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[bucky-fricking-barnes]

The Cards We're Dealt

Title: The Cards We’re Dealt

Pairing: Mafia!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 15k

Warnings: Arranged marriage, alcohol, cursing, objectification of women and mild sexism, bad parents, angst, fluff, mentions of drugs

Summary: Bucky and Y/N are the children of the two most prominent mob bosses in New York. When their parents use them as part of a deal, they’re left to figure out how their lives fit together.

A/N: Wow! Another long fic because I have no self-restraint. There’s a bit of Irish in this because I couldn’t resist it when I wrote Steve. Translations are at the end, and anything incorrect can be blamed on Google Translate. As always, thank you for reading, liking, commenting, reblogging, and supporting me in all the ways you do. 

There is an unspoken rule amongst the mobs in New York that the more drug manufacturers a man controls, the nicer you treat his daughter. So, when Bucky’s father tells him that he’s once again been pimped out as part of a deal, Bucky knows to ask the question,

“How many does he control?”

If Bucky had his way, of course, he would treat all girls as well as he is able (which is very well). He likes girls, and he likes going out with girls. He just wishes he could choose which girls he got to take out.

“Seventy-five percent,” George Barnes says, and Bucky freezes with his glass against his lips. He has a club soda to his father’s whiskey—he’s in a good mood and was actually hoping to enjoy the day, though now he’s reconsidering it. His plan to lounge by the pool with Becca and soak up as much of the late spring sunshine as possible is quickly dissipating. 

“That’s not possible,” Bucky replies. He quickly does the math in his head. His dad owns over half the manufacturers in Brooklyn. “We own—“

“Not anymore.”

The library falls silent as Bucky tries to wrap his head around the news. Just yesterday he’d overheard his father on the phone with one of his men, explaining in great detail what he’d do if they didn’t get him a sample of their newest product by the top of the hour.

“How?” he asks. He sets his glass aside and sits straighter in his chair. “Did something happen? You didn’t tell me about a takeover.”

George takes a sip of his whiskey. “That’s because there wasn’t one.” He sets the crystal tumbler on the small bronze tray nearby. Marta will come clean it up later. “I sold them.”

“You sold them? If you’ve already struck a deal, then why am I taking out his daughter? Isn’t that normally something you have me do to butter their fathers up before you make the deal?”

Bucky watches as his own father stands and goes to watch the landscapers through the library window, his hands clasped behind his back. He’s long since been out of the army, but some habits die hard. Very rarely did the man ever relax.

“You are the deal,” George answers, his voice much too casual for Bucky’s liking.

“What the hell are you talking about?” snaps Bucky.

“Watch your tone, boy,” his father replies. He doesn’t turn around to witness the way Bucky grinds his teeth together in response. “In exchange for the majority of Theo’s territory, you and Y/N will be married within a year and a half, though the exact date is up to the two of you. I believe that Theo mentioned his daughter likes spring, so perhaps a spring wedding. June is popular, from what I’m told, though that’s cutting it a little close to the deadline.”

Bucky’s up out of his seat now. He can feel his pulse thrumming and he can’t quite catch his breath.

“So what? You threw me in to sweeten the pot? Am I just another bargaining chip to you now?”

He’s shouting. He doesn’t care.

George turns and regards him in silence, and, like always, his expression betrays nothing of what he’s thinking or feeling. He doesn’t seem fazed at all by Bucky’s outburst.

“You’re my heir. I make my decisions based on what’s best for our family. Nothing about this decision is impulsive or frivolous, James,” he finally answers, his voice cool and even. There’s nothing familial in his tone—George Barnes is all business. 

“You can’t just decide that I’m getting married. I won’t do it. I refuse,” Bucky tells him. He balls his fists at his sides and he sets his jaw, furious. How dare his father try to control his life like this? It’s one thing to occupy the majority of Bucky’s nights and weekends with dates, meetings, dinners, and weapons runs, but it’s another to throw him into a marriage he doesn’t want.

“I can and you will. If you don’t, there will be consequences. To start, you will be immediately cut off from our family. You will have no money, no home, no resources, and no contact or communication with anyone involved in the business, including your mother and your sister.”

Heart pounding, Bucky glares at him. He’s got a migraine coming on. He knows his father isn’t kidding, but he wants more than anything for Steve to pop out and say that this is all just a joke. He’s never even met Theo’s daughter. He’s barely even met Theo. According to the rumors, his only daughter is his most prized treasure. She isn’t someone who frequents any of the bars, clubs, and restaurants that he and the other “mob children” frequent. Maybe “mob children” isn’t exactly the right term, at least not anymore. After all, Bucky’s engaged now. He’s just part of the mob, another pawn to be moved around the chessboard.

“You have the rest of the day off. I’ll see you at eight tomorrow morning,” says George. He picks up his glass and downs the last of the liquor. “Theo and his family are coming for breakfast, and then Y/N will be moving in with us. I want you on your best behavior.”

He pauses and Bucky continues to glare at him, not validating his words with a response. George’s eyes grow dark with a thinly veiled threat. Bucky knows that look—if he pushes his father any harder, he’ll regret it. 

“Do you understand, boy?”

“Yes, sir,” Bucky grinds out.

Turning on his heel, Bucky stalks out of the library and slams the door behind him. He immediately heads down the hall, then down the stairs and across the ground floor of the Barnes Estate to the garage. His keys are still in his pocket; he’d only just gotten back from a night out with Steve when his father had summoned him.

It doesn’t matter that he’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Bucky climbs onto his bike and revs the engine, speeding off down the long driveway that winds around the house. The guards barely get the gate open in time and then he’s flying down the road, heading straight to Steve’s bar in the city. He knows his friend will be there, most likely nursing his hangover and going over the books in his back office. He won’t be hard to convince to go out again, though Bucky knows he won’t approve of the plan to drink as much as he possibly can in the next twelve hours. It doesn’t matter, though—it’s Bucky’s last night as a free man, and he’s determined to make the most of it.

You sit between your parents, staring at the empty seat across from you. They’d told you this morning that you were going to the Barnes Estate for breakfast, and while you’d expected the grandeur of the dining room and the meal, you didn’t expect the eldest Barnes child to be completely absent. You’ve never met him, but your mother has insisted that you speak to James—George Barnes’ only son and heir—as much as possible during the meal. Supposedly, he’s the same age as you.

Rebecca Barnes is a ray of sunshine and her cheery disposition is a stark contrast to the dark clouds that now hang over your fathers’ heads. Maybe it’s a deal gone wrong or maybe it’s something else, but you don’t like it. It leaves an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach. Silently, you sneak a hand under the table to find your mother’s. You squeeze and your mom squeezes back, glancing over to give a reassuring smile.

“Y/N,” Mrs. Barnes starts, and you jump a little in your seat. You haven’t been verbally addressed since you’d been seated a half hour ago. The food has yet to be served. “Your parents tell us that you’re very interested in horticulture. Did you know we have a rose garden out back?”

You force a polite smile. “I don’t know about very interested. I have a few house plants that I’ve managed to keep alive, though I would love to see your garden sometime. I’m sure it’s beautiful,” you add.

“Maybe Bucky can take you,” Rebecca says, earning herself a sharp look from her mother. She simply shrugs.

Oh, to be as unbothered as Rebecca Barnes!

“Where is James?” your father asks. His voice is a low, threatening growl and you sink down in your chair, staring at the cloth napkin still folded atop your plates.

“He knows to be here,” Mr. Barnes growls back. “You’ll have to excuse his tardiness, he’s not normally like this.”

Mrs. Barnes gives Rebecca an even harsher look when she opens her mouth to speak, and this time the girl actually looks ashamed. She takes a sip of her orange juice to hide the guilty look on her face. She’s the first person to have actually touched something on the table, and it’s like whatever spell the room has been under is broken.

All at once, the dining room springs to life. A short, slightly heavy-set woman in a gray dress and white apron enters through one door. She’s holding a delicate silver coffeepot and the smell of coffee instantly fills the room. Two younger women in identical uniforms follow behind her, each of them pushing golden carts laden with food. Through the door across the room, a tall man with short, dark brown hair stumbles in. He’s wearing all black, from his rumpled button-up and jeans to his boots and sunglasses. His hair is sticking up in every direction and just like the coffee, you can smell the stench of alcohol coming from him even from your seat.

You grimace at the smell and pull your napkin into your lap as one of the women comes to place food in front of you. It’s a formal dining service and the strange new man who’s entered feels entirely out of place. From his attire to the way he shuffles across the antique rug, everything about him screams that he’d rather be anywhere else. If you acted like that, your father would be pulling you back out into the hallway to reprimand you, and you look anxiously at Mr. Barnes, who’s seated at the head of the table. 

“James,” he greets, his voice unnervingly even. A chill runs down your spine. “It’s nice of you to join us. I trust that you slept well last night?”

James collapses into the only empty chair at the table, the one across from you, and pointedly ignores his father. You risk a glance up at him as he reaches for the cup of coffee that’s already been poured.

True to form, Rebecca leans over and claps a hand on her brother’s shoulder blade. “Good morning! Aren’t you excited to have breakfast with our guests?” she shouts, and her smirk makes it much too clear that she’s fully enjoying the way her brother’s scowl deepens. Rebecca also ignores her parents, including her mother, who leans forward to look past James and give her a look of warning.

James shrugs his sister off of him and starts buttering the toast on his plate. You watch for a moment, then start picking at your own food as your mother also begins to eat. Everyone’s acting so strangely that you’re already on edge, and you’ve only managed to get down a few grapes and two bites of dry toast by the time your father speaks up again.

“So when are we signing these papers?” he asks, sipping his coffee. 

“As soon as the marriage license is signed,” answers Mr. Barnes.

You frown. Marriage license? Who’s getting married?

“And the terms are the same as when we last spoke?”

Mr. Barnes sips his own drink, something that looks suspiciously like whiskey, and sets down the glass. “Yes. I have that contract in my office. We’ll review and sign after we’re done here. Are all of your daughter’s things ready to be moved?”

Your stomach drops and you turn to stare at your father with wide eyes. He nods, not even paying attention to you as he continues his conversation with the other man. Your mother pointedly ignores you, choosing instead to stare at her plate as she eats. When you look around the room, it seems like almost everyone else is doing the same. Rebecca is the only person who actually meets your panicked gaze. She gives you a pitying look as your anxiety rises.

It feels like your mouth is filled with sandpaper, and you grab your glass of juice. You have to drink half of it before the feeling even mildly abates. As soon as you set it down, one of the women in gray appears to refill it.

“What’s going on? Why are you moving my stuff?” you finally choke out. You twist the napkin in your lap with both hands, wringing it as you look from one person’s face to the next.

Mr. Barnes stops mid-sentence and the whole room freezes. Even James, who’s pouring something into his coffee cup from a small silver flask, stops what he’s doing.

“Y/N, sweetheart,” your mother begins, taking your hand under the table.

You want to pull away. You don’t.

“After breakfast, your father and I are going home, but you’ll be staying here with the Barneses.”

“What?” you whisper, your eyes filling with tears. “No, I don’t— I don’t want to stay here. You never said anything about me—“

“We’re getting married,” James interrupts. He’s chewing and you look over at him, gaping at the casual way he’s sprawled out in his chair. You can feel his gaze on you even from behind his sunglasses and it makes you feel dirty. 

“Excuse me?”

He chuckles and sits up, then leans forward in the chair. He drops the greasy strip of bacon he’d been eating onto his plate. “We’re getting married. They’re using us like bartering chips, sweetheart. You and me in exchange for all the drugs and all the territory in New York.” James gestures grandly with one hand, a too-wide grin on his face. There must be at least ten rings on each of his hands and you swallow thickly at the threatening display of black and silver metal.

You’re trembling now and you pull your hand away from your mom’s. She reaches for you again but you shake your head, shying away from her touch. Frantically, you look around the room to see if this is some kind of joke or a drunken rambling, but no one is laughing. Even Mrs. Barnes has the decency to look sympathetic on your behalf.

“No, no. You wouldn’t—“ You look back at your parents, imploring them to say that it isn’t true. You swallow thickly, trying to stave off tears, and your voice wavers as you prompt, “Mom? Dad?”

Their silence speaks volumes and a whimper escapes you as you wring your hands in your lap. The napkin slides onto the floor. It suddenly feels like you can’t breathe and when your mom reaches out for a second time and starts to tell you to calm down, you jerk away and stand. The chair falls backwards behind you, but you ignore it as you rush out of the dining room and into the hallway you’d entered from. Everything is unfamiliar. Frantically, you pick a door and yank on the handle. It doesn’t give way and you continue the process until one of them finally opens and you can rush inside. You lock it behind you and press your back against the door. The curtains on the floor-to-ceiling windows are closed, shrouding the room in darkness. You can’t make out much of the furniture through the tears in your eyes.

Out in the hallway, you can hear your mother calling for you and your father arguing with Mr. Barnes. Mrs. Barnes is yelling at somebody too, but it’s hard enough to hear the others over your own gasps and sobs. You’re properly crying now and you sink to the floor, curling up on the carpet as you heave. It’s a good thing you weren’t able to stomach much breakfast.

A knock on the door makes you yelp and then cry harder, and you crawl into the darkness of the room to try and find a hiding spot. You’re lucky enough to find an old, heavy desk right away. It’s the perfect size for you to crawl under for shelter, and there’s no chair for you to move out of the way. The drawers on both sides create a cubby for you, so you crawl into it and curl up into a ball with your back towards the door, just in case someone manages to get in. If you’re quiet enough, it’s possible they’ll walk right past you.

The crowd in the hallway has definitely heard you by now. The doorknob is rattling as whoever’s on the other side tries to get in, but after a few minutes, they stop and the hallway goes quiet. You hold your breath after every couple of sobs, listening for any sign that they’ve found a key or that they’re picking the lock. Nothing happens, however, and after a while, you give up on listening.

You sit in the darkness and cry until you’re thoroughly exhausted. Once you’ve run out of tears, you sit and zone out with your head resting against the side of the desk drawers for a while longer, numb from the news. Your body feels light and a buzzing, tingling feeling makes moving your limbs seem impossible. You could’ve never imagined that your parents would be so capable of treating you so poorly. You’ve always felt so loved by them, and to hear that they’ve practically thrown you away at the first chance of a profit makes you want to puke. Upon that realization, you actually do throw up, and the stink of your vomit on the carpet of whatever room you’re in makes you want to cry all over again.

The door opens just as the stench is becoming too much to bear. Light floods in from the hallway and you squint, curling up in fear. After a moment, the shorter woman in the gray uniform that you’d seen at breakfast appears a few feet away from the desk, right in the path of light. You look up at her. 

“Oh dear,” she sighs, and you instantly feel ashamed at the disappointment in her voice.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. Your bottom lip is trembling again as fresh tears somehow appear in your eyes. Sniffling, you wipe your nose with the back of your wrists. “I can clean it if you—“

“You’ll do no such thing,” the woman says. Her voice is gentle and kind, so much so that you don’t feel the need to argue with her. She waves her hand dismissively and approaches you, then holds out both hands. She’s careful not to step in the mess you’ve made. “Now come on, up you go.”

You let her help you to your feet and then you straighten out your clothes, sniffling and wiping at your nose again in a desperate attempt to look more put together than you feel. Still a bit unsteady, you whimper for a second time, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, dear.” She gives you a warm smile. “My name’s Marta. I’m the head housekeeper here. It’s very nice to meet you.”

You don’t feel the same way about meeting her, given the circumstances, but you hold that comment to yourself and simply nod in agreement. Marta leads you back out into the too-bright hallway. It’s empty except for a bald man mopping the floor on the far end.

The high ceilings and glossy marble floors make it look like you’re in a castle. Even the silence feels regal. Everything seems so cold compared to your home, and you feel too small in the massive space.

“What time is it?” you quietly ask, looking back at Marta.

“It’s almost noon, Miss.”

Your stomach sinks and you press your lips together, inhaling deeply as you look around again. Three hours have passed.  “My parents…”

“They left about fifteen minutes after breakfast,” she tells you. Her words are matter-of-fact, even if she delivers the news in the softest possible way.

Somehow it hurts worse that they’ve left you than finding out they’d practically sold you to the Barneses in exchange for God knows what. Drugs or territory, whatever James had said. Not only did they treat you like nothing, but they’d deserted you after it was clear you didn’t agree with their plans. They hadn’t even tried to reassure you that they still loved you or that you’d still be able to see them. Maybe you wouldn’t be. Maybe they didn’t.

You nod numbly. There’s been nothing to prepare you for this, no precursor or warning, so you keep looking around the hall, though in reality you’re not really seeing anything. 

“Your room is ready upstairs, Miss Y/N. Would you like me to take you?” asks Marta.

You nod again. You feel like you’re underwater as you follow her up a grand staircase and then down a long, narrow hallway. It’s decorated similarly to the ground floor, though with a plush Persian rug running its length. Marta talks as she walks ahead of you, no doubt explaining what the many doors lead to, but her words simply go in one ear and out the other. It’s all so surreal that when you finally get to your own room, you don’t even open the door. Marta has to reach around you to open it, and then she gently ushers you inside when you still don't move.

Just as they had said at breakfast, your belongings have all been moved into the Barnes Estate. The furniture here is different, grander than what you’re used to, but your blankets and pillows are on the bed, and the two bookshelves are packed full of the books you’ve collected over the years. Even the strip from the photo booth at an old friend’s wedding is pinned to the bulletin board above the desk. Someone’s even thought to put your plants on their own table by the window. 

“There’s a bathroom on the left and your closet is on the right,” Marta explains, pointing to each. “If you’re hungry, dinner is at five.”

“Do I have to eat with them?” you ask.

If Marta is surprised by your question, she doesn’t show it. She simply shakes her head with a gentle smile. “No. We can bring food here if you’d like.”

You nod and stand in silence until she leaves and closes the door behind her. Then, after another minute passes, you drag yourself over to the bed, climb under the covers, and close your eyes.

If there’s any mercy left in this life, you think, I’ll fall asleep and never wake up again.

Weeks pass and you still haven’t adjusted to life at the Barnes Estate. The staff is only slightly less friendly than those you grew up with, but they’re more attentive. It helps that there are more of them. For every member of the Barnes family, yourself included, there are at least four staff members to attend to their every need. It makes you feel like royalty, but it also makes you feel guilty. You don’t need this much. You certainly didn’t ask for it.

You haven’t seen James since the ill-fated breakfast, nor have you seen your parents. They’ve gone so far as to block your number. After that discovery, you’d locked yourself in the massive ensuite bathroom and cried for an hour. Marta had been the one to coax you out. The poor maid who’d found you when coming to get you for dinner hadn’t known how to help. You’d spent that entire evening curled up on your bed while reruns of The Nanny played on the TV embedded in the wall across from the massive mattress. Marta had spent every second with you that she could, but eventually Mrs. Barnes—Winnifred, as you referred to her in your mind—had scolded her for neglecting her nighttime duties across the estate. That made you feel even worse.

“Are you okay?” Rebecca asks, and you turn to look at her from where you’re staring out the hallway windows at the gardeners. The backyard is massive, complete with a rose garden in full bloom, an outdoor swimming pool, a forested walking trail, a large green expanse for games and parties, a gazebo, a fountain, and what seems to be stables far in the distance, though you haven’t ventured far enough to be sure. A visit to the rose garden hasn’t been brought up again either, and nothing seems interesting enough to explore on your own.

Nodding, you don’t say anything before turning back to watch the men work. They talk and laugh with each other as they prune, pick, and water. You wish that you could trade places with them. 

“You don’t look okay,” she says. Rebecca props herself up on the window ledge to your right, facing you with a suspicious look on her face. “We haven’t seen you at any meals, and Valerie told me that you were crying in the bathtub three nights ago.”

You should feel ashamed, but you’re too numb to care. It feels like you’re floating through each day, detached from most things. You’ve spent your entire life thinking that you would marry for love and live happily ever after. Now, your parents have sold you to the highest bidder and your husband-to-be is a cruel, disgusting man-child that wants nothing to do with you.

Rebecca’s fingers lacing with yours jerk you back to reality and you look down at your joined hands in confusion. Her nails are bitten short and she wears a single ring with the Barnes family crest. It’s dainty and gold, a stark contrast to the many rings on her brother’s fingers.

“You’re safe here, Y/N,” she tells you, her voice gentle. “You don’t have to be alone. I’m so sorry for everything that’s happened to you. If I had any say in it, you could be home right now with your parents, but I’m far from the top of the totem pole.”

“I hate them.” You spit the words out and jerk your hand away from hers. “I hate my parents.”

That’s the first time you’ve ever said that in your entire life and your heart skips a beat as the anger makes your lip curl. You’re baring your teeth at her but Rebecca doesn’t even flinch. She’s a mafia princess, through and through.

“They made me believe that I could have anything I wanted, that I could marry whoever I wanted whenever I was ready, and then they threw that all away and treated me like shit the first time it was convenient for them.”

She nods. “That’s true.”

“I was so foolish to have believed them,” you growl, but the fight in you is fading just as quickly as it came. You burn bright, but you burn quickly, too.

“No,” Rebecca says, shaking her head. “You’re just human.”

You look away, embarrassed by your display of emotion as your eyes begin to water with more tears. You were raised to be reserved. You knew very little about the inner workings of your parents’ business, but you’d learned as a young girl that you’d fare better if you always clung to the edges of the room, avoiding the dirt and grime and blood that surrounded your whole life. Over the years, you’ve grown very good at hiding yourself and your emotions from the people around you. From the spark in her eye, you have the feeling that Rebecca is the exact opposite. She could hold her own if it came down to it. You couldn’t.

“It’s okay to be upset,” she insists.

Shaking your head, you take a deep breath and look back out the window. You lift your chin slightly and when Rebecca tries to rope you into another conversation with her, you ignore her and focus on the men outside. They’re finished tending to the roses on the edges of the garden. Now they’re working their way inwards.

You’re finally left alone a few minutes later and as soon as she’s around the corner, you let out a heavy sigh and relax your posture. Slumping forward, you lean forward into the window ledge, curling up just a little as you continue to watch the gardeners. The silly song from Alice in Wonderland pops into your head and you hum along, eventually mumbling to yourself about painting the roses red.

You feel a little bit like Alice, you realize. You’re out of your element in a strange land where everything you’ve learned about life seems to be turned on its head. In this world, nobody marries for love and the girls are just as entrenched in the business as the men. Does Rebecca conduct business with her father and older brother? You could certainly picture it. Will the same be expected of you?

That afternoon, Marta knocks on your door with a written invitation from Winnifred. Your presence is being formally requested at their dinner table, though from the look the housekeeper is giving you, it’s more of a demand than a request. With her help, you pick out something to wear. By the time five o’clock rolls around, you’re crossing the enormous hallway in a dress and heels that you’ve never seen before. It’s far too showy for your taste, but it’s clearly something someone wanted you to wear. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have put it in your closet.

George Barnes and James stand when you enter the dining room, as do several other men you don’t recognize. Your father is standing near the head of the table with George, though your mother and Rebecca are nowhere in sight. Besides Winnifred, you don’t recognize any of the other women. The only empty seat is beside James and your immediate instinct is to flee, but then he’s stepping aside to pull out the chair and all eyes are on you.

Slowly, you close the distance between the two of you and sit. He helps you scoot in, then takes his own seat on your right. The other men sit as well and then dinner resumes. You sit in silence, staring at the top edge of your plate with your hands in your lap. You’re not really listening to the conversations around you, either, but you can feel someone’s eyes on you as you try to stay as quiet and motionless as possible.

“Are you sick or something?”

You startle and look up with wide eyes. James is watching you. He’s got one hand on the table with his fingers brushing the stem of his wineglass and the other resting on his thigh. Unlike your fateful breakfast weeks ago, James is dressed in a neat, all-black suit. He has no tie, and his rings are all gone except one. It’s identical to Rebecca’s family crest, except his is silver and has a thicker band.

His eyes are full of something you can’t place and you shift uncomfortably under his gaze. As quickly as you turned to him, you turn away and look back at your plate. The napkin is folded in some elaborate way on top of the plate. You’re not sure if it’s supposed to resemble anything at all, but maybe if you stare at it long enough, it will look like something.

“Y/N?” he prompts. You nod once, tightly, and then pull the heavy cloth napkin into your lap when a server appears to present the first course.

Between the second and third course, you can feel James’ eyes on you. After the third, he gets roped into conversation with a man sitting across the table, but you know that he’s glancing at you all the while. After the fourth, he bumps his arm against yours. You shirk away and feel him tense beside you.

“Excuse me,” you mumble, and you push your chair away from the table. Immediately, the conversations stop and all the men stand again. It’s too much attention on you and you hurry out of the dining room as fast as your heels and dress will allow. You’re stumbling over yourself by the time you get back to your suite on the third floor. The door slams behind you and you collapse onto the floor beside the bed, too overwhelmed to even climb atop the oversized mattress. You’re on the verge of tears when there’s a soft knock from the door, and that rips a sob from your chest that you hadn’t expected.

Immediately, the door opens and James is standing in the open space, a dark look on his face. You sob again and scramble backwards until the edge of the bed frame is digging painfully into your spine.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

You swallow hard and take several gasping breaths, trying to control yourself. Your mind is spinning with insults, calling you weak and pathetic, and you believe every one.

“It’s just too much,” you answer through your tears. “I don’t want this!”

James huffs. His angry expression has faded, now replaced with something more akin to irritation. “And you think I do?”

You shake your head. “Of course not.”

“These are the cards we’ve been dealt, doll. You’re gonna have to get over it. Let’s just get married and then we can live happily ever after in a big house where we never have to see each other. I’ll do what I want and you can do what you want. Sound like a plan?”

You look down at your hands. A big part of you wants to say that no, it doesn’t sound like a plan. You don’t want that life. You don’t want a house so big that you practically need a golf cart to get from one side to the other. You don’t want a husband who ignores you in favor of his blood money or his side chick or the next shiny toy off the black market. You don’t want James.

Though every part of you is screaming the opposite, you nod. He crosses the room and you inhale sharply to steady yourself as he approaches you with no care. His black dress shoes are tracking dirt across the rug. James holds out a hand to help you up and you take it. The heirloom ring on his right hand digs into yours until you’re standing, and then he drops your hand like it’s on fire.

“We need to go back,” he tells you, and you nod again. “Our parents are pissed.”

“Of course they are,” you mumble. 

James pauses, staring at you critically. You’ve been staring at the baseboards since he helped you up, but when he doesn’t move or speak, you glance upwards at him. He’s got one eyebrow raised. His expression is thoroughly unreadable otherwise and an unsettling feeling blooms in your stomach.

“What?” you ask. You step back a little, but there’s no place to go except up against the bed again.

He shakes his head at you. “Nothing. Come on, princess.”

“Don’t call me that.” You scrunch your nose. “Anything but that.”

“Sugar?” he offers, and when you shake your head, he sighs. “Well, what do you want me to call you, since you’re suddenly the one calling the shots?”

His words cut deep and you look back down, hating the way shame immediately pools in your belly. How could he seem angry and irritated with you, then borderline kind, and then completely disinterested in your feelings the next? It’s disorienting, and you don’t need that on top of everything else.

“That’s what I thought. Let’s go.”

Grabbing your arm in a grip just bordering on painful, James pulls you out of your bedroom and back down the hall. He holds on as you stumble behind him in your heels. When you reach the ground floor hallway again, he drops his hand and offers you his arm. You’re hesitant to take it, but he sighs a little and you decide that it’s easier to give in than to put up a fight.

The two of you walk back into the dining room and the conversations immediately hush. James leads you to your waiting seats, pulls out the chair for you, and then helps you scoot towards the table again once you’re seated. As he takes his spot beside you, your father speaks up.

“Have you and James discussed when you’ll be getting married?” he asks.

You pick up your fork and stare at the strange food on your plate, ignoring him. Though your stomach is churning, you force yourself to take a bite. He can’t expect you to answer while you’re chewing—it would be bad manners.

“Next spring,” James answers. “In the rose garden.”

You want to spit on the roses. You swallow your food instead.

“Good choice,” Mr. Barnes agrees. He turns his attention back to your father. “Your daughter is quite the well-behaved woman. She’ll do well with our James.”

Beside you, James tenses again, his grip tightening slightly on his fork. You glance at him, holding your breath, and wait until he relaxes again to take another bite of your food. 

The rest of the dinner passes with mundane, meaningless conversations. Nobody addresses you for the remainder of the meal, not even your parents, and finally the men begin to make their way out of the dining room to an adjoining room. You hadn’t even realized there was a room connected; the door is hidden amongst the paneling and crown molding on the walls.

“You can’t go in there.” James grabs your wrist as you stand to follow the group of men into the new room. His voice isn’t malicious and his grip isn’t tight, but you flinch away from him anyway. It’s only then that you realize the few women that had been in the room are leaving through the door to the hall with their wineglasses in hand.

“Because I’m a woman?” you counter.

“Because you don’t want to hear the things that they’re going to discuss,” he answers. He tosses his napkin on the table and stands, towering over you. After a long second of eye contact, he steps away from you and heads towards the men.

You watch him go and silently weigh your options. A few weeks ago, you wouldn’t have even thought about following the men into the second room. You would have simply taken the same path as the other woman, though your wine would have continued to remain untouched. Now, however, with your wine in hand, you stood at a crossroads. You could go into the room and potentially face the wrath of your father, James, and George Barnes, or you could live forever curious as to what was actually being discussed. 

With your mind made up, you down your wine, step around James, and head through the open door into the room. It’s a study with dark wood paneling on the walls, leather couches, and stale cigar smoke in the air. As soon as you enter, the laughter and conversation stop and all eyes land on you.

“Y/N, you should be with Winnie and your mother,” Mr. Barnes says, stepping towards you. James is behind you now and though you’re hedged in, you simply lift your chin at the older man.

“Why? Am I not allowed to know what family I’m marrying into?”

His face darkens. “Girl, I’m warning you—”

“Don’t speak to my wife like that.” James’ voice from over your shoulder startles you and you quickly turn your head, looking back at him with shock. 

Why is he suddenly standing up for me?

“Hold your tongue, James,” his father snaps. “You aren’t married yet, and Y/N needs to learn her place. One would think her father would have taught her better, considering the problems his wife caused.”

Though you hate your parents for what they’ve done to you, your blood boils at the insult. Your anger rears its ugly head even more when you realize that your father doesn’t look intent on standing up for you or your mom, either.

“That’s enough!”

You swear the room rattles around you when James shouts and you grit your teeth, furious at Mr. Barnes. How dare he insult your father? How dare he talk to you and his son that way?

James grabbing your hand shocks you back into reality. Once again, his grip is almost painfully tight, but you force your face to reveal nothing.

“Y/N and I are going out. If I so much as hear that you’ve said a single thing about her in my absence, you will regret ever giving me any kind of power in this business,” he growls. “The next time you see her, I expect that you’ll treat her with the respect she deserves.” 

The men stare at you and James in disbelief, and then you find yourself being practically dragged out of the room. You’re too stunned to fight back, so you let him pull you across the ground floor of the estate to a door only two down from the dark room where you’d hit the morning your parents had left you behind.

“We’ll have to take the car, unless you’re okay riding the bike in that dress,” James says, pushing open the door. He doesn’t look back at you as he speaks, and it takes you a second to realize he wants a response.

“Car,” you answer after a few seconds. “Please.”

The room James has led you to is a massive garage, stretching farther than you ever realized a similar room could. Three of the walls are made of light gray cement, as are the floor and ceiling, and the fourth wall is made up of windowed garage doors, each one big enough for several cars to drive through simultaneously. Running down the center of the rectangular garage, there is a row of seven parked cars, with enough space to fit at least another car between each one, and beyond that, you can see a row of several motorcycles parked in a similar manner. The cars are in varying shades of gray and black, with the exception of one red sports car at the far end of the group. You can’t see the bikes well enough from the door, but you catch glimpses of blue, silver, gray, and black.

Four enormous, black and silver tool chests are lined up against the wall facing the hoods of the cars, but there isn’t a spot of oil or dirt in sight. You don’t even see any loose tools or equipment. Looking around, you wonder if the tool chests are just there for decoration, or if someone on the estate actually works on the cars and motorcycles.

Maybe James works on them?

“Are all of these yours?” you ask, unable to help yourself. He seems like the kind of guy who would enjoy driving around for fun, and he’s just mentioned something about a bike. You stare at the side of James’ face as he plucks a set of keys off a black pegboard on the wall. There’s a button embedded in the wall beside the board. James pushes it with one thumb and the keys in his hand bump against the wall.

One of the garage doors near the last few cars starts to roll upwards onto the ceiling, revealing the outside of the estate. The sun has completely disappeared from the sky, and the moonlight is blocked by the clouds you’d seen rolling in earlier in the afternoon. The leaves of the large shade trees that surround the estate and form a protective shield from the outside world rustle in the wind. Crickets and cicadas chirp, reminding you of the cool spring nights you’d spent on your family estate as a little girl. You’d run around in the grass near the garden while your mom or your nanny watched you. Sometimes your father’s men would watch from the perimeter of the property, and when you’d wave, they’d wave back, asking what you’d done that day. You always answered them, even if you knew it would get you in trouble. They never stopped asking either, even if it got them in trouble, too.

You stop walking and close your eyes, then breathe in deeply as the night air rushes into the garage. It’s the first time you’ve been even close to the outdoors since arriving at the Barnes Estate. Your skin is still warm from the stifling dining room and the anger you’d felt in the men’s study. The breeze is a blessed relief, even if you do shiver after only a moment. Goosebumps form on your exposed skin—the dress Marta had picked out for you did little to keep you safe from the elements. 

James keeps walking down the aisle formed by the wall and the front of the cars, though you hear his footsteps pause a few moments after you stop following him. 

