#and to everyone asking for a taglist I will make one!

[rawrfrferrari]

Bad Romance | MV 1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x girlfriend!oc

Type: SMAU, PR Relationship.

[Request and Taglist] [Masterlist]

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4.

f1wagsofficial

Liked by maxverstappendaily, maxlanaupdates and others

f1wagsofficial Spotted: Alana arriving solo two days in a row for FP & Quali while boyfriend Max Verstappen took the back entrance into the paddock.

Cameras caught only a few interactions, but let’s see what Sunday brings.

view all comments

gridgirlie she literally looked stunning yesterday I would also want to make a solo entrance

wifeverstappen lmao that fake couple arc lasted like 3 weeks

f1wagstea i don’t blame her. fake or not, she’s gotta protect her peace lol

redbullbabe33 maybe she’s letting max focus?? she doesn’t have to be glued to him lol

username1 idk they both seem chill… not everyone’s gonna cling for clout

lecfosi16 wasn’t she supposed to be at the garage? hmm

→ f1wagsofficial I think she was in the garage for quali, rest of the time she was I the club with his mother.

username2 first the kiss leak, now this… they were never meant to be.

maxlanaupdates maybe it’s to avoid giving the press too much too soon?

tifosiangel not y’all assuming they’re breaking up cause she showed up in her own car 😭

alana.miller

📍Monaco Grand Prix

maxlanaupdates

Liked by f1wagsofficial, maxlanaupdates and others

maxlanaupdates Max and Alana shows up at paddock together. Also Alana was also spotted going to the garage with his mother.

view all comments

redbullbabe33 She fits in like she’s been there all the time.

maxlanaschild Her walking ahead to give the journalists space to interview max.

wifeverstappen Max isn’t smiling like that… he looks tired not happy.

username1 Max really upgraded tbh 👀

trulylandhoe I feel like Lando’s definitely teasing Max about this rn 😂

maxyfanforever She got the mom approval y’all. IT’S REAL.

username2 Can she chill for one race? Just one?

teamalanam The way she waved at the cameras all sweetly 🥹

tracktales Too fast, too PR-coded for me.

TO LANDO'S PARTY

Max was behind the wheel, one hand gripping the steering lightly, the other resting on the gearshift. He hadn’t spoken in a few minutes, just the soft hum of the engine and occasional chatter from the outside world slipping through the barely cracked window.

Alana glanced sideways at him. His jaw was clenched, eyes fixed on the road, but not in the angry way she’d feared.

"You good?" she asked gently.

He nodded, but then shook his head. "Not really. P4 feels like a loss when you’ve been fighting for the top since round one."

"You drove hard," she offered. "It wasn’t your fault, strategy was all over the place."

Max sighed. "It’s not even about the position anymore. I just... I don’t feel like I’m enjoying it right now."

Alana stayed quiet for a beat, then said, "You’re allowed to be tired of something, even if you’re good at it."

He gave a soft, humorless laugh. "Problem is, I’m expected to be good at it. No room for tired."

The car rolled to a slow stop at a red light. Max leaned back, drumming his fingers lightly against the steering wheel.

"But hey," he said suddenly, the corner of his mouth twitching up. "Lando won today! That made it better. I saw how happy he was when he got out of the car."

Alana smiled. "He deserves it."

"Yeah. I told him after the cooldown lap. ‘Bout time someone shut us all up." He chuckled.

She said, adjusting her hair in the rearview. "Finally, You've stopped sulking."

He shot her a sideways look. “I’m not sulking. You’re annoying."

"But I'm right."

The light turned green. He shifted gears and they eased forward, city lights starting to flicker more vibrantly now that dusk was sliding in.

"Thanks for not letting Anna push me much today," Max said quietly, eyes on the road. "I know you probably had content to post but-"

Alana tilted her head. "You think I care about posting when you’re this grumpy?"

"I’m not grumpy."

"You’re very moody." She poked his dimple. He didn’t argue that one. Just smiled faintly as they turned toward the coastline, Lando’s party venue coming into view in the distance, lights already blaring.

alana.miller

tagged : maxverstappen1, landonorris

landonorris

tagged : maxverstappen1, alana.miller

caption: MAMA YE PAPA

maxverstappen1

liked by alana.miller, zendaya and others

maxverstappen1 I’ve been replaced from the favourite to the second favourite.

tagged: alana.miller, victoriaverstappen

view all comments

alana.miller You’ll always be my favorite, grump.

victoriaverstappen The babies adore her, what can I say? 😌

→ alana.miller I adore you all 💗

wagsexpose101 Who brings a full look to a family dinner if not for the cameras?

maxxalana.fp This is the content we needed. Thank you Max 🙏🏼

landonorris You’re lucky to even be second now tbh.

alana.miller In my defence, I give better cuddles and lots of snacks. 🐣

→ maxverstappen1 Where are mine?

→ alana.miller Get done with the sim fast

→ maxverstappen1 You dont know how fast I can be 😏

username1 They’re such a soft couple, my heart can’t take it.

wifeyverstappen Look how uncomfortable the kids are 😣

f1wagsdaily Jos leaving max at the gas station again because he's p2 in his family's favourite hierarchy now...

username2 Can we get a moment without the “look how perfect she is” rollout?

alanamiller4ever Her with Max's niece 🥺

username3 Them flirting in the comments was not on my bingo card for 2025

alana.miller

liked by maxverstappen1, landonorris and others

alana.miller Monaco Memories 📸🩶

tagged: maxverstappen1, victoriaverstappen

view all comments

maxverstappen1 You can't gang up with my cats against me.

→ alana.miller You're in my team first 😘

victoriaverstappen Monaco’s finest 🤩

wifeyverstappen Tell me you're a gold digger bitch with telling me you're a gold digger bitch.

kikagomes Cutie, we should hang out sometimes?

→ alana.miller Absolutely !!

username1 Mother is mothering the cats, kids ad Max.

username2 No one’s life is this perfect.

alanamiller.fp That dock photo made me sob. She’s such a softie 🥺

landonorris J and S chose their queen and we all bow

username3 All this for a girl Max met less than three months ago…

lilymhe adorableeee💕

alanaxmaxie Her and Max feel like endgame.

maxrbfanclub Max blink twice if you’re being PR-managed.

alanamillerdaily Max can you fight?

SPANISH GRAND PRIX, BARCELONA - JUNE 2025

The backdrop was loud, engines cooling, crews moving gear, fans still chanting names in the distance.

Max, helmet off and fireproofs unzipped to his waist, stood in front of the Red Bull hospitality wall. Reporters swamping around him to get content after the disappointing race.

“Max, obviously not the result you’d hoped for today, P10 after a tough weekend. Do you think your very public relationship with a model might be affecting your focus?”

Everything froze for just a second too long. Max’s jaw clenched. He looked directly at the reporter. Then took a step closer.

“Let me be very clear, my personal life has nothing to do with what happens on track. My girlfriend anything but a distraction. She's very supportive and keeps me grounded in ways most people wouldn’t understand.” His cold tone intimidated the reporter who gulped down and quivered back a little.

The paddock quieted a little around him. “If I finish P10, that’s on me and the car, not on the person who’s stood beside me through every frustrating weekend and still shows up with the same energy and belief.”

He took another breath, running a hand through his hair, still damp under the sun. “I’ll take responsibility for every race result. But don’t ever reduce a woman’s presence in a man’s life to a distraction just because it fits your headline.”

And with that, he gave a short nod to the Red Bull comms manager and walked off with his jaw tight.

RED BULL HOSPITALITY, BARCELONA - JUNE 2025

The door to the Red Bull hospitality swung open a little too sharply, catching the attention of everyone inside.

Max strode in, lips pressed into a hard line. A few heads turned, but no one said anything.

Alana stood near the coffee bar, laughing softly with Geri, Christian Horner's wife, one hand holding a bottle of water, the other brushing her hair behind her ear. Her smile made him feel like everything outside that moment could wait.

Max exhaled slowly. Without a word, he came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

Alana jolted slightly in surprise, then relaxed instantly into his arms.

“Hi,” she whispered with a soft laugh, reaching up to place her hand over his.

Geri’s brows lifted slightly, but she smiled knowingly. “Hello Max. I’ll give you two a minute,” she murmured before excusing herself.

Alana leaned her head slightly toward his shoulder, smiling gently. “You okay?” she asked, keeping her voice low, not wanting to push him. She assumed it was the frustrating P10.

Max didn’t say anything. Instead, he just buried his face into the crook of her neck for a beat, breathing in. Alana’s brows furrowed a little, her instincts kicking in.

Still, she didn’t ask again. She just slipped her hand behind his back and began rubbing slow, soothing circles against the tense line of muscle just above his spine.

Max’s grip on her eased just slightly. “Come on, Let's get back to the hotel.” she murmured after a moment, lacing their fingers as they stepped out of the hospitality, the early evening sun casting long shadows down the paddock.

As they made their way to the parking lot, Alana didn’t rush asking questions. She knew how heavy he was feeling and didn't need someone to poke him right now.

alana.miller

liked by maxverstappen1, kikagomez and others

alana.miller 🍒🇪🇸✨

tagged: maxverstappen1, kikagomez, lilymhe, lilyzneimer, carmenmundt, flavybarla

view all comments

maxverstappen1 Still stamina‑checked by churros ❤️

→ alana.miller 😳

→ lando.norris 🤮 eww get a room

→ maxverstappen1 we already did. Bye ✌🏻

lilyzneime when are we doing another girls’ day?

→ alana.miller As soon as our fanboys stop being clingy. Sure...

→ lilymhe frrrr

wagscentral We loved a cultured girl 😌

flavybarla this Monday deserves a mini vlog 😌

→ alana.miller best monday

alanahatereww no one asked for 8 photos

→ alanapretty no one asked for your opinion lol

kellypiquetlove Max downgraded y’all just scared to say it

kikagomez barcelona dumped and slayed.

→ alana.miller 💕

username1 Her and Max are my Roman Empire

maxlanaforever i just know max has that 3rd pic as his lock screen

lilymhe PhD in ig dumps.

→ alana.miller graduated with valedictory.

zendaya suddenly i need to book a barcelona flight

→ alana.miller @/tomholland2013 Listen to ur wife.

→ tomholland2013 Sure Ma'am.

f1truthbombs influencer energy is so off-putting in F1

maxlanaupdates They stayed Monday and Tuesday to explore the city instead of going to Montreal or back to Monaco 🥹

username2 They're so cheeky and flirty. I can't 😭

maxielovebot trying hard to be interesting lol

alanamillerfpmodel The vroom vroom boy treating our girl right 🫶🏽

MAX'S HOTEL ROOM, BARCELONA - JUNE 2025

Anna tapped her pen against a Red Bull-branded notepad, scanning the week’s headlines on her tablet while Lexi sat poised, legs crossed, notes already highlighted in pastel pink.

Max was slouched in a chair near the window, in his Red Bull polo. Alana sat on the edge of the bed.

“Alright,” Anna began, sliding her tablet across the table. “The race day fallout is manageable, but the clip of the interview is gaining traction.”

Max didn’t flinch. “Good. He deserved to be shut down.”

Lexi gave a small nod of approval. “Your response plays well in your favor. We’ve already flagged and slowed a few of the harsher edits circulating. But you two need to recalibrate what’s public and what’s not.”

“I didn’t plan to say anything,” Max muttered. “But I’m not going to let her being bullied or frowned down like this” He waved a hand vaguely.

Alana looked at him quietly. Lexi cleared her throat. “It’s good that you’re comfortable. But now we have to be intentional. Especially with the next race and the movie premiere.”

Anna adjusted her glasses. “Speaking of... Max, are we still holding on your travel plans for Montreal?”

“No,” he said. “I want her there.”

That landed heavy in the room. Alana blinked once. “You want me at the Canadian GP?”

He looked at her directly now. “Yes. After the way Barcelona ended… I want you there.”

Lexi glanced at her client, gauging her reaction. Alana didn’t smile, but she gave the smallest nod.

“Fine by me,” Lexi said, scribbling it into her planner. “That actually works better for the timeline. You both land in Canada wednesday morning, stay through the weekend. On Monday you fly to New York for the premiere with Christian, Geri and Yuki”

Alana tilted her head, brushing her hair behind her ear slowly. “If I show up for Canada and the premiere… you’re coming to my Dior collection launch.”

There was a beat of silence. Max met her eyes. “Done.”

Anna blinked. “You’ll be in Paris?”

“I’ll be in Paris,” he confirmed, glancing sideways at Lexi. “Send me the details.”

Lexi didn’t hide her surprise, just jotted it down on her planner.

“So,” Anna summarised, exhaling. “Montreal GP with joint press coverage. NYC F1 premiere, coordinated entrance, brief interaction on-camera. Then Dior’s Paris launch.”

“And after that,” Lexi said, “You two owe each other absolutely nothing… for at least 72 hours.”

Alana let out a quiet laugh. “Oh Thank God!”

Max rolled his eyes as she smirked playfully. He stood up rolling his shoulders back. “I'll see you in Montreal.”

MAX AND ALANA'S ROOM, MONTREAL - JUNE 2025

The adjoining door creaked open at exactly 10:43 a.m., like it always did whenever she entered without knocking.

Max was sitting on the armrest of the couch in his room, still half-dressed in team shirt with a towel wrapped around his waist. hair towel-dried and sticking up slightly in the back. His lanyard lay discarded on the table next to his phone.

Alana stepped in like she lived there. “Just wanted to let you know I’m heading out for brunch with the girls,” she said, adjusting her twisted pendent in the mirror while he went back inside to wear his skinny jeans, Alana wishes to burn someday.

Max gave a slow nod, glancing at the mirror as he ran his hand through his hair halfheartedly. “Hmm. Lando offered to have dinner together.”

"Sure." Alana smiled faintly. “Don’t let them get under your skin.” She looked at him in the eye and straightened the collar of his shirt.

He looked over. “They won’t.”

“They will,” she corrected. “It’s media day. That's what they do.”

He huffed something that resembled a laugh. She picked up the Red Bull cap he’d tossed onto the coffee table and walked over to him, adjusting the peak slightly before pressing it into his hands.

“And if anyone brings up Monaco or Barcelona,” she added, tilting her head as she met his eyes, “Just say something vague, and walk away. Don't rage on them.”

He gave a slow blink. “You sound like my PR manager.”

“I should be,” she muttered under her breath, patting is arm. Max didn’t move.

She glanced at the time on his wall clock, then stepped up and leaned in. Her mouth brushing softly against his cheek, like it was a habit.

“Don’t cause trouble before brunch is over,” she said, grabbing the tote bag from the back of the chair.

Max came back to his senses and shyly muttered “I won’t.”

“You always say that.” And with that, she slipped back into her room, the door closing quietly behind her.

Max sat back on the couch and stared at the cap in his hand, the ghost of her kiss still warm on his cheek.

MONTREAL, CANADA - JUNE 2025

The brunch spot was tucked into a cobbled corner of Montreal. The five women had claimed a table near the window, half inside, half open to the breeze.

Alana sat between Flavy and Kika, long legs crossed, sipping her citrus drink. Their laughter flowed easily, until the tone shifted.

It started when two girls, maybe mid-twenties, who sat at the table behind them with red bull merch on, one of them holding her phone angled just enough to not look like she was recording.

Alana noticed them. It came like a sixth sense to notice cameras, after the becoming a public figure.

She didn’t say anything, but Flavy leaned over and muttered, “Ignore it.”

Then came the whispers. Loud enough to be intentional, soft enough to feign innocence. “She’s literally everywhere now. Like, why is she even in Canada?”

“I mean, Max is totally being managed. You can see it in his interviews, he looks drained.”

“She’s just another PR stunt. A stylish one, but still fake.” The table fell quiet for a moment.

Alana didn’t flinch. She calmly reached for the small silver butter knife and spread jam onto her toast.

Flavy glanced at her. “You good?”

“Peachy,” Alana said with a soft smile.

A few minutes passed. More laughter, more food, more ignoring the noise.

Until the girls stood up and approached their table, all too friendly now.

“Hi! Sorry to interrupt, but—” the taller one smiled too wide, “we’re huge Max fans, and we brought this little gift for him.”

She held out a small box, red ribbon wrapped around it. The other one chimed in, “Would you mind giving it to him? You know, since you’re… with him?”

“And maybe a quick selfie? You look sooo pretty!”

Kika blinked. Lily stared. Carmen looked like she might throw her coffee.

Alana smiled, sweetly and slowly rose, brushing crumbs off her cream skirt, and accepted the gift with delicate fingers.

“Of course,” she said smoothly. “I’d be happy to pass this along.”

The girls beamed. “But just a quick note—” Alana tilted her head, stepping just slightly closer, “next time you want to dissect a woman’s relevance, maybe don’t do it at the table directly behind her while wearing merch from the man she just kissed goodbye this morning.”

The girls’ faces paled instantly. Alana didn't stop smiling. She stepped back and handed her phone to Lily with a knowing look. “Shall we?”

The selfie was snapped, awkward but civil. The girls mumbled thanks and quickly retreated, muttering apologies that didn’t reach past their teeth.

alanamiller

alanamiller

Liked by maxverstappen1, redbullracing and others

alanamiller Rooting only for the best 🤞🏼

tagged: maxverstappen1, redbullracing

view all comments

maxverstappen1 ❤️💙

→ alana.miller 😘

kikagomes queen of showing up and showing OUT

→ alana.miller Why hide such a masterpiece when you can flaunt 💁🏻‍♀️

alanamilfan rooting for her like she roots for him.

maxverstappen1 Stealing my kit so I have more casuals. Wow.

→ alana.miller Love You too 🫶🏽

f1sippingtea Her and Carman cheering for their boys together 🥺

redbullracing No one could slay the RB t-shirt better then you ☺️❤️

→ alana.miller It's totally my colour right !? 🥺

maxsrealwife you’re not the main character. he is.

→ alana.miller Always ❤️

→ username1 kdhckdsuvcouwa

→ maxlanaschild Gurl-

carmenmundt Goerge isn't taking you getting all the attention well 😂

→ alana.miller Sassy little bitch

→ georgerussell 🙄

username2 imagine treating fans like garbage and then posting this like nothing happened

flavybarla This is giving First Lady of Red Bull 🫡

madformax33 you were SO sweet to the little girl in the paddock 😭😭😭

victoriaverstappen Bests💙

→ alana.miller 💙

verstappenlion still convinced this is a PR thing...

alanamiller

Liked by maxverstappen1, redbullracing and others

alanamiller off track & in the moment ����

tagged: maxverstappen1

view all comments

maxverstappen1 Why do I agree to roam around everywhere. I HATE IT.

→ landonorris You love my company. Admit it ☺️

→ alana.miller Delulando. We allowed you to hang around so we could get pictures 😂

→ landonorris 🖕🏻

→ maxverstappen1 LANDO NORRIS!

lilymhe she said “casually thriving”

landonorris No PC? You're such a hater 😒

→ alana.miller Cry me a river 😂

verstappensgirl she’s trying SO hard to stay relevant

username1 i miss when wags stayed in the background 😴

maxlanacontent He made it to the first pic of the dump 🥺

danielricciardo jimmy and sassy wants to know your location 😾🔫

→ alana.miller Nooo. Love my babies unconditional!!

→ mamamax She's a keeper verstappen!!!

alanafansforever Yes Max. Keep her protected like that. Good boy.

maxlovergirl87 this is literally staged lol

username2 Girl got Max to touch grass after he started Maxplaining the race to her 😭 ♥︎ by author

→ maxlanaupdates 😂 Alana Liked

→ username2 She's so unhinged. I love her !

simp4alana Red Bull Sales 📈

lanmaxdo Alana bullying Lando was not on my 2025 bingo...

maxverstappen1

🎵 Welcome to New York. Taylor Swift

alana.miller

📍New York City, NY

MAX AND ALANA'S HOTEL ROOM, NEW YORK - JUNE 2025

Alana Miller Gets Ready for the F1 Movie Premiere | Vogue USA

Alana sat on a velvet stool by the window, sipping cold-brew out of a takeout cup. Her skin glowed from the spa she and max went to in the morning. Max was fresh out of shower in a white robe choosing from the three suits brought in for him.

“I’ll be camera ready in… probably 45 minutes,” she smiled, looking into the lens before tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Or two hours if Max has anything to say about it.”

The shot shifted, her vanity scattered with Dior products, pins, palettes, and sticky notes scribbled with touch-up reminders. Her hairstylist, Allen, was sectioning her hair while her makeup artist prepped her skin with moisturiser. On the couch nearby, her stylist was steaming a black gown.

“I’ve been a fan of F1 since I was a kid,” Alana said as the camera slowly pushed in, capturing her reflection in the mirror, back straight, brows being brushed. “My mom was the one who introduced it to me when I was young, and since she worked in automative engineering, she used to tell me all the technical stuff.”

The crew asked which team was her favourite. She laughed lightly, eyes flicking to the stylist’s rack of shoes. “I had a Ferrari poster in my room. Now switched to Red Bull because… well.” She pointed back at her boyfriend.

The crew chuckled off-camera. Max, sitting on the bed behind her in the black suit muttered dryly while wearing his shoes.

"You've been to so many red carpet events and movie premieres. What excites you about this one?"

Alana didn’t even look back, just smirked, “Well, My boyfriend was an extra in tonight’s film. I don't know if they kept his scenes because of his acting skills but if he is, Blink and you’ll miss him.”

A subtle camera zoom on Max. He flicked a Red Bull cap at her and mouthed “rude” with a grin.

“This one’s different,” Alana continued, voice softer. “This one’s… home turf. I know these drivers. I know the stress behind the screens. I’ve seen the grit in the garages. So It'll be great to see the representation.”

They took a break so she could go and get changed in her dress. As she came out. Max came up to her to get his shirt fixed. He mumbled "You look really beautiful and really hot." She punched him before fixing his collar.

"How have you two worked with your busy schedule and still find time for each other?"

Her voice continued as she went back to pick her jewellery. “Max and I keep very different schedules but we try to keep some shared routine like get lunch together if we’re in the same city, talk about our day before sleep even if it’s just on the phone. I didn't have much on my plate since the fashion week season ended a while ago so I went to a few races. He'll try to come to a few shows or events when he can.”

Alana moved to sit on the edge of a chair, holding her heels as her team bustled around her.

“Okay,” she said, gesturing toward the room. “This is Allen, she was in my team since I joined my first agency. Malik’s my makeup artist, Sheiba isn't here today but usually it's the two of them. Daisy is my stylist with Dior.” She gave a tiny wave to her stylist steaming the dress.

“And” she glanced to the side, where Max was quietly chatting with his manager by the minibar. “That’s Max. My boyfriend. And over there is Raymond, his manager.”

The camera zoomed to Max raising his hand imitating her as he approached her. “Bye, Vogue.” Alana laughed as she put on her shoes.

vogueusa

alanamiller

Liked by maxverstappen1, dior and others

alanamiller Lights on and away we glam 🖤

tagged: maxverstappen1

view all comments

maxverstappen1 If it was upto me we wouldn't even be attending the event 😉

→ alana.miller I'm right next to you. you didn't have to be so public🫠

→ landonorris For the love of god there are children on this app. YOU PERVERT!!

→ maxverstappen1 🤷🏼‍♂️

babickovaeli very into this femme fatale era 🖤

→ alana.miller 🫶🏽

alanastylecloset I would personally like to thank her makeup artist and the gown designer for this global gift.

yukitsunoda0511 Max wearing things other than redbull kit is weird.

→ alana.miller I can be quite persuasive 😁

→ maxverstappen1 Yeah you threatened to burned my kit if I didn't comply 🙇🏻‍♂️

kikagomes Gorgeous 🖤

f1tracktrash funny how she’s suddenly SO into F1 now that she’s dating the champ 🤡

landonorris Show Stealers!!!

lestappen4ever They’re making her the main character when it’s literally a movie premiere not about her 😭

victoriaverstappen danger couple 🔥

maxlanaupdates THE KISS 😭🥺🥵

maxverstappenwifey Girl cover up this is a movie premiere not a whore house show!!

damsonidris Damn girl, I could never serve so hard 😭

→ alana.miller You were literally the main character. STOPPP

lilymhe @/maxverstappen Can you fight 😁🥊

→ maxverstappen1 You bet 😡

→ alana.miller OK OK OK... No need to start a war here...

→ maxverstappen1 I'd start ww3 for you.

→ alana.miller Max. Don't.

→ maxverstappen1 I. Would.

alonamiller the most personality she’s shown is her back 🙃

maxmaxsupermax She gave max a major glow up 😭

alanaxangles The fact that she made the caption about F1. My creative goddess

paddockdevilwags One kiss doesn’t make this a love story, let’s chill.

kellymaxperfect You have a boyfriend but still wears such clothes to attest attention. Kelly would've never dressed like this🙄

modelsdailytea Dior does her so right!!!!!

maxverstappen1 If my girl being so hot bother you. You can get off her page 😒

→ alana.miller What happened to you 😭. Max you need to stop. pleaseeee

→ maxverstappen1 Never 👎

lanabananasupremacy max better thank the universe every night. every. single. night.

MAX AND ALANA'S HOTEL ROOM, NEW YORK - JUNE 2025

The hotel room was quiet except for the sound of traffic from the street below. Max and Alana was sitting back against the headboard, scrolling through his phone with a clenched jaw, eyes scanning comment after comment on Alana's page either calling them out as a PR or blatantly hating on her for no reason.

Alana watched him from the other side of the bed, eyes narrowing as he typed back on her comment section. She tried to end his comments with a funny reply but he didn't stop. Without warning, she reached over and snatched the phone out of his hands.

“Hey—” Max reached out to take it back, but she dodged him effortlessly, tossing it somewhere behind her.

“Nope,” she said, swinging one leg over and straddling him before he could shift. “Now you’re stuck.”

Max looked up at her, breath hitching just slightly, like he hadn’t expected her to sit that close. She tucked her legs around his so he couldn’t move.

He blinked. “Seriously?”

“Yes. You’ve been grumpy since I posted on Instagram. Why are you being so… passive aggressive?” she asked, eyebrows raised. “This is supposed to be a fun night.”

His jaw tightened again, but the frustration had a different tint to it now. “People don’t get to say that kind of shit about you, Alana. Especially when they know nothing about you.”

Alana scoffed, her voice rising. “Okay, but maybe I don’t need you to go full knight in shining armour every time someone online has a bad opinion—!”

“You think it doesn’t get to me?” he interrupted, quieter than her but sharper. “You think I’m just supposed to let people talk about you like that?”

“It wouldn't look good on our end, Max,” she snapped, her voice trembling as she leaned in, “I need you to trust that I can handle it—”

A strand of hair fell out of the clip at the back of her head. She was mid-rant when he reached up and gently pushed it behind her ear, fingers brushing her cheek.

She stopped mid-sentence, her breath hitched. “What are you doing?” she asked, voice suddenly small.

He didn’t answer. Instead, Max pulled her to his chest, arm wrapped firm around her waist as his lips met hers, full of passion.

When he pulled back, his hands came to cradle her face, and he kissed her forehead soft and slow.

It broke something in her. “What the hell was that?”, she snapped. Alana pushed off his lap, her voice breaking just slightly as she stood, stumbling back like the air had shifted too suddenly.

“Alana—” Max stood, his voice low.

“You can’t do that, Max!” she shouted, not caring if the entire floor heard her.

“I wasn’t thinking—” he started, stepping toward her.

“No, you weren’t!” she cut in, swatting his hand away when he tried to reach for hers.

She grabbed her phone from the nightstand and stormed toward the door. Max didn’t stop her. He just stood there, chest rising and falling a little too fast, fists clenched at his sides.

She left. And for a long minute, the room stayed very, very quiet.

HOTEL'S BAR, NEW YORK - JUNE 2025

The bar was mostly empty. Dim lighting pooled in soft gold over scattered high tables and the long marble counter. Low jazz played through old speakers.

The only other people were a cluster of businessmen laughing too loudly in a booth and a woman sitting on a barstool, hunched slightly over a glass of red.

Alana slid onto another, deliberately leaving a seat between them. She needed space and so did the lady, by looking at her sad demeanour.

Max’s name lit up her phone again. Call after call. Text after text. She stared at the screen, lips tightening, then flipped it on silent and tossed it into her purse.

Running both hands through her hair, she exhaled and flagged down the bartender. “One spicy martini. Heavy on the jalapeños.”

The bartender raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Just nodded and turned.

Her pulse was still racing. Her chest felt too tight. She didn’t know if she was angry at Max or angry at herself for caring so much.

She heard the ice shake in the shaker. The click of glasses being set on the counter.

“Man?” a voice said beside her.

Alana glanced over, surprised the other woman had spoken. The stranger didn’t look at her, just kept her eyes on her wine glass, twirling the stem between her fingers. Her accent was faintly Indian.

Alana gave a dry laugh. “That obvious?”

The woman turned then and Alana’s eyes widened slightly. She recognized her. “Wait... You’re Gia Kapoor, right? One of the producers of the F1 Movie?”

Gia smiled faintly, her expression tired but not unfriendly. “Guilty. And you're Alana Miller. I attended a few fashion week where you modelled. And tonight, girlfriend of the fastest driver.”

Alana scoffed, taking a sip of her martini. “Apparently.”

Gia raised a brow. “Apparently?”

There was a pause. Then Gia shifted slightly on her stool, angling toward her. “I didn’t mean to pry,” she said. “But... if it makes you feel better, I came down here because I’m confused about a guy, too.”

Alana blinked. “Seriously?”

Gia nodded. “Our parents got us arranged. We’ve been ‘engaged’ for a while. We didn’t even meet until a month ago.” She laughed lightly. “And it turns out… Ive had a crush on him since a long time. He’s funny and very mature.”

Alana listened quietly, sipping her martini.

“But,” Gia continued, fingers tapping her glass, “he told me after our engagement that he doesn’t think he can give me what I want. That he’s too tied up in his career. Too unsure of what love even looks like in this world.”

Alana’s expression softened. “Asshole. But what can I say I'm stuck in the same spiral.”

Gia looked at her. “But aren’t you and Max together?”

Alana hesitated. “No,” she said finally. “Well yes, but it’s… complicated. We started off as PR.”

“But?” Gia asked.

“But tonight, upstairs, he kissed me like it wasn’t fake. And then he acted like it meant something. And I’m not sure if it did.” Alana’s voice cracked slightly at the end. She laughed bitterly. “And I hated how much I wanted it to mean something.”

Gia was quiet for a moment. Then she smiled, slow and knowing “Alana, I was at the premiere. I saw you two together. I’ve seen people in love.” She looked straight at her. “What you and Max have? That wasn’t for show.”

