#Frayed Wiring (Crack) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

em1i2a3 · 15 days ago

Text

No Angels

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Rhett have been friends for almost your entire lives and you’ve had a crush on him ever since you could remember. You’ve never made a move out of respect for the friendship, but when Maria–an old crush of Rhett’s–comes back into town, you can’t help but get a little jealous of how much he swoons for her.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Angst, and Fluff, We got the childhood best friends trope, and I frickin love it! Reader is super jealous but really tries to be happy for Rhett.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Rhett is a bit dominant in here, Dirty Talk, He talks you through it, Oral Sex (Fem! Receiving), Rough Sex, He puts his hand on your throat…But like…Not to choke? I guess. A little bit of overstimulation, Heavy Makeout, Some Grinding

Author’s Note: I got this request a while back and honestly I was writing it and hated the way it went, then I had this huge eureka moment and literally put my whole chest into this damn thing lol. Thank you anon, I’m sorry for keeping you waiting! But I hope it meets your expectations. (I made it on time y’all sorry for the delay!)

Word Count: 18,010

The lights above the ring hummed with electricity, casting long, bright white beams over the dirt-packed arena like they were trying to mimic daylight–but it was well past sundown. The night air had settled cool against your skin, clinging to the sweat on your collarbones and the thin cotton of your oil-stained tank top–the same one you had been wearing when Rhett burst into your garage hours earlier, all breathless and grinning, saying, “You comin’ or what?”

You didn’t even notice him at first. Your arms were elbow-deep in the hood of your father’s busted-up ‘82 Chevy, sleeves rolled past your shoulders, knuckles stained black with grease. The old truck had been sitting in the barn lot for years, more rust than a frame, but it had history, and you couldn’t bring yourself to give up on it. You had been trying to get the engine to crank for weeks now, working after hours between shifts and moonlight with stubborn hands, and a soft heart.

Rhett had found you with a pair of pliers clenched between your teeth, and your hair stuck to the back of your neck. You were in the middle of coaxing a frayed wire into a cleaner splice when he had said it again.

”Y/N! You comin’ or what?!” You nearly dropped the pliers into the engine block that time around, and your eyes immediately shot up to him.

”Jesus Christ, Rhett,” You muttered around the tool in your mouth, straightening up just enough that your back cracked, “You ever heard of knocking? You’ve got hands do you not?” Rhett leaned his shoulder against the frame of the open garage door, arms crossed, boots scuffed and dusty. The golden evening light caught the curve of his jaw, lighting up the honeyed brown wisps of hair curling out from under his ballcap, the one he wore when he wasn’t wearing his normal cowboy hat. He grinned like he had all the time in the world.

”Yeah, I got hands.” He said, holding them up and wiggling his fingers, “But I need ‘em for the circuit tonight, can’t go wasting tiring ‘em up by knockin’ on your door.” You rolled your eyes so hard it nearly gave you a headache. With a sigh, you pulled the pliers from your mouth and tossed them onto the stainless steel tool table beside you, the clink echoing off the walls of the garage. The wire you’d been working with curled like a question mark in the air.

“God forbid your precious hands do somethin’ useful.” He let out a huffed laugh, smirking, like that little jab of yours was exactly what he had come there for. You reached for the damp rag that always lived folded beside your socket set, rubbing your hands down with practiced efficiency. Grease smeared into the creases of your fingers, under your nails, and you could already hear your father warning you–again–about keeping motor oil off your face. You scrubbed harder.

“Can you give me five minutes to change, at least?” You asked, gesturing vaguely at yourself. “I look like I crawled out of a junkyard.” Rhett checked the time on his phone like it was life or death, kissing his teeth.

“No can do. It’s gonna take us ‘bout two hours to get down there, and I gotta check in early. No time.” You looked down at yourself–at the tank top clinging to your skin, streaked with oil and sweat; your low-rise jeans that had a hole in the knee; boots dusted in gravel, grime and oil. You knew your hair certainly didn’t look good, especially with the sweat that pooled on the back of your neck, so you tried to plead again.

”C’mon, Rhett,” You groaned, “At least lemme–“

”Nuh-uh,” He interrupted smoothly, already pushing off the doorframe, “You look fine.” He said it so matter-of-factly it hit you like a sucker punch to the gut. His tone was easy, and offhanded, but his eyes flicked over you once–head to toe, like he was checking the welds on a fence post–and lingered a second too long on your bare shoulders before flicking away again. You felt your skin heat up despite the cool air from your fan blowing onto you.

Then he tossed you his keys without ceremony, and you barely caught them in time.

”Now. Get your butt in the truck, I need my good luck charm.” You stood there for a second, holding his keys like they were heavier than they had any right to be, watching Rhett backpedal across the gravel with that cocky grin stretching his mouth. The nerve of him–waltzing in, dragging you out in grease-stained clothes, and telling you that you looked fine like it didn’t mean something.

Like it didn’t knock something loose in your chest.

You tucked the rag into your back pocket with a sigh and followed him out into the golden spill of sunset that painted the drive, the gravel crunching beneath your boots. Rhett was already climbing into the passenger side, settling into the spot he always took when he was with you. He never once offered to drive–not because he didn’t want to, but because he liked how you drove his truck. He liked watching you lean one hand out the window, tapping the side with your fingers in time with the radio, he had said you made it run smoother somehow.

You climbed in behind the wheel, the door creaking shut with that familiar metallic groan as you shoved the key into the ignition. The engine rumbled to life beneath your hands like it had been waiting on your touch.

“You just always have to pull that good luck charm shit with me,” You muttered, fingers flicking the air vents toward Rhett like that would somehow cool your irritation, “If it wasn’t for the fact your dad would have my head on a stake if I didn’t show up, I wouldn’t be coming.” Rhett didn’t even flinch, he just smiled wider, teeth flashing under the brim of his cap.

”You’d show up anyways, even if there wasn’t that loomin’ threat.”

”Yeah?” You shot back, shifting into reverse, “And why’s that?”

“Cause you always do, that’s just how you are.” You let the truck ease back down the gravel drive, headlights cutting twin beams through the soft haze of kicked-up dust. Rhett reached out to roll down his window, letting his arm dangle outside, fingers tapping lazily against the side of the door like he had no care in the world.

“You still act like it’s a choice,” You grumbled, glancing sideways at him as you turned onto the main road, “You ever consider the possibility that I just don’t like you makin’ stupid decisions alone?”

“You’re not just here to babysit me, darlin’,” He said, voice soft and sure, like it wasn’t even a question. “You’re here ‘cause you belong there.”

That had shut you up pretty quickly.

He didn’t say it with any kind of weight. Didn’t lean into it or give it too much gravity. Just said it like it was a fact of life–like gravity or dust or the way your names had always sounded right in the same sentence.

Rhett had called you his good luck charm since you were barely tall enough to see over the top rail at his first junior circuit. He’d botched the ride and landed square on his ass, the wind knocked clear out of him–but when he stumbled to his feet and saw your worried face at the edge of the ring, he lit up like he’d just won the whole damn event.

From then on, he’d refused to ride without you.

It didn’t matter what his father said. Didn’t matter how many times Royal Abbott tried to reason, bribe, or flat-out yell Rhett into submission—if you couldn’t be there, neither could he.

Royal had tried everything over the years. Bargained with prize money, lectured about reputation, brought up every missed opportunity, every unclaimed buckle, every point lost in the rankings. And every time, Rhett just shrugged, chewed his toothpick a little harder, and said, “Ain’t worth it without her.”

Royal had even gone to your father once, showed up at the house red-faced and muttering under his breath, looking for backup. He’d stomped up the porch steps, knocked hard enough to rattle the screen, and said, “You need to talk some damn sense into your daughter. She’s holdin’ Rhett back.”

Your father didn’t even look up from the paper in his lap. Just flipped a page and said, “It’s outta my hands, Royal. She’s his lucky rabbit’s foot, not mine. You’re the one who raised a superstitious kid.”

That had been the end of it.

Well–besides the occasional muttered complaint, the exasperated way Royal folded his arms and scowled at you from across the arena like you were the one who’d crawled inside Rhett’s brain and rewired the whole damn thing. But you knew he didn’t really mean it. Not deep down–cause just like Rhett, he too had a soft spot for you.

Your father and Royal had been friends since high school–thick as thieves, the kind of troublemakers who grew up and never quite grew out of it. There were more stories than you could count about the two of them sneaking out of study hall, crashing their bikes into fences, and getting into brawls over rodeo scores. Royal may have grumbled and huffed and barked, but he knew what this was.

He knew what you were to Rhett.

And that’s how you found yourself at the circuit tonight, in the worst possible outfit you could be in for a night that turned chilly. You leaned against the rail with your arms folded, listening to the announcer listing off names you didn’t recognize and sponsors you didn’t care about.

One rider across the way was adjusting the strap on his glove with his teeth, spitting into the dirt before swinging a leg over the gate. He was broad-shouldered and too young to have that many calluses on his palms. His boots also looked too new, and you could tell he was nervous just by the way he puffed out his chest.

“He’s overcompensatin’ with all that noise,” Rhett’s voice came from your left, low and familiar, warm despite the cold air, “Looks like he spit shined his boots and bought the buckle from a pawn shop.” You turned your head just enough to see him steadying beside you, close enough that your elbows almost brushed. He had one glove on already and was working his other hand through the second–leather creaking around his knuckles as he tugged it tight, mouth set in that concentrated little frown he only ever wore when he was minutes from getting on a bull. You hummed at him.

”You say that as if you weren’t the same way your first time.” He scoffs.

”I don’t think I was that bad.” You didn’t reply, you just smirked, and shook your head, turning your attention back to the rail. But your eyes didn’t stay on the ring long. Not when he was standing that close.

Rhett had always been easy to be around–easier than most. He didn’t demand attention, didn’t fill the silence with noise unless he felt like it needed to be broken. And somehow he always made you feel like the most important person in the room without ever saying it outright. Your gaze drifted down his arms, the way the veins ran like fault lines beneath his skin, pulsing beneath the leather. The gentle scrape of stubble along his jaw. The way his shirt clung to the dip between his shoulder blades.

You knew how to look without letting it show. How to admire the little things from afar, memorizing them only to recall later in the quiet moments of your own space, when it was just you and the memory of him.

You’d gotten good at control.

“You okay?” He asked suddenly, glancing at you from under the brim of his dusty brown Stetson. His voice had shifted–still soft, but lower now. Quieter. You raised your eyebrows.

”Why wouldn’t I be?” You replied, he shrugged a little, pulling the strap of his glove tight.

”Been quiet since we pulled in…”

“I’ve been tired since we pulled in,” You said, deflecting with a tilt of your chin, “You yanked me straight outta the garage before I could give myself a cold shower to wake myself up.” He smiled at that, eyes crinkling at the corners like he didn’t buy your excuse but was willing to let you keep it.

“Well,” Rhett drawled, shifting his weight and giving you a side glance, “Thank you for joinin’ me all marinated in oil and tired. Really sets the mood.”You rolled your eyes, lips twitching as you looked away

“Yeah, well, you’re lucky I didn’t bring a wrench to throw at you while you’re on that big bull.” He chuckled under his breath, his gaze tracking the arena before flicking back to you.

”Gonna go sit with my family?” You let out a long sigh, eyes squinting at the stands like you were preparing for battle, seeing the Abbott’s were already together talking among themselves.

”Course…Always the best seat in the house. Front row for your brother talkin’ my ear off about his side hustles, and your dad telling me how the whole thing’s rigged against you, while Cecilia tries to ask whether or not I’m moving shops anytime soon.” Rhett huffed a laugh, shaking his head.

“Always happy to know you love bein’ up there with them.” His tone was thick with sarcasm, but his smirk was soft. Familiar. Like he was picturing it already–your boots kicked up on the railing beside Royal, his dad grumbling into a foam cup while you offered him your popcorn. You both shared a quiet chuckle, the kind that slipped out easily, like short breaths in cold air.

In the moment of silence, your hand slipped into your back pocket without thinking–it was instinct more than anything. You dug around until your fingers curled around the thin chain, the cool metal warmed by your skin. Rhett didn’t look at you, because he didn’t have to. He knew the moment you turned fully toward him that you were pulling out the necklace. His shoulders straightened slightly at the sight of it.

A thin gold chain, delicate as thread, with the charm your mother had worn nearly every day before she passed–the small, oval locket with a dent on one side. It was a gift that your father had given her when they were first going out, and now it was yours. But in moments like this–when the dust was thick in the air, when the circuit lights buzzed overhead and danger sat heavy in your chest–it was his.

Rhett always took it the same way: quiet, gentle, and like it meant something more than just luck and protection.

Because it did.

Your mother had loved Rhett like he was her own. She fed him when Royal was late picking him up, scolded him when he scraped his knees, kissed the crown of his head when he showed up on your porch with dirt on his boots and his heart on his sleeve. When she passed, he didn’t say much. But you remembered him standing at the far end of the church, knuckles white around his hat, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might crack.

He didn’t cry. He never had to because you had done enough of that for the both of you.

You placed the necklace in his palm gently, brushing your fingers along the inside of his wrist. A quiet exchange. A tradition that had started the first time he made it onto the adult circuit–when you pressed it into his hand before the gate opened and said, “She’s got you.”

And it stuck and became something neither of you ever had to explain.

“Think she’s watchin’?” Rhett murmured, voice rasped low as he curled the chain into his fist.

Your answer came easy. “Always.” He nodded, jaw ticking as he thumbed the charm once for good measure before tucking it into his shirt–over his heart, where it belonged. He gave it a soft pat, like he was anchoring her there. Like maybe she’d feel it, wherever she was.

“I dunno if she’d like that you’re still lettin’ me do this,” He muttered after a beat, offering a crooked little half-smile. “Ridin’, I mean.”

You scoffed lightly. “She wouldn’t like it,” You admitted, “But you know she’d still be yellin’ the loudest when they called your score.”He smiled at that, shoulders easing just a little. Like the weight of her was something warm instead of heavy.

“She always liked you better than me,” You teased gently, trying to keep your voice light even as emotion caught in your throat. “Pretty sure she would’ve traded me for you if she had the option.”

Rhett looked over at you then, really looked, and something in his expression softened so fully it made your stomach twist. “Don’t think you believe that for a second,” He mumbled quietly.

And you didn’t.

But it was easier than saying what you really meant–that you’d give anything to hear your mother talk about Rhett again. To hear her tell him to be careful. To bring him a sandwich while he leaned against the side of the truck, and to kiss your forehead and say, “You take care of him out there, alright?”

Because she’d known about your true feelings for him. She always knew.

“You better not get yourself broken tonight,” You warned, trying to talk the emotion out of your voice, attempting to shake it out, “I’m not scrubbin’ your blood outta your jeans again.”

Rhett laughed under his breath, the sound low and warm. “I’ll try not to, but I admire the fact you did it so well the last time…” He gave you a soft pat on the side of your arm, the leather of his glove cool against your skin. “Don’t worry too much though. I’ve got you, and I’ve got her. That’s a two-for-one deal even the devil can’t mess with.” You didn’t smile this time–but your eyes stayed on him, memorizing the curve of his mouth, the tilt of his hat, the line of his shoulders.

“Be safe,” You said, and it was quieter than anything you’d spoken all night.

Rhett nodded. Touched the charm through his shirt once more. And then he turned and walked toward the chute, back straight, shoulders squared, steps steady.

You watched him go.

And just as he disappeared behind the gate, swallowed up by the noise and the crowd–

You heard a voice you hadn’t heard in five years.

“I’ll be damned,” The voice called out behind you, thick with familiarity and a smile you could already picture even before you turned, “Didn’t think you’d still be hanging around here.”

Your entire body went still–like a switch had been thrown on, and your nerves froze under your skin. It wasn’t just the voice. It was the cadence. The tilt in the vowels. The lilt of amusement laced with old memories and summer sweat.

Maria Olivares.

You didn’t turn right away. You just stared straight ahead at the chute where Rhett had disappeared, your heart dropping like it had been cut loose from a string. The last time you’d heard her voice, it had been filtered through the cracked speakers of the high school PA system during her senior farewell speech–warm, confident, grateful for her small-town upbringing, even as she looked forward to city lights and bigger things.

She hadn’t come back. Not once in five years. Not for holidays. Not for spring break. Not even to visit old friends. Everyone figured she’d traded Wabang for somewhere with sidewalks and skylines.

And yet here she was.

You turned slowly, dragging your eyes up from the toes of a pair of spotless white sneakers, to a pair of high waisted black jeans that fit right, and a hoodie, jean jacket combo that looked warm and cozy. Her dark brown–almost black–hair was still long, and shiny, catching the circuit lights in ribbons as it spilled over her shoulders. There was not a wave out of place. She looked good, and that was always the worst part for you.

”Hey stranger,” She smiled, stepping toward you, her hands in her jacket pockets like this was just another Friday night and you were the one that vanished, “Didn’t expect to see a familiar face here when I rolled in.” You blinked, pulse throbbing somewhere behind your teeth. You could feel every streak of sweat dried into your collarbone. The grease under your fingernails. The smudge of oil you’d missed above your brow. The faded tank top clinging to your ribs.

“Maria,” You managed to say, trying to force something that resembled a smile on your face. It didn’t quite reach your eyes, “Didn’t know you were back in town…It’s been a long time.” She nodded.

”Five years.” She said softly, like she was trying the words on for size, as if she hadn’t known exactly how long it had been. There was a brief pause, heavy with memories you didn’t ask to revisit.

Then, with a little huff of breath, she gave a rueful smile glancing toward the arena.

”I got burnt out from college…Thought I’d come back to Wabang to try and get my life back together…” Her gaze flicked sideways, and then back to you, “And I heard around town that Rhett was riding tonight, so I thought I’d stop by to catch up and maybe say hi.” You felt your stomach twist up into knots.

You tried to keep your face neutral, tried not to flinch at the mention of his name on her lips, because Maria had always been nice to you and treated you well. She had never acted above you, even when she could’ve. She was sweet, and effortless, and the kind of girl that seemed built for being admired. People talked about her like she was a firework: bright, exciting, and temporary…And Rhett…Well…

Rhett had always looked at her like she belonged in the Louvre.

You remembered it so clearly–him leaning back on the bleachers during lunch period, eating a sandwich, baseball cap tilted low as he watched her laugh by the vending machines. He used to elbow you in the side and mutter something like “God she’s just…Look at her, would ya?” Or “If I asked her out and she said no, I think I’d have to walk into traffic.”

And you’d laugh. Pretend it didn’t bother you, and you’d joke back and say “You’d have to start a new life in the city or somethin’.”

Because what else could you do?

You were…You. The grease-monkey. The tomboy. The one who spit-shined carburetors instead of joining social clubs. The one who could drink the boys under the table, throw a punch better than half of them, and still knew the sound of Rhett’s laugh like the back of your hand. You were his best friend. His good luck charm. His midnight mechanic and his porch-sitting, star-watching, shit-talking ride or die. But you were never the girl.

Not in the way Maria had been–even though they didn’t date.

So when Maria left for college, it was like someone let the air out of Rhett’s chest. He didn’t say much–just got real quiet for a few weeks. Stayed out late, rode harder, drank more. Then one night, sitting on your porch with his head tilted back and his boots up on the railing, he let out a sigh and said, “Guess that’s that, huh?”

You didn’t ask what he meant. You just passed him the bottle and leaned your shoulder into his like you always did.

And little by little, he put himself back together. He didn’t talk about her anymore. Stopped bringing her name up at all. And a part of you–one you never said out loud–had hoped maybe he was finally looking at someone else now. That maybe he’d finally see you.

But now, she was here.

In the flesh. Smiling, radiant, all polished edges and big city warmth. And she’d said his name like she had every right to, like she’d never left a hole in him when she packed up and vanished.

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her words settle somewhere heavy between your ribs.

“Thought I’d stop by to catch up and maybe say hi.”

You hated how those words clawed at the inside of your chest.

”Yeah,” You mumbled, voice tighter than you wanted it to be, “I’m sure Rhett will be glad to see you…It’s been a while.” Maria’s smile didn’t falter, not even for a second.

”We should go out for drinks after,” She suggested, casual and bright like this wasn’t a slow-motion car crash happening in front of you, “Maybe you two can come find me? I’ll stick around.” You swallowed hard enough that you felt it echo in the back of your throat like a gulp of warm soda going down the wrong way.

“Sure,” You managed to agree, forcing your lips up even more, “Sounds like a plan.” It came out flat. A little too fast. But she either didn’t notice or was too polite to mention it. She just glanced behind her, motioning toward a small group of people standing a few yards off, gathered near the funnel cake stand.

“I’m gonna head back to my friends,” She informed, “But I’ll see you after the circuit!” You nodded stiffly.

”Yeah, see you.” And with that, she turned, her sneakers scuffing quietly in the dirt as she made her way back to her group—hair bouncing lightly with each step, laughter already ringing in the air as one of her friends greeted her with an inside joke you didn’t get.

You didn’t watch her long. You couldn’t.

Instead, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding and turned your gaze toward the bleachers, willing your legs to move. One step at a time. Your shoulders rolled once, then twice—like shaking off a weight. But the tension didn’t budge, not really. It stayed coiled up in your spine like something waiting to snap.

You stomped up the bleacher steps, boots loud against the metal, and found them all right where you expected: Amy munching on kettle corn, Perry fiddling with a foam cup of coffee, Royal with his arms crossed and a resting scowl, and Cecilia offering you a tight smile like she already knew you needed one.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Cecilia greeted first, scooting to make space. “We were wonderin’ when you’d show.”

“Hey,” you said, voice still low as you nodded to each of them.

Royal shifted over with a grunt, making room beside him, and Perry tipped his head back toward you in a silent greeting.

You sank down between the two of them with a heavy breath, letting the cool of the evening air wrap around your sweat-damp skin. Amy reached over and tapped your boot with hers.

“You smell like axle grease,” She said flatly.

You smirked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Amy grinned back, and you leaned forward to prop your arms on your knees.

Royal glanced your way. “How’s your dad doin’ these days?”

You rubbed the back of your neck, grateful for the shift in subject. “Busy as usual,” You replied. “The shop’s been crazy for both of us, so I haven’t really been able to talk to him. Our faces are always under or inside cars.”

Royal chuckled low in his chest. “Well, a mechanic’s job is never finished until the last car is completely fixed.”

You snorted. “We’d be open till the end of time if we lived by your rules.”

That got a laugh out of Perry too, who clapped you on the shoulder. “Ain’t that the truth.” His eyes wandered casually over the crowd before something caught his attention. His chewing slowed, the foam cup crinkling slightly in his grip as he leaned in a fraction and nudged your arm with the back of his knuckle.

“Hey…” He muttered under his breath, keeping his voice low, “Is that who I think it is?”

You didn’t need to follow his gaze. You already knew. Still, your eyes drifted to the right, past the funnel cake stand and toward the little group of people laughing in the warm glow of the overhead string lights.

Maria was standing right in the middle, her smile shining like she��d never left, like she hadn’t cracked something in your chest just minutes ago.

“Yep,” You replied, the word flat and dry on your tongue.

Perry let out a soft whistle, eyebrows climbing. “Did Rhett see her?”

You shook your head slowly, thumb brushing your bottom lip as you glanced back toward the chutes. “Not yet… But I’m gonna have to be the one that breaks the news to him. As usual.”

Perry tilted his head, his expression shifting into something halfway between sympathy and disbelief. “She say why she’s here?”

”She said she got burnt out from college, now she’s back in town until further notice basically. She said she wants to go out for drinks after the circuit,” You explained. There was a beat of silence. Then Perry huffed out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

“Man… That’s gonna be pure torture for you, huh?” You flicked your gaze toward him, jaw tight.

He knew. Perry was one of the only people who did. You’d sworn him to secrecy years ago—right around the time you drank too much whiskey behind the barn one summer night and finally admitted it. He hadn’t laughed. Hadn’t teased. Just looked at you with those steady eyes and said, “Yeah…That tracks.”

And despite his reputation for being a smartass, Perry had never breathed a word of it to anyone.

“I could come with you guys,” he offered now, voice quieter. “Even out the numbers.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “You’re talkin’ like we’re goin’ to war.”

Perry shrugged one shoulder. “Aren’t you?”

You shook your head with a sigh and muttered, “I’m sure I’ll manage just fine.”

“Hey,” Perry said, raising his hands defensively. “Don’t say I didn’t offer. And don’t come cryin’ when you end up sittin’ between them, third-wheelin’ your own heartbreak.”

Before you could respond—before the knot in your chest could turn sharper—the PA system crackled back to life, cutting through the thick air.

“Next up, ladies and gentlemen—we got Rhett Abbott comin’ up in the chute!”

Your whole body snapped to attention, your eyes instinctively finding the chute where he stood, framed in gold and dust and determination. He was climbing the rails now, one hand on the edge of the gate, the other adjusting the brim of his Stetson. His back was broad beneath the weight of his vest, the number pinned crookedly to the fabric like it always was because he never let anyone else do it. Always asked you.

He didn’t look toward the stands. Not yet. His focus was on the bull–pure, burning concentration.

But your chest was a live wire.

Because he didn’t know she was here.

And when he saw her–when he looked up and caught sight of Maria’s soft smile and city-polished glow standing in the crowd–you didn’t know what it would do to him.

But you knew exactly what it would do to you.

Perry leaned back, a shadow in his expression. “Buckle up,” he said, almost like a warning. “Here we go.”

And all you could do was hold your breath…And wait.

————————

The crowd had started to thin, the night slipping gently into its last stretch–boots shuffling through kicked-up dirt, families gathering up folding chairs and foam cups, laughter tapering off into low murmurs beneath the buzz of the circuit lights. The arena was quieter now, calmer. A few riders lingered by the chutes, stripping off gear, comparing scores, cracking open lukewarm beers from coolers tucked behind the rails.

Rhett was still standing near the gate, dust clinging to the bottom hem of his jeans, his shirt sticking to the sweat that had dried down his spine. His hair was damp under his hat, eyes scanning the space like he was still riding the high of the eight-second count.

You moved down the bleachers slowly, like each step took effort, the cool night air brushing against the back of your neck, the gravel biting into the soles of your boots.

He saw you coming, and his face lit up in that familiar way it always did–soft around the edges, glowing just under the skin. Without a word, Rhett reached into the chest pocket of his shirt and pulled out the thin gold chain, the charm glinting faintly beneath the floodlights. He held it out gently, curled between his fingers like something sacred.

“Guess you two really did help tonight,” He commented with a crooked smile, placing the necklace in your open palm. “Probably one of my best performances.” You looked down at the charm as it settled into your skin, feeling the warmth of him still clinging to the metal. You managed a smile, small and tired.

“Yeah…You looked good out there.”

But it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

And Rhett noticed. His brow furrowed immediately, eyes narrowing with that uncanny instinct he always had for your moods.

“Somethin’ wrong?” He asked, pointing gently between his own eyebrows. “You’ve got that little crease here–means you’re thinkin’ too hard.” You tried to shrug it off, eyes dropping to the necklace as your fingers curled around it. But the weight in your chest didn’t move. You hesitated. Then you exhaled slowly.

“…Maria’s back.” You felt the moment he registered the name like a jolt–like it lit something under his skin. Rhett straightened a little, his whole posture shifting, just slightly. Perking up. Perking toward her.

“Really?” He said, his voice brightening in a way that made your stomach churn. “Where is she?”

You nodded toward the far end of the arena without lifting your gaze. “She told me to come find her after…Said she wants to go out for some drinks.”

There was a brief pause before he smiled, teeth flashing in the glow of the overhead lights. “Well that’ll be great! Would love to catch up with her.”

You nodded once. “Yeah. I thought so.”

Your voice was low. Measured. Your lips pressed into a thin, practiced smile–the kind you’d perfected over the years, the one you used when something stung but you didn’t want anyone to see it bleed.

Rhett didn’t catch it. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t know what to do with it.

You tucked the necklace into your back pocket, the chain coiling softly in your grip like a secret.

————————

The hum of the arena faded behind you as the three of you made your way down the gravel path toward the bar just off the main strip–The Rusty Spur, glowing amber beneath a flickering neon sign shaped like a bull skull. You’d been here a hundred times. After circuits, after slow nights, after heartbreaks that you never let show. It was familiar ground.

But tonight, it didn’t feel like home.

Rhett held the door open with one boot, gesturing Maria inside with a crooked grin, and you followed silently, your fingers still brushing the edge of your back pocket like the necklace might anchor you if you kept touching it.

The bar was low-lit and humming with half-empty pitchers and slow drawls. Music crackled low from the jukebox–old country, something about losing and loving in the same breath. You barely noticed. You were too busy clocking how close Maria stood beside Rhett. How she reached for his arm when she laughed at something he said. How his body naturally leaned toward hers, like it remembered the rhythm of it even if his heart didn’t quite know why.

You took the booth in the far corner. Your usual spot. Rhett slid in beside you, and Maria took the other side. It should’ve felt balanced. It didn’t.

