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writing-for-marvel · 1 month ago

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Right Here, Waiting

Roommate!Bucky Barnes x Curvy!Fem!Reader

PART 2 > >

Summary: You’re pining after your insanely attractive roommate, but are convinced he doesn’t feel the same way.

Prompts: Roommate AU for @avengers-assemble-bingo’s 108th Birthday Celebration & you can’t lose something you never had for @elixirfromthestars’s cinema writing challenge 🎥

Warnings: strictly 18+, talk of sex, TRIGGER WARNING internal monologue references reader having issues with weight & eating, sucking in her stomach, VERY insecure reader, angst in the form of belief of unrequited love, jealousy, idiots in love

Word count: 3.6k

A/N: as the winner of this very close poll, here is a little roommate AU with our beloved Bucky 🩵 banners by @vase-of-lilies

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“You’re telling me you share an apartment with a man who looks like that and you haven’t fucked him?” Natasha stares after your roommate as he heads to the bar to grab the drink he promised to purchase you for losing a bet the weekend before.

“Men and women can just be friends you know.”

“If my roommate looked like yours, I’d be jumping his bones every chance I got.”

He’s way out of my league, and as much as I might want him, he doesn’t think of me like that, is the rather depressing thought that has been replayed on loop in your mind since the devilishly attractive yet sweet as an angel Bucky Barnes moved in with you.

But instead of voicing aloud your insecurity, you simply hum in agreement. It’s easier than trying to explain your one sided crush that’s only ever going to end in heartache.

“Well if you’re not interested, do you mind if I go for it? Pretty sure he’d be the best sex of my life.” Your heart drops through your stomach like an anvil. The thought of Bucky being intimate with anyone, let alone your best friend, is enough to send you into a spiral.

Nat’s much more the type he’d go for anyway, beautiful, skinny, quick witted. Everything you’re not. She’s always the one who gets attention from guys at places like this, whereas you’re the ‘approachable one’ who gets asked if Nat’s single.

No one’s ever interested in you, especially not when you’re sitting next to your much hotter, thinner best friend.

“C’mon, there’s lots of guys here you could take home. You really have to make things awkward by sleeping with my roommate?” You try to sound as calm and collected as possible, but the lump in your throat betrays you.

Nat gives you a knowing look, seeing straight through your weak facade. She is your best friend after all, and knows you better than practically anyone in the world. “Of course I wouldn't, darling - I’m just trying to get you to admit you like him.”

There’s something almost worse about Nat knowing you’re crushing on Bucky - she can be so incessant, honing in on something and making it her mission to see it come to fruition, even if it’s to a bitter end. Which is exactly how your one sided crush will play out if she tries pushing you together.

You have an understanding which she hasn’t grasped yet that Bucky would never be attracted to you like that, and you’d rather spare your poor heart from his rejection and find a way to be content with friendship than risk hearing you’re too big, too unattractive, too much not his type for anything to happen.

“Can we just drop it. We’re roommates, nothing more.” But you know Nat’s incapable of letting something go once she’s got her claws sunk into it. You mostly love her for it, but in this one instance, it’s a right pain in the ass.

“You know if you give it a chance, you might find he likes you too. He’s got a smitten little smile for you.”

This is what you’re afraid of. Hope.

The buoyant feeling in your chest which swells as you picture what dating Bucky might actually be like. How soft his lips would be against yours, how he’d mumble sweet devotions against your skin before tasting every inch of you, how in a room packed to the brim like the bar you’re in now, his eyes search for yours and everyone else in the periphery fades into nonexistence because you are the focal point of his entire world.

But it’s that blind belief which will tear your heart to tatters. Hope will be your cause of death in the end. The expectation of a happy outcome despite all available evidence which will be your ultimate downfall.

“Don’t be ridiculous, look at him, there’s no way he’d ever be interested in me.” But yet, despite how much you tell yourself you’re destined for heartbreak, you can’t quite snuff out that last ember of hope deep in your chest when Bucky turns around with your drink in his hand and smiles reflexively as his eyes set on you all the way across the room.

“I hate it when you put yourself down like that.” There’s a glint in Nat’s eye like she wants to say more, but she notices Bucky returning from the bar and the words die in the back of her throat.

“Here you go, Sunrise.” His nickname for you ignites a flame in both your cheeks, and you’re forced to look down at the table in attempts to hide your reaction. He started calling you that within the first week of moving in, realising your love for staying up to read all night, until the sun came up the following day.

You try not to read into it too much that you are the only person you know of that Bucky has a nickname for. He’s just being friendly. A nice roommate.

“That’s the last time I bet you anything to do with food. Clearly you can eat and drink me under the table any day.” You know he’s just teasing about your bet, who could eat more spicy Indian food without needing to take a drink to subdue the burning heat on your tongue, but any comment related to the amount of food you eat or your weight always hits a little too close to home.

“Thanks Bucky.” Taking your drink from him, your fingers brush, sending goosebumps shivering down your arm, and his dazzling blue eyes regard you with what your hopeful heart believes is warm adoration. “At least you’re not being a sore loser this time round.”

“Excuse you, I’ve never been a sore loser. You just like to bend the rules to suit yourself.” He retorts before taking a sip of his beer, and you find it impossible to look away from how his perfectly plump lips cover the opening and his Adam’s apple bobs as he takes a sip.

You are so far gone for him.

“Sore loser.” You call in a sing-song voice that makes him chuckle in that way you can feel down to your bones. “Don’t blame me just because you can’t handle the heat, Barnes.”

His finger traces a light trail down your bare forearm which lights your skin on fire. You’re not even sure Bucky’s aware he’s doing it, it seems so casually intimate, such a soft touch as his eyes bore into yours, but it sends your brain into a meltdown.

“Oh Sunrise, you don’t know the kind of heat I can bring if I really tried.”

His face is so close to yours you can smell the beer on his breath and see how he wets his lips with a swipe of his tongue. He’s got these freckles scattered along his high cheekbones which reach the tips of his ears, that you want to place delicate kisses to, learn the constellations of pigmentation over his body so you could point them out blindfolded.

And those fucking eyes, they’re impossible not to fall in love with. Those saxe eyes which hold so much wonder and tenderness, which seems to pool in the slightly darker flecks at the centre. You really would be perfectly content if those eyes were the last you ever see, being lured underneath the waves of blue to your doom, but like a siren's victim, you’d dive in with a smile on your face.

There’s a cough from your left which breaks the trance Bucky’s eyes have you in. You would never admit it aloud, but you’d forgotten, just for a brief moment, that your best friend was at the table with you.

Nat’s looking at you with a bold grin and you know before she even opens her mouth that she’s about to say something cheeky and probably completely against your wishes to keep your yearning devotion a secret.

“I’m gonna go up to the bar and see if I can flirt my way to scoring a shot.” She announces as she stands, a shameless look passing between you and Bucky. “Some of us don’t have sex personified living in the next room we can flirt with to buy us free alcohol. You kids have fun continuing whatever that was. Just make sure to use protection.”

Nat walks off without another word, but after her quip, you find you can’t look Bucky quite in the eye.

You’re positive in this moment he’ll laugh at the insinuation that anything remotely romantic or sexual exists between you two and you brace yourself for the puncture to your heart.

But instead, he just looks at you with those big blue eyes and smiles warmly, as if Nat had simply commented about needing to use the restroom to excuse her absence.

“Sex personified, huh? Is that what you two were whispering about behind my back before?” You might just burst into flames if you actually admit that to him, but the cocky smirk he shoots you suggests he is already fully aware how much sex appeal he has.

It feels like your heart is beating in your throat as you answer and you pray he can’t hear the difference in your voice.

“No, not that it’s any of your business, but don’t act like you don’t know how gorgeous you are Barnes.”

There’s a sparkle in his eye as he smiles and scrunches his nose in that way which makes your tummy somersault. You could be fooled into thinking you were back in your apartment alone with him, the only girl within a hundred miles with the way his pupils grow wide and fixate solely on you in this bar crowded with people much more alluring than yourself.

You shake your head, almost imperceptibly, trying to rid your mind of sanguine thoughts that are just setting you up to be greatly disappointed.

You can’t get your hopes up.

There’s a dartboard which becomes available beside your table and you stand with your drink. “C’mon, last weekend you told me you’d show me how to play this ridiculous game and I’m holding you to that.”

It’s not that you don’t already understand the principle of darts, but when Bucky promises to spend more time with you, you’re not about to turn him down.

There’s this gleam in his eye you can’t quite place as he stands and follows you to the dark corner of the bar. You want to believe it’s something of endearment at calling him ‘gorgeous’, a fondness he reserves only for you, but you try reminding yourself that’s the kind of false hope you’ve been desperately shoveling out of your chest and you have to be stronger to not allow such optimistic concepts to penetrate through your defences.

Bucky quickly goes through the rules you were vaguely familiar with already, then shows you how it’s done by throwing two darts into the single twenty score area and then hitting a bullseye. He looks proud of himself too, and it brings a smile to your face just how cute he looks. Is he trying so hard to impress you?

Pushing that thought from your mind, you step up to take your aim. Your first throw goes very astray, not even hitting the dartboard at all, but instead sticking into the wood panelling about a foot below it.

You feel horrified that you’ve just embarrassed yourself, not only in front of Bucky, but the entire bar. Looking around with a sheepish grimace, you find fortunately no one is paying any attention to you, and when your eyes land on Bucky, you can’t help but both burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter that lasts so long you’re cheeks start to hurt.

“It takes a special kind of talent to miss by that much Sunrise.” He snickers, but his eyes still softly gaze at you even as he teases.

“Shut up, it’s my first attempt.” You playfully rib back.

“C’mere, let me show you.” He stands at your back, so close you can smell his aftershave, a spicy cinnamon that reminds you of home, as his touch ghosts along your arms.

He fiddles with your fingers, delicately directing them where he wants them on the dart. You’re pliant to his every command, conforming to the stance he wants you in, you even tilt your head up when he uses two fingers under your chin to carefully guide your eye line to where he wants it.

Holding the small projectile in line with your eyes, you’re extremely aware that Bucky’s examining you, gazing at your profile, the curve of your nose, the undulations of your lips. You feel exposed, like he’s critiquing you, but when the outcome of that is him beaming a besotted smile in your direction, you feel like you must have done something right.

You let the dart fly, barely able to concentrate on where it’s going, too caught up in how close Bucky is, how his hand rests on your waist like he was made to hold you, how his broad chest behind you is as solid as a wall, yet would be the perfect place to rest your head as you fell to sleep every night.

It punctures into the board this time, scoring a measly four points, but it’s sufficient for Bucky to wrap his arms around your middle, rest his head on your shoulder and give you a squeeze as he lowers his husky voice in your ear. “There you go, great job Sunrise.”

You try not to think about how large your stomach is as he holds you, sucking in slightly, instead trying to savour the feeling of being in his arms. If he recognises how fast your heart is now beating against his chest, he doesn’t mention it.

The two of you continue to play your game, forgetting all about the hearty atmosphere of the bar, just enjoying each other's company, and your atrocious attempt at beating Bucky in a game he’s had far too much experience with.

You suspect he downplays his skill - you hope to spend more time alone with you, but more than likely just so you don’t feel completely embarrassed by your endeavours.

Once he’s beaten you for a second time, you find a free table to set yourselves, before you go up to the bar to order a second round. You can’t seem to shake the smile off your face as you give the bartender your order. A sense of light optimism builds in your chest, Bucky’s just given up his night to spend with you as you make a fool of yourself playing darts.

He could be out with anyone, giving them all his attention. But instead he’s with you. Eyes softening and an enchanting smile spreading on his features as if he’s already precisely where he wants to be.

You turn to look back at Bucky to find the one thing in the world that could dampen your high spirits.

He’s sitting at the table where you just left him, chatting up one of the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen.

It’s as if someone’s poured a bucket of ice cold water over you. This devastating, borderline nauseating, chasm cleaving your chest in two is exactly why hope is the most dangerous feeling to cultivate unchecked.

She’s absolutely stunning, with shoulder length blonde hair, a glittery, low plunging top that brings out the radiance in her light eyes and accentuates her fit figure. She’s everything you’re not, everything Bucky deserves, and everything that makes you so acutely aware of how much physical space you take up in the world.

How someone as beautiful as Bucky could never be attracted to the likes of you when women like her walk on this earth.

It feels like there’s a cyclone wreaking havoc in your stomach as you watch their interaction. It looks sort of casual, at least given how far they are seated apart in such a noisy room, but there’s an axe carving your heart into splinters at the mere thought of what flirty chat is bouncing between them, the smile curving on his lips, and you find yourself needing to turn away.

You know you can’t lose what was never yours in the first place, but then why does it feel like your soul is disintegrating and being sucked out of your body through a hole in your sternum?

Bucky’s single, the two of you aren’t even remotely dating, you are purely roommates. You just so happened to have a spare room available at the same time he broke up with his ex and needed somewhere to sleep. You were a convenient solution to the awkward situation he found himself in.

And you’ve never been anything more.

He has every right to flirt, fuck and date whomever he pleases. Which decidedly isn’t you.

You search out Nat who’s over by the other side of the room, your extremities almost feeling numb as you walk past so many groups of friends and handsy partners, knowing that the one person who consumes your entire world simply views you as just someone whom he shares a bathroom with and occasionally bets wagers of buying a round of drinks.

She’s flirting with some handsome, tall stranger who appears to have bought her a couple drinks. You don’t want to ruin her night either, but you know she’d be irate if you disappeared without telling her.

All you want is the comfort of your bed, snuggled underneath a mountain of blankets where you can escape into a world where Bucky isn’t flirting with someone who is both much prettier and much thinner than you.

Should you even go home if Bucky brings her back to the apartment where you’d be subjected to listening to the entire affair?

Probably not, but at this point you just need to get out of here, as far away as possible from the scene which is causing your throat to constrict and tears to sting behind your eyes.

You touch Nat on the upper arm to pull her attention. “Imma head home.”

Her line of sight specifically redirects to the table you were seated with Bucky at, to find the source of your crushing heartbreak.

“Alright, then I’m coming with you.”

“No, please stay, have fun, I’m fine it’s just getting a little loud in here.” You lie through your teeth, but after pretending all night you're not about to start admitting your feelings now. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The look Nat gives you is a clear indication she doesn’t believe your fib, but you simply turn away from her piercing eyes and stalk towards the door, trying to avoid bumping into the crowd of people in your path.

What you don’t realise as you make your hasty exit, head down to avoid watching Bucky flirt with the beautiful blonde, is that he watches with an aching heart as you take every step without so much as saying goodbye - because he notices everything about you, in every scenario, hoping for any fraction of your attention in return.

He swiftly grabs his jacket to chase after you, muttering a quick apology to his coworker he really doesn’t mean. He sees enough of her Monday to Friday for her to consume his weekends as well, especially when it's taking time away which could instead be spent with you.

“Sunrise, wait up!” You hear a very familiar deep voice call from behind you just as you’re about to put on your headphones. You’d know that voice anywhere, even if he hadn’t used your nickname.

“Bucky? What’re you doing?”

“You think I’m gonna let you walk home alone this late at night?” He says with such an ease, as if it were the only possible outcome given the situation. Like he didn’t have a drop dead gorgeous woman in the bar waiting to take him home and do downright pornographic things to him.

“I didn’t mean to ruin your fun. It’s only a couple blocks, I can walk it myself.” You can’t find it in you to feel guilty about pulling him away from the woman inside, especially not when he looks so content having followed you out into the cold night air.

“Firstly, you're daft if you think I’m letting you walk that far by yourself. I’d be worried about you the whole time.” He tilts his head to the side and it reminds you of a sweet puppy gazing at their owner with fondness, willing to pursue them anywhere. “Secondly, you’re not ruining anything. It’s no fun without you there anyway.”

Warmth blooms in your chest that even though it’s just as roommates, you’re the one Bucky’s returning to the apartment with. He’s not going home with Nat, or any other stunning girl he could pull with a single flirty glance. Instead it’s you who he drapes his jacket around when he notices you shivering and slows his large strides to allow you to keep up as you walk casually back home. Taking your time to extend your conversation and absorb the scent of his coat as you pull it tighter around yourself.

Dammit, there’s that incessant hope again.

You really are too enamoured with him for your own good. Even if it wasn’t tonight, you're just setting yourself up for a more agonising downfall in the end.

Part 2 > >

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peepshow321 · 1 month ago

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TaskRaccoon Premium: Chapter 1

Josh was at a dead end. For years he had put his entire focus and energy on his education and studies, above his social life, his health, and his finances. He came top of his class in History and Classics and so in his head all that hard l work had paid off, but now that he had graduated... what was next? His classmates had swanned off into internships and graduate programmes, but Josh found himself in the summer after graduating with no job, no prospects and, most importantly, no money.

Josh's parents had supported him throughout his further education, but now that he was back home they decided to treat Josh like an adult. And that meant rent. Josh balked at the suggestion, but his parents were adamant and so Josh found himself on the job hunt.

This proved trickier than Josh anticipated. Turns out the local libraries and bookshops didn't care about his top degree; they wanted experience. And as Josh lowered his sights to restaurants, cafes, even the bowling alley, he found himself receiving the same feedback.

Needing to save making cash quick, a sympathetic interviewer told Josh to pick up the odd job on TaskRaccoon - an app where Josh could choose to help people with tasks like moving furniture, watering plants, doing shopping in exchange for a small fee. It wasn't perfect, especially as Josh didn't really have the build or inclination for manual jobs, and Josh often found himself doing jobs he never expected while at school. But over time Josh felt an unexpected satisfaction with earning a buck and paying his parents. So much so that Josh had bigger aspirations - moving out of his parents place.

That, of course, required money. And while Josh worked hard with the TaskRaccoon jobs he was given, he needed something more.

On a random Tuesday afternoon, a solution seemed to land out of nowhere on Josh's TaskRaccoon app: TaskRaccoon Premium. Out of nowhere, Josh's app pop-up with a link to a Premium version of the app. It was an additional service where workers such as Josh would get a boosted fee for the same types of tasks plus, according to the app, receive "all the skills and know-how to complete the task to perfection." Josh figured that last bit was maybe the app providing how-to guides on how to complete the more common tasks, which he took as a nice freebie.

To lure users in, there was even an offer - sign-up to TaskRaccoon Premium, perform a randomly assigned task, and receive double the boosted fee. Josh had done his fair share of the most common tasks on the app already (walk my dog, assemble my shelves, do my groceries) so figured it was well worth his while to take the gamble. And so Josh bit the bullet, sign up for a Premium account, and waited to be given his first random task.

Without any pause and without any fanfare, Josh's first random task appeared: "I need someone to clean my pool". Josh groaned; it wasn't the first time he had seen a pool cleaning request but it was one he always chose to ignore because he felt he didn't have any of the right equipment and would have no idea where to start. And while this new Premium version had offered access to "skills and know-how", there only thing on the app was an address. Josh couldn't even see an option to cancel.

Josh wavered, but as he saw the blue sky outside and remembered the promise of a doubled fee, he decided to go for it. He could rake some leaves out of a pool easily enough. The address was only a 15 minute drive away, so Josh grabbed the keys to his mum's sedan and got going.

It felt good to be outside and Josh enjoyed the sunny drive. So much so that he didn't notice his mum's humble car begin to change. The front section became blockier and more basic, her touchscreen sat nav becoming an older model. The seats and interior decor became faded, and Josh had to readjust his seating position as the car seemed to somehow lift off the ground. The steering wheel grew in size and, to match it, bizarrely, so did Josh's hands. Without warning, Josh's pale hands began to darken in complexion and as they grasped the now-rough wheel Josh didn't notice the veins that ran down with now lean and well-rounded hands.

Josh pulled up to a red light, momentarily confused about how he seemed to sit above the surrounding cars. He also felt cramped in the car and realised that his seat was pushed up way too far. He, a bit embarrassingly, was the same height as his mum so he never normally had to adjust the seat, but as he pushed the seat back he realised just how much he needed to stretch out his legs. As the light turned to green, he was oblivious to his jeans riding up and becoming a loose pair of swimming shorts, revealing his now lengthy and toned legs, feathered with dark hair.

Josh pulled up at the designated address shortly after, a sizeable house in a nice neighbourhood. As he got of the car, he was for a moment confused by his need to climb out of the car and then felt off balance when he landed on the tarmac. Before he could interrogate any further though, he looked in surprise at the pick-up truck boot filled with pool cleaning gear. A voice in the back of Josh's mind told him to panic - why the hell did he suddenly have all this gear - but remembering that he had a job to do Josh collected the gear and approached the house. Josh stopped en route to take his jumper off to enjoy the warm sun, not noticing the way his new well-fitted tank top which hung closely to his chest and showed off his slightly more toned arms or the darker shade of his skin...

Josh carried the gear with surprising ease to the front door, and was warmly welcomed by a middle-aged women who introduced herself as Beth. Beth showed Josh to her garden where a medium-sized pool sat, clearly long overdue a clean. Josh thanked Beth, pausing a little at the vague lilt coming out of his month. Was it just him, or just his voice sound deeper...

Josh got to work. The pool needed much more than just some leaves removed but with every task, Josh found himself instinctively knowing what to do. Which pump to use, when to apply chemicals, how to get the pH levels perfect, it all just flooded into Josh's mind. And he was surprised at how flexible he was at reaching all the right places - Josh didn't love manual jobs but he almost felt like his reach had gotten better. It was hot work though and Josh removed his baseball hat and towelled his brow and face, briefly feeling unfamiliar stubble on his face and thick short locks of hair on his scalp.

It wasn't long before Josh has completed his job, a sense of pride sweeping over him as he stared into the now pristine waters. That pride however quickly morphed into confusion as he gazed at the reflection in the shimmering water. Maybe it was distorted, but there was no way that that tall, dark reflection could be him. He was shirt, slender, pale, wasn't he?

He dropped his net and stared at his hands. His suddenly thick, dark hands. Josh began to breath sharply as he noticed just how high up he was, that he was in an outfit that he had never bought, and that his short, pale self had seemingly been replaced with a tanned, lean body.

As Josh was clutching at his newly stubbled face and grasping at the space where his small paunch should be, Beth came out with a pitcher of cool lemonade. Josh spun around in panic, and before Beth could say anything he muttered "lo siento" and ran back to his car.

Josh stopped sharply outside as he stared at the beaten up pick up truck outside Beth's drive, a truck that sat where he thought his mum's sedan should be. A truck that keys in his pocket unlocked. Breathing deeply, and trying his best not to panic, he clampered into the car and pulled down the mirror, staring at the unfamiliar dark eyes that stared back at him. Dark eyes amongst a handsome face, with a strong chin covered in thick but trimmed stubble and framed by dark, tightly curled locks. "What the fuck" Josh uttered, eyes widening at the accented deep voice that emerged.

Josh explored his tightly muscled body now covered in a light sweat when his phone pinged. He unlocked it - the phone recognised his face even if Josh didn't - and the TaskRaccoon app popped up, showing a task completed and $500 dollars deposited in his account.

But what kept Josh's eye though were the other task options appearing. There were more pool cleaning jobs, but also other tasks ranging from moving furniture, plumbing, and even covering people's work shifts. Josh noted that there was an option to cancel his "Premium" membership, but some of the fees weren't to be sniffed at. His breathing calmed down and Josh sat into his car seat, and pondered his options.

Chapter 2

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Hi all!

Some of you may have seen this story on other sites, but I'm bringing it to Tumblr for the first time and with pics! There will also be some small tweaks as I post over the next few weeks.

As always, welcome any feedback or chats!

#race change #male tf #racial transformation #male transformation #whitetolatino #mywork #TaskRaccoon #poolboy #reality change

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almostfoxglove · 4 months ago

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ONE NIGHT EARLY

a secret santa surprise for @talaok ! ✨ as part of @pedrostories' #pedrostoriesgift24 event ✨

RATING: Explicit (18+) | PAIRING: Joel Miller x f!Reader WORD COUNT: 2.2k | CW: Established relationship, tooth-rotting fluff, brief reference to canon-typical violence / danger / the end of the world, but you're safe.

SUMMARY: You vow to find out where Joel hides his Christmas gifts while he's away on patrol.

read on ao3 | main masterlist | get notifs

It has to be here somewhere.

In the three years since you moved in with Joel—hell, even in the two years before that—you have never found your Christmas present before the day. The man’s determined, sworn to his secrecy. Takes great pride in catching you snooping around, digging, scurryin’, as he once muttered under his breath, shaking his head with that charm and smirk you can’t help but fall for. Every year, you swear you’ll find it, and Joel just crosses his arms with a shrug, cheek dimpled and eyes dark with affection, and tells you good luck, darlin’, confident you won’t.

This year, though. This year will be different because for the whole week leading up to Christmas, Joel is away with Tommy on patrol and you have the house to yourself. Seven days of freedom to pry and stick your nose where it probably doesn’t belong.

It takes you two days to tear the house apart. Every dish yanked from his cupboard, every shirt and worn pair of jeans thrown from the closet, every pocket turned out—you flip the mattress and unbundle his socks and rip the covers off all the couch cushions and find fuck all. One old, oxidized penny. Dust bunnies, dryer lint, wood shavings. Spent matches, a bullet case. A fossilized receipt robbed of its printed contents.

You spend two more going through everything again. The place is a dump; when Ellie swings by to borrow his guitar she lifts one eyebrow at you from the doorway, weary of the tornado you’ve left scattered across the first floor. Says, “Good to know four days is all it takes for you to lose your shit.”

“I’m not losing my shit,” you say, one hand waving dismissively as you climb the stairs.

Quick on your heels she mutters, “Whatever you say, grandma,” just loud enough for you to hear.

When she’s gone, you take a deep breath. The living room is a slaughter, more disastrous than the aftermath of any raiders or weather event. Couch cushions stand mountainous and stripped naked, the carpet’s rolled up against one wall, all the charcoal and half-spent logs have been scraped from the fireplace onto the floor. You’ll admit that might not have been strictly necessary, but you’ve looked everywhere, checked everything, and uncovered zilch. No gifts. And at the very least, Joel has—with his handsome, freckled, silvered face proud and smiling—conceded that his hiding spot is in the house. Doesn’t stash nothing at Tommy’s or in Ellie’s garage. It’s here. Somewhere. Driving you up the goddamn wall.

It’s not like you even know what you’re looking for, but you’ll know when you see it—of this you are sure.

Room by room, you reassemble the house, shuffling all the knick-knacks you’ve each cautiously assembled in this bizarre second chance at a life into their proper positions. His carvings are your favorites, and you rehome them on their shelves with care. You slide the few photographs each of you has into line on the mantle, behind the string lights. It ain’t the same as the world that for nearly thirty years has been dead and gone, but now and then you get flickers of that long-absent comfort. The day the Christmas lights go up in Jackson. The snowmen built by your neighbor’s kids in the street. Jars of homemade strawberry jam.

Ellie and Joel playing guitar, his deep timbre humming along to her clumsy chords.

The tight squeeze of your chest when his boots croak the porch and you know he’s finally home.

The softness of his face first thing in the morning, scarred and weathered, kind. All the long tresses of his graying hair slumped out of place.

As you restore the house’s comfort and clutter over the shrinking days of his absence, you recheck and recheck and recheck and continue to come up empty. At night in the black veil of your shared bedroom, you sleep on his side of the bed with your face crushed in his pillow, breathing him in.

On the 24th, you wake prepared to wave the white flag when he returns in the evening. You’re going to pout about it, but you’ll give in. Surrender to the superiority of his stupid, squirrelling mind, and admit once and for all that he’s bested you. You have no fucking clue where he hides his gifts. He wins. But you sulk as the day bleeds by, and more than once catch yourself affixed with a frown as you trudge through the crunch of Jackson’s snow-packed streets. As you groom the horses due for the next patrol shift and eat your dinner in the mess hall across from folks you’re only half listening to as they regale you with tales of their day, too distracted by the scrape of spoons against bowls and the emptiness of your hands.

Greedy, that’s what you’re being. Wanting all of him for yourself. You just miss him. You hate when patrol stretches this long, leaving you alone with your cloying worry.

After the sun has set and bowls have emptied, Jackson goes blue. All the snow piled to frame the gravel roads glitters with fresh frost and ice. On your way back to the house, you watch your shadow slide and flicker as you pass beneath the warmth of streetlamps. Someone down the road has a window open, letting the notes of their piano ribbon through the air.

Even with all the lights and the chatter that tonight could bring fresh snow to the valley, you can’t help but feel a hollowness that you’ve only managed to shake when Joel’s around and the two of you are alone. It’s not all the time, but it happens—a magic you’d believed impossible before you stumbled across this Eden half-dead and were brought inside. Impossible until you met him, and everything latched into place.

You’ve loved before. Almost got married once, in the world that’s gone. But there’s no comparing how it felt to fall slowly, clumsily into Joel.

You’re not sure when he’s due to return tonight. Hopefully soon.

Shedding layers as you tread into the hollow house, you light a weakling’s fire in the hearth you know he’ll tease you for, then ascend to your bedroom to change, flicking the light on upstairs so he knows, whenever he gets back, that you’re home. Waiting for him, empty-handed but no less relieved. But as you cross the gold-lit bedroom, a floorboard near the foot of the bed wheezes strangely. This whole house croaks and groans just like everything in Jackson—that sure ain’t new—but this sound is different. You’re not sure you’ve heard it before. Not sure you’ve ever stepped in this exact place.

A grin slips sharp across your face at the smell of victory. You kick back the corner of the rug to bring your heel down hard against the board beneath it, and pop. Up comes the plank, perfect as a seesaw, revealing the black cavern beneath.

In the shadowed hideaway, a small box lies in the dark beneath the floor.

There it is.

But all the world beyond this room, this box, disappears the moment you set it in your palm.

You don’t hear the porch steps’ announcement, nor the turn of the latch. You don’t hear the squealing door or how the heavy footsteps soften as he removes his boots to leave outside. Not even your name, often intoxicating on his tongue, reaches you in the bedroom—nor when he repeats it on the stairs.

You’re too busy staring at what you’ve found after all you’re searching.

Then Joel’s in the doorway behind you, and you wake from what you’ve just now begun to believe must be some strange dream.

“Stubborn,” comes his voice, and at the sound you smack the box against your chest to hide it as you whirl around, still on your knees. Stupid you know. Useless. He can see the rug peeled back and the hole cut out of the floor, slender as a piano key. He knows you’ve won.

