#//if that already wasn’t obvious enough

[ilovolderman]

Game Night

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: It’s game night, and Sam is being extra suspicious about your secret relationship with Bucky.

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating, uno

A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". it doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10 thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)

It was a Monday, and Sam Wilson was once again spiraling.

Not because he had a particularly bad day or because a rogue pigeon had decided his sandwich was a target. No, Sam’s mental breakdown was much more subtle, much more insidious.

It was because of the vibe.

The vibe was off.

At first, it was innocent. Steve had invited everyone over for "a quiet evening," which meant they were playing board games and pretending they weren't all secretly trying to outsmart each other with complex strategies and alliances.

But it wasn’t the games that were bothering Sam.

It was you and Bucky, like always.

You and Bucky entered the living room at the same time. He was holding a bag of fries like it was an offering, and you had a look on your face like you were trying to keep from laughing at a private joke. It wasn’t obvious to anyone else, but Sam’s gut tightened. He'd been through this before.

He had a sixth sense for this kind of thing.

A totally normal looking Bucky waved at Sam, but there was something about the way he did it—too casual, too... loaded. You smiled as you sat down on the couch, and Bucky followed.

Then, the thing happened.

You both reached for the same side of the couch at the same time. And you didn’t immediately pull away like people usually do when they're not on the verge of launching into some kind of... well, whatever this was.

You just... stayed there.

Sam squinted, his eyes narrowing like he was a detective trying to crack an impossible case. This was the moment. The moment when his suspicions shifted from theory to solid fact.

Sam wasn’t sure who made the first move, but suddenly—without explanation—Bucky’s arm was draped over the back of the couch like it was the most natural thing in the world.

A few moments passed.

Still no words.

Just an... unsettling silence as you both stared ahead at the game unfolding in front of you.

Sam looked from you, to Bucky, then back to you. His fingers twitched. The notepad was in his lap, but he hadn’t written a single thing down yet. How was he supposed to document what was happening?

It was... too subtle.

He turned to Steve. “Are they—?”

Steve, blissfully unaware, was deep into his Monopoly strategy. “Hmm?”

“Do you notice anything... off about them?” Sam asked, nodding toward the couch.

Steve glanced over and blinked. “What? They’re sitting next to each other?”

Sam clenched his jaw. “It’s the way they’re sitting. They’re... too comfortable. Like they’re already sharing the same DNA. You see that?”

Steve squinted for a moment, then shrugged. “I think you’re reading too much into it.”

Sam was about to respond when Tony strolled into the room, “What’s this about reading into things?” he asked casually, taking a seat next to Steve.

“They’re being weird,” Sam muttered, pointing to the couch.

Tony leaned back, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, you mean how they’re subtly acting like they’ve been married for thirty years, without the commitment?”

Sam’s eye twitched.

Tony grinned at the chaos unfolding in Sam’s mind. “Don’t overthink it, Sammy. Some people just get comfortable with each other.” He took a sip from his glass.

Meanwhile, you and Bucky were still sitting there, but now you were exchanging an absurdly synchronized look.

You both looked at each other like you were reading a secret book written in a language only the two of you could understand. The silence was thick enough to slice with a knife.

Then—just as Sam felt his sanity slip away completely—you both laughed. At nothing.

A soft, almost eerie laugh, like you were in on some joke only the two of you got.

Tony, who was now practically snickering, leaned over and whispered to Steve, “We should’ve put money on it. Sam’s on the edge, and he’s about to combust.”

Sam stood up abruptly, looking at the pair on the couch, then back at Steve, his eyes wide with the fury of a thousand unanswered questions. “That’s it. I’m gonna ask them directly.”

“Oh, no,” Steve said, shaking his head in mock sympathy. “You really don’t want to.”

But Sam was too far gone. His mind was locked in a war with his instincts. He marched over to the couch, put his hands on his hips, and shot you and Bucky an unrelenting stare.

Bucky didn’t even look at Sam, he was handing you the fries, leaning toward you. You smiled at Bucky like he was the best thing since sliced bread, and Sam felt his soul physically leave his body.

This was it. This was the moment that proved it.

"You two are literally a walking romcom," Sam spat out in a low voice, too quietly for anyone to hear except you and Bucky. "I see it. The fries. The eye contact. It’s like... like... a plot."

You smirked. “What’s your deal, Sam? I’m just getting some fries. Everyone loves fries.”

Bucky nodded, biting his lip in an attempt to stifle his grin. “Yeah, Sam. What’s your deal?”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “You guys. Are you really gonna sit there and keep telling me you’re just friends?”

Both of you paused. The air felt like it shifted, like it thickened, as if the universe was waiting for the punchline. Sam’s pulse quickened.

And then, in perfect unison, both of you said:

“We’re friends.”

Sam stared at you both, utterly dumbfounded.

“Friends?” he whispered in horror. “With... this?”

You both blinked at him innocently.

“Of course,” you said.

“We’re just good pals,” Bucky added, just barely holding in a laugh.

 “I—I can’t,” Sam muttered, trying to make sense of the absolute absurdity unfolding before him.

Bucky slapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder, like the world’s least convincing therapist. “You’ll get there, Sam. You just have to let go and stop thinking so hard about it.”

Sam made a strangled noise that could’ve been a scream or the noise of a man who had just realized he was doomed. He glanced at Peter, who was giving him a look of pure, unfiltered sympathy.

“Is this some kind of test?” Sam asked, his voice rising. “Am I being pranked? Are you two secretly married? Or, like... I don’t know, are you... trying to get a rise out of me?”

Bucky leaned forward slightly. “No, Sam. We’re just casually enjoying life... together.”

“Together,” Sam repeated, clutching his head dramatically. “I’m going to be sick.”

And then, just to make sure he was completely defeated, you reached over, casually brushing your hand against Bucky’s arm before giving him a tiny, affectionate squeeze.

Sam blinked. His notebook hit the floor with a dramatic thud.

“I knew it.” he gasped, and then, as if the universe had somehow heard him, he heard Natasha’s voice from across the room, still half-asleep:

“Sam, you’re being ridiculous. Just let them enjoy the vibes.”

Sam’s soul left his body.

Meanwhile, you and Bucky exchanged yet another impossibly synchronized glance.

Tony, still grinning, patted Sam on the back. “Don’t worry. One day you’ll look back on this and laugh. Just not today.”

And with that, Sam grabbed his coat, shook his head, and walked out the door.

Meanwhile, Bucky reached over, snagged the last of the fries, and handed them to you. “You think he’s buying it?”

You shrugged. “Nah, I think we’ve got him exactly where we want him.”

Bucky smirked. “Good. Let’s mess with him some more tomorrow.”

The room was quiet now. The chaos had died down. Steve had gone to clean up the kitchen, Tony had retreated to a mysterious project involving lasers, and Natasha was now fully asleep, curled up with a blanket over her face on the armchair.

That left just you and Bucky, still curled on the couch — the battlefield of your dramatic emotional warfare against Sam.

You reached over to the coffee table and grabbed the deck of Uno cards you’d swiped earlier. You looked at Bucky with a mischievous little glint in your eye.

“Wanna play?”

He grinned, tilting his head. “I thought we already emotionally destroyed a man tonight. Isn’t that enough chaos for one evening?”

You started shuffling the deck, your fingers moving deftly. “Just one game. Come on. I promise not to make you cry.”

“Oh, please,” Bucky said, grabbing a throw pillow and tossing it at you. “You’re only confident because you’ve been cheating.”

You gasped, mock-offended. “I do not cheat! I win with style.”

“Sure,” Bucky said, lounging comfortably as he took the cards you dealt him. “Style, manipulation, same thing.”

The game started quietly, the soft rustle of cards filling the silence. You both sat cross-legged on the couch, knees bumping occasionally. The warm, low lamp cast a golden hue over everything, and the mood had shifted from chaos to... something soft. Comfortable.

Halfway through the game, you narrowed your eyes. “You’re letting me win.”

Bucky paused mid-draw. “What?”

You pointed at his hand. “You had a +4 and a Reverse like, four rounds ago. You haven’t played either.”

He blinked, all innocent puppy eyes. “What are you talking about? Maybe I just forgot.”

You squinted harder. “James Buchanan Barnes. Do not lie to me.”

He chuckled, then leaned forward, lowering his voice like it was a secret. “Fine. Maybe I’m letting you win a little. You get this cute little proud look when you think you’ve cornered me. It’s adorable.”

Your face flushed, and you tossed your card at him. “That’s cheating in a different way.”

“It’s strategic emotional warfare,” Bucky replied smoothly, grinning as he finally laid down a card. “I’m adapting to modern combat.”

You crossed your arms, but a smile tugged at your lips. “Well, stop it. I want a fair game.”

He nodded solemnly, eyes twinkling. “Understood. No mercy.”

You resumed playing, and this time he was relentless—Reverse, Skip, Draw Two. You shrieked in betrayal as your carefully constructed hand crumbled.

“This is what happens when you ask for a fair game,” Bucky said, laughing.

“I take it back!” you shouted, laughing as you threw your hands up. “Bring back the gentle sabotage!”

Bucky leaned over, gathering the cards again, but this time he didn’t start a new game. He looked at you, expression softening.

“Hey,” he said, voice quieter now. “Being here with you… it just makes everything else fade out..”

You tilted your head, suddenly serious. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He reached over and brushed a piece of lint off your sleeve. “Feels like home. Like peace.”

Your heart melted a little, the kind of soft ache that came when you realized you were exactly where you were supposed to be. You shifted closer, your legs pressed gently against his, and rested your head on his shoulder.

He didn’t move for a moment—then his arm wrapped around you, pulling you just a little closer, like muscle memory.

“Uno?” you whispered.

“Only if I get to win this time,” he whispered back.

You smiled into his shoulder. “We’ll see.”

And in the warm, quiet room, surrounded by discarded fries and chaos-shaped memories, the two of you played on.

“Uno,” you announced, placing your second-to-last card down with a triumphant grin.

Bucky stared at you in betrayal. “You said we were being nice this round!”

You shrugged, biting back a laugh. “I was nice. I could’ve skipped you again. You should be thanking me.”

He shook his head in disbelief, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Hmm?” he asked, all wide-eyed innocence as he picked up a card from the draw pile.

You squinted at him. “Say it again.”

He leaned in, his voice low and smooth like velvet. “You heard me.”

Your heart fluttered. Stupidly. Ridiculously. And yet, you couldn’t stop the shy smile that spread across your face. You rolled your eyes and tried to keep your cool, placing your final card down with a flourish.

“Game,” you declared smugly.

Bucky groaned and dropped his hand. “Unbelievable. First you destroy Sam’s psyche, now you destroy my winning streak.”

“I’m on fire tonight,” you said, laughing.

“Yeah,” he murmured, eyes softening as he looked at you. “You really are.”

There was a pause—just long enough to feel like something was shifting again. Not in a chaotic, Sam-spiral kind of way. In the way the air gets thicker when something good is about to happen.

He leaned forward, slow and certain.

You met him halfway.

The kiss was soft. Unhurried. His hand cupped your cheek gently, thumb brushing along your skin like he’d been waiting forever for the right moment and wanted to savor it now that it was here. You melted into it, your fingers curling into the sleeve of his henley.

When you finally pulled away, your forehead rested against his, and you both just... stayed there.

No words. No teasing. Just you and him and the warm hum of everything unspoken.

You yawned a moment later, trying (and failing) to hide it behind your hand.

Bucky chuckled, pressing a tiny kiss to your temple. “Okay, game champ. Time for bed.”

“I’m not tired,” you said, already half-asleep against his shoulder.

“You just yawned into my clavicle.”

“Coincidence,” you mumbled, snuggling closer.

He smiled, shifting so you were tucked more comfortably into his side. He grabbed the discarded throw blanket and wrapped it around both of you.

“You’re staying right here,” he said softly, voice barely above a whisper.

You made a sleepy little noise of agreement, already drifting.

And as the last of the game night chaos faded into silence, Bucky pressed one more kiss to your hair, rested his cheek against your head, and held you close.

Neither of you moved for a long, long time.

Hours later, the room was wrapped in a sleepy kind of silence, warm and golden under the dim light.

You and Bucky were curled up on the couch, tangled beneath a blanket, both long since surrendered to sleep. Your head was tucked against his chest, his arm securely around you like he wasn’t planning on letting go anytime soon. His metal fingers rested gently against your side, thumb unconsciously tracing small, soothing circles.

It was peaceful.

Quiet.

Almost.

From the armchair in the corner, Natasha Romanoff slowly opened one eye.

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Just... observed.

Because of course she’d heard everything. The kiss. The whispers. The “you’re lucky you’re cute.” The affectionate laughter. The unmistakable sound of two people falling completely, irrevocably into something more.

A slow, knowing smile tugged at the edge of her mouth.

She watched as Bucky instinctively pulled you closer in his sleep, like even unconscious, he wasn’t letting you drift far. You murmured something incoherent and nuzzled into him, and he murmured something back that sounded suspiciously like your name and definitely like trouble.

Natasha shook her head slightly, amusement flickering across her face.

“You two are the worst,” she whispered to herself, barely audible over the sound of the heater kicking on. “Hopeless.”

But her voice was warm. Fond.

She leaned back into her chair, pulled her blanket tighter around her, and closed her eyes again—smiling like she’d just watched the final twist in a very long-running, extremely satisfying spy mission.

She wasn’t going to tell.

Not yet.

After all, what fun would it be if she ruined the secret when she could just enjoy watching the rest of the team slowly unravel trying to figure it out?

She’d wait.

She could keep a secret.

For now.

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[tobesolnelyx]

new fan, love ur frat boy series. do u think u could make one abt frat boy Shauna, Lottie, Jackie, and Nat all fighting over reader? - 🥄 not sure if this emojis been taken

— how you get the girl || fratboy!yellowjackets x reader ⭐️

a/n: hello 🥄anon! also, yes, title again from taylor swift’s song, are we even surprised?

summary: they all try to…hit on you? holy shit. modern college au. g!p characters.

warnings: none!

From the very beginning, you somehow ended up orbiting that fratboy cluster. A lot of people assumed you were just…hooking up with them, but the truth was, you had simply—miraculously—slipped into their world. You always got invited to parties. You could walk into the frat house like it was your own living room. None of them ever minded your constant presence—whether it was during casual hangouts or at the cafeteria table. You thought it was just because they liked you.

The problem was, maybe they liked you a little too much. And that started to sink in over time, once you managed to untangle flirting from just being nice.

Natalie Scatorccio was the subtlest of them all. Nat didn’t care much for people on campus, but she could spend hours in yours company. Her idea of flirting was making you endless playlists. Her strange love language was sending you songs. Sometimes, out of nowhere, she’d hand you one of her earbuds.

“Yo, check this out,” she’d say, stretched out on the frat house couch while you were supposed to be studying. Supposed to, because Natalie never took it all that seriously. She’d hand you a tiny black earbud, the same ones seemingly glued to her ears—she wore them all the time. Nothing made her happier than when you added a song she recommended you, to your favorites. Yes, she sent you shared playlist links. Always curious about what you listened to. Just so she could blast it later at parties and drag you onto the dance floor.

No, she had no idea why another song from your favorite artist was suddenly playing through the speakers… totally a coincidence.

Nat, who always insisted on being the one to give you rides. Most arguments about that were between her and Shauna.

“It’s not safe,” Shauna would insist, arm slung around your shoulders in some vague gesture of territorial affection. Natalie’s eyes would burn holes in Shauna’s hand, which rested a little too close to your collarbone.

“Oh, give me a break,” Nat would roll her eyes and flash you a grin. “You love those rides, sweetheart, don’t ya?”

Of course it was a joke—with a loaded undertone. She even bought you your own motorcycle helmet, complete with custom stickers, so she had every right to drag you out for rides now and then.

Nat, who thought you were the perfect dance partner. She’d always pull you into the center of the crowd at parties, already a little high and a little buzzed, swinging you around in drunken waltz.

Nat, who thought you were the ideal weed-smoking companion. You didn’t even have to get high with her—just being there was enough.

Jackie Taylor, who liked to play the romantic. Okay—maybe she wasn’t really playing. Sometimes, she was genuinely sweet in all of it, despite her occasional theatrics. Which made her flirting painfully obvious. Not everyone was a fan. While Nat at least tried to brush it off, Shauna rolled her eyes every time Jackie opened her mouth, muttering that nobody was buying the cheap tricks. Lottie wasn’t thrilled either—she’d mumble about how Jackie was hopelessly fake, all plastic charm and recycled lines.

Jackie, who loved bringing you flowers. Fresh, cut, sometimes even handpicked. One bouquet a week became a habit. And okay, Lottie may have had a point—Jackie did reek of clichés sometimes. But still—she was sweet. She invited you to the movies in cinema, on spontaneous ice cream runs, dragged you along to her piercer when she got new jewelry, or switched out the old. She’d even help you pick something for yourself now and then.

She showed far more than she ever said. She tied your shoes. Wrapped you in her varsity jackets. Brought you breakfast—or bought it—just because. But if anyone asked her how she felt about you, she’d deny it instantly. She’d say it was just a deep friendship. That’s all.... right…

Even though you were walking around campus in her t-shirts, and she never took off the bracelet you made her by hand.

“You can’t even admit you like her,” Shauna scoffed one night, in that know-it-all tone she reserved for moments like these.

Jackie shot her a glare cold enough to freeze glass. She threw a small tennis ball at her head—the one she’d been absentmindedly tossing around for the past hour—but Shauna ducked.

“Shut your mouth,” Jackie muttered, her voice low. A flush crept up her cheeks. “Says you,” she grumbled sarcastically under her breath. “The one who’s always first to start talking.”

Shauna Shipman, who was downright awful at expressing her feelings. She was the hardest to figure out. For the longest time, you were sure she didn’t like you at all. And then—it started.

Shauna, who spent every single study session with you. She always made sure you came along to the library. Being a full-time fratboy-level asshole was one thing. But skipping her academics? Not a chance. At first, she just tolerated your presence. Now, she was suddenly showing up at your door unannounced. That dopey grin on her face, hands shoved into her pockets.

"Ready, princess?" she’d ask, just to get under your skin. She loved irritating you. At her core.

"Not if you call me that again," you’d laugh, grabbing your jacket— and her arm was already slipping around your waist, pulling you in like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Shauna, who didn’t take no for an answer. You were hers. Even if you didn’t know it yet. She was already convinced that Lottie, Nat—and especially Jackie—didn’t stand a chance. Typical. That ego of hers.

Shauna, who started texting you constantly. Gym pics became a trend—tight shirts, sweat-matted hair, those particular grey sweatpants (hmm...). She knew exactly what she was doing.

Shauna, who had a bit of a obsession. Enough to start fights at the frat house when Natalie’s hand lingered somewhere it shouldn’t, or when Lottie tossed some strange joke your way. Not to mention she’d start the dumbest arguments over you—full-blown chaos, just because someone looked at you a second too long.

Sometimes she’d even tell people you were together. You were supposed to find out in your own time that—in Shauna’s mind—you already were her partner. Simple as that.

Shauna, who never said a word about how she felt. But her hands were nearly always on you—like they belonged there. Sometimes you’d push them away when they wandered too low or too high, but she’d only grin, that same ridiculous grin, and she definitely wouldn’t move.

Lottie Matthews, who seemed to be the most chill about the whole situation. As if she already knew—inevitably—you’d choose her in the end. As if the others were simply playing catch-up in a game they didn’t know they’d already lost.

She always watched Shauna’s desperate displays of ownership with a kind of amused pity. She snorted at Jackie’s endless, cheap gifts. And as for Natalie—Lottie barely concealed her smirk whenever Nat stumbled over her own version of flirting.