Alana opened her mouth, but Gia held up a hand. “I’m quite a romantic. How can I complain, I grew up around the film industry and it comes like inherited trait. I could tell, he looks at you like you hung the moon.”

Alana stared down at her drink. “Talk to him,” Gia said gently. “ If there’s a real shot at something… you shouldn’t run from it just because it started out written in fine print.”

Alana didn’t answer. She just sat there, eyes blurry and still, then gave a slow nod.

They continued talking for a while before she put the bill of her three martinis on Max's tab. He deserves this after what he did.

Gia stood, dropping a few bills on the bar with a casual flick of her hand. “Come on, I’ll walk you up. You’re on twelve, right?”

Alana blinked. “Yeah. How’d you—?”

Gia grinned. “My fiancé is on the same floor, so I saw max when I went to his room before.”

Alana slid off the stool, smoothing down the folded hem of her pyjama shirt.

As they reached the elevator, Gia pulled out her phone. “Give me your number.”

Alana arched a brow. Gia smirked. “Support group for women entangled with emotionally repressed, work-obsessed men. We should be friends.”

" Of course" Alana laughed again and gave it. The elevator opened, and they stepped in. Once on twelve, Gia stepped out with her. “Which one’s yours?”

“1216,” Alana said, pointing to the right. "We have to share the room tonight."

Gia made a face. “You poor thing."

They walked together in silence until they reached her door. Gia stopped. “You good?”

Alana nodded. “Actually, can I come over to yours, if its alright either way you”

Gia shrugged, then pulled her into a brief hug "— the kind that didn’t feel forced, just warm and real. "Come on. I have some takeouts leftovers. We can watch a movie too."

taglist: @livelaughleclerc, @ale-522, @zulema222, @angelluv16, @kazansky-slxt, @formulaal, @esw1012, @ohwhoisyou-rubyjane, @freyathehuntress, @sltwins, gabrielaperez11

[message/comment/ask to be added]

[rooster-the-love-of-my-life]

Idiots At a Wedding pt.5

Summary: Pretending to be Bob's girlfriend in front of his family has to be easy right? Right..?

Pairings: Bob Floyd x fem!reader

Warnings: kissing, allusions to smut but no real smut, cliffhanger

A/N: I woke up horny and in the mood for some angst ok, don't blame me. Not proof read, we die like men💪💪 Anyways enjoy reading, and don't be a stranger. Also, this taglist is kinda getting out of hand, I don't want to close it but I really need advice on what to do.

series masterlist || part 4

Bob floyd made you silly in all the right ways.

The moments after your confessions was a whirlwind. You and him went back down for dinner thst night, pretending everything was just as it was before, but the entire time he was holding your hand from under the table. You were blushing and giggling like teenagers, stealing secret glances, making prolonged eye contact, making everyone around you sick with how in love you looked, how in love you really were.

When you went back up, you couldn't keep your hands or your lips off of each other. As soon as the door closed, Bob pushed you onto it and kissed you with such vigor and passion the you completely returned, by racking your hands through his carefully brushed blonde locks, messing them up with every dig of your fingers. It was only when someone knocked loudly on your door that you pulled away from each other, very reluctantly of course.

"Unfortunately you need you to go and pick up the bridesmades dress with Bob tomorrow. Jeff and I've got to run home and get some work done." It was Annie, yet again being the block to Bob's cock.

"What's so unfortunate about that?" Bob asked from behind the door where he was supposed to hide is messy, freshly snogged face.

"Why are you so red?" Annie questioned, eyebrows coming together, trying to figure out what was happing in her brothers childhood bedroom prior to her coming there.

"It's fine Anne, I'll go with him." You diverted the conversation, shielding him further.

"Alright, goodnight kids." She sized you up, smirking. "Use protection."

You gasped while Bob went red, if that was even possible, freezing at what he heard. Turinging around, you just laughed at his face, placing a kiss on his cheek and walking into the bathroom.

The rest of the night went by quick, you stayed up till one, talking, kissing, touching. You had to physically push Bob off of you and to the other side of the bed, so you could finally get some sleep. But even in sleep he found you, arms wrapped around you waist, legs tangled with yours, radiating immense amounts of heat.

In all the days you'd stayed with him, this was the first time you had woken up with him next to you and it had to be your favourite sight. For the first time since you had met Bob he had always shy and reserved and his posture showed that. Tense shoulders, always sat up straight, body always stiff. But now, as he snored softly he was at peace, not an iota of tension was in his body, and upon seeing this, you had made it your life's mission to let him stay this tension free forever and always.

You could have stayed in bed for the rest of your life, but your bladder had other plans. You tried to control it, but after a certain point you just couldn't take it anymore and stared shimming out of Bob's firm grasp. Even though you thought you were being very stealthy, your moving had woken up the man behind you.

"Stop it." He mumbled, pulling you in closer, if that was even physically possible, making you lose all the progress you had made. "Stay here."

"I've got to pee." You whispered, dragging out the last word, grabbing his hand and prying it off of your waist.

"Hold it." His hand wouldn't budge making you seriously judge your strength.

"Bobby, I have to go really badly. I've been holding it in for the past twenty minutes." You whined.

"Fine." He lifted his hand up and you ran to the bathroom. "But come back in two minutes. That's an order." Even in sleep army lingo didn't leave the lieutenant making you giggle softly.

"Sis yes sir." You saluted as you came out of the bathroom and moved your eyes to the sight that awaited you. His side of the bed was empty and untouched whereas yours was completely undone and the way he was lying on the bed left little to ho space for you. You leaned against the wall of the bathroom and admired Bob, eyes traveling up from his legs tangled in blankets to his back and then to his messy blond hair. You wanted to take a picture, keep this locked in your phone forever, but before you could, the rough, sleepy voice of the cutest man you had ever seen interrupted.

"You gonna stand there staring or are you going to join me?" The question was normal, but the country accent that it was spoken with made it much more alluring.

"Careful Bobby, your country is showing." You smirked, not moving an inch, wanting to make then man wait for you longer.

"Fuck, I love it when you call me that." He mumbled, pushing his head and hips further into the mattress. "Drives me nuts."

If you would have know such a simple nickname was having this effect on the man, you would have driven him to madness or confession by saying it every chance you got over the last year. The smirk never left your face, and you didn't leave your place.

"Sunny, please come back to bed." He begged, sitting up now, giving you a full view of his chest. "It's so cold without you."

"Says the human furnace." You snorted, pushing yourself off the wall and taking slow, calculated steps towards the bed. "You want me back in bed baby?" You coaxed, as he nodded his head and pouted his lips.

"Yes please."

"Always so polite and respectful." You neared the bed, knees touching the frame.

"Only for you." His eyes were fixed on you, watching all the moves you made, every breath you take. You planted one of your knees on the bed, hands moving in front, crawling over him.

"God, I love it when you neg for me Bobby." You whispered, a hands distance away from him.

You were expecting a reply or atleast a groan, but what you got was even better. He reached out and ulled you on top of his by your waist, holding you delicately as he leaned back. His mouth caught yours, pulling you into a deep kiss, lips moving slow, not trying to assert dominance or show off, just portraying all the love he had for you.

The way he drove you wild with just his mouth, you couldn't help but wonder what the rest of him could do. Feeling as daring as ever, you slowly moved your hips, dragging them painfully over his, making him groan into your mouth. You repeated the same movement a few times, getting bolder and hornier with each one, pulling soft moans from the man under you.

He pulled away from your mouth to try and regain his breath and control himself from fucking you right then and there, but you were having none of that. Your lips made there way down to his neck, pressing feather light kisses on his collarbone and all over the right side of his neck.

"You're a little minx you, you know." Bob managed to say in between his moans.

"And you love it." You replied, lifting your head to look into his eyes for just a second before continuing your attack.

"Oh, fuck it." He let go of any ounce self control he had left in him and grabbed your waist tighter, flipping you two over.

What was supposed to happen, was that he would now take control and show you around pound town. But poor Bobby forgot he was already on the edge of the bed, and all that the flip accomplished was sending you two out of bed and onto the hard ground.

"Shit, sorry. Are you okay?" Bob asked, landing on top of you, pulling the blanket down as well.

"We should take this as a sign to not have sex in your childhood bedroom." You giggled, as he dropped his head in the crook of your neck, sighing out loudly.

"We should probably get up before someone come to investigate." He pushed up from the ground, biceps flexing in the process, offering you his hand once he was standing. "M'lady."

You took it gladly, pulling yourself up in the least sexy way possible, with the goofiest smile ever adorning your face. If this was life with Bob, you'd want it in this universe and the next, till you lived out an eternity kissing and falling.

"Why thank you very much kind sir."

----------------

Even after much convincing and persuasive kisses, Bob couldn't get you to ditch the days plans and just stay in bed with you. Through giggles and soft kisses, you finally made your way down to the living room, to find Mary sitting there alone, watching tv.

"Morning Ma." Bob greeted her, with a with a peck on the cheek, much chipper than usual.

"Morning? It's ten already." She taunted, pausing her show, turning back to look at the two of you. "I'm not sure how they do things in the navy, but in my house morning arrives much earlier."

"You'll have to forgive us." You spoke. "Someone here didn't want to get up."

"Can you really blame a man for wanting to get a few more hours of beauty sleep in?" Bob flicked back his hair in the most dramatic way possible, making you and Mary burst out laughing. If someone would have told you that quiet Bob Floyd was this chatty and funny when he got comfortable with someone, you wouldn't have believed them, but here you were, standing in his mother's kitchen, laughing your ass of at something stupid.

"What time are yall going to go pick up the dress?" Mary asked, as you two were stuffing your face with waffles.

"After breakfast." Bob mumbled the reply with puffed up cheeks full of food.

"Don't talk with food in your mouth." His mother reprimanded and then turned to you. "I can wait for you to see the dress, it is so beautiful."

"I don't doubt it for a second. Lucy has implacable taste." You nodded, getting up to put your empty plate into the sink.

"Ma, I wanted to ask you something." Bob started. "Would you mind of we ate out today for dinner?"

"Oh, not at all. Where are we going?"

"Um... we as in Sunny and I." He scratched the back of his neck while correcting his mother.

"Oh I see." She smile slyly at the two of you, who were going red under her hard gaze. "Don't be out too late." She permitted, making you snap your head up and grin at Bob, who was already doing the same.

"Pick you up at seven." He winked at you.

"It's a date." You winked back, getting giddy at the prospect of going on a date with the man you had been crushing on for forever.

"Just one thing," Mary stopped on her way back to the couch. "There will be no hanky panky in my house at night."

"Ma!" Bob gasped, as you chocked on plain air. If only Mary Floyd knew what was happening just moments ago in her house.

"What?" She shrugged, still smirking.

Soon enough, you were in thr passenger seat, headed to the tailor's shop as Bob showed you around his hometown. The more of it you saw, the more you felt closer to him. You just wished you could do the same, but that was all you could do, whish, because there was no way you were taking him home, at least not in the near future. You arrived at the quaint shop, the door opening with a little ding.

"Hello, how may I help you?" An older woman popped out of the back of the shop and greeted the two of you.

"We're here to pick up a bridesmade dress in Lucy Floyd's name." Bob answered, closing the door he had opened once you were inside as well.

"Ah, yes. Mary said you'd be here today." She nodded enthusiastically. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but you are Robert right? Her son kn the navy?"

"Yes ma'am." He replied with a blush, he knew his mother was proud of him, he just never thought she would tell the entire town about him.

"I thought so. My how you have grown." She gushed. "And who's the lady may I ask?"

You opened your mouth to answer, but Bob beat you to it. "My girlfriend." He said proudly, grabbing your hand tighter. Hearing him introduce you as his girlfriend so proudly made your brain malfunction, because this time around, it wasn't a lie, and how you had managed to make it so in just a few days was beyond you.

"Aren't you a lucky girl." The woman teased and went to the back to get your dress out.

"Don't I know it." You whispered, grinning like a bashful school girl.

"Would you like to try it on once? See of we need to alter anything?" She asked.

"If you wouldn't mind."

"Oh not at all, come on back dear." She ushered you to the back of the and helped you out of your clothes and into the delicate floor length dress. It was the most beautiful piece of clothing you had ever seen, and upon wearing it once, you never wanted to take it off again. It hugged you in all the right places, and the back was just gorgeous. Few people could pull of the colour yellow, but you were sure anyone would look beautiful in this dress.

"Boy is he going to faint when he sees you." The woman gushed.

"Can we not show it to him right now? I want to surprise him." You asked.

"For sure. Why don't you get changed while I pack it up for you?" She smiled.

You thanked her and changed out of the dress very reluctantly. When you stepped outside, Bob who was leaning against the counter, mindlessly scrolling on his phone, snapped up his head.

"Where's the dress?" He asked, confused. "I thought you were trying it on."

"I did try it on and it fits like a glove." You replied.

"Show me then." He said, eager to see the dress.

"Nope, you've just got to wait till the wedding." You declared, as he whined.

"Come on Sunny, please." He pouted, pulling the same expression he did when he begged his mother for ice cream as a kid. The only difference was, his mother was more weak than you are and always gave in.

"No no. Put that pout away." You shook your head at his ridiculousness. "The wedding isn't that far away."

"Fine." He grumbled, but his frown quickly turned into a smile as your lips collided with his left cheek.

"There you go. You'll go crazy when you see her in the dreas." The woman came back out with a bag in her hand and a smile on your face. "Enjoy the wedding."

You thanked her profusely, complementing her skills and walked out the shop and towards your car. Bob tried peeking into the bag to get a look at the dress, but when you shoved him off a few times, he knew you weren't kidding.

After driving around the town for sometime, you went back home and lazed around the whole afternoon. If this was a dream, you never wanted to wake up.

---------------------

The night came quicker than you realized. While getting ready for your first date with him, you couldn't help but pinch yourself to see if this was actually happening or if you were hallucinating in the psych ward. Only yesterday, you were pacing around the room, ranting to your friend about how badly you wanted Bob and here you were twenty gour hours later, actually going on a date with him.

He had picked a fancy restaurant for the two of you to go to, somewhere close to home, yet for enough to give you the privacy you needed. Ever the gentleman, he had brought you flowers, pulled the seat for you and opened all the doors, making you swoon. You were waiting for your food to come, sipping on wine, when he spoke up.

"I can't believe this is happening. I'm going out with the girl of my dreams."

"The girl of you dream huh?" You were amused, and also giddy.

"Obviously." He replied. "I can't stress this enough Sunny, you're the most wonderful person I have ever met. The best person on this planet."

"Stop it, all these praises are going to go to my head and I'll be unbearable." Your eyes went wide to add some dramatic flare.

"Never." He scrunched his nose, smile never leaving him.

"I-I didn't get a chance to say this to you last night, but I really like you Bob. So much that the moment I met you, I knew there would be no one else in the world for me." You voiced. "I really, really, really like you honey, in fact I think I might just love you."

"I love you." Bob let out before he could stop himself. You froze at his confession as he stuttered, trying to cover up. "No I don't. I do. But I don't, not on the first date. But I do, but right now I-"

"I love you." You stopped his rant, gently placing your hand on top of his from across the table. "I love you too Bobby, on the first date and on every date."

Hearing this made him so happy he could burst. If it wasn't for the waiter bringing over your food, he would have leaped over the table and kissed you hard till you were thrown out of the restaurant. The night went by like a breeze, you said sweet nothings to each other with sprinkles of 'I love you' thrown into the conversation.

You should have known that life couldn't be this good to you, not with your luck. But in the haze of happiness, you seemed to forget all about it, and the universe reminded you in the most horrible way possible. You were sharing desert, almost about to leave, when someone called out your name, and the moment you heard the voice, all colour drained out of your face.

"What're you doing here?" The voice continued. Bob's eyebrows pulled together, trying to figure out how you knew the man standing behind you. You turned around slowly, hoping that it wouldn't be him standing there, but alas, it was.

"Michael." You closed your eyes, your worst nightmare coming to life. "What're you doing?"

"I asked you a question first." He replied sternly with a cold expression.

"I'm attending a wedding." The voice that left you sounded so foreign, so week, so scared.

"Who's?"

"Bob's sister's."

"Who's Bob?"

"I am." Bob spoke up, as you whipped your head to him, looking at him with an expression he could understand. "Sunny, who's this?"

You didn't want this to happen, not now, not ever. Michael had cut you out of his life years ago, and you had done the same. But as fate would have it, you two ended up under the same roof once again and it had to happen on what was suppose to be the nest night of your life.

You gather up whatever strength was left in you and spoke up. The words that left you were a total thunderclap to Bob's ears.

"He's my brother."

Taglist:

@4margaritasalex @futurecorps3 @thisisgracetrying @clairejpg @fangirlinc   @igotmajordaddyissues @m3laniehearts @mayafatimakhan @starkleila @itscheybaby-blog @spookycupcakepirate @dcamelia @americaa @paulina1998 @lgg5989 @datingbtr @thatchickwiththecamera @luckyladycreator2 @kanevill @dempy @saramaple @hockeyboysarehot @redhoodedtoad @nobody7102 @alexwinchester23 @unstablecaffeinatedmind  @teti-menchon0604 @my-name-is-baby @goth-detectives @ae-aeitch @articel1967 @fubbbubb @xoxabs88xox @msfirth @arriiieess

[theendingchorus]

Witch!Hwang Hyunjin x Incubus!Male Reader

Imagine this. You, the reader, are an Incubus at a school for magical creatures, and you share a dorm room with Hyunjin, who is a witch.

Hyunjin lowkey has a crush on you but would never admit to it because he's a coward, so he powers through it silently like a champ– when you exile him from your shared room during your feed days where you and your fuck buddies get it on, when you flirt with practically everyone in your campus.

One day, he comes back from class and finds you in a bad state because you haven't fed in a couple of days, and tries to help you by asking who he should call to help you feed, but you ask why should he call anyone else when he's right here?

Hyunjin short circuits so hard that he barely resists when you climb into his lap and beg him to fuck you. He tries resisting because he doesn't want his first time with you to be like this, but he ends up giving in because you are so damn convincing. You start making out, feeling each other up and end up having some filthy, full blown sex that's the best he's ever had.

What will happen after this? Because this action has consequences.

I'll make it into a full fic. If anyone wants to read it, just comment and I'll add you to the taglist when I post it!

[potatomountain]

C:IU CH 3

Chapter Three

Masterlist | Previous | Next

Pairing: Poly 0t8 Ateez x fem reader AU: Mafia/detective Genre: 18+ poly romance, action Word Count: Summary: "Threats" Warnings: 18+, gun violence, fist fighting, death threats, mentions of trauma, sex/suggestive talk AN: Dividers and banner made by me @potatographics. Usual beta readers tagged in masterlist! No editing done! Also- it has been a LONG time since i updated this series so if you are part of the taglist and do not wish to be notified anymore (i get it), comment and ill remove you from it <3

It wasn’t easy getting into the mindset of crime lords when their hearts were filled with turmoil over you, but the five men managed during the car ride.

At least until Mingi, in the driver seat, brought you up again. “So… I’m assuming everyone is aware of what the shitty fucker she went to see tried to do?” He winced at the feeling of Yunho digging his fingers into his thigh, glancing over and taking note of his tongue poking the inside of his cheek, an angry tell of his.

“And how aware are you of it, Malik?” Hongjoong spoke from the back, a hard edge to his tone as he sat between Seonghwa and Jongho. Their eyes met in the mirror and Mingi had the feeling he didn’t have the full story.

With a deep breath, he focused on the road. “I’m aware he tried to kiss her, but I didn’t press for more details, she was shaken up.”

“Oh he did more than that.” Jongho scoffed.

Now Mingi was even more confused, glancing at Yunho, then at Seonghwa, hoping one of them would clarify. It was the latter that spoke up. “He admitted to her face about- fuck I don’t even want to think about it- but I think it’s safe to say the only reason we don’t have one of Minjae’s men putting a hit out on this shitstain is because she wouldn’t want that… and we need his stupid fucking unit.”

“So you heard their conversation? Ah- I see.” Mingi didn’t know what was said but if it was enough for Seonghwa to be calling him a shitstain, then Mingi was all aboard the hate train. “Any idea why she was even there?”

Out of the four others, it was Jongho that spoke up. “Only an idea."

This had Hongjoong and Seonghwa turning to look at him in confusion, even the two in front were pretty shocked. “Well?”

The youngest didn’t meet any of their eyes. “She had been ranting to Yeosang about  wanting to arrest some of the guys that came into the bar and Yeosang explained that we can’t make any arrests ourselves unless they’re thought out otherwise it could backfire. She did ask if another unit made the arrest and handled the police work, if that was more viable.”

“Oh.” Hongjoong said it first, understanding where this was going. The rants they heard about through Yeosang were one of the few things that kept them hopeful you would come out on top of this whole situation; anger was a great motivator after all.

“That’s… not a bad plan actually. And she thought about that before knowing our plans.” Seonghwa smiled to himself, the pride and awe in his tone matched by Hongjoong’s grin.

“Well we’ll just have to carry it out won’t we? She tried it her way, we’ll try it our way.”

Mingi shivered at the undertone their leader spoke with, but no one protested. Instead, he pulled up to the quiet restaurant, taking note of a few cars on the street but that the building itself was dimly lit and only had two guards standing outside giving notice to what was about to go down. “Anyways, Viper time?”

The restaurant itself was a small mom and pop type that wasn’t even open in the evenings, they already had access to the camera’s inside and some audio thanks to their outfits and around the building with some bugs. The anonymity of the Black Pirates usually made it easy to scope out a place before a meeting, even if given just a few hours worth of notice. Having a tech genius on their crew also helped immensely, the buttons on their jackets and Yunho’s glasses serving as cameras and extra audio. They were nothing if not thorough.

After giving the okay to Yeosang to connect to the car and their personal devices, Yunho was the first out of the car followed by Jongho, Seonghwa, then Hongjoong. As driver, Mingi stayed behind, also to keep an eye out in case an ambush or backup was called. Or worse: police.

Their demeanor shifted, Yunho behind the duo leaders while Jongho was in the front, stepping up to the guards and introducing them as the Pirates. He showed off his fingers as if to confirm, then the four were led inside.

Only a handful of men were in the restaurant, quite a few tables pushed aside but four men sat at one in the center, with a handful of guards around the room.

“Total of ten guards. Six here, two up front and two in the back.” Yeosang's voice rang in their ears.

“We already have four men not far from the back entrance, the two in the kitchen will be easiest to take out if things get dicey. The Leaders have a car out back with a driver so that would be their escape route. Sang is tapping into their communications now.” San added on followed by some chatter in the background.

It was maybe a relief when the four heard your voice, calm and focused. “The guard on the left behind the men- he comes into the club a lot. Likes flirting with one of the girls, Cherry. Woo says he's a huge gambler and owes the Boa’s money. He'd probably turn his back on them to pay those fees.”

Of course they couldn't reply, but a glance at one of the cameras from Hongjoong told the four watching they understood. 

Jongho and Yunho pulled the chairs out and had Seonghwa and Hongjoong sitting the next second.

The buffer of the four men sitting scoffed and rolled his eyes. “You expect us to believe you're the leader of the Pirates?”

“Do you want proof?” Hongjoong hummed out with a tilt of his head, eyeing the man down. “Because if you won’t be serious about these negotiations, we can leave and you can pay us the original amount you owe us within a month.” He moved as if to get up, just for the brute to get elbowed by the more slender man next to him, shooting him a venomous glare.

From left to right, it was the head of their prostitution, the actual head of the Vipers -who appeared decently older than the rest-, the brute who was in charge of the fight ring and last, the lanky man responsible for their drugs. Hongjoong cared more about the leader, since this was his first appearance- though that was their main goal. 

A face means they can find who he is outside of the Vipers. Even if that was all they got from this meeting, it was enough.

“Already have his face being run through our data, Captain.” The techie announced even if he didn't need to. Hongjoong knew he would, he trusted him.

If Yeosang managed to cough up any useful information, they could have even more leverage to make sure this meeting went just as they wanted.

He eyed the four of them, gaze harsh on the brute that had dared to question them. “Let us get right into it then. Mars.” He motioned towards Seonghwa who a moment later pulled a folder out from his bag under the leather cape.

Once it was in Hongjoong's hands, he was quick to place it on the table facing the other four. A contract with listed payments and pictures of the properties that they wanted as well. “We don't expect all of these, but these are the options you have. Our listed conditions in the contract however are non-negotiable.”

“A contract? You can't be serious?” The head of the fight ring scoffed again, not at all intimidated by the glares he received.

“We very much are. We take our work seriously, as well as what we are owed. You were warned our help was not going to be free. Or cheap.” Seonghwa added, pointing with a leather clad finger to the contract. “Three of the 6 properties. Different percentages of our cut on products. You get use of one of our docks, as well as contacts of smugglers willing to extend their contract with us to include you. We'll supply some men to make up for the losses you took, but we have free reign to scout any of your existing men as well.”

Staring at the monitors before you, the rest of the talk fell on deaf ears after Seonghwa had said that. The three around you were still laser focused on the screens, listening to the negotiations though only Seonghwa and Hongjoong did most of the talking. You stood right behind Yeosang, San to your left and Wooyoung to your right, the mic in front of you picking up any conversation the four of you had.

Wooyoung had praised them for their location choices, though you couldn't see what they were without leaning in closer and pressing your chest to the back of Yeosang's head; not that it mattered to you right now.

You were still reeling from the weight of Seonghwa's words. “Does that mean…” you whispered, drawing the attention of the two flanking you, “they can get you out of there safely?”

The fear that had risen up when the small war between the Red Wolves and Green Vipers had jeopardized San’s life had never gone away. You hadn’t dared to ask Hongjoong what he planned to get him out, afraid you would not like the answer at all. 

Now you had it. The alliance between the Pirates and Vipers was a perfect opportunity to pull San out without blowing his cover or causing any harm. The most efficient way as well, as he could still technically fight if he needed. Not that you wanted him to. “You tell me, sweetcheeks? What does that pretty brain of yours think it means?” San replied, his tone playful and you could hear the smirk in his words as well.

That was enough of a confirmation for you however, reaching for his hand on instinct as your expression softened. “You’re going to be safe now?”

San took your hand, fingers lacing with yours and his calloused thumb brushing over the back of your hand.

“I wouldn’t say safe- nothing about this job is safe Goddess.” Wooyoung felt the need to tease, bursting your bubble a bit.

San shot him a glare over your shoulder, moving a bit closer to you as his gaze settled back on yours. “While he has a point, I know what you mean. Yes it means they can get me out of immediate danger. So you don’t have to worry any more.”

Relief flooded you, muscles relaxing and letting out a breath that seemed to take some of the tension in your body with it. “I’m glad.” Still holding his hand, you tugged him a bit closer until you were side by side enough you could lean your head on his shoulder. You didn’t think about it, just did it, embracing the warmth radiating off him.

Wooyoung whined behind you, the screens forgotten for the moment. “Be touchy with meee~"

“No.” But you had a smile on your lips as he poked at your arm. “Focus baby boy.”

He sighed, but didn’t relent on the poking even as he turned his attention to the screen. “You guys should hurry up, I’m being deprived of attention now.”

“I don’t think now is the time for such banter, Woo.” Yeosang hissed up at him, motioning to the screens. It seemed you had missed an escalation of sorts as one of the Viper leaders was now standing and leaning over the table, glaring down at Hongjoong.

Hongjoong who was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, and a smug look on his face as he peered up under the hat at the man twice his size it seemed.

Even through the screen you could feel the tension, the charged atmosphere that would snap at the sound of a pin drop.

“I wouldn’t be acting so smug, little hobbit.” The brute snarled at the Captain, the next second 6 guns aimed at the four of your men.

Fear washed through you, detaching yourself from San’s arm and leaning against the back of Yeosang’s head to see the screen clearer. The man seemed unphased, fingers moving across his board as he was doing something on another screen- your eyes didn’t stray from this one.

“Easy baby, they’re going to be fine.” San attempted to reassure you, his hand sliding over your back, hesitating only when you flinched at the initial contact. “The vipers aren’t that dumb.”

As if to back up what he said, the leader of the four lifted two fingers and the guns were lowered. “No need for that, K, they aren’t a threat.” The man was pulled back to his seat by the viper next to him.

“Would you take us more seriously if we were?” It was Yunho who finally spoke up, a tick in his jaw you could see even in the dim light of the restaurant and camera quality. He was pissed, and now you wondered what you had missed.

What had been said or at least insinuated that would have Yunho staring at the men as if he was ready to kill them?

Nothing was said between the four leaders, but the first man, the head of their prostitution, nodded.

Your eyes widened in shock at what proceeded to play out on the screen. Yunho was quick, dashing around the table and disarming and knocking two of the six guards down, shot another in the knee with the newly acquired gun, and then tossed them to Seonghwa. Seonghwa had caught them with ease and pointed them directly at the two of the leaders that had stood up in the duration of Yunho’s actions: one at K, the other at the head of prostitution.

Jongho was much less graceful, the first guard he disarmed, he simply broke his wrist, resulting in a garbled cry as he took a hit to the stomach. He barely hit the floor before Jongho was swinging a punch at the next guard, grabbing his gun. This one was smarter, letting the gun go and bringing his fist up, connecting with Jongho’s cheek. He got one more hit in before Jongho started his own assault, handling him while he tossed the guns towards Yunho.

Who immediately pointed them both at the remaining guard. The one you had pointed out earlier. Yunho mouthed something to the man that had him dropping his gun in surrender and getting on his knees. Yunho kicked it away from everyone before pointing the guns to the back of the other two leader’s heads, while Jongho knocked out the guard then put the one who surrendered into a hold.

It had happened within half a minute, leaving you stunned.

“Still think we aren’t a threat?” Hongjoong mused, still in the same position he had been in before the brute had sat down. You didn’t relax until the guns were lowered and Yunho and Jongho were standing next to Seonghwa and Hongjoong again. Though relaxed wasn’t the right word; less on edge. There was blood on the side of Jongho’s face, probably from a cut that he wasn’t attending to. It raised the intimidation factor for sure, keeping the others in check.

“It’s always hot how those two handle things.” Wooyoung muttered under his breath, snapping your attention to him. Once your initial concern wore off, laughter bubbled out of your throat and fell from your lips. Small, choked giggles really. “What?! You can’t tell me it’s not hot?”

“I think you’re the only one who finds it hot when we pulverize someone.” San teased from the other side of you, laughing under his breath. “Looks like it’s settled now so no more fighting on their end.”

Wooyoung whined at that, a cute pout on his lips. “Damn. I was hoping Yunho could get a little bloody too. Maybe if they’re worked up enough I can finally get that eiffel tower I’ve been praying-”

“Wooyoung!” Both you and San gasp out while Yeosang looks up at him horrified. The culprit didn’t look the slightest bit ashamed however. “We can talk about this later.” San added on.

