#[damn why'd i make it this long]

[quilleth]

Bioware made a mistake bringing Isabela back for da4 because like hell she wouldn't tell the entire da2 crew about what's happening with Solas which means they'd all show up ready to curb stomp him about Varric. Even moreso if hawke was left in the fade. That's two of their number down because of this fucker. Also Merrill should get to deck him specifically while also being like "what, like it's hard?" about fixing the eluvian that was blighted and cost her two of her closest childhood friends (potentially), her place in her clan, and her home. Again, going back far enough, because of him.

I just miss them 🥺

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like he means it

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You can’t take another night of hearing Bucky fuck a girl who isn’t you.

Word Count: 13.6k

Warnings: Bucky is a fuckboy (but he’s still a sweetheart); lots of talk about unrequited love (but is it?); mentions of sex; crying; lots of desperation; longing; heavy confessions; feels; happy ending

Author’s Note: This is written for the lovely cinema themed writing challenge of @elixirfromthestars ♡ I had this kind of idea for a while but when I read those lyrics it somehow immediately came back to my mind and I needed to make something out of it. This is kind of inspired by your Boulevard Confessions because I loved it so much! And damn, I've already written so much about roommate!Bucky but I can’t help myself lol, I love him. Also, this got a little long, I'm sorry. Still, I hope you enjoy! ♡

Hold My Hand "Pull me close, wrap me in your aching arms. I see that you're hurtin', why'd you take so long to tell me you need me? I see that you're bleeding, you don't need to show me again. But if you decide to, I'll ride in this life with you. I won't let go 'til the end." — Lady Gaga

Masterlist

You hear the giggling before anything else.

It’s always the giggling.

And, as always, it grates on your nerves.

It carves through the air, seeps into the walls, into the floorboards, into you. It tears its way inside and scrapes its manicured nails along the rawest and most sensitive parts of you, only to bury itself deep, where you can’t simply dig it out.

Then comes the keys.

The light, metallic jingle, so careless in its melody, but so troubling in its meaning.

Then the lock turning, the click soft and yet so irrefutable.

Then the door opening.

More giggles.

His breathy chuckles.

Then the door closing.

Shoes being kicked off, one hitting the wall.

You press the pillow harder against your ears, as if you could suffocate the sound before it reaches you, as if you could bury yourself deep enough under the covers to escape what you already know is coming. But you can’t. You never can.

Your brain usually does you the favors of drowning out the parts in the hallway, knowing it will probably make your heart stop in an instant. Today, it doesn’t do you any favors and you close your eyes, accepting the sting behind them.

And then, his bedroom door.

And if all that wasn’t torture enough, it was only the easy part.

Because now is when it really starts. It’s when your throat closes up, the breath in your lungs turns heavy, thick, impossible. Because no matter how many times this has happened, no matter how many times you laid here in your bed, still, so still, waiting for the agony to stop, pretending it doesn’t happen - it never stops hurting. It never stops breaking your heart - or whatever’s left of it.

At first, there is silence. The small period where you almost dare to believe, to hope.

But then comes the moaning.

High-pitched and breathy, hinting at a pleasure that strikes you with a hammer.

Someone else. Always someone else. Someone who is not you, someone who never had to try, someone who will never know what it means to ache for him like you do.

Then, quieter, but just as devastating, Bucky’s voice. The low sound of him unraveling. The sound of something slipping from him that you will never be able to take.

And that’s what breaks you most. That’s what turns the ache into utter misery. Madness even. It’s the inescapable proof that he has something to give - something deep, something intimate - and he is giving it away. Over and over again, but never to you.

You close your eyes, as always. It doesn’t help, as always. The sounds don’t stop anyway. The images come anyway - the touches you have imagined, the way his hands would feel against your skin, the way his mouth would shape your name if you were the one beneath him. The way he might look at you, if only he could see.

But right now, you are just the ghost in the next room, curled in on yourself, ears filled with the sound of someone else living the life you always wanted.

And in the morning, or right after, when the door will open again, when the giggling will turn to goodbyes, you will still be here, where you always are. Where you always will be. Waiting. Wanting. Breaking. Wishing you could turn it off, this feeling. This unendurable and never-ending heartbreak.

And that finally makes the tears flow.

They well up before they spill over, down the slope of your cheek, gathering in the hollow beneath your nose before falling onto the pillow and wetting it like a pool.

You squeeze your eyes shut, so tightly it should hurt, so tightly it should make them stop. But they come anyway. They come despite the barricade of your willpower, despite the way your body coils tighter in on itself. They come despite the desperate war you wage against them.

They come because you have lost. Because it’s too much.

The moaning doesn’t stop, and it’s too much. It’s the middle of the night, and it’s too much. It’s the third night in a row, and it’s too much.

Bucky’s hushed voice shatters something inside of you, you didn’t know was left intact a few seconds ago.

Your breath turns sticky, only half of it making its way up your throat. The other half stays attached to the walls of your throat like honey gone rancid. It refuses to leave completely, snagging and trapping you in the awful space between breathing and choking.

Maybe if it stopped altogether, it would be easier. Maybe suffocating would be gentler than this slow and unsparing death of heartbreak.

Your hands are shaking. You bury your face into the pillow, willing it to just take you as a whole and never let you leave again. The fabric muffles the shuddering sobs, but it cannot do anything for the way your body trembles. But you know that the sounds of pleasure in the other room will tune out the sounds of your cries. The pillow is being clutched so tightly, you might tear the fabric. But it’s your heart that’s being torn into so many pieces. So what is a pillow compared to the ruin of your heart? It’s nothing.

You are alone in your grief.

The moans stop for a second - abrupt, cut off mid-breath.

Bucky’s voice comes. He says something but you don’t catch his words.

However, you do catch the displeased groan of his girl for the night. Drawn-out and petulant. Annoyed.

Bucky speaks again. Firmer, this time. Again, it’s too quiet to catch it.

And then you hear your name. It’s muffled still, but you would hear your name coming from his lips always and forever. You know the exact cadence of it shaping his mouth.

Everything in you halts. Your breaths are suspended somewhere in your throat, caught between shock and devastation.

The girl scoffs. It’s a snappy sound. Almost whiny. You would have rolled your eyes if you weren’t so troubled.

The moaning resumes. But it is quieter this time. Controlled almost. A courtesy. A mercy. But not for you. Not in the way you wish.

And it makes you know.

He asked her to keep it down. For you. He must have told her he has a roommate - you - and that they need to be mindful, that you might be trying to sleep.

Somehow, in all the infinite ways he could have cared for you, this is the one he chose. Not to love you, not to want you, but to make sure his flings don’t disrupt your sleep. As if that’s the worst of it. As if the noise is what truly keeps you up at night, and not the agonizing truth of it all.

Harshly, your teeth sink into your lip, fighting to stifle the sob that trembles on the edge of you. But again, you are losing.

Because hearing your name in the middle of something so intimate, spoken in the same breath of his pleasure, is pure anguish.

Because your name should not exist there. Not like this. Not casually sneaking into a mind occupied with pleasuring someone else.

If he were to say your name in a moment like this, it should be a soft whisper against your skin, entangled in sheets, buried in kisses that steal the air from your lungs. It should be something private, something sacred.

Not an idle afterthought. A consideration. A passing thought before he loses himself in someone else’s body. You have never heard him say any girl’s name before when sleeping with them, but hell you also don’t try to listen too closely.

You won’t talk about this. You never talk about this. When the morning comes and you meet Bucky in the kitchen for breakfast, you will not mention it. Just like you never mention the other nights. Just like you never dwell on the soft apologies he offers when they got too loud. And just like always, you will brush it off, force a brittle smile, and tell him that it’s fine.

It’s not. It never has been. And you don’t think you ever manage to make it sound like you mean it. But you are gone before Bucky can push or apologize again. Or see how deep the knife has gone.

Because he might be careful to be quiet. But he will never be careful enough to stop breaking your heart.

So what is the point?

You don’t want to do another morning like this.

You can’t do another morning like this.

Not three times in a row.

Not when the night has already taken your soul and what was precious of it, barely sewn together by the time the sun fights its way through the window.

Not when you know how it will play out. Like it has the day before. And the day before that.

The door to his room will creak open, the girl already gone. You will hear the shuffle of his bare feet against the floor, the sigh as he stretches, and the yawn that usually makes it past his lips. He never tries to stifle it.

And then, him standing there and watching you.

Disheveled. Bed hair sticking up in a mess. You never let your mind wander to how her fingers might have something to do with that. His shirt would loosely hang over his frame, probably thrown on in a hurry, collar askew, revealing a sliver of skin you shouldn’t be looking at.

That lazy and slightly flustered smile. Sleep still in the corners of his eyes, his lips, his voice, when he greets you with a scratchy morning.

Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t shatter you into a thousand unfixable pieces last night. And the night before that. And now this night.

You will do your best to greet him back without sounding pained. Focusing on making coffee. The way the steam normally curls into the air, the warmth of the mug in your hands. You will have to focus on it as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

And despite knowing you shouldn’t - despite hating yourself for it - you will slide a cup toward him. As you always do.

His smile would shift. Settling into something fond, something warm, something that digs its claws into your ribs and refuses to let go.

Because that’s usually the worst part. He’s always so sweet with you. Thoughtful, affectionate in ways that don’t count. In the ways that make you feel like maybe if you just hold on a little longer, if you wait just a little more, he might start feeling what you do.

But you are certain, he won’t.

Because for him, everything seems fine. For him, this will be just another morning. Another easy, comfortable start to the day. With his eyes on you and sipping his coffee, exhaling like he is finally at peace, and leaning against the counter with a lightness that always has your stomach all up in shambles.

He always makes it seem so normal. Starting conversation with you, talking to you as if nothing has changed. Like you didn’t spend the night curled in on yourself, swallowing down sobs so thick they feel like razor blades. Like you didn’t spend the night choking on the sound of him with her.

He never mentions them. Never says any of the girl’s names, not that you even know what they are. He never makes plans to see them again. Just another faceless but very loud girl. One to be forgotten.

But tomorrow night, there will be another.

Tomorrow night will be the same.

And in the morning nothing will have happened.

Only him standing there with his sleep-mussed hair and that sweet, easy smile, drinking the coffee you should have stopped making for him a long, long time ago.

You rise out of bed, not even aware of it. The cold air nips at your tear-streaked cheeks, your sheets thrown back in a mass of tangled fabric still warm from the ball your body was curled in, breaking in silence. The pillow is still wet.

Your hands move on their own, tugging on slacks, yanking a hoodie over your head as though the fabric could hide you, save you from the devastation caving a hole into your chest.

You fumble for your phone before throwing open your bedroom door.

The moans are louder again. Yanking at your resolve and laughing at the way your tears keep coming.

Your feet move faster. You don’t actually run, but it feels like running. Like fleeing. Escaping a burning building before it collapses. The living room comes into view and it’s like a cruel trick, like the universe is taunting you, because all you see are phantoms.

The coffee machine on the counter. How many times have you two stood there, still tousled with sleep, you making coffee for the both of you because Bucky burns everything. How many times did he lean on the counter, watching you with that stupid little half-smirk, pretending to judge your process but always humming in satisfaction when he took the first sip.

The bookshelf in the corner - the one you swore you could build on your own. And you tried, you really did, but the second the screwdriver slipped and you gasped out loud, Bucky was there immediately. Hands on yours, worry furrowing his brows, grumbling about your stubbornness and continuing to grumble when he passive-aggressively built it himself.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, watching him, pretending to be annoyed but secretly savoring the way he kept glancing at you, again and again, to make sure you were okay and giving you instructions as to how it’s done but throwing you a glare when you insisted on trying again.

The carpet. The same one you both collapsed onto after a night out with your friends, too tipsy to move, giggling like teenagers as you pointed at the ceiling, pretending to find constellations in the uneven paint. He named one after you. You named one after him. You fell asleep there, side by side, and when you woke up he was so close. So close.

The couch. The one he practically melted into last week when he had a fever, whining dramatically until you caved and brought him soup. He kept pulling you back when you tried to leave, pouting like a child, demanding your attention because I’m sick, doll. Can’t ignore me when I’m sick. Until you sighed and sat down, letting his head rest in your lap. He fell asleep like that. Snoring. And you didn’t have the heart to move.

And now he is in his room, tangled in her, moaning into her skin, kissing her - like it doesn’t mean anything. Like none of it ever meant anything.

Your breath is uneven, your hands shaking as you grab your shoes. The laces blur, your vision fogs, but you can’t stop.

You throw open the door to your shared apartment, barely thinking, barely breathing, only moving. It swings back into the frame with a sharp sound echoing through the hallway, louder than you had intended. But it doesn’t matter now. Because you are sure that Bucky doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t notice. He is otherwise occupied and you are utterly drained of thinking about with what.

The air outside the apartment feels different. Lighter and cooler, but it doesn’t bring relief. It’s thin and hard to pull into your lungs properly.

Natasha’s place isn’t far. Fifteen minutes on foot. You tell yourself that over and over, like a mantra, like something to grasp on.

No more moans. Lost to silence, left in a place that feels little like home right now. Still, they resonate in your skull, haunting reminders of that pain you can’t dismiss, that hurt that hangs off you like a heavy burden.

You slow your steps on the staircase and inhale deeply. It trembles on its way out.

You hate how fragile you feel. How breakable. Hate how much this affects you. How much he affects you.

But you keep walking.

Just yesterday, you talked to Natasha and she offered you to stay with her for the night, looking at you all sharp and knowing, but in her own way sympathetic. You declined. Because you thought you’d be fine. Well, you were wrong.

It’s past midnight now, completely dark, but you don’t care.

You know, Natasha will let you in. And that will have to be enough for tonight.

The city is alive even at this hour. Neon lights glow in the distance, their reflection shimmering in rain-slicked puddles that dot the cracked pavement. Somewhere across the street, there is a group of people laughing, and disappearing around a corner. A car flies past, with headlights unlocking long shadows lengthening down the sidewalk.

You focus on those things. On the shoes thumping against the pavement. The way the crisp air is somehow refreshing as it weaves through the fabric of your hoodie and stings slightly at the tear-streaked skin of your cheeks, keeping you awake and propelling you forward. Not that you need any more motivation to leave.

You wind your arms around yourself like a shield, like a last-ditch effort to keep yourself from falling apart completely.

You don’t look back.

Somewhere above you, there is a creak of a window opening.

It makes you freeze for a small second, before tightening your arms around yourself and picking up your pace.

Your stomach spins violently because fuck, you know that sound. You know the groan of that window when it moves, just a little off its hinges, just enough to make a noise you’ve heard a hundred times before. Because it’s the window of your apartment. And it makes a noise that has never felt so much like a punch to the gut.

“Y/n?”

You close your eyes.

“Y/n!”

Your name spills from his lips, laced with confusion, infused with something that makes your fingers clench around your arms.

You could ignore him. You should ignore him. Just keep walking, keep moving, pretend you didn’t hear.

But you can’t. You never can.

With a slow, dragging breath, you turn around.

Bucky is leaning over the frame, his torso reaching out the window, bare from the shoulders down. He is bathed in the hazy yellow glow of the streetlights.

His hair is messed up, brown tendrils all sticking in different directions. His brows are knitted in confusion. His lips in a frown so full of worry. And it’s just too much.

Too warm. Too intimate. Too familiar.

Your chest stutters, lurches, and swirls itself into a dozen moving shapes that hurt more than they should. Because he stands there shirtless. Shirtless. And you know why.

You swallow back your hurt, but it stays stuck in your throat and crawls right up again to make you taste it on your tongue.

You force your gaze away from staring at the curve of his collarbone, the slope of his throat, the soft lines of his skin, the hard lines of his muscles that she had her hands on just minutes ago.

“Where are you going?”

The tone highlights his concern, thick with the kind of worry that would have meant everything if it weren’t coming from him like this, not now. His voice is rough, remnants of the time already spent with that girl, but all you can hear is that damn worry in it.

As if you owe him an answer. As if he isn’t the reason your chest feels like it’s been hollowed out and left to rot.

You draw in half a breath and look away - down the street, down at your shoes, the bricks of your building. Anywhere that isn’t him.

“To Nat’s.”

It’s clipped and short. You don’t want to explain, don’t want to talk, don’t want to stand here in the night air beneath the window of the apartment you share with him like some pathetic wreck while he worries about you.

“Nat’s?” You can hear the bewilderment in his voice, the way he is trying to piece it together, the way his brain is already working overtime, scrambling to make sense of this - and you can practically feel the moment he decides he won’t let it go.

“Somethin’ happen?” His voice just won’t stop to be so perplexed, so concerned. It is softer now, but you only glance up at him briefly before averting your eyes again.

Because damn Bucky, yes, something happened. Everything happened. Every night that he brings someone home, every touch that belongs to someone else, every soft moan that isn’t meant for you.

All these moments, all these memories, every feeling left unsaid that swivels and stings and grows into what it is now - a storm inside your rib cage, a hurricane of almosts and never wills and why does it have to be like this?

But of course, you can’t say that. You won’t say that.

So you just shake your head, tighten your arms around yourself, and take a step back.

“Go back to bed, Bucky.”

Because you can’t do this right now. You won’t do this right now.

Not when you are already about to break.

“I- What?”

His voice is a little raspy, puzzled, and under any other circumstance, it might have been endearing. On a normal day, if this were some cozy Sunday morning and not the breaking stretch of midnight, you might have smiled at the sight of him like this - hair in a wild mess, eyes a little heavy from the day, bare shoulders shifting in the glow of the streets.

But this is not a Sunday morning. And nothing about this feels good or cozy or right.

You are so damn exhausted. So damn drained.

“You-” he starts again, brow furrowing deeper, but before he can get another word out, hands appear - slim fingers wrapping around the thick of his bicep, tugging, pulling, trying to drag him back inside.

Bile is pooling at the base of your throat.

She’s alone with him up there, in the space that you have spent so much time making into something warm, something filled with comfort. A space where you feel home. With him. And yet, it’s that random girl in there, laying in his bed, under his covers, in his scent, in him.

“Bucky, come on.” Her voice is thin and peevish, thick with impatience. And exhaustion you believe she has no right to feel when you are the one who has spent the time suffocating under her presence.

But Bucky doesn’t move.

His hand only grips onto the windowsill tighter, muscles in his arm locking.

And his eyes stay fixed on you.

Still searching. Still confused. Still trying to understand.

And it makes your hands clammy.

The way he looks at you like he is reaching for something just beyond his grasp, something that eludes him no matter how hard he tries to hold onto it.

He huffs out a breath that just borders on frustration when her fingers won’t stop pulling at him.

“Hold on, doll-” he calls out to you and unwinds her hands from his arm, barely sparing her a glance as he leans out the window again. There is a little something in his tone when he speaks to you again. Something like exasperation. But it’s not meant for you. “What’re you doin’ at Nat’s? Tell her it’s the middle of the goddamn night. Why would she let you walk over to her? She knows it’s not safe.”

You shake your head, already half turning away again. You just cannot do this right now.

���It’s fine. Just go back to bed, Bucky.”

“Y/n - hey. What’s wrong? What’s this about?” There it is. That softness in his voice. That concern. And it hurts. Because he doesn’t get it.

“Go. Back. To bed,” you repeat, sharper now, gritting it out between clenched teeth.

But Bucky has always been stubborn. And so infuriating. It’s like he doesn’t hear you at all.

“C’mon doll, did something happen? Talk to me,” he urges, voice gentle but he doesn’t seem to like the way you look as if you would bolt around the corner any second. His tone is coaxing in a way that makes you ache because this is what he does. This is what he has always done - pulling you in, making you feel safe, making you feel cared for, making you feel like you matter. Like he means it.

And it’s cruel. So cruel.

Because you are in love with him.

And he is standing in that window, bare-chested and rumpled from a night with another woman, while you are in slacks and a simple hoodie beneath him with your heart cracked wide open, bleeding into the pavement.

“I don’t wanna do this right now, Bucky,” you snip, voice losing patience. But you are so tired.

Bucky sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frustration growing, seeping into his voice. “You’re killin’ me here, sweetheart. Just tell me what’s goin’ on. It’s cold out, doll. You’re not even wearin’ a jacket.”

You swallow down a choked breath.

Because this is making things so much worse.

That he cares. That he is looking at you like this, like you matter, like you are his.

Like you are something he wants to figure out. And he wants to take his time with. Like he wants to fix you.

But you are not broken. You are just in love.

“Bucky,” that girl calls out again, dragging his name out, voice honey-thick and pettish. “Come on babe, let it go. Just-” She tugs at his arm again, nails skimming along his forearm. “Come back to bed.”

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even glance at her.

His mouth twitches, jaw ticking as he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking her off with a firm roll of his shoulder. “Would you quit it for a sec?” His voice is edged now, tinged with a kind of terse impatience he seldom ever lets out. “Jesus, m’tryin to talk here.”

The girl huffs, clearly displeased, but Bucky doesn’t spare her another second.

But the one second he threw his head around at her was your chance. Your feet move before you can think, before you can talk yourself into staying, because if you do, if you let him pull you in, let yourself hope-

“Woah, doll, hey. Wait, I-”

His voice is frantic, stammering over its own syllables and filled with too many things your mind is too jumbled to focus on.

But it makes you stop your body in the midst of a step. And you grind down on your teeth against the frustration burning inside you.

You should keep walking. Shouldn’t have stopped.

But Bucky is leaning even further out now, his knuckles bracing against the sill, the night air tousling his hair, eyes wide and concerned, searching. One of his arms is reaching out, down to you as if he could touch you like this.

“Hold up, yeah? I’m comin’ down.”

You whip halfway back to him, brows snapping together, heart slamming against your ribs.

“No, you-”

He’s already pulling himself back inside, shaking his head as if it should be obvious. “I’m coming down,” he repeats, more insistent, more sure. Leaving no room for argument.

Your fists squeeze the fabric of your hoodie. Your stomach churns. “Bucky-” you try again. But he has already made up his mind.

“Wait there, alright?” His voice dips lower, steadier but still urgent. Resolute, as if he would run after you if you bolted down the street. “Doll. Promise me you’ll wait.”

Something in his tone, the look he is giving you, like he’s begging, almost a sweet-talking declaration. It’s catching your breath somewhere in your throat.

You could run.

You should.

You should turn right back around, disappear into the night, and leave him standing there, shirtless and confused and worried.