Lottie, who loved to flex her cars. Did you really understand much of her rambling about them? Not really. You’d never been that interested. But Lottie always spoke with such passion, you let her talk. She’d customized each of her cars with a space just for you— a cushion in the seat, your spare sunglasses in the glove compartment, your favorite hand cream tucked neatly beside them.

Lottie, who showered you in gifts. Sometimes she’d drag you out for a spontaneous shopping spree. Other times, she’d just show up with something already picked out. You’d both lie sprawled across her bed at the frat house—specifically chosen to avoid any surprise Shauna ambush and her relentless, idiotic monologues. Lottie would drop the shopping bag in front of you, grinning like she'd just won a prize. Visibly pleased with herself.

“Open it,” she’d snap her fingers at the bundle, and with a soft smile you’d pull out some luxury skincare set—or, more bluntly, a beautiful piece of lingerie. “Saw it today and immediately thought of you.”

“Thanks, Lottie,” you’d murmur, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek. And she’d smile even wider like your touch sealed the deal.

Lottie, who made the dumbest jokes just to see you roll your eyes.

Lottie, who—unlike Shauna—touched you with finesse. A hand grazing your waist as she passed behind you. Fingers resting casually on your knee, like it meant nothing. Sometimes she’d lean in close only to inhale slightly, and ask if you were wearing the perfume she gave you last week.

[ribbitrabbot]

speculations

pairing : frank langdon x fem!resident

plot : you and frank have been friends for a long time , so much so that there’s always been a fleet of rumors circling you two . the rumors have never been without reason ; there’s always been sort of a shy tension between the two of you , but you’d never acted on it on the basis that dating between friends and coworkers has always been complicated . but a bad day at work seems to be enough for the both of you to finally acknowledge it .

warnings : uhh none that i can think of , just a bit of a spat with robby . just a bunch of sweet stuff , some fluff and comfort :3

a/n : frank’s not married in this ( idk if this is obvious or not , i’m just saying ) . this is my first x reader in a fat minute , i hope y’all like it !!

word count : 4.4k

“Besides,” You continue, braving the hot slice of pizza enough to gingerly pick it up, “If there’s any ‘next time’, Robby’s gonna kick my ass all the way around the block.” 

“No, he’s not.” Frank picks his own slice from the box, and you do little to hide your somewhat judgemental facial expression as he takes a bite from it, ice-cold. “You’re clearly the favorite. Unless you, I don’t know, kill someone, he’ll always let you off easy.” 

“Easy for you to say, you weren’t in here.” 

“Did he do the face?” 

“What face?” 

“You know, the face. The face he does so you know he’s really disappointed in you.” 

“Frank, I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.” 

“Like this.” He says, dropping his piece down and then doing his best arms - crossed, head tilt, eyebrow raise Robby — an imitation that looks so stupid on Frank that you can’t help but laugh. You have to hand it to him, though. It’s a pretty accurate disappointed depiction.

The thing about hindsight is, is that it’s usually even more of a bitch than karma. Most people use hindsight to refer to obvious things — in hindsight, I wouldn’t have drunk that much, or in hindsight I wouldn’t have given that creep my number. Your hindsight was mostly about how much you should have listened to your gut screaming at you to call in sick this morning when you rolled out of bed and how stupid you were to ignore the dragging feeling on nights where you’d only gotten a couple hours of sleep. There was no reason for you to feel as crummy as you did; you’d worked in the pit long enough to at least try and shake the feelings away at the end of your shift, shower, eat whatever was left in your refrigerator, and turn on some show you’d already seen three times over. Maybe it wasn’t really healing, but it was enough to get by.

The adrenaline would fix you, anyway, it always did. Or at the very least you were hoping so. Maybe that was the real reason you’d picked emergency medicine as a specialty, besides the usual reasons of helping people, because you were half addicted to the rush of it all. But you were three hours into your shift, and not even the narrow rescue of four victims in a vehicle collision or being included in Perlah and Princess’ gossip had done much to raise your spirits. It must have been written all over your face, too, because it wasn’t just the interns who were tiptoeing around you like you were surrounded by eggshells.

“Mister Grant,” You sighed now, the very last your beside patience being damn near worn to a fray, “You need to understand how much this surgery could help Phoebe. Quite frankly, the longer we wait, the worse it could be for her.”

“But she doesn’t need the surgery right at this second. We can see if she gets any better.” The man insists. You can see the worry in his dark eyes, the entirety of his features aged by concern for his teenage daughter that had been brought in unresponsive by her friend. Any other day, you would feel more sympathetic for him; you would hold his hand and explain in painstaking detail why this procedure could be lifesaving. No parent wanted their child to be cut open needlessly, you can understand that, but today all his stubbornness does is grate on nerves you weren’t even aware of.

“I understand how upsetting this must be for you —“ You begin, a sentence from the nonexistent but universally known manual of Bedside 101, but his sudden anger cuts you off, his eyes flashing with accusation.

“Don’t give me that. All you doctors, it’s the same thing. You understand, you aren’t trying to upset me. You don’t understand. How could you possibly understand, you’re all trying to cut up my kid! Do you have a kid, Doctor? Can you honestly look me in the fucking eyes and say you understand? Fuck you.”

Your jaw ticks. You can see the emotion there, the fear, the need to find someone to lash out at. To blame. Everything in you is screaming to give him the benefit of the doubt, to chalk it up to a parent who sees tubes and wires sticking out of their whole world and immediately jumps to the worst possible conclusion. It’s not altogether an irrational reaction. Hell, if you were in his shoes, maybe you’d react the same way.

And then there’s the small voice within you that just manages to convince you that he’s an asshole. You shouldn’t listen to it. You shouldn’t. Had you been in a cartoon, it would have been the little devil whispering in your ear.

“Fine.” You say, with a sort of edged coolness that parents normally have when their children say something just a step too far. Your smile is tight lipped, and you wonder if your eyes flash with the barely restrained anger that you feel jumbling up inside of you. “Fine. I can tell that you, Mister Grant, clearly know more than me. It’s not like I’ve seen a dozen of these cases before. Hey, I’ve been to medical school, but you’re right. What do I know? I don’t have any kids.” You shrug sarcastically, then turn towards Donnie, who looked as though he was trying to walk past unnoticed. In fact, it looked like the entire radius in which you were speaking to Mr. Grant had suddenly turned into a danger zone. “Donnie, can you get Mister Grant any medical records he may need for Phoebe? And let O.R know — “

“Doctor L/n, can I consult with you?” The voice behind you stops your locomotive of orders dead. You turn just enough to acknowledge Robby, whose normally playful brown eyes have hardened to a coolness reserved for cocky interns and hardass superiors. But you’re surprised by the spike of annoyance that greets you, instead of any sort of remorse. The last thing you need is a chew - out from Robby, but there’s no avoiding it.

“Yeah. Fine.” You say curtly.

“Mister Grant, I’ll be back with you in a second, okay?” With a quick sentence, Robby confirms the trouble you’re in. ‘I’ll’, not your name or even we. He barely casts you a glance before turning on his heel, Mr. Grant still too stunned to even give a real reply. You pinch the bridge of your nose, tilting your head at the ground before sighing and following him.

You know the way to the break room, and even the looks that you’re getting as you follow Robby, even though you’re usually on the other side of them. The both of you are lucky it’s empty, and Robby almost slams the door behind him as he follows you in. You watch, biting the inside of your cheek as he tiredly rubs his face; you lean against the counter.

“Wanna tell me what the hell’s going on with you?” He asks, crossing his arms as he looks at you, head tilting.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve had a stick up your ass all day, so if I need to schedule OR to take it out, let me know.” Had he not been snippy, it would have been a better joke. Instead it makes you clench your teeth.

“I’m just tired.” It’s an excuse you’ve used a million times. Robby smiles and shakes his head.

“Oh, bullshit.” He’s right. You both know it. “You’re not the ‘just tired’ type, Y/n. You’re tired, take a walk. But you cannot talk to your patients like that.”

“Come on, Robby, you saw how that guy was acting. He was a fucking asshole!”

“It doesn’t matter, Y/n!” The laughter in his voice is stressed, dangerous. “You’re smarter than this. You’re tired, you’re stressed, take a walk, eat, do whatever you need to do. But you don’t lose your shit. Got it? Can you do that?”

You know it’s not personal. You know Robby has a thousand different things on his plate, that your temper is just another thing for him to worry about. That this is him keeping his own temper towards you — but it doesn’t make you feel any better. You want to feel angry at him, to only wallow in the hollowness that has haunted you since the day’s start. It makes his tone feel more patronizing than it normally would.

“Gee, I don’t know, that’s really hard, but I think I can handle it.” You sneer, your voice dripping with sarcasm. Robby looks at you, and for a moment you feel sorry. But before you can admit it, he gives a short sigh.

“Take a minute.” He’s out of the room before you can say anything else. Half of you wants to defy him, to stride out of the room and get back to work to prove a point. You don’t need Robby to put you in timeout, to punish you for acting the same way anyone would with the difficult Mr. Grant. Instead, you stare at the door he closed behind him, hands wandering up and pressing to your eyes after a long moment. The other half of you doesn’t care enough to prove a point. That half of you knows that it’s a losing fight, that if you go out there as hotheaded as you are right now, that it’s less a get back at Robby and more making everyone around you tense without reason. Maybe that would slide in any other sort of job, but the pit needed to work like a machine. No one could afford to be worrying about their coworkers when they already had worry enough with the patients that constantly came pouring into the door.

You’re just about to open the refrigerator to see what forgotten food you could raid when a knock snags your attention. You can’t place whether or not you hope it’s Robby or you hope it’s not, either way you scarcely bother to glance at the door before you call out.

“What?”

The door opens, but only some.

“Safe to come in?”

You’re unprepared for how welcome the familiar voice is, and it suddenly comes with a realization that you hadn’t heard it much at all today. You don’t bother to look behind you, but you answer.

“Whatever.”

Frank takes it as a yes. He closes the door gently behind him, then creeps up to look over your shoulder at the shelves of the refrigerator.

“Pizza’s probably your best bet. Unless you want to take your chance with yogurt that is either the same flavor or the same carton that was here in January.”

God, he’s so fucking annoying.

He’s close enough that his voice buzzes in your ear. Had anyone else done this, there was a very real possibility that you would have flipped your shit — someone with a lack of personal space would be a cherry on top of the shit show the last few minutes had already been. Instead, you try not to roll your eyes and slap your hand on top of the cardboard box.

“Move.” You order, and you can feel him back off from behind you. When you finally turn to face him, he’s already looking at you. His hands are tugging mindlessly at the stethoscope around his neck — you’d noticed a long time ago that he usually needed to be doing something with his hands. To ask him to sit still and do nothing for five minutes was as good as medieval torture. It was endearing most of the time, although a bouncing leg or a mindless tapping of his pen could get annoying. You don’t indulge him, instead you pull out a chair from the table and slap the cardboard box down.

Although you’re not in the most talkative of moods, you’re glad that he’s here. Truth be told, he was probably the only one you could handle being around at the moment.

You’d met him when you’d first started your residency at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical, not too long ago although it now felt like a lifetime. He’d been even cockier then, if that was even possible — a scrappy, difficult, smartass who had to learn things the rough way before he developed a begrudging admiration for Robby, which would later turn into a mutual bond. In those days, you remembered fondly, he often had unshaven stubble and a shadow under his eyes; those who didn’t know any better would think him a med student for all the time he spent here. You’d gotten along with him even then, even when people found his humor irritating and his doctoring methods questionable. Granted, the road had not always been smooth; there’d been a lot of banter in those early days. Well, maybe calling it banter was being a little too nice. Usually, he’d say something irritating, and you’d respond with something that would make him crack a smile of amusement. And other times he’d say something to make you laugh, genuinely, and he’d smile in response to that, too.

But the fun that came with the back and forth was only part of why the two of you had ultimately ended up being so close. Frank was smart, genuinely smart. Anyone, you’d learned, could memorize stuff from books and lectures and hours and hours of classes and tests, spit out the facts that they’d been forced to memorized like they were computers accessing files; and most did. But Frank knew people and because he knew people he knew his business. Most doctors you’d worked with diagnosed them and treated them like the print advised them to treat them. Frank would diagnose them and then treat them to get better whether it was textbook or not, and he did it in the span of a few seconds or the span of a few days. There was a genuine care that was veiled by the guise of a blunt sense of humor. Perhaps your ability to see past the veil was what had allowed you two to work so excellently together at the beginning, and later become a duo not unlike … well, whatever duo worked together really well.

“You’re a popular girl.” Frank murmurs, pulling a chair to sit, uninvited, next to you. You scoff and roll your eyes, fiddling with the pizza box as you try to decide whether you’re hungry or just upset. It’s unsurprising, the fact that the news of your flip - out on a patient’s concerned father has made the rounds so quickly. “Want me to try it first, make sure it’s not too moldy?” Frank asks after a beat, nodding towards the box. He’s worried, even if he’s trying to disguise it with a stupid tease. You can hear it in his tone. When you work with somebody almost every day, you get to tell what every single inflection means, every single pitch.

“You see me freak out?” You ask, turning your head as your rest your cheek in your hand.

“Uh, no, but you did that screeching thing you do when you get really mad.”

“Fuck you.” You have to try not to crack a smile. “I didn’t screech.”

It’s almost like just sitting in the room with him is relieving a tenseness you hadn’t even realized had been so heavy on you, like his voice was dusting a layer of soot away from your insides.

“Okay I wasn’t there, but Perlah said it got pretty ugly.” Frank drags the pizza box towards himself, then gets up with it, wandering over towards the microwave.

“Perlah said! Perlah’ll say anything if it’s good gossip.”

“Well, I gotta keep myself entertained somehow, and if you’re not gonna talk, Perlah’s my next best option.” Frank manages to find a plate to put what you imagine your slice, and you have to hand it to him — he’s got you backed into a corner where you have to answer.

“It wasn’t that bad.” You insist after a moment after Frank puts your pizza in to heat up, and then rotates to face you. “It’s just. Parents, you know. Sometimes they can be … “ you trail off as you search for the right word. “Irritating.”

“Stupid.” Frank agrees, giving the word that you were a little too nice to say outright. “I swear to God, I don’t know how some of them raise a whole person.”

“They’re raising a person that’s gonna end up with a bunch of disorders.” You joke, which pries a chuckle out of Frank as he pulls your food out of the microwave.

“When you flip your shit on a parent next time, can you make sure I’m there to watch? Or better yet, I’ll record it and then play it at your funeral in fifty years.” He puts the plate down in front of you, then sits back down with the box in front of him.

“You’re insane if you think you think you’re gonna be invited to my funeral. And I’m gonna outlive you anyway.” You smile. It’s strange thing to think of you two staying friends for so long, but then again it’s almost like you can’t even remember what it had been like when you didn’t see Frank most every day. You two were practically joined at the hip whenever you were on shift together, working together in sync the way doctors rarely did. It was no surprise that the rumors had begun to spark just a week or two after you two had just met. You wouldn’t be surprised if there was actually a monetary pool surrounding the idea if you two had actually slept together, considering that you’d been asked more than once if you two were an item. There were a thousand reasons to shoot it down — dating in the workplace, especially one where so much hinges on trust and teamwork, a fallout would be the last thing anyone needed. And you two had been friends for so long, there was the fear that anything more would ruin what you had already. But then again, there was the looks that lasted a little too long — the flirtations that lingered somewhere between a joke and the real thing that made you wonder if there could be something more.

“Besides,” You continue, braving the hot slice of pizza enough to gingerly pick it up, “If there’s any ‘next time’, Robby’s gonna kick my ass all the way around the block.”

“No, he’s not.” Frank picks his own slice from the box, and you do little to hide your somewhat judgmental facial expression as he takes a bite from it, ice-cold. “You’re clearly the favorite. Unless you, I don’t know, kill someone, he’ll always let you off easy.”

“Easy for you to say, you weren’t in here.”

“Did he do the face?”

“What face?”

“You know, the face. The face he does so you know he’s really disappointed in you.”

“Frank, I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Like this.” He says, dropping his piece down and then doing his best arms - crossed, head tilt, eyebrow raise Robby — an imitation that looks so stupid on Frank that you can’t help but laugh. You have to hand it to him, though. It’s a pretty accurate disappointed depiction.

“You’ve had a lot of experience with that?” You ask, unable to tamper down your grin as he smiles back at you.

“Absolutely more than my fair share.”

“Poor you.” You coo mockingly, and it’s his turn to roll his eyes as he chuckles.

A silence drifts over the both of you. Frank’s chuckle fades into a gentle smile as he observes you in a way that almost makes you nervous.

“You okay though? Seriously?” He asks, playful tone fading into something more genuine.

“Uh,” you shrug. “I dunno. Weird day.”

“Well it’s a slow day at the office. I can see if he’ll let you knock off early.” The fact that he’s willing to brave a likely already pissed off Robby for you is definitely sweet, and the offer of going home is enticing.

“I have patients.” You try to use that as

your excuse, but Frank is already shaking his head.

“I can take care of them, don’t sweat it.”

“You sure?”

“Look who you’re talking to.”

“Oh, I forgot. You’re Superman.” You mock, but Frank looks prideful at the obvious poke. “Nah, it’ll be okay. If you pick up my shift there’s bound to be speculation. More speculation.”

“What speculation?” He tries to play it off innocently, but you know better. The sly smile ticking across his features is enough to make you shake your head at him, tongue poking into your cheek to try and quell a matching smile.

“You know exactly what speculation, you’re too smart not too.” You remark like it’s supposed to be an insult, yet there’s a certain sort of softness to it as you look at him. The gesture, even if you had not taken up him on it, was an impossibly sweet one. Even if was a “slow day”, as Frank put it, that guaranteed nothing. It could be that things could pick up if you did leave, or that one of your patients could have difficulties, leaving him with a lot to juggle with his and yours. Not to mention the ruthless teasing that he would be sure to endure. You pick up the pizza slice — mostly cool by now — with the intention of finishing it off.

Frank watches you with the same gentle expression on his face as you do so. Had you been intent on going back home, he would have convinced Robby to let you — but then again, he knew you had the same sort of stubbornness that he did, and you weren’t likely to take him up on the offer even if there was cause for more concern. Had he thought there was something seriously wrong, he would have coaxed you into taking the day off. But just like you knew him, he knew you. He knew every tick of your face, what every inflection meant and every offhanded remark. He knew you the way he knew his own mind. There was no doubt in his mind that it was just one of those days; but even if you weren’t going home, he made a mental note to watch you for the rest of your shift, make sure you were really alright. After all, when Perlah had said something about your “flip - out”, he could feel the concern grip him like a rock in his stomach almost immediately. Dana had given him a knowing look when he’d asked where you were so he could check on you. You were right, he wasn’t taking a whole lot of care to avoid fanning any flames of speculation about the both of you; but it wasn’t like they were baseless, either. He cared about you so much it was almost stupid.

“Compliments will get you everywhere, my friend.” He returns with a cocky half smile that you were so familiar with as you turn put your plate in the sink behind you. For a break room, it sure is cramped if you don’t even have to stand up to do so. There’s another bout of silence as you look back at him. Even though he’s hidden it under a mask of light humor, you can still see the slight worry in his eyes. He wouldn’t have hung around this long if he genuinely didn’t want to make sure you would be alright. Again, there’s a slight pang in your chest — a momentary question of what if.

“Thanks for hanging out with me, though.” You say, trying to make it sound casual.

You can tell that the sudden genuineness catches him a little off guard. His cocky half smile fades into something almost unsure; his fingers tap at his knee like a nervous fidget.