“Are you okay?” he asks.

You’re a little surprised that he’s not demanding that you catch up. When you open your eyes, you immediately meet his gaze, and a weird feeling bubbles up in your stomach. The expression on his face betrays little, but his stare reminds you of the way your father’s men looked at you all those years ago—interested and almost fond, but ready to push you away at a moment’s notice. You nod and hurry to catch up with him.

Once you get closer, James presses a button on the key fob in his hand. One of the cars in front of the open garage door rumbles to life. The sound it makes is a low purr, almost seductive, and you raise an eyebrow as James approaches, then runs his fingers over the hood. Even if the others aren’t, this car has to be his. It’s a sleek black, with dark tinted windows and a gleaming silver grill in the front. The BMW logo shines proudly in the center. It looks like a car your own father would own. Though you know he’s never owned a BMW, if this car is anything like the ones in your father’s fleet, you know that the inside will be as much a picture of luxury as the outside.

You slide into the passenger seat when James opens the door for you, and in the time it takes him to cross around the front of the car to the driver’s side, you take inventory of the interior. It’s a manual transmission—something your father once said was obsolete, except for car collectors and enthusiasts—which means that you wouldn’t be able to drive it, even if you tried. The car is pristine, so much so that you’re afraid to move. Two water bottles are in the cupholders, and it still smells brand new inside. There isn’t a speck of dirt or dust on the dashboard, nor on the floor mats. The leather seat is soft and there’s a control for seat warming and cooling on the control panel.

James climbs into the driver’s seat and shuts the door. He buckles up and you follow his lead, and then you sit back as he reverses the car out of the garage and onto a winding driveway that leads you around the front of the estate, then along the other side to a large gate with a guard house. You’d forgotten about the extensive security since the last time you’d been outside the Barnes Estate. Your father had handed over your driver’s license, along with his and your mother’s, before breakfast all those weeks ago, and there’d been a strange code word of some kind. It dawns on you as the guard opens the gate for you and James that you’d never gotten your license back.

“Where are we going?” you ask as James pulls onto the main road. It leads away from the estate and into the city. 

“To get some real food,” he replies. His tone is gruff, and it feels like he’s on the verge of an angry outburst, so you slump back in your seat as he shifts gears and the car accelerates. The tension in the car is thick. You don’t want to be the one to deal with it, especially since he’s the one creating it.

After several minutes of watching the enormous mansions and the forests surrounding them pass by, you look over at James again. His expression, just like in the garage, reveals nothing, but you can tell that he’s more put-together than the last time you’d interacted, and it’s not just the tailored suit. His hair has been trimmed and styled, and he has an even dusting of stubble that frames his jawline nicely.

In the time since you’d learned you were engaged, James hasn’t said anything to you. You’ve heard him talking in the hallways as you wandered, but you haven’t wanted to be near him. This is the closest you’ve ever been. Your brief conversations so far tonight make up the majority of the words you’ve spoken to each other. His words from the bedroom echo in your head, until finally, you can’t help but blurt out your thoughts.

“Do you really not want to marry me?” you ask. Your voice sounds small and pathetic, and you hate it, but it’s too late now. 

He glances over at you with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the gear shift. “What do you mean?”

You sit up a little in the seat, though you keep your hands in your lap and you try not to move your feet, just in case there’s dirt on your shoes.

“I mean,” you say, watching him carefully for his reaction, “that when you came to get me upstairs, you said you didn’t want to marry me. Is that really true?”

“I never said that.” He shifts gears again as you near a stoplight, and the car slows. 

“Yes, you did.”

“No,” he shifts again, his teeth now clenched, “I didn’t. I asked if it looked like I wanted to marry you, and you said it didn’t. But I never said I didn’t want to.”

Now you’re confused, and you frown at him, ignoring the obvious irritation in his voice. The car rolls to a stop behind a Ferrari blasting music out the open windows. 

“So you do want to marry me?” you ask. 

He sighs and drops his hand from the gear shift, then looks over at you. “Y/N, I’m not going to pressure you into anything you don’t want to do, so if this is you testing to see how I’ll treat you, then you have nothing to worry about. I’m not a monster.”

“It’s not. I just…” You stop, unsure of how to phrase what you’re feeling. It’s strange to be upset over a marriage you don’t even want, but for some reason, you are. 

“What?”

“If you don’t want to marry me and I don’t want to marry you, then why are we going along with this?” you finally ask, settling for the bigger question than the one that’s truly nagging at you.

“Because we know that if we don’t, life will be hell,” he answers.

It’s the truth. You know it is, and you know it deep down. If the two of you refuse this marriage, your life will be worse than you could possibly imagine, and you’re fairly certain that your fathers will find a way to make it happen anyhow. They’re well-connected in every sphere of life, not just when it comes to drugs and weapons. Your father probably has a priest on his payroll.

The light turns green and James moves the car forward again, merging into the right lane almost immediately. He slows as you approach a valet stand outside an upscale bar you’ve never heard of. It’s not one of your father’s, which means it probably belongs to George Barnes.

Then again, you think as a uniformed man opens your door, maybe it belongs to James.

“It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Barnes,” a valet on the other side of the car greets.

James hands him the keys. “You too, Tommy. Listen, don’t park it too far off. We’re not staying too long.”

The man nods and climbs into the driver’s seat as your own valet leads you away from the curb. James meets you next to the valet stand and offers you his arm, then heads towards the doors.

“What is this place?” you ask as he holds open the door for you.

“My friend’s bar,” James says.

Your stomach twists itself in knots as heavy club music starts to get louder. The bass rumbles in your chest and you dig your nails into his arm as you near a set of glossy black double doors. You haven’t been to a club in a long time. The last time you’d gone, you’d been dragged by a childhood acquaintance, but you’d spent most of the night alone after she’d ditched you for someone she met on the dance floor. You’re not particularly eager to relive that experience tonight, especially with the man you’re being forced to marry. Who’s to say he won’t ditch you for someone else right in front of you, just to rub it in your face? After all, he’d said it himself in the bedroom—you’ll do what you want and he’ll do what he wants. It’s the cards you’ve been dealt.

If these are the cards, then I’ve got a sucky hand.

“James—”

“Bucky.”

You stop and squint at him in the low light of the entrance hallway. The two bouncers in all-black suits stop with their hands on the door handles, ready to open them for you once you start walking again. The music pounds in your ears, so much so that you can feel your eardrums vibrating.

“What?” you ask, not sure you’d heard him correctly.

“Bucky,” repeats James, a little louder this time. “You should call me Bucky, if we’re going to be married.”

“Is that… a nickname?” 

Even in the darkness, you can see him laugh, and a bashful, boyish smile spreads across his face. “My middle name is Buchanan. Steve used to tease me about it when we were kids, and he started calling me Bucky as a joke. It caught on.” He shrugs it off, but there’s a fondness in his voice when he speaks of his childhood friend, and it makes you smile just a little.

You loosen your grip on his arm. “Okay then. Bucky,” you add.

When Bucky steps forward again, the doors are pulled open, revealing a much more casual bar than you could’ve anticipated. Though it’s clean, it looks a little run down, and the heavy music fades into jazz piano as you step through the open doorway and into the large, open space. With almost cathedral-height ceilings, walnut floors and support pillars, and well-worn wooden booths and tables, the bar feels more homier than you’d expected. It’s clearly been well-hidden from the busy crowds of New York. Only a few patrons are scattered around the room, sitting in the booths or at two-top tables, but Bucky leads you to the wood, u-shaped bar that juts out into the room from the back wall. A single man stands behind it, drying glasses with a white bar towel. He smiles when he looks up and sees you approaching.

“Bucky,” he greets, and he reaches over the bar to pull Bucky in for a hug. It’s the first time you see Bucky smile—a real, full, genuine smile—and you watch in silence as he hugs his friend.

“Steve,” Bucky replies. Instantly, your brain starts connecting the dots. This is his childhood friend, the one who gave him his nickname.

“Tá sé go maith tú a fheiceáil.” Steve turns his attention to you, and you quickly look away from Bucky and at him. Your brain whirs as you try to place the language he’s just spoken. It’s not one you’ve heard before, which means none of your father’s men speak it, and neither do any of the Barneses.

“You must be Y/N.”

You nod and offer Steve a small, polite smile. You’re not sure how to act around Bucky’s friends. If they’re also part of the mob, it’s possible they’ll treat you even worse than George Barnes had after dinner, but a new, surprising voice in your head argues that Bucky would never be friends with someone like that.

“It’s okay,” reassures Bucky. He reaches out and touches your arm, gentler than he has all evening. “Steve’s a nice guy, and he knows about our family businesses. You can trust him.”

Steve looks between the two of you before picking up a glass and setting it right-side-up in front of you. “What’ll it be, Y/N?”

You glance at him, then at the wall of liquor behind him. After a moment, you list off a drink that’s not your favorite, but that you know you’ll be able to stomach no matter the circumstances. Steve nods in response before starting to make it.

Silently, Bucky takes one of the chairs at the bar, and you do the same. He sits with his arms folded on the counter. He’s still wearing his suit from dinner. You feel a little out of place in your fancy clothes, and you wonder if he feels the same.

Your drink is placed in front of you a moment later, and after Steve’s silent prompting, you take a sip. It’s delicious, and you can’t help but smile at him.

“Aha, I’ve still got it!” Steve cheers, and you laugh. He grins at you, a charming type of smile that makes your heart flutter in your chest. You feel a little sheepish at the intensity of his joy, and you fidget in your seat, then with your hair.

Beside you, Bucky rolls his eyes and tosses a round paper coaster at his friend. “Knock it off, Rogers,” he huffs. “Stop flirting with my girl. You’ve already got one of your own.”

You glance over when he calls you that, but you don’t say anything. There’s another weird feeling in your gut now. This one, unlike the one you’d had in the car or the fluttering feeling Steve had given you, you recognize immediately—pride. It feels good to have Bucky call you “his girl”, even if you barely know him. It’s strange, and the thought makes you squirm in your seat again. You drop your hand down to the bartop and take another sip of your drink, trying to quell the strange feelings inside of you. 

What is going on with me? Why can’t I just feel normal about all of this? Is there even a normal way to feel about this?

“You hungry?” asks Bucky, and you nod when you realize he’s talking to you again.

“I make a mean twice-baked potato,” Steve says. He plants his hands on the bar to look between the two of you. “Whaddaya say, Y/N? You up for it?”

“Only if you put the jalapeños on the side this time, punk,” Bucky tells him before you can reply. He seems to remember himself a second later, however, because he looks over at you. “Unless, of course, you want them on top.”

You shrug, not wanting to upset anyone, and Steve groans.

“Come on, Y/N,” he says, and he smiles wide as he gestures around the almost-empty bar. “I’ve got all the time in the world to make your food exactly the way you want it. Don’t make me guess.”

“He’s bad at guessing,” Bucky chimes in.

“Terrible,” Steve adds, nodding earnestly.

Tentatively, you list off what you want, and Steve makes a note of everything on a notepad that seems to appear out of nowhere. Once he’s got your order down, he disappears through a door in the back wall. Before it closes, you catch a glimpse of a shining kitchen filled with stainless steel, and you wonder how many patrons come through the bar if Steve has what looks to be a full-sized kitchen in the back.

“You didn’t eat much at dinner, so I figured I’d bring you someplace that actually has good food,” Bucky says. He reaches across the bar to grab a bottle of beer Steve has left out, and he uses one hand to pry the top off. 

You gape at him, too distracted by the blatant show of strength to properly process the very thoughtful thing he’s just said to you. “What?”

“I said that you didn’t eat much at dinner, so I figured—”

“You just pulled the top off like it was nothing. How did you do that?” You look around on Steve’s side of the bar for another bottle, hoping to try your luck. Maybe it’s some new kind of bottle that he’s trying out before it hits the market, or maybe Steve has bootleg beer with a different kind of cap.

Bucky is staring at you, seemingly just as confused as you. “With my arm.”

“With your arm?” you repeat. You’re certain that he’d used his hand to pry it off.

He stares at you for a second longer before the confusion disappears and is replaced with a glint of mischief in his eyes. It makes the shadows on his face melt away a little, and his blue irises seem bright and youthful again, entirely unlike a man who’s seen too much.

“My arm,” he reiterates, and then he pulls off the black glove you’d assumed to be part of his personal style. It’s not just for show, however, because he pulls it off to reveal a black metal hand with dull gold knuckles. Bucky continues, standing and shrugging off his jacket, then rolling up the sleeve of his button-down shirt. As he reveals more and more, you realize that the black metal continues, making up what would be his left arm.

No wonder it hurt when he grabbed me.

“It’s metal,” you dumbly say, and he snorts.

“Observant.”

You shake your head and look from his arm to meet his eyes. “You have a metal arm. How didn’t I know that?”

Bucky shrugs and drapes his jacket over the back of the chair. He leaves the glove on the bar where he’d first set it down. Once he’s seated again, he rolls up his other sleeve to match.

“Beats me. I figured everyone knew. My dad wasn’t subtle when he was bragging about the arm he had made for me when it first happened,” replies Bucky. He takes a sip of his beer, then sighs and sets it back down.

You don’t want to pity him, so you try your best to school your expression by taking a sip of your own drink.

“Was it an accident?” you ask after a minute has passed. He doesn’t reply right away, and you scramble to save the conversation. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

He shakes his head. “It’s okay. It was a long time ago.”

“How old were you?”

“Seventeen,” he says, and his voice is quieter than before.

You look back down at the drink in front of you. Twisting the glass around and around, you ask, “And it was an accident?”

Bucky takes another swig of his beer. “I was with my dad, working a job. I didn’t even realize I’d been injured until I woke up in the hospital, two weeks later, missing an arm. Apparently, falling shipping containers are heavy.”

You can’t help but curse. What he’s describing sounds horrible, but Bucky only laughs.

“That sounds about right, yeah. I’m lucky I had Steve around to keep me sane,” he tells you. “My friend Sam was a big help too, but he moved down to Louisiana a few years ago.”

“Steve seems like a good friend,” you agree. “They both do.”

You can feel Bucky staring at you now, and you take a sip of your drink while you wait for him to look away again. When he doesn’t, you glance in his direction.

“What?” you ask.

“What?”

“Why are you staring at me?”

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are!” you laugh, and you look at him fully this time. Bucky’s grinning, and you ball up a cocktail napkin and toss it at him.

“Okay, I was staring,” he admits, still smiling. “But I can’t help it. You’re pretty, and you’re nice, and you seem smart.”

You feel your cheeks grow warm at the compliment, and you look away. “You don’t have to say that. We’re already engaged.”

“I’m not saying it because we’re engaged. I’m saying it because it’s true.”

You don’t have a chance to reply before Steve comes out with two hot plates. He places them in front of you, joking briefly about giving you the wrong order, and it’s distraction enough that you sit up tall and smile wide. You push Bucky’s compliment out of your head as you chow down, groaning and moaning about the potatoes. They’re exactly what you need after the stressful dinner. Bucky was right—you hadn’t eaten much, and Steve’s cooking is delicious.

Once you’re full, you push your plate away and lean back in your chair. Steve grins at you before he goes back to counting the cash drawer. The other patrons have left already, leaving you, Steve, and Bucky alone in the bar.

“That was amazing,” you tell him for the hundredth time, and Steve chuckles.

“Thank you. I’ll be sure to tell mo bhean chéile—my wife—you said that, considering she still believes potatoes aren’t a meal.”

You notice the wedding band on his left hand as soon as he says it. Above it, also in silver, is a familiar ring. If you weren’t able to see the family crest, you would’ve thought it was the same as Bucky’s, but this ring has an eagle and a star engraved on it, rather than the wolf you’ve seen on Rebecca and Bucky’s rings.

“Potatoes are a meal!” you argue. You can tell that Steve has clocked you looking at his rings because he shifts his hand, instinctively blocking your view as he looks for your own ring. You’d taken your parent’s ring off the day you’d cried in the bathtub and you haven’t worn it since, but no one in Bucky’s family has replaced it with their own. It’s the first time since middle school that you haven’t worn a family ring, and you’d be lying if you said it was a weight off your shoulders. You’d thought it might be, but instead it just makes you feel naked.

Steve laughs and his posture relaxes. He stops hiding his rings from you when he realizes your hands are bare. “Well, whenever you meet her, you can have that argument with her, because I’ve already had it at least a dozen times.” He closes the drawer and fixes his eyes on Bucky, who’s just finishing his food. “Speaking of, when are you two coming over? I promised Peg I’d wait until Y/N had settled in to ask, and you seem settled enough to me.” He glances at you for the last part, and you look down at your empty plate.

“It’s not up to me,” answers Bucky. “We’ll come over whenever Y/N is ready. This is the first time we’ve been together since my dad dropped the bomb on us.”

Steve pauses, his hands on the tablet he’d set down before starting to count the night’s profits. “Wait. Really?”

You nod when he looks at you, suddenly self-conscious again, and you pull your hands into your lap. “I haven’t been the best house guest…”

“You’re not a guest, Y/N. It’s your home now, too,” Bucky interjects.

Reaching over the counter, Steve smacks the side of Bucky’s head. His accent is thick when he huffs, “Íosa Críost, you thick! You didn’t think to go talk to her? To see if she wanted to watch a movie? To see if she needed anything?”

Bucky stammers over in his seat, and you keep your head ducked to hide your smile. Clearly, Steve knows more about being married than Bucky does—most likely from experience, since he’s already mentioned his wife—and he isn’t afraid to tell his friend off for not looking out for your well-being.

“I’m sorry!” exclaims Bucky, ducking another hit. “I wasn’t thinking!”

“Like ifreann you weren’t!” Steve retreats and picks up the tablet with a huff, then looks at you. “Y/N, I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with him. He’s actually a nice guy when he’s not being stupid.”

“Stupid?” Bucky protests beside you.

“I wouldn’t have talked to him even if he’d tried,” you admit, finally looking up, “but it wouldn’t have hurt if he had.”

Steve nods, satisfied with your response. He leaves you a minute later when his phone rings. The wide smile on his face is enough to tell you who’s on the other end, but then he says her name as he walks away, the phone already held to his ear.

“So what’s with this place?” you ask. The quick change in subject is purposeful, and you hope that Bucky will take the bait.

Thankfully, he does. Bucky glances around before finishing off the last of his drink and setting the empty bottle closer to Steve’s side of the bar.

“Well, Steve wanted a place that we—and other people like us—could spend time without feeling like there was always a fight about to happen. We didn’t have that growing up, you know? And now that he’s in charge, he can do what he wants with his money. Everything’s filed properly, he doesn’t advertise, and all employees are paid above the table. If other people show up, then sure, they’re welcomed in, but they’re also fully vetted once Steve gets their IDs. Weapons aren’t allowed, and there’s no shop talk of any kind.”

“So it’s your little hideaway,” you say, propping your head up with one hand. The heaviness of the potatoes combined with the alcohol is starting to make you sleepy, and the emotional exhaustion from the night has started to weigh heavy on you, too.

He smiles a little. “Something like that.”

Bucky stands and rolls his sleeves back down, then pulls on his glove. He pulls a wad of cash out of his pocket and sets it on the bar.

“Come on, doll. We should head home,” he says.

The warm feeling you’d felt when Bucky had called you his girl comes back, and you smile a little when he holds open his suit jacket for you. A little sheepish at the gesture, you slide off your seat and let him help you into the sleeves, then take Bucky’s hand when he offers it.

“Bye Steve!” you call, waving with your free hand.

Steve looks up from the other end of the bar, where he’s wiping down a counter with one hand and holding his phone with the other. He lets go of the rag to wave back.

Silently, Bucky leads you out to the front, where the valet already has his car pulled up. You’re not sure how they knew to have it ready, but you don’t dwell on it. Stranger things have happened in your world. Bucky tips the valets with another wad of cash before opening the passenger door and helping you in.

You fall asleep on the drive home. You don’t mean to, but Bucky turns on the radio a few minutes into the drive, and he lets the first station that comes on continue to play. The music is soft, and he drives so smoothly that it lulls you to sleep before you’re even fully out of the city.

When you wake, it’s because Bucky’s stubbed his toe on something, jostling you in his arms. He’s muttering curses under his breath and hobbling down the hallway, and though the jerking motion and his tightening grip isn’t the most comfortable for you at the moment, you keep your eyes closed and force yourself to keep your smile at bay. Bucky is a much sweeter guy than you’d first thought him to be, and it seems like he’s trying now to make up for lost time. You’d misjudged him at first; just like you, he has his own ways of dealing with the life forced on him by his parents, but he really is a gentleman underneath it all.

He carries you to your bedroom and carefully lays you on top of the covers. Then, as gently as possible, you feel him lift your foot and pry off the uncomfortable shoes Marta had picked out for you. Bucky stays totally silent as he takes the shoes off and sets them on the floor at the end of the bed. He pulls a thin blanket over you, one that you’re sure is just for decoration when the bed is made, and presses a kiss to the side of your head. You have to force yourself not to smile when he whispers,

“Goodnight, sleep tight.”

The door clicks shut as he closes it slowly, and you peek open an eye after a few seconds have passed. Your room is dark and empty. Silently, you smile to yourself and crawl under the covers, your eyes heavy. It’s been a long, exhausting evening, and you’re happy to be in bed. You fall asleep to the sound of spring rain on the estate windows and with Bucky’s jacket still wrapped around you.

Over the next few weeks, Bucky slowly enters your life in both big and small ways. He smiles at you over meals in the dining room and late night snacks in the kitchen. He drives you to the city to visit Steve, Peggy, and his other friends, and when he finds out that his father still has your license, Bucky argues with him for over an hour to get it back. Marta delivers your license to your room the very next day, along with a handwritten note that the dark blue Mercedes in the garage is there for your use. Sometimes, you wake up to a bouquet of flowers with another handwritten note. Sometimes it’s a text, and sometimes it’s a gift. Bucky develops a habit of purchasing anything you mention enjoying or even vaguely liking, and you eventually have to tell him to stop because he’s bought you so much that there’s nothing left to buy for yourself.

Bucky turns out to be a closer friend than anyone you’ve ever known. He’s kind, and funny, and intelligent, and he remembers all the little things about you that nobody else does. When you’re sick or feeling lonely, he’s attentive and his presence alone reminds you of all the good things in the world. He makes your days brighter, even the worst ones. You find yourself falling in love with him, much to your surprise. You admit this to him one day. He kisses you then, and he tells you that he’s been in love with you since the first trip you’d taken to Steve’s bar. 

Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas roll around. New Year’s, Valentine’s Day, and Easter come and go. The Barnes’ grand celebrations for every holiday blur together as the months fly by, until eventually, it’s June and you’re standing in your room, staring at your reflection in the full-length mirror.

The wedding dress you’d picked out a few days after Christmas is just as beautiful as you remember it being. It fits you perfectly, thanks to the impeccable work of several tailors employed by Winnifred, and your hair and makeup are flawless as well. There’s no possible way you could’ve imagined how beautiful you look and feel on your wedding day. 

Through the open window, you can hear a string quartet playing outside in the rose garden, where the ceremony is set up. Steve has already come by once to check on you at Bucky’s request, but both men are back downstairs. Bucky’s no doubt at the front of the garden with the priest—the one that you now know for certain is on your father’s payroll—and Steve is waiting with the rest of the wedding party. The only people remaining in your room are Marta, your mother, and Peggy. 

You’ve grown to love Peggy more than any of your childhood friends. She didn’t grow up in the same world as you. She didn’t even grow up in the same country, and you love her all the more for it. She’s rational, cool-headed, and kind, though she’s not afraid to stand up for what’s right. On top of all that, she’s drop-dead gorgeous. It’s easy to see why Steve fell for her during his time in the military.

The quartet finishes the song and moves onto a new one, one that you recognize after only two notes. Your stomach drops and you close your eyes, gripping your bouquet tightly. It’s the song you’d been listening to the morning you’d found out about your engagement. You’d discovered it the night before, and you’d had it on repeat before going to sleep that night, then again that morning as you’d gotten ready. You’d even listened to it in the car on the drive from your parents’ estate.

Who added this to the playlist? Is this some kind of sick joke to them?

The same feeling of dread you’d felt that morning comes back, making your mouth dry and your head spin. You try to take a slow, deep breath to calm your nerves and block out the song, but it doesn’t work.

“Y/N?” Peggy asks.

You inhale sharply at the sound of her voice so close to you. She’d been texting Steve from near the window only moments before. You hadn’t thought that anyone would realize your distress, and you’d hoped to be able to collect yourself before it was noticeable. You hadn’t even sensed her coming closer.

“Y/N, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you tell her, but your voice wavers and your lower lip quivers. You try to take another slow breath.

“What’s going on?” Marta asks. Her hand lands on your arm and you pull away, closing in yourself and pulling the bouquet tight against you.

Your mother’s scolding makes you feel like you’re a little kid again. “Careful, Y/N! You don’t want to ruin those flowers. We don’t have time to make another bouquet for you. George is already hounding your father about how soon after the ceremony you’ll be signing the certificate.”

Anger wells up in you at her thoughtless comment, and you open your eyes. She’s standing behind you in the main part of the bedroom, near the foot of your bed. Any guilt you might’ve felt over ruining the flowers is gone now, and you turn and chuck the bouquet at the carpet by her feet. It bounces once, then lays motionless in a heap of smashed petals and ribbons.

“Enough, Mother!” you shout.

Marta rushes to close the window so the guests in the garden won’t hear your outburst.

Your mother gapes at you, somewhat surprised, but she doesn’t budge. “Y/N, dear. What are you doing?”

“What am I doing?” you yell, stepping closer. Your dress swishes as you walk, and you normally enjoy the sound, but you’re too furious to care how pleasing it is. “What are you doing? I am your only daughter! You should be treating me like a princess and worrying about how I’m feeling and what I need, but instead you’re too busy thinking about the damn flowers! I’m sick of you thinking of me like I’m an object you can sell, steal, and trade away whenever it’s most convenient! You and Dad are so obsessed with the timeline you’ve created for yourselves that you don’t even notice how much this has affected me! You didn’t even ask if this is what I wanted!”

She scoffs at you, and any trace of motherly care and concern has disappeared from her expression. Your mother is showing her true face—the mafia wife that has almost as much blood on her own hands as her husband does, if not more.

“It’s too late for that now, isn’t it?” she asks. She picks up her clutch from the end of your bed and steps closer until you're standing eye to eye. Her voice is patronizing and infuriating, and she continues, “It’s your wedding day, dearest, and you can’t back out now. We’ve made sure of it. Even James has agreed to the contract.” 

Your anger wavers. “Contract?”

“Yes, the contract,” she repeats, smirking. Her cards are all on the table now, and she’s got a winning hand. You both know it.

There’s a malicious glint in her eye as she says, “It’s already in effect. It has been since we agreed on the marriage.”

“What contract? What are you talking about?” There’s a sinking feeling in your chest, like your heart has decided to drop into your stomach, then down to your feet and through the floor. Bucky hadn’t said anything to you about a contract, and you trusted him, but you certainly didn’t trust your parents anymore, nor did you trust George and Winnifred Barnes.

Your mother smiles, a sickeningly sweet smile that makes you want to puke. “That’s a conversation for another time. After all, it doesn’t even matter to you until James gets you pregnant.”

The alarm on your phone rings and you close your eyes, your hands trembling. You’d set that alarm to remind you when it was time to leave for the ceremony. Right on cue, the wedding planner knocks on the door to your bedroom.

“Y/N?” she calls, knocking again. “Are you ready?”

Slowly, you squat down and pick up the bouquet. It’s smashed on one side and the petals have fallen off of various flowers, but it’s mostly intact. It shakes as your hands tremble and tears well up in your eyes.

Marta appears in front of you, having pushed your mother out of the way, and over the ringing in your ears, you hear Peggy talking to the wedding planner. Somehow, you make it out to the ground floor of the estate, to the double doors that lead out to the rose garden. You’re dazed by your mother’s strange revelation. The sound of the alarm is still ringing in your ears. Peggy says something to you, but you can only stare straight ahead. 

Your father is next to you then, as Peggy disappears through the doors and joins the rest of the wedding party. You see her glancing back at you, and whispering to the rest of the groomsmen and bridesmaids. Most of them are Bucky’s friends who have now become your own, and all of them look worried. 

“Let’s go, princess,” your father says, and he pulls you forward by the arm.

Numbly, you follow his lead. Not even Bucky’s initially delighted expression shakes you out of your trance, but the way he rubs his thumb over your hands at the end of the aisle pulls you out of it just enough for you to lift your head and look around. You don’t remember walking to him, nor do you remember handing off your bouquet to Peggy, just like you’d practiced last night at the rehearsal.

“Y/N? Darling?” Bucky asks. He crouches and tilts his head slightly to try to catch your eyes. “You okay?”

“I—” Your mouth is still dry and you swallow, your eyes flitting from one place in the garden to another with no rhyme or reason. The world feels like it’s spinning and you clutch Bucky’s hands, unsure of what to do.

“Someone get her a chair,” Bucky orders, raising his voice enough that you flinch. He immediately starts murmuring reassurances to you, and he pulls you into his arms until he can lower you into a seat.

Someone fans you and a cool glass is pressed to your lips. You drink obediently, closing your eyes as the water helps the sandy feeling in your mouth abate just a little. When the water is gone, the glass is pulled away. 

“Y/N, can you hear me?” Bucky asks. 

Slowly, carefully, you nod your head. He sighs in relief and when you open your eyes, he’s kneeling down in front of you. His shoulders are tense and his forehead is creased with worry. You’ve never seen him this stressed over anything and it makes you want to cry.

“I’m sorry,” you croak, heat flaming in your cheeks. You feel horrible. Bucky has been looking forward to the ceremony—he’d told you last night at the rehearsal dinner.

“It’s okay,” he quickly replies. He reaches forward and takes your hands, and you glance away from him to peek at the guests, your parents included, who are still watching you from their seats.

“Are you ready for this, or do you need a break?” 

You look back at Bucky. “A break?”

“She’s fine,” your mother says, and you look over at her from your seat. She’s standing in the front row, her eyes fixated on the priest behind you. “They’re fine, Father. Y/N’s been a bit nervous all morning. Wedding day jitters, you know.”

“I—” You frown at her, still clutching Bucky’s hands. “That’s not what it is.” You look down at him and shake your head. “I’m not nervous to marry you.”

“I’m not nervous either,” he says with a small smile. 

“Then shall we continue?” the priest asks.

You turn to shake your head at him. “No. I’m sorry, Father. I need to talk to Bucky—James—in private for just a minute. Is that alright?”

He smiles gently and nods. “Of course.”

There are more agitated murmurs from the crowd, but you ignore them as Peggy, Steve, and Bucky help you up and back down the aisle. When your mother moves to follow you, she’s blocked by Sam and Clint, another one of Bucky’s friends. She calls after you once, but you ignore her as Peggy helps you onto a bench inside, then leaves, closing the double doors behind herself. She’s handed back your bouquet, and you clutch it with both hands like it’s an anchor in the storm.

“Is everything okay?” Bucky asks. He stands near the door, and you can tell from the way he rolls his shoulders that he’s stressed. His prosthetic always bothers him more when he’s agitated, and you suddenly feel even worse about stopping the ceremony.

“Yes,” you say, but then you shake your head. “No, I’m sorry. Obviously, it’s not, or I wouldn’t have stopped everything. I’m sorry, Bucky, but I have to ask you something.”

“Okay…” There’s a wariness in his eyes, one that you loathe yourself for. You put it there, and you wish with all your might that your mother hadn’t told you what she did. Maybe then you wouldn’t have had to do this.

“Did you sign a contract? With our parents?”

He frowns and his whole body grows very still. “A contract?”

You nod. “Yes.” With your hands still fisted tightly around the bouquet, you inhale deeply and add, “A contract about getting me pregnant.”

“What?” Bucky’s furious response is immediate. He shakes his head, his eyes searching your face for any sign that you might be making this up. “Y/N, what are you talking about?”

“Did you sign a contract agreeing to marry me, and agreeing that my parents get something after you get me pregnant?” The words make you sick to your stomach. You haven’t eaten anything all day, which doesn’t help, but the thought of Bucky agreeing to something so vile… It’s enough to make anyone nauseous.

He’s shaking his head at you again. “Why the hell would I sign anything like that? Do you really think I would do that?”

You shrug a little and look down at the bouquet. “My mother…”

“Darling…” Bucky sighs and comes closer, and he kneels down in front of you again, just like he had outside. All the fight and anger has left his voice. “I would never do anything like that. Not in a million years, and especially not to you. I love you.”

“She said you signed it before they’d even told me we were engaged,” you said, quiet now that he’s so close. You’re afraid to look him in the eye, to see what his face might be telling you that his words aren’t.

“Can you look at me? Please?”

Reluctantly, you lift your eyes from the flowers in your lap to meet Bucky’s eyes. They’re just as blue as the ribbons wrapped around the flower stems, a choice you’d specifically made without the wedding planner’s guidance. You’d wanted him to be your “something blue”, even if it felt a little cheesy.

“Do you want to marry me?” Bucky asks.

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod. “Yes.”

“Do you believe me when I say I had nothing to do with that contract? That I didn’t know it existed?” he questions.

You nod again, tears forming in your eyes.

“And do you trust me to help you find a way to get rid of it, once all of this is over? Do you trust me to protect you?”

You nod for the third time, and Bucky takes both of your hands in his.

“Okay. Then let’s get married, and I swear to you that as soon as our honeymoon is over, the guys and I will start doing some digging.”

“What about me?” you ask, sniffling. You pull one of your hands away to dab at your eyes before the makeup can get too damaged by your tears.

“What about you?”

“Can I dig, too?”