Someone took drink orders–probably Rhett, but your ears were ringing too hard to catch the words. You muttered something about whiskey, and a moment later, a sweating glass was placed in front of you.

Maria was talking. Rhett was laughing. You were sitting in your grease-stained tank top, sweating in your spot, barely blinking as the two of them picked up where they left off–like no time had passed at all.

“Oh my god, do you remember that time at the bonfire?” Maria said, grinning, her knuckles brushing Rhett’s arm as she leaned forward. “When Perry and Jacob tried to jump the creek in that rust-bucket four-wheeler and we all thought they were gonna die?”

Rhett chuckled, elbow resting on the table, eyes crinkling. “Yeah, I think Perry still swears he cleared it by three feet.”

“He didn’t,” You muttered, voice low, more to your glass than to them. “He cracked the axle and limped it home with a broken taillight.”

Maria paused, then offered you a smile. “God, you’ve always had a better memory than all of us.” You gave her a small nod and took a slow sip, the whiskey burning just enough to keep you tethered to the moment. Rhett turned toward you briefly, nudging your boot with his under the table like a reflex.

“That was the same night you duct-taped the handlebars back on, right? Got the damn thing running again in fifteen minutes?”

“Thirteen,” You murmured, lips quirking just slightly.

“Course it was.” He grinned, bumping your shoulder lightly with his. But then Maria asked another question–something about Denver; a story you hadn’t been there for–and Rhett’s attention shifted back before you could respond.

You stared at the condensation on your glass.

Their conversation rolled on, easy and familiar in a way that twisted something in your chest. Not cruel. Not exclusive. But you couldn’t help but feel like a guest at your own table.

They laughed about old teachers. About some kid who used to bring his goat to show-and-tell. About a trip to a fair you barely remembered because you’d spent most of it alone, fixing a blown tire while they wandered off for cotton candy.

Every now and then, one of them would glance toward you. Ask a soft “Remember that?” or toss you a half-smile. And you would nod. You would smile back. You would pretend.

But it felt like watching them through a window.

At one point, Maria reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her nails painted a glossy wine red that caught the light. Rhett’s gaze lingered a second too long. You saw it. You always saw it.

You drained your glass.

The table blurred a little around the edges as you blinked slowly, pressing your fingertips to your temple.

“You alright?” Rhett asked quietly, finally noticing the way your shoulders had gone still. His voice was soft, too soft, like it might undo you if you let it. You didn’t look at him, you just gave the smallest nod.

”Yeah, guess the lack of sleep is catching up to me.” Maria stood then, smoothing out the front of her jacket. “I’m gonna head to the bar–get another round.” She motioned between the two of you. “You guys want anything?”

Rhett looked toward you. You shook your head. “I’m good.”

”I’ll take one more beer, I have a feelin’ I’ll have to drive this one home tonight.” He commented motioning to you. Maria smirked.

”Got a preference?” She asked, and Rhett shook his head, a boyish grin appearing on his lips.

”Nah, whatever they’ve got I’ll take.” Then Maria disappeared into the crowd, and the booth fell quiet. You sat back, arms crossed loosely, your eyes fixed on the edge of the table. Rhett shifted beside you, his leg brushing yours.

”You sure you’re alright?” You’re actin’ really weird…” Rhett shifted a little closer, the leather of the booth creaking under his weight as his knee knocked gently against yours again. You didn’t flinch. Couldn’t. Not with him this close. Not when the heat from his body was bleeding into your side and curling around your skin like something unspoken.

And then you caught it–that scent.

Faint, but unmistakable. A soft, masculine heat rising off his collar, sunk into the fabric of his shirt. It was that cologne he always wore for circuits–something low and woodsy, edged with spice, like cedar and cracked pepper and the memory of summer sweat. The kind of scent that lingered even after he was gone, that clung to his flannel when you borrowed it, that sank into your lungs and made your stomach tighten without warning. You’d never asked what it was. You didn’t need to. You knew it like you knew the sound of your name when he said it quiet.

And it always made you a little dizzy.

You blinked once, twice, trying to keep your face steady as your gaze finally flicked toward him.

“I said I’m fine, Rhett,” You murmured, a little firmer this time. “Just exhausted.” But he didn’t back off. Not completely.

His brows drew in slightly as he studied you, mouth pulled into something that wasn’t quite a frown. Those blue eyes–always a little too clear, always a little too honest—swept over your face like he was reading it in a language he used to speak fluently but hadn’t practiced in years. He looked at your cheeks. Your jaw. Your eyes. He tilted his head just a fraction, lips parting like he was about to say something and then thinking better of it.

And then, finally, he nodded–slow, thoughtful.

“Alright…” He started, voice quieter now, more careful. “After this round, I’ll take you home.” It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even an offer. It was something softer than that. A promise tucked inside a sentence.

You opened your mouth to argue–to say you could take care of yourself, to brush it off like always–but before you could get the words out, Maria returned. She set a glass of water in front of you, and took one beer for herself and handed the other to Rhett, her fingers brushing against his. You watched him glance up with that familiar, easy smile.

“Appreciate it,” He said, nodding.

Maria slid back into her seat, eyes flicking between the two of you for half a second before she leaned in again, chin resting on one hand, and launched straight back into whatever story she’d started before–something about a concert she went to in Austin, a rooftop party of sorts.

You listened with one ear, the other still tuned to the quiet place inside your chest that was trying not to crack open.

You nursed your glass of water. You forced a smile.

And all the while, you felt Rhett’s leg still pressed against yours beneath the table, warm and unmoving.

As if some part of him still remembered you were there. Even if the rest had already started drifting.

Rhett nursed the last of his beer with an absent sort of slowness, fingers rolling the base of the bottle in tight little circles against the table like he was working something out in his head. Maria was still talking, still smiling–her voice soft and syrupy in the warm barlight–but his eyes flicked toward the clock above the jukebox.

And when his bottle hit the table with a soft thunk, you already knew what was coming.

“Well,” Rhett drawled, wiping his hands on his jeans and pushing up from the booth, “We oughta get goin’. Gonna be a long drive back to Wabang.”

Maria sat up a little straighter, her smile faltering just slightly. “Oh–are you headed out already?”

He nodded, casting a brief glance your way. “Yeah, gettin’ late. You need a ride back or…?”

She shook her head quickly, waving a hand. “No, no, I’m good. I’m stayin’ with some friends out here for another day or two. Figured I’d ease my way back into town life.”

Rhett grinned, all teeth and comfort. “Well, I’ll definitely call you.”

Maria bit her bottom lip–barely–but you saw it. Like punctuation on a sentence that didn’t need saying. “I’d really like that.”

Then her gaze shifted toward you, warm and easy. “We should all do this again sometime, eh?”

You gave her a nod. Tight. Quick. Polite. “Yeah. Definitely.”

She smiled one last time and turned away to rejoin her friends at the bar.

Rhett didn’t say much as you both made your way outside–boots crunching gravel, the cool night air curling around your ankles like smoke. The neon sign buzzed overhead, painting the parking lot in pale, flickering yellow.

You reached into your back pocket without a word, dug out his keys, and tossed them over. He caught them easily, looking at you like he wanted to say something, but you were already climbing into the passenger seat. The door slammed shut harder than it needed to, the echo of it biting into the quiet.

You leaned against the door, body turned away from him, cheek resting against the cool window as you stared out into the night.

Rhett slid into the driver’s seat, settling in with a soft exhale as he buckled in and adjusted the rearview mirror. He started the engine–it rumbled to life with the low growl of something familiar, something that usually made you feel steady.

Tonight though…It just made you feel even more tired.

“Hopefully you can catch some sleep while I’m drivin’,” He said, his voice low, maybe even a little hopeful.

“Yeah…” The word left your mouth flat and dull, dry as dust. Rhett turned to glance at you, the concern already knitting into his brow. But you were already reaching into the backseat, fingers curling around the flannel that always lived there–the dark blue one he sometimes wore when he was cold and you always stole when you wanted to feel his warmth. You tugged it over you, and didn’t glance his way for the rest of the ride, fading off into a sleepy haze.

————————

The shop smelled like motor oil, burnt rubber, and heat-soaked metal–the scent of long hours and too many worn-out engines trying to hold on. The radio murmured low in the corner, old country drifting from the busted speaker, the static crackling between verses like background noise to your every exhale.

It was just past noon, but the heat had already settled in for the day. The big bay doors were rolled open, sunlight spilling across the concrete in sharp streaks, cutting through the floating dust like gold through smoke. You were bent over the open hood of a ‘97 Ford Ranger, your shoulders glinting with sweat, black tank top sticking to your back in places where the fabric met skin. The sleeves of your navy jumpsuit were tied around your waist, the whole thing cinched low on your hips and streaked with oil from earlier jobs.

Rhett was sitting on the workbench a few feet away, his boots propped on the lower shelf, stool tilted back dangerously as he rocked on two legs like it didn’t matter if he tipped over. His ballcap was pulled low, his light brown hair curling out from the back, his jaw working absently around a toothpick as he talked–still talking–about her.

“…I mean, I dunno,” He was saying, shifting his weight again, “She called me last night after dinner just to talk–like real late too, almost midnight. We didn’t talk about much, just…Stuff. Nothin’ important. But it was nice, y’know?” He tapped his fingers against his thigh, voice casual, but his brows were slightly furrowed like the whole thing was keeping him awake.

You hummed a soft acknowledgment, eyes trained on the belt tensioner you were adjusting. The socket wrench in your hand clicked steadily with each turn, your knuckles smudged with grease, fingernails stained half-permanently. Sweat beaded on your lower back and slipped beneath the waistband of your suit.

“Anyway,” Rhett continued, “She said she might swing by the circuit again this weekend. Wants to grab coffee first. Think that means somethin’?” His voice dipped into something hopeful. “I mean, she doesn’t have to make the first move, but…It’s been weeks and I still can’t tell if she’s just bein’ polite or if she’s actually–y’know–interested.”

You blew out a slow breath through your nose, kept your eyes on the pulley system as you tugged the belt back into place. “Dunno, Rhett. She’s hard to read.”

He paused, like he was expecting more. When you didn’t add anything, he scratched at his jaw and pushed the stool back down flat.

“You ever notice how she touches my arm a lot when she laughs?” He asked, tone casual, but a little eager. “Like, not in a weird way, just kinda light. She’s always been touchy though. That don’t mean much, does it?”

“Not always,” You mumbled, wrench clacking again. “Could just be her way.”

Rhett leaned forward, elbows on his knees now. His gaze was drifting, not really focused on the cabinets or the tools. Not even on the truck. It was on you. On the way your tank top rode up just a little when you reached for a tool. The way your back muscles shifted beneath sun-warmed skin. How your hair clung to the nape of your neck in sticky curls. He took a sip from the bottle of Gatorade he’d barely touched, then swallowed slowly.

“You always been good at figurin’ people out,” He said after a beat, softer. “You’d tell me if I was readin’ into it too much, right?”

“Sure,” You replied, brushing a hand across your forehead, leaving a streak of dirt there without realizing. You stood up straighter to stretch your spine, a soft crack echoing as your hands went to your lower back. Rhett’s eyes flicked down your side–followed the way the tied sleeves of your jumpsuit tugged the tank top tight across your waist, the glint of your exposed hip where your shirt had ridden up slightly. He quickly looked away, rubbed the back of his neck.

“I just keep thinkin’ about how she left, y’know?” He muttered, almost to himself. “And now she’s back and it’s like nothin’ happened. Like we can just…Pick up where we left off.”

You finally glanced over your shoulder at him, one brow arched. “Did you leave anything to pick up?”

Rhett opened his mouth. Shut it and thought for a second, “No. I mean, not really. Not out loud. But I always thought…” He shook his head, letting the words trail off like a loose wire. “I dunno what I thought. I guess I just missed her.”

Your lips pressed together into a flat line, but you didn’t say anything. Not at first.

“I get it,” You finally muttered, wiping your hands on a rag. “She’s easy to miss.”

Rhett tilted his head slightly at the tone, like he was hearing something he wasn’t meant to catch. “You don’t like her much, do you?”

You paused, grip tightening just a little on the wrench.

“I don’t not like her,” You said slowly, choosing each word carefully. “She’s…Fine. Y’know how I am with people…” He squinted at you, suspicion tugging at his features like a loose thread. But then his eyes dropped again–to your neck, your collarbone, the bare line of your shoulder as you leaned over the engine again. He chewed the inside of his cheek.

“Was thinkin’ of askin’ her to come to the Fourth of July thing next week,” He said, casual but deliberate, watching for your reaction. “Figured it’d be nice to have her meet everyone again…Y’know, properly.” You didn’t flinch. You didn’t roll your eyes. You didn’t say anything cruel. But your fingers curled around your wrench tighter than before, the metal biting into your palm.

“Sure,” You said with a hollow shrug. “Bring whoever you want, I’m sure everyone would love to see her.”

Rhett watched you for a moment longer, unreadable.

“You ever gonna tell me what’s really goin’ on in that head of yours?” He asked, almost teasing, but his voice dropped just a little at the end.

You didn’t look at him. Just reached back into the engine block.

“Nothin’ is going on up here, I’m just payin’ attention to this customer's car.” Rhett knew better than to believe that.

He’d seen it with his own eyes–felt it in the air, even if you were too proud or too stubborn to admit it. You used to meet his gaze across a room and hold it, unbothered, cocky even, like you knew exactly what kind of effect you had on him. But now? Every time Maria’s name came up, you flinched just a little, like you were bracing for a hit. And whenever the three of you were in the same space–which was rare because you made it rare–you got quiet. Distant. You’d hover near the edge of the group, arms crossed, mouth pressed flat, eyes focused on anything but them.

And he remembered.

He remembered asking if you wanted to come out with him and Maria after that first weekend she rolled back into town. It had been a simple question, low-stakes. Just a casual invite.

But you didn’t even think about it–you just said, “Can’t. I’m busy.”

Didn’t even ask what night.

You’d turned him down so fast it had made his head spin. And after that, whenever he mentioned Maria, you got this far-off look like your mind had slipped into neutral. Like you weren’t even there anymore.

He shifted on the stool now, elbow digging into his knee, watching the way you moved with quiet precision–like you were using the engine block to avoid him. Like if you focused hard enough on the bolts and belts, you could keep the rest of the world from touching you.

Sometimes he wished he could read minds.

Not for anything big or cosmic–just so he could finally know what the hell went on behind your eyes when you looked at him.

What you thought when Maria’s name came up.

What you thought when he said she might come to the Fourth of July thing.

What you thought about him, period.

Did you think he was being desperate? Clingy? Chasing someone who didn’t deserve to be chased? Or did you just not care anymore?

“You sure nothin’s goin’ on in that head?” He asked again, a little quieter this time.

Still no answer. Just the soft click of your tools.

Rhett let out a slow breath, set his Gatorade bottle on the bench beside him with a soft thunk. He looked at the concrete floor, then back at you.

“Y’know, sometimes it feels like you’re playin’ wingman,” He said after a beat. “Only you’re not rootin’ for me to win.”

You froze for just half a second–barely enough for anyone else to notice–but Rhett caught it.

He always did.

Then you straightened up again, slow and careful, wiping the back of your neck with the same rag you’d used on your hands.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He shrugged, but it was tight. Guarded.

“Means you show up, sure. But you don’t really wanna be there. You say you’re happy for me, but I can tell you’re not. You act like you’re helpin’ but you keep your distance. It’s like…you’re close enough to see it all, but never close enough to be part of it.” Your jaw tensed, lips parting just slightly like you wanted to fire back something sharp–but nothing came. So Rhett leaned forward again, resting his forearms on his thighs.

“Do you want me to stop talkin’ about her?” He asked gently. “Just say the word, and I will. I swear I will.” Your eyes finally met his–steady, unreadable. And for a moment, he thought you might actually tell him. That you might finally crack open whatever it was you were hiding behind grease-streaked skin and bitten-off words.

But instead you said:

”I don’t care Rhett, you can talk about her till the cows come home.” And you turned back to the engine.

————————

The fireworks had already started by the time you sank into the corner of the worn-out couch, your dad’s recliner creaking as he shifted beside you. The TV was low, tuned to some classic western neither of you were really watching. Outside, through the screen door, you could hear the faint distant pop of celebratory explosions, followed by a round of cheers from somewhere down the road. The air was thick with summer—warm and buzzing with mosquitoes, smoke from backyard grills clinging to everything like memory.

You hadn’t told Rhett you weren’t coming.

You’d texted Perry earlier–just a short message, simple and vague.

“Can’t make it tonight. Not feelin’ great. Tell Rhett sorry.”

He sent back a thumbs-up emoji and nothing else, which was honestly a mercy. Your dad glanced over from where he was leafing through the town paper, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He didn’t look at you right away when he spoke.

“Didn’t you have plans tonight with the Abbotts?” He asked, casual but pointed. “Royal told me they were havin’ a Fourth of July party.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just shifted in your seat and tugged the throw blanket higher over your lap, even though it was too hot for it. Your voice came out low.

“Yeah. Just not feelin’ well.” That made him look up. He tilted his chin slightly, peering at you over the tops of his glasses.

“All of a sudden? You were fine at work today…Could’ve sworn you were elbows-deep in someone’s transmission this afternoon.” You shrugged, eyes fixed on the soft glow of the television.

“Guess it hit me late.”

He didn’t push at first. Just turned a page in his paper with a slow rustle, let the silence stretch like taffy. You thought maybe he’d drop it. But then–

“This ain’t about Maria comin’ back now, is it?” You groaned, throwing your head back against the cushion.

“Why does everything have to come back to her all the damn time? Can’t I just not feel good?” Your dad raised his brows like you’d just proved his point.

“Well,” He said slowly, “That answers my question.” You shot him a look, but it lacked heat.

“Are you jealous that she’s gettin’ Rhett’s attention?” He asked plainly, like he was asking about the weather. “I mean–I ain’t judgin’. You’ve always liked that boy, ever since y’all were knee-high and runnin’ around this place like wild dogs.”

“I have not,” You muttered, crossing your arms tighter over your chest.

“Sure you haven’t,” He teased, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And I suppose I imagined the way you used to light up like a damn Christmas tree whenever he’d show up on that beat-up four-wheeler.” You opened your mouth, then closed it, teeth pressing into your bottom lip. He leaned back in his chair and sighed, looking over at you again–not teasing now, just fatherly. Tired, maybe.

“Look, I know it ain’t easy. Watchin’ someone you care about look the other way. But if you want something different…You gotta say something different. Boy’s not a mind reader.”

“I know that,” You replied softly, after a long beat. Your throat felt tight. “I just…It’s not that simple.”

“Never is,” He agreed, settling back with a soft grunt. “But you keep sittin’ on your hands, and someone else is gonna take the spot you won’t claim.” You didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really.

Because across town, Rhett was probably smiling at her the way he used to smile at you. Probably handing her a cold drink, nudging her shoulder when she laughed, leaning in a little too close like it was second nature. You could picture it too well. That easy charm. That golden light. The kind of warmth he didn’t even know he carried.

And maybe, just maybe, it used to be yours.

But not tonight.

Tonight, you were just a ghost in a room you used to stand in, watching from the quiet side of town as the fireworks bloomed without you.

You stayed curled on the couch beside your dad for another hour or so, the two of you watching the rest of the Western he had put on in a silent that wasn’t uncomfortable–but felt heavier than usual.

Every now and then, he’d make a quiet comment about the film or chuckle under his breath, and you’d hum in response, but your mind had long drifted elsewhere. You couldn’t stop picturing it: Rhett laughing under the glow of string lights, standing too close to Maria, that loose and familiar posture he used when he felt wanted. When he felt seen.

Eventually, the credits rolled, the TV dimmed, and the old western faded into static hum. You stretched slowly, working the tension from your shoulders before pushing to your feet.

“I’m gonna head out,” You said quietly, brushing your hand down the side of your sweatpants. “Gotta wash off the day.”Your dad didn’t look up from his recliner, but he nodded once, the paper still resting in his lap.

“Alright, kid. Tell the ghosts I said hi.”

You snorted softly. “Yeah, I’ll light ‘em a candle.” You stepped toward the front door and reached for the handle–then paused. Rain.

The sound hit your ears before you even saw it–soft, steady, the kind of slow summer drizzle that snuck up on you after sundown. You opened the door and stood in the frame for a second, watching the raindrops dance in the yellow glow of the porch light. The gravel was soaked already, puddles forming in the grooves where the driveway dipped, and the path to the loft looked like a slick, muddy mess.

“Well, shit,” You muttered, eyeing the way your breath curled in the humid air. “Rarely rains on the Fourth.”

Your dad made a noise behind you–somewhere between a grunt and a dry chuckle. “This is what happens when you decide not to celebrate it,” he called out, flipping another page in the paper. “The weather takes it personal.”

You huffed a laugh and grabbed your old black windbreaker from the coat rack, shrugging it over your shoulders. “Guess I’ll just have to make it up to the weather next year.” With that, you slipped out onto the porch, tugged the hood up, and jogged down the steps.

The mud squelched under your boots immediately, sucking at the soles with every step, but you kept going, ducking your chin down against the rain. Your loft stood about forty yards behind the house, nestled at the edge of the property where the grass met the tree line. The walk was familiar, even in the dark, and your feet followed the worn path instinctively–even if the occasional puddle slowed you down.

The rain soaked through your jeans by the time you made it to the porch. You slipped your key into the door and turned it, heart settling as the lock clicked open.

The smell hit you first–warm wood and lavender, the faint trace of engine oil clinging to the boots by the door. You stepped inside and shut the door behind you with a soft thud, shaking yourself off like a dog and dragging your hood down with a sigh.

The lights were low–just the ones above the kitchen sink and the little Edison bulb lamp you always left on beside the couch. You didn’t bother turning on the overheads. The place felt better dim.

The loft was everything you needed and nothing you didn’t.

It was open-concept, all one floor, no walls to separate everything–just beams and slanted ceilings, wood-paneled walls stained a soft, honeyed brown that caught the light like something out of a dream. Your father had built it himself for your eighteenth birthday, saying, “Every girl needs a place she can disappear to. Somewhere that’s hers.” He’d smacked the blueprints on the dining table with a grin and said he didn’t want to know who was coming or going, didn’t want to hear anything about late nights or early mornings. He just wanted you to have space. Independence. Freedom.

You had cried when he showed you the key.

The place was cozy–homey in a way that didn’t require explanation. The kitchen sat along the far wall, rustic cabinets painted sage green, an old farmhouse sink surrounded by chipped enamel counters, your mug collection hanging from hooks above the stove. To the right was your sleeping space–a big, soft bed piled with mismatched quilts and pillows, tucked beneath the loft’s only window. Books were stacked on the floor beside it like a makeshift nightstand, with a cracked old alarm clock resting on top.

The living area bled right into everything else: a wide brown leather couch which you had thrifted with Rhett at a decent price, a low coffee table you’d made from an old pallet, and your record player setup on a shelf near the armchair where you kept your journals. The only thing separating the zones was a long, faded rug with a southwestern pattern that anchored everything in place.

Boots were kicked off by the door. Your dad’s old denim jacket hung on the hook by the kitchen, next to the keys Rhett had left behind last winter and never came back for.

You took your time peeling off your soaked clothes, leaving your windbreaker to hang dry by the door. You padded barefoot across the wood floors to the kitchen, flicking the kettle on without thinking, craving something warm. Outside, the rain picked up a little, tapping softly against the windows like a quiet apology, before changing into a baggy t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts.

You leaned your hip against the counter, watching the steam curl from the spout, and let yourself breathe.

The kettle hissed softly behind you, steam whispering up into the warm air of the loft, curling like smoke from a slow-burning fuse. You were still leaning against the counter when you heard it.

Tires.

Crunching gravel.

Slow. Deliberate.

You straightened, eyebrows furrowing. You hadn’t heard anyone pull into the main driveway. The rain was still falling, steady and soft, a silver curtain beyond the windows–but the headlights cut through it in sudden streaks. Wide. Familiar. High off the ground.

A truck.

Your eyes narrowed as the engine cut. The lights went dark. A moment later: Three sharp knocks.

Not rushed. Not panicked. Just firm. Like whoever was outside knew they had every right to be here.

You let out a slow, tired sigh, and turned off the kettle.

“Perry,” You muttered under your breath, pushing off the counter. “Dumbass probably thinks I’m curled up cryin’ into a bottle.”

You crossed the floor barefoot, pulling your oversized tee down lower on your thighs as you passed the couch. The rain hadn’t let up–it was still falling hard enough that you could hear it pinging against the porch roof, a low murmur just under your breath. You reached for the handle, pulled open the door–and stopped dead.

It wasn’t Perry.

It was Rhett.

Soaked to the damn bone.

His shirt clung to his chest, heavy and half-translucent, his flannel abandoned somewhere along the way. His jeans were soaked through, dripping onto the porch. His hat hung limp in one hand, curls plastered to his forehead. Water streamed from his jaw, his shoulders, his eyelashes.

And his expression…He looked furious.

He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, boots thudding onto the hardwood as he slammed the door behind him. His chest rose and fell hard, breath sharp in his nose. And when he looked at you–it wasn’t his usual warmth.

It was a supernova.

Frustrated. Scalding. Desperate.

“What the hell is goin’ on with you? Hmm?” he snapped.

You blinked at him, stunned. The loft felt suddenly too small, too quiet except for the rain beating against the roof. Rhett kicked off his boots without breaking eye contact, his wet jacket hitting the floor with a heavy slap.

“Wow,” You started, raising your eyebrows. “No, ‘hi, Y/N, how are you?’ Not even a ‘how’s your night goin’?’”

But he didn’t bite.

He just stared at you–blue eyes sharp, tense, unreadable.

“Right now ain’t the time for games.” His voice was lower now, but no less intense. “What the hell is goin’ on with you?”

You froze in place.

“First you don’t wanna come out with me anymore,” he continued, stepping closer, water still dripping from his sleeves. “Then you start pullin’ away like I did somethin’ wrong, and now you ditch the Fourth of July party and say you’re fuckin’ sick?” His voice cracked faintly on the last word. Not in anger. In something closer to hurt.

“Tell me what the fuck is goin’ on.”

You couldn’t answer. Not immediately.

You just stared, mouth dry, trying to find footing in the storm that had followed him inside. He tossed his wet hat off to the side, ran a hand through his dripping hair, like the mess of it might let him breathe. It didn’t.

You swallowed.

“I…” You cleared your throat, tried again. “Let me go grab you a towel, alright? You’re soaked, and you’re gonna–”

You moved to brush past him–but his hand came out gently. Just enough to stop you.

He caught your wrist.

Not hard. Not angry.

Just… steady.

Warm fingers curled loosely around your skin, grounding you.

“I don’t need a towel right now.” His voice was quieter now. Less heat, more gravity. “What I need–” He met your gaze fully, voice low and razor-sharp with feeling“–is for you to tell me the truth.”

And for the first time all night, you realized–he wasn’t mad because he didn’t care. He was mad because he did. Because he had been confused. Lost. Hurt. Because something had shifted between you, and you’d never let him see it.

And now he was here–dripping, shaking, looking at you like you were the one thing he couldn’t figure out how to fix.

The air inside the loft had thickened–saturated with rain and tension, heavy with every word you hadn’t said and every moment that had gone sideways between you.

Rhett’s hand still circled your wrist, warm and unrelenting, grounding you in place like he was afraid you might bolt. You could feel his pulse through his fingertips–fast and strong, matching the thunder of your own heart. His eyes locked to yours, demanding something, anything, while water pooled beneath him on the floor.

Then his voice cut through the quiet, low and sharp:

“Is this whole thing about me and Maria?”

Your chest cinched tight. Your jaw tensed automatically–every muscle bracing like your body knew how dangerous the truth might be. You didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stared at him, and in that silence…Your face dropped. Just barely. The kind of shift only someone who knew you like the back of his hand could notice.

Rhett saw it.

And something in his face snapped–not in rage, but in clarity.

He stepped closer. Just one step. Enough to make the air crackle.

“Look at me in the eyes, Y/N,” He said, voice firm now–stern in a way that made your stomach twist, the dominance in his tone curling heat into your spine. “And tell me that isn’t what this is fuckin’ about.”

It wasn’t a question.

It was a command.

You tried to hold it together. To keep your eyes from betraying you. But he was right there, soaking wet and burning with something you hadn’t seen in him in years. And when you finally looked up at him, really looked…Everything cracked.

Your breath caught. Your throat tightened. The words didn’t come.

They couldn’t.

Because how the hell were you supposed to lie with him looking at you like that? Like your silence was the final piece of a puzzle that had been driving him insane.

“I knew it,” He said softly–more to himself than to you. “Christ.” He raked a hand through his wet hair again, exhaling hard. “All this time, you’ve been walkin’ around pretendin’ you don’t care… Pretendin’ it doesn’t fuckin’ matter.”

You yanked your wrist free–not violently, just enough to take a step back. “What was I supposed to do, Rhett?” Your voice cracked open like a dam. “Watch you chase after the one girl I could never compete with and just smile about it?”