“Yeah, you know,” he tries to shrug it off. “I’m around here. A lot. And I like you, so.” You blink, cock your head a little as he shakes his head, tries to reword his statement. “I mean, we’re friends. I wanna know you’re okay.”

Objectively you’ve never seen him so nervous, not even when Robby’s voice boomed across the pit in the tone he uses when he means business and not when the occasional patient, stunning, blonde, and, let’s face it, with a rack that would be the envy of almost any woman flirted shamelessly with him. He’s always been the picture of suave, knowing exactly which lines to say and how to look. But with you, he’s like a high - schooler on a first date. It’s like you disarm him completely — and the shyness seems to be catching.

Barely audible is his name on your lips. Perhaps you meant something to come after it other than the kiss that was maybe him or maybe you or maybe the both of you — almost timid at first and quickly something more intimate; something finally released that had too long been locked away behind harmless flirtations and barely disguised jokes, behind whispered rumors and the knowing looks the nurses and other doctors would give whenever the two of you would pass by, practically matching each other in your strides. Any trace of denial that you two had maintained for the years you’d been here was wiped away in the moment. When you finally pull away from him, your mind is spinning; but it’s almost like an invisible weight has been lifted from you, and you can’t help the subtle smile that plays across your expression.

“So.” He murmurs, practically against your lips still.

“So.”

“We should probably get back.”

“Probably.”

And then he kisses you again, quicker this time, something much more domestic, like he already could get used to kissing you in the days ahead, weeks … years? Yet he didn’t want to get ahead of himself. Even if it was hard not to.

You’re the one to get up first, considering that he’s still looking at you like you’re a muse of some sort. Whatever cloud had been hanging over your head, he had managed to whisk away completely.

“Come on.” You urge as you move to open the door, and with the instruction, it’s like he’s snapped out of some sort of reverie. He gets up out of his chair, wasting no time in following the command, and beats you to pulling open the door as if your kiss has turned him into some sort of gentleman.

“Doing anything tonight?” He asks softly as you fall in step with him, the two of you cautious to avoid any curious glances your way. You crack a grin at how quickly he gets to work, yet something about it is endearing.

“Besides sleeping?” You quirk, and you half expect him to make some lewd comment in reply, but he skips it.

“I have some excellent week - old Chinese food in my refrigerator.” He offers, and you snort and nod, taking a beat to try and come up with a satisfactory reply.

“Hard to turn down free food.” You finally come up with, and you can’t help but think that it’s cute that eyes seem to shine with hope. “We’ll see how this shift goes?”

“Heard.” He responds, before Whitaker snags his attention by calling out his name. As he strides towards the direction the voice came from, he turns on his heel to give you one last glance — one that is impossible not to grin at.

[allmightstoehair]

continuation oneshot from argument with bakugo post 😊requested by @ch3rryjampi3!

GENRE: smau || oneshot || kinda short

ignore the times!

You stared at the last line for longer than you’d ever admit. Your thumb hovered over the screen to shoot him a ‘fuck off’ text, but something about it made your eyebrows crease. Bakugo never pleaded. Never asked for anything from you. With reluctance, your frame lifted off of the couch and you hauled yourself to your feet. The show that was playing on the TV in front of you no longer had your attention. With a sigh sharp enough to slice through your pride, you pushed yourself off the couch. Whatever show was playing in front of you had long since faded into white noise, just like the buzz of conversation around the common room. Kaminari laughed too loudly at something on his phone. Mina was curled up beside Sero, giggling over a video. But none of it touched you. Your thoughts were already three floors up, standing outside Bakugo’s door. The walk was quiet. Too quiet. You were hyperaware of the way your socks barely made a sound on the dorm floors, of how fast your heart was beating despite the silence.

You didn’t bother knocking. Not when the door creaked open the second you raised your hand.

He was already there—like he’d been standing on the other side, waiting. His shoulders were tense, arms crossed, lips parted like he was halfway through a sentence he couldn’t start. He looked at you like he wasn’t sure you’d actually come.

“…Hey,” he said, voice low.

“Hey,” you replied, just as flat.

He moved aside wordlessly, letting you in. The room was clean. Of course it was. Everything in its place, because that’s how he tried to keep control. Even when his temper frayed, even when things spiraled, Bakugo kept his space neat—like he could make order out of chaos if he folded a blanket just right. “Look. I’ve been…thinkin’ about it. Talked to the idiots. And I don’t like how I feel without you. I know I—“ he doesn’t usually talk as calm as he is right now, so he clears his throat. It’s scratchy from yelling all the time and he’s not used to actually talking. “I was a dick. After I got kidnapped by the League…I pushed you away because I was scared. I wasn’t ready for love. For your love.” He grunted softly.

“It—just the idea of it scared the hell out of me. It wasn’t fair to you and I’m…sorry or whatev…” He stopped himself, narrowing his eyes. “I’m sorry.” Your eyes trailed over his body language. It wasn’t like anything you had seen in Bakugo, but it wasn’t unwelcome. Your lips twitched into a frown and you sighed.

“….I—I appreciate it, kats-uki. I really do, but you know it’s not going to fix everything.” Your voice trailed and you refused to use the nickname you had given him. He huffs and he nods, looking up to glare at you like you were trying to be Captain Obvious.

“tchyeah, I know that. but you should know it all anyway. better than keeping you…in the dark.” he shrugs.

You run a hand over your arm and roll your shoulders back. The words jumbled up and you didn’t know what to really say to him. You weren’t broken up, just…on a break? Still, that didn’t mean you’d jump right back into things so soon. “So what does this mean?…”

“I dunno,” he admitted, voice low and rough. “I ain’t expectin’ you to come runnin’ back. I just…”

He took a step forward, slow and careful, like you were something fragile. And in his own way, he was too. “I just needed you to know I’m trying. Not ‘cause I want you to drop it or forgive me right away. But because you deserve the effort.”

Your lips parted slightly, breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat. “I don’t want this to be the end,” he said. “But if you do… if you’re done… I’ll back off.”

“…No..,” you said finally, and his eyes snapped to yours. “But I need time.”

“Mnn..” he nods and figures he shouldn’t step any closer. He’ll give you all the time you need. He can wait.

[kindaasrikal]

OH MY GOD

Morro’s character perfectly portrays the sin of greed, both in the perspective of himself and in the perspective of others actions.

Looking at it in the perspective of how he himself portrays it, it’s quite obvious. Morro actively causes his own demise due to wanting more than he already had, likely influenced by his time on the streets, and no thats not me saying ‘poor people are greedy!!!’. I mean in the sense of what he personally went through and how he had to force himself into toughening up to survive. Morro couldn’t afford to be kind, soft, and shy, like how he seemed to be shown when he first met Wu and was shown kindness, as well as when he first discovered his element.

They very purposefully presented him as a child who is far more innocent and sweet before the want for more took over.

Its due to that time on the streets and scavenging for more, likely prioritising his own safety rather than others (which is actually shown through other characters, the orphans who were with Morro when looking through Wu’s trash and then proceeded to run away the second they saw Wu come out without telling Morro. This was a behaviour that was likely shared amongst most of the orphans in that area and around that age), that led him to cling onto gaining more when told he could be more.

Tell me, how would a young child who had nothing, react when being told they could have everything? They would clearly cling to that idea.

Of course, as i have talked about before, Morro’s motivations wasn’t solely based on the want for more in general and for power (it was also based on factors like gaining Wu’s approval and achieving his expectations, Morro’s overall stubbornness that causes most of it, as well as his lack of any form of identity outside of it all) however those two things were very likely two important factors that made him continue wanting to be the green ninja even decades later.

Whatever innocent or naive or traumatised excuse/explanation that could’ve been given no longer hold equal or as much weight when applied to Morro in season 5, who clearly ends up wanting the green gi due to power (in multiple forms, not just power in terms of physically) more than anything else.

However, looking at how Morro represents the sin of Greed in the perspective of OTHERS is far more interesting when you think about it. I’ll try to keep this brief.

Wu, who was desperate to find the green ninja and impatient. Now, thats not to say Wu was greedy when he got the idea of Morro being the green ninja. Instead, understand it in the idea of how impatience fuels greed. When someone is impatient it is usually due to wanting something in a short amount of time, being greedy in terms of not waiting and rushing something that needs time or shouldn’t happen to begin with. Wu shows the sin of greed by (unfortunately) being the reason Morro became so greedy and for letting his impatience feed into that, as well as learning to not be greedy for more in a short period of time, and instead let things happen as they naturally should.

The Preeminent, who was likely the creature that fed into Morro’s greed to manipulate him onto helping fulfil her own. The Preeminent’s is not portrayed as a creature who is as sentient as we are, though she does have some form of sentience that is higher than usual. She had a more innocent version of greed in terms of her having less complications thoughts and seemingly only wanting more because she herself desires it. Innocent is definitely not the right word for it but i can’t think of anything else. She was greedy for more cursed souls, to escape her own realm, to take over all the realms, and to control all souls with an overwhelming amount of power. She actively used Morro and his own greed (whilst also amplifying it) to have him allow her to have her own greed fulfilled.

Shockingly enough, Lloyd, as a character who was greedy yet was no longer anything of the such. We all clearly remember Lloyd’s time as a child and his own desire for power (fuelled by naivety and neglect he’s just a tiny little guy). Later, he loses that sense of greed and instead gains a sense of selflessness (that honesty does more harm than good sometimes). He’s a perfect representation of freeing yourself from the control of your desires and greed to allow yourself a kinder life.

Theres also Kai, who was also greedy for power (with different reasons and motivations) and let go of it for Lloyd and the other ninja.

Last but not least, Garmadon. Garmadon is an amazing example of an individual who struggles with their greed and desires.

All of these character represent greed in various forms, yet nonetheless they are all the same things and lead to the same outcome. Something harmful to each of them.

All these character connect to Morro well with his story, with Kai being in the exact same position as Morro at one point, Lloyd being the one possessed by Morro in his greed as well as having that same childlike naivety and selfishness Morro did, Wu being Morro’s sensei as well as the starting point for his greed, the Preeminent being the key player in Morro’s greed growing as large as it had and leading him to make bad decisions due to it, and Garmadon whose story and life is uncomfortably similar to Morro’s whilst also suffering through an entire lifetime of fighting his desires and greed until eventually having it take over.

And yet now in Dragons Rising, all forms of greed have left Morro, leaving him sacrificing his entire existence for the sake of protecting others.

He makes me SICKKK IM CRASHING OUT MANNN

Sorry this is probably written a bit messily and like i trailed off and didn’t complete my point but its 5am guyssss :(

[badbatchdalorian]

Safe & Sound

MEDIA: The Bad Batch (2021-2024) CHARACTERS: Hunter & Omega RATING: G TAGS: Mentioned Crosshair, Mentioned Wrecker, Mentioned Tech, Mentioned Echo, Post-Episode: s03e04 A Different Approach, Canon Compliant (so yes tech's death is alluded to i'm sorry), Hunter is Omega's Parent, Hunter is Trying, Soft Hunter, POV Hunter, Protective Hunter, Good Sibling Hunter, Hunter Needs A Hug, Hunter Angst, Hunter-centric, Parental Hunter, Good Sibling Omega, Hunter & Omega-centric, Fluff and Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Omega Needs a Hug, Omega Gets a Hug, Hunter Gets a Hug SUMMARY: Hunter is Omega's safest space in the galaxy, and the night she returns home, he's determined to remind her of that, despite his own self-doubt. cross-posted from ao3

The Marauder was quiet, but it wasn’t the same kind of silence that had been suffocating Hunter for countless months. This one was peaceful, pierced only by the gentle sounds of three familiar, soothing heartbeats in his sensitive soundscape—and a new fourth one, belonging to the only non-human on board.

Hunter still couldn’t quite believe it. He was sitting in the cockpit now, gazing out at the stars as the rest of the squad slept, but even in his silent solitude, he couldn’t bring himself to terms with the fact that they were together again. After so much searching… crossing the galaxy five times… they had finally found her.

No, she had found them. And she had managed to bring along the brother Hunter never thought he would ever have returned to him.

Things with Crosshair were bound to get complicated—kriff, they already were, as Hunter allowed himself to acknowledge some of the unresolved bitterness festering deep within his chest—but beneath it all was Hunter’s genuine relief that Crosshair was truly back with them, and he was okay. Their other brother had given his life to try to make that possible.

His sacrifice was worth something again. Now, all Hunter could do was protect those he had left. He owed it to their fallen brother to make sure of that at all costs.

Hunter heard an unfamiliar snore, and he huffed quietly to himself as he spared a glance back towards the bunks. He was amused that the lurca hound Omega had named Batcher was sleeping with Crosshair, who had been acting like he wasn’t fond of the creature’s company. Clearly, Batcher recognized that Crosshair needed the comfort of a creature like herself, especially when he wasn’t ready to accept it from his estranged brothers.

Hunter hoped that would change. It was going to take more introspection on his part, and that alone was going to be hard work, but he was willing to do it. He had lost enough brothers already. He wouldn’t lose Crosshair, too. Not again.

The sergeant straightened when he suddenly heard something else, a different kind of motion that originated from somewhere further back inside the Marauder. He spun around and saw Omega tiptoeing her way down the ladder from the gunner’s mount. As she turned to head towards the cockpit, she offered Hunter a sheepish smile, as if she was embarrassed that she had been caught by him.

If only she knew how much the sight of her meant to him, especially now. Hunter couldn’t even find it in him to be upset about the fact that she wasn’t getting the sleep she so desperately needed.

To be fair, he was avoiding rest, too. He didn’t want to fall asleep and risk all of this being a mere dream.

Hunter waited until Omega had crossed the threshold of the cockpit to start speaking. “Hey, kid.” His low timbre was soft, minding their sleeping brothers as he watched her take the seat opposite from his own. He leaned his elbows against his knees and tried not to make the concern in his once-over of her leaner form so obvious. “Can’t sleep?”

Omega gave her head an aimless shake. “I just…” She pulled her legs up to her chest like she used to when she was younger. It reminded Hunter of that night they spent here together after Bracca and Bora Vio. “I can’t believe it.”

Hunter let out a gentle hum. “Can’t believe what?”

“That I’m actually back.”

Omega looked with awe at the viewport, and Hunter watched the stars flicker in her disbelieving eyes. Something in his chest ached when he realized there was a certain light that had completely faded from her gaze—no doubt something Hemlock and the Empire had taken from her.

He tightened his hands into fists. “I’m sorry it took so long.”

Omega frowned at him and shook her head. “It’s not your fault.” Her gaze softened as she went on. “I never gave up on you, and I know you didn’t give up on me, either. I always knew you and Wrecker were trying to find me.”

Hunter watched as he wrung his hands together. Flashes of the darkest moments from the last five months haunted him like shadows, bringing out the worst parts of himself and amplifying them until they nearly swallowed him whole.

He had been too close to descending into desperate madness. Without Wrecker—and Echo and Rex whenever they could be there—he surely would have lost himself completely.

But of course Omega never gave up hope in them, even when Hunter had felt so hopeless. She was his guiding light for a reason.

Hunter was able to muster up a small, genuine smile for her, but said nothing. Omega continued to fill the space.

“I knew I’d make it back somehow. But, now that I’m actually here…” Omega looked back at the stars and gave her head an aimless shake. “It sounds weird to say, but I’m scared that if I go back to sleep, then…”

“You’ll wake up and find out it was just another dream.”

Omega’s head snapped over to Hunter as he finished her thought. “Exactly.” She blinked at him a few times as her brow furrowed in a way that reminded the sergeant far too much of himself. “How’d you know that?”

Hunter huffed. “There’s a reason why I’m not sleeping, either.”

Omega instantly softened again as she considered him. She then sat up straighter and let go of her legs, lowering them until she was sitting in the chair normally. Hunter’s brow rose in wordless confusion at her sudden shift in posture.

Omega’s voice was quieter than usual when she finally responded. “You had dreams, too?”

Hunter unclenched his fists and nodded. He didn’t speak just yet; he was still observing Omega’s change in behavior. She was clearly more guarded as she tightened her lips and looked down at her lap.

“I never really thought about how hard this all must have been on you guys, too.” Omega spared Hunter a heartbreaking look. “I’m sorry.”

“Omega.” Hunter was soft yet stern as he addressed her. Thankfully, she held his stare as he went on. “You shouldn’t be apologizing for any of this. Like you told me before, it’s not your fault.” His jaw tightened hard enough to make it ache. “It’s the Empire’s.”

“Yeah.” Omega’s voice sounded as distant as her gaze was, even though she forced a smile at Hunter as if she was trying to convince him that she was truly present. “But you don’t have to worry about me anymore. I’m okay now.”

Hunter’s slowly healing heart shattered at that. He should have found consolation in Omega’s words, because he never had a reason not to believe her—but that was before Tantiss. The little girl who had been taken from him wasn’t the same girl who had come back.

Hunter was excited to get to know her, the new parts of her, but that could wait until she was healing. Right now, she wasn’t, and she was trying to convince him of the opposite.

It was a behavior he could spot easily, because he had been doing so for his brothers for years. Whether it was physical wounds they were hiding or something deeper, Hunter had learned to specialize in reading his brothers and ensuring they received the proper treatment, attention, and comfort that they needed. It was different for all of them, but by the end of the war, Hunter had it down to a science—even for Echo, who had still been new to their squad at that point.

Omega had been easy to learn initially. She was still a child, which meant that she wore her heart on her sleeve more than his brothers. It didn’t take a genius like Tech, however, to recognize that something had changed in Omega while she was in Tantiss. She wouldn’t have been able to be so vulnerable in the cruel clutches of a regime as oppressive as the Empire.

She had created her own armor, and now, Hunter had to learn how to gently dismantle it. First, though, he had to find out why she had suddenly put it back on.

Hunter let out a soft exhale before he finally spoke. “It’s okay to not be ‘okay,’ Omega.” His voice unintentionally wavered as he went on. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through.”

I should’ve been there to protect you from it.

Omega’s hardened exterior cracked just the smallest amount at that, but it was gone in a flash, drowned out by the sound of her quickening heartbeat. “I didn’t have it so bad.” She spared a look back towards the bunks. “Crosshair and the other clones had it a lot worse. At least I wasn’t in a cell.”

Hunter folded his hands together and softened his naturally rough voice even more. “That doesn’t mean it wasn’t hard for you, too.”

Omega’s gaze fell to the floor. Her shoulders tensed, as if she was tightening the straps on her invisible armor. Hunter ignored the sharp ache in his chest and went on.

“You care so much about everyone you meet, Omega. It’s your greatest gift. It’s changed all of us for the better.” Hunter pushed past the sudden lump in his throat. “Especially me.”

That drew Omega’s attention. Her eyes betrayed her disbelief as Hunter opened up the most vulnerable parts of himself to her. It was one of the hardest things he had ever done, but he would gladly bleed himself dry if it meant helping, and saving, her.

“But… like with any gift, bad people can twist it against you. That’s what Hemlock and the Empire did. Maybe they didn’t physically do anything as bad to you as they did to the others, but even just making you watch was enough to hurt you just as much.”

Omega deflated. Hunter could see the slow fracturing of her composure, but she was still gripping onto it with white-knuckled fingers. Her hands tightened on her legs as she spoke in a low, uncharacteristic croak.

“Crosshair wouldn’t tell me what they were doing to him. But I passed him every day in the corridor, and he… he looked so defeated.”

Omega’s voice wobbled. Hunter resisted the urge to reach out and take her into his arms, instead planting himself where he was in the chair across from her and proving she had his devout attention.

“I had to be strong for him, Hunter.” Omega’s stare met his, but it must have been too much for her, as she quickly averted it and looked down towards the floor. “He was so… hopeless.”

