#and i'm not blindsided by it while reading
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xxplastic-cubexx · 4 months ago
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Do you have any cherik fics recs set in the comics? Or at least not set in X-men first class
my rec list is very small for i don't really read fanfics and i only really read things when they're recc'd to me HOWEVER i do have a Very Small collection for you (descending by word count). under the cut cause the descriptions got long by accident Oops
1.) [EXPLICIT, READ WARNINGS BEFOREHAND] Chimera, by Andraste (Word Count: 1,304)
(Takes place in the Ultimate X-Men (2001) timeline) I can't really describe this fic adequately without telling the whole thing or accidentally doing an analysis on it: while it doesn't have a strict plot, calling it PWP isn't too accurate in my opinion either. The smut in this fic- in my reading- isn't meant to be erotic in the typical way we approach NSFW in fanfiction, but if I start to go in-depth on what that means this post is just going to be dissecting everything line-for-line LOL. The best way I suppose I can describe the premise of this fic is a "grim" scenario based around Charles reworking Erik's mind and keeping him "docile", and Erik catching on to what's been happening to him. This fic explores how Erik wants Charles to "atone" and confront the consequences for this meddling.
2.) As If Nothing Happened, by joshriku (Word Count: 3,289)
(Takes place amidst X-Men Unlimited (1993) #1) This fic expands on the X-Men Unlimited tidbit where Charles is rescued by a """"mysterious"""" figure (who we later learn is Erik in UXM 309) during the snowstorm he, Scott, and Ororo were entrapped by. Very domestic and "warm" and sprinkled with beautiful, playful back-and-forths, and is a joy to revisit if you want something cozy.
3.) [EXPLICIT, READ WARNINGS BEFOREHAND] Behind Closed Minds by f3armgneto (Word Count: 4,914)
(No specific verse or timeline) Honorable Mention Is Honorable i gotta include the fic that was written for me... i wasn't sure if you were looking for explicitly-stated comicverse fics only but i needed to do an honorable mention..... the art this fic's based off of is meant to be comicverse so surely that must count... Premise is essentially that Charles accidentally telepathically peeps on Erik showering and is incapable of moving beyond the instance without "proper resolution". Meanwhile on Erik's end, fully aware he'd been spied upon, thinks of a "countermeasure" to Charles' voyeurism (spoilers: it's more of a reward than a deterrent).
4.) it's going to be a long, long time, by joshriku
(Takes places amidst Krakoa period around AXE Judgment and X-Men Red) A series of events between Charles and Erik following the latter leaving to retire on Arakko. My summary does a poor job on highlighting the chemistry, dialogue, and longing between Erik and Charles in this: I can only beg you to give the fic some time to read it.
5.) not so tragic, my love- it's this dream, it's this sun, by joshriku
(Takes place post-gala/beginning-of-post of the Krakoa period, diverges from X-men: From The Ashes (2024)) Erik has Charles stay with him on Island M after the fall of Krakoa. It's no surprise Charles isn't doing so well mentally after losing everything, but- amidst the facsimile of some domestic joys- Erik wrangles with Charles' depression and anguish, the professor having long lost the light in his spirit to help his fellow mutants readjust after the downfall. (Guest Starring: Jean Grey who has a wonderfully written interaction with Charles- though this fic In Its Entirety is wonderfully written...)
when i was looking through my bookmarks i hadn't realized literally like. half of my rec list was written by joshriku AJLVKEJALK BUT THEM'S THE WORKS i owe them my life for getting charles and erik's voices, thoughts, and actions down so wonderfully. i hadn't read Number 5 in a while and i'm grateful for the excuse to do so: it's probably my favorite of their works that i have listed here, so if you read any of these fics i greatly suggest that one
if you read any of these at all tho i hope you enjoy them !!
#snap chats#fic rec#i have to thank a commissioner who introduced me to joshriku and their works months back#i ALSO have to thank them because the commissioner was the reason why i picked up UXM 309 and XMU... so shout out to them...#reading anything by joshriku feels as if i'm reading dialogue from the comics itself#now usually when i see that term used in reference to /my/ work it's because of how hammy and 60's-sounding it is#but with joshriku i can just perfect imagine everything and hear everything- as if the words were meant for comic pages#maybe a lot of xmen fic writers have that talent- i dont know again im very bad at reading fics#as for chimera tho im not exagerrating when i say i can do a line-for-line analysis on it#it's probably because it's so short it's a lot easier for me to think of its premise and concept#AND IM GRATEFUL FOR IT FOR THAT i love it for that- the details Not Said are always my favorite#i remember reading that fic the first time and being blindsided by the ending#i shouldnt have considering the concept involved but still i was like Girl.... Youre In Too Deep VJLEKVJEAKLV#i love my toxic yaoi...... chimera i love you... it makes me want to tackle 'normal' erik more whenever i reread it#aaaaand i already shared all my praises for number 3 in the tags of my rb JLAEKJKAL#i always love me voyeurism and mirror usage... gentle remidner....#ngl something mysterious happened to me while i was making this post so idk how the summaries hold up#i at least wanted to try to use this ask to take my mind of the thing... i think it worked for the most part#i think a part of me doesnt read fics because then i get inspired and ill feel like im copying others' works vLAEKJELKJ#beacuse as i was revisiting these fics i was like. Ough.... Thats Good.. I Must See Visuals For This..#i met my old bestie through making fanart for her fic so who knows.. could be a worthy endeavor lol..#but yeah hope you enjoy these if you read em !!!
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frenchy-and-the-sea · 8 months ago
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Didn't expect to do this, but. Excerpt from a longer piece I'm working on from my Curse of Strahd campaign, because I was reading over it while trying to find something to work on in the midst of all of this awful shit and got slapped with some very on the nose feelings. Call it my WIP Wednesday, lol.
“But honestly, who is going to blame me for indulging in a little bit of absurdity right now? This whole situation is mad.” “Is it?” Now Ireena turns to face her, brows furrowed in genuine confusion. “How so?” This, from Ireena, is a real question, and not a sarcastic quip at Wyn's expense, so she takes a breath to quell the sudden scorch of fire in her chest and turns her attention back to her sketch.  “Where would you have me start?” she asks, very lightly. “The night that we spent safe among a full caravan of people on a well-traveled trade road, only to wake up in the middle of unfamiliar woods, alone, with necromantic mists chasing our every step? The haunted manor house so full to the brim with moral transgressions that it tried to eat us one floor at a time, and very nearly succeeded? Or perhaps the fact that less than two hours ago, we were sat down at the table of a woman who claims to see the future and told that, despite our inexperience and our incompetence and the fact that we have not so much as a whit of real skill between us, we are apparently meant to be this land’s saviors?” In truth, savior hadn’t been the word that Madam Eva had used. She had been more delicate, less certain; she had used words like ‘might,’ like ‘maybe.’ But she had still held out beseeching hands across her card-strewn table and told them that they carried hope on their shoulders, that she looked to them for the cure to the curse on Barovia’s stricken land. She had still said that they were what she had been waiting for.  The whole thing had been so absurd that Wyn still feels a little glow of pride when she remembers that she hadn’t laughed. Beside her, Ireena nods, slowly.  “I see,” she says, and she probably does, but Wyn can tell by her expression that she also thinks that Wyn is overreacting. The thought is nearly enough to spin up the grease fire burning in her gut again, almost enough to bait the howling animal — but then Wyn takes another breath, and sighs, and shrugs. “I expect that you’re the only one who does,” she says, smiling like there isn't a part of her that wants to start screaming instead. “But, as near as I can tell, I have two options: I can either wallow in the knowledge that this is our death sentence, and spend a very productive evening being a font of wretched despair and grim portent, or —” She makes a flourishing gesture down to the sketch in her lap. “— I can paint a beard onto the wizard. Considering that I expect to spend no small amount of time on the former, I’ve decided to indulge the latter while I have the energy.”
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neverendingford · 1 year ago
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Can you please share your sources and everything you have about Palestine?
I...
I reblog furry art and cool nudes.
why are you asking me this.
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piplup335 · 1 month ago
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Griefer x reader! (post-Venomshank when he has all the plant stuffs)
*inhale* HELLO, F E L L A S wanted to try writing for block tales lmao, probably gonna open requests for them mb I wanna work on requests but I'm tryna write self-indulgent reqs rn aaaaaa I'm sorry ;-; but yeah uh first time writing for block tales, I'm trying :,D enjoy!
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You were tired of everything that had happened to you so far.
When you were torn out of your timeline so you could go back to the past to help Shedletsky get the SFOTH swords, you really didn't know what to expect. You expected an arduous journey, sure...after all, these swords were the stuff of legend. You knew that much...after all, the swords also existed in your timeline, and you learnt about them before.
You didn't expect...everything else.
When you were first sent to get the Ice Dagger after having a short, grumpy penguin guide you through the ropes of the new world, the journey you went on was predictable, to say the least. Having some old, regal king as the guardian of the sword wasn't unexpected to you, especially because of all the video games you played in your old world. What you didn't expect was how delirious he seemed to be.
Based on what you heard from the villagers living in the kingdom, he was a reasonable and just ruler. No one had any complaints about him, and all respected him for his decisions.
That wasn't reflected in your fight, though.
When you fought him, he seemed to be detached. Paranoid. Cruel King thought you were going to tear down his kingdom, and no amount of talking deterred his insatiable need to cut you down. You had to physically wrestle the Dagger away from him- not the sensible and just king you expected, but a complete and utter lunatic.
You thought it was the end of it, but it wasn't.
Shedletsky then sent you out to Turitopulis to retrieve the Venomshank from Mayor Thanyiel. On the plane ride there, you decided to go prepared and read up on Turitopulis' culture, nature and residents...just so you knew what you were going to be up against. You didn't want to get blindsided by a seemingly normal ruler again.
Upon reaching there, you realised you were probably a bit too late. You saw Mayor Thanyiel...held hostage by a gorilla, commanded by some dude who looked like some edgy teen. He even spoke just like an edgy teen, too- some of his words seemed a bit distorted, but you could somehow understand his speech as leetspeak.
Maybe the Ice Dagger gave you some of the old King's knowledge.
Regardless, you still had a job to do.
You spoke to people in the town, simply wanting to get your job over and done with so you could return to your timeline as soon as possible. But the more you spoke to the people there the more intrigued you were about the place. Gone was your annoyance pertaining to your job
You traversed through the dense forest, careful to prevent any unwanted encounters. The fauna was quite hostile there, after all.
By the time you finally navigated to Griefer's crib, or whatever that place was called, it was already too late for you. You wanted to resolve the situation peacefully, but by then Griefer had already tied his father to the Venomshank and used him to pull the sword from the stone.
Cue a long fight where you had to battle the Venomshank-wielding male...and even after losing, he stabbed himself with the very sword he tried to kill you with.
It didn't end well for either of you.
While you were severely injured, Griefer's fate was much worse. He got transformed into some plant...spider...hybrid monster thing.
Even after purifying your soul to retrieve the Ghostwalker and defeating some ancient god for the Firebrand, when you went back to Turitopulis, he was still in his plant-like form, if not in an even worse state.