He stared at you–stunned, but not surprised. Like some part of him had known this truth existed, buried deep beneath the grease-stained tank tops and quiet sacrifices.

“She left,” You snapped. “She left and you broke for a while and I helped put you back together piece by piece. I sat on that goddamn porch with you night after night while you pretended you didn’t care she was gone. And I was there when you started laughing again. When you started living again.”

Your voice was rising now–shaking, furious and breaking apart all at once.

“And then she shows up, all pretty and polished and fuckin’ effortless, and you just light up like nothing ever happened. Like I wasn’t even there.”

Rhett’s mouth parted slightly, but you didn’t stop.

“I’ve been right here, Rhett,” You whispered, stepping forward now. “All this time. Loving you so quietly it damn near killed me.”

And there it was.

Out in the open.

The words you’d never dared say. Hanging between you like smoke in a thunderstorm.

Rhett didn’t move at first. His chest rose and fell, slow and ragged. Water still dripped from his jaw, but he didn’t wipe it away. His eyes were locked to yours, blue and searing.

“I didn’t know,” He shot back, voice low. Raw. “I swear to God, I didn’t know.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “You didn’t want to know.”

“No,” He said, stepping toward you again, shaking his head. “No, that ain’t fair. Don’t you put that on me. I looked for signs, Y/N. I did. But you–you shut me out. Every damn time I tried to get close, you’d change the subject or pretend it was nothin’.” Your footsteps echoed in the silence between you, the sound of your breath sharp in your throat as you turned to face him fully–eyes blazing, rain still dripping off the ends of his curls and onto the floor like the storm had followed him inside.

“I didn’t avoid any conversations with you,” you snapped, voice raw and loud in the warm wood space. “You never thought to say anything! You think I’m just supposed to read your fuckin’ mind?!”

Rhett’s jaw clenched, teeth flashing as he stepped forward again, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. “And why does it have to be up to me to say anything?! I didn’t know this was a one-sided friendship. Last time I checked, there was two of us in this!”

That did it. You surged toward him with fire in your chest, your pointer finger jabbing hard into the middle of his chest–right against the damp fabric that clung to him, warm and heavy over his heart.

“Because you’re the one who kept chasing Maria all through high school, Rhett! You never gave me a chance!” The words landed hard, thick with years of held-back ache. “You were so wrapped up in her smiles and her perfect little skirts and how she looked in the goddamn sunshine, and you never once looked at me!”

And then–before you could step back–his hand caught your wrist again.

But this time?

This time it wasn’t to stop you.

It was to make you listen.

He held your arm firm, water trailing down the slope of his forearm, his eyes locked to yours like the rest of the world had disappeared.

“And why do you think I went after Maria in the first place, huh?” He bit out, chest heaving. “You weren’t that fucking easy to read, sweetheart. You hid your feelings real damn well. So how else was I supposed to move on from somethin’ I thought I’d never have?”

You froze.

Every word struck like thunder in your gut.

Your mouth parted. Your heart tripped.

He’d said it with such certainty. Like it had always been true. Like it had been sitting under the surface of every glance, every late-night porch talk, every ride home in his truck when the silence said more than either of you dared.

“Does everything make sense to you now?” he asked, voice low and scorching.

And it did.

You stood there in the hush of your little loft, the rain pounding like a drumline on the roof, and everything finally clicked into place.

And before you could think, before you could breathe, before your heart could scream for you to slow down–

You launched forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t soft.

It was heat and breath and years of longing breaking open all at once. His mouth met yours with a desperate groan, his hand leaving your wrist to grab your waist, yanking you into him like he needed to feel every inch of you, like just touching wasn’t enough. You could taste the rain on his lips, the bitter edge of frustration still lingering in the way he kissed you–hungry, fierce, like he was starved for this.

Your fingers curled into the wet fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as you gasped against his mouth. The warmth of his chest bled into yours, soaked cotton clinging to skin as he spun the both of you until your back hit the wall beside the door.

“God, you don’t even know,” Rhett growled against your mouth, his nose brushing yours as he leaned in again, kissing you deeper, rougher. “You don’t even fuckin’ know how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

His hands ran down your sides, settling heavy and possessive on your hips, thumbs digging into the waistband of your shorts as he pressed into you, chest to chest, thigh slipping between your legs like he had every right to be there. You moaned softly, the sound swallowed by his mouth as he leaned in harder, kissing you like he was trying to make up for every year he didn’t.

And all you could think was: finally.

Finally, he was holding you like he meant it. Kissing you like he wasn’t afraid anymore. Like the truth had broken loose and there was nothing left to hide behind.

You gasped as his hand slipped under your shirt, warm and rough against your rain-chilled skin, dragging a trail up your ribcage. Your body arched into him instinctively, your legs going weak under the weight of it all.

“Tell me you want this,” He murmured against your jaw, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell me I’m not the only one who’s been goin’ crazy.”

You grabbed him by the collar and pulled him right back to you.

“Just…Shut the fuck up and kiss me again.” You whispered, your voice ragged, nearly breaking, while your mouth was already bruised and hungry. Rhett’s breath hitched, and then he laughed—low, hoarse, and a little cocky. That boyish, infuriating smirk of his twitched at the corner of his lips as his forehead pressed to yours. His hand still clutched your waist, anchoring you like he’d drown without it.

“Well, hell,” he drawled, voice thick with heat and years of wanting, “You sound a little desperate, sweetheart.”

“Rhett,” you warned, already chasing after his mouth again.

But he kissed you before you could even threaten him further—kissed you like he was starved, like the sound of your voice made his restraint unravel. His hands slid back under your shirt, dragging up your ribs and then lower again, palms rough and reverent all at once. He gripped the back of your thighs, strong and certain, and then—

You yelped softly as he lifted you off the ground.

Your legs wrapped tight around his waist on instinct, like they’d done it a hundred times before, and your arms flew around his neck—one hand diving into his soaked curls, the other cradling his jaw like you needed to make sure he was real. His lips never left yours as he staggered forward, blindly navigating the loft until your back hit the bed in a messy sprawl.

You bounced once against the soft quilts, dazed.

Then Rhett was above you, peeling off his drenched shirt in one fluid motion, flinging it somewhere across the room with a wet slap. He stood over you for a moment, his chest rising and falling, water still dripping from the line of his collarbone, his abs heaving with every breath. His jeans clung to his hips, soaked dark and hanging low, every muscle in his body cast in golden light from the lamp on the nightstand.

You had seen him shirtless before. Plenty of times.

But not like this.

Not with your lips swollen from his kiss. Not with your thighs still tingling where his hands had gripped them. Not with your body burning for him in every place you had tried to forget existed.

He caught the look in your eyes—hungry, reverent, awestruck—and his smirk faded into something darker. Something heady.

He crawled onto the bed without saying a word, muscles shifting as he moved between your knees, spreading them apart with his palms like he had every right to. His fingers dug into your bare thighs, holding you open as he settled his hips against yours, weight pressing down with purpose.

Your breath hitched. Your hands slid up his chest–feeling the heat, the muscle, the scar near his ribs you knew by heart–and you kissed him again like you were trying to make up for every single day you hadn’t.

This one was feral.

Messy and frantic and clumsy in the best way. Tongues sliding, teeth grazing, mouths parting on gasps and moans as your hands moved like you couldn’t decide where to touch first. His fingers slipped beneath your shirt again, dragging the fabric up your sides and pushing until it bunched around your ribs.

You barely noticed. Too busy tangling yourself in him.

His hands found your hips again–then your jaw–then your ass. He was everywhere at once, and you couldn’t stop moaning into his mouth, couldn’t stop arching up to meet every roll of his body against yours. His jeans were soaked, and yours were barely on, and the heat between you was enough to dry everything that had been soaked by the storm.

It was the kind of kiss you didn’t come back from.

The kind that set fire to memory, that branded your ribs from the inside out.

You were breathing so hard you couldn’t tell where your lungs ended and his began, couldn’t remember a time before this–before his tongue was in your mouth and his hips were grinding against your core like he’d been waiting his whole damn life to do it.

And maybe he had.

“Fuck,” Rhett panted, his forehead pressed to yours again, voice thick with disbelief and hunger as his thumb stroked just beneath the edge of your shirt, “You got any idea what you do to me, do you?”

You barely had time to answer.

Because he kissed you again like you were oxygen and he’d been drowning all these years.

You moaned into the kiss, your body arching instinctively against his as your hand slid up his chest–not to push him away, but just to slow him, to breathe, to feel. Your palm pressed flat against the warmth of his skin, just above his heart, and Rhett stilled.

He pulled back enough to look at you, eyes dark but gentle, the storm in his chest quieting just a little.

“You okay?” He asked softly, thumb still brushing your waist.

You let out a breathless laugh, your fingers curling lightly into his damp curls. “Yeah,” You whispered, voice shaking with heat and adrenaline. “I just wanna take my shirt off.”

Rhett blinked, and then leaned back slightly, palms splayed beside your hips on the bed. “Yeah?” He asked, husky and reverent, giving you space.

You sat up on your elbows just enough to pull the oversized tee over your head in one quick motion, your breath catching as the cool air of the loft met your flushed skin. The fabric hit the floor with a quiet thud, and then you were left in nothing but your sleep shorts–bare from the waist up, your chest rising and falling with every ragged inhale.

Rhett didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just stared.

“Jesus Christ…” He muttered, eyes locked to your chest like he couldn’t decide if he should worship you or fall to his knees. “Holy crap.”

You let out another quiet laugh, flustered but aching, warmth blooming in your cheeks. “You okay there, cowboy?”

His eyes snapped up to yours. And then he leaned in again like he’d just remembered he could. Like the sight of you had lit something under his ribs.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” He breathed against your mouth before kissing you again, slower this time, reverent. His lips moved down your jaw, then your throat, then lower–pressing heat into every inch of skin like he was branding you with it.

You gasped as his mouth trailed to your collarbone, lips brushing, teeth grazing the dip there before he murmured, “You’re so fuckin’ pretty, you know that?”

Your hands found his hair again, tangling in the damp curls, anchoring him as he kissed his way down the slope of your chest. He paused at the top of your breast, glancing up with heat in his eyes, waiting–making sure.

You nodded.

That was all he needed.

His mouth closed over your breast, warm and wet and full of want, and you cried out softly as he sucked, his tongue flicking over your nipple until it peaked beneath his touch. His hand came up to cradle the weight of the other, thumb circling slow and steady as he dragged his mouth from one to the other, leaving open-mouthed kisses and a few soft marks in his wake.

You were already trembling. His mouth stayed latched to your breast, tongue dragging slowly over the sensitive peak, lips sucking just hard enough to make your back arch off the bed. And he didn’t look away–not once. His eyes burned into yours, half-lidded and dark with want, jaw working like he was savoring every fucking second. Every twitch. Every breathless sound you made.

And then he ground his hips into you–slow and deep, the press of his soaked jeans meeting the heat between your thighs in a rhythm that made your whole body jolt. You gasped, your thighs clenching around his waist instinctively, the friction too good and too much all at once.

“Fuck, Rhett—” you breathed, your fingers flying to his shoulders, nails dragging down his skin without thinking. You didn’t even realize how hard you were clutching him until he moaned.

Loud.

Right against your nipple.

The vibration of it sent a shock straight through your core, your breath catching as he pulled off with a wet pop, a string of spit connecting his mouth to your skin before it snapped and fell away.

His lips were pink and swollen. His chest was heaving. His hands still held your hips like they belonged to him.

And then—he licked his lips. Smirked a little. That cocky, heartbreaker smirk that always used to get him out of trouble when you were kids, only now it looked feral. Possessive. Dirty.

He dipped his head to the other side of your chest and gave the second nipple the same worship he’d given the first—slow, wet, reverent, his tongue flicking and swirling and teasing until your legs were trembling around his hips.

You could feel him growing harder with every second, the denim of his jeans rough against your thin sleep shorts, but neither of you moved to get rid of anything yet. You were too busy drowning in this.

In him.

His mouth. His heat. The way he held you like he’d been starving for this since the beginning of time.

He sucked harder, his teeth grazing the swollen bud just enough to make you whimper, and then he pulled off that one too–again, with a lewd, wet sound that left another line of spit trailing down your skin. His voice was rough as gravel when he finally spoke, eyes still locked to yours, lips slick and panting.

“I just wanna keep tasting you,” He rasped, his hands stroking up your sides like he needed to memorize you with his palms. “I wanna taste every fuckin’ inch of you. Wanna see what you’ve been hidin’ under all those smart-ass jokes and mechanic suits.” Your chest stuttered with a broken laugh, your nails still dug into his shoulders, dragging light lines down his back that made him shudder. His hips rolled into you again, more desperate this time, like he couldn’t help it, like the thought of you beneath him in nothing but your shorts was driving him insane.

“Go on then,” You whispered, voice wrecked and teasing and vulnerable all at once. “See for yourself.”

He growled low in his throat, and kissed you like it was a promise. Like he was going to do exactly that.

Rhett pulled back slowly, his breath ragged, his pupils blown wide as his gaze dragged down the length of your body like a man about to sink his teeth into something he wasn’t sure he deserved. His hands slid down your thighs–slow and warm, worshipful–and hooked just beneath the waistband of your shorts.

“You sure?” He asked, voice low and rough, throat tight with restraint even as his eyes burned with hunger.

You nodded.

That was all he needed.

He tugged the sleep shorts down your hips, inch by inch, until they peeled away from your skin like a secret being revealed. His eyes never left you–not even when the cotton slipped past your knees and off the edge of the bed. And when he saw what you weren’t wearing beneath?

His breath caught.

“Fuck me,” He groaned, so low it was almost a growl, his fingers tightening around your thighs. “You were just walkin’ around like this?” His voice dropped darker, hotter. “No fuckin’ underwear? Just wet and waitin’ under those shorts, huh?” You bit your bottom lip, heart hammering, skin blazing under his stare.

Rhett sat back on his knees between your legs, pushing them apart with both hands—broad palms sliding under your thighs to lift and spread you just a little more, until your heels dug into the mattress and you were completely, utterly bare for him.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Just stared like he was being given a miracle he hadn’t earned.

“Jesus, baby…” He whispered, voice gone reverent. “You’re fuckin’ drippin’–look at you.” His tongue darted out across his bottom lip, his breath shaky. “Bet you taste so goddamn sweet.”

You whimpered at the praise, back arching involuntarily as his grip on your thighs tightened. One hand slid down to grip behind your knee, pushing it gently up and open, his thumb stroking the soft skin there like he was trying to soothe your trembling.

Then–without warning–he dove in.

His mouth hit you like a man starved, tongue flattening and dragging up the length of your soaked heat with a groan that shook through your whole body. You gasped–hips jerking up off the mattress, but he was ready. His hands flew to your hips, pinning you down hard into the sheets.

“Just stay still…Lemme take care of you hmm?” Your fingers flew to his hair, gripping tight as his mouth slowly sealed around your clit. Rhett sucked hard–just once–and then started working you with his tongue like he’d been waiting his whole life to make you fall apart on his face. Long, slow licks. Then fast, eager circles. He switched between the two like he was chasing every sound you made, every gasp, every twitch of your thighs like it was a map.

“God–Rhett–” Your voice hitched, your hips trying to grind against his mouth again, your thighs trembling under his hold. He pressed them back down firmly, groaning against you.

“I said stay still,” He growled, so rough and low it vibrated straight through your core. You whined, writhing under the weight of his mouth, your thighs beginning to tremble.

His tongue flicked your clit again, fast, and then he pressed in deeper–his nose brushing your mound, his tongue fucking into you slow and deep, like he was drinking you down.

Your thighs clamped around his ears, but he just groaned–louder–and pressed in harder, his arms locking around your hips, holding you open for him like you were something holy.

You couldn’t stop moaning–couldn’t breathe around the pleasure curling tight in your gut. Your hands were still tangled in his hair, tugging, pushing, desperate and greedy as your hips rocked against his mouth without thinking.

Then he growled, pulling his mouth back just enough to speak–and the sight of him, lips shiny and jaw slick with your arousal, was filthy.

“I said stay still,” He rasped, grabbing your hips and pressing them back into the mattress with just enough force to make you cry out. You whimpered–your body shuddering at the dominance in his tone, the possessive heat of it—and nodded.

“Words, sweetheart,” He said, licking a slow stripe up your core. “I wanna hear it.”

“Yes,” You gasped. “Yes, Rhett–fuck–I’ll stay still–please, just–please don’t stop.”

He smirked into your core.

“Didn’t plan on it.”

And then he buried his face in you again–harder this time–his mouth moving like he was trying to tear the climax from your body with his tongue alone. His grip on your hips was iron, keeping you right where he wanted you, no escape, no mercy.

You came with a loud, shattering cry, your whole body jerking against the bed as pleasure tore through you like lightning, your thighs trembling against his shoulders.

Rhett didn’t stop.

Not through your first wave, or the second.

He kept licking, savoring you, sucking gently, coaxing every last tremble from your hips until you were shaking and soaked and boneless beneath him, your fingers still tangled in his hair like you didn’t know how to let go.

When he finally pulled back, his mouth was glossed with you, his jaw shining, his eyes wild and dark and full of need.

“Sweetest thing I’ve ever fuckin’ tasted,” He whispered, breathless, licking his lips as he hovered above you again.

And then he kissed you.

Messy. Deep. Dirty. Tongue sliding against yours, lips slick with your own arousal, like he wanted you to taste yourself on him.

You moaned into his mouth, and that sound lit him up from the inside. He pulled back just enough to let you breathe, his lips still glistening, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run flat-out for miles. You watched the way his tongue darted out across his bottom lip, savoring the taste of you one last time like he couldn’t help himself. Then his eyes flicked up to meet yours–warm, slightly sheepish–and his voice dropped, rough with apology but still trembling from the high.

“Sorry ‘bout bein’ a little rough…” He murmured, thumb tracing your hipbone. “I… I couldn’t really control myself once I got a bit of a taste. Sorry.”

You blinked at him, breathless, your cheeks flushed from everything he’d just wrung out of you. And then you laughed—a soft, low sound, all wrecked and wrecking. You reached up to brush the damp curls from his forehead, still tangled in the storm.

“It’s okay…” You whispered, lips twitching into a lazy smile. “It was pretty hot. Not gonna lie.”

That made him laugh—quiet and stunned, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that. His dimples showed through his scruff, and it lit him up from the inside out, that boyish grin making a brief return before it got swallowed by something deeper. He leaned in and kissed you again—slower now, lingering, lips brushing yours like he was memorizing the taste of your relief, your want, your voice wrapped around the words I need you.

And then he paused.

Just enough to pull back again, gaze searching yours, soft and careful.

“…You still okay?” he asked, voice quiet now. “Do you…Wanna stop here?”

Your heart clenched at the way he asked it–like it physically hurt him to offer the out, but he’d take it in a second if you needed it.

You shook your head immediately, voice low and steady.

“No,” you breathed. “No, I want to feel you. I need you more than ever right now.”

Rhett froze like he hadn’t expected that. His breath caught, visibly, audibly–and then his face flushed, blooming red across his cheekbones and down his throat. He blinked at you like you’d just shattered him with a single sentence.

“I’ll do anything you fuckin’ want,” he said hoarsely. “Anything.”

He leaned back onto his knees, hands sliding down your thighs once more as he slowly stood on his knees between them. You watched with wide eyes, breath caught behind your ribs, as his hands went to the waistband of his boxers. His fingers hooked into the elastic, and he hesitated–just for a second–like he needed to be sure one last time.

Then he pushed them down.

The fabric peeled away, soaked and clinging, and your mouth went dry.

Your breath hitched as your gaze dropped–then stalled.

Because Jesus Christ.

He was thick. Long. Heavy even before he touched himself–his cock flushed red, the head already leaking and shining in the low light of the loft. It hung low between his hips, resting briefly against his thigh before springing forward slightly, and your whole body reacted before your brain could catch up.

Your mouth actually watered.

You shifted on the bed, thighs spreading wider like your body already knew what it wanted, what it was about to take. The stretch… God, you could already feel it–imagine it–him splitting you open slow, his hips rocking forward while you clawed at his back. You wanted to feel him press in inch by inch until you were full–until you couldn’t think straight. You wanted all of it.

Rhett saw the look on your face–the hunger, the awe, the way your chest heaved and your lips parted–and his blush deepened, but his cock twitched in response, proud and aching.

He leaned down again, bracing one hand beside your head as he hovered over you, breath hot and voice trembling.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” He whispered, eyes locked to yours. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

You reached down, wrapped your fingers around the base of him, and watched as his jaw clenched tight, a guttural sound ripping from his throat.

“Don’t worry,” You whispered, He exhaled ragged against your cheek as you guided him closer, your fingers wrapped around the base of him–slow, sure, trembling just slightly. Rhett’s breath hitched again as the thick head of his cock pressed against your entrance, heat meeting heat, slick and swollen and pulsing with need. He braced a forearm beside your head, the other curling around your hand on him, intertwining your fingers like he needed to anchor himself.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” He whispered, voice hoarse, reverent. “You’re so fuckin’ wet–gonna slide in like you were made for me…”

You whimpered–because he was right.

Then, with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, he started to push in.

The stretch was immediate–hot and deep and toe-curling. Your lips parted on a breathless gasp, your head tipping back as your body opened for him inch by inch. Rhett groaned low in his throat, jaw clenched, eyes locked on where he was disappearing into you.

“Fuck–goddamn,” He hissed, gripping your hand tighter. “Tight little thing, huh? Grippin’ me like you never wanna let go…”

You moaned, your legs wrapping around his hips instinctively as he pushed deeper. His cock stretched you wide, the pressure sharp and perfect all at once, your body pulsing around him in greedy aftershocks. He paused halfway in, resting his forehead against yours, sweat and rainwater dripping down his temple.

“You okay?” He murmured, his voice shaky but tender.

You nodded, chest rising fast. “Don’t stop,” You breathed. “Please. Keep goin’. I need all of you.”

That broke him.

Rhett let out a ragged sound–half groan, half whimper–and pushed in deeper. You felt every inch of him drag against your walls, slow and thick, until finally, finally, his hips met yours, your bodies flush and trembling with the sheer weight of it.

He was fully inside.

You both stilled for a moment–just breathing, savoring it. You could feel him throbbing deep inside you, every twitch of him making your insides flutter. Rhett’s hand squeezed yours like a lifeline, and he brought it to his mouth, kissing your knuckles before resting it on the mattress between you.

“Goddamn,” He whispered, voice barely there. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven.”

You laughed, breathless and ruined, eyes glassy with heat and disbelief. “You sound like you’re about to cry, cowboy.”

He let out a half-choked chuckle, his hips giving an experimental roll. You both moaned at the same time, your bodies clutching together again like magnets. Rhett looked down at you, completely wrecked–his hair dripping, cheeks flushed, eyes blown wide with awe.

“Fuck—you’re so beautiful,” he murmured, shifting his weight back slightly.

He let go of your hand only long enough to bring the other up to your throat—just resting it there, fingers spread gently, reverently. His thumb stroked along the underside of your jaw, so tender it made your heart lurch.

”You are too,” You whispered, lips brushing his. “Every fuckin’ inch of you.”

His hips rocked again, deeper this time, and you arched into him with a soft cry, your nails digging into his shoulders. He kissed you hard, his hand at your throat grounding you, guiding you.

“That’s it,” He panted, voice rough. “Take me, baby. You’re takin’ me so damn well.”

“You’re fillin’ me so good,” You moaned, hips rising to meet every thrust. “I can feel you so deep–fuck, I swear I can feel you in my fuckin’ soul, Rhett.”

He let out a strangled noise–somewhere between a growl and a whimper–and his rhythm stuttered for just a second.

“You can’t say shit like that,” He gasped, laughing through it, completely undone. “You tryin’ to make me lose my damn mind?”

You grinned breathlessly, kissing him again, still giggling softly against his mouth as he started moving again–deeper, slower, more confident now.

And with every thrust, every filthy word, every moan tangled between you–it felt less like something you were giving and more like something you were reclaiming.

His rhythm stuttered again–once, then twice–like he was losing the reins. Like everything he’d been holding back was breaking loose all at once.

You could feel it in the way his hips began to roll faster, less controlled, more chaotic. His thrusts hit deeper, harder, the slick sounds of your bodies crashing together filling the space like a drumbeat under the rain.

“Rhett,” You gasped, voice high and trembling, your fingers clawing at his back now, digging in like you needed to anchor yourself before you flew apart again. “Fuck–you’re gonna make me come again–”

That did it.

His mouth crushed yours in a frantic kiss, all tongue and teeth and heat. He bit down on your bottom lip–firm but careful, pulling it between his teeth like he couldn’t help himself. You moaned into his mouth, loud and wrecked, and he swallowed it whole like he wanted to keep it forever.

“Good,” he growled against your lips, voice tight and broken. “Want you to. Wanna feel you come on me again–need it, baby, I need it–fuck–I’m close too–“

You could barely think. His hips were slamming into yours now, rough and desperate, each thrust so deep it sent sparks exploding behind your eyes. Your legs wrapped tighter around him, your back arching off the bed as his hand slid under your thigh, lifting it higher to get even deeper.

The room was filled with the sounds of skin meeting skin, the creak of the bed frame, the relentless rain outside–and your moans. Loud. Wild. Unfiltered.

“Oh my god–Rhett–Rhett–I’m–”

Your climax hit like a lightning strike.

You cried out–loud and raw–your whole body locking around him, legs trembling, hands clutching at his shoulders like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. Your pussy pulsed around him, gripping him tight, dragging him over the edge with you.

And he broke.

With a strangled groan, Rhett buried himself as deep as he could go and came hard–his whole body jerking against yours as he spilled inside you. His arms locked around you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he moaned low and desperate, his breath ragged and hot against your skin.

“Fuck, fuck–Jesus–” He gasped, whimpering softly as the pleasure rocked through him, his body trembling with the force of it. He gave one last shallow thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and then went still–completely spent, panting hard into the crook of your neck.

You both just laid there for a second. Breathing. Shaking. Floating.

The rain hadn’t stopped outside, but it felt quieter now, like even the storm was giving you a minute to collect yourselves.

Rhett eventually lifted his head, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes dazed and still wide with the aftershock. His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking gently across your cheek.

“You okay?” He asked softly, voice hoarse.

You nodded, breathless. “More than okay,” You whispered, your fingers pushing a strand of hair off his forehead. “I think you broke my brain a little.”

He laughed–weak and stunned and fucking glowing.

“Yeah?” He murmured, leaning in to kiss your nose. “Well…You wrecked me. So. We’re even.”

You both chuckled, quiet and wrecked and tangled up in each other. His weight was still resting on top of you, warm and solid and perfect, and you didn’t want him to move.

He kissed you again–soft this time, slow and sweet. Just once.

Then he pulled back slightly to look down at you, his eyes filled with something tender. Something quiet and wide and full of meaning.

“I swear to God, I’ve never felt anything like that,” He whispered. “Not ever. You ruined me, darlin’. In the best fuckin’ way.”

And somehow, that felt more intimate than anything else.

#rhett abbott x y/n #rhett abbott fic #rhett abbott smut #rhett abbott fanfiction #rhett abbott x reader #rhett abbott #outer range #rhett Abbott angst #rhett abbott fluff #lewis pullman the man you are #lewis pullman characters #lewis pullman #the hot hot heat of my steamy mind #Spotify

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societyfolklore · 3 months ago

Text

Trapped Together

Title: Trapped Together

Pairing: Sheild!Bucky Barnes x Sheild!Female Reader

Summary: A mission doesn’t go as planed. The result? Bucky and you find yourselves handcuffed together without the key and no easy way out.

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, Accidental Handcuffs, Forced Proximity, Smut, Fingering, Unprotected sex, Soft Dom Bucky, Mild Dubcon Elements (squint), Mentions of thigh riding, Porn with min plot.. but yeah.. No Beta

A/N: my entry for @avengers-assemble-bingo for Bucky 108th Bday event – Final square! Square: A2 – ‘I didn’t do a thing’ Card Number: 4B003 The mission was supposed to be simple- just a routine investigation of an old HYDRA base. No hostiles, no active threats, just a sweep for any lingering tech or classified intel. But, of course, things didn’t go to plan.

The air was thick with dust and the scent of rusted metal as you navigated the dimly lit corridors, your boots scuffing softly against the cracked concrete floor. The remains of outdated HYDRA technology sat abandoned, wires frayed, panels dark, the remnants of a long-dead organization still clutching at relevance. It should have been nothing more than a cleanup job- catalogue the junk, confirm there were no active threats, and get the hell out.

You were scanning a particularly decrepit-looking console, fingers grazing over a series of faded HYDRA insignias, when something clicked.

A sharp snap echoed through the room as a metal cuff clamped down around your wrist.

“Oh, shit,” you muttered, instinctively tugging at it.

“What happened?”

