#''do I care for you because my boss handed you to me as part of my duty''

[doumadono]

Warnings: fwb, finger fucking, period s*x, mentions of blood

Synopsis: navigating your period is never a walk in the park, especially with Dabi, your usual source of comfort, off base. Fortunately, your other friend with benefits is available. The question lingers - will your boss be willing to help ease your anxiety?

MY HERO ACADEMIA MASTERLIST - PART II

The dull ache had been gnawing at you for hours, twisting deep in your stomach and making it impossible to get comfortable, no matter how many times you pulled the blanket tighter around your shoulders or curled up smaller on the couch. You’d tried everything, maybe a little bit of everything at once, hoping that something - anything - might finally distract you from the constant cramping that made you restless, edgy, and worse, needy. That feeling always came with the ache, twisting at you with a constant want to feel something warm, something grounding against your skin.

Dabi, your usual go-to for comfort during times like these, had vanished again - off on one of his mysterious escapades. Bastard. He was off God knows where, doing who knows what, and while you wanted to curse him for vanishing at the worst possible time without even letting you know, your mind was already drifting to the only other person you trusted for this sort of comfort.

Tomura Shigaraki. The leader of the League of Villains, and your second friend with benefits.

His door was slightly ajar, a faint blue glow casting just enough light to outline his silhouette. Shigaraki sat splayed out on the bed, his room dim, save for the flickering screen that illuminated his focused expression. His hands moved expertly over the controller, his gaze locked onto the game with an intensity that made him seem unreachable - detached, in that familiar way.

You lingered in the doorway, feeling the dull ache low in your stomach pulse, the discomfort pulling at you. “Boss…” you murmured, stepping in quietly, letting the door click softly shut behind you. You padded over, slipping under his arm, tucking yourself against him as you nuzzled into his chest. His familiar scent washed over you, grounding you somehow, and for a moment, you just stayed there, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing as you sank into his warmth.

Shigaraki shifted slightly, adjusting his grip on the controller, and gave a low, exasperated sigh. “What is it?” His voice was low, his eyes still fixed on the screen, and though he hadn’t yet acknowledged you fully, the subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed a piece of his attention that was aimed at you.

“Hurts,” you mumbled, pressing closer, your voice soft, barely more than a whisper. You buried your face against his shoulder, letting out a small whine. “Feels tight, uncomfortable. And Dabi isn’t around, so…”

A low chuckle escaped his lips, and he finally tore his gaze from the screen to look at you, his eyes gleaming with pity. “So you came to me because he’s not around, huh? What am I, second best?” he teased, though his fingers were already tracing along your waist, the corners of his mouth quirking into a smirk. “You’re interrupting my game.”

You pouted, curling against him tighter, your hand resting on his chest. “Can’t you help me just a little, boss?” Your voice was a soft plea, needy, and you could feel his chest rumble with a low chuckle as he set the controller aside, finally giving you his full attention.

“Help you, huh?” He raised an eyebrow, his fingers reaching up to trace along your hip, teasingly slow, his gaze wandering over your face, studying the faint flush in your cheeks, the way your eyes lingered on his mouth. “And how exactly am I supposed to help with that, Y/N? Indeed though, you look like you’re suffering,” he added quickly, his voice rough and low, a hint of amusement curling at the edge of his mouth. His fingers brushed along your exposed thigh as your skirt rode up, careful, as always, to keep one finger lifted. “Funny though. Dabi is busy, so you come crawling to me. Look how pathetic you are, Y/N.”

You bit your lip, giving him a look that was both pleading and lustful as you leaned in, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “Pretty please?” you murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to his jaw, feeling the tension there as you let your lips linger. “It’s just cramping. I’m on my period,” you managed, feeling a wave of embarrassment rush through you, but he only narrowed his gaze, studying you as if you were some puzzle he wanted to solve.

“I guess I can help with that,” he said, a smirk playing on his lips, his hand trailing higher, his fingers ghosting along the waistband of your plain skirt. 

Your breath hitched, and you bit your lip, the heat pooling low in your stomach twisting into something that made your whole body tighten with anticipation. “Tomura, but… I’m bleeding,” you reminded, your voice barely a whisper, half-expecting him to recoil, but instead, he only smirked, eyes darkening as he leaned in closer.

“Doesn’t bother me,” he replied, his tone laced with a dark, playful edge. “Blood never has.” A soft hum escaped him, his tone mocking, but there was a spark of interest in his eyes. His fingers pressed into the small of your back, guiding you forward with a firm, steady pressure, until you found yourself sitting on his lap, your back against his chest, his hands settling on your thighs. His grip was steady, demanding, and he leaned forward, his voice barely above a murmur as his breath brushed your ear. “Need attention that badly?”

Your heart pounded, cheeks flushed, but you felt yourself nodding, letting your arm drift up around his neck. “Maybe…” you managed, leaning back against him, feeling the press of his chest against your back, solid and steady.

His fingers kneaded the soft flesh of your thigh, slow and purposeful, sending a wave of heat through you that made your muscles tighten. His gaze flickered down as he watched your clothed pussy after he yanked the hem of your skirt up once more, his tone dropping to a murmur. “Then spread your legs wide f’me, like a good whore you are.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, but you obeyed, shifting so your thighs opened slightly on either side of his, giving him access. 

“Good girl.” His voice was a low murmur, edged with satisfaction, and his hand trailed higher, his breath warm against your neck. His fingers trailed along your inner thigh, tracing slow, lazy circles that made your breath catch, each touch sending sparks through your body. “Look at you,” he murmured, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he let his fingers drift higher. “Already desperate, aren’t you?” His calloused hand slipped between your thighs after he yanked the hems of your skirt up with the other hand, his touch rough yet cautious, the warmth of his fingers spreading as he traced gentle circles against the sensitive skin of your pantie-covered mound. 

Your breath hitched when his fingers slipped beneath the silky fabric of your panties, warm and rough against the softness of your folds, already covered in a slick arousal mixed with blood, and it was impossible not to tense under his touch. 

Shigaraki worked slowly, drawing it out, the pads of his fingers pressing in against your pussy lips just enough to make your body react - an involuntary clench of your tight hole around nothingness that sent a rush of heat to your face. You glanced away, but he seemed to notice every single shift in you, the way your breaths were coming quicker, shallower, under his attention. 

His smirk was faint but unmistakable, an almost lazy satisfaction that he let settle between the two of you. “Warm,” he claimed matter-of-factly, and there was something about the way he said it that made the room feel even smaller, his voice scraping low and rough. His fingers brushed your panties aside, exposing your glistening pussy to the chill of the air for just a moment before his hand covered your slit again. He took his time, tracing a line up and down the slick slit with an infuriating slowness, his eyes never leaving your face as his fingers explored with an intensity that made your whole body start to tremble. He used his index and middle finger to spread your labia, smirking wryly as he spotted your hole clenching rhythmically. “Fucking whore. I bet you’re tight too, aren’t you, sweet rose?”

You swallowed hard, feeling your face heat up, a pout already forming as he kept that steady, infuriating pace. “It… it’s uncomfortable,” you mumbled, voice catching as his fingers pressed harder against your lips.

He leaned closer, his nose brushing against the shell of your ear, his breath warm against the skin of your neck as he watched a pink-tinted, lucid mucus effused out of your tight hole. “Cheap whore. You’re dripping wet. Spread your legs wider f’me.”

Before you knew it, you had one foot on his bed, and the other lazily hooked over his left knee, showing off your glistening pussy so openly and lewdly that you felt like you were doing a porn shoot. Your entire attention was focused on the way he stroked and caressed your slick labia.

Tomura’s finger probed your opening which was already wet with anticipation, then traced back to the top, caressing your swollen clitoris again. He repeated this motion, tracing down, probing you, picking up your slick, thick wetness, and trailing back up to caress your clit. 

“Now, tell me where it hurts.” 

You whimpered, feeling your legs start to tremble as his finger slipped inside your wet, tight pussy that easily opened to welcome the much wanted intrusion. The long digit was stretching you, filling you with a deliberate fullness that made your head spin. “Right… right there, boss,” you whispered, clutching at his knee with the free hand, feeling your body tighten, a warmth blossoming in your core that sent jolts of pleasure through every nerve, so the only thing you could do was to buck your hips more into his rough palm.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he growled softly, placing a faint kiss to the column of your neck as you rolled your head back, his fingers moving faster, rougher now, his control slipping as he watched you come undone beneath him. “So desperate, and all that just for me.”

You were moaning like a whore as Shigaraki’s fingers fought the slippery friction of your cunny grip as he slowly finger fucked your hole.

Carefully, the white haired man curled his fingers downward and rubbed the tender underside of your pubis with soft, circular strokes. “That’s it, bitch,” he praised.

You could feel yourself getting closer, the pleasure building, overwhelming, and he seemed to sense it, too. You whimpered as the muscles in your back, shoulders, arms, and ass tensed. “Oi, Tomura!”

He chuckled, his free hand gripping your titties through your tank top, holding you steady as he worked his fingers inside you, his pace steady but relentless. “There you go, bitch,” the leader of the League of Villains praised, his lips grazing the column of your neck, his teeth nipping at your skin as his fingers curled, pressing against that perfect spot that made your body tense, and your breath hitch.

“Faster, faster,” you pleaded, grinding your hips so you rubbed your slick pussy lips against the heel of his rough palm.

“You’re lucky I’m feeling generous,” he continued, his voice a low growl as his fingers moved faster, his thumb pressing against your clit, tapping it a few times, sending jolts of pleasure through every nerve in your body. “Maybe next time, you’ll think about coming to me first.”

White haired man slipped another finger inside your bloody cunt, stretching you painfully as your core was super tight due to the period and cramps, filling you with a pure lust that made you gasp, your body arching as he pressed deeper, his thumb rubbing against your swollen clitoris. He grinned at your reaction, his finger curling inside you, hitting that perfect spongy spot that made your muscles clench, made your entire body tremble. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” he murmured, adding yet another finger, pumping them in and out with a steady, deliberate rhythm that left you panting, your hips moving in time with his touch. He watched you, his gaze dark and hungry, a look of pure satisfaction crossing his face as you were falling apart beneath him. He didn’t seem bothered by the fact his protective glove was getting wet with your juices and blood.

His pace grew relentless, a rhythm that made you call out his name, on and on. The only sounds echoing around you were your soft mewls, a breathless symphony of pleasure,  mingling with his low, breathy grunts. Each time the heel of his hand met your slick labia, it created a wet, lewd sound that punctuated the air of his bedroom. 

You tried to close your legs when a massive orgasm crashed over you, leaving you trembling, but Tomura kept your legs open. He held you close, his fingers still moving slowly in and out of your abused hole, drawing out every last tremor, until you were left mumbling incoherently, breathless, completely undone in your boss’ lap.

You turned your upper body part in his arms, placing kitten kisses to his cheek and jaw, silently thanking him for relieving you.

When Tomura finally pulled his hand away, he looked down at the faint traces of blood mixed with cum smeared on his fingers. His nasty smirk widened.

Your body was still trembling, your mind hazy with pleasure as you watched Shigaraki, your breaths shallow as you tried to regain your composure. 

But then, his eyes met yours, dark and steady, as he raised his hand to his mouth. 

Heat flooded your cheeks, your heart racing as he brought his long fingers - slick with your arousal and faintly stained with traces of blood - toward his mouth. He paused, inhaling deeply as if savoring the scent of his quarry, embodying the essence of a predator assessing its prey. Then, with a deliberate slowness, he wrapped his cracked lips around his fingers, licking and sucking them clean, every movement intentional and tantalizing, his gaze never leaving your eyes. He hummed at the taste, palming himself through his pants without giving it a second thought.

You expected a grimace, maybe even a disgusted comment, but instead, his expression was one of dark satisfaction, his tongue tracing his fingers with an intensity that made your stomach flutter, that set your already sensitive nerves tingling all over again. The way he looked at you, like he was savoring every last taste, made a soft, shy whimper slip from your lips. You tried to avert your gaze, but it was impossible to look away from him, from that wicked, knowing smirk on his face.

“Something wrong?” he asked, his voice dripping with mock innocence, though you could see the amusement in his eyes. “What, did you think I’d be grossed out?” His smirk widened as he leaned in close, his voice a low murmur that made you shiver as he kissed your nose.

You swallowed hard, your cheeks burning as you met his gaze, feeling a mix of embarrassment and undeniable excitement twist in your stomach. 

He didn’t mind. He didn’t care about the blood, didn’t care that you’d practically begged him to touch you. He’d taken it all in stride, and the realization left you feeling both vulnerable and completely captivated by him. 

You glanced away, feeling your cheeks flush as you tried to hide the shy smile threatening to show. The room felt smaller somehow, quiet, and his gaze on you felt heavy, like it held you in place. You could feel him watching you, studying every flicker in your expression, every nervous breath. Finally, you managed, “I… I just thought…”

Tomura cut you off, his voice soft but with that firm, unmistakable edge that left no room for protest. “You thought wrong,” he murmured, his hand resting just above your knee, his fingers brushing over your thigh in a way that sent an unmistakable spark through you. The warmth of his skin, the way his touch lingered, sent your heart racing, pulse pounding loud in the silence. He leaned in, lips brushing your ear, the warmth of his breath so close that it made you shiver. “If you’re coming to me for this,” he whispered, each word low, deliberate, “then you’d better be prepared. I don’t do it halfway.”

A thrill settled in your stomach at his words, twisting into something deep, something that left you breathless as his hand drifted higher, thumb tracing lazy circles over your thigh. You bit your lip, trying to calm the heat spreading through you, but it was no use. There was an anticipation in the air, a tension that had you leaning in, your voice soft, playful, but with an edge of your own. “Guess I owe you… for helping me out like this.”

You held his gaze, feeling the weight of his eyes on you, the slight quirk of his brow that told you he was watching, waiting. 

Without breaking eye contact, you slid off his lap, sinking to your knees on the floor in front of him, one hand finding the bulge that was already building beneath the fabric of his pants. You ran the tip of your tongue along your upper lip.

His eyes flickered, interest gleaming there, the corner of his mouth curving into a look that was more than a smirk but not quite a smile. It was something darker, something that lingered, his fingers reaching out to brush over your cheek, his thumb tracing along your jaw in a touch that was gentle, but expectant before he pressed the digit against your lips, watching you part them for him, sucking the finger in your mouth like a good, obedient whore you were. “Then I’ll be expecting that repayment soon,” he whispered, his voice like velvet, “Very soon.”

tagging: @baby--vera @unhinged-bratty-boy @shonen-brainrot @shionancientsblog @irkedpomeranian @within-eyesight @misafiryanki @cyberrthegreat @grossograsso @krabkornel @roast-toast @arthurbristow @alexandhisstuff @proherodabisballsack

[bruhstation]

you deserved better from me than an oversized uniform and a world full of troubles

[mikkeneko]

That post about Marcille and Laios' relationship actually got me thinking about Chilchuck and Laios' relationship. Which is harder to see in some ways because it mostly consists of positive absences.

At first, viewers might be inclined to wonder why Chilchuck sticks with the party. He says it's because he took payment up front, but he could give back part of the deposit and leave. Two other party members left; Laios explicitly gave Marcille and Chilchuck a choice as to whether they would stay or go, and they both chose to stay.

We know why Marcille chose to stay; she wants to save Falin and she considers the other party members her friends. Why did Chilchuck stay?

Chilchuck actually respects Laios a lot -- food and monster weirdness aside -- and that mostly comes I think through the positive absences from above. The things that Laios does not do.

Laios doesn't deliberately expose Chilchuck to danger or regard him as expendable. When Chilchuck starts to get enthralled by the sirens' song, Laios immediately snaps him out of it. Contrast that to Chilchuck relating that other adventuring parties will sometimes bring half-foots along just to sacrifice them or use them as bait!

Laios doesn't insist that Chilchuck put himself in danger by getting into combat. Even in situations where they're in danger and could really use more combatants, he only ever asks Chilchuck to take on non-combat tasks such as creating distractions.

Laios doesn't get in the way when Chilchuck is working and follows his directives of what to do around traps. He respects Chilchuck's work so much that he will even hand over his sword without hesitation, even when doing such a thing causes it to be damaged!

Laios doesn't press Chilchuck to divulge private information. When Chilchuck says he doesn't mix his professional and private lives, Laios respects that and doesn't push.

All the other party members infringe on these boundaries in some way. Izutsumi tries to egg Chilchuck into combat; Marcille pries into his home life; Senshi deliberately provokes him when he's trying to work. Not Laios. Once Chilchuck sets a boundary, Laios does his best to always respect it. (And I think Laios appreciates having clearly defined Rules For Chilchuck.)

Laios is a good party leader and he takes care of his team. Maybe this is my age showing, but when you find yourself in a good work situation with a good boss, you stay in that job.

[chaos-bringer-13]

Vlad, Dan and Dani move across dimensions to Gotham because of some bad stuff happening in their own dimension. Vlad has a lot of his money with him in cash, and they quickly get themselves fake id's as father and his two children. Vlad's plan is to keep low profile, wait it out and then return. Dan and Dani don't care about Vlad's plan.

Vlad is shady, Dan and Dani are causing shenanigans, and a bunch of coincidences leads to people believing that they're some sort of mafia family.

Some idiots try to rob Dani and she blurts out "Do you know who my dad is?". Dan emerges from the shadows, sends Dani off and makes extremely specific and detailed threats of slow and painful death to the would-be robbers. He finishes the speech by adding that they would be wishing for him to do all of that if his and Dani's father found out about the robbery.

Then Dan accidentally recruits a group of goons by beating up their boss and feeling kinda responsible for the henchmen.

Then Dani steals the talons.

Dan has a fight over territory with one of the smaller rogues.

Dani steals Scarecrow's chemicals.

All the while they keep convincing people that this is all a part of some bigger plan of Masters family. First it's just a misunderstanding, then they keep doing it to annoy Vlad. Some people think that Masters is just a surname, some think that Master is a rogue's name. After a while everyone knows that there's an up-and-coming crime family.

Vlad is entirely oblivious. He doesn't know shit. He ends up making a small organisation (restaurant? car repair shop?) to hire people who keep coming to him. He's not sure why his children tell all these people that he can help but they are in trouble, so he helps. And then helps again, and again. All the places he opens look like crime fronts.

Vlad is still unaware that he's a mob boss.

Maybe at some point Dan and Dani think that Vlad figured this out (because its obvious) but doesn't say anything because the police has bugged their house or because he wants plausible deniability.

Obviously all of this ends with the Bats deciding to confront Masters. It's also the perfect moment for Danny to enter.

Here, have a shitty meme showing the moment.

Danny: I left you here fOR ONE MONTH

Vlad: It's not my fault!

Danny: I figured. Dani, if I give you a candy, will you tell me what the hell you've done?

Dani: What kind of candy?

Danny, handing out a Yellow Lantern ring: A Ring Pop.

Dani, snatching it: We accidentally started a mob family :D

[chaussetteblanche]

and they were roommates pt. 3

pairing : Spencer Reid x fem!student!roommate!reader summary : life on campus with a killer on the loose, the FBI makes an arrest word count : 2k warning : canon-typical violence, swear words (one use of the f-word) A/N : thank you so so much for all the love on this story !!! I'm so glad you all enjoy it <333 I'll probably do a part 4, it may be the last part, idk yet :)

part 1, part 2, part 4

"Spencer, I realise your concern, but lots of women look somewhat like this." It wasn't lost on Spencer what Hotch was trying to do by calling by his first name. "Hotch, she- she could be right next to them. She fits his type right down to the colour of her eyes!" "Spencer, man, you need to think rationally." Derek placed a hand on Spencer's shoulder. "Lots of women have that hair colour and length, it's in style right now, right Emily?" "Yeah, definitely." "Look, I just- I need to make a call."

When Spencer had called you sometime in the evening, you'd been expecting him to tell you he was going to come home late and to not wait up for him. What you weren't expecting was for his voice to be the most serious and stern you'd ever heard it. "Don't go outside until I come home, okay?" He knew it was entirely irrational. The unsub only took women in broad daylight, you weren't facing any more risks than usual. But he couldn't take a chance. Not with this. Not with you. "What? Why?" "Just- I'll explain everything when I come home, I'll be there in a couple hours, but please, don't leave the apartment. And make sure everything is locked." "Spencer, what's going on?" "Can you just-" He paused, forcing himself to remain calm. "Look, do as I say, please. I'll explain everything later, I promise." You hesitated for a moment. Luckily for you, you weren't working at the bar tonight. Luckily for Spencer, you liked him enough to indulge him. "Okay." "Thank you."

"Oh my God, no, absolutely not!" "Y/N, it's for your safety, don't you understand that?!" "My safety? What about my life?"

This was the first real fight you'd ever had. You'd had disagreements, of course, he didn't like you leaving your empty cups and glasses all over the place. You told him off for waking you in the morning by making too much noise. Sometimes you'd get jealous if Geoffrey slept in Spencer's bed rather than yours. Yes, you'd had your fair share of arguments, but none quite like this.

"I'm not asking you to give up your life, you're being totally-" You scoffed loudly, interrupting him. "Spencer, you might as well! Do you realise what you're suggesting I do? You want me to give up on going outside, not go to any of my classes, not see any of my friends, not go to work, don't you see what bullshit that is? It's putting a cross on my social life, my education and my work!" You gesticulated angrily as you speak, feeling heat rising to your face. "I already told you, it's for your own safety." He sighed loudly, pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance. He wasn't even looking at you. A tiny, tiny piece of you wanted to slap him. "I will not stop living my life because some psycho thinks it's fun to kill innocent girls! I won't!" You crossed your arms over your chest and resisted the urge to stomp your foot.

"You're being incredibly childish right now." You hated how he managed to stay calm. You wanted him to get just as angry as you were, livid even. It wasn't fair that you were the only one getting upset. "Are you making all the girls who look like me give up everything for the sake of their safety?" Your tone was mocking and mean but you didn't have it in you to care at the moment. He met your eyes at last, lips turned downwards into a frown. Finally, some sort of emotion. "Don't do that, Y/N," he warned in a low voice. "No, I think it's a valid question. Is your boss making an announcement to the press that all the girls in Mary Washington University who look like the three last girls should stay inside? Is he?" you pushed. Spencer looked away from you again, shaking his head in disbelief at your attitude. "No, he isn't."

"Then why do you expect me to do that?!" You threw your hands in the air, beyond frustrated. For a logical person, Spencer's behaviour wasn't making any sense at the moment. "I don't expect you to do it. I want you to do it, I need you to do it." You could feel his calm facade breaking, piece by piece. "Why, Spencer, fucking why?!" "Because!" He finally exploded, jumping to his feet and slapping his palms onto the table. You didn't jump. "Because it's you, Y/N! I can't work this case if I know you're in danger every single day! If I know yours could be the next dead body students ogle at on the university's front lawn! If I know it's your picture they're going to hang up next to the other victims! I just can't do it!"

Oh.

You let yourself fall down on the couch, running your hands over your face. You were both stepping into uncharted territory. You'd tip-toed this line before but had never crossed it yet. And this was not the way to do it. You were not going to cross the border from friendship into something more by screaming at each other. Spencer seemed to read your silence as distress.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell." He softly trudged over to the couch and sat down next to you. "No, it's okay, I- I kind of wanted you to. I'm sorry for getting so upset." You take his hand in your lap and intertwine your fingers. "I understand, I'm asking too much of you, it's selfish." He gives your hand a squeeze. "I just can't stand the thought of anything happening to you." You sit in silence for a little while, processing.

"I just can't hide while I wait for other girls to be killed, Spencer, it wouldn't be fair." Sometimes, Spencer hated how good of a person you were. If your morals and personal ethics were some of the things he liked about you the most, he couldn't help but curse them in this moment. "I don't care about fair," he mumbled, hating how puerile he sounded. You cooed and laid your head on his shoulder. "I know, I'm sorry."

"I won't promise you anything, but I'll try to always be with someone around campus. I'm usually with my friends anyway. And I can share my location with you all the time if that's reassuring for you." "I'd like that, thank you. And... what about when you're at work?" "I can ask Paul to walk me to my car." Paul was the manager at the bar you worked at, Quantequila. His past was a mysterious blend of prison, MMA fighting and crochet clubs. He liked you plenty and you knew he wouldn't mind walking you to your car for a while. "Thank you."

Over the next week, you did just that. Many students started moving in groups and avoiding being alone at all costs after the FBI released the profile and the pictures of the last victims.

"We're looking for a local white man, early twenties. He may have moved here a year ago, we figure he's either in his first year of BA or MA. This is someone you don't notice, he's shy and introverted, he doesn't participate in class and he won't talk to people if he can help it, especially not women. This man is a loner and does his best to be invisible. We think he stalks his victims for a while before attacking them, so if you start seeing someone you've never seen before in strange places, please notify us. My name is Aaron Hotchner and you'll find the hotline on the screen you're watching this on."

You always had at least two friends with you whenever you were roaming about on campus. Though no one really spoke about the situation, the energy had changed. People were becoming tense and suspicious. Friends were fighting over who should accompany who, when and where. A place which had once gathered so many motivated and joyous students now had those very people looking over their shoulder.

You hated it.

Truly, you didn't want to underestimate this killer, but you were getting tired of it all. You'd wish the BAU would just catch him, but, as Spencer had explained to you multiple times, they had incredibly little to go on. What you knew without him telling you was that they needed another victim to predict his next move. Still, you were a person who appreciated alone time and you had gotten none in the last 10 days. So, when two of your friends who were supposed to walk with you from your class to the subway bailed on you, you weren't that upset.

You put your headphones on, listening to your favourite song of the moment and started walking. You had a tendency of getting lost in your thoughts and didn't notice the sound of heavy footsteps following your own over your music. What you did notice though, was the reflection of someone walking close behind you in a cafe window. You looked over your shoulder, frowning. The sun was in your eyes, blocking your vision, but you managed to perceive an average-sized man with long-ish black hair which hung around his face in greasy strands. Not thinking too much of it, you continued on your way.

You didn't think too much of it when you saw him sitting a few tables away from you when you were studying one afternoon at the library. You were captivated by the Middle English poem under your eyes, wondering what the author had meant with the particular use of the kenning "earth-cave". When you looked up and caught his eyes, cold and unnerving, you didn't overthink it. There were some weird people on campus. Who were you to judge?

When you saw him at your grocery store, though, that was when you started worrying. You were picking up a box of After-Eights for Spencer when you saw him looking at oatmeal raisin biscuits. What really tipped you off was that no one really liked those, so he must have been pretending to look occupied. A chill ran down your spine as all the other places you'd spotted him came back to you. Your lecture hall, the cafeteria, sitting in the lawn under a tree, the main hall,...

You decided that the next time you would see him, you'd tell Spencer. You didn't want him to worry if this turned out to be nothing. Maybe the man was just an exchange student? Or had joined during the academic year?

Two days later, the FBI made an arrest. A man named Ben Colton fitted the profile exactly. In his dorm room, they'd found pictures of women who looked exactly like the last victims and of resembling women on campus, you were part of them. You didn't know that, Spencer had felt you didn't need to be aware of that specific detail. The only problem was that the BAU had no physical evidence tying him to the crimes yet. The arrest had been sanctioned by higher authorities while physical proof was searched for. Police dogs and officers had been tearing through all of his possessions while Garcia had gone through his entire online life. Nothing tying him to the murders had been found.

The general public knew nothing of this, of course. To them, someone getting arrested meant they could go on with their usual lives. The man you'd been seeing left and right had left your mind entirely as you celebrated your regained freedom with your friends.

Of course, Spencer had warned you. They were 99% sure this was the unsub, they just needed the evidence. That didn't eliminate the 1% chance it wasn't him. But 99% chances were good enough for you. You trusted the BAU. Specifically, you trusted Spencer. With your life.

So you started living your life normally again. You left for class a little later because you didn't need to walk with your other friends. You stopped sharing your location with Spencer. You put the volume of your music higher again. You started leaving your pepper spray at home. You started texting while walking again.

Needless to say, you were wholly unprepared for the violent blow to your head as you walked to class one morning. How ironic, you thought as you blacked out, that Mary Goldman had probably experienced the same thing exactly two weeks prior.

