#Does NOT look good in the middle of the night | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

maruflix · 3 days ago

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I WOKE UP AS THE VILLAINESS OF A REVERSE HAREM GAME, BUT WHY ARE THE MALE LEADS OBSESSED ?!! #variouscharacters #windbreaker #f!reader

Here’s the bad news: you died, and there’s no good news. You somehow woke up in the universe of a reverse harem game you played before dying... as the villainess. You’ve planned on ignoring the damned romance routes and live an easy life, but...?! / REQ.

feat. sakura, suo, kaji, umemiya, togame, endo, takiishi　　⎯⎯　wc. 3.2k

notes. thank you for this request... honestly i expanded on it on my own lmao this is so self indulgent and so fun to write don’t take this too seriously (& please ignore any grammatical errors i’m sleep deprived and i reread this like 20 times aha)

content: female reader, royalty!au, kingdom!au, transmigration!au, reverse harem, all the wind breaker boys are infatuated with the reader, slight crackfic?, honestly this is more comedy than romance, no beta we die like my eyes after finishing a revenge regression cultivation martial arts manhua in one night

Death does not come to you quietly.

It is loud, fast, and whirls in without warning on top of eight spinning wheels, driven by a middle-aged man who’s too drunk to notice an unfortunate pedestrian trying to get back to her apartment after a long exhausting day of work.

You heard the crash first before registering that it was in fact you who were lying on the street, the frantic screams from the crowd slowly growing fainter.

Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Your heartbeat is like thunder but you do not know how to calm it.

The last thing you see before your vision goes dark is the faint glow of your phone, still stuck on the game you’ve been playing for a few weeks now. Wind Breaker: All Routes Lead to Doom!

Oh, what a shame— now there’s no way for you to know the ending.

“.... up....”

Huh?

“Wake up...... you? I promise....”

Though heavy, your eyelids flutter open weakly. An unfamiliar ceiling greets you first, then the mop of black hair.

“Uh...” you wanted to ask the person where you are, but your throat feels like sandpaper. Luckily, just one tiny voice from you is enough to catch his attention. His head immediately snaps up, revealing beautiful heterochromatic eyes.

“Y-you’re awake...!”

Why is this person so familiar, you wonder. Still, that thought is the least of your worries when you feel like you’ve been hit by a truck.

“Anyone! She’s awake!”

Wait...

Maids and butlers come flooding in from the double doors, followed closely by a frantic doctor that looks like he came straight out of a period drama, and the realization hits you harder than the truck that just killed you—

You’ve been transmigrated into the world of your reverse harem game.

Two weeks has passed since then.

After shutting yourself in your room, you’ve started to come into terms with the reality of your new life. Not even the relentless coaxing from your fiancé can get you to come out, so everyone resorts to taking turns waiting outside your room.

You place the paper down, satisfied with your notes.

“Are you there? Please...”

Haruka’s muffled voice that comes from behind your bedroom door is getting harder to ignore. You huff in exhaustion. You’re certain that this is the world of your game, so why is his character so different?

The door swings open, revealing Haruka’s shocked face. You feel a bit annoyed since you didn’t really like his character trope in the first place. A cheater who falls in love with the female lead and gets into a relationship with her without breaking his engagement off until the very last second. Un-recyclable trash.

But...

You swear you see traces of tears in his eyes when Haruka’s hands shoot forward, only to stop midway. He looks unsure, scared of offending you.

“H-how are you feeling? You took... quite a fall.”

“I’m fine.” your reply is curt as you study him. Well, he does look a lot more handsome in person. Dressed in his ducal house colors of black, his heterochromatic eyes pop in stark contrast.

“I-I’m sorry I.. I wasn’t there for you when you needed me. I was busy with the upcoming ball—”

“Let’s break off the engagement.”

He should be happy; after all, he stood you up to go on a date with the female lead and there’s no benefit in involving yourself with one of the male leads of the game.

But when you look up, expecting to see him smile and thank you for allowing him to be with his true love, you see tears streaming down Haruka’s eyes.

“Wha-”

He wipes his tears and storms off.

“Wait-” your remaining sentences dies in your throat as you watch him run away.

For a game, it sure feels real.

The dress you’re wearing is weighing your entire body down, you’re sure of it. Sighing, you readjust your necklace for maybe the tenth time that night, the coldness of the diamonds feeling more like chains that binds you down to this foreign world.

Sure, being transported into a game sounds fun and all, but no one ever talks about how lonely and confusing it is. Still, you keep your back straight.

The crowd that originally flocked you has moved away to another part of the room, save for a certain brown-haired count. Suo Hayato is still standing next to you calmly, as if he hasn’t spend the whole week pestering you after he heard the news of your broken engagement.

“He’s staring at you again.” Hayato muses, twirling his wine glass.

Without him having to point it out, you’re aware of the stare that’s burning holes into you. Haruka plays the part of a heartbroken lover well, his eyes swollen despite his neat hair and clothes. He stands in the far corner of the room, his eyes transfixed on you.

“Well, I can’t control what he chooses to look at.”

Hayato laughs elegantly, then snakes an arm around your waist. “That’s true. How about we give him something to look at?”

Hayato smells amazing; you have to resist the blush that’s slowly creeping across your face. Feeling no resistance from you, he pulls you closer.

“Oh? Aren’t you going to resist me?” His voice is low, teasing. His face is getting closer and closer. He’s handsome and his charm is out of this world... as expected of one of the male leads.

Suddenly, the doors open with the butler announcing the arrival of tonight’s star. You jump in surprise, escaping Hayato’s grasp as you watch the white-haired crown prince makes his entrance.

Umemiya Hajime looks dazzling under the gleaming chandeliers.

White and gold suits him, you think to yourself in a daze as he spots you in the crowd and starts to make his way to you.

Wait, he starts to what?

He gets in front of you before your feet can carry you to the garden. “My lady, you look radiant tonight.” Hajime breathes out, a smile adorning his features.

His kind eyes calms your nerves.

“Your highness.” You curtsy, not knowing what else to say.

An outstretched hand comes into view. You look up to see Hajime smiling. “Will you do me the honor of having your first dance tonight?”

‘I just wanna go home...!!’

But how can you turn down the crown prince of the country? You let him guide you to the dance floor, followed by the envying eyes of the crowd. Crown Prince Hajime has his fans, but you have yours. The game makes sure that you’re the most eligible bachelorette in the kingdom, a goal that the player has to surpass.

“You dance very well.” Hajime’s face is calm but you can’t tell what he’s thinking.

“I’m flattered, your highness, but why did you suddenly...”

Hajime’s eyes twinkle and he spins you, catching you perfectly by the waist, “My reasons are quite shallow, I must admit. I thought you and Lord Haruka made a good match... or was I mistaken?”

You sigh. Having to recite your reason to everyone in high society is getting tiring. “As they say, you never know what goes on behind closed doors.”

The music rises in a crescendo and Hajime pulls you closer, his head tilted in amusement. “Is that so? Then the young duke must not know how to treat a lady.”

“Oh, and do you?” wanting nothing more than going home, you snap at him, — but he merely smiles and tilts his head — glaring at him in annoyance, “... know how to treat a lady?”

Hajime laughs, not taken aback in the slightest. “My lady, if you give me the permission to, I will not only treat you better than the young duke ever can..”

You shiver. Wait.. the game isn’t supposed to be like this—

His grayish blue eyes is mischievous when he leans down to whisper in your ear, “I can also make you the most noble lady in the kingdom.”

Since the dissolvement of your engagement and your dance with the crown prince at the founding day ball, more and more letters have been piling up on your desk. Invitations to tea parties, date invitations, even engagement requests from all the young aristocrats in the kingdom— you want to live an easy life, but your life is more eventful than it’s ever been!

To make matters worse, you’ve gotten yourself acquainted with the archmage and the commander of the knights during one of your outings to the royal library. Sneaking around to avoid the crown prince was hard enough, but you encountered two male characters instead!

“Hey, don’t you ever get tired of reading those books?” For the commander of the royal knights, Togame Jo sure has a lot of free time that he spends by irritating you.

Ren’s wind magic playfully flaps the pages of your book, gentle enough not to disturb you. “Stop bothering her and go away, knight.”

“Won’t it be better to go on a date with me instead?” Jo ignores your frown and starts to play with your hair.

These characters are not romanceable, but they won’t leave you alone!

“No, thanks. This book does the job of keeping me company very well.”

Ren has started creating small fireballs that flicker from the tips of his finger. “How do you feel about going to the empire? I heard there’s a magic tool being sold in the underground markets.”

“Are you serious?” You feel your face settling into an eternal deadpan.

Ren looks serious and mature on the outside but he says the most unreasonable nonsense. You suppose it’s the perk that comes with being the archmage, one of the strongest people in the continent.

Unluckily for you, although from a powerful ducal family, you’re still a lady of the high society— and a very popular one, at that. If you want to live a lavish life, you can’t shirk your duties.

“Sounds fun. Let’s go.”

“YOU’RE THE COMMANDER OF THE ROYAL KNIGHTS, FOR GOD’S SAKE!”

Jo blinks, then shrugs. “I can always take some time off and delegate my duties to Choji and Kota. I’m still a nobleman who deserves a holiday.”

“Oh, it’s so you to bring titles into this.”

“Wait, we’re seriously doing this?”

Jo sighs. “I don’t want to resort to this, but...” he gestures for you to come closer. You and Ren immediately lean in.

“I heard the crown prince is planning to officially ask for your hand in marriage.”

You slam your book shut, making the two men jump slightly in their seats.

“We’re going.”

For a game world, the scenery sure is breathtaking.

After traveling almost three days on a lavish carriage and seeing the gorgeous sights of the countryside, your small team has finally reached the neighboring empire.

Unlike the small scenic kingdom where you started playing, the empire is big and powerful. The empire has its clutches all the way to the northern and eastern continents, it’s a miracle it hasn’t tried to invade the tiny kingdom you call home.

This huge superpower empire is governed by none other than Takiishi Chika, the yandere type hidden character of the game. He’s the last character you’d want to cross paths with, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

You have better luck laying low in this humongous empire than back home with the ticking bomb that is Umemiya Hajime.

“You feeling okay?” Ren questions, brushing his hand against yours. His magic sizzles in the air and you immediately feel less dizzy.

“Thank you, I feel a lot better.” Your grateful smile makes him beam. Turning your head to locate Jo, you stumble slightly, only to hit your back on his broad chest. “Oh! There you are.”

Jo wraps an arm to steady you, then moves to grab your hand, pulling you with him. “You must be dizzy from hunger. Let’s go get something to eat.”

Ren is quick to follow, grumbling.

The three of you has gotten closer during the span of your journey. To your surprise, they are delightful to be around.

The weird thing is this: the closer you get, the more they seem to hate each other.

“Oh.. this is the worst idea... I’m really not supposed to be here...” Hastily pulling down your cloak to cover more of your face, you lean forward until your forehead makes contact with Ren’s back.

“It’s okay, we’re here to protect you. The underground markets are a sight to be seen.” Jo chuckles. It’s rare to see him without his uniform, but he looks handsome in his disguise.

“But..” you bite your lip, your mind racing. Now that you think about it, Endo Yamato’s character is not just an assassin, but also the king of the underworld. What if you accidentally meet him here? With your luck, you feel like it’s going to happen.

“Look! The auction is starting!” Very few things can get Ren excited— this rare magic tool is one of them. His hood almost fell down, revealing his stylish blond hair.

You quickly pull it down.

The auctioneer’s words are a blur in your ears; you‘re too busy observing your surroundings. You haven’t progressed this far in the game, so anything can happen at this point.

Suddenly, the hairs on the back of your neck stands up. The only thing you can think about is: someone is staring at you.

Whipping your head to the direction where you feel the sudden chill, you feel your heart sink to the bottom of your stomach. In the corner of the room, a black-haired man stands with his arms crossed in front of his chest, his eyes studying you intently. He smirks when you finally return his gaze.

Endo Yamato!

“We should go,” you tug at Jo’s sleeves.

“Huh? But the magic tool hasn’t even been brought out yet!” Ren protests.

“Is everything okay?”

Your head spins. “I- I have to go. Meet me outside later.”

Ren and Jo watches as you run out the room in confusion.

“She’s probably disturbed by the humid air here.” Ren is already focusing his attention back to the auction.

Jo is uncertain, his gaze still lingering at the door.

“Right... that should be it...”

The exit is getting closer and the corridors are getting emptier, most of the visitors already flocking at the auction downstairs.

You round the corner, feeling relief flood you... only to crash into the person you’ve been trying to avoid all this time.

“Oops! Why are you in such a hurry, miss?”

No, no-

“The auction’s just started. It’ll be a waste to leave now.”

No, not this guy-

“Oh, where are my manners? I’m Endo Yamato. What’s your name?”

Your breaths are getting shorter. This guy is bad news. He’s the character who kills the villainess in more than ten endings. Even in the crown prince’s route, he’s the one who kills the villainess—!

“Miss?” a finger tilts your chin upwards and your breath halts. Yamato is staring at you, his bangs falling down in front of his eyes. He’s gorgeous, but all you can think about is where he hides his dagger.

“I-I have to go.”

Yamato blinks. Before he can say anything, a guard appears from behind him and immediately registers your face.

“Hey! You’re the girl that came with the mage! You don’t have an invitation, you intruder!”

Stomach squeezing in panic, your eyes searches for an exit. But there are none: you can either try to outrun Yamato and the guard, or escape Yamato’s clutches and run back to the auction and hopefully exit this place in one piece with your two companions.

To your surprise, Yamato clicks his tongue. He spins around in his heel, surprising the guard with his identity.

“M-my lord!”

“Leave. Do you have a death wish?”

The guard’s eyes flits between you and Yamato, but he bows and does as he’s told without question.

That’s one thing taken care of. You feel slight relief.

“This is the first time I have such a pretty intruder.” Yamato laughs, shamelessly caressing the side of your face before twirling a strand of your hair, bringing it to his lips to plant a kiss on it, “You can intrude anytime.”

The butterflies you feel on your stomach— you don’t know if they’re from bashfulness or fear.

“However, as much as I’d love to have you all for myself..” he sighs, “I have a mission to do. Please forgive me.”

You’re about to ask him why he’s apologizing to you, but you feel a force coming into contact with the side of your neck and your world suddenly goes dark.

It smells foreign, unlike the fresh flowers that the maids usually puts in the vase by your bed.

Your eyes snap open, the memories of recent events flooding in. The empire. The auction. Yamato.

“Oh, you’re awake.”

Your captor has golden eyes and flaming red hair. Your kidnapper stands in the far back, smiling at you pleasantly.

No, no, no, no-

“Good. I can start the marriage preparations.”

Wait, the what?

“Who- where-”

“Don’t you remember me? Well, it’s okay even if you don’t. I’m not letting you go anytime soon.” Chika says as a matter of factly, gently scooping up your hand and kissing it softly.

YOU HAVEN’T PROGRESSED THIS FAR IN THE GAME. But it must be the childhood friend trope. Aren’t you the villainess...? Why would the villainess be childhood friends with the hidden character?

“You promised to share.” Yamato’s voice holds a tone of annoyance.

Chika ignores him.

“Wait! I-I’m the fiancé of the crown prince! I’m not even a citizen of this empire!” Lying through your teeth, you suppose it should be okay— Umemiya was planning on making you crown princess anyway, with the way he was speaking.

Chika raises an eyebrow, as if you just said something silly.

“Yes, I heard all about that.” Yamato groans, pushing himself off the wall to approach your bedside, “All that talk about ‘I’m going to make you the most noble lady in the kingdom’, right? Blech.”

Good, they can’t mess with you now. It became a matter between two countries, right? “T-That’s right! I’m just here on vacation before we hold our engagement ceremony!” More lies. You wince. You don’t even believe your own lie.

“So?”

The indifference in Chika’s tone sends chills down your spine.

“I will burn his puny kingdom to the ground and give the territory for you as a wedding present. Why would you want to be with him when I can make you the most noble lady in the whole continent?”

‘Oh, Gods— someone pull me away from this universe! The things they say are getting more and more nonsensical!’

“Before you do that, we need to deal with her companions.” Yamato places a hand on your pillow, smirking, “traveling before your engagement ceremony, huh? With two men who’s head over heels for you?”

“The archmage and the knight?” Chika starts, but you are having none of it.

“No bloodshed, please!”

Chika looks genuinely surprised at your outburst. He kisses your hand again, “Alright, I will do as you say. Please quell your anger, my empress.”

You look at Chika, who has an innocent expression on. Then to Yamato, still smiling pleasantly at you. If you go back to your kingdom, you risk being entangled with Hajime. There’s also your ex-fiancé Haruka who acts like a kicked puppy, and Hayato who won’t leave you alone. If you manage to escape the castle, Ren and Jo will no doubt come looking for you. For non-romanceable NPCs, they sure act like rivals in love.

You feel a headache incoming.

Time to draft new survival notes.

#maru writes...#wind breaker x reader #wind breaker (satoru nii)#wind breaker x you #wind breaker fluff #sakura haruka #sakura haruka x reader #suo hayato #suo hayato x reader #kaji ren #kaji ren x reader #umemiya hajime #umemiya hajime x reader #togame jo #togame jo x reader #endo yamato #endo yamato x reader #chika takiishi #chika takiishi x reader

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bluelillybooks · 2 days ago

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Missing In Action

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Word Count: 8.2

Summary: When Azriel doesn’t return from a mission on time, Y/n does her best to find him. (Sorry I’m no good at summaries)

Warning/Notes: Angst?????????? I don’t really know how to categorize my posts, but there is brutality and dark themes in this one (Death, kidnap etc.). So read at your own discretion, if there’s any warnings I need to add, please let me know. Hope you enjoy!!

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Time dragged slowly by, a dusting of moonlight peeking through the ornate windows that allowed for a beautiful view of Velaris. Homes and businesses alight with fae of all kinds, night had always been the best time of day to witness the beauty of Velaris. It was a view that, typically, Y/n would be in awe of, sitting in a comfortable lounge while reading her favorite romance novel and sipping a smooth chamomile draught.

A warm, calming way to spend each of her nights.

Tonight couldn’t be more different.

The room absorbed the light menacingly, devouring it whole and leaving nothing but cold, miserable darkness. The normally inviting aroma now sat heavy in her stomach, the chill of the room engraving itself into her bones. The last time she had been in here, Azriel had been with her– the first time in weeks she had allowed herself to be near him, to revel in his presence.

He had been trying to soothe her, finding her in a state of disarray from one of her more tragic reads. Tears streaming down her face, heavy breathing faltering when he reached out and tried to capture her tears with his thumbs, a task far more difficult than he had realized. If she hadn’t been so distraught, she may have noticed his incandescent gaze, and the slight tilt of his lips, as he tried desperately not to let her see his smile, looking on in wonder at a girl so emotionally fraught by fictional characters, that his shadows had woken him in the middle of the night to try and offer her comfort.

Tonight she paced the length of the room, her long silk robe chasing after her feet with each step, the uncoordinated way her body moved causing her to trip quite a few times. Her hands had run through her hair over and over again, eventually she had started pulling it out. The small pile, now clasped desperately in her hands, the only thing providing any sort of warmth to her frost-in-cased body.

Azriel was late.

He should have been home hours ago.

A few days ago, Rhys had received reports concerning dozens of Illyrian women and girls going missing in some of the smaller Illyrian camps nestled along the outskirts of the Steppes. Rhys had been especially concerned because Devlon, the War Lord of Windhaven– a larger Illyrian camp– had been the one to report the women as going missing. Ordinarily, the wretched male, who thought women belonged inside completing chores and bearing children, would never show an ounce of concern for the lives of a few women. But when women started disappearing in his camp, the man had finally decided to do some investigating, enlightening Rhys when he realized how big of an issue this had become.

The women had started disappearing three days prior to their meeting, there had been no information on their vanishings, no screams or witnesses to any acts. The camp would reawaken for their day, only to realize that family members, all women, had disappeared in groups of three sometime during the night. One group each night, nine total from Windhaven.

After the first night, Devlon had ordered even more of his men to stand guard, not that it made much difference–Illyrians were a warrior race, born and bred for fighting and protecting their kind– The added patrols and enforced curfews hadn’t changed anything, no one had seen anything. The women had been present before bed and then… poof, gone, as if they were never there at all. No bodies had been found, nothing to indicate foul-play.

Digging deeper, Devlon had somehow managed to find six other camps, small ones, that had the same issues going on, but for far longer. As far as the Inner Circle could track, the first disappearance had occurred four months prior, only one woman vanishing at a time. It seemed, the longer time went on without anyone connecting the dots, the more confident the culprits had become, eventually becoming efficient at kidnapping women in troves.

To say that Y/n’s heart felt like it had been carved out and skewered would be an understatement. How could they have not known about this? Sure, the smaller camps weren’t usually heard from all that often, only being visited on the rare occasions that something important had come up and needed to be addressed. Cassian visited all the camps, but there were so many, that sometimes it took months to get back to one’s he’s cleared. Not to mention Azriel’s spies, they did all sorts of things for the Spymaster, and she knew that he kept some in the War Camps to ensure that women were being properly trained.

But– in the past six months Azriel had been working more, with the threats of the Mortal Queens and Koschei, everyone had been working overtime, she supposed that perhaps, now had been the perfect time for these sick sadists to infiltrate, they were distracted, and had let things slip through the cracks so easily. Too easily, a menacing voice in the back of her head spat.

As Azriel’s second-in-command, a spy trained for two hundred years under his wing, she should have been more present, should have helped Cassian with his trips to the camps, she should have pushed, done something.

Y/n couldn’t stop the bile that rose to her throat, having only a moment to find the nearest potted plant before losing the contents of her stomach into the poor shrub.

Rhys had sent Cassian and Azriel to the camps immediately, the two leaving not more than thirty minutes after their meeting with Devlon had begun. She hadn’t been enlightened on the exact details of the mission, but she could make an educated guess based off of the years she’d worked with the Inner Circle. No doubt, Cassian and Azriel would split up, both men death-incarnate and capable of hitting more areas quicker, if not slowed down by having to visit one at a time. They would have had to question people, search nearby areas, look for anything that could give them some sort of lead. Devlon would stay and help in Windhaven, and Azriel and Cassian would each take three of the smaller camps, the latter traveling to the camps that had been hit first.

Cassian had come back earlier today, his face grave and sullen, but ultimately with no further information that could help with the women’s whereabouts or who had taken them. He had found out, however, that the camps he visited all had one thing in common: they all conformed to the order of having women train with little to no fuss. They were all camps that had a proactive approach to the change in the law. Devlon may have given Cassian and Rhys issues regarding the women training, but the past month, he had been on top of it, hadn’t been forcing women to complete ungodly amounts of chores before having mere minutes left for training.

Could this all stem from a group of people who truly despised the idea of women learning how to protect themselves, learning how to fight? Y/n knew they existed, had seen first hand how cruel men could be in the face of a well-trained female, someone who could put their disgusting and misogynistic views on full display for all to see.

Shaking her head, she tried to remain focused. Amren and Mor were working on the details, Nesta scrying for any information she may be able to find. Y/n had had the unfortunate task of holding down the fort at home, making sure that Nyx and the people of Velaris remained unharmed while everyone else did their best to put an end to this nightmare.

She hated having to stay behind while everyone else, all of her family, put their lives at risk, while those poor women could be injured and in need of help.

Things had really taken a turn for the worst when Cassian had returned, though, without Azriel. The Spymaster apparently never showed at their meeting location, Cassian waiting hours for him to no avail, he’d eventually reached out to Rhys, letting him know Azriel was MIA. The High Lord, worried about both of his brothers, had told Cassian to return home, that they would all reconvene to go over their next steps.

That’s where they are now. Rhys and Cassian heading the conversation, Feyre trying to soothe a devastated Nyx, the boy still too young to understand what was happening, but his instincts helping him sense the worry of those around him. Elain sat quietly in the corner, tears streaming down her beautiful face, hands clasped so tightly on her skirts the knuckles had turned white. Nesta scryed at the table, butting in every now and then with her thoughts on the conversation. Mor stood leaning over the scrying board, the space under her hands creaking as she tried to get more information from Cassian about his visits, fury a clear mask on the blonds face as she kept shooting looks over to Amren where she sat quietly at the end of the table, taking everything in.

Y/n stopped pacing, standing before the window, doing her best to calm her rushing pulse and her rapidly-growing lack of control.

Each tick of the grandfather clock seemed to be mocking her. Laughing at her each second that her friend remained missing. Somehow she had let Rhys and Feyre convince her that leaving in the middle of the night to try and find him wouldn’t do any good. Something about it being dangerous, she had stopped listening once she realized they wouldn’t allow her to go, trying to leave despite their qualms. It was only when she realized that the House of Wind agreed with them, slamming any doors she tried to go through in her face, that she had calmed herself down enough and just started panicking, instead.

Azriel always came home, he never missed check-ins or drop-offs, out of all of them, he had always been the most vigilant. So where the hell was he? Why hadn’t he contacted anyone? Not even a shadow had made itself known in the hours he’d been gone. In two hundred years, this had never happened. Azriel was her boss, her senior spy, the person she trusted most with her life, a family member she held so close to her heart, she had almost been able to convince herself he meant the same to her as all her other family members did. That somehow he didn’t hold her entire being in his hands without even knowing it. Anything to ensure the solidity of her place within his life.

He had never not contacted her if something went wrong, so where is he? Her mind screamed, and screamed, and screamed. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, everything swam around her, hitting her in every direction, not a singular thought being able to finish before the next knocked it from its place.

She grabbed at her scalp again, her eyes closing as a blinding pain shot through her chest, her skull, panic clawing up her throat like a beast finally being released after years of captivity, consuming all her senses.

Someone was screaming.

She thinks it might be her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Y/n had a secret.

One she had been trying to bury in the deepest crevice of her soul for months, to hide from her family, from him.

For years, she trained under Azriel, learning how to fight, how to lurk around corners, how to bleed into the background. He taught her how to gut a man without getting a lick of blood on her, and how to hit a moving target with so much force it knocked grown men clear off their feet.

One didn’t simply train under the terrifying Spymaster of the Night Court and not accomplish dangerous and difficult tasks. She was one of the best, good enough to be considered his second, a place amongst her family she had earned, and is grateful for.

Of course it helped that she had the ability to read and elicit emotions, an empath of sorts. She could visualize a person’s emotion and pluck it right out of them, she had been able to help people rid themselves of fears and anxieties, had been able to feed into the warming emotions that helped a person heal. On the opposite end, however, the side she honed so thoroughly, she could cut a grown man down with a simple flick of her wrist, sat a far scarier beast. One she rarely allowed to surface out of fear of falling victim to herself.

Rhys, Azriel, and Cassian had found her when she was twenty-two, beaten and left for dead on the edge of an embankment, clinging to life so loosely they hadn’t been sure she was even still alive until their fae hearing heard the faintest pulse. The roaring of the river nearly blinding them to the noise.

Rhysand hadn’t even taken a moment to consider bringing her back with them and helping her heal, allowing her safe sanctuary for however long she needed. He hadn’t expected anything from her. He was the first man to give her something without expecting anything in return.

After months of getting to know the much smaller Inner Circle and trusting Rhys enough to tell him about her abilities, he had offered her a job that she accepted with little to no other information. She could still remember the grin that had lit up her High Lord’s face, laughing about how he hadn’t even had a chance to tell her how much she’d be making. It hadn’t mattered, she’d wanted to prove herself to them, to these wonderful people who had helped her grow, and she would make the same choice over and over again.

So, when she found out about her mating bond with the Spymaster, it had complicated things. She hadn’t been surprised, she had actually thought they might be mates for long before the bond snapped. She had always felt a sense of security with Azriel, something that everyone else in her life had to earn, something that usually took months, if not years. But, with him it had always been as simple as believing him, as feeling like she knew him deep in her soul. Which, she supposed she did.

But, being Azriel’s mate complicated so many aspects of theirs and their families lives. For one, he’d been pining over Morrigan for centuries, ridiculously obvious for someone who called themselves a spymaster, but she digressed. Then, when he finally seemed to move on from her, Elain had entered the picture. Sweet, innocent Elain who liked speaking to plants and baking.

In all honesty, Y/n had mastered the art of acting like she didn’t care so effectively, that one day, Azriel stopped being her first thought in the morning, and the last one before she fell asleep. She had gained control of a beast that had run rampant for the first few decades of knowing him, something he had helped train her to do without realizing. To her, it had been worth more to keep their friendship and working relationship, than risk losing him all together because of a pitiful crush a young girl had on her mentor.

Everything had changed nine months ago, though. Apparently, she discovered, if you keep a beast chained long enough, it will eventually break free– and bite her right in the ass in the form of a mating bond.

Gods, the Mother certainly had a sense of humor.

Azriel had been sparring with Cassian the moment the bond snapped. She had found herself having to remind herself not to think about Azriel in any way other than a friend more frequently, as of late. Doing her best to avoid the male at any given moment.

