#IT'S ALWAYS THERE; JUST LOOK FOR IT [SAVED]

[marvelstoriesepic]

Halfway to Saying It

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You agree to a date with another guy to forget about the boy you’ve loved forever, only to acknowledge that your heart keeps finding its way back to him.

Word Count: 8.3k

Warnings: pining; emotional hurt/comfort; unresolved feelings; self-worth worries; perceived unrequited love; jealous!Bucky; sad!Bucky; two idiots in love

Author’s Note: This took me a while to write and post, but now it’s here, so please bear with me. It’s part of my little roommate series A Window Open to the Moon, but can be read as a standalone. And y’all, these two are idiots here, I’m not even exaggerating. But they’re idiots in love, and I’ll be honest, this could be me lmao. Anyway, I hope you’ll enjoy ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

“I’m feedin’ the cat.”

Bucky’s voice sounds like he is announcing something so important it should have come with a press conference.

You’re standing in the doorway of the kitchen, a half-empty iced coffee sweating in your hand, the strap of your bag still hanging off one shoulder. You’re not even sure why you came in here. To tell him, you think. Because you always tell him things. Even the stupid ones. Especially the stupid ones.

And this might be the stupidest thing yet.

“He asked me while I was waiting for my order,” you continue softly. “Said he liked my sweater.”

Bucky still doesn’t look at you. He’s bent over Alpine’s dish as though he is performing surgery, shaking dry kibble into the bowl with intense concentration, as if getting the measurement right might save a life.

The tiny white kitten trots up on quiet feet, tail high, and starts crunching away.

“I’m feedin’ the cat,” he mutters again, scooping out the tiniest bit of pâté as though it is a peace offering.

“You said that already.”

“Still true.”

You chew on your bottom lip, watching his broad back and how his shirt pulls at the shoulders when he moves.

“And, um,” you keep going. “I said yes.”

His hand stills mid-pour.

There is a pause. A second. Maybe two.

Bucky is still crouched there, as though Alpine’s lunch is the most emotionally taxing task of the century. As though he isn’t listening, but you know he is. Bucky always listens, even when he doesn’t want to.

You cross your arms, trying not to feel the cold silence between you. You try to fill it.

“He was nice. Funny. A little awkward, but sweet.”

Nothing.

You blink. A small laugh slips past your lips, a little uncertain. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t make a joke like he usually would. You watch the way his jaw shifts, that muscle in his cheek ticking just barely, and for some reason it makes your stomach flutter in the wrong kind of way.

“Sounds great, doll.” He sounds distant. Bucky gives Alpine a little scratch behind the ears. She mewls softly, nuzzling his fingers as though she tries to reassure him.

“I’m not gonna marry him or anything,” you add with a nervous chuckle, because now you feel ridiculous. You wish you hadn’t said anything.

With a grunt, he scoops another time.

“Buck, I think she’s had enough.”

“Nah,” he says, but his voice is quieter. “She’s small. She’s still growin’.”

He won’t look at you. That’s the part that starts to hurt. Really hurt. Bucky always meets your eyes, always smirks a little, always throws you some teasing quip that makes your chest ache in the most confusing ways. But he’s not doing any of that.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

His head tilts just slightly. Still facing Alpine. He shrugs one shoulder and it seems the movement costs him something. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know,” you answer quietly. “You tell me.”

The sound of Alpine’s chewing seems almost exaggerated now, as though she is mocking you with tiny, delicate crunches.

“He really seemed nice,” you offer, unsure who you’re trying to convince.

“Hm.”

“He has a rescue dog named Harold.”

“A real winner.”

You pause.

“Bucky.”

He stands. Slowly. Still doesn’t look at you.

The kitchen is too quiet, too warm. The sunlight is cutting across the counter in slanted golden lines, hitting the edge of the fridge where you stuck a magnet that says Do not eat my leftovers unless you wanna lose a finger. His handwriting. Sharpie. Bold strokes.

He finally turns, arms folded across his chest, his hair a little messy in the front as though he’s been raking a hand through it. His grey shirt fits him too well and he’s wearing those flattering pajama pants and socks with tiny cartoon bananas on them.

The domesticity of him hurts your feelings.

“So,” he acknowledges, voice too level. “You’re going on a date.”

You try to smile, and it feels crooked on your face. “Yeah.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

He nods. One of those tight, one-second-too-long kind of nods.

“That’s great,” he says, and it is, objectively, the worst lie anyone has ever told.

You tilt your head at him.

He looks down at Alpine’s bowl, which now contains enough for a three-course meal and a snack for later.

He leans down to pick up a kibble Alpine flung on the tile and you watch him fuss with the bowl as though it holds the answer to every question he’s too scared to ask.

She has enough food in her dish to survive at least three mild apocalypses. One more scoop and she might unionize.

You lean your hip against the doorframe, iced coffee sloshing in your hand. “You know, I think she’s good, Buck. Pretty sure she’s full.”

Bucky shrugs again. His favorite gesture when he doesn’t want to tell you something. And he doesn’t. Not always. His silences can be long, sleepy rivers you’re always tempted to wade into, just to see if he’ll pull you under or let you drown in the quiet.

“I’m makin’ sure.”

You raise an eyebrow at him.

Bucky sighs. Scratches the back of his neck as though it itches with something.

You look at him for a long moment. Let yourself really look. He won’t really meet your eyes which means you can see everything else. The way his jaw keeps tightening, loosening. The faint pink blooming high on his cheeks like embarrassment is trying to sneak out of him. The way his fingers twitch as though they want to do something - as though he is trying to put the world back in order but keeps dropping all the pieces.

“I didn’t think you’d say yes,” he remarks eventually, and it comes out too fast. Too quiet. As though maybe he didn’t mean to say it at all.

Your heart gives a little jolt. Stupid thing. Useless thing. Always hoping.

“Why not?”

He shrugs, fiddling with a spoon for no reason at all. “I dunno. Just- Never thought you were into that type.”

You raise a brow. “You don’t even know what type he is.”

“I can guess.”

You keep your arms crossed. “And what do you think my type is?”

And Bucky looks at you. Right into you. And there is something like grief in his expression. As though you dropped a stone in his stomach and now it’s sinking, dragging the rest of him down with it. “Not guys who can’t spell their own name without checking their Instagram bio.”

You snort. “You don’t even know if he’s that kind of guy, Buck.”

“Again,” he repeats flatly. “I can guess.”

You bark out a laugh, mostly because it’s that or burst into tears. “Wow. Harsh.”

He grins, just for a second, and you want to wrap it in tissue paper and tuck it in a drawer. Keep it safe. Look at it later.

There is a pause. Long and soft. The kind where breathing feels like breaking the rules.

You pick at your fingers. “He just asked. I thought - maybe I should say yes. Try something new.”

Bucky nods again. Slower this time. “Yeah,” he states, voice low. “Makes sense.”

He then he watches Alpine - sweet, nosy, manipulative Alpine - as she rubs up against his ankle and then immediately loses interest, padding off to lie dramatically in the sunbeam on the floor as though she is done with both of you. Probably is. Probably thinks you’re idiots.

“She’s gonna get fat if you keep feeding her like this,” you state plainly.

“She’s emotionally complex,” he mutters, but his voice sounds far away.

There is something hanging in the air now. Something heavy and slow, like a fog rolling in off the coast of a conversation you weren’t ready to sail into.

You look down at your coffee cup. Consider how this all feels. How he feels.

Standing, but stiff, his back drawn tight. The sleeves of his soft shirt stretch over his shoulders. He is so present. So here. A permanent thing in your life. Familiar. Necessary. You’ve had him next to you for years, the way you have your favorite hoodie, or the chipped mug you refuse to throw out because it feels like home in your hands.

You take a breath.

“Look,” you start sweetly. “I know you worry, Buck.”

He freezes. Lets out a heavy breath. His shoulders shift.

You assume he knows just how worried he gets. He worries when you get home late and forget to text. He gets all twitchy when you wear that one coat that doesn’t zip right. He always makes sure you walk on the inside of the sidewalk. He kept checking your brakes after you mentioned your car made a weird noise, even though you were sure it was harmless. He drove six blocks looking for you in socks that time you said you were going to walk home from the train station.

He has always been like that. Big feelings, quiet hands. Careful with everything but himself.

“And I know that’s why you’re acting all weird about this.”

“I’m not-”

“You are.”

“I was just feedin-”

“Bucky-”

He exhales again, this time longer. As though maybe he is letting something go. Or trying to hold something in.

“I just-” he starts, then stops. Rubs a hand over his face, as though he can smooth out the thing he doesn’t want to admit.

“You don’t know him,” you begin, before he tries to dodge the conversation again. “But I really think he’s nice. Not like, take-home-to-meet-the-cat nice. Well, yet. But… kind. Polite. Smart, I think. He asked me out in a normal way. Respectfully.”

Bucky makes a face as if respectfully is offensive.

“He told me I had a nice laugh,” you add.

Bucky doesn’t even flinch. He just clears his throat and stands a little straighter. His knee cracks and Alpine bolts across the floor as though someone dropped a vacuum.

You take a few steps into the room and set your coffee down, because your hands feel too warm all of a sudden. “You don’t have to like him, Buck. I just thought… I don’t know. You’d maybe ask what I’m gonna wear. Or tell me to send my location in case he turns out to be a serial killer.”

He is stone in sweats and a shirt, and somehow it breaks your heart.

“I was gonna get there,” Bucky mumbles. “Eventually.”

You can feel your heart sink just a little. Just enough to know you shouldn’t have expected anything. Not from him. Not about this.

You didn’t want him to be protective.

You wanted him to care.

Not because he’s your roommate. Not because he’s your best friend. Not because he worries.

But because he likes you.

Because he’s been pining the same way you have.

You glance down at Alpine who is now sitting next to the counter, licking her paw, uninterested. Maybe even she can’t fix this one.

“I just thought you’d be happy for me,” you tell him. Soft. Small. A little hurting. “It took a lot to say yes, you know? I never say yes. But I thought- maybe- I should try.”

Bucky looks as though he’s been punched.

His eyes are wide, unsure, as though he just realized he made you feel like you’re not worth celebrating. That he let his feelings sit too long in silence, and now they’ve curdled into disappointment instead of support.

He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, cheeks pink, hair falling into his eyes. “Shit, doll. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

You shrug. Try to smile. “It’s fine. I get it. You don’t have to be excited.”

But that’s not what he wants to hear. You can see it in the way his shoulders sag. In the way his mouth opens like he’s going to say something and then closes again like it hurts.

He looks off balance. As though he is trying to stand on something that’s not quite there.

“I just don’t want you to go out with someone who makes you forget what you deserve.” His voice is soft, too soft, and his eyes are tired and deep in that tender way that makes you want to cup his cheek and ask him what’s really wrong.

You blink. “What?”

Another shrug. But it’s heavier now. “Some guys are good at bein’ nice. For, like, a while. ‘Til they get what they want. And then they change.”

“Bucky-”

“I’m not sayin’ he will,” he adds quickly. “I’m just… I dunno. Maybe I’m just being an ass.”

You frown at him a little. “You’re not-”

“I just-” he interrupts, gesturing haphazardly at Alpine, the bowl, the sunlight on the floor. “I like when you’re happy, y’know? That’s all. Even if it’s not ‘cause of me.”

You stare at him.

He is staring at the wall behind you.

Alpine yawns with a little squeak.

Your fingers fiddle with the hem of your sleeve. You don’t want him to know that your heart’s being weird again. That it did that little skip-jump-stumble thing it always does when Bucky says something just a little too soft, a little too close to the line you swore he wouldn’t cross.

He glances down at the kitten, then back at you. “Look, I’m just- I’m not good at this kinda thing, alright? Feelin’ stuff. Sayin’ stuff. Especially when it’s not what I wanna feel.”

“What do you mean?” Your voice is confused. Your mind and body are confused. Because where is he going with this?

He pauses. Runs a hand through his hair as though he tries to rearrange all the thoughts he doesn’t want to have in the first place.

“I mean-” he begins, then shakes his head, not looking at you. “Nothin’. Forget it. Just- don’t go thinkin’ I don’t care. ‘Cause I do. You know that, right?”

You nod slowly. Still not enough.

Bucky shifts on his feet. Alpine meows as though she’s giving him a nudge. Bucky stops, scoops her up in one arm, and meets your eyes with a drawn out sigh.

“You’re right. He’s probably a good guy. Deserves a shot, yeah?” His voice is low, quiet. A little flatter around the edges. “You should go.”

Something in your chest crumbles. Because he means it. He’s trying. Even if it’s killing him. He is working so hard to sound okay even when he’s clearly not.

You want to wrap your arms around him. You want to say forget the date and stay in and watch a bad movie and eat cereal on the couch with your knees touching and your feelings buried under laughter. But you can’t. Because you said yes. Because you have to try. Because he never did.

“Thanks,” you murmur. “But if Alpine throws up, it’s on you.”

His mouth twitches - almost a smile. “Kid’s got an iron stomach.”

Alpine wiggles in his grip and lets out a soft mrrp. You both laugh.

And then - like he flips a switch - Bucky straightens up. Rolls his shoulders. Clears his throat.

“So,” he says, in a voice two notes too cheerful. “You want me to help you pick an outfit, or you wanna go full surprise?”

“What?” You laugh softly.

“I mean, if this guy’s gonna be all respectful and admirin’ your laugh and whatever, he better lose his mind when he sees you, too. That’s basic manners.”

Your eyes narrow. “You’re joking.”

He grins, a little forced. “C’mon. I’ve got taste.”

“Oh yeah? What are your qualifications?”

He leans against the counter next to you, arms still around Alpine, pretending to be cool even though you can see his ears turning red.

“I live with a style icon,” he says, nodding at you. “And a cat with a crown-shaped food bowl. I know fashion.”

You laugh despite yourself. Despite everything.

He smiles too, but quieter now. It is a soft, deflated thing curling up at the edges of his mouth. Something that says he is trying, even though part of him is crumbling like paper in the rain. And the spark in his eyes that always flares when he makes you laugh is gone.

You glance at Alpine. Her tail flicks as though she knows something. She meows as though you’re wasting her time.

Bucky is holding the cat in his arms as though he’s holding onto both of you as best he can.

****

You open the bathroom door with slow fingers, the soft click of the handle echoing into the hallway like the opening chord of a song that might end in heartbreak.

The light spills out behind you, golden and warm, hanging onto your silhouette like some kind of halo.

Your cheeks are warm and flushed from the heat of the curling iron and your heartbeat, and your dress clings just right on the places that matter.

You catch your reflection in the mirror on the wall next to the bathroom door and hope this better be enough to distract a man from looking at his phone every four seconds.

You feel it before you even step out. His eyes.

They’re on you the second you cross the threshold, and you try not to shiver under his attention. Even though you spent the last hour preparing for this - shaving, moisturizing, curling, painting, fluffing, glossing. You did the work. You look good. You know that. You feel the rare glimmer of confidence like a sugar rush in your veins.

But when you look up and meet his eyes it’s like your breath jumped out the window.

Bucky is standing near the living room archway, leaning against the frame as though he didn’t mean to be waiting, as though he just happened to be passing through at the exact moment you emerged, and it’s a poor performance. He is terrible at casual. His arms are crossed, muscles tense, jaw locked up tight, Alpine balanced like a bread loaf on one broad forearm, completely disinterested in the tragedy of the moment.

In his other hand he is holding a glass of water he clearly doesn’t need. Something to do with his hands, maybe.

You fully step into the hallway.

Bucky blinks once.

Twice.

His mouth opens and doesn’t quite recover.

The silence eats a hole right through your stomach.

You stand there for a second, your fingers fiddling with the chain around your neck, your heart in your throat, your entire body one big, glittering question mark.

Bucky is frozen as though someone just hit pause on his thoughts.

“…damn,” he lets out, voice low, hoarse like he forgot how to use it. “You, uh-”

He shifts Alpine as though she’s in the way of his words.

“You look-” He swallows. “You look beautiful, doll.”

Heat curls up your neck so fast you feel dizzy with it.

And then he shakes his head a little, forcing himself to regroup. “But- like, I mean- you don’t even need all that, y’know?” His hand starts gesturing to your entire body and then retreats as though he’s been caught stealing. “You look good, all the time. You didn’t have to do all this. Not for some guy.”

His voice trails off into something smaller, sadder. Something unpolished.

You laugh gently, mostly because you don’t know what else to do with the way your heart is behaving. It’s skipping. Misfiring. Tapping out a beat as though it wants to be caught. And for a second, you wonder what he would have done if you were dressed like this for him.

“Thank you, Bucky,” you say softly. “That’s sweet.”

He doesn’t answer. Just nods. Too fast. As though he’s trying to convince himself it’s fine. Like it’s all good. Nothing tragic happening in his chest at all.

He looks at you as though he wants to say something more and keeps deciding against it.

You are smoothing your dress down, adjusting the hem even though you’ve done it twice already. There is this little flutter of panic in your chest that came out of nowhere, like maybe you went overboard. Like maybe he’s saying it out of politeness.

“Is it too much?” you ask, forcing the question through an anxious breath. You look down at yourself - your hair done, makeup soft and glowing, dress hugging you just right. “I mean- like, the dress, the heels, all of it. I haven’t been on a date in forever, and I don’t know, maybe I should’ve worn jeans and a shirt. He’s just some guy I met at a café and I probably look like I’m trying too hard-”

“Hey, doll. No, no, none of that.” Bucky sets the glass down. He doesn’t even notice it lands crooked on the table, and steps closer, that familiar furrow between his brows. He meets your eyes and something inside of them is splintering. Quietly. Devastatingly.

“Doll, you look stunning, alright? You’re gorgeous.” He shakes his head as if the words won’t land unless he unsticks them from somewhere deep in his chest. His throat bobs. “And not just tonight. Always. You didn’t have to do a damn thing to knock the wind outta me, but here we are anyway.”

His voice breaks a little at the end. Softens. And for a moment there is something in his expression that looks like surrender.

Your heart does complicated things and you look away, biting down on a smile that is equal parts joy and ache. “That’s a bit dramatic, Buck.” But your voice is a little too close to breathless.

He huffs a laugh, but it’s dull. He rubs Alpine behind the ear as a distraction.

“It’s just the truth, doll.” His voice is quieter now. “You could never be too much.”

You smile, but it’s the brittle kind, the one that feels like holding your breath too long.

He is standing close. Close enough to feel him. Inside your body.

“Thanks, Buck,” you say again. And you mean it. But you need to get this conversation out of your head before you start climbing him and forget the other guy.

You walk over to the table to grab your bag, and he follows a few steps behind, like Alpine when she’s pretending not to beg.

You check your earrings in the mirror beside the door, fluffing your hair where it is curled at the ends. You feel his stare like pins on your skin.

“You sure this guy’s okay?” he asks, as if he’s just casually curious. As if he isn’t dying.

You glance at him through the mirror. “I think so. He seemed nice.”

Bucky’s eyes dart away. His fingers are fiddling with the ring on his index finger. “Just sayin’, if he does anything shady, you come home. Immediately. No questions. I’ll make you popcorn. We’ll put on a bad movie. Just us.”

Your chest stings.

“You got pepper spray?”

“Bucky-”

“Does he know you’re allergic to fake cinnamon?”

“I don’t think we’re going to a candle store.”

He breathes out a laugh, but it breaks halfway through.

You hesitate. “Are you going out tonight?”

“Nah.” He waves a hand. “Just hangin' in. With Alp. Probably gonna order takeout. Watch some crime documentaries. Y’know, real cheery stuff.”

You nod slowly. “No Steve? No Sam?”

He shrugs, noncommittal. But it’s like something in his chest caves with the movement. “They got stuff goin’ on. I’m good here,” he declares in a voice too casual. “Gotta be here when you get back, right?” he says, trying to grin. Failing. “Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t trip over your heels comin’ up the stairs.”

You stare at him, at his subtle sadness and twitchy hands and the way he looks at you as though he is memorizing the moment in case he never gets another. As though he is already grieving something that hasn’t happened yet.

The part of you that wanted this date feels smaller now.

Alpine meows.

You don’t know whether to hug him or stay perfectly still or cancel the date and climb into his lap.

You want to curl up with Bucky and Alpine and forget the whole damn date. But instead, you slip your phone into your clutch with hands that suddenly feel too clumsy to belong to you.

“Text me, alright?”

You glance up at him, confused. “Yeah. Of course.”

“I mean it,” he says, stepping forward, Alpine tucked into his arm like a security blanket. “If this guy makes you uncomfortable, if he talks with his mouth full, if he looks at his phone too much- you call me.”

“Bucky-”

“I’ll come get you,” he insists, eyes fierce now, worried. “I’ll walk there and drag you out myself if I have to. Just promise me. You text me. You don’t sit through some crap date because you’re tryin’ to be polite.”

You smile, helpless under the sheer care in his voice. It tugs at your ribcage.

“I promise.”

His jaw ticks as though it’s not enough. As though even your promises aren’t safe anymore. He is still staring at you.

There is a second when he opens his mouth again. And you swear you see it rush over his expression - that he’s right there, teetering on the edge of saying something different. Something deep. Something important. Something sharp and glittering and buried under years of I shouldn’ts and she wouldn’t want me like that and she deserves better.

And you almost find yourself hoping another aching time.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, he presses his lips together. As though sorrow has already folded itself under his tongue.

His eyes flick toward the door, and it stings.

“I think he’s a good guy,” you reassure quietly, trying to fill the silence with something easier. Safer. “He seemed sweet. You don’t need to worry, Buck.”

He snorts. Humorless. Looks at the kitten in his arms as though she needs all his attention right now. Alpine mewls once as if to agree.

“Yeah. Sweet,” he mumbles, brushing a hand through her fur. “Still- just… be careful, alright?”

You nod. He doesn’t look up.

“If he’s late, or he says anything that makes you feel weird, or you’re not havin’ fun - you let me know. Just give the word, I’ll come swingin’. In sweats and all.”

That earns a small laugh from you. But he still won’t meet your eyes. He scratches Alpine behind the ears while she blinks at you with innocent, unknowing affection.

“I will, okay? Promise. But really, I mean, the date could be great,” you offer, voice a little unsure.

His expression changes so subtly you would miss it if you didn’t know him that well. His shoulders deflate, the corner of his mouth tugs downward as though gravity finally got to him, as though someone popped a balloon in his chest and now he’s trying to remember how to stand.

“Yeah,” he says, too quiet, too distant. “Could be.”

There is a knot forming in your chest. A slow-growing tension that seems half regret and half longing. Bucky is towering over you, but he still seems so small like this. Folded in on himself. As though he is trying not to break in front of you.

You take a step toward him, heart hammering in your throat. You lift up onto your toes, lean in, and press a kiss to his cheek.

Soft. Careful. A brush of lips against faint stubble and skin that smells like cedar soap and him.

He goes still.

You feel his breath hitch. As though you just reset his entire nervous system. You feel the way he sways slightly toward you before catching himself, grounding himself back in the tension he wears.

You pull back and offer him the kind of smile that means everything and nothing at all.

“I’ll text you,” you whisper.

He swallows hard, nods once.

“Have a nice night, Buck,” you add, backing toward the door.

His voice is thick when he finally answers, barely above a rasp. “Yeah. You too, doll. Have fun.” It sounds like he’s underwater.

Alpine yawns as though this is all so exhausting.

You reach the door, one hand on the knob.

“And if he’s a jerk-”

“I call you. And I come home.”

You open the door and as it clicks shut behind you, you swear you can still feel his eyes on your back.

You lean against the door for a beat, heart knocking against your ribs in a pattern you’ve come to recognize.

Bucky doesn’t follow. He doesn’t call after you.

But inside, you know he’s still standing where you left him with Alpine clutched close, staring at the empty space you left behind.

And you want to go back inside. You want to spend your evening with him. You want to cheer him up and ease his mind with staying in.

But he didn’t stop you. So you don’t stop yourself.

****

You don’t remember most of the walk home.

The city buzzes around you in blues and golds, in late-evening puddles and the traffic lights changing colors.

The dark sky is soft and full and sighing, and the moon hangs above, following you home.

You hug your coat tighter around yourself. Your dress itches where it clings to your ribs, and your heels sound like guilt against the sidewalk.

You didn’t text him you were coming back early. You didn’t know how to say it without saying too much. Without exposing yourself for the fraud this entire night has made you feel like.

You tell yourself it’s because it’s not that big of a deal, that the date just ended early, naturally, like the way a song fades out instead of ending with a bang.

You tell yourself a lot of things.

You’re not sure which ones you believe.

Because the truth is - the guy was lovely.

He was kind. He smiled a lot, and asked good questions, and listened when you spoke. He pulled out your chair and paid for dinner and didn’t make weird jokes. He didn’t talk over you. He didn’t get too close too fast. He laughed with you. He was attractive. Safe. Sweet.

He was everything you’re supposed to want.

And still, you spent most of the night nodding at his stories while watching the condensation collect on your glass, wondering if Bucky had remembered to let Alpine sit on the windowsill and watch the city before shutting the blinds. Wondering if he was watching TV with the volume too low again because he gets a headache from the noise. Wondering what he has been eating tonight. Wondering if he was thinking about you the way you were thinking about him - constantly, painfully, like something in your head with no off switch.

Your date had asked you about your weekend plans, and you’d said “Oh, probably just hang out with my roommate.”

And your heart had tripped over the word, knowing it meant so much more than that. As though roommate is short for the boy I’ve loved for years but never touched.

The moment your date leaned across the table to compliment your eyes, you - soft idiot that you are - instantly heard Bucky’s voice instead. The way he always says stuff like that in passing, tossed casually between asking you if you’ve seen the TV remote or if there is leftover pizza in the fridge.

And it sits deeply in your chest. Sinking further with each passing beat - the truth.

You can’t give this guy a chance. Not the way he clearly deserves.

Because your heart is still living in a brownstone apartment with creaky floors and a broken light switch in the kitchen. With soft sweatshirts that aren’t yours but always end up draped over your desk chair. With a man who feeds your kitten as though it might end all the hunger in the world and treats you like you’re his favorite person.

You pull out your phone and reread the messages from Bucky, sent in ten-minute intervals.

“all good? Guy still got both kneecaps?”

“everything okay?”

“he better be treating you right.”

“or I’m showing up in crocs.”

You had smiled. Told him all was well. That the guy was nice. That you weren’t being kidnapped.

He replied with a thumbs-up emoji and then-

“lemme know when that changes.”

“and if he’s a jerk.”

“and if you need me to fake a plumbing emergency or something to get you out of there.”

You didn’t tell him you were already heading home.

Didn’t want to see the dot-dot-dot of typing, and then the silence.

Didn’t want to see hope, or disappointment, or relief.

Didn’t say you were going to try harder. That you’d hit your emotional limit somewhere between dessert and the walk to the subway.

You’re on your street now. The one with the crooked lamp post and the peeling red mailbox and the cat that’s not Alpine but sort of looks like her in bad lighting. You know this street by heart. You could walk it blindfolded, dizzy, drunk of heartache.

And there is your building. Soft lights glowing in the window above.

He’s up. Maybe waiting. Maybe not.

You pause outside the door. Let yourself lean against the brick for a second. Let your breath stay lodged in your throat. Because you’re not ready to walk in. You’re not ready to look at him and feel it again. Having the certainty that you are absolutely screwed, because you’re not able to get over your best friend even when going out with a nearly perfect guy.

But you also can’t stop thinking about the way he acted earlier. The way his voice broke so subtly. The tightness in his jaw, the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes, the tense silence around his body.

And you’re not supposed to hope.

You’ve told yourself that. Too many times to count. But tonight it sits so close to your heart, so deeply embedded, so hushed and burning.

Maybe his reaction wasn’t only about worry. Maybe it wasn’t just protectiveness. Maybe it wasn’t just Bucky being Bucky.

Maybe he was jealous.

You are trying so hard not to let that possibility bloom, trying not to name it or feed it, but it still grows.

Your heels clack against the building’s stairwell as you climb, one by one, pretending you aren’t listening for signs of life. Pretending you aren’t about to see him again after hours of spending your time with another guy but only thinking about him.

You reach the door.

The apartment is quiet on the other side, dim under the light of the single hallway lamp that always flickers twice before it stabilizes.

You slip your key into the lock and step inside on a breath.

You open the door with quiet fingers. The kind of careful that says I’m not sure what I’m walking into even though you know. Even though you always know. Because it’s home. Because it’s him. Because his jacket is still slung over the coat rack the same way it was when you left, and Alpine’s scratching post leans slightly to the left, and the lights in the living room are still on, soft and amber.

And there he is.

Sitting on the couch in sweatpants and a shirt still, one leg pulled up, socked foot balanced on the edge of the cushion. His phone lies screen up and plugged in right in front of him as though he has been waiting for it to light up again. As though he didn’t want to miss anything. As though it has already burned a hole into the cushion with how long he’s been staring at it.

He’s illuminated in the soft light of the TV where a half-hearted commercial flickers across the screen. He’s not really watching. The remote is in one hand, limp.

Alpine is a perfect little loaf on his chest, her head tucked against his sternum. His hand strokes her in slow, nervous passes, more fidget than affection right now.

He looks up the second the door closes behind you.

Not startled, exactly. More like the kind of flinch you feel under your ribs. Eyes sharp. Shoulders tight. As though your return is both a relief and a complication.

Alpine makes a soft, delighted chirp when she sees you, lifting her head and blinking sleepily.

“Hey,” he says. His voice is quieter than usual, as if he has forgotten how to speak at full volume.

You smile timidly. “Hey.”

He shifts his arm as though maybe he’s going to sit up, maybe he’s going to say more, but he just watches you. Not with the smug little smirks or teasing remarks he would usually toss your way. Not even with the tight, overprotective frown he wore earlier.

No, this is worse.

He’s trying so hard not to look like he’s waiting.

The soft clink of your keys in the bowl by the entryway is too loud in your ears.

“You’re back early,” he utters after a pause. His voice is low, rough with something not quite sleep and not quite surprise.

You nod and toe off your shoes slowly. You pretend your heart doesn’t stutter when you see the way his eyes drag over your face as though he’s trying to read your mood.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Guess I was tired.”

He nods. Swallows. Looks as though he wants to ask something and then immediately regrets it. His hand moves to scratch Alpine between the ears but you beat him to it, crossing the room and crouching in front of the couch.

“Hey, sweetie,” you whisper, burying your fingers in her soft fur and scratching the spot beneath her chin that makes her purr like a lawnmower.

Your hand brushes his against the fur.

He doesn’t move. You don’t either.

When you look up, his eyes are on your face, darting around your expression as though he is searching for bruises that aren’t there. Words that haven’t formed yet. Meaning you haven’t chosen to give.

Alpine meows and you start moving your hand again, not having noticed your hand stopped under his gaze. You reach out to scratch the top of her head and your knuckles brush his chest. He twitches. You both pretend not to notice.

“She missed you,” he says softly, swallowing gruffly as though it might steady the wobble in his voice.

You give him a small smile. “Missed her too.”

Alpine leans into your touch and, because she’s draped over him, your fingers trail briefly over his shoulder when you scratch under her chin. He is warm. Stiff, but warm.

You don’t sit. You hover. You don’t know why. Maybe because sitting means staying and you haven’t decided yet if your heart is capable of holding everything tonight.

“You okay?” Bucky asks. It’s gentle. So careful. Too careful. As though if he speaks to you wrong, you’ll pull away from him forever.

You shrug, eyes on Alpine. “Yeah.”

He nods slowly. Waits. You can tell he’s waiting for you to say more, but you don’t know what more would even look like. It’s a shape you can’t hold yet.

“I mean, he was nice,” you add, because you feel like you have to. Like it’s some sort of requirement. Like you need to prove to yourself and him that you tried. That it mattered. That it didn’t.

“Good,” Bucky replies. He clears his throat. “I mean- I’m glad. I figured he’d, y’know… be decent. Or whatever.”

You shift a little closer. Your knees brush the couch.

“Yeah, he was,” you admit quietly.

Bucky nods, but it seems to be a heavy gesture for him. There is something anxious behind his eyes.

“So…” he starts, then stops. Clears his throat roughly, as though it got stuck somewhere behind his teeth. “…You seein’ him again?”

The question is soft. Uneven. Barely anything. As though he’s asking if the sky plans to rain. But it sounds practiced. In front of a mirror, maybe. Or mouthed to the ceiling between glances at his phone.

You pause. Draw in a breath.

You don’t look at him.

Your fingers drag down Alpine’s soft spine, slow, as though it might stop your thoughts from chewing on themselves.

There is something about the way he asks it. Something that pulls at a string inside you that was already frayed and coming undone the whole way home.

You sigh. A long, slow exhale that sounds like defeat.

You feel his eyes on you.

And then you shake your head. “No. I don’t think so.” And it feels like something falling out of you. Soft and resigned and a little afraid.

You see him in the corner of your eye. He doesn’t speak. Just waits. The quiet stretches, elastic, until it almost snaps. His hands have gone still. He has gone still. Completely.

“I mean, he really was a nice guy,” you affirm, as though the explanation might make the no easier to carry. “He was early. He paid. He even pulled my chair out. Held the door. Laughed at the right moments. He talked about his sister. It was- it was good.”

You stop. Swallow hard. Sigh harder.

You say all this as though you’re reading the bullet points off a recipe for happiness. And still, nothing. No spark. No fire.

“But?” Bucky prompts on a breath, so soft.

You lick your lips. Shake your head.

“I don’t know. He did everything right. But the whole time I just…” You trail off. Look down. His gaze dips, searching your face. “I guess, I wasn’t really there, tonight.”

Bucky says nothing.

You don’t tell him that the reason you couldn’t focus, couldn’t stay present, couldn’t even taste the food properly was because you kept hearing his voice in your head. Kept imagining what he’d say about the music in the restaurant, or how he’d roll his eyes at the way your waiter pronounced gnocchi.

Or that you kept thinking about Alpine knocking Bucky’s cereal bowl over yesterday. And the fact that he always hides the yellow skittles because he knows you hate them. And him laughing at those bad commercials, and the weird humming noise he makes when he brushes his teeth.

You don’t say any of that.

But maybe he hears it anyway. Because he’s still watching you with that sweet, unreadable look. As though he’s trying to figure out which part of you he’s allowed to hold.

“Okay,” he murmurs, after a moment. Not smug. Not satisfied. Just warm. Gentle. The way someone sounds when they’ve been holding their breath and they finally get to exhale. And he does seem to breathe easier. Looser.

His eyes drop. Then rise again, fast. “You look beautiful, by the way. Meant to say that earlier. I mean- I did. I said it. But-”

You smile, small. “Thanks, Buck.”

He clears his throat and shifts on the couch as though he suddenly remembers he has a body.

He looks at his lap, then back at you. “I, uh- I got takeout,” he says, as though he’s trying to move the conversation onto safer ground. “Just in case. Thought maybe you’d be hungry after.”

Your chest tightens. “You didn’t have to-”

He shrugs, looks at Alpine. “Didn’t know what mood you’d be in. Figured it wouldn’t hurt either way.”

“Thank you,” you say, voice softer than you meant for it to be.

“Welcome,” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. “And well, you always say you’re not hungry and then you eat half my spring rolls. So.”

That earns him the tiniest giggle from you.

He lights up a little.

You stand slowly, dropping your purse to the floor with a thud. “I’m not hungry,” you admit, sinking down onto the couch beside him. “Just tired.”

And you are. But not just from the night. You’re tired of pretending. Of swallowing how you feel. How he makes you feel. Of dancing around truths that tremble between you two like overfilled cups.

You reach for the remote, brushing against his thigh as you do. He stills as though your touch is a match to his skin.

The screen flashes something mid-scene - some low-budget crime show with horrible lighting and a suspiciously attractive cast.

You shift deeper into the couch, your knee brushing his. The screen continues flickering. Someone’s shouting about getting the suspect and a car explodes a second later with all the realism of a microwaved burrito.