But you hold his gaze for just one long and heavy beat, then exhale shakily, shoulders dropping slightly.

“Okay,” you say weakly.

Bucky nods determined and taps his fingers against the windowsill, before rushing away, leaving the window wide open.

And you stand there hating yourself for waiting.

Hating yourself for hoping.

Technically, you could just leave.

Take a different route to Nat’s apartment, slip into the dark veins of the city where his voice wouldn’t reach, and let him walk out onto an empty sidewalk with his hair still tousled from another woman’s fingers and the taste of someone else’s lips still lingering on his own.

You could make him feel just a fraction of what you feel, with something hollow pressing up against his ribs when he finds nothing but cold pavement where you used to stand.

But you don’t.

You know you won’t.

Because it wouldn’t just frustrate him. It would hurt him.

And that’s the one thing you could never bring yourself to do.

Not Bucky.

Never Bucky.

You know him. The way he chews at the inside of his cheek when he’s trying not to say something reckless. The way his brows pull just a little too tight when he’s agitated but trying to play it off like he is fine. The way he folds his arms over his chest, not because he’s closed off, but because he needs something to hold onto.

You know exactly how he would react if he stepped out here and you weren’t there.

How the slight crease between his brows would deepen. How his fingers would twitch, opening and closing, like he’d missed his chance to catch you. How his lips would open and he would stare helplessly around and call your name.

And god, as much as this pain is devouring you from the inside out, pushing its way into the light but leaving you sitting in the dark, as much as your heart feels like being torn apart with unsaid words and unmet confessions - you cannot stand the thought of hurting him.

So you stay.

With feet planted on the concrete, fists clenched so hard, that your fingers start to cramp. You lift your trembling hands to your aching cheeks to hastily scrub away the fresh wave of tears surging forth downwards, willing your body to erase any evidence of your devastation.

But the more you wipe, the more it hurts.

You believe your cheeks are red from the effort of wiping so much, eyes swollen and puffy, your body trying to rebel against all of your commands.

Inhaling shakily, you force the breath down, down, down where you can pretend it doesn’t hurt so much. You angle your face slightly away from the building, hoping the dim spill of moonlight won’t betray your inner struggles.

Because the moment Bucky steps out that door, it will be the same as always.

He’ll look at you like you are his best friend. Like you are his safe place. Like you are the person he can always count on.

And you will look at him like you aren’t falling apart.

Like your heart isn’t unraveling at the seams.

Like you aren’t drowning in a love that will never be returned.

The door swings open with a force that startles you, the sound of it hitting the frame a little too sharp against the night.

Bucky storms out onto the sidewalk like he’s got something urgent to say, like the world might stop spinning if he doesn’t get to you fast enough. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pause. Just moves straight to you, his steps quick, closing the space before you can change your mind about standing here. He has a crumpled shirt thrown on and it hangs a little off. But it makes you want to run so hard.

His fingers wrap around your arms, not hard, not forceful but firm.

Those warm hands on you make you want to crumble.

His breath is coming fast, chest rising and falling, like he ran down the staircase to get here as fast as possible.

His eyes are so deep, deep and blue, roaming your face with so much intensity, searching and scanning and pausing.

Shadows cast over his sharp cheekbones at the way his brows are furrowed, his lips slightly parted.

“What’s going on, doll? You been cryin’?” His voice comes out rough and he talks fast. Urgent, breaths spilling over themselves as he rushed through the words, almost tripping on them in his desperation to get them out. “Why’ve you been crying? What happened?”

His thumb twitches against the fabric of your hoodie.

You open your mouth, close it again. Your throat is dry from the sobs you tried to silence earlier. You shake your head, a knee-jerk reaction.

“I was just going to Nat’s, Bucky. Nothing happened.”

It’s a weak excuse, said in a weak voice.

And you hate how it makes Bucky’s expression shift. That tiny wounded something that crosses his features, something that shouldn’t be there, because you did wait for him, you didn’t leave, but it’s still not enough. You lied to him. And he knows it. And he’s hurt. And you hate yourself.

He shakes his head, his jaw going tight.

“No,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving you, voice so low. “That ain’t nothin’, doll. C’mon. You’re runnin’ off in the middle of the night, how could this be nothing?”

You look away. Because if you keep looking at him, him with his concern and confusion and hurt all interflowing in the pool of those blue eyes, you won’t be able to hold yourself together much longer.

You swallow hard and force yourself to breathe slowly.

The sting behind your eyes is never really leaving you.

Bucky leans in, just a little. His grip on your arms tightens, but it’s not harsh. Only insistent. Desperate for you to give him something here.

“Somethin’ up with Natasha?” His voice is gentle, like he knows this has nothing to do with her, but he has to ask anyway to go through all the possible options of what might be going on.

“No,” you croak, barely managing the word.

He softens at the sound of it, but that frown doesn’t ease.

“What’re you doing then, huh? Why’re you running off like that? S’ not safe, you know that.” His voice is soft. Almost like he’s trying to soothe a skittish animal. But the concern is wrapping around every word. “What’s got you so upset, sweetheart? Talk to me, yeah? Please?”

His voice takes on a desperate intensity. Like he’s begging you to just let him in. To make him understand.

You bite down hard on your bottom lip, willing it not to tremble, willing your face not to crumble right in front of him, but the air is too thick for your airway, making it harder and harder to breathe.

And Bucky is looking at you, like you are breaking his goddamn heart. Like you took a shot straight for it.

He is so full of worry, it looks painful, the crease of his brow always there when he’s thinking too hard, when he’s feeling too hard. His lips are still parted, like he wants to beg for an explanation, for some string of words that will make this all click into place and turn this into something fixable.

Because Bucky Barnes fixes things.

But this might be the only thing he can’t fix.

His hands on you are a contrast to the way you feel as if you’re falling apart. You hate how much you just want to collapse into it, to let yourself lean into him, let him hold you up. Because he would. You know he would. He would pull you in without hesitation, wrap his arms around you like he has done so many times before.

But you don’t want him to hold you. Don’t want him to hold you like a friend.

You want him to hold you like he means it. Like you mean something more than the sum of all the nights you spent choking on your own silence, swallowing words you could never say.

So all you can do is stay frozen, bones locked, eyes burning, heart splitting itself open in the middle of the street where he doesn’t even know he’s killing you.

“I-”

You try. You really try.

But then the door swings open again. And the sound of it alone is enough to send a bolt of ice down your spine.

Because this time it’s her walking out.

She steps out onto the sidewalk like she has every right to be a part of this moment.

Like she hasn’t spent the first part of the night in Bucky’s bed. Like she hasn’t been touched by him, kissed by him, fucked by him, wanted by him in a way that you have only ever ached for.

Like she hasn’t taken something that was never hers to have.

But it’s not yours either.

She looks so composed, too. More put together than you would have imagined. Her hair smoothed, clothes adjusted, skin glowing in a way that tells you she wasn’t just sleeping up there - she was living in something you’ve been dying for. She probably took a moment in your bathroom to check herself, to fix her lipstick, maybe even to admire herself in the mirror while you were downstairs, breaking apart.

She had the time for that.

Meanwhile, you can barely stand.

Your body is alive with magnitudes of unspoken things, suffocating. You feel like you’ve been sanded down, like a piece of wood, leaving nothing but the ache and longing and all the words you can’t say. This destruction is slow and ruthless, it doesn’t come with an explosion, but rather a slow erasure.

Like you’re being unmade. Piece by piece.

Like you were never meant to be here in the first place.

And Bucky is still looking at you.

Not at her.

You.

And maybe that should be enough. Maybe it should mean something.

But it just puts more pressure on the knife that is already turning around in your flesh.

The girl doesn’t leave and Bucky stiffens.

“Bucky,” she drawls, almost lazy, like she’s bored with this already. “Are you coming back up, or…?”

Your stomach lurches.

You feel exposed, scraped raw, like you’ve been trampled over, flattened by something massive, left behind for everyone else to step around.

Bucky lets out a slow breath through his nose. His jaw works under pressure. And then, he huffs. Annoyed. Like she’s interrupting something important.

“Go home,” he flatly tells her, his attention still on you. Not even addressing her with a name. Perhaps he doesn’t even know it.

“Seriously?” she scoffs, crossing her arms. Her eyes flick between the two of you.

Bucky exhales another breath and drops one of his arms from you to scrub it over his face, pushing through his hair. He turns toward her just a little, stance rigid.

“Yeah, seriously,” he mutters, already turning back to you. “I’ll call you a cab if you need-”

“God, you’re such a dick,” she snaps, cutting him off, rolling her eyes with an exasperated huff. “Unbelievable.”

And then she’s gone.

But so are you.

You don’t even think about it. You just move.

Your arm slips from Bucky’s loosened grip, your body already shifting, already turning, already pulling you down the sidewalk, away from him, away from this.

It’s pathetic. You know this. But you have to get away.

Your vision is a blur, the streetlights smearing into a soft, hazy glow against the wetness welling in your eyes, and no matter how much you try to breathe through it, it’s too much. Simply too much.

You’re hurting. And you need to go. Now.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Woah, whoah, hey!” His voice is quick, rushed, and then he is moving, closing the space between you. And this time, he cuts you off completely, stepping right into your path, right in front of you, blocking the way like a wall. He’s so broad in front of you, and so fucking present, making it impossible to escape.

You stop so fast it almost sends you stumbling back.

His eyes flick over you so quickly, so intensely, scanning for something he doesn’t understand but is so desperate to find.

“Alright,” he exhales, low and careful, holding his arms out as if ready to stop you again if you make a run for it.

“You want me to put you in chains to keep you still?”It’s a weak and failed attempt at humor.

And it’s not funny. Not even close.

His voice is too thin, too strained, and there is something in his eyes, something tight and aching, that makes it clear he is not even trying all that hard to make his joke work.

You don’t smile. Don’t look at him. Arms still around yourself.

Bucky’s throat bobs as he swallows, as he shifts his weight, as he lets out another slow and deliberate breath. He moves so slow. As if any tiny movement of him would make you walk away from him.

“What’s going on with you, mhm?” His voice is so soft. So concerned. Brooklyn warmth and worry combined with something gentler than you can handle right now.

“What’s this - this fight-or-flight thing you got goin’ on?” he continues, tilting his head just slightly, watching you too closely, reading too much. “You’re rushing off like the damn place is on fire. The hell is that about, doll?” Still so soft. So cautious.

His eyes are on you like you are the only thing in the world that matters, like he’s trying to solve you, like if he just looks long enough, he’ll figure it out.

But if he really understood, if he really found out, everything between you would change.

And you can’t handle that. You can’t handle anything at the moment.

“Just drop it, Bucky, alright?” It comes out sharper than you mean for it to. Harsher. A little spit of venom that you hate yourself for the second it hits the air. He doesn’t deserve your attitude. But you can’t hold it back.

You see the way it lands. The way his brows pull in tighter, the way his lips press together, the way his chest rises and falls so measured. But it’s all not out of irritation. He just tries to figure out where that came from. What is happening. What has you react the way you do.

His voice is even and calm. But oh so careful. “I don’t think I will, doll.”

You look anywhere than at him and his troubled face.

Your throat tightens so fast, you have to swallow hard against it, teeth digging into the inside of your cheek as you blink up at the sky like maybe that keeps the tears from spilling over.

And Bucky watches all of that.

His expression stays soft, but his eyes are burning with something deep, something real, something that makes you feel like you might actually drown if you keep looking at them for too long.

“Y/n,” he almost whispers, and it sounds so pained. “Why are you crying, sweetheart.” He’s so gentle, so tender, so fucking careful like he’s afraid that if he pushes too hard, you’ll just break.

You shake your head, arms around yourself tightening. “I’m fine.”

Bucky makes a quiet noise in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff, something deep and disbelieving.

“See, that’s bullshit.”

You’re about to turn again, but he anticipates and gets hold of your arms.

“Look,” he sighs, heedfully taking off a hand of you to rub it down his face. “You don’t wanna talk? Fine. You wanna bite my head off cause I’m askin’? Fine. But don’t stand here and tell me you’re okay. Because I’ve got eyes, doll, and I can see that you’re not.”

You want him to stop.

You want him to turn around.

You want him to leave you here to fall apart in peace.

But he won’t.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

And you break.

No matter how hard you bite your lip, it doesn’t matter.

The tears slip and streak down your face before there is anything you can do. A sob follows. You can’t choke it down. Your shoulders shake, your breath stutters, and your face tilts towards the ground as you bring trembling hands up to wipe at your cheeks, in a futile and desperate attempt to regain composure. It’s useless.

You feel so pathetic.

Embarrassed. Ashamed that you ran off like this. That you’re standing here, crying in the middle of the night, on a sidewalk with no explanation, making a fool of yourself in front of him.

And the second your face crumbles, his does, too.

The second your breath hitches, he is moving.

Strong arms envelope you, winding tight, pulling you straight into his chest like he doesn’t even need to think about it. Not for a single second.

You let him.

Because it’s either this, or you’ll collapse down onto the asphalt.

His grip is firm, grounding, warm in a way that makes you ache even more. His hand cradles the back of your head, tucking you against him, and you feel the press of his lips there, gentle, but somehow rough.

Like your pain is his own.

“It’s okay. Shh… it’s okay,” he breathes, pained and low, the words pressed into your hair, into your skin. Making space between your ribs. “Oh, doll.” He presses you tighter to him. His hand brushes over your hair. “It’s okay.”

There is something so deep and aching in the way he talks to you, like the sound of his own voice hurts him. Like you hurt him.

His other hand moves over your back, soothingly, trying to give you some strength.

“I gotcha,” he breathes. “M’here, doll. Okay? Just breathe. Gotta breathe for me, baby. Please.”

It’s a slip. Baby. A mistake.

And it makes you cry harder.

Because it’s so soft. Gentle. Because it falls from his lips like something that’s always been there, something that’s always belonged to you.

Except it hasn’t.

It doesn’t.

Not in the way you want.

You don’t know what he calls those girls he takes home. If they get to hear him say it. Girls who have felt his hands in places you never will. Girls who have heard his voice rasp against their skin in the dark.

But you are not one of those girls.

You never will be.

And you know you will never be able to untangle that damaging wrench in your stomach.

So hearing him call you that. Baby. Like it means something. Like it’s yours. Like it hasn’t been whispered in the dim glow of your apartment, murmured against someone else’s lips, someone else’s skin, just someone else just hours ago.

It’s too hard. too cruel.

You wish it didn’t matter. You wish it didn’t rip through you the way it does, splitting you down the center, carving you open.

But it does.

Because even if it doesn’t belong to you, you still want it.

So you cry harder.

Sobs wrack through you, your chest hitching with the force of them, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, clumping it in your fists.

Bucky feels it and he hears it and he grips you tighter, pulls you closer.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he coos, voice just above a whisper, more desperate now. Like he’s drowning in your hurt right along with you.

“Sweetheart,” he tries again, voice strained, thick. His lips are in your hair. “Please talk to me. Make me understand, baby, please! Tell me what’s wrong.”

But you can’t.

Because what the hell would you even say?

That you’re in love with him?

That you’ve been in love with him?

That seeing him with her - hearing the sounds that bleed through the walls, the ones you’ll never be able to unhear - feels like being skinned alive?

That you want him in a way you shouldn’t?

That you want him in a way he will never want you back?

You won’t.

So instead, you just press yourself harder into his chest and squeeze your eyes shut, letting him hold you like you are something precious. Like you are his. Even if you are not.

“Help me understand here, baby. Please,” he repeats with a voice so soft, that makes him seem afraid you might break apart completely if he speaks any louder.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe you’re already in pieces at his feet, shattered beyond repair, and he just hasn’t realized it yet.

He lets you cry when you don’t answer, hand stroking up and down your back, the other soothing over your head. He whispers into your hair, words you can’t even process, just the deep cadence of him, the low rasp of his voice against your temple.

His lips move to your forehead, brushing over it. His breath is warm against your skin. You don’t have it in you to pull away, but you wish you would.

Because none of this makes it any easier.

Because his hands feel too good, too steady, too right - and it’s a lie.

Because it’s him.

And that means it hurts.

You wish he would just go and let you have your pathetic heartbreak alone.

But Bucky Barnes has never been the kind of a guy to leave things unsolved.

He pulls back just slightly after a while, just enough to get a better look at you, and when you try to duck your head, to keep him from seeing too much, he doesn’t let you.

Strong, warm fingers cradle your face, thumbs brushing over the damp skin of your cheeks, tilting your head up and forcing your gaze to his.

He looks wrecked.

His brows are drawn, lips parted, chest rising and falling unevenly. His hands tremble just a little against your skin, but his grip stays firm. Solid.

“Don’t look away, doll. Eyes on me, yeah?”

You swallow hard, jaw tight. “You just ruined your good night,” you say, the words falling out bitter, self-deprecating, stiff with something that tastes like resentment but feels like heartbreak.

Bucky’s frown deepens, his lips pressing together, eyes scanning over your face like he’s searching for something, anything that’ll make this make sense.

“The hell I did,” he scoffs, shaking his head. Confused you even brought this up. “I don’t give a shit about her. Don’t even know her name, if I’m bein’ honest.” He lets out a huffed laugh.

But you don’t.

Because somehow this makes it worse.

And you hate it.

You hate that some part of you wanted her to mean something.

Because if she meant something, if she was special, then at least this ache in your chest would have a name. A reason. A shape you could hold in trembling hands and squeeze so hard that it stops hurting at one point.

Then, at least, you could maybe finally accept that there is no hope. No reason to hold on to those feelings.

But Bucky just shrugs.

It meant nothing. It never meant anything. Not with them.

Not with the girls that come and go, the ones who pass through his nights in the same easy way the hours do - fleeting, ephemeral, touched, and forgotten.

Not with anyone. Not even with you.

You have spent so long feeling this, holding onto it, trying to keep it hidden beneath layers of friendship and longing and careful restraint. You have spent so long pretending that it is fine, that it doesn’t matter, that you can live like this - on the sidelines, just the girl in the other room, in the shadows, in the spaces between what you want and what you’re allowed to have.

And he stands here and looks you in the eyes, telling you that it is nothing. That she is nothing. That they - all of them before her, and all of them after her - are nothing.

You can barely breathe past it.

You don’t say anything.

And Bucky freezes.

His hands, where they cup your face, stop their soft, absentminded strokes. His thumbs, which had been tracing reassuring circles along your cheekbones halt. His breath catches and his eyes shift.

There is something uncertain in there.

And then, his lips part. His brows go up ever so slightly. His pupils flare.

Something settles over his expression that you don’t recognize.

Like a switch has been flipped.

Like a puzzle piece has clicked into place.

Like suddenly he is seeing something in your eyes, something like an answer, something that has been there all along.

His fingers tighten, anchoring himself. Making it seem that if he lets go, if he moves even a fraction, something will break. In him, or you, you’re not sure.

He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. But he needs to see you better. Just enough to search your face for something he needs to know. His gaze locks onto yours and holds you there, testing something, making sure.

His voice is hushed when he talks. Breathless.

“Is that what this is about?”

It’s quiet, the way he says it. Like he’s afraid of it. Like he’s careful with it. There is disbelief on his face. Astonishment.

You shake your head too fast, too sharp, like if you deny it hard enough, it’ll erase the way he’s looking at you right now. That it’ll undo the meaning of his words and the way they sit between you. Something fragile on the verge of breaking.

“No,” you say, but it barely comes out, barely sounds convincing. Your voice is hoarse, scraped raw form holding back everything you don’t want to say. Your lungs refuse to work in sync with the rest of you. You swallow, eyes darting away, grasping for something to latch onto.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Doll…” It comes like a sigh. Weightless and soft. His hands don’t drop from your face, don’t loosen, don’t give you the space you’re so desperately trying to carve out between you. If anything, his grip grows more robust. Just enough to keep you there.

“Hey. Look at me.” His tone is low, carrying the kind of warmth you’d usually like to lean into, but now all you want is to get away from it. You don’t want to meet those stormy blues.

Bucky’s thumbs are sweeping, so feather-light, over the curve of your jaw, smoothing along the damp trail of your tears, and his voice dips even lower. Softer. He is so close.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Give me somethin’ here.”

It’s not fair that he gets to call you all those sweet names like he means them. Like you mean something. Like it’s not the same word he probably called her and all those others who got to have him, even if only for a night.

“I don’t-” you try, but your voice is trembling and thick with tears, and Bucky’s gaze shadows.

“Don’t what?” he coaxes, leaning in just a little, close enough that his breath skims your skin, warm and stable in a way you aren’t. His fingers slightly move against your cheeks, as if resisting the urge to pull you closer.

You shake your head again, your hands wrapping around his wrists - not to push him away exactly, but to have something to hold onto. You have no idea what to say.

“It’s- It’s not-” Your words trip over themselves, stuck somewhere between your throat and your ribs, tangled up in everything you’ve never let yourself say.

But Bucky just watches you, unreadable things swirling in those impossibly blue eyes. Wary things. Still so damn careful.

He exhales and his hands slide down, skimming the column of your throat, settling against the curve of your neck like he’s grounding you. Holding you both together.

“Doll,” he sighs, and it’s too much.

It’s not teasing. It’s not playful. It’s not easy. Not the charming lilt he likes to throw in his tone.

It’s vulnerable. Tender. Substantial.

“You’re breakin’ my heart here.”

And that’s what has another tear slip over your lashes.

Because you’re breaking his heart?

What does that even mean?

You were the one trying to escape the heartache he caused and now he tells you it’s his heart that hurts?

“Please,” he whispers, and his voice is wrecked, gravel thick in his throat. “Just tell me, doll. Tell me what I did. Tell me so I can fix it.”

His lips stay parted, trying to find air, trying to find some kind of solid ground. There is a sheen over his eyes.

“I can’t-” Your voice cracks, but you don’t look away this time. His hands won’t let you. He won’t let you.

His eyes are pleading.

“Can’t what, sweetheart?” he urges, dipping closer, voice just a rasp of sound between you. His thumbs wipe away the new tears and he winces while doing it as if it actually causes him pain that they fell.

The streetlight flickers above. It casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the tight pull of his mouth. His fingers flex against your face.

“Is it-” he starts, then stops, then starts again, throat bobbing and voice rough and hesitant. “Is it those girls?”

A shallow gasp slips from your lips. Fractured and tripping over something unseen. Your shoulders grow stiff.

