#panic dodge mason

His thumbs press along your spine, just enough to stretch out the ache without pushing too far. Dodge’s hands are warm, rough in all the right ways. You can feel the calluses catch on your skin now and then, but they don’t hurt. They remind you of who he is—of how many times those same hands have steadied you, cupped your face, tugged you close like he didn’t trust the world to keep you safe.

“Can’t believe you’re still lettin’ me touch you,” he says softly, like the guilt’s still pressing into his chest. “I should’ve kept a better eye on you.”

You exhale a sleepy sound. “You weren’t the one who spooked the horse.”

“Still.”

His touch lingers at the small of your back. The room is dim—sunlight gone, leaving only the amber glow of the bedside lamp. You hear him open the oil bottle again, feel the warmth of it as he rubs it between his hands.

He starts again, slow and purposeful. First at your shoulders, then your back, kneading the soreness from your muscles in long, deliberate strokes. But this time, he doesn’t stop there. His hands slide lower—tracing the curves of your hips, then down, until his palms are resting over the swell of your ass. He does it in a way that you know is not sexual.

You shift slightly, breath hitching, still. Because it’s Dodge, and every little attention coming from him makes your body boil. Hot like summer, heat pooling inside your stomach without permission from your brain.

“Still okay?” he murmurs, low and close to your ear.

“Yes,” you whisper, and your body betrays you by arching into his touch just a little.

His thumbs move in careful circles across the soft flesh there, rubbing out the tension like he has every right to touch you this way—and he does. It’s tender. Reassuring. But there’s something else behind it too, simmering slow. The edge of want.

“You’ve got the prettiest ass I’ve ever seen,” he murmurs like it’s a confession. “Soft, even when you’re bruised.”

You let out a shaky laugh, still face-down in the pillow. “You’re not helping me rest, you know.”

“You want me to stop?”

You shake your head. Of course you don’t.

Dodge hums like he already knew the answer. His hands glide over your thighs, up again, then closer—until his thumbs brush along the crease where your thighs meet your core. The fabric of your panties is thin, barely separating his hands from the heat of you.

“You’re warm here,” he says quietly, almost reverently. “Real warm.”

You bury your face deeper into the pillows.

“You’re blushing,” he teases softly like he knows without needing to see your face, and he’s kissing the back of your thigh. “What, just from a little massage?”

“It’s not just the massage,” you mutter, and he laughs against your skin—low and fond.

He’s careful as he touches you, rubbing slow circles over your clothed pussy. One hand slips under your shirt again to rest warm on your lower back, grounding you. The other moves between your legs, teasing along your slit through the dampening cotton.

“You’re wet already,” he murmurs, voice dipping even lower. “All this just from me touchin’ you like this?”

You nod against the pillow, your breath shuddering.

“You’re so fuckin’ soft, baby. You always get like this when I take my time with you.”

A soft whimper escapes your throat, hips twitching as he touches you through your panties with maddening patience. He presses a little harder over your clit with his thumb, the pressure slow and steady, and you make a strangled sound into the sheets.

“That’s it,” he praises. “Let me take care of you.”

He slides the fabric to the side then, baring you to the warm air of the room. His fingers glide between your folds, wet and hot and already pulsing for more. When he dips a finger just against your entrance, you whimper.

“God, you’re so ready,” he groans. “So fuckin’ wet for me.”

His fingers stroke back up, teasing around your clit again before he leans down, breath hot over the curve of your ass. “You make the sweetest sounds, you know that? Every little cry just for me.”

You cry out again as he presses a finger inside—just one, slow and steady. It slides in easy, thanks to how wet you already are. You clench around him instinctively. “There we go,” he whispers. “That feel good?”

You nod, moaning into the pillow. “Yes. Yes, Dodge—”

He adds another finger, stretching you carefully, curling just enough to make your thighs tremble. The hand on your lower back strokes comfortingly, holding you in place as he fucks you slow with his fingers.

“You’re squeezin’ me so tight,” he groans. “So fuckin’ needy tonight.”

“I c-can’t—” your voice cracks as you try to hold still. Your hips grind back into his hand on instinct. “You can,” he coaxes, voice going impossibly soft. “You always can for me, baby. Give me that first one. Let it out.”

It rises fast—so fast your breath can’t keep up. You come with a cry muffled in the pillow, your body shaking as you fall apart under his hand when his fingers hit your spongy spot multiple times. Tears slip down your cheeks and Dodge catches them with his thumb.

“Good girl,” he whispers, kissing the dip of your lower back. “That’s it. So fuckin’ good.”

He keeps going—slow, unrelenting—and the overstimulation hits like a wave. You whine, writhing against the bed as his fingers work your soaked cunt. “You’ve got more,” he whispers, low and certain. “Don’t hide from me.”

“I—it’s too much—Please—More…”

“It’s perfect,” he counters, and his voice is full of something warm and molten. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty when you cry.”

The second orgasm crashes over you, harder than the first. You sob into the mattress, trembling as he talks you through it, rubbing slow circles over your clit with his free fingers as your cunt pulses around his digits.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “That’s my girl.”