You squint. “What even is this?”

Bucky briefly glances at you when he answers. His voice is half a mumble, half a smirk. “Special Crimes Unit 9. Or maybe 11. They keep changin’ the number every season.”

You turn your head to him. Utterly unimpressed. “Is this the one where the coroner uses a cookie cutter to get evidence out of a corpse?”

He grins. You see it. You feel it. “You remembered.”

You sigh, overly dramatic, because it’s the only appropriate response. “How could I forget? I think about it at least once a week. You owe me therapy for that.”

Bucky chuckles - low and breathy and genuine. You think maybe it’s your favorite sound in the world. You’ve heard it hundreds of times and it still makes your spine sit up a little straighter. It makes your ribs feel too small for your lungs.

You both watch in silence for a moment. There’s a woman on screen wearing six-inch stilettos to a crime scene. You raise an eyebrow. Bucky hums.

“Very practical,” he states dryly.

“So tactical,” you reply, deadpan.

You glance over and find him already looking at you. His smile is quiet, more of a curve than a grin. It reaches his eyes a little bit, just a little, and softens the space between his brows. He looks more relaxed now, eased further into the cushions. You don’t look away, even though you should. You should.

But he’s so close. And he’s warm. And your body always seems to tilt toward him like a sunflower.

Then Alpine, that little traitor of a feline angel, climbs into your lap with all the elegance of a marshmallow being lobbed onto a plate. She settles in, promptly making biscuits on your thigh. Her paws press in soft little patterns and her tail swishes over Bucky’s leg.

“Hi, baby,” you whisper, petting her head. She tips her chin up like a queen receiving tribute. She’s purring loudly.

“She’s so attached to you,” Bucky murmurs, watching as Alpine headbutts your hand almost aggressively while you stroke her fur. “Startin’ to think I’m just the guy who opens her food.”

He’s got that half-smile again. But it’s just a little smaller now. Not the usual smirk. Just soft. Something that doesn’t know it’s been seen.

You smirk, scratching behind her ear. “Well, you do open her food like a pro.”

“That’s my one skill. Impressive, huh?”

You giggle. It tumbles out of your mouth and echoes softly in the living room, bumping into corners and creasing into his smile. “So very impressive, Barnes. I’m proud of you.”

He laughs. And it’s real. And it makes your skin prickle. It makes goosebumps rise.

You glance at him again. He’s still looking at you. Not in the way you sometimes catch people looking at you. Not the idle glance, not the curious sweep. This guy is looking at you as though you’re the whole screen. As though he is memorizing your laugh because he wants to play it back later when it’s quiet and you’re not around and he misses the way your eyes crinkle.

The soft light makes his eyes darker, deeper. His hair is pushed back, messy from fingers you can’t stop imagining in your own hands.

He looks at you as though you already said the thing he’s been waiting to hear.

Your heart trips. But it doesn’t fall. It tries to recover.

He’s closer than before. Not by much, just a few inches maybe. But enough to notice. Enough to make you wonder if it was intentional or if the gravity between you is just inevitable.

There is a beat. A second. A heartbeat in between two breaths.

The TV keeps playing. Sirens and dramatic synth music. But it’s not present in your mind. The real show is here. His eyes snap to your mouth. Just for a second. Just one.

You swallow. Look away.

He blinks. Clears his throat. Shifts again.

“So,” he says, voice a little raspy, nodding at the screen. “You wanna know what happens next or should I save you the trauma and tell you now that the killer’s definitely the janitor?”

You snort. “Always the janitor.”

“Guy’s just tryin’ to mop floors and everyone’s framing him for murder.”

You both laugh, too loud for the scene currently unfolding on TV. Bucky’s hand drapes over the back of the couch and it shifts slightly behind you. Not touching, but there. And you could lean back if you wanted. You could rest against him.

But you don’t.

Because your chest is already too full. Because if you speak, you’re scared you’ll say something you can’t take back.

Instead, you sit with him in the quiet, both of you surrounded by the purring of a small white kitten and the flickering nonsense of a terrible crime show.

And you let the silence say what you’re still too afraid to.

At least for tonight.

“If I had a flower for every time I thought of you, I could walk in my garden forever.”

- Alfred Lord Tennyson

[thebubblesareevil]

Ethically bullying the rich

Dc x dp dead serious

When Bruce finally grows a spine and puts his foot down when Damian tries to sneak in yet another new pet, Alfred recommended volunteering at an animal shelter so he could share his love with the pets waiting to find their forever home.

He immediately agreed, not that he would stop trying to sneak in his new anaconda, but because he was appalled at the idea of any animal getting acceptable levels of pampering each day.

It didn’t take long for him to take note of one particular volunteer.

Danny Fenton would come by every day, whether it was for an hour or five, he made time for the animals.

More importantly, he brought his adorable dog Cujo with him so he could play with the other dogs, apparently the shelter considered Cujo the best option for helping calm down feral and miss-treated as they all seemed to calm down when he came to play and came out of their shells.

Cujo always dragged Danny over anytime he saw him when they got to the shelter, forcing him to interact with the taller teen, though after awhile he found he didn’t mind the boy too much, even if his was just some untrained civilian.

The day Damian decided he was going to marry the boy was the day he saw him leave with 5 extra dogs.

When asked what he was doing with them, his answer left Damian stunned and looking up wedding venues, though Alfred insisted he should ask him out on a date first.

His answer?

“Oh, I actually just adopted them” Danny said, his face flushed. “Unfortunately the shelter is running out of room and couldn’t find anywhere to place them so they were gonna be put down soon.” He shrugged.

“I know a few people that can afford to house them while I find them new homes, so I adopt any animals that are gonna be put down and look on my own.”

Even thinking about it made Damian go into a frenzy as he planned out their future.

—-

Danny stretched when he finally got home from the shelter and shifted into his ghost form.

“Alright kids! Who wants to go first?” He asked the dogs spread out across his couch. An elderly goldener retriever and a chihuahua suffering from what the shelter called “demonic possession” both jumped up.

“Alright then! Let’s get going, we need to get to your temporary home before it gets too late.” He grinned.

—-

Oliver Queen peered out of his bedroom door, surveying his surroundings before he stepped out of the door, hoping to have a quote night of beating up criminals. He nearly had a heart attack just as he was passing by his living room though, having any and all hopes being crushed as a terrifyingly familiar teen cleared his throat.

The nightmare disguised as a teen smirked as he fell to his knees.

“Please, no more, I can’t take it anymore. I’ll give you anything you want, just please stop this torture!” He cried out.

The monster just let out a low whistle, and Oliver knew he wouldn’t be going out on patrol that night as an avalanche of feet raced through the house.

The creature was surrounded by adorable, sweet, fluffy dogs, all vying for his attention.

“Is this weird old fruitloop taking good care of you all?” He asked, making a horrific sound that vaguely resembled baby talk.

They all began barking and begging for pets.

“As good as it is to see you all, I came here for a reason.” It grinned “Manfred!”

An adorable pitbul barked and stood up on his hind legs before falling back down.

The abomination cooed as it picked up the dog.

“I found the perfect home for you!” He announced, he then turned to face Oliver with that terrifying smile with so many teeth! “And I’ve brought you kids two new friends to play with!!”

“I just KNOW mr Queen will take good care of you while you’re staying with him!”

As soon as he finished talking, the teen vanished, taking with him the only dog in the entire pack that actually listened to Oliver.

Oliver didn’t patrol that night.

Oliver called his girlfriend to save him from the Possessed chihuahua that had cornered him on top of the fridge.

Black Canary was not amused.

—-

Once Danny settled into bed that night with Cujo cuddled up next to him, he pulled out his notebook.

“I think we had a pretty productive day today!” Danny said, grinning down at Cujo as he made a note in his book.

“We rehomed 3 dogs and put five with fosters.”

He went to the page marked “Queen” and added two names to his list and crossed off one.

He flipped the pages, smiling when he saw the page he had initially made for the Wayne family.

It was good to see people actually using their money for something to help the community, Damian had helped repair many of the shelters facilities over the past month.

It was a pity his father was such an airhead, he clearly inherited his brains from his mother.

Fortunately for gothams golden boy, Damian was familiar with all the dogs at the shelter, so his secret would be out the moment he tried to black mail or bully the billionaire into fostering.

He smiled again as he thought of the cute Wayne boy before he turned the page to his most prolific foster parent.

Luthor

Danny had years of blackmail going all the way back to him blackmailing one of his classmates in first grade.

It was amazing the amount of dirt you can get on people from a bored time god.

[peachesofteal]

Like Real People Do previous + masterlist Simon Riley/female reader - hospital au CW: withdrawal of care and death of an infant in NICU setting

Tess was a rodeo queen.

She could answer “what do you do for a living?” with “I’m a professional barrel racer.”  She had the ribbons and the trophies and the money to prove it.

It’s where the farm came from, all the earnings. She and Liam had big dreams, a legacy, a plan. They had it all, and you had travel nursing contracts, vacations to the BVI, and long nights you only remember half of. Every time you came home, worked a few months in the ED here before skipping out again, she had a new title, a new sponsorship, or a new project. And there was pressure. So much of it.

“If you come home for good you can stay in the house with us. Blue misses you.” The swing’s metal chain creaks as you push off with the toe of your boot. Life is so different here. It’s slower. Sweeter. Dustier. Still, it’s hard to look at everything you grew up with and say you want it back.

“I’m too young to settle down.”

“We’re ten months apart!” You snicker, and she chucks one of the strawberries from the bowl at you. “You could build a house on the land if you wanted.”

“Yeah, with all my house building money?” Build a house. It sounds so… domestic.

“Maybe if you stopped taking vacations everywhere you’d have something left over.”

“So sorry I’m living my life.” It’s a dig and you both know what you mean, but she’ll still bite.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You don’t mean to hurt her. You don’t like hurting her, but she expects something from you, something you can’t give. At least not right now.

“You didn’t leave Tess. You stayed here, bought land thirty minutes from where we grew up. I mean, you did it better for sure. You’re barrel racing like you always dreamed but… I didn’t want it. You can’t fault me for that.” She wipes her hands across her thighs as she stands, smears strawberry seeds across her jeans and shakes her head. Conversation over.

“Let me know when you’re ready to grow up.” You let it go. It’s not worth the fight.

“You’re not going to win you know.” She pauses in the door way, and flashes you that know it all smile over her shoulder.

“Don’t I always though?”

Jokes on you. She won in the end.

“Thanks so much, I really appreciate it. Anything I can do to return the favor, I’ve got you.”

“Do you have pictures?” Isa gives you a kind smile. Her interest warms you, and you nod, pulling your phone out to scroll through the too many photos of Riley you took this morning at her first day of school, smiling big with a missing front tooth. “She’s precious.”

“Yeah. She’s something. First day of third grade, crazy.” Keona slows in front of you with Doctor Riley right behind her, and there’s a confused wrinkle marring her brow.

“I didn’t know you had a kid. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Oh I… it didn’t come up I guess.” Lie. There were so many times you could have brought Riley up, but you dodged or ignored each one. You glance up and what a surprise… Doctor Riley is staring at you, studying like he’s picking you apart in his brain. Key looks genuinely hurt though and guilt twists your heart. “I’m sorry. I’ve just been a little stressed and so focused on learning.” She nods, and you think she’s going to push it but you’re saved by an alarm, all of you taking off at the sound.

Saved was the wrong sentiment.

You weren’t saved from a conversation by this, this moment. This moment is hell.

“She’ll breathe on her own for a little while after we take the tube out, and you can hold her.” Doctor Riley tells the parents softly. Ryan and Alexa. They’ve been here for weeks, watching Rosie fade while holding out hope. So much hope. You’re devastated for them.

“Do you want to sit down?” You’ve already turned off all the sounds, anything that beeps or dings or blares, and disconnected all the leads, the lines. The only thing left is the vent.

“How long will she… how long will it be?” Ryan’s voice is broken. Shattered.

“We can’t know. Not long.” Doctor Riley looks to you, to where you’re waiting to flip the power, and then he’ll pull the tube. “Are you ready?”

“No.” Alexa sobs, shaking in the rocking chair she’s been sitting in since they got here, but Ryan nods, gives the go ahead.

“Okay.” You do it fast, as fast as you can. It’s like ripping off a bandaid, and you don’t want them to see it, don’t want them to remember the sound of the machine powering down. Doctor Riley frees her from the tube and gently lifts her to pass her to Ryan, cradling her head, supporting her neck and her little body, all of her so small in his arms, so fragile.

“Thank you Daisy.” He’s giving you permission to bolt, but you stand stuck to the floor. It feels wrong to run, it feels like you’re bailing on them, on Rosie.

So you don’t.

You pull her blanket out of the crib and tuck it around where she’s now resting in Alexa’s arms. It’s hand knit by Rosie’s grandmother, pink and yellow, little elephants artfully woven across the bottom, and once you’re done, you turn on the soft lamp behind the chair, angling so it’s not harsh but still enough they can see every little detail of their daughter’s face. So they can memorize her, every little wisp of her hair, the curve of her nose, each tiny delicate eyelash.

And then you leave.

You don’t run from the room. You keep your spine straight, chin lifted. You don’t stop at the nurses station, where Isa and Key are waiting to comfort you as they promised they would be. You don’t stop at the break room, or the bathroom or the empty call rooms. You keep walking, down the end of the hall until you reach the double doors and burst through them into the sun.

You breathe as deep as you can, and hold it. You hold it until you can’t anymore, and then do it again. And again. You try to burn them from your mind, Alexa’s face, Rosie’s weak little cry, but it’s no use. You hate this place. You hate it. You hold your breath again, this time longer, long enough until you start to feel like you might die. It’s better, it’s worse, so you do it again. You’re holding your breath against burning lungs when the doors bang open.

“Daisy.” He’s never said your name like that before. It’s not harsh or acidic or impatient. It’s the opposite. You hate that too.

“I’ll be back in a minute.” It’s said on the exhale released from your sternum, an explosive rush of air punching free from your mouth.

“Take as long as you need.” You don’t answer because you’re too busy patching up the cracks, focusing on breathing in and holding it again, controlling it. You block him out, which is why you don’t realize right away that he’s now standing in front of you, close enough you can see the stitching on the sleeve of his scrubs. “These moments are hard. It’s okay if it affects you, it should affect you. It’s okay to let it out.” You keep your eyes fixed on his chest. Focused.

“I know.” The control is unwavering. Unrelenting. You are a machine. And for good measure, you offer a succinct nod and smile. See? I’m fine.

“There’s no shame in-”

“I know, Doctor Riley. Thank you.” You cut him off, dismiss him. Or try to.

“Daisy.” This fucking man. Something about him is trying to shred your control. Make you weak.

“I’m fine.”

“Let’s go inside.” A minuscule flicker of need ignites in your soul. It begs you to listen, to trust, let the control slip, let go, just for a second. You close your eyes and dangle over the abyss.

If you fell, would someone catch you?

Would he?

It’s a sweet dream, a lovely fantasy. But not for you.

“I’m due for my break actually, so I’m probably going to go down to the cafeteria. Can you let Key know?”

“Daisy,” he murmurs, wraps your name in velvet. “Look at me.” You do it in defiance, to get him off your back. You don’t even know why he’s out here in the first place. What does he care? He hates you. You take a breath, hold it, and meet his eyes, surprised when you don’t see the usual anger or irritation. There’s something else in them instead, something tender and understanding, concerned. “You took great care of Rosie and her parents. They-” No.

“Doctor Riley. I’m on my break. It’s my personal time. If we need to speak about work, we can do it once I’m back.”  The muscle in his cheek flutters as the masseter flexes. The average PSI of the human jaw is around one hundred and twenty. His must be triple that.

“If that’s what you want.” The words are cold. Back to baseline, squashing that tiny blossom of need.

Good.

“That’s what I want.”

[soaps-mohawk]

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 57: Reunited And It Feels So Good

Summary: Settling into your new lives isn't going as smoothly as you had hoped. Luckily Johnny and Simon arrive to save the day.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 9,000 words

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, smut, explicit sexual content, p in v sex, threesome, oral, fingering, squirting, creampie, cum eating, slight choking but not really, crying during sex, dick so good 'mega passes out (only for a moment), Simon's big cock, Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, alternate universe, angst, domestic fluff, language

A/N: Happy 4th of July! Celebrate with some smut with British men!! this chapter about killed me but I got it done! I did it! yay me!

MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->

The bed shifting wakes you. The room is dark as you open bleary eyes, your arm reaching out and finding nothing but warm sheets. You roll over into that warm spot, pressing your nose into the pillow.

John.

He’s gotten up, likely to go to the bathroom. You settle back in, pulling the blanket up higher around you. Kyle is off somewhere across the bed snoring softly. You sink into the warmth John left behind, phasing in and out of sleep for the next two hours. The sky starts to lighten as the sun starts to rise, and sleep starts to evade you.

You let out a quiet breath, rolling back over. John hadn’t returned, the bed devoid of his presence while you slid in and out of a light sleep. A frown pulls at your brows as you decide to get up, quietly slipping out of bed to avoid disturbing Kyle. You slip on a robe before you leave the room, heading down the hall to the kitchen.

John isn’t there either, but there’s a mug in the sink. You start the coffee, letting it drip before you head to the back door, looking out at the yard. John is kneeling in front of one of the built in planters, pulling out weeds. You step out into the cool morning, quietly sliding the door closed before approaching him.

“You’re up early.” You say, coming to a stop beside him.

“Couldn’t get back to sleep.” He says, not looking up at you as he tugs another weed out of the dirt. “Thought I’d get up and be productive.”

Another frown creases your brow but you don’t push, instead looking at the row of planters. “You want to plant something this year?”

“It’s early enough in the spring we could.” He says. “Flowers or a garden.”

“It might be nice to have some fresh vegetables this summer.” You say, rocking back and forth on your toes. “Or flowers would be pretty. Liven up the outside while we work on it.”

“A garden will take more work, but it’ll give us something to do while we work on getting things set up for animals.” He says.

“Now you’re thinking about animals?” You say, raising a brow.

“I always was,” he says, sitting back on his heels. “I just know we have a lot of work to do before we can think about getting any.” He looks out past the end of the patio to where the green grass disappears down a small hill. It’s starting to get long. “The fence needs some work back there, and we’d have to renovate the barn out there. It’s in dire need of repairs.”

You hum, looking out at the distance before looking back down at him. “You’ve been thinking a lot this morning.”

He shrugs, going back to weeding. “I’ve had a lot of time to think.”

So much for retirement being relaxing, you think, but then again, it’s good that he’s finding something to do with himself. You know he’d be going stir-crazy if he didn’t have something to do. He’s never going to be good at sitting still, not until he has no choice.

You head back into the house, Kyle up and making himself some tea.

“Morning, love.” he says, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. He passes you a mug for your coffee. “How long has he been out there?”

You shrug. “Probably a while. I heard him get up earlier before it was light out.”

“Think he’s eaten anything?” He asks, tossing his tea bag in the trash.

“Probably not.” You say, taking a sip of your coffee.

“I’ll start on breakfast, you keep an eye on him.” Kyle leans down to press a kiss to your lips before making for the fridge pulling out some eggs.

You take a seat at the table, hardly more than a card table with plastic chairs but it’s what you could get without committing to a full dining table yet. The couch and the bed had been the first purchases and now you were going to slowly accumulate more and more furniture over time.

You can see John out the window, still kneeling and weeding the planters. His brow is pulled in focus, gaze locked into the dirt. You’ve seen him like that before, the intense focus on his task, the drive to complete whatever goal he’s set out for himself. Some deep part of you is starting to feel a bit on edge about it, but at the same time, as long as he’s happy…

You go out to fetch him when breakfast is ready, avoiding stepping in any of the dirt piles laying on the concrete. “Breakfast’s ready.” You say, coming to stand beside him.

“I’ll be in, in a minute.” He says, not even looking up at you.”

You stand there for a long moment, waiting for any more acknowledgment but none comes. “Okay.” You say quietly before turning on your heel, making your way back into the house.

“He coming?” Kyle asks, setting out plates.

“He said he’ll be in soon.” You say, taking a seat at the table.

Kyle frowns, shaking his head. “Go ahead and eat. I’ll go get him.”

You watch Kyle step out the door, reaching for the eggs as he stops beside John, words passing between them before he walks back towards the house. John stays where he is for a moment before he gets up, brushing the dirt off his jeans before heading towards the house as well.

You try not to let it bother you. You really don’t want it to, but you can’t deny the pang of hurt that John brushed you off so easily, but he listened to Kyle. They have a bond stronger than yours, different than yours. They’ve been through combat together, they trust each other on a level you’ll never achieve.

Whatever Kyle said, it worked. That’s what you should be thankful for.

John smells like dirt as he passes, going to wash his hands before he sits at the table on your other side. You’re already eating, shoving down your emotions with every swallow.

It’s quiet at the table, that prickle still in the back of your mind that something is off lingering. Your omega is picking up on something, but you don’t know what it is. You knew there would be an adjustment period, that things would be hard for a while, but you hadn’t really known what to expect. Maybe this is the start of it. Maybe it’s just the three of you trying to figure out this new dynamic, this new world. It’s new to all three of you, and maybe you just need some time to settle in. Maybe this tingling will go away with time, as the three of you settle more and more into this new routine.

You can only hope.

The days continue to get warmer and warmer, the three of you focusing your efforts outside. You did decide on a garden this year, or at least to try and get something established for coming years. John had jumped right into that plan, buying plants and soil and fertilizer and all the supplies you’ll need to get it started.

That deep feeling that something is off continues to simmer beneath the surface, reaching out its spindly fingers every time you wake to find John gone from the bed, every time you see him so knee deep in a task he forgets the world around him. He’s still waking early, your body becoming in-tune with his early rises. You wake when the bed shifts, blinking in the darkness, rolling into the warm spot he leaves behind, waiting for him to return but he never does.

Some part of you knew they’d wake early. Well, John would. Kyle has taken to his newfound freedom well, sleeping in later than even you some days. You had laughed about it being his body catching up on missed sleep over the years. You wished John would be able to do the same, yet he continues to wake before the sun.

You want to talk about it, but you’re not sure how to broach the subject. There will be push back. You don’t doubt that one bit. You’re just not ready for a fight like that yet. Things have been going so well. The last thing you want is to shatter this veil of domesticity that you’ve put together.

You manage to catch him one morning, when he’s slow to rise from the bed. You roll before he can push himself up, half asleep as your fingers wrap around his arm.

“John,” You slur, tugging at his arm. “Stay.”

Even half asleep you expect him to brush you off, tuck you in and kiss your head. He does hesitate, but then he gives in, climbing back into the bed. You snuggle up to him, giving him no chance of escape as he wraps his arms around you, resting his chin on your head. You let out a content sigh, wanting to play out the dream of a lazy morning, waking in his arms as the sun rises.

You doze back off for a while, nose pressed against his chest, breathing in his scent.

You wake a couple hours later, still squished up against his chest. Kyle in his sleep has partaken in your master plan to trap John, rolling up against your back, his arm slung across you to rest against John’s hip. It’s warm between them, nearly stifling with the sun shining in the window, but you wouldn’t move if the world was on fire. You’re getting what you wanted, but at the same time, there’s a disingenuous feel to it all. John only stayed because you forced him. He’s likely only still here to avoid waking both you and Kyle.

He’s not asleep. You can tell by the way he breathes. You know him well enough to decipher the changes between his breathing, the tension in his body as he lays there with you. He likely didn’t go back to sleep at all, laying awake while the two of you dozed the morning away. He must be itching to get up, itching to do something with the morning besides sleeping it away.

Kyle wakes with a grunt, disappearing from behind your back as he pushes himself up to sit, wiping the sleep from his eyes. “Gotta piss.” He mumbles, crawling down to the end of the bed before disappearing into the bathroom.

You lay where you are, fingers brushing John’s chest, drawing small patterns against his skin. “Thank you for staying.” You murmur, shifting closer against him.

He hums quietly, wrapping his arms tighter around you. “Didn’t give me much of a choice.”

“I think you could have gotten away if you wanted to.” You say, pressing a kiss to his skin.

He lets out a sigh, rolling over until you’re pressed against the mattress under him. “And miss this?”

He has missed this. For days he’s been missing this.

You’d never say that out loud, though.

His face presses into your neck, breathing in your scent. Lips press gentle kisses against your skin, a content hum leaving your lips. Your hand sinks into his hair, neatly trimmed to your disappointment. There’s still time yet to convince him to grow it out.

You yelp as his teeth sink into your skin, pinching it between them. You smack his arm, trying to wiggle out from under him. “Rude!”

He chuckles, pressing a soft kiss to the skin he just bit. “You were thinking too much.”

You pout, tugging at his hair until his head lifts from your neck. “I always think too much.”

He hums, leaning down to kiss you. “You’re distracted this morning.”

“I’m distracted every morning, but you wouldn’t know that.”

It slips out before you can stop it, but he elects to ignore it.

He breathes against your lips, hips pressing against your leg. “You’ve been thinking too much this morning too.” You say, feeling the bulge in his sleep pants against your thigh.

His scent is thick in the air, projecting, though whether purposefully or not, you’re not sure. You’re no better than him, warmth starting to bloom between your thighs.

“I leave for two minutes and you’re already getting all worked up.” Kyle says, stepping out of the bathroom.

“We’ve been thinking too much.” John says, pulling back just slightly.

“Clearly.” Kyle says. “Don’t have too much fun.” He makes his way towards the door.

“Where are you going?” You ask, lifting your head up to stare at him.

“To start on breakfast.” He shrugs before leaving the room.

“Loser.” You say, flopping back onto the pillow.

“He’s just set on missing out, then.” John says, his hand resting on your stomach. “Hope he makes a big breakfast. You’re going to need it by the time I’m done with you.”

You let out a whine as his teeth nip at your lip, his hand sliding lower. Oh fuck…

Your legs are still shaking as you sit at the table happily nibbling on a piece of bacon. John sits beside you, sipping his tea and scrolling on his phone. Kyle is seated across from you, making quick work of his eggs and toast.

“Easter’s this weekend.” John says. “Simon and Johnny will be here Friday.”

“I’m shocked they’re not driving up Thursday night.” Kyle says.

“I’m sure Johnny wants to,” You say. “It’s probably Simon making him wait until Friday morning.”

“They’ll get here before midday.” Kyle says. “I’ll put money on that.”

“Johnny will have them on the road before the sun’s up. Lad’s excited to get here.” John says.

“He misses us.” You shrug, spooning eggs into your mouth.

“If it wasn’t for Simon, I don’t doubt he’d have retired too.” Kyle says.

It falls silent for a moment. Of course Johnny would never abandon Simon like that. He’s loyal to his alpha and he’ll follow him wherever he goes, no matter if it means splitting the pack up. You would have liked having Johnny here too, but at the same time, you’re glad Simon has him. The thought of Simon being alone in the barracks tugs at something in your heart. He’d do it, no doubt, but it would be a lonely existence.

“Do you think Simon will ever retire?” You ask quietly, piece of toast in hand, but you can’t bring yourself to take a bite.

“He’ll have to eventually.” John says. “The body wears down and Simon would never take a desk job.”

Or he’ll die in the field.

That truth remains unspoken, but all three of you know that risk. John and Kyle had lived it many times, and you had spent the better part of six months living that reality. Now you’re living it again. Even if the threat isn’t there for your entire pack now, it doesn’t lessen the worry you’ll always carry for Johnny and Simon.

“Do you think he’d ever retire for us?” You ask, voicing the hidden question you’ve had burning at the back of your mind ever since John announced his retirement.

John lets out a heavy breath. “That’s not a question I can answer,” he admits honestly. “You’d have to ask him that yourself.”

“So we’ll never know.” You say quietly, staring down at the last piece of bacon on your plate.

“Simon’s a complex man.” John says softly. “As much as I’d like to think I can, I can’t put myself completely in his head. There’s things he does that surprise even me sometimes.”

“It’ll be good to see them.” You say, cutting off the conversation before you can think too hard about it. “I’ve missed them.”

“So have I.” Kyle says, stealing the bacon off your plate, knowing you’re not going to eat anymore. Your appetite has been spoiled by the heavy topic of conversation. “I bet Johnny will cry when he sees us again.”

“Oh he’s definitely breaking down.” You agree.

“He’s going to cry, and then he’s going straight for the bed.” Kyle chuckles. “Your poor pussy is going to feel every day that he’s been away.”

You wince, squeezing your thighs together at the thought of how much she’s about to go through.

“Simon is going to be just as insatiable.” John says.

“We might as well sleep in the guest room on the air mattress.” Kyle says to John. “Probably won’t be getting much sleep that first night.”

“What, you don’t want to join in?” You ask, staring at them over your mug as you sip your coffee.

John’s gaze darkens, Kyle’s jaw twitching as they stare at you. There’s a sudden tension in the air, their scents starting to thicken.

“As much as we’d enjoy it, they deserve some time with you to themselves.” John says lowly, a subtle growl in his voice.

“We’ve been spoiled, getting to have you whenever we want.” Kyle says, his own voice pitched low and gruff. “Only seems right to give them that chance.”

A shiver runs down your spine as you stare at them, eyes flicking back and forth from John’s gaze to Kyle’s, then back. You feel small under the intensity of their gaze, the back of your neck tingling. A deep part of you is wanting to run, to give them chase, but you wouldn’t make it far. Down the hall maybe. Probably not even into the room.

“Smell that?” John rasps, taking in a deep inhale.

“Thought you wore her out already.” Kyle rumbles.

“Thought I did too.” John’s gaze is dark, another shiver running down your spine.

You can stop yourself as you jump up, racing towards the entrance to the kitchen. They’re on their feet almost as soon as you are, footsteps thudding behind you. You slip on the turn around the corner, flying down the hall to the room.

You just manage to get the door closed, flipping the lock before taking a step back. They’ll get through, you don’t doubt that. Instead your gaze turns towards the window, an idea popping into your head. You don’t care that your barefoot as you climb into the bed, pushing the window open. It gives a bit of resistance from the damp air outside but you get it open just enough to slip through and onto the patio. You take off towards the grass, hearing the sliding door open.

A body hits you from behind, forcing you down into the grass. You just made it off the patio, breathing hard as you land in the tall foliage. Kyle is on top of you, flipping you over onto your back, John right beside him. You’re laughing, kicking out at Kyle as he tickles your sides.

“Little shit.” He grins, not even breathing hard after the short run.

“Giving us chase, you little minx.” John says, pinning down your top half.

“Not my fault you were stinking up the house.” You giggle, giving up the fight.

“Enjoy that did you?” John asks, staring down at you.

“Yeah.” You breathe, staring up into those intense blue eyes.

You can see the thoughts behind those eyes, the ideas his brain is coming up with and storing for later. Another shiver runs down your spine at the thought.

Finally Kyle lets up, leaning his body over yours. You wrap your legs around his waist, tugging him down so he’s chest to chest with you. He grunts softly, catching himself on his elbows.

“We gonna make this a regular thing?” He asks, his thumb brushing your cheek.

“Do you want it to be?” You ask softly.

He smirks. “That’s up to you and how much you feel like running.”

You hum. “Might have to pull out my running shoes again.”

Kyle chuckles, pressing a kiss to your lips before sitting up on his knees. “Gotta work on that stamina.” He grins, his hand trailing up your side. “Johnny and Simon will get a head start on that.”

You swallow thickly, your scent starting to project again.

“Don’t get her riled up too much.” John says, shifting your wrists into one of his hands, the other dropping to brush across your lips. “She’s already had an exciting morning.”

“I didn’t get to have my fun.” Kyle says.

John releases you as you push yourself up to stand, staring down at him where he sits on his knees. You drag your fingers through his curls tugging his head back. “Maybe you should have stayed then.” You lean down, pressing a kiss to his forehead before stepping around him, making your way back towards the house.

“Shit,” he breathes, your ears just picking it up as you reach the sliding glass door.

A grin splits your face as you step back into the house, leaving them outside.

The bed dipping again pulls you from sleep. You roll over, reaching out but find nothing but air. The shadowy figure of John disappears into the gaping maw that is the bathroom before the door closes and the light turns on. You lay there in the dark, staring at the strip of light for a moment. You’re half tempted to get up, to beat him to the kitchen, finally confront him about his sleep, but Kyle chooses that moment to roll over and wrap his arms around you. You silently curse him, laying there as the bathroom door opens, John’s shadow making its way across the room and out the door.

You let out a sigh. John hasn’t been sleeping well. He’s up late and rises early, and you know he gets up sometimes during the night. You want to ask, you want to talk to him, but you don’t know how. You’re not sure he would talk to you, if he even could. Something’s up with him and it’s bothering you that you can’t help. Instead you lay there helpless in Kyle’s arms, staring at the wall until your eyes start to droop.

It’s light out when they open again. Kyle’s gone, his warmth fading from the bed. John’s side is cold, just as you expected. You lay there in the blankets for a moment, staring up at the ceiling illuminated by the sun coming in through the window. It’s Friday, which means Johnny and Simon will be on their way here soon, if they aren’t already. They had sounded excited on the call last night, and you can’t help but wonder if Johnny got any sleep. You hope he did considering he’ll be driving.

You climb out of bed finally, pulling on a pair of shorts before heading to the kitchen. The smell of toast and eggs wafts down the hallway, drawing you towards the sounds coming from the kitchen.

“Morning, love.” Kyle says softly, turning to look at you from the stove.

“Morning.” You say, rubbing your eyes as you head for the coffee pot.

John is seated at the table, nursing a tea with his phone in hand. He looks tired, dark circles like bruises under his eyes. You wonder what he does when he wakes so early. Go on a run? Sit and have an existential crisis? Scroll on his phone until his mind is numb and leaking out of his ears?

“Morning, sweetheart.” He murmurs over the top of his mug when you take a seat at the table.

“You were up early.” You say, your heart pounding in your chest. You’re pushing a boundary here, but curiosity is beginning to make you brave.

“Couldn’t get back to sleep.” Is all he says, setting his mug back down on the table. For some reason, it feels like a finality.

If you were braver, you’d push, but you don’t have it in you. Not when he’s looking like this.

Kyle interrupts the moment, or perhaps saves it, as he sets a plate of toast, eggs, and sausages down on the table. You’re not particularly hungry, but you eat anyway, knowing you’re going to need the strength later.

“Johnny and Simon left around 6 this morning.” John says.

“That early?” You frown.

“I’m surprised they didn’t leave earlier.” Kyle says.

“They should be here around noon.” John continues. “Perhaps earlier depending on if Johnny decides the rules of the road are actually rules.”

“Maybe later if he gets pulled over again.” Kyle says.

“He’s been pulled over before?” Your brows raise, though you’re not sure why you’re surprised.

“A few times.” John says. “He’s even gotten out of a ticket a couple times.”

“It’s the charisma and charm.” You say.

“Nah, he just plays dumb.” Kyle says.

“Or that.” You giggle.

The three of you finish breakfast and you set up to make sure the house looks perfect, even with its sparse furniture and décor. You want it to look good for Johnny and Simon. You want their first impression of your nest to be a good one. They’ll probably like it regardless. Anything will beat the barracks, but still, you have that drive to make sure everything is in its place and perfectly aligned.

Noon arrives with great anticipation, and you eagerly await the sound of tires on gravel outside.

You don’t have to wait long, your body up off the couch as soon as you hear the crunch of rocks that make up the front driveway. You fling the front door open, standing there impatiently as Johnny parks next to Kyle’s car.

Simon exits the vehicle first so he’s your first target, your body bee-lining to him automatically, even before you realize it. You almost slam into him, wrapping your arms around his waist as tight as you can, squeezing him like your life depends on it. He lets out a quiet grunt at the impact, but his arms fall around you too.