You can’t answer. You only shake your head, not in denial, not in confirmation, but in something else, something tired and so fucking done with feeling like this.

You try to pull back, try to slip free from the heat of his palms, try to turn away. Another tear drops onto the back of his hand.

Your reaction must be answer enough.

Bucky’s head, Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s whole body - everything is moving so much, keeping you from slipping away, reaching for you, not letting you go.

A breath. A pause. Like his brain needs an extra moment to process what this all could mean. His breath catches in his throat and you can feel the exact moment he gets it.

The exact moment he realizes.

“Shit,” he breathes, so quiet you almost miss it. His grip tightens. It grows distressed. Despairing. Keeping you from leaving his hold, although you don’t stop trying.

You sob and his hands press into your cheeks, thumbs smoothing away tears like he can erase this, like maybe if he holds you tight enough, he can go back five minutes, five months, five years, to a time before he made you feel like this.

“Shit, doll, I-” His voice breaks, gravel and regret and anguish - and something so painful - landing with every syllable.

You don’t stop trying to pull back, trying to push him away. You can’t talk. You can’t stop crying. You can’t look at him.

But Bucky is devastated. And he is desperate. And he won’t let you go.

“No, no, don’t - please, Y/n, don’t.” He runs through his words, frantically getting them out, frantically trying to make you look at him.

He reaches your face again and holds on like it’s important. Your tears won’t stop falling. A whimper falls from your lips when you realize he won’t let you leave.

Bucky panics.

His swallow seems to hurt him. Everything he does seems to hurt him.

“Oh, sweetheart - fuck, fuck, I didn’t-” He lets out a rough breath, one of his hands letting go of you to scrub over his face, pushing through his hair in frustration.

Not at you.

At himself.

“Doll, I didn’t - Jesus Christ, I didn’t know.”

It comes out hoarse, scraped down to nothing but feeling. Each word drags from his throat like sandpaper against silence. Coarse and raspy.

And then he’s shaking his head, hands sliding to your shoulders, his hold firm, his eyes darting over your face like he is trying to memorize it, searching for the right words in the curve of your lips, the glisten of your tears, the way your breathing is a single shuddering mess.

“I didn’t - fuck, I didn’t mean-”

He seems to hold back a scream.

Sucking in another sharp breath, he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s in pain, angry at himself, wanting to go back and rewrite everything, tear out every page where he made you feel like you were anything but his.

You wish you could believe it.

“Bucky-” you croak out.

“No, don’t-” His head doesn’t stop shaking. His jaw is clenched tight. Hands shaking against you. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?” Your voice is whisper-thin.

His breath shudders out, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are so earnest. Glossy with a sheen of tears.

“Like it’s over.”

Your throat closes around your next breath, never making it reach your lungs.

Because what is he saying? Nothing ever had the chance to be anything.

“I didn’t know, doll,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I swear to God, I didn’t know. You gotta believe me, I - fuck, I never wanted to hurt you. Never wanted you to feel like- I didn’t think you’d-”

He cuts himself off, voice choking.

His hands drop suddenly, like he doesn’t even deserve to hold you anymore. Like the guilt is weighing them down.

And then, unsure and hesitantly, he lifts one of them again and pauses before cupping your face, waiting for something - permission, maybe, or just a sign that you won’t pull away this time.

When you don’t, when you just keep standing there, frozen and broken and bewildered, he lets his palm settle warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing so lightly it sends a shiver down your back.

“Tell me how to fix it. Tell me I can,” he pleads, like he means it. Like he would do anything. “Tell me what to do, baby. Anything. I’d do anything. Just gotta tell me. Please,” he chokes out.

Cars roll past you. There are voices in the distance. A neon sign flickers. But none of it touches this.

This thing between you.

Bucky’s hand shakes against your cheek. His breath stirs against your skin so ragged and he leans in. His forehead presses to yours, his body curling toward you like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, just needing to be close.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps out. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Never have you seen Bucky like this. He keeps things easy, keeps things light, and shrugs off pain like it never quite reaches him. But it does now.

It consumes him.

His fingers curl at the back of your neck, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself against you. And when you continue standing there, breath shaky, tears still trembling in your lashes, his whole body sags.

His chest heaves with a breath so deep it sounds like it’s costing him something.

“I never meant for this to happen. Please, believe me.”

His forehead presses harder to yours, seemingly trying to press his words straight into you, that maybe if he gets close enough you’ll feel how much he means them.

And you do. You just don’t know what the hell is going on.

He lets out a sound that resembles a sob. And then you feel the damp heat of a tear where his face brushes against yours.

Bucky is crying.

It breaks you. You don’t know what to do with all this pain. His and yours. Don’t know how to ever let it go.

You pull back. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe, to think, to process.

But Bucky’s whole body tenses, and his eyes squeeze shut as if he knew it was coming but it still pains him. Bracing himself for something he already knows is going to hurt. His hands drop to his sides.

And maybe that should give you some kind of satisfaction, a tiny sense of justice for the nights you spent lying awake, wondering if you meant anything to him while he had his hands on someone else.

But it doesn’t.

Because the way he is looking at you, when he cracks his eyes open again, when he meets your gaze with so much open ache, makes your chest hurt. It makes something inside of you quake.

“Bucky,” you start, but your own voice is so small, so lost. You shake your head, scanning his face, trying to piece it together, to make sense of something that refuses to fit. How the tables have turned. You just can’t seem to find the irony in it. “What are you even - I don’t - I don’t I understand.”

His throat bobs, thick and tight, and he pulls in a breath like it’s the last one he’s going to get.

“I love you.”

Your mind blanks. You flatline. Your knees go weak.

He says it like it’s the simplest thing to say. As if it is the most obvious thing in the world. But it isn’t.

Because if it was then why has he spent all those nights with those seemingly meaningless girls. Why has he let you ache for him while he touched someone else.

“I love you,” he says again, softer, trying to make sure you believe it.

But you don’t know how to.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You feel the words, heavy and warm and terrifying, but your body doesn’t know what to do with them. Your mind is screaming at you to run, to protect yourself, to build the walls back up before it’s too late, but your heart doesn’t listen.

Bucky’s hand trembles when it reaches for you, fingertips ghosting over your jaw, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t and he steps closer again.

His whole body thrums as if he is scared to touch you but more scared not to. He looks at you with those red-rimmed and puffy eyes, so tremendously bare, holding onto your own eyes like he is drowning and you are the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Say something, doll,” he pleads, his voice so unsteady, that it guts you.

But what could you say?

Because love is not supposed to feel like this, to hurt like this. It isn’t supposed to feel like your heart has been split open and stitched back together all in the same breath.

But looking at him and at the way his eyes are just as pleading as his words, at the way he is breaking right in front of you - it makes you wonder if maybe it was hurting him all along, too.

“You-” you begin, voice barely more than a whisper. You have to stop, have to pull in a breath that doesn’t seem to want to settle, have to force your hands to stay at your sides instead of reaching for something - for him - that you don’t know if you can take. “But that-” Another inhale, sharp and broken. Your chest hurts. Your whole body hurts. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Bucky exhales, long and slow and then he drops his head. Shoulders slumping, spine curling, like something inside of him, has just given out.

Guilt.

It sits heavy in his frame, in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands jerk like he wants to touch you but knows he shouldn’t.

“Yeah,” he mutters, a humorless little laugh escaping, barely more than a breath. He drags a hand down his face, through his hair, before letting it fall uselessly at his side. His voice is lower when he speaks again, raspier, weighed down by something that feels an awful lot like regret. “I know.”

You watch him, waiting. Because he owes you this. Because he cracked open something you weren’t ready for, something you tried to bury, and now you need to understand.

And Bucky must feel that. Because after a beat, after a deep, shuddering breath, he looks at you again.

“I didn’t think I could have you,” he admits, voice quiet. Cautious. The words fragile in his mouth. “Didn’t think I was allowed to even want you. To this extent, anyway.”

Air enters you unevenly, shaking on the way in like a shiver made of sound. “Bucky-”

“You’re my best friend,” he pushes on, stepping in just a fraction, like he can’t help himself. His voice is getting rougher, rawer, like something in him is unwinding too fast for him to stop it. “I didn’t wanna mess that up, y’know? Didn’t wanna lose you over somethin’ I couldn’t control.”

Something tightens in your chest. Something shifts.

“So you-” you swallow, shaking your head, trying to put it together, trying to make sense of it. “So you just went around to go get yourself other girls you can fuck?”

Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.

Gaze dropping in shame, his features form a grimace. “I tried,” he croaks out, gesturing at his chest with one hand. “Tried to stop feeling like this. Tried to move on, tried to-” He exhales sharply, tilting his head side to side, something torn playing out with the movement. “It didn’t work. Nothin’ worked. Didn’t even make it easier. But I was afraid to face it. Really face it. So I just kept going.”

It hurts.

It hurts in a way you don’t know how to hold. Don’t know how to carry.

You thought, for so long, that the way you love him, ache for him, is a one-sided agony.

But he is confessing to you, eyes red and weary, voice splintering, telling you that he’s been afraid to speak it aloud too.

That he loves you, that he tried to kill it, that he thought losing himself in someone else would somehow erase you from his mind.

Bucky’s words are a fist curling around your ribs, squeezing the air from your lungs.

It should matter. It should mean something that he’s standing in front of you, breaking apart, pleading for you to understand. Shouldn’t it be enough that he’s telling you it was always you? That no one else ever came close?

But he still touched them.

Still chose them, even if only for a meaningless night.

While you sat in your room, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you were going insane. While you clenched your fists so tight beneath your sheets at night, biting your tongue, swallowing it down, because Bucky is your friend and friends don’t ache like this.

And yet, he is telling you, showing you, he aches too.

But instead of sitting with it, instead of letting it consume him the way it consumed you, he tried to make it disappear.

He tried to fuck it away.

And now he looks at you like you are the only thing that has ever mattered, like the ground beneath his feet, is unsteady, like he is afraid you are going to bolt at any second.

You feel like the ground beneath your feet shits a fraction of an inch, not enough to send you falling, but enough to make you question if you were ever standing solid in the first place.

“But, doll, it-” he rushes forward, watching your pain, stepping into your space until there is barely anything between you. “It never meant anything. Swear to god, none of ‘em ever meant something to me.” His hands wrap around yours, squeezing, grounding, begging. “They weren’t you. Couldn’t be you. Didn’t matter how hard I tried, how many times I told myself to stop thinking about you because you’re supposed to be my best friend, but I wanted so much more than that - it didn’t matter. Nothin’ worked.”

He is struggling to force the words out, but he does. And they leave him with a catch in his voice. Faltering.

“I thought about you, sweetheart. Every fuckin’ time.” His voice turns frantic and he leans in to make it convince you. He watches your lips tremble and shakes his head quickly. “Thought about how you’d feel. How you’d sound.”

Your breath stalls.

Bucky swallows, taking a quick pause but continuing, voice growing softer. Lower. Reverent. “Tried to picture you instead. How you’d look under me, wrapped around me. So goddamn beautiful.” His voice cracks. “But it wasn’t you. And I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it.”

He stumbles over his words, afraid of saying too much, of pushing too far, or admitting too much - but it doesn’t stop hurting.

Even if you know it might not be fair.

But the thought of him with them, the thought of his hands gripping someone else’s skin, his lips murmuring something soft against someone else’s throat - it makes you sick.

And he sees it.

You try to blink back another wave of tears.

His hands are on your face again, thumbs swiping furiously at your damp cheeks like he can rub the hurt away.

“Please tell me I didn’t ruin this.” His voice cracks through the words, the panic breaking through. Your silence seems to suffocate him, squeezing his ribs until there is no space left for air.

“I’m so sorry, baby! I wish I could take it all back. I would.” His bottom lip trembles and he bites down on it before continuing. “Tell me I can fix this. There’s gotta be somethin’ I can do. Anything.”

You blink rapidly, vision swimming, breath hiccuping in your throat. You don’t know if there is anything to fix, if there was ever anything there, to begin with, but he is looking at you like there was. Like there is. Like it is still hanging in the air between you, waiting to be caught, waiting to be named.

And you want to catch it. To press it to your heart and cherish it.

But the wounds are fresh. Still bleeding. Still open.

The images you conjured up in your mind, him with all those girls. The sounds of him bringing one after the other home - the routine.

The giggling. The keys. The apartment door. More giggling. His chuckles. The hallway. His bedroom door. The goodbyes. The mornings.

But worst of all is that you can’t even blame him.

Because what was he supposed to do? Wait for something that was never promised? Hold out hope for something that was never offered?

You had no claim on him.

But still, you hate how he tried to fuck you out of his system. Hate that he couldn’t, that he’s standing here now, telling you it was all for nothing, that you were always in his head, in his bones, and that that somehow is supposed to make it better.

You don’t know if it does now. But you hope - you hope so dearly - that it will get better. If he’ll stick with you.

“No more girls.” The words choke out of you, weak and broken, barely a breath. But he jolts like you have screamed them.

“Never,” he breathes immediately, shaking his head as if to get rid of his own images, gripping you tighter, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks, his eyes burning through yours. “No more, baby. No one else. Not ever.”

Your breath catches, body sways.

There is a burn behind your ribs, not quite pain, but not far from it. It is something that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Too quick. Too uneven.

“Only you,” he adds, his forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, his breath warm against your lips, his hands trembling where they hold you. “It’s only ever been you.”

Heat rises up your throat, something between nausea and electricity, a burst of too much all at once.

“I got a lot to make up for.” His tone is unraveling at the seams. But it sounds firmer now. Convicted. “I know that. I know I- fuck, I screwed this up before I even knew I had a chance. And that’s on me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, because it’s too much - his voice, his touch, the way he is looking at you like you hung the damn moon when you’ve spent years feeling invisible to him in the way that mattered.

“I don’t wanna rush this, alright?”

You blink up at him. Your chest feels stretched too tight, as if the ribs themselves are holding onto something they shouldn’t, something too large, something too consuming.

“I don’t wanna mess this up more than I already have. I don’t wanna push or expect anythin’ from you - I just wanna do this right. For you.” His voice wavers on the last word, still scared of saying the wrong thing, scared of losing something he only just realized he had. “You understand me?”

You nod wordlessly. Almost feeling hypnotized by him. His eyes are so intense. So full.

“I’ve been waitin’ for this, hopin’ for this - Christ, I don’t even know how long.”

Your stomach flips, something curling in your stomach at the heaviness of his confession, at the realization that you weren’t alone in this. Maybe never have been.

“And now that it’s happenin’ - now that I have you, even if I don’t deserve it - I wanna take my time. I wanna make this good for you. Have to. I have to make this right,” he says, voice filled with something gravelly, rough like something barely holding together.

His fingers slide over your jaw, tracing along the column of your throat, memorizing the feel of you beneath his hands.

“And I hate-” his voice falters, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he forces himself to look at you again. “I hate that it’s happening like this. That I hurt you first. That I didn’t see this sooner.”

“Bucky-”

He cuts you off with his eyes and a shake of his head.

“Please I- I gotta do this. Gotta say this, baby.”

You nod.

He closes his eyes again for a moment like he wants to go back and shake his past self by the shoulders, tell him to wake the hell up and stop hurting the one girl he ever cared about.

He continues, voice hoarse. “I would do anything to make this different. Better. The way you deserve.”

Your breath is shallow, not quite catching, but hovering just short of where it should be, as if your body can’t decide whether to brace itself for collapse.

You’ve spent so long breaking for him, wanting him in ways he never seemed to want you back. But now he is pouring his heart out and asking for something he already has but isn’t sure he is worthy of.

“You don’t gotta say anythin’ right now, doll,” Bucky whispers. Afraid of scaring you off. “I know I shoulda told you sooner.” He grimaces, disgusted with himself. “I shoulda known sooner. I was so fuckin’ stupid. So fuckin’ blind.”

You don’t even notice you started leaning further into him.

Bucky stares at you for a moment. You look back.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly. Whispers really. He exhales shakily and you feel the breath fan along your cheeks. “But I swear to God, I will.”

You don’t weigh the hurt against the want, don’t let the war in your head talk you out of your next move.

Your hands reach up, curling into the fabric of his shirt and before he can say anything else - before he can tear himself apart further - you kiss him.

And for a split second, Bucky freezes.

Not believing this is happening, not expecting it even after everything he just told you.

But then, he exhales this soft and quivering breath against your lips, relief knocking the air out of his lungs.

One hand flies to your waist, pulling you in, the other threading into your hair. He kisses you back like he is starving, like he has been dying for this, like he can’t believe you are real and this moment is something he’s imagined a thousand times but never thought he’d get to have.

And he is so warm. So solid. His lips move against yours, soft and slow at first - savoring you, afraid to go too fast, to push too much. But when you let out a little sigh and your fingers tighten, Bucky melts, pressing in closer, enveloping you in his arms in a way that has you feeling he tries to make sure you never go anywhere else again.

He breathes you in like you are something holy, tilting your head and deepening the kiss. He is not forceful. He takes what he can get and he cherishes it. Like he said, he wants to take his time with you. It makes you fall in love with him even more.

It’s like he can’t believe you are even letting him have this. But he kisses you with a hope and a determination that this will not be the only time he gets to have this.

And when you pull back again, he rests his forehead against yours once more. You feel the way his chest rises and falls against your own, the way his breath shakes, the way his grip does not loosen at all.

“Jesus, doll,” he rasps, panting. “You tryna kill me?”

And the way he says it, the way he looks at you, so full of longing and desire and relief makes you realize that maybe he’s been suffering just as much as you have.

“I want you. It’s as simple as that. I’ve spent a great deal too much of my life already trying to convince myself that I can make do with less but I can’t. You hear me? I’m done. I’m not giving up. A life without you is not enough.”

- Beau Taplin

[nyursi]

NASTY DOG. . .ᐟ

⫘⫘⫘ㅤmale reader, brat taming, size difference, age gap (around 20-40 ig), ass eating, yeahhhh,,, livestock guardian dog x recon cat reader!!!ㅤ♪ㅤ───ㅤwc: 3k

"Ow, ow, ow!" You yelped, the fingertips digging into your scalp causing whimpers. Face scrunched up— brows furrowed, lips pulled into a pout. Like a proper hurt brat. 

Dean meanwhile, had ignored your struggles and continued to drag you through the field, eyes narrowed. The sharp blades of grass (freshly cut) dug into your skin, leaving red lines to mark up your thighs. 

He had a firm grip on your hair, tugging harshly. Let it fall it out for all he cares. "Tsk. Stop complainin', it's hurting my ears." Dean huffed, pulling your head upwards for a sharp jolt. Relishing in the quick yelp that followed afterwards— echoing in the field. 

With no warning, he dropped you down onto the ground, leaving you to keel, curling up like a worm. Dean crossed his arms, large and meaty, waiting for you to get up. "I already told ya, quit whining' and get up." 

You huffed and rolled your eyes— getting up to stand. Dusting off any dirt and grime on your clothes, you crossed your own arms and gazed at him. Eyes narrowed. "What is your problem?" You hissed. "Why'd ya have to— to drag me back!" 

Dean rolled his eyes. "This is exactly why. Your attitude won't cut it in this line of work, for cryin' out loud." He pinched his temple, right between his thick brows, the lines on his face more prominent than ever. You did a really good job at making him age by the second— and he was already old as is! 

The old dog was the definition of loyal. Having been working for the ranchers since he was young. And now, with greying hair and decades of experience under his belt, Dean was the perfect mentor in their eyes. The hell were they thinking? The hell was he thinking? 

"Yeah, sure,'' Dean said. Not paying any mind to the farmer's request. Something about some cat arriving next week. He's trained a couple of their guardians before, whats a recon cat to him? He's the top dog 'round this place, second in command if you may. Any new faces got to deal with him first. 

Unfortunately, the pretty little cat they took in was far from easy. 

A hellspawn he'd called you. Not outright of course. Dean still had some decency left in him, no matter how much you tested him. But he did imply it, a more passive aggressive approach. Let you know he was really disappointed with such a brat to deal with. Huffing and puffing like some wolf 'bout to blow the hay. 

"Yeah well you didn't have to grab me by the hair!" He eyed the finger pointed at him, scoffing. Completely unthreatened. Dean was big, a tank that won't be moved so easily. That dainty little finger you waved around? Laughable. Course, he did stare at it a bit too long for his own comfort— unsure why thoughts of how easy it would be to just... handle and carry you around like a sack of feathers. 

"Boy, you're givin' me a damn headache. Recon cats are supposed to be— what? Agile? Quick? Behaved? Is chasing butterflies your job or what?" Dean raised his voice. You winced at the jab. He frowned, eyes softening the tiniest bit. 

"C'mon kid. The farm’s still away. We don't wanna get stuck out in the dark." Dean nodded his head to the distance, a faint silhouette of your new home. He trudged forward without waiting for you. 

You sighed, posture slumping. Yet you followed along anyway, dragging your feet on the ground. 

"Stupid fuckin' old dog," you murmured, plopping down on your bed. It was small and creaky, put together last minute. Much like your room. Pretty sure it was an old storage closet without the shelfs lining the walls to make room. 

It was dusty, and cramped. Reeaaal welcoming. Guess they thought a room small as this would be fine, considering you weren't that hunkering anyway. At least Dean gets a proper room. 

You sneer, feeling your blood boil at the thought of his name. "Who does he think he is? He's not the boss of me." Well... he kinda is. But whatever! It's not like you signed up for this anyway. Some boring countryside life looking out for barn animals and whatnot? Psh. Boooring! 

"Some big old hunk bossin' me around... hmph." You lay on your back, the mattress was thin and barely did anything to soften the rough wood of your bed frame. Pretty sure your back’s gonna ache quicker than Deans. 

A small snicker escapes you, lips curling into a smile. The image sends you a rush of amusement. Tiny giggles echo in your room— sounding like some maniac locked up in a padded cell with only his ideas to keep him company. 

Dean stops outside your door. Hand raised midway the air, curled into a fist. He was about to call you out for dinner, escort you to the kitchen so you wouldn't get into any more trouble. But your laughter made him stop dead in his tracks. 

He was dumbfounded, kinda. You sounded so innocent despite your... behaviour. Huh. It was almost cute. Endearing, even. Dean coughs, shaking his head. An annoyed frown tugged on his lips.

Ain't no way in hell. Never in my life would I... 

