#Concrete Preparation and Concrete Crushing

[mononijikayu]

lovesick — ryomen sukuna.

"I'm serious about my girl." Sukuna retorted back, snickering at the white haired vice-captain. "I'm serious, if she calls me anything else, I'll be nothing. Just how it is." "I see, I see." Before Sukuna could fire back something at him, Gojo’s attention shifted to something—or someone—over Sukuna’s shoulder. Gojo started pointing at the doorway. “Oh, and here she is now, captain.” he said, smirking like a man who’d just lit a match in a fireworks factory. "Your beloved girlfriend!"

Genre: Alternate Universe — College! AU;

Warning/s: Short Fic, General Rating, AFAB! Reader, Use of She/Her, Use of Female Centered Identification, Pet Names (Babe, My Love, Etc), Romance, Fluff, Humour, Love, Comfort/No Hurt, Established Relationship, Lovers, Dating, Feeling, Light-Hearted, Slice of Life, Idiots In Love, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Healthy Relationship, Friendships, Profanity, Swearing, Teasing, Volleyball, Volleyball Captain! Sukuna, Boyfriend! Sukuna, Girlfriend! Reader;

Words: 3.8k words.

Note: i wanted to see ryomen sukuna be someone that is pathetically in love with his lover, because i needed a break from my pattern of being angsty with sukuna, so here you go. that being said, i'm sorry this is shorter than what i usually write. i'm prepping a lot of things because im going to be back in uni soon and i need to make sure i fix the queue!!! that being said, i'll post tomorrow about the valentines special!!! thank you for reading!!! i love you all <3

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IF THERE WAS ONE THING ABOUT HIM, ITS THE FACT THAT HE IS A STRONG PERSONALITY. He knew that too well, everyone knew that just as much. Ryomen Sukuna was just easily the most incredible force to be reckoned with. Whether that be meeting him personally or whether that be hearing baout him in passing.

Everyone would say the same thing about him — it's hard to find out what to say about him without going on a tangent for hours on end. And that was just the easiest thing to do, rather than finding anything definite to say.

The one and only captain of the top ranking college varsity volleyball team in all of Japan, Ryomen Sukuna dominated the court like it was his personal kingdom with that iron fist. He has such a stellar record of existence, that was to be sure, wearing the crown.

All his opponents could only quiver at the sight of his one of a kind powerful line spike. All the teammates he'd have since junior high could only respect and fear him with almost military reverence, like he was their general.

Of course, all his coaches over the years swore he could crush concrete if he so much as clenched his fists mid-serve. That perhaps, it would be good to gentle parent him as much as possible, knowing he's already quite the fire cracker of a man.

Or that he could end up cussing out everyone at the court as easily as one does breathing. That's of course, why the coaches would find him to be the "Cursed King." It was an intimidating title that had followed him since junior high school.

One moment he's someone that you curse because you lost a game because of him, another time you curse him because your team got fined because he ended up causing a fight. And with a name like that, Sukuna relished the air of invincibility it gave him.

Everyone had a box for Sukuna to fit in, of course. That continued over time, to be something that people couldn't avoid making for him and only him. That was just how it was, when you have someone as enigmatic as him.

To some of his teammates, he was "Cap"—the iron-willed leader who demanded nothing less than perfection. The one that would force them to run miles on end until they fell from exhaustion. The one who forced them to do hundreds of spikes until it took out the bottles he prepared on the other side of the court.

The rival schools referred to him as "Demon Spike" but this was mostly because he left a trail of destruction (and bruises) every time he stepped onto the court. One moment that's from the fact that his serves were just dangerously low and one moment it's because he heard someone bad mouth his underclassman.

To the younger underclassmen, who unfortunately still looked at him with bright eyes under those filtered glasses on — he was a mix of "Sensei of True Discipline" and "Volleyball God".

He was to them, a figure of unadulterated awe and of course, that desire to hope, that perhaps they would end up like him too. After all, he was always a star in the court. But in a different way, in the good way. That's how they think.

Of course, even his many teachers and now his college professors had their own opinions for him one at a time over the many years. One of the most known nicknames for him by the professors in the college halls is “The GPA Crusher”.

But this was because Ryomen Sukuna spent more time perfecting his jump serves against his opponent than ever having effort in writing essays for submission. Ironically, even though he was quite a smart young man. The fact that he shows up to exams more than classes and still passes with flying colors is quite certain proof.

But to you, his beloved girlfriend, Ryomen Sukuna was none of these things. He didn’t live in a box and he never wished to do so, no. Instead, he lived eternally, forever, even in the next life — in your heart.

Though he’d never say something that cheesy out loud. That part is not easy for him, but you didn't mind that. You liked to keep him to yourself most of the time. And he was satisfied with that.

The most you could hear from him about you is in passing. Sometimes practice would finish and he, still full of sweat, would immediately pack his things into his gym bag, almost suddenly becoming ignorant of everything else.

His underclassman would invite him to eat something like yakuniku and he would say with a straight face — "I can't. My girfriend wants to cook some authentic pasta for me at her place. Bye."

He would leave almost instantly, much to the shock of the underclassman each year. But most of his teammates, who were also somehow his friends, were not surprised. He and you were dating early on during junior high school. And he would be the same way.

When he wasn't looking, people could only surmise what he looked like when he towered over your giddy figure at every practice, at every game — 'Ah, I see. He's lovesick. And in a good way.'

To Sukuna, you were perhaps the only thing that could triumph against volleyball. You were his number one. And he knew that you thought of him the same way too. And everyone knew that too.

That's why you only ever called him one thing: my love. And to Sukuna, that title was worth more than any championship trophy. But of course, no one knew that. It's not like you don't call him that in public. It's just that no one asks, what that nickname is.

The look in your eyes was more than enough when he makes a wink for you at each serve was enough, the smile on your lips when he comes to greet you at the bleachers was more than enough. No one needed to hear the nickname to know that there was something loving between the two of you.

He knew this truth as well as he knew how to spike a ball with a precise edge. He knew this as much as he knew what would get him a championship. But of course, that doesn't stop curiosity at times. At times he humors them, at times he does not. It was a hit and miss.

That’s why, during a post-practice break, when the Vice Captain of the Volleyball team, Gojo Satoru, decided to start stirring the pot as usual with his antics. And somehow, today, Ryomen Sukuna didn’t mind it. There was something in the air. They could feel it.

(He won't tell anyone about this, but he has very happy about something.

He was after all happy that his girlfriend was staying at his dorm tonight to spoon on his bed after your finals kept you apart for nearly two weeks —

But no one needs to know that.

Otherwise, they'd use it against him.

And he can't have that right now.

It will spoil these bastards and make them too relaxed before championships again.)

Gojo leaned against the bleachers with that signature cocky grin. “Hey, Sukuna.” he drawled, as he watched the captain drink from his water bottle. "You’ve got about a million nicknames floating around. But what are you to your girlfriend?”

Ryomen Sukuna didn’t miss a beat.

He put down his water bottle swiftly.

He glared at Gojo Satoru with a passion.

He tilted his head back, eyes half-lidded with that calm arrogance he wore so well. “Huh? My girl can only call me my love or nothing.” he said, his voice practically dripping with pride.

"Hehhhhh, really?"

“If she calls me anything else, I’ll disappear and leave no trace. Hell, I'll jump off a cliff and make sure I drown into the ocean and never be seen again."

Gojo barked out a laugh, his hands clapping together as if Sukuna had just told the world’s funniest joke. “Wow. Our captain sure is seriously whipped. Actually, that probably doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

"I'm serious about my girl." Sukuna retorted back, snickering at the white haired vice-captain. "I'm serious, if she calls me anything else, I'll be nothing. Just how it is."

"I see, I see."

Before Sukuna could fire back something at him, Gojo’s attention shifted to something—or someone—over Sukuna’s shoulder. Gojo started pointing at the doorway.

“Oh, and here she is now, captain.” he said, smirking like a man who’d just lit a match in a fireworks factory. "Your beloved girlfriend!"

Ryomen Sukuna turned slowly, his earlier bravado evaporating the second he saw you standing at the gym door. Your arms were crossed, your eyes sharp, and your posture practically screamed, You’re in trouble.

“Sukuna.” you called out, your tone cutting through the gym like a whistle signaling the end of a game.

His entire body could only stiffen. He didn’t just flinch—he practically short-circuited. The other players and members, the entire volleyball staff, sensing the shift in the air, immediately stopped what they were doing to watch the drama unfold. All of their eyes were glued on this moment, more than anything.

“Ryomen Sukuna!” you said again, each syllable landing like the sound of a referee’s whistle before a penalty.

Sukuna’s brain scrambled for an escape route. “What the fuck?” he muttered under his breath, frozen in place.

“Ryomen Sukuna, come here.”

“No.” His voice cracked as he stood up so fast he nearly knocked over a water bottle.

His scarlet eyes were shaking as much as his body was. No one has ever seen this before. No one had ever seen the panic on his face before. Not even in a hard game to win. This was the very first time their formidable captain looked so defeated and horrified.

“No, no, my name is my love! It’s my love! What did I do?” he asked, practically sprinting toward you like a volleyball rolling out of bounds.

Gojo Satoru, thoroughly entertained, cackled so hard he nearly fell off the bleachers. “Man, even the Cursed King has a leash!” he wheezed, clutching his stomach. "This is how he is with her. That's interesting, isn't it?"

"He doesn't look like who he actually is in the moment, huh." Nanami Kento whispered under his breath, wiping the sweat with the towel over his shoulder. "We should have used this card when he refused to stop practice during last year's finals."

"Well now we can." Geto Suguru snickers, lounging on the floor as he watched the scene with mirth in his purple gaze. "Does anyone have objections?"

"None here!" The chorus of seniors and juniors retorted back at him.

"Someone save her phone number for speed dial!" Gojo said, pointing to one of the managers who nodded.

By the time Ryomen Sukuna reached you, he was a completely different man. The fearsome captain who dominated courts and crushed spirits was reduced to a panicked, apologetic mess. You continued to stand before him, rolling your eyes, his towering figure in tatters at what you called him.

“I swear I didn’t do anything! There's no girls or even guys! There isn't anything else. You can check my phone. Or you can ask everyone here too!"

"Sukuna—"

"Whatever it was, I’ll do everything fix it and make it right, babe—just don’t call me that again. Please!” he begged, his voice low enough that only you could hear the desperation in it.

"Calm down." You raised an eyebrow, letting him stew for a moment before finally speaking. “You forgot to text me that practice was running late. And I was concerned. I thought we were going to meet up at the cafe nearby so we can go to your dorm together!”

Sukuna blinked. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.” you said, though your tone suggested you might have a few more grievances stored up for later. "Well, I'm also hungry."

Sukuna exhaled so dramatically it was a wonder he didn’t collapse on the spot. “I’ll never forget again, okay?” he promised, his voice full of sincerity. “Babe, I’ll set an alarm—no, two alarms—just for you. And don't worry, we're gonna eat. Actually, take my card and buy something in the cafe while you wait for me.”

As he continued to rattle off promises, you couldn’t help but smile at him. Cursed King or not, to you, Sukuna was just your dorky loving boyfriend, forever trying to live up to his title of my love in your life. And if the rest of the gym wanted to watch him grovel? Well, that was just an added bonus. By the gods, you love him.

"I love you, my love." You whispered to him, taking his hand into yours. "I'm sorry I scared you like that."

"No, no, that was my fault." He grumbled under his breathe, taking a moment to settle in the warmth of your eyes, reserved just for him. "I should have noticed the time. I will never forget about it again, I promise."

"Hm, that's all that matters, my love."

"I'll make us dessert tonight as an apology." He says, moving closer to kiss your temple.

"That would be good, my love."

As Sukuna continued his frantic apologies, the rest of the gym erupted into poorly stifled snickers. Gojo Satoru, of course, was the loudest, slapping his knee like he’d just witnessed the greatest comedy set of the century.

“My love, huh? Big, bad Cursed King reduced to a golden retriever!” he teased, practically howling. “Hey, did you hear that, boys? If she calls him Ryomen Sukuna one more time, he might just cry.”

“Should we start calling him my love too, senpai? Y’know, in solidarity?” chimed Underclassman Itadori Yuuji, grinning as he leaned on his volleyball. The suggestion earned a chorus of laughs and a few enthusiastic nods.

“Yeah, Cap! Don’t worry, my love, we’ve got your back!” Underclassman Fushiguro Megumi deadpanned from the sidelines, his usual stoic face cracking into a rare smirk.

One of the first year underclassman, emboldened by the chaos, cupped his hands around his mouth and called out, “We love you, my love! You’re our MVP for all seasons! With so much love, my love!”

Sukuna whipped his head around, his scarlet glare promising death, destruction, and possibly laps for everyone involved. “If anyone other than my girlfriend calls me that, I swear.” he growled, “I will personally make sure you regret it.”

“Sure, my love!” Gojo crowed, leaning back against the bleachers with a devilish grin. “Ooooh, should we get it printed on the back of your jersey? Cursed King on the front, My Love on the back—perfect balance, don’t you think?"

Geto laughs loudly. "You know what, I think we can make this happen. Coach! We got the budget for that, right?"

“Or maybe embroider it on the team banner!” someone else chimed in, sending the gym into another fit of laughter.

You couldn’t hold back anymore, doubling over as Sukuna turned a deeper shade of red than the volleyballs on the court. His sharp retorts and death glares only fueled the chaos, the once-commanding presence of the Cursed King now utterly eclipsed by the sheer hilarity of the moment.

Finally, Sukuna turned back to you, his expression a mix of betrayal and exasperation. “You’re supposed to defend me, babe.” he muttered, his voice low but desperate.

You reached up to pat his cheek, your grin as sweet as honey. “Oh, my love, I am defending you. I’m making sure they never forget how cute you are to me."

For the rest of practice, you sat down and watched everything unfold before you as you ate your croissant and drank your coffee from the cafe which you bought using your boyfriend's card, of course.

For a while, the gym echoed with the sound of volleyballs, laughter, and the occasional teasing chorus of “My love!” — especially when Sukuna found himself scoring a point, which of course led to him missing the next hit.

Every time someone said it later on, Ryomen Sukuna looked seconds away from snapping a net in half, but deep down, though he’d never admit it, he wouldn’t have traded his nickname or the teasing for anything in the world. Not when you were there, cheering it for him with that adorable voice of yours, loving him completely.

Maybe it wasn't so bad to be lovesick like that.

Not when it was you who loved him just like that.

That's just how he loved you too.

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epilogue

After what felt like the longest practice of his life, one that was just peppered with relentless teasing from his teammates and the volleyball team staff — Ryomen Sukuna was finally free to leave with you, to enjoy the weekend together.

He barely said goodbye to the others, grumbling something about “making them run that suicidal hill again on Monday” before grabbing his bag and leading you out of the gym.

“Unbelievable.” he muttered under his breath as you walked side by side. “Gojo’s gonna be insufferable for weeks.”

You stifled a laugh. “Weeks? You mean forever.”

He shot you a look, but there was no real heat behind it. Instead, he sighed and draped an arm over your shoulder as the two of you made your way to his car. “You’re lucky I love you, y’know. Otherwise, I might’ve disappeared on the spot after what you pulled, babe.”

“Oh, come on, my love.” you teased, leaning into him. “It was worth it to see the great Cursed King turn into a puddle in front of everyone. Especially because he loves me.”

“You’re cruel, babe." he grumbled, but there was a small, fond smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Can't believe I've loved you since we were in junior high."

You winked at him, smile on your lips growing wider. "And for forever too! You'll have to deal with it."

By the time you got back to Sukuna’s place, you immediately made the move to cook while he got into the shower. Soon enough, the air was thick with the scent of miso broth bubbling on the stove.

You’d planned this hotpot night earlier, since he was supposed to have gone home much earlier. But after the chaos at the gym and his long grueling practice, you just felt like it was even more well-earned.

Sukuna, finally emerging from the bedroom, rolled up his sleeves and helped you set the table, his mood softening with each step of the ritual as you hummed along the song playing on the radio.

“You got everything, babe?” he asked, peering over your shoulder as you arranged plates of thinly sliced meat, tofu, and an assortment of vegetables.

“Yup.” you replied, popping a piece of bok choy into your mouth. “And don’t even think about hogging all the meat this time.”

“Me? Hog it?” He snorted, grabbing the chopsticks and pointing them at you in mock accusation. “You’re the one who fishes out all the good stuff when I’m not looking.”

“That’s called strategy, my love.” you said, grinning as you threw his words from earlier back at him.

Sukuna groaned, dropping his face into his hands. “Not you too…”

You waved your chopsticks at him. "Well, I say it more lovingly. You like it like that, you know!"

He grumbles under his breath, red appearing on his cheek. "You're lucky I love you like that."

"Hm, that's why I'm shameless!"

But any complaints were quickly forgotten as the two of you settled down around the simmering hotpot. The warmth of the broth, the crackling of the stove, and the quiet clink of chopsticks filled the room. Sukuna started to relax, his earlier frustrations melting away as he watched you happily dunk mushrooms and noodles into the pot.

“Okay, babe.” he said suddenly, breaking the silence. “I’ve decided.”

You raised an eyebrow, chewing on a piece of tofu. “Decided what?”

“Next time Gojo calls me ‘my love’ in front of everyone, instead of just you, it’s on sight,” Sukuna said, leaning forward with a wicked grin that promised destruction.

He jabbed his chopsticks into a slice of tofu like it was Gojo’s face. “I’m spiking a volleyball straight at his stupid face.”

You burst out laughing, nearly choking on the piece of fish cake you’d been chewing. “Good luck with that. He’ll just dodge it and make fun of you even more. You know how he is—Gojo thrives on chaos. The man’s immune to consequences.”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, stabbing another piece of tofu with unnecessary aggression. “Then I’ll spike two balls. One after the other. And if that doesn’t work…”

You looked at him curiously, mirth in your eyes. "What will you do?"

He paused, his brow furrowing in mock concentration. “I’ll add laps. So many laps. He’ll be running until graduation.”

You snorted, wiping a tear from your eye. “Right, because Gojo would totally listen to your orders. He’d just turn it into a race and leave everyone else in the dust.”

Sukuna grumbled under his breath, his scowl deepening—but the corners of his mouth twitched, betraying his amusement. “Fine. If volleyball and laps don’t work, I’ll come up with something else. Something evil.”

“Evil?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow. “What, like stealing his Bottega Veneta sunglasses?”

“Too easy. He’s got like fifty pairs, babe.” Sukuna muttered, resting his chin on his hand as he considered his options. “Maybe I’ll prank him during practice. Replace his water with vinegar. Or set his alarms an hour early every day.”

"I forgot he makes his password too easy for people to guess." You murmured, drinking from your cup. You sigh. "Well, I suppose that would work."

"Right? Fool-proof!"

You tilted your head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Hmm, as solid as that is, what if he gets revenge? Gojo’s the type to double down, you would know best."

He hummed. "I'm way better at being stubborn than he is."

"I know that. But he might start serenading you in the middle of practice. Like, full-on ‘My Love’ with a guitar and everything on campus like it's 10 Things I Hate About You."

Sukuna froze, chopsticks halfway to his mouth. “He wouldn’t.”

“Oh, he absolutely would.” you said, grinning. “And you’d never live it down. The Cursed King getting serenaded in front of the entire team? In front of the whole university? They’d be talking about it for years.”

He groaned, dropping his chopsticks and leaning back against the chair like he’d just been defeated in battle. “Why do I even put up with him? Or any of you, for that matter.”

“Because deep down, you love us.” you said, smiling sweetly as you plopped another piece of meat into the hotpot. “Even Gojo.”

“I do not love Gojo,” Sukuna snapped, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“Sure, sure, my love!” you teased, nudging him playfully with your elbow. “But admit it—you’d miss him if he wasn’t around to drive you insane.”

Sukuna gave you a flat look, but the twitch of his lips betrayed him again. “I’d miss you more.” he said gruffly, his voice dropping just enough to make your heart skip.

“Aww, my love.” you cooed, leaning closer to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Don’t worry, you’re stuck with me.”

“Good to know, babe.” he said, turning back to the hotpot with a satisfied grunt. “At least you don’t call me my love in front of the team like that.”

You smirked, swirling your chopsticks through the broth. “Not yet, anyway.”

Sukuna froze mid-bite, glaring at you with wide eyes. “Don’t you dare.”

“No promises!” you said with a mischievous grin, earning a groan from him that was half exasperation, half affection.

"You're such a menace."

"Well, that's how you know I love you, my love!" You grinned, moving forward to steal his tonkatsu.

"Babe!" He groans, as he watches you eat the tonkatsu happily.

"I love you!"

Sukuna sighs, his eyes softening, watching you happily eat. "I love you too......"

[vunblr]

Terms of Attraction

Pairing: CEO! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Some fluff. Slight Angst. Mutual Pinning. Mention of sexual activities.

Summary: Long hours, sharp tongues, and unbreakable trust have defined Industrial Inputs CEO Bucky Barnes and his secretary’s dynamic, always walking a fine line. But some lines aren’t meant to be left uncrossed.

Word Count: 13.2k.

notes: This is one of the works I'm submitting for the @avengers-assemble-bingo event for Bucky's 108th birthday, running throughout March. The prompt was "CEO AU".

Also, this piece is to participate in Grem's 20 Characters with 20 Questions for 20 Tropes Challenge by @gremlin-girly Using Bucky Barnes' character, "When were you going to tell me about this?" question, and mutual pining trope.

Bucky Barnes never wanted to be here.

He never wanted to be in this office, suit, or life. But fate had a funny way of forcing people into the things they swore they’d never become.

The room was dim since the heavy curtains were drawn shut to block out the midday sun. The only light came from the glow of his monitor, casting long shadows over the polished surface of his desk. He sat hunched over it, resting his forehead against his crossed arms.

A soft sigh broke the silence.

“Again?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t need to. He already knew who it was.

“This is the fourth migraine this week,” she continued, with an edge of exasperation. “I’m making you an appointment with a neurologist. You like it or not.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, mixing a scoff and a tired chuckle. “You’re overstepping.”

“Oh, it is not in your best interest to start talking about overstepping,” she shot back, arching a brow. “Want me to make a list? Ten years under you, since you were a manager, mind you. It will take a couple of pages.”

Bucky grunted in response, looking for the right words, but she was already moving, pushing the coffee table aside and clearing a space on the plush carpet.

“Come on,” she said, glancing at the clock. “You have the meeting with Schwarz in forty minutes. You know, the one I had to postpone twice already?”

Yeah. He knew. He just didn’t care.

He stayed put for a second longer, staring at the dark wood of his desk. His head throbbed, and the pressure behind his eyes seemed to crush everything. He could still hear his father’s voice in the back of his head “Headaches? You think I got to where I am by whining about a fucking headache?” but right now, George Barnes could go to hell.

With a slow, resigned sigh, Bucky pushed himself to his feet. He shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over the back of his chair, rolling his shoulders as he made his way over to the open space she’d cleared. Lowering himself onto the rug, he sprawled out on his back, letting his arms rest loosely at his sides. As the exhaustion dragged him down like quicksand, he closed his heavy-lidded eyes for a moment.

She knelt behind him, pressing her cool fingers into the pressure points at the base of his skull. He tensed on instinct, prepared to anticipate pain, even from something meant to help.

“Jesus,” she muttered, working her thumbs into the knotted muscles of his neck. “You’re tense as concrete again.”

He let out a slow breath through his nose, letting her hands do their work. The pain sharpened for a moment before it started to dull, releasing the pressure just enough to make his migraine a little more bearable.

“Speaking of overstepping,” she continued, “you should really hire a professional masseuse, Bucky. Have them come in three times a week and-”

“I don’t want a stranger rubbing me up and down while I’m ass-up and vulnerable on a pansy cot.”

She snorted. “So dramatic.”

His mouth twitched, but he didn’t bother correcting her. If she was talking, it meant she wasn’t hovering with that worried look in her eyes.

She worked his knots, kneading the tension from his neck and shoulders before her fingers traveled upward. With a gentler touch, she started rubbing slow circles into his temples, easing the pressure that had settled deep in his skull.

“Rebecca called, again.” She said casually, but he could hear the warning under her words. “Says you had her bloc-”

“Not now,” he groaned.

She sighed but didn’t stop. “I know you don’t want to, but just meet with the guy for ten minutes, and you’ll get her off your back.”

“I won’t waste even five minutes listening to her new fucktoy ramble about some ‘revolutionary’ idea for industrial inputs,” Bucky muttered. “I know it’s going to be some half-baked high school powerpoint with stock photos and shit. That’s the kind of man she likes to have around.”

She scoffed, still working her fingers against his scalp. “He is cute, though.”

His eyes snapped open.

He didn’t move or say anything right away, but his gaze was locked on her now, sharp, unreadable, and just a little too intense. He didn’t like that. Didn’t like the way she said it.

“Is he, now?” His voice came out pretty even, but there was something underneath it. Something edged.

She smirked, unbothered. “Not my type, but I can see why she’s… fond of him.”

His jaw ticked, and he exhaled slowly through his nose before letting his eyes fall shut again, but the tension in his body didn’t relent in the way it had before.

Yeah. The headache wasn’t going anywhere.

Just as he was starting to relax again, the door creaked open without so much as a knock, and a head popped inside: the new intern. The kid was his father’s friend’s grandson or something, which meant he had about three functioning brain cells and the audacity to use them in the worst ways.

“Sorry to interrupt your… erm-”

“Get out,” Bucky muttered, not even opening his eyes.

“But I just wanted to know-”

Bucky sat up so fast that the guy flinched. “Get the fuck out and close that door before I send you to count staple hooks in a basement, kid.”

The intern squeaked, stumbling back before the door shut behind him in a not-very-subtle way.

"Moody, aren’t we?” she sighed, shifting her weight as she sat back on her heels. “You’re still a Sarge at heart, it seems. Poor kid almost pissed his pants.”

His jaw worked slightly at the title, but he ignored it.

“The door is there for a reason. Besides…” he muttered, rolling his shoulders, shifting his gaze away.

He didn’t say what else he was thinking, but didn’t have to. She already knew. The way the intern had found them -he sprawled out on the floor, and she knelt behind him, hands on his body- it was enough to set off the office rumor mill.

“Don’t worry. Even if you don’t get out of your dungeon very often,” she mused, stretching her arms over her head, “you do know there’ve been rumors for a couple of years now, don’t you?”

Bucky turned fully toward her, narrowing his gaze. “What?”

“Come on, like the one where I was sucking your cock on that video call with that Japanese exec from the thermoplastics deal? With the guy watching it all because the camera was badly angled?”

His face twisted, and he waved his hands. “You weren’t even there that-”

“Or, my personal favorite” she continued, “that a window cleaner saw us on full display as you rammed my ass against the glass one afternoon?”

Bucky’s expression darkened into something truly menacing. “Bullshit. The cleaning crew comes on fucking weekends-”

She snorted. “People who gossip don’t care much about facts, Bucky. That’s just how things are.”

“Why didn’t you tell me anything?” he asked with irritation.

She smirked, unfazed. “What for? It’s not like it was going to change anything. And you firing people left and right over some rumor no one even knows where it started… Not a good look.”

He pressed his tongue against his cheek, ready to argue with her, but before he could, she glanced at the clock.

“Ten more minutes, and Schwarz will be here.” Her tone was all business now, but then her gaze flicked back to him, sharp and assessing. “How’s your arm?”

Bucky pressed his lips into a thin line.

She sighed. “That bad, huh? Lemme see.”

“You don’t-”

“I do,” she cut him off, already shifting. “It’s probably one of the things that’s got you so moody lately. And the reason I’ll probably have to send the Germans a very nice basket of goodies after you mistreat their guy.”

Bucky let out a slow breath, but when she just stood there on her knees, arms crossed, waiting, he reluctantly popped open a few buttons of his expensive shirt. As he slid it off his shoulders, the scent of his cologne -warm, woodsy, with an edge of spice- assaulted her senses.

Beneath, he wore a pristine white tank top. And, his bad arm.

Irregular scars marred the skin in a twisted canvas that sprawled up to his shoulder, a reminder of the Syrian shrapnel that had nearly cost him the limb entirely. Inside, a lattice of titanium plates and screws that held together shattered bones and torn muscle.

Bucky exhaled sharply as he rolled his shoulder, feeling the familiar grind of metal and bone, and the fucking pain. Most days, he could push past it. Ignore it. But some days, like today, it devoured him, made everything sharper, his patience thinner, and his temper shorter.

She reached out. He could see the way her gaze softened slightly as she took in the limb, hovering her fingers just above the scars. She was softer, yes, but never pitied him.

He let his head tip back against the edge of the couch, closing his eyes as her hands worked their magic over the worst knots of his upper arm, easing some of the strain. He hated how easy it was for her to do this, to get him. To handle him. It should piss him off. Maybe it did.

But he didn’t tell her to stop.

As she gently rubbed on the offending limb, his mind drifted to the hospital bed, to his suspended arm buried in a mix of cast, pipes, and pulleys.

A bitter taste rose in his throat. The sharp sting of antiseptic, the cold bite of metal restraining his ruined arm, the dull pain buried beneath layers of medication. His mother crumpled at the foot of his hospital bed, clasping her hands in silent prayer. And his father… standing rigid, arms crossed, and a voice edged with finality.

"Well, now that you’ve had your share of independence and adventure, I assume you understand that you are meant to be with us. To serve the family the way we prepared you to."

Not a “You’ll be ok”. Not a “We’re glad you made it home alive”. Just “You’ve learned your lesson.” A muscle in Bucky’s jaw twitched as he stared at the ceiling, willing the memory away.

Her fingers pressed into a tight knot near his bicep, bringing him back to the present. He exhaled through his nose.

“Where’d you go?” she asked, softly.

His lips parted, with the instinctive lie ready on them -Nowhere-. But when he turned his head to look at her, he caught the way she was watching him, with that usual awareness, so he let out a breath and closed his eyes again. “Nowhere important.”

She hummed and started pulling his shirt back into place, her touch lingering a second too long on him as she smoothed the fabric over his shoulders.

“Well, master,” she teased, the title laced with mockery, “it’s almost time to see the Germans.”

Bucky huffed, dragging his hands down his face before starting to button his shirt. She moved to stand, but before she could, his fingers wrapped around her wrist. Firm, warm, just enough pressure to make her breath catch.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

She swallowed, willing her face to stay neutral, to ignore the way warmth curled in her stomach at the roughness in his tone.

“You know there’s no need,” she said, carefully measured, as if saying anything more might give too much away.

His grip loosened, and she pulled back, smoothing the imaginary wrinkles from her skirt. If he noticed the way her pulse jumped beneath his fingers, he didn’t say a word. Once she finished straightening her clothes, she turned on her heel and strode toward the office door.

“I’ll let them in in ten, okay?”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulder once more before nodding. “Yeah.”

----

She had suspected it wouldn’t go smoothly, but even so, when the heavy wooden door finally clicked open, the Germans’ expressions were unreadable, stern and tense.

She cursed inwardly.

Even if the meeting had been rocky, she hoped they’d at least reached an agreement. Otherwise, in ten minutes, her phone would be ringing with George Barnes on the other end, barking at her because Bucky refused to pick up. And, as always, she’d have to endure his tirade until he inevitably demanded she put his son on the line.

With a sigh, she pulled open a drawer, curling her fingers around a blister pack of Tylenol.

Then, smoothing her expression, she knocked gently on his office door.

A low, muffled groan was the only response she got before she stepped inside.

The sight wasn’t unfamiliar. Bucky sprawled on the couch with his shoes off, covering his face with a cushion like it could somehow block out the world. She knew how this went. If the headache was bad enough, it wouldn’t be long before he was hunched over the bathroom sink, pale and nauseous, cursing under his breath. And, as she suspected, he hadn’t brought anything to help.

She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms. “Should I expect a call from Barnes Senior in the next few minutes, or can I focus on other chores?”

Another groan. “I think he won’t call, but who the fuck knows? Nothing’s ever enough for him. Maybe he has a few things to say about the deal, things even a fresh graduate should know.” His voice was thick with irritation, but there was something else underneath. Resignation.

She tsked. “Good thing you don’t listen to him. Much.”

“Hmm.”

She stepped forward, holding up the blister pack between two fingers. “Here. I bring an offering that might change your mood.”

“Whatever it is, leave it on the desk. And don’t give me any calls.”

“Are you really rejecting Tylenol?”

A single half-lidded eye peeked out from behind the cushion, scrutinizing her like she’d just asked him to sign over the company. Then, he muttered, “Fuck, what would I do without you?”

She smirked. “Probably chomp the heads off the few people who still have the balls to speak to you.” She leaned against his desk, watching him sprawl across the couch, with the cushion still covering his face. “Speaking of your stellar social skills,” she said, The signing for the Research & Development Collaboration deal with Prescott got moved from Tuesday to Friday. You still haven’t told me which day you want your plane ticket booked.”

Silence.

She frowned. “Bucky?”

He exhaled sharply against the cushion before finally shifting it just enough to mutter, “About that.”

That tone set off a flicker of suspicion in her chest.

“I know a couple of the board members are going just to play court jesters,” he continued, voice still thick with exhaustion. “But…I want you there.”

Her brows furrowed. “Sorry, what?”

He let the cushion fall away just enough to glance at her. “I want you there.” A beat. “I need you there.”

