#I thought they were the same fucking thing

[alchemistc]

favors

Tommy's the kind of asshole who checks his phone at the table in the middle of a first date, now.

In his defence, it hasn't been a great first date. And not in any sort of charming way, either.

In his defence, he's been waiting on this text for what feels like longer than it actually has been (four weeks, three days - he feels stupid admitting he's got a rough estimate of the hours too, but the point is he's been waiting. Hoping. Took this invitation to dinner as an attempt to remind himself he was the one who walked out.)

Tommy is absolutely the kind of asshole who glances up from his lap to find his date staring at him with his jaw clenched and doesn't bother to make more of an excuse than "Sorry, family thing, I gotta go."

Tommy's the kind of asshole who drops three twenties on the table and doesn't bother to say goodbye as he winds his way through tables - this place was pretentious as fuck, anyway - and pushes through the rotating door.

He's not even halfway to his truck when his phone displays an incoming call.

The last time he'd seen that name flash across his screen he'd been - well, he'd been a ball of nerves for all of five seconds before a winded voice had asked him to commit some light treason and Tommy had hopped to.

"Evan. Hey."

He remembers Evan had always thought he was so cool, and he sort of wishes Evan could see him now, with sweaty palms and a nervous hitch to his step as he twists around the wire fencing that will lead him to the truck he'd dropped thirty-five bucks to park, in this stupid downtown lot for this stupid date that hadn't distracted him for a minute at the stupid restaurant that only served tapas and hipster whiskey.

His voice is a little tremulous, a little off. "Hi Tommy."

Tommy doesn't waste time. He's done enough of that, and Evan sounds - Jesus he sounds awful. Sad, deep in his bones. Tired. A little out of it. "Everything okay?"

"I did have feelings for you. When I said that. I - It was such a shitty thing to say and I realized I never apologized for it even though I meant to and...and I did. I do, still, really."

It's the kind of opening Tommy couldn't have dreamt up in a million years. It's solid proof that Evan has worked it over in his mind at least half as many times as Tommy, trying to figure out where it all went wrong, how he'd ruined it so quickly when everything he'd been a sad sack about pretending he didn't want had been right there, ready for the taking. When he'd done that devastating bambi-eyed, through the lashes glance up, even though they were the same fucking height, and Tommy had stuck his foot in his mouth so badly he'd knocked out a couple teeth.

"Okay. I -."

Whatever he'd have come up with in that moment escapes his brain a second later when Evan continues.

"Which is why what I wanted to ask you may be, like, super awkward."

Tommy's a little grateful to find his truck is only two spaces from where he is at the moment. Has to bite back the sharp deprecating laugh when he realizes this is another fucking favor, not a goddamn reconciliation. He left a date for this.

A bad one.

But still.

"Okay." Clipped is a good term for the way the word comes out of his mouth. He's already wincing before he's even finished saying it, because if he can tell Evan's hurting from his voice alone, surely Evan can tell from his own tone that he's...annoyed. In pain. Wishing he could rip the memory of Evan Buckley from the spot it's nestled beneath his ribcage, where he can't shake it loose.

Evan's quiet for a long, long moment. They'd been great at getting immediately horny any time there was even a hint of strife. Not so easy to do when they haven't been together now for longer than they ever were. "I was wondering if I could borrow your truck on Tuesday."

And that's - that's a fairly reasonable request, as far as the 118 standard goes. Still makes him want to cry, a little.

"Can I ask why?"

"It's... Uh...?" The pause lasts long enough that Tommy has to check and make sure Evan's still on the line. His next words are quieter, but he can hear the tremble in them. Has to bite down the urge to make himself a shield against whatever it is that has him so emotional. Not his job, anymore. If it ever even had been.

The farther removed he is from all of this, the more he wonders if he really had imagined the connection between them. How the intimate moments felt charged with more than a desire to rip each other's clothes off, how the silly moments had felt like the prologue of a long and happy story.

"It's fine, Evan. I'll, uh - have to check my schedule but I think I can make it work."

He's free Tuesday. He and his truck both are. But maybe... Maybe this has run its course. Maybe Tommy will have to make more of an effort, his next bad first date.

"Eddie's moving back," Evan says, and there's a weird twist to his voice, a quirk around the name Tommy doesn't recognize. He'd always said "Eddie" with the kind of reverence Tommy couldn't fully grasp, a superhero and a confidante all rolled up in the lazy smirk and cow-brown eyes of a man Tommy had no hope of beating out on the Important To Evan Buckley scale. But if Tommy had to put a description to it, Evan kind of spits the name, now. "And until I can figure out a place to stay I need to get a few things in storage quickly. I just thought - it was stupid. Obviously it's short notice, and you shouldn't feel obligated to -."

"My spare room is empty," Tommy says. Tommy lies, more accurately. It's currently storing all the renovation shit he's been accumulating since the breakup turned him into an insane person pretending he knows a damn thing about fixing up a house.

This pause seems to hold a little more weight to it.

"...okay?" And there's - there's something there, in his voice, sun warm and yellow, bacon cooling on a paper towel and eggs still not plated while Evan swallowed and asked the one question Tommy had been hoping he wouldn't ask.

"I just meant - why spend the money on a storage unit, right?"

"Tommy."

"Let me check my schedule. I can get back to you. If Tuesday works, we can just - we can figure it out from there."

"Tommy."

And that's his "you're spiralling" voice. Tommy hadn't heard it often. Too busy trying to be as cool as his shiny new boyfriend thought he was. Too busy choking down the urge to sink a knife into his ribcage and carve out his heart to hand it over.

"I'll let you know by tomorrow morning," Tommy promises, and before he lets his words get away from him he ends the call.

Jesus fuck.

Hell.

What the fuck?

---

Tommy's so frayed with nerves he spends the entire drive slowly wearing a groove into the side of his cheek. By the time he makes it to the quiet street and sees Evan's Jeep parked on the curb, gate open and already stuffed full of boxes Tetris-style, he feels like he might just fucking explode.

It makes the terse, perfunctory head nod from Eddie on his way up the paved path just that much more confusing. That much more frustrating. He's got a set of keys swinging from his fingers, and doesn't even glance behind him as Evan pops the door open with a hip and stacks a box on top of two others already sitting in the porch.

There's clearly more going on here than Tommy is privy to.

"You aren't helping?" It's an innocent question. He doesn't even mean anything by it. Across the yard, Evan goes tense. Halfway down the drive, Eddie goes still, and swivels his gaze to Tommy.

"No one asked me to." By the stoop, Evan tips his gaze down, suddenly incredibly interested in whatever the label on the box he just set down says. He seems small. Not the man who'd guided him backwards up the lawn with so much tongue Tommy hadn't realized where he was until they were already inside. Not the man who'd confidently held a funeral for a long dead cowboy and roped Tommy into it without a care in the world that Tommy didn't believe in ghosts.

"Well, if anyone else was subletting you'd probably have had to give them more than a weeks notice to pack up their shit and leave, so I figured you'd be helping," Tommy says, because whatever the hell is going on with Eddie's face right now has him ready to raise locked wrists to chin height.

Eddie's tongue rolls along the inside of his cheek. "Buck says he's got it."

Knife, meet tension.

Tommy's always been more of a blunt instrument.

"Right."

"Didn't realize 'got it' meant calling in a favor with his ex, but hey, I haven't been around, in a while."

"Do we have a problem, Diaz?"

Eddie levers himself into the driver's seat of a vehicle that very distinctly isn't his truck. "Lot of that going around, at the moment."

That stone-faced look from the funeral is back on Evan's face.

Tommy's fist are clenched. He doesn't have a clue when that happened, or why it takes quite so much effort to shake his fingers loose.

Eddie clocks it. Stares for a long, long moment. Slams the door closed and backs out of the drive a little quicker than advisable, if the glare from the neighbor watering her hydrangeas is anything to go by.

He doesn't quite peel off down the street, but it seems like it takes him some effort to drive like a responsible adult.

Evan doesn't meet his gaze when he lopes across the lawn to meet him at the door.

He's gotta break the silence somehow. "So. Diaz seems pissed at me."

"It's not you."

"Uhuh."

"It's - I said something he -." Evan frowns. Twists a finger up into the slack of the tape along the top of one box. "Same old story. Buck makes it all about himself."

Tommy's missing something.

Tommy absolutely doesn't have the right to pry.

"What the hell does that mean?" Tommy asks, and watches the marble crumble.

---

It takes a day and a half to get everything out of Eddie's. Another half a day to stuff whatever they can into Tommy's bare spare room.

He'd bought a shed and stuffed the contents of his reno-supplies into it indiscriminately two nights earlier, at the ass end of three 24's from hell, and throws up an ironic thanks that Evan hadn't come by nearly often enough to be surprised by the new shed, or the dozen half-finished projects littering the house.

Tommy learns a lot of things that make him want to scream, over the course of the four-day span they squeeze that moving timeframe into.

It takes everything in him not to shoulder-check Eddie on the way out, once the final box is loaded into the bed of Tommy's truck.

He'd given them some privacy, before they left. Hopeful that Eddie would back down from this escalating argument of theirs, hopeful that he'd remember that his best fucking friend had sacrificed a hell of a lot, to allow him to move to El Paso. That he'd lost more since.

Evan hadn't spoken, the entire drive back to Tommy's.

He asks Evan out to coffee a moment before he offers to let him sleep on the couch until he finds something more permanent.

He should be less surprised than he is when they end up naked and sweaty and panting in his bed an hour later.

"We have to stop doing this."

Evan bites a nipple, and Tommy hisses.

"I'm serious, Evan. I can't do casual with you."

That gives him Evan's full attention. "What does that mean?"

"It means when I sleep with you I'm definitely having feelings for you."

He regrets the comment. Evan blows a raspberry into his sternum, and rolls onto his side to take in Tommy's expression. It's gotta be - well, it's gotta be a fucking mess. Just an absolute shit show of terror at having revealed too much. "I deserved that one."

Tommy smooths a hand over his shoulder. "You didn't, actually." After what he's been hearing about his friends and family, lately, Tommy's suddenly very aware of the words coming out of his mouth. "What I was trying to dance around is telling you I want to try again, and I don't want to fuck it up by falling into bed without actually...talking about it."

Evan snorts. Hitches his leg a little higher across Tommy's thigh. Yeah. Too late for that.

"I baked, to stop thinking about you. I baked cookies, and brownies, and three kinds of bread, and a Baked Alaska, and twelve different banana bread recipes, and - and it didn't change the fact that all I wanted to do was talk to you. See your face when you pull that stupidly bitchy look every time I don't know one of your references. Hold your hand and - and just be somewhere with you. Didn't matter where, I just...wanted. And I couldn't have it. So I baked."

"You made a Baked Alaska?"

"Tommy," Evan chides, but there are tears springing to the corner of Tommy's eyes and -

God he'd fucked this up so royally.

"Move in with me," Tommy says, the hysteria bubbling up in his throat, and he swallows it down, and down, and down again, because as the words settle under his skin, he realizes they feel right. What Evan had wanted, all those months ago, he'd wanted it too. He'd just been so fucking sure it would destroy him, in the end.

He's so goddamn tired of denying that what he really wants is for the rest of his life to be storied by memories of the man at his side, right here in this moment.

It's terrible timing. The worst idea. They're both rung out emotionally, grief and anger and insecurities bubbling just under the surface, ready to rise and make their lives miserable the moment they leave this bubble.

They haven't talked about any of it, not really.

"I'm serious. Why be apart, and all that?"

"Tommy."

The way his name curls out of Evan Buckley's mouth is like a favorite song. He never gets tired of hearing it.

Even when it's exasperated and confused. "I'm in love with you," Tommy murmurs, because his streak of insanity clearly hasn't passed. Evan's breath hitches. The worst part is that it's true. In a way he doesn't know how to quantify. He'd do a hell of a lot more than steal government property, for this man. He'd stay, for this man, at the risk of destroying his entire soul.

"Don't ask me because you feel sorry I'm technically homeless." It's an out. Teed up and ready for Tommy to swing. Tommy goes for the bunt.

"Pretty sure that was more of a demand than a question. You can say no."

Evan peeks through his lashes, chin tipped against Tommy's chest. "What if you change your mind?"

Well. That's a sore subject. Should have expected that.

Tommy slips a hand down his side. Gathers up his hand to slide their fingers together. "I won't. Believe me, at this point I've tried."

There's a quirk to Evans smile he hasn't seen in a long time. He's missed it. God, he's missed it.

This doesn't fix anything. Not a damn thing.

But Tommy doesn't want him to spend a single night going forward wondering whether or not he's worth all the trouble the rest of his family seems to have made him feel he is.

They'd been there, before. Right on the edge of something serious. Something permanent.

They can get it back.

"You're being serious," Evan comments, like he needs the confirmation just to make sure he's not hallucinating. Tommy hooks one of his legs, rolls until Evan is half under him.

"Baked Alaska serious," he intones, just to see Evan laugh.

"Where am I gonna put my bike rack?" he asks, after a serious, weighty pause, and Tommy presses in to suck Evans lower lip between his teeth in retaliation.

[xoxojisu]

"DON'T STOP LOVING ME."

synopsis: things were always easy between you and katsuki. until suddenly, they weren't. (aka you pull back and katsuki notices and hates it)

notes: ALWAYS w the unofficialbf!katsuki agenda. wc ~5k. childhood bffs bc duh. barely proofread sorry

ever since you were three years old with your scraped knees and sticky fingers to now, where teenage life could not be more confusing, there has always been one, unwavering, constant fact.

you're absolutely, utterly, head-over-heels in love with bakugo katsuki.

and you've never been afraid to show it! backhugs, tackling him to the floor, jumping on top of him and climbing him like a jungle gym, telling him you love him like it's the most obvious thing in the world. (it is)

he always scoffs and grumbles, but you'd never take it personally, because when he tells you to get off, he pulls you close. when he complains that you're annoying when you're sick, he brings you soup and medicine and cuddles you to sleep. when he says he blushes and tells you he hates you, his eyes tell a different story.

so what if he doesn't express it the same way you do? everyone has different ways of showing they care. even if he doesn't say it much, you know katsuki loves you.

right?

-

it was late when you accidentally overheard it. when you froze up and felt your heart drop to the floor. when you started shaking and sweating, eyes darting around for a trash can in case you threw up.

"bakugo, bro, when are you and y/n gonna make it official?" kirishima had teased, throwing an arm around katsuki.

katsuki scoffed and shoved him off. "tch. it's not like that."

"you suuure?" sero questioned. "you two seem awfully close for just friends."

"mannn, if i was bakugo, i'd be all over that. y/n is such a pretty girl!" kaminari chimed in, clearly jealous over his lack of love life.

the teasing continued. you couldn't see him from your angle, but you knew that katsuki definitely had a vein on his forehead that was getting larger by the second.

"you're always carrying her bag, walking her to class.."

"cuddling with her during movie nights, scratching her back.."

"oh! and don't forget how she never forgets to tell him she loooves him whenever they say goodbye!"

"c'mon, bakubro, just spit it out! you two are practically married already!"

the three laughed heartily, clearly enjoying the rise they were getting out of katsuki.

"all of you, shut the hell up!"

"just admit it. you're in love."

he gritted his teeth.

"i'm not in love." he grimaced, venomous anger bubbling to the surface.

"she's just there all the fucking time! always fucking doing girlfriend-y shit when she knows damn well she's not! always clinging and trying to cuddle and all that stupid sappy shit. she's just an annoying fuckin' habit ive learned to tolerate." he spat.

you froze.

what?

was he serious? like, really, truly, deadass serious? you knew he wasn't exactly the super affectionate type, but even still! you thought he really cared about you! clingy? annoying? tolerated?

your head spun as you broke out into a cold sweat. you could've sworn that that wasn't true. you and katsuki have been friends forever. surely he wouldve gotten rid of you by now if he hated you that much, right? and he cuddles you! and hangs out with you! he takes care of you when you're sick! there's just no way, right? he's just angry because he's being teased, right?

..right?

"damn, dude, that's pretty harsh," sero snickered. "you always take care of her, though, no?"

you held your breath.

"tch. doesn't fuckin' mean shit. just gotten used to her because she's been around so long."

your stomach dropped to the basement. he tolerated you. he thought of you as nothing more than an annoying habit.

insecurity pooled inside of you. now that you think about it, was he really cuddling you, or just not bothering to move you off when you laid on him? maybe he just thought you were too much of a hassle to get rid of when you came to hangout, so he just let you stay even thought he didn't want to. when he brought you medicine and stuff, maybe your sickness made you delirious and made you think he was being more affectionate and caring than he really was.

you felt nauseated. you recall all the times you threw a quick "i love you!" over your shoulder or while you clung to him. had he ever once said it back? ever? the room started spinning as you realized you couldn't think of a single time. he'd always deflected. gave you a classic "tch." rolled his eyes. messed up your hair. you dont think you'd ever even heard the word "love" from his lips.

had you just been deluding yourself all this time?

you couldn't take it anymore. sweating, you sprinted out before you could be spotted.

-

it's been two days since you overheard that conversation, and you'd been avoiding katsuki ever since. or rather, not quite avoiding completely, but there was an undeniable shift in your behavior. you stopped trying to cuddle with him. you stopped showing up to his dorm room to hangout. you especially stopped saying "i love you," even though it killed you every time.

katsuki hadn't shown much of a reaction to your change in behavior. he'd raise an eyebrow when your usual daily hugs disappeared or ask a gruff, "where were you?" when you didn't show up to your unofficial but completely established after school hangouts, but he had otherwise put up no protest.

you didn't know whether to be relieved or heartbroken.

on one hand, katsuki's kind of scary when he's confrontational. also, you don't know how you would be able to talk to him. "i overheard a conversation where you said you hate me but im madly in love with you and want to marry you and have your kids?" yeah right. you were sort of glad to be getting off easy.

but on the other hand, you were devastated. his apathy served as further confirmation that he meant every word he said. he really didn't mind that you were pulling back, and seemed perfectly content not being nearly as close as before.

you really had been deluding yourself. secretly, you had been hoping that he was just saying stuff in the heat of the moment and would actually be upset if you pulled back. because that would mean he cared. but he didn't give two shits about you. you really were just some stupid childhood habit he'd learned to tolerate.

you became less energetic as a person. not just with katsuki, but simply in general. your days seemed unbearably longer and darker without him. you had a hard time engaging and staying in the present, your mind wandering to katsuki again and again. it was pathetic, really. you two had never even dated. why were you so hung up about it? you two were just friends, and in fact, it seemed like he never even liked you in the first place. you were just stupidly hopeful and naive.

-

katsuki was dying.

two days. it had been two fucking days since you'd touched him or even just been remotely affectionate with him and he was going crazy. hell, he'd give the whole damn world even for just a smile at this point. he was desperate.

he didnt understand why you were being like this. it was like everything he knew about you had shifted, and he was just standing there, waiting for some kind of sign or something like an idiot.

katsuki had noticed the shift in your behavior immediately. of course he did. he knows you better than he knows himself, after all. at first, he thought you were just playing some dumb game or pulling some stunt to get his attention, but that wasn’t it. you waved instead of hugging. said a simple "bye" instead of "love you, bye bye!" it's not like you were completely avoiding him. you still talked. you still laughed. only now, it didn't quite reach your eyes.

and it was fucking killing him.

he hated that you were pulling back. he hated how off everything felt. he hated how fucking empty his dorm room felt when you weren't there to pester him. but most of all, he hated how he couldn’t even figure out what he'd done wrong. he couldn't think of any fights or reasons to be angry, but if that wasn't it, what was it? why were you suddenly just.. leaving?

he wanted to confront you. he wanted to pull you aside and demand to know where the fuck you went. but for the first time in his entire life, he didn't know how. because this wasn't like confronting stupid deku about his new powers. it wasn't about asking icyhot what his fuckin' deal was. it was you. his whole fucking world, even if he never said it out loud. he was nothing short of terrified to ask, because he feared it would drive you away even further, and he couldn't think of any alternate universe where he'd be able to handle that.

he found himself looking for excuses to be near you, to talk to you, to just be around you in any way possible. the last two days had been a torture of silence, of missed chances to sit next to you or casually reach out and tug you into his space like he used to. the times when he’d shove his arm around your shoulders or playfully mess with your hair, it had all stopped. he didn't feel like he could anymore. like he'd somehow lost the privilege. and now, all he was left with was this gnawing feeling in his gut that something was horribly wrong.

he had finally worked up the courage and tried asking you once, but you had shut him down with that all-too-familiar "nothing, just tired" bullshit and that damn closed-off look on your face that made him feel completely hollowed out.

he was desperate. he needed to feel you. needed to hear your bright laughter and see your stupid smile. it was so fucking stupid and sappy and so unlike him, but he couldn't even bring himself to care about that. he needed to cuddle with you until you fell asleep. have you curl up on his chest and get swallowed up by his much larger frame and watch you as your breathing quickly evened out from his touch. you could never stay awake long when cuddling with him. he found himself smiling at the thought.

he scowled. this is so fucking stupid. he thought to himself.