Taglist : (all of you who asked for a part three <3) @princess-ofthe-pages @usuck @theylovemelody @empressgraytea @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @lillianacristina @venomsvl @user-3113s-blog @pumpkin-cake @redros3y @faunrasthewinterelf @puppykinsthepotato @bookishnerd1132 @bonza-bear @teeshamcbeesha @hades-disappointment-child @princesssparkle2024 @darlingcharling-blog @yasmin12312 @khxna @jamieeboulos

[aliteralsemicolon]

Wait until you like me again - 18+

See part 1 | Part 2 of We can't be friends (wait for your love) | See part 3

The decision to resign puts a lot of weight on your shoulders. A takedown gone wrong makes it the least of anyone's concerns, especially Spencer’s. You’re not willing to let him back in; it feels too little, too late.

Spencer Reid X Fem! Reader

DISCLAIMER This story is NSFW and contains graphic depictions. It is intended for mature audiences only, minors do not interact!  You are responsible for the content you consume. Make sure to read all necessary warnings. Please remember this is a work of fiction; if you don’t like it, don’t read. Part 2 was highly requested and I’m sorry it’s taken so long to finish.

WARNING Panic attack mentioned, slight PTSD depictions, drugs (GHB), Case details (very poorly thought out). Violence: canon typical - strangulation, drugging, guns/gunshots. Proceed at your own risk.

Word count: 10.3K See notes at end for authors note & spoilers.

The most annoying part about making a decision in haste is the clarity of the situation when the dust settles. It’d taken Hotch just over two minutes to message you after you’d sent your email. 

From: Boss Man 🕶 👔 My office, first thing tomorrow. 

You didn’t take into account that you’d have to explain your sudden resignation to your unit chief, or that you’d need to think of a good enough goodbye to lessen the hurt of abandoning your friends. These are people you consider your found family; you’re leaving behind years worth of bonds with no proper warning or closure, in a measly few weeks. Your reasoning had to be good enough to convince them that this was for the best. 

To convince you that this was for the best. 

You’d spent the whole night in tears, racking your brain for an excuse, because ‘the person you care most about in this world and unrequited love of your life telling you that he didn’t want to see your face was a pathetic reason for discarding your life’s work. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t think of adequate justification. Even as the sun rose and you made your way through your pre-work routine, nothing came to mind. 

“You can’t love me.”

Any time you tried to conjure up a defence your thoughts would wander back to Spencer. Too many words had been exchanged between you and your former best friend in the span of four months and not a single one of them properly explained why he was so butt-hurt. He loves you too much, but doesn’t want you to love him? That’s your understanding, at least. 

“Please don’t come back here. It’s hard enough at work, I don’t want to see your face in my personal time too.” 

Since you’d left his apartment the previous night, you’d been cycling through all the stages of grief in record time. Spencer once told you that people tend to remember more negative memories than positive. He was right. You couldn’t recall a lot of your happier memories with him. All you could think about was the two conversations where he’d hurt you in ways you never imagined he would. 

You’re not sure exactly what part of you snapped at that moment, all you knew was that you were done making him the centre of your universe. Spencer Reid played no part in your decisions moving forward. He was not the reason for your departure with the BAU, a lie you made sure to relay to Hotch during your meeting with him.

“I’m just surprised, that’s all. Where is this even coming from?” He inquired from across you, hands folded neatly against his desk.

“I just think it’s time for me to try new things, you know?” It was a pathetic excuse, but less pathetic than the actual reasoning. 

“I try not to interfere with the personal lives of the team, but this is just so…sudden. I have to wonder if this has to do with Spencer?”

“This has nothing to do with him.” You go out of your way to avoid saying his name, suspecting you might taste poison. 

Hotch’s brow raises, as if his brain has been alerted to key information, head marginally tilting to the side like it does when he catches a lie. He doesn’t say anything, eyes narrowing in on you in stoic fashion. You feel like a petulant child that’s about to receive a scolding from their father. 

“Hon–Honestly…Hotch, I just–”

Three rapid knocks cut you off, the door to the office swinging open without waiting for a reply. 

“Sir, Hello, I’m sorry to interrupt but it’s an emergency. That case we were consulting on for Anchorage PD?” Garcia bursts into the room, slightly discoloured and more panicked than normal. “Well, five more bodies were discovered. Two of them pre-date who we initially thought was the first victim.”

“Garcia, tell everybody to meet on the jet ASAP. We’ll debrief on the flight.” Hotch orders abruptly standing from his seat. “You and I can finish this meeting later. This case is now our top priority, wheels up.” 

Emily, Rossi and Derek were already in their seats when you boarded. You secured your go bag in one of the overhead compartments and temporarily took a seat next to Derek. 

“How bad do you think this one is gonna be?” Derek sighs, dreading the horrors that await your arrival. 

“We’re up to thirty six bodies and counting. Whoever this unsub is, they’ve been at it a while. So, bad.” You answer honestly. 

“Speaking of bad, is everything okay?”

“That was not even remotely smooth.” You scoff. 

“I’m just asking as a concerned friend.” He shoots his hands up in defence.

“What happened to the days where we at least tried to mind our business. You know, at least asked each other about our weekend plans before jumping into interrogation mode.” You roll your eyes and smirk. 

“Heyyy, woah– no one’s interrogating anyone.” Derek chuckles. “What are your plans for the weekend?”

It wasn’t long before everybody had made their way on the jet, Spencer being the last one. You didn’t notice his arrival, too engulfed in your conversation. He definitely noticed you though. The sound of your giggles caught his attention the second he was in ear shot. He didn’t like how warm he felt at the sight of your smiling face. What he disliked more was that he could instantly tell that it wasn’t a genuine smile. 

He quietly made his way to his self assigned seat on the couch, trying his hardest to focus on anything but you. Every laugh that Morgan coaxed out of you bothered him. Spencer’s agony only ended once the jet had successfully taken off. 

“Alright let’s get started.” Hotch declared and everybody moved to gather around. 

With all the details laid out by Garcia through the monitor, everybody began stating facts and suggestions. You wrapped up soon enough and retreated to an isolated seat in the back of the jet. It was an almost eight hour flight, seven of which you were planning to use to come up with a solid plan to announce your departure. Life always has to throw a wrench in your plans though, because the lack of sleep from the night before caught up to you and you dozed off almost immediately. Had you any energy left in your body, you might have been privy to the eyes that were on you. 

“She didn’t say anything as to what the meeting was about?” JJ hushedly pries from her raven haired co worker in the cramped kitchenette.  

“No, but Garcia said that ‘the air in his office was really tense’.” Emily relays, her fingers mimicking quotation marks. “Did Hotch say anything?”

“No. He just gave me his usual dry look and told me to focus on the case.” JJ rolls her eyes at the thought and leans back against the counter. 

Despite being the FBI’s most decorated task force, the agents of the BAU weren’t strangers to workplace gossip. You’d just entered the bullpen this morning when Hotch frantically summoned you to his office, not even giving you time to set your things down at your desk. Witnessing the events sparked a guessing game sparked amongst the team. 

“Is it something we should know about?” Sitting across from Hotch, even Rossi succumbed to his curiosity. 

“Dave you’re not normally one to pry.” Hotch smirks, keeping his eyes on the case-file laid out in front of him. 

“No I’m not. But with the events of the past few months...” Rossi sips his coffee, staring at his younger superior expectantly. “...there’s been some talk Aaron.”

“Talk?” Hotch meets Rossi’s eyes.

“Mhm.” Rossi nods. “Apparently you’re transferring one of our two youngest members because they haven’t been able to put their differences aside.”

“I’m not transferring anyone. Where did this come from?” The alarm in his tone makes Rossi snicker.

“Office drama. You know how it is. And while you may not be transferring anybody,” he sets his mug down and looks towards where you’re sound asleep. “I’m guessing somebody is leaving. Hence this morning's meeting.”

“We’re not supposed to profile each other, you know.” Hotch sighs. “I’d appreciate it if you could keep this contained. I haven’t had a chance to properly discuss this with her yet and I think she’d prefer to break the news herself.” 

As you had predicted the case was by no means an easy one. On the first day everybody was split into groups to follow up with the M.E, victims’ families and examine the crime scenes. All the evidence and information gathered wasn’t enough to narrow the profile any more than the generic: male, mid thirties to early forties, hates women. You were now three days in with no viable leads. 

You were especially frustrated because you felt that you weren’t working as well as you could. The stress of your announcement was taking its toll, you were unable to properly converse with your team out of guilt. Hotch sent everyone back to their hotel rooms with the idea that you would start fresh tomorrow. Normally you would room with Spencer, but lately JJ and Emily have been taking turns rooming with both of you. This time you were with Emily.

“I think this may be the first night we’ve gotten to turn in early.” Emily yawns as she dramatically stretches her limbs.

“I’m just glad we got to turn in at all, for a while there it looked like we may have to pull another all nighter.” You force a giggle, exasperated.  

“You okay?” She doesn’t miss a beat, taking the opportunity to ask about your uneasiness. 

“Yeah, fine.” You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. 

“You’re going to snap at some point, you know?” She examines your closed off posture, trying to figure out a way to get you to open up. “Something’s clearly wrong. Talk to me.”

“We’re all on edge right now. It’s this case.” You hope that you’re being convincing enough. 

“It's more than that. You’ve been distant from everybody.” Emily briefly thought back to the Ian Doyle debacle, recognising all the signs of somebody preparing to run away at any given moment. 

“I’m aware that I’m not working to my full potential–”

“That’s not what I mean and you know that.” She steps closer to you. “I can’t force you to tell me whatever’s actually on your mind, but I would really appreciate it if you would. I hate seeing you so…detached. Not just from us, but from yourself.”

It’s the empathy in her voice instead of the usual sympathy that finally cracks you. Tears pool your eyes and you sink to the floor. Emily sits down next to you without a word. She tries to pull you in for a hug but you push away. 

“Please don’t.” You sob. “I’m sorry.”

She squeezes your knee to relay that she understands and retracts her hand. Your discomfort with physical touch was another thing you had in common with Spencer. It was just a personal preference for you, unlike his germophobia. He was the only person you were actually comfortable with in terms of touch, but you couldn’t fault others for not respecting that boundary when you’d never verbalised it. 

“I’ve been trying to figure out the right way to tell you guys, but I don’t think there’s any way this gets easier.” You recompose yourself after a moment. “I’m, um, leaving.”

You expect her to get upset with you, but find her unfazed. 

“You don’t look surprised.” 

“Well it’s not entirely surprising. I mean given everything that’s happened.” 

“So you’re not mad?”

“Why would I be mad?” She leans back with her mouth slightly open. 

“Because I feel like I’m abandoning you guys.” You heavily exhale. 

“You’re not abandoning us. You’re doing what you feel is right for you. I mean, am I happy about it? Definitely not. But I know better than anyone why you feel like you need to do this. And it’s not a decision you have to justify to anybody.” Emily reassures you. 

“How do I tell everybody else?” You push for more advice.

“However you feel most comfortable doing it. It doesn’t have to be some big announcement. You can casually break it to them whenever you get the opportunity. They’ll understand.” 

“Thank you, Em.” You genuinely smile this time, eternally grateful that she’s managed to take some pressure off your shoulders.

“Now while you’re in a mood to share…if you wanna talk about something else–” She attempts one last time to get you to talk about Spencer, sensing that the mood lightened a bit. 

“Nice try.” You laugh as you rise to your feet, offering your arms out to her to help her stand.

The following two days were a lot easier on you, mentally. You took Emily’s advice and disclosed your news individually to each team member, each of them more understanding than you’d anticipated. You were surprised to learn that Rossi was already aware, assuming that it came with being a profiler for as long as he had. Derek and JJ did try to talk you out of it initially, but accepted your decision in the end. You still had to talk about this with Garcia, but felt a lot more at ease with mostly everybody knowing.

Except Spencer.

That thought lingered in the back of your mind. You still love him, it’s not something you can just turn off. You shake it off and divert your full attention to the case. Four more bodies had been discovered and with them, a new pattern to the killings. The unsub was devolving. You and Spencer were the only ones at the precinct when the last murder was called in. Meaning you were stuck working on the geographical profile with him while the others were out chasing new leads. 

Realistically, only one of you was needed to build the profile and decided you were going to let him do it. You quietly sat in the furthest seat possible, trying to make yourself invisible and hoping that this would keep him busy enough to not talk to you. The whole week, you hadn’t uttered a single word to him unless it was absolutely necessary for the case. It was as if he didn’t exist, even if he was standing right infront of you. Spencer, on the other hand, spent the whole week prodding you for any reaction he could get. Anytime you made suggestions and he happened to be in the area, he tried to one up you.

At times it felt like he was purposely seeking you out, despite his brutal proclamation five days ago. Every attempt to rile you up failed. The most acknowledgement he got from you was a few scoffs and glares. He hadn’t even realised he was doing it, until Derek asked him point blank what his problem was. He didn’t have an answer, but now that he was aware of it he tried to go out of his way to avoid it. 

That didn’t last more than a few hours. The fact that he had to consciously avoid talking to you pissed him off, especially because he couldn’t stop. You pretending like he didn’t exist pissed him off even more. The one time he took his eyes off the board in front of him they landed on you. You were busy scribbling words in a file, trying to get a head start on your paperwork. 

“Do you plan to help at all?” He sneers, noticing that you looked a lot more relaxed than you did at the start of the case. 

You snap your head towards the board behind him. A rough venn diagram was drawn on a map of the city, small tacked notes labelling prominent buildings in the area. 

“How am I meant to help?” You question, darting your eyes between him and the board out of confusion.

“You’re asking me how to do your job?” He taunts, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes.

You dramatically groan, throwing your head back. 

It’s hard to believe that he’s a man of logic in moments like these. There have been far too many in the last few months. You bounce off your seat and head over to the board. Spencer stays glued in his spot and your body accidentally brushes against his as you try to get past. He watches you take off some notes and add on new ones but doesn’t register what you’re doing at first. He’s too intoxicated by your scent. His hand runs through his hair as he steps back in an effort to regain his composure. His teeth grit and his jaw tenses momentarily, he hates that you have the ability to do this to him. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” The pitch of his voice raises and his ears are burning.

“What do you mean?” You roll your eyes, shrugging your arms, sarcasm laced in your words. 

“Don’t try to act all dumb!” He berates, shaking his head. 

“Don’t try to act all smart.” Your eyes roll again. Spencer was slowly starting to wear down your apathy. 

“I am smart.” He scoffs. Your blood boils, this trump card is becoming too repetitive.

“Savour that, it’s the one good thing you’ve got going for you!” You finally snap. 

“You’re UNBELIEVABLE! The first time you bother to answer me all week and it’s just to argue?” He’s trying his best to refrain from yelling.

“Oh! You’ve been trying to start an argument all week and now that I’m giving in you can’t take it?! Actually, why have you been trying so hard, Doctor? I was under the impression that you can’t even stand to look at my face!”

He dryly swallows, unable to respond immediately. The reminder of his words makes him internally cringe. He never meant to say them. It was the most efficient way he could think of at that time to hurt you. Spencer hadn’t anticipated the sheer amount of will power it would take to stay away from you. You seeking him out made it infinitely harder. His fake disdain was a defence mechanism, he was hiding behind hatred to get the job done. 

“YOU–”

“Alright, that’s enough!” Hotch loudly cuts him off. 

Neither you nor Spencer noticed the teams return during your squabble. You’re slightly embarrassed, wondering how much they’ve witnessed. Spencer turns away from you and looks to the blank wall on the other side of the room. You look to the floor and bite the inside of your cheek. 

“Care to explain what’s going on?” He grills and you feel like a petulant child receiving a lecture from your father. 

“She wasn’t doing her job!” Spencer complains. “And when I brought it up she messed up my profile!”

“God you’re insufferable! It’s called ‘narrowing the profile’, Spencer. Maybe if you did it properly, I wouldn’t have to.” You retort. 

“Hey!” Hotch scolds.

It falls silent for a second, awkward glances finding their way around the room. Rossi breaks it first. 

“You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you two were bickering toddlers instead of FBI agents.”

You make eye contact with Morgan trying to hold in a laugh and it makes you snort. 

“We will discuss this later. Let’s focus on the updates we’ve gathered.” Hotch dismisses due to more pressing matters at hand. 

“After talking to friends of the latest victims, I can confirm that they were all last seen in the same club.” JJ pipes up first.

“And the dumpsites are all less than twenty minutes away from there. He’s definitely not holding them anymore.” Morgan adds.

“That has to be where he’s choosing his victims. Did the medical examiner find anything new?” Hotch asks.

“Traces of GHB.” Emily replies. “We don’t know how he’s administering it into their systems, but my guess would be through the drinks.”

“Gamma-hydroxybutyrate, mostly known as GHB, is a party drug that produces feelings of euphoria, confidence, relaxation and sociability. Side effects of GHB can include drowsiness, vomiting, mood swings, dependence, as well as more serious symptoms of unconsciousness. When mixed with alcohol the risk of overdose increases as it can cause respiratory collapse leading to coma or in extreme cases death.” Spencer’s about to continue but quickly recognises that it’s a tangent he needs to cut short. 

“Wait JJ what club were the victims last seen in?” You inquire, walking closer to the map.

When she relays the name it clicks. 

“That’s smack in the middle of the comfort zone.” You point at a small red note labelling the building. 

“So how do we catch this guy? I mean the club would be packed and we don’t know what this guy looks like. The profile tells us that he would blend in, nothing would stand out about him.” Morgan subtly suggests a string operation.

“Except for when he’s alone with the object of his rage. Which in our case would be the women he’s using as surrogates. He'd be possessive, become clingy, hold on too tight and once those advances are rejected he’d fly into blind rage.” Spencer exclaims without realising the weight of his input. 

“Yeah…but he has a very specific type.” Rossi hesitates. 

A fact that everybody had been avoiding the case because of how close it hit to home. 

You’re his exact type.

“No.” Hotch shuts down.

“Hotch, think about it. I mean this guy is not slowing down. A sting might be our best bet to stop him before he kills again.” JJ shares Rossi’s hesitation.

“It’s too risky!” Spencer blurts, making it clear he’s against the idea. 

Everyone begins to chime in with their input, but you stay silent and think it over. None of them wanted to put you in this position, but you’d seen the bodies and what he’d done to those women. What he’ll continue to do to other women if he isn’t stopped. It was a no brainer on your end. 

“I’ll do it!” You announce amidst the chatter.

It comes to an immediate halt, all eyes shifting on you.

“What?” Spencer scoffs.

You can tell that he’s genuinely surprised by the small hitch in his voice. Emily sceptically calls your name, posing it as a question. 

“I’ll do it.” You reiterate, taking care to seem as confident as possible.

“Absolutely not! The odds of this going wrong are way too high!” Spencer howls with a little too much passion. 

“Reid’s right. The unsub is way too unpredictable.” Hotch debates.

“JJ has a point, think about it!” You argue. “We know for a fact that he’s going to strike tonight. Sending me undercover as bait is better than staking out the place and waiting for him to target a civilian!” 

“Okay so let’s send somebody else!” Spencer contests, his tone prayerful. 

For a split second, you see your best friend again. He’s showing more regard for you now than he has in months and it makes your heart sink knowing it won’t be forever. Still, you try to reason with him while he’s there.

“There’s no time! I fit his type. This is our best option.”

“No, this is stupid and dangerous. You’re not going in there!” He’s gone again. 

“That’s not your call to make!” You snap. 

“Hotch no!” Spencer tries again.

“Kid, relax! This isn’t her first undercover mission.” Morgan attempts to calm Reid. “Plus we’ll all be there in case anything goes wrong.”

“Statistically–”

“For God’s sake forget the fucking statistics! People’s lives are at stake!” You loudly end his tangent before it can begin. 

“Alright, everybody calm down!” Hotch speaks up, making it a point to stare down Spencer. 

He’d made his decision and Spencer can only stare back in disbelief, too breathless to argue. 

‘Like Morgan said, we’ll be there watching over you, along with some local law enforcement. You won’t be wired, but we’ll have a fail safe just in case you need backup earlier than expected. We don’t have a lot of time. Let’s get to work.” The unit chief asserts. 

Before anyone can make any further moves, Spencer storms out of the room. JJ runs after him, assuring Hotch that she’ll take care of it. The rest of you break off to your assigned tasks, preparing for the operation that night. 

“Spence! Slow down!” She yells, chasing him all the way outside the precinct. 

He’s breathing too fast, practically on the edge of hyperventilating. He pushes his hair back with both of his hands, pacing back and forth on the sidewalk. 

“Spence what the hell is going on with you?” JJ pants, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

“Me?!” Spencer yanks himself away from her. “What the hell is going on with all of you?! You’re all insane for allowing her to do this!”

“She’s a grown woman and a trained agent! This is her decision. She knows what she’s getting herself into.” JJ reminds him. 

“Well it’s not a very smart decision! She shouldn’t be making decisions this…this reckless!” He shrieks. 

“Okay you need to calm down!” JJ sternly states. 

“Jennifer, do not tell me to calm down! She’s about to make herself a direct target for a psychopathic sadist and you’re all just letting it happen!”

“So what? Should we let some innocent woman become his next target?” 

“No! I’m not saying we should– just– why does it have to be her?!” The emphasis on his last word gives him away, JJ picks up on it instantly. 

“That’s what this is about? C’mon you know better than this.” She relaxes her shoulders. “Spencer, we all care about her. We all want her to be safe. And she will be as long as we separate out feelings from–”

“Feelings? This has nothing to do with how I feel–”

“Okay stop! Stop! God!” JJ huffs with pauses between her words. “I am so sick of this! This is clearly about your feelings. The past four months have all been about–”

She smacks her hands against her face as she takes a deep breath, a display of frustration. 

“Listen to me.” She commands, exhausted from the back and forth. “It’s clear that you two care deeply for each other, whether you’re willing to admit it or not. Neither of you will talk about whatever it is that’s caused this rift– fine! But don’t you think it’s time to bury the hatchet now that she’s leaving?”

Spencer freezes. 

“...Leaving?” He repeats, taken off guard. 

JJ takes a moment to read his expression. 

“She didn’t tell you?” JJ mutters, still scanning his face. 

“What– what are you…” He can’t find the words, his eyes blinking rapidly as he tries to process her words.

“She’s resigning, Spencer. She’s leaving the FBI.” JJ can’t hide how she’s surprised that you haven’t shared this with him. 

“No, that's not possible. She loves this job. Why would she leave?” Denial is his first response.

Spencer thinks over your possible motivations and can only land on the obvious. You’d only leave if you grew to hate the job. 

Did he do this? Did he make you hate it?

“We were all surprised when she first told us, I mean, it came out of nowhere.”

“We?” He rubs his temple, anticipating a possible migraine from the bomb that just dropped on him. “How long?”

“What?”

“How long have you guys known?” He balefully sighs, trying his hardest to not misplace his anger. 

“It’s hard enough at work, I don’t want to see your face in my personal time too.” 

He had no one to be angry at, but himself.

“A day? Maybe two? She told us individually. Honestly with this case I haven’t had time to wrap my head around it.” JJ honestly reveals. 

So not long. Maybe you were still making your way around to telling him? You wouldn’t just leave without so much as telling him, would you?

A few months ago, Spencer would’ve confidently answered no. Today he was sure that you would. He so badly hoped that he was wrong. 

“Spence, look, we can talk about this later. But right now, you need to make sure you’re able to stay objective. Can you do that?”

He nods relentlessly, tucking his hair behind his ears. A habit he adapted early in life. It was an indicator of the gears turning in his head. JJ gives him a few more minutes outside before guiding him back in to help with preparations. Spencer absentmindedly performed his tasks, but all he could think about was you. 

You’re leaving and he’s the only person you hadn’t disclosed this information to. Abandonment was a feeling he was all too used to, but he never imagined that you’d abandon him. He knows that he can only blame himself, but he still can’t help the irritation that’s creeping in his veins. 

Even as he straps up his hidden bullet proof vest hours later, he can’t push the sentiment away. You were setting yourself up as bait for one of the most dangerous types of serial killers. On top of purposely putting yourself in direct line danger, you were leaving without telling him. He would’ve showed up to work one day and you’d be gone.

Right now he stands just a few feet away from you and you don’t look toward him once. No one would be able to guess that you’re undercover. It’s amazing how you’ve managed to transform yourself from supervisory special agent to a regular socialite and party girl in a couple of hours.

If he could overcome the hurt he feels at the moment, he might see how breathtaking you look. Then again, you always appear breathtaking to him. Before he knows it, he’s walked right up to you. You don’t feel his presence looming behind you until you bump into him when you turn around. 

“Shit Spencer!” You jump, mostly because of the nerves from the upcoming night. 

He’s about to say something but you beat him to it.

“Don’t start! I’m not in the mood.” You brush him off and disappear out of sight.

It was like that for much of the preparations. He’d muster the courage to try and talk to you, and you’d walk away. Much like how Spencer would avoid you when your friendship first fell apart. 

“Everybody in position?” Hotch inquires through his ear piece. 

“Affirmative.” Morgan gives the greenlight for your entry into the club. 

You made your way to the bar, making it a point to sit alone. You didn’t have to wait long. Archie Carter, 36, cheated on by his ex fiance before their wedding. She ran away with another man because Archie failed to keep his sadistic traits hidden and it scared her off. Torturing and murdering women who looked like her was his way of giving her a real reason to be scared. 

This was all information Garcia found after it was nearly too late. He’d managed to get you on the dance floor, subtly injecting you with the GHB. You didn’t even feel him do it. To everybody else it just seemed like you were playing your part really well on the dance floor, when in reality you were struggling to stand up. You couldn’t give out any signals and he was able to slip you away into the back alley under the noses of five FBI agents. 

It was Spencer who’d found you fighting for your life against Archie’s grip around your throat. Spencer, who put the bullet in Archie’s head after being unable to talk him down. Spencer who kneeled above you, begging you to come back as he began CPR. If he’d found you any later you might’ve been gone for good. 

Pissed was an understatement.

At the piece of shit that almost ripped you away from the world. At Hotch and the team for not listening. At himself for being right. Not you though, for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t pissed at you. He was terrified. Both for you and for almost losing you. 

You had to stay a few extra days in Anchorage, bound to your hospital room. The team refused to fly back without you, each of them taking turns to keep you company. They all felt an immense amount of guilt but you reassured them that it wasn’t their fault. Your tongue grew tired of reminding them that this was a part of the job. Rossi joked that it was a good thing you were leaving it all behind in that case and it stung more than you were willing to admit. 

In your brush with death you came to the revelation that you didn’t want to leave, but hearing Spencer’s voice lull you back to him confirmed that you needed to. You couldn’t bring yourself to hear him talk everyday and not be the person he was talking to. It was why you had basically barred him from visiting you during your recovery there. Seeing his face was more than you could handle at the time. Not seeing yours weighed on him, because he needed to see if you were okay.

Physically, he knew you’d be fine once the doctors confirmed it. Mentally, he knew all too well of the repercussions that came with almost dying directly by the hands of an unsub. You’d been discharged and cleared fifty eight hours after you were admitted, and the team was ready to fly back a few hours later. All the signs of being less than okay were there. He recognised them as soon as he saw you board the jet. 

Besides the obvious bruises collaring your neck, there was some minor swelling that lingered. That wasn’t his biggest concern. It was the smile plastered on you when you put on your ‘I’m okay’ act for the others. Your eyes, like always, gave you away. You were already trying to sweep everything under the rug. Less than a few minutes after take off you isolated yourself in the back. You’d been doing that a lot in your recent cases. 

It irked him how everybody just let you. He decided right then that he wasn’t going to. He didn’t care how much you hate him, he was going to ensure that you came out of this truly okay. You were mindlessly staring out the window, counting the clouds, listening to the music playing through your headphones. You tried to ignore the feeling of being watched. You’d felt like that since you came to, in the alley. 

It took you a second to understand that you were actually being watched, turning to find Spencer in the previously empty seat across from you. 

“You’ve gotta stop sneaking up on me.” You snark, ripping off your headphones, still recovering from the small jump scare.

“Sorry.” He chuckles out of habit.

You unintentionally smile at the sound and find yourself staring in his eyes. 

“Are–” He falters as he thinks the question over in his head. “Is there anything I can get you?”

You’re taken aback, not expecting those words. You had a script prepared to waive off questions about your well being. He knows you better than that, throwing you off course as usual.

“What do you want?” You grumble, accepting that you couldn’t get past him.

“I want to know if there’s anything I can get you.” He repeats in a low tone. 

There he is again. The Spencer you know and love. Your heart threatens to leap.

“If this is to clear some guilty conscience, don’t bother.” You verbally guard yourself. “I’m fine.”

It would be a lie if he said his reasoning was completely selfless. He was hardly able to keep away from you without feeling like he was drowning, but it was nothing compared to how he felt when he thought he may have lost you forever. The feeling didn’t last very long, he was able to revive you within a few seconds, but never feeling like that again would be too soon. 