Ah. But he has already fallen for you? Slowly and surely, even if he was unaware. The day you arrived on the farm, all prickly like a cactus. He almost found it cute (he did). But he wasn't sure if the intense feelings that were harbored deep in his chest was a really intense anger or something else entirely. 

Something Dean had never thought to consider. 

Affection. 

Affection? For him? Dean blanched. He stepped back from the door like it burned him.The fucking cat? With his naughty attitude and god-forsaken defiance? Dean couldn't count how many times you stuck your tongue out at him, getting him all riled up. But fuck, maybe he did find it cute. So what? He's just a lonely old man, what's he supposed to do when the heavens throw a feline right into his arms? 

A feline that'd fit in them all nice and snug, with how small you were compared to him. That's the first thing that came to mind when he laid his eyes on your form. 

"Are ya tryin' ta kill me? That little thing's our recon?" Dean scoffed that night, complaining his heart out. "I don't know what you were thinkin'— what's he gonna do against coyotes? Wriggle and squirm?" 

And unfortunately, it had only plagued him more as time went on. When he was introducing himself to you— albeit begrudgingly. You were just standing there, leaning against the wall. Acting all smug as if Dean didn't dwarf you by a landslide. Like he couldn't just pick ya up if he wanted to, swing you over his shoulders. 

The thought made him a bit too excited. 

When he was tourin' you 'round the barn. Walking behind him like some shadow. Even his sharp ears couldn't hear your footsteps— feel your presence. Light as a feather, indeed. Maybe he doubted you too much. 

Earlier when he was dragging you on the field. Truth be told, he didn't mean to be so rough. Never in his life has Dean laid his hands on his juniors. But with you? It was an entirely different story. There was something about you that ignited feelings he didn't even know he could feel! It was a whole new area for him. 

But god. Temptation had been building up, and Dean was only a man who could hold on for so long. He'd lost control, when those sinful thoughts kept him up. Shame welling in his being for every lewd image his mind conjured up in the middle of the night, keeping him from sleeping and getting some shut eye like an old dog should, as you said. 

Gods, and how many times had you jabbed at his age? He ain't even that old! 

It only made him feel guiltier. You were a young thing— all pretty and shiny. Like a brand new chew toy for Dean to maul on. Sink his teeth into your pristine skin, leave red marks that'd prove his territory. (Territory. And this guy has the nerve to act like he doesn't have feelings for you!) What sounds would you make? If he bit deep and hard, licked up the marks afterwards. Dirty dog. 

"Fuck," Dean snarled, dragging a calloused palm down his face. He stood in the hallway, trying to cancel out your laughter. What was he here for again? Right. Dinner. 

Well shit, ain't Dean got dinner right here? Beyond that door, laying on the bed... 

He turned his head away swiftly, ragged breaths leaving his chapped lips. Chest heaving up and down. "No, no... calm down. You ain't feel like that—" Dean chuckled. But it sounded more like a pathetic strain. "Not for him." 

He didn't call you out for dinner, and he didn't eat either. But that hunger would get you both sooner or later. 

"Just... a little... bit... more...!" You groaned, hand outstretched. Curse these tall cabinets. It's not like giants live here! And what the fuck was up with Dean? He was supposed to call you for dinner! 

You actually fell asleep but that doesn't matter. 

What matters now, is the hunger in your stomach driving you crazy. The rumbles could echo in the barn if they got any louder. It was embarrassing enough as it is. 

Sneaking around, avoiding the creaky floorboards. Ears raised and alert for any and every sound made. What were you? A spy? You live here! 

"Goddammit, coulda saved me some leftovers. Even a grain would've been nice." You grumbled, sighing and rolling your eyes. Pouting at the thought of the meal you missed. Damn barn animals and their never ending greed. Not even a single scrap was put away for little ol' you. 

You were so caught up in your actions that you failed to notice a figure entering the kitchen, getting a nice front view of your behind. Huh. Why were you archin' your back like that anyway? 

Dean froze, mind blue screening temporarily as his eyes registered your ass all puckered out in the dark. 

He had given in to his hunger, forgetting about dinner after his... ahem, revelations. Curled up in bed, sulking in denial like he was about to be put down. Pathetic really. Since when did Dean get worked up over pretty kitties? 

Since you, apparently. 

He thought about it. Since you were their first recon cat, he didn't have much experience with felines. Only knew that they were playful, independent, and incredibly alluring. Dangerously so that when you've fallen for one, oh brother, there is no getting back up. 

Might as well dig yourself a hole in the ground to live in. 

Playful, when you gave jokes he wouldn't understand. Quick-witted, aren't you? With a smart little mouth that said all sorts of things. Curiosities and glimpses of your personality past the shallow image of a no-good cat. That twinkle in your eyes every time your soft lips curved into a smile, a triumphant "hmph!". You just loved being right, didn't you? 

Independent, always going off on your own. No matter how many times Dean reprimanded you, kept you from wandering too far. Curiosity kills the cat, after all. That's what he said, and that was the first time you rolled your eyes at him too. Wonder what it'd look like if he made them roll back for a different reason. Dean could only sigh and expect a headache to form whenever you weren't round the barn. Away from the fence and enjoying the scenery like some tourist. 

And finally: Alluring. 

As much as he didn't want to admit it. You had this charm that... well, charmed him. He beat himself up over it. But everytime he promised himself to stop— the obsession only got more intense. Every time you weren't looking he'd catch a quick glimpse. Admire your features, rake his eyes down your figure in silent appreciation. Whenever he entered a room, Dean found himself looking for you. And when you entered one? He'd feel your presence immediately. 

It was ridiculous, how downright bad he was. 

Maybe it was fate. Here, with you oblivious to his presence, arching your back and presenting yourself (unknowingly) to Dean. 

He stepped closer, silently. A shadow casted over his face. 

You could only widen your eyes and gasp in shock when two hands placed themselves onto your hips, keeping you in place. "Gah! Dean!?" You yelped, blinking at him curiously. Sweat built up on your temple, heart caught in your throat. 

"I wasn't doing anything! Just... looking for food, I swear!" You reasoned, still planted on your palms for balance. 

Dean only hummed, massaging invisible circles into your skin with his thumbs. "That so?" He said. You shivered. What the hell? What was that? Why did he sound so... intense? 

"What're you doin' up late at night?" He asked, brow raised. Eyes boring into yours. Had the nerve to sound suspicious, too. "You were supposed to call me for dinner, don't act surprised." You huffed, turning away. 

Dean only tugged you closer— hips meeting yours. Stupid kitty. Even now you have the nerve to act so high and mighty. Maybe Dean should teach you humbleness, take you from your throne for a little while. 

"Don't test me," Dean growled, satisfaction creeping in his blood as he watched you tremble. "Mh," he hummed. Yeah. You were tiny. 

"Test you? What the hell are you—" Riiip! In an instant, the cold air had latched itself onto your skin. Dean tore apart the seam in your shorts— right in the cleft of your ass. His tail has begun to wag, eyeing the cute rim staring at him. 

You were too shocked to make a sound, and even then, before you could react, Dean had dove right in, licking and nibbling at your pucker. "Huh- ah!" Your claws dug onto the wooden counter, leaving scratch marks. Dean slobbered up your hole like a man starved, saliva dripping down your chin. 

He licked and licked, made you dizzy til' your hole was nice and soft. His tongue was rough and textured, making your cock tingle and come to life. "W-wait, it's dirty down there!" 

Dean wrapped his hand around the base of your tail, tugging it upwards to bury his face deeper into your behind. Slowly, he breached your insides, licking up at your gummy walls. Your soft whimpers was like music to his ears. Oh, he felt fulfilled. 

But not quite. 

"O-oh..." you gasped softly, blush blooming on your cheeks. Dean was massaging your insides with his tongue, desperate and needy. His movements were quick yet deep and stimulating— as if he was looking for something. 

"Hnn!~" Your tongue lolled out, thighs tensing up. Unkowingly, you began to thrust your hips baclwards, meeting Deans licks. His tongue rolled onto a soft bud inside— a sensitive cluster of nerves that made you weak in the knees. "F-fuck..." 

Dean continued his assault on your prostate, never once breaking his pace. His eyes were closed shut, as if he was trying to savor the taste and feeling— keep this memory in his mind forever. His own cock jumped in his jeans, straining to be released. 

You were so warm... so tight. He couldn't wait to bury his cock to the hilt, make your belly bulge and fill you to the brim. Hump you like a dog in rut— fuck. "Uh... guh!" 

Dean parted himself from your ass, panting and heaving. Your rim was shiny with spit, legs trembling and cock leaking pre pathetically. 

It was silent for a moment. Until you heard a belt buckle, followed by a zipper and the sound of fabric falling to the floor. 

And then you felt it. 

Deans cock. Hard and hot— rubbing against your behind. Fuck. How big was that? It felt huge! You whined softly, fear striking you. But there was excitement as well, you had never done this before, and for someone like Dean to make you experience it... 

Naughty. 

You had been nothing but a brat your time here, but you couldn't deny that Dean was a good looking man when you first met. Tall and buff, yet soft. Hair on his arms and chest, a little grey in his hair. Lines around his eyes and lips... you shivered. God. What did his cock look like? 

What would it feel like, to take him nice and deep? 

You bit your lip. Dean continued to rub his length between your cheeks for a goodwhile, like he was easing you into the harsh fucking to come. "Fuck, can't wait anymore." Dean groaned, and pushed his tip against your tight vice. 

He held your hips firmly, keeping you in place as you wriggled. He was big! Your pathetic rim struggled to envelop his tip. 

Dean's mind raced as his hips rocked up, driving his thick cock deep into your tight hole. The boy was so small, so delicate compared to his large frame. Your slender body bounced with each thrust. 

"Fuck, boy..." Dean groaned, fingers digging into the cat's hips hard enough to leave marks. "You feel s' good around my cock. So hot 'n tight..." 

He knew this was wrong. You were his junior, and Dean was supposed to be disciplining you, teachin' you the ways 'round the barn. Not... fucking you senseless. But god, the way your velvety walls clenched around him, the sweet little noises spilling from those plush lips— it was too much to resist. 

Dean's balls slapped against your ass as he pistoned his hips faster, chasing his rapidly approaching climax. "Fuck, fuck," he snarled. "Take it." 

The lewd squelch of saliva and the slap of skin on skin filled the kitchen. He could feel you shaking apart on his cock, the boy's neglected dick bobbing between their bellies, flushed an angry red and leaking steadily. 

He reached around to palm your cock, jerking you in time with his erratic thrusts. Huh. For and old dog— he sure had stamina. 

Dean's thumb swiped over the sensitive head, smearing the copious precum. You let out a high, keening wail, back arching as his orgasm crashed over him. Pearly ropes of cum painted Dean's fist and splattered across the counter as your hole clamped down around his pistoning length. 

The pressure sent Dean hurtling over the edge. With a guttural groan, he slammed you back onto his cock, all the way down to the hilt. Bulging your belly. At the same time, he had bit onto your shoulder, breaking skin and leaking blood. 

Your body twitched, eyes rolled back and unfocused. You leaned forward, finding support on the wooden counter (now littered with scratch marks) as Dean massaged your hips. "Hah.. haahh.." 

Uncontrollable sighs escaped you, bones melting against Dean. Smaller spurts of semen shooting out of Dean's tip sent shocks down your spine, smaller cock red and spent. With your cum dribbling down onto your tiny balls. 

Sweat trickled down their skin, breaths heavy. Illuminated in the moons light. 

Finally, with a groan, Dean pulled out (albeit begrudgingly) of your warm hole. 

He watched, transfixed, as a string of his cum connected his softening cock to your puffy, well-used hole. The sight made his spent dick twitch with interest. Fuck, he could do this all night. 

Ah... but you seemed tired. He chuckled, eyeing your spent form. All sweaty and twitchy. Particularly focused on the bite mark that stuck out on your shoulder. 

"Congratulations, boy. Now yer a true, fully-fledged recon cat.”

this was supposed to be lamb reader but idk,,, let me see how this does first then ill think abt it :3 ALSO WHAT IS IT WITH ME AND CAT READER??? ffuckin cat burglar n heavenly,,, urg. So sorry guys idk. I just love pussy!!

[luludeluluramblings]

Neglected!Marine!Reader x Yandere!BatFamily

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

A/N: I’ve been holding on to this one. Army Dreamer sent me an ask and this is what came out of it. I know you probably wanted Army, but I just thought Marine cause of an old COD OC I had and this fricken spiraled. I was gonna make it a three part series, but that would take too long and you deserve it now!

A/N: Frick forgot the warnings. My bad!

Warnings: GN!Reader, Yandere themes, bodily injury (to reader), mentions of death

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

You've been living with the Wayne since our mother and step-father died. You've constantly been ignored and belittled by the family. The most common bully being Damian, your younger half-brother. After constant harassments and being called weak by pretty much everyone for years, you sign up for the Marines after a recruiter comes to your high school and gives you and your classmates the selling points.

But, fuck it, you don't care. Gets you away from everyone. And, it's one of the most difficult military branches so an even bigger fuck you to anyone who thinks your weak after this.

It takes two years for you to get somewhere comfortable. You're not flying up the military ladder, but you’re a damn good officer in the METOC moving to South Caroline. And, a 12 hour drive and 2 hour flight from Gotham. Neither which you have ever taken.

You don't bother contact home. You don't bother going home for holidays and Christmas. You send Alfred a card occasionally with some of your other single and lonely military friends in it. Y'all make them really funny too.

It's through these collected and hilarious cards that you get rediscovered. Not by the family, but by the media. Apparently, not only did your silly photos go viral, but your friends damn military tik tok did to.

("Why'd you join the marines?" "It was too dangerous to be a stripper in Gotham." "Why'd you join the marines?” “I have daddy issues and wanted to get yelled at by someone who cared.")

The family which had still been ignoring you or completely forgot you up to that point was absolutely fucking baffled.

Bruce was imediatly calling Kate.

(“Why didn’t you tell me they joined the military?” “I was Air Force. Not in the Marines. How would I have known?”)

Media is now constantly harassing the family because like, “Hey! Your kid disappeared and joined the military, and you said nothing and now they're roasting you online for the entire world to see.

Bruce is making calls. Tim and Barbara are now trying to hack military stuff. Only for your barracks friends to troll the absolute shit outta them and on government computers to boot.

Eventually Stephanie finds out you’ve been sending cards to Wayne manor of you having fun and doing stupid shit with friends. (Things that you should be doing with them, because holy fuck are you funny as shit.) All addressed to Alfred. Bruce asks if you ever sent anything to him, which was a flat no.

Jason is just baffled. This was nothing he expected. You used to be so soft and squishy, now there's videos of you lifting and doing fun shit with friends and you're shooting guns like a badass. So proud of you.

Cassandra is reading everyone's body language, but yours just looks carefree when she sees your videos and photos, she wants to feel like that. She wants you to help her feel like that.

Dick is distraught. You could have join the circus! But the military? Yes, you're a badass now, but still! He's delulu in thinking that you would have wanted to follow in his footsteps. Acting like he wasn't always busy or spending time with Damian.

Duke is just wowed. You joined the military. You DNGF. You are badass without having to wear any hero costume. Cool shit. Top tier.

Stephanie is just amazed. You had all this personality and she had no idea. You were just living your best life without the wight of the family or our father, and holy shit did she want that for herself. Teach her your ways.

Barbara is amazed, too. This was the most normal form of rebellion anyone could do in this family. Yet, no one expected it and you did it. She would have expected you to become a villian or gone rouge, but instead you joined the military. Color her surprised.

Tim is pissed. Everyone wants you back, yet there is no way to get you back. You knowingly or unknowingly made it nearly impossible for them to get you back without the military and government getting involved. He's pissed about the challenge, and now he's obsessing over all your old manerisns and the photos and videos. (He has the cleariest picture of how you really feel, but he doesn't care that it might be broken or negative. He's obsessed all the same.)

Bruce finds out your active duty and freaks the fuck out. Something could happen and you could be deployed and killed. His worst fear is you being killed. It was bad enough when you were in Gotham and fragile. But, now your military and you think you’re strong. But, you’re not and now you could die at any moment.

Damian is shellshocked. You technically proved him wrong. And, he sees the media's reaction to you. Some people are actually praising you for your service. You left and made yourself strong and made a new family. You didn't bother fighting for this one because you didn't think they were worth it. You didn't think he was worth it. It hurts, but not in away that makes him angry. In a way that makes hs insecurities flare. He wants you to come home now, so he can prove to you that he is worthy. That he is sorry.

Getting you home is near impossible. You have a specific roll that you've trained for, and are on active duty. Your a military dog on a leash the bat family cant control.

It's Kate the gives them the horrible idea. If they got you discharged from the military then you would have to come home. The only problem is an honorable discharge would still give you the means to avoid them, while a dishonorable discharge would make you absolutely hate them and they don't want that. (Plus the media would constantly harass you and them.)

So they decide to get you a medical discharge.

But, they can't hack into things and make anything up, though. And, all your physicals and mental check ups were sound. You have a more administrative position, but accidents happen all the time. Bruce has to make a few phone calls, but your active duty gets you sent out into the field. On a military operation that called for your expertise. (His anxiety is spiked through the roof and he has League Members on standby if something goes wrong.)

Kate also made a few phone calls. You ended up being deployed to assist the National Guard near your area. Only while doing your duties, you and your squad trigger a trap and you lose your hearing in your left ear and your left leg is wrecked. A few of your team mates are killed. (Bruce is pissed at Tim, Dick and Jason for that specifically.) Some lost limbs or now have memory problems. Eveyone in the squad is down and out.

You try to support the surviors as you all recover, but as soon as you’re better and given medical discharge the family snags you. Dragging you back to gotham before anyone can say anything. You try to fight, but the loss of hearing messes with you and the still fresh injury makes you weak once more. Plus, there's more of them than you.

When back at the manor, the family uses PTSD as an excuse for the lack of public appearances, and make many donations to VA hospitals and campaigns for retired and injured members of the military. (They even pay for what the military won't cover for your friends and anyone else they injured in the incident. Bruce has some guilt over you getting hurt that he tries to get rid of by doing this.)

Instantly, Stephanie and Dick coddle you. And, an insane amount.

Jason tries to treat you how he did before since he's so awkward and you punch him in the face in return. Not taking that from him anymore. And, he fucking respects you more for it.

Tim ironically enough, begins to emotionally manipulate you with finesse. He's studied you obsessively, yet somehow you’re still surprising him every now and then.

Barbara gives you space, she can tell this has all been a lot and of everyone she probably understands your injury best.

Bruce bounces between trying to coddle you and give you space. Unintentionally treating you like a child.

Cass is just silently there all the time, almost always watching. She can tell you're overwhelmed and pissed, but you’re still so peaceful to her. Not asking her to talk or forcing her away.

Duke is the most chill. Sucks they had to nerf you, but still your fun to hang out with despite the injury. You developed some military humor and it is hilarious.

Damian, avoids you until he finally breaksdown. And it's not pretty. He finally confesses how guilty he feels. That he is sorry. That he actually didn't want to have to hurt you, that he is a terrible brother and a horrible hero. he never shouldve called you weak. (And, you forgive him, because he was a child. And, because out of everyone he's the only one to apologize and confessed to what they did.)

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

A/N: I’m typing up like three stories at once, and my ask box is filled. Absolutely slammed. Last time I went on an answer spree I burnt myself out. Hopefully this will hold y’all off while I finish up Smalltown! Part 8, Pregnant! Part 2, and a partial Part 2 to the SugarDaddy Tony thingy. (I don’t know where that came from, but I’m happy y’all liked it. The original man for the SugarDaddy/Older!Husband was Philip Graves. lol)

[lovelybucky1]

so, what about bucky and yelena, at the same damn time? maybe reader could be apart of the thunderbolts*/new avengers and they just kinda accidently get involved with both yelena and bucky and then bucky and yelena find out and 😏?

it's not technically cheating if you were never official. you didn't think you were doing anything wrong by messing around with bucky and yelena. you weren't keeping it a secret either, you just weren't going around bragging about it. you honestly didn't think they would find out about the other, but you were wrong. so wrong.

you got back to your room after a long day, ready to relax with some tv, when you found bucky and yelena waiting for you on your couch. you didn't bother asking how they got in, they're both expert spies. what you were wondering, though, is how much trouble you're in.

they're both sitting with their arms crossed, stern expressions on their faces. "you really thought we weren't going to find out?" bucky asks.

"i thought you were smarter than that," yelena adds.

"guys, i'm sorry, okay? i didn't think it'd be a problem," you defend.

"no problem, doll," bucky says. "well, not anymore. we worked out a little agreement." you furrow your brows and look between them.

yelena gets up from the couch and grabs your hand to lead you back. you sit straddling both of their thighs, one leg between each of theirs. they both have their hands on you, ghosting over your thighs.

"you're going to... share me?" you ask them.

"maybe you're not so dumb after all," yelena smirks.

their touches become more possessive. bucky's large palm rests hot and heavy on your inner thigh, creeping up towards your center. yelena's push up your shirt and grope your tits over the padding of your bra. they're playing with you like a toy, like you're something to be owned.

after teasing you for a torturous length of time, they mercifully give you more. you end up seated on bucky's cock, your back to his chest and your legs spread wide so yelena can fit between them. bucky fucks up into you while yelena sucks on your clit, the dual stimulation making your head spin.

your head rests on bucky's shoulder, putting you in the perfect spot for bucky to whisper filthy things in your ear.

"taking us so good, doll. why'd you wanna keep secrets when you coulda been gettin' this the whole time?" he asks.

"bucky," you whine.

"you're lucky we're not punishing you. if i let her have her way, you'd be limping for a week."

"you're the one who wanted to spank her ass raw," yelena chimes in.

bucky hums. "yeah, but that's not much of a punishment for you, is it? nah, our girl likes it rough."

[ba9go]

texts with fwb to bf!bakugou katsuki (pt. 3)

fwb to lovers ���‍↕️ hurt/comfort, bkg brings u ice cream and confesses, getting together, fluff (sfw), fem!reader (bkg asks u to be his gf)

part 1 part 2

katsuki hears you giggling from inside your room as you make your way to the door. he sighs, though it's mostly in relief. even though you were being annoying and teasing him, he hasn't made you laugh in so damn long.

the doorknob twists and the door creaks open slowly. "who goes there!"

"your ice cream is already melting, but i'll blow it up in your face if you don't open the damn door."