So, when she noticed him in the training ring that morning, she tried to spin on her heel, intending to get as far away as possible. The absolute last thing she needed was to witness Azriel in his half-naked glory. Sweat and sunlight gleaming perfectly off of his skin, gaze alight with unfiltered arrogance as he pushed the General Commander closer and closer to the edge of the ring. His fist connected with Cassian’s face so swiftly, he had the male cursing at the crunch his nose made, doing his best to ignore the blood as it slithered down his face.

Y/n had stopped, only for a moment, but it was long enough for Azriel’s gaze to connect with hers, his eyes widening at the sight of her, the first time in weeks he had been able to get her to meet his gaze. And, unfortunately for the Spymaster and his second, that moment of distraction allowed Cassian to punch Azriel so hard he’d careened backwards, falling on his ass.

When Cassian’s fist made contact with Azriel’s face, the bond had snapped, her world completely tilting, her hand having to grasp the door’s frame to avoid falling on her ass like her mate. She had lost control of her breathing, fighting the instincts to go to him, to help him, to beat the hell out of Cassian for daring to lay a hand on her mate.

She could hear a ringing in her ears as the small golden thread had made its way from her heart to his, fighting against her hold on the door, as she did her best to keep her feet firmly planted where they were. She thought she might’ve heard her name being called, not daring to look back and see both men’s eyes on her shaking figure.

She had used her abilities then, and shoved her emotions down, down, down. She had planted them deep within her soul, far enough that she ran the risk of not being able to find them again, but it was a risk she had to take to get herself out of this moment without completely falling apart… or jumping Azriel. Or bashing Cassian’s teeth in.

For nine, agonizing months she kept this secret to herself, didn’t allow herself to think about it, held it far enough away that she had started questioning whether she imagined the entire thing.

Then she’d cross paths with the shadowsinger, something she never seemed to realize he tried so desperately to make happen, and it would all come rushing back. A cycle that kept repeating over and over again.

One that sucked the life from her each time it made a reappearance.

It didn’t matter how far she ran from her problems. They always seemed to catch up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Her head lay on something soft, voices surrounding her on all sides as she slowly came to.

“If nothings wrong with her, why was she screaming like that? Why did she pass out?” A steel voice demanded. Rhysand.

Gods, why did her head hurt so badly?

“She had a panic attack. It overwhelmed her body so much her mind took control when she couldn’t, it’s a safety mechanism built into all of us.”

“You didn’t hear her, Madja,” That sounded like Cassian, panic clear in his voice. She groaned inwardly, she hadn’t meant to add more stress to her family’s already full plates. She tried to sit up, but her body didn’t seem to be connected to her thoughts. “Her screams were so painful, I’ve never heard anyone scream that way.”

Madja sighed, her hands roving over Y/n’s arms, a warmth encasing the places she passed, making it hard for her to stay awake.

“Y/n isn’t like the rest of you, her abilities make it harder for her to separate her emotions from those around her. She feels things ten times more than the average fae, she can’t help it–it’s a part of her gifts. She has had episodes like this in the past, but she’s usually better at containing them, keeping them to herself so as to not worry you lot.”

The silence was deafening. Murmuring that she couldn’t make out floated above her, why were they speaking so low? It made it hard to eavesdrop.

Madja told the truth, this happened more than she cared to admit. It was difficult for her to read the emotions from those around her without mixing them around with her own, sometimes feeling like an outsider in her own body. She had gotten better at it with age and practice, but when in high-stress situations like this– her mate missing– she was basically a ticking-time bomb. It also didn’t help that she had been confined in a small space with eight people feeling varying degrees of intense emotions.

If she had been thinking more clearly, not so worried about what was happening, she would have noticed the signs. Her clammy hands, the cold that seemed to bite at her skin, the headache that seemed to thicken with every passing moment… her inability to breathe properly.

Yes, this had happened so, so many times. It never got easier.

And, she had kept this information from most of her family, not wanting to worry them, or make them feel like she needed to be taken care of. She knew they wouldn’t hold it against her, but that hadn’t changed the fact that she hadn’t wanted to feel dependent on them, or as if she were taking something from them by asking for help.

Azriel had known, though.

They had traveled together for centuries, completing hundreds of stress-inducing missions together. He always helped her through them, offering soft touches and kind words as he held her through the worst of it.

She felt tears stream down her face.

“Have you found him?” She asked quietly, breaking the silence.

Blinking her eyes open, she tried to sit up, her head spinning at the motion, nausea rising once more. A hand– who she could only assume was Madja– held her firmly down, a chastisement rolling off the older fae’s tongue.

Her family seemed to hold their breath, none quite sure how to respond, how to let her down, she guessed.

Rhysand is the one who finally spoke, ever the High Lord, “Not yet, we haven’t been able to get a good reading on him, and I can't reach him via his mind, his shields are firmly in place.” He paused, contemplated his next words, “Some of us are about to head out to search–”

Y/n sat up, ignoring the roaring in her skull, the pinpricks dancing along her vision, “I’m going.”

“Absolutely not,” Mor said, her worry evident in her voice. “You’re hardly in any state to be out there searching for something we don’t even know what is.”

“I don’t care,” she hissed, more venom in the words than she had ever used to speak to a member of her family. “He is out there, and I am not about to sit back and wait for information while my mate could be lying dead somewhere.”

She spoke without thinking, without realizing what she said. Standing up, shoving the dizziness down. “Madja said I’m fine physically, I can get my abilities under control for a few hours, I’m going.”

Her family all stared at her, mouths agape, the House finally seemed to agree with her, as if taking pity on the poor women. It laid leathers out for her to quickly change into.

“You know?” Cassian whispered, as she headed towards an empty room to change in, the three words stopping her in her tracks.

Rhys’s head snapped towards Cassian, disapproval written all over his features.

Oh gods.

She turned to face the male slowly, “What do you mean?” Her words were clipped, terrified of the meaning behind his words.

Cassian clamped his mouth shut, something burning beneath his gaze as he looked anywhere but at her.

“We can discuss that later, we need to hurry,” Rhys jumped in, shutting down the line of questioning entirely.

She wanted to push him, to make them tell her what they knew. But, he’s right, there were more important things going on. She couldn’t afford to be distracted.

She did not look back as she left, she’d be able to interrogate her family later, once everyone was home and safe.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Y/n searched deep within her for that thread she had discovered all the months ago. Dug and pulled and ripped pieces of her soul away until she found where it had been buried.

The golden thread had withered, since the last time she allowed herself to feel it, it’s once strong warmth now dull and frigid as she acknowledged it.

Please, I know I was selfish and ignored the bond you blessed me with, but– but I need to find him, and I may be the only person who can. Please, let this work.

She gave a silent prayer to the Mother, hoping that her plan would work, it was the only one they had.

She gave the thread an experimental tug, a small pull that she was sure wouldn’t rip the poor, desolate thing.

She didn’t feel anything.

Desperation frosted her soul.

Her eyes shut tight in concentration, she felt Feyre take her hand, a silent offer of support. They had decided that Y/n would pull on the bond, see if she could feel where it attached on the other end. Rhysand would occupy a space in her open shields so that the two of them could winnow wherever it led.

It took a few more tugs, Y/n feeling better about how hard she could pull on the bond. The longer she acknowledged it, the more it seemed to blossom with life, with a warming sensation lighting her chest.

Surely that meant he couldn’t be dead. It would be a cold, useless cord attached to her soul if that were the case.

She felt Rhysands talons scratch lightly across her mind, as if soothing her thoughts, being in her mind allowing him full access to her worries.

Then she felt it, a feeling that caused her to jolt forwards, her body falling forwards at the sudden intrusion within her chest, Rhysand barely managing to hold her still where they stood, his hand clasping her upper arm, ready to winnow them at a moment’s notice.

She had felt a tug.

Her gaze snapped to Rhys’s, her confusion evident… Did that mean he knew? That he felt the bond, too? Was that what Cassian had meant, that Azriel already knew of their bond? Did he not want it? Y/n’s thoughts raced around her head so quickly she felt Rhys tense, trying to keep her grounded, focused on the task at hand.

Try it one more time, Y/n, I should be able to follow his lead. Rhysand spoke in her mind, his voice effectively scattering her spiraling thoughts.

Caressing that bond once again, she tried sending her fear and worry down it, hoping if he realized how worried they all were, he’d have the courage to respond again.

Then, the world turned to stark darkness, her body held tightly against Rhys’s side as he winnowed them away.

Her feet landed on cold, hard ground. A twig snapping beneath her boots as Rhysand released her, making sure she was steady on her feet.

Taking in her surroundings, blades in hand, head more clear than it had been in days, she allowed her instincts to take over, to guide her.

The first thing she noticed was the smell. Blood and rot permeated the air, her nose involuntarily scrunching as it tried rejecting the acrid smell. The brutal cold soaked her skin, causing goosebumps to rise beneath her leathers, the warmth of the fur-lining doing little to keep out the bite of the harsh winters in the Illyrian Steppes.

Then her gaze locked on a large field, mounds of dirt and open holes scattered along the plot, and she swore– were those bodies lying next to some? Her hand came to cover her mouth, anger, fear, hatred all seizing within her body.

Where is Azriel?

Rhysand moved before she did, beelining for something she had yet to acknowledge. In the center of the field, the plots of unbound earth seeming to circle it–in an almost ritualistic way– stood an alter, an Illyrian male pinned to it, knifes displayed in his wings, the blades imbedded so deep in the wood that they had no trouble holding up the two hundred pound male. His cries of agony had sputtered off into small, near silent whimpers.

And stood before him, raging darkness swarming around him chaotically, stood Azriel. Truth-Teller in hand, blood covering every inch of his body.

Y/n moved without thinking, her mind chanting at her to get to him, to make sure he was okay. Why is he standing? He should be sitting down if he’d sustained major injuries. Why didn’t he seem to care that his safety mattered to his family?

Why hadn’t he told them where he was?

She tried to shut that voice out of her mind, she didn’t want to jump to conclusions, none of them knew what had happened to the Spymaster in the last three days. She could only imagine the horrors he’d witnessed. The way this would haunt him for years to come.

Finally, after what felt like hours, she and Rhys had both crossed the field, meeting Azriel in the middle.

The shadowsinger did not address them, some of his shadows coming to greet her, their usually warm nature towards her all but gone as they tried dragging her closer to their master, eating the distance between the two.

She knew Rhys had already begun speaking to his brother, trying to figure out what in the Mother’s name was going on here, how this had happened.

That didn’t stop her from stepping towards her mate, though. Making sure there were no other fae around but the three of them, and the bastard who hung before them. There were bodies scattered around, she closed her eyes briefly as she realized they were women. Illyrian women with their wings ripped off.

Vomit climbed up her throat, grief washing over her. Azriel’s head whipped in her direction, concern lining his features as he took her in, his gaze roving over her as if she had been the one missing in action for hours.

She could smell the blood on him, but thankfully, none of it seemed to belong to him. She took a breath, taking a step closer to her mate. He seemed to watch her like a hawk, as if one wrong move could send either of them fleeing in the opposite direction. Then he turned back to Rhys, a viscous look on his face.

“You brought her here?” He snarled, the first words she had heard him speak in days. Neither she or Rhys missed the accusatory tone laced with his exclamation.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, she does what she wants.”

“I’m right here,” she hissed, “And I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, you overgrown bats.” Irritated at how they were speaking about her as if she were incapable of defending herself.

They ignored her. Protective instincts seeming to lead Azriel’s words into battle.

“They are kidnapping and sacrificing women, Rhysand, and you brought her here. What if I didn’t have it under control, what if she got hurt, if they got ahold of her?” He demanded, the words flying out of his mouth like acid.

Truth-Teller remained in his scarred hand, slightly worrying over the safety of their High Lord, Y/n reached for him. Her hands met his, slowly peeling his fingers off the hilt one at a time. He tensed, turning to look at their hands. His death-grip on the blade made it nearly impossible, but as she set the weapon free from its confines she slid her fingers into his. Squeezing once, twice, three times, relaxing only slightly from the feel of his skin against hers. She didn’t care that his hands were covered in blood, standing next to him had been the only time today she felt any semblance of safety.

His eyes bore into hers, an anguished expression passing over his features quickly before his usual stoic, uncaring mask slid back into place. He turned back to Rhys, still intent on fighting about her as if she weren’t right here.

She rolled her eyes, focusing rather on their surroundings, keeping an eye out just in case.

At least he hadn’t let go of her hand.

Maybe he felt just as safe holding hers, as she did holding his.

She could allow herself to pretend that he was hers in this moment, even if only briefly. His hand tightened around her, pulling her slightly closer to him.

“She’s your second, and not once, in two hundred years has she ever needed to be coddled, why would that change now? Neither you or I would ever let anything happen to her,” The High Lord gave his Spymaster a meaningful look. “I couldn’t very well tell her no when she is the reason we could find you.”

Azriel swallowed, his back rigid, his shadows were surrounding her figure, covering every inch of her skin that they could reach, almost as if to hide her from the nightmare they were living in.

Rhys stepped forward, a pleading look in his eyes, as if begging for his brother to understand. “I was worried about you, brother. She was worried about you. It’s not fair to keep her from things, dangerous as they may be, to ease your peace of mind.”

She recognized some of his words. Reminiscent of something she had once told him when he’d kept the dangerous nature of Illyrian pregnancy in high fae women from Feyre.

She smiled at her High Lord, appreciation and love for her friend– her family– shining in her eyes.

Azriel’s gaze locked on hers once more, “Stop looking at him like that,” his teeth gritting together, “Please.” He ground the last word out, as if remembering to be respectful in his out of control male instincts.

She sighed, sending an apologetic glance to Rhys before scowling at Azriel. They were definitely going to have to talk about the bond now. She groaned.

Anger remained evident on Azriel’s face throughout the exchange, but–she knew it wasn’t aimed at her or Rhys–well, maybe a little towards their High Lord– She knew that he was angry with the situation with how far out of control this had become. Before he could open his mouth and piss her off further she spoke to him softly, but firmly.

“You’ve been missing for hours, Azriel. We have all been going out of our minds with worry, trying to get in touch with you. We didn’t know if you were alive or injured or safe. If I did that to you–” she couldn’t help the catch in her voice, eyes leaving his, his stare too intense.

“You would skin me alive, ban me from missions for– for forever, probably.” Head shaking, she had to take a step back, dropping his hand in the process. Maybe the extra space would allow her to gather herself. “I would have never done that to you. Especially knowing we’re–” A tortured sentence that she cut off, too scared to say the words aloud, or to him, at all. “I certainly wouldn’t stop you from entering a situation just because it’s dangerous.”

“You don’t understand–” He shook his head, his eyes pleading.

“Then explain it to me!”

She knew they shouldn’t be doing this here, that it would be far more appropriate to have this conversation in the safety of their home. And without an audience.

But, he had terrified her today, so much so that she had thrown all disregard out of the window, she had a panic attack that she was still feeling the effects of, despite her insistence on coming. She wanted answers, and she’d be damned if she waited until he could practice his responses, or quell the demons swarming from within him that made his filter disappear.

He looked away from her, a tick in his jaw as he searched for his patience, his words.

Rhys stood back, watching the male hanging from the altar with unwavering hatred. Y/n assumed he was using his Daemati powers to see if there were any survivors as his brows pinched in concentration, sweat lining his face. Trying to give them a bit of privacy.

“I am not upset that you are here because I don’t think you can protect yourself. I am not even upset that you are here, I know you can take down any threat that so much as breathes in your direction.” He took a long, dragging breath, his hands tightening at his sides. She could see how desperately he searched for what to say, the male wasn’t exactly known for explaining himself or his feelings.

“But, my brother who knows what you mean to me,” A sharp look pointed towards said brother, “who is worried about my safety, my life, didn’t stop to consider what would happen to me if anything were to happen to you,” he shook his head disbelievingly, landing softly against yours.

Understanding flashed across both Y/n and Rhysand’s faces, the latter no longer looking at his brother with irritation, but rather empathy. If anyone knew the struggles of mate bond, it would be him.

“Okay,” she said softly, a silent acceptance of his anger. She clasped his hands with hers, her eyes relaying that they would talk more about this later, when they weren’t surrounded by death.

Azriel bowed his head, a submission that signified his understanding of what she meant. His apology. She could feel his guilt, his sorrow for how the day had turned out. She tried to understand his thought process, tried to understand that he had probably been so caught up in putting an end to this and finding information out, that he hadn’t realized how much time had passed, hadn’t even thought his family may be worried for his safety.

Her eye twitched, just slightly. He never seemed to realize what his absence did to those who cared about him, always believing he was expendable, that his fate didn’t matter. It made her sick.

Finally offering an explanation, he loosened a breath, hair falling forward. His chin dipped, shame coating his features as he whispered, in a broken voice, “they’re all dead.” A despairing agreement from Rhys, the only response.

Y/n’s eyes shut tightly, her body tensing as what she already feared became a reality.

“They ripped their wings off in a sacrificial ceremony to the old pagan deities. Sixty-seven Illyrian women and girls, slaughtered because of these sadistic occultists,” he snarled the last words, aiming them towards the male that hung loosely before them, his breaths becoming slower and shallower the more time that passed.

So low that if they hadn’t had fae hearing they never would have been able to decipher his words, he spoke, “Our Gods need to feed just as yours do.” A terrifying, wet sounding laugh bubbling out of his throat.

Horror spilled into her, her fingers flexing against her own blades, willing her to carve this sorry excuse of a male to pieces and feed them to the monster who lived in the pit of the library.

Instead, she settled for eating his fear. She ignored the disapproving sound coming from Azriel as she took a step closer, wrapping her power around the fear the Spymaster had brought forth in this disgusting fae. She stroked and exploited that feeling, heightening it so abruptly that the front of his pants became coated in piss as he trembled. She watched as life began draining from his eyes, the strands of his hair rotting into a blistering white color as she ripped every happy and pleasant emotion from his being. Leaving him with nothing but a cold empty shell of fear, guilt, shame, hatred, and disgust. She wanted this male to die more than she had ever wanted anything, how dare he play God, taking these women from the safety of their homes and then justify their deaths with his religious fanaticism bullshit. She wanted to be the last thing he saw, pride taking over as he realized that he would meet his end at the hands of a woman, not the two males standing at attention behind her.

He began thrashing, cursing her until he finally ran out of breath.

“We need to get the others, we have a long day ahead of us.” Rhys said softly, anger behind his violet eyes for what his people had endured right under his thumb.

They would need to identify the women, and then return their remains to their families, set up proper barriels and commence funerals for each and every one.

Things would need to change, protocols put in place, and Y/n wanted to be leading those changes, wanted to be the one to ensure the safety of women within the Illyrian race, they had suffered for far too long at the hands of men. And, Y/n would do anything to ensure that something like this never happens again.

Rhys met her gaze, nodding his head in understanding and agreement. They would figure the details out later.

Dawn crested over the mountain side, the early morning rays of light making the devastation of this place all the more noticeable. It was then she noticed the mass grave set to the south of the field, it wasn’t filled with bodies, though.

No.

It was filled with wings.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two weeks had passed since that day in the Illyrian Mountains.

Days and nights blending together in a blur as the Inner Circle worked hard to smoothly put everything back in order. At least, as much as they were able to. Massacres like this weren’t easy to fix, especially when it came to reassuring their people that they were safe and could rely on the court officials who had let them down in so many ways.

Y/n had been so busy she hadn’t had a chance to see Azriel much the past few weeks, the spymaster busy with his own tasks for rebuilding. He and Cassian had been responsible for tracking down any members that hadn’t been present the night Azriel had found the women–using information he’d fileted out of the Illyrian male he’d kept alive.

He’d explained how he came to be in that clearing to them once he returned home, a dark, haunted look lingering behind his hazel eyes.

It had taken a day and a half for Azriel to find where the women had been taken. Following a lead from one of the young Illyrian women in one of the smaller camps. Her sister had gone missing along with two other women a few weeks prior to the Spymaster’s arrival. They had been playing in the woods when the young girl lost track of her sister, only to find her in a dazed state, a strange symbol drawn on the back of her neck in what looked like blood. Not able to get any information from her, the young women had made their way home. The next morning she had awoken to her mother’s frantic search for her eldest daughter.

The young girl had drawn the symbol for Azriel, she’d done her best to remember it after the weeks that had passed. His shadows scouring nearby areas for anything that resembled the symbol. They had come across the altar, calling for Azriel in an agitated state.

He hadn’t realized what he’d stumbled upon before he’d had to take action. He hadn’t had time to reach out to Cassian, making the decision to continue on alone, afraid that any time wasted would lead to more devastation. When he arrived, most of the women had already been killed. But, six or seven still remained, barely breathing from the days of torture they’d endured. Once the men responsible had realized the Spymaster of the Night Court had found them, they began slaughtering the remaining women ruthlessly, trying to stop any of them from getting out alive.

Az had killed seven of the men, ending their miserable lives too swiftly for his liking, but he had managed to keep one of them alive long enough to question him. Thoroughly. That was when Rhys and Y/n had found him.

She knew he blamed himself for the women who had died once he arrived, that their screams haunted him in the night. She had been swarmed by nightmares the past few weeks, a mix of his and her own. Unable to escape the hell that her subconscious locked her into each time the moon came out.

She hadn’t gotten much sleep the past fourteen days.

After six days of following leads and tracking the men down, both the Commander and Spymaster were positive that they had captured all of those who remained, now wasting space in the latter’s dungeons beneath the Hewn City where she had no doubt they’d receive far worse treatment than they’d ever been able to deal out.

Going over new laws and ordinances that Rhys, Feyre, Amren, and Y/n had worked religiously on the past few weeks, the war camps finally seemed to be finding their rhythm again, daily life going on as it once had.

They still had a lot of work to do, but they were making progress, and they had to take what victories they could, no matter how little.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

More weeks passed by, some so quickly she hardly noticed the growing chasm in her chest. Others passed slowly, as if her life were passing by her in slow motion, waving as it went. Leaving her behind without so much as a second glance.

Initially, she and Azriel hadn’t seen or spoken to each other because of how busy they’d been. But, work had slowed down marginally, allowing for the Inner Circle to breathe a little more freely, and Azriel still avoided her like she had the Illyrian flu.

If she passed him in the hallways he quickly dipped into his shadows before she could call out to him, he avoided her regular training times all together, and did his best to go on solo missions, claiming to Rhys he needed to remain focused.

His behavior was really starting to get on her nerves.

If he didn’t want this bond, then, as much as it would break her heart, she’d rather have him suck it up and just tell her. Dragging out a brutal crushing of souls just seemed cruel and unnecessary.

Stuck in some never ending limbo that she couldn’t seem to find the way out of. She’d tried tugging on the bond, only to be met with a cold, bitter resistance.

She still had no idea how long he’d known about it for, or how he’d found out, or why instead of telling her, he had told Rhysand and Cassian.

It’s not as if she were mad at him, she had kept the bond a secret, too. But, she had done it out of fear of losing someone who had never once shown romantic interest in her. She had done it out of fear of disrupting her family’s dynamic so wholly, they may never be the same.

She had always wanted the bond with Azriel. She would take the scraps off his plate if it was all he ever offered to her. There just hadn’t been a world in which she could imagine him ever loving her the way she loved him.

Now all of her fears were coming true the longer he avoided her. Their friendship might as well be in the can, he hadn’t spoken to her for weeks, and even before then there had only been a few times over the past nine months they’d interacted normally.

And, well, that had been her fault.

Y/n halted in her path to the library, stopping so swiftly, air kissed her cheeks and hair in a windowless hallway.

Azriel had only been avoiding her for five weeks. Before he had left for the Illyrian Mountains, he had always been around, chasing after her shadow in the light of day, looking for her in the crowds of people, always making it difficult for her to go more than a day without having some sort of contact with him.

He had wanted to be around her despite what, she now realized, was an infuriatingly annoying dance of avoidance she had subjected him to for months?

Gods, what was wrong with her? Who handles adult situations that way? How could she possibly have felt any justification in her anger towards him. He was only doing what she had done, and it had been for a significantly shorter amount of time. If anything, she deserved this.

Did he think that she hadn’t told him about the bond because she didn’t want it? Had he known about the bond for months like her, trying to figure out if it had snapped for her yet? Was he avoiding her because he thought it was what she wanted?

No, no, no, no.

That sounded so much like something Azriel would do that she physically cringed as the thought thundered across her mind.

She needed to fix this. She had to track down the Spymaster of the Night Court, one of the most elusive fae alive, and keep him from slipping from her grasp.

Thankfully, Y/n had been trained by the best.

#acotar #azriel #azriel x reader #acotar fanfic #cassian acotar #rhysand

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criminalyapping · 2 days ago

Text

due for trouble | you're mine

the pitt masterlist main masterlist

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader

a/n: i'm actually going to murder my keyboard i am so done with the extra letters and spaces you're gonna yell at me about the end but i'll pick up straight where this leaves off tomorrow :)

warnings: unplanned pregnancy, language, the girls are fighting!! he's big mad, they yell, etc. gets saucy near the end but no smut

< part 5 | part 7 >

Jack loves working on the night shift. He loves his coworkers, being able to watch the sun rise, and he loves the relative peace in his shift when compared to what he knows the day shift is like.

Lately, he's been thinking about the downsides, though.

When the baby is here, god, he's having a baby, but when it's here does that just mean that its your job to take care of it all night and then go to work all day? He can afford daycare no problem, but maybe he should look into nighttime nurse for you. He adds it to the mental list of things he needs to figure out.

There's approximately 4 million other things on his list as well.

It's another of his string og three days off, and he's seated on his couch trying to enjoy a movie that he put on. He'd much rather be with you, but you're out with your friends at some new country bar that popped up.

When you had first told him your plans for the night, he cringed. Thinking about the hot, sweaty environment you must be in, the opportunities for slips and falls on the sticky dance floor, and in his darkest thoughts, the possibility of you getting something put in your drink, regardless of if it was just water or a soda.

But be a controlling ass he will not, so he wished you and your friends a fun night and left it at that.

He's regretting that now as he looks at his phone and the message he got from your friend Emily. He scrambles for his reading glasses, slips them on, and inspects the text message thouroughly, trying to decipher it.

'miss girl fully eating with her fit'

She had sent along a photo as well, highlighting your cowgirl boots, your cute little sundress, and the intricate way that you had styled your hair for the evening. Jack, however, is focused on the tall cowboy character that you're talking to in the picture, smiling up at him as he looks down at you.

He puts his phone down, biting his lip and thinking about how hard he wants to take this. He's not taking it well overall.

'Do you guys need a ride home?'

He asks. It's about 11:30 now, so he would be able to get there at midnight, which he thinks is a perfect time to leave a country bar.

He's already up and changing out of his sweatpants before he gets a text back.

'uhhhh we were all going to get an uber home'

Emily had texted back.

Jack rolls his eyes.

'I'm on my way, be there in 30'

Jack has a white-knuckled grip on his steering wheel as he gets closer to the bar and finds a parking space.

He has to wait in line to get in and pay a $15 cover, which only sours his mood more. He's borderline seething as he enters, his eyes quickly scanning the open space.

He finally spies you, standing at the bar talking to someone.

Instead of being your friends, it's a tall, cowboy-hat wearing tool with a few too many buttons undone on his shirt.

He makes his way through the bar to you, and you don't even notice his presence until he has wormed his way into your conversation, standing directly in front of you.

Your eyes flick over, at first just preturbed about the man in your space, then your expression shifts to shock and a little bit of fear. The look on his face must be severe.

"Jack..." you trail off, "what are you doing here?" you ask.

"Emily texted me." he says, "I'm here to give you all a ride home." he says.

The man you've been talking to seems to think now is a good time to speak up.

"Hey, man, we're in the middle of talking," he argues.

"Not anymore," Jack says, grabbing your wrist and pulling you along with him as he turns to go.

"Jack," you start to argue as he sucessfully pulls you away from the man, deeper into the bar and looking for the other three.

"Not right now." he cuts you off harshly, not letting go of your wrist.

You trail behind him as he finds the other three, and goes to leave with the four of you trailing behind him like ducklings. You give Emily a severe look, pointedly looking down at your wrist caught in his grasp and back to her.

She looks a little guilty, but the look she shares with Jada afterwards tells you that they're enjoying this.

Jack unlocks hiis truck, opening the passenger door for you and then shutting it hard after you're seated.

As he climbs in the drivers side, he opens his phone and gives it to the backseat.

"Where am I going first?' he asks. Jada lives closest, so she types in her address and Jack pulls out of his parking space.

The car is silent, an unseen tension filling the air as he makes his way around the city dropping off your friends.

As Jack pulls up to his home, you scoff.

"What?" he asks in a monotone voice.

"Can you take me home, too? I thought that was where we were going." you ask snidely.

"No," he disagrees, "we're going to go in and we're going to talk." he tells you.

"Oh, are we?" you argue.

"Yeah," he says, getting out of the car and rounding to the other side, opening your door. "Come on," he urges.

You roll your eyes and clilmb out of the truck gingerly. Jack keeps a hand on yoour shouder like you're about to run away as you walk to his door.

As soon as his door is shut behind him, you lay into him.

"What the fuck was that?" you ask, not quite yelling but definitely close.

"I was trying to have a good time with my friends," you complain.

"Your friends? Your friends who were halfway across the bar while you flirted with some guy?" he spits.

"Oh, fuck off," you scoff.