She paused. Hunter didn’t speak. He could barely even breathe. If hearing this was enough to hurt him worse than any physical wound, then he couldn’t imagine what it was like for her.

He wanted to fight the whole galaxy for putting his little girl through this.

“It wasn’t so bad until I… I had to tell him.” Omega hiccuped on a breath, no doubt shoving down a sob as she once again tightened her shoulders and threw on her metaphorical armor. She glanced almost helplessly at Hunter. “I had to tell him, Hunter.”

Omega didn’t have to say what it was. Hunter knew. It twisted in his stomach like the blade inside his gauntlet, sending a searing, blistering pain through the most tender parts of himself. Hunter forced himself to ignore the unhealed wound as he kept his focus on her.

“He asked a lot of questions. I answered them the best I could. But when I told him why we were there when it happened, and what we were doing…”

Omega paused again, her lips trembling. She only continued when she had regained some semblance of her composure.

“He wouldn’t talk to me. I thought he was angry, but when I got up to walk away, I heard him.”

She sniffed and looked away from Hunter, hiding her face the best she could. Her voice was a haunted whisper.

“I’ve never heard someone cry like that.”

Hunter closed his eyes and hung his head. The idea of it alone was enough to make heat burn at the back of his eyes. He hadn’t exactly taken the space to mourn Tech himself; between the squad’s injuries at the time and Omega’s capture, Hunter simply hadn’t allowed himself to really think about it.

But this wasn’t the time, either. Right now, he had to be present for Omega, because her wound was even more raw than his—and she had to be the one to open up Crosshair’s, too, as if she hadn’t already been going through enough on Tantiss.

It was all so karked, and so unfair. Dwelling on that wouldn’t help anyone or change anything, though. Hunter had to do what he could with the shattered pieces of his family to put them back together, and right now, he was going to start with his kid.

Hunter reopened his eyes and lifted his head. Omega was curled away from him, her hands kneading the material of her pants as she fought desperately to cling to her composure.

“Omega.”

Hunter’s voice was so gentle and quiet that it was nothing but a breath that floated along the cockpit’s tense air. He was swift in the way he rose from his chair and kneeled down by Omega’s. He held the sides of it the way he had when he made that promise to her long ago, and although he hadn’t been able to keep that one, he would sooner die than break this one.

“Look at me.”

The order was softer than the ones Hunter was typically used to giving as a sergeant. Omega took a visible breath before she obeyed, her trembling lips straightening into a line as her teary eyes opened.

The amber gaze staring back at him was the same one Hunter used to see in the reflectors around Kamino. That, along with the blonde pieces of hair that escaped her ponytail, made it all too easy for him to know exactly what she was going through, because it was exactly what he had put himself through when he was her age.

It wasn’t supposed to be that way, though. She wasn’t supposed to have to go through this. Hunter was supposed to have saved her from that, to have given her the childhood they never got to have.

He might have failed in that regard, but he would stop at nothing to preserve what little of her childhood he still could.

“You’ve been strong. So much stronger than anyone your age should ever have to be.” Hunter dared to lift a hand to brush some of the hair back from her face. “I’m so proud of you for that.”

Omega didn’t flinch away from his touch. Instead, she leaned into it just the slightest amount, as if her body was fighting her heart.

“But you don’t have to be that strong anymore. Not with me.” Hunter took one of her anxious hands in his and nodded. “You’re safe now.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “I promise.”

Hunter would understand if she didn’t believe him. After all, he had let her be taken to Tantiss in the first place—and then he hadn’t even been the one to find and rescue her. He had failed her.

But he wouldn’t fail her again.

Still, Hunter waited for Omega to scoff and remind him of his critical failures. He would never blame her for reacting like that. It was a nightmare he’d had more than once before, after all; he could, and would, bear it again for her.

But that wasn’t what she did. Instead, Omega crumbled the same way she had when she first saw Hunter outside the Marauder. She let the invisible armor tumble from her trembling form as she slid down from the chair to practically fall into Hunter’s waiting arms, her grasp tightening around his neck as she clung to him for dear life.

Hunter held her just as tightly. He kept her tucked against his chest, his eyes closed as he set his chin on top of her head. He placed a firm hand between her shaking shoulder blades, running soothing circles there as the dam she had built over the last few months finally broke.

Through her quiet, muffled sobs, Hunter’s senses were still able to string together her nearly incoherent words. “I just wanted you, Hunter.” Her arms squeezed tighter. “All I wanted was you.”

Her words knocked the air from Hunter’s lungs and made it hard to breathe for a moment, but he recovered quickly for her sake, holding her closer as he spoke in a soft, steady voice. “I’m here. I’m here now.” He buried his face in her head and let out an exhale. “You’re safe.”

Hunter repeated these reassurances to Omega as she cried out whatever tears she had left. It was just as healing for him as it was for her; he had been haunted by the phantom of her lively spirit in the emptiness of the Marauder for so long that it was still hard to believe his nightmare was coming to an end, and that she really was here in his arms. Holding her like this, and speaking to her like this, was a balm to his wounded soul.

Once Omega had caught her breath enough to speak more coherently, she let out a shaky exhale and only slightly loosened her grasp on Hunter. “I missed everyone, but… I always feel safest when I’m with you.” She lifted her arm to wipe her eyes. “That hasn’t changed.”

The dark shadow of bitter failure loomed in the back of Hunter’s mind and obscured the ray of light Omega’s reassurance attempted to bring him. He fought the sudden tension in his shoulders and let out a light sigh. “You don’t have to say that just to make me feel better.”

“I’m not.”

Omega’s sadness and desperation was traded for determination in an instant as she sat up from where she had burrowed herself in Hunter’s neck and shoulder to face him.

“I trust you to protect me.” She lifted a hand to Hunter’s tattooed cheek, her brow furrowed in severity as her amber eyes flitted between his own. “I always have.”

Hunter wanted to be convinced by the breathtaking amount of honesty in both her stare and her words, but that dark shadow of doubt remained, sticking like tar to the most vulnerable parts of himself that only Omega had ever been able to reach. Still, the warmth of her touch began to bleed through his pain as he spoke around the sudden lump in his throat.

“Omega… they took you. They took you and I couldn’t even find you.” Hunter couldn’t face her anymore. His gaze fell as he straightened himself the same way she had before. “I understand if you don’t trust me the way you did before.” 

Because I failed you.

“Don’t say that. None of this is your fault.” Omega lowered her hand to hold both his shoulders in her tightened grasp. “You gave me an order on Ord Mantell, and I disobeyed it. It was my choice, Hunter.” She knit her brow together, never once looking away from his devastated gaze. “You did everything you could. I’ve never blamed you for this.”

Omega lifted her chin, portraying strength in a way that was different than before—and much more familiar. It was a stark contrast to the tear stains on her cheeks, along with those that continued to sit upon her waterline.

“I never lost faith in you. You would’ve found us if we hadn’t gotten out first.” She offered Hunter the best smile she could manage. “I bet you were close already, weren’t you?”

Hunter shrugged. He wished he could go along with her sweet optimism, but the monster who had consumed him over the last few months wouldn’t quiet down enough for that. “We had a few leads, but… it wasn’t close enough.” He shook his head, recalling the pit that had opened up inside his stomach when the data from Hemlock’s destroyed lab had only come back with a single system. “It was never enough to save you.”

Omega’s gaze softened even as her determined exterior remained firm. “It was what I learned from watching you, Hunter, that saved me.”

She paused and lifted her hands from his shoulders, instead holding the sides of his face as she went on.

“You taught me to be strong. You’re the reason Crosshair and I made it here at all, even if you weren’t there with us. You, and Wrecker, and Echo, and… and Tech, too.”

The name hit Hunter like an unexpected uppercut, forcing his eyes closed as his unhealed wound tore open. Omega’s words, however, crept in more and more, stitching his wound and his heart back together as he mused upon the truth of them.

She really had become so much like him—like all of them. Hunter could see the glimpses of all his brothers, old and new, within her, making her into a mosaic of who Clone Force 99 had been and still was. She was everything he had ever hoped for his squad to be and more.

And that had saved her. It had gotten her out of that wretched place. Maybe it didn’t matter that Hunter wasn’t the one to fly in and come to her rescue. To know that he played some kind of role in helping her escape, even if it wasn’t physical, healed him in a way no amount of bacta ever could.

Hunter hadn’t realized a tear had escaped his closed eye until Omega was already brushing it away from his cheek. He looked at her and watched as her own eyes brimmed with more unshed tears, though her trembling lips were still managing a smile for him.

He refused to shatter now. Omega had been picking up the pieces of herself and Crosshair for too long already. Hunter wouldn’t make her do the same for him.

Instead, he gently wrapped a hand around the back of Omega’s neck to ease her forehead to his own in an affectionate gesture that was long overdue for the two of them. It was only when she was close enough to see clearly into the depths of his vulnerable soul that Hunter dared to speak, his rough voice strained by the genuine, heavy meaning behind each word.

“Thank you.”

He wanted to say so much more, but he wasn’t sure how. It was against a soldier’s nature to give anyone a window into the complex feelings that swirled like a storm within him, even if he wanted to learn how to. It would be a lesson for another day, though, and Omega would understand. She always had.

And Hunter was right. The smile that broke out on Omega’s lips was worth every single painful moment Hunter had been through in the last few months. With the exception of her immediate reunion with both himself and Wrecker, it was the happiest he had seen her ever since they had left Pabu.

Omega’s voice was quiet yet meaningful when she finally responded. “You don’t have to thank me, Hunter.” Her smile remained as her kind eyes searched his. “I just want you to feel as safe with me as I feel with you.”

Hunter didn’t have to force the smile that overtook his own lips. “I already do.”

His hand slid up to the back of Omega’s head, minding her small ponytail, as he eased it upon his shoulder. Her grasp tightened around his neck again, though this time, her body completely relaxed against his. She let out a soft, content sigh, a sound that washed Hunter over in waves of relief.

Everything was far from perfect still. Hunter didn’t know half of what she had actually been through, and there were traces of guilt and determination in her eyes that warned him of a mission she had already given herself. In this moment, however, none of that mattered.

What mattered was that she was safe, and she was here—and she was on her way to healing.

Omega only continued to relax more against Hunter, adding more weight that he could easily handle. He was careful as he rose from their place on the floor of the Marauder to return to the chair where he had been before. He kept Omega where she was against him, letting her lay upon him as he stared out at the stars over her head.

She was gently kneading the fabric around his neck, a sure sign that she was trying to keep herself from falling asleep. Hunter let out a soft hum and patted her back.

“You can go to sleep. I promise I’ll still be here when you wake up.” Hunter let Wrecker’s and Crosshair’s familiar heartbeats brush up against his soundscape along with hers. “We all will.”

Omega didn’t need more convincing. It only took a minute or two for her breathing to slow, and her heart rate leveled out to one that matched the slower rhythm of their brothers’. The familiar harmony of all three of them, even without the two others that had once completed his symphony, was enough to make him feel more like himself than he had in a long, long time.

He was back in his solitude, but it wasn’t the same this time. Hunter wasn’t preyed upon by the shadows that had all but consumed him around the empty ship that had become a haunted house. He wasn’t trapped within the bottomless pit of his own desperation and self-loathing. Instead, he was genuinely, truly hopeful, like the dawn breaking upon a new day.

And Omega was his sun.

It was then, and only then, that Hunter allowed himself to splinter apart. Every overwhelming emotion he had been pushing down escaped through the cracks in his composure until they all spilled over. He buried his face in Omega’s head and let it happen, holding her tighter as he eased the shaking of his own shoulders to keep himself from disturbing her slumber.

Tears of joy, relief, fear, grief, and pure disbelief ran rivers into the blonde hair Hunter hadn’t even helped to wash yet, beginning the process of cleansing both of them from the painful stain of Tantiss’ haunting grime on their minds, bodies, and souls. The battle wasn’t over, Hunter knew that deep down inside himself, but they had at least gotten a victory.

They were, at long last, back in their safest spaces in the entire galaxy, and for now, that would be enough. It would always be enough.

[egrets-not-regrets]

Pearls

Sirass gets some help from Alcyon in his search for a gift for his date.

Author's Notes: Alcyon decides to be helpful. Thanks @sleepyfan-blog for letting me borrow Sirass.

I decided to write a few fics for Mermay 2025 in Of Fin and Feathers AU based on @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan's Mermay list. Thanks Susan for letting me use your list!

Tagged: @shadowfirecat , @kit-williams , @bleedingichorhearts , @barn-anon , @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

@sleepyfan-blog , @bispecsual , @c-u-c-koo-4-40k , @ms--lobotomy , @legionsofthehungry

@gra93fruit-blog , @i-am-a-dragon34 , @felinisnoctis, @thevoidscreams, @yurihasurunbara

@cruelmeltryllis , @insanity6666, @anothermeforcompany

Sirass was patrolling with a fellow chaos mer, Alcyon. The older Iron Warrior mer noticed Sirass had been slightly absent-minded as of late and the distraction showed when the younger mer kept arriving late at their designated meeting points on their patrol route. 

“You are distracted. There are no enemies around and you’ve arrived late to our meeting points twice already. What caught your attention?” Alcyon demanded, having had enough of being held up for the third time, his tail flicking in irritation. 

Sirass gaped then gritted his teeth. He really had no excuse. As much as he wanted to keep his business with his potential bonded human to himself, he needed help with acquiring a gift for her. Sirass weighed his options.  It was only a matter of time before word got out with Malaran already knowing. At least Alcyon was tight-lipped, he didn’t need everyone knowing that he couldn’t decide on what gift to bring for this first official meeting with the diver he rescued and get laughed at. 

“Sirass!”

He blinked, shaking himself out of his thoughts.

Alcyon sighed, “You are bonded, aren’t you?” Though Malaran mentioned this to him, the old Iron Warrior Mer easily recognized the signs of a newly bonded mer. He was familiar with the feeling. The constant distraction by thoughts of his bonded and desire and instinct to reunite with her. And judging by his brother’s slightly more defensive posture, Alcyon knew he was correct. 

Sirass frowned, “Malaran told you, didn't he?”

“Yes. And you are making it very obvious.”

Sour-faced, Sirass grumbled, “I should’ve known. Whether or not she is my bonded still remains to be confirmed. That mer has a bigger mouth than a humpback whale.”

Alcyon answered with a dead-pan voice, “That is why I don’t tell him everything.” He changed the topic, “You are looking for something. Your bonded is human and she is currently on land. So what are you looking for?”

Sirass bristled slightly at Alcyon’s insistence to keep calling that human his bonded but he wasn’t about to complain. He wanted to get through this as quickly as possible. “A gift. For our meeting. I need to find something valuable, but not so flashy that would attract too much attention from other humans.”

Alcyon listened quietly. 

“Pearls then.” He said with finality as if he made a decision. 

Sirass thought about it and it made sense. Pearls are small, naturally beautiful, not too obvious and can easily be kept hidden if needed. Kind of like his human, he muse, his lips curled in a small smile. Sirass shook his head. He shouldn’t think that far. He turned to ask Alcyon, “Where do you find pearl-producing shellfish?”

The older Iron Warrior mer gestured to him and commanded, “Follow me. Do not breathe a word of this place to anyone.”

Sirass followed Alcyon southwest towards a sunlit grotto off the coast of a small isolated island. Inside were multitudes of oysters of various species growing on the rocky surface. Among the oysters were scattered corals and anemone. Looking over at Alcyon, Sirass saw that the other mer was scanning the oysters with his augmented lens. The older Iron Warrior mer opened some oysters and picked out a lustrous pearl with a delicate tool, then reinserted a seed-like fragment. Others, he simply picked and put into a pouch he carried. He showed Sirass how to harvest and reseed the oysters, how to pick ones most likely to have pearls, and what to do to keep the oyster reef healthy. 

After a while, Sirass asked Alcyon, feeling somewhat perplexed, “Why do you cultivate this oyster reef? There must be other areas where you can find pearl-producing shellfish.” It’s easy enough to find more with the aid of his augmented lens. 

For a moment, he saw Alcyon’s expression soften a little before he replied, “Getting rid of boredom mostly. My bondmate and my son enjoy eating these oysters, and the pearls are valuable for trade. It is worth maintaining this reef for this reason.”

Bondmate? His son? Alcyon, a family man? Sirass thought, has their bond grown so far along? He knew his brother was very attached to his bonded harpy, but he didn’t think Alcyon would be inclined to also accept her son along with her. Then again, there was his loyalist brother, Erriox, with his ever-growing gaggle of Primaris scoutlings that he and his bonded adopted. It seemed that bonding truly changed his brothers and he’s not sure how this bond will change him, or whether or not he would like it. 

[elainsgirl]

you know what I find is so insane? That none of the GAs ever think why did Gwyn get so much screentime when Azriel already has a li. They make all their interactions romantic but what's so obvious is that Gwyn's character is being set up for something and personally I think she will die.

Every single of the 759 books I've read if any side kick is getting so much time they end up dead in the same book or next and it will be meaningful for not only Nesta but Azriel as well.

Azriel feels proud of her and she's like Nesta's sister. So if something happened to her and she dies it will be meaningful and contribute to their character growth. Or maybe she's unknowingly do something bad from from which they'll save her but her being Azriels li is not even possible if you actually read the book without hating elain.

Yep. Azriels love interest wouldn’t be introduced in a standalone sequel novel especially when Mass emphasised that importance of foreshadowing in acowar and acofas in regards to the sequels, if Gwyn and Az were meant to be, she would have been mentioned or even introduced in acowar and if not there, then acofas. She was introduced in neither books which goes to show how irrelevant her character in regards to being a love interest.

Gwynriel shared no romantic scenes, no tension-filled scenes and there attraction wasn’t confirmed in simple terms - they do not fit the criteria for how Sjm foreshadows a couple/writes the couple prior to their book.

someone theorised that Gwyn is to Nesta what Asterin was to Manon and how G may potentially die for the greater good such as fighting during the war (if there is one) and honestly Im torn because I cant see Sjm breaking up the valkryies and it would be cruel towards Nesta YET Gwyn is the perfect character to kill off. She isn’t relevant enough for any plot. She was the perfect, flawless loveable side character whose death would bring emotional impact towards readers. But again, im not too sure because Sjm does want each book to end on a happy note. Killing off someone Nesta considers a sister doesn’t scream happy ending but ig it comes down to how its written.

Yh anon, with the books I read - side characters that get a lot of focus, end up dead in the following books especially once they’ve had that heart to heart talk that matters to the FMC changing her in some way. I wouldn’t say Gwyns death would be shocking to me personally, lowkey expected from the genre but then I think this is just sequels that leave everyone happy. This technique would be used for the main triology which is the acotar series and it has been used. The suriel died and then you had Amren and Rhys -> all scenes created emotional punches for the readers.

If Gwyn does die - like I said it would in a very special “for a better world!” Way. Nesta and Emerie would carry on her legacy, Gwyns story of bravery and strength would be told to future generations as motivation to become like her. Ig it just depends on how the following books go.

but absolutely, she isn’t a love interest for Azriel especially in canon.

[thunderbolt-ing]

"I Can't Do It Alone." — 3

PART ONE | PART TWO Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Fem!Reader Summary: Denial is a river in Egypt. In other words, the signs are there, but you dodge them like bullets. Warnings: idk gunshots and distant gunfights, you'll see. idk if that's a trigger, but please tell me if anything in this chapter is. I'm really bad at this warnings part. A/N: NO CHANCE NO WAY I WONT SAY IT NO NO (you swoon, you sigh, why deny it uh oh) that was playing in my head while writing the majority of this part. Also, this is happening during thunderbolts if that wasn't obvious enough. if you haven't seen the movie, you'll probably be confused, or probably not. I've read through this several times but I'm sure there are still mistakes i didn't catch so i do apologize in advance. Word count: ~5.7k words. I hope this keeps you fed while my brain regroups.

