuality from R&D researchers just as Brett said. Pursing his lips he steals one last glance at the puny man still melting from his sheer presence. 

Darker ideas bubble in the back of his mind. Him and Brett could do with more of a crew after all. Still smirking he shoots a wink down at him, “Well good luck with your number crunching lil dude. You ever wanna see a real man again, you just head to the company gym.” Stepping back into the elevator, he pops his pecs and sees the man turn away to protect some pathetic shred of dignity. Or at the very least cum in private.

At last he returns to R&D, where a crew of researchers stand in waiting, eager to run tests on him. He doesn’t like it, but there’s a strange sense of Deja Vu as if he’s done it before a number of times. As if he did it this morning even? Or no, as if he’s doing it right now, just somewhere else on the floor. 

He can almost feel footsteps on a treadmill, see the outline of equipment in front of him. Focusing too intently gives him a headache so he stops. Better to not think too hard. Some man in a lab coat puts some kind of anaesthesia mask on him and Donnie is once more inundated with that fragrant musk that matters more than anything else in the world. Their smell.

Donovan’s not sure at all what kind of science they’re doing about him, to him and Brett. Nor does he care. He has all he can need, seems like he’s paid to work out and get off on his own musk. What more could he want, what more can they want. Still close to the elevator he hears it ding open. While he’s barely aware enough to remember his own name as he sinks into that sickly scent. He’s got a feeling that it won’t be long at all before their gym is packed with men just like them.

[vainvenus]

pick up the phone. | ln4 + op81 | prologue

Pairing : Lando Norris x Fem!Reader x Oscar Piastri

Synopsis : Franco gets a strange call on a late school night.

Includings : Ghostface + college au, dark!characters, graphic violence/murder/death, stalking, home invasion, blood, psychological horror, obsessive/possessive mindset, scream movie mentioned so this is kinda meta? the entire series is gonna be pretty meta

An : I expected these two to win tbh!

This is opening svene is loosely based off the newer scream's opening scene with Jenna Ortega because I liked the intensity of it. You don't really have to read this to get the story but every Scream movie has an opening kill scene, so!

Also, I feel like it's so obvious who's behind the mask in this lol

It was a quiet Thursday night, Franco's parents were out of the house for date night so of course that meant he got to talk on the phone as long and as loud as he wanted to.

Franco held his phone against his ear with his free hand while looking through his cabinets with the other, the bright smile on his face could practically be seen just by hearing him.

"I'm telling you, she's so different." He smiled as he grabbed a bag of popcorn and set it down on the table. "Like have you ever talked to someone and it's like they see you on every single level? Like they can see into your soul or something?"

"Wow." Gabriel mocked on the other end. "Getting all poetic now, are we?"

Franco rolled his eyes, leaning back against the kitchen counter. "I'm just saying she's practically perfect. She's soft and smart and I'm still shocked she even said yes to going on a date with me but I'm not fucking that up."

Gabriel whistled. "Date, huh? Fancy or are you just taking her back to yours for some badly made noodles?"

"Hah." The brunette scoffed. "I actually got a reservation at this really nice restaurant. It's Italian."

"You're so whipped."

He opened his mouth to fire back when he had heard ringing and he turned to look at the home phone.

His brows furrowed slightly. No one ever called home phones anymore, he was still confused why his parents had one. He told Gabriel he would call him back in a second before he reached for the dial and put the phone against his ear. "Hello?"

There was silence. Nothing but faint static.

Franco raised a brow. "Hey, if this is a prank call it's not funny."

A voice, slow and syrupy with a slight rasp finally replied. "Who is this?"

He blinked. "You called me, who are you?"

"Sorry, what number is this again?" The caller questioned, completely disregarding the previous question that Franco asked and he couldn't help but scoff.

"You've probably got the wrong number, I don't even recognize your voice. Have a good night, man."

"Wait-"

But before they could say anything else, Franco hung up. He set his phone back on the receiver as he opened the bag of popcorn and threw it in the microwave. Before he could even press one of the numbers, the phone had rang again.

He picked it up, brows furrowed. "Hello?"

"Hey, sorry, guess it was the wrong number."

"Okay?.. Why'd you call back then?" He asked.

"Just being a good samaritan." The caller hummed and Franco nodded his head.

"Right, well..thanks? You're forgiven. Goodbye." He hung up again before the person could even finish their pleas for him to wait and as he pressed the button for his food he called Gabriel back.

"Dude, I just had the weirdest phone call."

"Really? What made it weird?"

"Well, first of all he called my home phone."

Gabriel laughed a bit. "Didn't think anybody used those anymore."

"I know. And then he called me and then asked who I was. Then he called again just to apologize? He sounded weird too, like his phone was super deep and raspy, I-" But just as he was in the middle of explaining the phone rang for the third time and he groaned.

"This is probably him, hold on." He ended his call with Gabriel, grabbing the phone and putting the phone back up to his ear. "Okay, this is getting a little weird. What do you want?"

"Just someone to talk to. C'mon, don't hang up."

"I don't even know you, why would I just have a conversation with you?" Franco asked, brows furrowed in confusion.

"You've probably got nothing else to do on a Thursday night, cmonn. Whatcha making?" They asked.

Franco sighed. "Popcorn."

The caller hummed. "I love popcorn, it tastes better when you're watching a movie."

Franco shrugged. "Yeah, that's what I was gonna do before I was interrupted by a kind of weird stranger."

"Oh we're not strangers, I know you. I know you pretty well, Franco Colapinto." The voice stretched out his name playfully.

Franco froze for a moment before he let out a forced chuckle, standing up straight as he tried to shake the chill that ran down his spine. "Alright, real funny. C'mon, who is this? Ollie? Kimi?"

The voice clicked his tongue. "You wish this was them, pretty boy."

The microwave went off, making Franco flinch before he grabbed the bag of popcorn, tossing it onto the table. "Okay, jokes over. This is seriously creepy."

"I also know you've got a crush."

Franco went quiet, swallowing the lump in his throat.

"Y/n, right? She's a sweet girl. Real quiet. Bet she has that nervous smile whenever you compliment her." The voice practically purred. "Does that stroke your ego?"

Franco's brows furrowed, lips curling into a snarl. "Excuse me?"

"You think she knows you watch her walk to class?" The voice hissed suddenly. “How you changed your path to your classes just to see glimpses of her? How you stare at her lips when she talks, even when you pretend not to?”

His breath caught in his throat.

"...Who are you?"

The line went quiet for a moment before the voice spoke up again.

"You should check your back door."

Franco's entire body froze, his heart slamming against hiss chest. He turned his head to the living room. The door had been shut. He didn't hear it open at any time. There was absolutely no way.

"I'm calling the police." He muttered, trying to hide the shake in his voice.

The caller chuckled. "You think they'd get here in time? You live pretty far out."

Before he could reply heard a thud from upstairs and his head immediately snapped upwards.

The voice whispered. "Wrong direction."

Franco slammed the phone down on the receiver trying to keep his breathing under control as he dialed 911 on his personal phone and as soon as he heard another voice he quickly explained his situation, giving them the address before pocketing his phone and quickly grabbing his keys.

As he opened the door he screamed when he was met with that familiar mask, one he'd seen in all those Scream movies. A rubber white mask with black eyes, nose, and mouth and black, hooded robe covering the rest of the person.

A sharp, exploding pain tore through his side, unrelenting as he staggered forward. His breath hitched, eyes wide, fixating on the blood spreading from the fresh stab wound in his ribs.

He looked back up the masked man and swiftly swung a punch at them as he slammed into the door-frame he attempted to close the door back. head back as the hooded male swung the knife haphazardly in an attempt to get another slash in. 

Franco held his wound after he finally got the door closed and locked. He stared at it for a while before he pressed the palm of his hand against his wound to apply some pressure.

With a shaky and bloody hand he moved to the security system to press the emergency button on his phone, shaking and sobbing between breaths. 

Franco's attention came back to the door when he heard the killer slamming against it. He held his phone in one hand as he had grabbed one of the kitchen knives from the holder, keeping his eyes on the door as much as he could.

"The police are on their way, you fucking psycho!" He shouted as loud as he could but the banging coming from the door hadn't stopped, in fact it felt like it grew louder. He slowly backed up, sighing as the banging came to a stop.

System Disarmed.

His eyes went wide as he immediately went to lock everything back again and he snapped his head up to look back at the front door and he heard it unlocked followed by the same chime from his phone.

He screamed trying to lock back the door but every time he did it had only unlocked again. He had locked it one last time and that seemed like it was the end of the cat and mouse game of locking and unlocking the door.

Another groan and a few curses left his lips as the home phone rang again.

His hands quivering and coated with blood, the part of his shirt where he was stabbed was soaked in the crimson red liquid. He felt his throat grow tight as he slowly approached the phone, setting his personal one down.

As he grabbed it, pressing it to his ear he held out the knife to either side of him, eyes moving quickly around the kitchen as he examined it. "Fuck. You."

"I've got another question, Franco."

The brunette let out a choked sob. "Just fuck off already."

The voice continued. "Do you think I made it in the house before you re-alarmed?" 

Franco opened his mouth, pure fear coursing through his veins before he was grabbed from behind, feeling an arm wrap around his neck and pin him against them body. He shouted, his cries echoing throughout the house as he felt that same piercing pain into his stomach and his body was lunged forward across the marble counter making him drop his knife and the home phone.  

Franco turned back around, eyes searching for that knife or another weapon he could use, but he soon felt a hand reached for his hair, their gloved hands digging into his scalp as the masked killer yanked his head back and slam his head against the counter then toss him to the ground.

A whimper left his lips as he started crawling away from him. Blood dripping down his nose and as his stomach wound spread across the wooden floors.

The masked killer grabbed at his ankle but Franco kicked him with the little strength he had left, causing him to stumble back a bit into one of the cabinets.

Franco wailed for help as loud as he could as he crawled towards the front door, his nails scraping against the floors. He was close to the door, holding his hand out.

He felt his heart pick back up as he heard heavy footsteps behind him, slow and messured as if the killer was taking his time. 

"I told you the police wouldn't get here in time but you just don't like to listen, huh? Got your fucking hopes up for nothing."

He croaked out another yelp as he felt himself being pulled back against the hardwood floors, his body twisting and turning into attempts to get away from his attacker but he was clearly stronger than him, keeping his body close to him.

His attacker grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled it towards him and Franco winced in preparation before the male had banged his head roughly against the floor.

"We were going to spare you. Probably just scare you a little." He rambled, his voice still disoriented as he pinned the boy down to the floor.

"But hearing you talk so lovey dovey about her and even taking our girl on a date?" He chuckled, shaking his head. "We had to do something about that." Franco's lashes fluttered over his eyes, vision doubling.

"Please.."

Another stab to his back and he heard a mock laugh from above him.

"Oh it's way too late for begging now."

The killer flipped his body over, his bloodied shirt pressed against the cold hardwood floors as he stared up at the masked killer with tears flooding his face as he pleaded with them over and over.

It was no use as the killer raised his knife and stabbed the boy in the left side of his chest, twisting the cold blade deeper into his heart.

He pulled it quickly making him twist his body and they plunged the weapon back into the same spot and he watched his jaw drop in a soundless scream because of how there wasn't much left of his voice. He was squirming and gasping for a while as he hands roamed upwards to try and grab his mask.

The masked killer allowed it. Not even trying to push his hands away as he got a good grip on the rubber part of the mask and yanked it, keeping a grip on it as his arm dropped to the floor.

A sadistic smile curled on his lips, an immoral glint flickering in those striking aquamarine eyes as he stared down at the brunette, watching his eyes widen once more.

Before he could even attempt to say anything the male above wrapped the palm of his hand around Franco's throat and squeezed forcefully causing the boy to let out a strangled gasp as he started to scratch at the gloves he wore.

"Quit fucking squirming." Lando hissed, his grip tightening around the brunette’s throat. Without hesitation, he pulled his arm back and drove the knife into Franco’s chest one last time.

He watched as the brunette’s body twitched, then slowly stilled. His hands went limp, no longer clawing, and his head hit the cold hardwood floor with a soft thud. Blood dripping slowly and steady from his nose and mouth, pooling beneath his slack jaw.

He released his throat and pushed off him, staring down at the lifeless body below. Blood oozed steadily, smearing into a thin, dark puddle across the floor

With a small, satisfied sigh, he wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, a smirk tugging at his lips.

[todojirous]

the concept of a houseowner reader who had rly bad anger issues and kinda takes it out on the objects in the house pre-dateviators ,,, like throwing dishes and ripping up your clothes or your stuffed bear or your blanket, screaming at your mirrors, throwing books at walls, but every time u have an ‘episode’ u get extremely apologetic and teary eyed and you scream louder and sob and you fix everything you’ve broken and hold everything you can as close as you can and fall into a depression that lasts anywhere from a week to months at a time. even though you dont know theyre alive, ensouled, feeling things, you feel so bad for hurting something that did nothing to hurt you (despite all the stubbed toes and papercuts) once you get fired, your life turned over, once you find out that this entire time, everything in the house is truly alive, you just about collapse in your entryway.

when skylar finishes her little guide, you turn in for the night, and you take the glasses off until you get some food and coffee in you. then you shower. well, you stand under the water for a few minutes with the intention of showering, then your legs sort of give out and you fall to your knees and cry. (you try not to think about your shower being alive too. you try not to think of the vulnerability.) later, finally, when you crawl out of the bathroom, tug on some clothes (pretend to give yourself some sort of dignity), you decide to try and introduce yourself around the house.

you can’t decide whether it’d be best to suck up your shame and face the objects you know you must, or to try and get a better reputation with the others so they can put in a good word with them for you. you sit in the bay window in your living room, inhaling as much fresh air as you can. despite the sweetness in the spring air, you feel more than a little sick.

you put the glasses back on. skylar is there again, rest a comforting hand on your shoulder. “how are you feeling?” she asks. “that was sort of a lot to dump on you all at once wasnt it?” you hesitate to answer. you don’t really know her to answer honestly but then again, you don’t really know her to be courteous enough to lie. “i’ll be alright” you say, knowing your inside voice will always be stronger and meaner than your outside voice. “just a bit overwhelmed i think. i’ll be alright.” she gives you a reassuring smile, and disappears.

laying on your bed, you turn to look at your stuffed bear. you’ve had him your entire life. your first best friend. hes been torn and mended about as much as you have, and always remained soft and reliable. because someone in your life had to. you decide it’d be fitting if he was the first person you talked to.

you awaken the bear, and he smiles at you. you do your best to smile back but even from where you’re sitting you know its more of a grimace. his adorable little jacket is more stitching than fabric and even his bow has been diy-ed in some places. despite the wear and tear that demonstrates your less than gentle treatment of him, he looks very happy to see you. you try your best not to cry. you think once you mightve been called manipulative for it, and that might’ve made you more upset. but as you’re apologizing, as he’s holding you, as you have your first real conversation with your best friend of as long as you can remember, you can hardly bring yourself to try and control how you look. you sob, and you grin, and you laugh, and it makes you feel better.

[nestasblade]

Shadows and Spiral Mode

Word Count: 860

Pairing: Azriel x reader

Description: Azriel's mate gets ready for her first dinner with his family. Nerves, chaos, and frenzy ensue. Luckily, he's there to make it all better.

Note: Super new to the fandom! Pls reblog and drop a follow, I'd really appreciate it! Much love and hope you enjoy :)

Also, had to repost, so sorry! My old blog locked me out :(

Brand new blog so please follow and reblog it would make my day!

You were running expeditiously behind. This was a disaster of inconceivable proportions. 

