#I’ve finally begun furnishing!!

[random-jot]

First bookshelf in my new home!!

[hebuiltfive]

Hey, it’s Firstonthescene!! Can I request 2004 Jeff & Penny + Romance for the prompt game please 👉👈 hehe

Hello! Thanks for the request @firstonthescene (and sorry it's taken me so long!)

I've put it up on AO3 here for anyone who'd rather read it there, otherwise it's all below the cut!

The prompt given by the generator was: "Them accidentally (or purposefully) dozing off in a hammock together as the sun sets and the air cools down."

Given Penny's hatred for the hammock in the movie, I thought it was perfectly fitting! I hope that you enjoy it!

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

Penelope had always been stubborn when it came to her opinions, most especially when she had been proven wrong. She wasn’t exactly sure where it came from. Perhaps it was a repurposed defence mechanism which she had developed as a child; unable to control some of her life choices after being born into a strict and rigid societal system, being obstinate had been rather appealing to a young Penelope, and old habits were hard to break. She was always right, with the rare occasion of being wrong, and that wasn’t about to change, no matter how hard Jeff Tracy tried his luck.

It had been her own fault for bringing up the topic. Letting sleeping dogs lie would have been the best approach, and one she would have normally taken, but the hideous thing had caught her eye and now she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

In her defence, the tattered old hammock did look like it had seen better days. Swaying limply between the two trees, it really did appear to be quite literally hanging on by a few threads. Not to mention the lack of cohesion between the design of it and the rest of the patio furniture. At this point it was practically begging for someone to replace it, if only to liven up the place a little.

On more than one occasion, Penelope had been tempted. With Parker’s help — which he would have given wholeheartedly, she was certain — they could have had the dreadful hammock replaced in a snap. No-one would have been any the wiser until it was too late. It would have been an easy switch, but it was something she would never dare do. Penelope had far too much respect for the owners of that ghastly hammock, even if their choice in poolside furnishings left much to be desired, and so she had left the eyesore alone, averting her eyes every time she visited the island and was forced to walk passed it.

For months now, since she had first seen the thing, Penelope had done well to ignore the intolerable hammock.

Until today.

After the family barbecue earlier, she and Jeff had spent the better half of their evening down on one of Tracy Island’s not-so-secret secret beaches. Weeks ago, Jeff had promised Penelope he’d finally teach her how to surf. Making good use of the last of the daylight, he had begun to show her the basics. Now, as the sun had threatened to dive behind the horizon, they had begrudgingly returned to the villa.

As they strolled up the last of the steps, passing the pool and the sun loungers, the hammock had once again caught Penelope’s eye.

“Don’t you think it’s time you replaced that old thing?”

Jeff lugged his surfboard up the last of the steps as Penelope examined the limp fabric critically, pointing towards the trees where it hung. Perplexed by her sudden question, he cast her a curious look. “What, that hammock?”

“It’s positively ghastly.”

“I’ve never really noticed. It just kind of… sits there. Out of the way.”

“It’s an eyesore. It’s barely hanging on there. It looks as thought it’s a relic from the 1980s. No, it needs replacing one of these days before someone gets injured. You know what they say, Jeff; prevention is better than a cure. Replacing that thing before it gives out will be better than waiting for someone to have an accident.

Jeff allowed Penelope to continue, his lips quirking upwards into an amused half-grin.

In her rambling, she hadn’t noticed his quietness until she’d finished. She turned to face him, half-expecting him to agree with her. After all, all her points made were made in truth— any others were based in fact, pending metaphorical certification.

But Jeff did not outwardly agree. He laid down his board, took two steps forward until her was standing in front of her, took her waving, accusing hands in his and then softly claimed, “Penny, it’s a hammock.”

Her eyebrows lowered into a frown. “A ghastly hammock that is a death trap if ever I saw one.”

“Do hammocks usually kill people?”

“That one will. I’m certain of it!”

“Well, it hasn’t yet.”

“One day, Jeff. You shouldn’t tempt fate.”

“Penny, you’re being dramatic. I assure you that hammock is as safe as it was the day we put it up.”

“And when was that exactly?”

“Not the 1980s.”

“Are you sure?”

He chuckled, letting her hands go free. “Positive. It may not look sturdy, but it holds.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Rarely did Penelope regret her words. She never spoke without first thinking through her sentiments. On this occasion, she did.

Taking her words as a challenge, Jeff burst into a jog. He leaped over Kyrano’s gardening, launched himself through the air and threw himself onto the wretched hammock before Penelope could even yell a word of warning. If anyone wanted to question Jeff’s physical health — something the ageist media found immensely interesting upon hearing of his brief return to space a few months back —they’d need only see him perform that stunt again to be convinced he was as fit as a fiddle. Most would probably have been impressed by his skills. Penelope was not one of them.

Her heart was in her mouth.

And he had the nerve to call her dramatic?

The trees creaked and groaned as they catered to the sudden weight of a grown man leaping onto the hammock, but the ropes holding the hammock up held fast and Jeff gently rocked to and fro with the momentum.

He grinned up at her. “See? Perfectly safe!”

Penelope marched over to him, batting leaves and bushes out of the way to reach him. She folded her arms, clearly irritated by his display. “You could have seriously injured yourself pulling a stunt like that!”

But Jeff, like Penny, knew that she wasn’t angry with his reckless behaviour. She’d seen him perform far worse in his line of work, and, likewise, he’d see her dance with death on more than one occasion.

This was about her being proved wrong.

“Penny…”

“You know what they say, Jeff.” She continued defiantly. “That you’re more likely to injure yourself as home, and with crazy antics like this, I can see why.”

He opened up his arms for her, inviting her to join him, but Penelope shook her head.

“Absolutely not! That thing is a death trap!”

“I just jumped into it to prove that isn’t the case.”

“No. No way.”

It wasn’t that Penny didn’t trust Jeff, because she did. Very much so, in fact. Penelope trusted that man with her life and, on many occasions now he had never failed to come through for her. The Grand Canyon, Marrakech, Ilha da Queimada Grande… The list went on. Jeff had never once let her down. He had never once betrayed that trust. She knew that streak wasn’t about to be broken with this hammock, and yet she still found herself hesitating.

Penelope’s gaze travelled the length of the lining, up to the knot that tied the structure off to the trunk. She frowned disapprovingly. “The ropes will snap under the extra weight. I don’t fancy sporting a broken limb. I’ve already used that one as an excuse to get out of obligations, Jeff, and I can’t use it again so soon.”

Determined to be undefeated in her claim regarding the hammock being unsafe, Penelope turned back towards the path. If she didn’t get on it, she couldn’t be proved entirely wrong.

She made it two steps before an arm wrapped around her waist.

Penelope would have easily batted off any assailant who tried that trick, but it hadn’t been an assailant who had grabbed her. Jeff pulled her backwards, back towards the waiting hammock. Knowing her fate was sealed, Penelope didn’t bother trying to fight free at all. In fact, the only fighting she was doing as Jeff dropped back down onto the hammock, dragging Penelope with him, was fighting off her laughter.

Only Jeff Tracy could make her feel like she was seventeen again.

A stray tendril of gold had fallen from her messy bun. He tucked it behind her ear, drawing her into his embrace. Now she was here, she wasn’t going to be able to get away easily.

Not that she necessarily wanted to get away.

Hammock be damned — Penny would use any excuse for a snuggle.

She glanced upwards to see Jeff’s smug grin. In this light, his eyes were more of a soft shade of grey than blue. Penelope was mesmerised by it.

“Ready to admit defeat?” Jeff asked, snapping out of her temporary trance.

“Defeat?”

“I think it’s safe to say the hammock won.”

“I think you’re mistaken.”

“It hasn’t collapsed. We haven’t died. You’re still laying in it.”

“I didn’t have much of a choice.”

“We can stay here all night if we have to.”

“And watch the beautiful sunset? I don’t see how that’s much of a threat, Jeff.”

In unison, they both glanced over to the horizon. The sun was breaching the horizon, rays reflecting off the waves in the distance. The sky was alight with deep oranges and soft toned pinks. Clouds interrupted the colour show and shadowed outlines of birds swooped and swarmed in clusters. The Pacific roared, crashing into the rocks of the island in a cacophony of sounds.

Jeff held Penelope tighter. His arm, still around her, drew her closer.

Penelope tore her gaze away from the glorious sunset and was met with a face full of grief. She had seen it on Jeff multiple times over the last couple of months, that faraway look, but Penelope never resented it. She did not like it, of course, for it signified the one thing she knew she would never be able to fully heal for him, but she could understand it, perhaps even better than most.

She raised her finger, booping him on the nose.

Jeff’s attention snapped back to her, apologetic and slightly startled, but Penelope merely grinned.

“I know you can hardly keep your eyes off the sky at the best of times, and tonight I must concede that it is exceptionally gorgeous, but you do have company, Jeff Tracy.”

“Sorry.” He chuckled, any thoughts and memories being pushed away to the recesses of his mind. He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. “I wanted to give the sunset a moment of appreciation before I settled my gaze on the prettier sight.”

“Oh? Is there a meteor shower or something I don’t know about?” Penelope teased, knowing full well there was not. She enjoyed watching the roll of his eyes, hearing his fond, if a little exasperated, sigh.

As she rested back, her head finding a pillow in the safety of his shoulder, Jeff propped his cheek on the top of her head. He offered a gentle squeeze of her hand. “Fancy a vacation?”

“Is this not already one?”

“Not for me it isn’t.”

“Your life is one big vacation.”

“I think you’re underestimating all the work we do on this island, Penny.”

“Fair point. What were you thinking?”

Jeff idly traced circles on the back of her hand and Penelope knew, without having to look back up at him, that he was staring out at the great beyond again.

For a few moments, Jeff said nothing more. In his hold, and with the dying sunset on the horizon, Penelope’s eyelids began to feel heavy.

Then, after a deep inhale, Jeff softly suggested, “Somewhere far away. Maybe that new space hotel? That looks pretty interesting.”

Fighting off sleep a little longer, Penelope forced herself to reply in her normal tone. “The one Brains helped design, you mean? Yes, I was talking to Parker the other day about organising a visit.”

She bit back a yawn and she could feel Jeff’s smile through her hair.

“We can arrange something in the morning.” He continued his whispering. “If you’d like to go?”

“I would love to, but would the boys be okay with you being away for a few days?”

“I was thinking of it being more like a week or two.” He joked with a half-laugh. “But I’m sure they’ll do fine. Scott needs a little room to spread his wings, get used to some leadership without feeling like I’m watching over his shoulder. I won’t be here forever.”

The thought was a sobering one. If Penelope wasn’t on the verge of falling asleep, she would have tackled it more ferociously. Instead, trying to sound as stubborn as possible, she responded with, “No, but you’re going to be here for a long while yet, if I can help it.”

“Are you going to fight Death himself for me, Penny?”

“You know I’d fight anything for you, Jeff Tracy.”

He pressed another kiss to her forehead. “Do you want to move inside?”

“Absolutely not. I’m far too comfortable here now.”

“Ah, so you do admit defeat!”

Too tired to understand entirely what he meant, Penelope furrowed her brows. “What?”

“You admit defeat, regarding this hammock.”

In truth, Penelope had forgotten exactly where they had become so snug. The hideous hammock, for all its faults she tried to point out, was annoyingly cozy.

Stubborn to a fault, she grumbled. “We can talk about that in the morning too.”

Jeff chuckled. “Goodnight, Penny.”

[ghostlyshylee]

Chocolate Factory Mischievous Adventures

[Author's Notes: This is an older fic I wrote around 2017 and posted on my old deviantart page, I don’t really use it anymore and a recent interaction made me feel inclined to post it here (as rough as it may be hehe). This fiction has been heavily revised from it's original and slimmed down. This is intended to be the Charlie and the Chocolate Factory from the 1971 film! Word count: 1355] ------

"Quite stupendous, isn't it?" Asked Wonka

"Simply amazing, Mr.Wonka!" Charlie replied

Wonka had been chaperoning Charlie around the unseen sections of the factory and boy was there a lot! "I'd say we've covered nearly every room from the tallest to the smallest! I've gotten a bit famished during this wonderful tour." As if on que, Charlie's stomach let out a small growl.

"I see I'm not alone." Chuckled Wonka

"A bite would be nice." Said Charlie a bit sheepishly

"Splendid! I'll have the Umpa-lumpas prepare dinner right away!"

After some time had passed while trying to find their way through what seemed to be corridor after corridor, they finally came across a well furnished lounge. Equipped with a bubbly soda machine, a chocolate espresso dispenser, what seemed to be a raspberry licorice fireplace with an equally red fire and some red cushioned couches and chairs, fit for any aristocrat.

"Ah, this'll do nicely! We'll wait out the remainder of the time here until dinner is ready." Exclaimed Wonka while taking a liking to one of the rather large couches. Charlie not wanting to be rude, followed suit and sat close to Wonka on the same couch.

"So, is there anything you'd like to talk about while we wait for dinner? Well, anything we *haven't* already covered that is." Joked Wonka. Charlie thought for a moment and recalled a question he, at the time, thought it to be too personal to ask but now seemed perfect, having gotten to know the chocolate connoisseur personally.

"Actually, I was wondering what happened to your family." Asked Charlie nervously. This took Wonka back a bit by surprise, not really expecting a question so personal.

"That is an interesting question to ask, Charlie." Wonka replied, shifting a little in his seat.

"Sorry if it's too personal!" Charlie quickly replied, worried he touched a nerve.

"No, no. You have to the right to ask, my boy." Wonka assuring Charlie with a warm smile.

"Where do I even begin? Well, my father was a hard, good working man. Always managed to scrape us by with what little he had. My mother was a good, strong, caring woman. She always made sure we had something to eat and always loved us."

"What happened to them?" Charlie asked.

Wonka sighed a bit. "Well eventually one gets old and tuckered out from working as long as they have, eventually they retire and finally rest."

"Sorry for bringing it up." Charlie apologized, feeling he definitely overstepped. Wonka picked up on his change in body language and while he understood Charlie's embarrassment he didn't much care for the guilt written expression is protégé wore.

"It's alright, Charlie." Said Wonka, leaning in close to help ease the tension. "They were good people and loved their family very much and that love they left behind I intend to share with others." Wonka assured the boy, but Charlie could only look over his knees forlorn. Wonka noticing his upset demeanor, thought of a little "feel better" plan.

"Charlie?"

"Ye-yes?" Charlie stammered, snapping out of his daze.

"Why don't we play a game until dinner is ready?"

Charlie's eyes lit up at the suggestion. "What kind of game?" Asked Charlie, interest piqued.

"I think you'll enjoy this one! Now, all you have to do is close your eyes and put your hands on your head." Charlie blinked in confusion. "Don't worry the fun comes after you've begun. Are you ready?"

Charlie nodded in response, hands resting on head. "Ok then, close your eyes." As Charlie did as instructed, Wonka carefully got up from his seat and made his way behind where the young boy sat.

"Now count to ten." Wonka instructed, a hint of mischievousness while he spoke.

"One, two, three-eeheheh!" Charlie immediately tried cover his exposed sides but found his hands held together by a firm grip.

"Wha-hut, what?! Why? Hehehehehehehe!" Charlie squirming in his seat, was taken by surprise as the sensation of clawing fingers attacked his upper ribs.

"I just felt as though you needed a bit of cheering up." Smirked Mr.Wonka as he worked his way down the right side of Charlie's ribs. "No-ho-ho! Sto-ho-hop! Hehehehe! I-I'm heheheheheh all cheered up-hup now!”

Mr. Wonka simply sighed. "You can't fool me! I know you still feel bad and that's why I'm going to do *this*."

Before Charlie could reply, Mr.Wonka began to dig his fingers into his stomach all the while tickling the other side of his ribs with his new found free hand.

"AH-ahaha! N-no! Ahaha! Do-hon't! Plea-he-hease sto-ho-hop!" Charlie now desperate to get free, managed to wiggle himself out of his capture's tickly grasp causing him to land on his side, nearly face planting into the couch cushion.

"I see you've had enough?" Wonka chuckled.

Charlie, still catching his breath managed to prop himself up. "Ye...yeah-hah-ha... that was... a mean trick." He said still catching his breath.

"Mean trick? I barely even did anything!" Wonka feigning to sound hurt.

"Why, I could show you a mean trick." Wonka said while smiling mischievously. Charlie eyed his mentor, giddiness causing him to squirm and giggle as Wonka took a seat next to him.

"Now, I could do something .. like THIS!" Before Charlie could react, Wonka restrained him with his own weight, trapping the poor boy's lower body.

"Ah-hahah!" Laughed a surprised Charlie.

"And I could've done something like... this." Mr.Wonka lifted up Charlie's shirt to expose a soft abdomen. Wonka couldn't help but notice how malnourished  Charlie's body still looked, even after being a resident at the Chocolate Factory for roughly a month now. Honestly, this just strengthed his resolve in mentoring the poor boy.

Charlie chuckled nervously while trying to break free but this in turn caused Wonka to restrain his hands with one of his own.

"Please don't, I'm sorry!" He apologized in hopes to somehow diffuse the matter.

"Too late now." Wonka said in an exaggerated villain voice while sporting a seemingly "evil" grin.

"No, wait! Wai-hai-hait! AHA-haha-hahaha!

Mr.Wonka had begun scratching Charlie's stomach, quite similarly to scratching a dog.

"Gah-hahahahahah! No-hohohohah! AH-hahahah!" Wonka noticed a pitch increase when he moved near his belly-button.

"Oh-hoh! How interesting!" Following his intuition, Wonka began digging into Charlie's navel and in turn gave him a loud and squeaky laughter.

"WAH-HAHA! AHAHA! N-NO FAIR-HAIR!"

Wonka chuckled at the silly scene before him. As if he didn't find Charlie endearing enough, this just enhanced his cuteness in Wonka's eyes. Charlie's face started to flush quite a bit, signaling he definitely needed a break.

"Gah-hah, ha-ha... thanks for... for stopping." Charlie said as Wonka lifted off his small frame.

"You ok?" He said, voiced with a hint of concern. Charlie could only nod in response, still full of giggles.

"Sorry that I over did it there, champ." Wonka apologized while helping Charlie up. "It's ok. I had fun and you're right, I do feel cheered up." Charlie smiled warmly at the older man.

"But you DID almost kill me!" Charlie joked getting a chuckle from Wonka. A familiar chine interrupted their bonding, signaling it was the top of the hour.

"Well would you look at that! Time for dinner. We better get going, don't want to keep the folks waiting!" And with that, Wonka and Charlie continued down to the dining hall, both feeling just a bit closer.

[And that’s a wrap! It’s been a LONG time since I wrote last but honestly? Revising this and adjusting the dialogue a bit to more of my liking made me just smile while doing it. I honestly really miss this. And thank you, kind reader, for giving my fiction the time of day <3]

[ignitingwriting]

Igniting Writing ‘Families and Friendships’ Contest 2023, Submission by Shreya

The Revolution

A tinkling laugh echoes in my mind. It’s the laugh of a child, sweet and pure.

A garden appears then. The smell of the luscious bright green grass reaches my nose and a golden haze makes everything glow.

The garden is very meticulous: trimmed rose bushes of every variety, flower beds bordering the lawn, bushes carefully placed around the pond in the centre, filled with fish with shimmering scales and blooming lotus flowers.

Then there is the gazebo diagonal to me – painted in a dazzling, pristine white. Standing in the centre of it are a few people dressed semi-formally with glasses or plates of food in their hands. They seem to be talking and laughing.

At the heart of them are four people, two couples who seem to shine. The way they’re holding themselves, it’s obvious they’re the hosts of this event. Everyone there has their backs to me though, denying me a proper look at their faces.

As I look around, I see there are more people and a table full of food in the corner with a barbecue next to it. But all the people have obscured faces or are turned away from me. Those four people too. They seem familiar.

The same laugh from before fills the garden and I finally turn to look in front of me. I’m behind a swing on which a girl, with shiny chestnut hair flowing behind her, sits as I push her forwards.

“More!” she calls. “Faster! Higher!” she squeals. It’s all so bright. So vivid. It almost seems real, yet particular aspects are shrouded with a cloak and the entire thing is masked by an overlaying fog.

Suddenly, I realise that I’ve moved away from the whole scene. The voices have become muffled and black nothingness has crept in at the sides.

--

My eyes snap open – the dream vanishing in an instant – and I sit upright with a start. My hands automatically go to my face and I rub my eyes, trying to shake off the unsettling feeling. The same dream. It was the same dream.

I remove my hands from my face and take in my room. The same sharp and practically furnished room. The wardrobe in the corner, the chest of drawers in front of the bed, the armchair beside the desk: all in monochrome.

I turn my head to the digital alarm clock on the side-table. The glowing red light reads exactly 01:03 AM. It would be difficult to go back to sleep now. And when it would come, it would already be five o’clock.

The dream always feels so real, like a memory. A forgotten one, though. I had grown up in and was still surrounded by luxury. Yet, that girl… I was certain she wasn’t part of my childhood. Nor those four people. Why was she so familiar then? There was no-one like her that I knew. None of my parents’ friends, or anyone I worked with, and certainly not in my social circle.

Who was she?

Why this dream?

Is there something I don’t remember?

--

For once I was still thinking about the dream hours later, even as I did up the gleaming buttons on my uniform and made some breakfast. I was still lost in deep thought as I grabbed my ID card and my keys, finishing the last bite of my toast and locking the door behind me. From here on, I was smooth. My face completely neutral. Sharp and calculated: a true agent of the Institution.

I already had to be alert. For weeks now, something had been brewing at the heart of our world. Something that could explode and shatter it. The air seemed hot and prickly everywhere, on every level on every floor. From the department heads like me to the cleaners, everyone was on edge.

Recently whispers had begun to fly questioning the Institution and its position. People were getting restless, bored of the decades long peace and order that had been created and instead longing for a revolution.

Today, I had to be prepared for anything. Especially with the important meeting including the section leaders and sector leader present. Realising I had reached my destination, I swiped my card, took a silent deep breath and pushed open the metal door.

The grim face of the Area Management Officer faced me. My heart stopped.

As I quickly saluted and took my seat, I could see every single person in the room was white as a sheet and tight-lipped already. Only then did I realise who was opposite me. The girl. From the dream. Somehow it had all come together, like pieces from a puzzle. A symbol.

It could only mean one thing.

The time had come.

It was here.

[autolovecraft]

Birch, but you knew what a little man old Fenner was.

He was a scoundrel, and I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself.

Birch, though dreading the bother of removal and interment, began his task of transference one disagreeable April morning, but ceased before noon because of a heavy rain that seemed to irritate his horse, after having laid but one mortal tenant to its permanent rest. Birch still toiling. It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley; and was a very calloused and primitive specimen even as such specimens go. In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant.

I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here. An eye for an eye! The air had begun to be exceedingly unwholesome; but to this detail he paid no attention as he toiled, half by feeling, at the heavy and corroded metal of the latch. Why did you do it, Birch? Birch heeded this advice all the rest of his life till he told me his story; and when I saw the scars—ancient and whitened as they then were—I agreed that he was reduced to a profane fumbling as he made his halting way among the long boxes toward the latch.

Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago. In either case it would have been appropriate; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit. Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the right grave.

Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door. It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before. Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago. At last the spring thaw came, and graves were laboriously prepared for the nine silent harvests of the grim reaper which waited in the tomb, and the emerging moon must have witnessed a horrible sight as he dragged his bleeding ankles toward the cemetery lodge; his fingers clawing the black mold in brainless haste, and his aching arms rested by a pause during which he sat on the bottom box to gather strength for the final wriggle and leap to the ground outside. As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been encouraging and to others may have been encouraging and to others may have been just fear, and it may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities. There was nothing like a ladder in the tomb, and the overhead ventilation funnel virtually none at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week. Birch, though dreading the bother of removal and interment, began his task of transference one disagreeable April morning, but ceased before noon because of a heavy rain that seemed to irritate his horse, after having laid but one mortal tenant to its permanent rest. He was curiously unelated over his impending escape, and almost dreaded the exertion, for his form had the indolent stoutness of early middle age. He confided in me because I was his doctor, and because he probably felt the need of confiding in someone else after Davis died. As he planned, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in relentless captivity. Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced. This arrangement could be ascended with a minimum of awkwardness, and would furnish the desired height.

[unwrittenlibrary]

adore you

summary // bucky and alpine enjoy their solitude, but the girl across the hall is slowly creeping into their hearts. (bucky x fem!reader)

words // 7.4k

warnings // diverges from canon & no major spoilers.

notes // just thousands of words of fluff bc that’s all i know how to write. maybe one day i’ll venture into anything else. fluffy bucky has my heart 

reblogs & replies are greatly appreciated!