"No, no tell me." he insists, "Tell me about how much fun you were having."

You roll your eyes again and turn away from him. He grabs your shoulders and angles you towards him. He's standing close enough that your head has to be tilted back to look at him.

He looks pissed. His eyes are wide, a red tinge covering his whole face and neck, and his intense look is focused soley on you.

"I told you," you start, measured, "that I was going out out of courtesy," you spit, "I can do what I want, and it was not okay for you to show up and ruin our night-" you're interrputed when Jack cuts you off.

"Ruin your night?" he repeats.

"Yeah, ruin our night!" now you really are yelling. "You show up, make us all go home, and for what? For what, Jack, so stake some kind of claim?" you yell. "You're not my boyfriend, Jack!" you yell.

Jack chuckles wryly, looking up at the ceiling for a moment.

"You know," he starts, crowding into your space again, grasping the tops of your arms. "I don't have to stake any claim," he tells you lowly. "I don't have to, because I already fucking did," he says, pressing you against the length of his body. "I didn't think I had to spell it out for you, but I will." he continues.

"You're mine," he says, and you open your mouth to argue, but he stops you before you can.

"And don't argue, okay? I'm telling you." he's all but whispering now, his face a few milimeters from yours as he speaks with an intensity that has your toes curling in your boots.

"You're mine," he repeats. "I'm not just around because of the baby, but it gives me a damn good excuse." he tells you. "Call me your boyfriend, or your baby daddy, I don't give a shit. You want to call me your fiance and I'll go get a ring right now," he growls. "But whatever you want to call it, you're all mine, and you need to get that through your head."

Despite being 100% sober, his words give you a floaty feeling in your heads as you struggle to put together a string of words, intoxicated by his presence.

"And I get no say in this?" you finally ask.

"I think," he starts, "that if you really wanted to put up a fight, that I wouldn't have even gotten you out of that bar, let alone into my house." he argues. "I think you just wanted to put up a fight and be a little brat."

You don't say anything, but look up into his eyes and keep your gaze locked there.

"Am I right?" he asks.

You roll your eyes and try to move away, only to be stopped by his renewed grasp on you, pulling you into him as he presses a kiss to your cheek.

"You wanna be mine, baby," he says into your cheek, "that's okay," he assures. He drags his lips down the side of your face and presses his lips to yours in a messy kiss.

His tongue plunges into your mouth annd tangles with yours, overpowering any attempt you make at turning the tides of the kiss. He wrenches his lips from yours and skims them down your neck, leaving licks and kisses and at least one bite, for good measure.

"Yeah, I do," you agree breathily as his mouth works on your collarbone.

"Yeah, you do," he parrots around your skin, "good girl," he sighs.

tagging: @michasia24 @veggieburgerwrites @bruher @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @catmomstyles3 @qardasngan @fuckalrighty @rae4725 @beebeechaos @thatssomebadhat89 @cari87 @livingdeadblondequeen @wowitsafemale @neonpurplestars89-blog

let me know if you want a tag!

#the pitt #the pitt imagine #the pitt x reader #dr abbot x reader #jack abbot x female reader #jack abbot x reader #dr abbot

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creepycranberry · 2 days ago

Text

Crying During Sex

Bob Reynolds x Reader

Plot: Bucky gives you a job working for the team and you’re faced with an old friend who would give anything to prove himself to again

Warnings: drugs, abuse, references to SA, alcohol, cussing, mental health issues, parental issues, sex, soft smut (in the future), references to neuropsychiatric issues, angst, not proofread

A/N: there will be a part two posted soon <3

9.7k words

“Terrified you’ll bite the hand that needs you, and right now I need you”

—————————————————————————

“I just can’t believe you said yes.” Sam complains again, “I thought you were supposed to be on my side.”

You roll your eyes and look out of the car window, “I’m not on anyone’s side. I think both of you are being stupid, but if it’s between listening to you complain for free, or listening to him complain for a salary and benefits, I’m choosing the salary and benefits.”

“Oh so you’re a sell out.” You know he’s half joking but it still hurts a little. Sam does another round on the third floor of an obscenely full airport parking garage.

“You’re the one who pushed me to get a good degree and a good job and live up to my potential.” You argue and Sam seemingly has no come back.

“You’re right I did- I did say that. But can’t you get a job at some other company far away from this dangerous ass saving the world shit?”

“I tried that- there’s a parking- no, nope sorry, false alarm.”

“I hate sedans.” Sam mumbles under his breath, “I just don’t want you getting hurt.”

“Sam, I will be doing paperwork and making him stick to his schedule, I'm hardly putting my life on the line.”

“That’s what pepper and happy thought and the next thing they knew-“

“They were in the middle of an intergalactic superhero war?” You offer.

“Exactly. Is that a pa- nope. Shit.”

“Why don’t you just drop me off, you don’t have to walk me up to TSA like this is my first day of kindergarten.”

“I wish it was your first day of kindergarten, then I’d be picking you up at 3 o’clock.”

“Buckys not gonna let anything happen to me.”

Sam mumbles something under his breath. Sam had known you since you were seventeen and moved in with your mom who was a good friend of his sister. He helped you apply to college, pick a major and move into your dorm.

“Just be safe, don’t go on missions with them, don’t talk to anybody you don’t know, don’t give money to beggars, don’t walk alone at night, don’t take candy from strangers-“

“Sam. Be for real, Bucky wouldn’t let me near a mission in a million years.” You exhaled, “ooh there’s a spot-“

“Getting it.”

Sam parked and grabbed your bags from the trunk. He walked all the way up to TSA with you, finally letting you walk by yourself to get in line after you assure him for the umpteenth time that you’ll survive the plane ride.

————————

At first you’re not sure if Buckys even in the airport to pick you up. He told you he’d meet you at the baggage claim but so far he’s nowhere to be found. You try to call him but he doesn’t pick up so you message him and say that you’re going to be outside waiting.

You sit on the sidewalk with your suitcase, picking at your nails.

After a few minutes a loud horn sounds from yards away and you look to see a limousine practically barreling towards you. The limousine parks swiftly (but not safely) and to your surprise Bucky gets out of the backseat.

“Hey, sweetheart. I’m sorry I meant to get here on time but he wouldn’t listen to the directions I was giving him and then my phone died.” Bucky wraps one of his arms around you, the other grabbing your luggage.

“Who?” You ask as Bucky leads you to the backseat of the limo to open up the back door for you.

“You must be new team member the winter soldier says so much about.” A very loud, very excited voice says.

You smile politely, “Alexei she’s not a new team member she’s my assistant. She’s not allowed to go on missions with us.”

“My mistake. I am Alexei Shostakov, the red Guardian, fierce warrior-“

“Alexei, don't scare her.” Bucky grumbles as he climbs into the back seat with you.

“I am not scaring, I’m being polite, I tell nice girl my name.” You respond to Alexei with your name and he smiles, his voice booming and filling the space in the limo.

———————

The watchtower feels sterile, like a hospital. Bucky insisted on giving you a tour, starting with the gym and the infirmary and going all the way until you reach the floor that holds the apartment.

It’s less sterile in the kitchen and living areas, it’s actually almost relaxing until Bucky shows you the room you’ll be staying in, huge windows letting in more natural light than you could possibly need.

“Do one of you need to photosynthesize or…”

Bucky smiles, “it’s just how the place is built.”

Bucky helps you unpack your bags, working with and around you like this was something the both of you do regularly.

“Hey, Buck?”

He’s sitting next to you putting clothes on hangers, “yes?”

“Can you try and make up with Sam soon?”

Bucky exhales slowly, “I want to, kid, I’ve tried. He just isn’t open to accepting any of my explanations. He doesn’t believe a word I say.”

“I’m sorry.” You mumble.

“S’not your fault, kid.”

“I think he feels like I’m taking your side in all of this.” You confess.

“Are you?” Bucky asks and you shrug.

“I don’t think so. Not deliberately at least. I don’t understand why this has to be an argument in the first place. I just feel like i've hurt his feelings somehow by taking your offer.” You let yourself fall back onto the floor so you’re laying down.

“Well if you thought it might hurt his feelings than why’d you agree to the job?” Bucky leans back to lay next to you, his metal arm resting on his stomach.

You consider the best way to say what you need to say without talking in a way that might make him worry, “I missed you, I guess.”

“You guess?” Bucky grins.

“I guess. It’s just so lonely back home. Sam is always busy now, my mom finally has the time for a life of her own and I don’t really have any friends. I’m alone all of the time and when you’re alone that much you can’t help but feel unfulfilled. I was just tired of not having anyone to talk to.” You admit and Bucky stays quiet, “I have nothing but time to think and I’m starting to think that it’s not good for me.”

“You’re not alone here.” Bucky assures you, “once the team gets attached to you you will wish you had more time alone.”

“When do I get to meet them, the team?”

“At dinner. We’re gonna go out to eat with everyone and you’ll be able to get a good impression of everyone.”

You roll onto your side, resting your head on your arms, “What if they don’t like me?” You almost whisper.

You always struck Bucky as an anxious creature. The first time he met you Sam had to almost convince you to introduce yourself. Back then he thought you were just shy but the longer he’s gotten to know you the more he’s seen that it’s something deeper than shyness. It’s a kind of profound, deep rooted hesitance to experience the world. He supposes that maybe that’s why he feels such a strong need to protect you, to make sure you have absolute confidence in him if nothing else.

“How could they not like you?”

“I don’t know. I could say something wrong or accidentally insult one of them or something? I just really want them to like me.” You mumble.

“Well Alexei already seems to like you-“

“Alexei seems to like everyone.” You butt in and Bucky considers it for a moment before accepting the statement with a nod.

“At the very least I can guarantee that at least one more of them will like you.” He offers.

“Okay.” You nod, and Bucky smiles.

“Now, help me get the hell off this floor.”

—————————

Bob doesn’t want to be out tonight. He has leftovers at home he needs to eat and he’d just gotten to the best part of the book he was rereading. It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested in the new person Bucky wanted everyone to meet, it wasn’t even that the thought of accepting and expending the energy getting to know someone right now felt like an obstacle of Sisyphean proportions. The issue was with the fact that he wanted to say no but didn’t. He wanted to be polite so he said yes, knowing it would make him miserable. And it has so far.

He was seated between the two empty chairs and Alexei. Alexei who would not stop trying to strike up a conversation with him. He would try for like then minutes and then when Bob finally was able to get across that he wasn’t interested in a conversation Alexei would start talking to Walker. But then walkers attention would end up turning to something yelena was saying and Alexei would suddenly be very interested in another conversation with Bob.

This happened three times before Bucky finally walked in, blocking the girl behind him somewhat. Bob pretended to be interested in the menu in front of him while everyone else introduced themselves. The seat next to him is pulled out slightly and he hears the girl thank Bucky as she sat and scooched her chair forward.

“And this is Bob.” Yelena pipes up and Bob mentally curses.

He looks up and nods at you, his bangs obscuring your view of his eyes. It takes him a moment to muster up the wherewithal to actually make eye contact with you but when he does he heart just about stops.

You look at him with bewilderment normally reserved for when scientists bring back previously extinct animals.

“What are you-“

“I- actually I need to use the ladies room for a moment.” You announce to everyone, “sorry, I should’ve- i should’ve went before I sat down, just- just one second please.” And you rush away before Bob can even get the words off of his tongue.

——————

When you first met you were fifteen and a half. He was a few months shy of seventeen.

You were living with your father, who worked all of the time. who, when he wasn’t working, spent time with his girlfriend. So there was very little extra time for you.

When you were a kid he was consistent and present. He did all of the things all of the other girls' dads did. And then you turned thirteen and he thought you didn’t need him anymore. So you spent most of your time alone in your house.

You didn’t spend much time with your classmates. You felt in your bones that you weren’t built with the same connection they were all made with. You felt so innately that you wouldn’t feel understood or fulfilled by their friendship.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to be friends with them, or that you hadn’t thought to try. It was more that you felt yourself as a temporary fixture in the lives of people around you.

You had yet to meet someone who matched your mind, who was symmetric to you, someone who folded in all of the same places that you did.

Until one night at a park on a swing set, you met him. He was smoking a joint, blowing the smoke upwards and watching it dance through the light of the street light above him. His legs were kicking back and forth on the swing and he was wearing a hoodie in spite of the dull heat.

The wood chips under your feet told him someone was behind him. When he saw you he thought that you were possibly the last kind of person he was expecting to see.

Your hair was kind of messed up in a way that with the street light hanging over you it looked like you had a halo, and in his drug-addled mind you became an angel, the most revered, pure thing he had ever laid eyes on.

“Do you mind?” You asked, pointing to the swing next to him.

“Not at all.”

You sat on the swing and tilted your head back to face the sky, your eyes closing as you soaked in the dark humidity of the night.

Bob didn’t talk to you, he didn’t want to say the wrong thing and scare you. The both of you just sat there, swings swaying and the world around the two of you completely still.

—————————

Bobs mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for water. Out of everybody in the world for Bucky to know.

Bucky was going to kill him.

She was going to tell Bucky and then Bucky was going to murder him in cold blood.

This was a girl Bucky had described as “a very lovely, easy to get along with” person. Which in regular people’s terms means Bucky considers her to be close to the point of being like family to him.

And that means Bob is going to get his ass beat. And he couldn’t even blame probable future Bucky because he would probably do the same.

—————————

You want to splash cold water on your face but you don’t want to smear your makeup so you just sit and hyperventilate into a paper towel for a minute before pulling yourself together.

By the time you get back to the table Bob has fully retreated into his menu and Yelena is reaching over to rub his back, mumbling something to him that he’s actively choosing to ignore.

You sit back in your seat smiling at everyone around the table.

“Anyways, as I was saying before,” Bucky introduces you to everyone and begins telling you everyone’s name, going around the table until he reaches- “and Bob. You okay, man?”

“Yeah, fine I’m just, just looking at the menu.” Bob mumbles.

“I can see that. Has Your day been okay? Did something happen?” Bucky asks and Bobs gaze swims over you for a moment.

You look almost the same, but your face is thinner and your eyes- just something about them isn’t as vivid as before.

“No every-everything’s fine I’m just- just hungry is all.” Bucky and Yelena exchange a look.

You take in Bob. You make note of everything that changed. Everything from his frame, which used to be thin and lean, now was wider, to the newfound sharpness of his jaw. What struck you most though was his hair.

What used to be a shapeless mass sitting atop his head was now shiny brown waves that framed his face in a way that cut through something in you that you might have needed before but can’t even remember the feeling of now.

The conversation around the two of you picks up momentarily, which is a welcome distraction from whatever just broke in you.

“I like your hair.” You tell him, cottonmouthed and awestruck for all of the wrong reasons. He doesn’t respond at first. He looks down at his knees.

“Thanks, I um- I think anything I say right about now will sound pretty dumb so I’m just gonna- I’ll just stay out of your way.”

I can think of everything you could say to save us from our own private moment of purgatory. You think.

“I’m not here to give you a hard time, Robert. You don’t owe me anything.” But he does. And you know he does. And he knows he does. But you want this to be easy, you won’t survive sitting in a room with him if every time you try you feel like something is being cut out of you.

Bob stares at you for a minute before standing up abruptly, “I’m gonna go ahead and walk home.”

“We haven’t even eaten-“ Yelena starts.

“I have food at home, I really only came to meet Bucky's friend and now I have so I think it might be best at this point if I just head home.”

“No you should stay-“ Yelena tries but Bob continues to ignore her, instead turning to you.

“It was great seein-meeting you I’m sure I will see you soon.”

And then he storms away. And it’s childish and petty, and you’re angry at him either way so it makes no sense- but you find yourself standing up to go after him because he is one of two familiar faces among a group of people who you know nothing about and it isn’t fair that he gets to leave when both of you are uncomfortable either way.

He’s fast, faster than you thought he’d be. The front door to the restaurant is swinging shut as you approach it so you grab it, hightailing it after him because he doesn’t get to win this.

“Robert.” You call after him before he can disappear into the crowd of pedestrians.

He wants to keep running but he doesn’t, he stops and turns around, fully facing you and taking in all of you. And by god if you weren’t still the closest thing he would ever witness to an angel.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it- I didn’t know it was you, I wouldn’t have shown up if I knew it was you, I wouldn’t have put you- I- I’m sorry.” He babbles, air fighting to stay out of his lungs.

“Breathe, Robert. I’m- it’s-“ you couldn’t say it’s not that big of a deal because it was. After him you had to change everything about your life just so you didn’t have to see the gaps in the spaces where he was supposed to fit, “I’m not going to hold it against you. I’m here to be an assistant, to be professional. But professional doesn’t start until tomorrow and I am so scared of sitting there at that table with those people who I don’t know but I desperately want to like me.”

Bob softens in a way he forgot he knew how to, “no one could hate you. You have nothing to worry about.”

You do your best not to take the compliment to heart, “what I’m saying is is that it’s unfair if I have to be uncomfortable and you don’t.”

“Well that’s why I’m leaving so you- so you don’t have to be uncomfortable.”

“I would rather be uncomfortable with something familiar than suffer by myself.”

“I- I would love to be able to sit in there with you and make things fair because I know that I owe it to you, I owe it to you bad, but if I have to spend any more time in that room I will not be able to breathe ever again, it will suffocate me.” He gasps.

“I’m living at the tower now. You’ll suffocate either way.”

“It’s- it’s not about you, baby. It’s not you, I promise. The second I’m- the second I’m normal I will get on my knees and grovel I promise but I can’t be in there with you and them. I can’t do it, I would rather Bucky kill me personally with his bare hands than have to sit there at that table with him knowing how bad I- knowing how bad I messed up with you. The guilt would eat me alive.” He reaches out like he wants to grab your shoulders or your hands or something but he doesn’t, instead he presses his hands together firmly.

“What about me?” You mumble.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what about me, what about sitting in there with me and the guilt over what you did to me, how you left things.”

“I- I can’t make- I can’t ask you to forgive me in front of all of them. I- I don’t know if I can ask at all. I don’t know if I deserve that.”

He’s so soft that it hurts. It’s painful to sit here and look at him like he doesn’t have the ability to turn your world on its axis with just his presence.

“Then go home, Bob.”

You turn to walk back into the restaurant Buckys standing there, eyebrows raised as he watches Bob retreat down thr block.

He stops you by your arm “What’s going on there?”

“No. Nothing, I mean nothing.”

“So you just have dramatic arguments with random strangers in public for fun?” He responds and you shake your head.

“Bucky please don’t make me say anything about it, please don’t make me explain myself.” You beg and because Bucky understands you in that oddly special way only guardian figure can understand you in, he backs off, leading you back to your table.

——————

You always had trouble sleeping in new places. When you first moved in with your mom you didn’t sleep well for a month.

But you had to sleep, your insomnia made everything else worse, it made the world stop and you couldn’t afford for that to happen before you made a solid impression on the team.

When you were sixteen you had a spell where it happened every couple days for at least a couple hours. One second you and Bob would be talking or reading silently with each other and the next something would trigger it and you’d be sitting in one place, staring into the space before you while Bob grabbed water and moved you to be more comfortable.

It was embarrassing at times, in high school when you’d come to and be in the office waiting for someone to pick you up. Or when you were in college and your roommates would live around you while they waited for you to come back.

Now more than anything it was inconvenient but it was also very rare that you had spells at all anymore. Now more than anything you just had the looming anxiety that you’d go away randomly at the most inconvenient time.

Now you were just suffering from nightmares, your body reacting to your sleep deprivation with images of your life and its traumas.

“You’re doing so good.”

The voice accompanied by the sensation of pressure on your body in the place of hands that never should have been there in the first place.

Everytime it shocks you, debilitates you in a way that not even your still spells can do. But you have no choice but to suffer it.

Waking up is a rare welcome intrusion.

————————

You don’t see Bob around as much as you thought you would, but everyone else seems to need your help so you stay busy enough to ignore the gnawing feeling in your gut.

John was headed back from a mission but wouldn’t be in until later this evening, so you were to drive an hour to pick up his kid.

Your skirt rubs against your knees as you park the car, the AC cold against your cheeks. When you step out of the car Olivia steps out from behind the creaky screen door.

“Who’re you?”

“I’m the teams new assistant. Walker is coming home from a mission but he won’t be back for another two hours.” You try your best to smile and look professional.

“Are you going to be the one taking care of him this weekend?” Olivia asks, folding her arms.

“Oh, no. I’m just going to be picking him up and then maybe dropping him back off depending on the teams schedule.”

“So he will still be with John for most of the weekend at least?”

“Yes. I will drive him to the tower, feed him and babysit until they get back from the mission and then he will be with Walker for the rest of the time.” You clarify and Olivia exhales like something heavy was just put onto her shoulders.

“So John will be spending time with our son?”

“Yes, I could email you a redacted copy of the schedule if that would ease your mind?”

“He had you schedule things to do with our son?”

You pull back your professional persona just a little, “well, if I may be frank, Walker is nervous about this first weekend. He wants things to go well and he wants to avoid your son being bored so he, himself, planned a few things to do. I just keep track of the schedules of everyone on the team. But if you’re feeling hesitant about anything I can send you a copy of walker's schedule. I could forward them to you on Walker's Weekends if that might ease your mind a bit more.”

“Did he tell you that? That he was nervous?” Olivia asks.

“No but it was obvious when he was relaying the information about the plans he made to me, having me help him pick out furniture and insisting on going grocery shopping with me so he could help me find good snacks for your son.”

That seems to soothe something in Olivia, who retreats into the house and comes back out with the toddler and his bag in hand. You now take notice of Olivia’s outfit, she looks nice but not in a ‘I just got home from work” way.

“Do you have any plans of your own for the weekend?”

“Uh, i'm just having dinner with a friend and her husband.” The small boy is hesitant to leave his mom to go to you, but after a moment he reluctantly reaches for you, “you have the car seat for him right?”

“Yes, I have the car seat, I wasn’t sure about how you feel about screen time so I got a couple audiobooks and I have a couple playlists of kids songs that John thought he might like for the drive. I also have a watered down apple juice in the car for him.”

Olivia looks somewhat relieved, like her hesitance at leaving her son with his father was somewhat softened by the fact that someone else would be there with him.

She says her goodbyes and goes back inside. The toddler fusses as she leaves his sight. You bounce him on your hip all the way to the car, shushing him as you buckle him into his car seat, handing him his juice in hopes that it might calm him down a bit.

He fusses for the first twenty minutes of the ride, but after that point and some trial and error with the playlists he calms down and even seems to cheer up a little.

———————

Bob thought the coast was clear, he thought it would be okay to leave his room for a minute just to grab something to eat. He almost made it, he had a sandwich and chips and the box of cheez itz all crowded into his arms and was just about to turn the corner to head into the hallway and back to his room, but the elevator dinged and he turned around.

He turned around just in time to see you walking through the kitchen area and into the living room with a kid on your hip.

You don’t notice him at all. You’re too busy talking to the toddler.

“… and then I’ll make you some dinner and then your dad will be here. What toy do you want?”

You take a few smaller toys out of a bag and set them around the kid.

It’s just then that Bob realizes that he needs to leave. He rushes down the hall and to his room, closing the door behind him as quietly as possible.

————————

It’s a half hour past the time Walker was supposed to be home already. You already fed the kid and now you’re sitting on the common room floor with him, playing with one of those boxes with the shapes carved into them.

You keep eyeing the clock, every minute they’re late you become even more anxious than before.

You turn PBS on the tv while you do dishes and when you come back he’s asleep on the floor. You pick him up and take him to Walkers room.

You had helped Walker put together the kid stuff earlier in the week. There was a toddler bed, a kids art easel and a play kitchen, along with a toy box filled with toys that Walker had you help him pick out.

When you suggested the play kitchen Walker sighed, “isn’t that more of a girls toy?”

“Aren’t some of the most renowned chefs in the world men?” You’d retorted and he nodded.

“Yeah. Yes. Sorry.” John mumbled, clearing his throat.

Now You tuck the kid into bed and just stand there for a minute, looking around Walkers room, needing something to do.

When you don’t find anything in there you head to the kitchen, checking the tablet for your to do list for the day. The last thing you have to do today is order more candy for Bob to keep in his room.

According to the others, he was fighting withdrawal symptoms with sweets. He constantly had nerds or skittles in his hands, like he needed to replace the space that drugs had in his life with something else.

You decide to set up a dentist appointment for him as well as ordering the candy.

Around fifteen minutes later the elevator dings and everyone steps out, looking equally as miserable.

“I’m guessing things didn’t fully go to plan?” You sigh, approaching Bucky to study the gash on his cheek.

“There were… unforeseen circumstances.” He mutters.

“Okay,” you sigh heavily, “sit on the couch, all of you and I’ll patch you up.”

“Is she trained for that?” Walker asks Bucky.

“I think she’s trained for everything but combat.” Bucky sighs.

You grab the first aid kit from under the sink and sit on the coffee table in front of all of them, “Walker I’ll take care of you first. Your son is asleep in his bed, he’s had dinner and a snack and I let him watch some cartoons while I cleaned the kitchen up a bit.”

Walker peels off his tactical gear to reveal the compression shirt he wears under it and rolls up his sleeve.

He’s relatively uninjured, a cut here and there. The main issue is a jagged gash on his bicep, which you work on efficiently and without too much trouble, “check on your kid and then go down to the infirmary. I would give you the stitches myself but doing them makes me queasy.”

The team all look at him like he’s grown a third arm as he nods and stands up and does as your told. No one speaks until he comes back out of the hallway and leaves through the elevator.

“Sorcery.” Alexei mutters to yelena.

———————

You and Bob met up at the swings every day for a week before you actually had a conversation.

You were both absentmindedly swaying on the swings, bathing in the light of the street lamp above you when you looked at Bob and said, “what’s your name?”

“Bob.”

You stopped talking for a long moment, staring off into the dark expanse of the field by the park, “can I just call you Robert?”

For the first time that night Bob met your eyes, “you can call me anything you want.”

You smiled at him for the first time and he felt his lungs damn near collapsed. He wanted to make you smile forever.

You feel something looming behind you and you turn around to see the shadow that you saw sitting on your bed before. You look back and Bob and it’s him now, him older.

“Robert?”

“He won’t hurt you,” Bob says, “he doesn’t want to hurt you he’s just- he just wants to see you.”

You look at Bob with a certain desperation and the air around the both of you turns from hot humid mugginess to a dry cold that made your bones physically ache from how cold it was.

“Bobby, don't leave me alone with him.” You plead.

“He’s just me, he just wants to see who you are. He wants to know why he thinks about you so much. But I’ll stay with you here either way. Promise.” Bob reaches out and holds onto the chain of your swing, his quiet smile grounding you intensely.

Bob wakes up and stares at the space ahead of him, the terrified look on your face a still image in his mind.

———————

“Hey, kid?” Bucky calls from the other side of your door.

You’re lying on your stomach on the floor of your room, your radio is humming something familiar and your hands are wet with deep blue paint.

Your bedroom walls were still bare, devoid of personality in a way that felt like a personal slight against you. So you decided to paint and collect little things to pin to and hang on the walls.

“Yeah?” You call back to him and he opens your door.

“Do you want to go to the aquarium with us?”

“You mean John and his kid?” You clarify.

“Well them and then also Alexei and Yelena and I think Bob maybe?”

“And you?” You ask and Bucky smiles to himself because you sound hopeful that if you go he’ll be there.

“Yeah, and me.”

“Let me just clean myself up and change and I’ll be right there!” You smile, scrambling off of the floor and tripping over yourself because you can’t lift yourself with your hands.

“Bucky, have you seen my red sweater?” Bob calls from the other side of the hall, because of course you get the room across the hall from him.

And even then you haven’t seen him in the week you’ve been here.

“I don’t know, bud.” Bucky remarks and then turns to you, “you seen a red sweater?”

“Bob, check my laundry basket.” You basically order him and he reluctantly enters your space.

“You okay?” He nervously mumbles to you, as he sifts through the basket of clothes, he’s wearing a T-shirt that’s probably a size too big giving how it hangs around his biceps.

“I have paint on my hands and I fell trying to get up.” You admit and he snorts lightly under his breath, suppressing a smile like his life depends on it.

“Do you need help?” He asks and you think he’s asking just to be nice. He pulls a wad of red fabric out of your laundry basket.

“No I think I can…” you attempt to stand up by yourself again, and you almost were able to until you slipped on a random piece of paper.

He bites his bottom lip to suppress a laugh and puts his sweater down. He approaches you like you’re feral at first, “can I…?”

“You can try but if memory serves-“ He lifts you by your waist like you’re a sack of flour, “what the fuck?”

“Sentry serum.” He shrugs, grabbing his sweater and backing out of your room.

Bucky looks at Bob as he retreats down the hall, “do I get to know anything about that?”

He steps into your room, closing the door behind him as you wash your hands in the bathroom sink and then retreat into your closet.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Memory serves?” Bucky quotes and you curse.

“I did say that, huh?”

“Yep.” Bucky leans against the door he closed.

“We knew each other when I was in high school.”

“When you were in high school?” Bucky clarifies.

“He dropped out as like a freshman, I think? So I was in high school and he was working the morning shift at a donut shop while high out of his mind.” You explain, pulling a crew back over your head.