Your hair refused to cooperate, the tangled strands threatening to snap the comb you dragged through them. You hadn’t even done your makeup yet. And your dress—Mother above, where was your dress? Your scattered mind wandered to the blue silk garment, a gorgeous piece Azriel had presented to you on your birthday a few months ago.

In merely an hour, Azriel would be picking you up for dinner with his family. His royal family. He always told you not to think of it that way, a sentiment you always returned with an exasperated look.

Your mating bond had snapped upon your first meeting, when he wandered into your apothecary for a dose of headache powder. He’d stared at you with wide, shocked eyes—and you had matched his look with one of wonder and fear. The revered Shadowsinger of the Night Court. He had been nothing but legend to you.

At your insistence, the two of you had gotten to know each other in privacy. Over the months, he’d become your best friend, your confidant, your lover.  

And tonight, you would dine with his family. The General. Lady Death. The High Lord and Lady. 

It might have been tolerable—if you could just find your dress. And tame your crazy hair.

“Running behind, are we?”

You jolted in your vanity seat at the sound of his silken voice. 

As you turned, he was leaning against your bedroom door, cool, sleek confidence wafting off him. He winced in apology.

“Sorry, love. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You’re early, Az,” you said, turning again to look in the vanity mirror. “And don’t look at me. I’m not ready.”

“I love looking at you.” He stepped toward you, his voice soft. “I wanted to spend some time with you before we left.”

He reached you in two long strides, the heat of him pressing gently against your back. You groaned, leaning your head back against his chest.

“I’m spiraling.”

“I had a feeling,” he murmured, voice low, shadows curling softly at your feet like affectionate cats. “That’s why I came early.”

You glanced at his reflection in the mirror. He looked devastatingly calm in his tailored black shirt, his hair still damp from a shower, a shadow twining itself lazily around his shoulder like it had missed you, too.

You scowled, turning to face him. “My hair hates me. I lost the dress you got me. And I haven’t done my makeup. Or boxed up the cake I made.”

He gave a half-smile. “Your hair looks beautiful wild. The shadows will find the dress.”

As if on cue, the shadows darted out from behind him.

“And I can pack the cake,” he added. “Now take a breath. And hand me that comb.”

He took the comb from your hand, motioning for you to turn. You faced the mirror again, exhaling shakily as his fingers began gently tugging through the strands.

And he was careful. Gods, careful. More delicate than a male of his size had any right to be. His scarred fingers worked as though each tangle was a threat he could conquer. Patient. Attentive. Warm.

“My shadows think you look beautiful as you are,” he said absently as he twisted a piece into place.

“I look like I stuck my head in a fireplace.”

“They like the chaos.”

“I’m nervous,” you whispered, finally admitting it. “They’re your family. And what if I—what if I embarrass you? What if they don’t like me?”

Azriel’s face changed at that. Not anger, not exasperation—just… pain. Gentle, quiet pain, as though it wounded him that you could ever doubt your place.

He turned you toward him then, large hands bracketing your arms, his grip careful.

“You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he said. “My family will love you as I love you. No less.”

You swallowed hard.

His voice softened. “And still, you are not there to impress them. You are there because you are the person I love. That’s it. That’s everything.”

When he bent forward to rest his forehead against yours, you let yourself lean in.

“I still want to look nice,” you mumbled, because you were stubborn like that. “I can’t have your family thinking that the Mother cursed you with an unkempt mate.”

Azriel chuckled as he turned you around again to continue with your hair. The deep sound reverberated through you, warming you from the inside out.

“Nonsense.”

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks warmed.

“There,” he said, putting the finishing touches on a simple braid. “Your mate is a lucky male.”

You looked up at him, love and exasperation tangled in your chest.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m truthful,” he replied, brushing a kiss to your temple.

A shadow brushed his ear lightly, and he turned to the wardrobe, quickly pulling out the sleek blue dress. He laid it softly on the bed before returning to you.

He pressed a final kiss to your hair.

“Finish getting ready, angel. I’ll pack up the cake.”

Somehow, things didn’t feel quite so catastrophic anymore.

~~

Hey guys!

idk if anyone read my other ACOTAR piece but this is very different. I just want to try some stuff out. Pls let me know what you think!

[thenanamis]

So I Don't Loose You

thinking about my man, who forgets to take care of himself too often

It started over something small. It always does.

You were both tired. You’d just returned from a mission, emotionally wrung out, and he was supposed to be resting—he’d been injured the week before, his shoulder still recovering, yet you found him reviewing reports with a fresh set of bruises on his knuckles.

“What the hell, Kento?”

Your voice wasn’t raised, but the hurt in it was sharp. “You promised me you’d stay out of the field until you healed.”

He didn’t even look up. “There wasn’t anyone else available.”

“You’re not anyone else.”

“And you’re not my superior.”

The silence that followed was heavier than any curse you’d ever exorcised.

He didn’t mean it—not like that. But it was too late. The words were out.

You turned away, pacing to the kitchen. You didn’t trust your voice.

Behind you, he sighed, quietly—tired of fighting, but too prideful to say anything yet.

“I worry about you, you know,” you said finally, fingers curled tightly around the countertop. “You never tell me when you’re hurting. You just push through like it doesn’t matter.”

“It’s not about mattering,” he said, softly now. “It’s about responsibility. If I don’t do it, someone else gets sent. Someone younger. Less experienced.”

“And what about me? I just have to sit at home and wait for the news that you didn’t make it back?”

That made him freeze.

You turned, and your voice broke. “You say you love me, Kento. Then act like it. Stop pretending you’re invincible. I don’t want a hero. I want you. Alive. Safe. With me.”

His face cracked. Not with guilt—but something deeper. Something ancient and fragile.

He stepped toward you, slowly. “I’m sorry.”

You looked up, surprised. He never apologizes so quickly.

“I said something cruel. And you’re right. I’ve been reckless. Not just with my body, but with your heart.”

You blinked, tears stinging, and whispered, “Then why?”

He exhaled. “Because if I sit still long enough, I start thinking about everything I’ve lost. Everyone I couldn’t protect. And if I let that in... I’m afraid I’ll collapse.”

You stared at him—your strong, composed Kento—confessing something so human it almost hurt to hear.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said. “But I also don’t know how to stop being the man who runs into danger first.”

You closed the distance this time, your hands finding his chest, resting over the steady beat of his heart.

“Then let me be the place you come back to,” you said, quietly. “Let me be your safe thing. You don’t have to carry it all alone.”

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I hate fighting with you,” he murmured.

“We never really do.”

“Because I’d rather hold you than be right.”

And so he did.

His arms wrapped around you, grounding and warm, and you melted into him—no more words, just breathing together in the aftermath.

Later that night, he held you in bed, skin against skin, murmuring apologies against your shoulder. Not just for tonight, but for every moment he made you feel alone in loving him.

And you forgave him—because you knew what it meant for him to even let himself be loved.

(i love him so so much T~T)

[allsteddie]

Under the Spotlight [Part II]

Steve Harrington and Eddie Munson hate each other. At least that's what the press is saying.

Also known as the Actor!Steve AU.

Part I here.

Turns out Robin was not, in fact, overreacting. Corroded Coffin fans are completely insane.

Less than an hour after the interview is released, Steve’s social media is flooded with hate messages. Some of them call him uncultured for not understanding the meaning behind the band’s name and their music, others call him shallow and stupid, and some just tell him to go fuck himself, Corroded Coffin doesn’t need his approval.

It’s a little astonishing, to be honest. He can tell these people are genuinely mad at him and that’s so freaking weird. He didn’t even say anything bad about the band. He might have implied the band’s name was silly, he admits that, but that’s not reason for this kind of backlash. And the name is silly, for fuck’s sake, anyone who says otherwise is lying.

“I am not going to apologize, Robin,” he says for what seems to be the hundredth time when the woman brings up the matter again during breakfast. Steve just wants to finish his waffles in peace; he doesn’t need Robin talking his ear off so early in the morning. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I know, I know.” Robin sits on the chair in front of him, putting her bag down beside her. “But this shit is getting published in every gossip page you can think of, and this means more people are reading about it. This can be bad for your image, Steve. These people won’t stop talking about it unless you say something. They’re gonna keep sending you hate comments, threats and who knows what else, and these gossip pages are going to milk this mess for as long as they can. Just post something on your Instagram, or TikTok, saying you’re sorry and be done with it.”

With an annoyed huff, Steve stuffs the last piece of waffle in his mouth and rests against his chair. It’s not like he doesn’t understand Robin’s point of view. It’s her job to do what’s best for Steve’s career, and she’s the best at what she does. She’s smart, is quick to find solutions to problems like this one; Steve trusts her one hundred percent.

But in this case, it just doesn’t seem right. He didn’t do anything, he doesn’t have anything to apologize for. He gets some people care deeply about their idols; his own fans can be very protective of him when the press criticizes his movies and shows. But that doesn’t mean he has to apologize because Corroded Coffin fans think he was disrespectful with their band, when he clearly wasn’t.

And, besides, Steve might be an actor but he’s not a liar. He’s not going to apologize for something he’s not even sorry for. That’s not how he works.

“Look, I get your point, okay?” Steve says. He pushes the now empty plate aside, resting his hands on the tabletop. “These people are pissed at me, fine. But I’m not sorry for what I said because I didn’t say anything bad. I didn’t even know this band existed, how could I even say shit about them? I’m not going to lie and say I feel bad just because this can turn out to be bad publicity for me. If tabloids and gossip pages want to keep talking about it, so be it. I don’t care.”

Robin doesn’t say anything at first. She crosses her arms, lets her head fall back for a moment and stares at the cafeteria ceiling as if she could find all the solutions for her problems there.

“Why are you like that?” she groans, finally looking at her friend. “It’s been a week, Steve. A whole week of this madness. All you have to do is say you’re sorry and most of this shit will be over.”

“But that’s the point, Rob, I’m not sorry. I’m not gonna lie just because it’s gonna make me look better. If I had said something offensive, okay, I’d gladly apologize, but that’s not what this is about, and you know it.”

“Yeah, I know. But it would make my life so much easier. The PR team keeps nagging me every fucking day about this.”

Steve lets out a small laugh before taking the cup to finish off his coffee. “Just tell them to fuck off. I’ll apologize when I want to, if I want to.”

“Don’t tempt me, Harrington. I’m this close to actually doing that.”

-

-

Eddie loves being on the road.

He’s dreamed about it since he was a kid. Being part of a band, travelling all across the country with his bandmates, playing their music to large crowds, meeting new people. And now this is his life; has been his life for the past six years and Eddie wouldn’t change a single thing.

It’s tiring, though. As much as he loves his life, after six years working without a break, Eddie can feel the first signs of exhaustion making themselves known. Jeff has been getting crankier than usual, and Eddie himself admits he’s not been in the best mood lately. He’s got a crick in his neck that just won’t leave him alone, no matter how many hours of rest he gets in between concerts.

“Two more months, guys,” Eddie says, moments before they step on the stage for yet another concert. From where they are backstage, they can hear the crowd yelling their names. “Two more months and we’re wrapping up the tour.”

The guys yell their satisfaction, Eddie yells with them because, fuck this, he can’t wait for some vacation time too.

“When this shit is over, I’m off to Thailand,” Gareth sighs dreamily. “Just me, gorgeous beaches, gorgeous women and a shit ton of alcohol for a whole month at least. I don’t wanna see any of your ugly mugs there, you hear?”

“Oh, fuck off.” From his place on the couch, Jeff throws a cushion at him; he misses by an inch. “As if we want to see your ugly mug on our days off. Seeing it every fucking day for the last six years is more than enough, thank you.”

“I bet your mom will be happy to see this ugly mug tonight.”

This time the cushion hits Gareth right in the face.

“Okay, okay. Enough, boys.” Eddie intervenes, stepping between those two idiots before the banter turns into a real fight. It would not be the first time. “You’re upsetting Frank.”

Frank is too busy gulping down the last of his beer to bother with an answer.

“Yeah,” Jeff snorts. “He’s really upset.”

Eddie’s answer is cut short when the door to their dressing room opens and Chrissy walks in in all her blonde glory, high heels clinking against the floor.

“Come on, boys, the crowd is getting impatient,” she says, clapping her hands. “Moving on, moving on.”

One by one, they do as they’re told. There’s no arguing when Chrissy uses that tone.

“Looking good, Chrissy,” Gareth flirts as he passes her on his way out.

“First thing Gareth said today that’s not bullshit,” Jeff agrees with the dorkiest of winks.

“Ignore those two, they’re idiots,” Frank laughs. “But you do look lovely tonight, darling.”

Chrissy rolls her eyes, yelling for them to cut the crap and hurry up, but she sounds too fond to be taken seriously. Eddie takes a final look in the mirror, then picks up his guitar and follows his friends. He nods at Chrissy when he passes her, but says nothing else. She pulls him back by the back of his shirt right away and makes him stop.

“What? No compliments for me, Munson?” she asks, eyebrows raised.

“And risk getting kicked in the balls? No, thanks. You’re short, but you’re a lot stronger than you look, Cunningham.”

They stare at each other for a second, faces solemn, before they both start giggling like kids.

“Smart,” Chrissy praises, messing Eddie’s hair with both her hands before her best friend can escape her. “Now go do your thing, those people are waiting.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

With a dramatic salute, Eddie jogs after his friends, the crowd getting louder and louder as he gets closer to the stage.

-

-

Performing is always fun. No matter how tired he feels or how awful his day’s been, when Eddie steps onto a stage every worry or trouble becomes nothing. It’s not something he can quite describe, how fulfilling it is when he sees the crowd enjoying his music, the sense of accomplishment that blooms in his chest when he realizes his fans love his art as much as he does. Nothing compares to that, and Eddie suspects nothing ever will.

Two hours and a half (and twenty songs) later, the band says their goodbyes to the fans and leaves the stage, the screams following them all the way backstage. When they get to the dressing room Chrissy is already there with the rest of the staff, white towels in her hands and a proud smile on her face.

“Great show, boys,” she cheers as she hands a towel to each of them. “You outdid yourselves in this one. The crowd was louder than usual.”

“Did you see those guys with the red lights?” Frank asked, excited. “The whole placed looked like it was on fire. Fucking awesome.”

It really was. Eddie is still buzzing from all the adrenaline after such a performance. He’s probably not gonna get much sleep tonight.

They celebrate their well done work with a lot of whisky and beer. Or they try to, at least. Eddie is barely in his second glass when Chrissy sits down on the leather couch next to him and gives him one of those toothy smiles Eddie knows all too well from their childhood. Nothing good follows when Chrissy smiles at him like that.

“What?”

“So, there’s a couple of journalists outside—” she starts but Eddie interrupts her right away.

“Fucking no, no way. I’m not talking to journalists right now, Chrissy, I’m fucking tired.”

“You said the same thing when we were in Houston, and Austin, and San Antonio, Eddie. It’s been over a month since the last interview. You can’t avoid the press forever; you have to talk to them at some point.”

“No, I don’t. Make Gareth talk to the press, you know I hate this shit.”

“Hey!” Gareth protests from the armchair, kicking Eddie’s feet that were propped on the coffee table. “I talked to them the last time, asshole, it’s your turn.”

“Yeah, Eddie, it’s your turn.” Chrissy takes the glass from Eddie’s hands and puts it on the table, fixing a serious look at her friend. “We need to keep promoting the tour, you know it. Also, I asked for these journalists to be here, and told them that you would be the one talking to them."

"But I don't want to talk to reporters, they always ask the same questions, it's boring as fuck. Come on, Chrissy.

"Don't even try to give me those sad eyes, Munson, they don't work on me. You’re not getting out of this one, darling. Sorry.”

"No, you're not."