The man didn’t seem done with his fun though, leaning in towards you and whispering. “Don’t let him fool you, Sannie gets all worked up after a fight himself. The van we used for his cover- Sangie refuses to listen in because we fucked in it so much at first.”

The hiss behind you and Wooyoung’s pride at his words just had more laughter bubbling up from your chest. “Oh my god, I can believe that. You’re such a slut, it’s cute.” You bipinched his cheeks, not at all realizing you felt a bit lighter.

Not until you turned back to the screen and found Yeosang with his head back, looking up at you with a soft smile. A smile that was mirrored on the other two’s faces. Heat rushed up your neck and burned your cheeks as your focus narrowed in on the screen. It did seem to be going smoother, and Jongho did look fine despite the blood on one side of his face…

You didn’t let yourself hope until the four men were signing the contracts provided, the leader shaking hands with Hongjoong. The older man paled when Hongjoong said a name, but he recovered quickly. So Yeosang had found out about him. When had he told Hongjoong? Perhaps when you were distracted.

“Good job Sangie.” You patted his head gently none-the-less, feeling as if he deserved the praise in the moment.

“Just doing my job… they’ll be coming back soon.” Yeosang didn’t look up, but you assumed he was a bit bashful. He never took your praise well.

Before you could lay more praise on, you were being pulled back by Wooyoung. “So- Sangie can handle it from here. Let’s get a medkit ready for bear and I should have enough time to tell you a story! How about a story of a wickedly handsome rogue spy and the very beautiful and badass cop who wins his heart?”

“Heard that one before.” You teased, knowing damn well he was talking about him and you. “How about… the one of the two undercover morally grey hotties that infiltrate an illegal fight ring?”

Wooyoung perked up at that. “Oh? Are you curious about the van stories? Could always recreate the scene for you.” He was leading you over to the kitchen that also had some medical supplies in one of the cabinets.

With a glance back at San who was still with Yeosang, a soft smile tugged at your lips. “Something like that. I never wanted to ask about the undercover part, just in case it worsened my fear of San’s inability to get out of the mess. But now… I’d like to know more. How it started. Why San. And yes, maybe about this van.”

Setting the kit down on the counter, Wooyoung continued to pull out more needed items. “You know, San told you it was purely sexual the day I kissed him in front of you… you know that’s a lie right?” He was nonchalant with it, but it reminded you of the day regardless. Your surprise when this new person kissed the man you were getting attached to. “When we started this mission, it was a turning point for us. I know he told you I saved him or whatever, but I don’t think the shackles really fell for him until the Vipers.”

Realizing there was more to the story than an undercover identity and a lot of sex in a van, you sat down on one of the stools, all your attention on the man across from you. There were a lot of reasons this piqued your interest, but none greater than the need to know how San broke free of his trauma.

Maybe it could give you the answers to break free of your own. “Tell me.”

Taglist in the reblogs

Masterlist | Previous | Next

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @dixonsbridexx @yikes-myguy @blackwidownat2814 @euqsia @lliteratii @imadisneyprincessiswear @satata @smashleywow @misspendragonsworld @captain-shannon-becker @i-doutt-it @bookies16 @brianna-merlim @staley83 @oceanticspace @insaneintheemembranev2 @dummylovewp @xmiaacxio @meyukoo @grilka @itsgivingdepression @timebomb1101 @inejghafasdagger @koshkahhh @juliperezsilveira @pandaofsilentdeath @straw--b3rry @nynxtea

----------------------------------------------------------

TW: Cussing, Walkers (Zombies), Negan is a Villan, SA (Implied, offscreen), PTSD symptoms, threats of violence, fighting walkers, fighting people.

Part 49

Dead Weight - Part 50

The weeks leading up to this moment have been a blur of preparation and planning. You've been hitting Savior outposts with the group, each successful raid building toward some kind of final confrontation. But despite the progress, despite the victories, you can feel the weight of everything pressing down on you.

You check your weapon for the hundredth time.

Daryl hasn't left your side much during the planning sessions. You catch him watching you constantly, ready to step in at the first sign of distress. It's protective and suffocating all at once.

She's stronger now, he tells himself, watching you interact with Jesus and Aaron. But she still gets that look sometimes. Like she's somewhere else, Somewhere bad.

The trash people Rick has made a deal with make your skin crawl. There's something about their broken speech patterns and strange mannerisms that sets your teeth on edge. When Jadis speaks, you find yourself moving closer to Glen unconsciously.

"They're... odd, right ?" you whisper to him during one of the planning sessions.

"Odd doesn't cover it," Glen mutters back, and you're grateful he doesn't ask why they bother you so much. The truth is, their unpredictability reminds you too much of Negan's psychological games.

But Rick seems confident in the alliance, so you push down your unease and focus on the plan. The Sanctuary assault is just weeks away, and every detail has to be perfect.

Maps are spread across the surface, marked with red X's indicating what was once Savior outposts, and the tension in the air is thick enough to cut with a knife.

You sit beside Daryl, close enough that his knee brushes yours under the table. He's positioned himself between you and the door, a habit he's developed since your escape from the Sanctuary weeks ago.

She's still jumpy, Daryl observes, noting how your fingers tap nervously against your leg whenever someone raises their voice. Hate seein' her like this.

"The last satellite outpost is here," Rick says, pointing to a mark on the map, "that's our best starting point. We take it out, use the cars to lead a herd to the Sanctuary compound."

"Walker herd that size could take out half their defenses," Michonne adds, leaning forward. "Force them to use ammunition, weaken their position."

Jesus nods in agreement. "The Saviors have gotten comfortable. They're not expecting coordinated resistance."

"Good," Glen says, his voice hard. "They deserve everything that's coming to them."

Daryl's jaw clenches as the discussion continues, his protective instincts on high alert every time someone's voice gets too loud or aggressive.

"We hit them fast and hard," Aaron suggests. "Multiple assaults. Confuse them, divide their forces."

"They won't be expecting it from Oceanside either," Eric adds. "Most of them probably haven't realized we're working together yet."

The conversation grows more heated as details are hammered out. Voices rise, fists pound on tables, and the aggressive energy fills the room like a living thing.

But before he can suggest a break, you surprise everyone by speaking up.

"Wait," you say, your voice cutting through the heated discussion. "Just... wait a minute."

Everyone turns to look at you, and Daryl sees you steel yourself against the attention.

"There are ordinary people in there," you continue, your voice growing stronger. "People who didn't choose this life, who are just trying to survive."

Rick's expression softens slightly. "We know there are workers, people who—"

"No, you don't understand." You take a shaky breath, and Daryl instinctively leans closer, ready to step in if you need him to. "His wives. Negan's wives. They're not there by choice. They're there because they had to be."

The room goes quiet, and Daryl feels his chest tighten, with rage.

"They're like me," you whisper, and the words hit the room like a physical blow. "Put in terrible situations to protect the people they love. To keep them alive. They didn't choose to be there any more than I chose to..." You trail off, unable to finish the sentence.

Michonne's voice is gentle when she speaks. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying we have to help them. The ordinary people living under his rule. They're victims too, not willing participants." Your hands are shaking now, but you press on. "When we do this, when we fight back, we have to remember that not everyone in there is our enemy."

The weight of your words settles over the group. Jesus is the first to nod.

"She's right. Any action we take has to account for non-combatants."

"That makes things more complicated," Michonne points out, but her tone isn't dismissive.

"Good things usually are," Rick says quietly, looking at you with something like pride in his eyes.

Then someone shouts from outside "Negan's here!"

The words hit you like a physical blow. Your chest tightens, and you have to focus on breathing as panic threatens to overwhelm you.

Not now.

Not when everyone needs to be strong.

Daryl immediately moves to your side. "Y'okay?"

"Gotta be" you say, but your hands are shaking.

You position yourself where you can hear the conversation between Rick and Negan, forcing yourself to listen despite every instinct screaming at you to run.

"Well, well, well," Negan's voice carries over the gate, that familiar mocking tone that makes your stomach turn. "Rick, my friend. I think we need to have a little chat."

Don't throw up, you tell yourself. Don't give him the satisfaction.

Daryl's hand hovers near your elbow, not quite touching but ready to offer support.

M'gonna put a bullet through his skull. He thinks to himself.

The conversation continues, Rick trying to maintain control while Negan plays his psychological games. Then Negan moves toward a casket.

"I brought you something," he says with theatrical flair. "Oh and ... Just because I brought her in a casket doesn't mean she has to leave in it."

Rick's eyes dart to Jadis, standing with her trash people in formation. Something feels wrong. The way she's positioned them, the slight smirk playing at her lips.

"Jadis," Rick says quietly, not taking his eyes off Negan. "Remember our deal."

Jadis tilts her head, that familiar bird-like movement. "We take. We keep. We decide." Her voice carries that strange, clipped cadence. "Decided different now."

The casket opens, and everything goes to hell.

Sasha emerges as a walker, lunging at Negan with the fury of the undead. In the chaos that follows, the trash people reveal their true allegiance, turning their weapons on your group instead of the Saviors.

"Now!" Jadis barks, her voice cutting through the gunfire. "Take! Take them all!"

The trash people move with mechanical precision, their weapons swinging toward Alexandria's fighters. One of them, the man with the wild hair, grins as he aims. "We deal. Better deal now."

Rick dives for cover, shouting over the chaos. "Jadis! We gave you what you wanted!"

"Wanted more," she calls back, her tone almost conversational despite the violence erupting around her. "He give more. We take more."

Negan, having narrowly avoided Sasha's walker form, laughs with genuine delight. "Oh, Rick! Did you really think these bargain-basement post-apocalyptic performance artists were gonna stay loyal to you?"

Jadis nods approvingly at Negan's words. "Wise man. Knows how to deal proper."

Another trash person, weapon trained on you, speaks in their distinctive broken rhythm: "Sorry. No sorry. New deal now"

"Get down!" Glen shouts, pulling you behind a wall as gunfire erupts around you.

You find yourself fighting back-to-back with Glen, just like old times, your weapons moving in practiced synchronization. Despite everything you've been through, the muscle memory is still there.

Daryl takes down two trash people with his rifle. Where the hell is she? Can't see her in all this mess.

You spot Carl taking cover behind a fence, and every protective instinct you have flares to life. He's seventeen now, more than capable of handling himself, but you've been watching him since he was eight years old.

"Carl!" you shout, providing covering fire as you move toward him. "This way!"

A Savior appears from around the corner, rifle raised and aimed at Carl's back. Without thinking, you tackle the teenager to the ground just as the shot rings out, the bullet whistling over both your heads.

"I had it!" Carl protests, but there's gratitude in his eyes.

"I know you did, Little Mister" you say, helping him to his feet. "Doesn't mean I'm going to stop trying to keep you safe."

As you notice you know have to look up to meet his eyes you realize you might have to rethink that nickname you gave him.

The battle rages on, but slowly the tide turns against you. One by one, your people are forced to their knees at gunpoint. You find yourself kneeling in the dirt beside Daryl, Negan's people surrounding you with smug satisfaction.

Negan walks the line of prisoners like he's inspecting merchandise, Lucille resting casually on his shoulder. When he stops in front of Carl, your blood turns to ice.

"Well, Carl," Negan says with false affection. "Look. At. You. Almost a man now. Almost."

The bat rises slightly, and you fight the urge to vomit. The memory of Abraham floods back, the sickening sound of Lucille connecting with skull and bone.

Not Carl, you think desperately. Anyone but the kid.

"You know what I think?" Negan continues. "I think it's time for another demonstration. Show your daddy here what happens when people don't follow the rules."

"Please," the word slips out before you can stop it, barely a whisper but loud enough for Negan to hear.

His head turns toward you like a predator scenting prey, and that familiar, nauseating smile spreads across his face.

"Well, well. Look who we have here." He moves toward you with slow, deliberate steps. "Hello, sweetheart. Miss me?"

Don't react, you tell yourself. Don't give him anything.

But your body betrays you, trembling visibly as he crouches down to your level.

"You know, I've been missing you," he says, his voice dropping to that intimate tone that makes your skin crawl. "Maybe it's time I took you home where you belong."

Gonna rip his goddamn throat out with my bare hands, Daryl thinks, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring.

"What do you say, sweetheart?" Negan continues, reaching out to touch your face. "Ready to come back home to your husband ?"

You jerk away from his touch, and he laughs.

"Playing hard to get? That's alright. I like a little fight in my wives."

The word hits Daryl like physical blows. Wives. Like you're nothing more than property. Like what he did to you was his goddamn right.

The tension crackles in the air as Negan circles Carl like a predator, Lucille gleaming with dried blood in the afternoon sun. The bat feels heavy in his hands, familiar and deadly.

"You know what, kid?" Negan's voice drops to that dangerous whisper that's gotten so many people killed. "I think it's time we wrapped this up." He raises Lucille slowly, savoring the moment. "Your old man's gonna wish he never crossed me when he sees what's left of his boy."

Carl doesn't flinch, his one good eye staring defiantly up at the man who's terrorized his family for months. "Go ahead," he says, voice steady despite everything. "Do it."

Negan's grin widens. "Oh, I like you, kid. Too bad you're gonna be—"

A roar erupts across Alexandria's courtyard. Not human - something deeper, more primal, like nothing that belongs in this broken world.

"What the hell—" Simon starts to say, his weapon swinging toward the sound, but the words die in his throat as Shiva explodes through Alexandria's gates.

The tiger moves like death incarnate, her massive 400-pound frame launching through the air with impossible grace. A Savior - one of the newer recruits who joined for the easy pickings - has exactly enough time to scream "Oh shit!" before Shiva's claws rake across his chest, tearing through cloth and flesh like paper.

The impact sends him sprawling backward, his assault rifle clattering away across the pavement. Shiva follows him down, her massive jaws clamping around his throat with a wet, crushing sound that makes even hardened Saviors step back in horror.

"Jesus Christ," Daryl breathes, watching in horrified fascination as the tiger's powerful muscles work. Blood sprays in arterial spurts across the dusty ground, painting the asphalt crimson as Shiva shakes her massive head back and forth. The Savior's legs kick frantically for a few seconds, then go still.

But Shiva doesn't let go immediately. Her wild instincts have taken over completely, and she continues to worry the corpse like the apex predator she is, ensuring her kill is thoroughly dead.

"ALEXANDRIA WILL NOT FALL!"

King Ezekiel's voice booms across the chaos as he strides through the gates, his theater training projecting every syllable with royal authority. Behind him, Kingdom fighters pour into Alexandria like an avenging army - men and women with makeshift armor and fierce determination, ready to die for their allies.

"Not today! Not ever!" Ezekiel continues, drawing his sword with a flourish that would look ridiculous from anyone else but somehow fits him perfectly. "For we are the righteous, and the righteous will prevail!"

"Fuck yeah, Kingdom!" Glen shouts from his position, raising his rifle as hope floods through him for the first time in hours. The reinforcements they'd desperately needed have arrived at the perfect moment.

The Saviors, who moments ago had been confident in their overwhelming numbers, suddenly find themselves caught in a nightmare. Half their attention is on the very real tiger currently mauling their comrade, while Kingdom fighters engage them from multiple directions.

"Fall back! Fall back!" Simon screams, but his voice is nearly drowned out by gunfire and shouting.

You scramble for your weapon where it fell during the initial chaos, muscle memory and adrenaline taking over as training kicks in. Your hands find the familiar grip of your rifle, and you're firing before you're fully conscious of the decision, putting rounds center mass into a Savior who's trying to flank Ezekiel's people.

The courtyard has become a war zone. Muzzle flashes light up the growing dusk as Kingdom fighters press their advantage, using the confusion and terror caused by Shiva's arrival to devastating effect. The tiger has moved on from her first kill, now stalking another Savior who's backed against a wall, whimpering.

"Please, please, I got kids—" the man starts to beg, but Shiva's not interested in negotiations. Her massive paw swipes across his midsection, claws tearing through fabric and flesh with wet, tearing sounds that make your stomach turn even after everything you've seen.

Negan, for the first time since you've known him, looks genuinely rattled. His cocky grin has vanished, replaced by the calculating look of a man reassessing a situation that's gone completely sideways.

"What the shit," he mutters, Lucille still in his hands but no longer raised toward Carl.

Ezekiel's sword finds its mark in a Savior's chest, the blade sliding between ribs with practiced ease.

"Kingdom stands with Alexandria!" he declares, pulling his weapon free with a spray of blood. "And we do not yield to tyrants!"

The battle rages on, but the tide has clearly turned. What started as Negan's moment of triumph has become a desperate fighting retreat as the Saviors realize they're outgunned, outmaneuvered, and facing a literal apex predator that doesn't care about their reputation.

A fleeting Savior, panicked and desperate, swings his rifle butt as he runs past you. The blow catches you in the side of the head, sending you sprawling into the dirt, your vision swimming.

Get up, you tell yourself, but your body isn't cooperating. Get up, damn it.

Through the haze of pain and confusion, you see movement approaching. Large, powerful, predatory. Shiva.

You've just witnessed what she can do.

The tiger is magnificent and terrifying, her golden coat splattered with fresh blood, a piece of torn cloth still caught between her teeth. Savior cloth.

"No, no, no," you whisper, voice hoarse as you scoot back on your hands, swallowing thickly. Your heart hammers against your ribs.

Her massive paws pad silently across the ground as she approaches your prone form, each step deliberate and measured.

Those amber eyes are locked on you, unblinking.

This is how I die, you think with strange calm. Mauled by a fucking tiger instead of the dead.

"Stay back!" you rasp, though your voice comes out as barely more than a croak. "Please..."

But instead of attacking, Shiva does something completely unexpected. She tilts her massive head, studying you with an intelligence that's almost human.

Then she lowers her great head and bunts you gently, the way a house cat might seek affection.

Her bloodied muzzle pushes against your shoulder, knocking you back slightly, and you can hear a deep rumbling purr emanating from her chest.

What the hell? you think, but somehow - against every instinct screaming at you to run - your trembling hand moves to rest against her fur. It's coarse and thick, warm with life and deadly power. The purring grows louder.

Your heart that was previously thudding like a war drum, start to slow down ableit fractionally.

"I don't... I don't understand," you breathe, staring into those golden eyes that seem almost gentle now.

"Shiva has always been an excellent judge of character," comes Ezekiel's voice from somewhere above you, calm and measured as always. "She recognizes the value of good people."

You look up to find the King standing there, leaning on his staff, completely unbothered by the fact that his tiger is nuzzling you in the middle of what remains of a battlefield, her mouth still stained with human blood.

"She killed them," you whisper, voice shaking. "I watched her..."

"She defended her people," Ezekiel corrects gently. "As she was meant to do. The Saviors chose their path when they decided to hurt the innocent."

Heavy footsteps approach, and Daryl appears at your other side, rifle still in hand, staring at the scene in disbelief. His eyes are wide, darting between you and the massive predator currently treating you like a favorite toy.

"What in the hell ..." he mutters, voice rough. "Y'hurt?" His gaze flicks to the blood on your temple where the rifle butt caught you.

"I'm okay," you manage, though your hand is still shaking as you stroke Shiva's fur. "I think."

Daryl crouches down beside you, his presence immediately comforting despite the surreal situation. "Never seen nothin' like this," he says, shaking his head as he watches Shiva continue to purr and nuzzle against you. "Damn thing's actin' like you're her cub or somethin'."

"She's not a thing," you say softly, surprised by your own defense of the tiger. "She's just... she's just doing what she thinks is right."

Daryl's eyes meet yours, something shifting in his expression. "Yeah, well," he mumbles, reaching out to brush some dirt from your cheek, "only m'woman would end up makin' friends with a damn tiger."

The undertone in his voice - the way he says 'woman' like you belong with him - sends warmth through your chest despite everything.

The sound of engines signals the last of the Saviors' retreat, their remaining forces scattering like roaches when the lights come on.

"M'gonna get yer head looked at," Daryl says, concern creeping into his voice as he notices you swaying slightly.

"In a moment," Ezekiel interjects, smiling at the scene before him. "Let Shiva finish her introduction. She does not offer her approval lightly."

For now, you're alive. You're safe. And somehow, you've gained the approval of a predator who's currently treating you like her new favorite person - even with human blood still staining her magnificent coat.

"This is insane," you whisper, but you're smiling now, the terror slowly fading as Shiva's rumbling purr continues to vibrate through your bones.

[peachywonnie]

cold hands, warm heart

a/n:: ok nobody act surprised about a hockey!enha au... idc its one of my favorite au's hehe. please read the warnings going into some of these stories cause i <3 comfort fics or angst with happy endings so please just look at the warnings before continuing to read when posted!!

taglist!!: open!! comment or ask if you would like to be added <3

masterlist

Lucky Charm

Hockey Player!Heeseung x Childhood Bestfriend!Reader

You’ve known Heeseung before you could even walk, attached at the hip, even as he chased his dream of doing hockey while you chased your own academic dreams. Getting in the same college on different scholarships felt like fate. Everyone see’s the way he looks at you… everyone except you. And he notices every little thing about you, even when you can’t tell that you’re breaking.

coming soon

Polaroid Love

Hockey Player!Jay x Photographer!Reader

Photography has always been your passion, so when you needed an internship for college, you seek out your schools hockey team in hopes to capture some video or photos that you could use for your resume. However, your camera keeps finding a certain player on the team, and he definitely notices how there’s more pictures of him from the previous game than anyone else.

coming soon

Princess on Ice

Hockey Player!Jake x Figure Skater!Reader

Spending your Friday night at your schools hockey game was NOT the plan, being dragged there by some of your friends to “support the other arts on ice.” What you didn’t expect was getting a certain someone’s attention during the game , making Jake want to see more and more of you.

coming soon

Hit me Where it Hurts

Hockey Player!Sunghoon x Physical Trainer!Reader

You’ve been studying to be a physical trainer for a bit now, and after getting the highest marks on your most recent clinical, you get offered the spot to be the physical trainer for your schools hockey team. Having to work with Sunghoon after a nasty injury makes you second guess yourself in more ways than one. Sunghoon doesn’t mind, because if you’re helping him piece himself back together, he would gladly do the same for you.

coming soon

©peachywonnie '25

[hongjoongspoetry]

A Love Written in Gold | Teaser

🦢 Pairing(s): Proletarian!Hongjoong x Noble!Reader, Duke!Seonghwa x Noble!Reader

🦢 Genres/Tropes: Bridgerton AU, Regency era, forbidden love, fluff, angst

🦢 Warnings/Tags: no use of (Y/N), female reader, sexism, mentioned classism, explicit language, bad parenting, and more to come...

🦢 Wordcount: estm. 14.5K

🦢 Author's Note: The second part of ALWIG is coming this weekend!!! WIIIHOOOOO, until then here's a lil sneakpeak on what's around the corner ;) Keep in mind that this is the unedited version, so changes are possible to happen until the release.

Masterpost Moodboard Permanent taglist

The crinkling of burning wood and utensils clattering against porcelain filled the spacious room. The Jeong family was not keen on making small talk during dinner time and everyone usually relied on Wooyoung to bring life to the socialisation. The younger brother seemed to not be in a talkative mood as he kept his mouth occupied with bites of steak and sips of his favorite champagne. That's why everyone was taken aback when Yunho opened his mouth one evening while you were all gathered around the enormous dining table big enough to seat twenty people rather than a family of four.

“I met His Grace the other day.  He was quite happy to see me.”

Ireum hummed from her end of the table and hastily patted her red lips with a napkin. “That sounds wonderful, Yunho dear. His Grace is certainly a great companion to have by one's side.” 

You pushed around the peas on your plate, not nearly as interested in the new conversation as your remaining family members. The only man to cloud your mind was none other than the pianist the world had yet to hear of.

“His Grace asked about you, Sister.”

A rattling sound sliced everyone’s ears as a pea squeezed between your fork and plate catapulted across the dining table and landed in Wooyoung’s champagne. The maids and butlers on standby did not flinch, but the same could not be said for your family. Wooyoung was already halfway through complaining about his champagne now contaminated by your germs and a piece of Yunho’s steak slipped off his fork and landed in his lap, leaving a fat grease spot impossible to get out. A hushed ‘oh, dear’ left Ireum as she rubbed the growing ache forming across her forehead.

“Apologies,” you sheepishly whispered and put your fork to rest on the clothed table. The flare of your cheeks was bringing a sweat to your already warm figure. “You were saying, Brother?”

“His Grace, Duke of Beaumonte, told me he wished to escort you to the races in two nights time.”

The possibility of the sun rising in the west was greater than witnessing Yunho smile and confess the act of a man asking about his little sister, yet there you were and the sun was still bound to rise in the east and set in the west, like any other day. Where the scary Yunho with eyes the epitome of death had disappeared to was a question burning in the back of your mind. This was not the reaction you expected to get out of your brother. Wooyoung? Perhaps, he was quite unpredictable. One day he could be bouncing with joy and the next, everyone and everything in his way was going to encounter his wrath. 

However, Yunho? 

There was nothing to smile about in his life and certainly not over the fact that another man was more or less showing interest in his sister.

But it was not just another man. It was the Duke of Beaumonte, the handsome man with piercing eyes and cherry red lips that every lady wished to stand by the side of. The lit fireplace was not the sole reason for the sudden change in temperature. The mere thought of His Grace seeking Yunho out with you in his interest sent sparks to the tips of your fingers and toes. A proper lady could not be without good manners and what was good about a lady  who jumped around, a wide grin on her face unable to contain her squeals? Absolutely nothing.

“Oh.”

Your anti-climatic response yearned for everyone’s attention as a shimmering doxy in a room full of men with jewelry adorning their ring finger. It even caught Wooyoung’s eyes who was mourning his pea infused champagne. The feast was abandoned and left to freeze at the amount of cold shoulders received.

“Oh? I am sorry, is something the matter?” 

You shoved a piece of steak in your mouth to spare yourself a few moments to think. Swallowing, you gently replied, “No, Brother. I was simply not expecting to attract the eye of someone with such importance as His Grace.”

The glances shared by the eldest pair seated on each end of the table went over your head and the piano prodigy was quickly forgotten as the light was angled on another man, maybe not equally gifted, but carrying a good, to be precise, the best, reputation in the Ton. 

“You are the diamond, dear. Your concern should be of who you have not intrigued rather than who is. Gentlemen from wide and far come for an inch of your time. It is certainly no surprise His Grace is amongst that category.”

“...Yes, Mother,” you replied with a tight-lipped smile to cover the traces of defeat, but even the tiniest of paw prints were impossible to hide in a snow-befallen field.

Ireum took a calculated sip of the wine imported from the Portuguese islands of Madeira, her favorite kind. The fermented liquid tasted better now that she could drink it in the confines of her own house instead of sneaking into a pub around the corner, seduce the first man that was most likely to give into her red lips and cunning eyes, and order her a glass of Madeira. Ireum allowed a silence to stretch across the room, giving you a chance to come through with your thoughts. As the silence continued, she put down the almost empty wine glass and patted her sweetened lips dry with a napkin.

“Yunho, dear? Accept the proposal. Tell His Grace that Miss Lee will with honor accompany him to the races.”

© HONGJOONGSPOETRY 2025. All rights reserved. Copying, editing, reposting or translating my work is not allowed.

[scriptseekstories]

To the Anon that tried to give me this ask, I swear I tried to answer but my Inbox refuses to 😭 So I just screenshot it and will answer like this and hoping that you would see it!

To answer your questions from this ask:

I got a bunch of inspirations from media that created Bumble (Name)’s hive. The description of how it’s like inside the Hive will be expanded in the next chapter, but I was also excited to add more information about (Name)’s Hive with the knowledge of Eternal Sugar’s Paradise (The whole story made me want to get into Cookie Run anyways lmao-)

Gotham is also the most crime ridden city ever, a known fact for even new comers of DC comics, so would it really be wrong if we keep people off the streets to prevent civilian casualties from the main villains? Less people roaming less people to get robbed or die, right?

Bumble (Name) was neglected growing up, hurt emotionally, physically, and mentally from the lack of affection they got from the Waynes, and seeing these recovering addicts, homeless people, and even petty thieves be neglected and shunned from society was something they don’t want to see another go through the same experience, their hive is a home.

As for the Batfam willing to ruin everything (Name) worked so hard for, even if they don’t remember anything, just to make sure no one would be neglected for hurt again? Their judgement and guilt clouds what (Name) would want, believing it’s the Bee beast controlling them.

They won’t change, they never cared for their feelings before, and they’re still choosing to not acknowledge what Bumble (Name) made for them to feel safe, because their shame and regrets of not being a family to them.

As for Joker? Time will tell on whether or not this new Joker was better. If they stop (Name) and everyone’s honey control is no more?

Well… it’s up to the future

Taglist: @pix-stuff @jellystar-star @moon0goddess @bad4amficideas @lettucel0ver @lithiumval @degenerates-posts @ryuushou @deathbynarcisstick @silverklaus @artistwithcreativeburnout @middevil465 @jsprien213 @1abi @oliviaewl @redkarmakai @nxdxsworld @the-dumber-scaramouche @sc3n3mo-t3to @tw-om-gi-hs-56387 @bunniotomia @welpthisisboring @rad4bean @ithoughtthinks @reeyy0-2 @ceramic-raven @danart501 @esposadomd @trashlanternfish360 @jjoppees @nervousalpacalady @eyeless-kun @pinkcloudcat @lunamonkeypower @soriansick

[mercvry-glow]

Chapter one : tonight ❤️

Prologue | In Another Light

In Another Light masterlist - Jack Abbot x Ex!reader

warnings. age gap (jack is late 40s, reader is 27), exes to lovers, slow-burnish, jack and reader are really bad at feelings, reader is depressed, overall not too bad, these will matter more as the series goes on.

summary. adjusting to the day shift hadn’t been easy—not after nearly three years of working nights during your ED residency. but for the past year, you’d finally settled into a rhythm: four days on, three off, and staying home alone the rest of the time. it wasn’t glamorous, but it was stable. predictable. jack shattered that fragile peace you had—he had ruined you more than you’d like to admit. so when robby calls, asking if you could cover night shift again for a few weeks, it felt like everything you had built since Jack left unraveled in a matter of seconds.

notes. how are we feelings about this guys? we're starting out strong with some new formatting, so let me know how you like it! i'm genuinely so excited for you guys to read this 😭🫶🏼 this series is my little brain baby.

wc. 1000+

You were no stranger to the darkness. It had once surrounded you, enveloped you in a way no man ever could. Now it crept up the corner of your bedroom—stalking you, waiting to steal the little bit of comfort you had.

Day shift was supposed to be a fresh start.