Bucky’s voice was immediate, sharp with concern. He was at your side in an instant, his vibranium hand gently gripped your forearm as he inspected the cuff. His brows furrowed as he studied the mechanism, and before you could warn him to be careful, his metal fingers drifted too close.

With a soft hiss, another cuff snapped into place- this time, locking around his vibranium wrist.

You both froze.

“Seriously?” you exhaled, staring at the unforgiving metal that now physically attached you to Bucky Barnes.

He let out a slow, deliberate breath through his nose. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Your heart hammered as you gave the restraint a sharp tug, testing it. The metal didn’t so much as shift. You turned, twisting your wrist, but Bucky moved with you- because there was no getting away.

Panic crept into your voice. “Okay, okay, we can just take these off, right?”

Bucky pulled at his side, first experimentally, then harder. The muscles in his jaw twitched as he yanked at it, but the cuff refused to budge. His frown deepened as he examined the lock.

“No keyhole.”

You blinked. “What do you mean ‘no keyhole’?”

“I mean,” he muttered, voice edged with irritation, “there’s no keyhole. No latch, no release.”

Your stomach did an uncomfortable flip. “So… what? We cut them off?”

Bucky flexed his vibranium fingers. “They’re HYDRA-made. If I try to break them, I could crush your wrist in the process.”

The realization settled between you, heavy and unshakable.

You inhaled sharply. “Fantastic.” Then, with far less patience: “We’re stuck.”

Bucky exhaled, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “Yup.”

And then the inevitable happened.

“This is your fault!” you snapped, yanking at the cuff in frustration, your wrist burning from the chafing metal.

Bucky had the audacity to smirk. “Doll, I didn’t do a thing.”

“You- ugh!” You yanked again, but it was pointless. You weren’t getting out of this without cutting off his damn arm, and even you weren’t cruel enough to suggest that he try to dismantle parts of it.

Being this close to him was already annoying on the best of days. His constant 'follow my lead' attitude, the way he always seemed so sure of himself- it drove you insane. And now? Now you were literally stuck to him. Your pulse kicked up for reasons you refused to acknowledge, and you scowled, masking the unease with irritation.

You huffed, turning your attention back to the restraint. “We need to find a way to break these.”

Bucky tilted his head, looking far too entertained. “Oh, I dunno. Could be fun like this.”

Your glare could have cut through steel. “We are not staying cuffed together, Barnes.”

Bucky shrugged, tugging lightly at the cuffs again. “I’m sure Stark will get us out of these once we get home.”

You grumbled under your breath. “Great. Our extraction isn’t scheduled until tomorrow.”

Bucky let out a dry chuckle. "Guess that means we're getting real cozy till then, huh?" He glanced down at where your wrists were bound together and smirked. "Hope you don’t snore, Doll."

Despite your efforts there was no solution. The cuffs were far beyond ordinary restraints. No brute force, no backdoor override, no simple trick was going to free you. And with Bucky’s metal arm restrained, even he wasn’t willing to risk hurting you to break them.

Which meant you had no choice but to wait for Tony to take a look.

And that? That was going to be a problem.

By the time night fell, exhaustion was settling in. You both managed to find a somewhat decent place to rest- an old, creaking bed in a safehouse nearby. The mattress was thin, the sheets smelled vaguely of dust and damp, but it was better than nothing. But sleeping while attached to Bucky Barnes was proving to be a nightmare.

“Stop moving,” you grumbled, trying to get comfortable without your arm getting yanked.

Bucky exhaled through his nose. “Kinda hard when you’re sprawled all over me, Doll.”

Your cheeks burned. “I’m not- ”

But you were.

There was no way around it- his arm was wrapped around you, keeping you pressed against his side. Every shift, every twitch of his muscles, sent a jolt of awareness through you. The heat of his body, the solid weight of him, the sheer size of him against you…

You tried to shift away, but the cuffs made it impossible. Every tiny movement just pressed you closer, your body molding against his like a puzzle piece that fit all too well. You could feel the way his chest rose and fell, steady, unbothered- while your own breath was coming far too fast for comfort.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered, twisting slightly, only to freeze as Bucky's grip instinctively tightened around you.

“Doll,” his voice was low, rough with sleep, “if you keep wiggling like that, neither of us are getting any rest.”

Heat flared in your cheeks. “I’m not- ” But you were, again, shifting just enough to feel the tension coiled in his muscles, the slow flex of his vibranium fingers resting against your waist.

You swallowed hard, willing your body to ignore the way he felt against you. But it was impossible- the warmth, the solid weight, the steady, controlled power that had you feeling far too aware of every single breath he took. You could smell him, the faint traces of sweat and gunpowder mixed with something unmistakably Bucky.

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Just go to sleep.”

Silence stretched between you before Bucky let out a slow chuckle, the vibrations rolling through his chest, through you.

“Whatever you say, Doll.”

And somehow, despite everything, you did.

You blinked awake, mind still foggy. The sky outside the safehouse window had shifted to muted shades of gray, the first signs of dawn creeping in through the thin curtains. The air was thick with early morning stillness, broken only by the soft creaks of the old bed beneath you. As you stirred, trying to shift into a more comfortable position, something stopped you.

Something warm. Solid. Heavy. The unmistakable weight of an arm draped over you, pinning you in place. Not just any arm- his arm. The hard, unyielding pressure of metal wrapped around your waist, anchoring you to him even as he slept. The sensation was grounding and suffocating all at once, leaving you hyper-aware of every shift, every breath, every slow, unconscious squeeze of his vibranium fingers against your bare skin.

But it wasn’t just his arm. Sometime during the night, you had gotten tangled together, his leg slipped between yours, pressing up against your crotch in a way that made your breath stop. The pressure, subtle yet insistent, had you far too aware of how sensitive you felt, of the heat pooling low in your belly. The way your body responded, the way the tension in the air had shifted from mere discomfort to something else entirely.

You tried to move his hold was unyielding so you shifted back.

Only this time your butt was pressed firmly against something unmistakable.

Bucky was hard.

Heat rushed up your spine, your senses suddenly painfully aware of everything- the solid warmth of his chest flush against your back, the slow, deep rhythm of his breathing, and the way his hips had begun rocking against you, even in sleep.

You swallowed hard, torn between panic and something far more dangerous as another slow, instinctive roll of his hips sent a spark of heat straight to your core. You should move- you should wake him up- but then a quiet, needy sound slipped from his lips, muffled where his face had buried against the back of your neck.

His vibranium hand flexed, the cooler metal splaying over your stomach. Skin to metal. Your shirt had ridden up during the night, leaving you bare beneath his touch, and when his thumb brushed the soft skin just beneath your ribs, your entire body tensed. A shiver rolled through you, unbidden, and that’s when you felt it-

Your own arousal.

The ache that pulsed in time with the steady press of his body against yours. The sharp awareness of how easily, how seamlessly, your bodies fit together, the tension stretched so tight between you it felt like a live wire.

You needed to wake him up.

But trapped as you were, there was no room to press your thighs together- only to shift, just barely, along the firm muscle of his leg between yours. The motion sent a ripple of sensation through you, what had you done in the night that had gotten you as wet you were becoming. Shifting your hips again trying to do something to make it better- Bucky growled.

His nose brushed against the back of your neck, breath hot, lips so close to your skin. His hips pressed against you again, slower, deliberate, sending a shockwave through your already tense body. His grip on your stomach tightened, just enough for you to feel it, to need more.

Then came the sharp, teasing graze of teeth against your nape.

His voice was hoarse, rough with sleep and something else entirely when he muttered, “Stop moving, Doll. You’re making it worse.”

His breath fanned against your skin, sending another shudder through you, and suddenly you weren’t sure who was torturing who.

You stiffened, before trying to move away.

"I just- "

"Said stop moving." His grip tightened, pulling you back against him, his leg pushing up harder, and you swallowed the moan that nearly slipped past your lips.

"Been teasing me all damn night in your sleep."

"I didn’t do a thing.”

"Really?" His breath was hot against your ear, voice rough and edged with something dangerous. "'Cause I can smell it, you know..."

Your stomach flipped. "What?"

Bucky's fingers flexed against your bare skin, his tone dark with amusement. "You. Been leaving little wet patches on my leg with all your grinding…"

His words sent another wave of heat through you, your breath hitching as your body betrayed you yet again. Bucky hummed, his lips grazing your neck as his grip on your waist tightened. "Drove me crazy, y'know. All those little sleepy moans while you were riding my leg. Thought I was imagining it at first, but nah- " his teeth nipped at the delicate skin just below your ear, making you jolt, "- you were using me, weren’t you?"

"I wasn’t- "

"You're always such a brat in the field, you a brat in the bed, too, Doll?" His voice was smug, teasing, completely in control now. Your fingers clenched around the cuffed hand as he slowly dragged it down your stomach, his movements deliberate, testing. You tensed, instinctively trying to pull his hand back up, but the metal was unyielding. His fingers merely flexed beneath yours, a silent warning that he could take control if he wanted to.

"Don't get all shy on me now, sweetheart…" Bucky murmured, his lips tracing a slow, heated path down the side of your throat. "Not after all the trouble you've already caused."

Bucky's hand cupped you through your pants, his palm pressing against the damp fabric, making you gasp. A dark chuckle rumbled against your neck as he felt the heat radiating through the thin material.

"Undo your pants," he murmured, the command cutting through the thick haze of tension.

You found yourself shifting, your own shaking fingers undoing the button and pulling down the zipper, Bucky’s hand sliding in without hesitation. The sensation made you arch, your body betraying you as his fingers made contact. A little whimper slipped from your lips before you could stop it.

"All that grinding made you all ache and sensitive, Babydoll…" His metal finger barely pressed your underwear against your swollen clit, the faintest amount of pressure making your breath stutter.

Bucky hummed in satisfaction, his fingers starting a slow, teasing circle over the fabric still covering you. "Bet you've been dripping for me all night," he murmured, his lips tracing the shell of your ear. "So wet and needy, and you don’t even wanna admit it."

His hand slid further, fingers pushing past the final barrier of fabric to find you bare beneath, slick and ready. He groaned at the feel of you, his grip tightening as his fingers slipped through your wetness, coating themselves in evidence of your arousal. "Fuck, sweetheart… you're soaking."

A strangled sound caught in your throat as his fingers circled your clit, the cool contrast of metal making you shudder. You tried to resist the pleasure flooding through you, but Bucky was relentless, keeping you spread open with his thigh between yours.

"Bucky- "

"Shh, sweetheart. Just let me feel you," he whispered, voice thick with desire. His hand moved with intent now, slow and devastating strokes that had you trembling against him. "That’s it, good girl… just like that."

His fingers slid lower, teasing along your folds, gathering the slickness that betrayed just how much you wanted this. A wicked smirk ghosted across his lips as he pressed against your entrance, just barely dipping in before pulling back, his touch agonizingly light.

"So sensitive," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. "So fuckin’ wet for me."

You let out a strangled moan as his metal finger circled your clit again, more pressure this time, more purpose. Heat coiled low in your stomach, each slow stroke sending sparks of pleasure racing through your veins. Your hips moved before you could stop them, chasing the friction he so cruelly teased you with.

"That’s it, sweetheart," Bucky coaxed, voice laced with dark amusement. "Knew you wanted this. Knew you couldn’t resist."

You barely had time to bite back another moan before he flipped you onto your stomach, his grip firm as he pressed your cuffed hand down against the mattress. His free hand slid to your hip, tugging your pants lower, the cool air ghosting over your bare skin making you shiver.

The bed creaked as he moved behind you, the unmistakable sound of his belt being undone making your breath hitch. The rasp of his zipper sent anticipation curling through your spine, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress keeping you exactly where he wanted you. His own pants coming down, the clank of his metal belt

"Been waiting for this all night," Bucky murmured, his hand smoothing over the curve of your ass before squeezing. You felt your hips raise back to meet his hand, instinctively seeking friction, rubbing against the heavy, hard length pressed against you.

He groaned at the contact, his breath coming out harsher as he gripped your waist, his flesh hand against your skin. "That’s it, sweetheart," he muttered, grinding his cock against you slow and deliberate. "You want it, don’t you?"

You barely had time to answer before his free hand slid between your thighs, fingers teasing along your already slick folds. "So fuckin' wet for me," he groaned, his touch purposeful as he spread your arousal with slow, torturous strokes. "Bet you were dreamin' about this, weren't you? Ridin' my leg, gettin' yourself all worked up..."

Your breath stuttered, a whimper slipping from your lips as he pushed a finger inside you properly, curling it just right, making your body jolt. The pleasure was overwhelming, too much and not enough all at once.

"Bucky- " you gasped, barely able to form the words as he worked you open, his touch both devastating and precise.

"Yeah?" His voice was low, teasing, his breath warm against your skin as he pressed another finger in, stretching you further, our cunt clenching and holding onto his fingers. "That feel good, sweetheart? You gonna admit how bad you wanted this?"

Your fingers curled into the sheets, a desperate moan slipping from your lips as he thrust his fingers deeper, stroking the spot that had you trembling.

"Fuck- Bucky, I- " you tried, but your words cut off into a whimper when his thumb circled your clit, sending another wave of pleasure through you.

"That’s it," he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. "Let me hear you."

Bucky chuckled, dark and pleased, withdrawing his hand only to replace it with the heavy press of his cock against your entrance. "Gonna take my time with you, Doll," he murmured, voice thick with hunger. "Gonna stretch you open nice and slow... make sure you feel every inch."

And then, with a deep, steady push, he sank into you, stretching you inch by inch, until there was nothing left between you but heat, pressure, and the raw, unrelenting pleasure of being completely, utterly filled.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he groaned, the weight of him making it impossible to properly move. Your walls fluttering around him as you let out a soft whine.

Bucky’s fingers tightened against your hips, his breath ragged against the back of your neck. “That’s it, not so sassy now, are ya baby?” he murmured, voice thick with amusement. His thrusts deepened, each roll of his hips sending pleasure spiking through you. “Just needed my fat cock to make you behave.”

A choked moan escaped your lips, your body arching instinctively, pushing back against him. The stretch, the pressure- it was too much and not enough, and you couldn’t stop the desperate sounds spilling from your throat.

Bucky chuckled darkly. “Fuck, listen to you,” he groaned, his pace picking up, the slap of skin against skin echoing in the room. “Moanin’ like a needy little thing. Thought you hated being stuck with me?”

You couldn’t even answer, couldn’t form words between gasps and whimpers.

“C’mon, sweetheart, use your words,” he taunted, his flesh hand slipping beneath you, fingers finding your clit. “Tell me how good I feel stretching you out.”

Your breath hitched, your back arching as pleasure ripped through you. “Bucky- I- fuck- ”

He groaned, thrusting harder, deeper, hitting that spot that made you see stars. “That’s it, take it, baby,” he rasped. “You’re so fuckin’ tight- so fuckin’ perfect wrapped around me.”

Your body clenched, heat coiling in your belly, the pleasure unbearable as his fingers worked you mercilessly, pushing you closer to the edge.

““Gonna come for me?” Bucky growled, his grip on your waist tightening. “Gonna soak my cock like a good girl?”

Your breath hitched, your body tightening around him, the pressure building unbearably fast. His fingers on your clit never relented, pushing you closer and closer, his thrusts turning sharper, rougher, until it was too much-

The pleasure crashed over you in a blinding wave, your cry muffled into the pillow as your body convulsed beneath him. You clenched around him, squeezing him so tight he let out a strangled moan, his grip on your waist turning bruising.

“Fuck- just like that,” he groaned, his rhythm faltering, his body seizing as he drove into you one last time before he buried himself deep, spilling into you with a deep, shuddering groan. The heat of it sent aftershocks rippling through you, your body still pulsing with the remnants of your orgasm as he slumped over you, both of you panting, sweat-slicked, and utterly spent.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress. His breath fanned over the back of your neck, warm and uneven, his heart hammering against your spine. Neither of you spoke, your bodies still tangled, still connected, the cuffs a firm reminder that there was no pulling away just yet.

Bucky chuckled breathlessly, his lips ghosting over your shoulder as he murmured, “Guess being stuck together ain’t so bad after all, huh?”

His words sent a lazy shiver through you, but you were too boneless, too utterly wrecked to argue. Instead, you let your eyes drift shut, exhaling slowly, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back.

Yeah, you were definitely in trouble.

By the time backup arrived, you were fully dressed again, but nothing about the tension had faded. If anything, it had settled deeper. The flight home was quiet, and you were quiet too.

Bucky hadn’t let go of you the entire time. His fingers brushed your thigh every so often, casual, like it was nothing. Normally, you would have said something- told him to quit it, nudged him away- but right now, your brain was too hazy, too fluffy to form a real thought. The ache between your legs made every small movement an unspoken reminder of where he'd been, of what he'd done.

You kept your eyes on the window, forcing yourself to breathe, to act normal. But in the reflection, you saw it-

Bucky watching you.

That same small, satisfied smile on his face.

As the jet touched down, Bucky finally pulled at the cuffed connection, his vibranium arm giving a gentle but insistent tug. Your gaze snapped up, attention pulled from the window as your fingers instinctively curled into your lap.

"On your feet, Doll. Don't wanna keep Stark waiting."

"Yes, Sir." The words left your lips before you could even think about them, your breath hitching the moment you realized what you’d said.

Sir? When had that slipped into your vocabulary?

Bucky’s smirk deepened, though he didn’t comment, just gave a slow hum of amusement as he stood, the cuffed hand ensuring you followed right after. Blinking, heat creeping into your cheeks, you cleared your throat and got to your feet, falling into step slightly behind him as you made your way toward Stark’s lab.

Tony raised an eyebrow at the sight of you and Bucky, still cuffed together. "What the hell happened here?"

"Long story," Bucky muttered, avoiding your gaze, though his grip on the cuffed hand lingered a second too long before finally letting go.

Once the cuffs were finally removed, you should have felt relief. Should have been grateful to be free. But instead… you hesitated.

Bucky hesitated, too.

You both lingered, standing too close, the air between you charged with something unspoken. His fingers flexed at his side like he was fighting the urge to touch you again, his jaw tightening as his gaze flickered over you, lingering on the places he'd marked just hours ago. And for one, sharp moment, you thought he might- might say something, might pull you back in, might remind you exactly how good you felt under him.

But then, he just smirked. Slow, knowing, dangerous.

"Don’t think this means you’re off the hook, Doll."

Your breath caught. "I’m not?"

Bucky leaned in, his voice dipping into something husky. "Not even close."

His eyes held yours, heavy with meaning, and your stomach flipped, heat flooding your face and running down your chest. You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering as he finally stepped back-

But instead of leaving, he gave your cuffed hand a light tug, guiding you toward the hallway. "C'mon, sweetheart," he murmured, his smirk deepening. "Think it's time I take you somewhere a little more comfortable."

Your breath hitched, your body still too warm, too sensitive from everything that had happened. "Bucky- "

He shot you a look over his shoulder, teasing but firm. "Unless you wanna sleep alone tonight?"

A nervous giggle bubbled up before you could stop it, and you cleared your throat, shaking your head as he led you toward his bedroom.

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cl0udy3 · 3 months ago

Note

PLEASE PLEASE DO ELLIE WITH A BREEDING KINK PLEASE I BEG YOU

𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐓

ellie williams x fem!reader literally just smut and the smallest amount of fluff at the end cw: breeding kink, use of a strap on, overstimulation, strap on has synthetic cum, cum play i think, honestly i dont know what else to warn of just 18+ wc: 1780 a/n: i think this is the first request i've gotten that isn't a mutual, i love you pls enjoy :D

The first time you feel it, you gasp—because it’s hot. Not just the strap-on pressing into you, thick and pulsing, but the way Ellie’s been moving. Slow, deep. Measured. Like she’s memorizing the way you flutter around her, like she’s in no rush to be anywhere but inside you.

You’re on all fours, arms trembling, muscles already beginning to give under the weight of everything—her hands, her rhythm, her presence.

Ellie’s behind you, one palm steady against your lower back, the other curled tight around your hip like she owns it.

Like she owns you.

“You hear that?” she murmurs, voice low and honey-dark against your spine. “That slick little sound every time I fuck back in?”

You try to nod, but she gives a sharp thrust—your breath catches in your throat as your body jerks forward with a soft, broken sound.

“God, baby,” she groans, dragging her hips back just enough to leave you empty—aching—before slamming forward again. “You’re fucking dripping.”

She leans in then, chest flush against your back, warm skin to warm skin, her breath ghosting over your neck. The weight of her pins you down in a way that makes your pulse stutter.

"You wanna know the best part?" she whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear, words sweet and cruel all at once. "This strap? It's not just for show tonight."

You blink, dazed. Your head lolls to the side, already swimming.

She chuckles—low, dark, mean. “It’s loaded.”

Your stomach flips.

“You’re lying,” you whisper, your voice frayed, cracking at the edges.

She grinds in deeper—so deep—until your knees threaten to buckle beneath you.

“Feel that?” she purrs. “That weight? That heat?”

You let out a whimper, eyes fluttering shut.

“That’s what I’m giving you, babe. Not just a fuck. Not just this—” she pulls out halfway, the sudden emptiness making you whine “—but a full load. Gonna fill you up so good.”

Your moan is helpless, muffled against the sheets, your thighs starting to shake. You’re already wrecked and she hasn’t even started yet.

Ellie kisses your shoulder—slow, claiming—before sitting back up and planting both hands firmly on your waist.

And then she really starts fucking you.

No teasing. No games.

Just hard, relentless strokes that have you seeing stars, pressing back against her like you’re trying to climb out of your own skin. Each thrust is a wave that crashes over you, your cunt so wet it’s obscene, the sound echoing off the walls every time her hips slam into you.

She’s panting now. Cursing.

“You’re takin’ it so damn well,” she mutters, almost like she’s in awe. “Fucking made for this. Bet your pussy’s already tryin’ to milk it outta me.”

You cry out—loud, wild, desperate.

She loves it.

“Gonna come in you,” she growls, voice ragged. “Fuck, I have to. You need it, don’t you?”

You nod frantically, barely coherent. Just gasps. Moans. Crooked, breathless please’s.

Her hand slips around to your front, fingers slick as they find your clit—swollen and begging for her. She rubs in tight, ruthless circles, syncing with the rhythm of her hips.

“Beg for it,” she growls. “Come on. Tell me.”

“Wanna feel it,” you sob, wrecked and trembling. “Want you to come inside me. Please, Ellie—please—I want it so bad—”

That’s all she needs.

She drives in deep, one final time, her whole body tightening like a wire.

Her hand moves to the base of the strap. Presses something.

And then you feel it.

The heat. The weight. Liquid warmth spilling into you in thick, pulsing waves. It rushes deep and slow, filling you until your body can’t tell the difference between pleasure and overload.

Your whole world snaps white.

You come hard—loud and shaking—clenching around the strap as her cum pours into you, grinding your hips back like your body’s trying to hold onto every drop.

Ellie moans—low and guttural, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades as she rides it out.

But she doesn’t pull out.

She stays inside.

When you collapse, it’s not graceful—it’s a full-body crumple, face-first into the sheets, limbs shaking and useless. Your breath comes in short, stuttered bursts. Everything’s wet. Your skin. The sheets. Your thighs, sticky and trembling.

Ellie follows you down without a word, still buried deep inside.

She curls around you from behind, one leg thrown over yours, strap pressing heavy between your thighs. Her chest is slick against your back, rising and falling with shallow, uneven breaths. You feel her heartbeat everywhere. In your spine. In the strap. In the way her arms wrap around you like she’s afraid you’ll vanish.

It’s too much. Too hot. Too full.

And it’s still dripping.

She kisses the back of your neck. Soft. Barely there. Like a secret.

Her hand drifts down—lazy, possessive—settling low on your belly. Right over the fullness she’s given you. She presses gently, and your breath catches.

“Keep it in,” she whispers, lips brushing your skin. “Just like that. Let it sit.”

You twitch, overstimulated, but you don’t move. Can’t. Her weight is everywhere. Her scent, her sweat, her breath. You’re wrapped in her like a second skin.

And then—God—her hand moves between your legs again.

You jerk violently, legs kicking weakly against the sheets. “Ellie—”

She kisses your shoulder. Calms you with her mouth before she even says a word.

“One more, baby,” she murmurs. “Just one more for me. Want you messy. Want it dripping down your thighs.”

She starts moving again.

Not fast.

Not rough.

Just deep.

Slow, dragging thrusts that make your spine arch and your hands claw weakly at the bed. She’s not trying to break you. Not anymore. Now she’s claiming. Reminding. Filling every inch of you with slow, deliberate strokes.

You’re whimpering now—quiet, wet little noises. The kind that don’t come from pain or even pleasure anymore. Just surrender.

The air is thick with sweat and slick and heat, heavy with every sound your body makes for her. The strap slides in and out like it belongs there, and her cum leaks around it, warm and sticky, trailing down your thighs in thick, glistening lines.

Ellie watches it.

Stares.

Her hand moves again—down, between your legs. Her fingers dip into the mess. She moans at the feel of it.

Then she does the unthinkable.

She gathers what’s leaked out—slowly, deliberately—and pushes it back in with two thick fingers.

You scream.

It’s not loud. It’s not sharp. But it’s wrecked. Raw. A helpless, breathless noise that dies in your throat as your body locks up.

“Shhh,” Ellie soothes, lips against your ear. “Can’t waste it, baby. Need it all in you.”

You sob, trembling under her, every nerve ending lit and sparking.

“I—fuck—I can’t—”

She presses her forehead to your shoulder, her breath trembling.

“You can,” she says softly. “You already are.”

She curls her fingers inside you. Just once. Just to feel the way you flutter and twitch around her.

You moan her name, broken and soft.

And it undoes her.

She melts against your back, wraps both arms tight around you and holds you like she’s scared you’ll come apart. And maybe you are. You’re so far gone, so full and overwhelmed and loved in a way that leaves no room for shame.

“Gonna take care of you now,” she whispers, voice ragged with the weight of it all. “I got you. Just breathe.”

And you do.

You let her.

Because she’s still inside you.

Still full.

And her arms around you are the only thing holding you together.

Time gets strange after that.

You don’t know how long you lay there—half-conscious, too full and too gone to move. The only thing anchoring you is Ellie. The press of her chest against your back. Her arms wound tight around you like you're something fragile she’s terrified to break.

You’re not even sure if the strap’s still in you until you shift a little and feel the wet weight of it, thick and heavy, keeping her mess inside. You make a tiny sound—barely a whimper—and Ellie kisses the back of your neck.

“I know, baby,” she murmurs, her voice all silk and ache. “I know.”

She doesn’t rush to pull out. Doesn’t try to move you. Just lies there, wrapped around your wrecked body, fingertips tracing soft patterns across your stomach. The spot where her cum sits thick and warm, like she’s painting it in.

“You did so good,” she whispers. “Took all of me. Let me ruin you, just like that.”

You exhale shakily. Your voice is barely there when you speak.

“I feel…so full…”

Ellie hums, nuzzles into your shoulder. “That’s because you are, sweetheart. Stuffed full’a me.”

Her hand moves down again, between your thighs—but not to tease. Just to feel the mess she’s made, to swipe her fingers gently along your folds where her release is still leaking out.

You flinch, too sensitive, but she soothes you with soft kisses.

“Easy,” she murmurs. “Just checking. Want to make sure you’re okay.”

You nod slowly, even though your body still feels like melted wax.

“I got you,” she says again, like a promise. “Let me take care of you.”

Eventually, when your breathing steadies and your hands stop shaking, she shifts. Pulls out slowly, gently, her free hand stroking your hip like she’s apologizing for the loss.

The moment she’s gone, you feel the drip—hot, running down your thighs. You moan softly, squirming at the sensation.

Ellie shushes you with another kiss.

“Stay right there,” she says.

She disappears for a moment, then returns with a warm, damp cloth. You barely open your eyes as she starts to clean you up—careful, reverent. She murmurs soft nothings under her breath as she works.

“You’re such a good girl. Let me fill you up like that. Let me have you.”

She kisses your inner thigh.

“I should take a picture,” she says, voice playful but low. “Your pretty little cunt, leaking for me. Proof you’re mine.”

You whine, pressing your face into the pillow, but you don’t tell her no.

Once she’s done, she tosses the cloth aside and climbs back into bed, pulling you into her arms. Your body fits against hers like it was always meant to be there—her chest under your cheek, her fingers carding slowly through your hair.

“Still with me?” she asks quietly.

You hum a soft yes. You’re tired, fucked out, but safe. Held.

Ellie presses a kiss to your temple.

“Good. Just sleep, baby. I’ve got you.”

You drift off wrapped in her warmth, her scent all around you, the ache between your legs a pulsing reminder of everything she gave you.

