#Overhead Line Monitoring

[woniwontons]

DEAD END I bob reynolds x OC! reader | CHAPTER ONE

summary: after being assigned to monitor bob reynolds’ recovery inside the new avengers tower, you try to keep your fears hidden. but between quiet training sessions and unsettling therapy logs, you start to realize he’s watching you more than he should—and that something inside him never stops whispering.

word count: 4.7K

warnings: psychological thriller, inaccurately depicted mental illness, emotional manipulation (by void), nightmares, slow burn, possessive themes, combat violence, unreliable realities, hallucinations, this one is gonna be slow-paced but i promise it'll be worth it, sorry for any formatting issues, i switched between my phone & laptop writing this

LINK FOR PART TWO

You hadn’t meant to walk by that room on the way to your new office.

The reassignment orders had come through two days ago. They were sparse in detail, not revealing much of anything except for your new title. Your supervisor’s tone had said more than the written briefing did: this wasn’t just a regular high-risk case.

But you were used to things being complicated.

You’d spent the last year assisting with the Winter Soldier’s support team. Trauma. Suppressed memories. You’d seen a lot.

Regardless, this felt much, much different.

The hallways were sterile and silent, a little too quiet for a facility that usually buzzed with motion, even at night. The lights overhead were dimmed, flickering slightly. The ventilation hummed as the cool breeze of the AC grazed your skin.

You weren’t nervous until the echo of your footsteps felt louder.

Until you realized how alone you were.

And that’s when you felt the presence of the door.

You couldn’t seem to take another step past it.

It was identical to every other reinforced room on this level. It had smooth steel edges, embedded biometric locks, a security panel with soft pulsing light. But the air around it felt different.

The lights above the door flickered once, a small stutter, bringing your attention back. It was hard to keep your focus here. The electronic warning panel on the door read:

SECURITY – MONITORED ACCESS ONLY

There were no guards to hold back your curiosity.

No surveillance drones stationed nearby. No tech crew logged into the panel. No footsteps echoing behind you.

Just the door.

And the feeling of a lingering presence.

You didn’t hear anything at first, but your body reacted before your mind could. The tiny hairs on your arms lifted. Your throat felt dry. Your heartbeat stuttered into a rhythm that had nothing to do with physical effort and everything to do with instinct.

Something was awake, and suddenly the temperature felt so cold.

You swallowed hard and told yourself to keep walking. You had no reason to stop—no reason to look at the blackened glass viewport in the center of the door. But your eyes betrayed you.

Your gaze shifted.

And for just a second, you thought you saw movement. Not a figure. Not a face. Just a shape—tall, slow-moving, silhouetted against the low light inside. Pacing.

Then gone.

You weren’t sure why your hand rose to hover near the panel. Maybe curiosity. Maybe something stranger. Like gravity.

The moment your fingers drifted too close, your ears rang with a sudden sharp buzz — not from the tower, but from somewhere inside your skull.

Like the nothingness had warned you against it.

And you heeded it thankfully before quickly walking away.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why we decided to pull you from your old team,” said the lead psychologist, Dr. Harding, as she passed you a tablet with a heavily redacted profile. Her overall expression was neutral, but her eyes watched your reaction carefully. “As you know, we are always working with clients of highest risk imaginable. Every single one of our clients has the ability to harm us, even accidentally.”

You nodded slowly, eyes scanning the document. Most of it was blacked out, save for one name: Reynolds, Robert. The next line simply read: Subject has powers which cannot be contained. No confirmed usage since initial incident.

“Still,” she added, lowering her voice, “this one is… different.”

You swallowed, saying nothing.

“He’s not like Barnes. Barnes needed discipline. A task and sense of righteous purpose. Bob—” she exhaled through her nose, “—Bob needs connection and reassurance. Very few people last more than a week with him. Not because he’s violent. But because he’s… persistent.”

You glanced up.

She elaborated, tone cautious. “Emotionally. He fixates. He doesn’t always understand boundaries. And lately, he’s been quieter. Withdrawn. Like he knows people are afraid of him, and he’s trying not to be a burden.”

The memory of the door flickering last night, of the movement behind the glass, returned like ice down your spine. You wondered how safe you were right now, only a few feet away from him again.

“He asked to speak to me this morning, and I'd like you to join our discussion,” Dr. Harding said.

Your stomach dropped. "Of course."

S̵͇̺̿̓E̷̜̼͂͋S̵̘̙͊̐S̶̟͂̾Ị̶̂̔O̵̟̪͝Ň̶̫̼͌ ̵̣̽Ö̴̰̪́N̴͇̺͑E̶͚͋́

The observation room was dim, washed in blue light, and clinically empty. You stood behind a panel of reinforced glass, your clipboard clutched tightly in your hand. Through the window, Bob sat on the edge of a training mat in the adjacent room, one hand resting loosely on his knee, the other curled into a fist against his temple. Not tense—just relaxed.

He looked up as you entered. Slowly.

You tried not to flinch.

No glowing eyes. No flickering shadows. Just a man with tousled hair and the kind of silence that made your skin itch.

He didn’t speak right away. He didn’t need to.

He was studying you.

As if last night hadn’t been a hallucination. As if he knew you’d been outside his door. You weren't sure why that came to your mind.

You lifted your chin. “Dr. Harding had to take a call, but she told me to go ahead and introduce myself. You can call me Miss Y/L/N.”

His lips parted slightly, voice low and almost too soft to hear.

“Not a doctor yet, huh? So you're not here to shrink me?”

You blinked. “Not like that, Mr. Reynolds. I'm Harding's assistant, and I haven't finished my doctorate to be a psychologist yet.”

“Oh, that sounds nice,” he said before cocking his head in your direction curiously. “You know, I can tell when someone’s afraid of me. You really don't have to be, I don't feel the void when I'm awake anymore.”

There was no accusation in his tone. Just a resigned kind of sadness that made your throat feel tight, from a voice that sounded so kind and soft-spoken.

You cleared your throat, "When you're awake?"

"You can call me Robert or Bob if it makes you more comfortable," he exclaimed sweetly, avoiding the question as he stood up from the training mat.

You nodded once, slowly. “Bob, then.”

He smiled, but not fully. It was small, crooked, and didn’t quite reach his eyes. Nervous.

“I don’t get many visitors,” he said, stepping forward slowly. He didn’t want to startle you. “Most people watch me from the other side of the glass and call it a day.”

You didn’t move, but your grip on the clipboard tightened.

Bob stopped a respectful distance away, reading you like you were a kind of file that he hadn’t been allowed to open yet.

“I felt you yesterday,” he added, softer this time in a near whisper. “Outside my door.”

Your chest tightened.

“I wasn't watching like a creep or anything,” he said quickly, lifting his hands as if to prove he meant no harm. “I just… noticed.”

You glanced down at your notes, trying to redirect. “Well, that’s not unusual. The facility sensors are—”

“No,” he interrupted, still gentle. “Not like that. I felt you. You have a very specific… shadow.”

You looked up. “Shadow?”

He seemed suddenly shy, almost sheepish. “Or your heartbeat. It skipped before the lights flickered. I don’t know why.”

You stared at him, trying to decide whether he meant it as a threat. But his expression didn’t match the words. He looked... guilty.

“Sorry,” he added quickly, his voice barely above a whisper. “That was too much. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m trying to get better at this.”

“At what?” you asked, a little too quietly.

“Being normal when I'm not,” he replied. “Being someone people don’t get so nervous around. I understand why though, it's not easy to relive your fears if I happen to lose control.”

The room was still. The fluorescent lights hummed softly above your head, grounding the moment in silent reality.

You wanted to say something clinical. Professional. Something to remind yourself that you were here to observe, not to sympathize.

Instead, your voice came out a little rough.

“You said you don’t feel the Void when you’re awake.”

He paused.

“I said I don’t think I feel it,” he clarified. “But sometimes... it’s hard to tell where it ends and I begin. Especially when I’m alone and sleepy.”

You nodded. Your notes stayed untouched.

There was something haunting in how easily he said that, like he’d rehearsed it with the expectation that you'd ask.

“Do you dream, Miss Y/L/N?” he asked suddenly.

You hesitated. “I—yes. Everyone does.”

He smiled faintly. “I hope they're good dreams.”

You didn’t ask him to explain.

You didn’t want to know, and this introduction was turning into something that Dr. Harding should be present for to take notes.

Before he could elaborate, the door behind you hissed open.

You turned instinctively, grateful for the interruption.

Though your pulse hadn’t yet steadied.

Dr. Harding stepped inside, her heels clicking softly against the tile. She carried a tablet tucked under her arm and wore the same unreadable expression you'd come to recognize as her baseline.

“Apologies,” she said briskly, offering Bob a polite nod. “I was on with our night crew about your activity from last night’s scan. There was a minor spike around midnight.”

You felt your stomach twist.

Bob didn’t look at her. His eyes remained on you now.

Dr. Harding continued, unaware—or maybe perfectly aware—of the undercurrent in the room. “Miss Y/L/N, you can remain if you’d like, but I’ll be taking over from here. I imagine you’ve had enough of the angst for your first morning.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but Bob beat you to it.

“She was doing just fine,” he said quietly, seemingly unoffended by the rude quip towards him.

Harding gave him a pointed look. “That’s not your call to make, Bob.”

He lowered his gaze, jaw shifting slightly. “Sorry.”

Your throat tightened.

“I’ll stay,” you said, surprising even yourself.

Both heads turned toward you.

“I want to observe how you conduct a formal session,” you added quickly, recovering your tone. “It’s useful for my training.”

Harding studied you for a moment, then gave a small nod. “Very well. Pull a chair.”

You moved to the far corner of the room, placing your clipboard in your lap, keeping your pen steady even though your thoughts weren’t. You couldn't understand what his presence was doing to you.

As Dr. Harding took the lead, asking standard check-in questions, you watched Bob answer. Politely, softly, or sometimes with a joke that didn't quite land right.

But once or twice, when Harding looked down at her notes, he looked at you instead.

Not like he expected anything back.

But like you were the only person in the room.

And that scared you more than anything he’d said so far.

By the end of the session, your clipboard was so full of notes you weren’t entirely sure you remembered writing. Your hand had moved automatically—recording answers, glancing at biometric readouts—but your attention had never really left him.

Bob’s answers were consistent. Measured. Gentle. He didn’t dodge questions, but he didn’t volunteer much either. You could tell Harding was used to this rhythm between them—asking just enough, pulling back when the silences grew too long.

Still, it didn’t feel like a cold interview. Especially with the strange nature of the therapy, testing Bob's self-control in combat simulations with the trainers.

When Harding eventually closed the session, Bob nodded respectfully and returned to the center of the room to begin his cooldown exercises. You saw the tension creep back into him as he struggled to focus on the trainer's guided stretches.

You stood, unsure whether to stay longer or let yourself out.

Harding approached you instead. “How are you feeling?” she asked, lowering her voice just enough that Bob wouldn’t hear.

You hesitated. “I’m not sure yet.”

“That’s good,” she replied, and for once, her tone softened. “It means you’re paying attention.”

You nodded.

“He doesn’t show it, but he’s… more aware of people’s emotional responses than most patients. He reads faces better than some of the staff. If he keeps looking at you, it’s because you’re giving him something he’s not used to.”

You didn’t ask what that was. You had a sinking feeling you already knew.

Before you could say anything else, Bob’s voice broke the silence behind you.

“Miss Y/L/N?”

You whipped around quickly, surprised by the proximity of his voice.

He stood there with a small towel draped over his shoulder, hair slightly damp from exertion, eyes unreadable. There was nothing threatening about his posture—if anything, he looked uncertain, almost guilty for speaking. It was getting harder to imagine such an anxious, lanky man being so capable of such darkness.

“Can I ask you something before you go?”

Harding arched an eyebrow, but didn’t stop you.

You took a step closer, keeping the chair between you.

“…Yes?”

He glanced toward Harding, then back at you. “Last night. In the hall. Why did you stop?”

The question landed like a stone dropped in still water.

You blinked. “I didn’t. I—kept walking.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“But you hesitated.”

You couldn’t lie, at least not convincingly. “…I was curious.”

“That’s not why,” he said. Then added, “But I liked that you did.”

Your pulse stuttered. He said it so plainly, but he was right. You didn’t respond.

Harding saved you from having to. “Bob, let’s not cross wires on what professional curiosity means, alright?”

He lowered his gaze again, the way a child might after being gently scolded. “Right. Of course. Sorry.”

You left a moment later, your steps quicker than before, the clipboard clutched tighter in your hands.

You told yourself you weren’t going to think about it again.

But you already knew you would.

Your room in the tower was small but fit the essence of your character, a carefully controlled space designed to make you feel comfortable after everything you hear about.

You dropped your clipboard on the desk and laid at the edge of the bed, chin in your hands, staring at the wall like it might blink back at you.

He’d said he liked that you stopped.

You should’ve brushed it off. Chalked it up to a badly timed word vomit. But the way he’d said it, like it mattered more than anything he’d told Dr. Harding, was still echoing in your head.

You ran a hand down your face and pulled your notebook out of the drawer, flipping to a blank page.

You stopped writing.

None of it was what you actually wanted to say.

I liked that you did.

I liked that you

I liked that

I liked

You stared at the sentences, then scribbled them out.

A chill passed over your shoulders as the temperature in the room dropped. The light in your room dimmed slightly as the automatic system shifted to evening mode.

You turned, instinctively to the door.

Nothing was there. But the air felt wrong. Off. Like someone else had entered the room.

You stood and walked slowly to the door, double-checked the lock even though it always auto-engaged. Then you turned on the small lamp by the bedside and laid down again—this time, facing the door instead of the wall. You decided that was enough notes for the day, and besides, your eyes suddenly felt... so heavy.

You must’ve fallen asleep without realizing it.

One moment, you were sitting on top of your sheets with the lamp still on, notebook untouched. The next, you were standing in a hallway that didn’t belong to the tower.

It was too familiar.

The walls were beige, slightly stained from years of dust spreading in through the corners. The carpet flattened in the center from pacing. The smell of coffee and pasta gone cold. Your old apartment.

From grad school.

You froze.

The silence pressed against your eardrums. The kind of silence that happens after a scream you didn’t realize left your throat.

Your body moved forward before you could stop it. One step, then two. The door to your old bedroom was left ajar for you, calling you towards it.

The light inside flickered.

You pushed it open — and there she was.

You.

Sitting on the floor in sweats and a threadbare hoodie. Surrounded by boxes of your mother's things and jewelry. Her hands trembled as she unscrewed the child-proof cap on a small orange bottle.

Your throat closed.

You knew this moment.

You remembered it with sickening clarity. It was the week after your mother’s funeral, two projects overdue, and every message you received asking if you were okay. You hated that back then because you clearly were not.

You watched as your past self tipped the bottle into her palm.

One pill. Then two.

Then a handful.

You stepped into the room, breath shaking. "Stop," you whispered at first, feeling choked up before getting louder, "Stop doing that!"

She didn’t even look at you.

You tried to speak. Tried to reach her. But your mouth didn’t work now. The room seemed to stretch as you lunged forward, trying to stop yourself as you swallowed them all.

Then came the shift.

The lighting changed.

The edges of the room warped, like someone was folding the memory in half.

A shadow spread behind your past self like a creeping blush, infecting the light cast upon your old bedroom before it consumed the entire room.

You bolted upright in bed with a ragged gasp, your heart pounding in your ears. The lamp was still on. The room untouched.

But a page from your notebook flipped, revealing a message written in shadow that disappeared as soon as you saw it.

"I'm sorry."

The morning light in the cafeteria was too bright.

It filtered in through the tower’s east-facing windows in thick beams, warming the tile floors and casting long shadows across the tables. Everything felt too clean to you now. Like it had been scrubbed of anything human overnight.

You walked in with your head down, trying not to look like you’d barely slept. Your stomach wasn’t ready for food, but the routine mattered. If you didn’t eat, someone would notice.

The dream still clung to your skin like a film. You hadn’t written about it in your journal like you normally would. You hadn’t even tried. It felt too... personal. Too invasive. Not just because it had shown you something from your past, but because something else had watched it with you.

Played the scene in your nightmare like watching a movie.

You joined the breakfast line, going through the motions. Coffee. Scrambled eggs. A slice of toast you knew you wouldn’t finish.

Then a voice behind you broke the silence.

“Didn’t sleep, huh?”

You turned, already bracing yourself.

Bucky stood a few feet away in dark sweats and a henley shirt, a tray in his hand and a knowing look on his face. His hair was damp. He’d probably just taken a shower, and his expression was casually examining your attire.

He wasn’t the kind of person who pried. But he wasn’t blind either.

You gave him the best version of a smile you could muster. “How could you tell?”

He tilted his head, gesturing loosely to your sweatpants. "You usually come down to breakfast with clothes a lot more put together than that.”

You frowned slightly. “That obvious?”

He shrugged. “It happens."

You didn’t answer as you stepped out of the line and moved toward the far table near the window. Bucky followed, uninvited but not unwelcome. He set his tray down across from you and sat down without a word.

For a moment, you both just existed, eating in silence and letting the normalcy of the room stitch itself into your day.

“So. I heard you met our new friend, he's a character isn't he?"

You looked up slowly. “I observed my first session yesterday,” you said evenly. “With Dr. Harding.”

He nodded. “And?”

You hesitated. Your first instinct was to abide by the rules, remembering that although the Avengers were held to a different legal standard, you didn't want to break any laws by telling Bucky any details.

But Bucky was one of the few people in this building who understood what it meant to be haunted by something. Something you didn’t always control or understand.

So instead, you said the partial truth.

“He’s not what I expected.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Better or worse?”

You stirred your coffee. “Both.”

That made him smile faintly. “Yeah. That’s about right.”

You didn’t elaborate. You didn’t tell him about the way Bob looked at you. About the dream. About the notebook.

Bucky leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely.

“Just be careful,” he said after a pause. “You’re sharp. You care. That’s why they assigned you to him, they can't depend on just Yelena to keep him in check. He has to control it on his own, and you were the best when it came to helping me.”

You met his eyes, thankful that he said something so reassuringly kind to you. "I will. I really appreciate that."

S̴̫͒Ẹ̸̀͝S̶̺̐S̴̡̄̋I̶̮̱̒O̵̹͕͆͘N̴̯͔̓̌ ̶̯̈́̏Ṭ̴̓W̵̜͉̔̚O̵̲̠͆̉

The observation room was colder today, or maybe you were just wearing a thinner cardigan than last time.

You stood behind the glass, arms crossed over your clipboard, watching as Bob went through his pre-session movements in the adjoining chamber. He moved slower than yesterday, but it was less like he was conserving power, and more like he didn’t want to be there.

You couldn’t blame him.

You weren’t sure you did either.

Dr. Harding was absent this time entirely. Something about a meeting with Valentina, leaving you in charge of monitoring brain activity and logging interactions. She’d called it a “minor check-in.”

You weren’t sure how minor anything could be when your entire nervous system still buzzed from a horrible dream that didn’t feel like something you would have thought of yesterday.

Bob glanced up, eyes finding you instantly.

You tried not to react. You tried to stay clinical, but something must’ve shown on your face.

He turned fully toward the glass. Then spoke, “You look tired.”

Your stomach dropped before you stepped forward and pressed the button. “Good morning to you too,” you said, voice sharper than you intended.

Bob gave you a sheepish smile, slighting his head down as he rubbed the back of his neck. “That wasn’t an insult, I swear. Just an observation.”

You cleared your throat. “Let’s begin, Mr. Reynolds. I’d like to start with baseline questions.”

“You can call me Bob, remember?” he said again, stepping closer to the partition. “I think we already passed the awkward part.”

You hesitated, then nodded.

“…Bob.”

He seemed pleased by that, smiling contently at your choice.

“Your brain activity is all registering as normal to what we already know,” you said, eyes flicking to the monitor, though you barely registered the data. “Any disturbances overnight?”

He tilted his head, pity filling his eyes. “Not mine.”

Your pen paused over the page.

“Sorry?”

Bob shrugged one shoulder. “I didn’t dream. But you did.”

You slowly set the clipboard down.

“And it showed me things,” he continued, voice quieter now. “Things I don’t think were mine to see.”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to because you already knew what he meant.

Bob’s eyes searched your face with a softness that made your skin crawl—not because it was threatening, but because it wasn’t.

It was empathy.

“I’m truly sorry,” he said gently. “I didn’t mean to look. I tried to pull away.”

Something inside you twisted.

You’d seen your past. The pills. But the idea that he had seen it too, that something had trespassed that memory, made the fear settle deeper in your bones.

Still, your voice stayed calm.

“It was a dream,” you said. “It wasn't real."

Bob nodded slowly. “If that helps.”

You swallowed, “We should continue on with the questions.”

He took a step back, nodding. But his voice was softer now. Warmer. Like he couldn’t help it. “Even when you’re scared of me, you still stick around, Y/N.”

You didn’t answer, even if you liked the way your name fell off his lips.

And that silence hung heavier than anything else between you.

You picked the clipboard back up with deliberate calm, flipping to the prompts given to you by the doctor. “Let’s return to the baseline survey,” you said. “Emotional range, since yesterday. Any new feelings of irritability, hopelessness, or intrusive thought patterns?”

Bob didn’t answer right away.

You glanced up, irritated now that he was being so difficult with you today.

He was watching you again. Like you were more interesting than the questions. Like maybe the answers had never really mattered in the first place if you were just standing right there.

“Does wanting something you shouldn’t have count as an intrusive thought?” he asked softly.

Your heart clenched at the response, your brows knitting together in confusion at his answer.

“That’s not—” you started, faltering. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I figured,” he said gently. “But it’s still true.”

You held your pen tightly, suddenly too aware of how small the space between you really was. Even with reinforced glass and locked doors. Too aware of how direct his gaze felt, like he was peeling you back layer by layer.

You hated how warm your skin felt beneath your collar as the blush creeped up your neck.

“You honestly don’t know me that well, Mr. Reynolds.” you said, firmer this time. “You’re—misinterpreting this dynamic.”

“Maybe,” he replied, tilting his head. “But I don’t think I’m imagining the way your heartbeat changes when you talk to me.”

You clenched your jaw. “Let’s focus on you, please. Have you experienced any auditory hallucinations or non-verbal episodes of dissociation?”

He was silent for a moment. “Yes.”

You blinked at him and gestured for him to continue.

“Since this morning,” he continued. “But it isn't from me. It was more like... pressure. I felt something pulling at the edges of me after you walked in. The noise get quieter when you're around.”

You lowered the clipboard in surprise. “So you're saying I triggered it?”

“I’m saying you created a feeling I haven't felt in a long time.” His voice was soft. “Just not in the way you think.”

You stared at him, your chest tight. “I wasn’t trying to do anything,” you muttered.

“I know,” he said.

The air in the room shifted. Your breath caught in your throat before you could stop it. "I think we'd be better off ending this session here, I don't believe we can lead an appropriate session on our own."

You rose from your chair and gathered your things with more force than necessary, keeping your eyes down. But you could feel his gaze on you the entire time. Constant. Present.

“I understand,” he said finally, voice low and hurt. “It’s easier when I make people uncomfortable. At least then I know what to expect.”

You paused. The words were spoken without bitterness. Just quiet resignation. Like he wasn’t trying to manipulate you, just telling you the truth of how people left him.

You looked up, just for a moment, feeling cut by his words.

His expression hadn’t changed. Still soft. Still open, in a way that made you want to retreat behind a wall you hadn’t needed in years.

“I’ll schedule the next session with Dr. Harding,” you said, your voice forced into a flat monotone. “And I’ll make a note that you responded better to a format with both of us present.”

He gave a slow nod.

“Whatever helps you feel safer.”

The phrase stopped you at the door. You glanced back, brows pulling together. “That’s not what this is about, Bob.”

But he only smiled faintly, like he didn’t believe you, but didn’t need to say so. You left without another word, your footsteps echoing far too loudly down the hall.

Behind you, Bob remained seated on the mat, eyes still on the door long after it closed. His hands rested in his lap, unmoving, like he’d been carved from stillness.

And somewhere inside him, in the cold, dark cavity of his chest, the Void stirred.

thank you for reading ~

please leave a like/reblog if you enjoyed, and drop a comment to be tagged in chapter two! things are about to get really weird...

LINK FOR PART TWO

[ventismacchiato]

1O stuck with you — sand in my ass !

scaramouche x gender neutral reader

As with most things involving Scaramouche, your day starts off on a disastrous note. The cramped quarters of the dorm building force all ten of you into a chaotic dance as you rush to get ready, dodging elbows and sidestepping misplaced shoes. Unfortunately, you seem to be magnetically drawn to Scaramouche, bumping into him no less than five times before breakfast. The microphones crackle with your manager’s impatient voices, urging everyone to hurry.

“You took that long just to come out looking like that?” Scaramouche’s voice greets you as you finally make it into the kitchen with the rest of the group. He doesn’t exactly wrinkle his nose in disgust, but it’s a very near thing.

You ignore him, your eyes instead raking over the counter filled with neatly stacked plates of pancakes. The scent of fresh fruit wafts up, and you instinctively reach over to grab a fistful of berries.

“Wow, who managed to make all this?” Lumine asks, marveling at the spread before piling an impressive stack onto her plate.

Kazuha, flipping a pancake with a practiced ease, jerks his thumb toward Scaramouche, who’s manning the stove like he's scared Kazuha is about to set it ablaze.

Your hand freezes mid-reach. Without a word, you drop the plate you picked up back onto the counter, your appetite vanishing.

“You are so petty, just eat it, Y/N,” Fischl murmurs, standing behind Scaramouche with an amused look. “Can you add chocolate to mine?”

“What are you, five?” Scaramouche grumbles, but he obliges, grabbing a handful of chocolate chips and sprinkling them over her pancake while simultaneously swatting Venti’s wandering hand away from the stove.

“You’re acting like he’s trying to poison you,” Yoimiya sighs, exasperated, as she takes her own plate and starts to serve herself.

“He probably is,” you mutter, poking at your untouched pancakes with a fork, still skeptical.

Scaramouche, not missing a beat, shoots you a glare. “I will cook bleach into your next meal.”

A loud, resounding "NO" echoes from the intercoms, reminding everyone that Jean, ever vigilant, is monitoring your every move.

Scaramouche, annoyed, looks into the ceiling where he thinks the camera is. “I WILL!” he shouts, voice dripping with defiance.

“Scara, baby, turn around. The camera’s behind you,” Childe says with a laugh.

Scaramouche swivels around, eyes locking onto the correct camera this time. “I WILL!”

“Wow, you sure showed them,” Aether chuckles, drizzling syrup over his and Lumine’s pancakes, clearly enjoying the idiocy.

You, on the other hand, can only sigh, clasping your hands together in mock prayer. “Please, get me out of here,” you whisper, hoping that someone, anyone, is listening.

“No,” Lisa laughs into your ear piece.

Anyone but Lisa.

The sun blazed overhead, casting long shadows on the sandy track laid out for the first challenge of this god forsaken fake dating show. The tension between you and Scaramouche was palpable as cameras buzzed around, capturing every strained glance you both sent one another.

“Could you both at least pretend to smile?” Lumine sighs, coming to stand in between you both.

“No,” you both say in unison.

"Alright, contestants!" Yae's voice rang out cheerfully over the loudspeaker as she sat a couple feet away from you all, "Our first challenge is a two-legged race! The winning pair gets to have a private date with a gourmet meal!”

“Now, obviously we want Scaramouche and Yn to win,” Yae admitted with a sigh, “But for this challenge we will actually play it to keep it a little realistic.” Yae claps her hands as she signals to the ropes on the ground.

“All of you can pair up, except for our lovebirds. Tie your ankles together and stand before that line. The course isn’t too long.” 

You glanced at Scaramouche, who was examining the ropes with a bored expression. "Just try not to trip us," you muttered, as Scara fastened the rope around your leg and his.

He rolled his eyes. "Don't worry. I'm not planning to win this anyway."

As the race began, it was immediately clear that Scaramouche was dragging his feet, literally and figuratively. He barely lifted his leg, forcing you to stumble and struggle to keep pace. The other pairs surged ahead while you and Scaramouche lurched forward in awkward, jerky movements.

"Can you at least pretend to try?" you hissed, frustration mounting with every step.

Scaramouche smirked. "Why should I? Do you really want to go on a date with me?"

“No, but I don’t want us to look like unathletic idiots on tv,” you huff.

“Don’t worry, you already look unathletic,” Scara adds unhelpfully.

Yae sighs from where she’s sitting as she watches you two barely make it past the starting line. 

"Scara, I know you're good at this!" Yae called out, her voice carrying over the sound of the other contestants' laughter. Lumine and Yoimiya had already crossed the finish line, untying themselves with triumphant grins. 

"Scaramouche, I swear if you don't—" you began, but he cut you off with a weary sigh.

"Fine, fine," he muttered, more to himself than to you. Scaramouche, still grumbling under his breath, wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him. With a sudden burst of athleticism, he finally matched your pace, and together, you both stumbled forward with more rhythm than before. You were no match for the other pairs who had long since finished, but at least you weren’t tripping over each other anymore. It was almost too natural, too comfortable, and for a split second, you forgot about the cameras and the show. But then reality crashed back in when he pinched your waist when you started slowing down.

"Finally, almost done," you muttered, trying to ignore the warmth of his hand on your waist and focusing on not tripping over the sand.

"Yeah, yeah, just don't mess this up," Scaramouche replied, but there was no real bite in his words that time. 

Finally, you both crossed the finish line, far behind everyone else. Yae clapped her hands together, a mischievous smile on her lips. "And our final pair has arrived! Congratulations, you two. You were... spectacularly last."

Scaramouche immediately let go of you, stepping back as if the contact had burned him as he slipped out of the rope binding you two. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at his dramatics, but before you could respond, Yae continued.

“Of course, for the sake of the show, we’ll just pretend you two got first place. After all, what kind of dating show would this be if the main couple lost that badly? Miya and Lumine, you both can have a gourmet meal too but just off camera.”

“So rigged,” Aether sighs.

“In the other games we’ll play fairly, it’s just for the first episode,” Yae giggles.

The other members were already lounging on the sand, enjoying their downtime as you’d both taken forever to get going. Venti and Fischl had even started a sandcastle, which was somehow more elaborate than anything you’d ever seen. 

Venti waved at you with a playful grin. “You two sure took your time! Must’ve been having too much fun, huh?”

You and Scaramouche simultaneously scoffed at that, and you could hear the others chuckling at your synchronized reaction.

“You guys are stupid,” you huff, kicking sand towards your nearest victim. Poor Childe.

“I agree,” Scara says, but his voice was quieter, almost contemplative. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Then just fuck on camera so we can all go home!”

“Venti, move over. I’m going to kick down your castle.”

“NO WAIT!”