Broad in the door’s wooden frame, pink-cheeked and snug in his leather coat, Joel stands with the frosting of fresh snow clinging to his hair. He’s been growing it out, to your great pleasure, letting all his silver and curls go free. “I didn’t—” you start to say, but the words thin out and crumble. Your head’s not on quite straight, your heart not yet settled. Eyes still nickel round with shock.

You hadn’t considered how he might react if you succeeded. Maybe he’ll be mad. Take it back.

But as you stare up at him, all bambi, Joel shakes his head and one snow-dotted curl slips out from the shell of his ear. As he rights it, his scarred hand rising, you see the dirt under his nails in the warm light. The stain on the knee of his jeans. You see too his lips, plush and touched by winter’s aridity, as they twitch in one corner, curling into his cheek. Curling up. Smiling as his eyes hold yours, not mad. Not shy. He’s been inside long enough now that there’s a fifty-fifty chance that the color in his cheeks might even be a blush.

“Are you mad?” you ask, your voice soft enough to call a whisper.

He shakes his head again, steps over the threshold, and amber light from the lamp falls over him like Midas, turning him from man to gold. One step more and his mouth pulls wider, cuts that wink in his cheek you can’t help but stare at. “Course not,” he says gently. “Knew you were lookin’. Y’can have it one night early.”

It probably doesn’t mean what you think it means, but you’re surprised to discover you’re hoping as you swallow hard, blinking some of the shock from your eyes. He’s here; you ought to get up and hug him—welcome him home, your person here, safe and whole—but you’re too scared to move. Terrified that any flinch will make the box and its contents disappear.

“Is this for me?”

Wry, he rolls his eyes. “Think you know it is.”

“I feel bad,” you say. “I got you a shirt.”

He’s generous enough to chuckle, and the low, earthy sound of it strikes flames along the column of your neck. “Could use a new shirt,” he says, smirking a little. “This one needs a wash.”

“Shut up,” you chide, but the words come out weak. He’s not allowed to joke right now because if you laugh, you might start to cry.

“Darlin’,” he says too softly. That’s the tone that makes honey of your insides, cruel in the gentle way it asks you to let him in.

Though your vision starts to puddle, you wrestle the feeling back. “S’pretty.”

The slightest nod. Then he unzips his coat to lay over the armchair in the corner of the room and you watch him, pinned to the floor despite the ache in your knees. “Was hopin’ you’d think so,” he admits with his back to you, the blades and muscles in his shoulders and back sliding gracefully beneath his flannel like waves on a lake. Antithetical to the thunder of your heart, Joel moves with a patience you can’t quite believe. In no rush at all, like you’re not holding what you’re holding in your shaking hands. Like some little band of metal doesn’t mean what it did before the world bit the dust and fell away.

The question sits like an icicle on your tongue, slowly melting, pooling behind your teeth.

Joel lumbers back, the soreness of his body just barely visible in his bow-legged stride, to sit on the edge of the bed just behind you. The mattress squeaks. One hand cards through his hair. Slow is his next breath. Steady. But on the exhale, you swear you hear the tiniest shake, a tiny tremble.

Realization strikes down at you like lightning: electric and tingling, zipping skull to spine to fingertips, blinding and white. He’s nervous.

Which means the ring in your hand isn’t just a ring.

Lamblike, you force yourself to your feet and the mattress mouses as you sink against his side. Igneous is his body against yours—such a familiar warmth. Rigid and walled to all but a few. Open to you, in moments like these, when he lets you glimpse the whole of him in his eyes and you swear you might be capable of reading the thoughts straight from his mind. Joel nudges his arm harder to yours, and you see the question coming before it slips from his tongue. You see it brewing in the gilt of his eyes just as clearly as you hear your own answer ricochet in your head.

You don’t cut him off, jump to yes. Instead you lower your hands from their hold against your chest at last, letting the box sit in your lap, open to his regard. Evening lamplight makes ice of the clear stone set squarely on its ring, and the heat of his breath kisses your cheek as he leans in to mumble,

“Y’gonna make me get down on one knee?”

dividers by @saradika-graphics!

NOTE: I am officially moving away from tag lists as they've gotten lengthy (thank you for that <3) so please follow @foxglovenotifs and turn on notifications to get alerts for future updates!

#joel miller fanfic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fic #tlou fanfiction #pedrostoriesgift24 #joel miller #pedro pascal #almostfoxglove #myfics #fic: onenightearly #pedro pascal fanfiction

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neteyawne · 9 months ago

Text

neteyam sully imagine <3

summary; neteyam helps his favorite girl out after she gets sick.

word count! 2.4k

SICKENINGLY SWEET.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

You never missed breakfast.

It was your favorite meal of the day - the time where you and Neteyam would finally see each other after the night had kept you apart from your yawne. Beloved.

During breakfasts, he’d pick the freshest fruits from his bowl and place them into yours - piling and piling the delicious treats on your plate and insisting you deserved to eat only the best. Of course you would share with him - the two of you feeding each other while Lo’ak would gag dramatically at the romantic gesture.

Neteyam had been waiting patiently for you, sitting with his empty bowl in front of him and an already assembled plate - which was overflowing with delicious fruits - placed next to him and meant for you.

The first few minutes of your initial absence were nothing concerning - you were usually always a little late. Your tardiness always gave him a laugh. He’d watch you stumble in between na’vi’s who were already seated - flustered and apologizing every time for passing through with an embarrassed smile on your face as you made your way to him.

When the clan began eating, he told himself you were just running a little more late than usual. Neytiri nudged him, asking him why he was not eating. He only smiled, fingers running over the bracelet on his wrist which you’d gifted him as he explained he wouldn’t eat until you arrived.

Jake gave his eldest son a toothy grin at his words - while Lo’ak groaned

“Seriously? You refuse to eat? She’s not gonna die if you take a bite, you know.” Lo’ak insisted, inspecting the tower of food on your plate with clear jealousy as Neteyam carefully moved it away from his brother - already anticipating Lo’ak wouldn’t even hesitate to snatch a fruit from your plate.

“Yes, I know. But I’ll eat when she comes. Jealous she has more food than you, baby bro?” Neteyam teased as Lo’ak rolled his eyes

“You know she’d share them all with me if I just asked her.” Lo’ak threw back as Neteyam grinned

“Yes. I know that.” He said, a smile on his face as Lo’ak resumed his meal, ranting on about how he’d never hold off his meal for anyone.

But Neteyam’s worriedness only grew as he didn’t hear the usual ruckus of your late arrival - his eyes searched the rows of peacefully eating na’vi and he didn’t see you at all. He also quickly realized your mother had also not come.

“Mother, I am going to check on Y/n. She and her mother are not here - may I eat with her, wherever she may be?” Neteyam quickly asked as Neytiri nodded her head with a frown

“I hope she is all right - make sure you take enough food for all of you to eat!” Neytiri called out after Neteyam as he quickly picked up your plate - bidding his family goodbye as his feet found the familiar path towards your home.

His brows were furrowed as he stood outside your sleeping area, seeing your mother and his Grandmother talking quietly

“Poor girl.” He heard your mother whisper as he slowly approached the pair with furrowed brows

“Auntie - Grandmother, Oel ngati kameie.” He spoke, his eyes worried as your mother sent the boy a sad smile

“Oel ngati kameie Neteyam. She is sick, my boy.” Your mother whispered, her quiet voice clearly indicating you were resting inside as Neteyam’s ears fell

“Sick? Y/n is sick?” He quickly asked as his Grandmother hushed him, handing Neteyam a small bottle as she turned to him with a strict gaze

“She won’t take the medicine - I have no idea why. That girl is stubborn, one of her only flaws. Do you think you can make her take it?” His Grandmother asked with urgency present in her voice as your mother gently took your fruit plate from Neteyam, giving his cheek a quick kiss before taking it inside. He smiled at her before turning back to his Grandmother with a nod

“Yes of course. She will take it.” He answered dutifully, knowing just how stubborn you could be at times. He loved everything about you - to him, you had no flaws. He did not see it as stubbornness, but determination.

“Good. Make sure she drinks the entire thing, every drop. It is necessary for her recovery. You care about her, right?” His grandmother asked as Neteyam immediately nodded his head

“Good. Now, go on.” She said, opening the flap and letting Neteyam go inside while she left, no doubt following your mother wherever she went.

You laid in your hammock, tracing the designs on the fabric mindlessly with your back towards him. He approached you slowly, his gentle hands moving forward to rest on your back

You turned at the touch of his hands - eyes confused and sleepy until you recognized the familiar boy - your yawne.

“Oh Neteyam! I missed you dearly.” You breathed out, your voice hoarse as Neteyam reached to cradle your face in his hands. He saw how tired you were and frowned

“My sweet girl, how did you get so sick? Y/n, you were fine last night.” Neteyam insisted, his voice concerned as he helped you sit up after seeing you try and fail with how tired you were.

“I am fine - just a little tired. And my throat.” You groaned, laying back down almost immediately after he helped you sit up with your arms outstretched above your head. Neteyam moved forward to feel your forehead before he let out a long sigh

“Your forehead is burning, tiyawn. Did you sleep well last night?” He questioned with a soft voice as he knelt beside your hammock, your medicine placed on the ground and out of your view as you let out a huff of breath.

“Yes! I was perfectly fine until this morning! I woke up with my head hurting and my feet aching.” You cried out as he pressed a soft kiss on your forehead, hands immediately moving to massage your feet after the words left your mouth

“My poor girl.” He said, his tone was teasing - you could easily hear the playful undertone. But you still curled towards him, relaxing as his hands released the pent up tension in your feet.

“Mmm. You know you’re the best, right?” You said as you closed your eyes. You felt his hands falter at your statement, and you peeked an eye open to look at him. He continued massaging, but he was frowning now.

“You won’t like me much in a little bit.” He said with a weak chuckle as you tilted your head in confusion

“Y/n, I know you won’t take the medicine. My Grandmother asked me to -”

“No!”

Your voice was hoarse as you yelled out, and Neteyam quickly put his hands up in surrender

“Easy, easy yawne. Lay back down.” He said gently as you crossed your arms over your chest firmly

“Neteyam, please. I do not want to take it.” You murmured as you rubbed your eyes. He clicked his tongue - showing his disappointment in your words as you turned to him with a knowing look.

“You wanna tell me why you’re so set on never taking this?” He questioned with a raised brow while holding the small bottle in the air, swishing it around as the green liquid moved inside

“I…I can’t tell you.” You stated, your voice quiet now as Neteyam clasped your hand comfortingly

“You know you can tell me anything, Y/n.” He spoke. His tone so calm after your outburst - so sincere that you felt yourself caving in from his sweet tactics

“Ok, ok. I am…afraid?” You said hesitantly, your words sounding more like a question than the intended statement as Neteyam’s eyes quickly widened

“No no, I know that look! You want to laugh!” You accused, pointing at him as he shook his head with a smile

“Why would I laugh at such a genuine fear?” He said whilst laughing. You felt your cheeks heat up as you huffed, crossing your arms and slumping in your hammock

“I’m sorry, so sorry alright? Now, tell me why you’re afraid.” He apologized, moving closer to you as his laughter subsided

After rolling your eyes, you decided there’s no need to hide why at all

“It smells funky.” You confess as his smile only widened

“Funky?”

“Yes. Disturbingly.”

The way you said it was so serious - like the medicine should genuinely be investigated, and it had him laughing all over again

“Oh I am so glad my sickness is so funny to you Neteyam!” You exclaimed as he quickly shook his head, struggling to wipe the smile off his face

“Y/n, listen. My Grandmother adores you, you think she didn’t pick the strongest and most effective cure for your sickness?” He asked as he searched your eyes, seeing your once positive demeanor fall as you realized the Tsahìk would never give you a bad medicine.

Your initial thoughts was that it had rotted when you’d first smelt the absolutely horrible thing, but you realized how silly that even sounded. The Tsahìk probably made it fresh just for you.

You thought for a bit, sitting in silence before you let out a sigh that had Neteyam’s ears perking up.

“Fine, I will drink it.” You said, looking at the medicine with hesitation as Neteyam placed a kiss on your cheek

“There’s my girl. Open up.” He said while you carefully opened your mouth for him. He untwisted the cap on the bottle, carefully tipping it into your mouth as you swallowed the distasteful thing with a strangled gasp

After drinking the entire thing - every drop - he gave you the leaf holding water beside your hammock to wash down the after taste

You were still coughing, and he gently patted your back to help you - his encouraging words never stopping as he told you how good you were

“So brave, that medicine had me shaking too, you know?” He said laughing as you joined in with him, unable to hold in your giggles as his tail swayed at the sound

“Now, push over.” He said with a playful gleam in his eyes

After talking for what seemed hours and the two of you eating all the fruits he’d brought - sleep eventually took over.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

You’d slept the whole day - and when you awoke, eclipse was nearing.

Your eyes widened as you realized the entire day had gone by while you were resting, and a sigh of disappointment left your lips as you realized you’d be unable to spend the rest of your day with Neteyam - as the two of you only separated at night to go to your respective sleeping quarters with your own families.

He must have left after you fell asleep to give you any more space you might’ve needed - and as much as you loved his generous heart, you wished he’d been selfish and stayed.

The medicine must have made you so tired, because it was only minutes later before you were asleep again.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

He awoke with his head burning and feet aching.

He groaned as he sat up, the light outside indicating it was midday by now.

He felt a soft hand on his chest lightly push him to lay back down, and he felt his heart leap at the sight of you

“Y/n?” He breathed out as you smiled sadly

“I got you sick - if you hate me, I can leave.” You whispered, and he sighed with pure relief as he realized you were better - your once tired eyes had regained their lively shine and the fact made him relax. He’d gone to sleep the night before tossing and turning - not knowing if your condition was better or if it had worsened - only contributing more to his lack of sleep and worsening his sickness

“Hate you? Never.” He said weakly with a breathless laugh that had you rolling your eyes and your arms reaching out to envelop him in a hug

“I am so sorry, Neteyam. It is my fault entirely. But I know just how to make you feel better!” You exclaimed, quickling looking into the pouch that Mo’at had given you as a pleased gasp left your lips

“Ta-da!” You singsonged as you held up the oh too familiar bottle

He let out a groan at the sight that had you laughing

“Can’t believe I’m the one taking it now.” He grumbled. Though his voice was entirely grumpy, there was a smile on his face as you opened the bottle

“There’s my boy. Open up.” You teased, throwing his words back to him as his lips parted in an instant for you.

You tipped the medicine into his mouth as he drank it all, a dribble of it trickling it down his chin as you wiped it away with a laugh

He was coughing moments later from the after taste - and like a good partner, you had water prepared and ready for him - and he drank it gratefully

Neytiri approached Neteyam’s hammock with the intention of simply checking in on him - but her steps slowed once she saw you kneeling beside him as the two of you spoke quietly

She watched with a secretive smile - the way you cradled Neteyam’s face as you peppered kisses all over him was simply adorable. She knew you’d have a heart attack if you knew she saw you kissing her son - so she began to leave, a smile on her face as she left the two of you alone.

After a lot of convincing, Neteyam let you lay with him in his hammock. You’d told him how the medicine the Tsahìk had given you would make sure you didn’t get sick again for the next few weeks - and he hesitantly placed his arms around you with a sigh - worried he’d get you sick.

“You’re so warm.” You mumbled against his skin as he merely chuckled, nuzzling his face into your scalp as he sighed

“Pretty sure that is because I’m sick.” He replied and you pretended to be grossed out

“Yuck!” You said laughing as you placed a kiss on his nose - one that had him blushing and hiding his face in the crook of your neck

It didn’t take even an hour more until the two of you were snoring away - your arms wrapped around each other as you slept safe and sound in one anothers embrace.

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vanteguccir · 8 months ago

Note

Thinking about boyfriend Matt that has a girlfriend that lives by herself and everytime she gests new forniture, she calls him like "Baby, can you come put this together for me? Thank you". I also think she would try to help and Matt would be tottally against it (not sure about this last part tho). Please write this.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤFURNITURE * MATT STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　where Y/N loves to buy new furniture for her home, and Matt is the one she always goes to to ask to put it together

FEATURING　Matt Sturniolo x reader

WARNINGS　::　none

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

Y/N had a knack for making her little apartment feel like home. Every few weeks, she'd spot something online; a new bookshelf, a cozy chair, or a quirky table, and decide that it was exactly what her space needed. But there was one catch: she wasn’t exactly a pro at assembling furniture. That’s where Matt came in.

The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the curtains of Y/N’s living room as she admired the large box that had just been delivered. It was a new coffee table, one she’d been eyeing for weeks. Knowing full well that she wasn’t going to tackle it on her own, she reached for her phone.

"Hey, baby." Y/N's voice was warm and playful as Matt answered on the first ring.

"Hey, dove. What’s up?" Matt replied, his tone softening at the sound of her voice.

Y/N glanced at the box.

"I got a little something for the living room. Think you could come over and help me put it together?"

Matt chuckled, already grabbing his car keys.

"Let me guess, another piece of furniture?"

"You know me too well." She grinned. "But yes, please? I promise to make us dinner afterward."

"On my way." Matt said without hesitation, already heading out the door. The thought of seeing her, even if it was to assemble something as simple as a coffee table, was more than enough to make his day.

About twenty minutes later, Matt arrived at Y/N’s apartment, greeted by her bright smile and the unmistakable excitement in her eyes. She stood in the doorway, barefoot and wearing one of his oversized hoodies; something that made Matt’s heart do a little flip every time he saw her in it.

"Thanks for coming." Y/N said, stepping aside to let him in. She watched as Matt eyed the box in the middle of the living room.

"Another project, huh?" He teased, approaching the box.

"Yeah, but I promise this is the last one for a while." Y/N laughed, knowing full well she’d probably find something new soon enough. She kneeled beside him, ready to help.

Matt quickly shook his head, gently nudging her hand away from the box.

"Uh-uh, you just sit back and relax, okay? I’ve got this."

"But I want to help!" Y/N protested, though there was no real determination in her voice. She knew he loved doing things like this for her on his own.

"No way." Matt insisted, his tone gentle but firm. He gave her a playful look, then tapped her nose lightly. "I can handle it. Just sit on the couch and look pretty while keeping me company. That’s all I need from you."

Y/N sighed, feigning disappointment, but the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her. She settled onto the couch, tucking her legs beneath her as she watched him. There was something incredibly comforting about the way Matt moved around her space, confidently taking charge of the task. His broad shoulders flexed beneath his shirt as he opened the box and started laying out the pieces.

"How do you even know what all these parts are?" Y/N asked, genuinely impressed as Matt made quick work of organizing the screws, panels, and tools.

Matt shrugged, flashing her a grin.

"Just good at following instructions, I guess. Plus, it’s kind of fun."

"Fun?" Y/N echoed with a laugh. "You’re putting together furniture, not playing a game."

"Maybe." He said, glancing over at her, his eyes full of warmth. "But it’s for you, so that makes it fun."

Her heart swelled at his words. Watching Matt carefully assemble the table, piece by piece, she couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of gratitude. It wasn’t just about the furniture; it was about the way he cared for her, the way he was always there to help without a second thought. It was the little things, like how he’d insist on doing the heavy lifting, or how he’d make sure every screw was tightened perfectly so she wouldn’t have to worry about anything.

After a while, the coffee table began to take shape. Y/N couldn’t resist getting up and kneeling beside him again, pretending to inspect his work.

"Looks good." She remarked, trying to keep her tone serious.

"Of course it does." Matt said with a chuckle. "I’m a professional."

She leaned in closer, teasingly brushing her fingers against his biceps.

"Maybe I should double-check, you know, just in case."

Matt rolled his eyes, but his smile was wide.

"If you want, but I guarantee it’s perfect."

Y/N gave him a look of mock suspicion before placing a soft kiss on his cheek.

"I trust you."

Matt’s hands paused for a moment, his eyes flickering to her with a mix of affection and pride. He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"You better."

With the table finally assembled, Matt stood up, stretching his arms above his head, his pink shirt riding up slightly, displaying his tummy to Y/N’s eyes.

"Done." He announced, stepping back to admire his work.

Y/N clapped her hands together, genuinely impressed.

"It looks amazing, baby. Thank you."

"Anything for you." Matt replied, his voice sincere. He watched as Y/N excitedly placed a few decorative items on the table, her eyes lighting up at how perfectly it fit into her living room.

"Okay, now that you’ve put that together…" Y/N began, trailing off as she looked at him with a playful smirk.

Matt raised an eyebrow, sensing where this was going.

"Oh no, what else did you order?"

Y/N laughed, wrapping her arms around his waist and leaning her head against his chest.

"Nothing… yet."

Matt shook his head, smiling down at her.

"You’re lucky I love you."

"I know." Y/N murmured, looking up at him with pure adoration. "And I’m so lucky to have you."

#⋆౨ৎ˚ 𝒍𝒆𝒍𝒆 𝒂𝒔𝒌𝒔 #chris sturniolo #sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #nick sturniolo #x reader #matt sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo fluff #matt sturniolo x reader blurb #matt sturniolo x reader fluff #fluff #blurb #fanfic

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justcauseiwanna2 · 7 months ago

Text

Dinner Time NatxFem!Y/n

18+ MINORS DNI

Warnings: Smut, marking, thigh slapping, spanking, punishment, light degrading, praise, oral sex (R receiving), fingering (R receiving), Mommy Natasha, Sub R, begging, I think that’s it but if you find anymore let me know!!

A/n- My first time writing in forever enjoy ❤️

Y/n’s POV

I move around the kitchen with grace as I add in the proper ingredients to make dinner for the night. I measure out the spices and add them to the bowl knowing the recipe by memory. Tonight I decided to make my homemade bacon mac’n’cheese knowing how much Yelena enjoys the dish. Natasha’s family is visiting for the week so I want to make sure they are as comfortable as possible during their stay. At the moment they are out exploring our city since it is the first time they have been here.

As I’m assembling the dish to put in the oven Natasha walks in with her headphones in her ears and her workout outfit hugging her body nicely. She opens the fridge to grab her water and when she turns around a smile immediately shows on her face. She comes over for a kiss but I stop her before she can reach me. I point over to the fridge door and she sees what I want her to do. It’s a common occurrence for her to leave the fridge open after getting distracted, she closes the fridge before coming back over and pecks me on my lips. “Hi baby, how was the gym?” I ask her with a smile. “What?” She asks rather loudly and I shake my head and pull out her headphones before asking again. “It was good but I missed you.”

She pulls me closer and kisses me again before putting her face in my neck. I gently scratch her head and she hums into my neck. “I missed you too love, after dinner I’m heading to the gym but after that we can watch some movies before bed okay?” She shakes her head and holds me tighter. “No you stay here with me!” I chuckle and shake my head back at her. “I’ll only be going to the gym and after that I’m all yours, but I do have to finish dinner.” I gently pull back from her hold and walk over to finish coating the top of the dish in cheese.

She follows me over and wraps her arms around me to hug me from behind. I don’t even need to see her to know she’s pouting. Once the oven goes off I place the food inside and set the timer to 45 minutes. As I’m cleaning up Natasha walks over to me with an idea. “How about you stay home from the gym, I will give you a workout.” She has this certain smirk that instantly tells me what type of workout she has in mind. “Nat, you know that your parents could be here at any point!” She shrugs and walks closer to me. “They can learn to knock.”

She wraps her arms around my waist and pulls me into her. She gently kisses my neck, I can feel the ability to think slowly leaving me as she moves her hands down to squeeze my ass. I gasp and try to focus on my thoughts. “Natty, I just put dinner in the oven.” She smirks against my neck and looks up at me. “Then I guess we better be quick.” She picks me up and places me on the table. “Nat I-“ She stops me with a kiss as she shakes her head. “That’s not my name now, is it love?” I quickly shake my head not wanting to misbehave but she gives me the look and I remember I need to use words. “No it isn’t mommy.” I stutter out as she starts leaving kisses up and down my neck once more.

She starts to suck on my neck leaving dark marks in her path. Even if we are able to finish in time her family will definitely be able to tell what we have been up to. She goes further and further up my neck and moves a hand over my clothed cunt and adds the tiniest bit of pressure. Not enough to please me but enough to make me more desperate. I start to buck my hips against her hand to try and get some sort of relief for my growing problem. She suddenly pulls back from me and looks at me with a disapproving look. “What do you think you’re doing?” I look down and stay silent, she lifts up my chin until I’m looking her in the eyes. I can feel the heat on my cheeks as she looks me up and down. “N-nothing.” All of the sudden I feel a light sting on my thigh. “Try again.” I feel myself getting more and more desperate for her touch, even just a kiss. “P-please mommy I need you please!” I beg her with a pout hoping that she’ll touch me.

“Poor baby so desperate for mommy that you can’t even answer a simple question.” I nod my head at her as I try to buck my hips into hers. I just need her to touch in some way, I want to feel her against me. “Patient baby I want to enjoy this, why don’t you take off those clothes of yours?” I nod and move to take off my shirt but she stops me. “Words pretty girl.” “Yes mommy.” She steps away, without removing her eyes from my body, to let me undress. I remove my shirt and bra and throw them to the floor and look up to see Natasha studying my chest that already adorns her marks from two days ago. I get down from the table to remove my shorts and my underwear. I feel her studying my body carefully, looking at every detail even though she’s seen it all before.

I climb back onto the table and sit with my legs closed in fear of getting the table messy. She walks up to me with the same smirk on her face and tilts her head when she sees my thighs clenching together. I shyly look down and slowly spread my legs for her to see. She closely examines me and smirks when she sees how wet I am. “Poor baby, is all this for me?” I nod quickly as I look her in the eye. “All for mommy.” She whispers a quick ‘good girl’ and she situates herself between my legs. “Tell me what you want love.” It wasn’t a request but a demand, I know well enough by now to tell her exactly what I want. But before I could say anything she slowly slides her fingers through my folds causing me to lose my train of thought. “Didn’t mommy just ask you a question?” I go to speak again but she decides to enter two of her fingers into me. I let out a moan as I grab her hand in shock. “Go on baby, use your words.”

She sets a steady rhythm with her fingers as I try to gather my words. “I-i want mommy to use her fingers.” I manage to stutter out. I can feel all my thoughts fading as my head is filled entirely with thoughts of my girlfriend and how good she can make me feel. “That’s my good girl.” The constant praise adds to the building pleasure. She moves her thumb to play with my clit as she quickens her pace bringing me closer and closer to the edge.

“Mommy I’m gonna cum!” She immediately stills her hand. “That’s not how you ask.” I whine at her and try bucking my hips to get her to keep going but she slaps my thigh. I let out a small moan but I keep trying to get any friction I can. She once more slaps my thigh. “One last chance.” She warns me but I am too focused on trying to reach my denied orgasm. She removes her fingers and stands up to pull out a chair. I straighten up and look at her in a dazed confusion. “M-mommy?” She sits on the chair and pats her lap. “Over my knee.” I know it isn’t a question so I unsteadily hop off the table and move closer to her. She helps me lay across her lap as she gently rubs my back.

“You know your safe word?” I nod my head. “It’s red.” She praises me yet again which causes me to smile. “Do you know why you are being punished?” I nod but she gives me a light tap on my thigh reminding me to use my words. “B-because I didn’t answer mommy.” She nods and lifts my hand to kiss the back of it. I always love how she reminds me of her love, even through punishment. “Good girl, now I want you to count each spank for me love.” Before I can even respond she releases a sharp smack onto my ass. “One.” She does another which I can tell will end up leaving a mark. “Two.” Each spank uses the same amount of strength. Mommy knows by now that I love having her handprint on my ass. At the tenth smack I accidentally let out a moan which causes Natasha to pause and smirk.

“Aww does my little slut enjoy having her ass spanked by mommy?” I get all shy again but am able to pull together an answer. “Y-yes mommy.” She rubs her hand over the stinging skin before giving it another spank which I count. “Good.” She continues with the last four before letting me up and kissing my lips. She pulls me down to straddle her lap. I gently tug on her shirt trying to pull it off of her body but she stops me. “Use your words.” I let out a whine and stick my face into her neck. “Poor baby so lost for words already and we are only just starting.” I whine again trying to dig myself further into her neck. “Please?” She rubs my bare back with a smile before she nods. I pull away from her and remove her shirt with a smile only for it to switch into a pout when I see she has a bra on. I remove that too and finally have access to her bare chest. I don’t waste any time and start kiss her chest, trying to leave as many marks in my path as possible.

She chuckles a little at how eager I am but it doesn’t stop me. She gently pulls me back from her chest and she puts me back onto the table. My pout doesn’t last long as I see her stripping out of her pants and underwear to reveal her naked body to me. Even after 3 years she amazes me with her beauty. She walks back over to me and slots herself between my thighs. “Mommy is very hungry baby, will you let me have a snack before dinner is done?” She has this voice that she uses whenever we are intimate that makes me melt every time. I eagerly nod my head at her, she wastes no time in lowering to her knees in front of me.

She wraps her arms around my thighs and slowly moves her tongue through my folds. It’s like she can’t get enough as she dives right into my dripping cunt. I moan and brace myself with my arms so that I don’t fall back on the table. Her tongue plunges into me as she eats me out like I’m the best meal she’s ever had. Which she does say constantly. She brings me closer and closer until she once again stops. I let out a whine and try to push her head back to where I need her most but she stands up. “You didn’t think I would let you cum that easy now did you?” I whine and try to move her hand but still she doesn't budge.”Please mommy please I need you!” I beg her to touch me.

She smirks at me and lets her hand drift down further and further until her fingers are circling my clit. I bite my lip to stop myself from making noise but she reaches up and pulls my lip from my teeth. “I want to hear you dear.” “Yes mommy.” This time I don’t even try to hold back my moans when she plunges two fingers inside of me. I look over to the timer and see that the dish only has 14 minutes left. I whine and put my face in the crook of her neck. She curls her fingers and hits my spot just right. I bite down on her neck in response and she smacks my thigh. She sets a slow steady rhythm for me and makes sure that it’s enough pleasure to satisfy me but not enough to get me to the edge. “Please mommy, I need more.” I move my hips to meet the thrusts of her hand but she stills my hips. “Is that a statement or a question love?”