Spencer believed in two things; statistics and facts. One fact he refused to ignore any longer is that he couldn’t live without you. He quietly opened that satchel that still clung across his torso, fishing out some pain killers and an unopened water bottle. 

“I know you probably forgot to take yours out of your bag.” He ignores your previous comment and slides the items across the table to you. 

Your gaze lingers on the items in front of you, but your hands stay folded in your lap as you piece everything together. 

“You know.” You whisper. 

“Were you going to tell me?” He gulps after a beat of silence. 

“Does it matter?” You're quick to respond.

“I wanna hear it from you.” He’s just as fast. 

You look up from the leaf of pills, he’s already surveilling you. It’s a short lived staring contest because your focus shifts behind him to Hotch, who’s observing this encounter from the kitchenette on the other end. Spencer continues waiting on you for a response but you stand up, ready to walk away. It dawns on you when you see your supervisor that technically you hadn’t officially resigned yet. The paperwork never got started because this case took priority and that was a detail you needed to sort out right away.

“Don’t go.” Spencer pleads when you take your first step.

Was it a request to sit back down or to stay with the BAU? You didn’t bother to clarify, he had no right to ask for either. 

You let out a deep, exasperated sigh as you lie curled up in your warm sheet, scowling at the floor beneath you. It seemed that the universe (your friends) had it out to delay your departure as much as possible. It’s been four days since your return from Anchorage and you’ve been stuck in your apartment since Hotch dropped you off here. He’s ordered mandatory time off for your recovery, meaning the paperwork has to wait. 

You could be using this time in a more productive manner. You could be searching for a new job. And a new place to live. You should be trying to figure out where this new place would be. You never actually thought that far ahead. In your haste to run away, you forgot to plan your next steps. You’ve convinced yourself that you can’t do any of it until the forms are filled out. 

The ‘universe’ isn’t the only thing delaying you. 

If you really wanted to, you could have everything emailed to you. You can have it done online, but there are two major problems. The first is pretty straight forward; you’re not ready to leave. You know that this is the best course of action for everybody, but your brain and your heart are at an impasse. You’ve dedicated years to this job because you love this job. Unfortunately, you love Spencer more, which means that staying is going to drive you to hate your job. 

The other reason is slightly more nuanced and you don’t want to think about it, opting to let your impasse be the reason for your lack of motivation to do anything other than bed rotting. It’s not as bad as it seems, it’s more self care than anything. Your body’s telling you it needs to rest and you’re simply obliging. Plus, it couldn’t be that serious if you still had bursts when you had to keep up appearances. You have to be okay if you’re able to force yourself to open the front door for your coworkers when they come to check on you. You really weren’t that miserable if you managed to smile and laugh for their short visits. 

And it’s not like you’re truly rotting. You showered quite often, you actually just had your second one today. You were definitely okay if you could manage to keep up with hygiene. It’s not excessive, you need to scrub the purple away. You know that’s not how it works, but you can’t stand to look at the parts of your neck where his hands were wrapped around. If you close your eyes for long enough you can still feel him squeezing until–

You’re okay.

No, you’re irritated. The incessant knocking on your front door won’t stop no matter how much you ignore it. You were relieved when evening came. It meant that normal visiting hours were over and you could rest today. If it wasn’t any of your usual visitors then it had to be stranger. The thought made you uneasy, you hesitated to answer it at all. 

You can’t live in fear all the time. 

The door eventually opens and Spencer sees you for the first time in days. He actually tried to check on you earlier, but Penelope insisted everybody stick to her roster so you don’t get overwhelmed. The circles under your eyes were almost as dark as his, you hadn’t been getting much sleep. The swelling around your throat was almost all gone, but the bruising wasn’t healing like he expected it to. 

“Spencer…what are you doing here?” Your voice is hoarse. 

“I brought take out.” He gently dangles a bag of food in front of him, his voice high, but quiet. 

You can practically smell the contents of the bag, nostalgia hitting you like a ton of bricks. It was your favourite thing to order on the days he’d come over for movie nights. Before Spencer showed you a side of him you didn’t know existed. It felt like a taunt, like he was twisting the metaphorical knife he plunged in your heart. It made you sick.

“I already ate.” You lie, mustering a dull smile on your face.

Spencer swallows and bites the inside of his cheek, not taking his eyes off you. Trying to think of the best way to call you out without causing you to shun him. 

“We can do something else until you’re hungry again.” He gives a tight lipped smile and raises his furrowed brows, like he’s pleading for you to accept his offer.

“I don’t think I’ll be hungry anytime soon.” You awkwardly laugh– well it’s close to a laugh if not for your strained vocal chords. 

“Can I come in anyway? We can put on a movie.” He’s using the voice he used to when trying to comfort you or convince you of something. Soft, low, steady. It’s a stark contrast to the voice you’ve been hearing for the last ten days. 

Please don’t come back here. It’s hard enough at work, I don’t want to see your face in my personal time too.

Tears threaten the composure you’re working so hard to maintain.

“Why are you really here?” You sigh, unable to stick with the pleasantries. 

“I told you.” He emphasises the bag of food in his hands again. “Take out. Maybe a movie–”

“Cut the shit.” You assert, harshly. “You can tell Penelope that you came to see me so she gets off your back, but please stop pretending like you care.”

“That’s…is that why you think I’m here?” His shoulders drop.

“Isn’t it?” You bite, your door now wide open as you lean against it for support. Your legs are aching to curl into your chest again. 

“No.” His reply is short and clear, leaving no room for misinterpretation. “I’m here because I want to be here.”

“Why? There’s nothing in it for you.” You scoff, blinking from confusion. “Unless…is this some sick game? Seeing me like this– knowing that I’m– are you trying to gloat?”

“Gloat?” He repeats in almost a whisper, the hurt in his voice evident.

“Relish, rejoice, rub it in, I don’t know. You’re the walking thesaurus.”

He can tell from your lax posture that you're amused. Your back is against your door, hands behind your back and you’re leaning forward a bit as you stare at the ground. Not caring that your words cut deep.

Is this how low you think he is?

“Why would I be enjoying this?” His hopeful smile drops entirely as he tries to understand you. 

“Call it epicaricacy.” You shrug. 

“Epicaricacy?” He mumbles in a whispered tone, like he’s trying to process what you said.

Deriving pleasure from the misfortune of others.

Your eyes roll from how slow he’s acting and you have to hold yourself back from repeating the definition out loud.

“Do you honestly think I enjoy seeing you like this?” The change in pitch stings a bit. 

“No, I don’t think you like seeing me at all.” You half smirk up at him, sadness evident in your eyes. “Which brings us back to…why are you here Doc?”

“That’s not true.” He cringes, ignoring the second part.

“Not true?” You wiggle your brows sarcastically. 

“Not true.” He reaffirms, sighing deeply. “I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.” 

“You’re sorry.” You scoff again, shaking your head.

“I know that I’ve been unreasonable–”

“Unreasonable?” The tip of your tongue rolls against the back of your teeth, bewildered at his sheer audacity. 

“A dick! I’ve been a dick.” He corrects himself, desperate to have you hear him out. 

You tighten your jaw, inhaling lightly through your nose and your brows are raised as high as they can go. 

“I was hurt. Okay? I wash lashing out, but, I–” He takes a deep breath to stop himself, wanting to get to the point. “I know that I’ve been acting otherwise but, I care about you. And when I found you back there…I just…I know what you’re going through, even if you won’t admit it. I don’t want you to go through it alone.”

Your expression softens as he speaks. Of course he knows. He knows you better than anyone. For a moment you consider allowing yourself to break down in his arms, like you would have once. It’s jarring, Spencer reverting to his former self after he saved your life. The comfort swiftly bubbles into anger. All your attempts for reconciliation were met with so much hostility before. It took you almost dying for him to care. It feels too little too late. The only thing you can think of as he stands next to you is all the ways he can further hurt you if you let him. You push off your door and stand straight, giggling bitterly. 

“Spencer, go home.” You say with the same bitterness. 

“Please–”

“Go home! I don’t want your pity!” You yell. It feels alleviating. “Do you honestly think that  anything changes just because you saved my life? Do you think it erases everything that’s happened in the past few months? Because it doesn’t! Things can’t go back to how they were simply because you feel bad that I almost died. It’s not a flip you can switch. You don’t just get to start caring!” 

You're heaving and he can only stare at the ground. He knows you’re right, except for the one crucial error in your speech. 

“I never stopped caring.” He mumbles.

This fucking idiot.

Enraged, sad, frustrated, confused; all emotions you’ve been suppressing that are now fighting to show at the same time. You take a step closer to him and he meets your eyes again. You can see that he’s holding back tears, same as you. It fuels you in a twisted way. You have an opportunity to hurt him the way he hurt you and you don’t let it go to waste.

“Don’t come back here. It’s hard enough at work to see your face at work, I don’t want to see it in my personal time too.” 

You can’t stay to see the effects of his words thrown back at his face, your heart’s threatening to burst from how fast it’s racing. His jaw locks from how tense he is. He knows exactly why you said it, but it’s still hard to hear. You turn around and rush into your apartment, shutting the door on his face, leaving him standing there. You don’t make it too far inside, collapsing on the wooden floor with a choked sob. 

That didn’t make you feel as good as you thought it would. You hoped that maybe if you could make him feel at least a fraction of you’re feeling, you’d hurt less. It was more than just getting back at him for everything he’s done. You were unknowingly trying to punish him for what Archie Carter did too. It didn’t make you hurt any less, but at least you felt less alone in your hurt. 

He didn’t come back for the rest of your time off. Everybody continued to follow the roster, showing up on their days and bringing you ‘get well soon’ goodies. Penelope even invited herself over for a night's stay once. You didn’t have the heart to say no, but you found yourself counting the hours until you’d be alone again, free to wallow. The only respite you got for the next week was on Spencer’s days. You could expect to be left mostly alone, only a bag of take out accompanied by an eerily fitting quote sitting outside your door. 

You hate to admit that those were your favourite days. You had a chance to breathe and he somehow knew exactly what you needed to hear. You gave the food away in protest and the quote would go straight in the bin (once you read it). One final psych evaluation later you were cleared to come back. Not that you needed one since you didn’t plan to stay for long. It was really just a formality. By the time you returned only a few faded bruises remained, easy enough to cover with concealer. 

“You’re back! Ooh, it’s so good to see you!” Garcia was the first with a warm greeting and a tight hug. You reciprocated to the best of your ability. 

“Good to have you back, Pretty Girl.” Derek’s second, walking you through the bullpen as you make your way to Hotch’s office.

“Enjoy it while you can.” You giggle in reply. “Is Hotch in yet?”

“I see someone can’t wait to leave us.” Emily jokes, feigning a hurt look. You roll your eyes.

“Yeah, he’s expecting you.” JJ laughs, slapping Emily’s arm playfully. 

“Thanks JJ!” You smile and they all watch you disappear behind the door. 

“So it’s official? She’s really leaving?” JJ questions through a half-hearted smile. 

“I asked Rossi and he said that Hotch is gonna ask her to stay until we find a replacement.” Emily replies, still eyeing the door. 

“How did you get Rossi to admit that?” JJ turns to the raven head, questioningly, and Emily smiles coyly giving no response. 

“Am I the only one who thinks this whole thing would end once they make up? I mean come on, we all know she’s leaving because of him, right?” Morgan looks at Spencer, who’s nose deep in a file at his desk. 

“Yeah, but we can’t help if they refuse to talk to us about it.” Emily sighs, hanging her head back. 

The three dive deeper into their discussion and you’re none the wiser from inside the cream-coloured walls of Hotch’s office. As per protocol, he’s just finished informing you of what’s next and you’re kind enough to accept his request to stay until they find a replacement. You definitely said yes because you want to make the team’s transition easier, not for any self indulgent reasons such as you not being ready to leave. 

“Just return this to me once you’ve filled it out.” He instructs as he hands you a file containing your resignation forms. 

“Thanks Hotch.” You smile, grabbing the file. 

You begin heading towards the door when he stops you by your name. 

“I understand that you’re set on this decision, but I am sad to see you go.” It’s insane how many emotions this man can get across while maintaining a blank expression. “However, if you change your mind at any point, let me know.” 

“Thanks Hotch.” You playfully scoff, appreciating that even he has to try at least once. 

If one more person tries though, you might scream. It wasn’t easy, pretending that you weren’t crumbling inside. The extra pressure doesn’t make it any easier. You leave his office, closing the door behind you and approach your desk. The resignation forms are put aside for later as you still have to finish your case report from Anchorage. Part of you wanted to put it off until the last minute, the other part wanted to get it over and done with as soon as possible. 

“Coffee?” Penelope chirps, holding out a mug filled with the hot beverage. 

“Thanks Pen.” You smile up at her, taking it out of her hands. 

“No problem.” She smirks mischievously and trots off. 

A strange lady, but your strange lady.

Upon your first sip you almost choke it out. It was perfect. Exactly to your liking. Which would be a good thing, except only one person knows exactly how you like it. Back when you first joined, you learned how popular coffee was with all the employees. You felt out of place because you weren’t a massive fan of the drink and you avoided too much sugar because it made you feel sick. You soon discovered that you liked it a lot more with honey instead. It was a weird preference, but it worked for you, making it sweet without overpowering your senses like sugar did. 

You never declined a cup when offered by your colleagues, not wanting to dishearten them. It was Spencer who caught you sneaking honey into your cup when you thought no one was paying attention. He never mentioned anything to you, but the next time he returned with a cup to offer, you couldn’t help but the smile that adorned your face for the rest of the day. It was why you dedicated yourself to morning breakfast runs for him, memorising his coffee order as a silent thank you. Neither of you ever talked about it. 

You spin your seat around to find Spencer engaged in conversation with Rossi. You consider walking past him and dumping the beverage in the sink to make a point, but it was a welcome energiser for the dreadful task at hand. Plus you aren’t wasteful. You spin back around and decide to accept it just this once. 

When he’s sure you’re no longer looking he sets his sights back on you. A small smile forms across his lips when he sees you drink the coffee. He honestly expected you to throw it away. He feared that if he was the one to deliver the mug, you’d throw it on him. It was why he convinced Garcia to do it, bribing her by promising to buy a round of drinks on the next night out. 

“Kid, are you even listening?” Rossi scolds in an incredulous way. 

As the hours pass, your frustration grows. You couldn’t get yourself to write the details of the case. Your mind refused to think about it. You had hoped that taking breaks would make it easier, but everytime you returned to the page your head went blank.

“Need some help?” Spencer asks, spawning next to you.

“Christ, Reid!” You blurt, startled. “I thought I told you to stop doing that.” 

“Sorry.” He chuckles as if on cue. 

You glare at him expectantly. He doesn’t say anything, glancing between you and the unfinished case file, waiting for an answer. 

“No thanks.” You keep it short, hoping he takes the hint. 

“Let me know if you do.” He doesn’t. 

“You wouldn’t even be the last person I’d ask if I did.” You snark. 

“But you would eventually?” He stays calm, almost playful. 

Smart ass. 

You choose to ignore him, be the bigger person and all that. Even though he wasn’t antagonising you. 

“Thanks for the coffee.” It’s forceful gratitude. You weren’t feeling grateful, but you still had manners. 

“You’re welcome.” 

“Don’t make it again.” 

“I will not.” He grins and walks away to his desk. 

You act like you don’t know he’s watching you work. Looking up often to find you stuck on the same page. Even if he knew that you know, he didn’t plan to stop. What he does know is that you’d never directly let him help you. He doesn’t care. There weren’t any new cases this week, so a ton of paperwork was to be expected. It’s taunting enough to write down details of your own assault, the extra paperwork would only add more stress. You’re too busy trying to push through the mental blockade to notice the sudden influx of files on his desk and the efflux on yours. 

What you didn’t miss was how the next cup of coffee you were offered was just as perfect as the one from before. 

“I thought I told you to stop with the coffee, Reid.” You lightly slam the paper cup on Spencer’s desk. 

He leans back in his seat and chews on his lip with an entertained smirk. 

“And I did. That’s not from me.” He’s earnest with his response.

“Oh, so JJ just happens to know my coffee preferences all of a sudden?” You sarcastically retort, crossing your arms.

“No.” He crosses his fingers across his lap. “I told her how you like your coffee when she said she was going on a coffee run.”

“And why did you do that?” You play along, unenthusiastically. 

“Because you told me to stop doing it.” He states in the most casual way possible. 

This was getting you nowhere. It was naive to think he’d let you spend your last few weeks here peacefully. Scratch that– he was being peaceful. Too peaceful. A new tactic to get under your skin?

“Stop. It.” The delivery of your words is slow and emphasised. 

“Stop doing exactly what you’ve told me to?”

You bite your tongue and glare at him. His face, shoulders, arms, everything, is relaxed. You can’t even argue with him. You take a moment to consider how bad it would be if you bashed his head in with the back of your gun. Then you take another to critique how easy it is to pass the psych evals. They should really think about the consequences of using questions the BAU wrote on actual BAU agents. 

After that day you went back to ignoring him. Any time coffee was offered you’d decline altogether. If he attempted to try and talk to you, you’d respond with yes or no for the sake of professionalism. This didn’t deter Spencer though. He gave you your space but kept a close eye on you, continuing to try and ease your burdens from afar. Exactly how he used to. 

This only lasted until the next case came in. Specifically until you were back out on the field, where he perceived you to be in high amounts of danger. You tolerated it because it gave you comfort, not that you’d ever tell him. Having Spencer by your side made it easier to deal with the reality that there’s little you can do if another incident like Anchorage occurred. 

Plus focusing your energy on ignoring him kept the flashbacks away. Or it did, until the take down. You once again found yourself in danger from an unsub, only this time the situation was controlled. All guns were pointed at the killer, except for the one that was pointed at you. The plan was simple: you talk down the unsub, take him back to the station and talk him into exposing his partner. 

Everything was going according to plan, until Spencer realised that one of the cops in the room was his partner and he was about to shoot you. Nobody understood what happened before the situation calmed down. Spencer had fired the first shot towards the dirty cop and immediately tackled you to the ground, shielding you from the hail of bullets that followed after. All you remember clearly is freezing up, clinging to the man on top of you. One moment you were screaming out, trying to make sure that he was okay and the next you were back in the alley behind the bar, fighting for your life. 

You didn’t comprehend anything until the panic attack subsided but Spencer was fine. His vest caught the bullets. Both unsubs were dead. Rossi and Prentiss came to the realisation the same time as Spencer and were quick to react. And you weren’t in the alley. You were in Spencer’s arms as he led you away from the scene when it was safe. 

When you snapped out of it the medics had cleared him of any injuries. He tried to approach you during your check up, but you shoved him away, unable to even look at him. The only thing you remember clearly is Hotch sending you all back to your hotel rooms before tomorrow’s flight back. You should be asleep right now, if not from the exhaustion of today’s events alone, then from how long you spent reassuring everybody that you were okay. 

You couldn’t sleep. Not when so many thoughts were occupying your headspace. This is the second time Spencer’s saved your life, in the span of roughly a month. The first time he’s put his life in direct danger to save yours. Had it not been for his vest he would be dead. The more you linger on it, the angrier you’d become. You were also wearing a vest, you would’ve been fine. What he did was unnecessary and reckless. 

What if the bullet missed the vest? Entered through the side? What was he thinking?

You were mentally fighting the urge to barge into his room and yell at him for his stupidity, but you couldn’t bring yourself to go to him. What happens to him is not your problem anymore. You aren’t going to let your guard down just because he’s an idiot.

Spoilers: BAU! Reader, Reader almost dies, Reader and Spencer are pissing me off, bc they’re so dumb, angst, hurt no comfort, Reader gets a little revenge.

AN - Before you comment ANYTHING, there is one more part. It’ll be posted a lot sooner than this one was. Writing this made me realise how limited the English language is. There’s only so many words to use and ways to write them. If either part sounds repetitive at times, it’s not my fault!!! Casual reminder: I am not Spencer Reid. I don’t have an IQ of 187. Any facts I make him spew could very well be bull-shit and he only spews them for the purpose of the story. I also have no knowledge of how the FBI works and lack a ton of common sense. A lot of things were made up for the purpose of this story.

If you comment you garner good karma for yourself and that could lead to you meeting MGG someday (I’m not liable if this never happens), think about that... 

Thank you for reading!

[xinganhao]

🌶️ svt 'booty call' texts.

anon → "SVT booty call texts, if that's okay?"

⌗ ┆🔞 contains suggestive/explicit language and imagery.

‧₊˚✩彡 includes: suggestive themes, use of pet names, situationship vibesss, sexual innuendos, [short] headcanons under the cut. open to requests!

🌶️ headcanons .ᐟ

seungcheol ♡ will make this booty call happen, come hell or high water. holds grudges if your plans fall through. cocky about being wrapped around your finger. "you make me feel so damn good, baby. can't help but keep coming back to ya."

jeonghan ♡ has the tendency to drop in without warning. loves it when you get annoyed and start bossing him around. more than willing to submit to you on your rendezvouses. "whatever you want— you'll have it, i swear."

joshua ♡ sweet, still, even in settings like this. enjoys the aftercare just as much (or even more) as he loves the sex. always makes sure you finish first. "let me take care of you, darling. i know i don't have to, but i want to."

junhui ♡ says he's only over to 'talk', but that will last for all of 15 minutes before he has you underneath him. smooth talker when he's trying to get what he wants. can get really in to dirty talk when the situation calls for it. "look at you— all wet after pretending not to want me. the body doesn't lie, sweets."

soonyoung ♡ a bit silly in his bids to get your attention. the most eager out of everyone when he's in bed with you. has the tendency to leave marks. "sorry, babe, but i don't know when i'm gonna get you again. gotta make sure you remember who you belong to, yeah?"

wonwoo ♡ acts cool and nonchalant but is also the first to crack when you're together. makes you do most of the work; always rewards you afterwards, though. likes watching your face as you ride him. "that's right, nice and slow. you can take all of me, can't you? good."

jihoon ♡ usually makes these calls when he's stressed out from work. would be happy to just have you in his lap as he tries to get things done. takes a lot of pride in how his fingers drive you crazy. "you have to stop squirming, or else i'm going to have to take my hand away."

mingyu ♡ thirst traps to get your attention. the perfect definition of someone who can dish it out but can't take it: loves teasing you, but is sooner to be on his knees asking for you to give him a shot. will take you anywhere, any time; it thrills him more than he cares to admit. "gotta be quiet, princess— can't have 'em knowing you're being fucked dumb right now—"

seokmin ♡ may seem cutesy, but don't be fooled. will take you on every surface of your apartment, given the chance. always asks if he can film parts of your exploits for 'personal use'. "you don't mind; do you, love? just want something to look back on when i'm away from you."

minghao ♡ just the right amount of cocky that it's an endearing type of confidence. gives as much as he takes. more focused on 'love-making' than anything hurried or rough. "i'm taking my time with you, because i'm having you again, and again, and again tonight—"

seungkwan ♡ most likely to actually have some nice conversation/a little sort of date with you before making a move. willing to try practically anything at least once. worships you. "god, but you're so perfect. you're everything. please, let me have you. please."

vernon ♡ isn't really the pick-up line type, so he's very straightforward about anything he wants. loves foreplay so much that it's kind of ridiculous. has a thing about the two of you finishing at the same time. "ah, i'm close— are you, too? can you—? can we—?"

chan ♡ doesn't like letting on how badly he needs you, but he does. insane stamina, so he'll keep on going until you're begging him to stop. likes taking the lead and ordering you around. "keep your eyes on me, baby. and no finishing until i tell you to. can you do that? perfect."

[oldmenthusiast]

18+ content mdni

bookshop owner!joel miller x fem plus size reader

warnings: smut, age gap, tension, reader is in her 20s and joel in his 50s, semi public sex, reader wears glasses, not proofread

it takes many job interviews for joel to hire someone until he finds you. you're not the first young thing to apply for the job, not the most qualified either but joel likes how modest you are.

he also likes the way you avoid his gaze if he stares too long, or how you keep pushing your glasses every time they slide down your nose.

those aren't the only things he notices about you because he's become very observant due to his age; it definitely doesn't have to do with some strange infatuation over you, no.

when your hands firmly pull your sundress down if it's too windy, when you smack your own forehead if you mix up the order of the books before switching them again. joel notices that too but it doesn't necessarily mean anything.

“I’ve taken care of the online orders, mister miller.” you inform him as sweet as ever and joel’s crooked smile appears on instinct.

“thank you, sweetheart. you know how people my age are with those machines.”

you're kind enough to shake your head at his response.

“I think you're doing great,sir.” you tell him and it warms his cold heart to the core.

“go home, sugar. I'll close up soon.” he mutters with the same half smile and watches you go but not without wishing him a good day.

during peak season, the bookshop gets naturally busy but to the point where joel and you have to stay overtime.

he doesn't ask it of you but you insist.

“I can't let you do all that by yourself.” you mutter with a faint pout that he wants to kiss away.

“can’t pay you for overtime,sugar—”

“just let me do this for you,sir.” you cut him off and joel doesn't argue further.

that's how his following nights go. you sit together in the back of the store, tons of books and papers surrounding you as you work. you assist him with every single thing he needs and even if you lack knowledge in some parts, you learn it for him.

peak season ends, the bookshop is quiet and your shift ends but you somehow still sit at the back of the store instead of going home. joel sits across you while holding a bottle of beer in his hand.

“a girl your age should go out with friends and have fun, not rot in here with me.” joel tells you with a hint of amusement in his tone.

even if he's right, you do not agree.

“I like it here, it's peaceful..” you explain and as usual your gaze doesn't linger on his. you look away when joel doesn't and it makes the man smile.

“I like it too.” he mutters after a while and tips his head back to down the rest of his beer.

there's hidden intent behind his reply, or maybe just the feeling of wanting to say something more, but joel keeps quiet. whether you notice it or no, you don't say.

joel doesn't pride himself to be the best boss but at least he's a good enough one. that's what he tells himself when your most recent ex partner marches in his bookshop to cause a scene but joel sends him back with a bruised eye and some vulgar words.

it's probably the first time someone has stood up for you like that but it's more special because it comes from joel.

whether it's out of gratitude or suppressed emotions, joel thanks whatever high power has led him to the back of the store again with his body slumped on his chair and you straddling his lap.

“mister miller.” you moan as you sink down his cock, taking him inch by inch until you're fuller than ever.

his calloused hands wrap around your plush thighs and fondle the skin greedily, loving how it spills between his fingers. whatever you're not proud of, joel touches it like it's a treasure.

“I’m a man, not a boy.” he growls when you hesitate to move on him, afraid of crushing him beneath your weight. “fuck yourself on my cock, baby. come on.” one of his hands slaps your ass possessively and his words alone are good enough to give you the confidence that you lack.

once you start moving, it's over for him.

his thighs flex beneath your weight and his cock twitches within you as you ride him, taking him in so perfect.

“so good. my sweet girl. my favourite girl.” he whispers against your cheek and you melt while swaying your hips faster.

his hands clutch harder at your thighs as you bounce on his cock, buzzing with heat and need for more.

the sound of skin slapping, as well as the wet noises that emit with each slide of joel’s hardened cock inside your folds makes everything better. “so wet. you're coating my cock with it, sugar.” he says through gritted teeth as his fingers dig harder into the skin of your ass.

he slaps it once, then twice.

“mister miller!” you cry out when a particularly hard thrust is delivered straight into your sweet spot.

joel buries his face into your neck and grunts as your walls tighten around his cock, claiming his every inch. “so sensitive. bet your boyfriend didn't know how to fuck like this.” and he's probably right by the way your pussy drools and squeezes around him, sucking him in for more.

his lips find your neck and he marks it unapologetically, biting and sucking on whatever skin his mouth can reach.

when he pulls away and presses his back against the creaking chair he's graced by a sight better than any other.

joel watches you ride him, stares as your tits bounce before his face and your crooked glasses struggle to exist because of the force of his thrusts below you.

he definitely can't last long after that and he uses his strength to shove you on the table and tower over you. only then does he realize the pathetic state of your sundress, butchered up around your waist like it's a belt. he slides his cock inside you again and you whimper softly.

“knew you were made for me ever since you walked through that door.” joel growls while fondling your breasts with both hands, his mouth merely occupied with the tender skin on them.

your hands reach for him, gripping the back of his shirt as he fucks you. you're not used to being given things, only to give them yourself. and this much pleasure is overwhelming but it's good because it's joel giving it.

a particular shift of his hips helps him to slide deeper and the sensation causes you both to moan in unison.

