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soldiersgirl · 4 months ago

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TIDE AND TRIGGER.ᐟ

summary ⭑ a century long bet and a determined winchester; you want to be up where the people are and he only wants to be drowning in you. cw ⭑ mermaid!reader x season one dean winchester. 18+ smut (mdni). mentions of death. mentions of john winchester. mentions of kidnapping. fighting. swearing. inaccurate and accurate mermaid lore. light manipulation. kissing. fingering. oral (f receiving). begging. unprotected p in v (wrap it up). missionary, riding. kind of subby dean. slight dirty talk. sweet nicknames (baby, sweetheart, angel). word count ⭑ 5,617 words

"4 men found dead – washed ashore at beach" read the front page of the newspaper that rested on diner table as the brother's finally settled down and ate their first, proper meal in two days after relentless driving, phone calls and gas station hot dog's that didn't sit right with either of them. dean's meticulous eyes skimmed over the page, scouring it for details, anything that could hint at what they were dealing with as the younger winchester added his salad dressing, eyes darting around the unfamiliar diner that looked like every other diner they'd ever stepped foot into it. they all meld and mould together at some point; the cutlery stained, the lukewarm coffee and the somewhat-edible fried food. the brothers had been after each other, small digs and hidden insults between each hunt and stolen naps in the leather passenger seat of the impala. but this was finally different, finally they had found themselves in a warmer state; a sunny town filled with life rather than the usual desolate and gloom-filled states. a welcomed difference. but a warning of what was to come.

"any ideas?" sam hums as he digs his fork into his salad, pushing around the dressing to hide the disappointing mix of greens underneath.

"could be another drowner spirit, like that kid in wisconsin." dean hums in response as he bites into his burger with a sigh. the meat somehow soggy and dry at the same time. "could be a kelpie. siren?" he throws down his burger and raises his shoulders in defeat. "must be something in dad's journal." sam shakes his head.

"nothing that hints at what this could be." sam sighs as dean lifts the newspaper once again as his eyes scan the article, just one more time. signs of choking, blunt force trauma. followed by reports of singing heard late at night by the beach, some men wandering lost, schools of fish left half-eaten and discarded. dean curses as it all clicks. "what?" sam's head shoots up as he eyes the newspaper from across the table as dean pinches the bridge of his nose.

"i think i know. but if if i'm right, and that's a big if, then dad owes me five bucks... when we find him." he mumbles the last part before reaching for a limp fry and wiggling it about in front of sam, who shoves his hand down with an unimpressed grin.

"what could you possibly be betting with dad about?" sam grunts, pushing his bangs aside to reveal his puppy-dog eyes silently admiring his older brother, as he looked proud of himself.

"mermaids." dean leans back with a shit-eating smile and sending a wink towards his younger. sam lets out a laugh of disbelief.

"you and dad were betting on.. mermaids? i was at college and this is how you spent your time."

"no, no, lil' bro. you got it all wrong." dean leans back forward and hunches over his half-eaten burger, setting the scene. "it was just after the little mermaid came out, right? and i asked dad why we had never found one, why it was only those crazy-ass sirens. the old man said they were extinct. gone." dean jabs his finger down onto the front page of the crumpled paper. "until now. the singing, the choking? classic mermaid lore, sammy. it's what the pirates wrote home about."

"i just thought being out on the ocean made them crazy. didn't they confuse sea-cows for women?"

"desperate times call for desperate measures, but whatever. sammy. this is the real deal and we're gonna catch her and prove it. no sense killing her, we're gonna be revered! finding an extinct species." dean runs his worn hands over his face before slamming down an assortment of dollars on the diner table and grabbing his trusty leather jacket.

"wha-?" sam immediately gets cut off by dean grabbing him by the hood of his hoodie and dragging his lanky brother out behind him as he heads for the impala and sets course for their motel. it was time for prince dean to find his very own little mermaid.

for the next 3 nights, sam and dean would lounge around the beach during the evenings watching as families grilled, teenagers played volleyball and couples walked along the shore, giggling into one another's shoulders and holding hands. as the numbers dwindled and people made their way home to rest was when the real work began for the two brothers. as the moon hung low, the tide came in and the stars played in the vast, navy sky, the brothers sat and intently listened. each splash of water examined, each washed ashore fish bagged for evidence, with a grimace, whilst trying to keep each other awake with ridiculous games and keeping unsuspecting young men off the beach, for their own safety.

"i swear to god, dean, if you chose 'c' again for i spy, you're getting drowned." sam would complain as dean only sniggered and gave the same reply.

"get it? c, sea?" he would point out, lie back in the warm sand and laugh out loud before sam reminded him to be quiet, reprimanding dean for maybe scaring away the mermaid.

on the fourth night, they were getting desperate. dean's freckles had sprouted and multiplied across his rosy cheeks as sam's hair had gone a tone or two lighter while basking in the sun, enjoying the mundanity of the moment. an earned vacation among the chaos. dean fiddles with his necklace as he gazes out, thinking this was something he could get used to, the serenity of the night enveloping him and brushing away all his worries, like the sand that flies across his outstretched legs.

SPLASH!

dean whips his head, his trained eyes scanning the surface for a hint of something, anything. he goes to turn to sammy and sees his younger brother passed out on his worn-out brown hoodie. his bangs swept across his forehead, his hands resting on his chest and his mouth in a slight pout as light snores rumble in his chest.

SPLASH!

another. dean tears his eyes away and stares out again. it was coming closer, almost beckoning him. this felt different. the air grew colder and everything grew quieter as dean's senses heightened as small splashes rang out across the shore line. dean was too slow to catch the culprit each time and his anxiety grew with each. he decides against his better judgement and leaves sammy as he shoots up, grabs his leather jacket that he was sitting on and his hunter's bag before trudging across the beach. until he hears it. the indisputable sound of a woman's voice singing. her soft tones and gentle notes are carried in by the waves as they lap against dean's feet, like wanting fingers trailing against her lover's skin. dean's instinct cloud over for a second, he should walk into the ocean. he should get deeper. find her.

"no.. no!" he whispers to himself before digging around in his jeans pocket and pulling out his earplugs and shoving them into his ears. just like he suspected, her voice calls men to the ocean, like a moth to light and they have no choice but to follow. but dean was smarter and prepared. as he travels along the beach, he spots a cove in the distance and a smile spreads across his tanned face. "i got ya now.." he mutters as he hikes up his bag and heads straight for, what he suspected, was the mermaid's lair.

each droplet echoed throughout the desolate cove. the walls damp and the floor covered in trodden barnacles and washed-up seaweed. each of dean's steps had to be calculated as any could lead to a fatal mistake and he wasn't about to let anything get in his way. your humming and soft tones bounced off the walls, flowing over dean and greeting him like a long-lost over as he pants and gasps, desperate to prove himself right and his father wrong. he had lost all sense of direction and time as he continues climbing further and further into your grasp, your voice becoming his only compass.

dean falters, dropping his bag and leather jacket from his grasp, as he finally reaches an opening, wherein a glittering, untouched inlet lapped at the edges. dean scrambles forward, his jeans scraping against the rock floor as he dives his hand into the cold tide pool and moans with relief as the cold water touches his lips. he rests his heated cheeks against the edge before splashing some water on his face and securing his ear plugs further. disorientation was your play; it was how you got even the strongest of men at their weakest, scared, desperate.

"you're not like the others." dean's emerald eyes fly open and he throws himself back away from the edge, away from you. you treaded the water gracefully as you intently watched him, the tide caressing your soft skin. your hair was slicked back revealing each intricate detail of your face in the dimly-lit cove. beads of ocean running down your cheeks bones and gliding over the soft pillows of your lips. how could something so beautiful, be so deadly? dean shook his head as he laid frozen, his breathing quick and shallow.

"the others?" his deep voice a contrast to the delicate setting.

"you know which ones." you say nonchalantly with a small shrug of your shoulders, as if you hadn't killed them. you swim forward and fold your arms over one another as you rest your chin on top, a small smile playing on your lips. "pathetic and entitled. stupid." you laugh, running your tongue over your sharp canines. teeth made to tear men to shreds. dean finally sits himself up and tries to shake his fears of him. he came here for a reason and he wasn't going to leave empty-handed.

"entitled?" dean asks, eager to learn from their mistakes.

"they thought they deserved me, as if i was something to own. so i showed them the truth." you cock your head as if the answer is obvious but dean only lifts his brows in confusion which got a sigh from you. "the ocean can't be owned or tamed, neither can a woman."

"you're not a woman." dean says pointedly, receiving a sneer from you. "you're a mermaid. you're meant to be extinct, haven't been found in hundreds of years." dean regurgitates what his father told him all those years ago.

"that's what we wanted you to think."

"who?"

"men, hunters, sailers. anyone who wanted to harm us. we dove to uncharted depths, but after a while, you get that craving. that yearning." you sigh as you trace your finger over the shell-speckled edge. "are you here to hurt me?" your eyes meet his, challenging him.

"no." truth.

"are here to capture me?"

"no." lie.

"then why are you here? you seem to know a lot about mermaids." you furrow your brows in suspicion as you lift and point your finger to his ear. "i can spot the plugs from here. smart." you pull yourself more out of the pool and lean yourself over more across the cold, cove bed. seaweed tangled around your chest and stretched out over your shoulders, as opposed to the sea-shells that dean was expecting, whilst your kept your shimmering tail submerged still, playing with the waves.

"my dad... was a hunter. told me all about you. said i'd never see one like you, that i was stupid to think i would." dean admits, his heart clenching at the thought of his dad's harsh words. he was only a child.

"you smell like a hunter." you state, propping your chin on your palm. "is that why you've been sitting on the beach all those nights, just... waiting for me?" you tug your soaked hair behind your ear with a small giggle. one fact that john had also mentioned was that mermaid's were gullible, too gullible for their own good.

"yes, yes. of course! anything to see you." he eagerly nodded, playing to your weaknesses. "i just had to see you."

"wow..." you feel your cheeks heat up as you throw yourself backwards into the water, did a small back flip under water and spraying water all over a surprised dean. with you distracted, he took the opportunity to grab his bag closer to him, getting a grip on the fisherman's net he had stashed in it as you return to your original position with a wide smile plastered across your face. "you're the sweetest man i've ever met. and i've been around for a long time." you reach out your webbed hands to dean as he notices the small, iridescent scales running down your arms to your fingertips. he reaches out with a sweet smile and when you expect to feel the shake of his hand, you feel a harsh tug as you're pulled out of the water and enveloped in a tangled mess. you thrash your tail, try to scratch with your clawed nails and let out a shrill call, but to no avail. as you struggle against the net, a tear rolling down your cheek in disbelief, dean watches. frozen. he had done the impossible.

"let me go!" you call out, grabbing onto the net to shake it but yelping out in pain as the net burns your hands. you hiss and pull them back, eyes darting between the on-edge dean and the knotty tangle of rope.

"don't move too much." his voice stern, but he catches himself and softens his tone. "silver has been woven into the threads, it'll hurt if you move too much." dean whispers, your short sobs echoing off the salt-kissed stone. you pull your tail up to your chest and curl it around yourself like the comforting hold of a mother as you shiver, from the cold and fear.

"p-please. don't kill me. i'll go. i'll go anywhere else, i'll go back to the depths. whatever you want." you beg, your brows upturned. dean can't even look at you, knowing one look in your hopeful eyes would mean letting you go.

"i'm not going to kill you, i swear." he rustles around in his bag and pulls out the familiar leather bound journal of john winchester, flicks through a few pages and clicks the pen that came along with it. "we want to study you, show other hunters that you're back from extinction." dean hums as his eyes dart over your body, noting down the details he had noticed and the information that needed to be updated.

"if– if i help you, will you let me go? go back to my sisters?" you wipe your nose. "they'll get worried if i'm gone for too long, come searching for me."

"yes." dean lies, against his better judgement. he'd rather keep you calm and talkative, than panicked and silent. as expected, you fall for it, his tone assuring and confident and you nod as your breathing slows. dean had to wait for you to fall asleep to be able to get you out of the cove with the help of his brother, but for now, you both sat in a tense silence that was interrupted by dean's occasional questions. all the way throughout, you were honest but your eyes never left his face. you enjoyed his human tendencies. the scrunching of his small nose as he wrote, nibbling on his bottom lip and end of the pen as he continued to avoid your gaze.

as the last sea-water droplets roll of your skin and your hair slowly dries, you feel a shiver run deep, down your spin as you start to gasp for air. your webbed hands fly up to your throat as your scratch at your chest, panicked. dean throws john's journal to the side, leaping forward, holding his hands out in confusion.

"wh–what do i do? what's...?" is all dean can mutter as he watches the scene unfold it front of him. your tail unfurls and falls in front of you, the seaweed that clung to your chest falls into your lap, your scales shivering and peeling off. you watch in horror as your majestic, opalescent tail transform into water and revealing legs underneath as it cascades down and into the cove pool. as the ordeal washes over, you sigh and silently curse yourself, bringing your new-found knees to your chest and covering yourself from dean's look of disbelief and shock. "what?!" he half-yells, not understanding your calm demeanour.

"i forgot this happened, honestly." you stare in awe at your human form, wiggling your toes and fingers in sync and enjoying the feeling of your rounded teeth against your tongue. "i... i haven't been out of the water in a few centuries. yeah, when the sea-water dries, we return to our original form. how we looked before we drowned by angry sailors and were saved by sea foam. for men, the sea is terrifying and unruly. but for us, scorned women, it's a sanctuary."

"that's how mermaids are created?" dean has forgotten all about the damn journal and let's himself be taken your words.

"that's how some are created. not everyone has the same story. all we know is that the ocean, she saved us. made us." you nod with a small smile. "i... i have to be back in the water within the hour or i turn to sea-foam... just so you know." it was dean's turn to nod with a smile of defeat. there goes his plan. a silence covers you both like a blanket but a small cough from you pulls dean out of his thoughts as he tries to come up with a new plan, but fails to do so. "can i at least take the net off? i'll... i'll answer more of your questions, i won't try to leave. i swear."

"oh, yeah. let me just..." dean shuffles forward as you lift up your arms, freeing you from the net but catching a glimpse of your chest in the process. he holds his breath as he keeps his gaze skyward, blindly grabbing at twisted threads and throwing them to the side. he reaches behind him and pulls forward his oversized leather jacket to you. you giggle as you reach forward, your fingers gliding over his before pulling it on and wrapping it around you. dean gazes at you out of the corner of his eye and sighs with relief at your covered form as he stretches and rubs the back of his neck. he pulls out his earplugs, fearing you less now that you had become human right in front of him.

"you're quite the gentleman, aren't you? looks like your father taught you well." you comment, your eyes filled with admiration. despite your human form, your mermaid traits still shone through.

"my father taught me no such thing." dean bites, his head whipping to the journal and tucking it back into his bag. you rest your chin on your knee and immediately realise that you hit a nerve.

"but he did give you a name. you still haven't told me yours." you point out, as you fiddle with your fingers.

"dean." he coughs, turning back around and facing you again. his shoulders relaxing and his gaze softening. "dean winchester." you hum and smile at him, sharing your name in return.

"dean. well, dean. if you're not going to ask me any more questions, how will we fill the time?" a suggestive smile plays on your soft lips. "i can't remember the last time i felt the loving touch of a man." you cock your head as dean's mouth gapes, taken aback by your honesty. you lean forward on all fours with dean's jacket hanging off your naked body and crawl forward. you mirror his position and kneel in front of him, your knees touching, the jacket sliding off your shoulder and your chest barely concealed. you reach out, grab dean's hand and lift it up until it rests against your breast, his hand instinctively cupping it in his large palm. eyes locked on one another's like the tension might snap if either of you blinked. his thumb runs over your nipple and a gasp escapes you as he slowly circles it and rubs it between his two digits. "dean, please." you mutter breathlessly as you lean in and brush your nose against his, your lips hovering over and grazing his. a small tug on your nipple and a unison of hisses before he carefully presses his lips to yours. you tentatively kiss, tongues slowly gliding against each others as his other hand reaches up and palms your other breast with the same level of care as before.

"can i...?" dean whispers against your lips, his hands reaching up and grabbing the edges of his jacket and as you nod, he slowly slides it off your shoulders and it falls with a heavy thud. you reach out and tug on his t-shirt with a smirk and dean quickly gets the hint by yanking it over his head and chucking it to the side. you both raise up onto your knees and let your hands and his explore each others bodies. groping, gliding, grabbing accompanied by soft kisses and high-pitched whines. your arms settle around his neck as he holds you by your waist, pulling you as close to him as possible. chest to chest. heart to heart. his fingers digging into your supple skin as your nails drag across his scalp, tugging on his short locks and nipping at his lips as he hisses. your lips travel down his neck, licking and leaving open-mouthed kisses against his pulse-point. "oh fuck..." his groans echo throughout the cove as you melted into his touch as he holds you tight against him, like two lovers reunited. nails scratching against his back and teeth grazing the tender skin of his neck as he mewls under you. the sweetest sounds you've ever heard.

"please, touch me. i need it so bad." you mutter against his shoulder before lightly biting down, just enough to leave indents speckled across his broad muscles. you drag your lips across his skin and back up to his lips which eagerly meet yours in a frenzied kiss. "please, dean." you whisper into the kiss and dean only replies with a short laugh before letting his grip fall from your waist and find his way between your legs. his fingers caress your inner thighs as you flinch and twitch. the light brush of his fingers a welcomed change from the harsh pulls and tugs of the ocean, restlessly beating against your skin. they continue to run and brush over where you need him most, where your wetness is pooling and slowly dripping down onto dean's soft fingertips. he smiles into the kiss and lets out a satisfied moan as he meets your juices and finally lets his fingers dive into you. they slip between your folds and move up to meet your clit, where he rubs your arousal all over it. your legs falter and your breath stutters at the foreign sensation as your moans rumble in your chest.

"like that, sweetheart?" he mumbles and all you can do is nod as he increases the pressure, circling your engorged bud before going back into your folds and teasing your opening. you latch onto him for support and throw your head back as your hip stutters before slowly rocking in sync with his rough fingers playing with your clit. "god, you're soaked, angel." he sighs as he admires you, the way your body reacts to him. he quickly pulls away and you groan in defiance before you hear him shuffling around before slowly guiding you to lay down. instead of the damp, cold stone against your bare back, you're met with the soft satin of the inside of dean's leather jacket. dean goes on all fours in between your thighs and continues torturing and teasing you with fleeting touches and featherlight kisses starting from your knee, past your thigh and up to your abdomen.

"deeeaan..." you whine as you writhe and grab onto the jacket, your desperation for dean becoming overwhelming. just as you open your mouth to complain, dean complies with a wicked smile and watches your face in awe as his fingers finally indulge you and pushes past your folds. his middle finger, with an aching slowness, drags itself in and out of your entrance, taking his time with you before adding another. his thick fingers gradually work you open and you groan as you stretch around his digits. a harsh suck and a kitten lick to your clit forces you to lift your head and meet a smirking dean. you settle back, leaning on your elbows as dean puts on a show for you. moaning and humming with content as he buries his tongue into your folds and bumps your clit with his shaped nose as his fingers continue their torture on your spongy walls. pleasure that you had sought out for years was finally years and you couldn't help but roll your eyes into the back of your head and let him feast on you like a starved man.

"mmmhm, nghhhn– mmm..." dean's moans were obscene and only added to your pleasure. you feel him stop and you lift your head to protest, but his glistening chin and slick lips stop you in your tracks. you hadn't seen something as breath-taking as him in aeons with his messy hair, hooded emerald eyes and a knowing smile. he leans back down and trails kisses from the top of your mound to the valley of your tits, before capturing your neglected nipples in between his glossy lips. your legs spread further apart as his pace quickens, his fingers massaging your g-spot with precision. you gaze down at him and the desperation on your face is clear as you slowly rock your body and meet his fingers in a frantic rhythm. "gonna cum, baby?" he hums, his lips still latched around your nipple, before switching to the other. a whimpered "mhm" slips past your lips as the pleasure builds, like a firework rearing to explode. a mess of garbled moans and whimpers escape you as you cum all over dean's fingers, unashamedly groaning dean's name as he admired the sight of you falling apart in his hands. he pulls out his two fingers and pulls back to marvel at them, your arousal covering and dripping down his hand. your chest heaves and heart almost stops as with a wide smirk and eyes centered on you, he presses them to his flattened tongue and sucks them dry with a barely-controlled moan. "delicious." he mutters and before he can say another word, you lean forward and try to undo his trousers with shaking hands.

"i want to touch you, feel you. please." you whine, but dean only pats your flushed cheeks and carefully tucks your hair behind your ear.

"every second i am not inside you, is a second wasted." you're pushed back down and in a matter of seconds, dean is stripped naked and in between the comfort of your thighs, hoisting your legs up to rest comfortably around his waist as he pumps himself once, then twice. he drags his cock through your folds a few times, stopping at your pulsing entrance before teasing again. he pauses and holds your gaze before pushing himself into you and the newfound sensation has you gasping underneath him. "so fucking tight, my god." he falls forward, encircling you tightly in his arms and nestling his head into the crook of your neck as he slowly rocks his hips. your nails rake down his back and your pleas for "faster, harder" are obeyed by him. he drives himself into you, pushing your thighs further apart to go deeper, to fully bury himself. your limbs clung around him like seaweed tangled in the current.

"oh my god, dean...!" you harshly whisper into his ear before tugging on his lobe with your teeth, pulling a hiss from him as his momentum wavered before pulling himself back, lifting your right leg as the other stay curled around his waist and hammering into you. all you could think about was dean. dean, dean, dean. his quiet gasps becoming raw, echoing groans as your pussy clenches around his length, nearing another climax. the pleasure trickled down your spine like an escaped bead of water before pooling in your core and you let yourself be drowned in the pleasure. as the pleasure crescendoes and peaks, dean grabs onto your hips whilst tipping back and making you straddle him. you immediately take over and ride dean's thick cock whilst his hands on your body like an octopus; everywhere, all at once, impossibly urgent. one rests on your hip and the other finds it's way to your clit, rubbing messy circles against it. you bounce, thrust, grind as your hands rest on his solid chest. he thrusted his hips up to meet yours, his balls slapping up against the base of your ass.

"gonna c-cum, baby." he gasps and your pussy involuntarily flutters around his cock as both hands are now guiding your hips. "gonna cum so fucking hard." he pants, struggling to keep his breath under control. you clench your jaw and bite down on your lip as your hips grow tired, your pace hitting its final peak as dean finally releases himself inside of you. with his final finishing thrusts, you gush around him for the third time and then collapse onto his chest in exhaustion. you lay together in silence for a minute or two, before peeling yourself off of him and wiping his sweaty forehead with the back of your hand. you climb off him and settle back with your knees to your chest and pulling the leather jacket over you as dean slowly gets dressed, eyes drifting over to you and quickly darting away again.

"will i ever see you again?" you ask with hesitation, already knowing the answer. dean lets out a short laugh before kneeling down in front of you and placing a soft kiss against your dry lips.

"i hope so. i want to." foreheads resting against each others. "but i'm not sure how we can." a low sigh and saddened eyes.

"me neither." your heart clenches. "but i won't ever forget you, dean." your hand finds his and gives it a soft squeeze.

"yeah?" he raises a brow and you assure him with a nod. "i want to make sure of that." he leans away for a second, pulls off his amulet and places it down around your head. a smile that reached his eyes grew as he peered down at the small golden trinket. "but i'm gonna be needing this back." he peels the jacket off you, hooks his finger into it and places one last kiss against your forehead as he rests on it his shoulder.

"be careful, my trigger man." you whisper as he grabs the forgotten journal and stuffs it into his bag. a breathy laugh followed by a longing gaze.

"i'll see you around. don't go causing more trouble." he warns with a wink as he watches you wave and slowly immerse yourself back into the cove pool. with the blow of a kiss to dean, you fully submerge yourself and feel yourself return to your former self. the cove grew silent once again, except for the drip of droplets and a heavy sigh from the older winchester.

"where the hell have you been? i've been looking for you for like," sam peers down at his watch." half an hour!" sam complains as dean comes sauntering back with his bag slung over his shoulder and jacket dragging in the sand.

"don't get your panties inna twist. can't a guy just go for a walk? admire the sunrise?" dean points out at the ocean and the orange glow that was cascading down onto the beach, bathing the brother's in a growing heat. sam scratches his head.

"since when have you ever watched a sunrise?" he sneers, before sighing as dean sits down next to him and pushing sand onto him.

"often. mind your business." dean retorts before fixing his gaze over the horizon.

"hmph." sam furrows his brows at dean before joining him at gazing out over the tide that slowly rolled in. "did i miss anything?"

"no." dean answers almost too quickly. "it's been silent all night." sam groans and runs his hands through his shaggy hair.

"that means one more night sitting on this fucking beach."

"no, i... i think it was just accidents, sammy. dad was right, mermaids are extinct, don't exist." dean pulls out his mobile and waves it in sam's face. "plus, bobby texted me with a new case. something we can actually hunt." dean's tone convincing, convicted. sam almost didn't dare question it, so he just nodded and started to gather his things. as the brother's walked away, sam peered down at his shorter brother and cocked his head.

"where'd your amulet go?"

"must've lost it when i went swimming." dean's lack of panic and cool composure shocked sam more than anything had in a while; that amulet meant everything to dean. sam just nodded and continued to march on towards the impala. dean hung back a little, gazing one last time over the ocean and seeing the tip of a familiar tail travelling to the unexplored depths alongside the torn pages from his dad's journal. you were his secret to keep.

a/n: my dean debut!! ahhh!! i had so much fun writing this and really let my imagination flow. fun fact: when i was a child, i always wanted to be a mermaid so this was fulfilling for me, hehe LIKES, FEEDBACK & REBLOGS are appreciated, support your creators. ⭑ millie's masterlist ⭑ -`♡´- tag list: @0ccvltism @adoredawn @angelically-yours @barnes70stark @bittersweetfig @bejeweledinterludes @blossomingorchids @bluemerakis @briiverse @cowboysandcigarettes @daylighted @deansbeer @deanspookiebear @diawinchester217 @emeraldcrs @faiszt @frank3nfag @h8aaz @honeyyxxbee @insensiblelimerence @jasvtsc @k-slla @kamisobsessed @lanasgirlfr @legalmente-loca @littlesoulshine @lunaleah @mads-ackles @maneaterarabella @marvelgeeka @missus-ackles @mostlymarvelgirl @nperoconelcositoarriba @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @samslovebug @sl33pylilbunny @soldierboysdoll @sugardean @sunnyteume @sunsettsam @supernaturaldoll @tinas111 @titsout4jackles @vmiina (comment or inbox me to be added/taken off)

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gtgbabie0 · 9 months ago

Text

Bi Han x Wife!Reader

Synopsis: {Bi-Han did not have many weaknesses— but you?… you could make him completely fall apart}

For my other works my Masterlist is here <3

!!-18//MDNI-!! Enjoy my lovelies 💕

It was a rare moment to see your husband so at peace, his brows unfurled and his shoulders relaxed, the sight was welcoming— you daren’t even speak not wanting to break the silence that had blanketed itself around the steamy atmosphere.

The hot springs were always a nice way to end a stressful week, the warmth of the water chased away that chill that nipped the air not to mention how good he looked— his hair pulled back into a bun with a few stubborn strands that fell to frame his face, the way the water glistened across his chest and his toned arms that were resting upon the smooth rocks… you were lucky indeed.

Although such silence spoke more to Bi-Han than words did, he could sense your tender gaze upon him and knew exactly what was going through your mind— perhaps that’s why the corners of his lips twitch up into a small smile, he knew you far too well.

“Will you join me anytime soon or will you just keep staring?” He asks, his voice deep and almost commanding beneath the softness that seems to overtake him in your presence. He opens his eyes to look up at you standing there with a silk robe wrapped around your body tightly.

A small scoff falls from your lips as you roll your eyes, averting your gaze in an attempt to be respectful— and to save yourself from further embarrassment.

“I am not staring… just admiring, there’s a difference.” You mutter the response softly, fiddling with your fingers.

“Well your admiring is almost too polite, come here.” His tone carries a certain twinge of playfulness, something you don’t hear a lot from him save for in private— where he can let that mask of his slip and open his heart to you.

With that you let your robe drop, the silk rippling against the curves of your body to pool at your feet leaving you bare for him and he shamelessly drinks in the sight, his gaze dragging along the slope of your shoulders down towards your chest and over your hips and thighs— he was absolutely enraptured by you, every single inch.

Bi-Han’s gaze follows you closely as you step down the stone stairs and into the hot waters, wading closer to him. It was almost a shame to call you mortal because it was clear to him that the gods were your creators, sculpted beneath their fingertips.

Especially right now, with the pale light of the moon kissing your skin and casting an otherworldly glow around your body— you are the girl that all the poets write about.

“You’ve been neglecting me as of late.” You state so matter of factly, sticking your chin out in a playful confidence. The statement breaks him out of the trance you seem to have trapped him in.

At your words he sighs, yes he’d been neglecting you, but it wasn’t on purpose. In fact, he’d gone to bed many nights swamped by guilt for how little time he has had for you recently, but on the other hand, this distance was for you— to build a life where you would be protected.

“I’ve had much to do in preparation, forgive me.” He says, voice gruff yet gentle… always so gentle with you.

You hum in understanding, padding your way closer to him through the steamy water and as soon as you’re close enough his hands immediately find purchase on your bare hips, tugging you near his body, he couldn't help himself, he ought to have more self-control he thinks to himself yet you seem to call to him like a siren does to a sailor.

“Well… am I to remain with this burning between my legs?— or will my husband make up for his negligence?” You respond playfully, brushing your fingers through the water and watching it ripple in small waves, looking up at him through your eyelashes.

The bluntness of your words catches him slightly off guard, making him chuckle through his nose as he drags the roughness of his fingertips along your waist and up your spine then back down again.

“Come here then, I’ll see what I can do about this burning of yours, hmm?” And with that he’s cupping the back of your thigh, pulling you to straddle his lap as the water sloshes up against your bodies and the rocks.

Your hands instinctively reach out to rest against his broad shoulders, stabilising yourself as he cups your chin to tilt your head in his direction— his thumb brushes along your bottom lip with an almost reverent look in his dark eyes.

Being so intimately pressed up against one another sends your mind into a hopeless flurry of emotions and thoughts and Bi-Han reveals in the way squirm against him, the small noises that you make and how your pupils dilate.

“Yes, please—” you breathe almost pleading, meeting him halfway in a slow kiss that borders on desperation. His lips slotting perfectly against your own and he swears you were made for him, every curve and dip of your body.

Your fingers pull on the tie that keeps his hair up, dropping it into the water before running your hands through his dark tresses as he deepens the kiss— his tongue pushing past your parted lips to brush against your own, trying to tug you impossibly closer.

He can’t help but smirk at the feeling of your hips grinding against him in search of that friction you so heedlessly need. “Mm, I’ve got you, my love.” He whispers in between lazy kisses that taper off into small pecks, his lips trailing along your jaw— a hot mixture of teeth and tongue pave the way down your neck and over your collarbones, focusing on the spots that make you whimper and arch into his toned body.

Your whole body flushes with a tingling sensation as he dips his hand between your legs, his fingers dragging along the coarse hairs on your mound before pushing between your slick folds— a sharp gasp escapes your lips and your hand grasps a little tighter in his hair which causes him to groan in return, a sound that makes a familiar heat pool in your abdomen.

It was all so dizzying and the heat from the hot springs certainly didn’t help either, but you couldn’t say you minded not when his calloused fingertips rub slow circles over your clit-- the sudden feeling makes your hips buck against his hand, the warm water lapping up at your back and against the smooth rocks.

“Mhm— more, I need you.” You’re already in a daze of pleasure and lust, it didn’t take that much for him to render you into a blabbering mess and he basked in it every single time.

His hand tightens around your jaw ever so slightly, his thumb pressing into the corner of your mouth and he stares up at you in pure wonderment, enjoying every small little twitch in your face as he continues to circle at your clit.

“Shh my sweet, patience you know I’ll give you everything you want… always,” he seals the promise with a kiss, smiling against your lips as you moan so carelessly into his mouth at the feeling of his middle finger dipping into your wet hole, followed by his ring finger.

The slickness of your walls clenching around his digits only serves to turn him on, his cock hardening in between your thighs as he pumps his fingers in and out of your greedy cunt— curling them deeply in a way that makes you arch and whimper, grinding yourself against the heel of his palm.

His fingers stretch you open slowly, the water splashing up against your body, water droplets trickling down your jaw and rolling along your shoulders.

“I need you… inside me, please.” The words fall from your lips so carelessly, heady in a sense— completely drunk on the pleasure he was giving to you.

He gives in to your wants, as always, he could never find it in himself to make you wait especially when you make such pretty noises— and partly because of how hard he is.

The loss of his thick fingers is soon replaced by his cock, his hands now grasping at the fat on your hips as he slowly guides you down onto him whilst you pant and moan into the crook of his neck— whining about how big he is which only elicits a deep chuckle from him. The sound rumbling through his chest, you could feel it against your own.

“Shh, you can take it… take me so well,” Bi-Han groans, tipping his head backwards slightly as you take all of him deep inside you, practically sucking him in and he breathes some comment about how ‘tight’ you are and how much he 'missed you'.

It’s all such a haze in your mind, your eyes bleary with lust as he helps you move against him— your knees pressing either side of his thighs, your nails biting into his broad shoulders— it drove him insane and he can’t help the way he grunts at the feeling, his hands squeezing at the curve of your ass.

The tip of his cock hits your cervix with every bounce, each one more intense than the other— the drag of his cock along your walls brings you closer and closer to the edge. It was a little embarrassing how quickly your body starts to tremble, the familiar tingle that flickers down your spine leaving a searing heat.

“I can’t— I can’t,” you’re a blabbering mess, letting him take control as he guides your hips up and down along his thick cock— thrusting up into your wet cunt as you practically melt into his strong body.

“You can, my girl… let go.” He whispers through slightly gritted teeth, smirking against the dewy skin of your shoulder as you loop your arms tightly around his neck— “I’m right there with you,” he grunts, turning his head to brush his lips along the curve of your jaw,

Through whiny moans your orgasm washes over you, fingers buried in his hair as your warm heat clamps down around him until he’s spilling deep inside your womb— the pair of you immediately finding each other's lips in a slow and needy kiss, his nose brushing against your own.

“I’ve got you, always,” Bi-Han whispers hoarsely, his arms wrapping around your waist to hold you close to him as your body goes all boneless against him, all you can do is whimper in response. The heat from both your bodies and the water provided a sense of comfort, along with the way his calloused hand rubs your back soothingly… he’d never make you wait so long again.

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all444glo · 3 months ago

Text

SATIVA

summary: i’m ngl this is porn with plot LMAO

warnings: 18+, judes an eater, praise kink central

You were excited to see Jude.

It hadn’t even been that long since you’d seen him, but when you loved someone the way you loved Jude, every day apart felt like a week. He rarely made it out to the States during the season, and when he did, it was quick—just long enough for a dinner, maybe a night together, and then he was gone again. You loved how much he thrived in Madrid, but you hated that you couldn’t show him your side of things like he showed you his.

Fortunately for you—unfortunately for him—Real didn’t make it all the way this year. Knocked out of Champions League, no trophies to bring home. He wouldn’t say it, but you knew it crushed him. Still, it meant he had almost a month free before heading back to Europe for pre-season training. And you were going to make every day of it count.

You wore a red tight silk dress, strapless, soft against your skin and clinging to all the right places. You cooked for him, too—baked chicken, mac and cheese, greens, cornbread. Real soul food. Stuff he’d only ever seen online and begged you to make. You liked taking care of him like this, especially when it reminded him of what home could feel like, even far away from it.

But your final surprise? That was sitting on the coffee table.

A perfectly rolled blunt. Yours.

Jude had mentioned it a few times—joking about how he’d never smoked, not even in England. Between drug testing and being in the spotlight, he never took the risk. But here, in Chicago, off-season, tucked away in your apartment? It felt safe. And something about the idea of him being high for the first time around you made you curious.

You had music playing—smooth R&B in the background—and the scent of dinner filled the space when he finally knocked at your door.

You opened it before he could even knock again. “Hey, baby.”

He smiled, his boyish grin that still made your chest flutter. “My shaylaaa,” he murmured, pulling you into a hug. He lifted you off the ground with ease, kissing the side of your face as your dress rode up. “You look... wow.”

You flushed a little, hiding your smile in his neck. “You hungry?”

“Starving.” He stepped in and froze the second he saw the table. “No way you made all this.”

“I told you I got you.”

He set his bag down, still taking it all in, then noticed the blunt.

He looked at you, half surprised, half impressed. “You serious?”

You nodded. “Only if you want to.”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Let’s do it.”