And everything you let her take.

this was kind of rushed and short and i think maybe a little bad pls no hate ily guys

#ellie williams x reader #ellie x reader #ellie williams #ellie tlou #ellie the last of us #ellie x fem reader #tlou ellie #ellie williams smut #ellie williams x female reader #i love my wife #my sweet beautiful wife #i know you guys love her too

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youronlinedadsblog · 4 months ago

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Tw/ R@pe

The basement’s a dank, concrete hole, lit by a single flickering bulb swinging from a frayed cord. The air’s heavy with mildew and rust, the kind of stench that clings to your skin. She’s down here, wrists bound tight with coarse rope, tied to a rusted pipe jutting from the wall. She’s a curvy little thing—thick thighs, heavy tits spilling out of a ripped tank top, dark hair matted with sweat and dirt. Her denim shorts are shredded at the seams, barely clinging to her hips, and her bare feet scrape the grimy floor as she twists against the restraints. She’s been mouthing off all night, calling me a sick fuck, a psycho, but her voice is hoarse now, cracking with every curse.

I’ve had her locked down here for hours, ever since I dragged her in from that shady bar where she was shaking her ass for tips. She’s the type—loud, bratty, the kind of desperate whore who flaunts it like she’s untouchable, secretly craving someone to break her. I’m leaning against a rickety table, shirtless, jeans low on my hips, a belt coiled in my hand like a snake ready to strike. My cock’s already twitching, straining against the denim, just from watching her squirm.

“Keep pulling, bitch,” I growl, stepping closer, boots thudding on the concrete. “You’re not going anywhere.” Her hazel eyes flash with defiance, but there’s something else there—fear, yeah, but also that flicker of heat, that fucked-up spark that says she’s wired for this. I grab her jaw, hard, forcing her to look up at me, my fingers digging into her soft cheeks. “You think you’re tough? I’m gonna fuck that attitude right out of you.”

She spits in my face, a weak glob that lands on my chin, and I laugh—dark, low, wiping it off with a smirk. “Oh, you’re gonna regret that.” I swing the belt, the leather cracking against her thigh with a sharpthwack. She yelps, body jerking, a red welt blooming fast on her pale skin. I don’t give her time to recover—grabbing her tank top, I rip it down the front, letting her tits bounce free. They’re heavy, nipples stiff despite her snarling, and I slap one, watching it jiggle as she gasps through gritted teeth.

“Fucking asshole!” she snaps, voice trembling, but her legs shift, thighs rubbing together like she can’t help it. I drop the belt, unzipping my jeans, and pull out my cock—thick, veined, leaking precum in a fat bead. Her eyes widen, locked on it, and I see that hunger flash again, even as she tugs at the ropes. “Don’t you fucking dare,” she hisses, but it’s weak, breaking into a whimper as I yank her shorts down, tearing them off her ankles. No panties—just her pussy, plump and glistening, lips swollen like she’s been thinking about this all along.

“Shut up,” I snarl, grabbing her hips and flipping her around, forcing her ass up against the pipe. The ropes twist her arms back, shoulders straining, and I kick her legs apart, exposing her dripping cunt. She’s soaked—fucking drenched—and I don’t bother with prep, just slam into her with one brutal thrust. She screams, raw and ragged, walls clenching tight around me, so hot and wet it’s like she’s sucking me in. “Yeah, you wanted this, you desperate slut,” I grunt, pounding her harder, my balls slapping her clit with every shove.

Her cries turn to moans, involuntary, spilling out as I grip her hair, yanking her head back. “No—no—fuck you!” she chokes, but her hips rock back against me, greedy, betraying her. I feel her tighten, that telltale pulse, and I pull out, leaving her gasping, empty. “Not yet, whore.” I spit on her ass, smearing it over her puckered hole, and shove in—no warning, no mercy. She bucks, a guttural wail tearing from her throat, ass so tight it’s choking my cock. Blood slicks the way, mixing with her sweat, and I ram deeper, feeling her stretch and tear.

“Look at you, taking it like a good little bitch,” I taunt, slapping her ass hard, leaving a handprint. Her body shakes, tits swinging, and I reach around, pinching her clit—hard. She convulses, a muffled “fuck!” slipping out as she cums, pussy gushing down her thighs, soaking the floor. I don’t stop, fucking her ass raw, the wet squelch of cum and blood filling the room until I’m unloading, pumping her full, thick spurts dripping out as I pull back.

She slumps against the pipe, panting, wrecked, ropes biting into her wrists. Her ass is a mess—red, gaping, leaking my cum—and her eyes are glazed, that bratty fire dimmed but still smoldering. I crouch down, grabbing her chin again, forcing her to meet my gaze. “Say it,” I growl. “Say you fucking loved it.”

Her lips tremble, voice a broken whisper. “I… loved it.” I smirk, standing, leaving her there, bound and dripping, knowing she’ll stay until I decide otherwise.

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mandoalorian · 1 month ago

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all that we carry [bucky barnes x f!reader]

pairing: new avenger!bucky x f!reader

synopsis: tensions explode after a devastating revelation. emotions surge, powers spiral, and two people collide in the aftermath of everything they thought they knew. in the quiet that follows, something new begins to take root — fragile, charged, and impossible to ignore.

word count: 7400

rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content, mentions of torture, kidnapping, allusions to abuse from reader's ex boyfriend, both physical and psychological, canon typical violence, bucky's void rooms, mentions of the death of family member, overall a very dark chapter but i promise the ending makes it worth it. <3 thunderbolts* spoilers of course.

masterlist

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The Manhattan sky was low and sullen, clouds hanging heavy with a steady drizzle that soaked the city’s edges in cold gray. Rain glinted off sidewalks and gutters, off the sleek metal of passing cars and the glass facades of buildings. The world felt muffled, damp, and blurred—like someone had pressed a trembling hand over the lens of reality.

Bucky walked with his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of memory and something more dangerous—want. The cold didn’t touch him. He’d lived through worse. But the memory of you—pressed against him in the dark, barely a breath between your thighs and his hips—that clung to him like the heat of summer.

His knuckles still ached from the way he’d clenched his fists in that goddamn closet. Your warmth had been branded onto him—your soft breath against his collarbone, your bare thighs brushing against his jeans, the tension so sharp it had felt like a live wire between your bodies. He could still smell your skin, clean and sweet from the shower, laced faintly with the fabric of your hoodie.

It was driving him mad.

He kept walking. Shoulders tense beneath his dark jacket, boots striking the slick sidewalk with purpose he didn’t actually feel. He just needed to move. Put distance between himself and the closet. Between himself and you.

God, you were everywhere. The feel of your breath ghosting against his neck, your legs spread just slightly for him as if your body trusted him more than your words ever would. Your hoodie had ridden up when you shifted, revealing bare skin and nothing but thin shorts beneath—and fuck, he’d felt it. Felt you. Warm and soft against his jeans, against his thigh, and it had taken everything in him not to lose control.

But he couldn’t not touch you. Not when the space had vanished between your bodies. Not when your lips had parted like you wanted to say something else—something he wasn’t ready to hear.

So he’d left. Because staying meant falling.

And he’d been doing too much of that lately.

A voice cracked through the sound of rainfall behind him.

“Bucky!”

He flinched.

Your voice. He knew it like a prayer, like a warning. It carried over the hum of traffic and the splash of tires cutting through puddles, frayed with something broken—confusion? Hurt?

Was it really you? Or was he just that haunted by you, he was imagining things.

He didn’t stop. His jaw locked. His steps didn’t falter.

“Bucky, wait!”

No, it was real. It was true. It was you.

Every part of him screamed to look back. But he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Because if he did… he might’ve kissed you. And if he kissed you, he wouldn’t survive what came next.

He kept walking.

Even when your voice stopped. Even when silence fell hard and sudden behind him. Only then did he glance back over his shoulder.

You weren’t there.

Not on the sidewalk. Not beneath the awning. Not anywhere. Just strangers. Just headlights. Just rain.

And a sick feeling in his gut that something had just gone terribly wrong. Bucky knew to trust his instincts and something was telling him that was something was seriously wrong; something shifted in his chest. Cold. Sharp. It wasn’t panic — not exactly. Panic was messy, loud. This was quieter. A drop in temperature. A tightening of muscle and mind.

It was the part of him that had never left the Winter Soldier.

He could track your phone— but no, he doesn’t do that anymore. That wasn’t him anymore.

But… you could be in danger.

Fuck it. He doubled back immediately, storming down the slick Manhattan sidewalk, eyes scanning every corner, every alley, every figure under an umbrella. Nothing. He rounded the block again, faster this time. No sign of you. Not your voice. Not your scent.

A sick part of him thought—Maybe she just left. Maybe she went home, back to Sam.

But he knew better.

Bucky stopped under the weak glow of a streetlamp, the rain soaking through the cotton of his shirt, clinging to the metal of his arm. He stilled his breath. Closed his eyes.

Focus.

Filter out the chaos.

Find her.

He inhaled. Deep and slow.

The scent of the city was everywhere—car exhaust, wet concrete, late-night street food grease, perfume trails from strangers. But beneath it all—there. The faintest echo of your skin. Vanilla and warmth. That subtle electric hum he’d grown attuned to from standing too close too many times.

He opened his eyes. Let instinct take over.

His body moved before his mind caught up. Feet pounding pavement, following the trace, the gut feeling, the pull. His training reactivated like muscle memory—check shadows, note every exit, every height advantage. The city blurred around him. Neon bled through the mist.

Down a side street. Past a flickering “open” sign. Into a narrow alleyway where the scent sharpened—and then—

He stopped dead.

There was a smear on the wall. Red. Faint, nearly washed away by the rain. Too faint for the average eye.

But not for him.

His stomach dropped.

A set of footprints dragged off the sidewalk into the alley—then stopped. Tires. A black smear of rubber.

They took her in a car.

His hands curled into fists. He didn’t realize how tight until he felt the crunch of metal beneath his vibranium fingers.

“Shit,” he muttered. Turned in a full circle. Think. Think. The car had stopped here, but not for long.

Then he noticed it—a paper taped lazily to the side of a lamppost, half torn and waterlogged. An address. Scribbled in red ink.

501 Lenox.

Top Floor.

His eyes narrowed. A message. A trap. He didn’t care. He was already running. Bucky knew to be cautious, which is why he sent his coordinates to Yelena. That was the benefit of having a team now; they’d always have Bucky’s back, and by extension, they’d have your back too.

────✪────

Your skin felt damp and sticky against the duct tape binding your wrists. Your ankles were taped too. Same with your mouth. The chair beneath you creaked every time you shifted, but the legs didn’t move. They were bolted to the floor.

Of course they were.

You recognised the small room. Your old apartment, where you lived with Shane. Rotten floorboards. Old water stains on the ceiling. The air smelled like mildew and something sharper—cologne, faint but sour. Your breathing was shallow through your nose.

You wanted to panic. You wanted to scream so loud your own ears would ring. But you’d been through this before. You knew what panic did. It made you careless. Slow. So instead, you stared straight ahead, eyes locked on the man seated in front of you.

Shane.

Your heart stuttered.

Same smug grin. Same slicked-back hair. He looked wiry and depraved. Like something hungry. But his eyes hadn’t changed since the last time you saw him. Still flat. Still dead.

“Well,” he said, voice almost soft. “Look what I caught.”

You didn’t flinch. Not visibly. Not even when he crouched to your level and tilted his head, studying you like you were some museum exhibit gathering dust.

“Still fiery, huh?” he murmured. His breath smelled like whiskey. “Bet your little Avenger boyfriend doesn’t know what you looked like crying on my kitchen floor.”

What…? Boyfriend? He didn’t mean…

You glared at him.

He grinned wider.

“I couldn’t believe it when I saw it on the news. That Valentina woman talking about you, an Avenger. I couldn’t believe it. How could someone so reckless and dangerous be a hero? Unless, you’re hiding it from them… what you’re capable of. All you ever do is hurt people.”

You wanted to scream, but the cloth in your mouth stopped you. You choked around it, tears spilling from your eyes.

“It’s been, what, two weeks? You’ve been running for a long time, babe,” he said, brushing a damp strand of hair off your forehead with a fingertip. “But you know what they say...”

He leaned in close, whispering now. His lips nearly brushed your ear.

“Can’t run forever.”

You jerked away from him, chair scraping loudly—but you had nowhere to go. The tape cut into your wrists. Your pulse raced. Your legs trembled.

You thought of Bucky.

His scent. His voice. His warmth in that closet, all heat and danger.

And he was the one who left you the flowers; not Sam. Him. Your Bucky.

And somehow, amidst all of this, it brought you comfort.

You thought of the way he’d looked at you like you were the only thing in the world. Like your anger mattered. Like your silence hurt.

He’s not coming, some voice whispered in your head. He ignored you.

But your heart—your heart didn’t believe that.

And then—

A sound.

Muffled. Deep.

A low crash from outside. Like a boot against the door. Like an arm was punching it’s way in. Loud and relentless.

Shane rose to his feet slowly, brow furrowing. “Looks like he came. Stay here,” he muttered, like you had a choice.

Bucky tried the handle. Locked. Of course.

Good.

He took a half step back. Inhaled once.

And drove his foot through the wood.

The door splintered on impact, cracking at the hinges like thunder. Bucky charged in, eyes blazing, the feral edge of the Winter Soldier programming bleeding through his stoic mask. The hallway reeked of stale beer and cigarette ash. Every nerve in his body was screaming for motion—movement—action.

He heard a muffled sound. A whimper. You.

His head snapped left. One door at the end of the hall. Closed, but not for long. Bucky didn’t knock. Didn’t pause.

His metal fist plowed through it like paper. The impact echoed as shards of the door fell to the floor, and he stepped into a nightmare. Wood splinters burst across the floor. Rain misted into the room like smoke.

You were tied to a chair.

Gagged.

Eyes wide and glassy, drenched in tears, lips trembling around the cloth in your mouth. Your hoodie was askew, your wrists raw from struggling. Your whole body trembled.

He didn’t remember crossing the room.

He just moved.

And then Shane was on him.

Your ex-boyfriend lunged out of the shadows, fists flying, spitting something like a laugh—but Bucky barely registered it. The punch landed against his shoulder like a mosquito bite, and he threw Shane off with a single swing.

Shane lunged at him again—but it wasn’t a fight.

It was a demolition.

A grunt, a punch to the ribs, a metallic hiss of Bucky’s arm catching Shane’s wrist mid-swing. You saw Shane’s mouth twist into something ugly before Bucky slammed him against the wall with a sound that cracked like thunder.

Again. And again.

Bucky moved like a machine and Shane crumpled to the floor.

“No one touches her,” Bucky snarled, voice low and guttural.

The fight was fast. Brutal. Efficient. Winter Soldier training took over—he didn’t even realise how hard he was hitting until Shane was on the floor, coughing up blood, twitching, unconscious or close to it.

Bucky stood over him, chest heaving.

You didn’t know if Shane was alive.

Horror swelled through your veins. The last time you seen Bucky move like that was…

Bucky turned to you slowly, blinking the blood and rain from his eyes. “It’s okay,” he breathed. “I got you.”

You felt sick. Your heart ached. Everything hurt.

He knelt, fingers moving fast to untie the tape at your ankles, then your wrists. You felt every brush of his skin like lightning, like a thunderbolt. Too much. Too fast.

The moment your hands were free, you surged forward—not into his arms, but into him.

You hit him. Screaming.

He caught you, staggered, trying to hold on—but you didn’t want him to.

“Why do you always have to ruin everything?” you shouted, your voice hoarse from screaming behind the gag.

His hands gripped your arms, trying to steady your erratic swings. “What are you—?”

You shoved at his chest, fists pounding, but he didn’t flinch and that only enraged you more. “Why do you always have to kill everyone I love?!”

Bucky’s ocean blue eyes widened in some feeling you couldn’t quite name. Something between confusion and awareness. Like he knew more than he was letting on. You could see through him.

“What?” he rasped, stunned.

You didn’t love Shane, but maybe once upon a time you did. Or you thought you did. The five year relationship was definitive in the person you had become, and although Shane treated you awful, that didn’t mean there wasn’t a space in your heart for him. Albeit, a twisted and cruel space that you were waiting for someone else to fill.

Tears burned down your cheeks. Your fists kept swinging, wild and uncontrolled, slamming against him with every word. Your finger nails pressed into your skin and if you weren’t so blinded by hate and hurt and terror, you might have noticed the way they cut into your palms.

“Do you even remember him? Do you? Do you even know what you took from me?”

Bucky said your name, gently now, trying to reach you—but you flinched.

Bob and the others burst into the room behind you—Alexei, John, Ava, Yelena. Voices all blending together. They’d received your coordinates from Bucky, they’d come to help.

But they froze when they saw you pinning Bucky to the hardwood floor. Bob’s jaw went slack.

“Uh oh,” he said awkwardly. “I may have forgotten to mention something.”

“Bob… do you know why Y/N is attacking Bucky?” Yelena asked slowly, bringing her hands slowly to her holster; blue eyes locked onto the way you were slamming your fists into Bucky’s chest.

Bob winced. “I may have tapped into her void when she was in the medbay. I know… I know I shouldn’t do that anymore but I got curious about her and—“

You couldn’t even hear Bob anymore. You didn’t care that you felt exploited, that he’d seen your greatest traumas while you were unconscious. Because right now you had The Winter Soldier at your fingertips. Finally.

You could do it, you could hurt him. Choke him. Suffocate him. Kill him. No mercy, no remorse.

You could do it. You were going to do it.

“I hate you, I hate you so much.” you cried, hot tears spilling down your cheeks and dropping onto his face as you straddled him. You had him pinned down to the floor and your aura burned hot with rage. It was like the room was on fire, invisible smoke. Only you could feel it.

Bucky’s voice cracked. “Who did I take from you?” His blue eyes were wide with guilt. “Tell me, and I’ll know. Who was it?”

You stared at him, throat raw. Voice small.

The memory repeated in your head. The Winter Soldier. Your brother’s birthday party. The gunshots. The bodies. Your blood ran cold and you looked him in the eye, fingers curled around the column of his neck.

“My brother.” Your voice was barely above a whisper. A sacred confession that only Bucky could hear.

Everything stopped.

Your aura surged—bright, blinding, overwhelming. The temperature in the room shot up ten degrees. Bucky looked like he couldn’t breathe.

It surged from your chest like a sun bursting free, white-hot and radiant, expanding in all directions like a supernova wrapped in grief and fury. A blinding light cracked across your skin, veins glowing. Your power — usually warm, intuitive, soft — was now unstable. Wild. Dangerous.

The team reacted instantly.

“She’s losing control!” John shouted, sheilding of the team behind him from the wisps and sparks that flew about.

“Lena—now!” Alexei barked, launching forward to grab your wrists before you could lash out.

Yelena hesitated for half a second — her heart breaking at the look on your face — before she surged forward, tackling you at the waist with a force meant to pin, not harm. But even with their combined weight, you were too strong. The energy bursting off you knocked them both back like a wave, and you dropped to your knees, a sob tearing from your throat.

“You don’t understand!” you screamed, voice echoing through the storm around you. “He killed him—he killed—!”

Bucky was already there, arms wide, stepping toward you despite the risk. He stepped into the danger knowing it could kill him, but he didn’t care, because maybe that’s what he deserved. His voice was raw.

“I remember him,” He said plainly, with no fear for you. “Twenty years ago, right? I was sent to kill Senator Harold Myles by HYDRA: infiltrate, assassinate, destabilise. Intel said he’d be at some kid’s birthday party. Only I didn’t kill him, I didn’t complete my mission. I killed your brother instead. He got in my way and he died a hero. But you, you killed everyone else in that room. The Senator and your parents and— I escaped just in time but you— oh, I remember.”

How? How was that possible? You’d read about the Winter Soldier in museums and books, how he regularly had his memory wiped and his brain was reconditioned. How could he remember that in such vivid detail? How did he know?

“I have nightmares,” Bucky bit out, almost like he could read your mind. “And I remember this,” he gestured around at your aura spitting agressively around you. Chaos magic. “Your powers. Your anger. The chaos.”

God, he wasn’t even asking for forgiveness. And you burned.

The light around you exploded. Bucky stumbled back, shielding his eyes.

“She’s gonna blow the whole building down!” Ava shouted from behind.

That’s when Bob stepped forward.

Quiet. Calm. Unshaken.

His blue eyes locked onto you, then to Bucky. And then, with something close to regret in his voice, he said, “This won’t ever end. You’ll never understand each other… not unless you see.”

He knelt down between you, the chaos swirling around him like he wasn’t even touched by it. His hands reached out — one to your wrist, one to Bucky’s shoulder — and his voice dropped into a tone that reverberated deeper than sound.

“Let me show you his truth.”

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The moment Bob’s fingers connected with your skin, the storm slowed, your aura froze in midair, and time folded inward like collapsing paper.

Bucky tried to resist. “No—Bob, don’t—she doesn’t need to see that.”

“She has to,” Bob said. “And so do you.”

The light twisted. The room disappeared.

And in a breathless instant—

—You were somewhere else.

As the void peeled open, color began to bleed into the world like water seeping into old paper. The shift was subtle at first—a breath of warmth, the golden hue of sunlight curling through gauzy kitchen curtains, the low tick of a clock echoing down a long hallway. Then came the smell: cinnamon, vanilla, something gently burning. Flour hung in the air like powdered light.

The room materialised into a pristine kitchen—green-trimmed cabinets, polished counters, and a cast iron stove glowing faintly red from recent use. A pie cooled on the windowsill, half-forgotten. The air was thick with comfort, nostalgia. And at the centre of it all was a young boy with flour-dusted hair and sleeves rolled to his elbows.

James Buchanan Barnes. No older than twelve.

He stood at the counter, carefully cracking eggs into a bowl. His movements were precise but not mechanical—there was care in each action, the kind only a child trying to impress someone he loves would show. Beside him stood a little girl on a stool, no more than six or seven, watching him with wide eyes. Rebecca Barnes.

Her hair was tied up with a blue ribbon, curls bouncing as she stirred a wooden spoon through batter with unnecessary vigor. She was already a mess—flour smudged across her cheeks, a glob of icing on her chin—and she was grinning like she had no idea the world could ever be cruel.

“Becca,” Bucky said with a low chuckle, taking the spoon from her hand before she launched batter onto the ceiling. “We’re baking a cake, not building a snow fort.”

“You said I could help,” she protested, crossing her arms. Her voice was small but fierce.

“And you are,” he said, dipping a finger into the bowl and booping her nose with it. “You’re the taste-tester.”

She squealed and tried to swat him away. He caught her easily, wrapping his arms around her tiny frame and spinning her in a slow circle. Her laughter rang out like a bell, echoing through the space.

From your position in the void, you felt your chest tighten. There was so much life here. So much love. And underneath it all, the faint, trembling thread of a boy trying to keep a fragile world intact.

The real Bucky—your Bucky—stood off to the side of the room, barely breathing. He didn’t look at the scene, didn’t let his eyes touch the version of himself that had once smiled like this. His gaze flicked to corners, behind cabinets, anywhere a reflective surface might hide. You watched his jaw clench as he scanned the walls.

“There’s nothing,” he muttered. “No glass, no silver, no way out. Fucking Bob. He knew this one would lock me in.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The weight of the scene anchored you in place.

Suddenly, the distant sound of a knock broke the warmth like a stone through glass.

It was polite—three gentle raps on the front door—but the silence that followed was immediate, unnatural. Young Bucky paused mid-motion, a spoon of frosting suspended in the air.

He glanced toward the hallway, then looked at his sister. “Keep mixing,” he said. “I’ll get it.”

You followed him as he crossed through the old house, his bare feet soft against hardwood floors that had seen generations of Barnes before him. The hall was long and cool, lined with photographs in gilded frames. His father’s hat hung on a brass hook. A walking stick leaned beside it.

The moment his mother opened the door, the entire room shifted.

She didn’t scream—not at first. It was a stifled, choking gasp, the kind that sounded more like someone trying not to drown. A man in uniform stood on the stoop, cap in hand, mouth tight with apology. He didn’t need to say a word.

Bucky's mother clutched the letter like it had burned her. Her knees buckled.

And then came the wail.

It started low in her chest, a sound so full of grief it seemed to shake the walls. She fell to the floor with the letter crumpled in her fist, rocking forward as she sobbed into the hardwood, her voice raw with disbelief.

“No,” she whispered. “No, George. No—please, no—”

The boy stared at her. His eyes, so full of sunlight in the kitchen, had dimmed into something hollow. He dropped to his knees beside her, gripping her shoulders, trying to shake her back to sanity.

“Mama, what is it? What’s wrong? What happened?”

But she didn’t answer. Couldn’t. She could only cry, louder now, so much louder, like grief was tearing itself from her body piece by piece.

The telegram slipped from her hand and fluttered to the floor.

You saw the words from where you stood:

We regret to inform you that Mr. George Barnes was killed in action.

The boy’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He just… stopped.

For a second, he didn’t move at all. Then he reached forward and closed his mother’s fingers back over the letter like he didn’t want Rebecca to see it. His own face was pale, mouth drawn into a line.

From the kitchen, her voice echoed: “Jamie? Where are you?”

You turned, instinctively stepping into the hallway—but the real Bucky didn’t follow. He remained rooted at the far end of the void, shoulders stiff, gaze nailed to the ceiling.

“I can’t watch this again,” he said hoarsely. “Not this one.”

He pressed his hand against the wall, as if hoping it would turn to glass under his touch. When it didn’t, he balled his fist and struck it, once, hard. The impact echoed like a gunshot.

You looked back into the kitchen. Young Bucky had returned.

He didn’t tell his sister. He didn’t say a word about the letter or the wailing coming from the hallway. He simply smiled—faint, mechanical—and lifted her off the stool.

“We’ll finish later, Becca,” he said, brushing flour from her cheek with a gentleness that almost made you cry. “C’mon. Let’s go read by the window, yeah?”

“Is Mama okay?” she asked, clutching his sleeve.

“She’s just tired.”

He turned her face away from the hallway as they passed, shielding her with his body. Protecting her. Bearing it all alone.

You watched as he settled her into an armchair and draped a blanket over her lap, brushing her hair back with the same tenderness you'd seen in the kitchen.

And then you heard him whisper something she couldn’t hear:

“I’ll take care of you. I swear.”

You couldn’t speak. Your throat was full of ash and memory.

In this room you saw exactly where the fracture had begun. Not in Hydra’s hands. Not on a battlefield. But here, in a Brooklyn brownstone filled with sunlight and the sudden, suffocating weight of death.

A boy lost his father.

And a soldier was born.

Bucky punched through the wall of his childhood home, and it was a rush of cold air that hit you first.

You’re no longer in the quiet halls of a Brooklyn brownstone. You’re somewhere high up — unnaturally high — your boots scraping metal as snow whips through the air. A train screams along the side of a mountain, rattling with speed. It’s World War II. You can feel it in your bones, the tension, the urgency, the pounding of boots, gunfire in the distance.

Then it happens.

You see him — Bucky — younger, uniformed, breathing hard, fighting alongside Steve. There’s chaos in every corner, Hydra soldiers screaming, the train rattling like it’s about to collapse into the abyss.

Then a shot — a scream — and the metal gives way.

Bucky falls.

You can’t breathe as you watch him plunge into white nothingness. His body, flailing, disappears into the chasm below. The void around you goes deathly silent. No wind. No motion. Just stillness.

And then you’re somewhere else.

A dimly lit Hydra bunker. Metal walls, the sickly green hue of fluorescent lighting, instruments humming ominously. And there he is — again.

Only now he’s barely conscious, strapped to a gurney, half-dead and bloodied. His left arm is mangled beyond recognition, dangling by torn muscle and bone. His breathing is shallow. There’s dried blood crusting the corners of his mouth. His eyes flutter open for brief seconds at a time — confused, terrified.

You flinch as footsteps echo through the hallway. Then comes Arnim Zola. Cold. Clinical. Cheerful in the most perverse way.

“Subject seventy-two… has survived.”

Technicians swarm around Bucky like vultures, murmuring in German, prepping tools — saws, needles, surgical clamps. Bucky tries to speak but only lets out a weak croak.

They cut away what remains of his arm.

He screams. You flinch.

You take a step forward, but the void won’t let you move fast enough. His body jerks under the restraints as the instruments dig into him — not to heal, but to remake. To reforge.

And then the prosthetic — brutal, early, grotesque. A crude, gleaming piece of Hydra engineering is fused into the meat of his shoulder. The smell of burning flesh hits you, even though you know none of this is real. The room fills with Bucky’s agonized screams — real, broken, animal.

You lurch forward without thinking. You run, your palms hitting Zola’s chest with a cry, trying to shove him away, to stop him, to protect Bucky.

But the moment your hand touches him — the entire scene resets.

A blink.

You're back in the hallway again, the screams starting over. The same motion. The same pain. The same helplessness.

This time, you scream too.

You press your hands over your ears, eyes squeezed shut, but it doesn’t help. You feel everything — the terror in his voice, the heat of the machines, the vibration of the saw.

Across the room, present-day Bucky stands with his jaw clenched, staring at the far wall, his chest rising and falling too fast. He won’t look at you. Won’t look at the boy on the table.

His hands curl into fists, metal and flesh both. There are tears threatening in his eyes — not because he forgot, but because he remembers too well.