You lay there panting, body shaking. He slows, finally withdrawing his fingers, and you hear the wet sound of it, slick coating his hand. He presses a kiss to the small of your back, then one to your thigh, then higher. “You alright?” he asks quietly, hand smoothing over your back.

You nod, still breathless. “I’m so good.”

He kisses your shoulder. “That was the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” You let out a laugh, exhausted and floaty. “You’re gonna kill me with compliments.”

He chuckles, laying down beside you and resting a hand on your lower back. “Only if it gets you to cry like that again.”

You’re still trembling beneath him, cheek pressed into the pillow, your body limp and warm with the afterglow of two back-to-back orgasms. Your skin feels tight and glowing, like you’ve been cracked open and poured full of honey. Dodge’s hand is now resting between your shoulder blades, gentle and grounding.

“You alright, baby?” he murmurs again, his voice a little hoarse with want.

You hum a breathless yes, too gone to say much else. But your hips twitch when his palm trails back down, between your thighs again, where you’re slick and aching. He groans softly at the sight.

“Goddamn,” he says low, reverent. “You’re even more soaked.”

You bury your face deeper in the pillow, embarrassed—but it only makes him smile. He leans over you, kissing the back of your neck, your shoulder, the warm patch of skin just behind your ear. “Don’t go shy on me now,” he teases softly. “Not when your pretty pussy’s beggin’ for more.”

You shiver, and your legs part instinctively as his fingers return. He strokes along your folds again—slow, lazy, just enjoying the feel of you. You let out a soft sound, half-whimper, half-plea.

“You want more?” he asks gently. “You gotta say it.”

“Please…” Your voice is rough, sweet with exhaustion. “More.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

He pushes two fingers back inside you easily, curling them deep. You gasp, your hips rolling down into the bed, your thighs twitching. “Still so fuckin’ tight,” he murmurs. “And you just came twice.” You moan, the pressure of him filling you again like a balm and a brand. He adds a third finger slowly, easing you open with care, watching your body stretch around him.

You gasp, the stretch bordering on too much—but just barely. Your muscles clench, trying to adjust, and Dodge strokes your back soothingly, kissing your spine.

“Shh, I’ve got you. Just breathe through it, baby. You’re takin’ me so well.”

He works them slowly, twisting and curling until your thighs begin to tremble again. You feel full, stuffed, stretched in the most tender way—your hips pinned to the mattress, your whole body reduced to sensation.

“Feels good,” you whisper, voice cracking. “So full, Dodge—”

“I know,” he croons. “You’re doin’ perfect. Always so sweet for me.” You sob into the pillow, overwhelmed by the heat pooling in your belly again. You didn’t think you had anything left, but the pressure’s building fast, sharp and hot and electric.

“Don’t fight it,” he whispers, pressing kisses between your shoulder blades. “Give me another. Come for me again. Let me see you fall apart.”

You try to hold it, just for a second longer—but it slams into you without warning. You cry out, hands clutching the sheets as your whole body tenses, shudders, and breaks. Your thighs are soaked now, his fingers working you through it until you’re gasping for air.

Tears wet your face, hot and steady. Dodge strokes your hip, coos into your ear like he’s trying to settle a wild thing.

“There she is,” he whispers. “There’s my girl.”

You don’t know how long you lie there, panting and shaking, skin flushed and nerves blazing. Dodge is still behind you, still touching you—gentle now, tracing circles into your skin with the pads of his fingers. His lips ghost along your spine, your shoulder blades, your ass.

“You still with me?” he asks finally.

You nod, still face-down in the pillow. “I’m here.”

“Did so good,” he says, voice thick with awe. “Let me fuckin’ ruin you without even movin’ you.”

You laugh weakly. “I don’t think I can walk anyway.”

He laughs too, kissing your hip. “Good. You ain’t goin’ anywhere.” You can feel his hard cock pressing against your thigh through his jeans, but he hasn’t taken his own pleasure—not yet. He’s too focused on you. Always has been. “Want me to stop?” he asks, even now. Always checking. Always careful.

You shake your head, arching weakly into his touch. “Don’t stop. Just… slower.” He hums, satisfied. “You wanna give me one more?”

You gasp, half-laughing, half-delirious. “I don’t even know if I can.”

“That’s alright, baby,” he whispers, settling back between your thighs, his hand already moving again—slow and purposeful, dragging your pleasure out like he has all the time in the world.

And Dodge?

He’s gonna make sure you remember it with every inch of your trembling body.

The room is quiet again, save for the sound of your breathing—still a little unsteady but settling, and the soft rustle of the sheets beneath you. Dodge stays close, his lips brushing your lower back, his hands warm where they rest on the swell of your hips.

You hum, soft and dazed, face still turned into the pillow. You’re boneless, stretched out and melted, your skin tingling everywhere he touched. You can feel your thighs still wet and sticky, your panties damp and clinging to the side, your body flushed with the aftershocks of everything he gave you.

But Dodge doesn’t rush. He never does.

"Alright, sweetheart," he murmurs into the small of your back. "Gonna get you cleaned up. Don't move, I’ve got it."