You watched Jude fumble with the blunt, his long fingers awkward as hell around it. He rotated it and inspected it, as if he was holding some kind of alien technology. “Jude why would you have me light this shit if you’re just gonna stare at it.” You said slightly getting irritated, it didn’t matter if he wasn’t smoking anymore cause you sure were. Jude mean mugged you as he took a deep drag, held it in like he was trying to prove something, then let out this sharp cough that caught you off guard.

“Oi, that burns,” he muttered, voice rough, eyes watering.

You smirked, handing him a glass of water. “God don’t like ugly.”

He rolled his eyes as took a slow sip, then blinked a few times, trying to focus. “I’m feelin’... a bit dizzy. Like my mouth’s on fire, but my head’s floaty?”

You laughed softly. “That’s to be expected honey, you clearly got yourself a little buzzed”

He slumped back on the couch, blinking like he was trying to process a million thoughts. “ Not really—this one hit is barely doing anything.”

You nudged him playfully. “You’re a big guy, Jude. Over six foot, what, 220? One hit ain’t finna get you rapper high.”

He groaned, sliding down further, hair tousled, cheeks flushed from the cough. “Feel like I’m on a boat. Sea’s moving, but no engines yet.”

You took the blunt from him and took a few puffs, already feeling your eyes get heavier and heavier. The familiar high creeping in on you, you took another puff once again and motioned for Jude to come closer. You kissed Jude, exhaling all the smoke from your mouth into his. You could tell he was surprised but it only got him higher. You didn’t even need the weed, your presence made him dizzy enough.

You laughed harder as you pulled away, he looked incredibly dazed. “You gonna be alright?”

He looked over at you, eyes glassy but mischievous. “I don’t know, babe. I think I wanna... I don’t know how to say this.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Try me.”

He cleared his throat, voice a little shaky, “I wanna eat you out. Like, really —’cause I feel like I need to focus on somethin’ other than this dizzy nonsense. You get me?”

You bit your lip, surprised but amused. “You’re all hot and bothered already? Thought that would’ve came later in the night…”

“Shut up,” he said, sitting up straighter, fingers twitching. “I swear, if I don’t get my hands on you, I might pass out. You look so good, I can’t think straight.”

You smiled, sliding closer. “Who knew weed turned you into an eater”

He chuckled, voice soft, “Am I not an “eater” any other time?”

You reached out, took his hand, and squeezed it gently. “I’m gonna hold your hand when I say this, you’re usually not this excited to eat it”

“Love what are you talking about, i’ve literally ripped the gym shorts off of you and ate you in my kit—“

You promptly stood up, tugging him with you toward the bedroom, the haze around him making every step feel a little surreal.

Once inside, he dropped his bags, eyes wide as he took in the sight of you—your dress clinging to your curves, the candlelight casting soft shadows.

“Fuck, y/n, you look—wow,” he whispered, voice cracking just a bit.

You chuckled, walking over slowly, hand trailing down his arm. “You said that already”

“I know,” he admitted, teeth clenching for a moment. “Every time I look at you I remember how much I wanna taste you.”

You laughed softly, the way he said it was so genuine it made your heart flutter.

“Alright,” you said, “but you gotta tell me if you need a break, yeah?”

He nodded eagerly, voice low and needy. “Promise.”

You sat on the edge of the bed, pulling him down with you. His breath hitched as your hands traced the line of his jaw.

“Tell me what you want,” you murmured.

He swallowed, eyes darkening, “I want to make you feel good. I wanna make you cum everyday i’m here.”

You smiled, heart speeding up. “Cmon.”

Your voice was soft but steady as you guided him down between your legs, the silk of your dress rising inch by inch until the back of it kissed your hips. Jude knelt on the floor, fingers pressing into the meat of your thighs like he needed to hold on to something real. His eyes moved slowly, drinking you in like he’d never seen anything so divine.

“You sure?” you asked, the teasing laced in your tone, but your heart still beat hard against your chest.

“I’m not stopping, y/n,” he said, gaze locked on yours. “Not until you’re shaking”

You blinked down at him, lips parting slightly. Something about the way he said it… that slow, quiet confidence… made your stomach twist. His hands ran up your thighs, slow and steady, thumbs brushing just beneath the hem of your underwear.

“Let me have it,” he whispered. “Been thinking about this all flight—he’ll even during my games Don’t make me beg.”

You laughed, just barely. “I thought this was the begging.”

“Not yet,” he murmured, voice low and rich, mouth moving close enough that you felt the heat of his breath through the fabric. “But I can & I will.”

Then he kissed over the cotton between your legs, like it was holy. Once. Twice. His lips moved deliberately, mouthing you slow through the softness, and your hips twitched before you even realized you were reacting. His eyes flicked up, watching the way your head tilted back slightly, mouth parting.

He smiled.

“Yeah,” he cooed, “just like that.”

His fingers curled around the waistband and you lifted your hips to help him, your panties sliding down your legs and tossed aside. Then came the pause — Jude just stared for a moment. Blinking. Lips parted. A breath caught in his throat.

“My lord,” he breathed. “You’re beautiful.”

Your legs shifted slightly, unsure what to do with all that attention, but his hands were quick to press your thighs apart again.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said softly. “Let me see you.” Then his tongue was on you. He started slow, so slow it nearly drove you insane. He was gentle at first, tentative — tasting, exploring. You could feel the way he adjusted, learning your reactions, taking his time like he had nowhere else to be. His tongue traced slow circles, then flattened against your clit, dragging up deliberately. Your hips bucked just slightly as he chuckled against you

“There she is,” he murmured, breath hot against your slick. “Y’like that?” “Mmhm,” you breathed, hand sinking into his curls. “That’s my pretty girl,” he praised, voice thick with hunger. “Give me more. Need all of it.”

Your thighs tried to close around his head, but he kept them spread, arms locked around them as he dove in deeper, tongue flicking in tighter patterns now, confident.

He moaned into you, low and guttural — and that almost sent you over. The vibrations rocked through your core and your hands gripped his hair tighter.

“Jude—shit—right there—don’t stop—” He groaned again like he loved the way you said his name. Then he pulled back just a little, letting his fingers glide into you, one at first, then two, slow and steady as his mouth came back to your clit. Your body arched up into him, eyes rolling back.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he grunted, kissing you messily. “You’re squeezing my fingers like youn want me to come out.”

You whimpered — it was all too much. His voice, his mouth, the pace he’d set.

“I could eat you for hours, y’know that?” he said, licking slow up your center again. “I could’ve done it the first night I met you.”

“You didn’t even know me back then—” you choked out, laughing breathlessly.

“I knew,” he said, voice hard now, tongue teasing your clit again. “I knew I wanted you like this. Mouth full of you. Hands holding you open. You makin’ those pretty sounds.”

Your legs started to tremble and he noticed immediately, never letting up, never losing rhythm.

“Yeah… you’re close, huh?” he said, lips glistening, tongue relentless. “Come on, y/n. Don’t hold back. Let me feel it.”

“Jude—fuck—I’m gonna—”

You fell apart then, hips jerking, a moan tearing from your throat so raw and loud it made the windows shake. Jude didn’t stop — not right away. He kept licking until your legs were twitching and you had to physically push his head back, breathless and dazed.

When he pulled away, his lips were swollen, chin slick with you, and the look in his eyes?

Starved.

You stared at him, chest heaving. “You okay?”

He nodded, crawling up toward you, hovering above. “Still hungry,” he admitted, smiling. He kissed your lips slow and deep.

“Still hungry? You’re insane” You said as your body still trembled faintly. You laid back on the bed, legs loose and splayed, your chest rising and falling in slow, uneven breaths. Jude’s weight shifted beside you, but he didn’t say anything at first — just watched you like he didn’t quite believe what he’d just done. Or what you let him do.

You turned your head slowly, catching the awe in his expression.“You alright?” you asked, voice soft and hoarse, lips curling gently. He nodded, licking his lips absently, still tasting you. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah, I’m good… better than good. You?”

You chuckled a little, brushing sweat-damp hair off your forehead. “Amazing’.”

That made him laugh, the tension cracking a bit. You sighed, letting your fingers spread across his skin, your nails tracing lazy shapes near his collarbone. “You did good, Jude. Real good.”

He smiled at that — not cocky, but quietly proud. “Didn’t hurt, right?” he asked gently. “I wasn’t too rough?” You shook your head. “You are a good eater, I tell you this every time”

He leaned in to kiss your shoulder, then your neck — slow, lingering kisses that felt more like thank yous than anything else.

“Come up here,” you murmured, tugging lightly on his arm until he laid fully beside you, chests pressed together. His skin was still warm from the rush, muscles soft now, loose and pliant.

You tucked your face into the crook of his neck, your arm resting across his waist as his fingers drew slow circles on your back.

“You still high?” you asked quietly, your breath ghosting over his throat.

“A little,” he confessed, chuckling. “Everything feels... floaty. Warm. Like I’m wearing a blanket made out of you.”

You laughed into his skin. “That’s so corny.”

“You love it.”

You sighed into him, letting the comfort settle. “Yeah. I do.”

His hand found yours again under the sheets, fingers lacing together. “I meant what I said earlier,” he murmured. “About wanting to make you cum every day I’m here.”

You hummed softly. “We’ll see if you keep that energy tomorrow.”

“Oh, I will,” he said, voice dropping just slightly again. “But right now… can I just hold you?”

You nodded into his chest as you drifted off to sleep.

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omega-e123 · 11 months ago

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Warning: Suggestive (nsfw)

Based by: “I wanna be your slave” by Måneskin

I love you since this morning, not just for aesthetic. I wanna touch your body, so fucking electric. I know you're scared of me, you say that I'm too eccentric I'm crying all my tears and that's fucking pathetic

Every time you and Shadow get heated up, he backs off. It never gets past a make out session. Once it feels like he’s gone too far, he pulls apart and apologizes. Opting to distract himself from you.

You thought that maybe there was something wrong with you. That’s not right. The theory was easily written off seeing as Shadow has chosen to stay with you all this time. He’s blunt. Most of the time, you don’t need to ask what’s wrong because he’ll straight up tell you. It’s what you love about him. No need to walk on eggshells or play the guessing game.

So why… is it when it comes to this, he’s dodging the situation like he’s in the matrix?

It came up again. You two were on the couch, supposed to be watching a show. One thing led to another and now here you are, straddling his lap. Bare hands graze along your spine. Lips connected in an intimate tango.

He wants to pull you closer. Tighter. Shadow needs to feel more of you. An animalistic growl escapes him. Your touch is a drug he’s horrendously addicted to. You are his lifeline. Separated, he’s nothing. Yet..

Shadows fingers twitch, feeling the need to claw up your back. To mark you so everyone knows you’re his. Fuck, he wants to sink his nails and fangs into you so bad.

Abruptly he stops. Eyes snap open and his hands rest on either of your shoulders, pushing you away. Breathing synchronized, panting, slowing down into a steady rhythm.

Your dumbfounded expression twists into a worried face. It’s your chance to ask what’s wrong. This time you will get an answer. Shadow is not allowed to leave until he spills.

His gaze goes everywhere but you. He can’t bear to look at you. It’s almost as if he’s.. ashamed? No. Under careful observation, the look on his face appears more afraid.

Once confident hands now tremble. Shadow’s head hanging low as his forehead rests on your chest.

Quiet as a mouse, he whispers, “I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Clarify. Please. Those words sound awful all on their own. There are a million different things that sentence could mean.

'Cause I'm the devil who's searching for redemption. And I'm a lawyer who's searching for redemption. And I'm a killer who's searching for redemption. A motherfucking monster who's searching for redemption

“I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I hurt you. Physically,” Shadow adds, finally making eye contact. A stray tear or two has found its way down his cheek.

“Trust me, I do want you..” Fangs sink into his bottom lip, drawing blood. He sighs, admitting, “I’ve never— done.. with anyone.”

You couldn’t find it in yourself to chuckle. Not when he’s in this state. Cupping his face, you wipe the tears with your thumbs, giving Shadow a reassuring smile. There's no need to rush things. Take it slow, take it easy. You're perfectly content with waiting however long. Silence follows after pecking his forehead.

Chaos, he doesn’t deserve you. Every fiber of his body screams at him, ‘he doesn’t.’ After all he’s done in the past, what he’s been through. Shadow is so lucky to have you. It’s a wonder how you could love a ‘monster’..

That’s not who or what he is. Not to you.

Shadow the hedgehog.

The ultimate life form.

For you he’s… your partner. Your lover.

A friend. A rock.

The one who has been by your side no matter what.

To him, you are a beacon of light. One he should protect. Another reason for him to keep existing. He’d follow you to the ends of the earth.. Like a.. Well a shadow, of course.

I wanna be your sex toy, I wanna be your teacher

I wanna be your slave, I wanna be your master. I wanna make your heartbeat run like rollercoasters

“Teach me,” Shadow speaks up.

Tilting his head, he leans in towards so that it rests on your shoulder, breath hitting your neck. The urge to bite and suck on your neck is overwhelming.

Shadow tentatively licks your throat before placing a kiss.

“Teach me how to make you feel good.”

#shadow the hedgehog #shadow the hedgehog x reader #shadow x reader #sth #again not proof read #fuck it we ball #I started with a plan and then it got out of hand #hope you enjoy whatever this is #going to sleep now and dream about him🩷#if the formatting is weird on desktop I’m sorry #wrote all of this on my phone

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cmtwimagines · 8 months ago

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Drifting Apart

AARON HOTCHNER X READER

SUMMARY: You knew Aaron's job took a lot of his time, but you never imagined you would feel so left out of his life.

WARNINGS: insecurities (reader), slight mention of disordered eating/body dysmorphia, oblivious/neglectful hotch

WORD COUNT: 2.8k

The excitement you felt was palpable through the entire apartment. You spent the whole day cleaning, cooking, just overall preparing for Aaron to get home.

While he never went into too much detail about his cases and his job in general, his tone through texts and calls fills you in a bit on how he’s doing, and you know that the case him and the team have been working on was definitely not an easy one. He’s been more blunt and seemingly less interested in keeping the conversation going which you were trying not to take offense by, but hopefully when he comes home to the relaxing atmosphere of your shared apartment he will be back to his normal, loving self.

Just as you were plating both of your dinners you heard the sound of the front door unlocking. The ball in your stomach went crazy, your excitement sky rocketing knowing you are about to finally see Aaron after almost two weeks of him being away.

Moving out of the kitchen and towards the front door you were met with the sight of him slipping his shoes off and setting his briefcase down on the entryway table.

“Hi honey,” you greeted him softly, slowly grabbing his attention from the deep thought he was in. He turned his vision towards you and a small smile graced his face.

“Hi baby,” he replied. He walked towards you and gathered you in a hug, kissing the top of your head as you tucked yourself into his chest. Just the smell of him was sending your body into overdrive. God you missed him.

“I missed you,” you mumbled into his chest before pulling your head back to look up at him. His expression showcased that his brain was clearly somewhere else, not even bothering to look down at you, “dinner is ready, I cooked your favorite!”

That got his attention, but only for him to let out a deep sigh and step away from you. Your heart ached a bit at the motion, but you tried to remind yourself that his nerves are most likely shot and he’s tired.

“I’m not really hungry, I had a late lunch. I have more work I need to do so I’ll be in my office,” he shared, giving your hand a slight squeeze before walking off towards his office.

You really couldn’t help the frown from covering your face. He’s usually so excited to come home and spend time with you, but this time felt different. This time felt like he was almost annoyed that he was having to deal with yet another person (you). You willed yourself not to overthink it and got to covering his plate with tin foil and setting it in the fridge. What’s one more night of eating dinner by yourself, right?

Well, one night turned into two, which turned into four, which turned into an entire week of Aaron shutting down your dinners and overall spending no time with you. It’s like he’s home, but not really. With the way you were feeling, he may as well have still been on a case states away.

You tried to greet him every night when he entered the house, but it was always just a small hug and if you were lucky, a forehead kiss. He hasn’t even given you a full kiss since he’s been home. Most nights you’re asleep in bed hours before he joins you, and he’s up and gone before you’ve awaken.

You couldn’t help but ruminate in your mind that you must be doing something wrong. Maybe you were acting too clingy? Or maybe he came to his senses and realized he could do a lot better than you? Your insecurities ran wild and your days were growing treacherous, even your boss has began to ask you if you were doing alright.

You stood in front of your bathroom mirror taking in the sight of yourself. It took a good year and a half of being with Aaron for him to convince you that you were beautiful and that he’s never been so attracted to someone in his life, but now you weren’t so sure. Maybe if you made some changes he would start noticing you again. Maybe he was growing bored of the relationship or is coming to the realization that he doesn’t need you, and as much as you tried to tell yourself that’s not the kind of guy Aaron is and that it’s most likely his job that’s just stressing him out, your own brain couldn’t fathom that it’s anything but an issue with you.

You stood back and looked over your whole body. You’ve definitely gained what they claim as “happy relationship weight” and you couldn’t help but curse at yourself over that. Maybe he just wasn’t attracted to you anymore and his way of skirting around that is to just claim he has work to do so he can hole up in his office and not have you make advances towards him? Maybe since you stopped putting so much effort into your appearance he just doesn’t feel the same way he did in the beginning of the relationship?

You decided then and there that you would make some changes.

More weeks passed, and Aaron continued to go on multiple more work trips leaving you at home to work on yourself. You were successfully losing weight (logically you knew you weren’t doing it in the smartest of ways but no one was there to notice or stop you). You had your hair lightened, your teeth whitened, and you even went and thrifted a whole new wardrobe.

You rationally knew that you didn’t have to do all of this, that you shouldn’t have to do all of this to keep a relationship going, but your love for Aaron overtook any reasonable thought from your brain.

“Y/N? Where are you?” You heard Aaron call throughout the apartment. Your eyes widened at the sound of his voice. You hurried to hide the scale you were just stepping on and threw your clothes back on right as there was a knock on the bathroom door.

“I’ll be right out Aaron!” You hastily responded, wiping any remaining tears from your eyes and fanning your face, begging your body to cooperate with you.

You took a deep breath as you opened the door and immediately spotted him sitting on the edge of the bed looking right towards you as you stood in the bathroom doorway. His eyes widened a bit as a breath was stolen from him. This made you want to curl in on yourself more than you already were.

“I didn’t expect you home so soon,” you mumbled, stuck in your spot not knowing if you could approach him or not. This was all so weird, things had changed and you couldn’t figure out why. You didn’t know why he grew distant or why it all the sudden seemed like he could live without you. You two were doing really well, you even thought a proposal was in the near future.

“You changed your hair,” he stated. Not a compliment, but definitely not said with any malice.

“Yeah, I thought some change might be good,” you responded, still not being able to meet his eye contact. A soft sigh escaped his mouth as he stood up from the bed and walked towards you. You stiffened up a bit, not knowing what to expect out of this conversation. Was he going to break up with you? Was he going to fix things? Your mind was going crazy. You felt like you were going crazy.

His hand reached up to twirl some of your hair, inspecting it a bit more.

“You look beautiful no matter what color your hair is,” he whispered. This is the most attention he’s given you in weeks and it broke your heart a bit that maybe your suspicions were correct. Maybe he wasn’t attracted to you as you were and now this new look was bringing him back into the relationship.

You finally brought yourself to make eye contact with him, just for your eyes to begin filling with tears. You didn’t want to cry in front of him, in fear that it would chase him away even more, but there was nothing you could do in this moment. He was only a step away with his attention directly on you, and a frown was covering his own face.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out, bringing your hands up to your face to cover the tears that began to fall. The negative feelings you’ve felt over the past weeks surfacing just because of the slightest attention from him.

Deep down you felt angry. Angry that he was able to go day by day without your love and affection while all you wanted was his attention and love right back. Angry that he’s coming out of the woodworks now and suddenly ready to give you his attention. But you mainly felt insecure and sad. Insecure about yourself and that you clearly weren’t living up to what he needed. Sad that all you could think about was him and getting his attention just to never receive it.

“Why are you sorry?” He asks, lightly setting his hands on yours to pull them away from your face. You held your hands tighter against yourself, not quite wanting to face him yet. He retracted his hands but stayed where he was standing, not giving you anymore space, “Are you okay, honey? What’s going on?”

His question was enough for you to pull your hands away from yourself and give him a bewildered look. Does he not realize what he’s done over the past month or so? Does he not feel the separation between the two of you? Did he even miss you like you missed him over this time?

“What do you mean what’s going on?” You asked exasperated, “this is the first time you’ve truly talked to me in like a month, Aaron. I expected to come out of this bathroom and have you break up with me!” You exclaimed, throwing your hands up in the air just to land back at your sides.

“Break up with you?” He quietly repeats, taking a few steps back from you. His brows were furrowed, and he seemed to finally take in your state. You had lost a good amount of weight, the bones in your face a bit more prominent and deep bags formed under your eyes. You were wearing an outfit he had never seen you in, and it overall felt like you were cosplaying someone else.

“Was it something I did? Or the way I look? I promise I can change, just please don’t break up with me. I don’t want to experience this life without you,” you sobbed. You were beginning to panic, letting your insecurities out in fear that this will be one of your last moments with him.

His shocked face turned to a frown as he quickly approached you, pulling you into his chest and tucking your head under his chin.

“Y/N, I need you to believe me when I say I will never break up with you. You are it for me,” he speaks, rubbing your back to try and quell your sobs, “you did nothing wrong, there is nothing wrong with the way you look. you absolutely do not need to change anything about yourself. Is that why you changed your hair? And lost some weight? I am so sorry sweetheart,” he continues. He puts his hands on your arms and peels you apart so he can look you in your eyes, “I am so sorry, Y/N. I am sorry I made you feel this way. Work has just been crazy and I’ve been seemingly ignoring the one thing that matters most to me,” he admits. Your tears begin to slow but the shake throughout your body stayed put.

“You barely talked to me. You wouldn’t eat dinner with me, we haven’t spent time together in over a month. We sleep in the same bed but it feels like we’re worlds apart. Did you even miss me?” You replied, your heart breaking at your own words. He let out a deep sigh and began walking you back to the bed, gently sitting you down on it as he dropped to his knees so he was looking up at you while holding your hands.

“Believe me when I say I think about you all the time. I have missed you, and I have noticed the distance, I just didn’t know how to fix it with what was going on in my work life, but that’s not a good excuse,"

"You're right, Aaron, that's not a good excuse," you interrupted. You couldn't help but let your anger seep through a bit. He had noticed it all but didn't feel the need to change anything?

"I love you so much," you continued, "I love you so much that I've stuck through this, but I somehow blamed it on myself and thought there was something wrong with me. I thought I had done something wrong or you realized you weren't attracted to me, and it's not fair for you to just show back up and apologize like this past month hasn't hurt me to no ends."

He was still looking up at you from his kneeling position on the ground in front of you, his brows furrowed as he thought of a response.

"I should've communicated with you more, I know that," he started, placing his hands on each of your knees and gently rubbing, "I shouldn't have let work distract me so much from you, my sweet girl. I hate that I made you doubt yourself. Please let me make it up to you. You deserve so much better than how I've been treating you."

You couldn't help the tears filling your eyes once more. You hadn't thought about your reconciliation with Aaron throughout all of this. You hadn't thought about how you wanted him to apologize or what it would take for you to feel better about this all. All you know is you are grateful that he's back, and safe, and seemingly still in love with you.

"You still love me?" you ask quietly.

"Of course I do, honey. You are the love of my life. I couldn't even imagine not being in love with you."

He brought up a hand to wipe underneath your eyes before pulling you into a hug, tucking your head into the crook of his neck. You felt your body relax and took in a deep breath, letting the scent of him level your mind out.

"How about we start small?" he asks, bringing your attention back to the conversation and not just the physical comfort he was bringing you, "How about I order dinner in, you pick out a movie and we can get comfy on the couch and have an at home date night?"

"Yeah?" you ask, "you don't have any work to do?" you couldn't help question from falling from your mouth. You didn't want to hurt him or throw things back in his face, but you were still just a bit upset.

"No, baby. I have no work to do, and I have requested the entire weekend off so I can spend more time with you. I'm sorry for everything, sweetheart. I promise it'll never happen again."

He stood up from his kneeling position and grabbed your hands, pulling you up so you were standing face to face.

"I love you, and i'm so grateful for you. Thank you for sticking with me even when i'm hard to be with. Now please let me be here for you."

You couldn't help the small smile from forming on your face before falling into his embrace. He was quick to wrap his arms around you and kiss the top of your head. A deep sigh escaped your mouth, finally feeling the comfort you've been craving. Slowly turning your head up, you caught his attention before leaning in and kissing him. His hand gently carressed your cheek, pulling you deeper into the kiss. As you separated small smiles covered both of your faces, and your breaths mingled as you rested your foreheads together.

"I will never take advantage of your love for me ever again. I am sorry for abandoning you and making you feel like I wasn't in love with you anymore. I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you."

You nodded at his words, not having much to say other than acknowledging his apology.

"Now come on, let's decide what you're in the mood for dinner wise. I brought some nice wine home, and we can chat until the food gets here. I want to hear about every little thing that I have missed."

You knew this was a good start. You knew this conversation wasn't fully over and that you would have time to organize your thoughts and say what you really needed to say about the situation, but you didn't need to let them all out now. For now you were going to be thankful that he is back and you get a full weekend with him. For now you were going to bask in the fact that you have your Aaron back, and you two are back on the same page.

A/N - My writing is a little rusty from not writing for years, pls bare with me hahahaha i couldn't get the ending right on this but i was sick of it sitting in my drafts so i'm posting anways

#aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner angst #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds angst #criminal minds fluff #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fluff

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itsthecline · 10 months ago

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one conversation

maybank!reader x rafe cameron

summary rafe comes to pougelandia looking for sarah and finds you

warnings profanity , season four spoilers , use of marijuana , allusions to alcoholism , rafe being good at conflict resolution? , our girl is not standing on business at all

a/n initially , this had smut at the end , but i’m just finna two part ts for y’all<3

18+ minors dni

you were left alone to man the shop while the rest of your friends went to charleston. kie stayed behind as well , but she was driving all over the island trying to find jj. so here you were , doom scrolling behind the counter. you couldn’t stop yourself from thinking the worst when it came to what jj was up to or how the trip to charleston was going , but you could distract yourself and get high.

half of your blunt was gone when you thought you heard footsteps. you sat up straight , looking around the pillar you were leaned up against to see if anyone was there. pulling your headphones off , you took a deep breath. “no one’s here. no one’s trying to kill you. ghosts aren’t real,” you assured yourself before taking another hit of your blunt.

another puff and you heard more footsteps along with one of those eerie creeks from the wood. the scuba killer dude is so after me now. you hold your breath , not wanting him to hear you , but now your heartbeat was pounding more.

your hand fiddled around under the counter , feeling around for the knife you knew was there. it wasn’t the only one in the shop. the cool edge of the blade catches your finger and you grab it quietly , preparing yourself to fight a grown man who was dead set on killing you. the footsteps are getting closer , pausing every now and then like the man was looking around for you too.

“sarah?”

the all too familiar voice got your stomach to drop , your hand loosening around the knife entirely before you come out from around the cashier counter. “rafe?” you breathed out. the sweat that formed on the back of your neck had cooled , sending a chill down your spine.

your ex boyfriend turned at the sound of your voice , eyes softening at the sight of you clearly disheveled. “y/n , are you okay?” he instinctively asked , stepping toward you.

“i’m fine,” you answered shortly , backing up, “what’re you doing here?”

rafe chuckled , looking around the store. “what? ya can’t picture me just stopping by at my local bait shop?” he joked , fingers fumbling with one of the keychains that dangled on its hook.

“i don’t picture you at all anymore , rafe,” you simply replied , crossing your arms.

“agh! right— well , i came here looking for… my sister. i’m looking for sarah,” rafe explained , taking steps in a small circle just dicking around, “and you.” he stopped and a smile almost pulled at his lips. god , you missed his smile.

“well , sare isn’t here , so you’ll have to come back another time,” you shrugged , moving your way back behind the counter, “or not! sure you’re busy with sofia anyways. you should probably head out.”

rafe audibly groaned , bending back in frustration. “god damn it , y/n! could you— could you stop being difficult for one fucking second?” he cursed , rolling his eyes, “i’m— i’m tryna talk to you , baby.” your heart pinged at the nickname and the way rafe’s voice cracked just a little. the last time he called you that wasn’t even a part of your memory anymore. he leaned on the counter , resting his arms on the countertop and flicking at the pens in a metal tin.

and then you could smell it on his breath. to be fair , it was obvious the moment he started talking with his slurred words. “you’re drunk , rafe.”

“and? you’re high ; i can smell it,” he countered , finger coming up and booping you on the nose with a small laugh, “so what?”

you didn’t want to have to tell him to leave in the state he was in , but he could not be here when kie or jj got back. “i think you need to leave , dude,” you sighed , rubbing your forehead with your palm, “you can’t be here.”

“you used to beg me to come around the cut!” rafe whined , sniffling shortly, “now you don’t want me to?”

your eyes locked , and it was like time stood still. you thought you couldn’t read him anymore , but up close again , you know you could. he missed you. “i do,” you whispered , eyes still not leaving his, “but that doesn’t change anything.”

“one conversation,” he pleaded , grabbing your hand when you went to pull back again, “please.”

you always had trouble saying no to him. “fine,” you agreed , picking his keys up from the counter, “one conversation while i drive you home.” moving around the counter , you gently guided rafe back outside and to where his truck was parked. you helped him get in the passenger seat before getting behind the wheel and starting the truck. you heard the chime of your phone connecting to the bluetooth , and you cracked a smile. “sofia ever drive the truck?” you questioned , backing up and driving down the road.

“hell no,” rafe scoffed , reaching in the back seat for something. you eyed him , trying to figure out what he was doing. “i did something,” he announced , pulling a beer out and cracking it open.

your lips curled and you grabbed the bottle from him. “what did you do?” you asked , rolling the window down and chucking the beer out, “besides form a bad drinking habit?”

“i don’t have a bad drinking habit , y/n,” rafe groaned , letting his head hit the headrest behind him, “i made a deal. a business deal , y’know?” you looked at him , wanting him to continue. “so , you remember mrs. robinson? well , she’s not mrs. robinson anymore — whatever. so she proposed this business opportunity to me , and i’m doing it.”

“okay?”

“for us.” his voice was quieter than before , eyes flickering up to your face , gauging what you were thinking. if he even could anymore. but you didn’t say anything , so rafe continued, “i’ve been having these , i don’t know what to call ‘em , but i’ve been thinking a lot. about everything. me and sarah. me and you. and i wanna have my family back,” he admitted, “i want you back.”

you were quiet for a moment , your music the only noise in the truck. “rafe…” you sighed. your heart wanted nothing more than to forgive him for everything and take him back like you always did. but things were so different now. “you have a girlfriend. i have my life here , and i— nothing has changed.”

“what do you mean ‘nothing has changed’ , y/n? come on! i have!” rafe argued back.

“no , you haven’t!” you laughed , volume matching his, “you haven’t changed at all. the last time we all saw you was when you were aiming a fucking gun at us after you kidnapped me and sarah! and then the other day at the enduro , and let’s not forget the swell day’s activities , rafe. you haven’t changed.”

you watched rafe sit up straight before adjusting to face you entirely. “i want you! i’m sorry for the shit that happened. that — that wasn’t me , and i think you know that. i’d never do anything to hurt you , baby.”

“stop calling me that , rafe,” you begged , looking at him for just a moment with tears in your eyes, “i can’t come back to you this time.”

“you don’t understand! with this deal with hollis? i’ll have enough money for us to go away and start our own life. just like we always wanted,” he explained , hand reaching your thigh, “it’s what you wanted. i’m doing it. for you.”

you could see rafe’s place come into view and let out a deep breath. “i didn’t ask you to do that,” you mumbled , pulling truck into park, “i’ve asked you to get your shit together. to not be a fucking mess all of the time. i’ve asked you to just be nice to me a thousand times! you’re too late.”

“no , but i’m not,” rafe rushed out , grabbing your hands in his, “this deal is perfect timing. you’re home ; i’m apologizing. this is good,” he countered , hopeful smile on his lips, “c’mon.”

it was taking everything in you to not just start bawling. about how much you missed him when you shouldn’t , about how fucked up everything is , about every single thing that has happened in the last two years.

“rafe , i love you,” you said , taking his face in your hands and looking him in the eyes, “i love you so much that i could forgive you for everything—“

“so forgive me,” he interrupted softly , slipping your hands into his again , missing the way they fit together.

“i can’t,” you shook your head, “i was legally a missing person for six weeks because you kidnapped me , and i had to jump off a fucking boat into the ocean to get away. you — you drugged me and took me , rafe. that isn’t something i can just get passed. and while i was gone fighting for my life , you started dating my coworker! do you think those things are easy to forgive you for? i have been trying to do that since i’ve been back. i have come up with every logical excuse that would help me forgive you , so i can come home. but you haven’t been doing the same , and you come to me now like you couldn’t have come earlier , rafe!” your rant was going on longer than you expected, “i love you , but right now you’re not the same person. look at yourself for a moment and really think if all of this shit you get yourself into is worth losing me ; because i’m getting to the point where i believe you think it is.”

rafe sat quiet for a moment , truly taking in every single word you spoke. you could see the gears grinding and sat patiently with his hands in yours while he thought. “i love you,” he started, “i have done a million things wrong , and i know that. i’m trying to sort those things out now. that’s why i came today! to talk to you and sarah,” he explained opening his truck door, “just come inside. we can talk everything out. i promise. just give me a chance.”

“okay,” you whispered , closing your eyes for a second before getting out of the truck with him. you heard the breath of relief come from rafe. “girlfriend not here?” you quipped.

“shut up,” rafe laughed , opening the front door for you, “welcome back.”

“been awhile,” you nodded , stepping into the house with your arms crossed over your chest. your bikini top became more notable when you stepped into the air conditioning. “uh , where do you—“

“we could go to my room,” rafe suggested , raising his eyebrows at you with a smirk before you reached over and smacked him. you tried to hide your own smile. it had been so long since you and him had talked like this— joked around. “kidding!”

“living room,” you decided , heading that way on your own. you climbed over the couch and plopped down , getting comfortable as if you had been here the day before , like nothing had changed. “get to talkin’ , big guy,” you huffed , gesturing for him to sit down as well.

rafe rolled his eyes before he came into your line of sight at the directions and that stupid nickname. he hated when you called him anything other than baby or my love or if you were mad rafe. “okay , bud. the fuck?” he mumbled quietly back as he took a seat.

you were quick to defend yourself from his tone. “why are you getting snippy with me?” you asked , eyebrows furrowing as a pout overtook your lips.

“never mind,” rafe sighed lightly, “okay— first thing’s first : sofia is not my girlfriend. she was never my girlfriend,” he started off , looking at you were more sober eyes now that the conversation you’d both been wanting to have was happening. “we met at a party , and we hooked up. it , ugh , we kept hooking up , and it’s just that. i don’t want to be with her ; i don’t have feelings for her. it’s not like that.”

“you wanna start off with this topic?” you questioned , knowing it was the most sore spot for you in the moment. yes , everything he did was monumentally worse than his thing with sofia , but this was picking at you constantly.

“yes , i want to start with this because it affects us the most. if you think i’m with sofia or whatever you won’t want to come back to me,” rafe explained like it was obvious, “and the most important thing to me right now is you. it always has been.”

you bit your lip , thinking about how you want to word what you’re going to say. “i… do not care what you think you and sofia’s label is,” you admitted with a shrug, “i think you found somebody else that doesn’t know you to fill a void that i left whenever i was stranded on an island. i think you found someone that you knew would bother me if i ever came back. and i think that it’s disgusting that you’re sleeping with the only person i got along with at the club. you know that i’ve seen her posting you all of the time.”

“i thought you were dead!” rafe argued, “i was drowning myself in liquor one night when she was working and we —“

“i don’t care to hear how you started fucking my friend , rafe,” you interrupted , holding your hand up, “why didn’t you wait for me? we have been through so much shit together. things we’ve done to each other or whatever the fuck argument we get into. shit with my brother. i just don’t know why you didn’t wait this time around.”

“i thought you were dead , y/n,” he repeated , quieter this time as though the words alone were making him think that way again, “and you came back and everything was already so different.”

“because you were fucking my friend,” you said again , trying to get your point across.

his hands came up and rubbed at his face , clearing accepting the fact that this was going to be an argument conversation not a talk this out conversation. “i fucked your friend , yeah. i was horny , and you had screamed at me that you hated me and jumped off of a ship in the middle of the ocean to get away from me. and then the next time i saw you , you let kiara fucking carrera shove me off my boat as we were getting away from singh. excuse me for wanting to let off some steam,” he shouted , standing up and pacing a few feet, “oh and then we’re all back home and you scream at me in front of everyone at the enduro and then again at the beach , so… yeah.”