Something in her stomach twisted. Not at his words -no, she was used to being indispensable- but at the tone he used.

“I need to see-”

“You handle logistics, and you filter out unnecessary conversations. I'd rather not waste my time listening to a bunch of suits trying to kiss my ass. You keep people in check.” He sighed, tilting his head back onto the couch.

She raised a brow. “So you need me as a buffer?”

He shot her a dry look. "I need you to make sure I don’t tell the wrong person to go fuck themselves."

A flicker of something -something warm- stirred in her chest before she pushed it aside.

“Fine. I’ll book my ticket too.” she said, trying to sound unaffected. “But I want juicy compensation for being away from home in non-working hours. And, I won't babysit you the whole trip".

Bucky huffed a laugh, still sprawled on the couch, with the cushion resting against his temple instead of covering his face. “You’ll do it anyway, even when it’s not part of your job.” He gestured vaguely toward the blister of Tylenol still sitting in her hand. “You’re like a mother hen.”

And fuck, how did he like that? How much did he like her, always two steps ahead of him, anticipating his worst moods and dealing with them before they could ruin his day completely? It should drive him insane, how easily she handled him, read him, but instead, he was perfectly fine with it. He craved it.

She narrowed her eyes, unimpressed. “Well, this time mama is getting a compensation, James,” she shot back, drawing out his name like a warning. “Because I had plans for Friday night.”

He schooled his expression, pushing himself up onto his elbows. “Yeah? With who?”

“I don’t think that’s relevant.”

Just like that, something in his chest twisted, sharp and possessive.

“Must I remind you that you signed an availability clause two years ago?” His voice was measured, but there was an edge beneath it. “You agreed to be available if the firm needed you.”

If I need you. His eyes seemed to say it, even if he didn’t.

She let out an incredulous laugh. “Wow. This is the first time you’ve ever thrown that in my face. But don’t worry, I don’t need the reminder.” She rolled her eyes. “And I’m pretty sure availability doesn’t mean ownership, Bucky. But it’s fine, I’ll see my godson another day.”

Bucky’s grip tightened on the cushion.

Her godson.

He exhaled through his nose, and his voice came out controlled. “Good. Then it’s settled.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “You know, you could’ve just asked nicely instead of throwing corporate fine print at me.”

He pushed himself fully upright, ignoring the dull ache still throbbing behind his eyes. “I know.” A pause. His fingers dragged over his temple. “Sorry, I… this is killing me.”

She hesitated for a beat, caught off guard by the unusual admission.

“I’ll approve the extra compensation,” he muttered, reaching for the Tylenol she still hadn’t handed over.

“Nah,” she waved him off. “As you said, it’s already covered in the clause. That’s why my salary was increased in the first place. I was just messing with you.”

Bucky quirked a brow. “Not many people can get away with that, you know.”

“Oh, but this mother hen knows she can.” She smirked. “Just a little.”

He huffed, watching as she poured a glass of water and handed him the blister pack.

“None of that scotch after taking these, you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he drawled, amused despite himself.

She squeezed his good shoulder before heading for the door, and the warmth of her touch persisted where her fingers had pressed against him.

----

The lobby was a mess of tired travelers and frazzled staff, as the storm outside cast long shadows through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The wind howled, rattling the glass as Bucky ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “A place with this many stars and a price tag that could feed a small country, and they can’t even keep track of reservations?”

She sighed, rubbing at her temple. “It’s just one night, Bucky.”

He shot her a look. “That’s not the point.”

“No, the point is that we’re exhausted, it’s almost midnight, and I’d rather not spend the next hour arguing with the poor guy at the front desk when we both know they’re fully booked because of the storm.” She gestured toward the rain hammering against the glass. “Unless you’d rather sleep in the lobby, in which case, be my guest.”

His jaw ticked, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he grabbed the key card off the counter with a glare, muttering under his breath as he turned toward the elevator.

She sighed again, following. This was going to be a long night.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, watching as she took in the room with wide eyes. The Renaissance-style decor, the heavy carved furniture, the ridiculous four-poster bed with actual curtains… it was over the top, even for a place like this.

“Well, this is… something,” she murmured, slowly turning in place before making a beeline for the bathroom.

He heard her sharp inhale, then -God help him- a pleased little hum that was dangerously close to a moan.

His bad mood tempered just a little.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he stepped further inside, glancing at the coffee table stacked with neatly packaged luxury treats. He had no doubt they came with a price tag steep enough to make even him scoff.

She poked her head out from the bathroom, grinning. “You think they’d notice if I just sat in the tub and refused to leave?”

For the first time since the airport delays, he almost smiled. Almost. Then he sat in an oversized armchair. The long flight, the delays, and the cold air outside had worsened the stiffness in his arm.

She eyed him knowingly, arms crossing. “Speaking of the tub, why don’t you take a shower? Or an immersive bath? Heat those bones a little. You’re tensing the arm a lot, you know.”

He seemed to consider it for a second, rolling his shoulder slightly. But then he shook his head. “After you. You’re cold too. Ladies first.”

She arched a brow. “I appreciate the chivalry, but you need it more-”

“All I hear right now is a hen clucking.” He cut her off, smirking as he kicked off his shoes and sank deeper into the chair.

Her eyes narrowed. “Endearing.”

He shrugged, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Well, since you offered,” she huffed, “I’m going to test the tub. And don’t expect me to be out in less than thirty minutes because I won’t. If you need the bathroom, I don’t know, use a vase or something.” She said as she started to rummage on her suitcase, looking for her nightgown.

Bucky snorted, “So regal, just what this place needs.”

As soon as the bathroom door clicked shut, she let out a long breath, and her shoulders slumped as she finally dropped the facade. Out there, she had to keep up the usual push and pull, the teasing deflections, the confidence that made it seem like sharing a room with him -sharing space with him- was just another minor inconvenience.

But alone in here, she could let herself feel the weight of the situation.

She set her nightgown on the counter, running her hands over the silky fabric before reaching for the faucet. The deep tub groaned as steaming water rushed in, the sound filling the room as she braced herself against the edge of the sink.

This shouldn’t be affecting her so much. It wasn’t the first time they’d traveled together, and it wasn’t even the first time she’d seen him this exhausted, this raw from the day. But something about tonight, about his request for her to be here, about the way his voice softened when he said he needed her there -it’s killing me- stirred something deep and restless inside her.

She swallowed hard and reached for the buttons of her blouse, undoing them slowly. He didn’t mean it the way she wanted him to. He never did.

She reminded herself of that fact as she slipped the blouse from her shoulders, shivering slightly at the rush of cooler air against her skin. Bucky was… Bucky. Intense. Guarded. Possessive, sometimes, in ways he didn’t even realize.

But never hers.

She sighed, pushing down the stupid, persisting ache in her chest as she reached for the zipper of her skirt. This wasn’t new. She’d spent years training herself not to hope for something that wasn’t there. And yet, every now and then, he’d let something slip -a look, a word, a need- and it would take everything in her not to lean into it.

The tub was nearly full now, and the steam curled in soft ribbons toward the mirror. She inhaled deeply, letting the warmth settle over her body, soothing and distracting all at once.

Bucky wasn’t doing any better.

He sat in the oversized armchair, socked feet planted firmly on the carpet,  drumming his fingers idly against his knee. The tension in his shoulder hadn’t eased, not even a little. He rolled it again, flinching at the dull throb radiating from his arm.

Maybe he should’ve taken the damn bath first. Maybe the heat would’ve helped more than sitting here, stewing, staring at the closed bathroom door like some lovesick idiot.

Not that it mattered. She wasn’t into him.

He knew that much.

Women who wanted something more -who wanted him- they left hints, like breadcrumbs leading straight to their intentions. He’d seen it a thousand times in the circles he frequented. The way they gravitated toward him, playing coy with soft laughs and lingering looks. Subtle touches under the table, fingers tracing patterns on his thigh. The way they’d beam at the expensive gifts, their smiles slipping the second he showed more interest in his bed than in whatever designer bag they were parading around.

And then there was her.

She didn’t play coy. She didn’t bat her lashes or leave accidental touches to test the waters. Instead, she petted him. Nursed him. Brought him Tylenol like it was her goddamn job -which, technically, it was-. And he liked it. At first, it had been enough, her dependable presence that kept him from losing his mind when everything else was chaos.

But eventually, it wasn’t.

Eventually, he started watching for the crumbs, the hints, waiting for something, anything, that told him she saw him as more than just her boss or her friend.

And he found nothing.

Because a woman who wanted something more wouldn’t massage the knots from his arm like it was second nature, without hesitating, without blinking. Wouldn’t press her fingers into the scarred muscles like she wasn’t touching the part of him that made most people flinch.

He huffed, rubbing his palm over his face.

She was comfortable with him. Too comfortable.

And fuck, it was funny, in a twisted way, how every other woman he’d been with tried not to look at his arm -careful not to let their revulsion show- but she touched it like it was just another part of him.

Because that’s all he was to her. Just another favor.

Nothing more.

----

After exiting the bathroom in her red silk nightgown -a gift from her friends- she thanked her past self for not just throwing in an old cotton camisole.

“Well, I emptied the tub and started filling it again,” she said, leaning against the doorway. “Maybe you should go check the temperature. It’s one of the last things I don’t know about you.” She tried to keep it light, casual.

Bucky stared at her longer than necessary. He had seen her in professional clothes, casual clothes, even bundled up in thick sweaters during late nights at the office, but never in something like this. It wasn’t even that revealing, but the way the silk fell against her body, catching the dim light, made his thoughts go places they shouldn’t.

He forced his gaze away, scoffing.

“Bucky, don’t tell me you didn’t even unpack pajamas.”

“Don’t use ’em,” he said, watching her expression shift.

She blinked, clearly caught off guard. “You’re joking.”

His smirk deepened. “Nope. I’m more of a… natural type of guy.”

She pressed her lips together, visibly trying to suppress a reaction. Interesting.

“Well, I hope you at least brought sweatpants or-”

“Wasn’t supposed to be sharing a room, remember?” He shrugged, stretching out in his chair. “Didn’t think about it. But don’t worry, I still have underwear. Are boxers still scandalous to you?”

She crossed her arms, tilting her head. “I can manage a slutty pair of boxers, thank you very much”

Bucky huffed a chuckle, turning to his suitcase. He rifled through his things, pulling out the garment in question. “Relax. I was planning on wearing a robe -there are always robes in these places- to protect your maidenhood.” He smirked, but his fingers tightened around the fabric.

She rolled her eyes, ignoring the heat creeping up her neck.

“Take the bed. You’ll probably be dead asleep by the time I get out.” He suggested.

“Nonsense.” She waved her hand in a dismissive tome. “That couch is too damn small for you. You take the bed.”

Bucky frowned, standing up straight. “How the fuck could I send you to the couch? It’s irritating that you could even consider me capable of that.”

Her brow furrowed. “Don’t be stubborn, your body-”

His expression darkened, and his voice cut in sharp. “I’m not crippled, doll. I let you play mama all you want, but at the end of the day, I’m a grown man who can sleep on a damn couch without whining like a bitch.”

The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them. He saw her expression shift. Surprise, hurt, and something more guarded sliding into place. He had sounded exactly like his father just now, and the realization made his stomach churn. He exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. “Just… don’t be stubborn, okay?”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and strode toward the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

And as soon as he was alone, he cursed himself.

----

As she slipped under the covers, feeling the crisp hotel sheets' cool against her skin, her mind replayed the moment over and over.

The sharpness in his tone. The way his eyes darkened, his jaw set tight like he was bracing for a fight that wasn’t even there. She had only meant to be practical; his body did take more strain, whether he liked it or not. And yet, the way he snapped felt like she had crossed some invisible line she hadn’t even known existed.

She stared at the ceiling, exhaling slowly. I’m not crippled, doll. Had she made him feel like that? She had never pitied him, and he knew it. Bucky was the strongest person she knew, even when he was constantly grumpy and in pain.

Maybe that was why she did it. The taking care of him. Because no one else did. No one else noticed the stiffness in his shoulder after long days hunched on his desk or the way he rubbed at his temple when a migraine was creeping in. People either feared him, admired him, or wanted something from him. But who was actually in his corner, making sure he was okay without expecting anything in return?

Maybe that’s the problem.

Maybe, to him, she was just another person putting him in a box he didn’t want to be in. She had assumed he liked it, the way she doted him, the way she noticed him. But what if, in his mind, it only confirmed that she didn’t see him the way he wanted to be seen?

----

The water lapped at his collarbones as he sank deeper into the tub, letting the heat work through the persistent tension in his muscles. His head tipped back against the cool porcelain, and he closed his eyes.

He shouldn’t have snapped at her. She hadn’t meant anything by it; she never did. She was just looking out for him, the way she always did, and he’d thrown it back in her face like an ungrateful asshole.

With a sigh, he dragged a hand over his face, water dripping from his fingertips and wetting his scruffed face. He wasn’t mad at her, had never been mad at her. He was mad at himself. Mad at the way the frustration curled in his gut over things that weren’t her fault. She didn’t deserve that. He’d make it up to her in the morning. He wasn’t sure how yet, but he would.

----

At 3 a.m., she stirred awake, blinking against the soft glow of the city lights seeping through the curtains. Her gaze landed on his silhouette, sitting rigid on the couch, outlined by the streetlights below.

She frowned, pushing the covers aside and padding toward him. “Hey.”

He startled slightly as if he hadn’t heard her coming, too lost in his thoughts. “Hey.”

An awkward silence stretched between them.

“Rough night?” she asked, quirking a brow, trying for nonchalance.

Bucky glanced at her, then quickly averted his gaze. “Yeah.” A beat passed before he exhaled heavily. “Didn’t mean to snap at you.”

Normally, she would’ve brushed it off, waved away his apology like she always did. But this time, she stayed quiet, letting him speak.

“You don’t deserve to be on the receiving end of my tantrums,” he admitted, his voice quieter than before. “Seems like it’s becoming a habit lately, having to apologize for them. But really, doll, I’m sorry.”

Something in her chest softened. It was unfair how easily those simple words soothed the discomfort that had been eating her since their argument. She wanted to reach for him, reassure him. “I know you’re nervou-”

“No.” He cut her off, shaking his head. “I’m nervous and frustrated by this deal, yeah, but that’s not an excuse to be an asshole. At least not with you.” He let out a humorless chuckle, running a hand down his face. “So don’t do that. Don’t… justify me the way my mother did with my father when he beat her up on a weekly basis.”

She sighed, crossing her arms. “Well, you were kind of an asshole, if that’s what you want to hear.”

He huffed out something like a laugh, shaking his head, but she wasn’t done.

“But you also know we have the kind of relationship where I call you out when that happens. How many times have I told you to fuck off?”

His lips twitched. “Never.”

“Okay, not in those exact words, but you know what I mean. Don’t be a smartass now.”

Bucky bit his lip, letting her continue.

“I know you’ve been working on this deal for over a year. I also know your father’s been breathing down your neck about it, just waiting for you to slip up so he can shove his twisted version of ‘tough love’ down your throat. And on top of that, I know this damn weather is making your arm and shoulder miserable. So, I’m letting it pass. You already apologized; why wouldn’t I accept it?”

His face was unreadable now, all traces of amusement gone as he nursed his glass of scotch.

She quirked a brow, aiming for levity. “Or what? You got some kind of kink? Want to be punished for being a bad boy?”

Bucky choked mid-sip, coughing as the liquor went straight up his nose.

“Oh my God, you do!” she gasped, grinning like she’d just uncovered some deep, dark secret.

“No!” Bucky spluttered, still coughing, his face red as a beet. He barely managed to set his glass down without spilling it.

She knew he was probably telling the truth, but she also knew how easily he embarrassed over certain things, and there was no way she was letting this pass.

“You couldn’t sleep because you were craving a spanking? A little pinching, maybe?” she cooed.

His head snapped toward her, eyes wide with horror. “My God, woman, stop it.”

She smirked. “Tell you what: I’ll stop if you take the bed.”

“I told you I-”

“I’m still taking it too.”

That shut him up. He blinked at her, clearly thrown back.

“It’s so big my whole damn living room could fit on it,” she pointed out. “We can share, so you don’t have to hurt your masculine pride, and mother hen here gets to be happy knowing you’re not miserable on that fancy couch.”

Bucky exhaled, scratching the back of his head. “I don’t know…”

She crossed her arms, tilting her head. “Tell me one good reason why this is a bad idea. We’re both exhausted, and there’s enough space on that mattress to fit two more people between us.” She raised a brow. “I promise I won’t steal your virtue.” She winked, and he nearly groaned.

Oh, but he wanted her to take it, not his damn virtue, but something else. And that was the problem.

He couldn’t even use the excuse of propriety, he was already sitting there in just his boxers, and it wasn’t like she hadn’t seen him shirtless before. Hell, she’d been massaging his arm and back for years without batting an eye.

So, really, what was he holding onto?

“Will you shut it if I say yes?” he muttered.

“Just for tonight.” She grinned.

----

She climbed into bed, doing her best to act casual, like this wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. Like she wasn’t hyperaware of the fact that Bucky was standing just a few feet away, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, no robe in sight.

“We have to be there at nine,” she said, adjusting the blankets around her. “So we’ve got, what… maybe four hours of sleep?”

The mattress dipped as he sat down, and she felt the shift beneath her. She told herself not to look. But when he moved to lie down, she turned her head, catching his gaze, and ended up on her side.

He hesitated for a moment before mirroring her, rolling onto his side so they were facing each other in the dim glow of the streetlights filtering through the curtains.

For a moment, they just looked at each other. Even with the shadows softening his features, she could still see it, the stress in his brow, the weight pressing down on him. The doubt.

So she leaped.

Hesitating, she reached across the space between them, palm up. “You’ve got this, Bucky,” she said, in a soft but firm tone. “You’re going to do great.”

His eyes flicked to her hand, and surprise flashed across his face, but it only lasted a second. Without hesitation, he reached out with his scarred hand, wrapping his fingers around hers, and gave a small squeeze. “Thanks.”

----

The deal with Prescott went just as expected, some rough patches here and there, but overall, both sides walked away satisfied.

As requested, she had sorted through the attendees beforehand, making sure Bucky knew exactly who he could afford to ignore and who required his attention. Not that he always followed her lead, but to her surprise, he was in a much better mood than the night before.

Maybe it was the decent night’s sleep. Maybe it was the fact that, despite his nerves, he had handled the negotiations flawlessly. Or maybe it was just that he finally let himself lean on someone for just a little.

Bucky stepped out of the conference room, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the tension from the negotiations. His gaze landed on her instantly, curled up in one of the lounge chairs, with a coffee cup in her hands, looking perfectly calm. She raised a brow when she noticed him watching her.

“We have a cocktail party tonight,” he announced, coming to stand beside her chair.

She took a sip before answering. “We?”

“Me. The board jesters. A bunch of industrial guys.”

“Right. So, you,” she corrected, setting her cup down.

He huffed. “I want you to come.”

She frowned, caught off guard. “Are you sure it’s not just for you and the board members?”

“I’m sure.”

She leaned back, studying him. “Bucky, I don’t exactly have cocktail-party-appropriate clothes lying around.”

He shrugged. “Neither do I.”

That made her snort. “Yeah, somehow, I doubt that.”

“No, really,” he said. “I didn’t pack for this, which means I gotta go get something to impress a bunch of snobs. You might as well come with me.” He caught the hesitation in her body language instantly, his sharp blue eyes narrowing. “That’s your only reason for doubting, right?”

She exhaled, knowing there was no way to wiggle out of it. “Yeah, that’s the only reason. But…” She opened her mouth, then hesitated. How was she supposed to explain that their budgets were galaxies apart? That the tie he’d pick out probably would cost as much as her monthly groceries?

“But what?” he pressed.

Fuck it.

“But, we are almost at month’s end, and I still have to pay the-”

“Wait. No, no,” he cut in, shaking his head. “I’m not expecting you to buy a fucking dress, doll. The company will.”

She frowned. “Bucky, I don’t think that’s appropriate-”

“I, the director, am the one making you attend this shitty event,” he interrupted, crossing his arms over his chest. “Obviously, it’s a company expense that my secretary looks good there, because if she doesn’t, the company image looks bad too.”

She gave him a flat look. “Did you just say I dress poorly in a roundabout way?”

His jaw dropped. “That is not what I said.”

A smirk tugged at her lips. “Mmhmm.”

Bucky groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Can you just let me do something nice without fighting me on it?”

She sighed. “Fine.”

“Great,” he said, already dialing a number. “We leave in an hour.”

----

The last thing she expected when he said they were going shopping was to find herself standing inside a Prada store. She had anticipated something fancy, sure, but Prada? This was a whole different level. She was almost afraid to breathe too hard, worried she’d somehow stain or break something just by existing.

A perfectly dressed clerk approached them, and the moment the woman’s eyes landed on Bucky, her posture shifted: poised, interested, appreciative. She on the other hand, might as well have been invisible.

“What can I do for you?” the clerk asked, with a voice all smooth with professionalism and something more.

Bucky barely glanced at her. “We need a cocktail dress for her and a suit for me.”

Immediately, the woman waved over a co-worker, passing her off while keeping Bucky’s attention firmly on herself.

“Were you looking for something specific?” the second clerk asked her while signaling her to follow.

“Uh, yeah. I was thinking an empire dress with a V neckline.”

“Let me show you what we have.”

----

After trying on two options that didn’t feel quite right, she slipped into the third dress. The fabric hugged her in all the right places, elegant but not over-the-top, and when she pulled the curtain open, she froze.

Bucky was standing there, dressed in a black suit so well-fitted it might as well have been tailored for him on the spot. His ivory dress shirt contrasted against his sharp features, and there was something about the way he wore the suit -confident and powerful- that made her stare.

What she didn’t realize was that he was staring right back, caught off guard as he discreetly bit at his bottom lip.

“Guess that’s the dress,” he said, his voice just a little rough.

“You think so?” She did a slow spin, letting the fabric swirl around her.

“Definitely.” He managed to say.

She grinned. “Guess that’s the suit?”

He didn’t say anything, just gave her a pleased half-smile that sent warmth curling into her chest.

After purchasing the medium heels and the purse that she tried hard not to think about the cost of, they had lunch at an upscale restaurant.

----

By the time they reached the hotel, she was still reeling a little from the whole shopping trip. The Prada bags felt almost radioactive in her hands, she could barely process the fact that she now owned something so expensive, let alone the fact that Bucky had made the entire thing seem as casual as buying a cup of coffee.

As they approached the front desk, the receptionist greeted them with a polite smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. Barnes. We have the second room available now if the lady would like to move in.”

Before Bucky could respond, she beat him to it. “Good. Can I take it now?”

“Of course, ma’am,” the receptionist said, eyes flickering to Bucky for a moment, then back to her. “I’ll send someone up to move your belongings.”

“Oh, there’s no need,” she replied quickly, trying to play it off with a small smile. “It’s just a small suitcase and is already upstairs.”

“Very well, ma’am. Please enjoy your stay,” the woman said, giving her the magnetic card.

As the elevator ascended, Bucky crossed his arms and shot her a dry look. "That was fast."

"Huh?" she blinked, shifting the shopping bags in her grip.

"You practically threw yourself over the door card." He chuckled, but there was something almost edgy beneath it.

"Well," she shrugged, "I was supposed to be there from the start, Bucky. Now you won’t have to miss my… how do you call it? Clucking?" She winked.

Bucky scoffed, but his jaw worked like he was trying to stop himself from saying something. And maybe he was. Because the truth was, he would miss it.

He had no business getting used to her presence, to the way she looked after him. But those few hours they’d shared in the same bed? Dreamless. The first time in a long time his mind had given him peace. And now, standing here, the thought of losing that -even just the simple comfort of her being near- felt… wrong.

He glanced at her and found her watching him with an amused tilt of her head. He swallowed down whatever mess of thoughts he was having and shrugged instead. "I’ll survive."

----

The message came through: "Ready?"

She took a breath, smoothing her hands down the dress that still didn’t feel entirely real. "Yeah, coming out now."

Stepping into the hallway, she turned and promptly forgot how to breathe.

Bucky stood there, waiting, a few doors down. The same suit from earlier, yes, but now fully put together. His hair was neatly combed back, his scruff freshly trimmed, and the addition of a sleek watch and cufflinks only added to the devastating effect. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of a high-end catalog, the kind of man people turned to look at the moment he entered a room.

Her pulse stuttered.

He caught her staring, but he didn’t call her out for it, probably because he was doing the exact same thing.

She looked stunning. That dress had already been perfect in the store, but now, with her makeup done, her hair styled just so, and the soft glow of the hotel lighting catching on her skin? He was fucking dying to close the space between them, to inhale and find out which perfume she’d chosen tonight. Would it be the one he liked the most?

His eyes briefly dipped to her neckline before he could stop himself, and his traitorous cock twitched in interest. Damn it. He forced his gaze back up, schooling his face into something composed just as she started toward him.

"You look good, sweetheart," he managed to say.

She smirked, sliding her hand into the arm he offered. "You cleaned up good yourself, boss."

----

The ride in the limo was... interesting.

The board members who had come along were in high spirits, congratulating themselves and Bucky on the deal, clinking their glasses of expensive whiskey as they rehashed key moments from the negotiation.

And yet, somehow, she was left out of the conversation entirely.

Not just the business talk, that she understood. She wasn’t part of the board. But even the petty, circumstantial chatter, the kind of polite small talk that people filled silence with, never once included her. It was as if she were just there, a piece of decoration beside Bucky, an accessory rather than a person.

Of course, to them, that’s exactly what she was.

Just his secretary. The one everybody knew he was fucking.

Now, he’d simply taken it a step further and brought her to the cocktail party, dressed up in Prada and heels, just like a good mistress should be.

Bucky didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t care.

He was fully engaged in conversation with the others, discussing projections, potential expansions, and other things that weren’t meant for her ears.

She knew this would happen. The moment he asked her to come, she’d known she’d feel out of place. And yet, some naïve part of her had thought -hoped- it wouldn’t be this bad.

She wasn’t sure why, but something about the way the man across from her kept glancing up from his phone, barely acknowledging her except for those quick, assessing looks, made her stomach turn. His fingers moved smoothly over the screen, typing something, then pausing -another glance, another smirk- before resuming.

She forced herself to sit still, to smooth her dress over her lap, to ignore the creeping feeling at the back of her mind that something about this moment would come back to haunt her.

----

As they stepped into the reception, they blended seamlessly into the elegant crowd. The board members exchanged greetings with familiar faces, shaking hands and making small talk. A few acquaintances took notice of her, flickering their gazes between her and Bucky before curiosity got the better of them.

“And who’s this lovely lady?” one of them asked with a polite smile.

Bucky barely hesitated. “My dutiful secretary.”

There was always a beat after that -just a split second of realization- before the inevitable, knowing oh followed.

If he noticed the shift in people’s expressions, he didn’t show it. Either he was oblivious to it or, more likely, he just didn’t care. He was too used to these circles, to their assumptions, to their judgments. But she felt it. Every curious glance, every subtle flick of the eyes that said, so, he finally brought her along.

At some point, he made a passing joke “Ten years dealing with me, just for that, someone should give her an award,” which earned a few chuckles from the men around him. She mustered a polite smile, but inside, she could already feel the exhaustion creeping in.

She needed a drink. Or a few.

Slipping away, she made her way toward the bar and ordered a Gancia cocktail, sitting in one of the fancy stools.

Meanwhile, Bucky was still deep in conversation when a firm hand landed on his shoulder. His brows furrowed immediately -he wasn’t fond of being touched- but as he turned, his irritation sharpened into something heavier.

His father.

George Barnes stood there, exuding effortless charm as always, but he knew better. He braced himself for whatever was coming.

“Good job, son.”

For a moment, it almost sounded… honest, proud. But then, just as predictably as the sun rising, he leaned in ever so slightly, voice lowering so only Bucky could hear the next part. “You managed not to ruin it.”

Bucky's jaw ticked. But he exhaled slowly through his nose, keeping his expression neutral.

George straightened, turning back to the small group with a practiced smile. “Gentlemen, if you don’t oppose, I’d like to steal my son for a moment.” The group murmured their good-natured agreements, stepping aside as the older man clapped a hand on Bucky’s shoulder again, making his muscles coil with irritation.

"What are you doing here?" Bucky asked, words laced with aggression but softened enough to avoid drawing attention.

His father’s smile didn’t falter as he tilted his head slightly. "It's a corporate party. Why wouldn’t I be here?"

Bucky’s brow furrowed, and his tone grew colder. "Because it's three states away, and you have no business here."

George chuckled lightly, as if this conversation was little more than a minor inconvenience. "Oh, but you are wrong, I do have business here. I have shares in Prescot & Co. Surprised?"

"In the bare minimum," Bucky replied with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He took a flute of champagne from a passing waitress, keeping his expression carefully neutral, tightening his grip around the delicate glass as his eyes remained fixed on his father.

George’s lips quirked into something like a smirk, clearly unfazed by the tension. "I know I gave you the industrial input branch to play with, James. And you’ve been doing a decent job. But it’s never bad to be aware of what’s going on there."

Bucky’s gaze flickered momentarily to the crowd around them, trying to gauge how much of this was being overheard. He wasn’t sure if his father’s presence here was meant to make some kind of point or just another round of his usual subtle power moves. Either way, he hated the feeling that his every step was being watched and scrutinized.

"Well, I’m doing just fine without your input," Bucky said, taking a sip of his champagne, trying to sound controlled.

His father’s eyes never left him, and the faintest smirk played on his lips. "Hm, and speaking of knowing what’s going on the firm..." George drawled, glancing toward the bar where she sat. "When were you going to tell me about this?" he asked, with a casual tone but loaded with implication.

Bucky’s body went rigid at the mention of her. His eyes shot toward her, but he quickly masked the tension creeping through his body. "What is it to tell?" he shot back, trying to downplay the situation.

George sighed, like he was explaining something to a child. "Some little birds keep me informed about your affairs on the firm, son. And they’ve been signing songs about you two for years now." His gaze flickered over to her, still perched at the bar, before he looked back at his son with a smug expression.

Bucky’s jaw clenched. He could feel the familiar sting of being patronized, and it fueled his growing irritation. He leaned in slightly, keeping his voice calm but laced with the growing sharpness of his frustration. "It’s all bullshit, Dad. Maybe you’ll need to pick better your little spies." He hated the insinuations, the familiar condescension that George always slipped into conversations like these. The man always had a way of making his son feel small, of making everything seem like some petty game.

George didn’t flinch. His smirk only deepened. “Oh, I know about your escapades, James. Those bimbos you dated, the ones you dared to bring home. That last one, Mandy, or Marney...” he waved a hand. “But always, always, the songs about you and that ‘secretary’ of yours remained.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, but he fought to keep his composure. “Jesus, Dad. It’s my fucking secretary. At this level, it’s like having a work-wife. We never asked or told you anything about Esther in what, forty years working with her?” his voice was tight, defensive.

The old man quirked a brow, looking almost amused. “Exactly.” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “I’ve been fucking Esther on my desk for the last thirty of those forty years, and no one had said a word or suspected anything. Why? Because I have brains, son.” His expression hardened. “It seems I keep overestimating you, thinking you could mask an office affair as it should be.”

Bucky’s stomach twisted.

“You don’t know shit about me,” he said, his voice dangerously low.

His father smiled. “I know more than you think.”

Bucky let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “Then you’d know that if we were a thing, I wouldn’t hide her,” he stated in a low but firm tone. “I’d parade her at every opportunity, make damn sure everyone knew she was mine.” His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, more like a warning. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll surprise you one day.”

George scoffed. “You wouldn’t dare. You’d be the talk-”

Bucky cut him off with a sharp smile. “Your last name would be the talk. And that’s what concerns you, isn’t it, Father?” His voice was smooth, but there was steel beneath it. “But since you know me so well, you already know that I couldn’t care less about the tabloids, your social circle, and, lastly, your opinion on this matter.”

His father’s expression flickered, and something dark flashed in his eyes, but Bucky didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, he drew on that well-practiced smile, the kind that could fool any onlooker into thinking this was just a polite conversation between father and son. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and strode into the crowd, leaving George standing alone in the wake of his words.

----

As she nursed her drink at the bar, she became aware of someone approaching. A tall man with a confident, almost cocky stance settled beside her.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he said, flagging down the bartender without even glancing at her.

She turned slightly, taking in the sharp suit, the perfectly styled blond hair, the smug air about him. John Walker. She recognized him from a few previous company functions, one of George Barnes’s people. He wasn’t part of Bucky’s branch of the company, but he had enough pull to be a nuisance when he wanted to be.

“Well, here I am,” she replied coolly, lifting her glass to her lips.

John smirked. “Must be nice. Traveling in style, all expenses paid…” His gaze flicked briefly to her dress, then the Prada bag she’d set down by her feet. “Guess it pays to be the boss’s favorite.”

Before she could respond, another voice cut in.

“There you are.”

Bucky.

His presence was commanding. He stepped between them, close enough that John had to shift back, barely masking his irritation. Bucky didn’t acknowledge him, his eyes were only on her.

“I need you to reschedule the Montgomery call for next week, now.” he said smoothly, the words rolling off his tongue easily. A perfect excuse, a simple reason to pull her away.