“I won’t last, sweet girl.” he croaks between the space of your breasts while sucking one of your nipples into his mouth.

you can say the same as the stimulation brings you closer to the edge and your eyes can barely stay open at some point.

his hips follow a fast and intrusive pace, and every time joel’s hips collide against the back of your thighs it makes your skin jiggle. you feel embarrassed but not for long as joel drags his lips against yours.

“the prettiest girl. there's nothing better than you, sweetheart.” joel whispers and you kiss him before he does.

your mouths melt so perfectly, your noses brushing intimately, and if joel could bring you any closer he would.

“there.” you beg against his lips when the tip of his cock hits that perfect spot within you.

“here?” he asks teasingly and makes his thrusts purposely rougher. your legs shake around him and he does it again. and again. and again.

the bookshop is filled with your cries and begging. “i’m coming— I can't—” you mumble incoherently but joel gets it as he speeds it up.

you watch his hand disappear between your bodies and you don't question it until you feel that excellent brush of fingers against your clit, accompanied by his savage thrusts into your weeping pussy.

“joel.” his informal name falls off your lips so well and he has to remind himself to breath when you say it as you come around his cock with a cry.

it takes everything in him to not spill everything within you right there.

“where? where, baby?” he asks as he grounds his hips and hopes you'll get it.

“I'm on the pill.” you so graciously tell him while squeezing your thighs around his waist and joel nearly says thank you because of what a desperate bastard he is.

it only takes a few more thrusts for him to let go and come inside you, his hands abandoning your breasts to pull you down by your hips.

your eyes roll to the back of your head as you feel every drop pour into you and fill you up. it briefly shocks you that he's still coming — he's still filling you up with his seed and groaning against you.

“there’s so much.” you mutter breathlessly as he nuzzles his face against yours. joel simply hums and uses one of his hands to caress the bare side of your hip, keeping you relaxed.

“we’re not opening tomorrow.” he tells you in his usual tone of authority.

“it’s thursday.” you tell him.

“good day to go out and eat,yeah?” joel pulls back enough to look at you and he stares at you knowingly. his words bring a smile to your lips, one that he wants to treasure forever.

you nod then, giving him your acceptance.

“yeah. it is a good day to eat out.” his hand moves from your hip to fix your crooked glasses with a fond expression. the glint in his eyes speaks louder than any sentence.

“maybe you should keep your calendar empty for this month. or year.” his words amuse you but you're aware that it's far from a joke — he isn't asking. your eyes regard him as gently as always and you smile that way just for him. “yes mister miller.”

he was glad to have hired you.

[yourmidnightlover]

control

(forever? pt 2)

pairing: mob!bucky barnes x fem!reader (arranged marriage)

summary: after a rough night with bucky, you wake up alone and get some frustrating news from your beloved husband

warnings: reader is insecure/doubts, not eating for 24 hours (out of protest), kind of controlling bucky, violence, if i missed anything, please let me know!

w/c: 2.7k+

a/n: hiii! this is the second part that was in high demand after i posted forever? i hope y'all like it! this has been sitting in my drafts for what feels like forever and i finally have had a chance to share it with you all! i hope it's worth the wait :)

part 3 -> the story

you woke up alone, just like every morning in the past two months with the exception of the smell of his cologne only a whisper on your bedsheets. 

maybe you shouldnt have expected anything else from him. he had just felt bad about what happened, about making you cry, that’s all. he couldn’t have you running out on the deal that was made. he just had to save face. it was all business…

there was another knock on the door. two days in a row, which was rather surprising. 

opening the door, you come face to face with bucky’s right hand man, steve. his kind blue eyes shone with a hint of remorse, likely knowing at least a bit of what happened last night from his boss.

“hi,” you smiled, your hand remaining on the doorknob.

“hey,” his eyes examined your face, probably to report back to bucky on how you were doing. as if he couldn’t check on you himself. “are you hungry?”

you turn around to look at the clock that reads 12:30.

“i didn’t realize how late it was,” you shook your head as he chuckled. 

“you probably needed the rest after…” he inhaled a sharp breath. “anyway, bucky wants you to head up to the office. told me to make sure you ate too.”

why couldn’t he show you how caring he was?

maybe that’s why he left so early… because he had stuff in the office to take care of. that was what your mind would assume to save your own ego, at least. 

he took you by a mom and pop diner around the corner from their office, let you eat as many waffles and pieces of bacon as your heart desired until he discreetly paid the bill and then you made your way to the office to meet with your husband. 

stopping outside his door, you heard his voice ringing angry and raging. 

“i said to find him. i don’t care if you have to work all day and night to do it. i’m gonna find out where he is. nobody touches what’s mine and gets away with it.”

was he talking about you? or was he talking about another one of his many possessions or assets. either way, with the tone he was talking about everything, even if he was talking about you, he made it seem as though you were merely an object that was in his trophy case. if he was looking for john in order to reprimand him, it was likely to send a message to everyone else that dared look at him. to ensure they didn’t see him as weak.

he would never do anything for you out of the kindness of his heart, surely.

“do whatever needs to be done. end of discussion.” you heard a dial tone end, followed by steve knocking on the door. 

“glad you made it safely,” bucky nodded towards steve before glancing at your form tucked behind him. “how’re you feelin’?” you shrugged. 

“fine, i guess.”

“thank you, steve,” seemingly dismissing steve, he left the room promptly. “i wanted to talk with you about something.” you remained quiet; he sighed before continuing. “i’ve made some arrangements to get you your own personal bodyguard, for when i’m not around to ensure your safety. they would be ‘round the clock unless approved otherwise or when i’m available to be around you.”

“so i would be watched 24/7?” you finally piped up. “like a child?” you voice was still meek as you mentioned your objection.

“it’s for your safety.” he stepped closer to you, not missing the way your body tensed at the movement. “so that something like what happened last night doesn’t happen again,” his jaw tensed, seemingly at the mention of what happened. 

so someone doesn’t touch his precious trophy again, you thought to yourself. 

“i’m a grown woman. i barely even leave the house, and you think i need more surveillance?” your brows furrowed together as you shrunk into yourself, your shoulders deflating at the thought of losing even more of yourself to this marriage. 

“it happened at our house,” bucky reminded you.

“it happened with you right around the corner, too. y’might as well have a drone following me around at that point,” you scoffed quietly. “what? next i won’t be able to shower by myself.”

“if that’s what it takes to ensure your safety, then that’s what’ll happen.” there was no playfulness or sarcasm in his tone.

“i was joking, you can’t be serious,” you looked at him, feeling stubborn tears beginning to well in your eyes. 

“deadly,” he assured you, his brows raised and his serious tone piercing your heart. “whatever it takes.”

you shook your head as you turned to the door. “no.”

your hand reached the doorknob before he added, “i was running this by you as a courtesy. not to get your permission.”

you froze in your steps, turning to him with a questioning look. a couple tears finally broke free from the dam before you responded, “then what was the point?” with that, you walked out of his office, turning to steve. “is it you?” after seeing the tears streaking your face, the choked sobs leaving your throat, he looked to the ground in defeat. you had your answer. and bucky had your freedom in his hand. 

you really were just a device for him at this point. you play the part of a loving, devoted wife while he probably does whatever he pleases to maintain his image to the public. 

you understood that their businesses were in the public eye and that the news of a finance business being absorbed how it was would draw a lot of attention, but nothing made sense right now. he was being so serious about it all. 24/7 surveillance, a fucking bodyguard… for a finance business merge. it was disheartening, to say the least.

it’s not like you had a say in the matter, anyway. so, steve escorted you safely from the premises back to your gated house, where you locked yourself in your room for the rest of the night. 

you didn’t open the door when he tried to ask what you wanted for dinner, or when he tried to give you a sandwich. 

you didn’t even open the door when bucky tried to knock himself once he got home at 11p.m.

or in the morning when they tried to give you breakfast.

or at noon when steve insisted on lunch.

“it’s been almost 24 hours since you’ve eaten,” steve sighed from the other side of the door as you sat at your desk, pen doodling meaningless lines in your notebook as you stared at the blank word document. “bucky’s not gonna be happy if he finds out you haven’t been eating or talking or… anything. you know i have to tell him.”

and you stayed quiet. 

if he wanted a polite little trophy wife, he would get one. but last time trophy wives were a thing was in the 40s, and they weren’t really allowed to say much, so you figured you’d follow suit. 

kind of like your own version of a peaceful protest. 

apparently bucky wasn’t very happy about that. 

he showed up knocking on your door not 20 minutes after steve tried to insist on lunch again. at least he wasn’t busting the door down, much to your surprise.

“it’s bucky, but i’m sure you’ve figured that out,” his voice rang with a certain softness he had with you only two nights ago. “i told steve to go for a little walk so i could talk with you. i was hoping you’d maybe respond?” he tried to open the door, finding it remained locked. “sweetheart, please just eat something. you haven’t even had water since yesterday. you know you have to drink something.” 

you suppose it would look pretty bad for him if his dear wife went to the hospital for dehydration, or starvation for that matter. has the bucky barnes been treating his wife as less than? or has he simply forgotten about his wife? perhaps she’s a weak point for him? 

although he probably wouldn’t admit you to the hospital, he’d probably hire someone to come to the house themselves, sworn to secrecy of some sort. 

you heard rustling on the other side of the door, not footsteps, more like clothing being rustled followed by a thump. his voice rang out lower on the door when he spoke, “i know you’re not happy about having a bodyguard. i understand, i do. you think your freedom is being tarnished and threatened and this is you trying to control what little you can because of that.”

how can he act like he knows you so well? the man who made it seem as though the marriage would be at least a partnership before the words ‘i do’ were uttered. after the honeymoon a flip must’ve been switched in his brain, telling him you were a little toy for him rather than the partner you had agreed to be.

but, after plenty of time to think, you’ve come to realize that you were being rather selfish. as much as you wanted your freedom. you wanted to stick it to the man and tell him that you deserved respect, because you did. 

you also had a duty to your family, to keep them safe. being in this marriage was the only way to do that. and if any questions arose, like bucky’s care for you, then your family would be in danger. 

with a click, you unlocked the door. he must’ve heard it because he slowly opened the door and took a step inside your room, a few feet from you.

“i’m sorry,” you looked at the collar of his suit rather than his eyes. “i’ve been acting rash and immature. i apologize for that.”

“i didn’t-”

“i won’t question your authority again,” you were picking at your nails. “i understand that you need steve to make sure nobody harms me to maintain your image. i respect that. i respect your decision.”

you couldn’t bare to look at his face. your gaze shifted to the floor as he began to nod. 

“does that mean you’ll eat something?” you nodded, chewing on your lower lip before responding. 

“i’m sorry for taking time away from your business,” you moved the hair from your face, tucking it behind your ears, doing anything you could to distract yourself. “i now how valuable your time is.”

“you’re more valuable than all the time i have,” he took a step closer to you before you felt his index finger and thumb gently holding your chin, nudging your head up to look him in the face. “do you understand?” his blue eyes were full of emotion, a mix of them, at that. if you squinted it was almost like there were tears building at the corners of his eyes. but you weren’t squinting anymore. you saw the full picture quite clearly with your eyes wide open. 

“i understand,” you nodded curtly.

you did understand.

you understood that he had an image to maintain. that image, for you and your family, was for him to be a devoted, loving husband to his equally loving and devoted wife. 

his image is his reputation, and no money in the world could buy the reputation he has. 

he let go of your chin, cupping the sides of your face before he leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead, “i brought your favorite with me. steve’s warmed it up in the microwave for when you’re ready for it. just… eat whatever you can. if you’re still hungry i’d gladly go and grab some more for you.”

“aren’t you going back to the office?” you, voluntarily this time, looked into his eyes with furrowed brows. 

“no, my love,” he shook his head before dropping his hands from your face. “i told them i needed to spend the rest of the day with my wife.”

of course. if steve knew about last night, people at the office probably did too. it would look pretty lousy if he didn’t look after his wife after an incident like that. 

“oh,” you nodded as you broke eye contact once more. “that sounds nice.”

you followed him downstairs, where steve had already set your food aside for you to start on. not eating for so long truly did affect you more than you thought. you didn’t even realize how hungry you were, finishing the entire meal in less than 15 minutes. 

bucky was sitting beside you, eating his own food as he made sure you ate and drank, and noticed when you made a happy plate, and cup, might he happily add. 

“wanna go get some more now?” he let his hand float to your hair, raking through your messy locks with a smile growing at the corner of his lips. 

“no, that’s okay,” you shook your head, not wawnting to bother him more than necessary. 

“if you’re still hungry, then that’s not okay,” you looked to see him shaking his head, his eyes fixed on the dining room table. “c’mon,” he stood from the table, holding his hand out for you to take. “we’re going to get s’more food.”

“will we be going alone?” you let your eyes gravitate to where steve stood in the corner of the room, having not been dismissed by bucky yet. 

“steve,” bucky called him over. “you can go home now. i’ve got her. thank you.” he released him from his duties. “now will you come with me?”

you took a second to think. maybe he was a controlling asshole, but what he was doing was for your safety, whether you agreed with it or not. “okay,” you nodded, figuring it was also best you went along with whatever he said. he seemed to get whatever he wanted anyways. “can we just go through a drive through somewhere?”

“if that’s what you want…” he nodded, surprisingly agreeing to your proposal. “where to?”

“... mcdonalds?” you suggested once more.

“of course, my love,” he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, oddly affectionate since nobody was around. “when we get back i’ll arrange hiring a chef for you, as well. i won’t have you going hungry if i can help it.”

“you don’t have to-”

“i will.” 

you knew better than to argue. you wouldn’t poke the bear if you could help it. sure, he’s told you he wouldn’t hurt you. you were his wife and if news came out that he had hurt his wife in any way, his reputation would be threatened. 

you couldn’t help but remember every warning your friends told you about going into a relationship with this man. warnings about being on your toes, watching your back, never letting your guard down. 

in your mind, this was just one more reason you wouldn’t have to leave the house. another little piece of freedom taken from you in a roundabout sense. 

“okay,” you nodded, accepting your fate as someone who would eventually be trapped in their house forever.

he took you through the drive through at mcdonald’s, getting you whatever you wanted and an oreo mcflurry. on the way home, eating the mcflurry before it melted, it was a silent ride. and not a very comfortable one, probably due to your suspicions about him wanting to control you. 

maybe him controlling you wouldn’t be so bad… he was kind to you, provided for you, made sure you didn’t want for anything. but with that, went a lot of your heart, freedom, and control.  

TAGS:

@nefri-black

[sylusjinwoon]

{ 200 }

tender love and care.

sylus x (non mc)fem.reader

because you were labeled as sylus’s woman while here at the n109 zone, you were given several special privileges that made you just as powerful (if not, than more so) as sylus solely because you had such a man wrapped around your fingers.

you recall the date that marked your three month anniversary with him, where sylus gifted you a ruby, teardrop necklace with a matching ring as he told you the significance of his gift immediately,

“each time you walk out to explore the city and head out to work when i’m not around, these rubies will be a reminder to others that you are mine. that you’re under my constant protection, and should anyone dare to disturb your life, i’ll be there to teach them a lesson they shall never forget.”

even the memory of the passion in his voice, coupled along with the way he playfully bites down on your ring finger was enough to make you shiver in response.

the fact that you held his heart within the palm of your very hands filled you with a sense of unbidden joy, where you wanted to do nothing more than to litter his face with gentle butterfly kisses and shower him with the type of unconditional love he had been missing from his entire life.

and you had been with him ever since, never once regretting your decision to remain by his side.

currently, due to certain circumstances at work where several people had called out sick, you were forced to work a double shift. you did your best to cover for your missing coworkers as your supervisor gave you a grateful expression. once your shift ended later that evening, he allows you to take the rest of the week off as a thank you for all your hard work. despite the exhaustion you felt, you couldn’t ignore the undeniable happiness that courses through your veins.

as you step out of your workplace, you were immediately greeted by sylus. he was parked directly in front of your workplace building while leaning against his motorcycle. a grumpy expression was seen on his face, painting his handsome features in a scowl as the sight of it all made you giggle in response. all too eager to see him, you stop directly in front of him and allow his arms to automatically encircle around your form.

“i should kill that boss of yours for making you take over.” he growls into your ear, clearly upset. you tighten your arms around him in hopes of calming him down when you admit to him, “hey, there’s no need to be so grumpy. in fact, my boss was kind enough to give me the rest of the week off thanks to my hard work.”

upon hearing your words, sylus visibly relaxes, pressing a kiss against your lips before tossing you your helmet. it was specially designed in your favorite color, and you couldn’t help but smile at it for a moment as you held your helmet within your hands. sylus ends up donning his helmet first before getting on his bike, turning back to narrow his eyes at you, silently gesturing at you to get on.

with a playful roll of your eyes, you wear your helmet and get on behind sylus, wrapping your arms around his front. he places his hands over your folded arms, giving it a brief squeeze before revving up the bike and making its descent out into the city. knowing that he chose to take the scenic route back home, you take a moment to admire how brightly the city lights shone like gemstones beneath the moonlight. giggles were heard escaping from your parted lips, and oddly enough, sylus was able to hear the sounds of your laughter as he briefly gives your arm another squeeze with one hand before navigating expertly across the streets.

quite some time passes before you and sylus return to your shared penthouse apartment. he parks in his usual spot before taking off his and your respective helmets, holding them both in one hand while interlocking his fingertips with yours in the other. despite how you had been with him for close to two years now, your feelings never once went stale for him. you were just as in love and enamored with him as the first day, the day when you had just met him.

while riding the elevator with him to the top floor, you cuddled your body closer to his shoulder, earning a knowing smirk from him as he gives your hands a gentle squeeze in response. when you both finally reach the top floor, you watch sylus as he takes long strides toward the penthouse all while unlocking it with his key.

the moment you enter your shared home. you were immediately hit with the mouth watering scent of your favorite takeout, seeing it all spread out on the coffee table. you were so happy to enjoy all of your favorite foods with sylus that you couldn’t help but lean in to give him a chaste kiss.

“you’re spoiling me, my grumpy crow.” you tell him while framing at his face.

he scoffs before taking your hand, gently biting down against it with his crimson eyes twinkling with mischief and love for you, “anything for you, darling.”

sylus gestures at you to enjoy the meal first, moving to the side to place his keys on the counter along with storing your helmets. with your stomach growling, you take a box and dig in with your fork while settled on the couch, moaning at how delicious everything tasted. a few minutes later, sylus returns back to you with his arms crossed, clearly amused at the way you kept stuffing your face.

“how cute.” he hums before catching you off guard, choosing to pick you up from the couch as he settles you on his lap. your cheeks were felt heating up in response, yet still, you were comfortable enough to cuddle yourself even closer to his chest while continuing to eat.

you both enjoyed the rest of your late dinner, with you spoiling sylus by feeding him bites of your food and vice versa with him as well. by the time you finished your meal, you felt so full that you could barely move, choosing to land against him when sylus places the empty boxes and utensils on the table.

“what’s this? has my princess had her fill?” you cough at how suggestive he sounded, hiding your face within his shoulder as you playfully bit down against it. a low groan was heard coming from him, and you let out a soft, victorious laugh while telling him, “sy, i’m too tired and full to move… can you carry me?”

he feigns annoyance with a huff of your name, but doesn’t deny you of your wishes (he never could deny you). with a grunt, he stands back to his full height while carrying you in his arms, bridal style. you end up giggling profusely at the sensation, burying your head within his shoulder as he leads you to your shared bedroom and opens the door to the master bathroom.

setting you against the counter, sylus helps with taking off your clothes, leaving you bare for him as he does the same. you were given a moment to admire his delicious body, eyes tracing at the muscles that decorate the entirety of his godlike body. he sees your hungry stare and smirks before taking you in his arms once more. he begins to hum an unfamiliar turn, but you bask in this uncharacteristic softness exuding from the leader of onychinus (a side he only saves for you).

while keeping you in his embrace, he fills his luxurious, porcelain tub with warm water, adding your favorite scented bubbles within it before entering it with you. with his back settled against the tub, your own back was pressed against the front of his chest. you let out a soft moan upon feeling the hot waters surrounding you. the sensation of it coupled with the way sylus’s large hands began massaging at your shoulders was enough to make you practically melt against him.

you were dimly aware of his rich chuckles against your ear, dozing off against his gorgeous body. sylus works on washing your form while lathering your hair with shampoo, the sensation of it all earning a series of soft purrs from you.

“heh, is my kitten satisfied?”

you merely let out a hum in response, moving your head to the side as you allowed sylus to give the newly revealed skin of your neck a series of reverent kisses. once he was satisfied with cleaning you, rinsing your body free of any soap suds, he gets out of the bathtub while still holding you within his embrace.

never once does he leave your side. from drying your body with a plush towel, to helping you get into your sleeping clothes, sylus takes spoiling you with care to the next level. and by the time he reaches your shared bedroom while placing you in bed, you were already half asleep.

as you lay beneath the covers, body curled as you remained cuddled to him, sylus takes a moment to admire you. his long fingertips were felt brushing through your damp hair as he manages to capture a wet strand within his grasp, leaning forward to press a lingering kiss against it.

“i bet you have no idea what you do to me…” his gruff whisper was directed toward you, but it was clear that you were so deep in your slumber that you didn’t hear him. with a huff of your name, sylus reaches over his nightstand to pull out a tiny, velvet box. upon opening it, it would be revealed to contain your dream engagement ring.

as his gaze focuses on you, he takes a hold of your left hand with a hum, sliding the ring against your left ring finger before admiring it. a smirk paints his handsome expression when he leans closer to press a kiss against your ring.

“once you awaken… then you’ll know that my promises of forever has always been true and not simply a play on words. i hope you’re prepared to be mine, my darling love.”

and despite how you were in a deep sleep, sylus could have sworn he saw you smiling in response to his fervent promises of forever.

a.n. - don’t mind me, this is just a self indulgent mess that i need in my life. i love sylus so much;;; i need him so badly 😭

all stories are written by rei; reposts, translations, and plagiarism are not allowed.

[anantaru]

i haven’t stopped thinking abt wrio like,,, bodyguard wrio,,, underground fighter wrio,,, hate sex wrio,,, god help me

cw. bodyguard wriothesley, overprotective, possessive & dom, fem! reader

bodyguard wriothesley who likes to leave you staggering on the edge of a spinning insanity when he intentionally addresses you as "sweetheart", "princess" or "my lady" whenever he follows your orders, and it really doesn't matter to him where the both of you would currently be— if, lets assume, a quick shopping spree around fontaine or something more to his own liking, such as having you pushed down on a bed by your hips, parting your legs with his knee as large hands easily slide and secure around your waist.

bodyguard wriothesley who makes your mouth fall open on a hard, broken gasp when he swiftly traps you in place right under his strong frame, spurring you into immediate action by a dirty comment such as, "you're so sensitive, my lady." was in fact, a deep sort of satisfaction that gets you to ease up and forget yourself for a second, or the obvious fact that you're currently fucking your own personal bodyguard and that it might not be the best out of all your ideas, yet it still feels so fucking fine when he does it.

and archons, does he know what to do to keep you spiraling into euphoric bliss.

bodyguard wriothesley who adores whenever you tumble over your little, pathetic mewls when he pushes his fat tip inside of you for the very first time this night, and he notices how you're tightening up a bit when he adds another inch and spits on your cunt to have you all wet and nice, deep drags penetrating your most delicious spots while you're still loose enough that wriothesley can rub over your pulsating walls splendidly, tasting the soft clench of a warm, sore pussy on his throbbing girth.

bodyguard wriothesley who hooks up a smile at you, pearly whites grabbing your attention, admiring just how unbelievably cute you were— his boss, his princess and he could spend his entire day fucking you just the way you wanted it, with his dripping dick shafting through your pussy, manhandling you while plunging his lips against your tits to attach his hungry mouth to your nipples.

and how good you were, ah what a sight, able to swallow his cock, despite its size, working your sopping insides into the vast shape of his length so you're all marked up for him, because do keep in mind for a second— he was the one protecting you, and he would lie to himself if he'd say he couldn't become a little too possessive every now and then, while watching out that no one would bother you, no guy talk to you and wriothesley loved taking care of your needs, in many more ways than an outside person would assume— whilst all the others who even dared to look your precious, enticing way?

they aren't even half as tall as him, half as strong as him or most importantly, half as good in bed as him— the man was confident that no other was able to make you scream and enjoy yourself just the way he did.

and you were aware of that, sometimes cursing yourself as to why you let it go on for so long and be that unprofessional— but then he's here to quickly make you regret nothing at all— with your mind hanging in the clouds, still blank and the loud blows of gluttonous moans and your sexes bumping against each other, that you'd never ever feel more protected by any other individual, only him, your hands swiftly finding flaming solace in his soft locks when you hide yourself in his warm neck, pressing frenzied smooches around his defined shoulder as wriothesley groans out deep, "fuck— princess!", sensing how you're about to lose yourself to a high.

©2023 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[min-imum]

ceo mingyu and office siren reader?? 😍😍😍

nsfw, mdni

content warnings: afab!reader, size kink, reader is smaller than mingyu, office sex, semi-public??, fingering, oral sex (m & f receiving), tit fucking!!!!! omg, spit as lube because mingyu never imagined he’d be having sex in his office…, crying from pleasure!!!!, let me know if i missed anything, i realised i didn’t really emphasise the office siren part sorry :(, not proofread forgive me

anon this was honestly such an interesting ask to receive. i took so long to write this because i’ve been thinking about how i want this to go (on top of the crushing guilt i felt for skipping earlier asks but my writers’ block is, unfortunately, selective) but i’m ready now because i saw mingyu in office attire…... he’d make such a hot CEO, blazer always folded neatly over a chair, sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms, just enough buttons left open to be sexy but not inappropriate, expensive watch wrapped around his right wrist.

mr kim is probably the best boss you’ve ever worked for, too — he’s kind but not too giving, he makes sure everyone does the work they’re supposed to do, he resolves problems amicably as much as possible, and he’s not an ass about taking time off work. he feeds the staff sometimes, ordering surprise catering or bubble tea for everyone. he delegates work fairly and doesn’t dump too much on an unlucky underpaid worker.

additionally, the pay he offers is really good, enough for you to splurge every now and then. it hadn’t been this way at any of your previous jobs, where you slaved away to make ends meet. now, even in your upgraded apartment (with it’s upgraded rent), you’re able to spend money to take care of yourself with new products and spa days and branded bags.

he’s unbelievably charming — strong eyebrows and a pretty smile that works wonders during meetings with clients, a superb memory that ensures he knows his staff’s likes and dislikes, and compassion and empathy that makes him a wonderful superior.

so, naturally, you fall for him.

just a little bit. maybe. he’s nice, and all, but you’re sure you can find someone better somewhere else. besides, that’s your CEO, the one and only kim mingyu. he wouldn’t choose you even if you chose him.

you keep your head down and do your best to be a good employee. you’ve never missed a deadline, and you work doubly as hard to cover your sick days (even if he tells you you really don’t have to, he’s got it covered, seriously), and you try to limit the cost you incur from the company’s unlimited coffee policy. you proofread all your reports three times just to be sure. you’re friendly with all your coworkers. you drink at company parties, just enough to fit in, never so much that you’re anywhere close to being drunk.

you stir your coffee slowly, yawning — you’d slept late last night, so today you allow yourself to have an extra cup or two of coffee. the creamer you added swirls into the coffee and fades.

“didn’t take you for a no sugar type of woman.”

you nearly jump, and turn around to see your boss standing next to you, teasing grin on his face. you hold your hand to your chest. “god, you scared me,” you huff. “sugar makes it too sweet and that makes me sleepy.”

“so you do like sugar, just not during work?” mingyu asks, eyebrow raised. you nod.

Do Not Look Down, you tell yourself. Absolutely Do Not Look Down.

ha. too late. you catch yourself staring at his chest straining against his shirt, biceps filling up his sleeves, and blush bright red immediately.

“s-sorry,” you stammer, picking up your coffee and making your escape. “i have a report to get to. nice chat!”

he snickers as you scuttle off, coffee clutched in your hands.

—

good bosses don’t pick favourites, especially not when all their employees work equally as hard and produce decent results.

mingyu, unfortunately, might not meet that criteria. (fortunately, though, it seems like he’s not the only one that likes you. he sees the eyes following you through the office, and he definitely also sees the guy that intentionally takes the long way around the office to the lift just to pass by your desk.)

you’re a wonderful employee that also happens to be absolutely gorgeous. you submit your work on time, you’re civil with all your fellow coworkers, you do your job well, your hair is always tied up neatly, your shirt is always tucked properly into your pencil skirt, your skirt makes your ass look good—

he runs a hand over his face, huffing at himself. you’re his employee who has shown him nothing but respect. he shouldn’t be thinking about you like this.

but god, he’d be lying to himself if he said he hasn’t thought about your pretty, glossy lips wrapped around his cock, or about tangling his fingers in your hair and tugging, or about playing with your tits until you’re sensitive and whiny.