Later that Same Evening Long After the Gala

Your flight, much to your mounting irritation, had been cancelled. At this point, it felt like the universe was dead set on keeping you in D.C., a place you didn’t particularly mind, but didn’t want to linger in either. You just wanted to go back to New York, back to your routine, and back to your job. 

Still, you weren’t helpless. Sure, you complained and cursed out every possible godly being, but you had things under control within minutes. You’d already opened three tabs on your phone, scanned for reasonably priced motels near the airport, and mentally mapped out your commute the next morning. 

Then your phone buzzed. 

Bucky Barnes: You’re not on the plane. You: no hi? hello? how are you? You: wait, how did u know that You: nevermind. sometimes i forget you used to be a major league stalker Bucky Barnes: I prefer the term retired assassin.                 You: that’s not any better                                                Bucky Barnes: Moving on. Bucky Barnes: Your flight was cancelled. Why didn’t you tell me? You: because i didn’t think i needed to tell you…? You: besides, i can handle myself you know. currently booking a room at a motel nearby as we speak Bucky Barnes: No need. On my way. Bucky Barnes: Before you can argue, I have a spare room. 

You stared at the message, blinking. Not only did he predict that you were going to protest, but he was already making his way back to the airport when he had just dropped you off hours ago. You sat down heavily on the nearest bench in the ‘departures’ terminal, trying to make sense of that familiar ache in your chest. It wasn’t the first time he had done something like this. It was little things, things he never pointed out, never made a show of. He just… showed up. It was as if no version of his evening didn’t include making sure you got home safe. 

You tapped your phone screen again, reading his text over. 

No need. On my way. 

You could’ve insisted, you should’ve insisted. You weren’t helpless, you knew how to navigate things alone, you’d been doing it your whole life. But somehow, with Bucky, the line between stubborn independence and reluctant comfort blurred just a little. 

You typed a reply. Paused. Deleted it. 

Then, you tucked your phone into your pocket and told yourself it didn’t mean anything. It was just Bucky being Bucky. It wasn’t about you. He’d do the same for anyone because that was just the kind of man he was: reliable, responsible, and frustratingly decent.

But then he’d do things that chipped away at that belief. It was gentle, subtle things that left you standing in the ruins of your own logic, questioning everything all over again. 

It was infuriating.

This, or rather he, was not what you were here for. You were hired for a job, a purpose. You were supposed to be focused on policy briefings, constituent emails, scheduling, and outreach. Not your boss’s inconvenient acts of quiet heroism. Your job was to make sure he passed legislation, kept his approval ratings high, and won re-election. He was good at his job because you were excellent at yours. You were a team, impeccably efficient, practically unbeatable, and you couldn’t complicate that. 

So you did what you did best: Deny. Bury. Move on.

The familiar, low roar of a motorcycle engine ripped through your thoughts like a needle scratching across a record. You looked up and there he was, just as he said he would be. 

Bucky was straddling his bike, helmet-clad, and still in the same dress shirt and slacks he wore to the gala. The black tailored jacket that completed the look was gone, leaving his sleeves rolled up and the top two buttons undone. He looked less like a congressman and more like someone who belonged on the cover of a vintage motorcycle ad—windswept, timeless, and entirely unaware of the effect he had. 

You held back a sigh. You really wish he had taken the car instead. 

Bucky pulled up just in front of where you sat, killed the engine, and swung his leg over the bike with practiced ease. He removed his helmet and walked it over, holding it out to you wordlessly like it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

You stared at it for a beat too long, then up at him. His expression was neutral, but something about the slight raise of his brow said, ‘Are you really going to argue with me about this?’ You were, you thought about it, but you didn’t this time. 

You took the helmet reluctantly, securing it on your head before tightening the straps of your backpack with practiced movements. Bucky then swung his legs over the motorcycle with ease, settling into the seat and steadying the bike with one foot so you could comfortably hop on. 

He glanced over his shoulder to make sure you were ready. “Hold tight,” he instructed, his voice calm but firm. Then, with the smallest smirk in his tone, he added, “On my waist, L/N. You know how this works.” “I know, I know,” you muttered, rolling your eyes. You hovered your hands awkwardly near his sides, as if proximity alone could meet the safety requirement. 

You heard him sigh, low and amused, before his mechanical hand reached back and gently guided your arms into place, adjusting your grip until your hands were flat and secure against his waist. “There,” he said, his voice softer this time. “Now you won’t fall off.” You scoffed. You hated the way your chest tightened at the casual intimacy of it all and the way he didn’t even seem to realize what moments like this did to you. 

He rolled off into the streets with familiar ease, weaving through traffic as the city lights blurred around you. The cool air stung your cheeks, and your hair whipped wildly in the wind, but you barely noticed. Your gaze was distant and unfocused, caught between reality and thought. This was just second nature to him. Just muscle memory. Nothing more. 

You let a cheek rest lightly on his back, more out of necessity than affection, or so you told yourself. The low, steady roar of the bike filled the silence between you as he sped through the streets, guiding you both toward the safety of his apartment. 

You were fine. This was fine. 

You weren’t going to read into it, you never did. 

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

A little while later, he pulled into a quiet brick building nestled just a few ways away from the Capitol. As the motorcycle came to a stop, you swung your leg over and quickly stepped off, removing the helmet and letting it hang loosely on your side. The neighborhood before you was calm and unassuming, the kind of place where people walked their dogs at dusk and kids left their bikes on the steps. Trees lined the sidewalks, their branches rustling gently in the breeze, and clusters of native flowering bushes bloomed with the kind of effortless charm that only came from being carefully tended to. 

Bucky led you through the front doors of his apartment building and up to his unit, unlocking it with ease. He pushed the door open and stepped aside, letting you go in first.

“Make yourself at home,” he said casually, his voice warm as he hung his keys on a small hook by the door.

You placed your backpack and his helmet on the couch, your eyes examining your surroundings. The apartment, much like himself, was understated but intentional. The space was minimalistic, but not cold. Everything had a purpose, and nothing felt out of place. The furniture was simple and functional, built for the comfort of a single man, yet it still gave the space a quiet charm. The walls were mostly bare, painted in muted, neutral tones. But above the couch hung a vintage map of Brooklyn, the colors faded with age, with corners slightly curled. A nostalgic tribute to the place he still called home in his heart. 

What truly drew your attention, though, was the bookshelf tucked away in the corner of the living room. You found yourself drifting toward the shelf while he headed into the kitchen without a word, the sound of the refrigerator opening faint in the background. The shelf was more than a storage space for novels; it felt like a time capsule. It held a collection of memories and fragments of identity that Bucky let speak for themselves. Dog-eared novels of well-loved paperbacks lined the shelf—Hemingway, Baldwin, Fitzgerald, and Twain. There were newer ones too, titles you recognized instantly because you were the one who had recommended them. You smiled to yourself, feeling a small tug of surprise and warmth in your chest. You never thought he’d actually take your suggestions seriously, much less keep them. And yet, there they were, nestled between the literary giants like they belonged. Some even had worn spines and folded corners, proof that he hadn’t just bought them to be polite, he had read them, really read them.

But it wasn’t just the books that captured you. It was the small trinkets nestled between them that told a different story. 

There were framed photos, some in color, some in black and white. A shot of him and Steve, mid-laugh in front of Coney Island, a frozen echo of simpler days. Another, more recent, with Sam grinning beside him, sunglasses on like he owned the world. And then there was the one that made you pause: a photo of Bucky in his 1940s Sergeant uniform. His expression was proud, boyish, and untouched by the weight of what would come after. You found yourself tracing the edge of the frame with your fingertips, wondering what kind of man he was back then, before HYDRA, before the Winter Soldier. Before the world tried to break him.

Your musings were swiftly interrupted by a soft mrow echoing from the hallway. Your eyes darted toward the sound, then flicked to Bucky, who was still in the kitchen, too preoccupied with ordering food on the phone to notice you snooping around his living room.

Curiously, you padded quietly down the hallway toward the noise. At the end of it, lounging like she owned the place, was a fluffy white cat. She was elegant, clearly a ragdoll, with a silky coat and mismatched blue and yellow eyes that tugged instantly at your heartstrings. Before you could even kneel or say anything, the feline rose and began trotting toward you with confidence, her little bell collar chiming softly with each graceful step. You crouched instinctively, a grin tugging at your lips as she nuzzled against your leg like she’d known you forever. You got hold of her collar and turned it around to see the cat’s name. Alpine.

“No, no, no!” Bucky called from behind you, his voice laced with sudden panic. “She—”

He stopped short as he watched you scoop the cat effortlessly into your arms and cradle her like you had done it a hundred times before.

“—bites,” he finished weakly, blinking in disbelief.

“Could’ve fooled me,” you said with a soft laugh, nuzzling her fur as she purred contentedly in your arms. “She’s the sweetest thing. She just walked right up to me.”

Alpine rubbed her head against your chin, purring like a small motor and clearly smitten. Bucky, on the other hand, looked like he was short-circuiting. This was definitely not how he expected things to go. He'd anticipated claws, maybe a hiss, possibly even you swearing never to step foot in his apartment again, not you holding Alpine like a baby and kissing her on the head.

“I locked her in my room before I went to get you,” he confessed, still staring at the cat in disbelief. “I don’t know how she got out.”

“What can I say?” you replied smugly, scratching behind Alpine’s ears as she melted into your chest. “Cats love me.”

Bucky let out a small breath of laughter, but the smile that followed was something else entirely. It was soft and unguarded in a way you weren’t used to seeing from him. It wasn’t the polite grin he donned at work; this was warm, and it pulled at something within you despite how hard you tried to pretend it didn’t.

Bucky blinked and cleared his throat, as if snapping himself out of whatever trance he’d slipped into. 

Then, the doorbell rang, sharp and sudden, cutting through the moment like a blade.

“Pizza’s here,” he muttered, his voice rough and uneven, almost like he had forgotten how to speak. 

“Yeah, I got it,” you replied quickly, a little too quickly. You gently set Alpine down, earning a small meow in protest, though you barely registered it. Your entire focus was on putting distance between yourself and his warm, disarming gaze that made you feel both seen and exposed. You bolted toward the door like it might save you because staying in that moment for a second longer would’ve cracked something wide open, something that you weren’t entirely ready to admit even existed. 

You returned a few minutes later, heading straight to the kitchen, clutching the box like it was some sacred offering to the gods of casual indifference. Normal. You just needed normal. 

Despite your best efforts to sweep everything under the rug, the universe seemed to have a sick sense of humor. Standing before you was Bucky, his white dress shirt now unbuttoned and hanging loosely on his frame. Beneath it, his white tank top clung to him in a way that made you wish you hadn’t looked at all. To top it off, his hair was tousled too, like he had raked his hand through it one too many times. 

You dropped the box on the counter a little harder than necessary, flipping it open. The two of you wordlessly reached for a slice, your fingers brushing his just briefly, but the contact sent a jolt up your arm like you’d grabbed a live wire. You felt the heat rush to your face. 

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. 

You bit into a slice with unnecessary focus, hoping the act of chewing would drown out your incessant thoughts. 

Ever since the gala, your brain had been on a reckless little joyride of stupidity, teasing the idea that maybe, just maybe, there was something there. Something more than the long hours you two spent together, the satisfying banter, and the way he always seemed to notice when you needed something before you even asked. 

But that was completely ridiculous. You blamed it on the proximity, on the caffeine-fueled late nights, on the way his voice sounded at 2 in the morning when both of you were buried in policy drafts and half-eaten takeout. You blamed it on the fact that you hadn’t been with anyone in years, that you were lonely, and maybe your standards had plummeted into dangerous, shark-infested territory.

But none of that mattered because this was your boss. Congressman James Buchanan Barnes. 

He wasn’t supposed to be a possibility, not even a consideration. Not with his title, not with your job, and definitely not with the line you swore you’d never cross. 

Your internal tirade was thankfully derailed when your eyes landed on a small stack of untouched, unopened, and suspiciously pristine dockets sitting nearly on the far end of the counter. Those were the same files you’d handed him last Friday, neatly and painstakingly compiled in preparation for the upcoming congressional hearing on the veteran aid bill the two of you had been pushing for. 

“I gave these to you last Friday,” you called out, placing your half-slice down and crossing the kitchen with growing suspicion. You plucked one of the folders off the pile and flipped it open. “Don’t tell me you’re procrastinating, the hearing’s in like five days.” 

“No, of course not,” Bucky scoffed, replying far too quickly for your liking, and springing into motion as if he’d been caught doing something wrong. He practically lunged for the files, his hand landing just beside yours. “I’m a slow reader. I’m working on it.”

“Sure, I’ll entertain your lies.” 

“I am!” He insisted, pressing his metal hand on his chest as if swearing an oath. “Okay, how about this: let’s read it together. Like the partners that we are.” 

You let out a deep sigh, more dramatically than intended, but you were already gathering the files and opening them to begin reading. 

“Fine,” you said, waving a hand. “Whatever it takes to get this bill passed and to make sure you don’t crash and burn during questioning.”

Bucky grinned, “What would I do without you?” 

“Get expelled from Congress.” You deadpanned.

You didn’t miss the way he stood closer than he needed to be. Or the way his fingers brushed yours again when he handed you a pen. Or how annoyingly aware you were of how warm he looked in that god forsaken tank top. 

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

The two of you worked in perfect harmony, like a well-oiled machine that had been running for years—each movement seamless, each glance understood without needed explanation. You highlighted and annotated key sections of the bill, patiently talking him through the language, coaching him on how to sell it with conviction. Your notes were meticulous, filled with cues and conversational maps, anticipating every possible question or objection he might face. You were the strategist, charting the battlefield with deadly precision. He was the warrior, prepared to defend the legislation like it were something sacred. 

With one last slice left in the box and the clock ticking well past midnight, the two of you finally closed the last of the files. Everything was highlighted, annotated, and flagged. For once, you were ahead of schedule and had plenty of time for Bucky to go back through and add his own thoughts. A small victory, but it felt like a triumph.

You exhaled deeply and leaned back with a stretch, arms overhead as your spine cracked in relief. “Finally,” you mumbled. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Bucky reached for the last slice without looking up, flipping through the final few pages of the docket as he chewed thoughtfully. “No, it wasn’t bad,” he said, almost offhand, “but that’s only because you’re here.”

You barely had time to react before a dollop of sauce slipped from Bucky’s slice, landing right on the front of his crisp white dress shirt and barely streaking his vibranium forearm. Without thinking, you moved, reaching for a napkin and dabbing at the mess with brisk, practiced motions before it could soak into the fabric, or worse, find its way into the crevices of his mechanical arm. 

He stilled under your touch, his eyes dropping to your hands as they moved carefully and deliberately, as if this wasn’t the first time it happened. 

You don’t have to look out for me so much, you know?” he said, voice quiet and unguarded. 

You didn’t meet his gaze. “I don’t,” you deflected breezily, “I just didn’t want that shirt to get ruined. It’s a good shirt, looks expensive.”

Bucky huffed a small laugh and leaned back slightly to let you toss the napkin into the trash. Then, without hesitation, he shrugged off the dress shirt entirely, leaving him in the fitted white tank underneath. The fabric clung to his shoulders and chest, and you averted your eyes before your thoughts could spiral again. 

“Oh, but you do,” he said with that infuriating half-smile. His voice was playful, but there was something heavier underneath that lingered.

“At least it didn’t get in the arm. I hate putting this thing in the dishwasher.”

You glanced back at him, “Your arm is dishwasher safe?” You asked, grateful for the shift in tone. You tilted your head, a smirk tugging at your lips, “Wow. Innovation.”

He chuckled, “Wakandan tech.” He said dismissively as if it was the most obvious, most casual thing in the world. Then he moved on to clean the counter, tossing the empty pizza box in the trash. 

“But seriously,” he added, glancing at you again, “I meant what I said. You’ve got this way of looking out for people. For me. I notice it.” 

You tried not to let his words settle. “It’s my job,” you said stiffly, wiping down the counter and moving the dockets to a cleaner surface. 

He only smiled gently, “No, it’s not. Your job is to make sure I don’t screw up legislation on the Senate floor. To prep me for hearings. It’s not staying up past midnight to coach me through policy language I should already know. It’s not sprinting across the kitchen to stop a stain from getting on my arm.”

Then, he paused, eyes softening, “It’s not caring like this.” 

You froze. You didn’t want to look at him, not with everything suddenly cracking wide open like this. You could’ve said something cold and sharp. Something to deflect. But for once, nothing came, and your usual wit failed you. 

Instead, you said quietly, “I don’t know why I do it. Maybe it’s just easier to take care of other people than deal with my own problems.”

There was a long silence before he responded.

“I do that too,” Bucky said finally, his voice stripped of pretense. “Pretend I’m fine. Push things down until they’re out of reach. I still fight battles in my head every damn day. And sometimes, I look at who I am now and wonder if it’s ever going to be enough to make up for the things I’ve done.”

You looked at him, seeing right through. For the first time, you didn’t see the Congressman, the anti-hero, or even the man you worked beside every day. You saw someone fractured and still healing. Somehow, that made him even more impossible to ignore. 

“I think you’re doing better than you think,” you said softly. “You’re not perfect, Bucky. No one is. But you care about this bill. You care about people. That matters. You matter.”

His jaw tightened like he wasn’t used to hearing that, not from anyone who meant it. He tried to smile, but it faltered under the weight of the moment.

“You really scare the shit out of me sometimes,” he murmured.

You blinked at him. “What…?”

He let out a quiet laugh through his nose, something halfway between affection and disbelief.

“Because I’m smart and capable?” you offered, trying to deflect with humor.

He shook his head. “No,” he said simply. “Because you see me. And… I don’t know what to do with that.”

And just like that, the air between you thickened again. Not with fear, but with understanding. The kind of quiet recognition that neither of you were quite ready to say out loud. For one suspended moment, it was just the two of you, unspoken things hanging heavy in the silence.

Then came the reality check. 

Bucky’s phone buzzed sharply against the countertop, the sound almost jarring. The screen lit up with Unknown Caller in bold letters. You both looked at it like it might explode.

“You going to get that?” you asked, the question more of a lifeline than anything else, a gentle nudge away from the dangerous emotional territory you’d both just wandered into.

“Yeah,” he said quickly, grabbing the phone like it gave him something to do with his hands. He hit the speaker. “This is Barnes.”

There was a moment of static, then a soft voice came through. “Hi. It’s Mel. Valentina’s assistant.”

Your hand flew to your mouth, your eyes widening. It worked. The stupid gala and the Mission Impossible-esque stunt you two pulled, it worked. You elbowed Bucky hard in the ribs, silently urging him to say something before the girl got spooked.

“Oh. Hi. Yes—hi, Mel, thank you for calling me. I didn’t—”

“I can’t talk long,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “So I’ll get to the point.”

You stilled and held your breath. Bucky didn’t even blink.

“I want to help,” Mel continued, rushed and panicked. “Val told me to incinerate evidence tonight. Records. Files. People.”

You exchanged another look with Bucky, both of your pulses spiking.

“—People who know too much. She told me to get rid of them, but they escaped somehow, and if you’re fast, you can find them. Get them to testify.” 

“Mel, you don’t know how much this helps us.” Bucky said quickly, leaning forward, “We’ll protect you. My partner is here, she can coordinate witness protection—“

“Thank you, Congressman, but I’m not interested.” Her voice tightened with fear, as if someone was or had already interrupted her. “Have a great night!” 