“And so you guys met at a donut shop?”

“At a park, far past midnight. He was smoking weed, I was avoiding my dads girlfriend.”

“And you two… courted?” Bucky pries.

Something in you deflates, he can hear it in your voice, “I don’t know what gave you that impression.”

Your voice is steely and cold. Bucky wants to back off a bit but before he can backtrack you start talking again, “and courted? Can you try and sound like you were born this century? You make it sound like my father was sizing up how many cows I was worth. No, we didn’t date. We were friends, he hid out at my house because my dad was never home and his dad was seemingly always home. But when I was seventeen and he was like nineteen, I think, he disappeared without a word and then I moved to my moms. Not much else to tell outside of that.”

“You called him Robert?” Bucky finds himself asking.

“How’d you know that?” You ask as you leave your closet, pulling your hair up into a ponytail and blowing your bangs out of your eyes.

“I heard you call him that.” Bucky mutters.

“You’re such a nosy bitch.” You laugh, and Bucky knows not to take offense to it. He actually laughs a little, “I loved Patti Smith. I read Just Kids around the time I met him and back then he’d entertain anything I had to say and in the book Robert Mapplethorp introduces himself to her as Bob and she asks if she can just call him Robert.”

And when he had a hard day you’d read it to him until he fell asleep, usually holding onto you like you might leave him in the middle of the night.

“Sounds like he felt a way about you, even if you didn’t about him.” Bucky responds, watching you tie your shoes.

“I feel like if that were the case things wouldn't have ended the way they did there.” You remark.

The silence that settles over the room has its own heartbeat. It’s like the both of you are stuck in some psychological thriller adaptation of the telltale heart.

“You ready to go?” Bucky asks, opening the door for you and letting you lead the way down the hall.

————————

Bob hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. Walker had asked him to go see if you and Bucky were almost ready while he explained to his son why he has to wear shoes.

Bob was about to knock on the door when he heard you and Bucky and all the way to the aquarium he heard you.

If that were the case things wouldn’t have ended the way that they did.

Did you really think he didn’t have feelings for you then? Did you think he somehow used you? Did you feel used? Did he make you feel used?

He followed everyone else around as you all milled about the exhibits. You helped John with his son a lot, you stole bucky's attention a lot as well. Bob examined yours and Buckys relationship. He liked that you finally had a father figure who was seemingly as invested in you as you are in him.

He’d always wanted that for you, he never understood your father. The way you described the change in your fathers priorities made it feel like the change was overnight.

One day he loved you and read you bedtime stories and took you to movies, and the next you looked so much like your mother that he couldn’t look at you for too long for fear of seeing her reflected back to him.

You took Walkers son through the shark tunnel, and the little boy held onto you for dear life as he watched the creatures swim past.

At first the small boy would only let you and Walker hold him. Which made for a very irritating hour where Bob had to watch you interact with Walker like it was easy. You didn’t look at Walker like he sucked all of the air out of the room. Walker didn’t even seem to make you feel small compared to him, like he didn’t take up any space to you the way he did to everyone else. And so Bob watched you interact with the toddler like it was second nature, which had an effect on him he almost couldn’t describe.

His jealousy over your comfortability with Walker soon turned into a strange envy that almost consumed him for reasons he couldn’t quite describe.

And then, in that shark tunnel, you turned to Bob, an easy smile on your face that felt to him like water in a desert, “look at the stingrays! Like in Nemo!” You laughed and suddenly that strange, gnawing sensation Bob had been suffering from for what felt like ages, dissipated completely.

“These are a different kind of stingray than that.” Bob smiles and you shrug.

“If you say so, smartypants.” You beamed, bumping him with the hip you weren’t carrying the child on.

And then you walked away, leaving Bob in a sort of relaxed, flustered state.

When the two of you were first becoming closer Bob would spend saturdays at your house. The two of you would spend the morning in your room reading and talking until your dad and his girlfriend went out with friends or went on a date or something, and then you would cook dinner together and watch movies. Your dad had tons of DVDs but when Bob had a hard week you’d put on Nemo because he mentioned offhandedly once that he had a phase as a kid where he was really into marine biology.

So he would sit on the couch with you and the two of you would eat dinner while he told you random facts about different sea creatures that he just knew, like he’d been built with them. He used to think that you wouldn’t even be able to tell him what part of the movie you two were on because you never seemed to look away from him when he was talking, and those nights he barely ever shut up.

———————

Everyone’s kind of spread out, looking at different things. You’ve still got Walkers Kid, though every now and then you insist on Walker holding him so you can get a picture or Walker grabs him to put him on his shoulders to give your arms a break.

Walker stays close to the both of you, telling you offhand jokes and telling his son the names of the creatures, reading his son the plaques at each enclosure.

The small child refuses to let anyone else hold him for a while and he gets nervous whenever Alexei tries to approach him. Earlier Alexei thought it would be a good idea to tell a story about the time he supposedly fought a shark and he got kind of loud and aggressive and made the kid cry so Alexei ended up having to stay a few feet away so the kid wouldn’t fuss as bad.

Bucky is just fine not going near the kid. You think he’s scared of children.

Yelena points things out to him, slipping into Russian as she sometimes has a hard time remembering the English names of creatures. You chalked it up to a bilingual thing, because Bucky does the same thing every now and then in conversation with you. Just slips into another language or forgets a word in English and has to ask you and play charades until you know what he’s talking about.

It’s Bob that surprises you most. Bob didn’t really ever have any exposure to small children so he was kind of awkwardly fumbling when he had the boys attention but his knowledge of the creatures around him won out. He would randomly tell Walker a fact or point something out to the toddler and then give him an explanation that the kid probably wasn't fully understanding but he seemed to like the way Bob talked softly and with his hands.

Eventually Walkers son surprises you by reaching for Bob. Bob quietly freaks out, insisting that he probably shouldn’t be the one holding the child but then the toddler reaches over and plays with Bobs bangs and Bob immediately stops talking, instead responding to something the child is babbling. And when the small boy rests his head on Bobs shoulder Bob is done for. His initial nervousness and hesitation instead replaced with something quiet as he sways back and forth, completely oblivious to the look Bucky and Walker exchange at the way you just can’t help but smile at him.

And all of you completely miss Yelena taking a picture of the rest of you.

Bob holds the kid for the rest of the day, responding when he talks to him and sitting next to him when you all go out to dinner after.

He looks somewhat disappointed when you all get him and Walker takes the kid to get him ready for bed.

“Did you have fun?” You ask Bob as he watches Walker walk away.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Goodnight Robert.” You say quietly, just for him to hear.

You disappear into your room before he can respond.

————————

Bob liked your bedroom. He liked the Christmas lights that were arranged on the wall above your bed, he liked your bookshelves and the way your books influenced ghe smell of your room and therefore you.

But perhaps what he liked most was your bed. He sank into your mattress like he was falling back into a pool of warm water. And he loved how you read to him when he was in your bed.

The both of you had finished your dinner and cleaned up the kitchen, you watched two movies, Nemo (for Bob) and Anastasia (for you), and now Bob was lying in your bed, watching you get ready to go to sleep.

Bob didn’t want to go back home. His mom was with her mom who was sick so it was just his dad. Bob had been putting off leaving for the better part of the last couple hours.

You sat on the edge of the bed, lotioning your arms and legs, “well I’m about to go to sleep so either go home or get up to close and lock the door.”

Bob's eyebrows pinched together, “wait- like you’d let me stay here for the night?”

“Of course.” You smiled at him, “anytime. You could even take a shower if you’d like. Your hair looks like it could use a wash.”

Bob blinked slowly, “you are the patron saint of charity, you know that?”

“I’m glad you think so. I am serious about the shower though, I just washed my sheets.”

Bob took a shower and it smelt like you, all of the steam curling around to him and making its way into his lungs felt heavenly.

When he got out of the shower he saw a T-shirt that was probably twice his size and some old basketball shorts folded neatly with a towel on the toilet lid.

You must’ve put them in the bathroom before he took his shower. You probably knew he’d end up staying with you before you even finished the shower you’d take a half hour before.

When he got back to your room you were laying down with a book and you sat up as he walked in, “where’d you get these clothes?”

“Old ones my dad gave to me to sleep in.” You shrug and he starts looking around your room awkwardly, “do you need something?”

“I just want to know how this is gonna work?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just where am I sleeping?” He asks, rubbing his palms over the fabric of the borrowed shirt. You observed the way his wet hair fell onto his forehead. You tried to memorize it this way, you wanted this to be the picture you had in your head when you thought about him. When you got lost in thought on the walk to school in the mornings you wanted to be able to come back to this moment. You wanted the privacy to think of him in a way you could never admit to.

“You can sleep wherever you want, honey. Bed or floor or couch.” You shrug and Bob nods, hesitantly sitting with you on your bed, “do you want a comb?”

“Geez, do I look that bad?” Bob quips and you laugh.

“No I just thought you might like to fix your hair.”

“I’m okay.”

“Okay.”

You move the blankets so he can slip under them and once he does he turns to you, “whatcha reading?”

You show him the book cover and he sighs.

“I really like it, okay?” You whine and Bob laughs in a very real and true manner.

“I know you do.” He mumbles, reaching up to move your hair out of the way of your eyes as you begin reading again, “why don’t you read it to me?”

“You want me to read you a bedtime story?” You question and Bob nods.

“Pretty please?”

You sink further into your pillows and Bob lays down on his side facing you, drawing circles on the clothed skin of your shoulder.

Bobs eyes drift to the ceiling as he listens to the steady sound of your voice and for a second everything’s still.

It won’t be until later that Bob realizes that that was the first time in years he slept without meds or weed.

————————

Bob's hands are folded between his knees when he registers his consciousness. He’s so awake now that for a moment he doesn’t even think he was dreaming. He just thinks that he got to sit in that one moment again.

He gets up after a minute of laying there, holding his comforter around his shoulders. He heads into the hallway, going to the kitchen for a drink of water.

He downs two glasses of water before he hears it. He follows the voice down the hall and to your room where the lamp is on and the door is just barely open. When he came through the first time he just assumed you fell asleep with the lamp on but you’re very much awake.

Bob knocks lightly on the door and it startles you, for a second you look scared but then you realize that it’s just him. Only him. And then he hears the way your breathing hiccups and stutters.

“Do you need something?”

He stays quiet for a minute, “I just wanted to make sure you were okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” You ask and he starts mumbling something to himself.

“Would you like to come in?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” Bob mumbles and he closes the door behind him.

He stands there like he did in front of the restaurant. He just takes you in, consumes the sight of you like he’s been starved of it deliberately.

You’re wearing a T-shirt that falls far past your knees, you’re barefoot and your hair is mussed from tossing and turning.

After a moment of letting him look at you, he proceeds into your room and sits by your windows.

“Your view is much better than mine.” Bob says carefully.

“I wish it wasn’t. I don’t like the big windows.” You confess and Bob sits next to you, keeping a good distance between you. He looks around your room. It lacks the charm of your childhood room. The one he was so familiar with, the one that his brain brought him back into when he fell into heavy drug induced sleep in motels, under bridges or in alleyways. His attention is drawn to a pile of papers and paintings and postcards in the corner

“Why not? You can see everything.”

“That’s why I don’t like it. I wish it was like a shoebox. I’d be happy living in a shoebox.” Bob can’t help but smile at you.

“If you’re worried about anyone seeing you, the windows are pretty heavily tinted.” He assures you.

“Do you think anyone could actually see me from this high?” You sniffle and Bob shrugs, “so. How’ve you been?”

There’s a pause as Bob tries to decipher how much information your question requires, “I’m alright. I’m clean, have been for a little bit. And I live here and I’m supposed to be a part of the team and everything but I’m too unpredictable to actually help on missions and stuff.”

“You’re clean?”

“Yeah. The teams’ been pretty great at helping me out.” He starts picking at his thumb nail absentmindedly.

“That’s so weird. I don’t think I’ve ever known you sober.”

“That’s not true.” He argues, leaning back in his seat.

“I’m pretty sure you were high the entire two and a half years we knew each other.”

“No. No I was-I really was very present with you. I was sober for a good amount towards the middle of the end there.” He’s so firm about this that you can’t help but believe him.

“Like when?” You smile.

“That last homecoming you dragged me to, a good amount of our hangouts after a certain point in time, and the uh- the night we-“

“Oh. Yeah I- I knew you were sober that time. There was really no mistaking it just the once.”

The silence is palpable, you try your best not to think about then. Not to think about how he held you to him like the closeness of your body was better than any drug he’d tried, and not to think of what it was to have him like that, just yours for a pocket of time, truly and deeply devoted to you. But with those thoughts came the flashes of pain and something else, something carved deep into your brain that just wouldn’t leave, an ache with causes previously, naively unknown.

And he tried not to slip back into the memory of your warmth, or the taste of you on his lips, or the way you looked, hair sprawled out across the pillowcase as you each handed yourselves over to one another, the way your eyebrows pinched together as he gave you everything he was made up of.

And he did his best to pretend that he didn’t think about it often, that you hadn’t taken up permanent residence in his head for years.

“Did you plan on things going that way?” You somewhat selfishly inquire.

“Do you mean like the situation as a whole or just us almost sleepin-“

“Either.”

“Well um- I hadn’t, like, done anything- any meds or weed or uh, otherwise for like a week before we… you know and um, so when it happened I was there and present and every decision I made in that moment was just one hundred percent… me. And then later- after- I was gonna see you, I was- I showed up to your house and your dad was there and he told me to… stay away. He told me that your grades had been slipping and you’d been getting worse and that I should just stay away.” He’s quiet for a minute like he’s expecting you to butt in, “and so I- I distanced myself from you cause I didn’t want you to end up where I was. I couldn’t live with myself if I ended up being the reason you didn’t become something more.”

“Well,” you begin, taking in all of what he said, “for future reference, never listen to a word my father says.”

“Yeah, I uh- I think I’ve learned my lesson on that one.”

“I don’t want to hate you, Bob.”

“Well then at least we still have one thing in common.” Bob utters softly, resting his chin on his knees.

“I’m just having a hard time.” You admit, playing with the edge of the page you’re on in your book, “i'm so alone all the time I- I feel like I was born solitary. I haven’t really ever had friends and then I had you and then you- and then I didn’t. And I keep- I keep thinking that it’ll get better and I’ll stop feeling so alone but it doesn’t stop. I came here and took this job because I thought being around Bucky would help and I like it here so far but I still feel so lonely.”

“I get what you mean. I have- I’ve had the same problem.” Bob sympathizes, not knowing what else to say.

“I feel like a kid again. My only friend is my dad.”

That makes Bob smile a little, “is Bucky your dad in this scenario?”

You nod, “he’s the only person who’s tried to understand me and been somewhat successful. Sam tried using therapist tactics. I appreciated the effort but I can’t say they worked or made me feel any better.”

“I can try again if you’ll let me. I won’t leave this time, no matter who tells me what.” Bob assures you. There’s a desperation there that you can’t help but melt for.

“I’d like to believe that.” You mutter, “I’ll try to believe that.”

Bob looks out the window again so you don’t see him trying not to react, “are you feeling okay otherwise?”

You consider telling Bob about your dreams and the shadows and the hands. You want to give him an explanation for how things went before he went MIA, butyou don’t want to let him in anymore. Not yet.

“I just can’t sleep.” You shrug and Bob nods affirmatively.

“What are you reading?” He asks and you hold up the cover for him to see. He can’t help but smile wide, the cover of just kids staring back at him “of course.”

“I like it.” You shrug, sniffling.

“Yeah, me too.”

You rub your thumb across the page of the book, watching your finger drag over the soft texture of the paper.

“Can you read to me?” You ask, hushed and anxious.

“You want me to read you a bedtime story?” Bob smiles.

“Pretty please?” You whisper and bobs striding over to you before the last syllable even leaves your lips.

You move the blanket so he can join you under the covers and he layers his comforter over you. It envelops you in his scent in a way that brings you a kind of peace you haven’t felt in years.

Bob sits against your pillows, taking the book once you hand it to him and looking at you to make sure you’re comfortable. You surprise him by laying curled up with your head in his lap.

He opens the book to the page you had it at and begins reading, his fingers drawing lines up and down your arms as he waits for you to fall asleep.

———

#bob thunderbolts #bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds angst

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uncuredturkeybacon · 2 days ago

Text

𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 || 𝚊𝚣𝚣𝚒 𝚏𝚞𝚍𝚍 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which azzi finds love on the cruise

sexual content included - minors dni

The bass thumps under your boots, muffled slightly by the dark polished floor of the cruise ship’s nightclub. Neon lights ripple across bodies packed shoulder-to-shoulder, and the air smells like sunscreen, expensive cologne, and too many sugary drinks. You're three days into this Bahamas cruise with your crew—college friends you haven’t seen since graduation—and the night has slowly turned electric.

You’re leaning on the bar, sipping a bourbon neat, when your friend Joel nudges your shoulder hard.

“Yo. Back-left corner. Black dress. She fine as fuck.”

You turn your head, casual but curious.

And there she is.

Azzi Fudd.

Same devastating smile, same unapologetic cool. Her hair’s up in a bun, skin golden under the strobing lights, and she’s laughing at something someone just said. She’s not dressed like the pro athlete she is—there’s no jersey, no sneakers—just a short black satin dress, a thigh slit that could start a war, and confidence that moves before she does.

“She’s with like three other people,” Joel mutters beside you, eyes wide. “But holy—she looks good.”

You hum. You’re not really the fangirl type. But you know who she is. You’ve watched her play. Watched her dominate. You never thought you’d see her in a nightclub. Let alone on the same boat, cutting through Caribbean waters under a full moon.

“Go say something,” Joel dares.

You down the rest of your drink and hand the glass to the bartender. “Not my style.”

But then—like fate’s watching—you glance up and she’s already looking. At you.

Her eyes don’t flinch. Neither do yours. You nod once. Just a hello. She doesn’t smile. But she tilts her head, like she’s sizing you up. And that’s all it takes.

Your boots find the floor again. You push off the bar and start weaving your way through the bodies, pulse a slow, steady beat in your ears. You don’t think about what to say. You don’t need to.

She turns to face you as you arrive. Her drink is something pink, rim coated with salt. One hand on her hip.

“You’re the first person who hasn’t pretended not to recognize me,” she says, before you even open your mouth.

You smirk. “Didn’t think you’d appreciate the fake humility.”

Azzi’s brow lifts, but her lips twitch. “You’re not wrong.”

“I’m not trying to be right,” you reply, stepping in close enough to be heard but far enough to not crowd her. “Just here for the music.”

“And the bourbon.”

You glance down at her drink. “And you? Here for the sugar?”

She laughs at that. Full-bodied. Real. She sips her drink. “Maybe I needed something sweet.”

There’s tension already. It crackles like summer heat. She’s not blinking much. And neither are you.

“Wanna dance?” you ask, finally.

Azzi studies you. It’s not hesitation—it’s calculation. Her eyes run over your loose button-down, the chains at your neck, the confident posture, the faint smirk that says you’re not just asking for fun.

Then she holds her hand out.

“Lead the way.”

The music gets louder as you guide her to the middle of the crowd. Bodies sway all around you. But Azzi? She moves like she owns space. Like rhythm lives in her hips. The first song is something heavy and slow. Dark pop. She doesn’t grind on you, but she’s close enough for her perfume to flood your nose—vanilla and something deeper. The kind of scent that stays on your clothes long after she’s gone.

You match her tempo. You’ve danced before. Not like this. Not with her.

You lean close, your lips brushing her ear. “Didn’t think I’d be spending my cruise with a WNBA star on my hands.”

She leans in, shoulder to shoulder. “I’m not a star tonight.”

“No?” you murmur. “What are you then?”

She turns her face, so her lips almost brush yours. “Just a girl... choosing to dance with you.”

You swallow. Hard.

It’s getting hotter now. Not just the lights. Not just the music. But the way her hands are starting to rest lower on your waist. The way her leg brushes yours every time she shifts.

You’ve danced through three songs before she says anything again.

“Where’s your room?”

You raise your brows. “You asking or commanding?”

Azzi just shrugs, cool as ever. “Whichever gets me there faster.”

You don’t even stop by the bar for another drink. The walk to your cabin is silent except for the muffled thud of the club behind you and the sea wind rushing down the hallway. She follows half a step behind, eyes locked on the back of your neck.

You swipe the keycard. The door swings open.

And for the first time since meeting her, you hesitate.

You turn.

“Just so we’re clear,” you say, voice low, “I’m not looking to be a story you tell your teammates for laughs.”

Azzi steps in, letting the door close behind her. The lock clicks. She’s close again. Arms crossed.

“And I’m not looking to be impressed by another cocky girl in a button-down.”

You huff a breath, tongue in your cheek. “Then why’d you come?”

Azzi looks at you like she’s peeling you open with just her gaze. “Because something about you makes me want to forget what my name means for one night.”

You step forward. “Then forget.”

You don’t kiss her at first. You just hold her jaw. Trace her cheek with your thumb. Watch her eyes flutter, her breath catch.

“I’ll go slow,” you whisper. “If you want.”

Azzi leans in, voice rough. “Don’t tease unless you plan to finish.”

The silence between you hums.

Azzi’s still standing by the door, back lightly pressed to it, dress hugging her in all the ways it was meant to. You take her in under the dim cabin light. No cameras. No press. No team. Just her. You. And the ocean below, rocking the ship just enough to remind you both you’re not on land anymore.

You walk to her slowly.

She doesn’t move when your fingers reach for the hem of her dress, eyes flickering to your hands.

“I wanna see you,” you murmur.

Her voice barely above a breath. “Then look.”

You kneel first.

Lift her dress just enough to expose toned thighs, soft skin, and black lace—delicate, dangerously pretty. You run your hands up her legs. Slowly. Reverent. She shivers when your palms find the back of her thighs.

You tilt your head up. “Tell me if I need to stop.”

Azzi stares down at you, lips parted. “You won’t need to.”

Your fingers hook the edges of her panties. You slide them down her legs, inch by inch, until they pool at her ankles. She steps out of them. Silent. Composed. But her breathing is starting to shift—shaky, uneven.

You bring the lace to your mouth and kiss the waistband before tucking it in your back pocket.

She smirks. “Seriously?”

“Souvenir,” you say.

And then you rise. She lets you guide her backward, away from the door, back until her legs hit the edge of the bed. You press your body against hers, hands braced on either side of her waist, and finally… finally… you kiss her.

It’s not greedy. It’s not fast. It’s control. Tension. A slow unraveling.

Her lips are soft, but she kisses like she’s been waiting.

You pull back just enough to whisper, “Lay back for me.”

She does. Without hesitation.

Her legs still hang off the edge of the bed as she props herself up on her elbows, watching you. Her hair spills behind her on the duvet. The top of her dress has slipped low, revealing her collarbones, the slope of her chest, skin begging to be touched.

“You’re still dressed,” she says softly.

You smirk. “Didn’t wanna rush.”

Azzi sits up just long enough to reach for the buttons of your shirt. You let her undo them one by one, her fingers grazing your skin as she goes. When it’s open, she pushes it off your shoulders, slow and sure.

“You’re stronger than you look,” she murmurs.

You lean close. “You’re softer than I expected.”

She draws in a breath. “I want this. All of it. You.”

You kiss her again. Deeper this time.

When you finally ease her back down against the pillows, you climb between her legs, kissing your way down her chest, her ribs, her stomach. You taste her skin like it matters. Like each part of her needs a proper introduction. Her fingers thread into your hair when your mouth gets lower, hips arching the moment your tongue brushes her thigh instead of where she clearly wants you.

“Please,” she whispers.

You glance up at her. “Tell me what you want.”

Azzi bites her lip. “I want your mouth.”

“You sure?”

She nods. “I’ve never been more sure.”

You settle between her legs, arms hooked under her thighs to pull her closer to your mouth. And when you finally give her what she asked for—tongue sliding slowly over her—you feel her legs shake.

Azzi moans, soft and breathy. She tries to lift her hips, but you grip her thighs tighter, holding her steady, setting the pace.

“I said I’d go slow,” you murmur against her. “So let me.”

Her hands clutch the sheets, and your name slips from her lips like a prayer. You lick her slow. Deep. Not fast enough for release, but enough to keep her on the edge. You want her there. You want her trembling.

“I—” she gasps, “I can’t—”

“You can,” you whisper. “You’re doing so good for me.”

Her breathing hitches. Her thighs try to close around your head. You don’t let them.

Instead, you suck gently on her clit. Just once. Just enough.

She gasps again. A louder moan now. Her hands in your hair. Her head tipped back.

You keep going. Tongue flattening, then teasing again. The sounds she makes are desperate now—controlled and soft, but real. Realer than any cheer she’s ever gotten on the court.

And when her whole body tenses under you, back arching, you don’t let up.

She comes with a shudder, whimpering your name. Legs trembling. Hands in your hair, pulling just hard enough to ground herself.

You stay with her. Gentle now. Kissing her thighs. Her hip bones. Her belly. You climb back up slowly, hovering over her, eyes searching her face.

She pulls you into a kiss. Her tongue tastes like surrender.

You whisper, “You okay?”

Azzi nods. “Yeah. Better than okay.”

Her hand rests on your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “I don’t usually let people do that.”

“I figured,” you murmur. “But you did.”

“Yeah,” she says, voice soft. “I did.”

You shift beside her, wrapping her in your arms, pulling her close.

And for a while, you don’t speak. Just the sound of her breathing against your chest. The quiet creak of the ship rocking gently on open water. Your hand tracing slow circles down her spine.

She lifts her head eventually, eyes sleepy but searching. “You gonna kiss me again?”

You smirk. “Every time you let me.”

Azzi kisses you first this time. Deep. Slow. You hold her tighter.

You thought she’d fall asleep.

She’s warm in your arms, head tucked beneath your chin, one hand lazily dragging across your chest like she’s tracing muscle memory. You feel her breathing shift—slow and even—and you let yourself believe that maybe she’s drifting.

But then her hips roll.

Subtle. Barely there.

You almost ignore it. Almost.

But then she does it again. More purposeful this time. Her bare thigh slides over yours, her lips brushing your neck.

You tilt your head slightly. “You trying to start something?”

She hums. “You’re not done, are you?”

Your hand drifts down her spine. “Didn’t think you’d be ready again so soon.”

Azzi shifts until she’s on her back, fully stretched out beneath you, legs parted just enough. Her eyes catch yours.

“I’m not just ready,” she says, voice low and steady, “I’m aching.”

Your blood turns molten.

You roll over her slowly, pressing your thigh between hers, watching her lips part at the pressure.

“Say it again,” you whisper.

Her hands find your shoulders, nails dragging. “I want you to fuck me.”

Your jaw clenches. That word, in her mouth—soft and sharp at the same time—makes your whole body tense.

You lean close. “Then spread wider.”

She obeys.

God, she’s beautiful like this. Hair splayed on the pillow. Skin flushed. Need carved into every line of her.

You shift down, dragging the comforter off her completely, exposing every inch she let you touch earlier. You kiss her again, hard this time. Tongue claiming. Mouth hungry. Her moan vibrates against your lips, and she lifts her hips, grinding against your thigh.

“You’re dripping,” you murmur against her jaw.

Azzi whines, hips moving again. “I know.”

“I haven’t even touched you yet.”

She gasps when your fingers slide down and press, just slightly, against her soaked folds.

“I told you I was aching,” she breathes, squirming. “Please.”

“Shh,” you say, teasing her slit with your middle finger, not slipping in—just circling, watching her hips try to chase. “You’ll get it. You just need to be patient.”

“I don’t want patient,” she whispers. “I want your fingers. Deep.”

And you give her that.

Two fingers, slow at first, easing into her like you’ve got all night—which, technically, you do. Her walls grip you instantly, needy and tight. You curl your fingers up, watching the way her body reacts, the way her eyes flutter shut as she lets her head fall back.

You kiss down her throat, nipping at the sensitive skin. “That’s it, baby. Let me stretch you out.”

She moans, louder now.

You pump harder.

Faster.

Your thumb finds her clit, rubbing small circles, relentless and dirty.

Azzi is gasping now, legs spread wide, thighs trembling. Her hands claw at your back, your shoulders, your neck—anywhere she can hold on.

“Don’t stop,” she begs. “Don’t you fucking stop.”

“I’m not stopping ‘til I feel you come all over my hand,” you growl, thrusting faster, curling deeper.

She’s babbling now. Words tumbling out like she’s not even aware of them. “Feels so good—god, you feel so good—fuck—please—”

You press harder against her clit.

“Gonna come for me?” you murmur against her ear.

She nods, frantic. “Yes—yes, I’m—”

And then her whole body seizes, legs snapping around your waist, one last desperate cry falling from her lips as she comes, hard, soaking your hand.

But you don’t stop.

You fuck her through it. Fingers still thrusting. Still curling. Your thumb slows on her clit, but your hand doesn’t leave her.

Azzi’s eyes roll back.

Her body jerks.

Another orgasm hits her, fast and sharp.

“Holy fuck—” she cries out, trying to pull away, but you hold her in place, lips on her neck. “You’re—oh my god—too much—”

“You can take it,” you whisper.

And she does.