“come in,” he calls, when he hears a knock on the door. his composure promptly flies out the window when it’s you that steps in. your skirt makes your legs look like they go on for miles, even though he knows you aren’t all that tall. he towers over you easily. his cock twitches at the thought and he immediately files the thought away for later, shaking his head to clear his mind.

“i just wanted to bring you these documents,” you say, handing him a stack of files. he nods dumbly as he observes the difference in size between his hand and yours. your lips, soft and inviting, curve around the words you’re saying. he might be a little distracted.

“—earth to boss man,” he hears you call. he jolts back, then chuckles sheepishly.

“sorry, i was distracted,” mingyu rubs his neck. “could you repeat that?”

“sure,” you agree easily. you tell him — again — about a new potential company partnership, then about a little feud that seems to be starting between two of your coworkers, and finally you offer to make him coffee.

“you look tired and out of it,” you observe. “maybe coffee will help. i can bring you some.”

he wants to laugh. he’s not tired, no, he’s just horny and his wet dream is standing in front of him.

“coffee sounds nice,” he says instead. “thank you.”

you step back out of his office to make him his coffee, and he slumps back in his chair, groaning. you’re perfect. he might be a good boss, but a large part of it is because he has you — you point out all the little, blossoming problems that may become major issues over time so he can stomp them out before they even start, and you’re more than competent at your job. it helps that you’re easy on the eyes, too, always presentable and pretty and looking like someone he wants to ruin.

—

when you return with your coffee, you expect to hand it over and return to your desk.

what you’re absolutely not expecting, however, is for your boss to ask you to stay.

you stay frozen in place as mingyu stands and rounds the table before finally stopping in front of you.

“i have to admit,” mingyu says, hands clasped behind his back. “you’re… quite captivating. you’re a hard worker, you’re a sociable person, and it’s been wonderful having you here.”

you nod, confused. he steps closer to you, and oh — now you can smell the scent of his cologne, musky and masculine, and now you have to tilt your head up to look at him.

“am i making you uncomfortable?” he asks.

you hesitate. the mature, correct answer would be yes, please step away from me, sir. but is that really the case? his scent permeates the air. his choice of cologne matches him well. subtle but memorable, powerful but not overbearing. you press your thighs together, swallowing.

“no,” you squeak.

“then, may i touch you?”

you nod, but his eyes narrow. “words, darling.”

you shiver. “yes. please.”

“good girl.” satisfied, he rests his hands on your waist, and one hand moves up to stroke your cheek gently. “you’re beautiful, you know? captured my attention since day one. my attention, and everyone else’s. i think half your coworkers might have a crush on you.”

you lean into his touch, eyes fixated on his, not really paying attention to anything he’s saying. you’re certain you’ve had a wet dream just like this before.

“can i kiss you?”

in lieu of an answer, you throw your arms around his neck and pull him in for a passionate kiss. you moan when he squeezes your waist, and he licks into your mouth. his tongue tangles with yours. it’s sloppy and disgusting and wet and you love it.

“mr kim,” you whine. he shushes you.

“just mingyu.”

“mingyu… please touch me.” you guide his hand to your chest, and he gropes your tit through your clothes, groaning.

“shit, it’s even better than i imagined,” he murmurs.

“do you wanna fuck them?”

his eyes go wide and he moans loudly. “fuck, yes.”

the two of you make quick work of your shirt — he nearly sends the buttons of your shirt flying with how frantic he was, and he snaps the clasp of your bra with a flick of his fingers. you tug your shirt out of where it’s tucked into your skirt and pull it off, throwing it onto a nearby chair. your bra follows and he eyes your tits greedily. he unbuttons his own shirt, then his pants too, and pulls his hard cock out of his pants.

the size of his cock makes you salivate, excited to have a taste. and his body… his body is sculpted by the gods, all muscle and defined lines. the thin sheen of sweat makes him glow.

he places a cushion on the floor for you. you kneel on the cushion and press your tits together with your arms.

“fuck, baby, you’re perfect,” he moans. he spits onto his cock a few times and strokes it, then positions himself between your breasts. he clenches his abs desperately to hold his orgasm at bay.

slowly, he starts fucking between your tits, grunts leaving his lips with every thrust. he whimpers when you lean your head down to lick at the tip whenever it pokes up between your tits. you allow your own saliva to dribble onto his cock and your tits to ease the slide.

it doesn’t take long — this is probably the hottest situation he’s ever been in — and soon, he’s coming all over your face and breasts with a groan. “shit,” he curses. “you’re too sexy, baby.”

with a thumb, he swipes up all the cum on your face and feeds it to you, and you accept it with a dazed smirk. mingyu helps you stand again, and starts sucking hickeys onto your breasts, licking up his own release and leaving his marks behind. then, he presses his lips back onto yours, passing the cum in his mouth to you. it’s so hot and dirty that it makes you dizzy.

his hands slide down to your skirt. he grabs two fistfuls of your ass and moans into your mouth.

“mingyu,” you whine. he coos at you. with one swipe of his arm, he clears his table, folders clattering to the floor.

mingyu lifts you onto the table, then tugs at your skirt hurriedly. you try lifting your ass to help him take the skirt off, but he simply shoves your skirt up your thighs and drops to his knees. “fuck,” you moan. “are you gonna—”

he responds by pressing his nose against your core through your panties. his nose bridge bumps your clit, making you whimper, and the deep inhale he takes nearly makes you cum on the spot.

“smells so good, baby,” he praises. “bet you’ll taste even better.”

he peels your soaked panties off your cunt and slides them off your legs. “can i keep these, darling?”

you moan. “yes,” you reply. “anything you want.”

he slides your panties into his pocket, then presses his face directly into your pussy. there’s no preamble before he’s eating you out frantically, licking and sucking and nibbling, and you grab his hair to ground yourself, nearly screaming in pleasure. “yes, yes,” you chant, whining loudly. “fuck, i’m going to cum so fast.”

soon, you’re fucked dumb, his tongue putting you into a daze, and all you can do is babble mindlessly and cry.

with a shout, you cum onto his face, and he licks you through it, nose pressing insistently at your clit. you jerk in sensitivity for a minute before you finally push him off.

mingyu looks absolutely pussy-drunk, eyes glazed over with a dumb smile on his face. “so good,” he murmurs. “can you go again?”

“i would, but i really want your cock inside me now, mingyu.” you pant.

he springs into action. mingyu stands from where he’d been kneeling and shoves his pants down his legs. you watch, dazed, as he steps out of them and steps towards you.

then, he grabs you by the hips and flips you onto your front, making you squeal.

“mingyu?!”

“been wanting to bend you over my desk,” mingyu says gruffly. “fuck you from behind. can i, baby?”

you moan. “please, yes, give it to me—”

you hear him spit again, and then the head of his cock presses against your entrance. he’s so much bigger than you’d anticipated. you scramble to grab the edge of the table as he rocks into you slowly, a long, loud whine forced out of you. his spit may not have been enough lube, but there’s more than enough of your slick to ease the slide.

his cock bullies into you, stretching you out deliciously and almost painfully, and it never seems to end.

“what a pretty pussy,” he murmurs. “taking my cock so well.”

“a-ah, love your cock,” you babble. “‘s so good.”

“god, i’ve barely even started and you’re already fucked dumb.” he growls. “aren’t you just so perfect for me, doll?”

he hisses when your cunt clenches around his cock. “yes!” you cry. “all for you. all yours.”

his hips buck at your words, and the remaining couple of inches are shoved into your cunt, making you cry out in surprise. he rubs your back in apology, and as soon as you give him the go-ahead, he starts fucking you earnestly.

he gropes your tits and your ass and admires the view of you sprawled out across his work desk, naked save the skirt bunched around your waist, face plastered sideways onto the tabletop. he leans forward and fucks you harder, and you scramble desperately, trying to find something to hold onto, fingertips clawing at the table.

“ungh, mingyu,” you moan. “s-so good, so good—”

“yeah? tell me how much you like my cock, baby.”

“so big, so warm,” you cry. “harder, harder!”

he pistons into you and the pleasure overwhelms you. your cunt clenches around his cock as you try to hold back your orgasm.

“fuck, baby,” he swears. “so tight and warm around me. i’m not going to last long.”

you’re sobbing now. “g-gonna cum,” you whimper. “wanna cum.”

he slides a finger over your clit, and that’s all it takes for you to cum with a scream. he fucks you through your orgasm into oversensitivity, and you clench around him sporadically as you twitch, sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine.

“where d’you want it?” he asks, teeth clenched.

“inside, please give it to me inside,” you answer quickly.

with a growl, he starts to cum, shooting hot semen into your pussy. it makes you cum again, arching violently, and he fucks you through both of your orgasms.

finally, he slows, and pulls out gingerly. he flips you onto your back, then watches the cum start dripping out of your pussy with a dopey, satisfied grin.

you pant, chest heaving enticingly, as you recover from your two orgasms in record time. “well shit,” you mutter. “that was probably the best sex i’ve had in my life.”

“guess it needs to happen again, then,” mingyu says, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. you laugh, slapping his arm, and he giggles too, fending off your attacks.

“but for real, though, i do really like you. and. i know we kind of fast-forwarded a little bit, but i’d like if we could try getting to know each other and maybe try dating…?” he asks, suddenly shy.

“i’ll agree to that,” you say, watching him perk up. “on one condition.”

his eyes are bright with puppy-like excitement. “what is it?”

you point down your body at the cum pooling on your pussy and dripping onto the table. “find a way to clean that up.”

with a smirk, he drops to his knees again.

“with pleasure.”

[peachesofteal]

Simple Math / Part Seven

Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 4.8k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI. Brief suggestive content, sex dream. Mentions of domestic violence, stalking. Hospital setting, nurse!reader. Feelings of fear, anxiety. Mentions of stress and weight loss. Soft dads. Little bit of flirting. Simon is... Simon. You get caught in a spell.

Johnny knows this is a dream. 

It’s an odd thing, to be conscious of it, to know you’re dreaming but still unable to control your actions. It’s like watching a movie of yourself, but also being yourself, directing your body without having a say in what it’s doing. 

He knows this is a dream, because you’re in it. You’re in their home, in one of Simon’s oversized sweatshirts, boy shorts rucked up over the little lightning bolts that arc across your hips, the underside of your cheeks. You’re smiling at him too, like you belong in there, like it’s yours too, and his heart swells, growing to a preposterous size.

“There’s my bunny.” He pulls you into his chest, mouthing up your neck and over your jaw. Your skin tastes like sugar, and when he gets to your lips, his hands shift, sliding down your back to grab two fistfuls of your ass with a groan. “Missed ye.” 

“We missed you too.” His fingers trace the edge of your panty line, barely dipping into where you drip for him. “Come to bed, Si’s waiting.” You whisper, stifling a moan. 

“Johnny.” Simon calls him, too loudly. He wants to hiss, snap at him about not waking the baby. “Johnny!”

His eyes blink open. White ceiling stares back at him, and he turns his head, finding Simon with a bemused look on his face. 

“I was havin’ a great dream.” Johnny grumbles, latching onto him. Simon scoots closer, lifting the back of his hand to his lips with a secretive smile, dotting kisses down to his wrist. 

“I know.” 

 “- and he has access privileges, as long he’s not interfering with care, he’s allowed to be in the room whenever he deems fit. Obviously, in cases where he shouldn’t be, like burn debridement, he’s fine with stepping out, but you should expect him to sleep here.” The nurse nods, nervously peeking over your shoulder at Simon, who’s lurking in the hallway, staring through the glass at the transport techs getting Johnny settled in his room. You catch her eyes, motioning to redirect her attention, and she mumbles a meek apology. “They have a daughter, who Johnny has been mostly separated from since he got here, and he’s hoping to see her often, since she’ll be allowed to visit more freely now. I told him it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Okay.” Her toes tap against linoleum, weight shifting from foot to foot, and you resist the urge to sprint back to her boss and demand someone else. Fuck. Why does Nora have to be on maternity leave? 

“This is my favorite patient.” You warn her instead, dropping your voice low, pitching it brazenly serious. “I don’t ever want to see him back upstairs again, and that’s going to depend a lot on you.”

“Okay, okay.” Her work phone rings, and you jerk your head in dismissal, not quite finished, but not seeing a need to continue to harangue her, either.

Simon glances at you from down the hall, head turning once you’re alone. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t call to you, or say your name, but you’re helpless to the magnetic yank of his presence, a beam of gravity dragging you closer until you’re shoulder to shoulder, looking into Johnny’s room. He’s asleep, dark lashes feathered against his cheeks, blissed out and nearly snoring. “This will be great.” You say quietly. “He can see Penny almost as much as he wants down here. There are far less restrictions, and he’s doing so well, there’s nothing to worry about it.” He doesn’t say anything, just watches you with the x-ray vision that peels you open. Like he’s digging around in your head again.

“D’you have a minute?” You blink at him, graceful words dried out and missing.

“Uh, I… yeah, I’m technically off now so. Sure?”

“Have a tea with me? I’ll meet you outside the café, on the patio. Ten minutes alright?” Have a… have a tea with him? 

His eyes are heavy. They’re lasered, locked onto yours, brows knitted together in something soft, some form of emotion that you don’t understand, framing his face above the mask. How can you say no? 

“Okay, sure. Ten minutes.” You try to hide how your hands shake, tucking fingernail to palm, squeezing tight.

It doesn’t escape him.

You grow more afraid with each day, that nothing does.

The paper cup cradled in Simon’s outstretched grip is like every other paper cup you’ve seen before, drank from a thousand times, with steam wafting from its rim and aromatics spilling out into the air. “Sorry.” You blurt, reaching. His fingers brush against yours, warm contact momentarily stunning you. ‘Thanks.” You lift the tea to your nose, inhaling deeply.

Irish breakfast. With milk. Your favorite. 

“How do you know what tea I drink?” You don’t mean for it to sound so suspicious, or aggressive, but it does. It’s nearly accusatory, but doesn’t affect him. He merely shrugs in response.

“I pay attention.” An engine turns over in the carpark, a small car sweeping across the lot as it turns out onto the street. You watch, feigning mild interest, trying to get a closer look at the driver without appearing too fixated. “So.” He sips, and then removes the lid, vapor rising from the top in a delicate little dance. “How long have you been at Addenbrooke’s?”

“A few years.” The answer is effortlessly supplied, like you’re under a spell. Your eyes go round. What are you doing? Crow’s feet crinkle at the corners of his own, and you manage a shaky smile.

“What brought you across the pond?” He jokes, velvet, soothing lilt in his voice.

“Work.” It’s easy to lie about this, the fabrication usually used in casual conversation almost every day with patients and new coworkers, people who are interested in you being from somewhere else, having a different accent, different education, customs, the whole lot. His jaw moves behind the mask, and before he can push the question further, you rush out your own interruption. “Simon, I want… I want to talk to you about something.”

“Sure.” He nods. “What’s on your mind?”

“It’s… the other night Johnny said something about,” Your face is nearly scalding, embarrassment laden lump stuck in the back of your throat. “about you and him, and… me, I guess…” you trail off, eyes darting down into the tea.

“Go on?”

“He said that you guys think I’m special, and you- you said-“

“That we’re here for you.” He finishes, nonchalant.

“Right.” You breathe a little easier, knowing he knows what you’re talking about, words picking up steam. “I want you to know that it’s totally normal to feel this way. It happens a lot, you know. Patients and, or their family members, loved ones, they get attached. This affection starts to happen towards a member of the care team because we become that person who… provides care, twenty-four seven. So, you and… and Johnny, feeling like you have this attachment towards me, it’s very normal. Not a big deal.” You finish in one big breath, cutting your ramble short. His cheeks swell behind the fabric, like he’s smiling, eyes squinting again.

“That’s not what this is.” That’s not… what this is? What does that mean? 

“What?”

“Transference. That’s not what is happening here.”

“How do you…”

“I’ve had years of therapy.” He sighs. “Are you uncomfortable?” Say yes, the girl in your head screams. Tell him you need it all to stop. That you don’t like them, that it’s inappropriate. You know how this will end. 

“No.” You don’t know why you don’t acquiesce to your own good sense, why you ignore the very clear boundaries and rules that have kept you alive this long.

“Bunny, I need you tell me, honestly, if you are uncomfortable.” He levels you with an intense look, seriousness bleeding from his irises to yours. You press your palms flat on the table, quelling their trembling.

“It’s not… it’s not you. Or Johnny.” You whisper, eyes slipping shut. It’s easier that way, to just close them, to hide. To pretend you’re somewhere else, to block everything out.

What the fuck are you doing right now? Your brain screams, but your heart wails.

What is it like, to be loved like that? To be known like that? To be held in someone's heart, cherished and protected? 

“Sweetheart,” Simon’s voice is low, calming, and when you don’t answer, one of his hands folds over yours. “are you with me?”

“Yes.” You peek at him, and then fully let yourself look around, steadying the rancid fear that permeates through your body. “Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize.” He hums, hand still over yours. It’s warm, and broad, big thumb stroking a slow circle into your skin. “Is today your Friday?” You nod.

“It is, yeah. I’m… I’m looking forward to catching up on some sleep.” He straightens in the chair, shoulders and torso so unbelievably wide, like a long forgotten mythological god. Or the trunk of a massive tree.

“Will you have dinner with us, tonight?” The last of the orange red dawn spills over the crest of the buildings, and the world spins, cold sweat breaking out down your back. 

“What?”

“Dinner, with us. I’m picking up takeaway for Johnny from his favorite place as a celebration, for graduating the ICU. We’d love to spend some time with you. Get to know you, if that’s alright.”

“Oh, I…” Say no, you have to say no, shut this down. It’s too much risk. 

“No pressure. Just, hanging out, talking. As friends, if you like.” Butterflies thrash in your stomach so violently your knees bounce, and your heart leaps, pitching itself off a cliff like it wants to die.

“Okay.”

“Great. I can pick you u-“

“No! No, I’m fine. I have some errands to run after I get up for the day so, I’ll just meet you here.” It will be just like going to work. No harm, no foul. You can hang out with them, and go home, just like you’re at work. It doesn’t mean anything. It won’t. 

You barely sleep. You pace, you nap, you thumb through endless craigslist listings in faraway cities for apartments, you read. You take the long way through the city back to your flat and slowly sift through pieces of your life that you want to keep. Your quilt from home, that’s been tucked away on a shelf. A sentimental trinket that belonged to your mom, also hidden in a drawer. These things that can be removed, without being noticed.

Not that it matters.

He hasn’t been here. Not since the sick shit he pulled with your underwear. It makes you curious when you inspect the undisturbed tape on the back side of the door, the light dusting of baking powder on the bedroom carpet, but not surprised.

It’s not unlike him, to make himself known and then suddenly disappear, the endless mind games partially intentional, and partially something not even he can control.

After all, duty calls.

He could still be in the city. He could still be watching. You don’t know anything for sure.

“Three things you cannot outrun in this world, babe. Death, taxes, and… me.” You mumble it to yourself, the same words that live in your head, in his voice, repeated, pulling a pair of scrubs from your dresser.

But you had been running, and still had your life to show for it.

It doesn’t matter, you know how this will end. 

You’ve changed your clothes five times. You hem and haw in front of the mirror, trying not to look too closely at any one piece of yourself, switching shirt and pant combos until you finally settle on your usual, a pair of jeans and a long sleeve shirt. They’re high waisted, because low rise is not even within the realm of possibility for your hips, and you appreciate how they fit, even if they may sit a little loose right now, given your recent stress levels.

You look fine, you decide. You look professional. You don’t really look attractive, in any way, but the scars on your torso are hidden, and with a little bit of make-up, you think you look presentable. At the very least, you don’t look like you’re half asleep, which is exactly how you feel.

Not like it matters, you chide. This isn’t a thing; it’s just hanging out. You’re going to put an end to this entire charade, tonight.

The train is quiet, and you’re extra watchful. Every face, every movement is logged, every jacket or hat or hood is inspected. Posture, skin tone, height, of every person you pass or see is tabulated and run through your mind. Your brain, a supercomputer in its own right, does it all, seamlessly. It wants to protect you, it keeps you on guard, it can look at a crowd of twenty people all facing the opposite direction and locate a potential threat, just by the shape of the shoulders.

You don’t see him, you don’t feel him, your skin doesn’t prickle, and you let the lack thereof bring you peace, if only for a few moments.

Johnny’s floor is bustling. You wave hi to those you know, checking in with his nurse for a moment, letting her know you’ll be hanging out for a bit. She doesn’t even bat an eye, thankfully, and you try to settle yourself as you turn down the hall.

You’re not prepared for what you find when you knock on his door and slide it open, breath catching for a moment, and you scramble to cover your initial balk.

Their daughter is here. She’s cuddled up on Johnny’s good side, the one without the burnt tissue or recovering surgical wound. She’s asleep, wearing a black onesie covered in skulls, her head tipped back and mouth open, chubby cheeks and sweet little face perfectly content. She’s got her entire fist wrapped around one of Johnny’s fingers, holding it right under her chin like she’s afraid he might vanish while her eyes are closed. “Hey, bun.” Johnny whispers, smiling so wide, two fingers stroking through the wispy curls on top of her head. “We snuck in a visitor tonight.”

“I see.” Your heart trembles.

“Fell asleep right away, next to her Da. Been missin’ him these past few nights.” Simon chuckles, patting Johnny’s leg gently, affectionately. There’s a bag of take out on the table behind him, as well as what looks like an overnight bag, a purple duffel stuffed full. “Price is on his way to pick her up.” Penny gurgles, eyes blinking open in a sleepy daze like she knew they were talking about her.

“Ye’re alright, sh-shh, wee lamb.” Johnny coos. She’s half soothed by his words, but the lights in the room are far too bright, and her small noises waver into a cry, frustrated and tired. He tries move her, cradler her higher up his chest, but his face falls with pain, and Simon swoops in, pulling her into his arms. “Bunny, could ye-“

“Would you-“ They both try to ask at once, and you flounder once you realize the intention, a cranky, sleepy Penelope being pushed into your arms.

“I-“ she wails, interrupting you, bending you to her will without fuss, and you hold her closer, rocking side to side, humming above her ear. Just like the NICU, like a patient, like your stint in L&D, it’s fine, it’s-

“Sorry, sweetheart.” Not fine. It’s not fine. Heat burns in your belly. He can’t call you that, not when you’re holding their baby. “Thank you.” Simon says over his shoulder. He’s moving Johnny, lowering the bed slightly to help reposition him, and they speak quietly to one another, voices low enough you can’t make out any of the words.

“I can help you with him, if you want.” He waves you off.

“I need the practice, won’t have you around all the time anymore, yeah? And once he gets home…”

“Ach. ‘m not paralyzed. Jus’ uncomfortable.” Johnny glowers, pouting, and you roll your eyes, rhythm steady, gently bouncing, letting Penny cuddle into your chest, snuggling her face against your arm and side. She’s beautiful, precious and sweet, cooing herself back into a light slumber, and you smile despite yourself, still rocking after her eyes start to shut. “Knew she’d like ye.” He says softly, and you glance up, surprised by the intensity of their focus, heavy gazes fixed on you.

“She’s very sweet.” Your lips twist.

“She is.” Simon agrees. “We were happy to get her some time with her Da. Good for both of ‘em.” His fingers find Johnny’s cheek, and then their hands meet, a palm pressed to lips, a whispered a I love you. 

An intimate moment, as you stand there with their baby in your arms.

“Alright, now that ye’ve done the hard work by gettin’ her back down,” Johnny gestures, urging you to step forward, and you carefully place her back in his arms. For a moment, your faces are level, and you get caught in his eyes, nerves strung so tight they could be a tightrope. “I’ve got her.” Weeks in the hospital, and he still smells like cedar and oranges, woodsy citrus that envelopes you, your lashes fluttering on the inhale. “She likes ye.” He murmurs, breath warm and tickling over your cheek.

“Well, she’s...” you straighten, hands smoothing down the front of your top. They’re moist, somehow, and you tuck them behind your back. “She’s a good judge of character, I guess.” Simon’s phone vibrates, Johnny’s plush smile turning dour, and he sighs.

“Okay baby girl. It’s time.” She cries a little, readjusting to Simon’s hold, and he slings the purple duffel over his shoulder, promising to be right back. Johnny nods, eyes downcast, and his face twists once the door shuts, cheeks turning red, staccato, hiccupped breaths coming fast.

“Hey.” You whisper. “Hey, Johnny.” The chair at his bedside creaks under you, and you lean forward, fingertips lightly caressing the tape residue that still sticks to his skin. You should clean that off. 

“’m alright.” His shoulders roll, chin jutting out, brilliant blue gleam in his eyes returning, like storm clouds rolling off after rain. He’s silent for a beat, pinky finger folding over yours. “How was yer day?”

“Oh, it was… fine.”

“Simon said ye were goin’ to catch up on some sleep?”

“Yeah, I didn’t.” You laugh, and he smiles. “I feel okay though. Still awake at least.”

“I’m glad… ye came. I’m sorry if the other night, I was too… forward.”

“That’s okay. You’re just… so flirty, I don’t even know what to do with myself.” You tease, expecting to get a lighthearted quip in response, or a laugh, but he gives you neither, only a serious, sympathetic expression.

“I didnae mean to make ye uncomfortable. Felt terrible, when ye ran off, I-“

“I’m fine, Johnny. You… you didn’t. I mean, it was just… confusing, this is… this is a lot.” He nods.

“I know it is.”

“And you don’t even know me.” His brow creases, focus narrowed in so tightly on you, white walls, white hospital blanket, white everything falling away in a spiral of color.

“I know ye better than ye might think." He cracks a smile. "We want to, if ye’d let us.” No, you don’t. You almost say it. Almost promise him that knowing you would be the stuff of their nightmares, that they have no idea what they’re trying to bite into, or bite off, a near guarantee that it would be than they could chew.

“Well, no harm in making new friends, right?” You entreat weakly, and his eyes flash, ethos of an entire life that you have no knowledge of slipping through, and the dark severity rumbling in his gaze sends a shiver down your spine.

“Aye, bun. Especially when they look like ye in a pair of jeans.” 

Dinner is an idyllic affair. Johnny’s favorite takeaway turns out, is Indian, like yours, and the three of you talk for hours, trading bites back and forth, laughing and listening to stories, discovering little bits and pieces about their lives while running interference on personal questions about yourself, allowing them to dip in skin deep, skimming off the top but never getting further. They tell you about themselves, Penelope, their jobs, how they met, and Johnny confides in you about his sketchbook collection, pages upon pages of charcoal and pencil line work, portraits of Simon and Pen covering each page, landscapes, and the occasional cartoon. Your spine eventually starts to wilt, muscles liquifying into goo that can barely hold you upright, and you curl up in the armchair, chin on your palm, listening to the ebb and flow of their voices as they tell you a particular story about how they came to find their current home, a near slapstick comedy about an interaction with the previous owner. Their voices soothe your restless mind, wrap you in a cozy embrace that feels so safe, so comfortable that you can’t fight the languid, siren call of sleep, eyes drooping into darkness, drifting away on their melodies, content and too tired to rationally put together what’s happening. At some point, something covers you up, knit warmth that is tucked in around your shoulders, your feet, a tender touch on your neck and cheek. A whisper of affection soothes the unease that lurks in the background of it all, and you fall into it lazily, farther into the hold of sleep, something your brain and body are desperate for.

When the lights go dim, you don’t even realize, already lost to the sand of slumber.

Around midnight, you wake with a start. Your heart is racing, triple timing in your chest, and you squint in the dark, trying to parse together where you are, what happened.

Oh no. Oh god, did you fall asleep on them? Did you fall asleep in Johnny’s room? 

Simon calls your name. He’s settled in a recliner, head turned your direction, mellow light from the little lamp spilling across his features. “Are you alright?” Your mouth is dry, the web of sleep that holds you in suspension finally starting to wane, fuzzy clouds in your head trying to clear without much luck.  

“How long was I out?”

“Four hours.”

“I’m so sorry.” He shakes his head.

“Wanted to let you sleep. I know you were tired, and Johnny was out almost immediately after you.”