“letting off so much ‘steam’ that your friends are letting a pogue hang out with you all of the time? i get sofia is nice , but rafe , you’re surrounded by jackasses twenty-four seven. they’ve gotta be under the impression you’re dating if they’re letting her come around,” you argued also standing up so he wasn’t towering over you as much, “that’s the problem!”

“would you rather me go around and fuck every girl on the island?” he scoffed , confused with the situation now.

“yeah! that would be more in rafe cameron fashion,” you answered, “you told me i was the only girl you’d ever let step foot in this house with you again!”

“and you promised me no matter what! we’ve made promises and we’ve broken them. that’s nothing new to us,” rafe countered quickly before taking a deep breath and holding your hands. he moved you both to sit down again. “i don’t want to fight , y/n,” he admitted, “i want us to talk.”

you looked into his eyes , really looked , and all you could see was rafe. you could see the sweet boy that used to take you to all the way to charleston for farmer’s markets and the boy that always made you laugh. you didn’t want to argue either ; it wasn’t fun for you. you were just so mad.

“i don’t know how to talk with you when i’m this angry , rafe!” you huffed , dropping your face into your hands, “i am so fucking angry all of the time.”

“how about we talk about what you want to then?” he suggested , hand reaching your thigh and rubbing it soothingly, “i want to talk , so if it’s hard for you , we’ll do what you want. all i want is you back. i’m willing to make this work.”

you eventually looked up again , a soft smile at the feeling of his warm hand forming. “i don’t want to talk , ray,” you confessed , covering his hand with yours, “i just wish things were the same as they were before all of this happened.”

“it can be,” he responded , a smile lighting his face, “we can be.” rafe scooted closer to you on the couch , gently pulling you into him. “i’m on your side. whatever you want to do.”

and you didn’t even realize that you had moved your head to kiss him. you were already kissing rafe deeply when you came to the realization that this was the dumbest thing you could’ve been doing at the moment , but he was there and you loved him as much as you shouldn’t. “i don’t want to talk,” you echoed , shifting to straddle rafe’s lap. and he let you.

“i don’t deserve you,” he mumbled in between kisses , letting his hands feel you for the first time in so long.

you pulled back for a moment , taking his hand in your face again to make him look at you. “don’t say that ; it hurts my feelings,” you smiled , pressing a kiss into his cheek, “i love you. let’s drop everything that’s happened. if you say you’ve changed , i’ll believe you.”

taglist @maybankslover @annatartastic @maroonz @ravenmedows @yootvi @icaqttt @inlovewithmorales

#twin maybank!reader #maybank!reader #pogue!reader #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron x reader #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron imagine #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron #rafe x you #rafe fanfiction

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quickestgold · 4 months ago

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Goodbye, My Lover | Part 2 | The Pitt

Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x Dr. (Ex-Mil)!Reader x Dr. Michael 'Robby' Robinavitch

Chapter 2: Please Forgive Me

Synopsis: When Robby and Jack find you, old wounds reopen, as guilt and regret threaten to tear apart what’s left of your fractured relationships. As your hearts reconnect in an unexpected moment of closeness, long-buried feelings begin to resurface and the possibility of forgiveness feels closer than ever.

Warnings: Age gap is around 18 years. This series will deal with some heavy themes around a physical attack, death, grief, ptsd, panic attacks, s*icidal tendencies, heartbreak >>> comfort at the end, I promise

Word count: 1463

A/n: How are you even supposed to choose between these two, like hello? Anyway, we'll find out soon won't we... Next chapter is heavyyy

Previous Chapter (1): I Love You | Next Chapter (3): I Forgive You

Robby and Jack find you slumped in an alley, unmoving, propped against the cold building facade.

Jack is instantly by your side, rubbing your sternum forcefully, desperate for a response, anything.

Robby's fingers press against the side of your neck, terrified of what he might find, or not. "Y/N?" He opens your eyelids, blinding you with a penlight.

You groan, barely audible “Stop.”

“Y/N, you with us?” Jack huffs, ridden with anxiety.

“I’m fine.” You say louder, pushing their hands away.

Relief washes over them, but it doesn't last long.

“Did you take something?” Robby scans the ground for anything that might explain this.

“What? No”, you plead, offended by the suggestion.

“What happened?” Jack's voice is softer now.

You blink, taking in your surroundings, not really sure yourself. “I must’ve passed out.”

Neither of the men speak, unsure whether to confess how badly they were spiralling when they couldn’t find you. Was it even their place to worry?

“I’m just so done”, you interrupt their thoughts.

“With what?” Robby inquires too quickly.

“Everything. This job. This hospital. Maybe this city.”

“This life?” Jack states flatly.

The bluntness shocks you. Robby as well, but he wonders too.

“N- No. You know I wouldn’t.” You stare into Jack's eyes, pleading for something unknown. Not after everything you’d gone through. You really wouldn’t. Does he believe you?

Jack turns his gaze away from you, as to somehow escape the conversation that had been building between you for a long time. Waiting to break. His mouth twists downwards. A tear gathers in his eye, the pain of losing you creeping in. There were a couple of close calls on the tours you spent together, but the day he nearly lost you, broke him.

Robby knows some of the details of your relationship, but the depth of the pain and unresolved sadness between you leaves him speechless.

The tension is palpable. It’s only now, in this moment, that you all realize how much you’ve hurt each other without even meaning to.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Both of you”, your eyes flicker to Robby’s.

The moment lingers in heavy silence.

“Why did you come back here?” Robby asks.

You wonder whose idea it was to search for you here. Probably Jack, right? His ability to keep a clear head and to stay calm in the most impossible situations always shocked you. But equally, his stoic demeanor drove you crazy, especially when it came to letting you in and dealing with your past together.

Maybe it was Robby. Robby would panic, but then analyse the situation at hand and find a solution. Always.

Now you needed to know.

“How did you find me?” You ask, disregarding their earlier question.

“Dana”, they answer in perfect unison.

You give a soft smile and though the situation is heavy, it’s enough to make Robby and Jack’s hearts melt. The warmth in your eyes brings an unexpected tenderness, like a comforting embrace for the soul and before they can help it, both of them smile too.

You sit in the peaceful silence, the weight of everything feeling just a little bit lighter, as though the past has softened its grip on you all.

But all too soon, reality creeps back in.

“I didn’t know you come back here often", Jack's face grows serious again. "It seems… painful."

“Sometimes", you admit. "When I need to convince myself that an alley is just an alley...”

Talking about it hurts, but pretending it didn't happen is just as difficult. For them too.

You feel your hands tremble again, instinctively pulling them closer to your chest. But Robby notices, closing the distance between you and offering his shoulder. It’s the same comfort he always gave you, like second nature.

When he walked away, the void he left was unbearable.

But now he’s here.

You sink your forehead into the crook of his neck, taking slow, cleansing breaths. His familiar scent floods you, a quiet reminder of all the unexpressed love.

“It’s okay. I’ve got you”, Robby whispers, as you melt deeper into him, your heartbeat syncing with his.

Slowly, the panic subsides.

Jack watches you both, eyes hard, fighting his own memories.

It's an unusually quiet shift. The eerie kind where everyone's on edge, waiting for something to break.

You and Jack work a couple of cases together, like you usually do.

You were always a great team. Made each other better in ways few people understood. But Robby did. He always respected your deep bond, even when you and Robby were dating. It's the kind that runs deeper than friendship, deeper than love, it's survival. Maybe it's because Robby and Jack share their own connection, a brotherhood built on mutual trust and support.

Your breakup with Jack was mutual, the weight of your shared history and trauma made it inevitable. You both walked away, at different points, caught in your own separate battles. You saved lives together, but you also lost them. And in the process, you lost parts of yourselves too. You both gave so much to everyone else, there was nothing left to give each other. It wasn't anyone's fault.

Still, you can’t help but feel like it was yours. Like you destroyed something great. Not just with Jack, but with Robby too.

The breakup with Robby really tested everything. Words were said, hearts broken and neither of you knew how to navigate this new reality. Somehow, Jack found himself in the middle and all of you blamed yourselves.

You weren’t the one who left this time, but maybe you pushed Robby too hard, pressured him to open up when he wasn’t ready.

So you accepted Robby's decision and watched him leave.

You wonder if he expected you to fight for him, to not let him go so easily.

That day in the ER, Robby snaps at you. In front of everyone. In front of Jack.

Jack’s breath hitches, trying hard not to intervene. To say something. Why wouldn't he? It's you. But he doesn't. And for that he'd never forgive himself.

It's not rational. But later, when you're lying in that hospital bed, machines and monitors beeping in a faint rhythm, their minds force them to dissect every little detail that led up to what happened. As if that could somehow undo it.

“I am your attending. You are a resident. When I tell you to do something, you do it", Robby barks. "If you can't respect that, then maybe this hospital isn’t for you.”

You just look at him, incredulous. But he continues, louder.

“You’re acting like a fucking child!” Regret washes over him as soon as the words leave his mouth.

You rip off your gloves with a snap, glancing at Jack, daring - no - willing him to speak up. But part of you is glad he doesn't. This is between you and Robby. Deep down you know it isn’t personal, but it still hurts, so you decide to give both of you space.

“Dr. Robinavitch”, you say before walking out, unaware how that split decision would lead to you almost losing your life.

All three of you now lean against the building facade, a comforting familiarity between you.

Your breathing has steadied, but your eyes are still glazed. You look up at Robby. For a moment, you are back to being his. And he yours. He gives you a soft smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and your heart nearly bursts, memories rushing back.

You remember kissing every freckle on his forehead, tracing the lines of his skin. He always thought they made him look old. You agreed, which made him laugh. But you also thought they made him look kind. How fitting.

A shaky gasp cuts through your thoughts. Jack drops his head, one hand pressing against his eyes, desperate to hide the pain that tears through him.

“Jack?” You whisper, reaching for him.

Jack lets out a quiet sob, fighting every urge not to fall apart in front of you. He can't.

You grab both of his wrists, grounding him with your presence as you pull him into your chest. His head rests gently against your heart, a silent promise that he will always be part of it.

“Hey", you tilt your head, searching for his eyes. "I'm here."

Maybe you love him differently now, but the ache in your chest tells you that some bonds can't be broken.

“Please forgive me,” he begs, his voice breaking, as the weight of his pain truly hits you.

Thanks for reading part 2!! Oh boi, this was a sad one… and it’s only getting worse before it gets better is all I’m gonna say hehe. Pls share your thoughts, I love reading your comments!!

PS: Lmk if you want to be added to the taglist: ♡

@queenslandlover-93 @sp00kylesley @dark-twisted-and-mechanical-mind @sqrlgrl22 @imonmykneessir @gabsgabsvaz

#the pitt #michael robinavitch x reader #dr robby x reader #jack abbott #dr michael robinavitch #dr michael robinavitch x reader #jack abbot #dr jack abott x reader #dr abbot x reader #noah wyle #shawn hatosy #the pitt hbo #dr robby x you #dr abbot x you #dr robby imagine #reader imagines

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monotonesmile · 8 months ago

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Stealing the boyfriends clothes

[Damian Wayne X GN!Reader]

[Word Count: 729]

[Warnings: N/A]

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Damian had been searching for a very specific shirt he had wanted to wear today, walking around his bedroom without a shirt, questioning where the hell his turtleneck sweater could’ve gone.

“Darling? Have you seen my shirt?” Damian sighs as he calls to his partner, searching through his closet with a disgruntled expression, pulling the hangers back as if assuming the shirt fell from its hanger at a point.

“Which one…?” They call back to him as they’re in the bathroom attached to his bedroom, getting ready for the day.

“The dark green turtleneck, I can’t find it, and I had wanted to wear it today.” Damian steps back from his closet, still confused on where it could’ve gone, he keeps track of all of his things, it couldn’t have just disappeared. He walks over to the bathroom, nudging the door open so he can talk to them rather than call back and forth through his room.

“I have no idea where it…could’ve…gone…” Damian blinks slowly as he looks at his partner who is staring at him with a sheepish expression, dawning the very sweater he was looking for. “You took my sweater.” He states in a blunt manner.

“Yeah…” They smile sheepishly as they set down their toothbrush, looking over at Damian and recognizing the expression on his face, he’s staring at the sweater with narrowed eyes.

“Take it off.” Damian stares at them before stating his words in the most blunt manner they’ve ever seen from the man.

“What.” They were so baffled by his demand, they could only stare at him with confusion in their wide eyes.

“My sweater, take it off before I do.” Damian repeated himself, crossing his arms as he leaned against the doorframe with an unamused expression, wanting his sweater back; he's never been one to share his clothes.

“No…” They drawled out their response, stubbornly not wanting to remove the sweater from their person. Their response makes Damian’s eyes narrow as he gets up, stepping towards them.

“Give me back my sweater.” Damian corners them against the counter, planting his hands on the counter to trap them, gripping the countertop tightly as he scowls down at them. “Do not make me use force, beloved.”

“…you have no idea how hot this is, do you?” They mutter as they look up at him with a surprised flustered expression, tilting back slightly.

“…what.” Damian blinks at them, his eyes wide, shocked out of his original purpose by their words, he definitely wasn’t expecting that, this was hot…? “Wait, what do you mean-“

“Shut up!” They cut him off, covering his mouth with their hands as their face warms up, blushing heavily, as they shut their eyes tightly.

Damian sighs behind their hands deadpanning at them with a raised eyebrow, unimpressed by the fact they covered his mouth, he rolls his eyes before grabbing their wrist and moving their hands off his mouth, leaning down to fully face them.

“Don’t cover my mouth.” Damian frowns, holding their wrists so they don’t cover his mouth again.

“Can you not be hot then? Also, I’m not taking off the sweater, I’m comfy and it smells like you.” They pout at him, still flustered because they’re currently pinned in place and now they can’t move.

“…fine. Keep the sweater, but I expect it back by the end of the day, beloved.” Damian sighs in defeat, releasing their wrists and backing away now, freeing them from his looming presence.

“You got it, just…do that again at some point, it was hot.” They chuckle sheepishly, returning to their morning routine, just a bit flustered now.

“You are so weird.” Damian shakes his head as he crosses his arms, watching them go about their routine, before he leaned over to kiss their cheek and walk out of the bathroom to find a different shirt to wear for the day.

“You love me!” They call from the bathroom, Damian’s lips quirk up slightly in a small smirk as he searches his closet again, on a new mission to find a different sweater.

“Yeah, yeah…” Damian mutters before grabbing a black sweater instead, pulling it on over his bare torso, joining them back in the bathroom and wrapping his arms around them from behind, watching them in the mirror with a rare smile on his face. “I do love you, you idiot.”

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[Requests are open!]

#monofics!#dc #dc comics #dc dcomics #dcu #dc robin #dc damian wayne #dc damian al ghul #robin damian wayne #robin damian #damian wayne #damian al ghul #damian wayne x reader #damian al ghul x reader

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written-and-readen · 11 days ago

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Hold Me Close Part 2

Aventurine, Jiaoqiu, Castorice x reader (separate)

Part 1 (Dan Heng, Sunday, Mydei)

Summary: A good hug can do wonders

a/n: A Honkai Star Rail post? From me? It feels like it's been years...

Aventurine

Your humming echoes through the apartment as you bustle around the kitchen. Aventurine's been away on a business trip to Penacony for some time now, so you're finding ways to occupy yourself during evenings in his absence. Tonight's venture: baking.

The kitchen is a mess in the wake of your attempt, but the bread has made its way into the oven somehow. The glutenous beast has been dealt with, but now the counter, your clothes, and your hands all bear the residue of having wrestled it into submission. Ingredients, dishes, and utensils are scattered all around.

Sighing at the task at hand, you are about to start cleaning up when the sound of the door opening makes your ears perk up. Hearing someone entering so late makes you tense up, but you turn to see Aventurine. Why didn’t he tell you he was coming back tonight? Something feels off with the way he's just standing there and staring at you too. Then, strangely enough, he's the one to close the distance between you. As he approaches, you see the normally playful spark in his eyes isn't there, and once you're within his reach, he pulls you into a tight embrace.

"Aventurine?" This is a far cry from how you're normally the one to jump into his arms, both of you laughing like idiots. You're not sure what to do.

"You're not going to hug me back?" What would usually be a suave remark from him, you sense a tinge of something deeper. Like he's been gone from you for too long, and your touch is the only thing that can heal him.

"I've got flour on my hands," You laugh nervously.

"I don't care." His bluntness cuts away your laughter and draws worry. You wish you could see his face, but he's hidden himself away in the the crook of your neck. Your hands settle on his back, flour dusting the fabric of his fancy coat. "I thought I might never see you again.”

"What happened?" You whisper, holding him closer.

"A lot. I’ll tell you, but can we just stay like this for now?"

"Yeah. The bread should be out soon. Maybe you can tell me while we try it? It’ll be warm." Your hands lightly play with the ends of his hair as he clings to you in the middle of a messy kitchen. There’s a lot to clean up, but you’ll do it together.

Jiaoqiu

The wind is strong, whipping your hair around while you stand on the starskiff dock. You tap your foot as you wait, no words exchanged with the Cloud Knights accompanying you. Your thoughts are loud enough to occupy you. General Feixiao is expected back from the Luofu's Wardance today. But she is not the one you are anxious to see.

You still remember the Yaoqing getting word of Hoolay's escape. He'd gotten out of the Luofu Shackling Prison, but the part that rang continuously through your mind these past few days was the news that he'd taken a hostage. There wasn’t much that could be done on your end, and Feixiao was already there to take care of the situation. Being unoccupied probably only made your worrying worse though, leaving you a sitting duck who could only hope that Jiaoqiu was still alive.

The whirring of the approaching starskiff brings you back from the state of worry you’ve been slowly ebbing out of ever since hearing of Hoolay’s defeat. The Cloud Knights swarm to help the ship disembark, making you fall back. In the commotion, you spot Feixiao. She's always hard to miss. Her ears poke above the crowd and her hair, white fading into teal, flies behind her like a banner. Close to her, you get a glimpse of pink fur. Your feet move before you can think.

Desperately, you wriggle your way through the crowd, finally pushing through to see Jiaoqiu. It's only been a few weeks at most, but it feels like it's been years with the way you've been longing for this moment. The bandages around his eyes needle a sharp pain through your heart, but he's there.

"Jiaoqiu..." Despite the softness of your words, his ear flicks in your direction.

"Hi." He smiles at you, using his tone that’s soft and reassuring for when yours wavers. Just hearing his voice again breaks you, and you stumble towards him to wrap your arms around his middle. He happily welcomes you with a hand on your back and the other brushing over your hair while his tail curls around your thigh. The sensation of his fur against your skin calms you somewhat.

You bury your face in his clothes, unable to hold back the tears anymore. He’s warm. He’s alive. Thank the Aeons, he’s alive.

Castorice

Castorice was always quiet, silently supporting others even if her own problems go unknown. A soft smile adorns her features as she watches her friends, always a safe distance away so as not to have them fall victim to her touch. Her quietude normally radiates firmness and reliability, confidence and peace in something as terrifying as death, but it has been uneasy lately. You notice her hugging the plushies she's made even tighter when she sleeps, sadness in her gaze when it rests on you, and how she stands just a little farther away.

"Is something wrong, Cas?" You finally confront her in her room. She sits up straighter at your question.

"Nothing's wrong." But her gaze turns downwards, fingers fiddling in her lap.

"You can tell me. You know that, right?" You approach the chair she sits in, and she visibly flinches, stopping you in your tracks. "Cas?"

"I'm sorry. Please don't get closer. I don't want to hurt you." Her soft purple eyes are on the verge of tears, and for your own safety, you have to hold yourself back from immediately going to comfort her with a hug. You realize now what's been bothering her. How terrible that a person who loves so deeply cannot touch those she loves.

In your plight, an idea alights in your mind. Castorice watches you scurry off and return toting a large blanket. Before she can protest, you throw it over her, effectively pulling it around to create a cocoon where only her face peeks out. When you put your hands on her shoulders, she tenses up again. Nothing happens. She can feel the warmth of your hands through the blanket, and you're still smiling in front of her, alive.

"But what if I accidentally touch you?"

"I'll be careful. Promise. All you have to do is let me love you."

You wrap your arms around her and bring her to your chest. Even though she can't return the motion, Castorice melts in your embrace. Shaky sobs sound next to your ear as you cradle her, gently rocking back and forth. There are so many ways to tell someone they are loved, and after hearing it so many times, Castorice can finally feel it.

#written by ray #fics by ray #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #aventurine x reader #aventurine #jiaoqiu x reader #jiaoqiu #castorice x reader #castorice

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cercess · 17 days ago

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hello! i'd like to req dr ratio, anaxa, and the herta dating reader who may seem serious 90% of the time, but when they think they're alone they can be humming a nursery rhyme or kicking their feet if they dangle from where they're sitting. just cute stuff. thank you!

Hi anon! I’m so sorry this took me so long to complete. I had some personal stuff happen over the past couple weeks that have made it difficult to write, but I’m back now!

This request was so fun. I love writing for the bitchy genius squad. Hope you enjoy!

ㅤꨄ︎ Tags: Fluff ㅤꨄ︎ Rating: General ㅤꨄ︎ Word Count: 991

DR. RATIO

Your collaboration with Dr. Veritas Ratio had gone much smoother than you’d expected. Colleagues often spoke of his… temperamental nature, and tendency for theatrics, which initially made you weary of the project. However, he quickly proved to be a reliable partner, and the longer you worked together, the more you warmed to his blunt nature.

While he solves equations on the whiteboard, you scan through articles and papers for any information that may aid in your experiments. The squeaking of his whiteboard marker fills the empty, yet comfortable silence.

Lost in thought, you started to hum a gentle tune: a children’s lullaby. You don’t even realize you’re doing it, until your gaze meets Veritas’, who’s watching you intently.

“What is it?” You ask, surprised to see his concentration broken.

“You were humming,” he states plainly. No accusation, no complaint, he’s merely telling things like they are. If anything, there’s a lilt of curiosity in his voice.

“Sometimes I do that when I’m focused. I’m sorry if it was distracting.”

He shakes his head, brows knit tightly together. “I never said it was. Do try not to jump to conclusions, you’re smarter than that.”

You smile, despite his backhanded compliment. He isn’t one to go around freely giving praise.

“You should continue,” he suggests as he returns to the whiteboard. “Music can be quite intellectually stimulating.”

“I was humming a lullaby, not Mozart.”

“Even so, it could help with our focus.” Despite his back being turned, you can still sense the gentle smile on his lips; a rare expression for the enigmatic Dr. Ratio.

With a smile of your own, you continue humming, and turn your attention back to the computer. You can’t help but notice the way Veritas’ posture relaxes ever so slightly, the marker squeaking less as his iron-clad grip softens.

ANAXA

It’s a slow day at The Grove of Epiphany; so slow that Anaxa has chosen to grade his class’s papers in your living room. You lean against him, dangling your feet over the arm of your couch, a book in your lap.

Every once and a while he sighs or groans at the sheet of paper in his hand, and is quick to add his criticisms in red ink. You’d never say it out loud, but he looks cute when he’s exasperated. At least he does when his annoyance isn’t directed at you,

“Did you know you kick your feet when they’re suspended?” He notes, not looking up from his work.

You glance at your legs, and find that your feet are indeed swinging back and forth. It was something you often did in solitude, when the prying eyes of the world weren’t judging your every move. Some old scholar had once told you that “only children can’t sit still,” so you made a concerted effort not to show your habit to the public.

“I didn’t realize I was doing that. I’ll stop.”

Your statement is enough to make him turn from the pile of essays. “Why would you?”

“It’s not very mature.”

“And?”

“And some may see it as childish.”

“Why does that matter?” Of course The Grove’s resident heretic doesn’t concern himself with the opinions of others.

His endless stream of questions amuses you. Even in his down-time, Anaxa’s identity as a scholar remains perfectly in-tact. You decide to sate his curiosity. “It matters because I want people to take me seriously.”

“If kicking your feet is enough to sway one’s opinion of you, then they are not worth your time.”

“What do you think of it?”

He stares at you for a long while; you can practically hear the cogs in his head turning. “I think it’s something that makes you unique. I may even be tempted to call it cute.”

“You may be?” You playfully poke his side.

“Ask me again when I’ve finished with my grading.”

THE HERTA

Thousands of researchers scurry about the Herta Space Station, like bees in a ridiculously large hive. The hustle and bustle has, thankfully, not invaded your private quarters, and you are left to peacefully go about your day. One of the many perks of dating The Herta.

There’s a giant fish-tank in your room, filled with various extra-terrestrial species. Oftentimes you sit in front of the display, and lose yourself in watching the creatures go about their lives.

You’ve even picked up the habit of speaking for the fish, engaging in entire conversations with yourself on their behalf; made complete by the various voices you’ve given them.

An orange jellyfish-looking creature has the voice of a southern belle. She’s dating a grey manta ray, who has been bestowed a deep, sultry drawl.

“I just can’t run away with ya,” you speak for the jellyfish. “My daddy would never forgive me.”

“Forget your dad, baby. We-“

“Am I interrupting something?” Herta’s voice joins your performance.

You turn to see the genius standing in your doorway, a grin on her lips. Functions between your brain and your mouth have ceased cooperation, and you’re left staring wordlessly.

Herta laughs. Not cruelly, in fact, there’s almost something comforting about it. You’re unable to move when she approaches, still frozen by the sheer embarrassment of the situation.

“I’m quite fascinated by your little show. What happens next?”

“That depends on what the fish do.” You answer honestly.

She observes the tank for a moment, and her piercing gaze eventually settles on the manta-ray. “I think the jellyfish deserves better.”

“Are you seriously putting thought into this?”

“Why wouldn't I? You were clearly enjoying yourself.”

You bury your face in your hands and groan, “this is so embarrassing.”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Herta taps the crown of your head playfully. “I think it’s adorable. Creativity is closely linked with intelligence, you know.”

Eventually, you lower your hands, the mortification having ebbed somewhat. You find Herta watching the fish, a hand on her chin. “I think that giant purple beta fish would be a good match.”

#dr ratio x reader #anaxa x reader #the herta x reader #herta x reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail #dr ratio #anaxa #the herta #herta #requests

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dark-silhouette · 5 days ago

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Brutal Devotion (part 2)

Pairing: John Walker/US Agent x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader Enemies To Lovers! <3 Summary: You and John face the consequences of your fight at the gym. Here is the first part ----> (Part 1) Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Smut, Fluff, Angst, Fighting, Violence, Cursing. (I think that´s all?) A/N: The final of this chaotic story <3 In this part, Bob is the team member who handles the tech part (plot requirement lol) I really hope you like it!!! <3 Comments, opinions and shares are very welcome and appreciated! WC: 27k

Yelena, her earlier bravado utterly extinguished, swallowed hard, her face pale. "I... I'll check on Y/N," she murmured, her voice lacking its usual purr, replaced by a tremor of genuine concern and guilt. She hurried out, avoiding looking at the destruction she'd instigated.

Ava exchanged a worried glance with Bob, then silently followed Yelena. Alexei, for once without a quip or food, gave John a long, somber look, then clapped Bob heavily on the shoulder before lumbering out, leaving Bob hovering uncertainly.

"Come on, Bob," Bucky said quietly, his voice heavy. "Give him a minute." Reluctantly, Bob followed the others, leaving Bucky alone with the shattered remnants of John Walker.

Bucky stood for a long moment, his metal hand clenched, his gaze sweeping over the devastation before settling on John. The silence stretched, punctuated only by John’s shallow, ragged breathing. Bucky walked over slowly, his boots crunching on scattered composite shards. He stopped beside John, looking down at the ruin of a man.

"You okay, Walker?" Bucky asked, his voice low but firm. It wasn't just about the physical injuries.

John didn't answer. Didn't blink. His gaze remained fixed on the ceiling, vacant and hollow.

Bucky sighed, a sound of profound weariness. He crouched down beside John, the movement deliberate, bringing himself to eye level. The stench of sweat, blood, and dust was sharp.

"Stop being an idiot," Bucky stated, his voice devoid of judgment but laced with a blunt honesty that cut through the silence. "This... this whole mess? It's gone on long enough. Months, John. Too long Months. The whole team sees it. We see the heat, the sparks, the way you orbit each other like damned neutron stars about to collapse. We see it, even when you're throwing insults or trying to kill each other."

John’s jaw clenched minutely, the only sign he’d heard.

"You think you're hiding it?" Bucky continued, his gaze steady on John’s profile. "You think the anger covers it? It doesn't. It amplifies it. You're making it harder on yourselves, harder on everyone in this tower, for no damn reason except stubborn pride and whatever guilt you've got festering inside that thick skull."

He paused, letting the words sink into the heavy quiet. John remained motionless, but his breathing hitched slightly.

"And I know," Bucky said, his voice dropping lower, becoming almost gentle, a tone rarely used. "I know you think that after Olivia... after everything you lost... that you don't deserve it. That you don't deserve to feel that again. To risk it. To be happy." He saw the flicker of raw pain in John’s eyes, quickly shuttered. "You think the shield, the titles, the failures... they stripped you of the right to anything good. Especially love."

John’s throat worked, but no sound came out. His gaze remained fixed upwards, but Bucky could see the sheen of unshed tears mingling with the dust on his lashes.

"Everyone deserves a second chance, John," Bucky said, his voice firm with conviction. "Everyone. Even you. Especially you. Hell, look at me. Look at this team. We're all walking disasters who got second, third, fourth chances. The question isn't if you deserve it. It's whether you want it. Whether you're brave enough to reach for it, even knowing it could blow up in your face. Especially knowing that." He placed his metal hand briefly, firmly, on John’s uninjured shoulder. "Stop fighting her, Walker. And stop fighting yourself. It’s exhausting to watch."

Bucky rose to his feet, the joints in his knees protesting softly. He looked down at John for another moment – the battered face, the vacant stare, the utter stillness that screamed louder than any rage. The choice, the next move, wasn't his to make.

"Just... talk to her," Bucky said finally, the words hanging in the dusty air. "Before you destroy what’s left. Or before she finishes the job."

He turned and walked out of the ruined gym, leaving John Walker alone on the mat, staring at the ceiling, the weight of Bucky’s words settling onto his already fractured soul like another layer of debris. The silence returned, deeper now, filled only with the echo of truth and the terrifying, unresolved question of what came next. The trembling in John’s jaw was the only sign of the storm still raging within the stillness.

The sterile quiet of your room pressed in on you, a suffocating counterpoint to the roaring chaos still echoing in your skull. You hadn’t made it past the threshold before collapsing onto the cold, smooth floor, your back against the wall beside the door. The adrenaline that had fueled the fight, the telekinetic burst, the desperate grappling – it had vanished, leaving behind a crushing void filled only with a raw, aching sorrow that seemed to emanate from your very bones.

Your chest felt tight, constricted, like your heart was a physical weight too heavy to bear, bruised and bleeding internally. Each breath hitched painfully. The tears started to fall again, hot tracks carving paths through the dust and sweat on your cheeks, remnants of the gym floor and your own fury. Then came the sobs – deep, shuddering gasps that wracked your entire frame. You curled in on yourself, knees drawn to your chest, forehead pressed against them, as if trying to physically contain the pain spilling out.

How? The question circled like a vulture in your mind, sharp and relentless. How did we get here? Images flashed: the initial spark of challenge in his eyes across the common room, the dangerous thrill of their verbal sparring, the electric tension always present between you both, the intoxicating power of invading his dreams, his thoughts, the devastating intimacy of feeling his surrender in that fabricated space. You wanted each other. Fiercely. Undeniably. It hadn’t been just a game, not really. It had been a dance, a terrifying, exhilarating dance on the edge of something real.

But pride. Stubbornness. Fear. You’d weaponized it. Turned desire into ammunition, attraction into a battlefield. Each provocation, each retaliation, each psychic intrusion and physical clash had been another brick in a wall built of mutual hurt and misunderstanding. You’d seen the precipice, known you should stop, wanted to stop somewhere deep down… but the momentum of your own damned stubbornness had been too strong. Like watching a train wreck in slow motion, powerless to derail it.

The tears flowed harder, a torrent of regret and self-recrimination. You saw John’s face beneath yours on the gym mat – not defiant anymore, but resigned, accepting your blows, the blood on his lip and brow, the look in his eyes that wasn’t anger, but a profound, weary sadness that mirrored your own. He’d stopped fighting. And you’d hit him anyway. The memory was a physical blow, doubling you over with a fresh wave of sobs. The games hadn’t been funny anymore. They’d become a catastrophe, a self-inflicted wound that felt fatal.

You didn’t move. Hours bled into each other. The light filtering through the window shifted, casting long, accusing shadows. The dust motes danced in the fading beams, indifferent to your grief. You didn’t eat. The thought of food turned your stomach. You didn’t shower; the lingering, phantom smell of the gym, sweat, blood, and ozone from your power felt like a fitting shroud. You simply lay on the cold floor, then eventually crawled onto the rumpled bed, curling into a tight ball, your face buried in a pillow that quickly grew damp. Sleep was impossible, a distant luxury. Your head throbbed with a vicious, unrelenting headache, a physical manifestation of the emotional maelstrom. You just wanted to dissolve, to cease existing, to escape the crushing weight of what you’d broken.

---

The knock, when it came late the next morning, was soft. Tentative. You didn’t stir. You barely registered it. Your eyes felt swollen shut, gritty and raw. Your body ached with a deep, pervasive exhaustion. The headache was a constant drumbeat behind your temples.

The door hissed open. You flinched, burrowing deeper into the pillow, wishing the intruder away.

Footsteps, quiet but purposeful, crossed the room. The mattress dipped beside you. A familiar scent – sweet shampoo, and a faint, clean citrus – cut through the stale air of despair.

“Y/N,” Yelena’s voice was uncharacteristically soft, stripped of its usual sardonic edge.

You didn’t look up. You couldn’t.

Yelena didn’t say anything else for a long moment. She tried to talk to you after all happened but you did’t want to talk. She let you rest, thinking that maybe you need time, a little at least, and decided to try again the next day.

Now, she was there. The silence stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable. Then, you felt a gentle hand on your back, resting between your shoulder blades. The touch was hesitant at first, then firmer, warm and grounding.

“Oh, honey,” Yelena murmured, sounding strangely tender. “Look at you.”

Slowly, painfully, you turned your head, peering out with one red-rimmed, swollen eye. The light, even dimmed, felt like needles. Yelena’s face swam into focus – her sharp features softened with concern, her blonde hair pulled back simply. There was no judgment in her eyes, only a deep, aching sympathy that somehow made you feel even worse.

The sight cracked the fragile dam holding back your tears again. A fresh sob escaped, ragged and broken.

Without a word, Yelena shifted. She didn’t ask permission. She simply gathered you into her arms, pulling you upright and against her shoulder. You stiffened for a second, unused to such open comfort, especially from the usually prickly Widow. But the warmth, the solidity of Yelena, the sheer humanity of the embrace shattered your remaining resistance. You collapsed against your friend, burying your face in Yelena’s neck, your body shaking with silent, wracking sobs. Yelena held you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing slow, soothing circles on your back.

“I am sorry,” Yelena whispered, her voice thick with her own emotion. “I am so sorry, Y/N. My plan… it was stupid. I thought… I thought forcing you together would make you see. I did not see this.” She tightened her hold as another wave of sobs shook you. “Shhh. It’s okay. Let it out.”

Both sat like that for a long time, Yelena a silent anchor in your storm. The tears eventually subsided into hiccupping shudders, leaving you feeling hollowed out, utterly drained, but the crushing weight had lessened, fractionally, by being shared.

Yelena gently pulled back, keeping her hands on your shoulders, her gaze searching your ravaged face. She brushed a tangled strand of hair away from your damp cheek with surprising gentleness.

“You both,” Yelena said, her voice regaining a little of its usual directness, though it remained soft, “are the most stubborn, prideful, stupid people I have ever known.” There was no bite in the words, only weary truth. “Look at this. Look what you have done to each other. To yourselves.”

You looked down, fresh tears welling. “It’s too late,” you whispered, your voice a raw croak from crying and disuse. “We broke it. We broke everything.”

“No,” Yelena said firmly. She tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet her eyes. “It is only broken if you leave it broken on the floor. Like children who smash a toy and walk away.” She sighed, a deep, weary sound. “Y/N, listen to me. Everyone. Everyone in this tower sees it. Bucky sees it. Ava sees it. Bob, Alexei… even me. We see how you look at him when you think no one is watching. The fire, the challenge… and the want. We see how he watches you – like you hung the damn moon and stars, even when he is arguing with you. You burn for each other. It is… blindingly obvious.”