You feel the bed dip as he gets up, hear him padding across the room. The sound of a faucet running, a towel being wrung out. His care is quiet, reverent. Like he’s handling something precious.

When he comes back, he slides down beside you, and you flinch at the first contact—the towel is warm, wet, and soft as he eases your legs apart just enough to wipe gently between them. He murmurs something under his breath when he sees the mess, but it’s not dirty, not crude. It’s wonder. It’s pride.

“Look what you gave me,” he whispers, thumb brushing the inside of your thigh. “You were so good for me. So damn perfect.” You blink, eyes glassy from overstimulation and tears. Your lips twitch into a lazy smile.

He’s so careful as he cleans you, wiping you down with slow, tender strokes. He presses kisses to the backs of your knees, your thighs, the curve of your spine. And then, with the towel tossed aside, his fingers return—but not to tease, not to start anything new.

He starts massaging you again.

Same as before—like it’s still about your fall, still about the tight muscles and tension from the saddle and the ground. He starts at your ankles, kneading slow and steady. You sigh, letting yourself go limp all over again.

“You weren’t lyin’ earlier,” he says softly, voice full of affection. “Took a hell of a hit.”

“Mm,” you hum. “Was worth it.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Don’t say that. I’d rather you keep your pretty bones in one piece.”

His hands glide up your calves, thumbs pressing into the flesh, gentle but firm. You twitch a little when he hits a sore spot, but he kisses your ankle in apology, smoothing the tension with a few more careful passes. "You like me takin’ care of you like this?" he asks quietly.

“Mmhmm.”

“You deserve it,” he says simply, like it’s fact. “Deserve to be touched real nice. Spoken to sweet. Made to feel good.”

Your chest tightens at that. There’s so much love in his voice it makes you ache.

He continues the massage, now at your thighs, avoiding your sore hips but stroking the surrounding muscles with steady care. The sensation is grounding. His touch, worshipful. There’s no rush now—no teasing, no game. Just love.

He kneads the small of your back, gentle over the spot that took the brunt of the fall. When you flinch a little, he pauses, kisses the ache, and moves around it. “Gonna need to ice that tomorrow,” he murmurs. “But for now, I’ll be your heat pack.”

You let out a sleepy giggle into the pillow.

He eventually stops massaging and shifts up the bed beside you, slipping under the covers, arms sliding around your waist. You’re still on your stomach, too dazed to flip, but he just wraps himself around you from behind, chest to your back, one hand slipping beneath the hem of your oversized shirt to stroke your waist.

“You know I love you, right?” he murmurs.

You nod instantly. “Yeah. I know. I love you too.”

“Good,” he says, brushing a kiss to your cheek. “’Cause I do. More than I know what to do with, sometimes.” You press your hand to his forearm where it’s draped over your side, squeezing lightly.

His voice dips lower, soft and sure. “Next time you fall off a horse, don’t wait for me to come find you, alright? You come to me right away.”

You smile against the pillow. “You’d always take care of me like this?” He laughs, husky and low. “Girl, I’ll take care of you like this every night if you want.”

“You’d wear your fingers out.”

“You’re worth it,” he says without missing a beat. “Every damn second.”

You turn your head just enough to see his face—his messy hair, his sleep-heavy eyes, the soft curve of his smile. He kisses your forehead, your temple, your cheek, and finally the corner of your mouth. “Sleep now,” he whispers. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

You barely spoke outside of work. Not because he didn’t want to but he just never knew how. Every time you got close enough to talk, he’d clamp up, fumble something stupid like asking for the mop bucket or mumble some sarcastic thing that came out wrong. And you’d laugh it off, kind of sweet, like he hadn’t just tried and failed to impress you. Again.

So yeah, Dodge kept his distance but not today.

You didn’t think anyone would come out back.

You’d taken the trash to the alley behind Dot’s after close—somewhere you could be alone. Somewhere you could sit with your back to the brick wall and cry into your apron without a coworker asking what was wrong. You didn’t even realize your phone was still in your hand until the screen lit up.

Brett: “stop making everything so dramatic lol.”

Brett: “i told you i was busy, you’re not my mom.”

Brett: “yk what let’s break up anyway i found someone else”

You swiped the notifications away then dropped your phone in your lap like it burned.

You’d texted him one thing. “Are we still on for Sunday?” After three days of silencea nd now you were the needy one, the clingy one. You hated how your heart twisted even then, how you still wanted him to text something softer. Anything. But breaking up through text? That was low, even for him.

The door clanked open, and you scrambled to wipe your face. It was Dodge.

Of course it was Dodge.

He stopped short when he saw you. Just a long, frozen moment with his hand on the doorframe, his body half-shadowed in the dim alley light. “You alright?” he asked gruffly. You didn’t look at him; you knew your eyes were red, mascara smudged to hell. “Yeah,” you lied.

He didn’t move. “No, you’re not.” That was the thing about Dodge: he never said the right thing—but he said things. Plain and unsweetened, like black coffee and sometimes it stung worse than silence.

You sniffed and tried to smile. “Didn’t mean to make a scene.” He finally stepped out into the alley, letting the door shut behind him with a heavy clunk. “You’re not making a scene. You’re hiding.”