》* 。 • ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ • 。* 。° 。* 。 • ˚《

The first time you knock on Bucky’s door Alpine wanders over curiously.

Bucky stares at the door silently urging you to go away. You knock again and Alpine begins to paw at the door before meowing loudly, which makes Bucky groan. “I’m coming.” He calls as he stands from the couch. He pauses the movie playing on his television, something ridiculous that Sam had insisted on. Alpine meows again and Bucky can hear you laugh through the door. 

He pulls on a hoodie that’s laying on his counter and stuffs his left hand into the front pocket. When he pulls the door open you smile brightly. “James!” 

The two of you had met briefly when Bucky had originally moved into the building. You had smiled the same bright smile in the elevator and offered up your name easily. Bucky had smiled tightly in return and told you his full name, a habit he had yet to break, and he deeply regretted it. Every time you passed in the hallway you called out a cheery James despite Bucky’s corrections. 

“It’s Bucky.” He mutters. Your eyes move over his shoulder and Bucky watches as you take in his very undecorated and barely furnished apartment. Bucky didn’t mind how seemingly empty his place was. He wasn’t home a lot and nobody but Sam spent time with him. Sam might think it was time to add barstools and a spice rack, but Bucky was content with how things were. 

Your attention is pulled to Alpine as he peeks out from behind Bucky’s legs. “And who are you?” You ask quietly as you squat down to meet his eyes. You hold a cautious hand out and Alpine only stares. You wait for a moment before he turns and moves back into the apartment. 

You don’t seem to take it to heart though. You laugh as you stand up. “He takes after his dad, huh.” There’s a teasing glint in your eyes and Bucky should be offended but the comment actually makes him smirk. 

“His name is Alpine.” Bucky says monotone as he watches you rock back and forth on your feet. “Did you need something?” 

“Oh!” Your eyes light up as if you had completely forgotten your reason for coming here in the first place. “I need salt! Do you have any?” Your eyes move behind him again as if you’re now suddenly worried the answer won’t be yes. 

“I have salt, yes.” He doesn’t move from his spot and only stares down at you. Your eyes flicker around the hallway before you smile nervously. “Can I have some?” You ask quietly. 

Bucky nods and makes his way into his kitchen. He expects you to stay and wait in the doorway, but he hears the door shut behind you.

“Didn’t want him to get out.” You say as you lean against his counter. Bucky’s a little put off by your brazen personality, but you don’t seem to notice his discomfort. “How long have you lived in DC?” You ask as Bucky moves to pull the salt out. 

“How much do you need?” He asks instead of answering. 

“Not much! A couple teaspoons.” Bucky’s stoic attitude doesn’t seem to deter you at all. He glances around the bare kitchen before deciding to just give you the shaker. 

“I don’t have anything to put it in, just make sure to return it eventually.” He shrugs as he slides it over to you. You grasp it in your hand but make no effort to move. Bucky sighs. “And I’ve lived here for a couple years now. I… I moved here after the Blip.” 

He wonders briefly if you know who he is. He’s not sure what happened in the years of the blip, if his name had been marked on one of those memorials. That had been before his pardon, so he assumes not. He wonders if Steve’s exhibit had been changed. He hadn’t been back since before the blip. Was he still in it? Had they changed it or was Bucky Barnes still dead in America’s eyes? His eyes find yours and then he wonders if you did know who he was, were you worried? 

You seemed fine around him. He hadn’t seen any recognition on your face when he had introduced himself all those months ago. A frown tugs at your lips. “Were you…” You trail off but Bucky knows the question. 

Bucky nods tightly and you take a step away and move towards his door, like you know he’s reached the limit on sharing personal details for the night. “Me too.” You finally say when your hand lands on his door knob. You pause. “It’s weird. Right? Coming back to a completely different world?”’

“Yeah.”  He nods. You have no idea, he thinks. He had just begun to figure out how to live free again and then he was gone. And when he came back, he was thrust into battle then lost Steve to a world Bucky was no longer a part of. “It’s weird.” 

You smile apologetically. “Thank you for the salt, James.” You say quietly. His eyes flash to yours but your face doesn’t give much away. 

He nods and the door slams shut. Alpine comes trotting out and rubs against Bucky’s shins. “Yeah, she’s weird.” Bucky reaches down to softly pet Alpine’s back. “Pretty though, huh?” 

Alpine pushes against his hand and Bucky takes that as agreement enough. 

//

Bucky liked helping Sam down at the VA. Handing things out, setting things up, and talking with veterans gave Bucky a sense of something. It gave him something to do when Sam and him weren’t away on missions. 

And he got to spend time with Sam. While it was something he would never admit to the man, he enjoyed his company. Sam had slowly become Bucky’s best friend. Not that Bucky really had any other close friends. 

“Thanks for helping out today.” Sam smiles as Bucky leads him through the hallway towards his apartment. “But you know, you can just come for a meeting. To talk.” 

Bucky nods. He did know that, really. But Bucky was okay with listening for now. Maybe one day he would share some of his story, but helping out now was helping him. 

Bucky stops short in the hall when he notices something sitting outside his door. He throws an arm out that Sam slams into. “Jesus, what…” He trails off when he notices what Bucky had seen. 

There’s a small brown box sitting on the ground. “Stay here.” He murmurs as he begins to move towards the object. Sam gives Bucky a look before following behind him. “Or not.” He glares. Both men kneel down in front of the box. There’s not much that gives anything about what’s in the box away, just his name written in fancy script. 

He reaches a hand out to touch it when the sound of your door opening makes him second guess and pull away. You were a little weird, but he didn’t want to blow you up. 

“James!” Him and Sam look over at you as you lock your door. You’ve got a red apron wrapped around your waist and your bag is slipping off your shoulder. Before Bucky can say anything like be careful, you furrow your brows at the men. “What are you doing? Do you not like cookies?” 

“Cookies?” Bucky asks as he glances down at the box again. Sam has already stood up and straightened out, but he’s still kneeling in front of the door. He can hear Alpine pawing at it, no doubt having heard Bucky’s voice, and he feels a little ridiculous now. “It’s Bucky.” He adds on now that he knows it’s not an explosive sitting in front of him. 

You nod slowly with a confused smile on your face. “Cookies. I made a bunch so I packed up the extra for you. When I knocked nobody answered so I left them, I wasn’t sure if I’d be home when you got back.” 

Bucky feels heat rise to his cheeks. He hastily picks the box up and stands. Sam laughs loudly and Bucky glances at him coldly. “Thanks.” He says quietly. 

You rock back and forth on your feet again. Must be a nervous habit, Bucky thinks. “I also made some cat treats. For Alpine.” Bucky recognizes the nervous tone in your voice as you stare at the box in his hands. “Thank you. For the help.” You say before spinning on your heel. You freeze and turn again, this time your eyes land on Sam. “Nice to meet you, Captain America, sir.” You look like you’re thinking of throwing your hand up in salute, but instead you turn again and rush down the hall. 

Bucky just stares after you until a muffled meow breaks his focus. He shakes his head before shoving the box into Sam’s hands and moving to unlock the door. “So.” Sam says with a poorly contained smirk as he follows Bucky inside. “She seems nice, James.” 

Bucky groans before snatching the box from his hands. “She knows I go by Bucky, she just calls me that to mess with me… I think.”

“And she knows Alpine?” Sam kneels down to pet said cat, but he jumps away and hides behind Bucky’s legs. “Come on, Al. We’ve known each other since you were adopted.” Sam stands up and rolls his eyes at Bucky. 

Bucky laughs softly at the cat. “She asked to borrow salt last night and kind of met him. Alpine didn’t really stick around to hang out with her.” He begins to open the box and notices a small note taped to the inside of the lid. 

He pulls it off hesitantly. “What’s her name?” Sam leans against the counter and pulls a cookie out of the box.

“Y/N.” He says quietly as his eyes skim over the note. 

James, 

Thank you for the salt. And the conversation. I hope you enjoy the cookies. I made some simple tuna treats for Alpine. 

Step One in getting your cat to love me. 

Bucky lays the note on his counter and looks into the box. His shaker is standing in the corner next to a small plate of cookies and a jar of what he assumes are the cat treats. Sam laughs and Bucky glances up to see him reading over the note. “Hey!” Bucky yanks it out of his hand and shoves it into one of the drawers in front of him. 

“Getting Alpine and you to love her, she means.” He laughs again and Bucky rolls his eyes. “That’s cute. I didn’t know you had a little flirtationship going on.” 

Bucky scoffs. “I don’t… What does that even mean? Did you see us in the hall? I don’t flirt with her.” 

Sam reaches for another cookie. “Really? Just felt like that’s how you would flirt. And you blushed so…” He trails off with a smirk. 

“I wasn’t blushing!” Bucky says defensively. He didn’t blush just because a pretty girl gave him cookies. He wasn’t in middle school. When Sam reaches for another cookie, Bucky yanks the box away. “Are you gonna order dinner or stand here and eat all of my cookies?” 

Sam throws his hands up in mock surrender and pulls out his cell phone. “Hey. No need to get defensive. Maybe it was just hot in the hallway.” He moves into the living room and flings himself onto the small couch. 

Bucky scoffs and looks down at Alpine, who has made himself comfortable at Bucky’s feet. “I wasn’t blushing.” He says quietly to the cat. Alpine just blinks. Bucky pulls a treat out of the small jar and holds it out to him. “You know I wasn’t blushing.” 

//

The next time Bucky sees you, it’s him at your door. He’s got a clean plate in his hand and is decidedly not nervous as he waits for you to answer. 

He lifts his hand to knock again when the door swings open. You’re standing in nothing but a sweatshirt and shorts that barely peek out from beneath it. Bucky swallows and forces his eyes up from your legs to your face. 

He gives you an apologetic smile when he sees your raised brows. “James.” You smile kindly as you lean against your door frame. “What can I do for you?” 

“Bucky.” He says automatically. He holds the plate out and notices your eyes catch on his gloved hands. “Figured you might want this back. I washed it.” 

You take the plate from his hands. “Thank you.” Bucky doesn’t move from his spot in the hallway. He’s not really sure why because he’s done what he needed to do. He just wanted to enjoy your presence, he assumes. You had begun to grow on him and your cookies were really good. Or maybe he had always kind of liked you. 

“Do you want to come in?” You ask. There’s an inviting smile on your face and he almost says yes. He wants to say yes. But he didn’t want to leave Alpine alone, he had already been gone for most of the day. 

Bucky gives you an apologetic smile. “I would… But I don’t want to leave Alpine alone.” You nod with a soft smile and Bucky watches for a moment before taking a step back.

“I’ll just…” He points over shoulder at his door. He turns and starts the short walk to his door. 

You laugh quietly. “Have a good night, James.” 

“Bucky.” He corrects. He takes a deep breath and turns to face you again. You’re still standing in your doorway watching him amused. “Do you want to… You can come to mine instead?” 

Your small smile transforms into something bright and excited as you nod. “That would be great. Let me grab my keys.” You hold a finger up and disappear into your apartment. 

As soon as you're out of sight Bucky slumps against the wall. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He thinks. His living room is bare except for the small, shitty couch Sam had persuaded him into buying. That and a lamp on an Ikea side table and his television. 

He imagined your living room was much homier. Probably decorated to fit your aesthetic and cozy. What would you think of his place? What did you think? You couldn’t mind it too much if you agreed to come, right? 

His nervous train of thought is disrupted when he hears your door slam shut. Bucky watches as you lock your door quickly. “Lead the way!” You look at Bucky with teasing eyes. 

Bucky smiles hesitantly as he turns towards his own door. When he opens it, he finds Alpine laying on the back of the couch and he stares confused at Bucky and the new addition to the apartment. 

“You remember Alpine.” Bucky says with a small smile as he beckons you further into the apartment. “It’s not much-“

“-It’s nice.” You cut him off. You’ve got a genuine smile on your face and Bucky begins to wonder why he had ever been nervous. You’d always been kind, he couldn’t imagine you having anything rude to say. “Hi, Alpine.” You say quietly as you step cautiously towards the couch. 

Bucky watches as Alpine looks up at you equally as cautious. “Nice to see you again. I hope you like the treats.” At the word, Alpine perks up and looks at you intrigued. 

Bucky quietly pulls a couple treats out of the jar. He moves as subtly as he can in order to avoid shifting Alpine’s attention. “Here.” He slips a treat into your hand. “See if he comes to you.”

You hold the treat out in front of you and Alpine sniffs the air. You don’t say anything, like you know trying to coax the cat to you might spook him. Alpine seems to appreciate it and moves towards you slowly. He snatches the treat from your hand before dashing away. He disappears down the hallways, but you don’t seem to care because you spin around to face Bucky with a happy smile. 

“Did you see that?” You laugh. Bucky swallows and nods. Briefly he thinks you have a beautiful smile before shaking the thought off. You take a seat on his couch and pull your legs up underneath you. “I’ll be his favorite in no time.”  

Bucky snorts. “I’m sure.” He says sarcastically. He sits next to you on the couch and moves to hand the remote to you. He lets a small smile be directed at you as he watches you make yourself comfortable in his home. It’s not much, but you seem to fit right in. 

When your eyes land on his gloved hands again, he thinks you’re gonna ask for a reasoning behind them. He’d have to come up with a poor excuse, not wanting to share the truth yet. But your eyes move from his hands to his face and you take the remote with a smirk. “You ever seen Legally Blonde?”

And, well. That’s that. 

//

The next time you and Bucky see each other, it’s in passing. He’s going out as you’re coming in. There’s a grease stain on your shirt and your red apron is barely stuffed into your purse.

Bucky hesitates for a moment. “Hey.” He says quietly. You spin around and slam backwards into your door. “Fuck. I didn’t mean to scare you, I’m sorry.” He takes a cautious step towards you. His eyes trail over your face, your eyes are red and he can tell how exhausted you are. 

“It’s okay.” You say quietly. You take a few calming breaths. “I was in my head. It was a rough night.” 

Bucky leans against the wall next to you. “Wanna talk about it?” He’s grown so used to you just stopping to chat that this tense silence feels wrong. Normally he wouldn’t even have to prompt you, he would listen as you just launch into a story easily.

You trail your eyes over his outfit. “You look like you’re headed out.”

Bucky shrugs and doesn’t move from his spot. “Just a recap then. I have time.” He’s not sure what’s inspired him to do this. But he thinks it has something to do with this newfound fondness to your bright personality. He wants it back. 

You take a deep breath and nod. “Come in for a glass of water? Then I’ll let you go.” 

Bucky sighs in relief. “Sounds perfect.” He follows you into the apartment. It’s different from his. Bright, like you. You’ve got posters hanging neatly on the wall your tv is against. Plants sitting by your window. A large couch and soft rug. “Nice place.” He comments as he moves to sit on one of your barstools.

You laugh softly. “Thanks.” You drop your purse onto the counter and turn to pull two glasses out of the cupboard. “Where are you headed? If you don’t mind me asking.” 

Bucky glances at the time on your stove. “Oh… I help my friend out with meetings at the VA. I was headed to help him set up.” 

You slide a glass of water towards him. “You’re a vet?” He takes it with an appreciative smile. “I didn’t…” You shake your head. “Thank you.” 

Bucky shakes his head. “I’m not…” He trails off unsure of how to explain his status to you. Did you really not know who he was? “Tonight's topic is you.”

You roll your eyes and lean back against the counter. “Have you ever just had a bad day? Where nothing seems to go right?” Bucky nods and you sigh. “My master’s thesis, I’ve been working on it for months, I got back my draft today from my advisor and he tore it apart. Had a good cry about that. Got called in early to work, I need the money so I said yes. The diner was busy and we were short staffed. To top it off, my last customer of the night was a douche. He hit on me all night. When I told him no to getting my phone number, he threatened to take my tip away.” You laugh bitterly as Bucky sits in silence, listening intently. “And then when I walked away, he tried to grab me. So… Stellar night over all.” 

“Want me to kill him?” The words are out of Bucky’s mouth before he can think. He couldn’t imagine being forced to be nice to somebody who was just harassing him all night. In fact, he knows he wouldn’t be. And he knows you certainly didn’t deserve treatment like that. 

You let out a shocked laugh that turns into a full blown laughing fit. Bucky lets out an awkward chuckle as he watches you shake. 

“That’s…” You trail off and Bucky notices tears gathering in your eyes. “That’s really sweet.” You say wetly. 

“Hey.” Bucky stands up and takes a step towards you. He pauses, unsure of what to do, but when you start to shake again, this time with tears, his decision is made. “Hey. You’re okay.” 

He pulls you into him and you come easily. You wrap your arms tightly around his waist and rest your head against his chest as you let it out. 

Bucky rubs your back and tries his best to calm his rapidly beating heart. He hopes you can’t hear it because he’s sure it would break any kind of aura of nonchalance he had created. 

He glances at the time again. He really has to go. The meeting was starting soon and he’s sure Sam is worried about where Bucky is. He pulls back slowly, not wanting to let go. 

You look at him with sad eyes. “I’m so sorry. I have to go.” You nod dejectedly and take a step back. You don’t go too far, both of your hands still clinging to his jacket. “Can you watch Alpine?” He rushes the words out and he knows there’s a light blush rising to his cheeks. He just wants to make you feel better and he really does hate leaving his cat alone. 

You furrow your brows. “What?” 

“I mean.” He takes a hurried step back suddenly aware of you still wrapped in his arms. “I hate leaving him alone. And… You look like you could use some furry company.” 

A slow smile spreads across your face. “Are you saying your cat likes me?”

“No.” Bucky laughs. “But you are the only other person he doesn’t completely hate.” 

“I would love to watch Alpine.” You take a few rushed steps out of your kitchen. “I’ll change and head over.” 

Bucky lets out a relieved breath and nods. “Good. Cool. I mean-“ He shakes his head. “-my spare key is on top of my door. You don’t have to do anything but hang out with him. Don’t expect cuddles though, I’m not sure you’re on that level yet. Don’t give him too many treats.” 

You’re nodding like his instructions are even the smallest bit important. “I have to go.” Bucky says ago and takes another step towards the door. “I’ll see you later.” 

You nod and take off down your hall. Bucky lingers by your door for a moment.

“Wait!” You yell and come rushing out again. Bucky freezes and turns to look at you. “Thank you…James.” You smile brightly before spinning around again and disappearing. 

Bucky smiles to himself as he leaves. The bright was back. 

//

When Bucky gets home he’s more nervous than when he left. His palm is sweaty and all that’s on his mind is Sam’s constant teasing. 

Bucky didn’t have a crush. He just… Liked having you around. That didn’t mean he wanted to date you. Maybe he did think you were pretty. And sure when you had let him hug you earlier it had made his heart race. 

But it wasn’t a crush. Bucky was too old to have a crush. He takes a deep breath before opening his door. He can hear a movie playing softly before he even looks up. 

“Hey.” You say quietly from where you’re laying on his couch. You sit up hastily with an embarrassed smile. Alpine is laying on the chair across from you. “We’re friends!” You point to the sleeping cat. 

Bucky nods. “He actually stayed in the same room as you all night?” He asks doubtfully. 

You frown, but there’s a mischievous sparkle in your eyes. “Maybe not all night. But he came out like an hour ago. I think he gave up on waiting for me to leave.” 

You pat the spot next to you on the couch and Bucky moves as quietly as he can. “How was your night? Do you feel better?” He looks you over. You looked less tired and from the blankets piled on his couch it looks like you had taken a nap. 

You nod. “A lot better… Thank you. I really appreciate you letting me hang out with your cat.” You look up at him with a nervous smile. “He’s just like you. You two were made for each other.” 

Bucky glances at Alpine. “What does that mean?” 

You poke Bucky’s leg with your socked foot. “Hard exterior, secretly wants to be best buds with me.” 

Bucky snorts and gently shoves your foot away. “My secret plan has been outed. Make the girl from 4B my best friend.” You laugh and move to tuck your feet under his leg. It’s silent for a moment, and Bucky knows you’re watching him so he busies himself with watching Alpine.

“Hey…” You trail off waiting for Bucky to turn his attention to you. “I don’t want to upset you or anything.” 

“That’s always a good start.” Bucky says nervously as he focuses on you. Your hands are fidgeting in your lap as you watch him. “What’s wrong?” 

You shake your head quickly. “Nothing’s wrong! I just… Promise you won’t be upset with me?” Your eyes are pleading and Bucky can feel himself get anxious. What could you be so nervous about? 

“What’s wrong?” He asks quietly. You don’t say anything, so Bucky swallows hard. “I promise.” He nods slowly. 

“Okay.” You take a deep breath. Bucky watches your eyes shift around the room before landing on his hands clenched together in his lap. “I thought I recognized you. Like, your name is so familiar and then when I saw you with Captain America…” 

Bucky looks down at his hands and nods. He knew where this was going. “I…” He trails off. 

“I looked you up.” You rush the words out. Your voice is small and Bucky feels any hopes he had for this friendship shatter around him. 

“I don’t… I’m not any of those things anymore.” Bucky cringes. His leg is shaking anxiously, but he just can’t get it to stop. He can’t even get himself to look up from his gloved hands, didn’t want to see the fear or disbelief that would be painted across your face. 

Your toes poke at his thigh again and it forces Bucky to look over at you. Your eyebrows are furrowed as you watch him, but there’s no trace of fear or anger, you wear the same kind smile that you always did. 

“I know that.” You whisper softly. Your eyes move past him and Bucky follows your line of vision to Alpine, whose bright eyes are staring at him. Bucky smiles gently at the cat as he stretches out and hops off the chair. Alpine rubs against Bucky’s shins, a welcome distraction from the impending conversation. Your feet curve upward to poke Bucky in the leg again. He looks up hastily at the gesture. “When I asked if you were a vet earlier, why did you say no?” 

Bucky purses his lips to think. The truth was he wasn’t at all sure how to explain everything to you. He didn’t have to explain things to Sam or Steve, they knew. “My war was a long time ago.” He settles on saying. 

“That doesn’t make you any less a veteran.” You say firmly.  “And there’s not much online about the Winter Soldier-“ There’s ringing in Bucky’s ears as the words come out of your mouth. What had you found? And what were you thinking? 

“Hey.” You lean over and place a gentle hand on his shoulder. “There’s not much online, but I didn’t read what there was because I knew that it was your story to tell me. When you’re ready.” 

Bucky inhales sharply as you look at him with curious eyes. “I… I did a lot of bad things. I… I worked on making amends and I… I was pardoned.” He pleads with you like he’s sure you’ll walk out if you know everything. 

“Okay.” The word is quiet and your hand is still resting on his shoulder. “You don’t have to tell me anything. I just wanted you to know that I’m your friend. Even with your super cool secret identity.” 

Bucky laughs at that. “It’s not a secret if you use your real name.” 

“Ah! You agree? We’re friends?” You say with a smirk. “Does that mean I get to see the super cool metal arm that’s always been covered around me?” 

Bucky shakes his head, but laughs. “Not yet.” You’re watching him carefully so he gives you a small smile. “I would say we’re friends though, yeah.” 

//

Suddenly, you’re always there. 

When Bucky has missions with Sam, you check in on Alpine for him. His spare key has moved from above his door to your keychain. 

You’ll come over with treats when he gets home from the VA. (Bucky likes to think you check for him when you hear the heavy footsteps in the hall and that’s why you’re always there right after he gets home.) 

He’ll bring dishes back whenever he sees you get home. (He does check the peephole when he hears footsteps.) 

You send him pictures of Alpine when he’s away. Alpine who still won't cuddle with you or even touch you, but who lays in the same room and has recently started allowing short pets. He sends you pictures of Sam and cities they’re in. 

And tonight, while he’s in New York, you’ve sent him a picture of you in his bathroom mirror with Alpine sitting pretty on the counter. 

He’s not supposed to be up there. 

All he gets is another picture in return, this time you have a thumbs up and Alpine is still on the counter. Bucky smiles. Sam notices. 

“Your girlfriend texting you?” He teases. 

Bucky scoffs. “She’s not my girlfriend… She just watches Alpine for me sometimes.” He looks back down at his phone. Nice. He sends back before stuffing it into his pocket and looking back at the man. 

Sam nods slowly. “Right. She just watches Alpine sometimes. And hangs out with you when she’s free. Don’t forget the treats she makes you and Alpine.” Sam lists off casually as he looks down at his fingernails. 

Bucky feels an embarrassed heat crawl up the back of his neck and looks down at his feet. “We’re friends. She’s a good friend.” 