The call ended. Silence fell once more, sharp and electric.

You stared at Bucky’s phone. “Holy shit.” You muttered, letting out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding, “That was it! That was the seed! That was our shot!”

“Barely,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “She didn’t even tell us where they are. We don’t even have a lead.”

“Barnes,” you said, gesturing towards his laptop that sat on a nearby desk, “are you seriously not seeing the solution here?”

He blinked at you. “What solution?” 

“Track her phone.” 

He recoiled like you just suggested something nefarious. “What? No. Absolutely not.”

“Track. Her. Phone,” you repeated, enunciating every word like he was a particularly dense child. 

“I heard you,” he replied, frustrated. “I just don’t do that anymore.” 

You gave him a pointed look. “Yes, you do! You track me all the time.” 

“That’s different!”

“How is that different?” You threw your hands up. “You literally pinged my location last week because I didn’t answer your call during a Senate session.”

“That’s because you stopped answering me for four hours, and I thought you were dead!”

“I was at a dentist appointment!”

“Well, I didn’t know that at the time!” 

You stared at him for a beat, then gestured towards his laptop again, muttering, “You are so dramatic.”

He exhaled loudly, rubbing his temples. “Look, it’s not that simple. I’d need access to her internal files. It’s a whole thing.”

You tilted your head and gave him the look. The look.

“Don’t you dare give me the look.”

You didn’t blink, your gaze remained unflinching.

“I hate that look.”

Still no blink.

He groaned, defeated. “Fine. Give me ten minutes.”

“Thank you,” you said sweetly, getting up to fetch his laptop from the desk. 

“You know,” he added, pulling his laptop over and connecting his phone to it, “you are way too comfortable bossing around a former assassin.”

“Oh, just get to work, Barnes,” you shot back, rolling your eyes as you smirked at him. 

There was a beat of silence, broken only by the sound of his fingers flying over his laptop’s keyboard.

Then, more quietly, more sincerely, he said, “I meant what I said earlier.”

You paused. “About what?”

“About you seeing me.” He met your eyes. “It still scares the hell out of me.”

You held his gaze for a long second before saying, gently, “Good. Because that means you’re still human.”

He smiled faintly. “Guess I better start acting like it.” The Next Day Brooklyn City Hall, New York 

You climbed the worn stone steps of Brooklyn’s City Hall, the early morning sun casting long golden shadows across the plaza. The chill of dawn clung to the air, but even after an early flight from D.C., your exhaustion faded and was replaced with anticipation.

Flanking you were a few of the event sponsors who were local business owners, nonprofit reps, and volunteers, each carrying boxes, tote bags, and clipboards as they trailed behind you. A local news van was parked at the curb, the station already broadcasting live segments as reporters flagged down early arrivals to get interviews. 

It had been a long, grueling week filled with late nights, last-minute approvals, a maze of calls and red tape, but somehow, you’d pulled it together. The Veterans Outreach event you’d been organizing was finally happening, and to your astonishment, it looked like everything might actually go according to plan. 

You pushed open the heavy double doors and stepped inside. Then you stopped, momentarily stunned at the sight before you. 

The main lobby of City Hall had been completely transformed. Booths lined the perimeter, draped in patriotic colors and banners offering support and resources for veterans. Each station was already buzzing with activity. Volunteers in matching t-shirts greeted attendees with easy smiles. A local acoustic jazz band played in the far corner, and the aroma of coffee and food truck fare drifted in from the open courtyard doors. 

You let out a long breath, your shoulders finally easing for the first time in days. 

Then, your phone buzzed in your hand, Bucky’s name and photo lighting up the screen. You answered quickly, stepping away from the crows and into a quieter corner of City Hall, tucking a hand over one ear to hear him better. 

“Barnes, this place is packed,” you said, barely containing your excitement. “The booths are full, the sponsors showed up, and even Channel 5’s out front doing coverage.” 

“I figured it would be,” Bucky replied, his voice warm despite the faint roar of wind and engine noise on the other end. “Listen… you’re going to hate me for this, but… I can’t make it.” 

You paused for a beat, then exhaled softly. “I know,” you said gently. “It’s okay. I figured when Mel called you yesterday.” 

There was a beat of silence that followed, filled with the low rumble of Bucky revving his motorcycle. Then—BOOM.

A sudden, deafening crash cracked through the line, followed by screeching tires and the unmistakable crunch of metal. 

“Hold on—” Bucky said abruptly. 

You froze, gripping the phone tightly in your hand. In the background, you heard the sharp click of a shotgun, followed by two loud bangs, then a barrage of gunfire. 

“Bucky?!” you hissed, instinctively glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one could hear you. “Are you out of your mind?! What the hell was that?!”

“Minor inconvenience,” he grunted. More gunshots rang out, his motorcycle revving again. “I’m multitasking.” “Are you being shot at right now?!” 

“No, not me. Hang on, you’re on my comms. Don’t hang up.”

Another crash. A deep, loud, metallic thud followed by the sound of a car door being ripped off its hinges. There was yelling in the distance, then silence, followed by Bucky’s heavy breathing and another round of shots. “Jesus Christ, Barnes,” you muttered, now pacing the quiet hallway like a storm in motion. “Are you seriously calling me mid-fight?” 

“I said I was sorry,” he replied, a bit breathless but still managing to sound maddeningly casual. “I found them. The people Valentina tried to get rid of. Contract workers. Assassins, maybe. Or former ones. Still figuring that part out.” 

“Assassins?! James, what the fuck?” You pinched the bridge of your nose, teetering on the edge of exasperation and just a tiny sliver of admiration. “You’re going to give me gray hairs. I’m going to develop a heart condition by the end—”

“—I’ll make it up to you,” He promised, a low laugh catching in his throat. “I just needed to check in. Make sure you were okay with the outreach and everything.” 

“You’re worried about me when you were just dodging bullets?!” 

“I knew you’d be fine,” he said softly, like a confession. “I think I just… wanted to hear your voice.” 

Your heart squeezed, traitorous and aching. You stood in stunned silence, letting his words settle like dust in a room you hadn’t dared to open. Before you could form a reply, the engine revved again on his end, and another crash thundered through the speaker.  

“I’ll call you back,” he said quickly, his voice clipped with urgency. “Let me just rein in these guys.” 

You sighed, even as the corners of your mouth betrayed you. “Be careful, idiot. And you better call me back.” 

You ended the call and lowered the phone slowly, staring at the darkened screen. An uninvited smile tugged at your lips. You hated how easily he could disarm you, how quickly a few words from him could slip beneath the armor you’d spent a long time perfecting. 

Of course he’d call you mid-fight. Of course he’d say something maddeningly sweet while dodging bullets. And of course, you felt your resolve crumbling all over again. It felt as if you were putting Band-Aids on a rapidly cracking dam. 

You had rules. Boundaries. Reasons. 

This was your job. He was your boss. You’d promised yourself this wouldn’t happen, that you wouldn’t entertain the topic of romance while building your career. You were busy and too focused. There wasn’t room for anything else besides work.

And on top of that, he was reckless, complicated, and always halfway out the door.

You knew better.

Yet here you were, standing in the middle of a quiet hallway with a stupid grin and a pulse that hadn’t calmed down since the call ended. 

You tried so hard to draw a line between you and him. You were supposed to be professional, responsible, even detached, but the truth was, you never meant for it to hold. 

“Boyfriend?” came a voice behind you, startling you out of your thoughts. 

You turned to see one of the younger interns, the one in charge of the event’s social media coverage, peering at you with a knowing grin. “Or was that Congressman Barnes? Are you two finally...?”

You narrowed your eyes, but the flush creeping up your neck betrayed you. “Get back to work, please.”

The intern laughed and raised her hands in mock surrender before disappearing back toward the courtyard.

You lingered for a moment longer, letting your fingers toy with the edge of your blazer before finally tucking your phone away. The lobby ahead of you was filled with activity, volunteers guiding people, voices over the PA, distant music, but your thoughts were miles away, wrapped around the sound of his voice. 

You walked back to the main lobby, the weight of the morning pressed gently against your chest, and a curve of a smile still tugging at your lips. 

Damn him and damn the way he made you question whether the walls you’d built were really protecting you anymore. 

Maybe it was just keeping something good from getting in.

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if you're silent enough, you can hear me screaming

[lucydixon]

Lost Control

Summary: Faust gets a little rough with you without realizing it after a few beers.

Warning: Throatfucking. Size kink, liiiitle but of breeding talk, praise.

It became apparent very quickly, once you finally managed to make it to Faust’s gig, a solid hour after they’d walked off stage, that he’d had far too much to drink while waiting for you. 

“That’s my Girlfriend!” You heard his drunken voice shouting from across the room the second you stepped backstage “I told you she was fucking hot!” 

You felt your cheeks warm slightly when everyone turned to look at you, but you couldn’t help but chuckle, quickly making your way over to him before he could yell anything else. 

Faust met you halfway and swept you right off the ground and into his arms, sure to take a deep inhale of your hair as he went. You yelped and grabbed onto his shoulders, a little concerned about him dropping you in his drunken state. 

“What? You think I’m gonna drop you, Angel?”  You could hear the pout in his voice, “I would never drop you.” 

“I know.” You muttered into his neck, pressing your lips to the skin in greeting since it was all you could reach. “Think you could put me down anyway, baby? Why don’t we sit down?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” He set you down a lot more gracefully than you had expected and pulled you towards the table where he’d been sitting with the rest of the band. 

Faust slid into his seat and pulled you into his lap, resting a hand on your thigh possessively. 

The feeling of his big, warm hand on your leg, even through your jeans, made you shudder. 

You leaned into him, smiling softly as you draped an arm around his shoulders. It wasn’t often that you were in a position where you could see over Faust’s head, and it was a bit strange. 

You leaned into him and he happily wrapped an arm around you as he introduced you to his bandmates, who were starting to think that you didn’t actually exist and were visibly awestruck that not only were you real, but Faust hadn’t exaggerated your beauty in the slightest. 

The two of you hung out for a couple of hours before heading back towards your shared apartment. 

You’d done your best to keep Faust from drinking too much after you’d gotten there, but he’d already had enough at that point that his hands had started to wander, unbothered that his friends were sitting right there, watching while you sat there with pink cheeks, getting increasingly worked up. 

Finally, when he’d started kissing your neck and whispering in your ear about how much he’d missed you while you’d been apart, you’d called it and said your goodbyes before taking him home. 

The second you stepped outside, you were being backed up against a brick wall, and Faust’s tongue was in your mouth. 

He tasted like beer, but you couldn’t care less. 

On the way home, the two of you stopped probably ten times to sloppily make out in the street. 

By the time you were stumbling through the door, you were ready to tear each other’s clothes off, but you were vaguely aware of how sore your hole still was from the night before when you’d tried to take his entire length, which always left you aching for days after. 

Faust immediately hauled you up into his arms when the door slammed shut behind you and pinned you against the wall. The very obvious bulge in his pants pressed up against your clothed cunt and you hissed, suddenly very sure that you couldn’t fuck. 

“Need you, Angel.” He muttered into your mouth, oblivious to your predicament, “fuck, I love you.” 

“I love you too.” You sighed, cradling his face in your hands. “I’m gonna need you to put me down though.” 

“Why?” He whined, fingers digging into your thighs. 

“'Cause I’m still sore from yesterday,” Your voice was breathy, “and I don’t think you can be gentle with me right now, can you, baby?” 

“I can try.” Faust pulled back to look at you, pouting cutely while he set you down. “Let me try.” 

“Don’t worry,” You looked up at him while undoing his belt, “I’m not gonna leave you hanging.”  

He wasn’t entirely sure what you had planned, but the look in your eyes had him straining even further against the confines of his leather pants. 

You nudged him back a few steps to get the button and zipper undone before pulling them down enough to free his throbbing cock.

He exhaled shakily, watching you intently, beyond turned on as you slowly lowered yourself, along with his pants, until they were pooled around his ankles and you were kneeling on the floor, looking up at him with your big doe eyes. 

Your hand wrapped around him, and the second it did, his hips bucked forward involuntarily, fucking into your loose grip and a soft whining sound fell from his lips. 

You pumped his length slowly, running the pad of your thumb over his weeping tip, coating it in precum while he panted above you, holding your stare. 

Without taking your eyes away from his, you leaned forward and ran your tongue over the bottom of the head of his cock. 

Faust gasped and planted a hand on the wall behind you, keeping himself upright despite the urge to crumble under your touch. 

When your hot mouth wrapped around him, he couldn’t help but let his head fall back in bliss. 

“Oh fuck,” He groaned, already pressing forward slowly. 

Your lips stretched to accommodate his girth to the point where it was almost painful. 

You didn’t give Faust head often. Usually, he didn’t let you because he’d rather bury himself in your cunt and knew full well that there was no way he could sit through a blowjob without cumming. 

When you did, you usually could only take the first few inches of him, and you worked the rest of his shaft with both hands. All the other times, he’d been lying down. 

“Shit, Angel-” He whimpered, leaning into the wall “That’s so fucking good I can’t-” 

He cut himself off with a loud moan. 

His hips bucked forward, and you gagged around him, eyes widening in surprise. The sound sent a vibration coursing through his dick and he immediately wanted to feel it again. 

Your nails dug into his thighs as he thusted into your throat, far further than he’d ever been. 

Your jaw ached, and the corners of your mouth stung, but there was something so hot about him not realizing what he was doing. 

If he did, he would probably stop, but in his buzzed and completely fucked out state he’d regressed into the second he’d felt your mouth on him, all he could think about was how good you felt. 

You were breathing hard through your nose, very much aware that another inch or two would cut off your air supply, but you wanted it. 

Even if you were capable of asking him to fuck your throat with his dick in your mouth, you wouldn’t have needed to because he got there on his own pretty quickly. 

“So warm,” He gasped, fucking further into you, his head still tilted back “taking me so good, Angel.” 

There was tears streaming down your cheeks from the constant triggering of your gag reflex. 

The choking and gagging sounds you were making were only fueling his movements, and pretty soon, his free hand was grabbing a fist full of your hair to use as leverage to fuck your throat with increasing desperation. 

Every time he withdrew enough for you to get some air, you gasped for breath around him and filled your lungs before having it cut off again. Every thrust slammed into the back of your throat so hard that it hurt, but you didn’t care. 

Faust was letting go, completely giving himself over to the pleasure without worrying about you for the first time, and you loved it, even if you would have to nurse a sore jaw and a bruised throat for the next week. 

“Fuck” He panted, fucking into your mouth ruthlessly “I wish I could fuck you Angel. I’d fill you up so good. Ah-” 

A whine tore its way out of his throat.

“You should let me knock you up.” Faust wasn’t even thinking about what was coming out of his mouth. “Shit, you’d look so fucking hot pregnant.” 

“Just need you forever, Angel- Oh, that’s it,” He sped up even further, which you hadn’t thought possible. “So good for me.” 

He wasn’t pulling out far enough to let you breathe anymore. 

Your nails were digging into his thighs so far that you were pretty sure you were drawing blood. 

You would’ve pushed him off if you weren’t pretty sure he was about to cum and forced yourself to take it. 

He could feel your throat convulsing around him and felt his balls tighten. 

“I’m gonna cum-” He whimpered, slamming into your throat “gonna- Fuck. I love you. I fucking love you I-” 

Faust was wedged so far down your throat that you felt the ropes of cum spraying so deep that you didn’t even need to swallow. 

He pulled out suddenly, and you immediately fell onto your hands and knees, gasping and sputtering for breath while he slumped against the wall, barely able to keep himself upright. 

Your chest was heaving, desperate to fill your lungs with air until you finally felt like you could breathe again. 

It was still ragged, and mascara tears were still rolling down your cheeks, but you weren’t upset with Faust in the slightest. 

When he finally caught his breath and looked down at you, he looked horrified.

He clumsily pulled his pants back up and lowered himself to the ground next to you, hands hovering over you like he was scared to touch you. 

“Fuck, Angel, I’m so sorry!” He gasped, “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” You muttered, but your voice came out raspy. “I’m okay.” 

“No, you’re not.” He insisted, sobered slightly by the realization of what he’d just done. “Fuck I don’t know what happened I just wasn’t thinking.” 

“Seriously, Faust,” You cleared your throat and fought not to wince so you could look up at him with a little smirk. “I’m alright, I liked it.” 

He couldn’t deny the flood of relief. You looked like you meant it, but he must’ve hurt you by being that rough. You probably couldn’t breathe at all at certain points.

“You’re crazy,” He breathed, shaking his head in disbelief. “I could’ve killed you.” 

“If I’d pushed you off of me, you would’ve stopped.” You reached out to brush his hair out of his face, looking very much okay aside from your tear-stained cheeks. “We both know that.” 

He still looked a little unsure. 

“It was hot.” You insisted, “I’d tell you if I wasn’t okay, you know I would. I didn’t let you fuck me even though I really wanted to cause I knew I couldn’t take it. Stop freaking out baby.” 

Faust relaxed a little and swiped his thumbs under your eyes to wipe away the tears. 

“Let me make it up to you.” There was a glimmer of mischief in his eyes suddenly.  

“How?” You smirked softly. 

“Think you could take my mouth?” He breathed, already able to feel himself getting worked up once again. 

Your breath hitched in your throat.

“No fingers, no fucking. Just let me make you feel good.” 

 You nodded immediately and yelped when he scooped you up and shot to his feet unexpectedly. It turned into a fit of laughter when he slung you over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and started walking towards the bedroom.

Dividers made by @saradika-graphics

[buzzquill]

Hi! I'd like to request a Dean Winchester smut. Dean and the reader are best friends with benefits, but Dean realizes he's in love with the reader when the reader is getting hit on at the bar. Dean takes the reader back to the bunker and shows the reader that they're his girl. Let's be real here, Dean can be dense when it comes to his feelings

(or something along those lines 🤷🏼‍♀️)

Ask and you shall receive.

18+, smut, oral, p/v smut, possessive Dean,

You’re not trying to make him jealous. Not really.

If you’re honest, you didn’t even notice the guy at first; just another tall, clean-cut stranger in a bar full of beer and bad lighting. The three of you - you, Dean, Sam - had come here because the bunker was just a bit too quiet and you needed a drink that wasn’t the same thing you always drink. One drink, Dean had said. That was three rounds ago.

You’d peeled off toward the bar to give them space; some case debrief you were already too tired to follow. That’s when the guy slid in beside you.

He had smiled, almost apologetic. "You look like someone who never gets to rest."

He had a nice smile. Friendly. Confident. A mop of messy brown hair, cute brown eyes. Said his name was Matt. Said you looked like you needed a break. You smiled, not because he was especially charming, but because he was easy. Predictable in a way that felt safe.

“So, you local?” he asked, leaning a little closer. “Or just passing through?”

You laughed. “Something like that.”

When he touched your hand, light, casual, the barest graze, you didn’t pull away. Not because you wanted him, necessarily. But because for one second, it felt good to be looked at like that.

To be wanted openly.

Dean never looked at you like that. Not in the light.

With Dean, everything was behind closed doors. Quick, quiet, drunken makeouts in motel beds. Heat with no words. Touches that lingered a second too long before they vanished. You never talked about it, because if you talked about it, it would become real, and real things could break.

This guy? He was offering something different. Simpler. A quick fuck and some decent banter. You were pretty sure you could probably bully him into making sure you came too.

You heard yourself laugh at something he said. Not because it was funny, but because you wanted to hear yourself laugh. To pretend you were normal for one night. And in the back of your mind, something clicked into place. A tiny, terrifying thought:

You could go home with him.