She blinked, catching on quickly. “Of course, boss.”

John chuckled, shaking his head. “Damn, Barnes. You really don’t let her out of your sight, huh?” He took a slow sip of his drink, then added, “You should loosen the leash a little.”

Bucky went still.

It was subtle, the tic on his jaw, the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides but she could feel the shift in the air.

John had no idea how close he was to getting his teeth knocked in.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing a little smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Funny. I was just thinking about tightening yours.” His voice was deceptively light, but there was no mistaking the threat beneath it.

John’s smirk faltered, but before he could respond, Bucky turned to her and offered his elbow. “Walk with me.”

She didn’t hesitate.

He barely spared Walker another glance as he guided her toward one of the balcony doors. The noise of the party dulled as they stepped outside, and the cool night air contrasted with the heat simmering beneath his skin.

"What did he tell you?" His voice was low and measured, but she knew better. He was seething.

She let out a small sigh. "Ah, just some silly banter we usually have," she tried to deflect, stepping closer to the railing.

Bucky stayed near, and his gaze flicked to hers. “Which consists of…?” he pressed, his voice quieter now but no less sharp.

She sighed, realizing there was no way he was going to let it go. “God, Bucky, it’s just stupid.”

“If it’s stupid, you can tell me.” He pushed.

She hesitated, but under the weight of his stare, she relented. “Some stupid thing about being the boss’s favorite.”

Bucky raked a hand through his hair, and the muscle in his jaw ticked again. "That fucking bastard," he muttered. He started to turn back toward the party, and she recognized the intent in his posture. He was going to find Walker and probably, without subtlety, give him a piece of his mind.

She reached out instinctively, wrapping her fingers around his inner elbow. "Don’t you dare cause a scene over some juvenile taunt."

"He disrespected you," Bucky bit out with restrained anger.

She exhaled, trying for humor. "Did he lie? Am I not your favorite employee?"

Bucky’s scowl deepened. “You know what he meant by that.”

She smiled a little. "I do. But I just don’t care, Bucky." Her fingers lightly curled against his arm. "I know who I am and the place I occupy. John Walker’s opinions are not relevant to me."

His eyes flickered with something unreadable. "The place you occupy?"

“Yes. As your secretary, as a friend.” She said it so matter-of-factly, like it was the simplest truth. “You and I both know there’s nothing between us. It’s just so stupid. He’s seen the women you associate with; how could he even presume-”

Bucky’s chest did something stupid. He wasn’t sure what, only that it felt tight and hot and made him irrationally irritated. “What kind of women?”

She let out an incredulous laugh. “Oh, come on, Bucky. The Vogue cover type.”

Bucky stared at her. “The Vogue cover type?” he echoed, like he was tasting the words and finding them bitter.

She let out a small laugh. “You know what I mean. The ones with the perfect hair, the designer wardrobes, the endless legs-” She gestured vaguely, like that explained everything. “The ones people expect a man like you to be with.”

Bucky scoffed. “A man like me?”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re rich, successful, powerful, and on top of that, handsome. It’s not exactly shocking that you’d go for-”

Bucky let out a sharp breath. “For what?” he interrupted, voice edged with something dangerously close to frustration. “A goddamn mannequin?”

She blinked at him, momentarily caught off guard. “Bucky, that’s the only kind of woman I’ve ever seen enter or exit your office in ten years. The only kind you arrange dates with. The only kind you send flowers to,” she pointed out, her tone laced with incredulity. “Did you never notice a pattern in your partners?”

He said nothing. Because she wasn’t wrong.

He couldn't deny it. Couldn’t, because that was the kind of woman that always approached him. The kind of woman that fit neatly into the world he operated in. The kind of woman he was expected to have perched on his arm. The kind of woman who made sense.

And the kind of woman who was so different from her.

Because he couldn’t dare to be with someone who even resembled her. To be what? A cheap replacement for the luscious body and sharp tongue he really wanted in his bed? No. That would’ve been pathetic. Even for him.

And maybe he was delusional, but he could’ve sworn there was something there, an edge in her voice when she spoke about his so-called type, as if she had already decided for the both of them that they could never be a thing.

And God, he was tired.

So tired of this stupid dance that had lasted years of what-ifs, blurred lines, untold truths, and all the office gossip that never seemed to die.

His patience snapped.

“What, do you think it’s so impossible for us to be something more?”

She froze, and her eyes widened with surprise. “Well, I never perceived anything resembling -um- interest from you,” she stammered.

Bucky let out a sharp, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Do you think I would let anyone touch me the way you do if I didn’t feel something?”

She went speechless for a second, parting her lips, scrambling for an answer. “Well, maybe-”

“No,” he cut her off, low and heated. “And you know it. Tell me one person you’ve seen me with who has that level of intimacy with me. One person who can approach me, who can touch me, who can nurse me like a fucking child and I let them.” His chest rose and fell with the force of his words, the frustration thick in every syllable. “You won’t find anyone.”

Because there was no one else. Only her.

Bucky moved in, crowding her against the cool balcony railing, his body was a wall of heat and tension. His hands weren’t on her -yet- but he was close enough that she could feel his breath, the scent of his cologne mixed with champagne, wrapping around her like a slow burn.

His voice was low, almost rough. “The question here is… do you feel anything else besides ‘friendly’ empathy when you touch me?” His blue eyes were searching, desperate for something he wasn’t sure she could give. “Have you ever wanted this to be something more?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

His jaw flexed, and his fingers curled into fists at his sides like he was barely holding himself back. “Am I the only one who thinks that- fuck.” His head dipped for half a second, as if frustrated with himself, before he looked at her again, with a dark, unreadable gaze. “The only one of us that feels like us could be a thing?”

His words were a shock to her system, leaving the air thick, charged between them. His hands found the railing on either side of her body, bracketing her in without touching her.

And she was also tired, so goddamn tired.

Tired of pretending.

Tired of thinking about what was proper.

Tired of believing she could be nothing more to him than his dutiful secretary.

Tired of swimming through dates and relationships that, even with effort, never felt fulfilling.

She looked up at him, the man she had spent endless hours working for, hours that seemed to pass in a blink. The man marked by scars, both physical and psychological. The ruthless wolf who ruled a company he never truly wanted, yet refused to let go of. The man who, in the deepest corner of his mind -even if he never admitted it- wanted to be seen by his father.

The man she had learned to read so many years ago, whose moods, silences, and tells she knew by heart.

The man she couldn’t stop caring for because no one else did. Not even himself.

The man she was in love with.

And she couldn’t deny him.

"You are not the only one who feels all of those things," she heard herself say, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

She averted her gaze quickly, suddenly aware of the distant noise of voices and clinking glasses behind them. But before she could step away, he leaned in, still caging her against the balcony railing.

Bucky turned his head slightly, scanning their surroundings. There was no one. And fuck if he cared if there was.

His intense gaze snapped back to hers. "Do you mean it?" His voice was low, almost rough. Then, after a beat, he exhaled sharply and took a fraction of a step back, and his hands ghosted over her arms as if forcing himself to give her space. "Aren’t you feeling pressured right now? By my position? By our… dynamic?"

She scoffed, shaking her head, "You know me well enough to know I don’t let myself be pressured. I think my first week under you made that clear."

A dry chuckle left his lips. "God. You dared to lecture me about not being a servant just for asking for a coffee."

Her lips parted in disbelief. "Oh, don’t you dare play the victim here," she shot back, jabbing a finger lightly against his chest. "You barked at me to walk eight blocks in those fucking heels just because you wanted that petroleum filth they called gourmet espresso. You had five excellent coffee shops between here and there, but no, you had to have that one, which charged you double for dirty water."

Bucky let out a low, amused hum, catching her hand before she could retreat. His grip was firm but soft, and his thumb glided absentmindedly over her knuckles. His gaze dropped to her lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up.

"I thought of firing you on the spot," he admitted, almost reflectively.

Her brows lifted. "Oh, how gracious of you not to."

His smirk deepened. And then, slowly, deliberately, he lifted his other hand, tracing the curve of her cheekbone with the rough pad of his thumb.

"But then I realized," he murmured, tilting his head, "I got so fucking turned on when you didn’t cower and spoke your mind."

Her breath caught as his fingers slid back, cupping lightly the base of her neck.

"It’s so goddamn rare," he continued, dipping his voice into something huskier, "to find someone in these circles who actually says what they mean. Who doesn’t just… bend."

His grip tightened at the back of her head, and his fingers fisted in her hair, undoing part of her hairstyle as he tugged just enough to tilt her face up toward his. His pupils were blown wide, dark and consuming, the pale blue of his irises nearly swallowed by the heat behind them.

"But I'd be lying," he murmured, as his breath brushed against her lips, "if I said I haven’t thought about bending you in other… more pleasurable ways."

A tingle ran down her spine, her body reacting before her mind could catch up. The heat rushed to her face, completely unaccustomed to this side of him, this raw, unveiled hunger. The daily life they shared, the comfort they had built over years of working side by side, had nothing to do with the way he looked at her now.

Like a predator.

A handsome, fucked-up predator, ready to consume her whole.

And she was going to let him.

Far in the back of her mind, the worries of what this would mean, of the implications of crossing this line, of the scandal and gossip if anyone found them like this, all of it faded into irrelevance. The only thing that mattered was the way his fingers tightened in her hair, the way his body crowded hers against the railing, and the way his gaze locked her in place like she was something he had no intention of letting slip through his fingers.

She tried to feign a little nonchalance. "Is this your pickup line for fancy cocktail parties? Telling a lady you want to bend her?"

His low chuckle rumbled against her, his amusement laced with something far more dangerous. He didn’t pull away when she tried to call him out. No, he attacked.

"Oh, I think this lady enjoyed it very much," he murmured, brushing the shell of her ear with his lips, his voice thick with satisfaction. "The way she squirms under my gaze tells me everything I need to know."

The warmth of his breath made her shiver as his manicured stubble grazed her cheek, rough against the softness of her skin. Strands of his loosened hair tickled under her chin as he slowly turned his face, skimming his lips over hers, just the ghost of a touch, but it set her entire body on fire. Without thinking, she pressed the softest peck to the corner of his mouth.

And that was all it took.

He let go.

To hell with the party. To hell with his father, the endless charade of appearances, and whoever might walk through those balcony doors.

His other hand fisted the fabric at her lower back, yanking her against him as his lips crashed onto hers. It wasn’t gentle. It was a claim, deep, possessive, and unrelenting. His expensive suit wrinkled under her desperate grasp as her fingers clawed at his lapels.

Her purse tumbled from her shoulder, hitting the ground with a dull thud, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Not when Bucky was pressing her against the railing, caging her in, one large hand tightening its grip on her hair to hold her exactly where he wanted.

He kissed her like he was trying to ruin her for anyone else. Like he was sealing something between them, something untold but inevitable. His tongue parted her lips and swallowed the soft gasp that escaped her own.

Her knees weakened, but he was there, securing his grip as if daring gravity to try and take her from him. A deep, satisfied groan vibrated against her mouth as she arched into him, digging her nails into his shoulders.

Without even thinking, he pressed a thick thigh between hers, forcing a sharp gasp from her lips.

Bucky felt it, her body’s reaction, the way her breath hitched, the way her fingers tightened their hold on him. His grip on her waist grew firmer, his fingers pressing into the fabric of her dress as if he wanted to imprint himself on her, to make sure she felt him everywhere.

"That’s it, doll," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction, his lips barely leaving hers as he spoke. "I can feel how much you want this."

His thigh flexed, pressing up against her just right, and she bit down a whimper, tilting back her head against the railing. Bucky took advantage, latching his mouth onto her exposed throat, scraping over the delicate skin with his teeth before soothing it with his tongue.

Her hands fisted his suit, wrinkling the pristine fabric even further, but he couldn’t care less. Not when she was trembling against him, not when she was letting him take control, letting him push, pull, and claim in ways neither of them had dared to acknowledge before tonight.

His breath was uneven when he pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his pupils blown wide, hunger and something far more dangerous swirling in that stormy blue. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he growled, his grip constricting on her waist as if he might just drag her away.

For a moment, she teetered on the edge of saying yes, of letting him whisk her away and finish what they started. But then reality seeped in: the clinking of glasses, the sound of conversation just beyond the balcony doors, the weight of eyes that could turn at any moment.

She swallowed hard, forcing her hands to press against his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath the expensive fabric of his shirt. “We… we can’t.”

“Like hell we don’t,” he countered, as he dragged his thigh between hers again. The friction made her bite her lip, shifting her hips instinctively toward him, betraying her resolve.

“Don’t be a brat,” she murmured. “You’re here to make connections, to pretend you give a damn about these people. Not to mention your father’s just waiting for you to slip.”

“I don’t give a fuck-”

“Bucky.” She exhaled, calming herself. “This is good for you. A couple of hours, and then we can go.”

His exhalation was sharp, and his grip faltered for just a second before his forehead came to rest against hers. He felt dejected. She let her fingers trail down his lapels, smoothing out the wrinkles she had put there.

“Honey,” she murmured, softer now, “I want this as much as you do.”

His lips parted, ready to argue, but she pressed a finger to them, shaking her head. “No. You told me you wanted me on this trip as a buffer, to help figure out who you can be a dick to and who you can’t.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Maybe I just wanted you close.”

Her heart stuttered, but she didn’t let herself dwell on it. Instead, she dragged her hands down his arms, squeezing his wrists before stepping back just enough to force some distance. “Shush. I’m doing what I’m supposed to.” She smirked, playful now, tilting her head. “Don’t be stubborn. Be a good boy and talk to those people. We have plenty of time for ourselves once this ends.”

His nostrils flared, and for a second, she thought he might argue. But then, with one last lingering touch along her waist, he huffed a quiet curse and pulled away.

She was right. He knew she was right. But seeing her all disheveled against the railing, lips swollen from his kisses, breath coming in uneven little gasps, none of it helped his restraint.

Which was exactly why, instead of stepping back into the party like a man with self-control, he grabbed her wrist and tugged her toward a darker corner of the balcony.

“Bucky! What-”

She barely had time to protest before her back met the cool stone wall, and his body caged hers in, shielding her from view.

“I’m being a good boy,” he murmured, his voice low and edged with amusement. “You failed to perceive how you -and probably I- look right now.” His fingers brushed the curve of her cheek, tilting her chin up, and his eyes swept over her face and down her neck, to where her dress was slightly askew from his hands. “We can’t walk back in there looking like two horny teenagers who made out while the adults were talking,” he said, ghosting his lips over her temple, in a teasing but firm tone.

She swallowed, barely suppressing a shiver as his hands roamed her body, smoothing over the wrinkles in her dress and fixing his own tie with a frustrated sigh.

“And whose fault is that?” she muttered, smoothing out the lapels of his suit jacket before reaching lower to straighten the part of his shirt that had somehow come untucked during their little ordeal.

Bucky chuckled, watching her fuss over him with narrowed eyes. “Don’t you dare throw this on me when we both know you were pretty damn excited a minute ago,” he teased.

Her hands stilled, lips parting in protest, only to be cut off by a sharp gasp as one of his hands abandoned its pretense of decorum and slid down to cup her ass, squeezing with deliberate firmness.

She yelped, smacking his chest, but his smirk only widened.

“Now stop being so bossy and help us look mildly demure,” he murmured, all mock innocence, though the way his hand rubbed slowly at her rear said otherwise.

She huffed, rolling her eyes as she batted his hand away, not that it did much, considering he was still crowding her against the wall like he had every intention of misbehaving again, and his scent clung to her like a second skin.

“Demure? After what you just pulled?” she scoffed, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles on her dress. “The nerve you have,” she muttered, running her fingers through her hair, trying futilely to regain some composure.

Bucky chuckled, slow and smug, brushing a thumb across his lower lip as he watched her. “And yet, you let me and enjoyed it. And… you’re still here,” he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

She exhaled, somewhere between exasperation and amusement. “For now.”

His eyes darkened, and his amusement flickered into something deeper as he leaned in, fanning his warm breath against her temple. “For good.”

Taglist: @civilbucky

Dividers by:@/cafekitsune

[misstycloud]

Yandere visual novel games recommendations

These are all free to download from itch.io on computer. I’m not sure if any of these could work on any other device but most probably not. Most of these games aren’t finished either and it’s the demo you play(they’re indie games created during, what I presume, is the persons free time, so it takes a while to develop) Still, you have content to play and it doesn’t end after just 5 minutes, I promise.

I will continue to update this post with new games I enjoy!

14 Days With You- by cutiesai

Here’s a link to the official tumblr blog

OFFICIAL DESCRIPTION: 🔞(if u like gettin very freaky THIS is for u)

"14 Days With You" is an upcoming romantic horror visual novel centred around Ren, a mysterious individual who seems more than obsessed with you — and is willing to do anything he can to have you.

Prescription:LOVE - by Livingslime

Here’s a link to the official tumblr blog

OFFICIAL DESCRIPTION:

"You wake up in a hospital with no memory of how you got there. A kind and attentive doctor assures you that you will be under his care, patiently nursing you back to health. No one seems to know what caused your condition. "

The Kid at the Back - by Fantasia | TealCat

OFFICIAL DESCRIPTION: 🔞(behind a small paywall abt 5$)

"There's this guy, pretty tall guy, often times people don't even realize he's there but he is. Usually sits at the back, wears nothing but black. His eyes however, were bright, red as the autumn leaves, and they for sure aren't leaving your eyes once you lock with his."

Heart Cage - by rice love coffee

OFFICIAL DESCRIPTION:🔞

You are a detective who has just moved to a new town. You are involved in a serial killer case, and three mysterious residents (Or more?!) are approaching you!

Don't trust anyone! But... can you?

Please Don’t Hate Christmas- (also) by rice love coffee

OFFICIAL DESCRIPTION:

Yandere x Otome x Christmas x Urban Legend!!

You last celebrated Christmas a few years ago. This year, you returned to your hometown---Snowflake Island, with your childhood friend, Albert. Albert treats you so well that you choose to stay forever. However, you forgot something in the past, and it's still not solved...

(A/N: it was a long time since I played this ⬆️ but it shouldn’t have changed much- when I played it was really good. )

Pulsatio Cordis

OFFICIAL DESCRIPTION;

The popular guy meets a random nobody and inexplicably develops a crush on them. Sound familiar? It’s only the premise of 90% of the teen fiction genre. But dream no more. Your love letter, once a wishful Hail Mary, has been accepted by the one and only Liev Latané!

Liev seems unattainable 一 how can any sane eighteen-year old juggle being head student with being leader of the debate team and the school athletics team, on top of being a UN Youth Ambassador? But somehow, out of 150 students, he chose to go on a date with you!

Binary Star Hero- by Concrete Parasite

OFFICIAL DESCRIPTION:

Binary Star is the country's top Super Hero. His light shines bright against any darkness... but the brighter the light illuminates, the darker the cast shadow becomes.

Discover who Binary Star is behind the mask.

Sunlit Grove - by Bingzi

OFFICIAL DESCRIPTION:

Burned out and overwhelmed, your doctor insists you take a break. What better escape than a retreat far from technology?

Help prepare for the local festivities with the overly affectionate Maverick, and do your best to avoid his unsettling brother.

Explore the secluded, self-sustaining town of Sunlit Grove, where the people are kind and a little bit too welcoming...

(A/n - this one felt a bit shorter than the the others but I still liked the vibe of the setting and the cute country boy love interest.)

[iloveaustinelvisandmannymore]

Wrecking ball.

Pairing: Geum Seong-je x reader

Summary: You're pregnant, just like Seong-je wanted.

Warning: FWB to Lovers, Violence Overprotectiveness, Possessiveness, Weird pregnancy cravings, Soft Seong-je? Mention of murder, Fat shaming? Arguments, Fluff? Yandere Geum Seong-je, Toxic relationship.

Part one

"FUCKING DAMN IT!" you screamed as the snack you so lovingly prepared for yourself and the baby in your womb fell from the counter to the floor with a booming crash of broken glass and scattered food.

Gripping your eight-month baby bump and the counter, you squaded the best that you could do and started picking up pieces of glass.

This had been happening more often than you would like. Since you got pregnant again, you somehow became clumsier, and no item was safe in your hands. Seong-je, Your boyfriend—yes, your boyfriend—was the one who picked up after your messes.

You just knew he would be pissed for not calling him for help, but he was outside smoking, probably leaning against the rail of your apartment, looking down at the people minding their business. Seong-je had surprisingly tried to refrain from smoking directly around you when you both learned of your pregnancy and you didn't want to ruin his smoke break.

After much more struggling, you picked up all the shards of glass, wrapped them in rags, and duct-taped them before throwing them away along with the food.

You were in the middle of washing your hands when the front door opened and footsteps came to the kitchen, stopping behind you and Seong-je's arms wrapped around your stomach. "How's my girls doing? " he muttered, tracing kisses down your shoulder.

"We're good!" You yelped as he bit your shoulder, snickering meanly. You rolled your eyes with a smile; he was still an asshole, that's for sure.

Once you got done washing your hands and dried them, you spoke up, "We need to go back to the convenience store. I ran out of my favourite snack"

Seong-je hummed before letting you go, "Fine, let's go." He took your hand and led you to the door.

The store was as peaceful as possible being a teen hot spot. Teenage boys laughed and talked loudly; they didn't care who heard them.

Their stares were obvious; it was like you were some blue, tall alien with a tail instead of a pregnant woman shopping for snacks, but the death glare Seong-je gave them coupled with his renowned reputation, they quickly went back to their own business but much quieter.

You walked out of the store, bag in hand. "Fuck. I forgot to get some cigs, I'll be back, Angel face." His arm slipped off your shoulders as he walked back into the store.

Not even a second, a boy came up to you, a smirk on his chapped lips, "Wow, you're so damn fat. Are you having little cows?" He laughed at his joke, his words slurred and his breath reeks of beer.

"Leave me alone." You said, taking a step back, and the boy followed, his hand stretching out towards you. Just when his hand touched your arm he was yanked back by his shoulder and flung back from the bone-crushing punch to his nose. You gasped, frozen in fear as Seong-je picked the drunk by his shirt, drew his arm back, and, with as much force, punched him; blood gushed out of the poor teen's nose like a red river.

Your breath quickened and your bag dropped to the floor, your hands covering your ears, trying desperately to block the sickening sound of Seong-je fist against bone.

Flashes of Hak-Kun, the man who made the mistake of wanting to be more than your friend—to be your boyfriend when you were already marked by Seong-je. Flashes of his body on the cold concrete of night, his features unrecognisable, his plasma a pool under his skull. The Union members laughed cruelly as they watched Seong-je beat the boy until he was no longer breathing.

You could hear his body being dragging carelessly against the concrete.

Your body trembled and the ability to breathe became harder and harder.

A suddenly strong kick from the inside of your stomach snapped you out of the anxiety attack, and your eyes shot opened.

Your boyfriend was still striking the man over and over again, each time he hit harder. People were gathering at the scene and phones were being pulled out. Fuck this wasn't good.

"SEONG-JE!!!" you yelled desperately as you watched helplessly. His fist paused just before he made contact, and he turned his head in your direction. His hardened eyes softened once he recognised the panic and fear in yours. He released the other boy's shirt and let his body drop to the floor with a thud.

You hurried to him, took hold of his arm and rushed him away, the bag of food long forgotten in the commotion. On the walk home, neither of you spoke a word to the other. You didn't care; you were fuming and you refused to argue in public.

"What the fuck were you thinking?!?!" You stormed angrily past him into the apartment and spun on your heels.

"I was thinking I wouldn't let some punk touch my girl. My pregnant girl." He looked at you over his glasses and stuffed his bloodied hands in his jean pockets, the indifference in his tone only made you more pissed.

"You can't just start fights! What if the police came and took you to jail?!" You paced, your heart beating fast at the thought of Seong-je being taken away from you and your baby girl.

He scoffed like your concerns were pointless.

"You could have killed him, Seong-je." You stopped pacing and turned to face him, hoping he'd see reason.

His eyes snap to you, "I should have. I fucking should've scooped his eyeballs out, shoved down his throat and let him choke on em"

Why? Why was he so incapable of seeing your perspective? You love him; you love him so that the mere thought of living without him was like the world ending to you and now you have a daughter on the way. It's like he didn't care about you or your baby.

"Get out."

"What?"

"I said get out! You just don't care! Do you?! Why can't you see things my way! You think only about yourself, not how it would affect me or our baby! You're such a fucking asshole! I thought you changed but you're still the same jerk!!" You wept "I can't even look at you!"

He stood unmoving, simply peering at you; what he thought or was feeling was unreadable, and then he sauntered out the door, leaving you to wallow in your emotions.

He hadn't come back until an hour later; by that time, you cried yourself to sleep on the couch. Waiting for him.

Seong-je sighed quietly, placing the plastic bag beside him as he squatted in front of you, his thumb brushing away the streaks of dried tears, "Angel face..wake up." He whispered softly,"Let me see those pretty eyes."

Your eyes fluttered open, a sleepy whine stuck in your throat.

"I got you something." He grabbed the plastic bag and opened it for you to see the contents inside. Potato chips, a jar of Nutella, Noodles and ice cream are a few of many of your cravings.

He wasn't always the best at apologising but he tried.

You smiled.

[piko-rose]

Man. 🥲

Imagine being the fastest thing alive, and being alone in a cave for so long, but you finally found a family.

Imagine being the fastest thing alive, and you and your said family found themselves glued to the floor, and you couldn't move your feet, your legs. You just couldn't move at all. Except your hand. Barely.

Imagine being the fastest thing alive, and you see chunks of concrete being pulled from above, preparing to smash against the floor, where your family is, and you can't move.

Imagine being the fastest thing alive, and you can't move your legs and all you can do is reach out your hand to your family, who seemed so close yet so far away, and is about to get crushed by concrete.

Sonic, of course, saved his family from the concrete boulder, thankfully, but I often think about the moment before he saved him.

Despite being stuck onto the floor, it didn't stop Sonic from curling into a ball, managed to dash off from the high gravity floor with a burst of speed, and smashed the boulder to bits to save his family. He was not ready to witness another family member get injured, or worse.

He was not ready to lose another family again. He won't. He's not going to let it happen. He lost Longclaw, he's not gonna lose anyone else. And because of his will to make sure it won't happen, he managed to get unstuck and save them.

Everything about the small little moment with Sonic drives me insane watching the movie a second time. And you wanna know why?

Because someone close to him got hurt anyways.

[stargirlygirl]

no, you can't buy my ranch

rancher!sylus x spoiled!city girl!reader

⭑.ᐟ part one: new home

summary: today is the day you move into your dad's ranch house, but there's a problem. who is this silver-haired man touring your property?

contains: swearing, angst, 1.5k words

You never thought it would come to this, but as rolling grassy hills and cattle whir past your tinted car windows, you realise it indeed has.

You’re a city girl. You love the buzz and bustle of the concrete jungle; the fact that there are so many people, no one looks at you. You blend right into this fashion-forward, $8 coffee-drinking, road rage mania. It’s your home.

When your father bought a property in the middle of nowhere a few years ago, you didn’t think much of it. Not until a couple of months ago, when he asked you to pack up and move in there for the next year, so he won’t be taxed on rent collection. You were in utter disbelief and refused straight off the bat. You couldn’t give up your barista-made 57-degree oat milk lattes, let alone your apartment, or your job. And what of your gym membership? Your weekly outings with friends?

But here you are, growing frustrated at your GPS as you try to navigate the few roads of this tiny town.

You’ll be working remotely for as long as you stay here, and daddy-poo bought you an espresso machine in preparation for your move. In your mind, this next year couldn’t go any faster. You can’t wait to be out of here. Sure, the countryside looks nice. But it’s not going to be very nice when you find snakes in your backyard and can’t pop down to the supermarket after work because it closes at 5pm.

And don’t get me started on the small town gossip. Within days, everyone here will be fluent enough in your life story to write a biography about you. What high school you went to, every crush you’ve ever had, how many times you’ve peed in the pool, all of it! They’re going to know, and there’s nothing you can do to stop them from talking about it. You said so to your father when he saw you off.

“This is a bad idea,” you pouted. And he just sighed and waved as you pulled out of the parking lot and hit ‘start route’ to your new hellhole home.

For the third time in the last hour, your GPS has missed a turn and is now redirecting you back to the main road. The busy ice cream parlour workers must be tired of seeing your rust bucket of a car; they’re probably gossiping about this fucking loser who keeps circling. Determined not to go past your turn again, you drive extra slow, take the right lane, and round the corner when clear.

Driving to the end of empty grasslands, you find a small ranch house. Blue-tiled roof, white exterior, chimney, and is that a rocking chair on the porch? The sun is setting, tangerine hues casting the quaint house in a cosy glow. It’s enchanting, even more so as you pull off the dirt road and park on a nearby worn patch where you assume the prior tenants parked.

But there’s just one problem.

On the opposite side of the dirt trail is a black pickup truck. Stepping out of your beat-up tin car, the hinges groaning as you gently shut the door. Staring at the intruding vehicle, you notice the red interior of the truck and various tools stacked up on the tray. Huffing, you head to the passenger’s side and turn your handbag inside-out looking for the house keys. Upon grasping them, you lock your car and stride up your new ‘home’.

Drawing closer, you hear muffled voices from the side of the house. A deep, resonating chuckle accompanies feet crackling on the tall shrubs. You change course, following the sounds of the approaching strangers instead. It only takes a few seconds before silky silver locks glinting in the fading light come into view, followed by narrow crimson eyes. They settle on you instantly, zeroing in and assessing you like a predator does to its prey.

He’s gorgeous. Ahem. Fine. He looks fine.

Angular features, rippling muscles beneath his button-up, broad shoulders and the sluttiest little waist (that black vest understood the assignment). You’re practically ogling him with how your lips are parted, a bit of spit forming at the corner of your mouth while your eyes rake up and down his every line and curve.

Sylus’s dark boots squish every insect and hint of vegetation in their path until he stops a few feet away from you. His shadow looms over you, making you feel small and weak. His eyes have you glued in place, rendering you speechless and flushed as you wish you could run to your car and book it back to the city. So what if it’s another six-hour drive? Who cares? You certainly don’t if it means escaping the hunk of man in front of you.

Feebly, you murmur, “Who’re you?” The way it comes out, you sound like an abandoned kitten drenched by an unrelenting storm. He smirks; it sends chills rolling up your spine.

“I could say the same about you, kitten,” he confidently drawls.

Your eyes widen as you stutter, “W-what? What did you just call me?”

The man by his side, whom you haven’t even spared a glance at, interjects, “Miss, this is private property. If you don’t identify yourself, then you could be charged with trespassing.”

“Trespassing?!” You echo, a hint of panic in your tone.

Crossing your arms beneath your chest, you scold him, “If anyone’s trespassing, it’s you two.” Your gaze flickers to the silver-haired man, his sharp eyes still fixated on you; they observe every breath you take, the darkness beneath your eyes, and how you shift uncomfortably on your feet like you’ve been driving for hours.

You continue, irritated, “My father owns this property. Who’re you to come here and accuse me of—”

“Oh,” Sylus interrupts, his voice rich like dark velvet.

“So, you’re Miss L/n, then?” He continues with a raised brow and a mocking grin on his perfect face. Oh, how you wanna punch it off! You nod, a little knot in your brow, which he finds amusing.

The silver-haired man introduces himself, “I was hoping to make your acquaintance sooner or later. I am Sylus, and I’d like to purchase your ranch.”

Your jaw slackens as you stare at him, sputtering, “Y-you what?”

“Mr Qin is a successful ranch owner and businessman. You have quite a nice block of land, Miss L/n. I was showing him around the property in preparation for a sale, once your father gives the word, of course,” the other man explains. You notice that he’s in a suit and holding several papers. Must be the real estate agent, you think.

You scoff, “Who… who do you think you are, you prick?” Pointing at Sylus, you scowl, “You have no right to be inspecting my land and you—” Your fury switches to the real estate agent, “are out of your fucking mind! Showing potential clients around here? Are you so desperate for commission? Get the fuck out of here or I’m calling the police.”

Delving into your back jean pocket, you retrieve your phone and open the dial pad.

Sylus’s charming chuckle unnerves you, “There’s no need to do that, sweetie. The tour is finished anyway.” Glancing up from your screen, you step back reflexively as he steps forward.

He holds out a red card between his long fingers, smirking, “My business card for when you’re ready to negotiate price.” You snatch it from him, glaring at him the entire time. And you don’t stop until you can make out his tall figure (bakery in full view btw) amongst the sunset backdrop, climbing into his truck and driving away in a flurry of dust and mystery.

Locking your phone, you slide it into your pocket and flip over Sylus’s business card. Address, email, phone number, all detailed in silver embossed lettering on a smooth background. But not as smooth as his voice. What?

Shaking those thoughts out of your head, you trudge back to your car and flip open the boot. It’s a long night, pulling out the few boxes you could fit, carrying them up the porch steps and eventually dumping them in the warm living room. Luckily, everything’s mostly furnished. It’s just your homely touch that needs to be added.

You unpack the ‘essentials’ box: toiletries, fry pan and toaster, and phone charger. Shortly afterwards, you collapse into bed, a certain silver-tongued fox on your mind. His shrewd gaze haunts your dreams, as do the defined contours of his body, evident in the afternoon light.