When you checked in with Mayor Thaniyel, he mentioned that not only had Griefer not returned to his usual self, but he was also less responsive as the days passed. Barely reacting to his dad's voice. Barely getting up to eat. It was as if his life was withering away day by day like the plants covering his body were consuming him from the inside...so you knew what you had to do.
After a bit of sailing and a trip to the late Kitchen Wizard, you returned to Turitopulis, some onion ring tart in your hands.
Allegedly, based on the cookbook you found at the heart of the jungle, it was supposed to be some cure for Griefer's condition. It worked, thankfully...but only to some extent.
He still had plant-like features around him, but you thought it made him look cooler.
That was when finally...he opened up to you and agreed to join you on your journey to find the rest of the swords.
He told you everything about himself. He mentioned how he was always curious about the Venomshank, how he heard the voices from it just like Blackrock's king...how it controlled his mind and made him do things he never should've done. He told you about how he'd get yelled at by his father every time he tried to bring up the topic of the Venomshank...and everything in between.
For once, he felt safe. He felt like you were someone he could truly trust, and therefore agreed to aid you in your adventure.
Fortunately for you, Shedletsky had no information to give you regarding the other sword guardians, so in the meantime, you could take a break and explore the new world. Despite all that, though, you enjoyed staying in Turitopulis by Griefer's side, getting to know the community better with each passing day. However, you still wanted to return to the Temple of the Red Sun to train and loot the place...which was how you ended up falling for him.
You let out a choked cough. Blood was starting to flood your throat, and you were just a few hitpoints away from dying. With whatever Special Points you had left, you pulled out one last card from your deck.
"Griefer...? If you're there...somewhere...please, help..."
The being...The Ancients, it called itself, stared down at you, its soulless, unmoving eyes never once leaving your wounded form. Calypso lay before you, crumpled up into a heap. She had passed out trying to protect you, just as how Captain Trotter wanted.
She was loyal to him until the very end.
And even then, her loyalty to him was her downfall.
As The Ancients wound up its arms, preparing for one final strike, you squeezed your eyes shut.
You were already in too much pain to move. You just wanted to die quickly so you could respawn and be freed from whatever agonising pain you were in.
Just as The Ancients lunged forward, ready to take away whatever life you had left, you heard some faint rustling as a familiar figure dropped down in front of you. Two pained grunts could be heard from him as he was struck by the two blows that were meant for you.
"...N0T 0N MY W4TCH, PUNK."
The crowbar-wielding male stood in front of you, protecting you from The Ancients.
You glanced up at him, confusion and shock on your face. You had no idea how he got into the temple and found you in such a short amount of time, but you weren't complaining.
"G...Griefer...? You...actually came to help..."
A weak cough escaped your body as you tried to stand up. Getting bashed in multiple times had done quite a number on you, and you almost fell flat on your face.
"...D0N'T PU5H Y0URS3LF."
He knelt down and held out a hand for you to grab. You gratefully accepted his help and pulled yourself back on your feet. Due to your weakened state, however...you stumbled into him.
Griefer, upon seeing your weakened state, instinctively caught you as your legs gave way, not wanting you to fall. What you didn't expect was for him to do so by pulling you against him so you could put your weight on him instead of on your own legs...which resulted in him tightly hugging you to himself.
"I G0T Y0UR B4CK. L3T'5 PWN TH15 5UCK3R T0G3TH3R."
One thing slowly turned into another, though...and on one moonlit night, Griefer ended up asking you out during a leisurely nighttime stroll. By that point, you were completely smitten by him, so you agreed.
Ever since that day, Griefer treated you like a delicate porcelain doll. He offered to take care of you as you recovered from your injuries, offered to do little things for you and always protected you from whatever was out to get you. Once, he even followed you to The Guru so you could get more training by refighting your own embodiment of hatred. Despite you telling him multiple times that you'd be fine since you'd fought it before and could even respawn, he was determined to follow you so you'd come back safe and sound.
On this day, however, you really didn't feel like training. Your body was sore from the excessive practice you did the previous day, and all you wanted to do was take a break for one day.
So what did Griefer do? He decided to pop over to the Turitopulis' Town Inn you were staying at to pay you a visit and spend some quality time with you.
As you lay in bed, your muscles sore from all the combat you did the previous day, you heard a soft click as the door opened. Griefer stood in the doorway, a small bowl in hand.
"H3Y. (Y/N). I M4D3 Y0U S0M3 S0UP. Y0U 5H0ULD H4V3 S0M3, IT'5 G00D F0R Y0U."
Griefer set the container down on your bedside table and opened it. The smell that wafted out and filled the room was heavenly- it smelt delectable, just like the soup your parents always made for you in the past.
Griefer went to the inn's pantry and grabbed a spoon. He picked up the bowl of soup, scooped up some soup and held it to your mouth.
"D0 H4V3 S0M3, D34R35T...Y0U N33D 1T."
You opened your mouth and let Griefer spoon-feed you the soup. It tasted just as good as it smelled, if not even better. The soup was rich and savoury, and it tasted absolutely heavenly.
You instinctively opened your mouth every time he brought the spoon to your lips, gratefully consuming every bit of soup he fed you.
It tasted like familiarity. It tasted like home. It tasted of the good old times when you were safe and secure in the arms of people you cared for.
Now, you were in a new universe. There were so many new things to see. So many things to appreciate. Someone by your side to truly love.
As Griefer continued feeding you the soup, you had a sudden thought.
"...Griefer...? Could we...cuddle, by any chance?"
He paused, a faint hint of pink spreading across his face. Eventually, he relented, setting the bowl back on the bedside table and crawling under the blanket with you.
"...F1N3. C'M3R3..."
Griefer wrapped his arms around you, pulling you to his chest. The leaves covering his face and arms tickled a bit, so you squirmed in his grasp to get comfortable.
He buried his face in your shoulder, the leaves on his face brushing against your neck as he lay there, the only sound in the room being the faint hum of the air conditioner and the soft breathing from both of you.
"I'V3 W4NT3D T0 D0 TH15 F0R 4 WH1L3...JU5T L13 D0WN H3R3 W1TH Y0U L1K3 TH15. 1'M GL4D 5H3DL3T5KY H45N'T SENT Y0U 0UT T0 F1ND 4N0TH3R 5TUP1D 5W0RD..."
You lay there in bed, too tired to say a word and too comfortable to move. You never knew how nice it was to get spooned by someone you loved until then. As you let out a soft yawn, Griefer chuckled.
"T1R3D? Y0U 5H0ULD SL33P. Y0U'V3 B33N TR41N1NG 4 L0T R3C3NTLY."
You subconsciously caressed some of the vines that snaked down Griefer's arm, silently adoring his new look. You knew that deep down, Griefer was insecure about the new additions...but you liked them anyway.
As you drifted off to sleep, you felt his hold on you tighten slightly.
"5L33P W3LL, MY L0V3...1'LL 4LW4Y5 PR0T3CT Y0U FR0M WH4T3V3R PUNK TH4T TR135 T0 HURT Y0U."
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and that’s all, fellas! I hope you enjoyed, and I’ll see you guys soon! :D
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kwistowee · 11 months ago
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I don't know how well I can put my thoughts about this exchange into words, but I'm gonna try.
Kate has resolutely kept her walls up around Tyler for the majority of their interactions, but she just chose to be incredibly vulnerable with him. She let him see a fraction of how much pain she carries with her and it stops him in his tracks. (The camera literally stops panning around them the moment her dam bursts, and he stands completely still as she pours out her guilt over her past failure.)
Tyler respects Kate. He admires her capacity to read and to tackle this thing they both love. But now, for the first time, he's beginning to understand just how challenging storm chasing again actually is for her. How much fear and sorrow, how much trauma and torment it carries for her. He is stilled by the realization that this clever, fascinating woman is trapped under the weight of her past, and he gently encourages her to consider taking ownership of that pain by acting rather than surrendering.
But she's not ready. She side-steps his question entirely, stating that he should rest so he doesn't miss any storms the next day while wiping her tears away and trying for a bit of a smile.
And look at the way that shatters him.
He cuts himself off from replying and the grief in his face as he shakes his head and looks down shreds my heartstrings. Storm chasing is absolutely the last thing on his mind right now; he's concerned for her. He has taken every possible opportunity to seek her out in an effort to understand her since the moment their paths crossed. So maybe he's blindsided by the idea that she thinks his primary concern is not missing any storms. Normally, that might be true. He absolutely loves his job. The joy he finds out in the field chasing tornadoes radiates from his entire being every time he does it. And yet none of that passion comes close to how much he is centered on her and her pain in this moment.
But he can't tell her that. He's not ready to admit she is his primary concern and I think he recognizes in this moment that she's not ready to hear that yet either. She has effectively ended the conversation and dismissed him for the night. So he raises his eyebrows in a subtle agreement to go along with what she has said and he clamps his mouth shut. He returns her research notes to her and silently exits the barn to give her space.
And I cannot stop thinking about how much he just conveyed about the depth of his feelings for her with just a few micro expressions.
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tossawary · 6 months ago
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Moshang fanfic idea that I've been holding onto for a while but have no strong plot for: the Airplane Extras meet-ugly happens as per canon UNTIL Mobei-Jun asks why Shang Qinghua saved him / what Shang Qinghua wants from him.
At which point, a panicking Airplane desperately searches for a compelling and believable character motivation as to why he would stupidly save the life of a murderous demon who might still kill him, and hastily blurts out: "You're so beautiful that I fell in love at first sight!"
Important to note: this is not true. It is bullshit. Airplane thinks MBJ is incredibly hot, obviously, but he does not know or like this guy as a person, because MBJ is both a relative stranger and a scary asshole.
Also important to note: some demon cultures have a marriage kidnapping tradition, but that happens under very specific and usually pre-arranged circumstances that obviously do not apply here. Mobei-Jun being whisked off to the equivalent of a shitty motel room by some random human outer disciple, who absolutely cannot forcibly keep him there, has no real romantic connotations. It's just weird. There's not even any life debt tradition aspect to it; Mobei-Jun could just kill this guy now and it wouldn't say anything about his personal honor even if anyone found out. It would just be humiliating. This guy would have to be fucking nuts to think this interaction is anything that anyone, especially any authority, would recognize, and that's not what this guy is claiming anyway. All he's doing is claiming that he's suddenly in love with a hostile stranger, which is still nuts.
So, Mobei-Jun (who is also still a teenager) is just... surprised and extremely confused. Does this kind of thing... honestly happen... in real life? Really??? And Airplane is like, "Aw, fuck, I made it weird. Well! I have no choice but to go with this!" and starts up the "Please don't kill me!" thigh-hugging routine.
Somehow, Moshang make it out of that meet-ugly similarly to how they usually do. Airplane is like, "Well, fortunately, nothing will ever come of this! No way would someone like Mobei-Jun ever return the feelings of his gross, pathetic human servant. I can freely express how sexy I think he is and it'll just be meaningless lovesick flattery to this asshole." Real emotions? That soft, squishy bullshit? Airplane does not have the TIME to contemplate having sincere feelings. He's in survival mode.