Most days Eddie loves Chrissy. She’s his best friend, has been since they were eight, and they’ve been through a lot together in all those years. Chrissy believed in Eddie and in his talent when no one else did, sometimes even when Eddie himself didn’t. She’s seen him in his best and in his worst, she’s done more for him than anyone else in his whole life (aside from his uncle Wayne). Eddie would marry her in a heartbeat if only he swung that way.

But sometimes… sometimes Eddie hates how well Chrissy knows him. Eddie also hates how he’s utterly incapable of telling Chrissy ‘no’, and how she loves exploring this weakness of his to make him do things he doesn’t want to, like talking to the fucking press when all Eddie wants is to get wasted, then crash on his bed.

“You’re the worst, woman,” he groans, letting his head fall back on the backrest.

“But you looove me anyways,” Chrissy singsongs, and Eddie can’t even contradict her.

-

-

Almost a whole hour, that’s how long Eddie’s been sitting there in that fucking dressing room answering question after question from two different journalists. The rest of the band is already on the bus, probably asleep or sharing a joint before bed. Eddie wishes he had a joint right now.

“We’re wrapping up in five minutes,” Chrissy announces as she looks at her wristwatch. At least she stayed with Eddie for this torture session. “Any more questions for Mr. Munson?”

“Yes,” the bald guy in slacks says.

Who the hell goes to a metal concert wearing slacks and a button-down shirt, for fuck’s sake?

“Mr. Munson,” the man starts, snapping Eddie out of his own thoughts. “What do you have to say about Steve Harrington’s last interview, where he mentions Corroded Coffin?”

“I’m sorry, who?”

“Steve Harrington,” the redhead woman sitting by the bald guy’s left answered. “He gave an interview a few weeks ago and mocked Corroded Coffin’s name. Some people in the industry say he also talked badly about your music, although this part of the interview did not get published.”

“Should I know who this person is?” Eddie asks, looking at Chrissy to show her how fucking lost he is. What the fuck is that man talking about?

“He’s a very famous actor,” Chrissy explains. “There’s been some talk online about this interview he gave. I’ve read it and, honestly, didn’t catch the mocking everyone is talking about. The reporter asked him what he thought about Corroded Coffin’s new album and he said he’d never heard about the band before. That’s it.”

“Then why does this shit matters? If the guy doesn’t know us, his opinion is irrelevant.” Usually, Eddie is a little stingy when it comes to people criticizing his music, but Chrissy's nonchalance on the matter is all he needs to know the reporters just want some juicy gossip to publish. He bets they're making up half of what they're telling him just to piss him off. “I don’t even know who you’re talking about, I can’t answer your question, man.”

"Not even about the fact that such an influential person is attacking your band's work?"

"Look, I have no way of knowing if you're telling me the truth. I wasn't aware of any kind of interview until now, so I'm not gonna discuss something I'm not familiar with. If you don't have any more questions, I think we can wrap this up."

The man is clearly not happy with the answer he got, but he doesn't argue any further. “It’s fine, Mr. Munson, I think we have more than enough material."

“Ralph is right, this is more than enough,” the redhead agrees, offering Eddie her hand. “Thanks for agreeing on giving us this interview, Mr. Munson. I’m sure your fans will be delighted to hear from you.”

Eddie looks with suspicion at the woman’s hand for a second before taking and shaking it. “Sure.”

He reluctantly shakes the guy’s hand too before they both follow Chrissy to the exit.

“Thank fuck, ” he sighs.

After a few moments enjoying that blessed silence, Eddie gets up from the couch and makes his way to the coatrack where he hung his jacket when they got here before the concert. He’s almost sure he still has a couple of joints in one of his pockets.

-

-

Tagging: @cinematicvests, @steve-loves-eddie, @standsinthecorner, @eternal-sunflowers, @peachesandcows, @cheshire-smiley-fries, @emberfire, @not-the-goat-345, @fan-of-a-lot.

If you asked me to tag you and I didn't, take a look and make sure you turned this option on in your blog. I couldn't find you, guys, sorry.

[screamlet]

18 or 23, if either ruffles your truffles!

my god I FINALLY I GOT TO YOURS!!!! huge surprise: have some bodyguard au. this is cuddling while somebody's crying (18). this is another installment of bodyguard buck and senator kinard, picking up immediately where we left off. about 1.6k. if you think you hear the theme from jaws at the end: you do. i'm hoping to wrap this up in 2-3 more parts? let's see! find all parts of the bodyguard au here (tagged "bodyguard au (screamlet)").

---

Upstairs, Tommy runs the shower and calls Sal. He doesn't know how to start and Sal doesn't give him any time because he picks up immediately.

"It's technically a weekend, Thomas," Sal drawls. "What happened?"

"I had sex with Evan."

Sal's quiet, but Tommy can imagine the way he's pinching the bridge of his nose. "Where are you? Where's Buckley?"

"My house. I—"

"Yeah, goofball, I know, you offered to let him stay with you even though I told you not to, and he said yes even though I told him not to—"

"You did?"

Sal huffs. "I implied that it would be better that he focus on his family and recovery, and forget about us until he was cleared, and other shit that didn't stick."

Tommy's quiet. "Sal, I always said I'd never be that man. Give me a few months with a pretty face and, what do you know, I'm exactly that man."

Sal doesn't answer.

He can hear Sal moving through the house, though. He wonders if he's going to get in his car and drive over so they can shift into crisis mode.

"Yeah, and I always hoped you wouldn't put me in this position, but here we are." Sal sighs. "Is there any chance we could spin this as a real thing? I mean: is this the real thing?"

The shower has been running long enough that Tommy has to wipe the steam from the mirror to see himself. Age 45, greying, gay, lonely. 30 minutes ago, he was lying in a beautiful man's arms and he could have sworn he was happy. Now it's only made the lines around his eyes and mouth deeper, the blue of his eyes paler like the life's draining from him. This? What's left? This is the real thing.

"No," Tommy says. "He said it was a mistake. It was. I agree."

Sal laughs humorlessly. "You fucking agree. Alright."

"What do I do?" He pauses. "What do we do?"

It's quiet for longer than Tommy would like. Sal finally answers: "Talk to him. Fix this. Get him back on your side. Do not drive him away, right into the newspapers and internet hacks. I know self-sabotage is your favorite cheat day meal, but do not fuck this up with him."

"I�� what?"

"If you upset him," Sal begins, "if you drive him away, take away something he wants, he'll go out and get your attention any way he can. You sweet talk that kid within an inch of his life. You play the sad, lonely bastard, make him feel sorry for you, and wait for him to go away."

Tommy's eyes widen. "You think he will?"

Sal sighs. "Tommy: did you really think he'd stay?"

---

Tommy showers and changes, then heads downstairs. Evan's moved from the guest room to the living room, where he's lying on the couch with his bad leg up. He startles when he sees Tommy and tries to sit up, despite Tommy telling him to stay still. Eventually Evan gets himself upright and Tommy takes a seat in the armchair across from him.

"I'm sorry," Evan begins.

"No, don't apologize, you're not the one who was out of line here." They're making what Tommy thinks is a horrifying amount of eye contact; it's pretty clear that both of them want to crawl under their respective rocks for about a century, but they can't do that, can't they?

"No, listen," Evan starts. "It's just—" Evan takes a long, slow breath. "You're—this—I know I'm saying this with three bullet wounds in my body, but this is the best job I've ever had."

Tommy can't help laugh a little. "You need to raise your bar, kid."

Evan only looks more pained. "Yeah. Exactly. I've—"

Evan looks so lost it hurts. A day ago, Tommy would have been the one Evan could talk to about whatever was troubling him, from random trivial things to the late night staring down the barrel of the rest of your life questions. But Evan's a grown man; he can, he has to, find his way through himself.

"You've met my parents," Evan finally says. It comes with a short, sad laugh. "What you saw? That's the most they've ever cared about me. That's the most they've ever cared about what I'm doing with my life. If I'm not disappointing them by dropping out of school or doing stupid stunts as a kid, I just don't exist to them."

Tommy doesn't know if it would help or hurt to tell Evan: Yeah. He gets it. He barely existed to his parents until they found a reason to hate him and cut him off. It was like they were waiting for an excuse to drop him from their lives and, lucky for them, the reason was inside him all along.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Tommy finally says. "You deserve better. Everyone deserves to be seen, to be loved."

Evan nods. He's staring at Tommy with wide eyes, like he wants to devour him. It's disarming, but Tommy can (has to) sit here and take it.

"Bobby, um. Bobby's taken a lot of chances on me," Evan says. "Like my parents said: Maddie gave me her Jeep and some cash to leave home, and I'd been living out of it for about four years when I got to DC. It was Athena who found me, actually? This guy pulled out a gun at a bank and I took him down before he could hurt anyone. She made a joke about how I should look into security as a career, and I think I was way too eager about it because I needed the job. So she introduced me to Bobby."

Evan rubs the back of his neck as Tommy watches him blink away tears. "And he introduced me to you. And after Maddie, you two are the best things that have ever happened to me."

Tommy's manfully swallowing his emotions, but it's getting harder and harder. "I won't tell Sal."

Evan laughs, then cracks. "So I got my wires crossed, that's all. That's—that's all it was. I'm sorry I led you on. I didn't mean it."

And god help him, he'd believe Evan from this moment until the sun exploded if Evan wasn't looking at him like he was tearing his own heart out of his chest, piece by miserable piece. Maybe it was fear over losing the career he'd found and the life he'd built; Tommy knew what it felt like to be lost and finally find something to hold onto. But Tommy didn't think so.

It didn't matter. This was what Evan needed: to be near him, but not with him; to look, but not touch; to believe that wanting was the same as having, and longing was the same as love. Maybe they couldn't agree on what constituted "good" music, but this was the song-and-dance Tommy had been doing his whole life.

"You did nothing wrong," Tommy says. Evan looks at him and nods, then bursts into tears. "Buck. Evan. Evan. Can I—"

"Could you—"

Then they're standing and holding each other for dear life. Evan clings to him like someone's going to rip him from Tommy; Tommy holds him like he's going to stop them.

"Ball's in your court, kid," Tommy says quietly, because Evan still hasn't let him go. "Because I—I care about you. So much. I want what you want."

"Don't want that," Evan mumbles against his shoulder. For his mental health, Tommy's going to pretend Evan's face isn't buried against his shoulder and breathing him in like that's the only oxygen he needs.

"I want you to be happy," Tommy says. "And have a good job, a good place to live, and whatever you need to be—be you. The best—the Evan Buckley you want to be."

Evan shudders like Tommy's just punched him. That's his cue to squeeze him tight, one last time, and slip out of his arms. He takes a step back to let Evan get his bearings; he already feels so empty without him. Sal's advice sounded so backward at first, but Tommy sees it for what it is: the hardest way through. That's why no one ever does it.

"So sit down," Tommy says. He surreptitiously wipes at his cheeks and grabs Evan's tote bag of home care instructions and medication, and the phone from his coat pocket. "I'll get you some water for this, and I'll get the guest room ready for you again."

Evan looks up. "You're letting me stay?"

Tommy nods. "Of course. If you want to stay, stay. If you want me to get you a—"

"I want to stay," Evan says. "My apartment has stairs and—" Evan looks into his tote bag like it has the cure to his miseries. "And I don't like being alone when I'm sick. Is it okay if I call Maddie?"

"Whatever you need, Buck." Evan shoots him a look. Tommy laughs. "Evan."

"Don't call me that," Evan says, playful and deadly serious. "You're not allowed."

"Alright, Evan," Tommy says. Evan smiles at him, hurting but hopeful, and Tommy leaves him to it.

As Tommy strips the guest room bed and replaces the bathroom towels, his phone vibrates with a text from Sal.

Just talked to your new bodyguard on the phone

You're gonna hate him

He starts in a week

[steveseddie]

mind-blowing

written for the @steddiebingo splash into summer mini event | prompt: sand | rating: t | wc: 775 | tags: crack treated seriously, bi steve, featuring eddie’s super normal reaction to this, discussion of blow jobs

read on ao3

“Worst place you’ve ever had sex in. Go,” Eddie says, handing the joint to Steve, who’s sitting next to him on the trailer’s old couch. 

They’ve been throwing stupid questions at each other for the last twenty minutes, so Steve doesn’t react any differently to this one, just takes a hit and thinks it over.

Eddie allows himself three seconds to stare at his pursed lips before he glances back at the stained ceiling.  

“The beach,” Steve says finally. “Sand, man. It gets everywhere.”

Eddie sniggers, taking the joint back. He’s never had sex on the beach but he trusts Steve’s judgement, he already hates it when sand gets in his hair, he can’t imagine having it– elsewhere.

“But,” Steve continues like he’s lost in thought. “At least it washes away, you know? Maybe it’s actually the alley behind this bar in Indy– my knees were hurting for days after that.”

There’s a sound like a record scratching in Eddie’s brain as he processes Steve’s words. 

“W–What?” He stammers out because Steve can’t mean–

“Yeah, I shouldn’t have been kneeling there for that long,” Steve says, making grabby hands for the weed. Eddie hands it over without taking a hit. “It was gross, too,” he continues, his lips wrapping around the joint enticingly. Eddie can’t help but glance at them. They curl into a smirk when he adds, “The floor was gross, not the– you know.”

Eddie splutters. “I– I don’t,” he chokes out. There’s no way Steve is talking oh so casually about blowing someone in a dingy alley. Eddie needs clarification before his brain starts getting any ideas. “What– what were you doing on your knees?”

At that, Steve gives him a quizzical look. “What do you think, Eds?” He says with a chuckle, brushing his hair back with his free hand. With the other one he offers the joint back to Eddie who waves it away, his mind reeling already.

“I’m not thinking! My brain is just like–” He makes an explosion sound, his hands mimicking his head being blown. And it is– by the realization that Steve Harrington admitted to sucking dick. “You– were you blowing a guy?” He asks, his voice raising embarrassingly. 

Steve nods sheepishly and Eddie’s mouth drops. “Why?”

Raising an eyebrow, Steve repeats. “Why?” When Eddie nods a little impatiently, he snorts. “I don’t know, Eddie, why do you suck dick?”

“Because I like it!” Steve gives him a look like duh, exactly. Eddie sputters some more. “But I’m gay, you’re-”

“Something,” Steve finishes when Eddie trails off, gesturing uselessly. “Bisexual is what Rob called it.”

Eddie blinks at him, at a loss for words.

Steve’s eyes narrow. “I thought you knew.”

At that, Eddie lets out a bark of laughter. “No! Steve, of course I didn’t fucking know! Do you think I would act normal around you if I knew that?”

“You never act normal,” Steve teases. “You’re not acting normal right now.”

“Apologies, Your Majesty, for this jester needs a moment to erase the image of you sucking dick from his brain,” Eddie snaps, his voice bordering on hysterical.

Steve’s eyes sparkle. “Would you rather see it for yourself?”

A strangled sound slips past Eddie’s lips in response. 

Steve scoots closer, a smirk stretching over his face. “That’s why you’re freaking out, right?” He asks, lowering his voice and sending shivers down Eddie’s spine. “Because you wish it was you.”

Eddie opens and closes his mouth a few times. 

“It can,” Steve whispers, crowding Eddie against the arm of the couch. “If you want.”

“What– What’s happening?” Eddie asks, finally finding his voice. 

“I’m offering to give you a blow job,” he says just as casually. 

“Because you like sucking dick,” Eddie says, matter-of-fact. 

“Yes,” Steve shrugs. “And because I like you, dork.”

“Oh.”

When the silence stretches, Steve nudges Eddie’s leg. “So what do you say?”

“What do I–” Eddie laughs, less hysterical but still disbelieving. Giddy too. “I say yes, of course, Stevie, Jesus H. Christ!”