Tears sting your eyes as you rest against his chest, emotions welling up inside of you. It’s been almost two months since you’ve seen them. Even with the hectic business of the house and settling in, there lingered an ache deep in your chest, the ache of missing the other half of your pack.

Simon’s scent floods your senses and you breathe it in deeply, almost tasting the scent of leather and eucalyptus and the distant tang of gun powder. His own nose is pressed into your hair, breathing in your own sweet scent.

“Missed you, love.”

It’s murmured against the top of your head, rumbling deep in his chest against your ear. Three simple words but they have the tears finally sliding down your cheeks. You missed his scent, his voice, his arms around you. You’ve missed him more than you thought, that ache in your chest all the more noticeable now that he’s back with you. You missed your alpha, his warmth, his comfort, his strength. You’d drop to your knees and beg him to retire right now if you could bear to tear yourself away from his hold.

“Missed you so much.” You whisper, your voice wavering.

His hands rub your back, fingers trailing through your hair. “I’m here.” He whispers, lips pressing against your forehead. “I’ve got you.”

The two of you stand there, caught up in the moment for a few breaths, the tears still trailing down your cheeks. You don’t want to let him go. You’d fuse yourself to him if you could.

A voice cuts through the silence, breaking the quiet moment.

“Did ye forget about me?”

You reluctantly pull yourself back from Simon, turning in his arms to blink blearily at Johnny. “No.” You say, reaching out for him. “You wouldn’t let me.”

He nearly slams into you, picking you up off the ground and spinning you. “Oh I missed ye, kitten.”

“I missed you too.” You giggle through the tears, wrapping your arms tight around him. “I missed you so much.”

Johnny sets you back on your feet, cupping your face in his hands as he leans down to press a kiss to your lips. He groans quietly as he finally gets a taste of you after months, kissing you hard.

His thumbs stroke your cheeks, wiping tears against your skin. You missed him terribly too, breathing in his soft, warm scent as he pulls your body close against his. His kiss leaves your lips, trailing down your cheek to your neck, his nose pressing into your skin as he inhales deeply.

“Fucking missed this.” He groans, his hands sliding down your back.

“Alright, come on you needy pup.” John says, slapping his shoulder. “Don’t get too excited. You don’t want the neighbors to see.”

Johnny pulls back, looking around at the farmlands that surround you. “What neighbors?”

“Come on,” John says motioning with his head. “I thought you wanted to see the house.”

“I do!” Johnny says excitedly, taking your hand. “Show me this wonderful place, kitten.”

You giggle, wiping the tears from your cheeks with your free hand. “Come on.” You lead him up the steps of the porch to the front door.

“It’s cute.” Simon says, following behind you.

“She’s a little sparse, but I think you’ll see the vision.” You say, leading them inside.

You give them a tour, showing them around the living area and the kitchen, then outside to the patio and the land that stretches beyond, telling them all about your plans and the animals you’ll get soon. Then you head back inside, showing them around the guest rooms and the bathroom before you end in the main bedroom.

“Screamin’ Jesus that’s quite the bed.” Johnny says, toeing off his shoes before jumping onto the mattress.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” You ask, following him up onto the bed. “John got the reinforced frame.”

“Good.” Simon says, crawling on behind you. “I assume you’ve put it to the test already.”

You giggle bashfully. “We’ve put it through some thorough testing.” You lay back against the pillows, staring up at him. “Though there’s still a few things we have to try.”

His gaze darkens as he stares down at you, his hand lifting to cup your cheek. “We’re you waiting for us?” His voice is low, rumbling deep in his chest.

You nod, breathless under his gaze. “Yes.”

“Christ in heaven.” Johnny moans, shifting on your other side.

You sink your teeth into your lip as you stare up at them, your body starting to buzz excitedly. You’ve missed them so much, their touch, their taste, their smell. Being this close to them again almost makes you dizzy, your mind reeling from the look of them above you, making you feel small beneath them.

“Happy for your reunion, but would you like lunch before you defile our omega?” Kyle’s voice cuts through the moment.

Simon and Johnny both look away, turning to glance at Kyle. They glance back at each other, having a silent conversation before looking back at the other beta.

“Lunch would be great.” Simon says, pushing himself up off the bed.

You pout, pushing yourself up to sit. “But what about me?”

Simon gives you a wicked grin, adjusting his pants. “You can be our afternoon snack.”

A whine leaves your throat at his words, your teeth sinking into your lip again.

You don’t get to be the afternoon snack. The five of you get too caught up talking and getting each other caught up with your lives that it’s dinner before you know it. You help Kyle cook, working on your skills with him so he doesn’t always have to be the one cooking. He doesn’t mind, it’s something to do, but at the same time you feel bad. He deserves a break every so often too.

Dinner passes by quickly, the five of you retiring to the living room after, nursing beers as you relax in post-food euphoria. You’re squeezed on the couch between Simon and John, Kyle and Johnny taking to the floor, spread out on the carpet.

“It’s good to be back together again.” You say, leaning your head on Simon’s shoulder. “I missed this.”

“Aye, it feels wrong to be apart for so long.” Johnny says, leaning back on his hand.

“You can always retire.” You say, a smile tugging at your lips.

“Wish it were that easy.” Simon grumbles, leaning his head back against John’s hand. His arm is draped across the back of the couch, fingers playing with the hair at the base of Simon’s head.

“I know.” You say, taking another swig of beer. It tastes like piss but you’re too afraid to say anything, lest you face the teasing of the Brits before you. “So what do you think of the house?” You ask, changing the topic of conversation to something a little more lively.

“It’s cute.” Simon says. “Very much you.”

“Feels homey already.” Johnny says. “Can’t wait tae see it when it’s fully decorated.”

“I approve of the bed choice.” Simon says, his hand dropping to your thigh.

A shiver works its way up your spine, the promise of what’s going to happen later silently conveyed by that one action. You can’t wait, but they seem content where they are, dragging it out for you.

The anticipation only adds to the arousal starting to build within you.

Simon’s hand continues to rest on your thigh as the conversation continues, his thumb stroking your skin. You wish his fingers would slide higher, press against the seam of your shorts where you’re starting to get wet. No doubt your scent is thickening in the air, filling the room with your thick scent.

All four pairs of eyes are on you suddenly, your skin tingling from their gaze. You try and hide behind your beer can, sinking further into the couch.

“Someone’s getting excited.” Kyle smirks.

“Yeah, well, I missed my boys.” You say, taking a big swig of beer, hoping for a little liquid courage.

Simon’s hand finally slides up your thigh, fingers pressing between your legs, feeling the heat there. He slides your shorts to the side, his hand cupping you through your panties. “I’ll say.” He nearly groans, his fingers stroking you through the fabric.

Johnny takes in a deep breath before downing the rest of his beer, setting the can on the coffee table. “I cannae take much more.” He says, pushing himself up to stand. He’s sporting a hard-on, cock bulging through his jeans.

Simon’s hand leaves you as Johnny bends down, his shoulder meeting your middle as he pulls you up and over his shoulder. You let out a squeal, hands fisting his shirt to try and keep steady.

“See ye in the morning.” He says, already heading down the hall to the bedroom.

Your back meets the bed, bouncing from the impact as he quickly tears his shirt over his head. You lick your lips at the sight of him, drinking in every last inch of skin revealed to you as he kicks off his pants.

“Eager tonight.” You say, laying back on your elbows.

“Missed ye.” He grunts, nearly catching a foot in his boxers before he kicks them across the room. His cock is hard where it hangs between his thighs, red and angry already. He’s been horny just as long as you have, likely even longer. You wouldn’t be surprised if he was half hard on the drive up here.

His fingers curl under your waistband, yanking your shorts and panties down your legs and off your feet. He pushes your legs open, bending them up so they’re resting against your chest. A curse leaves his lips as he stares down at your soaked folds, his hands sliding down your thighs. You tug your shirt over your head as he leans down, dragging his tongue through your folds.

A deep groan leaves his lips, his eyes rolling back. “Fucking beautiful.”

He buries his face in your pussy, slurping like a man starved. His tongue laps through your folds, drinking up every last drop of your juices that dribbles out of you. You let out a sigh, laying back on the bed as you finally get some friction against your pulsing clit.

He closes his lips around it, sucking hard. Your eyes roll back, toes curling from the pleasure. John and Kyle have ignored you for the last couple days, giving you time to rest and recuperate before this moment, when Simon and Johnny finally got their hands on you again.

A whimper leaves your lips as he’s suddenly pulled back, your head lifting to find Simon standing beside him, hand gripping Johnny’s mohawk. Johnny’s face is shiny from your slick, his tongue darting out to lick his lips as he stares up at Simon.

“Needy little mutt.” Simon says, his gaze focused on Johnny. “Getting started without me?”

“Couldnae help it.” Johnny almost whines, his fingers flexing against your thighs. “Smelled so good.”

Simon hums, fingers releasing Johnny’s hair. “Well then,” he shoves Johnny’s face back towards your pussy. “Do your job and make her cum.”

“Yes, sir.” Johnny murmurs before he’s back at your pussy, lips closing around your clit again.

Simon climbs on the bed beside you, leaning on his arm. His free hand grips your chin, turning your face towards his. You stare up into those deep, dark eyes, a shiver running down your spine from the unmistakable lust in his gaze. His scent is quickly filling the air, mixing with yours and Johnny’s.

Your lips part with a gasp as his hand slides down your neck, fingers wrapping around your throat. Your pulse thrums against his fingers, toes curling from the attention that Johnny is giving to your clit. You’re going to cum, your chest rising and falling quickly as Simon’s hold on you tightens just slightly.

You grip Johnny’s hair, pulling his face harder against your pussy, hips lifting to grind against his mouth. You don’t care that you might be smothering him, and you doubt he cares either as he continues to eagerly slurp at your clit. You continue to hold Simon’s gaze, mouth falling open as you get closer and closer to the edge. Simon’s gaze doesn’t waver, neither does his grip around your throat as he holds you there, keeping you steady while Johnny has you coming undone.

Pleasure comes in waves as you cum, legs shaking against Johnny’s hands as he sucks hard on your clit. It’s almost too much, your back arching off the bed. One hand wraps around Simon’s wrist, holding on for dear life as you gush into Johnny’s mouth. He lets out a groan, lapping up every last drop of slick.

“Good boy.” Simon praises him, finally releasing you to stand back up.

You drop lax on the bed as Johnny finally releases you, kneeling on the floor in front of Simon. Their gazes are locked as Simon starts to undress, tugging his shirt over his head before taking his time undoing his belt. You lay on the bed, watching the moment while trying to catch your breath.

Simon kicks his pants off before climbing onto the bed, moving past you to lounge against the sheets, his cock resting against his stomach. He stares at you and Johnny, arms behind his head looking as causal as can be.

“Well?” he lifts a brow. “It’s not going to suck itself.”

You and Johnny share a look before you’re moving, climbing between his spread legs. You wrap your hand around the base of his cock as Johnny climbs up beside you, his arm brushing yours as he leans down, wasting no time. You start to stroke Simon’s cock as Johnny takes his head into his mouth, sucking lightly. You keep your gaze on Simon’s face, his eyes lidded as he watches you.

You push Johnny aside and bend down, flicking your tongue across Simon’s slit, feeling him get harder in your hand. You circle his head with your tongue before prodding at his slit again, still stroking him with your hand.

A hand tangles in your hair, pulling you off of Simon’s cock. Johnny releases you before bending back down, taking Simon’s cock in his mouth. His hand rests on Simon’s thigh as he sinks down until his lips touch your hand where you stroke him. He bats your hand away before sinking even lower, gagging as Simon’s cock hits the back of his throat.

“Show off.” You breathe, shouldering him aside as you take his place, taking Simon’s cock into your mouth.

Johnny’s hand grips the back of your neck but you drive an elbow into his stomach, sinking down as far as you can until you feel your gag reflex start to protest.

A hand tangles in your hair, tugging you up off of Simon’s cock. Simon is holding you, his other hand gripping Johnny’s mohawk. Both of you stare up at him, drool sliding down your chin.

“Enough.” He growls, releasing you. “Behave.”

You turn to look at Johnny, his face leaning forward to lick the drool off your chin. You let out a choked sound as his lips slide up, meeting yours. You grip Simon’s cock again, both of you leaning down. Your tongues entwine, licking all over Simon’s cock as you start to stroke him again. He’s leaking, precum beading from his slit. Johnny swipes a drop with his tongue, smearing it across Simon’s head. Your teeth scrape the delicate skin of his cock, smirking as you feel the twitch against your hand. He’s close, the heavy rise and fall of his chest visible out of the corner of your eye.

You drop your hand to his balls as Johnny takes him into his mouth again, bobbing his head as he sucks Simon off. A deep groan leaves Simon’s mouth as you massage his balls, feeling them tighten before he cums, spurting into Johnny’s mouth.

Johnny takes every last drop, your hand stroking Simon until he stops twitching. Johnny pulls off of him, your hand darting out to grip his chin before you force your tongue in his mouth before he can swallow. Simon’s cum is bitter on your tongue as you flick it against Johnny’s, his tongue passing some of it to you. You can almost feel the deep groan that leaves Simon, his cock hardening again in your hand.

You swallow down what you got, pulling away from Johnny. Both of you turn to look at Simon, his eyes lidded, mouth parted as he breathes. His hand reaches out for you and you crawl forward, letting him guide you to sit on his stomach. His hand lifts up to brush your bottom lip, cleaning off the residue of drool and cum.

“Did you enjoy that?” He asks quietly, softly, so very different from the commanding presence you had just witnessed.

You nod. “Yes.”

“Good.” He cups your cheek with his hand. “I missed that fucking mouth. Had to put up with that slag for weeks.”

Johnny lets out a whimper, his hand dropping to drag against his own cock.

“Missed this pussy even more.” He says, his hands falling to your waist to drag your hips against his stomach. “Been dreaming about it.”

You rest your hands against his chest, rocking your hips back and forth, dragging your clit against his skin. You’re leaving a wet patch but you don’t care, shamelessly using him for pleasure.

“Now, before I turn you into a little fountain, there’s something I need you to do first.” He cups the back of your neck, pulling you down towards his face. His breath fans your ear as he whispers. “Johnny’s been an awful good boy waiting for this moment. Why don’t you give him the ride of his life and milk him dry with your pussy.”

You sink your teeth into your lip, pushing yourself back up on his chest. You climb off of him, pressing your hands against Johnny’s chest, guiding him to lay next to Simon. He goes willingly, eyes locked with yours as you maneuver him.

You settle yourself over his hips, taking his cock in your hand. It’s already rock hard, tip leaking. He’s not going to last long once he’s inside of you, but that’s all part of this plan. Fuck him till he begs you to stop, no matter what. You just have to outlast him.

His head falls back as you lower yourself onto his cock, a moan leaving your lips at the stretch of him. Simon turns on his side, watching the two of you as you sink down completely, sitting yourself on Johnny’s hips.

“Feel good?” Simon hums.

You nod. “So good. Missed you so much.”

“We know.” Simon says, slapping Johnny’s cheek lightly. “Be a gentleman and watch your omega as she uses you.”

Johnny tilts his head back down, lips parted as you start to move, lifting yourself up before lowering again on his cock. Simon’s hand rests against Johnny’s stomach, his other hand propping himself up as he watches you. Johnny’s hands rest on your thighs, gripping tightly as you bounce on his cock, squeezing around him with every press of his tip against that spot inside of you.

You have to outlast him. You just have to make it longer than him.

He’s not going to last that long.

He’s already twitching, hips jerking under you as you grind your hips, angling yourself so your clit drags across his skin. He’s moaning and whining, fingers dimpling your skin from how tightly he’s gripping you.

He cums quickly, nearly bucking you off as he spills inside of you, but you don’t stop, continuing to fuck yourself on his cock. Simon holds the base of his cock as you continue to bounce, feeling him getting hard again. He’s panting, lips parted as he stares at you, cheeks flushed and eyes shiny. He looks wrecked and he’s only cum once.

“Fucking...Jesus.” he groans, back arching as you continue your movements, pussy fluttering around his cock, squeezing him. “I cannae take it.”

“You can.” Simon says, moving his hand once Johnny’s completely hard again. “And you will.”

Johnny whines, hands bruising on your thighs as he desperately hangs on, eyes fluttering. You don’t stop despite the ache in your thighs, the sweat soaking your skin. Your stamina isn’t what it used to be, but you ignore the fatigue, grinding against him again, pushing yourself closer and closer to the edge.

Johnny’s hands leave your thighs and slide up to your waist, aiding you with every bounce, the sound of wet skin slapping wet skin filling the air.

“Come on,” Simon goads him, sitting up on his knees. “You can do it.” His hand slides behind you, gripping Johnny’s balls.

A curse leaves Johnny’s lips, his back arching as he thrusts up into you, nearly throwing you off of him, but Simon’s other hand settles on your waist, keeping you upright. You’re tired, sweat dripping off your forehead but you don’t stop, not even when Simon’s fingers slide to your clit, rubbing tight circles over the sensitive bud.

“You too.” He breathes in your ear. “Come on.”

You cum with a cry, legs giving out as you squeeze around Johnny’s cock. Johnny cums with a shout, filling you a second time. He’s shaking too, falling limp beneath you.

“I cannae…I cannae take more.” He gasps, trying to push you off of him.

You lift your hips, letting him slip out of you, his cock landing with a wet smack against his stomach. You lay yourself against his chest as Simon rises, heading for the bathroom. You rest against Johnny for a moment, both of you trying to catch your breaths.

“Fucking better than I remembered.” Johnny breathes, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “Fucking magical pussy.”

You giggle, that giggle turning into a shriek as Simon flips you off of Johnny onto your back on the bed next to him. There’s a towel under your hips, Simon kneeling between your thighs.

Oh, he wasn’t kidding.

He pushes your trembling legs up, spreading you open before him. “There she is.” He says, eyes locked on your pussy, some of Johnny’s cum dripping out of you. “Isn’t that a sight.”

He moves your hands to hold the backs of your thighs, pussy spread open for him. His fingers rub slow circles over your clit, eyes locked with yours. You’re sure you’re a sight right now. Sweaty face, damp hair sticking to your skin, still shaking from your last orgasm, Johnny’s cum slowly seeping out of your wet pussy. Looking properly wrecked and he hasn’t even started with you yet.

Johnny is beside you, watching with interest. He knows what’s about to happen. He’s not stupid...well, not completely. He might have been fucked dumb but it wouldn’t take a genius to realize what’s about to happen to you.

Simon slides his hand lower, slipping two fingers into you. You whimper, still sensitive after fucking Johnny. Despite that your pussy squelches around his fingers, walls fluttering as he finds that spot inside you. You brace yourself, breathing through the slow thrusts of his fingers against that spot.

You can feel the slow build of pressure, the pleasure starting to thrum under your skin. The anticipation nearly takes you out, toes curling as you wait for him to truly start. His gaze is on your face, watching you as he slowly picks up the pace, pushing his fingers against that spot faster and faster. Your lips fall open, breaths coming in short gasps as the pleasure builds, pussy fluttering uncontrollably.

It gets to be too much, feeling like you might explode as he drives his fingers into that spot, a cry leaving your lips as you squirt all over his hand.

“Screamin’ Jesus.” Johnny breathes, watching your body writhe on the bed, Simon’s fingers driving right back into you, thrusting up against that spot again.

Simon’s hand presses against your stomach, pinning you down as you try to writhe away. “One more.” He grunts, thrusting his fingers hard against that spot before you squirt again, soaking his hand and the towel. “Good girl.”

He doesn’t give you any time to recover, slotting himself between your legs and thrusting into you. Your pussy stretches around him, not even Johnny able to fully prepare you for the size of him. You fall limp against the bed, Simon tossing your legs over his shoulders before he’s thrusting into you, snapping his hips against yours. You reach out, gripping Johnny’s arm as your back arches, your fluttering pussy squeezing around Simon’s big cock as you ride one orgasm into another.

It’s too much, your vision swimming as you try to breathe. You feel like you’re floating, the pleasure almost painful as he snaps his hips against yours, grinding the tip of his cock against that spot inside of you. He’s grunting and growling, hands gripping the comforter under you. You can’t do anything but lay there and take what he’s giving you, your legs trembling uncontrollably as he wrings another orgasm out of you.

“Fucking shit.” He groans, hands pinning you to the bed as he fucks you hard, driving the tip of his cock into your spot over and over. You can feel it building again, that unmeasurable pressure as tears leak out of your eyes from the overwhelming sensations. “Come on.” He grunts, driving his hips upward. “One more for me.”

He thrusts into you hard, hips meeting your ass as you squirt around his cock, your vision going dark from the pleasure.

“I think ye killed her.” Johnny’s voice reaches you through the ringing in your ears.

You’re shaking all over, body limp on the bed as you blink bleary eyes up at Simon. He’s still above you, one hand stroking the tears from your cheeks.

“There she is.” He says softly, gently easing your legs from his shoulders. “Welcome back.”

“I think he’s right.” You rasp, body still trembling. “I think you killed me.”

Simon chuckles, pulling himself out of you. Cum and slick seeps from your pussy, adding to the damp spot already soaking through the towel. “You did so good for me.” He praises you, brushing damp strands of hair from your face. “Took me so well.”

You pull him down against you, sweat mixing with sweat as you hold him for a moment. “Don’t tell anyone,” you say, your fucked-stupid brain forgetting to whisper. “But your cock is my favorite.”

Johnny goes to protest, but he stops himself. “Ye know after that, I don’t blame ye kitten.”

Simon chuckles, pushing himself back up. “Let’s get you both cleaned up.”

He uses the towel to wipe between your thighs before taking it to the bathroom, adding it to the hamper. He grabs a clean cloth, wetting it before coming back, wiping you down, then Johnny. You manage to get your body to roll over, cuddling up against Johnny’s side.

“That was good, kitten.” He says, kissing your forehead. “Got my cock achin’.”

“I think my pussy needs rehydrating.” You murmur, sleep already starting to tug at the back of your brain.

Simon maneuvers the covers out from under you, tucking in you and Johnny before sliding in behind you after turning out the light. He tucks himself against your back, tossing an arm over you.

“Missed you a lot.” You slur, half asleep already.

“I know.” Simon says, kissing the back of your head. “We missed you a lot too. Not just your pussy, but every part of you. Your presence, your humor. Having someone there to protect and take care of. It’s not the same without you.”

You make a small noise, wiping your sweaty forehead. “Who knew all I needed to do was leave for two months and suddenly you’d get sentimental.”

Simon grunts, pulling you and Johnny tighter against him. “Don’t get a big head, you little shit.”

You can’t help but smile, comforted by his words. At least you know they do miss you.

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[xiaprint]

caleb “just the tip” xia #hellyeah

he’s too anxious, needs that reassurance from time to time. more often than not, you’ve caught the slight waver in his voice when he asks you the millionth question of the hour. you knew that he was a little inexperienced— he was saving himself. even outside of intimacy, caleb can be a nervous wreck at times. it takes the right person to pick it out of his usual charming facade. he could fool anyone, but never the one who’s been by his side through the greatest highs and lowest lows.

it’s one thing to spew the filthy shit that’s been brewing in his mind for endless years, it’s another to carry all of it out. he wants you on the sofa, on the wicker nightstand of your bedroom, on the balcony lining the outside porch. every inch of your shared childhood home has been defiled in his dreams and fantasies. to say this would be a long time coming would be the century’s understatement.

yet here he was— sweat lining his hairline, angry cock nestled against the warm mound of your cunt. it’s prettier than he had imagined, glossy and wet with a mix of arousal and his spit. even if you’re soaked enough to smear along your inner thighs, he still can’t help but think that some lube would make this easier.

tunnel vision doesn’t exactly give him a chance to consider that any further, in a trance as he sizes you up. the most forbidden area of your body, likely the only part of you that he’s never seen. sure, things have been inevitable throughout the time you’ve spent but this is light years different than an accidental walk-in courtesy of his own negligence and an unlocked door.

“what’s on your mind?” you breathe up at him and he almost misses it, heart pounding in his ears. he can hear the meekness of your words and it screams insecurity to him, purple eyes shaky as they dart back up to you. no, that was the very last thing you should ever feel.

the air in the room feels so much thicker, each passing second hitting him with that sense of realization. this was it, this was you spread out on his familiar navy blue sheets. babydoll eyes staring right up at him, looking for reassurance and comfort as your pussy drools a little puddle down your asscheeks.

“oh, baby,” he coos, faint and quiet despite the house being empty. a thumb slides along the wetness gathered at your slit, coating the pad before he’s using it to slide the pudgy hood of your clit up. it’s swollen, it’s hard and throbbing. he’s never seen anything like it and goddamn, is he feeling faint. “i think you’re so gorgeous. you already knew that, right? that you’re just so gorgeous to me.”

his words almost sound like they hurt as they leave his mouth, strained and breathless, conveying such strong emotion that it makes your chest hurt. as exposed as you are, as new as all of this is, it undeniably feels so good. the right move, the final piece to the annoying and complicated puzzle that the two of you have built.

the gentle pressure has your toes curling, a shudder punching from your kiss-bruised lips. it almost makes him jump and he moans in turn, the tips of his ears burning a crimson red. there was no chance that he could fake any of this, the raw and real reaction to seeing the love of his life so bare all for him.

“i’m getting cold, cal,” your voice whimpers in that sweet way he’s only heard once or twice before, a sound that makes his cock twitch against your cunt. his skin transfers so much heat that you can’t help but squirm and seek some for yourself.

that protective nature that he’s always held for you comes full throttle, brain wired to respond to your every plea. when an issue arises, caleb always delivers. no need for question, no need for begging. he’s got his girl.

“shh, let me warm you up,” he leans forward, his chain colliding against your chin for a moment as he plants a kiss to your forehead. simultaneously, his fat tip presses into your tiny hole, soft exhales leaving the two of you at the mere feeling. he wants nothing more than to plug you full, the nonexistent selfish part of his brain begging to roll his hips forward until his balls clap your ass.

even then, he can’t do that. caleb would rather let the world burn than inflict any pain on you. right now is the most vulnerable and open you’ve ever been with him, with anyone— he wasn’t going to make that a regret.

he reiterated time and time again leading up to this that tonight wouldn’t be the full length, just the tip. as much as he wanted to indulge fully, he wanted to savor all of this. work up to it, earn it. stupid caleb being considerate and sentimental, per usual.

“shit, how’s that?” he chokes down a groan, desperate to gauge your every thought. sometimes he wished he could crawl into your brain, see for himself what those thoughts flying in your head have to say. he knows that you often hold back around him and in a way, connecting like this plays into an effort to get you to open up. speak your mind more, let him nurture you. “how is it? don’t go quiet on me, please. not right now.”

it was hard to put into words how meaningful this all felt. sure, it was bound to be an emotional milestone for the two of you considering all of the history behind your relationship. it was going to reach this point of intimacy and cross those platonic lines eventually but living in the moment was much easier said than done. your body welcomes him rather fast, very warm and needy in the way your hole swallows up his tip with greed.

“i’m workin’ on it, caleb,” you hiss quietly, mewls leaving your trembling lips as the tips of your nails dig into the flesh of his biceps. they were built and big, caleb was a big boy— he could handle a little clawing. your mind was filled with fog, almost in shock that this was finally happening. “give me a minute.”

the scent of his shampoo, the same kind he had been using since high school, wafts into your face with the rushed nods he gives you. it fills you with nostalgia and plenty of love, being surrounded by his scent and being warmed by his heat. “it’s no rush, honey. you tell me when you’re ready.”

typical caleb. selfless in ways that make you want to shake him by his shoulders, always looking out for the better interest of you. it used to be annoying but the older the two of you grow, the more you learn to appreciate his overbearing tendencies. all he ever wanted was the best. comfort, security, safety. the thought helped your body naturally relax, pussy tightening up before letting go of some resistance.

he can feel it in real time, head falling forward to rest on the skin of your shoulder. nothing has ever felt so good and it almost winded him, the way you managed to surpass his years worth of fantasies and wet dreams. there’s a voice in the back of his head begging him to go all of the way. he’s learned plenty of self control throughout the years and he’d be damned if he let it falter now, of all times.

as soon as he felt a love tap to his arm, he knew what you were asking for. all it ever took was an exchanged look between the two of you, minds connected deeper than words could convey. he reels his hips back, tip nearly sliding out of your slick just to press the faintest bit back in.

he can practically feel your hesitance. as big of a game as you talk, there was simply no fooling the man who has grown by your side. even the subtlest shift in energy is something he can pick up on and caleb smells the reluctance in you, reading your body language like he was fluent. you were overthinking again.

“we’ll take baby steps, yeah?” he grunts quickly in reassurance, slowly gaining a rhythm, hands sliding down the length of your legs before curling around your ankles. he’s sweet in the way his thumb caresses your anklet, the gentlest of reminders that it’s just him. “you’ll fit me soon enough. just let it feel good. let me make you feel good like this.”

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 37: October 2024 - Part 4

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)

Belle: Max and I are flying to Austin tomorrow, so I’ll text when we land xx

Arthur: wait you're coming to the US? like actually coming??

Belle: Yes? I cleared it with my doctor. It’s the last triple header before the baby comes. So. Final trip. One last hurrah.

Charles: THE TRIPLE HEADER??? Belle.

Belle: Yes. Austin, Mexico, Brazil. I’ll be with Max. I won’t even go to the paddock every day.

Charles: YOU ARE SEVEN MONTHS PREGNANT. AND GOING TO BRAZIL.

Belle: You’re yelling in caps.

Charles: Because you are SEVEN MONTHS PREGNANT AND GOING TO BRAZIL.

Arthur: Does Max know??

Belle: Max insisted. He’s already packed a separate suitcase just for my snacks.

Lorenzo: This feels like something you should have told us earlier. Like when flights were being booked. Or when your OB signed off. Not in a throwaway line 48 hours before you’re halfway to Texas.

Belle: I didn’t think it was a big deal.

Charles: Not a big deal??? You’re flying across the world while pregnant in your third trimester!

Belle: I’ll be fine. I’m cleared. We have everything. And I want to be there with him. It’s the last time I can be.

Arthur: ngl you sound kind of romantic and badass rn

Charles: She sounds like someone who should be HOME, with her FEET UP. This is how Max ends up delivering a baby mid-air.

Lorenzo: That would be a PR nightmare.

Belle: We’re flying private.

Charles: I’m going to throw up.

Belle: You’re not the one carrying a baby to Brazil.

Arthur: touché.

Charles: Lorenzo, say something sane please.

Lorenzo: I mean. If she’s medically cleared and Max is with her and everything’s planned…

***

The jet cut smoothly through the clouds, the hum of the engines steady and familiar, but Max’s attention wasn’t on the flight path, the weather reports, or even his schedule for Austin.

It was on Belle.

She was curled up on the couch across from him, blanket tucked around her legs, a copy of The Night Circus open in her lap, though she hadn’t turned a page in a while. Her other hand rested instinctively on the swell of her belly—seven months now, round and unmistakable. His baby. Their baby.

Max had flown this route a dozen times. More. But this was the first time Belle had been with him while visibly, heavily pregnant, and he couldn’t stop fussing.

“Do you want another pillow?” he asked for the third time in an hour, already half-rising from his seat. “You said your back hurt earlier.”

Belle looked up from her book, amused. “Max, I have five pillows. I’m fine.”

“You said that last flight, and then you couldn’t get comfortable for four hours.”

She smiled at him, soft and fond. “You already made me a nest. There are snacks, lemon water, compression socks, and a blanket you pilfered from the Red Bull hospitality suite. I think I’m okay.”

Max didn’t look entirely convinced. He stood anyway and adjusted the angle of the nearest pillow, his fingers lingering on the edge of the blanket like he was checking for invisible threats.

“You’ve flown so much this year,” Belle said gently. “You should rest too.”

“I will. Just—” He leaned down and kissed her temple, then her belly, like it was instinct. “I just want you comfortable.”

“You’re nesting worse than I am,” Belle murmured, grinning.

Max didn’t deny it.

He sat back across from her and watched her for a moment. Not just her face—though he could get lost in that—but the way she held her body now, instinctively protective. How easily she wore the role of mother-to-be. How radiant she looked, even when she swore she felt swollen and tired and done with travel.

The thought crept in again, uninvited but persistent:

How did I ever get this lucky?

Belle caught him staring and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” she teased.

He grinned, and then grew quiet. “I like having you with me. I know this is the last trip before the baby comes, but I’m glad you came.”

Her expression softened. “Of course I came.”

“I miss you when I’m on the road,” Max said simply, voice low. “Even when we’re texting every hour. It’s not the same.”

Belle reached over and took his hand. “I miss you too.”

He watched her fingers thread through his, her ring catching the cabin light. Something steadied in him. Anchored.

“You’ll tell me if anything feels wrong?” he asked, quieter now. “Even the smallest thing?”

“Yes, Max.”

“You’ll wake me if you feel weird, or if the seat’s too uncomfortable, or if—”

“I will.” She squeezed his hand. “I promise.”

He nodded once, then leaned back in his seat, eyes still on her.

***

Belle adored many things about traveling with Max.

The fact that she didn’t need to worry about anything. The way he handled her passport like it was state gold, the ridiculous fussing over whether the air pressure on the jet was bothering her ankles (it wasn’t), the look he gave the flight attendant when she offered Belle caffeine (“She’s seven months pregnant, what do you think?”), and the way he absolutely refused to let her carry anything, not even her little cosmetics pouch.

But if there was one thing she truly, indulgently loved about traveling with Max, it was the hotels.

Max Verstappen did not do hotels by halves.

Not when Belle was pregnant. And especially not when the words triple header were involved.

By the time they arrived in Austin, Belle was swollen and tired and slightly irritable despite the compression socks Max had packed and insisted she wear.

But then they pulled up to the hotel—discreet, modern, unfathomably expensive—and stepped into the suite, and Belle could have cried.

It was enormous. Floor-to-ceiling windows, rainfall shower, deep marble bathtub with views, robes folded on the bed, pillows so plush they looked like clouds, and a welcome basket of non-alcoholic champagne, ginger biscuits, and lavender lotion.

Max had already vanished into the kitchen area to check what snacks had been stocked. Belle dropped onto the sofa like a woman anointed by the gods and looked around with a sigh so content it could’ve ended wars.

“Anything else you want?” Max called.

“Yes,” she replied, eyes still closed. “I want to live here.”

Max appeared, holding a bottle of sparkling water like it was a peace offering. “It’s not bad, huh?”

Belle cracked one eye open and smiled. “It’s heaven. I take back every complaint I made on the flight. Your hotel taste is the only reason I’m tolerating international travel while this child is using my lungs as a trampoline.”

Max grinned. “Told you I’d make it worth it.”

“You did,” she said, already sinking deeper into the cushions. “If you need me, I’ll be horizontal until Brazil.”

He leaned down and kissed her temple. “Perfect. I’ll bring you snacks and foot rubs on the hour.”

She opened one eye. “See? Heaven.”

Max smiled again, soft and unguarded, and for a moment he just looked at her like she was the best part of his whole life.

“Don’t fall asleep yet,” he said. “I found your favorite crackers. And I’m about to demolish room service.”

Belle reached for his hand. “Fine. But only if I can eat in bed.”

He squeezed her fingers. “It’s your kingdom, Prinses.”

And it was. All of it. The suite, the snacks, the boy who looked at her like she was made of stardust.

Luxury was nice.

But being loved like this?

That was the real indulgence.

***

Belle hadn’t meant to snap.

She really hadn’t. She’d just been trying to find her lip balm and get through twenty minutes without someone asking if she needed to lie down.

But Charles had shown up at their hotel suite unannounced, full of anxious energy and the big-brother instinct that always seemed to arrive about three years too late.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he’d said, frowning at her the moment she opened the door.

Belle blinked. “Good morning to you too.”

“I’m serious,” Charles insisted, brushing past her into the suite. “You’re seven months pregnant, Belle. This is a triple header. You shouldn’t be traveling.”