Oh, what it would be like to feel such muscles beneath your palm, to have his eyes on you for eternity. Such dreams are forbidden, yet you cannot stop the wandering mind from doing just that in the early hours of the morn.

masterlist

[rainrot4me]

Run Rabbit Run - Chapter 2

“Spill Your Guts”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

────────────────────────────────── crush - ethel cain

── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.

MAY CONTAIN SENSITIVE TOPICS

✦ . Summary: Masky wants answers, Tim wants out, and you’re caught in the middle—gasping for breath, fighting to stay afloat.

✦ . Characters: Masky x Genderneutral Reader, Ticci Toby, Hoody

✦ . Warning: Torture, interrogation tactics, kidnapping, waterboarding, intense water torture, descriptive themes of torture using water, suffocation, violence, mental distress

✦ . Words: 5.2k

✦ . Note: A month later, whoops! Sorry for the long wait, finals are currently kicking my ass!! But soon I'll have all summer to write, so stay prepared! Thank you for waiting patiently and interacting with this story. More to come!

────────────────────────────────────────────

Eight days.

You had been here eight days, almost nine, if you’d counted right.

You wouldn’t have been able to keep track if it wasn’t for the tiny cracked window on the wall opposite your position. It was mostly overgrown with weeds and roots from the yard outside, but sunlight brushed through nonetheless.

The basement stank of mold and old iron—like rusted blood soaked into the concrete decades ago and never properly scrubbed clean. It clung to the back of your throat, making every breath feel like swallowing something metallic. The walls were stained with water damage and something darker, something you didn’t want to think about too hard. The exposed brick had split in places, and heavy wooden beams above you groaned as if the house itself wanted you to know it was watching.

A single, flickering bulb hung overhead, swinging slowly from some unseen breeze. It cast warped shadows on the walls, long and bending, and in those first few days, you always mistook the shapes as something sneaking up on you. Someone always seemed to be standing in the corner of your eye. But when you turned your head, there was never anyone there.

Except for the footsteps.

They came and went above you every few hours or so. Pacing. Stopping. Whispering just loud enough that you could hear tones but not words. Mocking, maybe. Discussing. Debating. The sound of boots on rotting wood. The metallic jingle of keys. Sometimes laughter, ear-piercingly high-pitched and unnerving.

Sometimes the scream of something that wasn’t human.

Your wrists were raw beneath the cuffs (your cuffs, the ones that always stayed clasped to your belt loop), the skin split in places where the cold metal had dug too deep when you tried to shift your weight. They’d bound your hands high to an old water pipe running across the basement wall. The pipe itself groaned like it was tired of bearing your weight. You almost hoped it would give out—just for a moment of change, a break in the stillness.

Your stomach growled for the third time that hour. They didn’t starve you. Not quite. But they didn’t feed you on any kind of schedule, either. A figure from the top of the stairs tossed a protein bar toward your feet the night before, and you’d eaten it like a starving dog, fingers trembling. You hated how weak you felt. You hated that you were shaking.

There were more than just those three staying in this place. You couldn’t count the steps, couldn’t differentiate who was who, but at least they weren’t aiming towards the door at the top of the staircase leading down here.

You were a cop. You’d trained for hostage situations, interrogation tactics, and mental endurance. You knew how to assess a scene, pick apart a suspect, and survive under pressure.

But you hadn’t trained for this.

You hadn’t trained for the way he’d looked at you—the one in the white mask. Masky, they’d called him during the chaos of the station raid. Not Tim, not then, at least.

Tim was buried somewhere under that thing.

And the others… the tall one in a worn yellow hoodie, the twitchy one with the goggles—they hadn’t given names. You pieced together that they had relations to Tim, whether familial or otherwise, you weren’t sure yet. But they watched you like you were something between a curiosity and a zoo animal.

You had no idea what they wanted.

And that was terrifying.

Was this still about the interrogation? About what you’d said to Tim? Had you pushed too far, struck some nerve that shattered what little control he had left? Or was it something else? Something worse?

The truth sat like a weight on your chest: you didn’t know the rules of this game.

And if you didn’t learn them soon, you were going to die down here.

Your jaw ached from clenching it too long. You tried to breathe evenly, to stay grounded. Cop mode. Strategic. Alert. You repeated your training in your head like a mantra: Control the breath. Slow the heart rate. Assess threats. Maintain leverage. But all of that logic meant nothing when the shadows started crawling toward you at night—when the silence in the room whispered things it shouldn’t know.

When you swore, sometimes, that the walls were… breathing.

And still, the worst part of all of it was the silence that came after the footsteps.

When they stopped walking above you.

When the whispers ceased.

When you knew one of them had decided it was time to come downstairs. All the tension broiled in your body, like a hot rock sitting in the pit of your gut. You clung to yourself, your position strained from the handcuffs, tucking your legs as close to your chest as you could get them.

The steps were slow. Deliberate. Wood groaning beneath heavy boots as they descended one by one. No rush. No urgency. Whoever was coming wanted you to hear every creak, every echo, wanted you to feel their approach like a countdown.

The basement door at the top of the stairs opened with a hiss of rusted hinges. A brief shaft of dim hallway light spilled in, casting a silhouette at the landing. Then it closed again, swallowing you both in half-darkness.

You heard him before you saw him—something about the cadence of his breath, steady but sharp, like a wolf pacing unseen in the treeline. Then boots hit concrete. Slow. Measured.

A figure stepped into the flickering halo of the hanging bulb.

Tall. Broad-shouldered beneath a dark hoodie zipped to the throat. A black fabric mask obscured his face, stained and dirty like it had been worn through hell and dragged back again. A distinct frown was painted in red across the fabric. His hands were shoved deep into the front pocket of the hoodie. He didn’t move further once he entered the light. Didn’t speak.

He just stood there.

Something about the way he watched you made your skin crawl, not wild or frantic like the twitchy one from earlier, but cold. Calculating. Still. Like he could see things about you you didn’t even know yet.

The air felt heavier under his gaze, like the basement itself had shrunk, pulling the walls closer until the shadows pressed in around you. You swallowed hard, fighting the urge to shrink deeper against the pipe. Beads of sweat pooled at your brow, doing nothing to help the already disgusting feel of grime covering your skin.

He tilted his head slowly, almost curiously. Still silent. Still unmoving.

“…You going to kill me, or are we just staring at each other all night?” You rasped, trying to keep your voice steady despite the dryness in your throat.

The man didn’t react at first. Then, in a voice so low it barely stirred the air, he spoke:

“…How’d you do it?”

The words slithered out from behind the mask, more statement than question.

You frowned. “Do what?”

Another pause. His head straightened again, but he didn’t answer. Didn’t fidget. He stepped closer—just once, deliberate—and the floor creaked beneath his weight.

“How’d you break him?”

Your breath hitched. “…Tim?”

A faint shift of his head. Affirmation.

You stared back at him, confused. “I—I didn’t—”

“You did.” His voice sharpened like a blade. “Stop lying. Answer the question.”

You shook your head. “I didn’t do anything. I just… talked.”

He stepped closer again. The shadows stretched behind him like they were tethered to his heels. His presence pressed down harder, suffocating.

“…No one just talks him loose,” he murmured, more to himself than you. “Something got in. You let it in.”

The weight of his stare made you want to recoil, but you held your ground. “I’m telling you, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, breathing quietly and even, head tilting again as if he was watching something beneath your skin. As if he could decipher the truth in your words just from facial expressions alone.

Then the door at the top of the stairs burst open with a loud bang. Your body jumped out of your skin, the man in front of you didn’t move an inch.

“Ooooh, you’re finally tal-talking to ‘em, huh?”

The new voice was bright and scratchy. High-pitched and grating against the stuttering in-between syllables. The rapid thud of boots clattered down the steps, and a figure practically bounced into the basement light.

Another mask—just covering his nose and mouth, made from thick metal. Hood pulled tight over messy brown curls. Goggles perched haphazardly atop the head. A hatchet swung lazily in his gloved hand as he approached.

“Come on now. No need to look-look so upset,” he grit, elbowing the other man in the ribs—not that it made him flinch at all. “They’re gonna think you’re some kind of freak or somethin’, Hoody.” If it was meant to be some play at the frown on his mask, he didn’t think it was very comical.

“…Funny.” Hoody replied quietly, his gaze never leaving you.

The new guy snorted. “Ha! Right. And how’s the bi-big bad officer doin’?”

He strode right up to you, crouching low so he was nearly eye level. The grin behind the mask widened. “Did you reveal all of your deepest darkest secrets?”

You tensed, pressing back as far as the cuffs allowed. His nearness radiated against your skin, the jerks of his muscles and limbs making your recess further into yourself. The only human thing about him seemed to be the dull brown of his irises, contrasting hard with the sickly gray of his skin.

“I didn’t—”

“Didn’t? Oh, no no no,” he waggled a gloved finger, voice sing-song. “See, you sho-should be dead. Real dead, y’know? But somethin’ you did made Mas-Masky want to bring you back here.”

“Toby.” A warning from the hooded man.

Toby didn’t seem to care, not even casting him a glance. “So why don’t you just sa-save us all some time, and fess up. I’d really like to get on with that you-being-dead thing—”

“Why am I here?” you demanded, your voice cracking despite your effort to stay firm. “What do you people want from me?”

Toby’s smile grew in the crease of his eyes. “Oh, that’s the million-dollar question, ain’t it? But m-me? I just wanna have fun.” He leaned in closer, head tilting. “Hoody’s the one with the que-questions. Me? I’m just here for the show.”

Hoody’s shadow loomed just behind him, silent, unmoving. Watchful as ever.

“…How’d you do it?” Hoody repeated, softer this time.

The two masks stared at you—one blank and cold, the other wild and grinning. You weren’t sure which one terrified you more. You knew their names now, had the ability to tack them with aliases if you ever came into contact with your station again. If. You had to get out of this place first—

The sound of another door opening. Heavier footsteps. Slower. Measured.

Something shifted. The air thickened. No, solidified—like a weight pressing down on your chest, as if the very atmosphere had grown teeth and was leaning in to bite. Even Toby’s manic bounce faltered, his grin twitching down for a fleeting second as he glanced up toward the stairs.

“…Looks like your boyfriends here,” Toby hummed, his voice oddly subdued. He rocked back on his heels, fingers twitching against the handle of his hatchet. “Fi-Finally got over himself, hmm?”

Hoody finally lifted his gaze. His head tilted slightly, watching the landing above with that same eerie, unreadable stillness. His shoulders rolled back, not out of tension, but acknowledgement of the newcomer.

You heard the tread of boots descending. Each step landed with the kind of weight that didn’t need to announce itself; it simply was. A steady, inescapable rhythm. Like the ticking of a clock counting down toward something inevitable.

The light above flickered, shadows stretching across the basement walls—long, spidery, warped like claws scraping the concrete. The bulb buzzed, dimmed, brightened again in a sickly pulse of yellow-white. You could practically feel the bile turning in your gut.

A figure appeared at the base of the stairs.

That mask, white, cracked at the temple, black markings around the eyes. His mask. He brandished it with an unfamiliar jacket, too. The yellowed leather was torn and creased in spots from age, other bits from struggle.

A breath caught in your throat. For a moment—just a single, fragile moment—you felt a flicker of something foolish and desperate bloom inside your chest. A recognition or familiarity, something you could cling to.

“Tim,” you whispered before you could stop yourself, voice hoarse, raw from disuse.

He stopped dead still at the bottom step. Slowly, his head turned toward you, the mask shifting just enough to let the light catch deep voids of his eyes. There was that drawing feeling again, like they were sucking you in. Black holes, you decided, that’s the difference between Masky and Tim. 

For a fleeting heartbeat, you thought you could see him hesitate. But there was nothing there. Nothing soft, nothing human, nothing left of the man you hoped to see.

“…Don’t call me that.”

The words were quiet. But they fell with the weight of a hammer.

Not the same voice. Not the soft uncertainty you’d heard in the interview room. This voice was steel dragged across asphalt. Rusted iron wrapped in splinters.

Your lips parted, but the sound came out smaller this time. “Masky.”

He stepped down the last stair, boots planting solidly on the concrete. Each movement deliberate, economical. The flickering light swung overhead, casting him in alternating stripes of gold and shadow as he crossed into the room.

Every step he took made the walls feel closer. Like the basement itself was shrinking, folding in around you, the air curling tight against your skin. You felt your pulse thudding beneath your jaw, too loud, too fast, filling your ears with a hollow rushing sound.

“Out,” Masky said. The command wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. 

Toby’s eyebrows lifted. “Aw, come on—”

“Out.”

That single word sharpened, slicing the air like a blade.

Hoody was already moving, slipping toward the stairs without a backward glance. Toby lingered longer, swinging his hatchet lightly by the handle, his grin creeping back in a flicker of defiance.

“…Yeah, yeah, alright,” he muttered, backing away. “Don’t get your pa-pants in a twist.” He paused at the stairs, casting one last look at you over his shoulder. “Have fuuuun.”

The door creaked shut behind them.

Silence fell.

Masky stood a few feet from you, his hands loose at his sides. The mask tilted slightly, the faintest gesture, like a bird considering its prey. You forced yourself to meet that gaze. Forced yourself to speak through the raw scrape in your throat. “You’re angry,” you whispered. “I get it. But whatever you think I did… I didn’t mean—”

“Shut up.”

The words hit like the slam of a cell door.

Your mouth clamped shut.

“I don’t want excuses,” he said. His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. There was no space for escalation here; his quiet was sharper than a shout. “I don’t want your sympathy. I want the truth.”

“I told you the truth—”

“No.”

He stepped closer. And the basement somehow shrunk again. The light above hummed louder.

“You think you told me the truth,” he continued. “You think you’re innocent. But something about what you said to Tim… messed everything up.”

“I was just doing my job—”

“Don’t.”

A single syllable. Sharper this time. Cutting. His head tilted again, the shadows from his mask deepening across his face.

“You don’t get to hide behind your badge down here.”

Your heart hammered harder. You could feel it beating at the base of your throat, a frantic bird battering its wings against a cage.

“What… what do you want me to say?”

He stared at you. The silence stretched so thin you thought it might snap. The water pipes creaked somewhere deep inside the walls, a groaning sound that made your skin crawl.

“I want to know what’s inside your head,” Masky said quietly. “And if you won’t tell me willingly—” He turned, walking away across the basement. Each step echoed off the concrete, hollow and final.

He stopped beside an old utility sink bolted into the far wall. Above it, a rusted metal pipe twisted down from the ceiling, a battered hose clamped beneath the spigot. A dented bucket sat beneath the drain, stains lining its interior like old scars. He opened the spigot. A slow, steady trickle of water began to pour, pattering softly against the bottom of the bucket.

You stared. Your chest tightened. The drip-drip-drip filled the space like the ticking of a clock. Counting down.

“…What are you doing?”

No answer.

Masky unhooked the hose, testing the nozzle in his hand. He turned it off, rolled his shoulders back, and turned toward you again. Slowly. Deliberately. His boots whispered against the floor as he approached, each step heavy with intention.

“You’ve done interrogations before,” Masky said. His voice was low, almost conversational. “You know how this works.”

A cold blade slid beneath your ribs, spreading wide. “Masky… Masky, listen—”

He crouched beside you. Set the bucket down near your feet. The water inside sloshed softly, ripples lapping against the metal rim.

“I’m giving you a chance,” he said quietly. “Tell me before it gets worse.”

“Masky, please—” He pulled a folded cloth from his hoodie pocket.  

“How does it feel to be on the other side of things? Hm?” Masky murmured. He stood again and looped the cloth behind your head, pressing it down across your face.

Panic detonated inside your chest, a flood of cold electricity that made every muscle seize.

“No—no, please, please don’t—”

“Quit pleading. I want answers, not crying.”

The water splashed.

The first pour wasn’t much, barely a cup’s worth. But it was enough. Enough to fill your nose, your mouth, to cling to the fibers of the cloth like a second skin. Enough to make your body forget logic, forget that you could breathe if you just waited.

Your lungs spasmed. Your throat convulsed. You kicked wildly, the cuffs biting deeper into your wrists. A scream clawed its way up your throat but died beneath the soaked fabric.

Then air tore into you, burning and sharp. The cloth peeled back just enough to let it scrape down your throat. You coughed hard, body heaving, tears stinging your eyes.

“Talk now?” Masky’s voice, above you. Calm. Steady.

“I—I don’t know—” you gasped between broken gulps. “I swear—I swear—”

A hum of acknowledgement.

The cloth pressed down again.

“No—NO—”

The water came again.

Harder this time. A rush. A flood. Filling your mouth, your nose, burrowing down your throat, soaking the fibers tight against your skin. The panic doubled. Tripled. Your body fought itself, every instinct screaming breathe, breathe, breathe—

A hand pressed against your chest. Holding you steady. Holding you down.

The water stopped.

You were sobbing now. You didn’t realize it until the cloth lifted again and air slashed back into your lungs.

“Please…” you choked out, voice shredded, broken. “Please, I don’t know—”

He crouched again. Mask level with your blurred, tear-streaked gaze.

“…You do,” he whispered. “Maybe you don’t realize it yet, but you’ve ruined all the progress I made. I need to know what it is before it rips him apart.”

He stood.

“…And you’re going to tell me.”

The cloth pressed down again. Your instincts finally kicked into high gear, all the adrenaline pumping to your head and making you dizzy. Your heart pounded so violently it felt like your ribs were vibrating, straining against skin and bone.

“Please—please don’t—” you gasped, voice raw, broken, chest heaving under the weight of his hand. “Tim—Tim, please—”

That name cut the air like a blade.

His hand froze for a heartbeat. A flicker and his grip loosened—not enough to let you go, but enough to make you feel it, the hesitation.

“…Tim…” you whispered again, desperate, clinging to his pause.

The reaction was immediate. A sharp intake of breath and the cloth ripped away. Before you could even process relief—

“Motherfucker.” His voice snapped like a whip, low and lethal, vibrating with something too big to contain.

Then—

SLAM.

His palm cracked against the back of your head, jerking your neck forward so fast your teeth clacked together.

“DON’T YOU DARE—” The words tumbled out ragged, furious, hoarse with something deeper than anger.

Your face collided with cold metal, the bucket’s rim bit into your collarbone, scraping skin. The water rose up to meet you, or you pushed down to meet it. Either way, it swallowed your mouth, your nose, your eyes all at once, shocking you breathless before you could even scream.

You thrashed. Hard.

Kicking, twisting, slamming your legs against the chair’s legs, pulling against the ropes until they burned into your wrists. But his hand pressed harder. Flattened over your skull, shoved you down, forcing you deeper, until your cheek scraped the bottom of the bucket and cold wrapped around your scalp like a noose.

Above the surface, his voice snarled, cracking apart:

“You piece of shit. Will Tim save you now? Huh?!” It didn’t sound like him anymore. Didn’t sound like anything human. “Never beg for his help.”

The water roared inside your ears. The cold leached into your skin, your bones, your chest. Your lungs seized in a locked spasm. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t—

Your mouth opened under the water, reflexive, desperate. The cold spilled in. You choked on it, gagged, coughed bubbles that danced uselessly up the sides of the bucket. You kicked harder and your knees jerked up, knocking against the hard pavement. Your arms locked behind you, strained from the cuffs and nearly tearing the muscles in your shoulders.

Your whole body strained toward air, toward light, toward anything above the rim of that bucket. But his grip wouldn’t let go. Above the roaring in your ears, you heard his breathing, like he was barely holding onto something himself.

Your chest burned, your throat convulsed, spots bloomed behind your closed eyelids. The world narrowed down to cold and pressure and the hammering of your own heartbeat growing weaker—slower—fainter—

You kicked again. A sluggish, trembling spasm. Then again.

Then… slower.

Your legs twitched once. Twice.

Stopped.

Your hands unclenched, fingers going slack against the cuffs. The fight drained out of you, sinking deeper than the water could reach.

The last air in your lungs trickled out in a weak stream of bubbles, swirling toward the surface you couldn’t reach.

I’m going to die, you thought.

He yanked you up.

The world exploded back into sound and light and air, jagged and violent.

You gasped—a huge, ragged gulp that tore down your throat like broken glass. You coughed hard, doubling forward against the chair, sputtering, choking, water gushing from your nose and mouth in messy streams down your chin, your chest.

Your whole body shook, wracked with shivers, every nerve buzzing between numbness and raw sensation.

“Look at me,” he barked.

Your head jerked back, his hand tangled in your hair, yanking you upright.

“Look at me!”

You blinked through tears and water, vision warping around his mask looming too close, too bright under the flickering light. The smudged black lines on the porcelain warped with your dizziness, his eye holes obscuring his pupils in the shadows.

“Don’t… don’t you ever call me him again,” he snarled, his voice breaking at the edges. His chest heaved. His fingers trembled where they knotted in your hair.

“He’s not here.” His breath hitched. “He’s gone.” A crack ran through the mask’s voice, thin and sharp as splintering glass. “He doesn’t get to come out again. I won’t let him.”

His hand stayed tight. Holding your head up. His forehead dipped lower, almost brushing yours, the mask trembling faintly like it wasn’t fully settled on his skin.

“…He’s not coming to save you. No matter how bad he wants to.” Maybe it was the water rushing from your eardrums, but it didn’t feel like Masky was speaking to you anymore. Moreso reminding Tim exactly what he couldn’t do, taunting him.

His hand stayed curled in your hair, knuckles white around the strands, holding you suspended between him and the now-soaked concrete beneath your knees. The mask tilted slightly, studying you.

You shivered. Your chest heaved with another wet, rattling cough. You couldn’t stop trembling, couldn’t lift your arms, couldn’t even lift your gaze higher than his throat, watching it rise and fall beneath the collar of his jacket.

“…You really don’t know, do you,” he said lowly. Not a question, but a quiet, tired certainty.

The mask tipped closer, inspecting your face like it was some puzzle he couldn’t solve. His breathing slowed, almost cautious.

“…You’re empty.”

He sounded… almost disappointed. Almost bitter.

A pause stretched between you. Heavy. Uncomfortable.

“…He listened to you.” The words were more for himself than you. Muttered under his breath, rough at the edges, strangled by something bigger than frustration.

He exhaled sharply, a sound halfway between a laugh and a growl, and finally let go of your hair.

You slumped forward, too weak to catch yourself, forehead bumping softly against the bucket’s rim.

Above you, his shadow shifted.

“Pathetic,” he muttered, but the insult didn’t quite reach you—it felt aimed elsewhere, lingering bitter in his throat.

A hand dragged down his mask’s jawline, fingertips curling tight into the edges like he was tempted to tear it off, to claw his way out from under it.

“…You don’t even realize what you’ve done,” he said, quieter now.

You barely moved. Barely breathing from the leftover panic still thrumming in your veins. He watched you for another long moment. His fingers tapped twice against the mask’s cheek, a nervous tic, a jagged rhythm.

“Try anything,” he warned, his voice suddenly sharper again, snapping back like a rubber band stretched too far, “and I’ll make sure next time you don’t come back up.”

But even as he said it, something in him sounded… tired. Frustrated. Not just with you, but himself. With the part of him clawing underneath his skin, rattling the cage.

He turned sharply, walking away. His boots thudded against the floor, fast, uneven. A muffled curse under his breath. A fist slamming against the wall.

Leaving you dripping, shivering, folded over the bucket’s rim like a ragdoll.

Alone, except for the faint sound of him pacing in the dark. And the faint, cracking whisper of a name caught somewhere beneath the mask.

── .✦

It was nighttime before you realized it.

The basement walls pressed in closer now, heavy with damp and shadows. That single bulb swung overhead, its weak light sputtering every so often, throwing shapes across the floor that made your stomach twist.

Masky had left soon after, falling quiet and stomping up the stairs and out of sight.

Your throat still burned raw. Your lungs still fought every breath, shallow and rasping. The wet chill in your police uniform clung stubbornly to your skin, leeching warmth from your bones. Your head ached. Your wrists throbbed against the cuffs.

The silence was the worst. It wasn't peaceful. Wasn’t quiet. It had a weight to it. A pulse. Like something lurking just outside the edge of your hearing, breathing with you, waiting for you to forget it was there.

You drifted in and out.

The sound hit like a gunshot.

BANG.

The door upstairs slammed open, rattling the hinges so violently you flinched hard, your whole body jolting back to painful awareness.

Heavy boots stomped across the floorboards above then clattered down the stairs.

“Hey, hey, hey—” A voice, sing-song and scratchy. Your pulse spiked.

The basement door flung open, light flooding down in a blinding wash. Toby stood in the doorway, grinning wide under the goggles and mask, his head tilted at a crooked angle.

“Rise and shine,” he chirped.

You shrank back instinctively, your raw throat scraping out a hoarse, useless sound, but Toby’s grin didn’t falter.

He strode across the floor, crouched beside you, humming under his breath as his gloved hands fumbled at the cuffs. “Lemme just—yeah, that’s it—don’t squirm, makes it harder—”

“W-what—” you rasped, but your voice cracked, barely audible.

Toby clicked his tongue. “Ah-ah, don’t wa-worry your pretty lil’ head, okay? Big night ahead.” The cuffs snapped loose. Your arms fell limply forward, muscles screaming as circulation returned.

Before you could move, Toby grabbed you under the arms and hauled you roughly to your feet.

“Whoa, you’re light!” he laughed, half-dragging, half-carrying you toward the stairs. “You been ski-skipping meals down here? Not cool. Gotta keep your strength up for the fun parts.”

You stumbled, legs barely holding. “Toby—please—where are we going?”

He didn’t answer, just hummed again, cheerfully off-key, rocking his head side to side as he climbed the stairs with you slung under one arm like a bag of laundry.

“Toby—” Now that you knew his name, you were going to use it. Humanizing someone was always the best option for bribery. It didn’t seem to affect the boy at all, though.

He kicked the basement door shut behind you, the echo slamming down like a final nail in a coffin. Your feet dragged over the floorboards, catching on loose nails, splinters biting your soles through soaked socks.

“Boss thou-thought it would be good for Masky,” Toby finally spoke again, conversational like he was discussing the weather. “Letting you tag along, y’know.”

Your chest constricted. “Tag…along…?”

“Yeah.” His grin widened. “Boss has a job for us tonight. Ex-Extermination ’er something.” He paused. Tilted his head again.

“You’re coming too.” The way he said it—coming wasn’t an invitation. It wasn’t a choice.

You stared at him, dread pooling deep and cold in your gut. “Boss?” you whispered.

Toby’s smile sharpened. He leaned closer, his voice dropping low, sing-song fading into something more hoarse.

“…Boss wants to see ho-how well Masky can hold Tim back. Since you messed up all th-the progress.”

He tapped his temple twice with two fingers, a mock salute.

“Boss thinks it’s time to test ya.” He grinned again, his eyes creasing at the ends. “Hope you’re ready, sweetheart.”

The front door creaked open ahead of you both. Cold night air drifted in, sharp and metallic. Beyond the threshold, the dark woods waited. And somewhere unseen, something was watching.

“She’s he-here!.” In the distance, you saw the figures shifting against the treeline, two horrifying silhouettes against the dense underbrush starting at the forest-edge.

Masky and Hoody waited for the both of you.

Toby’s voice was almost a whisper now, but it crawled under your skin like ice. “Let’s not keep him waiting, yeah?”

The door swung shut.

And he dragged you out into the night.

Thank you so much for reading! Comments and reblogs are appreciated!

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[maudie-duan]

Summary: A lingering crush brings two old campers back as Camp Counselor in hopes that maybe, just maybe, they can finally cross a line that they've been dancing along for eight long years, but when Harry turns a cold shoulder, you're left wondering if you'll ever actually get the chance you've been dreaming of. A chance to call him yours. Word Count: 8.9k Warning: Mild Angst, Mild Smut, Fluff, and Falling In Love!

This was it, right? This was the place that set the landscape for most of your daydreams. A place so vivid in your mind that no matter where you were or what you were doing, all you would have to do was close your eyes, and there you were, standing at the edge of the lake, watching the wind send gentle waves swaying across the water.

This was Camp Wildwood.

Your sanctuary

Your escape.

Your body knew this, knew the earthy scent of pine, how it picked up on the breeze skimming over Lake Serenade, the rustle of the leaves echoing their whispers to the soft, warm air on a summer night as the rest of the world went still around you, silence, only the earth singing her praise with the hum of nature.

There was no other place like it. This was what you looked forward to every year: that scent, this view—the wooden cabins nestled between tall trees, the shimmering lake in the distance, and the large campfire pit where you had spent countless summer nights singing songs and roasting marshmallows. This was your home away from home ever since you were ten, a welcome escape from the concrete jungle of New York City.

But this summer was different.

This summer, you weren’t just a camper; you were a counselor.

Your eyes darted across the grounds, desperate in their search for that one familiar face among the sea of arriving staff members, hope swelling in your chest. You didn’t think you would be this anxious or that your heart would be hammering against your ribs. Was it excitement or dread, a delicate mix swirling with a year of emotions you had kept at bay waiting for this one moment.

 Would he keep his promise? What if he’d changed his mind?

Harry.

The boy who had claimed your heart with his dimpled smile and laughing eyes, and like clockwork each summer, Harry was sure to take a tiny piece of you with him when the inevitable goodbye rolled off that sweet British tongue.

Eight years of this. 

You knew it was more than a summer crush, and the very thought of him not showing made your stomach twist into knots, and you stood there, trying to prepare yourself for the possibility that he might not come.

You still remembered the first time you met him.

You were both ten, awkward and shy, of course, two newbies assigned to neighboring cabins. He had this thick accent that made all the American kids giggle, but you found it endearing, the cadence like music to your ears, and the two of you became fast friends. Over the years, your friendship had grown, evolving into something that teetered on the edge of romance but never quite tipped over. There was always an unspoken understanding between you—always a summer crush that remained just that because what was the point, right? When camp ended, you returned to New York, and he flew back across the ocean to England.

Last summer, on the final night of camp, you had made a pact with Harry. You were both seventeen, sitting by the lake, feet dangling in the cool water as the stars reflected on its surface.

“Next year,” he had said, his voice deeper than when you first met, “we should come back as counselors.”

You looked at him then, memorizing the way the moonlight cast shadows on his beautiful face. “Promise?”

Then he extended his pinky finger, a childish gesture that made you giddy. “Promise.”

And you linked your pinky with his, trying to ignore the flutter in the pit of your stomach as your skin touched. “It’s a deal, Styles.”

You knew this summer marked a threshold.

A dividing line between adolescence and adulthood that neither one of you could ignore. At eighteen, you both stood at the cusp of real life, of college decisions and career paths that would inevitably pull you in different directions. You had both changed; you could hear it in the deep timbre of his voice during those rare phone calls and could definitely see it in the subtle maturity that had crept into his features in the photos he posted, the people and things he surrounded himself with.

Coming back to Camp Wildwood no longer felt like a reunion with a place or even a person—It felt like a collision between memory and possibility. It would no longer be the innocent summers of friendship bracelets and ghost stories around the campfire.

Those days were behind you.

What lay ahead was uncharted territories—a summer where stolen glances might stir something more, or maybe those understood feelings might finally lead to something more concrete. Every fiber of your being knew that the weeks that lay ahead would either transform everything between you or bring eight years of summer dreams to a bittersweet end, and you would have to be okay with that.

You would have to move on.

Now, as you dragged your suitcase toward the counselors’ cabins, you couldn’t help but wonder if he had kept his promise.

“Hey! City girl!”

The British draw made you freeze. Slowly, you turned around, and there he was—Harry, walking toward you with that same smile that had been haunting your dreams for years.

Except, he wasn’t exactly the same. He was taller, his shoulders more broad. His once short, curly hair now fell in loose waves around his face. But his eyes—those fucking green eyes that reminded you of the forest surrounding you.

Those eyes were still the same.

And those eyes were moving down your body at a pace that made you want to run and hide.

“Harry,” you breathed, unable to stop the smile spreading across your face. “You came back.”

“I promised, didn’t I?” He reached for you, hesitant for a moment before pulling you into a hug, and you melted into his embrace, breathing in his scent as a heady rush of emotions coursed through your body, and you closed your eyes, letting the hug linger until he moved away.

When he pulled back, his eyes roamed your face as if reacquainting himself with your features. “You look good, city girl.”

“Not so bad yourself, Brit,” you teased, trying to ignore the way your heart raced, hoping he couldn’t see it beating at your throat like a drum.

For a moment, it felt like no time had passed at all.

The both of you were still those two kids with summer crushes, stealing glances across the campfire. But then there was a strange shift in his expression, so subtle you almost missed it. A slight hardening around his eyes. A slight stiffening of his shoulders as he took a small step back, creating distance where there had been none.

“Come on,” he said, grabbing your suitcase, his voice noticeably cooler than it had been seconds ago. “Orientation starts in an hour.”

The sudden shift was disorienting as you walked beside him toward the counselors’ cabins. Your questions were already stacking up as you tried to keep pace with his long strides—he was keeping a careful space between you, his responses to your questions becoming shorter, more clipped. It confused you. The warm Harry who had embraced you was disappearing behind a wall you couldn’t make sense of, and somewhere, while you were lost in the anticipation of it all, you still thought maybe, just maybe.

Little did you know how right—and wrong—you would be.