"PLEASE DON'T DO THAT!"

katsuki lets you snatch the grocery bags from him and watches in satisfaction as you realise that he didn't just come with two tubs of ice cream, but also several bags of your favourite potato chips.

"katsuki," you cried dramatically. "you didn't have to!"

"you always sulk when i go to the damn store without buying you those damn chips," he says but crosses his arms smugly, walking past you to sit on your bed. "you better ration that shit, though. m'not buyin' you more chips this week."

"what? why?" you demanded, face contorting as your smile turned into a frown. katsuki's too amused by your sudden moodswing to be annoyed. cute.

"s'not healthy. too much salt."

"i ate takeout everyday for dinner last week and it wasn't healthy either."

this gets katsuki annoyed. he glares at you. "you're the one who asked me for space. don't go complainin' 'bout food now."

"it's your fault that i needed space!"

"you said i didn't do anything! what the fuck am i catching strays for?"

"whatever," you grumbled, sitting next to katsuki with two tubs of ice cream and a spoon in each hand. "chocolate chip cookie dough or ooey gooey cookie."

"you wanted chocolate chip."

"but do you want ooey gooey cookie?"

"s'fine."

"'kay."

you hand him the tub of ice cream and you both rip open the lids.

"so," you shove a spoonful of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream into your mouth. you bite down on the ice cream, and you catch katsuki wincing beside you. you ignore him, scooping another spoonful of ice cream but offering it to katsuki instead. "what'd you want to tell me?"

katsuki's silent. he scoops a spoonful of his ooey gooey cookie and finally meets your gaze as he offers you his spoon.

you could make katsuki's life easy and take the spoon from him yourself, but where's the fun in that? so you part your mouth and say "ahh".

katsuki rolls his eyes at you but brings the spoon up to your mouth and feeds you the ice cream.

"it is ooey gooey," you murmur softly. you bring the spoon up to katsuki's mouth and he glares at you before reluctantly opening his mouth.

"it has chocolate chips," he deadpans.

"don't avoid my question," you nudged your shoulder against his. you don't pull away, and katsuki lets you lean your shoulder against his. "you sounded stressed when you texted me."

"i was not stressed."

"really?"

"fine," katsuki sighed. you feel him lean down to rest his chin on top of your head. "maybe i was a little stressed."

you hum. "what was bothering you?"

katsuki closes his eyes and tilts his face downwards ever so slightly to kiss your hair. "i missed you," he admits quietly.

"i know," you whisper. "i'm sorry. i missed you too."

"why'd you ask for space?"

"i wanted more than what we already had," you said sadly. "i know you weren't using me, but it felt like i wanted you in ways you didn't want me back."

katsuki pulls back to look at you. "how do you want me?"

"in like a for-the-rest-of-my-life way."

katsuki smiles.

"i'd be more than happy to indulge you in that, darling."

katsuki presses a soft kiss to your lips.

"m'sorry for not asking this earlier, but would you be my girlfriend?"

i personally do not recommend the fwb-to-lovers route. that shit messyyyyy. also sorry i like ice cream and potato chips 😋 and i love biting my ice cream HEHE

taglist (thank you for your support!!): @anicaaa67 @maddietries @nemisimp @an-na-bella @valeriyaaak @buggie07 @v3n7s @deimosjay @iguanahykhv @zaiban2989 @girls-overflower @notmeduhh @dreamcastgirl99 @yoyolovesdaiki @busdriver-move-that-ass @atashiboba @kathsuhki @armeenix @channnee @antiwhores @sukunasbottomlefteyeball @kenqki @vikizzy

[eraserbread]

satoru finally comes home, and he's pissed. its a good thing his husband, suguru, has a plan. catch up on parts 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. <3

satoru bursts through the door like law enforcement, dropping his work tote and reaching for the button on his dark pants. he’s home twenty minutes after he’s supposed to, deciding grading essays in his empty lecture hall was better than risking humiliation by running to his car with a hard-on. the dullness of reading the same shit over and over really has a tendency to turn him off, he’s just glad it worked in his favor this time.

“suguru geto!” he calls into the home, face beet red and shoes still on as he marches to their office. in the hallway, he can hear you loud and clear — crying and sniffling backed by the glorious noise of geto’s shaking, dominant voice.

“take it, baby — yeah. oh, don’t run away from me.”

suguru’s hand find the bulk of your hair, pulling it back to pierce you further on his cock. just like you wanted — he’s not showing any mercy.

it’s what satoru sees when he pushes open the door, flushed and breathing heavy when his pretty blue eyes scan the scene in front of him. it’s damning, god — he’s so hard.

you’re too fucked to notice his presence, but suguru does. he locks in on it immediately, but you didn’t have to know that. he wonders how long he can milk it.

so, he presses his pointer finger to his lips as he and his husband lock eyes.

“do-don’t stop, god, mm.” you cry, forearms wet with tears and body overspent and shaking. you still want him — you need him to keep fucking you like this, driving you into the hard edge of his desk as he coaxes your fourth orgasm out of your body. “sugu, baby, please—”

“i hear you, my dear.” suguru leans down, kissing over your ear and the sensitive skin behind it. he’s never seen you in such a state during sex, he assumes it’s the harshness of his hips slapping over your reddened, bruising ass that's making you so emotional. he should feel guilty, yet all he feels when he looks at you is insurmountable, devouring lust. he'd definitely dream about you tonight.

satoru watches for a second, trying to find his head as he scans from your wrecked body, to his husbands sweaty one. suguru wanted him quiet, but he wants to say something — anything.

he wants to see your perfect face screw up in shame at the thought of him seeing you like this.

when suguru sits back up, it’s with a clouded look in his eyes. he nods satoru over, chest rising and falling rapidly as he tries to gain his composure. he has an idea, but satoru could so easily fuck it up that he debates throwing it away.

he stops fucking you for a second, keeping his palm on the back of your head, so he can press your face into the desk.

then, staring right at his husband, motionless in the doorway, he says: "i know baby, my dear. but, i have to grab my phone so i can send satoru a video of you cumming for the fourth time, today." he whispers silky sweet in your ear. you can see him leaning next to you when you blink open your weary eyes, and the sight makes a stupid, little smile tug at the corners.

geto - his sweet familiarity, his long hair cascading in sweaty waves over his shoulder, and his sincere, gentle, dark stare.

it's like you've died and gone to heaven.

"are you God?"

gojo fucking cracks a laugh in the doorway, ducking out so he can control himself in time. glancing up at him shortly, suguru glares, then looks back at you so softly with that close-eyes, close-lipped little smile that fucking melts you every single time. in your fucked state, it's like church bells are ringing against his sensitive, astute demeanor. then, he responds like an angel - "nope, just your suguru."

all you can say is, "please... why'd you stop?"

he chuckles sweetly, rubbing your lids when your eyes drift shut. you miss his warmth behind you - you were so close.

you can't see it, but once satoru's composed, suguru nods him into the room. then, he stands up straight, reaching for his phone next to you so the act is believable.

they watch each other, eye contact never once faltering until gojo's behind you. so much is said within those few seconds and the room is too quiet, you feel like a dumbass still whining loosely and muttering suguru's name.

then, he steps away, and you're cold again. you can still feel suguru's hand trailing over your body as he steps behind you again, probably opening his camera and getting ready to fuck you senseless again. that's what you want -- but he had other plans.

behind you, gojo takes the spot suguru once held, pants already loose and barely hanging on his thigh as he jerks himself off hungrily. he knows exactly what his husband is pulling, so he does try to make it believable. he has to work and warm himself up, even spitting in his palm to make the flushed tip of his pretty, long cock glisten against your whiny cunt.

"gonna fuck you so good, my baby. wanna make you scream my name so gojo can see just how greedy you are for my cock." he fucking purrs in satoru's ear, just loud enough to make you think he's talking to you. he's trailing hands across gojo's covered chest, kissing across and over his ear.

"you make me crazy..." its the first thing satoru is whispering to him, already fucked off of residuals.

"what are you waiting for? you see how her cunt is fluttering for you? begging you so hard, baby. i wanna see you fuck her sooo bad."

then, you're whining against wet wood as what you think is suguru's warm cock slips inside of you like it just belongs. for some reason, it's harder to take this time - your breath catches in your throat, tearing out little whines and pleas for help, or more. just jibberish -- you fucking love him.

satoru fucks you like only he can, agile, quick thrusts knocking you deeper into the desk and driving you crazy. geto's holding onto him from behind like a stuffed animal, digging his fingers in the lanky muscle so he can catch some friction on his spent cock everytime satoru pulls out of you.

if suguru was merciless, satoru was evil. he's fucking you like a toy, digging his fingers so deep into the flesh in your hips that you'd be bruised there, too. it's so mean, but so hot, you can't help that you cum as soon as he kisses over your g-spot.

this time is the last, you can tell when your vision completely wipes out with tremors and baseless begs and more tears. they've never, ever fucked you like this, and if you had the strength to look over your shoulder, you would see gojo's eyes twitching and rolling back in his head as you tighten and push around him.

it's so fucking hot, he wants to praise you. he needs you to know that you're so perfect and sexy and so naughty, but he loves it. he loves when you fuck with suguru and loves when you fuck with him, too. he never wants you to stop.

then, he takes your limp body, closing his hand around the base of your shoulder and flipping you over so you can really see who’s fucking you. it doesn't even register that it's not suguru anymore until you're blinking open your eyes to stare into his harsh, blue stare.

you still don't understand. "s-sa...toru..?"

over his shoulder and big arms crossed over his chest, suguru smirks, licking over his husband's jawline as he still works you into oblivion.

their stares are so real and mean and fucking starved for you. you love it when they're showing affection to each other and you simultaneously, but you're too fucked to appreciate it, right now.

all you can do is draw a lazy, limp smile when you feel satoru press you down and fill you to the brim with his seed he's been keeping for you all day. there's barely any more room in your womb, so it spills out, making a filthy, intertwined mess of the three of you as it drips out on your legs and geto's desk.

"so..." you try to speak, but you just can't.

"...two 're so pretty."

[thevoidstaredback]

Part 5

The second picture Danny sent to Jazz was of him, Alejandro, and their family at the table full of foods that he'd helped Papá Antonio make. He'd captioned it, "My first friend on the road."

The first picture he send to Tucker and Sam had followed an essay length apology and explanation. It was of the first bus stop on his way from Monterrey to Linares, captioned, "Abuela Maya clocked me as ghost the second she saw me, and I think it's because of the town she's from. Or she's just like that."

The fourth picture he'd send Dani was when he'd finally arrived in Linares. On the steps of Ayuntamiento, eating a churro. He'd captioned it, "We should meet up soon."

The first picture he sent to Alejandro was of the birds inching closer to him.

None of them had responded right away, but he didn't expect them to. Instead, he put his phone away and opened the sketchbook Maria had given him before he left. The first few pages had been filled on the bus ride over, head shots of the people on the bus with him. Some got off before him, some long after, some with him. Now, he drew the birds sharing the steps with him.

Linares, Nuevo León, Mexico was a fairly small city, and Danny knew he wasn't going to be staying there for nearly as long as he'd stayed in Monterrey. Really, the only think that had brought him here in the first place was because Abuela Maya had told Alejandro to tell him to come here. Who was he to deny Abuela Maya?

There was nothing in the Wiki for the town that he could find that would explain why Abuela Maya was the way she was, so he planned to spend the next few hours exploring to see if he could find anything. If not, then he'd be on his way to San Luis Potosí.

But what Alejandro said kept him from leaving the steps. "You might find some of the answers you're looking for there." What could they have possibly meant by that?

"You're a sad li'tle thing, aren't ya."

It took Danny a moment to register the language change, going from Spanish to English. When he did realize what was said, he blinked up at the man standing in front of him.

A lot of things ran through Danny's head, though he only said one thing aloud, "Who wears a trench coat in this kind of weather?"

Nothing about the man's physical appearance changed, but Danny could tell he'd already gotten on his nerves. Oh, this was gonna be fun.

"I do," he sat beside him and lit up a cigarette, "An' don't get any ideas, you li'tle shite, I can hear the cogs in yer head turnin'."

Danny couldn't just let that slide. "Who, me? Why I'd never!"

"Layin' it on thick ain't gonna do you any favors, kid."

He pouted. "You're no fun." He blinked again and scooted away. "Who the hell are you, anyway?"

He took a drag of his cigarette. "John Constantine, at your service."

"And why'd you approach me, Mr. Constantine?"

The man cringed. "Don' call me 'mister', I ain't tha' old."

Danny took a long look at him. Finally, he decided, "Old Man Connie." Old Man Connie spluttered as Danny stood up and stretched. "I don't know what you want, Old Man, but I ain't yer kid."

Constantine stood to chase after him, crushing his cigarette underfoot and catching up easily. Danny let him. "I'm not old!"

"You're grey hair says otherwise."

"It's blond!" he retaliated. Under his breath, he muttered, "If I have any grey hairs, I'm going to murder that fuckin' Bat, consequences be damned."

Danny didn't say anything, but he had to wonder about who "that fuckin' Bat" was, especially because he could hear the capitalization on 'Bat'.

Amity Park didn't get a lot of outside news, most preferring to stay in the tiny bubble they'd carved for themselves during the Witch Trials.

"You're not human." Old Man Connie said after following him for nearly ten minutes.

Danny ignored him because how does he know?

Despite what Jazz says, ignoring his problems until they go away has worked wonders in the past.

Old Man Connie didn't leave. "You're not from here, either. you're obviously a native English speaker, and I'd place your accent as midwestern USA."

Danny walked a bit faster. If he could just loose they guy...

Old Man Connie popped up in front of him just as he turned a corner. There was no one else around. "You ain't gettin' rid 'o me tha' easy, kid."

Danny scowled. "I can sure as hell try." He aimed a punch at the man's stomach before booking it. He didn't make it more than half a block before Old Man Connie grabbed the back of his hoodie and lifted him up like a dog in air prison.

"That wasn't very nice of you, now was it?"

There was an officer coming their way. Danny spotted her and waved before Old Man Connie could stop him.

"¿Hay algún problema?" she asked.

Old Man Connie waved his hand and shook his head, still speaking English, "None at all, officer. My nephew here's just being a pain."

Danny could find his voice. It was gone. He couldn't speak. He started panicking.

Somehow, the officer understood Old Man Connie. She nodded and, reluctantly, left them on the street corner.

Scrambling at the hand holding him up, Danny started thrashing, eventually forcing Old Man Connie to put him down.

"Alright! Jeez, kid! I'm not gonna hurt you."

Danny didn't care. Where was his voice? Where did it go?! He gestured wildly at his throat, pleading to have his voice back. Then, just as sudden as it had left him, it was back.

"You bitch!" Danny screamed. He felt he was well justified in his reaction. "You can't just-just take someone's voice after accusing them of not being human! What the hell?!"

Old man Connie backed up a few steps with his hands up in surrender, though that didn't do anything to make Danny feel any less cornered, "It maybe was a bi' harsh, bu' you star'ed it."

"I started it?!" Danny screeched, "You did! I was minding my own business, eatin' a churro, when you come out of literally nowhere and say I'm not human! Who the fuck does that?!"

"Will ya stop screamin' if I buy you another damn churro?"

A compelling argument. Danny had to consider it. "Fine. But I don't like you."

"You don' need to."

"Good," he huffed, "'Cause I don't trust you, either."

Old Man Connie's eyebrow twitched. Danny took it as a win.

Part 7

Translation 1 - Spanish: City Hall Translation 2 - Is there a problem here?

[littlemissrbf]

Summer Lovin' (pt. 4)

Robert "Bob" Floyd x Fem!Reader

(No use of y/n, reader is a SoCal native & Bob is from Montana, language, reader has an annoying but loving uncle, a lot of Cali references, pls do not let strangers drive you home, pls drive with both hands on the wheel, pls keep your eyes on the road, y'all wtf is a huckleberry, okay so apparently PDA in uniform is a big no-no)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4 [Word Count: 2.2k]

"You can drive stick?"

"We had trucks on the ranch so I learned when I was ten or so, once my feet could reach the pedals."

"Robbie are you sure you're not a cowboy?"

A man you just met in a bar is driving you and your drunk uncle home.

Yeah it sounds bad, and you know it. Those true crime podcasts that your friends love listening to, this is how they start. With any other man, you’d worry about the night ending with your chopped-up remains shoved into a suitcase and left to float in the San Diego Bay.

But this was Robert Floyd. The man who let you beat him in pool so he could buy you a drink, the man who pulled your chair out and opened the car door for you, and the man who even insists on taking you out on a proper date before kissing you.

So now Bob is in the driver's seat and you're on the passenger side giving him directions, occasionally glancing back to make sure your uncle is still alive. He always had his radio on some country music station, you decided it wasn't worth it to shuffle through stations only to change it back after you got home, so you just turned the volume down.

"Thank you for this, I don't what I would've done without you."

"You don't have to thank me, I'm just glad I get to spend some more time with you." Bob turned to give you a quick smile, then shifted his attention back to the road.

"Yeah me too," you let out a short breath, "I'm also glad that I didn't have to go back in there and beg someone else to drive us."

"Someone like Hangman?" He teased.

"Oh God don't even get me started on that guy." You groaned, "He is such a self-absorbed prick- he struts around like a damn peacock."

A small chuckle left Bob's lips.

"I bet he checks himself out anytime he passes a surface that's even remotely reflective." You grinned at him, but he didn't return your smile.

"I would too if I had his looks." His lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze still focused on the road.

"You know you're better looking than him, right?"

"You're just saying that."

You felt an ache in your chest.

"Robert Floyd, you are the handsomest son of a bitch I've seen in a long time, and I'm not just saying it to be nice, I mean it."

He didn't respond right away, he blinked a few times and adjusted his grip on the wheel, he let out a steady breath and let out a small "Thank you", just loud enough for you to hear.

"You're absolutely welcome, Robbie." You moved your arm to place your left hand on his shoulder, his skin was warm under his uniform, you give him a light squeeze before pulling away. Again, you felt him lean into your touch, the tension in his shoulders melting away just a bit and he shifted in his seat before clearing his throat.

"What's your favorite flower?"

The question caught you completely off guard, you thought for a second, humming before answering,

"Carnations, why'd you ask?"

"No reason." he grinned innocently and shrugged.

"Well now it's only fair if you tell me yours."

"I like Daffodils."

"Daffodils?" you raised an eyebrow, "You ever watched Big Fish?"

"I love that movie." He said with a wide grin, "I used to watch it all the time as a kid, the DVD got so scratched up it started completely skipping scenes."

"Did you try toothpaste?"

"I did, but then the sound stopped working so I gave up and watched my back up movie."

"And what was your back up movie?"

"The Princess Bride."

"Shut up, I love the Princess Bride." you smiled at him and he turned to you with a mischievous smirk on his face, you immediately understood what he was thinking.

"No," you started, raising a finger at him while that stupid grin just grew bigger, "No. Don't you say it. Don't you dare say it!"

"As you wish."

You let out a groan as you pressed your face into your palms, Bob just chuckled at you, clearly proud of himself and his reference.

"So stupid," you threw a lighthearted slap at his arm, "You're lucky you're so damn cute."

He was still laughing, the corners of his eyes crinkled, and a rosy blush spread over his cheeks up to the tips of his ears.

In between giving directions and checking for signs of life from the backseat, you two filled the silence with silly conversations. You talked about your favorite ice cream flavors (he likes Rocky Road), hobbies (recently got into cooking and baking, he makes his family's old recipes whenever he feels homesick), and some memories from growing up (on his 12th birthday, he got the lego Millennium Falcon and tried to stay up all night making it).

"So, how're you feelin' about the weather over here?"

"It's... hot. I mean the heat was worse in Lemoore, but over here it's dry and sunny. If I stand in the sun over five minutes it feels like my entire face is gonna melt off."

"Welcome to San Diego, Robbie."

"It's nice when it rains, though."

"Yeah, it's nice, until you're on the 405 begging for your life 'cause suddenly everyone forgot how to drive."

Bob just laughed, but you weren't joking.

"I'm serious Robbie, the second rain hits the ground you've gotta stay off the roads, okay? No one is safe."

This just made him laugh more, you roll your eyes because you know he'll learn eventually, when it rains in SoCal you stay the fuck home.

"Okay okay, what about Whitehall?" You changed the subject, "Does it rain a lot there?"

"Oh it snows more than it rains."

"You're kidding."

"Nope, we get about seven inches every December."

"Your guy's Christmas must be beautiful," and now you were jealous, "God, I'd love to see the snow."

"You've never seen snow?" he quickly glanced at you, hands still on the wheel.

"No, I've seen snow before, I've just never actually seen it snowing before, you know." You sighed and looked up, "I've literally dreamed about watching the snow fall on Christmas Eve, with all the string lights and music, maybe some hot chocolate."

Out of the corner of your eye you could see him steal a quick glance before looking back to the road, smiling.

"You know, I think I can make that happen."

You turned to look at him, resting the side of your head against the seat, he still had his eyes on the road. He shifted his right arm to rest on the center console and his hand dangled just in reach of the stick shift. He looked comfortable, like driving with one hand on the wheel was second nature to him.

"There's this one place that makes a huckleberry hot cocoa," he continued, "or we could just make it at home with fresh milk from the cows if you want, that might be better anyway."

You turned back to see if your uncle was looking, but he was completely knocked out and snoring like a bear, so you turned back and moved your hand to rest on top of Bob’s.

He froze for a second, then his fingers immediately wrapped around yours and he pulled your hand up to his lips, placing a soft kiss on your knuckles. Your fingers intertwined and he moved your arms back down to the center console so that yours rested on top of his, you smiled and gave his fingers a tight squeeze. He returned the squeeze and you sighed,

“You’re cute.” You turned to look at him again.

He moved his thumb back and forth, caressing the side of your hand, “You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.” he looked at you with stars in his eyes and a grin on his lips.

"Keep your eyes on the road, Robbie." You blushed and turned away.

"Yes ma'am."

He held your hand the rest of the drive, only dropping it to shift gears and immediately moving it back to its place with your fingers intertwined. He gave little squeezes here and there, but mostly brushed his thumb up and down the side of your hand, you mirrored the gesture every once in a while making him smile.

Your car was parked on the curb in front of your uncle's house, you instructed Bob to pull the truck into the driveway, joking,

"You hit my car Robbie and you can kiss that first date goodbye."

"I won't." He parked and pulled the keys out of the ignition.