“Th-thanks.” Your back groans, muscle and bone grinding together, stiff from sleeping in a cramped position for hours, and you’re surprisingly unsteady on your feet. Simon’s out of his chair in a second, turning around the end of Johnny’s bed to offer you a hand, his other lightly resting between your shoulder blades.

“Easy.”

“Sorry… just… think ‘m more tired than I realized.” It’s dark, and you’re disorientated, woozy, tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth, limbs and lids still heavy and desperate to fall back asleep.

“I’ll drive you home.” His keys jingle, and you know you should reject him, refute this presumption, push him off, but you can’t string the right words together in your mind, can’t bring yourself to truculently pull away.

So, you don’t. And to your surprise, your shock, it feels… nice. You let him open the door for you, get you settled, you listen to his music on the way, city flying past outside the window, quiet hour of the night crawling by. You let him help you out of the car when you pull up to the curb, and when he asks if he can walk you up, your rational pugnacity is nowhere to be found.

“This is me.” You gesture to the door, fumbling in your wallet for your keycard.

“How long have you been in the hotel?”

“Oh, not long. Reno just started so…” His head turns, surveilling the hallway. You’re in an end room, far from the elevator but close to the stairs, as requested, and there’s a camera that sits on the ceiling, green dot consistently blinking. He glances at it, then back to you, head tilted.

“Are you safe here?” The world goes cold. Your stomach roils, blood draining from your face, and you try to hold yourself steady, mind turning over a million times. You’re overreacting. He’s just asking in a general sense. He doesn’t know. He couldn’t. Breathe. Deep breath. 

“I uh, yeah. It’s got a deadbolt.” Along with a door stop alarm, and a security bar. He steps closer, so close that you can smell him, fresh laundry and musk, something spicy lingering there, something dark and enchanting.

“Are you in trouble, little bunny?” You’re in his shadow, beneath the stretch of a mountain, shielded by it, by a monolith so large it could blot out the sun. It overwhelms you, slows the racing pace of your mind, and you try to sort through the merry go round of feelings that are all trying to push their way out of your mouth.

You’ve never felt this. Never felt this… desire, to entrust someone with your life. Never felt this… attraction, this hold that the two of them have on you.

It makes you want to trust them. Makes you want to lay it all out and beg them to help you. Makes you want to close your eyes and leap, praying they’ll catch you.

It’s wicked. It’s dangerous. It’s a fool’s errand.

It’s unfair. 

“No.” You whisper. You can’t look at him, and time slows in the silence, your anxiety piquing. Of course, he would assume something is wrong, after witnessing the panic attack. Don’t read too far into it. 

“But you wouldn’t tell me if you were, would you?” He’s pragmatic, yet still kind, watching you with intent. It doesn’t allay any of the stress that’s building up the back of your throat and closing it, cutting you off from the oxygen you desperately need.

After an eon, he sighs.

“Okay, sweetheart. You can keep your secrets. For now.” You choke. 

“I… I should probably-“ you jerk your head towards the door, half turning away to swipe your keycard.

“Alright.” He moves carefully, dipping low, and you stand immobilized, confused and quivering as his cloth covered mouth presses a slow kiss to the top of your head. It’s like he’s bewitched you, cursed you, and you can’t do anything but stand there, stunned. “Thanks for coming tonight.” You’re a deer in headlights, a rabbit in a scope.

“Simon.” His name is the only thing you know right now, and it comes out reedy, almost a squeak.

“Get some rest. We’ll text you tomorrow.” He pushes the door wide, arm snaked behind your shoulders, and when you don’t move, he urges you forward, an encouraging hand on the small of your back. Your feet blindly stumble through the motions, searching for the light switch, for your sanity. “Goodnight, bun.” He hums, and the door clicks shut, leaving you alone, staring at the beige-yellow paint on the wall.

The afternoon trains are packed. It makes your skin crawl, not because you dislike busy or hectic places, but because there are too many eyes. You force your head to stay up, casually scrolling past the faces that are turned every which way, keeping your back to a corner or window as often as possible. You’re not sure you even needed to take this route, the one where you loop around and change trains twice, but… old habits die hard.

You’re lighter today, mentally. It’s in your steps on the stairs, the way you tilt your face up to the sun, how you bounce and bob a little along to the rhythm in your headphones.

You try not to read into it, too much. You tell yourself it has nothing to do with the good morning text messages from Johnny and Simon, or the hilarious back and forth between them after Simon sent a god-awful joke to the group chat. It has nothing to do with the heat that spreads through your fingers to toes when you think about Simon last night, kissing your forehead.

You slip inside your apartment, popping your headphones free, glancing at the tape and the door jam, before setting your bag on the counter. You idly sort through some mail you left out the other day. Junk, junk, junk, nothing taxing or important, nothing work related or-

A shadow moves. It flickers against the wall by your bedroom, growing larger, stalking closer to the kitchen, to where you stand, frozen, heart pounding in your ears. 

This can’t be real. This can’t be happening. 

“Hey there, sugar.” He croons, the thick, Texas accent unmistakable, and you breathe his name in horror.

“Phillip.”

[bucky-fricking-barnes]

The Cards We're Dealt

Title: The Cards We’re Dealt

Pairing: Mafia!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 15k

Warnings: Arranged marriage, alcohol, cursing, objectification of women and mild sexism, bad parents, angst, fluff, mentions of drugs

Summary: Bucky and Y/N are the children of the two most prominent mob bosses in New York. When their parents use them as part of a deal, they’re left to figure out how their lives fit together.

A/N: Wow! Another long fic because I have no self-restraint. There’s a bit of Irish in this because I couldn’t resist it when I wrote Steve. Translations are at the end, and anything incorrect can be blamed on Google Translate. As always, thank you for reading, liking, commenting, reblogging, and supporting me in all the ways you do. 

There is an unspoken rule amongst the mobs in New York that the more drug manufacturers a man controls, the nicer you treat his daughter. So, when Bucky’s father tells him that he’s once again been pimped out as part of a deal, Bucky knows to ask the question,

“How many does he control?”

If Bucky had his way, of course, he would treat all girls as well as he is able (which is very well). He likes girls, and he likes going out with girls. He just wishes he could choose which girls he got to take out.

“Seventy-five percent,” George Barnes says, and Bucky freezes with his glass against his lips. He has a club soda to his father’s whiskey—he’s in a good mood and was actually hoping to enjoy the day, though now he’s reconsidering it. His plan to lounge by the pool with Becca and soak up as much of the late spring sunshine as possible is quickly dissipating. 

“That’s not possible,” Bucky replies. He quickly does the math in his head. His dad owns over half the manufacturers in Brooklyn. “We own—“

“Not anymore.”

The library falls silent as Bucky tries to wrap his head around the news. Just yesterday he’d overheard his father on the phone with one of his men, explaining in great detail what he’d do if they didn’t get him a sample of their newest product by the top of the hour.

“How?” he asks. He sets his glass aside and sits straighter in his chair. “Did something happen? You didn’t tell me about a takeover.”

George takes a sip of his whiskey. “That’s because there wasn’t one.” He sets the crystal tumbler on the small bronze tray nearby. Marta will come clean it up later. “I sold them.”

“You sold them? If you’ve already struck a deal, then why am I taking out his daughter? Isn’t that normally something you have me do to butter their fathers up before you make the deal?”

Bucky watches as his own father stands and goes to watch the landscapers through the library window, his hands clasped behind his back. He’s long since been out of the army, but some habits die hard. Very rarely did the man ever relax.

“You are the deal,” George answers, his voice much too casual for Bucky’s liking.

“What the hell are you talking about?” snaps Bucky.

“Watch your tone, boy,” his father replies. He doesn’t turn around to witness the way Bucky grinds his teeth together in response. “In exchange for the majority of Theo’s territory, you and Y/N will be married within a year and a half, though the exact date is up to the two of you. I believe that Theo mentioned his daughter likes spring, so perhaps a spring wedding. June is popular, from what I’m told, though that’s cutting it a little close to the deadline.”

Bucky’s up out of his seat now. He can feel his pulse thrumming and he can’t quite catch his breath.

“So what? You threw me in to sweeten the pot? Am I just another bargaining chip to you now?”

He’s shouting. He doesn’t care.

George turns and regards him in silence, and, like always, his expression betrays nothing of what he’s thinking or feeling. He doesn’t seem fazed at all by Bucky’s outburst.

“You’re my heir. I make my decisions based on what’s best for our family. Nothing about this decision is impulsive or frivolous, James,” he finally answers, his voice cool and even. There’s nothing familial in his tone—George Barnes is all business. 

“You can’t just decide that I’m getting married. I won’t do it. I refuse,” Bucky tells him. He balls his fists at his sides and he sets his jaw, furious. How dare his father try to control his life like this? It’s one thing to occupy the majority of Bucky’s nights and weekends with dates, meetings, dinners, and weapons runs, but it’s another to throw him into a marriage he doesn’t want.

“I can and you will. If you don’t, there will be consequences. To start, you will be immediately cut off from our family. You will have no money, no home, no resources, and no contact or communication with anyone involved in the business, including your mother and your sister.”

Heart pounding, Bucky glares at him. He’s got a migraine coming on. He knows his father isn’t kidding, but he wants more than anything for Steve to pop out and say that this is all just a joke. He’s never even met Theo’s daughter. He’s barely even met Theo. According to the rumors, his only daughter is his most prized treasure. She isn’t someone who frequents any of the bars, clubs, and restaurants that he and the other “mob children” frequent. Maybe “mob children” isn’t exactly the right term, at least not anymore. After all, Bucky’s engaged now. He’s just part of the mob, another pawn to be moved around the chessboard.

“You have the rest of the day off. I’ll see you at eight tomorrow morning,” says George. He picks up his glass and downs the last of the liquor. “Theo and his family are coming for breakfast, and then Y/N will be moving in with us. I want you on your best behavior.”

He pauses and Bucky continues to glare at him, not validating his words with a response. George’s eyes grow dark with a thinly veiled threat. Bucky knows that look—if he pushes his father any harder, he’ll regret it. 

“Do you understand, boy?”

“Yes, sir,” Bucky grinds out.

Turning on his heel, Bucky stalks out of the library and slams the door behind him. He immediately heads down the hall, then down the stairs and across the ground floor of the Barnes Estate to the garage. His keys are still in his pocket; he’d only just gotten back from a night out with Steve when his father had summoned him.

It doesn’t matter that he’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Bucky climbs onto his bike and revs the engine, speeding off down the long driveway that winds around the house. The guards barely get the gate open in time and then he’s flying down the road, heading straight to Steve’s bar in the city. He knows his friend will be there, most likely nursing his hangover and going over the books in his back office. He won’t be hard to convince to go out again, though Bucky knows he won’t approve of the plan to drink as much as he possibly can in the next twelve hours. It doesn’t matter, though—it’s Bucky’s last night as a free man, and he’s determined to make the most of it.

You sit between your parents, staring at the empty seat across from you. They’d told you this morning that you were going to the Barnes Estate for breakfast, and while you’d expected the grandeur of the dining room and the meal, you didn’t expect the eldest Barnes child to be completely absent. You’ve never met him, but your mother has insisted that you speak to James—George Barnes’ only son and heir—as much as possible during the meal. Supposedly, he’s the same age as you.

Rebecca Barnes is a ray of sunshine and her cheery disposition is a stark contrast to the dark clouds that now hang over your fathers’ heads. Maybe it’s a deal gone wrong or maybe it’s something else, but you don’t like it. It leaves an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach. Silently, you sneak a hand under the table to find your mother’s. You squeeze and your mom squeezes back, glancing over to give a reassuring smile.

“Y/N,” Mrs. Barnes starts, and you jump a little in your seat. You haven’t been verbally addressed since you’d been seated a half hour ago. The food has yet to be served. “Your parents tell us that you’re very interested in horticulture. Did you know we have a rose garden out back?”

You force a polite smile. “I don’t know about very interested. I have a few house plants that I’ve managed to keep alive, though I would love to see your garden sometime. I’m sure it’s beautiful,” you add.

“Maybe Bucky can take you,” Rebecca says, earning herself a sharp look from her mother. She simply shrugs.

Oh, to be as unbothered as Rebecca Barnes!

“Where is James?” your father asks. His voice is a low, threatening growl and you sink down in your chair, staring at the cloth napkin still folded atop your plates.

“He knows to be here,” Mr. Barnes growls back. “You’ll have to excuse his tardiness, he’s not normally like this.”

Mrs. Barnes gives Rebecca an even harsher look when she opens her mouth to speak, and this time the girl actually looks ashamed. She takes a sip of her orange juice to hide the guilty look on her face. She’s the first person to have actually touched something on the table, and it’s like whatever spell the room has been under is broken.

All at once, the dining room springs to life. A short, slightly heavy-set woman in a gray dress and white apron enters through one door. She’s holding a delicate silver coffeepot and the smell of coffee instantly fills the room. Two younger women in identical uniforms follow behind her, each of them pushing golden carts laden with food. Through the door across the room, a tall man with short, dark brown hair stumbles in. He’s wearing all black, from his rumpled button-up and jeans to his boots and sunglasses. His hair is sticking up in every direction and just like the coffee, you can smell the stench of alcohol coming from him even from your seat.

You grimace at the smell and pull your napkin into your lap as one of the women comes to place food in front of you. It’s a formal dining service and the strange new man who’s entered feels entirely out of place. From his attire to the way he shuffles across the antique rug, everything about him screams that he’d rather be anywhere else. If you acted like that, your father would be pulling you back out into the hallway to reprimand you, and you look anxiously at Mr. Barnes, who’s seated at the head of the table. 

“James,” he greets, his voice unnervingly even. A chill runs down your spine. “It’s nice of you to join us. I trust that you slept well last night?”

James collapses into the only empty chair at the table, the one across from you, and pointedly ignores his father. You risk a glance up at him as he reaches for the cup of coffee that’s already been poured.

True to form, Rebecca leans over and claps a hand on her brother’s shoulder blade. “Good morning! Aren’t you excited to have breakfast with our guests?” she shouts, and her smirk makes it much too clear that she’s fully enjoying the way her brother’s scowl deepens. Rebecca also ignores her parents, including her mother, who leans forward to look past James and give her a look of warning.

James shrugs his sister off of him and starts buttering the toast on his plate. You watch for a moment, then start picking at your own food as your mother also begins to eat. Everyone’s acting so strangely that you’re already on edge, and you’ve only managed to get down a few grapes and two bites of dry toast by the time your father speaks up again.

“So when are we signing these papers?” he asks, sipping his coffee. 

“As soon as the marriage license is signed,” answers Mr. Barnes.

You frown. Marriage license? Who’s getting married?

“And the terms are the same as when we last spoke?”

Mr. Barnes sips his own drink, something that looks suspiciously like whiskey, and sets down the glass. “Yes. I have that contract in my office. We’ll review and sign after we’re done here. Are all of your daughter’s things ready to be moved?”

Your stomach drops and you turn to stare at your father with wide eyes. He nods, not even paying attention to you as he continues his conversation with the other man. Your mother pointedly ignores you, choosing instead to stare at her plate as she eats. When you look around the room, it seems like almost everyone else is doing the same. Rebecca is the only person who actually meets your panicked gaze. She gives you a pitying look as your anxiety rises.

It feels like your mouth is filled with sandpaper, and you grab your glass of juice. You have to drink half of it before the feeling even mildly abates. As soon as you set it down, one of the women in gray appears to refill it.

“What’s going on? Why are you moving my stuff?” you finally choke out. You twist the napkin in your lap with both hands, wringing it as you look from one person’s face to the next.

Mr. Barnes stops mid-sentence and the whole room freezes. Even James, who’s pouring something into his coffee cup from a small silver flask, stops what he’s doing.

“Y/N, sweetheart,” your mother begins, taking your hand under the table.

You want to pull away. You don’t.

“After breakfast, your father and I are going home, but you’ll be staying here with the Barneses.”

“What?” you whisper, your eyes filling with tears. “No, I don’t— I don’t want to stay here. You never said anything about me—“

“We’re getting married,” James interrupts. He’s chewing and you look over at him, gaping at the casual way he’s sprawled out in his chair. You can feel his gaze on you even from behind his sunglasses and it makes you feel dirty. 

“Excuse me?”

He chuckles and sits up, then leans forward in the chair. He drops the greasy strip of bacon he’d been eating onto his plate. “We’re getting married. They’re using us like bartering chips, sweetheart. You and me in exchange for all the drugs and all the territory in New York.” James gestures grandly with one hand, a too-wide grin on his face. There must be at least ten rings on each of his hands and you swallow thickly at the threatening display of black and silver metal.

You’re trembling now and you pull your hand away from your mom’s. She reaches for you again but you shake your head, shying away from her touch. Frantically, you look around the room to see if this is some kind of joke or a drunken rambling, but no one is laughing. Even Mrs. Barnes has the decency to look sympathetic on your behalf.

“No, no. You wouldn’t—“ You look back at your parents, imploring them to say that it isn’t true. You swallow thickly, trying to stave off tears, and your voice wavers as you prompt, “Mom? Dad?”

Their silence speaks volumes and a whimper escapes you as you wring your hands in your lap. The napkin slides onto the floor. It suddenly feels like you can’t breathe and when your mom reaches out for a second time and starts to tell you to calm down, you jerk away and stand. The chair falls backwards behind you, but you ignore it as you rush out of the dining room and into the hallway you’d entered from. Everything is unfamiliar. Frantically, you pick a door and yank on the handle. It doesn’t give way and you continue the process until one of them finally opens and you can rush inside. You lock it behind you and press your back against the door. The curtains on the floor-to-ceiling windows are closed, shrouding the room in darkness. You can’t make out much of the furniture through the tears in your eyes.

Out in the hallway, you can hear your mother calling for you and your father arguing with Mr. Barnes. Mrs. Barnes is yelling at somebody too, but it’s hard enough to hear the others over your own gasps and sobs. You’re properly crying now and you sink to the floor, curling up on the carpet as you heave. It’s a good thing you weren’t able to stomach much breakfast.

A knock on the door makes you yelp and then cry harder, and you crawl into the darkness of the room to try and find a hiding spot. You’re lucky enough to find an old, heavy desk right away. It’s the perfect size for you to crawl under for shelter, and there’s no chair for you to move out of the way. The drawers on both sides create a cubby for you, so you crawl into it and curl up into a ball with your back towards the door, just in case someone manages to get in. If you’re quiet enough, it’s possible they’ll walk right past you.

The crowd in the hallway has definitely heard you by now. The doorknob is rattling as whoever’s on the other side tries to get in, but after a few minutes, they stop and the hallway goes quiet. You hold your breath after every couple of sobs, listening for any sign that they’ve found a key or that they’re picking the lock. Nothing happens, however, and after a while, you give up on listening.

You sit in the darkness and cry until you’re thoroughly exhausted. Once you’ve run out of tears, you sit and zone out with your head resting against the side of the desk drawers for a while longer, numb from the news. Your body feels light and a buzzing, tingling feeling makes moving your limbs seem impossible. You could’ve never imagined that your parents would be so capable of treating you so poorly. You’ve always felt so loved by them, and to hear that they’ve practically thrown you away at the first chance of a profit makes you want to puke. Upon that realization, you actually do throw up, and the stink of your vomit on the carpet of whatever room you’re in makes you want to cry all over again.

The door opens just as the stench is becoming too much to bear. Light floods in from the hallway and you squint, curling up in fear. After a moment, the shorter woman in the gray uniform that you’d seen at breakfast appears a few feet away from the desk, right in the path of light. You look up at her. 

“Oh dear,” she sighs, and you instantly feel ashamed at the disappointment in her voice.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. Your bottom lip is trembling again as fresh tears somehow appear in your eyes. Sniffling, you wipe your nose with the back of your wrists. “I can clean it if you—“

“You’ll do no such thing,” the woman says. Her voice is gentle and kind, so much so that you don’t feel the need to argue with her. She waves her hand dismissively and approaches you, then holds out both hands. She’s careful not to step in the mess you’ve made. “Now come on, up you go.”

You let her help you to your feet and then you straighten out your clothes, sniffling and wiping at your nose again in a desperate attempt to look more put together than you feel. Still a bit unsteady, you whimper for a second time, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, dear.” She gives you a warm smile. “My name’s Marta. I’m the head housekeeper here. It’s very nice to meet you.”

You don’t feel the same way about meeting her, given the circumstances, but you hold that comment to yourself and simply nod in agreement. Marta leads you back out into the too-bright hallway. It’s empty except for a bald man mopping the floor on the far end.

The high ceilings and glossy marble floors make it look like you’re in a castle. Even the silence feels regal. Everything seems so cold compared to your home, and you feel too small in the massive space.

“What time is it?” you quietly ask, looking back at Marta.

“It’s almost noon, Miss.”

Your stomach sinks and you press your lips together, inhaling deeply as you look around again. Three hours have passed.  “My parents…”

“They left about fifteen minutes after breakfast,” she tells you. Her words are matter-of-fact, even if she delivers the news in the softest possible way.

Somehow it hurts worse that they’ve left you than finding out they’d practically sold you to the Barneses in exchange for God knows what. Drugs or territory, whatever James had said. Not only did they treat you like nothing, but they’d deserted you after it was clear you didn’t agree with their plans. They hadn’t even tried to reassure you that they still loved you or that you’d still be able to see them. Maybe you wouldn’t be. Maybe they didn’t.

You nod numbly. There’s been nothing to prepare you for this, no precursor or warning, so you keep looking around the hall, though in reality you’re not really seeing anything. 

“Your room is ready upstairs, Miss Y/N. Would you like me to take you?” asks Marta.

You nod again. You feel like you’re underwater as you follow her up a grand staircase and then down a long, narrow hallway. It’s decorated similarly to the ground floor, though with a plush Persian rug running its length. Marta talks as she walks ahead of you, no doubt explaining what the many doors lead to, but her words simply go in one ear and out the other. It’s all so surreal that when you finally get to your own room, you don’t even open the door. Marta has to reach around you to open it, and then she gently ushers you inside when you still don't move.

Just as they had said at breakfast, your belongings have all been moved into the Barnes Estate. The furniture here is different, grander than what you’re used to, but your blankets and pillows are on the bed, and the two bookshelves are packed full of the books you’ve collected over the years. Even the strip from the photo booth at an old friend’s wedding is pinned to the bulletin board above the desk. Someone’s even thought to put your plants on their own table by the window. 

“There’s a bathroom on the left and your closet is on the right,” Marta explains, pointing to each. “If you’re hungry, dinner is at five.”

“Do I have to eat with them?” you ask.

If Marta is surprised by your question, she doesn’t show it. She simply shakes her head with a gentle smile. “No. We can bring food here if you’d like.”

You nod and stand in silence until she leaves and closes the door behind her. Then, after another minute passes, you drag yourself over to the bed, climb under the covers, and close your eyes.

If there’s any mercy left in this life, you think, I’ll fall asleep and never wake up again.

Weeks pass and you still haven’t adjusted to life at the Barnes Estate. The staff is only slightly less friendly than those you grew up with, but they’re more attentive. It helps that there are more of them. For every member of the Barnes family, yourself included, there are at least four staff members to attend to their every need. It makes you feel like royalty, but it also makes you feel guilty. You don’t need this much. You certainly didn’t ask for it.

You haven’t seen James since the ill-fated breakfast, nor have you seen your parents. They’ve gone so far as to block your number. After that discovery, you’d locked yourself in the massive ensuite bathroom and cried for an hour. Marta had been the one to coax you out. The poor maid who’d found you when coming to get you for dinner hadn’t known how to help. You’d spent that entire evening curled up on your bed while reruns of The Nanny played on the TV embedded in the wall across from the massive mattress. Marta had spent every second with you that she could, but eventually Mrs. Barnes—Winnifred, as you referred to her in your mind—had scolded her for neglecting her nighttime duties across the estate. That made you feel even worse.

“Are you okay?” Rebecca asks, and you turn to look at her from where you’re staring out the hallway windows at the gardeners. The backyard is massive, complete with a rose garden in full bloom, an outdoor swimming pool, a forested walking trail, a large green expanse for games and parties, a gazebo, a fountain, and what seems to be stables far in the distance, though you haven’t ventured far enough to be sure. A visit to the rose garden hasn’t been brought up again either, and nothing seems interesting enough to explore on your own.

Nodding, you don’t say anything before turning back to watch the men work. They talk and laugh with each other as they prune, pick, and water. You wish that you could trade places with them. 

“You don’t look okay,” she says. Rebecca props herself up on the window ledge to your right, facing you with a suspicious look on her face. “We haven’t seen you at any meals, and Valerie told me that you were crying in the bathtub three nights ago.”

You should feel ashamed, but you’re too numb to care. It feels like you’re floating through each day, detached from most things. You’ve spent your entire life thinking that you would marry for love and live happily ever after. Now, your parents have sold you to the highest bidder and your husband-to-be is a cruel, disgusting man-child that wants nothing to do with you.

Rebecca’s fingers lacing with yours jerk you back to reality and you look down at your joined hands in confusion. Her nails are bitten short and she wears a single ring with the Barnes family crest. It’s dainty and gold, a stark contrast to the many rings on her brother’s fingers.

“You’re safe here, Y/N,” she tells you, her voice gentle. “You don’t have to be alone. I’m so sorry for everything that’s happened to you. If I had any say in it, you could be home right now with your parents, but I’m far from the top of the totem pole.”

“I hate them.” You spit the words out and jerk your hand away from hers. “I hate my parents.”

That’s the first time you’ve ever said that in your entire life and your heart skips a beat as the anger makes your lip curl. You’re baring your teeth at her but Rebecca doesn’t even flinch. She’s a mafia princess, through and through.

“They made me believe that I could have anything I wanted, that I could marry whoever I wanted whenever I was ready, and then they threw that all away and treated me like shit the first time it was convenient for them.”

She nods. “That’s true.”

“I was so foolish to have believed them,” you growl, but the fight in you is fading just as quickly as it came. You burn bright, but you burn quickly, too.

“No,” Rebecca says, shaking her head. “You’re just human.”

You look away, embarrassed by your display of emotion as your eyes begin to water with more tears. You were raised to be reserved. You knew very little about the inner workings of your parents’ business, but you’d learned as a young girl that you’d fare better if you always clung to the edges of the room, avoiding the dirt and grime and blood that surrounded your whole life. Over the years, you’ve grown very good at hiding yourself and your emotions from the people around you. From the spark in her eye, you have the feeling that Rebecca is the exact opposite. She could hold her own if it came down to it. You couldn’t.

“It’s okay to be upset,” she insists.

Shaking your head, you take a deep breath and look back out the window. You lift your chin slightly and when Rebecca tries to rope you into another conversation with her, you ignore her and focus on the men outside. They’re finished tending to the roses on the edges of the garden. Now they’re working their way inwards.

You’re finally left alone a few minutes later and as soon as she’s around the corner, you let out a heavy sigh and relax your posture. Slumping forward, you lean forward into the window ledge, curling up just a little as you continue to watch the gardeners. The silly song from Alice in Wonderland pops into your head and you hum along, eventually mumbling to yourself about painting the roses red.

You feel a little bit like Alice, you realize. You’re out of your element in a strange land where everything you’ve learned about life seems to be turned on its head. In this world, nobody marries for love and the girls are just as entrenched in the business as the men. Does Rebecca conduct business with her father and older brother? You could certainly picture it. Will the same be expected of you?

That afternoon, Marta knocks on your door with a written invitation from Winnifred. Your presence is being formally requested at their dinner table, though from the look the housekeeper is giving you, it’s more of a demand than a request. With her help, you pick out something to wear. By the time five o’clock rolls around, you’re crossing the enormous hallway in a dress and heels that you’ve never seen before. It’s far too showy for your taste, but it’s clearly something someone wanted you to wear. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have put it in your closet.

George Barnes and James stand when you enter the dining room, as do several other men you don’t recognize. Your father is standing near the head of the table with George, though your mother and Rebecca are nowhere in sight. Besides Winnifred, you don’t recognize any of the other women. The only empty seat is beside James and your immediate instinct is to flee, but then he’s stepping aside to pull out the chair and all eyes are on you.

Slowly, you close the distance between the two of you and sit. He helps you scoot in, then takes his own seat on your right. The other men sit as well and then dinner resumes. You sit in silence, staring at the top edge of your plate with your hands in your lap. You’re not really listening to the conversations around you, either, but you can feel someone’s eyes on you as you try to stay as quiet and motionless as possible.

“Are you sick or something?”

You startle and look up with wide eyes. James is watching you. He’s got one hand on the table with his fingers brushing the stem of his wineglass and the other resting on his thigh. Unlike your fateful breakfast weeks ago, James is dressed in a neat, all-black suit. He has no tie, and his rings are all gone except one. It’s identical to Rebecca’s family crest, except his is silver and has a thicker band.