A year had passed since Jack told you he couldn’t—or didn’t—love you anymore. A year since your world cracked open and swallowed everything that felt safe. Since then, you’d been living in the shell of yourself, caught in some endless purgatory where time moved but nothing truly changed.

Maybe he was right. Maybe you were too young, too idealistic, too willing to believe love could fix what trauma broke. Maybe you mistook his silence for depth, his distance for mystery. Maybe you loved the idea of him more than the man he actually was, even when you tried your best to love every piece of him.

You gave everything—your patience, your softness, the parts of you no one else had touched. And he left you with nothing but questions that still echoed when the apartment went quiet.

The morning sun now poured through the blinds, casting stripes of gold across your tangled sheets and tired body. It was a new day in Pittsburgh, sure—but you still woke up haunted. Haunted by what you could’ve been if only you had been... less.

Less emotional. Less hopeful. Less you.

But that was the thing. You couldn’t cut pieces of yourself away to fit someone else’s mold, and you certainly wouldn’t let a man decide your future.

Not anymore.

So today, you’d shower. You’d go to work. You’d try. 

And maybe that would be enough—for now.

The water shut off with a hollow clunk, leaving only the faint drip-drip-drip of the showerhead and the quiet hum of the city beyond the window. You stood there for a moment, still, watching steam curl against the glass like ghosts with nowhere else to go.

You wrapped yourself in a towel, not really feeling the softness. Everything felt a little muted lately. The air. The light. Even your own skin.

The floor creaked under your weight as you padded back to the bedroom, steam following you like a shroud. Your clothes were piled neatly at the edge of the bed—scrubs folded from the night before, socks tucked into shoes, everything ready. Like muscle memory. Like obligation.

You dressed in silence. No music. No news. No sound beyond the shuffle of fabric and the occasional hum of traffic from the street below. You caught your reflection in the mirror and looked just long enough to recognize yourself, then turned away.

Hair pulled back. Badge clipped. Phone in your pocket.

The apartment was still dark, even though it was morning. You hadn’t opened the blinds in weeks. The plants by the windowsill were starting to lean, thirsty for a little attention, but you didn’t have it in you.

Coffee wasn’t worth the effort today. You’d grab something on the way.

Your keys were where you always left them, hanging off the chipped hook by the door. One last glance around—not because you’d forgotten anything, but because it felt like you should.

Then the door clicked shut behind you.

Another day. Just like the last.

And the one before that.

The minute you locked the door, your phone rang. It wasn’t unusual, but you didn’t talk to a lot of people nowadays.

Keys still in your hand, you pulled your phone from your pocket, thumb already halfway to the green button when you saw the name.

 Robby.

A sigh slipped out before you could stop it, soft and tired. You stared at it for a second, jaw tightening.

“Morning,” you muttered, voice flat.

“Hey, kid,” came Robby’s too-cheerful voice for this time of morning, clearly laced with guilt and caffeine. “Sorry to do this so last minute, but I need you back on night shift for a few days at minimun.”

You stopped walking.

“You’re kidding me, days?” you asked.

“I wish I was, it might be longer. Martinez’s kid came down with something—he’s out for at least the weekend. I need someone solid, and I can’t send Collins or Langdon…”

You leaned against the brick wall of the stairwell, closing your eyes. “So you thought, ‘Hm, who do I know that has just started getting her life together again? Oh, me! Perfect.’”

“I thought, ‘Who’s my favorite human being that I know won’t let me drown?’” he replied.

You snorted. “Flattery’s cheap, Michael.”

“Not flattery if it’s true.”

A beat passed between you.

“You know how nights are, with me” you said more quietly, tone low. “You know why.”

He exhaled slowly on the other end. “I do.”

“And you’re still calling me?”

“I wouldn’t if I had anyone else I trusted to hold the place down.” Another pause. “I’d owe you. Big.”

You looked down at your keys, still clenched in your fist. The street beyond the stairwell buzzed to life around you. You could already feel the lost sleep crawling back over your shoulders.

“You always owe me big,” you muttered.

“That’s because you keep saving my ass,” he said, like it was simple. “But hey, you’ll be working with Shen and Ellis tonight! Night shift dream team.”

“Dream team my ass,” you said, but there was no heat behind it. “You just miss having someone who keeps them in check when all the crazys come in after 3 a.m.”

“Guilty,” he said. “So you in?”

You hesitated, but you already knew the answer.

“Yeah, I’m in.”

“Atta girl. Get some more sleep. You’re gonna need it.”

You ended the call and just stood there for a second, staring down at the pavement.

It was supposed to be a new chapter. A clean slate. Instead, you were flipping back to the pages you'd barely survived the first time.

You thought as you turned around and headed back upstairs, fuck this…

[damselneedssaving]

BATBOYS BUT THEY SEE F!STREAMER!READER PLAYING SMASH OR PASS WITH THEIR HERO PERSONAS WHILE COSPLAYING AS THEM ON STREAM.

★ TAGS: older!damian wayne, older!duke thomas, did someone ask for some crack?, suggestive content (it's smash or pass, people), dirty talk, surprise surprise those boys remain majorly obsessed with you, mention of the boys getting boners, yeah... this one's not for minors, duke glows when he's flustered and it's so cute

★ A/N: this one was requested! and omg, the hero that slid into my inbox sure has one hell of a creative mind. srsly, this was such a good idea, i had to add it to the main timeline 🤭 just a heads up though, because this is suggestive content, i will not be using the taglist. i don't tag for suggestive content as i have no way of checking if you are acc an appropriate age for it or not. oh and as always, you do not need to have read the other parts of this series to get this one!!

★ F!STREAMER!READER MASTERLIST ★

Jason's mouth is dry, tongue like sandpaper as he stares at the title of your stream displayed clearly on his phone: Cosplaying as Gotham's vigilantes!

It takes no less than five seconds for Tim to come stumbling into the room.

"Did you see the stream name?!"

Jason doesn't answer, doesn't think he can. He's too busy staring at his screen in bewilderment to even begin to formulate words at the moment.

But he doesn't need to honestly, something else responds to Tim instead.

A low whistle.

Dick strides into the room. "Forget the name, did you see the thumbnail?"

As though summoned by just the mention of you (or rather, the thought of someone thirsting over you) Damian pops in not a moment after, lips pulled down into a scowl.

"Use those eyes of yours to prey on her, and I will make sure you lose them."

And then, as if to put the final cherry on top of the Wayne family cake gathered in the living room, Duke enters, all but ignoring his brothers in favour of grabbing the remote and using their amazon stick to navigate the TV to Twitch, immediately clicking onto your stream.

All of their eyes dart to the screen.

"That's right, guys! You read the stream name. Your girl's gonna cosplay everyone's favourite group of Gotham vigilantes!"

There you stand, a smile on your face and your eyes crinkled at the corners, looking just as pretty as the week before, and the week before that, and the week before that—

God, you're so pretty.

"Now, you might be wondering: say [Name], how come you're suddenly cosplaying when your channel is usually about playing video games?"

You disappear off-screen, the sound of shuffling causing the boys' saliva to roll down their throat.

"Well, my friends, to put it simply—your girl is about to head to Gotham for a Meet-N-Greet, and is hoping this stream will catch the eyes of the vigilantes there so I can gift you guys with a very special collaboration stream."

The room was already silent before, but after your words, it somehow seemed to double, the boys all staring at the screen with wide, dilated eyes.

You want to catch their attention. Beautiful, perfect you wants to collab with them. Them.

"Holy shit," Tim whispers, breathless and in that familiar daze only you can put him in.

"Fuck me." Jason runs a hand through his hair.

The stream chimes with a donation.

@/therealdamianwayne donated $15,000! They would be lucky to even be in your presence, Beloved.

You giggle, the lower half of your face hiding behind your hands as you bashfully look away from the camera. "Thanks, Damian."

The demon head's lips only quirk up even further at his brother's scalding glares.

The static sound of you clearing your throat reverts their attention back to you though.

"Anyway, does anyone have a suggestion on who I should start with?"

@/dukethomas donated $1,000! what about the signal?

The bats turn to send their daggered eyes to Duke, but he doesn't even spare them a glance, his own eyes too wide with hope as he stares at the screen of the TV.

"Oh! So glad you suggested him actually—"

Woah, woah, woah, what? You're glad he suggested himself? Holy shit, Duke thinks his heart just tried to lunge out of his chest.

In fact, he's so focused on the pink feeling that just engulfed him, that he misses the rest of what you say, and in a blink, is faced with your empty room as you disappear somewhere to change into the outfit.

And when you come back on screen? All dressed up in his metal-plated armour? With his name practically written all over you?

Well... Duke doesn't think he's ever seen such a beautiful sight in his life.

"Thomas, quit blinding me."

Duke blinks, glancing around to see his brothers squinting in his direction, faces scrunched up and mouths pulled into scowls as they regard the light with disdain like the bats that they are.

"Sorry guys." He chuckles awkwardly.

But before he can dim the glow surrounding him, your voice catches his ears.

"'Smash or pass The Signal?' Oh, hard smash."

The way he brightens next is half intentional, and half not. Half intentional because he can feel the way his pants strain against his crotch. And half not because, holy fucking shit, you said you'd smash him.

Before Damian can hiss again at his light, Duke already rushes straight out of the room.

The Wayne heir's lips pull down. "Disgusting."

@/greatestdetective donated $1,000! can you do red robin next?

In an instant, the remaining brothers turn to send the resident sleep-deprived detective very pointed glares, green radiating off them in waves as he shamelessly stares at the screen with dilated pupils.

"Sure thing!"

"You are utterly perverse." Damian points at Tim, brows furrowed and tone screaming judgement.

Tim only scoffs in response. "Oh please, like you aren't waiting just as much to see if she'd smash you."

He catches a batarang right before it hits his face.

"What the fuck?!"

Damian's teeth grind over each other. "Do not accuse me of such shallow thoughts towards my beloved."

"You almost killed me, dude!"

"And I would do it again."

"So? How do I look?"

Instantly, Tim's anger flushes straight out of his system, gaze darting to the screen as he mindlessly catches yet another batarang aiming straight between his eyes.

"Oh fuck..."

You're stood there, hands resting on your hips as you adorn his suit like it belongs on you, like he belongs on you.

His fingers move before his mind can.

@/greatestdetective donated $5,000! smash or pass?

"Geez, again?" You sweatdrop, reaching your hand behind his cowl much like he does when he's nervous. You two share nervous habits, holy shit. "Y'all will think I'm a slut for this but, I don't care. Smash."

With that, you've reduced Tim to a curled up ball, blush heavy on his face, pupils dilated to the sun and back, and mouth muttering obsessively about his love for you.

"Alright, since we're doing the boys, I might as well go through all of them before getting to the girls, hm?" You smile at the camera before sending it a little wink. "Anyone else wanna suggest who I should change into next?"

@/jaybird donated $10! red hood

Dick curses, his phone just short of in his hands as he sends a glare to a very smug-looking Jason stood with his arms crossed and his gaze trained onto the TV.

"Oh? The bad boy?" You giggle from the other side of the screen, hand cupping your mouth much like it did when Damian sent in a donation earlier, that same way the boys recognise as your signature move when you're flustered. "Sure thing!"

Needless to say, the two remaining brothers that have yet to be brought up on your stream are very much boiling beneath the skin.

Something which, is only furthered by the next thing you say.

"I don't quite have his build—which, by the way, is insane. I mean, have you guys seen the muscles on that man? Hot damn. I'd love for him to throw me around."

"Beloved...?" Damian mutters, voice wavering and pupils shaking.

Dick follows after by falling to his knees all dramatic-like, and if Tim hadn't been in a trance, and Duke was in the room rather than who-knows-where to take care of that little problem of his, those two would probably also react with just as much as despair at your words.

Jason, however, lets his jaw drop so low, flies could probably enter his mouth and choke him to death—assuming he hasn't already died from your audacious words, that is.

He's seen people thirst over him online before, of course. But for that to be you? For you to find him—scar-filled, ugly-hearted him—attractive?

Someone better pinch him 'cause he must be dreaming.

"Here I come!"

You stroll in, hands in the pockets of his jacket—his jacket—and face completely out of view, completely engulfed by his mask.

Oh yeah, he's definitely dreaming.

He blinks, watching with a dry mouth as you strike a pose.

"Well? Badass, huh?"

Badass, but, missing something.

It's okay to be a little selfish and ask for more, right?

@/jaybird donated $15! you're missing the guns sweetheart

"Oh! Right you are, Jaybird." You perk up, and the tone of your voice is enough for Jason to tell you're flashing him a smile beneath his mask. "Hope I don't get banned for this."

You disappear off-screen and reappear not a moment later dual-wielding pistols. Dual-wielding. pistols.

Holy shit, that's hot.

So hot, in fact, that Jason can feel the room getting warmer, warm enough to shrink his pants actually.

...

Oh shit.

"Barbarians," Damian starts, his tone screaming all the disgust written over his face, "I live in a house surrounded by barbarians."

Jason narrows his eyes right back at the man, but his eye-contact is swiftly broken the second he hears a—"Smash,"—coming from the TV, and his pants tighten even further.

Damian scowls in disgust.

"Right. I think only Robin's left of all the boys? Not including Batman of course."

Dick's scream breaks the other two brother's out of their staring contest.

@/sweetestassingotham donated $5,000! what about nightwing babe???

You frown at the camera, Jason's helmet now off and placed to the side, tilting your head all cutely. "Isn't Nightwing a Blüdhaven vigilante?"

@/sweetestassingotham donated $5,000! hes sometimes in gotham too :((((

You place a hand beneath your chin, gaze far-off, thinking, before you lift a finger and flash the screen a smile. "Right you are! I think I have a cosplay of him lying around here somewhere? Might be a bit small though, I remember wearing it to a costume party a few years back."

And just like that, Dick's earlier scream of dismay turns into one of delight.

"I gotta say though, sweetest ass in Gotham"—you giggle off-screen—"if we're counting Nightwing as a resident of Gotham, you've got some competition. Have you seen the cake on that guy? Ugh. Another huge smash."

Dick collapses to his knees, thanking everything that he was blessed with such a sweet ass and chose to flaunt it so that you would be able to see and notice that he is very smash-able and that you should indeed, 100% hook up with him when you come to Gotham.

Jason seems to beg to differ however, lips shifting into a scowl before a bang resounds through the room, and Dick is up on his feet in an instant.

"You just shot at me!" He points straight at the younger man, who all but shrugs in response.

"No I didn't. You were just in the way of my bullet."

Dick gawks.

Your voice sounds from the screen.

"Okay, uh, it fits, but it's a little tight, so don't make fun of me, okay guys?"

Dick's, Jason's, and Damian's eyes all instantly shoot to the screen.

You enter, hands running down the skin-tight suit on your body with your lips pulled into an unsure smile.

And as if that sight wasn't enough to bless the boys, you proceed to turn around, head tilting over your shoulder as you use the lens of the camera to check yourself out in Dick's clothes.

To check your ass out in Dick's clothes.

The sound of a camera shutter echoes through the room.

Then another. And another. And another—

Both Jason and Damian turn to see Dick with his eyes trained onto you, entirely in a trance as he repeatedly presses his thumb against the screen of his phone, each time causing the device to echo the sound of a camera shutter.

It takes only a second for Damian to lunge.

"You perverted piece of—"

Dick books it straight out of the room, and Damian goes to follow, ready to use every single technique his grandfather taught him to rain hell on his father's ward for daring to look at you in such a way, when, just like how it always does with all his other brothers, the sound of your voice brings him to an abrupt halt.

"Alright, now it's just Robin left, right?"

His eyes slowly drag themselves to the screen.

"Alright, little confession time, I've always kind of imagined how romantic it would be to have Robin swing into my room just before bed to wish me a good night," you say, and in it's in a voice that's bashful, nervous, maybe even a little embarrassed.

Oh, Beloved, you have nothing to be embarrassed of.

God, if Damian only knew of this before, he would've taken the trip all the way to your city just to swing into your window and wish you good night a long time ago.

"I don't know, I guess he's just got this charm to him."

Be still, his heart.

But how could it?

"Alright, here goes nothing. Final boy vigilante of Gotham."

Damian watches, breathless, as you step into the light like a moonbeam peeking through clouds.

You stand there, hands wound around his hood as you pull it over your head, your smile as radiant as ever and his clothes fitting you so perfectly, they might as well be yours over his.

And as you send another wink at the camera with another, simple but effective—"Smash,"—Damian's brain turns to static.

You have now simply and effectively reduced all the batboys into putty with just one stream.

And you don't even know it.

COMING NEXT -> BATBOYS BUT THEY ATTEND F!STREAMER!READER'S MEET-N-GREET.

[bunnis-monsters]

NSFW

warning: cockwarming, oviposition, breeding, mommy kink

Mother’s Day at the bee hybrid hive was… eventful.

The night before your special day, the hive was abuzz with activity. You had been in the hive for an entire year now and had already given birth to two clutches of eggs.

This meant you were a mother, and they had to celebrate all you had done for the hive and its future!

As you laid down with one of your attendants cocks inside of you as the others huddled up in your bed, the rest of your hive prepared for the upcoming day.

You awoke on your own. That was unusual, most days your attendants woke you up with their tongues playing with your cunt.

When you glanced out the window, you realized it was much later than you thought. The sun was in the sky, meaning you overslept!

Where was everyone, and why hadn’t they woken you up as per usual?

Before you could hurry out of bed, the door opened to the cutest sight you had ever seen. Your first clutch of baby bees toddled in, wearing little aprons as they walked carefully towards you.

In their fluffy hands were trays of food and your breakfast tea. They seemed absolutely determined to bring you breakfast in bed!

“Mama, happy mama day!”

Your eyes lit up with adoration as they held out the tray to you. The baby bees climbed into bed, burying their fluffy faces into your body and letting out little purrs and buzzes as you ate.

You spent most of the morning in bed, resting with your sweet babies. They took turns reading you out of their story books and patting you, trying to imitate the way you took care of them.

“Mama, comfy?” one asked, crawling up onto you and letting you bury your face into his fluffy chest. You blew raspberries there, making him giggle and squeal as he kicked his little legs.

“Very comfy, thank you. I’ve raised such sweet boys…”

You napped for a bit, and when you woke up your babies were gone. Before you could panic, you were soothed by the bee hybrids crawling into bed with you.

“Don’t worry, my queen. They’re all safe in the nursery,” one said, nibbling at your neck.

“It’s Mother’s Day, so we’re going to make you a mama all over again!”

The bee hybrids only barely understood the meaning of Mother’s Day. They knew it was a time to appreciate and spoil mothers, but also thought you needed to be bred and fucked.

You had no qualms with that.

Your legs were pried open gently, two bee hybrids taking turns devouring your sweet pussy. Another kissed you, his long tongue swirling around yours as his antennae tickled you.

“Mama…” they muttered, pussy drunk. Of course, on Mother’s Day your bee hybrid lovers would be horny and kinky.

A pair of lips latched onto your nipple while one of them began to fuck into you. Soft moans and whimpers filled the air along the smell of sex.

“M-mama, lemme fill you with eggs…”

You bit your lip, feeling your womb stretch and struggle to fit eggs from each bee hybrid. They were in a frenzy, humping you desperately to make sure they got to impregnate you as well.

In the evening, you relaxed on the couch, a hand over your swollen belly. Now, you had some alone time, and planned on catching up on that show you wanted to watch.

Mother’s Day may have been eventful, but it was clear they all loved you in their own ways. Even though they all yearned to always have your attention on them, the bee hybrids gave you the night to yourself.

Tomorrow you’d be the queen of the hive, but tonight you were a tired mother that needed some beauty rest.

———————

Note: baby bee sticker sheets available in my kofi shop, check my pinned post ^^

I have more bee hybrid fics on my Patreon and Kofi, including smut and fluff!

NSFW TAGLIST: @avalordream @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @hammerhead96-blog @slightlyusedfloormat @bubblez-blop @sunshineangel-reads @heroneki-neko @soapybabyboop @anonymouskiwi @flamefoxx @sandramalikstyles-blog @breathingstarlight

[edwardslvrr]

any chance for a one shot of lando 👀 im like in between the idea of the f1 premiere in new york, like maybe a hard launch there or something idk! anyways love your work so much!

HELLO BABY ☆ lando norris

✦　　　.　　reader and lando have been secretly dating for over a year now, until she gets asked to host the red carpet for the F1 premiere in NY and lando decides to accidently launch their relationship.

AUTHOR TALKING -> love this idea!! thanks for the request anon, hope you enjoy 🤍

𓂃⋆.˚ yourname’s new story

An hour into interviews and greeting everyone who arrived at the premiere, Yn finally saw Lando walking towards her, with a big smile he walked up on the small stage. “Hey baby.” He whispers, making sure no one around them heard, as the microphones weren’t on yet.

She gives him a shy smile back, trying to hide her blushing as Laura Winter, who obviously knew about them, made small talk with Lando.

As they got the cue to start the interview, Laura started speaking “The next driver up on stage, it is Lando Norris.” She announced, as the crowd cheered.

Laura looked over at Yn, as her cue to continue. “So Lando-“ she started as he directly looked into her eyes with a knowing look.

“Hello.” He smiles.

“What was your first reaction when you saw the sport that you know and love turn into massive Hollywood blockbuster?” She asks him, trying to avoid looking at him knowing she’d lose her ability to think straight.

As he answered her question, she couldn’t help herself and admire her boyfriend she hasn’t seen in 2 weeks while just smiling at him. The interview continued, while Lando jokingly flirted with Yn, all she could think about was them alone again.

As they ran out of questions and it was time to say goodbye to Lando and welcome to next driver, he dropped a bom.

“Bye baby.” Lando says, quickly realising what he did and walking out of frame as quick as he could.

𓂃⋆.˚ yourname’s new post

liked by lando, alexandrasaintmleux and 184.773 others

yourname since he’s a big yapper, but he’s also very nice

𖤘 lando

view all comments

username my parents

username ‘bye baby’

lando love you baby

⤿ yourname love you

username craziest launch

maxfewtrell took you long enough

⤿ yourname only took him a year to run his mouth

⤿ maxfewtrell didn’t think he’d last that long

username yoo this is the most unexpected couple

username this was not on my 2025 bingo card

𓂃⋆.˚ lando’s new post

liked by yourname, maxfewtrell and 1.738.782 others

lando hello baby

𖤘 yourname

view all comments

yourname my mann

⤿ lando my girll

username yes i love this

username BOAF

username the new IT couple

mclaren our favourite interviewer!!

⤿ yourname adminnn ily!!

username lnyn fanclub

TAGLIST -> @louvrepool @buendiabebeta @lightdragonrayne @namgification @sammyam @poppyflower-22 @c-losur3 @haikyuen @evie-119 @raevyng @urfavsgf @nikfigueiredo @raynetargaryan2

TAGLIST -> comment on this post to be added to my formula one taglist

MAIN MASTERLIST -> click here to see more

[hatethysinner]

ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇᴀʀʏ ʙʟᴜᴇꜱ

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ!ꜰᴇᴍ!ʙᴏᴏᴋꜱᴇʟʟᴇʀ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: The bell over your bookshop door rings at midnight, and a stranger steps through. Tired eyes, old voice, and a hunger he tries to hide. He says little, but lingers like he's waiting for permission to need you. You should send him away, but something in you wants to see what he'll do if you don't.

ᴡᴄ: 12.8k

ᴀ/ᴄ: firstly, thank you so much to everyone who enjoyed and interacted with let the wrong one in! i am so proud and so disappointed to be posting this because it's so shameless. if the fbi showed up to my door i'd let them take me to whatever white padded room they had waiting. i was up past midnight multiple times writing this out and it shows. just a completely unhinged self-indulgent mess. do not read without a rose toy (/j). as always, white girls i promise you can have your fun with this too! i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post c:

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: SLOWburn, remmick is truly a fucking loser (pathetic!remmick supremacy), remmick will not leave the reader alone, reader is a know-it-all manipulative ass thought daughter, she's lowkey evil actually, don't read unless you support womens rights and wrongs, mutual yearning and obsession, vampirism, dacryphillia, overstimulation, blink-and-you'll-miss-it exhibitionism, sub!remmick, dom!reader, cunnilingus, p in v, ride 'em cowgirl, spit kink, praise kink, matching each other's freak, offscreen but confirmed stalking, excessive divider usage, probable excessive usage of "ain't" because i got worried about my accent skills, amateur knowledge of 1930s literature and bookstores, religious undertones if you squint, i think y'all know what to expect i'm not writing out everything

fanart!

You were one of the lucky ones.

That’s what folks said when they stepped through the little wood-framed door, brushing snow from their shoulders or sweat from their brows, depending on the season. They always paused in the entryway. Like the air was thicker inside. Warmer, gentler, laced with something that asked them to hush their voices and unshoulder their weariness. Most folks did. They’d glance around slow, wide-eyed and awestruck, like they’d just wandered into a place stitched together by warmth and paper. Because they had.

Your daddy built it like that.

He opened the shop before you were tall enough to reach the counter, when your shoes still lit up when you walked and your teeth were missing in the front. A modest space, more narrow than wide, with walls that sometimes whispered when the wind pressed in. It was tucked between a shoe repair, where the scent of leather and oil clung to the brick, and a bakery that changed hands too often to name. But the bookstore never changed. It stayed.

He fought for it with every drop of charm he had and a stubborn streak the size of a mule. The bank didn’t make it easy. Nor the city. Nor the neighbors. But he didn’t flinch. Just smiled, signed the lease, and started sanding old shelves he bought for cheap from a shut-down place across town.

It wasn’t grand, but it had room to breathe.

The shelves didn’t match. The floors creaked. The ceiling had water stains shaped like cloud spirits. But the space had rhythm. Light pooled in through the front windows in the early afternoon, catching the golden flecks in the pine wood counter he carved by hand. You watched him do it over the course of a summer. His shirt clinging to his back with sweat, sawdust settling in his hair like snow. That counter had curves in it, places smoothed by a thousand passing fingers, elbows leaned, coins slid, mugs thunked down in thought. It remembered everyone who ever stood there.

The aisles were just wide enough for two people to pass without brushing shoulders, if one of them turned slightly. In winter, the windows fogged from the warmth of breath and the hiss of the radiator under the front table. In summer, he cracked the front door and the back one just right so the breeze cut clean through, carrying with it the scent of magnolia and newsprint. When the light hit right, the dust in the air sparkled, like it was carrying secrets you could almost read if you squinted hard enough.

He dreamed of it since he was a boy, back when books came secondhand and beat-up, passed along like contraband. Borrowed if you were lucky. Bought if you were white. His eyes always got faraway when he talked about those days, like he was watching some other version of himself hiding from the world with a paperback gripped tight like a life vest.

“There’s magic,” he always said, tapping your chest lightly with one thick finger, “in knowin’ a story nobody else does.”

So he painted the sign himself and hung it crooked on purpose, because he said perfection made folks nervous. He sold trinkets and newspapers and penny candy at first, just to keep the lights on. He let local kids read in the back for hours so long as they didn’t dog-ear the pages. And when folks started to drift in off the street, curious, then charmed, he opened the door wider.

People noticed.

Not all approved.

But he smiled at the right times, kept his voice low when he had to, and stayed on his side of town like they told him to.

But inside those walls?

He was king.

You took it over after he passed.

Not because you wanted to. You hadn’t planned for that. You thought you’d leave, travel, study something big with a title hard to pronounce. But when he died, sudden, quiet, the way only the kindest men seem to go, it was like the shop exhaled. And no one was there to breathe it back in.

So you stayed.

Not because you had his gift for conversation. You didn’t. Your voice didn’t carry like his. You didn’t know how to make strangers feel like they’d known you all their lives. But you had his steadiness. His eyes. His love of ink.

And the shop had raised you.

You’d spent your childhood curled between the shelves with your knees pulled tight to your chest, the pages of books flaring open like wings in your lap. You used to fall asleep in the window nook under stacks of fairy tales, the glow of the streetlamp outside pooling on your shoulders. You learned to read by tracing the letters with your fingertip, mouthing the words like spells.

You grew up there. Quiet, clever, a little too serious for your age, and always full of questions. The kind of questions books were made for. You learned the world in chapters, one page at a time, growing taller alongside the stacks.

Even now, the shop holds you like a memory refusing to fade.

The floorboards creak the same way when you step heavy by the register. The bell above the door still dings off-key. There’s a worn spot in the paint where the heels of his boots used to rest, and you never painted over it. The walls know your heartbeat. The ceiling hums with it.

The place smells of paper, cedar, and something floral you still can’t place. Not perfume. Not fresh. More like dried petals tucked in a forgotten book. There are candles flickering low behind the counter, their flames soft and steady, casting halos of gold on the spines of the hardbacks lining the shelves.

Outside, the windows are tinted now. Reflective. You can see yourself in the glass, wrapped in lamplight like a ghost caught in the pane.

It’s not strange for you to be up this late.

You have a habit of rereading old favorites until the pages feel like skin. You like the quiet. The familiar shuffle of turning pages. The low creak of the chair under your legs. The steady tick of the clock in the corner, marking time nobody’s watching.

The radio went quiet an hour ago, the static fading to silence when the last gospel track drifted away. Now there’s only the sound of night outside. The rustle of trees, the distant hum of a train slicing through the dark, far beyond the city line.

But tonight, something feels off.

You don’t know why. Not yet.

But your candle’s flame flutters suddenly, like it’s caught a breath. Not a wind. A breath.

You look toward the door.

There’s no bell. No sound.

But the air feels... thick. Like it’s waiting.

You don’t move right away. You sit there with your thumb hovering over the page, caught between the lines of a sentence and the prickle on the back of your neck.

You don’t want to turn it.

Not yet.

Then the door creaked.

A sound so small it barely pulled your eyes from the page. Your heart didn’t jump. Not right away. It didn’t need to.

The bell rang just after. Clear, bright, and true. Same one you fixed the summer it snapped off in a storm so thick the trees bowed like they were praying.

So that bell was yours. It knew what time it was. It didn’t ring wrong.

That’s what made the sound feel off now. Just a shade too sharp, too clean, like a voice cutting into a dream you didn’t know you were having.

The sign still said “Come In.” Your fault. You’d meant to flip it hours ago but got lost in the pages, lulled by the rhythm of ink and stillness. Still, no one ever actually came this late. Not really. Not unless they were meant to be here.

You closed the book. Not slammed. Just firm. A quiet full stop.

And there he stood.

Tall. Pale.

A white man.

Out of place in every way that mattered.

He filled the doorway like he didn’t know whether he wanted to be let in or turned away. Light from the streetlamps slanted behind him, casting his face in half-shadow, like the world couldn’t decide how much of him to reveal.

You didn’t move.

Your fingers curled around the spine of the book, thumb against the front cover, the weight of it grounding. The silence stretched between you.