“I’m fine.”

“You think you’re fine.”

She turned, jaw tightening. “Because I am.”

“This isn’t about how you feel right this second,” Charles said, pacing now, hands flying. “It’s about consequences. About what happens if something goes wrong. If you get sick or—if the baby—” He broke off, unable to even say it. “You don’t think ahead.”

That hit a nerve. Belle folded her arms. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t,” Charles insisted, eyes wide. “You just do things. You say, oh, I’m flying to Austin with Max, and you don’t think about what it means to fly that far in your third trimester or what could happen if you go into labor early—”

“I checked with my doctor, Charles.”

“But you don’t think—”

“Don’t you dare talk to me like I’m irresponsible—”

“You’re not irresponsible,” Charles said quickly, “you’re just—you're Belle. You don’t stop. And now there’s a baby. That changes things. You can’t keep acting like nothing has changed.”

And that did it.

“You don’t get to say that to me,” she hissed, her voice cracking with something sharp and wounded. “You weren’t there for any of the other things that changed my life, Charles. You weren’t there when you forgot my birthday or when I graduated or when I got married. But now you want to care? Now you think you get to tell me what I should be doing?”

Charles opened his mouth—but he didn’t get the chance.

Because Max had appeared in the doorway behind them, silent and slow like a thundercloud forming.

“Outside,” he said. Calm. Cold. His eyes on Charles, unreadable.

Charles blinked. “What?”

Max stepped forward. “You don’t get to yell at my pregnant wife. Outside.”

Belle was still breathing hard, her hand trembling where it had curled against her side.

Charles glanced at her, then at Max, and something in him relented.

He nodded once. “Fine.”

Max didn’t look back as he followed Charles out of the suite and shut the door behind them with a quiet finality.

Inside, Belle sank onto the edge of the bed, her chest heaving, heart aching.

She hadn’t meant to fight.

But maybe she’d meant every word.

***

The hallway was quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that offered peace, but the kind that came before something dangerous. The quiet that settled like pressure in your ears, heavy and impossible to ignore.

Max didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. He just stood there, arms folded, jaw tight, eyes sharp enough to cut through steel.

“You do not talk to her like that.”

Charles exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I don’t care,” Max snapped, his tone controlled, deliberate. “You came into our room. Uninvited. You lectured her. You shouted at her. And you scared her.”

Charles flinched. “I was just trying to make her understand—”

“She understands perfectly.” Max stepped closer. “She’s spoken to her doctor. She knows her limits. Do you think I’d let her fly across the world if I thought for a second it wasn’t safe? If her doctor thought it wasn’t safe?”

“No, but—”

“But what?” Max’s voice was low, almost dangerous. “But you don’t trust her? Or you don’t trust me?”

Charles didn’t answer.

Max didn’t back down. “Do you think I don’t wake up every morning and check how she’s breathing? That I don’t carry a list of every hospital within a hundred kilometers of every race? That I haven’t already mapped the fastest route to three different maternity centers in Austin?”

Charles opened his mouth, stunned.

Max shook his head. “You love her, I get it. But I’m the one she comes home to. I’m the one she wakes up next to when the nightmares come back. I’m the one holding her hair when she throws up. And I’m the one building a life with her that you didn’t even know about until it was already happening.”

Charles looked down, shoulders slumping.

Max paused, watching him. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. Still steady. Still protective. But gentler. “You didn’t mean to hurt her. I know that. But you did. Because you’re not scared of her. You’re scared for her. And you don’t know what to do with that.”

Charles swallowed hard. “She’s my sister, Max.”

“I know,” Max said. “But she’s my wife. And she’s carrying our child. So the next time you’re scared, you talk to me. You ask if she’s okay. You don’t show up and make her feel like she’s failing.”

Silence hung heavy between them.

Then Charles let out a slow breath and nodded once, roughly. “You’re right.”

Max’s posture softened a fraction.

“I just…” Charles looked up, eyes rimmed with guilt. “I wasn’t there for so long. And now I am, and I don’t know how to be. I’m scared, Max. I’m scared something will happen. And I’ll lose her before I ever really earned her back.”

Max’s jaw tightened again, but for a different reason this time. “Then show up. Quietly. Gently. Let her decide what she needs. Don’t try to control it because you feel helpless.”

Charles nodded. “Okay.”

“She still loves you,” Max said after a beat. “But don’t make her choose between protecting herself and forgiving you.”

Another beat. Then:

“Do you think she’s okay?” Charles asked softly.

Max nodded. “Yeah. She’s okay. But she’s tired. And you didn’t help.”

“I’ll fix it.”

***

The suite was quiet again.

Not the sharp-edged quiet from earlier. Not the kind that hurt. This one felt softer, like the sigh of wind after a thunderstorm. The kind of quiet that came from exhaustion and too many feelings spoken aloud.

Belle sat curled on the sofa, her knees drawn up beneath her, Max’s oversized hoodie stretched over her baby bump. Her hair was still slightly damp from her shower, and her hands were tucked under her thighs like she was trying to keep herself grounded.

Max closed the door behind him with a soft click and walked toward her. He didn’t say anything right away. Just crossed the room, crouched down in front of her, and rested his hands gently on her knees.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

Belle nodded. Then shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “About earlier. I didn’t expect him to… go off like that.”

Max’s expression softened immediately. “Don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I should’ve told him earlier I was coming,” she said. “Maybe then he wouldn’t have—”

“Belle.” Max’s hands slid up her legs, warm and steady. “You are allowed to exist. You’re allowed to go places. You’re allowed to travel with your husband and be excited about things without preemptively managing other people’s feelings about it.”

Belle blinked at him. “You’re very good at this, you know.”

“At what?”

“Knowing what to say when I’m spiraling.”

Max gave a little smile and pressed a kiss to her knee through the fabric of the hoodie. “You weren’t spiraling. You were trying to keep the peace again. And I love that about you, but not when it hurts you.”

Belle leaned forward slightly, resting her forehead against his. “He just looked so worried. And I get it. I do. I know it’s not rational, but part of me still wants him to be proud of me. Not scared for me.”

Max’s thumb traced over her knee. “He is proud of you. He’s just drowning in guilt and doesn’t know what to do with it.”

“Did you talk to him?” she asked, quiet.

Max nodded. “Yeah.”

“And?”

“I told him not to raise his voice at my wife ever again.”

Belle huffed a laugh. “Max.”

“I was calm,” he promised. “But firm. Your therapist would be proud of me.”

“She probably would,” Belle said. “You’ve gotten very good at communicating.”

“I’ve had an excellent teacher.” Max smiled. Then, after a pause: “He’s worried. But he heard me.”

Belle studied his face. “Are you worried?”

“Of course I am,” Max said instantly. “You’re seven months pregnant and flying across the world to three races in a row. I’m terrified. But I’m also confident. Because you’re smart. And careful. And you know yourself. And I trust you.”

Belle’s eyes stung again. Not from anger this time. Just from love.

Max leaned up and kissed her, slow and steady. “I’ve got you. And we’ve got this.”

***

Leclerc Brothers Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo)

Charles: ok I was an asshole

Arthur: that’s not news but go on

Lorenzo: What happened?

Charles: I went to check on Belle and I kind of lost it yelled at her told her she wasn’t thinking about the consequences

Arthur: you WHAT

Lorenzo: Charles.

Charles: I didn’t mean it like that! I was just… worried She’s 7 months pregnant! She was standing in a hotel room after a 10-hour flight and she looked so tired and I panicked!

Arthur: you still don’t yell at her! especially not now!

Charles: I know! Max kicked me out of the room Literally said “outside. now.” Then proceeded to verbally gut me in the hallway like a fish

Lorenzo: good

Arthur: good

Charles: thanks for the support 🙃

Lorenzo: we love you but Belle is our sister and you don’t get to project your guilt onto her

Arthur: also you were genuinely being a dick Charles: I know I just saw her and the bump and how small she looked in that hoodie and I felt like she was slipping away from us again I didn’t know what to do

Lorenzo: then you don’t yell you sit and you listen and maybe ask what she needs instead of assuming

Charles: I’ll apologize in the morning Properly I’ll make it right

Arthur: bring pastries and maybe don’t act like she’s a toddler in a hurricane

Charles: understood fully and completely humbled

Lorenzo: good. and maybe next time, let Max be the worried husband you just be her brother

Charles: …noted. thanks both of you

Arthur: go to bed, old man before you stress yourself into another forehead wrinkle

Charles: I hate you

Arthur: you yelled at Belle. you deserve worse. 

***

The table overlooked the Austin skyline, golden hour casting soft light over everything. Max had picked the restaurant for its privacy and the cushioned chairs, and because he liked the steak. But Belle knew the real reason—he wanted to keep her off her feet without making a fuss about it. 

Though Max was fussing. He’d already  asked the waiter to bring extra lemon wedges for the side of greens, and given Belle’s glass of water three concerned glances, as if willing it to stay full.

Lando slouched into his chair beside Lily, looking approximately 80% emotionally compromised.

“Still moping?” Oscar asked dryly, stealing a fry off Lando’s plate.

Lando sighed. “She’s only coming to Brazil.”

“Emilie has a job,” Belle reminded him. “In Monaco.”

“Yeah, well, I have a heart. And it’s broken,” Lando muttered, poking at his burger like it had personally betrayed him.

“You saw her literally on Monday,” Max said.

“Exactly. Three whole days ago.”

Belle exchanged a look with Lily, who was clearly holding back a smile.

“You can still text,” Belle said helpfully. 

“I did. She sent me a meme of a cat falling into a bin. I think it was symbolic.”

Oscar bit back a laugh. “You think she’s trying to tell you something?”

“She said the cat was me.”

Belle reached across the table and squeezed Lando’s hand. “She loves you. Even if you are a bin cat.”

“I miss Emilie,” Lando said mournfully.

“You’re impossible,” Lily muttered affectionately.

Belle leaned back into her seat with a soft sigh, resting her hand over the curve of her belly. Max noticed immediately, shifting his chair slightly closer.

“Back okay?” he asked in a low voice.

“Just a bit achey,” she murmured. “Nothing serious.”

He nodded and poured her another glass of water before turning back to the table conversation.

They lapsed into easy conversation—about media day chaos, weather predictions, pit strategy speculation. The kind of casual camaraderie that came after years of shared race weekends and occasional mutual therapy.

But eventually, it circled back.

Lily asked, gently, “How are you feeling, B?”

Belle smiled. “Tired. A bit swollen. But okay.”

Oscar nodded. “You look good. Happy.”

“I am.” She glanced at Max, who looked smug about it.

Then she added, “Though Charles is… spiraling.”

“Still?” Lando blinked.

“Mm.” Belle took a sip of water. “He showed up earlier and basically scolded me like I was sneaking out to a nightclub. It turned into a thing. Max had to break up the shouting match.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Bold of him.”

“He’s just… worried,” Belle said after a pause.

“Yeah,” Lando said, “but there’s a difference between worried and unhinged.”

Oscar nodded. “We’re all worried, Belle. But none of us would yell at you like that.”

Belle glanced at Max, who hadn’t said anything yet. His jaw was tight.

“He was scared,” Max said finally. “But that doesn’t excuse it.”

“There are better ways to say ‘I love you and please don’t push yourself’ than blowing up at a pregnant woman,” Oscar said. 

Lily leaned in. “And if Charles yells again, I’ll throw a drink at him.”

“Lily,” Belle laughed.

“I will. I’ve been waiting for an excuse.”

Max raised his glass slightly. “To not being an asshole.”

Everyone clinked glasses. Even Lando, who still looked like he was mentally writing poetry in his head about Emilie and bins.

Lando sighed. “I miss Emilie.”

“You said that three times already,” Oscar said.

“Well, I do.”

Belle reached across the table and patted his hand. “Brazil isn’t far.”

“It is emotionally far,” Lando replied, staring dramatically at his empty bread plate. “And spiritually.”

Max glanced at him. “You want more bread?”

“Obviously.”

Max flagged the waiter down without missing a beat. Belle just shook her head and leaned back, letting the sounds of familiar voices settle around her like a blanket. Her husband. Her friends. Her people. It didn’t erase the hurt, or the worry. But it made the world feel a little softer. A little more hers.

And for now, that was enough.

***

Text Messages: Oscar Piastri & Charles Leclerc

Oscar: I’ve been holding off, but I need to say this. I have three sisters. Three. We’ve fought. We’ve argued. We’ve said stupid things. But I have never spoken to them the way you spoke to Belle.

Charles: I know.

Oscar: You scared her. You made her feel small. That’s not what big brothers are supposed to do. You want to worry? Worry. You want to check in? Good. But if yelling at her is how you show you care, then we’re going to have words.

Charles: … Okay. I deserved that.

Oscar: Yeah. You did. You don’t get to love someone and also make them afraid of your reaction. And if you ever need a reminder of how to be an older brother without being a dick, call me. I’ve had a lifetime of practice.

Charles: Noted. And Oscar? Thanks. I mean it.

Oscar: Don’t thank me. Just do better. For her.

***

Charles had been standing outside the Red Bull hospitality unit for at least three minutes, holding a white paper bag from Ferrari’s kitchen and questioning every life choice that had led him here.

He could hear the low hum of conversation from inside, interrupted now and then by laughter. Not Max’s—Belle’s. And for some reason, that made him even more nervous.

He took a deep breath, adjusted his sunglasses, and stepped inside.

The first thing he noticed was how full the space felt. Not crowded—Red Bull’s hospitality was never chaotic—but busy in a way that hummed with energy. Cameras, laptops, coordinated polo shirts. And in the middle of it all: Belle.

She was sitting on one of the plush sofas, ankles tucked up, cradling a Red Bull-branded water bottle and smiling at something Paul from comms was showing her on a tablet. Her bump was obvious now under her pale blue sundress. Seven months along and unmistakably glowing.

What was unmistakable, too, was the way everyone was treating her like she was made of glass and diamonds.

Paul offered her a seat cushion—another one. Someone else asked if she wanted another fan moved closer. One of the engineers passed by and offered to grab her another snack from the kitchen. Even the PR intern—Alex? Andy? Something with an A—hovered with wide eyes like she was witnessing royalty.

Charles blinked.

It wasn’t just that everyone was fussing over her. It was the way they listened. The way they made space for her. The way Max, standing at the coffee bar nearby, kept glancing over at her like the earth might tilt if she frowned.

It was… a lot.

And Charles suddenly felt very much like an intruder.

Still, he cleared his throat. Loud enough to be heard. Not so loud as to startle her.

Belle turned. Her face, open and curious a moment before, shuttered just slightly when she saw him.

“Hi,” Charles said, lifting the bag a little. “I brought you pastries.”

A pause. Then: “From Ferrari?” Her tone was unreadable.

“The good ones,” he added quickly. “From Marco. The ones you like. Raspberry and almond? Smuggled across enemy lines,” Charles replied.

Belle hesitated for one breath. Then she nodded once, almost imperceptibly, and said, “You can sit. If you’re not too scandalized by the energy drinks.”

Charles exhaled, relieved, and settled into the seat beside her, careful to leave space. He handed her the bag.

“I wanted to say sorry. Properly,” he said, quieter now, aware of the eyes around them. “Not because Max made me. Or because Oscar glared at me like he was about to fight me in a car park.”

That got the ghost of a smile out of her. Just barely.

“I was scared,” Charles admitted. “Still am. But that doesn’t excuse what I said. Or how I said it.”

Belle didn’t look at him. She picked at the edge of the pastry bag instead. “You made me feel like I wasn’t allowed to choose for myself. Like being worried gave you permission to shame me.”

Charles winced. “I know. I hate that I did that.”

A pause.

“You looked pale,” he said helplessly. “And tired. And it’s a triple header and you’re already seven months and I just—my brain short-circuited.”

Belle finally looked up.

“And you yelled.”

“I did,” he said. “I shouldn’t have. And if Max hadn’t stepped in—honestly, I’m glad he did.”

“I know you’re worried. But I’m okay. Max is okay. We’re doing this together.”

“I can see that,” Charles murmured, glancing around the room again. At the staff. At Max, who met his eyes for a second, then nodded—just once, like a warning and a truce all in one.

“You have people looking out for you,” Charles added. “And… I’m glad. Even if it hurts a little that it wasn’t always me.”

Belle’s expression softened. “You can still show up.”

“I want to,” he said. “I will. Just—maybe next time I’ll try asking how you are instead of yelling about it.”

“Next time,” Belle said, lips twitching into a small smile, “you can also bring tea.”

“Deal.” He leaned back slightly, glancing at the pastry in her hand. “Is it still good?”

Belle took another bite. “You’re still on probation, but this helps.”

Charles grinned despite himself. “Fair enough.”

***

Text Messages: Oscar Piastri & Belle Verstappen

Belle: what did you say to charles?

Oscar: 👀 hi belle

Belle: don’t “hi belle” me he showed up with pastries and actual remorse you broke him, didn’t you

Oscar: i just had a chat with him man to man brother to brother reasonable adult to emotionally unhinged Monegasque

Belle: oscar

Oscar: okay okay I might’ve told him that if he ever speaks to you like that again, we’re going to have words and that I have three sisters and even when they’re being annoying I still don’t talk to them like that and that you’re my friend too

Belle: 😳

Oscar: too much?

Belle: no just you’re going to make me cry in the paddock

Oscar: you already have Max you don’t need me but I’m here anyway just in case

Belle: i mean… it worked he brought croissants and apologized and didn’t deflect once

Oscar: that’s the power of australian disapproval we’re quiet but terrifying

Belle: thank you really ***

***

Instagram Stories: @/belleverstappen

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1TeaSpiller wait wait wait ISABELLE LECLERC JUST DROPPED A WHOLE Q&A AND GAVE US MORE EMOTIONAL INTROSPECTION IN 20 SLIDES THAN MY THERAPIST DID IN SIX MONTHS????

@/McLarenMaddie “Kidnapped to McLaren hospitality for snacks” Belle pls we are in a cost cap era stop outing our snack budget like this 💀 (also Lily def did the kidnapping)

@/GridGossipOfficial Confirmed:

Baby Verstappen is due mid-December

Max talks to the baby in Dutch

Belle is seven months pregnant and still looks like a Vogue editorial

She’s quietly funnier than the entire grid

I fear she’s iconic.

@/yukisnaxnation did anyone else catch the shade in “Installed Throw Pillows for a living 🙃” i know a backhanded family insult when i see one

@/tifositrouble charles leclerc: i am the family’s emotional support belle leclerc: the emotional support has left the building and written a dissertation on trauma in residential lighting

@/lan_doughnut “Life is weird. I wanted a horse.” Isabelle Leclerc really is that girl who married a four-time world champion and FINALLY GOT THAT PONY we love a grounded queen

@/gridwivesunite “Because I get to tell our baby their papa is brave and brilliant and comes home to us.” HELLO I DID NOT ASK TO CRY TODAY

@/OscarWifeCentral Max being fluent in Dutch, F1, and soft husband era is not what I expected in 2018 but I am so here for it

@/babyverstappenfanpage NOT HER CALLING THE BABY “THRIVING” WHILE THEY KICK HER RIBS this kid is already iconic drop the name. we deserve it.

@/f1emoposting i’m sorry but this woman said “Motherhood doesn’t end ambition—it just shifts it” and i am engraving that onto my bones

@/MaxVerstappenUpdates i think what makes me insane is how Max makes her feel safe like he doesn’t force reconciliation or pick sides, he just makes sure she knows she always has a home i’m losing it

@/screamingincashmere when she said “I don’t owe the internet my pain—or my healing” i stood up. i saluted. i screamed.

@/lilyheartsbelle as Lily’s self-declared spokesperson: Belle is invited to every McLaren snack table, always, forever, no questions. also she can absolutely design my house.

@/gridwitches

BELLE’S Q&A IS EVERYTHING

We got Max stories, existential career grief, architectural dissertation flexes, and a warning that baby Verstappen is a rib assassin.

10/10, no notes.

@/chaoticgoodlando

wait. WAIT.

is no one talking about the fact that she casually said she graduated TOP OF HER COHORT AT THE SORBONNE

AND PEOPLE CALLED IT INSTALLING THROW PILLOWS FOR A LIVING

i’m going to fight someone

@/mclarenmami

“Have been kidnapped to McLaren hospitality for snacks.”

Now listen. I need the transcript of that exchange. Who kidnapped her? Was it Oscar? Did Lily lure her with fries?

@/f1confessional

me rereading that Q&A and thinking about how Max Verstappen is the emotionally grounded husband and Charles is the one spiraling

@/charleslechic

if you told me in 2021 that max verstappen would become the sweet, quiet husband defending his wife while charles leclerc would be the one in family drama exile…

i would’ve called you delusional. now i call you prophetic.

@/trackwalktalks someone said max verstappen is the emotionally intelligent husband and charles leclerc is the messy sibling with unresolved issues and i haven’t recovered since

***

FIA Post-Race Press Conference – Austin 2024

 Drivers: Max Verstappen (P3), Carlos Sainz (P2), Charles Leclerc(P1)

Moderator: Congratulations to all three of you—Charles, Carlos, and Max. A thrilling race here in Austin. Charles, first win in the US. That must feel incredible?

Charles: Yes, absolutely. It’s been a long time coming. The team executed everything perfectly, and I’m really, really happy. It means a lot.

Reporter #1: Carlos, another strong weekend. You and Charles made it a Ferrari 1–2, and that’s no small feat.

Carlos: Yeah, it’s a good day for the team. It’s been a difficult few months, but this was clean, strong, and we got everything right. Proud of how we handled it.

Reporter #1: And Max, P3 today. A bit of a fight out there, but you seemed particularly focused near the end.

Max: Yeah, it was not our cleanest weekend. We struggled with balance in the early laps and tire deg later on, but we did what we could. I’m happy to bring home some solid points.

Reporter #2: I have to ask—there’s been a lot of chatter off-track, too. This is only the second time we’ve seen you both on the podium since the world learned that you’re officially… brothers-in-law.  —smiles Charles, Max—how does that feel?

(Charles pauses, blinking. Max smirks slightly.)

Charles: It’s— (pauses, glancing toward Max)  —an adjustment. But one I’m learning to navigate.

Max: I think we both are. I mean, racing is racing. That’s separate. When the helmets are on, we’re just competitors.

Charles: Exactly. On track, nothing changes. I want to beat him. He wants to beat me. But I mean… it’s still weird. Let’s be honest. It’s Max.

Max: (chuckles) Thank you.

Charles: But— we’re figuring it out. We both care about Belle. That’s the common ground.

Max: It’s more peaceful than people assume. We’ve always had… respect, I think. Maybe not always friendship.

Charles: (sighs, but smiles) I think it’s just surreal. My baby sister is married to him.

Max: And carrying my child. (grins)

Charles: Please stop talking.

Carlos: This grid is becoming a soap opera, and I love it.

Moderator: Has it changed anything, being family now?

Max: It’s made some things easier. Others—more delicate. But Belle is very good at keeping the peace.

Charles: She’s the only reason we haven’t killed each other.

Carlos: I’m just here enjoying the show.

Reporter #3: Do you have a name picked out?

Max: (smiles tightly) We do.

Reporter #3: Are you going to share it?

Max: Nope.

Reporter #4: Max, with the season wrapping up soon and the holidays approaching—how are you and Belle planning to celebrate Christmas?

Max: (smiles a bit helplessly) Well, that depends on the baby.

(Laughter in the room.)

Max: We’re either going to have a newborn… or I’ll be staring at the calendar and jumping every time my wife sneezes. The due date is mid-December. So it’s going to be a different kind of off-season. 

Charles: (smiling faintly) We’ll all be on standby, I think. Family Christmas might involve a hospital room this year.

Max: Honestly? As long as Belle’s okay, and the baby’s healthy, I don’t care where we are. That’s the gift.

***

Text Messages: Pascale Leclerc & Belle Verstappen

Pascale: Ma chérie, I’ve been thinking of you. I know traveling during the triple header must be exhausting, and I wanted to check in. How are you feeling? Truly.

Belle: Hi Maman. I’m okay. A bit tired. A bit sore. Baby is doing gymnastics on my lungs today, I think. But I’m okay. Thanks for asking.

Pascale: I can’t imagine how much that takes out of you. Are you at least letting Max spoil you a little?

Belle: He’s in full bodyguard mode. Won’t let me carry anything heavier than a water bottle and keeps muttering about compression socks like a 75-year-old Dutch man.

Pascale: That sounds like love. I know I don’t say this enough, but I’m really proud of you. The way you handle everything—your work, this pregnancy, being married to someone constantly in the spotlight. You’ve always been stronger than people gave you credit for. Including me.

Belle: …thank you. That means a lot.

Pascale: Would it be alright if I called sometime this week? Just to talk. No pressure.

Belle: Okay. Yeah. I think I’d like that. Just… not during free practice. Max will give me the look.

Pascale: Then I’ll wait. You deserve to be looked after too, ma fille. Talk soon. 💛

***

Belle didn’t need the timing screens or the pit wall whispers to know something was coming. She could feel it in the air—that particular charge that came when Max had something to prove. It was all altitude and adrenaline in Mexico City.

She sipped her agua fresca in Red Bull hospitality, her free hand resting on her bump.Max had kissed her forehead that morning, mumbled something about traffic and tyres and Turn 1, but she’d seen the tension in his shoulders, the clipped way he’d tugged on his gloves.

By Lap 10, she was already sitting forward on the couch, legs crossed uncomfortably, one hand braced against the armrest.

And then it happened.

Turn 4. Max dove in—hard, late, uncompromising. Lando squeezed. Neither gave. Norris bumped wide, managing to avoid the wall by centimeters. Her heart shot to her throat.

She didn't say anything. Not even when the second incident came—Turn 8, just a few laps later. Another lunge, another wheel-to-wheel moment, another wide run-off.

Then the penalty notices hit the screens like thunder.

10 seconds. Then another 10.

Belle sat back, exhaled slowly. Max wouldn’t like this. He’d be furious with himself, with the stewards, with the line between bold and reckless being dissected in real time. She knew that look he got—the kind that was all calculation and pride and the sting of knowing he'd gone too far.

She looked down at her bump, whispered, “He’ll calm down. Eventually.”

The post-race press area was a buzz of barely contained tension. Lando, to his credit, had kept it professional.

“This is not very clean driving… I just had to avoid a crash.”

Belle had known Lando long enough to read between the lines. He was angry. But he was also careful. Measured. She couldn’t fault him for what he said—and neither would Max.

But this was something between the two of them now. Something that had started back in Austin and hadn’t burned out yet.

Later, back in his driver’s room, Belle had the room dimmed, her feet up, the baby pressing insistently against her ribs. Max came in quieter than usual—no slammed doors, no hissing under his breath. Just the sound of him peeling off his race suit and standing still, like he didn’t know what to do with the noise in his head.

She sat up. “Snack? Water?”

He shook his head, then changed his mind. “Water.”

She handed it to him. He took a sip, then sat on the edge of the couch, hands braced on his knees. The silence was heavy, not angry—just full. She walked over, lowered herself beside him with some difficulty, and rested her head on his shoulder.

“I didn’t touch him,” he said quietly, not even defensive. “I left space.”

“I know,” she said. “But sometimes it’s not about space. It’s about how it looks.”

He didn’t respond. Just leaned into her a little more.

She rested her hand on his and let him be quiet. That was the thing about Max—he didn't need fixing. Just space to feel what he was feeling. And a home to come back to when he was done being Max Verstappen, Red Bull’s relentless ace.

“You’re still brilliant,” she said after a while.

“I’m still penalized.”

She nudged his knee gently with hers. “And still coming home with me.”

He let out a breath—something like a laugh, something like defeat—and let his head drop to her shoulder.

***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Belle Verstappen

Emilie: Explain to me why your husband nearly launched my boyfriend into the stratosphere today.

Belle: He did not launch him. He defended his position. Aggressively. While being Max.

Emilie: Aggressively?? Belle. I nearly threw my phone at the TV. Do you know how fast I went from "let's get him" to "baby no 🥺" in 0.3 seconds??

Belle: Yes. Because I watched it happen live and then lived with the consequences in the driver’s room. Lando is fine. 

Emilie: I’m not.

Belle: You’re in love with a man who drives like a maniac and jokes like a 12-year-old on Red Bull.

Emilie: And I choose him. Daily. Despite all that. Which is why I reserve the right to yell when your husband tries to murder him with a late dive.

Belle: Max didn’t try to murder him.

Emilie: Belle. I had to stress-bake banana bread.

Belle: …I accept this level of emotional escalation.

Emilie: Good. Because next time, if Max breathes wrong in Lando’s direction, I will uninvite you both from brunch.

Belle: Not brunch 😩

Emilie: That’s how serious I am. Tell Max. Actions. Consequences. Croissants.

Belle: Message received.

Belle: (But also: Max says Lando moved under braking.)

Emilie: Tell Max I moved under deep disappointment.

***

Text Messages: Lando Norris & Belle Verstappen

Lando: Tell Max I’ll stop being mad if he names the baby after me. 😌

Belle: You didn’t die, Norris.

Lando: Felt like it. Spiritually. Emotionally. Tyre-ly.

Belle: Tyre-ly is not a word.

Lando: It is now. I’ve suffered. Let me have this.

Belle: You got P2 and a plate of tacos after the race.

Lando: Justice for me 🪦

Belle: The baby just kicked. I think they’re judging you.

Lando: Max’s child already hates me. This is worse than Russia 2021.

Belle: They’ll love you. Once they’re old enough to understand sarcasm and chaos.

Lando: So like… age three?

Belle: Exactly.

Lando: Tell Max I forgive him. But also that I expect naming rights for the second one.

Belle: Noted. You’re on the list… somewhere under “never.”

***

They were in their hotel room in Mexico City, the lights low, the air still buzzing faintly with the noise of the city outside.

Belle was curled up on the bed with a book resting on the curve of her belly. Max was by the window, still in his undershirt, hair damp from the shower, staring out like the skyline held answers.

He’d gotten P6.

Solid. But not a win.

Not for a while now.

He turned from the window slowly.

“I’m scared,” he said, voice quiet.

Belle looked up immediately, setting her book aside. “Of what?”

Max rubbed the back of his neck, not meeting her eyes. “That I won’t win again.”

The words hung there, heavier than either of them expected.

Belle sat up, one hand instinctively resting on her bump, the other reaching out to him. “Max…”

“It’s stupid,” he said quickly. “I know. I’ve already won so much. More than most drivers ever will. And it’s not like I’m not competitive. It’s not like I’ve lost the pace completely. But—” He broke off, frustration simmering just under the surface. “But it’s been ten races. Ten. And suddenly everyone’s looking at me like I’m… fading.”

Belle’s fingers wrapped around his.

“You’re not fading.”

He finally looked at her, and his eyes were raw in a way few people ever got to see.

“I used to feel like the car moved with me. Like I could sense it before it happened. Now it’s… like I’m fighting it more. Like the edge is duller. I’m scared that—” He exhaled, hard. “That this is the beginning of the end.”

Belle stood, stepped into his space, pressed her palms flat against his chest.

“Max Verstappen,” she said, steady and fierce. “You’re not at the end of anything. You’re evolving. That’s different.”

His mouth pressed into a line. “What if evolving means slower?”

She gave a soft smile. “Then you evolve into someone who wins in different ways. With patience. With strategy. With wisdom.”

Max huffed. “I don’t want to be wise. I want to be fast.”

Belle laughed, low and warm. “You are fast. You’ve always been fast. But mon amour, that can’t be the only measure of who you are.”

He looked down at her hand on his chest, then at the swell of her belly. Their son shifted beneath her skin, like he was listening.

“I want him to be proud of me,” Max whispered.

Belle reached up, thumb brushing his cheek. “He will be. Not because of wins. But because of who you are when you don’t win.”

Max closed his eyes, just for a second, and breathed her in.

Then he leaned down, pressing his forehead to hers. “How do you always know what to say?”

She smiled. “Because I love you. And because I’ve seen you drive a car like it’s an extension of your soul. That doesn’t just vanish.”

He kissed her. Soft and searching.

And when he pulled away, his voice was steadier.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Brazil, then.”

Belle grinned. “Brazil.”

And maybe—just maybe—the winning wasn’t over.

Not yet.

[barnesandashes]

need a ride? | oneshot

pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x assistant!reader

summary: save a horse, ride a congressman. after waiting for congressman james bucky barnes to finish his emergency meeting— which lasted the whole night, he offers you a ride home, at the back of his motorcycle. like, what could go wrong?

warnings: 18+ content, MDNI. reader is female. swearing, dom!bucky, unprotected sex, piv, semi-public sex, his motorcycle plays a big part (ok they fuck in the motorcycle), creampie, reader is down bad but bucky is down badder, porn with plot, y/n and bucky are both horny, no use of y/n.

wc: 8.6k

author’s note: in honor of me graduating and thunderbolts hd, i present to you my first oneshot! i hope u like it <3

“I’m really sorry you had to wait that long.”

An apologetic sigh came from Congressman Bucky Barnes as he entered his personal office. He looked at you, seated at your desk, laptop still on and fingers clicking the keyboard. You were composing emails and scheduling them to be sent at exactly 8:00 AM sharp tomorrow.

The government’s forte was not making lives easier for its people— no, it’s making sure their underpaid employees work at least overtime every single day.

So, you weren’t exactly pleased.

You had been waiting for Bucky for at least 2 hours now, he was cornered into an emergency meeting that started around quarter to nine. You looked at the time on the bottom right of your device, 10:58 PM. To pass the time, you opted to just do the work for tomorrow earlier, so in the future, you can thank yourself in that matter.

Being stuck alone in the office with grey carpets that reeked of stress and greed with the fluorescent lights just above your head, flickering every now and then to make sure that you were still awake, and the shadow it gave exposed your face heating with annoyance.

Your hands paused for a brief moment, turning your gaze to the man who stood near the glass door, hand in waist. The other hand was loosening his tie from its tight grasp on his neck then running his hands through his hair. You looked away, you didn’t need to be attracted to him right now, you were annoyed.

But, what the hell. Is it even possible for a human to look even finer under stress? You compared him to diamonds— better under pressure.

For you, it wasn’t fine at all, he had destroyed all your usual habits of cooking dinner, watching your favorite series, and sleeping at exactly the time where you were at the office right now. You couldn’t leave here without ensuring that Bucky’s schedule had all gone out according to plan. One emergency conference, and your night was ruined.

“It’s okay, I was just wrapping up as well.” You managed to plaster a polite smile, you couldn’t exactly admit to your boss that you were kind of infuriated at him. Kind of, because you couldn’t fully get mad at Bucky, your infatuation always seemed to be stronger. Could you really even help it if he looked glorious every single day? Wearing a usual black or navy blue suit and tie, hair slicked back with gel, and a set of blue eyes just always piercing through your soul.

Suddenly, the room ran out of air for you to breathe on, you couldn’t pinpoint whether it was the strong perfume he wore— an oddly lavender aroma with a kick of spice thanks to its amber base. It was sleek, mature, and downright sexy. Or, if it was just his presence. It probably was just him all in all.

“I’m really sorry.” He looked utterly devastated in a manner that made him even hotter than he usually was, you couldn’t afford to stand up just yet and realize that there was a wet patch on your chair. “You can take a sick day tomorrow. I don’t have that much meetings—“

“It’s fine, Mr. Barnes. Really.” You cut him off, you didn’t even care anymore if your annoyance was obvious. You wanted to go home badly and melt down your bed, eyes shut, maybe dream of him when you have calmed down. “I’ll fix my things, then I’ll go.” You added, slowly standing up from your desk and picking up your bag to put your laptop in.

“I told you to just call me Bucky.” He looked at you, taking note of your particular habit of always calling him by his last name.

Well, he did give you the freedom to be casual. Too casual. Casual in a way that you might mistake for a flirty remark— like the one that you’d give a handsome man you’ll see on a bar then never again.