You flinched. Hearing it stated so plainly, so undeniably, was both a relief and a fresh agony. “Then why?” you choked out. “Why is it so hard? Why does it hurt so much?”

“Because you are both idiots!” Yelena exclaimed, though her touch remained gentle. “Because you are both carrying so much hurt, so much pride, so much fear of being vulnerable, that you turned the easiest thing in the world into a war!” She leaned closer, her gaze intense. “Loving someone? It is simple. Admitting it? That is the hard part. Especially for people like you. Like him. Soldiers. Broken things. Used to fighting, not… surrendering. To trust.”

She smoothed your hair back again. “This game you played? It was armor. Hiding behind sarcasm, behind power, behind anger… safer than saying ‘I want you. I need you. I see you.’” Yelena’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “He stopped fighting, Y/N. On that mat. He let you hit him. What does that tell you?”

It told you everything. It told you of his exhaustion, his defeat, his willingness to take your pain because he felt responsible. It told you of a surrender deeper than physical.

“He needs to hear it,” Yelena said softly. “And you need to say it. Not with your mind. Not with your fists. With your words. Stop fighting the inevitable. Stop hiding. Go to him. Talk. Not to argue. Not to win. Just… talk. Be honest. Be… human. It is the only way the bleeding stops.”

You closed your eyes, fresh tears leaking from beneath your lids. Yelena’s words weren’t a magic fix, but they were a lifeline thrown into the chasm of your despair. They were the simple, terrifying truth you’d been desperately avoiding. The games were over. The war was lost by both sides. All that remained was the terrifying vulnerability of truce… or the desolate silence of permanent defeat.

Yelena pulled you into another firm hug. “The hard part is done,” she murmured. “You broke. Now you rebuild. But you don’t have to do it alone.” She held you until the trembling subsided, offering the silent strength of a friend who had seen darkness and knew that even the deepest wounds could, eventually, scar over. The path forward was terrifyingly simple: lay down the weapons, open the door, and speak the truth. The question was, did either of you have the courage left to do it?

---

Silent days passed again, just the same way after the thoughts and after the dreams.

Locked in your room, you stared blankly at your hands – still trembling from the fight. Your temple throbs where his grip bruised you, but the deeper ache is in your chest. "No, you don’t. That’s the problem." His words replay like a knife twist. You cried – silent, furious tears – into your pillow, muffling sobs so no one hears. When Yelena knocked, you didn’t answer. You didn’t eat. You didn’t sleep. You traced the ghost of his blood on your knuckles.

A purple bruise bloomed on your temple. Silver eyes are swollen, shadowed. You moved like a ghost through the Tower’s halls, avoiding the gym’s wreckage.

---

He paces his room until dawn, Bucky’s words haunting him. "Do you want it?" He stared at his reflection: split lip, the fading scars of a man who’s lost everything. He rehearsed apologies in the mirror – "I’m sorry about your parents" – but choked on the words.

At 3 AM, he stood outside your door, fist raised to knock... then walked away.

His knuckles were raw, ribs bruised from your telekinetic blast. He avoided the med-bay, wore long sleeves to hide the wounds. His gait is stiff, pride masking pain.

By the second day, you sat alone in the darkened common room at night, nursing cold coffee. When John entered, you froze. Your eyes met – a flash of shared agony – before you left. Later, you overheared Ava whisper, "They look so... broken." You slammed your fist into your thigh, hating the tears that returned. You dreamed of his resignation – "Hit me" – and woke gasping.

Anger curdled into shame. You replied to his accusation: "You crossed the line." Part of you believed it.

He trained alone in the ruined gym, punching the only standing bag until his hands bled. He watched you from afar: how you picked at food, how your shoulders slumped when you thought no one saw. That night, he drank. Not to forget – to feel. The bottle whispers: She’ll never forgive you.

Fear caged him. He wanted to say, "The dreams... I didn’t hate them." But the risk of your rejection felt like losing the shield all over again.

On the third day…

You forced yourself into the common room. John was there, staring out at the city. The air crackled. You hesitated – just talk to him – but saw his white-knuckled grip on the couch. He regrets it. All of it. Defeated, you turned to leave...

"Y/N." His voice was gravel.

You stopped. Didn’t turn. Held your breath.

"I... Never mind." He walked out.

You slid to the floor, back against the wall, tears streaming silently. Coward. Both of us.

He almost said it: "I’m sorry." But your flinch when he spoke gutted him. He spends hours cleaning his gear, avoiding everyone. In his mind, he repeated: “I don’t know how to fix this."

His bruises have faded to sickly yellow. But the hollowness in his eyes remained.

The Watchtower’s klaxons weren’t blaring; they were screaming. Crimson emergency lights bathed the common room, stripping everything of color, painting faces in stark relief. The mission brief scrolled across the main holo-screen: **OPERATION: SHATTERPOINT. NEURO-TOXIN RELEASE IMMINENT. STRIKE TEAM DEPLOY: IMMEDIATE.**

John Walker was already moving before the first syllable finished. Muscle memory, honed by a thousand scrambles, kicked in. He slammed his coffee mug onto the table, the ceramic cracking, and lunged for the weapons locker embedded in the wall, his movements sharp, focused, the fog of the last three days burned away by adrenaline. Finally. Action. Purpose. Something to hit.

You were a half-step behind him, your own weariness shoved aside by the raw urgency vibrating through the tower. You reached for your tac-vest hanging nearby.

Bucky Barnes stood like a pillar of grim resolve near the entrance to the Quinjet bay, his face set in lines of cold command. Yelena, Ava, and Alexei were already geared up, checking weapons with practiced efficiency, the usual banter silenced by the threat level.

John grabbed his shield – a heavy, blunt instrument compared to the star-spangled symbol he’d lost, but solid – and clipped it to his back. He turned, heading for the bay ramp, expecting you beside him.

"Walker. Y/N." Bucky’s voice cut through the din, cold and final. "Stand down."

John froze mid-stride, halfway to the ramp. You stopped beside him, your hand still on your vest buckle. You both turned, identical expressions of disbelief etched onto your faces.

"What?" John’s voice was dangerously low, a growl building in his chest.

"You heard me," Bucky stated, his gaze unwavering. "You two are staying. Bob will coordinate comms and surveillance from here. You’re backup."

"Backup?" John took a step towards Bucky, his frame radiating incredulous fury. "That place is about to spew death across three states! You need every hand!"

"I need a team that functions," Bucky shot back, his voice like titanium. "Not a liability. Not a powder keg." His eyes flicked pointedly between John and you, landing on the faint, lingering yellow-green bruise near John’s temple, the subtle tension in your shoulders. "What happened in the gym? That can’t happen out there. Not with stakes this high."

Yelena paused at the top of the Quinjet ramp, her usual smirk absents. She met your eyes, a flicker of something unreadable – apology? Regret? – before turning away. Ava looked stricken, her gaze darting between Bucky and the grounded pair. Alexei grunted, hefting his pulse rifle. "Is waste of good fighters, James," he rumbled, but didn't challenge the order.

"The best thing you can do for the team right now," Bucky continued, his tone softening marginally but losing none of its steel, "is stay put. Monitor. If things go sideways and we need you, we’ll call. But until then… you’re benched."

John’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. The frustration wasn’t just tactical; it was deeply personal. Being sidelined again. Judged unfit. A liability. It scraped against the raw nerve of every failure, every loss. He looked at the Quinjet, the open ramp a gateway to purpose, to redemption, slamming shut in his face. His jaw worked, teeth grinding, a vein pulsing in his temple. He looked like he might explode.

You, in contrast, went utterly still. The color drained from your face, leaving you pale beneath the emergency lights. Your gaze dropped from Bucky to the floor. The accusation – liability – landed with the weight of a physical blow. This is my fault. The thought was a cold knife. Your reckless telekinesis, the uncontrolled fury that shattered the gym, the toxic war with John that poisoned the team… it had led here. To be deemed untrustworthy when lives hung in the balance. Shame, hot and acrid, washed over you, momentarily eclipsing the mission’s urgency. You didn’t argue. You couldn’t. Bucky was right.

"Bob," Bucky said, turning to him, "you have the watch. Keep them looped in. Let’s move." He gave John and you one last, unreadable look – part command, part pity – then turned and strode up the Quinjet ramp without looking back. Yelena, Ava, and Alexei followed, their expressions grim. Ava offered you a small, helpless glance before disappearing inside.

The heavy hydraulic whine of the ramp closing was the loudest sound in the suddenly too-quiet bay. Through the closing gap, John caught a final glimpse of the team strapping in, Bucky settling into the pilot’s seat, his face set. Then the ramp sealed with a definitive sound.

The engines whined, building to a deafening roar that vibrated the floor plates beneath their feet. The Quinjet lifted, sleek and lethal, hovering for a moment before pivoting and accelerating out through the open bay doors into the crimson-lit dusk.

John stood rigid, staring at the empty space where the jet had been. His breath came in short, sharp bursts through flared nostrils. The frustration, the humiliation, the sheer impotent rage boiled inside him, a pressure cooker with no release. He couldn’t hit Bucky. He couldn’t hit the mission. He spun on his heel, his gaze sweeping the bay – the pristine walls, the parked vehicles, the silent equipment – all symbols of his confinement.

With a raw, wordless roar of pure fury, he lashed out. Not at a person, but at the nearest inanimate object – a reinforced steel maintenance trolley laden with tools. He kicked it with all his enhanced strength. The trolley screeched across the polished floor, tools scattering like shrapnel with a deafening clatter, before slamming into the far wall with a resounding **BANG**, leaving a significant dent.

He didn’t look at the damage. He didn’t look at you. He just stood there for a second, chest heaving, fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white. Then, without a word, he stormed past you, his shoulder brushing yours in a jarring, unintentional contact. He didn’t stop, didn’t look back, just disappeared down the corridor towards the ruined gym, leaving behind the echoing clang of metal and the thick scent of ozone and thwarted fury.

You remained rooted to the spot. You hadn’t flinched when the trolley crashed. You hadn’t moved when he brushed past. Your eyes were fixed on the open bay doors, on the spot where the Quinjet had vanished into the blood-red horizon. The roar of the engines faded into the city’s hum, then into silence. The team was gone. Into danger. Without you.

Bob cleared his throat awkwardly from his iPad. "Uh, Y/N? I’ve got the primary feeds up on Screen Three if you… uh… want to monitor?"

You didn’t answer. You just stood there, a lone figure in the vast, echoing bay, the emergency lights painting you in stark red and shadow. The weight of Bucky’s decision, the echo of John’s rage, and the crushing burden of your own guilt pressed down on you, making the air feel thick and suffocating. Liability. The word echoed in the silence left by the departed jet. You wrapped your arms around yourself, a silent, solitary sentinel watching an empty sky, the taste of ash and failure heavy on your tongue. The mission had begun, and they were already drowning.

Hours bled into the Watchtower's tense silence. The common room, usually vibrant, felt like a tomb lit by the cold blue glow of mission feeds. Bob hunched over the console, fingers flying across holographic keys, his brow furrowed in concentration. Screens displayed chaotic thermal signatures, fragmented comms chatter, and shaky helmet-cam footage from Yelena: crumbling concrete corridors, flashes of energy weapons, the grim set of Bucky's jaw as he fired.

Thank God the team taught Bob how to monitor for missions while he couldn’t go. He was really good at it.

You sat rigidly in a chair besides him, your gaze fixed on the screens. Silver eyes tracked every movement, every flicker of threat, your face pale and drawn. The bruise on your temple seemed darker in the monitor's light. You hadn't moved much since the Quinjet left. The weight of being grounded, of being the liability that kept you from your friends, pressed down on you like stone. Every grunt of pain over the comms, every shouted warning, twisted the knife.

John was conspicuously absent. He hadn't emerged from his room since storming off. The silence from his quarters was heavier than any outburst.

"Y/N?" Bob's voice was soft, tentative, breaking the rhythmic hum of the computers and the tense crackle of the comms. Ava was calling for covering fire; Alexei roared in pain.

You didn't look away from the screen showing Yelena ducking behind shattered machinery. "Hmm?"

"You okay?" Bob asked, swiveling slightly in his chair to face you. His kind eyes held genuine concern, cutting through the digital fog of the mission.

A bitter, humorless sound escaped your lips. "Does it matter? They're out there. We're... here." Your voice was flat, devoid of its usual fire.

"It matters," Bob insisted gently. He paused, watching your profile, the way your knuckles were white where you gripped the armrests. "Look... I know things are... complicated. With Walker. With everything." He took a breath, choosing his words carefully over the sound of Bucky barking orders. "He's... he's a good man. Flawed, yeah. Angry, definitely. Carries a lot of hurt. But deep down? Good. And you..." He met your eyes when you finally glanced at him, startled. "You're a good woman. Strong, brilliant, fierce. You both have your demons. Who here doesn't?" He gestured vaguely around the empty room. "But... maybe you should give yourselves a chance. A chance to be something other than enemies." He sighed, “You are my friend and I… I would like to see you happy.” He smiled shyly.

You stared at him, the raw sincerity in his words piercing through your numbness. Bob, gentle and sweet, always sees the potential, the good, even in the wreckage. Your throat tightened. You looked back at the screen just as a blast rocked Yelena's feed, sending static across the image. Ava screamed Bucky's name.

"Thank you, Bob," you whispered as your hand gently cupped his. The words thick with unshed tears and the crushing weight of the unfolding disaster. You meant it. For his kindness, for seeing you when you felt like a failure. But his words felt distant, irrelevant against the immediate horror on the screens.

Suddenly, Bucky's voice cut through, sharp and strained, overriding the chaos: "--overwhelmed! Fall back to Point Delta! Repeat, fall back to--" His transmission dissolved into a burst of static and a bone-jarring *crunch*.

The main tactical screen flashed red. Blinking icons representing Yelena, Ava, and Alexei clustered near a flashing red marker labeled **POINT DELTA - CLIFF EDGE**. Bob's face drained of color. "Oh no... structural collapse detected near their position! They're pinned!"

He frantically worked his console. "Bucky! Yelena! Do… do you copy? What's your status?!" Static hissed back. The helmet cams showed frantic movement, glimpses of a sheer drop beyond crumbling concrete, enemy fire intensifying from multiple angles. Alexei was limping badly, supporting Ava who clutched her side. Yelena fired desperately, her expression grim. Bucky was nowhere in the feeds.

"They're cornered," Bob breathed, horror-struck. "The cliff... if they get pushed back any further..." He looked desperately at you.

You were already moving. Bob's words about chances and goodness evaporated. The only thing that mattered was the terror on your friends' faces, the certainty of death on that crumbling edge. The liability label burned away in the furnace of protective fury.

You didn't run; you stormed. Past Bob, out of the common room, down the corridor towards the secondary hangar bay on the roof. Your movements were swift, silent, purposeful. Years of combat focus slammed down over your emotional turmoil. Save them. Nothing else matters.

You hit the roof access panel, the cool night air hitting your face as the doors slid open. The sleek, angular shape of the secondary Quinjet sat ready. You sprinted towards it, the ramp already descending at your approach command.

You were halfway up the ramp when a heavy boot landed beside yours. You froze, whirling around.

John Walker stood on the ramp, breathing slightly hard, his expression unreadable in the dim hangar light. He must have heard the alerts, the panic in Bob's voice over the intercom, and moved like lightning. He wore his tac-gear – the shield strapped to his back, his jaw set. There was no anger in his eyes now. Just a terrifying, focused intensity. He met your gaze.

No words. No accusations. No "I told you so." Just a shared, desperate understanding reflected in your eyes: Our team is dying. Go.

Your locked gaze lasted only a heartbeat, a silent pact forged in the crucible of imminent loss. You gave the tiniest, almost imperceptible nod. John turned and vaulted into the co-pilot's seat.

You didn't hesitate. You slammed your hand on the ramp control. As the hydraulic whine started and the ramp began its ascent, you were already sliding into the pilot's seat, fingers flying over the ignition sequence. The engines roared to life with a throaty scream that drowned out the distant city sounds and the frantic pounding of your own heart.

You didn't wait for the ramp to fully seal. As soon as there was clearance, you yanked the controls. The Quinjet shot upwards like a bullet, punching through the thin layer of city haze into the cold, star-dusted sky. The Watchtower roof fell away below them.

On the comm, Bob's voice crackled, frantic: "Y/N?! John?! What are you--? Bucky just managed a burst! They're falling back! The cliff section is unstable! You can't--!"

"We're already on route, Bob," you stated, your voice cold steel, cutting him off. Your eyes were fixed on the nav screen, plotting the shortest, most dangerous route to the dam's coordinates. The jet screamed through the night. John, beside you, was a silent, grim statue, scanning tactical data on his screen.

No discussion. No plan. Just speed. Just the unspoken, desperate drive to reach your family before the cliff, the enemy, or time itself claimed them. The only sound was the howl of the engines and the frantic beating of two hearts finally united by a single, terrifying purpose: Save them.

The secondary Quinjet slammed down on a relatively stable plateau a quarter-mile from the collapsing dam, kicking up dust and gravel. Before the engines fully whined down, the ramp was crashing open. The scene before them was chaos rendered in smoke, fire, and the echoing cacophony of battle. The cliff face near the dam was crumbling, sections shearing away into the churning river far below. Enemy fire spat from fortified positions along the access road and higher vantage points.

"Bob, status!" You barked into your comm, already striding down the ramp, twin vibranium-alloy knives snapping into your hands from your thighs sheaths with a lethal *shink*.

"Yelena and Alexei are pinned 200 yards northwest, behind a collapsed generator housing! Ava is 100 yards due west, trapped in a drainage culvert under heavy fire! Bucky's signal is intermittent, last ping was near the main control room access tunnel – deep inside, surrounded!" Bob's voice was frantic but precise. "Enemy converging on all positions! Structural integrity failing!"

John hit the ground beside you, shield already unslung, his eyes scanning the terrain with predatory focus. Dust coated his face, his earlier fury replaced by a terrifyingly calm lethality. He didn't look at you; his gaze tracked the tracer fire stitching the air towards Ava's position.

"We clear a path," he stated, his voice a low rumble cutting through the din. "Work together. I go first, draw fire. You shield us, push back. Get to Ava first, she's closest and exposed."

You hesitated for a fraction of a second. His plan made tactical sense. But trusting him, relying on him after everything… your knuckles whitened on your knives. Ava's faint cry of pain over the comms decided it. This wasn't about you.

"Okay," you said, the single word clipped but clear. No argument. No sarcasm. Just acceptance. The mission. The team.

John didn't wait. He was already moving, a blur of motion, his shield snapping up as enemy fire immediately zeroed in on the new threat. Energy bolts *SPANGED* off the reinforced surface.

"NOW!" he roared.

Your silver eyes narrowed. You flung out a hand. A shimmering, concave telekinetic barrier bloomed into existence just behind John, wider than his shield, catching the crossfire he couldn't block. Concrete chips and energy blasts dissipated against the invisible wall. You pushed, physically straining, sending a kinetic pulse rippling outwards that knocked two advancing mercenaries off their feet. John exploited the opening, charging forward, shield bashing one enemy aside while his sidearm barked, dropping another.

It was brutal, efficient, and terrifyingly coordinated. John was the battering ram, the unyielding point, drawing fire and shattering defenses with sheer aggression and the impact of his shield. You were the protector and the unseen weapon. You deflected sniper rounds aimed at his back, used telekinetic shoves to knock enemies off balance into his path, and once, when a grenade arced towards them, you caught it mid-air with your mind and hurled it back towards the thrower with devastating effect.

Both moved like extensions of each other – he advanced, you covered his flanks and rear; you identified a threat, he neutralized it before you fully voiced the warning. Bob fed you constant updates, guiding you both around collapsing structures and enemy strongpoints.

"Left, Walker! Three hostiles behind the burnt-out truck!"

"Shield up, Y/N! RPG incoming!"

"Push right! Culvert access is clear!"

Both reached the drainage culvert under a hail of fire. John slammed his shield down, creating instant cover as you dropped to your knees beside Ava. The Ghost was curled up, clutching her side, her suit torn and soaked with blood. Her face was pale, eyes wide with pain and fear.

"Hey, hey, look at me," you said, your voice surprisingly gentle despite the chaos. Your hands, glowing faintly silver, pressed against the worst wound. Ava gasped, then sighed as the sharp agony dulled under the warm rush of healing energy. You focused, knitting torn tissue, sealing punctures, staunching internal bleeding just enough to stabilize her. It wasn't a full heal – not here, not now – but it was life-saving. "Can you move?"

Ava nodded weakly, gritting her teeth. "Y-yeah. Thanks, Y/N."

"John! Get her to the jet!" You commanded, already rising, your eyes scanning for the next threat. John didn't question. He hauled Ava carefully to her feet, half-supporting, half-carrying her, his shield still deflecting fire as he moved back towards the relative safety of the Quinjet ramp.

You covered their retreat, knives flashing to deflect a close-quarters attacker while your telekinesis held back a renewed barrage. As soon as John deposited Ava inside the jet, he was back at your side, shield raised.

"Yelena and Alexei next," he stated, breathing hard but eyes blazing with determination. "Northwest. Generator housing."

You met his gaze. Dust, sweat, and soot streaked both your faces. There was no anger there now, only the shared, desperate resolve forged in fire. You both had saved one. You would save the others.

"Lead the way," you said, your voice tight with focus. Your knives dripped with fresh ichor, your power hummed around you like a barely contained storm. John nodded once, a grim understanding passing between you. The dance of war resumed, their movements synchronized, relentless, cutting a bloody swathe towards their trapped comrades. The dam groaned ominously behind you, but your world had narrowed to the next enemy, the next step, the next life to pull from the jaws of death. Together.

Reaching Yelena and Alexei was a gauntlet carved through fire and crumbling concrete. The generator housing was a twisted tomb of metal and sparks, offering scant cover. Enemy fire poured in from elevated positions along the access road and the dam's crumbling superstructure.

John became a relentless storm. He charged fortified nests, his shield a battering ram against makeshift barricades, his enhanced strength tossing aside debris or enemies foolish enough to get close. He drew fire like a lightning rod, trusting you to be his shadow, his shield, his unseen executioner.

And you were. Your twin knives weren't just blades; they were extensions of your will. With sharp flicks of your wrist and focused telekinetic bursts, you sent them flying. They became silver streaks of death, whistling through the air to find throats, sever gun barrels, or lodge deep into the chests of enemies sighting John from blind spots. A mental tug, a twist of power, and they ripped free, arcing back to your waiting hands, slick with blood, only to be launched again. You wove a lethal tapestry of steel and psychic force around them.

A mercenary aiming a heavy machine gun at John’s exposed flank dropped, a knife buried in his eye socket. Another screamed as a blade severed his firing hand before returning to your grasp. You used telekinetic shoves to trip attackers into John’s path, or deflected ricochets that would have found your mark.

"Left flank! Heavy weapons team setting up!" Bob's voice crackled, urgent.

John pivoted, shield raised just as a hail of armor-piercing rounds slammed into it, the impacts driving him back a step. You saw the danger behind him – two more mercenaries rushing from cover with plasma rifles.

Your knives were engaged elsewhere. No time. You threw up a broad telekinetic shield just as the plasma bolts seared the air. The impact against your psychic barrier sent a jolt through your system, a sharp spike of pain behind your eyes. You gritted your teeth, holding it.

"Walker! Yelena's position is collapsing!" Bob yelled.

John roared, surging against the heavy weapons fire, using your shield as mobile cover. You were meters from the generator housing. Yelena popped up, firing precise bursts, her face smudged with soot but eyes blazing. Alexei lay behind her, a crude bandage soaked red around his massive thigh, his face pale but his expression furious.

"Y/N! Took you long enough!" Yelena shouted, a flicker of relief in her voice.

"Get Alexei ready to move!" John bellowed, deflecting another volley. "We're getting you out!”.

You focused on clearing the immediate path, knives flashing, telekinetic pulses shoving debris and enemies aside. The strain was immense. Healing Ava, constant shielding, the precision knife-work – it was draining your reserves faster than you ‘d anticipated.

Suddenly, a chilling *WHOOSH* cut through the din. From a higher vantage point on the dam's cracking wall, a mercenary stood, an RPG launcher smoking on his shoulder. The rocket snaked through the air, trailing fire, aimed directly at the cluster around the generator housing – John, you, Yelena, and the injured Alexei.

Time slowed.

"RPG!" John roared, instinctively raising his shield, knowing it wouldn't be enough against the high explosive at this range.

You didn't think. You reacted. With a raw, guttural cry that tore from your throat, you threw everything you had left. Not a shield. A force. A massive, concussive wave of pure telekinetic energy erupted from you, not towards the rocket, but towards the air in front of it, compressing it violently.

***BOOOOOOM!***

The RPG detonated prematurely, ten meters short of its target. The explosion was deafening, a blinding fireball that hurled shrapnel and a concussive wave in all directions. John was thrown back hard against the generator housing, his shield ringing like a gong. Yelena ducked, shielding Alexei. You took the brunt of the psychic backlash. The force of your own power rebounded through you. You staggered, a blinding pain lancing through your skull. A torrential nosebleed gushed over your lips and chin, dripping onto your tac-suit. Your vision swam, dark spots dancing at the edges. You swayed, catching yourself on a jagged piece of metal, gasping for air.

"Y/N!" John was beside you instantly, his hand gripping your arm, steadying you. His eyes scanned your face, the blood, the dazed expression, with raw alarm cutting through the battle focus.

"I'm... I'm okay," you gasped, wiping blood from your nose with a trembling, dirty hand, leaving a crimson smear. The world tilted, then steadied. The pain was excruciating, but the immediate danger was past. "Just... drained. Get them... get them moving!"

John didn't hesitate. He hauled Alexei up, the big man groaning but clamping a massive hand on John's shoulder. "Is good time for rescue, Captain Pain-in-Ass!" Alexei grunted through gritted teeth.

Yelena provided covering fire, her shots precise and lethal. "Move! This whole section is coming down!"

You pushed through the dizziness and pain, summoning the dregs of your power. You couldn't throw knives anymore, but you could create a weak, shimmering barrier behind them as they retreated, deflecting stray fire as John half-carried Alexei and Yelena covered their six. It was a slow, agonizing retreat under constant fire, you stumbling, your head pounding with every step, every use of power.

Somehow, they made it back to the Quinjet. Ava, pale but alert, helped pull Alexei up the ramp. Yelena leaped on last, spinning to lay down suppressive fire.

"Get us airborne!" John yelled, dragging you up the ramp as you sagged against him, your strength failing. The ramp whined shut just as a hail of fire slammed into it.

You collapsed against the bulkhead inside, breathing raggedly, blood still trickling from your nose, your face ashen. John dumped Alexei onto a jump seat and whirled to the cockpit controls Ava had managed to prep.

"Bob! Status on Bucky!" John barked, slamming his hands on the console, bringing engines back to full shriek.

"Signal's weak! Deep in the access tunnel network! Bio-signs erratic! He's not moving! Enemy converging on his last known position!" Bob's voice was frantic. "The main control room structure is failing!"

John's knuckles were white on the controls. He looked back at the bay. Yelena was binding Alexei's leg. Ava was trying to stem your nosebleed with a med-pad, the telepath trembling with exhaustion and pain.

They had two critically injured teammates. You were spent, possibly concussed. The jet was damaged. And Bucky was deep in the collapsing, enemy-infested heart of the dam, seconds from death or catastrophic failure.

The impossible choice hung in the smoke-filled air of the Quinjet. Save Bucky and risk everyone? Or leave him to save the others?

John's eyes met yours across the bay. Yours were clouded with pain, but the fierce determination hadn't extinguished. You gave the faintest nod, pushing yourself slightly upright against the bulkhead, wiping blood from your chin. You both had come this far. You weren't leaving him. Not now.

"Plot me a course, Bob," John growled, his voice like grinding stone. "Deepest penetration point. Now." He slammed the thrusters forward, the jet screaming towards the dam's breached flank, towards the heart of darkness where Bucky Barnes awaited his fate.

The air inside the battered Quinjet tasted of blood, ozone, and desperation. Bob’s voice crackled over the comm, rapid-fire, guiding John through the labyrinth of collapsing tunnels towards Bucky’s fading signal. "Left at the next junction, John! Structural integrity at 15%! Thermal bloom ahead – likely hostiles!"

John brought the jet to a shuddering halt deep within a crumbling access chamber, the ramp groaning open to reveal smoke, falling debris, and the ominous creak of failing concrete. Bucky’s signal pulsed weakly nearby.

"Y/N..." John started, his voice tight with concern. "You're in no shape. Stay in the jet. I'll get Bucky."

You met his eyes, a flicker of defiance battling the overwhelming fatigue. He won’t be able to do it alone. Without a word, you reached into a small, reinforced pouch on your utility belt. Your fingers closed around a slim, pre-filled injector pen. John recognized it – a high-grade, tactical adrenaline/stimulant cocktail, designed for superhuman metabolisms in extreme situations. A last resort. Temporary. You’d mentioned having it, but never using it. But now was the moment.

Your hand shook slightly as you pressed the injector against your thigh, through your tac-suit. A faint *hiss*. You closed your eyes for a second as the potent cocktail hit your system. A shudder ran through you, then your spine straightened. Color flooded back into your cheeks, chased by a dangerous, artificial vibrancy. Your silver eyes snapped open, blazing with renewed, almost feverish intensity, though the deep shadows of exhaustion remained beneath the surface.

"Let's go for Bucky," you stated, your voice clipped, sharpened by the stimulant. The tremor was gone, replaced by a brittle, hyper-alert readiness.

John saw the worry warring with necessity in your eyes. The stim would keep you going, but it was borrowing strength you didn't have, and the crash would be brutal. But Bucky was dying. He nodded curtly. "Yelena! Be ready to launch the second we're back on that ramp! Don't wait for niceties!"

"Da, Captain Obvious!" Yelena called back, already strapping Alexei in tighter, her eyes fixed on the access point, pistol ready.

They plunged into the choking smoke. The stimulant coursing through your veins turned your exhaustion into razor-wire focus. Your knives flew with renewed, almost reckless speed, guided by sharp telekinetic flicks. John was a whirlwind of violence, his shield shattering barricades, his fists breaking bones. They fought in terrifying harmony, clearing a path through the converging enemy towards the flickering red light of Bucky's locator beacon.

You found him slumped against a shattered control panel, unconscious, bleeding from a head wound and a deep gash across his ribs. John scooped him up effortlessly but grimly. Carrying Bucky meant his shield was his only weapon, his mobility hampered.

You took a moment to heal him, just enough to put his life out of danger. You quickly finished and you were moving.

"Cover us!" John barked, turning to retrace their steps.

You became a one-woman rearguard. Knives whirled, telekinetic pulses shoved debris into pursuers' paths, and shields flared to deflect bullets aimed at John's back. The stimulant fueled you, but the drain was immense. Your movements started to regain a slight tremor as they neared the access chamber.

Suddenly, a figure materialized from the smoke – not a mercenary, but a hulking brute in reinforced armor, cybernetic enhancements glinting. He moved with unnatural speed, ignoring your flying knives that skittered off his plating. He slammed a fist into your telekinetic shield. The impact reverberated through you, staggering you, breaking your focus.

He was on you before the disorientation cleared. A backhanded blow, more machine than muscle, caught your ribs. Air exploded from your lungs. You hit the ground hard, grit biting into your palms, the taste of copper flooding your mouth. Get up. GET UP. You lashed out blindly with a surge of telekinetic force, a desperate shove that bought a single, gasping second. It scraped him back a meter, boots grinding on concrete.

“Walker! Go! Now!” The shout tore from your raw throat, eyes locked on the advancing Goliath. John hesitated—you felt it, that familiar, agonizing second of his conflict. “TAKE HIM!” you screamed, raw and final.

The stimulant’s artificial fire was guttering out, leaving cold ash in its wake. Your power sputtered—a dying star. You threw everything left: chunks of debris, a wave of concussive force, a psychic scream meant to scramble circuits. He absorbed it, shrugged it off like rain. Each step he took vibrated the crumbling floor beneath you. Exhaustion wasn’t just fatigue; it was a leaden weight dragging your soul down.

His hand shot out—inhumanly fast, impossibly strong. Not a punch. A vice. Cold, plasteel-reinforced fingers closed around your throat. Your own hands clawed uselessly at his forearm, finding only unyielding metal and cable. He lifted you. Your boots left the ground. The world tilted, narrowed to the red glare of his cyber-eye and the terrifying absence of breath. Pressure built behind your eyes.

John, ten yards from the ramp with Bucky, froze. He saw you dangling, your face purpling, your struggles weakening. Saw Yelena in the jet doorway, screaming at him, waving frantically. Saw the entire structure shaking violently, huge chunks of concrete plunging from the ceiling.

Leave her. Save Barnes. Orders. Logic.

His gaze locked with yours, fading, desperate for a split second. Logic died.

He surged forward, not towards the jet, but back towards you. He dumped Bucky unceremoniously but carefully just inside the access chamber entrance, within sight of the ramp. "Yelena! GET HIM!" he roared, then turned and charged the brute.

The enhanced enemy barely had time to register the new threat before John slammed into him like a runaway train. The impact tore the giant's hands from your throat. You crumpled to the ground, gasping, retching, vision swimming.

What followed was pure, savage brutality. John fought with no shield, no finesse, only desperate, enhanced fury. He dodged crushing blows that cratered the concrete floor, landed shattering punches that dented armor, and took hits that would have broken bones in a normal man. He used debris, leverage, sheer bloody-mindedness. He fought for every second, every inch, knowing the dam was seconds from total collapse. You, on your hands and knees, tried to summon your power to help, but only weak sparks flickered. You could only watch, helpless, as John wrestled the monstrosity.

Finally, John found an opening. He jammed a jagged piece of rebar into a seam in the brute's neck armor, twisting with all his strength. The enhanced enemy gurgled, eyes wide with shock, then collapsed, dark fluid welling around the impaled metal.

John staggered back, breathing in ragged gasps, blood dripping from his mouth and a gash on his forehead and cheekbone. He turned towards you, relief warring with urgency on his battered face. "Y/N! Come on!"

He took a step towards you.

***KABOOM!***

The hidden C4 charge, likely planted as a final trap or triggered by the collapsing structure, detonated directly beneath where the brute had fallen. The force was cataclysmic. The floor erupted in a blinding fireball and a shockwave of pure destruction.

You were lifted off your feet and hurled backwards like a ragdoll, straight towards the gaping maw where the access chamber met the sheer cliff face and the roaring river far below.

John reacted on pure instinct. He didn't think. He leaped. Not away from the blast, but towards your tumbling form. He tackled you mid-air, wrapping his arms and body around you, pinning you flush against his chest. He twisted violently in the air, bringing his shield around to face the expanding fireball and the falling debris.

You, battered consciousness clinging by a thread, felt the searing heat, heard the deafening roar. With the last vestige of your power, amplified by adrenaline and sheer will to survive, you threw up the strongest telekinetic shield you could muster. It wasn't a bubble, but a concentrated barrier layered over John's physical shield, reinforcing it.

The combined blast wave and plummeting debris slammed into both. John's shield buckled under the impact, the kinetic force driving the breath from his lungs. Your psychic barrier flared blindingly bright, absorbing the worst of the energy, then shattered like glass, the backlash snapping your head back with a cry. You were falling, tumbling through smoke and debris, the world a chaotic blur of fire, dark rock, and churning white water rushing up to meet you both.

The icy embrace of the river hit you like a sledgehammer. The impact drove you deep into the freezing, turbulent darkness. John's grip on you never loosened, his shield still instinctively angled to deflect the chunks of concrete raining down around them. You went limp in his arms, the stimulant's false energy utterly spent, consciousness fleeing as the freezing water and crushing pressure claimed you. Both plunged into the depths, locked together, swallowed by the river and the roaring aftermath of the dam's final death throes. The surface, and the world above, vanished.

The Quinjet shuddered violently as Yelena wrestled it through the maelstrom. Lightning strobed against the reinforced viewport, illuminating the grim tableau within. Bucky Barnes lay strapped to a med-cot, unconscious, face pale beneath smears of grime and blood. Alexei Shostakov slumped against a bulkhead, teeth gritted, his leg hastily bound with torn fabric already soaked crimson. Ava Starr hovered near Bucky, her hands clenching into fists of frustrated impotence. The acrid smell of burnt wiring, blood, and ozone hung thick in the recycled air.

Yelena’s knuckles were white on the controls. Every jolt of turbulence sent fresh agony rippling through the cabin. Alexei hissed a stream of Russian curses. Ava flinched, her form flickering like a dying bulb. Below them, the churning blackness where the dam had been, was swallowed by the storm unleashed. Where John and you had fallen.

“They…” Ava’s voice was a ghost of itself, barely audible over the engines and thunder. “…they pulled us out. All of us. While the place was coming down.” Her eyes fixed on the black void beyond the viewport. “We just… left them.”