He just stood there, breathing slow like he didn’t want to startle anything. His eyes swept the room, not lazily, but searching. Hungry. And when they landed on you, they stayed.

His voice came quiet. Almost careful. “Evenin’.”

You stared.

“We’re closed.”

Your tone was even. Flat. Not rude. Not kind, either.

Still, he didn’t leave.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t move at all, not really. Just shifted the weight of his stare, like he was trying to remember a script. Like he’d played this scene in his head a dozen ways and still didn’t know which one this was. His smile was a flicker. Half-done. It twitched and died on his lips before it could mean anything. But under it, something desperate. Thin and frayed, like he was holding on to a thread he couldn’t name.

“Apologies,” he said with a shaky drawl, dipping his head toward the window, where the sign still swung faintly in the breeze. The porchlight caught the paint in the glass. “Saw the sign.”

You didn’t believe that for a second.

Nobody came here by accident. Not after midnight. Not across town lines like these. Everyone knew where they were supposed to be. Supposed to go.

He was tall, yes, but not in a way that meant anything. His frame was lean, his movements all hesitation and nerves. His coat didn’t fit right, like it had belonged to someone stronger once, someone he was still pretending to be.

You stood slowly.

The book stayed on the chair. Your skirt brushed the floor as you crossed barefoot to the counter, each step deliberate. No rush. No fear. Just weight.

You weren’t afraid of the man. You were afraid of what kind of story this was turning into.

He watched the whole way, his eyes flicking between your face and your hands, trying to read the space between your breaths. Like he expected you to call for someone. To yell. To throw something. To raise your voice.

You didn’t.

You let the silence answer.

“What can I do for you.”

No question mark. A line drawn in the sand.

He flinched, barely, but you saw it. Like a thread pulled too tight.

“I wasn’t tryin’ to cause any trouble,” he said, voice thinning out at the edges. “Just… seemed like a place a man might find a bit of quiet.”

You raised a brow, not moved.

“You always find quiet in closed shops?”

He scratched the back of his neck. A nervous tic, maybe. Or maybe it was just something to do with his hands, which kept twitching like they missed holding something heavier than a coat hem.

“Only the ones still lit up inside.”

He tried for a smile again. It trembled. Didn’t hold.

“Then I’d suggest you pass through quick,” you said. “I need to lock up.”

“Right,” he said, nodding too fast. “Of course. Sorry. I just-”

But he didn’t leave.

He stepped forward, just an inch, like something was pulling him. Then stopped himself and stalled in place, weight shifting foot to foot like the floor might open up if he stood still too long.

“I… don’t suppose you’ve got anything by Hughes?” he asked suddenly. Then, without pause, “Or Hurston?” His voice cracked a little on Hurston, like the name had caught on something inside his throat.

You blinked.

That was new.

You didn’t say anything right away. Just studied him.

A white man. Midnight. The wrong side of town. Asking for Langston Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston.

It didn’t make sense.

It didn’t fit.

Men like him didn’t read voices like theirs. Not unless they had something to prove. Or something to steal.

He met your stare but his hands betrayed him, fidgeting at his sides again, tugging at the seams of his coat like he could pull himself together if he just gripped hard enough.

“You from around here?”

He laughed. Short, sharp, like he didn’t mean it. “Not anymore.”

Then quieter, “Ain’t got much left to be from.”

That silence stretched again. Wider this time. You didn’t try to fill it. You let it grow heavy.

He looked down at the floor like it might offer him a script.

You should’ve told him again to leave. Should’ve flicked the light off and locked the door and gone back to your chair and the soft, safe pages waiting there.

But you didn’t.

You said, “Hughes is second shelf, left of the register. Zora’s in the back, top shelf”

You paused. Watched him.

“And they ain’t alphabetical. You’ll have to look.”

He blinked.

Lit up like you’d handed him something holy.

“Right. Thank you. I- thank you.”

He stepped into the shop like the floor might vanish beneath him. Light. Careful. Fingertips trailing along the spines of the books nearest him, like the wood might spark or whisper if he touched it wrong.

And you watched him the whole way.

You didn’t trust him. Not even a little.

But something about the way he stood there, asking for voices not his, trying not to tremble. Something about his need made you pause.

It intrigued you.

You tried not to listen.

Tried to stay still behind the counter, eyes fixed on the book you’d set aside, though your finger hadn’t moved past the corner of the page. You heard the soft drag of his coat brushing the shelves, the sound of someone trying to move quietly without knowing how. The occasional squeak of a shoe sole. The low shuffle of indecision.

Then his voice floated back.

“Sorry to bother, miss. You said left of the register?”

You closed your eyes.

He’d been in the aisle all of sixty seconds.

“Second shelf,” you called, sharper than you meant it. “You’ll know it when you see it.”

A pause.

“It’s just, uh… the labels are all faded.”

You exhaled through your nose. Not quite a sigh. Not quite not one.

You pushed off the counter and stepped out from behind it, your skirt catching the air as you moved. He was standing a little too close to the shelf, squinting at the bindings like the titles might blink first. His coat hung open now, revealing a loose button-down tucked half-heartedly into worn slacks, belt twisted like he’d dressed in a hurry. His hair was still damp at the edges from the relentless humidity outside. It made you wonder why he was wearing something so warm in the first place.

He looked up when he heard you.

Not just looked. Jumped.

Shoulders startled up an inch, like you’d crept up behind him with a switchblade instead of bare feet and a mild expression. His eyes flicked to your hands again. You noticed that. Clocked it.

“Ain't mean to pull ya from your reading,” he said quickly. “Just didn’t wanna grab the wrong thing.”

You said nothing.

You crouched low instead, running your fingers along the lower shelf until they stopped on the slim spine of The Weary Blues. You tugged it free, checked the inside cover, and stood.

Then you crossed past him, just enough to brush by the nervous way he lingered too close to the wood. At the back shelf, your hand found the worn copy of Their Eyes Were Watching God with the creased corners and sun-faded cover. You held both out to him.

He hesitated.

Not out of disrespect. Out of something else. Like touching them would make it real.

When his hand reached for them, it touched yours first.

Only for a second. Less than. But it landed like heat.

You watched his fingers twitch at the contact. Watched him pull back slightly, then steady himself like a man who’d stepped into unexpected water. His skin was cold, lonely. Like someone who hadn’t had cause to brush against kindness in a while.

You gave him the books anyway.

He took them with both hands, careful not to touch you again. His eyes met yours briefly. Then dropped.

That should’ve been it.

But something in the way he flinched, not in fear, but in startled awareness, left a strange twist in your stomach. Not danger. Not quite.

You narrowed your eyes at him. Watched how he shifted. How he clutched the books like they were lifelines. How still he got under your gaze.

And maybe you should’ve gone back to the counter. Maybe you should’ve left it there.

But you didn’t.

You leaned just slightly closer, voice low. Baiting.

“You always get jumpy when someone tries to help you?”

He looked up again, tongue wetting his bottom lip like he was about to speak, then thought better of it. Instead, he nodded, too fast, like agreeing might save him from saying the wrong thing.

And that, that, made you want to keep going.

Just to see what else he’d do.

You led him back to the front in silence.

He didn’t try to fill it this time. Just followed, books clutched against his chest like they might steady his breath. You could feel his gaze brush the curve of your shoulder, your hands, the soft glow of the lamps pooling on the floorboards.

You stepped behind the counter, but didn't fill the space.

You stayed close. Leaning forward in a way that was probably too obvious.

The register clicked open with a metallic sigh. Your fingers moved slow over the worn buttons, each press deliberate. He laid the books down gently, almost mechanically, their spines aligning like he'd meant to do it. Like he’d practiced.

The light caught his face now, full on.

He looked younger in the shadows. But here, beneath the gold of your lamp, he was something else entirely.

His face was long and wide, covered in stubble that somehow looked neat and unkempt at the same time. Hollowed cheeks. A narrow nose that sloped like it had been broken once and never quite healed right. His mouth was set in a line that kept trying not to tremble. But his eyes...

They were wrong.

Not in a way you could name, not in any way you’d heard told, but wrong just the same. Too dark, too deep. And old. Old. You didn’t know how you knew it, but it pulled at the back of your neck. Some instinct deeper than language whispering that those weren’t eyes meant for a man that looked barely thirty.

Then there were his teeth.

You saw them when he smiled, faint and soft, like he didn’t mean for it to happen. A little too sharp. Animalistic, almost. Pointed just enough to make you question how close you wanted to stand.

And still, you didn’t move away.

“That’ll be four even,” you said, and held out your hand.

He blinked. Fumbled in his pockets. Fingers pulling out a crumpled bill like he hadn’t checked how much he had. When he offered it, your hand met his again, and this time you didn’t let go too quick.

Your touch lingered.

Not an accident.

Your fingers brushed his palm, smooth and dry and colder than before. You watched his throat shift like he’d swallowed something wrong. The money crinkled between you, forgotten.

You dropped it in the drawer without looking down.

Counted back the change slow. One coin at a time. Let your fingertips ghost over his as you pressed each one into his hand, watched how he tried not to flinch, not to twitch, not to breathe too fast.

There was something in his mouth now. A hitch. A tension.

You tilted your head.

His accent. It hadn’t struck you before. Too quiet. But now, with him this close, you could hear the undercurrents. Southern, yes. That lazy hush to his vowels, that slant that curled around the ends of his words like smoke. But buried beneath it was something else.

Not from here.

A roll that didn’t come from any county near yours. A roundness to the vowels that didn’t quite match the cadence of Mississippi. It had weight to it. History. Like old hills and cold winters. European, maybe. English, Scottish, Irish? Or something older still.

But the twang was real, too. Earnest. Like he’d worn it long enough to convince even himself.

You watched him shift under your gaze, trying to shrink inside that too-big coat.

“What’s your name?” you asked.

Simple.

But your voice dropped half a note, low and steady like it was loaded.

His eyes flicked up again. Held yours.

“Remmick, miss.”

Just that. No last name. With an unusual politeness in tow.

You didn’t smile. Nor did you give your name. You wanted him to work for that.

“Right,” you said. “Remmick.”

He shifted the books under one arm, his free hand ghosting over the edge of the counter like he wanted to say more, ask more, be more, but didn’t dare.

“Well… good evenin' to ya,” he said softly. The words caught at the edges, like they didn’t quite belong in his mouth.

You didn’t answer at first. Just watched him take a step back, then another, boots creaking against the old wood floor.

Then, finally, you raised your hand.

Not a wave, exactly. Just a slow lift of your fingers in something halfway between farewell and warning.

He seemed to understand.

The bell over the door chimed once as he slipped through, swallowed by the dark.

You didn’t move.

Not until the sound of his footsteps vanished completely.

The next night came heavy with quiet. Midnight again. And you were sitting in the same chair, same blanket folded over your knees, same book splayed in your lap. Different pages, but you hadn’t turned one in ten minutes.

The lamp cast its familiar pool of amber over the counter, the window, the shelves. Everything was still. Too still.

You hadn’t flipped the sign.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was habit, that your mind had simply been elsewhere. The story had you hooked, maybe. Maybe you were chasing some lost line between chapters, maybe that’s why you kept glancing at the door without realizing it.

The “Come In” flickered faintly in the glass, reversed in the dark like a whisper only the street could read.

You licked your thumb, turned the page. Tried to focus on the words. You didn’t remember them, even though you read them yesterday. Or maybe it was last week. Or maybe it didn’t matter at all.

It wasn’t like you were waiting.

You just hadn’t gone to bed yet.

You shifted. Crossed your legs under the blanket. Then uncrossed them. Stared at the “Come In” again. Just a sign. Just a little slanted piece of painted wood that always tilted left because the hinge was loose and you never bothered to fix it.

The wind slipped through a crack in the front window. Barely there, just enough to nudge the edge of the lace curtain and carry in a scent from the dark. Not smoke, not rain, something earthbound. Loamy. Cold.

You turned another page. Didn’t read a word.

Your candle’s flame danced sharp again, almost gleeful. You rubbed your thumb over your palm without thinking, the way you did when something was close. Some old habit from childhood, back when your parents told you to trust your instincts, even when they made no sense.

The bell rang.

Not loud. Not rushed. Just a single chime, clear as a knock to the chest.

He stepped through like he’d been summoned.

No coat this time. His shirt was pressed, collar sharp. Sleeves rolled just past the wrists in that careful way that said he’d redone them three, maybe four times. His hair was a little less wild, tamed with pomade and willpower. His boots were clean. Like he’d stood outside brushing dust from them just to make a better second impression.

And yet, nothing about him looked natural. Not the tidiness. Not the polish. He wore it like a child wore Sunday shoes. Tight across the toes, heavy on the ankles, stiff enough to slow him down.

His eyes, still dark, still glinting, scanned the room like he already knew you’d be there. They landed on you. Lingered. Not just in greeting, not just in recognition, but in reverence. Like he was taking inventory of you. The slope of your nose, the fullness of your lips, the tight, coiled crown of your hair haloed in the light. Like he was memorizing every feature he'd never had the right to admire this openly before.

And when they did, he smiled. A small, practiced thing. One that almost reached his eyes.

Like he was proud of himself for coming back.

And like some shameful, stubborn part of you was glad he had.

“Evenin’.”

Same greeting, but not quite the same voice. Still quiet, still that drawl sugar-coated in something older, something foreign, but this time with the faintest edge of self-assurance. Like he’d practiced it on the way over. Maybe even out loud. Like he hoped it’d sound natural if he said it just right.

You didn’t answer.

Not with words.

You rose instead, slow and smooth, letting the silence stretch as you crossed the shop in bare feet. Your skirt brushed the floor again, soft as a whisper, trailing you like smoke.

He stood straighter when you neared. Or tried to. You watched the twitch in his shoulder when your fingers reached toward him, the way his breath caught behind his ribs. The little gold chain around his neck winked against his shirtfront, barely there, nearly hidden beneath the buttons.

You reached for it without asking.

“It’s crooked,” you murmured.

It wasn’t.

Your thumb grazed the thin line of metal, adjusting it ever so slightly, letting your knuckles drift down the hollow of his chest. Just enough to feel the warmth beneath the cloth. Just enough to make sure he noticed.

He noticed.

Froze like someone struck dumb. Not like he didn’t want the touch. No, not that. Definitely not that. But like he didn’t know what to do with it. His lips parted on a soundless breath, his eyes locked somewhere over your shoulder like he was staring down a spectre only he could see.

The pulse under your fingers thudded once. Hard. Then again, faster.

You watched it.

You leaned in, just slightly, letting your hand linger longer than it needed to. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. But you could feel the tension ripple through him. Tight. Brittle. Wired.

When you finally let go, he exhaled like he’d been holding air since last night.

“There,” you said softly. “Better.”

He didn’t answer right away. His throat moved as he swallowed, mouth opening like he might say something, then closing again when nothing came. His eyes met yours, flicked down to your mouth, then jerked back up with a flicker of something like guilt.

It was a touch.

That’s all it was.

But the way he looked at you now...

It had unmade him.

You let the silence sit for a beat longer, watching how he stood there like he didn’t dare take a full breath without permission. Then you spoke, softly, like an idea you hadn’t quite finished shaping.

“I’ve got a thought,” you said, turning back toward the shelves. “Wait here.”

But you didn’t mean that.

Because you paused, half-turned, eyes sliding back to him, that little hook in your voice coiled just so, and added, “Actually… no. Come with me.”

He obeyed without hesitation.

No question, no protest. Just a nod, and then his steps fell in behind yours like they were always meant to. You didn’t look back to see if he was following. You already knew he was.

You smirked before you even realized you were doing it.

He’s learning.

The rows of shelves narrowed the deeper you went, books stacked tall and mismatched. Some still had penciled notes in the margins. Others bore names and stamps from a dozen different hands. You moved with practiced ease, fingers gliding along the spines, then stopped sharp in front of a little patch of well-loved paperbacks with sun-faded covers and creased corners.

You didn’t say a word. Just stepped aside and gestured.

His brow knit faintly. Then he reached out, tentative at first, letting his fingertips hover above the titles before settling on one with a cracked pink spine and a watercolor couple leaning too close beneath an umbrella.

You raised your brows but didn’t speak.

Interesting.

He held it up like he was asking permission.

You nodded. “Good. Take that. Go sit by the window.”

Again, no hesitation.

He moved, soft steps, book clutched in his hand like it might disappear if he wasn’t careful. He didn’t glance back once as he settled into the reading nook. A curved wooden bench carved into the front window’s alcove, piled with cushions in muted tones, threadbare but clean.

The light from the lamp behind the counter cast the glass in warm gold, bouncing off his hair and skin in a way that made him look more real than he had last night. Less ghost. More man.

You watched him a moment longer, then followed.

Your feet made no sound on the floorboards. You crossed the space and sank onto the bench beside him. Not too close, but not far. Not far at all. The cushions dipped with your weight, the fabric between you folding with tension that hadn’t been there seconds ago.

He sat stiffly, book unopened in his lap, hands folded atop it. Like he didn’t quite know what to do now that he was here. Like he was waiting for something. Or someone.

You.

Your gaze lingered on the side of his face.

The light revealed the fine things. His lashes, full and surprisingly long. The faint lines around his mouth that didn’t come from smiling, but from pressing his lips together too tight for too many years. His skin was fair in a way that didn’t come from the sun but from time, the kind of pallor that hinted at long shadows and colder places. Places you couldn’t name.

His hair had been combed, too. Not just finger-swept like last time, but deliberately styled, though it curled stubborn at the ends like it wanted to fight back. That little gold chain still gleamed at his throat, straighter this time. Not crooked, like you convinced yourself it was.

Still, he hadn’t changed enough to fool you.

Not with those eyes.

Ancient, heavy, and out of place in a face that didn’t look old enough to carry them. They flicked toward you briefly, then darted back to the book in his lap, as if afraid to hold your gaze too long.

“You gonna read it?” you asked, tone soft but edged with amusement.

He blinked like he’d forgotten that was the point.

“Right,” he said quickly. “Yes ma'am.”

You watched him flip it open with care, thumbs brushing the pages like they might bruise. The moment hung quiet, thick with unsaid things and the scent of paper and dusk. His breath was steady but shallow, as if he were still adjusting to the shape of this closeness.

You didn’t move.

You didn’t speak.

You just leaned back into the cushions, eyes on him, letting him pretend he was focused on the words.

When both of you knew damn well he wasn’t.

It was the way he held the book that told you first. Not the usual adulation you got from the diehards who lived and breathed these novels. No, this was different. His hands didn’t cradle it like treasure. They held it like a bomb. Like one wrong shift in pressure might set the whole thing off and scatter the pieces between you.

His thumbs rested too gently on the pages, barely pressing enough to keep them open. Like he was worried his fingerprints might offend the paper. As if the book itself might recognize him as an intruder. He wasn’t turning pages so much as he was coaxing them along, seemingly afraid they’d snap if he asked too much.

He read strangely.

Slow.

Stilted.

Each word passed through his lips like it needed permission. Like it carried weight. His lips parted with the occasional word, mouthed in silence, and then closed again just as quickly, like he hadn’t meant to let them slip. There was something priestly about it. Ritualistic. A prayer offered in secret.

His eyes, those impossibly ancient eyes, scanned line after line not with hunger but with hesitation. A wary sort of awe. Like he hadn’t held a romance novel in centuries. As if the softness written into the pages was a dialect he’d nearly forgotten how to understand.

And every time you moved, even just a flicker of a shift, a breath caught a second longer than usual, he looked up.

Not startled. Not afraid.

Attentive.

You scratched your cheek, his head lifted.

You smoothed your skirt, his eyes snapped upward.

You uncrossed your legs, then crossed them again, he swallowed, too loudly.

At first, you thought he was just skittish. Just someone not used to sitting this close. But then the rhythm set in.

He matched you.

Without realizing it.

Without even trying.

You leaned back in your seat, slowly. Felt the cushion press against your spine.

A second later, he leaned back. One beat behind you, stiff at first, then settling.

You tilted your head, absently, the way you always did when thinking.

He mirrored it. Not perfectly, but close enough to notice.

You shifted your breathing, let it slow. Long inhale through your nose. Shorter exhale.

So did he.

So precisely that it didn’t feel like coincidence.

It felt like mimicry.

Like you were the song, and he was trying to follow along without missing a note.

You frowned slightly, gaze narrowing. Maybe you were imagining it. Maybe you were reading too much into the silence, into the soft rhythm shared between bodies in the same room.

So you changed it.

Inhaled twice quick, then held the third.

Exhaled through pursed lips like you were cooling tea.

He matched it. Exactly. No hesitation. No thought.

Your pulse gave a slow thump. Not fear. Not quite delight.

You did it again, even stranger this time. Shallow breaths, uneven tempo, a stutter at the end.

He copied it like he’d been waiting for instruction.

Not a second too soon, not a second too late.

Not even pretending he wasn’t. As if he couldn't fake it if he tried.

It was eerie.

Unnerving.

You’d had admirers before. You’d had men try to get close. Men with charm and swagger, who leaned too close too fast, who spoke in low voices like they were offering you a secret. Men who wanted something.

But Remmick didn’t want.

He ached.

He ached to stay.

To keep.

To not mess it up.

It wasn’t that he feared you.

It was that he feared what being with you might require of him.

He feared being found unworthy.

And something in you, something cold and clever and mean, maybe, was curious enough to let it keep going.

You watched his knuckles flex where they held the spine. Watched his breath stutter when you shifted forward ever so slightly. Watched his gaze flick to your lips before darting away, embarrassed.

There was devotion in the way he sat.

There was hunger too, yes, but buried under layers of control so tight they might as well have been prison bars.

He wasn’t scared of you.

He was scared of doing anything that might make you not want him here anymore.

He was scared of disappointing you. Of offending you. Of being sent away.

Like he’d never had the chance to be with a woman like this. Not just someone beautiful, Not just someone sharp, but someone who saw him and hadn’t yet told him to go.

Someone who let him sit.

Let him read.

Let him exist.

You leaned back, let your fingers curl loosely around the edges of the cushions. Not looking at him this time. Just listening.

His breathing matched yours again.

You heard it.

Felt it.

Let it echo in your ribcage like a second heartbeat.

He hadn’t read more than five pages. Probably hadn’t retained a single one. But he was trying. Oh, he was trying.

Trying not to ruin the moment.

Trying not to ruin you.

Trying not to ruin himself.

And you watched it all. Watched him struggle to be small, to be quiet, to be acceptable, and something in your chest twisted. Not out of pity. Not even out of care.

Just fascination.

You wanted to see how far this would go.

How far he’d go.

And more than anything, you wanted to see if he could keep it up.

He hadn’t turned a page in three minutes.

You timed it without meaning to. Just sat there, letting your own gaze blur against the shape of his fingers still resting on the edge of the paper, and noted how still they’d gone. How he stared not at the next sentence, but straight through it. Breathing shallow. Body gone tense in the shoulders, like he was bracing.

Then he blinked. Once. Twice.

“Ya always light the window candles,” he said softly, not looking up.

The words were nothing at first. Just air. Noise.

But your stomach still curled.

You didn’t respond right away. Didn’t move. Just let the silence soak it in.

“Every night,” he added, quieter now. “Right ‘round eleven. Even if ya ain’t got customers.”

Still, you said nothing.

He turned another page, finally, but you watched his eyes. They didn’t scan. They didn’t read.

“You notice that just now?” you asked calmly.

He hesitated.

You leaned forward, hands steepled under your chin. “Or’ve you been noticin’ for a while?”

His lips parted. Closed. He looked over at you now. The air between you suddenly sharper.

“I-” he started, then tried to smile. “It’s just… somethin’ I seen. That’s all.”

You cocked your head. “From where?”

He faltered.

“That little inn down the road don’t got a view of this side.”

He tried to laugh, but it came out cracked. “I walk at night. Helps me think.”

“Does it?”

He nodded too fast. “Y-yeah. Sometimes I pass by. That’s all.”

You didn’t blink. Didn’t smile.

“Funny. You said yesterday you just stumbled in here.”

His jaw twitched.

A beat passed. You let it stretch like taffy, long and slow, until it thinned to almost nothing.

“I... did,” he said eventually, voice paper-thin. “Didn’t plan to come in that night. But I-I'd seen the place before. So I guess it felt familiar.”

“Familiar.”

“Mhm.”

“You been watchin’ me?”

His whole frame stiffened. A flicker of shame, or panic, or both, ghosted across his face. But it wasn’t the embarrassment of being caught in a lie. It was older than that. Worn. Like being cornered in a truth he thought he could keep buried.

His mouth opened, but no words came out.

You shifted in your seat, leaned in just slightly.

He didn’t move away.

“You been starin’ at my windows from across the street, Remmick?” you asked softly. “That it?”

He flinched. Not from your tone, which stayed silky smooth, but from the shape of your words. The accuracy of them.

“I ain’t mean no harm,” he whispered. “It weren’t… like that.”

You gave him a long, thoughtful look. “Then tell me how it was.”

His eyes dropped to his hands. You could see the effort it took not to wring them.

“I just… I saw ya. Few nights in a row. Sometimes through the window, sometimes outside closin’ up. You’d have your book in one hand, your keys in the other. Didn’t even know your name. Just-”

His throat moved as he swallowed.

“Ya looked steady,” he said. “A place that don’t change. Like you’d always be here if I needed to come back.”

That should’ve sounded sweet.

But it didn’t.

It sounded like a confession. A possession waiting to take root.

And for reasons you weren’t yet ready to name, you didn’t shut it down.

Didn’t throw him out.

Didn’t call it wrong.

Instead, you asked, poised and deliberate...

“How long you been watchin’, Remmick?”

He looked like you’d just asked him to open his ribs and let you see inside.

But you didn’t repeat the question.

You didn’t need to.

The pause spoke louder than anything he could’ve said.

Then, finally, his lips parted. “Few months.”

Your brow twitched, just slightly. Enough for him to see it.

“I-I ain't mean to,” he said quickly, eyes wide, hands lifted like he was surrendering. “I just- I saw you one night and then… it was easy to keep passin’ by.”

You leaned back slow, fingers dragging along the wood between you.

“You been lurkin’ outside my shop for months?”

His face crumpled like the word hurt. Lurkin’.

“I wasn’t-” He stopped. Started again. “I wasn’t tryna frighten you. Weren’t like that. I ain't know how to come in. Ain't think I should. Thought maybe if I stayed far enough back, you wouldn’t see me.”

“I didn’t.”

He winced.

You could’ve pushed. Could’ve watched him stammer his way deeper into the hole he’d already dug with his own too-honest mouth.

But you didn’t. Not yet.

You tilted your head, voice softer now. “So why now?”

His mouth opened. No sound came. Then...

“I got tired of bein’ scared.”

You stilled.

He didn’t look up. Just stared at the woodgrain of the table, like it might open up and swallow him if he wished hard enough.

“I been scared so long, I don’t know how not to be. But I kept watchin’, and you kept bein’ here. Kept leavin’ that light on. And I thought… maybe that meant somethin’.”

He finally looked at you.

And the way he looked at you, like you were the last fire in a dead city, made your breath catch.

He wasn’t lying.

And that was the strangest part.

You were used to men who talked. Who wrapped their hunger in charm, or cleverness, or teeth. But Remmick… he was bare. He didn’t even try to be anything else.

“You think I leave that light on for you?”

“No.” He shook his head, fast. “I- no. I ain't mean that. Just that… I hoped it meant I was allowed to come in.”

That did something to your chest you didn’t expect.

And suddenly, you didn’t want him to look at the table.

You wanted him to keep looking at you.

Only at you.

You leaned forward again, chin resting in your palm. “Well. You’re in now.”

He blinked. Almost like he didn’t believe it.

“Don’t mess it up,” you added, slow and sweet.

And Lord help you, he nodded like it was a commandment.

You watched his eyes. Watched how they clung to you like a lifeline, like the mere sight of your face was the only thing anchoring him to the moment. You could see it, plain as anything. The panic winding tighter beneath his skin, the quiet horror that he’d said too much. And maybe he had. Maybe he hadn’t said enough.

And then you smiled.

Not warm. Not cruel. Just knowing.

“Well,” you said, slow as molasses, “that still makes you a liar, don’t it?”

His shoulders tensed.

“I ain’t-”

You raised a hand.

He stopped.

“Watchin’ me for months and pretendin' you just stumbled in? That’s dishonesty, Remmick.”

His mouth opened again, then shut.

He looked like he wanted to explain. Wanted to pour out the right words, dig his way out of the pit he’d slipped into. But the silence between you left no room for excuses. And you didn’t fill it for him. You just stood, smooth and sure, brushing imaginary dust from your skirt like you were done with the whole performance.

The way his breath hitched…

You almost felt bad.

Almost.

His voice cracked, desperate before he could tuck it down. “I ain't mean no harm. I swear it.”

You walked to the door.

Unlatched it.

The bell above gave a soft jingle as you pushed it wide, letting the warm night air curl inside like smoke. The light spilled out into the dark, carving a golden archway he didn’t dare cross.

“You can go now.”

He flinched like you’d slapped him.

“I- what?” He stood too fast, nearly knocked himself over. “I ain't mean nothin’ bad. I just- don’t send me off like that. Please.”

You turned, hand still on the doorknob, gaze calm.

His breath was coming faster now, eyes darting like he was trying to find the version of you that wouldn’t be doing this. “I’ll sit quiet, won’t say a word. You won’t even know I’m here. Just don’t make me go.”

He took a step forward.

You didn’t move.

“Please,” he said again, voice ragged now. “Please don’t make me leave you.”

Leave you.

Not the shop. You.

And wasn’t that just the most pathetic thing you’d ever heard.

You tilted your head, quiet.

“I said you could go,” you repeated, soft this time.

That made him stumble.

But not back.

Forward.

Toward you.

But not close enough to touch.

Just close enough to be seen.

And you let him sit in it. That want. That begging.

The humiliation of it.

You could see how tightly his hands were balled at his sides. How his throat bobbed with every failed swallow. How badly he wanted to collapse to his knees and sob at your feet.

“You can come back tomorrow,” you said lightly. “If you behave.”

He swallowed so hard you heard it. Loud in the hush of the room.

Then he nodded.

Not like a man, but like a child handed a punishment he knew he deserved.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t move.

You gave him time.

Let him make the choice.

And when he did, it was with slow, aching reluctance. Every step backward like a string snapping off of him one by one.

“Evenin’, Remmick,” you said, voice sugar-sweet now, hand still resting on the open door.

He stood there a moment longer. Still. Wrung out.

Then, quietly: “G’night, ma’am.”

You didn’t answer.

You just watched him go.

Watched the dark swallow him.

And made no move to close the door until long after his shadow disappeared.

You knew he’d come back.