You dig your toes into the sand, letting the cool grains slip between them as you wait outside the kitchens for Scaramouche. The sun is setting, casting a warm orange glow over the beach, and Yae's words about a "romantic walk" still make you want to gag. She had told you the meals would be set up away from everyone else so you both could enjoy a romantic walk towards your date. The last thing you want is to spend more time with Scara pretending to be enamored with each other, especially after the disaster that was the race.

“Aww, look how cute Y/N is, waiting for their date,” Yoimiya teases, a grin spreading across her face as she takes another bite of the crab she and Lumine had won.

“If he doesn’t show up in ten seconds, I’m leaving without him,” you grumble, crossing your arms in frustration.

“No, you won’t!” Lisa’s voice blares from the intercoms, making you jump a little. “Remember, you’re supposed to be in love. Try to act like it!”

You sigh, rolling your eyes, just as Scaramouche finally appears, looking equally as unimpressed. “You ready?” he asks, not bothering to hide the lack of enthusiasm in his voice as he walks ahead without you.

“Not really, but let’s get this over with,” you mutter, pushing off the wall and starting down the path that Yae had indicated earlier as you catch up with him.

The walk is awkward, to say the least. Neither of you says a word, and the only sounds are the gentle waves crashing on the shore and the distant laughter of the other contestants. The romantic atmosphere Yae had tried to create is completely lost on you both.

Finally, you reach the small table set up near the water’s edge, lit by a couple of lanterns. The meal is already laid out—lobster, of all things, with sides that look way too fancy for a beach dinner. You sit down across from each other, the silence continuing to stretch as you both start to pick at the food, trying to figure out how to eat without looking ridiculous.

Then, out of nowhere, your ear pieces crackle to life. Lisa’s voice bursts through, louder than before. “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DO SOMETHING INTERESTING!”

Scaramouche groans, his fork clattering onto his plate as he rubs his temples. “Do they ever shut up?” he mumbles.

You stifle a laugh at his pain, but it quickly turns into a grumble. “Apparently not.” You take a deep breath, trying to think of something to say that won’t make this whole situation more painful. “So, uh… what are your hobbies?”

Scaramouche stares at you, disbelief written all over his face. “Seriously?”

“What? I’ve never been on a date as an idol before,” you reply, trying not to sound too defensive but miserably failing. 

He smirks, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, that’s apparent.”

You scowl at him, refusing to let him get under your skin. “You can’t talk. Your last relationship was a total disaster.”

His smirk fades, replaced by his usual look of annoyance. “Ew, let’s not discuss my ex.”

Before you can respond, Lisa’s voice crackles through again, this time more exasperated. “THIS IS KILLING THE MOOD. THE STUDIO IS DRY. BE HOT.”

“What does that even mean?” you mumble, helping yourself to the calamari rings Scara wasn’t touching.

Scaramouche sighs, clearly just as fed up as you are. He reaches across the table, and you blink in surprise, half expecting a slap as he leans forward. 

“Hold still,” he mutters, his fingers brushing against your chin. You feel a light pressure as he wipes something from the corner of your mouth. Before you can react, he brings his thumb to his own lips, licking it off casually.

“Gross, I hate squid,” he complains, pouring himself a drink as if nothing happened.

Your breath catches in your throat, and you can practically hear Lisa’s triumphant yell through the earpiece. “YES! LIKE THAT! Finally, some chemistry!”

You stare at Scaramouche, who just shrugs as he forgets about the cup entirely and starts drinking straight from the bottle. He meets your eyes over the rim, as if daring you to say something. You value your life so you keep your mouth shut.

You narrow your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart is pounding in your chest. But before you can retort, you’re faced with the lobster on your plate. The shell is hard, the claws menacing, and you realize with growing embarrassment that you have no idea how to eat it without making a complete fool of yourself. You were used to instant ramen since none of your members cared to cook back at the dorms. The cameras are still rolling, and since you hadn’t eaten all day out of sheer pettiness, this damn lobster was your last option.

Scaramouche seems to notice your hesitation if the growing smirk on his face is any indication. “You’ve never eaten lobster before, have you?” he asks, his tone surprisingly neutral. That neutrality puts you on edge.

“No,” you admit reluctantly, hating that he now has more ammunition to tease you with. You’re about to push your plate away and accept your fate, considering just chugging the dipping sauces out of spite, when Scaramouche sighs, setting down the bottle.

“You’re hopeless,” he mutters, reaching across the table to pull your plate in front of him. With practiced ease, he cracks open the lobster’s shell, separating the meat and placing it back on your plate.

“There,” he says, sliding the plate back over to you. “Now just eat it. And try not to make a mess, dumbass.”

You’re stunned into silence, watching as he casually goes back to his own meal as if he didn’t just do something unexpectedly considerate. The cameras must be catching every second of this, and you can already imagine the headlines. He was taking this dating show more seriously than you’d thought he would. If the cameras were off he would’ve usually just let you starve.

Lisa’s voice crackles through your earpiece, full of praise. “Wow, that wasn’t emotionally constipated at all!”

You finally manage to pick up your fork, poking at the perfectly prepared lobster on your plate. You’re not sure if you’re more irritated that Scaramouche had to help you or that you’re actually grateful he did. Either way, you grudgingly take a bite, and it’s annoyingly delicious.

“What is it now?” Scara asks, looking from how you keep glancing at him, “Did you forget how to chew, too?”

“Nothing,” you mumble, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s gotten under your skin. “Just… thanks.”

He pauses for a moment, as if considering whether to make a snarky remark, but then just nods as if he decides you aren’t worth the extra words. “Whatever. Just don’t make a habit of needing my help.”

You roll your eyes at his words, but your chest feels uneasy. 

You shake it off as being sick from skipping breakfast. 

[00:00:00] INTERVIEW ONE, TAKE ONE

JEAN: Can you state your name for the camera?

SCARAMOUCHE: Why? Everybody knows who I am.

JEAN, EXASPERATED: Just do it, please.

SCARAMOUCHE: [SIGH] Fine. It's Scaramouche, or Kunikuzushi.

JEAN: Thank you. How was your first day on the island?

SCARAMOUCHE: It was ass.

JEAN, LOUDLY: Cut!

[00:13:00] INTERVIEW ONE, TAKE TWO

JEAN: I'm going to ask you again. How was your first day on the island?

SCARAMOUCHE: God, it was fine. Is that what you want?

JEAN: Thank y-

SCARAMOUCHE, INTERRUPTING: Actually can we retake that? I sounded too nice. I want all the fans to know I hate Yn—

JEAN: [SIGH] Cut!

[00:00:00] INTERVIEW TWO, TAKE ONE

JEAN: Can you state your name for the camera?

YN: YN! Everyone's favorite coke whore!

JEAN: Jesus Christ, cut!

YN, BEFORE THE CAMERA CUTS: What? God forbid I channel my inner Ayesha Erotica!

[00:25:00] INTERVIEW TWO, TAKE ONE

JEAN: Please state your name for the camera.

YN: It's YN! Everyone's favorite from Windblume! [WINKS]

JEAN: How was your first day on the island?

YN: It was okay. It's really hot and I got sand in my shorts. Not on purpose, Scaramouche threw sand at me because I looked at him funny. Stupid bitch. Then—

JEAN, TIREDLY: Can someone give me a normal answer for once?

YN: —after that disaster, Venti lost my vape—wait, can I say that on TV? Probably not. Anyways, it was a Lost Mary too, which are expensive!

JEAN: Cut!

YN, STILL TALKING: And after that the rest of the day was okay. I'm trying to treat this like a vacation from being an idol, so.

JEAN: Why did I get a normal answer when the camera turned off? [GROANS]

stuck with you!

masterlist — prev | next

i edited those plushies of scarayn myself do we like ☺️ yn is a grey panda to be gn

comment on the masterlist if i can use ur user as a fan in the au!

end of act one 🎬

synopsis — after the disaster that was the live award show, where you and scaramouche got into an argument on stage after both of your groups got a tie for top artists, your guys' PR teams have been in shambles trying to scrape up your mess. that's when the idea to send you both off with some other idols to a remote location for a survival dating show to mend your public image comes up. before you know it your bags are packed and you’re on a plane to a remote island. the only obligation is you need to end up with scaramouche at the end of the show, whether you end up liking him or not doesn’t matter to your managers as long as the show’s ratings stay high. whatever you do in between to get there is up to you!

notes — i’ve been feeling down and sick so i wasn’t in the mood to write but here you all go, wasn’t it worth the wait! 😊 pls don’t harass me to post fast touch some grass guys 😢

taglist — @na1lea @cindywasneverhere @lunavixia @aestherin @mlaakai @camvrin @retiredmommylover @iheartpieck @jangyung @cartierfiles @loveariel @silly-ez @mochipls @pomeiu @chuuismylife @flowerypesky @creammpuff @justanothertiredreader @boxdisappeared @kissmiere @kissingkzuha @webbywill @kazusboyfriend @s3xpistolss @pjsucks @bunns-wonderland @lordbugs @localgirlywithnolife @kosumos @danfelions @featuredtofu @pinxeajin @herebyaccident0 @haeunoo @scaradooche @pglt19 @chemiru @childesbabygirl @simonisferal @shutingstar @vxcmx @domimiki @ttalgi @esuz @tokkishouse @kitsuvil @scarasmood @ihearttori @nomurahayami @starringyau @androxphobic @kazuhasbabe

[sunshineangel0]

𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘮𝘢

pairing- kim seungmin x reader summary- when the world is given 21 days until total destruction, two friends experience the kind of love that never got a chance. genre- sci-fi, slow-burn romance, angst word count- ~2.6k warnings- end-of-world themes, emotional intensity, mild language, grief, existential dread, implied death a/n- sorry sorry sorry sorry. im on this angsty writing streak right now plwase forgive me. also, if you've ever loved someone in silence until the end, this one's for you.

Three Weeks Prior — Impact Zero

The coffee machine made a noise like it was choking on gravel.

You leaned against the counter in the break room, arms folded, watching the old machine stutter through its final breath. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting a yellow tint across the white tile and metal countertops. Everything in this building felt slightly too old, slightly too used — like it had seen better years and was trying to hold on, just like the people inside it.

The mug in your hand had a faded logo on it: NAO — North Atlantic Observatory, your workplace and second home for the last four years. An isolated, high-security research facility perched on the northern coast, built to monitor orbital anomalies and space weather. Boring work most days. Too quiet. But stable.

Until recently.

You rubbed your eyes. The sun wasn’t even up yet. You hadn’t slept.

"Looks like it's finally giving up," came a familiar voice behind you.

You didn’t need to turn around to know it was Seungmin. You just let out a soft huff of a laugh.

"Same," you replied.

He came to stand next to you, setting his elbows on the counter, mirroring your tired posture. His hoodie was half-zipped over his standard-issue uniform, and there was a smudge of graphite on his jaw, probably from him resting his head on his hand while scribbling calculations again. You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye.

"You look like hell," you said.

"I aim for consistency." He smiled, but his eyes were tired too. “Also, this is my third shift in a row. I’m legally a ghost now.”

You handed him the mug. “Drink. It’s toxic, but it’s warm.”

He took it, fingers brushing yours for just a second too long. But you didn’t pull away, and neither did he. That was how it always was with you two — almost something, never said.

The silence settled again. There was something about the early hours, before the building came to life, that made everything feel fragile. And lately, fragile felt more like a warning than a mood.

“I checked the readings again,” you said quietly. “There’s still an anomaly near the asteroid belt.”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just sipped.

You glanced at him. “You think it’s real?”

He met your eyes, and his voice dropped. “I think… we’re not being told everything.”

You nodded once. That’s what scared you most.

A faint beep echoed from down the hall — the server room.

Then another. Louder.

Then, the sound that stopped everything: the intercom crackled to life.

“All personnel to stations. This is not a drill. Orbital threat confirmed. Impact trajectory locked. Impact Zero protocol activated. Estimated contact: 21 days. Repeat — this is not a drill.”

The hallway went still.

In the break room, the coffee machine gave a final wheeze and shut down completely.

You didn’t move at first. You were still holding the paper coffee cup, staring at the wall, not quite breathing.

“...No,” Seungmin said under his breath, huffing a laugh. “That’s not—there’s no way.”

You slowly turned your head toward the hallway. Monitors were lighting up outside the glass walls — red lines, looping trajectories, countdowns. Sirens began to flicker faintly through the base, not full blaring yet, just the beginning pulses of something much bigger.

People started rushing down the hall. A tech assistant dropped her tablet. Someone was already shouting into a radio.

You felt it in your chest before your brain caught up: that sinking, weightless drop of understanding.

It wasn’t a glitch. It wasn’t hypothetical. It was real.

“Seungmin,” you said softly.

He was still staring at the floor, the cup forgotten in his hands. His face had gone pale.

When he looked at you, it was the first time in all your years here that he wasn’t joking, wasn’t sarcastic, wasn’t playing anything off.

Just scared. “You don’t think—” he started, voice thin.

“I do,” you said. “I think this is it.”

And suddenly the room felt colder. The air thinner.

He nodded once. Swallowed hard. "Okay."

Then he said it again, quieter. "Okay."

20 Weeks To Impact —

The base fell apart fast after the confirmation.

People ran. Some in blind panic. Others with cold resolve. The top brass left first — whisked away on private jets, secure transports, escorted under military silence. Then the families, the ones with connections. Then the hopefuls, the cowards, the ones who couldn’t face it.

You stayed.

So did Seungmin.

No one told you to. There wasn’t a command, not even a goodbye. Just... silence. The lights in the hallway flickered one morning, and no one came to fix them. You stopped getting updates from command. Coffee stopped brewing. One by one, the monitors went dark.

You and Seungmin stayed in the operations wing, sleeping in shifts, monitoring what little data still came through. It felt pointless, but it was better than waiting with empty hands.

You didn’t talk about the meteor at first. You filled the silence with sarcasm, inside jokes, trading terrible snack bar finds like currency. But your laughs were quieter. Your eyes lingered longer.

One night, Seungmin found an old vinyl tucked in storage. You had no idea why it was there — maybe someone thought the end of the world should have a soundtrack. He didn’t say anything. Just put it on, turned up the volume, and nodded toward you like it was an invitation.

You danced. Badly. Quietly.

He watched you with this look. Like he was memorizing.

You noticed.

14 Days To Impact —

The outside world started showing signs of rot. The power grid flickered. Civilian broadcasts stopped. Riots spread through cities. Roads clogged with cars that never moved again.

From the base, you could see smoke on the horizon almost every day. Not close enough to reach you. But close enough to remind you.

Seungmin stopped making jokes.

You spent a lot of time on the roof.

He started bringing you coffee — the last of it, rationed with ceremony. Some nights you’d find him already there, staring at the stars, and he’d pass you a chipped mug without speaking.

Once, after a long silence, he asked: “Do you think we would’ve made it, if none of this happened?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

But you stayed next to him until morning.

7 Days To Impact —

By the third week, the base was a ghost. The doors stayed open. Wind blew dust across the lobby. No one was coming back.

There was no plan anymore. No broadcasts. No hopeful countdowns. Just a sky that grew redder every night.

You stopped checking the data. You started living in the in-between moments — eating together in the empty mess hall, flipping through old books, playing music through speakers with frayed wires.

One night, you woke from a nightmare — fire, sky splitting in half — and walked out into the hallway barefoot, your chest tight.

Seungmin was already there. Sitting on the cold floor, head back against the wall, eyes wide open.

You sat next to him.

Neither of you said anything.

You leaned your head on his shoulder.

He didn’t move away.

Two Days To Impact —

Now, it's quiet.

The kind of quiet that wraps around your bones. No sirens. No more data. No more pretending.

You and Seungmin packed small bags. Not because you were going anywhere — just because it felt like doing something.

You didn’t ask where he wanted to go.

He just said, “There’s a place I used to go when I was a kid. A drive-in theater just outside town. Haven’t been there in years.”

You nodded.

He looked at you like he was asking for more than permission.

You nodded again.

Tomorrow, you’d drive out together. Watch a movie that isn’t playing. Under stars that are about to disappear.

And maybe — finally — say all the things you never let yourselves say before.

Day Of The Impact — 2 Hours Until Impact

The sky looked wrong.

Too bright, too red — like the sun had cracked open and started bleeding. Clouds moved strangely, fast and low, as if the world knew what was coming and couldn’t sit still.

But the drive-in was still there.

It sat at the edge of the world.

Not literally — just on the edge of what used to be town. But now, with the roads abandoned and the sky sick with color, it felt like the end of everything. The rusted sign out front still read COSMIC DRIVE-IN in broken letters, and beneath it, someone had spray-painted: “Now Showing: THE END”.

Seungmin parked the car right in front of the big screen.

It leaned, weathered and stained by time, but still standing. Behind the projection booth, the hills rolled out into darkening gold, shadows stretching across the horizon. The sky looked bruised — reds and purples and sick yellows blending into something unnatural.

He turned off the engine.

Neither of you moved for a moment.

“Give me ten minutes,” he said, grabbing the backpack and hopping out.

You stayed seated, eyes scanning the horizon. The clouds pulsed faint orange. Your chest was tight with something massive and unnamed.

Ten minutes later, a sudden flicker lit up the screen.

And then — impossibly — the projector began to hum.

You stepped out, stunned, watching grainy black-and-white spill across the canvas.

Casablanca

Seungmin stood by the shack-turned-booth like it was something sacred. The screen flickered behind him, a grainy beam of black and white cutting across the gravel lot. He crossed his arms, the corners of his mouth tugged up in a smile that looked half triumphant, half broken — like a man who just held a crumbling world together with duct tape and spit and sheer willpower.

He walked back to you, slow and steady, never taking his eyes off your face. Like he was memorizing it.

“I figured...” he said quietly, voice rough with exhaustion and something deeper, “if we’re going out… we should go out watching something that knew how to end.”

You tried to smile, but your lip trembled. Your whole body did.

“God, Seungmin,” you breathed, barely audible. “I’m so fucking scared.”

His face changed — just slightly, just enough. Like a crack down the center of a mask that had held too long. He closed the distance between you in a single heartbeat and wrapped his arms around you like he meant to fight the sky itself.

“I know,” he whispered into your hair, his voice shaking. “Me too.”

You held on like the world was already slipping, like the ground might fall away if you let go. Around you, the gravel lot was still. The air thick with the static of endings. On the screen, Bogart told Ingrid goodbye — again, like he always did. For the hundredth time. Maybe the last time.

You pulled back just far enough to see Seungmin’s eyes. He was already looking at you like he’d never seen anything else.

“I should’ve said this before,” you whispered. “I should’ve said it a thousand times.”

His hands stayed on your waist. Gentle. Solid.

“Then say it now.”

Your throat tightened. The words hurt coming out, like your lungs weren’t built to carry them.

“I love you.”

It broke something open between you — not cleanly, not neatly, but like a dam splitting at the seams. Seungmin didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink.

“I’ve loved you,” he said, voice cracked and raw, “since the first time you brought me that godawful coffee and told me my hair looked like a dying poodle.”

You choked out a laugh that turned into a sob.

“Since you didn’t leave. Since every night we waited and wondered and watched the sky, and you were still here. You always stayed.”

And then you kissed him.

Not like the movies — there was no slow lean-in, no swelling music. It was desperate. Messy. Your teeth bumped. Your tears mixed. It was the kind of kiss people don’t survive without. The kind that says if we go, we go like this.

You didn’t stop there.

In the front seat of the car, with the old blanket pulled over half your bodies, skin pressed to skin, you clung to each other like drowning things. No words. Just gasps, touches, sobs muffled against each other’s throats. His hands trembled against your spine. Your fingers curled in his hair like lifelines. You made promises without saying them — promises the world didn’t have time left to keep.

Above you, the stars were bleeding red.

But for one hour, it didn’t matter.

For one hour, there was only the warmth of him, the sound of his breathing, your heartbeat syncing with his.

After, you lay curled against his chest, your head rising and falling with every breath he still managed to take. Casablanca was long over. The screen was blank. The speakers had gone quiet.

The silence felt like it was holding its breath.

And then you felt it.

That low, distant rumble.

Not a sound — not really. More like a presence. A vibration that moved through your bones like thunder in the marrow. You both sat up slowly, instinct holding you still.

Far on the horizon, the sky had torn. A jagged seam of light split the clouds, too bright to be natural. Too vast. It didn’t spread — it consumed.

You reached for Seungmin’s hand. He caught it instantly, but his fingers were shaking. Yours were too. You held on like it would anchor you. Like it could undo what was coming.

Seungmin looked at you like you were the last real thing left in the world.

“I’m not scared anymore,” he said, and it sounded like the end of something.

Tears ran down your cheeks, hot and endless.

“I am,” you whispered.

He leaned in. Forehead pressed to yours. Eyes wet, but steady.

“I got you,” he said.

The light swelled.

Everything turned gold and white and endless, like the stars had come down all at once to burn the earth clean.

You didn’t look away from him.

He kissed you, one final time.

No fear. No future. Just now.

And when the sky came down, he held you like he could hold it back.

Year 147 A.I.Z (After Impact Zero)

The road was cracked, but it held.

Weeds had burst through the asphalt in places, curling like green veins across what used to be highways. A rusted sign leaned sideways at the turnoff: — COSMIC DRIVE-IN — CLOSED —

No one had come here in years.

The girl stepped out of the all-terrain rover, dust kicking up beneath her boots. She was young — maybe twenty. Hair pulled back in a knot, a thick canvas jacket with a radiation patch on the sleeve. She carried a small camera slung across her chest.

She walked slowly across the gravel lot.

The metal speaker poles were still there, bent and sun-bleached. The snack shack was nothing more than a shell, but the screen stood — faded, cracked down one side, but standing.

She lifted her camera and took a photo.

Inside the booth, everything was half-rotted. Dust covered the console, but the projector still sat like a sleeping relic. She brushed off the label:

Model 1973 | Last Run Logged: April 11

She paused. Eyes narrowed. Something glinted under a drawer.

A tape. A movie. Casablanca.

Old, black, and barely labeled. The words scratched in shaky handwriting:

“our last night — s.”

She took it.

The moment felt sacred.

As she turned to leave, she noticed two names, scratched into the wall of the booth with what looked like a key:

Y/N & Seungmin Final Show.

She didn’t know who they were.

But when she got back to the rebuilt city, she’d restore the film. She’d watch it. She’d tell people.

And they would remember.

Title Card

LAST NIGHT AT THE CINEMA

They didn’t make history. But they made a moment.

One screen. One love. One ending.

April 11 — The world fell silent. But their story played until the final light.

“This was my best scene.”

©sunshineangel0 𖹭 if you liked this work, please consider reblogging, commenting or liking! xoxo franzi 💋

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[noorpersona]

Office hook up with kuroo 🤤

Hi Anon!! Thank you so much for sending in this request — it was genuinely so much fun to write! 😭

Enjoy<333

--

Anon Ask: Kuroo (NSFW)

The office was eerily quiet, save for the low, steady hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. Rows of desks stretched out in neat, darkened lines, papers stacked, chairs pushed in, computer monitors black and still. The occasional ticking sound from the wall clock echoed faintly in the wide, open space, amplifying just how empty it really was.

You pushed open the door to Kuroo’s private office, balancing two takeout bags in your hands like a peace offering.

"Dinner's here, workaholic," you called, voice cutting through the stillness.

Inside, Kuroo looked up from behind his desk. He was hunched over some paperwork, hair even messier than usual—wild tufts sticking up from where he'd clearly dragged his fingers through it. His tie hung loose around his neck, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. Dark shadows smudged under his golden eyes, but when he spotted you standing there, his whole face shifted.

The tension in his shoulders eased. The corner of his mouth curved into a slow, lazy smile.

You made your way inside, carefully setting the bags down on the edge of his desk, nudging aside a stack of folders to make room. The rich, savory scent of your order wafted up between you, warm and inviting.

He leaned back in his chair, stretching out long legs under the desk, lacing his fingers behind his head with a low, satisfied groan. His eyes never left you—watching you with a smoldering kind of patience.

"Wow, must be my lucky night," he said, voice a rough, playful rumble.

You rolled your eyes as you started unpacking the food. "Yes, bask in my generosity. You owe me dinner and maybe dessert."

He chuckled under his breath, pushing up from his chair with a heavy, purposeful kind of movement. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, veins prominent along his forearms. He looked both exhausted and predatory—and somehow, devastatingly good.

He walked around the desk slowly, almost leisurely, but there was a weight to it. A coil of energy you could feel tightening between you with each step.

"You bringing me dinner... wearing that?" His gaze skimmed shamelessly over you, lingering at your legs, the snug fit of your jacket. "Dangerous."

You huffed, smoothing down your coat self-consciously. "Calm down, corporate Romeo. It’s just jeans and a jacket."

He smirked, dipping his head slightly as he stepped closer, voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Still dangerous."

You shook your head, scoffing lightly, but your pulse betrayed you, skipping when he closed the last of the distance. His presence was overwhelming—the subtle scent of his cologne, the heat radiating off his skin.

He stopped just short of touching you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His fingers flexed slightly at his sides, like he was barely holding himself back.

"You know what I've always wanted to do?" he said, voice low and rough.

You raised an eyebrow, shooting him a dry look as you finished unpacking the containers. "Please don't say ‘work overtime,’ because I'm not into that."

Kuroo chuckled, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. He leaned down slightly, close enough that you felt his breath against your ear.

"Always thought about bending you over my desk," he murmured. "Right here. After hours. When no one's around to hear you."

You blinked at him, deadpan. "You're disgusting."

But your body—traitorous as ever—leaned in, just a little. Your pulse kicked up, a warmth blooming low in your stomach.

"You love it," he teased, fingers brushing lightly against your waist, the touch barely there but searing.

You scoffed, stepping back half a pace, bumping lightly into the desk. "And here I thought you were a professional, Kuroo-san."

"I am professional. I'm professionally fantasizing about you," he quipped, tilting his head, that lazy grin deepening.

You fought the smile tugging at your lips, trying to maintain the upper hand, but it was useless. Especially when he stepped closer again, boxing you in, the edge of the desk biting into the backs of your thighs.

"Tetsu, seriously," you said, palms flattening against his chest when he closed the distance, feeling the steady thump of his heart under your touch. "I literally just brought you food."

"Exactly," he said simply, hands skimming up your sides, slow and coaxing. His thumb traced lazy, hypnotic circles against your hipbone. "And now I'm starving for something else."

"You're impossible," you muttered, even as your hands fisted weakly in his shirt.

"And you're stalling," he murmured back, his voice thick, heated.

You opened your mouth—but nothing came out.

Instead, you grabbed a handful of his loosened tie and yanked him down into a kiss, slow and burning, full of everything you hadn't said.

The takeout bags hit the floor with a muffled thud.

Kuroo groaned low in his throat, one hand sliding up your thigh, hitching your leg around his waist as he walked you back, pressing you flush against the edge of the desk.

You parted your lips under his without hesitation now, tugging him impossibly closer, deepening the kiss until your heads spun.

"Fuck, look at you," he rasped, breaking the kiss just long enough to tug your coat down your arms and toss it somewhere unseen. "So fucking pretty for me."

You whined when his hands found the hem of your jeans, pushing it down your hips with slow, deliberate pressure.

He lifted you onto the desk, scattering papers and pens with zero care. Your legs wrapped around him instinctively, your body already humming in anticipation.

The kiss broke again when he mouthed down your throat, rough and reverent all at once. Your head fell back with a soft, shuddering breath, heart hammering so hard it echoed in your ears.

"Still think I'm disgusting?" he teased against your skin, voice dark and amused.

"Absolutely," you managed, breathless. *"Now shut up and fuck me, Kuroo."

His answering growl vibrated against your throat.

And then he was undoing his belt with one hand, the other keeping you pinned exactly where he wanted you—laid out across his desk, messy, panting, and entirely his.

The desk beneath you creaked softly as Kuroo pressed your front down against the cool surface, one hand splayed firmly between your shoulder blades, keeping you there. His body loomed behind you, solid and hot, while he dragged his other hand down the curve of your spine, slow and possessive.

Your jeans were tugged halfway down your thighs, tangled around your knees. His fingers brushed teasingly over the waistband of your underwear, snapping it lightly before hooking them and sliding them down too, baring you completely to him.

You squirmed under his touch, hips canting back instinctively, seeking more.

“You're still overdressed,” he muttered, voice rough as he leaned over you, his breath hot against the shell of your ear.

You barely managed a breathless huff before his fingers slid between your thighs, finding you slick and ready. He groaned low in his chest.

“Fuck, look at you,” he rasped. “Already so fucking wet.”

You whimpered when he teased your entrance with two fingers, circling lazily but never giving you the pressure you craved.

“Tetsu,” you gasped, writhing under him.

He finally pushed in—one thick finger first, curling expertly, then another, scissoring them slowly to open you up. The stretch was delicious, just shy of overwhelming.

Your forehead rested against the cool desk, your fingers curling against the smooth surface.

Kuroo’s free hand stroked down your back, soothing, grounding you as he worked you open, coaxing soft, broken sounds from your lips.

When he withdrew his fingers, you whimpered at the loss—but then you heard the sound of his belt unfastening, the metallic clink sharp in the heavy silence of the office.

You twisted your head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of your eye—his flushed face, the way he pumped himself slowly, slicking his cock with your wetness still clinging to his fingers.

He lined himself up behind you, the head of his cock dragging through your folds in a slow, maddening tease.

“Say you want it,” he murmured.

“I want it- I want it please,” you choked out, voice shaky with need.

He didn’t make you wait.

With one steady thrust, he pushed into you, the stretch stealing the air from your lungs. He filled you completely, bottoming out with a low, wrecked groan.

He stilled for a moment, both hands braced on your hips, thumbs pressing into your skin.

“You feel…” he muttered, voice ragged. “You feel so fucking good.”

You nodded weakly, pushing back against him, desperate for him to move.

He took the hint.

He pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, before thrusting back in with enough force to jolt your body forward on the desk. Papers fluttered to the floor, but neither of you cared.

Kuroo found a brutal rhythm, each snap of his hips making the desk creak under the force of it. His tie swung loose from his collar, occasionally brushing against your lower back with each rough thrust.

The sounds—skin slapping, your broken gasps, his low, breathless curses—echoed obscenely in the otherwise empty office.

“Mine,” he growled, fucking into you harder now, faster, one hand sliding up your back to fist gently in your hair, tugging your head back so he could kiss the nape of your neck, teeth grazing your skin.

“Yours,” you gasped, knuckles white where you gripped the desk.

The coil in your stomach tightened impossibly fast, your orgasm building with every relentless drive of his hips.

“Come for me,” he panted against your ear. “Let me feel you.”

A few more thrusts and you shattered—clenching around him, crying out his name in a broken, wrecked moan. Your body trembled under him, your release washing over you in thick, hot waves.

He fucked you through it, groaning low in his throat at the way you squeezed him so tight it bordered on painful.