“I guess.” He crossed his arms at the words, his jaw was tight, tongue pressing into his cheek like he was working up the nerve to say something he’d regret. “It’s about Brett again, uh?” he asked finally, nodding toward your phone. You looked away. “How do you even know?”

“I heard the notifications during shift. You flinched like they hit you.”

That shut you up.

Dodge sat beside you, not too close but just enough to share the same concrete wall, the same dull streetlamp glow. You realized then he wasn’t in his apron anymore; he must’ve clocked out already. He didn’t smell like fryer grease, no. He smelled like heat and motor oil and faint cologne. “It’s none of your business,” you said, voice quiet. “I know it ain’t.” He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Still pisses me off.”

“Why?” You asked it without thinking. And then immediately regretted it—because he turned his head, looking at you like really looking, and something in his face cracked open.

“‘Cause you deserve better than some piece of shit who makes you cry behind dumpsters,” Dodge muttered. “That reason good enough?” Your throat closed up. It was too quiet now; no more dishes clattering inside, no more diner music bleeding through the walls. Just you and him. Your heartbeat thudding loud enough to make your skin ache.

“He–We just broke up but he’s not that bad…” you offered weakly. Dodge scoffed. “Yeah. He’s only a dick when he feels like it. What a prize.”

You flinched. “You don’t have to be mean.”

“I’m not—” Dodge stopped himself. Sat forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the ground. “I’m not trying to be. I just… I see you every damn day putting in all this work, going home to someone who doesn’t give a shit. It makes me crazy.” That made you blink. “You… notice me?”

He laughed, short and humorless. “Jesus, how could I not?” It was the way he said it—like you were the sun and he’d been trying not to look too long, scared of getting burned. You stared at him. His throat bobbed and then something inside you tipped forward, like gravity pulling you closer without asking. He didn’t stop you.

You leaned in, just enough for your shoulder to brush his. And then his hand was on your knee—tentative, calloused, warm. “I keep thinking,” he murmured, “if you were mine... I wouldn’t leave you waiting around for scraps.”

You felt like the air had gone electric as he looked up. His eyes were storm-dark, storm-deep, and all that held-back want came surging forward in the space between you. “You shouldn’t say stuff like that,” you whispered, breath hitching. “Why not?”

“Because I want to believe you.”

And then you kissed him.

It was clumsy, at first; needy, uneven, all teeth and ache—but Dodge responded like a dam breaking. His hands found your waist and hauled you into his lap like he’d been dreaming about it for months. You straddled him, knees pressing to either side of his hips, lips swollen and fingers tangled in his collar. He leaned backwards to rest his back against the brick wall.

Dodge groaned when you rolled your hips against his. God, that sound; guttural and rough in your ear like he didn’t mean to let it out. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he muttered between kisses. “Watching you walk around Dot’s in those stupid little aprons. Talking all sweet to assholes who don’t deserve it.” You gasped as his hands squeezed your thighs, tugging you closer. “Dodge…”

“Say my name again,” he rasped. “Sounds better coming from you than anyone.”

You shivered when one of his hands slipped beneath your shirt, palm dragging slow over your lower back. Not greedy but careful. Like he wanted to feel every inch of skin he could without crossing a line you didn’t ask for. “Tell me to stop,” he said against your jaw, breath hot. “And I will. But if you don’t…” You shook your head. “Don’t stop.” He kissed you harder.

It wasn’t rushed. Wasn’t some horny back-alley quickie. It was months of longing in a single breath—his mouth moving with hungry tenderness, his hips grinding against you slow, deliberate, like he wanted to leave you shaking just from friction alone. You whined into his mouth, hips rutting down against the thick press of him through his jeans. He gasped your name this time; sharp, almost broken and gripped your waist tighter.

“Fuck,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel so good.” Your hand slid up the back of his neck, into his hair. “I wish it had been you,” you whispered. “Not him. I wish it had been you all along.”

That broke him.

“Can I touch you?” He groaned against your mouth and you nodded as a reply; not wanting to pull your lips away from his own. He surged up and kissed you like he wanted to carve his name into you. Fingers trailing under your shirt, under your bra, rough palms cupping your breasts and groaning when you arched into him.

You cried out softly as his thumb flicked your nipple, mouth dragging down your neck. He was trying to restrain himself. You could feel it, every harsh exhale, every strangled moan pressed into your throat. “Please,” you murmured. “Tell me what you want,” he said, voice cracking. “I’ll give you anything. Anything, baby.” He lifted your shirt up.

That word, baby, made your stomach twist. You rolled your hips down again and he choked on a groan, hands spreading possessively over your hips. “You deserve someone who wants to see you happy,” Dodge said, kissing between your breasts, voice tight. “Not someone who makes you cry alone in the fucking dark.”

You kissed him again, deep and trembling. Concrete bit your knees but none of it mattered. Not with Dodge looking at you like that—like you were the only thing in the world he wanted to touch without gloves. Like he’d burn himself on you and say thank you. “Y’really want this?” he asked, voice ragged. His thumbs swept your waist, dragging soft friction under your shirt when it fell down. “I need you to tell me.”