You could say yes. Let him kiss you. Let him take you back to whatever sad bachelor apartment he lived in. You could have forgettable, pleasant sex. Wake up in a bed that wasn’t soaked in history and secrets and Dean’s scent. You could leave before breakfast.

Maybe that was easier.

Maybe that was better.

You were about to say something - about to test the waters, see if you were bold enough to go through with it - when a warm, calloused hand landed on the small of your back.

“Hey,” Dean said, low in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “You ready to head out?”

The words weren��t possessive, not on the surface. But the way he said them made your stomach drop. Like a warning.

Matt blinked. “Didn’t realize you were with someone.”

Dean didn’t hesitate. “You didn’t ask.”

His hand slid a little lower on your back. Not enough to be obvious - just enough to make a point.

Your chest tightened. The heat of Dean’s body behind you, the way he said it, calm, cold, final. It made your brain stall.

You stepped away from the bar without meaning to.

“Dean,” you said, uncertain.

But he was already turning, striding toward the door like it was done. Like you’d already made your choice.

You looked back at Matt, who gave a little shrug, polite but not unkind. He’d already figured it out: you weren’t available, not really. Not in any way that mattered.

You followed Dean out into the night.

The door swings shut behind you with a thud that feels too final.

The parking lot is cool and mostly empty, lit by the orange glow of a flickering streetlamp. The buzz of neon and distant laughter floats behind you, but the second you step outside, it’s like everything goes still.

Dean’s at the Impala already, one hand braced against the roof like he needs the car to hold him upright. He’s not looking at you. That jaw - that stupid, chiseled, tense-as-hell jaw - is clenched so tight you half expect it to shatter.

You cross your arms. “What the hell was that?”

He doesn’t turn around. Just mutters, “You were gonna go home with him.”

“And why does that matter?” you snap. “We’re not -  We’re not a thing, Dean. You made that clear.”

He finally looks at you, sharp and blazing. “You really would’ve left with him?”

You shrug, trying to play it cool, even though your pulse is a riot under your skin. “Maybe. What difference would it make to you?”

He flinches like you slapped him.

You push forward, heart pounding. “You don’t get to pull that possessive crap out of nowhere. You’ve spent months pretending this was nothing. You wanted casual, remember?”

“I never wanted casual,” Dean growls. “I just didn’t know what else to do.”

You blink, caught off guard by the rawness in his voice.

He steps closer, eyes locked on yours. “You think I don’t notice every time you laugh at one of Sam’s jokes? Every time you look at someone else? Every time you get dressed and leave my bed like nothing happened?”

“That’s what you wanted,” you say, suddenly breathless.

“No, it’s what I thought I had to want,” he snaps. “Because I don’t get to have things. Not good ones. Not you.”

The words hang there between you, heavy and charged.

“I saw you with him,” Dean says, quieter now. “Smiling. Thinking about it. I don’t blame you. Guy looked normal. Probably has a job that doesn’t involve stabbing things. Probably doesn’t wake up every night thinking about the people he’s lost.”

You swallow hard. “Dean-”

“But when I saw him touch you…” His jaw flexes again. “I wanted to kill him.”

You take a shaky breath. “You don’t own me.”

“I know,” he says, softer. “I just… I want to. I want to be yours, and I want you to be mine, and I know I’ve been a goddamn coward about it.”

You stare at him, stunned. You’ve never heard him say anything like this. Not even close. It doesn’t sound rehearsed. It sounds like it hurts him to say it.

Finally, you ask, “You never wanted me before, not really.”

Dean takes another step closer. He’s in your space now, heat rolling off him in waves. His voice is low, shaking. "You don't remember, do you? That night in Omaha. You were laughing in the rain. I almost told you then. Almost." 

“So, why now?”

“Because someone else saw you,” he says, voice low and guttural, “and I realized I’ve been taking you for granted. I thought I had time. I thought if I just didn’t claim you, I couldn’t lose you.”

You don’t speak.

You can’t.

Not when he’s looking at you like that: like he’s standing at the edge of a cliff and already knows he’s gonna fall.

“Come back with me,” he says.

"No, I wanted you to say it before," you whisper, angry tears spilling over. "I waited so long, Dean. I thought I'd rot waiting."

“I’m sorry,” he breaths, like it’s the first real thing he’s ever said.

You raise an eyebrow. “So you can what? Fuck the jealousy out of your system?”

His mouth twitches, not a smirk, not quite. Something darker.

“No,” he says. “So I can show you you’re mine. And so I can finally ask you to stay.”

The drive back is silent, not cold, but loaded. Dean’s fingers are tight on the wheel. His eyes never leave the road, but his mind is miles ahead, already playing out what he’s going to do to you when you’re alone. You can feel it in the air, thick and buzzing, crawling up your spine with anticipation.

You’re not scared. You’re just bracing.

Because Dean Winchester doesn’t do halfway.

When you step inside the bunker, the door’s barely shut behind you before he’s on you.

His hands slam against the wall on either side of your head, caging you in. His eyes are wild, dark with something dangerous and aching. You barely get a breath in before his mouth crashes into yours. All teeth and heat and desperation.

You moan into it, grabbing his jacket and yanking him closer, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough. His thigh wedges between yours, pressing up against your heat through your jeans, and your body answers before your brain can.

He pulls back just enough to speak, his forehead against yours.

“I should’ve told you,” he growls. “I should’ve said it a hundred goddamn times.”

“Said what?” you whisper, breathless, already knowing.

His hand slides up your side, hot under your shirt, rough with calluses. “That you’re mine.”

You swallow hard. “Dean…”

“That guy…he didn’t even see you. Not like I do. He wanted a night.” His hand grips your hip, tight. “I want every-fucking-one.”

You’re done pretending.

You grab his face and kiss him like it’s the last time you ever will. Teeth clashing, tongues tangling, fingers tangling in his hair. He groans into your mouth, like he’s breaking apart, and lifts you effortlessly by the thighs. You wrap your legs around him, clinging to him as he carries you through the hallway toward his room.

You don’t even make it out of your clothes before he has you pinned to the bed, hands fisting in your shirt as his mouth crashes over yours again and again. He kisses like a man on the edge - like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling.

And then you feel him grind against you - hard, thick through his jeans - and he groans into your mouth like it physically hurts not to be inside you already.

He kisses you like you're the only thing anchoring him to this world. You moan against his mouth, overwhelmed. 

Then he hesitates.

"I-" he starts, then stops. 

You flinch, pulling back slightly. "What? Gonna say it was a mistake?" 

He blinks, stunned. "No. I was gonna say I love you."

Fuck.

“Now, get undressed,” he pants, pulling back only long enough to yank his own shirt over his head. “Now.”

You scramble to obey, heart pounding, skin flushed. You’ve never seen Dean like this. Not just turned on - possessed. Starving.

By the time your shirt hits the floor, he’s already naked, cock flushed and leaking, and you barely get your jeans past your knees before he’s crawling over you again.

“You’re shaking,” he mutters, voice rough.

"You said you love me," you whisper, voice still husky. 

Dean tenses slightly. "Yeah?" 

"So what now?"

He leans down, kisses the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw. “I’m going to fuck you, because you’re mine.”

Then he grabs your thighs, yanks you to the edge of the bed, and drops to his knees like he’s praying at an altar.

You gasp. “Dean-”

He cuts you off with a groan, burying his face between your thighs like he’s starved. He licks a stripe from your entrance to your clit, slow and reverent, then locks his arms around your legs and devours.

It’s obscene: the wet, filthy sounds of his mouth, the way he growls when your hips buck, the way he doesn’t let up even when you’re whining, writhing, begging.

Your hands clutch the sheets, your thighs clamp around his head, but he doesn’t stop. He drags his tongue over your clit in firm, relentless circles, one finger sliding into you, then another, curling just right.

You fall apart on his tongue, crying out so loud it echoes in the stone halls.

He doesn’t stop.

He fucks you through it with his fingers and tongue, eyes locked on you the whole time like he needs to watch you unravel.

“Please,” you gasp. “Please, I need you.”

Dean growls low in his throat and pulls away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips are wet, his pupils blown wide, his whole body practically vibrating.

“You gonna let me ruin you now?”

You nod, breathless, still trembling. “Do it.”

He climbs over you, fists the base of his cock, and teases it against your soaked entrance.

“Beg for it.”

“Dean-”

He slaps the head of his cock against your clit and you whimper.

“Beg.”

You stare up at him, wrecked and shameless. “Please, Dean. I need it. Need you inside me. Need you to fuck me, claim me. Make me yours.”

That’s all he needs.

He thrusts in hard, all the way to the hilt in one go, and you both moan, loud, ruined.

His head drops to your shoulder, forehead damp with sweat, and he just stays there for a second, buried inside you, letting the heat, the tightness, the closeness sink in.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven.”

And then he starts to move.

Slow at first - deep, grinding thrusts that make your eyes roll back in your head. Then faster. Rougher. His hand curls around your throat - not choking, just holding - like he needs to feel your pulse beneath his thumb.

He fucks you hard enough to rock the bed, and you’re gasping, clawing at his back, dragging your nails down his spine as he drives into you like he’s trying to etch himself into your body.

“You’re mine,” he pants. “You hear me? Mine. No one else gets this. No one else gets you.”

“I’m yours,” you cry. “All yours-”

He flips you without warning, grabs your hips, and slams back into you from behind. You scream his name, hands fisting the sheets, ass slapping against his thighs as he pounds into you.

He leans over your back, lips at your ear. “You like this? Like being fucked like a good little slut who knows who they belong to?”

You whimper, wrecked. “Yes - yes, Dean, I love it-”

He slips a hand around and starts rubbing your clit again, fast and hard, perfectly timed with his thrusts. You shatter with a scream, legs giving out, body pulsing around him like a vice.

Dean groans, loud and raw, and pulls out just in time to flip you over again - onto your back and onto his lap. He spears you back onto his cock and holds you there while he thrusts up into you from below.

“You’re not done yet,” he growls. “You’re gonna come again. One more. One more for me.”

You whimper. “I can’t - Dean, I-”

“Yes, you fucking can. Ride me, baby. Take what’s yours.”

You do - hips rolling, thighs burning, tears on your cheeks - and when he brings his hand down hard on your ass, you fall apart one more time, trembling, twitching, wailing his name.

Dean’s had enough.

He flips you again - again - onto your back, pulls one leg over his shoulder, and fucks into you deep, desperate now, lips on your mouth, your cheek, your neck.

“I love you,” he groans. “Fuck - love you, baby, you don’t even know-”

He comes with a roar, spilling deep inside you, arms wrapped tight around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear the second he lets go.

But you don’t.

You stay.

You don’t remember falling asleep.

Just the slow decrescendo of Dean’s breathing behind you, arm locked around your waist, your legs still tangled, his cock still soft and warm inside you, staying in even after the tremors passed. As if letting go would mean rewinding the whole night. As if he needed the closeness more than the orgasm.

-----

Now it’s morning. Sort of.

The bunker’s too deep for real light, but the bedside lamp is on, casting gold over the room - over Dean’s bare chest, the curve of his shoulder, the soft lines of his face. He’s still asleep. Or pretending to be.

You shift slightly, only for a bolt of soreness to shoot through your thighs.

“Mm - fuck.” You wince.

Dean’s eyes open immediately. “You okay?”

You laugh, breathless. “Barely.”

He groans, buries his face in your neck. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

He snorts. “You’re right. I’m not.”

Then he pulls you closer, kisses your shoulder, and doesn’t say anything else for a minute.

It’s quiet. Comfortable. The kind of silence that only comes after total ruin, when there’s nothing left to hide behind.

Finally, Dean speaks.

“You were really gonna go home with him?”

His voice is soft. Not jealous, not angry. Just… aching.

You hesitate. “I thought about it.”

Dean’s breath hitches.

You turn your head on the pillow to face him. “He was nice. Smiled at me like I mattered. Asked me about myself. And he didn’t act like… like I was something he could lose without it ruining his life.”

Dean’s eyes flicker. “Shit.”

“I didn’t want him,” you say, gentler now. “I wanted you. I’ve always wanted you, Dean. But I didn’t think you-”

“I do.” He cuts you off, voice raw. “I do. I just didn’t know what it was. I kept telling myself it was just makeouts, just stress relief, but then you started pulling away, and I felt like I couldn’t fucking breathe.”

His fingers find yours under the sheets.

“I love you,” he says, quiet and sure. “I should’ve said it a long time ago.”

Your throat tightens. “You sure you’re not just saying that ‘cause you finally got laid?”

Dean smirks, that lazy, boyish grin curling his lips. “Babe. I’ve had sex. What I did with you last night? That was something else.”

He kisses you. Slow, sleepy, sincere.

And then?

Then his hand slips under the sheets.

You squeak. “Dean!”

“You sore?”

“Yes.”

“Too sore?”

“…No.”

He grins. “Good.”

[ysmtttty]

Again

Chapter 12

Read on AO3 or below || Chapter 11 Chapter 13

Lawyer AU where Eris and Nesta used to be rivals before she got married and decided to leave the field. But now she is divorced and determined to return to the legal field, even if it means working with Eris, not against him.

Eris knew it was a bad idea the moment his father called and asked for a favor. Beron Vanserra didn’t ask for favors. That would put him in a position of debt, and if there was one thing Beron avoided more than losing control, it was becoming indebted to anyone.

That was exactly why Eris approached the conversation with deep skepticism, briefly entertaining the idea that his father had been taken hostage.

Especially since they hadn’t spoken in over three years since the moment Beron had nearly destroyed his firm, just to prove that he could. Well, also because it had gained him some marginal profit through a secondary deal. But Eris knew the old bastard never cared that much about that money—it was the power trip, the satisfaction of making Eris crawl back and beg for a position at Vanserra Enterprises.

And yet, there he was, boarding a flight to Boston, heading back to his childhood home for a few days to help his father with some mysterious bullshit.

Of course, Eris was enough of an idiot not to tell anyone where he was really going. He told his assistant that he had a business meeting with new clients—big ones, the kind you take a plane for. He even asked her to book him a hotel room, otherwise she'd start asking questions about where he planned to stay.

Letting his brothers know that he was going to see their father was entirely out of the question. The only one who might have suspicions was Asher, to whom Eris had dumped all of his dogs and handed over some cash for the “inconvenience,” asking him to watch them all. He also silently prayed his younger brother wouldn’t interpret that as permission to steal another dog.

There were only two people Eris didn’t want to lie to. His mother, for obvious reasons, but for those same reasons, he hadn’t told her right away that he’d agreed to help. She would have tried to talk him out of it, and Eris would’ve gone anyway.

And Nesta. Nesta was the one he wanted to tell everything. To be fully honest with, no matter what. But burdening her with his family problems felt idiotic, especially considering her own family was no paradise either.

He just promised himself he would tell them all. Eventually.

Right now, he was trudging through the airport, dragging behind him a minimalist black suitcase with his golden initials on it. Eris reminded himself one last time that he was only doing this because afterward, his father would owe him. Then, maybe, he could finally demand Beron stop interfering in his life and business. Stop throwing wrenches into things at the most random, inconvenient moments, ruining Eris's sanity and progress.

He spotted a man in a suit holding a sign with his name. Eris handed him the suitcase without a word and followed him to the parking lot, where a black limousine was already waiting. He climbed in without hesitation.

His hometown stirred a strange blend of nostalgia and melancholy in him. But it wasn’t really about childhood memories—more about adolescence. That carefree, reckless youth where he had ambition in spades and not nearly enough brains to understand how to execute it.

They drove through familiar streets toward Beron’s office, and Eris didn’t bother with his suitcase, knowing it would be taken care of.

He lingered outside the office for a moment, partly collecting his thoughts, partly just taking in the view. Still the same Back Bay he’d left behind. Maybe, if it weren’t a matter of principle, Eris would’ve preferred to stay here. He always liked Boston more.

With a deep breath, he entered one of the skyscrapers. At the reception desk, he told the young woman that he was expected, and he was. She politely walked him to the elevator and gave directions on where to go next.

When the elevator reached the top floor, it announced its arrival with a characteristic chime before the doors opened. Eris had no trouble locating his father’s office, which he entered without knocking because when it came to this man, manners were optional.

Beron, predictably, was not pleased with this display of disrespect. His graying brows drew together in a scowl, his face twisting with irritation—a sight that mildly pleased Eris, not that he showed it.

“I thought knocking was one of the first things I taught you,” Beron grumbled, settling more comfortably into his chair.

Eris just shrugged indifferently and shut the door behind him, understanding that this conversation would likely be long and certainly not peaceful.

“You wanted to see me. Well, here I am,” he said, taking the available seat and crossing one leg over the other.

“That’s the first thing you say to your father?” Beron asked, his tone steeped in obvious displeasure. There was something bruised in it. Maybe even hurt pride.

Eris, however, could not have cared less about what the old man was feeling. He just wanted to get this over with and get the hell out of here. As much as he loved Boston, being in the same city as his father for more than a few hours felt like someone was sucking all the oxygen out of the room and kicking the ground out from under him “just to keep him humble.”

“I’d be much more interested in skipping to the part where you tell me why you called me here,” Eris remarked dryly, interlacing his fingers.

His father simply huffed and muttered something about poor manners as he rummaged through his wooden desk, presumably looking for his precious little box. Eris noted how nothing had changed. There he was, pulling out that same wooden case where he kept his cigars. There he was, lighting one. And there it was—that acrid smell reaching Eris’s nose, making him wrinkle it in distaste.

Then Beron lazily reached for the landline phone and called his assistant, who probably rotated several times a year, each time replaced with some attractive young woman he had likely cheated on his former wife with in the past.

Eris sat in calculated calm, knowing full well that this performance of “authority” no longer had any real power. He just watched as his father barked an order for two cups of coffee and then hung up without waiting for a reply.

And, naturally, they sat in silence until two minutes later, a flustered young woman burst in with two steaming cups she barely managed not to spill, setting them down on the desk. Eris gave her a quiet thank you before she scurried away.

“The favor,” he reminded him when the door closed again. “You asked for one.”

Beron took a sip of coffee and winced, whether from the bitterness or the reminder, Eris couldn’t say.

“Yes,” was all he said.

And silence fell again.

Eris noticed his leg bouncing and forced himself to stop.

“This is the part where you tell me what kind of favor you need,” he said in a soft voice, as if speaking to someone with dementia. The patronizing tone was something he could get away with since his father clearly did need help.

Beron grunted, recognizing the tone immediately. “You should show more respect to the man whose office you’re sitting in. And whose house you’ll be living in.”

“I could leave this office and this city right now. No need to live in any house but my own.”

“I still don’t understand what I did wrong raising you.”

The fact that Beron even called his behavior “raising” was disgusting. Eris bit back a sarcastic comment, knowing they’d be stuck in this verbal shitstorm forever if he didn’t rein it in.

There was no point. Beron would always believe he’d been right. Eris would always think he was a complete bastard. He didn’t even call him “father” in his head all that often anymore.

The last time they’d seen each other in person was about three years ago, and even that had been too much. As for anything resembling a family setting, they hadn’t had that in even longer.

“I need a lawyer,” Beron said sharply.

“Tried reaching out to the firm you sold half my personal files to?” Eris asked venomously, smirking. He hadn’t meant to escalate things, but there was something about the audacity of this man that forced his hand.

“Holding grudges is bad for the heart.”

“Arrogance is bad for your chances of getting my help.”

They kept staring at each other like a round of staring could somehow resolve the shit piled between them. Mountains of resentment. Countless battles. Long ago, they’d stopped being father and son. Eris couldn’t pinpoint the moment it happened, only that he’d never regretted the shift.

“I’m not a mind reader, so how about you start explaining what happened,” he said, calmer now, though the tension still clung to his voice.