You couldn't call him that for your own personal sanity— and because you were too afraid to reveal anything about schoolgirl hopeless romantic feelings and imaginations straight out of a fanfiction written by people who had the same amount of thirst for the ex-assassin turned U.S. House Representative.

“That would be really unprofessional since you’re my boss.” You gave him a dry, sarcastic chuckle, trying to be humorous, but it came out rude instead due to your sour mood.

“Right, right. Well, people usually call me that. Just sayin’.” Bucky gave you a tight-lipped smile and lowered his head down.

“How are you getting home? You have a car?” He asked, trying to spark a conversation again.

“I just walk. My apartment���s not that far, like a 15-minute walk from here.” You sighed, finished packing up your stuff, ready to go. Your heels clacked on the waxed floor when you picked up your things and went to the direction of the door, where Bucky was, seemingly waiting for you.

Your attention was now focused on tidying up your clothes, fixing your pants as well as patting them free of dust, adjusting the sleeves of your blazers, and pulling up the neckline of the inner blouse you wore. You grew conscious when you realized that Bucky was watching, his jaw unusually tightened. He’d probably reprimand you for wearing clothing that slightly showed the top of your chest, but you didn’t care for that, not right now at least.

“It’s unsafe for you to walk at this time.” He stated the obvious as his eyebrow slightly raised, looking down on you.

You were slightly thankful that the usual pencil skirt you had always worn was in the washer today, or else you’d have a hard time battling off countless catcallers in the street around your area.

You pulled out your phone from one of the pockets in your pants. “I’m just gonna call an uber.” You shrugged, opening the app as Bucky watched your thumbs hovering the device.

“I doubt you’ll find someone who accepts that, they’re all probably snoring by now.” He retaliated.

You only gave a hum in response, too tired to think of a witty retort anymore, your soles were hurting from the inches your shoes had. Your eyes were heavy and you were seriously considering sleeping in this office right now, just slouched in your chair.

“I could give you a ride.”

You immediately looked up from your screen, eyes slightly widened in his offer. Bucky, giving you a ride, in the backseat of his motorcycle? It definitely seemed like a good way to end your life. You thought about it, he’d look insanely mouth watering maneuvering the bike that was as big as him. Your hands wrapped around his waist, feeling his abs and you pressed against Bucky’s back.

You couldn’t, you shook your head in a panicked manner.

“It’s fine, I can wait.“ You gave him a reassured smile. The universe was giving you the opportunity of a lifetime to finally bag Bucky Barnes, but you had no other choice but to reject the notion— you needed this job badly, enough pay to buy you a few guilty pleasures, and the privilege to fawn over your boss everyday.

“And if there are no available drivers nearby?” He questioned you. Bucky’s face was covered in the expression of sarcasm, he certainly thought it was unsafe for a woman to go home this late— and it was his fault, he felt accountable. The least he could do was to safely bring you home.

You, on the other hand, were completely against this. Even if it was in your wildest dreams, it was unprofessional. The scenario to ride with him (or ride him) was straight out of your dirty fantasies, but not under these circumstances where one of you could be put at risk— worst case scenario, the both of you will.

“I’ll just walk then.” You squint your eyes at the tone of sass in his remark, slightly amused. He scoffed at your reaction, not pleased by your response.

“Please,” He ultimately sighed in defeat. “Just accept my offer.” Bucky looked at you with determination swirling his iris.

“I’m sure someone’s gonna accept me.” But you did not budge, not even in the slightest. Maybe just a little, but you were still in the right mind to say no. “Please go ahead, don’t wait for me.” You gave Bucky a comforting grin once more, taking note of the fact that he had a meeting first thing in the morning, he couldn’t afford to be late.

The super soldier stared at you for a moment, his usual thing to do whenever debating something in his head— or when zoning out. His gaze pierced yours, thinking if it’s really okay, or if you were just too annoyed to even face him right now.

But he didn’t like to push people just to get what he wanted (sometimes), he tried to convince himself that you were capable of defending yourself outside, under the light of the moon. Albeit you were a skilled assistant, seemingly efficient in every task that Bucky can throw at you.

Organizing his schedule? Check.

Managing his appointments? Check.

Handle communicating with the press? Excellent.

And being absolutely hard headed right now? You were valedictorian, flying with all the colors in the rainbow.

But he couldn’t exactly say the same for your brilliance in the streets. The two of you weren’t that personally close yet for him to know— although sometimes, he wanted to. He can’t risk the life of his precious assistant, or his work will be very disastrous and chaotic, that’s all there really is to.

“Fine,” He raised his hands up, seemingly signifying that he surrenders. “I’ll go.”

You only gave him a grin in response, you weren’t even sure yourself if you’d be able to get an uber— but you didn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of your boss when you'd decide to just sleep in his office instead. Meanwhile, Bucky only gave you a look of suspicion before walking to his desk, which was adjacent to yours, picking up his bag and a few paperworks in his arm, his footsteps led him to the door again, where you were.

“I will see you tomorrow, Mr. Barnes.” You politely greeted him goodbye; like you always would on any other day, the only difference this time was that it was nearing midnight— and the two of you were the only ones left in this building.

Bucky muttered something underneath his breath, you didn’t catch it, it was more of a grumble rather than a word that’s actually coherent. He gave you his usual, charming smile, before opening the door and closing it behind his back— footsteps getting fainter by the second.

It had been over an hour since you uttered that phrase to your boss, a literal hour of hoping someone would accept you.

You groaned in frustration, standing from Bucky’s comfortable swivel office chair, then sitting back down again in hopelessness. You were beginning to think that you should have just accepted his offer, not chicken out like you always did.

But no, you were left alone to deal with the consequences of your stupid decisions.

You were left with no other choice but to walk home, maybe ride in a cab if you’ll have the chance to find one. But it was almost midnight, you didn’t like to get your hopes up anymore. It felt foolish to even have a sliver of faith that you were going to get sleep tonight. You sighed, stood up from the seat, meticulously arranged Bucky’s desk before you left, and picked up your things that were sprawled in your own desk, after you had just organized them a few moments ago.

Closing the glass door on your way out, you prepared yourself for whatever obstacle there may be outside the streets, you hoped there were none— although that’s statistically impossible, you assumed. Your shoes hitting the ground was the only noise that echoed throughout the floor, your eyes darting from left and right to observe the closed lights, except for the one by the elevator.

It was eerily quiet, but you had that coming, leaving the office a few minutes after the clock hit midnight. You really didn’t have a choice— a curtain congressman with a vibranium arm left you with this predicament, then you made yourself suffer more. It was an unfortunate situation, but you’d accept any mode of transportation now, as long as you still have time to rest to prepare for tomorrow— which was actually just a few hours later.

You walked to the nearest elevator, which was fortunately just a slight left to where Bucky’s office was. Letting out a small yawn, you reached for the down button beside it, pressing it gently. Your mind started to wonder about him, like clockwork.

It was hard to not like him— Bucky was the perfect guy you could bring home to meet your parents because of his gentlemanly nature. But the contrast of that to his physical attributes always made you wonder… if he were also a gentleman in other places.

It wasn’t even just that, or the fact that he’s a decorated veteran— his upstanding morals made him even hotter.

The world had been familiar with the controversy of him in politics, his past, and if he was even worthy of being one. But come on now, Bucky’s probably more qualified than half of the people in the government right now— his virtues and principles alone.

His thought process on hiring you was even more baffling, you didn’t go on any interviews or even met him before you got hired for the job. You simply sent a resume, a short message explaining your interest to take the position, and sent it to his email— which you weren’t even sure was his. You found it through a shady hiring website in the last page.

It didn’t even have any information about the tasks you would need to do, the qualifications and requirements needed, or what you would be exactly assisting for. A few hours after you sent your application, he had replied; a short message expressing that you are hired, with the address of his office at the bottom of the email. Sent at 3:07 AM.

He really needed an assistant.

The first thing you had asked Bucky when you went to his office— which was coincidentally in Washington, DC as well, the House of Representatives, to be exact. The question that slipped from your tongue was— what was exactly your basis in hiring me?

“You were the only one who actually sent a resume— not a weird picture or a love letter.” He replied, curtly.

Since then, you practically took every interaction like he was head over heels for you as well. The brushing of fingers whenever you’d hand out a document, or when you would catch him looking at you through your peripheral vision in your desk. And the offer he made a while ago, to give you a ride in his motorcycle. This was bad, you needed to have an actual social life before you get fully delusional over your boss, as if you weren’t already.

You shook your head violently as the doors to the elevator opened with a ding, you entered the oddly spacious machine with utmost caution. Your left finger pressed the button that will lead you to the basement. The lobby was closed now, you could be actually stuck there the whole night.

“I need coffee.” You thought to yourself, before the elevator opened its doors to welcome you in the dark basement parking of the building. Even though it was dimly lit, you could still clearly see the rusty exit door. It was on the opposite end of the elevator, a bit far because of the massive size of the parking lots, which looked odd when it wasn’t full of vehicles in different sizes and colors.

You gripped your bag tighter, and started walking in a frigid manner away from the elevator, which quickly closed when it felt your presence leave its space. There was an aura of discomfort in the fact that you were the only person here left, in this creepy place— where no one could probably hear if you let out a scream. It was probably from the true crime shows you had been binge watching for you to grow paranoid.

The moment you’ll get out of this building, was the last moment of this happening ever again. You should’ve never waited for him, but it was your responsibility. Your pace started to grow quicker, heels getting louder by how fast you were walking. The last thing you needed was a serial killer suddenly running around all loose.

“I take it that you’re walking home.”

“Fuck!”

Your body jumped in surprise, mostly fear. Because you thought you were going to get killed— worse sliced alive or shot by someone who craved vengeance. You felt a presence looming beside you, as Bucky Barnes came out in the shadow, arms crossed, eyes immediately met yours. His usual suit and tie was replaced with a leather jacket now, which also did not help in the fact that he goes to the gym everyday, absolutely ripped inside. You tried your best not to imagine what’s under, tried.

“Why are you still here?” You exclaimed, a dread of annoyance coated every syllable of your question as you turned to him. If you were frustrated at him then, you were infuriated now. Bucky shrugged nonchalantly, walking towards you.

“Wanted to see how long you’d take up on my offer.” He gave you a teasing grin. “I was about to leave, but I heard the elevator.” Your eyebrows furrowed at his statement, probably his enhanced senses working their magic again, you didn’t question it.

“You waited for me?” Your eyes slightly softened, as you let out a breath of relief from the scare he unintentionally made a few seconds ago.

“It’s my fault you’re here at this hour.” Bucky was only a few inches away from you, the conversation echoing loud in the basement where only the two of you could hear.

“I told you, it’s fine.” You sighed. “Plus, you can’t scare people around like that! Lurking in the shadows like a madman.” Your hand went to your chest, signifying that Bucky scared the shit out of you. He gave a small chuckle in return, he definitely did not feel guilty— he was more amused.

“Let me take you home.” He said, casually. Like it was a normal occurrence for bosses and their assistants to drop them down at their apartments, maybe give them a kiss goodnight if the mood was right. He walked away again, but looked back, urging you to follow his direction. And you did, with hesitation that also dripped in nervousness. As you come into eye contact with his Harley Davidson.

You thought about it. There was no uber accepting your ride— it was a death sentence to hail a cab at this hour, and your eyes were far too tired to even walk now. Your only option was either crawl all the way home, or accept his offer.

Giving out a small sigh of defeat, you gave in.

“Just this once.” You let out a small gulp, hands consciously fixing the attire you wore again. Bucky smiled at you, in a rather boyish manner— you hadn’t seen it before, it was laidback and all the synonyms for cool. You wished he expressed that side more often, just out of working hours, you supposed.

Bucky was also tired, it was quite obvious. You noticed the way his vibranium arm dragged the way he walked and the small heaves of sigh he made. But something felt different about him, curiosity started to get the best of you. Despite the calm way of his hands patting where you’d sit on his black-on-black motorcycle, the coolness of his voice, his eyes looked like they were fighting with himself.

Like he was waiting for a trigger to break free from his spell, reliant on one single word that could make him think or take an action freely. You bit your lip unknowingly, affected by the sight of him.

“Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost.” Bucky looked at you, eyes blinking in confusion when he realized you were dazed out when he had asked which street you live in— all he knew was that you were from around here.

“Yeah, you scared me. I thought you were a serial killer.” You scoffed at his remark, crossing your arms in a defensive manner.

You immediately realized what you had just said, covering your mouth quickly. Bucky only raised his eyebrow at you, as his vibranium arm rested on the motorcycle seat, the other flesh on his waist. His eyes had a glint of mischief around them, looking you up and down as he gave out a dry chuckle.

Your cheeks immediately heated up in embarrassment. “I mean, I thought I was alone. Thinking that nobody could—“

“Hear you scream?” He tilted his head sideways, giving you a teasing grin. You nodded in return, somehow, you didn’t know what to say next. Besides the growing tension between you and Bucky as your legs tightened on instinct when he grew closer.

He stopped just when your bodies are only centimeters from touching, one small move and you’d immediately feel his chest.

“Wanna test it?” He added, in a voice lower than it usually was, drawing out every word for you to thoroughly comprehend. Your mouth opened slightly, you couldn’t tell whether a moan or a reply wanted to come out. But you were left speechless, the familiar sensation between your legs tingling once more.

“What— What do you mean?” Those were the only coherent words that managed to come out of your mouth.

“You know what I mean.” Bucky replied, almost immediately.

Bucky was playing a dangerous game, and you were scared to even gamble. You couldn’t risk losing your job— or him being heavily criticized by the public for being with his assistant. Too many factors that were all needed to be considered, but your self-control was running low, tempted by his offer.

“This is highly unprofessional, Mr. Barnes.” You whispered, voice even shaking in nervousness. You clutched your bag hard, knuckles almost turning white.

“There ‘ya go again, with that unprofessional shit.” He gave you a response filled with sarcasm, you would think it’s venomous.

“Like I don’t smell your arousal every single time we’re in that office together.” Your eyes widened once more at his sudden confession, you were embarrassed to the brim. He could smell that? His jaw was tightened, like it was back at his office when you were fixing your blouse haphazardly.

The tables were turned as the attention of the night was now on Bucky Barnes’ admission. He immediately sighed, like he did not mean to let the words slip from his tongue. But he had grown increasingly tired of his pretty little assistant being a tease every single day, even if you meant to be one or not. It affected him far worse than the way it took a toll on you— he was just more skilled at hiding it.

But today was his last straw, Bucky’s last defense of self-control was immediately shattered when you walked in the office in the morning. Opening the door with such confidence, immediately handing out to him his planned schedule for the day like you always did, in a methodical manner. He liked that about you, precision and keen attention to detail.

Bucky let out a small groan when you leaned down to explain his itinerary, who he will be meeting, what he needed to say in front of the press, and always asking him which food he wants for lunch, so you could buy it. He usually says nothing— it was weird, having you buy lunch for him, how ungentlemanly if it was normal even.

Your perfume was the only thing that filled his sense of smell, eyes gazing at the delectable view in front of him— the off-white blouse that you wore revealed a little too much of your cleavage that when your hands were rested in his table, body just inches away from him at the seat. His eyes savored in the top of your breasts peeking out, and you were blissfully unaware of such things, still ranting on something he couldn’t even comprehend now.

He tried to think of anything else, he turned his gaze to your face— which only made things worse. Your eyes focused on the second event of the morning, the hearing of Valentina Allegra De Fontaine and her organization. But fuck her and fuck everyone but you, he couldn’t care about anything right now. Your eyes were slightly furrowed in a manner that made you adorably tempting, and lips painted with a tinge of redness and shine from lip gloss.

All Bucky could think about was standing up, putting his hands against both sides of your waist, and removing the black pants you adorned. He thought about making the table shake violently that all his paperwork would be on the floor. Hips thrusting against your ass while balls deep inside your pretty pussy.

In the shitty dimmed light of the basement floor, a thick air of silence filled the space between the two of you. Your head was starting to get dizzy due to nervousness, you wanted to fight back. God knows how much you’ve spent the nights imagining him working you up like what he’s doing right now— but now that it was actually happening? You were scared. Terrified of the consequences that might happen after this.

“Sir Barnes—“

“Don’t call me that.” He cut you off quickly.

“I apologize for letting my feelings get in the way.” You muttered a shaky apology under your breath, looking down on the ground in shame and embarrassment when you realized you were not being sleek with your infatuation— Bucky had known along. And you should have known as well, he wasn’t exactly just a congressman, hundreds of notable things he had done were under his belt. Of course, he would’ve sensed your ogling from a mile away.

“Sweetheart, I get hard every time you call me Mr. fucking Barnes. The last thing you need to do is apologize.” He chuckled sarcastically, putting his vibranium arm against your waist. “I’ll stop if you say so— but don’t pretend like you’re not wanting this.” He added, putting his fleshed index finger to your chin, and pulled you closer to his body.

That action rendered you speechless— but you couldn’t even really think of anything to begin with, just him, his hair, his hands, everything that he ever was. His hands swayed dangerously lower, moving to your back and right above your tailbone, like he had to stop himself from grabbing your ass.

If the nonexistent space between the two of you wasn’t enough, Bucky persisted and pushed your hips to make you feel the clothed hardness that had formed in his pants. Your breath hitched, trying your best to stifle the moan that was threatening to roll out of your tongue when he grinded just enough for your clit to feel, despite the layers of fabric against it.

“This is dangerous, sir.” You managed to garner a reply. “You could lose your job— or mine, even both if this ends up in the headlines.” Your hands creeped up his chest, a last offer of defense, that’s what you convinced yourself.

“I’ll make sure nothing comes out.” He gave you a look of reassurance, and you swooned right into it. You knew you were in capable hands, a highly capable man that is as intelligent as he is hot. Bucky kept promises, never letting a word fall under his grasp. He could be trusted with it, and it was not making your case any easier.

“But you’ll have to fire me, this is against the code of conduct.”

“Keep being this uptight, baby. You’re gonna make me cum in seconds.” He let out an almost pained groan in response, hands still not leaving your hips as the other went their way from your chin to caress your cheeks. Fingers just softly rubbing against, as if he was scared to break you.

Bucky looked at you fervently, his eyes were desperate to meet yours, eyebrows slightly furrowing in anticipation of your words. He would’ve been fine with anything, you could say no— he would gladly pretend to forget that any of this has ever happened, even give you a raise for the inconvenience.

Or you could bite back, just give in. One nod, a hushed word of approval, any form of recognition that you wanted this too, and he’ll be the one to take care of the rest. Nevermind the bigger problem he had in between his legs, he was a gentleman— but only the heavens knew how much he had been controlling himself for the past eight hours or so. He couldn’t care to count the minutes anymore.

One word, just one.

He had been through hell and back his whole life, for a whole century even. He had repented his actions— mistakes and failures that he did not even do, but he still made up for it, for everything. But all Bucky had ever wanted right now, what he pleaded to the gods, was to be given a chance to savor a taste of your lips.

“You’re making this harder for me.” You gave out a small chuckle, the bag on your shoulder was suddenly a lot heavier than it was. You couldn’t pinpoint if it was excitement or nervousness in your veins, maybe both— you couldn’t think ahead anymore.

So fuck it, right?

You let out an inhale of courage in the form of air as your lips went straight crashing with his— in an impatient manner that even made Bucky’s knees slightly weak at the collision. He let out a whine of satisfaction when you pressed in deeper to the kiss, mouth slightly opening more when his tongue licked your lips— a beg to let him do more.

Now both of Bucky’s hands were on your waist when he gripped it harder, and pulled your back against the motorcycle, slightly wincing at the contact of cold metal. Your left arm rested on the cushion of the seat as your right fingers dangled in the strands of his hair, never once did you let the kiss separate. Not even for a brief moment, even if you needed to gasp for air.

Because you weren’t going to deny this moment when Bucky’s tongue was working wonders to explore every inch of your mouth, fingers that were once on your waist were now working their way up to your stomach, mere inches away from your breasts. He separated from your lips and locked eyes with you once more.

“Can I?” He asked for permission. “Please, baby.” Bucky added, and you weren’t sure to which part of your body he was pleading to, but you nodded hazily— you couldn’t wait any more longer. But you quickly realized what he meant to do when he started to remove the bag that was decorated on your arm and safely hung it on the windshield of his bike, you wondered if its strength could hold on the files that were in your bag.

The lust-ridden congressman then slowly took off the blazers that you perfectly wore, his hands worked their way on your shoulders. His eyes were shifting from your orbs to your chest— you gave him a small smile of amusement.

“You gonna wait ‘til sunrise just to get me off of my shirt, sir?” Your eyes crinkled playfully. On the other hand, your boss was not amused. He wanted— no, needed to ravish you already. He couldn’t wait as well.

So, in the poor ventilation of the basement, only the echoes of your moans were heard, and its light reflected the absolute want in your face, to which Bucky only had the privilege to drink in the view. You were a goddess to his eyes, and he was nothing but a measly worshipper.

“Great idea. Let’s fuck here until sunset.”

He gave you a coy smile, before his lips met contact with your neck, prompting little pecks of kisses as he went lower while simultaneously undoing the buttons of the blouse that had made his already struggling morning even worse. He looked up, lips still adorned to your collarbone with furrowed eyebrows, hair slightly covering the sides of his face, and the look of utter desperation.

You shuddered, what a sight to behold. You tried to etch this memory onto your mind before you could even forget the next second.

The soldier only finished half of the buttons before spreading apart the blouse to reveal the lace bra you wore underneath.

“Just for me?” He gave you a boyish smirk, fingers rubbing your nipples against the cloth as you let out a breath of his name like an earnest prayer. In return, your hands rested on his shoulders for support, left leg slightly hiking up to grind against his. You were desperate for friction, to the point of being pathetic, but you did not care.

“Maybe.”

“I’m gonna need a better answer than that, sweetheart.”

In a dazed manner, you recaptured Bucky’s lips, a little too rough and impatient, even for your own liking. You felt his touch caress the skin of your back, and in a smooth manner, he unclasped your bra easily. A shot of jealousy went down your throat, wondering how many bras he had removed just for him to undo yours with utmost ease. But they weren’t the one in your position right now, at least not anymore.

Your boss did not even bother to fully remove the articles of clothing, he just pulled the blouse down at your waist, and put your upper undergarment to hang beside your bag, careful not to let it fall down the ground. His darkened eyes reveled in the sight your bare chest, mouth agape, and you could feel the way his cock twitched between your legs.

“Fuck, you’re divine.” He let out a breathless moan, immediately cupping your left boob with his vibranium laced fingers, index fingers rubbing your nipples when his tongue lapped on the other, making sure it wasn’t left out. “God, you don’t know how many times I’ve imagined this.” He muttered in between breaths.

“Bucky,” You gave out a whine, knees slightly trembling and nails gripping for support in the sturdy bike pressed against your back as he lazily gave a long lick on your right nipple before rubbing it once more. The long nights if fantasizing about fucking your boss were now starting to become reality when his hands snaked their way to caress your thigh that was wrapped against his hips.

“More, I want more.” You confessed, in a soft whisper, afraid that everything would end in a second should your voice be higher than a decibel.

You gazed upon his face, wrecked with nothing but the need to be further, to know your skin more— to unravel your body completely. Bucky quickly obliged, like the good man he was, he couldn’t restrict you from your needs when he was also under the same predicament of losing control.

He only gave you a smirk, before dropping dead to his knees in the cemented and uneven floor of the basement, with white marking lines decorating where he knelt. His black pants were starting to look the color of ash, but he did not seem to mind, not at all. How could he? You were the only thing to ever cross his mind at this very moment. His eyes dead set on yours, still with the same lust adorned dust hovering, but with intensity a depth lower.

Your heart skipped two or three beats in recognition.

“My pretty assistant wants more?” Bucky’s fingers were on a mission, he did not waste time to remove the button in your pants, revealing a matching set of underwear as your bra. You couldn’t quite figure out if this was your lucky day or his, either way, you thanked the laundry gods that your clothes managed to dry on time.

“I’ll give you more.” He added, voice deeper than it usually was. He started to unravel what was beneath the last piece of clothing you had, and the black trousers you once wore were pooled down your feet, to where he was— in full devotion and worship.

“Oh, matching sets. Did you plan all these, baby? Get me to lose control so I can fuck you on my motorcycle?” He taunted, snapping the waistband of your panties.

“Coincidence.” You feigned innocence, terribly. Like Bucky wasn’t smirking in front of your clothed, sopping cunt. He was caressing your thighs, dangerously going higher, as if to test you. “But if you like it that much, I’ll let you live on your little fantasy.”

“Coincidence, huh?” He tilted his head, eyebrows slightly raised at your sarcastic comment. Bucky slightly spread your legs apart, hiking up your left thigh to his shoulders, to which you immediately shuddered in excitement when he brushed against your clit. The counter of your black heels drilled against his back, he didn’t seem to mind.

“You’re soaking for me, sweetheart. Is that a coincidence too?” The congressman did not even give you time to reply nor react when he strided a long, slow lick to your pussy, never breaking eye contact with you. He sure did love to stare— a little too much sometimes. But you were unphased, turned on was more of an accurate term. You moaned, embarrassingly loud for it to echo the white walls of the basement.

“Fuck,” You exclaimed, lost in the pleasure when he rubbed your clit with his cold fingers. The warm ones were pushing aside your panties like it had a personal vendetta against him, not even bothering to remove them as he stuffed your entrance with his long and thick digits.

“I’m getting there.” He sarcastically responded, growing closer between your legs because his fingers weren’t enough, he needed to taste you as well. Starved was an understatement— how could he have gone on decades of famine and not having the luxury of eating you out? He sucked hard, tongue memorizing the feast bestowed upon him, lapping on your wetness with an unquenchable thirst.

In response, you let out a dragged and broken moan. “Bucky,” You muttered his name like a perfectly tuned melody, he grunted in response.

Congressman James Bucky Barnes on his knees, eating out his young assistant in the parking lot of the House of Representatives. It would be an eye-catching headline to see on the news articles, TikTok for you pages, and newspaper stands.

Your boss added one more finger, and quickened the pace— the rubbing of your clit, fingers in and out, and his fucking skilled tongue circling around it all.

If you weren’t too deep in pleasure, lost in ecstasy you were sure no drug was going to compare to the feeling of high. Then, you would have noticed him spelling his own name with it— like a cast of spell to guard what was his.

You were done for, and you did not even mind.

“So fucking sweet. I—I need you so bad, shiiit.”

You were also certain that Bucky was done for, he groaned when your legs started to shake lightly, pre-cum decorated his tip that leaked from his pants as the consequence of punishing himself by not stuffing you full of his dick earlier.

“I’m gonna…” With eyes closed and lower lip bitten, you couldn’t even finish your words without making lewd noises of satisfaction because of the soldier’s relentless pace.

You felt like exploding, in the best way possible. Just a tinge closer to coming undone, you were already in the route going there.

“That’s right.” His mouth was agape when he looked up, seeing you in the same level of need that he was in. “Be a good girl and come on my tongue, baby.”

That’s all it took for you to release on his fingers, tongue, and everywhere that he was— even spilling enough that it coated his salt and pepper stubble. His lips were glossed all over with your liquids. You looked away in embarrassment. But he looked like it was the most delicious meal he’d ever eaten in a hundred years. He slowly removed his digits that were once inside you. Agonizingly slow.

Blue eyes blown away and the sides of his mouth twitched to what seemed like a smile— or just a smirk. You thought it was done, that it’s goodbye now. And he’d be dropping you off your apartment for real this time.

In a rush, you pulled the blouse that was scrunched on your waist to wear it properly again trying to button up what you could button in this drunken state of mind, even forgetting about the bra that hung in front of Bucky’s bike.

But he did not budge there, just watched you with keen eyes as his grip firm on the side of your hiked up thigh, liking the way your heels felt against his back. He was full on smirking, amused by your actions— his flustered assistant that was once calling out his name in the dirtiest way possible. You tried to lean down to take your pair of pants when Bucky stopped your arms.

He wasn’t just going to let you go that easily.

“Nah, we ain’t fucking done, sweetheart.”

Your eyes unknowingly went down to the bulging view in his pants, his cock was rock hard— no amount of jerking off to interactions with you could suffice it, not when he already had the taste of it. Bucky stood up and faced you, eyes pleased at the sight of you in nothing but your off-white blouse and black heels.

He did not even care what time it was right now, how many hours left before a day filled with endless— pointless meetings will start. He needed to be balls deep inside of you.

“Sit in front.”

He gestured to the seat of his big, black bike, where you were leaning against, in the receiving end of his lust. You looked at him, confusion brimming your face to its highest setting. You weren’t even wearing any pants yet, and now he wants to leave? After he gave you quite possibly the best orgasm you ever had in your entire life.

“What?”

You looked at him like he was a madman. He probably was, you thought that you were too. Was this just the dizziness that stemmed from fatigue because you needed sleep, or was he actually commanding you to sit in the front seat of his motorcycle? He grew closer, you thought it was even impossible for him to be, both of his thumbs ran circles on the sides of your waist.

He squinted and tilted his head playfully— seductively, even.

“Thought you needed a ride?”

Oh.

And fuck, that got you worked up all over again.

You wasted no time, turned to the side and carefully went up his motorcycle as the congressman’s hands were on your back for support— albeit lower than it should have been. Your heels trembled to climb in the foot rest as your right leg separated to get on the other side, you quickly held onto the throttle for a sense of stability.

You could feel your wetness stain against the leather of the seat, in a desperate effort to feel his warmth again, you grinded slowly, mouth opening up to release a soft noise.

“Couldn’t wait for my cock, baby?” He gave a low chuckle, the one that vibrated off his chest in amusement. He followed, and in a swift motion, he hopped to sit close behind you, close enough to feel him practically radiating your back.

“Need you so bad, Bucky.” You turned your head back to him, where he was fumbling to take his dick out of the confinement of his pants. He frantically pulled down the zipper, and slightly pushed down the clothing to reveal the v-line of his lower abdomen, and slowly took out the tip just for you to see how red and hard it had been from eating you out.

“I need you just as bad, sweetheart.” He let out a small groan, pulling it out altogether, pumping up and down using his vibranium digits to relieve the pain he accumulated from months of holding back, pre-cum leaking as he swirled it all around the tip. The other arm was on the very end of the motorcycle seat, so he could have support. Bucky’s eyes were half-lidded, face contorted in pleasure.

You swore you moaned at the sight.

“Are you gonna help me out?” He had a smug grin on his face when he finally opened his eyes fully to see you watching the scene unfold.

“God, yes.”

Bucky grabbed you by the waist and pulled your hips closer to his, you could feel his length twitch against your back as he carefully pushed your stomach down lower, urging you to keep your hands on the throttle as he arched your back in the seat. His hands were on your ass now, drawing near to your glistening cunt.

“You want me this much, sweetheart? Want me to fill you up?” He muttered, breathing near your ear as you can only let out a weak whine in response, softly nodding. From the position alone, you were sure you could cum by then. Not only did you get the chance to be railed by the hottest member of the representative, he was going to rail you completely on his motorcycle. Like it was straight out of a porno, you never realized he had this kink— and you were starting to think that you had it too.

He teased the tip of his aching cock to your wet folds, he didn’t do anything yet, just rubbing it in between, using your wetness as a form of lube— you reckoned it was enough for him to easily push it in, but he wasn’t going to do that just yet. He wanted to savor the moment. You in front of his bike, ass hiked up and pussy just devastatingly ready to swallow him whole.

“Fuck.” He let out a sigh, tucking his strands back that stuck to his forehead from the sweat— because the parking lot had shitty ventilation, like all of them do. “I was so fucking close to bending you over my desk. But this— this is so much better.” He winked at you through the side-view mirror.

“Oh my god, Barnes. Just put it in.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He drew a low chuckle.

Like you had been waiting for an eternity for this to happen— your grandeur visions of delusion finally crawling out from the grave and coming to life to give you a kiss on the cheek and say that it wasn’t actually just your imagination— that Bucky felt the same way as you did about him.

You slightly raised your hips to take him in, wetness dripped down from the seat as he slowly pushed his cock inside. It was hurting— he was too big, too thick, but you took pleasure from the pain. Too eager to take him in, to be deep inside you. Reaching places where your fingers could not comprehend to even go. Meanwhile, the congressman’s eyes were focused on you from the mirror, groaning at how easy he slipped in, and how perfectly his cock fit— like a glove.

“So fucking— tight for me.” Bucky caressed your back, he noticed you struggled from the pain evident in your face as he paused for a brief moment. Waiting for your signal to move. “You’re taking me in so well. So good.”

“Bucky,” You breathed out his name like it was the only word you ever knew. Glancing at him as you slowly grind your hips in a circular motion to test it out. Testing out the ride that you needed to go home. And there, you started to bounce like your life depended on it, taking him in— inch by fucking inch.

You were riding Bucky’s dick on his motorcycle, a line straight out of the fantasies you once touched yourself to.

The sergeant— who was too preoccupied at watching you grind up and down, mouth agape at how his cock glistened by your wetness,

disappearing completely when you went down. His hands travelled to your stomach as he pushed your back against his chest, ripping off the buttons of your blouse to cup your breasts— caressing your nipples along the way.

“Look at you, like a fucking slut on my dick.” Just when you thought it could not get more pleasurable, his digits went to rub your clit in a fast-paced manner, your legs trembling in absolute pleasure.

“Fuck, oh.” You were too lost, drowning in the feel of Bucky’s length as he thrusted upward when you pushed down— the action hitting your g-spot, straight to the core, you swore you felt him through your stomach. “Bucky, oh my god.”

Bucky was close to cumming— embarrassingly close. But you were too good, too sweet for him, and pussy taking him in so well he was sure that it was made for him, just him. He gave out a guttural groan, squeezing your breast as he thrusted even faster, matching the timing of your hips. The motorcycle shaked, struggling to keep up with the momentum.

He did not care anymore whether or not this violates whatever rules there was— the code of conduct. All he needed right now was your pussy.

“B—Bucky, please come inside me.”

Who was he to deny your request?

“Shit.” He whispered, just loud enough for you to hear. He quickened his pace, arched your back once more so Bucky could see how it’ll look like to shoot his load inside yours, how his cum will drip down your pussy. You grew conscious of his view and he was smart enough to realize.

“Yeah, baby. I’m gonna cum inside your pretty pussy.” He licked his lips, nearing his release. “Gonna fill you up with my cum.” For a man whose age is a hundred-something, he sure did love to get down and talk filth. Not that you minded, it was hot— he was hot all over.

You were the first to come, thighs shaking and slowing down your motion at the release as it pooled down the ruined motorcycle seat and made a mess on Bucky’s dick. You saw the stars when you rolled your eyes back— hard enough to even see the sunrise preparing to get up a few hours later.

He groaned, shortly following after, thrusting even deeper inside of you, filling your cunt to the brim as he ejaculated. The spurts of cum dripped down the side when he separated from you, fingers entering your folds to put it back in. You hummed in response, body too weak to move. Bucky was pleased, and wasted no time to pick up the pants you left on the floor.

He dressed you up, quite gently, as opposed to railing you hard just a few minutes before. You loved the contrast, but he was— and always had been a gentleman. You stood up to switch places with him, you were getting your real ride home. Covering your blouse, which was missing a few buttons with your blazer.

You gave him a small smirk.

“So, does this mean I’m fired?” You chuckled.

Well, you definitely needed to call in sick for today, not because you were battling a life threatening fever. Calling in sick because your legs were wobbly and cunt fucked to the brim by your boss, who looked at you like you were the only precious thing in the world. It wasn’t fair that your chest tightened immediately.

Bucky gave a hearty laughter— one that was rare to see from him. You must have saved an entire village, or you could’ve been an avenger in your different life to witness it.

“Nah, baby. You’re getting a raise.”

© barnesandashes, 2025.