Bucky chuckles and kisses your knuckles on the hand that he’s holding, and then he pulls himself up off the floor to sit beside you on the bench. He pulls you into a half-hug and you cling to him, sniffling and smiling as he rubs the your back and answers,

“You can do all the digging you want, doll. I’ll even hand you the shovel.”

Tá sé go maith tú a fheiceáil. = It’s good to see you.

Mo bhean chéile = My wife

Íosa Críost = Jesus Christ

Thick = A stupid person

Ifreann = Hell

Thank you for reading! If you liked this, please consider reblogging my work so that others can enjoy it too.

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Forever: @aya-fay

Bucky Barnes: @lipstickandvibranium @valhalla-kristin @buckymcbuckbarnes

[neo-percs]

BODY PARTY:: (Jung Jaehyun)

WARNING:: professional boxer! Jaehyun , blood, fighting, rough sex, marking, slight public sex, manager! reader, man handling, oral.

SUMMARY:: after yet another win for Jaehyun you insist on cleaning his cuts after a shower leads to the both of you celebrating in a completely different way than expected.

WORDCOUNT:: 5.8K

A/N:: my first actual post on this blog I’m actually excited, this was not revised at all so if there are any errors please do not MIND and if I miss any of the warnings please let me know😭🫶🏽.

You were front row watching Jaehyun, the smell of sweat and stale concession stand food almost made you feel nauseous if it wasn't for the way he was bouncing on the tips of his feet waiting for his opponent to tap gloves with him, clenching his teeth against his mouth guard showing off his prominent and sharp jawline.

Once and a while you could see his sharp eyes flicker from the referee and the guy he was facing. In the front row dressed all pretty, wearing one of the necklaces he had gifted to you and a cute small dress was you; his manager. He knew people didn't take him seriously because of how polite and pretty you were. They expected easy losses out of him, but if they saw how lenient you were during his training sessions or before his matches they'd understand you weren't just some airhead.

He watched as you gave him a bright smile and a thumbs up. He couldn't help the smirk on his lips. "Who's that? She's something ain't that right Jung?" His opponent laughed at the sly comment while his greedy eyes never left your figure. Jaehyun felt his brow twitch at the words "watch your mouth" he said sternly as he felt heat on his skin from sheer annoyance.

"That's your play thing Jung?" The man asks with a scoff, Jaehyun knew he was trying to be funny; trying to get to his head, but he's done this way too many times to even let it get under his skin. That wasn't going to stop him from ripping whoever this guy was apart and going back to his hotel with double the money he came in with. Not even bothering to answer him he knocks gloves with him and steps back while the ref signals the bell to chime.

You prepped Jaehyun for this, he knew what he was getting into when he signed to fight the boy who was about a year or two older than him, he was much newer to fighting in the ring which was just an advantage. But since Jaehyun had been doing this since he graduated high school he was much more experienced with the fighters, and the atmosphere. You could only count how many losses Jaehyun has had on one hand and you knew for a fact that Jaehyun wasn't going to fly all the way from Seoul to Brooklyn without putting in the work for a show.

The both of them circling around the ring with raised gloves nearing closer to exchange punches, and kicks. You could never understand how Jaehyun took a punch like it was nothing, almost like he enjoyed taking the hits, because it did nothing but push him to hit back harder. Jaehyun always knew how to get the crowd going, he would fight at least two rounds before absolutely running through his opponent until they gave up or it was a K.O regardless every time he did it he always had a crowd coming back for another fight.

He was on his 2 minute break in between rounds, the cutmen sitting him in his corner as he poured water into his hair and mouth letting the water spill into a metal bucket coming out pink, putting Vaseline on his cuts that were starting to bleed out. Jaehyun usually would've dropped his opponent by now, he was a shit talker and Jaehyun just let anything he heard go from one ear out the other, and it was usually the same bullshit.

'You can't fight' or 'your good looks won't save you' and Jaehyun never took it to heart because it's the same people talking that are being knocked on their ass and being wheeled back to their locker rooms. But this guy, no. He was bringing you into this, and Jaehyun had no reason to give him any remorse especially when he was being straight up vile and gross.

When they were both called back into the center Jaehyun could feel the sweat and water build up on his neck and shoulders. Jaehyun watches his opponent as if he was waiting for the right moment to send him to the ground, holding up his fist damn near ready to pounce on the guy who was just as tall if not a few inches taller than Jaehyun, blonde and tattoos all over his skin that nobody could miss.

Jaehyun couldn't miss the smirk on his lips as he sauntered towards him throwing sloppy and lazy punches that were barely even landing "you think your girl would wear that dress for me when I get her in bed?" He asked, huffing out almost slurring his words. Jaehyun could only clench his fist feeling a wave of straight anger wash over him completely. Cocking his hand back and letting one loose right to the center of the blonde's face he didn't stop as he saw him drop to the floor.

Straddling over his hips Jaehyun didn't hesitate to keep the hits going, one after the other people in the crowd almost shocked at how he wasn't letting up regardless of how you could tell the man under him was knocked out. "The fuck is he doing? He's gonna throw the match" you could hear Hyuck just a seat away looking almost stressed watching his friend use his opponent like a personal punching bag.

When the referee pulled at his shoulder Jaehyun finally pulled away with the deepest glare you've ever seen on his face, his gloves stained a crimson shade as he backed away from the unconscious and bloody man on the floor. Waiting to see if the man could beat a simple 10 count and get back to his feet but failed Jaehyun's hand was raised in all its glory as they announced his win.

The warm and sticky blood that gathered in small chunks at his hairline, and split lip, and dark bruises on the corner of jaw and the expanse of his back and shoulders began to bloom while sweat was dripping off his body. He stood in the middle of the ring as his publicity team swarmed in with congratulations and after party plans.

Leaving the small barricades that separated the crowd and the ring you find yourself going through the ropes and inside the squared ring filled with your coworkers and friends. Smiling as you near him, the copper smell of blood and hints of sweat filled your lungs as you can feel the mat underneath your feet shake from the jumping and cheering Jaehyun stood with a similar smile holding open his arms for you to hug him.

Regardless of his sweat seeping through the fabric of your dress or how warm all over you felt under his embrace you mumble words of encouragement "you did good, I'm proud of you. But you gotta stop losing your temper" you shake your head grasping his wrist that rested on your lower back comfortably.

Lifting over both of your heads you both face the crowd with smiles as you knew the both of your faces would be in the tabloids by the next morning, but from all the yelling and talking over other people you could feel a headache coming. Though it didn't matter much as you, Jaehyun, and the rest of your team decided to retreat back to his locker room.

Being stopped along the way by the press asking him questions, his heavy arm around your waist as he smiles and answers the simple questions, answering a few questions yourself as you hold Jaehyun's gloves under your arm you could feel his eyes practically burn through you when it was your turn to speak.

The both of you are making into the less busy locker room a few of his friends sticking around to make plans. Jaehyun sat on the padded bench as he looked at his taped up hands and wrist, he could feel dried up blood building up at his hairline and the small split on the middle of his lip starting to become sore.

You sit down beside him as Mark and Hyuck talk about plans of a dinner or a get-together later tonight in celebration, but you could tell that Jaehyun wasn't really listening. Your brows scrunch together as you see him picking at the tape trying to unravel it and his silence was slowly becoming apparent. "You guys wanna give us a minute? I'll call you if we need anything" you mumbled to them as they eye their friend worriedly the youngest nodded.

They retreat to the door "we're gonna head back to the hotel, if you do decide to go out tonight just give me a call" Mark mumbles before closing the door behind them. The silence in the room starts to get louder, your mouth opens but your words die in your throat seeing him finally getting the dingy tape off his skin and releasing a sigh.

Tossing the blood stained adhesive into the trash he walks further into his locker room towards his shower , you could hear the water hitting the tile and small grunts and winces of pain as he cleans off the blood and cuts off his body with soap and water. You space out for a while and let Jaehyun think in peace, you knew he would tell you whatever was on his mind sooner or later.

But once he finally finished showering you watched him walk back into the main area the cuts on his face still fresh and bleeding, it bugged you. His towel low on his hips, and his hair clean and messily slicked back with a few thin strands falling in his face. "You want me to clean your cuts so we can get out of here faster?" You ask quietly, watching him sit in a metal chair that sits in front of a long mirror. Shrugging at your question, you took your chance.

Opening the nearest locker you find a mini first aid kit, seeing everything you need inside you sit on the floor beside the leg of the chair and open a small pack of cotton pads, and rubbing alcohol. The smell alone made both of your faces scrunch as you lean close to his face attempting to find the cuts covered in dried blood.

"You wanna tell me why you beat that dude's face in?" You ask as you gently swiped away at the cut on the corner of his forehead that made him shut his eyes tightly at the stinging pain. "Doesn't matter," he said as his hands tightened around the edges of his seat. "It does if you almost threw a match because of it. I don't get why all of a sudden you're being your normal self, and next thing you know you are bashing his face in" you huff.

You and Jaehyun have gone over things with his anger and little to none patience, Jaehyun has moved past being provoked and talked down to, and ever since you've never seen him lose his cool like that up until now. "Even if it's something dumb, you know you can tell me right?" You ask as you discard the bloody cotton pad.

Sighing Jaehyun caves as he opens his eyes to meet your gaze "he was talking about you" he mumbled. His voice is gruff and frustrated, you can tell he was getting angry just rethinking about it. "What?" You were confused, what could have possibly set Jaehyun off about you? "He was talking about sleeping with you, just being disrespectful and shit" he rolled his eyes.

You scoff "you got mad about that?" You ask which makes his brows furrow at the question "of course I'm gonna get mad y/n, we work together. I know you personally, and I'm not gonna let somebody talk about you like that" he said, you could feel the heat radiating off of his skin as he spoke. "You shouldn't. You have more to worry about than some dude talking shit" you say picking up another pad and putting alcohol on it, you tilt his chin looking at his cuts.

"Well I do. I don't like when people talk about you in any way, you just do your job and you get shit on for no reason" he explains which makes you roll your eyes yet look to meet his gaze as you feel him stare into your soul. "It's a part of my job. I knew what I signed up for, even if you don't like it that's not gonna keep people from doing it. Don't get so worked up over it" you shake your head at him.

The silence in the locker room was becoming overbearing, holding a strong glare. Jaehyun was not listening to a single word you had to say, he didn't care if this was your job or not, you don't deserve that. His bruised hand reaching your jaw, his thumb drawing comforting circles on your skin "you don't deserve that, that's why I'm so worked up over it. You've been around since my first match, were roommates. I know everything there is to know about you, so why would I not get upset over shit like that?" He asks but more rhetorically.

"Your job is to fight Jae, not bash peoples heads in because of a stupid friend" you mumbled shaking your head showing your disapproval once more, you move his hand to clean up his cuts once more. "You're not just a stupid friend" he scoffs. "I am, the only thing I really do is look out for your schedule, your P.R interviews and shit. Nothing special" you let out a small chuckle under your breath. Standing him to your full height

Jaehyun's eyes never leave your face as he pulls at your wrist moving it away from his face, his hand that once cupped your jaw pulls you in, Jaehyun closing the remainder of space between you both as his soft lips press to yours. You felt like you had been shocked, you didn't move for what felt like seconds until you pulled away and blinked rapidly. "I don't want you to be just some stupid friend or manager to me" he whispered.

You huff out a sigh before leaning back in and pressing your lips to his, being more confident with your actions your hands find themselves raking through his hair tugging it softly, groaning against your lips.

Letting out a small groan, Jaehyun's hand makes way to the fabric of your dress, clutching it in his fist and pulling your hips closer against him sends him into a small daze.

His tongue now licking a stripe on your bottom lip begging for access, parting your lips, his tongue immediately brushing against yours, mixing your saliva. As you suck on his tongue the remnants of blood and mint. Realizing what the both of you are doing you pull away "we shouldn't be doing this" you say.

Your foreheads pressed together and noses grazing each other, Jaehyun shakes his head "I don't care about all of that right now" he slurs feeling the weight of the punches and kicks he had taken. Kissing at the corner of your lip smudging your lipgloss.

Jaehyun has always been professional with you, outside of work you two are like the best of friends, this was a line you had never thought to cross said line, but the feeling of his lips against yours made you feel fuzzy. You didn't care about the line anymore and both of you are now toppling over it. "I just want you" he mumbled as he pressed his nose against yours eye, clouded with an unknown feeling.

You smile lazily as you lean into him, giving him a chaste kiss. You both smile like kids as you pull apart. His hands trail from the bunched up fabric of your dress to your thighs pulling them apart "sit" he whispers making you nod and blink dreamily as you choke back a whimper at the sheer friction between his thighs and your pussy.

Arching your back until your chests press against each other, hands all over each other touching any part of each other that possibly could be in this position. Jaehyun couldn't help but grind up against you as the warmth of your core rubs against the throbbing bulge held behind his towel, the fabric running against the both of you earning a moan.

Pressing your lips against Jaehyun eager to steal ever last breath out of his lungs as your hands grip at his hair. Jaehyun doesn't hide his needs as his hands slide all around your body anywhere he could reach. Moaning against each others lips Jaehyun presses his forehead against yours as you both part panting against each other.

"You really wanna do this here?" He asks huskily turning you on even more. "I don't care if we did it in the car I just want you Jae" you whisper against his lips making him smile, feeling on top of the world at your response. Jaehyun knew his feelings for you were beyond just Manager and client, but he knew to never go beyond that. But right now... he really didn't give a damn.

Pulling the tight skirt of your dress over your ass until it bunches at the waist, his palms Slide Over the soft skin as your lace panties; wet and sticky cover everything he's craving at the moment. Groping and kneading the skin harshly making you moan as your hips press down against his once again, his hands guide you against his towel covered lap.

Biting your lip harsh enough you could almost break flesh. "You think you can cum like this for me?" He asks sending shivers up your spine thinking of rutting yourself against the brunette man until you hit your peak "mhm" you respond giving a small nod choking up your words with whimpers.

Your arms slink around his shoulder as you rest your head against the nape of his neck letting stimulation get the best of you. The fabric of your panties rubbing against your clit makes you feel utterly dizzy. "Just like that, you feel good?" He asks under his breath landing a harsh slap against your ass making you moan louder "feels so good" you whimper "you make me feel good jae" you moan as your hips recoil into his as the tension in your stomach grows.

Jaehyun could feel a wet patch of your slick deep through the towel over his hard cock making him bite his lip in satisfaction. He could see how much faster your hips are grinding into him showing how close you were to cumming, Jaehyun wraps his arms around your waist pressing your chest tightly to his as he grinds up against you.

The sound of the chair scraping against the concrete floors is almost background sounds to the both of you too wrapped up in getting your much wanted orgasm. "You're gonna make me cum" you whine as your eyes shut tightly and your eyebrows scrunch together "yeah? Do it" he says sternly making you shutter as your jaw slacks at the overwhelming feeling "fuck" you sob as your nails dig into Jaehyuns back.

Hissing at the feeling Jaehyuns hips come to a stop, his hands rub your thighs as they slightly shake. "You okay?" He asks with an airy laugh at your fatigued face that pulls away from his body "yeah, just give me a second" you whisper coming down from your high as the constant throbbing between your thighs starts.

Pulling yourself out of his lap your knees buckle feeling like jelly, you lower yourself fully until your knees press into the harsh concrete, not minding it much your hands trail over the white towel tucked around Jaehyuns waist, looking up at him with soft eyes "you don't have to do anything" he speaks up and it makes you smile. This was the considerate and caring Jaehyun you had always known, never selfish and always seeking just a smidgen of approval from anyone he could when he could.

"I want to do this with you, nobody else" you say as your fingers brush against the skin of his lower stomach as they hook over the tightly wrapped towel. You were eager, the new found feeling was overstimulating in all the right ways. Pulling the fabric away from his lap now completely exposed to the cold air Jaehyun shivers, he doesn't know if it's from excitement or the decrease in temperature but either way he felt like he was in heaven.

The way your hands travel over his thighs makes his breath get caught in his throat, your eyes rake over his body with a look he's never seen on your face but regardless he loves it. you wet the palm of your hands with your tongue before taking his cock into your fist, slowly jerking  and teasing the tip with your thumb.

His head falls back with no support from the chair he mutters out "fuck" as his hands grip at the towel underneath him. And when you finally put him in your mouth, finally swallow down the already there taste of him on your tongue—you both let out a moan. Can feel the top half of him shift like his head has fallen back, an image of his beautifully parted mouth hung open, eyes screwed shut in pleasure has you moaning against him again; your body on fire, your pussy aching.

You match the pumps of your hand with the drag of your mouth up and down his dick. Swirl your tongue around the head and suck when you reach it. Let yourself go as far as your gag reflex will let you until you're gagging around him and he's is cursing and digging his nails into the mattress once again.

And when you steal a glance to the side you can see how red his knuckles look from the death grip he has the towel. How his fingers twitch and hand runs along his thigh, acting as if he wants to touch you but not daring to. You steal another glance up at him, "oh fuck" tumbling from his lips when your eyes meet; he looks so desperate in the moment. He didn't want release he needed it, Jaehyun had never been a begging man but in the moment Jaehyun would do just about anything to cum.

you keep your nose pressed into the skin of his pelvis until you physically can't, pulling off of him with a loud pop. your cheek is wet with tears, and your chin is slick with spit, the two coalescing at the tip into a sticky mess.

the sight makes him twitch in your hand, because this is what he's been dreaming of. This was his selfish wish, to see you below him with this expression. eyes all doe-eyed and desperate. But it also doesn't take Jaehyun much time before he lets his eyes flutter shut his hips now slowly bucking into your mouth, groaning at the feeling of your throat closing around him tightly.

he can’t help but to reach out and rub the heavy pad of his thumb over your parting lips, pressing the salty digit flat against your tongue, and retreating it in the same breath to hook it around your cheek.

a string of profanities leave his lips. he’s close, and you can tell by the way he begins to fuck into your face with a slight roughness. to guide him there, you begin to hollow your cheeks and narrow your throat, using a single hand to massage his thigh digging your nails into his skin.

he can feel you start to get riled up, and when you start to scratch and claw at his thighs for air, that does it for him. with a final, lazy thrust, he releases the entirety of his load down your throat, keeping you pressed down on him until he’s sure every last bit has been spilled.

Pulling away slowly your breathing uneven and filled with small coughs and hiccups, your hand rests on his scratched up thighs, Jaehyun looks at you with nothing but lust. Your swollen lips, your mascara staining your cheeks, his hand cupping your jaw to bring you close his nose brushing against yours as your heavy breathing mixes with his.

“You’re so fucking beautiful” he grumbles as he presses his lips against yours harshly parting your lips with his tongue messily running yours against his. Slowly without breaking the kiss Jaehyun moves himself out of the chair, his own knees feeling a slight sting at the feeling. Guiding you down to your back as the kisses grows more hungry as he grinds his bare cock against your panties growing frustrated at the very little skin on skin contact, his hands settling on your upper thighs slither until his hands are underneath the fabric of your dress.

His fingers find the elastic band of your panties finally pushing them down your thighs and past your ankles where he recklessly tosses them out of his way to only who knows where. Your dress being the only obstacle left he pulls the zipper tugging your arms through the sleeves easily he damn near rips you dress off at the seems just to see your body in all its glory. He doesn’t take his eyes off of you not even for a second his eyes follow every dip and curve with the most adoration one could hold in their gaze and it makes you feel warm.

His eyes rake over you from top to bottom as his eyes latch onto the sight of your thighs glistening in slick. He hissed through his teeth absentmindedly his hand gently travels between your thighs as his thumb presses between your slit making friction with your sensitive clit making you whine at the feeling. His hand leaving your body he takes his length into his own hand gripping himself.

"You look so good like this" He says as he presses his tip against your slit teasingly sliding against it as it makes a slick sound as your essence covers his tip and shaft, dipping his tip into your entrance Jaehyun sucks in a deep breath as he pushes into you groaning at the feeling of your tight walls enveloping his tip.

Pushing deeper inside you he lets out a moan "fuck you feel so good" he says as he catches his bottom lip in between his teeth. "You're so big" you gasp, feeling how good he filled you up to the brim as you feel him begin to slowly move. Jaehyun couldn't get enough of the sight as his cock disappeared inside your pussy.

His cock buried deep inside you that you moan and your nails into the pillow your chest was pressed againstsetting a pace for bouncing against him. The feeling of your velvety walls tightening around making him choke back a moan.

"Oh- god" you whisper shakily. His hands holding onto your hips guiding a pace, the soft sound of skin slapping with your small moans could be heard throughout the room.

A small sheen of sweat on your skin and your makeup smeared while your ass bounced on his cock it was addicting. "You like being fucked like this?" He asks as he bucks his hips into your sharply.

Moaning at his dirty words and sudden surge of confidence your head falls into the palm of your hand muffling your sweet voice Jaehyun's palm sharply smacks your ass "Answer me" he says groaning as he soothes the stinging feelings on your warm skin.

"Mhm, I want people to hear how good you fuck me" you say lifting your head from the pillow as you bite your bottom lip hard as you hear how wet you are with each thrust he gave you.

Jaehyun; eager to let his load off inside you, holds your hips stopping you from bouncing any longer and begins to thrust his hips into you harder. The feeling of his tip pushing at your cervix.

His hips piston into you as your thighs and ass jiggle at the repetitive thrusts "right there" You moan as you feel him pounding in a certain part of your walls. You tighten around him as your essence forms a white ring around the base of his dick.

"Just like that, I just want you to cum inside me" you babble mindlessly as his stomach churns at the words spewing out. "Yeah? Want me to fill you up with my cum?" he groans as the knot in your stomach begins to tighten and his death grip on the fat of your ass almost sending you over the edge if it wasn't for how hard he was pounding you.

You nod eagerly as you begin to alternate between grinding and bouncing, your nails drag against his inner thigh leaving behind a red and irritated trail- yet he didn't mind it as it pushed him closer to his orgasm.

Leaning down to him your moans against each other's lips push you closer and closer. Your back arching even more as you move faster wanting to cum so badly "keep going. Don't stop" he groaned, letting his head fall back.

His hair messily pushed against his forehead as it was covered in sweat and his eyes rolled back "god I'm gonna cum" he says breathily as you grind back against him to meet his thrusts as the sticky sound of him pounding your sloppy pussy resides in the air of the locker room.

The room was warm and all you could care about was how good your best friend was fucking you. "You like having an audience to be fucked like a slut in front of huh?" He says as he grips onto your hips harder to stop your movement as he pounds into a spongy part of your walls.

His hair sticking to his forehead and his breath becoming heavier "I loved being fucked like a slut" you rasp as you hear his breathy laugh at your words desperate to feel release "good" he says as he fucks into you harder. "Tell me how much of a slut you are" he groans as his nails dig into your hips, "I'm such a fucking slut for you, god I'm your cockslut" you whine as his thrusts are deeper and sharp it has your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

Pulling your back to his chest hitting an angle inside you that made you see white as your ass bounced into his lap your hands desperately thrash to grip your own thigh as a result of overwhelming pleasure.. "Oh fuck- just like that, You're gonna make me cum" he moaned deeply into the nape of your neck.

Letting out a string of whines you clench harder "I’m close" he moaned as he began to twitch inside you, his words buzzing in your ears making you grind against him eagerly "please let me cum" you beg as you turn your head over your shoulder to look at Jaehyun who was absolutely pussy drunk on the feeling of you.

"You gonna cum?" he asks as his hand falls between your thighs, his fingers press against your clit "You gonna fucking cum?" he asks rhetorically as his words slur, you nod as your breathing becomes uneven "do it" he says pushing you back down into the cold ground roughly gripping your hips and you were sure it would leave bruises his eyes roll back as he feels how you clench around him and let your orgasm washes over you, with a few more hard thrusts he would also be tipping over the edge to his orgasm moaning as his thick white strings of cum fills you up leaving your body feeling warm and fuzzy.

Fucking you both through your highs your thighs clench shut as overstimulation creeps up on you your moans began to come out choked which makes Jaehyun slow down his pace until his hips were no longer moving against yours.

Pulling out you both hiss, as his cum drips down your thigh Jaehyun chuckles at the sight almost wanting to use his fingers to fuck his cum back inside you but deems you're too fucked out. He pulls away completely standing on shaky legs walking off to the bathroom to grab a clean towel wet with warm water to clean you off. You breathe heavily, almost too lazy to pick yourself up looking at the mirror perched against the wall seeing how your face was most likely in it.

Your actions finally sink in. You hear the footsteps near you, Jaehyun walks back into the locker room he wipes you off rubbing small soothing circles into your thighs he wipes you down clean. Jaehyun would be sure you were getting treatment you deserve even if it wasn’t in the most romantic place.

After he takes care of you can hear "I'm sorry if I was being too rough," he says softly as he looks at you with soft eyes “don't worry about it. I like that stuff anyways" you say with a chuckle you roll over onto your side you look at your best friend "it felt good. No need to be sorry" you say waving him off. Jaehyun sighs in content, almost nervous that he had hurt you or took too much of his anger out on you.

“Get up, you need a shower before we go back to the hotel” he says rubbing your sore thighs. You bite back a groan as you think about actually having to leave your spot on the ground. Your body feeling sticky and covered in sweat, You cave sitting up. You press your hand to your sore back thinking about how harshly your back had been pushed against it. Jaehyun holds a hand out to you as he coaxes you into a warm shower.

You hadn’t thought about the fall out of the matter, you have in fact slept with your best friend, the person you live with, and spend every day with. You had no idea what was going to happen tomorrow but you didn’t let that thought sink in that much as well when Jaehyun’s more intimate with you, the lingering touches, the small pecks on your lips as he washes you up with the soap he had packed in his bag. The smell of him washes over you as you let all of your thoughts wash away with the soapy water down the drain of the shower.

You'd just have to worry about it another time.

[webslingingslasher]

can you please give us something angsty between ethan and trouble? like how ethan texts her and she ignores the messages during the breakup. or when they run into each other in the cafeteria and trouble pretends he’s not there and walks away despite he’s calling out her name. the way trouble no longer crochets because that was her thing with ethan and it feels strange to pick up the needles and it makes her miss him.

*cleaning out my drafts!*

ethan is peter's best friend and by default, he owes you nothing.

you were a friend for the moment but once you and peter ended, so did the alliship. ethan didn't get that in the memo, but he's never made a friend through peter and lost her through him too. he keeps thinking everything is normal, like there isn't a giant peter shaped hole in the fence.

'hey, so i was thinking we could have a little study sesh at the library?'

'i'll rent out a room. and it would be just us.'

'obv.'

you miss him too sometimes. but he chose peter by default and you don't condemn him one bit for it, ally did the same with you. peter was ethan's friend first, so he should still be one when you walked away.

peter doesn't talk to ally anymore either. both friends became constant reminders of what you had and lost.

it might be a text message but you can hear ethan's voice in your head, he sounds defeated.

'i'm guessing that's a no.' you never open them but he knows you read them. it doesn't surprise ethan, you've ignored him since you dumped peter. he just never expected to be dumped too.

'i miss you.'

'i just wanna hang out with you again.'

'and if you don't want him around either that's fine with me.'

'i'll fly you somewhere in my private jet.'

'damn it. i was really hoping for a "you have a private jet???" response.'

'it's a yes btw. just because i know you're curious.'

'well, actually, it's my parents but you always say that's the same thing.'

you watch each notification appear and disappear. your teeth dig into your bottom lip to stop a smile, you can't go backwards. if you're around ethan it leads to peter and you can't do that.

ethan didn't realize there might be a reason why you haven't been texting him back, but he does now. what if you weren't replying because you weren't seeing them? he thought you were just ignoring him but it's been weeks of silence.

'did you block me too?'

he hopes not. he really, really hopes not. ethan knows why you pushed him away, he's just upset that he didn't get a say in it. ethan's never been able to tell you how sorry he is on behalf of his best friend and how he doesn't want to lose you over his idiocy.

you frown at the message, restraining your impulse to text him back, you hold your breath and wait for another message.

it comes two minutes later and your entire heart shatters.

'crochet buddy?'

you haven't been able to look at your basket of hooks and yarn, it feels wrong to finish your pig. you told ethan you kept messing up on the ears and he said he'd do them for you. he never got the chance. you wonder if he finished his lizard tail.

your thumbs move before your mind can stop you, not that it would. you had to tell him the truth, you can't have him wallow and sulk over you.

peter might deserve it but ethan doesn't.

'it would surprise me if you didn't have a private jet.'

'hey!!!!!!!!'

'don't leave yet pls.'

'let me take you out to lunch. we can go to the village or brooklyn.'

'i promise he won't find out.'

'please?'

'i miss my buddy.'

you think it's almost as painful as splitting from peter. ethan is peter's best friend and you can't get in the middle of that. it'll hurt peter just as bad and while part of you wants him to be hurt over you, you don't want to use ethan as the pawn to do it.

you back out of the conversation, lock your phone, set it down, and grab your unfinished pig before curling up with him for a nap.

---

ethan doesn't eat in kayte hall. you know he doesn't eat in kayte hall because you ate in cathedral hall with the sig nu frat.

used to.

you switched to kayte hall two weeks ago, it was an extra five minute walk but it was done with the purpose to avoid situations like this.

you try to move discreetly, it doesn't matter, he clocked you the second you sat down. you can't abandon ship, he's sliding in the seat across from you.

'you're avoiding me and i really hate it. you made me stoop so low i had to get a pledge to track you down for me.'

you're not going to give him the silent treatment, that would be plain rude.

'are you admitting to stalking me?'

'i'm admitting that i instructed someone to stalk you. are you flattered? you should be.'

'why aren't you at cathedral?'

'because you don't eat there anymore, duh. can i have a grape?' you hesitate before sliding your tray halfway up the table, he takes three.

you listen to the purple crush between his teeth, ethan looks a bit more serious after he swallows. you look at your cup, his stare makes you feel guilty.

'look, let me get this out of the way now so we don't have to talk about it again. i don't know all the details, park- peter hasn't really opened up to me about it.'

you swallow tightly, this is exactly what you didn't want to happen.

'from what i know- or pieced together, he disappointed me too. i'm sorry for whatever he did and i'm sorry it hurt you enough that i was caught in the crossfire, but between us, when i'm with you, he doesn't exist. this is the last time i'll ever talk about him, i'll offer you the same courtesy and we won't bring it up again.'

ethan's saying all the right things, you softly shrug. 'what's the courtesy?'

'you can ask me about him if you want to. it'll stay between us, i promise.'

the peter floodgates burst open, you'd done your best to push him from your mind but now you have the opportunity to indulge. you nibble at your bottom lip before looking up at him. ethan's smile is gentle, he's trying so hard for you.

'how is he doing?' from the little rumors you've heard it doesn't seem too good and the harsh bruise splattered across his jawline last week didn't do him any favors.

'um,' his smile tweaked, it's worse than you thought. you know it's bad because ethan's trying to find a way to be honest but not worry you. 'he's okay.'

'please be honest.' you know you ended it, you know it's real this time and you know part of you wants to hate him but if he's really down bad, you might have to give him a visit. ethan takes a deep breath and leans in closer to the table.

'yeah, he um, he kind of tanked. he's not himself right now. he's skipping chapter meetings, he's missing classes and if he's home, he's barricaded in his room or drinking.' your heart sinks, you're not hungry anymore.

'does he miss me?' you almost feel embarrassed to ask. ethan doesn't find the question pitiful, he's just glad you're talking to him. 'bad.'

it's brutal on your end too, but he sounds worse than you. at least you can get through the emotions of your day to day. you wish you could say you won the breakup but there's no winning.

'has he...'

you don't want to know the answer. you don't want to know the answer. you don't want to know the answer.

you still ask it. 'has he hooked up with anyone else?'

'no.' you believe him because he said it quick and with certainty. you nod slowly, it was the answer you wanted but it still didn't feel good.

'is he still going to the parties?' ethan shakes his head, 'i haven't seen him at any.'

'but he still has you, right?' if you didn't have a small support system you would've lost it ten times over by now. peter doesn't have a whole lot but one ethan overpowers ten mediocre friends.

'i asked if he wanted to talk about it, he said not really, i told him i was there for him and he said thanks. there really hasn't been much else, he's just been really quiet.'

ethan is all peter has, you can't rip that away from him. it would be evil to pollute the one thing he still had, you walked away from him and you shouldn't take his friend with you. plus... how could you move on if you have the peter encyclopedia at your fingertips?

'at least he's not crying.' you end it with a half laugh, half hum. it's sad all around and you're trying to lighten the mood, ethan avoids eye contact and your palms rest on the table.

'ethan.'

ethan's not sure if he is or not. he hasn't heard him but there are some days peter would shuffle out from his room for a water or snack and his eyes were a little red. there was evidence of crying but no tears, so he can't say with certainty but he knows.

'i don't know.'

it made up your mind. you can't do this to peter, you can't sneak around with his friend when he's still trying to mend what went down. you grieved the end of your relationship when you were with him, calling it quits was hard and it still is, but you were prepared. peter was caught off guard and he's still analyzing everything that went down, you know he is.

'so... are we cool?'

'of course we are, you were never a problem, ethan.' he looks relieved, releasing a sharp sigh he rests his hand over his heart and smiles brightly. 'oh thank god, i really missed you. so, are we done with the peter talk? are we ready to schedule our next crochet date?'

oh. he must've misunderstood you.

'no, we're not... we're not hanging out ethan, i just wanted you to know i didn't have any bad blood against you.'

ethan's not a mean person and you've never seen him mad at someone but he's hurt and his arms cross over his chest with a sneer.

'why am i being punished for what he did?'

'you're his best friend, ethan.' it's a statement and fact. it also has everything to do with you ghosting him. 'you were my friend too.' it's a raw confession, you can't look at him when he's this sad.

'i know i was. you were mine too, you still are. it's just different now and i'm not saying we can't be friends, but i think it would be better for everyone if we just took a break from each other right now.'