“Good,” Steve chuckles amusedly. “Hand me a throw pillow then, I’m not hurting my knees this time,” he says with a wink. 

Eddie shudders, his dick twitching in his pants. Blindly, he grabs one of the couch’s pillows and shoves it into Steve’s hands. 

He slides to the floor, settling between Eddie’s legs, his knees on the pillow. There, he quite literally blows Eddie’s mind. 

And as it turns out, Steve didn’t really need the pillow. Eddie comes approximately forty-five seconds in and then Steve is off the floor and climbing on top of Eddie, grinding against him, his knees digging into the plush couch instead. 

[hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall]

The staff - part 1

pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x assistant!reader

summary: You're just his assistant - until longing, heartbreak, and slow-burning trust turn your careful distance into something undeniable behind closed political doors.

warnings for the whole story: 18 + content, SMUT, MDNI, unprotected sex, piv, creampie, angst, a lot of angst, feelings, swearing, emotions, politics, Bucky being an idiot, idiots in love

wc: 12,5k (needed to divide the story into two, because tumblr doesn't accept a story with 26,4K words - not fun)

author’s note: in honor of Congressman Bucky and Thunderbolts. I have been writing this for a long while, so I hope you'll enjoy it.

I'm not American so my knowledge of American politics isn't too good, so forgive me. Also English isn't my first language so apologies for any errors.

Part 2

If anyone told you years ago that James Buchanan Barnes - ex-assassin, ex-fugitive, current brooding war hero - would end up in the United States Congress, you would have laughed in their face. Possibly handed them a coffee and told them to get more sleep. And yet here you are, every morning, walking past the Capitol dome with a leather folder tucked under your arm and a laminated badge clipped to your coat: Executive Assistant to Congressman James B. Barnes, New York 14th District.

Your name isn’t the one they whisper in corridors, but people know you. You're the invisible machine that keeps his office from crumbling under the weight of policy drafts, public appearances, and an inbox that fills itself like it’s been possessed by a demon. You’ve been with him since the day he was appointed, back when the country wasn't sure what to make of a former Winter Soldier turned statesman.

You know what brand of coffee keeps him from homicide before 9 a.m. (black, one sugar, dark roast only). You know the exact pitch his voice takes when he’s lying to avoid attending a fundraiser. You know his schedule better than your own, including the unlisted part that reads: “Stare into space for ten minutes while regretting all life choices post-1945.”

What he doesn’t know is that you're completely and irrevocably in love with him.

“Morning,” comes his voice now, deep and casual, like he isn’t thirty seconds from being late to the Veterans Affairs Committee briefing. You glance up from your desk, where your fingers are flying across the keyboard to send a politely scathing email to a reporter who called him “Captain America's shadow with a tie.”

“Sir,” you say, because calling him ‘Bucky’ is reserved for people who don’t get heart palpitations when he smiles. “You’re late.”

“Am I?” he asks, and there's that grin. It's not the full-on, teeth-showing kind that makes cameras flash at public events. This one’s just for you, crooked and lopsided, like he’s in on a joke and you might be the punchline.

You don’t let it throw you.

You push his schedule toward him, already annotated with color-coded sticky notes. “Room 128B. Ten minutes ago. You’ve got notes in your folder. Senator Navarro will try to corner you about the health care amendment - don’t let him. Oh, and you’ve got a press request from the Times, but I flagged it. They want a ‘day in the life of the new Bucky Barnes.’ Unless you want your afternoon nap to be public knowledge, I suggest we ignore it.”

He takes the folder, skims the notes like he might read them later (he won’t), and gives a soft laugh. “That’s why I keep you around.”

“Because I’m excellent at saving you from your own press disasters?”

“Because you know where the bodies are buried.”

“I organized them alphabetically.”

That gets a real laugh out of him - quiet, throaty, and far too attractive for 8:53 a.m.

He starts walking and you follow, like you always do, falling into step beside a man who walks like he’s still ready to fight his way through a battlefield. His stride is smooth, but there’s tension in the left shoulder. You don’t mention it. Never do.

“So what’s the verdict on the amendment?” he asks, eyes forward, voice low.

“Navarro wants it gutted. Reid is going to back you, but he wants a photo op. McKenna is pretending to be undecided, but she’s in your corner. Wear the navy suit. It makes you look less like someone who could kill with a spoon.”

He glances at you, amused. “You think I’m intimidating?”

You shrug, nonchalant. “You carry yourself like a man who’s ended lives and alphabetizes his trauma. That’s...a lot for C-SPAN.”

There’s a flicker of something in his expression, unreadable. Then he grins again, softer this time. Again, only for you. “Guess I’m lucky I’ve got you to humanize me.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t get used to it. You’re still going to that ribbon-cutting in Brooklyn next week, and no amount of tragic backstory is going to make you look interested in baked goods for veterans.”

He opens the door to the committee chamber with a wink. “You wound me.”

You don’t reply until the door swings closed behind him, leaving you in the hallway with nothing but your clipboard and the echo of a voice that could ruin you if you let it.

*

The rest of your day unfolds in a blur of phone calls, briefings, and crisis management. You cancel a meeting with a tech lobbyist who got caught texting during a press conference. You draft a response to a constituent who believes Bucky is a lizard man in disguise (“Thank you for your feedback. Congressman Barnes appreciates your passion.”). You reheat your coffee twice and drink it anyway.

By the time he returns to the office, the sun is setting and you’re halfway through organizing talking points for a veterans’ benefits rally.

He drops into the chair across from your desk with a sigh and unbuttons the collar of his shirt. The tie is loosened, the sleeves rolled up. The metal arm glints under the fluorescent light, and for a second, your brain stops functioning.

He tips his head at you. “You’re staring.”

You blink. “I’m strategizing.”

“Strategizing about my...neckline?”

You look up sharply, only to find him grinning again, infuriatingly smug.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you say coolly. “I’m considering whether we can survive the week if I throw this stapler at you.”

“Tempting,” he says. “But you’d miss me if I were concussed.”

God help you, he’s right.

You shut your laptop with a snap. “We need to prep for the town hall on Friday. I’ve drafted bullet points.”

He leans forward, all wry amusement and quiet attention. “What would I do without you?”

Fall apart. Burn out. Get eaten alive by political wolves.

You smile like it doesn’t hurt to think about. “Probably give a scandalous interview to the Times.”

He laughs again, and for a moment the weight of his past seems a little lighter.

This is how it goes: tension wrapped in sarcasm, affection folded into sarcasm, everything too close and yet miles away. You’ll keep it professional. You have to.

Even if his voice is starting to sound like home.

***

There’s a particular kind of chaos that only Washington can breed - polished, tightly wound, and dressed in three-piece suits. You’re used to it by now, but today it feels more like a contact sport than public service.

It begins with a misquote in The Hill.

Someone - bless their soul - decides to paraphrase Bucky’s latest speech on veteran reintegration with all the nuance of a sledgehammer, publishing a line that makes it sound like he wants to privatize benefits.

By the time the article lands on your desk, you’ve already gotten five emails, three texts, and one call from a furious staffer in Senator Layton’s office asking if Bucky has lost his damn mind.

He hasn’t.

But if this day keeps going like this, you might.

You’re halfway through damage control, phone wedged between your shoulder and ear, when he strolls in - coffee in hand, hair slightly windswept from the morning’s walk.

“Did I cause a national incident again?” he asks, with the tone of someone who very much already knows the answer.

You give him a look. “Only a small one. Catastrophe-lite.”

“I like it when you talk crisis to me.”

You cover the receiver. “Now’s not the time, Barnes.”

He lifts his free hand in surrender and takes the seat across from your desk like this is just another Tuesday - which it is, technically, except that your heart is pounding and you haven’t even had breakfast.

You end the call with a quick promise to issue a clarifying statement within the hour, then turn to him.

“They misquoted you. Badly. We're getting out a correction and a video clip of the full speech. In the meantime, I suggest you avoid microphones and unvetted journalists.”

He leans back in his chair and sighs, the weariness starting to show in the lines of his face. “I should’ve stayed retired.”

You study him for a moment. He rarely lets himself say things like that aloud. It’s almost too easy to forget that this gig, for all its importance, still feels like a second life he didn’t ask for.

“You wouldn’t have lasted a week,” you say, gently. “You hate beaches, you’d get bored, and no one else would let you monologue about dignity and structural reform at 9 a.m.”

He chuckles, but it’s softer than usual.

Then something shifts.

His eyes settle on yours, and the humor fades, just a little. “You always know exactly what to say.”

It hits you in the gut - how quiet that line is, how sincere.

You look away quickly, focus on your screen. “It’s in the job description.”

You don’t say, I know what you don’t say aloud. You don’t say, I watch you closely enough to read between the silences.

He doesn’t push it. He rarely does. But when he stands, the air between you carries a different weight.

“I’ve got that sit-down with McKenna in twenty. Walk me through the notes?”

You rise, grabbing the briefing folder from the edge of your desk, and fall in step beside him.

*

The meeting is brief but productive. McKenna is sharp, pragmatic, and clearly more inclined to support Bucky’s amendment than her team lets on. You watch the way he works - reserved, calm, with just enough intensity to be persuasive. He lets you take the lead when necessary, doesn’t interrupt, backs your points with quiet nods and the occasional clarifying question.

When it ends, you both step into the marble hallway, your heels echoing softly on the polished floor.

“Nice job in there,” he says. “She likes you.”

“She likes that I don’t bullshit her.”

He grins sideways. “It’s your most charming quality.”

You roll your eyes, but something about the moment lingers - an easiness that didn’t exist when you first started working for him. Back then, he barely spoke unless necessary. You practically had to drag words from him with a winch and a crowbar.

Now, he seeks you out. Asks what you think. Makes you coffee when you're too buried in policy to move.

You're still strictly professional. But sometimes professionalism feels like a paper-thin veil over something warmer.

You’re halfway back to the office when he slows down.

“Dinner?”

You blink. “Now?”

“Tonight.”

You hesitate. A heartbeat too long.

He notices. His gaze flicks toward you, careful. “I mean - work dinner. With the committee reps. Thompson’s organizing it. I need someone to run interference if they try to get me drunk and ask about the arm.”

You exhale - relieved? Disappointed? You’re not sure.

“Of course. I’ll coordinate the car.”

But later, when you’re walking to that dinner together, side by side in the fading light of a Washington summer, he glances at you and says.

“You’d tell me if I was losing my mind doing this job, right?”

You meet his eyes, serious now.

“Every day, if necessary.”

He laughs. Then, after a beat, quieter: “But you think I’m doing okay?”

You nod. “I think you’re doing more than okay.”

There’s silence after that, but not the awkward kind. The kind that hums with things unsaid.

***

The town hall is held in a community center that smells faintly of floor wax and coffee that's been burning on a hot plate since the Reagan administration.

You’ve been here since 7 a.m., clipboard in hand, headset on, corralling volunteers, smoothing egos, and setting up security with a finesse that makes even the Secret Service nod respectfully.

The crowd outside is already gathering - constituents, press, a couple of hecklers you’ve flagged in advance. Bucky's due to speak in twenty minutes, and if all goes well, this will be a net-positive PR win for the Congressman Formerly Known as a National Security Threat.

He arrives exactly on time, as always, dressed in his sleeves-rolled-up, man-of-the-people uniform - dark blue shirt, no tie, jacket slung over one arm. His metal hand is gloved, as it always is in crowds. His expression is calm, which is to say: mildly broody, barely caffeinated, and aware of at least three possible exits.

“Full house,” he murmurs as he steps up beside you.

You hand him a packet of talking points, pre-highlighted.

“Packed and ready. Veterans’ affairs up front, followed by infrastructure, then the housing proposal. Avoid eye contact with the guy in the camo hat - he’s a flat-tax zealot and once bit someone at a debate.”

Bucky flips through the notes and then glances at you with a grin. “I don't know what I’d do without you.”

“Panic. Bleed out. Pick a fight with the microphone stand.”

He gives you that crooked little smile - the one that makes your stomach dip like it’s going over a speed bump at 60 miles an hour. “Probably.”

The thing is, you two work like gears in a clock; quiet, efficient, practiced. You've been in dozens of these rooms, faced down angry constituents, hostile reporters, malfunctioning AV systems. Each time, you’ve fallen into the same rhythm: you handle logistics and landmines, he handles the crowd and occasionally, if necessary, the truth.

Ten minutes before the event, you do your standard pre-check. You test the mic, brief the team, double-check the seating layout.

That’s when the mayor’s aide rushes over, panicked.

“Congressman Barnes? We have a problem. The keynote speaker from the Veterans’ Alliance can’t make it. Their director’s stuck on the 495. We need someone to fill that time slot or we’ll lose a third of the programming window.”

You glance at Bucky. His jaw tenses. Not because he's afraid, he's fine on his feet, but he hates unscheduled speeches. Despises speaking from the heart unless he has a day to rewrite it three times and vet it for emotional landmines.

“I’ll handle it,” you say, before he can.

His brow furrows. “You?”

“I’ll introduce the housing section myself. It buys us time to shift your address forward and still leave room for Q&A. I’ve got the figures. It’ll be tight, but we can thread it.”

He looks at you for a long moment.

Then he nods. “Let me know if you need backup.”

The words aren’t throwaway. They never are with him. There’s always weight behind them, always the same, unsaid sentiment: I’ve got your six.

You nod, once. “Go be charming. I’ll catch up.”

*

You take the stage ten minutes later, voice even, posture steady despite the sudden spotlight. You walk them through the housing stats - percentages, funding sources, timelines - punctuated with the kind of genuine urgency that gets people listening. You even manage a joke that gets a laugh. Not a nervous, polite chuckle, but an actual ripple of amusement.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Bucky watching from the wings, arms crossed, one brow slightly raised. There’s pride there, clear and undisguised.

He’s never looked at anyone the way he looks at you when you’re in the zone. It’s not adoration. It’s not awe. It’s something quieter, steadier - respect wrapped in something softer, something that makes your breath catch if you look too long.

You wrap your segment, introduce Bucky, and exit the stage to muted applause. He passes you on the way up, touching your elbow briefly in a way that no one else would notice.

You feel it for the next ten minutes like a brand.

*

Bucky handles the rest with his usual understated command. He doesn’t posture, doesn’t grandstand. He speaks plainly, emotionally, like someone who’s lived every policy he’s fighting for. And when the Q&A hits a snag - an aggressive question about his past - he deflects it with calm grace and a quiet, steely edge.

It’s only once everything’s over and the crowd is thinning that you find yourself standing outside the venue beside him, both of you wrapped in the late dusk.

“You did good,” he says quietly.

“You did better.”

He glances at you. “You always say that.”

You shrug. “It’s always true.”

There’s a long pause.

Then: “You didn’t have to jump in like that earlier. You could’ve handed it off to one of the staffers.”

“I didn’t want to risk it,” you say simply. “I trust me.”

“I trust you too,” he says. His voice is lower now, the humor stripped from it. “More than anyone in that building.”

You should say something. Thank you. I know. That’s what I’m here for.

Instead, what comes out is: “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in government.”

Bucky chuckles. “We should both be worried about that.”

Another silence.

But this one doesn’t stretch awkwardly. It settles; comfortable, familiar. And somewhere beneath it, something warmer. He’s standing close, too close, and you swear he leans in a fraction, just for a second, but then your phone buzzes.

The moment’s gone. Back to business. Back to pretending.

***

The office is unusually quiet.

It’s after hours, long past the time when staffers scatter to bars or home or wherever it is people with boundaries go - people who know what work-life balance is. The floor is nearly empty, bathed in the amber glow of emergency lighting. Bucky sits at his desk, sleeves pushed up, tie discarded somewhere on the floor. You’re across from him, curled up in one of the guest chairs, nursing a cup of cold tea you stopped noticing half an hour ago.