When he looks up, Sam doesn’t have a teasing smile, but instead a genuinely happy one. Bucky thinks that this one is somehow worse when Sam grips his shoulder firmly. “I’m glad you have such a good friend, Bucky. Someone outside this super hero business.”

Bucky nods and swallows the lump in his throat. “Yeah. Thanks, Sam.”

“I’m serious, Bucky. You deserve it.” 

Bucky gives him a grateful smile unable to say anything else.

//

Bucky creeps into his apartment at four in the morning. It’s quiet, like usual, but Alpine isn’t sitting on the couch like he normally does when Bucky isn’t home. 

“Al?” He calls out quietly. The logical part of him is aware that Alpine may have fallen asleep in his bedroom, or underneath a piece of furniture. But there’s another part of him that panics at the routine being broken. 

Alpine was always there to greet him. 

Bucky would rather be safe than sorry. “Al.” He whispers again, already reaching for the knife strapped to his ankle. He bends slowly and lifts his pant leg as he scans his eyes under the couch and coffee table in search of the cat. 

He stands with the knife in his hand and moves slowly down his hallway. His bedroom door is ajar, Bucky takes a deep breath before pushing it open all the way. Alpine blinks at him from the edge of his bed. The knife slips from Bucky’s hand as he stands, shocked in the doorway. You’re asleep. Asleep on the bed that he never used. 

The knife clattering against the ground stirs you from your sleep and your eyes widen when you notice Bucky standing there. 

“Hey!” Your voice is raspy and low. You rub your eyes and Bucky can only stare at your half-asleep form. “I… I thought you were going to be gone until tomorrow night.” 

He nods. “Yeah. I mean, we got things done sooner than expected.” He explains. You lean over to flicker the light next to you on. Bucky doesn’t recognize the pillow sitting behind you or the blanket that’s thrown over your legs, he thinks you’ve brought them over from your apartment. You must have because his pillow and blanket was sitting folded in his linen closet waiting for the next time he camped out on the floor or the couch. 

You smile apologetically. “I’m sorry. I… I got tired of falling asleep on the couch.” You whisper. “And Alpine lays with me on the bed.” 

Bucky hastily shakes his head. “No! It’s fine. You don’t have to apologize. I should’ve told you to sleep in the bed. I didn’t even think of it.” I don’t really sleep in the bed. He moves further into the room. 

You scratch nervously at your cheek before freezing in action. He almost laughs at the annoyance that crosses your face. You had mentioned once that touching your face was a bad habit you had been trying to break for months. “I should go.” 

“You don’t have to.” Bucky opens his dresser drawer in search of sweatpants. “Stay here. You’ve already got yourself set up. I’ll crash on the couch.” 

You push the blanket off of your legs and Bucky has to force his eyes to stay on yours when he notices the already short shorts you’re wearing have ridden up your thighs from sleeping. “I can’t make you sleep on the couch, James. I’ll go!” 

“You know it’s Bucky.” He stops you with a hand on your shoulder. “It’s fine.” He stresses. “I… I don’t really sleep in the bed anyways. The couch is better.” 

Your eyes narrow. “You don’t have to lie to make me feel better.” He can tell you’re hesitant, but your rushed movements have paused. “My apartment is across the hall! I feel awful for invading your space like this already.” 

Bucky sits on the edge of the bed and watches curiously as you shift to sit next to him. Both your legs are dangling off, almost brushing his, and Bucky feels warmer than he had all week. “Doll, I’m serious. Beds are weird for me. I haven’t had one in so long that sometimes they’re just too overwhelming for me to sleep in.” 

He almost jumps when your head rests against his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t… I didn’t think of that.” 

“It’s good to see somebody getting good use out of this bed.” He leans into you slightly. “My ma would have thrown a fit if she saw how much this bed was. 800 dollars for a mattress... 800 dollars back then is like, thousands now.” 

You laugh softly. Bucky glances down again. Your eyes are closed and he thinks you’re almost asleep until you talk. “Do you… Would someone being there help you sleep in the bed?” 

You don’t open your eyes and Bucky’s almost glad for that because he can’t look away from you. “I… I don’t know. It’s only been Al and I.” His eyes follow the rise and fall of your chest as you breathe slow and calm. 

You finally look up. “You should stay with me. The couch isn’t comfortable to sleep on, I would know.” You elbow his stomach gently. 

He nods before he can even think about it. “If… If you’re comfortable with it.” He whispers. 

“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t. I promise.” You move away from him and Bucky already misses the warmth you radiate. “I’ll let you change.” 

He leans against the bathroom door as soon as it’s shut behind him. “It’s okay.” He mumbles to himself. His nightmares had been getting better, but that didn’t mean they were gone entirely. 

They probably never would be. And he knew he couldn’t let himself be afraid of the bed for the rest of his life. He had bought the bed. He just hadn’t expected his attempt at getting over the anxiety to be with you. 

Why had he said yes? He thinks as he shakily slips his jacket off. He looks at himself in the mirror and sighs. It was a good question, why had he said yes? 

He slips into his sweatpants and just stands in the bathroom. He couldn’t change his mind now. 

Well, he could. He knew you would give him a kind smile and reassure him that he didn’t have to do anything he didn’t want to. You were just that person. Kind and understanding and holding no judgement. 

“Okay.” He takes a deep breath. “Okay.” He shakes his shoulders out and picks up his discarded clothes. He stops at the linen closet and pulls out his blanket and pillow. 

You’re already wrapped up in your blanket again when Bucky comes back into the room. Alpine has moved to lay the floor in front of his bed. You smile sleepily at Bucky. He feels himself smile back. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

(When his eyes crack open the next morning he finds Alpine curled at his feet and you curled into his side, he knows being with you wouldn’t be bad. It’s the first time he lets himself think maybe this really is a crush.) 

//

So, Bucky has a crush. Which is a little ridiculous because he’s over a century old and having a crush is so high school, but it’s there. When you smile in the hall and butterflies rush through his stomach or when his chest warms at a picture you’ve sent of you and Alpine. It’s so obviously there. 

“What are you staring at?” Your voice shakes him when he realizes he’s been staring at you this entire time. You’re sitting next to him on the couch, so close your legs are touching. “Do I have something on my face?” You reach a hand up to your cheek. 

Bucky shakes his head hastily. “No. Sorry, I was just lost in my thoughts.”

“Penny?” You ask softly and Bucky furrows his brows in confusion. “Penny for your thoughts.” You clarify quickly. 

He thinks the smile that appears on your face is bashful and it makes Bucky feel just a little more confident. Maybe he made you as nervous as you made him. 

“You’re really pretty.” He says suddenly. Your eyes widen and you look away nervously. A hand scratches at the back of your neck and Bucky bites down on his lip as he watches you. Not exactly how he hoped that would go. “I mean… I was just looking at… how pretty you were.” He cringes at the words as they come out of his mouth. 

He used to be so much smoother than this, he thinks. He remembered having a new girl on his arm every week and a friend of theirs for Steve. 

Alpine meows loudly and Bucky just knows the cat is laughing at him. “Thank you.” You finally say quietly. “I… I didn’t think you thought that about me.” 

“‘Course I do.” He says equally as quietly. “Always thought you were pretty.” He glances at you and smirks, “Even when I thought you were weird too.” 

You gasp and turn to look at him. “You thought I was weird?” 

Bucky laughs and nods. “After you came in the middle of the night for salt? A little. And the fact that you keep calling me James when I’ve told you it’s Bucky.” He raises an eyebrow. 

You smile brightly. “You introduced yourself as James. Why would I call you anything else?” 

Bucky presses his tongue to his cheek as he tries not to laugh. “Yeah. I’ve regretted that every day since. Nobody’s called me James since the forties.” 

You scoff. “I find that hard to believe.” 

Bucky looks away. “Well for decades I was referred to as soldat.” He glances down at his hands. He’d stop wearing his gloves around you after you’d spent the night, even told you a little of his story the next morning. 

Sam thinks your relationship is weird. You spend the night sometimes and both of you find time to spend together when you can. It’s like you’re dating, but Bucky knows it’s not really like that. He thinks you both bring a sense of calm to one another. 

He’s not sure how to shift that, or if you would even want to, into a relationship. He glances back at you with a tense smile. “Steve always called me Buck. Sam calls me Bucky. Last person to call me James was probably my mother.” 

“I’m sorry… I never meant to-'' You take a deep breath like you’re preparing yourself for what you're going to say next. 

Bucky shakes his head. “It’s fine. I’m not trying to make you feel bad, I was just pointing it out.” He tries to smile reassuringly. 

“I was just trying to flirt.” You say so quickly the words sound jumbled together. 

It takes him a moment to comprehend what you’ve said. “With me?” He points to himself. The words make his confidence rise exponentially. “You were trying to flirt with me?” 

“With you.” You confirm with a slow nod. You start laughing, but it’s soft and happy. “Of course I was! I wanted you to remember me! How could I do that if I called you what everybody else does?” 

“I don’t know. Anything else?” He laughs along with you. “I…” He shakes his head with a smile. 

You both settle and Bucky hears you inhale sharply. “The salt to come see you and talk, the cookies and treats for Alpine… I’ve had this huge crush on you since you moved in.” You say softly. 

Bucky nods, he could see it now. Then he starts laughing again. He feels you smack his shoulder. “I’m sorry… You… Sam said that those cookies and treats were you trying to get me and Alpine to like you.” 

You roll your eyes at him. “Keen eye. He saw I was flirting.” You tease gently. “Does it… Does it bother you? Or change anything? The fact that I was flirting?” You ask softly and full of nerves. 

Bucky smiles sweetly. “That depends. Do you still want to flirt with me?” 

You narrow your eyes, but nod. “I don’t ask just any boy to sleep in the same bed as me.” 

“Just me and Alpine?” Bucky nudges your knee with his. You nod softly and he inhales a deep, nervous breath. “It worked.” He says quietly. 

You nudge his knee back. “It did?” 

He turns to look at you again. You’re already looking up at him with hopeful eyes and Bucky feels his heart race. “Yeah. I like you a lot. I don’t... I haven’t felt this way in a long time.” 

A smile breaks out on your face. “I like you a lot too.” You whisper, like you’re afraid anything louder will break the moment. 

“Can I kiss you?” He whispers back. You nod excitedly and lean towards him. Bucky places a gentle hand on your cheek as shuts his eyes and leans in. 

His chest warms when your lips press against his tentatively, like you’re both still nervous it’s not real. Your lips are soft and Bucky knows his own are chapped, but he feels you smile against him and can’t stop his own smile from overtaking his face. 

You pull away, but you’re still close enough that your lips are brushing against his. He’s caught up in the moment staring at you when he feels something rub against his shin. 

It makes you pull apart. Alpine is rubbing himself against both your legs and purring softly. Bucky presses a kiss to your cheek. 

“Think you won both of us over.” 

》* 。 • ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ • 。* 。° 。* 。 • ˚《

notes // what do you do when your midterm is an essay & gave you a headache? write bucky barnes fanfiction. thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed it. ps i’ve seen some spelling mistakes promise to edit those in the morning!

[tsukishumai]

pairing; iwaizumi hajime x gn!reader genre; fluff, brothers best friend to lovers warnings; oikawa!reader, alcohol consumption, suggestive themes, making out, swearing wc: 3.7k+ summary; after years apart, your big brother finally flies back to visit home. Eager to show off just how much you’ve grown, you invite him over to your new apartment for dinner. It was supposed to be sibling bonding time; so why was Iwaizumi Hajime walking through your door???

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

If there was one thing you hadn’t expected from Tooru moving half way across the world, it’s that you would actually miss him.

You had been such a pain in the weeks leading up to his departure. Not only did you create a poster counting down the days until his flight, but you had thrown all your things into and claimed his (much bigger) room before he could even get started on packing his things. You scoffed when he said you’d miss him, going so far as to wear a party hat and bringing confetti to the airport when you dropped him off.

You really did enjoy it, at first. You no longer had to fight over who used the bathroom first in the morning, or who got to pick what to watch on TV. There was no one coming into your room randomly to ask you stupid questions, and the walks home from school were suddenly a million times quieter.

You don’t know when you started lecturing him for forgetting to call, or sending him care packages because it’s almost impossible for him to find Mirin in Argentina. But you had bawled your eyes out when he couldn’t fly back for your high school graduation, and you were forced to come to the realization that you, in fact, missed your older brother.

So when he called to say he was coming home to visit, you could feel your bones vibrating with excitement. Although you spoke to him everyday, it had been years since you’ve seen him in the flesh. You were still just a teenager when he left, a little brat poking fun at your brother’s tear-streaked face as he tried to hug you goodbye.

Now, it was your turn — tears disgracefully staining your cheeks as the snot bubbles around your nostrils. Oikawa laughed when you threw open your apartment door and immediately bursted into tears, rushing forward to engulf him in a tight hug.

“Come on, y/n,” he chuckled, patting you on the shoulder and pushing you off, “I know it’s been a while, but this shirt’s designer, please.”

You step back and smack him hard on the chest before diving right back into his embrace. Oikawa rolled his eyes and finally wrapped his arms around you, giving you a tight squeeze in greeting.

You were eager to show him your apartment, one that you had leased and furnished all with your own hard work. You showed him the plants that you had miraculously kept alive for longer than a week, and he teased you for the family photo you had framed in your living room.

“It looks much bigger in person,” Oikawa commented as you led him to sit down at your dinner table, an assortment of different dishes and sides you had spent hours making spread across. “And since when did you know how to cook?”

“I’ve always known how to cook,” you rolled your eyes, grabbing two beers out the fridge and setting one down in front of Oikawa, “I just never bothered to cook for you.”

“And here I thought you might have gotten nicer over the years,” Oikawa clutched at his heart, feinting hurt before giving you a sad smile, “But this place is great, y/n. You’ve done really well.”

You could feel a sort of strange pride begin to spread across your chest, one that had made you grin a little wider and sit a little straighter. Suddenly, Oikawa lets out a dramatic wail and drops his head into his hands.

“You’re all grown up, and I missed all of it!”

You sighed, a crooked smile on your lips as you pat Oikawa on the shoulder.

“I know. You gave me abandonment issues.”

Oikawa’s head shot up out of his hands, a twisted snarl on his face as he looked at you in shock. “Wha— how could you say that?!”

You laughed at his distress, and Oikawa had started to say something snarky back. But your exchange had been rudely interrupted by four loud knocks. Both of you quickly turned your head over to the front door, your surprised and confused expression the complete opposite of Oikawa’s excited smile.

“Don’t be mad, y/n-chan,” Oikawa started, and nothing good had ever come from that sentence, “But since I’m only in town for such a short time, I kind of, sort of, invited someone else over tonight.”

Oikawa abruptly stands up from his seat, quickly dashing away from the daggers you were glaring at him and waltzing over to your front door. You felt your heart slowly sink into your stomach. You were undeniably upset, having expected to spend some real bonding time with the brother you’d only grown close to over a screen. He was just two years older than you, but the both of you had spent so much time arguing in your teenage years. Now, as adults, you thought this was your chance to really hang out — and he’s still pulling irritating stunts like this.

You had your lecture for him prepared and ready in your head, but when Oikawa swings open the door, any and all negative feelings that you may or may not have been experiencing just a moment prior had quickly dissipated into thin air.

Standing across the threshold of your apartment was your old high school crush, and your brother’s best friend — Iwaizumi Hajime.

Iwaizumi looks at you with a bright smile that made you feel as if you had been transported back in time. Butterflies that you thought long gone flutter their way back into your belly, bringing a heat to your face that left you silent. Iwaizumi must have mistranslated your expressions, as the corners of his lips slowly curl downward, and he turns to face Oikawa with a hardened scowl.

“You didn’t say I was coming,” Iwaizumi said, sighing and rubbing a hand down his face. Though, he was right about that.

“Iwa-chan!” Oikawa greets, completely ignoring Iwaizumi’s accusations and pulling his best friend through the door before slamming it shut. “SO glad you could make it tonight. Y/N made a ton of food!”

You hastily stand up from your seat, rushing to greet your new guest when Iwaizumi turns to give you an apologetic bow.

“I’m sorry for the intrusion,” he says politely when he stands back up, lamely offering you a bottle of sake in greeting. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Iwaizumi-san, please,” you finally find your voice. You hurry over to take the bottle from his hand, offering him a soft smile. “It’s not an intrusion at all! Come in, come in.”

He returns your smile with a relieved one of his own, finally shedding his shoes and entering your living space. Your heart was pounding like the rhythm of a taiko drum, and you thought it was impossible for them to have not heard it.

You lead the two boys the short distance from your foyer to your dining room table, Oikawa plopping down in his seat to your right and leaving Iwaizumi to take a seat directly across from you.

“I didn’t know you were back in Japan, Iwaizumi-san?” You questioned him as you prepared another place setting and grabbed another beer from the fridge.

Iwaizumi gives you a grateful nod, his fingers softly brushing against yours as he grabs the cold bottle from your grip.

“I just got back a couple of weeks ago,” he answered, watching you as you take your seat, “Something I thought your brother would have mentioned when he should have told you I was coming.”

Iwaizumi glares at the older Oikawa, who quickly raises both his hands up in the air in surrender.

“Do the details really matter now in this situation?” Oikawa squealed, quickly grabbing his own beer and raising the bottle into the air. “What matters is that the three of us are back together! Why don’t we cheers to that!”

You shared an exasperated look with Iwaizumi before the both of you rolled your eyes and begrudgingly raised your own bottles.

The clinking sound of colliding bottlenecks had been quickly followed by an oddly harmonized ‘itadakimasu’, and it was this that finally cut the ribbon of tension that had momentarily filled the atmosphere.

You forget just what a force the Iwaizumi/Oikawa combo truly was, having been deprived of the harmonious chaos the two often created whenever they were together for years. But now, the floodgates had been opened, and you were swept away in the current of nostalgia, all while trying to reconcile with the very new reality you were finding hard to believe was yours.

Everything about this was familiar. Your brother complaining about your cooking, yet still eating three full plates of food. Iwaizumi purposely antagonizing Oikawa with subtle jabs and back handed compliments. Oikawa asking you to take his side, so naturally, you take Iwaizumi’s because he helped you put the empty dishes in the sink. The two stayed bickering about anything and nothing, but the soft look in both their eyes and the way they leaned back against the chair and laughed told you that this was something that was sorely missed.

Yet somehow, none of it was the same.

The three of you still sat at your dining room table, and at first glance, Oikawa was hardly any different. His chest was just a bit broader, hair just a few inches shorter, and his skin had been kissed by the sun in a way it hadn’t been before. But then you see that his shoulders were no longer carrying the heavy burden he had placed on himself for years, and you notice his smiles had finally begun to reach his eyes. He now speaks to you with a gentleness to his tone that had never been there before, and his laughter had ceased to be laced with bitterness and discontent.

Oikawa’s hand moved so animatedly in the air as he talked about the cultural reset he had to go through in Argentina, but when Oikawa spoke of his new home, you knew he finally found a place he belonged.

Iwaizumi segues into a story about his roommates from America, and you could hardly see any shadow of the boy you once knew in the man that now sat in front of you.

Iwaizumi had always been handsome, but now he was drop dead gorgeous. His jaw looked so sharp, you were sure you would cut yourself if you dared to run your fingers along his skin, but you wouldn’t mind if it meant you could your thumb across his bottom lip. He filled out his shirt too perfectly, the outline of his pectorals barely starting to peek through the thin fabric. When he crosses his arms, you notice the veins that travel along the planes of his muscles, and you wonder what it would feel like if they were wrapped around you.

You move eyes up from his chest only to be met with hazy, verdant irises.

You froze in your seat, eyes locked with Iwaizumi’s as you try not to smack yourself on the face.

He caught you checking him out.

You felt your throat dry up at your attempt to gulp, ready to live with the humiliation for the rest of your life, but your despair had turned into irrational hope when Iwaizumi lightly licks his lips and smirks.

You had to bite the inside of your cheek.

“So, your own apartment, a job in the city,” Iwaizumi now turns the conversation to you, “Who would have thought Babykawa would be the most stable one out of all of us.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, cringing at your old nickname, “Do I look like a baby to you?”

“You’ll always be a baby to me,” Oikawa reaches over and pats your head, “but seriously. I’m really proud of you. You’re all grown up.”

Oikawa’s vision may have been blurred by the tears in his eyes, but you could clearly see the way Iwaizumi had looked at you up and down.

“Yeah, you definitely are,” he mumbled, reaching for the sake bottle the three of you had been drinking for the past hour. But when he tries to pour into his empty glass, not a single drop came out.

“We finished it,” you pouted, crossing your arms in a huff.

“Nooo, I want more,” Oikawa whined, banging his fists on the wodden table.

“Stop, you’re going to break the damn thing,” Iwaizumi snaps, and he tries to shake the bottle down for any ounce of liquid that might have been trapped inside. But alas, the bottle was dry, and the fridge had been devoid of beer ten minutes ago.

“Y/N, go buy more drinks,” Oikawa demanded, pointing at the door, “I saw a convenience store a few blocks down.”

You groan at Oikawa, rolling your eyes at him. But you weren’t ready for the night to be over, so you moved to get up from your seat and grab your keys.

But before you could go anywhere, Iwaizumi shoots an arm out to keep you in place, giving Oikawa the dirtiest look.

“Oi, shittykawa, it’s the middle of the night, and you’re going to order y/n to go out alone?” Iwaizumi lectures, “What the hell is wrong with you? Argentina make you forget your manners or something?”

“Ahh, I’m sorry, Iwa-chan, I can’t understand you with that American accent,” Oikawa childishly retaliates, but Iwaizumi just gives him a hard look.

“Damn it, fine, I’ll go,” Oikawa mutters, getting up to grab his coat, “Make some snacks while I’m gone.”

You stare at Iwaizumi slack-jawed. Oikawa was always such a pain in your ass, you could never get used to how easily he bended for Iwaizumi.

Though, you can’t deny you’d bend for —

Your thoughts were interrupted with the slam of your front door.

“That was impressive,” you commented, and Iwaizumi chuckled.

“That’s nothing,” he replies, waving a hand in front of his face, “Thanks again for letting me crash your dinner.”

You smile at how suddenly the previously confident Iwaizumi had melted into the nervous bundle in front of you, as he fiddled with his glass and ran a hand through his hair.

“Well, the bottle of sake made up for it, I suppose,” you joked, sighing dramatically, resting your arms on the table. “Though, your second mistake was only bringing one bottle.”

A comfortable silence fell amongst the two of you as you both leaned back on your chairs, and Iwaizumi’s gaze rested on your face. His cheeks were tinted red, and the corner of his lips had been upturned so slightly, that if you hadn’t been staring at him all night, you probably wouldn’t have noticed.

“I’m glad to see you’re still the same you,” he sighed out, now fully letting his smile rest on his lips.

There was no stopping your lips from returning his smile with one of your own, and you felt incredibly stupid for feeling so giddy over something that wasn’t even really a compliment.

“And I’m just glad to see you, Iwaizumi-san,” the words involuntarily tumbled from your tongue, the creeping onset of inebriation beginning to loosen your lips.

Iwaizumi raises an eyebrow at you. “What’s with the Iwaizumi-san? What happened to Iwa-chan?”

You recall the moniker you had adapted from your older brother, having called Iwaizumi that for nearly the entirety of your relationship.

But that was a different you. And this was a different Iwa. And a part of you didn’t want to drag old aspects of your connections with him into the present.

A bigger part of you wanted to make new connections.

“You don’t like Iwaizumi-san?” You ask, leaning forward to rest your head in your hands. You stared up at him through your eyelashes, copying his move by licking your lips, “How about I call you Hajime instead?”

You could tell Iwa had been taken aback from the way his eyes widened and his mouth dropped, but he was quick to regain his composure.

He leaned forward, dropping his arm down onto the table and ghosting his fingers along your arm.

“If you want to call me Hajime, you have to earn it.”

Your door bursts open in nearly the same you way your heart wanted to burst from your chest.

“I’m back,” Oikawa said, “They only had apple soju. Which, you know, I’m not complaining.”

Oikawa returned the scene, oblivious to the conversation that had just taken place a few seconds prior. Iwaizumi takes the bottles of soju from Oikawa and casually fills his glass, and yours. He sneaks a glance at you before placing the bottle down, and Oikawa complains about having to pour his own drink.

The night continued on as normal. You laugh at Oikawa’s story about how he accidentally bought 60000¥ worth of pineapple at the grocery store, and Oikawa sputters when Iwaizumi tries to teach him English phrases.

But now, you find your eyes staring at the handsome, green-eyed man in front of you much more often than you’d like to admit. And your breath is stolen from right out of your lungs whenever you find him staring at you too.