You nodded, too breathless to speak. But he didn’t move. His eyes searched for yours, slow, steady, nothing but honesty. “Not just ‘cause you’re hurting,” he said. “Not ‘cause I’m here. I need it to be real.”

You swallowed, heart stuttering. “It is. I want you.”

That was all he needed.

He kissed you again but slower this time, savoring the shape of your mouth like it meant something. And it did. God, it did. His hands roamed under your shirt with aching reverence, calloused fingertips brushing your ribs, dragging heat through your skin until you gasped against him.

“I think about this all the time,” he murmured into your mouth. “What your skin would feel like. What you’d sound like.” You whined, arching when his palms cupped your breasts, thumbs grazing the swell of them through your bra. It was clumsy, reverent, his breath catching like he hadn’t expected you to let him. “Can I…” He trailed off, waiting.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Please.”

He groaned, low in his throat, and slid your shirt up again just enough to unclasp your bra. The second it loosened, your nipples hardened in the air, and Dodge’s hands went still. “Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re so—goddamn. Look at you.”

His thumbs brushed over your nipples, slow and shaky. Your breath hitched. The way he touched you so carefully, almost nervous; it made your chest tighten. “You’re shaking,” you said softly.

“Yeah.” His laugh was short, breathless. “Been thinking about this for so long. Thought I’d forget how to breathe.” You kissed him again, messy and sweet. “Then don’t think, just touch me.” That broke the last of his restraint.

His mouth moved to your neck, tongue tracing heat beneath your ear, lips sucking soft marks you’d feel for days. And his hands—God, his hands; he cupped your breasts like they were something fragile, something holy. He thumbed your nipples until they pebbled hard, then leaned down, catching one between his lips. You gasped, your hips jerking forward. He groaned against your skin, suckling greedily, tongue circling, then flicking. You felt a warmth in your stomach, taking over your body. So sweet.

“Dodge—fuck… feels so good.” That lit something in him. He looked up at you, mouth wet, eyes dark. “Say it again.” You whimpered. “Feels so good. You feel so good.”

“Yeah?” His voice was husky, hands dragging down your sides until he found the waistband of your pants. “Wanna make you feel even better. Can I…?”

He didn’t finish the question—but you knew what he meant. You nodded. “Please.” He breathed out like he’d been punched. One hand slid down, trembling with restraint as he popped your button, eased the zipper down, and slipped beneath the fabric. You felt his fingers slide your panties to the side, digits brushing against your warm skin.

“Holy shit,” he rasped. “You’re soaked.” You shivered. “Been wanting this since you touched me.” He kissed you, rougher this time, and his fingers finally dipped between your folds, soslow, reverent, like he didn’t want to rush a single second.

You gasped as his thumb circled your clit, just light enough to tease. Then lower, two fingers slipping inside, thick and curling just right. Your body arched, grinding down against his hand with a whine. You felt them rubbing against your walls like Dodge was searching for a treasure inside you.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Take what you need, baby.”

You rocked against him, and he moaned: just from watching you, from feeling you squeeze around his fingers. His other hand came back to your chest, thumb flicking your nipple in rhythm with his thrusts. He pulled on your bud, rolling it in between his fingers all while watching your reaction. After a moment, his digits found your sweet spot, torturing it in the sweetest way.

“God,” you panted. “Dodge, please, don’t stop—” Your eyebrows furrowed from the pleasure.

“I won’t.” His voice cracked. “You’re fuckin’ perfect like this. So warm and so wet for me.” You clenched around him. “F-Fuck, I’m close—” Your thighs shook and your head rolled to the dark sky, lips parting.

“That’s it, baby. Come for me, wanna feel you fall apart.” He talked before his mouth latched on your nipple again, sucking and rolling his tongue. He was a starved man. And you did; legs trembling, breath ragged, back arching as you cried out his name and he let go of your nipple in a loud wet pop. He held you through it, fingers curling steady, mouth kissing your throat while you rode every wave. It was powerful, and made you see white for a second.

When you finally stilled, he slid his fingers out and kissed your temple, panting. “I’ve wanted to do that since the first time you smiled at me,” he whispered.

You leaned into his chest, boneless and warm. “Then do it again another time.” He laughed softly, holding you tighter. “You sure?”

You nodded. “I’m not going anywhere.” His arms wrapped around you, strong and sure, and for the first time in a long time—you felt safe. Seen, wanted. And this time, you weren’t crying behind the diner.

You were falling into someone who wanted you whole. Someone who’d never leave you unread or break with you through text.

Sarcasm became your weapon of choice; every time he opened his mouth, you had a comment sharp enough to cut him down. Every time he gave you that cool, steady look, you exaggerated a roll of your eyes or tossed a mocking little smile. And it went both ways: Dodge had perfected the art of side-eyeing you, the slow once-over that somehow managed to insult you without a single word.

By now, days into the games, your friends had noticed. You could hear the whispers sometimes, the chuckles behind you. “Just kiss already,” someone had muttered once when Dodge brushed past you too close at the diner he worked at, his voice low and sarcastic against your ear: “Watch your step. I don’t want you tripping over your own attitude.”