“A-a question mommy.” She smirks at me and inserts a third finger. “Such a pretty pussy, and it’s all for mommy.” She looks down and admires the view of her fingers disappearing in and out of my cunt. She speeds up her fingers and moves her thumb over my clit. She keeps going, bringing me closer and closer. “Please mommy I’m gonna cum please don’t stop!” She raises her eyebrow at me which makes me stutter and fix my words. “Please mommy please can I cum, please please please!” I beg her over and over, a tear or two start to fall down my face in pleasure. “Cum for mommy baby.”

She adds a third finger as she moves her fingers into me as fast as she can. I let out a scream and cum all over her fingers. I collapse forward onto her, my breathe heavy as she helps me ride out my high. She keeps moving her fingers but I still her hand with mine and shake my head. “All done love?” I nod against her chest. She lets out a hum and wipes off her fingers with a towel before wrapping her arms around me. She holds me tight and I slowly calm down. “T-thank you mommy, felt so good.” She smiles and scratched my back gently. “Of course love! Though as much as I enjoy the cuddles my family will be home soon so we need to get you cleaned up. First though I need to get the food out of the oven.” I nod and hop down from the table and give her a kiss. She reassures me that we can have a bath tonight and extra cuddle which I am super excited for.

After cleaning myself up in the bathroom I put on some clean clothes and walk out to see Natasha dishing out food to her family. Melina is sitting next to Alexei and Yelena is at the end because she says ‘since she is the guest she should have the special seat’. That’s fine with me though because I get to sit next to Tasha which I love. “Hi baby!” I smile and walk over and give her a big hug. I give her a kiss before grabbing everyone's plates and then handing them out. We sit down with our plates and start a conversation. Eventually the conversation drifts and Alexei asks “What’s with those bruises on your neck?” My eyes widen, Natasha smirks while Melina sighs and Yelena drops her head onto the table in defeat.

“I um they-” I am interrupted by Yelena. “They are hickeys you dipshit!” Melina starts criticizing her for cursing at her father while Natasha starts laughing. “IS THIS WHAT YOU DO WHEN WE LEAVE EW!” Alexei sounds absolutely disgusted which causes me to blush and Natasha just laughs even harder. “Natasha, you need to stop corrupting the poor angel.” Melina states as a fact and now I’m the one laughing. “Yeah Natasha.” I agree with her and Natasha glares at me. God I love this family.

#natasha romanoff #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff smut #mommy natasha

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newtkive · 1 year ago

Text

practice - carmen berzatto

pairing: carmen berzatto x fem!reader, mentioned platonic marcus x reader

summary: The sudden changes at your work prove to be a lot to keep up with, but Carmy notices your efforts where you think he’s just a tough boss. He proves to be more than that when he finds you pulling an all-nighter at the restaurant.

wordcount: 3.8k

warnings: none really, anxious reader, ooc!carmen (he would never let mistakes fly like this lmao), kinda fluff at the end

a/n: this is basically how i would react working there bc i almost have an anxiety attack every ep watching carmy yell at everyone. sorry for any typos!

The fast moving pace that Carmen Berzatto brought to The Beef was something extraordinary. The skill of his professional chef background was carried over into the small hole in the wall that otherwise would have never changed if it wasn’t for him.

His drive was contagious, even infecting the staff you knew like the back of your hand. You never would have thought your coworkers, ever comfortable with a stagnant pace, would become accustomed to such change around their second home.

It was great to see your favorite people quickly see their own potential thanks to Carmy’s vision. The only problem was you.

You were falling behind, and quickly.

You tried to convince yourself you could keep up as things changed. But your mind was faster than your barely skilled hands and you were terrible at cutting ingredients evenly during a rush and you always somehow got sliced or burnt and your eyes always stung from the onions you were stuck prepping because that was the one job you couldn’t fuck up but hated— to put it simply, you sucked.

The faces of your coworkers reflected what you feared every time you turned around to take a breath, heels of your hands rubbing tears from your eyes as Carmy screamed profanities at the crew. Tina’s eyes would linger on you, brows raised and silently asking if you were okay. You would nod and blink the tears away before jumping back in. By the end of every shift Ebraheim would pat you on the back before leaving, and Sydney would send you a small, sympathetic smile and wave while you tied your shoes on the bench near the locker.

Each time you could see the sympathy in their eyes and it made you hate yourself even more.

You were used to sandwiches; assembling simple ingredients between a hoagie bun on a slow Sunday surrounded by the people you called family. Cracking jokes here and there, no pressure to make things completely perfect, which ended up making things perfect. So much so that regulars even seemed disappointed to see you up at the register some days instead of in the kitchen assembling their lunch.

Carmy wasn’t blind, he could see exactly what was going on, which was why he didn’t pick on you as much as he did when he first arrived.

The first couples of weeks that Carmy was there he noticed the difference in your station compared to everyone else’s. Organized, cohesive, clean—save for the multiple drinks you always had. You worked at your own pace, not slow but definitely not up to par with Carmen’s standards. You made it work though, cutting ingredients almost perfectly and whipping up sandwiches and other specialties not a second too late.

The change happened when Carmy upped the stakes and encouraged—or yelled at—everyone to be as quick as they possibly could. His yelling was off putting, and you didn’t respond well to much other than positive reinforcement.

The chef didn’t notice until the uneven bread and too-thin tomato slices lead back to you. He was quick, marching over to you with a purpose; if it was a cartoon, his hair would be alight with fire. “Chef!” His voice was hard and urgent, because he didn’t have time to deal with this.

As he approached, he noticed your hands shaking as you held the dull shitty knife, head whipping up and cheeks red, all but heaving from the pressure. So much pressure.

“Yes Chef?” You asked attentively, waiting for him to explode.

Carmen had all intentions to do just that, tear you a new one, tell you that you’ve been here long enough to know how to cut a fuckin’ tomato the right way but he paused. The look in your eye was wild and scared. His face fell, obvious turmoil behind his blue eyes causing a change in his decision. You waited with bated breath, but what you were expecting never came.

Instead, Carmen did his best to be calm and set his hand on the counter, leaning a bit. “I want you to show me how to slice that tomato.” He said.

“What?” You were confused and it was clearly written on your face. So were your nosy coworkers who exchanged looks and shrugged, expecting the young man to wail on you with his words.

Looking over your shoulder at the others, you tried to exchange weary looks with anyone but Carmy pulled you back in with his words. “Don’t worry about their shit. C’mon, show me.” He said again, motioning to the tomato sitting on the cutting board, looking at you expectantly.

After a beat of weariness you did what he asked. With an exhale your knife pierced the red skin and cut it, your wrist dragging it back and forth to cut all the way through. You gave a few more slices, doing your best to ignore his scrutinizing gaze.

Reviewing your slices, you mentally pat yourself on the back at the sight of them perfectly even and a fairly thin. You turned to look at Carmy, and he seemed to have an epiphany as he stood there holding his chin. Eyes flickering up to you, he nodded. “You know what that showed me?” He asked, and before you could answer he continued. “You’re competent, you did that shit with a dull knife. Don’t cut ‘em too thick or too thin, you have no excuses.”

He should feel ridiculous, like he was coaching a baby how to do the easiest job in the world, but for some reason Carmen was able to swallow his irritation and try to guide you.

You nodded, back straightening and hands sweaty. “Yes, Chef.”

Carmy was about to walk off but stopped himself, turning back around, eyes boring into yours as he grew more serious. “You hear me yelling, you listen, but I need you to focus, Chef. You can do this shit, I’ve seen you pull through before. Don’t let my mouth get to your fuckin’ head.” He said low enough just for the both of you to hear.

He was close, blue eyes staring right at you, the smell of the kitchen clinging onto his apron. It should’ve been intimidating, and it was a little, but you knew this was his version of offering comfort and maybe even some sort of apology.

“Heard, Chef.” You said just as quietly back.

There was a second of him staring, before he simply walked away without another word, leaving you to your own devices. Whatever he said seemed to put some perspective into your work, because you didn’t have anys setbacks for the rest of the day.

On the way home, sitting on the train with headphones in your ears and a jacket wrapping you up tight, Carmy’s words swirled in your head. You knew you could do this, and you could somewhat see in Carmy’s eyes that he had faith in you too. It was just a new world you were all suddenly thrown into and it was hard finding your place. On days where you felt like a baby fawn standing on shaky legs, wobbling and failing to find your footing, you had to keep going.

A single word rang in your mind.

Practice.

Your apartment was pretty small and shared with a roommate, so you lacked the accommodations and tools to really do all you wanted. Aside from that, you didn’t want to be the rude roomie who clashed pans in the kitchen all night long. So, as you made your way off the train you didn’t leave the station. Instead, you waited for the next ride to the city and headed straight for The Beef.

The sun set as you approached the back door, humming a tune as you pulled out a spare key—one that definitley would be confiscated once Carmy found out about it, probably clambering about it not being safe in the foreseeable future—from under the fuse box outside and unlocked the door.

You entered the kitchen, brows immediately raising as you saw all of the kitchen lights on. Slowly moving forward, a sense of anxiety grew as you knew no one would usually be here except for Carmy, and you really did not want to get a talking to from him right now.

Turning the corner, you sighed in relief when you saw the familiar stature that belong to Marcus. He had his phone out, recipe pulled up in front of him and a song playing softly from the speakers that he sang along to. You chuckled softly, alerting him of your presence. Head snapping up at the sound, he almost looked like a deer in the headlights as he met your eyes.

Similarly to you, he let out a relieved sigh and sent you a smile. “Scared me, Y/N.” He laughed softly, hands whisking again.

“Sorry.” You apologized, tugging your coat off. “What’re you doing here, man?” You asked as you headed over to the lockers and shoved your stuff away.

Marcus shrugged. “Could ask you the same thing.”

“Practice.” You said simply, shrugging and tying your apron around your waist. Approaching the kitchen, you started gathering a few clean pots to start your work.

Humming and nodding, Marcus gave you a knowing grin. “Same here.” There was a beat of comfortable silence as you gathered a knife, cutting board, and an onion before washing your hands. “I actually stay here sometimes overnight. It’s easier, that way I won’t waste time going back and forth from home.” Marcus explained.

Surprise filled your features and you sent him an impressed look. “Wow, no wonder you’re getting better fast.”

He chuckles bashfully, filling another mixing bowl with flour and whatever else he desired. “Eh, I guess.” The shrug of his shoulders made you laugh before you turned back to your own work.

With one last question of Marcus asking if you minded his music, and you affirming that you didn’t mind at all, he turned the dial on his bluetooth radio up and you both fell into a comfortable rhythm; Marcus in his corner and you on the stovetop.

By the end of the evening you prepared a vibrant beef braciole dish that a few of the others had been practicing since Carmy introduced it. You brought it to one of the stainless steel counters with two forks, setting it next to the two pieces of cake Marcus had sliced up from his recipe of the evening.

You both dug in, humming in satisfaction as you tasted each other’s creations, sharing impressed and ‘holy shit’ expressions that made the other laugh.

“This is fantastic.” Marcus said, another mouthful of beef being added to his mouth.

You laughed and shook your head, muttering a thank you, trying to swallow down your surprise. Marcus could tell, because he doubled down. “No, really, Y/N. This is the best one I’ve tasted yet, aside from the big Chef.” He said with a grin.

Shaking your head, you gave him your appreciation. “Thank you, Chef. I can say the same thing from you.” You motioned with your fork to the cake. In truth, his words pushed you and affected you more than you lead on.

The both of you fell into a rhythm, whipping up treats and savory meals almost every day after work. Marcus playing music at his own station, you timing yourself relentlessly to try and replicate the fast pace of the open hours of the restaurant. You sometimes even found yourself staying overnight, taking turns with Marcus to use his sleeping bag—he insisted where you didn't want to overstep, but sleep called you and his pillow was comfy.

Relentless practice proved to keep you on track and up to pace with everyone else, slowly but surely. The impressed glances shared between Tina and Sydney every time you had them taste a dish or were quicker than usual were enough, but Carmen was ever the critic. A new menu soon graced The Beef alongside their regular sandwiches, and it was a tough menu to master. You almost had them all down pat, practicing relentlessly for almost four weeks now after work.

However, every time you presented a steaming spoonful of stew, or a perfect bite of chicken piccata that everyone else in the kitchen seemed to love, Carmen would bite into it, hum, and shake his head. "Good." He said every time.

"Good like.. good good? Or good but start over, it's trash, throw it away?" You would ask, clearly waiting with baited breath on a slow day.

Carmy shook his head again. "It's not ready yet, Chef." And then he would be off to collect more expo receipts and leave you there disappointed, shoulders deflating in defeat.

"I think it's great, Chef." Marcus would smile, hands busy working on dough for his unmastered donuts. You would offer a sad smile in return, marching off to assemble another hoagie and handing your failed dish to a waiting Richie in exchange for an appreciative rub of his hands together. The negative feedback only spurred you to improve your craft as much as you could.

It was a rare occasion that Marcus didn't stay at the restaurant overnight. He left early in a frenzy after a phone call, muttering something about his mom's nurse needing him. Offering comfort wasn't your strongest suit, so you bid him luck and made a mental note to bring him his favorite coffee during work later in hopes to cheer him up.

At the same time you were plating what felt like your dozenth chicken piccata of the week, soft footsteps approached the kitchen. As soon as the timer went off behind you, you whipped around and hit the top, a harsh exhale and wipe of your forehead following the silence. You felt proud, plating and finishing your dish in record time without any hiccups.

A soft chuckle brought you out of your stupor, head snapping up to meet bright blue eyes from across the kitchen. There stood Carmy with his unruly curls, white tee and brown jacket he was beginning to pull off. In place of his usual stoic face was an amused expression, clearly not expecting to see someone in the kitchen at this hour.

You froze at the sight of him, but his soft smile eased your shoulders a bit. “Smells good.” Carmy said as if it was the most casual thing, hanging his jacket by the lapels on a hook. He sat on the bench, beginning to change his shoes into nonslip ones.

Stuttering, your cheeks turned pink. “O-oh, uhhh, thanks.”

“You’re here early.” He said back, standing now and readying to tug on his apron.

Brows furrowed, you looked above him to glance at the kitchen clock. Big red numbers read 6:15 AM and your brows raised in shock. Before you had a chance to respond, he walked closer, beginning to talk again. “I’ve noticed you and Marcus are always here before anyone else.”

You shrugged, nervous smile gracing your lips as they upturned slightly. “Ah, yeah. We both wanted to practice. Y’know, catch up with everyone else.” You explained. Conveniently, you decided to not mention the instances of spending the night, figuring it would be a little to embarrassing or earn you a talking to.

Carmy was now approaching the other side of the counter where you stood, hands tapping the steel. His little smug smile didn’t leave his lips as he nodded. “I also noticed a few things missing from our inventory.” His words were clearly teasing, but they made your face run pale.

“Fuck, I'm sorry, Chef. Take it from my paycheck, please—I didn’t even consider—“ The rambling was embarrassing, and his head shake cut you off.

“No, stop, Y/N. I'm teasing you.” Carmy laughed softly with a small smile, clearly endeared. The use of your name made you bashful.

A beat of silence followed, your mouth opening and closing like a fish. Carmy glanced behind you at the dish that laid perfectly plated, motioning to it with his hands. “Let’s see if your hard work is paying off.”

Blinking in surprise, you obediently nodded and turned to grab the dish. Sliding it in front of him, you gathered a fork and knife. Carmy grasped the utensils with a ‘thank you’, fingers brushing yours. It didn’t take long for the chef to dig in, eyes immediately closing once the first bite hit his taste buds.

“So.. what do you think?” You plucked up the courage to ask after he swallowed.

Carmy looked up at you, lips curling upwards and a proud look dawning his features. “Great, as usual.”

Usually those words would make you excited, but Carmy had a habit of complimenting your dishes before declaring how they weren’t good enough just yet. You simply nodded, swallowing thickly as he took another bite and savored the taste. “What should I change?” You asked, straightening your back in preparation for the inevitable criticism.

Humming, Carmy shook his head, the same amused look as before coming back. “Nothing, Chef. It’s perfect.” He said firmly. Those words made your breath leave your lungs, hands becoming clammy, and before you knew it you were grinning.

“Really?” You asked, not able to keep your excitement together.

Carmy let out a full laugh at that. “Really.” He confirmed.

You clapped your hands together before covering your face, hiding the grin as best you could. It had been awhile since you felt so elated due to cooking, and you weren’t quite sure what to do with yourself. You felt like the whole month of dedicating your time to cooking was culminating to this moment. Carmen watched you with soft eyes, taking in how happy his words made you. You turned back to him, giving up hiding how ecstatic you were. “I braised it differently this time, could you tell? Well, obviously you could if it’s good this time.” You rambled on, a bit of a giggle in your voice.

“It’s always this good, Y/N.” Carmy suddenly said. His words had you pausing, tilting your head playfully. Hand trailing along the counter, he rounded it to stand next to you.

"What do you mean?" You asked, smile falling a bit. The man's words echoed in your head and you looked around the room as if to try and find meaning from his statement. Surely he didn't have you remake the dish for no reason, right? But Carmy's strong posture and raised brows, waiting for you to figure it out yourself, made you think that's exactly what he did. Sobering up, you scoffed and crossed your arms as you sent him a look. "Are you serious? This whole time..." You trailed off.

"Yes, this whole time." He said, leaning on the counter with one hand, eyes not leaving you. "I needed you to bust your ass, Chef. I knew you needed the practice, so I gave you the motive." Carmy explained. The scrunch of your nose made his chest hum with something warm, akin to looking at a kicked puppy that he wanted to scoop up and reassure. Guilt washed over him a little bit as he feared he was acting more and more like his old Chef, but he pushed those feelings down as best he could. He did this for the right reasons, unlike that dickhead in New York did to him. There was no berating and preying on insecurities, just some tough love.

Sighing, you were torn between being angry and feeling grateful that Carmy saw this potential in you. You didn't know what to say, so you blurted out exactly how you felt. "I'm embarrassed."

Carmy frowned, ducking his head to catch your eyes where you looked down a bit. "Why are you embarrassed?" His voice was soft, tiptoeing as to not make you more upset.

Allowing him to meet your eyes, you curled into yourself at the attention. "Because I've made a fool of myself these past few months." You murmured, spilling your guts to your new boss for some reason that you didn't know. Maybe it was the quiet kitchen, or the sudden defeat you felt, but your mouth was faster than your mind.

A small 'no, no, no' left Carmy and he shook his head, reaching a hand out to place on your shoulder. "Don't be. I came in and turned shit upside down, it just took you a bit more practice to get the hang of things." His hand started to rub your arm comfortingly, leaving heat where he touched. You knew this must have been a form of an apology in his own way. The words didn't come easy to Carmen, but he tried to convey it the best he could.

Leaning forward, Carmy mustered his best stern expression, wanting to keep your gaze so you couldn't look away and distract yourself from his next words. Your breath caught in your throat, not used to this proximity. "I'm proud of you. You should be proud of yourself too."

Heat encapsulated your cheeks and you nodded, spurring him to nod as well. "Okay."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

As soon as Carmy saw your shy smile he gave one right back to you. Still close, he radiated heat that made it all the more difficult to calm the butterflies growing in your stomach. Eyes never leaving each other's, the air grew tense as the dust settled. Unlike the usual sandwich smell, an aroma of a clean linen scent came off of him as you realized he must have showered before coming here. Carmy never would admit it, but your perfume filled the air for him, making him linger longer than he should have. The blink of your stare looking up at him made Carmy's chest tighten, and he immediately pulled himself out of whatever trance he was in.

Clearing his throat, Carmy let go of your shoulder and backed up a bit. "No more all-nighter's here. Okay, Chef?" He tried to seem playful to rid himself of awkwardness and whatever that just was.

Mouth falling open, you gaped at him. "How did you know?!"

Hands up in surrender, Carmy just shrugged. "A Chef never tells his secrets," He began, heading over to the drying rack to busy himself, playfully adding, "And someone kept leaving the spare key out, so I figured." The smirk he sent you made you grin and roll your eyes.

Carmy would never tell you he knew because that's what he used to do. Before he got the hang of things in his earlier days as a chef, late nights in the restaurant kitchen and a half hour of sleep was the norm for him. As you began cleaning up your work the chef's gaze lingered on you, blue eyes studying your form with a thoughtful look. Carmy shook his head, smiling to himself and starting his work. He reckoned he saw himself in you more than ever.

#carmen berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto #carmen berzatto #the bear #the bear imagine #carmy berzatto imagine #x reader #carmen berzatto imagine

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saiyanprincessswanie · 1 month ago

Text

Forbidden Love

Pairing: Congressman Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 4500

Summary: Soon-to-be Congressman James Bucky Barnes has fallen for you, his bodyguard. But will you risk your job protecting him to be his girlfriend?

Warnings: Angst, Smut, Oral (Fem), fingering, maybe a little bit of idiots in love.

A/N: @avengers-assemble-bingo for James Buchanan Barnes - 108th Birthday. The square filled “Confetti”. (card #4B 024)

A/N 2: Thank you to my betas @lfnr-blog-blog-blog & @nekoannie-chan Thank you to @fictional-affairs for the header. Thank you to @whimsicalrogers for the divider

Please Read, Reblog, & Comment. It lets me know you like my work. 😊💜

I do NOT consent to translating or reposting my work on any social media platform, app, or third-party site. If you see my work anywhere besides my personal Tumblr & AO3 accounts, it has been stolen. I will NEVER give written or verbal permission to repost or translate any of my fanfics as they’re MY intellectual property. 🚫🚫

The sun was starting to rise when Bucky woke suddenly. He reached across the bed to find the sheets were cold, you were gone. You were quiet when you left before the sun would rise. You were so stealthy it freaked him out since he was a super soldier and former assassin.

He stretched real quick before climbing out of bed naked. Bucky headed to the shower and put the water as hot as he could handle it. After his shower, he continued to go about his morning routine with the news turned on so he could hear what was new that morning.

Walking to the closet he pulled out a suit, dress shirt, and tie. Dressing within minutes he tied his expensive dress shoes and looked himself over in the mirror. Another day to work towards becoming a Congressman.

Bucky made his coffee and sat in front of the television listening to what was going on in the world. Fifteen minutes go by and he hears a knock at his door. Getting up he goes to greet his bodyguards who for now will follow him around until the election is over.

Standing at the door is you dressed in a black suit with a gun on your hip. The other men are searching the grounds of his home to make sure everything is secure.

As you step inside you take in his features. Always a sharp dresser Bucky stood before you looking like a man ready to conquer the world. His suit was navy, with a white shirt underneath, and a tie to match. You love how the suit brings out his eyes. A minute passes and you catch yourself eye fucking the man you are assigned to keep alive.

Bucky catches you staring and can’t help but smirk. Last night was incredible as he finally talked you into staying the night at his place. He was able to take you apart with his sinful tongue and mouth that had you moaning his name like a prayer. He made love to you and had you shedding happy tears from the experience. He would fuck you all night long to show you how he felt about you.

But it wasn’t just sex that made Bucky head over heels for you. You both talked a lot and shared your past lives with one another. Bucky admired how hard you worked to get your job and never let the man-dominated field scare you away. You were a force to be reckoned with.

In private when it was just the two of you, you had a kindness he hadn’t seen in a long time. You would let the walls around your heart crumble down and be completely loving and loyal to a fault. In short, you were everything he wanted in a relationship.

Now he knew you had a different mask on. You were all work and no play when you guarded him. Bucky trusted you with his life and knew you were capable of doing your job despite the feelings between the both of you.

“Good morning, James.”

“Good morning, doll. Why don’t you come here and give me a kiss for running out on me this morning.”

“How about no. I’m on the job and any of those other agents could walk in on us. You know the rules when the suit is on its business only and I’m in charge.” You were watching him as he moved closer to you.

Bucky leaned in and whispered in your ear, “And when the suit is off I’m in charge, fucking you within an inch of your life.” He smiled when you gasped. Leaning down, Bucky kissed you just below your ear. Just as he pulls away from you a knock on the door echoes in the house and the door opens.

You turn around and see one of your fellow agents Mark Spencer enter the door. He nods to both of you.

“Perimeter is secured. We have an hour to get to the first newsroom.”

The man was tall and slightly built but not in a Bucky kind of way. No, you think, Bucky was all hard planes and thick in more ways than one. You shake yourself from your thoughts and nod at Mark.

“Well James, are you ready for us to go?” You asked as you turned around and locked eyes.

Bucky smiled, “I’m ready, doll face.”

You shook your head and corrected him with your name. But Bucky was already heading for the door calling over his shoulder, “Whatever you say doll face.”

At the newsroom, you and Mark stood backstage watching Bucky on live TV talking about his agenda and how he wants to make a difference. He was an intelligent man who spoke passionately about the changes he would like to see made.

You couldn’t help but smile as you watched him speak. You admired the man who wanted to do so much for his position as a congressman. He had two weeks left to campaign and was up in the early polls over his opponent.

That smile was all Mark needed to see before he smirked and asked, “So care to share what you’re smiling about?”

That brought your attention back and had you looking at Mark with a frown. “What, I can't smile now at work?”

Mark stood with hands on his hips. “Don’t think I’m dumb. I see the way you two flirt.”

Your eyes went wide at his statement. Was it that obvious you and Bucky had feelings for one another? You were his bodyguard. You protected Bucky with your life. The job called for professionalism and anyone would kill to be in your shoes protecting James Bucky Barnes. He was Captain America’s best friend after all and a war hero.

Shaking your head at Mark you turned back to the monitor to watch Bucky. “I don’t flirt with him. We’re just friendly in a professional manner. My job is to keep him safe at all times.”

Mark shook his head. “Whatever you say, boss lady.” He chuckled to himself and remained quiet as you both watched Bucky about to finish his interview.

The news anchor leaned forward and placed her hand gently on his vibranium one. “So James I have to ask. Is there someone special in your life? Someone that holds a special place in your heart?”

Bucky pulled his hand away while still showing that million-dollar smile. “Umm, yeah I have someone special in my life. We’re just not ready to take our relationship public just yet.”

Your eyes widened in shock as his eyes locked with yours through the monitor. He wasn’t suggesting you was he? There was no way he was putting your nighttime activities out there. He couldn’t, you could lose your job. You haven’t even talked about what you were yet with each other.

Bucky winked at the camera and the news anchor was calling for a commercial. He thought he did great in the interview today. He was wondering what you were thinking when he spilled there was someone special. Bucky was in love and he didn’t want to hide it anymore. Getting up from the chair he headed backstage where you were waiting with Mark.

His eyes locked onto your face and he could see he might have messed things up by your expression. Maybe he should have talked with you first but you did leave early that morning before he could.

“James, are you ready to leave? We have a schedule to keep to.” Your words were sharp. You didn’t mean to sound frustrated or angry but you didn’t know how to feel.

Bucky sensing your feelings just nodded. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

You lead the way out of the newsroom and to the back where the SUV sits. Scanning the area first you nodded to Mark to bring Bucky out and to the waiting vehicle where another agent sat in the driver's seat. You and Bucky slid into the back seat while Mark sat in the front passenger seat. You both remained silent as you headed to his next engagement.

The rest of the day went by as usual. Bucky did interviews, held a luncheon, and mingled with his constituents. By the time they knew it, it was time to bring Bucky home. The car ride was pretty silent at times and you only discussed where he was heading next. It seemed all the air was sucked out of the vehicle.

When you arrived at his house Mark and the other agents checked the perimeter once again. This left you clearing his house to make sure it was safe. As the agents left it was just you and Bucky alone.

“Well, I guess I should be heading home too. We have another two weeks to go before you get sworn in. I guess I will see you tomorrow James.”

“Bucky. You know I like it when you call me Bucky in private. Don’t go yet, we need to talk.”

He shrugged out of his suit jacket and draped it over a chair. He undid his tie and unbuttoned his top two buttons before sitting on his couch.

You followed him into the living room and sat on the other side of the sofa. You looked over to him and he was just staring at you. Clearing your throat you lock eyes with each other.

“So what do you want to talk about?” You asked.

“What happened earlier? You haven’t been your joyful self since the first interview I had this morning. Was it the news anchor touching my hand? Cause I pulled away from her.” Bucky stated.

You cast your eyes down for a minute. How could you bring this up without sounding stupid? Taking a deep breath you finally look up into his curious blue eyes.

“You were asked if there was someone special in your life who holds a special place in your heart. Were you talking about me? Cause if you were I’m no one special at all. All we do is let off some steam after work sometimes by having sex. It’s not like we have been on an actual date or anything. You have never put a label on us.”

You knew as the words left your mouth it was a slap in the face to Bucky. You had feelings for him but now that Mark made his remarks earlier about the two of you, you were worried about him going to your boss to expose the truth. If you lost your job you wouldn’t know what to do.

Bucky narrowed his eyes at you and leaned forward. “Is that all you think of us is blowing off steam when we have sex? I made love to you just this morning and you were begging for more as I recall. I was indeed talking about you and you're someone special to me. We have shared so much about ourselves to one another and yes I consider when we order food for delivery that to be a date as it’s just us. Where is this all coming from? You know how I feel about you and I want you to be mine. I didn’t put a label on us because you have never expressed how you felt.”

Tears started to well in your eyes. “I-I don’t want to lose my job Bucky over something that may or may not last. I love what I do for a living and I don’t want to lose that part of me.”

“How can you say we may not work out if you haven’t even given me a chance? Who says you have to lose that part of you job-wise? I love being around you. You’re so smart, your instincts are spot on and I legit trust you with my life. Even if you didn’t want anything relationship-wise from me I would hire you as my personal security guard.”

His eyes are staring into yours as he pleads his case to you. “I don’t want to do the rest of my life without you somehow in it. Please trust me when I say you have nothing to worry about when it comes to your job or us.”

You sat silently taking his words in. He wanted to hire you? That was a huge raise right there. He never mentioned that before. Was it just emotionally driven that he wanted you around? Not really you thought he did say he trusted you with his life. He was right when he said you never gave him a chance to try to work out whatever was between the two of you. Fighting the tears that are trying to fall you look back at Bucky who looks like he is going to fall apart at any moment. Why weren’t you being honest about your feelings as well?

You stood from the couch and Bucky did the same. “I have a lot to think about tonight. I’m going to head home.”

Bucky tried to reach for your hand but you backed away. “Please just stay and let's talk this all out.”

Stepping backward you shook your head. “No, I need to think this over at home. I will be here for my shift in the morning. Goodbye, Bucky.” You rushed out of his house and headed to your parked SUV, leaving Bucky all alone to pick up the pieces of his heart.