Yelena didn’t turn. Her gaze remained locked on the navigation screen, a muscle jumping in her jaw. “There was no choice, Ava,” she stated, her voice clipped, devoid of its usual sharpness. It was a cold, hard fact. “Bucky is out. Alexei can’t walk. We can barely stand. Going back into that collapse, in this storm, with hostiles likely still active? It’s suicide. And it wouldn’t have helped them.” The words tasted like ash. The logic was sound, the reality brutal.

The quinjet flew over the area several times, scanning for signs of either of you, but no sign appeared. "Shit," Yelena cursed under her breath as a tear escaped and ran down her cheek. There was nothing they could do now.

Alexei slammed a massive fist against the bulkhead, making the jet vibrate. “Pizdets! Trapped! Like rats! And those two… throwing themselves into fire!” His anger was a mask for the helplessness twisting his features, the pain making his eyes glassy. He’d seen Walker’s desperate shove that saved Bucky, seen you, veins standing out like dark cords on your neck as you pushed your telekinesis past breaking to shield them all for those critical seconds.

The Tower’s landing pad emerged like a mirage through the lashing rain. Bob - looking worried – stood braced against the gale under the meager shelter of the entrance canopy. His eyes widened as the battered jet touched down, engines screaming against the wind.

He was moving before the ramp fully lowered, ducking under the downpour. His fingers fidgeted nervously with the hem of his sleeves. His expression was pure anxiety. He helped Bucky. “What happened? Where’s— “. His eyes scanned the emerging, limping figures. “Where’s Y/N? John?”

Yelena pushed past him, water streaming down her face, her movements stiff with exhaustion and concealed injury. Alexei hobbled heavily, leaning on Ava, providing support, her face etched with hollow exhaustion. They moved with the grim focus of survivors desperate for sanctuary.

Bob’s gaze darted between them, searching faces that refused to meet his. “Guys… Yelena!” His voice rose, sharp with dawning dread, cutting through the roar of the storm. “Where are they?”

Yelena stopped. Rain plastered her blonde hair to her skull. She finally looked at him, and the raw, uncharacteristic sheen in her eyes – a mix of fury, bone-deep fatigue, and a grief she couldn’t yet name – was more terrifying than any enemy. Her voice, when it came, was low, hoarse, stripped bare.

” They didn’t make it to the jet.”

A beat of crushing silence, filled only by the howling wind.

” We’ll find them.”

The promise was fierce, absolute, but it landed like a stone in the pit of Bob’s stomach. Didn’t make it. It wasn’t confirmation of death, but it was the void of uncertainty, the image of that collapsing dam face and the raging river below.

The sterile brightness of the Tower’s med bay was a jarring contrast to the chaos they’d left. Doctors and med-techs that were sent by Val, swarmed Bucky and Alexei. Ava sank onto a gurney, her form shimmering weakly as the adrenaline crash hit. Yelena stood rigidly by the window, watching the storm rage against the panoramic view of the city, her arms crossed tight as if holding herself together.

Bob paced, anxious energy radiating off him. “We have to go back! The jet— “.

“The jet wouldn’t survive takeoff in this, Bob,” Yelena cut in, still staring out at the lightning forking across the sky. “It’s a Category 5 system sitting directly over the impact zone and the river basin. Winds are tearing trees out of the ground. Visibility zero. Thermal scans are useless. Any search pattern would be suicidal and blind.” She finally turned, her gaze meeting his, hard and pragmatic despite the exhaustion. “We are no good to them dead. Or captured again.”

Ava spoke softly from her gurney, drawing a thermal blanket around her shoulders. “They saved us. Dragged us out one by one while the C4 timers were counting down… John carrying us… Y/N using the last of her focus to shield Bucky…” Her voice cracked. “We failed them.” The quiet admission hung heavy in the antiseptic air.

“You´re talking as if they were… they… they are ok, right? Yelena?” Bob looked for an affirmation that no one could give.

Yelena didn’t look at him. She couldn’t.

Alexei, gritting his teeth as a med-tech examined his leg wound, growled, “Walker is cockroach. Hard to kill. And Y/N? That witch has tricks even Satan doesn’t know. If anyone survives falling off a dam into hell’s bathtub… it’s them.” It was bravado, but laced with a desperate hope they all clung to.

Bob slumped into a chair, running his hands through the hem of his hoodie. The image of John, arrogant and broken, and you, fierce and fragile, facing that explosion… it was seared into his mind. The frustration was a physical ache.

Monitors beeped softly. Rain lashed the windows. The storm outside mirrored the tempest within the med bay – the howl of helplessness, the thunderclap of guilt, the relentless downpour of fear for their missing, broken comrades. They were safe, patched up, sheltered. But two vital, volatile pieces of their fractured family were out there, somewhere in the dark and the drowning rain, fighting a battle for survival they might already have lost.

---

The river hit like concrete. The cold wasn’t just cold; it was a shock that seared his nerves, punched the air from his already bruised lungs, and sent agony screaming through his broken ribs. Water, thick with mud and debris, swallowed you both whole. Darkness pressed in. The current was a living thing – a monstrous, churning serpent dragging them deeper, tumoring them violently against submerged rocks. Splintered wood from the dam slammed into John’s back. He gritted his teeth against a scream, swallowing icy water that burned like acid.

You were unconscious. Utterly still in his arms. Dead weight in the murderous flow. Panic, colder than the river, seized him. No pulse? Drowned? He couldn’t check. Not yet. Survival first. He clamped his arms around your torso, locking you against his chest with a grip fueled by desperation and failing adrenaline. His legs kicked furiously, fighting the downward suck of the current. Every movement sent shards of glassy pain through his ribs. His vision pulsed black at the edges. Air. Need air.

Debris battered you both – chunks of concrete, twisted rebar, branches torn from the banks. One branch scraped across his temple, legs and arms. Blood swirled, dark tendrils in the murk. He saw the surface – a shimmering, distorted silver sheet – impossibly far above. He kicked harder, ignoring the fire in his chest, the screaming protest of his muscles. Your head lolled against his shoulder, your face deathly pale, lips tinged blue. Hold on. Just hold on.

The ascent felt like an eternity. His lungs screamed. Spots danced before his eyes. His kicks grew weaker, more erratic. Just as darkness threatened to consume him completely, his scrabbling hand slammed against something solid and unmoving – a massive, algae-slick boulder wedged deep in the riverbed. Anchor. With a final, Herculean heave fueled by pure terror for the woman in his arms, he pushed off the rock, driving you upwards with his legs.

Both breached the surface with a gasp that was half sob. John choked, spewing river water, sucking in great, ragged gulps of rain-lashed air that felt like knives in his chest. He immediately tightened his grip on you, keeping your head above the churning surface. The current was still fierce, trying to rip you from his grasp. He scanned the bank – steep, muddy, treacherous. Twenty yards downstream, a slightly less vertical slope offered a chance.

Every stroke was agony. He swam one-armed, clutching you with the other, his legs churning against the current. Debris continued to pummel you both. He took a glancing blow from a floating log on his already injured ribs. Stars exploded behind his eyes. He tasted copper. Don’t drop her. Don’t you fucking drop her. If he drops you, you are dead. He reached the muddy bank, clawing at roots and slick earth with his free hand. It gave way. He slid back. Tried again. Finally, he hooked his arm around a thick, exposed root, anchoring you. Heaving, gasping, trembling with exhaustion and pain, he dragged you first, then himself, onto the cold, sucking mud beyond the water’s reach.

He collapsed beside you, chest heaving, each breath a wet, rattling gurgle that terrified him. Punctured lung? Rain sheeted down, plastering his hair to his face, washing mud and blood in runnels down his skin. He rolled onto his side, ignoring the protest in his ribs, and pressed trembling, numb fingers to your throat.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Weak. Erratic. But there. Relief, sharp and dizzying, washed over him, almost as potent as the pain. You were alive. Unconscious, hypothermic, and utterly vulnerable, but alive. He checked your breathing – shallow, but present. No major bleeding he could see, but the pallor, the blue lips… Hypothermia.

He had to move. You couldn’t stay here, exposed on the bank. The storm he didn’t even know when it started, was worsening; thunder boomed like artillery, lightning fracturing the sky. The forest loomed, dark and unwelcoming. He had no idea where you were. Miles from the dam? Further? Direction was meaningless. Shelter. Fire. Now.

Gritting his teeth, John pushed himself up. Agony lanced through his side; he choked back a cry. Then, with a groan that ripped from his soul, he bent and gathered you into his arms. You were slight, but dead weight was dead weight, and his body was a symphony of broken parts.

He walked.

The forest floor was a treacherous mix of mud, slick leaves, and hidden roots. Rain lashed his face, blinding him. Wind howled through the trees, sounding like lost souls. Every step sent jolts of pain through his ribs and up his spine. His breathing grew more labored, the wet rattle deepening. He stumbled often, catching himself against trees, jarring his injuries, and nearly dropping you. Each time, he tightened his grip, whispering hoarse, unheard reassurances: ” Hold on, Y/N. Just hold on.”

Hours bled together in a haze of pain, cold, and exhaustion. Night, absolute and suffocating, broken only by the terrifying strobe of lightning. The temperature plummeted. His shivering became uncontrollable tremors. You remained frighteningly still in his arms, your skin icy even through your soaked clothes. He talked to you, nonsensical things, just to stay conscious, to fight the creeping numbness in his own mind.

” Remember the gym? You… you slammed me good… arrogant bastard, yeah… deserved it…”

” Stupid damn mission… I’m going to kill Bucky… if we live…”

” Don’t you die on me, witch… not after… all this…”

Doubt gnawed at him. Was he walking in circles? Was he taking you deeper into nowhere? He was running on fumes, on sheer, stubborn willpower forged in a hundred hellholes. But even that was fading. His vision tunneled. His legs felt like lead. He was going to collapse. You were both going to die here, cold and broken in the dark.

Then, during a blinding lightning flash, he saw it. A stark, angular silhouette against the roiling sky, nestled in a small clearing ahead. An old cabin. Wooden walls weathered grey, roof sagging, windows dark and gaping like empty eye sockets. Abandoned. Possibly unstable. But shelter.

A surge of desperate hope, sharp as the pain in his side, propelled him the last hundred yards. He stumbled into the small, overgrown clearing, collapsing to his knees just feet from the rickety porch. He gently lowered you onto the relatively drier ground under the eaves, then slumped forward, forehead pressed to the muddy earth, gasping, coughing violently. Blood speckled the mud. Bad. Getting worse.

Summoning the last dregs of his strength, he crawled onto the porch. The door hung askew on rusted hinges. He shoved it open with his shoulder, the screech of metal echoing unnaturally loud in the storm’s din. The interior was a single room, thick with dust, cobwebs, and the smell of decay and rodent droppings. Empty. Dank. But blessedly dry and out of the punishing wind and rain. A stone fireplace dominated one wall. A rusted metal bedframe with collapsed springs and a thin mattress stood in a corner. A rickety table and one chair lay overturned. And a door leading the way to a small bathroom.

It wasn’t salvation. But it was a chance.

John dragged you inside, then collapsed beside you, shivering violently on the dusty wooden floor. The storm raged outside, a furious counterpoint to the terrifying silence within the cabin and within you. You both were alive. Barely. Trapped. Injured. And the true battle – against their wounds, the cold, the ghosts of your past, and the terrifying vulnerability of your present – was just beginning.

The world tilted violently. Darkness pulsed at the edges of his vision, promising sweet, painless oblivion. Just rest… just a moment… you lay crumpled on the dusty floorboards a few feet away, your stillness more terrifying than the storm’s fury outside. Your skin was the color of river silt under the flickering glare of lightning.

No. The thought was a guttural command, ripped from the core of his military conditioning. Fire or die. He forced his eyes open, blinking against the dust and rainwater stinging his vision. The stone fireplace yawned before him, filled with ancient ash and the skeletons of long-dead birds. Agony was a living thing coiled around his ribs, tightening with every shallow, wet gasp. Punctured lung. Definitely. He dragged himself forward on his elbows, each movement a fresh hell. The floorboards felt like ice against his soaked pants.

Gathering tinder was torture. Brittle twigs blown into a corner. Dry moss peels from between the wall logs. He found a few pages of a disintegrated journal under the bedframe.

Desperation clawed at him. He fumbled through his boot, fingers brushing cold metal— the hilt of his combat knife. He dragged it out, its blade glinting dully in the gloom. Steel and flint. The knife’s hardened spine. He scanned the debris near the hearth, vision swimming. A fist-sized chunk of quartzite, fractured and sharp-edged, lay half-buried in ash. He seized it. Flint. Numb, blood-slicked fingers positioned the knife’s spine against the quartzite, angled over the dry journal page. His first strike was weak, clumsy. The blade skittered, producing only a pathetic shower of white sparks that died instantly on the stone. Focus. For her. He sucked in a searing breath, ignoring the coppery taste flooding his mouth, and struck again. Harder. *CRACK.* A single, bright spark leapt, landing on the paper. It glowed orange for a heart-stopping second… then faded to grey. A sob of frustration choked him.

“Come on you fucking shit,” he cursed, frustrated.

He struck a third time, pouring every shred of will, every ounce of failing strength into the motion. *CRACK-SSST.* A cluster of fierce sparks rained down. One caught, a tiny, defiant ember on the paper’s edge. He dropped the stones, cupping his shaking hands around the fragile glow, blowing with agonizing gentleness—each exhale a rattling cough that brought fresh warmth to his tongue. The ember pulsed, breathed, then bloomed into a frail, hungry tongue of flame, licking at the dry moss. The fire grew, casting long, desperate shadows that danced like specters on the decaying walls. Heat. Life.

Heat began to seep into the frigid air, a tangible promise. Now the wet clothes. His own were easier, in theory. Peeling the soaked undershirt over his head was an exercise in pure agony. Broken ribs grated. He cried out, a harsh, animal sound swallowed by thunder, as the fabric pulled free. His torso was a canvas of brutal purple bruising spreading across his left side, a shoulder, and back, scrapes, and the angry, reopened gash on his temple. He shivered uncontrollably despite the growing fire’s warmth. Then he slowly took off his boots and pants.

He crawled to you. The intimacy was clinical, born of dire necessity, yet it felt like a profound violation – of you, of the unspoken war between both.

“Don’t hate me for this…” he whispered.

His numb fingers fumbled with the zipper of your tac vest, then your tactical shirt. Every brush against your icy skin sent a jolt through him. He worked methodically, focusing on the task, refusing to let his gaze linger… until he had to lift your limp torso to pull the sodden fabric free.

Lightning flashed, illuminating your bare shoulders, the stark lines of your collarbones, the faint tracery of old scars he’d never seen, and the intricate, swirling tattoo of thorns and daisies in the left part of your lower belly. He didn’t know you had. Well, why would he know that? He thought it was sexy, but seeing it now, on her vulnerable, near-lifeless form, was a punch to the gut. If you survive this, he would ask you about it.

He looked at the bruises already blooming on your ribs from the river rocks and his desperate grip. Your trousers were next, a necessary, awkward struggle. He left you in your underwear. Your legs had big bruises too.

He placed the clothes near the warmth of the fire to dry and managed to find a couple of old blankets in a small cabinet in the bathroom of the abandoned cabin. “Thank God,” he murmured.

He dragged you near the fire. As he worked, the silence pressed in, broken only by the storm and the crackle of the fire. The pain, the exhaustion, the sheer, overwhelming aloneness with your unconscious form cracked something open inside him. Words spilled out, raw and unfiltered, a desperate ramble to keep himself conscious, to fill the void where your sharp wit should be.

“Gotta… gotta stay awake, Y/N,” he rasped, his voice thick with pain and fatigue. He gently rolled you onto the blanket near the hearth, then collapsed beside you, dragging half the blanket over himself. He propped himself against the wall, inches from you. The firelight played on your pale face.

“Know I’m… an idiot,” he confessed, the words slurring slightly. His head lolled back against the wall. “Arrogant bastard. Screwed up… everything. Cap. Lemar. My family…” A wet, rattling cough shook him. He spat blood-tinged phlegm into the dust. “But you… You never let me forget it. Hated that. Hated you for it.” A weak, pained chuckle. “Love the way you hate it… when I call you ‘witch’.” He turned his head, his blurring gaze finding your profile. “Eyes flash… like lightning. Gets me every damn time.”

He was drifting. The warmth was a seductive trap. He fought it, focusing on your face. “You’re… amazing. Always thought that. Even when you were… crawling inside my head. Messing with me.” His breath hitched. “Five nights… Saw things… Felt things… Shoulda have made me hate you more. Didn’t. I think… I never did.” He swallowed hard, the admission scraping his throat raw. “Scared the hell outta me. Still does.”

He pulled the heavy blanket over you both, tucking it awkwardly around your shoulders, his movements growing slower, more uncoordinated. The effort drained the last dregs of his strength. He slumped lower against the wall, his shoulder brushing yours. The firelight painted the cabin in shifting oranges and deep blacks. Dust motes danced in the air. Outside, the wind screamed like a banshee.

His gaze, clouded with pain and encroaching unconsciousness, settled on your face. So still. So unlike the fierce, defiant woman who haunted his days and invaded his nights. A surge of something vast and terrifying – regret? Tenderness? – washed over him, colder than the river. His hand, trembling violently, lifted with monumental effort. His calloused, blood-streaked fingers, infinitely gentle, brushed a strand of wet, dark hair from your icy forehead. The touch lingered, a silent benediction in the howling dark.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words barely audible over the storm and the crackling fire. It was an apology for everything: for the thoughts, for the dreams he shouldn’t have craved, for the cruel words in the gym, for failing to protect you better, for dragging you into his wreckage, for the terrifying, unwanted truth of ”That’s the problem.”

The final thread of consciousness snapped. His hand fell limply onto the blanket beside your shoulder. His head slumped forward, chin resting on his chest. His labored, wet breathing grew shallower, more erratic. The firelight glinted on the sweat and rain still beading on his bruised skin. He was out. Utterly spent. Broken. Beside the woman who was his poison and his only solace, in the fragile sanctuary of firelight, while the relentless storm raged its fury against the decaying walls of the abandoned cabin.

---

Consciousness returned to you like a thief in the fog. First came the pain: a migraine jackhammering against the inside of your skull, a deep, hollow ache in your bones, and a terrifying absence where your telekinesis usually hummed. Then came the sensations: gritty dust beneath your cheek, the rough weave of an unfamiliar blanket, the dry, smoky scent of a dying fire, and a residual, fragile warmth radiating from embers glowing feebly in a stone hearth.

Fire?

Your eyes fluttered open, vision swimming. Darkness, punctuated by the dull orange pulse of the embers and the sporadic, blinding flash of lightning through grimy windows. Rain hammered relentlessly on the roof. Where…? Fragmented memories slammed into you: the concussive roar of C4, the sickening lurch of freefall, the crushing embrace of water, the terrifying stillness of John Walker shielding you as both plunged… John!

Panic, cold and sharp, cut through the disorientation. You jerked your head to the side.

There he was. Slumped against the rough stone wall beside you, head lolled forward onto his chest, utterly motionless. The firelight painted stark shadows on the brutal map of bruises discoloring his torso – deep, angry purples and blues blooming across his ribs and shoulder. Your clothes were gone, replaced by the scratchy, moth-eaten blankets pooled around you both. The clinical logic of hypothermia prevention registered dimly, overshadowed by the sheer vulnerability of his stillness.

“Walker?” Your voice was a dry rasp, barely audible over the storm and the frantic thudding of your own heart. You reached out, fingers trembling, and tapped his shoulder. No response. Not even a flinch. “Hey!” Louder now, laced with a fear you couldn’t contain. You pushed yourself up on one elbow, ignoring the lance of pain in your head, and shook him harder. “John! Wake up!”

Silence. A stillness deeper than sleep. Deeper than exhaustion.

No. No, no, no. The panic surged, icy claws digging into your chest. You’d been out for hours. How long had he been like this? You scrambled closer, the blanket falling away. Your hands, cold and shaking, cupped his face, lifting his head. His skin was clammy, pale beneath the grime and the bruise on his temple. His breathing… You strained to hear… it was shallow, wet, and terrifyingly irregular. A horrible, rattling gurgle accompanied each weak inhale.

Inside. The realization was a sucker punch. No gaping wounds, just the horrific bruising. Internal injuries. Bleeding. A punctured lung. Things that killed slowly, agonizingly, without immediate, advanced medical care. Things you didn’t have.

He needed a healer. You were the healer. But you were a drained battery, a cracked vessel. The stimulant crash had left your mind a desert, your psychic reserves scoured raw. Telekinesis was a distant dream. Healing? It felt impossible, but you had to do something.

He shielded you. Took the blast, the fall, the river rocks. Carried you for miles. Lit the fire.

Why? Why did he do it? He should have been on that jet. Safe. He’d saved the others. He’d earned his escape. Instead, he’d thrown himself back into the inferno for you. Grabbed you when the enhanced brute had you by the throat, pure oxygen cut off, terror blinding you. Jumped towards you as the world exploded, wrapping himself around you like human armor as both plummeted into darkness. Taking the impact, the cold, the pain… all for you.

You couldn’t lose him. Not like this. Not after that. Not after everything.

“Okay, okay…” you whispered, more to yourself than him. “Okay, John. Hold on.” Gritting your teeth against the migraine’s scream, you placed your palms flat against the worst of the bruising on his ribs. You closed your eyes, reaching inward, searching for the faintest spark of your power in the desolate void.

Nothing. Just the gnawing emptiness, the psychic equivalent of static.

“Come on,” you pleaded, voice cracking. “Come on, please.” You pushed, mentally scrabbling against the walls of your own exhaustion. A faint, sickly flicker of silver light sparked beneath your palms, then died instantly. Pain lanced through your temples. You whimpered.

He walked for hours. In agony. For you.

You took a shuddering breath, forcing yourself into a semblance of calm you didn’t feel. Focus. Breathe. He needs you. You drew in air slowly, deeply, ignoring the way it made your ribs ache. You visualized the power not as a raging river, but as a single, stubborn ember in the ashes of your mind. You nurtured it. Fed it with sheer, desperate willpower. For him.

A soft, silvery glow began to emanate from your palms, weak at first, like moonlight through thick cloud. It grew steadier, brighter, infused with tiny, dancing sparks of energy that moved around your hands, posing directly into his bruised ribs. The light seeped into his skin, illuminating the network of damaged tissue beneath. As your power connected, fragments of his recent memories flooded your mind, vivid and overwhelming:

The Chokehold, your own face, contorted in terror, feet dangling. The crushing pressure on your throat. His raw, blinding panic – sharper than any battlefield fear – as he charged, roaring your name.

The Fall, The deafening blast. Debris flying. Your body tumbling through smoke. His desperate leap, arms outstretched. The impact of catching you, the jarring pain in his ribs instantly eclipsed by the primal need to shield. The terrifying rush of air as both fell.

The River, Cold like a thousand knives. Darkness. Your limp weight in his arms. The crushing fear you were gone. The agonizing fight against the current, every kick a torment. The desperate scramble onto the mud.

The Walk, The crushing weight of you in his arms. Agony screamed through his side with every step. The relentless cold, rain, and wind. The terrifying stillness of your face. His voice, raw and broken, whispering: ” Hold on, Y/N… Don’t you die on me, witch… not after… all this…” The sheer, grinding willpower it took to keep moving, driven only by the need to save you.

The Fire, The agony of stripping your wet clothes, the clinical detachment warring with something deeper, more terrifying, when he saw the tattoo on your vulnerable skin. His rasping confession by the firelight: ” Love the way you hate it… when I call you ‘witch’… Gets me every damn time… You’re amazing… Scared the hell outta me…” The profound gentleness of his fingers brushing your hair from your forehead. The crushing weight of his whispered ”I’m sorry” before oblivion claimed him.

Tears streamed down your face, hot against your cold skin. You saw it all – his pain, his fear, his sacrifice, his regret, and the terrifying, unwanted depth of his feelings laid bare in delirium and desperation. It wasn’t just duty. It was him. John Walker, broken and arrogant and impossibly complex, choosing you against all logic, against his own survival.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out, not just for your past cruelty, but for the cost he was paying now. The silver light flared brighter, fueled by your grief, your guilt, and a sudden, fierce protectiveness. You focused your dwindling power, directing it into the shattered ribs, the bruised lung, knitting torn tissue, and stemming internal bleeding. It was excruciating work. Your migraine intensified into a white-hot agony. A trickle of warm blood seeped from your nose. A metallic taste filled your mouth. Your hands trembled violently over his ribs, the light flickering precariously.

You pushed harder. He pushed for hours. For you. The light stabilized, pulsing with your own heartbeat, sinking deeper into his battered body. You felt the ragged wetness in his breathing begin to ease, the terrible rattle softening. The bruised tissues beneath your palms seemed to warm, the angry discoloration subtly lightening at the edges.

You knew you’d pass out but it was the least important problem right now. Your injuries would heal on their own. This was the most important right now. Save him.

The last vestiges of your power drained away. The silver light winked out. Darkness rushed in, not just around you, but within. The migraine became an all-consuming void. The world tilted violently. You had nothing left. Not a spark.

With a soft, broken sigh, you collapsed forward. Your forehead came to rest against John’s sternum, just above where your hands still lay over his healing ribs. Your tears soaked into his skin. Your body was a lead weight, wracked with shivers that were no longer just from the cold. You felt the faint, steadying rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. Stronger now. Clearer.

He was breathing. He was alive. That’s all that matters.

The fire had dwindled to embers. The storm still raged. And you, the fierce telepath who weaponized vulnerability, lay broken and unconscious across the chest of the man who had weaponized sacrifice to save you, your hand curled protectively over his heart.

---

John surfaced slowly, painfully, from the depths of exhaustion. The first sensation was warmth. Not the fierce blaze of the fire he’d lit, but a softer, more persistent heat pressed against his side. Then came the dull, familiar ache – remnants of trauma, fatigue deep in his bones – but crucially, the knife was gone. How long has he been unconscious? His ribs, while tender, didn’t scream with each breath. His lungs drew air cleanly, deeply, without the wet, drowning rattle. He knew instantly, viscerally: you did this.

He cracked his eyes open. Firelight, low but steady now, flickered in the hearth. You were curled against him, your head resting just below his collarbone, one arm flung loosely across his waist. The moth-eaten blankets covered you both. Your breathing was slow, deep, and the harsh lines of pain and strain smoothed from your face in sleep. Utterly drained, yet peaceful.

A little smile touched his lips, fleeting and private. You’d been a ghost, a ruin, and still you’d scraped the bottom of your shattered power to pull him back. You’d fought death for him, just as he’d fought the river and the storm for you. You both were a mess, a toxic tangle… but damn if you weren’t a team when the world tried to break you both.

He shifted his gaze to the grimy window. Beyond the streaked glass, daylight fought a losing battle. The storm raged on – rain sheeting down, wind howling through the pines, turning the forest into a writhing, grey-green sea. The ancient trees blocked what weak light dared penetrate, casting the cabin in perpetual, storm-choked twilight. More than twelve hours. Maybe a full day lost to pain and oblivion. He didn’t even know. The team… Bucky, Alexei, the others… they wouldn’t be coming. Not in this. They’d be licking their own wounds, grounded by damage and weather. The thought brought no anger, only weary acceptance. You were on your own.

But the clawing fear of imminent death had receded. You were battered, exhausted, stranded… but not dying. Not anymore. Survival now meant rest, recovery, and waiting out nature’s fury to find a way back to the tower. He gently adjusted the blanket around your shoulders, tucking it against the chill seeping through the cabin walls. The simple act felt monumental. He looked at you again, he could appreciate your profile, his thumb gently caressed your cheek, slowly, all the way down to your chin. You were warm again. He smiled, then he closed his eyes, not to sleep deeply, but to drift, lulled by the drumming rain and the warmth of the woman who’d somehow become his anchor in the wreckage.

When you stirred, it was to profound disorientation. The migraine’s iron grip had loosened to a dull throb. You felt… warm. Properly warm, deep-down warm. And comfortable. Not slumped against cold stone, but cushioned. You blinked open heavy eyelids. Firelight danced on rough-hewn wooden walls. You were… on the bed. The rusty springs groaned faintly beneath you. Your clothes – dry and smelling faintly of woodsmoke – brushed softly against your skin.

How? The last thing you remembered was collapsing forward, your forehead hitting John’s chest, utterly spent after pouring the dregs of your power into him. You hadn't been in bed. He must have… moved you. Lifted you, injured and exhausted as he still was, and placed you here. For comfort. The realization sent a shy, unexpected warmth blooming in your chest, separate from the fire. A small, tentative smile touched your lips as you pushed yourself up slowly, relief washing over you as the movement didn’t spike your headache.

You scanned the cabin. The fire was brighter, healthier – he’d tended it. Logs crackled, casting long, dancing shadows. But John wasn’t there. A prickle of unease, quickly dismissed. He wouldn’t leave. Not now.

The cabin door creaked open, cutting through the storm’s drone. John stumbled back inside, soaked to the skin. Rainwater streamed from his hair, plastering dark strands to his forehead and temples. Droplets traced paths down his stubbled jaw, his neck, dripping onto the bare skin of his torso. He shook his head like a dog, spraying water, wincing immediately as the motion jarred his still-bruised ribs and shoulder. Deep purple blooms still marred his skin, stark against the pallor left by exhaustion and cold. Fresh scratches from the forest laced his arms.

Your eyes met across the dim space. A heavy, electric silence hung in the air, thick with everything unspoken: the river, the healing, the confessions whispered in firelight, the raw vulnerability of your survival. The easy venom was gone, replaced by a profound, awkward tension. It felt like the fragile, charged quiet after their brutal gym fight, stripped even of sarcasm’s armor.

"You're awake." His voice was flat, devoid of inflection, a careful neutrality. He shut the door against the howling wind. "How do you feel?"

You met his gaze, the shy warmth retreating behind a familiar, instinctive wall. "Fine," you replied, your tone matching his careful evenness. You gestured vaguely towards him with your chin. "You?"

He peeled off the soaked upper tactical clothes, revealing the full map of bruises and healing cuts. He moved stiffly, deliberately. "Better." He draped the wet garment over the broken chair near the fire, steam already beginning to rise from it. The firelight played over the planes of his chest, the water gleaming on his skin, the stark evidence of his sacrifice for you. He was handsome, you thought again, the observation startling in its clarity and unwanted intensity. You quickly looked away, focusing on the rough-hewn wall beside the bed.

He approached the bed, movements still careful. In his hand were a few handfuls of small, dark wild berries – serviceberries or juniper, perhaps – and some wrinkled, earthy-looking tubers. "Found these," he said gruffly, holding them out. "Not much. Won't poison us." He’d gone out alone, into the storm-lashed woods, foraging for you both.

Your expression softened, just for a moment. The gesture, small as it was, pierced through the awkwardness. "Thanks," you whispered, taking the meager offering. Your fingers brushed his, cold and wet. A tiny spark, quickly suppressed.

He didn't linger. “In the bathroom, there is a towel and water, if you need it.” He added, retreating to his chosen spot – the far wall, opposite the bed – he slid down to sit on the dusty floorboards, back against the wood, putting deliberate distance between you. He stretched his legs out with a barely audible groan, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, looking utterly spent despite the healing. The silence descended again, heavier this time, filled only by the crackle of the fire, the drumming rain, and the unspoken weight of the past days.

After a long stretch of quiet, broken only by the storm’s fury, he spoke without opening his eyes, his voice a low rumble. "Storm’s gotta break sometime. When it does… we walk. Find a road. Get to the Tower." A statement of fact. A plan. Something solid in the uncertainty.

Silence answered him. You picked at the berries, the tart burst on your tongue a small anchor to the present. You watched him across the firelit space – the exhausted soldier, the man who carried you for miles, the man whose deepest fears and unwanted desires you’d seen flicker in his memories. The man sat as far away as the small cabin would allow. The silence wasn't hostile. It wasn't comfortable. It was simply… there. A fragile truce woven from shared trauma, exhaustion, and the terrifying, unacknowledged shift in the war between them. You waited, not just for the storm outside to pass, but for the one within to find its new, uncertain shape.

The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was a live wire strung taut between you, humming with everything unsaid. You sat rigidly on the edge of the old bed, picking listlessly one more of the bitter berries. The fire crackled, the only sound besides the relentless drumming of rain on the roof and the occasional groan of wind in the ancient timbers. John remained against the far wall, a brooding statue carved from shadow and exhaustion, eyes closed but jaw clenched. The air felt thick, suffocating.

He could feel your anger. It radiated off you in waves, a psychic heat even without your powers actively projecting it. It wasn't the sharp, defensive anger of your usual sparring. This was deeper, darker, simmering with self-loathing and a terrible, gnawing guilt. It scraped against his own raw nerves.

He could hear your breathing a little loud, he knew and could feel your brows were furrowed, your shoulders were tense, and the way you ate the berries, not even enjoying them. He knew, even without having to see you.

"You're pissed," he stated flatly, not opening his eyes. It wasn't a question.

Your head snapped up. "What gave me away? The near-death experience? The hypothermia? Or maybe it was watching you almost die on the floor because of me?" Your voice was low, dangerous, each word a shard of ice.

John’s eyes opened, sharp and weary. "I didn't die. You fixed me. Again." He said flatly. "And it wasn't because of you. It was for you. There's a difference."

"Semantics!" You spat, surging to your feet. The berries were scattered forgotten on the dusty floorboards.

“You’re pissed because I saved your life?! You should thank me, witch!” he said, anger growing inside him now.

“Don’t call me that!” Her index finger pointed at him with anger. "It’s the same damn cycle! You throw yourself into the fire, I drag you out, we hate each other a little more, rinse, repeat!”

“What the fuck was I supposed to do? Let you die?” he asked in disbelief.

“You should have left! I…” You shouted. Your hand rested on your forehead for a moment as you found the words. “Why, Walker? Why keep doing this?"

"Maybe because someone has to!" he shot back. He pushed himself off the wall, wincing only slightly. The movement was deliberate, testing the fragile tension, taking a step closer. The space between you crackled. "Maybe because when that psycho had his hand around your throat, all I saw was red! When that dam blew, all I knew was I had to get to you! Is that so hard to understand?"

"YES!" You screamed, the sound raw and startling in the confined space. "Because it’s stupid! Because you should have been on that jet! Because you knew what I was doing to you! You knew it was me in your head, twisting your dreams, playing with your desires like some sick puppet master for five nights straight! And you just… let me!"

And in a heartbeat, the whole conversation changed. It wasn't just about the mission anymore; it was about everything. Everything that wasn't resolved came out in an outburst driven by anger and frustration.

He stopped advancing, his face hardening into a mask of bitter comprehension. "Of course I knew! From the first goddamn night. That sensual whisper that sounded just a little too much like your sarcastic bite? The way the illusion felt… familiar? Like it was pulling from something real I shouldn't have wanted? Yeah. I knew."

Your breath hitched. The admission hung between you, heavy and damning. "Then why?" You demanded, your voice trembling now, laced with fury and a terrifying vulnerability. "Why didn't you stop me? Barricade your mind? Throw me out? If it felt so violating, why let me keep crawling back inside?!"

A harsh, humorless laugh escaped him. He took another step, then another, closing the distance with predatory slowness. His gaze was intense, serious. "Why? For the same reason you didn't slam the door shut on my thoughts. When I’d think things… deliberate things… loud enough for the telepath next door to hear. When I’d imagine what it would feel like to pin you against that gym wall for something other than a fight. When I’d picture shutting that smart mouth up with something other than an insult."

You froze, your back instinctively seeking the solidity of the cabin wall behind you as he advanced. Your eyes were wide, pupils dilated, reflecting the flickering firelight and a dawning horror.

"You heard those, didn't you?" John pressed, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. He was close now, close enough for you to feel the heat radiating from his battered body, smell the damp earth and rain on his skin. "Every single one. Loud and clear. And you didn't stop me. You didn't throw up a shield. You didn't call me out. You just… listened."

He stopped inches from you, forcing you to crane your neck to meet his burning gaze.

“You know damn well the reason. So you tell me why.” He waited for your answer, but you didn’t say anything, you looked down.

You were always that smart and confident woman who answered his advances without fear, always pushing a little further. But in this moment, in front of him, totally vulnerable, angry, and frustrated. You chickened out, not knowing what to say, or how. You didn't want to admit it, but deep down, you were afraid. Not of him, but of what you felt. That feeling was so powerful that even without having him yet, you were already afraid of losing him. And he knew this, he saw it and felt it. But this was it, you have to face it and say it out loud once and for all. And seeing you hesitating made him more frustrated.

His hand came up, not to touch you, but to slam his fist into the rough wooden wall beside your head with a thunderous *CRACK* that made you flinch. Dust rained down.