There was no need to check the sign. No reason to glance toward the door, or listen for the bell. You didn’t need to do anything at all. The air had already shifted, thickened with the weight of what was inevitable.

You were curled into your chair like you’d been there all night, though you hadn’t been able to concentrate for more than five minutes at a time. You told yourself it was the book. It was always the book. But your eyes traced the same paragraph for the third time, and your fingers tightened just slightly at the edges of the page.

Still, you didn’t look up.

You wouldn’t.

The clock ticked. Somewhere, a train whistled. The candlelight wavered once, then stilled.

And then you heard it.

The bell.

Soft. Perfect. Like a cue whispered by the world itself. The clock chimed midnight.

You didn’t lift your gaze, but you heard him. Felt him. The uneven shuffle of his steps. The small hitch in his breath.

He was back.

You turned the page.

The scent hit you first. Not bad. Just weary. Tired. Like sleep had refused him all night, and he’d wandered instead. Rain-damp clothes. Paper. Something earthy, mineral-like, maybe even metallic. Like he hadn’t meant to be anywhere but had found himself out in the wild with only his thoughts for warmth.

He didn’t speak at first. Didn’t dare.

The sound of the door shut behind him.

“I been good,” he blurted out.

Your lips twitched before you could stop them.

Still, your eyes didn’t leave the book.

“Real good,” he continued, voice cracking slightly with the rush of words. “Ain’t even come near the shop. Walked past it, but that don’t count. That’s just the sidewalk, right? Just pavement. I didn’t linger. Ain’t even look in the window. Well, I peeked, but only ‘cause I missed the smell of it. Missed you.”

That earned a slow blink from you.

He stepped further inside. His boots dragged slightly on the floor like they were too heavy to lift. Like his shame lived in his heels.

“I sat still all morning,” he said. “Didn’t wander, didn’t do nothin’. I thought ‘bout what you said. Over and over. Thought about why it was wrong. What I did. Even wrote it out. I did. Wrote it out.”

You closed the book softly.

Still, you didn’t rise.

Remmick stood in front of you now.

And good Lord, he looked a mess.

His shirt was wrinkled at the collar, sleeves rolled and uneven. His hair had a wild, raked-through look like he’d been dragging his fingers through it for hours. The shadow beneath his eyes was sharp, and the line of his jaw was clenched in barely-held desperation. Not even his chain looked presentable. He didn’t smell unclean, but there was a wildness to him now. Like if you stood too close, you’d hear the hum of his blood vibrating beneath his skin, frantic and restless.

“I didn’t lie, not really,” he said. “Just… held it. In. ‘Cause I didn’t wanna scare you off. Ain’t had someone like you before. Not in a long time. Maybe not ever.”

His accent pulled at the words, thinner now, stretched tight with pleading. That strange, syrupy Southern lilt gave way to something raw beneath. Sharper, guttural, not quite human in the way it frayed at the ends. It slipped, like his mask was crumbling, revealing a voice that hadn’t begged in centuries. Not just a borrowed twang anymore, but a whisper of whatever place had taught him that hunger in the first place.

You finally looked up.

He froze.

Then, slowly, like the world trembled beneath him, he knelt.

He didn’t say another word. Just lowered himself to the floor like it was natural. Like the hardwood was the only place he deserved to be.

Your legs were crossed, the hem of your skirt brushing his boots. He didn’t touch you, not yet. Just sat with his hands in his lap, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.

You studied him.

He tried not to move under your gaze. Failed.

You tilted your head slightly.

He flinched.

“I ain’t sleep,” he admitted. “Couldn’t. Just kept seein’ your face. Thinkin’ of how soft your hands were. How still your voice is. You’re not like other folk. You look right through me, and it-”

He broke off, jaw flexing.

“I want to do right,” he said, softer. “Tell me how. Please. I’ll listen. I’m yours.”

You leaned forward.

He didn’t dare meet your eyes, not at first. Not until your fingers brushed the side of his face.

His head snapped up slightly.

You cradled his cheek in your palm, watching as he leaned into the touch. Like the heat of your skin might be the first kindness he’d felt in years.

He was trembling.

Not from fear.

From want.

His eyes closed, lashes fluttering like moth wings. You stroked your thumb along his cheekbone. Cooler than expected, but not cold. Never cold. Not with you.

His hands rose without thinking, resting on your legs. Then his shoulders followed, and soon, most of his weight was against you, folding like a supplicant at an altar.

You didn’t stop him.

Didn’t move.

Let him rest there.

Let him need.

Because that’s what this was. Not desire, not lust.

Need.

He was breathing in sync with you again, like your rhythm had become his only truth.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

His mouth moved against your knee.

Not in a kiss.

Not yet.

Just a whisper.

A plea.

You cupped the other side of his face, anchoring him.

He let out a sound. Quiet, fractured, grateful.

And stayed right there.

The weight of him on your legs wasn’t light. But it wasn’t heavy, either. It felt like gravity doing what it was always meant to. Like he had been built to collapse right here, in the hollows of your thighs, the shape of him fitted to the shape of your waiting.

You ran your thumb along the corner of his mouth, picking up a string of saliva along the way. Drool, thick and abundant. His lips parted. A breath spilled out.

He didn’t dare look up.

So you said it.

“Kiss me.”

Not a whisper.

Not a barked command.

It landed like a fact. Like dusk falling, like snow melting into earth. A truth that didn’t ask to be believed. It just was.

He didn’t move at first. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even breathe.

He lifted his head like a man surfacing from deep water. His eyes, those beautiful, imperiled, bloodshot eyes, searched your face for any sign that you might take it back. That it might be a test.

It wasn’t.

You didn’t flinch.

And that was all it took.

He surged forward, and his mouth met yours with a force that stole the breath from your lungs.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t the kind of kiss you read about in the first chapter of a romance novel. It was the kind that belonged in the final act. The kind that felt like something was ending just as something else began.

His hands fumbled for your waist, your back, your shoulders. Any part of you he could grab to prove you were real. He held you like he was scared you’d vanish between blinks. Like you were smoke and he’d never had lungs strong enough to keep you in.

He moaned into your mouth. Low and wounded and starved. Not loud. Not filthy.

Desperate.

And grateful.

Like this was more than he thought he’d ever be allowed to have.

You clutched the fabric of his shirt, fingers curling tight in the rumpled linen, and he gasped against your lips like the pressure burned. He kissed like someone who hadn’t touched another soul in a hundred years. Thousands, maybe. Not properly. Not intimately.

Like every part of this might be the last.

He pulled you closer, though there was nowhere left to pull. His teeth caught against your bottom lip, breaking skin. Not intentional. Just too much, too fast, too hungry.

He pulled back immediately, breath hitching in horror.

“I’m-” he started, but your hand curled in his collar and you kissed him again, harder this time, and it unraveled something in him so completely that he made a noise against your mouth, something guttural and ruined.

Your hand tangled in his hair.

His arms caged you in, trembling with restraint, with fervor, with some old broken thing inside him that was only now waking up.

You pulled back just enough to breathe. His mouth chased yours, like instinct, like starvation.

He was panting.

You were panting.

And his forehead dropped to yours.

“I didn’t mean to-” he started again, but you shook your head. Barely a gesture.

He was still gripping your waist like the floor was about to give out.

He pressed his lips to your cheek. Then your jaw. Then your mouth again. Softer now, but still with the same unbearable urgency.

“I dreamt of this,” he whispered, voice all but crumbling. “Every night. Since I saw ya.”

You believed him.

How could you not?

He kissed like this moment was the dream. And he was scared of waking.

His breath shuddered against your cheek as he pulled back, just enough to look at you. His eyes were wide, dark, feral. Stripped down to the fundamentals of human existence.

“Please,” he begged. “I need to- can I-”

His hands were already moving, slow and reverent, like he was scared you'd vanish beneath his touch. They skimmed the sides of your waist, your ribs, the curve of your spine. Like he was learning you through touch alone.

He swallowed hard, throat working. “I wanna see ya. All of ya. Been dreamin’ ‘bout it. Wakin’ up in a sweat, reaching for something that ain’t there.”

His fingers found the hem of your shirt, toying with it. Not lifting. Not yet.

“Please,” he said again, softer. “Lemme see ya. Lemme-”

He cut off with a sharp inhale, like the words hurt coming out. Like they'd been buried in some deep, untouchable place inside him.

“I won't touch,” he sounded so earnest. So wrecked. “Not ‘less you want me to. But I swear, if you lemme, I'll worship every inch. I'll-”

He broke off again, jaw flexing. His eyes were pleading, desperate, broken.

“I'll do anything,” he breathed. “Just... please. Lemme look at ya.”

Your heart was beating too hard, too fast. Like it was trying to reach for him through your ribs.

“Yes,” you whispered. “You can look.”

And that was all it took. The floodgates opened. He surged forward, hands suddenly urgent, suddenly everywhere. He was mapping your skin like it was the only geography he'd ever need. Like you were the only country left to explore.

He peeled off your shirt, slow and cautious, like he expected you to change your mind. Like he expected you to pull the rug from under his feet, again.

But he didn't linger. Didn't stop. Shaking but determined, tugging at fabric, pulling at buttons, dragging clothing aside until there was nothing left between his gaze and your skin.

And then he just froze. Stared. Took you in like a dying man taking his last breath.

“God,” he whispered, voice sapped. “You're...”

He didn't finish the thought. Couldn't. Just looked at you like you were the answer to a question he'd been asking all his life. The beginning and end of every prayer he'd ever whispered.

And you smiled, being looked at like that. Like a God. A deity that commanded his unwavering, exclusive devotion. And like any God, you demanded more.

“Undress for me,” you said softly.

It wasn't a question.

His breath shuddered out unevenly, and he nodded. Not a hesitation in sight.

He stood slowly, like his body was weighed down by the gravity of what was happening. Like he could feel the significance of this moment in every bone.

His hands went to the buttons of his shirt first, trembling just slightly. He fumbled once, twice, then let out a soft, frustrated noise and just tore the fabric open. Buttons scattered.

You didn't flinch.

He shrugged the ruined shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. His undershirt followed, tugged over his head in one fluid motion.

And then he just stood there, chest bare, skin seeming to tighten under your gaze. Like your eyes were a physical touch.

His boots were next, kicked off with barely a thought. Then he went to his belt.

He paused for just a second, looking to you for confirmation.

You nodded.

He exhaled shakily and fumbled with the buckle. It came undone easily, the leather sliding out of the loops with a soft hiss.

He toed off his socks, then shoved his pants and underwear down in one motion, kicking them aside.

And then he was bare. Completely. Not just in body. In everything.

He stood before you, chest heaving.

His cock was hard, achingly so. Thick veins wound up the shaft, pulsing with each shudder of his heart. The head was swollen and pink. Glistening. A bead of precum pooled at the tip before spilling over, tracing a slow path down his length. He twitched, but made no move to touch himself. As if he didn't consider it a possibility until you allowed him to.

And you wouldn't. You had him exactly how you wanted him.

Slowly, he lowered himself back to his knees, hands resting lightly on your thighs, his touch gentle yet possessive. He looked up at you, his eyes laced with desire and something more profound. Veneration is the word that came to your mind.

“Please,” he pressed, as if trying to convince himself that he deserved it more than convincing you to relent. “Lemme taste ya. Just a taste. I swear I'll make it good for ya.”

His lips brushed against your thigh. A soft, tentative kiss that sent shivers down your spine. He lingered there, his breath hot against your skin. He squeezed your thighs gently, urging them to part.

You could feel his desperation, his need for your permission. He was squirming, his body aching for more, but he held back, waiting for your consent.

“Please,” he begged again, sounding tortured. “Need to taste ya. Need to feel ya on my tongue. Need to-”

You cut him off with a nod, a small smile playing on your lips. “Yes. You can taste me.”

The words were barely out of your mouth before he was moving, hands urgent and eager as he pushed your thighs apart, his body leaning in, his mouth already seeking your core.

He started at your knees, kissing his way up your inner thighs, his lips soft but his touch urgent. He was a man possessed. Gripping your thighs. Worshipping your skin. You could feel his hunger, his need, his desperation to please you.

When he reached the apex of your thighs, he paused for a moment, his breath hot against your most intimate place. Then, with a slow, deliberate lick, he tasted you. His tongue slid through your folds, a long, slow lick that made you gasp, your back arching off the surface beneath you.

And then he dove in, his hunger relentless. His tongue explored every inch of you, hands gripping your hips, holding you in place as he feasted. He sucked and licked and nibbled, his movements desperate and urgent, like a man starved and finally given a meal.

His groans of pleasure vibrated against your sensitive flesh, sending waves of sensation through your body. You could feel his enjoyment, his pleasure in pleasing you, and it only served to heighten your own.

He looked up at you, his eyes dark and feral, mouth glistening with your wetness. “Ya taste like heaven,” he growled against your skin. “Even better than my fuckin' dreams.”

And with that, he redoubled his efforts, his tongue delving deeper, his sucks more insistent, his fingers digging into your flesh, holding you to him as he devoured you.

Remmick didn't slow, didn't pause, didn't come up for air. His tongue was a relentless force, moving from your folds to your clit and back again at a breakneck pace. Each flick, each suck, each lick was a testament to his insatiable hunger for you.

You could feel the tension building in your body, a coiled spring ready to snap. Your hips bucked against his mouth, meeting his movements with your own desperate rhythm. Your hands found his hair, gripping tightly, holding him to you as if he might try to escape the torrent of pleasure he was creating.

His groans vibrated against your sensitive flesh, sending shockwaves of sensation through your body. He was as lost in this as you were, his actions fueled by a primal need to satisfy, to please, to devour.

“Remmick,” you gasped, pleading. “Don't stop. Please, don't stop.”

As if to answer, his tongue moved faster, his sucks more insistent. He pulled your hips tighter against his mouth, gripping your waist, holding you to him as he feasted.

You could feel yourself falling apart, your body tightening, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The world around you narrowed to the point of his tongue, the suck of his mouth, the grip of fingers

And then, with a cry that tore from your throat, you shattered. Your orgasm crashed over you, a wave of pleasure so intense it was almost painful. Your body convulsed, your hips bucking wildly against his mouth as he rode out the storm with you, his tongue never ceasing its relentless assault.

But Remmick didn't stop. Even as your body began to relax, he continued, his pace slowing but his hunger undiminished. You were overwhelmed, your nerves on fire, every touch sending jolts of pleasure coursing through your body. The sensation was almost too much to bear, your skin hypersensitive, your mind a blur of ecstasy. He looked up at you, his eyes wild, mouth soaked, a sinful smile giving you another look at his predatory canines.

“Again,” he was near unintelligible, now. “I wanna feel ya come again.”

“No,” you whispered, hoarse from your cries of pleasure. “Remmick, no more.”

He froze, his body tensing, his eyes widening in alarm. The fog of lust cleared from his eyes. Replaced by a look of concern and uncertainty. “Did I hurt ya? Did I do somethin’ wrong?” That tone of genuine, unabashed fear returned. As if he was standing in front of that open door again, begging you not to send him away.

You smiled gingerly, your hand still cupping his cheek. “You were perfect, Remmick,” you assured him, gentle yet firm. “Now, I want you to move to the reading nook. I want to see you there.”

He nodded immediately, a mix of relief and eagerness in his eyes. He stood up hastily, his body still glowing with a sheen of sweat and desire. But before you could even think about moving, he was there, offering his hand to help you up. You took it, appreciating the strength and support he provided as you stood on legs that felt like liquid.

He didn't just lead you to the nook. He made sure you were steady on your feet the entire way. His arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close as he guided you to the cozy corner by the window. The nook where he read to you. Mimicked you. Begged you.

His body was still tense with anticipation, his breath slowly returning to normal. You could see the mix of emotions in his gaze. Desire, fear, hope. Something deeper, too.

“Remmick,” you said softly, your voice a soothing balm to his frayed nerves. “I'm not goin' anywhere. Not tonight.”

He let out a shaky breath, a deeply insecure smile playing on his lips. “I wanna make sure you're happy. That I'm doin' this right.”

You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “You are. Now, just relax and enjoy this. Enjoy us.”

He nodded, a small, content smile playing on his lips as he leaned back, though not fully. You followed, straddling his hips as you positioned yourself above him.

“Lay down,” you commanded softly, and he complied without hesitation, his body molding to the contours of the nook as he stretched out beneath you. Those prismarine eyes bore into you, filled with nothing but adoration.

You could feel the length of him, hard and ready, pressing against your entrance. You took a moment to admire the sight of him, his chest heaving with each ragged breath, his muscles taut and defined.

“Hold my hips,” you instructed, and his large hands immediately gripped your waist, his fingers digging into your flesh, holding you with a possessive, desperate strength.

You began to lower yourself onto him, inch by slow, agonizing inch. You could feel every vein, every ridge, as he filled you completely. His eyes rolled back, a guttural, incoherent moan escaping his lips, a sound so primal and raw it sent shivers down your spine.

You bottomed out, your body flush against his, your breasts pressing into his chest. He let out a shaky breath, body trembling beneath you. “Please, move, please,” he begged, hoarse with need. “I need to feel you move.”

You smiled, a slow, sensual curve of your lips, and began to ride him. You started slow, a gentle rocking of your hips, feeling him slide in and out of you, the friction building with each movement. But it wasn't enough. Not for either of you.

You picked up the pace, your hips slamming down onto his, taking him deeper, harder, faster. Each impact sent a jolt of pleasure through your body, your nerves alight with sensation. You could feel his hands on your hips, guiding you, urging you on. His fingers digging into your flesh, leaving marks that would fade but never be forgotten.

He chanted in an old language you weren't familiar with, likely the mother tongue of the faraway place you guessed he came from. His head thrashed from side to side, eyes squeezed shut,

You leaned down, your lips capturing his in a fierce, hungry kiss, your tongues dueling as your bodies moved in sync. You could taste his desperation, his need, his sheer, unadulterated ecstasy. You pulled back, looking down at him, his face a portrait of pure bliss and agony.

“Open your mouth,” you commanded, and he complied without question, his lips parting, tongue resting heavily in his mouth. You spit, a slow, deliberate stream of saliva that dribbled down his tongue, pooling at the back of his throat. He swallowed reflexively, his Adam's apple bobbing, his eyes never leaving yours.

You could feel his body coiling tight, his muscles tensing, his breath hitching. You changed the angle, your body leaning back slightly, giving him a new depth to explore. He let out a low, guttural groan, his body quaking beneath you as he found his release, his hot seed spilling into you, filling you completely.

But you didn't stop. You kept moving, your hips slamming down onto his, riding out his orgasm, drawing it out, milking every last drop of pleasure from his body. His cries turned to whimpers, body shaking and trembling beneath you, hands gripping your hips with a desperate, almost painful strength.

And then, the tears came. Silent, shuddering sobs that wracked his body, tears streaming down his temples, disappearing into his hair. You leaned down, your lips pressing soft, gentle kisses to his cheeks, tasting the salt of his tears.

“Shh, it's okay,” you cooed, almost taunting. “Let it out, baby. I've got you.”

He looked up at you, his eyes filled with unshed tears, body still shaking with sobs. “You're so f-fuckin' beautiful,” he managed to choke out, completely spent. “So fuckin' p-perfect. I can't… I can't even…”

You smiled, merely shushing his whines. You had never seen anything so beautiful, so raw, so real.

You could feel your own orgasm building, nerves on fire as your muscles instinctively clenched. You changed the pace again, your hips moving in a slow, deliberate grind, feeling every inch of him, the way he filled you, the way he completed you.

“I'm close, Remmick,” you gasped, raggedly so. A far cry from the steely demeanor you always carried.

He looked up at you, his eyes wide and intense, body still trembling with exertion. “I know, darlin’. I-I can feel it. You're somethin’ else when you're like this,”

His hands gripped your hips tighter, his fingers digging into your flesh, holding you to him as you moved, as you chased your release. He was still hard, still pulsing inside you, but you could feel the tension, the strain, the sheer effort it was taking for him to hold on. To be there for you in this moment.

“You're doin’ so good,” he encouraged. “Just let it go. I'm right here with you. Ain't goin’ nowhere.”

And with that, you shattered. Your orgasm crashed over you, body trembling, hips bucking, nails digging into his chest. He let out a low, guttural cry. A sound of pure, selfless pleasure. His body tensed as he rode out your orgasm with you, hips moving in sync with yours, giving you everything he had left to give.

The world outside the window was still black.

Not the kind of black that came with sleep or stillness, but that deep, oceanic kind that pressed against the glass like it might swallow the shop whole. A cold wind tapped once, then again, against the panes, but the sound was too soft to pull your focus. The only thing you could hear was Remmick’s breathing. Still ragged, still uneven, like he hadn’t quite landed back in his body yet.

Your own chest was rising slower now.

The adrenaline had drained out of your limbs, leaving only warmth behind. Thick and heavy and strange. The cushions beneath you were slightly askew, the throw blanket hanging off one edge like it had tried and failed to cover something uncontainable. The air still smelled like him.

You weren’t sure you could breathe without pulling him deeper into your lungs.

Your hand rested low on his abdomen, where the tremors hadn’t stopped yet. He was flushed, head tilted back, mouth parted slightly as if waiting for something. Maybe breath, maybe words. The slick between you had cooled slightly in the open air, but neither of you moved.

The moment didn’t ask for motion.

Outside, the wind howled once. Higher this time, almost mournful. But no lights flickered. No car passed. No one knocked.

You were still alone.

Still unseen.

Still safe.

There was a thrill in that. Not just privacy, but secrecy. The knowledge that the two of you had made something here, something raw and holy and utterly indecent in a world that would never, ever be able to comprehend it. No one would guess. No one would imagine it.

You leaned forward slowly.

His eyes fluttered open. Glazed, desperate. Still begging, but quieter now. Not for forgiveness. Just for the chance to stay.

You kissed him.

Gently, firmly, like sealing a letter before sending it somewhere far away. He melted into it. Helpless again, the way he always was with you. And you tasted the salt at the edge of his mouth, not knowing if it was his tears or your sweat, and not caring either way.

When you pulled back, he followed instinctively, chasing the kiss without knowing he was doing it.

His breath hitched.

“I…” he started, but couldn’t finish.

You rested your forehead against his.

He let out something between a sigh and a sob.

“I wanna be better,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“I wanna deserve this.”

“You don’t.”

He froze. Just for a moment. Then his throat worked, and his whole body shuddered.

But you weren’t cruel about it.

You reached up, brushed your fingers through his hair, and let your voice drop to a hush. “You don’t need to earn me, Remmick. That’s not how this works.”

He blinked at you like that didn’t make sense.

But he didn’t argue.

Didn’t say another word.

You let him stay there. Small and grateful and unraveling against you. One hand resting at your hip, the other fisted weakly in the blanket like he might drift off if he didn’t anchor himself to something.

You stared past him, at the darkness beyond the window.

There was no morning yet. No birdsong. No hint of light. The world hadn’t returned.

And you liked it that way.

His breathing was steadier now. Shallower. Slower.

His lips moved once, not quite forming a word. He was trying to stay awake. You could tell. Trying not to miss anything.

“Hey,” you said softly, pulling his attention back.

His eyes opened again.

You traced a slow line across his jaw, following the path of stubble like it meant something. He watched you like it did.

Then, finally, you said your name.

Quiet.

Careful.

Deliberate.

Just that.

Just your name.

His eyes went wide, and then impossibly soft. His mouth parted in disbelief.

You’d never told him before.

You weren’t sure why. It had always seemed too personal, too final. Like once he had it, he’d have a piece of you no one else did. But now that you’d said it, now that it was in the air between you.

You didn’t regret it.

He mouthed it back to you.

Once. Twice.

Then again, this time with sound. Reverent. Fragile. Yours.

You smiled.

Not the kind you gave to strangers or ghosts.

The real one.

And in that tiny, echoing silence, while the window fogged from the heat of your bodies, and the shadows stayed long and untouched, and the world outside forgot to turn, Remmick finally let himself exhale. Finally let himself rest.

You held him through it.

And didn’t let go.

[fawniswriting]

After I Was Too Late

This fic can be read as a stand-alone or as a sequel to Before I Could Say It.

The above image does not indicate the reader's physical appearance.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Synopsis: The three times Bucky saved your life, and the one time you save each other.

Word Count: 10.1k (I got carried away)

Warning(s): gn!reader (pls advise me if there's any gender-specific detail in the fic), canon typical violence, angst, fluff, near death experience(s), hurt/comfort, alcohol consumption, physical injuries, it's a kinder ending this time I promise 🥺❤️ (lmk if I missed anything!!)

Author's Note: PT 2 IS FINALLY HERE Y'ALL!! I'm so sorryy for the delay, my work has been out of control lately (I legit had to go home at 9.30 PM last week 😭🙏🏼). But I've finally finished this piece, and I hope you guys like it!! I'm tagging everyone who left a comment/reblog-comment on the first part but if you prefer to keep the ending to the fic as it was, then you can just skip reading this. And if any of you want to be removed from the taglist, please just let me know!! As always, don't forget to comment, like, and reblog 💖

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

If someone were to ask you about the beginning, your mind would immediately go straight to that day.

Six years ago, your thread of fate wove into his, placing the two of you on polar ends in the middle of a highway shoot-out that revealed the face beneath the infamous Winter Soldier's mask. You recognized him from the sketches littered across Steve Roger's desk: Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes—Bucky, as Steve had called him. A shadow of the past, long presumed gone to the clutches of war and time. 

Yet, there he was.

Alive and breathing.

And he was trying to kill you.

After the events in D.C., you helped the Captain search for the man who had risen from the dead. You saw Bucky's apartment in Bucharest—a depressing little hole in the wall that was barely suitable for a human being to live in. It nicked at your chest, wrestled with a docile side of your heart that you hadn't entertained since they had dubbed you one of earth's mightiest heroes. And when you finally stood in front of the man—not the Soldat, not the merciless assassin who had sliced a dagger to your side two years prior—your chest tapered at the quiet war waging behind his eyes.

“I wasn't in Vienna,” Bucky told Steve. His eyes flickered briefly towards you as he said it, willing, perhaps, for at least one person in that room to put their trust in him; the man standing vulnerably in that apartment, not the weapon he was forced to become. 

“I don't do that anymore,” he added.

You believed him.

Steve did, too.

The next few hours were a whirlwind of chasing and being chased. After Zemo broke the Winter Soldier out of the facility in Berlin, you took Steve and Sam to an abandoned site you once neutralized where the three of you could keep Bucky safe from the authorities. You watched from the sideline as Steve interrogated Bucky for answers, listening intently while the Captain and the Falcon began rummaging their heads for a viable plan of action. 

Once Sam left to reach out to his contacts, Steve also excused himself from the room, muttering something about needing to make a phone call and leaving you alone with the burly man who was trying miserably to hide behind his curtain of hair.

Wordlessly, you walked towards the paper bag you kept on a rusty oil barrel, grabbing one of its contents before cautiously approaching the brooding man in the center of the room. Bucky looked up the moment you shoved the packaged croissant in his face, confusion shining with blue under the taut crease of dark eyebrows.

“Take it,” you said simply.

Bucky's frown deepened as he stared at your hand. 

You masked the sinking feeling in your stomach with a sigh, putting the package next to the makeshift chair Bucky was sitting on. 

“You haven't eaten since yesterday.” Your hands were buried in the pocket of your jeans as you spoke, hiding the tremble in them so the man in front of you wouldn't see just how much your heart was breaking for him. “We have a long journey ahead of us. And if Steve is anything to go by when it comes to a super soldier's calorie intake, you must be running on extreme deficit by now.”

Bucky stayed silent. 

You scraped the ground with the toe of your shoes, trying to fill in the quietness as you rambled, “I would've loved to prepare you a nice three-course meal, but considering half of the world is on our asses, I didn't think you'd mind a small downgrade. Believe me, I'd kill for a real croissant right now. There's a bakery near the Avengers’ old tower whose owner makes the best chocolate and butter croissants. They're fantastic. This one tastes like a foam board compared to them.”

Bucky continued to stay silent, only perusing you under his intense gaze. You rubbed the back of your neck and managed an awkward chuckle. “You know what? You don't have to eat that. It tastes terrible anyway. I'll just throw it out. Let me see if the pigeons would like some.”

You reached out to grab the plastic packaging, but Bucky stopped you in tracks, grabbing the croissant with a hesitant drag of his hand.

“Thank you,” he muttered curtly.

The sight in front of your eyes would have made you chortle under any other circumstances—the ludicrousness of seeing a Herculean with a metal arm grappling with the flimsy packaging of a factory-made pastry. The croissant was ridiculously small in Bucky’s hand, and you felt foolish for thinking it could offer anything close to sufficient sustenance for a man his size. He could probably devour the whole thing in a single bite and still be starving.

And yet, before he even savored a taste, Bucky tilted the croissant towards you in a silent proposition. An offer to share. To tear the pastry in two as if he didn't barely have enough for himself in the first place. The gesture lurched at something in your chest, winding down your ribs like overgrown vines.

You feigned a smile, feeling it crack around the sorrow you were desperately trying to quell. “That’s for you, Bucky,” you told him softly. “I have mine.”

The man nodded, hesitantly, as if the thought of having something to himself was stranger than fiction. He took a tentative bite, his forehead creasing as he chewed on the sad excuse of a pastry.

“Bad, huh?” You cringed sheepishly. “Told you. It's borderline inedible. You don't have to finish it if you don't want to.”

“I've had worse.”

You clenched your teeth. 

There was no room for doubt in your mind that he probably did have worse than an additive-laden confectionery.

“Yeah?” You didn't know why you were asking. “Like what?”

The metal fingers on Bucky's thigh whirred, like he was flexing, removing the stiffness in his joints if there had been flesh instead of vibranium. You waited with bated breath as he stared at a suspicious puddle on the ground.

“I was stuck in an underground cave system once,” Bucky began, pausing to take a tiny bite of the croissant. He looked defenseless that way. Almost like a child. “Spent a few days there. The only thing around me were bats.”

Your nose wrinkled. “You ate bats?”

Bucky didn't attempt to correct your assumption, just kept on munching on the artificial croissant as if he were a kid snacking on candy.

“Were they… good?”

Stupid.

What an incredibly, unbelievably stupid question.

“They were good enough to keep me alive.”

You didn't know what to say to that.

“Well,” you cleared your throat, “just tell me if you change your mind on that croissant. I can get you something else. Remember those pigeons I mentioned? They're not bats, but they've got, you know… protein.”

Then, upon some kind of miracle, it happened.

Bucky smiled.

It was brief, an ephemeral thing that evaporated by the next time you blinked, but it was there. As clear as day, as real as the foul smell of rotten carcasses that surrounded you in that dismal place.