[pyresrpgear]

Ok, these are all good resources to have. And yes the Bastards Bullshit Bill did pass and it is going to make things worse.

But according to people I follow who make a living reading all the shit the government tries to do things are not as immediately horrific as it seems.

Yes those cuts to vital programs are in there but the people who wrote it are playing politics like they always do.

Most of the worst cuts are structured in such a way as to try to fuck over the very likely incoming democratic majority and president (assuming a legal election takes place in 2028).

Most of those horrific cuts to things like medicaid and SNAP and all the other things republiscum have been chipping away at for my entire life, don’t kick in until sometime in 2028/29.

They did this so once the cuts start and everything gets suddenly worse the same fucks who just voted for this bill can run to Faux News and any other disingenuous corporate “news” outlets that will bring them on to blatantly lie without being called out on it, clutch their pearls, and scream about “look at how bad the democrats have made your life! We are the only ones who can save you!”

Don’t forget this and 3 years from now don’t fall for it.

And look into the people running for office in the upcoming primaries and actually find out what they stand for. If the last almost two years of atrocities in Gaza (if not the last 5 and a half years of covid) should have taught this country anything it’s just being on the “right team” is fucking meaningless. Then fucking vote in the primaries at the very least. Get rid of all the co-conspirators and get people who are on the side of The People in there.

So anyway, yes check all those links and try to save yourself as much money as you can as often as you can. That is just good advice in general. But you are very unlikely to be kicked off your insurance in the next few weeks. Go talk to your providers of various services and find out firsthand and save yourself some stress.

Seeing as how the Big Beautiful Bill just passed, here's are some websites that offer discounts on medications:

- GoodRx

- SingleCare

- Pharmacy Checker

- WellRx - this one compares prices across different pharmacies

- Cost Plus - thanks to @thedamnqueenofhell for suggesting!

-NeedyMeds - a nonprofit that helps pay for prescriptions. Thank you to @allitdoesispause for the suggestion! They also suggested checking the manufacturers website for a paitent assistance program, which can give you a coupon for free or cheaper meds.

-Ask for a discount card - thank you to @cccshutdown for the reminder!

Stay safe, everyone. Things are about to get much, much worse in the US.

EDIT: if you're worried about doctor/therapy appointments, see if there's a sliding scale clinic near you (and ask your therapist if they offer sliding scale prices)

[flowergirl1243]

soft launch season - [part seven]

SUMMARY: when Lando Norris' notorious party boy reputation may be too far out of control to save, you step in to save his image (and maybe his heart).

PAIRING: lando norris x fem!reader

NOTE: This will be the final part of soft launch season! If you have any requests for other things you want me to write, please let me know!

part one part two part three part four part five part six part seven

ACT 7: HOLD ON FOREVER

The car is barely holding on.

His tyres are cooked. The rears are sliding on every turn. The delta’s flashing red on the dash, again. He can hear the gap shrinking behind him, sector by sector, the other car clawing closer like breath on his neck.

But he doesn’t panic.

Not now.

Not with one lap to go.

The radio clicks.

His engineer's voice rings loudly in his ear. “One more lap. Bring it home, mate.”

He doesn’t answer at first.

He blinks sweat from his eyes, rolls the steering just right through the corner, heart beating so loud it’s drowning out the engine.

Then, voice low, clipped: “She’s watching, yeah?”

A pause. Crackle.

His engineer responds. “Yeah. She’s here.”

That’s all he needs.

No more doubt. No more fear.

He exhales. Slow. Steady. Everything narrows, the track, the wheel, the moment.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ve got it.”

And he does.

Because suddenly it’s not about the pressure or the points or the guy in second gaining half a second through the chicane. It’s about her, standing somewhere in the crowd, probably frozen in place, probably holding her hands in front of her mouth like she always does when she’s scared.

He doesn’t have a photo of it. Doesn’t need one.

He knows.

Knows she’s watching him fly through this final lap like she can will the car across the line with sheer hope.

Knows she believes in him in a way he’s still learning to believe in himself.

And that…grounds him.

Gives him that last reserve of calm, of clarity, that he’d been scraping for the entire race.

So he drives.

God, he drives.

Final corners. Final straight.

The flag drops.

His name is called.

And suddenly, everything’s gone, weightless and electric and real. The team’s screaming in his ears, fireworks going off in his chest. He’s laughing and yelling and blinking hard behind the visor.

But none of it matters until he sees her.

Through the crowd. By the barrier.

Still frozen. Hands still over her mouth.

And she’s crying.

Or smiling.

Or both.

And he doesn’t think. Doesn’t breathe.

He just runs.

Helmet still in hand, suit half-zipped, legs already sore, lungs burning.

But he runs.

Because he said he had it.

And what he meant was: I’ve got you.

Liked by lando, mclaren and others ynusername he did it!!

user33 SHE'S BACK

user34 i'm sorry but she has to be some sort of lucky charm

lando only because you were here

The room is small. Not glamorous, not staged, just some tucked-away team space with a sofa and a half-empty water bottle on the floor. Someone left a radio on low, but it’s barely audible beneath the hum of the air conditioning.

They’ve shut the door behind them.

And for a second, neither of them says anything.

He’s still half in his race suit. Hair damp. Hands red from the gloves. He looks like adrenaline incarnate, wild around the eyes, exhausted down to the bone.

But she’s there. And that softens everything.

She’s sitting on the edge of the sofa, legs crossed, hands in her lap. Watching him like she’s still trying to believe this version of the day is real, the quiet, not the chaos.

He sinks down beside her. Doesn’t speak.

Just rests his elbows on his knees, head falling into his hands. Breathing hard. Coming down from all of it, lap by lap.

She reaches out. Fingers brushing lightly across his back. Not asking for anything. Just there.

He leans into her touch instinctively. Like gravity. Like a reflex.

“You alright?” she asks eventually, voice low. Gentle.

He turns toward her, eyes dark and tired and so full.

“I didn’t feel okay until I saw you,” he says.

It’s not poetic. Not polished.

But it’s true.

She nods, lips pressed together. Then reaches up and cups the side of his face, thumb brushing beneath his eye like she’s still checking if he’s real. If he’s here.

“You scared me,” she murmurs. "But I'm so proud."

“I scared myself,” he admits.

And then he exhales, long and slow, like her presence alone lets him let go.

He shifts closer. Pulls her legs across his lap. Wraps his arms around her waist and buries his face into her shoulder, letting himself just fold into her. No words. Just quiet.

Her fingers comb through his hair. Slow. Soothing.

Neither of them speaks for a while.

Not because there’s nothing to say, but because there’s nothing that needs to be said right now.

Just the weight of him against her. The warmth. The stillness.

Eventually, he mumbles something into her skin. Almost too low to hear.

“What?” she asks, brushing hair away from his forehead.

He pulls back just a little, enough to look her in the eyes.

“I love you,” he says, like it’s been sitting at the base of his throat since lights out. “I don’t know if I said that. I should’ve. I do.”

She blinks. Breath catches. But she doesn’t hesitate.

“I love you,” she says back, and he closes his eyes like that alone could carry him through the next race, and the one after that, and every hard thing still to come.

He kisses her then. Slow. Steady. Nothing frantic now — just real.

They stay tucked into that corner of the world, wrapped around each other, until someone knocks gently on the door.

But even then, he doesn’t let go.

The sun crept slowly into the room, soft golden light spilling across the tangled sheets and catching on the loose curls at the front of Lando’s hair. The window was cracked just enough to let in the quiet hum of Monaco waking, the distant birdsong, the gentle slap of waves, the city stretching into the morning.

Lando was still deep asleep, his face half-buried in the pillow, the other half resting against her shoulder. His breathing was slow and steady, the bare skin of his arm brushing against hers beneath the duvet.

She was awake first but didn’t dare move. Instead, she watched him, memorising the rise and fall of his chest, the subtle twitch of his fingers, like he was still chasing the perfect lap even in sleep.

His hand shifted beneath the covers, fingers searching, until they found hers. They intertwined slowly, his skin warm and steady against hers.

His voice was thick with sleep as he shifted, nuzzling closer, the soft scrape of his cheek brushing hers.

“Are you awake?” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.

“No,” he mumbled, eyes still closed, but his thumb started tracing lazy circles over the back of her hand.

She smiled, heart catching in her throat. “I know you are.”

“I can’t feel my arm,” he murmured after a pause, voice low and heavy, “but I’m not moving.”

Her fingers slid gently up his forearm, light and teasing. “You’re ridiculous.”

Slowly, his eyes opened, glassy and soft, and he reached up to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. His fingers lingered, thumb brushing her cheekbone like he was trying to memorize the way the morning caught her skin.

“I was worried you wouldn’t be impressed,” he admitted, voice quiet and vulnerable. “After everything…the distance, the silence. I wasn’t sure you’d still see me.”

Her hand rose, resting against the side of his face, palm warm and steady. “Impressed? I’m in love with you. Not just the wins or the races, you. This moment. This us.”

He leaned in, noses brushing, breath mingling. His fingers curled around her waist, pulling her just a little closer, until there was no space left between them.

“Feels like a dream,” he said softly.

“It’s real,” she promised, sliding her hand down to rest on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm.

He smiled against her lips. “Good. Because if it wasn’t, I don’t think I’d be brave enough to stay.”

He held her close, fingers threading through the soft fabric of her shirt, tracing gentle patterns along her back. She sighed, a soft, contented sound that made his chest tighten with something warm and urgent.

“Do you ever think about what comes next?” he asked quietly, his lips barely brushing her temple.

She tilted her head up, eyes meeting his. “All the time. But right now, I just want this. Us. Here.”

He smiled, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I used to think I needed to have it all figured out. But with you, it’s different. It’s enough just to be here.”

Her fingers curled around his hand, squeezing softly. “That’s how it should be.”

He leaned back just enough to look at her properly, tracing her jawline with the pad of his thumb. “I’m scared sometimes.”

She softened, resting her forehead against his. “Me too. But we don’t have to be perfect. We just have to be honest.”

His lips twitched into a small smile. “Honest sounds good.”

They stayed like that for a moment, just breathing each other in.

Then she whispered, “Promise me you won’t run away again.”

He tightened his hold around her. “I promise. Not now. Not ever.”

Her smile was sleepy but sure. “Good.”

He leaned in slowly, his eyes searching hers for any sign of hesitation. There was none, only a quiet invitation, warm and steady. Their breaths mingled softly in the still morning air, uneven and hopeful.

When their lips met, the kiss started gentle, like a tentative brush of a feather against skin. But almost immediately, it deepened, his lips pressing more firmly, lips parting slightly as if seeking hers. The softness gave way to a tender urgency, slow and deliberate, as if they were both discovering something they hadn’t dared to admit before.

His hand rose to cup the side of her face, fingers curling lightly along her jaw, thumb tracing a slow, intimate path over her cheekbone. The warmth of his touch sent a delicious shiver down her spine. She tightened her grip on his wrist, needing the grounding connection.

She leaned in closer, her body pressing fully against his, the heat of him seeping into her skin. The world around them, the golden sunlight, the distant sounds of Monaco waking, faded away until there was nothing but the softness of their lips, the mingling of breaths, and the steady, urgent beating of their hearts.

When they finally broke apart, it was slow, reluctant, as if neither wanted to be the first to leave that closeness. His forehead rested gently against hers, their breaths mingling in the quiet space between them. His eyes closed briefly, savouring the moment.

When they pulled apart, his forehead rested against hers. “Stay with me?”

“All day,” she said again, voice full of quiet certainty.

And in that warm morning light, wrapped in each other’s arms, they both knew some things were worth holding onto forever.

Liked by ynusername, oscarpiastri and others lando my forever home

user35 i am SICKENED. where is my lando norris?

user36 this has become a y/n fanpage atp

user37 if you had shown this post to me six months ago, i would not have believed you

Well, my lovelies, all good things, unfortunately must come to an end. Hopefully, I can spawn something new out of my brain soon! In the meantime, don't be shy to let me know what you want to see from me! I love you all, and I appreciate you so much!! taglist

@sol3chu, @charlesgirl16, @motorsp0rt, @imdyinghelpplease, @vampgege, @angeltroian, @ceekokocee15, @esw1012, @charlottes-ngvot, @janonymus0, @gigigreens, @hymntostars, @imagine-it-was-us, @meahel13, @milkiane, @hi26loveie, @freyathehuntress, @stylesmoonlight12, @drewlover43, @martygraciesversion381, @leclercdream, @leviathan0000

[edamameiyok]

ikaw at ako (sophia laforteza x reader)

"'Di ko alam ang gagawin kung mawala ka buhay ko'y may kahulugan tuwing ako'y iyong hagkan."

(i don't know what to do if i lose you. my life has meaning every time you kiss me.)

synopsis: sophia, ever since she met you, always vowed to protect you at all costs. when a mysterious illness begins to plague your entire life, she does everything she can to support you no matter what. however, what if you're already too late to save? tags: heavy angst, hanahaki!au, college!au an: this is not a REAL portrayal of the people mentioned in this fic. all events are fictional and are for entertainment purposes only. CW: major character death. reader has a medical condition. mention of blood. swearing. kissing. wc: 6.7k

⏯ now playing: ikaw at ako - johnoy danao

“When it’s your first turn in chess, you have either the choice to move your pawn one space forward,” Yoonchae watches as Sophia takes one of her pawns and moves it as she described. She watches closely, her head tilted to the side as the Filipina continues to explain, “Or… you can move it two spaces forward.” She then takes the same pawn and moves it one more space. 

Sophia looks up at Yoonchae, an easy smile on her face, but the younger girl notices the tired look in her eyes. 

“Why are we playing this again?” The younger one asks. She places her elbow on the table and rests her chin in the palm of her hand. She watches as Sophia picks up one of the pieces— the horse-looking one, Yoonchae identifies. Sophia stares at it, deep in thought, and a slight smile paints her features.

“I don’t know. I hate this game.”

Chess was always confusing to Sophia. 

It was a lot of rules to keep track of, and the strategy aspect always gave the Filipina girl a headache. But, for some reason, it was everything to you. 

And as your best friend, naturally, it became everything to her as well. 

It’s not an exciting activity to watch by any means, especially if you have no idea of what's going on, but she loves to watch you play. Sophia always finds herself at your little chess team meeting when her classes are over for the day and watches you from the other side of the room, waiting patiently for your practice to be over. She has never seen you so passionate about something, and every time she watched you play, it still surprises her how well you knew the game.

Sometimes, when the other members of the team would file out of the room for the day, you would continue to sit at your spot. You’d stare at the chessboard as if pondering the next move, as if someone had the upper hand on you. During these moments, Sophia would humor you and stride over to the chess table, taking the seat across from you as if she were a new opponent challenging you to a game. 

This time, though, she decides to play the match. “I’m a chess champion, you know?” She starts, leaning over the table with her elbows propped up, her chin resting against her fists as she eyes you teasingly. She smiles at the way you roll your eyes, but the way the corners of your mouth quirk up tells her that you aren’t actually annoyed with her presence. 

Your eyes stay trained on the chessboard as you take one of the pieces– the bishop, Sophia thinks. She watches as you move it three spaces diagonally. “Oh yeah? How long have you been playing?” You ask in a lifted tone. Sophia scoffs playfully and takes one of the pieces on her side. She pretends to know exactly where to put it and attempts to move it, but stops when you click your tongue. 

A small laugh escapes her lips. “Shit, am I moving it wrong?” Sophia looks at you with crescent eyes, her chess champion facade faltering as you nod your head with an amused smile. 

You point at a spot on the board. “It can only move forward. I suggest you put it here if you want an advantage.” 

Sophia nods and does as you say. She whispers under her breath, “I was just testing you.” You tilt your head at her words, smiling as you move another one of your pieces. It’s the same one she just moved, but you move it farther up the board, successfully taking one of her pawns in the process. Sophia rolls her eyes at this. “I thought you said I had an advantage.” 

You chuckle and look up at her, a twinkle in your eyes that Sophia finds herself getting lost in. “Just because I took one of your pawns doesn’t always mean you’re cooked.” Her mouth forms an “O” shape at your words and quickly picks up another one of her pieces– the queen. 

However, you quickly stop her, grabbing her hand. “Oh, not her. Don’t do that!” You tell her in a firm tone. She can’t help but giggle at your serious demeanor. Sophia knows this game is for fun, but she always finds it endearing how you treat all of them as if it were life or death. 

She cocks her head at you and bites her lip to contain the smile that wants to spread across her lips. “Why not the queen? Scared, Y/n?” 

You roll your eyes, scoffing. “The queen is the most important piece in the game. You shouldn’t use her yet, especially if you have other moves you can make.” You explain. Your hand stays wrapped around Sophia’s, and she stares at you, her heart beginning to beat rapidly in her chest when she feels your grip tighten slightly. 

“I thought the point of the game is to take the king, isn’t he the most important?” Your eyes continue scanning the board, and you let go of Sophia’s hand, pointing at another piece. 

You look back at Sophia, and she has an urge to reach out and fix your glasses. They’re slightly askew, and she has to bite her tongue, almost telling you how cute you look with them on. You don’t notice how she admires you, too focused on the game your best friend started as a joke. “Your queen can go anywhere on the board. She’s the one who can get you closer to checkmate, or at least a check.”

Sophia nods at your words, looking away from you with a slight blush on her cheeks. She places the queen back down in its spot, then grabs the piece you point at. She stares at it for a moment, trying to remember how it’s meant to be moved. Your hand finds hers again, and you guide it in the right direction. “He’s your knight,” You whisper, settling Sophia’s hand on the piece’s new spot on the board. 

Your hand stays on hers as you look back up at the Filipina, smiling softly. “Check.” Sophia is about to cheer despite not knowing entirely what that meant, but a cough suddenly escapes your lips. You let go of Sophia’s hand to cover your mouth with the inside of your arm, and she frowns, reaching out to grab your shoulder tightly. “Y/n?” 

You shake your head, waving her off. You begin to pat your chest gently as your coughs finally subside. The look you give Sophia is gentle, as if to ease her worries. “It’s just a cold, don’t worry, Fia.” She purses her lips at your words, not believing you, not even for a second. You reach out to her, grabbing her hand to hold in your own. Your thumb caresses the back of her hand as you smile softly. “Come on, let’s go get dinner.” 

Sophia prides herself on being one of the top scholars at the university you both attend.

She has always been on top of everything, never allowing herself to fall behind in her studies. Teachers have always praised the girl for being a diligent student, and every time, you always commented on her being a ‘nerd.’ She always bit back at your words, however, and often reminded you of your own ‘nerdy’ hobby. For someone so impartial to school and the rules, it still surprises Sophia to this day how you became so interested in the game of chess. 

“It’s exciting once you know how to play,” You always claimed. “Don’t knock it till’ you try it.” 

And she has, she always tries to understand, but it never seems to click in her head. 

But it’s a lot better than the alternative activities you could have partaken in while in high school. You at some point mentioned the idea of joining the wrestling team, but Sophia quickly shot the idea down, scolding you for even thinking about something as dangerous as that. She listed all the reasons why you shouldn’t, even sent you a few articles that detailed the long-term effects of becoming a wrestler. 

She was very relieved that you stuck with the chess team instead, and honestly, she definitely prefers seeing you in the cute sweater vest and tie you’re required to wear as opposed to those silly singlets. 

Now, you’re on a chess scholarship, attending university because your parents told you to (Sophia knows the real reason was to stay by her side, but she doesn’t comment on it. She simply teases you for it on random occasions). You’re still terrible at school, and Sophia still lectures you for it. 

Who can blame her, though? Sophia has big dreams; Dreams about becoming famous on Broadway one day. 

You, on the other hand, don’t know what your dreams are. Sophia often asks you what your plans are, but you never have a put-together response. You’re studying psychology, but other than that, you don’t know what would come after. Your best friend asks you about graduate school, internships, and more, but you’re not sure what more you can give. 

This mindset of yours grows tenfold when a mysterious illness creeps into your life. 

Its arrival was quiet, unexpected. One day, you were healthy and ready to take over the world, and then the next, you struggled to breathe. Every other sentence was followed by a cough that looked too painful to endure. Against all rationale you tried to make with your best friend, you ended up going to the doctor to get a diagnosis. 

What you came back with scared Sophia even more.

“They don’t know what it is,” You casually told her after the visit to the clinic. You continue playing a round of virtual chess on your phone, ignoring the look Sophia gave you. “I’ll just have to see what it becomes, I guess.” 

Sophia narrows her eyes. Something she always disliked about you was your ability to overlook anything, no matter how important it is. You often failed tests in high school because of careless mistakes, and tournaments were lost due to underestimating your opponents’ ability to catch onto your play style. It frustrated Sophia that it never bothered you – there’s always next time, you’d say. 

But, what if there isn’t a next time? What if that was your last shot? 

Sophia sits with you on the couch in your apartment, feeling more upset by her thoughts as you continue to sit in silence, playing chess as if your health weren’t on the line. She hits her limit when you let out a slight cough, reaching over to snatch your phone out of your hands. Your head snaps toward her, a pout forming on your lips. “Fia… I almost got checkmate.” 

She ignores your whines and places your phone on the other side of the couch. “I don’t like the answer you just gave me.” Her voice wavers as she speaks, feeling vulnerable all of a sudden. Sophia crosses her arms and tries to remain level, but when you shrug your shoulders, she can’t help but feel as though she’s losing her mind. “Y/n!” 

“Sophia! That’s what they told me, okay? I don’t know what else to say…” You reply incredulously. You lean back against the couch with a sigh, avoiding her stare that burns into your skull. 

Her heart drops at the sullen look in your eyes. Despite your attempts at pretending everything is okay, she knows deep down you know exactly how serious this could be. She decides not to stress you out even further, scooting closer to you to lay her head in your lap. Her eyes close slowly when she feels your fingers begin to thread through her hair. “I’m here for you. Always,” She whispers. 

You hum in acknowledgement, opting to remain silent. She lies there, memorizing the way it feels to be this close to you. She engraves the feeling you give her inside her chest in hopes that she will be brave enough to say something. 

She isn’t, though. Not yet. 

Sophia doesn’t like to worry about you in silence. 

She’s very loud about it, always letting passersby hear the latest news when it comes to your health issues that you don’t like talking about anyway. But, Sophia doesn’t care or listen to your pleas for her to shut up. She wants you to get better; she doesn't like knowing that, every day, you’re declining by the second, and there is nothing anyone can do. 

Sharing a class with you isn’t easy either. Mid-lecture, she would watch you leave the classroom during one of your many coughing fits. The lesson would continue, and it has come to a point where the other students in class wouldn’t even blink an eye. But Sophia stares at the door as if your life depended on it. She counted the minutes until you came back. She would sit and wait as if there was a timer that would go off any second, and you’d be gone. 

Sophia has spent 10 years by your side. She plans for 10 more, and maybe forever if she’s lucky. 

Sophia sits across from you at one of the chess tables. You chew at the bottom of your pen as you stare at the pieces. Each move you make is calculated, executed with precise movements that always make her squint at you. 

You’re practicing for another tournament, and she can tell it’s an important one by the way you shake your head at a piece you’ve moved, how your hand shakes when you record what you did in the notepad Sophia gifted you last Christmas.

Next Christmas, she wants to get you a new chess timer. She thinks about it when she glances at it once more, and notices how one of the buttons is perpetually stuck pressed down. You wave it off, telling her that it still works, that it doesn’t affect how much time you have left. 

But Sophia wants you to have all the time. She doesn’t want you to worry that it will go away too quickly. 

You cough slightly, covering your mouth with the inside of your arm as you move another piece with the other hand. 

She sits up straighter at this, frowning. “Let’s take a break, mahal.” You shake your head in response, your attention back onto your notepad. You jot down what you’ve done once more and go back to the game. Sophia rolls her eyes and reaches over the table, placing her hand over yours to stop you from continuing. “You’re taking a break.” She tells you firmly, squeezing your hand. 

You look up at Sophia and sigh. “Fia…” She squeezes your hand even tighter and narrows her eyes at you. 

“You don’t get to say no, Y/n.” Her voice is loud with desperation, and it causes you to jump slightly. Sophia lets go of your hand and stands up from her seat. She kneels and grabs your chess box, shoving it into your hands. It’s her way of telling you to clean up the pieces, and it works as you begrudgingly unlock the box to begin putting everything away. 

She stands back up and crosses her arms, watching your every move in silence. “Why do you like this game so much anyway?” Sophia asks, her playful tone coming back. She uncrosses her arms and pokes your shoulder. “I swear you love it more than me.” 

You pause what you’re doing to look at your best friend with an annoyed expression. “Maybe I do.” Sophia scoffs and swats your shoulder, daring you to keep playing with her. You chuckle lightly and continue cleaning up, your eyes back on the task at hand. “I love you more than anything, you know that.” 

Sophia ignores the way her heart beats faster at your words. She looks down at her feet, her cheeks flushed, and giggles. “You still haven’t answered my question.” 

There’s a beat between you both. Sophia is about to make another comment, something much more humorous, but you beat her to the punch. 

“I like that I always know what comes next.” 

Sophia opens her front door one day and sees you crouched down in front of her house’s flower bed. You don’t notice her standing there, seemingly lost in your own world as you stare at the flowers Sophia’s mother recently planted for the springtime. 

She waits at the doorway for you, her head tilted as she stares at you curiously. After a few minutes, she decides she’s done waiting and walks up to you. She crosses her arms, opening her mouth to tease you, but your voice cuts her off. “Do you know what flowers these are?” She can’t help but giggle at your question and shrugs, finding your fascination with the flower bed to be amusing.

She crouches down next to you and looks at you with a soft smile. “No… I honestly wasn’t paying attention to her plans for the flowers this year.” Her response elicits a weak chuckle from you. She notices how quiet it sounded, your laugh lacking its usual brightness, but she bites her tongue, not wanting to annoy you more with her constant questions and worrying. 

“They’re Forget-Me-Nots.” Sophia furrows her brow, not expecting an honest answer to your own question. She looks back at the flowers and reaches out to them, holding one of their petals in between her fingertips. She smiles at the beautiful baby blue color it displays.

“How’d you know that?” She asks, her eyes still on the flowers in front of her. The urge to pull one off its stem comes to Sophia, but she knows it would make her mother mad. Sophia’s mother takes pride in being yard of the month, a title they’ve earned many times from their stupid HOA. There are so many flowers to take, but somehow, her mother would notice something missing from the bunch. 

As Sophia continues to weigh her choices, your voice fills the silence, “I’ve been… Really interested in flowers lately. Like, their meanings and shit, I guess.” Your words are followed by another chuckle that sounds more familiar. Sophia looks at you and sees you looking back at her, your eyes twinkling in a way that she hasn’t seen in months. 

It catches her off guard, taking her breath away. She thinks about when you were both younger, jumping into lakes without a second thought and riding your bikes at night with the lightposts illuminating your path, your laughter filling the quiet neighborhood. 

Despite how long it’s been since those days, she knows it’s still you. Sophia still sees you as carefree, full of life, with nothing to lose. You were reckless and full of a childlike rebellion that always excited Sophia’s structured life. 

She stares at you and wonders what changed in between. But she still doesn’t question you, for fear of losing this moment. Instead, she opts to continue the conversation with a lighthearted tone, “What? Are you gonna be a florist one day?” You laugh in response, shaking your head at her claim. Her smile grows wider when she watches you pluck one of the flowers out of its bunch and hand it to her. 

“Guess what these mean,” You ask softly, a tinge of teasing in your tone. She looks down at the flower in your hand, then looks back at you, shrugging her shoulders. It’s easy enough to guess, Sophia knows that– It’s probably in the name. But she loves how you explain things, she loves that you seem to know everything. 

You chuckle at her silence, taking it as a cue to tell her despite the lack of an answer. “It’s a promise to never forget.” Suddenly, you furrow your brows, a cough escaping your lips. You cover your mouth with the inside of your arm, and Sophia watches you worriedly, instinctively reaching out to place a hand on your back. She rubs it gently as you continue to cough, and she feels her lip begin to tremble. 

There’s something about the way you cough this time. Sophia watches you clutch at your chest, as if there was something in your lungs desperate to be free. You try to take a breath, but it comes out as a wheeze, providing you with more discomfort than before. You looked in pain. Sophia scoots closer to you, feeling helpless as you remove your hand from your chest to grasp at your neck. 

“Y/n…” Sophia whispers, tears spilling out of her eyes, watching you struggle with your illness. You turn your head away from the girl, covering your mouth with your hands. To her relief, the coughing finally ends, and you remove your hands from your mouth, revealing the Forget-Me-Nots in your palms. Sophia quickly reaches over and grabs your wrist to get a better view of them. 

She notices their baby blue color, now stained an ugly crimson. 

Sophia surges forward, wrapping her arms around your neck and buries her face into the crook of your shoulder. Her tears begin to stain your shirt, but she doesn’t care. “Y/n–”

You cut her off. “Can we ride our bikes?” The request throws the Filipina off guard. She pulls away from you with an incredulous look in her eyes. 

“You just coughed up blood, and you want to ride our bikes?” You stare at her, a dim look in your eyes as you nod slowly. The flowers fall out of your hands as if discarding the evidence of your deteriorating health. It’s a silent plea to live in blissful ignorance, to be kids again in the quiet suburbs you and Sophia used to rule over like a kingdom. 

She stares back at you, her cheeks stained with tears. There are so many questions that linger between you both, and Sophia has never been the one to let them go unanswered. But there’s a hopeful look in your eyes. 

“I don’t even know if there’s air in my tires,” Sophia says through a sniffle, smiling slightly as she wipes the remaining tears out of her eyes. 

You stand up and hold out your hand to your best friend. “I’ll put air in them.” 

She ignores the fact that your hands are stained red. Sophia grabs onto your hand and pretends nothing is wrong. She allows you to pull her onto your feet as if you were both going to fight the monster together with wooden swords and untied sneakers. 

She follows you to her garage and thinks about how she could never forget you. 

You start to insist on more consistent bike rides with Sophia, and she always obliges. 

She doesn’t quite understand the reason, but every time she sees you outside her window, it reminds her of summer days back in grade school. 

Sophia walks out of the garage with her bike, a helmet on her head, and another one in her hand. She throws it at you, and you catch it with ease, rolling your eyes as you place it on your head. “I said I don’t like wearing my helmet.” 

She gets on her bike and begins to pedal away from you, yelling over her shoulder, “You put it on, though!” 

She smiles widely as she looks down the street and pedals as fast as she can. The smile grows bigger when she watches you speed past her, the helmet strapped securely onto your head. 

You end up at the riverwalk, a place you and Sophia often occupied when you were younger. When you both started attending university, it became nearly impossible to find the time to go. But, after bickering back and forth about where to go next, you two finally decided on the secret spot you found in middle school. 

Your bikes lean against the tree by the water as Sophia skips rocks across the river, and you sit on the ground, drawing in the dirt with a stick you found. It’s peaceful; The only thing that can be heard is the slight rustling of the trees and Sophia’s failed attempts at skipping stones, only ever hearing the loud plops into the water. 

“Show me how to do this again, please?” Sophia whines, turning around to look at you with a pout on her lips. You look up at her with wide eyes, seemingly snapped out of the thoughts in your head. She bites her lip to contain the laugh that wants to escape as she watches you scramble to your feet, nearly tripping over yourself as you run up to the girl with a childlike excitement. You snatch one of the rocks out of her hand, taking a step back away from her to get more room. 

“Just flick your wrist, like this,” You try to demonstrate; however, you end up flinging the rock right into the water. You both stand in silence as the rock sinks to the bottom. Sophia hears you click your tongue, and she doesn’t allow you to say another word, bursting into laughter. She holds her stomach as she doubles over at the unimpressed expression on your face. You groan, bending over to grab another rock. “Okay, you caught me off guard,” You huff out, standing up straight for another attempt. 

Sophia takes a deep breath as she watches you try again. She regains her composure once she sees the rock skip smoothly across the river, the satisfying sound of its jumps echoing in her ears. A gentle smile forms on her features as she looks at you. She looks at the freckles on your cheeks, the curve of your smile, how your eyes crinkle at the slight breeze that picks up. Sophia loves everything about you, and it terrifies her how in love she is with you. 

When Sophia first met you, you were both 11 years old. You had just moved into the neighborhood, and her first impression of you was how stupid you were. She spotted you by the pond that hid behind the trees in your neighborhood and watched you in disapproval as you lit firecrackers to throw into the water. 

Her first words to you were: “Are you stupid?” 

And yours, in return, were: “Yeah, kind of.” 

But despite that interaction, Sophia stuck by your side. As she got to know you, the feeling to protect you grew. The thought of anything happening to you scared Sophia– she believes you could grow old together. She doesn’t know when things changed, but the desire for something more overwhelmed her. Being in love with you meant the risk of losing you, and Sophia couldn’t fathom that. 

As she stares at you, though, she wonders if it’s a risk that she would need to take. 

“I love you, Y/n,” Sophia whispers. You look at her, and Sophia notices a flicker of something in your eyes, but she can’t put a name to it. “You’re my best friend.” 

You blink at her. Sophia’s heart drops as you look away from her, a noticeable shift in the air. 

“I love you too, Fia. More than you know.” 

Your tournament comes quickly, and of course, Sophia is there to watch you compete. She walks with you toward the building where it’s being held on campus, and she notices how you’ve put space between you and her. The Filipina frowns at this. Usually, on your tournament days, you’d be buzzing with a mixture of excitement and nervousness. Your hand would never leave Sophia’s as you rattled on about the other opponents. 

It’s a conversation Sophia never understood, but it’s a moment where, for once, she’s not the one filling the silence. It’s always you listening so attentively, letting her vent without taking a breath or pause. But she loves listening to you talk even though it’s only about stats, or the moves you’ve been practicing to use during the tournament. 

But you walk silently, head bowed, with your hands in your pocket. You’ve been looking less like yourself— so exhausted, no vibrance to your eyes or smile. It has come to a point where you’ve gotten weaker as the weeks have gone by. The pep in your step is nowhere to be seen, and Sophia worries you’ve become a shell of your former self. 

She thought it would be different today, but she hates to think that this could be the worst your illness has made you appear.

Sophia stares at you; she tells herself to be strong as tears begin to prickle in her eyes. She hates to see you in pain— she never has. Your reckless behavior when you were younger always led to Sophia putting bandages on your scars, kissing your bruises despite your protests. She never told you this, but seeing you in pain always made her feel somewhat distraught. 

Now, you couldn’t even imagine the war going through her head every time you coughed. 

“You’re so quiet, I don’t even know who you’re competing against today,” She says, attempting to start a conversation. She hooks her arm with yours and pulls you close to her side, ignoring how you tense at her touch. Sophia continues, pretending everything is normal for your sake, “How am I supposed to know who to sabotage?” 

You smile weakly at her words. “Is that how I’ve won my tournaments in the past?” Sophia lights up when you match her playful energy, bumping her hip with yours. 

“Duh. You actually suck at chess and it’s been me helping you all along.” A chuckle escapes your lips, which is suddenly followed by a cough. Sophia’s brows furrow worriedly, but she relaxes when it doesn’t continue, her eyes softening when you pull your hand out of your pocket to lace your fingers together. 

You take a sharp breath, the discomfort on your face present as you do. “Well, I’m glad I have you then.” You squeeze her hand tightly, and Sophia squeezes back, suddenly stopping in her tracks. She pulls you back slightly, and it causes your head to turn toward her, eyebrow raised in questioning and slight confusion. “Fia?” 

She lets go of your hand and walks up to you. Her eyes lock onto yours as she reaches up to adjust your tie, fixing it before getting closer to the tournament. “Why do I always have to fix your tie before these things?” A playful smile spreads across her lips as she pulls at your collar gently, an action that causes you to look away briefly. 

“You’re my good luck charm.” You proclaim. She notices how your voice shakes slightly, but she brushes it off as nervousness. 