'it's not better for me. everything is weird right now, my best friend is a shell of the person he used to be and my other one pushed me so far away i was convinced she forgot about me.'

'it feels like i'm being iced out from all sides.' he's much sadder when he adds that on. you feel for him and you hate that you're part of the reason he feels excluded.

'i'm really sorry you feel like that, ethan. i promise it won't be forever, but i have my mind made up and no matter how many times you say please, it won't change.'

you're not sure if things between you became really quiet or if the dining hall doubled in sound. ethan's trying to come up with the right combination of words but nothing's good enough to make you come around on the idea.

If please doesn't work, he might have to force you.

'okay. i'll stop asking you to hang out with me.' he sounds fine with it, you're a little suspicious but he might've just wanted to talk to you, even if it was a formal goodbye.

'but i should go now.' ethan pushes against the edge of the table to slide out from his chair. his words are short but his tone is happy, you stare at him extra hard before nodding.

'i'll see you around?'

ethan sends a wink your way, 'see you later.'

---

the contents of your backpack are all over your bed, your phone nowhere to be found. you retrace your previous steps, you had it at lunch and you swore it was in your outer pocket at the library but after that it's blank.

it was either lost or stolen. your entire life was on it, you don't even have a way of telling everyone you lost it. you recheck your bag two more times even after holding it upside down, then fill it back up while giving yourself pity.

you wallow in it for ten minutes, not even a minute after that your roommate rushes in the door with her own phone held out. 'it's ethan.' you reach for it without thinking but pause before you can fully grab it, ally shakes it towards you. 'he said he has your phone?'

ally's unaware of what's happening and is being as helpful as she could but all you're thinking about is when and how he took it. you press her phone to your ear and ask him where your phone is, he plays dumb.

'i'm not fucking around, ethan. this isn't funny, i need my phone.'

'you left it behind at butler, it's a good thing my pledge found it for you.'

there was absolutely no chance of you leaving it, you clench your jaw and try to restrain yourself from throwing a million mean chirps. he sent someone to rob you.

'you stole my phone? why the fuck would you steal my phone?'

'oh, i didn't steal anything. you should be thankful one of our guys found it.'

'found it in my backpack?'

'did he? hm, interesting. but, hey! it's here and it's safe.'

'great, bring it to me.'

there's a pause on the other line, ethan sucks air in through his teeth. 'sorry, no can do, buddy. looks like you'll have to come get it.' your mouth parts in shock, that was the plan? forcing your hand to hang out with him?

'absolutely not. just meet me at kayte.'

'another no go, my friend. i'm stuck here and so is your phone.'

'you're not stuck anywhere, except in a house with my ex.'

'he's not here.'

'i don't believe you.'

you can picture ethan holding his phone into open air, he sounds far away when he calls out 'parker!' there's a solid ten second gap before he sounds crystal clear again. 'see? no threats.'

'ethan, please.'

'just come over, i promise it'll be fun.'

your eyebrows furrow, he thinks it's a game. 'no, nothing will be fun. this will be a business transaction and i'll be out of there in ten seconds.'

'so it's a yes? you're coming over?' if ethan had a tail, he would be wagging it. his plan worked and you're falling right into his hand. if it was anything else, you'd say fuck it and move on. but ethan took the one thing he can hold over your head and you both know it.

'i don't know how, but this is a rich asshole thing and you're being one.'

ethan ignores you. 'make sure to bring your crochet hooks!'

'i'm not doing that.'

'that's okay! i have a bunch of extras.'

'i mean it, ethan. i'm not hanging around!'

'what's that? sorry, you're breaking up on me. we should finish this conversation in person... okay, bye!'

the call disconnects suddenly. you stare at the black screen and take a deep breath to secure your thoughts before making a trek across campus.

---

'give me my phone.'

ethan ignores you and points to his bedside table, there's two waters and an entire box of grocery store cookies. 'here, come have a snack.' he drops his crochet tub on the edge of his bed. 'i got some new yarn, look at how soft it is.'

everything about it was a ruse.

'im serious, ethan. give me my phone.' he sighs and gestures to his desk, he keeps pulling out hooks. 'it's on my desk.' you search the surface, it's extremely tidy with no hiding place.

'no it's not. where is it?'

'hm... i must've misplaced it. i'll help you look in a second.'

if ethan wants to play dirty, you have no issue getting in the mud. you grab a small succulent from his windowsill and raise it next to your head.

'give me my phone, ethan.'

you're fighting fire with fire, ethan eyes his plant in your hold but keeps a straight face. 'i forgot where i put it.' if that's how he wants to act, you have no choice but to follow through on your actions.

you drop the mini cactus, the pot shatters into a dozen pieces and soil spatters around the floor. ethan falls to his knees and screams 'no!' at the plant guts covering the ground.

'she was a kid, you monster! she did nothing to you!'

you grab the matching pot that was next to it. 'give me my phone or the sister gets it.'

'i refuse to negotiate with a terrorist!' you're breaking him, you can see he's hesitant to refuse your compromise. 'i'm sorry you feel that way.'

the clay pot falls just as quick, it lies in a broken heap next to it's twin. ethan acts like he's been shot, a throaty yelp was produced while he delicately held the cacti in his hands.

the plants were fine, all you did was bust the pots. and while breaking personal property was a bar too low for you, you know he has at least a dozen more just like it in his closet.

you look up at his door to watch it crack open, it's a swift movement but it feels like everything is moving in slow motion. you try to back up as quick as you can but you're cemented to the floor and all you can do is stare at the face coming through the door.

'what the hell is... hey.'

you swallow hard, he looks how ethan said. just a shell of what he once was. all you can stare at is the purple bruise on his cheekbone, your heart pangs when it's reminded it's not your job to care about it anymore.

you point at ethan who suddenly is really quiet.

'he stole my phone.'

peter nods slowly before peering down at the mess around your shoes. 'did he give it back?' you shake your head, you feel like a tattle tail, especially when peter looks down at ethan and tells him to give your phone back.

ethan pulls it out of his pocket and hands it right over, your jaw drops and you frown heavily at him. 'you do it when he asks but not me?'

'he'll beat me up, you'll just unhouse my plants.'

'peter would never beat you up.' therefore, his excuse is pointless. ethan disagrees, his eyebrows almost hit his hairline with how confident you are. 'over you? he'd fucking kill me.'

you wait for peter to tag in, you know something is brewing in his mind. something like 'damn right i would,' and you'd follow up with something about how he's actually a big baby and he'd say something like 'only for you' and you'd... but that's not real life anymore and he stays silent.

he's probably confused and a little hurt you're hidden away in ethan's room, you feel the need to apologize even though you're not sure why you're sorry.

'i'm sorry, peter. i tried telling ethan that we should take a break on our friendship but he won't let it go.' you threw him under the bus in a second and you don't care, from the looks of it neither does ethan.

'you can be friends with ethan. you should be friends with ethan.' it's the first time actually talking with him since the break up and it feels weird, he's too formal. he's being kind and reserved, he's pliant and you need some bounce back to feel normal.

'you always said i needed to unfriend him when we were together.' you might've tossed a taunt at him, you wanted a reaction. you wanted your peter and throwing the break up in his face might do it.

it works, his eyebrows furrow while his stature hardens. 'i said a lot of shit i didn't mean when we were together, trouble.' you point at him, your tone ice cold. 'don't.' you refuse to acknowledge the small spread of warmth at the nickname.

'you like ethan, ethan likes you. you guys are good friends, why should i fuck that up? i ruined enough shit for you. the least i could do is give you ethan.'

ethan could speak up to make a joke about how it's like he's a child of divorce or that he's a person, not a piece of property but it feels like you're both having a moment that needs to happen. even if there was a weird energy he was picking up on.

your eyes narrow, he's doing this for reasons beyond being a good person. you know him well enough to know that he has something up his sleeve.

'i can think of something else i'd rather you give me.'

you can see the heat brewing behind his eyes, you got him right where you want him. peter uses his serious voice, the one he uses instead of raising his voice but still demands your attention.

'we're not talking about this here.'

those two sentences just told ethan that whatever you were insinuating was what ended the relationship and peter's very upset stance solidifies his opinion.

'oh, trust me. you're not talking about it at all.'

'we're not unpacking this in front of ethan. i'm on my way out anyway, hang out with your friend.' peter tries to step past you but you circle around to step up with him and block his exit, his chest brushes yours for a second and it takes everything in you not to wrap your arms around him and sink your face into the body you once found homely.

'liar.' he doesn't want you to hang around and he wasn't leaving. you're met with a heavy sigh. 'yeah, probably.' you can't stop yourself, you lightly poke his chest and peter's head drops so he can watch your hold stick longer than it should've.

'be honest.'

'you might be ready to cut the cord but i'm not.' he'd rather keep you in his life as a tie through ethan no matter how sore it was. if you had ethan you'd never fully lose him and that kind of promise is the only thing he wants right now.

'neither am i.'

peter stares at ethan, 'shut up.' he's shunned into silence. you're starting to understand why peter said he wasn't going to unpack anything here, you look down at your hands and play with a ring on your finger.

you think peter wants to talk about it civilly but you don't think either of you are ready to do it yet without hurting either person's feelings even more than they already are.

but having ethan around is a nice way to keep peter close without damaging your healing.

'okay.' you take a deep breath and glance at ethan, who's still pouting on the floor keeping his eye line from peter. 'i guess we can hang out.' he lights up in a second, looking between you and peter in case either one of you vetoes it.

neither of you do.

'sweet! i have to repot these but i have some new templets in my basket, so if you want to pick one out and start i'll just catch up later.' you nervously look towards peter and immediately dart away when you make eye contact.

turning your back on him slightly, you feel a little better. there's something about him that makes you feel jittery, like when you were the first couple times you met up with him alone.

'i don't think being here is a good idea, maybe we should just stick to my dorm?'

'why? parker said he was fine with us hanging out.'

'because maybe parker was being nice and doesn't actually want to see me here?'

peter can speak for himself, and he'll use the correct name. in case you forgot. 'peter, is just fine with you being here. the only sucky part is knowing you hate me.'

you think he might be baiting you now but you can't help but set the record straight. 'okay, hold on now.' you speak very clearly towards him, you're not about to let him twist your words.

'i am a hundred different emotions towards you right now but i don't hate you. i think you know that, parker.'

'okay,' it's full of sarcasm. 'you have a goodnight, trouble. i'll see you later.' you bite your tongue and let him leave, if you didn't, you'd be making subtle shots at each other all night.

'your best friend is a dick.' the second you're alone. ethan shrugs, 'you were into that at one point.'

'no, no. if we're going to be friends you only ever sympathize with me about him, you're not allowed to bring up anything i did in the relationship.'

ethan has a pile of soil and a pile of shattered clay, you feel obligated to help him clean up. 'and for clarification, i'm supposed to sympathize with your ex boy toy when i'm with him?'

'absolutely not. you're on team me at all times. shame him if you have to.' the broken pieces land in his desk trash can. 'is this where i have to remind you he'd kick my ass?'

oh, you missed and loathe this so much.

'you're so whiny, clean quieter.'

'is it too late for you to ghost me again?'

'that's it. clean up your own mess, i'm going to make a crochet snake and not because it's the easiest but because that's how you're acting.'

ethan snorts and nods towards his wicked wicker basket of yarn, you're already eyeing different greens. 'be sure to make one for my twin next door.'

you do.

you leave it outside peter's door and while ethan never confirmed it, he knows you're the one who made it.

and it sleeps on his nightstand next to him every night. 

[mintkookiess]

...Miles?

The cutest thing I've ever written so far hands down. I really took my time with this so it's quite long but I hope you enjoy it!

Love,

Mint

Summary: Spiderman finds himself in his crush's apartment window while wounded, asking her for help.

Tags: Miles Morales x fem!reader, fluff, two of the most awkward people in the entire existing world.

Word count: 3.4k

"This is a bit... awkward," Spiderman mutters as he lands on the fire escape stairs just outside Y/n's apartment window. The loud thud caught her attention and she sees the suited man, clutching his side and breathing quite heavily from the way his shoulders moved up and down evidently.

He's clearly bleeding, it didn't matter that his suit was black as she could see the blood glistening gently. "Uh hey there... Do you perhaps know how to treat wounds?" Miles chuckled nervously behind his mask, wincing at how that made his ribs sting a little.

He wasn't exactly sure why he winded up in his crush's window, but he was too focused on the pain to even care at the moment. It wasn't even part of his plan.

Y/n slowly walked to the window where Miles had slowly took a seat on the stairs. She immediately realized it was Spiderman, her eyes widening in recognition.

She was quick to get out of her window, crouching down to his level as she tried to survey how bad the wound was. "Tsk tsk... Think you can stand up? I can clean you better inside my bedroom." She said.

Miles winces once more but nods his head, taking a deep breath as he slowly pushes himself to stand on his feet using his free hand. He groans and grimaces with every move and his legs were trembling from shock. "Th-Thanks..." He said, leaning into her for support.

Y/n grabbed his arm, wrapping it around her shoulder as they shifted towards her window. She placed a hand on his back, carefully supporting him as he entered her bedroom. "Careful," She mumbled, trying her best to keep him steady.

Miles smiled, and he couldn't help but blush at the way his arm was wrapped her. But now wasn't the time. "Thank you," He whispered, cautiously going inside while trying not to irritate his wound so much.

Once they successfully got him inside her bedroom, Miles landed on the floor against the wall and Y/n followed behind him. She walked towards her bathroom to grab her first aid kit and a towel before coming back to him. She knelt down, gently placing her hand over his which was covering his wound.

Her eyes looked up at his masked face with a small smile. "Let me see," She said to him gently, silently asking permission if he could remove his hand. At Y/n's request, Miles' hand slips away and he lets out a soft groan in pain.

Y/n notices several bleeding stab wounds, some of them looking like they came from sharp teeth, but she didn't want to pry. Underneath his mask, Miles grimaces at the sight. Even though he's been Spiderman for a while now, he still hasn't gotten used to seeing himself wounded up like this.

"Can I ask you something...?" Miles began, looking down at Y/n's hands. She looked at him abruptly, before glancing back towards the wound. "Yeah sure," She replied as she began to gently press the towel on his wounds to clean the blood, noticing how his suit had been slightly ripped from where he was stabbed. The towel began to be painted red from his blood as she continued to wipe around it.

"...You know who I am... right?" Miles asked, staring at the towel as Y/n held it over his fresh wounds. They stung like hell, and he tried not to wince too much, but it was hard to ignore.

"You mean Spiderman? Yeah, who doesn't?" She chuckled. She was sure to be careful with the towel so as to not put him under as much pain as possible, but she couldn't help but wince at the bloody sight. She slightly felt bad that Spiderman had to go through all these while trying to save Brooklyn, so it slightly made her happy that she's able to help a little by cleaning up his wounds.

Miles chuckled nervously, "Uh yeah.." He glanced over at her through the white lenses of his mask as if he was waiting for her to put everything together. He didn't even know why he was trying to make her know his true identity. He knew it would be dangerous if she knew, but he couldn't help it at this point. "You know... who I really am."

Y/n abruptly stopped her movements, pulling back slightly as she looked up at him. She tried to analyze everything, from the fact that Spiderman chose to come to her apartment for help, albeit through the fire escape outside her window as well as how his voice sounded quite familiar.

Her hand reached out to his mask, but she pulled back hesitantly. She wasn't sure if she should remove his mask, knowing that Spiderman worked anonymously. But he was depicting that she knew who he was behind the Spiderman identity. "Do I... know you?" She asked slowly.

Miles gave a small chuckle as the exhaustion slowly kicks in his body, causing him to suddenly lean his head against her shoulder. "I've seen you before you know," He whispered gently, before closing his eyes. His chest rose up and down with each breath he took, feeling as if he could just fall asleep in that position against her shoulder.

Y/n was slightly taken aback by his sudden actions, but she didn't pull away. She sat there with her arms hanging on her sides. Though she wanted to pat his shoulder or something, she was scared she might hit his wounds.

"You've seen me? Where? At school?" She asked, still trying to pinpoint where she could've possibly heard his voice before. Y/n racked her brain for the answer while inhaling the scent of him; a mixture of blood and fabric softener.

Miles hummed and nodded his head against her shoulder, breathing slowly as he just took a moment to enjoy their proximity. He knew he shouldn't take advantage of the fact that he was Spiderman and she didn't know him, but he was feeling a bit selfish right now. "Yeah..." He said after a while, hoping he could stay against her forever. His voice was soft, and he sounds almost tired.

Y/n softly pulled back much to his dismay, her eyes staring into his mask as if she'd find the answer woven in it. She sighed, dropping the towel on the floor before sitting properly in front of him. She reached up her hands one more time, but with great caution like she was waiting if he'd stop her.

Her fingers reached the hem of his mask, tugging it upwards to reveal a small part of his neck. Y/n surveyed his rich dark skin, still trying to wrap her head around who it might be. If he says he's seen her in school... "Are you one of my classmates?" She asked, not quite pulling his mask further.

Y/n's touch caused Miles to lean a bit farther back, the spider-sense in his body buzzing slightly. Although it wasn't noticeable with his mask, Miles' eyes widen a bit from her actions but he didn't want her to stop. His lips began to form a small smirk, looking amused behind his mask. "Yeah... I'm your classmate." He said with a slightly deeper voice as his poor attempt to keep his cool.

If he wasn't too tired and in too much pain, he'd just rip the mask off right then and there, but right now he'll just wait till Y/n figures it out herself. He was kind of enjoying it anyway.

Y/n slowly pulled his mask even higher until it reveals his plump lips to her. She felt a strange tingle in her body like his name was on the tip of her tongue. Her eyebrows knitted together, still trying to solve the puzzle of who Spiderman really was. "Do you sit near me?" She asked even further.

Her touch caused Miles' jaw to clench, his lips parting slightly. His eyes closed briefly as he swallowed, the sensation making his body heat up and his heart was beating faster by the second. "Yeah I do," He said softly.

Y/n hesitated once more but began to pull the mask even farther, slowly showing her his nose, his tiny faint freckles, and finally... His eyes. A pair of brown eyes looking at hers with a tinge of nervousness in them. "... Miles?" She mumbled, finally able to remember his name.

She would recognize that face anywhere, immediately realizing that it was that one classmate of hers who was pretty goofy in class. Would always throw in a joke or two at every lecture, or sometimes be found snoring away. It was Miles, a classmate of hers that sat just a row behind her.

Miles' cheeks heated up. He nodded, his eyes taking her gaze and meeting it, watching her eyes glisten as she finally discerns who he was. He's so close to her, and it's actually taking every bit of willpower he had left to not lean in and press his lips against her. But he knew he shouldn't be doing anything irrational.

Y/n gulped, reaching up to remove the rest of his mask until it was completely off, his hair slightly bouncing as she peeled it from his head. The two were wrapped in silence as their eyes just stared at each other with curiosity and safety all at the same time.

Never in her life did she expect Spiderman to be so... young, much less to be her classmate. "Yeah, it is you." She laughed softly, her gaze never leaving his. Miles' breathing and heartbeat quickens almost at the same time, feeling as if he was in a trance by her beauty and the sound of her laugh.

"Well, I wasn't expecting this," Y/n let out another laugh, pulling back to sit down in front of him once more. She faced down to grab the towel, coming back to clean his wounds again. She tried to take steady breaths, an attempt to calm down her rapidly beating heart as her cheeks become flushed.

"Yeah... me neither, hahaha..." Miles said, his laugh sounding a bit forced in hopes of saving face. In reality, he was more than happy to be sitting with Y/n, and he just didn't want to ruin the moment or anything. Above all that, he was glad that someone finally knew who he was aside from his friend Ganke. And this was his crush!

Y/n tried to distract herself by going to grab the first aid kit. She snapped the box open, quicking picking up the bandages and antiseptic. She heaved a sigh, looking back up at Miles with a small smile. "I'll just disinfect your wounds and wrap 'em up. Think you can sit still for me?" She asked.

Miles chuckled softly, a grin tugging at his lips as he nods his head to her. "Yes ma'am..." He replied, trying to make the situation sound less awkward, but it really just ends up with his poor attempt to sound cool.

He watched Y/n disinfect his wounds, looking away when the antiseptic made contact with his skin. She continued to work on his wounds and was about to start on the bandage when it dawned on her. "Uh..." She started, not exactly sure of how to say it as she looked up at Miles.

She gave him a sheepish smile, clutching the bandage roll on her chest. "I kinda, need you to remove your suit from your torso so I can uh... wrap it up." She mumbled, her cheeks flaring up at the idea of seeing Miles shirtless. She wasn't used to this, but knew that it was necessary if she wanted to treat him.

Miles was taken aback by her request, his heart jumps and the feeling of his wound was almost forgotten. A blush immediately sets in and his face flares with heat, his eyes darting towards her lips and back at his torso. His breath quickens and his words come out a bit jumbled. "Uh... sure... yeah... you can uh..." He faintly gestured towards his chest.

As the atmosphere around them turns awkward, shy and nervous all at the same time, Y/n gulped hard, trying to swallow down her nerves. She just tried to keep in mind that she wasn't trying to do anything inappropriate and just wanted to help him out. "Um... Do I remove a zipper or something? I don't... know how your suit works." She said, trying to find the words without making the situation worse.

The dark-haired boy swallowed, looking away and feeling almost embarrassed at the position they were in. He cleared his throat, cheeks remaining a faint shade of red. "Uh... um... there's a... zipper on the back." He murmured, pointing to his back.

The tension in the air makes Miles a bit uncomfortable and he wondered if she felt the same way. "Then can you uh... lean forward a bit?" Y/n replied, trying to ignore her heart racing as she raised herself up to her knees, shifting to move to his back where there was indeed a zipper.

Her fingers fumbled with the bandage roll, praying to whoever god or divine being that was listening in on them to help her out.

Miles nodded and leaned forward, making himself more accessible for her. He tried to ignore his hammering heart, his eyes staying glued on Y/n's bedroom floor. He moved a little as she went to his back. He took a glance to watch her, thinking that the zipper was quite easy to find but the sight of Y/n's fingers fumbling was adorable to Miles that he couldn't help but feel giddy.

Y/n scooted closer and was quick to work her hand to pull the zipper down, slowly revealing his toned back that made her breath hitch in her throat. She was sure the tension between them was palpable now that it was highly suffocating. Y/n continued to unzip him, pushing the suit off his shoulders and down his arms, showing more of his able-bodied frame. "I'll um... use the bandages now." She whispered, trying hard not to linger for too long.

Miles could feel the heat as the suit slowly peels off of his skin, watching it drop on his lap as it stopped just above his waist. He can almost feel the gaze of her eyes on every inch of his exposed skin, the image of her lips moving up and down across it playing over in his head. He mentally slapped himself for being such a creep.

His voice was a bit shaky as he answered her. "O-Okay sounds good," he replied.

Y/n began to wrap her arms around him, her fingers slightly grazing his skin as she circled the bandage to where his wound was. The feeling of the tips of her nails tracing his skin was enough to shoot goosebumps all over her body, and the fact that she had to lean close to the side of his face was making her vision kind of fuzzy.

She swears if he listened closely, he'd hear her thumping heart. "You should um, change the bandages in two days." Y/n murmured, her breath slightly fanning his jaw.

Miles inhaled sharply, the feel of Y/n's hands on his skin intensifying the already overwhelming emotions he was feeling. The sound of Y/n's voice, her breath hitting his skin, is almost enough to make him break down and melt into pudding right then and there on her floor.

Miles managed to respond, however, his words sound rushed and raggedy. "Right... two days," He echoed, taking a few deep breaths.

Y/n tried to quicken her work, clipping the bandage together once she's fully covered his wounds. She swiftly pulled away, eager to put some distance between them as she lets out heavy breaths, hoping to stop her heart from pounding so loudly in her ears. "Okay well, it's all done." She said, her voice barely above a whisper.

The now bandaged-up Miles looked down, nodding at Y/n as his cheeks turn a deeper shade of crimson than before while he moves to cover his torso with his suit once more, smoothly zipping up his back.

It's been a while since he's blushed this much and he knows Y/n was the only one capable of doing this to him just from her touch and that damn gorgeous voice of hers.

His eyes turn back up to look at Y/n. Miles didn't know what to do or say, wanting nothing more to just have the ground swallow him whole.

Y/n's eyes met his gaze, the silence between them seemingly getting louder. She didn't even know why she was getting so flustered, she barely even knew him as they haven't talked that much in school. But she couldn't deny that it felt as if there was something between them that she couldn't exactly comprehend.

She wondered how the hell would she look at him now during classes. "Did... you need anything else?" She suddenly spoke up, eager to break the silence.

"Uh... no.. no thank you, I'm... good." Miles manages to reply. He took in the sight of her lips and her eyes before looking away from her, scared that he might creep his crush out. He was definitely about to lose his goddamn mind any minute now.

Y/n tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, nodding mindlessly as she tried to keep her gaze down. Her entire body felt like it was on fire and she couldn't help but bite her lip at how awkward it was now.

She definitely did not expect her night to turn out this way, it was one thing to find Spiderman by her window asking for help with his wounds. It was another to find out that he was a classmate of hers. "Then... I'll see you at class?" She asked, looking back at him with a shy smile.

Poor boy could only nod with cheeks still red as ever. "Y-Yeah... see you at class Y/n." He said shakily. But he was internally screaming at himself, saying that he should do something now before the opportunity passes through him. He just has to do it. It's now or never.

"Can I um.. ask you something?"

Y/n nodded slightly, still trying to internally understand why she was feeling this way around Miles. "Yeah sure, what is it?" She asked, trying to keep her composure and to avoid her voice from stuttering or cracking. She was already embarrassed and nervous in front of him as it is and she didn't want to make it worse with how awkward she was probably being.

The heat in Miles' cheeks was almost unbearable and his heart continued to race the more he looked at her. This was nothing compared to how he'd linger on her in school, and he was just close to exploding. If anything, he just wants to reveal how he's been crushing on her since the first day of school.

"Are... are you free this weekend?" Miles asked, his words slightly rushed as he struggled to get it out of his lips. God can't he just get himself together for once?

Y/n's eyes widened at his question. She mentally asked herself if it was possible for her heart to leap out of her throat at how hard it was hammering inside her. Her mind went blank for a few seconds, feeling a bit hazy. "Yeah I am..." She said, attempting to sound normal in sharp contrast with her raging emotions.

Her reply caused Miles to smile brightly, "Then, would you like to hang out?" He asked, "Just... us..." He quickly added, a bit quieter in that last part. He hopes she would say yes and that it wouldn't have any weird consequences. Miles couldn't believe he was finally asking his crush out.

Before Y/n could even reply, she was already nodding slowly as if her body had a mind of its own. A smile lingered on her lips, her eyes holding a tinge of nervousness and anticipation. "That's totally cool with me."

Miles was beaming now, his whole body vibrating with the overflowing happiness he was feeling right now. He cleared his throat though, trying to contain the excitement inside him. "Okay, I'll... see you this weekend then," He said as he tried to stop the huge grin threatening to appear on his face.

She said yes!

Y/n couldn't help but laugh at his reaction, feeling a light flutter in her chest from the look on his face. The atmosphere around them had become lighthearted now, sensing something blossoming between them. "Yeah I'll see you then, Miles."

Fin.

Taglist: @ii01vp @laylasbunbunny @missusmorales @fiannee @faeriesberries

(if you want to be on the taglist feel free to let me know!)

More of my Miles content here babes!

[fandomfluffandfuck]

Things that drive Bucky insane,

Steve's itty bitty waist, his plump lips that buck wants to bite like a strawberry, Steve's inability to shut up while watching TV

Oh, ho, ho, do not tempt Bucky to list the things about Steve that drive him insane sexually and generally because Steve's a little shit because you will be there for literal days if not years.

This is a nonehaustive list that you have begun, and we can add so many things:

Steve's itty bitty, teeny tiny waist that his fingers can't help but dig into while they're fucking doggy style, Bucky pulling Steve back onto his cock at the same time that he shoves as deep into him as possible. He wants Steve to wear a bruised-in corset of his handprints across his waist at all times, healing factor of the serum be damned.

Steve's plump lips that he wants to bite until they're puffy, hot, and glistening wet from the abuse.

Steve's inability to shut the fuck up during TV episodes and movies meaning that Bucky has to have subtitles on so he doesn't miss critical plot points. The only thing already supersized about Steve before the serum was his mouth--the fuckin' loudest mouth in Brooklyn. Bucky hates to love that mouth so much.

Steve's blush. Enough said.

Actually, no, not enough said about Steve's blush. There can never be enough said about that pretty, baby pink to dark, deep red color. Bucky gets unspeakably hot seeing the flushed, burning red shells of his ears when he's fucking Steve from behind. Bucky could watch the way his blush spreads in slow motion for hours, days, weeks--he could watch it on loop if Steve would let him video it. It starts high on his cheeks as blotches of color, spreads over the crooked bridge of his nose, floods his entire face from his hairline down to his cut jaw, leaks down his throat, finds its way to his chest, crests the hills of his tits, surrounding his perky, pink nipples, and fades down to the lower part of his flat, smooth stomach. If Bucky's lucky, he can get Steve to blush so hard, so feverishly hot with embarrassment, that the small of his back gets colored, too.

Steve's whole hobby of running off into alleys to get into fights. No longer getting into it with men three times his size, mostly because that's physically very hard to do these days, yet all the same in principle and ego.

Steve's golden hair fresh from a lay--sticking up in tufts from having Bucky pull at it, hands in his hair, directing Steve's empty-headed, glazed-over stare wherever he wants it or pulling his whole head onto his dick, fucking his fucked-out face. That look makes Bucky feral. The dumb look in his eyes and the dumber look of his gaped-open lips, all his muscles gone slack in his face save for the carved-in depression between his drawn-together eyebrows. Sprawling pleasure.

Not just after they fuck, though, Steve's golden hair when he wakes up in the morning. Ruffled like a baby chick. That look never fails to make Bucky crush him into a full-body hug, cuddle session because he's out of his mind with affection. There's something about all those achingly familiar cowlicks.

Steve's golden hair darkened after a shower, seeping rivers of water that eagerly streak down his squeaky-clean, hot-water-red skin, conforming to every curve and dip of his body. Bucky will never stop wanting to lick every drop of water off of him when he's fresh out of the shower or bath or pool or--you get it.

Steve's body.

Steve's tits. Bucky is a caveman, thinking about Steve's tits. They're ripe and so fucking grabbable, leaving Bucky with no words, just a low, hungry growl in the back of his throat, and if he keeps going on about them, if he keeps thinking about them, he's going to seek out his man like a predator stalking prey. Then, Steve won't be able to peel his teeth off of him for hours, being gnawed at like a bone to a wild dog.

Steve's whole goody-two-shoes, golden-boy act around people who don't know him but know Captain America. It always gets under his skin, frustrating him, making him huffy and wanting to start cracking jokes that would make army boys from back in the day do a dull spit take with how disgustingly dirty they are.

Steve's waist deserves a second mention.

And if his waist gets two mentions, then maybe his ass needs three. He looks ripe there, too, a work of art designed to leave everyone who admires it drooling, full of primal hunger. He's sculpted like a Roman statue. A young God.

Steve's stubbornness, a fucking donkey, an ass, gets a hundred mentions if his waist gets two and his ass has three. Bucky can't believe he volunteers to run after him on the regular.

Jesus wept, Steve's stomach. Bucky wants to kiss his stomach and feel the way it clenches and contracts under his mouth. Reacting so beautifully to the force of overwhelming pleasure, squirming until he's shaking, spasming on Bucky's cock shoved deep inside him.

Those miiiiiiiile long legs. Strong and smooth and carrying him with determination that's dragged them both outta hell.

Those legs drive Bucky insane for another reason, too, not just how shapely they are--that determination. If Steve would learn to walk away from a single fucking fight, Bucky would be saved another lifetimes worth of years in stress alone. Steve's legs always seem to propel him toward danger. Steve's legs, tender and vulnerable, with Steve's penchant for only using his shield to protect his upper half.

Steve's ability to, without fail, misplace his phone and then make them late out the door when they need to leave because he can't find it. He always has to resort to pouting until Bucky calls it, unveiling the fact that it's right where Bucky told him to look but he didn't. Obstinate fuck.

The fat, soft little pillow of his perineum, obscenely cute and pink and oh-so sensitive, between his legs, tucked behind his balls but before his hole. Hidden from prying eyes other than Bucky's. And pry Bucky does--

Steve's cheeks. Bucky has to pull his cheeks apart, spreading him until he squeaks with embarrassment, his cute, tight little hole clenching, winking at Bucky like a hidden treasure between his fat asscheeks. Bucky wants nothing more than to pry that sweet hole open. He wants to lick it, to finger it, to fuck it. He knows he owns it, and that drives him insane. He wants to own it again and again and again. He wants to overpower the serum that knits Steve back up tight after ever fuck and leave him ruined and gaping.

Steve's dick always gets him to that feral intensity, whether Bucky's just looking at it in all its objective beauty--its girthy thickness, its length with that slight curve, its dusky-pink color, its eagerness, twitching, leaking, swelling, its veins, its fat head, all of it--or whether Bucky is feeling it, tasting it, using it, whatever. Anything. Everything. Everything about that dick is insane. Bucky's insane for it.

Steve's balls. Bucky slurps at them and teases Steve when he goes without an orgasm for a day, two, three, or maybe even a whole week when the missions get nasty, for how swollen and full they must feel. He's a fucking spiller. He overflows with cum when he orgasms. It's the hottest shit.

Steve's feet, even. The handsome, high arches of his feet, the skin surprisingly soft like a baby's. Sweet and vulnerable. Bucky can't help but want to dig his thumb into the soles of his feet to make Steve moan with relaxation, reflexively kicking his leg out like he has since he was a kid. Foot rubs that turn into tickle fights are totally worth the accidental kicks to his chin that Bucky suffers.