She shakes against you, soaked and overwhelmed, the sound of your fingers inside her slick and sinful in the quiet room.

When you finally slow, her entire body is limp. Her chest is heaving. Her skin glistening with sweat.

You pull your fingers from her and raise them to your mouth.

She watches.

You suck them clean, slow, letting her see every second of it.

Azzi groans, covering her face. “You’re evil.”

You grin. “You loved it.”

She peeks at you between her fingers. “You know I did.”

You settle beside her, dragging the blanket back over both of you, pulling her into your arms like she’s yours.

And maybe—just for tonight—she is.

The cabin is bathed in a soft, blue-tinged morning glow.

It’s quiet. The hum of the ship’s engine low and steady beneath you. No more music. No more heels on the deck. Just the hush of early hours and the gentle, rhythmic breath of the woman asleep in your arms.

Azzi.

She’s curled into you, back pressed to your chest, her legs tangled with yours beneath the blankets. Your nose is buried in her braid. Her skin smells like salt and sweat and sex. She’s warm and soft and somehow still clinging to sleep despite the fact your hand hasn’t moved from her waist in over an hour.

You haven’t slept.

Not really.

You’ve just been watching her.

Studying every freckle on her shoulder, every flutter of her lashes, every faint twitch in her fingers when she shifts.

You could stay like this.

You think she might want to, too.

She stirs eventually—stretching, sighing, body pressing back against yours like instinct. She hums, half-asleep still, her voice gravel-worn and honey-sweet.

“Mmm... You awake?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, kissing the space behind her ear.

Azzi turns in your arms, blinking at you, her smile sleepy and lopsided. “You’ve been watching me, haven’t you?”

You shrug, brushing a hand up her bare back. “Guilty.”

She yawns and stretches again, muscles long and lean, toned and sore. “God, my legs…”

You grin. “That bad?”

She gives you a look, then flicks your chest with her fingers. “You mean that good.”

“You gonna be able to walk today?”

Azzi laughs softly, hiding her face in your chest. “Barely. I’m gonna have to stretch on the damn pool deck like a retiree.”

You hum, wrapping your arms tighter around her. “I’ll stretch you out.”

“You already did,” she says, grinning against your collarbone. “Twice.”

You feel her smile fade a little then. Not gone. Just softer.

Her fingers start tracing your chain, gentle. Her voice goes quieter.

“You do that with everyone?”

You lift her chin with a knuckle, so she’ll look at you. “No.”

Her eyes search yours. “Good.”

You kiss her slowly. Less lust this time. More promise.

When you pull back, her voice is a whisper. “I haven’t felt like that in a long time. Like I could give someone control and still feel… safe.”

Your throat tightens.

“You are safe,” you say, brushing hair from her face. “With me, you always will be.”

Azzi exhales slowly, then grins, leaning her forehead to yours. “You’re way too sweet for someone who had me begging last night.”

You smirk. “You begged real pretty.”

Her face flushes. She rolls onto her back, covering her eyes with her arm. “Don’t remind me.”

You lean on one elbow, watching her like she’s your sunrise. “I liked it. Liked seeing you like that.”

She peeks at you again. “You’re such a top, it’s actually unfair.”

You grin. “You’re the one who told me not to stop.”

Azzi laughs and pulls the blanket up over her face, groaning. “Oh my god.”

You tug it down just enough to kiss her again, and again, and again.

And then she mumbles, voice muffled, “So… what now?”

You glance toward the small digital clock glowing on the wall. “Now… I order us breakfast. And you don’t move until I bring it to you.”

She pulls the blanket down. “Room service?”

“Room service,” you confirm.

Azzi sighs dramatically. “You really tryna make me fall in love, huh?”

You raise a brow. “Would that be a bad thing?”

She looks at you a moment. Then she shakes her head. “No. I think I’d let it happen.”

You order pancakes and eggs and too much fruit, pretending not to notice the way Azzi lounges in your bed, naked beneath your sheets, looking at you like you already belong to her.

By the time breakfast arrives, she’s on your lap. Feeding you strawberries. Talking about nothing.

The Bahamas are still ahead. So is the rest of the cruise. But for now—there’s just this bed, this cabin, this quiet hush of newness.

And her. Looking at you like she’s already thinking about round three.

The two of you don’t talk about what last night meant.

But you don’t need to.

She’s still in your bed when the ship docks in Nassau. Her legs tangled with yours. Her cheek on your chest. And when the announcement comes through the cabin speaker—welcoming passengers to the Bahamas—Azzi groans, grabs your chain, and mumbles, “Let’s not go anywhere.”

You laugh, burying a hand in her braids. “Thought you wanted to swim in crystal water?”

“I’ll swim in your sheets.”

You eventually convince her to get dressed. She steals your oversized tee and doesn’t give it back. When she walks barefoot to the balcony in just that and a bikini underneath, you lean against the doorway and say, “That shirt looks better on you than it ever did on me.”

She glances over her shoulder and smirks. “Then I’m keeping it.”

You don’t leave each other’s side.

Second breakfast on the pool deck? She sits across your lap the whole time, picking mango slices off your plate, sipping iced coffee with a straw between your fingers.

When a guy in board shorts walks by and does a double take, clearly recognizing her, Azzi doesn’t blink. She just reaches back, takes your hand, and laces your fingers together.

Lunch is island barbecue on the upper deck. She steals your corn. You steal her grilled pineapple. She feeds you plantains off her fork like it’s nothing.

You both laugh so much your cheeks hurt.

The sun’s high, and Azzi’s legs are stretched across your lounge chair, her head tucked into your shoulder, sunglasses low on her nose. She’s wearing a strappy black bikini that makes your throat go dry every time she shifts.

“You keep staring,” she murmurs, not even opening her eyes.

“You keep giving me reasons to,” you say.

She turns her head, presses a soft kiss to your collarbone. “You wanna join me in the water?”

“Only if you promise not to dunk me.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Azzi pulls you in by the wrist, laughing when you resist. Eventually you give in, letting her drag you into the deep end. The water is warm, sun-soaked. You press her against the tiled edge and kiss her underwater, slow and deep, until you both surface breathless and grinning.

When two kids point and whisper to their mom, asking, “Is that Azzi Fudd?”, she just shrugs and wraps her arms around your shoulders like you’re the only thing she wants to be seen for.

In the evening, she leans on the railing next to you, wet hair curling against her cheeks, skin glowing golden in the setting sun.

“You ever been with someone like this before?” she asks, quiet.

You glance over. “Like this how?”

Azzi shrugs. “Like… all-in. No games. Just—holding hands, sneaking kisses, not hiding.”

You tilt your head. “You think we’re not hiding?”

She looks down at your hand on the small of her back. “I think I don’t want to.”

That makes something flip in your chest.

You turn her toward you, resting your hands on her waist. “Then we don’t.”

She presses her forehead to yours. “Okay.”

You kiss her again. It’s not fiery. Not rushed. Just slow. Steady. Yours. People pass. Some look. A few whisper. Azzi doesn’t care. You don’t either.

You’re both tipsy off tequila sipped slowly on the deck as the sun sets. The lights of Nassau fade behind you. The music from the club pulses below, but neither of you go. Not tonight.

You’re on the bed again—Azzi in just her bikini bottoms, straddling your waist, laughing as you tickle her sides.

She grins down at you. “You’re trouble.”

You smile back. “You’re the one who knocked on my door last night.”

She leans close, voice lower. “You gonna remind me what that got me?”

Your hand traces the curve of her back. “I can do more than remind you.”

But you don’t rush. Not tonight. Tonight is soft touches, slow kisses, and curling into each other like the ship isn’t moving. Like it’s anchored in this exact moment forever.

You wake before her again. Her leg is draped across you. Her hand on your chest. Her face buried against your neck.

You order French toast, black coffee, and passionfruit juice. When the tray arrives, Azzi stirs, pulling the covers over her face.

“I swear,” she groans, “I haven’t eaten this much in a year.”

You grin. “Blame the sea air.”

She grabs a strawberry, leans on your shoulder, and chews slowly. “We should take a picture.”

You pause. “Yeah?”

“Just one,” she says. “For me. Not for anyone else.”

You lift your phone. She kisses your cheek just as you snap it. It’s blurry. Perfect. You send it to her. She saves it instantly.

Then she rolls on top of you, kisses your lips, and says, “Let’s not get dressed today.”

You wrap your arms around her. “Deal.”

Azzi Fudd couldn’t stop smiling.

She tried. When she walked through the quiet hallway of Deck 8 back to her family’s suite, she pressed her lips together. Bit the inside of her cheek. Took a long breath.

Didn’t work.

Her grin bloomed anyway, wide and shameless and permanent, like it had been etched there by sunlight.

She could still feel your lips on her shoulder. The weight of your chain around her neck. Your laugh when she stole the last piece of pineapple off your plate and acted like she hadn’t. Your voice in her ear, teasing and soft, saying things no one had ever said to her before—and meaning them.

She sighed.

When she opened the door to her suite, her mom looked up from her book on the couch.

“There she is,” Mrs. Fudd said, squinting slightly. “Did you finally get off the ship? Or were you in the hot tub all day again?”

Azzi tried for casual. “I, uh... I was with someone.”

Her dad peeked around the corner from the mini-fridge. “Someone?”

Azzi tugged her hoodie tighter over her body, suddenly hyper-aware she was still wearing your shirt underneath it. “Just a girl. From the club last night.”

Her mom put the book down. “Oh?”

Azzi’s smile slipped back in before she could stop it. She turned toward the balcony, trying to hide it, but her dad caught it anyway.

He pointed. “There it is. That’s the look.”

“What look?” Azzi asked, exasperated but clearly caught.

Her mom chuckled. “The Azzi-just-got-hit-with-something-she-wasn’t-ready-for look.”

“I didn’t get hit with anything.”

Her mom raised an eyebrow. “You’re glowing.”

Azzi groaned. “Please.”

Her dad sat down beside her on the couch. “So what’s she like?”

Azzi hesitated.

How do you even describe someone like you?

“She’s...” Azzi started, then paused. Her voice went quieter. “She’s… cool. Like, stupid cool. Doesn’t try hard. Just is. Confident. Kinda intimidating, but not in a bad way. And funny. Like—really funny.”

Her mom smiled, eyes softening.

“And?” her dad asked, nudging her shoulder.

Azzi fiddled with the hem of the hoodie. “And she’s... gentle. Sweet, actually. Like, the way she looks at me? Like I’m not... someone she’s trying to get something from. Just someone she wants to know. Someone she wants to be soft with.”

There was a beat of silence.

Her mom spoke first. “Did she know who you were?”

Azzi smiled. “Yeah. From the second she saw me. But she didn’t act weird about it. She didn’t ask for a picture or freak out. Just... gave me space to be a person.”

Her mom’s voice was quiet. “That’s rare.”

Azzi nodded. “Yeah.”

Her dad leaned back. “You only met her yesterday?”

Azzi laughed, cheeks pink. “Yeah. I know how it sounds, okay? But—ugh—I don’t know. It just... clicked. Like we’d known each other longer than one day.”

Her mom gave her a look, half serious. “Did she treat you well?”

Azzi met her mother’s eyes. “Better than anyone ever has in that short a time.”

Her mom studied her face for a long moment, then nodded slowly.

“You’re smitten,” her dad teased, shaking his head with a grin. “Our daughter’s caught feelings on a boat.”

Azzi buried her face in a throw pillow. “Please stop.”

“Do we get to meet her?” her mom asked, gentler now.

“I don’t know,” Azzi admitted. “Maybe. If she wants to.”

“She better,” her dad said. “You just called her amazing.”

Azzi peeked out from the pillow. “She is.”

Her mom smiled. “Then I hope she sticks around.”

Azzi nodded slowly, her eyes distant as she remembered the way your hands fit on her hips. The way you looked at her like she mattered, even when she was sleepy and barefaced and wrapped in a towel on your balcony. The way you didn’t rush her—until she begged you to.

“She’s different,” Azzi murmured.

Her mom didn’t say anything. Just reached out and touched her hand, gentle and sure.

Azzi squeezed it back.

And the smile returned—this time quieter, but deeper. One that stayed.

You find your friends back at the poolside bar, exactly where you left them… maybe twelve hours ago.

Joel spots you first. He’s shirtless, half-burnt, sipping a bright blue drink with a little umbrella stabbed into it.

He drops his shades down the bridge of his nose and whistles. “Look what the tide brought back.”

Kay and Marcus turn next, both with matching knowing grins.

You’re not even fully in your chair before Joel starts in. “So? Tell me why you didn’t come back to the suite last night. Don’t even lie.”

You stretch out with a smug little smirk. “I was busy.”

Marcus leans in. “Oh, she was busy. Okay. Was it—”

“Yes,” you say, cutting him off, dragging your sunglasses off the top of your head and tossing them on the table. “It was her.”

Kay blinks. “Azzi Fudd?”

You nod.

All three of them practically shout.

Joel smacks the table. “I KNEW IT. I KNEW that look she gave you wasn’t casual!”

Kay slaps your shoulder. “You better talk, right now. From the second you left the club. Don’t skip anything.”

You let out a long sigh, rubbing the back of your neck.

“We danced. She said something smart. I said something smarter. She dragged me back to my room.”

Joel leans forward, eyes wide. “She dragged you?”

“She’s direct,” you say with a grin. “But she let me lead.”

Kay’s mouth drops. “You fucked—”

“Not like that,” you say quickly, though your voice drops lower. “I mean… yeah. We did. But it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t just sex.”

They all pause.

You look out toward the water. Let the wind catch your words. “She’s… god. She’s something else. Cool as hell. Smart. Tough. But soft, too. And she let me see that part.”

Kay frowns. “You’re talking like you caught feelings.”

You shrug. “Maybe I did.”

Joel lets out a low whistle. “You met her last night.”

“And I spent all day with her. We didn’t leave each other’s side once. She wore my shirt. Fed me fruit. Sat in my lap while a kid tried to figure out if she was famous.”

Marcus whistles. “Damn.”

“I’ve never felt like this,” you admit, voice dropping. “Like… I wasn’t trying. I wasn’t fronting. And she wasn’t performing either. It was just real. Easy. But also—like—intense? I’ve never looked at someone and known they were gonna be in my head after this ends.”

Kay studies you, eyes softer now. “She feel the same?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. I think she does. She didn’t even try to hide it. Her family called her to dinner and she asked if she could see me after. No ‘we’ll see.’ No guessing.”

Marcus sips his drink. “You gonna see her tonight?”

“Already planning on it,” you say.

Joel grins. “You better not fumble.”

You laugh. “Nah. I’m holding this one with both hands.”

Kay tilts her head. “You gonna tell her that?”

You glance down at your phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

“I think I might.”

You’re already waiting when she shows up.

Back deck. Near the top of the ship where the lights dim just enough to let the stars take over. A warm breeze wraps around you like a whispered secret, and the ocean below glimmers with soft ripples under moonlight.

You hear footsteps and you turn.

Azzi’s in a hoodie and black shorts, sneakers with no socks, her braids tied up in a messy bun that looks like she tried not to care about it, but still somehow looks perfect. She's holding two tiny paper dessert cups and plastic spoons in one hand.

You raise your brows.

She lifts them proudly. “Chocolate mousse. One for each of us.”

“You’re spoiling me now.”

Azzi shrugs and walks closer. “I had to make up for stealing all your fruit earlier.”

She hands you one and sits beside you on the deck bench, thigh brushing yours.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

The ocean hums below. The stars blink overhead. The ship rocks just gently enough to remind you that you're still floating, still somewhere between land and nowhere.

You bump her knee with yours. “Miss me?”

Azzi snorts. “Don’t get cocky.”

“You’re the one who brought me dessert.”

“I was just being polite.”

“Is that what the hoodie’s for too?” you ask, grinning. “Because it looks suspiciously familiar.”

She tugs at the hem and smiles down at it. “Okay. Yeah. I wore it all evening. Got weirdly attached.”

“You look good in it.”

She glances up at you. “I know.”

You both laugh.

Then there’s a quiet moment. A shift. She leans a little closer. Your pinkies brush. Your thigh against hers becomes less accidental.

You look over. She’s already watching you.

“I kept thinking about you at dinner,” she says softly. “Like… I’d be in the middle of answering a question and suddenly I’d remember the way you looked this morning, or the way you laughed when I fell asleep mid-sentence.”

You smile. “Sounds like I left an impression.”

Azzi licks a bit of mousse off her spoon. “You’re kind of impossible not to think about.”

Her words settle somewhere deep. Not rushed. Not romantic just to be romantic. She means it.

You take her empty cup from her hand and set both desserts down on the deck.

And when you reach for her fingers, she doesn’t hesitate.

You both stand, slowly walking along the perimeter of the deck, hand in hand. The ship is quieter than you’ve ever heard it. Just the hush of waves. Faint party music miles below, muffled by steel and distance. All the noise from earlier—all the eyes, the curiosity, the flirtation—it’s all quiet now.

Just you and her.

“What happens after this?” Azzi asks quietly.

You squeeze her hand. “You mean after the cruise?”

She nods.

You walk a few more steps before answering. “I think we see where this goes. Slowly. Honestly. I don’t wanna fake cool and detached when I already know I want more than a memory.”

Azzi swallows. Her voice is soft. “What if I’m scared?”

“Me too,” you say. “Doesn’t change anything.”

She stops walking.

You stop too.

The silence between you isn’t awkward. It’s charged. Gentle. Intentional.

Then she steps into your space, both hands on your chest, looking up at you with something soft and wide in her eyes. “I feel like I’ve known you forever. And I know that’s dumb. But…”

“It’s not dumb,” you murmur, brushing your thumb over her cheek. “I’ve been trying to think of the right word for it all day. Nothing feels big enough.”

Azzi laughs quietly. “Yeah.”

You lean down just a little, lips brushing her forehead, then the corner of her mouth, then finally—finally—her neck.

She shivers.

You kiss her there again. Slower this time. Letting your lips linger just long enough to draw the softest sigh from her chest.

“Is this okay?” you whisper against her skin.

Azzi nods, her arms wrapping around your waist. “Yeah. Don’t stop.”

You press another kiss to the curve of her neck, then a few more up to her jaw. She smells like clean cotton and vanilla again. Her hands are splayed against your back, fingertips warm even through the fabric.

She tilts her head slightly, offering more.

You kiss her there—just below her ear—and whisper, “You’re trouble.”

Azzi hums. “You’re the one kissing me like you mean it.”

“I do mean it.”

She pulls back just enough to look you in the eye.

You’re not smiling now. Neither is she.

But something bigger is written across her face.

“I don’t know what this is,” she says quietly. “But I don’t want it to end when the boat docks.”

“It doesn’t have to,” you promise. “If you’re willing to try… I’m all in.”

Azzi leans in and kisses you—soft, slow, like she’s thanking you without words. Her mouth moves against yours like a secret she’s giving freely. No more teasing. No performance.

Just her.

When you pull apart, her cheeks are flushed. Her fingers still twisted in your shirt.

You bump your forehead to hers and whisper, “Come back to my room?”

Azzi smiles, slow and shy.

“Only if you hold me the whole time.”

You take her hand again.

“Wouldn’t dream of doing anything else.”

And together, you walk through the quiet ship, down the quiet halls, back to where the rest of the night waits to hold you.

The door clicks softly as you both step inside, the quiet hum of the ship’s engine the only sound in the room. The lights are dim, barely illuminating the space, but it feels more intimate this way. The small window reveals nothing but the endless night and the occasional glint of moonlight on the water.

You kick the door closed behind you with your foot, and for a second, there’s just the sound of the waves, rolling and steady outside.

Azzi moves toward the bed, but she doesn’t sit down right away. Instead, she glances at you over her shoulder, an unreadable look in her eyes. She’s still holding your hand, the warmth of her fingers a soft reassurance.

You watch her, everything about her so easy to fall into.

“You okay?” you ask, stepping toward her, a bit unsure now.

Azzi gives you a soft smile and nods. “Yeah. I just… I’m kind of nervous.”

You stop right in front of her, not quite touching her, but so close you can feel her warmth radiating toward you. “There’s no reason to be. We’re just… here, together.”

Her eyes flicker down to where your hands are still intertwined, a moment of hesitation in the way she exhales.

Then, almost like she’s making up her mind, she steps closer, wrapping her arms around your waist. You let her, your own arms immediately coming around her, holding her gently, softly. Her head tilts up, eyes catching yours, full of trust, full of something deep and untold.

“I want this,” she says, and her voice is low, soft, vulnerable. “I want you. But I’m still—”

“Still figuring it out?” you offer, smiling slightly.

She laughs quietly, her breath hot against your neck. “Yeah. But I trust you. So… just—just be patient with me?”

“I will,” you say, voice steady, your lips brushing her forehead. “I’ve got all the time in the world.”

She pulls away slightly, her hands tracing along the edges of your shirt as if measuring the space between you, still cautious but eager. Her fingers linger at the hem of your shirt, then meet your skin. She looks up at you, a question in her eyes, but no words.

You answer without thinking, letting your hands slide up her arms, gently holding her wrists for just a moment before letting her guide your touch.

Azzi lifts her chin, a little more confident now, her voice barely above a whisper. “Can I kiss you?”

You don’t hesitate. “Please.”

Her lips are soft when they meet yours—so soft it takes you a moment to adjust. She’s slow, teasing, and you follow her lead, letting the kiss unfold at its own pace. Her hands move up to your shoulders, fingers pressing lightly into your skin, drawing you closer. You feel the heat rise between you, the tension building, but you’re patient.

You break the kiss first, your lips brushing against her cheek before moving down to her neck. Her pulse is steady, but you can feel it thumping under your mouth, a reminder of how close you both are. Azzi’s breath hitches when your lips graze the soft spot just beneath her ear, and she lets out a soft sigh, her hands tightening around you.

“I’m not in any hurry,” you murmur, trailing your lips down her neck, your hands resting on her hips. “If you need more time… we can take all night.”

She turns her head slightly, her lips brushing against your jaw, and you feel her smile against your skin. “I want this. I want you.”

With that, she starts to pull at your shirt, and you let her, lifting your arms so she can tug it off. Her fingers linger against your skin once it’s gone, tracing the lines of muscle, the curve of your chest. The quiet hum in the room fills the space between you, but it’s still gentle. No rush, no urgency—just the quiet, steady rhythm of you both getting to know one another.

Azzi steps back just a little, eyes sweeping over you as if trying to commit every detail to memory. “You’re so beautiful.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, you’re frozen. Her words make something inside you stir, but it’s not just the compliment. It’s the sincerity, the way her voice falters a little at the end, like she’s still getting used to how much she means it.

“You’re amazing,” you say, pulling her back toward you, brushing your lips against hers again. This kiss is deeper, more urgent now, and Azzi responds with a soft gasp, her body pressing into yours.

Her hands slide up your back, nails grazing the skin as she pulls you even closer. You kiss her back with a softness that builds, savoring every second of it. Slowly, you guide her toward the bed, letting her sit down, your body hovering over hers. The scent of her perfume, the taste of her mouth, it all swirls around you, making it hard to focus on anything except the way she feels beneath your touch.

You break the kiss, your hand drifting down to her thigh, moving upward until you feel the warmth of her skin. Azzi’s breath catches, her eyes fluttering closed as she leans back against the pillows.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” you murmur, your lips grazing her neck again, softer this time, more teasing.

She shakes her head. “Don’t stop.”

And that’s all you need. The words are the last thing that needs to be said.

The rest of the night passes in a series of slow, tender moments. You take your time with her, feeling the way her body reacts to each kiss, each touch, each gentle move. There’s no rush, no pressure, just the soft sound of your breaths mingling, the shared warmth that builds between you.

Eventually, you both lie there, tangled together in the sheets, not needing to say much at all. Azzi’s head is tucked into your shoulder, her breath slow and even. You stroke her hair softly, your heart thudding in your chest as you think about how different this feels.

This is real. More real than anything you expected. And you don’t want it to end.

You press a soft kiss to her temple, holding her closer.

“You’re glowing,” Joel says the second you walk in.

He’s lying back on the couch with a bass across his lap, half-tuned and barely held. Kay’s by the window, tapping on her phone, and Marcus is sprawled across the floor with his laptop open and six empty Red Bulls surrounding him like a ritual circle.

You drop onto the bed, hair still damp from the shower you took back in your room, hoodie sleeves pushed up, chest still buzzing from the way Azzi kissed your neck before she left.

“She’s unreal,” you say, staring at the ceiling.

“We know,” Marcus says without looking up. “We Googled her again.”

Joel chuckles. “She’s not just unreal, bro. You’re gone. Like in it.”

You exhale, sitting up. “I need to write something.”

Kay glances over. “Now?”

“I have it,” you say, standing and grabbing the guitar from the corner. “I’ve had it stuck in my head since she walked out of the room this morning. It’s just… looping.”

They all fall silent. That’s the code. When you talk like that, it means it’s real.

You sit on the edge of the bed, guitar balanced across your thighs, and strum a slow progression—open chords, bare, vulnerable. The kind of rhythm that feels like 2 AM with someone’s breath on your skin.

You glance up at them.

“It’s called Undressed.”

Marcus hits record on his laptop without saying a word. Joel starts humming softly, finding the key. Kay puts her phone down and just watches, knowing something’s coming. They listen to the lyrics as you sang, noting how personal it sounds.

Joel exhales through his nose. “That’s the one.”

“Yeah,” Kay agrees. “She undressed you in more ways than one.”

You smile.

“I’m gonna finish it tonight. Alone. I wanna get it right.”

They nod. No pushback. They know what this means.

Marcus closes his laptop. “You think you’ll play it for her?”

You look down at the guitar. Fingers resting gently on the frets.

“I think I’ll play it the night before she leaves. Let her know what this really was to me.”

Joel grins. “Romantic and tragic. Damn.”

You smirk. “Story of my life.”

Azzi stood at the sliding glass balcony door, the sea breeze brushing gently against her cheeks as she stared out into the blackness. The moon hung low over the water, casting long streaks of silver across the waves. She was still in the hoodie. Your hoodie. It didn’t smell like you anymore—not quite. But it still felt like you. Heavy in all the right places.

Behind her, the door to the suite clicked open, and soft footsteps padded in.

“Figured you’d be out here,” her mom said gently.

Azzi smiled without turning around. “You always know.”

Mrs. Fudd came to stand beside her, shoulder brushing Azzi’s lightly. She folded her arms on the balcony rail and exhaled.

“You’ve been different this week.”

Azzi leaned her weight on her elbows. “Different how?”

“Lighter. Softer,” her mom said, then nudged her with a knowing glance. “Giddier.”

Azzi chuckled, looking down. “Is that a nice way of saying I’ve been acting like a teenage girl with a crush?”

“No,” her mom said with a warm smile. “It’s my way of saying you look happy.”

Azzi didn’t respond right away. Her fingers toyed with the sleeve of the hoodie, twisting the hem between her fingers.

“It’s not just a crush,” she said finally. “I thought maybe it was, the first night. But it’s not.”

Her mom waited.

Azzi continued, quieter now. “She listens when I speak. She pays attention without trying. I’ll say something offhand, something I don’t even think about, and ten minutes later, she’s circling back to it. Remembering. Like it matters.”

Mrs. Fudd nodded slowly. “That’s rare.”

“She never made me feel like I had to be impressive,” Azzi said, voice cracking slightly. “I didn’t have to be the athlete. Or the brand. Or the ‘girl with potential.’ I just… got to be someone’s favorite person for a few hours.”

“You are someone’s favorite person,” her mom said gently.

Azzi’s throat tightened. “Yeah, but this was different.”

They stood there for a long while. Just the wind. The waves.

Then her mother broke the silence.

“Do you know what this is?”

Azzi looked over.

Her mom smiled. “It’s the beginning of something.”

Azzi swallowed. “But I don’t know what it becomes.”

“None of us ever do,” her mom said, turning to face her now. “But that doesn’t make it any less real.”

Azzi hesitated, then asked something she hadn’t let herself ask all day.

“Do you think I’m being reckless?”

Mrs. Fudd tilted her head. “Do you feel reckless?”

Azzi blinked. “No. I feel… safe.”

Her mom touched her arm, squeezing gently. “Then no. You’re not being reckless. You’re being brave.”

Azzi looked down again. Then smiled, so softly it barely curled her lips.

“I think she’s writing a song about me,” she said after a moment.

Her mom raised an eyebrow. “How do you know?”

“She doesn’t say much when she’s inspired. She just… goes quiet. Then she looks at me like she’s trying to memorize the whole night.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

Azzi laughed through her nose. “Like I could fall. Really fall. And not be scared of the landing.”

Her mom’s eyes went glassy, pride lining her smile. “Then you better keep her close while you can.”

Azzi nodded, quiet again, but firmer this time. Like a decision had settled somewhere deep.

“I’m going to,” she said. “For as long as she lets me.”

“Tell me again why I agreed to get up this early?”

Azzi’s voice is sleepy and half-annoyed, but you catch the grin tugging at the corner of her mouth as she walks down the pier beside you, sunglasses crooked, still rubbing at one eye.

You smirk, reaching for her hand. “Because I said I’d get you the best conch fritters in Nassau.”

“I don’t even know what that is.”