"WHY, Y/N?!" he roared, the sound raw, scraping his throat. The carefully maintained control was gone, obliterated by exhaustion, pain, and too long time of pent-up, toxic longing. "Jesus! Tell me why you let me scream those thoughts into your head if it disgusted you so much!"

You tried to turn your head away, tears welling hot and furious in your eyes. "Stop it, John—"

"NO!" He leaned in, his other hand bracing against the wall on your other side, effectively caging you. “You are pissed, aren’t you? Let it all out, it’s damn time. No more running away.”

“I don’t have anything to say to you… I…”

His breath fanned your face, hot and ragged. "Stop being a GODDAMN COWARD! Stop running! Stop hiding behind your powers and your sarcasm and your goddamn walls! We’re past games! Past dreams! Past screaming our feelings through psychic static and fistfights!"

You looked at him, your eyes widened.

His voice dropped again, thick with a desperation that bordered on agony. "Tell me what you want. Right here. Right now. No more lies. No more illusions. Just the fucking truth."

Your chest heaved. You tried to shove against his chest, but he was an immovable force, fueled by a lifetime of frustration and a revelation that couldn't be contained. "Get off me,"

"TELL ME!" he demanded, his forehead almost touching yours, his eyes boring into yours, demanding surrender. "Say it! Scream it! Whisper it! I don't care! But say what you really want! Because I am so tired... so goddamn tired... of pretending..."

He paused, the words catching, the admission a seismic shift in the foundation of your war. His voice cracked, raw and utterly vulnerable, stripped bare of every defense. "...that I'm not desperately, completely, fucked-up-ly in love with you!"

Silence.

Deafening, absolute silence. Even the storm seemed to hold its breath.

You stared at him, your eyes impossibly wide, the tears spilling over, tracing paths through your cheeks. Your lips parted, but no sound came out. The world narrowed to the cage of his arms, the intensity in his shattered blue eyes, the brutal honesty of his confession hanging in the charged air between you like a physical thing. The carefully constructed fortress of your anger, your guilt, your control, crumbled into dust. He’d reached through the wreckage, past the violence and the manipulation, and laid his broken heart bare.

And in that terrifying, silent void after the explosion of his truth, the only sound was the frantic, shared hammering of your hearts.

The silence after his confession wasn’t just absence of sound; it was a physical pressure, thick and suffocating. You stared up at him, trapped between the unyielding wall and the heat of his battered body. His bare arms, corded with muscle and marked by deep purple bruises from carrying you, from shielding you, from surviving for you, framed you like prison bars you never wanted to escape. Tears, hot and unchecked, mirroring the rainwater still tracing paths down his own skin.

"What?" The word was a broken whisper, torn from a place of raw disbelief. Had the river water filled your ears? Had the psychic burnout finally shattered your mind? Love. He’d said love. Not obsession, not twisted desire born of conflict, but love. The word felt foreign, terrifying, impossibly large in the decaying cabin where you’d only ever known how to wound.

He didn’t retreat. He leaned in, his forehead brushing yours, the contact sending a jolt through both of you. The dam holding back his truth had burst, and the flood was dark, fierce, terrifyingly honest.

"I want you," he rasped, the words rough gravel against the charged air. "Not in some fucked-up dream, not as some twisted game. You. All your sharp edges, your vicious tongue, your goddamn terrifying power, the way you look at me like you want to set me on fire and put me out." His breath hitched, a wet sound that spoke of lungs still healing, of emotions too long caged. "I love you, Y/N. I’m in love with you. And when you crawled into my head… yeah, it was a violation. It was cruel. But I let you stay because I liked it, and so did you. I craved it. Because it was the only way I could feel you… touch me… want me… without you pulling a knife or slamming me through a wall." His voice dropped, raw with a vulnerability that stripped him bare. "It was the only way I could pretend, for five fucking nights, that you might… love me back. Even just a little. In a dream."

He pulled back just enough to see your eyes, his gaze burning into yours, demanding an answer. The predator wasn't hunting prey anymore; he was offering his own throat.

You flinched, looking down, unable to bear the intensity. The weight of his confession, the sheer, terrifying size of his feeling, crushed you. "I… I don't know how," you stammered, the tears flowing freely. "What to do. I don't… I don't know if I am good. If I can be… good. For you. After everything… the dreams, the fights, the… the control…" your voice cracked. "I break things. I hurt you…”

A harsh, almost tender sound escaped him. He cupped your face, forcing you to meet his eyes again. His thumbs brushed away your tears, a gesture so achingly gentle it shattered your defenses completely. "We’re both fucked up, Y/N," he said, his voice low, intense. "We’re broken, we’re intense, we’re probably a little crazy. But that doesn’t mean we don’t deserve… this. I love you. And I know," he insisted, his gaze holding yours prisoner, "I know you love me too. You just have to stop being afraid of it. Stop being afraid of us."

You saw it then, reflected in his eyes – not just his love, but his own bone-deep fear of rejection, of being unworthy. The same fear that had always made you lash out first. You hesitated, not because the feeling wasn’t there – it was a supernova threatening to consume you – but because the sheer immensity of it terrified you. Could you hold it? Could you possibly be enough for this damaged, brilliant, infuriating man who had carried you through hell?

He waited. The silence stretched. He saw the hesitation, the flicker of fear winning. His eyes shuttered, the fierce hope dimming. A muscle jumped in his jaw. He started to pull away, his hands leaving your face, his body turning slightly, the movement radiating a crushing resignation. He’d laid his soul bare, and the silence was his answer. He thought you wouldn’t say it.

In an instant, different memories of moments appeared in your mind: the dreams you both saw that last night before the mission, your deepest desires, your desire to be with him and send everything to hell. Because you deserved it, you both deserved it. To feel love and everything that entails, to face it together without thinking about the future.

You remembered his smile, his real smile, when he wasn't carrying the usual weight on his shoulders, and the intense, carefree gaze of those impossible blue eyes when they rested on you. You wanted to always see him like that, you wanted to be the cause of that smile that melted your heart. You wanted to be happy with him. You wanted all. And in that moment, your walls finally fell.

The sight of him retreating, of that raw vulnerability hardening back into familiar, weary defeat, was the final push.

"John."

His name, a desperate whisper, stopped him cold. He froze, half-turned, not daring to look back.

Your voice, when it came, was soft, trembling, but utterly clear in the storm-lashed cabin. "I've always loved you."

He turned back slowly, disbelief warring with dawning, incredulous hope in his eyes. He searched your face, finding only the raw, terrifying truth mirrored in your tear-filled gaze. No sarcasm. No armor. Just you, finally, devastatingly, open.

He closed the distance in one stride. Your hands, small and cold, lifted instinctively, pressing flat against the center of his chest, over the fierce, steady beat of his heart. The heart you’d mended. The heart that was yours. You could feel the powerful thud beneath your palms, the warmth of his skin, the faint ridges of scars earned in battles long before you met.

"I thought I would lose you," you breathed, voicing your deepest, most primal fear – the fear that had driven your cruelty, your control, your desperate dream-weaving. The fear that had almost become reality. "Down there… in the water… on the floor… I thought you were gone. I was scared.”

He didn’t speak. Words were useless now. His hands, calloused and strong, came up to frame your face, his thumbs tracing the line of your jaw, wiping away the last traces of tears. His gaze held yours, blue eyes blazing with an intensity that stole your breath. In that look, you saw everything: the years of conflict, the shared trauma, the unbearable longing, the fierce protectiveness, your fear, your guilt, your fire, the love that had always burned beneath the venom, and finally, the bone-deep relief that you were here, alive, and finally his.

He dipped his head slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. You didn’t. You tilted your face up, meeting him halfway.

The kiss wasn't hesitant. It wasn't a tentative exploration. It was a reunion. Slow, deep, and profoundly meaningful. It was the sealing of a pact forged in blood, water, and fire. It was the end of a war and the terrifying, exhilarating beginning of something entirely new. His lips were firm yet yielding against yours, tasting of rain and exhaustion and a sweetness you’d never imagined. He kissed you like a man drowning who’d finally found air, like a soldier laying down his weapons after a lifetime of battle.

It was a kiss that spoke of love fiercely won, of wounds acknowledged but not defining the future. It was a kiss that melted the icy core of your fear, replacing it with a warmth that spread through your entire being, making your legs tremble and your heart pound against your ribs in a rhythm that matched his own. Inside, within the circle of his arms, against the wall where your war had finally ended, there was only this: a deep, abiding stillness, a profound understanding, and the slow, sweet burn of a love that had finally broken free.

The first kiss had been a revelation—soft, deep, and trembling with the weight of everything unspoken. But now, restraint was a distant memory. The fire between you, long fed by cruel games and aching restraint, roared to life, consuming you both.

Soon, his hands were everywhere, mapping your body with a reverence that bordered on worship. He took his time, savoring every inch of you, learning the way you shivered when his lips traced the delicate shell of your ear, the way your breath hitched when his teeth grazed the column of your throat. His touch was deliberate, possessive, as if he needed to memorize you—every curve, every scar, every place that made you gasp.

You arched into him, your fingers tangling in his hair, nails scraping his scalp in a silent demand for more. He growled against your skin, the sound vibrating through you, dark and approving. His hands—rough from battle, yet unbearably gentle—slid down your sides, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. He wanted to leave marks, to claim you in ways no dream ever could.

"Do you remember my thoughts?" His voice was a rough whisper against your pulse, sending a shudder through you. "The dreams?"

You did. Every single one. The way he’d imagined you beneath him, over him, wrecked by him. The way he’d wanted to hear you say his name like a prayer, like a curse.

His lips crashed back into yours, swallowing your moan as his tongue swept against yours, hot and demanding. He tasted like salt and smoke, like the storm outside and the fire between you. One hand pinned your wrists above your head, his grip unyielding, while the other traced the bruises left on your neck by the enemy who’d dared lay hands on you. His mouth followed, pressing tender, reverent kisses over each mark, as if he could erase the violence with devotion.

"Mine," he growled against your skin, the word a dark promise. "No one touches you like this. No one hurts you. No one takes from you. Not ever again."

You whimpered, your body alight, every nerve singing under his touch. The contrast was intoxicating—the way he could be both tender and ruthless, how his hands could be gentle even as his grip on your wrists tightened. He was overwhelming, all-consuming, and you never wanted him to stop.

His free hand slid lower, tracing the dip of your waist, the curve of your hip, before gripping your thigh and hitching it around him. The sudden press of his body against yours drew a ragged gasp from your lips. He was already hard, so hard, and the friction was maddening.

"Tell me what you want," he demanded, his breath hot against your lips. "Say it. I need to hear it."

You didn’t hesitate. "You, John. All of you. Now."

A dark, satisfied sound rumbled in his chest. He kissed you again, deep and filthy, before murmuring against your mouth, "Good. Because I’m not stopping until you forget every dream, every thought, every fucking second you ever doubted this."

And God, he made good on his word.

The storm outside raged, a furious counterpoint to the tempest both unleashed within the cabin’s decaying walls. That first tender kiss had ignited a fuse, and now the explosion consumed you both. Restraint, honed through months of bitter games and desperate denial, shattered completely. What remained was a raw, devouring hunger – a love forged in darkness, tempered by violence, and now blazing with an intensity that threatened to burn you both to ash.

He meant every growled word, every possessive claim. His fingers, calloused from combat yet shockingly deft, played at the hem of your tactical shirt. The rough fabric was a final, flimsy barrier. He pushed it up, inch by agonizing inch, his knuckles brushing the burning skin of your abdomen. You gasped, a sound swallowed instantly by his mouth as he reclaimed your lips. It was wet, messy, a clash of teeth and tongues fueled by desperate need. He could taste the faint, tart ghost of the berries you’d eaten, a fleeting sweetness lost beneath the overwhelming salt of sweat and the primal, metallic tang of want.

Your hips arched instinctively, seeking the hard, demanding pressure of him. The friction was electric, maddening, drawing a low groan from deep in his chest. He loved it – loved your involuntary surrender, the way your body answered his even as you tested his control. You strained against the iron grip pinning your wrists high above your head, a token resistance that only fueled the fire. The sheer, effortless strength it took to hold you there – vulnerable, exposed, utterly his – sent a dark thrill through you. God, you loved it. Loved his dominance, the unyielding certainty of his possession in every touch, every kiss, every graveled word.

His free hand slid fully under your shirt, a brand against your heated skin. There was no hesitation, only a reverence bordering on obsession as his palm smoothed over the curve of your ribs, the dip of your waist. He wasn't just touching; he was mapping, claiming, worshipping. His mouth left yours, trailing a searing path down your jaw, finding the column of your throat. He bit down, not gently, a sharp, possessive sting that drew a sharp cry from your lips – a cry that melted into a shuddering moan. His teeth grazed the marks, a dark promise whispered against your pulse.

"Mine," he repeated, the word vibrating against your skin. "Every scar, every gasp, every fucking tremor. Remember the dreams, Y/N? How I wanted you just like this? Pinned. Wanting. Mine." His voice was thick with dark intent, filthy and thrilling. He spoke of the fantasies he’d projected, the illicit thoughts he’d broadcast, not with shame, but with a fierce, possessive pride. He’d wanted you to know, to feel the depth of his twisted craving even then.

The raw, unfiltered obsession in his tone, the way his fingers dug possessively into the flesh of your hip, the relentless pressure of his body holding yours immobile against the wall – it was intoxicating. It made you tremble, not with fear, but with a desperate, writhing need. This wasn't gentle love; it was a conflagration. It was dark, possessive, undeniably toxic in its intensity, yet it resonated with the deepest, most fractured parts of your soul. It fueled your own fire, making you crave more – more of his bruising touch, more of his filthy promises, more of the all-consuming oblivion only he could offer. You loved this dangerous, consuming side of him, the side that mirrored your own hidden shadows. He wasn't just loving you; he was devouring you, and you surrendered to the feast, arching into the storm of sensation, lost to everything but the feel of his hands, his mouth, his body, and the dark, possessive love that bound you together in the heart of the tempest.

The cabin, the storm, the world beyond ceased to exist. There was only him, the heat, the pressure, the delicious, terrifying sense of being utterly claimed, and the shared understanding that this was your ruin and your salvation, forged in fire and finally embraced.

His lips swallowed your gasp as his hands framed your face, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. The angle was perfect—dominant, possessive—allowing him to plunder your mouth with slow, deliberate strokes of his tongue.

His body pressed flush against yours, the hard planes of his chest and abdomen molding to your softer curves. Every inch of him was sculpted, honed by war and violence, and you reveled in it. Your fingers traced the ridges of his abs, the powerful swell of his pectorals, before gripping his arms. His biceps flexed under your nails, the muscles taut from the force of holding you in place. He was strong—brutally, beautifully strong—and the raw masculinity of him made you weak.

He smirked against your lips. The bastard. He knew. He knew exactly what you loved, what made you melt, what made you his.

"You love that, don’t you?" His voice was rough, dark with amusement and something far more dangerous.

You didn’t answer—couldn’t. Not when his knee pressed between your thighs, parting them just enough to send a jolt of pleasure through you. A moan tore from your throat, and he swallowed it greedily, as if your sounds were something to be devoured.

"Fuck," he growled, pulling back just enough to watch you. His thumb brushed your lower lip, swollen from his kisses, and his gaze burned with something feral. "Look at you. Already a mess, and I haven’t even touched you properly yet."

You were a mess. Breathless, trembling, your skin flushed with heat. Your fingers dug into his arms, clinging to him as if he were the only thing keeping you upright. And maybe he was.

His eyes darkened as he took you in—the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the way your lips parted on shaky exhales, the way your body arched toward his, seeking more. Needing more.

"I remember," he murmured, voice thick with lust, "exactly how I imagined you’d sound. How you’d feel." His hand slid down your throat, over the frantic pulse there, lower, lower—until his fingers brushed the waistband of your pants. "And now I get to find out."

A shiver wracked your body.

He inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring, and the sound he made was almost animalistic. "I can smell you," he rasped. "Fuck, it’s intoxicating."

You whimpered, your nails biting into his skin.

He grinned—a slow, wicked thing. "Tell me you want this."

You didn’t hesitate. "Yes."

His grip tightened. "Say it."

"I want this. I want you."

His mouth found yours again as his hands tore at your tactical shirt. Fabric ripped, buttons scattered like fallen stars across the dusty floorboards. The sports top beneath followed, baring you to the waist in the firelight’s flickering embrace. Cool air ghosted over your skin, instantly replaced by the searing heat of his palms.

His touch wasn’t gentle; it was a claim. Calloused fingers mapped the delicate landscape of your skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake. His mouth followed, a scorching brand descending from the hollow of your throat, across the slope of your shoulder. He worshipped you not with reverence, but with the desperate hunger of a man starved. When his lips closed over the peak of your breast, hot and wet and demanding, a ragged cry tore from your throat.

One large hand slid down, possessive and firm, cupping the curve of your backside, squeezing with a familiarity that made you gasp, then laugh breathlessly against his hair. "Forgot you were obsessed with my ass," you managed, the words thick with arousal.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his own eyes dark pools of molten desire. A slow, wolfish grin spread across his face. "Guilty," His thumb traced the swell possessively. "Don’t worry. I’ll give it the worship it deserves… soon." The promise was a dark caress before his mouth descended again, capturing your other breast, his tongue swirling, teeth grazing lightly, drawing another deep, shuddering moan from your core.

Your head fell back, eyes squeezing shut, lost in the onslaught of sensation. His free hand roamed your back, tracing the line of your spine, pressing you impossibly closer. "So fucking beautiful," he rasped against your damp skin, the words vibrating through you. It wasn’t just admiration; it was awe laced with dark possession. A soldier kneeling before a goddess forged in battle and fire, his devotion fierce and consuming.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, not pushing him away but anchoring yourself, pulling him harder against you. He answered with a sharp nip below your collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave a mark – a dark, blooming bruise against the pale canvas of your skin. A brand. His brand. You cried out his name, a raw, broken sound that seemed to ignite him further.

Abruptly, he straightened, pulling you flush against him for a searing, possessive kiss. Then, with effortless strength, he turned you. Your palms slammed against the rough, cold wood of the cabin wall, a shocking contrast to the heat radiating from his body pressed tight against your back. Your spine arched instinctively, pushing your ass against the hard ridge of his arousal. His arms banded around your waist like iron, holding you captive, his hands sliding up to cup the weight of your breasts, thumbs circling the hardened peaks, drawing gasping whimpers from your lips.

His mouth found the exposed column of your neck, teeth scraping, tongue soothing, as you willingly tilted your head to the side, offering him everything. One of your hands remained braced against the wall, the other flew back, fingers twisting in his hair, holding him to your skin. He groaned, the vibration a dark rumble against your throat.

Your hard nipples and breasts pressing against the wall, feeling the cold in your feverish skin was an exquisite sensation.

His hands began a slow, deliberate descent. Palms smoothed over the trembling plane of your stomach, the dip of your navel, the soft skin of your lower belly. The anticipation was agony, exquisite and sharp. Then came the sound – the deliberate, agonizingly slow scrape of his knuckles against the fabric of your pants. His fingers found the button. The snick of it releasing echoed like thunder in the charged silence. The zipper followed, a slow, torturous descent that bared your skin inch by inch to the cool air and the heat of his intent. His breath hitched against your neck, a low growl building in his chest. The storm raged outside, but the true tempest was here, pinned between the cold wall and the inferno of his body, waiting for the final barrier to fall.

His left hand splayed possessively across your lower belly, holding you firm against him, a hot brand searing through the thin fabric still separating you both. His right hand… Gods, his right hand. Fingertips brushed the delicate lace edge of your underwear, a maddening whisper of contact that had your hips jerking back involuntarily, seeking friction, seeking him. The hard ridge of his arousal pressed against your backside, drawing a guttural groan from deep in his chest that vibrated through your entire being. His lips traced a path of fire – open-mouthed, wet kisses down your neck, across the slope of your shoulder, along the upper ridges of your spine. Each kiss was a brand, a claim laid over the marks of battle.

Desperation clawed at you, a primal need that overrode thought. You pressed back harder, grinding against him, a silent, urgent plea. The groan that tore from him this time was pure animal hunger, followed by a sharp, possessive bite on your earlobe. "John," you gasped, the single syllable thick with everything you couldn’t articulate – the eagerness, the raw desperation, the dark, consuming obsession that mirrored his own. It was a volatile cocktail, terrifying and perfect.

He chuckled, a dark, knowing sound that rumbled against your skin. "Yes?" he murmured, feigning innocence even as his teasing fingers dipped lower, tracing the lace hem, deliberately avoiding the aching heat beneath. The denial was exquisite torture. Your eyes squeezed shut, breath coming in ragged pants. "Touch me," you begged, the words torn from you, raw and vulnerable. "Please."

The sound of your plea, laced with need, seemed to ignite him further. He laughed again, low and dangerous, a predator savoring its prize. "Yes, ma'am," he breathed against the shell of your ear, the formal address a shocking contrast to the intimacy, sending another violent shiver cascading down your spine.

Then, finally, his fingers slid beneath the waistband of your pants, encountering only the thin barrier of damp lace. The groan he let out wasn't just arousal; it was awe. His breath hitched, his brow furrowing as he encountered the undeniable, slick evidence of your desire. "Jesus Christ, baby," his voice was thick, rough with wonder and fierce pride. "You're soaked." The revelation thrilled him – that just his kisses, his touch, his presence could reduce you to this state. It was power, it was validation, it was intoxicating. He was doing this. To you.

Your lips parted on a silent cry as his fingers pressed against you through the lace, the contact electric even through the fabric. He worked with agonizing slowness, tracing patterns that promised everything and delivered nothing substantial, his teeth grazing and biting the sensitive skin of your shoulder, leaving fresh marks while his hand teased your core. Your hips moved of their own volition, seeking more pressure, more friction, your mind dissolving into a haze of pure sensation. "God..." escaped you, a broken sound.

His fingers moved the fabric to the side so he could finally feel your warm and wet pussy. It was amazing. You moaned louder, lost in the perfect sensation. “Oh, yes, John!”

You were so warm, wet, sensitive and terribly aroused that almost made John cum right there.

His hand moved faster for a fleeting, blissful moment, applying just enough pressure to make you cry out, before abruptly withdrawing.

A protest died on your lips, silenced before it could form. He didn't give you time. Strong hands gripped your hips, spinning you slightly as he sank to his knees behind you. The cool air hit your exposed skin as, in one swift, decisive motion, he tugged your pants and underwear down your legs, discarding them. The vulnerability was absolute, obscene. And utterly exhilarating. You looked at him over your shoulder.

"I can't wait anymore, baby," his voice was a dark rasp, filled with a hunger that matched your own. "I need to taste you." His hands returned to your hips, fingers digging in possessively as he pulled you back towards him. Instinctively, you arched your back, presenting yourself, offering everything to him. Just him.

The sight that met him stole his breath. Firelight danced on smooth skin, illuminating the slick evidence of your desire trailing down your inner thighs. The position was profoundly intimate, vulnerable, and charged with a dark, beautiful obscenity. A low growl of pure appreciation rumbled in his chest. "So fucking perfect..." The words were barely a whisper, a reverent observation before he closed the distance.

His mouth found your core with a reverence that bordered on worship, yet held the fierce intensity of a conqueror claiming his prize. The first touch of his tongue – hot, wet, seeking – was a lightning bolt. Your hands flew back, fingers tangling in his hair, not to guide, but to anchor yourself as the world dissolved into the exquisite, devastating sensation of his mouth on you, devouring you with a hunger that mirrored the storm raging outside the cabin walls. The storm within had found its perfect, devastating expression.

His mouth was relentless—hot, wet, and devastatingly skilled. Every flick of his tongue, every deliberate stroke, sent waves of pleasure crashing through you. You were drowning in sensation, your fingers clawing at the rough wood of the cabin wall for purchase, your knuckles white with the force of your grip. His hands held you firmly in place, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your backside, opening you more to have better access and ensuring you couldn’t escape—not that you wanted to.

He pulled back only for a moment, his lips and beard glistening, his breath ragged. "You taste exquisite, baby," he growled, voice thick with reverence and raw hunger. The words sent another shudder through you. He wasn’t just enjoying this—he was consumed by it.

“I could live between your legs all my life, sucking your sweet pussy nonstop.”

Then his fingers joined the assault, sliding into you with effortless ease, curling just so, drawing a broken cry from your lips. His eyes darkened as he watched you, mesmerized by the way your body arched, the way your breath hitched, the way you fell apart under his touch.

He could swear he was in heaven right now. That sight made his pupils dilate even more: your pussy completely soaked, dripping down your legs and the floor. Your hole sucking in his fingers as he pushed them in and out. He was mesmerized. He has been dreaming of this exact moment, and now it is a reality. And couldn’t get enough.

"Jesus fucking Christ..." he muttered, his own control fraying at the edges.

“Fuck, look at you baby, you’re dripping, hot, so desperate for me. I love your pussy, I can’t get enough,” his fingers never stopped.

This was better than any fantasy, any dream. This was real—your taste, your sounds, the way you trembled for him.

"I need more," he rasped, before diving back in, his mouth sealing over you once more. His tongue worked in sinful harmony with his fingers. He licked your folds with expertise and hunger again and again. He didn’t stop. Then, he alternates between licking and sucking your clit, his mouth closing around your sensitive pearl, sucking gently at first and adding more pressure then.

“Open your legs wider for me, baby,” he commanded. And you obeyed. His palms squished your ass harder as his mouth ate roughly your pussy. He was so fucking starved and your dripping pussy was his feast. His head moves up and down to let his mouth eat you out all the way through your clit, folds, and hole.

He was savoring everything you offered him, and the sounds that he made while his mouth sucked at your cunt and his fingers came in and out of your hole without mercy, were so erotic and filthy.

The combination pushed you higher, faster, until you were gasping and moaning his name like a prayer.

"John! Oh my god—don’t stop, please! Don’t stop!" Your voice was raw with desperation, your legs shaking violently as the pleasure coiled tighter, tighter—

And then it shattered you.

Your climax crashed over you in a relentless wave, your body bowing under the force of it. Your head and arms leaned on the wall for support. He didn’t relent, didn’t give you a moment to recover—he devoured you through it, drawing out every last tremor, every aftershock, until you were limp and trembling.

Only then did he finally pull away, rising to his feet slowly, while his lips left little gentle kisses all the way up your spine. His arms wrapped around your waist, steadying you. His hands turned you gently, bringing you to face him. You were dazed, wrecked, your lips parted, your eyes glazed with pleasure.

"You okay?" His voice was rough but impossibly tender.

You couldn’t speak. You nodded weakly, your breath still uneven. Your entire body is still trembling.

"Good." His thumb brushed your swollen bottom lip, his gaze burning into yours. "Because now..." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch featherlight. "I’m going to make you mine."

The promise in his voice—dark, possessive, final—sent a fresh wave of heat through you.

His fingers, still slick with your arousal, traced your lips. Without hesitation, you opened your mouth, taking them in, your tongue swirling around them in slow, deliberate strokes. His breath hitched, his eyes turning black with lust. You held his gaze the entire time, a silent challenge, a surrender.

When you finally released him, you purred, low and satisfied.

"Fuck." His voice was wrecked. "You are so fucking sexy."

And then he kissed you—hard, deep, and filthy—claiming your mouth with the same intensity he had claimed the rest of you.

The kiss dissolved into something primal, messy with shared breath. His hands didn't fumble; they moved with deliberate, lethal grace to his belt buckle. The rasp of leather sliding free, the snick of the button, the agonizingly slow descent of the zipper – each sound was a drumbeat in the charged silence, amplified by the storm outside and the tempest within. His eyes never wavered from yours, holding you captive with a gaze that promised possession, worship, and ruin all at once.

When he finally pushed his clothing away, revealing himself fully, it wasn't just his arousal that commanded attention. It was the raw, powerful masculinity, the strength etched into every line of his body, the lingering bruises – badges of sacrifice for you. He was painfully hard, magnificent in his intensity, a force of nature barely contained. He was big, thick, with a prominent vein deliciously adorning its length. He was beautiful, and so painfully hard.

You bite your lip again, hard enough this time that a bead of crimson welled. His gaze tracked the tiny rivulet, a dark fascination flaring in his eyes. Before you could react, his thumb swept the blood away, then his tongue followed, a hot, intimate stroke that tasted your fear, your excitement, you. He sealed the taste with another kiss, fervent and deep, sharing the coppery intimacy, binding you further.

Then his hands were under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly against the rough cabin wall. The sheer, unthinking strength of it – the ease with which he held you suspended – stole your breath, sending a fresh jolt of desperate need through your core. Your hands flew to his neck, fingers digging into the corded muscle there, anchoring yourself as your bodies slammed flush together, skin slick with sweat and desire. Your breathing was ragged, desperate gasps mingling in the small space between your mouths.

His hand slid between your tightly pressed bodies, fingers finding your heat, slick and ready. He teased, circling, applying maddening pressure just outside where you needed him most. "This," he rasped, his voice thick with dark triumph, "This is all I dreamed about. For so long..." The confession vibrated against your lips. Your head thumped back against the wall, a low whine escaping you as you arched, hips seeking friction, seeking him. A predatory smirk touched his lips. "You want it so desperately, witch?" The old nickname, laced now with dark possession, ignited you. Your nails raked down his shoulder, finding the deep purple bruise marring his skin. He groaned, a sound of exquisite pain-pleasure, and you captured his mouth again in a kiss that was pure fire, pure love, pure claiming. "Yes," you gasped against his lips, the words raw, stripped bare. "I want you so badly, John. Please, fuck me.”

It was the final surrender he craved.

He filled you slowly, achingly, a searing stretch that stole your breath and made you cry out against his mouth. Heat radiated from the point of connection, spreading through you like molten gold. For a heartbeat, he held still, buried deep, letting you feel the sheer, overwhelming reality of him. Then the stillness shattered. He moved, a driving rhythm that started deep and claiming. His gaze dropped between you both where you were connected. The sight of it, filthy and hot, sent a wave of fire through his body. His cock, incredibly hard, slowly enters your pussy, pushing impossibly deep, disappearing inside you, and then pulling out just to repeat the process again and again and again nonstop. His cock is fully covered with your slick.

“This is so fucking amazing… Look at this beautiful mess.” He said mesmerized.

You felt every inch of him, his pace was an amazing agony. God, you regretted all the time you both wasted fighting instead of being together fucking like this. This moment didn’t even finish, and you were already thinking about all the places and ways he could fucked you again.

You felt so good, he felt so damn good. He knew what he was doing, he knew exactly how you like it and when, and Jesus, was that even possible?

You loved every second of it, but you wanted more; you needed to feel that devastating orgasm again.

“Oh God, please… Faster!”

His pace quickly escalated into something rougher, more desperate, fueled by your plea and months of pent-up longing and the raw edge of your shared darkness.

The sound of his skin against yours was maddening, so obscene.

You were a symphony of sensation in his arms – a gasping, moaning mess, your head thrown back, your body arching to meet every powerful thrust. He watched you, utterly enthralled. The sight of you unraveling for him, the sounds you made – raw, desperate, his – the sheer, unguarded love and desire shining through the ecstasy… it was more exquisite, more beautiful, than any dream. He couldn't get enough. His mouth found the column of your throat again, not gentle now, but claiming. Your skin was shining with light perspiration, and he felt the salty taste with his lips and tongue. Kisses morphed into sharp nips and possessive sucks, leaving a constellation of darkening marks on your skin – a map of his ownership.

“Jesus! I can feel the way your pretty pussy is clenching my cock, baby,” his eyes closed for a moment, focusing on that exact feeling. “It drives me mad, fuck!”

A sharp hiss escaped him when your wandering hand found another deep bruise on his shoulder. But instead of recoiling, his rhythm increased, becoming harder, faster, driving you both towards the precipice. The line between pain and pleasure dissolved into a white-hot blur. He craved your touch, even the sting. "Shit, do that again," he begged, his voice wrecked.

You obeyed, fingers pressing deliberately into the tender flesh. A shudder wracked him, a groan ripped from his chest, and his grip on your thighs tightened, fingers digging into the soft flesh with bruising force. “Oh my God!”, you moaned wildly, lost in the maelstrom. “Mark me. Claim me, John!” He loved every single one of your words. In response, he adjusted the angle slightly, sinking impossibly deeper, hitting that place that sent stars exploding behind your eyelids. "John! Yes! Right there!" Your cry was frantic, pleading, utterly surrendered. Your nails are leaving red marks on his broad back and shoulders. He groaned with a smirk on his lips.

"Yeah, baby? Right there?" His voice was guttural, strained. "Fuck! You feel so perfect." Your fingers then tangled in the hair at his nape, tugging hard, a silent demand, a shared anchor. The sensation, combined with the relentless pressure inside you and the exquisite sting of your nails on his bruise and the tug of his hair, shattered the last vestiges of control.

The climax hit you both not as individuals, but as a single, detonating force. Yours ripped through you first, a convulsive wave of pure, blinding ecstasy that tore a scream from your throat. He followed instantly, triggered by your clenching heat and the raw sound of your release. He buried himself to the hilt, his own cry a harsh, guttural sound against your skin as he pulsed within you, pouring everything – the love, the obsession, the long time of battle and longing – into that searing connection. It wasn't just pleasure; it was annihilation and rebirth, a claiming so profound it echoed in your very bones.

You clung together, trembling, slick with sweat, hearts pounding a frantic, synchronized rhythm against each other's chests. The storm still lashed the cabin, but inside, there was only the heavy silence of utter saturation, the lingering echoes of your shared fall, and the profound, terrifying beauty of two broken souls finally welded together in the consuming fire of your dark, possessive love. He held your weight effortlessly, his forehead resting against yours, your ragged breaths mingling in the aftermath of the beautiful ruin you’d made of each other.

The world narrowed to the rough wood against your back, the solid heat of his chest against yours, and the profound, trembling connection between you. You stayed locked together, suspended against the wall, breathing harshly into the shared space between your lips. His forehead rested heavily against yours, a point of grounding intimacy. His arms, still wrapped securely under your thighs, keeping you flush against him. The storm outside was a distant roar, the crackling fire a soft counterpoint to the frantic drumming of your hearts slowly settling. He was still buried deep within you, a lingering, possessive anchor in the aftermath of the tempest you’d unleashed.

Eyes closed, you simply existed in the saturated silence. The frantic energy, the desperate need, had burned itself out, leaving behind a profound, bone-deep stillness. A shared exhaustion that was pure, blissful peace.

Slowly, you opened your eyes. His face was inches away, etched with the same dazed satiation you felt. Your hands, trembling slightly, lifted from his shoulders. One traced the strong line of his jaw, rough with stubble. Your thumb brushed the curve of his lower lip, swollen from your kisses. The tenderness of the gesture felt monumental after the raw intensity that had preceded it.

He stirred, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the pad of your thumb. Then, one of his large hands enveloped yours where it rested against his cheek. He brought it to his lips, turning it over to press a slow, reverent kiss into the center of your palm. The warmth of his breath, the soft pressure of his lips against that sensitive skin, sent a fresh wave of quiet emotion through you, entirely different from the earlier frenzy. He held your hand there for a long moment, covering it with his own, pressing your palm firmly against his cheekbone. It was a silent language, speaking volumes of a protective, cherishing love that ran just as deep as the passionate possession.

Your heart clenched, melting entirely. You watched his face, the stark vulnerability in his usually guarded eyes now laid bare for you alone. He opened his eyes then, the deep blue meeting yours, holding your gaze with an intensity that was now tender, not demanding. A soft, utterly genuine smile touched your lips, radiating pure, unguarded love meant solely for him. "I love you, John," you whispered, the words barely audible, yet echoing louder than any shout in the quiet cabin.

He didn't hesitate. A matching smile, startling in its tenderness and lack of cynicism, softened his features. "I love you, Y/N" he murmured back, your name a caress on his lips. It was simple. It was profound. It filled the space between you with a golden light, the shared daze transforming into a deep, settled contentment.

Carefully, reluctantly, he eased himself from your embrace, lowering you gently until your feet found the dusty floorboards. A soft sigh escaped you both at the separation. Without a word, he guided you towards the rickety old bed. He put the mattress on the floor, the old bed wouldn’t support your weights.

He went to the bathroom, took the towel he had found before and dampened it with water, and with surprising gentleness, began to clean the sweat and evidence of your passion from your skin. His touch was meticulous, almost worshipful, a stark contrast to the bruising grip of moments before. He wrapped the thick, musty blanket around your shoulders, tucking it close.

Then, he joined you, settling onto the thin mattress. His strong arms enveloped you instantly, pulling you back flush against the solid warmth of his chest. You nestled into him, your head finding the perfect hollow beneath his shoulder. He rested his cheek against your hair, breathing in your scent –sweat, berries, and you. A profound sense of peace, of rightness, settled over him, deeper and more fulfilling than any victory he'd ever known. He felt… home. Utterly at peace.