-

it all came to a bubbling point for him on friday. 5 whole days of "hi's" and a half-smile instead of "KATSUKIIIII's," and a running hug. he was losing his fucking mind.

usually, you convinced him to join the weekly 1a movie night by taking his hand and dragging him out of his room. he'd grumble about it, but he'd never refuse. he'd sit on the corner of the couch and you'd sit close to him before gradually inching closer, the night ending with you two cuddling. now, he willingly trudges to movie night of his own free will and sits in the same corner of the couch, but this time alone.

the room buzzed with quiet chatter and the flicker of the TV as the opening credits rolled and iida turned the lights off. it was some dumb romcom movie katsuki couldn't bring himself to care about in the slightest. you would definitely like it, though. kirishima passed around popcorn, sero argued with kaminari over which movie was the best, deku was doing his stupid nerd rambling as todoroki and hagakure gawked at him. and you? you sat on the other end of the couch.

not just away, but away from him.

the usual spot right beside katsuki, practically in his lap, head on his shoulder, knees draped over his thighs sat empty. you sat next to mina instead, curling into the armrest and pulling your legs up to your chest. you offered sweet smiles to everyone, laughed when something was funny, made conversation when prompted. but katsuki saw it. he saw you.

and he saw that you weren’t you.

he stared.

throughout the entire first half of the movie, he barely processed a single second of it. he kept looking over, waiting for you to glance at him, to shift closer, to give him a sign, anything, but you stayed curled in on yourself, legs angled away from him. he hated it. he hated how you looked like you were trying to make yourself smaller. like you were trying to disappear.

katsuki’s heart thundered. his leg bounced impatiently. his jaw was tight. he couldn’t take this shit anymore.

he stood up abruptly, catching your attention. he stalked straight over to you, jaw clenched and shoulders tense. he hovered over you, looking down and saying nothing.

you blinked up at him. "...what?"

his eyes were sharp and unreadable to most. but to you, who knew him better than he knew himself, you could see the anxiety and desperation swimming in his eyes.

no, no, no. remember, don't delude yourself. he doesn't like you, not even as a friend.

"are you okay..?"

"no." he snapped, his tone making you flinch. he softened at your reaction. "i just.. you've been.." he started, but his tone cracked, eyes flashing, and something in him snapped. "fuckin’ hell, just—"

he reached down and grabbed you.

gently, but with zero room for argument. strong arms slid under your knees and behind your back like it was the most natural thing in the world, and you barely had time to yelp before he was sitting down again, with you in his lap, pulled tight into his chest like you were his lifeline. (you are)

you froze, wide-eyed and stiff, but he just held you. his arms locked around you. he didn’t look at anyone else, didn’t give a shit about the stares or the knowing grins. he buried his face in your shoulder, muttering low and rough into your neck.

"i don't know what the fuck i did," he said. "but you don't get to just... take all that away. not from me."

you blinked, suddenly breathless.

he held you tighter. his voice cracked again, this time softer. "whatever i did, 'm sorry. i'll make it up t'ya, i swear. but don't just.." his voice trailed off. "dont stop loving me." he wanted to scream.

you felt your heart stutter, but you didn't say anything.

not at first, anyway.

because what is there to say when your heart is lodged in your throat and your body is caged in the arms of the person you swore you were going to get over?

you just sat there, crumpled in his lap like some lost puppy that finally found its way home again. your face is pressed into his shoulder, and you think if you speak, you’ll cry. so you don't. you just let yourself relax and melt into him.

he doesn’t say anything else either. his grip doesn’t loosen, not even a little. his fingers press into your back, not hard, just steady. grounding. enough to keep you pressed firmly against him. like he’s trying to convince himself you’re real.

the room’s still noisy with all the side conversations, but it's all background noise now with you two just in your little bubble away from the rest of the world. you feel safe and like you’re about to fall apart at the same time.

you shift a little in his lap and glance up at him.

“…you didn’t have to drag me across the room, you know,” you finally mutter, voice hoarse.

he scoffs, eyes flicking down to meet yours. “yeah, well. you weren’t comin’ on your own.”

you wrinkle your nose at him. “you could’ve asked.”

“whatever." he grumbles. "this is more efficient."

you snort. "the hell?"

he shrugs, completely unapologetic. “worked, didn’t it?”

you don’t answer. because yeah. it did.

instead, you rest your head back on his chest, and he immediately shifts to accommodate you. your legs drape over the couch, his arm hooked under your knees to keep you anchored, and his other hand settled at the base of your spine. he starts tracing slow, absentminded circles there, hand slipped under your hoodie to rub at the bare skin like nothing had ever changed. like you hadn’t just gone five whole days without touching him. like you hadn’t spent those five days trying to unravel every version of reality where he didn’t love you back.

you sit like that for a long time.

finally, he speaks up, his voice low.

"what did i do?" he asked, his voice oddly shy. "why'd ya stop.. you know..?"

your breath hitches. because you do know. but you don't know what to say or how to say it. "i thought you completely hated me" doesn't quite seem like an appropriate response.

"nothing," you settle with.

he gives you a look.

you sigh. you never could lie to katsuki. he's known you for too long and too well to fall for them.

"i just.. got insecure. overheard some conversation where you said i was, um, clingy and annoying." you murmur, your voice small. if katsuki wasn't pressed up against you and hanging on to your every word, he wouldn't have been able to catch it.

but he did.

and you swore you saw complete heartbreak in his eyes.

you let out a small gasp of surprise when he pulls you flush against him, arms tight around your body and face nuzzled deep into your neck. he holds you with such a gentle intensity you think you might cry. he holds you in a way that makes you feel loved and safe.

"'m sorry." he mumbles into your neck, voice watery. "didn't mean it. i was just.. mad that they were makin' fun of me. none of it was true. at all."

your breath hitches.

"you're.. so fuckin' special to me. i mean it. these last few days without you have been hell."

you think you might cry.

"been missin' your fuckin' smile and your damn laugh. and your stupid hugs that make me almost topple over."

you hold back a giggle.

"i love you."

the world stills.

you don’t move.

you don’t speak.

hell, you're scared to breathe.

your heart is beating so loud you’re worried he might hear it. your face is burning, your lungs feel tight, and your throat’s a warzone of words you can’t quite say.

he said it.

he said it.

and now he’s quiet. breathing you in. arms wrapped around you like you’re something precious. like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

you pull back just enough to look at him. your hand comes up to brush his bangs from his eyes, and your fingers linger at his temple, trailing down his cheek like you’re memorizing him.

his expression is soft in a way you rarely get to see. wide-eyed. hopeful. a little scared.

you offer him a tiny, quiet smile.

no teasing.

no trying to be brave or play it all off.

just soft. honest. the kind that only he gets to see.

you lift your hand and touch his face. not dramatic, not shaky, just steady. fingers brushing along his cheekbone, thumb ghosting over the edge of his jaw like you’re memorizing the shape of him again.

his eyes close for a second and you swear you see him leaning into it a little.

you say nothing.

you don’t need to.

because you’re here. because he’s holding you. because you’re not pulling away, and he's pulling you in.

you nuzzle your face into his neck, like it's right where you belong, and you breathe in.

he breathes in too.

slow. like the world’s stopped spinning for a second just so you can exist like this, tangled up in each other without saying anything. no talking about what's going on, no complications, just.. being.

you both don't notice how mina and kirishima are gossiping wildly about how you two are practically married and wondering how you still claim not to be dating. you don't notice the way that ochaco squeals after glancing over at your position, and you don't notice the way izuku looks fondly at you two with soft eyes. (he's been shipping the two of you since childhood)

you and katsuki are the only two people in the world who matter.

"i love you," you whisper as you feel yourself dozing off.

you think you feel his lips press gently against your forehead.

"i love you too."

masterlist

[artficlly]

this is (not) fine [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x personal assistant!reader

personal assistant rules: don’t crush on bucky barnes. definitely don’t misinterpret a flower purchase and spiral into silent heartbreak, and absolutely never ever get stuck alone with him in an elevator.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, oral (f receiving), public (ish) sex?, wall sex (?), okay they fuck in an elevator guys, kissing, angst, miscommunication (not badly), hurt/comfort, there's some plot if you squint, insecure/self-conscious reader undertones, reader is an overthinker, reader is horny lol, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 9.1k

A/N: hi, hopefully this will keep you all fed while i work on part five to lessons in lovemaking. finally getting around to some of these requests in my inbox. this one is based off this request, but i changed it up so the reader is a PA instead of an avenger. lmk your thoughts thanx for reading <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

You’d never pegged Natasha as the type who enjoyed flowers.

No, she struck you more as the encrypted-flash-drive-on-a-park-bench type, the kind of woman who appreciated mysteries with teeth. A custom leather jacket, stitched with the same precision she used to dismantle a glock. One of those sleek, low motorcycles. Not daisies. Not peonies. And definitely not whatever soft, pastel nonsense Bucky was currently handing over cash for.

You stood a few feet away, halfway hidden behind a sidewalk sign advertising oat milk lattes and gluten-free muffins, clutching a cardboard drink tray and a bag full of vegan pastries in a death grip. The barista had spelt ‘Bruce’ as ‘Broose’ again, and under any other circumstance, that would've made you laugh, but now it felt like the most irrelevant thing in the world.

You liked Natasha. You respected her. You just didn’t think she had it in her to giggle over roses like the girls in those sappy rom-coms Clint insisted he hated (right before he would watch three in a row, a beer in each hand). But there Bucky was, brushing pollen off a bouquet of pale pink ranunculus, face soft in a way you’d never seen during mission briefings or sparring sessions.

And suddenly, you were building a list in your head of all the things you were sure Natasha Romanoff would rather receive as a romantic gesture: a knife, balanced perfectly for throwing, an expensive bottle of vodka, a vintage chess set with hand-carved pieces, a bottle of expensive ink and a fountain pen with a sharp nib, cookies—messy ones—overloaded with chocolate chips, or simply just black coffee, straight from the pot, no sugar, no cream. Yet, as Bucky handed it over to the redhead, she smiled. Smiled. And suddenly you felt like you were witnessing a scene you were not welcome to. 

Truthfully, it stung. Maybe it stung a little more than what was appropriate. You’d been harbouring a quiet crush on the dark-haired, sullen supersoldier from the moment he joined the team. Fresh out of Wakanda, new vibranium arm in tow, and god, he was handsome. Not in the polished, television commercial way Steve was, but in a way that made your pulse skip and your thoughts stall mid-sentence. He had the kind of face you didn’t know how to look at for too long, sharpened jaw, stormy-blue eyes, and a mouth that always looked on the verge of saying something he’d regret.

There was something electric about his stillness. Like if you leaned in close enough, you’d hear the hum of danger beneath his skin. He walked like a man who never quite trusted, drifting through the tower like he expected a fight around every corner. He barely spoke, but when he did, his voice was low and gravel-worn, something that settled right in your gut and made its home there.

He never smiled. Not really. But sometimes—sometimes—you’d catch a flicker of it when Sam teased him, or when Steve nudged him just right, and it was devastating.

And yeah, maybe you had a soft spot for broken things trying to heal.

As the Avengers’ personal assistant, it was your job to keep everyone comfortable, informed, and running like clockwork. You were a one-person organisational machine, constantly juggling the chaos that came with managing a tower full of enhanced individuals with the emotional range of a brick wall to a nuclear reactor. Your days were a blur of colour-coded schedules, back-to-back briefings, and the never-ending group chats.

You coordinated mission debriefs, booked international flights with military clearance, and handled press requests that would make most people cry. You endured complaints when Thor overloaded the power grid again, trying to make toast, and even replaced the mugs he shattered before anyone noticed. You wrangled Clint’s kids when they came to visit, sourced obscure snacks from remote parts of the world because Sam liked those protein bars, not the other ones, and Steve wouldn’t touch anything processed. You replaced a record number of coffee machines, hunted down whatever special detergent could get oil out of Tony’s designer shirts. You knew which brand of muscle balm Banner preferred and how to order it without triggering a random Homeland Security check.

And then there was Bucky.

With him, it was always a little extra, whether he noticed or not. His schedule came first in your Monday morning rounds. You made sure the pantry was stocked with the Eastern European tea he liked but never asked for, and remembered the exact setting he preferred on the tower’s training room temperature controls. You adjusted group plans so he’d be paired with Steve or Sam, just in case the crowds and questions became overwhelming. When he disappeared for a few hours, you didn’t ask questions, but you made sure no one came looking. You even swapped out the scratchy tags in his mission gear with soft ones, because he never complained, but you noticed the way he fidgeted with them.

Every day, you’d beam at him like some hopelessly love-struck idiot when you handed over his usual coffee—black, two brown sugars, just the way he liked it—and in return, he’d offer little more than a grunt. A low, barely-there sound that most people wouldn’t even register as a greeting. But you did. Somehow, that grunt became the highlight of your day.

So yeah, maybe seeing him hand over flowers to Natasha broke something in you. Not just a hairline fracture, but a quiet, splintering break that left your chest aching in places you didn’t know could hurt. Still, you understood. Natasha belonged to his world, effortlessly cool, all smoke, shadows and secrets. Yet she was kind. Not cold or unapproachable, just… carved from something rarer than you. The kind of woman who didn’t need to try to be extraordinary, she just was.

And you? You were the sweet, well-meaning assistant who made people laugh in the kitchen, who fetched dry cleaning and remembered everyone’s birthdays. You were the one who labelled tupperware and chased down Clint’s kids with bandaids. You were an afterthought, the background noise in the buzzing hive which was the Avengers Tower. 

So maybe you could justify feeling jealous, but angry? No. Not really. They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. And it wasn’t their fault that you’d let yourself hope.

—

Two weeks later, and you timed it perfectly, like you always did.

Just as the door to Bucky’s apartment clicked open, you rounded the corner—folder in hand, clipboard tucked tight to your side. The hallway was quiet, save for the low hum of ventilation and the soft thud of your heels against the carpet. Bucky stepped out, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair tied back, and his hoodie sleeves shoved up just enough to show the gleam of vibranium. Predictable. It was routine, every morning just before six he would meet with Steve in the gym. On Mondays, you’d catch him just as he exited his apartment, unload the details for the week, a freshly printed schedule and all. 

“Morning,” you said lightly, handing him the week’s itinerary. His reply was his usual, a grunt. Not annoyed. Not grateful. Just Bucky. That gruff, barely-there sound that once felt like a small victory. The kind of grunt that used to warm your chest when he followed it with a question, even if you knew the answer was printed in the folder you’d triple-checked. You always answered anyway. You liked having his attention, even just for a few seconds.

You used to dress the folders up with care, multicoloured sticky notes marking key tasks (blue for meetings, yellow for reminders, red for anything urgent and green for personal events). You’d highlight sections like traffic lights, add stickers you thought might make him smile, sometimes even scribble little crooked cartoons in the margins with cheesy encouragements—seize the day! 

The folder looked rather sad today, just a plain manila folder packed with stapled papers. No colours. No stickers. No effort. Just the essentials. You didn’t let your fingers dawdle when he took it. Didn’t smile like you used to. Just handed it over and kept your gaze somewhere past his shoulder.

Bucky took it slowly, eyes flicking down at the cover like he was trying to spot something that wasn’t there. His brow pinched, barely, but enough for you to notice. His fingers lingered on the edge of the folder, like he thought maybe he’d missed a note tucked inside.

You nodded and turned to leave, forcing yourself to shift your mind to your next chore mentally, restocking med supplies in the Quinjet, cross-checking Clint’s revised travel forms, hunting down the coffee machine Tony had threatened to ‘repurpose as target practice’. You’d have to order a replacement before the morning debrief. Double-check everyone’s dietary preferences. Update Steve on the tech room schedule. Get maintenance to repaint the lines in the training room because someone (probably Thor) had scuffed them again.

You stayed busy. It helped. Kind of.

But the guilt still trailed you like a shadow.

It was probably obvious how abruptly you changed. The way your voice had lost its warmth. The way your gaze dodged his like it might burn you. You wondered if he noticed, if he thought you'd simply grown tired of him. Maybe he had. That was better than the truth that you couldn’t stand to be near him, not when every glance felt like pressing fingers to a bruise you’d caused yourself. 

You had made your choice, professionalism. The kind of cool, curated detachment you admired in Natasha, only it felt all wrong on you, like an ill-fitting coat. You knew it was for the better, not mixing up work and matters of the heart. You’d already let your little crush spiral too far, thinking maybe—just maybe—if you tried hard enough, you’d earn more than a grunt. That he might see you as something more than the charming assistant with her clipboard and her stupid stickers. But he didn’t. And he wouldn’t. And that was fine. It had to be.

You couldn’t afford to fall apart over a man who had no idea he’d broken your heart.

But it was Bucky’s voice, soft and unsure, that startled you from your thoughts. “Hey.”

You paused mid-step and turned, forcing a tight smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes as your fingers curled against the clipboard. “What’s up?”

He shifted his weight, clearly caught off guard by the fact that you stopped walking at all. He was rather devastating to look at when he grew all shy and unsure, fingers fidgeting against the edge of the folder like he didn’t know what to do with them. He didn’t quite meet your eye as his weight shifted nervously, like he hadn’t thought before he called out. 

“Uh. Nothin’. Just—” He raised the folder slightly, an awkward gesture. “You usually give me the rundown. Y’know… what everyone’s doing. Who’s where. Who I’m stuck with.”

You swallowed. Of course, he’d noticed. Of course, he’d grown used to your chatter about meetings and mission rosters, about who was off-world and who was due back, like it was the weather. The casual, effortless way you used to tell him what movie was playing, who cheated at Monopoly the night before, or which team member had stolen the last protein bar. You’d always done it to help, keep him grounded, and make him feel like part of the team, like he belonged. 

But after what you’d seen two weeks ago, you were sure he didn’t need that from you anymore. Natasha would look out for him now. She’d keep him balanced, keep him fed, keep him from slipping through the cracks.

“Nothing interesting’s happening,” you shrugged. “Just the usual.”

He didn’t move. “Well… there’s that dinner. On Friday.”

You gave a curt nod, tone clipped. “Yes.”

“Wanda’s dinner,” he added, as if you hadn’t already acknowledged it.

“Correct.”

He hesitated again, brows drawing together in a faint crease of worry. You could see him floundering, stuck in some internal scramble. It made your chest ache because you knew that look. You’d helped talk him down from that look more times than anyone else in the tower probably realised.

You sighed quietly through your nose, against your better judgment, against every wall you’d tried to build in the past week, you caved. He looked five seconds away from spiralling.

“It’s in there,” you offered gently, nodding toward the folder. “On your schedule.”

“Right. It’s just… for me, you usually…” His voice trailed off, frustration and uncertainty knotting in his brow. “Sorry. You’re probably busy—”

That felt like a punch to the gut. 

You shook your head and, before your pride could stop you, your feet were already moving back toward him. His eyes dropped as you reached into your pocket for a pen, scribbling ‘Wanda’s Dinner – Friday’ on a green sticky note. Green for personal events, always. You hesitated, then added a smiley face underneath. You peeled it off and stuck it neatly onto the folder in Bucky’s hands. 

His eyes dropped to it, finger brushing over the paper like he didn’t quite understand why it mattered so much. “Thanks.”

You just nodded, already stepping back, spine straight, pretending your heart wasn’t hammering in your throat.

“She said…” Bucky cleared his throat, clearly not done with the conversation. “Wanda said she’s going to do curry.”

You paused, unsure what to do with the information. Why was he telling you that? Why was he still talking?

“That’s nice,” you said carefully, not sure what to do with this strange, lingering version of him.

“Are you going?” he asked suddenly, and you frowned.

“I wasn’t invited—” You began, already covering from the invasive thoughts, already working to mask the sting. You didn’t want to imagine them next to each other over curry, leaning close, whispering in the way people did when they thought no one else was watching. It would only make the crack in your chest worse.

“You should go,” Bucky said quickly, cutting across your thoughts. “I’ll tell Wanda you’re coming.”

“That’s not necessary. I’ll be busy that night anyway…” You lied through your teeth, heart thumping hard against your breastbone as Bucky’s face crumpled a bit. You cut in before he could argue any further.  “You’re going to be late. For the gym. It’s nearly six.”

“Right, shit, yeah. Sorry, I just…” He trailed off again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. I’ll… I’ll see you around.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, unsure if you were more confused or stunned by his sudden jitters.

—

Before the whole flowers incident, you made it your unofficial mission to ‘accidentally’ bump into Bucky as many times as humanly possible in a day. Now? It was the opposite. Every hallway was a trap to avoid, every room a potential ambush. Navigating the Tower had turned into something between a tactical stealth op and a personal game of hide-and-seek.

Unfortunately, your strategy for quiet withdrawal hadn’t gone unnoticed.