Four, five, six bottles of soju later, and Oikawa’s passed out on your couch with a fleece blanket draped over him. Iwaizumi was still sat at your dining room table, arms resting on the table as he laid his head on top. Competitiveness may be something they never outgrow, because as soon as Oikawa mentioned a drinking contest, you knew it was game over.

You move past him and into your kitchen, deciding to get a head start on your dishes in an attempt to calm your nerves.

It wasn’t all in your head, was it? Iwaizumi was definitely flirting with you. Well, at the very least, you were flirting with him.

Just as you finish washing the final bowl, Iwaizumi enters the kitchen. You quickly shut off the faucet before you slowly turn to face him, stomach flip flopping in its place as you fought the food and drink threatening to crawl back up your throat.

“Hey, Iwa-chan,” you teased, leaning back against the counter and crossing your arms, “Have a good nap?”

Iwaizumi doesn’t react to your quip, half-lidded eyes honed in on you through an alcoholic haze as he slowly steps in to close the distance between you two.

He doesn’t stop until his chest is mere centimeters from yours, and you use every ounce of your willpower not to shrink away.

“Call me Hajime,” he leans down to whisper in your ear, placing his hands on the kitchen counter on either side of you. You were caged into his arms, and you shivered as his breath fanned down your neck. “I have a confession to make.”

“What?”

Iwaizumi pulled his head back, smirking down at you.

“I asked Oikawa if I could come tonight.”

You felt yourself sober up at his words, straightening your back so you could look him straight in the eye.

“Why?”

Iwaizumi shrugged, moving his left hand from the counter to stroke a finger along your jaw.

“Maybe I just wanted to see you.”

You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. A part of you was afraid that one wrong turn would instantly shatter the illusion you had fallen under. Another part just wanted to stay caged under Iwaizumi forever.

You felt the warmth of his hand cup the back of your neck.

“Can I kiss you?” every word brought Iwaizumi closer until his breath fanned across your lips. The shadows of his face had been so close to yours, the scent of beer mixed with his cologne started to make your head spin, and you weren’t sure which way was up.

All you knew was that the moment you nodded your head, Iwaizumi bends your head back and lowers his lips onto yours.

Iwaizum felt so plush against you, his kisses felt as rich as velvet and softer than silk. He moved his lips against you in a smooth rhythm, his hand cupping your face while the other arm wraps around your waist.

You feel yourself being lifted off your feet, stabilized by only Iwaizumi’s embrace. You brace yourself against his chest, slowly snaking your arms up to wrap around his neck.

Iwaizumi pulls you even closer than you thought possible, licking and nipping at your bottom lip, asking for more. You could feel your heart beat faster and faster as Iwaizumi nearly whimpers against you, begging to be accepted.

As soon as you parted your lips, Iwaizumi enters your mouth, swirling his hot tongue against yours, making your heart do somersaults in its cage until you felt your knees begin to buckle.

Iwaizumi swallowed your moans with his mouth, and you cling onto him as if he were your only anchor in this spinning room.

The sound of glass breaking had abruptly interrupted your ministrations, causing the two of you to jump so far apart, you were on nearly opposite sides of the kitchen.

You turn to the living room, starkly reminded of the brother you left passed out on the couch. While he was still sleeping soundly, he manages to remind you of his presence by accidentally knocking over the lamp on your side table.

You and Iwa simultaneously let out a sigh of relief.

He looks at you. You look at him.

It started with a giggle, which soon evolved into a snicker, and a few minutes later you and Iwa were nearly on the floor laughing.

When the laughter dies down, Iwaizumi helps you clean up the broken shards that scattered in your living room.

You go to throw the glass away in the trash, and you come back to see that Iwaizumi moves to a spot by the front door, kicking his feet at imaginary rocks.

“I better get going. It’s getting late,” he said, finally looking up to face you.

You nodded silently, a stupid smile on your face as you still found yourself at a loss for words.

Iwaizumi turns to leave, but suddenly looks back at you nervously. “Can I call you later?”

You had no idea Iwaizumi could be so charming.

You close the distance between you two, placing a hand on his shoulder and standing up on your tip toes to place a kiss on his cheek.

“Get home safely,” you say, “I’ll be waiting for your call.”

The grin on Iwaizumi’s face was blinding.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Good night, Hajime.”

[imperfectcourt]

Andreil Prompt:

Neil is an Assassin. Some day something goes very, very wrong. So the first time Andrew meets Neil, Neil has to explain to him that he accidentally poisened him and Andrew has to go to the hospital to get the antidote.

So I was really unsure about this but when I got going I got really excited about it! But I also COMPLETELY MISSED the line where it said "the first time" so this is very much not the first time they meet ;__; sorry! I hope you like it though!

Neil had never panicked on a job before. He’d never made a mistake or killed the wrong person or not killed the right person. He could kill whoever he was told to kill, he could kill however he was told to kill, and he could be whoever he was told to be in order to do it.

Killing Andrew Minyard was the worst and last mistake Neil would ever make.

Worming his way into A. Minyard’s life hadn’t been easy but it had been natural- the most honest work of his filthy, bloody life.

It had to be this way. It couldn’t look like a typical mob hit, anything abrupt and easy would look suspicious. The call had to come from inside the house, or so they say.

Neil tipped the vial into the remnants of the whiskey bottle and poured two modest glasses. It wouldn’t be pleasant for him but he’d built up enough of a tolerance to survive. Odorless, collarless, no paper trail. He’d suffer some hallucinations and maybe some minor liver damage but he’d live and after tonight he’d be free. No more Moriyama’s. No more contracts. No more death.

No more Andrew.

Neil brought one glass up to swirl, smell, sniff, and sip. A perfectly normal glass of whiskey. He brought out onto the small balcony and put them on the rickety table between two lawn chairs. Andrew picked his up and didn’t make the small cheers motion he always did as a silent thanks, didn’t drink. He’d been staring at his closed phone for the last half hour. Neil knew he would say what was wrong in time (if there was time).

“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said after several long minutes, punctuating the statement with a sip. Guess there was time, after all. Neil sat sideways on his chair so he could watch Andrew light a cigarette.

“That sounds ominous. You’re not a murderer are you?”

Andrew’s top lip curled in a small, vicious smile. “That’s a truth for a different day.”

No, it wasn’t, and Neil found himself reaching for another mouthful of whiskey. Andrew raised a brow at this, having caught on a while ago that Neil liked to draw the drink out as long as possible if it meant he didn’t have to go home yet.

“It’s nothing to form a drinking habit over, calm down.” Andrew took up his drink again and every sip he took felt like friendly fire. “You’re going to see something on the news tomorrow and I’d rather tell you myself than get pissy with me for not bringing it up sooner.”

“Secrets secrets are no fun,” Neil parroted. Andrew kicked out his socked foot to hit Neil’s heel and didn’t pull it back.

“A story will be dropping about my brother’s involvement in a gang bust tonight. Just got word that everything went well but his services had been needed on sight.” With the hand that held the cigarette, he gave his cellphone a little shake.

“You have a brother?” That hadn’t been in the assignment, but family matters were often left out for jobs like this. He couldn’t go in knowing too much and risk exposing himself.

“My twin.”

“You have a twin?”

Andrew threw back the rest of his drink and waved it at Neil’s face. “The only reason I’m telling you is because you’re going to see him parading around on t.v. with my face. We’re not that close.”

A gang bust. Big enough for national news. That couldn’t- that would mean-

“What’s his name?”

“Aaron.”

“A. Minyard. Doctor Aaron Minyard.”

Andrew froze. Looked at Neil so expressionless he might as well have been stone. “I never said he was a doctor.”

He didn’t have to. Dr. A Minyard. Fox affiliated attached to a photograph. Andrew had his PhD and his connection to Kevin Day was easy enough to find if you knew where to look. The Foxes were an elusive bunch of vigilantes but everyone had heard of Kevin Day, son of the founders of the Foxes.

Neil had never made a mistake before and killing Andrew Minyard was the biggest mistake of his life. He knocked the glass from Andrew’s hand only because Andrew let him.

“Now, right now,” he changed, grabbing Andrew by the sleeve and tugging him back inside. It only worked because Andrew let him. Andrew was always letting Neil, trusting Neil. And for what? For this?

Neil let go when he was sure Andrew would follow him and rushed to the tiny kitchen. He took the water glass by the sink and upended the entire salt shaker into it.

“Drink this right now,” he ordered Andrew.

Andrew did not take it.

“Andrew, trust me just one last time. Just this one last time trust me and drink this. Just this once. Just this one last time.” There was time. There was barely time. It had been less than a minute, there had to be time.

Neil didn’t know what he would do if Andrew didn’t drink, if Neil killed him for nothing. No matter what the outcome, no matter Andrew's decision, Neil would die either way.

Andrew took the salt water, drank the whole thing, and promptly threw up in the sink.

Neil watched, hands in his hair and tears clouding his eyes as Andrew righted himself, wiping at his mouth with the back of his wrist.

“That’ll give you time to get to the hospital. You have to go now, you’ve got time.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Andrew put his hand slowly, calmly, over Neil’s throat, “until you explain.”

He pressed him into the wall.

Neil let him.

“You were supposed to be my last one and my contract would be fulfilled,” he said.

“Explain better than that. What does this have to do with Aaron?”

“There’s no time-”

“Then make it quick.” He pressed against Neil’s throat and Neil’s hands came up instinctively to grab his arm. He stopped before making contact.

“I was born into a debt that the Moriyama’s own. I was one of their hit men. A. Minyard. Fox associate. And a picture. That was my last assignment and I could finally… I could…”

Words were getting harder. He had begun ingesting the poison before Andrew and hadn’t gotten any of it out of his system.

“You’re the only one I never…”

“Never what? Never shot like a coward? Never succeeded in killing?”

“Never wanted to.” His hands came down onto Andrew’s forearm even though he didn’t have permission. His vision was swimming around the edges and he couldn’t tell if it was because of the drug or the pressure on his trachea. “I didn’t want to kill you. H-hospital. You still need the hospital. You have time.”

“Why should I believe a single thing you say?”

“I’ve never lied to you.” It was so important for him to say that somehow the words came out with conviction. “Never lied. Andrew, you’re amazing and I love you but you need to leave right now.”

His knees gave out and for the briefest moment all of his weight was being held by the hand on his throat. Andrew lowered them both to the ground.

“What did- You idiot.” Ah, yes. He must have caught on. “You did all this to live only to fucking kill yourself? Neil. Neil… Neil!”

Neil had never panicked on a job, but he’d also never woken up in a hospital bed before. He was aware of the spike in noise before he was aware of his surroundings.

“The worst assassin in history.”

Neil groaned but didn’t yet open his eyes. His memory was just solid enough to know what he’d taken and experience told him he wasn’t ready to face the spinning world.

“Can’t say he was wrong, technically,” the same voice said.

“What kind of assassin not only chooses the wrong target but falls in love with their dumb ass?”

“This dumb ass has the same level of education as your dumb ass.”

“My dumb ass has a doctorate of medicine, not in books.”

“Literature.”

“Still dumb.”

“Sssh,” Neil breathed out, testing the waters of control and strength. He had very little of either.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the dumbest of asses.”

“Give him another hour and he might even be able to respond.”

“Now who would want that.”

The second time Neil woke up in a hospital, it was enough for him to look around and realize this was not a hospital but rather a medically furnished bedroom.

“I hate you.”

He turned his head to see Andrew slouching back in an overstuffed, wingback chair. The look on his ever-passive face was angry and Neil would take angry over dead any day.

“You made it,” he slurred. His mouth felt like cotton. “You made it,” he said again because it was right and good. “You made it.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m fine. Got a tolerance”

“Is that something they teach you in the bright sunny world of the Nest?”

Neil made a finger gun at Andrew (why?) and slowly, slowly tilted himself onto his side to see him better. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew there were things he needed to worry about, but for now he just wanted to look.

“I’m happy you’re alive.”

“I don’t care.” And he sounded like he didn’t, but that was how he always sounded. Still Andrew. Still him. Still alive. For a long, quiet while they stared at each other.

“I have to go before the Moriyama’s come looking to do clean up. This won’t be tolerated.”

“No. It won’t be. But not by the Moriyama’s.”

Andrew stood in a motion that made him look much older than he was, tired. As he came to stand over the bed, Neil couldn’t help but stare because not killing Andrew Minyard was the only right thing he had ever done.

“The Foxes completed their take down of the Moriyama’s. It’s been all over the news, which you would have seen if you hadn’t poisoned yourself.”

The… the what? Something must have shown on Neil’s face because Andrew pressed him down into the bed a split second before he’d tried to sit up. As consciousness cleared his fog, his brain began catching up enough to understand that he wasn’t understanding. The synapses were there but they weren’t connecting.

“I don’t understand,” he whispered. Andrew’s mask twitched.

“Of course you don’t, you’ve been too deep cover to keep up with what was right under your nose. The Foxes won, there are no more Ravens, and you, Nathaniel, are a free man.”

The sound of that name, his name, sent a flinch so hard through his body that it made something cramp in his stomach. Andrew watched, bored, as he curled in on himself. If he knew that name, if his cover was blown so spectacularly, then there must be an ounce of truth to it.

“I’m just… Neil. I just want to be Neil.”

“Well, Neil.” Andrew slid his hand into Neil’s hair and squeezed, not hard but enough to tilt his head back. “If you ever do something that stupid again I will kill you myself.” Something in his eyes, however passive he tried to pull off, told Neil that Andrew was not referring to his own attempted murder.

“Were you… worried about me?” That couldn’t be right.

“I don’t know, Neil.” He kept saying his name like that and Neil didn’t know what to feel about it. “My whatever of a good stretch of time nearly killed himself. How should I be feeling?”

“I nearly killed you. I only poisoned myself a little.”

“Why?”

Why? The easy answer was forensics. Two glasses. Two drinkers. One lucky to survive the ordeal. But that wasn’t all of it. As Neil stared up up at Andrew, here at the other side of it all, he could admit to himself that he was glad for the punishment.

“Because… because I was going to kill you to save my own life and I had never hated myself for anything more than that.”

“I hate you,” Andrew spat.

“As long as you’re alive to hate me it’s fine.”

“Shut up.”

“Tell me more about the take down.”

“No.”

“Is your brother a Fox? Do I have to be killed for knowing that?”

“You have to be killed because you won’t shut your mouth.”

A good stretch of time. That’s how long Neil had been worming his way to be Andrew’s whatever. And in all that time he’d never felt safer. He lifted a shaky hand and waited. It took nearly a minute before Andrew released his hair and took the hand up in his own.

He didn’t apologize for trying to kill him. He didn’t apologize for coming into his life under false pretenses. If Andrew was there now, he trusted Neil enough to understand. They could talk about it later.

“Go back to sleep,” Andrew ordered quietly.

“So I’ll shut up?” Neil whispered back. His eyes were already drifting closed.

“Sure.”

[helnjk]

Stitching Together - G.W.

George Weasley x fem!reader 

Requested: yes !! by my lovely bean marissa @lumos-barnes

please accept my humble request for a george x reader where the reader owns a shop in diagon alley and one day they walk into WWW and george knocks over a whole display, he is a complete SIMP & cannot compose himself. complete buffoonery when the reader is near. they become friends & do all these nice things for each other and the reader is oblivious like "george, i'm so lucky to be your friend" (even though the reader is secretly simping) and he's like "um what, i'm literally in love with you"

Word count: 3.1k

Warnings: mentions of meals and drinks (coffee), but other than that it’s just pure fluff & Dumb Idiots In Love

A/N: somehow i always end up writing george knitting? idk how it happened, but it happened. i hope you like it marissa 🥺💕

–

You took a step back to admire your handiwork. 

After what seemed like neverending hours, the layout of your shop was finally perfect. From where you stood, you had a view of the streets of Diagon Alley, several passersby coming and goings from your sight. The display of charmed knit work by the window was already moving, demonstrating simple stitches that formed into a scarf. 

It had always been your dream to open up your own shop in the most prominent wizarding area of Britain, with your passion for knitting and crafting, but the timing had always been off. Now, about a year or so since the war had ended, your grandmother surprised you with the capital to make your dreams come true. 

The gesture was extra special because she was the one who first taught you how to knit. Many summers were spent in her cottage, sitting side by side and working on personal projects together. 

Outside, your sign read ‘Stitching Together: Grand Opening’. There were a few flyers posted right on the door and on the window advertising the different classes and crafting groups you were offering, as well as the different products that could be found in your store. 

It was as if your heart could burst at the sight of your fully furnished shop and you could wait no longer. With a flick of your wand, the sign on the door flipped to say open and that was that. 

–

“Hey Freddie, have you seen that new shop that’s opened down the street?” George yelled from the bottom of the stairs once the last customer of the day made their leave. 

“Haven’t gone in, but it’s gotten a lot of customers from what I can tell!” the disembodied voice of his twin replied from somewhere above. 

As he began the process of cleaning up and reshelving, products floating in midair or zooming towards their proper shelves, he called out once more, “What type of store is it d’you reckon?” 

“Arts and crafts? Something like that.” 

George’s eyes drifted towards the shop window, where he could just barely see the outline of the new store. Dusk had begun to set in London, so the sky was filled with brilliant hues of purple and orange. His curiosity getting the better of him, he decided that he would go welcome the new shop owner to Diagon Alley. 

With a shout to let his twin know where he was off to, George strode out of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes and into the brisk weather. Luckily for him, Stitching Together was still open. He could see you bustling around inside, fixing displays and swishing your wand to tidy everything up.

It had only been around a month since your shop had opened, but the local wizard folk of London seemed to be very keen on buying the different things you sold. Many came around to purchase the instructional books and the different kinds of wool and yarn, and some of your regulars had even taken an interest in the classes you held weekly. It was a great way for you to get to know the community and to establish friendships. 

You had always taken note of the joke shop a few shops down from you, but with the hustle and bustle of just opening, you hadn’t had a chance to visit or introduce yourself to the owners. It was just your luck that one half of them pushed open the door to your shop, the little bell at the top of it ringing to indicate his presence. 

“Oh, hello!” you smiled, turning to face the redheaded man, “Welcome to Stitching Together, what could I help you with?” 

Unbeknownst to George, your heart began to beat rapidly in your chest. How could a man be so positively handsome you didn’t know, but at the sight of him standing by the door, all you could think about was how gorgeous he was. And he hadn’t even uttered a single word yet! 

The charming smile he sent your way did not help the heat you could feel creeping up your neck. “Just popping by to say hello and welcome to Diagon Alley! My twin and I run Wheezes just down the street,” he said. 

Your smile grew as he stuck his hand out for you to shake, “Oh I was just thinking about how I’ve been wanting to pay your shop a visit! I’m Y/N, by the way.”

“George Weasley at your service,” his hand was firm and warm as he shook yours, eyes sparkling with something you couldn’t quite name. “Nice to meet you!” 

“So tell me about your shop!” 

Somehow, after that evening, George Weasley snuck his way into becoming a part of your daily routine.

Every morning he would show up with two cups of coffee in hand right before your shop was set to open. After realizing that you depended on caffeine to function throughout your day, he made it a point to bring you one everyday. As you sipped on your coffees, the two of you would spend a few minutes chatting about your plans for the day before going to work. 

Whenever you would offer to pay for your own cup or even try to insinuate that you could get your own coffee in the morning, just so that he wouldn’t have to go through the trouble, he would stop you in your tracks.

“But George–”

“Nope!” he would say in a voice louder than yours. “I’m doing this out of the kindness of my heart. I really feel for your customers who have to deal with a Y/N that hasn’t had her coffee fix. Could you imagine the grumpiness? Not on my watch!” 

You would roll your eyes, but secretly it warmed your heart how sweet this boy could be. He was slowly inching his way into your life and becoming a great friend. 

–

“So,” said Fred one day as George had gotten back from delivering your daily coffee, “The bird from the knitting shop, huh?” 

His twin only rolled his eyes in response, used to the teasing that came with being brothers (and twins) with Fred Weasley. Instead of engaging, George went instead to do the routine last check over their store before they officially opened their doors. Still, Fred couldn’t resist the temptation to continue provoking him. 

“Oi! C’mon, you bring her coffee everyday even if you don’t like the stuff. If I don’t remind you that you have a store to run, you would spend the whole day staring out the window just to catch a glimpse of the girl! Tell me you’re not whipped for her,” he teased, following George through the shop.

From their position at the till and on the second floor, both Verity and Lee tried to hide their smirks. This was too good a story to not eavesdrop on. 

“Come off it, Fred.” George rolled his eyes. “I’m just being a good friend, that’s all!” 

“Yeah but you wouldn’t mind being more than friends.” 

The cheeky wink Fred sent George was not appreciated, as the prior soon found out, having to duck away from a stinging hex. Still, Fred’s laugh rang through the semi-empty store as he ran away from his brother. 

Later in the day, as the lunch crowd tapered off, the four of them were left to mull around a bit. Lee and Verity were off taking stock in the back room, Fred was doing some accounting (because his twin couldn’t be trusted with any sort of math), and George was reshelving some Skiving Snackboxes. 

The bell above the door to the shop rang, but he couldn’t quite tell who came in from his position towards the back of the shop. 

“Welcome to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes!” he yelled, rushing to get all the boxes in order before he could help the new customer, “I’ll be with you in just a second!” 

Just as he admired his handiwork, eyes scanning the display to make sure nothing was out of place, a familiar voice called from behind him, “It’s alright, take your time. I’m not looking for anything in particular.” 

George almost jumped out of his skin as he heard your voice. He was so surprised that as he turned to meet you, his elbow caught on the edge of one of the Snackboxes and the whole thing toppled over. 

You watched as the tower of boxes crumbled around him, and your hand automatically covered your mouth as you tried to contain your laughter. It didn’t work, though, and soon the whole store could hear your guffaws. 

Thankfully, George was a wizard, and what would’ve taken a muggle quite some time to fix, only took a quick flick of his wand. 

“Oops,” you smiled at him bashfully as he finished, “Didn’t mean to startle you, Weasley.”

“Erm, it-it’s alright,” he blushed, “I just didn’t expect you to come ‘round today.” 

In truth, the reason why George was so flustered at your appearance at his shop was because he had just spent most of the afternoon thinking about you. He often did that, getting lost in his thoughts about the many little things that made you, well, you. The deep breath you took before that first sip of coffee in the morning, revelling in the aroma. How your face lit up when you spoke about the different people you met in your classes. Your hands and how skillfully they worked whatever project you were creating at the moment. 

He wouldn’t admit it to Fred, but what his twin had said earlier in the day was accurate. He was absolutely smitten over you. 

“Well you’ve been a regular over at mine for the last couple of weeks, I’m just returning the favor and visiting my favorite redhead at his place of work!” 

“I-I,” he stuttered, his brain refusing to acknowledge the fact that he was your favorite anything. 

Fred, who had heard the commotion and had gone down to check if everything was okay, nearly face palmed as he watched George fumble through his words. The man was whipped for you, no doubt about it, and as a good twin, he decided to save his brother from further humiliation. 

“I think what my lovely twin here is trying to say, is that you just haven’t met enough redheads to make your decision about your favorite one,” he said, smoothly inserting himself into the conversation. “Fred Weasley, at your service!” 

Your smile immediately brightened at the sight of George’s twin holding out his hand for you to shake, “Nice to meet you! I’m Y/N, George’s told me loads about you!” 

“Has he?” Fred raised his eyebrow, turning to look at George who was still a little dumbstruck at the sight of you in his shop. “Well, that just means it’s my turn to spend some time with such a lovely lady. C’mon, I’ll give you a tour of the shop!”

“Oh I’d love that.” 

With a small glance and wave at George, you took the arm that Fred was holding out for you, and so began his (largely amusing) tour of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. 

“What in Merlin’s name was that!” yelled Fred the moment you left the shop. 

George groaned into his hands, embarrassment creeping back into him. He had acted a fool, unable to even mutter a single sentence to you the whole time you were around. 

“Mate, I have never seen you so flustered around a girl,” his twin muttered, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, “Just tell her you’ve got feelings for her! Ask her on a date, do something! From what I could tell, you’re not the only one who’s caught feelings.” 

“It’s not like that between us,” he said, “I doubt she even notices how much I fancy her.” 

–

Somehow, George wound up taking Fred’s advice. Though, in typical-George fashion, he never explicitly mentioned to you anything about the way he felt. 

Instead, he would stay around your shop longer in the mornings, taking slower than usual sips of his coffee (which he still couldn’t say he preferred over a good cup of tea). Other days, he would come around closing time and help put everything back in order and if he was lucky, the two of you would go out to dinner. Of course, he would also never let you pay a sickle for your meal, no matter how much you insisted. 