You know now that this wasn’t a myth or a story or a title like “Winter Soldier.” This was pain, carved into him. This was theft — of body, of mind, of soul.

And you were being made to understand every second of it.

Until, temperature shifts again, and Bucky takes your hand, pulling you through into the next room.

From the sharp sterility of Hydra's laboratory to the deathless cold of Siberia, it hits your lungs like a slap — dry, iron-flecked, and bitter. You don't need to see the frost on the walls to know this place is a tomb. You can feel it. The walls hum with old power and darker history, locked behind steel and secrecy.

The room you’re standing in now is underground. No windows. No clocks. Just heavy concrete, reinforced doors, and flickering overhead bulbs that cast an endless gray.

A cryo-chamber sits at the center.

A human figure lies inside, entombed in cold mist and glass. Wires snake from ports in the wall to the chamber’s heart. Monitors beep. Then—

Gas hisses. Hydraulics shudder. The chamber exhales.

The fog parts slowly. Inside is Bucky — or what’s left of him.

His hair is longer now, matted to his forehead. He has a new arm — sleeker, deadlier. There’s no fear on his face, but that absence isn’t calm. It’s emptiness. His eyes are void of thought, of warmth, of anything that once made him James Buchanan Barnes.

You feel it before you realise it: your fingers trembling. There’s a low, deep ache rising in your chest, panic tightening your throat.

Hydra handlers enter, barking commands in Russian. You don’t understand all of it, but some of the words are horrifyingly clear.

A man in a long coat stands before him with a small red book. He opens it carefully, reverently, like scripture. Then, he reads.

“Longing.” “Rusted.” “Furnace.” “Daybreak.” “Seventeen.” “Benign.” “Nine.” “Homecoming.” “One.” “Freight car.”

Each word hits Bucky like a hammer. You can see it in the twitch of his fingers, the shift in his breath, the flicker behind his eyes as something inside him breaks loose — not once, but over and over again. Until he is no longer a man at all.

He steps out of the cryo-chamber barefoot, shirtless, cold steam rolling off his skin. They don't offer him clothes. Don’t ask if he’s alright. He wouldn’t respond anyway.

He stands still, awaiting orders.

“Target: Vasily Karpov. Eliminate. Clean exit.”

Bucky nods once. The door is opened. And like a phantom, he moves. Swift. Silent. Machine.

You turn your head just in time to see it — the assassination. Clean. Efficient. Unemotional. You don’t even realise you’re crying until the warmth of a tear hits your cold skin.

You look over your shoulder — present-day Bucky is still here. Still watching. Except he isn’t. His eyes are locked on a metal pipe in the ceiling, some warped, imperfect reflection catching his focus like a life raft. His jaw is clenched. His throat bobs with a swallow he never quite finishes.

He looks like he might break in half.

When the mission ends, Bucky is returned like a borrowed weapon. They wipe his memory with pain — electrodes to the skull, ice-pick machinery digging into his brainstem. His screams echo off the steel. His body jerks. And then, silence. The void takes him again.

You gasp. You fall to your knees. There’s too much grief. Too much horror. Too much emptiness.

He was alive. He was in there, and no one ever looked for him. No one saved him. They just rewired him, rewound him, replayed him.

And they called it protocol.

You barely have time to brace yourself before the void cracks open again — this time without warning. There’s no temperature shift, no gradual dissolve. Just a sudden and violent pull, and then—

Water.

It’s all around you. Slamming against a helicarrier's metal hull. Dark skies above, lightning splitting them in violent stutters. You land with a jolt on a crumpled, scorched floor of what must’ve once been a command center. Sparks burst from broken wires overhead. The smell of ozone and blood is thick in the air.

And there — in the middle of the wreckage — they’re fighting.

Steve Rogers and the Winter Soldier.

Not Bucky. Not the man you almost kissed in the closet, who looked at you like you were the first bit of light after a lifetime of shadow. No, this is him — the Weapon. The Asset.

Eyes cold. Fists unrelenting. Blood dripping from his lip. Expression unreadable.

Steve is holding his shield one-handed, breathing hard, body broken, refusing to fight back. “You’re my friend.”

“You’re my mission,” Bucky retorts, before screaming in anguish and diving onto Steve. He throws punches, groaning and yelling with every twist of his fist, like it pained him. The Winter Soldier’s movements were no longer mechanical, but rather coming from a raw place that was locked away deep inside of him. The programmed need to comply with orders was fighting with the ocean blue eyes of his childhood best friend.

“Then finish it.” Steve says. His voice is steady, but wrecked. “Because I’m with you ‘til the end of the line.”

Everything stops.

You don’t realise you’re holding your breath until your lungs burn. Bucky’s expression flickers — barely. The microsecond of confusion. Of doubt. The slow breaking-apart of all the walls that had been built around his mind.

The scene doesn’t cut away. You see it all. How Bucky’s arm shakes. How his mouth tightens. But when he looks down at Steve, there’s something human again in his eyes.

And then — in a moment that feels like time itself cracking — he lowers his fist.

They are brothers tangled in fate. The helicarrier groans beneath them. Explosions rattle the metal. They tumble, crash. Steve falls — hard — through the broken glass and into the icy river below.

You scream before you can stop yourself.

But you aren’t the only one reacting.

Present-day Bucky stumbles back, shoulders heaving, eyes glassy. He’s trembling. The reflections in this room are distorted — shattered control panels, rippling water — and none are close enough to break. There’s nowhere for him to escape to. He’s trapped here, just as he was then.

He watches as his former self dives in after Steve. The water swallows them both.

And still, he dives.

Even when the programming should’ve made him leave. Even when every command screamed for him to walk away. Even when the Winter Soldier didn’t know why he was doing it.

He couldn’t leave Steve.

The screen shifts — another flicker of void. You see Bucky dragging Steve’s limp body from the riverbank. Cradling him. Staring down at his unconscious face with an expression that devastates you.

Recognition. Grief. Guilt. Love.

He knew. Even then.

He remembered.

Present-day Bucky sinks to the floor, jaw locked, eyes closed like he could shut it all out if he just clenched hard enough.

You take a step closer.

Your heart is hammering. Your hands shake. This wasn’t a villain. This wasn’t a monster. This was a boy stolen and reforged in fire, who still — through everything — remembered the people he loved.

You can feel it again: the grief in your chest. The heat of your aura, pulsing like a second heartbeat. Bucky doesn't move. Doesn’t speak. Just waits for the next horror to begin.

And you know, deep in your bones, it’s not over yet.

The shift into the next void room is soft. Almost gentle.

There’s no violent wind or flash of light. Just a fading of colours until the world bleeds into a grey-blue morning haze.

You find yourself standing at the edge of a forest clearing — somewhere quiet and green. Birds chirp lazily in the distance. A soft breeze rustles through the trees. Ahead, a time machine hums faintly, standing like a monument in the field, surrounded by the last of the old Avengers.

A younger Sam stands beside Bucky, both of them facing the platform as Bruce fiddles with the controls. Steve Rogers, dressed in his stealth suit, lifts the case of Infinity Stones. He smiles faintly.

“Don’t do anything stupid until I get back.” Steve raises his eyebrow.

“How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you,” Bucky says, managing the ghost of a smirk.

You look to your side. Present-day Bucky is watching the scene unfold without a word. He stands stone-still, but his jaw is tight. Hands clenched into fists. You can see it now — the devastation blooming behind his eyes.

And then — just like that — he’s gone. A flash of white. A whisper in time.

Because he knew. Didn’t he?

Even then.

He knew Steve wasn’t coming back.

The group begins to panic — trying to recalibrate the platform, counting the seconds, calling for Steve through the earpieces. Sam’s voice rises, strained. Bruce looks confused.

But Bucky?

He just... watches the woods.

Not the platform.

The woods.

He knows.

And a moment later, when Sam notices the old man sitting quietly on a bench in the distance — when everyone else is stunned — Bucky doesn’t move. He stays still, as if frozen in that knowledge, the betrayal thick in his chest.

Steve had told him.

Or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe Bucky had just known.

Because the man who had always been by his side — through wars and pain and memory wiped nightmares — had chosen to leave him behind.

You can feel Bucky’s aura flicker beside you. The sadness in him is heavy, slow, old. A different kind of heartbreak than the others. Not violent. Not bloody.

Just lonely.

He steps forward in the memory, watching as Steve — aged and calm — hands the shield to Sam. You register the hush of it. The finality. The way Bucky looked away.

Not jealous. Not angry.

Just tired.

And quietly grieving.

Because Steve didn’t say goodbye to him, not really. Not the way he should have. Not after everything. Not after leaving Bucky to carry it all.

Your chest aches. You glance sideways to the present-day Bucky — he’s barely breathing, eyes locked on the younger version of himself, turning away before Steve and Sam even finish speaking.

The void doesn’t shift yet. It lingers here, like it wants you to feel it. All of it.

The way Bucky had spent his whole life being abandoned — first by war, then by Hydra, then by Steve.

Even love had left him.

And still, he stood tall.

Still, he chose the hard road.

He always did.

You reach out instinctively — not to touch, not yet — but the space between you pulses warm. His aura flares again, but faint, dim, like a heartbeat trying to hold on.

You swallow hard. There's so much left unsaid.

The world slammed back into place like the snap of a rubber band.

The cold, electric pull of the void vanished, and suddenly — you were back. Gasping. Shaking. Body soaked in sweat and light and grief.

The room was dim, barely lit by the broken overhead lamp swinging slightly on its hinge. Shane’s apartment — if you could call this crumbling, sour-smelling place that — was in chaos. The air was thick with the sharp scent of ozone, plaster dust, and scorched wood.

You blinked against the pounding in your head, then looked around.

Bodies were everywhere.

Ava slumped against the wall, smoke curling gently from her fingertips. John lay half-tangled in a chair, dazed but breathing. Alexei’s heavy frame was sprawled across the ruined coffee table, and even Yelena — always graceful, always ready — was groaning against the couch cushions.

All of them unconscious.

All from you.

Your aura had burst.

You had lost control.

And in the middle of it — on the wrecked floor with broken glass around him — was Bucky.

He hadn’t moved. Not once.

His head was lowered, metal hand braced against the floor, flesh hand pressed tight over his heart like it might stop it from shattering. He was breathing heavy and shallow, chest rising with effort. But it wasn’t pain that held him still.

It was vulnerability.

He was completely, utterly open. Every wall gone. Everything exposed. Like the void had ripped out his insides and left him bleeding on the floor — not from wounds, but from memory.

You felt the air shift around him. His aura was dim but visible. Still blue, still sad — but softer now, as if flickering toward acceptance. Guilt clung to him like smoke. But for once, it wasn’t fighting you.

It was just there.

And something inside you broke.

You crawled forward slowly. Your limbs trembled. Your hands were scraped raw. Your face streaked with tears that hadn’t stopped falling since the first void room — since that little boy in 1930s Brooklyn who just wanted to protect the people he loved.

Now here he was. Older. Weathered. Alone.

And still protecting.

You didn’t say anything.

Words were useless in that moment.

So instead — you reached for him. Your hand cupped his cheek, warm and steady, fingers trembling slightly. Bucky flinched — barely — like he didn’t think he deserved to be touched. His eyes were wide, wet. You could see it all in them: pain, apology, longing.

Then, you leaned in.

And kissed him.

It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t sweet. It was everything else — desperate, aching, raw. Your mouth pressed to his with a need you didn’t understand until that exact moment. Until you felt his breath stutter and his hand come up to hold your wrist like he was terrified you’d vanish if he didn’t.

His lips were soft. Warmer than you expected. He tasted like rain and salt and something old.

Your body slid forward into him, knees on either side of his thighs, hoodie bunched around your waist, hair sticking to your damp forehead. Bucky’s arm came around your back — slow, trembling, gentle despite the strength he possessed. He held you like a man who didn’t know if this was real. Who didn’t know if he deserved it.

You kissed him again.

Harder.

Like it would make up for all the years he lost.

His hand found the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, holding you still while his mouth opened under yours. The kiss deepened — not rushed, not frantic, but deliberate. Intimate. His lips moved with yours like they were learning the shape of you, memorising the softness, the sharpness.

When you finally broke apart — both of you breathless — your forehead fell against his.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you dared.

Your voice cracked when you spoke.

“I saw everything.”

He swallowed hard. His hand hadn’t left your back. “I know.”

“I didn’t know,” you whispered, like it was a confession.

Bucky shook his head slowly, eyes still closed. “Wasn’t your fault.”

You opened your eyes and looked at him.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

His voice broke around yours.

“So am I.”

The silence afterward said more than anything.

And in the center of that ruined room — while the others still lay unconscious, and the storm still raged faintly outside — you held each other.

Not as enemies. Not as strangers.

But as something beginning.

────✪────

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world @positivenergy @cherriesnmango

Fic taglist: @ruexj283 @avengemepercy @espressovz @sebastians-love @cherryandsugar @torntaltos @ficr3ccs @sexyvixen7 @starstruckfirecat @mikaylacriiistina @imaginecrushes @1000shipsnh @bcksgirl @bitterspoons @cinammonstixes @k8andthemagneticzeros @cherriesnmango @ropickle @mash-em-up @pinkcoquettebow @niceforcum @amanda-says @flowerluvr

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#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #avengers tower fic #james buchanan barnes #the winter soldier #thunderbolts #the new avengers #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan x reader #mcc #marvel #avengers #james bucky barnes #iamsebastianstan

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never-rxne · 1 month ago

Text

─── maybe i just wanna be yours.

sevika x masc!reader || 1.6k words

summary: you've known sevika since she was small. you may be the only person in the world who knows the woman behind the stoic mask, the only one she can talk to, let her guard down for.

but you are only second best. her eyes are always on the liberation of zaun.

and your eyes are only on her.

content warning(s): childhood friends to lovers. reader and sevika are close in age. reader is masc presenting/gender neutral. hurt/comfort; angst; fluff; yearning; mentions of violence and blood; mmm ambiguous ending.

"secrets i have held in my heart are harder to hide than i thought maybe i just wanna be yours i wanna be yours, i wanna be yours." — Arctic Monkeys. "Wanna Be Yours"

The tapping at your door again.

Sevika is an unstoppable force. She moves through the world with purpose, with efficiency. Owns the ground her boots tread on. Does what she needs to survive. Takes what she can, gives nothing back.

To most, she’s brutal. Heartless. A killing machine. Slams doors on every corner of her past. Kicks new doors open.

But on your door, she taps.

Only to you, she goes quiet.

Then the real Sevika shines out, the Sevika you’ve known since she was a tortured, awkward teenage girl, dark brows drawn tight, stormy grey eyes glaring out at the world. Using her anger to shield her from her unforgiving life, the hits she’s taken, the disappointments and losses.

Tap-tap-tap.

The wood creaks as she shifts her feet. You can feel her hesitation through the closed door. Her shame.

For a moment, you consider leaving the door closed. You consider staying seated at the table, your hands frozen over the tools and scraps of metal, waiting until she gives up and goes away. You know she knows you’re in here. Just as you can feel her presence, just as you knew she was going to be at your door before she even stepped into the apartment, you know Sevika can sense you on the other side of the door. Listening to her. Watching the shadows beneath the cracks.

It’s the least she would deserve.

How long has it been since you’d last seen her? Not a single note. Not a single word from her to let you know she’s still alive.

That you were ever on her mind.

You know if you ignored her, her pride would never allow her to return. Not until you sought her out first. Which you would never do, because if there was one thing Sevika had met her match in with you, it was dignity. Both of you guarded your dignities like jealous dogs. You would have to be on the brink of death before you ever admitted to yourself that you needed help, and she is the same way.

Tonight, however, Sevika breaks the cycle.

In a voice so quiet you could have mistaken it for the creaking of a distant floorboard, she says, “let me in.”

It’s not a request. It’s not an order, either. But those three words catch onto your skin like hooks. In the space of that fleeting moment, all the resentments of the past silent months fall away.

Almost embarrassing, how quickly you run to the door. How quickly you open it to her and let the cold light of the hallway spill into your small apartment room.

Sevika had turned away from the door, as if preparing to leave. You can see in the angle of her broad shoulders that her own words had embarrassed her. This small admission of her need.

She isn’t okay.

Her mechanical arm (which you had watched her grow into, get used to, through each prototype, each Shimmer upgrade) has been torn off, leaving only the frayed ends of the wires. Blood and Shimmer stains the collar of her shirt, and her face is mottled with cuts and bruises. You smell the faint, familiar odors of sweat and oil and tobacco. She looks like she’s freshly crawled out of a fight in which she got the short end of the stick.

“Fuck. Sevika.”

She looks at you, exhausted. You feel sick with guilt for even thinking of ignoring her.

“Get in here.”

She lets you pull her into the apartment. Her eyes rove listlessly around the room, the mess of tools and half-built contraptions on the table. Then they come to rest on you.

“Didn’t have time to call in advance,” she explains. “Sorry.”

Sorry. A single word to brush away several months of silence, of worry on your end, of indifference on hers. You get it. Her frustrations with the Shimmer enterprise. Her relentless ambitions for a free Zaun. It isn’t that your hands weren’t full—building weapons and tools for the resistance, carrying messages for the underground newspapers that covered stories on the state of the Piltover-Zaun relation, stories that weren’t easily accessible to the lower class masses.

But throughout all of it, you were thinking of Sevika.

Wondering where she was sleeping. If she was taking care of herself. If she was even alive.

Years ago, things between you had gone cold for a while. The biggest fight you had with her—the day she told you she was leaving Vander and his people, going over to Silco’s side instead. You’d called her insane. That he was building a drug empire, not staging a revolution. That Shimmer would throw her off the path, that it would ruin everything she had ever stood for.

You look up into Sevika’s tired face, and see the same expression in her eyes as the first night you went to her after she had lost her arm. The same hesitation, the same nameless fear. Asking silently if you would take her back, if she was forgiven.

Your answer?

“Sit down,” you say. “Let me clean you up.”

She moves to the table. You shake your head.

“The bed will be more comfortable.”

From the stiff way she moves, you can guess she’s taken more hits than just a bloody nose.

The mattress creaks under her weight as she sits down with a soft grunt. You retrieve some clean cloths from the kitchen and fill a small basin with warm water. When you return to the main room, you find her leaning against the bedpost.

“Silco…” Sevika trails off as you gently tilt her face towards you, pressing the wet cloth to her face. “Silco’s gone.”

“Gone?” You pause in your movements. “What, you mean he’s dead?”

She grimaces. “Don’t know yet. He never returned to his office.” She looks at you. “You heard anything?”

You bite back a sharp retort. Sure, I’ve heard loads. That’s just what I exist for, working my ass off for—listening for news of your boss. The same boss you lost your arm for. The same boss you think more about than ever once thinking to check on me.

But you only shake your head. Even when you push her face to the side to inspect a cut along her hairline, your touch is gentle.

In Zaun, no one can afford to be selfish. To expect anyone else to wait for them. You know this just as well as Sevika.

You finish cleaning her face. She sits quietly, letting you wipe the grease and sweat from her neck. When you lean over her to unfasten the prosthetic attachment, she leans forward and rests her forehead on your stomach.

She almost never invites physical contact this way. In fact, you can’t remember the last time she did. You feel a strange drop in your heart, a trembling hope and fear and violent want. But you hold back.

“...Do you need something?” you ask the top of her head. The years and hard work are getting to her; the streaks of grey in her hair are telltale signs. The deep rings beneath her eyes.

“I’m tired,” she says. “Feel like I’ve been running in circles for years now, and I don’t know what to do.”

Slowly, you rest your hand on her head. The other you press into her back, wide and familiar, taut with muscle. You pull her closer. Rub circles into her shirt.

You’re scared of the tenderness that rips open your chest now. You’re thrown back to a day years and years ago—a lifetime back, before things went bad—the first time you had kissed Sevika, both of you lonely and curious and slightly intoxicated by the atmosphere. The way she felt on your tongue, the way she said your name that night was frightening because it was so strange, so unlike Sevika, trembling and flushed and vulnerable.

Never again had you kissed her that way, and neither of you had ever talked about that night.

Sometimes, though, you wonder. If she ever thinks back to that night, if she seeks your confident touch every time she touches you now.

Sevika looks up at you the same time you look down at her. Your eyes meet.

“I missed you,” you say quietly. The words tumble into the air before you can call them back. And because she doesn’t dismiss them, because she doesn’t scoff or brush them aside, you go on.

“I wish you came sooner. I wish you knew you can always come to me.”

She looks away. “I do.”

“You say you do, but you don’t.” You take her chin between your fingers, tilt her face back to look at you. “We’re too old to play hide-and-seek now, don’t you think?”

Her dark lips, those same lips you watched tremble on a drunk night downtown when she told you about her fear that her father would die before she could speak to him again, curl into a half smile.

You want to tell her things. Your heart might tear at the seams with all you feel for her. You want to tell her that her pain is yours, that nothing she could do would ever make you hate her. That everything she fights for is your fight as well. That you will never turn your back on her because you know where her heart is planted.

And you know where your heart is planted, too.

But that is a conversation for another day. Preferably a day she isn’t bleeding all over your clothes, a day when she isn’t lost and you aren’t hurting. There is still time.

“Do you want to stay the night?” you ask her.

Sevika gives you a single nod. She doesn’t have to say anything else, doesn’t have to do anything else. It’s all you needed to see that she has come here for that very purpose.

end note: rlly bangin out them self-indulgent fics these days lmaoo. i like this concept but i don't like this fic because i wrote it in one sitting hunched over like a goblin.. might return to it

#rune's fics #wanna be yours #sevika #sevika arcane #sevika x reader #sevika fluff #sevika angst #sevika x you #arcane

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urdreamydoodles · 7 months ago

Text

Bat-Villains x Reader

One of the underlings hit you and your partner finds out

Characters: Joker, Harley Quinn, Poison Ivy, Bane, Scarecrow, Two-Face, The Riddler & The Penguin

The Joker

- You entered your shared bedroom cautiously, hoping to go unnoticed, but the Joker’s eyes were sharp even in the dim light. He noticed the bruise on your cheek and the busted lip instantly, his grin freezing into something far more sinister. “Well, well, what have we here?” he asked, voice low and dangerous.

- When you hesitated to answer, his patience snapped like a frayed wire. He grabbed your chin, tilting your face to inspect the damage. “Who?” he growled, his voice now devoid of its usual playful lilt. “Tell me who dared to mark my favorite little masterpiece.”

- You confessed reluctantly, explaining that one of the underlings had attacked you out of jealousy. The Joker’s laugh started low, bubbling up into a maniacal crescendo. “Jealousy!” he howled, clapping his hands together. “Oh, how precious! They thought they could touch what’s mine and walk away unscathed?”

- Without another word, he stormed out of the room, dragging you along by the wrist. His carnival of chaos always followed him, and tonight, you were part of the show. He found the culprit lounging smugly in the lounge, and his grin returned, wide and predatory. “Congratulations!” he declared, clapping the underling on the back. “You’ve just earned a starring role… in pain!”

- The Joker’s retribution was theatrical and brutal. He pulled out his knife, twirling it playfully as he toyed with the terrified underling. “You know,” he mused, “I always say jealousy is such an ugly emotion. Let’s see how you feel with no emotions at all!” His laughter filled the room as the blade gleamed.

- When it was over, he returned to you, his suit now spattered with blood. He wiped your lip with surprising tenderness, his head tilting as he studied you. “All better now, sugarplum,” he crooned, his mood swinging back to twisted affection. “No one gets to hurt you except me.”

- He spent the rest of the night doting on you in his own chaotic way, cracking jokes and reenacting the “punishment” for your amusement. Beneath the madness, though, his possessiveness was clear. “You’re mine, dollface,” he murmured, running a hand through your hair. “Anyone who forgets that ends up as a punchline.”

Harleen Quinzel aka. Harley Quinn

- Harley’s bubbly energy was unmistakable as you entered the room, but her expression quickly soured when she noticed your injuries. “Oh, puddin’, who did this to ya?” she asked, her voice filled with concern and a dangerous edge.

- When you told her about the jealous underling, Harley’s smile twisted into something sharp and feral. “Oh, sweetheart,” she cooed, gently cupping your face. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care’a this little problem for ya.” Her tone was deceptively sweet, but her eyes burned with fury.

- She marched straight out, her mallet slung over her shoulder, humming a jaunty tune. You followed hesitantly, watching as she cornered the offender. “Hey there, sugar,” she said with faux friendliness, her mallet swinging lazily in her hand. “I hear you’ve been pickin’ fights with my honeybun.”

- The underling stammered excuses, but Harley was already circling like a predator. “Aww, don’t be shy!” she chirped. “Let’s play a game. It’s called Whack-a-Traitor!” With a gleeful laugh, she brought the mallet down with terrifying force.

- The scene was as brutal as it was efficient. Harley danced around her victim with chaotic grace, each swing of her mallet punctuated by a giggle. “Nobody messes with my baby!” she declared, her voice ringing with conviction.

- When it was over, she bounced back to you, wiping a smudge of blood from her cheek. “All done!” she announced cheerfully, throwing her arms around you. “Nobody’s ever gonna mess with ya again, puddin’. Not while I’m around.”

- That night, she pampered you like royalty, insisting on patching up your lip herself. Between stolen kisses and her playful jokes, you couldn’t help but feel safe despite the carnage. “You an’ me against the world, sweetie,” she said softly, her blue eyes sparkling. “And don’t you forget it.”

Pamela Isley aka. Poison Ivy

- Ivy was lounging gracefully among her plants when you entered, but her serene expression darkened the moment she saw your injuries. “Who did this to you?” she asked, her voice low and venomous, like the hiss of a cobra.

- You hesitated, but her sharp green eyes left no room for evasion. When you finally explained, Ivy’s composure cracked, revealing a wrath that felt as ancient as the earth itself. “They dared to harm you?” she murmured, her voice trembling with fury. “They’ll regret ever drawing breath.”

- Rising gracefully, Ivy summoned her vines with a flick of her wrist. “Come,” she said, her tone commanding. “We have work to do.” You followed as the plants parted for her, their movements strangely menacing. Her connection to nature seemed almost alive with her anger.

- She confronted the underling in her usual calm yet intimidating way, her vines coiling menacingly around them. “You thought you could harm my partner and get away with it?” she asked, her voice dripping with disdain. “Foolish. Very foolish.”

- Ivy’s punishment was swift and merciless. The vines tightened around the underling, their cries muffled as the plants did her bidding. She stood over them, her expression cold. “The earth will reclaim you,” she said simply, turning away as the vines dragged them into the shadows.

- When she returned to you, her anger softened into tenderness. She cupped your face gently, her fingers cool against your skin. “No one will hurt you again,” she promised, her voice like a soothing lullaby. “Not while I have the power to protect you.”

- That night, she surrounded you with the comforting scent of her plants, their soothing presence lulling you to sleep. “You’re mine, my love,” she whispered, stroking your hair. “And anyone who dares harm you will answer to the wrath of Mother Nature herself.”

Bane

- Bane’s sharp eyes immediately noticed your injuries when you stepped into the room. His jaw tightened, and his fists clenched as he asked, “Who dared to harm you?” His voice was calm but carried an unmistakable undercurrent of rage.

- When you told him it was one of his own men, his composure shattered. “One of mine?” he repeated, his voice filled with disbelief and anger. “They will pay for this insult.” He rose to his full, imposing height, his presence radiating fury and power.

- Without hesitation, Bane marched out to find the offender. His movements were purposeful, each step echoing with the promise of retribution. You followed at a safe distance, knowing better than to intervene when he was like this.

- He confronted the underling with cold precision, his voice like a growl. “You struck someone under my protection,” he said, towering over them. “That is a grave mistake.” The underling tried to plead, but Bane was unmoved.

- The punishment was swift and brutal. Bane’s strength was terrifying, and he used it to devastating effect. Each blow was delivered with calculated precision, his fury controlled but unrelenting. When it was over, he stood over the lifeless body, his breathing steady. “Let this be a warning to anyone who dares to harm what is mine,” he declared.

- Returning to you, Bane’s demeanor shifted. He knelt before you, his hands surprisingly gentle as he inspected your injuries. “I have dealt with the matter,” he said simply, his voice softening. “No one will harm you again.”

- That night, he stayed close to you, his protective nature evident in every gesture. “You are precious to me,” he murmured, his deep voice filled with sincerity. “And I will always ensure your safety, no matter the cost.”

- Jonathan was engrossed in his latest experiment when you entered the room, your face bruised and lip split. His sharp gaze immediately noticed, and his expression hardened. “What happened?” he demanded, his voice cold and clinical but with a hint of concern beneath.

Jonathan Crane aka. Scarecrow

- You hesitated under his calculating stare, but there was no avoiding his interrogation. When you explained it was one of his underlings acting out of jealousy, his lips curled into a dark smile. “Jealousy. Such a fascinating emotion,” he mused. “I’ll ensure they experience fear instead—true fear.”