Steve's never present survival instincts. Bucky will always be a little angry after he pulls a stunt where his self-sacrificial bullshit is on display. It doesn't matter if it's a grenade, a lacking parachute, or whatever else, it always drives Bucky up the fucking wall. Goddamnit, Rogers.

Steve's seeming need to crawl out of his own skin with an orgasm--arching his back, shaking from head to toe, screaming through his teeth or gasping in a silent, open-mouthed scream, clawing at Bucky or at anything within his reach, acting like it's bigger than him. Bigger and enough to give Bucky an ego, fueling his fire, making him want to do it again and again and again until there is no way Steve can keep going, so he collapses. Crumbled. Overwhelmed.

To cut this short, shorter than the hours, days, weeks, months, years long list Bucky has for each bit of Steve that makes him turn into a mad man: everything. It's everything about Steve. The man's too much.

I blacked out and wrote this. I was just moving some asks around, saving them as drafts, and, uh, got carried away, I guess, lol. I hope you enjoyed 😘

[ieatangstforbreakfast]

Pairing ೃ⁀➷ 𝐄𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝟒𝟐! 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 x Fem! Reader

Summary ೃ⁀➷ Lovers have secrets of their own, no matter how much they come to trust each other, whether it be a past mistake or an unspoken trauma. For you and Miles, however, your secrets came in the form of hidden identities— one being a masked vigilante, and the other a mastermind.

Genre ೃ⁀➷ Forbidden love, mutual pining, angst♡

Tags ೃ⁀➷ Both are artists, reader is from a very wealthy family, both are living double lives, underaged smoking, reader is female and uses she/her pronouns, forbidden love (ish?), swearing, daddy issues, mommy issues, reader is unhinged, both are mentally unstable, lots of flirting.

Author's Note ೃ⁀➷ WHY IS THE HALLOWEEN CHAPTER PUBLISHED ON DECEMBER IDK IM SLOW, also politics yay ig— MENTIONS OF MY COUNTRY! 🇵🇭💥🇵🇭💥💪💪 Also uh VERY long chapter

Tag list ೃ⁀➷ @sakura-onesan @coffeeandtealol @luvjunie @noetophat @proudgojofucker @adorefavv @l0starl @depresssedcowboy

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟎: 𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐭

Summary ೃ⁀➷ You and Montrell seem to share a few qualities. In the midst of talks of politics with Miles, you find yourself parted from the reality you were raised in, instead finding a new world in Spirit Halloween.

This chapter is not sponsored.

FIC MASTERLIST

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".. You should've definitely worn a coat over that."

You fiddled with your sleeve, staring comfortably past the window and out into the shining streets of Brooklyn. The comment was unnecessary , but it didn't entirely fly past your ears— in fact you swallowed it like a bad egg, making your stomach churn. As you turned your head away from the window, you're brought back to acknowledge your brother, Montrell, sitting beside you with his hand over the wheel.

"I like it as it is." You answered. "It's soft, fluffy, and big. Fragrant too." Because it belongs to Miles.

"It's the first time I've seen you wear something so.." His words trace away, but even without finishing the sentence, you knew what he meant. Unsophisticated— a little too boyish in comparison to your usual, refined clothes. The classic sort of unrefined your dearest mother taught you not to embody.

"What? It's comfortable." Was your attempt of a justification. Montrell shrugs, and you catch a twitch in his eye.

Your family had similar, refined tastes. Montrell, like you, was taught to imbue stylishness in every aspect of his life. He was often Armani-clad. Brunello Cucinelli, Hermes— and every other European household name you could recall. But in special events, he usually sported suits specially tailored to his tastes. His palette was consistently ashen, monochrome, with hints of cherry red. Like his car, which had been only recently cleaned after the staff was updated with his upcoming arrival, a slick, grey Aston Martin. It was likely the peak symbolism of his tastes.

You were never really fond of vehicles, particularly their strong, Italian leather scents (Or stench, as you called it). It was because of your sensitive nose that you often requested the seats to be replaced with anything but leather. Scentless polyester was your more preferred option. Leather alone was enough to urge your stomach to clear out your last meal, by ascending to your esophagus.

"I'm not insulting your tastes. I'm glad you're exploring new aesthetics." He manages to lure out his teeth, a compliment— a not-so-good one at that. "What is this?.. Like, street style? Grunge?.. What's that other one— e-girl, I believe? Or was it Emo?"

"You sound not twenty-five years old."

"Don't be mean. The idea of it is new to me, okay?" He clears. "I haven't seen you in three years. The last time I saw you, mom was the one in charge of your wardrobe. I only ever saw your pictures and you seemed more high-end. Saint Laurent, Dior, Dolce Gabbana."

"Those are my brands, I'm just taking a break. I'm not a walking advertisement. I don't want to get robbed in the middle of Brooklyn either."

With a three-second pause, Montrell looks at you and queried.

"Does that jacket belong to a boy?"

You sit right up, ready to defend yourself when Antonne adds. "You would have to introduce him to me immediately— I won't stand aside while some boy prances around your presence. You're sixteen, and that's a prey-able age for stupid and good-for-nothing men… Unless,” He pauses. “You’re gay.”

"What— What are you talking about!?” You feigned ignorance. “I'm not g— this is— it doesn't belong to a.. Well, it does belong to a boy, but it's my friend's jacket okay?"

Oh, the way Miles would glare at you had he been there.

"Don't try to outsmart me." He shot back. "You’ve got little to no friends.”

You parted your lips. “You’re being mean.”

“I’m only stating the truth.” He sighs. “You’re too condescending, and you hate people.”

“And your sources are what? A small interaction I had when I was twelve?”

Montrell grows uneasy a bit, tapping his nails over the thinly veiled compartment. ".. So who is he?" He starts. "From which family? Who are his parents? And how did the both of you meet?"

"That's none of your business, Mon." You sighed, running a hand across your face. "I'm not seeing him, I'm simply hanging out with another friend. Nothing more, nothing less."

"Well, it surely wouldn't hurt for me to meet this friend of yours, then? If he's not a boyfriend."

Your mouth hung open, a steady sigh escaping your lips while you sink a little deeper into your seat. As a hand runs across your cheek, you looked at Montrell as he eases the car down to a red light.

"He doesn't know that I'm a Chávez."

ＢＥＥＰ

Suddenly, you're jolted to a sudden halt— nearly flying out of your seat upon Montrell's way of hitting the brakes. You grabbed onto the board before you with widened eyes and a curse in your mouth.

He remains calm, but slightly irked.

At that moment, he pulls a finger to his lips as if to hush you. He signals with another finger as it leads up to boost the music from the radio. The song blasts, and swiftly, he takes his jug hidden by the side of his seat, unscrewing the top before pouring some of the water onto his palm, flicking at the air conditioner.

Oh, he was checking if the car was bugged.

You hold out your hand, gesturing him to give you some of the water. Together, the both of you took care of the recording devices, from the front of the wheel to the back of the car. Upon gathering all of them, you stuffed it all inside the water bottle, permanently eradicating its usage.

Finally, Montrell places his hands on the wheel and speaks.

“I want you to be honest with me, [Y/n], and cut out any of the bullshittery.”

You feared that at that moment, you and Montrell weren’t brother and sister, but rivals in a battle for power.

ＳＨＯＵＬＤ ＷＥ ＥＡＴ ＹＯＵＲ ＢＲＯＴＨＥＲ？

Your finger twitches.

Wait.

“Does he make you happy?”

The question comes off a little too similar to tasteless poison. It’s a gamble in itself— and it leaves you sitting upright and crossing your legs.

“He makes me feel alive,” Was your starter. “That’s a power no other boy could do, and it’s a rarity, since I’ve always lived for other people, but he makes me feel like I’m living for myself.”

A short hum exits his lips. “And your happiness? Does he make you happy?”

You harshly swallowed. “What difference would it make if I tell you that he does make me happy?”

Montrell’s gaze narrows a bit, the heel of his boots pressing against the gas as the green light shone. “… I ought to applaud you for your sneakiness if by now, dad still doesn’t know anything about his existence.. Unless,” Gulp. “He ordered you to spy on him.”

“And for what reason?”

“It could be anything,” His grip on the wheel tightens like the coil of a noose. “Hostage, information, any of the latter. I’m not sure why father would send you off to spy on a fifteen-year-old boy, but I’m sure the truth’s far deeper than petty business rival bullshit.”

Your mind blanks.

“It’s nothing like that. I just.. Like him, that’s all.”

“Are you sure?”

“Why would I lie to you about how much he means to me?”

“Because we’re not just siblings, [Y/n],” He whispered. “If anything, we’re not a normal family, but, I’m here for you because I think you’re a good kid, even if everyone else says you’re not.”

“Cease the speech, Mon. I’m not a good person. Stop romanticizing me.”

“But why?” He adds. “Is it because you managed the media and the hotel?”

And hearing those words, you come to face the fact that there was a reason Montrell was your father’s favorite. The effortless way he’s able to read every situation, the effortless way he managed to read through your emotions. It was a talent you could only wish for.

“It was so obvious, you know.” He chuckled. “I knew— I already knew before I came home.”

“Why?”

“Because Antonne handles things messily. He makes decisions without thinking about the consequences, and he despises planning things on the long run. Dad wouldn’t trust anyone outside the family after what happened with Mom, nor would he allow just anyone to handle such shaky affairs. It’s not like it’s beyond father’s morality to hire his own children and calling it practice.”

“What evidence do you have?”

Montrell took one look at you. “The Warehouse. It’s said that it was recently burnt, and that Antonne had to fight the Prowler, but Antonne wouldn’t have had the time to take care of all that because he was investigating you.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” You spat.

“Also, no one but family takes care of the Warehouses.”

“No— I know that, fuck that. You were going to find out one way or another, but what the fuck was Antonne investigating me for?”

Your brother simply shrugs, his shoulders dropping comically.

“It was about that boy.”

“What!?” Your voice breaks a little. “Jesus fuck, what is wrong with him!?”

“Evidently, he’s worried about you.”

You snorted. “Worried!? Worried my ass!” The vulgar way you spoke caught Montrell so off-guard that he had to look at you twice to check if you were still the same person. “I’d rather believe the world’s ending. Antonne and I stopped being siblings the moment he dropped responsibility for all those who were killed, forcing me to step up and do damage control because Dad stopped trusting everyone else.”

“Well, that’s understandable.”

“Plus, there’s nothing to be worried about. The boy I’m meeting he’s.. He’s just.. I like him. That’s it. I know it’s hard to believe since most of the time I’m a conniving bitch, but I genuinely, wholeheartedly like him. Like how a normal teenage girl ought to like a boy.”

Montrell hums. “… Alright, I’ll believe you. It’s not too far off from unusual, when I’m also facing a similar issue.”

You blinked. “What do you mean by that?”

“… You see, [Y/n], I’ve got also got a girl for myself.” He announced so suddenly. “Met her at Oxford. Like your boy, she bore no idea of who I was.. Who I am, and understandably, and I know you know about this too— but it’s a refreshing feeling to not be recognized as the potential inheritor of a business empire.”

You part your lips, processing the information with confusion all over your expression. “But— there were no reports of you being in a relationship.”

“Of course there weren’t,” He laughs. “I had her carefully hidden from everyone’s sights.”

And that could mean two things. You didn’t want to think of the latter.

“Maybe it’s genetic,” Montrell added, turning the wheel. “Father, mother, me, Antonne, you. Making stupid decisions for stupid ideals— rather, stupid romance. It’s frightening to think how Malachi’s going to inherit our tendencies.”

“I’m not,” Your heart raged within the cage of your ribs. “I’m not like that to him. I can never allow myself to trap him.”

“You can either be one of them.” Montrell sighed. “Mom or dad, I mean.”

The good ol’ bird or the cage.

“But I won’t be able to stand by and watch when that does happen,” He straightens his lips. “I can’t let anything happen to you.”

You can hear the voice whisper back in your mind.

“Which is why I’ve got to meet.. [Y/n]?”

Your hands slithered up against your ears in an attempt to block out the voice.

“[Y/n], are you okay?”

You gasped for air, a familiar voice taunting you like the one from your dreams. Except, this one didn’t speak like the voice of the symbiote, rather, it endowed this sweet allure as though it could sing you a lullaby to sleep.

Before the symbiote, there was someone else who plagued your thoughts and mind and actions.

Before the symbiote, there was your mother.

“Stop the car.” You croaked, palms still over your ears. Montrell speaks, but his words were blurred out into the void of nothingness. The more he speaks, the more your mind shreds itself into pieces. After a long second of thinking, Montrell finally pulls up by the sidewalk, taking his hands off the wheel and pulling one in front of you. He waves it hesitantly, snapping you from your thoughts.

“Breathe, [Y/n], breathe.”

“I-I,” You lengthily stammered. “Mon, I’m sorry, but can I go?” As he’s about to answer, you add. “I’ll introduce you another day, I promise, I just, I need to be alone right now.”

“But isn’t it unsafe? We’re in the slums, you’ll never know how—“

“Mon, I can fight.” You ended the conversation with that alone. Hesitantly, he nods and unlocks the door. You reach for the handle, moving along with the click as you turned to leave.

“Can you at least message me when I can pick you up?”

You looked over to Montrell.

“… Okay.”

ＳＬＡＭ.

“Miles!”

And he could already hear you from a block away, jogging with steady and loud steps.

Without even looking up from his phone, he unconsciously opened his arms to welcome you with an embrace— closing in immediately upon your arrival. You felt like you were going to stain his jacket with your glossed lips, but you barely managed to care anymore at this point, as this hug was beyond a need. You clung onto his neck, burying your aching head into the nape of his collar, taking in this familiar scent of spice and wood. A subtle homage, or a reminder of your older brother, Montrell.

What was it about men and their perfume?

It felt like you hadn’t seen Miles in such a long, long time. It was like you were a child who’d parted from their favorite blanket for a little too long that it made you uneasy. You liked the world and space you had between his arms— it was your warmth, your only true home, and it was yours.

All yours.

“What’s wrong?” He cooed, simpering around with you in his arms.

“I just want to stay like this for a moment.” You whispered. “I need to steal the warmth off of you.”

“Well, nena, why are you only wearing my hoodie? It’s so cold out.”

“It’s not that.”

Miles’ ears metaphorically perked up upon hearing you sniffle.

“Who the fuck hurt you? I’ll kill ‘em.”

Your lips curved into a smile.

Oh, Miles, you can’t possibly kill off a multi-million dollar industry.

“Can you kill a car, then? My brother drove me here and his car’s smell made me age twenty years,” You grumbled. “I’m boutta die at thirty-seven, I swear.”

“Your brother?” He lightly jolts away, eyes journeying from road to road in search of him. “God, where is he? Is he here?”

And at that moment, Miles subsequently fixes his posture, his words suddenly endowing some strange sort of politeness. You nudge at his shoulder, “I told him to drop me off somewhere else. I didn’t want him to meet you yet.”

“Awe,” He pouted. “Well, that’s aight. I’m gonna dress up real nice when I meet your family.”

“Uhuh,” You laughed. “And what are you going to be wearing?”

“I’m gonna borrow my unc’s suit, and I’ll talk business with yo father.”

“Only business you’ll be discussing with my father is your damn funeral, Miles. My papa don’t want me out here dating, that’s why he put me in private school.”

“With a face like yours?” He smugly grinned. “Your daddy’s kinda underestimating the power of your pretty face.”

“Oh, so you like me ‘cause I’m pretty?”

“Pretty fucking unbearable, that’s what you is.” The boy joked. “M’just kidding. I like you because you’re pretty much everything to me.”

Despite the fluttering of your stomach, you persevered with your little game. “Doesn’t answer anything— what do you like about me? Did you like my face or my personality?”

“I liked you ‘cause of your pretty face, and stayed for your amazing personality.” He answered as though he’d been preparing for the question his whole life.

“Amazing personality?”

“Extravaganza bonanza personality.”

“I’m not a banana split sundae, Miles.”

“Might as well should be with yo damn split personality.”

Your hands dangle away, Miles unconsciously attempts to reach for it but instead accepts defeat when you held his hand. “So where are we going for halloween spirit, exactly?”

“Halloween spirit?” He queried.

“Yeah, didn’t ya mention something about being in halloween spirit?”

Miles paused, holding back a loud laugh in the middle of the street. “My girl, I said I was in Spirit Halloween.”

“What the fuck is a Spirit Halloween?”

“Holy shit,” He verbalized. “You’re in for a scare, nena.”

And he meant those words a little too literally.

Growing up, it wasn’t within your household to make halloween one of your yearly traditions. Your father deemed it unnecessary, while your mother was anything but fun (Same difference, really). Your brothers have celebrated halloween, one way or another, but since you were the child closest to your mother, you were anything but free of her beliefs.

So being greeted with a large, bloodied skeleton first-thing upon entering the building was a first for you.

“WHAT THE HELL IS EVEN THAT!?”

Miles simply explodes into laughter, holding his phone up just to record your reaction. You fall right back, hand still holding onto his. “Come on, nena, you can do it, let’s get past the entrance.”

“Miles, what in THE FUCK is that!?”

“Don’t be mean to your brother, ma.” He attempts to drag you inside as you sat down by the floor with petrification scribbled all over your face. “[Y/n], come on, introduce me to the rest of your family.”

“FUCK YOU!” You whisper-yelled.

“It’s not even moving yet, come on, [Y/n].”

“THAT’S SUPPOSED TO MOVE!?”

After managing to drag you past the animatronics (Which Miles described was a work out in itself), the both of you marveled at the isle where all the costumes were, skimming through the racks and looking at each and every picture. “Oh, Miles— look at this,” You pluck one out, the hanger dangling from your fingers. “It’s Emily from the corpse bride! Shit, I haven’t seen the movie since I was eight.”

“Look at this one, Ma, this shit’s so you.”

He pulls out an Elsa costume.

“Even got the white ass wig and everythin’.” He giggles as you playfully smacked his arm. “Let it go. Let it go.”

“Shut up.”

“Can’t hold this shit anymore!~”

“MILES.”

“LET IT GO!”

You tried to hush out his horrible singing, but the way he giggled was so infectious that you couldn’t help but giggle yourself. When bystanders started walking past the both of you with weird ogles in their gazes, you couldn’t help but put your hand over your mouth to muffle your laughing.

“Puñeta,” Miles added, pulling out a fucking teenage mutant ninja turtles costume. “You’ve got to fucking try this, ma.”

“Miles—“ You couldn’t even continue a sentence without wheezing.

You did eventually find a costume— unlike the original plan, the both of you couldn’t find a medieval patient dying of the bubonic plague, but Miles did manage to find a dark priestess costume along with a plague doctor costume.

“We’re like business partners. The patients go to me, and when they die, you send them off.” Was what he said.

“Wouldn’t that make you a really horrible doctor?”

“Doctor’s still a doctor, ma. I mean, it’s the police’s job to protect all of us but if that’s really the case, they’re doing a pretty fucking horrible job at it, but hey, we still call them the police.”

You looked at the mirror, watching the confusion materialize over your face as you heard Miles’ rant behind the curtain. As you clumsily tried on your costume inside the changing room, you couldn’t help but ask. “What makes you say that? That they’re doing a horrible job at protecting y’all?”

As you zipped up the bolero, you hear Miles’ curtain open.

“Well, Ma, brutality’s been upper than hell compared to the last few decades, so’s poverty. For the last four years, the economy’s been going downhill, which made us have a recession. ‘Cause of that, a lot of the cops had to kiss up some of the wealthy folks’ asses to keep their jobs.”

“So that makes them corrupt?”

“That makes them desperate,” He alluded. “No one wants to die of starvation, and they all have families to feed. It’s divide and conquer, really.”

“Divide and conquer?— oops,” You pick up the fallen headdress from the floor. “Expand on that.”

Miles hums a bit. “Imagine the crab mentality. I’ve read about it before for a philosophy research, and it’s a term used in the Philippines. Put a fuck ton of crabs in a bucket. You’re gonna see the crabs drag each other down in order to pull themselves up, but in the end, none of them ain’t gonna reach the top.

Because the true problem was never the crabs, it was the person who put those crabs inside the bucket in the first place. Same goes for us, the poor. We all have to fend for ourselves so we put others down— because if we’re too busy surviving, we don’t have to pay no attention to the rich who put us all inside the damn bucket in the first place.”

The way he described it was so familiar.

It was like he was describing you with your siblings.

ＨＥ’Ｓ ＳＭＡＲＴ. Ｉ ＬＩＫＥ ＨＩＭ.

Hearing the symbiote’s approval echo in your mind, you couldn’t help but smirk.

He’s not just smart. He’s a genius.

ＤＯＮ’Ｔ　ＯＶＥＲＰＲＡＩＳＥ　 ＨＩＭ,

ＳＷＥＥＴＨＥＡＲＴ

Don’t call me that, ever.

His experiences and your experiences were similar despite being so contradictory, and it didn’t make sense. You were rich, so extraordinarily wealthy that the recession was never a part of your problem, hell, the decline of the economy was never your problem— and Miles was struggling along with his family to keep themselves afloat.

And you could never put yourself in his shoes, as you knew nothing of the loss he felt.

But the both of you were kids in line to shape the future, and if the generational trauma ever continued, you’d only end up the oppressor, but you knew, Miles was going to tear himself apart from the title of ‘victim’, and he was going to stand up against you— maybe not now, maybe not tomorrow,

But soon, as villain versus hero.

You pushed the curtain away, unveiling the costume to Miles.

But rather than seeing him, he was nowhere to be found.

You lifted the veil, stepping out of the dressing room to take a peek at him, but you couldn’t find any trace of his broad-shouldered figure anywhere. You softly called out for his name, head spinning from constantly turning. Your feet took you forward. You try ignore the giggly and bloodily-clad animatronics whose haunting stares scared you far worse than any unwanted confrontation with any of your family members.

And there he was, talking to a girl.

That sort of closeness— the way they spoke. Laughing, catching up, or something like that. Acquaintances? Friends, maybe?

Something ugly pricked at your skin from within.

ＨＵＮＧＲＹ.

Montrell’s words began to spiral inside your mind. ‘Father, mother, me, Antonne, you. Making stupid decisions for stupid ideals— rather, stupid romance.’

ＨＵＮＧＲＹ.

The feeling seared your veins, making you dig your nails into the bed of your palm. Your knuckles quivered from the intensity, like a sort of anger you felt when you saw any of your elder brothers being praised for the bare minimum, except.. This one felt different.

ＨＵＮＧＲＹ.

You watched the way her braids fell, wondering if you could pull it off with such grace. High society’s always been too picky, which forced you to drown out most of your interests, but now you couldn’t help but feel a little envious. You wanted to wear the clothes you wanted to wear, try out the makeup you wanted to try.

It felt like your mother’s shadow was being cast on you, making you embody the very phase you feared, your mother’s daughter—

and like your mother, you were quick to get jealous.

And it devoured you, whole.

You faltered, taking a step back before fully pivoting your heel and running off back to the dressing room. You shut the curtain behind you, only now finding the symbiote staring right at you through the mirror— its grotesque body mirroring your move.

“For a girl who knows how to handle most of her emotions, you can’t seem to handle jealousy well.”

“I’m not jealous. I’m just tired.”

“And I’m Sofia Vergara.“

“How the fuck do you know who Sofia Vergara is?”

“Memories, my dear.”

You felt a surge of panic take course of you.

“This is unhealthy. I can’t be like this, I don’t even know who she is.” You exasperatedly murmured. “I need to calm down— Miles and I aren’t even official yet.”

“Exactly, so be the lady that you are and introduce yourself, damn it. You have no friends.”

“I have friends.” You seethed. “I’m popular as hell in Acadia.”

“If I had a dollar for every friend you have, I’d be the one giving you a poverty rant.”

“[Y/n]?” Miles pulled you out of your thoughts yet again.

“Y-Yeah?” You called out, whipping your head back. “You done?” He asks, shuffling a bit. You hesitantly open the curtain to reveal yourself, your sights eventually welcoming the image of Miles dressed in all black— with a long, beak-like mask over his head. As you were too busy trying to find his little acquaintance, Miles gawks at you from behind his heavy façade.

The faux black silk draped over your curves seamlessly, the crimson of the bolero gleaming beneath the light as it contrasted against the dress. You lifted the veil past the dark crown like a bride, lashes fanning up to meet him by his gaze.

“Oh, wow.” He sighed. “Wow, you— the woman that you are.”

There was something about the way he looked at you.

It was like you were all that consumed his mind and being. Nonetheless, it was the truth.

But even now, as Miles held out his hand for you to hold, you couldn’t help but wonder how many times he’ll look at you like this until it manifests from love into something else.

“It’s a halloween costume, Miles, not a wedding dress. I can’t possibly be lookin’ all that great.” You took his hand, drawing closer to the mask. “God, you look like a big bird.”

Lost in the way you looked, Miles’ hands unconsciously trailed around your waist, looking down on you with a dumb stare that you couldn’t fathom. Suddenly, the both of you were disrupted by an abrupt cough. You both turn your heads, finding the same girl you’d seen him talking to just a few minutes ago.

“Hey,” She beamed, waving her hand at you. “Hope I ain’t disturbing anything?”

“You definitely were.” Miles’ gaze narrowed. The girl laughed, her white grin wide like a crescent moon. You couldn’t help but think, she’s got such a pretty smile.

“Mind introducing me, Miles?”

With a hand still on your waist, Miles gestures towards you. “This is my lady,”

“[Y/n],” You held out your hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Both Miles and the girl stared at your open palm.

“Wow, ain’t she prim and proper? Like a princess.” She teased, accepting your hand. “I’m Amadi, nice to meet you too.”

Her palm was warm and smooth, decorated by the lacey sleeve of her periwinkle sweater. She stood in heeled boots, a couple inches taller than you— an inch or two off of Miles’ height. As she shook your hand, the girl couldn’t help but helplessly marvel at you as though you were a statue carved from marble.

“God, how in the hell did you land on Miles? You’re just,” Amadi’s hands airily traced your figure. “You’re just wow. I-Is Miles keeping you hostage or sum? You don’t look nuthin like human. You look outta this world.”

“Thank,” You stifled a laugh. “Thank you?”

“I can hear you, Madi.” Miles churned.

“M’just stating truths ‘cause—“ She clicks her long, acrylic nails. “Why she be lookin’ outta this world while you’s lookin like you snuck onto earth?”

You placed a hand over your mouth, trying your hardest, you very hardest, not to laugh. Miles pulled you back away from her with a disintegrating glare.

“Tu puta madre,” He spat. “.. Go back to Monique.”

“Monique?”

“Mi novia— love of my life, we’re off halloween shopping too. Gotta big date tomorrow, we gon be watching horror movies n shi.” Amadi added, decisively looking around. “Speaking of which, Ionno where she went.”

“She might be with Voshon.” Miles piqued.

“Voshon?” Your head started to spin with the amount of new names you were processing. “That’s a.. Interesting name.”

“Mama was gonna name him Joshua, but my dad wanted to combine or grandparents’ names together, so— Vaughn and Shontelle.. Voila, Voshon.”

“Oh, he’s your brother?” You queried. Amadi hums. “Unfortunately. I mean, I’d always preferred being an only child but we all don’t get what we want most of the time.“

“Oh, I definitely get that.”

“No way, you got brothers too?”

“Yeah, I’m the only girl.”

“Can’t imagine the mess in your house, damn.. Hey!”

Amadi soon joins a pair, one with a much brighter and pinker style and the other satisfied with a mere hoodie for marking a fashion statement. You fiddled with the skirt of your dress, evidently nervous as a million thoughts flooded your mind. You weren’t the friendliest person out there, nor were you the most likable out of all your siblings.

It was never easy for you to make friends. Too many found you overbearing, the rest condescending. Your position was overwhelming enough for any other person your age, and those who knew about you were ambitious to make connections and forge deals.

What if they won’t like me?

What if I mess up?

What if I come off as too condescending?

But Miles took your hand, grabbing your attention from the spur of your overthinking. He took off his mask, easing you with the familiarity. One look at him and home found its way back to you.

“You wanna meet ‘em, ma?” He asks.

With an anxious smile, you nodded.

“Of course.”

And like a whirlwind into the night, you were off.

For the first time, you part yourself entirely from the world you knew and entered Miles’ world.

“Oh, hello!” Bubbly and sweet, Monique greeted you with such warmth that it melted away all your previous worries. “Oh my god— don’t tell me,” She glances over to Amadi for confirmation. “Are you the [Y/n] Miles always talks about!?“

“Nica— please—“

“You ARE!”

She spoke of you as though you’d been a legend told to the latter, like a tooth fairy. “It’s so nice to finally meet you! We’ve been dying to meet you and– wow, you’re gorgeous.”

“Thank you,” Your cheeks were bound to be flushed. “I think you’re very pretty too. I-I really like your hair and your makeup, it’s super well done.”

“Awe, thank you so much!” She placed a hand over your heart, wholeheartedly touched by your compliment. Monique looks at Miles with a pout.

“… Miles, can you fight?”

“Fuck you mean ‘Can you fight?’, I will square you the fuck up r’now.”

His friends were sweet— welcoming without the need of a surname. Monique, with her free and silk-like curls, was a firecracker who liked glitter on her lids and her nails and her clothes. Amadi was ever-so loving of her, despite preferring black and chains for her aesthetic. The two girls were a stark contrast of one another— and unsurprisingly, Monique already had her mermaid costume prepared and was just helping out Amadi pick her Dracula ensemble.

Voshon, although quieter, was one you recognized as similarly withdrawn and reserved like Miles when the both of you first met. Amadi described him to be a total nerd, and quirky— later proven when he and Miles chased each other with fake swords, running across the aisles while exchanging hits.

When Voshon tosses over the sword to you, however, chaos truly ensued.

“GO GET HIM!” The girls cheered as you and Miles managed to create a questionable chase scene of a Priestess holding a Minecraft sword chasing after a Plague Doctor with a scythe. Onlookers couldn’t help but watch on as the both of you squabbled.

Like a livid cat and its cheesy mouse.

“Esto en un mamey. You too fuckin’ slow!” He teased in between a heave. “Can’t catch me for shit!”

Shit went down as you bent over to take off your boots.

“That ain’t changing, nun— aye puta.” Miles narrowly avoids one of the shoes that came flying at his direction. He looks over like a child in awe, head following the direction of wherever it went.

“I never knew you were Latina, mam– MIERDA LOCO, CEBOLLA COÑO!” And a couple other curses exit his tongue as you tackled him to the ground with a loud crash.

You let a hearty, chesty giggle escape your lips. The adrenaline got you cackling like a comical villain, that even Miles couldn’t help but laugh helplessly along with you. Seeing you like that, with your hair all wild and your smile at its wildest, it softened his whole being.

“… You’re so pretty, mami.” He airily sighed with a cough to the side.

“.. Sure.” Was all you could answer.

And of course, after getting an earful from the staff, you and Miles finally ended your tiny sword-fighting sequence. After changing out of the costumes, all five of you prompted to test out the animatronics.

It was about taking turns.

“AYE, MAMAHUEVO.”

And it was also when you realized, Amadi was Dominican.

You learned a lot of Spanish that day, especially from one step of a button to activate an animatronic.

Everyone’s mouths were.. Extraordinarily filthy.

But you liked it— from watching bursting and spinning animatronics screaming bloody murder at you, to going around talking about all kinds of things with his friends.

“God, I’ve always wanted one of those.” Amadi points at the lace parasol one of the mannequins were holding. “It’s so Morticia Addams.”

“Well, maybe you should get it.” You suggest. “It’d look great with your vampire costume.”

Amadi sighed. “I only got money for the costume, can’t buy sum like that. Maybe I’ll just DIY it with my nana’s old umbrella.”

You squinted a tiny bit, eyeing the sign that announced in bold lettering: $16.99.

And for privileged little you, the sixteen was just change for a hundred dollar bill, which made you inadvertently blurt out. “I can pay.”

“Nah, girlie, it’s gon’ take me whole two to three months ‘fore I can afford to pay you back.”

“I mean, it’s fine—“ You realized just how spoiled you were sounding. “I recently got my paycheck so I guess I can buy you something.”

“Where do you work, though?” Monique added, clinging onto your other hand as the left one was occupied by Miles. “Like do you work at a café or a restaurant?”

“Family business,” You vaguely replied. “Boring stuff. But my dad pays me well enough, so I guess I can live with it— so maybe I can pay for that.”

“No, no, no.” Amadi answered, accent thick. “Really, we can pay for it ourselves.”

But you couldn’t ignore it. Not when you could see Miles openly contemplating on buying the costume or not— as he’s been fiddling with the price tag the whole time you two were walking. And you’ve seen the way Voshon’s been eyeing the diamond sword for a while now.

So you made up your mind.

“I’m just gonna go to the bathroom for a moment— can you hold this for me, Miles?” You gently nudged your costume towards him before walking away without another word. As you did so, the group gawked in confusion.

“… Where’s she going? The bathroom’s that way.”

Ring. Ring. Ring.

“Hello, this is Mr. Chávez’s office, how may I help you?”

A simple, roundabout greeting, said over and over for the last few years. Usually followed by a “No, he’s not available at the moment” or a “I’ll take word”, but for the first time, the secretary stammers in embarrassment with her nails clutching onto the phone for dear life. The old man behind the wide, glass doors took note of his poor assistant’s sudden faltering, yet he maintains naturally unfazed.

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll put him on the phone with you right this instant.”

Stumbling in her high heels, the secretary staggers inside the man’s office with the whole telephone in her hand.

“Sir, you’ve got an important call.”

“I’m busy, Nicole.”

“It’s your daughter— Miss [Y/n]?” She uttered your name as though you’d materialize out of thin air after chanting it three times. She was horrified of you.