In fact, Bucky had picked up on your sudden cold shoulder almost immediately. The folder debacle had only been the first of many increasingly awkward run-ins.

There was the time you’d practically sprinted away from the elevator when the doors slid open to reveal him standing inside, a brow raised and coffee in hand. Or when you turned a corner too fast and walked straight into him, muttering a rushed apology before disappearing again like you were being hunted. Then there was the silent, painful breakfast you’d shared at the communal kitchen counter, where you busied yourself with peeling an orange for ten minutes straight while he sat beside you, occasionally glancing over like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to begin.

You’d even pretended to be asleep on the common room couch when he walked in one evening, piles of paperwork scattered, laptop still open, only for him to drape a throw blanket over you before quietly leaving again.

And yet, instead of giving you space like you’d expected and hoped for, he seemed to find any excuse to be around you. He trailed after you like some misplaced puppy whenever he wasn’t buried in a mission or holed up in a meeting.

You’d assumed that the moment you stepped back, he’d naturally gravitate toward spending more time with Natasha. It made sense. Why wouldn’t he want to be around her? They were obviously dating, even if they hadn’t made it official yet. Maybe it was one of those quiet, close things kept just between friends, like Steve and Sam. Who were you to come barreling in and expose their secret entanglement? You expected Bucky to be relieved to no longer be on the receiving end of your babbling, your perfectly-timed coffee deliveries, or the not-so-subtle gifts you littered around. 

But if anything, Bucky seemed determined to figure you out. Like your sudden shift had become his new pet project, and he was personally committed to cracking the case.

You’d taken the back hallway, the long, winding route that steered well clear of the gym on your way to the shared office. High-traffic areas were too risky now—too many chances to run into him. But clearly, Bucky had caught onto your little detours, because as you turned the corner, there he was, headed straight toward you.

You froze for half a second, pulse quickening. Turning around would be too obvious. Suspicious. He’d know exactly what you were doing, and then your carefully-constructed avoidance strategy would unravel entirely. If he suspected anything now, you were one panicked backpedal away from confirming it.

It was a nightmare. And a daydream.

A part of you, some soft, hopelessly romantic piece, ached at the sight of him, at the quiet way he seemed to look for you, worry always etched into his brow like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. But the rational part of your mind, the part that had dragged you into this self-imposed emotional lockdown, screamed that letting him get closer again would only undo all the fragile healing you’d managed to piece together.

So you steeled yourself.

Shoulders squared. Laptop and paperwork clutched like a lifeline. Eyes locked on an imaginary point just past his shoulder. If you kept walking and moved quickly, calmly, maybe he’d let you go. Perhaps he’d pretend not to notice how your pace picked up and your gaze carefully avoided his.

You nearly made it.

But of course, he noticed.

“Hey, wait—”

His voice was hesitant, just enough pressure to pull you to a stop. Your footsteps faded into the hush of the corridor, your spine straightening instinctively as you turned. Bucky stood a few paces behind, one hand lifted halfway between reaching and retreating, like he’d almost grabbed your arm but lost the nerve. 

He looked sheepish. Timid, even. It killed you.

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

He scratched the back of his neck, boots scuffing lightly against the floor. “Did I… forget to grab my coffee this morning? Or… did you not bring it?”

A pause. Too long. You could feel the beat of your pulse behind your sternum as you forced a casual shake of your head.

“No, sorry. That’s on me. Slipped my mind.”

The lie didn’t sit well in your mouth.

It hadn’t slipped your mind, in fact, it was still sitting on the corner of your desk, cooling beside a stack of unfinished paperwork. You’d brewed it, as always. Even used the brown sugar he liked. But then you’d walked away from it, deliberately, like some idiotic breadcrumb trail you hoped he might follow.

God, you were pathetic.

Your stupid fucking brain couldn’t even decide what it wanted anymore. One half of you was charting escape routes through the tower to avoid him, the other was fantasising about him pinning you to the nearest wall. From the way your thighs pressed together now, breath catching as his voice brushed over you, maybe the answer wasn’t distance at all. Perhaps you just wanted to taste him—

He didn’t move. Just stood there, one brow lifted, faint worry creasing the edge of his expression.

“You’re usually down by the gym by nine,” he said, his voice low. “It’s eleven.”

“I’m running a bit behind today.”

“You usually text me if you’re running behind.”

“Well,” you said, shrugging like it didn’t matter, “I didn’t this time.”

He paused, the silence between you laced with something dangerously close to concern. “Is everything alright?”

You forced a small laugh, trying to shake off how his low, worried voice made heat pool in your gut. “Yeah. Why?”

“You seem off.”

There it was. Soft, plain and far too knowing. He said it in that maddeningly sincere way that only he could manage. Like he actually gave a damn. Like this wasn’t unravelling you by the day.

Your shoulders tensed. “Off?”

“Yeah,” he said gently. “Just… I dunno. You’ve been quiet lately.”

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know about the hours you spent spinning in your head like a lunatic, trying to compartmentalise this crush until it shrank into something survivable. About the way you’d stared blankly at Tinder profiles, your phone clutched in your hand, wondering why no one else ever came close, why none of them were him.

Why you couldn’t stop thinking that if you’d just told him—confessed that stupid crush before Natasha did—maybe you wouldn’t be standing here now like some stray mutt, sniffing around for scraps of attention.

Maybe then he’d be yours.

Maybe then you wouldn’t be fantasising about quitting just to put yourself out of your own misery like some lame racehorse.

“I’ve just got a lot on my plate,” you finally mustered, tone strained. “Tony’s soirée. The fittings. Admin crap. Didn’t even have breakfast today.”

His brows furrowed further. “That’s not good.”

“I’ll survive.”

Would you, though?

Would you survive the heat that flared low in your stomach every time he got too close? Would you survive the ache that gnawed behind your ribs every time he glanced over at Natasha like you didn’t exist? Would you survive the constant, desperate craving to be touched by him? To be looked at like she was looked at?

He didn’t speak for a second, and for a moment, you were sure he could smell the reek of desperation on you.

“The oranges in the fridge are gone.”

You blinked. “What?”

“And the tea. The fancy one,” he added. “The one with the dried raspberries in it. You’re the one who always restocks them, aren’t you?”

You looked down, fingers clenching around your folder. “I’ll add it to the list.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, stepping forward a half-inch, enough to make your breath hitch. “I just… I didn’t realise it was you. Doing all of that.”

Of course, he hadn’t because you’d made it invisible. Seamless. That was the kind of care you practised—silent, anticipatory, never asked for, never returned. You had cared for him with a thousand tiny efforts, but he never noticed until you stopped.

You looked up, and the hallway felt suddenly too narrow. His face was open in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. Gentle, confused, like he was trying to work you out and couldn’t quite bear not knowing.

You dropped your gaze. “I said I’ll do it.”

He paused. You could feel him thinking again.

Then, to your disappointment, he slowly nodded. “Okay.”

But he didn’t move. Not right away. He lingered like someone who hadn’t yet decided if leaving was the right call, like he was caught between concern and curiosity. 

“I’ll leave you to it, I guess.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just nodded and turned, walking away quickly before he could see your face fall, before he could catch the naked want in your expression, the way your heart was clawing against your ribs, screaming for you to turn around and ruin everything.

—

If time travel were an option, you'd gladly launch yourself into a wormhole and strangle your past self for being stupid—no, lovesick—enough to organise this little errand. You deserve it, really. A swift kick to the gut from future-you for being this hopeless.

It had all started a month ago, when you, like a fool, volunteered to collect the tailored suits and dresses for some little soirée Tony Stark had decided to throw. Of course, in true Tony fashion, what was pitched as a ‘casual get-together’ had evolved into a full-blown, black-tie spectacle. The first warning sign? Tony footing the bill for everyone to have custom outfits made to their specifications. Translation…this was going to be a thing.

You’d spent weeks wrangling Avengers into fitting appointments, helping them choose fabrics and cuts, managing last-minute alterations and tracking shipments. It was exhausting but under control…until the catch. The aggravating, absurdly attractive, brooding catch currently sitting across from you in the tailor’s waiting room, his knee bounced like it was transmitting a detailed morse code manifesto on every possible way he planned to ruin your day.

The plan had been simple: grab an Uber, pick up the garments, pressed, stitched, and boxed to perfection and head back to the tower. But then you got the call. The one that told you Bucky Barnes had missed his final fitting, and that his suit needed some last-minute adjustments...

Of course he did.

Of all your perfectly laid plans, it only took one missed appointment to bring it all crashing down. Now here you were, stuck waiting beside the man who occupied far too much of your brain lately, silently praying the tailor would finish quickly so you could escape before your sanity, or your dignity, completely unravelled.

“I really am sorry,” Bucky said for what felt like the fiftieth time.

Between the brooding and the nervous leg tapping, he’d spent the last five minutes watching the side of your face with an expression so guilty it was practically carved into him.

“Like I said, it’s fine.” You replied, though it came out a little too tight, a little too forced, like you were speaking through clenched teeth. Which, maybe you were. Not that it mattered. Not when you could smell his cologne from how damn close he was sitting. God, you wanted to lean over and bury your face in his chest and just inhale—

You straightened abruptly, shoulders stiffening as the tailor entered the room, and mentally reacquainted yourself with the concept of boundaries.

It had been an hour—sixty minutes of waiting while Bucky’s suit got its final adjustments. An hour of you trying to distract yourself with work emails and unanswered texts, pretending the man beside you wasn’t single-handedly causing your emotional stability to nosedive. At least when he’d stepped away to get re-measured, you could breathe without risking spontaneous emotional combustion.

This wasn’t like you. You weren’t usually this wound up. Maybe it was the exhaustion, days of juggling your regular duties with Tony’s ever-growing list of soirée demands. Perhaps it was the heartbreak. Or the missed meals. Or the fact that you genuinely had no idea what day it was anymore.

“Would you like to try it on before we package it up for travel?” the tailor asked, her voice gentle. A measuring tape hung loosely around her neck, her pinned bun fraying slightly at the edges.

Bucky looked at you again, eyes flicking toward yours like he needed permission. You swallowed what was left of your pride and gave him a slight, strained nod.

“It’s okay,” you said quietly. “Go on.”

“I’m sorry—again—this is probably eating into your whole afternoon, I know how busy you are—”

“It’s fine. Really. Just go.”

He offered a sheepish smile before disappearing behind the velvet curtain, tugging it closed with a rustle. You pressed your fingers to your temples, let your head drop into your hands, and exhaled through your nose like it might stop your heart from trying to break out of your chest.

Across the counter, the tailor glanced up at you with a sympathetic look as she readied the boxes for the other garments. “Long day?” she asked gently.

You lifted your head, managing a tight smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Only going to get longer.”

You were still nursing the tail end of your sigh when the velvet curtain swished open again.

And then your brain stopped working.

Bucky stepped out in full formal attire, sharp navy suit, tailored within an inch of its life. The cut of it hugged his frame perfectly. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, long legs. A deep navy waistcoat peeked out beneath the jacket, the subtle sheen of the fabric catching the light just enough to look expensive without being flashy. His tie was already perfectly knotted, like he’d done this a hundred times, and the sleeves of his shirt revealed just enough of the polished metal edge of his vibranium arm to make your mouth dry.

He cleared his throat softly, tugging at one cuff. “How’s it look?”

You blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it again.

Words? No. Words were gone. Your vocabulary had packed up and left the building.

Bucky shifted his weight, clearly mistaking your slack-jawed silence for disapproval. “It’s weird, right? The waistcoat maybe doesn’t work, I told her I wasn’t sure about it—”

“No,” you said quickly—too quickly. “No, it’s… It’s perfect. You look… great. Seriously.”

His brows lifted slightly, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place crossing his face. Relief, maybe? 

“Yeah?” he said, glancing down at himself, tugging slightly at the jacket hem. “I feel better about it now. The sleeves fit properly this time. Thanks for waiting.”

The tailor beamed from behind the counter, clearly proud of her work. “Wonderful. I’ll box it up immediately once you’re out of it.”

Bucky nodded, but the tailor turned to you with a friendly smile before he could disappear again.

“And for you, would you like to try your gown on as well before I pack it away?”

You blinked, suddenly snapped out of your holy-shit-Bucky-hot-hot-hot haze. “My what?”

She gestured toward the row of garment bags. “Mr. Stark sent over your measurements earlier this month. There’s a gown here for you.”

You frowned. “That must be a mistake. I’m just the assistant. None of those are for me.”

The tailor hesitated. “I don’t think so… He was very clear. Your name was attached to the order.”

Before you could argue, Bucky cut in smoothly, like he’d seen this train coming and stepped in to redirect it.

“Tony probably just wanted you to look the part, too,” he said, voice low and casual. “You’ve done all the work, he probably figured you deserved to enjoy the night a little. Might as well try it on, just in case.”

You glanced at him, but he didn’t look smug or teasing. Just… earnest. Calm. Like he meant it. Which made it all the harder to protest.

“Fine.” You sighed, scrubbing a hand down your face. “Just to check it fits.”

The tailor clapped her hands together. “Wonderful. It’s a beautiful gown, I promise.”

You gave Bucky one last side-eye before following her toward the changing rooms, the fabric bag already in her hands.

From behind, you could hear him chuckle under his breath.

“Just wait 'til you see her,” the tailor murmured to herself, and you weren’t sure whether to be flattered or deeply, deeply nervous.

The gown was heavier than you expected. Luxurious fabric slipped off the hanger like water, pooling in your arms as she handed it over with the kind of reverence usually reserved for wedding dresses.

“I’ll give you a minute,” she smiled, disappearing to finish boxing up the suits.

Left alone in the changing room, you peeled out of your clothes, letting the gown slide on over your hips, your waist, up past your ribs. It clung like it had been sewn directly onto your body, the bodice snug, the neckline just daring enough to make you blush. 

You twisted to try to reach the zipper at the back, fingers fumbling and straining, but the angle was impossible. You spent the better part of five minutes twisting in the mirror like a lunatic, trying to reach the zipper that refused to budge. Your arms ached. The corset bodice was half-fastened. You were flushed, annoyed, and far too aware of the sliver of bare spine still exposed.

You were about to peek your head out and ask the tailor for help when a low voice cut in behind the curtain.

“Need a hand?”

You flinched, fabric clutched to your chest. “Jesus, Bucky! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice was rougher than usual, like he’d just cleared his throat. “Heard you cursing. Tailor said she’d be a minute out back.”

You hesitated, and your voice came out thin. “Yeah. I—I can’t get it up.”

“Okay,” he replied, oddly determined. “Turn around.”

You cracked the curtain open a pinch. He ducked inside, too broad for the narrow space, his frame practically filling it. He was careful not to look at you directly, at least at first.

You turned slowly, presenting your back. “Just the zipper,” you murmured, barely trusting your own voice.

“Sure,”

A single fingertip, cold metal, dragged up from the base of your spine to the dip between your shoulder blades. It barely touched the skin, but you shuddered from the sensation. Bucky wasn’t even fastening yet, just tracing the line the zipper would follow. The sound you made was too soft to catch. 

The zipper came up slowly. Agonisingly. His knuckles brushed your skin every inch of the way, not by accident. No, this was too slow, too precise, to be innocent.

He was savouring it.

His other hand steadied you, palm ghosting just over your hip. His breath fanned warm against your shoulder.

“You’re trembling,” he commented.

You swallowed hard, unable to muster a response. 

When he reached the top, his hand didn’t fall away. Instead, he swept your hair off your shoulder completely, fingertips grazing the line of your throat as he let it fall over one side.

He leaned in. Not touching, but close. Mouth just behind your ear. The heat of his breath against your neck. 

“Should’ve let me help sooner,” he whispered, voice like a purr. “Would’ve had you dressed in seconds.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your lips parted slightly, breath caught somewhere halfway as your lungs deflated in shock. And maybe it was the gown. Or the silence. Or the way your thighs pressed together of their own accord, but you didn’t move. You didn’t step away.

You leaned in.

Only a fraction. Just enough.

He noticed.

You could feel it in the slight shift of his stance. The faint sound of him exhaling a chuckle through his nose. The way his hand brushed ever-so-slightly along the small of your back before falling away.

And then he was gone.

He stepped back like nothing had happened. Like the tension wasn’t choking the air between you. You turned toward the mirror in a daze.

The dress shimmered in the soft light. Deep, elegant, form-fitting. The neckline exposed the curve of your breasts, the slit at your thigh scandalous enough to make you self-conscious.

You caught his reflection in the mirror. He was watching you, but not with the restrained professionalism you were used to. It was only the sudden reentrance of the tailor that made him hesitate in whatever words were forming on his tongue. He stepped aside, finally giving you space to exit. And you did—legs shaky, palms sweating—like a deer walking straight back into the forest fire, pretending it wasn’t about to burn.

—

Your plan to avoid Bucky after the tailor incident had gone off without a hitch, maybe a little too well. You'd buried yourself in helping Tony pull together the final touches for his ‘soirée’ (which, if you were honest, was less soirée and more ‘black tie circus in a penthouse’).

You'd been so laser-focused on your tasks that you'd almost managed not to think about Bucky in that goddamn changing room. His fingers ghosting up your bare spine like a spark setting fire to dry kindling. You’d folded instantly. Your body betrayed you instantly while your brain screamed to keep it together. Pathetic.

The moral implications of whatever that moment had been were filed away for another day. Were you the other woman? Was Natasha going to slit your throat in your sleep? What was Bucky doing, touching you like that—in a public changing room, no less—when he had a bombshell redhead waiting for him back at the Tower?

No time for that now. Not when Tony’s precious ‘soirée’ was already in full swing upstairs and the caterers had somehow forgotten an entire section of the food. You’d scrambled together an emergency order from some overpriced restaurant Tony swore he was ‘basically family’ with, and by some miracle, they came through in the nick of time.

Now you were in damage control mode, hauling three boxes of overpriced canapés up to the penthouse. Your heels bit into your feet with every step, your dress clung too tightly to bend properly without your tits spilling out, and your patience was hanging on by a single goddamn thread.

You pressed the elevator button with your elbow and exhaled as the doors slid open.

Drop off the food. Grab a free drink. Drown your Bucky-related sorrows. Maybe, just maybe, keep the beast between your legs from waking at the mere sight of him.

The doors began to close. You shifted your weight, careful with the boxes balanced in your arms—

Then someone slipped through at the last second.

Him.

Bucky fucking Barnes.

Tall and devastating as usual in his dark navy suit, his tie loosened just enough to suggest mischief, or maybe carelessness. You weren’t sure which one made you feel worse.

Your breath hitched. Instinctively, your gaze dropped to the floor, feigning sudden, all-consuming interest in the stability of your precarious tower of hors d'oeuvres. But teetering stacks of overpriced finger food or not, Bucky didn’t seem inclined to play along with your avoidance act. Not now. Not when the elevator doors had sealed you in together, finally, and you were without escape.

You winced at the sound of his sharp inhale, the question already pressing past his lips before the elevator even jolted into motion.

“Did I do something to piss you off?”

You didn’t look up. Eyes fixed firmly on the floor, you muttered, “What?”

“I just…” His voice was rough. Tired. “It feels like you’ve been avoiding me.”

Shit.

He stepped forward slightly. Not enough to be invasive. Just enough to make your stomach flip.

“You hardly talk to me anymore,” he continued. “Won’t even look at me unless it’s about work. And even then, it’s like you’re somewhere else. Did I do something to offend you? Hurt you? Just tell me what I did so I can fix it.”

The elevator hummed to life beneath your feet, gliding upward smoothly. You shifted your weight, bracing against the cool metal rail, eyes stubbornly fixed on the buttons, anywhere but his maddeningly perfect face.

“You haven’t done anything,” you said quietly, the words tasting sour the second they left your mouth.

“Then why are you doing it now?” he asked, eyes searching yours. “Why won’t you even look at me?”

“Bucky…”

“Please. Just tell me.”

You hesitated. His hand twitched like he meant to reach for your arm, then faltered, falling back to his side. Your grip tightened on the containers, your fingers slick with sweat. “It’s not you,” you murmured. “It’s me… I just…”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“Please,” he said again, quieter now. “Tell me the truth.”

And that was what did it. The tremor in his voice. The way his brow creased like he couldn’t stand not knowing. Something broke open inside your chest, raw and unhealed. The dam cracked, split, then gave way completely, and the truth came spilling out before you had the chance to swallow it back down. You were exhausted. Wound tight. Running on fumes and nerves and far too many feelings. You’d tell him, you decided. Then drop off the canapés, quit on the spot, and flee the country if necessary. Stark would write you a killer reference. You’d survive.

“Okay,” you said, breath hitching as a nervous laugh bubbled out, half-bitter, half-resigned. “You want the truth? Fine. You’re going to think I’ve completely lost it.”

He stayed quiet, letting you spiral.