“That’s why it’s a cultural adventure,” you say, swinging your arm lightly. “It’s fried, delicious, and life-changing.”

Azzi side-eyes you over her glasses. “If I eat this mystery fried sea creature and it ruins my stomach, I’m dragging you down with me.”

“Romantic.”

“I try.”

You squeeze her hand gently, and she doesn’t let go. You’ve been holding hands since you stepped off the boat. She hasn’t let yours go for more than a minute. Not when she stopped to take a photo of the ocean. Not when she leaned on your shoulder during the cab ride. Not when she stole your sunglasses and wore them despite them being way too big for her face.

Not even now, as you both step through the bustling morning streets of downtown Nassau—colorful buildings, music spilling from open windows, the smell of jerk chicken and fresh coconut in the air.

“You ever been here before?” she asks, brushing her thumb along the back of your hand.

You shake your head. “No. First time.”

“Good,” Azzi says, glancing at you. “Means we can make memories that only belong to us.”

You blink.

She doesn’t take it back.

You look at her like she just said something dangerous. Something tender. Something maybe a little permanent.

And all she does is grin and tug you forward by the hand.

You’re both barefoot in the sand, sitting under a palm tree with two coconut drinks and a half-eaten paper tray of conch fritters between you. Azzi’s in a black bikini top and loose shorts now, her sunglasses perched in her hair. Her skin’s already kissed darker by the sun.

She reaches for another fritter and hums happily. “Okay, I’ll admit it. These are fire.”

You grin, leaning on your hand. “Told you.”

She dips it in the sauce again. “I was skeptical. You’ve got... hot girl palate. Like, fancy cheese and red wine energy.”

You throw your head back laughing. “Hot girl palate is the best compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

Azzi scoots closer, her foot brushing yours under the sand. “You know what I’ve been thinking about?”

“What?”

She takes a sip of her drink, then says softly, “The way you looked at me this morning.”

You blink. “How did I look at you?”

“Like you already missed me,” she says.

You swallow.

“I do,” you say quietly. “Even when you’re right in front of me.”

Azzi leans her head on your shoulder, eyes closed, the breeze tugging at her braids.

“I don’t want this to end when we dock again.”

“It doesn’t have to,” you say instantly. “I’ll fly to wherever you are. You just tell me the city.”

She smiles against your arm. “I want you to meet my mom properly. Not just in passing.”

You chuckle. “You think she doesn’t already know everything?”

Azzi lifts her head. “She does. But I want you to see what home looks like to me.”

You meet her eyes.

“Then let’s make it happen.”

She kisses you. Right there on the beach without hesitation. Just the salt wind, the sunlight, and the softest kind of certainty.

You’re back at the dock now, waiting to reboard. The sun is melting into the water, painting the horizon gold and pink.

Azzi stands in front of you, arms wrapped around your waist, her chin resting on your chest.

“Best day of my life,” she whispers.

You hold her tighter. “Mine too.”

“I’m scared of how much I like you,” she admits.

You touch her cheek. “Then be scared. But stay.”

Azzi nods slowly.

And just before the ship sounds its call to reboard, she looks at you and says, “I think you’re gonna ruin me. In the best way.”

Azzi sat between her mom and her brother, in the middle row of the lounge. The ship had transformed the space into something cozy for the night—low lights, string bulbs overhead, a small stage set with a mic stand and a handful of instruments, and a sign near the bar reading OPEN MIC: TALENT NIGHT in chalk.

She hadn’t told them why she wanted to come. Just that she needed to be there. That she wanted them there too.

Jaden was scrolling through his phone under the table. Her mom sipped something fizzy and tropical, whispering occasionally to her dad, who leaned back with one arm around the back of her chair.

Azzi couldn’t stop looking at the stage.

You hadn’t texted her in a few hours—not since the last soft kiss on her temple before parting ways that afternoon. You’d said, “I’ll see you later. I’ve got something for you.” She didn’t ask what. She didn’t need to.

Now she sat still, hands in her lap, heart pounding in her throat like it already knew what was coming.

And then you walked onto the stage.

Your band followed behind you—Joel on bass, Kay already moving to the keys, Marcus adjusting something on his laptop. You stepped up to the mic last, guitar slung across your chest, black hoodie sleeves pushed up to your elbows.

You didn’t speak right away.

Azzi straightened in her seat.

You looked out at the crowd, fingers resting on your strings, and let out a small breath.

“This one’s… new,” you said. “I finished it on this trip. Didn’t mean to write it. Just… couldn’t help it. So if the girl I wrote it about is here tonight, uh… hope she knows it’s hers.”

You didn’t look for her.

You didn’t need to.

The first chords rang out—low, stripped down, intimate. Like you weren’t playing to a room full of strangers, but whispering to her across a quiet bed.

And then you began.

“You had a dream, you wanted betterYou were sick of all the holes in your sweaterYou looked to me and wondered whetherI was the lamppost to which you were tethered”

Azzi’s breath caught.

Her mom leaned toward her, whispering, “Is this about you?”

Azzi couldn’t answer.

Because you kept going.

“I don't wanna get undressedFor a new person all over againI don't wanna kiss someone else's neckAnd have to pretend it's yours instead”

Her throat tightened. Her eyes locked on yours even as you looked past the room, lost in the song, in memory, in her.

And suddenly she wasn’t just listening.

She was reliving.

Your hands brushing hers when you first danced together. Your lips on her collarbone, slow and reverent. Your hoodie draped over her like a second skin. Your fingers tracing her back beneath a sky full of stars.

She remembered everything.

The way you watched her when she wasn’t speaking. The way you whispered, “I’ve got you,” like it was gospel. The way your voice broke, just a little, when you said you wanted more than a memory.

And now here you were, putting it into a melody.

Letting her hear what you felt.

Letting everyone hear.

“I'm lookin' at you, and you're lookin' at meBut the glimmer in your eyes is sayin' you wanna leaveYou say you don't mean what you're sayin' to meBut the glimmer in your eyes is telling me other things.’”

She blinked fast. Her mom gently reached for her hand, squeezing it. Azzi didn’t realize until then her eyes had gone glassy.

It wasn’t just the words. It was the way you said them. Like she was precious. Like she mattered. Like knowing her had become some irreversible kind of gravity.

Her heart ached in the sweetest way. She swallowed, lips parting as you sang the bridge.

“And I don't wanna learn another scentI don't want the children of another manTo have the eyes of the girl that I won't forgetI won't forget”

Azzi thought about the way you had touched her—so gently. The way you never reached for more than she gave. How you waited. How you watched. How you never once made her feel like she owed you her body in exchange for your patience.

You had undressed her, yes. But not just her body. You undressed her fear. Her silence. You saw every scar and kissed them anyway.

By the time the song ended, the room was quiet—no clapping yet. Just a held breath, a collective hush like everyone knew they’d just witnessed something sacred.

Then the applause started. Loud. Genuine. Full of awe.

But Azzi couldn’t move.

She watched you step away from the mic, eyes scanning the room. You weren’t smiling. You weren’t grinning for applause.

You were looking for her.

And when your eyes finally found hers, she felt everything she’d been holding break open.

You didn’t say anything.

You just nodded, like I meant it. Every word.

And Azzi nodded back, throat too tight to speak, but eyes full of something bigger than anything she'd ever said out loud.

Love. Not lust. Not infatuation. Love.

And she knew, without question, that she was already yours.

Your hands are shaking a little as you tuck your guitar into its case.

The adrenaline’s still running high—not from the crowd, but from her. From the look in Azzi’s eyes when the last chord rang out. From the way her breath hitched when you sang that line about undressing your soul.

You didn’t need applause.

You needed her.

You almost don’t hear her footsteps. “Hey.”

You look up.

She’s standing a few feet away. Hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. Eyes wide and watery. Lips pressed together like if she opens her mouth too soon, everything will come rushing out.

You close the case gently.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

Azzi walks toward you slowly, like her legs are moving before she even has a plan. And then she stops right in front of you, blinking up at you with that same look she gave you on the deck that night.

Like you scare her in the best way.

“That was about me,” she says, voice quiet, almost breathless.

You nod.

Azzi swallows. “You wrote a song about me.”

“I couldn’t not,” you say. “You got under my skin so fast it was either write it or explode.”

Her breath hitches.

You step closer, lowering your voice even more. “I didn’t write it to impress you. Or to win you over. I just needed you to know. How real this is for me.”

She closes the gap.

Wraps her arms around your waist and buries her face into your chest.

You hold her.

No words at first—just the soft weight of her body against yours, the sound of her breathing quick and uneven, the way her hands curl into your shirt like she’s anchoring herself.

“I thought I was imagining it,” she says against your collarbone. “The way you looked at me. The way you touched me.”

You pull back just enough to see her eyes.

“I meant every second of it.”

Azzi’s eyes go glassy again. “When you said I undressed your soul... I felt like I couldn’t breathe.”

“You did,” you whisper. “In the quietest way. You didn’t even ask me to. You just made me feel safe enough to let go.”

She leans in and kisses you—soft and deep and trembling. A kiss that says I heard every word. A kiss that says I believe you.

When you pull apart, she rests her forehead against yours.

“I’ve never had someone write something like that for me,” she says. “Not just about my body. But me. My heart. My fears. My quiet.”

“I see all of it,” you murmur. “And I still want more.”

She nods, eyes flicking across your face. “I want you to meet my mom again. Not as a stranger.”

You smile. “Noted.”

Azzi exhales, then pulls you into another hug—this one tighter. Longer.

“You ruined me,” she whispers. “Just like I said you would.”

You chuckle softly. “We can be ruined together.”

She kisses the corner of your mouth, her voice quieter now. “Take me back to your room.”

You meet her gaze. “You sure?”

Azzi nods. “I need to be close to you tonight. Not just physically. I want to feel you still thinking about me.”

You take her hand. And without another word, the two of you walk out of the lounge—past the empty tables, past the staff closing up the bar, past the people who don’t matter. Back to your room. Back to something that no longer feels temporary.

You wake up first.

Azzi is curled up beside you, still wearing your hoodie and nothing else, her leg slung over your waist, cheek pressed to your chest. Her braids are a little messy now—sleep-flattened on one side—and her lips part with each quiet breath.

She looks so peaceful, so undone in the gentlest way.

You don’t move.

You just watch her breathe and press the softest kiss to her temple. You let your fingers trace her spine through the fabric, slow enough not to wake her. Not yet.

Eventually, she shifts. Groans. Nuzzles deeper into your chest before blinking up at you, groggy and perfect.

“Mornin’,” she rasps.

“Hi,” you whisper, brushing a braid from her cheek. “Sleep okay?”

“Better than I have in months,” she murmurs, then yawns. “I forgot how nice it is to wake up with someone who makes you feel safe.”

Your chest clenches.

You kiss her hair. “I don’t ever want to be anything but that.”

Azzi hums and smiles, eyes still mostly closed. “Let’s do everything today.”

You glance down at her. “Everything?”

“I mean it,” she says, voice a little stronger now. “Swimming. Arcade. Dessert buffet. Watching the sunset. All of it.”

You grin. “You planning on leaving me with zero emotional recovery time?”

Azzi chuckles, sliding on top of you and kissing your jaw. “Exactly.”

The deck is loud and sunny, but your whole world is Azzi, standing in front of you at the edge of the pool in a baby blue bikini, hands on her hips and smirking at you like she owns your soul.

“You’ve been staring for five straight minutes,” she says.

“Can you blame me?”

She arches a brow. “You’re gonna say something corny, aren’t you?”

You lean in and whisper, “You look like summer and sin.”

Azzi throws her head back laughing and dives in before you can say anything else.

You follow her, and the water swallows you both.

The next hour is splashing, floating, racing across the pool like kids. She tries to dunk you and fails. You tug her under just to pull her into a slow underwater kiss.

She surfaces breathless. “That’s not fair.”

You grin. “I play dirty.”

She kisses you again. “I like that about you.”

You’re in a dark corner of the ship’s arcade. Azzi is standing behind the plastic steering wheel of a racing game, tongue between her teeth in concentration.

You’re in the seat next to her, losing spectacularly.

She bumps your car off the track and cackles.

“Foul!” you yell. “That was a personal attack.”

“I’m competitive,” she shrugs.

“You’re cruel.”

Azzi just wins.

She jumps up and does a tiny victory dance while you groan and toss your token cup onto the floor.

“Rematch,” you grumble.

“Nope,” she says, smug. “You’ll just lose prettier next time.”

You end up playing air hockey next—she wins again, barely. Then Dance Dance Revolution, where she absolutely eats you alive, and you try to play it off like your coordination wasn’t a hot mess.

She’s breathless from laughing when you finally drag her into the photobooth.

She plops into your lap, arms around your neck. “Silly or cute?”

You blink. “We don’t have a choice. You’re already both.”

She blushes, and right before the first flash, she kisses you.

The photo strip prints with four perfect frames. Her kissing you. You laughing. Her pretending to bite your cheek. You both looking at each other like the rest of the world just disappeared.

You’re wrapped in a towel. She’s curled up beside you. Both of you are dry now, sun-warm and a little tired, her head on your shoulder as the horizon starts to catch fire.

“I don’t want this to end,” Azzi murmurs.

You take her hand. “Then it doesn’t.”

She glances up. “It has to. Tomorrow morning we go back. You’ll go back to your band. I’ll go back to practice. And this’ll just be…”

“A song?” you offer softly.

She doesn’t answer right away.

“No. It’s more than that.”

You rest your forehead against hers. “So let’s not treat it like it ends.”

“You’d really come see me?”

“In a heartbeat,” you say. “City, flight, whatever. You call—I’m there.”

She presses her lips to yours. Not urgent. Just real.

When she pulls back, her voice breaks a little. “Promise?”

“Swear it.”

Azzi lets out a shaky breath, then curls into you even tighter.

“We have one more night,” she whispers. “I want to remember every second.”

You smile and kiss her hair.

“Then let’s make it count.”

The sky is painted in hues of fading gold when you step onto the rooftop terrace, your hand adjusting the sleeve of your white button-down as you glance around the restaurant. Lanterns glow warm across each table. A gentle string quartet plays near the railing. The wind smells like sea salt and orchids.

And then you see her.

Azzi.

She’s standing near your table in a silky dark green dress that hugs her body like it was tailored just for this night. Her braids are up, loosely twisted and elegant. Her makeup is soft, her lips a muted berry tone that makes your chest tighten.

She looks at you and immediately blushes, even before you say anything.

“Hey,” she says, voice soft.

“Hey,” you echo, walking up slowly, like you’re approaching something holy.

“You clean up really well,” she murmurs, fingers brushing the collar of your shirt as you pull her into a hug.

“So do you,” you say into her ear. “Dangerously well.”

She giggles, tucking herself under your chin for a moment before pulling away. “This place is so fancy. There’s, like, multiple forks.”

You grin. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

She reaches for your hand as you both sit down, and doesn’t let go.

The food is ridiculous—grilled lobster, truffle pasta, chocolate soufflé that melts in your mouth—but you barely taste it. You’re too caught up in the way she keeps looking at you across the table. The way her thumb strokes across the back of your hand. The way her shoe brushes yours under the table like she needs to keep touching you in some way, always.

She finally sets her fork down, pushes her plate away, and looks at you with that same soft intensity that first pulled you in.

“Tell me what happens next,” she says. “When we get off this boat.”

You sip your water slowly, then set the glass down and lean forward.

“I’ll text you before we even hit customs,” you say. “And I’ll call you the minute I land.”

She smirks. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

You exhale, your voice gentler now.

“I’m not going to pretend this was just a vacation thing,” you say. “Because it wasn’t. You weren’t. I’ve never met someone who made time slow down just by looking at me. You did.”

Azzi’s eyes don’t leave yours.

“I’ll come to you,” you say. “Wherever. I’ll take red-eyes between tour dates. I’ll crash at your place after a game. I’ll hold your hand in arenas and carry your bag when you’re too sore to move.”

She laughs under her breath, eyes wet.

“I want this,” you say. “Not just the version of us under a sunset. I want us in real life. On our worst days. On your tired days. When I’m anxious and sleep-deprived and you’re icing your knees and cussing at the ceiling. I still want us.”

Azzi looks down briefly, then back up at you.

“That’s a lot,” she says. “A lot of logistics. A lot of effort.”

“I know,” you say. “You’re worth all of it.”

There’s a pause. Just the sound of ocean wind and silverware in the distance.

“I think I’ve been waiting for someone to say that to me for years.”

You squeeze her hand. “Then I’m glad I finally got here.”

Azzi wipes her eye with the edge of her napkin, laughing softly. “Don’t make me cry in this five-star restaurant.”

“You’re too pretty to cry.”

She leans forward now. “I want you to know something too.”

You nod.

“I don’t fall fast,” she says. “I don’t even usually flirt. But with you? I couldn’t help it. You didn’t try to win me. You just... saw me. And I haven’t felt this safe in someone’s presence in a really, really long time.”

You say nothing. Just wait. Listen.

“I want more nights like this,” she says. “I want breakfast with you in cities I’ve never been to. I want to sit courtside at your shows and mouth the lyrics like a dork. I want to call you after I bomb a workout and hear your voice telling me to stop being so hard on myself.”

She pauses. “I want a future that has you in it.”

You swallow.

Hard.

“I’m yours,” you say. “For however long you want me.”

Azzi stands up slowly and walks around the table.

You rise too, breath catching as she takes your face in her hands and kisses you—deep, full of everything that’s too big for words.

When you pull apart, you whisper, “We’ve only had a week.”

Azzi brushes your cheek with her thumb. “And it changed everything.”

You rest your forehead against hers.

“Let’s not go back to who we were before this,” you whisper.

“We won’t,” she says. “We can’t.”

You walk back together, hand in hand, barefoot now. Her heels dangle from her fingers. Your jacket is draped over her shoulders. The stars are back. The ocean is steady. But your hearts are anything but.

You both stop at the railing, watching the black sea curl beneath the ship.

“You know what this feels like?” Azzi murmurs.

“What?”

“The first chapter.”

You turn to her. “Of what?”

She smiles, leaning in to kiss you softly.

“Of us.”

And in the silence that follows, you feel it—quiet, certain, and infinite. This isn’t the end… this is only the beginning.

You both stumble back to your room. Your lips crash into hers before the door is even fully closed.

Azzi’s back hits it with a soft thud, her hands tangled in your shirt collar, mouth open beneath yours, breath shaky with anticipation. You fumble for the lock behind her—don’t even look—just reach blindly while she pulls you closer, closer, until your bodies are flush and your thoughts are gone.

The lock clicks. The hallway disappears. And it’s just her now. All hers.

You lift her gently and her legs wrap around your waist like she was meant to fit there. You carry her the two steps to the bed and set her down carefully—but you don’t follow. Not yet. You stand back, eyes roaming over her with reverence.

Her lips are red. Her dress is still perfect. Her breath is uneven.

“You look like a dream,” you whisper, voice low and tight with restraint.

Azzi sits up slowly, eyes locked on you, pupils blown wide. “Then come ruin it.”

You smirk, stepping between her knees, hands reaching for the thin straps of her dress. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t speak. She just watches. You take your time.

You slide the straps down her arms, fingertips skimming her skin, dragging slowly, reverently, until the fabric pools at her waist. Then you lower to your knees, mouth brushing over her collarbone, her shoulder, the swell of her chest.

She gasps softly when your lips graze her sternum. Your hands slide down her sides, taking the dress with them. Inch by inch. Until it’s puddled on the floor and she’s left in nothing but her breath and your gaze.

You sit back and just look at her. She shifts under your stare—not from discomfort, but from how deeply you’re seeing her.

“I’ve never felt like this,” she says, voice shaking slightly. “Like I’m not just being touched… I’m being held.”

You lean forward and kiss her knee. Then her thigh. Then higher.

“That’s because I don’t want your body without the rest of you,” you whisper. “And tonight, I want all of you.”

You guide her back gently onto the bed, crawling over her slowly, like you’re savoring every second. You press soft kisses down her stomach, her hips, her thighs—taking your time, memorizing the way her skin shivers under your lips.

Azzi’s fingers curl into the sheets. “Please…”

You glance up. “Tell me what you want.”

Her voice is hoarse. “Your mouth.”

You smile against her thigh. “Good. Because I’ve been dreaming about tasting you since the first time you kissed me.”

She gasps as your mouth finally finds her. Slow. Deep. Purposeful.

You part her with your thumbs, tongue moving with deliberate care—circling, teasing, exploring. Her back arches immediately. One hand flies to your hair. The other clamps down on the sheets like it’s the only thing tethering her to the earth.

You take your time. You worship her.

Your tongue flattens against her, then flicks. Your lips close around her clit and suck gently, slowly, and her moan rips through the air, high and broken and perfect.

“God—” she pants, “don’t stop.”

You don’t.

You lock eyes with her—half-lidded and wild—as your mouth moves with more rhythm, more pressure, more intent. She’s panting now, legs trembling, one heel pressing into the bed to ground herself. She cries out when you moan into her.

And when your name falls from her lips in a desperate, gasping sob—when her thighs begin to close around your head and her hips lift off the bed—you hold her steady and keep going, licking her through the sharp wave of her climax until she’s shaking beneath you, her chest heaving, tears at the corners of her eyes.

You pull away only when she whimpers from overstimulation. Then you kiss her inner thigh, her hip, her stomach. You climb back up, resting beside her, brushing hair from her damp, flushed face. Azzi turns to you, cheeks still pink, breath still shallow.

She laughs quietly, voice wrecked. “If you leave me after this cruise, I swear I’ll hunt you down.”

You smile and press your forehead to hers.

“Baby,” you whisper, kissing her softly, “you’re stuck with me.”

The room is still dark when you wake.

But it’s warm. Wrapped in gold. Wrapped in her.

Azzi is pressed against your chest, face tucked beneath your chin, your arm heavy around her waist like it belongs there. Her thigh is slung over your hip, her fingers curled around your necklace, like she reached for it in her sleep.

You don’t move.

You just breathe her in.

The ship hums gently under you, docked now. Stilled after days of drifting. The final announcement hasn’t come yet. There’s no knock on the door. No blaring overhead instructions. Just this—this suspended moment before reality returns.

Azzi shifts slightly, her breath brushing your collarbone. “You awake?”

You press a kiss into her hair. “Yeah.”

She hums. “I didn’t want to fall asleep last night.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is the last time we wake up like this.”

You hold her tighter. “No it’s not.”

Azzi pulls back just enough to look at you, her eyes sleepy and soft, but alert in that way that means she’s feeling everything.

“You promise?”

You nod, brushing her cheek with your thumb. “It’s not the end. It’s just... page one.”

She smiles, that small, private one—the one she only gives you when no one else is around to see.

“I want page two.”

“Then let’s write it.”

She sighs, curling back into your chest. “What happens now?”

“We get dressed,” you say softly. “We go through customs. I kiss you one more time at baggage claim and watch you walk away looking way too pretty for goodbye.”

She groans. “I hate that.”

“I hate it more.”

Azzi goes quiet for a moment. “You’re gonna text me, right after?”

You laugh gently. “Before we even get cell service.”

She snorts. “I’m gonna miss your dumb voice.”

You press your lips to her forehead. “You’ll hear it in voicemails. And phone calls. And videos I’ll send while I’m pacing hotel rooms waiting for soundcheck.”

Azzi tilts her chin up. “And if I miss you at 2 A.M.?”

“Call me. I don’t care what time zone I’m in.”

Her voice is smaller now. Realer. “I don’t want this to fade.”

“It won’t,” you say. “Because you’re unforgettable.”

Azzi pulls your hand to her chest, holding it over her heart like it’s a vow. “You ruined me.”

You kiss her, slow and soft. “You fixed me.”

She laughs quietly, wiping at her cheek. “God. You’re gonna kill me with this sweetness.”

“You deserve it,” you whisper.

A beat of silence. Then the muffled chime of the ship’s intercom crackles to life, followed by a calm voice announcing that disembarkation will begin shortly.

Neither of you move.

Azzi kisses your shoulder. “One more minute?”

You hold her tighter.

“Take five.”

#azzi fudd #azzi fudd x reader #azzi35 #uconn women’s basketball #uconn wbb #lesbian #wlw #wuh luh wuh #azzi fudd fanfiction #azzi fudd fic #‎꙳¤*٭⁎﹡꙳＊ 𝘂𝗻𝗰𝘂𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗰𝗹𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 ＊꙳﹡⁎٭*¤꙳

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fairyysoup · 2 days ago

Text

hotel room service

(repost)

pairing(s): adrian chase x fem!reader

summary: An off night, a hotel room, a bottle of peach Jim Beam, and Vigilante. What could go wrong?

words: 9.8k

cw: explicit, smut, piv sex, oral sex (f receiving), some dubcon elements, shower sex, praise kink, sub!adrian, technically switch!adrian but (gestures vaguely), alcohol consumption, drunk sex, blood kink, mentions of contraception, cowgirl position, choking, gagging, friends to lovers, character study disguised as smut, james gunn said the visor is prescription and i took that as canon, reader uses prescription lenses, yes i did name this after the pitbull song

a/n: we are so fucking back

ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

“Working hours” with this black ops group are loosely defined at best, and entirely nonexistent at worst. And don’t even get started on pay, because you think at this point that you’re only getting comped whatever the pay is for your cost of living, and that’s only really when you’re on the clock. They’ll pay for the hotel room and sometimes the food, but besides that, you’re on your own.

But, back to those working hours. You don’t know when they stopped, but maybe it was around the time your roomie decided to crack open a bottle of whisky and pour out half of it for you into one of the plastic solo cups they provide with the coffee pot. God knows you’re not working anymore, you’re just sort of sitting idle while he rambles about the room, gesticulating with the bottle. Like he does.

(Plus, you don’t think he’s even being paid for this? Adrian is just here for the fun and because he’s available, and the rest of the team just let him tag along because he’s useful. The thought makes you smirk a little bit.)

You admire his profile as he talks, one finger pressed to your smiling lips as your eyes trail him back and forth, thinking he might eventually hypnotize you. He’s so… expressive. And he has dimples and curly hair, which you’ve always been a sucker for. He hasn’t even taken off his suit; blue on silver on black, with a red visor on the mask discarded on the table. You had watched him remove it, and carefully tried to hide the fact that you were staring as he pulled his wire-rimmed glasses out of a hidden pocket.

You’re very pointedly staring now, sizing him up like your next fucking meal (alcohol does that to you), and Adrian keeps on blathering in one long spiel, pacing in circles like hasn’t even noticed your hungry gaze (alcohol does that to him).

“Is that prescription?” you ask, cutting him off in the middle of his sentence, which you’d barely been paying attention to. Something something Twilight, something something cultural reset.

Adrian stops pacing, looking at you with a deer-in-headlights expression. “Huh?”

You nod at the mask laying on the table by the door. “The visor. Is it prescription?”

He swivels to look at the mask, and then back to you with an almost bashful laugh. “Uh… yeah?”

“That’s sick.”

“Really?” Dimples. You take another sip of your whisky to calm yourself, and it burns at the back of your throat. Objectively, you should not be feeling this way about your pseudo-coworker, who also happens to be somewhat of a lunatic. But, y’know, he’s… sweet. To you. Which is the odd thing, but you’ve gone beyond worrying about the details at this point. You’re hunting alien butterfly creatures that live in people’s brains, you can get past a couple character flaws.

“I mean, yeah.” You lick your lips, which have taken on the flavor of the peach liqueur in the whisky. “I wear prescription lenses, too, but they’re a bitch to keep clean on the job. If I could afford prescription hardware, I would. Good on you.”

“Yeah, I mean… yeah, it is fucking cool, thank you!” He grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners and making you clench your jaw with how badly you want to reach out and kiss him long and hard at that exact moment. “I was starting to think no one else would notice how genius it is. Y’know, I don’t even think Peacemaker’s noticed, which is totally not very best friend-like of him, but it’s fine, I’m sure he’ll come around eventually, the guy constantly has a lot of shit on his plate. Like I remember one time, me and him got stuck in a Winnebago that was rolling downhill toward a cliff like something out of Looney Tunes because some idiot crack dealer locked us in there with his load, and-”

He’s pacing again, and the amber colored liquid in the square bottle he grips by the neck sloshes against the glass as he continues waving it around emphatically. And you’ve zoned out again, because now you’re thinking about his hands, and how nice they’d feel on your body. You’ve seen him beat the shit out of people, you know he’s packing some major force in those fists, but you haven’t felt them on your own skin, or had the experience of having them wrapped around your throat for yourself.

“-then, y’know, Eagly’s a fucking badass, I don’t know if you’ve seen him in action, but the little dude can take a guy out in like one peck. Like do not get caught on the wrong end of those talons is all I’m saying. Anyways, he swooped in and yanked the fucking wheel, so the Winnebago flipped. I mean, can you imagine! A bald eagle rolling a camper. That shit’s gotta be, like, legendary-”

And his quads as he walks, Jesus Christ. You’ve never been super partial to burly, buff guys (sorry Chris), but there’s something to be said for muscle in the right places. Adrian’s legs are nice, you can tell just by the way the fabric of his pants stretches around them when he turns, and fuck his ass is so tight. You nearly salivate just staring at it, thinking about how much you’d love to dig your heels into it, or squeeze it to urge him on as he fucks you.