Once you were home you let the tears flow and cried your heart out. Why was life so difficult? You had a man that was in love with you. Something that you haven’t had in your life since taking a private security job. Bucky wanted to hire you on privately after he won the election. He wanted to make something of the two of you and you were too scared to just say yes. Why were you like this?

You kicked off your shoes at the door and headed to your room to put your gun up for the night. Once it was secured you quickly jumped in the shower to let the stress melt away. All your thoughts of Bucky though came crashing down on you. From the nights you shared dinner at his place, to the quiet conversations you had about your pasts, and to the times you made love with one another. There was no denying that you two had something special. So why are you trying to throw it away over a silly job you have with an agency? Yeah, it meant something to you but the opportunity Bucky is giving you will never come around again. If he is willing to give you a job and a chance to explore what could be between you both, why not take it? Tomorrow you will tell him your answer.

The next morning goes by as usual as you get ready to head to Bucky’s place. You were nervous all night and could barely sleep. Today was a big step and you hoped you didn’t blow it with him last night. When you arrived at his house you were met with the agency's SUVs parked outside his home. Quickly you parked and made your way to the house. Walking towards the front door you were met by Mark who was guarding the door.

“Oh well look who it is. Aren’t you supposed to be at home? You have a lot of balls coming up here.”

“What are you even talking about Mark?” You looked at him curiously.

You went to move by him but he put his arm out to stop you. “No, go. You need to speak with the director.”

As if on cue the director stepped out of a black SUV. He looked disgusted with you as he approached you.

“Well, I was wondering when you were going to check in agent. Before you say anything let me speak. It has come to the agency's knowledge that you and soon-to-be Congressman James Barnes have been having an affair at his home.”

“Wait, please you don’t understand.” You started to plead.

“I don’t understand what? That you’ve been fucking the man you were supposed to keep safe. The man you swore an oath to protect. This is an egregious act that you pulled and that needs to be dealt with right away. It is with a heavy heart that I have to fire you from this agency. You are not allowed to see Mr. Barnes at least for the next two weeks of his campaign. His PR is trying to cover up this mess that you left behind. You need to leave. Do I make myself clear?”

“I want to see Bucky.”

“Bucky? Don’t you mean James? We have spoken to Mr. Barnes and he has made himself clear he wants nothing to do with you.”

That shattered your heart hearing those words. He didn’t want anything to do with you anymore.This couldn’t be true, could it?

“I want to speak with him now!” You demanded.

“I said no. Now get yourself off this property or I will have you removed forcefully.”

Just as the director yelled those last words, Bucky's door flung open.

“What in the hell is going on outside my house? His eyes scanned from Mark to the director and finally fell on you. He smirked when he saw you but instantly frowned when he saw your face. “Doll, what’s wrong?”

The director walked forward toward Bucky. “Mr. Barnes, we were just taking care of everything outside. Go inside and continue talking with your PR Consultant.”

Bucky looked from you and back to the director. “That won’t be necessary. Doll come here.” He stretched out his arm to you and you started to walk to him.

“She can’t be here. She was fired from our agency. She has been asked to leave on my authority.”

Bucky quirks an eyebrow. “Is that so? Well, I hate to break it to you but you're all fired. I will be getting my own personal security.” The director went to speak but Bucky put his hand up. “No need to waste my time anymore. You have treated the woman I love with such disrespect that I will no longer be needing your services.”

You walked up the stairs and stood next to Bucky. You watched as the security agency left the property after a few minutes. Looking up at him you smiled. “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me doll. Let’s go inside where we can talk. I’m all done with my PR team anyway.”

Walking inside hand in hand you saw a lady getting her files and briefcase before she walked over to you. “Nice to meet you, agent. I’ve heard wonderful things about you. Just know you both did nothing wrong and this will be handled by me now.”

Bucky nodded his head. “Thank you for your support.”

The woman smiled at you both and left the house leaving you both alone.

Bucky looked at you and offered a friendly smile. “Can we talk?”

“Yes, I would like that.” You squeezed his vibranium hand as he led you to the living room.

“Look, I'm sorry if me saying anything on national TV about having a special someone just ruined your career. I never wanted that for you. I should have talked with you about it first instead of saying anything. I never meant to hurt you. It’s just that… I’m so in love with you doll. I have been for a while now. I just never knew how to tell you first.” His hand squeezed yours gently as he spoke. “But with that said I will accept whatever you have to say to me now.”

You let out a soft sigh. “Bucky, I need to be honest with you. I also have feelings for you as well. I’ve had them since I first met you. I’m in love with you too. I tried to ignore those feelings even when we were intimate but I can’t deny how I feel anymore. When you asked me if I wanted to be head of your security, well, a part of me does. But the other part of me just wants to be your girlfriend. I want to see where the road before us leads and I want to be by your side as you get sworn into office. What do you say, Bucky?”

Bucky pulls you close and kisses you passionately. Your arms wrapped around his neck as he pulls you down onto his lap on the couch. You straddle his hips and grind down into him as you both continue to make out. Bucky pulls back from kissing your lips and starts kissing down your neck. The light burn from his beard feels so good against your skin that you shiver. You can feel the outline of his cock through his pants and you can't help yourself as you grind more against him.

“I have to be inside you doll,” he confesses as a groan leaves his mouth.

Quickly you are both shedding clothes and before you know it you’re both naked. Bucky picks you up in his arms causing you to wrap your legs around his waist. He carries you effortlessly to his bedroom which is down the hallway. Once inside he gently lays you down on the bed and follows you up to the pillows. He starts kissing you down your neck again while the vibranium hand tweaks your nipples. He plays with both your breasts as he finally makes his descent down between your legs. Bucky watches your reaction as he starts to kiss your inner thigh, rubbing his beard gently against you.

You respond with a soft moan as he kisses everywhere except where you need him the most. Finally, he kisses your pussy and licks a stripe through your petals causing you to arch your back when he reaches your clit. Bucky drapes his arm across your hips holding you down as he feasts upon you as a man starved. Every pass of his tongue through your lips has you groaning his name in pleasure. Your hand finds his hair and latches on like a lifeline. His tongue swirls around your clit and has you begging for more.

“Please Bucky. I need to cum.”

Bucky briefly chuckles against your pussy but complies. His flesh fingers push into you and curl just the way you like. His mouth latches onto your clit and sends you over the edge screaming his name to the heavens. Your arousal covers his beard and he can’t help himself as he tries to lick as much of you off him. He hums from the taste of you and crawls his way back up your body. He leans down and kisses your lips letting you taste yourself on him.

“I need you, doll. Let me have you.” Bucky kisses you all over your face and ends with a forehead kiss.

“Bucky, I need you.” You look into his eyes and see that his eyes are dilated with want.

Bucky grabs his long, thick cock and strokes himself a few times before he is placing the tip at your wet entrance. Your legs wrap around his hips as he starts to push inside you. Your hands grip his biceps as he starts to roll his hips and thrust inside of you. The stretch always makes you groan as he pushes deeper and deeper inside of you. Your bodies work together like a well-oiled machine. Every push and pull, every thrust for thrust has you panting his name. Bucky starts to thrust into you harder causing you to whine.

“Bucky, Bucky, Bucky…”

“That’s it doll, keep screaming my name.”

His hips speed up and the sound of the bed bouncing the wall echoes within the room. Your moans of his name drive him crazy like a feral animal. His right-hand starts to move down your body and finds your clit. Bucky starts rubbing it with his fingers as he continues to take you apart. In a matter of minutes, you are cumming hard around his cock and milking his cock as he chases his high spilling deep inside you. Bucky pulls out of you and lays beside you bringing your body close to his.

“I love you Bucky.” You kiss his shoulder.

“I love you too, doll.” Bucky kisses your forehead.

“I could stay like this forever with you.” He states as he holds you tight.

“I could too but don’t you have somewhere to be today? You do have less than two weeks left before you are Congressman James Barnes. Don’t you have to shake hands and kiss babies?” You chuckle out the last part.

Bucky chuckles with you and shakes his head. “I cleared my schedule for the day. I want to spend it with you. Take you on a real date and maybe seduce you all over again.”

You look up at him and see his smile shining down on you. “That sounds like a good plan. But one thing, who is going to be your security team?”

Bucky’s hand starts rubbing your back as he hums to himself. “Well since you said you want to be my girlfriend there goes my head of security.”

“I was joking, I would love to be head of your security. I also know some good people, people who I trust that would love to be a part of your security detail. Just let me pull some files together and we can talk it over when we are both not naked.”

Bucky groaned, “But I love you naked. But yes I know what you are getting at. We shall talk about it more tomorrow 'cause I have the best agent protecting me today. Now let's go shower and get ready for our day ahead.”

The next two weeks fly by with no problems. Just like you told Bucky you hired a group of men and women who had the experience needed to keep him safe.You took the head of security job. You loved keeping your boyfriend safe and spending time with him.

Before you know it Bucky is getting sworn into his position as Congressman. Confetti rains down on the both of you as people cheer for the new Congressman. He has big plans and hopes to work with others toward a better future. But nothing is better for his future than having you by his side. What started as a forbidden romance is now evolving into something special.

Tagging:

@americasass81

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@awkwardgiraffe726

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@caffiend-queen

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@spectre-posts

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@what-is-your-plan-today

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#saiyanprincessswanie #missy writes #forbidden love #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes x fem!reader #4bbingo #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut

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twilightkitkat · 6 months ago

Text

Thinking about the reaction another universe's Logan would have to meeting Wade. To Wade and Logan's relationship.

Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

---

Imagine a Logan who didn't lose the X-men, who still has his "family," but who still has his walls sky high. Who is still an alcoholic (albeit less chronically than our Logan) and still keeps everyone at a distance despite craving company like a moth to a flame. Who purposely isolates himself, denying it under the guise of indifference, out of fear of rejection. Who tries to protect himself by building a fortress around himself only to result in nobody being able to scale those impenetrable walls.

Who has people around him (Jean, Scott, Charles) but still feels alone in the world. Who is physically present (showing up at dinnertime, attending meetings, occasionally completing missions alongside them) but emotionally absent. Who tries so hard to try to be there, to be emotionally open, to give back what he's received, but fails spectacularly.

And everyone else notices. But they don't say anything, afraid of breaking the careful balance that keeps Logan just close enough to touch but just far enough that their fingers only manage to graze him. And so they keep up this balancing act, getting used to the tenseness and slightly uncomfortable silences.

They resign themselves to it eventually. To only being able to climb halfway and receive messages through a window.

And Logan resigns himself to this loneliness too. In 200 years, nobody has managed to break through. Why would they be able to now?

Imagine this Logan meeting the current Wade.

Wade was sent on some kind of mission by the TVA to investigate a disturbance in the timeline of this universe. His Logan offered to join him, but he turned him down. He felt uneasy bringing Logan to a universe where his team was still alive, where everything was eerily similar to his original universe except for their fate. He didn't want Logan to have to go through the pain of seeing the life he "could've" had if he hadn't been the "Worst Wolverine." (And, on a deeper level, he felt scared that Logan would realize that he was never enough to fill that void.)

And so he left a very reluctant Logan behind to delve into this alternate universe.

He stumbled out of the portal into some inconspicuous alleyway, brushing the grime off his suit. Lo and behold, he's in a big bustling city that looks almost identical to his own.

It doesn't take him long to begin investigating, searching for what could've caused the disruption in the timeline. He'd planned for this to be a quick mission, a one-and-done, clean-cut resolution so that he could get home in time to eat whatever scraps Logan had somehow managed to assemble into a decent-looking meal.

He was looking forward to eating dinner with Logan and Blind Al. To pressing his leg against Logan's a bit too closely to be platonic—but not yet explicitly romantic—and feeding Mary Puppins under the table to Logan's protest.

And yet, after hours of searching for clues and interrogating mercenaries and shady guys who knew about underground operations, he was stumped.

And so, naturally, when the bad guys didn't have the information he wanted, he turned to the good guys.

Unfortunately, the Avengers weren't particularly active (at least publicly) at the moment, and so he turned to the very group he'd been hoping to avoid: the X-men.

Maybe breaking into their mansion through a window on a random Tuesday wasn't the best way to make an impression, but it got the job done.

However, the X-men seemed to disagree on that front, considering how the few that had been inside (barely any he recognized) were all tensing up and drawing their weapons.

"Woah woah woah," Wade put his hands up in the air placatingly, "Slow your roll. I'm not here to cause trouble for you guys. I know it looks bad but I promise I'm here for very important, very legit, very legal, reasons."

"...Reasons that require you to break and enter?" some random X-man Wade didn't care about asked.

"Yes, exactly!" Wade chirped. "I'm sure we're all very busy and I want to go home just as much as you all want to redecorate whatever the fuck this mansion aesthetic is."

"What's wrong with the aesthetic?" Colossus (finally, someone he recognized!) asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

"Don't worry about it, pal," Wade quickly deflected, "Anyway, straight to the point: do any of you guys know what the hell could be fucking up your timeline? Because, unfortunately, none of the assholes on the streets seem to know. And, even more unfortunately, I have to fix that."

"...What do you mean fucking up the timeline?" Jean asked, slowly.

"Well, it's a long story—"

—one that ended up with Wade sitting in the big bad office across from Charles Xavier, who took an obnoxiously sophisticated sip of his tea.

"So you're from another dimension," he starts with.

"Yup, born and raised, baby."

"...And you're here because you believe there's something wrong with this timeline?"

"You know it. Although I don't see why we're going through the whole questioning shebang when you can just read my mind and get it over with," Wade leans back in the chair, his tone flippant.

"Well—"

Before Charles can finish speaking, the doors loudly slam open to reveal a very real and very angry Wolverine.

"Where is the fucker who broke in?" he growls, claws unsheathed.

"Right here, buddy," Wade grins and waves.

"Why is he still here and not locked up?" Other-Logan's fiery eyes flick toward Charles.

"Because—"

"—Because I'm here to save your ass, Wolvie. I wasn't the one who messed up your universe and I sure as hell wasn't the one who pissed in your cereal this morning, considering I, y'know, wasn't here."

Wolverine looks slightly taken aback at the audacity of Wade taunting him after breaking and entering.

"Now, not that I don't enjoy some eye candy—I really do, trust me—but can we finish this shit up so I can get back to my universe?" Wade eyed the tense, battle-braced posture Other-Logan was sporting, "And holy shit, peanut, we can try out pain play later but let's save the kinks for the bedroom, yeah? Put those claws away for now."

Wolverine looks like he's about to choke him or choke himself with the way he's clenching his fists in... anger? incredulity? Something to that effect.

And so began their very real, very legit, very spectacular journey to save the timeline! Unfortunately, the other X-men apparently had better shit to do (lazy fuckers), and so while they were out on their own pre-determined missions, Wolverine and Deadpool had to work together. Again. (Well, "again" for one of them.)

And it was going... okay. Surprisingly. They'd managed to locate a few places with suspicious activity using the X-men's network and while Wade would probably have to wait on that homemade dinner, the mission wasn't a total disaster so far (which was better than he could say for last time).

Except, there were a few... slip-ups.

It started when The Wolverine (because he wasn't His Logan, not to Wade) and Deadpool (because he wasn't His Wade either) were out raiding some base that had suspicious activity around when the timeline started having issues. They hadn't uncovered anything substantial so far, but there was definitely something shady going on. Call it a Spidey Sense.

Wolverine was slaughtering some enemies after threatening them within an inch of their life to spill their secrets, as usual, when one henchman (a mutant of some type, judging by the inhuman speed at which he moved) attacked him from behind. Wade didn't even have time to think, all he saw was Logan getting attacked and in an instant, he'd crossed the distance and embedded a katana in the fucker's head.

He knew Logan would heal. He did. But it didn't make it easier to look at him, bloodied and bruised, and not want to murder the person who caused it. It reminded him too much of the way Wade found Logan—reckless and suicidal, resigned to drinking himself to death and not caring how hurt he was.

(And, more than that, he just hated to see him in pain. He liked to think it was reciprocal, by the way Logan would slice someone into fucked up organ confetti the second they managed to land a good hit on Wade. He was always a bit more wound up on those nights, a barely tampered rage in his eyes and snarl to his lips that didn't subside until they were back in the apartment, out of their suits, where wounds stitched themselves up. Logan still had a shakiness to him, sometimes, until the injuries were fully gone. He'd thumb at a slash on his arm until the skin was back to the typical scar tissue instead of a distinct cut.)

Wolverine looked back to see Deadpool on top of the mangled corpse.

"Just doing my job," Deadpool said cheerily, trying not to let his voice waver.

"...Sure, bub," Wolverine muttered, eyeing him a second longer before going back to whoever he was torturing.

Fuck.

And then it happened again.

They were taking a breather in the facility they'd just raided, sitting down to catch their breaths and compile their findings before setting off to the next one.

Wolverine was digging through some medkits nearby, despite being healed.

"Woah buddy," Deadpool started, "Don't you think it's a bit early to be getting drunk? I mean, I'm all for freedom of choice, but I don't think the Founding Fathers thought that choice would mean drinking straight rubbing alcohol."

Wolverine stopped, his muscles stiffening.

"...What makes you think I'm looking for rubbing alcohol?" he asked slowly, a tenseness to his voice that was separate from the normal level of annoyance.

Wade quickly realized his mistake. "Oh, y'know, a hunch. I have a sixth sense. Like Spiderman. But cooler! Like instead of a Spidey Sense I have a... uhhh... Deadpool Danger Detonator?"

Wolverine looked at him suspiciously as he continued to ramble, but eventually let it go. Thank god.

And again.

They were fighting some higher-level henchmen, for once. Seems that their trail was finally leading somewhere. These guys were fewer in numbers, but actually packed some bang for their buck and all seemed to have decently strong mutations and some weapons training.

Now, Logan and Wade frequently went on missions together. In fact, at this point, they almost exclusively did jobs together. (It was part of the reason it'd been so difficult to convince Logan to let this job go. It had become routine at this point to go together, to be a Package Deal, Two Parts of a Set, Partners.)

(He'd noticed how Logan would pace anxiously when he went on more dangerous missions by himself. How he'd try and fail to distract himself and inevitably end up on the couch, tense and waiting for Wade to come home before finally, finally, letting out a deep breath and letting his muscles unwind as Wade flopped down next to him. He knew and yet he just... couldn't... this time.)

Suffice to say, Wade knew Logan's attack patterns. He knew where he'd strike and the openings he'd leave and how to cover them. He'd fought him enough himself to tell when he'd use a feint and when he'd actually go for the kill.

And so, when they were pushed back to back, surrounded on all sides, Wade let himself fall into the natural rhythm of it all. Weaving in and out between Wolverine's attacks, throwing knives where he'd miss with his claws, covering his back, and doing a masterful job at eliminating the enemies.

And Wolverine noticed. Because of course he did. He'd glanced at Wade with something akin to surprise (or even recognition) a few times when he'd managed to match him precisely.

But it felt oddly... good to be matched. Wolverine was used to working alone, to having backup but never really working alongside someone else. He fought on the same team as the X-men, yes, and they did sometimes go on joint missions together, but he never felt equal to them. Like he could throw a punch and they'd match him exactly.

He was used to leading the group, to being on the front lines of the attack, to splitting off and doing his own thing. He'd never felt this type of ease when working with someone. Like he didn't have to glance over his shoulder to check their work or see if they'd been hurt.

And so, as they fell into a comfortable rhythm, Logan found himself smiling. A feral, gleeful thing.

At the joy of finally having a match. The animalistic thrill of getting to play with his prey together without the other person shying away or shutting him down.

Logan always had to toe the line between human and animal. Giving in just enough to his animal instincts to make him a useful tool, a sharp weapon, while still retaining his humanity enough to be palatable. He could never just let go and be both. Let the line disappear in the sand as he dipped his toes in and out of the tides without feeling like someone was yanking him back or further in.

For the first time in his 200 years of existence, Logan felt free.

(When he finally came down from the adrenaline high, he looked at Wade with an indescribable expression. If Wade didn't know better, he'd almost say it looked like awe.)

And again.

They were bickering over something stupid. It doesn't matter how it started, only that now they both were bristling with annoyance and had their pride on the line.

"Can you shut the fuck up?" Wolverine growled, clenching his hands tightly.

"Or what? Is the kitty gonna unsheathe his claws?" Deadpool goaded, "Are you going to shish-kebab me? Stab me?"

"And if I do?" A challenging spark entered Logan's eyes.

"Been there, done that, honey badger. You'll have to get realllllll creative to top the Honda Odyssey," Wade smirked.

"What the hell does a car have to do with me murdering you?"

Deadpool blinked. Once. Twice. "Oh yeah, you wouldn't know that reference. Bummer. The point is, you aren't going to get anything out of impaling me. Except for the rise of a different type of weapon. If you get what I mean."

Wolverine gruffly retorted with some petty insult, but the searching look in his eyes didn't fade.

And again.

"C'mon Wolvie, you know I like it when you penetrate me, but let's try something new for a change, yeah? How about you hold me tenderly instead—" (Wolverine had never impaled him once.)

And again.

"Or what? What are you gonna say? 'Hey bub, I'm Wolverine, I'm The X-man and I'm masculine and I like woodworking and being a lumberjack in the forests of Canada.'" (Wolverine had never revealed that. To anyone, actually.)

And again.

"You know, maybe instead of drinking anything available, you can wait and I'll buy you some of the good stuff. I'll get you some beer and whisky on the house as long as you brave the very hard journey of staying sober for more than ten fucking minutes." (Wolverine had never told him his taste in alcohol.)

Until, finally—

"You know me."

"What?"

"You know me." It was a statement, not a question. Wolverine was looking at him with that same look in his eyes. The one he'd had since their first fight together where Deadpool had freaked the fuck out over someone nearly stabbing him.

"I sure hope I do, considering we've been working together for two days now," Deadpool chuckled, averting his eyes.

"No. You know me. You know me." Logan had a type of vulnerability in his eyes, one that he hadn't seen since he'd left his Logan behind.

"...What do you mean?" Wade asked, reluctantly.

"You know things about me that you shouldn't. But you couldn't have gotten it from anyone because nobody else knows them either. You know how I fight. What my habits are. What I like. What I hate. Therefore, you know me," he said, and that might be the most words Wade has ever heard this Logan speak at one time.

And Wade wants to deny it, if just to hurry along this mission and avoid the emotional turmoil of confronting his feelings with a Logan that isn't even his. But he sees the earnest look in Logan's eyes and he can't just ignore it. Can't deflect like he would for anyone else.

"...You're right, I do know you."

"How?" Logan's eyes are piercing, searching for answers. Desperately, almost. Like a man stranded in the desert, insatiably thirsty, who just learned that there's an oasis.

So Wade tells him. A short version, anyway. Tells him about snatching his Logan from another universe, getting thrown into the void, and then working together to save his world. Tells him about asking Logan to stay, and how they've been living together since. How they go on missions together and make dinner together and watch shitty reality TV together with Blind Al and their dog.

(Doesn't tell him how he refused to let his Logan come along, that he wanted to, that he'd do anything to keep his Logan with him even if it hurts to be away.)

Finally, the inevitable question comes up: "Why did Logan abandon his universe?"

And Wade tells him that too.

And Logan... doesn't know how to feel.

A part of him feels horrified. That there's a universe out there where he failed the X-men so horrendously. Where he drank himself into a stupor and stumbled back in to find them dead. Where he lived his entire life denying that he cares and building up his walls only for him to crumble anyway when they're gone (only for him to have nothing to reminisce on because of it).

But a larger part of him (a shameful, bitter part of him) feels envy curling around his chest, squeezing his heart and constricting his throat until he's barely able to breathe.

Because of course, it'd take losing everything that mattered to him right now to be able to find what he's been missing this whole time. He couldn't just be happy with the X-men, he had to be selfish and want more despite all they've done for him.

A greedy, wretched part of him thinks it'd be worth it. To throw it all away just so that he could have someone like Wade who talks about him not as a colleague, not as a teammate, but with a fondness so evident he could choke on it. Someone who knows Logan, not The Wolverine. Who cares about the little details like how he furrows his brow and what his favorite drink is and the exact pitch his voice takes when he genuinely laughs instead of just how quick he can kill enemies.

Someone who knows him as Logan—a selfish, possessive, scared, pathetic, insecure, asshole—and still wants him. Still loves him.

He's always had to hide parts of himself. Always had to don a mask of stoicism, careful indifference, and harsh words. Because then, people would hate him for that. They would push him away because he was rude, he was callous, he was brutal, but they wouldn't look deeper.

Because if Logan bared himself to someone as he is, vulnerable and terrified of losing those he loves, and they rejected him?

It'd be a worse fate than death.

But here Wade was, talking about him—as a person, not a hero—and smiling so visibly Logan can tell behind the mask, speaking of him warmly even when remembering how they used to fight.

Logan feels something unfamiliar in his gut. A concoction of jealousy, hatred, and... relief. Happiness. Possessiveness, even.

That he could be seen and loved despite it.

Logan knows what love feels like. Knows how it feels to care about people, despite how he acts. He knows how to feel protective and worried.

He's felt attraction before. To Jean, who had soft skin and a pretty smile and who always showed courage in the face of danger. To Scott, even, who commanded with a strength in his voice that sometimes had heat running through Logan's veins.

This is different.

This isn't just love. Isn't just attraction. It's yearning—awful, honest, raw yearning for something he desperately wanted but knew he couldn't have. Knew he shouldn't have.

But he wanted it. He'd felt empty for so long, even surrounded by people, even with people he cares about and who he knows reciprocate. He's been trapped in limbo for so long: never alone but always lonely, given enough scraps to stay in one place and fear loss while still feeling an itch under his skin for something more.

To be understood. To be seen. To be loved. To belong to someone instead of being a stray, wandering from door to door and taking whatever handouts he can while sleeping in their shitty garage.

Logan is an animal at heart, really. The Wolverine had always been inside him, influencing his feelings and emotions in a way normal humans couldn't quite relate to or understand.

And like all animals, the thing he wants the most is a home. A place to belong.

He stares at Wade as he continues rambling about the Logan from his world, talking with an energy he'd never had before.

A home, huh?

#poolverine #poolverine angst #deadclaws #deadpool and wolverine #deadpool 3 #deadpool movie #wade wilson #wade x logan #wade/logan #logan howlett #this is my first post #let me know if you want a part 2 #with actual logan pulling up #im going to try to post every day #lmk if you liked it and if i should continue :))#kitkat

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dreamersworldduh · 11 days ago

Note

Seeing as the people yearn for Brenton Thwaites Dick Grayson what about a fic where reader gets sent to prison for something stupid or whatever. He gets put into a cell with Dick. Dick is indifferent to his presence, but when reader gets threatened buy some inmates Dick offers protection in exchange for- well you know what! completely consensual but is an favour exchange

Thankuuu

PROTECTION

• DICK GRAYSON x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — In the brutal confines of Gotham State Penitentiary, survival depends on silence, strength, and knowing exactly who to avoid. When you arrive—fresh meat, still raw with the anger that got you locked up—you expect isolation, maybe violence, definitely fear. What you don’t expect is Grayson: your quiet, unreadable cellmate who keeps to himself, barely speaks, and yet commands a kind of fear that even the worst predators respect.

WARNING! 18+ MDNI. Suggestive Langauge. Swearing. Violence.

WORDS! 17.2k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Okay, I know I’ve been absence but I haven’t been doing nothing—this fic right here took a week to finish and I have more coming. So be prepared for the flood, thank you for requesting—enjoy your reading✨🫶🏽

For the next twelve months, your home is Gotham State Penitentiary—cell block D, unit 43, third bunk from the left. A narrow slab of metal bolted to the wall, thin mattress, no privacy, and a toilet in full view. Why are you here? Because you did something reckless. No, scratch that—something flat-out insane. The kind of act that blows up your life in one quick, satisfying explosion. You knew the fallout was coming. You just didn't care—not in that moment.

Not when you saw your ex-boyfriend's face go white. Eyes wide. Mouth half-open, like the words he wanted to say got stuck in his throat. That raw mix of betrayal, disbelief, and something close to heartbreak—that was the payoff. That was what you wanted. That split-second where you had all the power, and he had nothing but shock. For five glorious minutes, it felt worth it.

Then the sirens wailed. Then the cops tackled you to the ground. Then the gates of Gotham State slammed shut behind you with a metal scream that echoed in your spine.

Intake was where it hit you. Cold tile floors. Buzzing fluorescents. The stench of bleach and sweat and fear. This wasn't juvie. This wasn't a night in a holding cell and a slap on the wrist. This was a maximum-security prison built like a fortress—gray concrete walls, watchtowers, razor wire, and no easy exits. Everyone here was doing real time. Fifteen-year sentences. Life without parole. Robbery, arson, aggravated assault. Murder. The kind of men who didn't just talk tough—they were tough. The kind who broke fingers like they were snapping twigs. No metahumans, no masks, but make no mistake: these guys were predators. And you? You were the new one. The untested one. The one who still smelled like the outside.

The guards? They barely looked at you. They'd seen a thousand versions of you before—new meat with a chip on his shoulder and regret kicking in fast. They barked orders, shoved you through processing, and handed you your jumpsuit like you were a product on an assembly line. And the other inmates? They noticed you the second you stepped onto the block. Some just stared. Others smiled. A few muttered under their breath. You felt it all—eyes crawling across your skin like ants. That smug defiance you brought with you? Gone. Somewhere between the strip search and the fingerprinting and the cold metal bracelet slapped on your wrist, it evaporated. Fast.

You started to wonder.

Was five minutes of satisfaction really worth a year behind these walls?

You're about to find out.

You stepped into the cell, the heavy metal door clanging shut behind you like a final verdict. The lock clicked with a dull thud that seemed to echo straight into your chest. No going back now. The room was barely big enough for two bunks, a toilet, and a metal sink. The air was stale, thick with the layered stench of old sweat, bleach, and institutional despair. Cold, too—like the concrete walls were leeching heat straight out of your skin.

You'd braced yourself for this—cramped quarters, zero privacy, the kind of silence that always felt like it was holding its breath. But what you hadn't expected was the guy already inside.

He was shirtless, crouched low to the ground, cranking out push-ups with a pace that wasn't fast, but relentless. Controlled. Like every movement had a purpose. His back was broad and cut with muscle, the kind you didn't get from casual gym visits. This was functional strength—prison strength. A body built to survive, not just look good. Sweat rolled down his spine in slow rivulets, catching the flickering fluorescent light above and making his skin shine like polished bronze.