“This is so stupid,” you muttered. “I like you, Bucky. There. I said it. I like you. And it was fine—manageable—until it wasn’t. Until I started imagining things. Thinking maybe… maybe you liked me too.”

His eyebrows lifted, surprised but unreadable.

“I’ve had this massive, embarrassing crush on you since the moment I met you. And I know it’s weird, and probably unprofessional because you’re kinda my boss, but not. Technically, Tony’s my boss, but I basically manage everything around here, and—ugh, I’m rambling.” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I like you. And I’ve been avoiding you because it was getting out of hand. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And it felt wrong. Especially since you’re dating Natasha, which just made everything worse—”

“What?” he interrupted, voice sharp. “I’m not dating Natasha.”

Your eyes snapped open. “That’s what you took from all of that?”

“No, I—wait. You think I’m dating Natasha?”

“Yes!” you burst out, cheeks flaming. “I saw you! At the Sunday market about a month ago with the flowers—”

His brow furrowed. “What flowers?”

“The bouquet you gave her.”

“I didn’t give Natasha flowers.”

You let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. “I saw you. It was that dumb little market Tony makes me go to for those overpriced vegan pastries Pepper loves—”

Bucky stared at you, confused. And then, slowly, understanding clicked into place. His face contorted like he’d just remembered he’d left his stove on.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “The flowers. Those weren’t for Natasha. They were for Wanda.”

Your heart stuttered. “What?”

“Vision,” Bucky groaned. “It was their anniversary. He was stuck on the phone trying to get a fancy reservation and begged me to pick them up. Natasha tagged along because she was hunting for jewellery for Maria’s birthday. That’s all it was.”

You blinked at him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Bucky replied earnestly. “I didn’t know you thought that. I swear, I’m not with Natasha. I never was.”

Your stomach dropped. “Oh god.”

“Hey—”

“No. No-no-no.” You squeezed your eyes shut, wanting to sink straight through the floor. “This is mortifying. I literally thought you were in a secret relationship. I’ve been avoiding you like the plague. I’ve been thinking about moving cities. I googled how hard it is to change your name legally.”

He snorted. “You’re not serious.”

You opened your eyes, and the horror must have been plain on your face because Bucky’s expression melted into something far too amused. “Oh, you are.”

“I might never recover from this,” you mumbled. 

“Hey, c’mon. It’s not that bad.”

“I confessed my undying crush and accused you of being in love with someone else in the span of like, sixty seconds.”

His mouth twitched, lips threatening a smile. “You’re kind of adorable when you’re spiralling.”

“I’m going to chuck these hors d'oeuvres at your head.”

As if mocking your attempt at dignity, the elevator gave a slight mechanical whirr, nearly at the top floor. The distant hum of the party pulsed just beyond those sleek doors.

You straightened suddenly, panic creeping into your chest. “Okay, I’m going to deliver these and then I’m leaving. Possibly forever. Please never speak to me again.”

But Bucky, ever faster than you, stepped in.

And before you could react, he pressed the emergency stop button.

The elevator jolted to a halt. The tower of overpriced hors d'oeuvres wobbled dangerously in your arms. “Oh my god,” you gasped, teetering.

Bucky was already moving, steady hands catching the top box before it could topple, plucking the rest from your shaking grasp. He crouched to stack them on the floor carefully, then rose slowly, smirking as you stood frozen, mouth agape in pure horrified disbelief.

“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”

“No more running,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

You could barely breathe. “You stopped the elevator?”

“Didn’t want to risk the doors opening and you disappearing into the night,” he said, a little too pleased with himself.

“I hate you,” you whispered, eyes wide.

He leaned in, just close enough for you to feel his breath. “No, you don’t.”

You were going to die right here in a metal box. With your dignity in ruins and the man of your dumb, desperate daydreams giving you that look.

And somehow, somehow, you didn’t even want to stop him.

“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer. “Don’t shut down. Please.”

You glanced up at him, finally meeting his eyes and immediately wished you hadn’t. They were dark. Hungry. That gaze alone could melt you to the floor.

He stepped closer again. And again. Until his frame caged in you, his arms braced on either side of your head, the heat of his body swallowing you whole.

“I like you too,” he said, low, rough, like it was pulled from deep inside. “Christ, I was so blind. I didn’t see it. It didn’t click until that day at the tailor, until I saw you in this damn dress.”

Your breath hitched.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured. “I’ve been looking for excuses just to be near you. I keep the notes you leave me with the stupid little drawings. I like looking at them. Thinking about you.”

Your heart felt like it might crack your ribs.

“I smelled every shampoo at the store one day,” he confessed, almost sheepish, almost proud. “Hoped I’d find the one you use. Because you smell so fucking good. It’s been driving me crazy.”

“Bucky…”

“I don’t know. You make me feel special. Seen. Like I’m not some monster, like I’m normal. And then one day you were just… gone. I didn’t realise all the little things you did for me that I never noticed.” He groaned, somehow pressing closer. “I missed the sound of your voice… and it made it hurt even more… I lie awake at night, every night, thinking about you and how much I want to kiss you—”

“Bucky.” You interrupted, and he looked back at you with a barely contained hunger. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

And then his mouth was on yours.

Hot. Messy. Desperate.

You gasped into it, and he swallowed it whole, groaning as he pressed harder, deeper, hands sliding down to your thighs as he grabbed one and hitched it up around his waist. You clung to his shoulders, lips parted as he slotted himself between your legs, guiding you up until your ass was perched on the elevator’s handrail bar.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “Tell me that you want this, tell me that you want me.”

Your head fell back against the wall, lips swollen, breath shaking. His mouth travelled to your jaw, your throat, hands digging into your hips.

It was dizzying. Chaotic. Perfect. 

“I want you, Bucky.” You panted.

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered again, but this time it was different, lower. Hungrier.

His hand slid along your thigh, fingertips brushing beneath the hem of your dress. You panted as he kissed across your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. His hands settled on your knees, then slowly, deliberately, he spread them apart.

“Bucky—” your voice was barely more than a whisper, a tremble of anticipation and disbelief.

But he didn’t answer. He dropped to his knees.

Right there. In the goddamn elevator.

You almost came on the spot at the sight, lips swollen and slick with saliva, pupils blown, the slight smudge of your lipstick on his chin. His hands slid up the back of your calves, kneading into the flesh like he was savouring the shape of you. Your dress inched upwards, his mouth suddenly pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.

Your breath hitched. Your hands shot to the railing behind you, clutching tight.

“You have no idea,” he said, voice wrecked with want, “how long I’ve thought about this.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, dark with something dangerous. Devotion, desire, something molten and drowning. Then his mouth moved higher.

Another kiss. Inner thigh this time. Then another, and another, slow, lingering, like he was memorising you. He disappeared until the fabric of your skirt, only the back of his head, dark locks messy peaking out from between the slit. 

You moaned, soft and involuntary, your hips twitching at the heat of his breath through the thin fabric of your panties. He nuzzled in close, his nose brushing against you, and his hands pressed firmly to your thighs to keep you spread.

“I’ve thought about how you’d taste,” he muttered, lips grazing the soaked lace. “How you’d sound.”

You whimpered.

And then, he peeled your panties to the side.

The groan that tore from him was obscene.

“Jesus,” he hissed, voice muffled. “You’re fucking perfect.”

And then, his mouth was on you.

Hot. Wet. Relentless. You cried out, one hand flying to his hair, tangling in it as his tongue licked into you with precision, with hunger, with something close to worship. He devoured you like he was starving. Slow circles, then quick flicks, his mouth dragging across your clit with maddening rhythm. You writhed against the rail, your leg still wrapped around his shoulder, the other trembling against the elevator wall.

“Oh my god—Bucky—fuck—”

Your words slurred together, breath coming in ragged gasps as he groaned into you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. One of his arms snaked around your thigh, pinning you in place, as if he thought you might try to escape. As if he’d let you.

His tongue slid down, dipping into you, then back up, his mouth latching onto your clit with a filthy, wet sound that made your spine arch. You were unravelling, fast, dizzy, overwhelmed.

He pulled back just enough to pant. “I could stay here all night.”

His mouth was merciless. His grip was unrelenting on your thighs, mouth working you over like a man possessed—

Bzzzzt.

A shrill, sudden buzz sounded from the elevator’s emergency panel, followed by a crackling voice.

“Hello? This is Tower Maintenance. We’re registering an emergency stop on lift three. Is there an issue?”

You froze. Every muscle in your body went rigid, as if someone had cracked open your spine and poured ice water down it. Dread spread like frost through your veins. Your heart thudded painfully in your throat, threatening to climb up and out entirely.

You could barely breathe. Could barely think.

This was it. This was how you died—legs spread, Bucky between them, and Tower Maintenance on the fucking line.

Bucky, in sharp contrast, did not freeze.

He groaned softly with wicked glee, his mouth still very much between your legs. The sound vibrated against the most sinful part of you, and then he doubled down. Mouth and hands working with infuriating, diabolical precision, like he’d just taken the intercom as a challenge.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, the other shaking as you reached blindly for the emergency call button, trying not to sound like you were seconds away from being ruined.

Your voice came out like a panicked squeak. “Hi! Uh—h-hi, yes, sorry! Must’ve been a—a small electrical fault. I’m fine! Everything’s… fine!”

Bucky nipped at your thigh in response.

There was a pause. You could feel the suspicion through the line.

“Ma’am, we’re not showing any electrical inconsistencies in that shaft. Did you press the stop button?”

You shot a wide-eyed glare down at the man currently devouring you.

Another wave of pleasure threatened to knock the air from your lungs. You were barely holding it together, every nerve ending aflame, skin flushed, thighs shaking. The cool metal of the elevator wall against your spine did little to ground you.

You cleared your throat, struggling to piece together something—anything—resembling human speech. “Oh. Oh, that—um, I must’ve bumped it. With my elbow. While holding a tray. It’s, uh—crowded. In here.”

Bucky chose that exact moment to suck hard, and you slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle the helpless sound that nearly escaped.

A longer pause. You could practically hear them frowning.

“…Right. Well, we’re releasing the stop now. Please remain calm.”

The line disconnected.

The elevator jolted slightly as it roared back to life.

Bucky gave a dark chuckle. “Crowded, huh?” Then—with zero mercy—he sped up.

“Bucky,” you gasped, head falling back against the wall, “I’m���I’m gonna—”

You shattered.

It hit hard, hot and blinding. You cried out, thighs clamping tight around his head as he groaned against you, mouth not stopping for a second, drawing it out, milking every twitch, every whimper. You barely had time to breathe, let alone moan, your hands flying to steady yourself just as the elevator dinged cheerily and the doors slid open.

Right into the penthouse. Packed full of people, who by some miracle, were utterly oblivious to your predicament. 

You staggered slightly as Bucky stood smoothly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, one arm slipping around your waist to steady you while the other casually reached down and grabbed the stack of forgotten canapés off the floor like he hadn’t just—

“Evening,” he greeted a passing staff member, utterly unbothered.

You were glowing crimson, pupils blown, lips parted, trying hard to fix your face. Bucky guided you forward, his hand warm on your back, keeping you between him and the crowd as your legs trembled. You barely managed to set the tray on the nearest table before someone whistled.

“Well, damn,” came Sam’s voice from the drinks bar. He gave you both a once-over, a wicked grin spreading. “Buck, next time you’re gonna eat face in the elevator, maybe wipe the lipstick off your chin first.”

Bucky only smirked and licked his bottom lip slow, on purpose, you were sure of it.

You nearly combusted on the spot.

“Bathroom?” he murmured into your ear, low and gravelly.

You nodded quickly and wordlessly.

He guided you with all the smugness of a man who had no regrets, his hand just a little too low on your back to be innocent.

---

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[headspace-hotel]

i spent like 5 hours deep diving into the blog of some guy who self identifies as a "rationalist" and looking at the array of opinions/ideas being expressed on the blog and in the comments

made me think about how "the left" is actually really, really homogeneous in terms of beliefs that are acceptable to express and discuss, whereas with "centrist" and "the right" you see written out the internal variety and incoherence that I think characterizes most peoples beliefs and ideas

i forgot the name of the blog, i'll find it again later. basically the guy self identifies as "anti-woke" at the same time as being progressive on some aspects of society, "centrist" on others, and...definitely not fascist but kind of "reddit evo-psych" on a few, pursuing a general open-minded approach to things.

it definitely made a few things click for me in terms of right wing stereotypes of "leftists" and concern with "cancel culture." At one point he discusses his experience being ""cancelled"" for a comment that got misunderstood, and from the description, the harassment, threats of harm and isolation that ensued were genuinely traumatic.

It honestly reminded me of my experiences on Tumblr, where since I was 18 I've been writing posts about whatever I happen to be learning or thinking about at the time--- some of which were ignorant or poorly worded or offensive--- and getting hate for it.

Before I turned off asks completely and sort of walled myself off from engaging in discussions with people, I got messages constantly telling me to kill myself, or that the world would be a better place if I was dead, or that [speaker] hoped I would die, or that I was virtually every kind of bigot you could imagine, and at least some number of political bloggers on here nursed enough of a long-term hatred of me that I actively came to mind as someone they despised.

This was in fact distressing, especially the fact that I could never predict what kind of post would elicit this reaction and nothing I did would make it stop.

It's easy to dismiss this as just, like, the typical online experience, and I dismissed it myself like "yeah yeah who hasn't gotten a bunch of suicide bait for making a poorly worded joke"...but it really shouldn't be. It occurs to me now that normalizing receiving harassment also normalizes participating in it. And if my real life face and name were attached to this account, that kind of harassment would be fucking terrifying.

It also occurs to me that "the right" despite having an incomprehensible array of beliefs on non-essentials, are not constantly acting like they want to kill each other with hammers.

Jack Posobiec's Unhumans, despite being a work of fascist garbage, had a gleam of genuine insight in it: when suggesting strategies for countering the "left," it mostly recommended not directly engaging and instead waiting for the left to rip itself apart internally. It seems like multiple right-wing writers and bloggers have suggested walking back the criticisms of "cancel culture" simply because leftists harm other leftists much more with "cancel culture" than they do their actual political enemies.

I'm thoughtful about it...

[bluejelly8]

I first tried to come out as asexual when I was 13. At 13 I knew that I had no interest in sex the way a lot of my peers seemed to be at that age. I believed, at the time, that I was pan-romantic and I felt really good about those labels. They felt right. My parents' immediate response was laughter. "What? Are you a plant?" Was the first and only thing she said on the topic of my sexuality. Ever since, she has boasted being supportive and not caring about other people's sexuality whilst ridiculing her own daughter's to her face.

When I was in 14, my color guard group was going around the circle, introducing ourselves and a few girls shared their pronouns/sexuality. I felt safe. I felt welcome. I told them I identified as panromantic asexual. The looks they gave me. The abject horror on their faces. I explained what that meant, that i was romantically attracted to all genders, but sexually attracted to none. Their faces didn't change. We moved on.

When I was 16 I started telling friends I was bisexual. Not because I strongly felt like I was, but because it was more palatable, more understandable than asexuality of any kind. I avoided queer spaces. I still do. I own 1 enamel pin of the aroace flag disguised enough to be passed off as something inoculous. I own a jellyfish plushie in the asexual flag colors, a gift from an old friend.

When I was 19/20 my best friend introduced me to the idea of aromanticism. Away from my hometown, with the help and support of one incredible friend, I began to reidentify as asexual. Because I was never bisexual. With the support of that same friend, I was introduced to the concept of aromanticism, and something just clicked. It was an option I had never considered before. And it made sense, it explained so much. Not everything, but a lot. Im 22, almost 23 now, and I'm still figuring out where I stand on sex and that's okay!!

I became sort of friends with a new coworker when I was 21. We broached the topic of queerness to me, and I felt comfortable enough to share my sexuality with him. It's not something I am shy about discussing with people, close friends, or not(more often than not, it saves me the hassle of being asked out). He asked me if I was just 'intellectualizing my feelings towards other people'. I told him I no, and I never discussed my sexuality with him again.

Within this last year, another coworker asked me out. I apologized(a mistake) and explained that I was aroace(in laymans terms) and that I thought he was a great guy, but I just don't work like that. We barely spoke for a year. It was awkward, but he was my friends older brother, and I thought we could be friends. He took the rejection well and never brought it up again. As soon as I felt comfortable enough around him to talk to him outside of work, he slapped me in the face with bigotry. Chappel Roan was playing on the speaker and my friend(his sister, a proud lesbian), and I intended to keep that going while we worked, and he complained about her music. That's fine, its not for everyone, but he kept whining about it. So, I asked him what was wrong with it. What about it did he not like? I was curious. He said "Well, I'm not a lesbian, so I dont get it."

I replied with "Okay...? I'm not either."

And he looked at me. He looked me dead in the face with suspicion. As though he didn't believe me when I said that. I reiterated that I was not and am not a lesbian.

"But you would be. If you weren't what you are, you would be."

He walked away before I could proccess what the fuck that meant. I was an anxious mess for the rest of my shift. I called my friend in tears on my way home. I panicked about working with him the next week(at the time we were the only 2 people working in the basement of where I work), I didn't feel safe around him anymore. I had to go to my boss and explain the situation in full because(after his sister grilled him on how fucked up of a thing that was to say to someone is and how she warned him that something like this would happen) all he had said was 'I understand if Jelly doesnt want to work with me anymore and I have to move upstairs'.

The conversation went well, but I was a shaking, sobbing mess, and I could barely string together two sentences. I had written down everything I wanted to say for my boss to read in case I physically couldn't explain it. And my boss was great about it. I didn't work with him for a year and I am never scheduled alone with him. We barely speak beyond work related topics.

The point of all this rambling and explanation is that aphobia and every type of bigotry occurs in big and small ways every day. It happens from within and without the queer community in equal measure. Asexuality might be invisible to a lot of people, but so is aphobia. Just because you don't see it doesn't mean it's not happening. Just because we 'arent hurting anyone' doesn't mean people aren't hurting us. Sorry if this is an unwelcome addition, OP.

tbh I really dislike how aphobia tends to be discussed whenever there's some kind of incident that makes it visible to general society. The most common response seems to be some variation of "why would anyone hate asexual/aromantic people, they aren't even doing anything" and it just always sits wrong with me. It paints such a passive picture of our existence and feels like a comment influenced by the level of invisibility that aspec people have in society. Why would you be annoyed by someone who is practically invisible? Just go back to ignoring their existence, it's easy!

But despite the invisibility, aspec people are actually doing quite a lot of things that will piss off queerphobic, right-wing and religious people (and hell, even left-wing people). And the most obvious point is that we are actively not performing heterosexuality the way they want us to. People who's entire world view is "cis men and women should be in monogamous, heterosexual marriage and have (white) babies" are not going to lean back and say "oh but those asexuals and aromantics are fine". They will also hate our guts, and they will come up with all sorts of reasons, including insinuating we're all secretly into bestiality, or mentally ill, or not human, or attention seeking children. It's just plain old queerphobia, and like all queerphobia, there's no inherent logic to it which you can worm your way out of by "not doing anything".

And like, there's a lot more that aspec people do which people hate. Raising awareness about amatonormativity? People feel attacked, they hate it. Asexual people having sex? Or not having sex? People hate it! Aromantic people being in (seemingly) romantic relationships? People fucking hate it! Aromantic people having sex? Ohh people hate that!!

I guess the existence of aphobia can be confusing when you haven't spent much time thinking about asexuality and aromanticism, but in the end, these are identities that aren't heteronormative and they will be hit with the same or similar bigotry as any other queer identity. I just get tired of this response after seeing it recycled for 10 years without ever seeming to go any further.

[helen-with-an-a]

Nerves pt 2

Hiiii, so here is pt 2 of Nerves that came out last week.

Part 1 : Part 2

Ingrid Engen x Reader

Description: It's R's first time

Word Count: 5.7k

TW: Smut, 18+, cunnilingus (R receiving)

Ingrid felt like she was going to have a heart attack. Well, that may be a slight exaggeration, but she definitely felt her heart hammering away against her chest, threatening to burst. She had never done this before. You had come to her a few weeks ago, all innocent eyes and soft smiles and whispered in the most adorable way that you were ready to go further. To go further than just a steamy make out session on the sofa. Why was she so terrified? She had had sex. Lots of sex. She was good at sex. But something about being your first. She told you she didn’t care about it being your first time, and that was true, she honestly didn’t. But it was just the fact it was you. She might have had sex before, but she had never had sex with you. And she was terrified.

She was glad you both still had your separate flats. No matter how much she loved waking up with you resting on her chest, or seeing you wearing one of her shirts as you cooked up a storm, or driving to training with you, one hand perched on your thigh, she was glad that she was able to kiss you goodbye so you could both get ready for your date in private.

Ingrid felt more nervous than your actual first date. She had spent over an hour in the bathroom, shaving, waxing, plucking every unwanted hair. She had used not one, not two, but three different body washes, two hair masks and a body scrub. She had busted out her old blow dryer and spent far too long with her head flipped and her arms hurting as she waited for the mass of dark hair to be dry. Ingrid had agonised over her outfit, stressed over the neatness of the flat and fussed over her makeup.