The first week of camp flew by in a blur of orientations, you getting to know the other counselors, some new, some you still remembered. That week was spent preparing for the arrival of the campers. Luckily, you were assigned to the Maple cabin, responsible for a group of twelve-year-old girls, while Harry was put in charge of the Oak cabin with boys of the same age.

But something had definitely changed.

The easy camaraderie you had always relied on with Harry seemed to have evaporated into thin air. He was distant, almost cold. During staff meetings, he sat with the other male counselors, laughing loudly at jokes you couldn’t hear. Somedays, you only crossed paths during activities; those were the times he would give you a quick nod before turning his attention elsewhere, your eyes following him like the lovesick fool you were.

The days he didn’t look your way at all were the days that the sun seemed to swallow you into a fiery pit of hell.

Only a traitor could sink you into a cruel hole of misery.

And that’s what he was—A traitor.

It was as if the Harry you knew had been replaced by someone else—someone cocky, arrogant, and yet he was so fucking attractive.

Because that was the worst part. Despite his new attitude, you couldn’t deny that Harry had grown even more handsome over the past year. His body had filled out, muscles more defined. Had he been going to the gym? It wasn’t just his body—it was also the tattoos—every day, you swore you caught new glimpses of tattoos you had never seen before peeking out from under his tight t-shirt sleeves. The dark ink marking his tan skin was like a mystery you had yet to uncover, it drove you wild, the sight making your mouth go dry in seconds.

And fuck, if you weren’t the only one who noticed because every female counselor seemed to have their eye on him, especially Gwen from the Willow cabin, who couldn’t for the life of her shut up about him.

“God, have you seen Harry’s arms...those tattoos. It’s crazy he has that many already?” Gwen sighed one night as you both got ready for bed in the cabin you shared. “I swear, I almost fainted during the canoeing demonstration today.”

Her words made you cringe as you forced a noncommittal sound, pretending to be engrossed in the book you were reading, But really, you already wanted to bite her little Barbie head off as she brushed her long blonde hair, shiny and perfect, not a split-end in sight. She was the exact girl you pictured him with; you kept thinking every time your eyes moved to her.

“And that accent,” she gushed, oblivious to your discomfort. “It’s, like, illegal to be that hot and have a British accent. It’s not fair to the rest of us.”

“Mmm—” you mumbled, turning a page you hadn’t actually read, thinking it should probably be illegal for two really hot people to even interact; how are the rest of us supposed to have a chance when she’s walking around like fucking Malibu Barbie all day? 

Who even looks good in khaki shorts, anyway?

Only Gwen, dammit, only Gwen.

“I think he might be into me,” She added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “We were on kitchen duty together yesterday. He kept making these little jokes, and our hands touched when we were washing dishes, and I swear there was a moment.”

You looked at her then, wanting to catch the look on her face as your stomach twisted at the thought, jealousy knotching down your spine with every comment, but you forced a smile. “That’s... great, Gwen.”

“I know—I mean, it’s probably nothing, but a girl can dream, right?” She flopped onto her bed, staring dreamily at the ceiling, and you hated the innocence of her carefree wonderment. You wanted it to be you. He was supposed to be grazing your hand, staring into your eyes, dammit, not sharing those dimples with someone else.

“Do you think I should make a move? or Is that too forward?” She spoke up, cutting through your raging thoughts

You wanted to kill her dreams right then and there, tell her that the Harry you knew wouldn’t be interested in someone so obvious, so shallow. But then again, was that even true anymore? The Harry you knew seemed to have vanished, replaced by this frat-boy version who might very well be into someone like Gwen.

“I don’t know him that well,” you lied, the words leaving a bitter taste on your tongue.

Gwen raised an eyebrow. “Really? I thought you guys were friends. Didn’t you both go to camp here as kids?”

“We did,” you admitted. “But people change.” You forced, each word threatening to smolder out that flame that had been burning bright for him all these years because the truth held an edge you weren’t sure you were ready to face.

Then, it was like Gwen was trying to drive that knife deeper, and she said, “Well, if you have any insider info on what he’s into, feel free to give a girl some hints,” and she fucking winked before turning off her bedside lamp.

Bitch.

Traitor.

Another fake, you thought as you lay in the darkness, listening to Gwen’s breathing even out as she fell asleep. Your mind was racing. This new information opened a festering wound of envy. What had happened to Harry? Why was he acting so different? And why did it hurt so much to see him pulling away from you? and the thought you couldn’t stop repeating was:

What if he feels the same way about Gwen?

The next morning, the questions only seemed to multiply when you saw Harry and Gwen sitting close together at breakfast, their pretty little heads bent too close as they laughed over something on Harry’s phone. It made you sick, the food on your tray no longer appealing, the feeling hollowing out your chest.

But it wasn’t just Gwen. Harry seemed to be charming everyone at camp, from the youngest campers to the oldest staff members.

Even Terry, the camp director, wasn’t immune to his charm. You for sure didn’t miss the way she smiled a little wider when Harry was around, how she always seemed to find reasons to touch his arm or shoulder during conversations. And this new version of Harry didn’t seem to mind the attention whatsoever—the way he made sure to return her smiles with ones of his own, those dimples dipping, the ones you thought were reserved for you now on display for everyone because everyone got something from Harry.

Everyone except you.

That’s when spite grabbed you by the throat, forcing you to call it what it was.

Insecurity.

Harry was making you insecure, and this brought on a whole new round of emotions because never in your life had he made you feel this way about yourself—made you feel like this low hideous being, the fucking green-eyed monster you were slowly becoming in his presence.

And you hated it.

One afternoon, as you were supervising your campers during arts and crafts, you couldn’t help but observe Harry across the field, leading his group in a game of capture the flag. You sat there mesmerized, Harry moving with an air of confidence that was new, shouting encouragements and high-fiving the boys when they scored. His laughter carried across the distance, and for a moment, it was like you were transported back in time, back to a time when that laugh was usually directed at you.

“Miss, are you okay?” One of your campers, a girl named Lily, was looking at you with concern. “You look sad.”

You were quick to plaster a smile on your face. “I’m fine, Lily. Just thinking about what activity we should do next.”

“Can we go swimming? It’s so hot today.”

Relieved you nodded, grateful for the distraction. “Swimming sounds absolutely perfect. We’ll finish up here and head to the lake.”

As your group made their way to the lake, you passed Harry and his campers returning from their game. For a second, your eyes met briefly, and you swore you thought you saw a flicker of the old Harry—Those green eyes softening, a playful smirk playing at his lips when he caught you gawking after he lifted his shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow, and you smiled, giving yourself away, and he liked it, you swore he liked it. But then he had to go and ruin it all by looking away. His eyes cutting from you like you didn’t exist, slicing the moment by saying something to one of his campers that made the boy laugh, and the moment was gone just like that, pulled from under your feet. Stealing what little joy you had that afternoon.

That evening, after the campers were settled in their cabins for the night, all the counselors were set to gather in the staff lounge for a meeting. Still sour from earlier, you took a seat near the back, trying not to notice that Harry was sitting at the front, right next to Gwen, but what’s new?

“Alright, everyone,” Terry began, her voice carrying through the room. “First of all, great job on the first week. The campers are having a blast, and that’s all thanks to your hard work.”

There was a round of applause, and begrudgingly you forced yourself to join in, even as your eyes remained fixed on the back of Harry’s head, trying to bore a hole with your sharp gaze, it only getting worse any time Gwen leaned in to giggle in his ear.

Nothing was that funny, and here you were again.

Spiteful.

“Now, onto business,” Terry continued. “We’re going to be switching up the night patrol duty partners. We’ve decided to make the pairs co-ed, to ensure a balance of perspectives and skills.”

A murmur broke out, then—a new energy sweeping through the room. Night patrol was a responsibility all counselors shared, taking turns to walk the grounds after lights out, making sure all campers were in their cabins and everything was secure. This had never in the history of you being at camp here been co-ed, and when you saw Gwen nudge Harry’s arm with a giddy smile, it had you seeing red.

“I’ve posted the new pairings on the bulletin board outside. Please check your schedule before you leave. The new arrangements start tomorrow night.”

As the meeting wrapped up, everyone filed out to check the bulletin board. You took your time hanging back, waiting for the crowd to thin before approaching. When you finally got a clear view of the list, your heart stopped.

There, next to your name, was Harry’s.

And dammit, now you were going to be spending every third night on patrol with him, just the two of you, alone in the dark.

What would you even say? Would he say anything to you at all, or would that wall be a stone fortress?

Impenetrable by your existence alone. 

You raked your eyes from the list, meeting Harry’s gaze across the crowd. He was looking at you with another one of those unreadable expressions, his jaw tight. It was like the world stopped as the moment stretched between you, charged with something you couldn’t name, and before you could let his cold stare burn you alive, you turned and stormed off, your head a tangled mess of anger, confusion, a sudden traitorous flutter of excitement because god, you had wanted to be alone with him since the day you got here, and now this was your chance.

Sometimes fate gives you exactly what you asked for—and that’s the problem at times, right?

The following day passed in a blur of activities and camper obligations, but your mind was elsewhere, fixated on the upcoming night patrol with Harry, an endless chatter of thoughts circling. By the time evening rolled around, your nerves were stretched thin.

Exhausted. You just wanted to crawl into bed.

But you carried on.

After ensuring your campers were settled for the night, with the junior counselor on duty inside the cabin, you made your way to the main office, where night patrol always began. Harry was already there, leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone. He looked up as you approached, his face carefully neutral, and so was yours.

“Hey,” he mumbled, pocketing his phone.

“Hi,” you replied, your voice cooler than intended, and you forced your eyes away from his face. You’re heart already aching for the past.

With perfect timing, Terry emerged from her office, handing you both flashlights. “Standard route tonight, guys. Perimeter check, then a sweep of the main areas. Radio if you see anything concerning.”

You nodded, avoiding eye contact with both of them. You weren’t sure if you could do this if you could play it cool.

“You two have a good night. I always love seeing old campmates reconnect. That’s why I paired the two of you together,” Terry said, her hand lingering on Harry’s arm a beat longer than necessary before she retreated back to her office.

The silence that set in between you and Harry was deafening as you stepped out into the night. The camp was quiet, too quiet. Most of the lights in the cabins were already out. The only sounds were the chirping of crickets and the distant hooting of an owl.

Without hesitation, you started walking toward the perimeter path, Harry falling into step beside you, his presence making you angry, yet you wanted him near, which made you even angrier, which made the silence loom, and that made you even angrier, and here you were getting sucked into a vicious cycle until the tension shaped itself into a palpable entity—a living thing that seemed to grow and stretch with each passing minute of silence, trying to steal the words crawling up your throat.

Finally, unable to bear it any longer, you spoke. “So, what’s your problem?”

Harry glanced at you, his expression guarded. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb, Harry. You’ve been avoiding me since camp started. Actually, no—you’ve been actively ignoring me. What did I even do?” And you reached for his arm, stopping him in his tracks.

He let out a sigh like he couldn’t be bothered to answer the question, and he ran a hand through his hair, making your insides ache to be the one touching him in this very moment, “You didn’t do anything.” He forced.

“Then why are you acting like I don’t exist? We were friends, Harry. At least, I thought we were.”

“We were,” he said quietly. “We are.”

“Really? Because friends don’t ignore each other for weeks. Friends don’t act like complete strangers after knowing each other for eight years.”

Harry turned away, then shook his head, and you grabbed at his arm, desperate for him to look you in the eyes. In the moonlight, his features were shadowed, but you could still see the conflict in his eyes. “It’s complicated.”

“Well—uncomplicate it for me,” you challenged, crossing your arms.

He looked away, his jaw working as if he was struggling with what to say. “I just... I thought it would be easier this way.”

“Easier for who? Because it’s certainly not easier for me to have you suddenly turn into some kind of stranger.”

“For both of us,” he said, his voice rising slightly. “Look, we’re not kids anymore. We can’t just pick up where we left off every summer and pretend like the rest of the year doesn’t exist.”

His words landed hard on your ears, the truth a weight you knew you both had been carrying, “I never pretended that.” You whispered

“Didn’t you? We text what? A few times, like some obligatory check-in, and then nothing until we’re back here. And then what? We have our summer thing and then go back to our separate lives? It’s not real, is it? How could any of that be real?

You took a step back, the pain in his voice washing over you., “It was real to me, Harry. Every moment we spent together was real to me.”

Something flickered in his eyes—a vulnerability that reminded you of the boy you used to know. But then it was gone, replaced by that new hardness you had come to associate with this new version of Harry.

“Well, maybe it shouldn’t have been,” he said, his voice curt. “Maybe we should have just kept it casual, like everyone else does at summer camp.”

“Is that what you’re doing now? Keeping it casual with Gwen? With Terry? Fuck, I don’t know, with anyone who gives you attention?”

The words came out harsher than you intended, your jealousy spewing, all the hurt you had been trying to suppress rising to the surface.

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it? You come back here all different, with your new look and this new freaking attitude, flirting with everyone except me. What am I supposed to think?”

“You’re supposed to think that maybe I grew up. That maybe I’ve realized that whatever was going on between us wasn’t going anywhere. That maybe I’m trying to move on.”

The confession hit you like a physical blow. You had always known, logically, that your summer connection with Harry had an expiration date. But hearing him say it out loud, confirming that he was actively trying to move past whatever feelings he’d had for you—it hurt more than you could have imagined because these weren’t the words you wanted to hear him say.

“Fine,” you said, your voice barely audible. “If that’s what you want, then fine. Let’s just get through this patrol, and then we can go back to ignoring each other.”

That was it. This was how it would end.

And now you had to move on.

Gutted, somehow, you forced yourself from his gaze and turned to continue walking, your vision blurring as hot tears welled despite your desperate attempts to hold them back. Each step felt heavier than the last, your chest constricting with an ache so visceral you could barely breathe as the heat of the night swarmed your lungs. Your throat burned, a painful lump growing, choking off any words you might have said to salvage what was breaking between you.

But there was nothing because he seemed to have made up his mind.

Behind you, Harry’s heavy sigh cut through the night like a knife, twisting deeper into the wound his words had already carved. He followed, his footsteps hesitant, maintaining a distance that felt both suffocatingly close and devastatingly far—slowly morphing into the physical manifestation of what your relationship had become, but nothing hurt worse than the silence because there’s nothing like the finality that silence brings, a tangible hurt, something that could crush you beneath its weight if you let it.

And you weren’t sure if you could stop it or if you wanted to.

Let him see you cry, you thought.

 Make him see the pain he’s causing you.

The rest of the patrol passed in strained silence, both of you performing your duties mechanically. As you approached the supply cabin—the last stop on your route—you noticed the door was slightly ajar.

“The supply cabin’s open,” you forced out, the first words either of you had spoken in nearly an hour.

Harry nodded, pushing past you, and he forced the door wider, his silent gesture adding a sting to the hurt. “Probably just someone forgetting to lock up after getting equipment for tomorrow.”

You didn’t want to but followed him inside, and the small space seemed to narrow, feeling smaller with both of you in it. The cabin was filled with shelves of sports equipment, arts and crafts supplies, and other camp necessities. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, casting everything in a dim, yellow light when Harry pulled the chain.

“Doesn’t look like anything’s missing,” he said, scanning the shelves, and your eyes roamed over his face wishing that he looked as shitty as you felt, but he still held some kind of power over you, and you felt the ache deep in your bones.

You nodded, suddenly very aware of how close he was in the confined space. The scent of him—the earthy pine from the forest, the woody campfire from earlier, and something recognizably Harry—filled your senses, making it harder to concentrate on the task at hand.

And what was that again?

“We should check the inventory list, just to be sure,” you said, moving toward the clipboard hanging on the wall.

As you reached for it, Harry reached for it, too, his hand brushing against yours, and you both froze, the contact sending a jolt of electricity through your body. Slowly, you turned to face him, finding him much closer than you expected.

His green eyes, dark in the dim light, searched yours as the tension between you shifted, transforming from anger and hurt into something else entirely—something buzzing with a dangerous thrill that had you aching for a different ending.

“Harry,” you whispered, not sure if it was a question or a plea.

He swallowed, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your eyes again. “Yeah?” He forced.

“Tell me why you came back?” you asked, even though you knew exactly what he meant.

He didn’t answer, just took a step closer, eliminating what little space remained between you both, and your back hit the wall, the clipboard forgotten as it clattered to the floor, the sound making your heart race because you had never felt anything like this before.

This pull.

His gaze.

The magnitude of the words not spoken.

“This,” he murmured, his breath warm against your face. “Us.”

Your heart was pounding, your body painfully aware of every point where it almost touched his. “I don’t want it to end like this...” You breathed.

Whatever resolve he seemed to have before crumbled at your words. With a groan that sounded like surrender, Harry closed the final distance between you, his lips crashing against yours with an intensity that took your breath away.

The kiss was nothing like you had imagined during all those summers of wondering. It was better—raw and desperate, edged with the frustration that had been building between you for weeks, for years. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer as yours tangled in his hair, those soft curls you had dreamed of touching for years, now threading through your fingers with a new drive.

When you finally broke apart, both gasping for air, Harry pushed his forehead to yours. “I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” he confessed, his voice rough.

“Why didn’t you?” you asked, your fingers still playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, his eyes drawing you in, holding you in place, when everything in you was screaming this is a bad idea.

“Because I was scared. Because every summer, I’d go home with this ache in my chest, missing you. And it got harder each year, knowing that whatever we had was confined to this place, to these few weeks.” and fuck, if those weren’t the words you had been dying to hear.

And you felt it.

This flood of realization.

This understanding—his distance, his new persona. It was all a defense mechanism, his way of protecting himself from the pain of wanting something he thought he couldn’t have.

“I missed you too,” you admitted. “Every day, not just during summer.”

And for the first time since you had arrived at camp, his fucking walls were coming down, you could see the shift in his gaze, feel raw emotion replacing the careful distance as his searching eyes met yours. “Really?”

“Really,” you confirmed, pulling him back to you for another kiss.

This one was slower.

Deeper.

Set with a new determination.

You wanted your mouth to speak, your mouth moving against his to drive a conversation without words, to express everything you had been holding back. All the things you wish you had ever said. Harry’s hands slid under the hem of your t-shirt, his touch warm and foreign but delicate, and you arched into him, wanting more, needing more, as a curious edge took over.

“Are you sure about this?” Harry asked, his voice strained as he pulled back slightly.

For weeks, your mind had been racing with conflicting thoughts. This was Harry—the boy you had a crush on for years, the one who had been ignoring you for weeks, the one who made your heart race and your blood boil all in one breath. You weren’t sure of anything except that you wanted him, right now, in this dusty supply cabin with the moonlight filtering through the small window.

You needed him.

Because you had never been more scared or excited in your life.

“I’m sure,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. “Are you?”

“I want you so fucking bad,” and then he kissed you again, more pressing this time, his roaming hands becoming bolder as they explored your body. You responded in kind, tugging at his t-shirt until he broke the kiss long enough to yank it over his head.

The sight of him shirtless—all defined muscles and tattoos you had only caught glimpses of before—made your breath catch, and you ran your curious hands over his chest, tracing the outlines of the ink on his skin, learning him by touch.

“Your turn,” he breathed, his fingers playing with the hem of your shirt.

With a quiet nod, you raised your arms, allowing him to pull your shirt off, and you saw the want in his eyes as they took in the sight of you in your bra, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, his tone awestruck. “So fucking sexy,”

His words sent a rush through you, emboldening you to reach behind and unhook your bra, letting it fall to the floor between you. For a second, you stood there, but Harry’s sharp intake of breath was all you needed to snap you out of your nervous haze, and then his hands were moving to your bare skin, cupping your breasts with a gentleness that contradicted the hunger in his eyes.

“God—I want you so bad,” he admitted, his thumbs brushing over your hard nipples, making your spine straighten. “This. For years.”

“Me too, I want it so bad,” you almost begged, pushing the words out with a hunger you had never heard leave your mouth.

With a breathy laugh that sent a shiver down your spine, Harry lifted you, your legs wrapping tight around his waist as he carried you to a cleared space on one of the tables. His mouth collided with your body in haste, moving to your neck, trailing hot kisses down to your collarbone, then lower, taking one of your nipples between his teeth, then sucking it into his mouth.

You let out a moan, your head falling back as pleasure coursed through you, and your shaky hand fumbled with the button of his jeans, desperate to feel more of him. Even more desperate to see all of him. Harry just as needy lent a helping hand, stepping back just long enough to shed his pants and boxers before helping you out of yours.

And then you were both naked, laid bare before him in the dim light of the supply cabin, years of unspoken desire finally confirmed in this moment. Harry stood between your legs, his hands running up and down your thighs as his eyes devoured you. There was an honesty in his touch that filled the silence with the truth your words had failed to communicate, and as you stared into his eyes, a tiny voice in your head whispered that there was no going back from this moment, that everything would change, and you welcomed it even as butterflies swarmed your stomach.

 You felt him in that moment, everything you ever wanted, and your body hummed with it, an electric current of need that overrode the trembling in your limbs. Because no matter how many times you had imagined it, you never truly believed it would happen. His green eyes said it all: you knew this would be worth the wait, that he would be worth the wait.

“Are you on birth control?” he asked his voice horse with an effort to keep hold of his composure.

You nodded as your gaze drifted down his body, “Yes—and I’m clean. You?” You spoke up, trying to stay in the moment, but everything about him threatened to steal you completely.

“Clean,” he almost blurted. “Got tested after my last relationship ended.”

The mention of his past relationships sent a pang of jealousy through you, but it was quickly overshadowed by the realization that this was happening—you and Harry, finally crossing the line you had danced along for years because you knew once you had him, you were never letting go.

Then Harry stepped closer, his eyes never leaving yours, and you held your breath as he positioned himself at your entrance, “Last chance to back out,” he said, concern pinching between his brows.

And for a moment, there was fear, and you exhaled, ready to surrender, to give yourself entirely. Then you wrapped your legs around him, pulling him closer. “I’m not backing out. I want you, Harry. I’ve always wanted you.”

“I’ll go slow...” He promised, and then he was gently pushing into you with a soft groan slipping past his lips, his pace achingly slow as he slid past your opening, and you bit down to bite back your moan. 

Because even though your word spoke otherwise, it didn’t stop the fear that was gripping your body, every muscle tightening the second he began to push.

Harry’s eyes stayed trained on yours, watching your every reaction with an intensity that made you feel exposed, cherished in the way every touch was tender, controlled precision as the feeling of him gradually filling you became overwhelming—It wasn’t just the bodily sensation that made your breath catch or made your fingers dig into his shoulders, but it was the thundering realization that this was Harry, finally becoming part of you after eight years of wanting and waiting.

And held onto him as your bodies connected. You knew this would go beyond the physical. Each tiny movement carried the weight of countless summers, missed opportunities, and veiled confessions. When you felt the slight tremor in his arms as he held himself above you, restraining himself, you realized he was putting your comfort before his own desire—a devotion that made your heart swell even as your body adjusted to the newness of him.

Neither of you spoke.

It was only the sounds of your shared breaths and the whispered rustle of skin against skin, yet in the silence, years of longing were finally answered in this perfect, imperfect, beautifully human moment of this bond—it was yours, it was his, and a new history was soon to evolve.

“Fuck,” Harry breathed, his forehead pressed hard against yours as he stilled, fully inside you now. “You feel amazing.”

But you couldn’t form words.

You could only nod, and you wordlessly pulled him closer, urging him to move, and he complied, starting with slow, deep thrusts that had you gasping his name as air flooded your lungs, your nails digging into his shoulders, leaving marks that would remind him of this moment tomorrow.

It was all happening so fast. This new sensation, Harry filling you in ways you had never been filled before. It was pleasure, and it was pain, and all you could think about was how badly you had wanted this, him, in this moment, him inside you, his body pressed to you in an act you had both played out before, but this was different because you had never wanted something so bad in your life.

The taste of his mouth, his lips on yours, his tongue in your mouth, heavy and desperate, and as the pleasure built, Harry’s pace increased, his hips snapping against yours with a need that matched your own, and then one of your hands slipped between your bodies, ready to move with the rhythm taking way.

“Are you ready to come for me,” he nudged, his tone rough with exertion. “I want to feel you come around me.”

Your hand picked up the pace then, his words spurring you on, lighting a fire deep in your belly, knowing the extra stimulation was about to push you over the edge. You could feel your orgasm ascending up your spine, a slow burn that hit with such force that the intensity had you crying out Harry’s name, and he quickly muffled you with his mouth, kissing you deeply as your body pulsed around him. Your orgasm triggered his own, and he buried himself deep inside you, one last hard thrust as his body shuddered, and he pressed you into the table as if he could merge your bodies into one.

And maybe in that moment, you were.

Because every single thought you had ever had seemed to slip away in the stillness that was mounting between your bodies.

For a long moment, you stayed like that, connected in a frenzied stillness, the both of you trying to catch your breath. Harry’s head was buried in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin as your hands traced lazy patterns on his back, not wanting to break the spell of the moment.

Finally, he lifted his head, his eyes meeting yours. The rawness etched across his features sent a pang of tenderness straight through your chest. “That was...”

“Yeah,” you laughed out with a breath, understanding exactly what he couldn’t put into words. “It was.”

Then he kissed you again, softly, this time as he slowly but carefully withdrew, and he broke the kiss to help you down from the table. You both dressed in silence, but it wasn’t the tense silence from before. There was comfort in the shared intimacy, an openness that wasn’t there before as you watched one another reassemble in the sacred moment that could only ever be yours, a moment that no one could ever take away because it could never be undone.

And for once, the silence that stood between you wasn’t a lack of what was or would have been; now it spoke of something different, something looming just over the horizon with endless possibilities now bursting at the seams.

As you finished buttoning your khaki shorts, Harry reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ve never seen anyone look better in those shorts, by the way. I’ve been eyeing you all summer,” he announced, breaking the silence, and you had to look away because you knew your face was beaming from the compliment.

“What?” He smirked over at you, and you shook your head bashful all of a sudden. “Come here.” He said, hooking his fingers in your belt loops to draw you closer.

When your body collided with him, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, then looked you in the eyes and asked, “What happens now?”

It was the question you had both been avoiding for years—the one that always cast its shadow at the end of every summer. But this time, it would be different. This time, you had both crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed.

“I don’t know,” you whispered. “But I don’t want to go back to ignoring each other.”

Harry nodded, his gentle hand still lingering on your cheek. “Me neither. I’m sorry about that, by the way. I really did think it would be easier. It definitely made it worse.”

“It did,” you agreed. “For both of us.”

Then he released a weary breath and gathered you against his chest. The sensation of his arms around you felt like safety, a rightness you had been missing for so long, a sense of belonging. “Can we just... see where this goes? For now? No pressure, no expectations. Just us, figuring it out day by day.”

Gracious for his honesty, you slowly nodded against his chest and breathed him in. “I’d like that.”

As you left your tiny world in the supply cabin, making sure to lock it behind you, The world grew wider. Harry’s gaze held a new meaning as he took your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. It was a small gesture, but it felt significant, something ordinary taking on a new reality, a giddy sense of hope lengthening your spine as the cool air wisped over your flushed skin, a reminder of what just happened. It wasn’t perfect, and you still felt the fear, but there was promise of something new, something real.

Harry was real.

This was real.

A lingering thrill hung over you both the rest of the night. Patrol seemed to pass in a different kind of silence—a new wonderment emerging with every stolen glance, the secret smiles, or the occasional kiss when you were sure no one was watching. And when you finally returned to your respective cabins as dawn broke, it was with the understanding that something had fundamentally changed between you.

It was like summer had just begun, and for the first time, you allowed yourself to hope that maybe, just maybe, what you and Harry had wouldn’t end when the leaves started to turn.

In the weeks that followed, you lived in the secret fever dream shared between you and Harry. During the day, you maintained a professional distance, focusing on your campers and your responsibilities, but let us not downplay all the stolen glances from across the dining hall, or the brush of his hand against yours during staff meetings, and Jesus, the way his eyes always found yours in a crowd.

They all told a different story.

And the nights—Holy fuck, the nights were spun from stardust and stolen moments, a secret universe belonging only to you two. You knew that as soon as darkness draped its velvet cloak over the camp, you would find each other like magnets drawn across the grounds. Whether officially patrolling together beneath a canopy of twinkling constellations or sneaking away to your special spot by the moonlit lake, you felt it, the magic at the tips of your fingers like you both could bend and stretch time to accommodate your every wish.

Every hour spent in Harry’s arms dissolved into sweet nothings and gentle discoveries as you mapped each other’s hearts and bodies with the enchanted wonder of explorers who had finally, yes, finally, found their promised land. What had lived so long in the realm of dreams now bloomed between your tangled fingers and whispered confessions, now becoming more magical than anything your younger selves could have possibly imagined.

There was so much you didn’t know.

In the quiet hours of the night, nestled against his chest, you had asked about each new tattoo that marked his skin. You watched Harry’s eyes light up as his fingers guided yours over the raised ink, each design carrying its own story of the years you had spent apart, and with every new whispered explanation, you felt the distance of all those separate years contracting as you traced the patterns with your fingertips. Then, your lips would meet his skin with a gentle kiss, silently adding your own meaning to each symbol. These weren’t just tattoos anymore; they were chapters of his life you had missed, now being shared exclusively with you like precious secrets finally coming home.

And this is what it was. Every night, something new was revealed, unpacking each detail of each other willingly, freely, creating a new sanctuary in one another.

He learned that you sang in the shower, that you had a birthmark shaped like a crescent moon on your hip, one he would kiss any chance he got. When you told him that you could name every constellation visible in the summer sky, he rested his head on your bare stomach, and every time you peeled your eyes away from the stars, you saw him looking up at you, his head rising and falling with every gentle breath that left your lungs. 

One night, when the conversation turned to dreams, he listened to your dream of becoming a journalist, of traveling the world, of making a difference, and as he pressed your naked bodies together, he whispered, ‘You’ll change the world, you’re already changing mine.” you knew at that moment that you had fallen in love.

As the final week of camp approached, the days seemed to slip through your fingers like water, each sunset stealing the precious hours you could never reclaim, settling over you like a bittersweet yearning already seeping into your bones, at times coloring even the most perfect moments with Harry in gloomy shades of goodbye just knowing that the ending was near.

The summer had been magical—life-changing even—turning you both into versions of yourselves you never knew existed. Those nights spent wrapped in his arms beneath ancient pines had rewritten your understanding of belonging and what it would mean for you moving forward. Every shared secret seemed to build a world that felt both fragile and indestructible all at the same time.

But as the camp calendar thinned and counselors began their whispered goodbyes, that question that had shadowed every summer of your relationship with Harry now loomed impossibly large, casting its long shadow across your happiness, trying to steal the joy you had both worked so hard to cultivate. What would happen when camp ended? When the forest finally gave way to airports and oceans. When this suspended reality came crashing down, forcing you both back into the separate lives you knew were waiting just on the other side of all these little moments.

And as you lay there on the blanket by the lake, far enough from the main camp to ensure the perfect privacy, Harry rested his head in your lap as you mindlessly ran your fingers through his curls. You felt it tugging, goodbye at the forefront of your mind. You couldn’t help the ache knawing at the pit of your stomach even as the stars shone bright above, reflecting on the still water of the lake. The vision was a masterpiece, mirroring back the beauty of another sweet moment you got to share with Harry still in reach.

“What are you thinking about?” Harry asked, his tone soft, like velvet in the quiet night.

You hesitated, scared, not wanting to break the peaceful moment, but you wanted to be brave, “The future,” you finally divulged.

He shifted, sitting up to look at you. “What about it?”

“Camp ends in a week,” you said, finally voicing the fear that had been growing inside you for days. “And then what happens? Do you go back to England? Do I go back to New York, and we just... what? Text occasionally until next summer? If there is a next summer?”

Harry’s brows drew together at this as a quiet moment stretched between you, his eyes searching yours in the moonlight. “Is that what you want?”

“No—” you forced without hesitation. “But I honestly don’t know what the alternative is. Long-distance relationships are hard, Harry. And we’re both starting university in the fall, and—”

He laughed, catching you off guard when he silenced you with a kiss, soft and sweet, and when he pulled back, there was a determination in his eyes that made your heart race. “I got accepted to NYU,” he said quietly. “For their music program.”

For a second, you stared at him unmoving, not sure you had heard him correctly. “Wait? What?”

“I applied last fall, got accepted in the spring. I was going to tell you when camp started, but then I got scared, and I was an asshole...you know, the bit. When I tried to convince myself that what we had was just a summer thing.”

“But it’s definitely not, right?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. “It never was.”

He smiled then, that cute fucking dimpled smile that had captured your heart years ago. “No, it wasn’t. And I don’t want it to be. I want to see where this goes properly. No more summers only, no more oceans between us.”

Joy bubbled up inside you, a happiness so intense it brought tears to your eyes. “You’re really coming to New York?”

“I am,” he confirmed, wiping away a tear that had escaped down your cheek. “If that’s okay with you.”

You laughed, throwing your arms around him, knocking him to the ground. “Harry! It’s more than okay. It’s perfect.”

He hugged you close, his heart beating steadily against yours as the sense of finally hung above you. “I love you,” he whispered into your hair. “I think I have for years.”

The words rushed over your skin, warm and gentle, as you savored them on your tongue. Words so long unspoken but finally given with such thoughtfulness you almost forgot to say them back. “I love you too, Harry. Always have.”