With a final, stuttering thrust, he came hard, spilling inside you with a rough curse, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he rode out the aftershocks.

For a long moment, the only sounds were your mingled breathing, the soft rustle of clothes, and the distant rain tapping against the windows.

Kuroo pressed a lazy kiss between your shoulder blades, hands smoothing down your sides in a rare, tender gesture.

“Best… dinner pickup… ever,” he panted against your skin.

You let out a breathless laugh, still half folded over the desk, utterly wrecked.

“You’re… buying dessert,” you managed, voice hoarse.

He chuckled, pulling your jeans up slowly, helping you dress with lingering touches.

“Anything you want, babe,” he said, kissing the back of your neck again, utterly unbothered by the mess around you—completely consumed by you, and only you.

[lifeasadorkwithnolife]

Too Late (Azriel x Reader)

Word Count: 1300ish

Part 2 Part 3

As the final battle approaches, Azriel and Y/N stand on the brink of everything. They both love each other, but fear keeps them from saying goodbye—too scared to confess what could change everything.

Spoilers: I like to think it's angsty, involves death possibly......

You had loved Azriel, deeply and wholeheartedly. His eyes, his laugh, the way the shadows clung to him — everything about him captivated you. You adored both the light and the darkness within him, the good and the bad. The love you felt was fierce and all-consuming, capable of lifting you to moments of pure joy or pulling you into the depths of sorrow. And when you finally realized that you would die for him, you understood just how far you had fallen.

               The war had begun, the first war, although you were just a female- your powers were strong enough- and the generals just desperate enough- to place you on the front lines. You quickly caught the eye of the High Lord of the Night Court, Corban. Although you didn’t have the ability to yield shadows or turn males to mist with just a thought, you had a unique ability of predicting near future events and sensing the emotions of those you were close with.

               That’s where you had met Azriel, the quiet male with a piercing gaze. His shadows kept close to him, and although you hadn’t introduced yourselves, you already knew who he was. “I’m Y/N.” You held out your hand, and he stared at it, eventually watching your hand fall back to your side. “this is the part where you introduce yourself?”

               “Azriel.” He didn’t even look at you, instead looking into the distance. The air was thick with the tang of blood and smoke, the sky was dark overhead. You could hear fighting in the distance, the clang of weapons and shouting.

               “You know Cassian then.” You followed his eyes, and they quickly met yours. “He’s alright, by the way.”

               You could see the sigh of relief that flowed through him. “Rhysand is too.”

               “How would you know?” Azriel’s piercing gaze met yours, causing you to swallow.

               “My gift is unique, I can sense how the people I’m close to feel. Cassian, well I think it would be inappropriate to say, but Rhysand feels…worried, probably for you both.” You looked out at the fallen soldiers. “I can also feel those who are in near proximity, this place is awful.”

               “It’s war.” Azriel gruffly responded but nodded all the same.

               As the days passed and the battle raged on, you and Azriel grew closer during the cold, quiet nights. While Azriel spent most of his time away — either sending his spies to monitor Hybern’s forces or fighting on the front lines himself — your role became to feel the pulse of the war, to sense which way the tides were turning.

        ��      One quiet night, after a horrific battle scene, the sadness and despair of the soldiers clouded your vision and you could feel no hope and no light. Normally, if you were around a small group, you were able to block it out, but the hundreds of soldiers feeling the same sense of dread and despair made it impossible to avoid. The tears slid down your cheeks as you got up, covering yourself in a blanket and heading outside.

               Azriel stood there, outside the tent. His silhouette strong and large against the night sky. He turned, his shadows snaking their way up your legs. “Are you alright?”

               “I can’t do this.” You whispered, standing next to him, staring at the mass partial grave that was because of Hybern- because of this war. “I- I’m feeling too much, I can’t keep them out.”

               “Can you feel Rhysand?” Azriel looked down at you, you closed your eyes, taking a breath and searching. You felt the unique sense of Rhys and nodded. You searched for Cassian and found him as well after a couple of moments.

               You looked up at him, tears in your eyes, and felt the sadness rush back in. “I’m sorry, I’ll go.” You squeezed the blanket around your frame tighter, but he grabbed your hand with his, the first time touching you.

               “You can’t go like this.” Azrie’s voice was a whisper, tension crossing his features as his eyes flickered between yours. His brows furrowed as your lip shook, and his guarded eyes seemed- vulnerable. The large wings that normally stood at attention behind him fell as if they weighed a thousand pounds. “Please- just talk to me, stay with me.”             

You nodded, and with a slow, careful motion, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you tightly against his chest. He hummed a tune, short and  repetitive, and you felt yourself let go. The tears fell freely, and you felt a weight in your chest, constricting your heart, but Azriel didn’t let go. You cried for hours, until your tears ran out and your legs couldn’t stand, and Azriel picked you up and walked you back in the tent, setting you down for an fitful sleep.

After that point, you looked at Azriel a little differently. Instead of his gaze coming off sharp and cold, you saw it for what it was, guarded and afraid- afraid of letting people in. You could feel some of his emotions as you grew closer, but most of them were overrode by the death around you or the betrayal of your heart. You could sense that the end of the way was coming near, and you could feel a strange, unsettling feeling coming from Rhysand-it was as if he was planning something.

 You stared off at the vast landscape, taking in what used to be beauty but was now overcome with destruction and death. Azriel was right, this was war, but you knew it was almost over. You entered the tent, body sore and dust littering your arms and legs. Azriel was sat at the table, and gave you a small smile. Relief filled your chest, seeing that he was okay.

               “Azriel.” You hummed, sitting down next to him and grabbing the bottle. “You know we shouldn’t be drinking.” You chided, bringing the bottle up to your lips in a smile. His smile back was small, but his eyes watched your lips. You could feel the tension in the air, could sense every breath he took, every tick of his jaw, every flex of his arm. You could feel the feeling in your chest again, your love for him pounding away in the chambers of your heart.

               Your fingers twitched around the bottle as your smile fell, you stared at his mouth, the curve of his lips, the flex of his jaw, the stubble that covered his sharp cheek bones. Your eyes travelled to his eyes, blue even in the dim light. They weren’t guarded like usual, and you could feel every emotion, you could feel the want, the need, the craving, everything, but you couldn’t tell if it was you or him.

“Azriel.” You whispered, wanting so badly to close the distance. You reached out your hand, brushing his. The jolt that went through you was instant, and he immediately stood up and left the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts, leaving you…embarrassed. You took another swig of the drink, crushing your eyes with the palm of your hand. Shame washed over you in waves, but you tried to brush it off, getting up and putting together a bath.

You knew this was the end, Rhysands plan, whatever it was, was being enacted wherever he was, but the battle raged on before you. You locked eyes with Azriel, wanting nothing more to pour your heart out for him, in case…in case anything happened.

“Az.” You whispered, looking up at him. His eyes were guarded once again, making quick movements across the front lines. “Before we go out there, I need to tell you something, please.”

He turned, but impatience was written across his features. You opened your mouth to speak, but the weight of your words stayed on your tongue as you the thought occurred to you- he didn’t feel the same. Azriel’s expression didn’t change, his lips in a thin line as he looked down at you. You tried to push down the emotions, the love, the anger that he was here, the anger of how you felt, but it felt impossible. So instead of saying the words you were dying to, you nodded your head. “Good luck out there.”

He nodded, and you both turned, the despair in your chest raging. You saw an opening and ran.

You swung your sword, missing the male by mere inches. Sweat coated your body under your black armor. The battled raged on, with male after male dropping after your swords met their mark. Blue eyes met yours from across the field, you could see his mouth moving but no words. A sharp pain ripped through your abdomen, and you gasped, the world becoming slow and soundless as the sword was ripped out.

You fell to your knees, watching as Azriel fought to get to you, across the sea of soldiers, but you knew he wouldn’t make it in time. As he ran, wings wide and swiping easily at everyone in his way, he didn’t trip, didn’t fumble.

But then your view of him was lost as an arrow went through his shoulder and his eyes broke contact with yours as he turned to see who the perpetrator was. All you could feel was regret, the regret that you didn’t tell him you loved him, the regret that you didn’t get a chance to kiss him or hold him like you wished, but the worst was the hollowed-out pain in your chest when you realized you would never look into his eyes again, and you would never know if he actually loved you back.

               You knees didn’t even hit the ground before you felt yourself being lifted in the air, above the trees, then you lost consciousness.

[sceletaflores]

GOT YOUR HEART IN A HEADLOCK…

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ೃ⁀➷ pair: bruce wayne x vigilante!fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ wc: 3.6k

ೃ⁀➷ contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, nat can’t stop making oc reader characters, somewhat angsty cause i need it to function, bruce's pov, p in v, not rough sex and not love making but another third thing, unprotected sex (do as sex ed teaches, not as i write), slight pain kink, biting, finger sucking RAAAHHH, one tiny mention of blood, bruce wayne experiences feelings, ending is basically the “fucked in missionary and got emotional about it” meme, porn with a little too much plot, no use of y/n.

ೃ⁀➷ nat’s note: oh em gee...baby's first dc fic...i'm so terrified to post this LMAO but i need to because this man just makes me want to write all the sad, angsty, pining/longing filled fics in the world. it’s his beautiful tortured eyes, they’ve transfixed me. title is ofc from imogen heap's 'headlock' cause i'm clearly too obsessed with that album i've named like three fics after it's tracks AND it's just such a bruce song i had to. hope you love it, kisses!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics!

bruce wayne gets an unexpected visitor…

Rain pelts at the spotless windows of Bruce's office. Sharp and impossible to ignore in the deep silence shrouding the room.

The overhead lights are dimmed, leaving the only glow in the room the flickering monitors lining the top of his desk. Bruce is hunched over them, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar undone, tired eyes fleeting over grainy security footage and recent police reports.

A tension lives in his shoulders as his hands fly over the expanse of his keyboard. The kind that never leaves. He’s chasing patterns again—strings of mob movement, scattered drug shipments, whispers of reemerging cartels. 

It’s not often that he brings his, nightly work, to the tower—but something about the cave felt too heavy. Too suffocating, too soaked in grief and memory for him to get any real work done. Wayne tower, with its sleek sterility, gives him just enough distance to pretend silence is solacing instead of crushing.

Bruce needed that silence. Or maybe he needed the illusion of it—the unostentatious stillness of glass and steel, high enough above the rot of Gotham’s underbelly to try and escape the weight in his chest.

He exhales through his nose, slow and quiet, forearms tensing as he rewinds the surveillance footage for a third time. The storm is growing merciless—thunder cracking like bones, lightning throwing brief, jagged shadows across the gleaming floor. Bruce doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. He just leans further into the static buzz of his monitor, the comfort of control.

Until he feels it.

That shift. 

That slow coil in his gut. The cold drag of something other licking at the edge of the air. A chill snakes its way up his spine and stirs the hair on the back of his neck, pressing against his senses in a way he’s become all too familiar with.

He cuts his eyes to the wall of windows before his desk. At first, he sees nothing but a dark sky. The rain clouds so thick and imposing they mute the shine of the stars, leaving behind a sea of pitch black.

A bolt of lighting rips across the sky—and for half a heartbeat, you’re there.

Seventy eight stories up, floating just outside the glass, shimmering with an ethereal glow. Your form is only half-phased, half solid. Raindrops slip right through you, never landing, never soaking. You press a hand to the glass, head tilted slightly as though amused. 

Bruce doesn’t speak, but his eyes never leave yours.

You don’t knock. You never do.

You phase through the glass like it’s water, it doesn’t creak. It hums—a low rumble of energy. When your boots touch the polished floor, your form sharpens into full opacity, but the essence still clings to your skin. He can smell the ozone.

You don’t speak, not at first. You just stand there, dripping with power instead of rain, head tilting the other way now as you study him like you always do—like you’re looking straight through the flesh and bone, into whatever broken thing is holding it all together.

Bruce forces down the unease curling in the pit of his stomach, he turns his eyes back to the monitors. “You’re late.” His voice is low, sandpaper dry from disuse.

You hum, gliding a few slow steps toward his desk. He can feel the shift in the room—colder, tighter, like the air itself is shrinking away from your presence. 

“I didn’t know we had a date.”

“We didn’t.”

“Then I’m on time.”

Files appear out of thin air, materializing right in front of his eyes. They simply hover for a moment, bathed in a flickering white hue and edged in smoke—until they fall onto his desk with a muted thump. The pages glide their way in front of him with delicate flutter—chilled only by the cold that clings to them from your plane. 

“Where did you get these?” he mutters, scanning the top page. Intelligence. Photos. Notes scrawled in your familiar handwriting. It’s a roster—names he recognizes, faces he’s seen before in police reports and coroner files. All connected to the Falcone remnants. 

“You’re welcome” you say dryly, turning to lean against the edge of his desk. You cross one leg over the other, arms folding over your chest. “Or do I only get a ‘thank you’ if I come gift-wrapped in latex and a chipper attitude?”

Bruce bites back a scoff, brows drawing together the more he reads over the pages. He knows this isn’t a friendly transaction, that it’s the furthest thing from you simply helping him from the kindness of your still heart. You come bearing gifts because you need something.

Bruce doesn’t rise from his chair. He just leans back slowly, eyes dragging up to meet yours. “What do you want, Spectress.”

Your head tilts, he can’t help but let his eyes run along the smooth column of your throat. “You.”

A beat. Bruce’s jaw ticks.

Then you add, “Well not you, you. Not yet.” Your lips curl around the words like they’re a dare. “Your eyes on something for me. There’s been a shift in the Veil, someone’s poking holes again. Thought some of your fancy tech might catch the bleed.”

Bruce stares, hard. He hopes you can still feel the weight of it—like the point of a blade pressed to skin. It’s his default, the way he carves answers out of people who fear the Bat. But you’re not some masked rookie wannabe he can intimidate into compliance with a look. If anything, the pressure only makes your smirk deepen.

“A shift in the Veil,” he repeats, voice low and quiet. Not mocking. Not doubting. Just…curious.

You nod, leaning a little closer, your body an elegant portrait of muscle and menace draped across his desk. “Someone’s not just brushing against it, Bruce. They’re trying to punch through. It’s not subtle.” You inhale a breath you don’t need. “The air is wrong. I can’t reach them. Dead things don’t stay quiet.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, almost a scoff, though there’s no humor in it. “And you think I can track the metaphysical footprint of a ghost hacker.”

Your smile blooms, sharp and lovely like a blade catching the moonlight. “I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t a priority. The last thing I want to admit is that I need your help. But it’s like something’s…tugging. Someone reaching across, but they’re messy. Clumsy. They don’t know what they’re doing, just that they have the power to do it.” 

Bruce’s fingers twitch over the papers, they crinkle softly under his palm. The only sign that your words have sunk teeth into him. This isn’t some abstract ghost story you’re using to toy with him. This is intel. This is you saying something’s coming.

And The Batman doesn't deal well with what he can’t predict.

“Black Mask?”

“I think Black Mask wouldn’t have it in him to stay quiet if it was.”

Your voice is softer now, the flirtatious edge dulled to something more dangerous. The lights of the monitors cast a faint, blue halo over your face, catching in the slight glow that never leaves your eyes. Bruce notices the way your hand flexes on the desk, your nails dragging faint lines into the polished surface, like you’re grounding yourself—fighting the urge to phase away.

He sits forward slowly, reading the movement for what it is. “You’re scared.”

That makes your smile twitch. Not gone—never gone—but something in your face flickers. Like a candle too close to the wind.

“I don’t scare when it comes to the dead, Bruce.” A pause. “I’m what they whisper too.”

Bruce says nothing. His throat works around a swallow. Your presence has always rattled him. Not because you’re terrifying. He’s faced terrifying. It’s because you see him. 

You see the pulses of emotion he tries his hardest to keep buried, all haloed around him in a hazy smoke of aura and vulnerability. You don’t only test the limits of his control, you blow right through them with all the ease in the world. 

It grates on every inch of his nerves.

And still—still—he can’t help the way his eyes drop. The subtle arc of your hip against his desk. The glow of your power against the dark fabric of your suit. You shouldn’t look this soft, not with the weight you carry. Not with the death you wear like a second skin.

But you do. And it kills him.

Bruce swallows hard, dragging his gaze back to your face. You’re watching him with something like amusement, like you know exactly where his thoughts just wandered.

“You came all this way just for a file drop and a metaphysical theory?”

You don’t answer, letting the silence swell between you until it starts to choke. The room hums with it—something unspoken and aching. That same tension that’s always been there between the two of you, taut as wire. Neither of you ever acknowledge it directly. You dance around it like a live current, but tonight—tonight it feels closer to snapping.

You finally speak. “I saw the Gazette.” You look out to the skyline, eyes shining. “Wayne tower, only the second best view in Gotham, doesn't that just drive you crazy?”

Bruce doesn't take his gaze off you. “Not particularly.”

“What’s the first?”

“I’ll let you know when I find it.”

The unexplainable feeling between you both is pulsing now, alive and unbearable in a way that makes Bruce’s chest tighten. He leans back in his chair, watching you, not sure if he’s challenging you or waiting for you to make the next move. Your gaze flickers between his eyes, his lips, his posture—always studying, always probing.

“Are we done here?”

You hum absentmindedly, pushing off the desk in a fluid motion. The air shifts again as you move. The room feels too small all of a sudden. The rain outside intensifies, and with it, the tension in the air thickens. Bruce can almost taste it—something sharp, eclectic, but also heavy and unwilling to settle.

You walk closer, slow, like you're testing how close you can get before he tenses.

He doesn’t.

That’s the game you always play.

Your tone is velvet stretched over teeth. “I’ve seen inside you, Bruce,” you whisper, the sound pressing against his ribs. “The regret, the rage. The rot. The want. You keep it locked down in suits and silence, but I see it. And it calls to me.”

You circle the desk slowly, not bothering to hide the way your fingers trail across the back of his chair as you pass. Shadows twist and turn around your boots, clinging to the shape of you like they miss you when you're gone. The storm throws another bolt of light against the glass, and your shadow cuts across the floor, long and spindled. Almost wrong.

Bruce doesn’t move, doesn’t even shiver when your fingers drift to his collar and toy with the loose button near his throat. Your touch is cool, just wrong enough to raise goosebumps in its wake. A phantom’s touch.

“You always want what you can’t have, Bruce.”

Your words hit like a jolt of electricity, sharp and raw, and before he can stop himself, he’s standing. The chair scraping against the floor feels like a bomb going off in the silence. But it’s not the anger that drives him. Not entirely.

No, it’s the undeniable attraction. The way your presence disrupts everything he’s spent decades building. The way your very being forces him to question everything he knew about control, power, desire.

“You should leave.” It’s not a command. It’s not a suggestion. It’s…a warning, maybe. He couldn’t tell if you’d heed it. You both know you never do.

“I won’t ask twice,” you whisper, spectral power curling from your skin in soft tendrils that graze his chest. “Help me find who’s bleeding into the Veil , and I’ll make it worth your while.”

Bruce doesn’t need to ask what you mean.

Your hand flattens against his chest, his heartbeat loud and strong beneath your palm. The only warmth in the room.

His hand shoots up fast—too fast—and grabs your wrist. Not rough, but not soft either. Just enough force to anchor, to test the reality of you. His grip burns against your chill.

“I don’t need incentive.”

Your smile curls dangerously, and you phase. Right through his grasp. His fingers snap closed around air, and you’re behind him now, voice purring against the back of his neck. “Liar.”

Bruce rounds his desk with an almost inhuman amount of speed, caging you against the windows. You let him. 

“This isn’t a game, Spectress,” he snarls, eyes burning. His face is close to yours now, too close. Your noses nearly brush. He should pull back. 

“So serious, Bruce,” you murmur, eyes flicking to his lips, then back to his eyes. “Always so fucking serious. All that control, all that rage, and you’ve never even let it out the fun way.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. “You think that this is fun for me?” he asks, voice like gravel.

“I think you don’t even know how badly you need to come undone.”

Your words hang there. Heavy. Weighted. Inescapable.

And then your mouth is right there—sinful lips brushing against his ear. “Let me show you.”

It’s laughably desperate when your mouths finally meet. Fire and ice coming together in a blaze of teeth and tension and unsaid things. A war between two people who don’t know how to surrender without blood. Neither of you gentle. Neither of you soft. His hands grip your hips roughly, your back hits the glass with more force he’d use on any other woman. 

You bite his lip as he lifts you off the floor like you weigh nothing—like the world could end beneath his feet and he wouldn’t notice as long as your lips stay on his. Your legs wrap around his waist, strong as they drag him further into you.

You meet him with all the power in your bones, your body flickering with that unearthly light as your hands fist the collar of his shirt and pull him impossibly closer. You taste like the dead. Like smoke. Like something Bruce shouldn’t want, and can’t stop needing.

His hips slot against yours, and he’s hard. The heavy weight of his cock pushing against the front of his slacks. You moan low into his mouth, and it’s not ghostly—it’s human. Raw. And that’s what undoes him more than anything. The reminder that beneath all your power, your secrets, your cold—

You’re real.

"You’re soaked in death," he mutters against your mouth, voice raw. "And I still—"

“Still want to fuck me,” you finish, breathless, smirking against his lips. “I can feel it. You think I don’t know what your need tastes like?”

Your hand slides down between your bodies, cupping the thick heat straining against the front of his pants. Bruce hisses through his teeth, hips jerking into your touch, and you laugh—low and lovely and full of wicked delight.

“Look at you,” you murmur, voice thick with sin as you stare down to take in the way his cock strains against your stomach. “So fucking hard for the dead girl.”

It’s more than he can stomach, and Bruce snaps.

He uses a single hand to rip his belt open, the other bracing your thigh against the window so hard the glass groans. Your suit splits open at the hips with a flick of your fingers, the obsidian fabric shifting and slithering like something alive, giving way to skin that’s too perfect, too cold, and he groans—low, rough, helpless. Your suit gone, his shirt shoved up, his pants shoved down just enough for skin to meet skin—desperate and unfiltered.

There’s no ceremony. No slow lead-in. Just the stretch, the pressure, the way your body clenches around him like you’ve been waiting for this—aching for it.

The whole damn building seems to shudder, and your laugh comes out breathless, thrilled. Gotham burns beneath you in the stormlight, streaks of red and gold and shadow, a perfect backdrop to something that was never meant to be soft.

You gasp, sharp nails raking welts down the muscle of his back at the sting of his thick cock forcing a place for itself inside of you. He can feel the way the walls of your cunt flutter around him, gentle caresses that have something dark and consuming blooming in the pit of his stomach.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters against the hollow of your throat, dragging his mouth down the glowing seam of your collarbone, sucking a mark where the light pulses the brightest. “You like this.”

You don’t answer, locking your ankles behind him, digging your nails into his shoulders hard enough to make him snarl. “Harder, Bruce. I can take it.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

Every thrust is deep and mean, hips slapping against the cradle of your thighs mercilessly. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, wet and obscene. You clench around him, and he groans, fingers digging into your hips so hard they’ll bruise if you let them. 

You meet every thrust with a vicious grind of your hips, moaning his name like a prayer and a curse all at once—hand reaching back blindly to slap the glass, leaving a foggy print behind. The groan that rips its way from his chest is filthy, guttural, primal.

You’re impossibly wet, impossibly tight, and the angle—Christ, the angle—lets him grind so deep it feels like he’s trying to carve himself into your spine. Bruce’s eyes fall to where your bodies are joined, he watches the way his cock punches in and out of your swollen cunt. His skin is coated in your messy wetness, glistening in the moonlight each time he pulls out before disappearing back into your addictive warmth.

Your power lashes around you both, the lights flickering, the storm outside growing louder. Somewhere, the shadows moan.

“You love it,” he growls, voice like thunder against your ear. “Getting fucked like this. Against the glass. Knowing anyone could look up and see—”

“Bruce.” Your voice is the deepest form of sin, soaked in gasoline and waiting to be ignited by the match that only he has the ability of sparking.

Bruce can hardly stand it. The nasty, possessive feeling beats against his ribcage almost as hard as his heart. Scratching and clawing and demanding to be set free. His cock throbs inside of you. He’s close, and the incoherent gurgle of his name passing through your lips only spurs him on.

He’s moving before his brain can process it, his hand loosening its unrelenting grip on the muscle of your thigh to cradle your cheek. It’s heartbreakingly tender, in such a way that he’d never use even when he’s playing up the soft, faux-sentimental fucks of Brucie Wayne. 

His thumb swipes across your slick bottom lip before he can think better of it. Your mouth falls open with a pleased moan, devilish tongue sweeping out to brush against his skin teasingly. For a heartstopping moment, Bruce wonders what it would be like to sink between those plush lips.

The cool kiss of them, or the sweet caress of your tongue, on the scorching tip of his cock. Just the thought has him shuddering, a bitten off curse falling from his lips as he pushes his thumb into your wanting mouth. Your eyes flutter closed, lashes fanning over your cheeks as you hollow them and suck.

“Fuck.” Bruce sets a brutal rhythm, hips pistoning into you with a desperation that belies the calm mask he wears for everyone else. But not for you. Never for you. You get the real thing—unfiltered, cracked open, all ugly need and unbearable weight. You take it, welcoming it with a tilt of your hips and a hiss of pleasure through your teeth as they bite down on his thumb roughly. 

You try to phase, instinctively—too much, too fast—but he grabs you harder, pins you down, keeps you there in your body. “No,” he growls, lips against your skin. “You’re not going anywhere. Not till I’m done.”

The coarse, dark hair dusted along his abs grinds over your sensitive clit with every thrust, the blunt head of his cock hammering against the sweet spot inside of you. His heavy balls slap the bruised, raw skin of your ass.

Bruce tilts his hips just so, and you howl.

Your orgasm hits like a supernatural event, your body clenching around him, pulsing with energy that sinks into him, through him, like it’s marking him from the inside out. He chokes on your name—your real name—and it sends another shock through your system.

Bruce spills into you with a growl that rattles through his chest, buried so deep he forgets what it feels like to be hollow. The pulse of his cock is in time with the pounding beat of his heart.

And he watches, eyes rapt, as you come back down. The heave of your chest as you suck in greedy lungfuls of air you haven’t needed in decades, the glowing satisfaction swirling through your cloudy eyes, your swollen lips slick and parted around the soft pants of pleasure—stained with his blood.

He watches the power only barely contained beneath your skin. The shining white of it swimming through your body languidly, like pure white ink spilled along the surface of a lake, pulsing with life. So fucking alive.

Bruce realizes then that he’s found it.

The best view in Gotham.

mini nat’s note: tagging some lovelies that showed interest in this mess @ebodebo @ovaryacted @lordlottie @wlwloverwrites @dixie-isnt-cool! i love you all...bad! bruce wayne isn't on my taglist, but i might add him later! i do possibly want to write more for him in the future, so yell at me to add him if you want! thank you for reading! mwah <3

[spr1ngbunnypvrin]

"Tangled Threads"

ℍ𝕒𝕣𝕝𝕖𝕪 𝕊𝕒𝕨𝕪𝕖𝕣/𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔻𝕠𝕔𝕥𝕠𝕣 (ℙ𝕠𝕤𝕥 -“𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔻𝕠𝕔𝕥𝕠𝕣”) 𝕩 ℝ𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕖𝕣

🇨​🇴​🇳​🇹​🇪​🇳​🇹​ 🇼​🇦​🇷​🇳​🇮​🇳​🇬​: None + only fluff ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ – You're repairing one of The Doctor’s robotic bodies, likely one he frequently uses. Maybe it’s glitching, maybe it took damage, or maybe he just lets you do it because he’s curious how you’ll handle it. There’s an intimacy in the act of repairing—your hands brushing over cold metal, wires sparking under your fingertips, and the unspoken tension of knowing he's watching you from everywhere at once...

The soft hum of machinery filled the air, a rhythmic pulse that blended seamlessly with the distant, flickering static from the monitors overhead.

Shadows stretched unnaturally long in the dim, sterile glow of artificial lighting, twisting with the slow, methodical movement of the robotic body before you.

The Doctor’s vessel—one of many—sat slumped in a chair, wires spilling from its form like the severed arteries of something that once lived. The body wasn’t broken, not entirely, but something in the machinery had faltered, rendering him momentarily still. Or perhaps, he had allowed this. Allowed you.

A dull hum vibrated through the air, like a distant heartbeat lost within the facility’s decaying walls. The air smelled of metal, of rust and static, sterile yet sickly in its artificiality. You exhaled, hands hovering above the exposed circuits in hesitant contemplation.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered under your breath, the words cutting through the thick silence. “And yet… I don’t hate it.”

It sat, partially disassembled, its mechanical limbs sprawled out in a state of disrepair—a marionette with severed strings, awaiting restoration. You worked in silence, fingers deftly navigating the intricate web of wires, tightening loose connections, realigning joints.

The Doctor had let you do this, whether out of necessity or sheer amusement, you couldn't tell.

He was watching, of course. He was always watching.

Through the static-laced screens lining the walls, through the faint flickering of monitors that pulsed like the erratic beat of some ghostly heart. The screen that served as his face twitched, static dancing across it in chaotic bursts.

Even now, as your hands worked over the exposed circuitry, you could feel the weight of his gaze—disembodied, omnipresent, yet somehow, unmistakably personal.

“Careful,” came the voice, distorted through layers of electronic interference. It slithered through the speakers, low and knowing, each syllable tinged with something too deliberate to be mere observation. “You wouldn't want to break anything.”

You huffed, not looking up. “If you’re so concerned, why don’t you fix it yourself?”

A short, static-ridden chuckle buzzed through the air. “Oh, but I rather enjoy this… You, so intent, so careful. It’s fascinating.”

The words sent an involuntary shiver down your spine, though you refused to let it show. Instead, you continued your work, steady and precise, until—

A shift. A flicker of movement. The robotic fingers twitched beneath your touch, and before you could fully register the change, they had curled around your own. Not tightly—just enough for you to feel the cold weight of them, the subtle press of mechanical joints against your skin.

You froze.

“Let go,” you muttered, more an observation than a command.

But he didn’t.

The fingers flexed slightly, a calculated mimicry of human touch. It was not warmth that seeped through, but something else—something eerily deliberate, as though he was testing the sensation, assessing the shape of your hand in his own.

“You were checking its motor function, weren’t you?” His voice was smooth, composed. “Consider this… a demonstration.”

Your breath hitched, but you did not pull away. Perhaps some part of you knew that resistance would only amuse him further. Instead, you met the nearest screen with a pointed stare. “If this is your way of proving a point, I’d say you’re overdoing it.”

There was another pause, a moment stretched taut between curiosity and something less identifiable. Then, the grip loosened, fingers unfurling, though they did not retreat entirely. Instead, the robotic hand adjusted, fingers shifting until they were no longer merely grasping—but offering.

An invitation.

Your brow furrowed. “Are you seriously asking me to dance?”

Another flicker of static, but this time, the distortion almost resembled amusement. Or maybe you were imagining things.