His eyes are full of something you can’t place and you shift uncomfortably under his gaze. As quickly as you turned to him, you turn away and look back at your plate. The napkin is folded in some elaborate way on top of the plate. You’re not sure if it’s supposed to resemble anything at all, but maybe if you stare at it long enough, it will look like something.

“Y/N?” he prompts. You nod once, tightly, and then pull the heavy cloth napkin into your lap when a server appears to present the first course.

Between the second and third course, you can feel James’ eyes on you. After the third, he gets roped into conversation with a man sitting across the table, but you know that he’s glancing at you all the while. After the fourth, he bumps his arm against yours. You shirk away and feel him tense beside you.

“Excuse me,” you mumble, and you push your chair away from the table. Immediately, the conversations stop and all the men stand again. It’s too much attention on you and you hurry out of the dining room as fast as your heels and dress will allow. You’re stumbling over yourself by the time you get back to your suite on the third floor. The door slams behind you and you collapse onto the floor beside the bed, too overwhelmed to even climb atop the oversized mattress. You’re on the verge of tears when there’s a soft knock from the door, and that rips a sob from your chest that you hadn’t expected.

Immediately, the door opens and James is standing in the open space, a dark look on his face. You sob again and scramble backwards until the edge of the bed frame is digging painfully into your spine.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

You swallow hard and take several gasping breaths, trying to control yourself. Your mind is spinning with insults, calling you weak and pathetic, and you believe every one.

“It’s just too much,” you answer through your tears. “I don’t want this!”

James huffs. His angry expression has faded, now replaced with something more akin to irritation. “And you think I do?”

You shake your head. “Of course not.”

“These are the cards we’ve been dealt, doll. You’re gonna have to get over it. Let’s just get married and then we can live happily ever after in a big house where we never have to see each other. I’ll do what I want and you can do what you want. Sound like a plan?”

You look down at your hands. A big part of you wants to say that no, it doesn’t sound like a plan. You don’t want that life. You don’t want a house so big that you practically need a golf cart to get from one side to the other. You don’t want a husband who ignores you in favor of his blood money or his side chick or the next shiny toy off the black market. You don’t want James.

Though every part of you is screaming the opposite, you nod. He crosses the room and you inhale sharply to steady yourself as he approaches you with no care. His black dress shoes are tracking dirt across the rug. James holds out a hand to help you up and you take it. The heirloom ring on his right hand digs into yours until you’re standing, and then he drops your hand like it’s on fire.

“We need to go back,” he tells you, and you nod again. “Our parents are pissed.”

“Of course they are,” you mumble. 

James pauses, staring at you critically. You’ve been staring at the baseboards since he helped you up, but when he doesn’t move or speak, you glance upwards at him. He’s got one eyebrow raised. His expression is thoroughly unreadable otherwise and an unsettling feeling blooms in your stomach.

“What?” you ask. You step back a little, but there’s no place to go except up against the bed again.

He shakes his head at you. “Nothing. Come on, princess.”

“Don’t call me that.” You scrunch your nose. “Anything but that.”

“Sugar?” he offers, and when you shake your head, he sighs. “Well, what do you want me to call you, since you’re suddenly the one calling the shots?”

His words cut deep and you look back down, hating the way shame immediately pools in your belly. How could he seem angry and irritated with you, then borderline kind, and then completely disinterested in your feelings the next? It’s disorienting, and you don’t need that on top of everything else.

“That’s what I thought. Let’s go.”

Grabbing your arm in a grip just bordering on painful, James pulls you out of your bedroom and back down the hall. He holds on as you stumble behind him in your heels. When you reach the ground floor hallway again, he drops his hand and offers you his arm. You’re hesitant to take it, but he sighs a little and you decide that it’s easier to give in than to put up a fight.

The two of you walk back into the dining room and the conversations immediately hush. James leads you to your waiting seats, pulls out the chair for you, and then helps you scoot towards the table again once you’re seated. As he takes his spot beside you, your father speaks up.

“Have you and James discussed when you’ll be getting married?” he asks.

You pick up your fork and stare at the strange food on your plate, ignoring him. Though your stomach is churning, you force yourself to take a bite. He can’t expect you to answer while you’re chewing—it would be bad manners.

“Next spring,” James answers. “In the rose garden.”

You want to spit on the roses. You swallow your food instead.

“Good choice,” Mr. Barnes agrees. He turns his attention back to your father. “Your daughter is quite the well-behaved woman. She’ll do well with our James.”

Beside you, James tenses again, his grip tightening slightly on his fork. You glance at him, holding your breath, and wait until he relaxes again to take another bite of your food. 

The rest of the dinner passes with mundane, meaningless conversations. Nobody addresses you for the remainder of the meal, not even your parents, and finally the men begin to make their way out of the dining room to an adjoining room. You hadn’t even realized there was a room connected; the door is hidden amongst the paneling and crown molding on the walls.

“You can’t go in there.” James grabs your wrist as you stand to follow the group of men into the new room. His voice isn’t malicious and his grip isn’t tight, but you flinch away from him anyway. It’s only then that you realize the few women that had been in the room are leaving through the door to the hall with their wineglasses in hand.

“Because I’m a woman?” you counter.

“Because you don’t want to hear the things that they’re going to discuss,” he answers. He tosses his napkin on the table and stands, towering over you. After a long second of eye contact, he steps away from you and heads towards the men.

You watch him go and silently weigh your options. A few weeks ago, you wouldn’t have even thought about following the men into the second room. You would have simply taken the same path as the other woman, though your wine would have continued to remain untouched. Now, however, with your wine in hand, you stood at a crossroads. You could go into the room and potentially face the wrath of your father, James, and George Barnes, or you could live forever curious as to what was actually being discussed. 

With your mind made up, you down your wine, step around James, and head through the open door into the room. It’s a study with dark wood paneling on the walls, leather couches, and stale cigar smoke in the air. As soon as you enter, the laughter and conversation stop and all eyes land on you.

“Y/N, you should be with Winnie and your mother,” Mr. Barnes says, stepping towards you. James is behind you now and though you’re hedged in, you simply lift your chin at the older man.

“Why? Am I not allowed to know what family I’m marrying into?”

His face darkens. “Girl, I’m warning you—”

“Don’t speak to my wife like that.” James’ voice from over your shoulder startles you and you quickly turn your head, looking back at him with shock. 

Why is he suddenly standing up for me?

“Hold your tongue, James,” his father snaps. “You aren’t married yet, and Y/N needs to learn her place. One would think her father would have taught her better, considering the problems his wife caused.”

Though you hate your parents for what they’ve done to you, your blood boils at the insult. Your anger rears its ugly head even more when you realize that your father doesn’t look intent on standing up for you or your mom, either.

“That’s enough!”

You swear the room rattles around you when James shouts and you grit your teeth, furious at Mr. Barnes. How dare he insult your father? How dare he talk to you and his son that way?

James grabbing your hand shocks you back into reality. Once again, his grip is almost painfully tight, but you force your face to reveal nothing.

“Y/N and I are going out. If I so much as hear that you’ve said a single thing about her in my absence, you will regret ever giving me any kind of power in this business,” he growls. “The next time you see her, I expect that you’ll treat her with the respect she deserves.” 

The men stare at you and James in disbelief, and then you find yourself being practically dragged out of the room. You’re too stunned to fight back, so you let him pull you across the ground floor of the estate to a door only two down from the dark room where you’d hit the morning your parents had left you behind.

“We’ll have to take the car, unless you’re okay riding the bike in that dress,” James says, pushing open the door. He doesn’t look back at you as he speaks, and it takes you a second to realize he wants a response.

“Car,” you answer after a few seconds. “Please.”

The room James has led you to is a massive garage, stretching farther than you ever realized a similar room could. Three of the walls are made of light gray cement, as are the floor and ceiling, and the fourth wall is made up of windowed garage doors, each one big enough for several cars to drive through simultaneously. Running down the center of the rectangular garage, there is a row of seven parked cars, with enough space to fit at least another car between each one, and beyond that, you can see a row of several motorcycles parked in a similar manner. The cars are in varying shades of gray and black, with the exception of one red sports car at the far end of the group. You can’t see the bikes well enough from the door, but you catch glimpses of blue, silver, gray, and black.

Four enormous, black and silver tool chests are lined up against the wall facing the hoods of the cars, but there isn’t a spot of oil or dirt in sight. You don’t even see any loose tools or equipment. Looking around, you wonder if the tool chests are just there for decoration, or if someone on the estate actually works on the cars and motorcycles.

Maybe James works on them?

“Are all of these yours?” you ask, unable to help yourself. He seems like the kind of guy who would enjoy driving around for fun, and he’s just mentioned something about a bike. You stare at the side of James’ face as he plucks a set of keys off a black pegboard on the wall. There’s a button embedded in the wall beside the board. James pushes it with one thumb and the keys in his hand bump against the wall.

One of the garage doors near the last few cars starts to roll upwards onto the ceiling, revealing the outside of the estate. The sun has completely disappeared from the sky, and the moonlight is blocked by the clouds you’d seen rolling in earlier in the afternoon. The leaves of the large shade trees that surround the estate and form a protective shield from the outside world rustle in the wind. Crickets and cicadas chirp, reminding you of the cool spring nights you’d spent on your family estate as a little girl. You’d run around in the grass near the garden while your mom or your nanny watched you. Sometimes your father’s men would watch from the perimeter of the property, and when you’d wave, they’d wave back, asking what you’d done that day. You always answered them, even if you knew it would get you in trouble. They never stopped asking either, even if it got them in trouble, too.

You stop walking and close your eyes, then breathe in deeply as the night air rushes into the garage. It’s the first time you’ve been even close to the outdoors since arriving at the Barnes Estate. Your skin is still warm from the stifling dining room and the anger you’d felt in the men’s study. The breeze is a blessed relief, even if you do shiver after only a moment. Goosebumps form on your exposed skin—the dress Marta had picked out for you did little to keep you safe from the elements. 

James keeps walking down the aisle formed by the wall and the front of the cars, though you hear his footsteps pause a few moments after you stop following him. 

“Are you okay?” he asks.

You’re a little surprised that he’s not demanding that you catch up. When you open your eyes, you immediately meet his gaze, and a weird feeling bubbles up in your stomach. The expression on his face betrays little, but his stare reminds you of the way your father’s men looked at you all those years ago—interested and almost fond, but ready to push you away at a moment’s notice. You nod and hurry to catch up with him.

Once you get closer, James presses a button on the key fob in his hand. One of the cars in front of the open garage door rumbles to life. The sound it makes is a low purr, almost seductive, and you raise an eyebrow as James approaches, then runs his fingers over the hood. Even if the others aren’t, this car has to be his. It’s a sleek black, with dark tinted windows and a gleaming silver grill in the front. The BMW logo shines proudly in the center. It looks like a car your own father would own. Though you know he’s never owned a BMW, if this car is anything like the ones in your father’s fleet, you know that the inside will be as much a picture of luxury as the outside.

You slide into the passenger seat when James opens the door for you, and in the time it takes him to cross around the front of the car to the driver’s side, you take inventory of the interior. It’s a manual transmission—something your father once said was obsolete, except for car collectors and enthusiasts—which means that you wouldn’t be able to drive it, even if you tried. The car is pristine, so much so that you’re afraid to move. Two water bottles are in the cupholders, and it still smells brand new inside. There isn’t a speck of dirt or dust on the dashboard, nor on the floor mats. The leather seat is soft and there’s a control for seat warming and cooling on the control panel.

James climbs into the driver’s seat and shuts the door. He buckles up and you follow his lead, and then you sit back as he reverses the car out of the garage and onto a winding driveway that leads you around the front of the estate, then along the other side to a large gate with a guard house. You’d forgotten about the extensive security since the last time you’d been outside the Barnes Estate. Your father had handed over your driver’s license, along with his and your mother’s, before breakfast all those weeks ago, and there’d been a strange code word of some kind. It dawns on you as the guard opens the gate for you and James that you’d never gotten your license back.

“Where are we going?” you ask as James pulls onto the main road. It leads away from the estate and into the city. 

“To get some real food,” he replies. His tone is gruff, and it feels like he’s on the verge of an angry outburst, so you slump back in your seat as he shifts gears and the car accelerates. The tension in the car is thick. You don’t want to be the one to deal with it, especially since he’s the one creating it.

After several minutes of watching the enormous mansions and the forests surrounding them pass by, you look over at James again. His expression, just like in the garage, reveals nothing, but you can tell that he’s more put-together than the last time you’d interacted, and it’s not just the tailored suit. His hair has been trimmed and styled, and he has an even dusting of stubble that frames his jawline nicely.

In the time since you’d learned you were engaged, James hasn’t said anything to you. You’ve heard him talking in the hallways as you wandered, but you haven’t wanted to be near him. This is the closest you’ve ever been. Your brief conversations so far tonight make up the majority of the words you’ve spoken to each other. His words from the bedroom echo in your head, until finally, you can’t help but blurt out your thoughts.

“Do you really not want to marry me?” you ask. Your voice sounds small and pathetic, and you hate it, but it’s too late now. 

He glances over at you with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the gear shift. “What do you mean?”

You sit up a little in the seat, though you keep your hands in your lap and you try not to move your feet, just in case there’s dirt on your shoes.

“I mean,” you say, watching him carefully for his reaction, “that when you came to get me upstairs, you said you didn’t want to marry me. Is that really true?”

“I never said that.” He shifts gears again as you near a stoplight, and the car slows. 

“Yes, you did.”

“No,” he shifts again, his teeth now clenched, “I didn’t. I asked if it looked like I wanted to marry you, and you said it didn’t. But I never said I didn’t want to.”

Now you’re confused, and you frown at him, ignoring the obvious irritation in his voice. The car rolls to a stop behind a Ferrari blasting music out the open windows. 

“So you do want to marry me?” you ask. 

He sighs and drops his hand from the gear shift, then looks over at you. “Y/N, I’m not going to pressure you into anything you don’t want to do, so if this is you testing to see how I’ll treat you, then you have nothing to worry about. I’m not a monster.”

“It’s not. I just…” You stop, unsure of how to phrase what you’re feeling. It’s strange to be upset over a marriage you don’t even want, but for some reason, you are. 

“What?”

“If you don’t want to marry me and I don’t want to marry you, then why are we going along with this?” you finally ask, settling for the bigger question than the one that’s truly nagging at you.

“Because we know that if we don’t, life will be hell,” he answers.

It’s the truth. You know it is, and you know it deep down. If the two of you refuse this marriage, your life will be worse than you could possibly imagine, and you’re fairly certain that your fathers will find a way to make it happen anyhow. They’re well-connected in every sphere of life, not just when it comes to drugs and weapons. Your father probably has a priest on his payroll.

The light turns green and James moves the car forward again, merging into the right lane almost immediately. He slows as you approach a valet stand outside an upscale bar you’ve never heard of. It’s not one of your father’s, which means it probably belongs to George Barnes.

Then again, you think as a uniformed man opens your door, maybe it belongs to James.

“It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Barnes,” a valet on the other side of the car greets.

James hands him the keys. “You too, Tommy. Listen, don’t park it too far off. We’re not staying too long.”

The man nods and climbs into the driver’s seat as your own valet leads you away from the curb. James meets you next to the valet stand and offers you his arm, then heads towards the doors.

“What is this place?” you ask as he holds open the door for you.

“My friend’s bar,” James says.

Your stomach twists itself in knots as heavy club music starts to get louder. The bass rumbles in your chest and you dig your nails into his arm as you near a set of glossy black double doors. You haven’t been to a club in a long time. The last time you’d gone, you’d been dragged by a childhood acquaintance, but you’d spent most of the night alone after she’d ditched you for someone she met on the dance floor. You’re not particularly eager to relive that experience tonight, especially with the man you’re being forced to marry. Who’s to say he won’t ditch you for someone else right in front of you, just to rub it in your face? After all, he’d said it himself in the bedroom—you’ll do what you want and he’ll do what he wants. It’s the cards you’ve been dealt.

If these are the cards, then I’ve got a sucky hand.

“James—”

“Bucky.”

You stop and squint at him in the low light of the entrance hallway. The two bouncers in all-black suits stop with their hands on the door handles, ready to open them for you once you start walking again. The music pounds in your ears, so much so that you can feel your eardrums vibrating.

“What?” you ask, not sure you’d heard him correctly.

“Bucky,” repeats James, a little louder this time. “You should call me Bucky, if we’re going to be married.”

“Is that… a nickname?” 

Even in the darkness, you can see him laugh, and a bashful, boyish smile spreads across his face. “My middle name is Buchanan. Steve used to tease me about it when we were kids, and he started calling me Bucky as a joke. It caught on.” He shrugs it off, but there’s a fondness in his voice when he speaks of his childhood friend, and it makes you smile just a little.

You loosen your grip on his arm. “Okay then. Bucky,” you add.

When Bucky steps forward again, the doors are pulled open, revealing a much more casual bar than you could’ve anticipated. Though it’s clean, it looks a little run down, and the heavy music fades into jazz piano as you step through the open doorway and into the large, open space. With almost cathedral-height ceilings, walnut floors and support pillars, and well-worn wooden booths and tables, the bar feels more homier than you’d expected. It’s clearly been well-hidden from the busy crowds of New York. Only a few patrons are scattered around the room, sitting in the booths or at two-top tables, but Bucky leads you to the wood, u-shaped bar that juts out into the room from the back wall. A single man stands behind it, drying glasses with a white bar towel. He smiles when he looks up and sees you approaching.

“Bucky,” he greets, and he reaches over the bar to pull Bucky in for a hug. It’s the first time you see Bucky smile—a real, full, genuine smile—and you watch in silence as he hugs his friend.

“Steve,” Bucky replies. Instantly, your brain starts connecting the dots. This is his childhood friend, the one who gave him his nickname.

“Tá sé go maith tú a fheiceáil.” Steve turns his attention to you, and you quickly look away from Bucky and at him. Your brain whirs as you try to place the language he’s just spoken. It’s not one you’ve heard before, which means none of your father’s men speak it, and neither do any of the Barneses.

“You must be Y/N.”

You nod and offer Steve a small, polite smile. You’re not sure how to act around Bucky’s friends. If they’re also part of the mob, it’s possible they’ll treat you even worse than George Barnes had after dinner, but a new, surprising voice in your head argues that Bucky would never be friends with someone like that.

“It’s okay,” reassures Bucky. He reaches out and touches your arm, gentler than he has all evening. “Steve’s a nice guy, and he knows about our family businesses. You can trust him.”

Steve looks between the two of you before picking up a glass and setting it right-side-up in front of you. “What’ll it be, Y/N?”

You glance at him, then at the wall of liquor behind him. After a moment, you list off a drink that’s not your favorite, but that you know you’ll be able to stomach no matter the circumstances. Steve nods in response before starting to make it.

Silently, Bucky takes one of the chairs at the bar, and you do the same. He sits with his arms folded on the counter. He’s still wearing his suit from dinner. You feel a little out of place in your fancy clothes, and you wonder if he feels the same.

Your drink is placed in front of you a moment later, and after Steve’s silent prompting, you take a sip. It’s delicious, and you can’t help but smile at him.

“Aha, I’ve still got it!” Steve cheers, and you laugh. He grins at you, a charming type of smile that makes your heart flutter in your chest. You feel a little sheepish at the intensity of his joy, and you fidget in your seat, then with your hair.

Beside you, Bucky rolls his eyes and tosses a round paper coaster at his friend. “Knock it off, Rogers,” he huffs. “Stop flirting with my girl. You’ve already got one of your own.”

You glance over when he calls you that, but you don’t say anything. There’s another weird feeling in your gut now. This one, unlike the one you’d had in the car or the fluttering feeling Steve had given you, you recognize immediately—pride. It feels good to have Bucky call you “his girl”, even if you barely know him. It’s strange, and the thought makes you squirm in your seat again. You drop your hand down to the bartop and take another sip of your drink, trying to quell the strange feelings inside of you. 

What is going on with me? Why can’t I just feel normal about all of this? Is there even a normal way to feel about this?

“You hungry?” asks Bucky, and you nod when you realize he’s talking to you again.

“I make a mean twice-baked potato,” Steve says. He plants his hands on the bar to look between the two of you. “Whaddaya say, Y/N? You up for it?”

“Only if you put the jalapeños on the side this time, punk,” Bucky tells him before you can reply. He seems to remember himself a second later, however, because he looks over at you. “Unless, of course, you want them on top.”

You shrug, not wanting to upset anyone, and Steve groans.

“Come on, Y/N,” he says, and he smiles wide as he gestures around the almost-empty bar. “I’ve got all the time in the world to make your food exactly the way you want it. Don’t make me guess.”

“He’s bad at guessing,” Bucky chimes in.

“Terrible,” Steve adds, nodding earnestly.

Tentatively, you list off what you want, and Steve makes a note of everything on a notepad that seems to appear out of nowhere. Once he’s got your order down, he disappears through a door in the back wall. Before it closes, you catch a glimpse of a shining kitchen filled with stainless steel, and you wonder how many patrons come through the bar if Steve has what looks to be a full-sized kitchen in the back.

“You didn’t eat much at dinner, so I figured I’d bring you someplace that actually has good food,” Bucky says. He reaches across the bar to grab a bottle of beer Steve has left out, and he uses one hand to pry the top off. 

You gape at him, too distracted by the blatant show of strength to properly process the very thoughtful thing he’s just said to you. “What?”

“I said that you didn’t eat much at dinner, so I figured—”

“You just pulled the top off like it was nothing. How did you do that?” You look around on Steve’s side of the bar for another bottle, hoping to try your luck. Maybe it’s some new kind of bottle that he’s trying out before it hits the market, or maybe Steve has bootleg beer with a different kind of cap.

Bucky is staring at you, seemingly just as confused as you. “With my arm.”

“With your arm?” you repeat. You’re certain that he’d used his hand to pry it off.

He stares at you for a second longer before the confusion disappears and is replaced with a glint of mischief in his eyes. It makes the shadows on his face melt away a little, and his blue irises seem bright and youthful again, entirely unlike a man who’s seen too much.

“My arm,” he reiterates, and then he pulls off the black glove you’d assumed to be part of his personal style. It’s not just for show, however, because he pulls it off to reveal a black metal hand with dull gold knuckles. Bucky continues, standing and shrugging off his jacket, then rolling up the sleeve of his button-down shirt. As he reveals more and more, you realize that the black metal continues, making up what would be his left arm.

No wonder it hurt when he grabbed me.

“It’s metal,” you dumbly say, and he snorts.

“Observant.”

You shake your head and look from his arm to meet his eyes. “You have a metal arm. How didn’t I know that?”

Bucky shrugs and drapes his jacket over the back of the chair. He leaves the glove on the bar where he’d first set it down. Once he’s seated again, he rolls up his other sleeve to match.

“Beats me. I figured everyone knew. My dad wasn’t subtle when he was bragging about the arm he had made for me when it first happened,” replies Bucky. He takes a sip of his beer, then sighs and sets it back down.

You don’t want to pity him, so you try your best to school your expression by taking a sip of your own drink.

“Was it an accident?” you ask after a minute has passed. He doesn’t reply right away, and you scramble to save the conversation. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

He shakes his head. “It’s okay. It was a long time ago.”

“How old were you?”

“Seventeen,” he says, and his voice is quieter than before.

You look back down at the drink in front of you. Twisting the glass around and around, you ask, “And it was an accident?”

Bucky takes another swig of his beer. “I was with my dad, working a job. I didn’t even realize I’d been injured until I woke up in the hospital, two weeks later, missing an arm. Apparently, falling shipping containers are heavy.”

You can’t help but curse. What he’s describing sounds horrible, but Bucky only laughs.

“That sounds about right, yeah. I’m lucky I had Steve around to keep me sane,” he tells you. “My friend Sam was a big help too, but he moved down to Louisiana a few years ago.”

“Steve seems like a good friend,” you agree. “They both do.”

You can feel Bucky staring at you now, and you take a sip of your drink while you wait for him to look away again. When he doesn’t, you glance in his direction.

“What?” you ask.

“What?”

“Why are you staring at me?”

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are!” you laugh, and you look at him fully this time. Bucky’s grinning, and you ball up a cocktail napkin and toss it at him.

“Okay, I was staring,” he admits, still smiling. “But I can’t help it. You’re pretty, and you’re nice, and you seem smart.”

You feel your cheeks grow warm at the compliment, and you look away. “You don’t have to say that. We’re already engaged.”

“I’m not saying it because we’re engaged. I’m saying it because it’s true.”

You don’t have a chance to reply before Steve comes out with two hot plates. He places them in front of you, joking briefly about giving you the wrong order, and it’s distraction enough that you sit up tall and smile wide. You push Bucky’s compliment out of your head as you chow down, groaning and moaning about the potatoes. They’re exactly what you need after the stressful dinner. Bucky was right—you hadn’t eaten much, and Steve’s cooking is delicious.

Once you’re full, you push your plate away and lean back in your chair. Steve grins at you before he goes back to counting the cash drawer. The other patrons have left already, leaving you, Steve, and Bucky alone in the bar.

“That was amazing,” you tell him for the hundredth time, and Steve chuckles.

“Thank you. I’ll be sure to tell mo bhean chéile—my wife—you said that, considering she still believes potatoes aren’t a meal.”

You notice the wedding band on his left hand as soon as he says it. Above it, also in silver, is a familiar ring. If you weren’t able to see the family crest, you would’ve thought it was the same as Bucky’s, but this ring has an eagle and a star engraved on it, rather than the wolf you’ve seen on Rebecca and Bucky’s rings.

“Potatoes are a meal!” you argue. You can tell that Steve has clocked you looking at his rings because he shifts his hand, instinctively blocking your view as he looks for your own ring. You’d taken your parent’s ring off the day you’d cried in the bathtub and you haven’t worn it since, but no one in Bucky’s family has replaced it with their own. It’s the first time since middle school that you haven’t worn a family ring, and you’d be lying if you said it was a weight off your shoulders. You’d thought it might be, but instead it just makes you feel naked.

Steve laughs and his posture relaxes. He stops hiding his rings from you when he realizes your hands are bare. “Well, whenever you meet her, you can have that argument with her, because I’ve already had it at least a dozen times.” He closes the drawer and fixes his eyes on Bucky, who’s just finishing his food. “Speaking of, when are you two coming over? I promised Peg I’d wait until Y/N had settled in to ask, and you seem settled enough to me.” He glances at you for the last part, and you look down at your empty plate.

“It’s not up to me,” answers Bucky. “We’ll come over whenever Y/N is ready. This is the first time we’ve been together since my dad dropped the bomb on us.”

Steve pauses, his hands on the tablet he’d set down before starting to count the night’s profits. “Wait. Really?”

You nod when he looks at you, suddenly self-conscious again, and you pull your hands into your lap. “I haven’t been the best house guest…”

“You’re not a guest, Y/N. It’s your home now, too,” Bucky interjects.

Reaching over the counter, Steve smacks the side of Bucky’s head. His accent is thick when he huffs, “Íosa Críost, you thick! You didn’t think to go talk to her? To see if she wanted to watch a movie? To see if she needed anything?”

Bucky stammers over in his seat, and you keep your head ducked to hide your smile. Clearly, Steve knows more about being married than Bucky does—most likely from experience, since he’s already mentioned his wife—and he isn’t afraid to tell his friend off for not looking out for your well-being.

“I’m sorry!” exclaims Bucky, ducking another hit. “I wasn’t thinking!”

“Like ifreann you weren’t!” Steve retreats and picks up the tablet with a huff, then looks at you. “Y/N, I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with him. He’s actually a nice guy when he’s not being stupid.”

“Stupid?” Bucky protests beside you.

“I wouldn’t have talked to him even if he’d tried,” you admit, finally looking up, “but it wouldn’t have hurt if he had.”

Steve nods, satisfied with your response. He leaves you a minute later when his phone rings. The wide smile on his face is enough to tell you who’s on the other end, but then he says her name as he walks away, the phone already held to his ear.

“So what’s with this place?” you ask. The quick change in subject is purposeful, and you hope that Bucky will take the bait.

Thankfully, he does. Bucky glances around before finishing off the last of his drink and setting the empty bottle closer to Steve’s side of the bar.

“Well, Steve wanted a place that we—and other people like us—could spend time without feeling like there was always a fight about to happen. We didn’t have that growing up, you know? And now that he’s in charge, he can do what he wants with his money. Everything’s filed properly, he doesn’t advertise, and all employees are paid above the table. If other people show up, then sure, they’re welcomed in, but they’re also fully vetted once Steve gets their IDs. Weapons aren’t allowed, and there’s no shop talk of any kind.”