Neither of you has spoken in ten minutes.

But it’s not uncomfortable. It rarely is anymore.

“You remember that first week?” he says suddenly, like the thought had been echoing for hours.

You glance up, surprised. “Of course I do.”

You were wearing heels too high for Capitol Hill and trying to figure out why a man with a metal arm and a war journal was suddenly being considered for a congressional seat.

*

18 Months Ago – Pre-Election

You remember walking into the temporary office they’d set up for him like it was burned into your memory. Because it is. Not just the setting - the folding tables, the stacked files, the smell of takeout and a history no one knew how to reference without stammering - but him.

He stood when you entered. His hair was longer then, pulled back, and his eyes were sharper, untrusting. You’d been told, quietly, not to expect much in the way of social graces. “He’s still learning how to exist,” someone whispered. “But he’s got a head for policy, surprisingly.”

You introduced yourself. Offered your hand.

He didn’t take it.

He looked at you like he was waiting for you to flinch, or look through him, or smile that condescending way people do when they’re near someone who’s seen too many things.

Instead, you said, “You’ve got fourteen policy drafts, no press strategy, and a stack of donor interest letters no one’s answered. We’ve got about six months to make you electable.”

And he said, “You’re hired.”

That was it. No interview. No HR vetting. Just a long, assessing stare and the tiniest lift of his eyebrow like he couldn’t quite believe you weren’t running for the door.

He didn’t know how to smile back then, not really. You didn’t know how to trust someone who looked like every story you'd ever studied in poli-sci and none of the ones that ended well.

But it worked.

You stayed late. Showed up early. Dragged him into media training and debate prep. Sat beside him when he had a flashback in the middle of a strategy meeting and made sure no one turned it into a headline.

He started calling you by name. Started checking in. Started...laughing.

The night he won the seat, he hugged you. Just once. Quick, tight, like he didn’t mean to.

You still feel it sometimes. Like a phantom.

*

Present Day

“I thought you’d quit,” he says, voice quiet.

You look at him across the half-lit office. “Why?”

“You were overqualified. Too smart to waste your time babysitting an ex-hitman with a PR problem.”

You study him. His hair is shorter now. His shoulders carry more confidence. But the self-doubt still lives in the corners of his mouth when he frowns like that.

“I stayed,” you say, “because you weren’t full of shit. That’s rare around here.”

He snorts. “That’s putting it mildly.”

You lean back, arms crossed. “Also because I figured if I stuck around long enough, I’d get to see you do something impossible. And I was right.”

He looks at you then; really looks at you. And for a second, everything feels suspended.

“Do you regret it?” he asks. “Working with me.”

You shake your head. “Not even a little.”

Another beat. Another moment that feels like it might tip into something else. But this time, it doesn’t.This time, he just stands and stretches, back cracking softly in the stillness. “You hungry?”

You arch a brow. “Are you suggesting dinner?”

“I’m suggesting we order in and keep working on that veteran housing grant proposal before Congress goes into recess and forgets we exist.”

You smirk. “Romantic.”

He grins over his shoulder. “You haven’t lived until you’ve eaten Chinese food over a redlined federal document.”

So you order lo mein. You go back to work. You pretend not to feel the weight of his gaze linger too long when you tuck your hair behind your ear.

Because that’s how it’s always been: almost something.

And just barely not.

***

The conference is a political minefield dressed up as a nonprofit gala.

Veterans’ outreach, defense contractors, political donors - you know the crowd. Expensive suits. Faux sincerity. People who shake hands with one another while calculating value down to the vote.

You’d flagged this event weeks ago as “moderate risk, high optics reward.” Bucky needed to be seen. Needed to be visible beyond committee rooms and press quotes. A speech here, a few handshakes there; minimal exposure. You’d planned it down to the minute.

And it was going well. Until it wasn’t.

“Congressman Barnes,” says a man with a donor tag and a wine glass he doesn’t deserve, “I just have to ask - how exactly does someone with your background get clearance for classified briefings?”

You see the way Bucky’s spine stiffens. Subtle. Small. Barely there, but you know the signs. That question isn’t innocent. It's calculated, dressed in polite curiosity but laced with venom.

The man continues, clearly emboldened by his own smugness. “No offense, of course. I just imagine there are still...let’s say, lingering questions. About where your loyalties lay. Or used to.”

You’re standing half a step behind Bucky, holding his speech notes. But when he turns his head slightly - as if about to speak - you step forward instead.

Smile on. Voice calm.

“Congressman Barnes’s clearance level is approved by the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, the Department of Defense, and three agencies whose acronyms I can’t legally say out loud,” you say, tone even and glacial. “If there were any questions about his loyalties, I imagine the thousands of classified documents he's reviewed without incident would have raised them.”

The man blinks. “Well, yes, but - ”

You don’t let him finish.

“And if you're wondering how someone with his background got elected, I’d suggest asking all the thousands of people who voted for him. Or perhaps we can schedule a follow-up for a civics refresher. I have slides.”

The man’s mouth opens, then closes. Bucky says nothing. But his posture shifts again - relaxes. You can feel the moment pass like a pressure drop.

Someone nearby chuckles under their breath. The donor turns away with a murmured excuse and disappears into the crowd like spilled perfume.

You hand Bucky his notes without looking at him. “Speech in five.”

He takes them from you with a slow blink. Then: “Thanks.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” you say, keeping it light. “I did it for national security.”

He gives you a look. You roll your eyes. “And maybe a little for you.”

The corners of his mouth twitch, like he wants to smile but knows it’ll make you more dangerous.

“Remind me not to get on your bad side,” he murmurs.

“Please. You’d last maybe ten minutes.”

*

After the speech - well-delivered, warmly received - you find yourselves in a quiet corner behind the stage, half-hidden by velvet drapes and quiet applause.

He leans against the wall, gaze lowered. “You didn’t have to step in like that.”

You adjust your blazer. “Actually, I did. That guy was trying to provoke a reaction.”

“And you gave him one.”

“I gave him an education. There’s a difference.”

He laughs softly. “You’re dangerous.”

You glance at him sideways. “Only to people who come for you sideways.”

There's silence then. Not the awkward kind. The kind where something almost wants to be said. But isn’t.

You turn your head, and find him already looking at you. And you can feel it. That tug. That dangerous, fragile pull toward something that you both can’t afford to define.

“I owe you,” he says.

“You don’t,” you reply, and you mean it. “But if you insist, I accept payment in rare whisky and sleep.”

He smirks, then reaches out without thinking, and gently adjusts a stray thread on your sleeve. It's nothing. It's everything. It's the kind of gesture that wouldn't even be noticed if it weren’t for how still the room suddenly feels around it.

You step back before you let yourself lean forward.

“Come on,” you say. “Let’s get you out of here before someone asks you how many people you’ve killed and what wine pairs best.”

He follows you. Because he always does.

***

The reception is low-key by Capitol standards. Just a quiet fundraiser at a private gallery downtown, with delicate hors d'oeuvres and jazz that floats like perfume through the air. You’ve already done your sweep: handshakes, small talk, mental notes on potential allies and walking liabilities.

Bucky’s in his element tonight.

He’s charming, magnetic in that understated way that makes people lean in. You’ve always been quietly proud of how he carries himself now. Confident. Warm. Like he’s learned to live without apology, even if part of him still walks like he’s waiting for the floor to give out.

You’re refilling your water when you see her.

She’s stunning. Classic. The kind of woman who wears confidence like silk. She glides when she walks and you recognize her immediately - Alessia DeWitt, a cultural liaison from the Department of State with a talent for high-stakes diplomacy and two bestselling essays on international reconciliation.

And she’s talking to Bucky.

They’re standing near the Degas in the corner, his favorite piece here, you know that. And she’s laughing at something he’s said, tilting her head just slightly. He’s smiling.

That smile.

Not the politician’s smile. Not the “I’m surviving this photo op” smirk. It’s the one that’s just for you - except tonight, it isn’t.

And God, it hits you.

Sharp. Uninvited.

You swallow it.

You turn away, take a slow sip of water, then walk - measured, graceful - across the room. You check your phone, check your list, check your composure. Every step is a performance.

You do not look again. You don’t get to be jealous. Not of her. Not of anyone. He’s your boss. You are his assistant.

No matter how many late nights. No matter the things unsaid, the silences filled with too much meaning, the tiny glances you store like keepsakes in your memory. None of that changes the title on your business card or the rules you’ve made to survive this job with your dignity intact.

You walk past the bar, scan the guest list again, update the press talking points on your phone. You are a machine. Efficient. Cold.

And then -

“Hey.”

You don’t flinch, even though you want to. You turn and find him beside you. Close. Closer than is appropriate, but that line’s always been blurry with him.

His tie is slightly loosened, and he’s still smiling, but it’s softer now. The kind he uses when it’s just the two of you.

“I didn’t lose you, did I?” he asks.

“No,” you say smoothly. “Just doing my job.”

He studies your face, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

You force a smile. “Ms. DeWitt seems nice.”

“She is,” he says, slowly. “Interesting work. She mentioned she might want to collaborate on the cultural diplomacy initiative we’ve been pushing.”

“Good,” you say. “That’ll play well with the foreign affairs committee. We could use a new ally.”

He watches you.

You keep your voice neutral, your smile light.

You don’t say: You smiled at her like you smile at me.

You don’t say: It felt like someone else reaching for something that was never mine to begin with.

Instead, you tap your screen. “You’ve got fifteen minutes before your next meeting. Do you want me to prep your notes on the veterans’ bill or let you wing it?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Finally, softly: “Prep the notes. But stay close.”

You look up at him. That quiet charge, always there, flickers again.

You nod. “Always.”

*

The rest of the night passes like it always does; smooth, efficient, under your control. You manage the conversation clusters, escort him out with a practiced smile, and return home hours later, slipping off your heels and letting the mask fall in the dark of your apartment.

You’re not his partner.

You’re not his friend.

You’re the woman who makes him look like he has it all together.

And sometimes, that feels like enough.

Until it isn’t.

***

You’ve gotten good at tuning things out.

The way the Capitol air hums with ambition. The layered lies behind too-perfect smiles. The slow erosion of ideals at the hands of committee votes.

But today, it’s Bucky’s laugh that you try to tune out. Low, warm. The kind he only lets out when he’s surprised, or amused in that rare, unguarded way. You usually feel proud when you hear it.

But today, he’s not laughing with you.

You glance up just enough to see her again - Alessia DeWitt, poised and polished, standing in his office with a folder under one arm and her coat draped casually over the other. She’s saying something clever, probably insightful. Bucky responds with a smirk that creases the edge of his mouth just enough to make your lungs forget how to function.

You go back to typing.

You don’t look again.

You don’t listen.

You’re a professional. This is just your job.

They’re not flirting, not exactly. But it’s there. In the way he tips his head a little when she talks. In the way she steps just a bit closer than necessary when she hands him a document. The kind of subtle tension that’s practiced, elegant, and worst of all - reciprocated.

He walks her out an hour later.

You don’t look up when he passes your desk. You don’t say anything. You just keep moving numbers in a spreadsheet you’re not even going to use.

He comes back a few minutes later, lightly rapping his knuckles against the edge of your desk.

You glance up. His hair’s a little mussed from the wind, and he looks relaxed - happy, even.

“Hey,” he says. “Do me a favor?”

You nod automatically, even before you hear the request. That’s what you do. That’s who you are.

“I need a dinner reservation. Somewhere quiet. Discreet. Doesn’t have to be flashy - just private. For two. Around seven. Tonight.”

You type it out, the motion mechanical.

He continues. “Make sure it’s somewhere the press won’t be lurking. She’s...we just want a quiet place to talk through some strategy stuff.”

Strategy. Right.

You don’t ask if it’s for Alessia. You don’t have to. There’s no strategy that needs candlelight and privacy and the kind of table where your knees could brush under the linen.

Your fingers don’t falter. Your voice doesn’t shake.

“Of course,” you say. “I’ll send confirmation to your phone.”

He smiles. “You’re the best.”

And then he’s gone again, the door closing gently behind him like it doesn’t know it just slammed something shut inside you.

You sit there for a long time after that. Long enough to hear the low buzz of the building begin to die down. Long enough to realize you haven’t moved in ten minutes.

You always stay late. Always.

But not tonight.

You gather your things in silence, ignoring the messages still pinging into your inbox. You leave the office like you’re walking through water, slow, heavy, fragile in a way you swore you wouldn’t let yourself be.

You make it all the way home before it breaks.

Your apartment is quiet. Too quiet. You kick off your shoes, toss your bag onto the couch, and stand in the dark for a moment longer than necessary, as if standing still will make the ache go away.

It doesn’t.

You cry in the way heartbreak always demands. Quietly. Pathetically. With the kind of hurt that builds from silence and restraint and all the things you never said.

Because he doesn’t want you.

He doesn’t even know he could.

You’re not his to want.

You’re just the one who makes his life easier.

And you hate that part of you—that weak, desperate part—wishes you were the one he wanted a quiet table with.

***

The office hasn’t changed.

Same overhead lights humming softly, same faint smell of burnt coffee and old policy binders. Your desk is as organized as ever, folders arranged by priority, tabs aligned like a battalion. Your posture is straight, expression neutral, voice calm.

But everything feels different.

Bucky notices it on Tuesday.

He comes in late from a closed-door meeting, hair slightly tousled, tie undone like it always is when he’s thinking too hard and caring too much. Normally, you’d make a dry comment, tease him about his “strategic dishevelment.” But today you just hand him a folder without looking up.

“Your three o’clock is confirmed,” you say. “Room 221-B. Notes are tabbed.”

He takes the folder and lingers a moment. You keep your eyes on the screen.

“Thanks,” he says.

“Of course,” you reply, already typing. You don’t see the way his brows pull together.

*

By Wednesday, the change is more obvious.

You’re still thorough. Efficient. Precise.

But the rhythm is off.

You used to finish each other’s sentences in strategy meetings. Now you don’t even glance at him. Used to sit beside him in committee hearings, passing notes with commentary sharp enough to make him nearly laugh in public. Now you stay two seats away, lips tight, eyes ahead.

You don’t laugh anymore.

You barely smile.

*

It’s Friday when DeWitt stops by again.

You see her through the glass before she enters - polished, bright, confident. She’s not trying to be a threat. She doesn’t have to try.

She steps into Bucky’s office with that easy grace, and your eyes flick there once - just once - before you steel yourself and focus on the staff schedule.

You don’t look again. But your hands tense on the keyboard.

They talk for half an hour. The door is slightly ajar. You can hear low tones, soft chuckles. Her laugh.

His.

You stand up, grab a folder you don’t need, and disappear into the copy room for a full five minutes just so you don’t have to hear it anymore.

When you come back, she’s gone. And he’s standing in your doorway. You don’t falter. Just lift your gaze. “Did you need something, sir?”

His expression shifts at the word. Sir. You don’t use that tone. Not with him.

“I...no,” he says. Then, slower: “Can we talk?”

You gesture to the pile of policy notes on your desk. “Bit swamped, Congressman. Can we schedule it for later?”

There's silence. Long enough to sting.

Then he nods. “Sure.”

And walks away.

*

That night, you work late. But not because he asked you to. Not because he stayed behind. You stay because you need to bury the ache somewhere that isn’t your chest. Because if you go home, you’ll remember how he used to light up when you brought him coffee, how he used to look at you like he was figuring something out and almost had it.

Now he smiles like that for her.

And maybe he should.

She’s brilliant. Beautiful. Safe. She doesn’t come with your kind of silence or damage. She’s exactly the kind of person he should want.