His hair was damp and messy, brown and curling slightly where it brushed the tops of his ears. You could tell it had been cut a while ago, probably by clippers with no guard, the kind of rough cut you got from a guard or a fellow inmate with a dull blade. He looked young—mid twenties, maybe—but carried himself like someone much older. Someone who'd seen shit and came out the other side sharper for it.

When he finally finished a set, he rocked back on his heels and sat up, breathing steady, not even winded. That's when he turned his head just enough for you to see his face. Sharp jawline, a couple days of scruff, and a purpling bruise blooming under his left eye. His expression was unreadable—blank, almost bored. But his eyes were the curveball: deep brown, warm, soft in a way that didn't match the rest of him. Kind eyes. The kind that made you think of a loyal dog, the type that would follow you anywhere... or rip someone apart if you told it to.

You opened your mouth, figuring it was smart to at least introduce yourself. Tension like this? It didn't need help getting worse.

"Hey. I'm—"

Nothing.

He didn't look at you. Didn't ask your name. Didn't even flinch. He just reached down, grabbed a stained white towel—your towel, sitting on the lower bunk that was clearly supposed to be yours—and wiped the sweat from his face. Then, without so much as a glance your way, he dropped back to the floor and kept moving, muscles flexing again, the rhythm of his push-ups steady as a ticking clock.

You stood there for a beat, hand still halfway raised, words dying in your throat. Right. Message received.

So much for small talk.

You were seven days into your sentence, and already the rhythm of prison life had sunk into your bones. You woke up with the clang of metal, moved through the day like a ghost. No eye contact, no conversation, no sudden movements. Just survive. Keep your head down, your mouth shut, and your back to the wall. Blend in. Be invisible.

So far, it had worked. Mostly.

That afternoon, you sat alone at one of the scarred metal tables in the cafeteria, your tray of prison-issued "lunch" cooling in front of you. The food was barely food—grayish boiled potatoes swimming in lukewarm water and a scoop of something that might have once been beans, or maybe meat, or maybe nothing at all. You weren't trying to figure it out. You just chewed slowly, methodically, eyes locked on the tray like it held state secrets.

Around you, the room buzzed with controlled chaos: trays clattering, low murmurs of conversation, the occasional bark of laughter, the slap of boots against linoleum as guards walked their lazy loops. Nothing sounded urgent. Nothing felt out of place.

Until it did.

It started with a hush. Not loud, but unnatural. A drop in volume that spread like a ripple through water. A subtle shift in air pressure, like the room itself was holding its breath. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up before you even looked up. You'd felt it before, on the streets, in bad neighborhoods, in worse moments—when things were about to go sideways.

You lifted your eyes.

Three men. Moving with purpose. They didn't bother hiding it. They walked like they owned the floor, like the space around them belonged to them and they were just deciding what to take next. Big guys, all of them, their bodies built from endless reps in the yard and lives lived by force. Ink crawled down their necks, across their knuckles, dark lines telling stories of loyalty and violence. The one in front had a scar that split his face from lip to jaw, puckered and pale, like someone had tried to give him a permanent grin with a razor blade.

They stopped in front of your table.

Didn't speak. Didn't blink. Just stood there, letting their presence do the talking. The leader's hands were buried casually in the pockets of his jumpsuit, but the two behind him were coiled tight, fists clenched, shoulders squared. Ready.

You didn't recognize them, but from the way they were looking at you—like a wolf pack eyeing a stray rabbit—they definitely recognized you. Or thought they did. Maybe you looked like someone they hated. Maybe you'd stepped into the wrong shower stall without knowing it. Or maybe they just needed someone to make an example of.

Either way, trouble had found you.

And it brought friends.

The leader stepped forward until his boots were nearly brushing your tray. His shadow stretched long across your food, and the smell hit you—sweat, cigarettes, and that thick, sour stench of too many men packed into too small a space for too long. He looked down at your plate, then at you, that twisted half-smile curling up the side of his scarred mouth.

"Kang wants your tray," he said, tapping two fingers against the edge of it. Slow. Lazy. Like he was already bored with how easy this was going to be.

You didn't answer right away.

Your jaw locked. You stared at him, then at the tray—your tray. The same godawful meal every inmate got, but to you, it was everything. You hadn't bought anything from commissary since you got in. No cookies. No cup noodles. No candy bars tucked into the corner of your locker. This was it. The only food you were going to see until the next morning.

Give it up, and you were going hungry for the next eleven hours.

You looked at the clock on the wall. 6:00 PM.

No chips. No extras. Just this tray and your pride.

And pride in prison could be dangerous.

Still, you didn't move. You didn't flinch. You just met his eyes—briefly—and gave your answer.

"Nah," you said, voice low but clear. "I'm eating today."

The tap of his fingers stopped.

The smile faded. Just a bit. Enough for the temperature in the room to drop.

Kang didn't like your answer.

You saw it in the subtle snap of tension across his jaw, the way his lips twitched as if suppressing a snarl. Something shifted behind his eyes—like a door slammed shut and locked from the inside. Whatever mild amusement he'd been faking a moment ago evaporated. What replaced it was colder. Sharper. A quiet kind of fury, the kind that didn't explode—it waited.

The air between you thickened, as if the room had narrowed and the space around your table had turned into a pressure chamber. You could feel it. Something was about to happen.

Then, like someone flipped a switch, his two boys moved.

The one on the left cracked his knuckles as he stepped forward, broad shoulders rolling like he was stretching before a workout. He had that look—tight jaw, steady eyes, like he was already picturing your head bouncing off the table. The other guy circled fast, his boots silent, his posture practiced. He didn't hesitate. This wasn't his first time cornering someone. He moved like muscle memory was guiding him, like he'd done this same dance a dozen times before with the same ending every time.

Your hands tensed. You pushed your legs back under the bench just enough to brace yourself. Fight or flight didn't really exist in a place like this. There was only fight or fold. And folding too early meant you'd be folding every damn day after that.

Then Kang raised a hand.

Just a flick of his wrist. No words. No theatrics.

And they stopped. Froze in place mid-step like they'd been put on pause. Neither one said anything, but they didn't need to. The obedience was instant, reflexive. Kang didn't even glance at them—his gaze stayed locked on you.

The smile returned, but it wasn't smug this time. It was calculated. Cold. The kind of smile that says, Not today. But soon.

He leaned forward slightly, just enough to cross into your space without touching you. Close enough that you could smell the faint trace of mint gum—unexpected, oddly clean—and the sweat dried into the seams of his collar. His voice was low, casual, like you were sharing a joke.

"Eat up, rookie. Gotta keep your strength."

Then he straightened, turned, and walked away like nothing had happened. His crew hesitated half a second longer before following, their bodies still thrumming with restrained violence. They didn't look back.

You didn't move.

Couldn't. Your body was locked in place. Heart hammering behind your ribs like it wanted out. You could feel the weight of the room now—every stare, every unspoken question. The cafeteria hadn't gone silent, but it had definitely shifted. Conversations had dipped. Forks hovered mid-air. Dozens of inmates had watched the scene unfold, and none of them had said a word.

They didn't need to. The looks said enough.

You'd just made a move. Or a mistake. Or maybe both.

You turned back to your tray. The potatoes looked grayer now. The mush looked wetter. Your appetite, what little there was, had vanished completely. You forced one bite. It tasted like nothing and sat in your mouth like concrete.

And then—movement. Out of the corner of your eye.

Across the room, half-hidden in shadow, leaning against the back wall where the light flickered overhead.

Grayson.

Your cellmate.

He stood there with his arms crossed loosely over his chest, his back pressed against the wall like he'd been there the whole time. Maybe he had. His brown hair was damp, as usual, curling slightly at the ends. Sweat darkened the collar of his worn gray shirt. His face was unreadable.

He didn't nod. Didn't smirk. Didn't blink.

He was just watching you.

Studying you.

Like you were some puzzle he hadn't quite solved yet.

It wasn't judgment. Wasn't concern. It was something colder. More analytical. Like he was mentally filing this moment away, deciding what kind of person you were—what kind of problem you might become.

And that stare? That flat, steady stare?

It rattled you more than Kang ever could.

The next day, you were knee-deep in the laundry room, sweating through your uniform and elbow-deep in someone else's filth. The air was thick—humid, heavy, saturated with the sharp sting of bleach and the mildewy undertone of fabric that had soaked in too much sweat and too little detergent over the years. It stank. The kind of stink that settled into your nose and wouldn't leave, even when you scrubbed your face with cold water later.

It wasn't glamorous. Hell, it was barely tolerable. But you'd put your name on the assignment sheet the moment you got processed, before the ink had even dried on your intake forms. It was one of the last jobs left—nobody wanted it. Most inmates scrambled for the kitchen (extra food), or the library (peace and quiet, maybe a little dignity). Laundry, though? That was bottom of the barrel. Grunt work. Lifting, scrubbing, folding, hauling. All day on your feet, back screaming, hands stinging from bleach and constant friction.

And still, you considered it a win.

The room was big, at least by prison standards—concrete floors, exposed pipes overhead, and rows of industrial washing machines the size of small cars. They clanged and rattled violently as they spun, shaking the floor and making conversation nearly impossible, which suited you just fine. Giant wheeled bins overflowed with orange jumpsuits, socks stiff with dried sweat, towels that looked like they'd been dragged through a sewer. Sorting them was mindless work—sort by color, by smell, by how likely they were to fall apart in the wash. Rinse. Repeat. Literally.

Your shirt clung to your back, soaked through. Your shoulders burned with every load you dragged from machine to dryer. Your fingers were cracked and red from wringing out piles of soaked fabric. But there was space. There was movement. There was a task to keep your brain occupied.

And, most importantly, there was no Grayson.

Your cellmate hadn't said a single word to you in a week. Not a greeting. Not a threat. Not a grunt of acknowledgment. Just... nothing. He existed in that cell like a shadow pinned to the corner. Silent. Unblinking. When you spoke, he didn't answer. When you coughed, he didn't flinch. You weren't even sure if he noticed you most of the time. It was like living with a mannequin someone had carved from stone.

At night, it got worse. You'd lie on your bunk and glance over to find him sitting upright, staring at the far wall. Eyes half-shut, maybe resting, but never fully asleep. Always alert. Always still. The man never twitched, never turned over, never made a sound. Like he was wired to stay on watch, even when the world around him went still.

That kind of silence? It wasn't peaceful. It was oppressive.

So yeah—folding underwear in a stinking hellhole for eight hours a day felt like a goddamn vacation.

In the laundry room, you had noise—clanging, hissing, grinding, rumbling machines that made it impossible to think too long or too hard. You had motion—tasks to finish, bins to move, towels to fold. You had space. You weren't being watched. Judged. Weighed and measured by a man who hadn't spoken to you but somehow still made you feel small every time he looked your way.

Here, in this sweltering box of sweat and steam, you could just be a body doing a job. No past, no mistakes, no ex-boyfriends, no cellmates with haunted eyes.

Just heat. Just noise.

And for now, that was enough.

You were working alongside Cruz—a rail-thin guy with hollow cheeks and tattoos that looked like they'd been scratched into his skin with a pen and a needle. He never talked. Just grunted now and then, more to himself than anyone else. You didn't mind. You'd grown to like the quiet between you. He folded fast, moved with practiced efficiency, and never asked questions.

A guard stood by the door. Mid-forties, heavyset, with eyes that looked half-asleep under his buzzed haircut. He wasn't watching you so much as trying not to care. Arms crossed. Slouched. Counting the minutes until his shift ended. He hadn't spoken in over an hour. You hadn't either.

For once, the silence wasn't heavy. It felt... peaceful. Like the room was its own little bubble, sealed off from the rest of the prison.

Then you heard it.

A sharp whistle. Clean. Controlled. Echoing off the tiled walls like a knife clinking against glass.

Your head snapped up.

Cruz froze mid-fold. You exchanged a glance, brief but sharp. You could see the tension rise in his shoulders. That whistle hadn't been random. It was a signal.

The guard straightened. His posture shifted just slightly—shoulders up, eyes suddenly focused. He looked at the door, nodded to himself, and then... walked out. No warning. No radio call. No command. He didn't even look back.

Just turned, opened the door, and disappeared into the hallway like he'd never been there at all.

Your gut twisted.

Then they walked in.

Kang came first, his swagger slow and deliberate, the way someone walked when they were sure no one could touch them. His jumpsuit hung open halfway, sleeves tied around his waist like he was too relaxed to care about protocol. Behind him came his two usual shadows—huge, mean, built like failed linebackers. One of them had a split lip that never seemed to heal. The other had a shaved head and a tattoo on his neck that looked like a noose.

The door slammed shut behind them with a hollow clank that echoed all the way through your chest.

Your heart sank.

You already knew this wasn't a chat. They hadn't come here to scare you. That part had already passed.

Cruz didn't say a word. Didn't ask what was going on or if you were okay. He just wiped his hands on the thighs of his pants, walked around the folding table, and slipped past them like he wasn't even there. Like this was choreography. Like this had all been planned and he'd practiced his exit.

No eye contact. No hesitation.

And then it was just you.

Standing in the middle of the room. Hands wet from handling clothes. Shirt stuck to your back. The sweat between your shoulder blades now cold. Piles of dirty jumpsuits boxed you in like low, fabric-covered walls. The machines kept groaning, kept spinning, like they couldn't care less about the shift in air, the building tension, the inevitability of what was coming.

Kang stepped closer. That grin on his face again—casual, slow-spreading, cruel in its patience.

No words yet.

Just that smile.

And you knew, with a certainty that hit like ice in your veins: You were completely, absolutely alone.

The silence in the room wasn't natural. It didn't feel empty—it felt charged. Like a live wire had been strung through the air, humming just beneath your skin. Your heartbeat was too loud in your ears, thudding hard, fast, like it knew time was running out.

You started doing the math in your head—how many steps to the door, how far they'd have to move to cut you off, what you could use in here as a weapon. Nothing promising. Nothing that ended with you walking out of the room unscathed.

They hadn't rushed you. That was worse. They were still, deliberate, watching you with the patience of men who enjoyed dragging things out. Kang stood at the front, relaxed, loose-limbed, like this was all a game and he already knew the outcome. His two boys flanked him like shadows—silent, unmoving, faces unreadable. One cracked his neck. The other smiled, just barely.

You scanned the room again.

No help. No cameras. No corners to hide in.

The folding tables were bolted to the floor, the carts too heavy to push quickly. Wet clothes filled every bin—useless. The only things within reach were towels, shirts, and socks that smelled like mildew and stale body odor. There was no guard. No Cruz. No one sticking their head in to check on you.

No witnesses.

Maybe if you moved fast, you could sidestep them. Get to the door, pound on it, scream. But that would mean turning your back. You'd be giving them a clean shot at your spine before your foot even hit the floor.

And you weren't naïve. You weren't strong. You weren't built for this. You were wiry, sure, but that meant nothing against guys who looked like they bench-pressed concrete for fun. The kind of men whose knuckles were scarred from too many fights, whose eyes didn't blink when fists flew.

You were fast. You had a mouth. Neither of those things would save you here.

Your fingers curled into fists without you telling them to. Not because you thought you could win. But because there was no other choice. It was instinct. Cornered animal shit. If this was going down, you weren't going to make it easy for them.

Your pulse spiked again.

Kang moved without warning—no glare, no wind-up, just a blur of motion and then crack. The sound echoed off the concrete walls like a gunshot, sharp and brutal in the stale air. Fire bloomed across your cheekbone. Your head snapped sideways with the force of the slap, and your knees buckled, legs giving out like someone had cut your strings. You hit the floor hard, palms scraping raw against the rough concrete as you caught yourself.

There was no time to breathe. No time to think.

Two sets of hands grabbed you—thick, callused, fingers digging into your arms like meat hooks. They jerked you upright with zero effort, your boots scraping across the floor. You tried to twist, to pull free on instinct, but it was useless. They held you wide and exposed, your arms stretched out like you were on a goddamn cross. Their grips were iron. You were nothing but a rag doll in their fists.

Kang stepped in.

Not fast. Not angry. Just... calm. Collected. His face was blank, like he was checking a box on a to-do list. He moved into your space with the quiet confidence of someone who never had to raise his voice to get what he wanted. That slap? It hadn't been punishment. It had been punctuation. A statement.

He tilted his head, eyes scanning your face. His expression was almost lazy, like you were a stain he'd been meaning to wipe off the wall for a while.

"I run this place," he said. His voice was low, smooth, practiced—like he'd given this speech before. "Not the warden. Not the guards. Me."

He took a step closer. The heat of his body was sudden and suffocating. His breath smelled like cafeteria coffee and old garlic. You could see the fine sheen of sweat along his hairline.

"When I want something," he said, "I take it. Food. Respect. Space. Doesn't matter."

His eyes flicked down to your mouth, then back to your eyes. "You don't tell me no. Not ever."

You clenched your jaw. Tried to breathe through your nose, to stop your hands from shaking, but your pulse was a drumbeat in your ears. You knew what was coming next. Everyone did. Kang didn't threaten. He demonstrated. Pain was his language, and you'd just signed up for a private lesson.

He reached toward your face again.

And then—the door creaked open.

It wasn't loud. But it cut through everything.

All four of you froze.

The machine noise faded into the background. Time stopped, suspended on that creak of rusted hinges and the faint squeak of rubber soles.

In the doorway stood Grayson.

Framed by the flickering light of the hallway, dressed in his gray work shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His posture was casual—almost too casual. Hands loose at his sides, legs slightly apart, like he'd just happened to walk in at the exact wrong time. Or maybe the exact right one.

His eyes moved slowly across the room. Took in Kang. The goons. You, held like an offering. His expression didn't change. No surprise. No concern. Just that unreadable look he always wore, like he was scanning a puzzle and hadn't yet decided if he was interested in solving it.

He didn't speak.

Didn't have to.

The effect was immediate. Subtle, but real.

The grip on your arms slackened, just slightly. Enough for you to feel it. The weight shifted behind you. Kang's posture didn't break, but something in his shoulders went taut. You didn't need to see his face to know he hadn't planned for this. And that he didn't like variables.

Still, no one moved until Grayson stepped into the room with a slow, deliberate calm, each movement quiet but purposeful—like a wolf entering unfamiliar territory, already calculating every exit, every angle. His eyes didn't flicker. Didn't scan. They locked straight onto Kang and stayed there, unwavering. His voice, when it came, wasn't loud. But it sliced clean through the thick air like a razor.

"Let him go."

No shouting. No threats. Just four words, spoken with the kind of authority that didn't need volume to be heard. There was no plea in his tone. No uncertainty. It was a command, plain and final—like he was stating the obvious, and the rest of the room was just waiting to catch up.

Kang turned his head slowly, pivoting toward Grayson with a deliberate laziness, the kind that said I don't take orders from anyone. His smirk curled wider, sharp with amusement, but his eyes had gone colder, narrower.

"Well, well," he said, drawing the words out like taffy. "The silent bunkmate speaks."

He gave Grayson a once-over, casual on the surface, but you could see the tension behind his smile—the calculation. The pause as his mind worked, trying to figure out if this was posturing, bluff, or something else entirely.

His two goons didn't move. But their grips on you changed. It was subtle, but you felt it—uncertainty in their hands, the beginning of hesitation. Their fingers twitched like they were waiting for new orders. You were still trapped between them, arms pinned, but now the pressure had eased, just slightly. Enough to know they weren't so sure anymore.

Grayson didn't respond. Didn't blink. He stood there, loose but grounded, like a stone dropped in the middle of the room—immovable. His expression didn't change, and somehow, that made it worse. He wasn't trying to intimidate Kang. He wasn't trying anything. He was just watching. Waiting. Not out of fear, but out of restraint.

It was quiet. Tense.

The kind of silence where even the machines in the background seemed to hold their breath.

Then: footsteps in the hallway. Slow. Heavy.

The guard reappeared, sauntering back in with a wad of gum in his mouth and a face that said he hadn't seen—or cared about—a single thing. He didn't ask what was happening. Didn't scold or intervene. Just leaned against the doorframe, scanned the room once, and let his eyes settle on Kang.

A single nod.

Nothing more.

But it was enough.

Kang clicked his tongue in irritation, barely masking his frustration, and took a slow step back. "Another time, then," he muttered, voice low and clipped.

The moment his weight shifted, the hands on your arms released. Just like that. Like someone had pulled the plug on a machine. Your legs wobbled beneath you, the blood rushing back through your muscles like static. You stumbled but caught yourself, knees bending just enough to avoid collapsing again.

Kang didn't look at you as he passed. His smirk was back, but thinner now. Hollow. Performed.

As he brushed past Grayson, there was a flicker—just a beat—where something unspoken passed between them. No words. No challenge. Just acknowledgment. The kind of look that says, We're not done.

And then they were gone.

The door swung closed behind them with a dull, mechanical clunk.

The room was still spinning slightly. Your cheek throbbed with every beat of your heart, a deep, stinging heat settling under your skin. Your hands were shaking, though you didn't notice until you tried to wipe your face.

Grayson was still there.

Still silent.

He looked at you for a long second—expression unreadable, face set like it had been carved out of stone.

Then, without a word, he turned and walked back into the hallway. No nod. No check-in. No acknowledgment that he'd just stopped something from going very, very bad.

But you felt it.

Something had shifted.

Kang had walked in to remind everyone of the rules.

Grayson had just rewritten them.

That night, the cell was colder than usual. The kind of cold that crawled into your bones and stayed there, slow and deliberate. You lay flat on your bunk, arms at your sides, staring up at the cracked ceiling where the concrete spiderwebbed from years of stress and neglect. Outside the narrow window, the yard lights cast dim streaks across the walls, long shadows that moved with the occasional passing guard. The rest of the cell was dark, quiet. Too quiet.

Your cheek throbbed with a deep, pulsing ache. Swollen. Tender. Every time your head shifted against the thin prison pillow, the pain flared back up—Kang's signature, branded onto your skin without even breaking it. A reminder that he wasn't finished with you. Not by a long shot.

You didn't move when the cell door opened with its usual mechanical groan. You just kept staring up, eyes unfocused, waiting.

Grayson stepped inside without a word. No hesitation. No glance in your direction. He moved like he always did—silent, efficient, like the space belonged to him and you were just borrowing it. He went straight to the sink, pulled a towel off the rack, and turned his back to you.

Then, without looking, he tossed something onto your chest. A small plastic-wrapped rectangle. Cold.

You blinked, startled, then looked down. An ice pack. Already chilled. The kind they handed out in medical for sprains, bruises, maybe worse.

"I convinced the nurse," he said, voice flat as ever, like he was commenting on the weather. "Told her it was for me."

He didn't wait for thanks. Didn't ask how you were. He just sank down onto his bunk, elbows on his knees, fingers laced loosely, eyes on the floor like this was just another night.

You pressed the ice to your cheek. The sting hit first—sharp, biting—but it faded quickly into a dull numbness that took the edge off the pain. You winced, but you didn't say anything. Part of you wanted to thank him, but the words wouldn't come. Not just because of the pain. Because you didn't trust it. Grayson didn't do favors. He moved with purpose. He chose silence like a weapon. Whatever this was, it wasn't kindness.

After a moment, he spoke again—still staring at the floor.

"Kang's not going to let this go."

You turned your head slightly, the crinkle of the plastic pack breaking the quiet. "Figured."

Grayson nodded once. A slow, deliberate motion. "He doesn't like being challenged. Not in public. Not anywhere. That little stunt in the laundry room? That wasn't just about you. That was about his reputation. You embarrassed him. Made him look weak."

You didn't respond. You didn't need to.

"He'll come at you again," Grayson said. "Sooner. Harder. Maybe not with fists next time. Maybe with something worse."

Your fingers tightened around the ice pack. You could already feel the bruise setting in under your skin.

"But not you," you said, turning your gaze toward him. "He doesn't touch you. Doesn't even look at you twice."

Grayson's jaw flexed. A faint, imperceptible shift in his expression. His eyes lifted slowly to meet yours, sharp and focused, like you'd just asked a question with more weight than you realized.

"There's a reason for that," he said, quiet but heavy.

He didn't offer more. No backstory. No threats. Just a fact, dropped into the air between you like a stone in still water.

The silence stretched. Long enough to feel uncomfortable. Long enough to realize he was sizing you up—again. Reading your face, your posture, your pain. And then, without ceremony, he said:

"I'll keep Kang off you."

Like he was offering to loan you a book instead of rewriting your entire survival plan. "You'll be left alone. No more looking over your shoulder, no more counting footsteps outside your cell at night."

You stayed silent, the ice pack cold against your cheek, its edges beginning to soften with body heat. The dull ache in your face was still there, throbbing just beneath the surface, but the shock of what he was saying cut through it like glass.

Then he added—clear, calm, deliberate:

"In exchange for sex. Consensual. No games. No power plays. Just the real thing."

The sentence dropped like a steel door slamming shut. Final. Inescapable.

Your grip on the ice pack didn't tighten, but your breath did—held for just a second too long before you forced it out through your nose. Inside, your brain kicked into gear, scrambling to catch up. You'd heard things. Stories. Deals. Quiet arrangements. But this—coming from him—this wasn't what you expected.

Not from the guy who barely spoke, who moved through the prison like a ghost no one dared touch. Not from the man who hadn't so much as looked your way for a week, and then stepped in like some grim-faced deus ex machina just when Kang's fist was ready to follow his slap.

You didn't let your reaction show. Not here. Not now. Subtle was survival. Everything else was weakness.

Slowly, you lowered the ice pack and met his gaze.

He wasn't smirking. He wasn't taunting. There was no predatory glint in his eye, no sadistic edge. Just that same unshakable calm, that careful calculation. He wasn't trying to shock you. He was stating a fact. An equation, plain and simple.

He'd run the numbers.

This was the solution.

You swallowed once, quietly. "That's... direct," you said, your voice steady, even though your pulse had started to spike in your throat.

A faint flicker of something moved across his face—maybe a smile, maybe not. It was gone too fast to be sure. "Figured you'd respect that more than bullshit."

You didn't respond right away. You kept your breathing even, your expression neutral, but inside your thoughts were tearing in five different directions. Part of you felt insulted. Part of you was curious. Part of you just didn't know what the hell to feel. He hadn't threatened you. He hadn't cornered you. But he'd still pushed the air out of the room with a single sentence.

You looked at him, really looked—trying to find the angle. Because there was always an angle. You'd learned that fast in this place. Trust was just another word for "what's the catch?"

But Grayson... he just waited.

Like he had all the time in the world.

Like he knew you were going to weigh it.

And like he already knew which way you'd tip.

He said it the way someone might suggest a trade—cigarettes for soup. Calm. Logical. Like he'd already weighed the terms and filed them away in some internal ledger.

At first, all you could do was sit with it. Let it rattle around in your chest.

It wasn't shock, not exactly. You weren't naïve. You'd seen the system behind the system—the quiet transactions that ran this place. Protection had a price. Affection had a currency. Sex was often part of the bargain, sometimes bartered, sometimes taken. No one talked about it in the open, but everyone knew.

What did catch you off guard was the source.

Grayson.

The man who barely spoke. Who watched the room like a hawk and moved through the prison like he wasn't part of it. Who never smiled, never postured, never tried to make friends—or enemies. He was a ghost with weight, and somehow that made him more dangerous than the loudest guys in the yard.

You'd spent nights wondering what his angle was. If he even had one. And now here it was. Laid bare. Simple. Blunt.

And somehow... clean.

Your instinct was to recoil—but only for a second.

Then you started thinking.

You'd already made a mistake with Kang. Not the choice itself, but the visibility of it. Everyone saw you stand up to him. And now? That bruise on your cheek wasn't just swelling—it was a warning. A message. An open invitation.

Kang wouldn't forget. And he definitely wouldn't forgive.

You could try to bluff. Act crazy. Pick a fight. Keep a sharpened toothbrush under your mattress and pray you saw it coming next time. But deep down, you knew: you weren't built for that war. You were smart, fast, sharp with your words—but that only got you so far when the wolves started circling.

So you turned your head. Just enough to look at Grayson.

He was still sitting there—motionless. Silent. Watching you with those dark eyes that didn't blink. Didn't push. Didn't plead.

And damn it, he was beautiful.

Not soft, not romantic—but raw. Lean muscle and clean lines. Tension in every inch of his body, like he was always ready to spring. That kind of strength that didn't shout, but hummed beneath the surface. His skin glistened faintly from the heat. Hair a little messy. Jaw clenched in that permanent neutral.

And yet, his expression didn't carry lust or pressure. It carried... certainty. He'd said what he wanted. Now he was waiting.

The power wasn't in his muscles. It was in his patience.

You shifted the ice pack in your hand, feeling it begin to melt. The chill slipping down your wrist.

This wasn't about desperation. It wasn't coercion.

It was an offer.

No strings, no threats. Just a choice.

And maybe that's what threw you most of all—because in a place where choices were rare, this one was real. Yours.

You weren't sure how you felt about it. Not yet. Part of you bristled. Another part—the tired, scared part—considered it for what it really was: a lifeline wrapped in something that, under different circumstances, you might have even wanted.

And sitting in the dim cell light, your face bruised and body aching, you realized something simple and undeniable.

You were considering it.

You slowly pulled the ice pack from your cheek and placed it on the edge of the bunk, fingers lingering on it a moment longer than necessary. The skin still throbbed, but the cold had taken the edge off. You exhaled, long and steady, then lifted your eyes to meet his.

Grayson hadn't looked away. His expression was the same—still, focused, unreadable. But there was something in the quiet way he watched you, something that wasn't demand or hunger. It was patience. Restraint. Like he was giving you all the space you needed to decide.

And you had decided.

"Alright," you said quietly. "I'm in."

His reaction was subtle—barely more than a shift. A slight lift in his chin. A faint ease in the way his shoulders dropped half an inch. No smile, no gloating. Just that quiet, settled energy, like something had clicked into place for him and he didn't need to announce it. He just knew.

He didn't move. Didn't speak right away. Let the weight of your answer settle into the room.

You swallowed once, nerves fluttering low in your stomach. Not regret—just uncertainty. This was new territory, and you were stepping into it without a map.

"So..." you said, your voice a little rougher now, not quite sure how to phrase it. "How does this work? What do you want me to do?"

Grayson's head tilted slightly. Not in judgment—more like he was giving you his full attention.