“So it’s your little hideaway,” you say, propping your head up with one hand. The heaviness of the potatoes combined with the alcohol is starting to make you sleepy, and the emotional exhaustion from the night has started to weigh heavy on you, too.

He smiles a little. “Something like that.”

Bucky stands and rolls his sleeves back down, then pulls on his glove. He pulls a wad of cash out of his pocket and sets it on the bar.

“Come on, doll. We should head home,” he says.

The warm feeling you’d felt when Bucky had called you his girl comes back, and you smile a little when he holds open his suit jacket for you. A little sheepish at the gesture, you slide off your seat and let him help you into the sleeves, then take Bucky’s hand when he offers it.

“Bye Steve!” you call, waving with your free hand.

Steve looks up from the other end of the bar, where he’s wiping down a counter with one hand and holding his phone with the other. He lets go of the rag to wave back.

Silently, Bucky leads you out to the front, where the valet already has his car pulled up. You’re not sure how they knew to have it ready, but you don’t dwell on it. Stranger things have happened in your world. Bucky tips the valets with another wad of cash before opening the passenger door and helping you in.

You fall asleep on the drive home. You don’t mean to, but Bucky turns on the radio a few minutes into the drive, and he lets the first station that comes on continue to play. The music is soft, and he drives so smoothly that it lulls you to sleep before you’re even fully out of the city.

When you wake, it’s because Bucky’s stubbed his toe on something, jostling you in his arms. He’s muttering curses under his breath and hobbling down the hallway, and though the jerking motion and his tightening grip isn’t the most comfortable for you at the moment, you keep your eyes closed and force yourself to keep your smile at bay. Bucky is a much sweeter guy than you’d first thought him to be, and it seems like he’s trying now to make up for lost time. You’d misjudged him at first; just like you, he has his own ways of dealing with the life forced on him by his parents, but he really is a gentleman underneath it all.

He carries you to your bedroom and carefully lays you on top of the covers. Then, as gently as possible, you feel him lift your foot and pry off the uncomfortable shoes Marta had picked out for you. Bucky stays totally silent as he takes the shoes off and sets them on the floor at the end of the bed. He pulls a thin blanket over you, one that you’re sure is just for decoration when the bed is made, and presses a kiss to the side of your head. You have to force yourself not to smile when he whispers,

“Goodnight, sleep tight.”

The door clicks shut as he closes it slowly, and you peek open an eye after a few seconds have passed. Your room is dark and empty. Silently, you smile to yourself and crawl under the covers, your eyes heavy. It’s been a long, exhausting evening, and you’re happy to be in bed. You fall asleep to the sound of spring rain on the estate windows and with Bucky’s jacket still wrapped around you.

Over the next few weeks, Bucky slowly enters your life in both big and small ways. He smiles at you over meals in the dining room and late night snacks in the kitchen. He drives you to the city to visit Steve, Peggy, and his other friends, and when he finds out that his father still has your license, Bucky argues with him for over an hour to get it back. Marta delivers your license to your room the very next day, along with a handwritten note that the dark blue Mercedes in the garage is there for your use. Sometimes, you wake up to a bouquet of flowers with another handwritten note. Sometimes it’s a text, and sometimes it’s a gift. Bucky develops a habit of purchasing anything you mention enjoying or even vaguely liking, and you eventually have to tell him to stop because he’s bought you so much that there’s nothing left to buy for yourself.

Bucky turns out to be a closer friend than anyone you’ve ever known. He’s kind, and funny, and intelligent, and he remembers all the little things about you that nobody else does. When you’re sick or feeling lonely, he’s attentive and his presence alone reminds you of all the good things in the world. He makes your days brighter, even the worst ones. You find yourself falling in love with him, much to your surprise. You admit this to him one day. He kisses you then, and he tells you that he’s been in love with you since the first trip you’d taken to Steve’s bar. 

Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas roll around. New Year’s, Valentine’s Day, and Easter come and go. The Barnes’ grand celebrations for every holiday blur together as the months fly by, until eventually, it’s June and you’re standing in your room, staring at your reflection in the full-length mirror.

The wedding dress you’d picked out a few days after Christmas is just as beautiful as you remember it being. It fits you perfectly, thanks to the impeccable work of several tailors employed by Winnifred, and your hair and makeup are flawless as well. There’s no possible way you could’ve imagined how beautiful you look and feel on your wedding day. 

Through the open window, you can hear a string quartet playing outside in the rose garden, where the ceremony is set up. Steve has already come by once to check on you at Bucky’s request, but both men are back downstairs. Bucky’s no doubt at the front of the garden with the priest—the one that you now know for certain is on your father’s payroll—and Steve is waiting with the rest of the wedding party. The only people remaining in your room are Marta, your mother, and Peggy. 

You’ve grown to love Peggy more than any of your childhood friends. She didn’t grow up in the same world as you. She didn’t even grow up in the same country, and you love her all the more for it. She’s rational, cool-headed, and kind, though she’s not afraid to stand up for what’s right. On top of all that, she’s drop-dead gorgeous. It’s easy to see why Steve fell for her during his time in the military.

The quartet finishes the song and moves onto a new one, one that you recognize after only two notes. Your stomach drops and you close your eyes, gripping your bouquet tightly. It’s the song you’d been listening to the morning you’d found out about your engagement. You’d discovered it the night before, and you’d had it on repeat before going to sleep that night, then again that morning as you’d gotten ready. You’d even listened to it in the car on the drive from your parents’ estate.

Who added this to the playlist? Is this some kind of sick joke to them?

The same feeling of dread you’d felt that morning comes back, making your mouth dry and your head spin. You try to take a slow, deep breath to calm your nerves and block out the song, but it doesn’t work.

“Y/N?” Peggy asks.

You inhale sharply at the sound of her voice so close to you. She’d been texting Steve from near the window only moments before. You hadn’t thought that anyone would realize your distress, and you’d hoped to be able to collect yourself before it was noticeable. You hadn’t even sensed her coming closer.

“Y/N, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you tell her, but your voice wavers and your lower lip quivers. You try to take another slow breath.

“What’s going on?” Marta asks. Her hand lands on your arm and you pull away, closing in yourself and pulling the bouquet tight against you.

Your mother’s scolding makes you feel like you’re a little kid again. “Careful, Y/N! You don’t want to ruin those flowers. We don’t have time to make another bouquet for you. George is already hounding your father about how soon after the ceremony you’ll be signing the certificate.”

Anger wells up in you at her thoughtless comment, and you open your eyes. She’s standing behind you in the main part of the bedroom, near the foot of your bed. Any guilt you might’ve felt over ruining the flowers is gone now, and you turn and chuck the bouquet at the carpet by her feet. It bounces once, then lays motionless in a heap of smashed petals and ribbons.

“Enough, Mother!” you shout.

Marta rushes to close the window so the guests in the garden won’t hear your outburst.

Your mother gapes at you, somewhat surprised, but she doesn’t budge. “Y/N, dear. What are you doing?”

“What am I doing?” you yell, stepping closer. Your dress swishes as you walk, and you normally enjoy the sound, but you’re too furious to care how pleasing it is. “What are you doing? I am your only daughter! You should be treating me like a princess and worrying about how I’m feeling and what I need, but instead you’re too busy thinking about the damn flowers! I’m sick of you thinking of me like I’m an object you can sell, steal, and trade away whenever it’s most convenient! You and Dad are so obsessed with the timeline you’ve created for yourselves that you don’t even notice how much this has affected me! You didn’t even ask if this is what I wanted!”

She scoffs at you, and any trace of motherly care and concern has disappeared from her expression. Your mother is showing her true face—the mafia wife that has almost as much blood on her own hands as her husband does, if not more.

“It’s too late for that now, isn’t it?” she asks. She picks up her clutch from the end of your bed and steps closer until you're standing eye to eye. Her voice is patronizing and infuriating, and she continues, “It’s your wedding day, dearest, and you can’t back out now. We’ve made sure of it. Even James has agreed to the contract.” 

Your anger wavers. “Contract?”

“Yes, the contract,” she repeats, smirking. Her cards are all on the table now, and she’s got a winning hand. You both know it.

There’s a malicious glint in her eye as she says, “It’s already in effect. It has been since we agreed on the marriage.”

“What contract? What are you talking about?” There’s a sinking feeling in your chest, like your heart has decided to drop into your stomach, then down to your feet and through the floor. Bucky hadn’t said anything to you about a contract, and you trusted him, but you certainly didn’t trust your parents anymore, nor did you trust George and Winnifred Barnes.

Your mother smiles, a sickeningly sweet smile that makes you want to puke. “That’s a conversation for another time. After all, it doesn’t even matter to you until James gets you pregnant.”

The alarm on your phone rings and you close your eyes, your hands trembling. You’d set that alarm to remind you when it was time to leave for the ceremony. Right on cue, the wedding planner knocks on the door to your bedroom.

“Y/N?” she calls, knocking again. “Are you ready?”

Slowly, you squat down and pick up the bouquet. It’s smashed on one side and the petals have fallen off of various flowers, but it’s mostly intact. It shakes as your hands tremble and tears well up in your eyes.

Marta appears in front of you, having pushed your mother out of the way, and over the ringing in your ears, you hear Peggy talking to the wedding planner. Somehow, you make it out to the ground floor of the estate, to the double doors that lead out to the rose garden. You’re dazed by your mother’s strange revelation. The sound of the alarm is still ringing in your ears. Peggy says something to you, but you can only stare straight ahead. 

Your father is next to you then, as Peggy disappears through the doors and joins the rest of the wedding party. You see her glancing back at you, and whispering to the rest of the groomsmen and bridesmaids. Most of them are Bucky’s friends who have now become your own, and all of them look worried. 

“Let’s go, princess,” your father says, and he pulls you forward by the arm.

Numbly, you follow his lead. Not even Bucky’s initially delighted expression shakes you out of your trance, but the way he rubs his thumb over your hands at the end of the aisle pulls you out of it just enough for you to lift your head and look around. You don’t remember walking to him, nor do you remember handing off your bouquet to Peggy, just like you’d practiced last night at the rehearsal.

“Y/N? Darling?” Bucky asks. He crouches and tilts his head slightly to try to catch your eyes. “You okay?”

“I—” Your mouth is still dry and you swallow, your eyes flitting from one place in the garden to another with no rhyme or reason. The world feels like it’s spinning and you clutch Bucky’s hands, unsure of what to do.

“Someone get her a chair,” Bucky orders, raising his voice enough that you flinch. He immediately starts murmuring reassurances to you, and he pulls you into his arms until he can lower you into a seat.

Someone fans you and a cool glass is pressed to your lips. You drink obediently, closing your eyes as the water helps the sandy feeling in your mouth abate just a little. When the water is gone, the glass is pulled away. 

“Y/N, can you hear me?” Bucky asks. 

Slowly, carefully, you nod your head. He sighs in relief and when you open your eyes, he’s kneeling down in front of you. His shoulders are tense and his forehead is creased with worry. You’ve never seen him this stressed over anything and it makes you want to cry.

“I’m sorry,” you croak, heat flaming in your cheeks. You feel horrible. Bucky has been looking forward to the ceremony—he’d told you last night at the rehearsal dinner.

“It’s okay,” he quickly replies. He reaches forward and takes your hands, and you glance away from him to peek at the guests, your parents included, who are still watching you from their seats.

“Are you ready for this, or do you need a break?” 

You look back at Bucky. “A break?”

“She’s fine,” your mother says, and you look over at her from your seat. She’s standing in the front row, her eyes fixated on the priest behind you. “They’re fine, Father. Y/N’s been a bit nervous all morning. Wedding day jitters, you know.”

“I—” You frown at her, still clutching Bucky’s hands. “That’s not what it is.” You look down at him and shake your head. “I’m not nervous to marry you.”

“I’m not nervous either,” he says with a small smile. 

“Then shall we continue?” the priest asks.

You turn to shake your head at him. “No. I’m sorry, Father. I need to talk to Bucky—James—in private for just a minute. Is that alright?”

He smiles gently and nods. “Of course.”

There are more agitated murmurs from the crowd, but you ignore them as Peggy, Steve, and Bucky help you up and back down the aisle. When your mother moves to follow you, she’s blocked by Sam and Clint, another one of Bucky’s friends. She calls after you once, but you ignore her as Peggy helps you onto a bench inside, then leaves, closing the double doors behind herself. She’s handed back your bouquet, and you clutch it with both hands like it’s an anchor in the storm.

“Is everything okay?” Bucky asks. He stands near the door, and you can tell from the way he rolls his shoulders that he’s stressed. His prosthetic always bothers him more when he’s agitated, and you suddenly feel even worse about stopping the ceremony.

“Yes,” you say, but then you shake your head. “No, I’m sorry. Obviously, it’s not, or I wouldn’t have stopped everything. I’m sorry, Bucky, but I have to ask you something.”

“Okay…” There’s a wariness in his eyes, one that you loathe yourself for. You put it there, and you wish with all your might that your mother hadn’t told you what she did. Maybe then you wouldn’t have had to do this.

“Did you sign a contract? With our parents?”

He frowns and his whole body grows very still. “A contract?”

You nod. “Yes.” With your hands still fisted tightly around the bouquet, you inhale deeply and add, “A contract about getting me pregnant.”

“What?” Bucky’s furious response is immediate. He shakes his head, his eyes searching your face for any sign that you might be making this up. “Y/N, what are you talking about?”

“Did you sign a contract agreeing to marry me, and agreeing that my parents get something after you get me pregnant?” The words make you sick to your stomach. You haven’t eaten anything all day, which doesn’t help, but the thought of Bucky agreeing to something so vile… It’s enough to make anyone nauseous.

He’s shaking his head at you again. “Why the hell would I sign anything like that? Do you really think I would do that?”

You shrug a little and look down at the bouquet. “My mother…”

“Darling…” Bucky sighs and comes closer, and he kneels down in front of you again, just like he had outside. All the fight and anger has left his voice. “I would never do anything like that. Not in a million years, and especially not to you. I love you.”

“She said you signed it before they’d even told me we were engaged,” you said, quiet now that he’s so close. You’re afraid to look him in the eye, to see what his face might be telling you that his words aren’t.

“Can you look at me? Please?”

Reluctantly, you lift your eyes from the flowers in your lap to meet Bucky’s eyes. They’re just as blue as the ribbons wrapped around the flower stems, a choice you’d specifically made without the wedding planner’s guidance. You’d wanted him to be your “something blue”, even if it felt a little cheesy.

“Do you want to marry me?” Bucky asks.

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod. “Yes.”

“Do you believe me when I say I had nothing to do with that contract? That I didn’t know it existed?” he questions.

You nod again, tears forming in your eyes.

“And do you trust me to help you find a way to get rid of it, once all of this is over? Do you trust me to protect you?”

You nod for the third time, and Bucky takes both of your hands in his.

“Okay. Then let’s get married, and I swear to you that as soon as our honeymoon is over, the guys and I will start doing some digging.”

“What about me?” you ask, sniffling. You pull one of your hands away to dab at your eyes before the makeup can get too damaged by your tears.

“What about you?”

“Can I dig, too?”

Bucky chuckles and kisses your knuckles on the hand that he’s holding, and then he pulls himself up off the floor to sit beside you on the bench. He pulls you into a half-hug and you cling to him, sniffling and smiling as he rubs the your back and answers,

“You can do all the digging you want, doll. I’ll even hand you the shovel.”

Tá sé go maith tú a fheiceáil. = It’s good to see you.

Mo bhean chéile = My wife

Íosa Críost = Jesus Christ

Thick = A stupid person

Ifreann = Hell

Thank you for reading! If you liked this, please consider reblogging my work so that others can enjoy it too.

I do not consent to have my work posted, translated, or published to any third party site or app. If anyone sees my work anywhere other than my personal tumblr, Patreon, or ao3 accounts, it has been reposted without my permission.

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Forever: @aya-fay

Bucky Barnes: @lipstickandvibranium @valhalla-kristin @buckymcbuckbarnes

[novemberheart]

{overview} Just because your pack is back together doesn’t mean things are back to normal

{warnings} fem reader, a/b/o dynamics, poly141, cursing, mentions of being scared, smoking, short chapter

Chapter 30 <- Chapter 31 -> Chapter 32

“Hi, Ms. Garrick,” you greeted. You heard her chuckle on the other end of the phone.

“Well hello, lovely,” she greeted back. You smiled at the similarities between their pet names for you. She had gotten your number from John after Kyles accident. She called you leaving the kindest message in your inbox.

Hello, Sweetheart. Now you don't know me, but my name is Rosalind Garrick, Kyle’s mother. But don't think that just because you don't know me, I know nothing about you. You’re all Kyle talks about anymore and I’m just so happy he's finally able to get some peace amongst his chaos. I know how hard this all must be for you so if you ever need anyone to talk to please reach out to me. As far as I'm concerned you’re a part of our pack and we want to make sure you are taken care of.

Alright, sweetheart. Talk to you soon.

Since then you've called her every few days, mostly to give her updates about Kyle.

“How’s our beta doing?” she asked.

“He’s been doing good. Started to get up and walk with crutches. He's stubborn and restless,” you grumbled. As if on cue, the beta trudged out of his room, heading towards the kitchen.

“That’s the man I know,” she chuckled.

“Hey, mum,” Kyle greeted from the kitchen. You bounded over, hoisting yourself up onto the counter.

“The next time you all go on leave I want you to come home,” She pressed. You grinned wickedly, agreeing before the words had even reached Kyle’s ears. “I’ve only met Johnny. Now it’s a crime I haven't met your alphas yet, and I'm not going to let you get away with me not meeting your omega. In-person,” she added.

“Sounds right to me,” you agreed. That's why she loved you.

“You’ll love the city. Did Kyle tell you about all the museums? I know you love those.”

Kyle did tell her about you.

“We can work that out,” Kyle agreed. He did want to go home, and he desperately wanted to share that part of himself with you. You and Ms. Garrick both squealed excitedly.

“Can I talk to you about something?” you asked. He stiffened immediately, his mind jumping to the worst.

Had he hurt you again?

Your hands smoothed over his shoulder, your bottom resting against his knee. His relax was instantaneous. He leaned forward, his forehead resting against yours.

“I was wondering if I could get a job?” you said slowly. It wasn't slow enough with the way the wheels in his mind were turning.

“Why? Something you need? It’s my job”-

“No, nothing like that. It’s more social than anything.” you interjected. “I’ll be with Anais and Jane. It’s at a new bakery a little off base. It's just a few hours on Fridays and the weekend,” you explained.

He wanted to shut it down. You were social enough. Before Kyle was hurt you had activities nearly every day. Sometimes it felt like you did more in a day than they did.

Yet the look in your eyes halted him. You had forgiven him- he could feel it. The last thing he wanted to do was disappoint you after just making up.

“Alright,” he agreed. You gasped softly, a wide grin spreading over your face. It made him happy despite the feeling of something wrong clawing at him.

“Thank you!” you cheered, your lips colliding with his cheek.

“One of us will take you to work the first week. Then you girls can commute together. And you are never to go off on your own, you understand?” he urged. You hummed against his cheek. “And I need to meet your boss- and anyone else who’s working there,” he added, between your attacks.

You were just about to head to your room, when a strong arm wrapped around your middle. You recognized a familiar tattoo.

“Tavy,” you giggled. He said nothing, heading to his room.

“Seems like you've forgotten it’s my night, bonbon,” he teased, tossing you on his bed. He crawled over you, making you flush.

“I could never forget,” you lied, blinking up at him. He smirked down at you, completely still for a moment before pressing rapid-fire kisses against your cheek.

You squealed as his hands tickled up and down your sides.

“Mac, no!” you gasped out. “I was just getting tired,” you whined against him. He paused, his smirk pressing against yours.

“Alright, peaches,” he agreed. He wrapped an arm tightly around you, purring softly as you buried your face in his chest. Cinnamon mixed with some of your vanilla lotion he had stolen.

“Simon comes home tomorrow,” you sighed happily. Johnny hummed, a pleased rumble leaving his throat. “I thought you and John would be gone longer,” you yawned.

“So did we,” he yawned back. He said nothing more on the topic, yet you didn't expect him to.

When you woke up you were no longer trapped between him and the bed, but him and another body. Leather with an undertone of black licorice. There was more smoke in his scent than you were used to. He must have been smoking a lot. A purr vibrated through you, making his chestnut eyes flutter open.

“What’re you purring about?” Simon groaned, pushing the two of you closer to Johnny. He was playing dumb. You could feel the curl of his lips against the back of your head.

“You’re back,” you said weakly, your throat hoarse with sleep.

“I’m back,” he affirmed. His hand found your stomach rubbing small circles in an attempt to lull you back to sleep. He wasn't ready to get up yet. He had just gotten home an hour ago and the last thing he wanted to do was pull himself away from the warmth of this bed. “Go back to sleep, pup,” he urged. You didn't need much more convincing, your eyes practically sewing themselves shut.

“Welcome home,” Johnny grumbled, with half-lidded eyes.

“Thanks, pup,” Simon mumbled, his fingers digging into the Scots side, pulling all of you closer once more. That wasn't usual for Simon, needing to have his pack this close, especially after a mission. Something must’ve happened.

“You alright?” Johnny drawled, unburying his face from your neck. Simon hummed in assurance.

“Fine, mutt,” he soothed. “Get some sleep,” he pressed, his fingers racking up and down Johnny’s lower back.

The next time Simon woke he had a fever. It was hot enough to make you and Johnny wake up in a sweat. Johnny quickly grabbed you, plopping you on the couch next to Kyle- assuming you may have triggered a rut for Simon like you had for John.

“What’s happening?” John groaned, uncurling himself from Kyle on the couch.

“Fever,” you responded. Kyle's hand pressed against your forehead. “Simon,” you clarified, moving to stand so you could peek into Johnny’s room. “I don't think it’s a rut Johnny,” you mumbled.

“I’m fine,” Simon groaned. He peeled off his sweatshirt, flopping back down against the mattress. His wide chest rose and fell irregularly. You approached your hand resting on his stomach. His body seemed to relax slightly, and you decided to take the chance and curl up against him. His heartbeat was fast- too fast.

“I’m calling a doctor,” John pressed, gently maneuvering Kyle off of him. Simon flipped the two of you over, making you gasp. Johnny flung forward his hand gripping the alpha’s shoulder.

“Not gonna do anything, pup,” he mumbled, his heart squeezing at the sound that escaped you. “Need to feel ya,” he mumbled, just low enough for you to hear. His hand crept under your shirt resting against the soft skin of your back.

He couldn't explain it. It started two weeks ago, a light burning sensation under his skin, and an almost sour feeling in his mouth. It felt like he was going through withdrawals. He was shaky, his heart skipping beats. He went through two packs of cigarettes in a day and still no relief. Wasn't till he met you at the hospital after Kyle’s accident did he start to put it together. Yet it only got worse being around you.

He growled against your neck, clenching his jaw so hard his teeth creaked.

“Doctor’ll be here in fifteen,” John spoke, his shoulder taking up the doorway. “How long have you felt this way?” John pressed.

“Couple weeks,” he growled. A pang shot through his skull, he steadied himself over you, taking a deep breath. It only made it worse, yet he couldn't pull himself away. Johnny leaned against the desk causing it to creak, the sound sending Simon on high alert. You whined at the snarl that left him. “Sorry,” he apologized instantly.

“Sweetheart, how about we wait on the couch till the doctor gets here?” John offered, beginning to move towards the two of you. He didn't like the way Simon was acting. The sound that came out of Simon was deadly, making it known he disagreed with Johns suggestion. John released a sound of his own.

You were scared.

It didn't help when Simon's hand reached behind him, grabbing at John's shirt.

“What the hell?” Johnny growled. Johnny sprung into action, his arms reaching under Simons pulling him to the floor.

“Get out!” John commanded. You didn't need to be told twice, throwing yourself off the bed, curling up behind Kyle. Kyle held you with both arms, not caring about the uncomfortable stretch of his shoulder.

“Up we go,” Kyle pressed, grabbing his crutch and leading you into your room. He locked the door behind the both of you, cradling you against him as you shook.

You could hear them.

Cursing. The sound of someone being slammed against the wall. Growling. Shouting. Things breaking.

The smell of angry alpha began to seep under the door.

“Kyle,” you whimpered. He shushed you softly, his lips pressed against your hairline.

It suddenly went quiet.

Hi friends! See you in three days for chapter 32! 🧡🙌🏻

[darnell-la]

can i request older logan with reader who’s a crybaby… reader who cries over little things and older logan who can’t help but get hard and coddle her. wiping away tears during sex!!!

note: older Logan wouldn’t take y/n’s crying session seriously. Usually, they’d all be because of work, something he’s told her a thousand times he didn’t want her to do, so a part of him didn’t care. Instead, he loved how much she cried, taking advantage of it whenever he could.

———

“How was work today, Bub?” Logan asked, eyes glued to the newspaper he had picked up in front of the door earlier this morning. Y/n hadn’t said anything. She tried thinking of what exactly she should say, but he had spoken first.

“Bub? What up?” Logan asked, eyes looking over his reading glasses as she slipped off her shoes and hung her things up. “I-I — You know,” y/n said, but Logan in fact did not know.

“I know what?” He asked, setting his paper aside as he felt something wrong with her. “Work today — It was just exhausting,” she said as she went into the kitchen to grab a glass of any alcohol Logan bought for himself, and she drank occasionally.

“What happened?” Logan asked as she got up, listening closely to her story of the day. The more she talked, the more cracks he heard in her house.

“A-And the boss said maybe he’d fire me if I kept snapping back at the customers, but they always start it! Every day, it’s the same s-shit!”

“Baby, baby,” Logan said as he came up behind the young lady before she could pick up the glass she had just filled. “Don’t need you drinkin’ your problems away. It ain’t good for you,”

“I know, but — I just need something, Logan. This is so stressful,” she said as he turned her around to take a look at her face, and like he knew it, she was crying. Eyes glossy and puffy as always.

“Baby,” Logan tilted his head with a sigh, upset that she’s always stressed and taking in everything people say to her. He wished she could just move on with life, and stay happy with a big smile.

“Look at me, Bub,” Logan said as he lifted her head after she tried turning her head. “You need to relax — Stop letting these people get to your head,” Logan said as he wiped her tears.

“I know, but-“ y/n tried saying, but the man shushed her. “Don’t speak, Bub, just relax. And no drinking either,” Logan said as he moved the glass she filled to the side.

“You’re too pretty to be cryin’ all the time, baby,” Logan said as his faves nuzzled hers. “I-It’s just so much,” y/n cried as his hands rubbed her body, trying to calm her down a bit.

“I know, baby, and what did I tell you? Told you I’d take that easy lumberjack job, right? Get us double what an average human man could make workin’ for ‘em and put that money towards our cabin,” Logan reminded her.

“Baby, I don’t want you to work though,” y/n said as his hands tracked up her shirt. “And why can’t I? I’m the man, and you’re my pretty girl. I’m tired of being a housewife. That’s your job, or at least let me do it all. You can relax the rest of your pretty life,” Logan said in the crook of her neck.

“You’re gonna take my offer, bub. Ian askin,” Logan’s hand dug into her jeans to rub at her cunt until she squealed. “I-I don’t know,” she still cried, upset at herself for being this sensitive and also hit by the instant pleasure Logan was giving her.

“What did I say, baby? This ain’t askin,” Logan said before he ripped y/n’s jeans off of her. She gasped as he picked her up and placed her on the counter, spreading her legs as he pulled himself out of his jeans.

“You should be waitin’ at home for him to come back and give it up. Not the other way around, baby,”

Logan pushed into the weeping girl, making her hands fly up to grip shi shoulder. “Logan,” y/n sobbed, feeling his cock run through her walls in all of the right ways. He always made her forget why she cried in the first place.

“Ssh, baby — Just enjoy me. Cunts beggin’ for it,” Logan said as he cupped her face, wiping all of the tears that streamed down her face. “Mhm hmm,” he groaned as his free arm hooked under one of her legs to get a good new angle to pound her in.

“L-Lo,” y/n cried out, loving the way his body smacked against hers. “That’s it, baby — Let it all out,” Logan pulled her into his body, pounding so hard, that the countertop began shifting.

“Cry on my cock, baby — Look so good like this. So fuckin’ good,” Logan couldn’t lie as his eyes could barely stay open and tears still streamed from them. He was Jauch a crybaby, but his crybaby.