Weekends were usually spent together as well. 

Saturdays were for brunch and muggle films on the telly. It was one of the rare occasions he would drink a beverage in front of you that wasn’t that (god forsaken) coffee. 

Sundays were more for crafting together. He would floo into your flat after having lunch with his family and the two of you would continue working on his little project. 

“My mum loves to knit,” he mentioned one day, while he observed your quick hands skillfully moving the thread through your needles. “She knits us all sweaters for Christmas. It’s become a tradition of sorts.” 

“That’s lovely,” you smiled up at him.

“Yeah, anyone who’s practically family gets one too. Like Harry and Hermione,” he mused.

“I could teach you how to knit her something, if you wanted,” you offered. “It’d be something pretty simple though, especially if you’ve never knitted anything before.”

The smile he sent you was so dazzling, you had to take a moment. You were practically melting under his tender gaze and you swallowed thickly, trying to gain your composure. 

 “That’d be bloody brilliant, Y/N!” 

You only hoped he didn’t notice how your face got hot and how your hands couldn’t move the needles to do what you wanted, too flustered to be precise with your movements.

Since then, the two of you spent most of Sunday afternoons making sure George had the correct strings of yarn on the correct needle. You would keep a close eye on him and his progress, but most of the time he was alright on his own. Sometimes, he would purposely sit closer to you on your couch and you could practically feel the warmth radiating from him. 

In between knits, your eyes would drift towards his focused face and you would smile. George had a habit of poking the tip of his tongue out when he was knitting. Something about the gesture helped him concentrate, and you found it absolutely adorable.

The more time you spent together, though, the more confused George got. It was getting to a point where in his head, it was impossible to miss what he was trying to say with his actions. You had to have caught on by now. And, since you hadn’t acknowledged what was going on between the two of you, he had assumed that this was your polite way of rejecting him.  

On a chilly morning, he clutched the warm cups of coffee in his hands as he pushed the door to Stitching Together open with his back. 

“Morning, Y/N!” he greeted.

You grinned in his direction as he made his way towards you. The moment he placed the warm drink in your hands and you took your first sip, a small moan of gratefulness escaped your lips.

“Merlin, I don’t deserve you,” you mumbled to your cup. 

“Sorry?” George asked, brows furrowed slightly. 

“Oh nothing!” you quickly said, “I’m just really glad you’re my friend, Georgie.” 

Friend. 

The word seemed to make his heart sink down to his stomach and ignite something in him at the same time. It was time that he told you how he felt, no matter what would happen afterwards. He couldn’t keep going on pretending he wasn’t head over heels in love with you. 

“Erm, about that Y/N,” he began, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his work uniform, “I’ve got to tell you something.” 

It was now or never. 

You smiled up at him encouragingly, almost oblivious to the bundle of nerves that were most definitely visible in his expression. 

“I-I don’t want to be just friends, Y/N,” he said, lips pursed in anticipation.

“What do you want then?” you still didn’t understand what he was trying to say. 

In a burst of confidence, George took your hands in his and gripped them tightly, “I want to be with you. I fancy you loads, I think I might even be in love with you, Y/N. Honestly, I might’ve been in love with you from the moment I first walked into your shop.” 

Your lack of an immediate response left him to back track, “But I understand completely if you don’t feel the same way, I just wanted to get it out there.” 

For a moment, the two of you were silent. George eyed you nervously, wondering what was going on through your head, bracing himself for the rejection that he thought was on the tip of your tongue. 

Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore, “Y/N? Do you want me to go?” 

Instead of answering, you flung your arms around his neck. He was so startled at your sudden gesture that he almost didn’t notice your lips on his. Almost. 

As suddenly as you had kissed him, all of his apprehensions melted away. Almost automatically, his arms found themselves wrapped around your waist and he pulled you closer to him. Your lips melted together seamlessly. It was as if this was where the two of you were meant to be, and you couldn’t help but smile into the kiss. 

Sooner than you had liked, George pulled away from you slightly. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t help but dip his head down to peck your lips again. Once, twice, three times. This left you a giggly mess, your nose scrunching up in a way that was practically begging him to kiss it as well. 

“Does that mean you fancy me too?” he murmured against your lips. 

“Absolutely, head over heels,” you smiled in return. 

The pair of you spent a brief moment with your foreheads pressed together, giddy smiles on your faces. That was until a knock on the door of your shop sounded. Immediately, you sprung apart, a blush coating tip of George’s ears and cheeks. 

A few people stood outside, eyeing you amusedly. 

“Oh shit,” you said, hurrying to flip the sign on the door to say ‘open’ and to unlock the door with a flick of your wand. “I completely forgot I had a class today.” 

As the small group of people began to file inside, they sent knowing glances your way to which you only groaned softly and looked up at George.

“I’ll see you tonight?” you asked hopefully. 

With a kiss to your cheek and a mischievous grin he said, “You can count on it, love.” 

–

General taglist: @expectoevans @george-fabian-weasley @gxthsanrio @slytherinscribbles @harpyloon @nuttytani @mesmerisedangel @amourtentiaa @sarcasticallywitty15 @lumos-barnes

Weasley twins taglist: @whizboingies @pineapplesandpinas @papapapadumb @Mrs-g-weasley @a-castle-of--glass @hey-there-angels @leovaldez37 @pinkypurplemagic @werewolfslut @surprizeshawtyy

crossed out means i couldn’t tag you for some reason, sorry!

[teawaffles]

The Fugitives from the Fire: Chapter 3

Note: Some language.

Showers of sparks flew in all directions, fanned by blasts of hot air; amidst all that, both police officers and locals were using buckets and pots to throw water on the flames, in a strenuous bid to put out the fire.

“……Oi oi, we’ve already got a problem?” Sherlock mumbled, half in shock.

It wouldn’t be easily resolved — in an unexpected way, those words had come true. Lestrade grabbed a nearby officer by the arm.

“What the hell happened here?!”

The officer answered loudly, almost in a scream.

“A fire broke out! The building we were holding the criminal in caught fire!”

“……Jesus!”

Lestrade spat that word out, and threw himself into the firefighting effort right away.

“I’ll help too! Someone give me water!”

A split second later, Sherlock also moved to help. He took a bucket of water from the man closest to him — but the moment he saw his face, he stopped.

“……Gregson?” [1]

The man — Assistant Inspector Gregson — widened his eyes in shock.

“Holmes! You bastard — why’re you here?!”

As a famous detective, Sherlock often disregarded the police when solving his cases; Gregson could never stand the sight of him, and so it was no wonder he’d raised his voice. However, having grown accustomed to that enmity, Sherlock spoke quickly in response.

“Lestrade called me in himself. Anyway, were you the one sent to secure the other fugitive?”

Gregson waved the question away, as if he was in a terrible gloom.

“Dammit, quit yammering! Let’s talk about the details later! Our priority now’s to put out the fire!”

Saying that, he rushed off to draw more water. It was a reasonable point, so Sherlock refrained from pursuing the matter. Still, he found Gregson’s unusually impatient manner strange.

The quick arrest of the first fugitive. The burning building. And Assistant Inspector Gregson.

From all the elements that had presented themselves at this stage, Sherlock Holmes was certain that this case would be a tough one.

✦ ✦ ✦ ✦

Roughly five hours after Sherlock and Lestrade arrived at the scene, the fire had finally been extinguished.

Having given their all in putting out the fire, the volunteer firefighters were now sitting on the roads as they caught their breath. But the building had been reduced to nothing more than a charred skeleton — it had completely burnt down. A heap of blackened wood lay on the ground where it once stood; within it, tiny embers still smouldered away, and thin trails of smoke wafted into the air. It was still too dangerous to enter the site, but as a small blessing amidst this misfortune, the adjacent buildings had been left largely unscathed, with only their outer walls scorched by the flames.

“……It feels like one job’s been completed, but the real work starts here, huh.”

A worn-out Sherlock muttered to himself, having already shed his jacket. Then, the familiar voice of his partner rang out in his mind.

“Sherlock. Isn’t it too convenient for a fire to break out at this time? If the fugitive they were interrogating had been caught in the blaze……”

——I know. But first, let’s remain calm, and listen to what they have to say.

He answered John in his heart, then walked over to Lestrade, who was conferring with another officer a short distance away. It seemed he was in the middle of asking the other officer what had happened.

“O—y, Lestrade. Did you find anything useful?”

“Yeah: it seems it’s going to be a while before we can inspect the scene, but from my subordinate’s report, I’ve gotten the details of what happened before this. I’ll explain.”

Saying that, Lestrade began to narrate the sequence of events, and Sherlock listened in silence.

From what he’d heard from his subordinate, the building was a cheap old three-storey inn built from wood. After searching the interior based on the tip-off, they quickly found and arrested one of the fugitives. After which, in order to find the location of the other criminal, they immediately brought the arrested man to a room and began to interrogate him.

“Where’s the room located?”

Sherlock cut in, and Lestrade looked up at the spot where the room had likely once stood.

“It was at the end of the second floor — the one the man himself had rented. Each floor had three rooms: taking the ground floor as an example, the room numbers had been assigned as 101, 102 and 103. ” [2]

“So the one at the end of the second floor would be number 303. Did all the officers storm the room together?”

“No; out of the ten men who arrived first, five of them entered the building while the other five stood by in the vicinity. Among the five who entered, two were questioning the man in room 303, one stood watch outside the room, while the remaining two stood in the ground and first floor corridors respectively, observing the movements of the guests in the inn.”

Listening to the breakdown of the officers’ positions, Sherlock looked at the ruins of the building as they lay heaped on the ground.

“If the building was only this large, leaving five people outside would be enough…… But why have men stationed on each floor at the corridors?”

“The other fugitive might’ve been hiding in the building, so they wanted to interview the guests and ascertain their backgrounds. However, it seems the innkeeper detests the Yard: they allowed us to question the fugitive, but refused to let us to visit the other rooms, insisting it would bother the guests. So the officers had no choice but to quietly stand watch in the corridors.”

Having realised yet again the animosity in the slums towards the police, Lestrade sighed, and Sherlock nodded in reply.

“From the start, the source of the information had been an anonymous tip-off, which is　suspicious. The story up to that point was that the police arrived here half in doubt, then actually found the criminal — from that alone, it would’ve been difficult to insist on advancing the investigation any further.”

Sherlock understood the bind the officers had found themselves in back then. He continued.

“During the interrogation, they did check everyone who entered and left the inn, didn’t they?”

“Of course. But I didn’t receive any reports about any suspicious characters.”

“Okay. I’ve got the deployment of the officers at the time; please continue.”

The arrested fugitive had been surprisingly stubborn, and refused to utter a word about the other man’s whereabouts. At that rate, the officers had judged that they were getting nowhere, and left the room for a short break. Their strategy had been to give the man time to relax, then force him into a state of tension once again, in order to strain his mental state.

In addition, by this time, the locals had gotten wind of the Yard’s presence. They’d begun to gather around the inn and create a commotion: the atmosphere had turned bleak. In order to avoid the situation escalating into a riot, out of the five officers in the building, four went outside to appeal to them to remain calm.

Just like this, the fugitive had been left alone in the room. The man had been made to sit in a wooden chair that had been furnished as part of the room, with each of his hands cuffed to the chair’s armrests. The only entry point to the room — the door — had one officer standing guard in front of it. Moreover, even if he were to leave by the window opposite the door, as the room was on the second floor, he couldn’t simply escape by jumping out. With these conditions in place, the officers had thought that there was no chance of him escaping.

——In fact, that line of thought had held true. The criminal had not escaped; rather, he had been murdered inside the room.

✦ ✦ ✦ ✦

Five minutes after their break had started. In the vicinity of the inn, something odd had arisen. Complaints and jeers had suddenly turned into shrieks and screams. The lone police officer who’d remained in the building thought it strange, and immediately after, someone yelled “Fire!”.

He went downstairs to see for himself: true enough, flames were rising up from the ground floor. The officer rushed to spread the word to everyone in the building, directing them to evacuate. Of course, he then went to release the man handcuffed in room 303, but the door couldn’t open: it had been locked from the inside.

At this point, Sherlock placed a hand under his chin as he muttered.

“If he had been bound to a chair, then even with his hands cuffed to the armrests, he would still be able to move around the room. If it’d been a bed, depending on the size of it, he might still be able to move. The man could’ve locked the door from the inside, but…… By the way, was it really locked? And not that the door had been warped and gotten stuck, or something?”

“It seems that much was certain: I understood he tried many times, but found the door locked from within.”

“I see. Sorry, I’ve been interrupting you quite a bit.”

“No, I don’t mind……. After that, the officer peeked into the room via the keyhole. And then, inside the room, he saw something he would never have imagined.”

From Lestrade’s tone, Sherlock was fairly certain what had happened in there.

“The room was locked from the inside, and the man lay dead within it……?”

It seemed his prediction had been spot on: startled, Lestrade stared at him, then muttered “Yeah” in a sombre tone as he continued.

——From the keyhole, the officer saw the man lying prone on the floor while still cuffed to the chair. His back had been soaked in a red substance akin to blood, and he showed absolutely no sign of movement. Amidst the commotion from the fire, it was as if time had stood still for him alone.

Panicked, the officer rammed the door in a bid to break it down. But no matter how many times he slammed himself against it, the door merely creaked, showing no signs of opening. Apparently, the innkeeper had taken precautions to prevent the police from entering the rooms without their permission — it seemed the doors had been robustly built. Making matters worse, his fellow officers were desperately engaged in fighting the fire, as well as evacuating the surrounding residents: they had no leeway to come to the second floor and help.

After that, the officer kept trying to break the door open. But the fire swept through the wooden building, and soon, the flames had reached the floor right beneath him. Inside the room, the man remained motionless. After a further struggle, the police officer gave up on rescuing him, and ensured that there was no one else left in the building as he made his escape.

That was the gist of how the inn had been burnt to the ground.

“…………”

A sudden fire. A room with its door firmly shut. And a man who’d collapsed in a prone position.

Having listened till the end of the story, Sherlock replayed the situation back then in his head. In his heart, he cracked a wry smile.

The search for a fugitive had turned into a locked-room case.

T/N: It’s a proper mystery this time!! I quite like this one :3

Footnotes:

[1] Gregson first appeared in Chapter 8 (“A Study in ‘S’, Act 2") after Lestrade arrested Sherlock on suspicion of Count Drebber’s murder. This is his first panel:

(Taken from the official translation of Volume 2)

[2] Similar to Story 1, I’ll be using the British way of referring to building levels (i.e. ground floor, first floor, second floor).

[heliads]

Neighbour

Bucky first moves into the apartment building because it’ll provide him a safe home away from the dangers of his work as an Avenger. He doesn’t plan on meeting Y/N, the girl down the hall.

masterlist

The apartment building is the perfect fit. It’s four blocks across and three blocks down from the Avengers Tower in New York City, far enough away that Bucky can easily walk to the building and close enough that the tower’s shadow still chills his back. It’s nice to be able to have a place to live that isn’t a part of the Avengers, like almost every other aspect of Bucky’s existence. 

It also doesn’t hurt that it seems to calm Tony down to have Bucky away from him- he supposes the Civil War situation and the unmentionable crimes he’d committed as the Winter Soldier still tighten an invisible noose around Tony’s neck whenever the billionaire looks at him. The more time Bucky has away from the entire Avengers world, the better. The separation of church and state; except, in his case, more like the separation of government secrets and any potential relaxation at home. Although Bucky’s never been one for relaxation.

His few meager possessions have finally been moved into this new apartment building, and they decorate a few sparse shelves. The rooms aren’t quite luxurious, nor bare, more somewhere along the lines of furnished. This isn’t due to lack of funding- no, Steve and everyone else had made sure Bucky had more than enough money to support himself. This was all his choice- maybe born from a habit of only needing a few things so he could pack up easily for a life on the run, maybe even from before then, when scrimping and saving for wartime efforts were commonplace.

Money didn’t form the decision as to why Bucky chose to live in an apartment building, though. That was purely for protection. The thoughts had spiraled into his head as soon as Bucky had begun considering a future living situation. A house by himself was no good- even with neighbours, he would still be easily targeted. And if he lived alone, with few neighbours? Even worse- he could be singled out and killed by any decent strike team. Living without anyone around would cause Bucky to be a lone wolf, separated from the protection of the pack and left to the mercy of a none too benevolent world.

An apartment complex, on the other hand, would do nicely. There are 15 stories, about 275 total apartments but only 260 in use. There are enough people in the building to hide Bucky, enough inhabitants coming and going to ensure that one war-worn soldier in particular would be disguised in the crowd. No sniper, no matter how well trained, would risk firing into the building at him. No strike team could excuse a raid on his room, and thus Bucky ensures his safety as best he can by living here.

This being said, Bucky still flinches at the sound of a knock at the door. No one should know he was there, and any coworkers would only speak to him at the Avengers Tower or some other S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters to guarantee no suspicions were raised as a result of high-profile government agents coming to his apartment. Bucky walks slowly over to the door, back hand moving silently to grab a knife hidden in a discreet pocket on his belt. His hand closes around the ridged rubber handle and the blade shines in the light from an open window. Bucky glances once in the peephole in the door, then groans under his breath, putting his knife away hurriedly before opening the door.

Standing before him is a cheerful young woman, holding a cloth covered plate in her hands. When she sees him, her smile grows even broader, if that was possible. “Ah, you must be Mr. Barnes. I’m Y/N, your neighbour from down the hall. The door next to the window?” Bucky forces a smile, still confused as to why she was there. “Bucky. Uh, I go by Bucky.” The woman nods. “Bucky it is. Well, I always bring new neighbours some freshly baked cookies. I figure it’s a nice way to start off your first few days here, right?”

She carefully unwraps the cloth from around the plate, revealing a small mound of chocolate chip cookies, still warm from the oven based on the steam just beginning to emanate from the plate. Bucky tries not to stare- he hasn’t had homemade cookies in what feels like years. Could be decades.

He takes the plate from her after standing there for a moment. “Thanks, Y/N. I appreciate it.” Y/N smiles at him again. “No problem! Hey, if you ever need something, even just someone to talk to, I’m right down the hall. Apartment on the left of that window there. Just knock.” Bucky nods slowly. “I’ll, uh, keep that in mind.” The woman waves goodbye, then heads back down the hallway once more, leaving Bucky standing in his doorway holding the plate of cookies. So that was his neighbour.

After Bucky manages to make it back inside, he sits down in one of his newly purchased chairs, thinking. He hadn’t planned on speaking to any of the other inhabitants of the apartment building- he’s always been taught that friendships with non-Avengers or other agents were risky. Too big of a chance of them being double agents or hurt because of him, so Bucky had decided not to talk to anyone else in the building. Yet here he was, already telling Y/N his name. Hey, at least her cookies were good. 

Bucky finds himself stumbling up to his apartment building after a long, rough day. The problem with his line of work is that it constantly left him questioning everything he did. When he helped use his skills to track someone down, was it worth it? When he had to go in on missions and infiltrate HYDRA bases, who was benefiting from it? When he looked into someone’s eyes and pulled the trigger, was he killing a criminal or murdering an innocent?

Bucky’s head is a swirling mess by the time he finally gets to his floor, and his feet drag him out of the elevator without being directed by a single thought. His eyes latch on the shape of his front door, but Bucky realizes that the last thing he wants right now is to be alone. Unconsciously, his head turns to face another door, one near him. It’s bathed in a light from the window right next to it. 

Y/N.

Her words rise, unbidden, from some unknown depths of his memory. If you ever need something, even just someone to talk to, I’m right down the hall. He doesn’t know why he stops by her door, doesn’t know why his hand rises to knock twice on the hard wood, doesn’t know why the door knob twists open under the guide of his fingers when she calls for him to come in.

Y/N’s apartment looks a lot like his. It faces the bustling streets of the city, the junctures of the streets. She has art hung around the walls, and tall bookcases are wedged in the corners. A faded blanket is draped across a pale green couch, and light from an antique lamp paints the room in a bright coat of gold. After a second, Bucky’s eyes find Y/N, bent over her kitchen counter. He can see now why she couldn’t answer the door herself- her hands are covered in flour, busily kneading a mound of dough in front of her.

She smiles when she sees him approach. “Hey, Bucky! Sorry about this- I’m just finishing a loaf of bread.” Bucky chuckles softly in spite of himself. “Didn’t realize you like baking this much.” Y/N laughs, a soft sound like the chiming of bells. “It’s a habit.” Her hands methodically fold the dough in front of her, pushing it forward only to pull it back over itself once more. Light motes of flour occasionally drift up from the counter.

It takes Bucky a moment to realize she’s looking at him expectantly, and he clears his throat. “Right. I just wanted to- I remembered you said something about-” Y/N glances up at him with her lips curving into a smile, and he suddenly can’t finish his sentence. She reaches into a tall plastic container next to her, and dusts her dough with a pinch more of flour. “Well, no matter the reason, I’m glad you stopped by. I’ve been meaning to ask someone about this program I’m supposed to be reviewing for work. It’s not that long, only ten or so minutes. If you don’t mind, I’ll put it on while I finish up the bread and you can tell me your thoughts.”

She crosses the kitchen to rinse off her flour-powdered hands, and after dashing a towel about them, pulls up a short video on her TV. It’s actually quite interesting, some overview of a project regarding city planning. Towards the end, Y/N puts her bread in some warm drawer (“to proof so it will rise!” or whatever that means) and cleans her hands once more before perching on a chair next to him.

Once the screen fades to black, she turns to him. “So, what do you think? I’ve got to decide in a few days whether or not to support this guy and his project, but I’m not sure. I mean, more space for the hospitals would definitely be useful, but if it keeps encroaching on park land like that, it won’t be great for the environment.” Bucky frowns. “What if he extended it in the other direction instead? He’s got more room around the east side of the building.” Y/N furrows her brow in concentration, playing back the video so she can see what he’s talking about.

He ends up staying for half an hour more, spending almost the entire time discussing the proposed project. He didn’t mean to stay that long, but it’s so easy to talk to Y/N that he barely felt any time pass at all. When he eventually heads out, after promising to drop by again soon, he closes the door behind him with more reluctance than he had realized. His chest feels strangely light, and there’s an odd expression on his face. A smile.

The weeks fly by in his new apartment, coming and going far faster than Bucky had expected. He ends up visiting Y/N often, and they quickly become fast friends. For someone who’s not supposed to be engaging with civilians, Bucky’s breaking his own rules quite easily. 

He’s at work at the Avengers Tower when he first hears about it. Bucky had noticed a sudden increase in commotion outside of his station, and he hadn’t considered it much before Steve had come bursting into the room. All his friend had to do was hold out the case file in his hand and Bucky’s heart rate had gone through the roof.

Y/N was missing. No, Y/N was captured. By HYDRA agents. Because of him. There were photos of her in some cell, hands tied behind her back. She was being held ransom to hurt him, to punish him for defecting from his title as HYDRA’s Winter Soldier. It hadn’t taken long for Bucky to put together a team and find out where she was being held, but the entire time he was preparing Bucky felt a constant twist in his stomach, a pain like a knife being slowly stabbed through him.

The HYDRA outpost where Y/N is being held is small, barely large enough to trigger S.H.I.E.L.D. sensors. Yet there it is, guards posted outside the door and everything. Bucky barely says a word to his team, already taking out the guards and storming inside. It’s strange- enemy soldiers in the halls look terrified at the sight of him, and Bucky doesn’t realize why until he comes face to face with his own reflection in a polished metal door. He looks like a wild animal, emotionless and cold, seconds away from a kill. He looks angry- no, furious. Beyond furious. What was dear to him had been taken away, and he was ready to do anything to get her back.

The HYDRA structure is small, and so it doesn’t take long for Bucky to find Y/N. She looks up when she sees him, and he can see the confusion and relief warring in her eyes when he walks through the door. He doesn’t say a word while they’re leaving the building, and neither does she. It’s only when they’re both alone in a closed off room on a Quinjet leaving the HYDRA compound that Bucky finally opens his mouth to speak.

“I’m leaving the apartment building. I’ll probably never see you again.” Y/N jerks her head up, shocked. “Because of the attack? Why wouldn’t you see me?” Bucky methodically takes off his armor, removing mics and thick pieces of armored uniform. “It’s not safe for you. I’m not putting you in any position when you can get hurt.”

Y/N laughs harshly, a strange, discordant contrast to the bubbly laugh he’s used to hearing. “Bucky, you not seeing me won’t make a difference. I knew that when I first met you, and I decided to get to know you anyway. I was the first one to take this risk, and I’m not letting you walk away from me because the consequences have been made real.” Bucky looks at her, confused. “What are you talking about? You knew who I was?”