You opened your door and hopped out to make your way to the drivers side, Bob followed, stepping out and opening the backseat door for you, "Let me help you get him inside."

Your uncle laid on his right side, facing the seat, you turned him onto his back by his shoulders, but his eyes remained closed. You softly rubbed his shoulders, "We're home, it's time to get up."

When he still didn't stir you began tapping on his shoulders, gently at first but increasing the strength, you kept your voice soft and calm, "Can you hear me? C'mon old man it's time to wake up." His eyebrows pinched together as his face twisted into a grimace as he woke up, he let out a long groan.

"Morning sunshine," you said as you helped him sit up slowly. "Let's get you to bed, okay."

He grunted as he scooched towards the door, throwing one heavy leg out of the truck at a time and stumbling out, letting you and Bob scramble to catch his weight. You had your uncle's right arm over your shoulders and Bob had his left, the three of you shuffled up the driveway to the front door. Bob handed you back the keys and you carefully unlocked the door, you turned the handle slowly, trying to keep as quiet as possible. Your aunt was standing right behind the door in her pajamas, her eyes were tired.

"Hi auntie," you whispered, smiling innocently.

"Who's this?" She leaned on her hip with her arms crossed.

"This is my friend Robert Floyd, he drove us home."

"Ma'am." Bob extended a hand to your aunt.

She said nothing, just stared at his hand for a beat before reaching out to shake it, she let out a short huff.

"I'll get him to bed." She moved towards you, arms outstretched towards your uncle.

You brought his arm from your shoulders and passed it to your aunt, "Are you sure you don't need help?"

"I've got it." She turned and started walking him to the bedroom.

You pulled your uncle's keys from the door and dropped them into the ceramic dish on the foyer table, then you fumbled around the dish and grabbed your own keys. You closed the door softly and locked it, then you turned to Bob who was rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

"I'm really sorry about that, she's usually not this cold," you moved closer to him, shoving your keys into your purse before bringing a hand up to rub his shoulder, "I think she's just tired."

"It's okay," he shrugged, clearly discouraged by the awkward introduction. This was not how you would picture him meeting your family, with your uncle drunk out of his mind and your aunt tired and clearly displeased at you bringing a stranger home.

You tilted your head to meet his gaze but he kept his head low, looking off to the side, you felt your chest tighten. You brought your hand to cup his cheek, gently moving his face to look at you, he gave you a weak smile.

"Hey come here," you pulled him into your arms, wrapping them around his shoulders in a tight embrace. He froze for a second then completely melted into your touch, he snaked his arms around your waist and held you just as tight. You stood on your toes, your face nestled into the crook of his neck, you felt him press a kiss to your temple before bringing his cheek to rest against the side of your head. He smelled like lemons and cedar, his cologne filled your senses as you nuzzled closer and weirdly enough, he also smelled like peanuts.

You stayed there for a moment, wrapped in each other's arms, swaying gently from side to side. And for that moment, the world fell silent, the only thing that mattered was the way he rubbed small circles into your back as he held you.

"Thank you, again, for tonight. For everything."

"You don't have to thank me, 'cause I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat."

You pulled away first, moving your hands rest on his shoulders and letting him move back as well, his hands hovered on your waist.

"C'mon, let's get you back to the bar." you said, fixing the collar of his uniform.

"You don't have to drive me, I'm sure you're tired too." he shook his head.

"Please, it's the least I can do. I can't have you walking back to the Hard Deck."

"It's really alright, you don't have to worry about me, I can call an uber or something."

"Robbie, just get in the damn car."

"Yes ma'am."

Divider by @bernardsbendystraws

(Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading! The semester just ended so you should be getting pt. 5 pretty soon! As per usual, this is my first fic so if you have any writing tips or suggestions please let me know!)

Taglist: @yyiikes @beebeerockknot @greengoldhorns @pinkpantheris @ronniesreverie @mommymilkers0526 @gryffindorquid-ditchcap-blog @jackiehollanderr (Please comment if you want to be added!)

[max-nico]

Would you like an excerpt from a DCXDP fic I'm never going to finish ? Too bad. It's already posted.

Feel free to add on, it's completely out of my hands now lol

Tw: fighting with parents, almost exclusively dialogue since it's unfinished

"Back again, are we?"

"Shut up."

Danny grins at Jason's pout. It's all sharp fangs and shark teeth, crammed into something much too wide to be wolfish.

"So, what'd your old man do?"

"The same shit as always." Jason scoffs, crossing his arms. "He even got on me for cursin' this time. Can you believe that? Like that windbag has any right to boss me around..."

"I mean, isn't he your legal guardian and you his sidekick?"

"I ain't no sidekick! We're partners!"

Danny levels the eleven year old with a flat look. "I'm having a hard time believing you. Either way, he's still your legal guardian so he does, unfortunately, have some right to boss you around."

"I thought you were s'posed to be agreeing with me."

"And when have I ever done that?"

"Not a damn time."

"Exactly."

A pause.

"You're annoying."

"Clearly I'm better than the old windbag back at home bossing you around, huh?"

"Don't say it so smugly, he's not a hard person to be better than."

"That's not what you were saying when he first took you in."

"I was stupid and naive back then, now I know better."

Danny snorts.

"Does he even know where you run off to after your arguments?"

"No, your ghost hoodoo shit disables all my trackers once I get a block away from your house."

Ah, his haunt is growing nicely then. Very good.

"So you're leading an overprotective Batman right to me? Wow, I'm really feeling the love here, Jason."

"Oh shut your gob man, he won't do nothing to you as long as I'm here."

"Less comforting than you think, but I appreciate the sentiment."

"Yeah whatever."

There's a thick pause between them. Danny doesn't take any mind to it, but he can see Jason growing more restless by the second.

"It's jus..." The boy starts to spill, a tiny quiver to his bottom lip. "He said something real mean to me... I-I don't think I wanna go back."

"What'd he say?"

"It's stupid..."

"Can't be that stupid if it hurt your feelings bad enough for you to run away again."

Jason is silent for another moment, his eyes flicking side to side as he argues with himself.

"H-He said that he ain't my daddy, and I need to shape up and stop making him act like one." He paraphrases. "I already know he's not my dad, I'm the one who said it first, but I don't- I can't- It's... If it's the truth, why'd it hurt so much when he said it?"

Danny's not really equipped to deal with big feelings like this, at least probably not in the way Jason needs. Being a therapist has always been his older sister's thing, Danny never really had a knack for it. He can try, though. He can help... Somewhat? He can sit with the kid, or talk him down, or maybe enable a bad habit or two for the night. Not a perfect solution, but it's what he's got in the meantime.

"Sometimes the truth hurts." Danny shrugs. "Maybe if you can change the truth or...? Actually, I don't fucking know. I was talking out of my ass."

"And when have you not done that?"

"Not a damn time."

"Exactly."

"You're such a little jerk!"

And then they're squabbling on the floor of Danny's house. It's nicer than most around Crime Alley, but the wood floors still give them splinters when they roll around. It's good, and so familiar to Jason he almost feels like he's home again.

When they've finally ceased their petty fight, Jason sighs, his training allowing him to be only sightly out of breath.

"You'll keep the bat away for a couple nights, won'tcha?"

"You know I try to keep him away from here every night."

"Y-Yeah, but try extra hard for tonight, kay?"

"You got it kiddo."

Bonus:

Bruce looks for Jason for three days before he turns up again. Every time he's gone looking for him, he ends up back at the batcave. It's the weirdest thing Bruce has ever seen.

Unfortunately, this is also grounds for getting magic users involved. How irritating.

Jason is like 11-12ish and was taken in by Bruce when he was a very early 10yrs old. Danny is barely 19. I have backstory for how he got where he is stored in my brain, but idk if I'm actually gonna write it.

Also, I am a good parent Bruce believer, but he is the smartest idiot alive. He's making a lot of mistakes, just at the cost of his relationship with his kids, unfortunately.

Askbox and DMs are open. I implore you to chat/interact with my posts. This is a safe space.

[daytaker]

The Gang React to You Petting Their Hair

Lucifer

"I am only going to say this once: stop."

You get one warning. One. If you do not cease and desist, he is throwing you out of his study, so help him Diavolo's Dad. No, he does not like it. No, not even a little bit. You really aren't going to stop? You're just a glutton for punishment, aren't you?

....You're very lucky he's too busy to hurl you bodily from this room. He'll just endure it for now.

Mammon

"Hah?! What's the big idea?! This is the revered hair of THE Great Mammon, I'll have you know. So that'll be 100 Grimm a touch, thanks! ....Hey, no, wait, why'd you stop?"

Once he's done turning bright red and clearing his throat, he'll try to capitalize on this whim of yours by offering you a discount on hair touches. A very poorly-planned scheme, because you're not going to pay to do something he'll start begging you to keep up as soon as you stop.

Oh, so Mammon is willing to let you touch his high-value hair for free? You're so honored. What a good boy you are, Mammon. (You can expect a bit more sputtering and some denials that he is anything like a good boy, but bro's into it big time. If he had a tail, it would be wagging.)

Leviathan

*shrieks in confused, touch-starved otaku*

Wait, no, he didn't say to stop! What's with these mixed signals? Petting his hair then stopping just because he shrieks a little bit? Did you want to touch his hair or not? Is it greasy? Oh god, when did he last bathe? ...It was only the other day. You have no reason to be disgusted. You're just a bigoted normie who assumes all otaku are crusty and gross!

Ahhhh?!?!?!?! Again?! Fine! Just don't change your mind again, because that's super confusing! And yeah, obviously he's blushing, you're petting his head and it feels nice and kind of tickles! ....Mm.... You know, once he's settled into it, it's really relaxing, actually...

Fast forward an hour or two and he's probably conked out with his head in your lap, drunk on affection and mostly asleep.

Satan

"What exactly do you think you're doing?"

It feels weird. Why are you doing that? Wait, you're petting him? Like he's....a cat? Hmm. Interesting. He'll allow it. But you should do it properly. None of this mussing his hair around with wild abandon. You have to be gentle and use small movements. Maybe use your knuckles? Gently though. There, that's it.

So this is what it feels like. Admittedly, he probably wouldn't take kindly to this if anybody else was doing it, no matter how well they imitated proper cat-petting technique. But you're a special exception, so in the future, if you feel the need to do this, just let him know. And for the love of all things unholy, don't breathe a word about this to his brothers.

Asmodeus

"Oh, you like my hair? Isn't it soft? I'll show you the conditioner I use."

Asmo loves having his hair played with! Or brushed, or combed, or tugged (just not too hard, please!) His hair is silky smooth thanks to a mixture of his natural good looks and his shampoo/conditioner combination. He'll let you borrow them if you're interested. Your hair will look amazing! And it'll feel even better!

This is cozy. He'll just settle in and let you do this as long as you want. Careful you don't get too handsy; he knows how irresistible he is.

...Well, maybe if you're a little handsy he'll let it slide, but just because it's you.

Beelzebub

"Are you....petting me?"

Kind of weird, but it feels nice, so he isn't complaining. It's a little bit embarrassing, just because it makes him feel a little bit like a puppy, but then again, who doesn't like puppies? He'll be able to continue to go about his day not minding you petting his hair now and again. The only awkward part is how damn tall he is. You might need to keep a step stool handy.

Belphegor

"Nnngh, knock it off...! ... ... ...I changed my mind, do it again."

His initial reaction to being woken up to you stroking his head is annoyance, because dammit, he was sleeping. But once he shakes the cobwebs out of his brain, he'll realize that it actually felt really good and he could absolutely fall asleep under these circumstances.

He'll wait a little while, hoping you'll give it another try of your own accord, but if you don't, he'll eventually cave and grumpily ask you to do it again.

Diavolo

"Hahaha... That's enough, now."

He isn't actually a fan. Maybe it's the fact that he's a prince and has been acting as an autocrat more or less for centuries, but being stroked like an adored pet feels really degrading. Of course, he won't hold it against you, but seriously, stop.

Barbatos

"Are you finished playing around quite yet?"

Another one who isn't into this at all. He's more than happy to spend his free time petting you, if that's what you're interested in, but he is a petter, not a pettee. Read into this what you will.

Solomon

"You're so forward!"

Solomon likes it very much. Too much, possibly. Are you flirting with him? There's something incredibly intimate about touching someone's hair, don't you think? No, please, continue.

Simeon

"Um, what are you doing? ...As long as you're enjoying yourself, I guess!"

Simeon is more bewildered by this than most. Like, are you trying to scratch an itch for him? Is this one of those "viral memes" he's heard so much about? Well, it feels nice, and it isn't as if it's hurting anybody. He'll indulge you for now.

A little to your left, please. Ahhhh, that's the spot...

Luke

"Hehe, that tickles... Hey! Is this a Chihuahua joke?!"

It feels kind of nice, but as soon as he takes a second to think about it, he realizes that you're treating him at best like a little kid, and at worst, like a dog, and he isn't having any of that. He'll scold you for treating a Celestial being so casually, remind you that he's actually a lot older than you, technically, so who's the real baby, and secretly pine for more pets for the rest of his life.

[planetpiastri]

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader [no faceclaim, reader is faceless] summary: oscar's girlfriend is busy getting her degree, but takes a surprise trip to visit her boyfriend notes: hi i made this like a month ago and it's just been sitting in my drafts bc i couldn't decide if i liked it or not but then i decided hashtag yolo so here it is! enjoy!

liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris, and others

ynusername exam season type beat

view all 187 comments

oscarpiastri Smart and pretty wow I'm a lucky guy

ynusername ☺️🥰😮‍💨

logansargeant Drop out of school join my emo band

ynusername williams doesn't want me

username1 wish you were coming to the race this weekend :(( it's been too long since we've seen you in the paddock

ynusername i agree :(

oscarpiastri

liked by ynusername, landonorris, and 302,137 others

oscarpiastri Bring it on race weekend 👊

view all 1,356 comments

ynusername ...should i be concerned?

landonorris i don't want him!!!!!

ynusername papaya boys 🧡

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username3 what blackmail does oscar have on lando omg

landonorris bro why'd you make it seem like we're on a date??

oscarpiastri You pulled out my chair and everything 🥰 landonorris i'm never being nice to you again

username4 the flower behind lando's ear?????

oscarpiastri

liked by ynusername, mclaren, and 334,623 others

oscarpiastri What a crazy weekend. P1 in the sprint and P2 on Sunday. Couldn't have done it without my good luck charm 🧡

view all 2,013 comments

mclaren 👏👏👏🧡

landonorris get a room

ynusername we did landonorris ew you keep that to yourself i don't need to know that

ynusername i love uuuuuu ❤️

oscarpiastri Best surprise ever ❤️

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username7 rookie of the year!!!

liked by oscarpiastri, logansargeant, and others

ynusername the return flight was a lot more fun

view all 193 comments

username8 UGH YOU GUYS ARE SO CUTE

oscarpiastri I could definitely land a plane

ynusername whatever you say dear

mclaren Are we gonna see you back in the paddock soon 👀

ynusername damn mclaren admin let me graduate first!!

username9 the official mclaren account being oscar's wingman???

landonorris am i invited to graduation

oscarpiastri No ynusername maybe

logansargeant Am i invited to graduation

oscarpiastri Yes ynusername Yes landonorris man what the hell

liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris, and others

ynusername I DID IT BITCHESSSSSSSS CERTIFIED HOT AND SMART

view all 268 comments

username10 YES BITCH YES

logansargeant Congrats!! Thanks for the invite!!

ynusername thanks for coming!

oscarpiastri So proud of you ❤️

ynusername thank u loooove the paddock is gonna get so tired of me now oscarpiastri Impossible

landonorris no tag?

ynusername bruh i didn't even tag my boyfriend

mclaren Congrats! Want to put that marketing degree to use?

username11 yo??? ynusername um oscarpiastri Say yes

[caelivir]

surrender | rayne ames

synopsis. rayne ames can’t stop staring at you tonight, which is strange, considering the fact that he loathes your guts.

pairing. rayne ames x fem!reader, | wc. 4.1k | genres. haters to lovers, tension, jealousy, rayne's hot and obsessed and reader's in denial | warnings. reader wears lipstick but it's mentioned once at the end, they make out what's new (it's good for my the soul), a bit suggestive

notes. tbh this wasn't supposed to be as long as it is. what a yap fest. blame my hormones and the weeknd. this is ugly and i hate it but it will have to do while i continue working on other fics.

you can’t comprehend why he’s here. the rest of the student body can’t either because the moment he walked through those doors all eyes were on him.

you’re positive that rayne ames had to have some devil whispering in his ear. how else would he be convinced to attend a grand event such as this one? dancing? socializing? it’s not his style, especially when he knows that every guy and girl within a ten foot radius would be jumping at the chance to have his attention.

you’re point is proven right in the next three seconds. you can already spot girls batting their eyelashes at him. you can see them trying to coerce him into a dance. on any other day you’d scoff at their fawning over an asshole like rayne.

however, you can’t seem to bring yourself to say that tonight. rayne’s half blonde, half jet black hair is styled in a wet curtain cut with long loose strands falling in front of his forehead. he wears a black two piece suit with the coat sporting various decorations.

there are two sets of silver chains that are pinned just below each one of his shoulders. each set is comprised of five chains. one directly connects a line between two metallic circles. two chains of varying lengths begin at one button before swooping a short distance down the front of rayne’s coat before linking back to the second circle that hangs lower than its counterpart. the remaining three chains follow the same pattern except they droop down the side of his arm, nearing the peak of the dip at the middle of his upper arm and rising back up to the coat’s shoulder pads that have sleek silver suns on top of them.

under the jacket, the visionary dons a white dress shirt that is tucked into his pants. however, the piece is damn near transparent, and the top buttons remain undone, exposing some of the skin of his torso. to finish the look off, rayne wears one singular necklace with a sword pendant.

you hate it, and you hate whoever styled him because tonight he's a dangerously gorgeous devil that's making your heart pound at an embarrassingly alarming rate. your eyes are glued to him no matter how badly your mind screams at you to look away. yet just as you can't tear your gaze away from him, rayne is equally unable to focus on anyone else that isn't you.

he inhales a deep breath of air before carving a path to your position at the food table. the alarms in your head go off in panic. you can't exactly play off the fact that you were so blatantly ogling him so instead you own up to it, masking your flustered expression with a glare in his direction.

"well if it isn't the devil himself." you taunt when he nears, soaking in the half blonde's formal look one more time. "what made you decide to crawl out of hell tonight?"

"i could ask you the same thing." rayne answers bluntly, and you scowl because he knows that you hate when he turns your snarky comments back on you.

"why'd i even bother?" you roll your eyes with a scoff, directing your attention to bite-size appetizers in front of you.

"let me know when you find the answer to that." the visionary responds, causing a muscle in your cheek to twitch in irritation.

rayne doesn’t move from his spot. in fact, he’s standing so close to you that your arm brushes against the black fabric of his coat and the cold silver chains on the side of his arm.

"can you move?" you snap, annoyed because now your senses are being filled with his scent—an intoxicating mix of cinnamon and cardamom that makes your mind go fuzzy.

"i can't have food?" rayne cockily raises an eyebrow at you before randomly picking up a tomato basil puff off the plate. he chews it thoughtfully, and through the micro expressions of his face, you come to understand that he is pleased with its taste.

you bundle your fists tightly to release some of your nerves. a breath of air enters your lungs to steady yourself. you remind yourself to not get swept up in his games. rayne ames will not ruin your night. all of these affirmations lead you to the decision to leave him by the food table.

however before you can do that, the music slows to an end, and people take it as a sign to scramble for a partner before the next piece starts up again. as for you, you're immediately confronted by a tall blonde boy in your grade. he kindly extends a hand out to you that’s shaking very discreetly. "may i have this dance?"

you mentally grimace because you're still on edge due to rayne, but you don't have the heart to turn the guy down when he so obviously worked up the courage to come up to you. reluctantly, you accept his offer with a meager nod, and as he takes you by the hand, you involuntarily glance back at rayne, who has been staring the entire interaction down like a hawk.

the boy leads you to an open spot on the dance floor and doesn't hesitate to take the lead once a graceful waltz composition begins. you try to pay attention to the guy's little ramblings about duelo as you glide across the floor, but your mind wanders back to rayne.

what would it be like to have his hand on your back or your hand interlocked with his? would it light a blaze upon your skin? why do you even want to find out?

your eyes drift across the expanse of the enormous ballroom, scanning for that half blonde pain in your ass. after several moments of searching, you find rayne standing off to the side, back leaned against one of the pillars. he switched his food out for apple cider in a champagne glass. he stands with max land and other faces you aren't familiar with. whatever conversation they're having, rayne isn't following; his sole focus is on you and only you.

there's something dark lurking beneath his eyes. the intensity of his gaze generates shivers down the line of your spine. you think that the glass in his hands might shatter in his grip.