Your eyes snap down to your solo cup of whisky, and you frown. When did you drink half of it?

“-but like I’m sure you know Eagly pretty well because he loves you, I can tell. He kind of scooches closer every time you sit near him, it’s really cute actually, I mean, I would scooch closer whenever you sat near me too except I feel like you’d punch me in the dick, good thing my suit’s got a reinforced crotch-”

“Wait, what?” You blink up at him, your brain sort of fizzling out and then rebooting as you stare at him. What did he say?

Adrian doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, the guy who made it was like, ‘That makes no sense, you’re gonna have the worst time trying to take a piss in this,’ and I said, ‘No, dude, have you ever been karate kicked in the nuts before? Shit hurts.’ I still had to pay extra-”

“No, no, what was that shit about scooching closer? To me?” You squint at him. “Babe, are you trying to tell me something?”

He blushes. You know he’s joked about not feeling emotions like other people do, but you wonder how true that really is, because he goes beet fucking red like he’s having trouble breathing as he stares down at his shoes. “I, uh- well, I mean, yeah, I’d scooch closer to you. Theoretically. If- if you wanted me to. And if you weren’t going to punch me in the dick.”

“Why would I punch you in the dick?”

“I don’t know, it’s like… it’s an understandable reaction to someone getting in someone else’s personal space!”

“No, it really isn’t…”

“Well, how was I supposed to know you wouldn’t punch me in the dick?”

You throw up your hand in an exasperated gesture. “When have you ever seen me punch someone in the dick?”

He screws up his face. “UM, I don’t know, you punched Peacemaker in the dick!”

“What? When?”

“When he tried lifting you onto the truck that one time!”

“That was a misunderstanding, I kneed him because he didn’t give me a heads up!”

“But you did it!”

“Well, the last thing I would want to do to your dick is punch it, all right?”

You both stop and stare at each other for a long moment. You think you might have stopped breathing, too. Yeah, you are definitely tipsy at this point, but you raise a slightly shaking hand to take a casual sip of your drink, as if you aren’t staring at him with bulging eyes like you’re possessed.

He opens his mouth and closes it a few times before he comes out with a response. “Okay.”

You blink. “Okay?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, okay. I mean, what other stuff would you do to my dick?”

“Uh… stuff.” You jerkily stand, nearly sloshing your drink as you try to get your bearings. You set the cup down on the bedside table and turn to look at him with the most awkward, pin-straight posture you could possibly muster, like a high schooler trying to pretend they aren’t drunk in front of their parents. “I’m going to take a shower now. Yeah. I am. I’m going to do that.”

“Oh. Okay.” Adrian looks down at the bottle in his hand, and then shuffles a bit to the side so that you can pass him.

“I mean, unless you wanted to shower first?” You pause at the end of your respective bed, and turn to see him turning down the covers on his own by the window. “What are you doing?”

“I’m getting in bed,” he says flatly, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He reaches up and undoes a latch on his armor that frees the chestplate, and lifts it over his head in one swift move, leaving him in his tight fitting black undershirt.

You stare at him, scatterbrained until you manage to scowl at him, and the two knives he wears crossed against his lower back. “You’re going to sleep with all your weapons?”

“Yeah.”

“With all the dirt and sweat and fucking blood from fighting?”

“Yeah.”

“You can’t just… you can’t just get in bed with your outside clothes on, dude!” you splutter, leaning your thigh against the end of the mattress before you, and slow your speech carefully as you declare, “It’s… unsanitary.”

“Oh, and who are you, the sleep police?” Adrian turns to sneer at you. “I thought you were going to take a shower.”

“Well I was, but that was before I knew you weren’t planning on it!” You throw your hand out at him. “Why?”

“Because! If I go to sleep with wet hair it dries all weird, okay? Get off my dick!”

“I’m sure you’ll look just as pretty regardless, Adrian,” you tut condescendingly at him, rolling your eyes as you turn on your heels toward the bathroom. “Do what you want, or fucking join me if you change your mind, I don’t care.”

You don’t register the full weight of your words until you turn on the tap. But, by that time, you also don’t get to see the way Adrian stares at the door to the bathroom like you’ve just presented him with the key to the city.

You very rarely opt for lukewarm showers, but you certainly do now. With the way your blood is humming through your veins like electricity, and you feel hot just from the sight of Adrian’s muscles in that tight fucking shirt, you feel a cold shower is in order. Well, colder, anyways.

The water pressure is complete bullshit, of course. It pathetically trickles out, and it takes longer than usual for your body to get completely soaked. In that time, you lean against the tile and hold your head in your hands as the water drips down your face. How the fuck are you supposed to sleep in the same room as this guy? Between the way you’re just aching to jump his bones, and his inability to stop talking, you don’t think it’s a possibility tonight.

You wonder what he would sound like when you ride him. You wonder if he would finally shut up, or if he would switch to talking to you like a lover instead of a drinking buddy. You wonder if he would beg, or if he’s more dominant than that.

You’re imagining his head between your thighs. You’re imagining what he’d look like with your hands tangled in his hair. You’re imagining the feeling of his mouth on your skin, the calloused planes of his palms on your breasts and beneath your thighs. You’re… you’re shaking.

The white shower curtain rips open, and Adrian steps in beside you, naked as the day he was born. “Hey, can you pass the soap?”

“What the fuck?” You turn your head to look at him with a bewildered expression, simply refusing to tear your eyes away from his face because you do not want to cross that line and have the image of his dick imprinted in your brain while you try to get to sleep tonight. “Adrian, what are you doing?”

“Well, you said to join you if I changed my mind.” He shrugs, his smile the absolute picture of innocence, but his eyes still rake slowly down your body before finding your face again.

You blink, searching for a proper response to that. His eyes are green. Jesus Christ, that’s three for three: dimples, curly hair, and green eyes. He’s trying to kill you.

“I was being sar-” you cut yourself off with a sigh, “yeah, you know what, I did say that. Shit. Fucking… okay. Whatever. Here.” You fumble with the tiny complimentary body wash tube and thrust it toward him. “Go apeshit.”

“You have a really great ass by the way.”

“Adrian.”

“What? You do. I’m just being honest. I’m not even saying that because this is the first time I’ve seen you naked, I always thought your ass was nice, there just wasn’t a good time to say it.”

Your face is burning. You turn your back on him and try your hardest not to clap your hands over your eyes or do something equally embarrassing. You don’t think Adrian is even fazed by any of this; he wasn’t wearing his glasses, either, and you don’t know how strong his prescription is. You imagine pretty strong, if he needs it in his visor. Maybe there’s a good chance he can’t see the exact details of your tits. Maybe-

He touches your shoulder, and you feel lather running down your back as he starts massaging circles into your skin.

“Are you washing me?” you wheeze, your voice coming out an octave higher, and you really do cover your face again this time. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, and you can’t focus on anything other than the touch of his hand on your shoulder blade.

“Uh, yeah? I wash your back, you wash mine, right?” He sounds cheery and completely content with everything that’s happening and, despite the sheer oddness of all of it, you don’t really want him to stop. You guess that’s why you haven’t told him to get the hell out, yet.

Maybe you’re just as much of a lunatic as him. “‘Scratch,’ Adrian. It’s fucking ‘scratch.’”

He pauses. “What?”

“It’s ‘I scratch your back, you scratch mine.’”

“That makes no fucking sense.” He shakes his head in your periphery, his hand resuming its circular motion against your back, moving across to your other shoulder. You feel the soft, wet glide like a molten lava trail.

“Of course it makes sense! Why would it be ‘wash?’”

“Why wouldn’t it be ‘wash?’”

“Because it’s about doing your friends favors,” you argue in a wobbly, strained voice as you shiver while his fingers slide down your spine. It raises goosebumps on your skin, despite the heat in your veins and the cool of the water. “Friends don’t wash each other’s backs, genius.”

“So, we’re not friends?”

His hand pauses again just at the curve of your lower back, where it extends down into your tailbone. You bite your lip, and you can feel his eyes on you, the touch of his gaze almost as real as his hand is. Your thighs clench together involuntarily. You simpering little… weak, desperate thing, you are not going to beg for him to touch you. That’s not it. That’s not how this should go.

But, you could turn around and touch him, too. You could probably kiss him, if you were feeling really adventurous. He just basically implied that he wouldn’t be opposed to fucking you, right? That was where the conversation had been going earlier, if you hadn’t been such a pussy. Neither of you is nearly as subtle as you think you are.

You manage to chew your lip enough to tear a gash in it, and salty, coppery blood hits your tongue. You’re losing it, standing on the precipice of something way bigger than the two of you. You’re just an inch away from becoming more than just friends with Adrian, if you don’t reel it in quickly. Your hand comes up to slam against the wall when his fingers, which seem to be discontented to remain idle, start tracing little shapes on your lower back. A star. A diamond. A heart.

“N… No, I- I mean, we are. But I don’t think we’re going to be, if you keep it up.”

He grunts carelessly. “I’m having a hard time not keeping it up, really.”

“What do you mean?” You turn around, and his hand glides across your lower back and to your hip, because he refuses to stop touching you now (not that you want him to stop, either, if you’re being honest with yourself). Your eyes flick down, and you know exactly what he means, because he’s hard as a rock.

And also thick, and long, and veiny, but hey. What did you expect?

Your eyes linger on his erection for a long time, and drag your gaze slowly from the burst of dark hair at the base of his cock, up the line of his torso and to his chest. His pale skin is riddled with little scars here and there, from small injuries that weren’t serious enough to slow him down. He has a faint spray of freckles on his shoulders, suggesting that he spends at least some time in the sun. It makes you inordinately flustered to think of him doing some sort of outdoor activities to get that toned body of his.

You clear your throat as you find his gaze again. “Next dumb question,” you say, and he gives you a wide-eyed, vaguely awestruck look that makes you way more confident than it ought to. “Are you gonna fuck me, Adrian?”

His eyelashes flutter. His cheeks are painted with that sweet pink blush again, like he’s been entirely oblivious to the fact that he’s had you melting for him since he cracked open the bottle of Jim Beam. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“I think it’s a fucking fantastic idea, do you?”

“Yeah, I do.” And he grabs you by the face to kiss you, and crowds you back against the wall. You give a surprised yelp into his open mouth, your arms coming up to wrap around his neck as your back hits the cold tile. He grunts and brushes his soap covered fingers across your cheeks. “Did you bite your lip?”

“Yeah.”

“...Was that because of me?”

You whimper weakly as he slowly, and very purposefully, traces the length of your bottom lip with his tongue like he’s savoring the taste of your blood. “Yeah.”

“That’s so fucking hot.”

He yanks you up off of your feet, making you squeak and hold in a nervous laugh. Your leg bumps the faucet handle, and the water turns ice cold just as Adrian scrambles to hook your legs around his waist.

“Shit.” Adrian hisses and smacks the wall beside your hip once or twice before he finds the faucet, because he doesn’t stop kissing you. He’s sloppy and rushed and overexcited, but at least he gets the water running warm against as he presses you up against the wall. “I’ve never done this here, have you?”

“Shower sex? No.” You bite his lip as he hitches you up by the back of your thighs, and he groans as his hips jerk up toward yours. “But I think you’re doing a good job.”

“Wait, fuck. Do we need, like, a condom…?” He blinks at you with a glassy look in his eyes.

“IUD. I have- it’s all good, you’re fine.” You knock your head back against the wall with a whimper high in your throat as he brushes his cock against your entrance. You can feel the world spinning as you tangle your fingers in his wet hair, giving it a small but sharp tug. “Now, if you don’t fuck me I’m gonna-”

You choke when he drives the full length of his cock into you, pushing your hips back against the wall. Your nails scratch down his neck and across his shoulder blades as he splits you open, your legs tightening around his waist while simultaneously trying to spread wider to accommodate him. Adrian spits a curse into your neck, his teeth grazing a vein there as he ruts up into you, filling you so completely that a cry dies in your throat.

“God, fuck, Adrian,” you sob toward the ceiling, only too aware of him moaning loudly against your skin. He feels better than you had imagined, stretching you out so perfectly that your toes curl as you try your hardest to draw him forward with your legs alone.

“I knew you’d be perfect,” you catch him whispering into the crook of your neck, just barely audible over the trickle of water over your head.

He doesn’t even give you time to adjust before he starts pistoning his hips into yours, jolting you up the wall. Your skin squeaks against the wet tile, and his grunts echo in the curve of your neck. Tears might actually be streaming down your face, but you wouldn’t be able to tell them apart from the warm water coming from the showerhead.

Adrian’s hand comes up to brace against the wall beside your head, and he surprises you. “You really think I’m pretty?” He asks with such a genuine note of hope in his voice that you think he must be serious.

“I think you’re fucking gorgeous,” you breathe, whining when he nips at your jaw with his teeth. You interrupt your train of thought with a series of hoarse cries, because Adrian picks up the pace with less precision, and more just forceful thrusts that drive all the way to the end of you and make you see stars, regardless.

“You’re the most perfect person in the world and I wish I could paint because the only thing I’d be painting is just you over and over and over-”

He’s blathering into your shoulder, his mouth brushing your skin as it moves and his hips slamming yours back against the wall hard enough that you’re definitely going to be feeling it in the morning. Every bit of desire you have for him surges up inside you like an inferno catching on, like every stroke he makes is stoking that fire within you.

“-so pretty everyone wants you I can’t believe you would let me touch you or even kiss you but you’re letting me do this to you and it’s all I’ve wanted to do since I first saw you-”

It occurs to you to tell him that you’d let him do anything he wants to you at this point, as long as he just doesn’t stop fucking you- but that’s yet another line you refuse to cross for the sake of self preservation. You’re already drunk, and confessing the true scope of your feelings to him in this state would just be a recipe for disaster.

Oh god, but he’s like a reckoning. You shake your head to compose yourself and scratch your nails along his neck before you take his face in your hands and draw him up to you. His pupils were already blown out, but you think they nearly eclipse his irises when his hips falter and he sucks in a sharp breath. His dark hair is thoroughly drenched, and water drips down his face in little rivulets that you trace with your fingers just before you draw him to your lips.

You feel his small moan vibrate on your lips, and that’s enough. Your legs spasm, and your orgasm suddenly snaps within you like a rubber band, every muscle in your core tightening down on his cock as you see a burst of white behind your closed eyelids. It snuck up on you just as much as it did him.

“Holy fuck-” Adrian loudly gasps against your lips with a startled jolt of his hips, his full weight crushing you up against the wall. His nose nuzzles yours, so intimate in a way that you hadn’t expected from him, and with a few shuddering huffs of breath you feel him come with a rush of warmth deep inside you.

You’re floating somewhere above awareness when he slouches forward, his forehead resting against yours and his eyes closed as he takes deep, steadying breaths. It takes you a moment to realize that he’s just holding you, with his fingers digging into your thighs like he’s just trying to ground himself in your body.

You raise a shaking hand to smooth his wet hair back from his face. “Earth to Adrian. You still with me, babe?”

He grumbles something entirely non-coherent directly in front of your face, and blinks his eyes groggily open at you.

“The alcohol’s catching up with you, huh?”

He nods.

“Guess I’m washing your back, anyways. C’mon.” You wiggle out of his grip, and you’re only too thankful that you’re smushed up against the shower wall, or else you may have easily slipped and ate shit on the tile. The alcohol is fucking with your head quite a bit now, too, and your movements are a little jerky and uncoordinated as you try to help him get cleaned up.

He’s uncharacteristically quiet. The rest of the shower takes place in complete silence, actually, with the exception of the little grunt he makes when you urge him to bend down so you can get his hair for him. You catch him looking a little dazed as you turn off the water, and he gives you an unfocused stare when you toss a towel at him. You wonder if you actually succeeded in frying the guy’s brains just by fucking him.

But then, back in the room as you clumsily dig through your bag to pull out a night shirt and a pair of underwear, Adrian shuffles directly to his bed and tosses his towel aside before clambouring into it, bare ass to the wind. He flops down face first, and shoves his feet under the turned down comforter.

“Adrian… what are you doing?” You say for what feels like the millionth time this evening.

“‘M going to bed,” he drawls into the pillow. His entire body shakes as he hiccups, and then turns his head to the side to look up at you with his big green doe-eyes that make your heart do a somersault in your ribcage. “You should tooootally join me. There’s-” hiccup- “lotsa room. We could go again.”

You blink at him as you semi-stagger, semi-walk toward the bed, stooping to pick up pieces of his uniform strewn across the floor as he had, presumably, just ripped everything off as he made his way to the bathroom. “Mm, no, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Uh, you said it was a great idea,” he argues as you toss his clothes into a pile at the end of the bed.

“That was before the whisky kicked in and we were both staggering… fuckin… drunk-” you accidentally whack your foot against the corner of the bed and bite your lip as you fight not to crumble to the floor. “One of us has to be responsible.”

“I’m-” hiccup- “responstable.”

“Uh-huh.” You stop as your eyes land on the mostly empty Jim Beam bottle on the bedside table. You’re almost positive it had been at least quarter full when you left him to go take a shower. “Adrian, did you drink all that?”

He blinks his eyes open and follows your pointing finger to the bottle. “Oh, yeah. Hhhuuuhh… had to… I lost the cap so we can’t keep it.” When you march forward to snatch it off the table, he grunts dismissively. “Gotta… get rid of it.”

“Guess that’s why you’re worse off than me.” You shake your head and drop the entire bottle into the trash bin. “Aren’t you gonna put something on to sleep in?”

“I don’t have anything.”

You snap your head towards his sprawling, naked form. Your eyes linger on his ass for way too long. “You didn’t bring a single thing to wear?”

“Why… why would I bring a change of clothes to kill bad guys?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know! Anonymity!”

He grumbles into the pillow, “I have a mask.”

“Fuck the mask. You can’t sleep in the mask.”

“Sure I can. I fuck in the mask, I can sleep in it. S’a free country.”

You blink, your eyes flicking between Adrian and the mask on the table. “Dude, you fuck in that thing?”

“Hell yeah I do. I could fuck you in the mask. Could do it right now. Go get the mask.” Despite the conviction of his words, he’s slurring them, and his face is still pressed into his pillow as he lies motionless on the bed.

“I… don’t think that’s gonna happen tonight.” You sigh as you toe forward and grab the end of his comforter, drawing it up over his body. “We’re both way too drunk. We probably… probably shouldn’t have…”

Adrian flops over to look up at you as you, essentially, tuck him in. There’s a note of hurt in his voice when he mumbles, “You regret it?”

You pause, staring down at his expression of confusion and betrayal. Do you regret it? You can’t deny that you hadn’t been hesitant to have sex with him for a litany of reasons- one being that you work with him, and another being that he’s a loose cannon on the best of days. Not exactly relationship material, you think.

Or, you thought, but now he’s gazing up at you with these wide, dumbfounded eyes, and you’re tucking the comforter up beneath his chin, and he turns his face down and kisses your knuckle even though he looks mildly hurt. And yes, you liked the sex very much. You liked it so much that you can’t trust yourself not to do it again if you don’t shuffle off to your own bed immediately.

“No,” you tell him firmly, combing your fingers through his wet hair as you draw back. “I don’t regret it, but I think we both need to sleep this off.”

“Okay,” Adrian says quietly, his expression relaxing, but his arms come out from under the comforter and he reaches for you with grabby-hands. “Sleep with me?”

You catch one of his hands and give it a gentle squeeze. “G’night, Adrian.”

You hear him sigh in disappointment when you shut off the bedside lamp. His hands audibly plop down onto the mattress as he rasps, “Night.”

You wake from a dreamless sleep sometime in the early hours of the morning, and your throat is bone dry. Smacking at the nightstand a couple times, your phone manages to illuminate and tell you that the time is only 1:30.

You blink sleep away from your eyes and try to see through the dark as you stumble into the combination vanity, closet, and kitchenette. You knew you brought a water bottle or two, it can’t be that hard to find-

“Hey, what’cha doing?”

You hardly even startle at this point. You’re slowly becoming acclimated to the idea that Adrian is just constantly awake and witness to your every move, which isn’t as disconcerting to you as one might think. “I’m looking for the water. Did you see where I put it?”

“Uhhhhh mini-fridge?”

You reach blindly under the counter and yank the little fridge open, once again smacking around until your hand lands on the shape of a water bottle. “You want some?”

“Yeah, you could spit it into my open mouth-”

“Adrian.”

“What? It would be fucking sexy.” Adrian grunts, and the light clicks on from the main room. Then, he wolf-whistles just before you straighten up from where he’d caught you, bent over in front of the fridge. “Y’know, I was right. You have a really great ass.”

You grumble a half-hearted thanks under your breath as you approach his bedside and thrust a water bottle at him. “I see you’ve sobered up a bit.”

He waves a hand at you dismissively. “Pshh, I wasn’t that drunk.”

“You were drooling all over your pillow.”

“Maybe I always do that.”

“Yeah, okay.” There’s a long pause, wherein you perch on the edge of your mattress and chug an obscene amount of water. Adrian watches your throat work until he, too, succumbs and lifts his bottle to his lips.

An uncomfortably heavy silence settles between you two, only permeated by the quiet sipping of water and the cheap motel AC unit kicking in. It’s entirely unlike him to be silent and still for more than a couple of seconds, but he’s just sitting there looking despondent and running a hand back and forth over the white comforter, periodically lifting his bottle to take another drink. He doesn’t even really look tired, and you wonder if he ever got to sleep in the first place.

You know that the tension in the air is so thick because you have yet to address the giant fucking elephant in the room; and to address it is to have the most awkward and intimate conversation you can possibly imagine with Adrian, of all people. As much as you love his sense of humor, the idea of baring your soul to him is almost enough to have you running into the bathroom again, and locking the damn door this time.

But, in true Adrian fashion (because damn it all to hell if he ever lets something be), he beats you to the punch. “So, are you? Sober now, I mean.”

You chew your lip again, and reopen the gash you’d put there before. “Yeah. I am.”

He nods, pursing his lips as he looks down at his lap. He was right, his hair does dry… well, not weird, but just rather unruly if he goes to bed with it wet. Dark curls stick up at odd angles, a cowlick on the back of his crown standing straight up and begging you to come over and smooth it down. More curls fall across his forehead and nearly touch the top of his glasses. He blinks slowly, and severe shadows from his lashes cross his face in the golden light of the bedside lamp. You snap your gaze away, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end.

“So… was that a lie? About just needing to sober up?”

Your thumbs twitch on your bottle. To tell the truth, or to lie? You feel like your mouth just stays dry, no matter how much water you drink. “Look, Adrian, I-”

“Also, I have, like, no pride and a ridiculously thick skull, or- or whatever Peacemaker calls it. So, you don’t have to beat around the bush or anything for my sake, you probably won’t even hurt me-”

“Adrian, I like you too fucking much, don’t you get it?”

That fully shuts him up, and he locks his jaw as he fixes you with a startled look. You suck your bottom lip through your teeth, perturbed at the taste of blood still apparent on it, and dig your heels into the carpet.

“The last thing I want to do is hurt you. You’re… one of my closest friends, all right? But I’m afraid that if we keep going like this, I’m not going to want to be friends anymore. And I think I’ll fall in love with you really quickly, and that might be a really bad idea for both of us. You just…” You shake your head, your voice dipping in volume as you stare bashfully down at your feet, “you have no clue how much I want you all the time, baby.”

“Why would it be a bad idea?” he asks you plainly.

“What?” You pick your eyes up off the floor to squint at him, finding him staring at you challengingly, a flush already on his cheeks.

“I mean, honestly. Name a single reason why it would be a bad idea. Bet’cha can’t.” Adrian throws his empty water bottle across the room, and it makes a gentle tap against the side of the television before skittering to the floor. “I think we’d fuck like rabbits and then I’d wake up every morning and make you pancakes, because I’m really fucking good at those, but you’d have to make the eggs because I always burn them. And I think we’d kick ass together as a cool superhero power couple, and I’d carry your gun for you if you got tired, and I could show you where all my hidden knives are. And you could also do anything you wanted to me, like any time, and I’d be totally fine with it and probably also turned on by it, as long as you call me baby like you just did.”

“Are you serious?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m super hard right now. Probably should’ve warned you, I have a thing about that-”

“No, smartass, I mean are you serious about the other stuff?” You tilt your head at him. “I never really took you for the domestic sort.”

“Tsch- yeah! I’m, like, super domestic. I’m like one of those domestic...ated... cats?” He trails off as you step forward and crawl onto his bed, up his legs to straddle his lap.

“Cats?” you repeat with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m… I…” Adrian’s eyes flick across your face, down to your shirt and bare thighs on either side of his, your knees pressing the comforter taut across his lap and (very prominent) erection. “I don’t know, I have trouble thinking when you’re on top of me-”

Nodding, you reach forward and take his glasses by the wire earpieces, and pull them from his face. He goes stock still, his lips parted in awe as you slide them onto your own face, and give him a sweet smile. “I like your glasses. They look good on you.”

“They look good on you.” His voice cracks. “Can you see in them?”

You blink at him, and then turn your head to look across the room. “A lot better than I thought I would. I think our prescriptions are similar.”

“That means you can also wear my mask.”

You look back at him, and find that he has his million-mile stare on, like he’s completely lost in thought. You smirk. “Do you want me to wear the mask?”

He blinks, and it’s like you’ve flipped a switch and turned his focus back on. “Uh… no. I mean, yes. Maybe later. I want to look at you.” His eyelashes flutter so fast you think he might take flight for a second. “You’re so fucking beautiful I could stare at you all day.”

“You can touch me, too. Don’t be shy.”

He practically vibrates with anticipation as his palms glide up your thighs, hot and big and just a bit rough. His eyes are everywhere at once; your lips, your eyes, your chest, your thighs, where your hips disappear under your oversized shirt. His fingers catch the hem, and he curls it between them.

“You should totally get naked, too. It’s super unfair that I’m the only one naked right now,” he says breathlessly, nodding the whole time like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you.

“So, do it.” You shrug, trailing a finger up his chest. “Take it off, baby.”

Adrian fists the hem of your shirt and rips it in half up the middle with a loud tear. You gasp, shivering as the garment falls from your shoulders and leaves you in just your panties. “Adrian!”

His eyes are trained on your tits. “What? It’s not like you need it tonight, anyways, and tomorrow we’ll be home…”

“What if that was my only shirt?” you retort.

He looks up at you. “Was it?”

“Well, no-”

“Then there’s your answer. Now, can I go down on you? Because I’ve wanted to for a really long time and I think it’s super hot that you’re wearing my glasses so it’s like I’m watching myself eat your pussy.”

He has such a hopeful expression on his face that you have to hold in a manic string of laughter as you nod at him. “Yeah, sure. Are you going to tear up my underwear, too?”

“No, I wanna keep those.”

“That makes perfect sense.” You shake your head before you kiss him deeply, and his tongue dips into your mouth as he rolls over with you, briefly getting tangled in the sheets before he roughly kicks them off.

You run your fingers through his hair, snickering as he climbs between your legs and his hands deftly tug your panties down. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Depends on how incriminating it is.”

“I’ve never come from someone eating me out before,” you admit quietly, a blush furiously heating your cheeks until you fear that if you touch your face you might burn yourself.

Adrian fixes you with a deadpan stare, and a slew of emotions cross his face before he lands on something relatively serene and says, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

He nods and grins, like this is the most casual conversation in the world, and his green eyes bore into yours. “Yeah. You should probably, uh… hold on, though.”

You frown in confusion. “To what?”

He rocks back on his knees, picking up your arms by the wrists, and he very simply places your hands on his head, with a little smile that conveys, ‘it’s no big deal,’ but the tenderness with which he does it sends another message, altogether. Your fingers weave between soft, unruly curls, your fingernails digging in just a bit when he lowers himself down between your thighs, and you come to the conclusion that this is just how he is. Tenderness, closeness, hidden behind casual sighs and dismissive shrugs.

You’re learning. Slowly.

His breath finds you before his lips do, where you’re wet and swollen and slippery like you haven’t been touched in your fucking life. But he has once already, and still his mouth feels like a searing hot brand between your legs. In fact, you nearly jump out of your skin at the first brush of his tongue through your folds, your hands tightening on his hair and tugging as you buck your hips up against him.

Adrian grasps your hips and slams them down against the mattress. Sometimes you forget how fucking strong he is. His slight frame really doesn’t give justice to the force behind those lean muscles, because he holds you in an iron grip that you can hardly wiggle out of. It makes you feel small, in a way, that he holds you hostage to his tongue and won’t let you move away from or towards him.

A long, miserable whine rips out of your lips before you can stop it, and you could blush at how pathetic it sounds, except that Adrian mimics it with a groan against your cunt. Your head is flung back against the pillows, but when you just barely tilt up to glance down at him, you find his green eyes trained directly on you. They start off wide as moons, and then narrow like he’s challenging you to look away as he drags the flat expanse of his tongue slowly over your clit, curling the tip just as it skims the mark.