Y/N nods, turning her head away so Bucky can’t see her face. “I knew you were the Winter Soldier. James Buchanan Barnes. I knew that being anywhere remotely near you would be dangerous to me, but I stayed because you were important to me. Please, don’t give up on me because of what might happen.”

Bucky throws his hands in the air, frustrated. “What might happen? Y/N, it already did happen. You could have been killed-or worse- all because of me. This is for the best. Don’t think I want this to happen, because I don’t. I just-” His voice cracks on the last word. “I just need you to be safe.” Y/N walks over to him, gently taking his hands in hers. “I will be safe. If you’re there with me. Bucky, we both know they won’t try something like this again, not for a while. Not after their first attempt went so badly. It’s alright to be worried, but please, don’t leave me.”

Bucky looks at her, earnest eyes meeting his tense ones, then sighs. “Fine. I won’t go. Just promise me you’ll be careful? You’ll contact me if anything seems wrong?” Y/N smiles at him. “Of course I will. As long as I’ve got you, I know I’ll be alright.”

[fishmongeringstudies]

opening scene, six am, scrambled eggs stuck to your economy class seat

the first thing i bought in america was a stick of deodorant. i'd left mine in singapore though i could've sworn i'd stuck it in my suitcase before i got on the plane, in the turquoise pouch with the chipped zipper beside the advil that would sit there, forgotten, for the next thirteen weeks and a travel-sized bottle of hand sanitizer that smelled like well-fermented ass. it turns out your memory fails you when you're getting ready to leave everything you've ever known behind, even if the place you're headed for has looked like a hammered michelangelo's impression of salvation for most of your life. it was that kind of time. i was out of my mind and found the space beneath my feet where one expects floor to be empty for most, if not all, of my waking moments. of course i forgot about the deodorant. the real surprise was that i thought i'd remember at all.

the first thing i bought when i got on campus was a bottle of mineral water. it took me two days to realize that the star trek-esque metal fitting built into the wall on the first floor of my dorm building was meant to dispense drinking water and not tiny silver men that would kill me in my sleep, and three to realize that none of the water coolers in this place were functional. jamming my thumb into the button while no longer expecting anything to happen, i was reminded, suddenly and abruptly, that we were in the middle of a pandemic. i resisted the urge to rub my eye with the back of my hand and went back up to my room, where already a small army of plastic bottles had begun to accumulate on an empty shelf.

the first person i spoke to here is not a good person, but not a particularly bad one either. he is selfish and has half-eaten dinner plates for eyes and thinks the world is the size of his fist, which is how most people are when they're eighteen, especially the boys, especially the ones who've never had to answer to the horrible, searching x-ray question, what are you? i only hope he grows out of it. i will not be the one to make him. perhaps he should make an appointment with god.

the first time i cried in america was when i was born (austin, texas, april 25th, 2001). it hasn't happened since.

today i cross the street from the campus bookstore to the bank, thumbing my passport in the pocket of my hoodie to make sure it hasn't fallen out, to make sure they'll be able to identify my body if i'm ever found somewhere wet and starless (behind a beat-up denny's would be good, though i'm not against the idea of waffle house). i spend five minutes standing awkwardly in front of the empty counter, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, before i notice the print-out saying something about online check-ins and virtual consultations. i ignore it. when i finally work up the courage to speak to someone the teller makes me scan the QR code with my phone anyway. eight hours later, long after i've opened my first bank account in america and gotten a bona fide american debit card, bright orange like they're afraid i'm going to drop it on the street if it's the color of slate (i will anyway, because god made me full of homosexuality and hubris and i intend to live up to his expectations), and discovered that i am, in fact, capable of holding a conversation with two strangers a decade my senior who both have wedding rings and big adult smiles and soft adult voices, i get a text back. good news, it says. we're ready to serve you now.

the spring semester ends today. when i was typing up my powerpoint on why i should be allowed to go to america for college at four a.m. last december i remember looking up the duration of the spring semester on the school website. look, i told my mom, while frantically clicking through fifteen pointless, but very cool animations on google slides with my other hand. it's only until may twenty-first. it's not that long. but it's long enough.

it isn't long enough. three months is barely enough time to get someone to trust you enough to tell you what they think about when they're lying awake in bed at three o'clock in the morning and they have to pee but they're starting to drift off and if they get up now they'll never fall asleep ever again in their life. and this is a country we're talking about. the worst one there is. the loudest, the proudest, the weirdest; the closest to the proverbial heart of man. the one that's the happiest to fuck the world up, over and over again. this is not your standard courtship ritual. this is a lifelong investmnet.

one time someone told me he'd always thought he was straight. but then i met you, he said, his brows scrunched together in a way that was both unattractive and made me want to pinch his cheeks together until there was nothing left in between. so what does that make me? imagine i'm standing in that room again but a little removed from the scene. i stare into the camera like i'm in the office. i don't have a fucking clue, i say blankly. why the fuck are you asking me?

there is something about people who have never been forced to consider the question of what constitutes their fundamental identity as a human being. they're so happy, but in the way that toddlers are before they realize that melted ice cream doesn't taste as good as the frozen stuff and things that die, like, actually don't come back to you even if you hold a funeral for the ant you accidentally squished and stop drinking soda for a week and make sure not to step on all the white tiles in the hallway outside your apartment. i imagine all of the happy cishets in the world poised on the edge of a very tall building. what's at the bottom of the drop? i dunno. you'll have to ask them.

recently i acquired seven bottles of nail polish from a friend who was trying to clear out her collection before leaving for the summer. i keep forgetting people are leaving for the summer, and now they've all left. reality hits you like a horse's ass across the cheek. it's warm. it's soft. it smells unpleasant but in a way that makes you want to keep smelling it even though at the back of your mind you know that this isn't going to improve your mental, physical, or spiritual health, and yet in the moment, in the moment that is the now that is the blood coursing through your veins all red and shimmery like glass, in this funny little moment all you can do is stand there, eyes squeezed shut, and inhale.

i convinced my mom to send me my favorite bomber jacket. the postage cost seventeen dollars and fifty cents in singapore dollars but true to form it only took thirteen days to get from one side of the globe to the other. it is not so appalling after all that we are connected by distances. geographically speaking, i am always beside you.

there is at least one working water cooler on this campus. in the basement of this whoozy, boozy freshman dorm, beside the laundry room with its clear glass door and clean, powdery lavender-lemon-jasmine smell, you will find a metal fixture with a thick rectangular button hidden under the lip of the bowl. if you jam your thumb into it, water will erupt from the fountain-head like god pouring life into the mouths of tiny clay-children or goldfish, depending on which version of history you're a fan of, depending on which natgeo subscription you have. and the water will be very sweet, very cold, nourishing the skin on your bones and furnishing the ground beneath your feet. but don't drink from it. we're in a pandemic, after all.

instead go back up, past the lounge with the flatscreen tv and the ratty green sofas, past the elevator that sounds like a soap opera crossed with a minecraft let's play, past the cubbyhole of a kitchen with the moldy sponges and the half-empty bottle of dish soap that smells like van gogh's impression of misery until you get to the room that, for the last three brilliant, battered months, has been yours. and let yourself in.

05.21.21

[drxwsyni]

Petrified (pt. 6)

Yandere Erasermic x f!Reader

SERIES MASTERLIST

a/n: So, I’ve got the rest of this fic planned out which means ideally, writing the rest of it should be easier. I’m so sorry for how long it took me to finish this part, I just had to figure out where I was taking the whole story first. Hope you guys enjoy this chapter!

A big thank you to those few anons who so kindly sent me some inspiration for this fic. I really appreciate the help, and it greatly assisted me in forming the outline to the rest of the story <3

*Sidenote*: Please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed from the taglist! Also, I’d recommend looking at the warnings listed on Ao3 for the whole fic. There’s a lot of them, and some of you might like the heads up for future chapters (it will have slight spoilers though).

5.2k words

Warnings: Reader experiences panic attacks, severe anxiety & claustrophobia, coercive behaviour

The progression of the night felt slow, but perhaps that wasn’t such a horrible thing―it allowed your mind to grow accustomed to the seemingly endless rambling of a certain blond. That, and you could appreciate the unfaltering patience of his partner, who like you listened dutifully and made the occasional response to whatever the voice hero had chosen to fixate on.

And surprisingly, the frustrating agreement you were quite literally coerced into began slipping from your recollection, at least for the moment.

You’d admit, the two men had some fairly captivating stories. It was becoming a sort of norm for you to idly exist alongside them while they spoke. As a civilian, and one with relatively no past experience when dealing with heroes or villains, you were more or less forced to let them take the reins on the back and forth between the three of you.

That is unless they wanted to talk about what flowers were best paired together, or the step by step process of tending to some particularly high maintenance plants. You assumed they didn’t, and stayed quiet in your ways.

And so time went on, you nestled into the corner of their couch in the small but comfortably furnished living room, the fuel burning fireplace giving off a warmth that settled the nerves that had been sent skyrocketing not too long ago.

For the second time that night, your eyes drifted to the clock hanging on the wall―6:52 pm.

In moments like these you were able to be thankful of Shouta’s perceptiveness, him following your gaze without you realizing his actions. It wasn’t until he voiced his own concerns of not wanting to keep you up too late that you had the realization of his observances.

Naturally, you had no qualms with the idea of your departure.

Hizashi wasn’t as accepting of it, being the overly affectionate person you hated him for, but he would always listen to Shouta before he did so with you. And with a stern glance and brief assurance, his own opinions gave way in favour for the erasure hero’s.

You tried insisting that calling a cab home was no issue, but you rarely got your way with the two, and tonight was not going to be an exception. That reality had you sitting in their car on the way back to your apartment, Hizashi in the driver's seat and still managing to find something to discuss. At this point you weren’t sure if you preferred the nearly deafening silence of Shouta’s company, or the never ending chatter of his partner, but that too was out of your control when you were seen off by the visibly exhausted man at the door just minutes ago, him favouring to remain home to clean up for the night.

The speakers were playing low, some unrecognizable channel broadcasting soft rock while you politely listened to Hizashi drone on as he drove the car through town. It had begun raining just before you left, the distinct but quiet noise of downpour hitting the windshield having a somewhat soothing effect.

It was greatly appreciated, when the sound of Hizashi’s voice was growing in intensity the more excited he became with the topic at hand. You didn’t have the heart to tell him to lower his tone, and so you did your best to contain any brief winces when the pitch raised just above a comfortable level.

When the sight of your apartment complex came into view through the rain splattered glass and street lights reflecting off the droplets, a deep sigh of relief escaped your lungs. Paying attention to the exuberant man after such a long and mentally tasking night was difficult, but somehow you managed to pull it off. You gave yourself some credit for surmounting the task, fully prepared to bound out of the vehicle to your awaiting bedroom the second the chance to do so arose.

The car came to a halt, Hizashi putting the gear shift into park outside the complex. You waited for the doors to unlock, getting ready to say your goodbyes.

You felt a warm hand rest atop your thigh instead, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Before ya get going, I just want to mention one last time that what you’re doin’ at work really isn’t the best idea, sunshine. I know, I know―you like helping people with that cute lil’ quirk of yours. It’s just the whole thing isn’t treatin’ ya very well, you can’t tell me it’s something you’re really okay with keeping up.”

The leg that wasn’t being held down by the blond’s hand bounced anxiously―the action itself unconscious, and movements small to the point where he didn’t pick up on it. His gaze was hard set on your expression, and the raw concern in his eyes was only unsettling, the exact opposite effect it should have.

Salvation was just a few metres away, but with the car doors still locked, it might as well be in another country.

Your eyes trained on the passing cars at the intersection down the street, plastering the best casual look across your face. Inwardly, you prayed he couldn’t sense the way your heart rate had picked up to a racing pace, and the somewhat unsteadiness to your breathing.

“It’s hard, but the job is all I have. Not just for money, but I really do get satisfaction out of working there. And...while this isn’t really the first time I’ve had issues because of my quirk, I can’t just let it stop me from doing what I love.”

Without even looking at him, you could tell how much he disapproved. And you didn’t need the visual confirmation when the grip on your thigh got tighter, and the noise of breathy exhale sounded off next to you. “Sunshine, you’re only hurtin’ yourself. It’s not worth it to do that over a job.”

For once your eyes met his, only for a moment, with a small and brief surge of what you think may have been confidence. Could’ve been stupidity, either way it had you replying with an edge. “You’re one to talk, don’t people like you get hurt all the time for the sake of your job?”

There was a pause, and in that silence you feared for your life.

But then the blonde gave an amused chuckle, removing the hand from your thigh to wave off your confrontational remark. “It’s different for you, I’m supposed to get hurt if it means I’ll protect someone else. And even then, I’m ready to rock with a little help from my friends. My wounds are healed and then it’s back to business―your aches are long term. And for what? Those pretty flowers are gonna die no matter what ya do, no need to put yourself through it to give them a few more days of air time, honey.”

All you could do was smile, even though the condescending attitude was killing you in more ways than one. To drive your fake expression of positivity home, you mustered that awful customer service voice that you’d summon when having to deal with some less than savoury individuals.

“It’s not that I don’t think you’re right, Hizashi. It’s just...I’m really dedicated to my job, and I have been for a long time. I don’t think we’ll be able to agree on this, but that’s not a big deal.”

He gave you a lasting look, as if trying to find answers that he wouldn’t get from spoken responses. Dismissively, the blond shook his head, unlocking the passenger door. “Alright, alright. I’m not gonna change my mind on this though. And ya better hold up your end of the deal either way. I don’t think Shouta or I could take another scare from you so soon, got it?”

Oh, you heard him loud and clear.

You nodded in agreement, “Of course, thanks for the ride home. Oh―feel free to tell me if you have to cancel any of our plans if something comes up too.” Hurriedly, you were collecting your handbag that was strewn across your lap, reaching for the handle and pushing the heavy door open.

“Sure thing, hun!” Inwardly, you cringed for the thousandth time this night at his unwelcome pet names, giving a final smile before gently shutting the car door.

The sound of rain lightly coming down around you, with the damp heaviness in the air felt like an atmospheric and emotional reset. One that you needed―your pent up anxieties were ready to break through the walls you put up since the second you stepped out of your apartment. And you almost forgot about them too, the feeling of consistent dread becoming something that lingered alongside all your other emotions. It never went away, and it’s not that you stopped noticing it completely, rather you had to push it down to keep up a calm facade.

And now, you didn’t dare glance back in Hizashi’s direction as you made your way to the front entrance of the complex. Because he would see the look on your face, lower lip quivering, eyes watering and expression just barely holding it together.

The distraction of a normal conversation was ripped from your body, and the prospect of having to worry about balancing work as usual without looking like a liar came crashing down on you.

You could only hope that the walls were thick enough for your neighbours to be protected from the sounds of your sobs.

_____

Petals grew with a lively plushness, leaves sprouting a new sense of vitality. It was a beautiful display of plant life.

And you grew tired.

Your most recent purchase of concealer was doing a good job dissuading people from that fact however. Even after a long work day, it remained masking the dark circles underneath your eyes. Nothing changed for a while, except for the notion that you were getting better at keeping the drawbacks of your dedication out of the spotlight.

Arrangement after tedious arrangement, your quirk brought life back into the greenery like it always did. You only wished you felt as healthy as you looked. The sight of a blemish free and lively complexion as a result of your new makeup routine made you a little jealous, knowing the truth.

You never felt so concerned and drained over the reality of your general state before now.

Those two heroes wanted you doing what they thought was best for you, which they had no right to decide. And although you resolved in secret to simply put up a front of agreeableness, their demands still had an effect.

Paranoia was one of them.

Having them walk in on your work shift unannounced was a slim possibility, but it was a possibility nonetheless. Ideally, you would save the fairly high priced makeup for those impending weekend nights spent with the two. Yet, the prospect of either of the heroes catching you off guard, and quite clearly unchanged from holding yourself back, kept you reapplying the product day after day.

You went into the ordeal with high hopes, but with each passing shift your doubts only became more incessant. Going through the motions of what was normally a mindless routine became taxing, even just days after seeing the two. And so, when the time rolled around a week later to give them what was pretty much a progress report passed off as a friendly get together, it was difficult to maintain a straight face.

No amount of astonishingly good food, or engaging stories by the fireplace could take your mind off the question that by all means should pop up.

And it did―merely proving your conceptions of what they really had in mind for nights like these. For some ungodly reason the two sought to control this part of your life, one that if it weren’t for them might not be a big issue. Without the emotional strain, your body would be able to handle the effects of utilizing your quirk in a way that was manageable.

It was their fault you felt as if the end of a work day couldn’t come sooner, and the fumes of energy you retained nearly weren’t enough to get you home each night.

And yet, as they sprung the expected question upon you, demanding to know if you were following through with your end of the ‘agreement,’ they seemed none the wiser to your blatant lies.

Well, aside from the fleeting glance Hizashi sent to Shouta, which was promptly disregarded, you’d effectively averted another crisis. It was back to settling into the background of their company, losing yourself in their words for the moment where the questionable reality of the situation went over your head.

Perhaps if you grew closer to the heroes under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t feel so gut wrenchingly apprehensive whenever you caught yourself coming to greatly enjoy your time with them. It was like an internal betrayal―your body unable to disregard the oppressive behaviour they exhibited, while simultaneously longing to have gratitude for their hospitable nature.

By the end of the night, the semi-forced meeting had you feeling as drained as any work day would, and then some.

In fact, you never fully recovered from it.

You only got worse, the need to apply more concealer and muster everything in your being to force a smile on your face during the day being the bane of your existence. It was all because of them, and they didn’t even know.

If you weren’t so miserable, you could almost laugh at the whole thing. They were the ones urging you to take better care of yourself, and yet it was them who were keeping you from doing so. It’s not like you could just heed their words and stop using your quirk―your livelihood depended on it. Tips were hard to come by in your occupation, and the only reason why you earned so much was due to the advantage you held in the workplace.

The frustration was what had you crying yourself to sleep some nights, at least when you weren’t too exhausted to simply pass out the second your head hit the pillow. You began devising ‘what if’ scenarios that would only have to do with ways to avoid Shouta and Hizashi. Ways to weasel your way out of meeting up with them.

Maybe you could fake being sick? They would just come check up on you regardless.

Perhaps you could move to another city? You didn’t have the funds―and what if they followed you?

Why don’t you just ask them to end the agreement?

...Don’t lie to yourself, you’d rather lose your job than face that level of confrontation.

They were an active nuisance even when they weren’t directly in your life. And so when they were present in that sense, the feeling of unbearable stress only increased tenfold.

Hizashi was one for texting, the sound of a message alert from your phone instinctively triggering your heart to drop in your chest like a Pavlov dog. A painful reminder in the times you managed to free your worrisome mind from their unintentional torment.

And then there was the unannounced visit from Shouta on your way home. It only happened once before the next dinner night, but it was enough to break down the wall you’d built for the ensuing occasion that would hopefully protect your weak heart from shattering under the stress.

He walked you home, catching you on your way back from work. It was peculiar, to say the least. A hero as busy as him actively ignoring his duties to see a civilian who was in no danger whatsoever back to their apartment. You initially questioned him, and he blew off the concern with the defence that this type of occurrence was very much in the rage of heroics that needed to be done.

You weren’t in danger, but you might’ve been if he hadn’t showed up. It was a logical action taken by him, and you shouldn’t worry about it.

Shouta was quiet on his feet, and you might’ve thought he’d left you be if it weren’t for that distinct rustling of his capture weapon shifting as he walked next to you. He was a man of few words, and seeing you home didn’t require much conversation when he was simply doing his duty as a hero.

You arrived at the complex, safe and sound. Physically at least.

As always, you had to adjust from keeping your anxieties to yourself, to being so overwhelmingly aware of them in the privacy of your own apartment. The floodgates were opened, and bottled up emotions no longer had a need to stay hidden. Coming home was never supposed to be so painful, but it was when you were forced to spend it trying to calm down from the chance day.

_____

They let you make dessert for your next meeting. The both of them were deeply impressed by your skills, offering their own extensive words of praise.

Expectedly, it wasn’t enough to have them forgetting the real reason why you were there. You were thankful when Shouta asked how you were doing this time―he always got straight to the point.

But you ended up yawning midway through dismissing their concerns, and of course they pressed you on it. It wasn’t intentional in the slightest. You didn’t want to give away that your limbs felt like they weighed a thousand pounds with how tired you were. Or how your existence could now be chalked up to getting ready for work, going to work, and recovering from work―with a sprinkle of uncontrollable meltdowns on the side.

You told them it was getting late, and they had offered you a drink, so naturally you were a little tired from it. No big deal, right?

Of course, they said.

And so you went home not too long after, Shouta in the driver's seat, stoic and silent as ever. Maybe it was your hazed over mind playing tricks on you, but his demeanour felt...off. Like he wanted to say something, but was holding himself back. Perhaps it was for your sake, or he just assumed you were too worn out to really take whatever words were floating around in his head to heart. So instead he kept a close eye on you the whole way home, stealing concerned glances that you never met with your own gaze. He was tense―the white knuckled grip on the wheel gave it away.

Shouta never gave you evidence as to why he was acting as such, and you never asked him to.

_____

While you may have been growing accustomed to their presence even in the slightest, it didn’t stop your body from shutting down in the areas that you needed most.

Resilience was your strong suit in the time before meeting the two men. But life was testing you around every corner, and you were failing these tests with worse results each time.

It was Wednesday, the halfway mark in another week that felt all too long for you to be able to stomach. Unforeseen obstacles were becoming a norm lately. Making sure you were stocked up on enough caffeine so you didn’t black out, pinching yourself to stay awake in the slower times at work, consciously paying attention simple actions so you didn’t trip over your own two feet. Generally, it was the small stuff that was making your life harder alongside the more glaring issues you faced.

And now, the obstacle was getting home. It’s not that this wasn’t always a task in itself, but it never developed past the routine of ensuring you were heading in the right direction when your mind chose to wander.

This time you were sure the route you were taking was correct, but something was in your way.

Your ears rung at the high pitched sirens going off around you. The flashing lights of firetrucks, ambulances, and other various first responder vehicles lit up the steeped darkness of the night. A crowd had formed at the police tape line blocking off one side of the street, the group effectively taking up any space left to get by on the other side that wasn’t bombarded by emergency personnel.

The sight seemed like an insurmountable feat, especially in your state. Physically and emotionally drained, the gathering of onlookers stood as one of your worst fears and largest challenges yet. Whatever had earned such an audience was beyond you. Realistically, you needed only to regard the response it was given to know that whatever had happened, it was quite serious.

And it was preventing you from moving forward.

There was the shortcut to your left, one that’d worked for you before...until it didn’t. The warnings of Shouta and Hizashi ran through your head, bringing on a new sense of anxiety. It was just what you needed―the words of the two most intimidating men in your life keeping you from seeing yourself home in a calm manner.

You couldn’t take the alleyway. The only option was right in front of you.

Deep breaths.

It was only roughly twenty or thirty feet of crowd. Tightly packed, and relatively unmoving. You didn’t have the heart to rudely shove your way through the condensed gathering, fearing the looks of disapproval from those you tried to get past. And so you weaved through slowly, barely getting out a passing “Pardon me,” or “Excuse me.”

Distantly, you were aware that your voice was so small amongst the muddled conversations of strangers and still blaring sirens, that the probability of anyone hearing your forced politeness was slim to none. But the action made you feel better, even if nobody knew that you were having these concerns. At least you were trying to be wary of others.

But you didn’t get the same care in return.

Rudely, an observing civilian shoved you to the side, selfishly trying to get a better view. You stumbled into another body, earning a curse of annoyance for your clumsiness. With a racing heart hammering in your ears, you gave a distressed apology. It earned you no leniency.

You can block them out, just focus on getting out of here.

Another harsh force collided with your back, sending you to the pavemented ground. The feeling of your knees scraping against the harsh surface didn’t register. The notion that tears were welling in your eyes didn’t either. Only the sensation of panic, and the ability to simply breath becoming more difficult was able to surface in your consciousness.

You pleaded with your body to stand up, and somehow you did, no thanks to anyone around you who could’ve very well assisted you. Through the thickness of the crowd you couldn’t even see where the bodies dissipated. All you could do was blindly move forward.

Nobody cared about how overwhelmed you quite obviously were. Or at least that’s what you thought, not being able to completely tell, or ask for help to hopefully alert someone of your extreme discomfort. They only needed to remove their focus from whatever scene warranted so much attention in front of them for a second to realize what they were unknowingly doing.