- He stood, his movements deliberate as he grabbed his iconic mask and canisters of fear toxin. “Wait here,” he instructed, his tone brooking no argument. “I’ll deal with this… interruption to my work.” Though his voice was calm, his anger simmered beneath the surface.

- Finding the culprit, Jonathan wasted no time in delivering his unique brand of justice. The room filled with his chilling laughter as he released the fear toxin, watching as the underling crumbled into terror. “You dared to touch them?” he hissed. “Let’s see how brave you feel when your worst nightmares come to life.”

- He took his time, ensuring the punishment was both psychological and physical. Each scream seemed to satisfy him more, his clinical fascination mingling with his wrath. When he returned to you, he looked calmer, almost serene, as if purging his anger through their suffering.

- Jonathan knelt before you, his touch surprisingly gentle as he wiped a trickle of blood from your lip. “No one will hurt you again,” he said, his voice soft but resolute. “You’re mine to protect, and I’ll make sure everyone knows the consequences of crossing that line.”

- That night, he stayed close, his rare displays of affection manifesting in small ways—checking on your injuries, brewing you tea, and offering you a book from his collection. “You ground me,” he murmured as you drifted off. “And I won’t let anyone take you away.”

- Harvey noticed your injuries the moment you entered the room. His dual nature became evident as one side of him looked worried while the other seemed immediately enraged. “What the hell happened?” he demanded, his voice a mix of care and fury.

Harvey Dent aka. Two-Face

- You hesitated, but under his intense gaze, you confessed it was one of his underlings who had attacked you. “They thought I didn’t belong,” you admitted. Harvey’s good side frowned deeply, but his scarred side twisted into a snarl. “They thought they could hurt you and get away with it?”

- Reaching into his pocket, Harvey pulled out his coin, flipping it with a practiced motion. “Heads, I scare them. Tails…” His scarred side grinned maliciously. “I get creative.” When it landed tails, he stood abruptly. “Stay here,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

- Harvey confronted the underling with all the unpredictability of his dual nature. His voice oscillated between cold reason and raw anger. “You dared lay a hand on them?” he growled. “Let’s see how you like answering to me.” His punishment was brutal, his scarred side reveling in it while his good side rationalized it as necessary.

- The room was eerily silent when he returned, his hands still shaking with residual anger. He pulled you into his arms carefully, his good side apologizing softly while his scarred side muttered curses against the world. “No one touches what’s mine,” he said, his voice firm.

- That night, he remained close, torn between his need to protect you and the guilt over his violent reaction. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said quietly. “But I won’t let anyone hurt you again. Not while I’m still standing.”

- His duality showed in his care—one side tender, ensuring your comfort, while the other vowed vengeance against anyone who dared cross you again. “You’re the only thing keeping me balanced,” he admitted. “I’ll destroy anyone who tries to take that away.”

- Edward’s sharp intellect didn’t miss a thing, so the moment you walked in with a bruised cheek and busted lip, he froze. His smirk vanished, replaced with a calculating frown. “What happened to you?” he asked, his voice deceptively calm.

Edward Nygma aka. The Riddler

- You explained reluctantly, telling him one of his underlings had lashed out in jealousy. Edward’s eyes darkened, and a dangerous grin spread across his face. “Jealousy,” he repeated, tapping his temple. “What an irrational emotion. Let’s see how rational they feel after I’m done with them.”

- His mind was already working overtime as he led you to his chair. “Sit,” he ordered, placing a blanket over your shoulders. “I’ll handle this.” He left the room with his signature cane in hand, his steps brisk and purposeful.

- Edward confronted the underling with all the flair and intellect he was known for. “Riddle me this,” he began, his tone venomous. “What happens to someone foolish enough to harm the one person I care about?” When the underling stammered, Edward struck with his cane. “Wrong answer!”

- He played with his victim like a cat with a mouse, his riddles cruel and his strikes precise. “Your jealousy was misplaced,” he sneered, leaning in close. “They’re mine, and you? You’re just another irrelevant piece on my board.”

- Returning to you, Edward’s mood shifted. He knelt by your side, his hands uncharacteristically gentle as he inspected your injuries. “You’re far too brilliant to be dealing with idiots like that,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

- That night, he pampered you with little puzzles and brainteasers, his way of distracting you from the pain. “You’re my equal,” he murmured, his voice unusually tender. “And I won’t let anyone disrupt the perfection we’ve built.”

- Oswald’s beady eyes immediately honed in on your injuries when you walked in. He set down his glass of brandy with deliberate care, his voice deceptively calm as he asked, “Who did this to you, darling?”

Oswald Cobblepot aka. The Penguin

- When you told him it was one of his own men, Oswald’s face twisted into a mask of rage. “One of my employees?” he hissed, gripping his umbrella tightly. “I’ll make an example of them they won’t forget—assuming they live to remember it.”

- Oswald marched out of the room, his umbrella clicking against the floor with each step. His subordinates scattered like rats at the sight of his fury, knowing better than to cross him when he was in such a mood.

- Finding the culprit, Oswald wasted no time. “You dared to harm someone under my protection?” he snarled, his voice carrying through the room. He used his umbrella with precision, the concealed blade flashing as he delivered his ruthless punishment.

- When it was over, he returned to you, smoothing his suit and regaining his composure. “It’s done,” he said simply, pouring you a glass of your favorite drink. “No one will ever harm you again, not while I have the power to stop it.”

- That night, he lavished you with attention, his usually cold demeanor melting into rare warmth. “You mean more to me than all the wealth in Gotham,” he admitted, his voice low. “And I protect what’s mine. Always.”

- Oswald’s actions spoke louder than words as he ensured you were comfortable and safe. “You’re my diamond,” he said softly, his fingers brushing against yours. “And anyone foolish enough to harm you will be crushed under the weight of my wrath.”

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mattslutt · 2 months ago

Text

WRONG PLACE, PERFECT TIME - c.sturniolo

in which: your ex chris fucks you in the university library.

You were not prepared for this.

It was a normal day — humid, the buzz of early fall excitement hanging over campus like a tangible mist. You’d just pushed through the heavy library doors when you smacked directly into a wall of muscle. Your books spilled. Your bag slipped off your shoulder.

“Shit, sorry—” a familiar voice said, and your heart stopped.

Chris.

Your ex Chris.

Standing there like a ghost you hadn’t asked to see. Tanned from the summer, taller somehow, a little more scruffy, wearing that old hoodie you used to steal when you stayed over. His smile broke out the second he realized it was you, and damn it, your body betrayed you — your stomach flipped, your breath hitched.

“Hey,” he said, low and teasing, as he bent down to gather your books.

“Hey yourself,” you muttered, heart hammering, nerves snapping like frayed wire.

You hadn’t seen Chris since the breakup. Messy, stupid — two people who loved too much and fought even harder. It wasn’t that you didn’t care. It was that maybe you cared too much.

And now he was here. On your campus. Your college. The same one you’d worked your ass off to get into.

“Didn’t know you were coming here,” he said, handing you your notebook — the one with your doodles of little hearts in the margins. You saw his eyes flick to it, his mouth twitching.

“Didn’t know you were either,” you shot back, feeling the burn creep up your neck.

You stood there, stupidly close, the magnetic pull of you and Chris still so goddamn alive it was like the universe hadn’t gotten the memo that you were supposed to be done.

He chuckled — low, dangerous. “Guess fate wants to mess with us, huh?”

You raised an eyebrow, trying — failing — to smother the grin tugging at your lips. “Or maybe it’s giving us a second chance to hate each other in a new setting.”

“Hate’s a strong word,” Chris said, voice dipping, flirt sliding in way too easy. “You sure that’s what you feel?”

You should have walked away. You should have.

Instead, you tilted your chin up and said, “You’re still cocky as hell, I see.”

Chris stepped closer, like he could taste the challenge in your voice. “You used to like that about me.” His fingers brushed your wrist under the guise of handing you your bag — slow, deliberate.

Your pulse jumped.

“Used to,” you whispered, but your voice cracked halfway through, making it sound anything but convincing.

He smirked like he knew. Like he felt it too — the wild, reckless thing clawing up between you.

“Still do,” he said, voice low, rough. “Admit it.”

You opened your mouth — maybe to argue, maybe to surrender, you didn’t even know — but Chris was already moving. Walking backwards, keeping his eyes locked on yours like he dared you to follow.

“See you around,” he called over his shoulder, cocky as ever.

You hated him.

You missed him.

You needed him like a drug.

And it wasn’t over. You knew it wasn’t over.

It happened again a week later.

Late night, library almost empty.

You reached for a book. So did he.

Your fingers brushed. You both froze.

Electricity crackled like a live wire between you.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” Chris said, voice rough with something heavy — something hungry.

“Maybe you should stay out of the library then,” you whispered, stepping closer when you should have run.

He smirked — but there was a crack in it now, something breaking underneath.

“Maybe I don’t want to.”

The tension snapped.

One second you were standing there, breathing the same air, pretending you weren’t drowning.

The next, he was backing you into the dusty shelves, mouth crashing onto yours like he’d been starving.

It was messy. Desperate. Soaked with every argument, every apology you’d never said out loud.

His hands gripped your waist, pulling you against him so tightly it felt like he was trying to fuse you back together.

You gasped into his mouth, your fingers digging into the soft fabric of his hoodie, yanking him closer.

He kissed you like he hated you for leaving.

You kissed him like you hated yourself for still needing him this much.

Chris groaned low in his throat when your nails scraped up the back of his neck, sending a shiver through his body.

You barely noticed when your back hit the shelves.

You barely cared.

His hands were everywhere — pushing under your jacket, sliding over your ribs, tugging you up against him like he could never get enough.

And you weren’t much better — your hands clutching at his shirt, your mouth chasing his, teeth grazing his bottom lip just to hear the ragged sound he made.

“Missed you,” he growled against your skin, dragging his mouth along your jaw, down your neck where he bit just hard enough to make you gasp. “Missed you so fucking bad.”

“Chris,” you whimpered, hating the way it broke in your throat.

You didn’t say it back.

You didn’t have to.

The way you pressed your body into his told him everything.

The way you tugged at his belt, fumbling, desperate, told him more.

“Here?” he rasped, forehead pressed to yours, breathing like he just ran a marathon.

“I don’t care,” you breathed out. “I just need you.”

That broke something in him.

“Fuck, baby,” Chris muttered against your lips, voice wrecked. “You have no idea how bad I want you right now.”

Your fingers fisted the front of his hoodie, dragging him impossibly closer. You could feel him — hard against your stomach, thick and straining against his jeans.

“You miss me, pretty angel?” he rasped, trailing kisses down your jaw, to the sensitive spot behind your ear that made your knees wobble.

“Yes—” you gasped, hating how easily you gave yourself away.

He grinned against your skin, cocky and dark and so Chris it made your head spin.

“Knew you would,” he whispered, nipping your throat. “My sweet girl. My pretty little angel. Never belonged to anyone else.”

His words — filthy and reverent all at once — shot straight between your thighs.

You whimpered when he grabbed your hips and lifted you onto a low shelf like you weighed nothing, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, locking him in.

Chris groaned when you rolled your hips into him, the friction so delicious it ripped a curse from his mouth.

“Look at you,” he rasped, tugging your shirt up, palming your bare waist like he wanted to memorize it. “So fucking pretty. All mine.”

You moaned when he ducked his head, kissing and sucking bruises down your neck like he wanted to mark you — claim you.

His hand slid under your skirt, fingers rough and greedy.

“God, baby, you’re fucking soaked,” he growled, voice full of wrecked wonder as his fingers slipped against your panties. “Dripping for me already? Huh?”

“Chris—” you whimpered, desperate, nails clawing at his back through his hoodie.

He pulled back just enough to look at you — cheeks flushed, lips swollen, eyes wild.

“You need me to make it better, pretty girl?” he teased, voice gravel and silk. “You need my cock that bad?”

You nodded helplessly, grinding against his hand, chasing any friction you could get.

He grinned — dark, victorious — before yanking your panties to the side. He unzipped his jeans, enough to free himself, thick and hard and aching for you.

He hissed when he lined himself up, rubbing the head of his cock through your slick folds.

“Been dreaming about this,” he muttered. “Dreaming about fucking you open again, baby. No one else ever touched you like I did, huh?”

“No—no one,” you gasped, dizzy with need, nails digging into his shoulders.

He pushed in, slow but relentless, a guttural sound ripping from his chest as you clamped around him.

“Fucking perfect,” he growled, thrusting in until he was buried to the hilt. “My perfect fucking angel.”

You cried out — overwhelmed by the stretch, the fullness, the rightness of him inside you again.

He gave you a second to adjust, kissing your forehead — tender in a way that wrecked you even more — before he started moving.

Hard, deep strokes that rattled the shelf behind you.

Each thrust punched little gasps and moans from your lips, and Chris ate up every single one like he was starving.

“That’s it, baby,” he praised, filthy and sweet. “Taking me so good. Always so good for me.”

Your head tipped back against the shelf, pleasure burning hot and fast under your skin. Chris kissed down your throat, murmuring filth into your skin between bruising thrusts:

“You were made for me, pretty angel. Only me. This little pussy’s mine, you hear me?”

“Yours,” you gasped, legs tightening around him as he fucked you harder.

He grinned against your neck, dragging his teeth over your skin.

“Damn right.”

Your climax built fast, overwhelming, the coil tightening in your gut until you were gasping his name like a prayer.

“C’mon, baby,” he coaxed, voice rough and desperate. “Wanna feel you cum all over me. Wanna see my pretty girl fall apart for me.”

It only took a few more brutal thrusts, a few more filthy praises whispered into your ear, and you shattered — clenching around him so hard he cursed and slammed into you once, twice, before following you over the edge with a broken moan of your name.

You clung to each other, trembling and gasping, the world tilting and narrowing down to just you and him and the way you fit together like nothing had ever changed.

Chris buried his face in your neck, pressing lazy kisses to your skin as you both tried to catch your breath.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he whispered again, softer this time. “My pretty little angel.”

And you smiled through the haze, knowing you were so fucking ruined — and not caring at all.

You lost yourself in him — the taste of him, the smell of him, the feel of him everywhere.

And Chris kissed you like he was drowning and you were the air he’d been aching for.

Later, tangled up in a forgotten corner of the library, skin flushed and hearts still racing, he kissed your forehead and whispered, “Guess fate really was fucking with us.”

And you smiled, because maybe this time, it wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

You were still shaking when he pulled back — just enough for his lips to leave your neck, but his hands stayed on you. Everywhere. Fingers tight on your waist, holding you in place while your chest heaved with every breath.

“That was fucking insane,” Chris murmured, his voice rougher than it had been before, still low and hungry. He kissed your cheek, dragging his lips down to your jaw, then your throat, each touch feeling like a promise. “I can’t get enough of you.”

You shuddered under him. “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you,” you breathed, your voice cracked, a little delirious from the aftermath.

He grinned, that smug, cocky grin you hated — and secretly loved.

“You’re mine,” he growled, eyes dark and wild as he lowered his mouth to your ear. “You always have been.”

Before you could say anything, before you could even think about pulling away, he was on you again.

This time, his kiss was hard, bruising, desperate. His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting you, owning you with every lick.

“Chris—” you gasped, breaking the kiss, your breath coming in sharp, needy pants. But he wasn’t done. No, not by a long shot. He was pulling at your shirt again, tearing it off you this time, his hands more urgent than before. His lips followed the path of skin he revealed, biting down on your collarbone just hard enough to leave a mark.

“God, baby,” he whispered, his hands rough on your skin. “Look at you. So fucking perfect for me. Just mine, always. Fuck, I’ve been dying to get my hands on you again.”

You whimpered when his mouth trailed lower, your body tightening in anticipation. You wanted him again — you needed him, even though you were still aching, still sensitive from before.

“Please, Chris,” you begged, lifting your hips into his as you arched your back.

He paused, his eyes flicking up to yours, dark and predatory. “Please what, baby?” he teased, voice dripping with lust. “You want more of me? You want me to make you mine again?”

“Yes,” you panted, already losing control. “I want you. I want you inside me, now.”

He groaned at that, his hands sliding up your thighs to grip your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh.

“Such a good girl,” he purred, his lips brushing against your ear. “You really do like being fucked by me, don’t you?”

You nodded, your head falling back against the shelf, your mouth open in a breathless gasp. The words from his lips, the filthy way he spoke to you, were driving you insane. It was too much.

Chris didn’t need any more encouragement. He slid his cock back into you in one rough thrust that had you gasping.

“Oh God—” you cried out, your hands clutching at his shoulders as he began to move, slow at first, deep and deliberate, drawing out each stroke so you felt every inch of him.

“You feel so good,” Chris muttered, his lips brushing against your neck as he started to pick up the pace. “So tight and warm. You’re mine, baby. Just mine. Don’t forget it.”

“I won’t,” you breathed, your nails digging into his skin as his thrusts grew faster, harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the stillness of the library.

Your body burned with need, every inch of you on fire as he pounded into you, the friction between you two sending shockwaves through your body. You were lost in him — his touch, his scent, his voice, and the way his cock stretched you open so perfectly, you could barely think.

“You like it when I fuck you like this, huh?” Chris murmured, his breath hot against your skin as his pace grew relentless. “You like how I fill you up? How I make you mine, over and over again?”

“Yes, oh God, yes!” you cried, your body rocking against his with every thrust. “Please, don’t stop, I need you…”

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look into your eyes, his own filled with something dark and hungry. “Tell me you’re mine, pretty angel,” he ordered, his voice demanding.

“I’m yours,” you whimpered, your voice breaking. “Only yours. Always yours.”

Chris groaned at that, the sound rough and deep as he slammed back into you. “That’s right, baby. You’re fucking perfect for me. And I’m never letting you go again.”

The raw, desperate need in his voice sent you flying over the edge. Your orgasm hit you like a freight train, the force of it ripping through your body, making you scream his name.

“Chris!” you gasped, your body trembling as waves of pleasure crashed over you, clenching around him.

Chris wasn’t far behind. He buried his face in your neck, a low growl vibrating from deep in his chest as he followed you, his cock pulsing inside you as he spilled his release with a groan.

“Fuck, baby, you’re everything,” he muttered, pressing his forehead to yours as you both came down from the high, breathing heavily in the quiet library.

You clung to him, desperate to stay connected as the tension in your body slowly unraveled.

“We’re not done yet,” Chris said, his voice low and thick with desire as he pulled you even closer. “I’m not letting you go. Not tonight. Not ever.”

You smiled, feeling a wave of warmth rush through you. This wasn’t just a night. This was more. And you had a feeling that neither of you was going to be able to walk away from this again.

A/N:

is this sexy or nah 😔…

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0omillo0 · 6 months ago

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I’m so glad you’ve finished your school! I know school can be rough especially end of the year. Speaking of free time. 🥺👉👈 How about (surprise) angst/hurt with Han this time (at this point I’m trying to go through all the members at least once) Y/N is having just like, the worst day. They come home to Han for comfort but he is also having just like, the worst day. So they argue and Han walls out, but later there’s a fire at the apartment complex and when he comes back there’s like a whole scene and he freaks out. Y/N is already in the back of an ambulance and they’re fine but Han takes five ever to find them and is freaking out the entire time.

Calling you clingy

Han Jisung x Reader 한지성

a/n: Hi! I’m sorry if this took so long but I’m kinda struggling with my emotions lately and I don’t really like the way I write… hope you’ll like it tho

The day felt doomed from the moment you opened your eyes.

Your alarm hadn’t gone off, leaving you scrambling to get ready. You spilled coffee on your only clean shirt, missed your bus, and when you finally arrived at work, it was like the universe conspired against you. A project you’d poured your heart into was torn apart in a meeting, and the snide comments from a coworker still rang in your ears. By the time you walked through your apartment door that evening, you felt like a frayed wire—one spark away from snapping.

Han sat on the couch, earbuds in, a notebook balanced on his lap. His pen moved furiously across the page, his frustration evident in every stroke. Seeing him there, a small part of your tension eased. He’ll make this better, you thought. He always does…

“Hey,” you said softly, closing the door behind you.

He didn’t look up. “Hey.”

You hesitated, unsure if he’d even heard you. “Han… I’m sorry to bother you but I had the worst day. I don’t even know where to start. I just… I really need you right now. Please…”

You had always been nice to him, always making sure to give him his space. And he knew.

But this time, he sighed, setting his notebook aside but still not meeting your eyes. “Y/N, I can’t do this right now. I’m kind of drowning here myself.”

His words hit you like a cold wave. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he said, rubbing his temples, “I’ve been dealing with my own stuff all day. I’m exhausted too.”

You stared at him, your throat tightening. “I’m not asking you to solve anything, Han. I just wanted… I needed you to be here with me... I’m sorry-”

Finally, he looked at you, irritation flickering in his eyes. “Stop saying you’re sorry! It’s like… you can’t handle anything without me. You’re always leaning on me, and it’s—” He paused, running a hand through his hair. “It’s clingy, Y/N.”

The word sliced through you like a knife. “Clingy?” you echoed, your voice cracking.

Han stood, pacing in the small space. “Yes, clingy. Every time something goes wrong, I’m the first person you run to, and I can’t—”

“And what?” you interrupted, anger bubbling up. “You can’t handle that? I thought that’s what relationships were for—being there for each other!”

His voice rose to match yours. “It is! But I’m not your emotional punching bag! I have limits too!”

Your chest tightened, tears prickling at your eyes. “Fine. If I’m so clingy, maybe I should stop coming to you altogether.”

“Maybe you should.” His voice was cold.

He grabbed his keys from the counter and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. The silence that followed felt deafening. You stood frozen, tears spilling over as his words echoed in your head.

You’ve never seen him like this. It hurt so bad it felt like you were drowning in your own tears.

You decided to listen to some music to distract yourself, until..

*Sniff sniff*

The smell of smoke was faint at first, so faint you ignored it. You thought it was coming from outside—someone burning leaves or a neighbor cooking. But then the fire alarm shrieked through the building, and the panic set in.

When you opened the door, smoke poured in, thick and choking. Flames flickered at the end of the hallway. Grabbing your phone and bag, you stumbled into the chaos, your heart pounding as the smoke burned your lungs.

By the time you made it outside, the cool night air felt like relief, but your head swam, and you couldn’t stop coughing. Paramedics found you, guiding you to an ambulance. You barely registered their words as they placed an oxygen mask over your face, the world spinning around you.

While you were fighting for your own life, Han wandered the city, replaying your argument in his head. At first, he felt justified—you’d been overwhelming lately, hadn’t you? But as the minutes stretched into hours, guilt started creeping in. You weren’t clingy; you trusted him enough to lean on him when things got tough. And he’d thrown that trust back in your face.

He turned toward the apartment, ready to apologize, when he saw smoke curling into the sky. His heart stopped.

“No. No, no, no,” he whispered, breaking into a sprint.

The fire was massive, consuming the upper floors of the building—your floor. His lungs burned as he ran, panic rising with every step. By the time he reached the scene, fire trucks and ambulances surrounded the complex.

“Y/N!” he shouted, shoving through the crowd of evacuees. “Have you seen Y/N?”

No one answered. He called your name again, louder this time, his voice cracking. His legs felt like they might give out, his thoughts racing to every worst-case scenario.

Finally, he spotted you in the back of an ambulance. Relief hit him so hard that he nearly collapsed.

“Y/N!” he cried, rushing to your side.

You looked up, your face pale but alive, the oxygen mask resting on your lap. “You came back,” you said hoarsely.

Han dropped to his knees in front of you, his hands shaking as he reached for yours. “I—I thought—I thought I lost you,” he stammered, tears streaming down his face. “I’m so sorry. I never should have left. I was selfish, and I was wrong. I’m so, so sorry.”

You stared at him for a moment, your expression unreadable. Finally, you pulled the mask down, your voice trembling. “You called me clingy, Han. You left me when I needed you most. Do you know how much that hurt?”

His face crumpled. “I know. I was an idiot. I didn’t mean it—I was overwhelmed, and I took it out on you. But I’ll never do that again. I swear. You mean everything to me, Y/N. Everything.”

Your lip trembled, tears welling up in your eyes. “You made me feel like I didn’t matter to you. Like I was just… too much.”

Han cupped your face gently, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. “You’re not too much. You’ll never be too much. I’ll spend the rest of my life proving that to you if I have to. I’m so sorry.”

For a moment, you hesitated, the pain still fresh in your chest. But the sincerity in his eyes—the fear, the guilt, the love—broke down your walls. You nodded slowly, leaning into his touch.

“Okay,” you whispered. “But it’s going to take time.”

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, his hands steadying as he held you close. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be here.”

That night, you stayed together in your apartement, after making sure you were all right at the hospital, the weight of the day still heavy but no longer unbearable. Han didn’t let go of you for a second, whispering soft reassurances until your eyes closed.

You weren’t sure how long it would take to heal, but as you drifted off, you knew one thing: Han was willing to try.

@intartaruginha @hannamoon143 @omgsecretsecret @inlovewithstraykids @whoa-jo @madirye062 @vixensss @sseawavee @emilyywhyy @halfwinterhalfuniverse @velvetmoonlght @flourishmoon

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aspenmissing · 27 days ago

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ꜱɪɴᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛ

ᴛᴏɴʏ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴋ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 3179 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴛᴀʟᴋꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴋɪᴅɴᴀᴘᴘɪɴɢ, ᴘʀᴇꜱᴜᴍᴇᴅ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ! ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴋ��ᴏᴡ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ɴᴀᴍᴇᴅ, ꜱᴏ ɪ ᴡᴏɴ'ᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ɴᴏᴡ (ꜰᴇᴇʟ ꜰʀᴇᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇꜱꜱᴀɢᴇ ᴍᴇ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ᴏɴ ɪᴛ! ᴀɴʏᴡᴀʏ, ɪ'ᴍ ꜱᴏ ꜱᴏʀʀʏ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴏɴɢ ᴡᴀɪᴛ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ!! <3 <3

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴛᴏɴʏ

You were there when he got his first black eye trying to charm a senator’s daughter. You still remembered the way he strutted over to her like he was auditioning for his own movie, flashing that crooked, teenage grin — so smug, so sure of himself — until her bodyguard stepped in and decked him square across the jaw.

And then, there he was, bleeding and laughing and already asking you if he still looked handsome with a busted lip.

You told him no.

You lied.

Because Tony Stark had always been impossible to look away from.

You were there when he built his first engine in the garage, fingers smudged with oil, eyes alight with pride, like he’d just cracked the universe open.

He was seventeen — cocky, brilliant, sunburnt, and sweat-soaked in a band tee two sizes too big and fraying at the sleeves. The kind of summer evening where the air hung thick with heat and potential, and the scent of gasoline, grease, and half-melted candy bars clung to the walls of the workshop like wallpaper.

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor beside him, legs sticking slightly to the concrete, holding a flashlight in one hand and a parts list in the other. Every once in a while, he'd reach over to nudge your shoulder or take a bolt from your palm without looking — like you were just another part of the process. Like your presence was a given, not a question.

You didn’t mind. You never had.

Because there was something sacred about being close to Tony Stark when he was building. When he was in the zone — all sharp focus and endless energy, muttering equations under his breath and brushing his damp hair back with the heel of his palm — it felt like watching a star collapse into itself and spark a new galaxy in the aftermath.

He’d hum sometimes, absentmindedly — low, tuneless, off-key — while tweaking wires or tightening screws. And every so often, he’d look over at you with that boyish glint in his eye, like he couldn’t believe he was doing it, like he couldn’t believe you were there with him, like the whole thing might vanish if he blinked.

You’d pretend not to notice the way his shirt kept riding up when he reached for something on the workbench, exposing the dip of his back and a constellation of freckles you knew by heart. You’d pretend not to watch the way grease stained the edges of his jaw when he wiped sweat with the back of his hand. You’d pretend not to care when your fingers brushed while passing him tools and he didn’t flinch — not like he did with other people.

Because that was the thing about Tony.

He didn’t let people touch him much. Not unless he was performing. Not unless he was controlling the moment, the contact, the outcome. But with you, it was different. Always had been.

You could tap his arm to get his attention, lean your head against his shoulder while watching him sketch out blueprints, nudge his knee with yours to make a point — and he never pulled away. Sometimes, he even leaned into it.

You didn’t realize how rare that was until much later.

That night, when the engine finally roared to life — sputtering at first, then humming like a living thing — he’d nearly tackled you in celebration. Laughed loud and victorious, hands still smeared with grease, eyes lit up like the Fourth of July.

“We did it,” he grinned, passing you a soda from the mini fridge, his smile so wide it nearly split his face.

You took it with shaking hands, heart thudding in your chest, trying to ignore the fact that your legs were still tangled together on the floor. Trying to ignore the way his knee was brushing yours. Trying not to stare at the black smudges on his cheek or the way he’d given you the first soda — like it was a trophy, like you mattered.

“We did,” you echoed, your voice soft, almost reverent.

And he looked at you then — really looked. Not just a glance, not just a passing flick of his eyes, but something deeper. Slower. Like he saw through the layers you tried to keep in place. Like he’d known, even then, that you were already his.

And maybe you had been.