“Oh, fuck you, Adrian, you’re so fucking good,” you grit out through clenched teeth. Your nails dig into his scalp and he shudders, briefly nuzzling his head up into your touch before he dips down to give you his tongue again. Your breath hitches, and your eyes flutter shut when he sucks on your clit long and hard. “So… s-so good… good boy…”

The moan that Adrian makes is overtly pornographic, and his hips snap once against the mattress so hard that the bed shakes beneath you. He breaks away from you to rest his forehead against your thigh, squeezing your hips tightly in his hold as his hot breath billows across your sweat-damp skin.

You loosen your fingers in his hair to stroke it softly, subconsciously struggling to flatten the cowlick at the back that you’d noticed earlier. Adrian’s eyes are squeezed shut, his shoulders heaving while he tries to steady his breath through his nose. “Did you just come?”

The tips of Adrian’s ears glow pink. He gives you a little nod and then a feeble, “Couldn’t help it.”

So, he can’t just take his praise in stride, he has to react to it with fervor. “That’s really sexy of you,” you blurt out, your voice ragged and just this side of adoring.

He returns with a quiet mmm, rumbling across your skin as he drags his open mouth along the sensitive flesh of your thigh, his eyes drowsily shut. It takes him another moment to catch his breath, but once he does, he’s right back at it again. Dipping his head down and absolutely going for it with no signs of letting up, and you have to suck in a deep stream of air and scramble for a hold on him somehow.

“Oh- oh my fuckin-g god-” your voice comes out without thinking, wrung thin and anguished, as your foot plants itself in his shoulder. Adrian simply grunts, paying no mind to the fact that you’re effectively kicking the living shit out of him as he sucks so hard on your clit that you threaten to break his vise-hold on your hips.

He was right that you needed something to hold onto, because you feel like you might leave the ground. He works at you relentlessly, devouring you with his lips and tongue and teeth like he can’t get enough of you, his fingertips pressing so hard into your hips that his nails are turning stark white.

“Fuck, you’re so squirmy,” Adrian groans when he pulls away from you for half a second, and struggles to hold you down when you try to chase his mouth. “Should I tie you down?”

“Do you have anything to tie me down with?” you mutter breathlessly toward the ceiling.

A beat. “Nope. Stay still.”

You fight not to jolt as the next touch of his mouth on you. He dips his tongue into your channel, seemingly trying to draw your arousal out of you that way. You start whining when he finally nuzzles his way back up, giving you soft, teasing licks to your clit that edge you closer and closer to the release of the swell of heat you feel building in your core. Your volume turns up a notch when his tongue starts drawing little circles around the swollen flesh.

And when his lips come down to latch onto it and gently suck, you know you’re just shy of howling. His soft groans vibrate onto your skin as you scratch at his head and pull on his hair, and you eventually find yourself babbling, “Adrian, please, I’m gonna come, please pleasepleaseplease-”

He sucks harder, moaning like it turns him on just to hear you say it. You heave a few rapid breaths, and then come against his face with a cry that crackles and breaks in your throat as your head arches back, baring your neck forward. Your heels digging into his back, hands scratching, hips flailing like you can somehow escape the barrage of hypersensitivity he’s putting you through.

You really fucking hope no one is in the room next to yours.

His fingertips stick to your skin once he releases his grip on you. He’s practically glowing, grinning from ear to ear at you from between your legs, and it’s a better image than you had imagined.

You drop your head back with a breathless chuckle. “Okay, Mr. ‘I Have No Pride.’”

“I made you come,” he chirps happily.

“Yeah, you did. It was really good, too.”

“So, why didn’t anyone else?” Adrian pushes his head toward your touch when you stroke your hand gently through his hair.

“I dunno. They weren’t applying themselves, I guess.”

“That’s stupid. You’re, like, the hottest person ever. Hotter than Doja Cat,” he grumbles petulantly, and you can tell by the look in his eye that he’s dead serious. “Want me to kill them? I should kill them.”

“No.” You trail your fingers down the curve of his face, going for his chin, but he turns his face and sucks your two fingers into his mouth before you can manage it. You stop dead as the pad of his tongue swirls around the digits, and he blinks up at you innocently, despite the lewd connotations of the act. “N-no, I… hhhhh… you’re distracting me.”

He bats his eyes at you, and he slowly pulls back along your fingers until they pop out of his mouth, covered in saliva. “How am I distracting you?”

“You’re- you… you little shit.” You grab him by the chin and draw him up from between your legs. He clumsily crawls up the length of your torso with his cheeks smushed between your fingers as you hiss, “I’m going to fuck the ever-loving shit out of you, I swear to god.”

“You know, that sounds slightly menacing when you say it like that,” he slurs, his jaw working against your hold.

“On your back, Chase.”

He grabs you before you can protest, and rolls back over so that you plop down on top of him, your hand still jammed up against his jaw. A blast of air comes out of your lungs in lieu of laughter, and Adrian snorts, shuffling his hips so that he moves back against the pillows.

“Okay, look, I really really really like you,” he says as you pick yourself up, straddling his lap, “but if you’re too good at this I might accidentally fall in love with you. Just to let you know what you’re getting into here.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“Yeah, and I think I might actually, um, ask you to move in with me, like, immediately. Like tomorrow. Do you rent or own? Doesn’t matter, I can put your name on the lease. Maybe if you own a house it can be income property-”

You cast your eyes down and find him, remarkably, hard and leaking precum as he continues babbling about living situations. You tilt your head, letting him get his stream of consciousness out there in the open, as your eyes catch on a dark wad of fabric beside his pillow. Your underwear, which he’d gingerly set aside instead of tossing across the room like you thought he would.

“Hm, Adrian?”

He blinks up at you, his eyes wide and dilated. “Yeah?”

You pick up the wadded up underwear. “You wanted to keep these, right?”

He licks his lips. “Um. Yes.”

“Hold them for me, then.” You grab his jaw and stuff them in his mouth, his eyes nearly popping out of his skull as he makes a noise of protest, but then actually moans when, presumably, he tastes you on them. “You’re so fucking cute, I haven’t even tied you up. You just want my taste in your mouth, huh?” He nods. “Yeah. Pretty boy.”

He predictably moans again, his hands grasping at every part of you they can reach; your arms, your breasts, the expanse of his palms gliding down the curve of your waist and settling on your thighs. You grab one, lifting it and settling his palm against your throat.

“Hold this for me, too?” You ask him sweetly, giving his bewildered expression a devilish smirk in return. You rock forward, sliding your dripping pussy along his erection, and his hand tightens on your throat just a bit. “That’s it.”

You pick your hips up, reaching between your legs to position him where you want him, and when you sink down onto his cock, the underwear in his mouth does nothing to muffle the obscene groan that he makes. His hand flexes on your throat, and his eyes close and open a few times as he tries to maintain a certain amount of control. Something tells you that he’s not really used to taking it lying down.

You’re already decently sore from the way he effectively fucked your brains out in the shower. This is just ensuring that you’re going to be feeling it for the rest of the week, but you can’t help yourself. You take him in all the way, making agonized noises the entire time, and then jolt your hips down a little more so you can feel him bottom out.

“Fucking hell, baby, you’re something else,” you snarl down at him, and his eyes go wide again as you squeeze him, every bit of your aching strength bearing down onto his cock until he whines loudly through the fabric and his fingers tighten on the sides of your throat. “Oh, god, I could ruin you. You could ruin me. I want you to, it would be so easy for you, I wouldn’t even be able to walk in the morning.”

And you’re moving, picking up your hips and letting them fall back down in slow, deep strokes that have him writhing, his free hand in a death grip on your thigh. You raise your hand to press against the back of his on your throat, your fingers weaving in between his, and he flexes them back a bit to make room.

Even when he’s gagged, he’s noisy. Keening and grunting at you, his jaw tightening every once in a while and the tendons of his neck jumping out at you when your hips meet his. Dark curls hang down his forehead, damp with sweat, and you can’t help but feel like the shower was useless.

No, not useless. It brought you here.

Adrian bucks his hips up suddenly, meeting you halfway when you take a particularly long time on the downstroke. You gasp, tightening your hand on his, and your nails dig into his chest.

“Oh, you want me to ruin you, don’t you?” You murmur at him, baiting him to do it again. And he does, just like you hoped he would. You pick up the pace in retaliation, letting the lewd sounds of your skin hitting his fill the room. “Silly boy, I knew you would.”

He whimpers, blinking up at you slowly, his face screwing up and tightening in earnest when you rake your nails up and down his chest. He makes a couple pathetic, weak groans in the back of his throat like he wants to convey something to you, but he’s not reaching up to remove your underwear from his mouth.

(You wonder if he even remembers that he can.)

“You gonna come for me?” you ask as his whimpers increase in volume. His cock is so hard, twitching and dragging thick inside you, and his chest jumps with every desperate, ragged breath he takes. “Yeah, you are. Go on, baby, make a mess.”

Adrian gives you a curt shake of his head, and paws at your thigh for a second before his hand slides forward, and his thumb touches your clit.

“Oh fuck, Adrian-” you lurch forward, pressing your throat hard against his palm, your legs seizing up on either side of his hips. He makes you come again with a single fucking touch, and it burns through your core like fire, almost more satisfying than the first because you’re able to feel him inside you this time, something warm and hard and thick to come on.

Apparently, that was all he needed in order to let go. His back arches a bit as he jerks his hips up into yours, and he fills your pulsing cunt until his shallow breaths rattle in his throat, his eyes squeezed so tight that you see a tear collecting in the corner of one. He lays with his head driven back hard into the pillow, whimpering and whining like he’s been mortally wounded.

Too sore to move just yet, you pull his hand away from your throat and kiss his palm. Adrian’s eyes flutter open, and he finds you with a glazed-over stare, like he might either see you or see through you. Still letting out soft whimpers with each harsh exhale.

“Oh. Sweetheart,” you giggle, and reach forward to pull the wad of underwear from his mouth. It comes out with a long string of his spit attached to it, and you give him a cheeky smirk as you break the string with your finger and lick it off, rather than wiping it on your skin.

“You… you’re…” You swear his eyes nearly roll back in his skull before he closes them, trying to collect himself. He takes a deep, long breath, and then splutters, “Willyoumarrymeactually?”

You give him your biggest, goofiest grin, a little bubble of laughter wedging itself deep in your chest. “Get a little more whisky in me, and we’ll see what bright ideas I have then.”

“Okay.”

You lift yourself off of his softening cock, and the release comes with a dribble of his cum sliding down your thigh. He groans, but with one look at him you know that there’s not going to be any more action for the rest of the night.

You shift to the left, and his hand smacks down onto your thigh. “Mmmm no, you sleep with me.”

“Yeah, obviously. But you came all over the sheets earlier, genius.”

“Oh.”

He takes a deep breath in and opens his eyes in time to see you taking his glasses off. You blink a few times, your eyes having adjusted to the slight difference in your prescriptions, and refocus on his face to find him gazing up at you adoringly.

“I’m gonna take a guess and say you don’t sleep in these, too?” You wiggle the glasses at him.

He licks his lips. “No, not… not usually.”

You set the glasses on the bedside table, and then slowly slide off of him, off the bed and onto shaky legs. You take his hand and tug just a bit. “C’mon, pretty. Into my bed.”

He follows your lead without a fuss, making the two step journey to the other bed and plopping down face-first.

“D’you wanna get pancakes when we wake up?” he asks around a yawn as you nudge his ass, prodding him to scoot over.

You nod furiously, even though you know he can’t see you as you switch the light off and climb in beside him, curling up against his warm back. “Pancakes sound fucking delicious.”

“Not as delicious as your pus-”

“Adrian.”

#yesss thank you i will be reuploading all my adrian fics #my boyfriend's back and he's cooler than ever #adrian chase #adrian chase x reader #vigilante #vigilante x reader #peacemaker #peacemaker 2022 #adrian chase fanfic #adrian chase fic #roses*

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karvokr · 2 days ago

Text

unscripted

it was all for show– until it wasn’t. now the lines are blurred, the feelings are real, and no one remembers who’s cast in what role.

pairings: actor!gojo x actress!reader x actor!geto content warnings: mdni, smut and angst, unprotected piv sex, fingering, oral (m and f receiving), infidelity/cheating themes, love triangle, fake dating/pr relationship, secret relationship, they did NOT rehearse their lines << episode one • series masterlist • episode three >>

S1, E2: off-book

The first message is harmless.

Satoru shares a fan's post on his Instagram story of you and Suguru from a recent red carpet interview– the one where Suguru’s arm is around your waist, his smile soft and practiced. Satoru’s just behind him, slightly blurred, caught mid-laugh with his mouth open like he’s about to say something reckless.

@/messyfandomhours: group photos always hit different when you know the lore

You don’t text him immediately. You’re in a Lyft heading back from a cast afterparty meant to celebrate the end of production– the kind of thing that’s supposed to feel like a milestone. The window’s cracked enough to let the city air in. Suguru’s next to you, scrolling on his phone, replying to texts you don’t ask about. He hasn’t said much since the event– just something about your hair looking better down, and that the crowd was too loud.

It should feel normal. It almost does.

You’re still in Suguru’s blazer. Your press badge is crumpled in your bag. The wind claws at your face and none of it feels real. The city moves past you, fast and bright, and you feel like you’re somewhere behind it.

Suguru doesn’t reach for your hand. But his leg is pressed lightly against yours. It stays that way the whole ride home.

By the time you’re upstairs at his apartment– shoes off, makeup half-removed, sitting cross-legged on the edge of the couch– you open Instagram again.

You send it to Satoru. No words. Just the screenshot.

He replies before you can set your phone down.

Satoru [10:36 PM]: can’t lie. the lore is prettyyy interesting

You laugh. Quietly, like it’s something private. Like it’s yours.

You don’t know when it becomes a habit. It builds slowly. A comment here, a reaction there. Inside jokes. Late-night texts that start as sarcasm and end in something softer. Coffee runs on Thursday mornings together while Suguru is at the gym.

Three weeks later, he starts sending you voice memos. It’s 1:31 a.m. when the first one comes through.

“You love leaving stuff in my car, huh?” His voice is low, a little rough. You hear the creak of bedsheets. “First it was your script. Then your sunglasses. Now, this stupid pink water bottle. I’m starting to think it’s a mating ritual. Very sexy. Very subtle. Noted.” There’s a small laugh. “Also– movie star. You were good today. Like, actually good. That moderator probably still has heart eyes. Don’t let it go to your head.”

You don’t reply until you wake up. When the morning comes, it’s slow and gold-washed. The kind of light that makes everything feel cinematic, like you're already in the middle of a story you haven’t caught up to yet.

Suguru’s just come back from a studio meeting. His sunglasses are still on. He smells like cold air and shampoo. He doesn’t say anything at first– just crosses the living room in that quiet way he does, like he’s trying not to wake something.

He sets a coffee down on the table. The one he knows you like.

You sit up slowly, pressing the heel of your hand into your eyes. Your leg’s gone half-numb from how you slept– curled tight on his couch, a blanket slipping off your shoulder.

He watches you for a beat. Not long. Just enough for something to hover in the space between you– unspoken, but so present it hums.

“You should sleep more,” he says, voice gentler than usual. “You look tired.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” you murmur, lips quirking.

He huffs a small laugh. But the air around you doesn't shift. He doesn’t sit next to you. Doesn’t touch you. Just stands there like he wants to, like maybe if he did, it would break the spell. Or change it entirely.

You both know how this started. What it’s supposed to be. But lately, there are too many moments like this– too quiet, too careful, too close.

He disappears into the bathroom, pulling his tie loose on the way. The water starts running. Steam begins to fog the edge of the mirror.

He leaves the door cracked open. He never used to.

You’re sipping the coffee he brought you when you pick up your phone.

You [9:49 AM]: movie star? Satoru [9:50 AM]: thought you liked being famous… must’ve been mistaken :p

You smile into the rim of the cup.

It’s not flirting, not really. Not at first. It’s deflection. Distraction. Something too casual to be dangerous– until it isn’t.

You talk about stupid things. What kind of soda bottle cap looks the most ominous. The real meaning of certain fan tweets. Who’s got the best fake laugh on press tours. Satoru sends you TikToks with a very serious “this is us.” You send him voice memos of your table reads, half-whispered and overly dramatic, the kind you’d never let Suguru hear.

He tells you he made a playlist that reminds him of you. You ask to hear it. He refuses.

“That would ruin the mystique,” he says.

“So you’re saying it’s horny.”

“I’m saying it’s layered, movie star.”

Sometimes he doesn’t text back right away. Sometimes he’ll wait hours. You start to care when he does. That part unnerves you the most.

Because Suguru still makes you breakfast. Still knows how you take your coffee, still listens when you mutter that the lights are too bright, still lets you crawl into bed fully clothed without asking questions.

You still wake up next to him most mornings.

But it’s Satoru who texts sweet dreams. Satoru who asks what you actually thought of the movie you just smiled through at the press junket. Satoru who hears the version of you no one else knows exists.

The first time you call him is an accident. You mean to send a voice memo. Your thumb slips. Suddenly it’s ringing. You almost hang up.

“Movie star?” His voice is low. A little hoarse. You think he was already in bed.

“Wrong button,” you say. “I meant to record something.”

“Okay,” he says. But he doesn’t hang up.

“Okay,” you echo.

It’s quiet for a while.

You hear his breathing. You hear your own.

“I was thinking about you tonight,” he says softly.

You sit up too fast. “What?”

He hums. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.

“You wore that stupid dress again. The black one. I saw the photos.”

“You like that dress.”

“I like you in it.”

There’s a pause. A breath. Your throat goes tight.

“What are we doing?” you ask. It slips out.

“We’re talking,” he says. “That’s allowed, isn’t it?”

You want to believe him. Want to believe that talking is all it is. That it doesn’t mean anything.

But his voice stays with you after you hang up. You think about it the next morning when you’re brushing your teeth in Suguru’s bathroom. When he knocks softly before stepping in. When he presses a hand to your back but doesn’t say anything. You think about it when you leave your phone facedown all day, and still feel its gravity like a second pulse.

Two nights later, you text Satoru.

You [8:02 PM]: Where are you right now?

You lie to your manager and say you’re going to a friend’s rooftop for wine. You lie to Suguru and say you’re running over to a friend’s place to catch up since they’re back in town.

Satoru picks you up on a street where no one’s looking. No words at first. Just the click of the passenger door, the hum of the engine, the heat of the leather seat beneath you.

You don’t say anything for ten minutes.

The city blurs by, all smeared lights and blinking signs, like it’s moving too fast to see clearly– and maybe that’s the point.

He doesn’t press you.

You stop at an overlook with a faint view of the skyline. He gets out of the car and climbs onto the hood, long legs folded, hair messy from the wind– easy to follow. You join him.

“Tell me something you haven’t told anyone else today,” he says.

You think about Suguru.

You think about how you haven’t told him that you’ve been eating less. That interviews make you panic now. That sometimes you cry after seeing photos of yourself tagged by strangers with timestamps and commentary like you’re a forensic file.

“I don’t remember the last time I liked myself,” you say.

It just falls out. You don’t plan it.

Satoru doesn’t react right away. Just tilts his head, like he’s cataloguing it. Memorizing.

“You seem like someone worth liking.”

You say nothing. But you let your hand fall between you, and you don’t pull away when his pinky brushes yours.

A week later, he kisses your cheek.

That’s all. Just a kiss to your cheek as he drops you off after a press event turned nightcap. You’ve had two glasses of wine. You’re still in heels. The car is parked under a tree with fairy lights strung from the café next door. Suguru is out of town. You are, technically, alone.

“What was that for?” you ask.

“Felt like it,” he says.

You don’t sleep that night. You don’t let yourself answer why.

The thing is– you love Suguru.

You love the way he fits behind you when you’re cold. The way he reads scripts out loud with voices. The way he smells like cedarwood and ink. You love his focus, his certainty, his gravity. You love the way the world takes him seriously.

But sometimes, when he holds you, you feel like a statue being polished. Like a figure beside him, not with him. Like a thing. A role. A function.

Conversations trail off. Eye contact lingers just a second too long, then breaks like it meant nothing– even after months of existing in the same space. You don’t fight. You don’t ask questions. You don’t name what’s changed– or what hasn’t.

Maybe it’s easier that way.

You don’t tell him about the voice memos. The late drives. The text threads with inside jokes. You don’t tell him that Satoru knows how you take your coffee now. Or that it’s the same coffee Suguru brings you almost every morning while you’re curled up on his couch, without ever asking.

The night Suguru gets back, you stay in.

No events. No fittings. No scripts to rehearse or call sheets to memorize. Just the two of you in the quiet, low light of Suguru’s apartment, where the windows stay open and the floor lamp hums.

He’s already curled into the corner of the couch when you come back from the kitchen. Hair damp. Hoodie too big. His laptop’s open but dimmed, and whatever show he’d queued up is long since paused.

He looks up when you enter. Doesn’t say anything– just watches as you lower yourself into the space beside him, blanket still draped around your shoulders.

You sit closer than usual. Not by much. But enough.

The show resumes without either of you pressing play. Neither of you is watching.

There’s a moment– barely there– where your knee brushes his. Then again. And again.

You shift. You don’t move away.

“You never say anything when I stay,” you say, voice low.

“Do I have to?”

You blink. “I guess not. You could ask me to start paying rent, though.”

He looks at you, and it’s not a joke this time. His mouth twitches, but it doesn’t form a smile. “If I ask, you might leave.”

Your throat goes tight.

You want to say something else– something sharp or witty or safe– but it gets caught behind everything you’ve left unsaid. Behind every photo op and planted interview and months of pretending it didn’t matter that he always made space for you in the car. That he always reached for your hand first on carpets, even when no one told him to.

Instead, you lean your head against his shoulder. Slow. Careful. Like testing the temperature of something you’ve been afraid to touch.

He lets you. And then– he shifts.

His arm slides around your back, slow and deliberate, and his hand settles at your waist. His fingers press in like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Your ribs rise and fall beneath his palm, and he doesn’t flinch when he feels the way you inhale, shaky and too deep.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

You nod. You think you do. Maybe you don’t.

He smells like clean skin and faint citrus and something else– familiar, but hard to name. The sound of his breathing matches yours. Unsteady. Waiting.

When you tilt your face up, you don’t know what you’re looking for. You just know you find it.

His gaze drops to your mouth. Yours does the same. There’s a pause– so brief you’re not even sure it existed. Then, he kisses you.

Not like you think Satoru might.

This one is slow. Hesitant. It tastes like guilt and longing and months of silence braided into a single breath. His hand moves to the side of your neck, and yours fist gently in the fabric of his sleeve.

You kiss him again. And again. And then you stop. Your forehead rests against his. You’re both too quiet.

“This was supposed to be pretend,” you whisper.

“I know.” His voice is barely there. “But I don’t think it is anymore.”

You don’t say anything else. Neither does he.

You stay like that for a long time– pressed into each other, warm and unsure and terrified of what it means to finally want something real.

Three days later, it’s the advance screening.

The biggest event yet– invitation only. A tented carpet, digital livestream, black-on-black dress code, and some overproduced sponsor intro that keeps glitching during rehearsals. You’re contractually obligated to smile through all of it.

Suguru meets you outside the venue in his usual press-event uniform: sleek black suit, buttoned shirt with just the top undone, hair pulled back like he hasn’t touched it since morning.

“You look good,” he says as you step out of the car.

“So do you,” you murmur. You mean it.

You take his arm. The cameras love it. So do the fans.

You pose with one hand on his chest. You make eye contact at just the right moment. He leans in once– forehead to temple– and the photo gets uploaded with a “they look so damn in love” caption before you’ve even made it to the second step.

It’s automatic now. Smooth. Trained. But his fingers twitch on your lower back, like he’s not sure where to hold you anymore.

You get through the photo ops. You get through the screening. You get through the champagne toasts and congratulatory conversations.

And then you’re in the dressing room. It’s small, temporary, one of those half-fabric trailer setups behind the venue. The zipper doesn’t close all the way. The floor’s uneven. You’re alone for the first time in hours.

You lean against the vanity, fumbling with one earring. Satoru walks in without an announcement. His suit jacket is slung over one shoulder, too many buttons undone on his dress shirt. Hair a little too messy to be accidental.

He sees you in the mirror and grins.

“There she is,” he says. “Movie star.”

You don’t look at him right away. You move your focus to the clasp of your necklace. The way your pulse has started to stutter.

“You’re not supposed to be back here,” you say.

“Sure I am. I’m your biggest fan.”

You roll your eyes– but your hands are shaking. He notices. Of course he does.

“You looked good out there,” he adds, voice low now. “Too good.”

You finally meet his gaze in the mirror.

“Suguru was there,” you say. It comes out breathier than you mean it to.

“Yeah.” A pause. “I saw.”

He doesn’t ask permission. He steps closer. Not too close. Not at first. But close enough to make you forget the crowd outside. The cameras. The blur of Suguru’s hand at your waist an hour ago.

Satoru’s hand rises to your waist, his fingers twitching like he wants to grab you and pull you in. Lingers there, heavy and warm.

“Are we still pretending?” he asks, quiet.

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “Are we?”

He doesn’t answer. Not out loud.

He just moves– fast, like if he pauses for even a second, the moment will collapse. And you let him. Because you’ve been holding this tension too tight for too long, and if you don’t let it break now, it’ll snap and tear something inside you.

You should say something. You don’t. You breathe in and it feels like breaking. That’s all it takes. He kisses you.

It’s not careful. It’s all teeth and velvet and something that’s been burning through you for weeks. You gasp when his hand does grab your waist and the other finds the side of your neck, when his mouth presses harder. You don’t stop him. You don’t want to.

His jacket slips to the floor. Your earring rolls across the counter. His hands drag lower, sinking you back into reality.

“Stop,” you whisper, hands pressing at his chest.

Or maybe you’re pulling him in. You’re not sure.

Satoru jerks back immediately, like he’s been burned. Like he was waiting for the refusal. He puts space between you fast– too fast. Your lipstick is smeared across his mouth.

“Right,” he says. Sharp. Bright. Too loud in the quiet. “Your boyfriend.”

It lands like venom, but you can tell it’s not meant to hurt. Not exactly. It’s just what’s left when desire thickens into defense.

“Don’t be like that,” you murmur, licking your lips. Trying to buy a second of time. A breath. A thought. “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

His expression twists– something between a laugh and a flinch.

“And you didn’t want me to either, huh?”

You inhale too sharply. It snags in your throat. “That’s not what I said.”

“No,” he bites. “But that’s what you meant.”

He turns away from you like he can’t stand the weight of your silence– rakes a hand through his hair, pacing a tight half-circle near the door. His suit jacket’s still on the floor. His mouth is still red with your lipstick.

“You always do this,” he mutters. “You look at me like– like you’re drowning. Like I’m the only thing keeping your head above water. And then you run.”

Your breath catches. “That’s not fair,” you whisper.

“No,” he says. “It’s not.”

He meets your eyes again, and for the first time tonight, there’s no charm. No grin. Just ache.

“You don’t get to kiss me like that,” he says, “and then pretend it didn’t mean anything.”

Your chest tightens. Your spine straightens. Your mouth opens– and closes again.

You want to tell him it’s complicated. That you didn’t mean to. That it wasn’t nothing, but it also can’t be something. That there’s too much at stake. That you’re scared. That you love Suguru. That maybe that’s the problem.

But instead, all you say is: “Satoru…”

And the way he flinches at just his name– it’s worse than a slap.

He turns toward the door, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll make sure no one saw.”

He’s gone before you can stop him.

And you're left staring at your reflection– hair mussed, mouth flushed, one earring missing. Lipstick smeared like a secret across your skin.

Still dressed like someone you’re not sure you recognize.

You’re still staring at your reflection when your phone buzzes.

Suguru [10:41 PM]: Leaving now. Meet me at the car?

You fix your lipstick. Find the earring. Smooth your dress. Brush through your hair with your fingers. You put the mask back on. But your reflection doesn’t lie. You already crossed the line– you just haven’t admitted it out loud.

And then you go.

He’s already waiting outside the tent by the time you reach the curb, one hand in his pocket, the other clutching a water bottle with the label half-peeled off. His tie is gone. His sleeves are rolled. He looks tired.

But when he sees you, he straightens– just a little.

“You alright?” he asks.

His voice is soft. Not suspicious. Not even concerned, exactly. Just… present.

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Just needed a minute.”

He doesn’t press. Just holds the car door open for you like he always does.

The inside is quiet. Dim. Only the low hum of the engine and the distant thrum of camera shutters behind tinted glass.

You stare at your hands in your lap. He watches the road.

“You looked beautiful tonight,” he says.

It’s quiet. Unpracticed. He doesn’t touch you. But you think he almost does.

And somehow, that’s worse.

You don’t answer right away. “Thanks,” you say eventually. A beat passes. Two. And then– “Do you ever think about… what this would’ve looked like if it hadn’t started as PR?”

The question is out before you know it’s coming. Suguru doesn’t react at first. Just exhales through his nose, eyes still on the road.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “More than I should.”

You blink. Your fingers curl tighter in your lap. “And?”

He glances at you, just once, but doesn’t smile. “And I think if we’d started for real, I wouldn’t be afraid of losing you.”

The rest of the ride is silence– thick, honest, and almost enough to feel like love.

comment to be added to the taglist: @twilightsumu @aizzon @jabulile @jadeisthirsting @1satoruu @nombakugoswife1 @feelya

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