As you lay there, wrapped in each other’s arms under the vast sky, the future no longer seemed uncertain. It stretched before you, full of possibilities—just knowing Harry would be by your side seemed to chase any fear you had left. You smiled, knowing that while summer had been your beginning, your story was just starting to unfold. This time, when you left Camp Wildwood, you wouldn’t be leaving your heart behind.

Summer was ours, you thought as you listened to the rhythm of Harry’s heartbeat under the stars.

And now, everything else would be too.

A/N: Man! I think I could have gone on forever with these two. I really liked them! I hope you got as much joy as I got out of them. This got a little angsty. But I think it was well worth it! 🙃

Taglist: @sassamanda77 @panini @unfuckwitablenarry @triski73 @haleyannaw @dipmeinhoneyh @lizsogolden @spinninc @iloveharrystyles04

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[thefunkfactory]

Game Changer

It was a crisp autumn afternoon in the heart of Texas, where the Friday night lights shone down on the roaring crowd of Clearview High School. The championship game was just a few days away, and the team’s star linebacker, Brick “The Tank” Thompson, was at the center of the action. Brick wasn’t just known for his bone-crushing tackles—he was infamous for something far more sinister. His farts.

Not just any farts. Not the kind that made people wrinkle their noses in mild discomfort. No, Brick’s farts were a different breed. They were biochemical weapons disguised as bodily functions. It was said that a single whiff could cause memory loss, temporary blindness, and an intense craving for cheap gas station hot dogs.

Brick had always used his “gift” sparingly, saving it for pranks or moments when he needed his personal space in the locker room. But on this particular day, something truly bizarre was about to unfold.

At the other end of the field, stretching by the bleachers, were two new recruits: Jason and Ethan. The two had just transferred from a rival school, and while they weren’t exactly football material, Coach Stevens had insisted on giving them a shot.

Jason and Ethan were inseparable. They had been dating for two years, and while they had little interest in sports, they figured joining the team would help them fit in at their new school. But Brick? Brick wasn’t having it.

“Football ain’t for fancy boys,” he muttered under his breath, cracking his knuckles as he watched them from across the field. “It’s about grit. Strength. The art of strategic flatulence.” That’s when he got an idea.

The Plan: Deploy the Stinkbomb

After practice, Brick waited until Jason and Ethan were alone in the locker room, toweling off from a light workout. They had been trying to run passing drills earlier, but their skills were… questionable at best.

Brick stomped into the room, his cleats clicking against the tiles. He had been preparing for this moment all day, consuming a potent cocktail of protein shakes, hard-boiled eggs, and expired chili from the gas station down the street. His stomach was a bubbling cauldron of pure destruction.

He positioned himself between Jason and Ethan, stretching his arms as if he were merely loosening up after practice. Then, with the force of a hydraulic press, he let loose.

PPPPPPPPPFFFFFRRRRRRBBBBBBBBBTTTTTTT!!

The walls trembled. The metal lockers groaned. The overhead lights flickered as the sheer density of the fart warped the very air in the room. Jason and Ethan had no time to react before the first wave of pure, unfiltered biological warfare hit them. The fart seeped into their nostrils like an invading force, burrowing deep into their sinuses, setting fire to every neuron in its path.

Jason staggered back, clutching his face as if he’d just been maced. His mind screamed at him to run, to escape, but his legs felt like concrete. Ethan gagged violently, hands gripping his knees, his stomach lurching. “What… is that?” he choked out, his vision blurring.

It wasn’t just a smell. It was an experience. It had weight, a presence, as though the air itself had thickened and taken on a personality—an aggressive, unshowered personality that drank expired protein shakes and believed deodorant was a government conspiracy.

Jason’s heart pounded in his chest. Something was happening to his brain. Thoughts he had never had before began creeping in, whispering, clawing at the edges of his mind.

Gotta run… gotta—

Then, a second wave hit.

PPPPPPPPPPFFFFFRRRRRRRRRBBBBTTTTTTTT!!!

The sound was inhuman—somewhere between a motorbike stalling out and a bear growling into a megaphone. The air vibrated with the force of it, the sheer density of the gas causing the locker room tiles to groan under the weight of their own suffering.

Jason stumbled, his knees buckling. His head swam. His thoughts were slipping. He tried to hold on—to remember who he was.

“I… I like art,” he whimpered, his voice barely above a whisper.

A new voice, deep and stupid, growled back in his head. Nah, bro. You like lifting weights.

Jason gasped, shaking his head violently. “No, I—I like poetry, and, and indie movies with good cinematography.”

The voice laughed, cruel and dumb. Indie movies? What, like game film study?

Jason clawed at his temples. The stench was everywhere. Inside him. Changing him.

Ethan wasn’t doing any better. He had slumped against the lockers, his breathing ragged, pupils dilating as his entire world shattered and reassembled itself into something stupider.

“I love musicals,” Ethan groaned, fighting through the fumes, trying to ground himself in something familiar. But the gas was relentless. It seeped into his memories, corrupting them like a virus.

He thought he remembered sitting in a theater, enjoying a Broadway show… but the image warped. The stage disappeared. The actors were replaced by sweaty, hulking football players slamming into each other at full speed. The dialogue was gone, replaced by grunts and phrases like “GIT SOME, BABY!”

“No…” Ethan whispered in horror. “No, no, no—”

Another voice—deeper, dumber, louder—echoed inside his mind. Bro, what if… instead of musicals… you just watched highlight reels of bone-crushing tackles for three hours straight?

Ethan’s hands gripped his skull. “Stop—stop talking! This isn’t me!”

The new voice sneered. Ain’t about “you” no more, bro. It’s about the team.

Jason twisted on the ground, his body drenched in sweat. “Ethan—we gotta fight it!”

Ethan gasped, his breath ragged. “I—I can’t—I’m—”

Brick stepped forward, hands on his hips, grinning as he watched them writhe in football-induced existential agony.

“You boys holdin’ up okay?” he said, flexing his biceps. “Don’t fight it, man. Just let the game in.”

Jason groaned, his fingers curling into the tiled floor. His chest ached—not in pain, but in something else. His muscles… they were expanding. Tightening. His arms, once slim, were becoming bulky, carved like they had spent years in the weight room.

“No,” he muttered weakly. “No, I—I’m not like this.”

But he was. His fingers twitched involuntarily. He wanted to clench them into fists. He needed to hit something. Ethan gritted his teeth, still resisting, still clinging to the last shards of himself. He tried to recall his love for classical music, for literature, for deep, meaningful conversations. But all he could hear was the sound of whistles blowing. Coaches yelling. Helmet-to-helmet collisions. And farts. So many farts.

BBBBRRRRRRRRRRRRRFFFFTTTTTTT!!

His stomach growled. A pressure built deep inside him, something alien, something awful.

Jason’s eyes widened. “Ethan… do you feel that?”

Ethan clutched his gut, shaking his head violently. “No—no, I won’t—I won’t let it—”

His body betrayed him.

PPPPPPPPFFFFFFFFRRRRRRBBBBBTTTTTTTTT!!!

The locker room shook.

Jason’s eyes went wide as the scent hit him. “Bro… that was…”

Ethan gasped, his eyes blank and empty, his mouth hanging open. He knew what had just happened.

It had begun.

Jason felt the pressure growing inside himself too. Something dark and terrible had awoken. His stomach churned, filling with unnatural gases.

No, no, no, NO! he screamed internally.

But the new voice in his head just laughed.

Let it rip, bro.

Jason squeezed his eyes shut. “I—I can’t…”

Brick patted him on the back. “You can, bud. You just gotta let go.”

Jason took a deep breath. His stomach contracted. The pressure built.

And then—

BRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAOOOOOONNNNNKKKKKK!!!

The sound was unholy. The locker doors rattled. A poster of an inspirational quote fell from the wall. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm went off.

Jason gasped. He felt… free.

Ethan looked at him, his face slack-jawed, his breathing shallow. “Dude… that was sick.”

Jason grinned. “Yeah… it kinda was, huh?”

Ethan stood up, rolling his shoulders. He no longer felt weak. His arms were huge. His brain, once filled with critical thought, now throbbed with primal urges: Tackle. Sweat. Lift. Fart.

Brick clapped his hands together, beaming with pride. “Welcome to the team, boys.”

Jason and Ethan nodded. They understood now.

Football wasn’t a sport.

It was a way of life.

And so was farting.

BBBBBBRRRRRRRROOOOOOFFFFFFF!!

Jason and Ethan laughed as their stomachs gurgled, ready for more.

They were home.

The night of the big game arrived, and Clearview High had never seen a more aggressive team. Jason and Ethan were now football-obsessed, tackle-hungry machines with no thoughts beyond scoring touchdowns and delivering nuclear-grade farts upon the opposing team.

By the third quarter, the rival team had collapsed on the field, their senses overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of Clearview’s combined stench. Paramedics had to be called. Gas masks were distributed to the referees.

Coach Stevens watched from the sidelines, shaking his head in disbelief. “I don’t know what happened to those boys,” he muttered, “but God help us all.”

As the final whistle blew and Clearview secured the championship, Brick, Jason, and Ethan stood together, arms around each other, basking in the rancid fumes of their own creation.

It was the birth of a new dynasty.

A dynasty of brotherhood, football… and farts.

[mistymisfit]

How they met

summary: When Poison Ivy takes Gotham's central park hostage reader gets stuck with Red Hood and accidentally saves him.

warnings: mentions of reader being shorter than Jason, reader uses glasses, mentions of reader wearing a skirt, smoking, and this.

wc: 3,8k

It was just a matter of time of living in Gotham until you got stuck on a situation like this. You have to have the worst luck in the city because, on the day you finally give in and agree to dog-sit for a friend, Poison Ivy decides to show up when you take her on a walk. Of course, the dog was no idiot and ran away a while ago at the first sight of danger, so now you were stuck here in Gotham's central park. You have to admit you're not as scared as you should be, however you were getting mildly annoyed at hanging upside down with a vine holding you by your ankles. At least you could be glad it wasn't the joker.

It was a common topic of conversations late at night with your friends when you seem to run out of things to discuss, debating which Gotham rouge attack you could survive as a hostage. This topic was only second to "Which vigilante would you rather have to save you?", that one allowed for more rambling over who you thought was hottest. Still, no pointless drunk debate could prepare you for when it actually happened.

"Hey, excuse me, miss" You said when you watched her walk past and she stopped almost amused that you'd dare to speak to her "I understand that you're part plant, right?"

"That'd be correct" She paid close attention to you, she was intrigued by the fact that the effects of her "sleeping pollen" worn off fast unlike the other hostages next to you. You were supposed to be passed out for around 5 hours more, after all her pheromones never failed.

"Yeah, so, the rest of us are human" You tried to be as polite as you could so she wouldn't crush you to death "So could you please put us down, I'm getting a headache from having my head upside down"

She didn't say anything but agreed, the vines gently leaving you and the others on the grass before quickly wrapping you again. As you felt less and less dizzy, you could pay more attention to your surroundings. The concrete trail was shattered, plants breaking it from growing over it, the closest bench was split in half, and a water fountain was removed from the ground, water leaking from where it used to be. Though your vision is blurry since you lost your glasses from hanging upside down, you can still tell that next to you were the mother and daughter you saw seconds before it all went down. The mother chased after her daughter, demanding her to not go that far away from her. Then your friend's dog, the king Charles spaniel you only agreed to take care of because she was cute, ran away and you went after her. Next thing you know, a vine wraps around you and you're hanging from your ankles, no dog in sight. When did all of this happen? And how in broad daylight?

You heard a cracking noise and thought, "oh, no, were those my glasses?". Your head turned to see ruthless vigilante Red Hood picking up your glasses from the floor, or at least you think that is what he's picking up. It sounded much like broken glass. He could tell by the disappointment on your face that they were yours, so he quickly moved in silence getting closer to you.

"Sorry" He whispered, cleaning them up a little bit with against his red vest. He gently put them back on your face, and you nearly blushed at his hands brushing against your face.

"It's okay," You lied. You couldn't be mad at him for it, but you could dwell on how expensive it would be to fix them.

"I'll get you out of here." He promised, his voice was still low, not knowing if she was close enough to hear him. He started cutting through the vines to set you free.

"Sure" If you could've shrugged, you would have.

"Sure?" He repeated, offended. He wasn't expecting you to be overcome by joy by seeing him there, he's realistic, but you could show more gratitude. Even if he crushed your glasses.

"Or you could leave me here to die," You deadpanned, you must've been in this city for too long if this wasn't fazing you "so I don't have to turn in that essay on Monday"

"I won't," He quips back, finally breaking through and helping you throw the plants from you.

"Well, at least you're not a cop"

"Good to know I'm a step above them" He was beginning to wonder when was the last time he met a hostage so talkative as he worked cutting the vines that held the little girl captive. She lumped forward, still unconscious as you caught her, holding her until he could free her mom.

"Several steps, really" You corrected "You won't remember them, but you rescued my neighbors' daughter after she went missing for four months"

"Who? Zoey?" You were both surprised, you over the fact that he could recall her name, and him that you knew that. Those kinds of stories never made the news, or if they did, they never mentioned him if it was going to paint him in a good light. "How's she doing?"

"Yeah, she's better now"

Once he managed to cut through the last vine, he picked her up like it was nothing. You looked away trying to push down how attractive you found that. He guided you, signaling to stay quiet on what you hoped would be a way out of the dome she had created. And just when you thought you're out of trouble, a plant wrapped once more around your leg, dragging you and Red Hood back in. As twigs and being dragged through the floor scratched your arms and your face, you couldn't help but think, Why me? and that at least in that rough motion you dropped the girl, and the paramedics running your way would take her and the other woman.

This time, she was not as merciful, a thicker and stronger vine entrapped you both together with your back pressed against his chest. He tried putting his arms in front of you to stop the vine from getting tighter around you, but you're quicker than him in realizing what could happen.

"Stop, stop," you swatted his forearm lightly to get his attention; "it'll break your arms"

You were surprised to see him listen, and he put his arms back to his sides. You could tell he was trying to be as respectful as he could in this situation, trying to avoid touching you even if your butt was pressed impossibly close to him.

"Hood?" You asked nervously, feeling something pressed against you. "That is a gun, right?"

"I'm flattered, sweetheart." He chuckled, "It's a 9 millimeter, but don't worry safety's on"

"Uh-huh" You acknowledged his response, more worried about not panicking at the thought of being squeezed to death. It didn't occur to you earlier that you might die today. Well, it did, you just didn't have to accept it until then. In your desperation you tried wriggling your arms out, at least to get some room to breathe. The binding plant was right above your waist, constricting your lungs.

"Stop squirming like that."

"Sorry, I-"You gasped, on the verge of tears "god, what if I die? My friends won't have anything to say at my funeral"

"Hey, take a deep breath." You felt his hands on your hips, his thumb gently tracing circles on your back as the rest of his hand kept you in place, grounding you. It was comforting; he was trying to make you feel better, and you appreciated the thought. He leaned down his head until his forehead rested on top of your head "You are not dying, okay?"

"Okay," you repeated, your voice weak but less panicked.

"Besides, if we're having a bad funeral competition, I'd beat you for sure" He joked, trying to distract you "What were you doing here?"

"I uhm, I was walking my friend's dog, she's out of town for her sister's wedding"

"What's it called?"

"Anne Boneyn" Your response was met with a full belly laugh from him, it's almost contagious as you had to push your lips together and hold back a smile to avoid joining him.

"I'm sorry, whose idea was it?"

"Mine," you blushed, "only because she named my cat Joan D'cat"

He laughed again, and if you weren't scared for your life, you wouldn't have known how to feel about him so close to you.

"Wait until you hear about my other friend's turtle, Mary Shelley" You added inciting his laugh once more. It was a bit of a contradiction to see a man you know for a fact has killed many people before laughing this much over bad puns, but you felt flustered and a little proud that you were able to do that.

"I'll tell you something; when we get out of this, I'll help you find Anne, hopefully with her head still attached," He offered.

"Hey" You laughed "that's not helping "

As your laughs died down and you were reminded of his hands still on you, you started to wonder if Red Hood was single, you'd kill him if he was your boyfriend and found out he had a moment like this with another girl. You have to stop yourself from getting even more delusional, this was probably a random Thursday for him, and you had no reason to feel bad or even jealous of an hypothetical girlfriend. You brushed off how he made you feel, attributing it to either the adrenaline of the moment or the fact that he's quite attractive and you haven't had any contact with a guy in a while. You really couldn't help but grow a little crush on him when he's so reassuring, telling you that you'll be okay

Then you hear steps, both of you suddenly going quiet. You could see some plants moving, but not her or any other vigilante, though the latter would surprise you more since you heard Red Hood usually works on his own, and you've seen a few news articles of him and Batman beating the shit out of each other.

"We're far from Crime Alley, Red Hood" You could finally make out where she was through a cracked lens, was she always that green? or was her skin changing?

"I just happened to be in the neighborhood" He replied before whispering:"Try to distract her"

She made a face of what you could only describe as disdain, and she was about to leave when he nudged you to get her attention. If you could turn back, you would've shoot him an exasperated "what the fuck do you want me to do?" look. You grunted from the vine getting tighter and decided to do as he said.

"Can I ask you something?" You rolled your eyes at what you said, anyone with a quick wit would've told you that you already had. "Why the whole display of power in the middle of the city?"

"Why?"

"Yeah, don't get me wrong, I agree with the whole men are killing the planet thing" You took a deep breath and she noticed, loosening a bit the vines so you could talk "But why the park? It's the only place people in this city get to see some green... besides the botanical gardens, but we are right next to them."

"Are you saying I'm wrong?"

"No I-uhm, I'm just saying you got the target wrong" You quickly added before you made it worse "You know it's not the average person that's killing nature?"

"It's men's greed that is killing the planet"

"Still, in a shorter run, you'll get better results if you aim higher," You reasoned "You should go after the factory outside the city that's been polluting the water, or the biggest oil company you can find, or-"

"Hm," You were both surprised to see her actually think about it "I suppose I could try"

What? You were just rambling, trying to buy time for whatever plan Red Hood's got. You were not expecting her to take your suggestions seriously, and neither was him when he whispered a "what the fuck?" under his breath. Once she starts walking away and turns your back to you two you quickly move your head, shooting him a look that asks the very same question he had.

"And don't even try following me," she warned, you knew that was for the vigilante behind you. You were not going anywhere that isn't your own bedroom after this "my plants will let you go in half an hour"

You were at a loss for what to do for all that time stuck there, hopefully you could free yourselves faster. Though you wouldn't mind spending the time with him. You mentally scolded yourself for thinking like that, you needed to stop being so delusional. Lucky for you, he did have a plan, so as soon as the grip lessened up, he was able to get his arms out and cut off the vines.

"Are you going after her?"

"Nah, sounds more like the bat's problem to me" He shrugged, " 'sides I promised to help you find Anne"

He kept up that promise, he helped you call out and look for your friend's dog until you found her—alive and with her head still on her neck. You figured it took you around the same time you would've been trapped had he not cut you off earlier. Saying goodbye to him was surprisingly awkward, as if he didn't want to leave either. At least until he noticed a few police officers, then he really made a run for it, but not without waving as he left.

He nagged himself for that, letting his guard down that fast when a pretty girl was nice to him. Then reprimanded himself even more when the urge to find you got too intense and ended up investigating you. And felt equal parts, bad for watching you and relieved to find out you didn't have a boyfriend. Told himself it was for your safety when he made sure you got home safe late at night, and convinced himself he was doing you a favor when he fed your cat on the balcony when you were out or sleeping.

"Fuck," Is all that left your lips when he fell on the floor. Where did he even come from? You were looking at the city lights, distracted, when you heard someone stumbling and grunting.

When you turned to see the very same vigilante who you met a few weeks ago, saying you were shocked fell short. It's rare that you ran into him once, but twice? That's got to be luck-- or its opposite. His muzzle was shattered, God knows where the rest of the pieces fell, he was also covered in blood and holding his side as he tried to sit up. You managed to move amidst the initial surprise, and leave your cigarette on the ashtray to help him up.

"Hey, are you okay?" You asked, guiding his back to rest against the wall.

"Yeah, I'm fine, I'm fine," He repeated, as if he was not only trying to convince you but also himself, "It isn't my blood"

"You sure?" The way your hands lingered on his form did not go unnoticed, not that he minded at all.

"I'm just bruised," He explained before looking up. Of course, he'd end up at your building, and just by chance, you happened to hang out on your rooftop. "It's you again"

"Yeah, It's me" You held back a smile, he remembers you? You'd thought by now your face would've phased out of his memories, mixed along with the other people he must have helped.

"What are you doing here?"

"I live here-"You rolled your eyes, avoiding the real reason to be at a rooftop at 4 am. You could tell his eyes lingered on yours even under the mask before he looked up and saw the ashtray on the ledge. With renewed energy he got up, still using the wall to help himself. "Wait!"

He raised an eyebrow, and before he could make any witty comment, you beat him to it.

"I only do it when I'm stressed, okay? Not that I owe you any explanation"

"I get it," He sighed, reaching out for the pack and getting one out of the little box "You mind?"

You shook your head no, handing him your lighter. You watched him drop the broken muzzle and take the first drag with so much attention you had to tell yourself to stop being so awkward. You flicked the ashes off your own before your eyes went back to him. Jesus, what a fucking jawline, and now you couldn't stop looking at his lips. He was going to think you were weird if he caught you staring like this, or at least you thought that. Not that you would know he had been looking out for you since you met. From a distance, of course.

"I didn't get your name last time" He knew your name, you knew a guy with his resources probably already knew the answer. But you indulged him, saying your name out loud for him, "that's pretty"

"Thanks"

"So what's got you stressed out enough to be smoking this late," He said your name. You liked the way it sounds coming from his voice; he liked the way it rolls off his tongue so easily.

"Had the worst night out, ever" Now it was your turn to sigh, leaning in to rest your arms on the ledge. He was eyeing your outfit now, an oversized hoodie clearly thrown over a going out outfit, black tights and heavy boots visible under it. And if you leaned forward just a little bit, he could see a bit of the miniskirt your hoodie was hiding. "You?"

"I've had worse, had better" He shrugged, intentionally giving you a vague answer. He wasn't going to tell you about his activities, no normal person wants to hear about that much violence.

"Really?" You raised an eyebrow, your tone was playful, and he knew you were about to tease him "You seem pretty fucked to me, or should I have seen the other guy?"

"Hey, I've got no open wounds tonight" He smirked and you wanted to scream, why was that so fucking attractive? "I'm counting that as a win"

You let out a chuckle, and you just missed the way his lips curved up in a smile when you left the cigarette butt on the tray. His eyes followed your movement, looking at the lipstick-stained cigarette for a few seconds before returning his focus to you.

"Were you born here?" He asked

"Nope, I moved a couple of years ago for college"

"How's that going?"

"I'm getting my masters now" You shook your head, looking up at him before continuing "What about you? Are you a full fledged Gothamite?"

"Loud and proud" He joked, getting you to laugh loudly.

"Of course you are, I can't imagine getting a costume and going out to fight criminals every night" You teased.

"Hey!" He tried to sound offended at your remark, but he couldn't hide the smile he was fighting against, so he opted for changing the subject "I'm sorry, what did you say you were studying?"

With that, he got you to tell him about your masters, how you got into that field, and what you liked the most.  You also got him to talk a bit about himself, even if he was not willing to give you that much information. Both to protect his identity and not to scare off the first girl he's had a crush on in a while. You both steered closer and closer to the other as you talked, close enough you could smell the intoxicating mix of gunpowder, sweat, and whatever cologne he used.

"Can I be nosy for a second?" You bit your lip at the risky question you were about to ask. He just nodded, his hands itching to touch you again, to wrap around your hips like they did last time he saw you. "What's the deal with you and Batman?"

"What deal? There's no deal" He brushed it off, he was about to take a step back when you stopped him. Pulling him in by grabbing his clothes, an eyebrow raised and a "do you think I'm stupid?" expression. "We don't get along, 's all"

"Really?" You knew you were pushing your luck.

"He hates me, I hate him" He explained, hoping to put your growing curiosity to rest.

"In my opinion," Your voice was soothing, and so was your hand on his chest. He didn't know how long it had been since he was touched like that; "hate like that can only be born out of someone you loved"

"He thinks I'm bad, they all do" You noticed how weak and sad his tone turned.

"I don't think you're bad, if it's worth anything"

He moved one hand up to cup your cheek, and he stared at you tenderly for a moment. It happened fast, his lips crashed onto yours in a second. You hummed, tasting the left over taste of the smoke, stood on your tip toes, hands fisting at his clothes to maintain some balance as he leans down too. His other hand rested on your back, but not too low trying not to push his luck with you.  And he kissed you like he had something to prove, whether it was to you or himself you were not so sure of. What you were sure of was how warm he felt, your body pushed up against his in the cold, windy night. It felt like a consolation prize after such a terrible night.

And he wanted to tell you that he wished he was a normal person, that he had a normal life, and he could date you without it meaning a death sentence to you. But all it comes out is; "I wish I never met you"

"Excuse me?" You gasped, pushing him off "What a weird fucking thing to say after kissing someone"

"No—I mean" He sighed, hands cupping your face once again. You just couldn't resist that. "You're pretty, and funny, you should be kissing someone normal"

"I think I can make that decision for myself"

"I should go" He let go of you, and you grew colder by the second, already missing him before he left.

"Wait," You tugged on the hood hanging on his back. He turned back to see you, anything to make the moment last more. "I usually come up here on Fridays, in case you need to talk to someone"

He just gave you a court nod before jumping off, and you could only stand there and think about what just happened. Despite his better reasoning, he found himself swinging by your rooftop that Friday, and the one after, and all the next ones for the foreseeable future.

a/n: I mentioned in my birthday drabble that poison ivy called reader "her favorite hostage" and this is why, so technically part of the birthday-verse?

[arienotari]

Drowning

Summary: When your worst fear becomes a reality and all you have on the other side is a brown eyed boy.

Pairing: Wally Clark x Reader

Warnings: Death, Drowning, Bullying

Edit: I am terrible at editing, and I tried my best so I'm sorry if you find any mistakes. This is my first full story I am releasing out into the world.

Word Count: 3330

I’ve never liked swimming.

People say it makes them feel free, but I felt anything but free. Every chance I got I avoided water at all costs. It's suffocating. Something about floating in a body of endless water and possibilities always made my skin crawl. One major problem that contributes to my fear is the fact that I can’t swim. I don’t blame anyone for this setback because I've never asked how to or showed interest. My inability to swim didn’t become a problem for me until my senior year of high school. I’ve gotten out of swimming class every year up until now and I had no choice but to take it. I tried to tell the swimming coach and counselors privately that I couldn’t take the class. All they said was I could stay in the shallow end. That I’ll be fine. I believed them. 

Word spread quickly throughout my class that I couldn’t swim once they started noticing I wouldn’t leave the 4ft mark. I didn’t really care, all I cared about was getting through the year. I was never really popular which didn’t matter much to me but being in this class never made it more obvious how much I hated it here. I felt eyes on me at all times which only made being in the water worse. 

It was March 12, 2015. Only a couple months left of school and then I’d be off to NYU living my dream of being a writer. First I had to get through 4th period swim class of course. I walked into the girls changing room preparing for the next 50 minutes of anxiety as I put my swimsuit on. I folded my dark blue jeans, my gray sweater, and a white tank top with lace on the trim that I wore under the sweater. Making my way to the pool I started putting my hair up in place of a hair cap I seem to have forgotten. Staring at the water I can see the bottom but it doesn’t stop the feeling of wanting to crawl up from my throat. Half the girls were already in the water preparing for a game of volleyball. Step by step down the ladder my hands begin to shake and my mouth becomes dry like I just ate pancakes. I make my way to the back to avoid any confrontation or any chance of being involved in the game. The one thing good about this class is it has a perfect view of the sky. I always get lost staring out at it wondering who’s also looking back. It makes me forget the situation I’m in and my environment. That's until a ball lands in front of me and about 15 girls are looking back at me waiting for my next move. I pick it up with my now calmer hands from before and spike it. Thankfully I made it over to the other side and the girls immediately turned back to the game. Not without some dirty looks but quite frankly I don’t really care. I watch as Mrs. Withers gets a call which seems to be serious as she tells us that she needs to step outside and when the bell rings to just go ahead. It’s only 10 minutes later when the shower bell rings and I feel the crushing weight lift off my shoulders. The other girls split based on which ladder they are closest to heading to the locker room and I help one of the girls get the volleyballs together. Making my way back to solid ground I rush to put the balls away not wanting to be one of the last to leave. I grab a towel on the rack near the other end of the pool as I make my way back seeing the last of everyone leaving. At least that’s what I thought until I heard someone behind me scream “Wait up” before running past me tripping me in the process. Losing my balance I watch as the one who screamed leaves the room leaving me alone. I hit the water with a loud splash waiting to hit the bottom to kick back up only to never feel my feet hit the concrete. I try to reach for the surface but everything I try seems to pull me down further. I panic, feeling my lungs on fire from filling with water. I tried to scream but no one could hear me and no one ever would. Everything was starting to go black and everything was becoming numb. All I could think about was how much I would miss out on. Finally, everything goes dark and I feel like I’m floating but I’m not, I’m being pulled up. I grab onto whoever’s pulling me up as if my life depended on it. Once I reach the surface my lungs fill with air as I begin to cough unbearably with my eyes screwed shut. I feel myself being hoisted up on the ground and out of the water. I’m pulled into the person who saved me as I am unable to move from exhaustion. When the person holds my face to center it I finally open my eyes as I am met with wide brown ones. 

“Are you okay”, he’s breathing heavily as I study him blocking out his yell to someone to bring his jacket. 

I feel a warm weight on my shoulders seeing its a blue and white letterman jacket out of the corner of my eye. 

“Thank you for saving me” I give him a weak smile but all I get in return is an expression filled with nothing but sorrow and guilt. 

Still seated on the floor I hear a horrified scream from beside me causing me to whip my head towards the chaos. Suddenly time stops and everything goes silent as I choked out a sob watching as a student and Mrs. Withers pull my body out of the water. The whole class comes to watch as they try to resuscitate me but nothing is happening. I feel the stranger push my head into his chest and I begin to cry harder than before. He repeats “I know’s” and “I’m sorry’s” as my world comes crashing down on me. 

Hours later we are still in the same position my hair and clothes dry now along with a tear-dried face. It’s dark outside with only the poolside fluorescent lights to illuminate our two figures. I begin to shiver more and more as the stranger who pulled me out of the water rubs my back and arms. 

“We need to get up, you're getting too cold” he whispers, pulling his body to get a better look at me. 

I lift myself up getting a better look at him as well as I memorize his long structured face, beauty marks, and brown eyes. After a minute I nod and try to stand up realizing that I’m still exhausted, the position not helping adding to the pain. He helps me steady myself and fully extend as he holds my hands making sure I’m okay. 

“You should take a shower and change into your regular clothes, I’ll probably do the same and I will explain everything once we're done. Okay?”, he says softly with an uneasy half-smile waiting for my response.

“Okay,” I whisper back at him not wanting to raise my voice feeling it’ll be too much to handle. 

His smile fills out more as he nods and begins to turn away to do the same tasks as me. I begin to turn away as well before I realize I never got the guy's name who pulled me out of the pool and stayed with me for hours. 

“What’s your name?,” I said, grabbing his arm to stop him from walking away. 

He looks down at my hand holding his arm which makes me see I’m still holding onto him causing me to let go. 

“Wally, Wally Clark”, he said with a wide smile that made me feel alive again for just a split second. 

After warming up from the shower I changed into my clothes from before that were neatly folded. As I begin to walk out of the locker room I get a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look back at the girl staring at me feeling disconnected from who she was or what she could’ve been. I take a heavy breath before opening the door to leave and face the reality of my situation. Stepping into the hall, the school looked unnatural to me with the lights off. I look over and see a less wet and cold Wally approach me with the same smile as before. 

“How was the shower? Do you feel better?”, he asked one right after the other. 

“The shower was good and I’m doing the best I can with the fact that I am already dead,” I said, peering up at him only noticing now how tall he really is. 

“I know it's hard and I’m sorry it happened this way but I will try to explain everything the best I can.”, he said, extending his elbow out for me to take it as we began to walk further down the halls.

And Just like he said Wally kept his word and explained everything to me that he could. Like how we’ll never be able to leave school grounds unless we pass on. He also showed me all the other kids stuck here just like us and told me how some passed. As well as the weird support group that the kids attend in the gym. Even though he’d joke he never sugar-coated anything, which I couldn't help but appreciate. I won’t lie, the first couple of weeks were rough. I was plagued by the memory of what happened as well as the thoughts of the future I’ll never get. It definitely didn’t help that everyone at school was mentioning it and not in a sorrowful way. During those few weeks, Wally helped a lot with trying to be a distraction so I wouldn’t focus on others. I guess one of the perks of being dead is being able to duplicate belongings so I was able to get my phone and journal. I found the perfect spot on the football field to just listen to music and lie down. I’d close my eyes and imagine what life could’ve been but I knew I couldn’t do that forever, so I started to write more. It was easier to put my wishes and fantasies on pages without having to dwell on them. I usually kept my writing to myself so around 7:30 every day I’d go to my little bubble of solitude on the field and write. It was May now so the sun would start to set around 8 giving me enough light and a view. 