Sophia lets go of your collar and finds your hands again, holding them tightly. She tilts her head, smiling up at you as she asks, “What kind of charm would I be?” 

You look back at her, the twinkle she loves so much present in your eyes as you reply, “An anchor.” 

You’re down to your last opponent, and the stakes are higher than ever. 

Sophia doesn’t understand how collegiate-level chess works (or any form of chess, honestly), but she knows that everything depends on how you do during this match. She knows whatever you do in the next few minutes rests on your shoulders. 

The room is thick with silence as the match continues. The taps on the timer are the only sound, going back and forth like a game of tennis. Sophia watches every move you make, biting her lip in anticipation. Your opponent taps the clock, and it’s back to you. Your hand moves quickly, picking up one of your pieces to move. 

But in an instant, it falls out of your hand. The sound of the piece falling to the ground causes several people in the room to gasp in surprise. Sophia jumps out of her seat when you begin to cough loudly. She runs over to you, but you’re already out of your seat, making your way out the door. The officials of the tournament watch in shock, and words are being exchanged amongst the other teams, but Sophia ignores them, running after you. 

She watches you run into the bathroom, and she quickly follows you, entering it as you close the stall door. “Y/n! Are you okay?!” She walks to the stall you occupy, crossing her arms as she stands in front of it. Sophia feels tears begin to form in her eyes as she hears you cough again– the sound so familiar, yet it always seems like your last. 

Tears fall from her eyes as she bangs on the stall door with her fists. “Y/n, let me in right now!” 

“F-Fia…” You manage to say. Your voice sounds hoarse as you try to continue, “Fia… I’m done, okay? It’s- It’s over.” Another cough follows your words, and Sophia shakes her head frantically, refusing to believe your words. She doesn’t know what you mean, but she’s afraid you’re talking about the latter. 

Her fists bang against the door again, even harder, a desperate attempt to get you to open the door, to keep fighting whatever it is you’re struggling with. “Y/n, open this fucking door or I’m crawling underneath it!” She yells, slamming her hand against it in frustration. There’s a silence on the other side, and your coughs have finally stopped. However, a feeling of dread overcomes the Filipina. 

She’s about to get on her knees to use the alternative way to get to you, but the door swings open, revealing you in slight distress. Tears spill from your eyes, and there’s blood on the corners of your mouth. Tiny splatters of crimson stain your collar, and Sophia notices how your tie is no longer around your neck, now gripped in your hand, which is also slightly bloodied. She glances at your other hand and squints, noticing the baby blue petals sticking out of your fist. 

Where those came from, she has no idea. Sophia’s mind runs wildly with thoughts as she stares at your current state of chaos. Her best friend since childhood, her Y/n, stands in front of her like a ghost. 

She knows the clock is ticking and everything that matters rests on these last few seconds you might have left. 

Sophia doesn’t think before she acts. If there is anything she has ever learned from you, it’s that life shouldn’t be lived in the fear of having no time left. And with that in mind, she cups your cheeks, pressing her lips against yours. 

It’s messy, and it tastes metallic, but when you kiss her back, it’s as if for the first time in months, it’s a hell of a lot easier to breathe. 

You and Sophia walk out of the building, hand in hand. It’s as if a miracle appeared because, against all odds, you managed to win the match. You wear your medal around your neck, a bright smile on your lips as you swing your interlocked hands back and forth. “I can’t believe you chewed the Arbiter out…” A chuckle escapes your lips as you look down at Sophia, amused. “Like, they were gonna give me my time back… I had accommodations.” 

Sophia scoffs and leans her head against your arm, closing her eyes. “My bad for thinking he was gonna give you shit for what happened.” She suddenly stops walking, tugging your hand so you can turn toward her. When you do, she pulls you close, her hands finding your shoulders. She stares up at you lovingly, relief washing over her as she realizes you’re starting to look like yourself again. She isn’t sure what has changed, but she has an inkling it has something to do with the kiss you two shared earlier. 

With that in mind, she smirks, reaching down into her pocket to take out her lip gloss. You look at the item in her hand and you laugh loudly, throwing your head back. “I can’t believe you right now!” You say through your laughter. The sound is music to Sophia’s ears as she applies the gloss onto her lips, capping it once she’s done. She puts it back into her pocket, and her hands return to your shoulders, this time though she’s much closer than before. 

“I think you owe me a better kiss, Y/n.” She tilts her head, her eyes flickering to your lips. 

You raise your brow, smirking as you lean in a little closer. “Do I?” The scent of your shampoo fills Sophia's senses, and she can't believe it took her this long to have you in her space like this. She couldn't believe that, before today, this was a possibility.

She nods and wraps her arms around your neck, tilting her head up. A warmth resonates through her body as she whispers, “It’s like. Emotional compensation.” You chuckle, your nose bumping against hers cutely. The crinkle in your eyes helps Sophia realize that the wait was worth it.

Your next words, though, makes her feel confident in this jump with you.

“I love you, Fia. I’m in love with you,” You confess, breathlessly. The light in your eyes returns as Sophia smiles in response, a soft giggle leaving her lips. 

She plays with the hairs on the back of your neck and looks at you as if this is what it’s all about– to be loved by you. “I’m in love with you, Y/n.” 

The confession is sealed with a kiss. She doesn’t know this, but your lungs feel much lighter. Your burdens wilt away at Sophia’s fingertips. 

Sophia gets the chance to love you for a beautiful two years. 

And now she will have to remember you longer than she knew you. 

While you struggled with whatever it was all those years ago, something else was hiding behind closed doors, lying dormant. After that went away, another illness decided it was its turn to wreak havoc on you. This time around, though, you remained the same. You loved Sophia vibrantly, giving her the best of you despite your condition. Before it took you away, Sophia was able to gift you that new timer. For your last Christmas together, she gave you a new tie to wear for your first National Chess Championship. 

But you never got to go. Instead, you were buried with it, and Sophia straightened it out for you before finally being laid to rest. 

Sophia still doesn’t quite understand your love for the game– she still finds it silly. But she feels closer to you every time she moves a piece, remembering how you used to do it with a calculated ease. As she stares at the chessboard, she pretends you’re sitting right next to her, telling her what she should do next. 

Her eyes catch Yoonchae grabbing one of the pieces, a small smile forming on her lips as she sees the other girl struggling to remember what to do with it. “That’s your knight,” She whispers. Sophia looks away for a moment and sees the framed picture of you that sits inside the trophy case. All of your awards surround it, but her favorite item amongst them is the Forget-Me-Not she placed there on the first day of Spring. She smiles at the picture before looking back at the chessboard, pointing at a spot for Yoonchae to claim. 

“You can move it here.” Yoonchae nods and moves her knight, placing it down where Sophia instructed. She looks at the older girl, waiting for her to make the next move. 

Sophia nods and thinks for a moment. She assesses the pieces in front of her and takes a deep breath, picking up her queen. She moves the piece one space to the right and bites her lip, realizing what she has done. 

“Checkmate.”

a/n: pls put the pitchforks down im so sorry it had to be done... anyway, lmk what you think haha... hah... </3

requests are closed

[rimzaaa]

The Order, No One Dared To Question

Oneshot! (Request)

Pairing: Frontman(young-il) x Female reader (y/n)

Fandom: Squid Game (오징어 게임)

Summary: What happens when Player 110 — the girl the Frontman secretly loves — loses a game by just one second?

Will he let her die like the others… or break character to save her? And if he does, how will he cover his tracks when all eyes turn to him?

Warnings: Mild violence, death mentions, canon-typical tension, manipulation, secret identity, intense gaze & protective behavior, morally grey character, suggestive power dynamic.

Author's Note: This one was actually a request, and honestly, it was a bit tricky to pull off — but somehow, I made it through! Think of player 196 as y/n or it's your choice. I really hope you all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Reblogs and comments mean the world to me 🤍

Words Count: 911

Tag list: If anyone wants to get tagged, lemme know in the comments.

@salesmancarddd @marymun @astronomicalastro-blog1

The moment Frontman saw Y/n — Player 110 — during Red Light, Green Light, something inside him shifted. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt the urge to protect her. To shield her from the horrors of the game and… keep her for himself.

He told himself he was joining as Player 001 to keep an eye on Gi-hun, who had returned for the second time to take the whole system down. But deep down, he knew — it wasn’t just about Gi-hun anymore.

It was about her.

He could’ve stayed in the shadows, sipping whiskey and give orders to protect her. But he didn’t want distant control.

He wanted closeness.

To earn her trust with his own hands.

So the Frontman became Player 001, giving himself a new name: Oh Young-il.

•••

The game hall buzzed with tension. Everyone awaited the next round.

Frontman — now just another numbered contestant — was watching her. Always watching her.

Then came the first spark.

“You got a death wish, or you just dumb?” sneered a tall, purple-haired thug known among players as Thanos.

He had y/n cornered, mocking her for accidentally bumping into him.

Y/n didn’t reply. She was clearly trying to de-escalate, her eyes cast low.

But then, a calm voice cut through the thick air.

“Is there a problem here?”

Everyone turned.

Player 001 — Young-il — had stepped between them.

Thanos scoffed. “What, old man? You gonna protect your little girlfriend?”

Young-il’s fist answered the question.

It was fast — too fast for a man of his supposed age. One punch, right to Thanos jaw, and the purple-haired bully was on the floor. The nearby guards glanced over but didn’t interfere. Too minor to matter.

Y/n stared at him in disbelief.

“You okay?” he asked, voice softer now.

She nodded, stunned. She didn’t even ask how or why he did that. She just… felt safer.

And from that moment, a seed was planted.

•••

Later that day, all the players were gathered in a big game hall. The robotic voice echoed through the room.

“Form teams of five.”

Frontman moved instinctively toward her — but she had already joined a group: an old woman and her son, plus Hyun-ju and Young-mi.

He ended up in a team with Gi-hun, Jung-bae, Junhee, and Dae-ho.

Then, the game started.

Six-Legged Pentathlon.

Each team member had to complete a traditional game — Dakji, Gonggi, Spinning Top, Jegichagi, and Flying Stone — within five minutes. If one failed, the entire team died.

Y/n took Jegichagi. She was confident — until it was her turn.

One by one, her teammates succeeded.

Now, it was on her.

Thirty seconds left.

She tossed the shuttlecock.

Missed.

Tried again.

Missed again.

Ten seconds.

She was trembling now. Her fingers cold. Her team holding their breath.

Finally — she tried one more time — and it worked. The shuttlecock bounced

One

Two

Three

Four

Fi..

Beep.

“FAIL.”

Y/n’s eyes widened. What? Didn't she make it?

She looked up at the clock. Had she been just a second late?

The guards moved forward. Guns raised.

Panic swept her team. They screamed, cried, begged for the guards to double-check. But the decision was made.

Or so they thought.

“WAIT!”

Everyone froze.

Player 001 was on his feet.

“Lower your guns” he ordered — and the guards obeyed.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Why were guards listening to a player?

Y/n blinked at him, heart thudding. Again… he was protecting her.

Sensing the growing suspicion, Young-il added quickly:

“She finished in time. I saw it. Check your cameras — you do have footage, don’t you?”

The guards — who knew exactly who he was — didn’t question it. They knew what he was doing—saving her, though she had actually lost by a second. But who would dare to question him?

One of the guard quietly called it in.

A pause.

Then the robotic voice returned:

“PASS.”

A masked overseer stepped in.

“We apologize. This team has passed. A technical delay caused the error.”

Relief flooded the room.

Y/n collapsed to her knees, breath ragged. Her team surrounded her, crying in joy.

But she? She looked up, locking eyes with Young-il again.

Young-il turned his head, sensing a few players still eyeing him with suspicion.

He narrowed his gaze, voice cool and sharp as a blade.

“What?”

The single word, laced with quiet danger, was enough to make them snap their heads away. No one wanted trouble—not after what he did to Thanos.

He scoffed under his breath, adding just loud enough for those nearby to hear,

“Incompetent staff… always too eager to pull the trigger. That girl was faster than she looked.”

He made it sound offhand, casual—like he was just another player with a sharp tongue, not the man behind the entire game.

•••

That night, back in the sleeping quarters, she found him sitting alone in a corner.

“Mr. Young-il!”

He turned.

She stepped toward him with a nervous smile. “Thank you. Again. I don’t know what would’ve happened if you didn’t speak up.”

He looked at her gently. “You don’t have to thank me..”

“I’ll protect you..”

“Always.”

Something about the way he said it — as if it wasn’t just about the game — made her heart skip.

“C-Can I… Can I join your team for the next round?” she asked hesitantly.

Young-il’s lips curled into a smile.

“Of course. I’d be honored.”

He motioned for her to come closer.

“I’ll introduce you to the others.”

And as she walked beside him — trusting, smiling — he knew it.

He had her trust now.

And soon… he’d have her.

Forever.

[mockingradfems]

TBH no one gives a shit if you like rereading the old books you already own or looking up fanfic or whatever the important thing is you aren't still buying Harry Potter merch.

If you aren't doing anything to increase her wealth one of the works you like has a bigot for a author whatever. Like it happens sadly more often than you think.

If however you are buying merch playing the new game going to hp world you are contributing to what she's doing with the money. Aka donating to groups to spread transphobia. That's the big deal.

That's the real moral failing. Who gives a shit if you like Harry Potter if you aren't making her richer.

I mean if you like man fuck Harry Potter I feel that.

But if you're like man I used to love this series I'm not buying that shit anymore but why'd she have to be a bigot what it say about me that I loved it?

And it doesn't have to be a negative thing. What you take away from a book series what you find meaning in is independent from authorial intent

In fact if you had passion for it don't dismiss it. You can take that inspo really think though what you like and disliked about the series and then find other works using your reflections or even better create better works. Who knows maybe one day it will take over the mantle of cultural significance Harry Potter has gotten over the last few decades.

You can't hope to only be influenced by unproblematic things because the world is flawed but you can still take inspiration from what's around you and make it better.

Just don't give her any more money. Also remember that to do that you can't just talk to people online.

You can see people who spend a lot of time online critiqueing rowling. But you know whose not chronically online? The 80 year old who went to see Harry Potter 20 years ago with her grandkids did she read Rowlings Twitter melt down? Maybe not. Does she keep up with Harry Potter news? Probably not. But in the future if she has to go to a kids birthday party she may get them the Harry Potter Lego set. She might have HBO she might watch the new series to be nostalgic.

I think the general public who may be less online is forgotten when thinking about who buys Harry Potter stuff. And that's kinda what results in Rowling still getting more rich too. So like maybe explain to the people like that in your life why they should avoid buying Harry potter now.

Maybe one day we can have the debate of should we discuss Harry Potter be a "fan of it" if we aren't buying shit. But Rowling who fell off the billionaire list has been put back on it from HP related sales alone.

Its not a spreading of a idea issue right now its a money issue.

IMO focusing your irritation at people who don't buy the merch is silly.

You are morally bankrupt if you just look up fanart too

On the same level as people who buy the merch?

If you threw out your Harry Potter merch cuz you can't stand to look at it anymore I get it.

But if you trying to be helpful it's not actually doing anything. Moneys already been given to her save yourself money keep the extra coat or scarf or mug.

Because this isn't about whose more moral. We are way past that it's about not crowdfunding a billionaires hate that she's for some reason decided to pursue as a hobby.

You don't need billions to live ritzy life

If you guys stop buying hp stuff today you save like 80 million a year for the next 30 years being donated to fund transphobia. And fandom is free if no one is buying new things for a IP new projects won't be greenlit

This HP show isn't being made because tiktok made marauders edit its because enough people bought hogwarts legacy.

And I promise when they new things aren't being made Harry Potter will fade from being this prominent. The past can't be rewritten but old things don't always stay popular. Would star wars continue to be as popular as it is without the sequel series and TV show existing?

What if no one ever adapted lotr into anything after Rankin Bass

Hell what if no one ever made any lotr related media since the Peter Jackson trilogy. Even though it was Incredible would it be very widely discussed anymore? Sure things inspired by it would exist but that's not the same.

And when it gets to that level of cultural irrelevance even if it's still considered good it really won't matter if you like it or not.

it's a moral failing to still be a harry potter fan

[vanillasweetpie]

Ok hear me out. During the softball adventure in episode 5 Jax see’s afab! Reader flirting with evil Jax which leads to him getting jealous and deciding to show reader why he’s better than that submissive ass faker. (Reader and Jax can have an unestablished relationship to make writing it easier)

better than you .ᐟ jax x reader

tags: nsfw, smut, p in v, degradation, dirty talk, brat reader, dumbification, jealousy, softball setting, w/ anti jax voyeurism, jax is pissed, “good girl” once used

you should’ve known better than to flirt in front of Jax. but then again, you’d never claimed to be wise.

the bat swung loose in your grip as Kinger’s encouraging voice droned in the background. you weren’t listening, not really. more than all, not when anti-Jax had cute twitchy ears and a cute habit of nervously tapping his fingers. he shuffled toward you, hands behind his back. you smiled without even meaning to. poor thing didn’t know what to do with himself.

coming closer to him, you smiled with your lashes, leaned your hip against his thigh, and asked him if he’d catch you if you tripped while running. anti Jax stuttered. “i-i-if you tripped? um uhh yeah! o-of course!!” awwh, like he was saving a puppy from a fire. it was cute. easy. too easy.

and you were bored. the game dragged and your ass hurt from standing, so you leaned into it, told him he looked adorable trying to hold the bat without trembling, he let out quiet little oh gosh that made your stomach twist.

and it would’ve stayed innocent. or fake-innocent. but Jax saw you, his voice slinking into the conversation from behind you, ”wow, really slumming it today, huh?” and you didn’t even turn to look. only chuckled, “you bored or just mad he’s sweeter than you?”

which was a mistake.

“oh look at you,” Jax said discontentedly. “getting off teasing my broken mirror.”

“you jealous?”

that made him laugh. “jealous?” he echoed. “dollface, you think i’m threatened by that shy little scrap trying not to pop a boner in his pants?”

“uhh, n-nice game by the way!” anti Jax mumbled, trying to defuse the situation.

your Jax didn’t give you time to come up with a reply, roughly guiding you away from the field, behind the dugout. 

“aw, poor baby,” you cooed. “didn’t like me talking about your little substitute?”

he didn’t speak but you anyways let him press you against the wall. your underwear was tugged down with a single impatient movement, his hands pushed up your skirt. Jax’s palm slid between your thighs to confirm what he already suspected. ah, yeah, his doll is already wet, good. spitting on his fingers anyway, Jax ran them between your legs even though you were already ready for him, whether you wanted to admit it or not.

“‘little’? oh, you wanna play today.”

Jax pushed in, as always, no warning except the sudden stretch of him filling you all at once, and your mouth dropped open in a gasp that barely made it past your lips. your body arched, involuntarily trying to either take more or escape the sheer overwhelming pressure, but he didn’t let you move. one arm braced around your waist, the other pressing your thigh higher, keeping you exactly where he wanted, slipping his cock deeper into your tight pussy. 

he grinned, baring his teeth. “yeah, this what you wanted, huh? wanted to play flirty little slut while i’m the one stretchin’ you out like this?”

you blinked. ugh. . .the censoring noise cut through the moment, as always so absurdly misplaced that for a second you almost laughed, almost. but you couldn’t, not really, not when his hips snapped forward again and your laugh turned into a high cry.

helpless, you couldn’t speak. too full and breathless. and every time you tried to inhale, Jax thrusted forward again, hitting so deep it felt like you were being split apart from the inside. fast, rough and greedy, as he couldn’t stand the idea of not being inside you for even a second longer than he had to.

you tried to hold on, to make sense of anything. but unfortunately, your hips began to move in answer to him, slow, desperate rolls, grinding up into each thrust and the moment Jax felt your needy push back, he leaned closer. 

“oh, now you’re moving” he hissed, and the intonation didn't sound like a question at all, “there she is. can’t help yourself, can you? tryna milk me already, pretty thing? ohh dollface my pretty little dollface.”

but you couldn’t stop, couldn’t help it. a sweet thick feeling in the lower abdomen only grew with every movement. the way Jax kept hitting that sensitive tender spot over and over, it was cruel. perfect for a little brainless toy like you.

every thrust knocked stars loose in your skull as it forced you tighter around him. Jax was pounding you into the wall, muttering filth in your ear, words you didn’t want to hear but never wanted him to stop saying. “tight little hole actin’ like she’d rather take his faker’s cock,” he hissed, voice shaking from how deep he was. “bet you were thinkin’ about how his might feel inside you, huh? tell me, slut, wanna compare?”

you moaned into his hand, trembling hard, then, between whimpers, slurred it out. “mmfhh— i’d scream so much louder if it were him fucking me. . .“

Jax went feral. “you little brat” he snarled, snapping his hips forward so hard your back arched off the wall. “say that shit again. go on. say it while i fuck your brains out.”

“Ja-jax—“ you were suffocating.

“nah, fuck that,” he spat, slapping a hand over your mouth, the other digging into your ass, holding you so you don't twitch too much. “you act like a cockslut in front of him, now you take what’s comin’ to you.”

you gasped, legs spreading wider, needing more as you felt yourself leaking onto his cock. “mhm. . .he said i had good form,” dumbfounded, you laughed a little, even as your voice shook. “w-what can i say? it got me going.”

Jax’s grip tightened, his hips snapped forward hard enough to make you choke on the laugh. “oh you think his dick could ever fuck you like this? think he even knows what to do with you?”

you moaned before you could stop yourself. “y-yees. . .” the answer came, teasing, barely able to speak through the rhythm of his thrusts. “hngh, he’d be better than you. his dick’s probably bigger and nicer, y’know. . .oh god”

with that, Jax’s rhythm broke a little, and your body hit the wall again and again, the friction burning but you didn’t care.

“hahha, keep talkin’ like that and i’ll fuck you so deep you forget how to lie.” the truth was, you couldn’t. you were slurring nonsense now, tears streaking the corners of your dazed eyes, too far gone to pretend you were still playing, already forgetting how to talk. your legs were shaking, mouth open but useless.

Jax grabbed your face again, thumb dragging along your jaw. “don’t go quiet now. thought you had a mouth on you. or does it only run when you’re talking about how good his dick would feel?”

”mmfhh— no no no. i know his cock would make me cum harder than you ever could. . . l-looser, you are such a loser, Jax. . .”

perhaps this one was unnecessary. “oh yeah? that right?” asked a serious voice from behind, and you barely had time to nod before Jax’s grip twisted harsh on your hips and he rammed into you so hard, so deep, you saw white.

your breath punched out of you in a broken sob, toes curling as his cock slammed into your cervix. you couldn’t even move anymore, Jax was holding you up like a doll, using you, splitting you open on his cock

“say it again,” he growled, hitting so deep as if trying to mark your womb. “say it again, bitch. go ahead. c’mon. talk shit now.”

you tried to answer, really, you did, but it came out a garbled, wet moan, tongue lolling past your lips as he drove into you like a hammer, ruining your pussy. “that’s what i thought,” Jax chuckled, hand grabbing the back of your neck and pushing your face against the wall as he rutted into you, relentless. “talk all that pretty little shit, but the second i’m deep enough to knock sense into that bratty brain, you forget how to fuckin’ speak.”

you whimpered, drooling, arching back into him like a needy animal, chasing the feeling of his cock pounding so deep you could feel it in your lungs. your nails scratched helplessly at the wall.

“yeah, there it is. . .now you’re fuckin’ mine. this pussy’s mine. doesn’t matter what kind of fake-ass dick he’s got. hey what happened, huh? tongue tied now that i’m deep enough to shut you?”

you sobbed, legs twitching from how good it felt, how much it hurt, how completely it had stolen your brain away. and Jax felt it, how your cunt tightened around him like a vice, sucking him in deeper, deeper, deeper until his tip was kissing your cervix with every thrust.

he chuckled against your neck. “oh yeah. knew it. your slutty little hole just needed a real cock to fuck the stupid outta you. don’t worry, baby, i got plenty more where that came from.”

weak, you tried to warn Jax you were close but the words fell apart in your throat. “Jax— im— oh, oh!“

“yeah, baby, come on. right on this cock, huh . . . good girl. yeahh, that’s it. milk it. take all of it.” shit, stupid censorship right before “good girl” was ridiculous but it didn’t matter when you were already shaking, the orgasm crashing over you too fast, too much. your head dropped against his shoulder, broken sounds escaped you as your pussy clenched around him, pulsing and tight.

Jax groaned, feeling that, and didn’t stop moving until he bottomed out, burying himself with one last grinding thrust before his hips jerked, once, twice, and then he spilled into you, shuddering, holding you tight.

silence.

you slumped forward, trembling, the only thing keeping you up was the wall and Jax’s grip. he pulled out slow, dragged fingers through the mess leaking out of you, then slapped your ass hard enough to make you yelp. 

“next time you flirt you’ll be choking on it. while he watches.”

without answering anything, you barely felt your feet and registered your own breathing.

and that was when, dizzy and clenching around nothing, you tilted your head slightly and saw movement. a shadow just past the corner.

a pair of wide curious eyes.

you stared for a second, long enough for your brain to catch up.

anti Jax?

yeah. he hadn’t looked away once.

however, your own Jax didn’t see, still breathing heavy, face pressed into your shoulder.

and you, sweet, aching thing that you were, just smiled.

[spikedfearn]

Under the Blood Moon

Part II

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: A year has passed since he took you—since the chapel became your prison, then your home. You love him now. You kiss him back. You call him husband. But when vampire hunters break in to “save” you, they’re not met with gratitude—they’re met with claws, fangs, and a wrath that leaves blood on the altar. In the aftermath, with his hands still stained and your body trembling in his arms, a quiet truth surfaces: you might be carrying something more than love.

wc: 7.1k

a/n: UTBM 2 has easily been my most heavily requested sequel, so I'm here to finally make good on that promise!! While this wraps the immediate arc, I do plan to write another part at some point, exploring what comes next now that something new is growing between them!!

warnings: heavy dubcon, dead dove: do not eat, blood kink, period sex, heavy breeding kink, monsterfucking, possessive behavior, coercive control, demon x human dynamics, religious imagery, breeding/ownership language, filthy talk, cockdrunk reader, forced orgasm, restraints/restraint kink, forced captivity, manipulation, southern gothic horror, explicit sexual content, obsession, violence, rough sex, blood play, dark romance, somnophilia undertones (reader too weak to consent properly), gore, murder, body horror, emotional manipulation, pregnancy themes, psychological conditioning, trauma bonding, devotion through violence, canon-typical Remmick unhingery, homegrown cult wife aesthetics

likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated!! Please enjoy!!

Fic Masterlist/Main Masterlist

M I N D T H E T A G S

Part II: And Lead Her Down the Rocky Road

The air hangs thick tonight—slow and wet and warm, the kind of heat that slicks your skin and clings to your lungs. Somewhere in the trees, a bullfrog sings loud and stupid into the night, and cicadas thrum so hard it feels like your bones vibrate with them.

You sit in Remmick’s lap like you’ve done a hundred times before—knees bracketing his thighs, your bare feet tucked against the curve of his calves. The ruined chapel has long since become home, no longer rotting but reclaimed—patched with pelts and scavenged velvet, dried herbs and bones hung over the windows to keep out things meaner than him.

His hands are on you. They always are.

One wide palm rests heavy at your hip, the other dragging idle circles across the base of your spine—not guiding, not restraining, just touching. Claiming. Reminding.

You’re in one of his shirts, faded and worn, the collar stretched from him tugging it down to bite at your shoulder earlier. Your thighs are bare, still sticky from the last time he touched you there.

He hasn’t spoken in a while. Just watches you.

You’ve learned he does that when something is brewing. When the heat inside him is less hunger and more...something else. Something quieter. Not softer. Just deeper.

You glance down at him. His head tilts.

"What?" you ask—barely above a murmur, throat tacky with wine and swamp air.

Remmick smiles. That slow, amused pull of his lips, eyes red in the candlelight.

"Nothin'," he drawls. "Just sittin here lookin' at my lil’ missus, wonderin' when she got so soft on me."

Your stomach does something awful and warm. You roll your eyes.

"Don’t call me that," you mutter.

He just chuckles. The sound wraps around your spine and pulls.

"Y'ain’t denyin’ it."

You scowl—but your hands are still on his shoulders. Your body hasn’t moved.

He leans forward just enough to nuzzle your jaw, the scruff of his face scraping your skin. When he presses his mouth just under your ear, you feel his grin against you.

"Used to flinch every time I touched ya," he murmurs. "Now look atcha. Ridin' me like a lil' house cat in heat."

You hate how hot it makes you—how your thighs clench over his hips, how you can feel your cunt ache at the sound of his voice.

"Shut up," you mutter, cheeks burning.

"Ain't lyin'," he says, voice slow and fond. "My good girl. My lil’ missus. All tamed now."

Your heart does something messy.

You stare at him.

He stares right back.

His mouth is right there. Still curved into that shit-eating grin.

You don't think about it. You don’t let yourself.

You just lean in—

and kiss him.

Your lips press to his before you realize you’ve done it.

It isn't hesitant. It’s not chased. Isn't a panicked, trembling attempt to appease him.

It’s real.

Your mouth touches his slow and soft—nothing performative, nothing pulled from fear. No trembling. Just a kiss. One that you gave.

And Remmick goes still.

Like a corpse.

Like something ancient that’s forgotten how to breathe.

The smirk dies on his mouth. His hands, always so sure and cocky and possessive, still against your waist. His body stiffens beneath you like a hound that just caught the scent of something delectable.

His eyes don’t close.

They just widen—red and round, stunned and wild.

You pull back only a breath—just enough to see him. His face. That quiet, wrecked look.

Like you reached into his chest and touched something he thought had long since rotted away.

He doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t move.

He just looks at you like you’ve undone him.

And for once, that silence doesn’t scare you.

You blink at him. “...You okay?”

The laugh that leaves him isn’t a real laugh.

It breaks.

Cracks.

Comes out wet and hoarse and unbelieving.

"You kissed me," he says, voice low and stunned.

You swallow. Nod. “Yeah. I did.”

His hands find your waist again—trembling now. Gripping you tighter, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold you down.

"You kissed me," he repeats, slower this time. Voice barely a breath. "My girl. My lil’ missus. Kissed me like she meant it."

You nod again. More careful this time.

"I did."

His head drops forward. Forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath gone ragged.

You feel the whole of him shake beneath you.

Then—He laughs again.

But this one’s real.

Low, cracked, joyful. Terrifying.

"Fuckin’ hell," he mutters, arms crushing you to his chest. “Ain’t no goin’ back now.”

And then he’s kissing you back—hard, open-mouthed, greedy.

It’s not like before. Not punishment. Not proof. Not a game of control.

It’s desperation.

His hands grip your face like it might disappear. His tongue pushes into your mouth like he’s starving, like it’s not enough, like he’s trying to crawl into you. His body shakes under yours with something almost childlike—frantic and raw and overflowing.

When he finally pulls back, he stares at you like he can’t believe you're real.

“You ain’t ever kissed nobody like that before,” he says, voice quiet. “Have you?”

“No.”

“Not even that boy y’was courtin’ b’fore me.”

You shake your head. “Didn’t love him.”

Remmick goes still again. Not stiff like before—but hunted.

You feel the air shift.

“You love me?”

You don’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

He exhales—slow, sharp, wrecked.

Then he leans in.

Not to kiss you. To whisper.

“Lay down f’me,” he says, voice trembling. “Right now, lil’ missus.”

He stands with you still in his arms—like nothing weighs more than you—and carries you toward the bed at the back of the chapel.

Not the mattress on the ground where he first claimed you. Not the one you bled on.

This one’s new—lifted off the floor, carved from salvaged cypress wood and lashed with thick rope. Still crude, still heavy, still his. But cleaner now. Softer. Dressed in scavenged sheets that smell like ash, sweat, and a little crushed lavender from the bundle you laid beside it last week.

He sets you down like you’ll break.

Then he just looks at you.

Like he doesn’t know if this is real.

You’re sitting on the edge of the bed now, legs parted slightly from where you were straddling his lap, the hem of his shirt barely covering your thighs. Your breath comes in quiet bursts. Your lips are swollen from his. Your heartbeat is racing, and you don’t try to hide it.

You don’t look afraid.

Remmick notices.

His mouth parts like he wants to speak, but instead, he sinks to his knees in front of you. His hands find your thighs—warm, big, shaking—and he presses his forehead to the space between them. He breathes in deep, like he’s been holding his breath for a year.

"Say it again," he rasps. "Please, lil’ missus. Just once more."

You run your fingers through his wild hair—slow, uncertain, but not shy.

"I love you."

He shudders.

One of his hands slides higher, under the hem of his shirt, dragging up the curve of your thigh, over your hip. He doesn’t rush it. His other hand moves to the center of your chest, resting right over your heartbeat like he needs proof.

"Lay back," he whispers. "Let me have ya proper."

You do.

You crawl backward until you’re stretched out across the bed, the worn shirt hiked up around your hips now, your legs still parted for him, your arms loose at your sides. Your eyes never leave his.

He pulls his shirt over his head—tossing it aside—and follows you onto the bed on his knees. Then over you.

He presses a kiss to your ankle.

Your shin.

Your knee.

Up, up, up.

"You don’t even know what you’ve done to me," he murmurs. "Kissin’ me like that. Sayin’ that shit."

He kisses your hip, your stomach, the edge of your ribs, dragging the hem of the shirt up as he goes.

"Been callin’ you my lil’ missus since the day you stopped cryin’ when I touched you," he says softly. "But now you callin’ me husband. Runnin’ your hands through my hair like you like me. Like you want me. Like you need me."

You lift your hips so he can pull the shirt the rest of the way off.

He stares.

He’s seen you bare a hundred times. Tied down, bleeding, begging.

But this is different. You’re open without restraint. Soft without fear.

"My Gods," he whispers.

You reach for him.

He moves over you like a prayer.

One hand comes to cradle your cheek. The other wraps around the back of your thigh, guiding it up, over his hip, opening you further.

He leans in.

"I love you," he says, voice low and steady this time.

He doesn’t say it like a confession.

He says it like a curse.

Then he pushes inside you.

Slow.

Not teasing. Not punishing.

Just deep.

He doesn’t stop until he’s seated fully, cock thick and hot inside your cunt, the stretch pushing your breath out in a trembling gasp.

Your arms wrap around his shoulders. Your legs wrap around his waist.

And Remmick breaks.

He buries his face in your neck and fucks you slow, deep, reverent.

Not hard. Not fast.

But like it matters. Like every thrust means something. Like he’s trying to etch this into your bones.

"You love me," he pants against your skin. "Fuck. You love me."

Your hand curls at the nape of his neck, fingernails dragging through his hair, and you whisper it again.

"I love you."

He groans—a wounded, desperate sound—and picks up the pace, still smooth, still slow, but hungrier now. His cock drags over that aching, tender spot inside you, again and again, until you’re writhing beneath him.

He reaches between your bodies, hand flat over your belly.

"Gonna fill ya up, sweet girl. Gonna give ya every drop I’ve got."

"Remmick—"

His thumb presses to your clit—tight, steady circles—and your back arches off the bed.

"You cum when I say it," he growls against your throat. "You cum when I tell you what you are."

You whimper, so close it burns.

"You’re mine," he whispers.

"You’re my lil’ missus."

"You’re my forever girl."

"I love you."

And you fall apart.

Your orgasm hasn’t even finished before he starts again.

Remmick doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t slow down.

He just keeps fucking you through it—grinding deep, thumb still on your clit, your body twitching and jerking beneath him like you can’t take another second.

But he knows you can.

"You’re doin’ so good, lil’ missus," he groans, voice breaking, sweat dripping down his temple to yours. "Came real sweet for me. So fuckin’ sweet."

You can barely breathe. Your body is tight and shaking and soaked with him—his sweat, your slick, the blood-warm mess of your own release. And he’s still so deep inside you, cock grinding against every swollen, tender spot like he’s memorizing the shape of your cunt from the inside out.