And teenage Mobei-Jun, spoiled demonic nobility extraordinaire, who otherwise would have spent the next 20 years or so thinking of his human servant as gross and pathetic and repulsive but strangely useful, is like, "I think... I'm being wooed...??? Is this working on me...? He's kind of... not unattractive, actually, for a madman. Maybe I should try to be... nice... to him??? How do humans do this???"
And THEN, months to years later, young and in-love Mobei-Jun somehow finds out that Shang Qinghua outright lied to him. (And by this point is pretty fond of Mobei-Jun but still hasn't looked directly at his own real emotions for years. He's busy.)
Arguably, the above idea is one way to interpret normal canon already, with Mobei-Jun reading more than is mutually understood into Shang Qinghua's bullshit, failing to communicate what he thinks their relationship is (if he even fucking knows himself), and then feeling betrayed when Shang Qinghua ditches him for being an asshole. But I'm charmed by the idea of distracted Shang Qinghua explicitly lying, actively making it WORSE by knowingly behaving "romantically" under the assumption that it's harmless fawning because Mobei-Jun basically doesn't even HAVE emotions, and then getting totally blindsided by having his "impossible unrequited love" returned and accidentally, apparently breaking Mobei-Jun's heart. Fuck!!!
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endless-ineffabilities · 11 months ago
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Diet Pepsi (18+)
A modern Aemond Targaryen x girlfriend reader smutshot
When we drive in your car, I'm your baby So sweet Losing all my innocence in the backseat
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a/n : how do I explain this? I suppose the song Diet Pepsi got stuck in my head, and when I watched the music video, the only male lead I could envision in that sorta situation is our Aemond/Ewan. So here ya go! Reading time... depends on what you get into 😉💋
masterlist
themes/warnings : pure smut, filthy actions and filthy language, complete disregard for sports car interiors, old money boyfriend Aemond x bratty internet starlet girlfriend reader, sticky surfaces, foggy windows, wayward fingers, sliding tongues, and YES YES YES
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"What's goin' on in that pretty head of yours?"
Your boyfriend glances at you from the corner of his eye, barely, his attention remaining on the road. But his veiny hand reaches over to squeeze your thigh, fully exposed beneath the scrap of pale pink fabric that you try to pass off as a miniskirt.
Mission accomplished. After only a few minutes of pretending to stew while looking out the window, he is quick to sense that something is amiss with his kitten.
"Nothing," you respond in the best downcast tone you can manage, fighting the urge to clench your thighs to trap his thick fingers in the warmth between.
"Come on now," he clicks his tongue, "don't play around."
"I don't know what you mean."
"You've barely looked at me since you got in the fucking car." Poor baby. You're getting to him, as planned.
Time to rile him up in a way that only you can. "Do you think Maris is pretty?"
He scoffs, "Don't start, kitten."
"So you do," you egg him on. "I knew it. You were looking at her tits earlier. I bet you loved it when that skank bent over in front of you. Gave you a good view."
"Kitten, please," his grip on your flesh tightens, trying to get you stop. "You're being ridiculous."
"And you didn't answer my question, Aemond," you snap back, grabbing his hand and prying it from your leg.
"Fuck's sake," he groans. He then rests both his hands on the steering wheel, at the standard 10 and 2, grasping onto it so roughly that the leather squeaks.
You called him Aemond. Not babe. Not handsome. You must be pissed, for some imagined reason, and he simply does not have the time.
Impatient, he goes off on a tirade, "You've asked me this shit before, babe, and my answer remains the same. I don't care about any other girl. You're the only one that I want, that I will ever want."
Licking your lips, and looking slyly at him behind your done-up eyelashes, you say, "You could've fooled me." He raises his brow at your childishness, muscles flexing under his tight white shirt as he makes a sharp turn. You continue, "I know what I saw. You want her, is that it? Is it because she's got status like you?"
"You have status," he corrects you, "The whole damn country practically knows your name."
"But it's not the same," you moan. "I didn't come from money. My blood isn't blue."
He sighs audibly, "We talked about this. None of that fucking matters, kitten. Especially not to me."
You cross your legs, leaning against the car door as if to inch away from him, your devilishly handsome silver-haired aristocratic boyfriend. The very one you're so keen on tormenting now. "You don't know how I feel."
But he does. You've long since lost track of the countless times you've been blindsided by an uncharacteristic wave of self-doubt. You, infamous for being one of the bubbliest and most outgoing personalities on the internet, your lifestyle guides and fashion spreads a mainstay on every social media platform.
But ever since you started dating Aemond, you can't help but feel unworthy sometimes. He is Aemond Targaryen after all, a glowing young heir to one of the most powerful families in the country, his lineage extending back to the great Valyrian empire.
Old money, as they say. That was his life, but before him, you thought old money was just some fashion trend that dominated your Pinterest boards.
You met at a charity gala for the Hightower Foundation. Unaware of who he was, he was simply a hot guy you set your sights on, and you managed to get his attention by accidentally spilling your espresso martini down his crisp tailored shirt.
Women were not usually that forward when approaching him, especially not those who ran in the same circles as him, like the Baratheon sisters or the Tyrell heiress. But you were different. You were simply, unabashedly yourself. Your biggest asset was you - your personality, your style, your genuine warmth that allows you to build connections with anyone in the industry - you didn't walk into a room with the snootiness and entitlement of a girl born with a silver spoon in her mouth.
The chemistry was instant, overriding any superficial issues that may arise from someone like him getting with someone like you. Which is why you snuck out of the gala together, and fucked each other senseless in the backseat of his car, sweaty and giggling and whispering sweet nothings like you were already long-time lovers back then.
As you are now, nearly two years later. Aemond's love for you has only grown a thousand fold, and he shows this every day.
The car idles at a stop sign. He reaches for your face and implores, "Kitten, look at me, please."
"No," you impetuously say, making him drop his hand.
"Baby, come on."
"Don't feel like it, Aemond."
The light turns green. The car zooms past houses and open fields. Shops and smaller, unknown places of business. They all come together in a blur. The tension is at an all-time high in the car, just as you intended.
He makes several maneuvers, and the scenery outside begins to look unfamiliar to you. The street you enter next is particularly quiet, almost empty, all the shops closed for the day or boarded up. It's likely on the outskirts of King's Landing, far from the Targaryen estate in its central area of Red Keep.
"You still gonna be a brat?" he asks lowly.
You smirk, "Don't call me a fucking brat."
"Have it your way, kitten," he says, and it sounds like a promise. The car pulls up to a vacant parking lot behind an old restaurant, the surrounding area covered by a thin tree line. There is no one, and nothing in sight.
He leans back, and takes a few deep breaths.
"You've been a bad girl, my kitten."
"Have I?" you bite your lip, no longer fighting the urge to clench your thighs. The miniskirt rides up higher, and his eyes become drawn to the sight, his cock hardening underneath his blue jeans.
He hums, leaning over and grabbing your jaw towards him with one hand, "Yeah, bringing shit up like that. Like I would ever look at anyone besides you."
"Wouldn't you?"
"Want me to fucking mention the time you actually flirted with the Stark boy in front of me?"
"I wasn't - "
"Shut up, kitten," he spits. "I'm not dumb."
His voice dips low, and you feel your cunny growing wet and slick. Gods, he is so hot like this. Assertive yet downright sensual. He only wants one thing, and you will surrender it to him in a heartbeat.
"What you gonna do 'bout it, handsome?" You lick your gloss-covered lips and you are caught off guard when he pushes his thumb inside and orders, "Suck."
You obey. His pupil significantly dilates in one eye, while the sapphire fixture in the other glints beautifully. He looks regal, and he's all yours.
"That's right," he breathes, his vision clouding over in lust as he feels the pad of your tongue, "fucking minx. Always so insolent, huh?"
"Mhmmm." When tears blur the corners of your eyes, he takes his hand and sucks right where you did. Then he pulls you in roughly, kissing you with everything in him, the lewdest grunts of pleasure escaping him when you push your tongue past his teeth.
"Come... come 'ere," he places you on top of himself, straddling him in the driver's seat, the lace of your underwear rubbing against his denim. "Gods, this fucking skirt." He pokes at it, lips curling. "You torture me, darlin'. Now you gotta make up for it."
You jut your bottom lip out, dragging your bright pink fingernails across his cheek. His mouth parts at the sight of his pretty little kitten practically begging for it.
"Is that so, handsome? Why don't you make me?"
He anchors his fingers in the thin bands of your underwear and in a sure and decisive flash of movement, he rips the material apart. He throws it over his shoulder, and it lands in the backseat, among the littered lollipop and bubblegum wrappers you leave behind. He loves it when you suck on that hard candy shell in front of him. It's partially the reason why your penchant for sweet treats has gotten worse.
Your pussy is exposed to the cool draft coming from the AC of his car, and it's a good and familiar sensation. He fondles your clit, little slow circles, making you whimper. He presses on, eager to unwrap his kitten like a piece of candy to be devoured. The zip of your miniscule skirt slides down, and your bare ass and cunny is revealed to him.
"Gods fucking damn, kitten," he rasps, then slowly buries three whole fingers into your slickness, spreading your folds, pumping in and out.
"Aghhhh, baby," erupts from your glossy mouth, breath hitching as he picks up the pace. In and out. Out and in.
His face appears almost sinister, clouded over in lust, his bottom lip trapped under bunny teeth, but then he whispers, "I love you, kitten. I love you so fucking much," and you see him as your Aemond. He's offering more than just his body - to you, he has already surrendered his heart and soul.
"I love you too, baby," you respond in as firm of a voice as you can manage, made even more difficult when he probes that sweet spot inside your sopping cunt.
You leak onto his fingers, droplets of your milky white substance beginning to pool in his palm.
"Ask me again," he snarls, shapely lips pulling back to reveal his sharp teeth.
"Wh-what?" you reply in a daze.
"That stupid question," he says. His pace doesn't slow; if he keeps up, you just might forget how to speak, save for incoherent noises that make his cock twitch.
"You'd rather be... b' with... a fancy heiress," you try, pausing when he pinches your hardened nipple over your crop top with his other hand. "Maris... Baratheon... or Floris... or - "
"Look at me, princess," he says, "You feel that? You feel me? There's your fucking answer."
"Not enough," you shake your head feebly, keeping up the ruse. Judging by the buldge he sports, he's into it too.
Smirking, he pulls his glistening fingers out of you, and helps you out of your crop top. He chucks the material somewhere, before ducking his head and nipping at the mounds of your breasts.
"Unnnghhh," you hear him, muffled by your flesh. He undoes your lace bra and sucks wildly. You cradle his head with both hands, keeping him pressed against your tits. His tongue flickers out to taste your skin, and he angles his face so that your eyes meet when he takes a nipple in his mouth.
"Shit, baby," you whimper, heating up all over from the sheer intimacy of it all.
His mouth lets you go with a resounding pop, and he tilts his head toward the backseat, hands gripping your hips to guide you. He follows suit, removing his white shirt in the process, as well as his jeans, shimmying them off his legs as he scrambles after you.
He smacks your ass with an open palm as it is raised in front of him in full view, the sharp sting of it only making you grow wetter.