It wasn’t that you couldn’t stand him—it was that you couldn’t stop noticing him. And that pissed you off even more.

Tonight, though, the air was heavy. Panic games always came with that electricity, the buzz of something dangerous thrumming beneath your skin. Everyone was gathered at the edge of an abandoned property outside town, headlights cutting through the dark. Diggins and Summer were here to announce the challenge.

“Pairs, locked rooms, first to get out wins immunity for the next round.” Pairs. You didn’t like the sound of that and when the names were drawn, when yours came out alongside his, the universe had officially decided to make your life hell. Dodge. You groaned out loud, not even hiding it, and tossed your head back as if you could appeal to the stars above. “Are you kidding me?”

The smirk that tugged at Dodge’s lips was infuriating. “Guess you’re stuck with me, doll.”

“Don’t call me that,” you snapped.

“Would you rather I call you something else?” he asked smoothly, stepping just close enough that the space between you seemed to vibrate. “Because I can think of a few names.” You rolled your eyes, brushing past him, your shoulder knocking into his deliberately hard. “Save it, let’s just get this over with.” But the way your pulse jumped betrayed you.

The two of you followed Diggins and Summer toward the hulking silhouette of the abandoned building, the sound of crickets cutting through the night. People watched; some laughing, some whispering. You tried to ignore the weight of their eyes, tried to ignore the fact that you’d be stuck in a room with Dodge until one of you figured a way out.

And if you didn’t… well, Panic always had consequences.

The metal door creaked open, swallowing you both into the dark. The room they shoved you into was bigger than you expected, but that didn’t make it any less suffocating. The hinges groaned when the heavy metal door slammed shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot. A second later, you heard the unmistakable click of a lock sliding into place. The single bare bulb overhead flickered, buzzing faintly like a dying fly, spilling just enough yellow light to show cracked plaster walls and dust crawling across the floor.

You gave it one look and crossed your arms. “Lovely. Real five-star accommodations.” Dodge was already moving, sweeping his hand along the wall as if he could will a hidden panel or switch into existence. He didn’t spare you a glance. “Complain all you want, but standing around isn’t going to get us out of here.”

“Didn’t realize you were an expert in breaking out of places,” you shot back, leaning against the wall just to spite him. “What is it, a hobby of yours?” That earned you a look—one of his patented, coolly amused stares that made your skin prickle. “Do you ever shut up?”

“Not when I’m locked in a room with someone I can’t stand.”

He huffed out a laugh, the sound low, almost reluctant. “Figures.”

For the next few minutes, silence stretched between you, broken only by the scuff of shoes on the grimy floor and the soft hum of the bulb. Dodge tested the window (barred), the ceiling (too high), the door (solid steel). You watched, arms still crossed, fighting the urge to tap your foot.

The air grew heavier, hotter and the small room seemed to shrink, walls inching closer, the longer you stayed in there, the more aware you became of him. The way his shirt clung to his shoulders, damp from sweat, the way a lock of his sandy hair fell into his eyes when he bent down to check the floorboards or the slow, deliberate way he moved, like he didn’t waste energy on anything unnecessary.

You hated that you noticed, hated it even more when his voice cut through the silence. “You could help, you know.”

“I am helping,” you said. “And I don't want to be distracted.”

He straightened, brushing dust off his hands, and turned to face you. His smirk was subtle, dangerous. “Distracted, huh? Didn’t realize I had that effect on you.” Your pulse jumped, and you immediately snapped, “Don’t flatter yourself.”

But he stepped closer, just enough to make you feel it, that magnetic pull you’d been fighting since the second you met him. His voice was lower now, mocking but softer at the edges. “You’re not denying it.” You scoffed and shoved past him, though your shoulder brushed his chest and left heat searing through your skin. “God, you’re insufferable.”

“And yet…” His words followed you like smoke. “…here we are, stuck together.” You didn’t answer. Couldn’t, not with the way your heart was beating like Panic itself was happening inside your ribcage.

The minutes dragged on and Dodge eventually sat down against the wall, stretching his legs out with that maddening calm he carried everywhere. You stayed standing, arms tight around yourself, pretending you didn’t care but the longer you lingered in that stale room, the clearer it became: it wasn’t just tension. It wasn’t just rivalry. It was something sharp-edged and dangerous, something that had been simmering beneath every sarcastic jab, every mocking glance, every accidental brush of contact.

And locked in this room, with no escape? It was only a matter of time before it boiled over. Time inside that room stretched, thick and sticky as the air, every second that ticked by only made you more aware of him, the way his presence filled the space.

Dodge was still settling against the wall like he owned it, legs stretched out, his head tipped back against the cracked plaster. He looked maddeningly relaxed, like he could wait here all night if he had to. You hated that he didn’t seem rattled—not by the game, not by the lock, not even by being stuck in here with you. “You always this calm?” you muttered, pacing a line across the room.