For a long while, you both simply lay there, listening to the storm gradually lessen its fury outside, the fire crackle, and the synchronized rhythm of your breathing. Your fingers traced idle, loving patterns on the skin of his chest, over the faint remnants of bruises you’d helped heal and the newer marks you’d left in passion.

"Why," you murmured, your voice husky with spent emotion and contentment, "did it take us so long?"

A low chuckle vibrated in his chest beneath your ear. "Because we're idiots," he stated simply, the truth undeniable. "Stubborn, proud, fucked-up idiots." The shared laughter that followed was warm, free of bitterness, an acknowledgment of your shared flaws and the sheer relief of having finally overcome them.

His hand drifted up, fingers gently tilting your chin so you looked up at him. The playful glint faded, replaced by a deep seriousness. His gaze held yours, intense but soft. "I'm sorry," he said, the words weighted. "For everything I said. Everything I did. That hurt you. The gym... the words... pushing you away when all I wanted was to pull you close."

He continued, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "I wasted so much time. Precious, stupid time. Playing the damaged hero, the unlovable asshole, when all I ever wanted, from the moment you looked at me with those beautiful silver eyes and smiled... all I wanted was this." His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer against the solid warmth of him. "You. In my arms. Safe. Wanted. Loved."

He took a shaky breath, his gaze unwavering, intense. "No more wasting time. No more games. No more hiding. I promise you, Y/N. I promise to take care of you. Not because you need it," he added quickly, a ghost of his old defiance flashing, "but because I want to. Because seeing you safe, seeing you happy... it’s the only mission that matters now."

Tears pricked your eyes, not from sadness, but from the sheer force of his sincerity. "I'm sorry too," you whispered back. "For the dreams. The invasion. Using my power to hurt you instead of loving you as you deserve. Because you deserve to be happy, John." You trailed off. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss, yes, but infused with a profound tenderness and forgiveness that sealed your apologies more effectively than any words.

When you parted, breathless again but in a gentler way, a familiar, roguish grin touched his lips. "Though," he drawled, his thumb brushing your lower lip, "gotta admit... those hot dreams you cooked up? Pretty damn spectacular. Might miss those."

You swatted his chest playfully, laughing despite yourself. "Don’t worry, we’ll make them a reality."

He kissed your temple, pulling you closer.

As drowsiness began to claim you, wrapped in the blanket and each other's warmth, you nestled deeper against him. "Mmm," you sighed contentedly. "First thing when we get back to the Tower... a proper shower. A long, hot one."

He nuzzled your hair, his arms tightening possessively, yet comfortingly, around you. "Deal, and we can make the bathroom dream come true,” he murmured playfully, his voice thick with impending sleep. "But right now... this is perfect."

And it was. In the decaying cabin, amidst the aftermath of the storm and the echoes of your own personal war, you both had found something far more powerful: a fierce, enduring love, forged in fire and tempered in tenderness, finally cradled in peace. You drifted into sleep, entwined, safe, and utterly, completely belonging to each other.

The thin mattress, the scratchy blanket, the lingering scent of woodsmoke and sex – none of it mattered. Both slept deeply, peacefully, tangled together in a way that spoke of profound trust finally won. The frantic energy of the storm, both outside and within your own hearts, had finally quieted.

John woke first, as dawn painted the cabin's grimy windows in shades of pale gold and grey. The silence was soft, filled only with the gentle patter of residual rain and your steady breathing against his chest. He lay still for a moment, simply absorbing the reality: the warm weight of you in his arms, the smooth silk of your skin pressed against his side, the utter peace radiating from your sleeping form. A feeling, vast and tender, swelled in his chest, unfamiliar and utterly perfect.

Unable to resist, he pressed a feather-light kiss to the crown of your head, breathing in the scent of your hair – smoke, sweat, and something uniquely you. Another kiss followed, this time on your temple. Then the curve of your shoulder. Each touch was a quiet celebration, a whisper of adoration against your skin. He traced the line of your spine with a gentle fingertip, feeling the subtle shift of muscle beneath smooth skin.

A soft sigh escaped you, a sleepy murmur as you instinctively burrowed deeper into his warmth. He smiled against your skin, continuing his tender assault: kisses along your shoulder blade, the nape of your neck, the sensitive spot just behind your ear. He felt the exact moment consciousness truly returned – a subtle tensing, a deeper inhale, followed by a slow, languorous stretch that pressed your backside more firmly against him, drawing a low hum of contentment from his own throat.

Your eyes fluttered open, blinking slowly in the dim light. You turned your head slightly, finding his gaze already fixed on you, filled with a warmth that made your breath catch. No words were needed. A slow, drowsy smile spread across your face, radiant and utterly unguarded. It was a smile just for him, born of safety and deep, abiding happiness.

"Morning, witch," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep but laced with undeniable affection. He brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead.

"Morning, soldier," you whispered back, your voice husky. You shifted slightly, turning more fully within the circle of his arms until you faced him, though your back remained nestled against his chest. His arms tightened instinctively, pulling you closer. One hand slid up to cradle your head, his fingers threading gently through your hair, while the other rested possessively, protectively, on the curve of your hip.

Both lay like that for long, precious moments, bathed in the quiet dawn light. Affection flowed between you in a tender current: soft, exploring kisses exchanged without urgency; his thumb tracing idle patterns on the skin of your hip; your fingers lightly tracing the lines of his forearm where it held you. Playful gazes met and held, speaking volumes of shared joy and disbelief that you were finally here. Soft laughter bubbled up over nothing – a shared memory sparked by the creak of the mattress, a silly observation about the dust motes dancing in a sunbeam finally piercing the window.

It was a happiness so profound it felt fragile, yet solid in its newness. The long time of friction, the battles, the cruel words – you were ghosts momentarily banished by the sheer, overwhelming rightness of this quiet intimacy.

Eventually, with a sigh that was part contentment, part reluctant practicality, you began to stir more purposefully. "We should..." you started, making a small movement to sit up.

His arms instantly became steel bands, pulling you firmly back against him. "Nope," he declared, nuzzling your neck. "Stay."

You laughed, the sound bright and warm in the quiet cabin. "John, we have to get dressed. The storm's passed. The team will come looking for us."

He groaned dramatically, burying his face in the curve of your neck and shoulder. "Don't care," he mumbled against your skin, his breath warm. "Want to stay like this. Forever." His hand slid up from your hip to splay possessively across your stomach, holding you close. "Just you. Just like this."

You melted into his embrace for a moment longer, savoring the feel of him – the solid strength, the warmth, the sheer rightness. Then you turned your head, capturing his lips in a slow, sweet kiss that held a promise. When you pulled back, your eyes, soft and full of love, held his. "We will be," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "Like this. Every day. From now on. I promise. But right now," you added with a gentle, teasing smile, "we need pants."

His answering smile was slow, wide, and utterly besotted. He pressed one last, lingering kiss to your lips, then released you with obvious reluctance, his fingers trailing down your arm as you finally sat up.

He propped himself up on an elbow, watching you as you rose. The dawn light caught your silhouette as you moved towards your discarded clothes. He didn't just look; he gazed. With unabashed admiration and lingering awe, his eyes traced the lines of your body – the curve of your back, the dip of your waist, the strength in your shoulders, the soft curves of your backside – now illuminated in the soft, new light. It was a look devoid of simple lust, filled instead with reverence and the sheer, overwhelming love of a man seeing something infinitely precious.

Naturally, John Walker couldn't let the moment pass without comment. A slow, appreciative grin spread across his face. "Y'know," he drawled, his voice still sleep-rough but laced with familiar, playful arrogance, "the view from this angle? Definitely rivals the one last night."

You rolled your eyes, but a blush stained your cheeks, and a smile played on your lips. You bent to pick up his pants, balling them up playfully. "Shut up, Walker," you retorted, your voice fond. With a mock scowl that didn't reach your eyes, you tossed the bundle directly at his head.

He caught them easily, laughing – a genuine, carefree sound that filled the small space. "Just stating facts, sweetheart" he grinned, finally pushing himself up.

Both dressed in comfortable silence. You pulled on your layers, the fabric feeling strangely foreign against skin that still hummed with the memory of his touch. As you fastened your boots, you watched John pull his undershirt over his head. The movement pulled taut the skin over his ribs and shoulder, revealing the deep, lingering bruises – stark purple and blue maps against his skin, souvenirs from the river rocks, the fall, the desperate trek carrying your weight.

A pang went through you. Without a word, you crossed the small space between you. Your hands lifted, palms glowing faintly with the soft silver light of your power, reaching instinctively towards the worst of the discoloration on his ribs. You could mend this. You wanted to mend this last trace of pain he’d endured for you.

But at the moment your palms could make contact, his hands closed gently but firmly around your wrists, stopping you. You looked up, surprised, and a flicker of question in your eyes. The silver light winked out.

He met your gaze, a soft, understanding smile touching his lips. It wasn't rejection; it was something else, something profoundly tender. "Leave them," he murmured, his voice low and rough with emotion. His thumbs stroked the inside of your wrists.

"But..." you started, frowning slightly at the vivid marks.

"I know you can," he said, his smile deepening as he looked down at the bruises, then back into your eyes. "But I want to keep them. For a little while."

Your brow furrowed. "Why? They hurt."

"They remind me," he said simply. His gaze held yours, intense and open. "They remind me of this place. Of carrying you. Of keeping you safe. At that moment, everything changed." He released one wrist to gently trace the edge of the largest bruise with a single fingertip, a gesture almost reverent. "I'll never forget, Y/N. Not a second. But these... they're proof. Tangible proof of the day I finally got it right. The day I fought for what truly mattered and won." He brought your captured hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "And you," he added, his voice thick with gratitude, his eyes shining with it, "you've already done so much. You saved me, truly saved me, in more ways than one. Let me carry these. Just for now. A reminder of the battle that brought me home."

Your resistance melted. The love and fierce protectiveness swelling within you transformed into a deep, aching tenderness. You understood. These bruises weren't just injuries; they were medals. Testaments to his sacrifice and your survival. You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss not to the bruise, but to the center of his chest, over his heart. "Okay," you whispered against his skin. "Just promise you'll let me kiss them better later."

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. "Every damn day, witch," he vowed, pulling you close for a moment, resting his forehead against yours. "Thank you. For everything."

You finished dressing in a silence filled with a new layer of profound intimacy. As John shrugged into his suit over the shirt covering the bruises he’d chosen to keep, you watched him, your heart full. He was a man marked by battles, inside and out. But these marks, borne for you, kept by choice, spoke louder than any words of the fierce, devoted love that now bound you.

Ready, you stood for a moment in the center of the dilapidated cabin. The fire was cold ash now. Dust motes danced in the sunbeams. It was just a ruin, a place of hardship and survival. But to you, it was hallowed ground. The place where walls had crumbled, wars had ended, and two fractured souls had finally, irrevocably, become one – in heart, in flesh, and in spirit.

John reached out, his hand finding yours. His fingers laced through yours, strong and sure. He brought your knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss that was a silent vow. No words were needed. Your eyes met, holding a universe of understanding, love, and the fierce, tender future you would build together.

The morning air was cool and clean, sharp with the scent of pine and damp earth after the storm. Sunlight, bright and hopeful, streamed through the towering canopy, dappling the forest floor in patterns of gold and deep green. You walked hand-in-hand through the quiet woods, the silence between you comfortable, filled with the profound understanding forged in the crucible of the cabin.

The roar of the river grew louder as you approached the bank. It looked different in the daylight – powerful, yes, but no longer the churning monster that had tried to claim you both. Sunlight glittered on the rushing water, transforming it into a ribbon of liquid light cutting through the emerald forest.

You paused, your gaze distant for a moment, a slight frown of concentration touching your brow. A faint, familiar thrum vibrated the air, felt more than heard. A slow smile spread across your face, radiant and relieved.

"They're here," you said softly, your voice carrying over the river's song.

John stopped beside you, his grip on your hand tightening slightly. His eyes, scanning the sky through the gaps in the trees, held a flicker of the old tension – concern for the team you’d fought beside, the family you’d endangered and saved. "Who?" he asked, his voice low, the unspoken question hanging: Are they all okay? After the trap, the dam, our... disappearance?

You turned to him fully, the smile still lighting your features, warm and certain. "All of them," you affirmed, your psychic senses confirming the familiar presences aboard the approaching craft. Relief washed over him, visible in the slight relaxation of his shoulders.

You took a step forward, towards the riverbank, ready to signal your position. But his hand held firm, anchoring you.

"Y/N."

His voice, rough yet impossibly tender, stopped you. You turned back, your breath catching at the intensity in his eyes. The sunlight caught the blue, turning them into deep, clear pools reflecting the forest and your own image. All the guardedness, the sarcasm, the defensive aggression was gone, stripped away. What remained was a love so vast, so fiercely devoted, it stole your breath. He wasn't afraid to show it anymore. Not to you. Never to you again.

He took your other hand, holding them both gently but firmly, grounding you before him. "I love you," he stated, the words simple, profound, and utterly unshakeable. "More than I ever thought possible. More than I deserve." He took a breath, his gaze unwavering, locking onto yours with the same focus he brought to a battlefield, but now directed solely at your future. "I want to pass my entire life with you. Every damn day. Fighting with you, sure," a ghost of his familiar smirk touched his lips, "because let’s face it, we’re both stubborn as hell. But loving you more. Protecting you. Building something real. Something ours." His thumb stroked the back of your hand. "Forever. That’s what I want. You and me."

Your smile blossomed, brilliant and unrestrained, lighting up your entire face, chasing away the last shadows of your past battles. It was the smile of a woman who had fought through darkness and found you home.

He looked down at your eyes, truly looked. The sunlight filtering through the leaves above played across your face – illuminating the curve of your cheek, the determined set of your jaw softened by love, the intelligence and fire in your eyes. Shadows danced like gentle kisses over your skin, contrasting with the golden light. In that moment, framed by the vibrant forest, bathed in the dappled sun, your eyes shining with love and unshed tears of pure joy, John Walker swore he was looking at an angel. His angel. Forged in fire, tempered by war, and utterly, breathtakingly his.

He was no poet. His romance wasn't flowery words or grand gestures. It was this: raw honesty, fierce devotion, unwavering commitment, spoken with the gruff sincerity of a soldier who’d finally found his reason to lay down his weapons and build. And you loved it. You loved him.

He didn't wait for words. He leaned down, his hands releasing yours only to slide around your waist, pulling you flush against him. Your forearms rose, hands cradling the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair, almost touching his shield in the process. Your lips met.

It was a kiss that held everything. The slow, deep tenderness was born in the quiet dawn on the cabin floor. The passionate fire that had consumed you in the night. The profound relief of survival. The dizzying joy of promises made and a future claimed. It was love, pure and fierce, sealed under the open sky, by the river that had tried to end you both but instead became the backdrop to your beginning.

His arms held you secure, a shelter against the world. Yours held him close, the anchor to his soul. You breathed each other in, lost in the perfect, silent language of your joined hearts.

In the distance, the distinct, growing thrum of the Thunderbolts Quinjet broke through the forest sounds, a beacon drawing closer. Your family was coming. Home was coming. But for this one, suspended moment, standing on the riverbank bathed in sunlight and shadow, wrapped in each other and the profound peace of love finally, completely won, you and John were already home. Together. And the future, bright and fierce and yours, was just beginning.

Thank you for reading! <3

Tag list: @rm-mononucleosis @alexwinchester23 @blackparacosm @yallgotkik @grathy

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wh0refortwinks · 1 month ago

Text

Summary: Spencer returns from prison colder than ever and decides he hates the new addition to the team, though that hate turns into something far more passionate, far more heated.

Warnings: Explicit language / Swearing, NSFW / Smut – includes: Fingering (f receiving), Oral references, Light dom/sub dynamics, Slight degradation / praise, Dry humping / clothed arousal, Public-ish sex setting (BAU office), Possessive behavior

I know I can’t stop minors from reading this so please if you aren’t comfortable with anything listed above don’t read.

__________________________________

Spencer had only recently been released from jail for a crime he did not commit. He saw the world very differently from before. The little flicker of hope that he had left for humanity- though it was already dim from everything he had witnessed-quickly vanished. Prison had changed him, and not for the better.

You had joined the bau a few weeks before Spencer had gone to jail so the two of you hadn't particularly had enough time to get to know each other and niether the one of you had Made too much effort to talk to the other.

But now Spencer had returned, and he was colder than ever, he had quickly grown a deep hatred towards you, you reminded him of the person who he used to be and it both annoyed and hurt him knowing that this job would corrupt your happiness... just as it had him.

You had a lot of hope for the world still, despite the ghastly things you had witnessed, he found it rather stupid, he knew that would get you in deep trouble, again as it did him.

You had quickly picked up on his very strong feelings towards you, not that it took a profiler, they were rather obvious in all honesty.

Whenever you would make a suggestion or a theory at the unsub, he would immediately shut it down and tell you that you were wrong as he highly doubted your profiling skills, which deeply annoyed you. After all you had been chosen for this job for a reason.

This didn't stop, at first you didn't press him on the subject and just let it slide, reminding yourself that he had just come out of jail and he was clearly not in a good state of... well anything.

Though it didn't stop, in-fact it had gotten worse and you were fed up.

You had chosen to confront him on his behaviour, though you didn't want to cause a scene especially not when you were relatively new to the bau still. So you waited until everyone had left and as you spot him leaving you jog to catch him up before he could make an exit.

"Hey Reid... can I talk to you...?" You ask looking up at him as he towers over you.

He turns around with a small huff, clearly just wanting to get home after the long case you had just solved. "What is it y/l/n?" He asks crossing his arms over his chest with another huff. The motion catches your eye and you find them flickering over to his veiny hands in the motion.

You quickly push away the intruding thoughts and swallow nervously looking up at him. "I think it's time that you stop pretending I'm the problem and you actually acknowledge that it's something else... I'm not your enemy Reid we're on the same team..." you say coolly matching the detached tone he had made a usual to use with you, but really under your words you were beyond nervous, scared of what he was to say next, you just wanted this one sided feud to come to an end.

You watch his face carefully trying to gauge his reaction. He visibly clenched his jaw and speaks up. "I have no clue what you're on about..." his voice is quiet, almost a whisper, but his tone was the opposite, it was harsh and blunt.

An involuntary huff leaves your lips as you hear this. "Stop fucking lying." You snap at him, furrowing your brows in anger, you rarely swore yet it seemed more than necessary in this moment.

"You have Been constantly belittling me since you came back... you're cold to everyone now, but me... it's like you fucking hate me." You declared your tone now borderline yelling.

You push down the prior nervousness that was bubbling in your chest and step closer looking up at him with anger fuelled eyes.

"You glare at me like I've insulted your very existence and when I open my mouth to say something you look as if you're moments away from snapping... and I tried to keep it together I really did... I tried to tell myself you're only acting out because of what happened to you in jail... but you aren't fucking stopping and..." you cut yourself off with a huff realising that you had started to ramble.

He doesn't say anything, he just looks down at you, a small almost unnoticeable flicker of guilt in his eyes, his tongue darts out to wet his lips and he breaks eye contact.

You step closer, now only a foot away from him. "So if you've got something to say... now's the time to say it." Your voice is steady though there's a tremble beneath it with anger.

When he speaks up his voice is dangerously low. "You don't have a single fucking clue what I have been through..." he growls, stepping closer to you, your bodies now almost touching. "You don't know what it's like to come back and feel like a stranger in your own skin." He drops his head lower so your faces were mere inches apart.

"And every time I fucking look at you I see the person I used to be... everything I have lost." Your eyelashes flutter against your cheek as you meet each other's gaze, the previous feeling of nervousness had quickly returned and your heart beat had increased far more than it should have been.

The look in his eyes is a dangerous mix of anger, regret and lust. Though the latter wasn't obvious to your own eyes. You don't speak up, stubbed momentarily by the truth that had fallen from his lips.

"And I see that look in your eyes... all light and pathetic fucking hope... and I want to ruin it... I want to fucking ruin you." His voice is low and rough with barely restrained desire.

Your eyes go wide and you swallow nervously, your lip finding a comfortable place between your teeth. That action alone drives him to insanity And before you can comprehend what's going on, he spins the both of you around and presses you against a wall firmly, the moment was tough enough to hurt you but your mind was now in a different place, in a place filled with need and desire.

He doesn't waste a single second before he's slamming his lips against yours in a movement purely furled by anger and greed. He's starving for something he knows he shouldn't want, shouldn't need, yet he does, and he can't seem to stop himself.

Your mouths collide in a battle for dominance, one that he quickly wins. He shoves you harder against the wall as he feels arousal begin to stir within him. He needed you... and he couldn't wait.

You pull your face away panting, trying to regain your breath. He looks down at you, his eyes hungry, the look in itself almost makes your knees buckle.

"We shouldn't be doing this." You admit weakly, it was a poor attempt to get him to stop, though the both of you knew neither wanted that.

"No we shouldn't..." he agrees his voice hoarse as he tries to fight off the growing need to be inside of you. You look around Remembering the two of you were still in the office, though no one was around, it was still very risky. He knew this too, yet he didn't seem the least bit phased.

Your eyes nearly bulge out of your head as you feel his dick hardening against your stomach, clearly from his imagination running wild at the thought of what he’s going to do to you.

“Spencer…” you mutter in one breath, your voice coming out as a whisper. He answers with a groan, loving the way you say his first name.

His head drops into the crook of your neck placing small kisses to it, the action quickly becomes sloppy as he sucks on the delicate skin, leaving dark discoloured skin in place.

Your gasps fill the room as you try to maintain the last bit of control you had, though that wasn’t even much. When he has covered every last bit of skin he can access he looks up at you, his head still at level with your neck. His eyes are big and pleading, almost begging you to let him remove your shirt.

You give him a small nod and his eyes immediately darken the earlier pleading had quickly dissipated from his eyes, now only leaving a dark and intense hunger. He rips the shirt off of you letting the now discarded clothing hit the ground.

He lets out a low guttural groan as his eyes dart over your chest. His skilful hands lean behind to unclip your bra in a quick motion. He watches your bra fall to the floor and is now greeted with the very pleasant sight of your chest. He immediately leans down and latches his mouth on to one of your nipples, causing you to take a sharp intake of breath.

Your hands find his hair and tangle into the mess of brown curls. “Fuck.” You whimper out as you arch your back in pleasure. He leans back a grin spread across his face. “I’ve barely touched you and you’re already a fucking mess.” His voice is low and is dripping with desire and lust.

“Please.” You shamelessly beg, your self respect now long gone. He licks a stripe through your breast and pulls away standing up and towering over you once again.

“Please what…?” He asks biting down on his lip as he waits for an answer, “tell me what you want y/n” he repeats.

“I want you to touch me… stop the teasing…” you say your voice practically coming out as a whimper.

“Good girl…” he praises as he leans down slightly to gather the bottom of your pencil skirt in his hands and pull it up to bunch at your hips. He rests a hand on your inner thigh, knowing exactly where you want it to be instead, though he wants to hear you say it. “Do you want me to fuck you with my fingers…?” He asks his voice just as teasing as his actions.

You nod your head quickly “please.” You beg. He tuts and shakes his head “say it.” He speaks, his voice hoarse. He leans in closer his lips brushing against yours, another teasing action that makes you go insane.

“Please… fuck me with your fingers.” That’s all it takes for him to roughly pull your underwear to the side and shove a digit in. The slight intrusion makes you gasp out and look up at him with wide eyes.

He starts thrusting his fingers in slowly at first then picking up the pace. As you start letting out sorry noises he leans in and presses his lips against your ear. “Be a good girl and keep quiet.” His breath fans against your skin making it harder and harder to not fall to pieces right then and there. You nod at his words, not fully trusting yourself to do as he requested.

He moves his face back to yours and presses his lips against your own, swallowing your whimpers and moans as he adds another finger, curling them up to hit the g spot. He pulls back, his lips still barely touch yours. “Fuck.” You whimper out, arching your back as you feel your stomach already start to tighten into a knot.

He adds an other digit, his thrust quickening as he feels you beat the edge. Your walls flutter against his touch as you try to fight the sounds that are threatening to fall from your lips.

“Fuck… Spencer…” you gasp out as you feel him scissor his fingers apart. “I-I’m gonna cum…” you somehow manage to get out through the immense pleasure that he was causing.

“Cum on my fingers y/n.” He demands as his pace quickens impossibly. You don’t waste another second before clamping down on him, throwing your head back in a silent scream of pleasure. He quickly moved to smash his lips onto yours to silence any cries he knows will fall from your lips. He devours you as you cum around his finger.

He pulls away quickly looking you up and down silently, watching the mess he made you into. He knew it couldn’t go any further, at least not in the middle of the office. Your brows furrow in confusion as he tosses you your bra. You decide not to say anything and put your bra back on quickly avoiding his gaze.

You quickly fix up the rest of your appearance, pulling your skirt back down to sit normally and putting your blouse back on. “So is that it…?” You ask, brows still furrowed as you look up at the man who had just turned you into a mess.

“Did you expect this would be more than a one time thing…? Because it’s not.” He replies his voice devoids any emotion, though it’s quite clear he didn’t get the release he was speaking from just pleasuring you.

“Well… I hope that got it out of your system then…” you speak up, eyes finally meeting his. “Not even slightly.” He replies before grabbing his bag and walking off.

Okay!! Hi guys this is my first post on tumblr!! I have been writing on ao3 and Wattpad up untill now but I was recommended tumblr by some of my friends :)

This one shot may have a part two that will be uploaded so let me know if you want one also let me know if you have any requests and I should get round to them quickly!!

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #ao3 fanfic #criminal minds #fanfic #smut #matthew gray gubler #mgg #criminal minds one shot #one shot #smutty fanfiction

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lysarion · 2 months ago

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━━━━━━ of logic and dance ⟢

♱ | anaxa was not one who willingly admitted to his wrongs. but not with you; not when he spent three weeks losing himself at the thought of you dancing with someone else.

𖤝 including ⠀! ⠀anaxa ◟ 𖤝 warnings ⠀! ⠀modern/college au, long fic ( 10k words send help ), word vomit, potential-ooc

❝ tags ⚜ . if you'd like to be tagged please send me an ask off-anon!!!

theoretically speaking, was it possible to see someone in a different light in just three weeks when you’ve spent your entire life disliking them?

the past anaxa would argue—without skipping a beat—that no, it was not possible. the sheer notion of a measly three weeks crumbling a philosophy a genius spent their entire life cultivating felt absurd. but now, he’s been proven wrong. and to add more salt to the wound, it was you who bested him in this argument.

to understand the suffering anaxa has gone through, we must first take a few steps back—specifically, three weeks ago when a pesky junior had put his name inside a ballot box for aglaea’s dancing competition as a joke.

anaxa was fuming. to put his name inside a random mystery box was one thing, but to have him be picked and participate in an art he was unfamiliar with was another. phainon spent the majority of his tuesday trying to escape from anaxa’s lividness. barely squeezing by when the said man was hunting him down like a poacher in the forest. to some, the sight may be endearing—anaxa did have a tendency to dote on phainon—but the snow-haired junior would argue.

and that’s how anaxa found you; patting down phainon’s hair as you shook your head in disapproval in his direction. anaxa’s mood sours further, a permanent scowl etched on his face as he demanded you to hand over the sulking boy behind you. phainon was just about ready to bolt out the room when suddenly, aglaea entered the room. an amused but barely noticeable smile on her face has anaxa’s skin rattled with goosebumps.

“thank you, phainon, for doing my job for me. this certainly saves me the trouble,” the blonde woman said, much to the trio’s question. aglaea cleared her throat, “now that everyone is present, i must congratulate you, [name] and anaxa, for being chosen as this year's representatives.”

“surely you jest, aglaea,” anaxa chimed in, irritation lacing his voice as he stepped closer to said woman. “i clearly remember the rules stating that the students chosen must be willing to participate. if you could not tell, i am not—in the slightest—willing.”

normally, a glare from anaxa would send even the terror professors of this university running with their tails in between their legs—but never aglaea. be it from the immeasurable amount of time they have spent together trying to one-up the other since pre-school, or simply the strange connection they have since childhood, it is an undeniable fact that even the great anaxa loses to aglaea.

aglaea only smiled, “yes, that is true. but i’m afraid i will have to make an exception this time. after all, due to your misgivings in one of the labs, the number of willing candidates have dwindled.” anaxa’s brow twitched in annoyance as you crossed your arms over your chest, much to aglaea’s amusement. “therefore, me and the teachers have decided, your participation in this event will be considered your punishment.”

and thus began anaxa’s three week long journey of being your dance partner.

— the first week.

much to agalea’s expectations, your chemistry with anaxa was nonexistent.

his logic and bluntness clashed with your more free-willed and creativeness. she heaved another sigh as you lectured anaxa on his hand placement and stiffness—if she imagined it hard enough, steam would be leaking out of your ears as your face turned a few shades red in frustration.

“it has been almost four hours!” you exclaimed in exasperation, throwing your hands up before they dragged down your face in defeat. “aglaea surely you agree with me that this is hopeless—he’s hopeless!”

anaxa scoffed and raised his head with a sneer. “hopeless in this situation does not describe me—it is you who’s hopeless. there is no subject i can’t master. the fault lies with the teacher.”

“excuse me?” you huffed out in offense. you strutted to his direction, boldly invading anaxa’s personal space, reveling in his slight flinch, and jabbed a finger to his chest. “there is no one i cannot teach, for your information. it’s not my fault you can’t understand the common principle of dance—a simple waltz.”

“if it’s so simple, why have we not made any progress?” he argued back, flicking your finger at his chest at the same time and glowered at you. “do not think of yourself as high and mighty just because you are the only chosen instructor in this university. compared to other dancers i have witnessed, you pale in comparison to them.”

“that’s quite enough from the both of you!”

anaxa watched in disapproval as your debate was cut short by aglaea’s intervention. he clicked his tongue, crossed his arms over his chest and walked past you to speak face to face with aglaea. “see? this just proves that this entire endeavor is meaningless. you cannot expect me to cooperate with someone so…” anaxa paused. he let out an infuriated breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, “insufferable. clearly our views are too different and neither of us are willing to compromise. go chat with mnestia and cerces and reach a consensus for a different punishment.”

aglaea sighed. her nimble fingers massaged her temple as her eyes come to a close, “and i vividly remember telling you that this is final. no more discussions. honestly anaxa, i thought you were better than this. of all things, i never expected this to be your tipping point.”

red eyes glared at aglaea, “watch it goldweaver.”

“enough,” she waved off anaxa and pushed past him, much to his dismay. aglaea called out your name—a lot softer this time, might he add—and announced, “both you, go home and cool off. we’ll try again tomorrow. i expect you both to be a little more amiable until then, understood?”

you only looked away and nodded, biting down on the words you did not trust yourself to say and simply gathered your bags. anaxa noticed your downcast gaze and the way your thumb rubbed at your elbow or the way your foot tapped incessantly on the smooth wooden floor. he clicked his tongue in annoyance and begrudgingly collected his things from the ground before he dashed out of the exit. he would deal with this tomorrow.

but when tomorrow eventually comes, anaxa found himself a unable to pay attention in class. lectures on his favorite topics such as history on alchemical transmutation, ancient theology, hell even simple subjects such as literature or readings, anaxa could not bring himself to pay them any mind. not when he's busy watching the choreo you submitted to the group chat last night.

anaxa clicked his tongue in annoyance. no, he was absolutely fuming because aglaea was right and you had proved him wrong.

your choreography was nothing short of dumbfounding—it was incredible in every sense from rhythm, energy, grace, and oh how anaxa hated to admit it, you evoked emotions so evidently with just a sway of a hand.

“now what has gotten you so glum?” a teasing voice with an equally teasing expression invaded anaxa's vision. he sneered in distraught having been caught by professor cerces—his mentor and detested guardian—in the acts of his exasperation.

he shoved his phone back in his bag and flipped his textbook senselessly, ignoring cerces’ presence as she took a seat by her lecture table. “it's none of your business.”

“i'd argue it is my business,” cerces rebutted. “i am one of the teachers who agreed on this punishment.”

anaxa looked up from his textbook to glare at the professor who only intertwined her fingers together. when a beat of silence passed, anaxa rolled his eyes in annoyance before his attention redirected itself onto his blank paper—not a single drop of graphite gracing its surface.

“child of reason, i have a question.”

“i’ll have you know i have no interest in your pointless inquiries.”

cerces smirked and leaned forward, the slight tilt of her head has anaxa's fingers quaking with aggravation. “oh but isn't that the point of it all? to ask questions even if they are pointless? what use is that curiosity of yours if you won't find opportunities to use it?”

another pause, the atmosphere continued to thicken. anaxa was the first to conceive with a heavy sigh. he cradled his head with one hand while the other picked up the stray pencil on his desk to tap it on his blank paper. “well? out with it already, i don't have all day.”

“ever the rude student,” cerces murmured with vexation. “well whatever, this is you we're talking about. now for my question,” she paused and unlaced her fingers to open the laptop on her desk. “i'm curious, what crime has poor [name] committed for you to dislike them so?”

anaxa stilled. of all the questions he hypothesized cerces would ask, this was not one of them. his brows furrowed further. he'd solved more complex formulas and memorized great philosophies in his sleep—so why couldn't he decipher you?

“when have i…” he muttered before his mouth snapped shut. he shook his head and massaged his temple before snapping back to his actual self. “and what good will knowing my reasons do?”

“oh, i don't know, help with your poor chemistry on the dance floor?”

another click of his tongue, and anaxa loudly gathered his things.

“and where do you think you're going?” she asked. “you still haven't answered my question, anaxa.”

“why don't you use your brain to pick apart my answer? you always seemed to do that, so why not do it again?” anaxa quipped, a certain kind of venom dripped from the skin of tongue.

cerces quietly watched as anaxa haphazardly threw his items in his bag and ungraciously slinged it over his shoulder. the professor heaved out a long sigh as she said, "so you're giving up after one attempt? how unlike you, anaxa.”

said man was halfway out the lecture room when he heard cerces' musing. the grip on the door handle tightened under his hand—knuckles turning snow white. “i am not giving up, you inadequate professor. there is no field i cannot master.”

aglaea mused, ‘something changed,’ but she's not quite sure what during rehearsals. sure, you're still at each other's throats—but there's a strange, sudden synchronicity in the way you moved. as if a switch had been flipped, anaxa was more compliant with your advice and you held your sharp tongue and lectures. (aglaea found great amusement in you making funny faces when anaxa was not looking—incredibly childish but your only outlet for frustration).

aglaea knew she was right—something had changed. she just didn't know how deep the crack ran.

there was this strange awkwardness to you, too, though she can't quite name it. yes, you held your back your sharp words more frequently, but aglaea can't help but wonder if there was more to it. she noticed—she always does—the way you looked at anaxa as if you wanted to say something, but you would back out before you could get the chance.

but she doesn't blame you for your cowardice—it was well expected. anaxa seemed more irritated than usual. he was quieter, more introspective but not in a good way. his eyes tracked your movement in quiet precision as if he's dissecting your being alive. there was a quiet yet turbulent kind of curiosity whenever his hand touched your bare back—the muscles in his fingers flexing uncomfortably as if he's been burned. anaxa's expression would shift from one of nonchalce to that of pain whenever you're too close for comfort. and aglaea found it painfully ironic—this field required you both to be close.

skin to skin; breath on breath. anaxa was being pushed to his limits while you pretended to revel in the situation.

— the second week.

“lovely mnestia has told me you've finally grasped the choreo,” cerces said as she walked side by side with anaxa who kept his face passive. “i'm relieved you managed to overcome a hurdle in such a short amount of time.”

anaxa scoffed, half offended half arrogant as he mused, “i told you, haven't i? there is no field i cannot master.”

“yes, yes i know. you've said the same line thrice in the span of a week. your arrogance truly knows no bounds.” the professor replied in annoyance. “how is [name] doing nowadays?”

“why do you ask?” anaxa raised a brow as cerces unlocked the lecture hall. being a professor's mentee had its own pros and cons, one of those pros being able to spend a couple hours in peace and quiet before other students arrive.

cerces looked at him in bewilderment. in turn, anaxa looked at her as if she's grown two heads. the professor sighed with a small shake of her head. “aglaea told me the poor child's feet has been hurting, badly might i add. just from your first week alone the clinic's band-aid supply has run out.”

anaxa's eyes widened involuntarily, “when was this?”