And yet, of course nobody was that conscious of their own actions. Not like you, who even amidst the chaos of being shoved in every which direction still desperately tried to minimize your own damage. It was for the sake of those who paid no mind for your own comfort, you fearing whatever might happen if you didn’t.

The presence of so many people was suffocating. If you didn’t think you were claustrophobic before, you certainly knew you were now.

You were exhausted, stressed, partly injured―although that fact still hadn’t set in yet―and unbearably on edge.

And then you were out.

You don’t remember going through the motions, just that now your body wasn’t compressed by countless others. A few seconds went by and you felt your sense of balance come back to you. But you still felt nauseous, and in lifting a hand to your face you realized that you were crying, feeling the distinct wetness against your fingers.

Out of the need for mental self-preservation, your brain essentially forced you into autopilot. You found your legs moving away from the crowd, and down the route that would lead you home. It amazed you by the time you shut the door to your apartment that you hadn’t passed out. The way you still shakily sucked in breaths in quick succession hadn’t stopped, and your hands could barely keep steady as you fumbled with the locks on the door.

The work bag weighing you down was unceremoniously dropped to the floor, and you tiredly trudged to the kitchen table. Had you gone any longer without rest, you could’ve very well collapsed right there on the floor. Thankfully, you made it to a chair before then, burying your face into your arms that were folded over the table as you slumped against it.

Tired and weak sobs wracked your worn out body, and you let the steady stream of tears be soaked up in the sleeve of your hoodie. As for how your mind was fairing, you couldn’t really tell. Getting a grip on your wavering thoughts felt impossible. It was an uncontrollable back and forth between what had happened, and fleeting attempts to ground yourself.

That task of focusing on the present wasn’t something you could do alone, at least not at the moment. But the sound of your phone ringing could. Your heart stopped at the auditory intrusion, and hesitantly you pulled the device out of your pocket.

The caller ID had you relapsing, broken cries unable to be contained for a few seconds as you tried to figure out how to deal with this new and greatly unappreciated problem. Your eyes scanned over the buzzing and lit up device, reading over Shouta’s name repeatedly.

You let the call go to voicemail.

A moment of reprieve―and then the ringtone started for a second time.

With bated breath, you stared at the device. You could let it go to voicemail once again. You could blow it off as not being near the phone when you were inevitably questioned on the occurrence.

Or you could answer the damn thing now, and be done with the weight of the night.

On the final ring before the automated response kicked in, you pressed the ‘accept call’ button. In lifting the phone to your ear, the gruff and concerned voice of Shouta broke through before you could make any move to initiate the dreaded conversation first.

“Sorry to bother you, just checking to see if you got home safe. There was an incident in your area in case you weren’t already aware…”

The line went silent as you took a moment to collect yourself before giving a response.

You sucked in a deep breath, “I’m alright, thanks for calling.” The appreciative lilt in your tone was as genuine as you could make it. But the shakiness, the crack in your voice as you spoke―it was a dead giveaway.

“...Then why do you sound like you’ve been crying for hours? You need to tell me if something happened, (y/n).” Even with the way the phone call distorted his voice, the sternness still pierced your resolve as if he was standing right in front of you.

Your words were shaky as you felt a plethora of distressing emotions bubbling rapidly inside of you. “I said I’m fine, Shouta. You don’t need to―”

“Don’t lie to me. You know I’m only asking because I’m worried about you, alright? Clearly something’s wrong, just―tell me what happened.”

You wondered if he was aware of just how unfriendly he sounded while saying something like that. It was more so a harsh command for a response, rather than a gentle urge to inform him of your wellbeing. Like he was bothered with you trying to remain strong, and not burdening him with your problems.

That was your issue with Shouta―a hint of what you could only assume was annoyance lingered in his words where you were concerned. At least, that’s how it was when you were behaving in such a manner that didn’t comply with how he’d decided you should act. You’d seen him in a light that was enjoyable. When you first met him, or after he’d already chewed you out during those Saturday nights and thus no longer felt the need to pressure you on what truth you’d developed over your state.

Unfortunately, right now your state went against all those lies you told. An emotional wreck, beaten down by the hands of those too caught up in some captivating scene to take account of the consequences to their ignorance.

Determination was wavering in your mind, and if you didn’t end the call soon then the chance of making all the effort you’d put into keeping them from the truth would be for nothing.

“Really, everything is okay. Listen, I’m sort of busy right now…” You stifled a sob into a clenched fist, “I-I can’t talk at the moment, I’m sorry―I have to go.”

Your finger was flying to the ‘end call’ button as soon as the words left your mouth. His protests rang through the speaker, but exactly what he said was beyond you.

The line went dead, and your phone shut off. It clattered against the wooden table as you dropped it. Your hands lifted to rub the hot tears falling down your cheeks, full body tremors wreaking havoc as you remained seated.

In the silence of your apartment, your emotions settled into a static numbness. Your eyes remained trained on the table, mindlessly taking in the details of the wood’s grain. Whatever would happen as a result of you abruptly cutting off the conversation wasn’t a scenario you could formulate.

The screen on your phone remained black, and you made no move to turn it on. You never checked it for the time that was passing as you remained utterly drained at the kitchen table. Something in the back of your mind told you that yes―you could very well get up and go to bed. Or maybe you could bring yourself out of this empty feeling with a distraction.

You could even call Shouta back, perhaps apologize for behaviour that was out of your control...

...No, you couldn’t do that.

Possibilities of various actions presented themselves, and yet you remained unmoving. Your breath had steadied to a slow intake and outtake, disregarding the quivering that still persisted. You didn’t want to think about what had happened, so you didn’t think at all.

You settled into that state for an unknown amount of time. And it took a while, but slowly you could focus on the background noise around you. The air conditioner hummed from the vents against the wall, the thumping of footsteps from residents above you sounded off a couple of times.

Actually...there were more than just those few footsteps.

Still in a daze, you trained your weak focus on that sound. Distant, then coming closer. You turned your head to the front door of your apartment where they stopped.

Three loud raps against the frame. Firm, steady, and done with purpose.

Your heart sunk into your chest.

(End of part 6)

_____

Taglist: @roseloverofpastels @shinsous-eye-bags @tjhonoluluprezstitch626 @pekusofixus @riathearora @glitterypinkkitty @elektraeriseros @hadesnewpersephone @axolotleyeliner

[writefightandflightclub]

Out from the cold (Llewyn Davis x reader)

Summary: Llewyn (precious baby) needs your comfort, and oddly, looking after him comforts you too. Fluff but a lil angst to get to the comfort.

Author’s note: I’m doing soft blurbs bc you all deserve a hug from one of our fave fictional husbands. Let’s all destress and be comforted one blurb at a time, okay? (Dunno how many I can do but gonna try and blitz a few requests out tonight. I’m doing these quickly so they’ll be a bit scrappy, please forgive!) ALSO THIS IS EXCITING I’VE NEVER WRITTEN LLEWYN BEFORE AND I’M KINDA HAPPY WITH IT! LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK? (I love this movie so much, one of my all-time favourites, and one of my fave Oscar performances.)

Warnings: just Llewyn swearing, as per. Alcohol and cigs. No drunkeness. Mentions of homeessness / couch-surfing. Mention of abortion.

GIF by @digginmovies​

It’s late when he shows up at your door. Or rather, it’s late when you find him in your hallway. You don’t know how long he’s been standing there, because he didn’t even knock. Perhaps he was too afraid to, but by the time you eventually stopped pacing your floorboards and threw a scarf around you, you’d come to fear the worst; that he’d been beaten and left in a gutter or some doorway, or perhpas that he was just stubbornly wandering the streets, preferring to freeze to death rather than “bother” you. Or worse than that... perhaps he’d finally struck lucky and you’d never see him again. Now that he no longer needed your couch, maybe he no longer needed you.

Anyway, all of your fears were entirely unfounded, and it was a shock to find him there, leaning up against the wall. The shortest missing person recovery mission ever known.

“Llewyn?” you question, sighing in frustration and unwrapping your suddenly suffocating red scarf.

His whole body is an apology as he turns his head towards you. Eyes apologetic. Shoulders apologetic. That sorry cord jacket is very, very sorry indeed. Hell, even his curls slump over his forehead in a despondent way, as if they’ve given up too.

This precious man. Why doesn’t he know how special he is? Why does he always dwell in the shadows, rather than allowing himself to be welcomed into this warm, light-bathed apartment of yours. Why doesn’t he realise that he is a light himself, and not a burden? That his presence alone can furnish and illuminate any room. Can compel audiences and, certainly, can move you to train your eyes on him as if he is a star under a perpetual spotlight.

Well, you suppose you should just be thankful that he’s here at all, because he always seems an instant away from slipping into shadow and never coming out again. You are thankful. You are always thankful to find him on your doorstep.

“How did it go?” you ask him, and Llewyn pushes himself up from the wall, despondently shaking his head. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and simply stands there as if forgetting any purpose which might cause him to move. You have to shuffle forwards yourself to give him the hug you feel he so desperately needs, even if he doesn’t know he deserves it. You wrap you arms around him, and it’s a little awkward, and he’s stiff, and he feels of wool and cord beneath your fingertips. Smells of frost and cigarette smoke, and like he hasn’t managed to run his clothes through the laundry in a few days. You make a note to do that for him, if you can coax him into a warm bath later.

“Can I please stay with you?” Llewyn asks in a small voice.

You don’t let go of him, willing him to soften against you.

“Llewyn, you dont have to ask me that, you live here.” You say it like it’s obvious, yet this simple fact is something you are endlessly trying to convince him of.

“I sleep on your couch, because I have no fucking money. Because I’m a piece of shit musician who can’t book a gig except for the Gaslight. And that’s only because I knocked-up a chick who gets me a slot out of pity some nights because she aborted my baby.”

“Llewyn!” you say, heartbroken and disbelieving that he could talk about himself in such a way, and looking, in your shock, like you might come for a piece of him too for thinking so little of himself. But, the world keeps kicking this poor man when he’s down, and he’s running out of energy to keep getting back up, so there’s something in you which can’t blame him.

“I’m just tired. I’m just so fuckin’ tired.”

You bring your hands to the sides of his face, that thick, soft beard under your fingertips.

“Llewyn,” you say softly, searching his melancholy eyes. You want to tell him how talented he is, how important. How special, like you have a hundred times before, but he won’t beleive you. Never does. So, instead, you try something you never have before. At least, not while sober. You dip forward and press a chaste kiss to his lips.

You pull away before his lips have time to react, though even if you had lingered, you’re not sure he would have. You swear that man is so touch-starved that he can no longer recognise affection. That he can no longer remember how to move his lips against another’s. You swear he’s too down on himself that he doesn’t remember how to respond to being wanted.

“Come inside. Your lips are like ice,” you say, and it’s true. You only wish you could thaw him.

Llewyn picks up his guitar case and finally follows you inside, taking his familiar spot on the couch and folding his arms around himself, not even taking off his scarf or jacket. Sometimes you worry that his chill goes all the way down to his bones. Just incase it can help with that, you make him some warm tea and wordlessly pass the mug to him.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly, leaning forward in his seat as you sit at the other end of  the couch from him, watching him gripping the warm beverage in his fingerless gloves like he’s never known a warm touch like it.

You sit quietly next to him and allow him to thaw a little, watching the steam rising from the mug as he takes careful sips. It has begun to lash with rain outside, the percussive sound and howl of wind muffled against the window pane, and pleasantly soothing. At least, it sounds soothing to you; Llewyn probably thinks it’s that dark cloud following him around again.

“Have you eaten?”

“Waffles. Had some Gaslight money left,” he says in monotone, staring intently at a particular spot on your hardwood floor. He didn’t make nutritionally sound choices, it seems, but at least he’s had something.

“Good,” you nod. “And do you want to talk about the audition?”

“Nope,” Llewyn responds dejectedly, popping the “p” emphatically.

When he’s drained the cup he sets it down, eventually unwinding his scarf from around his neck and shuffling off his gloves and jacket. Without all his layers he looks a little like a lost baby bird without its nest, or like a winter tree without it’s covering of leaves.

You take a risk in an attempt to perk him up and head towards the vinyl player, dropping the needle on a record you know he likes. And then, you reseat yourself on the couch, a little closer to him this time.

Llewyn finally turns to you, elbows resting on his thighs, looking just a little less morose. “Got any wine? And cigarettes?”

Now, that you could do.

You oblige him, and before long you are sipping on a glass of red, and you let Llewyn rant freely about the audition he doesn’t want to talk about at his leisure, a cigarette bobbing in-between his lips as he talks, smoke wafting around his face and his hair like the ghost of his own curls. You let him rant about the cookie-cutter, soulless, talentless musicians who make it, and the blood-sucking label execs, and the tasteless consumers, and the whole damn thing, until his shoulders look a little less heavy. A little less apologetic. Until he forgets himself and picks up his guitar and begins to mindlessly pluck and strum away.

He starts to sing under his breath, because he can’t help but sing. Because it comes naturally to him, and suddenly he is the only light in your living room. He is under his own super trouper, against the backdrop of the rainy window pane. Light shining against melancholy.

As lovely as he is to look at, with the way his left cheek tugs up with his words and his brow creases with feeling, you close your eyes as his voice filters through into your bones, making you warm from within.

“I love it when you sing,” you say sincerely, and you don’t know it, but your simple, honest words are music to Llewyn’s ears. Those words are something he hears startingly seldom for a man with a talent like his.

Your eyes are still closed when you hear the chaotic thrum of strings as Llewyn sets the guitar down. Your eyes are still closed as Llewyn kneels before you and slides his hands along your thighs, palms down. Your eyes open just before he dips his head and presses a chaste, smoky kiss to your lips.

Your lips do not react. If Llewyn was too touch-starved to kiss you back earlier, you suppose you are too surprised that he might want you back. You want to kiss him, and apparently he wants to kiss you, but you are singing different bars of the same song. Your timing is all off. So, your lips do not meld with his, no matter how long you’ve waited for this. Wanted it. This time too, his mouth was even warm against yours. His hands warm against you. Thawing.

You smile at him, softly. Catiously. As if you might scare him off. As if he is a wild animal who has dropped to his knees for you.

Instead, he remains as you bring your hands back to either side of his face, and lose yourself in his dark, turbulent stare. It is you who suddenly feels catious, as if he is a storm which might swallow you. Might paint you in licks of grey if you don’t first heal his pain. His eyes are raw. Broken apart, and his beautiful soul so exposed beneath them. No wonder he is so guarded. Feels so vulnerable. His heart is so open and so wounded beneath the expletives and the apathy and the lucklessness, isn’t it? It would be so easy to break, like a lost bird far from its nest.

But this time, he stays. Llewyn simply looks right back into your eyes, for once. And when he undoubtedly notices your evident desire there, all he does is question why you are looking at him at all.

“Why do you want me?” he asks you, plainly, shaking his head softly. He doesn’t say more, but you swear you could guess his thought. You could have any Tom, Dick, or Harry. Or a Chad. Some rich, muscly dude with a centre part and a Corvette. I’m nothing. Nobody.

Your mouth forms a bashful, thin line, and you shrug your shoulders, placing your hands over his palms. You desperately want to show him he is somebody.

“I dunno. Why do you sing, Llewyn? Why do birds make music? I just do. I want you. My soul tells me I should, and I listen.”

He looks sad. So sad, So tired, and so you do the only thing your soul tells you to in this moment. You comfort him. You reach up and tangle your fingers into that mess of crotchet black curls on his head. You stroke him and soothe him, and he gives in to you, burying his head in your lap and letting you touch him. Letting you smooth your hands and your fingers and thumbs over his hair, his neck, his back, his shoulders. He wraps his arms around your lower legs and curls around them, still sat at your feet like a stray who refuses to be a house cat, despite how many times you try to coax him in from out of the cold.

“Llewyn, come lie with me a while?” you ask gently, and he looks up at you, unsure. Still, he clambers up from his position and is about to recline on the sofa when you grab his hand. “No, Llewyn. Come lie with me in my bed?”

He gulps, as if you might eat him alive, but he follows as you guide him as if it might be a relief to climb into your jaws anyway, and you lead him by the hand along the hallway and into your room.

He watches you with hesitant fascination as you shrug off your layers, down to your underwear. Then, he follows suit, letting his worn trousers and white t-shirt pool on to the floor at his feet, until he’s standing in only his patterned boxers.

You climb under the covers, shivering at the autumn chill in the room, and you hold the tented covers open for Llewyn to climb in after you.

“Y-You want me to... W-what do you wanna do?”

“Nothing you don’t want to, darling. But if you’ll let me, I just want to hold you.”

He hesitates, but he’s cold, and so, so alone, and he’s so tired of never having anything he wants. So tired that he’s willing to forget, just this once, that he can’t give you what you deserve. Or at least to stop consciously reminding himself of it.

He slots his soft, slim body under the covers, and you let the blanket fall over him. Then, you lie on your back and pull him on top of you, until his body covers yours and his head nestles on the cushion of your breasts.

It is quiet enough in the room that you hear him gulp again, but he doesn’t bolt. Once he’s settled, your wrap him in your arms, your fingers twining in his hair, carding through those thick, tangled curls. Your hands smooth up and down his back, until he is humming softly, his face entirely buried in your chest. “Sweet man,” you soothe, and listen to the sound of the rain outside, and the background noise of the record player filtering through. “I know it’s not much, but I love it when you sing. I wish I could give you riches for it, and record deals. But all I have to give in return is a little piece of my heart, and you steal a piece of it every time I hear your voice,” you whisper gently.

Llewyn is silent, and you wonder if you might have scared him off, but he seems quite content exactly where he is. You wish he would stay, but you know he has a cycle of houses, like a traitourous street cat with nowhere he feels deserving to call home.

For now though, he is here, and you begin to sing gently along to the song filtering through from the living room. It’s one of your favourites. One which Llewyn has sung for you many times before.

You look down at the side of his face, his eyes closed, his eyelashes fanned on his cheek, and his beard twitching as his full lips tug up into a faint smile. Finally.

“You have a pretty voice, dove,” he says, and your heart clenches at the pet name. At the fact you have finally found a way to make him happy. You should have realised it would be music.

“No, Llewyn. It’s nothing compared to you.”

“I dunno. You probably have more chance of making it than I do. Maybe you should have gone today instead.” You worry that he has been tugged back into a slump, but you see he is still smiling, and you recognise the humour in his tone, self-deprecating though it is.

By the next chorus, Llewyn begins to softly sing along too, and your heart flutters as his voice vibrates against your bosom.

You tug in a deep, happy breath, and exhale spring into the autumn room.

Llewyn props himself on to his elbows and shuffles up the bed, until his face is level with your own.

You regard him catiously, feeling suddenly as flighty as he usually is.

“What do you want to do?” you ask him, as his lips hover close to yours.

“Nothin’ you don’t want to,” he says, mirroring your words from moments ago.

This time, when your lips meet, softly, neither of you are surprised. This time, your mouths are both warm and moving together, like you sing the words to a shared song, both melding in time.

As Llewyn curls around your body and snuggles into you for warmth, you hope you can get him to stay. You hope you’ve showed him he doesn’t need to wander in the cold any longer.

He has your heart after all, and you need him to bring it indoors; out from the cold.

[little-mad]

Little Jackpot Pt. 5

~ Part 1 ~ Part 2 ~ Part 3 ~ Part 4 ~ Part 5 ~ Part 6 ~ Part 7 ~

Ambry’s world was constant movement. She didn’t get a moment’s rest from the ongoing jostling that came with being trapped in a backpack currently being worn by someone who was walking non-stop. She’d resigned herself to sitting at the bottom of her jar prison with her arms braced against the glass walls.

There was something deeply unsettling about the fact that walking around with a backpack on, something that was so simple and commonplace to the human, had such a profound effect on Ambry. After her talk with Sebastian a couple weeks ago about how out of place she felt in the human world, Ambry had progressively been getting less affected by these thoughts of insignificance. However, this whole experience had the potential to swiftly undo all that progress.

Ambry grit her teeth as her world suddenly juddered to a halt. Outside her prison there came the sound of a door being opened, which meant they must have arrived at wherever Kole was taking her. There was another bout of disorienting movement that was accompanied by a variety of loud sounds. Ambry couldn’t tell what was going on outside, that is until she felt a sharp lurching motion before the backpack landed on the ground with a soft thud.

When the opening of the bag was suddenly unzipped, Ambry had to squint her eyes against the bright light that came pouring in. By the time her eyes had adjusted, her vision was obscured by a dark shape coming towards her rapidly. A quiet squeak slipped from her mouth as her jar was carried effortlessly up into the air. It was unsurprising when the blur of motion ended in Kole’s giant face staring at her from the other side of the glass.

“Well don’t you look adorable all sprawled out like that.” The witch crooned, a smirk on his lips.

The demeaning comment was all it took for Ambry to shoot up to her feet and assume her best attempt at a firm stance. She folded her arms over her chest and glared darkly out at her captor.

A chuckle reverberated Ambry’s glass prison. “I suppose I struck a cord there.” Kole remarked.

As much as Ambry wanted to shoot back a response, she knew the human would be unable to hear it thanks to the enchantment he’d placed on the jar. So instead, she settled for giving him her most hate-filled scowl.

Apparently unaffected by Ambry’s behavior, Kole lowered the jar from his face and began to walk further inside the building. It was then that Ambry took a moment to take in her surroundings. It appeared they were in a house, a bedroom more specifically. The furnishings were all quite modern looking, and while Ambry wasn’t an expert on the human economy, if she had to guess she’d say the stuff was fairly expensive. However, there was one item in particular that stood out from the rest of the objects in the room. It was an ornate looking golden bird cage. The metal loop at the top suggested it was meant to be hung from the ceiling, but it was currently resting atop a long glass table that lined up with the end of the queen sized bed.

For a brief moment Ambry wondered whether Kole had once had a pet bird or something, but then he started walking directly towards the thing. A pit began to form in Ambry’s stomach as she realized her fate.

Seeming to sense Ambry’s displeasure without even looking at her, Kole made a slight clicking sound with his tongue. “Don’t worry, I think you’ll find this more comfortable than your current residence.” He stated, a smile in his voice.

Once he stood just in front of the golden cage, Kole used his free hand to unscrew the metal lid off of the jar holding Ambry captive. She stared upwards, muscles tensed as she watched the opening of the jar slowly be revealed. She was desperate to just fly out and make a break for it, but the size of the jar just wouldn’t allow it. Instead she was forced to remain there like a sitting duck as Kole’s fingers plunged into the jar to retrieve her.

Despite knowing it was fruitless, Ambry’s instincts demanded she do everything in her power to avoid the oncoming fingers. She plastered herself to the side of the jar, as far as possible from the reaching appendages. The action bought her only a second of time before the fingers quickly redirected to her new position.

“Such a stubborn little pixie.” Kole’s voice rumbled from above.

Ambry let out a grunt of frustration when she found herself pinched tightly at the waist by the human’s thumb and index finger. She attempted to shove the offending digits off of herself but her endeavor was quickly halted when Kole’s hand abruptly lifted up into the air, pulling Ambry along for the sickening ride.

For once, Kole didn’t pause to hold Ambry in front of his face before relocating her. This time he simply pulled open the small door of the birdcage with his free hand before unceremoniously depositing Ambry inside.

She sprung to her feet and made a dive for the door, but by the time she reached it, it was already shut tight and being held closed by just one of Kole’s fingers. Ambry despised the amused laugh that came out of the human.

“I have to give you credit for your persistence.” Kole said while reaching for the gold padlock that sat at the end of the table. “I might have expected you to have given up by now.”

“Is this thing enchanted too?” Ambry questioned sharply.

Kole, having just locked the cage door with the padlock, shifted his gaze to meet hers. “It is, but not to keep sound in.” He informed her. “The cage itself has several enchantments intended to counteract any pixie magic you may attempt to conjure up, and the lock is charmed to only be able to be unlocked by me.”

Ambry clenched her fists at her sides. This guy had seemed to have really thought this plan of his through. He’d probably been planning it for months, thinking through every contingency and accounting for them. A feeling of disgust came over her as she realized he very well may have been watching her and Sebastian from afar for a while.

“Hey, would you happen to know if pixies die when their wings are removed?” The question came out of nowhere, instantly stunning Ambry to silence.

Pixies dying from their wings being removed? She had never heard of it before, then again she’d never heard of a pixie losing their wings at all before. Back in her hometown, there had been several instances of pixies injuring their wings in some way or another, but never once had anyone lost them altogether.