You shuffle onto your hands and knees, looking back to see him already in position. His fine Valyrian steel chain dangles from his neck, the one thing still on his person. His boxers are also discarded, and his length is fully erect, slapping his stomach when he leans over to hastily cover your mouth with his. Your tongues battle for dominance, drool dripping down your chins. You feel a strain in your neck from twisting back to accommodate his kiss, but you don't care.
You feel it poking at your backside, feel him, his cock all slippery from hot precum dribbling down the sides.
He rocks back, hands digging into the soft flesh of your ass, keeping you in the prime position for him to take.
In a swift movement that nearly drives you insane, he twists downward until his face is level with your opening, and he buries his tongue in your soaking pussy. You know he likes it rough, so do you, and this is his way of getting you ready.
"Fuuckkk," you collapse forward, the side of your face colliding with the smooth leather seat. He twirls his tongue around, and you swear you can see stars.
You must have blacked out for a split second, delirious from the high only he can give you, because a moment later you feel his tip edging itself slowly into your cunt.
"Ready, baby?" he asks.
"Fuck me," is your strained plea.
His cock stretches you out, inch by inch, your slicked walls straining against his sheer size. A whining noise leaves you, music to Aemond's ears, and when he's fully sheathed, he exhales, "So pretty. Such a good little slut for me, kitten." That sends you over the edge.
You move forward slightly, then back again, your ass slamming right into his pelvis. He gets the message, smart boy that he is.
With an animalistic growl, he proceeds to frantically buck his hips into you, his huge cock just about splitting you open. He slaps your ass as he goes, making you tremble.
Each thrust sends shockwaves throughout your body, causing your eyes to roll back in your head. Your dripping cunt begins to feel that familiar ache, your lower belly spasming from his ceaseless thrusts. Your knees threaten to buckle, and if they do, you imagine that his firm throbbing shaft will be enough to keep you propped up.
"Aemond... baby... " your moans echo in the car, joined by his, "Yes... yes, kitten... so fucking good, taking me like this... pussy so sweet for me... "
The filthiest of words spill from the two of you like prayers from the damned, just begging to be answered. And seven hells, with the way Aemond makes you feel like you're floating amongst the skies, he just might be your salvation.
He does not relent, intent on rearranging your insides with how deep he buries his cock inside of you. You don't want him to stop. You never do.
You have to hold onto something to keep steady, to keep from utterly flopping down in a mindless haze. Your palms reach for the fogged up windows, and Aemond angles your bodies so that you're half-seated atop his thighs. He grabs hold of your breasts as leverage, squeezing them as your leaking cunt squeezes his cock.
The angle allows him to fill you better, and that heated coil unfurls in your belly, a signal that you are about to reach your peak.
He draws forward, pressing his mouth to the back of your neck, licking your sweat with reckless abandon.
"Baby," he moans, "I'm gonna cum... gonna fill you up... "
"Oh, yeah?" you answer in a high-pitched, wanton manner.
"Yeah," he breathes.
"You promise?"
He chuckles, and you feel the sound reverberating as your back is pressed to his chest.
"My sweet kitten," he purrs.
"I'm getting close, baby," you let him know, and he takes it as his cue to pound his cock inside faster. His lips are pressed to your ear, arms wrapped around your torso possessively.
He lets himself go, decorating your insides white with his Targaryen seed. You glance down and see it spilling out of your cunt, milky rivulets staining the once-pristine leather seat. His cock convulses in your pussy, waves of his release pulsing like fragmented aftershocks. It hits the right spot, bringing you to that little death, your walls contracting from the dizzying pleasure he gives you.
With that stupid and blissed-out smile on your face, you lean back, collapsing on top of him. You soon find yourselves curled together on the backseat, a mess of sweaty and satisfied limbs.
His silver hair is matted against his forehead, and you reach up and brush them away. He catches your hand and presses a loving kiss to the back of it.
He props his head up on one arm, as you draw lazy circles on the firm planes of his chest. You whisper sweet nothings to each other, as you had on the night you met.
"You should rile me up more often, you little brat," he smirks crookedly.
You roll your eyes, but peck his lips anyway with a cheeky smack, "Isn't that all I do, baby?"
"Sure, kitten," he says, "and I fucking love you for it."
"Oh, baby," you purr, and your wayward fingers reach down to stroke his half-erect cock. His brows raise in amusement, but it only takes several good pumps before his shaft is again taut from your touch. You whisper, "I love you too."
And so the second round begins.
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Taglists (refer here to be added)
Vhagar - @gwaynehightowerswhore @kravitzwhore @litchifaerie @g-cf2020 @9431789 @noxytopy @fan-goddess @m00n5t0n3 @diannnnsss @nsr-15 @the-awkward-barbie @rockstwrsz @yellowstonebaby @urdeftonesgrrrl @eddieslut69 @callsigncrushx @starwarsdinosaur @qweq-6802 @tulips2715 @hotdismylife @joyismm @itseunaimonia @just-mj-or-not @crystal-siren @zaldrizzes @all-for-aemond @ajantanijhum @darylandbethfanforever9 @vhwyrm @purpleskiesandroses @technicallystrangereview @jjkysnk
Targaryen - @angel6776 @different-tale-student @binchissimo @teasweeter @raging-panda @rhaenys-nyra @gelacat0413 @simplymurdock @yariany02 @barnes70stark @stupid---person @lonan-hane @thescooponsof @donalesaa @rosey1981 @urmomsgirlfriend1 @wabi-sabi1090 @girl-lost-not-found
P.S. eagle-eyed readers can probably spot the nod to chemical override ;)
924 notes · View notes
timkontheunsure · 1 year ago
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"and if he's only here as a prisoner, what kind of monster does that make me?"
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Ok think I've finally worked out what was bugging me with them miscommunicating when Blitz yells.
"Would he want me if he were free?" Stolas' starting premise is if Blitz wasn't ok with the deal, and didn't like him; then he's a monster and an abuser.
If it's was only sex to Blitz, then he's just like Stella.
It's why he gives up, saying he has his answer; when Blitz assumes the crystal must be a prop for more of their deal.
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"tethered to someone in such an unfair way". Ok this bit had my mind immediately go to the divorce.
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The marriage was arranged by someone must more powerful than Stolas, to someone he'd never choose for himself. An "entire life's been written in stone" in fact; he thinks he's done the same thing to the man he loves.
While it is perfectly reasonable for Blitz to get angry, feeling blindsided and dismissed; asking for a "fucking minute", the next bit reads very differently to both of them.
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"You spring this feeling bullshit on me. Are you fucking kidding! *Kicks open the door* Can I get a Fucking minute to think after everything you put me through! You pompous rich Asshole! *Stolas' flinches the same way he does when Stella screams at him.*
"Treat me like one of your little butler imps. You can't just Dismiss me like that. I mean you royal Fucks think you can think you can do this every single time. Like you can just play with our feelings, because we're smaller and not as important. Well I'm Not letting you bitch. *Flinches again* Let's Go!".
Blitz is telling Stolas that he doesn't want to be sent away, and that he wants think about it. His abandonment issues are fully kicked in.
He's trying to force Stolas into a fight, to get him to engage with him. Likely a repeated pattern from his last serious relationship with Voroskia.
Trying to pick a fight, to get to make up sex, to get them back to 'normal'. Because that's how he's been dealing with their "complicated" for a while now. If it's about sex he knows how to deal with what they have.
(Blitz is word perfect on the fight with Verosika after all; so they probably got back together a few times after stealing from her).
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Blitz immediately goes to "I can do better", and try give it back; when he thinks Stolas doesn't want to see him anymore.
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"you royal Fucks think you can think you can do this every single time."
But that's not what Stolas is hearing right now. Stolas hears is 'your all the same. All royal are as bad as eachother'.
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It's very close to Striker explaining how the world works during his torture.
And now he thinks that the only man he's ever loved hates him because what he is.
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That's what he meant by "think so of low of me".
And he's not exactly wrong. Fizz even calls Blitz on hating that Stolas is a prince.
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And Blitz does say "They're all the fuckin' same". (Blitz isn't wrong for calling out Stolas on how he treats his staff either)...
Then there's the bit that seems fairly contentious. Stolas portaling Blitz out.
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Stolas is a domestic abuse survivor, only a couple of weeks out of the hospital, because his wife tried to murder him. He's going freak out at loud voices, angry swearing, and doors being kicked in.
He going assume that this is Blitz getting a few kicks in on the way out; not him genuinely trying to talk through their problems just because of the format.
They are both stumbling over eachothers trauma landmines here.
Neither is wrong.
Not Stolas for walking away, or making the shouty person leave.
Not Blitz for getting scared, upset and feeling abandoned. Thinking Stolas isn't giving him a chance to think it through.
Blitz is going to get that time he wants to think it over. It's not an all or none thing.
He now has his business safe and secured in his own hands, and knows that Stolas likes him too. Those are biggys.
It's entirely up to Blitz what he wants to do now.
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hedwig221b · 2 months ago
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Hello! I've been haunting your blog for a while, consuming all of your fic recs because there's no such thing as too much when it comes to reading sterek fics. But I kinda have a fic request? Or at last I'm not the only one starved for this and that there's a secret trove of what I've been craving;
I don't thunk there's enough fanfic where Stiles being kidnapped and beaten by Gerand is made a huge deal. Just...the only *human* who isn't even part of the pack getting targeted and hurt, the entire time Stiles having to deal with it all ALONE.
So is there any fics that focus on Stiles recovery from Gerand? Tha k you for any recommendation you may give!
Hi! Hope you like these 💕
And You Say You're Alone by bi_leigh_bi
Between the kanima, the Argents, and Peter's untimely return from the dead, everything has fallen apart. Stiles and Derek try to put their lives back together once the crisis has passed. Stiles deals with the aftermath of being tortured, and the distance growing between he and Scott. Derek attempts to become a stronger alpha and keep his pack safe, and that includes Stiles.
Blindsided by AClosedFicIsNeverRead
Derek exhaled tremulously and tried to stay calm. He called several more times, growing steadily more frantic each time, before allowing the truth to settle in: Stiles’ phone was off. “No. No, no, no, please, no,” Derek whispered to himself, barely able to see the screen through his tearful eyes. What had he done? Had he been so blinded by rage that he dismissed Stiles' call for help? OR - Fuming over Scott's betrayal, the Alpha is out of his mind with anger. When he receives a call from Stiles in that incredibly inopportune moment, he does not even let the teen speak - just screams at him, blames him for everything, and hangs up. But then Erica and Boyd show up, frantically insisting that Stiles is out there somewhere, likely hanging onto life by a thread after being tortured for hours… Will they be able to find Stiles before it's too late? And just how much of the Stiles they know will be left if they do manage to track him down?
What It Takes To Not Be Broken by Whispering_Merely
He's pretty sure Death is nipping at his heels at this point. But he has to stay awake, has to keep Gerard away from Erica and Boyd, the two Betas still tied up with mountain ash and electricity on the other side of the room, and it looks like they're trying to scream through their duct-tape, still, but he can't hear it, not anymore. The terrible, all-consuming, staticky silence had over taken him after about the third time Gerard's lackey- Ben, he thinks his name was- had stuck a military grade taser to his ear, a low enough voltage not to cause brain damage, he'd said, because the point of this was for him to talk. [Or: The one where Stiles is kidnapped and tortured by Gerard, and his injuries lead to a complete loss of hearing, among other things.]