With a click of his tongue, your father picks up the phone.

“What do you want?” He instantly asks of you.

“Dad, remember how you’ve always claimed that the celebration of halloween is unnecessary?”

Without even uttering an answer, you decisively went on.

“Well, in November, there is a tremendously large spike of sales when it comes to anything horror-related. It’s always been capitalist to clad November as a scary month in order to convince people to buy into scary things—“ He hears something tumble in the background. “— and since late October to early November is usually one of the hotel’s lowest months, I figured my proposal would be a perfect proxy for my apology for the way I acted during dinner.”

You didn’t even know what you were talking about at this point, but you were willing to try.

“.. What are you talking about?” He snaps.

“Well, I—“ You hesitated a bit. “I researched a bit, and I’ve come with an unsure solution.”

“What is it?”

“… Can we buy Spirit Halloween?”

[exorcqism]

hi!! i just read your intro and first can i just say, ayyyyy brooklyn and congrats on graduating!!!

for my request, it’s for our good boi choso. how would he react to falling in love with someone who previously had a bf who died during shibuya? 👀 (like, this first love but y/n’s second)

𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐎 𝐊𝐀𝐌𝐎

„𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐀𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐘”

: ̗̀➛ SENSITIVE CONTENT!!

: ̗̀➛ afab!reader, no nasty stuff. all fluff or the regular stuff. mature themes (attempted su*cide, depression, etc. if these said topics trigger you, please do not continue reading.) not proofread so i apologize in advance for any mistakes if they’re made.

: ̗̀➛ art creds by;; currently unknown. dividers are not mine, if you own these, you may claim them in comments.

: ̗̀➛ WORD COUNT;; 1.7K

* dark mode recommended

* do not copy this plot. i’m perfectly fine with inspirations but give creds. if this plot his stolen in any way, the post will be taken down and you will be blocked.

𝐃𝐀𝐊𝐎𝐓𝐀𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 ✉️🖇️;; hii wtw and thank you. and ykw this a good ass plot. reblog to support meeee and if you want more :D

red arrows ripped through the flesh of the non-sorcerers. their blood splattering all over the ground and whatever wall it could touch. it was hell. the average human wouldn’t even be able to process what it was like to be in the midst of the shibuya incident. and the survivors of shibuya…their stories were different.

a traumatic event. tears were shed as much as blood had been. memories flooded back into the mind of the blinded and they were set free from what they feared, vowing to protect what was valuable to them.

feeling like a monster, they stumble away. how could you hurt what you should’ve protected? the answers were impossible to find. they wanted change. they wanted to be released from such shackles that held them down.

dawn. you’re awake early. you glance around to find your partner but you immediately sigh. the sad feelings starting to rush into your head and you burst into tears. during the shibuya incident, your boyfriend had died. he promised that he’d come home after he ran a few errands but he never returned. that’s when you heard about the deaths. your heart sank and you felt sick. you couldn’t even place a finger on who could’ve done something as cruel as this.

you crawl out of bed and stagger into the bathroom, doing your hygiene. showering, cleaning your teeth, brushing your hair and throwing it into a messy bun. you had errands to run yourself so you’d put on something simple. a white shirt with baby blue hoodie on top with some grey cargos and a pair of high top dunks that matched your hoodie.

you make your way back into the bathroom and gave yourself some eye drops to remove the red from your eyes after crying for hours on end. you then put on some eyeliner. you decided to attempt to make yourself look presentable rather than depressed when you left your cozy apartment.

you’d apply lotion to your face so it wasn’t dry and ashy when the gentle winds that blew outside would pick up hit your face. you even put on lip gloss. you force a smile on your face and remind yourself that everything would be okay.

in town, it’s awkward being outside again. though, it looks like some people have recovered from the incident and healed from their emotional scars, you knew that was impossible for you at the moment. and you knew they were all putting on acts for the public. you wanted to grimace but you didn’t have the time to be angry.

you were walking into you bumped into someone. it was an accident, so you immediately apologized. when you looked up at them, you noticed it was a male who might’ve stood at the height of maybe 5’11 or even 6 feet. you quickly examined him.

‘purple eyes. brown hair…tied back into two fluffy ponytails. a black line across his nose. bored expression. is he sleep deprived? what is all that stuff around his eyes?’ you thought. after the two of you exchanged a couple words apologizing, you quickly scurried off. something about him made you suspicious. it was odd.

choso watched as you walked off, having an odd feeling in his chest. ‘what the hell is this?’ he wanted that feeling to die. to go away. but the longer he watched you leave, it just wouldn’t go. he shoved his hands into his pockets, sinking his bottom lip into his mouth and gently biting down.

pathetic.

he didn’t even know you, yet he was taking some kind of interest in you. you were a human. why should he take an interest in the likes of you? he didn’t know why himself. the half cursed spirit would stop his staring and pull himself back into reality, walking away to process what he had been thinking of.

it was becoming odd now. as the days go by, you seemed to keep seeing the spirit everywhere. even in your dreams. you couldn’t say that you were being followed though. you pinned it in the back of your mind as a coincidence. a coincidence that the random male you bumped into accidentally where everywhere you treaded your feet upon.

what was the next move? confrontation? talking to him? him talking to you? what would you even say to him? nothing? good answer. because that’s exactly what you were gonna do.

you were about to return to your lonely but cozy apartment. you’ve done what you had to do for the day and you were tired, eager to get some sleep even if it was only early in the afternoon.

the light turned white, registering that pedestrians could bypass the crosswalk while cars were forced to stop for you. as you began to walk, you weren’t aware of the car that was still speeding down the street. the second you stepped down onto the asphalt, you were immediately pulled back and the metal body zoomed past you. you were sure that it grazed you just a bit.

you turned and looked up to see that same man again. he was holding your wrist a bit tight but soon enough he let go of you. a breath escaped you as your heart pumped rapidly after almost dying.

“i…thanks,” you say after you were to catch your breath. choso was quiet. he’d shove his hands back into his pocket before mumbling something.

“are you hurt?”

his voice was deep. it was a voice that could shake the ground if he spoke any louder. you just looked at him. you didn’t know what to say. but you couldn’t just leave him there in awkward silence.

“i’m okay…” you mutter, “..thank you again.”

you didn’t know why but your heart was racing. you felt like you’d pass out right there if you didn’t calm down. you weren’t scared of the fact that you were almost killed by a car anymore.

it was him. you couldn’t put your finger on it. he had an effect on you and you didn’t even know his name. what were you thinking? you didn’t know.

“behave…” choso mumbled to himself, holding onto a chess piece, which ended up snapping in half after applying too much pressure against it between his thumb and two fingers. the pieces fell onto the floor and his tired eyes lowered.

“shit…”

you were driving him crazy. keeping him up late. throwing him off of his work. what the hell was so special about you that you were messing him up this badly?

he should’ve been asking himself this when he asked for your phone number when you bumped into each other for the umpteenth time now. you should’ve been asking yourself the same question also. he was in your dreams.

a man you didn’t know was in your dreams. in those dreams, you touched him. kissed him. held him. you never imagined that you’d do such a thing with a mystery man. well, you’ve known him long enough now. you could practically say you were acquaintances. those random coincidences turned into something that happened for months.

maybe you missed your boyfriend. there wasn’t anything wrong with that. you lost the man you loved the most above anyone else. the memories you had with him was colliding with the image of choso in his place.

it made him look perfect to you. choso was something you needed…no. not yet. not ever. you can’t do that. your dreams were setting you up for failure. you didn’t want anyone else but your deceased partner…but you knew he couldn’t come back.

you stared at the text from choso, asking you if you were okay with eyes filled with tears. the salty puddles slid from the corners of your eyes and fell onto your screen. you weren’t okay. you weren’t okay at all. the world was overwhelming you. why was this higher power yelling in your ear telling you to let go and feel the pleasure of another? someone that wasn’t yours.

the dreams. that’s what it was. they were causing you so much pain and you hated it. the voices in your head were telling you so many things that you just wanted it all to go quiet.

the bathtub was full and you say there, fully clothed, letting the water that was slowly stained with your blood consume you. your eyes closed and tears were forming in your eyes. you were feeling so much at once that it hurt.

ding.

an interruption.

your eyes flicker open and your irises travel down to the bathroom door, which was open, showing off your hallway. you climbed out of the bathtub, feeling weak and sore.

the doorbell rang again and it made your eye twitch. you quickly dried yourself off and changed into some new clothes then dragged yourself to the front door. you opened it and saw him again. the two of you made eye contact. you were feeling embarrassed, knowing you were just about to remove yourself from the land of the living a few moments ago.

“you’re bleeding,” choso begins, taking your hand gently and lifting your arm to scan for any more injuries. he seemed concerned, despite his facial expression and his deadpanned tone. you were about to snatch your hand away but you needed this. maybe you did need him.

“what happened?”

“nothing-” you answered, choking back on your words, trying not to cry, “nothing happened, i’m okay. i must’ve accidentally cut myself on something.” you add, trying to smile. but choso wasn’t taking that. he’d pull you into a hug. it made you feel like you had to confess everything to him. your emotions were overriding your original intentions. you felt like you were betraying yourself in some way.

“you’re not okay.” choso said. “tell me.”

his gentle but rough voice broke you. you finally put your arms around the 5’11 male and bursted into tears, confessing everything. shibuya, the fact that you lost your boyfriend, what you felt when you met him, the dreams, what happened moments ago. words spilled out of you like water in a shattered glass.

choso pressed your head against his chest, his hand holding the back of your head as he held you close. he comforted you with his words and soothing voice. he made you think everything would truly be okay.

your throat began to get sore with all your crying and your body felt exhausted. the second your eyes closed, you fell asleep in his arms. he was a bit surprised himself but he continued to hold you. he’d carry you to your couch, gently placing you down so you could sleep and adding a kiss on your cheek.

“dream of nothing but paradise and blue skies...”

𝐄𝐍𝐃.

⋆｡࿇ ·࣭࣪̇˖ 𖦹°༅༚

[tropes-and-tales-archives]

More Precious Than Rubies: Part 5a

This is an alternate timeline story that has a Rafael Barba track and a Sonny Carisi track. The two paths split off in part 3.

WC: 5223

TW: Idiots in love; smut (drinking but not impaired; PiV, unprotected). 18+ only.

AN: The prompt was "How about you make me?"

If Barba had been irritated by how much space you were taking up in his head before, he was doubly maddened now.  You weren’t just taking up space at this point – you were moved in and living rent free.

Your case load with SVU waxed and waned.  Sometimes you had a whole slate of cases against him, and other times he went for stretches without facing off against you.  Still, he saw you all the time at the courthouse, and you were usually arguing with some other ADA.  Barba usually felt a sting of jealousy when he did.  He wondered if you called Niles “Yale Law” or if you smirked at Cox.

He was still nettled by your comment about O’Dwyer being a better ADA than him, even if he was mostly certain that you were just teasing him.

At least you shook his hand after trials now.  He had hated it when you’d pointedly ignore him, but it was his own fault for taking a shot at your age by calling you “Girl Wonder.”  He knew how hard it could be to be a lawyer fresh off the bar exam, and he assumed it was twice as hard for a baby-faced young woman.

You didn’t seem to mind being called “Fordham Law,” and you always responded with a grin and rejoinder of calling him “Harvard Law.”  And you never said it with a sneer – usually, Barba’s opponents used his Ivy League education against him, implying that he was some sort of out-of-touch elite.

----

The New York City Law Association was holding its annual charity event.  Barba could think of a million things he’d rather do on a Saturday night other than socialize with other lawyers, but networking was part of his unofficial job duties, and McCoy made it clear that he expected all of his ADAs to attend.  Barba put on his tuxedo and got a taxi to Brooklyn.

The only thing that the NYCLA had going for it was its commitment to out-of-the-way and unique venues.  The District Attorney’s office stuck with the usual hotel ballrooms for their events, but the NYCLA always found some new place.  This year was the New York Transit Museum.

He made his way to the bar and snagged a scotch, then made a quick sweep of the room.  He saw some familiar faces but no one he wanted to talk to, so he wandered off to look at some of the exhibits.

There were people milling around and looking at the offerings – the old subway cars, the old maps and photos of the subway construction.  Then Barba saw you.  You were in a deep oxblood cocktail dress, so dark is was almost black, and your hair was down and loose.  You had your back to him, but (he was ashamed to admit), he’d know your ass anywhere.

He strolled over and pretended to look at the same exhibit that you were engrossed by – old fare boxes through the years.  You turned and looked at him, and smiled when you recognized him.

“Barba,” you said, and you looked him over.  “You clean up nice.  A far cry from your usual off-the-rack sackcloth.”

“Counselor,” he replied.  “I’m surprised to see you here.  Shouldn’t you be off visiting some serial masturbating client in prison?”

You pouted at this, and Barba tried to ignore how kissable you looked in your deep red lipstick.  “My serial masturbating client isn’t in prison, Barba.  Remember?  I won him a ‘not guilty’ verdict, from you, if I recall correctly.”

“One of your rare victories.”

You took a sip of your drink; it looked like cola and something, in a rock glass with a twist of lime.  “Ah, but those rare victories against you are so sweet.  The sound of you grinding your teeth when I win…it sustains me through the lean times.”

Barba scoffed.  “I don’t grind my teeth.  Besides, get ready for another lean period.  The Alexi case…I’ll have a guilty verdict within an hour of the jury retiring.”

You polished off your drink and turned to walk to the bar, and Barba followed.  “We’ll see,” you said as you strolled beside him.  “I think Judge Catalano will have some thoughts about the integrity of the lab once I talk with him.”

At the bar, you made eye contact with a bartender and tapped on your glass, and the woman nodded at you in understanding.  You turned to face Barba, leaning back against the bar.  “We all know that the medical examiner’s office is compromised after the Rudnick disaster.”

Barba groaned.  “Oh, don’t start with that.”  He reached across the bar to hand you your drink, and you both settled at a nearby table.  “You know damned well that Rudnick was an anomaly…”

“How can I know that?  How can anyone?  Any single case he oversaw could be compromised…”

“…but you know that’s not the case….”

“All I know is that a crucial link in the chain of custody was being overseen by an actual serial killer, Barba, and…”

He sat his scotch down specifically so that he could throw up his hands.  “You’re impossible!  You’ll only be happy when the prisons are empty and every bad guy in the world is released with a hug and an apology!”

This made you burst into a gale of laughter, so loud and unexpected that you placed a hand over your mouth.  He watched you laugh for a long moment, smiling a bit at the sight of it.  Once you calmed down, your laughs trailed to the occasional hiccupped giggle, you took a deep swallow of your drink and grinned.  “That’s what you think of me, Harvard Law?”

He polished off his own scotch and flagged down a wandering server to order another.  “I think you’ve got a good head for law and a soft heart.  I think the world hasn’t worn you down yet, but in public defense, it seems inevitable.”

Your wide grin faltered a bit, but before you could refute his claim, two women made their way over to your table, waving and calling you.  You looked over at them and your smile returned.

“Who let you in?” you teased.  “This exclusive organization has clearly lowered its standards.”

The taller woman scoffed and leaned in to hug you, but the shorter red-head looked hard at Barba before turning to hug you too. 

“Barba, these are my friends from Fordham,” you introduced.  “Chauncy and Sarah.  Guys, this is ADA Rafael Barba.”

There was a flurry of handshakes, and Chauncy’s seemed especially firm.  “You handled the Jackie Walker disaster,” she said.  Barba winced to remember the flubbed case against the innocent man, and the red-head saw his discomfort.  “Don’t sweat it,” she continued.  “I’m representing his civil case against the NYPD.  I’ll get him a nice payday to soothe the fact that his career and reputation was destroyed.”

The tall woman laid a gentle hand on Chauncy.  “Play nice,” she warned.

You had just watched the interaction, then offered to go get drinks for everyone.  Before anyone could object, you were off to the bar, and the remaining three exchanged wary looks.

You returned laden down with an armful of glasses and a wide grin that he recognized.  “Open bar, guys,” you said.   You plunked down another scotch for Barba and then everyone else’s drinks.  “Drink up.  I got shots.”  He watched you place an electric pink shot glass in front of everyone, him included.

Sarah laughed at you.  “What’s this shot called?” she asked.

You shook your head at her.  “You know what it is.”

“Say it.”  Sarah said.  She and Chauncy started chanting “say it, say it” until you were ducking your head in embarrassment.

Chauncy looked at Barba and explained it to him:  “She tried to order a certain drink when she turned twenty-one and we took her out to celebrate.”

“It’s the only alcoholic drink she knew,” Sarah added.

“But she was too embarrassed to say ‘sex,’ so she called it ‘Love on the Beach,’” Chauncy finished.

“And these jackals picked up on it immediately,” you said with a rueful shake of your head, but you refused to quite meet his gaze.  “And they spent the next four years – and apparently this evening – making me order drinks and shots based on how filthy the name was.”

Barba picked up the shot glass with its nuclear pink liquid, playing along.  He’d never seen you look so discomfited, and he loved it.  “So what’s this one called?”

“It’s got peach schnapps, coconut rum, cherry vodka….”

“He didn’t ask what was in it, Sparky,” Sarah teased, and Barba gave a bark of laughter at your apparent nickname.

“Sparky?” he asked incredulous. 

You heaved a heavy, beleaguered sigh.  “They called me ‘Sparky’ because a professor called me a sparkplug once when I got worked up and argued a case in class.”  You picked up the shot and regarded it for a moment, then mumbled in a rush, “and this is called a Killer Pussy.”  You stuttered on the last word, scrunched your face in embarrassment, then threw back the shot.  Then turned on your heel and marched off for more booze, the laughter from your table at your back. 

-----

This is how the evening progressed:  you got everyone drinks, socializing as you came and went to the bar with people you passed.  Your friends ordered different shots and tried to make you say what they were.  Sometimes you muttered it in passing, other times you dug your heels in and refused to say it, making your friends howl with laughter.  It wasn’t mean spirited though – you laughed and relaxed with each drink you threw back.  You only did about half of the shots, preferring your mixed cola and whatever.

Every time you wandered off, Barba asked general questions about you to your friends, and they (lawyers in their own right) saw right through him. 

“Why do you care?” asked Sarah.  “You like her?”

“I just face off against her a lot in court,” he offered.  “Might help to know her weak spots.”

Chauncy scoffed at this, like she didn’t believe him.  “Sure.  We wouldn’t help you beat her in court.”  A sly look crossed her face as she looked Barba over like a butcher appraising a cow.  “Maybe if you had more…personal reasons though…”

He felt his face grow warm, but you came back just then with another round (you wouldn’t name the shot, so Sarah said it and Barba heard you audibly wince when she did).  Then dinner was served.

A relative silence descended over the table as everyone ate, and Chauncy took the opportunity to ask you, rather pointedly, if you were seeing anyone.

“No,” you replied with a shake of your head.  You sawed off another piece of steak, happy to leave it at that.

But your friend persisted.  “Maybe you could find someone here,” she tried, and Barba shot her a glare across the table that she only batted her eyes at.

“Doubtful,” you said around a bite of steak.  You glanced around the room.  “Though I see the Bronx ADA that I went on a date with once.  Not my type.”

Barba glanced over to where you were looking – he knew the Bronx ADA you were looking at.  ADA Williams and Barba had started in New York together.  He cleared his throat when you casually brushed off his colleague.  Likely you had an upper age limit on potential suitors.  “Why isn’t he your type?” he asked.

You shrugged and moved onto your mashed potatoes.  “He’s a jerk, and I found out after the fact that he’s still married.  He obviously struggles with the fidelity thing.  It’s a deal-breaker.”  Then you wiped your mouth with your napkin and excused yourself to use the restroom.

Your friends clucked in sympathy and filled him in.  “Her first boyfriend, Jason, cheated on her for a year before she found out.  And her last boyfriend, Dom…well, the working theory is that he cheated too,” said Sarah.

“He’s a cop.  He had a cute little blonde partner that apparently came between them,” Chauncy added.  “Missed their anniversary dinner.”

Sarah sighed.  “I remember that.  She called me, crying.”  She glanced over at Barba and pointed at him.  “This is top secret.  You’re in the inner circle now, so don’t repeat it.”

Chauncy pointed too.  “Inner circle.  You drink the Killer Pussy, you’re in the club.  The only way out of the club is death.”

He held up his hands in surrender.  You eventually returned to your seat, and Barba looked you over.  If your eyes looked a little watery and red-rimmed, he couldn’t tell if it was from the alcohol or if you’d been crying. 

You were a fierce competitor in the courtroom and an irritating presence besides, but he felt a sympathetic comradery with you.  He’d been cheated on when he was around your age, and he had thrown himself into his work.  Like you seemed to be doing.  He pretended to be uninterested in romance, as you seemed to be now.  And he knew where that sort of life would lead:  you nearing forty, alone and bitter and convinced that you’d never find anyone.  Caught in a terrible limbo of being lonely and wanting love, but too terrified of being hurt again.

Suddenly your reaction at the 16th precinct made more sense.  He also knew that if he ever got the chance, he’d kick Carisi’s skinny ass down the courthouse steps.

-----

After dinner, there were the usual speeches about it being another great year.  There was a slideshow of all the conferences and opportunities they’d created, how membership grew, how so many law articles had been published and legislation drafted.  Then the lights were turned down a fraction and the music was turned up.  Sarah and Chauncy drifted off to dance and mingle with other people, but Barba was perfectly content to pick up the dropped thread of your earlier conversation.  You both stood and went to the bar, got fresh drinks, then lingered by the edge of the dance floor.

Arguing with him seemed to revive you – you’d been unusually quiet ever since dinner, but as soon as Barba brought up the Alexi case again, you got that glint in your eye again.

“Forget the tainted lab results then,” you said.  “I have serious doubts that the rest of the evidence was even legally attained.”

Barba rolled his eye elaborately, which made you roll your eyes at him.  You continued, “there’s a lot of established case law regarding non-English speaking suspects being Mirandized in English only….”

“Your client speaks English, Sparky.”

You narrowed your eyes at him until they were slits, and your scrunched your face up again.  It was probably supposed to look mean, but you looked charming.  Barba wanted to kiss your frowning mouth until your lipstick was smeared and you were smiling at him. 

“Don’t scowl at me,” he continued.  “It’s a great nickname.  It suits you.”  Your eyes narrowed even further, so he plucked your empty glass from you hand and pulled you onto the dance floor before you could protest.

Your dress was off-the-shoulder, and it revealed an expanse of your soft-looking skin – far more than you ever revealed with your courtroom suits.  But Barba was a gentleman, so he laid a hand lightly on your waist and led you in a simple box step around the floor.

“Kadyrbayev versus the Commonwealth of Massachusetts,” you continued.  “Knowing some English isn’t the same as having a competency of English.”

He snorted.  “Everyone knows the Miranda rights,” he started, but you cut him off before he could continue his train of thought. 

“Solid argument,” you agreed sarcastically.  “You write about how ‘everyone knows stuff’ for your law review article?”

Barba gritted his teeth, caught himself when you smirked at him knowingly, and felt his irritation rise.  You were closer to him than you’d ever been; you were close enough that he could smell your bright perfume and feel the stormy electric front he always felt when you were near him and fighting.  But the irritation was stronger than any desire he might feel for you.

“You’re so annoying,” he bit back lamely. 

“Solid,” you repeated.  You tilted your head at him and smiled.  “You’re just mad that I win against you.”

“Rarely.  You rarely win against me.”

“But it stings, doesn’t it?  You’re used to public defenders who barely try, and here comes this girl wonder…”

“Girl pain in the ass,” he grumbled, and you gave another loud laugh at this that startled him into a smile. 

“If you would just be willing to compromise on plea deals, it’d go easier for you.”

“It’s not my job to get plea deals,” he retorted.  “It’s my deal to deliver justice.”

You looked at him, staring straight into his eyes and giving him a jolt at how close your face was to his.  “Define justice, Barba.”

He twisted his mouth into a smirk and stared back at you.  “You need me to give you an introduction to justice?  Plato and Nicomachean ethics?  You skip that at Fordham so that you could go comfort people in jail and tell them it wasn’t their fault because a study once said that people who didn’t get hugged three times a day are more likely to…”

“God, you’re the worst.”  You dropped your hand from his shoulder and pulled your other hand from his grasp, and you marched off the dance floor.  You were slightly unsteady in your high heels, and Barba was at your elbow, following you.  You turned and glanced back at him.  “I meant utilitarianism versus retributivism, and you bring up hugs again.  What’s your deal with hugs, Barba?  You sound like every crusty old white guy ranting about how kids today are too soft….”

“That’s completely unfair,” he barked back, stung at the insinuation.  He wasn’t a monster; he was completely sympathetic to the challenges that poor people faced in the justice system.  You likely didn’t know that he grew up poor in the Bronx, and he was insulted that you thought he didn’t care about the people from his neighborhood…and all the other disenfranchised in the city and beyond.

“I’d slap you,” you replied, and you stopped and turned to look at him.  “But you’d try to twist the simple assault charge into attempted murder, probably.”  You paused, then added, “for justice’s sake.”

“It’d get you off the street at least,” he snapped.  “You could stop menacing the city with your fucking irritating mouth.”

Your eyes widened at his sudden use of profanity.  “Are we actually fighting now, Barba?  Is this us having a fight?”  You pointed between the two of you in disbelief. 

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose before he looked at you again.  “You just never stop.  You always have some convoluted study or obscure case from some 1930’s backwater jurisdiction…”

“Like you ever stop!”  You threw your hands up in exasperation.  “You find the most tenuous ways to link a date-rape case back to Constitutional law, practically.”  You went on, made some claim that Barba would eventually cite the Articles of Confederation in a cyber-stalking case, but he was barely paying attention.  He couldn’t tell if you were really mad or not.  He’d never spent so much time with you arguing, so he wasn’t sure if this was its logical outcome.  You were ranting but punctuating your words with light laughs.  You were gesturing wildly but gifting him with half-smiles. 

He wanted to kiss you desperately, but he wasn’t sure if it was because you looked like the sexiest woman he’d ever seen or if because he just wanted you to shut up for a minute.

You were winding down now, and like in court, you linked your conclusion back to your opening statement.  “You never stop either, Barba,” you finished, and you squared off in front of him like you were expecting to actually fight him at this point.

He waited a moment, then simply said, “The Articles of Confederation didn’t outline the court system, so your analogy is very weak.”

You replied by growling at him, “just stop!” and he swore he saw actual murder in your glaring eyes.  He never got to see you thrown off your game like you seemed to be now. 

“How about your make me?” he teased.

You reached up, and for a split second he thought you actually were going to slap him.  Instead, you clasped a palm over his mouth, silencing him.  But he ducked his head out of your grasp with a chuckle, and the next thing he knew, your mouth was on his, cutting off his laugh as you pressed the length of your body against him.  All he could do was groan against you and snake his arms around you.  And then kiss you back.

The rest of the reception fell away, like the world always did when Barba was with you.  He felt you wrap your own hands around the back of his neck, tugging him closer to you.  You parted your lips and ran the tip of your tongue against the seam of his mouth, and he opened himself to you.

You slid your tongue into his mouth, and he groaned again to taste you.  He could feel his blood – already heated from dancing with you and teasing you – start to pool in his groin, and he pushed you away gently, breaking the kiss and looking at you.

Your pupils were huge, and your lipstick was blurred around the edges in that just-kissed look that drove him crazy.  Otherwise, you seemed sober – or sober enough to consent, or at least he convinced himself that you were.  To your credit, you weren’t slurring your words or stumbling or acting drunk.  Aside from kissing him out of nowhere.  That was unexpected, and possibly the result of impaired judgement.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, and you drew your brows in confusion before you nodded.

“I’m fine.” 

“Do you…do you want to get out of here?”  He could barely look at you; he wanted you so badly but wasn’t sure you were sober enough, but you seemed in your right mind.  But you had to be intoxicated to kiss him…maybe?

You cut off his circuitous thinking by reaching down and grabbing his wrist, and you tugged him towards the nearest exit, and Barba was too far gone himself, drunk on the sexual tension and/or murderous rage (Liv could never, ever find out), to do much higher thinking after that.

-----

You were silent as you led him to the street, then you muttered that you lived a few blocks away.  Barba just nodded, but he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you closer to him as the two of you walked to your place.  When you had to stop and wait for a light at a crosswalk, he pulled you back to him.  He kept waiting for you to push him away, to stop the whole chain-reaction that you’d started when you kissed him at the reception, but you didn’t.  You leaned into him and kissed him back just as fervently. 

Your apartment looked like a Victorian rowhouse, chopped into units, and as you led him up two floors, you informed him that Sarah and Chauncy lived on the second floor.  At the third landing, you pulled a bundle of keys from your clutch.  Your hands shook a bit as you tried to unlock the door, and Barba took the opportunity to sweep your hair away from the back of your neck and kiss you there, drawing the tip of his tongue along your heated skin and making your breath hitch.

Once inside, he practically kicked the door shut.  You knelt down to undo the narrow ankle straps of your shoes, and once out of them, you were much steadier on your feet.  When you turned to face him, he felt suddenly nervous.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked. 

You nodded and reached for him, but he held you at arms’ length.  “Did you have too much to drink?” he asked.

You pulled a face at this, then took a step backwards to balance on one foot in a semblance of a field sobriety test.  “I do solemnly swear that I am well within the legal limit of alcohol intake, and am furthermore consenting to the activities about to occur in this apartment.”

He smiled weakly.  “It’s just that you’re not my biggest fan usually….”.  You took a swift few steps over to him and placed your hand over his mouth again. 

“You’re a pain,” you said softly.  “You constantly fight me at work, you smirk at me, you called me Girl Wonder.  But I very much want you right now, if you want me.”

He did.  Very much.

He kissed the palm that covered his mouth, and when you pulled it away, he dipped his head and kissed your crimson lips, parted them to plunge his tongue and slide it against your own.  And from there, you both got increasingly desperate, pawing at each other and tugging at clothes and gasping each other’s names until it felt like you were both drowning and you were each the only chance of salvation for the other.

Barba shucked his own tuxedo as fast as he could as you shimmied out of your dress, revealing a sweetly sexy strapless black bra and panties.  He pulled you back to him, savoring the feel of your nearly naked frame pressed against him, and you buried your face in the sensitive juncture of his neck and kissed him while he fumbled with the clasp of your bra.  Once undone, he tossed it aside and then cupped your breasts in his big hands, and you arched yourself into him with a moan.

You pulled away from him with a sultry smile, then took his hand and led him into your bedroom.  He lifted you up with a grunt – you were deceptively heavy – and tossed you onto the bed, and you laughed until he joined you and latched onto first your left nipple and then your right, suckling them and then nipping at them with his teeth, and then swirling his tongue around them to soothe the sting of his light bites.  You tangled your hands in his hair, sometimes tugging him upward, sometimes pushing him into the valley of your breasts, and he grinned against your warm skin that smelled faintly of vanilla.  He worked your panties off of you as far as he could reach, and then he felt you kick them off into some shadowy corner of the room.

He wanted to take his time with you, but it was all too much, and he let you tug his head back up to yours.  You kissed again, nipping at his lower lip and sucking on it.  He slid his tongue into your mouth and felt your sharp intake of breath and then your groaning sigh as he reached down to the junction between your legs and slid one of his fingers into you.  He muttered a curse at how wet you were, how unbearably hot, and he wondered if it was all because of him.

You wriggled under him until he was completely on top of you.  And when you opened your legs to him, he removed his hand and replaced it with his cock – so hard that he could practically feel his heartbeat in it.  But despite the spinning room and the heady unreality of having you naked underneath him, he managed to pause and ask you if this is what you really wanted.

“Oh, yes,” you whispered, and your eyes had that same gleam in them as they did when you argued with him at work, so he gazed into them as he slid into your depths in one even motion.  Your eyelids fluttered and you moaned something unintelligible, so he paused again when was buried to the hilt and asked if you were okay.

To answer him, you wrapped first one leg and then the other around the small of his back, granting him an extra inch to sink into you as you pulled him closer.  He dropped his head beside yours with a growl, and he let your small heels dig into his ass and guide his thrusts until he found his own rhythm.  It wasn’t long before you were gasping his name, and then arching hard underneath him, so hard that you nearly bucked him off of you, and then squeezing his cock as you came against him.  And then he followed, unable to hold back, spilling himself deep inside of you. 

And from there, the alcohol and sex and maybe the exhaustion from your evening of bickering put you both to sleep before any awkwardness could descend.   You were both sprawled out at first but then drifted in sleep towards each other until you were curled against him, and his arm held you there.

Hours later, before sunrise, you both stirred and came awake in degrees.  Barba’s erection pressed against your hip, and he tried to pull away from you, embarrassed.  But you pressed a finger against his mouth to silence him before he could talk.  When he kissed it, you tilted your head at him and leaned down to press your own lips to his, and without a word exchanged, you straddled him, running your slick parts against him. 

“Is this really what you want?” you whispered, echoing his own question to you earlier.  He could only reply as you had.

“Oh, yes.”

You lowered yourself onto him, but it was less frenzied this time.  In the dim light, he could make out your outline as you rode him gently, sliding yourself off of him nearly all the way before impaling yourself.  Over and over and over, until he had to reach out and grab your hips to guide you in a faster pace, bouncing you onto him until you came.  You gasped his name again, and he felt his own orgasm coil up and then snap, and he came too.

And then another few hours of sleep.  When Barba woke up, fully sober and a little hungover, and the soft grey-pink light of dawn creeping through the blinds, he felt a sudden horror at what he’d done.  You were dead asleep:  your lips were parted as you snored lightly, and your hand was laid across his arm.  He moved it carefully to not wake you.