Little did she know that you were just as nervous. What did you wear? Should you shave? What about lotion? Did you pack an overnight back? Would she be expecting some fancy lingerie? Would she be wearing some fancy lingerie? How would it work? You were only going to hers, not some fancy restaurant or anything. Both of you, in her flat, having a meal … and then … other things.

God, you couldn’t even say it. Sex, it was only sex. People have sex all the time. But you weren’t people. You were you. And Ingrid was Ingrid. And you were going to be having sex. Together. You were going to have sex with Ingrid. You blushed at the thought.

You had seen her in a bikini before. Her long legs and pale skin, water trickling down her chest as she climbed back on board … you swallowed at the memory.

Before you knew it, it was 7 pm and you were walking up the stairs to her flat. You had done this walk countless of times, even before you started dating. 10 steps from the parking space, 13 across the welcome area, 27 steps up the stairs, 14 down the corridor. It was all familiar, all a part of your routine. Butterflies stirred in your tummy.

“Hei, kjære.” Ingrid’s voice was smooth as honey. You looked up, staring straight at the beautiful green of her eyes.

“H-hi,” you whispered, a blush rising to your cheeks.

Settling into the sofa felt normal. And it felt odd, that it was normal. Everyone had made this big thing about losing your virginity. Yes, alright, you were really nervous about it, but more so because it was the first time anyone would see you in that way. You had no doubt that Ingrid would be soft and sweet. That she would guide you and do exactly what you wanted. That she would …

“I was thinking we order food?” Ingrid smiled, relaxing next to you.

“S-sounds good.” You hated that your voice was so quiet. God, this was just a date. A totally normal date. You had had dates before. Had dates that never led to sex. This was your girlfriend for fuck’s sake.

“So what-”

“What are you want-” You both said at the same time, breaking off into giggles.

“What do you want to order?” You asked, leaning into her side.

“Sushi?”

“No,” you whined. “We had that like, two days ago.” Ingrid smiled at you, a love-sick expression on her face.

“Ok, Thai?” She suggested, knowing that the Thai place down the road was your go-to place, claiming that it refused to do deliveries for your flat so you just had to come to hers to eat it.

“Ooh, yeah. Can we get the spring rolls too, and the curry. And what was that thing Olga said we had to get? The skewer things?”

10 minutes later and the order had been placed, the idea of a quiet night with Thai food and Ingrid sounded fantastic. “Sorry, kjære. They said it’ll be like two hours before it gets here.” Ingrid winced, slumping back against the sofa.

“That’s ok. We’ve got a movie. And it’s not like I don’t wanna talk to you.” You teased, staring up at her.

“Oh, really? I’m important enough to talk to, am I?” She smirked down at you, her eyes flicking between your and your lips.

“Uh huh. Incredibly important.” You kept up the teasing tone, but the words could not have been more true. She sighed happily, pushing you down to lie back against the arm as she settled on your chest.

You stayed like that for maybe twenty minutes. Twenty long agonising minutes where you kept flitting your eyes down to look at her. She looked comfortable, cozy even, yet perfectly dressed all at the same time. Soft trousers made from some stretchy fabric that just exuded quiet elegance and a plain top that screamed sophistication. God, why was she with you? Out of everyone on the planet, she had chosen you?  You knew you weren’t ugly, not by any means. You were a professional footballer on the top of your game. You knew you looked good, but it was more the undertones that Ingrid gave that set you worlds apart. She was elegant and gentle and wonderful and had this confidence about her that, even when lying here, curled up on your chest, gave her a glow the radiated from within. You had none of that. You were just an anxious girl. Shy, awkward, timid girl who had somehow managed to catch the attention of the most perfect person in the world.

You felt Ingrid’s lips move against your neck, placing a few careful kisses, testing the waters. “Stop,” Ingrid whined gently.

“Huh?” You struggled to look down at her, torn between your inner monologue berating you and the feel of her lips against your skin.

“I can hear your brain working overtime from here, stop it.” She pulled back to stare into your eyes.

“I-I didn’t mean,” you stammered, a blush rising to your cheeks.

“Hey, it’s ok. I know you, your mind is running a thousand miles an hour, you’re overthinking everything. And that’s ok. We don’t have to do anything. Not tonight, not ever if you don’t want to. It’s just me and you.” She pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“I’m just nervous,” you breathed.

“So am I.” The confession was a hushed whisper, so quiet you barely heard it.

“Y-you’re? You’re nervous?” You blinked, what could she possibly be nervous about?

“Of course, I am. We might have sex tonight.” She rolled her eyes.

“But you’ve had sex before.” You looked at her, confused.

“Yeh, but I’ve never had sex with you. It’s new for both of us. This is our first time. I know what I like, but I don’t know what you do. I don’t know if I’ll live up to your expectations, y’know.” Ingrid looked down shyly. Your heart swelled, a small smile dancing on your lips.

“Oh,” you paused. “Well, I know I like kissing you,” you stated matter-of-factly. She let out a melodical laugh. “What?” You couldn’t help but join in.

“I like kissing you too.” She said, emphasising her point by planting a swift peck on your lips.

“Why don’t we start there?” You suggested, eyes wide.

“That sounds like a fantastic place to start,” she whispered, leaning in and giving you a slow kiss. The first touch of her lips against yours was everything – so soft they felt like silk. Her lips moved against yours with an aching tenderness, igniting a charge that left you dizzy. Her teeth grazed your lower lip, sending a thrill through you, and you leaned in closer, unable to hold yourself back. You could feel her smile against your mouth, the way her body pressed against yours.

You weren’t quite sure how long you made out on the sofa … long enough to feel like teenagers, making out on their parents couch when they finally had the place to themselves. “Do you want to go to the bedroom?” Ingrid whispered against your lips, breathing shallow.

“Can we stay here?” You asked, confused as to why the couch wasn’t a perfectly good space.

“I mean, we can. It’s just more space on the bed. We can spread out a bit, and there’s not a giant window.” She jerked her head back towards the large window where the light from the street below was streaming into the living room.

“Oh, yeah.” You blushed, feeling embarrassed.

“But, I am totally down for a quickie on the couch, whenever you want it. Or in the kitchen, or the bathroom, or the shower, or the changing rooms, or the cupboard next to the medical room that no one uses.” You let out a laugh, arching into her at the thought of all the places she wanted to have sex.

“Let’s just conquer the bedroom first?” You suggested, smiling up at her.

Ingrid paused, her eyes blinking slowly as she looked down at you. “You are so beautiful, especially when you laugh.” You felt your cheeks warm.

Ingrid’s bed was wide and welcoming, her soft scent enveloping you as you settled against the pillows. She kissed you softly again, her lips like velvet as they moved against yours. You felt her hands move up your body, her nails scratching against your stomach. “Is … is this ok?” she asked timidly.

“More than,” you breathed, arching as her hand reached your bra. She squeezed gently, smiling into another kiss.

Kissing Ingrid was magical, when her lips were against yours, the voices in your head quietened, leaving only happiness running through your veins. You let your hand tangle in her hair. She moaned gently as you tugged at her roots, your legs looping around her waist. With a soft sigh, you shifted your hips against hers, testing the waters, moving in a way that felt natural, instinctive. The movement brought a warmth to your cheeks and made your breath hitch, and from the soft gasp that left Ingrid’s lips, you could tell she felt it too.

“Please, Ingrid,” you whined, the words slipping out in a soft, desperate tone when it became clear she wasn’t letting you set the pace. She was holding back, making you ask, making you wait – and it was driving you crazy.

“Please, what, kjære?” she teased, her lips brushing close enough that you could feel her warm breath against your skin, her hand squeezing your breast again.

“Please,” you whimpered again. You captured her lips again in a kiss, soft and insistent, hoping it would convey the plea that words couldn’t seem to express.

“Please, what?” Her voice was maddeningly patient, eyes warm and soft as they met yours, but there was a glint in her gaze – a playful edge that hinted at just how much she was enjoying this, watching you unravel.

“Ingrid, baby,” you murmured, your voice trembling, nearly breathless, “I’m begging you here…”

She arched a brow, her lips quirking up in a teasing smirk. “Kjære, if this is you begging,” she said, her voice a low purr, “we’ll have to work on that.” The flush that crept over your cheeks only seemed to amuse her further.

“Please…” you whimpered again, voice barely a whisper. You could see the exact moment her resolve softened, her eyes gentle as she took in your expression.

With a sigh, she rolled her eyes affectionately and cupped your face in her hands, her thumb tracing soft circles over your cheek.

“Say the words, kjæreste,” she murmured. “Say it, and it’s yours.”

“Ingrid…” Your heart was racing, a frantic drumbeat against your ribs, your breath catching as you tried to form the words. “I want you … I need you. Please, make me yours.” You shocked yourself. You had never imagined that you would be able to say anything in the bedroom, let alone something so … well it wasn’t exactly dirty talk but it was definitely more than you were expecting.

“Good girl,” Ingrid smirked, kissing you again. Warmth flooded your body, you hips lifting against hers.

“How do we… how do we do this?” you asked, he nerves creeping back in despite how much you wanted this.

“Well … have … have you ever touched yourself?” Ingrid questioned, her voice gently. You swallowed, feeling warmth rise in your cheeks as you nodded.

“I’m not that much of a prude,” you replied, trying to hide the flush with a little humour, though it came out more vulnerable than you’d intended.

She chuckled softly, her fingers tracing a soothing pattern along your ribs. “I didn’t mean it like that, kjære,” she murmured, her tone gentle. “I meant… do you know what you like? Or what you don’t like?” Her lips brushed the shell of your ear, sending another thrill down your spine, and you felt your fingers unconsciously fidget with the fabric of her top, holding onto it like a lifeline.

“Oh.” You felt your blush deepen as you realised what she was asking. “Yes,” you whispered, finding her gaze with an honesty that felt liberating.

“And what do you like?” she asked, her voice low and velvety

Your voice faltered for a moment, but you pushed past the nerves. “I… I have a vibrator,” you admitted, words a shy murmur. “I like that.”

She hummed in approval, her hand continuing its gentle exploration across your body

“What about… inside?” she asked, her question as natural as if you were talking about a favourite movie.

You bit your lip, giving a small shake of your head. “I’ve tried… but I couldn’t get the angle right. It felt… weird.” You watched her nod and felt her press a kiss to your cheek.

“W-what about you?” you managed, your eyes tracing the curve of her cheek, her jaw, marvelling at how beautiful she was from so close.

“Don’t worry about me, kjære,” she replied softly, her gaze tender. “Tonight is all about you.” She leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that made your heart stutter.

As the kiss broke, you couldn’t help but murmur, “I still want to know…”

A smile tugged at the corner of her lips “Well, I definitely prefer being on top… or at least in charge.” A smirk danced across her face, her eyes flickering with heat as she held your gaze. “And I’ve definitely pictured you beneath me,” she added, leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek, her lips lingering as another blush rose on your skin. “But for me, I like more attention on my clit… penetration alone doesn’t really do it.” Her words were so matter of fact, yet her eyes softened as she watched you take them in.

“But,” she murmured, her voice gentle again, “we can explore that another night.” Her thumb brushed your cheek as she spoke, her expression filled with a love that took your breath away. “Tonight, I want you… in every way you’ll let me.” The heat in her voice sent a rush through you, your breath catching, and you felt yourself grow wetter, the ache of wanting her growing with every word, every touch.

“O-okay.”

“Good girl,” Ingrid smirked, pressing a kiss to your cheek. Your hips bucked involuntarily.

“If … if it’s alright with you.” She took another steadying breath. “Ireallywanttotasteyou … please.” You blinked, her words coming out so fast you missed it.

“Huh?” You laughed at yourself, the bluntness of your confusion breaking through the heated moment. Your laughter mixed with Ingrid’s, her head flopping down against your shoulder as she buried her head in embarrassment.

“Ask me again? I missed it. Slowly, this time,” you smiled, hand brushing her hair out of her face. She blushed heavily, but her eyes remained light and smiling.

“I really want to taste you.” She whispered.

“Louder,” you cocked your ear towards her.

“You are mean, kjære.” Ingrid raised her eyebrows. “I’ll get you back for this.” She teased, leaning down and pressing a kiss to your lips.

“Not … not tonight, though, right?” You double checked. You quite liked the idea of Ingrid maybe punishing you for something … but that was a bridge to be crossed at a later date.

“No, baby. Not tonight.” She reassured you. “Tonight, I want to taste you, if that’s ok with you, of course.”

“Good,” she said, her tone low and sultry, and she wasted no time. Her lips pressed a trail of soft kisses along your body, each touch igniting a fire within you. The world around you faded away, and all you could focus on was her – her warmth as she moved along your body, her touch as she shed both your and her clothes. As she moved, her hands slid along your sides, caressing your skin, memorising every inch of you. Your heart raced, every nerve ending alive with need.

It was an odd sensation, the way Ingrid's tongue moved against you was electric. The warmth of her mouth was more intense than you had anticipated, the way her fingers gripped at your hips added something you never knew was missing.

Your breath hitched a little as she circled your clit, her movements both teasing and deliberate, as if she were savouring every moment. “Down,” you gasped, your hands twisting in the sheets beneath you, gripping them tightly as a wave of pleasure coursed through you.

Ingrid listened intently, her tongue inching down just a fraction, perfectly attuned to your body and your needs. “To the left – there,” you directed, your voice breathless and trembling with anticipation. And then, as her tongue finally ran over your clit, a gasp escaped your lips, the sensation sending shockwaves of pleasure rippling through you. It was as if she had found the key to a door you never knew existed, unlocking a flood of sensations that had your body arching toward her, craving more. The way her tongue moved, skilled and confident, sent you spiralling closer to the stars.

Ingrid’s mouth was warm and inviting, her rhythm steady as she explored, each flick of her tongue sending you higher and higher. You could feel the tension building within you, coiling tighter, threatening to break free with each tantalising stroke. The world outside faded away, leaving only the delicious heat between your legs and the sweet sound of your breaths mingling with the soft, wet sounds of her pleasure.

“Just like that,” you managed to whisper, your voice a mere tremor as your body responded instinctively to her touch. The way she focused on you, her eyes flickering up to meet yours, filled you with an overwhelming sense of intimacy. It felt surreal – raw, tender, and utterly consuming.

Your body was alive, electric with need, and you could feel the tight coil of pleasure winding tighter, ready to snap. With each flick and stroke, she guided you closer to that edge, and you knew you were teetering, ready to fall into bliss.

“Please,” you whined out, the word slipping from your lips in a breathless plea, desperate for release. Ingrid showed no sign of stopping; instead, she responded with a low, approving hum that sent shivers down your spine. Each stroke of her tongue had you creeping closer and closer to that sweet, euphoric edge.

“Oh, my god, Ingrid,” you gasped, your hips grinding wildly against her mouth, seeking more friction, more sensation. You could hardly contain the wave of pleasure building within you. Instinctively, your hand flew to her hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands.

“Don’t, don’t stop. Holy shit,” you groaned, your voice thick “Just like that,” you moaned again, feeling your back arch as each flick of her tongue sent electric pulses radiating through your core.

Ingrid’s movements were relentless, her focus unwavering as she worked to bring you closer to that blissful release.

“Fuck, shit. Fuck, I’m cumming,” you announced, the words spilling out before you could even process them. The bubble inside you burst, a wave of pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave, enveloping you completely. “Ingrid,” you shouted.

You felt your body tremble as the intensity washed over you, your back arching higher as you surrendered to the bliss. The room around you blurred, and all that existed was the exquisite sensation of Ingrid’s mouth and the intoxicating connection that enveloped you both. You had had orgasms before, but never one like that. Never ones that had you shaking, your thighs quivering around Ingrid’s head.

“Holy – ” you gasped, as the waves finally began to recede, you collapsed back onto the bed, panting for breath, a soft smile playing on your lips as you basked in the afterglow.

“That… was fucking hot,” Ingrid announced as she moved back up your body, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “You were so loud, holy shit. I didn’t think you had it in you.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief and delight as she smoothed your sweaty hair back off your forehead, a tender gesture that sent a rush of warmth through you. “S-sorry,” you stammered, mortified at the noise you’d made.

“Kjære,” she paused, her tone shifting to something softer, more serious as she waited for you to meet her gaze. The warmth in her eyes was undeniable, and you couldn’t help but feel a flutter in your chest. “Don’t ever apologise. That was so unbelievably sexy.” Her words wrapped around you like a comforting embrace, and you felt the tension ease from your body. “Herregud, I thought I was going to cum from the noises you were making.”

Ingrid leaned closer, her lips brushing against yours in a gentle, lingering kiss, tasting yourself on her lips. “You don’t know how hot you looked, completely lost in pleasure,” she continued, her voice low and sultry. “It’s one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen.” You couldn’t help but smile at her words, a wave of warmth flooding through you. “I… I didn’t mean to be so loud,” you admitted, though the embarrassment was quickly fading.

“Good,” she replied, a playful grin spreading across her face. “I want you to be loud. I want to hear you. I want to know just how good it feels.” Her fingers traced delicate patterns along your arm, sending little shivers of excitement through you.

Ingrid settled down next to you, her hands smoothing soft patterns along your stomach.

“So …” You smirked. “All of that and I wasn’t even wined and dined.” You teased, your laughter mixing with hers.

“Just you wait, Kjære. I’ll wine and dine you for the rest of our lives, don’t you worry.”

“Rest of our lives, hey?”

“If you want,” She shrugged non-committally, but you could see the nerves in her eyes.

[maskedbyghost]

Possessive reader has had partners before Simon, yeah? Don't suppose any of them are the same flavor of 'mine mine mine' regarding her? Cuz if so, Simon's gonna need to clean up those loose ends. Can't have them thinking they can try and object at the inevitable wedding like some kind of Hallmark movie!

Omg YES. The reader definitely has an ex or two still a little hung up on her, because let’s be honest, someone that obsessed, that intense, that ride-or-die? She’s not exactly forgettable.

You didn’t even react when the text came in. You barely glanced at your phone, just rolled your eyes, and went right back to folding laundry like it wasn’t worth your energy.

But Simon saw it. You knew he saw it because he stopped what he was doing, leaned over, and picked your phone up off the bed without even asking.

“Who’s that?” he asked, even though he was already reading it.

You shrugged. “Some guy I used to fuck around with before I met you. He’s been blocked since last year, so I guess he found a new number.”

Simon didn’t answer. Just stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the message.

You still with that guy? You deserve someone who actually sees how good you are. You know where to find me.

You didn’t even try to explain. What was there to say? You’d deleted that man like an app you forgot existed. Gone. Done. But Simon wasn’t looking at you—he was still staring at your phone, his jaw tight.

You sat back on your knees, watching him. “Don’t get quiet. You know I don’t give a shit about him.”

“I know,” he muttered, his tone calm. “But he doesn’t.”

That’s when he tapped a few things. Deleted the message, blocked the number again. Same way you would have. Except he held your phone for another minute after that, just looking at it. Not saying a word.

Then he handed it back and stood up like nothing happened. “I’ll take the trash out,” he said, heading toward the kitchen. Which was weird, because there was no trash. Not in the actual bin, anyway.

You tilted your head. “You mean metaphorically or—?”

“Both,” he called back.

And that was that. You didn’t ask, you didn’t need to.

You knew Simon wouldn’t do anything stupid, but you also knew he had a way of handling shit when it pissed him off enough. Not like you—loud, mouthy, dramatic, always saying shit like mine mine mine until he groans and tells you you’re a menace while literally pulling you closer.

But him? He didn’t need to scream. Didn’t need to threaten. All he had to do was decide something—and then it was done.

Still, later that night, you were sprawled across his lap, phone in hand, scrolling for something to watch, when you decided to poke the bear a little.

“Y’know,” you said casually, “if some idiot tried to object at our wedding, I’d probably laugh in his face and then throw my shoe at him.”

Simon didn’t even look up from where he was rubbing slow circles into your hip. “Wouldn’t get the chance.”

You smirked. “Why? ‘Cause you’d handle it?”

“No,” he said, finally glancing up at you. “Because anyone that stupid won’t make it to the wedding.”

You stared at him for a second.

Then you leaned in real close, grinning like the psycho you are. “God, I fucking love you.”

He kissed you hard, like he was trying to remind you he was just as gone for you as you were for him.

“Yeah?” he muttered, breath hot against your lips. “Then quit stressin’ about shit that’s already handled.”

And you did. Because you knew—anyone who still thought they had a shot with you? They didn’t anymore. Simon made sure of that.

Not because he was jealous. But because you were his just as loudly and unshakably as he was yours. And anyone who didn’t get the memo?

They’d be lucky to walk away with a warning.