His eyes opened lazily, finding you in the dim light. “You always this restless?” You stopped, narrowing your eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re predictable.” The words stung more than you wanted them to. “Predictable?” He tilted his head, studying you. “Always ready with a sharp comment. Always pretending you don’t notice me.” A pause, and then; so casually it made your stomach flip—“Thing is, I think you notice me a little too much.” Heat crawled up your neck. “You’re delusional.” He chuckled, low and smooth, and the sound made your insides twist. “Am I?”

Something in the way he looked at you; steady, unflinching, pinned you to the spot. You were suddenly too aware of how small the room was, how close he was even sitting down. The mocking edge in his voice wasn’t cruel, not really; it was daring and for some reason, you stepped closer.

Just a few inches, but it was enough for his smirk to deepen. He leaned forward slightly, elbows braced on his knees. “Careful, sweetheart. Keep standing over me like that, I might start thinking you like being close.” You scoffed, but your voice came out thinner than you meant. “I don’t.”

“You sure?” he asked softly.

Your throat went dry because the truth was: you weren’t sure. Not anymore, not with the way your pulse jumped every time his eyes lingered too long, not with the way your skin buzzed just being near him.

When he pushed off the wall and stood, you didn’t move back. He was taller, his shadow swallowing yours, and suddenly you couldn’t seem to catch your breath. “Say it,” he murmured, voice so low it was almost a growl. “Say you don’t want me close.” Your lips parted, but no words came out. And then his hand brushed your wrist, that was all it took for something to snap.

You shoved him hard and your palms hit his chest, but instead of stumbling back, he caught your wrists with a laugh, pulling you in even closer. “You really think you can push me away now?” he mocked, breath hot against your cheek. “You’re infuriating,” you hissed.

“And you’re...” His voice caught, the smirk faltering just enough for something softer to break through. “God, you drive me crazy.”

It was reckless, the way you surged up and kissed him. Messy, angry, desperate with your teeth scraping his bottom lip, his hand still wrapped around your wrist. For a second, you hated yourself for wanting it but then Dodge kissed you back, deep and sure, like he’d been waiting for this just as long as you had. His free hand slid into your hair, fingers curling tight enough to make you gasp, and that was it. Every sarcastic comment, every mocking glance, every second of tension exploded into heat.

You broke the kiss with a ragged breath, but he chased it, lips brushing yours, his voice a low rasp. “Still hate me?”

“Yes,” you whispered, but your body betrayed you, leaning into him, aching for more. “Good.” His smirk returned, softer now, almost tender. “Guess I’ll just have to change your mind.” And judging by the way your knees felt weak under his touch, he already had.

The kiss broke again, but only because Dodge’s hand tangled deeper in your hair, tugging just enough to make your lips part. His mouth hovered over yours, eyes heavy-lidded and dark, like he was drinking in the sight of you.

“Always running your mouth,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across your bottom lip. “Finally found a better use for it.” You wanted to snap back with something sharp, but all that came out was a shaky breath. He was too close, too steady, and every nerve in your body buzzed under his touch. His hand slid from your hair to your jaw, guiding your head back just a little, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You’re shaking,” he whispered, almost teasing. “Didn’t think I could get to you this easy.”

“I'm not—” The protest broke when his other hand skimmed down your side, slow and deliberate, brushing over your hip before cupping between your thighs. Your words tangled into a gasp, your knees buckling slightly.

Dodge caught you easily, guiding you back against the wall. His smirk was infuriating, but his touch was devastating. He pressed his fingers against you through your jeans, steady pressure that made heat flood your core. “Not what?” he asked, voice mocking-soft. “Not turned on? Not desperate?” His lips ghosted over your ear, his breath hot. “Feels like you are.”

You clenched your fists against his shirt, dragging him closer without meaning to. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

And then his hand slipped past the button of your jeans, sliding into the heat of you. His fingers found you easily, parting you with a gentleness that made your head spin. When he slid one finger inside, curling just right, your breath hitched loud enough to echo in the hollow room.

“That’s it,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your jaw, slow and careful even as his words mocked. “Knew you’d feel good.”

Your head tipped back against the wall when he added another finger, stretching you, moving slow but steady. The heel of his hand pressed against your clit with every thrust, building a rhythm that had you trembling already.

Dodge kissed you again; softer this time, lingering, like he wanted to savor every sound you made. His other hand slid under your shirt, palm warm against your skin until his thumb brushed over your nipple. He pinched lightly, teasing, and you broke the kiss with a gasp. “Sensitive, huh?” His voice was a mix of awe and mockery, like he couldn’t decide whether to worship you or laugh at how undone you already were. “God, you’re perfect.”

The combination was too much: his fingers thrusting slow and deep, his thumb circling your nipple, his mouth pressing hot, desperate kisses down your neck. You could feel yourself unraveling, every nerve alight, your body clenching around him with every curl of his fingers.

“Dodge—” His name slipped out, broken, pleading. His smirk softened, his lips brushing your ear. “Say it again.”

“Dodge,” you gasped, thighs trembling, your hips grinding down into his hand without meaning to. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he praised, his pace quickening just enough to push you higher. “Come on, I’ve got you.”

And you did. The orgasm hit hard, pulling your body tight, your voice catching as you came around his fingers. He held you steady, murmuring against your skin, kissing your temple as if he could anchor you through it but he didn’t stop.