He should have never come to Brooklyn, he should have never drank at all, and he certainly should have never come back to your place.  And to have sex with you twice, when he wasn’t sure if you could really consent?  A terrible dread filled him, and he did the only thing he could do:  he slid out of bed, got dressed as quickly as he could, and fled.

He was halfway back across the Brooklyn Bridge when he second-guessed himself, but by now you’d be awake and realizing that he’d left you.  And fleeing was useless anyway:  your respective work heavily overlapped, and he’d have to face you sooner or later.

[peaches2217]

🥰 Saying 'I love you' without saying it (Brotherly Mario and Luigi moment!)

YEEEEEEEEEEES! BROTHERLY LOVE LET'S GO!

Freak

AO3 link!

~~~

Somewhere in Brooklyn, sometime ago...

Mario was a mess.

He held his head high, and the spark behind his one good eye told Luigi he considered himself victorious, but he hadn't come out of that fight cleanly in the slightest. His knuckles were split open in three places. His shirt was torn and the collar was stretched beyond what a good washing could save. Thankfully, all of his teeth were accounted for, but he still spit blood every few minutes thanks to a split lip and what was probably a nasty bite to the inside of his cheek.

The further he tended to those wounds, the more Luigi panicked.

"Oh man. Mom's gonna freak." He wiped his brother’s bloodied hands clean as gently as possible; Mario was careful not to show any signs of pain, but he couldn’t hide the trembling in his hands. “Wh— what are we gonna tell her?”

Mario didn’t answer right away. He kept his jaw tightly clenched until Luigi decided his skin was clean enough, easing up only when the younger twin reached for the bandages he’d purchased in haste from the nearest convenience store.

“We’ll tell her the truth,” he said. “Some low-life decided to pick on the wrong guy and I wasn’t gonna let him get away with it.”

He clenched his jaw again as Luigi went back to work, wrapping broken skin in cheap gauze. He wouldn’t have much use of his hands until their mother could patch him up more expertly, but that was okay for now, he decided.

With any luck, she wouldn’t pry. All she’d care about was lecturing him — Mario, mio figlio irascibile, use your words, not your fists! — and then grounding him for the next month or two. That would be ideal. She didn’t need to know the reasoning behind his latest (and, to date, most violent) scuffle. He wasn’t ready for her to know.

Staring down at Mario’s hands, comically stiff from an overabundance of wrappings, Luigi felt a telltale stinging behind his eyes. “You fight for the dumbest things sometimes.”

“I don’t think someone spreading rumors about you is a dumb thing to fight about.”

The stinging became uncomfortably pronounced. Luigi bit his lip and fished through the plastic bag by his side once more, grabbing the water bottle hidden beneath rubbing alcohol and ointment and bloodied tissues.

“...It’s not just a rumor, is it?”

Luigi’s breath hitched. It had been phrased as a question, yet Mario’s voice lacked curiosity or incredulity, laced with a strong but not harsh I knew it sort of tone. Suddenly he didn’t have the nerve to look at him. He simply handed the bottle over to him and wiped the condensation off on his shorts, doing his best not to give into the desire to curl up into a ball and roll away.

It was his own fault. Like many other pre-teens, Luigi had a diary. Most of what he wrote within its pages was common knowledge, or just his own attempts at working through his thoughts. Most of what was inside, Mario already knew. The one secret he kept from his twin brother was tucked into its faux-leather covers. He’d stupidly believed it would be safe there.

An hour after realizing it was missing from his school bag, that secret was plastered on the library bulletin. By lunchtime it was on everyone’s lips: Oh my God, that Luigi kid’s gay! Always knew there was something wrong with him.

And three minutes after the final bell, the one who outed him was pinned to the ground in the courtyard receiving the beating of a lifetime. Had Luigi not found the strength to pry him off, he was almost convinced Mario would have killed the guy.

“You’re a freak!” the battered bully had shouted at Mario, Luigi’s diary splayed open and speckled with blood beside him. “Just like that— that fucking queer you call a brother!”

Mario was hurt, and he was going to be in massive trouble, and it was all Luigi’s fault. All because he was too chicken to keep it internalized, all because he was the weakling that always needed his brother, all because he was a fucking queer and any and every other derogatory accusation that had been thrown his way today. He pulled his knees to his chest and hugged them tightly and focused all of his energy on not crying, not here, not now.

“Weegee… why didn’t you tell me?” Mario’s voice was oddly soft. Was he upset? Was he sympathetic? He had no reason to be sympathetic. Luigi sniffed.

“Guess I didn’t want you thinking I was a freak, too,” he confessed. Mario and Luigi against the big, wide world. It had always been that way. He couldn’t stomach the thought of that changing, of Mario seeing him differently, of losing him for it. He would have kept this under wraps his whole life if it ensured that never came to pass.

An arm wrapped around him suddenly, and Mario pulled him in, jostling him almost painfully.

“Oh, give me a break, Lu,” he said. “You know who’s a real freak? Mrs. Loriey. She’s got a whole shrine set up to Robert De Niro in her supply closet! Photoshops herself into pictures with him! She’s probably shopped his face onto pictures of naked guys, let’s be real.”

“Mario!” The thought was shocking yet plausible enough that Luigi couldn’t help but laugh. Mario made a victorious noise and jostled him again.

“Or literally anyone who gets a kick out of putting other people down,” he continued, his voice getting lower as he spoke. “You know how desperate for attention people like that have to be? Imagine always thinking ‘How can I ruin some schmuck’s day so I can feel all high ‘n’ mighty?’ People like that aren’t just freaks, they’re losers, plain and simple.”

Luigi nodded, and though the first of his tears began escaping, his smile stayed strong. “So you don’t… think I’m a freak?” He chanced a glance sideways, where he found Mario smiling at him. The skin around his black eye was pale and wet where he’d held the water bottle to it and his split lip made his smile look awkward and crooked, but he knew well enough that it was genuine.

“Nah. But you know what you are?” he asked, squeezing Luigi’s shoulder. “You’re my bro. And I’ll always have your back, okay?”

He reached his other arm around to pull Luigi into a proper hug, and Luigi returned it without hesitation, sniffling and willing his tears to slow.

It had always been them against the world, and that wasn’t changing anytime soon. As far as bad days went, he decided that this one wasn’t so bad after all.

[dameronscopilot]

anchor

Bucky Barnes x reader

summary: Bucky always leaves, and you always let him. Until he realizes what he's been missing this whole time.

word count: 1k

rating: 18+

content: hurt/comfort, PTSD, undefined relationship, brief & light smut

SENSORY DRABBLES SERIES -> prompt: Bucky Barnes + clean laundry + lavender

Pain.

All he can feel is pain.

His vision hazy and his chest burns and his eyes sting and his body aches and—

There’s blood. 

It’s bright and it’s red and it’s blooming across the floor. There’s too much of it.

He can smell it, the acrid, pungent notes draped heavily across the air in the room.

He can taste it, the metallic tang makes his teeth ache.

And then suddenly it becomes hard to breathe, and he’s gasping for air.

And he’s falling.

Falling.

Falling.

The first thing that registers in Bucky’s mind when he wakes up is the stale taste of bile in his throat. That, and the fact that he can’t stop shivering. 

“Bucky?”

He hears a voice beside him, your voice, but his mind is still spinning and his heart is still racing. So it doesn’t quite register. Not yet.

Slowly, he opens his eyes. Bucky blinks a few times, taking in the room’s pale lavender walls, the way they’re illuminated with bars of light, the golden glow of the early morning sun peeking in through the blinds. The dust motes lazily floating in the air. Somewhere off in the distance, he hears the faint sound of a car horn. 

He can feel your fingers wrap around his right wrist. Carefully, tentatively.

His heartbeat begins to slow.

Bucky inhales, and he can smell your detergent clinging to the soft, gray sheets. The familiar crisp, fresh scent, paired with the floral notes of your shampoo brushed across the surface of the pillowcases. 

The tightness in his chest starts to loosen a fraction.

–

This isn’t the first night Bucky’s spent in your bed, and it’s not the first time his nightmares have chased him there between the warmth of your sheets and your tangled legs. He comes and goes from your life like the tides, forever adamant that he’s far too fucked up and broken to stay. Always certain that you deserve better.

And yet just when your heart begins to drift, when you stop leaving the porch light on in hopes that he’ll come knocking, when your finger hovers over the button to delete his name from your phone contacts—he’ll turn up again.

It’s always after bad missions—ones that leave him frayed at the edges, torn at the seams. Ones that find the two of you in bed for what feels like days until you can fuck every last bit of anxious adrenaline out of his system. 

By the time the calm sets in, though, he’s usually gone, leaving nothing behind but the distinct scent of motor oil that restlessly lingers in your apartment as his motorcycle rumbles away down the street. 

But for the first time, he didn’t touch you after he showed up last night, not like that. 

He’d hardly said a word when you opened the door for him just past midnight, your eyes still heavy from the deep sleep he’d roused you from. You knew he noticed you were wearing one of his shirts, one he’d left behind months ago. But neither of you acknowledged it, and you were too tired to be embarrassed.

He’d simply pulled you into his arms when the two of you climbed back into your bed, and you’d fallen asleep pretending—for his sake—that you couldn’t feel the shuddering of his chest and his shallow, gasping breaths as he held you close. You didn’t ask, because you knew he wouldn’t talk about it. 

He never does.

–

As you sit up and lean over Bucky, glancing down at him with concern brimming in your eyes, his throat constricts as he feels a tug from deep within. Something tattered and dusty shakes itself loose, sending him reeling as it unfurls. 

It hits him square in the chest—the realization. 

The fact that somewhere along the line, no matter how hard he’s tried to deny it, this has become home to him. Your small little Brooklyn apartment with its kitschy décor and the broken skylight in the bathroom. The chipped porcelain container with cow spots sitting beside your kitchen window and the collection of plants haphazardly claiming every open piece of real estate in your living room. The dog across the street that barks incessantly every morning. The one empty spot on the coat hook beside your front door that he’s fairly certain is for him. 

You’ve become home to him.

–

You brace yourself, waiting for Bucky to slide out from underneath you, when he’ll inevitably slip his jeans back on, fasten his belt, and disappear for another few days. Weeks. Months, even. 

Maybe you’ll finally learn to stop holding your breath this time.

But he doesn’t.

He just stares back up at you instead, and you try to ignore the silent whine of longing you feel at the sight of his tousled brown hair against your pillows. You’d made an offhand comment that perhaps he should grow his hair out months ago, and for whatever reason, he’d listened.

You’re not quite sure what’s going on in his head as his blue eyes rake over your face, but you don’t miss the way his breath suddenly hitches in his throat.

And then he’s kissing you.

His lips are tracing yours like he’s discovering the shape of them for the very first time. Like he wants to find the perfect angle to slot them together. 

He’s kissing you so fucking softly, you begin to tremble slightly at the reverence of his touch.

Bucky pulls you on top of him—you’ve never been on top. Normally, he can’t handle the loss of control. 

But not today.

Today, you’re straddling him, and he’s tugging aside the thin cotton fabric of your underwear, pumping two fingers in and out of you until your channel is slick and wet. 

And when his eyes fall shut as he tosses his head back against the pillow and moans when you finally sink down onto his cock, the weight of his vulnerability in the moment is heavy in your chest. 

—but it’s not a burden this time.

Not a warning sign of his pending departure. 

Not anymore

It’s an anchor.

[rwrb-uncut]

losing grips on sinking ships (you showed up just in time)

Henry thought himself a fool, really, for thinking he could have pulled it off.

For thinking he could have navigated through life today feeling as terrible as he did without Alex noticing. Without Alex worrying.

***

just a lil something about how henry cares for alex and how alex cares for henry

find me on ao3 for more! : https://archiveofourown.org/users/rwrb_uncut/pseuds/rwrb_uncut

***

Henry thought himself a fool, really, for thinking he could have pulled it off.

For thinking he could have navigated through life today feeling as terrible as he did without Alex noticing. Without Alex worrying. 

And the last thing he wanted to do was cause Alex any more stress, with finals next week and his mock trial scheduled for Monday. Henry knew that it was a lot to handle, even for Alex. He had been having trouble remembering to eat lately, remembering to take study breaks, to drink enough water, to wash his hair – and Henry did not mind filling in these gaps. He jumped at the chance to, even. Alex was his whole world, he would do anything to make sure that the love of his life was happy and healthy and sated. Seeing Alex work so hard for something he's wanted for so long, it made Henry proud to even know him, let alone share his bed.

So Henry found himself doting on Alex a little more than usual over the last few weeks – but how could he not? It was Alex . He took care to pack him a balanced lunch with extra snacks every day, topping them with goofy little notes he knew would make him smile. He also tried to have dinner ready and waiting for Alex when he came home – more often than not Henry would end up taking the car to the library and dropping it off to him. He'd give Alex a kiss on the cheek and Alex would give him a bashful apology that Henry would brush off, smiling up at him.

“Probably be a late night again tonight, sorry Hen,” he'd murmur into Henry's ear, hugging him close outside of the library. 

“S'okay, study hard, darling. You're gonna ace this one,” Henry would reply, pulling away but letting their entwined fingers stay linked for a few moments longer. 

And when Alex would come home in the early hours of the morning, his keys jingling in the lock, Henry would perk right up from bed and meet him downstairs. He'd help Alex shrug off his jacket, unlace his shoes, and pepper his face with feather-light kisses as the taller man leaned into his touch. He'd take Alex's wrist and pull him upstairs, into their ridiculously large shower where he would run gentle hands into Alex's hair, over his broad shoulders, around the gentle curve of his hips. Alex would sag against him as he did so, his head bowing so his forehead could fully rest on Henry's shoulder. And when he was fresh and clean, Henry would grab two huge towels from the towel warmer he got as a prank gift from Pez last Christmas. Joke was on Pez,  though, because he used it nearly every chance he got – he was sure there were few worldly pleasures as comforting as a warm towel after a hot shower. 

Starting at Alex's head, he would towel off the excess water dampening his dark curls and lovingly pat his face dry. Working his way down his body, he'd move from his chest to his thighs to his shins, dropping kisses every so often. Just because he could. He made sure every inch of his boy was cradled safely within his hands, from head to toe. Safe in their little brownstone in Brooklyn, where Henry could kiss and caress and cling to Alex's shoulders as much as he wanted. Where he could protect him from the worries of the world and its obligations, if only for a few moments.

Then he'd dress Alex in worn pajamas (he really should buy him a new set, these old ones were beginning to get a little too worn) and let him brush his teeth and wash his face in comfortable silence. 

“Don't have to do all of this for me, baby,” Alex would chide every once in a while, but Henry would shake his head knowingly and ignore him.

“Don't have to, I just want to,” he would whisper back, not wanting to break the little bubble of quiet they had. Not just yet.

And then they'd fall into bed, Henry slotting himself underneath Alex's chin, pressed tightly to his chest with one leg thrown over Alex's hip. Sighing heavily, he’d collapse into Alex’s warm side and feel his eyes finally be pulled close by sleep. Henry never really slept much, not until Alex, and his body had become so acquainted with the feel of warm skin and toned muscle under him that he was most definitely spoiled now. The idea of falling asleep without his boy next to him in bed was almost laughable.

“Goodnight, darling,” Henry would whisper into Alex's collarbone, his lips brushing over the skin there. Inhaling the clean scent of citrus and pine, and something a little muskier, something so inherently Alex that he would never be able to describe properly.

“Love how you care for me, baby. Love you so much,” Alex would mumble into Henry's hair, pressing a kiss there.

“And I love you, Alex.”

For the most part that was Henry's routine, in between meetings with Pez and charity functions and royal duties from abroad. He even managed to find time to do little things for Alex that had slipped from his distracted mind, like reorganizing their closet and deep cleaning their home, one room at a time. He wanted to do these things for Alex, for them , but he knew he couldn't do it all, not for long. He felt himself slowing down over the past week or so, his mind becoming a little fuzzy at the edges. Sleep evaded him now, even when Alex was home, and he knew a bad day was brewing just on the horizon.

And on a dreary, cold Friday in early December, Henry was proven right. 

He woke with a migraine, digging in deep behind his eyelids and pressing at what felt like the very center of his brain. Before he even opened his eyes he knew it was going to be a long day. Feeling around the bedsheets, he was met with cold fabric, the only thing lingering was the smell of his husband. He groaned, rolling over and pressing his face into Alex's pillow. God, he couldn't wait for exams to be over so he could have his husband back, curled up next to him under their duvet in their home.

Just one more week. One more.

Henry was just about to roll back over and dive under the covers when he heard his phone start ringing on the nightstand. Blearily, he made a desperate grab for it, not even looking over at the table and sliding the phone icon to the right to answer.

“Haz! I'm on my way over, should be there in 15! Do you want a cuppa or have you had yours already?” 

Pez. He forgot he had a 9AM meeting with him and the mayor’s team in hopes to convince them to build another shelter. Glancing at the clock, Henry jumped as he registered the time. 8:11 AM. 

“God, sorry Pez I must have overslept, oh God, give me just a moment to – ” Henry nervously babbled as he scrambled out of bed, bumping his shin rather hard on the bedframe. He cringed as the pain made his headache intensify, and soon he was doubled over in the middle of his room, white knuckling his phone with Pez cackling from over the line.

“Well well, Alex keep you up all night? That wanker! Take your time Henry, I'll have breakfast waiting for you!” Pez replied as Henry slowly stood to his full height.

Resigned, Henry mumbled, “Thank you Pez, so sorry. I'll be ready, see you soon.” 

“You better be, H, it's a big day! Wear something nice!” And with that, Pez hung up, leaving the room eerily silent.

Henry sped through his skincare routine, skipping a few steps and working in the dark so as to not agitate his migraine any more than necessary. He threw back a few of his meds and swallowed them dry which was a terrible decision but he didn't have the sense today to think things through. Pulling a dark blue suit out of their closet, he dressed quickly, figuring he would style his hair in the car if need be. He stuffed a jar of his expensive hair pomade into his pocket and brushed his teeth, then finished his look with a tie and his new dress shoes. He had no idea how he looked but he felt a mess -- a sweaty, pale, quivering mess.

As if on cue, he heard a car honk downstairs and staggered dangerously down the stairs, only pausing to put on his coat and grab his keys and wallet. His phone was left forgotten in their bedroom, tangled up somewhere in the bedsheets.

Exiting the brownstone was another feat within itself - even with an overcast morning the sky was too bright, and Henry gasped in pain, pinching the bridge of his nose. He locked up carefully, taking a little too long, and walked to the car at the end of his walkway. 

“You look like shit man, you alright?” Pez asked once he got situated inside the car. Henry grimaced, taking a small sip from his tea. It should have tasted like relief but instead it immediately turned his stomach – he shouldn't have taken his migraine meds without having breakfast first. 

“No, not really. Not feeling… good today,” Henry mumbled, and as he said it he took inventory of what exactly he meant. Sure, he was tired, and sure, he was feeling a bit burned out, but he felt not good down to his very being today. He knew the migraine was from overextending himself for far too long, but the cloud of sadness he can usually keep at bay was hanging over him. Wrapping around his shoulders, enveloping him completely. He felt too heavy.

Pez nodded knowingly. “Anything I can do to help?” 

Henry shook his head softly, feeling his brain rattle around at even the faintest movement. Pez frowned at him, his eyes wide and understanding. “Just this meeting this morning, and then we're bringing you right back home. Sound good, babes?”

At that, Henry's heart stuttered. “No no, I can handle this afternoon's lineup, Pezza. Just had a s;ow start today, is all.”

Pez laughed at that, and the sheer volume of it made Henry wince. “Haz, no bull with me, alright? I know a bad day when I see one.”

Henry deflated, knowing he wasn't going to be able to fool his best friend. “Ok, Pez, ok – you're right. I think I'm just… a little tired. Sleep would be good.”

Pez reached for his hand then, where it lay, cold and clammy, on his right thigh. He squeezed it gently. “Then sleep you shall have. We'll get you through this morning, H.”

And, somehow, they did. Henry was able to pull it together enough to last through their meeting, which went well past lunchtime when it was supposed to end at 11AM. But it was somewhat of a success, as the officials were in favor of their plan sans one, who fought Pez and Henry every step of the way. He was the reason the meeting ran long, questioning every part of the proposal and trying desperately to poke holes in their work. Fortunately his fellow officials were able to convince him to shut his mouth, but it was quite a draining experience for everyone.

By the end of it, Henry was on the verge of tears, his head throbbing and his social battery very much so in the negative. He wanted to go home and sleep and disappear under a mound of blankets – all of a sudden everything was just too much . He felt his hands shaking as they played nervously with his wedding ring on their walk back to the car. Pez was chattering on about something with his driver, but Henry could barely register what the topic even was. He felt very far away, and very lost, and very scared. Somewhere in his rational mind he knew that it was his anxiety settling in, making him feel isolated and afraid, that depression had been clawing at his door for weeks now and had finally managed to slip in under the mat today. 

“ -at, right Haz?” Pez asked, bringing Henry back to himself slightly. He nodded slowly, slightly confused, and Pez pursed his lips slightly at him but said nothing. 

The rest of the ride was a blur, and before he knew it Henry was standing at his front door, opening the lock with shaky hands. And try as he might, he couldn't get the key into the lock, his body suddenly failing him and making him feel even more frustrated. Out of left field a hand reached out and covered his. He heard someone talking, soothing and quiet, and then Pez was standing next to him and opening the door, bringing Henry inside. He felt like he was underwater, only coming up every so often to hear or see something before being pulled right back under.

He was pushed backward, and suddenly he was in his own bed, stripped down to his undershirt but still in his slacks. His shoes were gone, and a warm cup was being pressed into his hands. Tea. It was his cuppa from this morning, still mostly untouched, warmed up again. Pez must have warmed it up for him, but when did he do that?

He took a drink of his tea and shuddered at the warmth. He hadn’t realized he was cold until now. Taking another sip, he resurfaced to hear Pez talking worriedly in the distance.

“ – like this, Alex. I'm worried about him, he said he wasn't feeling good this morning but now he's like a zombie.” 

There was a brief pause, and Henry hurt to hear the panic in Pez's voice. He didn't want to make anyone worry. He didn't want that. He wanted to help.

“Alright, I'll stay with him until then. Try to make him get some sleep, he looks like right shit today.”

And then Henry was closing his eyes again and falling back under the waves. He felt the cup removed from his hands only because the warmth suddenly disappeared, and then he was all wrapped up in their duvet and staring at the ceiling. A hand was in his hair, petting his golden strands softly, and there was a soft rumble in the distance. 

Suddenly, Henry harnessed the strength to say something. With a croaky voice, he started, “Pez, 'm sorry.”

The hand in his hair stopped. “Henry, babes, what for?” 

“This morning. The meeting.”

Pez chuckled at that, which was not what Henry was expecting to happen. That wasn't a joke, why was Pez laughing? “You do too much sometimes, Haz. Just sleep a little, okay babes? Take a rest. You've more than earned it.”

Henry hummed, which only made the dull thudding of his brain more intense. He felt the pain vibrate through his body, reverberating off of his bones and his very being.

Time passed, he was not sure how much, but Pez was talking again, and Henry opened his eyes to a dark room with the shades drawn. His head felt marginally better, just weakly throbbing, but maybe that was also because he hadn't moved in a while. Then, his ears picked up another voice, and his heart swelled instantly because he knew that voice. Alex was home.

“ – upstairs. He might still be asleep, but you can peek in. If you need anything, just give me a ring,” Pez filtered through the white noise filling Henry's ears, the door downstairs opening and closing. Calculated footsteps on the stairs and then Henry was face to face with a very concerned Alex. 

And the thing with Henry was, he wanted to be there for everyone all of the time. He wanted to help, he wanted to do good, he wanted to go above and beyond for everyone. But he still had ingrained in him that he needed to suppress his own needs, that he wasn't allowed to accept help from others. He was working on it, he really was, but things were easier said than done, especially unlearning 26 years of self-suppression. Of putting his own needs last.

So when Alex opened the door and walked into their room, for the first time in possibly forever, Henry was scared. Not of Alex, but of what state he would find Henry in. What he would think. If he would leave.

Breathless, Alex spoke. “Hen, what happened? Meeting not go well?”

Henry frowned, his insides churning. “No, was fine.”

“Just fine? Pez said it was a hell of a fight today, said you were feeling a little down after.”

“Yeah,” Henry agreed quietly, not really sure what he was saying. 

Alex flicked on the overhead light then and Henry audibly whimpered, screwing his eyes shut quickly. He felt ridiculous, a flash of light reducing him to a sniffling mess in the bedsheets. The light went off once more, but Henry kept his eyes closed, the pain behind his eyelids back in full force. “Oh baby, you got a migraine today?” Alex asked, finally getting what was going on. “Why didn't you tell anyone, Hen? 

The blonde man sighed. “Didn't think it'd be this bad,” and he was telling the truth, he really didn't think it'd be this bad. He knew it was going to be a weird day, a hard day even, but he didn't think he wouldn't be able to finish it without Pez assigning him mandatory bed rest and calling Alex on him. He was a grown man, couldn't he handle a little headache every now and then?

Sometimes it was still hard to get the harsh voice of Gran out of his head, chiding him for having needs. For having feelings. For needing a break.

“Henry, baby, come here. Sit up so we can get some comfy clothes on you,” Alex whispered, and then he felt a body crawling up the bed to hover over Henry's. He dared to open his eyes then and was met with two chocolate irises, thick with worry, and it made Henry's stomach flip. Alex grinned, all soft and only for Henry. “There you are, Hen. Missed that face.”

Despite the resurgence of pain, Henry was melting even more. God, he loved this man.

“Wanna get ready for bed, darling? Can I touch you?” 

Henry nodded slowly, and then Alex was maneuvering his undershirt off, slipping instead a grey NYU sweatshirt over his head as Henry worked his arms into the sleeves and pulled it down to completely engulf his abdomen. He reached down to undo his slacks and Alex pulled those off, working his way down the bed. He placed a kiss on the inside of Henry's knee as he did so and Henry suddenly felt tears spring to his eyes. 

In a moment of clarity, Henry remembered the pyjamas that he ordered to replace Alex’s old ones. He looked down from the head of the bed at his husband, still wearing jeans, a tight-fitting black t-shirt and -- his coat, even? Alex hadn’t even put his things down when he came home, just ran right up to Henry. He felt his heart squeeze and blood rush to his cheeks. Alex held his gaze, trying to gauge where Henry’s head was at. He must have looked rather ridiculous, in a sweatshirt and his pants, half-wrapped up in their bed covers with squinted eyes and a red face. 

“What is it, baby?” Alex asked, still holding Henry’s left ankle in his right hand. He smiled down at him, his eyes crinkling at the corners and god Henry wished he felt well enough to get right up and kiss him. 

Henry tried to smile back, but it must have looked more like a grimace. “Got you some new pyjamas, they’re -- in the closet.”

And with that, Alex’s face melted and he climbed back up the bed, his arms on either side of Henry’s face. His lips pressed once to Henry’s, innocently, and then again to Henry’s forehead. He sighed, feeling his husband’s lips on his skin, relishing in it. “Thank you, Hen. So thoughtful of you, princess,” he murmured, before pulling back to get Henry’s pyjamas as well as his new ones.

Once Henry’s pyjama bottoms were properly on, navy blue with cartoon beagles printed all over, Alex found his hands in the sheets and helped pull him to his feet. Wavering slightly, Alex moved one hand to the small of his back, pressing him closer to his own chest. He felt Alex's eyes on his own face and looked down to avoid them, inspecting one of the cartoon beagles wearing a sunhat and glasses. He knew the love he would find in Alex’s eyes would be overwhelming. 

“Bad day today, Henry?” 

And Alex. He just knew. It all clicked into place for him suddenly; Henry overworking himself with the charities and fundraisers, doing the absolute most for Alex to make sure he was handling finals week well, reorganizing and keeping busy at home with little things he didn't need to fuss over. Alex had been busy, hardly home enough to sleep let alone see Henry properly, so it had been difficult to document. He was going and going and going without a second thought, and it finally seemed to catch up with him. Well, not catch up with him as much as stop him entirely, starting with his migraine. 

Henry grimaced. “Yeah, bad day.”

And then Alex was encircling him in his arms, one hand snaking up to hold at the nape of Henry's neck while the other remained on his back. Henry raised his arms up to cling to Alex's shoulders, burying his face into the crook of the other man's neck. He let a few tears fall, and Alex in response scratched at Henry's scalp lightly. “S'alright, Hen, don't have to be big and brave. I'm here.” 

Henry made a strangled noise at that, feeling the tension in his shoulders subsiding as Alex ran his hand up and down his spine. They stood like that for a while until Alex turned his head to kiss Henry's temple, coaxing him toward their bathroom. 

Later, wrapped up in the duvet and also in each other, Alex holding Henry's hand in his own on his chest, pressing kisses to anywhere he can reach, Henry comes back to himself a little. He's exhausted, and still feeling incredibly anxious, but he doesn't have a locked jaw or a blinding pain behind his eyes as much. Alex had forced some water and jaffa cakes into him, and while it wasn’t much, it was more sustenance than he had had all day. They were both in their sleep clothes now even though it was early in the night, barely 7:30 PM. Initially Alex had went to turn on a movie but he took one look at the dark circles under Henry’s eyes and thought better of it -- maybe an early night would be good for both of them. 

Henry clears his throat, breaking the silence, and Alex is already on full alert. “I didn't want you. To worry about me. But it seems as though that happened anyway,” he said, disjointedly, as if he had to force the words out.

Alex knit his eyebrows together in confusion. “Didn’t want me to worry? Henry, you’re my favorite thing to worry about. What do you mean?”

“I. I just know it’s been a lot for you, with exams and school and your studies. I didn’t want to pile on.” 

“You,” Alex started, “could never ‘pile on’. Exams and school, baby, that’s nothing. What matters is you, and if you’re needing something, anything, I will drop anything I’m doing to help you.”

Henry gulped. “What if… I don’t need something, or anything? What if I just. Need you? I can’t ask you to just disregard yo-” Alex cut him off with a kiss, sliding his tongue along Henry’s bottom lip.

“What part of ‘I’d drop anything for you’ do you not understand, princess? I said what I said, and I mean it,” and how Alex said it, so earnestly and so forcefully, well, Henry felt like maybe he could begin to believe him. 

The room was silent for a few moments before Alex spoke again. 

“I love you. Not like anything or anyone I’ve ever loved, Henry. I mean that,” he whispered into Henry’s ear, shifting so he was fully on his side facing his husband. “And when people love you they care for you, and worry about you, and I know that’s difficult to accept sometimes but I’m gonna just keep reminding you. Let me care about you Henry, please.”

“And I love you. But it’s so hard to ask for help,” Henry mumbled, looking at Alex through suddenly wet lashes. “I don’t think I’m wired to work like that, darling.”

“And people rewire things all the time, it’s just a learning curve. It’s gonna take time, but you’ll get there. I’ll help you, I’ll always help you, I promise.”

And there was just something in the way Alex was speaking, how he always spoke, with such finality that he could convince anyone of anything. He was a born leader through and through, which was one of the things Henry loved most about him. Never wavering, always leading Henry out of the dark as if it were the easiest thing in the world. 

Henry pressed his forehead to Alex’s, their noses touching. He took a deep breath in and whispered back, “Okay. I. I will try. For you.”

Alex grinned, all toothy and wild, unlinking their fingers to run his hand up and down Henry’s arm. The gentle motion was making Henry feel incredibly sleepy, and he gave in to it, his body losing all tension as it relaxed into the mattress, into Alex. 

“There we go, Hen. Just get some rest, I’ll be right here.”

“You better be,” Henry chided, “Can’t sleep without you.”

Alex chuckled. “Promise, I’m stuck to you for the foreseeable future. You’ll have to send me away to get some alone time.”

“Don’t want any alone time, just want you,” Henry mumbled, feeling himself drift off. 

Even with his eyes closed, he could feel Alex smile. “Then you’ll have me.”

[possum-quesadilla]

Chapter four of Time’s Arrow, “Suddenly, nothing is as it was, Where are you now, Orpheus?” Is out now! Goodnight. Make sure to read the warnings carefully!! This one is a doozy!

As always, extras!

- The lyrics for this title’s chapter are from “Hey, Little Songbird” from ‘Hadestown’! I’m sure we can all connect the dots with this one, hehe.

- “Are ya finally takin’ me out back to give me the Old Yeller treatment?” “Not today.” - based on a real conversation I had with my sister one morning as she dragged me out of bed!

- “He went to hop up out of the bed, squinting at the horrible, pounding migraine that was slowly blossoming in his skull. Christ on a boat, has the room always been this bright?” - It has! He’s just struggling with enhanced sensory issues.

- “sipping from a coffee mug that read ‘Happy Father’s Day from your favorite financial burden’.” - Based on a mug my friend got for their dad!

- “Ah, shit.” … “C’mon, Chuck, conversation is not mandatory.” - To clarify: Beej is not irritated that Charles is trying to speak to him! He just thinks that he feels obligated to talk to him, and that that’s really awkward.

- “Beetlejuice grit his teeth as Charles paused to take a sip of his coffee and swallow louder than he was sure any human ever needed to.” - again, sensory issues! Charles didn’t swallow that loud at all.

- The oatmeal cream pie incident - based on a real incident with my own sister. The same sister as before. Yes, word for word.

- “Goodness! I was worried I’d have to grab my bear mace!” - Based on something my own stepmother said, oh my god.

- “Delia’s ‘organically’ cherry-scented chapstick” - Beej can smell that it’s not actually organic! But he won’t break Delia’s heart by telling her that.