So you’ll stay here, behind your desk, under the same office lights, quietly pulling away piece by piece until there’s nothing left to give but your job title.

Because you’re not his to notice.

***

You don’t avoid him - not quite.

You’re still present, still excellent. Every meeting is prepped. Every call answered. Every briefing clean, concise, and delivered with your usual polish. No one would notice the difference.

But he does.

He notices that you’ve stopped sitting beside him during committee briefings. That you hand off documents without your usual dry comment. That the little sparks, the glances, the private smiles, the warmth you wrapped around him like a soft constant - have gone silent.

You’ve become a perfect assistant again.

Just an assistant.

And he can’t seem to stop noticing.

*

It happens late one evening. Not midnight-late, just late enough that the halls are quiet and the sky outside is bruised with dusk.

You’re reviewing talking points for a media interview he has in the morning, going over the phrasing of a sentence for the third time. You hear the soft shuffle of movement behind you before you hear his voice.

“You’ve been different lately.”

You look up slowly.

He’s leaning against the frame of your open doorway, arms crossed - not closed off, not defensive. Just watching you like he’s waiting for a translation of something he doesn’t understand.

“I’ve been busy,” you say, evenly.

“Busy,” he repeats, like he’s testing the word. “Right.”

You go back to the document. “Was there something you needed clarified?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He steps in. Closer.

“Did I do something?”

You freeze, just briefly. Then you set your pen down with calm precision and meet his gaze.

“No. You didn’t.” Your voice is so smooth, so neutral, it feels like a betrayal. But it’s not a lie. He hasn’t done anything wrong. And that’s what makes it so much worse.

He tilts his head, studying you. “It feels like you’re mad at me.”

“I’m not.”

“Then what is it?”

You pause. “You’re imagining things.”

He doesn’t look away. “I don’t think I am.”

You push your chair back and stand, adjusting your blouse like it’s armor. “Congressman, I’d like to remind you that my role is to support your office. Not to serve as your emotional temperature gauge.”

He flinches; just barely. “So now I’m ‘Congressman’ again?”

You smile, polite and cold. “It is your title.”

“You never used to care about that.”

You meet his eyes, and for the first time, you can’t hold it. You can’t.

“It’s better this way.”

He’s quiet. So quiet.

Then, gently: “Why?”

You could say it. Because you smiled at her. Because the way you looked at me used to feel like gravity and now it’s just drift. Because I stayed up crying like a fool the night you took her to a private dinner, and I hated myself for hoping it was just a meeting.

But you don’t.

You gather your papers instead.

“I’ve booked your morning car. Departure at 8:10. Interview prep is in your inbox. Goodnight, Congressman.”

You start to walk past him, careful not to touch. You’re halfway to the door when he speaks again—soft, a little strained.

“You used to smile at me when you said goodnight.”

You stop. Your throat aches. But when you turn back, your smile is professional. Almost perfect.

“I still do,” you lie.

And then you walk out.

You don’t see the way he watches the door long after you’ve gone.

***

When they first told him he needed an assistant, he’d balked.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” he’d said, gruff and tired and barely convinced he even belonged in D.C., much less in a tailored suit and a congressional office.

Then you walked in.

No-nonsense. Unapologetically sharp. Dressed to kill and eyes like you’d already read every briefing in the building. He’d taken one look at you and thought, She’s going to leave. She’ll realize I’m not worth it and walk away.

But you didn’t.

You shook his hand and told him what needed fixing. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just dove into the chaos like it was a puzzle meant for you alone.

And slowly, without realizing it, he started breathing easier when you were in the room.

*

He hadn’t meant to rely on you. But it happened anyway.

It was in the way you handed him coffee before interviews with a quiet, “Don’t let the journalist bait you.” In the way you smoothed over diplomatic snubs, flagged subtle insults disguised as compliments, and always seemed to know when he needed a moment alone.

And he hadn’t realized how much space you took up in his mind until one day he caught himself scanning a committee room and didn’t relax until he saw you walk in.

It scared him, at first.

How essential you became.

How much he looked forward to your jokes, your eye-rolls, even your quiet.

And maybe…maybe it was foolish, but he thought you felt it too. That under all the professionalism and silence, there was something… shared.

Something fragile, maybe. But real.

*

Then there was DeWitt.

She was smart. Polished. Kind, even. She talked policy fluently and made compelling arguments. She made him feel like less of a stranger to this city.

When she invited him to dinner to “strategize,” he accepted. It wasn’t a date. Not officially.

But it felt like a test.

A harmless what-if. The kind of night that people in his position are supposed to have.

And it was fine. Pleasant. Comfortable.

Except… he’d spent most of it thinking about what you would’ve ordered. Wondering if you’d have mocked the place's dramatic wine list. Wondering if you were still at the office, working late, making sure he wouldn’t stumble over tomorrow’s press questions.

You always stayed late.

Except that night, you didn’t.

And when he came in the next morning, your smile was gone.

The warmth - gone.

At first, he thought maybe you were just tired.

But it kept happening.

The distance. The perfect replies. The refusal to meet his eyes for more than a second. The way you said “Congressman” like it burned your mouth to remember what you used to call him.

*

He’s been trying to figure it out for days.

Did I cross a line?Did she hear something?Did I do something?

But the worst part is the question he doesn’t want to ask:

Was that smile, hers, meant to replace yours?

And God, if it was…

Why does it feel like he lost something vital? Why does it feel like he can’t breathe right when you won’t laugh with him anymore?

*

He sits at his desk now, long past dark, flipping through a folder you prepped, flawless, as always. But your handwriting in the margins doesn’t have its usual dry wit. It’s clean. Clinical.

Impersonal.

He runs a hand over his jaw and leans back, eyes closed. You’re still here. Still doing your job. Still brilliant. But something’s missing. And he’s starting to wonder if it’s something he pushed away without knowing.

***

It starts with an oversight.

A detail, buried in a briefing memo, something you would’ve caught a hundred times before. A clause in a veterans’ bill amendment that opens a loophole for private contractors to skim off federal funds. It was buried deep, legalese wrapped in layers of innocuous language. But it was there.

And you missed it.

You missed it because you were too busy not thinking about him.

Too busy pretending not to hear his low voice in the hallway when he spoke with DeWitt. Too busy ignoring the fact that he’s been leaving earlier, dressing sharper, and smiling like he’s moving on from something you never got the chance to be.

So you missed it.

And now it’s on the news.

“Congressman Barnes co-sponsors amendment that could open the door to contractor misuse.”

It explodes faster than you can contain it.

You’ve been working damage control all morning - making calls, issuing clarifications, spinning the press angle so hard you’re dizzy. But the truth is, it’s your name on the draft. Your initials on the review. Your responsibility.

When Bucky storms in, phone still in his hand, jaw tight - you’re already standing.

“Close the door,” he says, flat.

You do.

He tosses the phone on the table. “Tell me this is a misprint.”

You don’t lie. “I missed it.”

His brows knit. “You missed it?”

You nod. “I was reviewing—”

“No,” he snaps, cutting you off. “You don’t miss things. That’s your whole thing. You don’t let anything through.”

Your chest tightens. “I know,” you say. Quiet. Honest.

He paces once, running a hand through his hair.

You’ve seen him angry before. At reporters. At Senators who play games with veterans’ benefits. At himself.

But never like this.

Never at you.

“You handed me a loaded weapon and smiled like it was safe,” he says.

You flinch. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I trusted you,” he says. And that’s the one that stings.

He says it like a wound. Like a disappointment he never expected. And then he says the thing that breaks you.

“I guess I forgot you're just staff.”

Silence.

Complete. Shattering.

Your fingers freeze around the folder in your hands. You look at him; not as your boss. Not even as the man you’ve spent months falling in love with. You look at him as the one person whose approval used to feel like safety.

And now?

Now you feel like furniture. Disposable. Replaceable. Forgettable.

He sees something flicker in your expression, maybe. Maybe too late. His mouth opens. Closes. But he doesn’t take it back.

He doesn’t even try.

You nod, once. “Understood.”

“Look, I didn’t—”

“No,” you cut in, calm and clean and brittle. “You were right. I’m just your assistant.” You gather the papers without meeting his eyes. “I’ll fix it. I’ll work overnight if I have to.”

He doesn’t stop you.

And that hurts worst of all.

*

You make it to the elevator before your hands start to shake. You make it to your apartment before the first tear falls. And you make it to bed wondering why it took this long to finally believe the truth.

You were never his. You were never anything. Just staff. And he said it out loud.

***

You arrive before sunrise.

Not just early - hours early. The halls are empty, lights dimmed, the air still wrapped in silence. You move like a shadow through the space you used to own, like your presence no longer belongs.

You don’t cry.

You cried last night. Quiet, gutted sobs into a pillow that didn’t care. That was enough.

Today, there’s work to do.

You fix everything.

The memo. The amendment. You tear through the legal language, rewrite it clean, consult three experts, and draft a press response strong enough to calm the headlines. You write letters of reassurance to the veteran groups and schedule a follow-up meeting with the senator who’d already started eyeing Bucky’s seat like a vulture.

You do what you’ve always done. You save him. And you don’t think about what it costs.

*

His coffee is waiting on his desk when he walks in.

You time it that way. You know how long he takes to get through security. Know how the elevator doors slide open seven seconds before his second step onto the floor.

You leave the coffee where he likes it, right side, just off center, one sugar, just a little bit of milk.

His briefing notes are already stacked. Speech edits beside them. The folder is crisp, color-coded, your handwriting neat but empty of the small comments you used to scribble for his amusement.

There’s no note today. No sarcasm.No smiley face next to the word “voter engagement.” There’s nothing.

Just you, gone.

Because you don’t want to be there when he comes in. Because you can’t face him, not after those words. “I forgot you’re just staff.”

You’d survived on the illusion that you meant more. That your loyalty, your long nights, your laughter in hallways at 2 a.m. meant something.

But now you know.

You were a convenience.

A tool.

Not the person he trusted. Not the person he saw. Just someone he assumed would never break. And maybe you wouldn’t have. If he’d yelled. If he’d said something cruel in the heat of anger. But instead, he told the truth. And the truth is still ringing in your ears.

*

You take your bag and leave before his footsteps echo down the corridor. Before his keycard clicks. Before you’re forced to see the look on his face, whatever it would be.

Relief.

Regret.

Or worse - nothing.

You spend the day working from the archives room. Buried in logistics. Avoiding the main floor. Scheduling meetings through email. You speak only when needed, answer only when asked. If anyone notices, they don’t ask.

And Bucky doesn’t come looking.

*

At the end of the day, you shut down your laptop, your name still glowing softly in the email signature. You stare at it a moment. Just staff. You repeat it like a mantra. Then you close the screen and walk away.

***

He knows something is wrong before he even reaches the door.

The building is quiet… too quiet. The kind of quiet that wraps around your spine and tells you something’s missing before your brain can name it.

And it is. You’re not at your desk.

It’s the first thing he sees - doesn’t see - when the elevator doors open and he steps onto the office floor. The chair is tucked in, the desk perfectly arranged, coffee already cooling on his.

But you’re not there. He freezes for a second. Just a second. Then he walks in. The lights are on. His briefing folder is set in its usual spot. Notes prepared. Paper clipped. Tabs aligned. Everything exactly the way it should be.

Except you.

He sets his bag down slowly. Looks at the coffee. Still warm, barely. You came in early. You always do when something needs fixing. When the world’s on fire and you need to put it out before he even smells smoke.

But you’re always here.

You’re always here.

He walks back to the hallway, half-expecting to find you just around the corner, printing something, scolding someone on the phone in your composed, lethal voice.

But no.

You’re gone.

And for the first time since this whole thing started, since you first stepped into his life with that sharp tongue and steady hands, he feels something split open under his ribs.

Because he knows. He knows what he said yesterday. And he knows it’s the reason you're not here now.

“I guess I forgot you're just staff.”

He hadn’t meant it. Not like that.

He’d been angry. Tired. Scared, maybe - not that he’d admit it. The mistake had blindsided him, and for a moment, all he could see was the fallout. Not the context. Not the you behind it.

But he’d said it. And you’d heard it. And now you’re gone.

Not fired. Not even avoiding your job. Just... pulling back in a way he doesn’t know how to fix.

He sits at his desk and opens the folder you left him. Every page is flawless. Every angle covered. You even corrected things that weren’t your responsibility.

But your handwriting is missing that familiar tilt, that little loop you do when you’re thinking fast and scribbling too hard. No small notes in the margins. No sarcastic arrows pointing at someone’s idiotic phrasing. No warmth.

Just work.

And it hits him, how much of you lives in the spaces no one else sees.

It was never just about the coffee or the folders or the schedules. It was how you saw him. Not as a weapon. Not as a headline. Not even as a congressman.

Just him.

And now you don’t even look at him anymore.

He leans back, runs a hand over his face. He doesn’t know how to fix this. But he knows one thing with painful, narrowing clarity. He never should’ve said those words. Because they weren’t true. And losing the version of you that believed otherwise might be the one thing he can’t come back from.

***

You come in early again. Not because you’re ready. Not because the ache has dulled. But because routine is a kind of armor, and you know how to wear it well.

Your desk is pristine. Emails answered. The press release about the revised amendment is in its final draft. You’ve scheduled his calls for the day and rescheduled a podcast taping he never wanted to do in the first place.

You hear his footsteps at 8:07.

You don’t look up.

You feel him pause, like he’s waiting for something. A smile. A comment. The rhythm he’s always counted on without knowing.

But it doesn’t come. You don’t give it to him. You keep typing.

*

You don't say good morning.

He wants to pretend it doesn’t sting, but it does.

Worse than the silence is the precision. Everything is perfect again. Not warm, not soft - just perfect. You’ve always been sharp, but now it’s like all the sharpness has turned inward. Like you’re cutting yourself just to keep from showing him how much he hurt you.

He thinks about saying something. Several things.

“About what I said…”

“I didn’t mean it.”

“You’re not just staff.”

But he can’t find the right words. And he’s never been good at this. At feelings. At making things better when the damage is quiet and deep.

So instead, he stands awkwardly by your desk and offers, “Want to grab lunch today? Just to breathe.”

*

You blink once. Hands still on the keyboard.

Your heart wants to say yes. Please.

But your chest tightens.

Lunch used to mean banter. Paper napkins and shared fries and the feeling of being seen even when you were tired and messy and frustrated with the world.

Now? Now it feels like mercy. Or worse—pity. You don’t look up. “I’ve got too much to do.” You say it calmly. Gently. But there’s finality in it.

He doesn’t push.

You hear the hesitation in his breath. And then, footsteps retreating.

*

He walks back to his office. Defeated isn’t quite the word. It’s worse. It’s guilt and regret and something tangled in his throat he doesn’t know how to speak aloud. Because the truth is…

You weren’t just staff.

You never were.

But now he’s afraid he said it too late to make you believe anything else.

*

You stare at the same line of text on your screen for a full minute after he’s gone. Not because you don’t know what to write. But because it feels like something inside you just cracked again, and there’s no one left in the room to notice.

***

You see them before they speak.

Her laugh. His quiet response. The way they enter the office together like they’ve been talking the whole way from the car. Maybe they have. Maybe they met for coffee. Or maybe they didn’t.

You don’t ask. You don’t look long enough to invite questions. You swallow the sick twist of nausea that rises in your throat, file it under “irrelevant data,” and return to your work. Because that’s all you are now.

Work.

You are bullet points and policy briefs. You are clipped emails and clean schedules. You are early mornings and late nights and not a single word more than is necessary. And if you keep moving, keep doing, keep fixing—maybe you won’t feel it. Maybe you won’t have to face the truth:

That he never smiled at you like he smiles at her.