"are you alright?" your partner questions, and it brings your concentration back onto him. "are you cold?"

you present him a tight grin. "i'm good. you don't have to worry about me."

the boy in front of you accepts your answer without any suspicion and continues leading the dance until the song finally comes to an finishes. yet even when the waltz ends, and you thank your partner for the dance, he sticks by you. that's fine. he’s a nice guy who means no harm, but because you're severely distracted right now, he is the last thing on your mind.

he gently guides you through the room, keeping a hand on the small of your back protectively as you squeeze between the crowd. you force yourself to engage in conversation with the friends he introduces you to. you laugh at the appropriate times and give your two cents into a topic should it be deemed necessary, all in attempt to ignore the burning sensation of eyes drilling into the back of your neck. each time you catch him, rayne doesn't dare to avert his gaze. he’s shameless in that matter. he'll maintain this eye contact with you until you're the first one to tear away with your face a burning mess.

as the night progresses, you're losing the patience to withstand it. the guy in front of you. rayne. thoughts of rayne. your head is swirling in confusion, and you need new air and silence in order to calm yourself.

when you're sure rayne isn't watching, you dismiss yourself from your partner with a pathetic excuse that you need to quickly use the washroom that he buys instantaneously. and when the crowd hides you completely, you sneak off in the total opposite direction of the restroom.

you navigate your way through the venue until you find the exit that leads to gardens in the back. you pay no mind to party raging behind you, only straying yourself further and further from the noise until you're met with silence. it's only then that you're able to feel your heart slowing down it's pace.

you continue wandering until you find a gazebo hidden deep within the gardens. the structure is surrounded by flowers of varying colors and species. its posts are wrapped in vibrantly green vines. there are no seats built into it, but it will have to suffice as a place to rest and cool your head.

you lean back into one of the wooden posts, shutting your eyes as you inhale the scent of cold, wet, grassy air. when the brewing storm in your mind finally calms, all that remains is a certain divine visionary.

never in all of your years of knowing rayne ames would you have ever thought your emotions involving him would end up conflicting like this. you loathe him; you have since the day you met. so you can't seem to fathom what changed tonight. can it really be all because of a mere suit and new styling of his hair? how pathetic.

and his eyes… those damn yellow eyes that follow your every move. how can they ignite a fury of butterflies in your stomach?

and you don't even have the time to figure it out before your ears pick up on the sound of frantic footsteps and rattling chains that encroach closer and closer to you. your eyes fling wide open, and your body instantly freezes at the sight before you.

rayne ames stands in front of the garden gazebo, chest quickly rising and falling as he pants out breaths that turn visible in the cold winter air. his styled hair isn't as kept as it was before. it's lost its volume and his loose strands of hair cling to his skin, most likely due to the thin coat of sweat that you can barely see under the dim moonlight. yet, he still looks so incredibly breathtaking. the half blonde's eyebrows are brought together in a mix of relief and worry, and you don't know what to make of it.

you don't get it anymore. what is he doing? what is his goddamn game? why, just why, is he standing before you?

the reason behind rayne’s appearance at the winter ball is so incredibly petty that he’s ashamed to even admit it out loud. he had overheard a blonde on the duelo team claim that he was going to dance with you that night.

the irritation that arose in the pits of his stomach during that moment could not be described. did that fool really think he stood a chance with you? you were completely out of his league.

the thought of you dancing with another man haunted rayne for days. each time it crossed his mind, he’d get so annoyed that he’d snap the quill he was writing with into two pieces.

it was stupidly impulsive to come to this ridiculous school ball. rayne knew that, but a part of him was desperate to find out what would happen. could the blond fool pull it off, and what were you going to do if he did? he's well-aware that you aren't his lover or his friend, and yet that didn't seem to stop him from being concerned about matters involving you.

it’s truly a puzzle because rayne is so positive of the fact that he hates you, but the moment he walked through the entrance, all certainty of that fact became debatable again.

he stands before you, separated by the crowd of students who are just as shocked as you are. he can tell that you hadn’t expected for this. and with your eyes locked onto each other, you both enter a new dimension—one where everyone else fades away.

in a sea of blurred, barely present faces, you are the only one that was clear, a face so beyond the words of beautiful. rayne feels like he had the air knocked out of his lungs. is his heart speeding up, or is it stopping? he can’t tell anymore. he’s losing his senses. to combat that, he takes a deep breath of air.

rayne doesn’t even see the girls tugging at his arms or the guys trying to start up a conversation. it’s only you, and like an iron attracted to a magnet, his feet pull him to where you are before he has the chance to realize it.

you’re quick with your snarky comments that attempt to drag him, but even then, you're beautiful. it's baffling how hopeless of a fool he is for you. it’s a miracle that rayne has half the mind to retort your jabs, and he is definitely glad that the food table acted as a cover up.

however, the visionary’s mood sours when that damn blond duelo player comes up to you, asking for a dance a whole lot earlier than he anticipated. rayne can’t make out your expression, but he does notice the nod of your head and the way you extend your hand to slide onto his, but not without giving the half blond a glance back.

rayne's gripping the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles go white. as you leave, another girl walks up to rayne, and he flat out ignores her, picking off a champagne glass from a server that happens to walk by him.

trying to cool his head, rayne ames finds max land in a matter of seconds, and he opts to stick by him. he doesn’t engage in any form of conversation with max, despite the multiple times his best friend has been trying to get his attention.

he'll apologize for it later, but every drop of focus that rayne possesses is on you as you move along the floor. the blond is talking your ear off, and the visionary is aware that you aren't fully listening because your eyes keep drifting back to him.

the fact that rayne doesn’t ever tear his eyes off you has you looking away in nervousness. it’s so unlike you. you’re always so confident in your confrontations against him, but it appears to be different tonight. it seems like everything is.

the longer he stares the more rayne hates the hand that is gently wrapped around yours. he hates the smiles that the blond duelo pulls from you simple because he is simply not worthy of them. he hates that even after the stupid waltz is over you're dragged to meet his friends.

the visionary has no right to be feeling like this, especially after all the verbal arguments and harsh words. but each time you look at him tonight with those star-filled eyes, rayne swears that he'll make it up to you for the rest of your lives.

"rayne, the suit is amazing. where'd you get it from? i haven't seen anything like it." one of max's friends asks, which finally drags the half blond's attention away from you.

"ryoh grantz." he replies dryly.

"you got this from the light cane?!"

"that's what i said, didn't i?" the visionary glares, visibly annoyed.

"oh. y-yeah." the guy chuckles awkwardly, rubbing the nape of his neck. it's then when he realizes that any attempt of conversation with rayne ames is futile so he switches the topic.

when the half blond drags his eyes back to you, he nearly loses grip on the champagne glass that he's been holding for a while. "she's gone." rayne mutters to himself, yet somehow over all the noise, max hears him.

max land peers over the crowd, finding the spot where you last stood. the blondie you were with is huddled with his friends, but you are no longer in sight. the brown haired boy hums. "i think your staring scared her off."

rayne narrows his eyes at his friend who only raises his hands in defense. the divine visionary scans the entire room, expecting you to be gathered with a different group of people, but you're not. you're not in here at all. "damn it." he curses with a hiss, ditching max to search for you.

if his best friend protests or calls for rayne, he doesn't hear it. max is the least of his concerns right now.

he leaves the empty glass onto the nearest table and begins a distraught search. he does a lap around the entire room, thinking that it'll make you appear again, but his efforts bear no fruit. he wanders up and down the halls, giving everyone he passes a quick glance, only to find that they're not you.

rayne finds an entrance that leads to the back gardens, and he's praying that you're somewhere there. he doesn't know how long he spends running around. his dress shirt is sticking to his skin, and his hair is falling out of place. the venue for the ball is so far behind him to the point that he can't even hear the music or noisy chatter anymore.

despite the burn in his calves, he pushes deeper into the gardens, jogging until a gazebo catches his eye. it's hard to see in the moonlight, but rayne swears that he sees the shadow of a figure. it's his last hope; he's praying that it's you.

the half blond jogs up to the steps. the chains of his suit rattle as he does so. he realizes then that it is you. relief, worry, and anger hit him all at once, but in your eyes, he can't say the same. there is no malice, only confliction, and rayne decides right then and there.

he's going to open his heart to you.

"what are you doing here, rayne?" you ask, practically defeated.

"what about you?" he snaps back harsher than he ever has before. he takes angry steps up the stairs. "it's fucking freezing, and you decide to come out here alone. do you even realize how far the venue is right now? do you know how much i was-" rayne stops himself mid-sentence, curling his fists by his side.

"no, tell me." you demand, walking closer to him. "what is it? you are always so blunt. what's stopping you now, huh? spit it out."

"i was worried about you." he answers quietly.

your heart swells when you hear it, but you choose to suppress it instead because that can't possibly be right. "worried?! why on earth would you ever be worried about me? you hate me, rayne ames, and i hate you. all we ever do is torment each other. it's exactly why you kept staring at me tonight. i couldn't focus on anything but you. that's what you wanted, right? you wanted me off my guard? well, congratulations asshole. you won. now leave me alone."

"no." the boy in front of you sternly denies.

"no? god, you have some fucking nerve-" you fume.

"i'm not leaving you alone." rayne clenches his jaw, staring deep into your eyes. you force yourself to swallow. "i haven't left you alone since the day we met, and i'm not leaving you alone now."

you scoff, trying to push past rayne, but he blocks your path. "move, rayne."

he ignores you altogether. "you want to know why i'm so worried about you, hm? here's your answer." rayne's voice is low, almost dangerous as he speaks. he steps closer to you, nearly pressing your bodies together. the heat that radiates off him is electrifying.

"you've been stuck in my head for the last week, and it's all because of that blond buffoon on the duelo team." rayne scowls. "i heard him. i knew that he wanted to dance with you, and it pissed me off. i couldn't imagine his hand on your back or his hand on yours without feeling my blood boil, and i hated every second that you were with him tonight. it was torture."

"jealousy?" you breathe out, trying to belittle him as you do so, but you fail miserably when your eyes dart to rayne's lips. "you might as well be obsessed with me."

"maybe i am." rayne's hand reaches up to trail the pearls of your necklace. his hand then moves further up your neck, fingers gently tickling your skin as they pass before resting on the side of your throat. "i might've been obsessed with you the moment your pretty little mouth started talking back to me. hell, i might even be in love with you."

in that moment, you feel your breath hitch. your eyes open wider in disbelief, and that doesn't deter the divine visionary in front of you at all. you try reading him, trying to find any sort of sign that this whole thing is a joke, but deep down you know. you said it yourself moments earlier. rayne's honest and blunt to a fault. he wouldn't say something he doesn't mean.

"the sight of you is enough to bring a man to his knees. you have me wrapped around your finger, (y/n). just say the word, and i'll be yours."

you don't know when rayne's face had gotten so close, but you can feel his breath fanning along yours. you can indulge in that cardamum and cinnamon scent that brings your brain to a high.

"rayne..." you whisper, brushing the loose strands of hair away from his forehead even though they return to the same place they were once before.

and as he admires you with those eyes, eyes that look at you as if you created the world and spun it on its axis, you surrender. you close the gap between the two of you because you're tired.

you're tired of acting like the thought that you want him has never crossed your mind. you're tired of acting like he's isn't stupidly hot whenever he puts you in your place, you're tired of pretending that you've never wanted to slam your lips against his just to shut him up.

rayne said he might've been obsessed with you from the moment you started arguing with him. well, you might've been obsessed with him when you realized that he wasn't going to tolerate any of your attitude. it's probably why you constantly picked fights with him. all the tension and unspoken words and lust came as a result. it was bound to boil over eventually.

you told yourself to not get swept up in him, and yet here you are, completely drowning. you chase each other like you're both starved. the kiss so desperate and powerful that rayne backs you up into one of the gazebo posts. the contact makes you gasp, and rayne uses it as an opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth. you'll have to press him about this later. for a guy who avoids women like the plague, he sure knows how to kiss you to euphoria.

your senses are so overloaded that you grip onto the open fabric of rayne's white dress shirt to keep you up. it effectively pulls him closer, making him groan. you lightly trail your nails down the exposed skin of his chest. you feel the visionary shiver before you, and you know that he's putty in your hands. you continue that path down, feeling the faint outline of his abs through his shirt.

rayne pulls away only to continue burning hot kisses down your neck and onto your collarbone. he nips and sucks on your skin, and you know that it's sure to leave marks, but in the moment, you can't help but whine his name. you let him have his fun until the feeling of missing his lips on yours is overbearing.

you force rayne up by his chin, and he almost looks disappointed. you smirk once you notice the smearing of lipstick on his face and the uneven rhythm of his breathing.

"what a mess you are." you tease, toying with rayne's bottom lip with your thumb.

"do you really have to do this right now?" rayne complains lightheartedly, all while placing kisses onto the inside of your palm, making you giggle.

"always." you wink, and your hands wander back down to his chest. "kiss me?"

rayne cups one half of your face, stroking your cheek with his thumb. "always." he replies, diving into the addiction that is you once more.

@kyoghurts @seneon hey...

[darknight3904]

All Too Well

Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Summary: Spring means new beginnings for both you and Joel, and a trip to a nearby lake has you feeling things for Joel you haven't felt in years. But, the sudden appearance of a stranger in the night has your bliss interrupted and Joel full of worry.

Warnings: Langauge. The Quadratic Equation (Run!) Joel Miller's Dad Bod (Yum) A little bit of a Gladiator tease since I just saw the second movie hehe.

Word Count: 4.1k

Previous Part / Series Masterlist / Main Masterlist

I wrote a little Christmas imagine for Joel. It's not connected to this series but if you're interested, you can check it out right here.

February 2024

Joel can't sleep. He tosses and turns and listens to the way Ellie's snores leak through the thin walls of their new home. Anger seeps out of his body and permeates the peaceful atmosphere of his room..

Anger at himself, at the men who hurt you, at the universe in general. He clenches the hem of his blankets and tries to get a few hours of rest. Tomorrow he's due for an early morning shift at the wall with that guy Luke who never stops talking.

When he finally nods off it's well past two in the morning. His dreams are filled with you and Sarah. Of his failure to protect both of you. At some point he must've called out in his sleep because soon Ellie was shaking him awake, asking if he was okay.

He brushes her off and sends her back to bed. Sitting on the step of his front porch, he watches the sun slowly peak over the snow-covered roofs of Jackson. His eyes roam the front of your home, still dark except for your front porch light. Joel looks at the warped floorboards of your porch, his mind works out how he could fix those for you. Rip the old ones up, place new ones, sand em' down, and then paint a nice finish on them.

He's so lost in his own world of floorboards and wood stains that he misses your front door opening. You shuffle over to him, a bathrobe on over you pajamas and then a winter coat over that.

"Morning, neighbor." You say

Joel looks at your outstretched hands. A steaming mug of coffee is being held out to him.

"Morning." He says, scooting over for you to sit beside him

"Aren't you cold?" You ask as he sips at the coffee, looking at his sweat pants and a simple deep blue long-sleeve shirt.

"M' fine," Joel says

"I'd be freezing my ass off." You shrug, wrapping your fingers around your own mug

Joel sits beside you, sipping his coffee as two rabbits run by and under your front porch.

"Could make a good stew out of those." He notes

"Joel!" You gasp in disgust

"They're pretty fat, bet their pelts would be warm." He shrugs honestly

"Joel, I feed those rabbits." You groan, "You can't kill them for stew or for their fur."

"You're feeding rabbits? What are you, Snow White?" Joel asks

"Excuse me for wanting to have a pet or two." You scoff

Joel shakes his head in disbelief. You never fail to surprise him.

Silence settles around you and him, you shiver a bit and he makes a mental note to find you a warmer coat. Surely someone here had one he could trade for.

"You're really upsetting, y'know that." You say suddenly

"Excuse me?" He asks, confused

Where could this be coming from? He watches as you take a long sip of your coffee and tap your feet against the ground.

"You dumped me, said I was too young for you, and then shipped my stuff back in the damn mail." You huff, "On top of that, the world ended like a month later."

Joel sighs, so you're choosing to confront this now. He should be glad that you're finally mentioning it. Perhaps last night's conversation has made you more comfortable with him.

"I know. I'm sorry about that, I was being a real asshole." Joel says sincerely

"Then why'd you lie?" You ask

"Lie?" Joel asks, confused as to what you're talking about

"When you first got here, you lied to Ellie. Said you didn't know me." You remind him, "Why didn't you just tell her? Why haven't you told her?"

The same guilt and fear he felt when he first saw you months ago in the stables, wells up in his chest.

"I...I don't know." He says softly

Liar.

He knew what it was. Fear had kept him trapped for so many years. For so long, he'd let it strangle him. Even before losing Sarah, he'd felt that fear. That's why he let you go in the first place, Joel was scared of it all but most of all he was afraid, terrified even of falling in love with you.

And yet, here he sat twenty years later, sipping coffee next to you. He knew what he wanted, at least the thought he did.

Joel wanted to press a rewind button, to go back in time and do it all over again. To keep you and Sarah by his side, if he could just go back to August 2003 he swore he'd be able to make it all right again.

But, rewind buttons didn't exist and Sarah was gone, she wasn't coming back, but he still could right things with you, even if you didn't want him anymore. Besides, he knew he didn't deserve you in the first place.

Your soft voice fills his ears again, "You want to know what I think?"

"What?" Joel responds

"I think you're full of shit."

May 2024

You like the spring. Spring means you can stop wearing three different shirts out so you don't freeze. Spring means fresh vegetables in the community garden. Spring means sleeping with the window open at night.

Spring means... allergies? The loud sneeze of one of your patrol partners has you jumping in your saddle.

Apparently, in his old age, Joel Miller now has seasonal allergies.

"You're scaring off every single deer in a two-mile radius." You huff

"Sorry," Joel mumbles, wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve

"Y'should just head back, Joel. No good to us if you're sneezing every three minutes." Tommy says

"No, I'm fine. Besides aren't we teaching her how to hunt?" Joel asks, looking at you

"You can't teach me if you scare everything off." You point out

Tommy lets out a hum of laughter, "She's right."

"Let's keep moving," Joel grumbles

The past two months have been dull. After your conversation that night and then the next morning. Joel swore to himself that he'd make it up to you. Hell, he'd worship the ground you walked on if it meant you'd forgive him.

He didn't even want a second chance with you. He'd sworn it was all platonic when Tommy asked him one day.

Now, he was spending time with both you and his brother, trying to teach you to hunt. Key word trying. He'd probably never tell you but you weren't very good at hunting. This was the third trip he'd made with you and Tommy and Joel swore you were getting worse.

"It's hot today," Tommy notes as the horses plod along

"Summer's less than a month away." You point out

"What I wouldn't give to walk into an air-conditioned home. " Tommy grumbles

"Tell me about it." You sigh

Joel stays quiet as he listens to you and his brother recount the things you both missed. You'd been holding him at arm's length, after that morning on his porch. He'd screwed up, he knew that.

Why the hell did he say he didn't know? He did know! Why couldn't he just admit it to you?

He'd tried to show you through actions, how much he cared for you. Hunted down a better coat for you, fixed your kitchen cabinets, and ate whatever food you dropped off at the house for him and Ellie.

Evidently, you didn't want action, you wanted him to man up and admit it out loud. And, Joel wanted to. He wanted to tell you his fears, why he did what he did back in 2003 and then again in the stables back in December. Yet, every time he'd tried to he'd clammed up and backed down.

"Let's take a break. There's a nice lake up there, Needa sit in the shade, n' cool off." Tommy says suddenly

Joel glanced over to look at his younger brother, who had sweat pouring off him, wetting the back of his shirt. The younger Miller hops off his horse and ties it off before slumping down in the shade of a big oak tree.

"Feels like I'm back in Texas or somethin'" Tommy grumbles

"Oh please, back in Texas it was hot enough to cook an egg on the driveway. This is hardly like that." You laugh

"Speak for yourself, I think I'm sunburned." He says

"You poor little thing." You mockingly coo as you sit beside his brother under the tree

Joel jumps off his own horse, listening to the way the two of you blend together so effortlessly.

"Shut up." Tommy scoffs, shoving your shoulder, "Wasn't askin' you."

Joel feels jealousy swirl in his chest. He wants to be the one laughing with you, not Tommy.

"I'm going for a swim. We can hunt once I'm not sweating buckets." Tommy suddenly decides

Joel finds his way under the tree as Tommy straightens up to pull at his clothes.

"Ugh, put it away!" You mock, covering your eyes as Tommy strips down to his boxers, "The horror!"

"I'll have you know, back in the day girls used to line up to get a view of this." Tommy throws over his shoulder as he walks towards the lake

"Does that mean I get to tell Maria she married the town bike of Austin?"

Tommy doesn't respond but instead walks off and wades quickly into the water.

"You don't want to swim?" Joel asks, taking note of how your skin glistens with sweat.

You shake your head, "I'm fine. You're welcome to, though."

You and Joel sit in silent as he thinks of what to say next. Without Ellie, there's a gap in conversation, the kid was always ready to blab about something.

"You think you could come by my place tonight? Ellie's learning Algebra." He asks, "I try to help but I haven't done anything like it in forty-something years."

"I can try. Can't say I'll be much help though." You say

"You're the one with the fancy college education." Joel shrugs

"I'd like to remind you I never got my degree. Not to mention, It's been twenty years, I'm 44, not 24." You shake your head

"Right..."

Joel forgets that sometimes. You're older now. He knows you're different now, that school is no longer the top priority in your mind. Still, he likes to reminisce about the past when you were still a college kid, drowning in books and shitty professors.

A stale breeze blows through the air, and Joel feels like his clothes are suffocating him. How you're in jeans and a long sleeve is mind-boggling.

"I'm gonna go cool off. Feel like I'm about to pass out." Joel says, pulling his boots off

"M'kay." You nod, "Don't let Tommy drown you in there."

"What?"

"Once I came out here with him and Maria, and as a joke he tackled her, and nearly killed her since he caught her off guard." You shrug

"He tried to drown his wife?" Joel asked

"Well this was when he was still trying to win her over to even date him, but yeah."

"Bet she loved that," Joel smirks

"Yup, wouldn't talk to him for three days."

You feel hot, and no, it's not from the sun. Joel Miller is about 10 feet away, stripping down to his underwear to go for a swim. If there was a god, why was he torturing you like this?

Your eyes roam Joel's back which had been exposed to your greedy eyes. It was the first time you'd seen his body since 2003, of course, you were curious.

Muscle strains under the skin and your eyes greedily drink in the splatter of chest hair that litters his skin. Said trail of hair leads down down down to the band of his boxers. Much to your delight, Joel's stomach had seemingly softened even more with age.

God, you loved dad bods.

"Take a picture!" Tommy called from the shallow water at the edge of the lake

You flash your middle finger at the more annoying Miller. God, you hoped a fish would bite his ass while he was in there.

You flop back into the grass and stare up at the oak tree and the way the sun peaks through its branches. You weren't going to check Joel out anymore, nope, you were done with that.

"You sure you don't wanna come? Tommy and I'll cover our eyes, won't peak, I swear." Joel asks from your right

"M'fine. Go swim, Joel" You say softly dismissing him

Once he's gone, you rummage through your bag and pull out a bag of trail mix. You chew slowly, thinking of Joel's words as you do.

"Take some deep breaths as you chew. Think about what you're eatin'."

He'd slowly been coaching you through fixing your eating problems. For the most part, it worked well. It also helped that you ate dinner with him and Ellie most nights.

It'd been Ellie's decision, she kept inviting you over or just showing up at your front porch. So, now the three of you just ate together, apparently you're now Ellie's savior as well since Joel's cooking hasn't improved much over the years.

Guess some things don't change.

Tommy watches as Joel slowly approaches him in the water.

"No tackling. My back won't survive it." Joel sternly says

"I'm not 9 anymore, Joel. Why would I tackle you?" Tommy scoffs

"Heard what you did to Maria. Not takin' any chances here." Joel sternly says, giving Tommy the 'I'm older than you, you better listen' look that Tommy had seen at least a million times since he was a kid.