In Your Hands by StarShineForMe
Spit forms at the corners of Gerard’s mouth as he dips his head towards Stiles, the tendons in his neck standing out in anger. “You’d do well to end this now, boy. Give…me…the…Alpha!” Gerard glares at him with crazed eyes, glittering with rage. Stiles purses his lips to hold in a sob, then takes a long, shuddering breath. “No,” he says, quiet but resolute. “I don’t care what you do to me. I’m never gonna give you Derek Hale.” *Stiles' kidnapping and the aftermath- full of puppy Isaac, slow burn to explicit in love Sterek, and the makings of a ragtag pack family as they go
It's all part of the master plan - Sterek version by Littleredridinghunter
Stiles is taken to the Argent's basement. When he comes out he knows his life will never be the same again. The extent at which that night changes his life becomes glaringly obvious as time goes on. Can the pack help him heal? Or will they fail to be there for him when he needs them the most?
The Sourwolf's Missing Human by CottageFroggg
"What the hell?” Issac mumbles, completely turning his attention away from Erica and to the obnoxious blue jeep sitting on the side of the back road leading into the preserve. Derek pulls the Camaro over and steps out quickly, his brows knit together in confusion when he doesn’t hear the teen’s heart beat. - Stiles is missing and Derek knows that the Argents are behind it, and he will not let them get away with it.
Spark a match and watch the world BURN by pixieblade
Sometimes all it takes is a single moment of bravery, or stupidity, to change everything. Derek Hale should know. Because Stiles Stilinski - spastic, abrasive, blindingly loyal, asshole Stiles Stilinski - has both of those characteristics in spades. He just wished, for the world's (and maybe his heart's sake), that the stupid kid would try and limit the amount of damage done every once in a while. But then, he wouldn't be Stiles, would he? He wouldn't be the man he loved.
Betrayal by Littleredridinghunter
Gerard does something despicable and the pack are left shattered after Stiles is killed…. or is he?? Set at the end of season 2 because honestly I have a fascination with that episode! Canon compliant up until then but then everything goes a little crazy! Do not read if you don't like Hurt or kidnapped Stiles because there is a lot of it….
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[masterlist link]
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ghstyles · 4 months ago
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For Worse or For Worse
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WC: 10k
Masterlist
Series Summary
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The cameras flashed incessantly as they made their entrance at the children's hospital gala, a choreographed arrival designed to capture maximum attention.
Harry guided Y/N through the gauntlet of photographers and reporters with practiced ease, his hand resting possessively at the small of her back.
And there it was—that look. The one that made his jaw clench even as he smiled for the cameras.
Y/N gazed up at him with such perfect adoration that anyone watching would swear she was madly in love. Her eyes softened, crinkling slightly at the corners. Her lips curved into a smile that appeared both intimate and slightly shy, as if she were still amazed to find herself on Harry Styles' arm after four months of marriage.
It was masterful. Infuriating. And somehow worse than if she'd been bad at pretending.
"Mr. and Mrs. Styles! Over here!" a photographer called, and Y/N responded by leaning into Harry's side, her body fitting against his with practiced familiarity.
He hated how seamlessly she played the role. How she could flip the switch from the cold, sarcastic woman who avoided him in their home to this warm, loving wife who touched his arm when she laughed at something he said, who looked at him as if he hung the moon and stars.
"Harry! Tell us about the cat!" someone called from the press line.
Harry felt Y/N’s body tense slightly against his. The only indication that his interview comment had caught her by surprise. Yet her expression never faltered, her smile remaining firmly in place as she glanced up at him expectantly, playing along perfectly despite being blindsided.
"Ah, that's actually a surprise for tonight," Harry improvised smoothly."Y/N's been wanting a companion while I'm away on tour."
Wait, did he say they had a cat or were getting a cat? He couldn't really remember. Not with her pressed against him like this. 
He looked down at her, a silent challenge in his eyes. "Haven't you, love?"
Without missing a beat, Y/N's expression melted into one of genuine-seeming excitement.
"I've always loved cats," she replied, her voice warm and animated. "Harry promised me one as an early anniversary gift."
She reached up to straighten his already-perfect bow tie, her fingers lingering at his collar in a gesture that appeared loving to onlookers but felt like a warning to Harry.
"He's thoughtful that way," she added, her eyes meeting his with a look that, to the cameras, appeared adoringly grateful but Harry could read the truth behind: 'We'll discuss this later.'
As they continued down the red carpet, stopping for photos and brief sound bites, Harry found himself increasingly irritated by her performance. It wasn't just good—it was exceptional. So convincing that sometimes, in these public moments, he almost forgot it was an act.
That was what truly galled him. Not that she could pretend, but that she could do it so well it occasionally made him question his own reality. Made him wonder, in fleeting moments of weakness, what it might be like if any of it were genuine.
By the time they reached the entrance to the ballroom, Harry's smile was fixed rigidly in place, his arm around Y/N's waist holding her perhaps a fraction too tightly. She, of course, never faltered, playing the blissful newlywed to perfection as they were announced to the waiting crowd of celebrities and philanthropists.
The worst part was knowing she'd drop the act the moment they were alone, like shedding an unwanted coat. The warmth in her eyes would vanish, replaced by that cool indifference or sharp sarcasm that characterized their private interactions.
It shouldn't matter. Their arrangement was business, not pleasure. Her ability to convince the world of their love story was precisely why he'd chosen her.
Yet as they circulated through the glittering crowd, Y/N charming everyone she met with seemingly effortless grace, Harry found himself wondering which version of her was the performance—the loving wife or the distant stranger who occupied his home.
And why, despite everything, he increasingly found himself wishing to glimpse behind both masks.
As they took their seats, Harry pulling her chair out of course, Y/N leaned into his ear, "Pretend I said something funny. Why the fuck is everyone talking about a cat?"
Harry's laughter rang out, rich and genuine-sounding as he placed a hand on Y/N's bare shoulder, leaning in close as if sharing an intimate moment.
To anyone watching, they were the picture of a couple lost in their own private world with his eyes crinkling at the corners and her body angled toward him with easy familiarity. 
"You look absolutely radiant when you're angry," he murmured against her ear, his smile never faltering for the benefit of onlookers. His fingers traced a small circle on her shoulder. It was a possessive gesture for the cameras that effectively masked the tension vibrating between them.
"I may have mentioned our cat during the Melissa interview. The one we're apparently getting tonight."
He pulled back slightly, making a show of brushing a strand of hair from her face, his eyes dancing with something that might have been mistaken for affection but was closer to challenge.
"You're ridiculous," she giggled softly, trying her best not to throw an actual insult. 
"My assistant is bringing it soon. Tabby. I've already named it Grumpus."
At the mention of the name, Harry's eyes fixed on hers with unusual intensity, seeking any flicker of recognition. It was reckless, perhaps even cruel, to test her this way—to see if she remembered that summer, that cat, that shared history they'd never acknowledged.
Y/N obliged with another laugh, placing her hand over his on the table in a gesture that appeared loving but applied just enough pressure to convey her irritation.
"A cat," she repeated, her voice honeyed for anyone who might overhear, her eyes promising retribution. "How thoughtful of you to make such a significant decision without consulting me. And to announce it on national television."
Around them, the gala was in full swing. Waiters circulated with champagne flutes, celebrities air-kissed across tables, and photographers discreetly captured candid moments of the glittering attendees.
At their table, several high-profile couples engaged in their own conversations, occasionally glancing toward Harry and Y/N with approving smiles. Clearly charmed by what appeared to be newlywed bliss.
Harry reached for his water glass, using the movement to lean in once more. "I had to improvise when Melissa asked about children," he explained, his breath warm against her ear. "Would you have preferred I discussed our family planning instead?"
He pulled back just enough to see her reaction, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. The name "Grumpus" still hung between them, unaddressed. A piece of bait he'd deliberately dangled, waiting to see if she'd take it.
A waiter appeared at Y/N's elbow, offering champagne. Harry watched as she accepted the glass with a gracious smile, the perfect picture of poise despite the conversation unfolding beneath the surface.
She was good—too good sometimes. Even he couldn't tell if the brief flicker in her eyes at the cat's name had been recognition or simply annoyance at his latest unilateral decision in their charade of a marriage.
As the first course was served, Harry found himself unusually curious about which way she would play this. Whether she would acknowledge their shared past or continue the pretense that they'd been strangers before their arranged union. 
Harry cut into his medium-rare filet mignon, the rich aroma rising from his plate as he observed Y/N from the corner of his eye. She was pushing the herb-crusted chicken breast around, taking occasional small bites that seemed more performative than enjoyable.
The memory surfaced unbidden—nine-year-old Y/N trading her chicken sandwich for the roast beef one Harry had complained about that summer day by the creek. "I like beef better anyway," she'd said with a shrug, settling cross-legged on the flat rock they'd claimed as their picnic spot. Grumpus had immediately started investigating her new sandwich, making her giggle as she protected her lunch from the opportunistic cat.
Harry stabbed another piece of steak, the childhood recollection irritating him like a pebble in his shoe. These fragments of memory had been resurfacing with increasing frequency since she'd moved into his home, unwelcome reminders of a connection that complicated their carefully constructed narrative.
He glanced at her plate again, noting how she'd artfully rearranged the food to give the impression she'd eaten more than she had. Another calculated performance, another small deception. Yet this one wasn't for their audience but for herself. Maintaining the polite fiction that she was enjoying the meal.
"Not hungry?" he asked quietly, his tone casual enough that only she could detect the underlying current.
Y/N looked up, that perfect smile still in place. "It's delicious," she assured him, taking another dutiful bite.
Harry signaled a passing waiter, who approached with practiced discretion.
"My wife would prefer the beef," he said, his voice low but firm. "Could you arrange that?"
The waiter nodded, immediately removing Y/N’s plate. "Of course, Mr. Styles. Right away."
Y/N's expression remained pleasantly neutral, but Harry caught the momentary widening of her eyes. The surprise that quickly morphed into something more complex.
"That wasn't necessary," she murmured once the waiter was out of earshot, her voice carrying just the right note of affectionate protest for anyone who might be watching. "I was fine with the chicken."
Harry took a sip of his water, meeting her gaze directly. "You've never liked chicken. Not since we were kids, at least."
The words hung between them. The first direct acknowledgment of their shared past since their arrangement began. Harry hadn't planned to say it; the admission had slipped out almost involuntarily, a crack in the facade he'd maintained as carefully as she had.
He watched her process this, curious despite himself about how she would respond. Would she deny it? Pretend not to understand? Or would she finally acknowledge what they'd both been studiously avoiding. That they weren't strangers when this arrangement began, that their history extended far beyond the contractual terms of their marriage?
The waiter returned with a plate of perfectly prepared beef tenderloin, setting it before Y/N with a flourish.