You willed for the excitement in your belly to die down—the last thing Bucky needed was for you to go deranged over a mere smile, probably one of the firsts he allowed himself to have after decades of drought—giving Bucky a short nod before turning around to reward him some privacy, but you didn't go far before a rough voice halted your footsteps.

When your gaze landed on him again, Bucky was tense. His shoulders curled inward as if struggling desperately to keep himself small, his fingers twitched where they were curled around the half-eaten pastry.

“Are you okay?” he eventually asked.

“Me?” Your eyebrows knitted in a mixture of confusion and surprise. “Uh, I'm fine? Well, as fine as one can be after becoming a fugitive of the law, but otherwise—”

“That’s not what I meant.”

His scrutiny roved over your figure from the distance, as though his stare could penetrate through the deepest layer of skin, lighting up a flame that licked through every inch of your bloodstream. Blue irises jerked towards the side of your abdomen, a fleeting tic, but it was enough to force the realization to dawn on you.

Bucky was talking about your wound.

The laceration wound that he—no, that the Soldat—had administered during your altercation in D.C.

Instinctively, your hand lifted, brushing against the jagged scar that you knew was seething under the cover of your shirt. The simple movement didn't escape Bucky's notice, and you chastised yourself for your lack of consideration when you saw his body fold lower towards his knees.

“Bucky—”

“I'm sorry,” he said heavily, shakily. A striking fragility from a man who was supposed to be carved out of steel.

You shook your head in urgency, crossing the distance between you and him before stopping a good six feet away from the defeated man. He didn’t even look up at your proximity, keeping his head angled to the ground, shrinking more and more with every passing second as if he wanted to disintegrate into oblivion.

With careful strides, you removed the remaining space separating you and Bucky, sinking to your knee right in front of him. You called his name softly, begging him to glance up, coaxing him out of the shell of condemnation that he had crawled himself into.

When he finally peered at you, the blue of his eyes had dimmed into a stormy gray. You bit the inside of your cheek, fighting the urge to lean forward and gather this broken man into your arms.

“Bucky,” you called his name again, resolutely this time. Firm and steady, offering no room for even an ounce of doubt or a breath of protest. “It wasn't your fault.”

Bucky fleered.

“I mean it.” You searched his gaze, commanding him to stay there, to not run away from your eyes because you needed him to hear this. You needed him to believe. “I'm not gonna hold you accountable for what happened on that highway, or for anything else you might have done in the past few decades. None of that is your fault. They used you. You couldn't even remember your own name, let alone understand what HYDRA was forcing you to do. You're also a victim here, Bucky.”

He shook his head.

Your heart shattered into tiny little pieces all over the ground.

You shifted on the ball of your knee, sighing as you felt exhaustion pulling at your limbs. 

“Steve would agree,” you said quietly.

Those three words managed to snatch Bucky's attention.

“Actually, Steve does agree.” You glimpsed towards the entrance where the Captain had disappeared through earlier, swallowing the lump that had lodged itself in your throat. “It's the reason why he's here. The reason why we all are. He is the literal embodiment of everything good in this world, Bucky. And if Steve Rogers—Captain America himself—looks at you and sees someone worth saving, someone who deserves a second chance despite all that happened, then that says everything I need to know about the kind of man you truly are.”

You waited for something to shift, for the contempt in his eyes to dissipate, for the strain in his shoulders to melt, but nothing happened. He continued to drown, making no moves to get himself out of the murky waters that were pulling him under.

“Everything that happened while you were under HYDRA’s control—the missions, the casualties—none of it is on you, Buck,” you pressed on. “The wound on my side? That wasn't your fault either. Hell, I was shooting at you, too! I didn't know who you were back then. You didn’t know me. You didn’t even know yourself. They made sure of that.”

You took a shuddering breath, physically readying yourself to voice the next conviction out loud.

“If someone has to carry the blame, it should be HYDRA,” you determined. “Not you, Bucky. Never you.”

The silence that followed was strangulating. You watched Bucky with heart in your throat, waiting for him to react, to do something or say something. Perhaps if he had cried, it would've been better. Because then, you might have been able to help, to offer him the solace of your arms, to teach him how he could peel back the guilt that was clinging to him like a second skin. 

Yet, Bucky just sat, still as a tombstone and quiet as a graveyard. 

The eerie calm before a catastrophic storm.

When he finally looked up, Bucky's eyes were a tempest—dark and turbulent, thundering with the repercussions of a hundred lifetimes he never asked to live.

“Maybe—” Bucky's voice quivered. He ran his flesh hand across his face and started over, “Maybe you're right.

Your chest staggered.

Before you could respond, Bucky's gaze dropped, teetering towards your side, as though he could see the ridges of skin underneath the cotton fabric of your shirt. The place where flesh had once split under a blade he hadn't even known he was holding.

On his knee, Bucky's fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach out, to inspect the remnant of the wound with his own flesh and skin but didn't know how to trust himself enough to do so.

His jaw tightened.

“But it was still me, wasn't it?” Bucky's breathing stammered. The words came out choked, as though the truth tasted like rust on his tongue. “I was still the one holding the knife, Sugar.”

The nickname maimed you more than one could expect. Had Bucky said it with enough cynicism, maybe you would have chalked it up to bitterness and moved on. But he hadn't said it like that—he had said it with a devastating frailness, a frayed piece of another life bleeding through the cracks. It came from a version of him that had smiled at strangers and walked dates home in the rain, a boy from Brooklyn who probably said it with a charming grin and a flirtatious warmth.

Your heart broke for him all over again.

You ransacked your brain for something to say, to convince Bucky that he was wrong, but the sound of incoming footsteps stripped you of the chance, forcing you to quickly rise to your feet just in time for Sam and Steve to enter the room. Your conversation with Bucky was shoved to the backburner as the other two apprised you of your next step, both unaware of the tension stretching taut in the air, suspended between you and Bucky like a ghost no one else could see.

The next thing you knew, your life was unraveling like a house of cards in the span of one night. It felt like you blinked, and suddenly you were standing in the middle of a tarmac, staring down faces you used to sit with during breakfast and mission briefings, others who carried the weight of loyalty you could no longer afford.

The spider-like kid who loved to crawl on things was the first one you faced. He was nimble, all limbs and chatter, a fleck of innocence to testify to his lack of experience. You tuned out his nervous jokes and wide-eyed commentary as you focused on blocking each of his strikes, breathing through the ache in your ribs, willing your body to stay sharp.

But then, your instincts faltered.

The agonized sound wasn't loud, especially compared to the surrounding chaos that had befallen the airport. Your eyes flitted towards the man anyway, as if having a mind of their own, making you lose your footing for a fraction of second as your gaze landed on him from the distance.

Bucky.

The sight of him staggering back—blood blooming across his skin like a crimson tear—rustled an unknown weight within your chest. Natasha stood just a few paces away, her favorite knife in hand, the blade gleaming in the same shade of red running in rivulets down Bucky's cheek.

The moment of distraction was fleeting. Short. But it was the only opening your opponent needed to yank you off balance and send your back straight to the ground. 

“Sorry,” the Spidey kid huffed, straddling your legs, his grip surprisingly strong for someone built like a string bean in spandex. “Big fan, though. Seriously. Hey, crazy idea. Maybe after all of this, you can sign my—”

He never got the chance to finish his sentence.

With a drive of your elbow to his side, coupled with a shove of your knee to his chest, Spidey was now the one pinned to the ground—winded limbs and spayed webbing as he stared up at the clouds. You rose to your feet with a heaving chest, the ground trembling beneath your boots as you stole a moment to breathe.

You didn't even notice the light shifting in the sky.

Your reflexes awakened a second too late, stirring only when a dark shadow swept over your head. There was no time to run. Whatever protective measure you could whip up, whatever direction your feet could carry you in a matter of seconds, the end result was clear—you wouldn't be able to make it out of there unscathed.

Or at least, you should not have been able to make it out of there unscathed—but you did.

Because Bucky Barnes—the Winter Soldier, the man whose name was whispered between cautions of death and terror—had saved you.

He lunged from somewhere behind the smoke, arms wrapping around your frame before shoving you forward and down. The force of the blast rocked the ground as a small aircraft detonated a few yards away, radiating a heat so raging it licked at your back. Debris rained down all around you as Bucky’s body remained curled over yours, shielding you from the worst of it, lying like a fortress between you and the explosion's aftermath.

For a moment, all you could hear was your own ragged breathing. Your ears were still ringing when Bucky finally stood up, pulling you by your elbow to your slightly unsteady feet. He examined you from head to toe, his grounding touch remaining steadfast around your forearm, eliciting goosebumps.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, still in shock. Still breathless.

“Bucky.” Your fingers convulsed, moving up to clutch his jacket and stopping once you thought better of it. “You saved me.” 

He didn't answer at first, and when he did, his eyes evaded yours, jaw clenching as his gaze meandered somewhere distant. “It's the least I could do.”

Then, that same gaze moved, lowering until it settled on your side. You didn’t need him to spell it out to know exactly what he was thinking. The wound had been his doing once, delivered by a man with the same face but none of the same mercy. The shadow of a life that felt like his own but one he gravely wished to relinquish.

You felt the phantom sting of it then, not from the wound, but from the way Bucky was assessing it—like he was measuring his worth by the depth of that scar. Like saving you had been a down payment for a debt he could never repay.

Your mouth parted, already halfway to saying something, anything, that might severe the penance he had inflicted upon himself.

But before you could say a word, the world raged again, sending ripples of a faraway explosion that rattled the earth.

You swallowed hard, grounding yourself as you imparted, “We need to get to the jet.”

Bucky nodded once, his stature straightening as if his resolve had always been intact. The two of you broke into a sprint immediately, side by side, boots striking the tarmac in tandem as the smoke closed in all around you.

That was the first time Bucky Barnes saved your life.

And you knew, as you dashed across the airport grounds, that it wouldn't be the last.

After two years in Wakanda—two years since the disastrous battle on that infamous airport—you were finally bringing Bucky back home to New York.

Tony was not happy when he greeted the two of you at the compound, and you were even less thrilled to see him after everything that went down following his support for the Sokovia Accords—which, to your delight, had officially been nullified. Tony had promised he would play nice, and that included absolving Bucky—or at least, trying to—for all of the crimes that HYDRA forced him to do. It wasn't ideal, but it was a start; a show of good faith as Tony pledged to assist Bucky's recovery in every (financial) way possible.

Still, that didn't stop you from making sure that you walked in front of Bucky while the two of you were approaching the front gate, offering yourself as a human barrier should the philanthropist do anything untoward.

The first few weeks at the compound were dedicated towards ensuring a seamless transition for Bucky. From creating his daily schedule, vouching for a potential therapist, to showing him the nooks and crannies of his new home—you tackled every single task with purpose; convincing yourself that it was about structure, routine, and reintegration, but deep down, you knew better.

It was about keeping him close. Keeping him safe.

And maybe, that was exactly why you found yourself lashing out at Steve when he told you, a few weeks later, that Bucky would be sent on his first mission as an Avenger.

“This is bullshit,” you seethed, your fingers curling around the edge of the conference table in a death grip. “It's barely been two months and already they wanna send him back out there? After everything he's been through?”

The Captain sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don't like this anymore than you do—”

“Then stop it.”

“I tried!” Steve's eyebrows creased, his mouth pressed into a thin line. It was a rare sight to see Captain America this upset. “The higher-ups were asking questions, and his therapist already told them that Buck is ready. I tried talking to him about it, but he's adamant to go. There's nothing else I can do.”

“There's always something,” you retorted. “Maybe you just haven't tried hard enough.”

Despite how much your words stung, Steve forced himself to move past it. He knew they hadn't come from a place of malice. Instead, it had come from a place of affection—perhaps even love—a protectiveness he also shared towards a certain super soldier with a metal arm.

“Look,” Steve began, shifting in his seat, “have you ever thought that maybe this is what Bucky needs?”

Your head snapped up.

Steve took your silence as a cue to continue, “We know he hasn't forgiven himself yet. Not fully. And that's understandable, isn't it? Maybe what he needs, right now, is the chance to make it right. Maybe going on a mission—one he actually chooses to partake in, where he knows something good will come out of it—could be Bucky's way of making his amends.”

The Captain trailed off, letting his words linger above the tense atmosphere of the conference room.

You hated how much it made sense.

With a drop of your shoulders, you pinned your stare on the faraway wall, biting the inside of your cheek before mumbling, “Fine.”

Steve smiled, ready to wrap up the conversation once and for all when your voice interrupted him, “But I'm going.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” You got up from your own chair and sauntered towards the door, flicking a firm glance towards Steve that left no room for objection. “I'm not gonna stop you from assigning Bucky to that mission. But if he's coming, then I'm coming, too. And there's nothing you can do to stop me.”

In the end, Steve had relented, and what was once supposed to be a three-person crew's mission became four as you, Bucky, Sam, and Maria Hill took off towards Panama City.

Interference hailed the four of you upon arrival, running you into more hostiles than the initial intel had suggested. Despite your time away in Wakanda, your instincts didn’t waver. The rhythm came back effortlessly, muscle memory filling in the gaps left by your mind without a sliver of hesitation. 

However, between every swift kick and  precise strike, your focus frayed. Not from fear, but from a certain super soldier who was never out of your sight for long. Your gaze strayed to his silhouette again and again, making you stumble more times than you cared to admit, trying desperately to stand your ground in your own fight while keeping an eye on him all at once.

It was reckless.

And it was precisely why, as you realized too late, you ended up failing to notice the grenade.

“Watch out!”

Two strong arms—one flesh and one vibranium—shoved you out of the explosion's radius, a flying shrapnel missing your head by inches as your shoulder crashed against the ground. Bucky got thrown immediately on impact, sent over the edge of the skyscraper as the ground started to crack, fragment, and disintegrate into nothing.

“No!”

Horror erupted in your stomach at the building's cession to gravity. You scampered forward, dropping to your hands and knees to lean over the skirt where floor was supposed to be. Your relief escaped in a stammered breath when you spotted Bucky a couple of stories down, still alive, dangling by his flesh arm around the corner of a deteriorating girder.

A window pane launched into the air.

Bucky's agonized scream ripped through the chaos the moment it rammed against his left shoulder.

Something in your guts twisted at the sight of artificial axons peeking out of the ripped seams of his tactical jacket. Blood soaked through the torn fabric, staining the silver beneath in unforgiving red. 

“Bucky!” Your pulse hammered. “Don't move, I'm coming to get you!”

“Don't.” Bucky's voice was stern. Final. “You gotta get outta here before the whole thing collapse.”

“I'm not leaving here without you!”

Inside your earpiece, noises began to crackle. 

“Guys?” Maria's voice emerged. The sound of punches and clatter reverberated from her end of the line. “I think I need some help over here.”

“Go help Maria,” Bucky commanded.

“But you—”

“Sugar.” 

The nickname halted you in place. Bucky was smiling as he looked up at you, although you knew that it was nothing more than a facade. Any other person would have been fooled by his performance, but you could easily pinpoint the shadow of a grimace he was trying to conceal, the exhaustion crippling his body as he struggled to hold himself up at an angle that wouldn't put additional strain to the already splintering steel beam.

Blue eyes softened. “I'm gonna be fine. You should go.”

Your throat constricted.

You crouched frozen on the ledge, the roar of distant gunfire echoing through the shattered high-rise. Fifty stories below, parts of the building's skeleton scattered on the ground. Your hand twitched towards Bucky, wanting to reach out, desperate to haul him back into your arms, but the chasm between you felt impossibly wide.

Meanwhile, Maria's grunts and struggle continued to echo in your ears as she seemed to wrestle a few assailants at once. You knew you should go to her aid. You knew this wasn’t the time for hesitation.

And yet… Bucky.

His lips were still curled into that easy smile—the same one he shared with you during clandestine moments around the compound, because this side of Bucky Barnes was one he reserved specifically for you. His knuckles had gone white from supporting his entire weight, the beam creaking under the slightest sway of his body, jerking slightly. 

“I don’t—” Your voice cracked. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I do,” he said gently, as if he weren't hanging by one arm over nothing but air. “You save her.”

You could barely breathe. 

The seconds were ticking—Maria was calling for help, and Bucky was slipping.

You weren’t enough to save both of them.

“Sam,” you gasped, pressing your hand to the comms. Static was the only response, and you prayed to the heavens above that wherever he was, whatever he was doing, he could listen to your plea. “You’ve gotta get to Bucky. Now. He’s gonna—I can’t—just… please.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched longer than a lifetime.

Just when you began to think he wasn't going to answer, Sam's voice fizzled in, “On my way.” 

The comms fell silent again.

A violent wind tore through the air, hitting like a freight train.

The steel girder—the one remaining lifeline fastening Bucky to this world—buckled with a piercing screech.

In the blink of an eye, the girder snapped.

“BUCKY!”

A blur of silver and red swooped below him in the same breath, and before you could lunge forward to follow Bucky as he fell, Sam was there—arms locked securely around Bucky’s torso, wings flaring wide to steady the sudden addition of weight. Bucky’s head dropped against Sam’s shoulder, dazed but alive. Your whole limbs teetered towards the verge of liquefying as your lungs finally released the air you didn’t know you were holding.

“You okay, man?” Sam’s voice chirped through your earpiece. “Christ, what did they feed you in Wakanda?”

A sound escaped your chest—something between a strangled sob and a wry laugh.

Gathering yourself, you pressed another hand to the comms, rising to your feet and sprinting towards the server room as you announced, “Hang on tight, Maria. I'm on my way.”

By the time you and Maria went back to the safehouse over an hour later, Sam and Bucky were already there. Bucky was lying on the couch the moment you strode in, his metal arm detached and thrown almost haphazardly on the coffee table while Sam tinkered with Redwing on the kitchen counter.

From the bandage wrapped around Bucky's shoulder, you knew that the on-site medical android had taken a look at him already, but the anxiety in your mind still wasn't pacified. It dribbled all over the floor as you marched towards him, your body shaking partly from the adrenaline still coursing through your veins, but also from the anger and dread boiling in your blood.

“Why the hell did you do that?!”

Venom leaked from your voice the moment you approached the couch. Behind you, Sam and Maria fell silent, readying themselves for the imminent confrontation ahead. Bucky's face remained impassive as he rose to a seating position, a faint tug at the corner of his lips.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“Don't fucking sweetheart me.”

Your chest rose and fell in a dizzying rythm, daggers flying from your eyes towards the man in front of you. The same one who had nearly, stupidly welcomed death into his arms due to some kind of foolish heroism embedded in his principles. The one who was currently looking at you with cerulean eyes so tender it almost made you forget that he was close to slipping from your fingers a mere hour earlier.

Bucky let out a sigh. “I'm okay.”

“Quit talking to me like I'm stupid, Bucky. We all can see your ripped metal arm on the table. Your bandaged shoulder.”

 “It's nothing.”

“It's not nothing!”

“It's nothing compared to what I've suffered before.”

An incredulous laugh tore from your larynx, sharp and sardonic. It was the only thing keeping the lump inside from choking you whole. “Just because you've survived worse doesn't mean you're fucking invincible, Buck! You could've died. You almost died. If Sam hadn't got there in time, you would've—”

The words wedged in your throat.

Your eyes fell shut as you expelled the images of Bucky dangling between life and death out of your mind. 

Gentle fingers encircled your wrist. You gasped at the sudden warmth surrounding you, opening your eyes to find that Bucky had tugged you closer to stand between his parted knees. Your palms automatically landed on the column of his neck, chest pounding at the unbearable softness shining out of Bucky’s eyes. 

This was new territory—Bucky had always treated closeness like something fleeting, something borrowed. His touches, his embraces, were often hesitant, as though affection was a luxury he couldn’t afford. But now, he held you like he had done it a thousand times before, like your body against his was the very thing chaining him to reality. His hand curled firmly around your waist, anchoring himself, grounding his entire existence to the certainty of your presence.

“Hey,” Bucky said, squeezing your side lightly. “I'm right here, Sugar. I'm alright.”

Your chest burned. “We almost lost you.”

“But you didn't.”

“But what if we had?!”

“Then you should take solace in the knowledge that I haven't gone in vain.”

Your fingers clenched around the edge of Bucky's shoulders, nails branding crescent moons into the skin. He didn't even flinch.

“You don't need to sacrifice your life for me, Bucky. I don't need that kind of thing on my conscience,” you spat.

“I wouldn't call it a sacrifice, sweetheart,” Bucky said firmly, resolutely. “If that's what it takes to keep you safe, then I'd gladly take the fall.”

Bucky's declaration propelled the tears you had been desperately trying to contain to the forefront. A strangled whimper shredded from your lips. You quickly tried to mask it with a scowl.

“That's the very definition of a ‘sacrifice’, you idiot.”

“Not in my book.” Bucky smiled. “Not when it's you.”

Before he could say another word, you removed the distance between you and threw yourself in his arms. The dam within you finally caved in, freeing the ragged sobs you had been trying to keep at bay. Your tears stained the collar of his undershirt, your arms locking around him tightly as though sheer willpower might fetter him to you, to life itself.

He staggered slightly under your weight, grunting from the pull on his wounded shoulder, but his hand—his only hand—immediately rose to your back, fingers splayed as they began tracing slow, calming patterns across your spine. 

“Don’t ever do that again,” you whispered hoarsely. “Don’t throw yourself in front of danger for me. I don't ever want to watch you fall like that again. I can’t—”

“I know,” Bucky murmured, pressing his cheek to your temple. “I know, Sugar.”

“Promise me,” you croaked out.

He stilled for a second. “I can't,” Bucky said breathlessly. “I'd do it again in a heartbeat, sweetheart. I’ll always choose to save you.”

A fresh wave of tears surged behind your eyes. Your fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his undershirt. You hated him for that. 

And you loved him even more because of it.

From behind you, someone cleared their throat. 

“I hate to interrupt the Notting Hill shit we’ve got going on here,” Sam said, “but is anyone else starving or is it only the guy who just saved Barnes’ ass?”

The evening wind bit your cheeks the moment you stepped out of the bar. In a chorus of jovial shrieks and mischievous laughter, your friends from the Academy all bid each other goodbye—some heading straight home, some scuttering after the next round of drinks and fun, but all equally giddy and tipsy—stumbling on the curb and crashing against unassuming lamp posts.

“Sure you're not coming?” one of your friends asked.

“No, told you I've got an early morning tomorrow,” you slurred slightly, shaking your head twice when the face in front of you began to blur around the edges.

“Okay. Text me when you get home!”

You waved them off with a lopsided smile, turning on your heel and starting the slow trek back to the station. The pavement felt oddly slanted under your feet, and you blamed the tequila for the fifth time that night. The wind swept down the empty street, nipping at your exposed skin, sending discarded wrappers tumbling aimlessly along the sidewalk.

“Hey, Gorgeous! You need a ride?” a voice called out.

You didn’t bother looking. The city was full of idiots, and you weren’t in the mood for petty confrontations when your balance already wavered like a tightrope walker with a death wish.

You were in the midst of stifling a yawn when your foot unexpectedly hit a shallow crack in the pavement, pitching your body forward, arms flailing wildly before you caught yourself mid-fall.

The voice spoke again, this time laced with a grin that lit a match in the back of your mind, “Careful, sweetheart. Steve's gonna be pissed if you break an ankle before the mission tomorrow.”

Your eyes snapped up.

Leaning against a dark motorcycle across the street, like some kind of B-list actor playing a bad boy in a trashy movie franchise, was none other than Bucky Barnes. He looked way too good for someone who just watched you nearly eat concrete—leather jacket unzipped, gloved hand resting on the handlebar, and an easy smile tugging at his lips. 

Your face broke into an instantaneous grin.

“Bucky, what are you doing here?”

You skipped across the street without looking. The squeal of tires resonated in the air, blaring horns and flashing headlights as you registered too late the oncoming car speeding your way. You stumbled in your haste to escape the street, to save yourself before your crushed skull and its content became the next headline for tomorrow's 6 A.M. news.

But before gravity could make a fool out of yourself, Bucky’s arms were already around you. He caught your body with ease, keeping your face from planting onto the curb, his broad frame shielding you from the splash of puddle as the honking car zipped past. 

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he muttered, his metal fingers squeezing your hip, “you lookin’ to give an old man a heart attack?”

“Sorry,” you offered sheepishly, willing the percussion in your chest to assuage. “Thanks for saving me.”

“I'd save you anytime and anywhere, Sugar.” Bucky smiled, his gaze soft and genuine despite the flirtatious nature of his words. “But it'd be nice if I didn't have to do it all the time.”

You feigned a gasp. “And here I thought you were my personal hero on call, Buck.”

The man in front of you laughed—a carefree thing with his head thrown back, ocean blue glinting under the paltry luminance of streetlights. You stepped out of his embrace with great reluctance, shivering slightly in the absence of Bucky's warmth.

The motion didn't escape Bucky's notice. “Did you not bring a jacket?”

“I did.” You wrapped yourself with your own arms, stroking the goosebumps away with your palms. “I lent it to my friend and I guess… well, I forgot to ask for it back.”

“Why does that not surprise me?”

“Because everyone knows how kind, selfless, and generous I am?” You grinned.

Bucky didn't say anything in return. Instead, he made quick work shedding the jacket off his back, revealing the outline of muscles under the gorgeous cover of dusty blue henley. Your throat went dry, every nerve ending lighting up in fireworks when Bucky stepped forward, draping the leather garment around your shoulders.

“There you go. That would have to do for now,” he muttered.

His fingertips brushed your neck as he tugged the leather collar closer around you. The scent of coffee, mint, and something indistinguishably Bucky attacked your senses, stealing your breath and leaving the taste of longing on your tongue. He looked at you in that same infuriating tenderness that made your insides spume, reduced to tiny bubbles filled with hope and yearning.

“Thanks,” you breathed out once he withdrew. “By the way, how come you're here? I thought you had that mission with Nat today.”

“I did,” Bucky replied, burying his hands in his jeans’ pockets. 

Your forehead creased. “No way. Did you bail?”

“Are you crazy? Steve would have my ass.”

“Then…” 

“Came straight from the jet,” he said casually, the impish quirk of his lips giving him away before his words even landed.

“You what?” You gawked. “Are you serious? Did you even debrief with Steve before you went here?  Did you even go to the medbay? At all?”

“It was just recon.” He shrugged, far too nonchalant for your liking. “Nat can handle the debrief. She did all the sneaking around anyway, I barely lifted a finger.”

“That’s not the point.” You groaned, massaging the headache that had started gnawing at your temple. “Who cares if it was just recon, Bucky? The procedure says you're to go to the medbay after every mission. The rule is there for a reason. What if you were injured but you didn't even notice? What if you were exposed to a dangerous substance while you were on the field? It's incredibly reckless, stupid, and—”

Your words dissolved the moment his hands cupped your cheeks.

Bucky studied your countenance in silence, his eyes delicate, his thumbs gentle as they skimmed along your jaw. He smiled at you as if your soul was scribbled in a script only he could decipher. An intimate secret shared between the meager spaces the two of you occupied in this infinite universe.

Your breath hitched.

Everything around you tilted on its axis, the world dulling into a distant hum to make room for the cosmic threads tethering you both to each other. His eyes were tired as they locked onto yours, but behind the muted blue, something else shone through—something steadfast and searing, like an eternal flame trapped in the most secluded heights of the Himalayan range.

“I’m okay,” he said at last, voice low but certain. “I’m right here, and I’m okay.”

You didn't blink—you couldn't.

Your chest deflated in the aftermath of worry, the relief sweeping through you like a tide pulling back after a storm. Bucky withdrew, his hands leaving your face in a parting goodbye, and you had to fight the urge to yank him back in, to stay in the fragile moment that had cracked open between the two of you.

“‘Sides,” he drawled, a teasing glint replacing the ferocity in his eyes, “if I didn't pick you up, you'd probably end up passed out in a dumpster somewhere. Can't have you jeopardizing the mission like that, can I?”

You groaned and shoved his shoulder. “Ass.”

Bucky chuckled, rounding the bike before handing you a helmet. “C'mon, lightweight.”

You rolled your eyes, although the blooming smile on your face betrayed the faux irritation as you climbed onto the motorcycle. Bucky was warm in front of you, your arms finding purchase around his waist the second the engine roared to life, buildings and trees alike blurring past as the two of you sped through the streets of New York.

This time, you held Bucky a little tighter than usual, just in case he forgot how much it mattered that he made it home safely.

The pain was the first thing your brain registered.

Lights spilled through the all-encompassing darkness, rousing you awake, filling the gaps in your mind with an awareness of life. The ache traveled through your body in an unimaginable speed, a ravenous beast as it ate away your soul, and you could barely contain the pained whimper before it tumbled free out of your lips.

Something engulfed your hand.

Warmth.

“Sugar?”

You whimpered louder.

“Shit." There was a rustling by your side before the same voice sprouted again, “Hang on, sweetheart. I'll get the doctor.”

Time stumbled in and out of your grasp. You thought you could hear several voices conversing in the room not long after. One of them, unrecognizable in your ears but settled deeply within your chest, rose above all of them. It sounded desperate, broken, as if the person had attempted to barter with God using merely a mangled heart and a splintered spine.

“...please,” you caught him say, the end of a sentence blown by the breeze before you could curl your fingers around it.

“I understand, Barnes,” another voice spoke. “We'll take care of it. Just wait outside, will you?”

A pair of hands proceeded to roam over your body. You felt the pull of consciousness behind your eyelids, heaving you out of the void, an aimless ghost slipping violently back into flesh.

You gasped.

The world returned in a fragmented mosaic—white ceiling, antiseptic air, and a beeping monitor that echoed stubbornly beside your ear. Inside your body, a burning agony erupted. It sank into the deepest corners of your being, clutching around your lungs, turning you into nothing more than a wailing heap of muscles and bones.

“Hey, hey, easy now,” came a calm voice. 

The words arrived in the company of gentle hands, too cold for your liking, but they were a reprieve nonetheless. The face in front of you zoomed in and out of focus like moonlight dancing across shattered glass, the contours merging and sundering as they finally morphed into the features of a familiar friend. 

Dr. Helen Cho.

She pressed the back of her hand to your forehead before shining a penlight into your eyes. “Pupils reactive. That’s good. Welcome back.”

You blinked away the harsh light from your vision, wincing when the effort sent a jolt of pain through your neck and shoulder. Your lips parted in an attempt to speak, but your throat felt like it had been shoved with hot coals, shredding your voice into nothing more than a torn, fragile snivel.

“W-what… what happened?” you croaked out.

“You were shot,” Helen answered. “Do you remember?”

Just like that, the memory barreled into you like a sucker punch to the face.