“I didn’t take you for a sentimental type,” you added, but your hand was already moving before the thought could catch up to your actions. Hesitance ghosted your fingertips before you finally made contact.

The metal was cool beneath your touch, smooth yet worn in places where time had etched its presence. His fingers curled around yours—not too tightly, but enough to remind you that, despite everything, despite the illusion of humanity this moment carried, this was not flesh and bone.

This was something else entirely.

───── ⋆⋅✝⋅⋆ ─────

The way the mechanical body moved was almost theatrical—an exaggerated gesture, palm outstretched, metal digits poised in eerie elegance. It was unmistakable, the way it hovered there, waiting.

You stared at it, then at the flickering screen. “…You can’t be serious.”

A pause. Then: “Oh, but I am.”

The amusement in his voice was unmistakable now, curling around the edges of the static like something tangible. The Doctor, master of control, orchestrator of twisted creations—offering you a dance.

A laugh escaped you, dry and disbelieving. “What, are we doing this Beauty and the Beast style?”

“If that helps you rationalize it.” A flicker of red danced through the screen before dimming back to gold. “Indulge me.”

It was ridiculous. Absurd. And yet…

You hesitated only a moment longer before sighing, reaching out. The second your fingers brushed against the outstretched palm, the mechanical grip closed around yours—not forcefully, but with a controlled firmness that sent a strange jolt through you.

The movement was seamless. Guided, deliberate. He led, and you followed, your steps hesitant at first as the robotic body shifted in time with yours.

It should have felt cold. Impersonal. And yet, the way he maneuvered, the calculated fluidity of each motion, spoke of something else. Something practiced.

“How very trusting of you,” his voice hummed, low and smooth. “Or perhaps just foolish.”

You scoffed. “Says the one who’s been watching my every move.”

“Observation is a form of study.”

There was no music, only the soft, rhythmic whir of servos, the distant hum of machinery filling the void like an unspoken melody; the hum of unseen machinery, the distant crackle of an old intercom losing its battle against time.

But he moved as if there was a melody only he could hear, as if muscle memory still lingered in the absence of a body to house it. A step forward, a step back. Slow, methodical.

A dance in the void.

Your eyes lifted, meeting the ever-watching gaze on the screen. That fractured yellow eye, always dissecting, always analyzing. But was that all? Or was there something else beneath the calculations?

For a moment—just a breath of one—you swore the grip on your hand tightened. Imperceptible. Brief.

“What is this, some kind of experiment?” you questioned, voice quieter now, the weight of the moment pressing against your ribs.

Silence. Then, after a pause long enough to make you think he wouldn’t answer, the static flared once more. A flickering imitation of something almost human.

“No,” came the distorted reply, voice fragmented through the speakers. “Not an experiment.”

You exhaled sharply, lips pressing into a thin line.

“So what, then?”

Another pause. The dance slowed, the vessel’s movements becoming more deliberate, more measured. The metal fingers twined just slightly more securely around your own.

The eye flickered—once, twice—before dimming, the light softening in a way that was neither mechanical nor human, but something in between.

“Perhaps,” he murmured, and the distortion in his voice softened with it, “it is simply... remembering.”

Something in your chest tightened.

He did not elaborate, and you did not ask.

The room remained silent save for the quiet hum of the factory, and the phantom waltz of a ghost and their machine.

───── ⋆⋅✝⋅⋆ ─────

As he pulled you forward, guiding you into movement, the eeriness of it all melted into something strangely hypnotic. The space around you dissolved, the ruined lab fading into obscurity as the world shrank down to the silent rhythm between you and the machine wearing the ghost of a man’s consciousness.

The dance continued, a slow, fluid exchange of steps and countersteps. There was something hauntingly poetic about it—the waltz in the heart of something so sterile, so far removed from the world of human warmth.

And yet, despite the mechanical nature of it all, there was an undeniable intimacy in the way he moved with you, in the way his grip adjusted, the way he seemed to listen to your unspoken rhythm.

It was easy to forget, for just a moment, that he was everywhere and nowhere at once—that the hands guiding yours were mere extensions of a presence far greater, far more consuming.

Easy to forget that you were dancing with something that should not have been capable of such grace, such precision.

And yet, here you were.

The last step was slower, lingering, as the movement came to a halt. The mechanical grip remained for a breath longer than necessary before finally releasing, fingers ghosting over yours before withdrawing entirely.

Silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken thoughts.

Then, his voice, smooth and edged with something almost imperceptible:

“How unexpected.”

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders. “That makes two of us.”

A beat. Then, with a flicker of static, the monitors dimmed slightly, his presence withdrawing just enough to remind you that he had allowed this moment—that, for whatever reason, he had chosen to indulge in it.

You weren’t sure what unsettled you more—the fact that he had done it at all, or the lingering feeling that, somewhere within the vast network of his being, something human had stirred.

Not quite dead. Not quite alive. Just waiting.

Watching.

And, perhaps, remembering.

[monicfever]

omgg youu are talented at writting 😭😭 could youu please write more of dex?? YOUU ARE AMAZING ♾️♾️🤍💘

orbiting you quietly. 𝜗𝜚 ben poindexter.

working side by side in the hum of routine, dex moves through every task with quiet devotion, chasing the warmth of your praise like it’s sunlight — like it’s the only thing that keeps him alive.

brooklyn was grey that morning.

heavy with a kind of lightless fog that pressed low against the buildings, as if the city itself had given up holding its head high. the brooklyn suicide prevention center sat quiet near the corner of a long, cracked street, tucked between a shuttered deli and an apartment complex that hadn’t seen fresh paint in a decade. the building didn’t look like a place for saving lives, it looked like a place people went to disappear.

inside, the walls were an off-white that had seen too many winters, too many cheap coffee spills and curled bulletin board notices pinned and forgotten. it smelled faintly of disinfectant and the ghost of burnt toast. there were dying plants on windowsills, drooping toward the glass like they, too, had tried to leave and failed. phones rang in soft cycles, never urgently. voices murmured behind the fabric walls of cubicles. sometimes crying, sometimes silence.

dex’ cubicle was third from the end in the west corridor, just past the breakroom that always smelled like someone else's soup. his space was a picture of immaculate restraint. not a pen out of place, not a single paperclip skewed. everything was lined up, corner to corner, colour-coded sticky notes stacked with precision. the monitor sat perfectly centered. the chair never spun when he stood up. it was rigid, obedient. just like him. he liked it that way.

he liked the quiet, the way the lights buzzed just barely too loud, like something inside the walls was always alive. he liked the uniformity, the structure, the rules. the way the day folded itself into clean, containable blocks. thirty-minute calls, ten-minute breaks, scheduled wellness checks. everything measured. everything expected.

predictability was peace.

it didn’t matter that most of the people he spoke to were crying, or silent, or on the edge of not breathing. he followed the script provided, voice smooth and sterile, each word handed over like a prescription. detached, impersonal. it was what they trained him to do. dex was good at following orders. he didn’t feel bad about the calls. he didn’t feel much at all. maybe once, in a different life, there was guilt or something like it. now it was just static.

the carpet was grey and frayed near the corners of the hallway, the breakroom door had a squeak that made his teeth itch, the clock above the main desk always ran four minutes fast. he catalogued these things without meaning to, without wanting to. everything filed away neatly in his mind.

the building itself felt suspended in time; dim, slow-moving, tired. there was something haunted about it. not by ghosts, but by the weight of too many stories stacked on top of each other. hundreds of voices funneled through the same lines, all pleading into the same nothing.

the walls didn’t echo. they absorbed. every whisper, every sob, every broken breath swallowed whole by the cubicles, the stained ceiling tiles, the thin industrial carpet that dulled footsteps. it was a quiet that wasn't peaceful. it was the quiet of restraint. of things left unsaid. the lights overhead hummed with the same tired persistence as the people beneath them. no one spoke loudly here, no one laughed. even the breakroom felt like it existed underwater — muted, slow, beige.

outside, the city moved fast. horns, trains, voices, music leaking from passing cars; but inside this building time collapsed inward. minutes dragged like wet cloth. hours disappeared without a trace.

dex sat at his desk like he’d always been there. spine straight, hands still, eyes fixed on the screen even when nothing was moving. he was good at this part — the waiting. the stillness. he could out-sit anyone. sometimes he watched the light change. the way it crept across the floor from the narrow windows, cold and pale in the early hours, yellow and foggy by late afternoon. it gave the illusion that something was shifting, even if everything else stayed exactly the same.

his headset rested just behind his ear; ready. not because he wanted the calls, but because he wanted to be seen. wanted them to see him. to see how composed he was. how exact.

the others here had softness in them. he could hear it in their voices, the way they said i’m sorry like they meant it. the way they let themselves feel for the strangers calling in, bleeding into the phone. dex didn’t bleed. he couldn’t.

but he was clean. efficient. dependable. and he thought — he hoped — that maybe that meant something to them. maybe that was enough to be worthy of a second glance. a quiet compliment. a fleeting you’re doing good work, dex. he would carry those words like a relic, polish them smooth in his mind.

this place didn’t need to be warm. it just needed to hold them both. him, and the one person he couldn’t stop wanting to impress.

you.

sometimes dex thought about how many people had whispered their last words into this building. he didn’t feel sad about that either. he didn’t come here to feel, he came for control. for order. for the soft, rare moments when they noticed him. that was the only thing that made him real lately. not the routine. not the script. not the careful stacks of paper or the alphabetized tabs on his desktop.

just them.

and he tried. god, he tried. arrived early, stayed late, kept his stats high, his reports spotless. he kept hoping they’d stop behind his chair again, hand resting on the edge of his cubicle, voice low and even, saying something — anything — that he could replay in his head later when the calls were over and the building had emptied and he sat alone in the quiet.

he was good. he had to be.

not just clean numbers and flawless reports. not just the voice he used on the line, untouched by emotion. it was in the way he sat, the way he breathed, the way he never left a single thing out of place. perfection was the language he spoke, and he spoke it for them.

they moved like the building belonged to them. not in any loud or arrogant way, it was quieter than that. the way people naturally shifted when they were near, like water parting around a steady shape. dex watched it happen every time. watched the way they drifted through the halls like gravity bent around them. watched how their presence could calm a room. they didn’t know what they were doing to him. or maybe they did. he couldn’t tell.

sometimes, they would stop behind him, just briefly. a word or two dropped like gold coins.

“you handled that one well.”

“i like the way you log your notes.”

simple. professional. casual, even. but dex would carry it like scripture. would repeat it in the quietest part of his mind, over and over, until the syllables wore grooves into his brain. he didn’t need kindness. didn’t need warmth. he just needed recognition.

his entire body was tuned to their presence. their steps, the scent of their cologne or shampoo, something clean and unplaceable. the way their hand sometimes grazed the edge of his cubicle wall when they walked by, fingers dragging for half a second too long. he lived for the scraps. he worked like he was starving. like praise was food, and only they could feed him.

and when the building emptied, when the phones stopped and the lights flickered tired above him, dex would still sit there. alone in the hush, thinking of them. always them. thinking of the way their voice sounded when they said his name four days ago. thinking of how it might sound if they ever said it a little softer.

he stayed late under the lights that buzzed just a little louder when the building thinned out. his monitor casting a pale blue glow across his face, making the hollows under his eyes look deeper, sharper. the clock ticked quietly, but he didn’t hear it. he was thinking. not about the calls, not about the woman he’d just talked off a ledge with a voice that didn’t waver once. he was thinking about the way they’d paused near his desk that morning. just a second. just long enough.

they didn’t say much. just glanced down at his screen and nodded, slow and approving, before moving on. “doing good.” that was all. but it played in his head like music.

he had written it down — he always did. kept a private document hidden in layers of folders on his desktop, buried beneath fake names and acronyms. a log and date of every word they’d ever said to him. every smile, every glance. he read through it when the office got too quiet, when the night pressed in too close. every compliment was a wound he reopened on purpose.

he thought about them on the subway ride home. standing, always, even when seats were open. gripping the cold metal pole with his hand, staring straight ahead but seeing only their face.

he wondered if they ever thought about him. if they ever wondered why he never took days off. why he never made mistakes. why he was always exactly what they needed. he didn’t want anything from them, not really. not in the way people always assumed when they used words like ‘infatuation.’

he just wanted to be good enough. good enough to notice. good enough to need.

if that meant becoming hollow and perfect, if that meant learning every single thing about them and storing it behind his teeth like a secret, he would do it. he was already doing it.

and he was so, so good.

the next morning was pale and brittle.

the sky outside the narrow windows was washed-out, barely blue, the kind of color that felt unfinished. snow had started to fall again — thin, soundless flakes drifting sideways past the glass like ash. it hadn’t stuck to the pavement yet, but everything looked muted, quieter than usual. like the world was holding its breath.

inside, the office was already alive with low chatter, the occasional cough, the creak of desk chairs. cubicles stretched in neat rows under the ceiling’s low sprawl, each one its own little box of half-lives and coffee-stained reports. someone was crying softly into their headset two aisles over. someone else was typing too fast.

dex’ corner was untouched, still perfect. clipboard aligned to the edge of the desk. pen uncapped, resting parallel. his chair didn’t squeak when he moved. he was already mid-call, voice low, steady, pulled taut like string. “...and that’s okay. it’s okay to feel that way. what matters is that you called. we’re gonna walk through it together.”

his tone didn’t change. it never did. he could’ve been reading from a cookbook. his eyes flicked to the clipboard in front of him, following the script like a ritual. mechanical, precise. not because he cared, but because they might be listening.

and then — that shift.

that unmistakable flicker in the air, subtle as a change in pressure. he didn’t look up, not right away, but he felt it. recognized their footsteps. the way the light seemed to change. they were close. he heard the soft drag of their steps, the gentle creak of their weight against the wall of his cubicle; then a pause.

they leaned against the edge of his workspace, not speaking yet, just watching him. dex’ breath caught, but he didn’t let it show. his fingers tightened faintly around the clipboard. he kept reading word for word. “you’re not alone in this. i’m here. just breathe, okay? can you do that for me?” his voice was warmer now. emotional. almost convincing. he could feel their eyes on him.

then they smiled. not big, not loud. just a small, knowing thing. patient. dex swallowed. his heart, previously so even and quiet in his chest, now thundered. not because of the caller, not because of the script; because they were listening and he wanted to be good.

their gaze moved over him with that quiet kind of focus that made his skin feel too tight, like he wasn’t meant to hold this much attention. his voice stayed even, but his fingers tapped once nervously against the clipboard. “yeah,” he said into the receiver, eyes fixed on the words in front of him but meaning none of them. “you’re doing the right thing. just stay with me a little longer, okay? we’ll take it one step at a time.” his throat felt dry. out of the corner of his eye, he saw you mouth something.

you’re doing great.

just that. silent. lips forming the words like a secret meant only for him. his grip tightened. his heart stuttered. he nodded once — tiny, instinctive. not for the caller. for them. always them.

they stayed for a moment longer, arms still folded, eyes warm but unreadable. listening. watching. then they pushed off the edge of the cubicle with that same soft grace they always moved with and walked away, further down the row to check on someone else.

their absence was immediate.

like breath pulled from a room. dex exhaled slowly, blinked, refocused. the caller was still speaking, shakily, and dex responded automatically, voice instantly flat again. but in his chest, everything was loud. frantic. glowing.

they said he was doing great.

he would hold onto that for days.

the call dragged on, the voice on the other end of the line scared, low. words spilled out of him with an eerie precision, as if he were reciting a mantra, something hollow and detached. “i’m still here. i’m not going anywhere.” but the words felt empty. inside everything was burning, frantic. a sharp, throbbing pressure in his chest. every thought, every heartbeat, seemed to be pulling him in a direction he couldn’t resist. his mind kept circling back to them, to the way they’d looked at him, the way they'd smiled before walking away. he wanted to grab onto that moment, hold it tight, feel it slip through his fingers. it wasn’t enough. it would never be enough.

the girl on the line was still speaking, but her voice barely registered. his eyes flickered to his screen, gaze sharpening, almost predatory. then he leaned closer to the mic, voice dropping lower, quieter, colder. "maybe you should just do it." he murmured, tone so dark it almost tasted like metal. "make it stop." the words felt raw, too raw, but he couldn’t stop them. he wanted to hear them. he leaned even closer, breath steady. "what’s stopping you? go ahead. make it quick. you think anyone cares? clearly not, if you needed to call a stranger for help."

the words hung in the air, the silence between them thick and oppressive. the girl’s voice on the other end stuttered, a soft whimper escaping her lips. dex didn’t care. and then, the call ended with a sharp click, the silence ringing through his ears.

he blinked, fingers hovering over the mouse. the room was suffocatingly still. for a moment, he sat there, the weight of the words lingering in the air. but before he could process what had just happened, the sound of footsteps approached again. he didn’t need to look up. he already knew who it was.

their voice, soft and uncertain, broke through the quiet. “hey, uh, dex...” they sounded almost hesitant, as if they were trying to be careful not to disturb the fragile calm of his world.

“yeah?” he responded, his voice clipped, sharper than he intended.

there was a pause, and then the words came out in a rush. “there’s a birthday party for michelle today. you know, just something small after hours... cake, some decorations. i’ve already asked everyone else, but they’re busy. i was wondering... if you have a few minutes... maybe... you could stay and help me set up?”

it was simple. innocent. but something about it made the blood rush to his head, made his stomach twist in ways that felt dangerous. his fingers tightened around the clipboard, the edges digging into his skin. he exhaled slowly, forcing a calm he didn’t feel, as his gaze finally lifted, eyes locking onto theirs. “sure,” he said, too quickly. “i’ll stay. no problem.” the words came out almost too eager, but he didn’t care. staying was all that mattered. staying meant being close.

they smiled then, the faintest curve of their lips, and it felt like a brief moment of relief — like they had just thrown him a rope, and he was grabbing onto it with everything he had. “thanks, dex.” their voice was light, but he could hear the warmth beneath it.

he nodded, his throat tight. "yeah. no problem."

they walked away after that.

stay and help me.

it wasn’t much, but to dex it felt like an invitation. an opening. an opportunity to be needed, to prove he was worth something. to make himself useful in a world where he often felt like a shadow fading into the background.

he clicked through the tasks on his screen, the words blurring as his thoughts spiraled, his focus split between the calls he needed to take and the thought of them, standing just out of reach.

it wasn’t long before the workday was winding down, the office growing quieter. the last few calls filtered through, voices distant and hollow, but dex barely heard them anymore. his eyes flicked towards the clock, then back to his screen. the tension in his chest was building again.

when his final call ended, dex was already standing, his movements quick. he grabbed his jacket, almost throwing it on, hands moving with a frantic energy that was out of place in the otherwise calm office. he didn’t wait. he couldn’t wait. he found them just as they were finishing up something at their desk.

“ready.” he greeted, voice a little too sharp, too eager, like he was afraid they’d change their mind.

they looked up, surprised but with that same soft smile. "oh, you’re ready to help?"

"yeah," he replied immediately, "just tell me what to do."

they hesitated, eyes studying him for a moment, and it sent a thrill through him. did they notice? did they see how much he wanted this? how much he needed their attention? "okay," they said, voice warm, like the invitation had never stopped. "follow me."

dex nodded, following closely behind them as they made their way to the small break room where the party would take place. his steps were almost too quick, matching their pace, but just enough distance to leave room for that sliver of space he knew he couldn’t invade. yet. he watched them move around, setting up with a practiced ease, and for the first time in what felt like forever, dex found himself... still.

when they turned to him, asking if he could hold something, the smile they gave him was warm and kind, and for a moment, it felt like they were looking at him in a way they hadn’t before — like he mattered, like he was someone they wanted around. “thank you.” they said again, their voice softer now, with that subtle approval he craved.

dex nodded, his throat tight, chest swelling with something he couldn’t name. "anything for you." the words slipped out before he could stop them, raw and needy, and he almost winced at the intensity in his own voice. they didn’t seem to notice, or maybe they did, but they didn’t care. they just smiled, the kind of smile that made his heart race.

as they continued to set up his thoughts began to race again. he was so close now. so close to what he wanted, to what he needed. he would stay close. stay useful. stay needed. and maybe, just maybe, they would notice. maybe they would see him as more than just the guy who followed the script, more than just the quiet one who stayed in his corner. maybe, this time, he could be someone they wanted — someone they couldn’t ignore.

the world outside the room faded into nothing. dex moved with urgency, hands trembling slightly as he helped set up the decorations. he tried to focus on the task at hand, but all he could feel was their presence, the air thick with the faintest traces of their scent. their laughter, light and easy, drifted through the room, and he couldn’t stop himself from glancing at them, catching the way their eyes sparkled when they smiled.

stop it. just focus. he thought, trying to reign in the overwhelming pull he felt. but the more he watched them, the harder it became to pretend. they passed by him again, just close enough that he could feel the warmth of their proximity. "could you grab that box over there?" they requested, their voice easy, casual.

"of course." his hands reached for the box a little too quickly. it was a simple request, one they probably didn’t think twice about, but to dex, it was like a direct command — and he would always listen to what they had to say.

when he placed the box down they gave him a soft smile, and for a moment, it was like time slowed. "you’re really helpful." the words hung in the air for a heartbeat too long, and dex felt a jolt of something sharp, something electric course through him. he swallowed hard, trying to mask the way his heart was pounding in his ears.

"yeah, no problem." he managed, hands clenching at his sides, aching to touch, to do more. instead, he forced himself to look away, focusing on the task in front of him. they moved around the room, busying themselves with small tasks — hanging up a banner, setting out plates. dex watched every move, every glance, every soft chuckle that escaped their lips. it was like he was drowning in them.

they went about their work and would ask him the occasional question, tone light and friendly. "hey, you’ve been working really hard lately, huh?" they glanced at him as they placed a stack of cups on the table. "i’ve noticed. you’re kind of a perfectionist, aren’t you?"

his breath caught, and he forced himself to laugh, though it felt hollow in his chest. "i try," he said. "it’s just easier when everything is orderly."

they smiled again, that soft, warm smile that made his stomach flip. "i think that’s why you’re so good at your job," they said casually. "you really care about getting things right."

the words cut through him, each one a needle pinning him to the spot. they think i care. they notice. he swallowed hard, "i do.” he didn’t. not about the job. not really. but the praise, the validation from them, that was everything. they didn’t seem to notice how much their words affected him. to them, it was just casual conversation, the kind they had with everyone. but to dex it was like they had just handed him the most precious gift.

the conversation moved on and dex felt the unease growing inside of him bubbling. it wasn’t enough. nothing would ever be enough. he wanted more, needed more. all of them, all of their attention. he wanted to be the center of their focus, to be the one they turned to when they needed something — anything. he watched them move across the room, taking charge, organizing. every word that fell from their lips, every simple instruction, was a rule he had to follow. even the smallest request sent a surge of something sharp and eager through him. he stood a little straighter, waiting for another moment, another task. anything.

"could you help set this up over here? just grab a few of the chairs and bring them over." their voice was light, nothing extraordinary, but to him, it was everything. "you got it." his hands were already moving before the words left his mouth. it didn’t matter that the task was small, that it was nothing more than setting up chairs. what mattered was that they had spoken to him, asked him to do something.

when he returned with the chairs, he set them down carefully, making sure they were perfectly aligned, just like everything else in his life. "thanks." they said with a smile that seemed to stretch a little longer than usual, just enough to leave his heart racing in his chest.

"anything." he smiled, and it was friendly, the kind you’d offer to be polite, but the word hung in the air more than a simple response. anything for you.

the evening wore on, and he stayed close, just enough to be in their orbit. he couldn’t get enough of the feeling — of being needed, of doing something for them, of being the one they called on. nothing else mattered. not the calls he’d taken, not the people on the other end of the line, not the world outside this room. it was only them, only their presence that filled his mind, their every word and smile that kept him tethered to this moment, this small piece of purpose.

everything for them. only for them.

the conversation faded into a low murmur behind him, like waves crashing against a shore he no longer stood on. dex wasn’t listening. not really. his eyes were on them again — the curve of their spine as they leaned over a table, the easy grace in their movements, the way they gestured with one hand while the other cradled a clipboard to their chest. he could watch them forever. he wanted to.

in the quiet recess of his mind, the scene shifted — subtly at first. he imagined them turning toward him with that same warm smile, but softer now, like it was just for him. no crowd. no task. just their voice, low and familiar, asking him to stay a little longer. maybe they’d brush his hand when passing by, fingers lingering just a second too long. maybe they'd whisper something just for him — something secret, something his. maybe they’d need him in a way that wasn’t about chairs or lists or neat rows of order. just him. only him.

his chest ached.

dex blinked. the room snapped back into sharp relief — they were still across the room, still organizing, still unaware of the spiral he’d disappeared into. that was fine. that was better.

he cleared his throat, tugged at the hem of his shirt, forced his feet to stay grounded. one step at a time. one small task at a time. he could manage that. he had to.

he looked back at them — not too long. just enough. “let me know if you need anything else.” he said, louder than necessary, voice steady now, composed. it wasn’t just an offer.

it was a promise.

★ a / n : thank you sm for this sweet message

started 4.26.2025. finished 4.27.2025.

( masterlist. )

©️ monicfever 2025

[bumblehoneybee]

The newest story about Curly and the nurse reader was so sweet. Please I need more of it ❤️ .

Like Curly trying to flirt with his nurse or him straight right confessing his love for her. Or maybe some sweet moments between them.

A Meal With Friends

“Alright, alright.” You huff, pleased with your work. Curly, sat comfortably in his new and improved wheelchair, seems pleased as well. “Looks like we’re ready to roll. Feeling good? Nothing hurts?”

Curly nods, a low hum vibrating from the base of his throat. You nod back, and grab the rest of your things. It won't be your first trip out of the med bay, but it'll be the first one where Curly is introduced to some of your fellow crewmates.

"Alright, handsome!" You chirp, giggling as Curly's head ducks down. The portable heart monitor attached to the chair speeds up. "Off we go!"

It doesn't take long to run into someone, with the canteen being just down the hall. You spot one of your favorite coworkers (not that you would ever admit it), and wave happily.

"Hey, Rodney!" You call. The man startles, obviously lost in thought over the digital menu he was staring at, but he smiles when he notices the two of you approaching.

"My god, has the troll emerged from their bridge!" Rodney shouts. Heat sears your face, so you move around Curly's wheelchair to smack at Rodney's arms. He just laughs. "Hermit! I was wondering when you'd stop your henning and let the man breathe!"

"I do not hen!" You snap, pouting.

Rodney winks at Curly. "Blink twice if they hen."

Curly, with his new eyelids, blinks twice.

"Curly!?" You cry, betrayed, but Rodney cackles, obviously pleased.

It's cute. You're as genuine as they come, very easy to read. It seems your candidness is true for everyone you come across, which makes you seem all the sweeter, in Curly's eyes. He wishes he could tease you how Rodney's doing, but luckily you pick up easily on Curly's little expressions, whining about being ganged up on.

Curly laughs, and your pout melts into a smile.

"I knew you two were going to get along, but I didn't expect such a house fire." You sigh, but happily grab the wheelchair once more, steering Curly and Rodney both into the canteen. "C'mon. Let's eat!"

"You're gonna love Pat's pasta." Rodney tells Curly, clapping his hands. "Oh baby! We're gonna stuff ourselves like mosquitos in a blood bank!"

"There's grilled cheese and tomato soup, too!" You chime in, reading off an overhead monitor. "Would you like that, Curly?"

"Let the man have a pasta! Let him have his carbs!"

Curly does his best shout of "Yeah!", which Rodney catches easily. The man shoos you off to get your own food, driving Curly towards the pasta line despite your huffing and puffing.

"I hear they're getting your prosthetics ready!" Rodney says, as he fills a plate with everything Curly points to. There are endless dishes to choose from, to his shock. It's all actual food, not packet-made mush in the shape of food. "Our engineer's a genius, Curls. You're gonna have hands so intricate and nice that you'll forget you ever lost your first ones."

That makes a stab of guilt pierce Curly's stomach. Prosthetics, grafts, medicine and such a sweet staff to take care of him. . . after everything, he feels like none of it should be for him. The others deserved it more, deserved this kind of care and kindness more than he did. But because of him, they'd never experience it.

Rodney notices his silence, leaning down to catch his lowered gaze. "Hey. . . chin up, bud. Our favorite little nurse won't let a thing hurt you." He cracks a sly grin. "You should've seen 'em when one of the night shifts did your IV wrong. I've never seen someone so pissed force out the politest 'never fucking touch him again.'"

The monitor on the chair speeds up. You're one of the things he didn't deserve the most.

"This way, boys." Speak of the devil, Curly turns to see you holding your own tray, grilled cheese and soup piled on top. Rodney makes some snide comment, but Curly can't hear him, his heart monitor so loud and frantic. "Got us a nice table by the window."

That's another thing this ship has, better than his old one. Giant windows, staring out into the endless space that surrounds him. Curly's eyes widen as you park him at the table, seeing endless colors swirling around glittering stars.

"You're being treated right by our resident nurse," Rodney's voice snaps him back into reality, "right, Curls?"

"Nicknames already?" You ask, obviously amused.

"We're best friends now." Rodney sneers back.

Curly just nods to the question being asked. He gazes at you, hesitating, but reaches out and rests what's left of his arm atop your hand. Your expression softens considerably at the gesture, eyes crinkled with glee as you flip your hand around to hold onto him right back.

"I'm best friend number one." You say to Rodney, who looks too offended for words, especially when Curly rasps out a soft laugh.

Rodney starts to say something else, but then you pick up a half of your grilled cheese. To the horror of him and Curly both, you dunk a corner into the fizzing soda in your cup, then bite into it.

Curly recoils, drawing his arm back to lean towards Rodney instead. His intentions are clear: Rodney is now his best friend number one.

"Don't worry, Curls." Rodney says, voice breathy like you knocked the air out of his lungs. "I won't let them torture you any more."

"It's good!" You argue, but they're too busy comforting one another to hear you. "God, you two are so dramatic."

It's so. . . easy. Curly missed the easiness of being around people.

Do you know what you've gifted him, he wonders, as you wave your soda-logged sandwich in Rodney's face. He looks to the pasta piled high on his plate.

He hopes to tell you one day. That and so much more.

[pome-seed]

The Soldier's Keeper ★ 2

Pairing: Winter Soldier!Bucky x Doctor!Reader

Word Count: 2.5k

Summary: Tasked with finding the cause behind the Winter Soldiers medical decline, you set to work familiarizing yourself with his medical history. With your life on the line, you try your best to pretend this is just another patient, but how long can you lie to yourself? How long can you convince yourself that everything will be okay?