"That was a one-time thing!" Tommy jumps to defend himself

He couldn't believe you even remembered that let alone told Joel.

"She's burning up over there." Joel starts, "Refusing to get in here as well. I told her we wouldn't look but she's just laying up there sweatin' her ass off."

"She never swims." Tommy explains, "Been here probably twenty-thirty times with her and Maria over the years, not once has she decided to get in with us. Think the closest she got was to dip her feet in."

"Did you tackle her too?" Joel asks, his voice full of accusation.

"No." Tommy scoffs, how could Joel think such a thing.

"Just don't want her passing out from heat stroke." Joel frets, "Maybe I could wet some cloth, get her to put it over her neck."

A bit of water laps up into Tommy's face and he rubs at his eyes. Joel had a right to know, right?

"She's got scars, Joel." He cuts his brothers rambling off, "Haven't seen em' myself but Maria says she's covered in them, head to toe."

Joel's quiet beside Tommy now, the sound of sloshing water is the only noise between the two brothers.

"Oh..." Joel's voice softly comes from Tommy's left

The loud shout of their names has both brothers turning back to the shore. You're waving your arms about, holding the small radio Tommy had tucked into his boot before going for a swim.

"It's the baby!"

Joel has never seen his brother so frantic. Even when Sarah had died, Tommy had been composed, swallowing his feelings and trying to keep Joel together as they drifted around the country.

Now, his little brother is jumping off his horse and sprinting to the clinic, to his wife. It's endearing the way he cares for her, even if she hated Joel, he could tell she loved Tommy.

Joel grasps the reigns of Tommy's horse and follows you back to the stables.

"You think she'll be okay?" You ask breathily

Joel looks at you, he can tell you're nervous for Maria.

"I'm sure she'll be alright. Seems strong, not to mention the clinic doctor is skilled, she's in good hands." Joel says

You nod and lead Pepper into her stall.

"Sorry about the hunting. I don't know where the sneezing is coming from." Joel says, feeling guilty he ruined the day

"It's fine. I've never caught anything bigger than a rabbit." You wave him off

That night Joel watches as you hover over Ellie who's been sweating over a problem that apparently used the Quadratic Equation. What that was, Joel wasn't quite sure.

"This is fucking impossible..." Ellie grumbles

"Don't drop any negatives." You advise, sipping at your mug of coffee.

Joel normally hoarded the stuff but you were so damn easy to say yes to. So of course when you asked him if he could brew you a cup of his precious drink, he'd caved. Hell, you could ask him to steal half the food in Jackson and he'd do it if it meant you'd smile and bat your eyelashes at him.

"Motherfucking piece of shit..." Ellie whispers

You kick her chair, "Langauge. What's that baby going to think when you curse at it?"

"I'm pretty sure it's going to spend most of it's time shitting and sleeping so I think I'm in the clear." Ellie points out

"So just like you then?" Joel asks

Ellie lets out a scoff at his bad joke.

"Just do your math." You roll your eyes, standing up to cross the room where Joel stands over the sink, doing the dishes from dinner.

"How long does labor take?" You ask him.

Joel's brain is a bit fuzzy as he tries to remember how long it took Sarah to be born.

"I think it's different with everyone. Maria could have that kid tonight, or we might be waiting until tomorrow." Joel says

Sarah had taken what 11, 12 hours? All he remembers is that her mother had broken nearly every bone in his hand when she was pushing. At the end of it all though, his daughter had come out perfect.

"Jesus..." You sigh, "That's...insane."

"It'll all be okay," Joel assures you, he can tell you're worried. Not that he can blame you, from what he can tell Maria seems to be your only friend here in Jackson.

"I know." You sigh

Joel looks at the way your nerves and anxiety have settled into your pretty features. They line your face and make you look tired.

"Hey, Ellie,"

The teen looks up from her math, welcoming the distraction.

"Wanna watch a movie with us?" He asks

Joel has to cover his laugh with a cough when you screech out in shock. Only you'd react to a simple statement like this...

"You've never seen Gladiator?!"

"No...Born after the world ended, remember?" Ellie scoffs

"But still! Joel's had this DVD just sitting here in this house and you've never watched it?" You ask

"No..."Ellie trails off as she kicks her feet up on the coffee table from her spot in the recliner

"You've done a terrible job, watching over her." You judge him

"Right, cuz getting her from Boston to Wyoming in one piece without dyin' is so terrible," Joel says

"It is if she hasn't seen Gladiator." You say, popping the disc into the player while Joel shakes his head.

Joel watches from his spot beside you on the couch as you absorb the movie, answering Ellie's questions when she asks. He smiles to himself as you happily explain what's happening on the screen. You always loved movie nights.

"Oh gross! He's totally into his sister!" Ellie points at the screen to Commodus and Lucilla.

"Sick fuck." You declare and nudge Joel who nods in agreement

There is only one couch cushion between you and him but it might as well be the size of the Grand Canyon. Joel's fingers itch to reach out and pull you into his side. He wants to watch this movie the way you used to watch movies with him.

He wants your head resting on his chest as the movie plays so he can play with your hair while you take in the flashing screen. Joel wants to smell the soft scent of your body wash as you lay so close to him that you're both practically mushing into one being.

As the credits begin to roll, You let out a yawn while Ellie rates the movie a 10/10.

"Too bad there won't ever be another." She sighs, "We could totally have a movie on Lucilla's kid."

"Right?" You agree looking at him, "Joel could totally play a part in it too."

"Excuse me?" Joel asks, baffled at the idea. He was no movie star.

"Yeah, you got that Roman nose. You could play some hot general or something." You shrug gesturing to his face.

Joel shakes his head in disagreement yet all he can focus on is that you indirectly just called him hot.

"You're loosin' it. I'm not fit enough to play a gladiator." He says, thinking of Russell Crowe's perfectly toned physique. Joel's body had gone soft with age, muscle hidden under soft flesh, he was no early 2000s heartthrob.

"That's why she said general." Ellie points out

"A hot one." You add for the second time

"Yeah yeah, Hot General Joel. I'll start my workout tomorrow." He sighs looking at You and Ellie you are both smiling at him. Warmth spreads across his chest, When was the last time he felt like this?

"Alright, time for bed. Ellie go brush your teeth." Joel says nodding to the steps

For once in her life, she goes off without objecting. Joel doesn't miss the way she mouths "Kiss her!" to him from behind your back. His face heats up in embarrassment, that damn kid was going to be the death of him one day.

"I should get going. I wanna go down to the clinic early tomorrow to check on Maria." You say, standing up and stretching, "Have a good night, General."

Joel nods, rising to his own feet. He thanks you for helping Ellie with whatever that math was. You give him a warm smile and then go to grab your shoes.

Joel might be half deaf but anyone could've heard the commotion outside. You jump when the loud slam of fists sounds when someone begins knocking on the door like the world is ending.

"Joel!" A loud voice calls

Joel whips the door open to reveal Brett. A young guy who was supposed to be ontop of the wall tonight until 3am.

"What? What happened?" Joel asks worry fills his system, what could be happening? Was there a breach in the wall? Infected? What was the best place he could hide you and Ellie?

"Got a situation. Tommy said a few days ago that you'd be in charge of shit like this if he and Maria were unavailable." Brett says

"What about the council? They're above me." Joel says he doesn't want any part of whatever is happening.

"There's people Joel. Night patrol picked them up and brought em' in." Brett explains, "Could you just come take a look? Tommy said you got a good head for stuff like this."

"A good head for what?" Joel asks, doubtingly

"A good head for people," Brett says

Joel follows Brett towards the gates of Jackson. You trail behind him, Ellie a few paces behind you. He had demanded you stay back but of course your stubborn self followed him and Ellie right after you.

"How many?" Joel asks as Brett leads

"Two. One man, one woman." Brett says

"And they're clean?" Joel asks, thinking of how horrible it might get if they were infected.

"The dog let them right through, even licked the woman a few times." Brett responds

Joel nods and his eyes land on a group of Jackson's people, surrounding the newcomers. Some of them have guns out at least.

"Who was on patrol? I thought we weren't letting people in at night?" Joel asks

Brett lists off a few names. Fuzzy faces come into Joel's mind. Every single person on patrol tonight had to be under 25. Young and dumb. Too trusting for this world.

Joel takes a gun from a man he recognizes as Louis and motions for you and Ellie to hang back behind him and Brett.

The people in front of him look helpless. The woman is alarmingly skinny, perhaps it's the old dress she's wearing but she looks horribly malnourished. Joel honestly can't tell if she's even alive. Unconscious and slumped in the dirt, she looks like a corpse. The man looked a bit better, although it could just be his clothes hiding how skinny he was. He stands up when Joel looks at him, desperation in his eyes.

"Names," Joel says, his voice gruffer than it'd been in months.

"Please, we need food and water. It's been days." The man begs

"Names." Joel says again, "Where are you coming from?"

"Please..." The man begs again, "We don't mean any harm. We're both clean, that dog proved it before we entered!"

Joel hears Brett whispering behind him and before he can stop you, you brush past him, partially blocking the view of this stranger.

"I know his name."

Your voice is shaky, a tone Joel's never heard before takes over your vocal chords. Joel looks at the man whose eyes are on you now. A glint of recognition flashes across his face and even in the dark, illuminated by Jackson's streetlights, Joel can see his skin pale. You speak again, your voice barely a whisper in the dark as you stare at this man.

"Adam."

Next Part

I wrote a little Christmas imagine for Joel. It's not connected to this series but if you're interested, you can check it out right here.

And so I return with another chapter. I meant to write this sooner, I just got lazy and have been spending more time sleeping since the Fall Semester sucked my soul out of my body.

Comment to be added to the tag list. This tag list is not chapter by chapter, I carry the tags over to each part.

Tags:

@lunaticgurly  @orcasoul  @snowlycanroc  @freythecrazyfae

@person-005 @greenwitchfromthewoods

@elli3williams @yawnzzzzzzzz. @am-3-thyst

[killerlookz]

hiiiii i adore your writing soooo sooo much!! i was literally dancing in my room to joosts music and i thought of a new fic idea:3 can you write something where Joost comes back home and the reader is dancing to his songs in their apartment, the reader doesnt notice him at first, completely in the moment and when they do, they get all embarrassed and its all fluff and cute??(((:

awww this is so cute <33 ty sm anon!!!

Dance With Me? | Joost Klein

content: gn! reader, no warnings rlly! just fluff :-) the song in question for this fic is Joost Klein 2 btw! this fic contains rpf and has been tagged as such, do not continue if that makes you uncomfortable

word count: 1.2k(just a wee little blurb!)

Sundays had always been your least favorite day of the week, a bleak reminder that the hours of the weekend were waning and you'd have to return to the monotony of the weekdays. Perhaps the worst part of Sundays was that they were your designated cleaning day, you would much prefer spending your last day free from work lazing on the couch or curled up in bed, but instead, once again you found yourself bouncing around your apartment straightening up whatever cleaning you had left unfinished throughout the week.

The silence of your empty apartment had been getting to you, bored out of your mind as you stood on a chair to dust off a bookshelf. The only thing you figured that would this slightly more tolerable was music at least the apartment wouldn't be so damn quiet.

You hop down from the chair, scurrying into the living room to turn on your speakers. It wasn't long until music was flowing into the apartment, loud, and probably obnoxious to the neighbors, but it hadn't been late enough to warrant a noise complaint- so they would just have to deal with it for now.

Among the many plusses of having a musician for a boyfriend, you had to admit being in possession of a stellar stereo system was definitely one of them. You had been able to hear the music just as perfectly as you pranced back into your bedroom, not exactly eager to get back to cleaning.

Though it would seem not much cleaning would get done after that point, more focused on the music than any of the tasks you had at hand.

"Joost Klein maar m'n stack die is groot!" You sang along with the lyrics that boomed over the speaker. Another plus of having a musician boyfriend was that he was a damn good musician., "De regering zoekt mij, maar ze vinden me nooit!"

You had found yourself jumping around to the music, a smile pressed onto your face as you swayed your head back and forth in time to the beat.

Still jumping, your arms in the air you start to spin around when suddenly the breath is knocked out of you at the sight of a figure in the doorway to your bedroom. Your body grows rigid, stopping dead in your tracks as your mind races to the worst-case scenario.

Luckily it hadn't exactly been the worst-case scenario, as your eyes focused and you were able to see your boyfriend leaning against the doorframe, a wide grin plastered on his face.

"Why'd you stop?" He asks, clearly amused, "I was enjoying your performance. I think you might put me out of a job."

"Joost!" Your voice is sharp like you're scolding him for being in his own home. Your eyes widen at the shock, not having expected him to be home, much less having even heard him walk through the door, "I thought you said you'd be running errands all day."

Embarrassment begins to grow on your face, your eyes refusing to meet Joost's, a sheepish smile tugging at your lips as your body grows hot.

"I've actually been gone awhile," He chuckles, "I finished my errands."

"Hmm," You hum, looking down at your feet, "Time flies." You mumble.

"It does when you're having fun, which you looked to be having." Joost muses, an eyebrow-raising behind the thick rims of his glasses.

"Cleaning was getting boring," You shrug, still refusing to make eye contact out of sheer embarrassment.

Joost can clearly sense your unease as his smile still rests on his face, beginning to bob his head up and down, slowly walking towards you with some grove in his step,

"Maar ik blijf Joost en ik bleef in de derde zitten," Joost lowly sings along to his own voice over the speaker, his movements becoming livelier as he gets closer to you, "Soms haat ik kittens en haat ik ook science-fiction."

He grabs your hands, as to ask you to dance with him, but you're reluctant, only holding his hands in front of him as he dances on his own continuing to sing along to his own song.

"C'mon," He urges, "Dance with me?" An exaggerated pout rests on his lips as he stares down at you with big, blue, puppy-dog eyes. You can't exactly resist that look, slowly stepping back and forth to appease his request.

He pulls at your arms as he jumps up and down to the music, just about forcing you to move with more excitement, your embarrassment quickly subsiding as Joost dances in a manner similar to how you had been just moments prior.

"Joost Klein maar m'n stack die is groot!" Eventually, the two of you are singing, bouncing up and down in sync with each other and you can't believe you had ever been embarrassed in front of Joost in the first place. It had seemed so trivial now that the two of you danced together, after four years together you were sure you had seen each other in much more embarrassing situations, you knew better, that he would never pass any judgment on you, "De regering zoekt mij, maar ze vinden me nooit!" You practically yell to each other, oversized grins burned into both of your faces.

The song soon fades out, allowing for a song that wasn't Joost's to start playing.

"You've got some good music taste," Joost teases, the two of your movements dying down.

"Meh," You shrug, "Joost is kind of mid, I think Ski Aggu is better,"

Joost clicks his tongue, shaking his head in joking disapproval,

"You're lucky you're cute." A kiss is pressed against your forehead. The small gesture leaves you with butterflies in your stomach, despite the length of time the pair of you had been together, every touch from him seemed to feel like you were falling in love for the first time all over again.

"You get much cleaning done?" He pulls back

You look around the bedroom, the bed still unmade, clothes strewn upon your dresser, various items scattered around your desk. You feel yourself becoming stressed again at the task ahead of you.

"Not quite." You respond sheepishly, you sigh, "I should probably-"

"It can wait, relax, liefje," Joost cuts you off, "I think we should continue our little dance party."

"Easy for you to say when you've gotten everything you need to get done today,"

"Hmm," Joost puckers his lips, twisting his face into an expression that makes it obvious he's thinking, "How about..." He trails off for a moment, inching closer to you, "You stay here and dance with me, and I'll clean the whole apartment while you're at work tomorrow."

It's an easy proposition to accept, not having to clean? Fine by you.

"Deal?" He asks, smiling down at you.

"Deal," You quickly nod.

"Eh," he holds up a finger, "We need to seal the deal."

You raise your eyebrows up at him, waiting for what he's going to say next,

"You gotta give me a kiss to seal our deal,"

You giggle, standing up on your tip toes, placing both of your hands on Joost's shoulders as you reach up to press your lips to his.

He's quick to kiss you back, resting his hands on your waist as he engages you in a soft, passionate kiss.

"Okay," He nods, "Now it's a deal."

[pomefioredove]

May I have a chocolate cookie n 3 with chocolate chips and marshmallows 😋

omg I haven't done an RSA reader in a long time but this is perfecttt!! good lord I'm ngl to you guys I live for drama like this, I know che'nya isn't as popular in the fandom but this is worth reading bc I had TOO much fun writing it

order #3, chocolate with chocolate chips, marshmallows

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ especially when upside down

summary: no one ever said that being riddle's ex would be easy tropes: roommate au, fake dating characters: chenya additional info: romantic, gender neutral reader, reader is not yuu, reader is from RSA, riddleyuu real, probably ooc, PDA and kissing warning (this CORNBALL)

Being Che'nya's roommate for the past three years, you've been involved in your fair share of pranks and ploys.

This is, by far, the dumbest.

"This is an awful idea," you say, letting him fiddle with your frilly tie. "He'll be too busy with the festivities, anyway, maybe we should just-"

He pushes a finger to your lips and shushes you, shutting you up.

"You worry more than an elder oyster," Che'nya chides. "Let's be off."

He cavorts you through the gates of Night Raven College, a place you seldom visit- at least, nowadays.

"I just don't think this is the right way to rekindle with Riddle,"

He smirks, his fangs poking his lower lip. "All ways are right ways,"

To him, at least. You drag your feet through the curious crowds, their sharp-toothed smiles taunting you. You probably won't even see Riddle, you reason with yourself. He's probably busy. Yeah! You won't even-

"Che'nya! And- ah! It's you!"

Damn it all.

Riddle might be working, but Trey-

"Wow, it's been a few months, huh?" the vicewarden smiles. "I, uh... wasn't expecting you. Riddle's running a few last-minute checks with the presenters, and then we're all heading to the VDC. You can walk with us."

"No," you say.

"Yes!" Che'nya counters.

Trey smiles and shakes his head. "You two make... an interesting pair. How you ended up so close is a mystery, even to me,"

Che'nya grins. "You might even say we're-"

You slap a hand over his overeager lips and give Trey an awkward smile. "W-we should start walking!"

Trey seems wary, but he is, as always, too polite to ask. The three of you start walking, and with each step, your stomach sinks lower and lower. Why'd you let him talk you into this?

It takes almost ten minutes to reach the coliseum. Night Raven College is much larger than it looks from the outside... or perhaps you just feel very small.

"Alright, Riddle should be around here somewhere..." Trey says, his hand shielding his eyes from the sun. "Ah, there they are."

They? You follow his eyes to Riddle, as red-haired and overdressed as you remember, talking to someone scrappy, scrawny, and nearly his height.

"Who's that?" you ask. Che'nya blows air in your ear, bothering you to say he's unhappy with your lack of attention on him.

Trey leads you to the two, as if marching into battle. "That's the Prefect," he says. "They and Riddle are..."

He hesitates, his eyes darting to the way Che'nya is tugging on your hair to avoid your pout.

"They're what, Trey?"

"Uh... close. Here we are!"

Upon hearing his voice, Riddle turns towards Trey, and the rest of you. He's smiling, his cheeks are round and plump, his face full of color. He looks... happy. It's strange.

...His hand is tightly around theirs. The Prefect.

Your stomach turns.

"Ah, you're all here," Riddle says. He eyes the way Che'nya is leaning on your shoulder. He doesn't say a word about it. "...Uh, a... pleasure... to see you again."

"And you," you say. Che'nya sets a hand on your waist, as if daring someone to ask.

And you stick out your hand, desperately trying to prevent that. "I-I don't think we've met," you say, to the Prefect. "I'm a... a... friend of Riddle's."

They smile. They're sweet, so unlike the other Night Raven students you've met.

"Oh, nice! And you know Trey and Che'nya, too?"

Che'nya perks up. "One might say that we-"

"WE'RE ROOMMATES!" you spit out, preventing him from saying any more than that.

The Prefect smiles awkwardly and shakes your hand. You can just tell they're thinking "these people are weird."

"You go to school here?" you ask. Surely not. If they did, someone would have told you about them by now. Or you've just been spending way too much time with Che'nya...

They nod. "Oh, yes. A few months now. You must go to Royal Sword, right?"

"That's right," you say, crossing your arms. Che'nya teasingly bites your shoulder. No one brings it up. "How do you know Riddle?"

"Oh, it's a... long story," they laugh. "We-"

"We're partners," Riddle interrupts, crossing his arms in parody of your pose. Your knees are knocking together. Why is this so hard?

Che'nya sets his chin on your shoulder, smiling. You don't stop him from speaking this time. "Ah, you too?"

Trey takes a step back, as if planning his escape. You can sympathize with that.

""Too?" Meaning what, now?" Riddle responds, his eyes narrowing.

"We've been tithering to tell you," says the cat. "But we wanted to wait. Where's the fun in no surprise?"

"Enough of this. Spit it out, what's it mean?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

Without so much as a warning (though it might've been brought to your attention with tap of his fingertip on your lips), Che'nya kisses you. On the mouth. In front of everyone.

When he pulls away, Riddle looks more appalled than envious. Trey has backed himself into the wall, and the Prefect is blushing.

"...I see," Riddle says, eyes wide. "You never were one for following social conventions, Che'nya. I wish you the best. Just... don't... do that in front of me again."

"The Prefect should head inside!" Trey blurts out, "Vil is probably looking for them!"

Thank the Sevens. "O-oh- right!" they say, "I-I'll see you all at the VDC!"

They stumble away, obviously just as taken aback as Riddle. Maybe they're meant for each other, after all, you think. You're not as revolted by the idea as before. Che'nya's hand is still on your waist.

"...Go, Night Raven," Trey says, weakly.

Che'nya's chin sits on your shoulder again, and he smiles. You scoff, finding your confidence. "...Royal Sword Academy is a shoe-in for the win,"

"I wouldn't be so sure," Riddle mutters, smoothing out his clothing as if it'll help him with his composure. "Vil Schoenheit is a formidable trainer."

Your eyes dart to the door which the Prefect- Riddle's partner- had run into.

"Mm, but they're right, of course," Che'nya purrs, his arms around your waist. "RSA will win by a hare... I mean, a hair. The heart always wins over the head... especially when upside down."

Riddle rolls his eyes. You smile. "That, I understand,"