"Thank you," she said to the waiter, her poise never faltering.
When she turned back to Harry, something had shifted in her expression. Something so subtle that only someone who had known her as both a child and an adult might recognize. The carefully maintained wall had developed a hairline crack.
"You remembered," she said simply, cutting into the beef.
It wasn't a question, and Harry didn't treat it as one. Instead, he watched as she took her first bite, the genuine appreciation on her face a stark contrast to her earlier performance with the chicken.
"I remember more than I should," he replied after a moment, his voice pitched too low for anyone else to hear. "More than is convenient for either of us."
Around them, the gala continued. Glasses clinking, laughter rising and falling, photographers capturing moments that would appear in tomorrow's society pages. No one paid any particular attention to the quiet exchange between Harry Styles and his wife, or to the way something unspoken seemed to pass between them as they continued their meal.
For the first time since their arrangement began, the script they'd been following had been set aside, if only for a moment. 
The lights dimmed slightly as a spotlight illuminated the stage at the front of the ballroom. The emcee—a well-known television personality with perfect teeth and practiced charm—tapped the microphone twice before launching into his opening remarks.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the highlight of our evening. The charity auction benefiting the Children's Hospital of London!"
Polite applause rippled through the crowd as waiters circulated one last time, refreshing champagne glasses and distributing auction paddles to each table. Harry accepted theirs—number 13—with a nod of thanks.
The tension that had surfaced during dinner settled into something less defined as their attention shifted to the stage. Y/N sat straighter in her chair, her interest in the proceedings appearing genuine rather than performed. Harry noticed how her fingers curled around the stem of her champagne glass—elegant, with a slight nervous energy that betrayed her awareness of his gaze.
"Our first item," the emcee announced as a slide appeared on the massive screen behind him, "is a weekend getaway to the exclusive Harleston Manor in the Cotswolds, including a private cooking lesson with Michelin-starred chef Marcus Elliot!"
Bidding began immediately, hands with paddles rising throughout the room. Harry watched the proceedings with practiced indifference, having participated in dozens of similar events.
These auctions were as much about being seen bidding as they were about winning items. A performance of wealth and philanthropy for an audience of peers.
Yet beside him, Y/N leaned forward slightly, her attention fixed on the stage with unexpected interest. As the bidding for the weekend getaway climbed past fifteen thousand pounds, Harry found himself more intrigued by her reaction than by the auction itself.
"Next up," the emcee continued as the first item was awarded to a film director at table twelve, "we have something truly special—a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to have your child's bedroom designed by renowned children's author and illustrator Eliza Montgomery!"
A murmur of appreciation rippled through the crowd. Montgomery's whimsical designs were coveted by celebrities and royalty alike.
"The package includes a consultation, custom wall murals, and personalized furniture pieces inspired by her award-winning children's books," the emcee elaborated. "Starting bid is twenty thousand pounds!"
Several paddles shot up immediately. Harry had no intention of bidding—they had no child, after all, and the fiction of planning for one wasn't part of their arrangement. Yet he felt Y/N tense beside him, her gaze following the bidding with unusual intensity.
"Something catch your interest?" he murmured, leaning closer under the pretense of intimacy.
Y/N hesitated, then turned to him with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I loved her books as a child," she admitted quietly. "My mother used to read them to me."
The simple confession, offered without calculation or performance, caught Harry off guard. It was a glimpse of the real Y/N, the one who existed beneath the polished facade they presented to the world.
The bidding climbed rapidly. 
Thirty thousand
Forty thousand
 Fifty-five thousand pounds
Harry watched Y/N's fingers tighten around her champagne glass, her expression carefully neutral yet somehow wistful.
A reckless impulse seized him. Without fully processing his own motivation, Harry raised paddle 13 into the air.
"Sixty thousand pounds from table eight!" the emcee called out excitedly. "Mr. and Mrs. Harry Styles enter the bidding!"
The room's attention swiveled toward them, cameras immediately capturing the moment. Y/N's head snapped toward Harry, genuine shock replacing her carefully maintained poise for a fraction of a second before she recovered.
"What are you doing?" she whispered, her voice barely audible even to him.
Harry met her gaze steadily, surprised by his own actions but unwilling to back down now that all eyes were upon them.
"Sixty-five thousand!" called a woman from across the room. A reality television star recently in the news for her lavish nursery renovation.
Harry raised their paddle again without breaking eye contact with Y/N."Something for our future plans," he said loudly enough for nearby tables to hear, his tone casual yet weighted with implication.
"Seventy thousand from the Styles table!" the emcee announced, clearly delighted by the celebrity bidding war unfolding.
The cameras clicked frantically, capturing what would undoubtedly become tomorrow's headlines: "Harry Styles Hints at Baby Plans with New Wife."
Y/N's expression was a masterpiece of controlled emotion. To the watching crowd, she appeared touched by her husband's romantic gesture, perhaps even a bit overwhelmed. Only Harry could see the flash of genuine anger beneath the surface, the slight tightening of her jaw despite her smile.
"Seventy-five thousand!" countered the reality star, determined not to be outbid.
Harry raised their paddle again without hesitation. "Eighty thousand."
The room hushed slightly, the bid high even for this crowd. Y/N's fingers found Harry's free hand on the table, squeezing with what appeared to be affection but felt more like a warning.
"Eighty thousand pounds going once... going twice..." The emcee paused dramatically, scanning the room for any last-minute bids. "Sold to Mr. and Mrs. Harry Styles for eighty thousand pounds!"
Applause erupted around them. Harry smiled for the cameras, raising Y/N's hand to his lips for a kiss that would photograph beautifully for tomorrow's papers. Against his lips, her skin was warm, her pulse racing beneath his touch.
"We'll discuss this at home," she murmured through her perfect smile, her eyes promising consequences Harry couldn't quite anticipate.
For the first time in their four-month arrangement, Harry found himself genuinely looking forward to the fight that would inevitably follow once they were behind closed doors. There was something almost exhilarating about provoking a genuine reaction from her. About forcing a crack in the performance they'd both maintained so carefully.
The auction continued, but the damage—or perhaps the opportunity—had already been created. By morning, speculation about the Styles' family plans would dominate the entertainment news cycle, adding another layer to their elaborate fiction.
Harry took a sip of champagne, oddly satisfied despite the complications he'd just created. The script had been thoroughly disrupted, and whatever came next would be uncharted territory for both of them.
After the auction, the guests were left to mingle. Harry and Y/N started out as a couple before inevitably each wandering off. 
Harry found himself looking around the room rather than listening to the person speaking to him.   He froze mid-sip, his champagne glass suspended halfway to his lips as his eyes locked on the scene across the ballroom. 
The actor, James Thornhill, star of that superhero franchise and recently divorced, was leaning entirely too close to Y/N, his hand spread possessively against the small of her back, fingers dangerously near the curve of her ass.
More infuriating than the touch was Y/N's response. The way her head tilted back in genuine laughter, not the practiced, polite chuckle she deployed at industry events. This was real amusement, her entire body language relaxed and open in a way Harry rarely witnessed himself.
"...and that's when we realized the entire campaign needed to pivot," continued the cologne executive who'd been monopolizing Harry's attention for the past ten minutes, oblivious to Harry's sudden distraction.
Harry barely registered the man's words, his focus narrowing to Thornhill's fingers as they traced a small circle against the gold fabric of Y/N's dress. The actor leaned in again, whispering something that made Y/N press her fingers to her lips, eyes crinkling with mirth.
"Excuse me," Harry said abruptly, cutting off the cologne executive mid-sentence. "I need to check on my wife."
He set his glass down on a passing waiter's tray with more force than necessary, already striding across the room with purpose. The crowd seemed to part instinctively before him, perhaps sensing the barely contained tension radiating from his tall frame.
As he approached, he caught fragments of their conversation. Something about a mutual acquaintance and an embarrassing incident at a film festival. Thornhill was mid-anecdote, his hand now casually resting on Y/N's bare shoulder, thumb brushing against her skin in a gesture that appeared far too familiar.
Harry's jaw clenched, a muscle ticking visibly along his jawline. The rational part of his brain understood there was no logical reason for his reaction. Their marriage was a business arrangement, nothing more. Y/N was free to laugh genuinely with whomever she chose. The fact that she rarely directed such unguarded moments toward him was irrelevant.
Yet logic seemed to have little influence over the surge of possessive irritation coursing through him as he watched Thornhill lean even closer, his lips nearly brushing Y/N's ear.
"There you are, love," Harry interrupted smoothly, sliding his arm around Y/N's waist and pulling her firmly against his side. "I've been looking for you."
Y/N's body tensed momentarily at his touch before she adapted to the intrusion with practiced ease, her performance resuming seamlessly. But Harry had felt that initial reaction. The instinctive stiffening before her role as loving wife reasserted itself.
"Harry!" she exclaimed with perfect wifely enthusiasm, though he detected the question in her eyes. "I was just chatting with James about the time he accidentally walked onto the wrong set at Pinewood."
Thornhill straightened, his hand falling away from Y/N as he extended it toward Harry instead. His smile remained easy, though his eyes narrowed slightly with assessment.
"Styles," he greeted, his grip firm as they shook hands. "Your wife is absolutely delightful. Been telling her she should consider acting. She's got a natural presence that can't be taught."
Harry's smile didn't reach his eyes as he returned the handshake with perhaps a fraction more pressure than necessary.
"She's talented in many ways," he agreed, his thumb possessively stroking Y/N's side where his hand rested. "Though I prefer to keep her talents to myself."
The double entendre hung in the air, deliberately provocative. Beside him, Harry felt Y/N's quick intake of breath, though her smile never faltered.
Thornhill chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Message received, mate. Can't blame a man for enjoying her company, though."
He winked at Y/N, a gesture that made Harry's fingers tighten involuntarily at her waist. "If you ever decide to venture into film, have your people call my people."
With a parting smile and a nod to Harry, Thornhill moved on to greet a director across the room, leaving Harry and Y/N momentarily isolated in their tense tableau despite the crowded ballroom.
Y/N turned within Harry's arm, maintaining their embrace while angling to face him directly. To onlookers, they appeared to be sharing an intimate moment, her hands resting lightly on his chest, his arm still curved possessively around her waist. Only the dangerous glint in her eyes betrayed her true feelings.
"What was that about?" she asked, her voice low and controlled, her smile firmly fixed in place.
Harry's eyes moved deliberately to where Thornhill's hand had rested on her back, then returned to her face with unmistakable meaning.
"Just maintaining our image," he replied, his voice equally controlled. "Unless you'd prefer I let Thornhill continue his exploration of your lower back? Perhaps give him your number while you're at it?"
His tone was light, almost teasing, but the tension underlying his words was unmistakable. Harry himself wasn't entirely sure why he was reacting so strongly. Whether it was simple territoriality or something more complex he wasn't prepared to examine.
Y/N's fingers curled slightly against the lapel of his tuxedo, a gesture that appeared affectionate but applied just enough pressure to communicate her irritation.
"I was networking," she countered, her voice honey-sweet for any potential eavesdroppers. "Something you encouraged me to do, if I recall. Or did you expect me to stand silently at your side all evening like an accessory?"