Warnings: Mentions of kidnapping, needles, blood, fear, weapons, and death. Fake and very uneducated medicine :)

Authors Note: Hi! Letting you all know, this is very slow burn. Reader is wrought with guilt, scared, and doing her best, but yeah. There's a lot more to come. Also, fair warning, I did a good deal of research into muscle degeneration medicine, but I'm not a doctor. Just suspend your disbelief for as long as you can! (I'm not a fan of the first half of this chapter, but I hope you like it.)

Series Masterlist Next Chapter

The next few days were spent alone, in a dark room. You spent most of your time curled up, tracing patterns on the floor. They taught you early that if you behave, if you obey, you were safe. And you clung to that lie like it was all that kept you going.

 On the fifth day, the door finally opened. You went still, like an animal caught by a predator- playing dead. A man in a tactical suit approached you and tugged you up by your arm. A notebook and pen were shoved into your hands as he dragged you along. You stumbled along, your trembling legs failing you as you tried to keep up with his long strides. 

A pair of familiar metal doors pushed open in front of you. The room, however, was less familiar. The shabby lights that hung overhead flickered to life, bathing the cold room in a yellowish-green glow. The walls were lined with crates and boxes you didn't recognize, as well as machines you’d never seen before. The station in the middle of the room was the same. The man in the center, he too was the same.

He looked different in the light. His skin was tanner than you first thought. He was larger than you first thought.

“Finally, the cherry on top.” Pierce clapped as you stumbled inside, your captor releasing you. “We have a station ready for you, and any machines you need are yours. Just say the word.”

You stared in awe at the man, your heart racing in your chest. “Sorry?”

“You remember your agreement, yes? Well it’s time to make good on your end of the deal.”

You gulped, nodding quickly. “Of course- right-” Your stomach twisted with dread. You do what you’re told, and they keep you alive.

Pierce grinned. “Good. He’s yours for the day, try to find something good, yes?” Pierce gestured to the desk along the right wall. The man beside you nudged you forward. You stepped up and took stock of the supplies. You wouldn't lie, it was incredibly advanced. Almost too advanced. 

Stacks of paper were waiting for you- your own research, stolen from your office. You set your notebook down and looked up at the monitor. Scans of a large body were pinned to the browser, some of his bones, some of his brain.

 Pierce swept past you, his hand on the door. “Be good, alright? There's no such thing as irreplaceable.” The door clicked shut. 

The four men posted at each corner of the room said nothing. The Soldier said nothing. It was that moment that you realised his eyes were on you. The weight of his gaze had tracked you across the room. You shivered, your eyes pressed closed. You had no idea what you were doing. Especially not with him. He wasn’t just a normal man. He was scientifically advanced. He was also like a hundred years old. 

You were so screwed.

You spent the next few hours familiarizing yourself with his medical history, reviewing scans, and scribbling on a white board. You felt burdened by the weight of his presence. He wasn’t some lab rat. He was just sitting there, watching you pick apart his physiology. 

You pushed a small cart towards his table. “Hi-” you finally said, timid and clueless on where to start. “Mind if I have some blood?” His arm extended wordlessly. “Thank you.” You whispered, tearing open an alcohol pad to wipe over his vein. 

“I'm terrified of needles, are you?” Silence. “It’s not practical, for a doctor- but I am. I always hated getting shots as a kid. I once knew someone who had the needle snap off inside him when he was young. It haunted me.” you rambled, piercing his skin with the needle. “It’s such an insignificant fear- but it just makes my skin crawl. I’m afraid of most things though.” 

You pulled the vial of blood away once finished and stuck a bandaid over the nick in the flesh. “Heights, loud noises, spiders, death, large guns being pointed at my head- you know, the works.” You blabbed, taking the vial over to the desk. you added a small drop to a slab of glass to look at under a microscope. “Needles seem so stupid, among other things.” You muttered, focused.

Your days continued like that. An array of tests, scans, physical therapy recommendations, and more than enough samples taken. You fell easily into the role of Doctor. It was a distraction. It was nice, pretending nothing was different. This was just another lab, and he was just another patient.

He hadn’t spoken a word to you. You assumed it was because of the armed guards watching your every move. But it was also just as likely that he just had nothing to say. He was like a shell of a man, sitting and waiting. Blinking and breathing. But lifelessly silent. He watched you closely as you moved around the room and the machines, tracking you. You always did your best to ignore the weight of his stare. 

You just needed to get the job done, and go home.

After a long bout of flicking through old scans, and running fluids, you finally sat down. You had been on your feet all day, and it was killing you. But the weight of your captor's watchful eye made you hop back up. 

“What have you been eating?” You asked the man, standing by the desk. A silence followed. You should have known. You looked to the man in the nearest corner. “What do you guys feed him?” You tried to sound confident as you spoke.

The guy blinked, looked left and right, then shrugged. “I don’t think he eats.” He smirked. 

You had to bite back a grimace. “He’s alive, so he eats.” You muttered. “Do you know who makes his food?” 

“Bone broth, I think,” a man from another corner said.

“Bone broth? That's it?” You stared at the Soldier in shock. 

“Among other things.”

You grimaced this time, stepping up to your charge. You noticed his scruff had grown out a bit since the last time you saw him. The bags under his eyes had sunken in. You held your hands out, hesitant to grab his arm. After a long moment, you slid your fingers around his bicep. You pressed your fingers into the muscles along his shoulder, then down. 

It felt ridiculous. They’d taken you to look into the deep dark reason behind his degeneration- but they weren't feeding him. It was the most basic human need. Eat to survive. Protein and greens. Needed to keep the average man strong. 

“They have to start feeding you real food- like meat and vegetables.” You told him. You gently dropped his arm. You pulled a chair up to sit in front of him. “I’m assuming they’ve been putting you to sleep every time they're done with you, right?” You suggested. You hadn’t even realized how easily you became comfortable once in your own realm. It was familiar. Be a doctor. Help a patient. It was easy. It was safe. 

“I’m thinking that your body is going into shock every time it wakes up. And without proper nutrition- and proper upkeep of whatever they put in you- it's keeping your body from catching up.” You tilted your head down and met his eyes. “I think-”

The doors behind you swung open with a thud. You jumped from your chair and turned to see Pierce, and a group of other large men. you suddenly felt small. You felt like a rabbit in a den of wolves. “How’s our beautiful doctor doing?” Pierce clapped. You jumped.

Your eyes slid back to the Soldiers in time for a hand to rest on your shoulder. “Updating your patient, I see?”

The said patient’s eyes seemed to glaze over in the presence of the other man. “It helps me to put my thoughts out there…” you whispered. 

He nodded thoughtfully, his fingers pressing into your muscle. “You could talk to me, you know. I make for much better conversation.” He smiled, nudging the Soldier. “So,” He moved to stand beside you. “What have you found?”

“I um,” you swallowed around the lump rising in your throat, “I think his body is going into shock.” In any usual teaching moment, you would stand and start drawing out a diagram on the white board they so generously gave you. But this wasn’t your every day. “Whatever he was given- the serum? You said it has regenerative abilities. But I really think it’s speeding up most of his body's functions.”

“I think that his body is dying.” You whispered. “It's like- uh, over watering a plant. The human body isn’t meant to be pumped full of something so overpowering. I think the damage has been done- it's been stunted every time you put him to sleep, but when he wakes up, his system kick starts and well- He’s dying.” 

You kept your eyes steady on the Soldiers knees, your hands trembling in your lap. You were going off a handful of half baked theories, but it wasn’t like you were sitting in a temple of patience. you had to give them something.

“It’s a theory.” You blurted, looking up at Pierce. “I mean- obviously he’s not dying, dying- the serum is just kind of eating him.”

The man's face was blank, his lips pressed together in thought. “A theory.”

“Yes.” You whispered. 

“We’re gonna need better than a theory.” He said calmly.

“I know but-”

“But.” Pierce tsked. “‘But’ isnt an apology, or acknowledgment. ‘But,’ is making an excuse.” He grit. Pierce stepped forward and took a handful of the Soldier's hair, yanking it back. “What you’re looking at, right here,” He spit, leaning down into your space. “Is the single most invaluable weapon the world has ever known. And you have a theory that he’s dying?” He shouted. “Do you have a solution to your great theory?”

You bit down on your tongue, willing the tears of fear away. “I-I-” you stammered, squeezing your eyes shut as Pierce leaned closer. “I will- I’ll find something-”

“And you’ll find it now!” He shouted, releasing the Soldier's hair, replacing it with yours. You gasped, a whimper slipping from your lips. 

“I’m sorry- I’m sorry-” you repeated, your nails digging into your thighs. “I’ll fix it- I’ll help him-” you whispered, a dark shadow of terror gripping your chest. 

Pierce’s breath ghosted over your skin as he pressed into your space. “You will. Or we’ll find someone who can.”

The next few nights were a blur. It was a sickening cycle of sobbing silently in the corner of your room, picking your own brain to solve a problem you never thought existed, and crying again. 

You just wanted to go home.

You were living in your own personal nightmare, and there was no escaping it.

The next time you found yourself alone with the Soldier, he looked different. His facial hair had grown out again. There was a fresh gash across his temple, and a sick bruise along his jaw. He looked sad. Though that wasn’t much different from his usual expression. 

A man shoved you forward into the lab. You caught yourself on a table. The door clicked shut. You were alone. It was quiet again. Dim again. You knew he was watching you this time. You were too afraid to speak. 

Your body carried itself to the desk off of pure instinct. Your work was all there, exactly as before. You pressed a key on the computer, making it flicker to life. 

You had a moment, standing there, wondering how long it had been since you were first taken. Since you were first subjected to their torture. Since you had met your charge, the man bread for killing. 

You glanced back at him. He had a tray of supplies sitting in his lap. “I guess you need a shave again, huh?” You whispered, your voice sounding loud in the silent room. He stared down into his lap. You approached him, moving the tray into a nearby chair. “Looks like someone got you pretty good, huh?”

Your heart raced with every word. You were so sickeningly afraid, but you just couldn’t keep your mouth shut. You didn’t know if it was the nerves, or the habit of needing to fill silence, or because you were secretly hoping to hear him respond. 

“Could you please lift your head?”

You began snipping the longer bits of hair away once he moved. You wondered who used to do this before you. You wondered if he used to be allowed to do this for himself at one point, or if they always demeaned him by taking away simple autonomy. You wondered if he ever spoke. You wondered if he was always a killer. You wondered if he was just as afraid as you were.

His gaze flickered to yours. You always hated your habit of thinking out loud. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, picking up the razor now. “Am- am I to help you with your wounds too, you think? I mean- They haven’t told me if I am.” you muttered. “I just don’t want to step over any lines here.”

You dragged the razor down his throat in lines, wiping away the hair between strokes. “I think it’s interesting they have me do this after what happened last time.” You muttered. “The speech, not the last shave. I didn’t think they’d want me spending my time on this.” You rinsed the razor, then continued. 

“I hope- I hope I didn’t scare you before.” You paused, leveling him with a stare. “About my theory. That’s not how I would deliver news to a patient in any other circumstance. You’re not doomed. I really do think I can figure something out to help you.” You took the rag and patted his face. “I-”

“Don't.”

The rag slipped from your grip. You gaped at the man. “You-” you paused, curling your hands against your chest. “D-Don’t?”

His brows, knit together, cast shadows over his blue eyes. He seemed to regret speaking. But there was something else there. A sorrow, a deep, sickly sorrow. He let out a slow breath, staring straight up at you.   

“Don't,” you repeated, understanding dawning on you. “Don’t help you.” You whispered. For a moment, you wanted to ask him why, but you knew it was a stupid question. In the time you’d seen him, he was treated like a dog. He’d not been allowed to stand, to speak, to care for his own body. The people around him seemed to forget he even ate. 

They seemed to forget he was a person.

“I have to,” you whispered, like it was a secret shared. “You know I have to.”

He seemed saddened by your words, though his expression was unchanging. He blinked, then let his gaze fall between you. He nodded.

“I’m sorry..."

A/N: Hope you guys enjoyed this intro chapter into the reason the reader is there. A lot more is coming. (Also I've never done a tag list, so I hope I did it right!) Please comment your thoughts. Be kind!

Tag list: @jason-todd-fangirl-14 @frog-fans-unite @lonelyghosts-stuff

[kk095]

Nurse Heather’s Morbid Curiosity

Trauma room two is quiet, contrasting the non stop, frenetic energy that’s usually found in seemingly every crack and corner of the emergency department. The bright, fluorescent overhead light above the trauma room table hums faintly, but the rest of the room feels still. Somewhere down the hall, the pitter-patter of footsteps and voices chatting is heard, but in trauma two, you can hear a pin drop.

Nurse Heather stands alone beside the trauma room table, focusing on the task at hand. On the table is 32 year old Rachel- a tall, thin, redheaded woman. Unfortunately, Rachel just passed away in our emergency department after suffering a sudden cardiac arrest. The team did everything they could for the redhead, coding her for over half an hour. Now, she’s just the latest beauty to have her time of death called in our ER.

Rachel’s skin is ghastly pale, and ice cold to the touch. Her bluish green eyes remain half open, seeming to follow Nurse Heather’s every move. The redheaded woman’s body still shows evidence of the thirty minute battle to save her. The ET tube remains in place, sitting between her pale lips. EKG electrodes cling to her bare torso, their wires snaking out. Defib pads are attached to her chest. IV lines are still in place in each of her arms.

Heather lowers a gloved hand over the deceased patient’s face, gently shutting her eyes for the final time. As she does that, an intrusive thought enters her mind: “what would it be like to be her?”

As Heather zones out, becoming lost in this thought, she imagines the faint sound of a heart monitor. It’s a faint, soft beep at first, but in a split second, the beeping begins to grow louder, sharper, and more incessant, until it completely fills Heather’s mind.

A sudden, jarring alarm breaks through the rhythm of the beeps. The sound seems to stretch on, rising higher, more frantic. Then with an abruptness, Heather is there. She sees herself on the table now.

Nurse Heather watches from the foot of the table from the third person perspective, her eyes locked on her own still form. It’s like she was watching a movie of sorts. On the table, Heather sees herself unconscious, intubated, completely limp and motionless, in cardiac arrest. Her chest rises and falls with each puff of the ambu bag. Her mouth is slightly open, the breathing tube sitting between her lips. Her eyes are WIDE open, staring up above in a look of pure terror. There’s a tinge of something unspoken in those wide, unblinking eyes, but Heather can’t quite put her finger on it.

The room is absolutely chaotic. Her coworkers (and friends), are all there, but everything feels oddly distant. It’s like they don’t know who she is, and she can’t interact with them. They’re all moving around her body with a sense of urgency.

Dr Lindsay is at the side of the table, serving as the brains of the operation. Standing beside Lindsay is Dr Sarah, who’s keeping an eye on the heart monitor. At the head of the bed is Nurse Nancy who’s ambu bagging. Last but not least is Dr Jen, who’s performing chest compressions. Heather’s skinny chest caves in, recoiling hard, her flat belly rippling out from the force of each individual compression.

“Let’s go ahead and try shocking her. Charge the paddles to 300.” Dr Lindsay dictated to the rest of the team. The defib paddles were gelled, charged, and firmly pressed up against Heather’s chest. “Ok. Everyone… CLEAR!” Lindsay raised her voice. KA-THUNK! Heather’s body jolted violently in response to the controlled dose of electricity. There was a brief pause after the shock, all eyes on the heart monitor. “No change, still in v-fib. Let’s hit her again at 360.” Dr Sarah chimes in. The defibrillator paddles are re-charged, gelled, and pressed back up against Heather’s chest once again, the next shock being sent into her body. Heather’s feet kick up at the far end of the table, slamming back down hard half a second later, showing off the soft, prominent wrinkles in the soles of her size 8 feet.

After the second shock, Nurse Nancy places two fingers on Heather’s neck, feeling for a carotid pulse. “Poor baby…” Nancy says under her breath, shaking her head, not feeling anything. “We still have v-fib, let’s shock again at 360.” Lindsay ordered, her blue eyes trained on the heart monitor. The defibrillator paddles are readied once again, and the next shock is administered. Heather’s chest shoots up, her back arches, eyes staring helplessly above before plopping back down hard on the table a second or so later. Following this shock, there’s another pause. “No change, she’s still in v-fib, Linds.” Informs Nurse Nancy. The defibs are prepared again, and a shock is promptly delivered. Heather’s body was effortlessly tossed around on the table by the electricity, her head rolling to the side, but again, the same dead rhythm remains. “No change, let’s try one more time.” Suggests Dr Sarah. Without any hesitation, the paddles were grabbed once again, and the next defibrillation attempt was administered. THUD!!! Heather’s skinny body flopped ungraciously on the table, the electricity racing through her lifeless body.

Following this shock, Dr Lindsay looked at the monitor for a moment, then exchanged looks with Sarah, Jen, and Nancy. “she’s in refractory v-fib.” Stated Lindsay, her tone of voice filled with resignation. “I’m gonna go ahead and call it, we can’t code her all night. Time of death, 2:21am.” Announced Lindsay. Without missing a beat, the team begins postmortem care. Nurse Nancy detaches the ambu bag from the ET tube, setting it on the table beside Heather’s head. Dr Sarah reaches for the heart monitor, turning it off. Dr Jen disconnects the EKG wires and wipes the defib gel off Heather’s chest. Nancy places a gloved hand over Heather’s face, and gently closes her eyes. “I’m so sorry hunny.” Nancy tells Heather. A toe tag is filled out and placed on the big toe of Heather’s left foot. The tag dangles gently against the soft, wrinkled soles of her feet as her body is covered up.

As the scene wraps up, Heather snaps back into reality. Her feet are planted firmly on the ground, looking down at the trauma room table where Rachel, the redheaded patient still lay. Heather doesn’t react to the vivid events that transpired in her mind. No gasp. No confusion. No dramatic “what just happened?!” Just back to normal.

Her hands, still gloved, work delicately, covering the redheaded woman’s body with a sheet. As she drapes the sheet over Rachel’s face, Heather can’t help but steal a glance at her face. The surreal feeling of that brief fantasy still lingers in the back of her mind.

Heather pulls her gaze away and makes her way towards the door. She pauses at the doorway, turning back for one last look at the covered form on the table. For just a moment, something flickers through her mind. She doesn’t voice it aloud, but thinks it to herself as she exits the room. “Maybe someday, I’ll get to be the one toe tagged and under a sheet in here.”

[tinyshyteacup]

Tw: hospitals, vehicle accidents (but only if you squint) shitty ex's 😑

Part 1

Screams and Scotch - Part 2

The world was a blur when you came to.

The steady, rhythmic beep of a heart monitor. The faint hum of voices somewhere nearby. Everything felt distant, like you were floating just above your own body.

Pain settled in next—a dull, aching throb across your skull, your arms, your legs. It took a second to piece together why.

The crash. The bike. The truck.

Then you realized you weren’t alone. There were voices. Low, rough murmurs of conversation just outside the door. The kind of voices that belonged to men who weren’t used to whispering.

When you finally forced your eyes open, the light overhead was too bright, making you wince. Blinking against the blur, you turned your head slightly, vision slowly clearing.

Why where people in your hospital room ?

You inhaled sharply, and a voice—gruff, accented, and unfamiliar—immediately cut through the haze.

“Easy now, lass.” He had a lined face, sharp cheekbones, and a salt-and-pepper beard.

You blinked hard, trying to focus. The man sitting beside you, looked all leather and scruff, his arms crossed over his chest. His sharp eyes assessing—scanned your face like he’d been waiting for you to wake up.

And he wasn’t alone.

Two other men loomed in the background, standing near the door. a blond man—tall, broad, California-surf-pretty—tilted his head, blue eyes assessing. He looked less intimidating than the first man, but not by much.

Another guy, dark-haired, scruffy, and grinning like he had a secret, nudged the blond one. They where all clad in leather cuts that all bore the same patch—Sons of Anarchy.

You wet your lips, voice hoarse. “Who the hell are you?”

The man beside you let out a rough chuckle, shaking his head. “Well, ain’t that a thank-you for savin’ yer arse.”

Your brow furrowed. “Saving me?”

“Aye.” His voice softened, just a bit. “Name’s Chibs. Found ye after the crash. Rode with ye in the ambulance.”

You swallowed hard. “Why?”

Chibs’ expression flickered, something unreadable in his gaze. He hesitated just long enough for one of the other men—the tall scruffy one with dark hair—to pipe up from near the door. “He’s been sittin’ here for days, darlin’. Thought you might wanna say thanks.”

You stared between them, confusion twisting in your gut. None of this made sense. These men—these bikers—what the hell were they doing here? Why would this Chibs guy stay by your side?

Your head throbbed harder. Too much, too fast. You swallowed, gripping the scratchy hospital blanket.

“I… I don’t understand,” you admitted, voice small.

Chibs exhaled through his nose, shifting forward. “S’alright, lass. Just relax.”

But the way he said it—the certainty in his voice—made you feel oddly comforted.

A few hours later, when the others had cleared out, Chibs pulled up a chair beside your bed again.

You watched him cautiously, still trying to make sense of things. He was a biker, that much was obvious, but he wasn’t just some random guy who’d happened to be there. He knew things—had been there when it happened.

You just didn’t understand why.

“So,” Chibs started, resting an arm on the chair’s back. “Wanna tell me about the fella who was drivin’ that bike?”

Your stomach turned.

Your fingers curled into the blanket, you looked away from him.

“I…” You licked your lips. “I don’t know if I should.”

Chibs’ voice stayed calm, but there was an edge beneath it. “Aye, you should.”

Something in the way he said it—steady, unwavering—made you exhale shakily. The weight of the past few days pressed against your chest, making it harder to breathe.

Your hands trembled slightly as you picked around the IV in your arm. “His name is Derek.”

Chibs waited.

You swallowed. “He was - well i guess n-now he's my ex?” The question was only for yourself.

His jaw twitched. “And ye thought it was a good idea to get on the back of his bike?”

Your eyes snapped up to his, defensive. “I didn’t want to. He told me—” Your voice cracked. You closed your eyes, inhaling slow and deep. “He told me if he couldn’t have me, no one would.”

The room went deathly quiet.

When you finally forced yourself to look at Chibs again, his expression had darkened—hardened. The easy amusement he’d had earlier was gone, replaced by something colder. Sharper.

“What are ye sayin’, lass?” His voice was dangerously quiet.

Your throat tightened. “I think he planned it.”

Something flickered in Chibs’ pale eyes. He leaned in slightly, his presence suddenly heavier. “Ye tellin’ me that son of a bitch crashed that bike on purpose?”

You nodded, a small, jerky movement. “He said… he said if I wasn’t his, I wouldn’t be anyone’s. That we’d go out together.”

Chibs exhaled, slow and measured. His fingers flexed against the back of the chair, and you could feel the shift in the air.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Dangerous.

“Where is he now?”

You hesitated. “I—I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since… I guess ... at home" Your gaze dropped to your bandaged arms.

Chibs was silent for a long moment. Then, he nodded, slow and deliberate.

“A’right,” he muttered, standing abruptly. He ran a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose before fixing you with a look that sent a chill down your spine. “I’ll handle it.”

Your stomach clenched. “Wait—what does that mean?”

But Chibs just patted the side of your hospital bed. “Ye don’t need to worry about that, lass.”

Something about the way he said it made your pulse jump.

And for the first time since the crash, you wondered just how much trouble you'd gotten yourself into.

[raya-hunter01]

Not My Sister's Keeper Pt. 4

Roman X OC(Kara)

Jey Uso X OC (Tia)

Rating: 18+

Warning: Smut; sex, fluff, couple arguing, Jealousy, infidelity, pregnancy

Roamn’s wife recently left medical school and returned home to save her marriage. Upon her return, she finds out things are not what they seem. Her sister is pregnant by her best friend Jey Uso, who is also Roman’s cousin, and her husband is acting suspicious.

What happens when a conversation overhead on a baby monitor blows her world apart?

Jey’s House

Kara’s POV

“Home sweet home,” Jey said putting my bags in the corner of his spare room as I sat down on the bed in a daze.

“Do you need anything?” Jey asked as I sighed. “I need none of this to have happened, Jey,” I said as Jey sat beside me.

“I know, but this is the card you’re being dealt, and you got to figure it out.”

“All I can think about is all the times we spent on that bus, and they had sex there,” I whispered trying not to cry. “She did it on purpose and he fell for it.”

“What is your sister’s deal?” Jey asked as I shrugged my shoulders. “We never really got along. I kept to myself, and she was the outgoing one,” I said really trying to pinpoint where the hatred came from.

“Did Roman take responsibly for his actions,” Jey asked as I shook my head. “He begged, said he was sorry, but I don’t think he truly knows how bad he hurt me.”

“Well, are you going to forgive him or is this it?” Jey asked as I looked at him like he was crazy.

“Jey, he slept with my sister and had a baby with her. It’s over,” I said as Jey seemed relieved with my answer.

“Just checking to see where your heads at beautiful.”

“I outta fuck somebody’s brains out on the bus and have him find us. That would hit his ass where it hurts,” I rambled as Jey took my hand in his.

“Aye, are you serious?” he asked as I shook my head.

“No, I’m just angry and rambling,” I said, standing up and pacing as Jey stopped me.

“If you were serious, you know I would help you. You know that right,” he said as I nodded.

“I know but I don’t know about crossing that line, I don’t want to hurt our friendship. I would never forgive myself,” I said truthfully.

“When I’m 38 and your 36,” Jey whispered as I smiled at the memory.

“Jey we were kids then,” I said remembering the pack we made when we were 22 and 24. “We didn’t know shit,” I said as he chuckled.

“I knew I wanted you,” Jey said as I blushed. “Yea, but you weren’t ready then. You were trying to find your way in the world, then wrestling came along. You had alot to figure out.”

“If I would have been ready then, could I have, had you?” he asked as I contemplated his question.

“Yea, you could have,” I answered honestly as Jey nodded.

“Well now it’s the opposite, I’m ready and you’re not,” Jey said as I shrugged my shoulders laying back on the bed as Jey lay beside me.

“Guess that is how it happens sometimes,” I whispered as he kissed my hand.

“Lucky for us both I do know what I want, and I’m willing to wait until you’re ready,” Jey said leaning over, wiping my tears.

“You want me to stay wit you?” he asked as I nodded settling into his arms.

I couldn’t sleep but I felt content in his arms, I felt safe.

I didn’t have to pretend to be ok, I could be me and right now I wasn’t ok…

---

Pensacola General Hospital

Roman’s POV

The stares….The judgmental stares from Kara and Tia’s parents as I held my daughter didn’t bother me. All I carried about was this beautiful little girl in my arms.

“She looks like you, Roman,” Tia said as I nodded entranced with my baby girl.

“Yea, just like my baby pictures,” I said caressing her little face.

“Don’t you want to see that little face every day. Roman we could be a family, nothing is stopping us now,” Tia whispered as her dad got up and walked to the door before turning to look at us.

“Rebecca, I ain’t partaking in this bullshit, If I stay in here a minute longer I’mma kill him,” he said before slamming the door as Tia’s mom just stared at her.

“I wanna say I can’t believe you…But I know you,” she said as Tia sat up in bed avoiding her gaze.

“Mama, we didn’t mean for it to happen, it just did,” she said as I frowned at her remembering the first night she came to me…. How she took control, how she said she didn’t mind being Kara for me.

“Tia, you can fool people some of the time, but you can’t fool your mama none of the time. I gave birth to you, and I know what I raised,” her mother said as Tia frowned.

“What you trying to say mama?”

“You did all this on purpose to hurt your sister, and I just wish I knew why,” Rebecca said getting up grabbing her purse before turning her attention to me.

“Mama, I’m so sorry, I know you must hate me,” I whispered as she sighed.

“Son, I pity you, because you’re gon’ reap what you sow. It may come today or years from now, but you’re gonna reap.”

I couldn’t look at her, I already was reaping. Kara is probably done with me; Jey is trying to take her from me, and I’m stuck raising my daughter with a woman I don’t even love.

“I’m gonna make up to K-”

“What! I just had your baby and you still talking about her!” Tia screamed as Logan shifted in my arms with a small cry.

“Shh, daddy’s got you,” I whispered as Logan instantly calmed down.

“Why are you yelling, and that baby is trying to sleep? You knew that man was married to your sister, loved your sister, and you still chased him.”

“You just have to keep telling me he loves her, and I’m destined for a life of hell since you found out Logan is his. Do you even love me? All I’m hearing about is Kara…Kara-”

“Tia, I love you both…I love all of my children the same. That little manipulation shit may work on your dad sometimes, but not me.  It ain’t never been favoritism ever in this family, we loved all three of you the same.

“Mama, I get it,” Tia said as Rebecca walked over and grasped her chin, making Tia look at her.

“You may not like it, but as your mother it’s my job to tell you when you wrong. Tia you dead wrong for what you did and you’re going to reap most of all,” she said as Tia snatched away from her.

“Just leave mama.”

“I’ll be by in the morning, since you said they are releasing you sometime tomorrow evening,” Rebecca said turning to leave again as Tia wiped her tears, before snatching Logan from my arms as she began to fuss.

“Give me my baby, I don’t need none of ya’ll,” she hissed as Logan became antsy and began to wail.

“You scared her,” I said as Tia tried to comfort her, but it wasn’t working…. “Hell, did Logan even like her mama?

“Tia give Roman the baby back, she’s picking up on your energy and your scaring her,” Rebecca said as Tia tried to rock Logan in her arms but she just kept crying louder.

“Fine… Take her,” Tia sighed in defeat allowing me to take Logan from her. Instantly Logan settled down in my arms.

“Daddy’s got you baby girl. You go back to sleep,” I soothed as Rebecca shook her head.

“See……. Already reaping,” she whispered pointing at Tia before leaving.

I knew Rebecca was right….I had a lot to answer for but I couldn’t think about that now. Logan needed me, I just hope with time Kara could accept Logan as my daughter and be a mom to her.

“You’re going to love your stepmom, Logan” I whispered as Tia rolled her eyes.

“Don’t you mean auntie, because she bout to divorce yo’ ass and jump on Jey’s dick so fast it’s gon’ make your head spin,” she chuckled as I shot her a look…

“Don’t look at me like that, it’s true…My sister is big on honesty and cheating is a deal breaker for her. You did both…Your done,” she said as I frowned.

Deep down I knew I had a long road ahead, but I had to try…They were releasing Tia sometime tomorrow, but Logan was going to have to stay a few more days for observation.

I knew Kara had left with Jey and Jimmy so I told Tia she could crash for a few days.  When we bring the baby home, I will go to her house for awhile to stay and help.

Her mother had offered to stay but Tia turned her down. She wanted me to help her instead.

I knew I was asking for trouble, but I couldn’t leave her alone. She had just given birth to my child and was alone, even though it was her own to isolate her family.

----

The next Day

Jey’s Condo

Jey’s POV

“I had to help her give birth to his child,” Kara said shaking her head in shock still.

“And then she tried to get you to hold the baby,” Trin asked as Kara nodded. “Yep, telling me Logan needed me and to please hold her.”