“What are you writing?'' I suddenly hear Wally's voice right next to my ear. 

“Jesus Christ Wally you scared me to death”, I said, jumping in reaction to the sudden deep voice, placing my hand on my heart and dropping my journal. 

“I mean it's a little too late for that someone must’ve beat me to it.”, he said smiling at me as he sat down next to me grabbing my journal to open it. 

I glare at him and snatch my journal back. 

“What too soon?”, he said with a stupid grin trying to get my journal back.

“Just a little,” I said, scrunching my nose. 

“No but seriously what are you writing? You come out here every day and write in that little journal.” He said leaning back on his arms a bit more to get my full face into view. 

I try to hide the blush that has crept up on my face when I realize that he’s been watching me come out here. After a moment I brush my hair out of my face and am met with those famous brown eyes. I take a deep breath before explaining to him my reasons. 

“I don’t want to stay stuck in the living because all it’ll do is bring harm. All I thought about for the past couple of months was what I’ll miss but I never stopped and processed my death. I’ve been hurting for all the things I couldn’t change and it caused me to push anything away, even you. So I thought why not write my wishes and wants down so they don’t stay on my mind. At least this way I can close the journal.” I said with a tiny smile looking up at him as he was staring back intently listening. 

“Before I died I wanted to be a writer and I had my whole life planned out, I was going to attend—“ 

“NYU, I know,” he said, finishing my sentence before I could. 

I watch as Wally sits up straighter and scooches closer to me before tilting his head. I can tell he’s trying to figure out what to say because he’s fidgeting with his necklace. I wait for him because there’s no point in rushing, I have all the time in the world. 

“I’ve been watching you for a long time,” he says with a breath held in waiting for my response. 

One of my eyebrows lifts as I tilt my head in response to the slightly weird statement. 

“Oh god, that came out creepier than I meant it to. What I meant to say was even when you were alive I knew who you were.” He said laying back fully down in the grass. 

I watched as he covered his eyes with his hands with a frustrated grunt like he was trying to revert into a hole. 

“What do you mean?”, I said moving towards his laid position to where I’m now bent over leaning towards him leaving my crisscross position to now on my knees. 

I grab his hands that are covering his eyes and pull them down to his chest as I hold them to keep him from covering his eyes again. How he’s looking at me I can tell he’s debating with himself. I wait and listen before I watch as he closes his eyes. 

“The first time I saw you was during your freshman year in the library. I was looking for something to watch for group movie night. I had Rhonda yelling at me in one ear and Charlie telling me something in the other. I was getting a little annoyed but then I looked between the bookshelves and there you were.” He takes a pause to look at me and I squeeze his hand in return to continue. 

“You were tucked into the corner where the bookshelves meet, where no one could see you. In your hands was The Devil’s Highway by Luis Alberto Urrea. I watched as you cried the further you got into the book. After that day I came back to the library every day to see you. I even started picking up some of the books you read, but I couldn't finish half of them though.” He said with a small smile on his face and in his voice.  

He sat up which caused him to become closer to me while he took my hands instead of me holding his. He was looking at the grass for a minute while rubbing his thumbs over my knuckles. When he looked up I could see that he was tearing up making my heart ache. 

“I knew you had anxiety when it came to swim class because you couldn’t swim so I’d go to try and help. Even though you couldn’t see or feel me, I was always there.” He said lifting his hand up to tuck a loose strand of my hair that fell. 

His hand stayed in place as he cupped my cheek and I went to ask why he was tearing up because of this before he spoke. 

“I watched you die. I was there and I couldn’t do anything until it was too late, that’s why I was there. I had to watch you struggle knowing I couldn’t grab you or even scream for help.” He said with his voice croaking with the struggle of what he’s had to go through. 

My eyebrows furrowed as I watched the walls I built up crumble down with one look at him. I never knew he’d been holding in something like this for so long. If I had known I would’ve never tried to shut him out. I was scared of what had happened and how my life had ended but I never thought about him. He was always there and whenever I needed help he was right by my side. I moved from my position pulling him into a soul-crushing hug. It took him a second to respond to the sudden gesture but after a couple seconds, I felt his arms wrap around me.

“Wally my death wasn’t your fault, I need you to know that.”, I softly spoke while hugging him harder, feeling him return it. 

We continued hugging for what felt like years but could never be enough for me to be satisfied. One of my arms is coming up from under his arm grappling his shoulder while the other is around his waist. His arms are wrapped around my waist and I can feel his hands rubbing small circles on my back. Looking up from being tucked away in his shoulder I notice the sun is beginning to set. I begin to pull away and when I make eye contact with him again he’s only a mere few inches away from my face. I raise my hand to brush his hair away from his face as it has flattened from the hug. My hand slips down as it trails from the side of his head to where it now rests on his neck. He’s staring at me the whole time while I do this and when I look up to meet his eyes my heart quickens. Well, I imagined it quickened. There’s something about those brown eyes I’ve grown fond of that makes me feel alive again. His eyes flash down to my lips and back up to my eyes like he’s silently pleading. I give into his wants that now become a need for me and all I can do is nod. His hand comes up to my face pulling me towards him as our lips meet. The kiss felt like everything in my little life led up to this moment. Nothing else seemed to matter to me but the boy in front of me right now who just confessed that he’d been watching me for years. Wally’s the one to pull away first. I slowly opened my eyes to look at him wanting to capture this moment forever. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear before cupping my cheek and giving me a quick peck. I can’t restrain my gleaming smile as he pulls away for the second time. 

“Well I’m glad we got that cleared up”, he laughed as he spoke. 

I glared at him while punching him in the arm causing him to fall back but not before dragging me down with him. I land on his chest relaxing in his touch like it’s something I've been craving but have been deprived of. We lay in comfortable silence as I felt Wally rub circles with his thumb on my hip. 

“I’m glad it was you who found me. I don't know what I would’ve done” I said, being the first one to disturb the still air. 

“I am too,” Wally said into my hair as he kissed the top of my head. 

We lay there all night even when the stadium lights came on we just talked about everything and anything. Maybe the afterlife won’t completely suck. 

[formulakracing]

fanboy behavior - t.w.

pairing: female driver!reader x toto wolff

word count: 1.3k

warnings: an older man having an insanely large crush on a woman thirty years his junior, ONE-SIDED PINING (LOTS OF IT OKAY), allusions to smut/sexual fantasies, toto is a mess, mentions of divorce, common fic tropes, yadayadayada

a/n: this is sort of a prequel to alkaline! this is set one year before the events of the 2024 bahrain grand prix. toto is super down bad in this already, so expect lots of pining and him being a flustered mess hehe! i figured this would provide some context/background for the first chapter of alkaline <3 (ALSO PLS LISTEN TO ALKALINE BY SLEEP TOKEN!!! IT REALLY ENCAPSULATES TOTO'S YEARNING!!)

his mind is other places.

he should be invested in the current conversation with his engineers and drivers, discussing the current status of the car and the potential modifications that needed to be made before sunday.

but he's not, his foot tapping against the concrete floor absentmindedly, body on autopilot.

it's almost as if his brain was short-circuiting, desperately trying to compute any sort of coherent thought in correlation with the task at hand. yet, if he tries, it just sputters, trailing off, veering towards something else.

well, someone else.

he's thinking about a driver, merely a few paddocks down.

a williams racing driver, actually.

the american girl. barely twenty-one, a rookie in the second williams seat, preparing to compete in her first formula one race in approximately twenty-four hours.

her eyes were like starlight, bursting with a torrent of emotions and complexity, pulling you into their depths, begging for you to get lost within them. her hair was absolutely gorgeous, complementing her features no matter its state.

and her physique?

fuck, the team principal felt like a teenage boy very time he stole a glance, his slacks feeling a little tighter than usual.

with a smile that lit up every room she was in, a radiant aura brimming with kindness and humility, as well as a fiery determination to compete, she was comparable to the sun.

the woman who was starting to become routinely embedded in his daily pondering.

ever since that fateful day in december, when his eyes first drank in that photo of her, hand interlocked with james in front of that williams car, she was the last thing on his mind before he dozed off. and well, the first thing his mind wandered to in the mornings.

she even made an appearance in his dreams, the sound of her voice almost haunting him, so tantalizingly sweet and angelic.

fuck, he was a goner.

this was the third month now where she consumed every crevice of his brain. a continuous loop of all of the sins he wanted to confess, the ways in which he wanted to touch her, and the burning desire to take her under his wing, teaching her all of the ins and outs of racing.

was he obsessed with her? surely not.

not that he memorized every single one of her f2 stats or anything. not that he spent a majority of his free time lately invested in interview clips with her, jotting down all of her favorite things. not that he doodled her during meetings or anything.

not that at least twelve times a day he fantasized about her in a mercedes suit, his fingers carefully tugging down the zipper.

this was normal behavior after a recent divorce. completely normal behavior, actually.

the team principal clears his throat, "i need to step away for a moment. i can barely think straight right now. please, continue. i will rejoin the conversation once i get my shit together."

he can't help but notice the way his drivers exchange a concerned glance, lewis coughing slightly.

"um, all right. toto, is everything okay?"

not quite.

he was going absolutely insane, his mind already reeling at the anticipation of potentially catching a glimpse of her. he wasn't even sure if he would or not, but that possibility sent a rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins.

those endless possibilities are what kept him up at night. what sent the blood rushing in the mornings, the stiffness in his boxers nearly pulling him out of his slumber. what had him pacing some days in his office, desperate beyond belief for some sort of way to break this spell.

as he strolls out of the garage, a warm breeze rolls through the track, strands of hair blowing all over. he curses slightly, running a quick hand through the tousled mess.

just to his left, a flurry of voice catches his attention, his head swiveling, searching for the source.

besides james is the object of his every desire, the apple of his eye.

as the sun dips below the horizon, he can barely make out her expression. she appears frustrated, her brows furrowed together, a deep frown etched across her lips.

"i just don't fucking understand why that dickhead felt the need to ask me if i was on my period!" she groans, shaking her head, "what the fuck was i supposed to do? let that slide?"

there's a sternness plastered across james' face, yet his voice is soft, laced with sympathy, "i know, but you have to realize that you're going to be asked questions like that because there are misogynists within the sport. no matter how much you prove to us that you deserve this seat, there are going to be pricks out there. we can do a little bit more media training, if you'd like. or, i can hire a publicist for you."

"a publicist? are you fucking kidding me?" her eyes widen, her tone growing more and more frustrated, "i'm not fifteen. i can speak for myself, james."

"it was just a suggestion," he shrugs, sticking out his hands, "look, i know you had a rough day, but let's focus on tomorrow. all right? you're tenth on the grid. that's monumental for your first race. you could win us points."

"we'll see," she scoffs, the toe of her shoe scuffing against the pavement, "i'm sorry for getting upset with you. i'm just really nervous. and well, scared."

scared of what? you have nothing to fear, sweet girl. you're one of the best drivers i have seen step foot on the grid.

toto narrows his eyes, lingering for just a moment longer.

"i just don't know if i deserve this seat," he can sense the falter in her voice, how it shakes, "i don't even know if i deserve a spot in formula one. i mean, look at me! i'm this upset over a dumb question. and i'm just scared everything is going to go to my head tomorrow and i'm going to overthink it."

james wraps his arms around the driver, pulling her in for a tight embrace as a sob wracks her body, "hey, when you're in doubt, you have alex and i. we will always be there for you. i know you're nervous, but you have to realize how special and talented you are to be in this position. you've deserved everything that has come your way, and you will continue to deserve this. i promise."

his biceps flex as he folds his arms against his chest, every fiber of his being resisting the urge to just walk over there and casually sweep her off her feet, squeezing her against his chest as he murmurs in her ear how fucking special she was.

james, she wasn't just special and talented.

she was a fucking star. a star that deserved to shine and hold every ounce of that spotlight.

just like the sun, she deserved to cast her rays of light all over the world.

the world deserved to know who she was. where she came from. how she got here. why she was a worthy competitor and excellent driver.

and by god, toto wolff was hellbent on making that happen.

one way or another.

he just had to be patient. play the long game.

every move from here was to be carefully calculated.

as toto harbored a plan. one that had been brewing the second that speculations swirled around the world of formula one that the first female american driver would be signing to a team.

he was going to have her by his side at mercedes.

fuck, he had been yearning for her this long already.

how much harm would a few more months do? a year?

he could wait a year. he was a patient man.

well, he could wait that long.

as long as that hunger gnawing away at him didn't kill him first.

[arbitrarykiwi]

Unlikely Partnership

Nam-Gyu (Player 124) x Fem!Reader

This is based on a submission from @mysatnin (I lost the submission but had it copied to my writing app so I could get this fire submission done <3 hope you enjoy !!)

Summary: my take on meeting Nam-Gyu in the games

Warnings: 18+ , general squid games violence , death , drug issue mention / withdrawal , drug usage , read at your own risk

Nam-Gyu didn’t notice you at first, not with the hundreds of other players, not with waking up stripped of his belongings in a place he’s never been, no he’s on too high alert. He feels like he’s going through the worst withdrawal of his life, confused and sweaty, jittery and out of breath.

He knows he just railed a line of something crushed up before he went into that limo to get to whatever the fuck this place was. He couldn’t be in withdrawal. This is just pure anxiety. He pays hardly any attention to individual people, he just maps out the doors he sees (possible exits) and keeps his back to a wall until everyone wandered to the center of the room.

He eventually followed, mingling with the crowd and awaiting whatever was next.

The first thing he noticed wasn’t even you, it was your perfume. It happened when everyone, all 400 and some odd players had woken up out of their drug induced haze and had collected into the middle of the large warehouse-like room.

Packed shoulder to shoulder, listening to some robotic voice talk about game winnings, he feels completely out of his territory. This wasn’t Club Pentagon where he could mix in with the sleazy groups and get free drugs under the guise of giving VIP benefits he had no authority to give- no this was something he couldn’t prepare for even if he tried.

Some sense of relief came when he was granted with the show of some older lady yelling at another player. The older man, grown, being scolded by his own mother was enough to make a wicked grin spread across his face. A first class seat to someone’s embarrassment and anxiety that wasn’t his own?! Oh, this was what he needed.

When he brings his hand up to his face, trying to hide his laughter and grin at the man getting berated by his mother, he begins to smell something. It’s sweet, unique, very obviously not some ‘natural’ smell that is originating from the place they were in or any of the male players that stood near him.

He turns slightly, the best he could given being so close to another player on all sides, trying to find the origin. He doesn’t realize he’s doing it, it’s almost instinctual. It’s a scent that is most certainly from a meticulously hand picked perfume worn by someone who must be just as unique as the sweet, fruity, almost ambery scent. It’s quite literally head turning.

Scanning through the sea of players- he can’t pinpoint who it’s coming from. Deciding one look around was more than enough, he’s turning back to the first class show before him, the mother yelling about her son’s debt. Nam-Gyu chuckles and tucks his hair behind his ears, getting it out of his face- his mind already elsewhere- this was more important than some out of place perfume he smelled in this weird place.

The second time he notices you, or takes note of you was when everyone, after shouting at the pink-suited guards for being drugged and stripped to be put in these track suits, was forced to watch the big screen in front of them.

Videos of various players flashed and illuminated the concrete room you all were in.

“Player 257…” the robotic voice sounded out. Nam-Gyu attempted to listen to the shitty backstory that played with the amount of debt you were in- he had to know who he was stuck with. Any bit of knowledge he had about the other strangers he was now in a room with would benefit him.

He couldn’t listen though, he was fixated on the pixelated screen showing the footage of you getting slapped by the same salesman he did. You have a determined, angry look on your face. It’s not complete despair and need like the other individuals that were just shown- no, your lip was caught between your teeth, your jaw was clenched and your shoulders were squared.

You were pretty, had a natural air of beauty around you. It was obvious you were run ragged and down on your luck, your eyes had dark circles that only a rough life and no sleep would create, but you still looked like a siren who was trying to lure a fisherman to his death- fierce eyes that fixated wholly on either the salesman (and in turn the camera that was hidden) or the ddakji on the ground.

It was a passing emotion, Nam-Gyu didn’t fall in love instantly it was simply a man admiring an attractive person. He probably would have forgotten about you entirely….that was until he saw you take a hit from the salesman.

The whole video lasted but 5 or so seconds, the guard rattling off your backstory and amount of debt, right before it cuts to the next player’s embarrassment ritual, you get slapped. Hard.

It’s violent enough to make the collective crowd gasp, it snaps your head to the side and stains your cheek with a red welt almost instantly. You don’t seem to flinch though, your hand doesn’t come up to cradle the burning injury like the many others before you. No, you’re slowly turning your head back to face the salesman, a new fire and anger in your eyes- one that was actually sort of terrifying- bending down to grab the ddakji, standing back up, and throwing the paper square harder at the ground, continuing the game without a second thought.

Now that piqued his interest. It wasn’t anything crazy, not something Nam-Gyu would find himself mulling over, but something that he would keep in the back of his mind for later.

The next interaction he had with you was the one that started his obsession with you. It was what made him realize he had to keep an eye on you.

When Nam-Gyu had found Thanos, bonding over their shared hatred of MG coin and cornering the man himself, he didn’t realize eyes were on them until the feeling of being watched became unbearable.

As Thanos threatened the scammer with another empty threat, a feeling he knows too well makes his body go ridged. Someone’s watching him, or the group of them. It hit him all at once, the feeling of being watched but also the feeling of knowing it had been going on long before he even noticed it.

He’s turning his head slightly, finding you almost immediately. You’re sitting on a bed, one knee pulled up to your chest, eyes trained on him, but more specifically MG shit-coin. He knows that look, a gaze of pure animosity and anger- you have something against this dweeb like they do.

You look like a tiger ready to pounce on its prey. Admittedly he didn’t care about why you seemed to hate the seem person he did- he didn’t have time for backstories, not when he and Thanos already had a collective 1,193,000,000 billion won in debt to this fucker- all he cared about was you you hated the same person he did.

With the way your foot was tapping anxiously against the bed and you were biting at your thumb nail like you were trying to hold yourself back from killing this crypto-scammer on the spot, Nam-Gyu surmised you were also strong, maybe could fight, but you at least looked like you could hold yourself own. You didnt seem like a liability if you became an ally. (He told himself the fact that you were attractive was simply a bonus when he’s trapped in this hell hole for an unknown amount of time).

He didn’t talk to you then, he just stared at you, enough to make you notice. When your eyes flicked from 333 to him, he grins at you. He gives you just enough time to see the smile, to know that he’s looking at you before he’s bringing his hand up to his mouth and turning back to Thanos and player 333, insulting him and backing up Thanos like he never left the conversation.

It threw you off, you weren’t expecting anyone to interact with you especially in such a way. He really doesn’t give you time to react properly either before he’s turning away and giving you a good view of the number plastered on the back of his jumpsuit, 124.

Much like him, now your interest was piqued, you had noticed him. You two had a same enemy. The way he fidgeted, kept stroking at his face with his veiny hands or tucking his hair behind his ears over and over - it was oddly attractive. Again, much like Nam-Gyu, you told yourself that was simply a minor benefit, some eye candy to get you through whatever the fuck this was.

Nam-Gyu loses you entirely when the entirety of the players are ushered out to the spiraling staircases, through the odd picture taken process and even though when everyone walked out into this strange fucking arena. He didn’t see you once and didn’t part from Thanos to look for you.

All players wandering in aimlessly, heads raised to the blistering sun and looking around the unfamiliar location, a field…with a large robot at the opposite end?

Red light, Green light. Easy enough. When the game starts, Nam-Gyu has completely forgotten about you. The game seems so juvenile there’s no need for teams or companions! Fuck he might not even need Thanos, He could get through this shit himself!

When everyone freezes after ‘red light’ and the first shot goes off people start realizing they should have listened to player 456- so the guy wasn’t crazy… Nam-Gyu is squeezing his eyes shut and freezing in place- hoping that his anxious, microscopic, jitters didn’t count as moving.

Shots ring out one after the other and he knows people keep running. Nam-Gyu is silently hoping you weren’t one of the people who were running towards death. He knows Thanos wouldn’t, he knows the purple haired junkie is probably in the exact same spot he’s in, hoping his jitters don’t get him killed. But you? He didn’t know you, he has a glimpse of who you might be.

It’s another ally that he would lose in this now life or death game. He needs allies.

He’s turning his eyes, making sure to not move his head searching for you. He smells the perfume before he sees you, finally realizing that perfume that had him so intrigued previously was coming from you. By some magnificent twist of fate, you’re just in his peripheral, just enough where he can see your hair and the slightest bit of your face.

You were alive. That’s what mattered to him. Given what the fuck just happened- he needs all the allies he can get- at least that’s what he tells himself.

‘Green Light!’

This was when Nam-Gyu knew you would be a good asset to he and Thanos’ group. You’re not sitting down, frozen and scared like some of the other players. You’re bolting upright and sprinting down the field. Hell, you’re practically hurdling over corpses without a care in the world. Nam-Gyu manages to keep in line with you, he didn’t even notice he was almost running a diagonal to get the slightest bit closer to you- he needed to know more about you.

It was also now that Nam-Gyu wished he wasn’t coming down off the lines he railed before getting thrown in here. He’s sweating, way too much, beads of sweat are running into his eyes. His body is shaking, he can’t even take stable steps.

With his body now aching for the next fix of something that it knew it would not get immediately- like it would outside the games- his senses are locking in on the next best thing, trying to get rid of the hammering need for whatever possible drug and replacing it with something else. Something readily available.

Your perfume.

When you ran past him, the air of your unique scent following behind him, the second he got another hit of the sent of you- it’s like he popped some pill. His vision that was hazy is suddenly back and he can take a breath that’s able to fill his lungs once more. If that’s what got him through this fucking nightmare of a child’s game, so fucking be it.

After faltering for the first few seconds of the round, Nam-Gyu is bolting upright and sprinting down the sanded field. When he’s running, he’s not even thinking about you- he’s thinking about surviving. When he passes you, watching you freeze before the pause was called he thinks you might be dumb. You’re wasting time! Maybe his idea of an ally was skewed by him thinking with his other head. If you end up dying in this game, that won’t affect him.

‘Red light!’

It comes far faster than he thinks and he’s mid stride, now broken with the sudden cessation of the go period, and about to fall down…Oh he’s so fucked, he’s so dead.

Nam-Gyu sucks in a breath, waiting for what’s to come, but he doesn’t hit the ground or get shot- no his wrist is caught in a vice like grip and there’s a tug at the back of his jacket.

It happens so fast, he’s practically deadlocked from the position he thought he was going to die in. leg half up, arms still out in a running position- he should have fallen, tripped and gotten shot.

From the angle he’s at he can’t see who his guardian angel was, but he sure can smell her.

You.

“How’d you-“ Nam-Gyu mutters, about to ask how you seemed to know when the ‘Red light’ was about to sound off before it happened.

“The eyes. Right before it calls red light, they jitter the same way every time.” You grumble through clenched teeth, barring all your weight in your heels to keep both you and him upright. He smells like cheap cigarettes and incense- it’s strangely nice.

‘Green light!’

Nam-gyu is hauled up right to a normal standing position, you’re shoving him forward with a ‘fucking go!’

Nam-Gyu should be appreciative, you did just save his life. Most of him wishes you didn’t save him though, it made him feel like he was indebted to you now. That’s how it was on his outside day to day life- you get your ass saved for doing something dumb? You’re most certainly the bitch of whoever just saved you until it’s repaid.

He doesn’t have time to mull it over, he’s falling in step and sprinting, you’ve both made it a little over half way now. The timer is ticking and all he keeps telling himself is he just has to make it out of this shit show and then he can re-evaluate his motives and game plan when he’s out of this alive.

A couple more rounds go by and he feels like his heart is closer and closer to jumping out of his chest with each one. He’s not sure how many times he goes through the repetitive game until he’s barreling to the end. With one final leap, he’s crossing into the safe area. He’s won.

By the time he makes it across the line, he’s falling over it so unceremoniously that he’s dropping to the sand in the ‘safe zone’ and running his face over his hands. Seriously, what the fuck did he get himself into.

‘Red light’

Nam-Gyu snaps to attention and looks around. Thanos is to his left, pupils blown and covered in blood- but alive. He turns right, no one else he notices. He doesn’t see you.

Turning back forward he sees you, frozen a couple feet from the finish line, down to the last couple seconds. Oh fuck, if saving him was the reason you died, that would surely fuck him up despite any attempt to say otherwise.

You have such a determined look on your face. You don’t appear like the others around you, afraid and shaking at the knees- the look of hope long gone from the pale faces. No, your eyes are narrowed, filled with an odd mix of fury and a primal fight or flight instinct that is most certainly fight. You’re honed in on a blank space of sand just to the right of Nam-Gyu.

‘Green light!’

With a final leap you’re propelling yourself forward across the finish line and diving into a summersault to block your fall- you weren’t even sure where you learned that, you’re just glad whatever innate ability you had came out to keep you from breaking a bone.

You come to a stop next to Nam-Gyu, chest heaving and eyes wide. You’re so close he can see the mix of emotions in your eyes- he watches as some part of you realize what truly happened. The carnage, the death, the impending threat of death; it floods your eyes as you stare out into the field littered with bodies. But just as soon as it showed up, it’s shrouded over by the same determination he just saw.

He doesn’t talk to you then either- he can’t even seem to form a thought that was coherent. He’s making his way next to Thanos and following orders to leave the field. He doesn’t search you out while everyone is climbing the stairs or when you all file into into the room you all woke up in.

He doesn’t have to try to search you out because somehow you are always in his line of sight by some sick twists of fate.

When the large piggy bank drops and begins to fill with money, he’s staring dumbfounded. Trying to grasp just what was going on, he’s looking aimlessly around the room, biting at his cheeks anxiously.

Nam-Gyu’s eyes land on you when he looks to a row of random bunks. Sitting much like you were when he realizes you had had a common enemy- your one leg is tucked up to your chest, your eyes piercing and focused on the money with a deep desire, your face splattered with blood.

He can practically see the various strategies you’re coming up with. Each new option you’re conjuring up he watches it flash over your eyes. It was about this time he begins to realize how messed up he may be. He liked the blood on your face and he did not care (or at least he’s telling himself that) that people had died during the game.

It was one thing to walk big-dicked out on the streets near Club Pentagon and say you couldn’t care if someone got killed and never experience it happening, but to be in the situation where someone’s life is a currency exchange that could benefit you, experiencing it…most would change their outlook and lose all resemblance of the apathetic person they claimed to be- but Nam-Gyu? He did not care if other people died to benefit him at this point, he wasn’t dumb- the more people that died meant more money. More money. Less debt.

He was on autopilot truly, some fucked up defense mechanism to keep him from realizing how bad his situation just might be.

His assumptions are confirmed when the pink guards being to explain the proper rules of the games. More people who die per game, the more money he could leave with when he made it out (he couldn’t think about the possibility of not making it out- that would mean he lost already.)

He keeps near Thanos, it’s someone he knows, maybe not well, but he’s familiar. Nam-Gyu wouldn’t admit it ever but with how Thanos was- so unfazed by death and almost ecstatic for more to come- he fed off of that. If Thanos wasn’t worried, he had no reason to be. Nam-Gyu wasn’t oblivious to who he was shadowing though, he knew that if it came to it Thanos would almost certainly kill him if it came down to it.

He needed someone else. Maybe someone more level headed and strategic….someone to give him a better chance at winning.

He’s remembering how you somehow managed to calculate the pattern of the doll statues eyes. That was pretty strategic. And you did technically save his life. Fuck. He didn’t want to, he truly wished he could forget you existed- he didn’t like how you managed to invade every fold of his brain. No matter how hard he tried, his thoughts came back to you. Nam-Gyu is telling himself its because of his drug ridden brain now longer having the sweet substances that would dull the yelling in his mind, that he’s not thinking straight.

Maybe if he could get Thanos to talk, he could get something for a quick fix and he wouldn’t even have to bother with approaching you- he seen the dudes pupils- he has to have something.

When voting commences you find yourself mulling over both options. The sane option would be to pick X, to leave whatever the fuck this hell hole is. But picking X would also mean you’d be going back to the same life that led you to be so down on your luck, run so ragged that you ended up here with an amount of money that wouldn’t even touch your debt.

Picking O would mean you’d have to go through more of these games. Sure, it seems they may all be based off kids games but after the carnage you saw- you knew better than to assume it would be easy. But, the longer you could survive, the more money you would have leaving. An amount that would end up accumulating to help your debt.

You had all the time in the world with the number ‘257’ strapped to your chest. You watch player after player go up and decide the course of this death game. After each person would press the button, a resounding beep coming afterwards, your eyes are flicking up to the score board and keeping a mental tally of how many other people need to vote.

“Player 124”

124? That was the one guy you saved, right?

Your assumption is confirmed when you see him walk up the wide isle to the podium. After seeing him for the first time, much like him (unknown to you), you have been keeping watch of him.

It’s common knowledge that survival is better in groups. But with where you are now- you had to pick wisely. Someone who would freeze up or even hesitate a second could cost you your life. Player 124 seemed to have a drive that only could make him continue. You’ve seen how he’s reacted to the death, to the money- he’s hooked. He has an almost innate need to proceed with the games, he needs the money as much as you. Player 124 could aide you.

When he presses the blue O, turning around and walking over to his chosen side- your decision was already made.

Player after player, numbers are called and each person chooses their fate. Your eyes flick between each sides number watching as the numbers get closer and closer together.

You see the boisterous purple haired man with ‘230’ plastered onto his back walk up the isle with a skip in his step and a psychotic grin on his face- you already know what he’s picking without even looking. After his choice, he’s filing in next to Nam-Gyu and they’re snickering like high school boys. You try to read their lips, trying to figure out what they may be saying.

Your feet move on their own when your number is called. You’re walking up the isle, feeling hundreds of eyes on you. When you make your way to the podium, you do hesitate. You’re staring at the glowing buttons and feeling your heart rate increase tenfold.

You’re pressing the blue button and moving away from the podium as soon as you hear the resounding beep of your selection. You can’t dwell on it. You can’t rethink it. What’s done is done and to mull it over would only cause you issues.

“Holy shit….” Thanos mumbles, fingers brushing his chin like he’s in deep thought, “didn’t think the fine Señorita would pick the winning side~” his voice is low as he whispers to Nam-Gyu.

Nam-Gyu scoffs, of course you were going to pick ‘O’, Thanos didn’t know you the way he did…well Nam-Gyu didn’t really know you either. But!!!! He still paid enough attention to you to know that you were going to continue the games.

“She was going to continue.” Nam-Gyu says, he means for it to come off non-chalant, to come off like some mysterious man who could pick apart every little part of someone off of micro expressions alone. It doesn’t come off that way, far from it. His tone is like he’s trying to fight with Thanos, to prove something to him.

Thanos laughs, eyes still following you as you begin to walk to the ‘O’ side. He loses you soon in the crowd. “What, Nam-Su? Ya know her? You got a lil crush or something??!? It’s funny you think you could handle someone like her.”

Nam-Gyu’s eye twitches, this dickbag still couldn’t get his name right and now he’s trying to make this some competition…some fucking competition to get a girl in some evil death games?! Was this what his life’s come to?!

“It’s Nam-Gyu. I literally fucking gave you vip at club pentagon on multiple-” speaking through gritted teeth and in a hissing tone, his words die out to a pathetic squeak when you’re pushing through the crowd and making direct eye contact with him.

It’s a slight moment of recognition, both of you realizing that you have some strange pull to each other whether either of you liked it or not. The moment hardly lasts a second before you’re falling in line just slightly in front of them, turning away to face the front much like the other players.

“Oh fuck yesssss~” Thanos groans silently, ripping his head back to the ceiling. He lolls his head to the side and leans into Nam-Gyu, “She felt the gravitational pull of the Thanos world I’m tellin ya. She’s not going to be able to resist me.”

Thanos moves to tap you on your shoulder- admittedly that’s what breaks all Nam-Gyu’s resolve. He’s not one to divulge in women or even think about relationships and it’s definitely not something that’s on his mind right now in the games. But, the idea of Thanos somehow talking you up, swooning you to be a little groupie for his shit rap career- Nam-Gyu couldn’t stand it.

Nam-Gyu elbows Thanos lightly, throwing him off and making the rapper stumble awkwardly. In the same second, Nam-Gyu is reaching in front of him and tugging at the back of jacket.

It pulls you back suddenly, you think you’re about to fall but you don’t- your back is crashing into something hard. A smirk forms on your face…so you wouldn’t have to be the one to talk to him first.

You set it up like this- you knew exactly who it was pulling you back. Given, you didn’t expect him to be so bold, and you’re not exactly sure what drove him to such a point but you weren’t going to complain.

“Why don’t you keep by me so I can repay you for saving my life, yeah?”

You smile, turning your head slightly so he could see your face just the slightest bit. “You gonna throw me away once you repay me ‘n get even?”

Smart girl, he thought. He laughs lowly, still facing forward and up to watch the votes numbers rise, “I have a feeling even if I wanted to, you wouldn’t allow that.”

“Aren’t you smart~” you coo, falling in line next to him finally, shoulder to shoulder. A moment of silence falls over you two, both of you smiling like idiots, finding an odd comfort in the presence of each other. (hey, whatever gets you through this).