--------------------------------------------

this was the last request i had sitting in my inbox for these two, so if y’all want more unhinged possessive nonsense, you’re gonna have to ask, i’m always down to write more of them, just need ideas to work with. you know where to find me <333

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs

[oldermenfucker]

Hi! I'm not sure if your taking writing requests/ideas.. but I love your writing so I thought I'd ask!

My idea is that reader gets an occular migraine while working in the er and Abbot or Robby have to take care of her (either as reader × robby/ abbot, or as them being father figures for her).

If not no worries!

Omg bestie thank you so much!! It fills me with so much happiness to know you like my writing style🥹

I don’t have much knowledge about migraines by experience so I deeply apologize if something is incorrect! I did my research throughout the day and these are all based on what I’ve gathered from the internet<3

I’d love to take one shot requests but unfortunately I have too many ideas to write nowadays! Maybe one day I’ll open my requests but for now I’d like to go a headcanon/drabble type of thing with your idea!! I hope you like it🥹🩷

Also, headcanons & drabbles(at most 1k words) requests are open!

You’ve never had an episode in the ER before, you always took to your beta blockers, made sure you were hydrated, and slept enough between your shifts.

It was yet another chaotic day in The Pitt as usual, there were patients you coded for an hour, patients you prescribed a simple Tylenol for and sent some up into the OR.

So when a new patient comes through the doors with Princess, you start taking care of them in a second with Robby in toe, following you inside the trauma room.

You do everything you must do effortlessly, falling into a rhythm with Robby as he asks his questions and you answer them

So when you start to intubate the patient, he believes you’ve got it, and you think so too

But thinking is one thing and reality is another

Your vision starts to blur in one eye, but you ignore it, your mind not being able to comprehend what is actually happening while you are trying to focus on the patient

You believe it must be the lack of sleep, so you shake your head, blinking hard a few times before you look back down at your hands.

But it doesn’t stop there as much as you wish it did.

Not only your vision is getting blurry, but the light in the room turns burning bright, and your vision whitens in a second.

“Dr. King, intubate, now—“

The equipment in your hands is gone, and you feel how a strong pair of arms hands you by the waist, guiding you out of the trauma room in a hurry.

“I got you, sweetheart,” you hear Robby whisper, but you can’t see him with how tightly you are squeezing your eyelids, trying to get rid of the blinding spots in your vision.

He opens the door to another empty room, locking it before he pulls the curtains, turning off the lights quickly and leading you to the bed.

You grab his arm as he helps you up, your heart racing in panic but Robby’s protective touch calms you down at least a little.

“I’ll be right back, alright?”

You can only nod, sitting up on the bed as you blink a few times, groaning when you can’t do anything to prevent the coming pain in a few minutes.

“Are you nauseous?” He shuts the door and locks it again, sitting on the bed next to you as he hands you a glass of water and acetaminophen to help, “Dizzy? Perhaps a headache—“

“I’m fine,” you say, but the words come out in a harsh snap, and you cringe at your own tone, “It’s nothing, thank you, Robby.”

“You could be having a TIA—“ he tries to explain, his chocolate brown eyes filling with nothing but pure worry, “Let me help you, sweetheart.”

“It’s nothing like that,” you sigh, closing your eyes, knuckles turning white as an awful throbbing starts on the same side of you were having visionary problems, “It’s a retinal migraine—“

“Did you take your meds? Fuck, why didn’t you tell me— lay down, put this on your forehead,” he scolds you gently, lowering you on your back with a hand behind your neck, kissing your forehead before he replaces the cold compress with his warm lips.

“I didn’t wanna worry you,” you explain softly, squeezing his trembling hand as you try to relax, hissing at the coldness of the pack on your head, “Besides, it shouldn’t have happened anyway. I took my beta blocker this morning before I got here. I’m just unlucky it seems.”

“I’m gonna tell Dana to keep an eye on you for the rest of the shift—“ he tells you, pulling out a blanket to cover your body, “You won’t leave this room until I’m done for the day, alright, sweetheart?”

“I can work, I swear—“You try to sit up but his large palm pushes you back down with a softness you didn’t know he had in him, “Robby…”

“Absolutely not,” he shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest, “You’ll rest. I don’t need you to hurt yourself, okay? You’re my patient now, and I’d hate to cuff you to the bed just to keep you from running after another incoming trauma.”

“I’m not Myrna—“

“No, you’re worse, sweetheart,” you chuckle and he cracks a smile, reaching to caress your cheek, “I need you to take care of yourself now, I’m gonna tell Dana to to put you on IV fluids since I’m pretty sure you’re dehydrated and running on three hours of sleep.”

“I don’t ever wanna be your patient again,” you try to joke while the pounding is still there but luckily the medicine is kicking in slowly, “I’ll be fine, go save some lives.”

“Fine, but I’ll probably be worried sick for the rest of the shift,” he leans down, pushing the cold compress aside for a second to peck your forehead then your lips, pulling back just a little to look into your eyes as you open them slowly, “Better?”

“The headache is manageable but my vision has been better than this,” you sigh lovingly when you see his worried frown, “Doctor Robby, I am going to be just fine. Now get out and let me rest in peace.”

“Holler if you need anything, or tell Dana. She’s gonna babysit you for the next few hours,” he kisses you quickly before he walks out and closes the door behind him.

[blackleatherjacketz]

Clearance

Michael 'Robby' Robinavitch x Female Reader

Robby checks in on you after your hysterectomy and has his own way of clearing you to go back to work.

Warnings: NSFW, 18+ Only!, Explicit Smut, Power Imbalance, Medical Kink, Heavy Eye Contact With Robby, Hugging, Alcohol, Impromptu Pelvic Exams, Vaginal Fingering, Female Orgasm, Robby Talking You Through It, Kissing, Finger Sucking, Hysterectomy Details

Tags: @bullet-prooflove @likedovesinthewnd @skittles-archive

Everyone from work had taken turns coming over to check in on you after your surgery, all of them having their own versions of what caring for you looked like to them. For Dana it meant bringing you a home cooked meal and a bottle of wine topped off with the latest gossip. For Mel, it meant bringing you a plushie and watching Netflix while the two of you snacked on candy and popcorn. For Collins, it meant herbal tea and an electric heating pad to warm the spot where your uterus used to be.

For Robby, it meant bringing over a six pack of beer, the same brand you’d shared with him after your last long day of work together. The same brand he’d sipped while giving you that look from across the park benches, finally asking you if a boyfriend or girlfriend would mind if he walked you home this late at night. The same brand that you could smell on his breath and practically taste in the air as he rested his forehead against yours when the two of you finally reached your doorstep, reveling in each other’s presence.

You could have sworn he was going to kiss you that night with how close your lips were, how drawn your body was to his, how connected your souls felt. But he eventually cut the tension in half by turning his cheek, wrapping those big arms of his around you instead, pulling you all the way into his chest. It was one of those life-altering, nervous system regulating hugs that consumed every waking thought of yours after the fact; something you feared you might never get over no matter how hard you tried. He’d held onto you as if he was afraid that you’d disappear the very second he let go, as if your upcoming medical leave was going to be the very last time he’d ever see you again.

But it wasn’t.

“So, how’s my favorite resident holding up?” His energy is kinetic, building up between you two like a rubber band pulled taut since he last saw you, as if no time had passed between that embrace and now. That maddening look of longing admiration hasn’t dimmed the light in his eyes one bit as he sits down next to you on the couch. His crisp, clean scent surrounds you just like it had done before, bringing goosebumps to the surface of your skin as he hands you a beer. Your fingers brush over his knuckles for a split second before he pulls away and cracks one open for himself, briefly glancing at your face with a smirk.

“Going a little stir crazy, but I’ll survive.” You admit as you clink your can against his, the isolation of your medical leave weighing on you more than you care to admit. “Ready to go back to work, though.”

“It hasn’t even been eight weeks yet.” He raises a scolding eyebrow before taking a sip of his beer. “And as badly as I want to see your face every time I walk into that ER, you still need to take the recommended time off. It’s there for a reason.”

“Unless… you clear me?” You counter, a hopeful tone lacing your words as you playfully nudge his shoulder with your own. You want to make it abundantly clear that you haven't forgotten how the two of you left things, either.

“Fuck, you’re impossible.” He shakes his head again and laughs under his breath, exasperated but not seeming very surprised by your request. “Are you still bleeding?”

“No, thank God.” You take a sip of the stale, bland beer and make a face.

Wait a minute, is he actually considering your request?

“And how about your incisions?” He sets his beer down on the coffee table and turns toward you, his voice low but still professional. “Are they healed all the way? Steri strips fell off on their own?”

“All except for one, yeah.” You nod and tilt your head to look at him a little closer, attempting to gauge if he’s actually willing to entertain this crazy idea of yours or not. “It’s really stubborn though, still has some dried blood on it.”

He stares at you with a dangerous sense of warmth, that rubber band between you two pulling even tighter until his lips curl into a smirk as if he knows he shouldn’t do what he’s about to. You can feel it already, that shift in the air, that increase in your heart rate as he leans in close enough to count the lashes on your eyes. For a brief moment, you wonder if he’s going to kiss you, but all he does is laugh under his breath until he finally gives in to your whims at the very last minute.

“Alright, I’ll clear you,” he mutters, his eyes completely black. “But only after I examine you.”

“Hmm?” You don’t pull away, don’t break the heavy eye contact as your body slowly heats up from his gaze. You almost miss what he said entirely as you nearly lost yourself in the deep hypnotic pools of his eyes.

Is he serious?

“Lay down on your back, let me look at those incisions, and I’ll consider clearing you for light duty.” He clarifies, taking the beer from your hand and setting it down on the table next to his before getting onto his knees, kneeling down in front of the couch.

“Oh, right, yeah. Thank you.” Holy shit! He’s really going to do this, isn’t he? He’s really going to touch you again with those hands, really going to examine you to see if you’re ready to go back to work and be a real person again. You swallow hard and follow his orders, laying down flat on your back as you try to control the subtle heaving of your chest.

“Did they keep your ovaries?” He asks, that voice of his just barely above a whisper as he reaches out to you, hesitating for a moment before lifting your shirt up just above your navel. “Or was it a total hysterectomy?”

“No, I still have them,” you respond, inhaling sharply as his calloused fingertips finally touch you, setting that spark inside alight as they brush over the sensitive skin of your abdomen.

“That’s good.” He smiles softly, that glint in his eyes never faltering as he palpates for any rigidity or tenderness. “Your abdomen’s nice and soft,” he rubs his hand more affectionately over your ribs and belly than he would a regular patient, the warmth of it spreading into your skin as he deepens his touch just enough to try to get you to relax.

God, that felt good…

“Thanks,” you manage to say before swallowing hard, mentally coaching yourself to breathe normally. “I guess.”

“Each of your incisions look good except for that one down here that we already knew about, but the strips should eventually fall off on their own.” He taps the area just below it, gently placing his other hand on your hip.

“Yeah, that’s what my surgeon said.” You try your best to keep your cool and relax the muscles that twitch beneath his hand as his opposite thumb traces small circles onto your hip.

“Any pain when I do this?” He presses his palm deep into the center of your pelvis this time, nearly making your back arch with the intensity of the pressure. But it doesn’t necessarily hurt, not really.

“No.” You shake your head.

“Any hormonal changes? Sleep disturbances? Decrease in your energy level or sex drive?” His eyes lock onto yours with an intensity you’ve never seen as he asks that last question, almost pleading with you to give him a reason to proceed even further. His fingers continue their intimate palpation of your body, barely grazing the hem of your sweatpants as his hand travels down a little lower, stoking that heat inside your core. “I know they kept your ovaries, but the surgery can still be a shock to your system for a while.”

“No.” Your heart skips a beat and he continues to handle you, practically molding you like putty in his hands. “No hormonal changes.”

“You sure?” He pauses, a tiny smirk curling his lips as he notices the quick rise and fall of your chest, the pulse thrumming in your veins. “I think I should check everything, just to be safe.” He glances down at his hands then back at you as if asking for permission, his fingers gently tugging on the elastic band of your pants.

“I think you should, too,” you whisper, instinctively lifting your hips with a simple nod of encouragement as you watch him carefully pull your pants and underwear down past your knees.

Holy shit this is happening, this is really happening!

“Fuck,” he whispers, licking his lips as he gratefully takes you in. You can hear his breath falter, see his eyelids flutter shut for just a moment before he touches you again, this time on your inner thigh. That rubber band between you two has now been stretched to capacity, snapping back into place as he traces his fingers up your thigh to the very center of your burning heat.

You had dreamt about this for so long, fantasized about him from the very first day that you met him, and now he’s here in your living room, touching you where it matters most.

“Tissue’s healthy, pink and moist. Blood flow looks good.” He speaks to you as if he’s still performing a routine exam in the hospital, as if he isn’t touching you the way that you’ve wanted him to for years. He clears his throat as he traces two fingers up and down your swollen length, slowly spreading your lips apart to get a better view of you. “No perfusion issues that I can see. Can you feel me alright when I touch you here?”

“Mmm hmm, I can feel you just fine.” His fingers send a thousand tiny messages to the neurons embedded just beneath your skin, triggering them to fire on all cylinders until your nipples harden and that moisture begins to pool between your folds.

“Looks like you’ve got plenty of estrogen keeping you lubricated, so that’s not a problem.” He hums to himself, a sound so deep that it practically rumbles in his chest and shifts into a growl as he dips his fingers into your entrance to collect the evidence. His lips part even further as he drags his sopping wet digits up your length and swirls them around your swollen bud, taking your breath away along with it. “Do you always get this wet around me, or is this new?”

“Always,” you confess, all pretense lost as he repeats the motion again and again, grinning with sheer satisfaction as he watches your face contort with each exponential wave of absolute bliss.

He was way too good at this.

“Always, huh?” He laughs, starting to focus more on your clit, rubbing it up and down instead of in circles, intentionally applying more pressure on the upswing to drive you extra crazy. “You ever soak through your scrubs after a long shift with me?”

“Just once,” you huff, his pressure on that magic spot forcing you to roll your hips into him, establishing a euphoric rhythm that sets every cell of your skin on fire.

“Just once? That’s it? Are you sure?” His smile wrinkles the freckled skin around his eyes as he increases his pace on your clit, his lips parting as he leans down to whisper into your ear. “I kinda find that hard to believe with how fucking wet you are right now.”

“Okay, maybe twice… mmmm, Robby!” You moan as he slides two fingers inside your slick walls, his thumb not missing a beat as it presses up and down on your clit, bringing you even closer to the edge. You can hear the truth of how wet you are, smell it in the air and feel it dripping down your thigh as he pulls his fingers out and pushes back in, pulsing a white hot heat into your viscera. You can’t help but arch your back again as it licks its way up your spine, his thick fingers continuing to stretch you out inch by inch.

“They took your cervix, too, huh?” He pushes his fingers in even deeper, all the way down to the knuckles until the pleasure becomes too much for you to handle, robbing you of his visage as your eyes roll back into your head. “Vaginal cuff with sutures?” He asks, his lips hovering over yours as he describes what he’s feeling, pretending not to notice you coming completely undone beneath him. “You seem to have healed quickly.”

“Mmm hmm, Robby!” You nod as your smooth muscle adjusts around him, the sound of his thrusts growing louder in your ears as that internal wildfire consumes each and every layer of organic tissue until the steam seems to rise up and out through your pores. It rips through your spine, violently sizzling its way through every neural pathway as the blazing inferno contracts every muscle in your body.

“That’s it,” Robby coos, his smile widening as he feels the product of your orgasm spilling down his palm and wrist, soaking the cushion beneath you. “That’s it, pretty girl, let yourself feel it. Let that dopamine and oxytocin wash all over you. Fuck, you look so good coming all over my fingers.”

You tilt your head just enough to catch his lips between yours as that final flash of ecstasy burns through you, bucking your hips and curling your toes. You groan as he hums against your lips, fingers relentlessly continuing their good work as your tongue tastes the desire on his skin. You reach up to cup his face, his beard soft against your palm as you deftly brush your thumb against his cheek. He kisses you back so deeply, tastes your lips with such an intimate fervor that you barely feel him slow his pace on your overstimulated organ.

“Holy shit, Robby, that was amazing,” you whisper as he pulls his fingers out of you, dragging them over your clit one more time just to watch you squirm. “You’re really good at that.”

He brings his fingers up to his lips and quickly sucks your essence off of them, as if he can’t wait to see what you taste like. “Mmm, your pH is well balanced. I don’t see why you can’t come back to work on light duty.” He glances down at you with a clear sense of pride, that smile never leaving his lips as his eyes roam over your freshly ruined body. “But let me make you dinner first.”

[secretaccountlol]

Tell me i’m good while im weak.

GENDER-NETURAL READER X MARK GRAYSON.

This is a smuttyyy Drabble 18+ no minor plz!

Warnings? : Dom!Reader x Sub! Mark. Reader does call mark some names and teases him a lot. Mark is..a pervert in this lol and soooo pathetic. Also degradation and praise galore. He also like.. lies bout bein sick lol.

Synopsis: Mark has a kink. Praise and degradation, and once you find out you're happy to help him out with it.

I got a beta reader in this hoe! Shout out to lovely, wonderful, stunning @sobbingscripter

Thank her ! Now you won't be subjected to my horrible dyslexia lmao

—-

Author note; Now,, all I kinda went lil crazy with the dialogue, it's like filthy?? Srry if he's a lil OOC, I just wanted to write a down right pitiful mark.. and I think I succeeded!

This is my first ever invincible Drabble! I don't tend to do them very often, so enjoy. Hey btw .: I like comments and reblogs tell me what you think okay?

Mark has a praise kink. You didn’t realize it at first,of course.

Who just randomly daydreams about their good friend’s kinks, not you, at least not intentionally.

It started simple, you had tutored Mark. With all the new hero shit he’s been thrown through, getting his grades up in college was the most difficult thing for him.

That’s when you graciously helped; late night study sessions with him after missions, early morning calls to go over answers before exams.

An unexpected call at 8:30 am in the morning wakes you, and it's Mark screaming about the 80 he just got on the test, worth 60% of his grade.

Your sleepy grin is all you remember as you promise to bring celebratory drinks later, “Good job, Mark! I knew you could do it!”

He pauses before you yawn, letting him know you’re going back to sleep now.

You don’t notice the breathy, stuttered goodbye he says as the phone clicks off.

Next time you're at Comic Con; he’s dressed as Séance Dog, you didn’t tell Mark what you were gonna be dressed as, with you adamant of it being a surprise for him.

His breath falters when he sees you, your legs out and oiled in a “sexy” invincible leotard.

“Surprise~”

Thank god, he was sitting and he had a cape because the boner he popped was massive.

“You look great!”

Your giggle pinpoints his cock, “You look even better, what a good boy you are!” You ruffle his hair, his eyes widen.

“Wha— good boy?”

“Oh, pfft sorry—, cus you're Seance Dog! He’s a dog, dogs are always good boys!”

“Right right right,” Mark’s ears burned, think cold thoughts, think cold thoughts.

“Speakin’ of, the panel of authors and animators is about to start. We need to get there like now, cus I already know people are fightin’ over seats.”

You skip off, not bothering to look behind you, and thank god because if you did, your eyes would be glued to the fucking snake in his pants.

‘ they said I'm a good boy, i'm a good boy, ’ kept chanting in his mind.

His cock did not know a moment of peace that night, with your words echoing through his mind.

His bedsheets dripped with sweat and cum as his cock softened for the 12th time.

Used tissues littered his room as he milked the last bit of cum.

Your phone call shakes him out of his sex haze, it’s a daily ritual of y’alls. You talk about your day and he does the same, trying to keep a sense of normalcy, with him being a hero, it’s hard to see each other every time.

You again, don’t notice his wavering voice as his hands pick up the pace again. His poor cock is beaten to hell, as the sloppy noises fill his room, his mouth press in a thin line.

“Mark, you okay?”

“Yea— yesyesyes, I’m okay…”

Your brow furrows, “Okay, we don’t have to keep talkin’ y’know? I can hang up if your bus—“

“Nonononono, please don’t hang up!” His words rush out in a whimper before he can stop himself.

“Okay! Jesus! ‘M sorry I won’t hang up. You're a needy lil thing today, aren’t ya?”

Mark whines, an honest to god whine. Silence insues, he fucked up.

“Mark, are you sick or somethin’?”

“I— I.. yes!” Mark does a terrible fake cough, “Mmhn, ‘m catchin’ a cold”

“Aww poor baby..”

A whimper slips through his lips, “yes, yeah yeah… mhn… poor me.”

“Wan’ me come over and take care of you, ya big baby?”

“Yesyesyes please,” another muffled plea from Mark as his fingers brush the tip of his head..

“Okay, I’m on my way with chicken soup!”

*Click*

Mark blinks, a dopey smile plays on his lips.

Oh shit.

Oh god, he wasn’t thinking straight, he’s not even sick! His bed creaks from the sudden upright movement.

His eyes darted around his room, oh shitshitshit.