You kept going, half-serious, half-deflecting. "Do I just lie there? Do whatever you say? Not touch you? Just... shut up and take it?"

The sarcasm was there, but it didn't quite mask the question underneath. You were still feeling the edges of what this was—what it could be. You didn't want to feel owned. You didn't want to feel used. You just didn't know what he wanted from you... or what you were even willing to give.

He stood then.

Not abruptly. Not to intimidate. Just stood, calm and steady, and stepped across the narrow space between your bunks. It only took two strides in a cell that small, but it felt bigger in the moment. You stayed seated, but your body tensed slightly, every nerve awake.

He didn't reach for you. He didn't tower. He simply stood close enough for you to feel him—his presence, his heat. And when he spoke, his voice was low and measured, the same steady cadence as always, but heavier now. Intentional.

"I don't want you passive."

That alone made you blink. It wasn't what you expected—not from a man who had the power to demand anything.

"This isn't about control," he said. "It's not about taking something you don't want to give."

He paused, eyes locked with yours, and his tone didn't waver.

"You're not just a body. And I'm not some caged animal looking to use you."

It hit harder than you expected—because it wasn't just reassurance. It was respect. In this place, that was rarer than anything.

You didn't look away.

"Touching's fine. Wanted, actually," he added, softer now, but not uncertain. "I want you in it. Real. Responsive. Not because you owe me, but because you want to."

You felt that—deep in your gut.

He was giving you something more than protection. He was giving you a line you didn't have to cross. He was giving you choice in a place that had stripped almost all of it away.

For the first time since Kang cornered you in the laundry room, the weight pressing down on your chest started to ease. Not vanish. But loosen. Just enough to let you breathe.

You looked up at him, heart thudding against your ribs, voice low and steady—though the tension threading through it betrayed the anticipation running under your skin.

"So... when does this deal start?" You asked him.

Grayson didn't answer. Not out loud.

He moved instead—slow, smooth, not a wasted motion. He leaned in, his presence surrounding you before he even touched you. His hand braced lightly on the wall just above your shoulder, not trapping, but claiming space. His breath reached your skin before his mouth did—warm, steady, close enough to make your own catch in your throat.

Then his lips touched your neck.

Not rushed. Not rough. Just a brush—barely there, but enough to make your skin spark under the contact. He moved deliberately, kissing the line just beneath your jaw with a quiet confidence, like he knew the map of your body without ever having to ask for directions. He wasn't fumbling. He wasn't testing. He knew.

You let out a breath—soft, shaky—more reaction than choice.

Goddamn.

It wasn't just that he was good. It was the control. The restraint. The way he didn't need to push because every movement felt earned. Like he'd been waiting for the exact right moment to act and now that it was here, he wasn't going to waste a second.

Your body betrayed you almost immediately. Your head tilted to the side, exposing your throat, giving him more without thinking. It didn't feel like surrender. It felt like instinct.

Your hands moved without command—up his chest first, fingertips brushing the thin cotton of his shirt. Solid. Tense. He wasn't flexing, but the definition was there, unmistakable. Strength built from routine, from discipline. You slid your hands lower, slow, feeling the faint ridges of his abdomen shift under your palm with each breath he took.

And then—lower.

You felt him. Already hardening. The heat of him pressed behind coarse fabric, thick and undeniable beneath your fingers. Your hand paused there, resting lightly, the reality of it grounding you in this moment in a way nothing else could.

Grayson exhaled—low, quiet, controlled. A sound you wouldn't have noticed unless you were this close. But it was enough. Enough to confirm this wasn't just physical for him. He felt it too. The charge. The gravity.

Still, he didn't push. Didn't grab. Just kept his mouth on your neck, his lips dragging slowly along your skin like he had all the time in the world.

And in this brutal, suffocating place where control was currency and vulnerability could get you killed... there was something disarming about the way he held both and still let you lead.

You let your hand curl slightly against him. Felt the response, the subtle twitch, the tension roll through his body like a wave he didn't show on his face.

This was real. Immediate. Intimate in a way that had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with survival, desire, and the rare luxury of choice.

And as Grayson's mouth moved lower, dragging along your collarbone, your fingers still curled against him, one thought floated through your mind—sharp and clear:

Yeah... this deal might just work.

Grayson then he pulled back—not fast, not hesitant, but with a deliberate sort of calm. Like he'd decided the pace and wasn't going to let anything rush it. Not even you.

Without saying a word, he reached down, grabbed the hem of his shirt, and pulled it over his head in one smooth, fluid motion. The fabric slid up and off, and then it was just him—bare from the waist up under the stark overhead light. And for a moment, all you could do was look.

He was exactly what you'd imagined—only better.

His body was a blueprint of quiet strength. Not bulky, not showy, just carved from repetition and necessity. Lean muscle that wrapped around his torso in clean, defined lines, as if every inch of him had a job and no part of him was wasted. His chest was firm, his stomach tight and flat, each ridge of his abdomen catching the light like they'd been sculpted in concrete. No ink. No flash. No need to prove anything.

Just him.

Raw. Clean. Focused.

You barely had time to process it before his hands were on you. And when they were—God, they were careful. His fingers slid under the hem of your shirt and lifted it over your head with a gentleness that felt almost surreal in contrast to the hardness of the space around you. There was no grab, no jerk. Just patience. Precision. He moved like he was unwrapping something rare, and he didn't want to miss a single second.

When the fabric cleared your skin, the chill of the air rushed in fast and sharp, dancing across your ribs, your shoulders, your neck. It made your breath hitch. Made everything inside you light up.

Then he hooked his arms under your thighs and lifted you like it was nothing.

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up—legs instinctively wrapping around his hips, hands bracing on his shoulders. His grip was strong, firm, but not harsh. Your back hit the wall with a thud softened by the hard plane of his chest pressing into you. The cold of the concrete kissed your spine, but the heat of him overwhelmed it—his body flush against yours, radiating warmth that seemed to sink into your skin.

His face was right there.

Close.

Too close.

His lips hovered a breath above yours, and you could feel everything—his exhale, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palms. He didn't move. Didn't close the space. He just waited, suspended in the moment, so close it made your skin ache.

And then, finally, his voice came—low, rough-edged but soft.

"Is kissing okay?"

The question slid over your skin like silk, and it hit harder than anything else he'd done. Not because of the words—but because of what was behind them. The restraint. The awareness. The choice.

Even now, with your body wrapped around his, with heat rolling off both of you like fire pressed between steel, he was still asking. Still making sure. Still giving you the space to say no.

That shouldn't have made your pulse jump the way it did.

But it did.

Because here, in a place where everything was taken, he was offering.

And the answer was already rising in your throat, warm and breathless, your lips brushing his as you whispered it.

"Yes."

You weren't prepared for the softness.

Grayson, the man who moved like a blade in a sheath—controlled, silent, always coiled—had never once given the impression that gentleness lived anywhere inside him. He existed in sharp lines and quiet authority, the kind of presence that warned people without a single word. In Gotham State, that was survival. That was currency. And you'd assumed, understandably, that if he ever touched you, it would feel like possession. Like dominance.

But now, with your back pressed to cold concrete and your body caged between his and the wall, what you felt was something else entirely.

His breath was warm against your lips. His arms held you steady, his strength obvious—but unused. He didn't press forward. He didn't claim. He just waited, suspended in that breath of space between decision and action.

He could've done anything in that moment. You'd already said yes. The deal was made. There was no performance left to put on, no power struggle to win.

And still—he waited for you.

That undid you more than any aggressive advance ever could've. Because in a place where most people only took, he was offering. Quietly. Patiently.

Your hands slid up his shoulders, anchoring yourself to something solid. Your fingers curled into the firm shape of him, skin warm under your touch, the tension in his muscles humming just below the surface. You were steadying yourself, but also learning him—tracing the lines of someone who'd spent years being unapproachable.

You gave a small nod.

Barely anything.

But it was enough.

His lips met yours.

And everything else fell away.

The kiss wasn't hungry. It wasn't rushed or desperate. It was measured. Intentional. The same way he moved, the same way he spoke—every motion deliberate, like he'd thought it through before he did it. His mouth brushed yours, then deepened the kiss slowly, pulling you in without overwhelming. It wasn't the kiss of a man used to getting what he wanted—it was the kiss of someone who knew the value of patience. Who didn't take—he drew you in.

His hands stayed locked under your thighs, holding you firm, grounded. You were suspended there, between his strength and the wall, but you didn't feel trapped. You felt held. The tension in your body, the one you didn't even know you'd been carrying, began to unravel. It started in your chest and rippled outward—through your fingertips, into your breath, into the way your body softened into his.

Your mouth moved with his, slow at first, then with growing need. But the need wasn't for escape or dominance. It was for connection. For something human in a place that thrived on the absence of it.

You felt yourself give in—not because you were expected to, but because in that moment, you wanted to. The pressure, the fear, the fight you'd been clutching to in your gut like armor—it all cracked under the warmth of that kiss. You let it.

Time stopped meaning anything. The cell, the cold wall, the ever-present buzz of prison noise outside the door—they disappeared. It was just the two of you, suspended in heat and stillness, your heart beating fast against his chest and his breath breaking softly against your lips.

You didn't know what this meant.

You didn't know what it would turn into.

But for now, with Grayson's lips against yours and something honest threading between your bodies, you let go of the questions.

You let yourself feel it.

And for the first time since walking into Gotham State, you didn't feel afraid.

Suddenly, a soft moan slipped from your lips before you even realized it—quiet, breathy, but thick with heat. The sound seemed to ignite something in Grayson. His body pressed harder into yours, his hips rolling forward with slow, deliberate pressure that left no question about how badly he wanted you. The friction sent a sharp jolt through you—skin to skin in places, fabric between you in others, but nothing close to a barrier.

You could feel everything.

He was hard against you—thick, insistent, grinding in just the right way. The pressure wasn't rushed. It was controlled, like he was savoring every inch of contact, letting it build between you. Every slow rock of his hips made your pulse race faster, the tension curling low in your stomach, hot and tight.

Then his mouth left yours.

His lips trailed down along your jaw, kissing softly at first, then lower—nuzzling into the sensitive skin of your neck. His breath was hot against you, a low exhale brushing across your skin right before his mouth opened and he latched on, sucking lightly.

You gasped—eyes fluttering shut, head tipping back to give him more access. He didn't waste it.

His tongue flicked across your skin, slow and precise, teasing before he pulled you between his lips again. He sucked with a rhythm—measured, maddening—each pull of his mouth sending little shocks of pleasure radiating down your spine. You felt his stubble scrape faintly against your neck, rough and grounding, a contrast to the heat building inside you.

And all the while, his hips kept moving.

Slow. Grinding. Deliberate.

The tension building where your bodies met had you trembling slightly, your breath catching every time he shifted just right. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, gripping tight, anchoring yourself to something solid as your nerves sparked beneath your skin. You weren't thinking anymore. You were feeling. Reacting. Leaning into every brush of his lips, every thrust of his hips.

It was overwhelming.

The heat. The pressure. The way your bodies fit together like you'd done this before, like you belonged there—against that wall, in his arms, surrounded by cold concrete and the kind of intensity that made the whole world fall away.

You'd expected this to be physical. Transactional. Something raw and efficient—a trade of protection for sex, stripped of emotion, clean in its purpose.

But this?

This wasn't clean. This wasn't distant.

This was intimate.

Every kiss, every grind, every breath shared between you blurred the lines further. It was fast becoming something else—something dangerous, something real.

Then Grayson's hands slid beneath your thighs again, firm and steady, but this time there was a shift in intention. He wasn't lifting—you felt it immediately. He was lowering you, guiding you down with a careful kind of control, like he didn't want to break the rhythm that had built between you. Your back eased away from the wall, and gravity took over, pulling you into the next part of whatever this was.

He followed your descent the whole way, his hands never leaving you. His palms were warm, anchoring you even as your knees met the cold, unforgiving concrete. The chill bit at your skin—sharp, immediate—but you barely registered it. All your focus was fixed on him. On the rise and fall of his chest, damp with a thin sheen of sweat. On the way his eyes locked onto yours, steady and unreadable except for the heat flickering behind them.

He didn't speak. He didn't have to.

The silence between you was louder than anything words could've added. It pulsed with tension, thick and charged, the air so heavy it felt like it was pushing in on your lungs.

Grayson's hands slipped from your legs as he straightened, towering over you, and reached down to the waistband of his prison-issue pants. You watched, transfixed, as he hooked his thumbs into the elastic and pushed both the pants and boxers down in one fluid motion. The fabric dropped, pooling soundlessly at his feet.

And then he was bare in front of you.

There was no hesitation, no need for show. His cock stood thick and hard, flushed at the tip, the shaft veined and heavy, the weight of it making it twitch subtly as it was freed. The sight of him made your breath catch—sharp and sudden. You'd imagined, sure. Thought about what he might look like under all that control and silence. But seeing it?

It hit different.

He was big—unquestionably. But more than that, there was something commanding about the way he stood there, fully exposed, entirely still. Like he knew what he was offering. Like he trusted you to take it without needing to be told.

Your breath caught as you looked up at him—Grayson standing over you, skin flushed, every line of his body drawn tight with control. His dick hovered just inches from your mouth, thick and pulsing with heat. His chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths, but his eyes... his eyes told a different story.

There was fire behind them now.

Not wild, not reckless—contained, but alive. A low-burning hunger that simmered just beneath the surface of his usually unreadable expression. He wanted you. Badly. But more than that, he was letting you have this moment. Letting you choose. Still silent. Still still. But utterly focused on you.

You leaned in slowly, deliberately, keeping your gaze locked to his. There was a kind of power in that—knowing he wasn't directing this, knowing he was waiting for you. You wanted him to see it, to feel it: this wasn't submission. This was your decision. Your yes. And you wanted him to understand exactly what that meant.

Your lips parted.

You took him in—just the tip at first. Warm, heavy, the taste of him blooming on your tongue, earthy and unmistakably male. His breath hitched above you, the sound sharp and quiet, but you caught it. His fingers curled slightly at his sides, like he was fighting the instinct to reach for you. That restraint made the heat between you flare.

You drew your tongue around the head in a slow, deliberate circle before easing lower, inch by inch. He was thick—more than you were used to—and your jaw ached as your mouth stretched to accommodate him. But the discomfort faded into sensation, into purpose. It was grounding. Real.

He let out a long, quiet breath. His abs flexed, the muscle twitching beneath the surface as he tried to stay still.

You found your rhythm—slow, deep pulls of your mouth as your hand wrapped around what you couldn't take, stroking in time with every movement. The pressure built with each pass, saliva slicking his skin, heat growing between your legs with every soft sound he didn't mean to make.

You watched him the whole time.

Every clench of his jaw. Every subtle shift of his hips. The way his nostrils flared when your tongue dragged along the underside of him on the way back up. He was still trying to hold it together—still composed, still Grayson—but you could see the edges beginning to fray.

That restraint, the way he gave you space and didn't take—it only made you want more.

You went deeper, slower. Hollowing your cheeks. Tightening your grip. You heard his breath catch again, heard the faintest curse slip past his lips, low and rough.

And that was when it clicked.

This wasn't just about the deal anymore.

This wasn't obligation.

This was something else.

With every bob of your head, every flick of your tongue, you could feel the tension rising in him. The pressure. The effort it took to stay still. And you liked it—knowing you were the one pulling him apart, inch by inch.

The man who didn't bend for anyone...

Was beginning to lose control.

And it was because of you.

Grayson's fingers clenched around the edge of the bunk behind him, knuckles whitening as they curled tight around the cold metal frame. The rigid press of steel against his skin grounded him—barely. His grip was the only thing keeping him tethered, keeping him from sinking completely into the rush of sensation spiraling up through his spine. But you were making it impossible.

Your mouth moved with slow, focused purpose. Every glide of your lips down his cock was smooth, wet, perfectly controlled. You didn't rush. You didn't falter. You knew what you were doing—and worse, you knew what it was doing to him. Your tongue traced sensitive veins, your lips sealed around his dick, the suction just right. Every pass was a tease and a promise all at once.

And your eyes—fuck, your eyes.

Locked on his. Dark with heat. Steady. Unapologetic. There was no submission in your gaze, no fear. Just intention. Confidence. You looked at him like you were daring him to fall apart.

And he was.

Grayson had spent his time in Gotham State like a shadow—quiet, untouchable, locked behind layers of discipline. He never got close. Never entertained the idea of letting anyone in. Survival here depended on that distance, on keeping your needs buried where no one could use them against you.

So when you first walked into his cell, he'd barely glanced your way. Just another body. Another sentence. Another soul trying to disappear.

But then you spoke—sharp, biting, eyes defiant even after being thrown into hell. You didn't shrink. You didn't plead. There was something alive in you. Unbroken.

And it had hooked him from the first second.

He hadn't touched anyone in months. Years, maybe. Inside this place, time was elastic. Weeks bled into each other until need became background noise—something you ignored or turned into rage. Release was rare. Trust, rarer.

But now? Now your mouth was wrapped around him, and all those things he'd buried were clawing their way to the surface.

Every movement of your tongue, every subtle shift of your lips, every sound you made as you took more of him—it built pressure in his core like a fuse inching toward its end. His hips stayed still only because he willed them to. His muscles were tight with restraint, the need to thrust forward—deep, hard—simmering just beneath the surface. But he didn't. Not yet.

Because you were owning this. Guiding it. Controlling it.

And that wrecked him in a way nothing else could.

You were better than he'd expected—better than his most desperate, late-night fantasies. He knew you'd be sharp, knew you'd come into this with something to prove. But this? The way you sucked him in like you were claiming him, the way your hand stroked in time, the little flicks of your tongue that made him curse under his breath?

It was more than just good.

It was devastating.

And he loved it.

Grayson's breath was coming harder now, each inhale deeper than the last, chest rising and falling like he was in a fight—but he wasn't trying to win. Not anymore. He was teetering on the edge, and for once, he didn't want to pull back.

Because for the first time in too long, he wasn't just enduring.

He was feeling—every inch of your mouth, every drag of pleasure, every crack in the wall he'd spent years building.

And the thought hit him hard, almost dizzying:

If this is what it feels like to lose control... maybe it's worth it.

You drew his dick deeper with another slow, deliberate pull of your mouth. His stomach tightened, muscles along his abdomen flexing like cords pulled taut. For a split second, he let his eyes close, not to block anything out, but to feel it more clearly. The warmth of your mouth, the slick glide of your tongue, the tight pull of your lips—it was dragging him toward the edge faster than he'd meant to go.

And he was losing his grip.

He opened his eyes and looked down at you—saw your mouth stretched around him, your jaw working, your eyes still locked to his like you were daring him to let go.

That was all it took.

Something inside him cracked open.

Grayson's hand moved, slow but deliberate, threading through your hair until his palm pressed firm against the back of your head. He didn't force. Not yet. He just held you there—grounded you. The weight of his hand, the way his fingers curled into your hair, sent a message without needing words: you're mine now.

Then he moved.

His hips rolled forward, gentle at first, testing the rhythm. Shallow thrusts, slow and controlled, as he began to guide the motion—his dick slipping deeper, the tip brushing the back of your throat before he eased out again. You adjusted, your lips tightening, your breath coming shallow through your nose as you accepted his pace.

And that—your willingness, your trust—only poured gasoline on the fire under his skin.

His grip in your hair tightened slightly, his rhythm beginning to shift. Less careful. Less composed. The control he'd clung to was unraveling, thread by thread, replaced by something more raw, more real. His thrusts deepened—not brutal, not careless, but charged with heat and hunger. With need.

A groan slipped from him, low and ragged. It rumbled from his chest, unguarded and full. He wasn't just reacting to your mouth anymore—he was surrendering to it.

The bunk behind him creaked as he braced a hand against it, the strain in his shoulders visible, his knuckles white from the force of his grip. The only sounds in the cell were the wet glide of your lips around him, the quiet suck of pressure, and the steady, increasingly broken rhythm of his breathing.

Then your eyes flicked up again.

You looked at him, mouth full, cheeks hollowed, and in that moment, something changed in him.

His gaze darkened. That controlled fire in his eyes flared into something possessive, feral. Not cruel—but intense. Hungry. Like he was seeing you not just as the person on your knees, but as his. Someone who could take him. Who wanted to. Who chose to.

And that made it deeper. Hotter. More than just sex.

This was trust. Power. Desire, tangled together until they couldn't be separated anymore.

His hips snapped forward again, harder now, your throat taking the full length of him. He felt you gag, just a little, and immediately eased up—but you didn't pull away. You held, breathing through it, letting him stay deep for a beat before he withdrew. His fingers stroked the back of your head once before his grip in your hair eased, his fingers slowly unwinding, trailing through the strands like he wasn't quite ready to let go. His chest was rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths, the heat rolling off him in waves. He held your gaze as he pulled you up—one smooth, unhurried motion, like he was savoring every second of bringing you back to your feet.

The second you were upright, he was on you.

His mouth crashed into yours, and the kiss was nothing like before. This one was heat and teeth, deep and messy and full of all the tension that had been coiled between you since the day you stepped into that cell. It was greedy—desperate in a way that made your knees go weak. His tongue slid against yours, taking what he wanted, demanding everything back.

His hands moved like they had a map—roaming down your spine, finding the dip of your back, then gripping your waist tight, pulling your body flush against his. You could feel every inch of him—his chest heaving, the strain in his arms, the hard press of his cock still wet from your mouth.

Then he broke the kiss, panting, lips swollen, eyes dark.

No words. Just movement.

His hands dropped to your waistband and in a single, practiced motion, he tugged your pants and boxers down. The fabric clung briefly to your skin before sliding down your legs and pooling around your ankles, but Grayson didn't give it time to settle—he kicked it aside with his foot, sending it somewhere into the shadows behind you. Gone. Out of the way.

The cold air hit your skin and made you shiver, a rush of sensation climbing your spine. But his body was already there, already pulling you back into heat. His hands returned to your waist—firm, possessive—as he turned you, guiding you toward the wall like he'd done it a hundred times in his head.

You let him.

Your palms braced against the concrete, cool and unforgiving under your skin. You leaned into it, your breath fogging faintly in front of you, chest rising as anticipation clawed its way through your veins.

Behind you, Grayson stepped in close, the warmth of him immediately wrapping around you again. His chest brushed your back, his breath ghosting across the side of your neck. Then you felt it—him—thick and hard, pressing between your cheeks, hot skin against bare skin, no fabric left between you.

One of his hands held your hip, his grip steady, grounding. The other slipped lower, fingers curling around the base of his dick as he guided himself down, the head nudging between your legs—slick, swollen, precise.

He didn't shove. He didn't rush.

He just waited there—lined up, ready—the thick head of him brushing against your hole in slow, deliberate pulses, each movement a promise, each breath a countdown.

The tension was suffocating.

And in that breathless moment, with your body open and aching, the concrete cold beneath your hands and the heat of him poised behind you, it was clear:

He wasn't just going to fuck you.

He was going to claim you.

You felt the first press of Grayson's dick against you—broad, hot, deliberate. He didn't shove. Didn't rush. Just held you there, his hand firm on your hip, anchoring you while he pushed forward with steady, unrelenting pressure. The thick head of his dick eased past the resistance, stretching you slowly, and the sensation was instant—deep, all-consuming.

He was big. You'd known it from before, seen it, felt the weight of him in your mouth—but this was different. This was inside.

Your breath stuttered, body instinctively tensing as the stretch intensified. Your fingers curled against the concrete wall for balance, knuckles whitening. Inch by inch, he sank into you, each movement slow and controlled, like he was trying to give you time to feel every part of him.

Halfway in, he paused.

His chest hovered behind your back, his breath hot against your shoulder. His voice came low—hoarse, threaded with restraint.

"Breathe."

The word skimmed your skin like a touch, and you obeyed. You focused on your inhale, long and shaky, letting it move through your body as you tried to relax around him. The pressure began to shift—still intense, still burning, but now edged with something else. Something that made your stomach tighten and your thighs tremble.

You exhaled. He moved again.

The final push was slow, smooth, deep. He filled you completely, his hips pressing flush to yours, the stretch turning molten as your body yielded. You gasped, not from pain, but from the sheer overwhelming fullness of it. Of him.

Grayson stilled.

One hand remained braced on your hip, the other sliding up to your lower back, fingers spreading wide across your skin to keep you steady. He held you like that—completely still—his cock buried to the hilt, his breathing ragged and uneven behind you.

You could feel it.

Every inch of him. Every beat of his heart pounding through the tension in his muscles.

He was holding himself back.

Then, slowly, he began to move.

The first thrust was shallow, careful—testing. A slow pull out, a gentle slide back in. Your breath caught again, but your body was adjusting now, learning the rhythm, the weight, the heat. He pulled out a little further the second time, then drove back in with more pressure, more hunger. The sound of it echoed—quiet, rhythmic, skin meeting skin in the heavy silence of the cell.

His grip on your hips tightened.

Each thrust grew more certain, more claiming. His control was still there, but it was fraying at the edges. His rhythm quickened—steady, deep, purposeful. Like he was imprinting something with every push of his hips. Like he wasn't just fucking you. He was taking you.

And your body responded.

You pressed back into him, breath hitching with every stroke, chasing the rhythm he was setting. Your knees quivered, your palms flat against the wall for balance, your skin burning with sensation. Each thrust sent a rush of heat curling up your spine, blooming outward through your limbs.

The reasons behind this—survival, protection, need—blurred.

What mattered now was the way he felt inside you. The way he moved—like he couldn't stop himself. Like having you this way was something he'd imagined for too long, and now that he had you, he couldn't get close enough.

Each thrust now came with intention, a growing urgency pulsing through every snap of his hips. What had started as deep, steady motion turned rougher, needier, the pressure mounting with every inch he drove into you. He pushed deeper with each roll of his body, filling you until you felt stretched to your absolute limit—and maybe even a little past it. The sound of him—his skin slapping against yours, the wet drag of each thrust, the ragged rhythm of his breath—filled the concrete cell like a pulse, a beat that matched your racing heart.

You squirmed beneath him, breath catching, your body trying to process the overwhelming sensations. Your fingers scraped along the cold wall, twitching for purchase, trying to find something—anything—to brace against. The pressure inside you was intense, unbearable in the best possible way. You weren't trying to pull away. You were just trying to keep up.

But the second you shifted, the second your hands moved even a little—

Grayson was there.

His free hand swept your wrists back in one fluid motion, fast and smooth, like he'd been waiting for it. Before you could even gasp, he had both of your arms pinned behind you, your wrists locked in one strong hand, the roughness of his palm pressed tight between your shoulder blades and his chest.

You cried out—a sharp, breathy sound, half-surprise, half-desire—as the change in angle sent heat rushing straight to your core. The new position made everything feel sharper. Tighter. More exposed. More his.

Grayson leaned in, his body flush against your back, his voice low and rough in your ear.

"You're not going anywhere."

His breath was hot on your neck. His grip on your wrists firm and unrelenting. And then he thrust.

Hard.

You choked on a moan, your mouth open but no sound escaping, your body jolting forward as he bottomed out inside you with brutal precision. You arched, spine bending, the air knocked from your lungs as pleasure crashed through you like a wave. Your hands flexed uselessly in his grip, pinned tight. He wasn't letting go. He was anchoring you, locking you in place while he took you apart.

Every thrust after that came with purpose.

Not careless, not wild—but focused. He moved like he was memorizing the shape of you, the sounds you made when he hit just the right spot, the way your walls fluttered around him when he pushed too deep, too slow, too good. He groaned—low and guttural—his lips brushing against your shoulder, his breath ragged now, heat radiating off him like fire under your skin.

The wall was cold beneath your chest. The floor hard under your knees. But all of that faded into the background.

There was only him.

Inside you. Around you. Taking and giving in equal measure.

And then his voice came again—right against your ear this time, deep and breathless, tinged with something feral he was barely holding back.

"Just like that."

His words sent another ripple down your spine, your body clenching in response, and you realized you'd stopped thinking about why this started—what it meant.

Now all you could do was feel.

The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the tiny cell, rhythmic and relentless—wet, sharp, unmistakably intimate. It bounced off the cold concrete like the walls were holding onto it, amplifying every thrust, every breath, every moan that slipped past your lips no matter how hard you tried to bite them back.

Anyone walking by would hear it.

Hell, anyone on the block would.

And you didn't care. Not even a little.

Grayson had you pinned hard against the wall, one hand locked around your wrists behind your back, the other gripping your hip like he owned it. His chest was slick against your back, his body moving with brutal, focused precision—each thrust deep, controlled, calculated like he wasn't just trying to fuck you—he was studying you. Learning you.

He hit that spot again and your knees buckled slightly, a broken sound catching in your throat as your forehead pressed into the wall. The pleasure was too much—dense and burning, winding through your body like fire in your veins. Every time he pulled back and slammed into you, your breath hitched, your skin jolted with heat, and you sank deeper into the rhythm of him.

It wasn't just good. It was overwhelming.

It was obliterating.

You weren't afraid. You weren't nervous.

You were fucking gone.

And it wasn't because this was some prison-born desperation. No. It was because of him. Grayson fucked like he knew exactly what you needed before you did. Like he'd mapped out every nerve ending, every twitch of your hips, every soft gasp and sharp moan—and was playing your body like a goddamn instrument.

Your ex? Forget it. That was fumbling hands and pretty words. That was heat without depth, desire without gravity. This was different. This was raw, physical, soul-deep. This was someone driving into you like he was erasing something—every bad touch, every cold night, every ache that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with being unseen.

Grayson saw you.

And now he was taking you—fully, completely—like he'd been waiting for the exact moment when you'd finally let him.

Your head thudded lightly against the wall as he buried himself in you again, hard and deep, a groan tearing out of him that sounded half-possessed. His hips slammed into yours, his grip bruising in the best way, and all you could do was hold on—your body vibrating, melting, tightening around him with every punishing thrust.

And god, it was insane.

Of course it took a prison cell. Of course it took Gotham.

Of course it took getting slapped around by Kang and nearly broken by the system before ending up here—pinned, breathless, fucked half out of your mind by the one man in this hellhole who could handle you.

It should've been a tragedy.

But it felt like deliverance.

Suddenly, Grayson stopped—every muscle in his body going rigid all at once, like someone had thrown a switch.

You were so deep in the rhythm of him, the weight of him, the pulse of pleasure pounding through your body, that it took a full second to register the shift. But then you heard it too.