When you’re this close to him, he can really smell the perfume that’s been clouding his mind since he got here. It’s ambery and sweet like before, but there’s an underlying scent of something he can’t pick out. It reminds him of some time when he was young- the air felt cleaner and the sun was brighter. It was floral, reminding him of the flowers that would be outside the flower shop that was along his way when he’d walk himself to school when he was 5. It’s almost overwhelmingly calming.

“Nam-Gyu.”

“Huh?” You’re turning to him, looking up confused. He doesn’t turn towards you, he keeps his head forward.

Rocking on his heels and fidgeting with the rings on his fingers he’s speaking again, “Nam-Gyu. ‘S my name.”

“Nam-Gyu…” you repeat, facing back forward, trying his name out on your tongue.

It’s weird, hearing his name correctly for the first time since he got here. Especially coming from you. The way you say it sounds so sweet, like it was meant to come from your mouth.

When you say your name, simply put with no other explanation, much like how he said his, it’s sealing the pact you two silently put in place. You two were a team now. If he was getting out of here, it was gonna do it with you. He had to repay his debt to you somehow.

Hiiii!!!! If you made it this far, thank you for reading!!! I’m sorry for the couple days of no posts, I’ve had a horrible week at work! I’m working hard to keep my writing up and get things out for yall !! - love kiwi

Taglist: @namsgyu @nuttybeans @namgyucat @g1rlonthe3internet @reilapse @yuuumeee

[luxerians]

The Last Mask (01)

Hwang In-ho/Oh Young-il/Player 001 x Reader

Chapter 01 - An Invitation

Story Masterlist

NEXT : Chapter 02

In the dead of night, when most people were asleep, you found yourself running for your life. Your heart pounded violently as you sprinted through the poorly lit alleys. Every turn, every makeshift obstacle you created, failed to shake your pursuers. Their voices cut through the stillness:

“How long do you think you can keep this up?” one of them roared.

“You can’t hide forever, you bitch!” another spat, their words seething with anger.

You didn’t dare glance back. Fear propelled you forward, your mind singularly focused on escape. The narrow alleys, illuminated by flickering streetlights, offered little comfort. You weaved around piles of garbage and shoved a loose dumpster into their path, hoping to buy precious seconds.

But as you rounded a sharp corner, your heart sank. A loan shark was already there, standing in preparation. His eyes locked onto you, and before you could react, his hands gripped you with crushing force.

You screamed and fought to free yourself, but he slammed you to the ground. The rough concrete bit into your skin, and the acrid stench of the alley filled your nose. Panic surged as you writhed beneath his weight.

The others arrived moments later, their pounding footsteps signaling your doom. Their faces were shadows of fury and determination as they descended on you. Hands clamped around your arms and legs, pinning you in place despite your frantic attempts to break free. You kicked, clawed, and twisted, but their grip was unyielding.

“Stop struggling, or we’ll make this worse for you,” one growled, tightening his hold on your arm.

Pain flared through your limbs, but desperation kept you fighting. With one arm freed, you acted on instinct. Your hand dove into the pocket of your trench coat, fingers curling around the cold, heavy handle of the gun you had hidden there.

Shaking, you pulled it out and aimed blindly, squeezing the trigger.

The gunshot shattered the night, its sharp crack echoing off the brick walls. The men holding you jerked back, their grip loosening. You didn’t hesitate. You fired again. And again.

The loan sharks stumbled away in shock, their expressions frozen in disbelief. Some fell immediately, clutching at wounds, while others tried to flee. You kept firing, your trembling hands barely able to control the recoil. The alley became a chaotic blur of noise and motion until the gun’s chamber clicked, empty.

When the chaos subsided, the silence was deafening. You stood amidst the bodies, your chest heaving, your grip on the gun tight. Blood pooled around you, glistening in the faint light, mixing with the filth of the alley. The gun, once a tool of desperation, now felt unbearably heavy in your hands.

In the distance, the wail of sirens began to rise, faint but growing louder. The sound jolted you back to reality. There was no time to think, no time to process what you had done. You had to get out of there.

With a shaky breath, you forced your legs to move. One step, then another, until you were stumbling forward. Exhaustion clawed at you, but you couldn’t stop. Not now. Not when you had a little sister to take care of. You had to keep running. You had to survive.

You managed to flee before the cops arrived. Once you were on the crowded streets of Myeongdong, you tried to act normal and blend in with the bustling crowd. The neon lights and chatter of street vendors offered some cover, but your heart still raced. You tucked the gun deeper into the pocket of your trench coat, making sure its outline wasn’t visible.

You spotted the entrance to the subway station and quickly descended the stairs. The air down there was damp and heavy, filled with the faint hum of trains in the distance. You stood against the tiled wall, and scanned your surroundings. Nobody seemed to be watching you. No signs of the loan sharks, no suspicious figures lurking nearby. For the first time in hours, you allowed yourself a small, shaky breath.

Minutes passed, and just as you started to relax, a presence appeared beside you. You flinched, your body going stiff as if a jolt of electricity had shot through you. Your eyes darted to the side, and you saw him. A man in a crisp, tailored suit. His hair was neatly combed, his shoes polished to a shine. He looked out of place in the dingy subway station, like he had just stepped out of a boardroom. But it wasn’t his appearance that unsettled you. It was his smile. Calm and knowing, as if he’d just uncovered a secret you thought was buried.

“I apologize for startling you,” he said, his voice smooth and measured. “Are you alright?”

You stared at him, your suspicion immediate. Why was this stranger talking to you? What did he want? You said nothing, your silence deliberate. His smile didn’t falter.

“You seem like someone who could use some help,” he continued. His tone was casual, but there was an edge to it, a certainty that made you uneasy. “I have a proposition for you.”

Your shoulders tensed, but curiosity won over your hesitation. “What do you want?”

He reached into his pocket, and you stiffened, but all he pulled out was a square piece of folded red paper. It was a simple Ddakji tile.

“Ddakji game,” he said. “If you win, I’ll give you 10,000 won. If I win, I get to slap you, unless you can pay me 10,000 won. Simple, isn’t it?”

You blinked, taken aback. Of all the things he could have said, this was the last you expected. You wanted to laugh, to ask if he was joking, but his expression told you he wasn’t. The idea was ridiculous, but so was your situation. You were desperate.

“Why this all of a sudden?” you asked, though your resolve was already cracking. The man’s smile widened slightly.

“Because you need the money,” he said plainly, as if reading your thoughts. “And because I think you enjoy a little risk.”

He then pulled out a second one – a blue tile this time – from his pocket. He held the two of them up, waiting for your response. Your mind raced. You had no idea who this man was or why he was doing this, but he was right about one thing: you needed the money. And if losing meant nothing worse than a slap, it felt like a gamble worth taking.

You nodded. “Okay.”

The man nodded to the two tiles. “Choose one.”

You pressed your lips in a thin line before you took the blue tile. It felt heavier than it should. It felt like a proper Ddakji tile, not the D-I-Y one people usually made on a whim. Does he carry these everywhere?

He tossed the other tile onto the floor and stepped back.

“You go first,” he said, gesturing to the tile on the ground.

You crouched down, gripping the Ddakji tile tightly. You’d played this game as a kid, but that felt like a lifetime ago. Now, it felt like everything hinged on this one throw. Taking a deep breath, you raised your hand and slammed the tile down with all your strength.

But it wasn’t enough. The Ddakji tile on the floor barely moved, let alone flipped. You sighed, feeling a mix of frustration and embarrassment as the man’s smile widened.

“A pity. Looks like it’s my turn,” he said, stepping forward and picking up his red tile. From then on, you decided to call him Mr. Suit in your mind as it seemed fitting for someone so strange yet composed.

Mr. Suit crouched down and adjusted his stance before slamming his Ddakji tile onto the ground. The impact was sharp and precise, flipping the tile on the floor with ease. You braced yourself as he stood, stepping closer to you.

Your heartbeat quickened. You squeezed your eyes shut, ready for the slap. But instead, you felt a light slap on your cheek. Surprised, you opened your eyes to see him grinning at you, his expression playful.

“Why do you look so surprised?” he asked teasingly. “I wouldn’t be rough on such a pretty face.”

Your cheeks instantly turned red. The compliment caught you off guard, a stark reminder of how long it had been since anyone had said something even remotely flattering to you. Years of overworking had left little room for anything else, let alone romantic experiences. You tried to shake off the flustered feeling, but it lingered.

“Let’s keep going,” he said, handing you your blue tile.

The game continued, and you focused hard on each throw, determined not to lose again. To your surprise, you managed to win a few rounds. With each victory, Mr. Suit handed over crisp bills, his demeanor as calm and collected as ever. By the time you’d played several rounds, you had earned a total of 70,000 won.

In the end, he handed you a card. The card was simple and it consisted of three different shapes with a phone number behind it.

“If you’re interested in more opportunities like this,” he said, “give it a call.”

You looked at the card, then back at him, unsure what to make of the situation. But before you could say anything, he tipped an imaginary hat, turned, and disappeared into the growing crowd, leaving you standing in the subway station in confusion.

You clutched the money and the card tightly, your mind racing with questions. Who was that man? And are there really other opportunities like that? Play a game and you get money? You thought.

You stared at the card for what felt like hours. Its plain design and embossed text had your full attention, though your mind was elsewhere. The same thoughts churned in your head during the train ride home, as you sat in silence with the card in your hand. Even when you finally made it back to your small apartment, you kept looking at it, the questions still swirling.

“Sis, you’re back!” a cheerful voice broke through your haze. Your twelve-year-old sister, Ji-yoo, came bounding into the room. She was all smiles, her hair tied into uneven pigtails. Despite the struggles you both faced, she always managed to stay positive.

“Oh, Ji-yoo,” you said, slipping the card into your pocket and forcing a smile. “How’s school today?”

“Today was fun!” she chirped, her grin widening. “I even learned a new game at school! It’s called Tuho. You’re good at it, right?”

You chuckled. “I do a little. Why?”

“Because I like it!” she said, dragging you toward the small dining table. “My friend showed me how it’s done and I thought it looks fun! Maybe you could teach me. Please?”

Her excitement was hard to resist. “Okay, I’ll teach you but first, help me take out the flowers in the plastic vase in my room. We don’t have a Tuho tong so that will do. For the arrows, we will use chopsticks.”

Ji-yoo’s eyes sparkled in excitement. “Okay!”

For the next hour, you taught her the basics of Tuho. Her laughter filled the room every time she failed to throw the chopsticks into the vase. For a little while, you forgot about the card and the stress weighing on your shoulders. Ji-yoo’s joy was infectious, and you found yourself genuinely enjoying the game.

When the evening grew late, you cooked dinner for the both of you, helped her with her homework and sent her to bed.

“Sis, are we going to visit mom and dad tomorrow?” she asked out of the blue as you pulled her blanket over her chest.

You smiled at her. “Yes, Ji-yoo. After your school, okay?”

Ji-yoo’s smile widened. “Okay! Good night, sis.”

“Sweet dreams, Ji-yoo.”

Once the apartment was quiet, the weight of reality returned. You sat on the edge of your bed and pulled the card out again. It felt heavier now, the simple embossed text almost daring you to act.

Was it really possible? Could you earn money just by playing games? The idea seemed absurd, but then again, so was the day you’d just had. You turned the card over in your hand, staring at the number like it might reveal some hidden secret.

The questions kept you awake long into the night, the card clutched tightly in your hand.

You decided to ignore the card for now. Life had to go on, and you couldn’t afford to be distracted. Your day after that evening returned to their usual grind – two part-time jobs and a constant, gnawing vigilance. You kept a close eye on your surroundings, scanning for any suspicious men. The image of the loan sharks still haunted you, and you knew they wouldn’t let the events in that alley slide. You had killed their men, and there would be consequences.

That late afternoon, you were standing outside Ji-yoo’s school, waiting as the last of the students spilled out into the crisp afternoon air. The playground buzzed with kids laughing and parents chatting. You spotted her instantly. Ji-yoo’s face lit up when she saw you, and she waved wildly, her tiny backpack bouncing with every step as she ran to you.

“Sis!” she yelled, crashing into your arms.

You hugged her. “How was school today?”

She pulled back, grinning. “We learned about space! Did you know Jupiter has sixty-seven moons?”

“Wow, sixty-seven?” you replied, feigning astonishment. “That’s so many, it’s like a whole moon party up there.”

Ji-yoo giggled, slipping her hand into yours as the two of you walked toward the bus stop. She chattered the entire way and you were grateful for it. It gave you something else to focus on, even if just for a moment.

The hospital loomed ahead as you approached. It wasn’t an unfamiliar sight those days. Ji-yoo’s steps slowed as you neared the entrance, her grip on your hand tightening. She glanced up at you.

“Are they feeling better today?” she asked softly.

“We’ll see,” you said, squeezing her hand. “But they’ll be happy to see us, for sure.”

Inside, the air smelled of antiseptic and faintly of something floral, like someone had tried to mask the sterility with fake cheerfulness. You navigated the corridors with practiced ease, nodding at nurses you had come to recognize. When you reached their room, you hesitated for a heartbeat before pushing the door open.

Your dad was asleep, his chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. The sight of him so still sent a pang through you. Faint bruises marked his cheeks and jaw, their muted colors a haunting reminder of what he’d endured. He’d always been the strong one, the one who could fix anything. Now, he looked so fragile.

Your mom, on the other hand, was awake. Her face brightened the moment she saw you both, though faint bruises shadowed her cheekbones and forehead, the discoloration stark against her pale skin.

“Oh, my girls!” she exclaimed, holding out her arms.

Ji-yoo didn’t need to be told twice. She let go of your hand and rushed to her side, throwing her arms around her as carefully as she could.

“Mommy, look! I brought you a picture I drew in class,” Ji-yoo said, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from her bag.

Your mom took it with a smile, studying the scribbled stars and planets. “It’s beautiful, sweetheart. You’re going to be an artist one day.”

Ji-yoo beamed, settling into the chair beside her. You stayed back for a moment, letting them have their moment. Then your mom’s gaze shifted to you, her smile softening.

“Come here,” she said, patting the space beside her on the bed.

You sat down, careful not to disturb the IV line taped to her arm. She took your hand in hers, her fingers cool and fragile.

“How are you, really?” she asked, her voice low enough that Ji-yoo, now engrossed in pulling the white strands from your sleeping father, didn’t hear.

You knew exactly what she was asking. Her question was about everything. Your health, how your day went, and also about the debts. The loan sharks. The weight you’d been carrying alone.

“I’m okay,” you said, keeping your voice steady.

Her eyes searched yours, not quite believing you. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know.”

“I’ve got it under control,” you lied, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. “You just focus on getting better. That’s what matters.”

“I know this treatment must be expensive,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “How are you going to pay this too?”

You hesitated, knowing she wasn’t wrong. “It’s not something you need to worry about, mom.”

Her grip on your hand tightened slightly. “Don’t lie to me. I know you’re struggling. With the bills, the loans… everything.”

You sighed. “I’m managing. It’s hard, but I’ll figure it out.”

“Figuring it out isn’t enough,” she pressed. “I don’t want you to do anything rash. No matter what, don’t sell your body.”

You nodded. “I know, mom. I could find money in many other ways than that. I just have to… work hard. It takes time. Right now, what matters is you and dad getting better. Don’t worry too much about me.”

She studied your face for a long moment before nodding slowly. The worry didn’t leave her eyes, but she didn’t push further.

Before she could say more, Ji-yoo’s laughter filled the room, drawing both of your attention. Your dad was awake now, a faint smile tugging at his chapped lips as Ji-yoo animatedly pointed to her drawing.

You took a deep breath, letting the moment wash over you. For now, it was enough to be there, together. The rest – the debts, the threats, the impossible weight – could wait until tomorrow or so on.

Two days passed without incident. Then, on a night like any other, you finished your shift at the convenience store and headed home. The walk back to your cramped apartment was quiet. The streets were empty, and for a moment, you let yourself believe you were safe. But the unease in your chest never really went away.

When you got home, something felt off. An envelope was waiting on the floor, just inside the door. Ji-yoo’s soft humming floated from her room, unaware of your arrival or the tension that gripped you. You bent down, picked up the envelope, and tore it open.

Inside were printed images on small sheets of paper. The sight hit you like a punch. It was you, captured in the dark alley that night – firing shots, bodies crumpling, blood pooling beneath them. The photos were grainy but damning.

Your hands shook as you unfolded the letter that came with them. The words were typed, cold and deliberate:

“You owe us. Pay up, or face the consequences. Here are your options: We report you to the police and let you explain these photos. Or we come to collect you ourselves. If that doesn’t motivate you, consider this: your little sister might just inherit your debt. She seems like a strong girl. We’re sure she’d manage.”

Your stomach churned. It wasn’t just a threat. It was a promise. They knew where you lived. They knew about Ji-yoo.

The envelope slipped from your hands, landing on the floor. Ji-yoo’s humming continued, light and carefree, completely unaware of the storm brewing in your chest. You clenched your fists, forcing yourself to breathe. You had to think. You had to act. Most of all, you had to protect her.

Mr. Suit’s words came back to you. He had promised a way out – earn money just by playing games. At the time, it sounded absurd, but now, it felt like your only option. The debt, the threats, all of it had consumed your life. You couldn’t let it take Ji-yoo too.

After dinner, you waited until Ji-yoo was busy with her homework. She sat at the small table, humming softly as she worked. Once you were sure she wouldn’t interrupt, you went to your room and locked the door. The card was in your pocket. You pulled it out and stared at the number on the back. Your hands trembled as you dialed.

The phone rang twice before someone picked up.

“Hello,” a calm, measured voice answered.

You swallowed hard. “I… got your card a couple of days ago.”

There was a brief pause. “Do you wish to participate in the game?”

“Yes,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“If you wish to participate, please state your name and birthdate.”

 “It’s [Your Name]. I was born on [Your Birthdate].”

“Understood. Tomorrow night, at midnight, be at the bus stop near XXXX. A vehicle will pick you up.”

The call ended abruptly, leaving you sitting there in silence. The phone slipped from your hand, and you stared at the floor. Whatever you had signed up for, there was no turning back now.

The next morning (Saturday), you decided to spend the day with Ji-yoo. When you told her, her face lit up with excitement. It was rare for the two of you to have a day together, and she practically bounced around the apartment, planning everything she wanted to do.

You spent the morning playing games, watching her favorite shows, and laughing at her silly jokes. For a while, it felt normal. The weight on your shoulders lifted just enough to let you breathe.

As the sun began to set, you knew it was time. You sat Ji-yoo down on the couch, your heart heavy.

“Ji-yoo,” you said softly, trying to keep your voice steady. “I need to go away for a little while.”

Her small face twisted in confusion. “Why? Where are you going?”

You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “I have something important I need to take care of. It might take some time, but I need you to stay with Aunt Min-hee for a while. She’ll make sure you’re safe and taken care of.”

Ji-yoo’s eyes filled with questions, but she simply nodded. “Okay. But you’ll come back, right?”

Your chest ached at her quiet acceptance. You pulled her into a tight hug, holding her like you never wanted to let go. “Of course I’ll come back. I promise. And when I do, I want to hear about all the new things you’ve learned, alright?”

She sniffled against your shoulder, then nodded. “Alright.”

You leaned back, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You are a good girl, Ji-yoo.”

Whatever came next, you’d face it head-on. For her and for your parents.

NEXT : Chapter 02

Story Masterlist

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[slvbum]

CRUSH ♡ Rafe Cameron!

Content WARNING: Rafe Cameron x Stalker!Reader, stalking, drugging, kidnapping, manipulation, and threats of violence, unhealthy and dangerous behavior

She had developed a crush on Rafe that had metastasised into an all-consuming obsession, a dark vine twisting around her heart until it choked out reason. It began with that fleeting moment in the grocery store two years ago, his careless smirk, the way his fingers brushed hers when he handed her that jar of honey. For her, it was fate, a spark that ignited a fire she’d never extinguish. Now, lying flat beneath his bed, her breath shallow, her pulse a fevered drum, she felt alive in a way only he could make her. The cold hardwood pressed against her back, the faint musk of his cedar-and-salt cologne curling into her lungs like a drug. Her manicured fingers clutched a syringe of ketamine—swiped from her father’s stash. She was done waiting for Rafe to see her. 

Tonight, she’d make him hers.

Her obsession had spiraled that morning at the beach club, where she’d poured every ounce of her charm into asking him out. She’d approached him at the bar.

“Rafe,” she’d purred, voice like velvet, “wanna grab dinner tonight? Just you and me.” Her heart had thrummed with anticipation, expecting his blue eyes to light up with recognition. Instead, he’d leaned back, beer in hand, and squinted at her like she was a stranger.

“Do I know you?” he’d said, his tone flat, almost bored. “Look, I don’t do random dates with people I don’t know. Pass.”

No warmth, no lingering glance... just a dismissal that stabbed her like a blade. She’d frozen, her smile cracking, her eyes darkening as rage and humiliation coiled in her chest. He didn’t remember her. He didn’t see her. She’d stormed off, heels clicking, her mind a whirlwind of vengeance and need.

All day, she’d stalked him. She’d watched him at the gym, his sweat-slicked shoulders flexing under the weights, her breath hitching as she snapped photos through her car’s tinted windows. She’d lingered outside Tannyhill when he ate lunch with Topper, her camera capturing his laugh. At the pier, she’d stood in the shadows, her heart aching as he scrolled his phone alone, oblivious to her worship. Every moment he didn’t notice her fueled her fury, and her hunger. By nightfall, she’d slipped into Tannyhill through an unlocked side door, her body trembling with purpose. Now, under his bed, she counted his breaths.

She waited patiently, her heart pounding so loud she feared he’d hear it. When his breathing deepened, she slid out, silent as a specter. He lay sprawled, one arm flung over his face, his chest rising and falling. Her gaze devoured him, the sharp cut of his jaw, the faint stubble, the way his shirt rode up to expose a sliver of toned abdomen. Desire and possession surged through her, a heady mix that made her dizzy. She straddled his chest and plunged the syringe into his neck. His eyes snapped open, a choked “What—” escaping before his body went limp, his blue eyes rolling back. A thrill shot through her, electric and intoxicating. He was hers now.

Dragging him was a nightmare. Rafe’s six-foot frame, all lean muscle, was dead weight. Her sneakers skidded on the hardwood as she hauled him down the stairs, his boots thumping against each step. Her arms burned, her breath ragged, but the pain only sharpened her focus. She’d prepared her basement, a soundproofed bunker from her father’s paranoid days, with a chair bolted to the floor, zip ties, and a duffel bag of tools. Binding him, she felt a rush of power, her sweat mingling with the jasmine on her skin. She changed into a white dress that clung to her curves, and waited. The drive-in movie was tonight... their night.

When Rafe stirred, his head lolled, a groan rumbling deep in his throat. “The fuck…”

His eyes widened as he took in the concrete walls, the dim bulb swinging overhead, and her standing before him, radiant and unhinged.

“Who the hell are you?” he slurred, yanking at the zip ties, his biceps straining, veins bulging under his skin. Panic and fury warred in his expression, but there was something else, confusion. It made her pulse race how he wasn't even scared.

She crouched, her smile a mix of adoration and menace.

“It’s me. From the grocery store, remember? You got me that honey.” Her voice was syrupy. “And—You hurt me today, Rafe. You were so mean when all I wanted was just a date…”

“Fucking crazy,” he manage to mutter, still dizzy from the drugs. “Let me go, you psycho bitch—” His words cut off as she slapped him, her nails leaving red streaks on his cheek. The crack echoed, and she felt a jolt of satisfaction, her skin flushing with heat.

“Don’t call me that,” she hissed, her face inches from his, her breath mingling with his. “You’re mine, Rafe. You just don’t know it yet.” She pulled a switchblade from her duffel, twirling it so the blade glinted. “Say you’ll come, or I start cutting. Please, just a date…” Her voice was calm, but her heart thundered, a mix of rage and longing. She needed him to say yes, to choose her.

Rafe’s jaw clenched, his eyes darting to the blade, then her face. He was a Cameron, but her gaze, devoid of anything human, made his stomach twist. Fear gripped him, cold and unfamiliar, but there was something else, a dark spark. She was worse than him, her derangement a mirror to his own chaos, and it… fuck, it stirred something in him. Her power was terrifying and magnetic, a pull he couldn’t fully deny.

“Fine,” he growled, his pride choking him, his voice laced with defiance and dread. “I’ll go. Put the damn knife down.”

Her smile was radiant, as if he’d proposed under starlight.

“Good boy,” she purred, cutting the zip ties. The drugs still dulled his strength, and her warning was a blade at his back: “Try anything, and I’ll carve your family apart. Wheezie first.”

The drive-in movie was her twisted dream, a warped vision of romance under the stars. The screen flickered with a retro slasher flick, blood and screams filling the night as they sat in her cherry-red convertible, the top down, the air thick with her jasmine perfume.

“Isn’t this perfect?” she murmured, her voice dripping with adoration, her heart soaring. To her, they were a couple, their chemistry electric, their future written in the stars.

Rafe was a caged animal, his body radiating tension as he pressed himself against the passenger door, his shoulder practically welded to the frame. Rage churned in his chest, his heart pounding with every unwanted touch. Her fingers on his thigh felt like a brand, invasive and suffocating, and he swatted them away, his hand trembling with barely contained fury.

“Hands off me,” he snapped, his voice low and venomous, his blue eyes blazing with disgust. “Fucking delusional.”

The rest of the movie was a torturous dance. Every touch sent a jolt of revulsion through him, his body rigid as he flinched away. His skin crawled, his pulse racing with a mix of fear, anger, and that shameful fascination. She was relentless, her hand grazing his thigh again, her chatter incessant.

“What a wonderful first date,” she said, oblivious to his scowl, her voice bubbling with joy. “We’ll have so many more. And you’ll see how good we are together.”

He didn’t respond, his eyes fixed on the screen, blood and screams blurring as his mind raced, plotting an escape, grappling with the sick pull of her derangement. He hated her, but her attitude was a mirror to his own darkness, and it… fuck, it haunted him.

When the credits rolled, she drove them to her mansion. On her doorstep, under the glow of a wrought-iron lantern, she turned to him, her eyes gleaming with triumph. Her heart soared, she’d won, she’d claimed him. Before he could react, she grabbed his face, her nails digging into his jaw, and kissed him. Her lips were fierce, possessive, her tongue pushing past his defenses, tasting of cherry lip gloss. Rafe stood rigid, his hands hovering, not touching her, his body screaming to pull away but paralyzed by her threats. The kiss was a violation, a claim, and it left him reeling—furious, and, God help him, he like it. Her derangement was a drug, and he was caught in its undertow.

She broke away, her breath hot against his ear as she whispered, “If you tell anyone, I’ll slaughter the Cameron name. Sarah, Wheezie—gone. And I’ll make you watch.” 

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ©slvbun(m) — written with love.

[diamonddaze01]

for your drabble game.. n what if i say.. minghao + “Look, I don’t have much time, but I wanted to say I love you.” 🤲

run

pairing: minghao x reader | wc: 1.3k prompt: "Look, I don’t have much time, but I wanted to say I love you." au: apocalypse au | warnings: injuries, mentions of death a/n: KAEEE!!!! n what if i sob while writing this

The sky burned with an unnatural orange hue, streaked with ash and smoke. The once-familiar cityscape was a jagged graveyard of broken steel and crumbled concrete. Sirens had long since stopped blaring; now there was only the oppressive hum of silence punctuated by the distant groans of collapsing structures. The world as you’d known it was over—reduced to a fragile shadow of its former self. The acrid tang of fire and metal clung to the back of your throat, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. The ruins of the city stretched endlessly around you, but you pushed forward, your legs carrying you through the jagged remains of what used to be streets.

It started with the storms. The scientists called it climate destabilization gone critical, but the rest of the world just called it a death sentence. Storm surges wiped out entire coasts; hurricanes battered inland cities that had never prepared for them. The earthquakes came next, splitting open the earth and throwing molten fire into the skies, turning the air poisonous in ways even the best respirators couldn’t filter. By the time the floods came, there wasn’t much left to save.

Governments fell. Supply chains crumbled. People turned on one another in desperation as they fought for dwindling resources. The remaining factions—militarized groups claiming to protect what little remained—were as much a danger as the unrelenting disasters themselves.

You and Minghao had survived the worst of it by sheer luck. Together, you’d fled from one decimated city to the next, avoiding the lawless territories and the groups who demanded loyalty in exchange for safety. He was the reason you were still alive—quick-thinking, sharp-eyed, always calm under pressure when everything else felt like it was unraveling.

You could still remember the first time you’d met. Minghao had been patching up his own leg in the corner of an abandoned supply truck, his face pale but resolute. You’d stumbled in, out of breath and armed with a crowbar, only to stop short when you saw him sitting there like he’d been waiting for you. He hadn’t flinched, hadn’t even looked scared, just tilted his head and raised an eyebrow like he was daring you to try something.

“You don’t look like a soldier,” he’d said after a long moment, his voice steady despite the blood dripping down his shin.

“And you don’t look like you’re winning that fight,” you’d shot back, lowering the crowbar just enough to show you weren’t a threat. That was how it began—two strangers thrown together by circumstance, learning to survive together in a world that didn’t want them to.

You weren’t sure when the bond between you had shifted. Maybe it was during those late nights spent keeping watch for raiders, when his quiet presence made the crushing loneliness bearable. Or maybe it was the day he’d handed you the last of his water ration without saying a word, his eyes meeting yours like he knew you wouldn’t let him give it up without a fight. Slowly, without either of you acknowledging it outright, Minghao had become your anchor. The one thing you could count on when everything else felt like it was slipping away.

Now, as you ran through the remains of what used to be your home, all that history burned in the back of your mind. The thought of losing him was a weight you couldn’t bear, one that pushed you forward even as your lungs burned and your legs threatened to give out.

The memory of his calm, steady voice over the radio replayed in your head—I’ll meet you at the east corner of the tower. Just wait for me there. But the tower had collapsed before you’d even made it halfway. Now, it was nothing but rubble and twisted steel, and you were running blind.

You stumbled over debris, your knees buckling, but you caught yourself before you hit the ground. A sharp pain flared in your palms as you pushed up, but it barely registered. The only thought screaming in your mind was Find him.

You didn’t know when you’d started crying—your tears cut clean tracks down your soot-streaked face. Minghao always said you were stubborn. That you didn’t know when to quit. He’d said it with a soft smirk the first time you’d refused to leave his side during a raid. That was months ago, back when there was still hope that things could get better. Back when the two of you still believed survival wasn’t just an instinct but a purpose.

Now, hope felt like a luxury you couldn’t afford.

A shape moved through the smog ahead, a shadow cutting through the chaos. Your heart seized.

“Minghao!”

He turned at the sound of your voice, his silhouette becoming clearer with every step you took. His clothes were tattered, his hair matted with soot and sweat, and a thin cut ran down his cheek, blood drying against his skin. But it was him. It was him.

You crashed into him with enough force to knock the wind out of both of you, your arms wrapping tightly around his waist. His body was warm and solid beneath your grip, and you could feel his chest rising and falling rapidly as he held you just as fiercely.

“I’m fine,” he said quickly, his voice firm but edged with exhaustion. His hands shifted to your face, tilting it up so he could inspect you. His eyes flickered over you, taking in the soot and dirt streaked across your skin, the tears still fresh on your cheeks. “Are you okay? Did you get hurt?”

“I’m fine,” you echoed, though your voice cracked as you said it. You searched his face for any sign of injury beyond the gash on his cheek, your fingers brushing over his jacket as if to reassure yourself he was still solid and whole. “I thought—when the tower collapsed, I thought—”

“I know,” he interrupted softly, his forehead pressing against yours. His breath was warm and steady, grounding you. “I’m here. I’m okay.”

But even as he said it, the ground beneath you trembled again, a low groan echoing from the skeleton of a nearby building. Time was slipping away faster than you could grasp it, and yet Minghao didn’t move to run. Instead, he pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his expression unreadable.

“Look,” he said, his voice firmer now. “I don’t have much time, but I need to say this.”

“Minghao, we have to go—”

“I love you.”

The words stopped you cold. For a moment, the chaos around you seemed to fade, leaving only the weight of his voice and the intensity of his gaze. Your chest tightened, the air hitching in your throat.

“Don’t,” you said, shaking your head as tears welled in your eyes again. “Don’t talk like that. Nothing’s going to happen. We’re getting out of this.”

“I mean it,” he insisted, his hands steady on your arms. “If something does—”

“Stop.” Your hands gripped the front of his jacket, clutching at him like you could anchor him to you, like sheer willpower alone could keep him safe. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

His lips twitched, not quite a smile, but close enough to break your heart. “You’re so stubborn,” he murmured, his forehead pressing against yours. “But that’s why I know you’ll make it.”

“Not without you,” you shot back, your voice trembling. “We’re getting out of this together. I’m not leaving without you.”

His fingers brushed against your jaw, a fleeting moment of tenderness that felt cruel in its fragility. “Together, then,” he said, as though saying it aloud would make it true.

Another tremor rippled through the earth, the sound of crumbling concrete roaring around you. Minghao’s grip shifted, his hand sliding down to intertwine with yours, firm and steady.

“Run,” he said.

And this time, you did. The world was ending, but in that moment, with his hand in yours, it felt like there was still something worth saving.

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