His body zips around his room as he picks up his tissues and throws his soiled sheets in the washer, putting fresh linens on in the span of a second.

The next second, you were already knocking at the door.

“Maaarkkk, you in there buddy?”

His hands move in frenzy, rubbing his nose as hard as he can to make it a rosy red, jogging side to side to give himself a sweaty appearance, and finally a wet, cold folded cloth placed over his forehead before unlocking the door and hastily making his way back to his bed.

Clearing his throat before he speaks, mustering up his best “sick” voice, “Doooorss opppewwennn!!”

The door whines as you enter, Mark’s ears twitch as he hears you set down the homemade soup.

Clashing dishes in the kitchen before your feet shuffle into his room.

Your eyes ooze sympathy when you see his face.

“Awe, my poor baby.”

Mark throws out a helpless whine as he motions grabby hands for you to come to him.

“‘M sooo siick.., think I got somethin’ from space travelin’ too much.”

You back up slightly, “you’re not— like contagious are you?”

Mark shakes his head rapidly, shit. ‘Think, think, make up a lie, make up a lie.’

“Noooo, uh—“ he coughs, “Robot says it isn’t..annd who am I to argue with a super genius!” He coughs another time, for good measure.

“Uh okay!” You slink back over to him, flopping down next to him. “Here, big baby open your mouth up for soup.”

Mark’s mouth opens with a pop, light pink adores his cheek, god he’s pathetic.

“God, you’re shameless, aren’t ya?”

“Immm sickkk—!” He’s definitely milking it, but can you blame him, hearing you pity him like this, it gets him going.

”It’s kinda cute,” you spoon more liquid into his mouth. “I like takin’ care of your needy ass.”

“You do?” His eyes flutter, if he wasn’t ‘sick’, you’d mistake his tinted cheeks as a blush.

“Mm, yeah I like taking care of my friends and family. Plus, you take care of the whole galaxy, Mark. The least I can do is look after you when you need it.”

Mark blinks, then blinks again.

“Sorry layin’ it on too thick? My bad.” You pull back the spoon trembling slightly, the soup swishing around.

His hand hastily grabbed your wrist, “No no not at all, please praise me more.”

“What?”

“Praise me ..more, please”

Your heart burns, bubbling with desire. Shit, should you feel this way about your best friend especially when he’s sick? Is he even in the right headspace?

“You’re.. such a good hero, Mark. I feel so safe when you're around.”

Mark’s breath caught, “‘more?” His fingers squeeze your wrist softly, then release.

“Mark, you’re not — you’re not in the right headspace you aren’t.. you don’t know what you’re sayin’...” your hand caresses over his as you lick your lips.

“If— if I was in the right headspace, would you?”

You bite your lip, sighing “ Yes.. yes—“

“I’m not sick.”

“What?”

“I’m not sick, I lied. Please praise me now.”

Your arms snatch away from him, “You little liar!”

He pouts, sitting up, removing the cold towel. “I wanted you to take care offf meeee!”

“You could’ve just asked, I’d come over regardless!”

Your arms cross against your chest, “you don’t even deserve my homemade soup!”

Mark whines again, “nooo I like your souuup!”

“Why’d you lie! If you like my soup you, again. Could’ve just asked!“

“I—..it’s cus I don’t know! I just thought.. I just couldn’t think of anything else..to get you here.”

“Mark..” your eyes rake over his face. A cute pout plays on his lips and his brows furrowed like a puppy being scolded.

“I just .. mm, thought if I played sick you’d praise me more..”

“Oh..? Oh!” You kiss your teeth, as you stare at your best friend.

“Mark, lift your bed covers for me real quick.”

“Why..” his eyes narrow.

“I think you know why—“

“Noooope.”

“Dude, you totally have a boner right, don’t you?”

“No— I- don’t know what you’re talkin’ about!”

You shift your eyes to the rising spot in the covers, point a finger, “Right.. uh-huh..” your face deadpans.

His legs shoot to his chest nearly knocking the wind outta of him.

“Shit.”

“You’re a fuckin’ pervert dude! Wait wait! Is that why you sounded like that over the phone? Oh my god were you—?”

Mark's eyes dart away from yours, bury his face in his hands after.

“Oh my god, you were! You were jerkin’ off to my voice!” The shrill of your voice carried through his apartment.

“I— SHHH! Keep your voice down!” Mark grabs your collar, the jerky movement causes you to bend over him awkwardly, your chest over his lap.

“Augh- sorry! Shit sorry. I — just— “

Your hand brushes against his cock as you sit up, a strangled groan graces your ears as he grabs your hand again.

“Sorry again— uh don’t touch ther—uh!”

Your other hand grips his covered cock running your fingers over it.

“Tsk no, Mark, isn’t this what you wanted?”

“I— “

Devious grin splits your face as you rip the covers off him, a rush of cold air cools his body, your eyes stare at this boner.

“Ha, got a third leg here, huh?”

“Dude— this is so embarrassing, please don’t tease me..” his hands tug across his face as he speaks.

“Nahh, you said you wanted to be praised, right?”

Another whimper slips past his lip.

“Mark, be a good boy for me, use your words.” God, you were having too much fun mocking him.

“Fuckkk! Don—don’t talk like that!”

Your hand inches into his thin boxer, a hiccup in his breath as you cup his cock.

“You sound so pretty right, you know that?”

“Mmhn no— I “

“No, you’re right, you sound so deliciously pathetic right, I never thought I’d hear you this way.” Your lips ghost the side of his face as you start to pump, a soft sob bubbles from him.

“Imagine everyone knowing the mighty Invincible is such a whiny bitch in bed, hm?”

“Stooopp being meaaan!” Mark’s pitiful wails heighten as his cock twitches in your hands.

“Oh, so you like bein’ degraded and praise? Tsk, what a combooo..!”

“I don’t—! I- just your voice and I’m- I’m over—whelmed! Right now, okay!”

“I’ve barely touched you and you’re throbbing like you’re about to blow, are you? Hm?” Your tongue drags against his ear as your lazy tugs cloud his mind.

“ ‘m nooot! “

“Okay, can you be a good puppy for me and only cum when I tell you to?”

“Uh-huh, yesyes,” his throat bobs, “I can— I can be a good boy, please.”

“Aw okay, I believe you,” your lips slip down his neck, earning another groan, your teeth nip is skin.

“Let’s see how long you can hang on.”

oh, he was fucked.

You realize, he doesn’t just have a praise kink, he has a degradation kink too.

—

[hillbillyoracle]

This post got me thinking. Like really churning. I just started working through Momento Mori by Joanna Ebenstein and this post kicked up some realizations for me.

Most of my major experiences with death happened before the age of like 25. Some were the ones you "expect" like grandparents and others were friends in my scene who either OD'd or straight up disappeared. My more recent experiences were supporting my partner through 3 deaths in the family in 3 months - one a cousin that was a few years younger than her that accidentally OD's leaving behind her children. Another was the grandmother who was her rock growing up in a chaotic household and who steadfastly included me at family gatherings when my partner's mom and sister would ice me out. All passed suddenly.

I think the only thing that is universally true about grief is that everyone goes through it differently.

Because so much of what these replies held up as "this is what you say" and "this is what you do" - I fucking hate that stuff (even though I admit I default to it) as much as or more than so many people here hate the religious comments (which I usually don't tend to mind personally).

To me:

"I'm sorry for your loss" = "I am having the correct feeling about this."

"I can't imagine what you're going through" = "I can't relate to you and I'm putting distance between us to feel better about it."

"How are you doing?" = "Share something vulnerable with me so I feel like I helped you."

And you could say I'm hearing that wrong, and I get that I likely am, but that's what those words mean to me. And when I'm grieving I've learned I can't really access that part of my brain that better attunes me the "proper responses".

I also do not want someone to feel angry with, I do not want my anger fed at all. I want help dissolving it because if I don't it'll fully consume me and that's even worse than the grief for me, to have all the good in me burnt up while I'm still alive because that's my personal experience of anger.

Which is all just to say, it has nothing to do with religiosity in my experience - there's simply no "correct" response you can rely on for all people. In words or in deed.

And that is what makes experiencing grief so hard - everyone gives you what they got and often it's a reflection of their own stunted relationship with death, yes even the atheists, and it often sucks.

And trying to comfort someone in grief sucks - how do you use words and actions to reach them when communication of any kind is so highly individual and this individual might not be able to tell you what they need and want to hear/have done?

If you go "no actually they're using the wrong words/actions, these are the correct ones", you wind up doing the very same things as the people who've pissed you off.

Or at least, that's what I found when I dug into it.

I try to be forgiving when I'm grieving but I fall short. I don't expect someone grieving to be forgiving if I miss the mark, but I appreciate it immensely when they're able.

My favorite things to hear when I'm grieving are ones I know some other people hate:

"I miss them so much."

"Remember when they..."

"I thought about them today."

"I wonder what they'd say about..."

"They would have loved this."

"I had a dream about them."

Releasing the idea that there was a correct thing people could say to me and I would feel a little better (or ensure I wouldn't feel worse) let me grieve how I needed to grieve. It let me support in ways I could better sustain over the long term (because boy howdy if grief isn't long term).

Anywho, a heartfelt hug and virtual cup of tea to anyone else reading this and going through it. On other side. Solidarity friends.

it's been a year so i feel more comfortable talking about it..

when you're atheist and you lose someone, religious people don't really know how to interact with you. it's fine, we have different worldviews.

'He's in a better place, now.'

Sorry auntie, but I don't believe that. I believe that his brain stopped working at 5h55pm on december 11th 2022, and that's it. Nothing after that.

It makes grief very difficult, because not believing in god or the afterlife also means accepting that you will never, ever see that person again. That's it. The end. Nada mas.

But, back to the aunties and other faceless people gravitating in the grey blurry waters of your awareness.

They tell you 'He's with god now' and you tell them 'Yeah I don't believe that' and.

they. get. annoyed.

Here I am, gutted open, the worst day of my life, barely holding myself together, and they! Get annoyed that I won't smile and entertain their point of view!

Another faceless person tried to heal me with cristals. She also got annoyed when I told her I didn't believe in that.

I usually don't really mind religious people. It's fine, we have different worldviews. I think I'm right but so do they. As long as they're good people, I don't judge them for their faith.

I'll even be grateful for them trying to console me. I get that you're trying to give me strength and love. Thank you.

But I'm going to be true to myself, yes even when I'm mad with shock and grief. And I still can't believe they got annoyed that I didn't play along to placate them, on the worst day of my life.

(I wanted to share because I've never heard anyone talk about atheism and grief, and the loneliness that comes out of it.)

[ce1estiall]

fall in love again

summary you saw paige, your ex, at the bar.

warnings drinking, angst, sexual tension

celestial notes thought about that one pazzi clip and a twice song at the same time... anyways send me some ideas if you guys have any. also im really trying my best to write longer, please bare with me! im trying my best!

“we are at a dead end, oh no, here we go again

tonight the stars out, lights flash thinking i was gonna dance. but rewind, playback now you got me in a trance

tonight we fall in love again.” - fila (fall in love again) - twice

paige bueckers, a name you’ve known since forever. she was the next best thing in the name of basketball, her name always headlining articles, newspapers, magazines, or even social media.

you dated paige during your sophomore year of college. you were in love with her, or at least you thought you were.

paige did show love and affection to you. she would sleep with you, go out on dates and even cook in the beginning of your relationship. it felt like everything you ever wanted in a relationship, what you dreamed of. however, things got rocky when she got an ankle injury. she was sidelined from the rest of her season, feeling the an outsider. her emotions immediately became taken out in you. she became mad instantly. constant arguments filled the apartment, arguing over stupid shit like what you were making for dinner. she would snap at you and blame you, saying everything was your fault. you were on thin ice when her behavior kept happening, as it started to question your commitment towards her.

one evening, you returned to your apartment from studying in the library most of the night. you had a final exam later in the week that was worth 50% of your grade. you put your keys on the counter, took of your shoes, and placed your bag on the couch. “paige, i’m home.” you spoke. however, you didn’t see her in the shared bedroom you had together. you checked the bathroom and living room, but nothing. no sight or scent of paige. a random instinct told you to check the guest bedroom, which was closed. it was always open.

you opened the door. your eyes immediately saw paige sleeping with another girl. you tried to gaslight yourself thinking studying was starting to fry your brain. but nope, this was real after you rubbed your eyes. her black wavy hair on paige's shoulder, as you noticed paige’s hands under her pants. you were pissed, anger flowing throughout your veins. “get the fuck out of my apartment. both of you.” you screamed, very sternly. paige woke up, seeing you. she got scared. she got out of bed to face you. “baby its not what it looks like.”

“bull fucking shit paige. i’m fucking breaking up with you. get the fuck out of my house, now. take your little side bitch too.” you wanted to kill her right then and there. "not only are you sleeping with her, but you're fucking her? are you fucking serious?" paige immediately woke up the girl. she woke up looking confused at what the yelling was about until her eyes darted to you, then paige, signaling that they had to leave. when paige left, a weight was lifted off your chest. you were done with paige, and it felt relieving that you broke that connection. it felt one-sided, like you were the only one who was trying to keep the relationship alive before it all went downhill.

10 months later, you were at your happiest, hanging out with your friends, partying, drinking, and having the time of your life. your best friend was turning 22, and you and your best friend decided to go to a bar near storrs. partying and drinking was a rare occasion for you. you decided to go to celebrate your best friend, not wanting to bring her down or ruin her day.

you entered the bar. black leather tube top with a denim mini skirt and black boots, whole outfit complimenting your body as you held a blue gift bag. you did your makeup natural, with just a hint of glitter eyeshadow that reflected off of the colorful lights in the bar. you saw your friends already taking shots. you walked up to them and greeted them, then seeing your best friend. “happy birthday pretty girl! this is for you.” you greeted her with a hug and a smile, handing her the present. “thank you so much! so happy you could come. ready to get a little tipsy?”

you looked at her with excitement. “you’re lucky its friday and i have no exams next week. lets get this party started!”

about an hour goes by, you had a shit tone of drinks. champagne, wine, tequilla, margaritas, mojitos, you name it. shots were being passed around your friends like they were candy. you were dancing with your friends, having the time of your life. until you saw someone a little familiar in the corner of your eye. straight blonde hair, blue eyes, tall, abs showing underneath of her white compression shirt. you decided to ignore it, thinking the alcohol was effecting you. you decided to order another drink, specifically a mimosa. when you got your drink from the bar tender, you turned around and saw her. fuck, you though. it was paige. she examined you up and down. by the way her eyes looked up close and she was unable to control her balance, you knew she was drunk.

she started speaking, her words slurring. “hey pretty girl, i’ve missed you.” she tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

the alcohol was controlling you at this point from how many drinks you’ve had. you gave her a slight smile as awkwardness and tension were mixing together. “hey paige, how’ve you been?” she started placing her hands on your core, then fingers tingling down to your hips, feeling ticklish from her fingerprints. you became drunk in her touch. “i’ve been good, can’t stop thinking about you lately.”

you started laughing out of no where. you placed her hands on her shoulders, pretending this was a slow dance. the alcohol was 100% in control by now. you both laughed after what you just did, thinking it was the dumbest shit ever. "how's basketball?"

"man.." she said, backing up. "my ankle's healed but it's never the same." you saw her holding a red solo cup, wondering what she was drinking. "can't wait for this season to be over, so i can be with you." paige decided to play with fire this evening, she started flirting with you less than 5 minutes of you both talking. "i know you can't stop thinking about me, it's written all over your face." she placed her hands on your back. you saw what she was doing, it was now time to beat her at her own game.

"for someone who's missed me so much you don't come to me anymore." you said as you took a sip from your mimosa. your voice sounded so confident, like you were sure she would say something back to you.

she smiled. "you'd distract me in the season, i would be so focused on you."

"since when is that a bad thing, bueckers?" you gave her a seductive look, eyes seeming innocent. she was on the edge, now you were waiting for her fall.

"never said it was, nerd." she smirked. she knew how good you were at school. how you were always studying, always organized and your gpa higher than she was most of the time.

her eyes started to linger down your body. your body temperature rising. her body started to get closer to you, immediately feeling her abs from her shirt. her ocean eyes immediately staring at your lips. she rested one hand on your waist and one hand on your back. paige was just a few inches taller than you, but the height difference spoke loudly in that moment. you grabbed her neck and immediately pulled her in, lips darted to her like something was hypnotizing you or something possessed you in that moment.

the kiss was deep, you tasted cherry from her mouth by the amount of dirty shirely's she had this evening. your lipgloss transferred over to her lips by how deep the kiss was. now feeling tongues as moans filled the air. your moans felt like music to her ears, it was the best thing she could even listen to. her body throbbed hearing your affection. you felt like you could go to heaven just from her kissing you while she was drunk. heads immediately turned to face both of you in the middle on an intimate moment. but you and paige didn't care who was watching. you both were receiving something you haven't gotten in a long time, touch. you hands went to the back of her dirty-blonde straight hair. her hands went up to your moisturized arms that had some shine to them, feeling your softness. it was so, seductive. she released from you. "you don't know how much i fucking missed this." she grabbed your waist and pulled you in for another kiss, this time much longer. you eventually parted her lips from yours to take a sip from your drink. paige grabbed your wrist and took you outside, immediately to her car. cold air lingered on your body as you had no jacket, but that feeling immediately went away when she opened the door and pushed you in the backseat, getting on top of you.

a small inner voice entered you head as you listened to it "oh, no. here we go again."

you ignored it. you stared at her above. "knew i had you wrapped around my finger, bueckers."

[katsukis-wifi]

His Favorite View

☆ katsuki bakugou x f!reader

★ domestic fluff sfw / 100% fluff/ mutual pining (but established)

☆ warnings: language (it’s bakugou), mild suggestiveness, soft!bakugou in denial, emotionally constipated affection

★ word count: ~700

☆ author's note: wow guys!! thank you so much for all the love you gave me on my last fic. i was so nervous to post it and all the support has made my day. you all rock <3 here's a short something I wrote up.

Katsuki Bakugou had spent more time admiring you than he cared to admit out loud. He had favorite moments – little moments he kept tucked away in his brain, ones he looked back on when the world felt too loud. Little moments where he couldn’t believe how fucking lucky he was to love you.

He thought about your first date as teenagers. How you’d shown up in a blouse that accidentally matched his shirt, both of you brushing it off like it wasn’t a big deal while his heart thrashed in his chest the whole time. He’d spent half of the night walking two steps behind you, just to steal a few extra glances when you weren’t looking.

He thought about watching you train– fast, sharp, radiant. How you moved like a storm, hair pulled back, sweat on your skin catching the light like something he could only imagine. He often caught himself holding his breath, jaw tight, as if letting it go would snap the illusion.

But his favorite moment? One that felt like it belonged just to him?

It was watching you in his clothes.

They had never quite fit right on you– always too loose, too big, like they couldn’t keep up with you. His shirts slipped off your shoulders, almost looking deliberate. His hoodie would drown you, sleeves slipping past your fingertips, the hem nearly reaching your knees. And his sweatpants? They barely clung to your hips, sliding low enough to flash the band of whatever soft, dainty underwear you had on underneath. 

You’d always huff and tug them back up, muttering under your breath while you moved around the room. And he’d just sit there, arms crossed, biting back a grin like it wasn’t the best fucking thing he’d seen all day.

“You don’t gotta wear ‘em if they don’t fit,” he’d grumble, trying to sound annoyed with crossed arms as his eyes shamelessly followed you from couch to kitchen and back again.

“I know,” you’d reply, tossing him a sly grin over your shoulder. “But where’s the fun in wearing my own?”

He’d scoff, but he never really meant it. He’d never tell you to stop. He liked it. A lot.

What made it even better was how those same clothes started to fit you worse as time passed– the shirts drooping lower, the sweatpants needing a tighter knot at the waistband. Because while you stayed almost exactly the way he loved you, he just kept getting bigger. Stronger. Broader. And there was something weirdly satisfying about that– about how you looked even smaller in his space.

You caught him staring and smiled, smugly, “I know you like seeing me in your stuff, anyway.”

He snorted, half-amused, “Tch — never said that.”

“You never had to.”

You could see it anyway. In the way his gaze softened, the way it’d linger on you like you were the only thing in the room.

He tilted his head slightly, chin jutting toward you as he crooked a finger in your direction. “C’mere,” he muttered, voice low.

You raised a brow, but your grin widened. As you stepped forward, the waistband of his sweatpants slipped again, tugged a little lower with each step. His eyes followed the motion, jaw tensing like he was trying to be subtle and failing.

He lounged back against the couch cushions now, legs spread wide in that casual, cocky way of his. The second you were close enough, he reached out, calloused fingers curling gently around your wrist. He tugged you forward with that same quiet confidence– never demanding, just certain.

You fell easily into his lap, settling sideways against his chest. His arms wrapped around your waist immediately, palms splayed all over your back like he needed to keep you there. 