Even as you shook in his arms, Dodge kept moving inside you, slower but relentless, dragging you through the high until your whimpers turned into gasps, into half-sobs. His thumb brushed your nipple again, teasing, coaxing every last shiver from you. “Thought you hated me,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your damp cheek. “Doesn’t sound like hate.”

Your nails dug into his shirt, desperate, overstimulated, and all you could do was moan against his mouth when he kissed you again, deep and consuming. And Dodge (patient, steady Dodge) looked at you like you were the only game that had ever mattered.

You barely had time to catch your breath before Dodge pulled his hand from your jeans, slick fingers glinting in the dim light. He stared at them for a beat, almost reverent, before meeting your eyes again. The smirk on his face was softened now, something dangerous and tender all at once.

“Messy already,” he murmured. “And we’ve barely started.” You wanted to snap at him, wanted to tell him to shut up, but your body betrayed you, arching toward him, hungry for more.

He kissed you again, slower this time, his tongue brushing yours in a rhythm that promised patience even while his hands made promises of something rougher. When he finally broke away, his forehead pressed to yours, he whispered, “Tell me you want this.”

You hated that he asked; hated that the part of him that mocked and teased could still pause for something so careful but your answer was instant, honest. “I do.” That was all he needed.

His hands were firm as he pushed your jeans down, your underwear following, pooling around your ankles. The cool air hit your skin for a split second before Dodge’s warmth was back, pressing against you. He tugged his own jeans low, enough to free himself, and your breath caught at the sight.

No condom; the realization sent a thrill of danger through you, sharp as the games themselves but then his mouth was back on yours, murmuring against your lips.

“Unprotected… you trust me with this?” Your hands curled into his shirt, dragging him closer. “Just... shut up and fuck me.” His laugh was quiet, breathless, but full of heat. “As you wish.”

He lifted you easily, pinning you against the wall, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. The first push of him inside you was slow, careful, his forehead pressed to yours as if grounding himself as much as you. “God—” His voice cracked on a groan. “You feel… unreal.” The stretch burned sweet, pulling a cry from your throat. He stilled, giving you time, kissing your cheek and jaw, murmuring nonsense praise. “So tight for me, taking me so good.”

You clenched around him, desperate, and finally gasped, “Move, Dodge.”

And he did.

Slow at first, rolling his hips into you with steady, deliberate thrusts. Every inch dragged, every retreat made you ache for more. He wasn’t rough, not yet, but the way his cock filled you so completely had your head spinning. “Still hate me?” he rasped, pulling back enough to watch your expression. “Yes,” you gasped, nails raking his shoulders through his shirt.

“Liar.” He kissed you, biting your lip, thrusting deeper. “You’d never let me fuck you like this if you meant it.”

His hand slid back into your hair, tugging gently, just enough to tilt your head back. The tension on your scalp sent sparks through you, making your whole body arch into him. He rewarded the sound you made with a groan, burying himself deeper, holding you there. Each thrust was slow but powerful, the kind that dragged along every nerve, every sensitive edge. He didn’t rush, he wanted you to feel all of it; the weight of him, the stretch, the heat. And you did, God, you felt everything.

Your whimpers turned into cries when his pace built, still unhurried but relentless, grinding against your clit with every push. He kissed the tears brimming at the corners of your eyes, whispering, “That’s it, sweetheart, let me hear you.”

The orgasm built sharp and fast, your body clenching around him, your nails digging so hard into his shoulders you were sure you’d leave marks. You shattered against him with a cry, your whole body tightening as wave after wave crashed through you but Dodge didn’t stop.

He slowed just enough to let you breathe, but kept moving, rolling into you, pushing you through the overstimulation. His lips traced your jaw, his hand pulling your hair softer now, his voice a constant anchor. “Good girl, look at you. Thought you could keep hating me, but you’re melting.”

You sobbed into his neck, every nerve alight, your second orgasm hitting faster, harsher, your legs trembling around him. He held you steady, his thrusts still deliberate, savoring you, dragging it out until you thought you’d fall apart. Finally, finally, his rhythm faltered, his forehead pressing to yours as his breath grew ragged. His thrusts turned rougher, desperate, and he groaned your name like it was being torn out of him.

“I’m... fuck, I’m close!”

“Don’t pull out,” you gasped before you could think.

His whole body shuddered at your words, a broken sound leaving his throat and then he came inside you, hard and deep, holding you flush against him as if he could bury himself completely. The heat of it spread through you, overwhelming, leaving you trembling. For a long moment, neither of you moved; just panting, clinging, the air thick with sweat and the faint hum of the bulb.

When Dodge finally set you down, his hands were careful, steady, brushing your hair back from your damp face. He kissed your forehead, soft in a way that made your chest ache. “Still hate me?” he murmured, mocking, but his eyes were too tender to match the bite.

You managed a weak laugh, leaning into his touch. “Ask me again tomorrow.”

His smile—small, crooked, real—was the last thing you saw before your knees gave out and he caught you, holding you against his chest like you were the only thing in this room that mattered.

And for once, maybe he was right.