A sharp crackle—pshhht—followed by low, garbled voices over a walkie-talkie. Codes. Numbers. Instructions. The language of authority, clipped and cold. Then came the unmistakable sound of heavy boots echoing down the concrete corridor. A slow, measured march of guards making their rounds.

Your heart shot into your throat.

Grayson didn't say a word. He didn't have to.

His grip on you tightened—protective, grounding—as he gently eased out, the motion achingly slow, and guided you away from the wall. His hands, which had been so rough seconds ago, now moved with surgical calm. No panic. No wasted motion. Just control.

He navigated the darkness with ease, guiding you across the cell to his bunk with a hand on your lower back. The sheets were rumpled, the scent of sweat and sex still clinging to the air—thick, unmistakable. Outside the cell bars, the overhead floodlights spilled silvery stripes across the floor. It wasn't total darkness, just enough to blur details. Just enough to hide.

He lay down first—on his side, facing the wall—and without hesitation, pulled you down in front of him. Your back pressed to his chest, your legs curled into the shape of his, your skin still flushed and tingling from everything that had come before. His arm slid over your waist, holding you like a shield, like a secret.

Then he slipped back inside you.

You nearly gasped—but bit it back hard, teeth sinking into your lip as his dick pushed in slow and deep, your body already open and greedy for him. The new angle was different—less force, more stretch—but it hit something inside you that made your toes curl against the sheets. It wasn't urgent now. It was deliberate.

A quiet, controlled burn.

He held you flush to him, chest to your back, your bodies locked together like one solid shape beneath the thin blanket. His hips moved in the smallest motions, just enough to keep you full, to keep the fire stoked.

Then—clank.

The cell door rattled as the latch was tested. A flashlight beam cut across the floor—bright, white, and merciless—sweeping over the bunks.

You shut your eyes, breath frozen in your throat, willing your body to stillness even as Grayson kept moving inside you. Barely-there thrusts, slow and subtle. But the pressure was growing again, the friction impossible to ignore. Every pulse of his dick made your insides clench, your core tighten, your heart pound harder.

The light passed over your face. You didn't flinch.

Grayson's breath hovered just behind your ear, hot and slow. He wasn't kissing you—just breathing there. His lips ghosted over your skin like a secret, and somehow that felt more intimate than anything that had come before.

Outside the bars, the guards moved on.

Boots faded down the corridor. The radio static became distant noise. The threat passed—but the tension didn't leave.

Grayson didn't loosen his grip. Didn't pull out.

He just held you tighter.

And kept going.

His body curved perfectly into yours, every inch of him aligned like he'd been shaped for this—for you. His chest was warm and firm at your back, his breath ghosting against the nape of your neck in slow, steady waves. Each thrust into you was deep, precise, measured—like every movement was part of some intimate choreography only he knew. Even with the faint noise of guards still echoing down the corridor, he moved like nothing else existed. No prison. No threat. Just the two of you in this sliver of darkness and heat.

Then his hand slid lower.

You felt the rough drag of his fingertips first, tracing down your stomach with purpose. Then he wrapped his fingers around your dick—warm, solid, confident—and you had to suck in a breath through clenched teeth. The touch jolted through you like a live wire. He didn't hesitate. His grip was just right—firm, not painful—just enough to let you know he was fully in control.

He began to stroke you in perfect rhythm with his hips. Each push inside you was mirrored by the glide of his hand, like his body was reading yours in real time. The synergy was unreal—too perfect. Every part of you was being worked in sync: his dick filling you in slow, relentless waves, his hand coaxing your dick forward with practiced ease, his breath warming your skin in ragged exhales.

You tried to stay quiet. You had to stay quiet.

But your body was unraveling fast.

Pleasure blurred your thoughts at the edges, your nerves on fire, every muscle locked tight in anticipation. His thumb dragged across the most sensitive part of you with maddening precision, over and over again, and your hips twitched forward instinctively, chasing the friction.

Still, his rhythm didn't falter.

He was methodical—focused—stroking you just enough to push you closer, then slowing just enough to hold you there, right on that precipice. It was maddening. Addictive. The pressure was coiling in your core, heat blooming in your gut and spreading outward, your whole body tensing, tightening, needing.

Your breathing turned erratic—shallow and fast, teeth pressed into your lip to keep the sound in. But Grayson felt it. He knew. He adjusted, just barely, and the stroke of his hand picked up—faster now, firmer. His thrusts grew more intense too, still quiet but sharper, each one angled with purpose. Precision. Like he wasn't just chasing your climax—he was crafting it.

You reached back blindly, your hand finding his forearm and gripping tight—needing something solid to hold on to as your body began to tremble under the pressure. The tension built in waves, fast and brutal, spiraling through your spine, into your stomach, burning through your chest like it was ripping you apart from the inside out.

You were there.

Perched on the edge of everything—control, silence, sensation—tipping closer with every stroke, every thrust, every quiet, burning breath from the man wrapped around you.

And there was no going back.

The pressure in your core finally shattered—white-hot and blinding.

A low, broken moan tore out of you, half-smothered against the pillow, the rest caught somewhere deep in your throat, raw and involuntary. Your entire body seized as your orgasm ripped through you in sharp, uncontrollable waves. Your hips jerked forward, muscles locking, then trembling as the cum pulsed out of you, thick and hot between Grayson's fingers.

But he didn't stop.

His hand kept stroking you through it—slow, firm, relentless—dragging every last spasm out of you like he was determined to wring you dry. Your body twitched under his touch, every nerve lit up and blazing, the overstimulation skimming the edge between pleasure and something more intense, more overwhelming. You gasped again, body straining, your back arching off the mattress as the aftershocks rolled through your limbs.

The world around you blurred—the prison, the cold air, the hard cement and steel. It all fell away. All you could hear was the thunder of your heartbeat in your ears and the wet, rhythmic sound of his hand gliding along your spent dick.

Then, as your muscles started to go slack and your breathing began to even out, Grayson shifted behind you.

Still hard. Still deep inside you.

He let out a quiet grunt, low and restrained, as he adjusted his hold, one hand sliding up your torso while the other anchored you by the hip. He moved with focus, but not urgency—like a man who knew exactly what he wanted, and exactly how he planned to take it.

In one smooth, powerful motion, he guided you flat onto your stomach. The sheets were still warm beneath you, damp with sweat and heat, but you barely had time to register it before his weight was on you again—his chest pressed to your back, skin slick, heartbeat fast. His hands skimmed down your sides, large and steady, before settling at your hips, where he gripped and lifted, raising you just enough to give him the angle he wanted.

You barely had time to catch your breath before you felt him again.

The head of his dick nudged back at your ass—slick, thick, still pulsing with need. And then—he pushed in.

You choked on a sharp gasp, your entire body lighting up as he filled you again. The sensation, so soon after your orgasm, was almost too much. But it wasn't pain—it was intensity. Blistering and deep. Your fingers curled into the mattress, jaw clenched as your body tried to keep up with the new onslaught of sensation.

His pace had changed. Gone was the slow, deliberate rhythm.

Now he moved with force. With hunger.

Grayson's hips snapped forward, hard and fast, the slap of his skin against yours loud in the quiet of the cell. He drove into you again and again, each thrust hitting deeper, sharper, the bed creaking beneath the rhythm of his body. It wasn't reckless. It wasn't out of control. It was focused. Primal. A man possessed by need, but still terrifyingly precise.

His grip on your waist tightened, fingers digging into your skin, holding you right where he wanted you—grounded to the bed, to him. Each thrust sent sparks up your spine, your thighs shaking from the overstimulation, your breath catching with every impact.

You couldn't speak.

Could barely breathe.

All you could do was hold on.

Then he leaned down again, the heat of him searing against your back, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"Still with me?" he growled, voice low and rough, thick with lust and that razor-sharp focus that had never once let up.

You nodded—barely able to move—teeth sinking into the sheets as another helpless moan escaped your lips.

His thrusts came faster now, rougher, each one driving into you with the kind of force that made your breath punch out in soft gasps. You felt it in everything—the tension rippling through his muscles, the bruising grip of his fingers at your hips, the way his breath broke apart against the back of your neck in short, uneven bursts.

He was close.

You could feel it.

His body was fire against yours, sweat slicking the space where your backs touched, the heat of his skin branding yours. He pounded into you harder, deeper, and you could feel every bit of it—your thighs trembling, your spine bowing beneath the force of it.

Then it happened—that telltale shift.

You felt him twitch inside you.

His abs clenched.

His rhythm faltered, stuttered—just for a second.

Then Grayson pulled out fast, sharp, with a hiss of breath gritted between his teeth.

You barely had time to turn your head, to blink, before you felt the first hot pulse of his release hit your lower back—thick, warm, unmistakable. He groaned low, the sound rough and almost broken as his hand wrapped around his dick, jerking himself through it. Thick ropes spilled across your skin, warm and heavy, his chest rising and falling in shallow, trembling waves as he rode out the last of it.

He kept stroking—slower now, riding the final throbs of his orgasm with his forehead tilted down, his breath catching like he was still inside the freefall. His body hovered over yours, the tension slowly leaking from his frame, replaced with the kind of raw stillness that only came after something real.

The air in the cell was thick—heat, sweat, sex. The scent of it clung to your skin, to the sheets, to the very air you pulled into your lungs.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Not because there was nothing to say—just because there was no need to say it.

Grayson's hands slid from your hips, fingers soft now, brushing your skin like an afterthought—like he wasn't ready to let go just yet. He stayed close, his body still pressed lightly to yours, the last of his weight resting against your back as he caught his breath, head bowed, chest still heaving.

And you—body tingling, heart racing, mind blank and full all at once—just lay there.

Feeling every inch of him cooling against your skin.

Feeling everything you'd just done settle into your bones.

The cell was quiet again.

Only the distant sounds of the prison reminded you where you were—metal doors clanking far down the corridor, the occasional echo of voices too muffled to understand, the steady electric buzz of the overhead lights that never quite turned off. The rest of the world had returned, creeping in around the edges of the moment you and Grayson had just carved out of it.

Then you felt him behind you.

Grayson moved with the same calm he always had—efficient, steady, but now slower, like the adrenaline was leaving him too. The mattress dipped slightly as he leaned forward. Then something warm, slightly rough—an old shirt maybe, or a towel that had seen better days—passed gently over your lower back.

You inhaled sharply at the first touch, more from surprise than discomfort.

He was careful.

Wiping away the mess he'd left behind with a tenderness you hadn't expected. There was none of the force from earlier, none of the raw, consuming need. His touch now was quiet. Respectful. Almost reverent. He didn't rush. He made sure you were clean.

You let out a slow breath, tension bleeding from your limbs as your body slowly settled, the last sparks of heat fading into something calmer. Something almost fragile.

When he was done, the mattress shifted again as he stood. You heard the soft rustle of fabric behind you—pants pulled up, a belt being fastened, the subtle pull of cotton sliding over skin. You stayed where you were for a few more seconds, gathering yourself. Then you pushed up onto your elbows, your shoulders tight, your spine giving a dull, satisfying ache. The blanket slid down your back as you rolled onto your side.

Your feet touched the cold floor with a soft slap, grounding you.

You stayed like that for a beat, head bowed, eyes adjusting to the dim light, heart still trying to find a steady rhythm.

Then you looked up.

Grayson stood near his bunk, already halfway dressed. He was pulling his shirt over his head, the motion smooth, practiced. His back flexed with the effort, every line of him lean and strong, carved by habit and survival. When the fabric settled into place, he glanced over at you—just once.

His face was unreadable again.

Whatever fire had burned in him minutes ago was tucked away, folded back into the quiet calm he wore like armor. His breathing had evened out. His jaw was tight. But something in his eyes lingered—something he didn't say, didn't show fully, but couldn't quite hide either.

There was no awkwardness in him. No regret. He wasn't avoiding your gaze, and he wasn't searching it either.

Just existing in that space between what had happened and what it meant.

You ran a hand through your hair, your fingers tangling for a second before falling away. You thought about speaking—but the words didn't come. You didn't know what to say that wouldn't feel too big, or too small.

So you didn't say anything.

Neither did he.

You stood up slowly, muscles still loose, legs shaky with that strange, post-release ache—the kind that lingers in your bones long after your body's stopped moving. The chill in the cell kissed your bare skin, raising goosebumps along your arms and thighs. You bent to grab your underwear from where they'd landed near the edge of the bed, the cool floor biting at the soles of your feet. The fabric felt thin and scratchy as you pulled it back up, the elastic waistband snapping softly into place against your hips.

As you straightened up, still adjusting the band with one hand, Grayson's voice cut through the air.

"Thanks for that."

You turned your head, caught off guard not by the words themselves, but by the way he said them—low, even, casual. Like you'd handed him something small, like you'd shared a cigarette or a joke. Not like you'd just let him bend you over in the dark and fuck you into the mattress until your body forgot how to breathe.

He was fully dressed again, sitting on the edge of his bunk. Elbows on his knees. Spine straight. Watching you. His face had settled back into that unreadable calm you were starting to recognize—not cold, not guarded, just contained. But his eyes gave something away. Not much. Just enough.

There was no smugness in his tone. No self-satisfaction.

Just quiet sincerity.

And that—somehow—hit harder than the sex.

You didn't answer right away. You weren't sure how to answer. Your heart was still beating too fast for words, your mind still trying to sort out what this all meant, if it meant anything at all.

Then he added, "You really won't have to worry about Kang or his boys again. I mean that."

Your gaze locked with his. And this time, there was no question in it.

His voice was steady. Grounded. Like a door slamming shut with finality. Not a threat. Not a boast. Just a promise. Quiet and unshakable.

And somehow, you believed him.

Because something in his tone—the weight, the stillness—said he'd already decided what would happen if anyone so much as looked at you the wrong way.

He wasn't offering protection anymore.

He was giving it.

And whether you'd meant for it to happen or not, something had shifted. Something real. Heavy. Irrevocable.

And now it was yours.

What you didn't know—what no one ever said aloud, not even in whispers—was why Grayson could make a promise like that and mean it. Why just a few words from him could silence the threat of Kang and every man behind him.

It wasn't just about reputation. It wasn't about owing favors, or pulling strings with the right guards. That kind of power could be taken. Challenged. Broken.

What Grayson had... was fear.

Cold. Heavy. Earned fear.

Because Grayson wasn't just respected in Gotham State—he was the reason the worst of them watched where they stepped. The ones who ran gangs, who extorted commissary and blood and loyalty out of the weak—they gave him space. Not because he asked for it. Not because he made threats.

But because they'd seen what happened when someone didn't.

Kang had a crew, sure. He had numbers. He had swagger. But he didn't have the one thing Grayson had buried in the silence behind his eyes: history.

He never raised his voice. Never threw a punch unless it was absolutely necessary. He didn't posture, didn't bark commands, didn't play the dominance game like the rest of them.

Grayson didn't need to.

He was the kind of dangerous that walked quiet and ended things completely.

Because under that steady calm, beneath the silent routines and the unreadable expressions, was a man who had once taken apart a crime empire with his bare hands. Not figuratively. Not through lawyers or backroom deals.

Richard Grayson had dismantled Tony Zucco's empire piece by piece—burned down his warehouses, exposed his smuggling routes, slit the throat of his most trusted lieutenant in front of a room full of witnesses. And when Zucco's daughter tried to run, tried to avenge the family name, Grayson tracked her down, too.

No hesitation. No loose ends.

And then, he vanished behind prison walls—and every name connected to Zucco stopped breathing.

That's what they didn't say in here.

That's why the old-timers didn't look him in the eye.

Why the guards never searched his cell too hard.

Why Kang kept his distance, even when you gave him the perfect excuse to strike.

Because when Richard Grayson said you were safe...

You were.

And anyone stupid enough to test that?

They didn't leave the same.

If they left at all.

#x male reader #dc x male reader #dick grayson #dc #batboys #dick grayson x male!reader #dick grayson x male reader #brenton thwaites #brenton thwaites x male reader #nightwing #nightwing x male reader #titans

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octaneink · 1 month ago

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Twenty-nine? More like twenty fine

Will Lenney x Reader

Summary: The Reader and Will spend his birthday together Warnings: None Notes: This is also indulgent, I hope people like it!

The morning sunlight streamed through the kitchen window as you tied your apron around your waist, a sense of excitement bubbling in your chest. Today was Will’s 29th birthday, and you had a plan. Baking was your passion, and you were determined to make him the most incredible cake he’d ever seen.

You pulled out your recipe book, its pages stained with buttercream and dotted with notes from past baking adventures. The cake itself would be simple—a rich chocolate sponge with layers of salted caramel buttercream. But the real showstopper would be the decoration. You’d decided on a sleek, modern design: smooth white frosting with gold accents and a bold “Twenty Nine” piped in black elegant script on top.

The kitchen quickly filled with the warm, comforting scent of chocolate as the cakes baked in the oven, the aroma wrapping around you like a cosy blanket. You hummed along to your playlist, the rhythm of the music syncing with the steady whir of the mixer as you worked. Once the cakes were out of the oven and cooling on the wire rack, you turned your attention to the buttercream. You whisked together softened butter, powdered sugar, and a pinch of sea salt, the mixture transforming into a cloud of velvety smoothness.

By mid-afternoon, the cakes had cooled completely, their domed tops levelled to be ready for assembly. You spread a generous layer of buttercream between each tier, the palette knife gliding as you smoothed it into an even filling. Next came the crumb coat—a thin layer of frosting that hugged the cake, locking in any stray crumbs and allowing for a neat canvas for the final layer. With a satisfied smile, you carefully placed the cake in the fridge to set, the chill firming up the buttercream just enough for the next step.

While it rested, you tidied up your workspace and prepared the edible gold paint, mixing the shimmering dust with a few drops of vodka until it gleamed like liquid sunlight.

When the crumb coat was firm to the touch, you began the final layer of frosting. This was your favourite part. You dipped your offset spatula into the bowl of buttercream, its silky texture gliding effortlessly as you spread it in long, sweeping strokes around the sides of the cake. The motion was rhythmic, almost meditative, your hands moving slowly to create a smooth finish. Once the sides were to your liking, you turned your attention to the top, gently coaxing the frosting into an even layer that resembled a pristine blanket of freshly fallen snow.

Next came the gold accents. You dipped a fine brush into the edible gold paint, then brought the brush to the cake so you could add delicate details to the cake. A few swipes here, a few dots there—it was subtle but striking, just like you thought. Finally, you piped the words “Twenty Nine” on top in a looping, cursive font, stepping back to admire your handiwork. You snapped a quick photo to commemorate your masterpiece before covering it with a cake dome to keep it fresh.

As the afternoon melted into evening, you turned your attention to the rest of the decorations, determined to make the space as special as the cake. Fairy lights were carefully strung around the living room, their soft, golden glow casting a warm, inviting ambiance. A cluster of balloons in muted tones bobbed gently near the doorway, and a banner that read “Happy Birthday!” in bold, elegant lettering added a festive yet understated touch. On the coffee table, you arranged a spread of his favourite snacks—crisps, chocolates, and a few savoury bites—alongside a chilled bottle of champagne, its condensation glistening in the low light. Just in case he was in the mood to celebrate, you wanted to be ready. And of course, at the centre of it, his birthday cake.

When Will finally texted to say he was on his way home, you lit the candles on the cake, their soft flicker casting a warm glow over the room. With a bundle of balloons in one hand and his carefully wrapped gift in the other, you positioned yourself by the door, your heart racing with anticipation. The sound of keys jingling in the lock made your smile widen, and as the door creaked open, you called out, “Hey, birthday boy!” The balloons bobbed cheerfully above you, their vibrant colours adding to the festive atmosphere, while the gift in your hand felt like a small token of everything you wanted to say.

Will stepped inside, looking slightly dishevelled but still as effortlessly handsome as ever. His eyes widened as he took in the scene—the twinkling fairy lights, the balloons bobbing gently in the corner, and the banner that proudly declared, “Happy Birthday!” But it was the cake sitting proudly on the coffee table that truly caught his attention. Its smooth, flawless frosting and delicate gold accents gleamed under the soft glow of the lights, looking almost too perfect to eat.

“What’s all this?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief as he turned to you, his gaze flickering between the balloons in your hand and the gift tucked under your arm.

“It’s your birthday,” you said, stepping closer to pull him into a warm hug. As you wrapped your arms around him, the balloons brushed against his shoulder, and instinctively, his hands found your waist, his touch firm but gentle. His fingers curled slightly, as if anchoring himself to you, and you could feel the warmth of his palms even through the fabric of your shirt.

“I couldn’t let it go by without making a fuss,” you added, your voice muffled slightly against his chest.

Will’s eyes softened as he glanced back at the cake, then at the spread of snacks and champagne on the coffee table. His hands stayed on your waist, his thumbs brushing lightly against your sides in a way that made your breath catch. “You did all this… for me?” he asked, his voice quiet but filled with gratitude.

You nodded, smiling up at him. “Of course. You deserve it.”

For a moment, he just stood there, his hands still resting lightly on your waist, his fingers curling ever so slightly as if to pull you closer. His gaze searched yours, a flicker of something unspoken in his eyes—wonder, maybe, or gratitude, or something deeper, something that made your chest tighten. His lips parted as if he wanted to say something, but no words came. Instead, he let out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh, the sound low and warm, like the hum of a song you’d known forever.

Then, without a word, he leaned in, his movements slow and deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away if you wanted to. But you didn’t. His lips brushed against yours, feather-light at first, a whisper of a touch that sent a shiver racing down your spine. The kiss deepened just enough to feel real, his mouth moving against yours with a tenderness that made your heart ache. It wasn’t rushed or demanding—it was quiet, lingering, like he was trying to say everything he couldn’t put into words.

When he finally pulled back, it was only far enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. His eyes stayed closed for a moment, his lashes casting faint shadows on his cheeks, and you could feel the way his hands tightened ever so slightly on your waist, as if he was afraid you might slip away.

“You’re amazing, you know that?” He murmured, his voice rough around the edges, like the words had been sitting in his chest for a while, waiting for the right moment to come out. His thumb brushed against your cheek, the touch so gentle it made your breath catch. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

You could feel the weight of his words, the way they settled in the space between you, heavy and real. And for a moment, you couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but look at him, at the way his eyes held yours like you were the only thing that mattered.

“You don’t have to do anything,” you said finally, your voice soft but steady. “You just have to be you.”

His lips curved into a small, almost shy smile, one that made your heart skip a beat. “Then I guess I’m the luckiest guy in the world,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. And when he kissed you again, it was like a promise—one you could feel in every beat of your heart.

“I just wanted to make today special for you,” you said softly, your voice barely more than a breath. The words felt fragile, like they might break if spoken too loudly, but they carried all the weight of what you couldn’t quite say—how much he meant to you, how much you wanted this day to be perfect for him.

Will’s lips curved into a small, almost shy smile, one you didn’t see often. It was the kind of smile that made your chest ache, the kind that felt like it was just for you. “It already is,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, rough with emotion. “Because you’re here.”

The words hung in the air between you, simple but heavy with meaning. His hands were still on your waist, his touch warm and steady, grounding you in the moment. His eyes searched yours, and for a second, it felt like the rest of the world had faded away—the cake, the decorations, even the faint hum of the city outside. It was just the two of you, standing there in the soft glow of the fairy lights, his forehead still resting against yours.

You could feel the way his breath hitched, just slightly, as if he was holding back something more. His thumb brushed against your cheek again, the gesture so tender it made your heart swell. “You always know how to make everything better,” he murmured, his voice low and soft, like a secret just for you. “I don’t know how you do it.”

You smiled, your fingers tightening slightly around the gift you still held. “It’s easy,” you said, your voice just as quiet. “When it’s you.”

His smile deepened, and for a moment, he just looked at you, his eyes shining with something you couldn’t quite name. Then, without a word, he leaned in again, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was slow and sweet, filled with all the things neither of you had said. When he pulled back, his forehead stayed pressed to yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“Come on,” you said finally, your voice soft but teasing, breaking the quiet that had settled between you. “Let’s celebrate.”

He nodded, but he didn’t let go of your hand, not even as you led him further into the room. His touch was warm, grounding, a silent reminder that, no matter what, you were in this together. And as you glanced at him, his eyes still soft with that quiet, unspoken affection, you couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something even more beautiful.

This was a bit rushed—sorry about that! I hope people don’t mind. I started this yesterday after work and finished it off today. It was before I saw that Will was in Italy, so… oops! But hey, the sentiment still stands.

Happy birthday to Will! I can’t believe he’s almost thirty and still looks fine as hell 😏😏 time really does favor some people, huh?

#willne #will lenney #willne x fem!reader #willne x reader #will lenney x fem!reader #will lenney x reader #willne oneshot #will lenney one shot #willne birthday fic

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delicatebarness · 9 months ago

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bridges to burn | prologue

Summary: You arrive at the Avengers Compound to manage your uncontrollable Extremis powers. As you navigated the new environment, you clash with your assigned babysitter/bodyguard, Bucky Barnes.

Warning: MCU Spoilers. Iron Man 3. Intense Emotional Conflict. Superpowers and Uncontrollable Abilities. Parental Concern and Pressure. Family Tension. Emotional and Physical Heat.

Word Count: 1103

Spotify Playlist | Support: Ko-FI

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

A/N: Oh look, another.

BTB Tags: - Let me know if you'd like to be tagged in this serious.

Touching down at the Avengers Compound, the Quinjet’s engines hummed softly as they powered down. You stepped off the lowering ramp and took in the sprawling complex. The building was an impressive blend of sleek modern design and cutting-edge technology, lush greenery surrounded the wide-open spaces. The peaceful landscape contrasted against the bustling chaos of the city, where you spent most of your life.

Your dad, Tony Stark, stood waiting for you near the entrance, concern, and determination etched across his aging features. The familiar scent of motor oil and cologne filled your senses as he enveloped you in a quick hug. His grip around you was firm, silently reassuring you that he was there for you.

“Welcome home, kid,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. However, his eyes revealed the worry he had tried to mask. “Come on, let me show you around.”

Following him through the compound, you passed training rooms that were filled with state-of-the-art equipment, common areas where you caught glimpses of some familiar faces, and the impressive hangar with various vehicles and aircraft. The building buzzed with activity, yet there was still a sense of order and purpose.

Finally, you reached Tony’s sanctuary, his lab. The place you knew he felt most at home. You marveled at the array of gadgets and projects scattered around, as you followed his gesture for you to step in. Screens displayed holographic schematics, while robotic arms moved with precision, a new creation being assembled. The faint hum of machinery was a comforting backdrop.

“And, this is where the magic happens,” Tony said, pride touching his voice. Watching you take it all in, his lips played a small smile. “But, before you get too comfortable, there’s something we need to talk about.”

Raising your eyebrow suspiciously, you waited for him to continue. Looking uncharacteristically nervous, he ran a hand through his hair.

“I know things have been… rough since the incident,” he began, trying carefully to choose his words. He leaned against a workbench, fixing his gaze on a point somewhere behind you, crossing his arms over his chest. “And, I know you’re struggling to control the Extremis,” he trailed off, pausing before he continued, “but, we can’t have another accident like that. Not again.”

The memory of the uncontrollable heat coursing through your veins caused you to flinch. The sight of the flames, the smell of burning wood, the panic in the firefighter’s voice as they tried to contain the damage. Since it saved your life as a child, you lived with the Extremis virus. Your mother, Maya Hansen’s legacy, turned you into a ticking time bomb.

“I know, Dad,” you sighed, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “I’ll do better.”

Shaking his head, Tony pushed off the workbench and stepped closer to you. “It’s not about doing better. It’s about getting help. Which is why I’ve arranged for someone to keep an eye on you.”

The door to the lab opened, snapping your attention away from your dad before you could protest. And in walked, Bucky Barnes– The Winter Soldier. You had seen him in action and heard the ghost stories, but meeting him in person… that was different. He was imposing, a steely gaze seemingly assessing every detail of the room, and you. As he approached, his movements were fluid, almost predatory.

“Tin-Man, this is my daughter,” Tony spoke as he gestured toward you. “She’s going to be staying here for a while. And… you’re going to be looking out for her.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed slightly toward you, and you could see in his piercing gaze that he was as thrilled about this arrangement as you were. “I was expecting a kid,” he said bluntly, a hint of annoyance carrying in his voice. Crossing his arms over his chest, the metal of his arm caught against the light.

“No, I’m not a kid,” you snap back, matching his posture. “And, I don’t need a glorified babysitter. Unless,” you paused, shoot Bucky a playful smirk. “You’re here to tuck me in and read me a bedtime story?”

Tony stepped between you, holding up a hand to forestall any pending argument. “Easy, both of you. This isn’t up for debate. Barnes’ here to help, whether you like it or not.”

You glare at Bucky, who returns the look with an equal intensity. “Fantastic,” you said, your voice dripped with sarcasm. “My very own bodyguard, don’t expect me to make this easy for you.”

Smirking, Bucky’s eyes filled with amusement almost as if he was accepting a challenge. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Princess.”

“Don’t call me that,” you snap, your iris’ blazed with anger, a burning orange glow.

His smirk never faltered. “Whatever you say… Princess.”

Watching the exchange, Tony’s expression changed to one of concern and exasperation. His face, usually composed, now showed signs of strained patience. Rubbing a hand over his face, he tried to stifle a sigh. “Alright, both of you,” he injects, his voice filled with frustration. “This isn’t a battlefield. Can we at least try to keep it professional?”

You took a glance at Tony, then back at Bucky, who still had a smirk plastered across his face, enjoying the friction. Tony continued, his tone firm but weary. “I get that you two won’t see eye to eye, but let’s keep the drama to a minimum. We’re here to make sure things don’t go up in flames, literally.”

Squaring off with Bucky, you took another step closer. The heat between you both was almost tangible. “I mean it, Winter Soldier. I’m not some dame in distress that you get to boss around.”

Leaning in, his voice was a low, taunting whisper. “And I’m not some nanny here to hold your hand.”

The tension crackled between you, and you noticed how his eyes were cold and calculating, with a flicker of something else– something that mirrored the heat in your own. You weren’t sure if it was anger or something more, but whatever it was, made your heart race.

“Good,” you retorted, sarcasm stayed laced within your words. “I wouldn’t want you thinking you could handle me.”

His eyes locked with yours, his smirking only growing. “Trust me, Princess, I can handle anything you throw at me.”