Images of drab walls and ceilings, the sight of mold and moss co-existing with dead rodents’ remains filled your mind. The abandoned building once posed as the warehouse of an illegal bio-weaponry enterprise that had long ceased to operate. The Avengers’ presence on site was supposed to be a straightforward recon—gather the intel on the culpable syndicate, perhaps scour for names complicit in supplying the deadly goods in the first place—and it was implied as such on the case files given to the entire team.

No one could have predicted that the simple job would turn into an ambush.

Your mind began flipping through the pages of memory, recalling how it took you no time at all to neutralize the four agents sent your way. Under different circumstances, you might have felt offended by the measly number of hostiles assigned to you—had your thoughts, of course, not already been preoccupied with a certain super soldier. Still, any insolent disparagement your opponent once hurled at your combat abilities was indefinitely put on ice as you dashed across the site's west wing.

By the time you arrived, Bucky was already cornered.

Instinct, and something else akin to protectiveness, fueled your movements as you thundered into the room. Most of the assailants were already lying in stacks on the floor, the rest following suit with every deliberate strike you threw their way. Your chest rose and fell in erratic bursts, each breath scraping your throat as the last body hit the ground.

Across the room, Bucky rose from behind the makeshift fortress, aiming his gun before stopping dead in tracks. The corner of your mouth lifted when your gazes found each other.

“Hi, handsome. Miss me?”

Bucky let out a rough breath, his grip around the gun loosening. “Was wondering when you'd show up, sweetheart.”

He stood up and approached you in merely four strides, smiling so sweetly as though your presence in front of him had been God's own gift to mankind. You fought off a shudder and attempted nonchalance as your palm brushed the dust off his shoulder.

“Sorry, Sarge. You know I like to keep people on their toes.”

The grin on Bucky's face expanded. He bumped his shoulder to yours, the two of you heading for the exit as Bucky started requesting for extraction through his comms.

A split second was all it took for everything to go sideways.

You didn't know what compelled you to turn around for one last glance. Had you heard something? Felt something? Had the hairs on the back of your neck sensed the imminent danger before your brain could even begin processing it? 

It was impossible to say, but something dragged your gaze over your shoulder, an invisible hook yanking you back just in time to catch the glint of metal under the scanty light. One of the bodies on the ground, presumed dead, had begun to stir. His arm trembled as he lifted his gun from the blood-slick floor, the barrel rising with all of the inevitability of a verdict carved in stone.

Your breathing caught.

Everything in your body told you to run. To take shelter behind the wooden crate in the corner of the room, call out a warning, anything. But you knew exactly where that gun was aimed, where that bullet would go if you dared to move even an inch.

Straight into Bucky.

The whole world narrowed. What happened next wasn't a choice—it was a decision your body made under direct instructions of your heart, born not from years of training but from the gentle fondness you harbored for the man beside you. It commanded you to hold your ground, freezing your limbs, your chest pounding as though wishing to somehow intercept the bullet before it could write the ending you weren’t ready to read.

Then, the shot rang out.

Everything else had transpired in a blur. You remembered certain bits and pieces through the fog in your mind—the pain on your neck, the retaliation shot Bucky had fired from his gun, the look of pure terror you saw on his face as he held your crumbling body before it could shatter against the concrete ground.

The confession.

“Bucky.” His name fled your lips before you could even think about it.

Helen's gaze softened. “He's outside. He's been here the whole time. Never left your side since the surgery.”

You swallowed, throat thick with the weight of half-formed questions. “H-How long…?”

“Thirty-eight hours,” she replied. “The bullet missed your artery by millimeters. We almost lost you a couple of times. You were extremely lucky this time, Agent.”

Your eyes closed momentarily. When they opened again, your gaze found Helen with an unshakable purpose. “Could you please send him in?”

The doctor gave you a single nod, landing a reassuring pat on your knee before leaving the room silently.

Not long after, the door opened with a quiet hiss.

The sight of Bucky standing in the doorway smashed your heart into a million little pieces.

His hair was unkempt, sticking to different directions as if his fingers had run through them too many times to count. Even from the distance, you could still see how bloodshot his eyes were, how hollow and agonized they were under the harsh lighting of the room. He looked like a man who had outrun hell only to realize that it had made a home right inside his chest.

“Bucky,” you called out, slowly, gently.

His shoulders tensed at the sound of your voice.

Bucky's movement was tedious, as though it was painful for him to move, as though lifting his head required more strength than Atlas needed to carry the world on his shoulders. The moment his eyes met yours, something inside him cracked and splintered. 

“You're awake,” he said hoarsely.

“I am,” you replied, offering a soft, shaky smile. “I'm okay.”

Bucky didn't move.

He looked like he didn't even breathe.

It was as if an intangible weight had shackled itself around his ankles, stopping him in place. Bucky didn't try to fight it, to break himself out of the phantom hold he had been cast under. He just kept standing there, motionless, like he was afraid that if he came any closer, the fragile image of you in front of him—alive, breathing, and speaking—would vanish.

Your throat tightened.

“Buck,” you tried again, a tremor in your voice now, too. “Come here.”

His fingers twitched.

“Please.”

It was that single word that finally did it—the plea that fell onto him like a torrent on scorched earth.

He took one step, then another, erasing the distance between him and the bed with a slowness that might convince someone he was walking barefoot on shards of glass. You watched every inch of him draw nearer, his pain thick in the atmosphere of the room, heavier than the oxygen nesting in your lungs.

The hesitation returned when he reached your bedside, keeping him a good six inches away from you. He hovered in the space around the bed, uncertain, both of his hands clenching and unclenching like they wanted to hold you but were afraid you would completely dissipate like vapor under his touch.

You lifted your hand and reached out, tentatively, with the precision of someone trying to pet an easily-spooked cat. Eternity must have passed at least once or twice when your fingers finally brushed the inside of his wrist.

That was all it took.

The singular touch was all it took for Bucky Barnes—the Winter Soldier, the man with the power of a collapsing star, who had faced death and catastrophe greater than anybody else on earth could ever imagine—to entirely crumble under your palms.

A sound escaped him—something torn and guttural and not meant for human ears to hear. He fell to his knees beside the bed, clutching your hand like it was the only echo of mercy in a world that had offered him none. His head bowed against your stomach, shoulders shaking violently with the aggressive sobs he could no longer contain in his chest.

Your own tears spilled out of you in a tide stronger than the Pacific current, staining your cheeks as you brought your other hand to cradle the back of Bucky's head, threading your fingers through the short tendrils.

“I’m okay. I'm okay, Bucky, I'm fine,” you whispered, over and over, each word a balm against the searing agony inside his bloodstream. “I’m right here, darling. I'm okay now.”

“But you weren’t,” he choked, the sound of his anguish slicing your nerves deeper than the sharpest dagger ever could. “You weren’t, a-and God, I thought I lost you, sweetheart. I was holding you, tried to stop the blood—there was so much blood—and you just… you just went still. Was so cold and still and I couldn't—I didn't know what to do.”

“Bucky.” Your voice quivered. “I'm here, baby. You didn’t lose me.”

“I almost did.” 

His head rose, and your breath halted in your throat at the sight or red in Bucky’s eyes. He was not someone who cried often—perhaps it was the archaic 40s’ notion of masculinity that was still embedded in his system—and the only time you had seen him cry was back in Wakanda, when you and Ayo stood by him in the vulnerable moment that confirmed the severance of HYDRA's control over his soul.

Somehow, this Bucky—the one kneeling in front of you—looked even more shattered than the one in your memory.

“Your heart stopped, Sugar,” Bucky continued, the weight of his words pressing and twisting your ribs until you were nothing but a mire. “You weren’t breathing. So cold and stiff, and I… Shit—I didn't know if you'd make it. Had to do CPR the whole flight. Everyone told me to stop. They said y-you were gone. But I couldn't, Sugar. I just—I couldn't.”

“Bucky,” you whimpered. “Darling.”

“I thought I was too late,” he rasped, voice fracturing under the weight of a requiem still resonating in his chest. “I kept thinking if I'd been faster—if I’d stood closer—if I had just noticed sooner, then you… you would've…”

You cupped his face, forcing him to stop his self-torment and look up at you. To remind him that whatever horror still clawing at his being was no longer real, because you were fine, you were alive, and you were here with him. His cheeks were wet, flushed with the remnants of grief and an exhaustion that had been postponed for far too long. The pain in his eyes had dimmed the blue in his irises to gray.

“I'm fine now, Bucky,” you murmured, misty eyes and traces of salt on the tip of your tongue. “You did it. You saved me.”

“I shouldn't have had to,” he said, shaking his head as if trying to reject the truth. “You shouldn't have been in that situation in the first place. You should've been safe. I was supposed to protect you.”

“You did, Bucky. You did protect me.”

“Not enough.”

“Baby, look at me.” Your voice is firm, a lighthouse cutting through a war-born fog. Bucky's forehead furrowed as his eyes locked with yours, as if he still struggled to believe that the you in front of him weren't simply a mirage. “You brought me back, Buck. You didn’t lose me. I'm here because of you.”

His breath hitched.

His lips quivered.

You leaned down, pressing your forehead gently to his, ignoring the strain it caused to your wound because this—the man you held inside your palms, this tender moment you shared after everything the universe had put you through—was far more important than any pain you could ever feel.

“You didn't lose me,” you repeated.

There was silence in the next breath, a sacred one commonly heard in the space between lightning and thunder. You could feel his every exhale, shallow and staggered, like a beast coaxed out of fight but still bristling with a proliferate instinct.

After a stuttered heartbeat, his metal arm slithered around your waist, his flesh one wrapping around your hand again, tighter this time.

“Say it again,” he begged, barely audible. “Please.”

“You didn't lose me,” you uttered. “I'm here, I’m alive, and I’m not going anywhere.”

He crushed you against him then—still careful, still gentle—but underneath the heedfulness, his desperation bled through. Gripping you like you were the only thing that mattered in this vast universe, like he wanted to fold you into himself and keep you some place where danger and death could never lurk over you again.

You felt Bucky's lips on your skin, grazing along your shoulder, moving up the curve of your neck, your jaw, and your cheek. Worshipping you with prayers shaped as a thousand reverent kisses, moving like he was searching for the evidence that you were real, like he was memorizing a miracle while time was still ticking.

And when his mouth finally found yours, the press of his lips wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t greedy.

It was trembling.

He kissed you as if you were the divine being who granted him life, respiring your moans and gasps as if they were the instruments needed to mend his ruptured soul. Bucky tasted like every future you were always too scared to envision for yourself—the promise of companionship, affection, and happiness that had once been too surreal for your heart to believe in. But now, in this moment with him, they all suddenly became inevitable.

You kissed him back, slowly, cradling his face between your hands to hold together all of the fractured pieces that forged his being. Time slipped away in the hush where sorrow once lived, getting you lost in everything Bucky, until eventually, your lungs had to force you to part and come up for air.

“I love you,” Bucky confessed, holding onto your wrists to keep you tethered to him. To this moment. And to life itself.

Your thumb brushed the apple of his cheek, catching a silent tear, leaning in to steal another kiss from the corner of his mouth.

“I love you, too,” you whispered.

A sound between a sob and relief escaped him, and Bucky buried his face in the unwounded crook of your neck, breathing you in like he had been suffocating for days and had finally resurfaced for air. His arms stayed enveloped around you as he murmured praises against your skin—thanking the Gods for listening to his prayers, thanking the universe, thanking you. Paying reverence for the mercy that fate had bestowed over a mangled man such as himself.

You stayed like that for a long time. His weight against your side, his heartbeats slowly steadying beneath your touch. The monitors beeped gently beside you, grounding the two of you to reality, an anchor in the otherwise stagnant room. But in that moment, the only sound that mattered—the only one you cared about—was the soft inhale and exhale of your breaths, a proof of life, shared within the modest spaces that felt more freeing than a hummingbird flying over an open field.

Gradually, the room began to fade into silence.

And in the safety of Bucky's embrace, you had never appreciated the quiet more.

Taglist: @steph88x @athenabarnes @sugarmummystuff6 @wintercrows @jay-jaystevebuckyloki @spideysimpossiblegirl @vainillacookie @mazzaroni-cheese @killerwendigo @s-r-reads @nydubs @rafeskai @unpeellievable @thisismyacc11 @rimunagenius @buckygirls @buckyslove1917 @defn0tonyourleft @buhangini @infinitymitten @lemonhead456 @thescooponsof @buckytheloveofmylife95 @mizukiqr @littlegreenjellybean @p3nis-parker @shortlikerdj @onlyheluvsme @theschoolbasketcase @jjulesii @jvanilly @seaskysunrise @minminswag04 @dameronspector @buckybarnesfic @nameless-ken @marie-sworld @silverwolfeyes @idkitsem @waiting-so-long @redtabularasa @buckyinluv @ghostytoasty17 @moreadsfic @chlovocaine @mcira @personal-fanfic-storage @spookyreads @eternalsams @the-sunflower-room

[sknyuz]

hi r u doing smut fics? but anyways if u do pls make about how whc 2 characters would react if you give them a bj 🤭

anyways i luv ur whc fics keep it up thanks xoxo

weak hero class headcanons — going down on the boys of weak hero class 🔞

synopsis — how the boys of whc... well, anon’s ask is pretty self-explanatory

pairing/s — (all the whc boys here are in senior year/18+) sieun x reader, suho x reader, baku x reader, gotak x reader, juntae x reader, baekjin x reader, seongje x reader, beomseok x reader

a/n — >< everyone’s been waiting for something a bit more... out there for the whc boys, and since i rarely do smut, this was definitely a challenge !! i hope everyone has a fun time. disclaimer: this is pure smut, mdni. if you’re a minor in the taglist, don’t interact pls. i removed who i know are under 18, but might have missed some.

masterlist | join the taglist | request a fic

⤷ yeon sieun

he doesn’t say a word when you kneel, just watches you with that intense, unreadable stare. it’s not until your lips wrap around him that his breath hitches—barely audible, but sharp. his fingers curl into the arm of the couch, the only giveaway that he’s actually unraveling.

you go slow, wanting to see what kind of reactions you can pull from him. he swallows hard. his thigh twitches. then, finally, a sound—low and breathy: “don’t stop.” he doesn’t guide you. doesn’t push. but when his hand cups your jaw, there’s something raw in it—like he’s grounding himself with you. he finishes with a tight exhale, eyes fluttering shut, and when he comes back down, he murmurs, “come here,” like he’s desperate to hold you, to take back the control he just gave up.

⤷ ahn suho

he watches you kneel in front of him, his expression shifting from surprised to almost amused. “you sure about this, baby?” he asks, voice still calm, but you can hear the hint of anticipation beneath it.

but the moment your mouth wraps around him, his teasing demeanor fades. “f-fuck—wait—” his hand flies to your hair instinctively, not rough but firm, guiding you just the way he wants. his hips buck upward just a little as he tries to hold himself together, but it's clear he's losing it.

"shit, you feel so good," he groans, voice thick with need. “y-you’re gonna make me—” he cums with a sharp gasp, eyes fluttering shut, his grip tightening in your hair as he shudders. afterward, he pulls you up into his arms, kissing the top of your head with a soft laugh.

“you have no idea what you just did to me,” he whispers, his breath still unsteady, holding you close like he never wants to let go.

⤷ park humin (baku)

“oh my god, wait, wait—holy shit—” he’s already whining before you even start, half laughing, half panicking. you press your mouth to his length and he melts, one hand flying to his hair like he needs to pull it to stay conscious.

he talks through the whole thing—loud, flustered, ridiculous. “you’re so hot, oh my god, i can’t—babe, babe—your mouth is actually insane—” he keeps trying to look down at you, like he doesn’t want to miss a second. every time you suck a little harder, he moans like he’s being possessed.

“i’m gonna cum, oh fuck, i’m—ah, shit—” he whimpers, hand flying down to cover his mouth as you take all of him in. afterward, he lies flat on the bed, panting. “i literally saw god. was that even real? or did i hallucinate?”

⤷ go hyuntak (gotak)

he doesn’t say a word—just watches you silently, jaw clenched. when your lips wrap around him, he inhales sharply through his nose, gripping the edge of the couch so hard his knuckles go white. his voice comes out low and strained—“don’t tease. if you’re gonna do it, do it.” and when you take him deeper, a groan rumbles out of his chest—so deep it makes your thighs clench.

he doesn’t fuck your throat, doesn’t move much at all—but you can feel the tension in his body like a live wire. he cums with a stifled grunt, holding your head there as he spills down your throat. afterward, he leans back, breathing heavy, eyes glazed. “…fuck. that was something else.”

⤷ seo juntae

he looks like he might pass out when you kneel—eyes wide, hands flying up like he’s about to protest but forgets how. “w-wait, you don’t have to—i mean, if you want to, i’m not gonna stop you, but—” and then your mouth is on him and he chokes on a gasp. his hands hover awkwardly in the air for a second before he grips the blanket, knuckles white.

“ohmygod—th-that feels—” his voice is high, barely coherent, broken between moans and shaky breaths. you glance up and his face is flushed, lip caught between his teeth, eyes behind his glasses already watering. he cums with a whimper, hips bucking up with his thighs trembling, immediately covering his face. “i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to go that fast, i just—holy shit, you’re really good at that.”

⤷ na baekjin

he doesn’t speak when you kneel, but his expression changes—sharpening, almost curious. maybe a little hungry. he stays perfectly still as your mouth wraps around him, but his breathing falters, eyes darkening as he watched his length disappear against your lips, hand twitching once before it settles gently on your head. he groans—quiet but intense, jaw clenching every time your tongue swirls around him. “fuck,” he mutters under his breath, hand tightening in your hair.

you feel his thighs tense under your touch, and his voice breaks when he tells you, “just like that.” his body shivering as you hollow your cheeks. he cums with a gasp, hips barely jerking, breath catching like he didn’t expect it to hit so fast. after, he helps you up, kisses you slow and deep, he touches your jaw gently and pulls you into his arms, forehead to yours and whispers, “thank you, darling.” like you just saved his life.

⤷ geum seongje

he smirks the moment you drop to your knees, eyes glinting with something dark. “damn, baby. didn’t think you had it in you.” but when your mouth sinks down on him, that smirk vanishes—replaced by a look that’s feral.

his hand fists your hair, not rough at first, but when you moan around him? he pulls—hard. “fuck—keep doing that,” he growls, “you look so good like this. fuck, you’re mine.” keeping you there as his hips twitch forward. he pulls—not to hurt you, but to keep you there, like he needs it. his other hand wraps around the back of your neck, firm and possessive, holding you close as he thrusts shallowly into your mouth.

“look at me,” he growls. “i said—look.” his pupils are blown wide, gaze locked on yours like you’ve got him under a spell. “you’re fucking perfect like this,” he pants. “mine. you get that? mine.”

“fuck, you’re gonna make me—” he cums with a sharp gasp, head tilting back as his muscles tighten, breath ragged. the moan he lets out is raw, needy, almost desperate—the kind that lingers in your ears long after.

and afterward, he yanks you into his lap, kissing you sloppily, breathing you in like he needs you to live. “don’t ever do that for anyone else,” he whispers against your lips, “i’ll lose my fucking mind.”

⤷ oh beomseok

he stares when you kneel in front of him—eyes wide behind his glasses, mouth slightly parted like he can’t believe what’s about to happen. “a-are you… really gonna—?” his voice is so quiet, it barely comes out. he shifts back on the bed like he doesn’t know where to put his hands. but he doesn’t stop you—he can’t. and the moment you wrap your lips around him, he breaks. “f-fuck—wait—” his head falls back instantly, a choked gasp punching out of him as his fingers grasp at the sheets.

his glasses slide down a bit, his breath stuttering as the heat rushes straight to his face. he whimpers when you take him deeper, soft and sharp, his thighs trembling slightly as he tries so hard not to move. “you look so good like this,” he pants. “fuck, you’re gonna make me—” he cums suddenly, hips twitching up into your mouth before he can warn you. it’s high-pitched, needy, almost embarrassed as he moans through it—his glasses fogged, his whole body tensed and shaking. afterward, he reaches for you with trembling hands, pulling you against his chest like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “how am i supposed to act normal after that?” his usually deep voice is slightly higher now, still recovering from the high.

if u liked this, a reblog would be greatly appreciated to help my work reach other people as well >><< !! thank u thank u sm

𐔌 . ⋮ taglist .ᐟ weak hero class ֹ ₊ ꒱ @kstrucknet | @loserlvrss @nanamiswifesatorusgf @hateateez @slytherinshua @winnie-bunnie @rexxiiia @mrgzzarella @ilyhachii @youmeshii @actuallynarii @midnight--raine @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @trasshy-artist @crowneve @juicyjam @xh01bri @onyourlisa345 @prettywhenicry4 @dripoftheseus @rosieparkk @gacktsa @sopitadearvejas @satorustorm @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @mirwors @sqacewalkr @l5byrinth @vovoloyo @keumbaku @sarcastic-cookie @vitaminbtob @armani78 @bbangbies @snowflakemoon3 @slovesyouuu (ask to be tagged or removed)

[eyelessfaces]

if anything

bob reynolds x reader

summary: no one wants to talk about how close you came to dying, everyone walking on eggshells until bob finds out what really happened and asks why no one trusted him enough to tell the truth; you both know the reason involves your mutual feelings.

tags: some angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, idiots in love, yearning, light descriptions of violence, reader is held at gunpoint during a mission, mentions of wounds and bruises, tiny bleed, shame room, everyone in the watchtower knows you and bob are in love, bob has a cat (he gets her in this one shot that absolutely does not require to be read to enjoy this!)

word count: 2k

masterlist | taglist | ao3 | @eyelessupdates

buy me a coffee ♡

It’s unusually quiet when you step in and join the room, so quiet that you would have first guessed no one is actually here, so it comes as a shock when you hear the faint sizzling of the pan over the stove and see Walker and Ava cooking in a peaceful, unusual, almost unsettling silence considering they usually can’t stop bickering and picking at each other.

Yelena is sitting at the table lazily filing her nails, Bob is tucked away in his reading nook, and you glance around but Bucky and Alexei are nowhere to be seen, so you assume they’re down at the training floor.

You pull a chair and sit across from Yelena, making her glance up at you with a compassionate, gentle smile before she resumes her business. “You okay?” she asks simply, polishing her nails back and forth.

You hum softly and nod, repressing anything more. The truth is you’re exhausted and your limbs ache more than the painkillers can handle, and you’ve developed an awful headache from the pressure of it all, but you would rather leave today behind.

You know the reason everyone is so uptight and quiet, you know why the air feels so heavy. You’re painfully aware of the tension you have brought into the group after what happened during the mission, and you know how everyone feels despite no one really talking about it or letting it seep through except for that cold, weighing silence and the gentle motion as if everyone is afraid it will break the space around you. 

The overwhelming quiet after the storm.

“I filed the report and got it sent to Valentina” you announce in a mutter.

Yelena’s eyes are back on you in a second. “Did you make it true to what happened?”

You nervously play with your fingers, picking at the skin around your nails, giving her a shake of the head. You can see Walker and Ava closely listening from the corner of your eye, exchanging a look before they resume their task when you look in their direction. 

You sink back into your chair, wincing in discomfort when the shift in position painfully jabs at your side and steals your breath. “We didn’t tell Bob,” Yelena declares, setting her nail file down. “We figured we would save him the worry. We know how much he cares about you” she says, prompting you to look over your shoulder at Bob reading, earbuds in, blissfully unaware of the heavy atmosphere of the room. 

Your heart tightens inside your ribcage but you are convinced it doesn’t have anything to do with the nagging pain of your wounded body. “Yeah, we should move on” you agree, turning back to Yelena. “Let’s not talk about that again,” you offer.

“We got to thank you one last time though” she grins with a slight tilt of her head. “You really put yourself out there for us. I doubt we would have made it if you didn’t offer yourself and put your life on the line for us. As stupid as it was”

You chuckle softly. “Come on, what’s a few broken ribs and a bet that could have easily gotten me killed?” you joke with a grin, the ache at your temple strangely familiar and similar to the feeling of the gun barrel pointed at it hours ago. 

Despite the joke, you try to shake the feeling and memory away, grounding yourself with the thought that you’re here, you’re home, you’re safe, and there will only be bad dreams to catch up on you, nothing real.

You turn and lightly clear your throat when you hear Bob shift across the room, removing his wired earbuds, Yelena quietly quickly dismissing the conversation by not adding onto it, looking at you with a knowing glance. 

“Bob, buddy, train your cat not to jump over the fucking counter when we’re cooking” Ava points at the evidence, the black cat meowing in response. 

“Sorry, I’ll work on that” Bob says with an apologetic quirk of his lips as he gets Missy off the kitchen counter and puts her down on the floor. “She’s just hungry, it’s feeding time. C’mon Missy,” Bob calls, and the cat follows his every step as he grabs the box containing her food, needing to push her head aside when she already has it in the bowl even before he gets to pour her food. 

“You can also work on those fangs of hers,” Walker remarks. “She bit me this morning.” 

“Oh I’m sure you deserved it” Yelena casually mutters. Bob tilts his head in silent agreement, a small smirk threatening to grow on his face, and you can’t help but silently snort, the tension finally beginning to lift. 

You feel safe here. It all feels warmer. 

—

Missy is curled onto your bed, slowly blinking her sleepy yellowish eyes at you, not moving even as much as a millimeter when you sit down at the edge, not far from her. 

A painful sigh escapes you, hand instinctively coming to clutch onto your badly wounded side in naive hope that the heat of your hand would make the pain subside just for a moment, but even the rising and falling of your chest as you breathe makes it hurt.

Your hand leaves your side and you try to compose yourself when you hear a soft knock at the door, Bob’s head peeking in the slight opening. “Hi– just checking in, have you seen– oh” he pinches his lips into a smile when you lean to the side – painfully, but you try your best for it not to show – and reveal Missy sleeping behind you.

“I didn’t close the door all the way so she made her way in,” you turn to look at the cat now peacefully sleeping.

“Sorry for that–”

“What are you apologizing for? I don’t mind. At all” you shrug. 

Bob pinches a smile again, repressing another apology like you all have been teaching him, having been working on making him stop apologizing for everything and anything. 

“Okay, I’ll–” he starts to back away, but suddenly stops, a worried frown forming over his face as he points a finger at you. “You– You’re bleeding”

You look down at yourself and see the spot of blood seeping through your shirt, a curse escaping under your breath. Bob quickly comes to your side, sitting down next to you. 

Then, the second his hand rests over your arm, you’re sucked in.

Back there. 

Your breath falls short again as you're standing in front of yourself, the version of yourself a few hours ago, gun kissing your temple. You watch as the civilian you willingly replaced breaks down in sobs, two other people clutching his side, leading him away from the scene.

When you turn around, the whole team is in front of you, just the way they were earlier, only this time, Bob is also there.

That's when you get it. His touch triggered this.

The scene unfolds, excruciatingly slowly for the second time today, and Bob watches intently, mouth slightly agape as Walker points his gun, as Yelena tries to reason with the man holding the gun to your head, as Alexei gets ready to charge onto him at any opening that could be offered.

You and Bob both remain silent as it goes on, flinching when the man threatening you readjusts and grips harder onto his gun, but you both know for a reason he eventually won’t go through with it.

Bucky steps forward and offers the man a deal, and everything seems to accelerate again as the man eventually gives up and kicks a knee onto your side before he violently drops you to the ground like a marionette with cut strings, your body crashing onto the same side you have been kicked. The man runs away while you groan and clutch the ground in pain, Alexei and Bucky rushing to you while the rest of them go after the man, Ava shifting through to stop him in his run and Walker giving him a hit of his folded shield, knocking him out. 

Then, like you just blinked, you’re back in your bedroom, sitting next to Bob. Your eyes widen over him like you have seen a ghost, and he seems equally distraught, if not more.

“I’m sorry– You know I can’t control it” he pulls away, visibly shaken by what just happened.

“I know.”

You swallow, hard. The room remains heavy with silence until Bob speaks. “Why didn’t you tell me? Any of you?” 

You sigh, rubbing a hand over your eyes. “It was easier that way”

He nods and hums. “So much for trying to make me feel included” he smiles bitterly, hurt.

You close your eyes for a second, suddenly aware of how wrong it sounded. “Bob” you reach for him and pull him back when he tries to leave. This time, you remain here, and your hand stays over his arm. “I didn’t mean it that way” you nod seriously. He readjusts his position over the bed. “We decided to just put it under the rug and not talk about it anymore. I even lied in the report. Valentina won’t hear about that but it wasn’t meant for the same reasons as you”

He frowns softly, listening intently. His gaze is focused on you, like your face could speak hidden facts directly.

“If we decided not to tell you it’s not because we don’t trust you or something” you explain with a small shake of your head, looking at him earnestly. “It was probably wrong that we tried to hide something like this from you, but we just didn’t want you to worry.” you nod. Your throat feels tight from the pressure, invisible hands grasping at you, suffocating you. “Because we know you care.”

“You’re damn right I do” he mutters, his dark blue eyes slightly flickering. 

You can't exactly read his expression; it sits between frustration and something else that translates into the softness of his gaze but that you couldn't really pinpoint.

But you don't ask yourself any more questions. You have grown tired of it, and today might as well have been the last straw, so you do this the exact same way you did on the mission; you rush into it. 

You rush into taking his face into your hands, pressing your lips against his without even questioning yourself. 

A soft sound escapes his mouth as you do, but before you can even begin to wonder if you’ve startled him, he reaches for you with hesitant hands, as if he’s afraid to touch you, before they eventually come to rest at your neck for good. 

When you pull back, your foreheads are still pressed together, his lips still lightly grazing yours before a contented smile lights up his face, his knuckles brushing against your face with more confidence he suspected he could have. 

It feels like behind pulled back to the surface when you hear Missy’s high pitched meowing, making you both turn in her direction, making her desire for attention obvious when she sits right in the tight space between the both of you; it’s tricky, but she still manages to adopt a strange position that makes it fit.

Bob huffs out a laugh, petting her back, looking back up at you and watching the amused smile over your face when Missy stretches her lithe body under his scratches, asking for more. 

You hiss softly when a fresh shot of pain courses through you, reminding you of the current state of your body, and Bob’s expression instantly shifts into a more serious one. “You gotta let me help,” 

“That’s fine” you dismiss, trying to convince yourself that not giving importance to your pain will make it lessen; everything would be so much easier if it worked that way.

Bob’s head tilts slightly. “Trust me,” he mutters. “I know a thing or two about bruises”

You give him a bittersweet, compassionate smile before eventually surrendering, letting him take a look, assessing the situation before he takes it as his personal mission to look after you the way he wished he could have been looked after when he needed it.

—

any and every feedback/reblog/comment is greatly appreciated and helps more than you think!!

buy me a coffee ♡

thunderbolts taglist: @majestic-jazmin @eternallymaroon