Remmick lifts his head.

His red eyes burn into yours.

"You know what I’m gon’ do now, don’tcha?"

You shake your head, but he grins—that filthy, feral thing—and presses his palm flat over your lower belly again, right where you feel him the deepest.

"Gon’ breed ya, baby."

You choke on a gasp. He fucks you deeper, slower, like he’s savoring it.

"Gon’ pump you full till you leak, till you’re heavy with me. Gotta make sure it takes."

You whimper—not from fear. From heat.

"You want that?" he breathes, kissing your jaw, your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth. "Tell me you want it."

"Remmick—"

"Tell me, sweet girl. Tell me you want me t’knock you up. Tell me you want t’carry what I give you."

Your voice cracks. "I—I want it."

He groans, cock twitching deep inside you. "That’s it. That’s my good girl."

"You gonna look so fuckin’ pretty, belly all round from me. Walkin’ 'round the chapel drippin’ with my spend. Gonna chain you up in my bed and feed ya on your back so nothin’ spills out."

You cry out—overwhelmed, overstimulated, aching—but your hips roll up to meet him.

"You want my babies?" he growls, voice gone hoarse. "Huh? You want what a man can’t give you?"

"Yes," you sob.

"You want what a demon puts in you?"

"Yes—Remmick, please—"

"Then fuckin’ take it, lil’ missus."

His pace breaks—sloppy now, brutal, grinding—as his cock swells inside you.

"You feel that? That’s my spend comin’. That’s what’s gonna stick."

You’re crying now, fingers clawing at his back, mouth open on a silent scream.

"Gon’ fuck a child into you," he pants, his forehead pressed hard to yours. "Gon’ breed my mark into your belly, into your fuckin’ bones."

You’re still coming—your cunt fluttering violently around him, trying to pull him deeper.

And then—

Remmick slams into you one last time and groans—a low, broken sound that shudders through his whole body as he spills inside you.

You feel it.

Hot, heavy, endless.

Spurt after thick, messy spurt flooding your cunt so full it aches. So full it starts to spill out around his cock and down your thighs.

You feel it run into the sheets beneath you, feel his hips grinding through the aftershocks like he wants to brand you from the inside.

He doesn’t move for a long time. Just breathes.

Your head is tilted back, mouth parted, body limp—completely, irrevocably wrecked.

And Remmick just smiles.

He strokes your stomach with the flat of his palm.

"You feel that?" he whispers. "That’s what forever tastes like."

You blink at him through the haze.

He leans in—kisses you soft and slow.

Then murmurs against your lips:

"Ain’t even turned you yet, lil’ missus. But when I do? You ain’t ever gonna stop wantin’ me."

The fire in the hearth has burned low, but the warmth lingers in the walls.

A damp heat clings to everything in the chapel—sweet with smoke, salt, and the scent of what he left in you the night before.

You’re still sore when you wake.

Your thighs ache. Your cunt throbs. Your belly feels full, even empty as you are now.

Remmick’s arm is slung heavy over your waist, his breath warm at the base of your neck, one thigh wedged possessively between yours. His cock rests thick against your lower back—soft but heavy, twitching every now and then as he dreams.

You don’t move. Not because you’re afraid. Because it’s comfortable.

The air outside is still tinted blue—just before dawn—the hour when the mists are thickest and the swamp holds its breath. No frogsong, no wind through the trees. Just the distant moan of the river and the creak of the chapel roof.

You stare at the rafters, eyes half-lidded, body loose under his.

You could stay like this forever.

You’ve said it before. He never believed you. Not really.

But last night, when you kissed him…when you called him your husband…

You felt it in the way his whole body locked up. You felt the worship behind every inch he gave you.

"Y’awake, lil’ missus?" his voice rumbles behind you—soft, sleep-rough, fond.

"Yeah," you whisper.

His nose nudges your shoulder. A kiss pressed there, lazy and warm.

"Still full of me?"

Your cheeks go hot. You don’t answer.

His hand slides down your belly, cupping over the spot he always touches when he’s fucking you slow—like he’s holding the future there. Like he’s trying to coax something into bloom.

You squirm beneath him. He chuckles.

"I gotta step out t’night," he says, voice a low murmur against your skin. "Won’t be long."

You tense. Just a little. Just enough that he notices.

He shifts you gently onto your back and leans over you, bracing himself on his forearm. His hair hangs loose around his face, dark and tangled, still smelling like sweat and the cedarwood oil you rubbed into his scalp last night.

You trace his jaw with your fingers.

"How long?" you ask.

He brushes his thumb across your bottom lip.

"Not long," he promises. "Just need to bring back some fresh meat. Maybe a jug of kerosene. I’ll be back ‘fore sunrise."

You nod. Swallow down the ache that rises in your chest at the thought of him leaving—even under cover of night, even just for a few hours.

His hand strokes your side, palm dragging from your ribs down to your hip.

"You stay inside," he says, not unkind. "Door stays locked. You hear anything that ain’t me, you hide under the bed like I taught you."

You nod again. Your hand grips his forearm.

He kisses you slow—not hungry, not teasing. Just soft.

"Say it again," he murmurs.

"I love you."

He shudders.

"That’s my girl."

When he gets up, you watch him dress—first the faded black jeans, then the shirt he ripped open two nights ago, which he tucks into a belt slung with knives. He moves with ease, humming some old hymn under his breath as he rakes his fingers through his hair to push it back from his face.

Before he leaves, he cups your face in his hands and kisses your forehead, your lips, your belly.

"I’ll be back soon, lil’ missus."

You nod. Smile faintly.

"Bring something sweet," you murmur.

He grins—that sharp, animal smile—and slips out into the dark before the light can touch him.

You don’t know then that you’ll be screaming his name before the sun even finishes rising.

The fire has long gone out.

You wake again sometime later, not to Remmick’s weight or voice—but to silence.

A silence that feels wrong.

The kind that presses up against your skin like a cold hand. Like breath held too long. The kind of silence the swamp never makes unless something is watching.

You sit up slowly, the sheet clinging to your sweat-damp thighs. Your body still aches, still sore and swollen from how he touched you last night—how he filled you. It should be comforting, the memory. But something about the air is…off.

The mists outside the chapel windows have turned a strange, milky grey. Not the usual pearl-colored haze that comes with dawn, but something thicker. Heavier. It creeps low across the floorboards where the chapel door doesn’t quite seal, curling like fingers.

You reach for the old cotton slip you usually wear and pull it over your head, ignoring the ache in your legs. The blood between your thighs is dry, flaked, a bruise on your inner thigh shaped like a mouth.

You tiptoe barefoot to the door.

You don’t open it. Just press your ear against the old wood and listen.

Nothing.

No birdsong. No frogs. No breeze.

Just a faint crunch of gravel—like someone stepping where they shouldn’t.

Your heart thuds.

One beat.

Two.

Three.

Not him.

You know the sound of his boots. The way the ground knows to hold still when he passes.

This is wrong.

You back away from the door, and that’s when you hear it—

A voice.

A man’s voice. Not Remmick’s.

"—up there. That’s the place. Just like she said."

Another voice, gruff, tight with tension. "You sure she’s in there?"

"Yeah. She ain’t left in weeks. He never lets her leave."

The blood drains from your face. Your knees nearly give.

You stagger backward. Your pulse bangs against your throat.

Two shadows flicker past the windows. Armed. Human. You see the glint of metal—rifles, stakes, something glassy and glowing blue like a warded bottle.

Your breath stutters out of your chest.

You try not to panic. Try to do what Remmick always says.

“You hear anything that ain’t me, you hide under the bed.”

You run.

The chapel floor groans beneath your feet as you scramble to the cot, lifting the faded quilt and sliding beneath the frame just as—

The door crashes open.

You don’t scream.

Not yet.

The sound of boots, cautious but fast. Voices hissing orders. Wood creaking. A blade drawn.

"She’s here. I smell her."

"You sure he ain’t still inside?"

"No blood in the bed. Just hers."

They’re inside.

And they’re not speaking like men trying to hurt you.

They’re speaking like they’ve come to save you.

You clamp both hands over your mouth. Try to be small. Try to be still.

A voice crouches close to the ground. Gentle. Too gentle.

"Hey. Hey, it’s alright. We ain’t gonna hurt you, I swear. We’re here to help."

You tremble.

Another voice: "We know what he did. What he made you say. You’re not in love with him. He fed on you, didn’t he? That’s what they do. They trick you."

Your body goes rigid. A sob builds in your throat, but it’s not from relief. It’s fear.

They don’t understand.

They think he’s the monster.

They don’t understand what it means that you love him.

That you chose to stay.

That he’s the only one who ever made you feel safe.

They lift the quilt.

Light floods in.

You gasp. Curl away from their hands.

One of them grabs your arm—"Come on, sweetheart. You’re okay. We got you—"

You scream.

"Remmick!"

Your voice cracks. High. Wild.

"Remmick, please—!"

You flail. Sob. Try to twist free. One of them tries to pin your arms and you bite him—hard enough to draw blood.

"Shit! Fuck, she bit me!"

They hesitate.

Stunned.

"Jesus, what the fuck—?"

You sob harder. Choking. Screaming his name again like a prayer.

"Remmick—Remmick—don’t let them take me—!"

Your voice rips itself out of your throat like a wild animal trying to claw its way free. Raw, high, panicked. You twist and scream and thrash in the stranger’s grip, your limbs flailing with reckless force, fingernails scraping down the length of his forearm.

"Please don’t take me—please, he’ll come back, he’ll—"

Your lungs burn with the effort. The sound of your own sobbing drowns everything out—your cries sharp and shuddering, chest hitching with each broken breath.

The man holding you—young, broad-shouldered, barely older than you—grunts, trying not to hurt you but clearly stunned by the ferocity behind your fight.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters. "She’s gone. She really thinks—"

"I told you," comes a deeper voice from somewhere near the chapel door. Older, rougher. Controlled, but taut with fear. "They charm ‘em. They feed, and they…root in. It ain’t love. It’s thrall."

"It is love," you gasp, voice high and wet with tears. "You don’t understand—I chose him, he didn’t make me—he’s not like that, he’s not—"

The younger man releases you too quickly—his hands shaking, guilt flickering across his face—and you stumble to the floor with a harsh slap of bare knees against wood. But you barely feel the pain. You scramble back like a cornered creature, breath hitching in your throat as you flee toward the altar, dragging yourself by trembling arms.

Your slip is twisted around your hips, nearly transparent in the gray morning light filtering through the warped stained glass. Your legs are streaked with dried blood, bruises shaped like fingerprints, like fangs, like teeth.

You press your spine against the altar, trying to make yourself small. Trying to make them listen.

"Please," you whisper, your voice cracked and bleeding at the edges. "You don’t know what you’re doing."

The younger one hesitates, uncertain now. You see it in the way his hand hovers near the shotgun slung across his back—how his eyes flicker not with certainty, but doubt.

He’s not cruel. He’s just scared. Maybe more scared of you than of what waits outside.

He crouches a little, hands raised in surrender. "Look, we’ve…we’ve seen this before. Stockholm. Blood compulsion. We know how real it feels, but it’s not. He’s not who you think he is."

You flinch as he takes a step forward. The floor creaks beneath his boot.

"He probably made you say all that," he continues, gentler now. "They get in your head. They make you want it. That’s what they do. When’s the last time you saw your family? Your friends? Anyone else but him?"

The words feel like broken glass in your ears.

Your throat works uselessly. You open your mouth. Try to speak.

But no words come out.

Because you don’t remember the last time you saw anyone else.

Because you don’t want to.

Because that’s not your life anymore.

Your life is candlelight and rough linens. Blood-warm baths and hands in your hair. Laughter at midnight. The taste of copper and salt. The press of his voice in your chest when he calls you his lil’ missus.

"This is my home," you say at last.

The boy flinches.

The older man curses under his breath. Scarred, hard-eyed, weathered from too many winters and too many dead. His voice is tight with judgment.

"She’s gone. He’s dug in deep. We’re not reasoning with her."

You start shaking again. Your fingernails dig into the altar behind you.

"I’m not gone," you whisper. "He takes care of me."

He watches you with cold pity, then looks back to the blond.

"You gag her if she bites again. We get her out, now. We don’t have time."

Your stomach turns over.

You know what’s coming. The shift in the wind. The scent.

You try again, louder now—desperate.

"No. No, please. He’s coming back. You have to go. You don’t understand what he’ll do if—"

The younger one takes another step toward you, reaching. "We’re not gonna hurt you—"

"Don’t touch me!" you scream, the words sharp enough to cut your own throat.

The air in the chapel stills.

Not like silence.

Like a warning.

Like the earth pulling back its breath.

The candles flicker on their wicks—twitching like they’re afraid.

The light filtering through the stained glass warps. Turns muddy, dark.

You freeze.

So do they.

Even the younger one—brave enough to touch you—is suddenly stiff. Alert. His eyes dart to the door.

"You feel that?" he whispers.

The older man slowly lifts a hand toward the shotgun strapped over his shoulder.

"...Yeah."

And then—

A sound.

Low. Guttural. Distant but unmistakable.

Movement.

Heavy. Cracking. Deliberate.

Branches shattering.

Undergrowth being trampled.

Something moving with purpose.

And not like a man.

Like a storm.

The younger man’s voice cracks.

"You said we had time—he only feeds once a week, you said—"

"I don’t know why he’s back," the older man hisses, yanking a bottle from his coat—something thick and glowing faintly blue. "He shouldn’t be—"

The chapel door slams shut behind them with an earsplitting crack.

They both spin.

It wasn’t wind.

It wasn’t you.

It wasn’t anything living.

The candles extinguish in perfect, unnatural unison. The smoke curls up toward the ceiling like serpents.

You’re on the floor, curled in on yourself, fists pressed to your mouth, rocking.

He’s here.

You don’t know how, but you know it like blood knows the vein. You know it the way prey knows the shape of the predator’s teeth.

He’s not outside anymore.

He’s in the walls. The roof. The shadows.

Watching.

Waiting.

And you, sobbing now, choke out the only prayer you know how to offer.

"Please," you whisper to the darkness. "Please don’t hurt them."

A shape flickers in the rafters.

A breath exhales through the chimney.

A shadow slides across the stained glass.

The younger one raises his gun.

"What the fuck was that—?"

You crawl backward, until your spine presses flush to the altar again. The wood is cold. Wet with dew.

Your mouth trembles open. You feel something inside you crack.

"He’s already here," you whisper.

But they’re not listening anymore.

They came to save you.

But Remmick doesn’t believe in salvation.

The silence inside the chapel is absolute.

Thick, pulsing. A silence that breathes—that lives in the walls, under the floor, inside your chest. You feel it like pressure in your skull. Like hands wrapping slow around your throat. Like the air itself has gone still in anticipation of something terrible.

You’re still on the floor, knees scraped and raw against the splintering boards, curled beneath the altar like an offering left to rot. The hem of your slip is bunched around your thighs, soaked with sweat, blood, and the stink of fear. You’re trembling so hard your teeth chatter, and your fingers are clenched so tight into the floor that your knuckles have gone white.

You don’t dare move.

The two men stand over you, their shadows long in the half-light—cut sharp by the flickering candles and the red wash of dawn bleeding through the stained-glass windows.

The blonde’s rifle is trembling in his grip. The older man is muttering prayers, his voice a tremor beneath his breath, lips pale and slick with spit.

"Do you see anything?" the blonde whispers, his voice cracking down the middle.

The older man doesn’t answer. He’s staring at the ceiling, at the rafters above the altar, eyes darting like a hunted animal. He knows something’s wrong. Something worse than you.

Because it’s already here.

You feel it first.

A shift. A drop in the pressure of the room, like the whole world just tilted.

Then—a thud. Somewhere above.

A dull, slow weight pressing onto the roof beams, creaking old wood. Like something enormous settling onto the bones of the chapel. Then another. Heavier. Closer. You see dust fall from the rafters. Feel the subtle vibration of something pacing above you—slow, deliberate. Stalking.

Your pulse hammers between your ribs.

And then—silence.

Not the silence from before.

This one is alive.

You open your mouth to speak. To beg. To warn.

But you’re too late.

The far window explodes inward in a blossom of jagged glass and roaring wind.

A screech rips through the chapel—like metal tearing, like a body dragged screaming across stone. Glass knives whirl past your face, biting into your arms, your shoulders. Candlelight goes out all at once, sucked into the vacuum of sudden chaos.

You scream. So does the blonde.

The chapel howls with air and motion—and then—

He’s there.

He doesn’t walk through the door.

He drops from above.

Remmick.

Not as you saw him last—soft, grinning, warm from sleep, still smelling of cedar and skin and sweat.

This is something else.

He crashes to the chapel floor like a thunderclap, knees bent, back arched. The earth groans beneath the weight of him. His body rises—slow and fluid, as if gravity doesn’t dare claim him. Like something born of the storm.

You see only pieces of him at first:

His fingers, long and curved, clicking softly as they flex against the floor.

His eyes—glowing red, not with light but heat, like coals packed deep inside his skull.

The twisted stretch of his mouth, pulled open too wide, baring a forest of crooked fangs, each one glistening wet, too many to count.

His skin is slick with sweat and blood—some of it his, some of it not. Veins pulsing beneath the surface, throbbing like live vipers inside of him.

He doesn’t look at you.

Not yet.

He looks at them.

The blonde screams again, jerking his rifle up toward his shoulder—but his hands are shaking too badly. His finger slips off the trigger.

He never gets the chance to fire.

Remmick moves.

Not like a man.

Not like anything living.

He doesn’t run.

He lifts—off the ground, silent and sudden, gliding forward like a shadow unbound by bone or gravity, and in one impossible blink, he’s across the room.

He crashes into the blonde with enough force to crack bone. They slam into the side pew, wood exploding in a spray of splinters.

The boy coughs once—blood wet on his lips.

Remmick doesn’t speak. He grabs the boy by the throat—lifts him clean off the ground—his claws puncturing his skin. The boy chokes, legs kicking. His face turns red, then purple.

You watch through your tears, sobbing, crawling on your belly toward them.

"Remmick—Remmick, please—don’t kill them, please, please—"

He doesn’t look at you.

He leans in, face inches from the boy’s. Eyes glowing brighter now. Fangs fully bared.

"Put your hands on my wife," he says, voice low and burning, like hot coals smoldering in his throat. "One. More. Time."

The boy gurgles something. Maybe a plea. Maybe a prayer.

Remmick snarls—and throws him.

Not to the floor. Not to mercy.

He hurls him through the stained-glass window behind the altar. Glass explodes outward in a cacophony of shards and light. The boy screams all the way down. You hear his body crash against the stones outside.

Silence.

Then—

"Christ," the older man gasps, stumbling back, drawing a long, silver blade from beneath his coat. His hand trembles, but his grip is firm.

He lunges.

You scream. "No—don’t—!"

Remmick turns before the blade touches him. Catches it mid-strike.

The metal hisses where it meets his skin.

It smokes. Sizzles.

But he doesn’t scream.

He grins.

Mouth stretched too wide, eyes burning bright enough to illuminate the whole chapel.

"You think that’s gonna save you?"

He closes his fist around the blade and bends it like it’s made of wire. The metal groans, squeals—and snaps.

The man stumbles back in horror, clutching what’s left of the hilt.

Remmick steps forward—slow, deliberate. Claws dragging down the wall. Gouging deep trenches into the wood.

"You step foot in my chapel," he murmurs, voice low, laced with something almost reverent. "You touch what’s mine."

He takes another step. You see his fangs dripping. His chest heaving.

"You make her cry."

The man raises a warding charm—crosses himself, muttering something desperate, barely audible.

Remmick stops inches away.

"You break into my home—my home—and you call me the monster?"

The man doesn’t answer.

He just trembles.

Remmick tilts his head. His face is inches from the man’s. He inhales slowly through his nose.

And then, softly—almost lovingly—he whispers:

"No. Preacher."

A long pause.

"You came lookin’ for the devil."

He smiles.

And it is awful.

"Now you found him."

The older man stares up into Remmick’s face—shaking, gasping, eyes wide in bone-deep terror.

He’s close enough to smell the blood on his breath. Not just your blood. Fresh blood.

And still, Remmick smiles.

"Now why’d ya go ‘n do that?" he drawls, low and slow like molasses poured over gravel. His voice is almost gentle. Almost sad. "Come stompin’ through my house, bustin’ up my door, layin’ your filthy hands on my wife."

His hand darts out—too fast—grabbing the man by the wrist. The preacher gasps, blade hilt clattering to the floor.

Remmick pulls him in close, chest to chest. His mouth brushes the man’s ear, intimate and monstrous.

"You know what I do to men who try ‘n take what’s mine?"

The preacher doesn’t answer. He’s frozen. The prayer charm slips from his fingers, hissing uselessly on the floor.

Remmick tilts his head, still smiling. The edge of his fang grazes the man’s cheek.

"Don’t worry. I ain’t gon’ kill ya fast."

He lifts the man off the ground like he weighs nothing. The old wood beneath his boots creaks. His legs kick, scraping the altar.

You’re still on the floor, arms wrapped around your knees, watching through a veil of tears.

You don’t look away.

Remmick drives his claws into the man’s gut—slow, deliberate.

There’s a wet, splitting sound—like raw meat tearing open.

The man screams. A high, raw, human sound.

Remmick doesn’t flinch.

He watches him writhe with a kind of fascination, his head cocked like he’s admiring his own work. His eyes never blink.

"You ever gut a pig, preacher?" he murmurs. "Takes a real steady hand. Gotta be careful not t’ nick the bile, else it ruins the meat."

The man sags, blood pouring down his chest in thick, syrupy ropes. It stains Remmick’s forearm, drips off the curve of his elbow.

"You bleed easy," Remmick says, voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Almost like you was meant for it."

He turns, still holding the man aloft, and throws him onto the chapel floor. The man lands hard, coughing blood, body twitching. One of his legs is bent wrong. His hands scrabble at the floor, reaching for anything.

Remmick stalks after him, slow and silent, bare feet stained with blood. His claws gleam. His coat fans behind him like something half-alive.

"You thought she needed savin’," he says, voice honey-thick with mockery. "Thought I musta had her bewitched. Is that it? Thought I cast some foul spell on that sweet little heart o’ hers?"

He crouches beside the man’s broken body.

"You ain’t never seen a woman loved proper."

His clawed hand slides beneath the man’s jaw, lifting his blood-soaked face.

"That girl chose me. Every damn time. An’ I’d burn the whole world for her. Tear out the throats of every fool that looks at her sideways. You understand me?"

The man gurgles. Tries to speak. Can’t.

Remmick leans in close. His glowing eyes narrow.

"You came t’ my door askin’ for the devil."

His smile is all fang and blood.

"Well, preacher...now you found him."

And then—

He rips out the man’s throat.

Claws tear clean through. A spray of blood paints the altar. Hot. Metallic. Wet.

You choke on a gasp. Cover your mouth. Your whole body shakes.

He doesn’t even flinch.

Just lets the man drop to the floor like garbage. Stands over him, chest heaving, glowing eyes still lit like hellfire. Blood drips from his hands. From his jaw. From the tips of his claws.

And then—he turns to you.

That wild, monstrous thing in him dims. Not gone. Just…quieted.

"Sweet pea?" he murmurs, voice hoarse, eyes softening the moment they fall on you. "You alright, lil’ missus? He didn’t touch ya, did he?"

You shake your head, tears spilling fast.

He kneels beside you, lowering himself slow, careful like he’s afraid you’ll flinch.

His claws are still slick with blood. But his touch is tender—he cups your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks, wiping away the tears.

"Shhh," he whispers. "You’re safe now, sugar. I got you."

His blood-wet forehead presses to yours. His breath is hot, sharp with copper.

You clutch his coat, fingers digging in like you’re afraid he’ll vanish. You can’t speak. You just cry.

"I’m here," he murmurs again, voice melting. "Ain’t nobody gon’ take you from me. Never again."

He pulls you into his arms—bloody, trembling, still half-naked—and gathers you to his chest like you’re made of bone china.

Outside, the swamp begins to stir again.

The birds return.

The wind shifts.

The sun climbs high over the trees.

But inside the chapel, all is still.

Blood pools beneath the altar. Flies begin to gather.

And Remmick, fanged and filthy, kisses your hair.

"That’s my lil missus," he whispers.

The bodies are still warm.

One lies broken just outside the chapel doors, face-up in the mud, eyes gone glassy, throat opened like a second mouth. The other is in pieces on the altar floor, still twitching—his blood soaking into the same boards where Remmick fucked you slow just nights ago.

The chapel stinks of death.

But you don’t move.

You don’t cover your face. You don’t flinch.

You sit in his lap, straddling him on the blood-stained floor, arms wrapped around his neck, your cheek pressed to the curve of his shoulder. His claws still long, his eyes still glowing like hot coal.

His heartbeat pounds slow beneath your ear—steady. Calm.

Not like someone who just committed murder.

Like someone who came home from work. Like someone who took the trash out.

He strokes your hair with one blood-wet hand, the other resting low over your belly.

Not possessive. Not lustful.

Protective.

He hasn’t spoken since you stopped crying. He doesn’t need to. The silence between you is thick with something reverent, something that glows warm beneath your ribs.

His mouth finds your temple. Kisses you soft.

"Still shakin’, lil’ missus," he murmurs against your skin, his voice a slow, Southern hush. "Ain’t nothin’ out there gon’ touch ya. You hear me? Nothin’."

You nod, but you don’t lift your head. You stay pressed to him, soaking in his scent—sweat, cedar oil, and the sharp copper of blood that’s not yours.

The chapel is dark again. The wind no longer screams through the windows. Even the swamp has quieted, as if the trees themselves are holding their breath.

You don’t ask what he did with the blonde boy’s body.

You don’t ask if anyone else is coming.

Instead, you find your voice—small, hoarse, buried in his neck.

"Remmick?"

"Mhm?"

You pull back just enough to look at him. His red eyes glow dimmer now. His fangs have withdrawn, but the blood still stains his mouth.

You touch his cheek with trembling fingers.

"What happens if I really am pregnant?"

The words hang in the air.

He stills.

His expression doesn’t change—not at first.

But his hands tighten around your waist, then smooth across your hips like he’s grounding himself there. You watch his throat bob. Watch the flame flicker behind his eyes.

"Say it again," he breathes.

You swallow. Nod.

"I think I’m pregnant."

His breath leaves him in a long, shaking exhale.

"Shit, darlin’," he says, voice thick, low, reverent. "You mean t’ tell me that pretty little womb of yours held on? Even after all the times I—"

You nod again, cheeks warm. Your lip trembles.

"I—I’m late. My body feels…different. I don’t know how else to explain it. I just…I know."

He groans. Presses his forehead to your collarbone, breath catching.

His arms crush you to him.

"Fuck," he whispers. "You gone and gave me a reason t’ stay alive forever."

You laugh, but it breaks into a sob. Not from fear. Not anymore.

You feel it now—settling in your chest like a seed in soil.

This is your life.

This monster. This chapel. This love.

And now…maybe something more.

He draws back slowly, hands cradling your face like he’s holding divinity.

"I’ll build you a nursery, sweet pea. A whole room just for 'em. We’ll paint the walls. You’ll pick the colors, I’ll do the rest."

You laugh again, and this time it sticks.

"I want yellow," you say, voice barely above a whisper.

He grins—wide and feral, but tender.

"Yellow it is."

The candlelight flickers as the wind shifts again.

You know you’ll have to bury the bodies. Maybe move the chapel. Maybe seal the doors.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he picks you up in his arms, cradling you like a bride, and carries you to the bed like something holy.

The world can wait.

Because in this place, under this roof, beneath the blood-washed moon—

You are not lost.

You are not stolen.

You are his.

And when he lays you down, his voice curls around you like a prayer.

"You keep that lil’ belly warm f’r me, ya hear?"

Outside, the dawn breaks over the swamp in soft gold and red—

but the only thing growing here now is you.

[syrecjh]

okay so, this swiftie girlie just had another idea. i was listening to Call it What You Want and I was thinking of childhood friends to lovers kinda trope where reader and bakubabe have a necklace of each other's initials but like the class doesn't know they're actually together and they notice reader's necklace and idk up to you how everything's gonna be revealed. AAAAHHH the lyrics "I want to wear his initial on a chain round my neck, not bec he owns me, but cause he rlly knows me." is so CUTE and ADORABLE.

p.s. i'm also excited for the mutual pining request you have 😪 take your time tho!

__ ★₊˚﹟🪐 The Initial On My Neck

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader, pure fluff

You’ve known Bakugo Katsuki since you were old enough to toddle on chubby legs and steal the last cookie from the jar. Back then, he was loud, feral, and had a scowl that could curdle milk. But he never once pushed you away. Not when you colored outside his notebook margins. Not when you cheered for Deku on sports days. Not when you cried so hard on the first day of preschool that you soaked his tiny All Might shirt.

He just handed you his juice box and sat beside you like he already knew the world would make more sense if he stayed close.

He never left.

Years passed. You grew into that closeness like skin on skin. Side by side. Always. Through scraped knees, hero dreams, his temper, your quiet patience, and everything in between.

He gave you a necklace when you were thirteen—just a small “K” pendant on a silver chain. Said it was dumb and ugly and that it didn’t matter. But he looked away when you smiled too wide. You haven’t taken it off since.

You returned the favor when you turned thirteen. Gave him a bracelet with your first initial—simple, black thread, nothing flashy. He wore it every day until it broke during training, and when you teased him about finally taking it off, he shrugged and said, “Didn’t need it on my wrist when it’s already in my damn chest.”

He said it so casually you choked on your water.

Now you're both in Class 1-A, older but still orbiting each other like the world forgot how to pull you apart.

The thing is—no one in class knows you’re dating. You don’t hide it. But you don’t flaunt it either. Bakugo doesn’t hold your hand in public. You don’t kiss behind bookshelves. There are no heart-eyes or pet names.

But there’s a softness in the way he always saves you the last rice ball. The way you always end up paired together. The way he glares at anyone who stands too close, and the way your smile seems to know exactly how to calm his storms.

Still, the class is suspicious. Especially when they notice the K dangling from your necklace.

You wore it every day, he does to: a thin silver chain, subtle, but not so subtle that someone wouldn’t notice. Hanging from it, a small, worn letter “K.” They joked about it sometimes, wondering aloud what boy had dared to give it to you.

And Katsuki? He never reacted. He’d just scowl slightly and return to whatever was in front of him. But you noticed—how his fingers would tap rhythmically, jaw ticking, like he wanted to say something. You'd brush his arm beneath the desk. You were fine keeping it a secret. You didn’t need the world to know.

After all, you didn’t wear his initial around your neck because he owned you. You wore it because he knew you—deeply, wordlessly, and always.

It all unraveled, of course, the way these things tend to do—with a healthy dose of Class 1-A chaos.

You were all in the common room that Friday night. Someone had put on a movie no one was watching. You’re lounging on the couch, mid-stretch, half-listening to Kaminari and Mina argue over some new hero ranking poll when the attention swings toward you again.

“So, seriously,” Mina says, leaning forward with narrowed eyes. “That necklace you always wear—what does the K stand for?”

Before you can speak, Bakugo—seated on the floor in front of the couch, elbows on his knees, hair still damp from training—grunts lowly, “It’s me.”

You kick him lightly in the back, trying to play it off, but your face is already heating up.

"Yeah right"

The others laugh, brushing it off as just another grumpy Bakugo joke—until he leans forward to grab his water bottle from the coffee table.

His shirt rides up slightly at the neck.

And they see it.

A silver chain, faint but unmistakable, gleaming under his collar.

And tucked beneath it—just barely visible where his shirt slips—is a pendant. A letter. Your first initial.

The room goes dead silent for a moment.

Then Kirishima blinks. “Wait… hold on—did anyone else just see that?”

“See what?” Kaminari frowns, already rising from the floor like a bloodhound catching scent.

“That!” Mina gasps, pointing dramatically. “Bakugo has a necklace!”

Jirou squints. “No way. There’s no way he’d wear a necklace unless—”

“OH MY GOD,” Hagakure cries. “IT MATCHES HERS!”

Bakugo straightens slowly, clocking the way everyone is now staring at him. His brows furrow. “What?”

“You have a necklace,” Sero says, voice rising with every syllable, pointing with a shaky finger. “With her initial.”

Dead silence.

You could’ve heard a pin drop. Even Todoroki blinked.

“What—?” Kaminari sat upright, nearly knocking over the cards. “Like… you you both?!”

You just smiled, brushing your hair behind your ears. “Yeah. He just told you a while ago that he's the k in my necklace so...”

Sero gawked. “HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN A THING?!”

“Since forever,” Bakugo said, like it was obvious. He wasn’t even flustered. In fact, he looked annoyingly smug. “We’ve been together since second year. Idiots.”

“WHAT?!” came a chorus from around the room.

“I KNEW IT!” Mina cried, flopping backward onto Jirou, who immediately started grilling you for details. The rest of them erupted like a volcano—questions, teasing, Sero demanding how Bakugo got someone like you, and Kaminari threatening to make a PowerPoint presentation about the missed signs.

But you just laughed. Head thrown back, joy curling in your chest. You looked down at Katsuki—who was trying (and failing) to hide the soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He reached back, lacing his fingers through yours where they rested on the couch cushion behind him.

And across the room, the class tries to process the fact that love doesn’t always need grand gestures.

Sometimes, it just wears your initial around its neck.

And chooses you.

Quietly.

Fiercely.

Always.

And in that moment, surrounded by friends and noise and light, you felt it again—that sacred quiet that only existed between you and him.

Let them talk. Let them scream. Let them name it whatever they want.

You’d call it what you wanted: home.

⚝──⭒─⭑─⭒──⚝

I love Taylor Swift and I loved this request!! Had so much fun writing it—hope you enjoy it too!! Sorry it took a while to get this done, xoxo 💜

[generalanachorcollective]

You've always had a weird gift. If you were to be in any danger, time just stopped until you were out of harms way.

It's always saved you beforehand, hasn't it? You've survived car crashes, tsunamis, earthquakes, everything inbetween. You could live life on the edge with no consequences. You could watch everything right before it went wrong. Maybe you were careless with it, living in crime filled areas or natural disaster zones, but it was fun.

...

But that was in the past, wasn't it?

Now you walk the lifeless streets of statues. You enter the homes of people forever stuck in time. Looking at moments forever in time, but only you can see it.

The world has stopped, all except you.

You've roamed the world for... days? Months? Decades? You aren't really sure. It may have even been a few minutes. All you know is that it's been enough time for you to visit all the major landmarks, see all the cities, for your skin to wrinkle, to try all the food, and...

Well, there's nothing else really. Everything's frozen after all. You have everything in the world, yet no one to share it with. You don't even know why the world has stopped to be honest.

You miss everyone, don't you? Even though they're right there, you still miss them. You miss your mother who always cared for you. You miss your sister who always told you to stop trying to play with your life and too live somewhere safe for once, unaware of your power. You even miss your harsh boss who would always complain about your sudden vacations. You just want to be able to talk with someone, anyone, anything again.

You cried out to the motionless clouds, screaming about how you wish you never had this stupid power, wishing you were able to live normally, cursing whatever gave you this "gift". You just wanted to die at this point

You closed your eyes after your rant, which were already clouded by tears, and laid on the ground, just waiting for whatever death to come and take you.

You don't even notice the edges of your vision blurring, or what seemed to be the sun getting brighter. Your last thought was simply wishing you hadn't tried playing your life so much.

...

The world started again, but you would never know.

wow this one was a long one-

Idk who to tag but I'll just tag my moot @scallywiggles

Also it's been awhile since I've did writing, so I'm pretty proud of this

You were born with a strange power. Whenever you are in immediate danger, time freezes until you move out of the way. One day, time freezes, but no matter how far you go...it doesn't unfreeze.