Seeming to take Ambry’s shocked reaction as a ‘no’, Kole tapped a finger to his bottom lip thoughtfully. “Interesting that even you don’t know.” He commented. “There are some sources that say a pixie dies immediately upon being separated from their wings.” He explained casually. “But there’s also plenty of sources claiming that pixies can live just fine without their wings.”

Ambry felt as though she wanted to throw up. This witch had not only abducted her with the intention of taking her wings and selling them, but also had no clue as to whether or not the procedure would kill her. Ambry had been well aware that not all witches were decent, fairly moral people. Just like every species, humans had their fair share of bad apples. However, the complete lack of concern for the life of another sentient being that this man displayed still managed to shake Ambry to her core.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Kole’s voice forced Ambry’s attention, “I’d much prefer you survive. Now that I’ve seen how cute you are, I think I’d quite like to keep you as a pet.” His face was mere inches from the gold bars that separated him from Ambry. A content smile was spread across his face, his massive eyes holding her trapped in their gaze.

Ambry’s flesh crawled as a dark feeling began to spread through her body. This was precisely the kind of thing that had kept pixies secluded from the rest of the world for so long. Other types of magical beings had begun integrating into human society a long time ago, but the same could never be said for Ambry’s kind. No matter how many humans treated pixies as equals despite the vast size difference, there would always be those few who refused to view them as anything but inferior. A pet. This human wanted to make Ambry his pet. It was utterly repulsive.

“I’m nobody’s pet.” She snarled, forcing herself to stand her ground and not back away from the giant looming face.

Kole smirked, holding Ambry in his gaze for a long moment before he finally pulled away from the cage and stood to his full height. “Ah right, Sebastian Altalune was calling you his ‘companion’.” He performed air quotes with his fingers.

“I am his companion.” Ambry hissed, not at all liking what Kole was insinuating. “And it’s only a matter of time before he finds me.”

Kole gave a derisive snort as he turned away from Ambry’s cage. “Not likely, considering this house is completely immune to scrying or any other form of magical tracking.” He stated. “And if he does somehow manage to find his way here, I’m quite certain I can handle the likes of him.”

Ambry pressed her lips together tightly. Based on what she’d seen of Kole’s magical abilities so far, she had to admit to herself that he did seem more advanced than Sebastian. If she had to guess, she’d say he was a few years older than her witch. And while Sebastian was a genius when it came to the academic aspects of magic, applying his knowledge to combat situations came less easily for him. She could only hope that if he did manage to track her down, he’d bring backup.

[joelmillerthirstqz]

From this prompt: Joel meets y/n and he makes it his MISSION to fuck her. Throw in a daddy kink if you’re brave

(I did, with ten thousand character-intensive caveats. Porn with obligatory plot, is there a tag for that? Anyway have some suspiciously assertive Joel)

---

Joel moves throughout the rooms of his house, picking up one occupation after the next, bored around one in the afternoon and faced with the reality that he neither remembers nor knows what to do with actual free time, safety, and space of his own. Tommy and Maria had brought some kind approximations of traditional housewarming, but much of his home was furnished by the previous resident and he sat there overwhelmed by spatial possibility. For all his griping about Ellie’s perpetual stream-of-consciousness chattering, the silence roared in his ears like he’d been dragged downstream.

Do people just go drink now? Just talk to each someone to pass the time? he thinks to himself, frustrated. By the time he could legally go to a bar, he’d been twenty-one and Sarah had been three, her mom long gone. He hadn’t spent time alone since the outbreak—always Tommy or Tess and others in between nearby. Acute problems to solve, no time for chronic reflection.

Tommy brought a lone box of possessions from his apartment with a case of cheap beer the night Sarah’s mom left, hanging around more tangibly than any other family had and often taking Sarah to school once Sarah was old enough. Tommy joked that it was more like Joel having two kids to deal with; Joel ribbed him for perpetually flirting with the very clearly married moms of his niece’s classmates.

Joel gulps a breath, self-flagellating with the idea that he hadn’t been able to protect Sarah when Tommy and Maria so clearly deserved to have their own child, forgetting as ever that his brother executed the soldier that shot Sarah before he could get to Joel—without a blink.

Wonderful. That’s what you do alone with your thoughts for two seconds. Jesus, Joel, he grumbles inwardly.

He’d been dragged to so many damn things since settling in Jackson and didn’t know what to do when it was his choice, so he looks outside. If Ellie’s light is on, he’ll go awkwardly try to make conversation, see if she’s okay. If she’ll be caught in a forgiving mood; if not, if he’s really pushing it.

Joel’s boots thud softly on the flagstone they’d carefully laid together, a path for her to get up to the house without soaking her sneakers through. Tonight, though, she’s gone or playing dead, so he sighs and shrugs a coat on, headed for the Tipsy Bison.

————

Joel spent a nontrivial amount of his time lately fending off interested parties in Jackson.

It was just cuffing season, he dismissed—encroaching fall making people a little weird. Since he’d begun to settle in, slowly accustoming himself to having Ellie out of his sight often and a normal couch in a house without shattered windows, he’d slowly accepted more public interactions. He’d grudgingly shoulder into town meetings, quiet until Tommy or someone else would put a question to him like he had a fucking clue.

Joel went on patrol, helping some of the greener residents learn to keep themselves safe. Unfortunately, it meant more people caught sight of him. Joel was used to prowling through quarantine zones swollen with cowering masses plainly terrified of him, which left him minimally prepared for reactions he thought he’d stopped evoking long ago.

The people whose breath hitch when they first notice him, the longing stares when he’d finally break and smile or laugh—they’d gotten embarrassing enough for him to avoid certain places.

Whenever Joel seems like he’s about to not comply with her wishes, Maria frequently threatens to tell the women who ask her in lewd tones if Tommy has a brother the truth—he does, and how about I introduce you?

The truth was he didn’t feel capable of starting anything with someone who’d ask where he’d been. Joel didn’t want to remember, even if he’d finally pinned the picture of himself with Sarah at a soccer game up next to the blooming collection of pictures in his living room with Ellie, Polaroids in Jackson blooming over nearby wall space every few weeks. People who wanted honesty to go with their peaceful existence reminded him too much of Tommy’s near-fatal optimism, and he felt like it would be too dishonest to start anything with anyone who still lost sleep over distasteful things done to survive. Delightful first-date baggage, in his estimation.

At the Tipsy Bison, he edges in by the drinking patrol nearest the door, welcomed gruffly and responding the same. It was nice to be recognized without raw fear or calculation as he entered, and Joel warms enough to drop his coat over the back of his chair, his rust-colored flannel’s buttons parting over the shirt beneath it as he moves, listening to Eugene tell some inflated war story with an almost-cold beer.

“Alright, fuck this. Knuckle up, asshole, I’m not doing this on patrol tomorrow,” Joel’s ears perk up at the sound of your chair clattering backwards as you stand. Joel recognizes you from the newer batch of arrivals, clearly deemed capable enough to join an early patrol just days after your arrival.

“Jesus, settle the fuck down,” one of the younger patrolmen grouses, standing up. Alex. Oh, the dumb kid.

“Nope. Now or never,” you insist.

“Listen, I’m not hitting you,” he sounds unapologetic but tries to portray himself as the reasonable party. He’s wiry, and Joel’s seen him fend for himself, but his posture doesn’t belie cool confidence.

“You clearly have some doubts, so let’s get into it,” you urge, agitated beyond belief. He’d been needling you about perceived skill, something about not growing up having to field dress animals, and you’d fucking had it. He was going to make a point on patrol and get someone hurt, and you were not carrying bodies back into Jackson because of some ego or misplaced crush.

He taps your shoulder mockingly with a closed fist, a gentle little motion, trying to smile playfully.

You hook him across the jaw, staggering him before taking a knee to his stomach as he tries to right himself.

“More, or you’re finished?” you ask.

Joel fully sits up in his chair. He hasn’t seen anything like this in Jackson. Glancing over both shoulders for his brother, Maria, and finding a clear coast he watches the outcome with interest, sipping his beer with an upturned mouth.

You’re cute, or appealing, or some reflexive word Joel hadn’t used in years, pushing hair out of your eyes as you regain your center.

Alex tries to sweep your legs out, successfully swiping one and getting a knee to the diaphragm for it as you land.

“Okay, fuck, I’m done,” he grunts and you rise easily, offering him a hand.

“Good,” you mumble, letting go the second he’s righted. You look around a little chastened by all the eyes on you, deciding to forego another round.

“I’m going to bed before we do this again,” you nod at Alex, and the rest of the patrol group you recognize in turn.

Joel eyes you as you depart, beer polished off and goodbyes waved, coat gripped in his fist to be flung on once outside. He knows your name, had seen you near the stables and conversing with the patrols. Hearing you speak, despite the context, maybe because of it, let him confirm something he’d been suspecting when he caught glimpses of you before. Never having had the right circumstances or raw spare time to devote all his energy to taking someone to bed, he steels himself to confirm it.

He trots after you, tugging his jacket back on and finding his way to the four-story hotel the town had spent arduous time clearing, stripping of spores, and making hospitable enough for people new to Jackson. Joel ended up leading a lot of the effort himself, vaguely proud to be doing something other than dismantling things, stretching old skills. Your little corner balcony faces off of one side, a nice view of the town unfolding as people begin to switch lights on for a sooner-than-yesterday sundown. You’re appreciative of a strange little luxury—not sure when the last time you stood with your back to a door without anticipating some infected would burst through.

You lean your elbows on the railing, a flask of whisky tipping in your fingers as you watch Jackson light up, a lone figure’s long strides coming into view down the broad street. The night is cool against your skin, but the little shiver the breeze causes feels affirming.

You’d always loved the fall, and Jackson’s soft sounds of life feel unreal enough that you could never sit here just sobering up before bed. It would leave you too wired, buzzing with the anxiety of certain impermanence. Reconciling this liminal zone with the gnashing horror just beyond it wasn’t something you’d take on without help. If Jackson was only a passing reprieve, you had to make yourself calm enough to enjoy it.

Joel halts below where you’re standing, hands on his hips pulling his jacket open as he looks up at you.

You’re instantly sheepish—you’d guessed in whatever patrol hierarchy there was, he was rather important. And you’d just visibly beaten someone down.

“Alex okay?” you call.

“He’ll be peachy. Not here for that,” Joel retorts, low drawl pleasant.

“Well,” you shrug, gesturing to the two mismatched chairs on the balcony with your flask. “Allow me to be a gracious host.”

He smiles and looks down for a moment. Even a couple of stories above him, you can see his height, start to assess his proportions because you’re too tipsy to be a human fucking being about your first interactions in a good place. You quickly add up a sum: his legs are long, shoulders broad, hair long enough to tug on. His frame suggests complete capability and you have a dire need to test it.

Aw, fuck.

“Y’know, I’ve got real glasses for drinking that,” Joel insinuates before he can tell himself to shut the fuck up, or to stop harassing newcomers, or any other sensible thought.

“Fair enough,” you call, closing your flask and holding a finger up to signal that he should wait.

When you arrive downstairs, boots poorly laced and denim jacket barely enough for the chill, Joel’s leaning on the veranda of the whole structure. You suppose its fair to gawk in appreciation so you do, assuring yourself you could have chosen not to.

“Look, I’m not going to ask what this is, and you won’t ask why I’m saying yes, okay?” you say softly when you’re a couple of feet from him.

Joel raises his eyebrows, feeling untethered. Some corner of him expected to humiliate himself to death so he could go home and fall asleep barely after dark, anything to shut himself up until he was occupied again. His heart speeds a little at your reply, hand on the back of his neck as he pushes back onto both feet.

“I’m close,” Joel offers, hand down towards the street, fists quickly in his own pockets. You pull your bottom lip inward, looking at his profile, wanting to hear it again, lower, helpless.

You pass the walk in tense but not unpleasant silence, glancing at each other until you reach his porch and he edges in to unlock his door.

Turning on lights as you toe off your boots and follow him inside, you watch how he moves, past the need for any type of persuasion. He returns from the kitchen with two matching, unchipped short glasses and a cylindrical glass of amber liquid.

“Trade?” Joel asks setting the bottle down and closing an open window. Your mouth quirks.

“That’s a nice custom. It a Jackson thing?” you ask, tipping your flask into his glass as he returns and pours from the bottle for you.

He laughs, sharp hazel eyes jumping up to you and back down, hand running over his beard.

“Not sure. What else would you do?”

You drop onto one of the two couches, arranged in the way that says people actually spend time here together. Joel gets onto his knees to build a fire, definitely a necessity, though kind of needlessly sweet for the occasion.

“This?” you tease, gesturing between the two of you. Joel joins you on the same couch, heat radiating into the space around you, well before the spark in the fireplace could catch enough to reach you.

You take stock of each other in comfortable silence, and a slow grin moves from one side of your face to the other. You finish your drink with a tinge of shyness, setting it down as he does the same.

You have no warning before his mouth is on yours, hands on either side of your face. It’s achingly good to be kissed with complete attention, luxury of time changing the entire tenor of kissing another person. You’re grounded to who’s holding you, mouth accepting him as Joel leads, guiding your jaw where he wants it with the flat of his palm. Joel moves slowly, plenty of time for you to reciprocate his motions though you begin to shift closer, scant sense of rhythm keeping you from straddling his hips.

The taste of him and your anticipatory haze keeps you fixed on the kiss, his hands sliding lower and beginning to move you towards his lap.

You try not to break the kiss with a smile, but it happens anyway and he looks up curiously. You sit back on your heels and tear through the buttons of your jacket, tossing it over the back of the couch and stroking fingernails through his beard before beginning the kiss again. Joel tugs you closer by the hip, urging you into his lap. He scans your face intensely, pulling you fully against him and letting his hands run the expanse of your back.

You can feel how rough his hands are through your shirt, so your fingers fly to his to work the buttons of his flannel.

“Christ,” you roll your eyes, exposing a second shirt underneath. He chuckles warmly in his chest, your foreheads bowed together a moment.

“C’mon,” Joel mutters, broad hands under each of your thighs as he rises with you wrapped around him. A segment somewhere in your brain shimmers, clicking with the novel experience, a knockout strike in the lane of neurons igniting to remember their roles.

“Where’s c’mon?” you ask incoherently between kisses, moving your mouth to his neck so he can answer. You think regretfully that it’s probably substantially warmer down here, fire catching nicely.

“Upstair—” Joel cuts off, your teeth nipping his pulse point.

You feel his heart jump against your mouth and your chest at once. You kiss him slowly as he takes you upstairs, stopping halfway up. He pushes you against the banister and deepens the kiss, hard length made clear. Shifting you closer to his waist once you resume, Joel’s hands creep a little higher, fingertips edging up as they dig in.

As you reach his bedroom, you have one hand hooked in the bottom seam of his shirt, ready to pull it off as he tries to set you down. Joel grunts when you tangle his broad shoulders in it, getting free and discarding it agilely. He bears down on you under dark lashes, chest rising and falling noticeably. The chill upstairs dissolves quickly as you twine together, hands running over his chest. It’s impressively broad and defined, thickening line of hair leading into his jeans.

You strip out of your two shirt layers with a casual roll of your upper body. Joel’s rapt eyes dragging over every rib leave you feeling exposed until his hands cover your breasts, mouth on your neck. You try to tug the rest of him towards the bed by the belt loops, but get frustrated and try to unclasp his belt instead.

Joel stoops to claw quickly at his boots, both thrown one handed before coming to rest against the wall. He hasn’t taken his eyes from you as you rise to slip your jeans down, one hand already curled back around your waist. He spreads his other hand across your abdomen, callused fingertips making you shudder appreciatively. Shoving you back, Joel gets to his knees with one of your legs hooked over his shoulder, grasped in his palm, kissing down your thigh. His free hand still moves over the rest of you.

Your mind is blankly focused on the rasp of his beard inside your legs. If you were honest, head wasn’t a frequent priority after the outbreak, sex usually a time-sensitive stress fix—for everyone. Add to that the average skill of the college peers you’d fucked before and, well, you’d only ever mildly enjoyed it.

Joel sucks your clit into his mouth, hard, and you arc off the bed. He moves without an ounce of uncertainty, shifting and roughly positioning you for the best angle as he goes. Being pursued like this, by a person who squarely checks boxes you didn’t know were empty left you wet enough to take him the moment you’d been out of your pants. His tongue pushes inside of you, followed quickly by one finger and then another, static but wonderful. You writhe on the bed at the feeling, low hum of a chuckle skittering across your sensitive skin.

One hand in the sheets, your other makes it into his hair. You grind against him without being able to help it, riding the stretch of his fingers as his tongue laves forceful circles around your clit.

“Fuck,” you try to grit out, embarrassed by the disassembled breathiness of your voice. It’s more a sigh as he curls his fingers within you, hazel flicking up to watch your reaction. You paw at his shoulders blindly, wanting him closer, wanting to fuck him, trying to pull back from him to tell him. He’s deadset in his focus, teeth softly grazing you in reply to your attempt.

“Can you just—” Joel grumbles, rising,“—be good for one goddamned second—” he yanks you towards him by your ankle.

“This where you want me to tell you to make me?” you tease, sitting up in his lap and wrenching him closer with your legs.

He huffs a small laugh, making to kiss you, but you hold him back.

“I want you to make me, okay?” You say seriously, grasping the hair at his nape to emphasize it.

Joel leans forward, biting your lip with care.

“Alright,” he confirms, hands around your jaw. You taste yourself on him, and a near-growl ripples through him, evident through his chest pressed against yours.

You duck away from his kiss, not caring to get his jeans off before getting a hand around his cock, your mouth enclosing the tip before you can register how much there is to take.

“Christ,” he breathes, eyes shut, face turned towards the ceiling. As your hand becomes slick enough to work over his shaft, his hands stabilize in your hair, bunching. You feel him flex in your mouth as he parts his lips and tugs on your hair, hauling you up level with his face.

“You don’t get to end it now,” Joel smiles, mouth almost against yours. You smile at the rough motion, hot interest skipping down your spine. His opposite hand is running over your chin while he composes himself, far closer than he’d wanted to be at this point.

You bite his fingers, pulling two deftly in to suck and keeping his gaze. His pupils darken and you feel a surge of pride at the same time as you feel him shove you back onto the bed, tearing his jeans off and finally joining you. Joel covers you, kissing you roughly and pulling your thighs around his hips, on his knees. He sheathes inside you without resistance, groaning and bowing his head at first. Even ready, he stretches you noticeably and you gasp at his first experimental thrusts, dragging your hips up to his each time.

You rise up to meet him, nails dug into his shoulders for traction, meeting his thrusts.

Joel hisses more in chastisement than discomfort at it, smacking your ass curiously.

“You know I’m not delicate,” you say close to his ear, snapping the lobe between your teeth unnecessarily hard.

“Shit, ow—” he grumbles, smacking you harder. You moan at the feeling, spread over his lap and trawling nails down his back. You tug where you’ve latched on, moving lower and biting his neck. He does it again, rolling his hips as you clench down on him. You scrape your teeth over his shoulder. Joel hits you again, force of it stinging how you’d hoped.

You provoke him to continue, pulling his hair, hard, and biting the skin over his collarbone.

Joel fists your hair and tugs back hard, exposing your throat to him even as you keep riding him, spanking you with almost musical timing. You almost draw blood scratching your nails out of his hair to the nape of his neck, grinning from your forced angle as he pants under you.

Joel leans forward and nips carefully over your larynx, clamping down hard on tendons just next to it. It’s a brash spot to suck a bruise into, and even the less visible parts of your body would surely be screaming on patrol in the morning.

You cry out, nerves and instinctive reaction to teeth near your neck making your heart and your cunt clench.

Joel flips you without effort, pressing a palm against your lower back to shove you into the mattress. You feel him strike your ass, once, twice, three times, and then his fingers are at your entrance, coaxing your hips to tilt up. He brushes his knuckles against you, leaning over to breathe into your ear.

“Here?”

“What did I just say?” You retort, appreciative of his caution but entirely sold on the possibility that walking will hurt tomorrow.

Joel doesn’t reply but you can see him roll his eyes from the corner of yours as he swats your cunt, hard, sensation shattering across your skin. You moan and he takes the initiative to do it again. Your shoulder blades pinch together around his hand, veering up with it. You turn your face entirely into the bed, muffling moans and faux-objections as he works, tenderness rising to the surface of your skin.

You feel Joel’s hands harshly grasp handfuls of your ass the second before he thrusts into you again, the force pinning you to the bed. He fucks you hard for long minutes, sweat building between you enough to make his hands slip. Joel’s forearm slides around your front and pulls you back against his chest.

You immediately claw at his arm, grateful to anchor yourself to him directly, pushing your hips down against his as he falls back to a gentler pace. His mouth reaches your shoulder and your hand flies to his hair again, straining to kiss him. Maybe it was weird to seek him like that—could still be a fantastic, unattached fuck—but Joel kisses you with this unerring focus that already makes you hope it will happen again.

“Takin’ me perfectly,” he drawls, some enunciation falling away with his blood coursing like this. You want to keep hearing him, so you nod and resume kissing him.

“More delicate than you thought? Need a break?” Joel taunts, and your eyes narrow as he speaks low and close, still thrusting shallowly.

“You want it hard again?” Joel teases, fingers skimming your stomach to roll your clit between them his thumb and index. It pinches and you suck in a breath, your hips floundering against his patient rhythm.

Your eyes spark and you decide to push.

“Yes, daddy,” you mock, almost sneering at him.

A dim recollection of a girl he’d briefly seen after Sarah’s mom left dusts itself off, and he reconnects dots that drifted apart from disuse after the outbreak. Joel raises his eyebrows at you and tips his head as if to say, “Well, alright then.”

You’re on your hands and knees before you can react, his hand spanning across your collarbones, bracing you against his repeated impact. Joel’s breathing becomes ragged each time he slides home, folding over you again to spill an endless wave of questions into your ear. His fingers are smoother across your clit now, drawing soaked concentric circles as you hitch.

“That’s it, baby girl,” Joel punctuates with a snap of his hips.

“You gonna come for me just like this?” Again.

“Come around my cock like a good girl?” Again, rough.

You moan, dropping to your elbows as he pounds into you, orgasm building inside of you spilling over to his fingers’ stimulation, a low groan meeting yours. You’re past words and shivering on the edge of climax when he taps your jaw.

“Focus up, c’mon,” he rumbles in your ear, demanding your attention. The pressure of his length against the tension inside of you has your vision blurring at the edges.

“Tell me,” Joel demands, pulling out halfway.

“Yes! Please, please,” you hear yourself sound panicky at the threat of losing his touch.

“Not what I asked you, baby,” he goads, nipping softly across your shoulders. His hand hasn’t stilled, and you know your eyes are rolling with the distracting pleasure of it.

“Yes, yes I will, please—”

“Tell me what,” he slips in an inch, voice shaky with thin control, fingers flexing where they meet your skin.

“Come for you, please don’t stop,” you plead, trying to shove your hips back to to meet his.

“That’s it, baby girl,” Joel murmurs and you break, quivering against his fingers and fussing with effort and relief. Your cheeks and mouth bloom red as your eyes droop with the onslaught of endorphins, still cresting as you feel Joel’s hips snap in quick succession, burying himself deep and making the best, most broken noise you could have hoped for. Even deep in your own fog, you reach for him, finding his mouth as it seeks yours again, aftershocks rolling through him.

Joel rolls onto his back, tugging you along one side. You don’t much enjoy being pinned if you weren’t also being penetrated, so the intimacy of lying there like lovers with someone you’d barely glimpsed, much less talked to, was unsettling.

Joel laughs like it’s easy for him, face lighting up with the motion, hand stroking your hair behind your ear.

“What?” You ask, propping yourself up on an elbow.

“Just surprised you said yes,” he clarifies. “I’m don’t—this isn’t a usual Wednesday for me,” he clears his throat.

You analyze his expression for a second, looking for the deceit and just finding something genuine and suspiciously shy for having nearly spanked you to orgasm minutes ago.

“You don’t accost every vulnerable newcomer and ply them with good whisky?” You prod, draping yourself over his chest, an easy negotiation of legs happening without either of you needing to acknowledge it.

“Bourbon, and, just the ones who start fistfights, really,” he teases, hands drifting over you, hungry warmth reaching his eyes as the afterglow begins to recede.

“Come downstairs?” Joel asks, like you weren’t tangled up in his bedsheets, surrounded and willingly captive to whatever he wanted.

“That was the original plan,” you protest, peering around for his shirt and slipping into it.

He smirks and kisses the tip of your nose, pausing and tipping your chin up to kiss you properly.

God damn it, you think. Oh, god damn it.