- “… on second thought, Beej, why don’t you stay here?” Lydia finished up tying her boots, hopping to her feet. “Wh- huh? Why?” “I don’t wanna overwhelm the poor cat with too many people at once, y’know?” Beetlejuice frowned a bit. What did I do wrong? “.. I guess.” I would scare the cat, wouldn’t I? I can be less scary.” - Misunderstanding, woo! Beej thinks Lydia thinks he is too scary to go with them to get the kitten, and that she may be embarrassed to be seen with him in public. Lydia understands he is spooked at the idea of being in a car and doesn’t want him to experie nce that while he’s already going through something else.

- “ “Oh! Hey, give me your jacket.” The demon immediately went to remove his jacket…” - Too bad Barbara and Adam were too busy to witness jacket-less Beetlejuice!

- “… clacking his teeth a few times. He halted when Charles raised an eyebrow in his direction.” - Charles isn’t perturbed by this stim, Beej just assumes he is. It’s just an odd noise to hear out of nowhere!

- “ “Sorry, Bug, we… have some cleaning to do in the basement!” Barbara called from… Beetlejuice squinted. Why was she and Adam walking towards the stairs from the garage like that? Were they… sneaking? Don’t they hate the basement?” - I wonder what the Maitlands are doing in the basement?

- “ “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Beetlejuice halted, furrowing his brows. He wasn’t quite sure what she’d meant. Maybe he didn’t say goodbye properly? Did she want more affection? He then slowly stepped back over to Lydia, leaning over to press a kiss to her forehead once he reached her. He then turned to bolt towards the stairs once again. Lydia groaned loudly. “No, clean up your mess in the kitchen!” She turned to open the door, shaking her head. “Damn, who raised you?” ” - based on a splendid scene from one of my favorite shows ever, Brooklyn-99.

- “Beetlejuice, totally not enjoying an episode of ‘Jane the Virgin’ with Delia as they sat together on the couch…” - he absolutely was enjoying watching ‘Jane the Virgin’ with his new bestie.

- “Lydia reached into the box and pulled out a scruffy, disheveled little black kitten. He had small white patches on his face, paws, and stomach, and looked like he was born in a dumpster.” - based on my sister’s kitten, Pinto Bean! He is more white than black, and we got him from a farm. He looked like a little garbage baby.

- “ “‘Percy’?” “Yeah, he came with that name. Apparently they were themed? I’ll probably change it.” ” - The whole litter was, unfortunately, named after the Weasley family from (ugh) Harry Potter. Also, yes, he is partially based on Lydia’s cat from the animated series!

- “ “Why? You are small.” “I’m taller than you!” “Not for long. I’m due for a second growth spurt soon.” ” - Beetlejuice is 5’3”! Lydia is too, but not for long.

- “It reeked of some aromatic herb he couldn’t discern.” - he does not Know His Herbs.

- “You’ll have to send me away to a remote cabin by the sea to ‘clear my mind’, like they did to women back in the day. I’ll go even more insane and rip off all the wallpaper. Maybe set the place on fire.” - another ‘Yellow Wallpaper’ reference!

- “.. either up from the secret project in the basement…” - hmm, once again, I wonder what this is!

- “… while she was taking a break from… Y’know. Downstairs.” - being downstairs for too long freaks the Maitlands out. Y’know. ‘Cause their bodies were down there.

- Lydia’s questions - some of the proper questions to ask while someone is having a meltdown! Never touch or approach someone without permission. Ask if they want to be alone or not.

- “.. I like ‘Frankenstein’ as much as the next guy, but three times? Overkill.” - Based on my experience with ‘The Great Gatsby’. I read it three years in a row. My sister read it two years in a row. I now own five copies of that book.

- “I heard the other class is reading ‘Flowers for Algernon’. And that it totally sucks. Super depressing.” - don’t read ‘Flowers for Algernon’ unless you wanna cry.

- “Barbara nodded a little. “I know how to get blood out of wool. It’s really easy.” ” - both because she likes true crime and ‘cause, y’know, she’s a woman! People with periods know how to get blood stains out.

- “ “M-my hair’s starting to grey. Sometimes, I look in the mirror and I see-” he halted, a shudder wracking through his whole body.” - sometimes, he looks in the mirror and sees his mother. It terrifies him. (Based on personal experience)

- “I’ve never been this tired before. Not since… I was alone, in the loop. I feel like if I let myself lay down, if I stop.. performing, pretending I’m doing great, I’ll… I’ll never wake up again.” - oop. Based on personal experience yet again.

- “ “… Bee, I… it sounds like you’re burnt out.” The demon whirled around to face Adam suddenly, eyes wide. “… b-.. burnt… out?” ” - Beej is terrified here because he thinks Adam means the other meaning we find out about later!

- “ “When we push ourselves too much, sometimes our minds and bodies push back. If you don’t let yourself properly rest and recuperate, your body will make you.” Adam glanced down as he went to wrap Beetlejuice’s arm, but otherwise kept his eyes on his face. “It feels like you’re sick because you are. You haven’t been properly taking care of yourself.” ” - just gonna put this here, for those that need to read it. Your brain is an organ, and can get sick just like any other organ.

- “… excuse me for a moment. I’m about to lose my temper.” - based on a line from ‘Fantastic Mr. Fox’.

- The scream - based on the scream from the touring version of the show. You know what I’m talkin’ about.

- “crunching of leaves under his shoes.” - back on his illusion bullshit already

- “Autumn is on it’s way, his mind gently supplies, the thought drifting in slow and sluggish. The cold will come. It is inevitable.” … “Steady now. It will only consume you if you let it. But the cold will come.” - wow, foreshadowing? In my fic? Sure is!

- “I let you in.” - although I’ve heard it in many pieces of media with demons, the most famous use of this phrase is in ‘Talk To Me’.

- The art is once again done by the fabulous @/splasharooni !! Here it is again bc I love it so much <33

- “They stand up straight, trying not to cower as he rises to his full height, towering over them by a good foot, at least.” - Cyrus is 6’4”!

- “his long cigarette holder” - like they had back in the ‘20’s, ‘cause he’s a classy old bitch.

- “If they had held them for too long, Beetlejuice’s felt their own limited warmth be slowly but surely sapped away. But now, he was… warm. Goosebumps chased up their arm as he gently turned their hand over, inspecting their purple-ish-blue-hued fingers with his cool gaze.” - I wonder if this has any thematic implications.

- “ “.. couldn’t leave... the house that breather lived in.” They briefly chewed on the inside of their cheek. Careful. Careful.” … “The mark burned into Lydia’s arm, although they are very careful not to say her name, or who she is.” - Demons work by Fae rules, Beej has to be careful not to let their names slip in front of them!

- “Beetlejuice sees hints of starlight through the canopy. They wonder if the sky is clear enough for them to locate their own star. Or Cyrus’. Or-” - Each demon’s true name is based on a star! Like how Beetlejuice’s name is actually Betelgeuse, Cyrus’ name isn’t actually Cyrus.

- “His gaze is gentle and understanding and… alluring. (Was he really that bad? A voice whispers in the fog.)” - YES HE IS. GET A JOB. LEAVE MY BOY ALONE.

- Burning Out / Extinguished - when a demon is killed/dies, these are the terms used to refer to it. ‘Burning Out’ means their internal flame is dying due to any variety of circumstances.

- Seal vs. Ward - a seal is to keep a demon tied to one place/thing/person, a ward keeps demons away from one place/person/thing!

- “Of course. I’m never outside of her control, am I?” - based on my own personal experience once again. Sometimes, no matter what you do, a part of you is unfortunately always influenced by your abuser.

- “ “I know you don’t… partake, still.” Cyrus looks down at Beetlejuice again, raising an eyebrow mirthfully. “You never could stomach it.” A shudder ran up their spine once more. Beetlejuice cast their eyes down to the ground. “.. no.” The thick, sticky taste of iron stings in the back of their throat. Guilt creeps into their hazy mind.” - by ‘partake’, he means consuming human blood, or even flesh. Beej never had the stomach for it. He had to do it once, and he regrets it.

- “Darling, I only want your time.” - Yes, the perfect Deal. Surely there are no exploitable loopholes.

- “So it is done.” - another ‘Late Night with the Devil’ reference!

- “Unlike then, however, Beetlejuice could see the shape of his tail wagging underneath his skirt.” - I wonder why he’s so excited this time?

- “His right ear panged, and he instinctively reached up to fidget with it, halting when he was met with.. something new, some sort of earring now piercing that lobe. It was cool to the touch.” - yes, Cyrus straight up pierced Beej’s ear without consent. But he got a cool little piece of gold jewelry out of it!

[blood-mocha-latte]

favorite lines tag game <3

rules: share a favourite line that you've written/read that impacted you. EDIT: was tagged by @youcalledmebabe, completely forgot to include that 😭

written: little talks - the last chapter of the last part

“Mm.” Joe said, bumped his nose against George’s temple warmly as George traced fingertips along the careful lines of the paper, almost scared he’d tear it. “I’d build you this, if we could afford it.” George leaned back further into him, couldn’t push back his smile as he caught Joe’s wrist before it could leave the paper, closing his eyes. “There’s still time.” He murmured, a ghost of thought.

read: a tree grows in brooklyn by betty smith

"Drunkenness is neither truth nor beauty, It's a vice. Drunkards be. long in jail, not in stories. And poverty. There is no excuse for that. There's work enough for all who want it. People are poor because they're too lazy to work. There's nothing beautiful about laziness." (Imagine Mama lazy!) "Hunger is not beautiful. It is also unnecessary. We have well. organized charities. No one need go hungry." Francie ground her teeth. Her mother hated the word "charity' above any word in the language and she had brought up her children to hate it too. "Now, I'm not a snob," stated Miss Garnder. "I do not come from a wealthy family. My father was a minister with a very small salary." (But it was a salary, Miss Garnder.) "And the only help my mother had was a succession of untrained maids, mostly girls from the country." (I see. You were poor, Miss Garnder, poor with a maid.) "Many times we were without a maid and my mother had to do all the housework herself." (And my mother, Miss Garnder, has to do all her own housework, and yes, ten times more cleaning than that.) "I wanted to go to the state university but we couldn't afford it. My father had to send me to a small denominational college." (But admit you had no trouble going to college.) "And believe me, you're poor when you go to such a college. I know what hunger is, too. Time and time again my father's salary was held up and there was no money for food. Once we had to live on tea and toast for three days." (So you know what it is to be hungry, too.)

tagging @lamialamia, @disastrouscanasta, @ewipandora, @ep6bastogne, and anyone i'm forgetting to say hi to <3

[pianokantzart]

If You Can’t Stand The Heat

One-shot fic. Don’t know if it qualifies as fluff/angst or hurt/comfort, but ptsd is definitely happening.

Mario and Luigi settle into a new home in The Mushroom Kingdom shortly after their victory over Bowser. Both try their best to embrace the new normal, but both have their own struggles wrapping their heads around everything they just survived.

Now posted on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46686196

______________________________________

Luigi never had a kitchen to himself before. The moment he and his brother declared themselves homeowners, his entire family, near and far, pitched in to make sure they had everything they needed. The kitchen especially was stocked with all their hearts desired, as everyone in the family had a spare something: cutlery, spatulas, measuring spoons, cutting boards, cheese graters, rolling pins, crock pots, meat tenderizers, bread machines, pitchers, pots, pans, knives, blenders, choppers, slicers, mixers, grinders, peelers, juicers, shakers… Mario tried to explain that they could stock their own kitchen– the plumbing business was going great, they had money now, but nobody listened. In their own loud, pushy, overbearing way, they only wanted to make sure he and his brother were taken care of. They were family, after all.

While Luigi had always pitched in to help cook for big events and celebrations back in Brooklyn, the kitchen was his mother’s domain, kept pristine, efficient, and orderly. She was an unstoppable machine that churned out three multi-course meals a day, all made from scratch. She worked hard, poured her whole heart into every detail, and always made sure everyone was fed and taken care of. Luigi was often told– sometimes condescendingly– he took after his mother, but to him this was no insult. Quite the opposite. At last he had a kitchen of his own, and though he was cooking for a household of two rather than nine it felt like no less of a responsibility, especially given the way Mario had been for the past few days. To anyone who hadn’t lived with Mario his entire life, he seemed fine. Better than fine. He behaved like his usual self, head raised high and a spring in his step, ready to take on the world. Nobody else knew how little sleep he was getting, sitting up in bed while looking back and forth between his brother and the window like a newly-hired guard dog, waiting for the worst. Nobody else saw how his whole body shifted into a fighting stance at the slightest hint of trouble, the worry in his eyes every time Luigi stepped away for longer than a minute.

For as long as Luigi could remember, Mario treated his own life with reckless abandon while treating Luigi’s like it was more valuable than the world itself. It was only two weeks ago that they nearly lost each other, and then found each other, and then saved each other by the skin of their teeth. Luigi, feeling a little guilty, was dead set on seeing to it that all was made right again. He was happy to stick close to his brother for as long as needed, stay up talking for long hours into the night, and manage the plumbing business whenever Mario finally felt calm enough to fall asleep (no matter what time of day it was). But more than anything he kept their new house clean and organized, intent on ensuring every square inch of it truly felt like home– a safe haven where nothing could hurt them. 

Of course, their first home-cooked meal would be a major milestone, and what better way to launch their kitchen than with an old-fashioned Italian pizza? Luigi layered the sauce and the mozzarella on the freshly stretched dough while the oven preheated, singing “Che La Luna” to himself while Mario sat in the living room, trying to beat the first boss of Kid Icarus.

“You sure you don’t want any help, Luigi?” “I said I’ve got this!” Luigi called back, pausing his singing as he added fresh basil leaves and a sprinkle of salt. “I’m almost done. Dinner in five!”

Luigi plucked up the pizza peel by handle and headed toward the oven, pleased with his handiwork. He picked the tune back where he left off, taking a moment to twirl proudly in his apron as he crossed the kitchen floor. “C' 'na luna mezz'u mare Mamma mia m'a maritare!…” He carefully held his creation in his right hand as he leaned down and opened the oven door. “Figlia mia a cu te dare Mamma mia pensace-”

The blast of heat hit him. Luigi suddenly stopped singing. He had been so lost in his own thoughts… he didn’t even expect the oven to feel like this, five hundred degrees fahrenheit slamming against his cheeks like a heavy blow. Blindsided by the sensation, an uncontrollable tremor slowly overtook him, the pizza he had so carefully prepared falling out of his hands, clattering to the tile floor.

“Lu! You okay?” Luigi didn’t hear Mario’s voice. The comforting presence one room over disappeared under an ocean of fear that crashed down upon him, suffocating him. The cozy kitchen, the golden light of evening streaming through the open window, and the smell of yeast and flour evaporated under ash and sulfur, boiling magma lapping at his feet and red-hot iron bending beneath his hands. His heart pounded so hard he felt like it was about to burst, blood rushing to his head and turning his mind inside out while it desperately attempted to grasp reality… This wasn’t real! It was over! He was safe! He was home! He… Heat. He was trapped. He was burning. Luigi leapt back from the oven, hitting himself against the island table as he fell. Hard stone, sharp claws, bony hands, crushing scales, falling debris. Heat. Oppressive, inescapable as death.

“Mario!” Luigi screamed his brother’s name on instinct, unaware he was already in the doorway, rushing to his side.

“Luigi! what’s wrong?” Mario took hold of his brother. Luigi tried to wriggle out of his grasp as though his life depended on it. He shook violently, pressing his hands tightly to his face as he screamed again, voice cracking with terror and desperation. 

“Mario!”

“I’m here Lu! I’ve got you!” With some effort, Mario managed to force Luigi’s hands away from his face. He held Luigi’s cheeks and looked into his eyes– they were wide, tearful, looking past everything toward some undisclosed horror in the middle distance. At last they shifted, returning to the present world, settling upon the face in front of him. He shivered terribly, his breathing shallow, his brow soaked in sweat as recognition finally dawned on him. “… Mario?”

“I’ve got you.” Mario pulled Luigi close, pressing their foreheads together as they sat on the kitchen floor, surrounded by a mess of trampled dough and scattered flour. “I’m here. I’ve got you.” Mario repeated softly, “You’re okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

________________

That night, they had ice cream for dinner. Mario stood in the living room in front of the coffee-table-turned-dessert-bar, and split a tub of butterscotch-caramel between two dishes, topping them with mounds of whipped cream, sprinkles, and cherries. Luigi sat on the nearby couch, wrapped in a quilt, watching his brother divvy out the icecream from a carton that still had the smudged remnants of “Mario’s! Do not touch!” written on the side in sharpie, hastily scratched out at the last minute. 

“You want pecans too?” Mario asked, already popping open the tin. Luigi nodded, tightening the blanket a little further around his shoulders. His hands still shivered as he took the bowl from his brother. He was quiet for a moment, taking a few bites of the ice cream, fighting down another wave of tears that tried to bubble to the surface even now that the worst of the attack had left him. He was miserable. Exhausted. Defeated. “I feel so stupid.”

“You shouldn’t.” Mario sat on the couch, shoulder-to-shoulder against his brother while holding his sundae in his lap. “This is normal, I think. I mean... you went through a lot.”

“You didn’t fall apart like this.” Luigi whined, “You went through a lot too.” “What I went through is different.” Mario retorted, stirring his sundae into a brown, chocolatey slurry with his spoon, “I wasn’t alone like you were. Even from the first moment I landed in The Mushroom Kingdom I had Toad watching my back. You didn’t have anyone.”

Luigi didn’t say anything, he just looked at his older brother. Mario was right, but he didn’t like how guilty he looked while saying it. It wasn’t his fault that they got ripped in separate directions, it wasn’t his fault they ended up where they ended up. He did everything he could. He did amazing, all considering. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Mario asked, breaking the silence between them. “You know… what happened to you while we were apart?”

Luigi took a bite of his ice cream to buy himself time to consider his response. The answer was no, of course, even though Luigi knew talking about it would be good for him. He dreaded the thought of putting his experience into words. Even in the daylight hours, when all was well and the world was as it should be, merely thinking about The Dark Lands made his chest hurt and his hair stand on end. “Can I talk about it tomorrow?” “You can talk about it whenever you like,” Mario assured. He reached his free hand over to Luigi’s shoulder and tugged him into a playful side hug. “You’ve been here for me Lu, but don’t forget I’m here for you too! and I’m gonna keep being here, every step of the way. That’s a promise.”

Luigi smiled. Tears welled up in his eyes, far from the fearful tears that had plagued him moments before. “Mario…” Luigi set his ice cream down on the coffee table in front of him, rubbed his tears away on the palm of his hand, and plucked his little-big brother up into a bear hug. Mario barely had enough time to put his own ice cream down safely before being yanked into the embrace. “…We’re a mess.” Luigi chuckled, sounding happy at last. The shivering was almost gone, his breathing was steady, and his heartbeat was almost normal. Mario noted each of these things while he was pressed against his brother, and couldn’t help but smile as well. He’d be okay. Whether Luigi knew it or not, he was strong as either of them. It would take a bit of time, but they were going to be okay.

“Yeah.” Mario laughed, resting his chin against his brother’s shoulder, “we sure are.”

[qualityfunnyscenariosfire]

Wrongful Kidnapping

Male Mafia Fox Oc (Niki Cherri ) x wrongfully kidnapped reader (soft vore and cuddles)

It was a cold winter’s day and you were just returning home. The snow starts to fall as you make your way inside a building and up a flight of steps, your legs aching after the first 5 flights.

“Mmmh…” You groan, seeing that you were level 7. You sigh in relief as you turn to look at the hallway next to you. There were 5 doors, each having numbers to correlate with them.

You walk towards the 3rd door, the one with a dent next to the doorknob after your crack head of a neighbor decided to try and break in last night after you refused to let them use your spoons for something. “I gotta get that fixed soon, it’s ugly to the eyes.” You mumble, grazing your fingers against the large dent.

You fumble in your pocket for a bit, finding your keys in the right one. You take them out and unlock the door, immediately running inside as you heard your crackhead of a neighbor’s voice from down the hall, rambling on about needing spoons for their meth. You quickly lock your door, making sure it would stay locked for the night.

The lights of your apartment turn on as you flip the switch, yawning as soon as the lights hit your eyes. You take your coat off and kick your boots off as you start to unwind, putting your fluffy slippers on to get in your comfy state. The lights of your apartment slightly burn your eyes as you had to adjust to them from being in a white hellscape snow storm for the past hour. “Nggh, bright.” You groan, blinking rapidly as you make your way towards your room.

It was a messy, well slightly one. Your clothes were all over the floor but not on your neatly made bed, your closet was clean but it had stuff shoved in a corner, your floor was clean but there were still remnants of dust on the ground, your dressers were closed with some pieces of socks and shirts sticking out since your knobs were broken and had to be removed. All in all, your room was like ying and yang, one part clean and one part dirty.

You undress and grabs the sides of your middle drawer to pull it out, revealing your poorly folded pjs. You pick out a large XXXL t-shirt you got from a local amusement park and a pair of comfy shorts on to go with it. You put the articles of clothing on before shuffling into your bathroom, brushing your teeth and cleaning your face before it gets ruined by drool and pieces of fallen hair. “I feel fresh.” You mumble to yourself, making a goofy smile in the mirror before heading back to bed.

Your bed happily awaited you as you did one final stretch before plopping onto it, snuggling into your fluffy pillows and getting under your equally fluffy and comfy blanket. Snug as big, you curl up and turn your bedroom light off. The snow outside falls harder and faster as you heard it plop on the roof above you, making you more drowsy. You drift off just a couple minutes later, secure in your own comfy and dark world of your bed.

Until 2 hours later~

12 am.

 BANG! BANG! BANG!

“Wh-What the hell!” You jump out of bed, fumbling around your dark room as you try to figure out what the fuck is going on.

“OPEN UP!” A gruff voice yells from outside your apartment, the sound of banging getting harsher.

“Why?” You groan, putting your slippers on. You shuffle fiercely towards your door, grabbing your house keys in the process.

“Hello?!” You say, opening the door.

Two large men with a shorter guy in the middle stand in your doorway, giving you stern yet scary looks. They had guns, meaning they were ready for some business, the guy to the left of the one in the middle seemed a bit trigger happy as his hand twitched above the gun which seemed very ready to grab it and aim.

The man in middle walks towards you, smirking. “You thought you could hide from the boss? Didn’t cha.” He says in a Brooklyn accent, the smell of tobacco, smoke, and alcohol hits your noise.

“Come again?” Confused at whatever the hell they came for, you just tilt your head.

The man in the middle groans, grabbing your wrist tightly. “You thought that by simply running away, our boss wouldn’t find ya. Well, we did.” He growls, a bag immediately covers your head.

“ I don’t even know who you people are!” You yell, struggling as the two men grab you and bring you down the flights of stairs. “Let me go! I don’t even know who this boss guy is!”

“Tom! Matt!” The man in middle yells, apparently saying the two guys’ names. “Hush the tramp up!” He orders, the sound of the building door opening follows.

You felt a breeze of fridged and harsh winter air hit your knees as one the men grip you by both arms tightly. You squirm as your head is steadied before the feeling of something hard and metallic hits the back of your head. You black out with blood gushing down the back of your neck. With your limp body in one of the tall guys’ hand, the man in the middle escorts them and you into a huge black car. The guy who was on his right, named Matt, shuts the door behind himself as the car speeds off somewhere.

Timeskip~

“Wake up, tramp!”

The feeling of cold water hits your face. “Ngggghhh….wha….?” You groan, slightly mumbling as you slowly gained consciousness. All you could see was a light above your head, rope tied tightly around your wrists with your hands balled up in fists, and the guy who called you a tramp earlier holding an empty water bucket.

“Wh-Where….ngh….Wh-Where am I?” You manage to say, the feeling nausea and head pain hits you like a truck.

“Somewhere. Where no one can find you.” He replies, pulling your head back to get a good look at him. “And I’m happy to report that my boss arrived to see you. He’s never had an escaped target get so far from his house. You must’ve been a quick runner to be able to get 10 miles away from him. Let alone get that far and still alive long enough to get recaptured.” He chuckled darkly.

“I-I swear to you, I never ran away from anywhere. A-And why want me so badly?” You exclaim, yelping as the man socks you in the nose.

“Oh you better shut up about this "I don’t know what you’re talking” crap or I swear to god I’ll-"

"That’s enough Johnny."

A softer yet stern voice says from somewhere. The sound of heels click against the floor as whoever was talking approaches.

"But Mr. Cherri, I-"

”I said, that’s enough. Leave me alone with them." A growl followed, the Johnny guy walking away begrudgedly.

Whoever ordered him finally comes into your blurry view, it being a feminine male fox. He was very tall, 7 foot something being, and pretty large despite his slim fogure. Black lipstick and dark eyeshadow were on his white and orange furred face, making his expressions pop as his eyes looked down at his hands. Covering them was dark leather gloves that matched his black and white suit snd tie, faint blood stains adorning his adorments.

A scowl on his face formed as he took out a cigarette and lighter from his back pocket, igniting it. He walks towards your tied up self, blowing a puff of smoke into your face as he crouched in front of you.

”Gods damn, Johnny. Ya got the wrong person again! “ He harshly whispered, disappointment and anger washing over his face. He takes another hit, blowing out another puff as you shakily open both eyes wide.

"Wh-Who are you?” You ask.

“All you should know is that I’m Mr. Cherri. That’s it.” He responds, using the cigarette to burn through your restraints. “And it seems my goons kidnapped the wrong person. Aka you. They thought you were one of my runaway targets."

You watch the ropes fall off your wrists and legs, getting helped to your feet by the fox. "Can I g-go home?"

He shakes his head, letting you lean against him for support as he leads you towards another part of the space you were in. Your eyes making out a flight of steps that led to metal doors.

“No...not yet atleast. You’ll be staying with me in my penthouse until you completely heal from your wounds." His tail curls around you securely as you nod, watching him open the doors. Behind them lay, a mirror walled pathway that led to a small elevator, a button on the wall being pressed a to open the elevator doors, letting you walk in first.

The very bright lights sting your eyes as you lean again the cold metallic walls. He pressing the top button and watches the doors close before turning his attention back to you. He got a good look at you, seeing your hair all a mess and matted with scent of blood coming from you.

“What happened to you before my men brought you here?" He asks, seeing you shake at the notion.

“I-I’m not sure. A-All I know is th-that he and two men took me out of m-my apartment harshly, put a bag over my head and knocked me out with something hard and metallic. I awoke in chair, tied up, with my vision blurry and my head hurting like hell. I was punched in the face by him after I told him that I had no idea who you were and what was going on.” You simply explain, seeing that you two were two floors away from his penthouse which you guessed was at the top.

“Well, I’m still sorry for all the pain my dimwitted and stubborn as hell henchman did. He gets very intense and I guess he mistook you as a target of mine who escaped here 5 hours ago. They were spotted running in the same direction as wherever he found you.” Mr. Cherri says, walking out the elevator as the doors finish opening. He leads you down a long and pretty wall, seeing art and photos hanging from the sides. There were many of Mr. Cherri and this small bunny girl with him, he looked very happy in them.

“Uh..Mr. Cherri. If you, uh, don’t mind me asking…who is this?” You ask sheepishly, pointing over to one of the pictures. He turns to look at you, letting out a soft sigh.

“That’s my adopted daughter, Bonnible. She’s not here at the moment so she doesn’t know about you being here. That picture-” He says, taking it off the wall. “was when I took her out for the first time. She had just been adopted and I said to her that I would give her a day of fun. We were up until 3am that day, just having a blast.” He say, smiling happily at the picture. He then puts it back on the wall and keeps walking.

“She seems lovely” You remark, surprised at Mr. Cherri’s soft side showing so easily. I guess he talks about his daughter alot so he didn’t mind. The two of you get into the front foyer and living room of his penthouse, seeing how beautiful and pretty everything truly was.

“Your penthouse is wonderful, Mr. Cherri.” You say, looking at everything in awe.

“Thank you. And since we’re alone you can call me Niki.” He says, smiling at you as he takes his heels and gloves off. “I want you to get as comfy as you can during your stay. You can sit on the couch if you’d like.” He’s acting less stern and tense know, odd but comforting. He was in his kitchen area, making some tea for you. “

He sets you on his couch, making sure you sat uo comfortably before naking you some tea in the kitchen nearby. He hands it to you, watching you take some sips. You let out a sigh of content. “Oh what’s your name dear? If you don’t mind me askin’. ” He pondered, curling his fluffy tail around me.

“ Y/N.” You say between sips, soon finishing it. You hand him the empty cup.

“Well, that’s a wonderful name dear. Now, come with me, I’m gonna show you to my bedroom. You’ll be resting with me in there.” He says, walking right back over to you and gently picks you up with ease. He smiles at you and places his paw like hand on your face, gently stroking your cheek. “Christ, he really beat the shit out of you, huh hunny.” He coos, feeling ever so sorry at how bad you looked and all the pain you must’ve gone through.

“Mmmmh, Niki….do you have anything to help me with my soreness. The wounds still irritate me” You ask, enjoying being carried as he heads up his spiral staircase.

“Yes. I do……..but you might not like it.” He says, cringing a bit as he makes a turn down this hallway to your right and towards the door at the end of it.

“Wh-What is it?” You ask, seeing him stop at the door and do some security sequence with a laser scanning his eye.

“You’ll see...” He simply responds. You see his door slide open, closing immediately behind him as he walks into a dark room. He flicks a light switch, illuminating the area. You two were inside a romatic red, black and white bedroom with the curtains down. The bed looked all velvety and comfy with nice satin pillows near the headrest and a pretty red and white blanket. The room itself had a great view of his patio and the city at night with the windows slightly tented so the surrounding apartments could see inside.

He smiles as he sees you gawk at his pretty bedroom, placing you on his comfy bed. “Now, let’s get you out of those dirited up clothes of yours and into something way comfy.” He purrs, walking over to his drawers and pulling out a pair of pink and white pajamas. “My daughter wanted me to through these away but I was gonna keep them to use to as scraps for an outfit I was working on.” He says, handing the pajamas to you. “You can change in my bathroom.” He points over to an open door by his closet.

“Ooooh. What were you working on?” You ask, heading into the bathroom and changes.

“Oooh this nice blanket for her. But I couldn’t finish it since I didn't have enough of her old clothing to make finishing touches” He says, rummaging around his drawers. He pulls out just a pair of silk boxers and changes quickly so you don’t see him nude.

“Awww…” You say, cleaning the blood off your face and notices how swollen your cheek was. “Ow…”

“You okay in there, darlin’. ” He asks, his voice sounding worried.

"Y-Yea it's just..everything hurts." You huff, Niki gently wrapping his arms around you suddenly.

“Okay……….I know how to heal you. I only hesitant since I don’t want you to freak out once I show you my healing process.” He says, sitting on his bed with you now in his lap.

“Whatever you do, I don’t care. I just want to be healed, Niki.” You say, finally feeling more confident. You liked it.

“Alright..please don’t freak out.” He asks, licking his lips a bit. He positions you towards him, being leveled with his mouth perfectly. You nod and gasp slightly as his mouth opens wide in front of you, revealing wet, warm, and dripping maw. It was drooling rapidly, probably waiting for something to go inside it. You maybe. “Aaaaah…” Niki moans, his long tounge comes out and gently licks your cheek to get a good taste. “Ooooh….you taste soooo sweet…”

“U-uh… thanks Niki…” You say, feeling him tightly yet gently grab your arms and pick you up. He tilts his head back as he lowers you head first into his maw, making you drenched in his saliva. His tounge wringling around as he gets all of your taste all over his tounge, moaning at the wave of flavour.

“Nghh….” You groan softly as your head and soon shoulders get pushed to the back of his wet maw and down a long, tight, and wet tunnel. You hear him let out a groan as he makes a giant gulp which pushes you further down. The sound of something gurgling echoes loudly in your ears as an opening soon appears, revealing a large, wet, and dark space with a mysterious smell coming from it. Loud gurgles and groans surround you as your head plops into the space, making a wet thud. The smell if nasty hits your noise like a punch in the face as you feel your shoulders soon land with you.

At this point, your waist and abdomen were in his maw and partially down his throat. Your legs were sticking out and move a bit as he makes five very large and quick gulps to push you down quickly. Niki’s gut expands as your arms land in the space with you, his walls tighten around you to make you secure inside. His moans could be heard, muffled from inside as he licks your lower half and legs all over.

“It’s really smelly in here.” You say, seeing your chest and waist land inside with you. You slightly moved to get more comfy as your legs finally plop down with you.

“URRRRPPPPP! ‘Scuse me.” Niki chuckled looking down at his human sized gut. It was 16x it’s normal size, something that didn’t even phase him. “Sorry about the smell, I can’t really change it at the moment but the healing process will distract you from it.” He coos, hugging his gut while scooting back towards his pillows.

You were in a fetal position, feeling the liquid below you slowly rise up to your ankles. “It’s alright but what’s with this liquid?” You say, feeling it but not seeing it due to the dark.

“Oh! That’s just my healing liquids! I can make them glow for you so you can see.” He beams, sounding very proud of himself for this special occasion. The liquid do glow as he stated, revealing to be red and orange respectively. You gasp at how pretty and sparkly they were, seeing some of the liquid stick to your skin as the act like bandaids.

The clothes Niki gave you weren’t affected at all, not drenched/soaked by the liquids but your skin was. It was all slimy and smelly from the liquid but also numb and untense. His gut walls gently move around you, giving you a massage as the liquids do their thing. “Ooooh…….that’s nice.” You murmur, slowly relaxed and getting sleepy. “Then that means I’m doing good job.” Niki purrs, laying on his back to get more comfy since he wanted fo get under his covers. “Well, you get some rest dear.” He yawns, turning his lights off with a clap since he was to lazy to get up.

“Mmm…...…..okay.” You yawn. Nikk giggles as he turns to his side, making you get drenched by the liquid. It wouldn’t both you as your black eye was starting to heal from the liquid was, the pain subsiding.

“Good night, sweety. I’ll let you out in the morning.” He coos softly, falling asleep too.