Harry's hand slid lower on her back, deliberately mirroring where Thornhill's had been, his fingers splaying possessively against the curve that led to her ass.
"Networking typically doesn't involve quite so much touching," he observed, leaning closer until his lips nearly brushed her ear.
To anyone watching, they were the picture of newlywed intimacy. His tall frame curved protectively around her smaller one, her hands resting on his chest as they whispered together.
"Especially from recently divorced men with notorious reputations."
Y/N pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, her eyes challenging despite her perfect smile.
"Are you jealous, Harry?" she asked, the question loaded with implications neither of them was prepared to address.
Before he could respond, a photographer approached, requesting a photo for the event's social media. Instantly, both Harry and Y/N shifted into their public personas, their genuine tension transforming into photogenic affection as naturally as breathing.
Harry's hand remained possessively at her lower back as they posed, his smile now camera-ready, the muscle in his jaw no longer visibly ticking. Yet beneath the polished surface, something had been disturbed. A complication neither had anticipated when they'd entered into their arrangement.
The photographer thanked them and moved on, but Harry's hand remained where it was, his touch both a warning and a claim neither of them had negotiated.
"We should circulate," Y/N suggested after a moment, her professional smile never wavering. "Separately, perhaps?"
Harry's fingers tightened fractionally against the small of her back, his expression pleasant but his eyes hard.
"I think we've both done enough solo networking for one evening," he replied smoothly. "Don't you agree, love?"
The endearment carried an edge that hadn't been present in their previous public performances. 
Her eye twitches, “We can't just–”
“Excuse me, my dear!” 
The designer, Valentina Cortez, known for her cutting-edge approach to luxury childrenswear, approached them with the confident stride of someone accustomed to celebrity interactions. Her assistant hovered nearby, tablet in hand, clearly prepared to schedule whatever meeting might result from this encounter.
"Harry! Y/N!" Valentina greeted them with air kisses, her accent a melodic blend of Spanish and British inflections. "That was quite the statement at the auction. Eighty thousand pounds! The entire room is buzzing."
Y/n's fingers dug into Harry's shoulder, her grip firm enough that he could feel the pressure of each fingertip through the layers of his tuxedo. To onlookers, the gesture appeared affectionate. A wife steadying herself against her husband as she leaned in to greet an acquaintance.
Only Harry could feel the warning in her touch, the subtle dig of her manicured nails that would leave no visible marks but communicated volumes.
Harry's hand instinctively moved to cover hers, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in what appeared to be an affectionate gesture but was actually a silent acknowledgment of her displeasure.
"The Montgomery designs are iconic," Harry replied smoothly. "Worth every penny for the right occasion."
Valentina's eyes sparkled with opportunity, her gaze darting between them with barely contained excitement.
"Which is precisely why I had to come speak with you both," she continued, gesturing for her assistant to step forward. "My team and I have been developing a capsule collection of maternity wear that maintains a woman's sense of style through every stage of pregnancy."
The assistant turned the tablet around, revealing a digital lookbook of sleek, fashion-forward designs that managed to be both practical and unmistakably high-end.
"And of course," Valentina continued, swiping to reveal a collection of infant clothing that matched the aesthetic, "we've designed complementary pieces for the little ones. Gender-neutral, sustainable fabrics, and absolutely no tacky prints or garish colors."
Y/N's grip on Harry's shoulder tightened to the point of pain, though her expression remained one of polite interest.
"How thoughtful," she responded, her voice carrying just the right note of appreciation despite the tension radiating through her body. "Though I'm afraid the auction item was simply something that caught our eye. We're not quite ready for that step just yet."
Harry felt a flicker of surprise at how smoothly she navigated the misunderstanding. Deflecting without embarrassing Valentina or creating an awkward moment. It was skillfully done, a reminder that Y/N was becoming increasingly adept at managing their public fiction.
Valentina waved a dismissive hand, undeterred. "Of course, of course! But when the time comes—and these things have a way of happening sooner than planned, yes? I want Y/N to be the face of this collection."
She leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice. "Exclusively. No other celebrity partnerships. Just imagine: 'The Y/N Collection by Valentina Cortez.' The first pieces worn by you, then released to the public. We would coordinate with your pregnancy announcement, of course."
The designer's assistant swiped to another screen showing projected sales figures and media impressions; clearly, they had already mapped out the entire campaign.
"The numbers are quite impressive," Harry observed, his business instincts automatically assessing the opportunity despite the absurdity of the situation."Though as my wife mentioned, we're not quite there yet."
Y/N's fingers had relaxed slightly on his shoulder, though Harry could still feel the tension thrumming through her. He wondered if she was calculating the same thing he was. That such a deal would likely be worth seven figures, possibly more with the right structure.
"When you are ready," Valentina pressed, clearly sensing their interest despite their demurral, "this would be an exclusive opportunity. The advance alone would be substantial."
She named a figure that made even Harry's eyebrows rise slightly, and he'd been in the industry long enough to be jaded about such offers.
Y/N's hand finally left his shoulder as she accepted Valentina's business card, her smile warm and engaging despite the storm Harry knew was brewing beneath her composed exterior.
"We'll certainly keep this in mind," she assured the designer. "It's a beautiful concept, truly."
After a few more minutes of pleasant conversation, Valentina moved on, clearly satisfied that she'd made an impression. As soon as she was out of earshot, Y/N turned to Harry, her smile fixed but her eyes blazing.
"A children's bedroom designer? Maternity lines? Really?" she hissed through her perfect smile, taking a champagne flute from a passing waiter with a gracious nod that belied her tone. "Do you have any idea what you've started?"
Harry took a step closer, using their height difference to create an intimate tableau for any watching eyes while keeping his voice low and private.
"I've started exactly what our arrangement was meant to create. opportunities," he pointed out, his hand returning to the small of her back in a gesture that was becoming increasingly habitual. "That offer alone could pay off your mother's medical bills for the next decade."
He felt her stiffen at the mention of her family's financial situation, a low blow, perhaps, but an effective reminder of why she'd agreed to this charade in the first place.
"You didn't consult me," she countered, taking a careful sip of champagne."You made a unilateral decision that now has everyone speculating about our family plans. The auction, fine, but did you have to announce it was for 'our future plans' loudly enough for three tables to hear?"
Harry's hand moved from her back to her waist, drawing her slightly closer as a photographer circled nearby. The move was calculated, creating the perfect shot while allowing him to speak privately against her ear.
"Would you prefer I'd said it was for your non-existent nephew? Or perhaps claimed we were planning to flip it for profit?" he murmured, his breath warm against her skin. "The entire point of this marriage is to create a narrative that sells. Tonight, it's selling very well indeed."
He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, surprised by the genuine frustration he found there, not the controlled irritation she typically displayed, but something rawer and more honest.
"This wasn't in our agreement," she said quietly, her voice barely audible even to him. "Fake pregnancy rumors weren't part of the deal, Harry."
For a moment, he saw beyond the polished facade to the young woman who'd taken on an enormous burden to save her family, who'd agreed to a loveless marriage of convenience but hadn't anticipated how far the charade might extend.
Before he could respond, another couple approached to congratulate them on their auction win, effectively ending their private conversation. Y/N seamlessly shifted back into her role as the adoring wife, but Harry found himself increasingly aware of the toll their arrangement was taking on her, and, unexpectedly, on himself.
As they moved through the remainder of the evening, accepting congratulations and deflecting questions about their "plans," Harry found himself wondering if the eighty thousand pounds he'd impulsively bid would ultimately cost them both far more than money.
The ballroom's massive double doors opened to reveal a gauntlet of photographers waiting on the red carpet outside, their camera flashes already creating a strobe-like effect as earlier departing celebrities made their way to waiting cars.
The unmistakable shouted questions—"Harry, over here!" "Y/N, this way!"—filtered through the doorway, a chaotic chorus Harry was accustomed to but Y/N still found disorienting despite four months in the spotlight.
Harry glanced down at Y/N, catching the slight tightening around her eyes, the only outward sign of her discomfort with the impending media barrage. Before he could suggest their usual exit strategy, she turned to him with unexpected urgency.
"Give me your jacket," she said, her tone leaving no room for negotiation.
Harry's brow furrowed, genuinely confused by the request. "What?"
Y/N rolled her eyes, the gesture somehow both exasperated and elegant. "I said, give me your jacket. God, do I have to think of everything around here?"
Her tone carried a sharpness he rarely heard in public, a glimpse of the real frustration simmering beneath her carefully maintained facade.
The nearby event coordinator pretended not to hear, suddenly very interested in her clipboard.
Harry's initial instinct was to refuse. 
To challenge her demanding tone and question her motives. Yet something in her expression gave him pause. Behind the irritation, he detected genuine concern, perhaps even calculation.
With deliberate slowness, he shrugged out of his tuxedo jacket, the fine black wool still warm from his body. The movement drew appreciative glances from several women nearby. His broad shoulders and the way his crisp white shirt stretched across his chest now fully visible in a way the jacket had previously concealed.
"Care to explain why?" he asked as he handed over the garment, keeping his voice low enough that only she could hear.
Y/N didn't immediately respond, her attention focused on slipping the oversized jacket over her bare shoulders. 
Harry watched as Y/N settled his jacket around her shoulders, the expensive wool engulfing her frame. 
The effect was striking.
 The masculine cut contrasted with her feminine curves, the black creating a stark frame for the gold dress underneath. Despite himself, he had to admit the visual was compelling. Exactly the kind of image that would photograph beautifully and fuel the narrative they were selling.
"Because," she finally answered, adjusting the jacket so it draped elegantly around her smaller frame, "after your little stunt at the auction, every photographer out there wants a photo of us. Imagine the headlines. It would look good if I walked out wearing your jacket. Caring husband shielding me from the cold or whatever." She rolled her eyes with undisguised disdain, though her voice remained low enough that only he could hear her.
Harry's initial irritation softened into reluctant appreciation. It was a calculated move—strategic and media-savvy. While he'd been busy creating waves with his auction bid, she'd been thinking about how to capitalize on the attention, how to shape the narrative to their advantage.
"Clever," he acknowledged, his voice carrying a hint of genuine respect despite his overall annoyance with her. "Though a simple 'please' might have worked just as well as demanding it."
Y/N's perfectly arched eyebrow rose slightly as she adjusted the lapels of his jacket. "Would you have responded to 'please'? Or would you have questioned my motives and wasted time while the best photo opportunity walked out the door?"
She had him there, and they both knew it. Their dynamic had evolved into a constant power struggle, each interaction layered with unspoken challenges and grudging concessions.
The event coordinator approached tentatively. "Your car is ready whenever you are, Mr. Styles."
Harry nodded his acknowledgment, then turned back to Y/N, extending his arm with exaggerated formality. "Shall we give them their photo opportunity, then?"
Without waiting for her response, he placed his hand at the small of her back, guiding her toward the exit with practiced ease.
As they approached the doors, he leaned down, his lips close to her ear. "Follow my lead," he murmured, his breath warm against her skin. "Let's give them something worth printing."