Because somewhere between the smell of oil and the whir of spinning gears, you’d fallen for Tony Stark — not the legacy, not the genius, not the heir to a billion-dollar empire, but the boy on the garage floor with smudged hands and a heart he didn’t show the world.

You never told him that night.

But later, when you wiped the sweat off his brow with the hem of your shirt and he let his forehead rest against your shoulder for a beat too long, you thought maybe he already knew.

And then… years later… you were there when everything came crashing down in Afghanistan. When he was kidnapped. When the headlines turned from glitz and glamour to dread and speculation.

The first month was chaos. The second, agony. By the third, you were barely sleeping, barely eating. Just pacing the floors of his empty mansion, praying to whatever would listen that he was still alive. That he was still him.

You were one of the few who refused to believe he was dead. Everyone else had begun to mourn — quiet whispers behind closed doors, board members talking succession, Pepper trying to hold it all together with trembling hands and red eyes. But you wouldn’t let yourself break. Not yet. Not until you saw a body. Not until you heard his voice.

Then came the call.

He was alive.

And before you could fully process what that meant, where he was, how he’d survived — you were already moving. Racing through streets, hands trembling as you gripped the steering wheel, a brown paper bag full of greasy burgers riding shotgun. His favourite kind — the one with the grilled onions and extra pickles, the kind he used to bribe you with when he wanted help in the lab or a distraction from board meetings.

When you got to the tarmac, the world slowed.

There were so many people — reporters, military personnel, med techs. Flashes from cameras, the whirring of helicopters overhead. But all you could see was him.

Tony.

He stepped off that jet looking thinner than you remembered. Older. Like the sand had sanded down all his sharp edges. His face was gaunt, beard grown out, his eyes shadowed by things you couldn’t begin to imagine.

He blinked against the light. Looked around like he didn’t recognize the world anymore.

And then he saw you.

The second his eyes locked on yours, something in his expression cracked — like the armour he’d already begun building around himself faltered, just for a moment.

You didn’t wait.

You ran to him.

Didn’t care about the cameras. Didn’t care about protocol. You shoved past some poor intern trying to keep people back and practically launched yourself into his arms.

He caught you — of course he did — though he staggered back a step from the impact. But then he held you like a lifeline, like if he let go, he might vanish all over again.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just wrapped your arms around him and pressed your face into his shoulder, trying not to sob. He smelled like sweat, blood, metal and something scorched. But he was real. He was solid.

He was alive.

And he was holding you just as tightly.

When you finally pulled back, your hands found his face, your fingers brushing over the lines that hadn’t been there before, over the smudges of exhaustion and pain and defiance.

“You okay?” you whispered, though you already knew the answer would be complicated.

He didn’t answer right away.

He looked at you the way a drowning man might look at the surface — desperate, hopeful, disbelieving.

“You brought me burgers?” was all he said.

You let out a breathless laugh, tears still clinging to your lashes as you shoved the warm bag into his chest. “Don’t say I never do anything for you, Stark.”

He smiled then. Not the cocky smirk that made headlines. Not the fake, camera-ready grin.

A real one. Small. Grateful. Raw.

“I missed you,” he said, quiet as a confession.

“I missed you more,” you answered, barely above a whisper. He looked at you like he wasn’t sure if he still deserved you. You hugged him like you never left.

Because he was still your Tony. Maybe quieter now. Maybe lonelier. But underneath the metal and the trauma and the press headlines, he was still the same boy who once called you at 3 a.m. because he needed help with something.

And maybe that was why it hurt sometimes.

To watch him bury himself in parties and press. To watch him flirt with anything that moved. To hear the world call him a genius, billionaire, playboy — like that was all he was. Like the man who still called you when he couldn’t sleep.

He did.

You knew him.

Every broken, brilliant inch.

You were there when he started to change — not just in the headlines, but in the quiet hours. When he disappeared into the workshop for days, chasing something raw and angry and desperate with the same hands that once built engines for fun. You brought him food he didn’t eat, sat in the corner while he soldered circuits in silence, listened as he talked to himself more than he talked to you.

You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t have to. Because you saw it in his eyes — the shift, the weight, the guilt.

Afghanistan had broken something in him, but it had also forged something new. Something jagged and unfinished and burning. You were there the night he finished the suit — the first one — watching as he stood in front of it with something like awe and fear tangled in his features.

And when he turned to you and asked, quietly, “What do you think?” You told him the truth.

That he looked like a man who had decided to carry the weight of the world on his back and hadn’t yet realized it would crush him.

You wanted to stop him. You didn’t. Because you knew you couldn’t. Because you’d loved him from the moment he offered you a wrench instead of a handshake.

You never told him. You didn’t have to.

But God, some nights, it burned inside your chest like his arc reactor had been accidentally wired into your ribcage — steady and constant and aching. An echo of everything unsaid.

And little did you know…

He felt it too.

Had for years.

Maybe that’s why he always called you first. Maybe that’s why you were the one name no one ever saw, written in sharpie on the inside of the helmet. Not for show. Not for the press.

Just for him.

Just for you.

The tower was quiet that night.

No Avengers. No PR galas. No mission reports glowing on the conference table or threats on the horizon. No reporters outside, no flashbulbs, no Friday quipping through the speakers or bots skittering across the floor with trays of half-eaten sandwiches.

Just the low hum of electricity in the walls, the whir of hidden generators, and the subtle crackle of old jazz drifting through a vintage speaker Tony refused to upgrade. He claimed it had "soul." Said the slight hiss between notes made it feel like someone real was still playing. You suspected it reminded him of Howard, though he’d never admit that out loud.

The lights in the workshop were dimmed, warm and golden, casting long shadows across blueprints and prototypes. It felt like the rest of the world had folded itself away, leaving only this — this little pocket of time that belonged to no one but the two of you.

You were perched cross-legged on one of his cluttered workbenches, wearing a pair of leggings and one of his ancient MIT sweatshirts — the sleeves pushed up past your elbows, collar stretched out just enough to betray how many times you’d borrowed it and never given it back. The scent of motor oil clung to the fabric, faint but familiar, blending now with the spice of his cologne hanging faintly in the air.

This was your version of peace. The kind only found in the hush between long conversations and longer silences. When neither of you had to pretend.

No pretense. No performance.

Just Tony. And you.

He was half-buried under a mess of wires and unfinished armour plating, legs sticking out from beneath the latest prototype of his repulson tech. His arc reactor pulsed a steady, quiet glow beneath the thin black tank top he wore when he was too focused to care about anything but function. His hands — scarred, deft, always moving — reached out instinctively, and you handed him the screwdriver before he even asked.

“You’re in my head, you know that?” he said without looking up, voice dry but amused. “Terrifying.”

You rolled your eyes and tossed a washer lightly at his shin. “You love it.”

“I do.” His voice dropped, lost a little of its humour. Gentler now. More honest. “Too much, probably.”

You blinked. The words were quiet — almost casual — but they echoed louder than any explosion you’d ever heard.

You glanced down at the piece of tech you were toying with, but your fingers stilled, the metal suddenly cold in your palm. And when you finally looked up, he was watching you.

Not the way he watched the models at parties or the stage lights at expos. Not like a man who wanted to impress.

But like a man who was trying to memorize you. To freeze time with his eyes alone. Like you were a moment he couldn’t afford to lose.

“I never said thank you,” he said after a beat, fiddling with a bolt like it could distract him from the weight of his own words. “For staying. For always being there. Especially when I didn’t deserve it.”

You swallowed hard. “You didn’t have to.”

His gaze lifted, meeting yours with such sharp vulnerability it nearly knocked the breath from your lungs. “I did.”

Silence bloomed between you — thick and heavy with everything that had never been said. It felt like standing on the edge of something, the wind pushing at your back, daring you to take the leap.

You tried to anchor yourself. “You’re my best friend, Tony.”

He gave a short, brittle laugh, standing up too fast and pushing his fingers through his hair like he was trying to scrub the emotion out of his skull. He started to pace — classic Stark behaviour — like he was drafting a schematic with each step.

“That’s the problem,” he muttered.

“…What do you mean?”

“I mean—” He turned, gesturing to himself, then to you, as if that alone explained everything. “I’ve been in love with you since the day you cussed me out in the lab for almost blowing off my own damn hand.”

Your heart skipped.

“That was twelve years ago,” you said, barely above a whisper.

“I know.” He let out a dry laugh. “Believe me. I know.”

You stared at him, stunned into silence. Tony — Tony, who flirted like it was armor, who slept through feelings like they were background noise — was standing in front of you like a man unraveling, eyes wide with years of unspoken want.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“Because I’m me,” he said, gesturing at himself again with a helpless smile. “And you’re… you. You’re kind. And good. And steady. And I’m—look at me.” He shook his head. “I’m a mess with a god complex and a press schedule.”

“Tony—”

“And I figured if I said anything, I’d ruin everything. I figured I’d push you away. And I couldn’t… I can’t lose you.”

The world tilted under your feet.

You stood up slowly, every nerve lit like a fuse, heart pounding hard enough to make your fingers tremble. You took a step toward him, then another, until there was only a breath between you.

“You thought you’d ruin it?” you asked softly.

Tony nodded, eyes locked to yours like you were the only real thing in the room.

You reached up and brushed your fingertips across his cheek, barely there, but enough to make his breath hitch.

“Tony… I thought I was the only one.”

He froze.

“You…?”

You gave him a small, sad smile — the one he’d seen a hundred times when you patched him up in med bay or sat on the edge of his bed after a panic attack. The one that always said I’m here even when you couldn’t say I love you.

“I’ve loved you since we made our first engine together all those years ago”

His expression crumpled, just for a second, like a man watching the last piece of a puzzle click into place after years of trying to force the wrong ones to fit.

Another heartbeat passed. Then two. Then—

His hands found your waist, tentative but certain, like he was still asking permission even after all this time. His thumb brushed against the hem of your sweatshirt — his sweatshirt — as if grounding himself.

One hand lifted, fingers ghosting along your jaw, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear like it was sacred.

“Can I…?”

You didn’t answer with words.

You just leaned in.

And kissed him.

Slow. Gentle. Fierce in its restraint. Like opening a book you already knew by heart but had never dared to finish. Like every phone call at midnight, every shared silence, every almost had led to this.

His hands splayed against your back, pulling you in. Yours curled into his shirt, bunching the fabric over his heart. He kissed you like you were oxygen. Like he’d been drowning for years and finally found the surface.

And when you pulled back, just barely, your foreheads rested together, breath mingling in the space between.

“I should’ve kissed you years ago,” he murmured.

“I would’ve let you,” you whispered back.

He laughed then — a real laugh. Soft. Unarmoured. Just him.

And his mouth curved into a smile that was for you and you alone.

“So…” he began, already shifting back into humour like it was a second skin, “do we tell everyone you’re officially off the market, or should I build you a suit first?”

You laughed, breathless. “Let’s just start with dinner, Stark.”

“Dinner I can do.” He nodded solemnly. “I’m great at dinner. I’m phenomenal at dinner. Honestly, I might be the best dinner date on the planet—”

“Tony.”

“Right. Shutting up now.”

But he didn’t pull away.

Neither did you.

Because in that quiet workshop, with jazz humming in the background and years of longing finally collapsed into the space between your mouths, Tony Stark didn’t need a comeback.

He just held you like he was finally, finally home.

#Avengers #avengers fanfiction #reader insert #tony stark x reader #tony x reader

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angelesca · 6 months ago

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w.c. 3.4k💀so much words for this crap / sunday x truckdriver!gnreader (dafuqq is this dynamic), small stories, 99% of the penacony cast are impressed by you(they should be), robin is a cutie pie, sunday is a closeted robin fan, you and sunday squabble daily, sunday your wonweek is showing💗, wrote this in the tumblr drafts vro🔥part crack [𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐯𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐞𝐬]: 1 ┃ 2 ┃...

a/n: farted this out bc i got inspired by this otome isekai manhwa i was reading [truck knight taekbae] + aesthetics inspired by [who made me a princess]

darkness monopolised your vision ever since you got here; day time never graced you. the insulated walls do their job well—only the vibrations, the frayed edges of sound, can be heard.

chains grip your wrists, the metal twisting into your skin, wringing it like cloth. ouch. what now? maybe if you fart consecutively, and hard enough, you can blow your way out?

"brother... why…?" vibrations again.

"don’t… monitor… danger."

the iron door creaks. light shines a single ray though the gap, and like the sun, the radiance blinds you. you squint your eyes, tracing the outline of two silhouettes.

the taller one approaches, each stride covering an equal, set amount of distance without a lost beat. "i have one question," their tone dashes against the whetstone, pointing a sharpened blade at you. "who are you?"

their eyes did not welcome any light, no reflection of you in them, as if you were only a whisper of the air. you feel the cracks in your throat. "me? i’m just a truck driver."

you are having tea with sunday.

after the less-than-ideal introductions, the picture cleared: you, a truck driver, are isekai’d into penacony via truck inception(?).

"i apologise for my manners," sunday sips his cup. "when you... suspisciously appeared in my bathroom, unresponding, there was no room to be courteous."

"sorry about that," you play with the rim of your cup awkwardly. "i'm not sure what happened either." the honest truth.

sunday shakes his head. he's majestic. "so, you said that you were…" he taps his chin.

"a truck driver."

"a criminal?"

"... truck driver."

“an assassin?”

"..." you almost turned into one.

little did you know, your lone walk was accompanied by a slithering shadow. except... it was no shadow. it was a dazzling spotlight that had fans and reporters following her repslendent glow, as expected of penacony's halovian songstress: robin.

"you mentioned you were a truck driver," finally, someone knows what a truck driver is. "will you allow me to see it?"

yes, your truck teleported into the dreamscape too. how could you live without them? they sit by a pavement on penacony's streets, hoarding the stares of confused citizens.

you watch an infinite cosmos flare in robin's incandescent eyes. your truck is just that impressive. "wow...! it's so beautiful!"

"what a curious machine," a blue and blonde-haired pair are analysing. "a vehicle that inefficiently operates on wheels? rather old-fashioned."

"what in the ever-lovin' fudge? my great-great-great-great-great gramps had one of those!"

"a sight of blissful beauty blooms before my eyes. amazing!"

“where am i?”

“acheron, it hasnt even been a minute yet and you’re confused.”

people's eager stomping tremble the earth and sky. it's just that impressive. in the distance, an extra pair of wary eyes observe you.

"i admit, i am still suspiscious of you," sunday crosses one leg over the other. "robin sang nothing but praises. however, i'm afraid i'll need you under my surveillance to prove your trustworthiness."

urk. possessive much? "why are there knives, swords, and rocket launchers on the table?" sunday cocks an eyebrow at you, expecting you to make a move. "... i'm really not an assassin, sunday." but you do know his entire life story, so you're actually his stalker.

suddenly. the room blurs. an annoying static repeats, plucking the sensory wires from your circuit. is he... is he using his thingamajig powers?

"you may not be one... for now." he looks out a large window. you follow his gaze. wait a minute. what are they doing to-

“MY TRUUUUCK!!!” your passion transcends boundaries, past the lower-case and forcing the caps lock. lunging, you rush outside the mansion. "HEy!"

"aaaaa!! run!"

"eeek!"

"nyaa~!" who the hell was that?

"what the..." you are stunned. how dare they vandalise your truck! "was this your order?" you turn to sunday, infuriated.

"what will you do now?" a corner of his lips lifts, provoking.

you clench your fist. no one messes with you, the best truck driver, and only truck driver, in penacony.

hypothetically, if you got hit by a truck and ended up here, could you, a truck driver, hit a penaconian and isekai them over to your world?

"hey, robin?"

"hm?" her smile is innocent, gazing at you with a prospering kindness deserving of its own halo.

you smack your head. a dozen times over. then a few more.

"hey, aventurine?"

"hi hi~"

you shake your head. wouldn't his luck interfere? if anything, you'd be the one to get run over again.

"hey, acheron?"

"who are you?"

doesn't even know who you are despite telling her a minute ago. if she ended up in your world, she'd be asking the same question anyway: "where am i?"

you pick your nose. she'd slice you in half. period.

"hey, rappa."

"dazzling ninja rappa at your service!"

"as am i, the dimension-trespassing truck driving ninja!"

unfortunately, ninja roleplay with rappa is too fun. every friday, you play dnd together and you can't miss it this week.

there's only one person left.

"hey sun-"

"don't."

you stare blankly. "i didn't say anything?"

sunday glares back. "if you are going to speak to me, do it in front of me, and not while starting the engine of your truck."

"tch... damn."

"could i use your truck as a stage prop for my next concert?"

"oh, what if it suddenly rains?"

"what if i accidentally trip?"

you notice a gap in robin's behaviour. "how come you're so nervous today?"

robin looks at you, mouth on the verge of speaking. she looks down at her shoes. "hmm..." she tilts her head, lips mumbling. she hesitates, unready to spill her heart.

there's one thing you do best. you suggest, "why don't we go for a ride in my truck?"

robin's hunched back quickly reshapens itself. it's been some time since you've had a passenger, but with the way robin swiftly adjusts herself in the seats, excited, you don't worry about the mess in the truck. you start the vehicle, ready to stroll penacony's streets.

you hand her a piece of unexpired candy from a compartment, and she accepts the gesture. it doesn't take long before robin settles herself afterwards. she sighs. "... it's my brother, he'll be attending a show for the first time. i'm a bit nervous."

"why would he not be supportive?" you question.

robin shakes her head. "it may be because my brother is a perfectionist. i can't help but believe that he'll be expecting a flawless performance."

halovian songstress robin, a nation-wide icon, for her, expectations continually rise without rest. but for now, she sits next to you as robin herself, without the embellishments and performing. a breath of fresh air.

words of reassurance may be able to tend her heart. "make as many mistakes as you want," you comfort, "you are robin yourself before you are a singer, a civilian, and a sister."

the candy in her palm is scrunched. her heart, opens. robin herself, smiles. not because she is expected to, not because she is told to, but because she wants to. "thank you."

on the eighth day, grant... sunday getting down on one knee for you. wasn't this a bit fast?

your mouth opens. "are you proposing right now?"

"what are you on about?" sunday looks up at you, eyebrows scrunched. in his hands, a riiiiiiiiiiing- no, he's just cleaning his shoes with a cloth. better luck next time.

robin suggested to use your truck like a cabbie. that way, you can still keep your pride as a truck driver, and provide ears for wary hearts:

a student struggling with academics.

someone who doesn't know which direction to take.

the ramblings of a doctor whose words are spoken with precision, slicing his words into the victim's flesh. but behind the gloves are trembling hands that only wishes to sew tight the rotting wounds of a poor gambler, if only he would let him.

a galaxy ranger who witnessed the brevity of lives in the isolated expanse of the universe, walked along the shore of nihility. she departs with you her true name so that when she returns, your heart can accompany her solitude once more.

a young girl who cannot tell if the blood on her hands are someone else's, or her own. every allude to life reminded her of a deathly fate. however, as your passenger, she is reminded that she can forge a life of her own, undecided by destiny. penance and redemption, then, in the end, she hopes to regain her humanity.

you've listened to them all. unlocked each of their hearts, always gave back the key if they ever wanted to return again. turns out, the people of penacony are not much different from those in your world.

robin would pass out if she saw this.

from what you remember, there were 88 doors in the oak family's residence (you're a dedicated fan). you've explored each one, door 86, 87, 88... 89?

a secluded door that can only be seen with eagle eyes. the mystery kindles sparks in your chest, flaming curious fires. you slowly open the door. 86, 87, 88, 89... robins? (one for every door?) they all stare at you within their enclosures, as either posters, figurines, or books cover. in the middle sat a familiar head of grey hair, lowered, back turned towards you.

"sunday?"

the head moves up. gradually, it creaks. never in your life, did you expect to see a robin-crazed hidden room, nor a red-faced sunday. oh robin, the brother you were so worried about, is actually your no.1 fan. sunday's halovian wings flap furiously, doing nothing to cool his face down. his expression seems annoyed to have been caught in the act. "... what?"

"is this your robin shrine?" this is it. this will be your revenge, and the beginning tastes sweet. "so, you're the real criminal out of the two of us."

one can imagine the fumes blowing out of his ears. his eyes glisten, on the verge of tears. oops, he's really embarrassed.

you turn your face away, allowing sunday as much privacy as possible within his very private room. or rather, you are avoiding his eyes to suppress laughter. "you're coming to robin's concert, right?"

"you coming?" you gesture towards your majestic truck. it's a beautiful night for a truck ride.

sunday, your victim, is reluctant, of course. he probably still believes that you are an assassin who will run him over. "i won't die, will i?"

you huff. "i'm just a truck driver. what's the worse i could do? kidnap you?" sunday stares at you, frightened. it does not take much for him to believe in your potential for evil. "it's a joke... i'm not a criminal. or an assassin."

"just for a few minutes," he resigns. score. you open the door for sunday, who eventually sits down. you start the engine.

"welcome." sunday is in your truck. what an achievement. heh. you place your foot on the pedal.

it is silent apart from the engine's buzzing. you hand sunday an unexpired bag of chips from the compartment. he receives it, inspecting the packaging. his eyes trail to the window, studying how the sunset paints penacony with autumn's palette, but beyond it, he is watching the dots of people. you watch the melancholic sunday.

"what's on your mind?" you ask.

"nothing significant."

"well, the whole point of my trucking service is to listen to passengers." you turn the wheel. honestly, you don't know where you're going, and neither does sunday. the moon guides you tonight, two lost souls. "say anything."

sunday fiddles with the bag of chips. "...maintaining the oak family status, work, the people," he finally speaks, "it balances on my shoulders."

you hum, signalling him to continue.

"wouldn't a utopia free from suffering solve everything?"

quite a hard-hitting question for a truck driver, sunday. you nod. "of course. the only problem is that it is not real - everyone is forced into the current reality. it is harsh and cruel..." you blink. "but we are not powerless to it."

"how do you suggest we solve it?"

it is quiet for a moment before your mind wanders to every passenger you've had. they all had one thing in common. "i guess, a lot of people want a shoulder to lean on, an ear to open for them, and a voice to validate their feelings. we can do that."

all those passengers seemed to shine brighter at the end of the ride, ready to chase a dream. you may not be saving the world - you are no hero, just a truck driver - but you help tend the invisible wounds of people: the blood that drips from sharp words, the bruises that sting from deprecation, the headaches.

isn't it fine to take it slow? navigate the dark, little-by-little, and by the end, there will be an even brighter light.

"... i see." sunday watches your hands manoeuvre the truck's mechanics. the flick in your eyes that turn to him, to which he shies away from. then, he rests his eyes. as the truck drives, a silence hangs, one of quiet understanding. bit-by-bit, you gaze into sunday's heart.

it's been some time since you got run over.

adjusting to penacony was difficult at first. you had to adapt to life at the family's mansion, and the daily customs. however, the burden was eased slightly, all partly thanks to a special helper.

every morning, a cup of coffee or freshly-squeezed juice presents itself in the kitchen. every afternoon, your favourite bookshop always happens to have the book you wanted, already reserved for you. every night, your bedroom door slowly opens, quietly. your blanket, moves up to cover your torso. the mess in your room, rearranged and picked up. the back of a hand, feathers over your cheek. and nothing more happens. your little helper is easily satisfied at the sight of a peaceful you.

"does robin know about this room?" you are flipping through an ancient truck magazine.

sunday is wiping the display cabinets. his wings are flapping again, turning to you. "you didn't mention it to her, did you?"

"no, but she's going on tour soon after," you play with the corner of a page. "why don't you send her your encouragement?”

"what do you suggest?" he asks.

you look at the ceiling. it's full of robin's pictures. "a heartfelt letter? personally, i would buy her a truck but i don't think she needs that."

a small laugh escapes sunday's lips. you did not expect that. "that would be nice." he moves over to a desk, and from a drawer he pulls out a page adorned with blue flowers, and a pen.

you walk over to his desk. "you're into stationary?"

"i don't see why not," sunday says, "my work requires mostly writing, after all."

he begins from the top: 'dear sister,'. from there, sunday is a bit clumsy and awkward, asks her how the weather is and if she had breakfast. "... i've never done this before," is what he said. but gradually, the pen picks up, and the words flow. now, there was too much left unspoken when sunday reaches the final line, and had to cross out the sentence he was writing. a total of four pages, both sides filled, with more words waiting to be said - those would be left for when the siblings reunite.

"maybe we can have the people of penacony sign it too." you smile, imagining robin's elation when she reads it.

sunday nods. he scratches his signature and hands the paper to you. "here."

you take the pen, hesitant. "what's this for?"

sunday raises an eyebrow. "you're a citizen of penacony, are you not?"

... oh. were you? your throat dries. when did you become a part of penacony? weren't you... just a truck driver?

sunday watches you contemplate. a silence drawls. suddenly, he wraps his hand around yours, holding the pen still. "why are you hesitating?" nib meets page. ribbon by ribbon, the ink dances. "you belong here, don't you?"

your chest grows warm. you weren't expecting that either. full of surprises, aren't we? the same person that chained your hands and observed you, coldly answered to you, is offering his warmth. his hand is resolute, unwilling to let go. it reassure your doubts. you smile.

the pen lifts:

'from, your loving brother and, your dear friend.'

surprisingly, sunday has gotten comfortable with your presence in his forbidden robin cove. as you have with his in your magnificent truck.

yet, as much as you've driven closer, the gap is bottomless. sunday doesn't appreciate you looking at him, yet, he's allowed to drill holes in you when you're not aware?

you've asked robin, but she answered cryptically with a smile. "he used to watch over me as well, overprotective as always, but i'm sure that's his way of expressing himself when words fail him."

you reccount the passing moments.

a person more of action, lesser of words. for his people, he worked endlessly without their validation. for robin, he hid in the shadows of his much brighter devotion and support. for you, he let you slowly seep into his life, and you absorbed him into yours. a truck driver and an overqualified partner-in-crime.

quiet devotion is a tender song. without the beating of his loud commands, penacony would be left unprotected. without the instrumental scratching of his pen, there would be no light on the streets. without the percussive clicking of his shoes, the citizens would not be able to dance and celebrate.

this was sunday's song; no one else heard it, but it hums beneath the surface, invisible. those who press their ears against it can sense its vibrations. a silence that speaks louder than words or lyrics. and now, you can't mistake it, your heart beats to the silent song.

it is the night of robin's last stage in penacony. you and sunday stand on a balcony, watching over her. the final song sways along the night-caressed breeze, setting free the wings of hopeful listeners and dreamchasers.

though for a certain someone, he was using more of his eyes than ears. when you meet his golden pair, they turn away as usual.

"what's with you?" you lean against the railing.

his hands hide behind his back. "nothing significant."

"hey, i thought we were past that already. i told you i'm a truck driver who listen to their passengers."

silence hangs. a few more spoken words, "and? have you told your story?"

"me?"

his eyes find yours, but they don't turn away anymore. behind his role as penacony's figure and as a brother, it is sunday who is talking to you. in his gaze, it doesn't judge, impartial, waiting to listen, asking if it is okay for you to lend him your key.

he's come a long way into this journey. now, he awaits at your doorstep. the words catch in your throat. "i'm... just a truck driver..." you close your eyes. "a truck driver who got lost here."

sunday shakes his head. "i’m not asking about one miniscule part of your life. behind that is you who experienced a reality that built the person in front of me," his voice is shaky. an unsteady hand opens and closes, hopes to reach out for yours, but is uncertain. "i'm... asking for permission to learn all of you."

"..." robin's song is about to come to an end.

you look at the mirror. a mirror that always reflected only you, now fits one more person in the frame. that is your answer.

the you who is listening, reading, watching, all your past versions converge into this quiet meeting. usually, the mirror rejected, criticised, and distorted. but today, it finally listens. the mirror holds your reflection to be true. before you got to penacony, before you stood in the middle of a road, before you became a truck driver, you were...

"speak to me. i'm here to listen as you have for others." and keep that key to his heart, for it remains open unconditionally, always a place for you in there.

two losts souls, under the moon, found a home in each other.

a person closes the novel they were reading. they pick up their phone and start typing:

“-4.2/5 rating, absolute horror. where was robin at the end? i was waiting for her! and what’s with all the mirrors and life lessons? preeeeetty criiiinge. i'm reading a fantasy novel, not a lecture. why is mc even a truck driver anyways? also, not enough hand holding, and definitely not enough kissing. zero points!” this random nobody criticises, slamming fingers on the screen. they pause. “i wonder when the next volume will be released…”

a/n: great use of my holiday tbh, get everything out b4 i'm busy again💖i hate drawing hoyo charas they're so detailed, applause to all the hoyo artists u guys r goated fr i thought itd be cute to turn this into a series. i have some deleted ideas since i only wanted this to be a short piece (i got carried away smh). but tbh this fic ended off nicely, i dont think it needs continuing. idk. i like pistachio ice cream thanks for reading!!😲

#hold me back b4 i do a sunday arranged marriage isekai #with a train conductor reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #sunday x reader #angie's crayon drawings!

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