“That is a grimy bitch,” Trin hissed as I nodded in agreement.

“I just don’t understand how this even happened but at this point it doesn’t even matter. Logan is here and nothing can change that.” Kara said defeatedly.

“You can’t bottle it up, you gotta let it out, sis,” Jimmy said as Kara played with her food.

After last night, Kara spent the majority of the night in my arms trying to make sense of everything, and I had no answers for her. Finally, today she slept for a couple hours and got a shower.

Trin and Jimmy brought dinner for us, which I was thankful for. Roman had been texting and calling Kara but she had been ignoring him and rightfully so.

“If I let it out I’mma go too far Jimmy, you saw me last night. If ya’ll hadn’t showed up that damn house wouldn’t be standin’ and I’d be catching an arson charge for burning that fuckin bus to the ground.”

“Look, we can talk about all of that later. Right now, I need you to eat,” I said as Kara just pushed her spoon around her plate.

“You gotta eat boo,” Trin said as Kara signaled at Jimmy as he opened a bottle of tequila.

“I just don’t feel like it Trin,” Kara said as Jimmy poured her a shot.

“Well, that ain’t helping anything, you trying to get her drunk,” I said as Kara downed the shot and Jimmy shrugged his shoulders.

“Aye, she asked for one, and I’m happy to oblige. Hell, we all need a drink after all that shit that happened last night.”

“How could he do this? How did he put himself in this position?” Kara asked as I reached up and placed a comforting hand on her leg.

Before I could respond Kara’s phone beeped as she sighed cautiously opened it.

“Who is it?” I asked as I saw the tears fill her eyes, as she read whatever had been sent, her hands shaking.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Trin asked as Kara passed her the phone, wiping her tears.

“Now if I go up to the hospital, and beat her ass, everybody will say I’m in the wrong.”

 “What is it?” I asked as Trin looked disgusted reading whatever had been sent. “It’s an Instagram post from Tia, she tagged Kara, Roman, and WWE in it.” Trin said shaking her head in disbelief.

“I know she didn’t,” Jimmy said as Trin nodded. I looked at Kara and I could see her heart breaking all over again.

“On yesterday, Roman and I welcomed a beautiful baby girl. A special thank you to her auntie for delivering her, I don’t know what I’d do without you, Kara, we all love you.” Trin read as Kara’s took a deep breath trying to calm down.

“Is this a joke?” I asked, taking the phone from Trin reading the post and seeing the picture Tia had posted with it. It was a picture of Roman holding Logan and she had disabled her comments.

“Kara are you ok?” Trins asked as Kara waved off our worry.

“Yea, I just need some air,” she said going outside as Trin sighed.

“Tia keep playin’ with fire, and I’m bout to take a damn charge for getting’ wit dat ass,” Trin said as Jimmy cleared his throat.

“Oh, you ain’t gotta worry bout dat, cause’ as soon as Kara sees her again, it’s on sight,” Jimmy said as I got up to go check on Kara.

Kara’s POV

“That bitch must don’t realize she ain’t pregnant no more,” I muttered pacing as I felt my anger growing at the disrespect.  She was too bold; she thought this shit was cute. She was relishing in my pain and suffering.

“I’m not going to ask if you are good because I know your not. I just wanna know how you want to handle it,” Jey said walking towards me as I shrugged my shoulders.

“Jey, I know what we talked about last night, but let’s just say we do..um-”

“Have sex,” Jey says casually as I rolled my eyes at him.

 “Yes, that….. Doesn't that make us no better than them, and what they did?” I asked as Jey smiled at me.

“We are not those two, you can’t even compare us to them,” Jey said caressing my arms as I sighed.

“I respect our friendship too much, I don’t want to ruin it,” I said as Jey pulled me into his arms.

“I told you I was ok with it…I’m down for whatever you want to do, just say the word,” he said caressing my face as I gave him a small smile.

And just like that a few hours later we were pulling up and parking down the road a little from the house and walking to the bus.

Reaching under the front grill I got the spare key. Roman had already had the bus fixed, it was as if I had never defaced it or had its tires slit.

“We ain’t gotta go in there Kara, we could go in the house,” Jey said as I ignored him and went inside.

“I want to do it on the bus,” I whispered looking at the place once filled with love, it felt cold now and I couldn’t stop imagining Roman and Tia alone in this bus, and all the places they probably had sex at.

“Leave the door open,” I said as I saw Jey about to close it.

Walking back to the bedroom, I opened the door and I felt numb.

“Are you ok? You know we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” Jey I said as he pulled me to him.

“I want to feel better,” I whispered as Jey caressed my face.

“I told you that whatever would make you feel better, I would do it,” Jey whispered pulling me closer as I felt guilt seeping into my mind, but what did I have to feel guilty about.

Roman did it first…Did it plenty of times…Had a whole baby, and with my sister no less.

“Can I kiss you?” Jey asked in whisper as I nodded, his soft smile putting me at ease. “Kara, I been waiting for years to kiss you, I want to hear you answer me,” Jey said as I released the breath I was holding.

“Yes, you can kiss me.”

The air was thick with anticipation as Jey claimed my lips in a gentle kiss that shocked me with its passion.  I moaned against his lips, as he gently pushed my sundress off my shoulders as it fell in a pool at my feet.

His fingertips grazing my skin sending shivers down my spine.

I felt shy and exposed under Jey’s powerful gaze as he caressed my body in awe.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered with a smile undressing himself as I blushed.

I don’t know what came over me but as I watched his tattoos glisten in the moonlight my heart began pounding faster.

“Are we really about to do this,” I whispered as he captured my lips in a searing kiss. So powerful, I felt helpless, melting into his embrace as he carried me to the bed.

“It’s your call,” he whispered as his lips found my kissed my neck, as I moaned in pleasure.

Kara, they deserve it, my mind screamed as I relaxed under Jey’s touch, as he removed my underwear. Glancing at the clock on the wall, I knew Roman would be home soon.

By the time I’m finished, Roman is gonna want to burn this bus to the fuckin’ ground himself.

“We don’t have much time,” I gasped as Jey groaned. “I know, and I hate it,” he panted wrapping my legs around his waist.

“Kara, look at me beautiful,” he whispered, grasping my chin and holding my gaze.

“Tonight, we end this, it’s the first and last time we do this to make someone jealous. The next time we do this, it's gon’ be for us because you gon’ be my lady,” he moaned as I nodded claiming his lips in a passionate kiss.

An inaudible gasp fell from both of our lips as we became one for the first time. Twenty years of friendship changed forever; our souls even more intertwined than they already were.

“Shit, you feel better than I ever dreamed,” Jey moaned against my lips as I trembled against him. Each powerful methodical thrust caused my head to bang slightly against the headboard, and I couldn't care less.

“You feel so good,” I gasped as Jey sank deeper, burying his head in the hollow of my neck, resting one of his arms above my head, stopping me from hitting the headboard as I gasped unable to think.

“Shit, so do you lo'u loto,” he moaned, kissing, and nipping at my neck as I felt the worries of the world float away. He had called me his heart in his native tongue. I always loved it when we would speak Samoan.

Faintly I heard the Roman’s truck creeping into the driveway as I groaned in frustration, not wanting this moment to end just yet. I had a taste of him and I wanted more…Much more….

“Jey, I hear the car,” I rasped as Jey rolled us over. “Jey!” I gasped at how even fuller I felt being on top.

“Mmhmm, I’m deep up in dat pussy now, fuck. Gon’ make dat shit count before he comes in and get you a nut,” He moaned as I nodded bracing one of my hands on his thigh, the other on his chest as I began wining my hips, our moans of pleasure filling the bus.

“Jey..Jey..Mmm,” I purred as he groaned, gripping my hips.

“I’m here Kara… I got you, and I’m right there too,” he moaned meeting my thrusts as a strangled cry escaped my lips.

“Mmm, fuck,” I moaned as Jey sat up holding me tight as we bounced in sync against each other.

“No regrets,” Jey whispered overpowering me with a kiss.

“No regets!” I gasped against his lips as he smiled. “When you ready….I’mma make you mine forever,” he panted as I cried at his beautiful words.

Jey wiped my tears as we heard footsteps coming towards the bus. It was showtime but we both needed release first.

Grasping Jey’s throat, we fell back onto the bed as I began to ride him, hard and deep as he groaned biting his lower lip.

“Fuck, gon’ get yo dick then,” he rasped, his arms spread wide on the bed, his head thrown back in pleasure.

 “Is it mine?” I asked, moaning as I felt my thighs becoming Jello but I wanted this. No, I needed it…We both did.

“Hell yea, it’s always been yours,” Jey confessed, his words making my heart skip a beat.

“Look at me, Jey,” I moaned as our eyes locked, and we both groaned sharing a brief kiss, knowing everything was about to pop off at any second.

Roman’s POV

“I told you to stay outside with my mom,” I hissed at Tia as she followed me closely. I wasn’t in the mood; Kara wasn’t returning my calls and mom picked the wrong time to just to pop up for a visit.

“Listen, I hear something,” Tia muttered cutting the light on up front and closing the door behind us.

“Jey! I’m cummin!” I heard a familiar voice scream as I felt my heart stop.

“Kara,” I whispered as Tia covered her mouth in shock.

 “I know you are, cause this my pussy now, say it,” Jey moaned as Tia ran off the bus.

“It’s your pussy!” I heard Kara exclaim as I felt sick. “Kara,” I muttered again in disbelief as I heard her cum…I knew that sound anywhere.

My feet were stuck, I couldn’t move. The sounds of their bodies being one with each other filling the bus, I could hear Kara wetness as she gave him my pussy as she rode out her high.

My eyes widened in horror because I just knew Kara wouldn’t do this. Slowly, I made my way to the door.

She wouldn’t do that…..Not here….I felt my face twitching as their moans got louder.

“Yeah, that's it...Now, I want you to cum again for me,” Jey moaned as I snapped, kicking the door open.

There was my wife on top of my cousin. They didn’t break away from each other, Kara looked back at me out of breath.

“Can you please leave it’s my time to enjoy the bus. Since you and Tia have had your fair share of time on here. Jey and I gotta catch up,” she moaned still riding Jey as I reached out and tried to grab her.

“Have you lost your fuckin’ mind, Kara!” I Yelled as Jey moved her out of the way. “I’mma kill you dead!” I hissed attacking Jey as he tried to put back on his sweats.

“What’s wrong can’t take what you dish out, Uce?” Jey gloated catching me with an uppercut as I saw Kara grab her dress and run out into the living room area to probably get dressed.

Jey’s POV

“What you mad for, it’s the same shit you did with Tia,” I said punching Roman in the face as he fell against the wall.

“You motherfucker!” He yelled running towards me as we spilled out into the living room area trading blows.

“You stay away from her! I’ll kill you!” Roman shouted as we fought for dominance. I gauged his eyes, before smashing his face into the table as he fell onto the ground checking his nose.

“You stay away from Kara, you don’t deserve her,” I hissed as he chuckled.

“I see you still hit like a bitch,” Roman sneered as I growled pouncing on top of him and punching him as I heard the door opening.

“I heard you fuck like one,” I hissed as we tussled around the tight space. “Boys! Boys! Stop this now!” my aunt yelled as I paused in my actions as Kara looked at her in shock.

When the hell did she fly in?

“What is wrong wit ya’ll?” she cried as I climbed off of Roman trying to calm myself as Kara came to my side.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered as I shook my head. “I’m good,” I said putting my shirt back and shoes back on as my aunt looked at Kara and me with disgust.

“I know ya’ll weren’t doing what I think you were in here?” she asked as I sighed.

“Yes, they were,” Tia instigated turning on the waterworks as Kara rolled her eyes.

“How could you do this to me, Kara,” Roman said getting up as Kara reached over and slapped him as soon as he got on his feet.

“How could I!?...... How could I do that to you?!”

“Yes, that’s a good question. How could you be out here sleepin’ with your husband’s cousin?” Janice said with disdain.

“Auntie, you don’t know the whole story,” I said as she shushed me.

“You’ve done enough Joshua! I can’t believe you did this, and at Roman’s home no less!” she hissed.

“I can’t believe you did this to us, Jey,” Tia said as I saw Kara out the corner of my eye about to leap so I stepped in the way. “Now ain’t the time,” I whispered as she stopped herself.

“I never took you for a slut, Kara…..Tia, I am so sorry this happened,” she said as Kara looked at me with pleading eyes to let her go. Seeing a  few tears escape her eyes, I released her.

Kara’s POV

I know damn well she didn’t just call me out my name. Looking around I saw how Roman was trying to shift blame as well as Tia and I realized she didn’t know.

She probably didn’t even know she had a granddaughter.

“You out here spending my son’s money and sleeping with his cousin. How low is that? I told him you were no good for him,” she said as I looked at her in shock.

I was no good for him…I was tired of crying but damn I had to let this hurt out to move on with my life. Watching her comfort Roman made my skin crawl.

“Yes, how low is that, huh,” I said walking towards her as Roman stepped in front of her.

“Kara,” he pleaded as I pushed him aside.

“How low…. And disgusting is that!” I gasped truly hurt by her words.

“Kara stop,” Roman interrupted again as I scoffed. Yea, she didn’t know but she was about to know now.

“I’ll tell you…You wanna know?….I’ll give you the lowdown on how low all this is,” I said, as she seemed on edge, not knowing what I was going to do or say.

“Your son started screwing my whore of a sister on this bus…. I was faithful, I gave up everything for him, I loved him, and that’s how he did me. Did you know she had his baby yesterday?” my voice cracking with emotion as she looked at roman in shock.

“A baby?” she whispered as Roman hung his head in shame.

“Yea, you’re a grandma,” I said as she looked at Tia who avoided her judgmental gaze.

“I don’t know how the hell it started with Roman and her, but I can tell you how everything started tonight with Jey and me…..It was Deliberate!………We did it on purpose,” I said looking at roman as he looked sick.

“And with every touch, kiss, caress…… Ever gasp as he claimed me, I felt better,” I said invading Roman’s space as he was crumbling before my eyes, as I explained my infidelity to him.

“You can stop now, Kara,” he whispered as I saw his face contorting from disbelief into anger at the thought of me having sex with not just anybody, but his cousin.

 “After every nibble, lick, and thrust, I felt even more better knowing you will never be able to step foot on this bus without picturing Jey and me in that damn bed and you deserve it,” I whispered my tears almost clouding my vision.

“There’s the part of you I knew existed Ms. Perfect,” Tia said as I grabbed her by the throat before anyone could stop me, throwing her up against the wall, choking her.

“I hate you! You’re like a fuckin’ cancer!” I screamed as her eyes widened in shock as she tried to pry my hands from around her throat.

“Kara! She just had a baby!" Roman yelled trying to move towards me but Jey stepped in front of him, wrapping his arms around my waist.

“It’s not the time, she just had a baby, Kara,” he whispered as I let out a scream of frustration, letting her go. I just wanting just five minutes alone with her to beat her ass.

“I always knew you were crazy,” Tia coughed trying to catch her breath as Jey continued to hold me back as Janice shook her head at the scene playing out in front of her.

“I’mma see you again Tia, 'cause’ you gotta answer for what you did. And Roman, you will be hearing from my lawyer,” I said deathly calm, before storming off the bus with Jey behind me.

“Damn, I didn’t expect auntie to show up,” Jey said as we walked back to the car. I paused, turning around to face him.

“I’m sorry, I got you involved,” I said as he cut me off with kiss.

“No regrets,” he said with a smile as I nodded.

 “No regrets,” I whispered as we embraced…

----

Roman’s POV

“Roman, I’m ready to go in the house,” my mother said her voice full of disappointment.” Here are the keys, I’ll be in,” I said as she nodded leaving Tia and me alone.

“Wow, Kara, was really outta control,” Tia whispered as I turned and looked at her.

“You really have fucked up my life,” I whispered as Tia jumped back as if I had struck her.

“Me! You could have said no.. You ain’t Mr. Innocent,” she screamed as I put my hair back in my manbun looking at the damage to the bus.

“Just tell me how much Tia?” I asked as she frowned at me.

“How much what Roman?” she asked as I sighed.

“You’re really gon’ make me ask you, huh…..Fine, how much will it take for you to leave town and sign over your rights to Logan?” I asked.

“Are you crazy, I’m not signing over my rights. Logan is my daughter Roman, and we are a package deal,” Tia said as it was my turn to frown at her.

“5 million.”

“No, Roman.”

“10 million, and I’ll get you a one-way ticket anywhere you wanna go. And I’ll even get your contract switched to raw if you still want to wrestle.” I said seeing the wheels turning in her head.

“It’s a starting point, but still not quite good enough,” she said with a smile as I growled.

 I was in my own personal hell......

“Tia, just leave me alone,” I said as she smiled getting off the bus, slamming the door behind her.

“You fucked up!” I hissed to myself, memories creeping in of the good times Kara and I shared here on this bus…The bad, where I destroyed my marriage, and tonight where Kara destroyed my soul.

“She’s, my wife!” I shouted picking up the chair beside me throwing it through the window, growling at the thought of Jey, hell, any man being inside her.

“Just had to keep sniffin’ around her!” I ranted knocking over anything I could, even kicking the door off the hinges in the bathroom.

Looking in the bedroom, the realization hit me hard.

“I caused this, I caused it all,” I muttered looking at the bed, the tangled sheets, the image of Kara on top of Jey, her moans as he claimed her invaded my mind.

Kara was right, I’ll never be able to step foot in here again without thinking about her and Jey…

“Welcome to my own personal hell,” I whispered into the night, and I finally realized I had nobody but myself to blame.

-----------

Taglist:

@reci24 @southerngirl41 @vebner37 @jeyusos-girl

@melaninsugababy @romanreignkisser @bebesobrielo

@arination99 @2-muchsauce @bakugoumarianawrites

@empressdede @alyyaanna @christinabae @anonandwannakeepitthatway @venusesworld @jeyusosgirl  @theninthwonder @mya2real  @justazzi @whatdoeseverybodywant @reignsboy19 wooahmiri alichesmi pytbgeezy @ superpietom 

@truefant4sy @yana3sworld amandairene88 unapologeticqueen94 empressdede xbriexx @harmshake

tshepisho thatgirlest98 zdotspinalot mainthingdoja jimingotthajams rose-bliss mrswolffs-blog maeb99 jstarr86 sayyestoheav3nn digidestned  heathetherlamont30 trashbin-nie rebelrel0987

kriissy4gov brokenglassslippers headoftheetable

pittieprincess22 mindairy jaded-human mainthingdoja

[mapofsouthdakota]

Caleb’s headcanon -

The Vanguard

Synopsis: It’s been a handful of weeks since the lanterns lit the sky, since whispered wishes melted into the night. You’ve spent the last couple of days in the Arctic with Dr. Zayne, chasing down another lead. Exhausted and buried in work, (which wasn’t exactly your wish for the new year), you’ve finally booked yourself a much-needed retreat for the night. But just as you’re on your way to unwind, you unexpectedly run into Caleb.

Details: Long 3000ish w. A lil role for Dr. Zayne (lol I just had to). Yearning losers. Fluff. Banter. And Caleb. Lots of Caleb. Caleb being Caleb as in always being around the MC. Some unresolved emotions. Roleplay. And as always: Rrrromance. (We just getting started peepz)

The Yearning: @gavin3469 @mcdepressed290

Onsen mist | Chapter I

The research facility hums with quiet energy, the rhythmic clatter of keyboards filling the space like an ever-present pulse. The sterile glow of the overhead lights casts sharp contrasts against the frost-rimmed windows, beyond which the Arctic night stretches vast and endless, a deep indigo canvas dusted with soft, falling snow.

Dr. Zayne is exactly where he’s been for the past several hours—seated at his workstation, fingers flying over the keyboard, sharp eyes flicking between lines of data cascading across the screen. The soft glow from the monitors reflects off his glasses, making his expression unreadable, though you know him well enough to guess he’s lost in the depths of his analysis.

You stretch, rolling your shoulders to shake off the tension of the day. “That’s enough for tonight,” you say, half-command, half-exasperation. “Even you need rest, Zayne.”

A grunt. A slight adjustment of his glasses. More typing.

You sigh, shifting your weight onto one hip. “You’ll burn out before we crack this, you know. Turn into one of those conspiracy theorists who forgets how to blink.”

That earns you a glance—brief, unimpressed, but tinged with something vaguely amused. “Good night,” he says simply, already half-immersed in his work again.

You roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at the corner of your lips. “Don’t stay up too late.”

Another grunt. Another hint of movement as he continues typing. Shaking your head, you shoulder your backpack, pull on your mittens, and adjust your woolen hat, tugging it snug over your ears before stepping outside.

The Arctic air slams into you, crisp and bracing. Any lingering warmth from the facility vanishes instantly, replaced by the sting of winter against your skin. The world outside is a quiet, frozen wonderland—snowflakes drifting lazily through the air, catching the light from the facility’s windows like scattered diamonds.

The last few days have been relentless—long hours of research, chasing leads, pushing closer to answers that still dance just out of reach. And while the pursuit has been thrilling, it’s also drained you. Your muscles ache from too many hours hunched over data, your mind is a tangled mess of theories and possibilities.

That’s why you booked the onsen.

A smile spreads across your face as you descend the steps, humming softly to yourself. You can already picture it—the warm water enveloping you, steam curling into the frozen night air, your entire body sinking into a state of perfect relaxation.

Maybe even cucumbers on your eyelids, if you’re feeling extra indulgent. Yes. Perfect.

Thrilled by the anticipation, you instinctively grab your phone, eager to share your excitement with Caleb and keep him in the loop. Without hesitation, you type out a quick message.

You: Just finished work. On my way to the onsen now. If I don’t resurface, assume I’ve melted into bliss.

Your thumb linger over the screen for a second, a small smile tugging at your lips. You had messaged him earlier about this, gushing about the outdoor onsen you found, about how perfect it sounded.

You: You won’t believe what I just found! An actual outdoor onsen in the middle of nowhere. Hot water, steam, cold air… perfection. Booked a late-night soak. I need this so bad.

Had he even answered?

Frowning slightly, you pull your other mitten off with your teeth, thumb hovering over your messages as you step into the snow-covered path leading away from the facility. But before you can check—

Leaning casually against the wall just beyond the entrance, arms folded over his chest, is Caleb.

Your stomach lurches, your entire body going still in the freezing night air.

Wrapped in sleek athletic winter gear, his fitted turtleneck clings to his frame beneath an open, puffy winter jacket, the fabric shifting slightly with the easy rise and fall of his breath. His dog tag, ever-present, hangs just below the collar, catching the faint light as it sways with his movements.

Snow-dusted pants, built for movement, hug his legs, and his boots are planted firmly in the powder beneath him. Ashen-brown bangs are flecked with snow, strands falling loose beneath a broad, warm headband. Ski goggles sit atop his head, their lenses reflecting the facility’s dim lights like twin mirrors.

And his eyes. Those impossible violet irises gleam with cheekiness as they lock onto yours, filled with a teasing spark. A calculated glint.

Next to him, propped against the wall, are a pair of downhill skis—fitting, considering the way your mental state is also currently plummeting at an alarming speed.

Caleb flicks his phone into the air, catches it effortlessly, and, without the slightest hesitation, reads aloud in a smooth, amused tone, “On my way to the onsen now. If I don’t resurface, assume I’ve melted into bliss.”

He glances up at you, violet eyes gleaming with mischief. “Melted into bliss?” he echoes, tilting his head as if considering it. Then he smirks, tucking the phone away. “Nah, can’t have my Pip-squeak dissolving into oblivion without me. Wouldn’t be very gentlemanly.”

Caleb steps closer, the cold air curling between you. “Sooo… Figured I’d join in—purely for your safety, of course.”

Your breath stutters. “Uh—”

Your brain has completely short-circuited. Between the overwhelming presence of him, the ridiculous way he just happens to be here, and the nickname—Pip-squeak—the one only he calls you, always, no matter the situation, like it’s your actual name rather than just something he made up. And now, with that smug edge in his voice and the absolute audacity to hijack your private relaxation like it was his all along, it’s enough to send your thoughts scattering into the cold air like the snowflakes around you.

His smirk lingers, that damnably confident curve of his lips. “I promise I won’t get in the way. The onsen’s big enough for the both of us, right?”

And before you can even process the situation enough to say anything more than a bewildered ‘uh,’ he lifts a gloved hand.

Between his fingers—

An identical ticket to the one sitting in your coat pocket.

——————————————————————————

The Arctic night yawns wide and silent around you, a world blanketed in snow and soft moonlight. The only sound is the steady crunch of your boots against the packed frost, your breath curling in delicate silver clouds before vanishing into the dark. Snowflakes descend in slow, lazy spirals, catching in your lashes, clinging to the fur lining of your coat. The cold is sharp, invigorating—but not unpleasant.

Not with him beside you. Yet, a thought lingers—

The last time you were in the Arctic, you hadn’t felt this kind of warmth beside you. No steady presence in the cold.

That absence is something you haven’t let yourself dwell on. Not really. But now, with Caleb walking next to you, solid and real, the contrast is impossible to ignore.

“You didn’t mention you were coming out here.”

Your voice is even, casual, but the words hang in the space between you—lingering, testing.

Caleb shifts the skis on his shoulder, adjusting their weight with practiced ease. The motion is smooth, effortless—just like his timing.

“Figured I’d pick up an old winter hobby—kill some time while you worked.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. Of course he did. Caleb has always done this. Appeared. Slipped into your orbit like he was always meant to be there, whether you had invited him or not.

Unshakable. Inevitable.

The thought lingers as the two of you walk, his presence a quiet heat against the Arctic cold. Even through layers of wool and winter gear, he radiates warmth—a constant, steady ember against the frozen world around you.

A gust moves between you both, crisp and cutting, but the silence is sharper.

Then, after a beat, Caleb’s voice slips through the cold, smooth and low—deceptively easy.

“Been a while since we’ve done this.”

A statement. Not a question. As if he has any right to say it—to claim that time, that absence, like it was just a minor inconvenience.

Caleb was supposed to be constant. The one thing in your life that never drifted, never disappeared. And then he was gone. No warning, no goodbye, just a hollow space where he used to be—a space you had to carry alone.

You don’t say it. But you think it. And it stings.

And now he walks beside you like he never left. Like the space between then and now is nothing more than a fortnight passed.

The worst part? Sometimes… it feels that way.

How Caleb came over at New Year’s with that knowing smirk, like he had every right to be there. How he settled onto your couch, arms draped over the back, watching you with lazy amusement as you practiced your drawing skills on him. How he tilted his head just so, baring the line of his throat for you, letting you sketch the curve of his neck with slow, careful strokes. How you let him stay.

The feeling rises too fast, sharp and jagged—caught between the ache and the quiet betrayal. One part of you still can’t forgive him for making you mourn him; the other aches to let it go, to pull him even closer.

And because you don’t know what to do with all of it—

You do the most logical thing.

You lunge for the snow, scoop up a handful, and—without hesitation—shove it straight into his face.

A satisfying crunch. A sharp inhale.

For the first time all evening, Caleb is the one caught off guard.

He jerks back, shoulders tensing, breath sucking in sharply as the freezing snow collides with his skin, clings to his cheekbones, melts against the heat of him. His lashes are dusted white, his hair flecked with frost, his lips parted in surprise.

For one perfect moment, he is stunned.

And then—

Caleb relaxes his shoulders. He exhales slow, deliberate, and tilts his head, smiling.

Not just any smile. That smile.

The one that always, always means trouble.

“Oh, you’re gonna regret that, Pips.”

Before you can even get a second step in, he’s already moving, his speed unfair, his reflexes honed from years of training. His gloved hand catches your wrist in a firm but gentle grip, spinning you back toward him. The world tilts as you stumble into his chest, and suddenly, he’s right there, looming over you. Close.

In that closeness, his grip around your wrists tightens—not rough, but firm. As if he’s grounding himself as much as holding you there, unwilling to let go. Snowflakes cling to his dark lashes, melting against his skin, and his violet eyes shimmer—something unreadable flickering beneath the weight of his gaze. His breath curls between you, a whisper of warmth against the cold, dissolving into the space where neither of you move.

The playful spark in his gaze dims for a fraction of a second, something raw slipping through the cracks of his carefully maintained composure. His eyes drop—to your lips, to the small space between you, to possibility.

You don’t think. You don’t question. You just rise onto your toes, closing the distance, pressing the lightest, barest kiss against the corner of his mouth.

It’s fleeting, barely there—but it shatters something.

Caleb stills. Completely.

For the second time that evening, you catch him off guard.

His grip on your wrist loosens, but he doesn’t pull away, his breath warm against your cheek, his exhale slow, measured—like he’s trying to process what just happened. And then, finally, he blinks, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his lips—but it’s not his usual one. It’s softer, warmer, something almost reverent.

But instead of saying anything helpful, he only murmurs, “You are so, so unfair.”

And then—he lets go.

You step back, suddenly reeling, suddenly aware of what you just did. But Caleb only chuckles, shaking his head—like he’s already committing this moment to memory, already tucking it away where he keeps the things he’ll never forget.

——————————————————————————

The warm glow of lanterns spills over the snow-dusted entrance of the onsen, casting golden reflections onto the smooth wooden floors. The air shifts the moment you step inside—the biting Arctic cold left behind, replaced with the scent of cedar, damp heat curling through the hallways.

Caleb steps in after you, pulling the door shut behind him, and for a moment, there’s just silence—the kind that makes your skin prickle, makes you hyper-aware of every movement, every shift in the air between you.

The receptionist greets you with a warm smile, bowing slightly as she gestures toward the entrance hall, lined with low wooden benches for guests to remove their shoes and outer layers. You move first—because moving is easier than thinking.

Your fingers feel almost clumsy as you tug at your gloves, slipping them off one by one before reaching for your coat. The layers are heavy, the fabric thick with frost from the journey here. Caleb doesn’t say anything, but you can feel him watching as you unwind your scarf, pulling it free from where it had been tucked against your collar.

You steal a glance at him—just a quick, fleeting thing—but it’s enough.

His gaze flicks back to yours, and the corner of his lips quirks. And tose impossible violet orbs stay on you—like he knows exactly what you’re thinking, like he’s giving you the chance to acknowledge it.

You sit down, fingers moving automatically to unlace your boots, the motion practiced, steady—your silent answer. But your heart hasn’t settled. It’s still thrumming, still caught in the moment where your lips brushed against his, a fleeting, chaste outburst of weakness you refuse to address.

Boots off. Thick socks peeled away. You tuck them neatly beside your belongings before standing, pressing your hands against the smooth wood of the bench to ground yourself. Caleb mirrors you without hesitation, toeing off his boots in a fluid motion, rolling his shoulders like shedding the layers makes him lighter.

Like he’s comfortable here, comfortable with you—settling back into a space that was always his, as if time never carved him out of it.