That you were never the thing he reached for first. That all your closeness, all your almosts, were just silence mistaken for something softer.

You keep working. You forget your coffee. It sits next to your screen, cold by nine a.m. Your lunch stays untouched. You don’t even glance at the time. You answer eighteen emails in a row without blinking. Draft three policy outlines. Reschedule four meetings. Fix a typo in a budget report that no one else would’ve noticed.

You don’t hear your name the first time someone says it.

Or the second.

But on the third, your head jerks up.

It’s one of the junior staffers, hesitating. “You okay?”

You blink. “I’m fine.”

He nods. “You’ve just… been at it for six straight hours. Without a break.”

You force a smile. It hurts your face. “Plenty to do.” He nods again and walks away. Uneasy. You don’t notice that your hands are trembling until you drop your pen.

*

Bucky sees the coffee cup first.

Cold. Full. Forgotten.

He sees your desk next, papers perfectly aligned, schedule immaculate, every window on your monitor open and glowing like you’ve been multitasking across universes.

He stands in his doorway for a second, watching. You haven’t looked up once. You haven’t said a word all day. He glances at your untouched lunch box in the fridge later that afternoon. Checks the timestamp on the last message you sent. Five minutes ago. Another flawless draft.

But you’re pale. You haven’t eaten. Your hands are moving faster than usual - sharp, clipped. You’re not just quiet now. You’re disappearing.

He tells himself you’re just focused. Dedicated. That this is how you cope with pressure.

But something deep in his chest tightens with the thought that maybe it’s not pressure you’re trying to survive.

Maybe it’s him.

*

That evening, the office is empty. You’re still typing. He watches from the hall again - silent. A ghost in his own building. You used to tease him for staying late. Now you outlast him every night.

And he can’t shake the feeling that each hour you spend here is one more hour you’re trying not to feel what he made you feel.

He takes a step forward. Then stops. Because he doesn’t know what to say that wouldn’t make it worse. So he walks away. But your cold coffee haunts him all the way home.

***

It was supposed to be your night.

Not a spotlight or a statement, not romantic, not officially. But it was something.

A promise. A moment.

A few weeks ago, when the gala was first announced - a charity event tied to military families and veteran support - you had half-joked that someone should go with him who could handle the press, the scrutiny, the strategic dance of cocktails and questions.

He hadn’t even hesitated.

"Then you’re coming with me."

Not as a date, of course.

But you were excited.

You’d smiled, actually smiled, and told him you’d need a new dress. And he’d grinned back with that soft, rare amusement that made your stomach flip. You’d even let yourself imagine what it would be like - to walk in beside him. Not in shadows. Not from behind. But beside.

The dress arrived last week. Simple. Elegant. Classic black with a slit just high enough to feel dangerous and a neckline you’d picked because you wanted, just once, to feel like someone he might really look at.

It’s still in the garment bag at the back of your closet.

You told yourself today would be different. That maybe he wouldn’t smile at anyone else like he used to smile at you. That maybe, just once, he’d see you.

That was before he walked into your office late that afternoon.

And said the words that would break you.

*

“I wanted to ask you something,” he says, casual, tired, running a hand through his hair.

You glance up. “Of course.”

He hesitates for a second. That should’ve warned you.

“I know we agreed you'd come with me to the gala. And I’m glad you’re coming. I just…” He pauses again, looking uncomfortable. “I got a request from Alessia DeWitt. She wasn’t invited. Not officially. But it could look good to have her there.”

You blink once.

Then again.

“Look good?” you ask, carefully.

He nods. “Yeah. Politically. If people see her there, see that she supports the veteran funding package we’re building… it adds weight. Optics, you know?”

You know. You know politics. You know optics. You know what you look like, what you are.

Just staff.

“So I was wondering,” he continues, still in that reasonable voice like he's discussing table assignments and not peeling open your rib cage, “would you be okay if she came instead?”

You stare at him.

And for a second, he must see it - your face, your stillness - because something in his expression shifts. Like he’s realizing, too late, that this wasn’t just another task.

That this was the one thing.

You nod. It takes more strength than speaking. “Of course,” you say. Your voice is quiet. Even. Professional. You’re so good at sounding fine. “She’ll need the plus-one pass, then?”

He clears his throat. “Yeah. Just for this event. I appreciate it.”

He lingers for a second longer, like he might say more. But you’ve already turned back to your screen.

You don’t look at him.

You don’t trust what he’d see.

“Right,” he says. “Well… I’m going to get ready. I’ll see you.”

And then he’s gone.

*

You don’t move for a full minute. The office is empty. No one else stayed late today. Just you. Like always. You open the drawer and take out the envelope with the invitation. The one you printed yourself, formatted perfectly, with his name and yours. Plus one.

Your fingers tremble as you tear it open.

And then it happens.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a quiet shatter. You cry. At your desk. Alone. In the soft, humming dark of a place you once called safe. Because it was never about the gala. Or the dress. Or even DeWitt. It was about the fact that, given the choice, he never chose you. Not even for one night. Not even for one room. 

Just staff.

Just someone he can ask to step aside when someone more useful comes along.

***

He shouldn’t have asked. He knows that now. The moment he stepped into the gala, he felt it, something off, something missing.

It was all perfectly choreographed, as these things always are. Chandeliers humming overhead. Velvet panels. The soft clink of cocktail glasses and speeches rehearsed down to the comma. He’s done this before.

And usually, it’s fine. Easy enough to get through with you there, at his side, quietly offering notes under your breath, murmuring names and context as you pass through crowds.

But tonight, you’re not here.

DeWitt is.

She’s beautiful, poised, and sharp. Her presence earns nods from senators, sparks quiet murmurs of alliance, and checks off every political box the gala was designed to fill.

It should feel like a win.

It doesn’t.

*

“Congressman Barnes,” someone says, middle-aged, familiar, a donor he only vaguely remembers. “Where’s your shadow?”

He blinks. “Sorry?”

“The woman,” the man laughs. “The one with the eyes like she knows how to bring down the Senate with a clipboard. What’s her name, your assistant?”

Bucky’s lips twitch, almost a smile.

Almost.

“She’s… she’s not attending tonight.”

“Shame,” the man says, then adds, chuckling, “You’re good, don’t get me wrong. But when she’s around, you look like you could take on the whole floor without backup.”

Someone else later: “That sharp one, your right hand? Thought she never missed these.”

And again: “Where is she tonight? You two are like a package deal.”

It’s supposed to be funny. Harmless. But each comment lands like a stone in his gut.Because they’re right. He’s floating without ballast. He’s standing in a room full of people, dressed to perfection, saying all the right things and he feels off-balance. Because the only person who ever made this circus feel manageable isn’t beside him.

*

DeWitt is talking to a diplomat now. She’s doing well. Smiling in that bright, purposeful way that gets people to listen and remember. She looks over at Bucky and gives him a nod, one of approval. He returns it.

But his chest tightens. Not because of her. Because of you. He sees your face again - how still it went when he asked if she could take your place. The exact moment something in your expression cracked, just before you closed it off completely.

He thought it was fine. He thought you’d understand. You always understand. That’s the problem. You always give. And tonight, he asked you to give again. Not just your place, but your pride. Your presence. The one thing you’d let yourself show you were actually excited about.

And he took it.

He stole something from you with a smile and a half-reasoned explanation about optics. And now you’re not here. And the air tastes wrong. And the smiles don’t reach his eyes.

And for the first time in months, he feels like he’s playing a part again. Like he’s back on a stage without the one person who ever knew the lines behind the script.

*

You weren’t supposed to be here.

You were supposed to be off today. A full day away from the inboxes, the policy memos, the relentless spin of political machinery. Bucky had insisted, weeks ago.

"You’ll need the day after the gala. Hell, I’ll need it. Don’t schedule a thing."

And when you were still supposed to be attending, when your name was still next to his on the RSVP, it sounded almost indulgent. A shared day of silence after the noise.

You nodded, smiled, made a quiet mental note to actually sleep in for once. But that was before. Before he asked you to give your place to Alessia DeWitt. Before he smiled at her in rooms that should have been yours to stand beside him in. Before he reminded you who you were: staff.

So this morning, you erased the calendar block titled “OOO – Recovery Day”. You showed up at the office like it was any other Monday.

You came in at 6:45 a.m.

Coffee brewed. Schedule finalized. Briefings printed.Your dress is dark. Your makeup flawless. There’s no sign of the woman who cried into her sleeve in an empty office the night before.

Just the assistant.

Always the assistant.

*

Bucky walks in at 8:10. Right on time.

He looks… tired. Not in the usual way. Not worn down by policy debates or late-night revisions. No, he looks unsettled. Like he didn’t sleep. Like he didn’t want to.

You don’t ask.

He pauses when he sees you at your desk.

“You’re here,” he says, like it’s a surprise. You look up once. “There’s work to do.”

He doesn’t say anything. You hand him the folder. “Your 10 a.m. was moved to 11. The briefing packet is updated. There’s a quote request from the Times for a follow-up about last night.”

“Right,” he says. He takes the folder from you. The coffee is already on his desk. Perfectly made. Just like always. But you don’t ask if he slept. You don’t make a joke about the tie he’s wearing, one you used to call his “I’m charming but I hate this event” tie.

You just go back to typing.

And he knows.

God, he knows.

*

DeWitt shows up late morning. She’s radiant, composed, floating in with a kind of confidence that belongs in polished rooms with gold trim. She compliments Bucky on his speech. She touches his arm once, lightly.

You don’t look. You don’t need to. You hear every word. You process every interaction. You record every detail in that steel-trap mind of yours, because that’s what you do. You are happy for him - professionally.

A partnership with her would be good. Optics. Strategy. Alignment.

Privately?

You are somewhere else entirely. Hollowed out. Watching from behind a glass you can’t break through. He glances at you once while she’s talking. Your expression doesn’t change. Not a flicker. Just like he asked for. Just like he reminded you he wanted.

*

The day passes in a blur of precision.

You laugh when you’re supposed to. Smile when it’s necessary. Your voice is clear, your notes are flawless, and not a single thing escapes your attention. But you don’t speak to Bucky unless you have to. And when you do, it’s brief.Professional. Exactly what he asked for when he gave your invitation to someone else.

And he feels it now. He feels all of it. Because he finally has what he said he wanted. And it’s colder than he ever imagined.

***

Bucky starts small.

Little things.

He tries to bring back the rhythm.

The quiet back-and-forth. The mid-meeting glances. The subtle jokes he used to toss into briefings just to hear you mutter some dry comeback. He tries to ask questions like he used to. Casual things. About your lunch, about your commute, about your opinion on the proposed bill that’s barely worth a headline.

You answer. Always. Polite. Efficient. But nothing extra. No sarcasm. No heat. No… you. You're still here. But not the way he remembers. And it gnaws at him.

He asks you to sit in on a meeting he knows you could handle alone. You come. Quiet. Immaculate. You pass him a note once. Policy draft missing two attachments.

That’s it.

No comment. No joke about the senator’s rambling. No silent smirk when he almost loses his temper and you tap your pen like a warning.

You’re a shadow now.

Polished.

Professional.

Gone.

*

He tries again later.

You’re standing in the copy room, refilling the machine, and he steps in like it’s nothing. He leans against the counter, hands in his pockets, watching you work.

“You’re quiet lately,” he says, voice low, almost light. “I miss hearing you tell me what an idiot I am before I make it public.”

You glance over, arch a brow. “You haven’t made any major missteps lately. Congratulations.”

He almost smiles. But it falters. You’re not teasing him. You’re not playing. You’re just stating a fact. He watches you lift a stack of fresh copies. The light flickers slightly overhead, catching the faint shadows beneath your eyes.

“You should’ve taken the day off,” he says.

You pause. Then: “There was work to do.”

“Still. You earned it.”

You turn to face him fully, expression calm. You don’t look tired. You don’t look bitter. You just look finished. And then you say something he doesn’t expect. Not cold. Not cruel. Just true.

“You don’t need me to take up space, Bucky. You need me to keep everything moving behind the scenes. That’s my job. To make you look like you’re untouchable.”

He stares at you. Something in his chest shifts.

“I never asked you to—”

“No,” you interrupt softly. “But that’s what you want. That’s what this is. That’s why you asked me to step aside.”

He blinks. “That’s not fair.”

“I know,” you say. And you smile. But it’s a thin, sad thing. “But it’s okay. I’m fine. I’ll keep doing my job. I’ll make the speeches clean. I’ll keep the press happy. I’ll schedule you to the second and write words that sound like your voice.”

You gather the papers in your arms.

“I just won’t pretend anymore.”

You walk past him, steady.

And this time, he doesn’t follow. Because for the first time since all this started, he sees it. You’re not angry. You’re not punishing him. You’ve just accepted it. You’re just staff. And that is what hurts the most.

***

The meeting runs long.

It always does when budget subcommittees get into the weeds, arguing over decimal points and moral high ground like the difference is measurable in soundbites. You sit at Bucky’s right, silent, taking notes. You know the rhythms now, the way he tenses before pushing back, the way his eyes flick to you when he’s about to quote a number you fed him an hour earlier.

You do your job. Exactly as you’ve done every day since he first sat in this seat. But afterward, as you’re gathering papers, that’s when it happens.

You’re walking with him down the corridor, flanked by aides and murmured updates, when Congressman Lee, who chairs the infrastructure committee, falls into step beside you.

He’s older, sharp, disarmingly direct.

“You always make him look good,” he says, nodding at Bucky, like he’s not even there. “Hell, I’d offer you a job myself if I thought I had a shot.”

You blink, caught mid-step.

Bucky slows beside you.

Lee continues, grinning. “You ever get tired of making someone else the star? Maybe you ought to be somewhere you can shine a little more.” Then, like it’s a compliment, he adds: “He doesn’t use you right. Man’s got a Ferrari and drives it like a lawnmower.”

You manage a smile. Professional. Light. “Thank you, Congressman. But I’m exactly where I need to be.”

Lee shrugs. “Your loyalty’s impressive. Just don’t let it chain you.”

And with that, he peels off to greet someone else, leaving the silence behind him echoing down the hall.

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

Neither do you.

*

Back at your desk, you sit down and open your laptop. Routine. Emails. Drafts. Updates. And then - there it is.

That document.

Still untitled. Still unsaved. The resignation template you opened the night he gave your gala invitation away.

No date. No address. Just a blank space where your name could go. You haven’t looked at it in days. You almost forgot it was there. But now it stares at you. Daring you to admit what you’ve been refusing to even think: Maybe you should leave.

Not for Congressman Lee.

Not for anyone else.

But for yourself.

Because no matter how much you’ve given here, how much of your time, your energy, your heart, this job doesn’t hold space for you.

Only what you do. Only what you fix. Only how well you can disappear behind someone else’s success. And maybe it’s not about punishing Bucky. Maybe it’s about finally understanding that loyalty shouldn’t have to hurt.

*

He didn’t like the way Lee said it. Didn’t like the way your name came out of another man’s mouth. Didn’t like the truth in it. You do make him look good. Better than he deserves. And the idea of you sitting behind someone else’s desk, running someone else’s calendar, standing next to someone else during long nights and high-stakes fights…

It makes his chest tighten.

But you didn’t even hesitate before turning Lee down. And that should’ve comforted him. Instead, it scared him more. Because if you didn’t even blink, it means you’ve already let go of the idea of being somewhere else.

Which might mean you’ve already let go of him.

*

You close the tab. Not because you’ve made a decision. But because your hands are shaking. And because for the first time since this job started, you don’t feel like you belong here anymore. And the worst part? You’re starting to wonder if you ever did.