Beron stayed silent. So long, in fact, that Eris was sure it was some kind of game. Another manipulative move or indulgent whim to make him wait as long as possible. Maybe even squirm, despite the fact that Beron was the one in need.

Then something clicked.

His father was humiliated. The whole situation, this conversation—it reeked of shame. He was silent because admitting he needed help, even to himself, was beneath him. Explaining the details? Even worse.

Eris smirked to himself at the realization, though outwardly his face remained cold and detached. They were speaking as businessmen, not family. That tone had to be preserved.

“I’m being accused of something,” Beron finally said, reluctance thick in his voice. His jaw clenched, tension forming visible ridges beneath his cheekbones. “Something serious.”

“How serious?” Eris frowned.

Beron looked him straight in the eyes, then exhaled loudly. “Federal level.”

Over the next half hour, Eris dragged more information out of him, word by painful word. “Federal level” wasn’t nearly specific enough. It took considerable effort to get Beron to say more than two sentences at a time, but eventually, he did. And what Eris heard wasn’t what he wanted to hear.

“Tax fraud?” he nearly groaned in exasperation and disappointment.

Beron only clenched his fists tighter, his scowl deepening.

“Seriously, what the hell did you need those twelve million for when we’ve had family money our entire lives?” Eris frowned again, utterly baffled by the greed.

It was one thing to engage in such idiocy when you were broke—still wrong, still unethical and dumb, but at least marginally justifiable. But when you were from an old-money family with millions in the bank, why the hell would you jump into fraudulent schemes just to make a buck?

“Says the man who built his career defending people like me,” Beron growled, slamming his fist against the desk. The sound involuntarily made Eris tense, just for a second. A betraying second.

“At least I can confidently say I don’t have problems with the feds,” Eris snapped back.

Beron rose sharply from his chair. Eris’s entire body tensed, but he held his gaze steady, eyes narrowing, refusing to show any sign of being affected.

“I asked you here to help me fix this, not to deliver lectures, son,” Beron hissed, leaning over his chair.

Eris straightened, meeting his father’s eyes without flinching. “And I came here to hear your plea. I never said I’d accept.”

“You’re my son. Like it or not, your reputation is tied to mine,” Beron said with a predator’s smile, clearly thinking he’d found the perfect pressure point. “It’s in your best interest to keep me out of prison.”

“Keep you out?” Eris arched an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t the priority be making sure no one takes your house and drains every last penny from your accounts?”

He saw the reaction. Caught the flash of something like fear in his father’s eyes. Beron Vanserra was a greedy bastard—the idea of losing even a single cent was intolerable to him.

Eris took a dark satisfaction in seeing that flicker of panic. Something to remember fondly during worst days. The moment karma finally caught up.

Of course, Beron masked it quickly—his face hardened within a split second. He looked more irritated than scared, more disgruntled than shaken. But Eris knew what he’d seen, and he was pleased.

He also knew that, in some twisted way, his father was right. His reputation would suffer if Beron were convicted of fraud. And worse, how would it look? The father of the best defense lawyer in the city behind bars? And Eris hadn’t helped? Or worse—had failed to help?

They’d eat him alive.

As much as it stung, public perception held more sway than truth. No one would care about the nuance of their relationship. All they’d see were headlines painting Eris as a callous, ungrateful son. And they’d make their judgments.

That’s when Eris realized he’d have to make the dumbest choice imaginable.

“I’ll think about it,” he said instead of giving a clear answer, rising from his chair.

Somehow, Beron read his face. He knew Eris wouldn’t need to think at all. The smug smirk on the old bastard’s face made that perfectly clear.

“We’ll talk more over dinner sometime,” Beron said.

Eris didn’t respond as he walked out of the office.

***

Eris took a cab to the hotel his assistant had booked for him. He hadn’t planned to actually stay there, but now the idea of going to the family house was unbearable. He needed space. A neutral environment. Anything not tainted by Beron Vanserra.

Coming here had been a mistake. Thinking that Beron asking for help could somehow lead to future gain was an even bigger one. Technically, it was true—he could leverage this. But Eris wasn’t a miracle worker. He couldn’t promise a win in such a shady case.

He stood on the balcony, regretting that he didn’t smoke.

It was one of those unshakable principles he’d set for himself at seventeen and never broke. Smoking was a financial sinkhole, not to mention the charming bonus of lung cancer. Eris had turned away from the habit early on. Tried it once or twice, didn’t like it, never continued.

Still, standing there now, he thought smoking might’ve felt damn appropriate.

Instead, he gripped the railing with both hands, leaning forward against it with his whole body.

The scent of a nearby bakery drifted up from below, and Eris couldn’t help but think of Nesta. He’d passed by and seen chocolate croissants in the display—she would’ve liked those. Lately, he found himself constantly caught in thoughts like that. Would she like this? Would that make her smile? Everything he saw, every idle moment, seemed to orbit around her in some small way.

Eris knew without a doubt she wouldn’t approve of him considering this mess of a case. They had both built their careers quickly and ruthlessly, mostly by taking on guaranteed wins. That was part of why the legal community had grown to resent Eris so quickly. But he couldn’t care less.

A good portion of the city’s lawyers still hated him, but that had never stopped them from lining up to apply for a job at his firm. Hate was hate—but when it came to opportunity, they all knew where to go.

His phone buzzed in the pocket of his trousers. Then again. And again, before Eris finally pulled it out to see who it was.

It was Astrid. And he couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips.

“Thansk for the trip to the doggies!”

“It’s u!”

Below the two messages was a doodle of a stick figure with a wild mop of orange hair. Eris laughed aloud when he saw it.

His fingers danced across the screen, typing out a reply.

“To be drawn by such a talented young artist? I’m honored.”

“hihi! Thansk”

Eris was about to slide the phone back into his pocket when Astrid kept messaging.

“r we going to the dogs again?”

“We are.”

“This weekend?” And several pleading face emojis.

Eris smiled. He wanted to say yes. But first, he needed to check with Nesta before Astrid started pestering her with “but he said we could.” And second, he wasn’t even sure he’d be done with all of this shit by Friday. Most likely, he wouldn’t.

“Not this weekend, little lady. But we’ll go again. Promise.”

Astrid replied with a flood of crying emojis, then sent three hearts, and that was the end of their conversation. Eris smiled at the screen, scrolling through the message thread filled with stickers.

Then he set the phone down and rubbed his face with both hands, exhaling.

He needed a drink. He needed to dig up every detail about this case. He needed to solve it as fast as possible and forget this trip like a bad dream. He was an adult. He could say no.

Even if it might hurt his career...

That’s what pissed him off about his father. Whether Beron was present or not, he still managed to fuck up Eris’s life by sheer gravitational pull—an ancient curse made flesh.

Seriously, the man could either intentionally sabotage him or simply ruin things by existing in the same universe. It was unfair. And deeply, deeply annoying.

***

Eris had lunch at a small café, let his assistant know he’d be staying longer than planned, and ended up running into an old classmate he hadn’t wanted to talk to—but the guy turned out to be persistent.

“Vanserra! I thought I was seeing things,” the man said brightly, already moving as if to hug him. But Eris saw it coming and extended a hand for a handshake instead, offering a polite smile.

“Tamlin,” he said, hoping he hadn’t gotten the name wrong. But the blond man beamed, clearly thrilled he’d been remembered. Well, this was going to be awkward.

“It’s been years since graduation,” Tamlin grinned. “Got time for a coffee?”

“Why not?” Eris said smoothly.

They used to be something like friends. A very loose “something,” but it counted. Tamlin had often walked around alone, not by choice. Eris also walked alone, by choice.

Tamlin had always been painfully awkward, incapable of talking to girls—hell, to guys, too, if he tried at all. Eris had found it amusing, hanging around him as a kind of free comic relief for the monotony of school days. Especially since Tamlin would chatter endlessly about houseplants and greenhouse techniques, subjects he clearly knew far more about than the law.

Eris had often wondered what the hell he was even doing in law school. Eventually, he’d gotten an answer: Tamlin’s father wanted him to be a lawyer. So a lawyer he became.

“How have you been?” Tamlin continued smiling. He looked much better than in their university days. His long hair was now well-groomed, and he’d filled out a lot. There was even a pleasant energy to him now.

Of course, like many of Eris’s acquaintances, Tamlin had that certain tiredness in his eyes—the kind that came from being overfed on life, from some unspoken kind of sorrow.

And so they talked.

They spoke for almost an hour, during which Eris learned Tamlin had five cats, a string of failed and toxic relationships behind him, and had recently had to walk away from a major client due to a conflict of interest.

Eris, in turn, offered scattered bits about his firm, what he was doing now, and of course, he couldn’t not talk about his beloved dogs. The conversation about pets felt especially easy. He never would’ve guessed he’d be chatting about his furry children with an old classmate.

Eventually, it was time to part. Eris clapped him on the shoulder, said he was glad to see him, and, in the usual style of such encounters, agreed to meet again sometime soon. He seriously doubted circumstances would allow it, but when Tamlin suggested it, he couldn’t bring himself to say no.

***

For the next three days, Eris stayed at the hotel, avoiding that so-called “family dinner.” He holed up in his room, working remotely on whatever he could to overload his brain. Then he would just wander around the city without any destination.

He wanted to help Nesta with her custody appeal, but she’d told him she was still waiting for a court date—one that suspiciously never seemed to materialize. Eris made a mental note to look into it but kept letting it slide, especially when Nesta insisted she could handle it herself.

Handle it? Sure. But should she have to handle it alone? Absolutely not.

Still, since she kept him at a distance on this one, Eris didn’t push. He did, however, scroll through his contacts occasionally, debating which judge he might call to get a real answer on why things were stalled.

They also kept calling each other in the evenings.

The first time, Eris called to ask about the court update and discuss a few work things.

The second time, Nesta was the one who called. She asked if he was busy and if he had time to talk. After that, they ended up chatting for almost an hour, just talking about their days.

She told him about a particularly annoying client she was currently dealing with—one her small legal team was working hard to manage. Eris just laughed and asked if he should add the guy to a blacklist, to which she objected.

Eris didn’t tell her the details of his trip, though he wanted to. He put it off for now, figuring it was better to talk about these things in person rather than over the phone. He only mentioned being in Boston, and Nesta replied that she’d love to visit the city again. He made a mental note right then and there.

By the end of the week, Eris finally went home. If the place could still be called that.

He hadn’t been there in so many years, he’d almost forgotten what it looked like. Red brick walls, an abundance of greenery on both sides, intricately shaped hedges, rose bushes lining the fence—bushes his mother had once planted herself. Though most likely, these were new ones.

He was greeted by maids with polite smiles, but he waved them off, saying he didn’t need anything, and they left him alone. Climbing the creaky stairs to the second floor, Eris entered his old room. It was just as he’d left it.

Bland, grey, and nearly empty. There was a desk with a chair, a large bed, and an empty wardrobe.

He wandered through the now-empty halls. Long ago, they’d echoed with children’s laughter, before Beron’s hatred for noise silenced everything. Eris hoped, deep down, that the old bastard missed those days—because there was no chance he was actually enjoying the oppressive silence that now filled the house.

He took a walk around the property and chatted with the few remaining staff members he still recognized from childhood. As dinnertime approached, he descended the stairs just as the clock struck seven, knowing his father was unlikely to deviate from his rigid schedule.

Just as he expected, Beron was already seated, waiting to start the meal. His lips were pressed into a thin line, brows furrowed. Angry, no doubt, that Eris was a few seconds late—something Eris found mildly amusing.

He took the seat at the far end of the ridiculously long dining table, because that’s where the place had been set for him.

How they were supposed to hold a conversation across that distance was a mystery. They’d have to shout just to be heard. Still, the maids left the room and closed the heavy wooden doors behind them, effectively sealing off any sound.

“Have you thought it over?” Beron asked impatiently.

The whole situation made him uncharacteristically nervous, which in turn made Eris tense.

He looked up at his father. A man whose grave Eris had fantasized about spitting on. A man he’d once sworn revenge on, plotting to bring down his business in such spectacular fashion that the grey hairs on his head would multiply exponentially. A man who had cheated on his mother and made her life miserable until she finally won the divorce.

This wasn’t the kind of man Eris would ever help.

No. He should stand up and leave. Right now. Let the media scream all they wanted—Eris wasn’t going to sell his principles. He shouldn’t even be entertaining the thought of helping. If Beron went to prison, so much the better. Eris could personally make sure he ended up in the worst one possible and sleep peacefully at night.

“No,” he said firmly, methodically slicing his meat. The tone was calm, casual, almost indifferent—he knew how much that irritated Beron.

“How much?” his father asked.

“I don’t need money.”

Silence. The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife, but Eris continued eating, unfazed, even though his appetite had disappeared minutes ago.

“There must be something you want,” his father pressed stubbornly.

Was there anything he wanted from the man? Maybe once. But not anymore. Eris truly needed nothing from him.

“Tit for tat—every resource I have at your disposal,” Beron kept going, clearly desperate to gain some leverage. He needed control, and the desperation behind his words was impossible to miss.

Eris looked at him again, lazy and unimpressed. One thought had been circling in his mind, and he decided to finally say it aloud.

“I could ask you to stop interfering in my and my mother’s businesses,” he said coolly, suppressing the rage he’d buried years ago. “But if I let the feds lock you up, you’ll stop anyway. So I’m not sure I really need anything from you.”

If Beron thought Eris and Aurora hadn’t figured out who was behind the periodic attacks on her brand, he was sorely mistaken. His sabotage attempts—clumsy or otherwise—rarely succeeded, but their frequency was a pain in the ass.

“Then maybe you should start packing and head back home,” Beron said too calmly, and that didn’t sit well with Eris.

There was something in his voice. That faux indifference they both knew how to fake. Something clicked in Eris’s brain, and suddenly Beron wasn’t anxious anymore. Whatever he was planning, Eris wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

“Maybe you’ll have time to stop by someone who’s waiting for you,” Beron added cryptically.

A bluff. A clean, familiar, painfully transparent bluff.

He didn’t know anything about Eris’s life. Certainly not who was in it. That line was a blind shot. It had to be.

“Pathetic shot,” Eris said flatly.

“I only need a few hours to set things in motion.”

He couldn’t hold back the cold smile. “Can’t convince me, so you’re turning to threats?”

Beron only shrugged. “What can I say? If my ship is sinking, I’m taking down as many people with me as I can. You’ll be first on that list.”

“You’re not helping your case.”

“And you’re not helping the people you care about,” Beron sneered. “I can make people’s lives very difficult. No one knows that better than you.”

Eris really wanted to throw a knife at him and see what happened. Would he scream? What would the maids do? How fast could he escape? How hard would it be to cover up a patricide? Well…

“The only thing I can offer you is not joining the feds pro bono when they inevitably grab your sorry ass and drag you into court,” Eris said sharply, eyes glinting cold. “If you think threatening me is going to make me save your sorry hide, too bad. Not happening.”

He exhaled and stood up from the table.

“We’re done here,” Eris said.

Beron shot him a furious glare. The old man clearly still wasn’t used to having zero control over his own son. Eris took pleasure in how hard it was for him to accept the new order of things.

“We are not done,” his father thundered. “If you think my words are empty, I can quickly remind you otherwise,” Beron went on, his hands clutching the silverware so tightly it looked like they might bend.

The phone buzzed in Eris’s pocket, and he reached for it, ignoring the seething look his father threw his way.

“Eris Vanserra, I’m talking to you,” Beron growled.

Nesta’s name was on the screen, and that was all that mattered. Eris’s career, his reputation—none of it meant anything in comparison.

“I’ll be back,” he muttered, walking out the door and ignoring Beron’s protests.

The moment he shut the heavy wooden door of the dining room behind him, Eris answered the call and heard sobbing. His heart clenched sharply, then started hammering with anxiety about what might have happened.

“Nesta? Are you okay?” he asked urgently, gripping the phone tightly.

A quiet sob, a muffled “fuck,” car horns in the background. And then her voice.

“Eris, I…” she exhaled shakily. “Can you come?”

“I’m in Boston—”

“Shit, right, I didn’t—”

“I’ll be there in two hours. Will you be alright until then, love?” Eris asked, hating himself for this entire damn trip. He should’ve been there.

“Yes,” came her soft reply.

“I’m coming, okay. Just wait a little for me, yeah?”

A few reassuring words, and he hung up. He was about to bolt for the door, ready to head straight to the airport—he’d deal with the stuff left at the hotel tomorrow—but a hand gripped his shoulder like a vice.

He turned to find Beron holding onto him. Thick fingers, calloused skin, heavy rings on every knuckle. Eris remembered too well what it felt like to be hit by that hand. It didn’t scare him now, but the memories it unlocked were undeniably unpleasant. For a split second, he felt a phantom taste of the coppery tang of blood in his mouth.

“I don’t know where you think you’re going, but I can block every road home for you with a single phone call,” Beron hissed.

So much for that soundproof door. Eris had definitely overestimated it. And he’d definitely fucked up.

Jerking his shoulder free, he shot his father a murderous glare. He had to go. He needed to book the next flight, not stand here buried in someone else’s ancient mess.

“I’m leaving regardless,” Eris hissed back. “And it’s in your best interest not to be in my way when I do.”

He didn’t give a single damn about consequences right now. He wasn’t listening to a word of the bullshit his father was spewing and simply walked out of the house. That door had always been there, always in view—now he had the strength and the courage to step through it, without a second thought about what might happen if he ever came back.

Media scandals, federal investigations, his father’s threats—all of it faded into static. The only thing Eris knew was that Nesta needed him, and he was going to keep his promise and get to her as fast as humanly possible.

[happypanda101]

It goes unnoticed by the scowling teen, but something in taunting blue eyes shift. Playful smile dropping slightly. Before she knows it, the shadow of Emperor's tallest member looms over her. Trapping her in a blanket of shadow as he lumbers over to the aisle she’s in. Sudden pressure against her forehead make Nora’s eyes cast upward, seeing how the man’s brows furrow as a rough hand pushes against her warm skin, holding still for a moment.

“You’re sweating.”

“Oh, I had no idea.”

He makes a face, pulling back. “Are you sick?”

The mixed matched haired girl swallows thickly. “Yes, I am.”

Blue eyes narrow in on the the smaller teen judgingly. “Then why the fuck did you show up?”

Little snippet for the oneshot I’m working on for my Lords Of Chaos fanfic before I actually try to take a shot at writing the fic.

I liked the idea of making little pieces that don’t really fit into the fic into a little series to lighten all the angst that’s most likely/will happen lmao.

Anyway, Faust being himself but actually caring for once. Nora just wants to work even though she feels like shit (she’s sick). He wants her to go lie the fuck down.

And as always-

Please note: Lords Of Chaos is an inaccurate movie based off of an inaccurate book based on real people and real events. I don't condone anything that happened. This fic is the closest I will get to RPF, and is only because I'm interested in the black metal scene/like the music. This is just for fun because the movie is a guilty pleasure of mine.

[urthefartmike]

“tell him how you feel.”

“you don’t wanna meet her at all.”

“is your stomach in your throat?”

god i feel unwell this shit keeps me awake at night.

[ratbreadd]

hiiii hi hii i am bothering uou with questions or perhaps statements . i really love your style!! do you have any outer wilds ocs youd like to tell us about? i didnt see anything in your pinned about any so im curious :eyes:

yay hi hi!!! thank you!!

i unfortunately don’t have any ow ocs of my own (yet…) BUT since i am a sucker for player protagonists with lots left up to interpretation, i do have my own version of the hatchling post-loop! ::3

^affectionately dubbed rhyolite but i still call them hatchling most of the time whoops

[moltengoldveins]

hhhhh. Women. Covered in blood.