And just as you start to turn away, he moves closer, a whisper of contact trailing behind him. His hand skims against your waist, featherlight but intentional.

A question, a test. Then comes the softest press—barely a kiss, nothing more than the warmth of him against the shell of your ear.

“So… are we pretending that didn’t just happen, or should I act accordingly?” he murmurs, voice low, edged with something dangerous and knowing.

Your breath hitches—a fraction, almost imperceptible.

And then—he steps away.

As if nothing happened.

As if the tension humming between you is nothing but steam in the air, waiting to dissipate.

The receptionist returns, all polite enthusiasm, bowing as she welcomes you both. And just like that, the moment is swallowed up, tucked neatly away under the weight of formality.

“Welcome,” she beams. “Ah, and what a lovely couple!”

Your brain short-circuits.

You open your mouth—to politely protest, to correct her—but Caleb, damn him, is faster.

His hands find your waist again, like a tide returning to shore—inevitable, familiar, unhurried.

“Appreciate it,” he tells her smoothly. “She booked us something nice, didn’t she?”

The receptionist nods eagerly, already convinced. “Oh, of course! You’re both in for a wonderful experience.”

Caleb leans in just enough—his voice low against your ear, smug as hell.

“Don’t look so shocked, Pips. It’s not like we haven’t had practice.” Caleb smirks, tilting his head slightly, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Who knows? If we keep this up, maybe they’ll knock a little off the bill.”

And you hate that he’s right. Because you’ve done this before—played pretend, slipped into roles without thinking.

In high school, when Caleb needed a buffer from whatever girl had decided she was in love with him that week. In college, when he’d throw an arm around you at parties to keep unwanted attention off you.

It had always been easy, effortless.

And if it ever meant securing a couple’s discount at the cinema, neither of you had ever hesitated to lean into the act—his arm draped lazily over your shoulders, your head tucked against his chest, the cashier none the wiser.

The receptionist furrows her brows slightly as she scans the reservation details again.

“Oh! It looks like there was a mix-up in the system.” She tilts her head, flipping through the records. “You both had individual reservations for the public onsen with single rooms, but it should have been processed as a couple’s booking. That must have been an error on our end—our IT system has been acting up all week!”

You stiffen. Caleb, meanwhile, looks entirely composed.

The receptionist claps her hands together, beaming. “No worries, though! We just had a last-minute cancellation on our most exquisite suite—the only room available that accommodates two guests. Since the issue was on our end, we’ll upgrade you both at no extra charge!”

Her smile turns even more delighted. “Oh, and what perfect timing! I just love seeing young love.”

Caleb hums in approval, clearly entertained.

“Hear that, Pips?” He tilts his head toward you, his grip at your waist tightening ever so slightly. “She loves young love.”

You stomp on his foot.

At least, you try to.

Caleb moves before impact, smoothly adjusting his stance, unshaken, and laughs under his breath.

“How generous,” you manage, forcing a strained, polite smile.

Caleb’s grin widens. He leans in just enough—just to you, just to press his voice into your ear.

“Maybe we’ll get champagne too if you hold my hand.”

You consider shoving him into the koi pond at the entrance.

But the receptionist is already gesturing down the hall, giving you an enthusiastic rundown of the suite’s luxurious amenities. Caleb doesn’t move his arm from your waist. He doesn’t have to—because whether you realize it or not, you’re already leaning into him, already falling into place.

This is a game you’ve played before—played so well, for so long. But something about it feels different this time. When you finally glance up at him—when his violet eyes flick down to meet yours—you swear he isn’t pretending.

And the worst part? Neither are you.

Chapter II

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: Part one of the series, yay! Peepz we’re looking at a slow burn, but I hope it’s as enjoyable for you as it is to me. I just love writing their dynamics, simpsimp. Okey then, thank you for reading pt1 🫶🏻

[paishoeyeroh]

Bearer And The Bound

☰ Pairings: Sukuna x Reader, Slight Megumi x Reader

✧ Summary: When you stumble upon an ancient ring in an abandoned house, you unknowingly bind yourself to a cruel, powerful demon who thrives on torment. Trapped in a reluctant bond and forced to navigate a shared existence, Sukuna plots your downfall while you fight to survive his sadistic games. But as your fates entwine and secrets of Sukuna’s dark past begin to unravel, the lines between enemy and ally start to blur.

✧ Tags: True form Sukuna, Enemies to Lovers, Dark Romance, Demonic Bonds, Heavy Angst, Slow Burn, Sukuna is Bad at Feelings, Possessive Sukuna, Tension, Forced Proximity, Eventual Smut, College/University AU, More Tags To Be Added Later

✧ Status: Ongoing

✧ You can also read it on AO3

☰ CHAPTER TWELVE: Haunted

Chapter Summary: You survived… but not everything did.

☰ Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

The sound is distant at first, soft and rhythmic, like a heartbeat echoing far away. It pulses through the thick fog of your consciousness, each beat tugging you closer to the surface.

There’s a voice somewhere in the fog. Low, detached. Words without shape or meaning. A smell follows next. It’s clean, sharp, sterile. It creeps into your senses, pulling you further to the waking world.

You stir.

Your eyelids are heavy, like they’ve been stitched shut for centuries. But eventually, they part, just enough for light to spill in, unforgiving and white-hot. It burns against your skull. You blink through the blur, trying to piece the world back together.

Fluorescent lights hum overhead, glaring down with clinical indifference. Everything is pale, sterile. White walls, and white, polished floors.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

The scent is stronger now. It smells of antiseptic and metal, with a trace of blood and bleach. It’s the unmistakable smell of a hospital.

You turn your head, slowly, and your gaze settles on the source of the sound—a heart monitor pulsing steadily in time with your own fragile rhythm. Thin wires trail from the screen, snaking down to the pads clinging to your chest. Your eyes drift lower, tracing the network of lines and tubes that tether you to the world outside this bed.

An IV needle rests against the back of your hand, secured with translucent tape, its line feeding into a bag of clear fluid swaying gently beside you. You can feel the pressure of thick bandages wrapped around your ribs, tight and unyielding, a reminder of pain you haven’t yet remembered. Another set coils around your upper thigh, pulsing faintly with your heartbeat. The hospital gown draped across your skin is stiff, the fabric coarse and unfamiliar, rustling with even the smallest movement.

You tilt your head, slowly taking in more of the room. It’s small, impersonal—white walls, pale tile, and a television mounted high in the corner, a talk show playing quietly to no one in particular. To your right, a closed door, likely the bathroom. Directly across from your bed, a single chair is tucked into the shadows of the corner.

And someone is sitting in it.

Megumi.

He’s slouched low in the seat, long legs stretched out before him, arms crossed over his chest in a posture that speaks more of stubbornness than comfort. His head is tilted against his shoulder, lips slightly parted, dark lashes brushing his cheeks as he sleeps. Even in rest, there’s a weariness etched into his face, a heaviness that hasn’t lifted, not even in sleep.

Seeing him there sends a flood through your chest. confusion, relief… and something else. A quiet fear that prickles beneath your skin, whispering of things lost and things still unraveling.

You try to sit up, the urge to call out to him stronger than the dull ache spread throughout your body. But as soon as you attempt to lift yourself, a bolt of pain shoots through your chest, radiating from your side. It’s so sudden and sharp that it pulls a cry from your lips, your hand flying instinctively to the source of the pain as you curl inward, gasping for air.

Megumi jerks awake at the sound, his eyes snapping open in alarm. He looks disoriented for a second, his eyes darting around the room before settling on you. His face transforms from a look of confusion to one of shock.

“Oh my god, you’re awake,” he breathes, his voice hoarse from sleep.

He’s on his feet in an instant, the chair scraping faintly against the tile as he stumbles forward, urgency overtaking his grogginess. His fingers fumble for the call button, pressing it with more force than necessary before he turns to you, drawn like a magnet to your side.

The worry is written plainly across his face, etched into the tight pull of his brow, the parted lips that search for something to say but come up empty. His hand hovers above yours, suspended for a moment in uncertainty, as though he’s afraid you might crumble if he touches you.

But then, slowly, he closes the distance, his fingers curling around yours with the gentlest pressure, offering a small semblance of comfort.

“Easy,” he murmurs urgently. “Don’t try to move yet. You’re still recovering.”

You try to say his name, but your voice is raw and garbled, a rasping sound that barely makes it past your throat. You swallow hard, wincing at the dryness, and try again.

“Megumi…”

Your voice is barely above a whisper. He leans in closer, his expression softening. “Just take it slow, okay? Don’t strain yourself,” he says, his tone gentle.

Your lips part, dry and cracked, and you gather what little strength you have to rasp, “What… happened?”

Megumi’s expression shifts. His jaw tightens, eyes dimming with something akin to guilt. He leans in slightly, his hand moving to your shoulder, the weight of it grounding. Warm. Steady. A quiet attempt to reassure, even as unease flickers behind his gaze.

“You were caught in an explosion,” he says gently, his voice slower now, as if weighing every word before releasing it. “At the old factory near the park. I’m guessing you were walking that way to meet me at the cafe.”

He trails off for a breath before continuing.

“They think it was a gas leak. Someone must’ve broken in, probably lit a cigarette, or flicked on a lighter without knowing. It lit up the place in seconds.”

Your eyes widen, trying to piece together the hazy memories. “How bad was it?” you ask, voice cracking.

His eyes flicker, and he pauses before continuing, his tone almost haunted. “It was bad. Really bad. I could hear it from the cafe. It shook the ground. I knew you were coming from that way, so I ran straight there.” His voice trembles, and he presses his lips together, taking a moment to collect himself. “And… when I found you—“ he stops, his eyes momentarily glassy, and it makes you realize just how deeply he’s been affected by this. It’s surreal, seeing Megumi so raw, so exposed. It makes your own eyes flood with tears, though you quickly blink them away.

He clears his throat, his voice thick with an emotion he’s clearly struggling to suppress. “I thought you were dead. You were… covered in blood, debris, cuts… and you weren’t moving. But, then, I found a pulse.” He visibly swallows, his gaze distant as he recalls the memory. “It was weak, barely there, and your breathing was shallow. But you were still alive.”

Your mind starts to reel as pieces of it start to come back to you. You remember the impact, the excruciating pain in your leg, the coldness setting in.

And then, you remember Sukuna.

His face, desperate and unguarded, looming over yours. You remember his mouth moving urgently, the pressure of his hands against your wound, the raw panic in his eyes.

But now, in the sterile, clinical brightness of the hospital room, he’s nowhere to be found.

Megumi’s words blur at the edges of your mind, distant and hollow, as your thoughts drift elsewhere—to Sukuna’s absence. He’s disappeared before, fading from sight when it suited him, retreating into the quiet corners of your home. But even then, you could still feel him, a heavy presence in the air, woven into the walls around you.

Now, there’s nothing. No trace, no shadow, not even the faintest pull of him tethered to you.

A hollow ache blooms in your chest, sharp and disorienting, like the loss of a limb you can still feel if you reach for it. An echo.

Suddenly, the door opens. A nurse enters, clipboard in hand, her face a mask of professional calm as she glances between you and Megumi.

She offers a warm, reassuring smile as she walks toward you, the soft, steady clack of her footsteps echoing against the white tile of the floor.

“Welcome back,” she says softly, her voice a gentle contrast to the sterile chill of the room. She moves to your bedside with practiced ease, setting a clipboard down on the counter as she prepares to check your vitals.

You try to muster a smile in return, but it feels thin, brittle, barely stretching across your face. All you can manage is a slight nod, exhaustion dragging heavily at your limbs.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, her tone kind but efficient, the stethoscope already in her hand.

“Alright,” you rasp, your voice foreign to your own ears, dry and raw like sandpaper. You clear your throat, wincing at the effort. “My throat’s real dry… and there’s a sharp pain in my side.”

“That’s to be expected,” she assures you, her tone unwaveringly calm. “You’ve been unconscious for two days. The dryness will pass. I’ll bring you some water as soon as I’m finished here.”

The nurse presses the stethoscope lightly against your chest, the cold kiss of the metal making you flinch. She listens intently, her brow furrowing in concentration, before shifting to check your pulse, her touch deft and gentle.

“As for the pain in your side,” she says, her voice even, “that would be from the injuries you sustained in the accident.”

At the mention of the explosion, your heart stutters, pounding against your ribs as if trying to claw its way free. You tense instinctively as she adjusts the blood pressure cuff around your arm, the fabric biting briefly into your skin.

“You suffered severe blood loss,” she continues, tightening the cuff for a beat before releasing it again. “The most critical injury was to the femoral artery in your leg. It required immediate surgical repair. You also sustained multiple lacerations from debris, a concussion, and two broken ribs from the force of the blast.”

You struggle to keep up, each word crashing down like a wave, pulling you deeper beneath the reality of what you’d endured. The nurse pauses, her eyes softening as she catches the dazed look in yours.

“You’re quite lucky to be alive,” she says quietly. “The fact that you survived, made it here in time is… it’s nothing short of a miracle.”

It feels distant, unreal, like it must have happened to someone else entirely.

“How did I even…?” you rasp, your voice faltering. “How did I make it out alive?”

The nurse pauses, her expression tightening with a softness that carries no easy answer. “By all accounts, you shouldn’t have,” she says, her voice low. “You got very lucky. You must’ve had someone watching over you.”

Her words hang in the sterile air. Your mind pulls you back to the last moments you remember after the explosion. The searing heat, the agony tearing through your body, Sukuna’s face etched in frantic desperation above you. A cold shudder rakes down your spine.

The nurse finishes adjusting your IV and hands you a small paper cup of water. “Here,” she murmurs. “Sip it slowly. It’ll help your throat.”

You nod and bring the cup to your lips, the first sip sending a soothing chill down the rawness of your throat.

“I’ve also upped the dosage on your pain meds,” she adds, checking the monitors once more. “You might feel a little drowsy, but it’ll keep the worst of the pain at bay.”

You offer a faint word of thanks, your voice barely carrying. She gives you a small, encouraging smile before moving toward the door.

As she reaches for the handle, a voice stirs from the corner of the room—low, tentative.

“Yuji and Nobara are here,” Megumi says quietly. “They’ve been waiting for you to wake up. I can bring them in if you’d like.”

You manage a small smile. “Yeah… I’d like that.”

Megumi rises from his chair, the movement quiet, almost reluctant.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, his voice low. For a moment, he lingers, like he’s wrestling with words he ultimately decides not to say. Then he slips through the door, closing it behind him with a soft click.

The silence that follows is deafening.

A hollow ache settles deep in your chest, spreading like a bruise. You shift against the stiff sheets, trying—and failing—to shake it off. It’s a different kind of emptiness than pain. One far crueler.

You hadn’t realized how constant Sukuna’s presence had become, like a current humming beneath your skin, a tether you could always feel, even when he wasn’t there. A shadow brushing the edge of your awareness, familiar as your own heartbeat.

But now, there’s only stillness.

You stare up at the sterile ceiling, feeling the pit inside you widen with each passing breath. Maybe he’s nearby, you try to tell yourself. Maybe he’s lurking just out of sight, waiting.

But you know better.

You can feel the absence in your bones.

He’s gone. Truly gone.

Your gaze drifts downward, falling to your hand. To the ring resting loosely against your skin.

A sharp pang twists through your chest.

Before, it had glowed a deep, vivid red, pulsing faintly like a living thing. Now, it’s blackened, the color so dark it seems to devour the light around it, a small and terrible abyss encircling your finger. You can’t look at it for long without feeling like it might pull you under.

A chill works its way down your spine.

The bond that had once tethered you to him, frayed though it had been, feels entirely, irreversibly severed.

You turn the ring idly, feeling it glide easily against your skin. It should be a comfort, this newfound freedom. Proof that whatever had once bound you has been undone.

But there’s no relief. Only the heavy, aching weight of grief.

How is this possible?

You survived. You’re still breathing, still here.

So why does it feel like you lost everything?

The door creaks open, the soft sound cutting through the suffocating quiet, and you lift your head just as Yuji, Nobara, and Megumi step inside.

Yuji is the first to move, his eyes going wide the moment they land on you.

He freezes there, framed in the doorway, like something heavy has slammed into him. You haven’t seen yourself, but from the way he looks at you, from the way his expression cracks open with a sharp, breathless kind of pain, you can imagine well enough.

The bandages. The bruises. The brokenness you feel humming just beneath your skin.

But then he’s crossing the room in a few quick strides, sinking down onto the edge of your bed and pulling you into his arms.

His touch is warm, careful, his embrace threaded with a kind of fragile reverence, but even the gentleness makes you wince.

Still, you lift your arms, weak and trembling, curling your fingers into the soft fabric of his sleeve, clinging to him with what little strength you have.

“I can’t believe it,” Yuji murmurs into your hair, his voice low, almost stunned.

He pulls back just enough to see you, his hands still braced carefully around your arms, as if you might shatter if he let go too soon. A grin breaks over his face, raw and breathless, chasing away some of the lingering fear in his eyes.

“You’re okay,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief. “Well… mostly.”

His gaze flickers down your body, taking in the bandages, the bruises hidden beneath hospital fabric, and he lets out a short, shaky laugh, the kind that only comes when relief is still grappling with fear.

You manage a faint smile, the corners of your mouth tugging upward. “I must look insane, huh?” you rasp out.

Before Yuji can answer, another figure moves into your periphery. It’s Nobara, her arms crossed over her chest, chin tilted high. Her eyes sweep over you, sharp and assessing, but there’s a softness buried just beneath the surface, a glint of protectiveness.

“You’re alive,” she says simply, “that’s all that matters.”

Then she tilts her head, her mouth tugging into a dry, familiar smirk.

“Still… what are the odds you just happen to be walking past a factory the exact second it explodes?” she drawls. “You must’ve done something seriously fucked up in a past life.”

Despite everything, you find yourself huffing out a weak breath of laughter.

Nobara settles beside Yuji at the edge of your bed, the sharp glint of humor fading from her expression.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, her voice quieter now, nearly tentative.

You hesitate, your gaze slipping down to your hand resting on top of the blanket.

The ring still clings to your finger, though barely. It sits loose and unfamiliar, its once vivid glow now reduced to a hollow black sheen. The harsh overhead lights catch against its surface, casting fractured reflections like splinters across your skin. It feels foreign now. Heavy in a way that has nothing to do with its weight.

You swallow hard against the lump rising in your throat.

“Alright, I guess,” you murmur, the words scraping against the rawness inside you. “I just… want to go home.”

There’s the soft scrape of chair legs dragging against tile as Megumi pulls his seat closer, sinking into it with a familiar, steady presence.

“The nurse said maybe tomorrow,” he says, his voice low, even. It anchors you, if only a little. “If your vitals stay steady and you can prove you’re mobile. They’ll want to keep monitoring the concussion for a bit… but they think you’ll be okay.”

You nod, slow and mechanical, but your eyes remain fixed on the ring.

Okay. But not whole.

The conversation lulls, a hush settling over the room like dust.

Beside you, Yuji shifts, leaning back on his hands with a soft exhale. You catch Nobara murmuring something to him, something about getting food soon, but her voice feels distant.

Your gaze drifts toward the window.

The sky beyond is a dull, washed-out gray, unmoving and heavy, and if you listen closely enough, you think you can almost hear the faint hum of the city, a world still spinning, untouched by the collapse of yours.

Inside this room, though, everything feels too still. Too hollow.

You lean your head back against the pillows, the weight of exhaustion pulling at you. The quiet stretches, long and thin, until it feels like you’re the only living thing left in the world.

Megumi’s voice breaks the silence, soft and steady.

“You should get some rest. I’ll come by tomorrow, okay?”

You nod, the motion slow and distant.

“Yeah… okay.”

One by one, they rise.

Megumi lingers the longest, his hand resting briefly on the doorframe, his gaze catching yours. There’s something he wants to say, you can feel it. But whatever it is, he swallows it down, offering only a small nod before slipping out.

The door clicks softly shut behind them.

You stare up at the blank, sterile ceiling, the ache in your chest expanding now that you’re alone again.

It isn’t just your body that hurts.

It’s the space inside you where something used to live.

Something that may never come back.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

The sun hangs heavy in the sky, its warmth muted by a thin veil of clouds. You move awkwardly down the ramp toward Megumi’s car, each step on your crutches rattling sharp aches through your ribs. The pain deepens with every jolt, but you grit your teeth and press on, refusing to let it slow you. You’d already turned down the wheelchair once, despite the nurse’s horrified protests. There was no going back now.

Megumi waits near the car, arms crossed loosely over his chest, wearing an expression that speaks louder than any words: I told you so. But he says nothing. Instead, he steps forward, reaching out to take the crutch from the side where your ribs ache worst, and eases your arm carefully over his shoulder. His movements are patient, steady, and gentle in a way that makes your chest ache for reasons that have nothing to do with your injuries.

“You know,” he mutters as he helps you shuffle toward the car, “most people don’t turn down a wheelchair three days after almost bleeding out in the street.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well, most people don’t live on the third floor of an overcrowded building with only one elevator. That chair would just become expensive decor.”

He exhales a dry laugh. “Right. Forgot you’re just dealing with a severed artery, multiple cracked ribs, and a concussion. Practically a stubbed toe.”

You huff a breath of laughter as he lowers you carefully into the passenger seat, his touch steady as he guides you down like you might break apart in his hands.

Megumi settles into the driver’s seat, adjusting the rearview mirror with one hand as the engine hums to life. Without looking at you, he says, “If you fall down your apartment stairs because you’re too stubborn to use a wheelchair, I’m not carrying you back up.”

You smirk faintly, turning your head just enough to catch his profile. “Got it.”

A quiet beat passes. Then he speaks again, his voice softer now, more cautious. “Seriously. Let me know if it gets too hard.”

He doesn’t look at you, but his hand tightens slightly on the steering wheel. “Not just with the crutches,” he adds after a pause. “But… Sukuna, too. I didn’t want to say anything too soon after all this happened, but I’m assuming you still want him gone. We should reschedule that meeting with the specialist whenever you’re ready.”

You stare out the window, eyes following the smear of traffic and skeletal trees beyond the glass. You don’t answer right away, not because you’re unsure, but because saying it aloud feels like it might make it real.

Sukuna hasn’t shown himself in days. Not a flutter of movement in the corner of your eye, not a whisper brushing the edge of your mind. Just silence. Heavy and absolute.

But that can’t be right. The bond must still exist, somewhere beneath the surface. Maybe the blast only fractured it. He’s waiting for you at home, lurking just out of reach. Watching. Waiting.

He has to be.

“Right,” you murmur, still watching the road pass by. “I’ll let you know.”

Megumi nods, not pressing further. And the car falls back into silence.

Megumi pulls into the lot and eases the car into park, the soft click of the engine cutting off the only sound between you. Before you can even reach for the door handle, he’s already stepping out, rounding the hood with silent purpose.

He opens your door and offers his hand without a word. You take it, letting him anchor you as you carefully swing your legs out. The crutches find the pavement first, but before you can shift your weight, his arm slips around your waist, his other hand bracing your elbow.

You don’t protest.

Every breath still scrapes against the fractured edges of your ribs, and without his support, the stairwell to your apartment feels impossibly far away, an entire mountain hidden behind a thin metal railing.

The climb is slow, unsteady. The cold metal bites into your fingers as you drag yourself upward, each step tightening the coil in your chest, the dread unfurling low and relentless in your gut.

You’re getting closer.

Closer to the moment that will either shatter you completely… or offer the fragile mercy of hope.

Megumi’s steps slow beside you, adjusting wordlessly to your pace. When you finally reach the landing, your body is trembling from more than just exertion. It isn’t the ache in your ribs or the pull of the stitches in your thigh that rattles you, it’s what waits just beyond your front door.

You dig into your pocket for your keys, the cool metal biting against your fingertips. They jingle softly in your hand as you fumble with them, and out of the corner of your eye, you catch Megumi shifting, only slightly. A faint straightening of his spine. A slow, careful exhale through his nose.

He’s bracing himself.

Preparing for whatever might be waiting inside.

You glance at him, at the wariness he tries to hide beneath his calm exterior, and the memory hits you with jarring clarity. The terror in his eyes the last time he crossed this threshold.

And now, the thought of making him walk into that uncertainty again, and of asking him to witness you unravel, piece by piece, feels like too much.

You turn to him, your voice low and steady. “Thank you for helping me with the stairs. But I’ve got it from here.”

Megumi’s brows pull together in a faint furrow, the beginnings of a protest on his lips, but when he looks at you fully, when he really sees you, something in him softens. You see it then, the exhaustion carved into the tight line of his shoulders, the weariness tucked behind his careful, steady gaze.

“You sure?” he asks, his voice quieter now, touched with reluctance. “I don’t mind staying—”

“I know,” you cut in gently. “But you should go home. I’ll be okay.”

He hesitates, his hand flexing uselessly at his side. His gaze flickers toward your door, then back to you, like he’s weighing some invisible scale.

“You’ll text me if you need anything?”

You nod, offering a small, solemn smile. “I promise.”

For a beat, neither of you move. The air between you is thick, stretched taut by everything that remains unsaid. Then, slowly, Megumi gives a small nod, trusting you, even if it’s clear he doesn’t fully want to.

With one last glance between you and the door, he turns and heads back down the stairs, his footsteps fading, slow and reluctant, into the hush of the evening.

And you’re left standing alone.

The key in your hand feels heavier now.

It slides into the lock with a soft click, the sound sharp in the stillness. Your fingers linger on the handle, suspended in the final breath before crossing a line you can’t uncross.

Then, slowly, you push the door open.

The apartment swallows you in silence. Not the soft, peaceful kind, but heavier. Hollow. Still.

You step inside cautiously, the air cool and unmoving against your skin, like no one’s breathed it in days. Your gaze sweeps the living room, scanning the familiar corners, the half-lit spaces where shadows used to gather.

There’s nothing.

But that isn’t unusual. Sukuna had always been good at hiding, folding himself into the spaces just beyond sight, making you feel him even when you couldn’t see him.

But that’s just it.

You don’t feel him.

Not the low hum at the base of your spine. Not the shift in the air that always gave him away, no matter how quiet he tried to be. Not the electric pull that told you you were never truly alone.

Nothing.

Your crutches thud softly against the floor as you move, each step slow and uneven, the silence pressing in tighter around you with every breath.

You check the kitchen first, the soft click of the light switch loud in the empty space. Cabinets closed. Countertops clear. No signs of life.

The bathroom next. You push the door open with your shoulder, the hinges groaning quietly. The mirror stares back at you, fractured by the harsh overhead light, reflecting only your own exhausted, battered face.

Still nothing.

You turn toward the last door, your heart hammering a little harder now. As if, deep down, some foolish, desperate part of you still believes he’ll be there, waiting, lurking just beyond sight like he always does.

You reach the bedroom.

Your hand trembles slightly as you push the door open wider.

The room is cold. Untouched. The bed neatly made, just as you left it before you stumbled out that day, not knowing you would never return to the same life.

You freeze in the doorway, blinking slowly, the weight of it all crashing down around you.

You search the corners instinctively, waiting for a sign of movement, a glint of red eyes in the shadows, a low chuckle curling through the silence.

But there’s nothing.

No sound. No shift. Nothing.

You retreat to the living room, your steps slow and dragging, the silence clinging to you like a second skin.

At the coffee table, you stop.

Your gaze catches on a small glass paperweight, half-forgotten beneath a pile of unopened mail.

It’s nothing. Just a stupid thing.

One he used to flick off the edge when he was bored, or when he wanted to get a rise out of you, to pull your attention back to him without ever asking for it.

Your fingers move on their own, closing around the weight, lifting it. It’s cool and smooth against your palm, deceptively solid.

You turn it over once, twice, the overhead light refracting through the glass, casting fractured rainbows across your skin. But you don’t really see them.

You don’t see anything.

The numbness you’ve been carrying like armor is cracking, splintering apart from the inside.

A heat wells up through the cracks, wild, directionless. Rage. Grief. Dark and heavy.

And then you throw it.

The paperweight leaves your hand like a bullet, smashing into the wall with a violent crack.

Glass bursts outward, fragments skittering across the hardwood like startled insects, the echo of impact rattling through the room, then fading into an awful, smothering silence.

All that’s left is the ragged pull of your breathing.

Your teeth grind together. Your hands won’t stop trembling.

“This is your fault,” you whisper into the empty room, the words breaking apart as they leave you. “You stupid, selfish, fucking—”

The anger snags in your throat, strangling itself before you can finish.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to force it back down, but it climbs higher, swelling, until it presses painfully against your ribs.

If he hadn’t shut you out. If he had just spoken to you, trusted you enough to let you in instead of letting everything rot in silence, maybe you wouldn’t have been desperate enough to meet Megumi that day.

Maybe you wouldn’t have been near that factory.

Maybe you wouldn’t have almost died.

Maybe you wouldn’t be standing here now, shattered from the inside out, staring at the wreckage he left behind.

You turn your gaze downward, blinking through the sting in your eyes.

The ring on your finger sits loose and crooked, the metal catching the light in a way that makes it look even darker.

Black as ash.

Black as death.

The connection that once tethered him to you—bright, stubborn, alive—is gone. Cut clean. A hollow so deep it scrapes the marrow of your bones.

Sukuna is gone.

Your knees buckle, the last of your strength draining from you like water through cupped hands.

You hit the floor hard, a jolt of pain flaring through your ribs. But it’s distant, dulled by the heavier ache swelling inside your chest.

Your palms press into the cold wood, searching for something solid, something real, but it all feels hollow under your touch.

Tears slip soundlessly down your cheeks. Not the violent kind, not the kind that comes with gasping or shaking. Just silent streams, heavy and unrelenting, as if your body is mourning for you.

You turn onto your side, curling inward, your arms wrapping around yourself, clutching the hand that bears the ring.

It digs lightly into your skin, a cold reminder of what you’ve lost.

You don’t even have to think about it. Your mind drifts there anyway. To another time. Another person.

Another unbearable loss.

You remember the car crash. The call in the middle of the night. The way the world tilted off its axis and never fully righted itself again.

And now here you are, back in the wreckage, mourning someone you can’t even explain.

It’s happening again.

The floor is unyielding beneath you. The air feels thick, heavy with absence.

This is it.

No more biting remarks hidden behind smirks.

No more sharp glances softened when he thought you weren’t looking.

No more quiet, accidental touches that lingered just a second too long.

No more Sukuna.

Gone.

Gone like the last one.

Gone like everything good you almost let yourself believe you could keep.

You drag in a ragged breath, curling tighter, smaller, as if you could shrink until the pain doesn’t find you.

But it does. It always does.

You are the common thread between every goodbye.

The one left behind.

The one they never stay for.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

It’s been weeks.

Weeks of waking in a bed that feels too big, too cold, too empty.

Weeks of moving through your days with the sluggishness of someone underwater—everything muffled, distant, unbearably heavy.

You drag yourself out of bed only because you have to. Because attendance policies still exist, and professors don’t give extensions for broken hearts or missing demons.