“You really are something else,” he whispered gruffly into your shoulder, more to himself than to you.

And you just smiled– because he didn’t have to say anything

You already knew.

[farfromharry]

back together and it feels so good

Summary: You and Lando broke up because of his gruelling schedule, but at a friend’s birthday one night the two of you are brought together again and feelings are spilled. Were you always meant to be together?

w/c 3026

Lando Norris x Reader

a/n clearly i cant write small blurbs anymore lol, reblogs are everything <3

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Your breakup with Lando was mutual… sorta. Clashing schedules meant you rarely got time to be together and too many rumours surrounding him were making you paranoid. Lonely and fearful were no way to be in a relationship. So you ended things and promised to stay friends. He understood. His lifestyle was… different than most. He couldn’t expect you to wait for him all the time. It wasn’t fair. There was no bad blood. There was certainly awkward tension though.

You were in the same friend group, so it was no surprise when you had to see each other all the time. The last thing you expected was to still feel that flutter in your chest when you saw him.

Max’s birthday party was the next event coming up and you were dreading it. He had the whole thing planned out. A fancy dinner with the group of you, followed by a night out at one of London’s most prestigious clubs. You didn’t think you, alcohol and a confined space were going to mix well with the ex you were trying to get over.

Obviously you still loved Lando, you were reminded of that every time you saw his face or someone mentioned his name. He was Lando, he was hard not to love. How were you ever supposed to get over him if all you did was spend time with him?

So, your plan was to try and get out of going to Max’s party. It was a shitty thing to do as a friend and he would probably see through you right away, but it was worth a try.

You tried to play the sick card. The morning of the party you called him, preparing yourself to perform the best acting of your life.

He picked up on the 3rd ring. “Hello?”

You sniffled. “Max, hi. Look, bad news.” Cough. Cough. “I’m really ill, I don’t think I’m going to be able to come tonight.”

There was silence on the other end. For a minute you thought he’d hung up on you. You even pulled your phone away from your ear just to check the call was still connected. When you saw his name still staring at you from the screen, your brow furrowed.

“Max?”

He scoffed. “That’s bullshit. You have to get over this fear of seeing him, Y/N. You’re both acting like children.” He was sick and tired of dealing with both of you. Lando was exactly the same, making excuses to try and get out of any event that would include seeing you. He needed you both to get over whatever this was and realise you were hopelessly in love with each other. Being just friends was never going to work. “You were friends before, you can be friends after. Stop being so selfish.”

It was like a slap to the face. You couldn’t be angry that he was talking to you like this because he was right. You sighed. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. So you’re gonna be there?”

“I’ll be there.”

As soon as the call was over she tossed her phone onto her bed and screamed into her pillow. Tonight was going to be painful. It was mid-scream that Max’s words echoed in her head. You’re both acting like children. Had he already spoken to Lando? Was he saying the same thing? The idea that he might be avoiding you hurt your feelings, even if technically you were doing the same thing. God your love life was so fucked up.

Your heart was in your throat walking into the restaurant. You hoped he hadn’t arrived yet so you could have some liquid courage before he got here.

A table full of your friends was easy to spot, especially considering all the balloons decorating the table, probably there just to embarrass Max.

To your joy, the table was Lando-less for now.

Max grinned at the sight of you. You gave him a quick hug and handed off his present, nothing special. “Glad you could make it.” There was a teasing tone to his voice that made you swat his arm when you stepped back.

“Shut up.”

After saying your hellos to all your other friends that had arrived, you took a seat at the opposite side of the table to the birthday boy. And when the waiter came around you ordered the biggest glass of wine they had. Hopefully by the time your ex arrived you’d be tipsy enough to stand it.

When Lando entered, albeit late like normal, your friends cheered, shouting out things relating to his terrible timekeeping. He rolled his eyes, waving them off and moving to say hello to the birthday boy, offering up his gift also. The two hugged and then the younger man scanned the table for an empty chair. Unfortunately for you, it just so happened to be next to you.

You froze, body tensing and eyes darting to Max as if silently asking if this was his doing. He expertly avoided your gaze but the smirk on his face told you everything you needed to know.

Clearly Lando was having the same reaction. He had no idea how he was supposed to spend the entire dinner sitting by your side without making a fool of himself.

He awkwardly cleared his throat, pulling out the chair and taking the seat with a greeting nod to you. “How have you been, Y/N?” That was probably the first time he’d actually spoken your name in months. He liked to avoid the topic of you wherever possible.

You smiled. “Good. You?”

“Yeah, good.”

Things went silent after that. Awkward. Everyone else around you was already stuck in conversation with someone, probably another one of Max’s doings. So your options were to sit in silence or make uncomfortable conversation with your ex. Weirdly, you chose the latter.

“How’s racing going?” You didn’t need him to tell you. You had watched every race since you broke up, like you always did, but you wouldn’t admit that. It was you who broke up with him, because of racing, you couldn’t let him know that you still took an interest in him.

He frowned, but quickly tried to cover it up with a tight-lipped smile. “It’s okay. Won the first race of the season, doing pretty well.”

“That’s really good.”

Conversation used to flow so easily between you and now everything you said was a dead end. You hated it. It was strange how you can go from being so compatible with someone to not even knowing what to talk about in such a short amount of time. This was your fault. You had messed this whole thing up with him. And sitting here now, you regretted it.

Then the drinks started flowing.

Turns out all it took was a bit of alcohol and you and Lando were back to your old ways. The stories were nostalgic and the inside jokes came back naturally. You couldn’t remember the last time you laughed this hard. Why had you ever given this up?

You were so lost in your giggling with him that you didn’t notice your friends packing up with plans to head to the club next.

“You lovebirds coming?” Max teased.

Lando gave him a middle finger and you simply rolled your eyes. At any other time his comment would have made you angry, but right now you were too joyous (from the alcohol) to care about what he was saying. “We’re coming.”

At some point in the club his hand settled on your lower back, just how it used to, and didn’t move for the rest of the night. He wanted you close, to be touching you. When might he ever get this chance again? He spent the whole night glued to your side.

Around 2am you were officially ready to tap out for the night. Drunk, happy and practically overheating, you decided you were ready for bed.

Rather than calling an Uber you made a beeline for Lando, like you used to. He had been on water for a while, a warning from his trainer when he’d mentioned his best friend’s birthday; don’t get too drunk, was the advice he’d been given. The last thing he wanted was a punishment in the form of extra training, so he would respect Jon’s wishes.

Your arms wrapped around his neck when you were close enough. Logically he should have pushed you away. You weren’t together and you were drunk, he was basically taking advantage. But having your arms around him again felt so nice. He had been longing for it ever since the day you broke up. And you were smiling at him, the kind of smile that made his heart race.

“You having fun?” he asked, smiling right back at you as his hands moved to settle on your waist.

He barely heard you hum, but you did. “Tired. Will you take me home?”

There was no way he would have ever been able to resist the puppy eyes you aimed his way. For a second he could have convinced himself that the 2 of you were still together. It was just like old times.

“Of course.”

In your drunken state you had forgotten to consider that he might have wanted to stay longer, that you were ending his night prematurely. But he hadn’t even hesitated. He didn’t think about himself once.

It was only in the car, with you drunkenly mumbling at his side, that he started to think this might have been a bad idea. He was so in love with you and he was somehow supposed to keep that to himself.

You should have known it was a bad idea letting him take you home, but by that point you’d had far too much to drink to care. You wanted someone comfortable to be with you and that’s exactly what he was. Of course being in a confined space with him was going to bring up feelings you were trying so hard to bury.

You found yourself watching him as he drove, something you used to do a lot when you were together. He was handsome like that, pretty. You couldn’t help admiring him.

He had 4 buttons undone on his shirt and the skin looked enticing. His arms were straining the material and his jaw was clenched, probably to keep himself from saying anything stupid in your presence. It was taking everything in him not to make a love confession right now. With the way you looked tonight, the way you tossed your head back when you laughed, how you swayed to the music in the club, he was surprised he hadn’t done it already.

When he parked the car outside your flat it felt all too soon. This was the most time you had spent together one on one in months, even if you were sitting in silence. You didn’t want it to end yet.

“Do you want to come in for a drink?”

He didn’t look at you, he knew if he did there was no way he would be able to say no. He was trying to find the words to say no, but he didn’t want to.

So he didn’t say anything. He switched off the car, silently giving you the answer you craved so much. You smiled.

The pair of you made the walk up to your apartment like you’d done a thousand times. He couldn’t have possibly forgotten the way, it was basically ingrained in his brain. He used to stay here more than his own flat when he was back in London. He always claimed it was more homey— really he just wanted to spend as much time with you as possible before he had to get back to work.

It wasn’t necessary to ask him what he wanted to drink. You already knew.

You poured yourself and him a drink and then set them on the coffee table wordlessly. For a second you hesitated before sitting down. How close was too close? You didn’t want to get in his space or overstep any unspoken boundaries, but where else were you supposed to go?

“You can sit, Y/N. I’m not gonna bite.”

Your face burned. You were being silly. It was just Lando, the same one you had always known.

Sitting next to him in such close proximity, in a quieter environment just sent your brain haywire. It was barely even a conscious decision to launch yourself into his lap and lock your lips with his.

He was caught off guard but he did briefly kiss you back. Until he realised it was breaking his heart to do it. He pulled back, dropping his head. “We should talk about this,” he sighed. He didn’t want to push you away, but he also wasn’t willing to get his heart broken again. He didn’t have it in him to just be here when you wanted him, he needed you to want him all the time. If he couldn’t have you back 100% then he didn’t want you back. He was doing it to save his own feelings.

The look on your face was one of complete rejection. It made his chest ache. But it had to be done. You cleared your throat, awkwardly climbing out of his lap and sitting beside him again.

Your voice was quiet when you spoke. “Why don’t you want to kiss me?”

The dark haired man sighed. “It’s not that. It’s just… I can’t stop loving you,” he confessed, his voice wavering like he was just a breath away from breaking down. “I’m hung up on you, Y/N, and I can’t let you play around with my feelings because you’re drunk and bored.”

The implication that you may be playing with his feelings stung. You hadn’t meant to intentionally hurt him, not tonight anyway. “I’m not.”

He frowned. “You might not think you are, but-“ He ran his hands over his face in exasperation. This wasn’t a conversation either of you should be having when it was late and you were intoxicated. “What happens after tonight? Do we go back to avoiding each other at social gatherings, or keep having awkward conversations once every 3 months that we both want to escape from?”

It was true. He was making all fair points. All things you hadn’t thought about. “I didn’t mean to.” Your voice was so small and you were practically folding in on yourself to make your stature smaller too. “I just wanted to kiss you. Missed you.”

He smiled sadly. “I know. That’s the worst part.”

You were both silent for a little bit. He was worried that he’d upset you and you were thinking over his words. He had been honest with you and you appreciated that, but now you didn’t know what to do. Your thoughts and your feelings were all over the place.

“Do you ever think about if we didn’t break up?” The words spilled out of your mouth without you even thinking. Of course he would have. He was sitting here telling you this was painful for him and yet you were wondering if he thought about you.

He laughed, but there was no amusement in it. “Every day.” There was a longing look in his eyes when he turned his head your way. He needed you to know he meant every word he was saying. “You’re it for me. I don’t know who I am without you. The day you ended it, I, I didn’t know what to do with myself.”

His words hit you like a ton of bricks. Maybe you had been selfish, too hasty in your decision to end things. You knew what you were signing up for when you agreed to be his girlfriend and yet you acted as though you couldn’t handle it. Lots of people managed to have successful relationships with his fellow drivers or past drivers, things worked for them. Surely there was a way to make it work, something he had begged you to try before you ended it. The longing that had been building in your chest all these months was only growing stronger as you stood here with him.

When you didn’t say anything but grew visibly emotional, he leaned forward. He waited for any sign of rejection before he took a chance and cupped your face with his large hands. He felt it as you leaned into his touch.

“I love you. I don’t want to keep pretending that I don’t.” He was pouring his heart out to you. How were you ever supposed to just walk away?

“Maybe we shouldn’t be friends anymore.”

His face fell. It felt like his heart was being stomped on. “What?” He didn’t truly believe that you could have just stopped loving him that easily. What you had back then was real, wasn’t it? Or was this just your way of ending things before you got too involved again.

“Lando, I think we should try again.”

By the look on his face he was finding it hard to believe the words that had just left your mouth. “Y/N.” If this was a joke, it sure would be an evil one. He didn’t think you were that cruel.

One of your hands came up to settle over his. “I mean it. I was selfish and you probably deserve better than me after ending things like that.” It was true, but he didn’t think that. He wouldn’t want anyone else. “I love you and I will spend however long it takes to make it up to you.”

That sounded like a pretty good plan to him. He probably shouldn’t give in so easily considering the emotions he’d been going through for the past few months, but how was he ever supposed to say no to you? He never could and he probably never would. He finally cracked a smile. “I’m expecting a hell of a lot of grovelling I’ll have you know.”

Your heart fluttered. “No problem.”

Max was totally gonna take credit for this.

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[popcornpoppypop]

Salvation

Summary: Jack needs you like air, but he's too wounded to keep himself from breaking everything.

A/N: I don't really know what this is, but it just sort of came out and I went with it. Just using broken characters to deal with my own breaking or something like that I guess. No warnings outside of heartbreak. Also, I was listening to Waiting Room by Phoebe Bridgers while writing this, so strap the hell in!

The ache never really leaves. It’s always gnawing at him. His leg throbs most of the day. He’s learned to ignore it. He’s learned to let it fuel him at times. The pain can motivate him at the end of a long day, push him forward just enough to finish his job. Lately, the ache has extended to his chest. It snakes it’s way up his body and wraps itself around his heart.

He knew that he was a broken man. Not just his leg, though it was a physical sign of what lay in his mind. A broken mind that pecked at him day in and day out. He fought himself every day.

If you were heaven, he was purgatory. He would never dream of saddling you with him and his damage. You fought with his mind as much as he did. He tried to hide the shame of it all. You could see him in a way no one ever had, ever would.

You didn’t flinch when it became too much for him and he exploded, shrapnel flying your way. You would take the wound, clean yourself and him up. Never shied from the pain.

“Jack, I’m not scared of you.” You whispered one night as he screamed, the pain overflowing like lava from his lips.

“I am! I’m so fucking scared!” He screeched, his hands tugging at his grey locks. He could never tell if the things he did were to keep himself together or tear himself apart. They felt like the same thing.

You wrapped yourself around him, keeping what you could intact. You held his face in your hands, it was red and the veins pushing harshly against his skin.

He saw his salvation in your eyes. The thing about salvation is that it isn’t always a guarantee.  

The ache radiated as he walked into the dark house. The quiet hung heavy in the air, a choking fog that floated throughout.

The only thing he could think about lately was the night you had enough. The night his salvation was denied by his own self-damnation.

“Don’t say that to me! Don’t act like I’m not sacrificing things here too!” Your tears fell down your cheeks; each one was a plea and a prayer.

“You are better than sacrificing anything for me! You’re stupid if you stay! Goddammit!” The venom left his mouth and stung his lips but he couldn’t swallow it back up. It hit you like a ton of bricks.

“Oh. Well.” Your voice shook and it reminded him of the first time he saw a child cry for their mother that wouldn’t open her eyes again.

“You’ll never understand this pain. I don’t know why you fucking try.” He dug the knife deeper. He never could tell if he was trying to keep himself together or tear himself apart.

“I’m done trying. I’m done, Jack. I can’t….I can’t do this to myself anymore.” You let the sob fall from your chest and smash his world apart.

The house felt sterile and haunted. He moved through it, never caring what was broken or battered. His body fell into the couch, his muscles screaming in relief. His mind still raced and pounded at him. He took the prosthetic off his leg, the ache easing from his wound but tightening in his chest.

He fiddled with his phone. The thought to reach out to you, try and find a lifeline, try and stay afloat, toyed with him. He didn’t realize he had dialed your number until your voice broke through his icy wall of self-hatred.

“Jack? Jack, are you okay?” Your voice was still so sweet. Still so soft and kind, like a balm for his depressed mind.

“I…I can’t breathe.” He mumbled.

“What do you mean?” Your voice getting worried, unsure how to help. Always wanting to save him.

“You were my oxygen and I held my breath.” He let his chest crack open a bit.

“Jack…I don’t know how to do this.” You were never one to lie to him. Your honesty kept him from raging against the world. But it didn’t stop the sadness from destroying everything good.

“I know. I don’t either. I just…I see a therapist now. I tell him about you. I tell him how I ruined everything, hurt you when you were trying to keep me alive.” His chest cracks more.

“Jack. Why did you call me? To tell me you’re in therapy?” Your sadness turning to rage for what he took from you.

“I’ve been trying to fix everything. I’ve been doing everything I’m supposed to but none of it fucking matters because you aren’t here. I…I don’t know why I called.” His breath leaves him like defeat.

The silence clings to him, tightening around his throat and making him see stars.

“Jack…if I hang up will you be safe?” Your voice is small and afraid of the answer. He squeezes his eyes shut and beats the edge of the phone into his forehead.

“Yeah, don’t worry about me. I shouldn’t have called. I’m sorry. I miss you is all.” He leaves one last chance at your feet.

“I…I miss you.” You whisper, as if the words would ignite the world and never stop.

He feels his lungs ache for breath and realizes he stopped breathing as your words settled into his mind and put out a small fire.

“Can I see you?” He reaches out a little more. His chest is wide open, his beating heart vulnerable and waiting to be stabbed.

“We can start small. Coffee, tomorrow, at the café you liked near your place. With the park next door.” You grab hold of him, lifting him off the edge.

“Okay. Yeah. Small.”  It’s huge. It’s massive. It’s salvation.

[cosmoszyn]

thinking about prince!zayne who is regarded as the highest scholar of the academy, contributing miles and miles of favorable studies in the medical field of the kingdom despite being a mere student, insofar as mentors acknowledging his wisdom and graces.

except for you.

it was a known fact that when the two of you were placed in the same classroom together in the academy, debates would occur. the back and forth would last for hours, despite the protests from your fellow students. unfortunately for them, the mentors would find your arguments rather amusing and would even pose several questions to trigger even more dispute between the two of you.

however, for zayne, arguing with you felt too troublesome. your stubbornness allowed you to never concede nor recognize his opinions. while you, on the other hand, refuse to let him feel that he has the leverage over you.

due to the heated discussions being the talk of the academy, the news was delivered to the elder.

leading you to your current predicament.

"i demand that you sleep on the floor."

"i refuse. i will never let your royal status get in the way of my nightly comfort and rest," you scoff, crossing your arms against your chest and looking away.

the elder proposed a research over exotic plants in pairs, but the catch is she would be the one to assign the partners and the plants involved.

and you knew in that moment that she schemed to have you by pair with him.

"i did not use my royal status to have you sleep on the floor," zayne argued.

"you demanded," you replied.

"demanded is rather different from commanding you to do so. i assume you'd know the difference since you've buried your nose in books all day."

you gasp at him in outrage, "you overbearing prince!"

he rolls his eyes at you before plopping down at the queen-sized mattress, "should you change your mind about sleeping on the floor, then i'd be more than glad to serve you your pillows and the curtain as your blanket," he replies in his usual flat tone, and yet you could tell the sarcasm lacing his tongue.

zayne fluffs the pillow behind him with his one hand as the other places his glasses on the bedside table.

"as if i'd let you hog the comforts of the bed!" you cry, tossing yourself over the bed and forcefully pulling the blanket away from him to drape it over yourself.

zayne clicks his tongue in annoyance, tugging the other end of the blanket to him, "you are such a nuisance," he comments.

"why, i am grateful to receive such high praise from the prince. i could say the same thing to you," you shoot back with a forceful grip on the cloth.

"strange, i have never received that compliment before from other people," zayne replies, continuing his strong grasp.

"well perhaps, you should talk to other people apart from your servants," you proclaim. and those are the last words that tumble out of your mouth before zayne vigorously heaves the blanket and you to his side, effectively bringing your body to his corner of the bed with a yelp.

a beat of silence engulfed the room.

your chest drapes over his lap while your left hand remains on the cushion beside his thigh, propping yourself up and the right resting on his knee. you could feel your cheeks heating up and your heart picking up its pace.

suddenly, a whirlwind of emotions surges in you. you hastily removed yourself from his body to apologize, because after all, he is still a prince. but before you could turn to him and profusely explain, perhaps even blame him, the gleam from the moon trickling through the sheer curtains of the floor to ceiling windows caught your attention.

it's the full moon.

shit.

you'd be hearing your soulmate's thoughts in no time.

"i could still feel her heartbeat against my skin."

"oh dear heavens this prince is going to behead me!"

you both slowly fixate your gaze to each other.

"fuck."

mweheheh anyone down for an academic rivals to lovers, slow burn, soulmates and fantasy/royalty au prince!zayne? >:))