[izzacripple]

Dirty Doctor, Pervy ways (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

Pairing: Doctor!Zayne x reader

Sypnosis: you have doubts about your pussy and obv the only person one can trust with their health is a doc, right? Needless to say, your doc is a dirty perv(so are you)

Warnings: ✯mutual masterbation ✯slight exhibitionism ✯v-fingering ✯no use of protection ✯doggy style ✯d-riding ✯p in v ✯mean!zayne ✯zayne calls you miss ✯use of word slut. ✯oral( f recieving ) ✯p-spanking ✯dirty talk ✯ass-spanking ✯ slight aftercare

✯VERY LONG FIC��

You are fucked.

Okay, scratch that, you are very fucked.

Now you think that there might be something wrong with you. To be more specific, with your pussy. You have been touching yourself for years. It makes you feel good. But, heres a thing: it takes you ages, to orgasm. Porn makes you horny, but doesn't get you off.

So you decided to book an appointment with a doctor named Zayne Li. Hopefully you can get some answers regarding your weak pussy not cumming quicker than later.

The next day came quickly. 

While getting ready for your appointment, you made sure that you're extra clean and smell good to avoid embarrassing yourself in front of your doctor. Quickly leaving your apartment when you're done changing into your outside clothes, you arrive at the hospital.

“Good afternoon, how can I help you?” The receptionist asks you.

“Yes, good afternoon, I have an appointment with Dr. Li.” you reply smiling at the lady.

“I will be needing your ID please.” The receptionist says. While nodding you take out your purse, searching for your ID card and you fish it out, handing it to the receptionist. “Please take a seat. I will have to add your name first and then I’ll call you when Doctor Li is ready.”

10 minutes later, the receptionist is calling out your name. Locking your phone and walking to the desk; the receptionist hands you your ID back and tells you the room number for Doctor Li. 

You thank her softly and start to make your way to where your appointed doctor’s room is. When you find the room, you nervously knocks on the door before allowing yourself to step inside.

“Hello,” A professional voice calls you.

You close the door and turn to look at the doctor and oh. Oh, wow, you think. Your doctor isn’t some old guy—no, no, your doctor looks very young. Maybe just a few years older than you. Hot.

“You’re…oh, wow.” you blurt out, by mistake.

When you hear Dr. Li chuckle at what you said, that’s when you realise what you just said. Gasping in panic and covering your mouth. “I’m so sorry!” you apologize. “That was not supposed t-, I didn’t mean to! I’m so sorry, you just, oh my God, I’m so sorry, Doctor Li.” 

“Don’t worry about it.” Zayne says, waving his hand around. He signals you to take a seat and you do. “So, miss. please do tell me more about why you decided to book an appointment.” 

You blush at his voice. You're going to have to tell this fine looking man about your problem. That is going to be so embarrassing. God, just why does your doctor have to be someone extremely sexy? Is luck on your side today or not? You can’t seem to tell anymore. You sigh and fiddle your fingers, too shy to look at the other. 

“So…” you reply clearing your voice. “I-I have this…I don’t know if it’s actually a problem but whenever I try to, um, you know, t-touch myself, it takes me so long to c-cum. It’s been happening for a while now.”

Dr. Li hums, taking down notes. “So, this has been happening for a while, huh? Alright, whenever you touch yourself, do you end up orgasming?”

“Yes. Sometimes.” you feel your cheeks heartening up. “It takes me ages though and it gets s-so frustrating at times because I just want to cum!”

“Have you been sexually active?” He asks you. You shake your head at the question. “Oh, you haven’t? When was the last time you had sex?”

“It was years ago…” you shyly admit. 

Dr. Li makes a humming sound of understanding and nods. “And what do you do?”

“excuse me?” you ask while blinking, not quite understanding the question your doctor had just asked you. “Sorry, I don’t get what you exactly mean by that…”

“I meant,” He clears his throat. “When you touch yourself, what do you exactly, do, to get off? Do you use any sex toys? Or just your fingers?”

You nod awkwardly. You're shy person. This is tougher than it looks. “Well, I-um..just…I do use toys at times. I-I also use my fingers too. I also, well, uh, h-hump my pillow most of the time…”

You let out a shaky breath as you lift your head up to look back at your doctor and to your surprise, you notice a slight smirk on his face as he writes in whatever he is supposed to be writing.

“miss, you're rather in-decent, aren’t you?” He suddenly says, his deep voice makes you feel… funny. And in-decent? Did he just call her naughty professionally? “Very well, please follow me to the examination room. Do you want to change into hospital attire or would you rather just remove your skirt only?”

Oh no. You totally forgot that he would see you naked. Can today get any more embarrassing? 

“um, just-I can just remove my skirt…” you say scratching the back of your neck nervously, sweat forming there. You hear him say okay and you just nod to yourself and follow the doctor to the examination room. The room he leads you to is just as you had expected. The room seems somewhat intimidating to you.

Dr. Li tells you to take off your skirt and to lay on the examination bed. While you are nervously taking off your skirt and panties, you're facing Zayne's back.

Gulping, you lay down on the examination bed. He then turns and you see the smirk on his face. And you swear. He's smirking at you. For sure. 

“miss,” he suddenly says. “Did you play with yourself before coming here?”

“What?!” you squeal, face red. “No! No, I swear I didn’t touch myself before coming here!”

“Is that so?” He says in a mocking voice, head tilted to the side as if he’s thinking. He moves closer and puts one hand on your inner thigh. “Then why are you wet? Even when I was far away, I could already see how wet with slick you were. Your pussy is soaking wet.”

You cannot believe this is happening. Of all times, right now.

You feel so shy. Zayne's gaze is different from how it was minutes ago. it feels like the doctor just got more hotter than he already was. You didn’t mean to get wet but maybe because you were thinking a little too much about your sexy looking doctor that you started getting wet due to the thoughts you were having. Dr. Li is just a hot man and you are someone who is weak against men like him ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯

“You know,” He murmurs. “I don’t think there is anything wrong with your pussy, y'know. I just believe you don’t know how to properly play with yourself. Perhaps your fingers and toys aren’t enough for you, right?”

“Wha-What do you mean?I-i mean, what should I do?” you whisper out. “I don’t lik-taking time to cum doesn’t feel the best, Doctor. I don't like it!”

“Ah, you poor woman.” a frown forming at Zayne's face , thumb rubbing against your inner thigh. “Should we test out if you can cum within minutes, miss?”

“You’re…You’re going to make me cum?” you repeat, can’t believing what you just heard. Does he actually want to make you cum or is he just showing some pity against you? “You don’t need to. I'm so sorry. I complain too much. It’s okay, Doctor.”

“What a pity then.” Zayne chuckles slowly. “i was more than ready to have my tongue on your pussy. But whatever you want, miss.”

You feel your cunt clenching around nothing. The thought of your doctor eating you out makes you so wet. That probably means that it’s Zayne who willingly wants to make you cum, right? If so, then why should you say no? 

“You can…” you mumble. “You can make me cum. I want you to make me cum. So please…” 

Zayne smiles in victory. The doctor grabs his stool and lowers in, settling in front of your spread legs and without warning, he leans close and sucks on your sensitive throbbing clit. You moan loudly, legs already trembling when you feel his warm mouth on your clit. He hums around your clit, flicking on the sensitive bud with the tip of his tongue. 

“Doctor Li!” you whimper. No one has ever touched you in so long, you're so sensitive. “doc, it feels so good! My-My pussy feels so good.”

“Does it?” He hums, leaving kisses over your inner thighs. “Your cunt tastes so good.”

You felt overwhelmed by this all and yet you loved every second of the time you're spending here with the skilled doctor, he is extremely skilled with his tongue; making your pussy dripping wet and you probably have never gotten this wet before. He keeps flicking his tongue over your clit again and again making you whine and spreading your legs even more, wanting him to get the best view possible. 

“So good,” you hear him mumble. 

Smiling at the praise, a loud moan leaves your mouth when you feel his tongue pushing deep in your pussy. He's literally fucking your pussy with his tongue. He's making you go crazy. You slightly get a better grasp of the armrests as you feel his tongue going in and out. And when you look down, you make eye contact with him.

“do-doctor li,” you pant. “It feels so good.”

The doctor hums and starts thrusting his tongue with far more speed. You're feeling intense pleasure just by his tongue. You start moaning loudly, whimpers coming out of your mouth.

“You’re so fucking loud,” Zayne growls. 

Standing up from his stool and leaning close to you, his lips brush against your cheek and his hand remains near your inner thighs. He kisses your cheek the same time his hand moves to give your cunt a harsh slap. 

“Fuck!” you yell loudly at the pain.

“Sh…” Zayne whispers. “Now, listen to me, I want you to play with your stupid cunt and make yourself cum.” He said while wrapping his whole fist around your shameful sex, not allowing your to move.

You start weeping and shaking your head. “It’s going to take me so long, doc. I can’t- Wanna cum now. Please help me cum, Zayne? please!” 

“Oh, I certainly will,” Zayne smirks. He moves back and sits back on his tool, unzipping his pants and lowering them along with his boxers and springing free his big fat cock, making you drool at the sight. “You're going to touch yourself and make yourself cum while you watch me jerk off, am I clear? I need to test out whether my adorable patient really can’t cum soon or not.”  

You sniffle while nodding your head, moving your hand lower until you can feel the wetness of your pussy; letting out a shaky moan and starting to rub your bruised clit. Your eyes land on the said doctor, who’s sitting down in front of you, hand wrapped around his cock. He is hot. So fucking hot and he’s exactly your type. You whine and start rubbing your clit even faster. 

“Shit,” you hear him grunt. “What a view. Got the prettiest woman touching herself right in front of me. I’m pretty lucky, aren’t I?” 

You only moaned louder in response. 

Working your hand faster, your clit is already so sensitive but it feels so good, you can’t help but want more. While panting, you bring your soaked fingers to your mouth to lick them. He curses at this sight, rubbing his thumb over the tip of his cock as he watches you. The doctor's patient then brings her hand back to her pussy and this time, she pushes two fingers inside. 

“Gosh, you look like a pornstar. My, my...” he comments. “I can’t wait to fill your dumb cunt with my cock, miss. You would make the prettiest sounds for me, won’t you?”

“It feels so g-good, doc,” you slur, a dumb smile plastered on your face as you try to form coherent sounding words. “Wish you’re fucking me right now. These fingers. Damn it…Fingers aren’t making me feel full. I want your big cock so bad.”

“Make yourself cum fatser then.” Zayne licks his lips. “The quicker you cum, the quicker you get to have my cock, miss.”

Zayne had never met someone so gorgeous as the woman in front of him. When she first came in his office, he thought of her as someone who is so innocent but hell, he’s so wrong. His miss is far from being innocent. She's sinful as hell, she’s filthy and he absolutely loves it. 

You whine and thrust your fingers in faster, feeling already, surprisingly close. It hasn’t even been an hour, just minutes and yet you feel like you're going to cum any second. Your view makes you even more horny.

“I-I think I’m close,” you pant, eyes shut. “Oh, doc. Za-zayne, I’m going to cum! Gonna cum! I can’t hold it in, I can’t! I’m gonna cum!”

“Fuck,” Zayne grunts out as he fists his cock even faster. “Cum whenever you want, miss. I want to see your face when you finally cum. Bet you would look so gorgeous, won’t you? Such a pretty woman, right?”

You couldn't get yourself to reply, whining and pulling your hand out from your pussy, only to play with your clit. You make eye contact with Zayne when you finally cum, crying out when you reach your orgasm, legs trembling and your eyes rollinh back in pleasure as you slowly pull your hand up. 

“Don’t tell me you’re done,” Zayne scoffs. The patient slowly opens her eyes and sees that the doctor is standing near her legs now. “I told you I would fuck you after you come, didn’t I? You’re not done yet, miss. Not until I’m satisfied, alright?”

Whining and spreading your legs wider, you still want to get fucked by him and doc is offering so why would you refuse? 

“Not going to use a protection, is that okay?” He asks you, lining his cock against your wettest than ever pussy.

“um,It’s okay,” you breathe out. “But I want a kiss first so please kiss me, doctor li” 

He chuckles at your cuteness and leans down, pressing his lips against your red ones. The older man hums into the kiss, swirling his tongue around your tongue. Zayne then pulls away and helps you take off your shirt, leaving you fully naked for him.  

He kisses you one more time as he pushes his cock inside your tight hole. Your back arches and you wrap your arms around his neck, holding him tightly and close as the doctor continues to push his cock inside of you. When he's fully inside, he stops for a little while just so you can get used to his length. He did not forget that it’s been years since you got fucked by a real cock and that too a huge one. He is well endowed and he's not an asshole. 

“Shh…okay” He whispers when you get too loud. “You’re a good slut, aren’t you? You can be good for me, right? You don’t want someone to catch us, do you now, miss?” 

“I’m good,” you whimper. “Oh, you’re so deep. My pussy feels so full, doc. I love your cock so much!” 

“yeah? You think so? Miss” Zayne laughs. “I’m gonna start moving now, alright?”

“yes please.” you nod with a o-shaped smile. “I-I want it hard and fast though, doc. I like it rough…”

“Good to know I’ve got myself a slut.” Zayne teases. 

After some minutes later, you are being fucked doggy style. Zayne is gripping your hips tightly and it's making you insane. He has a big dick, knows how to fuck very well. It’s like you are in heaven. You cry out as he fucks into your pussy very roughly. Not giving you a moment to breathe.

“Fucking slut,” Zayne growls, spanking your ass. “Do you like this? Do you like being filled with my cock? Am I making you feel good that much, miss?” 

“So,...So good,” you sob. “doctor li, touch my pussy too. Want you to touch my pussy so bad.”

Gritting his teeth, Zayne brings his hand down to your cunt, playing with your clit, wanting to ruin you even more and make you feel more pleasure.

He pinches your clit and earns a loud cry from you. He smirks in victory and makes his fingers wet as he plays with your pussy. Lifting his hand up and leading it to his mouth as you watch, he lewdly licks his fingers, that had been on your clit. Your cheeks turn red at his actions.

“you taste so fucking good,” Zayne murmurs. “Could eat this adorable cunt for hours, miss.”

He goes for a kiss. You moans into the doctor's mouth when you feel doc groping your chest and tugging on your sensitive nipples. You and him then switch positions, you being the one going to ride him. 

“Fuck,” you groan when you settle on the doctor’s cock, slowly starting to bounce on it. “Yes, fuck, shit, I’m already so close.” 

“You’re such a sin,” Zayne grunts out, tugging on your nipples more. “Gosh, you’re so fucking tight. I love seeing you fall apart like a cockslut, miss.” 

“oh! do-doctor...” you manage to choke out. 

The tip of Zayne's cock hits the perfect and most sensitive spot inside your lewd pussy, making you close to reaching your orgasm again. You bounce up and down, pussy clenching around the monster that's his cock.

“I’m gonna-gon-”

“oh dear, can I cum inside?” Zayne grits out. 

“Yes, yes, yes!” you pant, screaming words of affirmation all over.

Zayne curses and bucks his hips one last time before he’s spilling white ropes of cum inside your cunt. At the same time, you cum too, hard. You collapse down, cheek pressed against his chest as you cool down from multiple orgasms you got today. Listening to his heartbeat, your hear Zayne say, “told you there was nothing wrong with your pussy.” chuckling, rubbing your back. “You just needed some more action, miss.” 

You giggle at this. 

“would yo-you like to go out with me…?” doctor li suddenly asks, shooting his shot at the pretty woman. “say yes, hmm? We can get to know each other.”

“Sounds nice, doc.” you reply as the corners of your and his mouth, both lift up at the same time.

You think, maybe, life is not that bad anyway.