You show up late to nearly every class, hair tied back in a limp knot, oversized hoodie hanging off your frame, your ribs still aching when you breathe too deep.

You don’t speak unless spoken to. You don’t text anyone back. You move through the hours like a ghost wearing your skin.

And at the end of every day, you return to the same apartment. The same door. The same key that turns too easily in the lock.

The silence inside is unbearable most days.

There’s no movement from the shadows in the room. No flash of pink hair sprawled across the couch. No low, derisive laugh rumbling from the living room.

The apartment is clean now. Organized. Lifeless.

And every time you step inside, it’s like pressing your hand into an old bruise, because the shape of him is still here.

In the blanket that still smells faintly like him.

In the empty spaces that somehow feel more crowded than ever.

This place is haunted.

But not by Sukuna.

It’s haunted by the memories he left behind.

And the worst part?

He won’t even leave you alone in your sleep.

No more glimpses into ancient memories. No stolen visions of a life that was never truly yours.

Now, the dreams are your own.

And they’re merciless.

Most nights, you find yourself back there. Broken on the cold, cracked concrete, the metallic sting of your own blood heavy in the air.

You feel the hardness of the ground beneath you, the wet warmth pooling at your back, the way your limbs refused to move no matter how desperately you begged them.

And he’s there.

Sukuna, crouched over you, his bloodied hands pressing down on your shoulders like he could stitch you back together if he just held on tight enough.

His face—

You see it too clearly, as if it’s burned into the inside of your eyelids. Fear. Rage. Grief.

A devastation so raw it made him look startlingly human.

The blast had stolen his words then, torn them away before you could understand.

But here, in your dreams, his voice is all you hear. Hoarse and broken, splintering through the darkness.

“I’m sorry.”

Over and over again.

A litany. A curse. A wound that refuses to close.

You wake gasping each time, your chest aching, your sheets clinging to your sweat-damp skin.

But even awake, the dream clings to you.

You stare at the ceiling like it might offer some kind of explanation, some reason why he visits only in dreams, why he left you with nothing but an apology that came far too late.

But there’s no answer.

Just the sound of your own breath, unsteady and alone in the hollow dark.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

You move toward your car, the worn weight of your backpack slung over one shoulder, though you hardly feel it anymore. You hardly feel anything these days.

Another lecture endured.

Another silent walk through campus.

Another drive back to an apartment that doesn’t feel like home anymore.

You’re unlocking the car door when a voice calls out from behind you.

“Hey!”

You turn slowly, the motion sluggish, as Nobara jogs across the parking lot toward you, a burst of color and life against the dull, gray static that’s become your world.

She skids to a stop a few feet away, hands planted on her hips, eyeing you critically.

“You been working out or something?” she asks, head tilting as she squints at you. “Or starving yourself? You look like you’ve lost weight.”

You force a weak smile, unsure how to respond. Nobara doesn’t wait for an answer.

“Listen, me and Yuji are going out tonight,” Nobara says, bouncing lightly on her heels. “It’s Yuko’s birthday. Remember her? She’s the one who puked in her purse last year.”

She waves a hand like that explains everything.

“Anyway, we’re grabbing drinks at that place downtown. The one with the rooftop bar and the weird neon art in the bathroom. You should come.”

You almost say no. It’s right there, perched on the tip of your tongue, the easy out you’ve been taking for weeks.

But then you picture it: the apartment waiting for you.

The heavy quiet.

The untouched kitchen.

The bed that looks too neat, too cold.

The hollow space where he used to linger, silent and solid and infuriatingly real.

You swallow hard.

“Yeah,” you say, the word rough against your throat. “Okay. I’ll come.”

Nobara’s eyes widen slightly, like she hadn’t really expected you to say yes. Then she grins, small and triumphant.

“Good,” she says. “I’ll text you the details.”

You nod once, tight and mechanical.

She turns to leave but hesitates, glancing back over her shoulder.

“And hey,” she says, voice softer now, almost careful, “it’s good to see you again.”

You don’t have the words to respond, not really. So you just nod again, something faint and broken stitched into the gesture.

She watches you for a second longer before finally turning away and heading toward her car.

You slide into your own, the door shutting with a dull thud that seems to echo too loudly in the quiet.

For a moment, you sit there, gripping the steering wheel like it might tether you to the present.

You’re not sure what you’re feeling—relief, dread, guilt, some tangled knot of all three.

But tonight, for the first time in weeks, you won’t be spending it alone.

The car pulls to a stop just outside the club, the headlights cutting briefly through the violet haze spilling from the neon sign overhead.

You and Nobara climb out together, the door shutting with a muted thud behind you, the engine already rolling away into the river of city traffic.

The music inside the building is a deep, vibrating thrum, the bass heavy enough that you can feel it in your bones before you even reach the curb.

A crowd is gathered outside, people pressed shoulder to shoulder, smoking, laughing too loud, their faces flashing in and out of view beneath the shifting colors of streetlights and neon. The thick scent of cigarette smoke clings to the air, twined with the sugary tang of spilled drinks and the sharp, sweet bite of cheap perfume.

Your head is already buzzing from the sheer, overwhelming pulse of life all around you.

Nobara nudges you with her shoulder, a small, grounding gesture, before leading the way through the throng.

You flash your IDs at the bored looking bouncers standing guard at the door. They barely glance at them before waving you through, pulling you into the dark, heaving belly of the club.

Inside, the music slams into you like a wall. It’s deafening, relentless, vibrating up through the soles of your shoes and straight into your ribcage.

The heat is immediate, and suffocating. Bodies are packed shoulder to shoulder, the air heavy with the sharp, sour tang of sweat and liquor. Every breath tastes like heat and noise.

Colored lights sweep across the dark, carving out flashes of green, indigo, blood red. They slice over sequined dresses, slick skin, glinting jewelry, and the slicked-back hair of strangers whose faces blur and dissolve with every pulse of the bass.

Booths line the edges of the room, tucked into deep shadows and already crammed full, while the center has been cleared into a makeshift dance floor, a seething, writhing ocean of bodies moving as one to the pounding beat.

You barely have time to register it all before Nobara seizes your wrist in a firm grip.

“They’re in the back!” she shouts, her voice barely piercing the music as she yanks you forward.

You stumble after her, trying to match her pace as she carves a path through the crowd without hesitation, shoving and shouldering her way past the patrons.

You duck beneath a swinging arm, weave past a cluster of swaying strangers, only for someone to slam into you, an elbow jamming hard into your ribs.

Pain explodes in your side, white-hot and breath stealing. You double slightly, your hand flying instinctively to your ribs, fighting the sudden tightness in your chest.

But Nobara doesn’t notice. She just keeps pulling you forward, deeper into the heart of the chaos.

Finally, you break free of the crowd, stumbling into a dim alcove where a semicircle booth nestles against the wall, half-hidden by shadow and smoky haze.

Yuki sits at the center, laughing, a drink sloshing carelessly in her hand as she leans into two women you don’t recognize, strangers with bright smiles and louder voices.

Across from her, Yuji is mid story, arms slicing through the air with wild enthusiasm, his laughter bubbling up louder than the music.

And on his other side, Megumi.

He’s leaning back slightly, his body relaxed in a way that feels practiced rather than natural, one arm draped loosely along the back of the booth. His eyes lift the moment you appear, catching yours across the noise and flashing lights.

Nobara leans in close, her breath warm against the curve of your ear.

“Megumi wasn’t gonna come,” she shouts over the music, her tone thick with mischief, “until he heard you’d be here.”

You glance at her, surprised, but she only smirks and waggles her eyebrows in exaggerated fashion, clearly pleased with herself.

You let out a short, awkward laugh, still cradling your ribs where the impact lingers, a dull, insistent throb blooming beneath your fingertips.

Then Yuji’s on his feet in a flash, his grin wide and irrepressible, the kind of smile that could light up a blackout.

He yanks Nobara into a quick hug, nearly lifting her off the ground despite her protesting yelp, and then he turns to you, arms wide open in invitation.

You step into it carefully, mindful of the tender ache still blooming beneath your ribs. Even the light pressure of his embrace makes you wince, a sharp reminder stitched into your skin.

Yuji pulls back immediately, his brow furrowing in concern.

“You okay? Did I hurt you?”

“No, I’m fine,” you say, too fast. You force a smile, waving it off with a weak flick of your hand. “Someone just elbowed me on the way in. I wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”

Yuji squints at you, clearly not buying it, but after a second, his grin breaks through again, bright and reckless.

“Well,” he says, slinging an arm around your shoulders like a heavy, familiar anchor, “there’s only one cure for that. A shot. Let’s go.”

You let out a quiet, breathless laugh as he steers you toward the bar, Nobara and Megumi falling into step behind.

The bass thrums underfoot, rattling up through your shoes and into your bones, and the lights overhead paint the room in dizzying splashes of color.

For the first time in what feels like forever, you feel the smallest sliver of something cut through the numbness.

Not joy exactly.

But not loneliness either.

The bar is somehow louder. Everything is louder. The lights, laughter, the thrum of bass rippling through the floor like a second heartbeat. But the shots are deafening. They silence the rest of the world.

The first one burns on its way down, quick and sharp. The second is easier. By the third, it’s barely a whisper. Nobara taps out first, shaking her head with a dramatic groan and disappearing into the crowd with Yuki. Megumi follows a few rounds later, giving you a long look before slipping back to the booth, leaving only you and Yuji at the bar.

You raise your glass with him—your fifth? Sixth?—and knock it back like water. The fire spreads through your chest, but you don’t flinch. You slam the glass onto the bar with far more force than necessary, the sound slicing through the music in your ears like a crack of thunder.

“Another,” you rasp, your voice low, rough around the edges.

Yuji blinks beside you, laughter faltering awkwardly in his throat. He rubs the back of his neck, still flushed from the last few rounds.

“Damn,” he says, trying for a chuckle, “didn’t think I’d live to see the day someone outdrank me.”

“I’m not outdrinking shit,” you snap, turning toward him with a glassy-eyed glare.

The heat behind your words stuns him into silence.

“You’re taking one with me,” you say, sharper now. You slap your palm against the bar, the sound sharp and jarring. “Bartender! Another!”

The bartender, a tall blond man with weary eyes and the dead patience of someone who’s survived too many Friday nights, shoots you a flat, unimpressed look.

He flicks his gaze to Yuji, assessing, weighing. Yuji’s half-apologetic shrug and the tremble threading through your hands must be enough of an answer, because the bartender shakes his head once, firmly. No more.

You let out a breathless, bitter laugh, tipping your head back toward the ceiling, the lights above blurring and spinning in your vision.

The desperation crawls up your throat like smoke, thick and choking.

Before you can open your mouth again, an arm wraps around your shoulders.

“C’mon,” Yuji says, voice gentle but unyielding, as he steers you away from the bar. “Let’s get you back to Megumi and Nobara. You need to sit.”

You rip your shoulder out of Yuji’s grasp.

“No!” you bark, loud enough that heads turn.

The noise of the club, the music, laughter, conversation, dims into a dull roar behind the blood pounding in your ears.

“Why is everyone treating me like I’m made of fucking glass?” you slur, the words thick on your tongue.

You sway slightly, planting your feet like you can somehow steady the ground that’s tilting under you.

“I don’t need to sit,” you snarl, voice cracking. “I need another fucking drink!”

You don’t notice the way the bartender stiffens or the way conversations around you start to pause.

All you can feel is the heat crawling up your neck, the way your throat burns with everything you’re trying not to say.

Then, a voice cuts through the haze, sharp and familiar.

“What’s going on?”

You turn, blinking hard. Megumi.

Moving toward you through the crowd like something solid in a world that’s slipping sideways.

His brows are drawn tight, concern flashing in his eyes, but he doesn’t have to look long to find the damage.

You’re swaying where you stand, your hands trembling, your breath coming too fast.

Your eyes, red and watery, lock onto his, and you feel something inside you crack.

You blink up at him, your lips parting like you’re about to explain, but no words come.

Your mind stutters, tangled up in panic and alcohol. You can’t find the beginning or the end, you only know the ache in your chest, sharp and unbearable, and Megumi’s face, the only one who might understand.

Because he knows.

He’s the only one who knows.

So you say it.

The only thing that matters.

“Sukuna,” you whisper, your voice breaking like glass in your throat.

Megumi steps closer, his hand reaching for your arm. His brows knit tighter as he shouts a response over the music. “What?”

The rest of the words tumble out in a messy rush, too fast, too raw.

“I—he’s gone—he left me and I—I don’t—”

Your voice shatters mid-sentence, the tears already blurring your vision.

Before you can crumple completely, Megumi catches you, pulling you into him.

You bury your face against his chest, the fabric of his shirt soaking up the hot spill of your tears. Your body wracks with silent, violent sobs. You’re not even sure you’re breathing right anymore. All you know is the weight the loss, the loneliness, the unbearable emptiness all clawing its way out at once.

You don’t notice the way the people around you are staring.

You don’t notice the flat, unimpressed look the bartender throws your way, cold and final, like he’s seconds away from getting security.

But Megumi notices.

Without hesitation, he tightens his hold on you and turns to the bar, voice clipped and steady.

“I’ve got her,” he says, already shifting your weight to his side, guiding you toward the door. “Sorry.”

The bartender just gives a tight, disinterested nod, already turning toward the next customer.

Yuji appears out of the crowd, his face drawn with concern.

Megumi meets his eyes as he maneuvers you toward the exit.

“I’m taking her home,” Megumi says, low but firm.

Yuji nods, stepping back to give them space. “Alright. Let me know if you need anything.”

Megumi doesn’t answer. His hand stays steady at your waist, his jaw set tight as he pulls you outside.

The night air bites against your skin, a sharp contrast to the heavy warmth inside the club.

You cling to Megumi, barely registering the way he leads you across the lot, how he opens the passenger door with a quiet efficiency born of worry.

You’re sinking fast, weightless and lost.

He crouches down to buckle you in, his fingers brushing your side carefully.

But before he can finish, your arms shoot out.

You grab fistfuls of his jacket and yank him toward you, burying your face into the crook of his neck like it’s the only safe place left in the world.

He stiffens in your grasp, breath catching sharply.

“What are you—”

“You’re so good to me, Megumi,” you slur against his skin, the words thick and clumsy, spilling out faster than you can stop them.

“Way too good. More than I deserve.”

You feel him exhale, a shaky, fragile breath. He pulls back just enough to see your face, his hands braced on either side of you, holding you steady but not pushing you away.

His gaze searches yours—dark, steady, full of something so achingly kind it almost sends you into another spiral.

“Don’t say that,” he says, his voice low, fierce in a way that startles you. “You do deserve it. You deserve good things. Because you’re good. Okay?”

The words hit you harder than you expect.

You blink up at him, too drunk to name the feeling unraveling inside you, too broken to believe it.

“I’m going to take you ho—”

You cut him off with a kiss.

Messy. Clumsy. Drenched in liquor and grief and desperation.

Your mouth finds his like a lifeline, and for a second, for one trembling, fragile second, he doesn’t pull away.

He kisses you back, slow at first, then deeper, his hands finding your waist, anchoring you there.

You part his lips with your tongue, and he lets you in with a low, broken sound in the back of his throat, lets you take whatever pieces of comfort you can steal.

But it’s over before it ever really begins.

He pulls away with a shuddering breath, resting his forehead against yours.

You can feel the war in him, the way he wants so badly to stay here, to fall with you.

“God,” he murmurs, almost too quietly for you to hear. “You’re drunk. I’m taking you home. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

There’s something final about the way he says it, something that makes your stomach twist.

He lingers a beat longer, his breath feathering over your cheek, and then he gently untangles himself from you.

The door closes with a soft, decisive click.

You watch him through the fog clouding your vision as he rounds the front of the car and slides into the driver’s seat.

The engine rumbles to life, low and steady, and the world outside your window blurs into smudged streaks of color.

You lean your head against the glass, the coolness soothing the heat still burning beneath your skin.

Your eyes flutter shut.

The last thing you feel is the faint, steady presence of Megumi beside you.

And the hollow, gnawing ache still curled like a fist around your heart.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

The sound of your ringtone drills straight into your skull, a jagged, merciless thing.

You groan, rolling onto your side, one arm flung dramatically over your face as if it could shield you from the relentless morning light bleeding through the curtains.

Your mouth is bone dry. Your head is pounding with every sluggish beat of your heart.

And your stomach… well, you don’t dare think too hard about that yet.

Your hand fumbles blindly across the sheets until it closes around the buzzing phone.

You squint blearily at the screen.

Nobara.

You seriously consider letting it go to voicemail. But the phone keeps vibrating insistently against your palm, buzzing like an angry hornet.

With a ragged sigh, you drag your thumb across the screen and press it to your ear.

“Hello?” you croak, your voice raw and scratchy, barely recognizable.

Her voice is far too chipper for the condition you’re in.

“Wow, you sound like shit,” she says brightly, clearly holding back laughter. “Rough night?”

You let out a low, guttural groan in place of a real response, pressing the heel of your palm hard against your forehead as if you could physically push the pain away.

“That bad, huh? Well, I’d say I’m sorry, but honestly, I’m just impressed.”

You force your eyes open, blinking blearily at the ceiling as it spins lazily overhead. “What are you talking about?” you croak.

There’s a beat of silence, and then Nobara gasps, scandalized. “Oh my god. You don’t remember, do you?”

A bolt of unease shoots down your spine. You shift, dragging the pillow closer to your chest. “Remember what?”

“You caused a scene,” she crows. “According to Yuji, you were like, two seconds from getting kicked out. Slurring your words, yelling at the bartender, trying to outdrink everyone—”

You groan again, louder this time, and bury your face deep into the pillow, muffling your voice. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t see it happen,” Nobara continues breezily, “but as soon as you and Megumi left, Yuji came over and told us everything. So I ran out to make sure you were okay and—”

You close your eyes. Oh no. No, no, no—

“—and I see you and Megumi sucking each other’s tongues down your throats in his car!”

Your hand flies up to your face like you could somehow smother the mortification clawing up your throat. “Oh my god.”

“I know, right?” she exclaims, laughing. “So. What’s that all about?”

You open your mouth, searching for something to say, but nothing comes out. The memories are slippery, fractured, but not entirely gone.

You remember the way Megumi’s hands had framed your face, gentle but sure. The heat of his mouth against yours. The taste of him—faintly like beer and mint—and the way he had let you lead, like he was willing to follow you anywhere, even off a cliff. It hadn’t been perfect. It had been messy, clumsy from too much alcohol, from too much loneliness. But it had felt… good. Comforting, in the way a drowning person might cling to driftwood.

You shake the memories away, your stomach churning with guilt.

Nobara, of course, doesn’t wait for your brain to catch up. She barrels right ahead, her voice gleeful. “And then he took you home, right? Don’t even try to deny it. So, tell me,” you can hear the wicked grin in her voice, “did you guys fuck?”

You let out a weak, strangled noise. “Nobara, please. My brain feels like it’s trying to pound its way out of my skull right now. Can I call you back later?”

There’s a beat of silence, then a satisfied hum on the other end. “Fine,” she says, a teasing lilt still clinging to her voice. “But just know I’m gonna want details. Every single one.”

You mutter a halfhearted goodbye and end the call, letting your phone slide from your fingers and drop onto the pillow beside you with a dull thud.

For a long moment, you just lie there, staring blankly at the ceiling as the weight of the night before seeps back into your bones.

You kissed Megumi.

And now Nobara knows.

The thought spins in your mind, dizzying and relentless. You press the heels of your palms into your eyes, willing the ache behind them to go away, but it doesn’t. It lingers, heavy and suffocating, mixing with the throb in your head and the hollow ache in your chest until you can’t tell one from the other.

Dragging yourself from the tangled sheets, you shuffle down the hallway barefoot, your limbs leaden, every step dragging like you’re wading through molasses. The walls blur past you, your vision foggy with sleep and the lingering burn of last night’s mistakes.

You reach the kitchen on muscle memory alone, grabbing a glass from the cabinet with trembling fingers. The tap hisses to life, the sound far too loud in the cavernous silence. You fill the glass halfway, staring blankly at the swirl of water, then lift it to your lips.

You’re halfway through your first gulp when—

“Morning.”

The voice cleaves through the quiet like a blade through paper.

You shriek, the glass slipping in your grip, water sloshing violently over your hand and dripping onto the floor with soft, staccato splashes. Heart hammering, you whirl around.

Megumi stands there.

Sleep tousled and rumpled, his hair sticking up slightly, his hoodie creased and twisted from a night spent on your couch. His arms hang loosely at his sides, his shoulders slightly hunched, and there’s something cautious in his eyes, like he already knows he’s standing on fragile ground.

The sight of him punches the breath from your lungs. Not because he looks different, or even because he’s here, but because of the weight of what you did. Because of the way he’s looking at you now. Soft, apologetic, patient in a way you don’t deserve.

“Shit,” he blurts, stepping forward instinctively. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Here—”

“No, no, it’s fine,” you rasp out, waving him off before he can reach you, already crouching down to mop at the spill with the nearest dish towel. Your movements are clumsy, rushed, the cotton dragging across the floor with a soft, pathetic sound. You focus too hard on the task, willing your face to cool, willing your heart to slow down.

The silence stretches painfully between you.

“What… what are you doing here?” you manage after a moment, your voice rough from sleep and shame, your eyes fixed firmly on the wet floorboards.

You hear the faint scrape of a chair leg against the tile as Megumi sits again, his weight settling into the kitchen chair like he’s been there all night. Maybe he has.

“You asked me to stay,” he says simply. “After I helped you into bed,” he adds. His voice softens even further, and you can feel the memory gathering like storm clouds behind his words. “You were pretty out of it.”

You wince, your hands squeezing the towel tighter until your knuckles ache.

“Actually,” he continues, a faint, almost sheepish smile coloring his words, “you tried to get me to lie down with you.”

Your heart stutters.

There’s a beat of hesitation, so soft you could almost miss it, before he adds, “But… I could tell you were really drunk, so I stayed out here. Just in case you needed anything.”

The towel droops uselessly from your hand. You squeeze your eyes shut, face burning, and bury it in your hands with a muffled groan.

“God. I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t’ve had to deal with me last night.”

“Hey,” he says, not missing a beat. “Don’t be sorry. Really. It’s okay.”

You stand stiffly, your body protesting the movement, and turn toward the sink. The cold water runs over your hands as you rinse the towel out, squeezing it with more force than necessary, the fabric twisting sharply in your grip.

The silence between you hums, thick and charged. Something teetering just out of reach, like a high wire stretched too tight, waiting to snap.

“There was one other thing, though…” Megumi says behind you, his voice quieter now, more careful.

You freeze.

The towel slips from your fingers, landing in the basin with a soft, wet slap.

“You said something about Sukuna,” he continues, each word measured. “About him being ‘gone.’ And now that I’m thinking about it…”

You can hear the subtle tension in his voice, the frown undoubtedly pulling at his mouth.

“I haven’t felt anything weird since I got here. Nothing’s moved. The lights haven’t flickered. It’s just…”

A pause, heavy.

“Normal.”

Your fingers curl around the edge of the counter, nails digging into the woodgrain like it might anchor you to the moment.

You take a breath.

Then another.

Each one shallow and tight, scraping against the raw edges inside your chest.

Slowly, you lift your head, staring blankly at the faucet, watching the water swirl down the drain.

Normal.

That word feels foreign. Mocking.

And you know there’s no easy way to tell him what you have to say.

“It’s true,” you say, your voice barely more than a whisper, scraped raw. “He’s gone. After the explosion… he just—”

You swallow, the word sticking to your ribs.

“Disappeared. No warning. No sign. I haven’t felt him since.”

Megumi’s face tightens, subtle but unmistakable. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I know what he put you through. And I know…”

He trails off for a second, searching for the right words.

“I know I wanted him gone as much as anyone. But I also know what he meant to you.”

You turn to him slowly, your hands wringing together out of stress, habit, a silent attempt to ground yourself. The movement draws his attention. His gaze flits downward, catches on the glint of metal.

“That’s the ring, though, isn’t it?” he asks, nodding slightly toward your hands. “The one that started all of this? You still have it?”

You follow his gaze, your eyes landing on the small, blackened band resting loose around your finger. It looks wrong now.

Dull where it once burned.

Heavy where it once felt alive.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “But it’s not the same. It’s… black, hollow. Like whatever was binding us together has—”

You exhale shakily.

“Has died.”

You hesitate, your thumb absently twisting the band. It slides easily now, no longer fused to your skin the way it once was.

“I can take it off now,” you admit. “But… I don’t know. I just haven’t.”

Megumi leans forward, bracing his forearms against his knees.

“Maybe it’s a good thing,” he says after a long pause. His voice is gentle, steady. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it right now. You’re safe again. You’re free.”

You nod faintly, not trusting yourself to speak. Not trusting yourself to agree.

Because “free” doesn’t feel the way it’s supposed to.

It doesn’t feel like sunlight breaking through clouds.

It doesn’t feel like breathing after drowning.

It feels like standing at the edge of a cliff with no one left to call your name.

Like waking up in a house that’s been stripped of furniture, of memories, of warmth.

It feels like a cage made of absence.

You sit in the stillness, the quiet pressing into your skin, and realize—

You were never afraid of being trapped.

You were afraid of being left behind.

And now, with nothing left tethering you to him, the emptiness is complete.

Final.

Undeniable.

You stare down at the dead ring wrapped loosely around your finger, and for the first time since the explosion, you allow yourself to grieve what you’ve lost.

Not just Sukuna.

Not just the bond.

But the version of yourself who still believed he might stay.

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[pankowcrumbs]

Hard Scene to Film X Rudy Pankow (requested)

MasterList

Outerbanks and Cast Masterlist

The sound of waves crashing against the shore served as a constant backdrop on the Outer Banks set. The once lively chatter of the crew seemed subdued today, a reflection of the heavy scene we were about to film. My character, Tessa, was meeting her end, and the thought weighed on me more than I’d expected.

I took a deep breath, adjusting the edges of my costume as I sat on a weathered bench near the trailers. Rudy appeared from around the corner, his familiar grin replaced by a more serious expression. Seeing him like this was rare—his usual lighthearted energy had been replaced by something quieter, heavier.

“Hey,” he said softly, taking a seat beside me. “How are you holding up?”

“Good,” I lied, trying to muster a smile. “It’s just… weird, you know? Knowing this is Tessa’s last scene.”

He nodded, his fingers absentmindedly fidgeting with the zipper on his hoodie. “Yeah, I get that. Feels like saying goodbye to someone you’ve really gotten to know.”

We sat in silence for a moment, the kind that wasn’t uncomfortable but rather filled with unspoken understanding. Finally, Rudy leaned back, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

“You’re gonna kill it,” he said, his voice steady but kind. “I mean, not literally, since it’s a death scene, but you know what I mean.”

I laughed despite myself, the tension in my chest easing slightly. “Thanks, Rudy.”

“Always.” He turned to me then, his blue eyes searching mine. “And hey, just so you know, JJ’s reaction? That’s gonna be all me. Not JJ.”

My heart squeezed at his words. Rudy had a way of saying things that felt like both a confession and a reassurance, wrapped up in his usual charm.

“You’re gonna make me cry before we even start filming,” I teased, trying to lighten the mood.

“Good,” he said with a smirk. “Use it.”

The set had been transformed into a storm-ravaged shoreline, the sand littered with debris and the sky artificially darkened by massive tarps overhead. The sound crew tested the crash of distant thunder, and a light drizzle from the rain machines slicked the ground beneath our feet.

I lay on the damp sand, my costume stained with fake blood and dirt. The makeup team had gone all out, giving my skin a pale, almost lifeless hue. I closed my eyes, letting the weight of the scene settle over me as the director called for final checks.

“Quiet on set! Rolling in three, two…”

The clapperboard snapped, and the scene began.

I could hear the chaos around me, the shouts of characters calling for help, the sound of feet splashing through shallow water. And then, Rudy’s voice—JJ’s voice—pierced through the noise.

“Tessa!”

He stumbled into frame, his breath hitching as he saw me lying there. His knees hit the sand hard, and his hands hovered over me, trembling as if he didn’t know where to touch, afraid to hurt me further.

“No, no, no,” he muttered, his voice cracking. “Tessa, come on. You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

I let my head loll to the side, my half-lidded eyes meeting his. “JJ,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the storm.

His hand found mine, gripping it tightly. “Stay with me, okay? Just… stay with me.”

The script called for me to smile faintly, a bittersweet expression that hinted at acceptance. It was supposed to be a goodbye, but as I looked into Rudy’s eyes, filled with raw emotion, it felt like more. The lines between acting and reality blurred, and for a moment, it wasn’t JJ holding Tessa’s hand—it was Rudy holding mine.

“I… I tried,” I murmured, tears pooling in my eyes. “I tried to make it.”

“You did,” he said, his voice breaking. “You did, Tessa. You don’t get to give up now. You hear me? You don’t get to leave me.”

The director’s voice came faintly from the monitors. “Push it, Rudy. Let it break.”

Rudy’s face crumpled, and a sob tore from his throat. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against mine, his tears mixing with the rain.

“Please,” he whispered, the desperation in his voice cutting through the scene like a blade. “Please don’t go.”

I let my hand fall limp in his, my eyes fluttering closed. The storm raged on around us, but all I could hear was his broken breathing, the sound anchoring me even as I let the character slip away.

“And… cut!” the director called.

The set erupted into applause, but I couldn’t move. Rudy stayed frozen, his hand still gripping mine, his forehead still pressed against mine. Finally, he sat back, blinking rapidly as if trying to shake off the lingering emotions.

“That was… intense,” I said softly, my voice hoarse.

He looked at me then, his eyes red-rimmed but steady. “Yeah. It was.”

Later, after the makeup had been scrubbed off and the costumes returned to wardrobe, I found Rudy sitting on a folding chair near the edge of the set. He had his phone in one hand, scrolling absentmindedly, but his expression was far away.

“Hey,” I said, taking the chair next to him.

“Hey,” he replied, his voice quieter than usual.

We sat there for a moment, the silence between us comfortable but heavy with unspoken words. Finally, he turned to me, a small, sheepish smile on his face.

“Sorry if I got too into it,” he said. “That… that scene just hit different.”

I reached out, placing a hand on his arm. “Don’t apologise. You made it real. That’s what makes you so damn good at this.”

He chuckled softly, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, well, you made it easy. You always do.”

The sincerity in his voice made my chest tighten. I leaned back in my chair, looking up at the night sky. The stars were starting to come out, their light faint but steady.

“You think they’ll keep it?” I asked, referring to the scene.

“They’d be idiots not to,” he said firmly. “That was magic.”

I glanced over at him, catching the way his gaze lingered on me, soft and unwavering. And in that moment, I realised something—Rudy wasn’t just talking about the scene.

Maybe, just maybe, he was talking about us.