“did you not hear me at all?” cerces quipped. “since the first week, child of reason. i'm surprised you didn't notice.”

anaxa was surprised as well. for the entire week, you had moved with such proficiency—lectured with such fervor—he wouldn't think twice to ask if you were doing all right. and he cursed himself inwardly. not because he was worried, but because your character is slipping through his fingers like sand—you weren't even giving him the ability to hold on to something.

a click of his tongue and he's dropped all his things at his usual desk.

“anaxa, where are you going?” cerces asked with quiet curiosity as anaxa made a beeline out of the room.

“it's none of your business, professor.”

and that’s how anaxa came to be, outside your lecture hall with a grimace on his face, arms crossed. you were rightfully confused. you tried to side step his figure but anaxa would move in coordination with your movements and blocked the exit.

“oh so now you show me some foot coordination?” you snarled.

anaxa only rolled his eyes as his arms slowly dropped from his chest to his side. a lone eye unwittingly glazed over your foot as he muttered, “shouldn’t you be resting?”

your brows knit together, “well i was about to—until you decided to be an annoyance and block my way to the dorms.”

anaxa clicked his tongue—both in annoyance but mostly in embarrassment—as he moved away from the exit and let you pass. though he didn’t quite leave you alone just yet. the both of you walked in awkward and tense silence. anaxa was the first to break the delicate blanket over the both of you when he noticed you taking a turn that did not, in fact, lead to the dorms.

he grabbed your wrist—you noticed the way not all his fingers wrapped around your flesh, just like how he kept a few fingers up whenever he dipped you low during dance rehearsals. “and where do you think you’re going?” anaxa asked with a deep frown. he jabbed a finger to his left, “if i recall, the dorms are that way.”

you sighed, shaking your head as you felt an oncoming headache form. anaxa watched in quiet frustration and interest as you looked at anything but him. a finger gingerly scratched your cheek as you mutter quietly enough for him to mishear—but nothing escapes him.

“i’m getting bandages,” you muttered.

anaxa’s frown deepened—all five fingers now circled your wrist without him flinching away from the touch of your skin. “and from where? if i remember, the clinic has already run out.”

“the faculty,” you said, as if you’ve done this all the time, and anaxa is sure you have.

he stared at you as if you’ve grown two heads.

you’re quick to glare back at him and pull your wrist away from his hold. “why do you care all of a sudden?” you snapped.

he didn’t answer immediately. his lone eye flickered between your wrist, your foot, before they settled on the hand he used to cage you. anaxa sighed heavily, “i don’t. i simply find it incredibly foolish that you’re trying to hide your injury.”

“i’m not hiding it. i’ve told aglaea and she’s been helping me.” you seethed through gritted teeth. “and don’t throw the word foolish around so casually. for your information, don’t you think it’s stupid that you can’t even look me in the eye for more than five seconds during rehearsals?”

your words hit a nerve within anaxa as the air between you started to crackle and ignite.

when he glared at you, you scoffed in disbelief. “don’t think i haven’t noticed, anaxa. you flinch when you touch me. you can’t even stand to be near me.”

“that’s not—” he stopped mid-sentence when he caught a glimpse of your face—brows furrowed, eyes stormy, and lips wobbled every so slightly as they opened and closed but no words tumbled out. anaxa proves your previous point as he looked away, jaw clenched. “you know what? forget it.”

anaxa turned away and started walking in the direction of the dorms. he played deaf when your voice called out to him with equal amounts of frustration and annoyance.

“anaxa!”

another shout of his name, but he doesn’t spare a moment to stop nor look back.

“anaxa!”

his fists curled at his side, his teeth caught his bottom lip and bit down hard to have blood force its way between his teeth and land on his tongue. he can’t turn around—he mustn’t turn around.

“what are you so afraid of?!”

that was the last thing he heard before he started sprinting away—from you.

surprisingly, anaxa skipped rehearsals the following day, much to your annoyance. and aglaea’s worry is spiking with every jump, turn, and breath you take in the room.

you were frustrated, angry—but mostly tired.

time was running out and you were shouldering all the pressure, soaking it all up in your heart like a sponge dropped into an ocean. aglaea has never seen you so stuck in your domain. everything was tearing from the seams and you no longer had enough patience to stitch it all back together yourself—you needed anaxa by your side if you wanted to fix the tapestry you both started. and that infuriated you.

“dammit!” you cursed out loud as your body collided with the ground. you heaved and heaved, your entire body being supported by your arms in a plank position.

“what a mess our little dancer is in,” cerces commented, striding to aglaea’s side as the blonde woman sighed.

“anaxa skipped rehearsals,” aglaea informed. “twice.”

cerces frowned and crossed her arms over her chest, “now that’s a first. has he told you where he’s been?” when aglaea shakes her head, cerces dragged a hand down her face before they settled to hold her chin in contemplation. “where has that scholar run off to this time?”

“well wherever he is, he better return soon.” cerces watched as aglaea flinched as you failed another jump. you had no support—anaxa was supposed to be your anchor, but he has run away where vulnerability cannot find him. “if he’s not back by the day after tomorrow i’ll have no choice but to replace him as [name]’s partner.”

anaxa’s mentor frowned. “will you find someone in time?”

aglaea doesn’t answer and cerces understood. with one final sigh, cerces conceded, “alright, fine. i’ll have that phainon boy practice with our little dancer starting tomorrow. in that way he’ll at least know the flow of things.”

“thank you for your understanding, professor.” aglaea thanked the older woman.

“but i do have one question.” cerces followed up.

“what is it?”

“do you think they hate each other?”

aglaea paused. golden eyes gazed at your figure sitting on the polished wooden floors, staring at your own image reflected by the mirrors. you were fracturing, lights dimming out, but you were still trying to shine through all the cracks.

“no,” aglaea hummed. “they don’t. not really.”

anaxa felt ashamed—for skipping rehearsals and having to hear from cerces about your transgressions.

“dance is a conversation. what use would i be if you weren’t there to talk back?”

your words haunted him like a looming deadline as he gripped the handle of the rehearsal room’s door. he heard music inside—you were probably inside, dancing in your lonesome and falling to the ground with no one to catch you. anaxa’s teeth caught his lip once again as the thought of him not being there by your side had his stomach turning on itself in an unexplainable way.

he took a deep breath. his other hand gripped at the fabric over his chest where his heart rattled in uncertainty. when he thinks he can finally open the door—face you—he’s left with after images of your disappointed face. it was unlike him to act this way. he was a scholar—someone who dared to challenge the philosophy laid out to make sense of this chaotic world. but for all his intelligence he can never put his learnings to practice when it comes to you.

a laugh snapped anaxa out of his self-deprecating thoughts. his brows furrowed together and he willed himself to crack the door ajar to get a peek on what in the world could have happened to elicit something so uncharted from you.

anaxa wished he hadn’t opened the door.

there you were, squatting on the floor, as you laughed so casually at your junior—phainon. something turned inside anaxa’s gut as the snow-haired boy spewed something anaxa did not care for, his attention solely on you as you wiped a stray tear from your eye. he felt his blood run cold as you approached the younger boy and gently—far gentler than you would to him—lifted his arm into position while the other guided to hold you by the waist. the both of you stared at your feet as your voice—so tender and almost intimate it made anaxa want to vomit—counted so phainon would not lose his rhythm.

the warmth of your voice had left him feeling cold in the quiet hallways.

you moved with grace, phainon only messily tried to follow. anaxa watched with a pained look on his face as phainon carefully lifted you from the ground and twirled—your laughter echoed and bounced from the walls and phainon laughed with you as he sets you down. something snapped—maybe it was the doorframe, maybe it was him—when your fingers laced with phainon’s.

you were both effortless and right. he knew phainon was talented—perfect in some ways—but this? you don’t flinch, avoid eye contact, and you accept the closeness between the two of you. suddenly the image of you dancing better with someone that wasn’t him drove anaxa to a wall.

why do you not smile like that at him?

why don’t you move like that with him?

why does it feel like you’ve replaced him?

“now look at who the cat dragged in.”

anaxa shut the door in front him with a loud bang. he no longer cared for secrecy—he needed to get out of here.

cerces raised a brow, “and you’ve just blown our cover. honestly, anaxa, what has gotten—where are you going?”

he doesn’t answer. in fact, cerces’ presence prompted him to speed up his pace. taking sharp turns in corners and avidly ignoring how the professor tailed him with brows raised in parts amusement and worry.

“my goodness, if i had known you’d react so strongly then i wouldn’t have asked that boy to be [name]’s partner.” she joked.

anaxa paused as he turned to look at cerces. the professor was taken aback at his expression—wide-eyed, mouth hung open, as a flash of hurt circled in his eye. the two of them stood still in front of the campus building as the skies slowly turned gray, thunder rumbled in the far distance as anaxa spoke.

“you did what?”

cerces could not begin to describe the timbre of hurt that laced anaxa’s voice. she quickly tried to clear up the misunderstanding, “temporary partner, child of reason. you skipped two rehearsals and [name] had grown frustrated of their lack of improvement due to your absences. you gave me and aglaea no choice.”

“but phainon of all people?!” anaxa snapped.

“why not him? phainon may not be as academically sharp as you, but he listens. he adapts. and he certainly doesn’t run when things get too difficult for him.” cerces tried to reason. her reply discreetly jabbed at anaxa’s own actions.

“why didn’t you wait?”

“we did.”

anaxa scoffed, “i highly doubt that.”

“anaxa you are acting irrationally right now,” cerces lectured. “your insecurities are clouding your judgment.”

at her response, anaxa let out a laugh—mocking but strained. he was cracking and cerces cannot understand why.

“insecurities? when have i ever been insecure?!” he tried to argue.

“right now—you are insecure right now, anaxa.”

anaxa’s mouth opened—then like always, it shut. what was there left to say? all explanations would sound like excuses as cerces cut straight to the heart of anaxa’s problem. slowly, anaxa’s facade of arrogance began to crumble—and he made no effort to catch himself and patch it all back together. he didn’t care if the rain had started to pour—he didn’t care if the world blurred into one giant mess of emotion and logic, or that his clothes clung to him like punishment. he just kept walking, away from his cerces, away from you, away from the version of himself he could not recognize.

he let it rain. because maybe, just maybe, if it poured hard enough, it would drown out the sounds of your laughter with another man.

anaxa had gone mad, he was sure of it—everyone thought so, too.

the way he’d drag his sleepless body into lecture halls, head always buried in his folded arms, and the dark circle under his lone eye, anaxa was nothing short of the typical overworked student. but the thing is: anaxa hasn’t done any work since his last encounter with you and phainon in the rehearsal rooms four days ago.

four days of no sleep, anaxa was just about ready to rip his hair out due to the absurdity of it all. whenever he’d close his eye, the haunting images of you and phainon on stage smiling as you raise a golden trophy hand in hand had him jolting awake and pacing around his room. he’s tried to wrap his head around why that single thought sent shockwaves of hurt into the crevices of his heart but none ever made sense.

when the professor at front dismissed the class, anaxa heaved out a tired sigh. he had wasted another perfectly good lecture dozing off—burning down images of you in his mind in hopes you’ll fade away with the cinders. but you’re just so stubborn. whenever anaxa is alone at home and he’s pacing around the room in the dark, he hears your voice. he hates how he’s got the timbre of your tone memorized and how his mind plays tricks on him. but it's as if his body moved on its own last night—when he heard your favorite piece playing from his phone, as if by second nature, anaxa’s arms lifted and placed it around the misty image of you in his imagination and led you to a waltz.

anaxa shook the thought away and rushed out of the room. he needed another cup of coffee, something to wake him up from the daydreams he didn’t think he could have.

“anaxa?”

his eye widened and before he could fully process who had called out to him, his body had turned around in lightning speed.

there you stood, your duffle bag slung over your shoulder as your hand held your typical dance shoes. you were in no better condition than him, he surmised. bags lined under your eyes, hair a mess, your lips chapped and lacking its usual color. anaxa hated it—how his gaze immediately fell to your feet to make sure you were okay now. or how he noticed the slight twitch of your hand and how your lips fell just to snap shut. he smiled as some sick twisted part of him felt happy—overjoyed at the fact that he’s not the only one being affected by all of this. but it’s short lived when sirens blared in his mind when you took step after step in his direction.

anaxa fled like a coward.

“anaxa wait!”

anaxa was fully sprinting and when he slammed the exit doors open, he cursed under his breath when he realized it was raining. he heard your footsteps closing in on him and against his better judgement, he ran straight into the rain. ever since that day, anaxa had learned how it felt to hate the cries of the sky. during the first few hours when the flesh wound of you being better without him was inflicted, he found comfort in the rain washing away the blood from his body. but he later realized that not every part of him will be abstained from the pain—your smile, your grace, your voice, they remained etched into his psyche where the rain could not erase. and he hated that more.

he hated the rain—incredibly so. but now, as he’s sprinting away from the same ghost that had haunted him for the last ninety-six hours, anaxa finds himself hoping that it would at least wash some madness out of him.

the rain would have felt nice if the water did not sting his eye or felt like bullets piercing his skin. if he wasn’t careful, anaxa would slip and the bravado he had cultivated all his life would melt away like paper meeting a flame. you were the flame—you always have. always warm to touch, bright with your smile, and captivating with the way you danced. someone that always had anaxa recoiling back in timidity because he’s never felt like this with you before—you were the only thing anaxa wasn’t willing to study because he feared the inevitable result of his findings.

“anaxa, won’t you hear me out, just this once?!” you pleaded.

anaxa was winded, his pace was faltering but he pushed himself to continue. he could not—he would not—allow himself to fall right into the palm of your kind hands.

“ANAXA!”

before he knew it, a body collided with his just in time for a vehicle swerved past him. anaxa felt his heart stop, eye grow unfocused for a moment as his back fell onto the cold and damp pavement. on instinct, anaxa’s shaking hands cradled something delicate to his chest as another kind of rain soaked his chest. you were soaked to the bone and trembled within his embrace as gasps of exhaustion and fear escaped from your lips. when he looked up, the first distinct thought he had was, “you don’t belong in the rain.”

“you nearly got yourself killed and that’s the first thing you say to me?!” you screamed at him. your feeble hands gripped at his shoulders as they shook. “anaxa have you finally, genuinely, gone mad?!”

anaxa wanted to pull away, run past you like he always had these past four days—he needed to get away from you. but he can’t get up—not this time. not when you’re crying and afraid, not when you still don’t know the truth of what you’ve done to him in a measly three weeks.

“have i gone mad?” anaxa laughed, bitter and breathless. “yes, yes i have. ninety-six hours of pure excruciating hell.”

you glared at him, the grip on his shoulders turned bruising as you rebut, “so this is your solution? to get yourself killed?! anaxa this is a new definition of madness! if you were in hell just as you said why didn’t you tell anyone?”

the rain poured harder as if it were laughing with anaxa. with a shaky hand, he pushed his damp bangs out of his eye to get a good look at your distraught face and smiled, “you still don’t get it. it’s right in front of you! you are the reason for my suffering and still, you don’t see it—how you ruin me!”

“what are you talking about?!” you say in incredulity.

“you’ve rendered me unable to breathe after a glimpse of what it would be like if i weren’t by your side—when you’re dancing with someone else. just one glimpse of another wrapping his arms around you and i’m sent into this spiralling hell and you ask me what i’m talking about?”

something snapped in anaxa—maybe it was his self-control or the lock that he used to hide his feelings. you were still panting but your eyes had gone wide in shock of his confession. anaxa continues, “i saw you with him—phainon. laughing. dancing like nothing happened. like i never happened. like we hadn’t spent a week skin to skin. and do you know what that did to me? ninety-six hours, ninety-six, of no sleep, no peace. just your face in my mind and your voice under my skin. all because i caught a small glimpse! and i know it’s still my fault in the end.”

anaxa dragged a hand down his face roughly. “i hate you. i hated you. but i hate how i care more. for fuck’s sake i don’t think i ever hated you to begin with. i tried so hard to find faults in our interactions—how you get under my skin, your incessant nit picking at dance rehearsals, and the hours i spend debating over useless topics because you just can’t accept defeat.”

you gasped when anaxa’s hand slid up to cradle the side of your face as his eye narrowed into a glare, his other hand covering half of his face to hide the involuntary flush on his cheeks. “you don’t even have to try. you ruin me with a single touch, your voice—you ruin me by just being you and i hate it.”

“i couldn’t bring myself to study you because i knew the answer would wreck me.” anaxa laughed and slowly pushed himself off the ground with you still on his lap. “and it did. there, are you happy now?”

“anaxa,” you tried to interject.

his head fell to your chest, his ear placed right above your erratic heart as anaxa took a deep breath. the hand that cradled your face fell to his side as the other gripped your forearm in a desperate plea, “please, tell me you feel it. or tell me i’m mad once more. tell me that this is all just in my head so my misery can finally stop.” he grit his teeth and buried his face further into your chest, “if you truly feel an ounce of pity—something, anything—for me, then don’t leave me standing here like a fool.”

you sat there feeling as if the wind had been knocked out of you.

anaxa’s head still remained buried in your chest, trembling—not from the rain, but from the weight of something he’s kept close to his chest. his words ricocheted in your mind, tangled with the sound of your heartbeat and the rain that refused to let up.

for a second you did nothing, stayed motionless and let his feelings sink in fully. then—

you brought your arms around his shoulders, pulled him impossibly closer to your heart, and held him there—not tight, not desperate, just enough for him to infer your response.

“anaxa”, you whispered and you felt him stiffen in your hold. “i was wrong—you’re not mad. or if you are, then i must be, too.”

anaxa tried to pull away, look at you, but your arms would not let him. just like him, you were afraid, scared of what he would respond with your vulnerability laid bare.

“you… you’re just so hard to read sometimes. the first day you’re baring your fang but the next you’re suddenly so tame. so when i noticed you pulling away, i thought—i thought you were just done with me. that you were tired of me pushing your buttons. so, i let it go, because i thought it was for the best—for the both of us. i didn’t think… i never thought it would end up hurting you.”

you let out a shaky breath and continued, “i danced with phainon to fill in the space you left. at first i thought, ‘i’ve done this before. i can make it on my own again.’ but i couldn’t. i didn’t want to admit that i needed you there with me.” you swallowed hard, then laughed. “i’ve been in hell too, you know—for one hundred sixty eight hours, i’ve missed you incredibly.”

memories of your bickering resurfaced like flowers floating on top of crashing waves. though both your tones were meant to kill, they often died down after a few minutes, replaced by something uncharacteristically soft as you both stretched and started warm ups. how you would glance at your phone in that week anaxa had not appeared, waiting for him to reach out, and you hated how whenever the device lit up, you’d make a dash for it only to be disappointed because it's not him.

you pulled back—ignoring the flutter inside your chest when his arms wrapped just a tad bit tighter around you—just enough to look at him. your thumb brushed the side of his face—careful, hesitant, almost reverent. and you smiled, “you’ve always caught me with every throw and hadn’t let me go with every dip—i’d never leave you standing alone, anaxa.”

aglaea mused that something must have happened—again. after all, it wasn’t everyday you and anaxa enter the rehearsal room soaked straight to the bone, your hairs clung to your faces, eyes puffy and red as if you had been crying.

with a worried lecture, aglaea sent you both to the locker rooms to get a warm shower, change into dry clothes, and eventually drive you both home. though, deep down, aglaea is elated with this sudden change. something soft had taken root in both of your sharp edges around one another, especially with the way anaxa held your hand in a firm grip and how you looked at him as if a heavy weight had been lifted off of your chest.

the blonde woman smiled as she watched you two leave the room, hand in hand, muttering secrets to one another—pretending as if aglaea wasn’t in the same space as you.

you were both stuck in your own world where the storm quieted when you two were together.

— the third week.

the following rehearsals were painfully quiet.

not in the usual hostile way—just in the way where the remnants of a storm finally settles and everyone is left to pick up the stray pieces. the room felt heavy, like the walls in the locker room where you both sat were waiting for something to happen.

you and anaxa sat facing each other, avoiding each other’s gaze and tucked behind a closed room as aglaea stepped out to take a call. you were both grateful and distraught over the silence neither of you knew how to fill. you fiddled with your phone, opening the group chat out of instinct before swiping it shut again. your reflection greeted you when the device fell asleep—hair still a mess, eyes just a tad bit more red than usual, and you looked pale due to spending too much time under heavy rain.

something soft fell on your shoulders. when you looked up, anaxa was already sitting down beside you, drinking nonchalantly from his water bottle. you mutter a soft thank you, all the while ignoring your hyperfocus on the few inches that separated your fingers from touching and causing a chain reaction. you bit your lip in contemplation, hand letting go of your phone to clutch the jacket placed on your shoulders—tugging it closer for warmth and if you closed your eyes, you’d catch a small whiff of anaxa’s favorite cologne.

anaxa was the one to break the heavy silence.

“you were going to say something. back then,” he said, voice low and casual in the way people speak when they’re trying to sound like they don’t care.

you blinked, “when?”

anaxa didn’t look at you. “the first week. after our first rehearsal together. you typed something, then deleted it.”

you pause momentarily before a small smile tugged at your lips. “yeah… i was gonna ‘sorry’.” you admitted. “but i wanted to say it in person. i guess i missed the right time.”

anaxa scoffed and clicked his tongue. his head leaned back against the lockers behind him. “you’re free to judge my poor choices—you always have. it’s not that you missed it, i didn’t let you have it.”

you slowly turned to look at him. he chewed on the inside of his cheeks, his eyes glared at the ceiling as if the concrete structure would reveal to him all the answers. the moment felt raw—no heat, no fire, and no bickering, just the truth sitting between the few inches of your fingertips.

“you don’t have to be too harsh on yourself y’know?” you lectured, following his gaze and settled them on the ceiling as you confessed, “i was scared that if i said it too late, it’d mean less. but if i said it too early, it wouldn’t fix anything.” you let out a teasing chuckle before continuing. “you aren’t exactly the easiest person to apologize to, anaxa.”

he didn’t answer right away, anaxa only scoffed. then he muttered, “i would’ve ruined it anyway. i wasn’t looking for an apology.”

“then you’re really gonna hate this part.”

anaxa finally glanced at you and he wished he didn’t.

you leaned both of your hands on top of your legs, your hair falling seamlessly around your face to accentuate your soft smile and eyes, and anaxa hated the immediate jumps of his heart at the sight.

“i still want to say it. i’m sorry, anaxa. for being such a pain in your ass, for pushing all your buttons, and for letting you walk away thinking it didn’t matter to me.”

something passed through his eye—quiet, deep, but not quite forgiveness. maybe fond, intimate.

and then he frowned. “we’re taking a break. why are you still sitting on your toes?”

“huh–?”

before you could argue, anaxa is already on the floor pushing, letting his hands push your legs down until the sole of your heels meet the ground. for good measure, one hand gently pressed on your shin and kept them in place. “flat. you need to rest your feet, especially after your injury. it’s laughable at how to try to present yourself as someone taller or tenser than you are.”

“hey!” you huffed but your mouth snapped back shut when he looked up. that single crimson eye stared at your soul—all knowing of the effect he had on you. your voice turned quieter as you complained, “that’s rude to say…”

anaxa only let out a breath of amusement. he shifted in his position and you tensed, jumping in slight shock as a heavy weight landed on your thighs.

“anaxa what are you–?!”

you fumbled with your hands, unsure of where to place them. you’re heart racing erratically inside the columns of your chest as your cheeks erupted into a flushed pink. anaxa turned his head carefully on your lap, looking up at you with a deadpan expression as his hands slowly snaked themselves around your mid-back.

“if you try and sit on your toes again, i’m staying here for the remainder of our rehearsals.”

you stared at him frozen, hands awkwardly in the air and mouth slightly ajar.

he turned away. “you’re more comfortable than the benches. don’t get a big head about it. and not a single word to professor cerces.”

“i’m not a damn snitch,” you muttered. after an exasperated exhale, your hands slowly fell to your side. for the next few minutes, you let anaxa lay his head on your lap. you couldn’t stop the small laugh that bubbled out. slowly—and very unsure—you carded your fingers through his hair. anaxa flinched at the contact and you quickly retracted your hand. but his hold quickly seized your wrist.

“did i tell you to stop?” he asked—more like demanded—through the fabric of your pants.

you let out another sigh. “well sheesh i’m sorry.”

your hand hovered over his hair as your brows furrowed, mind going a hundred miles a minute before you’re broken out of your daze. anaxa sighed, the warmth of his breath tickled your thighs as he gently led your hand to lay on top of his hair.

“i was caught off guard,” he murmured. “i don’t dislike it. feel free to continue.”

you remained hesitant. hand laid limp on the crown of his head, but when anaxa tapped your wrist—a motion that’s just so him—you let yourself smile at his attempts in sharing his feelings. you don’t notice how time passes like a blur when you brush anaxa’s hairs with your fingers.

for a moment you think you forgot how to breathe. but anaxa’s warmth, that gentle rise and fall of his chest, reminded you that you had the best student in campus to teach you how to breathe again.

“good morning my favorite seni—”

“get out.”

phainon physically deflates at anaxa’s blatant rejection. the snow-haired bow dejectedly walks back to mydei and castorice’s side—the latter offered him small comfort while the blonde man crossed his arms with a small smirk on his face. anaxa felt an oncoming headache invade his senses as he looked to aglaea who seemed far too amused at the situation.

“i was not informed we would be having guests today, aglaea.” he spat out. his arms crossed over his chest out of habit as he raised a brow at the three new faces in the studio.

“we’re sorry for the intrusion,” castorice intervened. “but we were informed by professor cerces that our presence was required here. though she never fully explained why.”

anaxa sighed. “if i were to take a guess, you three are our audience.”

aglaea smiled and urged the trio to come forward, “and you would be correct, anaxa. once [name] arrives, we’ll begin like usual, but with these three as your pseudo-judges.”

“fine,” anaxa replied and made a beeline towards the locker rooms.

phainon sat there, on the polished wooden floors, with his mouth hanging open. his head looked to where anaxa had disappeared into and then to aglaea who only smiled—he repeated the actions for a while before mydei grabbed hold of his head and forced him to stop.

with a shaky hand, he pointed to where the locker rooms were and asked, “was that really senior anaxa…?”

aglaea chuckled under her breath. “yes, he is. why do you ask?”

“well it’s just, i don’t remember him giving in so… easily?” the junior sounded confused as the two students beside him nodded in agreement.

“i have to admit, it seems hard to believe.” mydei interjected.

castorice only nodded when aglaea’s eyes landed on her. with an amused smile, the older woman entertained them, “even the sharpest of blades grow dull with constant use. though to use the word ‘dull’ would be nothing short of incorrect. it’s more of, anaxa is now—”

“good morning, everyone.”

“taken care of.”

all head turned to you. phainon could feel his eyes bulging out of their sockets as mydei let out a huff and castorice covered her mouth in shock. there you stood by the door, your bag slung over your shoulder, hair in its usual messy hairstyle, but hanging delicately on your shoulder was anaxa’s jacket.

you notice the added presence in the room and tilted your head in question, “i wasn’t informed we were having guests today.”

“they even talk the same now…” phainon muttered under his breath.

“huh?”

“what phainon meant was,” aglaea interjected. “they’ll be watching you and anaxa rehearse. only for today. think of it as a small prep for competition day.”

before you can step out of the way, phainon sprung from his seat, and wrapped his arms around your torso with comical tears streaming down his face. you let out a startled yelp, “phainon?!”

“please don’t turn into another mean senior, [name]! you’re the only one who treats me really nicely, i can’t lose you!” the boy cried out and buried his face into your side. half-amused and half-confused, you gently pat down phainon’s hair as mydei and castorice tried to pry his crying figure from you.

the room turned a little colder when phainon was roughly tugged backwards.

“and what do you think you’re doing, phainon?”

said boy, shook like a leaf, as he turned around to meet anaxa’s glare. his face turned paler than it usually was and cried out your name like a plea.

“[name] save me!”

“what do you need saving from, you buffon?”

you let out an amused breath at the sight. anaxa holding phainon by the back of his collar like a mother cat holding her kitten by the scruff. phainon kept flinging his arms around like a child caught sneaking candy before bed time as mydei and castorice send their quiet prayers to their friend. when you turned to look aglaea, she held that same quiet yet amused expression—she was not going to stop their little scuffle.

with a sigh, you let an elated smile break free from your face as you approached the two.

“alright, that’s enough,” you said. a hand softly wrapped around anaxa’s wrist as you turned to him, smiling with mirth in your eyes, “won’t you let him go, anaxa? he’s learned his lesson. isn’t that right, phainon?”

anaxa stiffened ever so briefly at the contact—your touch still felt like a searing iron when meeting his bare skin, but he welcomed the pain wholeheartedly this time. his grip on phainon’s collar loosened slightly, but not enough to let go. instead, he glanced at where your bare skin met —eye flickered between you and the contact before he averted his gaze.

“i’d beg to differ,” he muttered, voice a lot softer than normal. “he still has much to learn.”

“hey!” phainon protested.

“anaxa,” you called out once more. anaxa actively ignored your gaze as he felt something warm trickle down the system of his nerves when your voice came out gentler than the last. your thumb gently pressed against his pulse with idle care—you knew what you were doing to him. “please, won’t you let him go?”

he took a deep breath before letting out a shaky exhale. he finally looked at you, and for a moment, everyone in the room thought he’d argue. instead, he looked away—cheeks ever so slightly flushed—and released phainon with an exaggerated sigh. “fine. are you happy now?”

phainon dropped to the floor with a thud, scrambling back like a cartoon villain escaping the jaws of death. “i’ve never been more afraid in my life,” he whispered, crawling behind castorice.

aglaea let out a quiet, knowing hum—a smile tugged at her lips. “i see we’ve entered the negotiation stage.”

“negotiation?!” phainon squawked.

“that,” mydei said under his breath, a knowing smile on his lips. “was not negotiations. that was flirting.”

“flirting?!”

“are seniors anaxa and [name] in a relationship now?” castorice whispered, wide-eyed.

anaxa whirled around, clearly having heard their conversation as aglaea quietly exited. “we are not.”

you blinked, a teasing smile graced your lips as you asked with mock innocence, “not what?”

anaxa’s face flushed as he glared at you. his hand circled around your wrist as he dragged you to the locker rooms. your laughter bounced around the walls as the trio watched you exchange quiet codes only you knew how to decipher. when you think you’re out of sight, you tugged anaxa closer as you planted a soft kiss to his cheek—the man in turn scurried back a few inches, a hand covering half his face as you continued to laugh.

“yeah”, mydei huffed. “they are definitely dating.”

by the time the trio had left the studio, the sun was setting in the horizon, leaving only you and anaxa with aglaea as she gave you final reminders before the day of the competition.

“your chemistry has improved greatly,” she complimented with a smile. aglaea tucked her tablet back into her bag before her gaze returned to her two dancers—both heaving and sweaty, but content and proud of their progress. “all that’s really left is to prepare for the competition. i won’t nag you on the hows—you can figure it out by yourselves. have a pleasant evening you two. shoot me a message when you get home.”

you and anaxa nod in tandem and quietly watch as the older woman leaves the room with a quiet click of the door. you collapsed to the floor with a heavy sigh, your legs stretched outwards as you massage the tender muscle with a quiet wince. anaxa kneeled in front of your figure, his hands rubbed at the sore spot near your ankles with worry in his eyes.

“i’ll be fine,” you reassured him before he could say a word. when he looked up, you only gave him a tired smile and reached for his hand to intertwine your fingers. “i trust you to catch me when i stumble.”

anaxa huffed—a breath so full of tender fondness you’re not sure how to put it into words. he stood up and brought you along with him. his hold delicate and still slightly hesitant—the warmth of his palm ghosted the skin of your waist. you only nodded in approval as he quietly asked with his eyes, “can i touch you?”, without saying the actual words itself.

when his hand made itself home on the base of your flesh, you hummed the music and let him guide you through the dance. left and right, then turn. distance yourself from him, but never too much. he pulled you back, not roughly nor gently, just enough for him to quietly plead for you to stay. turn away from his gaze, lest you want his eyes to burn his name in your bones. try to run away, build a cage to shield your heart, but leave your hand reaching for him so he could take the key and open it. your feet are off the ground before you can fully process the dance—and you laughed at the absurdity of it all.

when you land back on the ground, it’s as if you’re taken back to that stormy day. when you looked at anaxa, that frosty layer of uncertainty had been washed away by the rain. your hand reached to cup his cheek and you smiled brightly when he leaned into your touch—nuzzling his face further into your palm as his lips ghosted the point of your pulse.

“after all this time, you still can’t find your balance,” he muttered—fondly.

“maybe i’m doing it on purpose,” you joked. your other hand trailed up his chest—the sensation being followed by flames being ignited as anaxa’s breath got caught in his throat—and you lay it where his delicate heart is hidden. you chuckled, “if i had known you’d be so keen to catch me maybe i would’ve thrown myself at you sooner.”

anaxa retaliated by pulling the hand at his chest into his own, raising the one settled on your waist to your upper back and dipping you low. you let out a startled scream, eyes squeezed shut as the world blurred before it stilled.

“open your eyes.”

when you cracked your eyelids open, it took you a moment to let the sight fully sink in. anaxa’s figure bathed by a soft iridescent glow courtesy of the studio lights, his long bangs tickling your face as his breath threatened to become your own. his lips quirked up into a smug smile and you fight the urge to roll your eyes. anaxa leaned impossibly closer—he wanted to merge your souls into one at this very moment.

you could hear the erratic beating of your heart as anaxa’s hold of the position remained firm. the way anaxa looked at you now—as if you’ve penned every book he’s ever loved and recited every lecture he’s always so keen to listen in—it made it hard to breathe, let alone think.

“you’re so dramatic,” you whispered, eyes still locked on him.

“and you’re reckless,” he replied, tone warm, almost teasing. “for playing with my heart like this.”

you grinned. “then maybe it’s only fair that we fall at the same time.”

anaxa took a breath in. he searched your face—gaze flickered from your eyes to your lips where they lingered for a moment too long—like he was asking for permission if it truly was okay to cross the border that would unravel his existence. anaxa needed—yearned—to know if you’d still want him even when the music has stopped.

“what’s on your mind, anaxa?” you asked—pretending to remain oblivious to his wants.

“an inquiry,” he replied. “one i’ve been trying to understand for the last few weeks.”

the hand that quietly rested on his shoulder snaked to cradle his face. “does it include me?”

“when has it ever not included you?”

his words hung in the air like suspended notes, trembling, waiting for resolution.

you felt the ache in his words—the feelings so palpable you could catch it in the way you would desperately try to grasp at burning cinders. anaxa’s breath hitched when your thumb brushed under his eye, tender and deliberate.

“please ask,” you murmured. “please say it.”

anaxa swallowed hard, voice soft—his self-control fraying at the seams.

“is it foolish of me… to want this to mean something beyond the stage?” he finally asked. his brows furrowed as his eye narrowed in uncertainty, “would you still let me feel your skin against mine even if it burns? let me experiment on your soul until it only knows my name—and mine, yours?”

your breath hitched.

“no,” you answered. “not foolish. not even close.”

for a moment, neither of you moved. not out of hesitation, but reverence. hoping to make this fragile moment that could break with one wrong breath last just a second more.

then—slowly, almost nervously—anaxa leaned forward, closing the painful distance, not with grand dramatics but with aching certainty with your permission. and when your lips met, it was not fire that invaded the moment, but a slow-burning sun that ached to see the horizon—steady, warm, constant, and real.

his hand tightened just slightly at your back, as though ground himself in your bare presence where only the two of you mattered. your own fingers curled against his jaw, pulling him like a tide, like homecoming.

you parted only when the need for air became undeniable, and anaxa cursed this mortal body for its necessities—he only needed you.

“not a word to the professor,” he chimed.

you laughed as he pulled you back to your own two feet. your hand still on the edge of his jaw and his on your back. you smiled as you pressed your face into his neck, listening to the way his heart rattled your name in the columns of his throat.

“not a word to the professor,” you echoed.

theoretically speaking, anaxa once believed it was impossible to change your mind about someone in a matter of weeks. that it was absurd to undo years of contempt with a few shared dances, a handful of late night rehearsals, a string of glances too long to be innocent, or a confession made under a stormy day.

but now, as you buried your face in the crook of his neck and his hand splayed firm against your back like a promise—he knew.

anaxa had been wrong.

not just in theory, but in practice. utterly, wonderfully wrong.

because it only took three weeks for all his logic to crumble. for you to rewrite the entire philosophy he’d built his whole world around—not with arguments or with evidence, but with the way you moved around the stage, the emotions evoked with your reckless courage in the steps you take, the soft curve of your smile, and the infuriating way you slipped past his defences like light through stained glass.

and for the first time, anaxa didn’t mind being wrong.

not if being wrong meant having this—you.

#anaxa x reader #hsr x reader #—stellaronhvnters #honkai star rail x reader #anaxa x you #hsr x you #honkai star rail x you #❝ books of adoration

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