Scoffing, you rolled your eyes, yet you couldn’t help but feel the thrill of his challenge rush through you. “We’ll see about that.”

As you turned to leave, you felt his gaze burning into your back. This wasn’t over– far from it. And somehow, the thought of that excited you as much as it infuriated you.

---

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

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solarismoons · 1 month ago

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Astronomy (Pt. 3)

‘It’s astronomy, we’re two worlds apart’

Wally Clark x fem!reader

Summary: You struggle amid Maddie's disappearance. Nicole begs for answers.

Warnings: Angst, slight fluff, mentions of alcohol, careful reading.

prev. chap

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The day started well. Your cast was removed that morning and was replaced with a less obnoxious black brace. As usual, you floated through the day with your head clouded with thoughts of Wally. Life truly became sunshine and rainbows, just with a drunk dad and dead mom included.

Although you were too lost to notice, your friends began worrying. You were pulling away, becoming distant. You were doing the same thing you were secretly on Nicole’s ass for. All because of a boy. It wasn’t Wally’s fault, no–How could he know? He had warned you countless times to get more sleep, and that he could survive a night without you, but you ignored him. He was a distraction from real life, a dream you never wanted to awake from. But, it wasn’t merely that you sought refuge in him; your feelings truly ran much deeper.

But, life throws eventually throws curveballs. That night, dark storm clouds eclipsed the rainbows, and the cupcakes slowly molded. The other shoe had officially dropped.

────────────

The brush ran across your nail bed, a brilliant red thinly coating it with each stroke. You smiled down at the color, knowing Wally would appreciate it.

Your phone buzzed beside you, the vibrations causing it to skid across the desk. Carefully placing the nail polish down–your arm already stiff from the brace–you picked up the device with your free hand. Your eyebrows raised at the contact name.

“Mrs. Nears? Is everything okay?” You tucked the phone into the crook of your shoulder, holding it against your ear as you continued to paint your nails.

The woman was obviously flustered, her breaths coming in quick and sharp. “I- I haven’t seen Maddie all day. She- She didn’t come home after school!”

Your motions paused. “Wait- Wait- Slow down. Tell me what happened.”

A loud sigh sounded from the speaker. “Maddie never came home from school. It’s been an hour! I called Nicole, I called Simon, I called Xavier for fucks sake! He didn’t even answer anywa-”

A small smile spread across your face as you continued to paint your nails. “If Xavier’s ducking your calls he’s probably with her right now. You know those two… They might as well be locked in a box when they’re together.”

You could hear Sandra think for a second, her breathing slowing. She inhaled a shaky breath and agreed, reluctantly. “Okay. Okay. You’re right. I’ll try them both again in a little…”

As soon as you hung up the phone, your face dropped slightly. There was no reason to panic, right? It had only been an hour since school ended. Xavier and Maddie were practically infamous for how often they were almost reported missing when they were out. But, you had a strange feeling in your chest. One you couldn’t quite shake all night.

Maddie was officially reported missing at 9:43 that evening. Her blood was found on the boiler room walls early the next morning.

Split River might as well have become a ghost town. For the next few days, hundreds of students were forced to stay home from school–much to their ‘dismay’. For them, it was considered a vacation–a holiday of sorts. For everyone who knew Maddie? It was hell.

Despite all the chaos, detectives still could not find a single lead. So, all students were sent back to school and expected to pretend everything was fine.

────────────

The gym was filled with loud chattering, each echo bouncing off the bare walls. Folded chairs were spread across the floor, making a rather uncomfortable makeshift assembly.

“Everyone, please quiet down.” A few heads peeked up from phones, their eyes focusing on Mr. Hartman. He cleared his throat awkwardly causing microphone feedback to spill from the speakers. “Please, people.”

You zoned out for half of his speech, your eyes blank and focused on the chair in front of you. A few of his words bounced around your head such as “trying” and “missing persons.” It was nothing you hadn’t heard already.

If you were being honest, you felt terrible. For years, you couldn’t stand Maddie. Years you spent wondering, why Maddie? Why her and not you? Why did Nicole spend all her time with her, instead of you? But now, in her absence, you understood. The obsession, the infatuation. You missed her laugh. You missed how she could talk about a movie for hours without anyone getting bored. You missed her strange sense of humor. You just missed her–More than you ever thought you would.

Maybe… Maybe you weren’t ‘friends by extension.’ Maybe she meant more to you than you thought.

Whatever you truly felt towards her, it weighed you down. The strangest thing of all, though, was the energy you felt surrounding you. It was different from the one you felt near Wally. With Wally, it was an overwhelming sense of desire. Now, sitting in the too-crowded auditorium, you felt pained. Your heart felt heavy with each breath, and your head pounded with each word you spoke. It was almost like you could feel something that wasn’t actually there.

Your ears completely drowned out the principal welcoming Split-river's cheer squad to the front of the room to put on a rather disturbing performance–considering the context.

“Go… Split-river…”

“BA…DI…”

“For Maggie!”

The chants flickered in and out of focus, their meanings distorted like the flickering static on an old television screen. Your gaze drifted into the distance, unfocused and distant as if a veil had descended over your thoughts. How could someone just disappear? Leave all their friends and fami-

“They can’t HEAR you!”

Your head immediately snapped up to the bleachers, eyes focusing on Denim Jacket–Charley, as Wally had informed you countless times. He stood leaning over the railing, his mouth moving as if he was talking to someone. For Dawn, engaging in lengthy monologues with herself was perfectly normal, but Charley? From what you saw and heard from Wally, he was normal…For the most part.

His mannerisms, the way his eyes focused on the air next to him… He appeared just as you had imagined yourself looking while talking to Wally. Schizophrenic, basically. His eyes followed the air and he shook his head, chasing after seemingly nothing.

Your mouth hung slightly ajar, your eyebrows furrowed in a tight knot.

What the hell was going on in this fuckass school?

“Hey, you comin’?” Simon’s voice sounded out over the echoes of chattering and chairs scraping against the linoleum. You jumped a little, your heart picking up speed. Shit, you hadn’t even realized the assembly was over. Simon stood in front of you awkwardly, his face a mix of exhaustion and concern.

“Yeah- I… Sorry,” you muttered, collecting your jacket and backpack off the floor. It was still difficult with the brace, so Simon had to assist you with getting the strap onto your shoulder. You whispered a quick thank you before following the stream of students out the gym doors.

Running through the hallway, you body-slammed a few kids, causing all sorts of names to be thrown at you. You ignored them with a huff and continued your search. There he was, standing in the middle of the hallway, his eyes focused on the air again. He crowded around Nicole, who was busying herself with taping posters to the lockers.

You watched her shake her head and walk away, her fists clenched at her side.

Wally had told you countless times not to tell the others. Something about a chemistry ghost? You had no clue. Whatever it was, you knew he had his reasonings. So, you growled and ran your fingers through your hair, opting to turn around and stomp your way back to class.

You had to talk to Wally.

The day went by quickly, a new drama happening every other hour. It was like you were in your own TV show. Simon almost pulverized Xavier in the middle of a classroom, Xavier was caught with Maddie’s cell phone, Xavier pulverized Simon in the hallway, and to top it all off, you were forced to watch Sandra Nears struggle through a painful speech.

You could see Wally on the other side of the gymnasium, but he was already occupied. If it were under any other circumstance, you would’ve laughed at how it looked like a ghostly AA meeting. But, all you could think about was Maddie and whatever was going on with Charley.

Once again, you found yourself swimming through a river of students flowing out of the gym, each grabbing a candle on their way out. As the sun dipped slowly to the horizon, its warm rays surrendered to the night. Inky black unfurled across the sky, swallowing the last remnants of light. Only the moon was left to illuminate the ground below.

The one person you were looking for was unaccounted for, seemingly vanished into thin air. You should’ve been joining the search along with Simon and Nicole, but there were matters more pressing. As soon as you pressed your hand against the heavy metal doors, you heard heavy boots stomping from behind you.

“Where are you going?” Nicole asked, speed walking to catch up to you. She looked about the same state you saw Simon in just hours ago.

“To search,” you said, lying right through your teeth. She followed you out the door and into the cold evening air.

“What is going on with you?” Nicole continued to chase after you, mud caking into her boots as you both stomped across the field.

“I mean- Our best friend is missing,” You scoffed slightly, not in the mood for Nicole’s usual outbursts.

“No! Not that- You’ve been weird for weeks!” She ran in front of you, walking backward.

“There’s nothing fucking-”

She planted her feet, her face twisting in anger. Her hands flew out in front of her and she pushed against your shoulders, stopping you.

“No, no! You are not doing this. Please! Please talk to me!” Her eyes were wide and glossy, filled with a desperate need for answers.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” You said simply, trying to push past her. Her grasp was firm, yet not painful.

“Yes, there is! You’ve been disappearing from class for weeks, and you never speak to me anymore! Also, Mrs. Moore saw you sneaking out your window at 3 in the freakin’ morning! What- Why?” She was at a loss, words somersaulting out of her mouth uncontrollably.

“You talked to my fucking neighbor, Nicole?” Anger bubbled deep within you, seeping into your throat. Nicole didn’t understand. She never would.

“What was I supposed to do? You never tell me what’s bothering you! What happened to BFFs for life?”

You rolled your eyes and scoffed, “Oh, god, Nicole! We made that pact in 3rd-”

“I DON'T CARE! Okay? I don’t! I- I miss my best friend! I just want her back. Please.”

Each crack of her voice felt like a searing dagger, embedding itself deep within your heart, leaving a trail of burning pain in its wake. You stood there pathetically, unable to come up with even a lame excuse. “Is it drugs?”

You almost laughed at that, but instead, you shook your head quickly.

“Is it your dad? A boy?”

At her mention of a boy, your jaw clenched ever so slightly. She seemed to notice it, her hands slowly falling to her sides. The expression of sheer disappointment etched across her face was nothing less than heartbreaking.

“It is, isn’t it? Who is it? No- I..I don’t even want to know,” She said, holding her head in her hands. "Why him? Why not me? I’ve told you so, so many times ‘you can talk to me you know’ and you run to some… guy?”

You bit your lip, your previous anger returning. Just as she opened her mouth again, you interrupted her, “Because of Maddie!”

Nicole took a small step back, her eyebrows shooting up toward her hairline in surprise. She stood there, momentarily frozen, her mouth slightly parted in disbelief. Deep brown eyes scanned every inch of your face as if it had the answer to each of her questions.

“It’s always her! You’re the one who pulled away from me first! Every single time I tried to hang out, your response was always, ‘I’m with Maddie!’” You paused, catching your breath before continuing. “I was so lonely, Nicole! I’m sorry for turning to someone who would actually fucking give me the time of day!”

Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, shimmering like the stars that hung in the sky. With a small step backward, she recoiled as if struck by the weight of your words. Her voice shook with guilt as she cleared her throat, “I-I didn’t know you felt that way.”

You shook your head, biting down on your lip. “I never told you.”

Taking a step forward, she took your hand in her own, squeezing tight. “I wish you did.” Her lip quivered as tears finally fell from her lashes. “I love you, okay? Please, don’t forget that. I love Maddie too, and- and I didn’t mean to push you away. Neither of us did.”

Tears fell from your eyes as well, each droplet becoming a weight lifting off of you. “It’s fine, Nicole.”

She wrapped her arms around you tightly, her fingers clutching the fabric of your shirt as if she were afraid to let go. Tears streamed down her cheeks, soaking into your tank top, leaving behind damp patches. “It’s not. I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry,” Nicole repeated, pulling you impossibly tighter against her. “Whoever this guy is, he’s lucky to have you.” She pulled back, wiping her tears with the back of her hand, coal-black mascara smearing against the soft skin. “You don’t have to talk to me now. Just, please- remember that you can.”

“I know,” you whispered, sniffling. You pulled her tightly against you, wrapping your arms around her waist, mirroring her prior actions. “I miss her,” you sobbed into her neck as the weight of your friend's disappearance came crashing down on you in an instant.

“Me too.”

You both stood there beneath the gentle glow of the full moon, its silvery light casting a serene glow over the courtyard. The cool, whispering breeze danced around you, sending goosebumps across your arms. Reluctantly pulling back, you wiped your nose on the back of your sleeve, sniffling loudly. You squeezed your friend's shoulder, a sad smile crawling onto your face. “Let’s go find Simon and search for Madds.”

Nicole nodded, taking your hand in her own. You walked back into the school, fingers intertwined. Guilt for each nasty thought you had about Maddie mixed with your anger at Nicole dissipating, created an unsettling flurry of overwhelming emotions. Despite the soul-crushing war in your head, your best friend’s warmth was a reminder that you weren’t as alone as you thought.

You cared for Wally. You truly did. But, he couldn’t always be there for you. It wasn’t fair to him. So, for the first time in weeks, you pushed him out of your head, replacing him with glimmers of hope–hope for the future and hope of Maddie returning safely.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

tags: @just-here-to-readd @shotos-angelic-whore @morstuavitamea-a @sweetdayme4427 @vanessa-boo @mylovelysnowflake @liyahrantssometimes @amara-mars @funperson21 @pixviee @kmarie06 @cdej6 @binniesbabe @salty-salts-stuff

a/n: sorry this one took so long! hope you enjoyed this chapter! I felt like Nicole needed some love.

#school spirits #milo manheim #school spirits season 2 #wally clark #split river high #charley school spirits #milo manheim x reader #milo manheim fanfiction #wally clark x reader #wally clark fanfiction #wally clark x you #school spirits x reader #school spirits fanfiction #nicole herrera #fem!reader

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serahadmoni · 3 months ago

Text

A Case for Bodhi Durran

Criminally underused and oft-sidelined, Bodhi Durran deserves…more. More attention. More consideration. More love. While plenty of fanon exists surrounding his character - including presuppositions of what his life was like before the apostasy, what his dreams for the future were before the Rider’s Quadrant - for this commentary I will try to focus primarily on the text and evidentiary proof of his virtues. So, let's talk about how Bodhi Durran...

Is Loyal

“When you have a hundred and seven scars on your back, then you get to make the fucking decisions, Ciaran,” Bodhi snarls

I feel like all the Marked Ones who populate Xaden's inner circle have loyalty written indelibly on their hearts - loyalty to not only Tyrrendor, but specifically to Xaden. They understand the sacrifice he made then and the sacrifices he continues to make for them. Even when being loyal to Xaden means hauling dead bodies out of his not-girlfriend’s room at two in the morning. Or making clandestine smuggling runs . Or continuing to manage the operation in Xaden’s absence when the Navarrian leadership has begun to catch wise. Or when you take pains to ensure he’s left to his grief on the anniversary of his father’s death. Even when they sometimes butt heads over specifics, Bodhi ultimately defers to Xaden, because he…

Is Dutiful

[Xaden] dips his chin toward our wing, and two riders—Garrick and Bodhi—break formation, then climb the steps to stand behind Xaden, their hands at their sides. “As it was a matter of life and death, I personally executed six of the would-be murderers, as witnessed by Flame Section Leader Garrick Tavis and Tail Section Executive Officer Bodhi Durran.

Again, all the Marked Ones display this quality in spades. Even if they don’t always agree with the methods Xaden uses, they will forever carry out their duty, his orders. Liam represents the ultimate expression of this quality, but the way Bodhi protects Violet in Xaden’s absence, even going so far as to risk his own reputation and command by constantly moving flight maneuvers to protect her is an undeniable expression of his sense of duty.

“You saved every single one of us here, cousin,” Bodhi says. “And we’re thankful. Now, I’d like to do what we’ve trained for, and if it means I don’t go home, then I guess my soul will be commended to Malek. I wouldn’t mind seeing my mother anyway.”

This speaks for itself. Both in the language of duty and loyalty, which only serves to accentuate the fact Bodhi…

Is Supportive

“You’re our best fighter,” a second-year near Xaden counters with a quick grin.

Though he and Garrick (and Violet) share in this responsibility to some extent, I still think in a lot of ways Bodhi is Xaden’s ultimate hype man. Mostly because he understands Xaden so deeply and as such is well aware how much Xaden needs it sometimes. He’s present for Xaden in difficulty. Willing to advocate for him, stand up for him even against the other Marked Ones as he does after Resson.

Bodhi grins, flashing a smile that looks exactly like my aunt’s used to. “Good to see you up and about, Sorrengail.” Then he smacks me on the shoulder as he walks off, looking back over his shoulder. “I’ll fetch the backup plan. Good luck.”

But it’s not just Xaden he supports…

When the Assembly wants nothing more than to toss Violet in a cell, he lends his voice to the arguments for her loyalty, her integrity:

She fought at our side at Resson.” Bodhi tenses as his voice rises as well.

AND

In another, quieter moment, which speaks not only to his naturally supportive nature but also how well he can read others needs:

“It’s a lost magic,” Bodhi says softly, appearing at my side. He rubs his thumb over his newly mended, scarless palm. “Maybe there’s a reason this stone never worked. It might be broken.”

He can tell how thoroughly the failed attempt at raising the wards shatters Violet’s self-confidence and even though he doesn’t know her as well as Xaden, he understands she needs reassurance, offering it freely. He also supports Violet in her burnout and when she’s crazed after hearing Xaden was injured.

Bodhi Durran is a man who desperately wants everyone to be okay. Actively. Daily. Trying to not only keep everyone alive, but sane and grounded, because Bodhi…

Is Brilliant

The distraction Bodhi engineered in the flight field bought us time to meet without teachers noticing, but not much, especially considering that Devera, Kaori, Carr, and Emetterio are among those on campus still.

Personally, I would love to know what he threw together with zero notice that managed to keep the instructors busy long enough for Dain to call the quadrant to formation and Xaden (coughVioletcough) to issue his invitation. My guess, there were explosives of some sort involved.

Also, when they are climbing the Cliffs of Dralor with the fliers and the wyvern attack, he puts together what it means that the wyvern felt the pulse of the Aretian hatching grounds being reactivated before pretty much anyone else. He understands the wyvern will have relayed to their masters that the fliers and Aretian riders joined forces and the implications of such a report.

“I… uh… think we’re going to have to make some modifications on that harness,” Bodhi remarks as Andarna struggles to maintain her balance. “That’s going to take a few hours.”

Without drifting into the land of fanon, it’s hard to elaborate on this point except to highlight that Bodhi has the skills and know-how to modify an elaborately designed one-of-a-kind dragon harness. Were I to drift into fanon, I would shout from the rooftops that he’s the engineer of the group - the one that made sure Violet’s daggers would work for her, who consulted with Xaden on the prototype and modifications to Violet’s saddle, who also helped design and proof Andarna’s harness. Where Xaden may be the ideas-man in these areas, Bodhi executes. He’s the one who fixes their pocket watches when they won’t keep time or helps troubleshoot why the damn trigger on that crossbow sticks when any of the Marked Ones can’t figure it out for themselves. Ultimately, Bodhi wants to help in a tangible way because he...

Is Protective

In this, I feel it’s best to just let Bodhi speak for himself.

When Varrish confronts Violet on the flight field before her first trip to Samara.

“You may leave, Cadet Durran,” Varrish says. Bodhi moves closer to my side, and the male lieutenant takes a step closer as well, the mage lights catching the signet patch—fire wielding—on his uniform. “As Cadet Sorrengail’s section leader, I am the next in her chain of command. And as Article Four, Section Two of the Codex states, her discipline falls to her chain of command before being brought to cadre. I would be negligent in my duty were I to leave her in potential possession of… whatever it is you’re looking for.”

When Varrish pushes Violet to near burnout.

Bodhi’s warm brown face appears in front of mine. “Fuck.” He tugs the edges of the blanket closed around me. “This is because of Andarna?” “Yes.” Bodhi’s eyes widen. … “I’ll handle it,” Bodhi promises, capturing my gaze. “This won’t happen to you again.”

When Dain Aetos calls Violet to the mat because he’s pissed off that she won’t talk to him.

“You shouldn’t do this!” Bodhi shouts as he runs at us, skidding to a stop next to me. Imogen isn’t far behind. Ah, she’d run to find the closest person to Xaden possible. Makes sense. “She’s in a fucking sling, Aetos.” “Last time I checked, you’re a section leader.” Dain narrows his eyes on Bodhi. “And your cousin isn’t her wingleader anymore. I am.” The muscles in Bodhi’s neck bulge. “Xaden’s going to fucking kill him,” he whispers.

There are plenty of other instances where he protects others. Notably, when he steps in front of Carr to counter his signet as they are leaving Basgiath. And I’m certain there are hundreds of instances we don’t see since we are in Violet’s POV through the series. None of which detracts from the fact that Bodhi…

Is Principled

At the beginning of Fourth Wing, upon returning from a standard weapons run, he pushes Xaden and Garrick both, insisting:

“There has to be something more we can do,” Bodhi argues, looking to Xaden, his voice low…

And then again at the end of the book, when the cadets are faced with a decision to fight alongside the fliers to save the Pormoish civilians or flee for Eltuval, he’s the first to insist they help. Even coming into conflict with Xaden’s more measured approach to the impossible dilemma Col. Aetos has enforced upon them.

“How many people live in Resson?” Bodhi asks. “More than three hundred,” Imogen answers as another boom cracks through the valley. “That’s the post they do the yearly trades at.” “Then let’s get down there.” Bodhi turns and Xaden steps back, blocking his path with an outstretched hand. “You’re kidding me, right?” “We have no idea what we’re walking into.” Xaden’s tone reminds me of that first day after Parapet. He’s in full command mode. “So we should just stand here while civilians die?” Bodhi questions, and I tense. We all do, watching Xaden.

As much as I love Xaden, and I do. I believe equipping the drifts with weapons is a means to an end for him. They are the thin, brown and feathered line between the venin and Tyrrendor. He wants to continue helping them, but I don’t believe - other than from an abstract “we don’t condemn innocents to death” perspective - he’s overly concerned with the preservation of individual Poromish lives. Bodhi, for better or worse, appears to be invested in the preservation of life in general. A grounded, guiding principle that thankfully he values because Bodhi…

Is Powerful

He sighs. “Yeah. Second time someone tried to jump me in the bathing chamber this week.” My eyes widen as my heart hammers in my chest. “Are you okay?” He has the gall to grin. “I completely eviscerated some asshole out of Second Wing while naked and only got a bruise. I’m fine.”

I mean, besides the litany of weapons certification patches Violet observes early in Fourth Wing, Bodhi is just as skilled in unarmed hand-to-hand. While he’s never described as “on-par” with Xaden (since Xaden spars with Garrick almost exclusively unless he’s trying to make a point), Bodhi clearly knows how to handle himself. In the buff. With no weapons. And accruing no serious injuries.

Which doesn’t even touch his signet…

“What have you done?” Carr shouts, running for us, his wispy hair flying in all directions as he lifts his hands. “You’ll end us all, over who? People you’ve never met? I won’t allow it!” “Bodhi!” Xaden orders as Carr reaches Third Wing. Fire erupts from Carr’s hands, streaming toward the dais, and my stomach drops. Time seems to slow as Bodhi steps forward and twists his hand like he’s turning a dial. The fire dies, extinguishing like it was never there and leaving Carr staring at his hands. “You taught us well, Professor,” Bodhi says, holding his hand in place. “Maybe a little too well.” Damn. “He can counter signets,” Xaden tells me. Well, that’s fucking terrifying.

And though people have questioned Brennan's assessment:

“By our best calculations,” Brennan says, rubbing his hands together to keep warm, “the six most powerful riders currently in Aretia are Xaden, Felix, Suri, Bodhi, Violet, and me.”

When you consider the potential of his signet…

Yes, he extinguishes Carr’s flames without blinking. But he can also smother Xaden’s shadows. Dispel Violet’s lightning. Destroy Mira’s wards. Keep Brennan from mending. He could have calmed Lilith’s storms. And while it seems like largely a defensive signet, there are offensive elements to it as well. Such as - and I’m not saying this would happen - he could remain completely invisible to Melgren, even without the benefit of three other Marked Ones. If such a thing were in the cards, he would be able to easily assassinate Melgren, undetected.

And that’s if we don’t consider what, if any, mind signets he can counter. Can he reverse Imogen’s memory wipe? Or merely prevent her from performing one? Can he fool a truthsayer by offering them nothing to read? Based on the text, it appears Xaden is unable to read his intentions. Which would imply he’s impervious to not only inntinsics, but memory readers and erasers, truthsayers, etc.

Considering we don’t know precisely how his signet works, it’s difficult to say for certain where the boundaries lie. Is it only as Xaden says, “He can counter signets?” Or is he interrupting the channel between dragon and rider entirely? Which would have far more wide-reaching implications since he could theoretically also break the channel between gryphons and their fliers as well as venin and the earth.

Just like we really don’t have all the information about Violet’s “pure power” signet, we don’t have nearly enough hard information about Bodhi’s to say for certain where the potential expression of it may end.

Despite his physical and magical prowess, though, Bodhi…

Is Pragmatic

“I liked it better when we just delivered the weapons,” Bodhi mutters.

As principled, honorable, loyal, and dutiful as he is…same. He wants to help, but it’s hard. And dangerous. And running weapons is easier. I don’t blame him at all.

His pragmatism is reflected in the text a hundred different ways, but it’s also simply stated by both him and Violet.

“And I thought you were the most reasonable of the group.” I sigh. “Look, if I can help, then maybe we can prevent what I’m assuming are… supply runs.” Talking in code is ridiculous, but anyone could be listening. “Give me a job.” “Oh, I am the most reasonable in the group.” He flashes a grin, leaning back on his heels. “I also don’t have a death wish. Survive second year and strengthen your shields, Sorrengail. That’s your job.”

He is a man who gets things done. Which is not to say he’s not in touch with his emotions. But he understands the balance between necessity and diplomacy. Not that he’s a staid, stoic mission only guy either, because Bodhi…

Is Quick-Witted

“Hey, I hate to interrupt what’s obviously a moment,” Bodhi whispers loudly from my left. “But that was the last bell, so that’s our cue to get this nightmare started.”

AND

Bodhi wrinkles his nose. “What?” “You smell like dragon ass.” “Fuck off.” I chance a whiff and can’t argue. “I’m using your room.” “I would consider it a personal favor.” I extend my middle finger and head toward his room.

Much as I appreciate and adore Bodhi’s quick wit, I could also write volumes about how his dry, sarcastic sense of humor operates as a defense mechanism. A lens through which he can deal with the intensity of his circumstances and the impact of these weighty decisions they are all making.

Like Xaden himself says, Bodhi always lightens the mood. To help himself deal? Yes. But (like Ridoc) also because he can tell everyone desperately needs it, a virtue that serves him well because he…

Is A Leader

”Shouldn’t you all be in Battle Brief?” Bodhi asks, his voice booming as he comes up behind us. One look sends the other squads scurrying for the door.

Though a lot of space on the page has been given to Xaden, Rhiannon, and Violet’s obvious leadership qualities, Bodhi sprang from the same genetic line as Xaden. While the expression of the Riorson magnetism may be tempered by his natural demeanor, he possesses the same it-factor as Fen. Were I to lay bets, I expect his mother was similarly charismatic and it was expressed in her much the way it is in Bodhi.

“…Flame Section has the unique honor of being completely intact.” Brennan looks down at Bodhi. “Durran, you brought every single cadet. I guess that would make you the Iron Section.”

He inspired such loyalty from his section, they all defected. For so many reasons, including those already expressed above, I believe Bodhi to be a servant leader. Servant leadership rests on three pillars: compassion, character, and competence. All of which Bodhi has in spades. He would not run a section the way Garrick did. Or the way Xaden ran his wing. Not that there was anything wrong with either of those philosophies necessarily. But he would pull with his squads, encourage them, equip them, support them, and push them gently to be their best. He would need to make certain they’re ready to face what he did in Resson, but he would do it with a deft, deliberate, more delicate hand than I think Xaden is willing or able to extend, because Bodhi Durran…

Is A Caretaker

So much of what has already been outlined above also represents an expression of this quality. From him helping Garrick protect Xaden’s solitude on the anniversary of Fen’s death. To him stepping between Aaric and Xaden when they start throwing barbs about Alic (which is also pragmatism, because hey, there’s a job to do). To him waiting with Xaden in the hall while Violet cleans up after Resson. He takes care of people both physically:

“Whoa!” Bodhi throws up one hand, the other clutching his rucksack. “I don’t want you to freeze to death on the flight there.” He yanks his flight jacket out of his pack and hands it to me.

Bodhi helps Aaric out of his [disguise], careful with his blistered hands. … “That’s a rebound burn,” Bodhi says. “It will clear up overnight if treated.”

”And tell Bodhi to track down whatever antidote she and the rest of her squad need.”

And emotionally, which leads me to the fact Bodhi…

Is Emotionally Attuned

An hour later, I’m bathed and impatient as I wait outside my room in a fresh set of leathers with Bodhi, who’s doing his best to lighten my mood just like he always does.

Bodhi reads people. Easily. He understands what Xaden’s saying without it being said . After Resson, he knows what Xaden needs from them - not questions, not reason, just action. He knows that Violet and Imogen need to run. And even when he can’t contradict Xaden’s orders, I believe he sympathizes with Violet’s driving need to do something to help, because it’s a drive he shares. Later, he knows not to carry Violet back to the quadrant after her burnout. And he’s the one that follows her into the courtyard to offer his jacket because he can see the panic plain as day. Just as he can see her disappointment when the wards fail. He can feel Xaden’s rage and terror as Violet lays comatose and poisoned (not that Xaden is overly subtle about it).

On top of all of that, Bodhi…

Is Beautiful

He’s handsome, with tawny brown skin crowned by a cloud of black curls and a litany of patches on what I can see of his uniform under his cloak. His features are close enough to Xaden’s that they might be related. Cousins, maybe?

…Bodhi has the same bronzed skin and strong brow line, but his features aren’t as angular as Xaden’s, and his eyes are a lighter shade of brown. He looks like a softer, more approachable version of his older cousin...

Even Violet, who only has eyes for Xaden, recognizes how attractive he is. Yet, as fair and fine the wrapping, I would heartily declare his character fairer still.

While this is by no means an exhaustive list of his virtues - he's also humble, adaptable, a peacemaker, a good listener, infinitely capable, empathetic, and hyperaware of how he should conduct himself in a given situation - I think the case for Bodhi Durran has been made.

(originally compiled for the Onyx Storm countdown days at the RQ Discord)

#the empyrean #fourth wing #empyrean meta #bodhi durran #fourth wing spoilers #iron flame spoilers

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