Y/N tensed slightly beneath his touch, clearly wary of whatever he might be planning, but maintained her picture-perfect smile as the doors opened fully and the cacophony of shouted questions and camera clicks intensified.
The moment they stepped onto the red carpet, the flashes became a near-constant strobe, illuminating them from every angle. Harry felt Y/N instinctively move closer to his side, an unconscious reaction to the overwhelming attention that he doubted she even realized she was making.
Instead of their usual quick walk to the car, Harry deliberately slowed their pace, his arm sliding fully around Y/N’s waist beneath the jacket. The move drew her flush against his side, creating the intimate tableau she'd been aiming for: Protective husband, cherished wife.
"Harry! Y/N! Over here!" The shouts came from every direction, a chaotic chorus demanding their attention.
"Is it true you're starting a family?" one particularly bold paparazzo called out, referencing the auction speculation that had already spread through the event.
Harry felt Y/N tense against him, her step faltering slightly though her smile never wavered. Before she could respond, he pulled her even closer, his hand splayed possessively against her hip beneath the jacket where the cameras couldn't see.
"We're taking things one day at a time," he responded smoothly, his media training evident in the way he gave an answer that offered nothing while seeming to confirm everything. "But tonight's for celebration, not speculation."
With that non-answer hanging in the air, Harry made a split-second decision. One he knew would dominate tomorrow's headlines and potentially earn him Y/N's genuine fury once they were alone.
In one fluid motion, he turned toward her, his free hand rising to cup her cheek as he leaned down and captured her lips with his own.
The kiss wasn't part of their usual performance. In public, they limited themselves to hand-holding, the occasional arm around shoulders or waist, and chaste pecks on cheeks or foreheads. This was something else entirely. 
Deliberate, lingering, and undeniably intimate.
The cameras went wild, flashes intensifying to a near-blinding level as Harry prolonged the moment, his thumb gently stroking her cheekbone as his lips moved against hers with practiced expertise.
He felt Y/N's initial shock in the sudden stiffness of her body, the slight parting of her lips in surprise that he took immediate advantage of, deepening the kiss just enough to ensure the photographs would be unmistakably passionate.
After what couldn't have been more than a few seconds but felt significantly longer, Harry pulled back, his expression for the cameras one of a besotted husband, eyes slightly darkened, lips curved in a private smile meant only for her.
Y/N recovered admirably, her performance instincts kicking in despite whatever genuine reaction she might be suppressing. She gazed up at him with perfect adoration, one hand rising to rest against his chest in a gesture that appeared loving but applied just enough pressure to communicate her true feelings about his unexpected move.
Without giving her time to retaliate, Harry guided her toward their waiting car, his arm remaining firmly around her waist as they navigated the final steps of the red carpet. The driver opened the door, and Harry helped Y/N inside before circling to the other side, waving once more to the photographers before sliding in beside her.
As the car pulled away from the curb, the privacy screen already raised between them and the driver, Harry turned to Y/N with a challenging expression, waiting for the inevitable explosion.
The luxury SUV sliced through London's evening traffic, its heavily tinted windows concealing the war zone developing inside its opulent interior. 
"What the fuck was that?" she hissed, all pretense of affection vanishing the moment they were shielded from public view.
She shrugged his jacket off her shoulders like it had suddenly caught fire, tossing it onto the seat between them.
Harry leaned back against the leather upholstery, his posture deliberately relaxed despite the tension crackling between them.
In the dim interior of the car, illuminated only by passing streetlights, he could see the genuine fury in her eyes. Not the controlled irritation she typically displayed, but something rawer and more honest.
 For reasons he wasn't fully prepared to examine, he found he preferred this authentic anger to her usual calculated performance.
"That," he replied with infuriating calm, "was me giving the photographers exactly what you wanted. A headline-worthy moment. Caring husband, adoring wife. Isn't that what you were aiming for?"
His tone carried a hint of mockery, though there was something else beneath it. A current of genuine satisfaction at having disrupted her careful planning, at having seized control of a narrative she thought she was orchestrating.
"Don't you dare twist this," Y/N snapped, shifting as far away from him as the confines of the backseat would allow.
"There's a massive difference between wearing your jacket and you shoving your tongue down my throat without warning!"
Her voice had risen enough that Harry glanced briefly toward the privacy partition, confirming it remained securely closed.
"I didn't 'shove my tongue down your throat,'" he countered, his own voice taking on an edge despite his attempts to maintain his composure. "It was a kiss. Married couples do that, in case you've forgotten the premise of our arrangement."
"Our arrangement didn't include that level of physical contact, and you know it. Hand-holding, arms around waists, the occasional peck on the cheek—those were the terms. Not whatever performance you just decided to put on."
Harry's jaw tightened, the muscle visibly flexing beneath his stubble. "The terms also included making this look convincing. After four months of the bare minimum, perhaps it was time to elevate our performance."
"Without discussing it first?" Y/N challenged, her eyes flashing dangerously in the intermittent glow of passing streetlights. "You don't get to make unilateral decisions about my body, Harry. Especially not for your ego trip back there."
Harry's expression darkened. "My ego trip? You're the one who orchestrated the jacket moment for maximum media impact."
"Which you could have ruined with that stunt!" she fired back, gesturing sharply with one hand. "Do you have any idea how awkward and forced a kiss looks when one person isn't expecting it? Those photos could come out looking like you're attacking me rather than the loving moment you were apparently aiming for."
The car hit a pothole, jostling them momentarily closer before Y/N immediately reestablished the distance between them.
"The photos will look exactly as intended," Harry insisted, his certainty grating."I know how to play for cameras. Unlike our usual performance, that might actually convince people we don't hate each other."
Y/N’s eyebrows shot up. "Oh, so now we're admitting our performances haven't been convincing? That's rich, coming from the man who barely manages to look at me when we're not being photographed."
"And you're so much better?" Harry scoffed. "You flinch every time I touch you. At least I commit to the role."
"Commit to the role?" Y/N repeated in disbelief. "Is that what you call waiting until we're surrounded by cameras to suddenly decide physical affection is on the table? That's not commitment, that's ambush."
Their argument had escalated far beyond their usual bickering. 
No petty 'move your arm' or 'stop breathing so loudly' or 'for fuck's sake, close the window.' This was raw, unfiltered anger fueled by months of simmering resentment and the night's accumulated tensions.
"You wanted headlines," Harry said, his voice dropping dangerously low. "Now we'll have them. 'Harry Styles and Wife Share Passionate Kiss After Charity Auction.' Probably with a sidebar speculating about our mysterious 'future plans.'"
Y/N's hands clenched into fists in her lap, the gold polish on her nails catching the light as they passed under a street lamp.
"And what happens when they start asking for more of that? When they expect us to be all over each other at every event?" she demanded.
"Where's the line, Harry? Since apparently our original agreement means nothing to you."
Harry leaned forward, closing some of the distance she'd so carefully established between them. "Our original agreement was to convince the public we're happily married. Everything else is just details."
"Details?" Y/N's voice rose again. "My bodily autonomy is not a detail!"
"It was a kiss, not a violation," Harry shot back, his own temper slipping its carefully maintained leash, "Don't be so fucking dramatic."
Y/N recoiled as if he'd slapped her, her expression shifting from anger to something colder, more controlled.
"Fuck you, Harry," she said, each word precisely enunciated. "You don't get to decide what crosses a line for me. And you certainly don't get to dismiss my feelings as 'dramatic' when you're the one who changed the rules without warning."
The car slowed as they approached his gated community, the driver navigating the security checkpoint with practiced ease. The pause in their momentum created a momentary lull in the argument. A dangerous silence filled with unspoken accusations and simmering anger.
When Harry finally spoke again, his voice had lost some of its heat, though none of its intensity. "This isn't working."
For a split second, genuine alarm flashed across Y/N's face. A brief, unguarded moment of panic at the potential dissolution of their arrangement and the financial security it provided her family.
Harry caught the reaction and immediately clarified, though not gently.
"Not the arrangement. This... performance. We look like what we are; two people who can barely stand each other trying to fake a marriage."
The car turned into the driveway, the sprawling mansion coming into view, its windows illuminated against the night. Their gilded cage, perfectly designed to showcase their supposed domestic bliss while containing their mutual antipathy.
"So what's your solution?" Y/N asked, her voice carefully neutral now, though her posture remained rigid. "More surprise kisses whenever you decide they're necessary?"
Harry ran a hand through his hair, disheveling the carefully styled waves.
"We need to establish better parameters. Clearer expectations."
"Fine," Y/N agreed as the car came to a stop before the front entrance. "But those parameters include discussing any escalation before it happens, not during a photo opportunity."
The driver opened Harry's door first, forcing a temporary cessation of their conversation. As they exited on opposite sides of the vehicle, their public personas slid back into place with practiced ease, Harry nodding thanks to the driver, Y/N smiling politely as she gathered her small clutch purse.
Side by side, they walked toward the front door, maintaining a careful distance that wasn't quite close enough to touch but not far enough apart to suggest discord to any watching eyes.
As Harry unlocked the door, Y/N spoke quietly, her words for his ears alone. "This isn't over."
Harry's response was equally low, his lips barely moving as he pushed the door open. "I wouldn't expect it to be."
They entered the house one after the other, the heavy door closing behind them with a finality that echoed through the marble foyer. The moment it latched, Y/N kicked off her heels with uncharacteristic force, the gold stilettos skittering across the polished floor.
"I'm taking a shower," she announced, already heading for the grand staircase. "We can finish this discussion when I no longer smell like your cologne."
She disappeared up the stairs without a backward glance, leaving Harry standing in the foyer, his tuxedo jacket still discarded in the car, his white shirt stark against the shadowed interior of their shared home.
He watched her go, his expression unreadable, before pulling his phone from his pocket. Notifications were already flooding in—tags on social media, messages from his management team, texts from friends. The kiss had achieved exactly what he'd intended. It was generating buzz, creating headlines, reinforcing their narrative.
So why did victory feel so hollow?
With a muttered curse, Harry headed toward the wet bar in the living room. This argument was far from over, and he suspected he might need reinforcements before facing round two.
Harry settled into the oversized leather armchair in the living room's far corner. The crystal tumbler in his hand caught the low light as he swirled the amber liquid, watching it climb the sides before settling back down. Two fingers of Lagavulin, neat. A drink for contemplation, not celebration.
The house was quiet save for the distant sound of water running through pipes—Y/N's shower, washing away the evening. Washing away his touch, no doubt.
He took a sip, letting the peaty burn coat his tongue before swallowing. The familiar warmth spread through his chest, but did nothing to ease the uncomfortable knot that had settled there.
That kiss.
He hadn't planned it—not really. It had been impulse, opportunity, and perhaps a touch of spite all wrapped up in one camera-ready moment. But the instant his lips had touched hers, something unexpected had happened. Something that had nothing to do with their arrangement and everything to do with memory.
Harry closed his eyes, the alcohol and exhaustion lowering defenses he usually kept rigorously maintained.
· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·
Summer, 10 years earlier
The summer air hung heavy with humidity, the kind of oppressive heat that made even the grasshoppers fall silent. At sixteen, Harry was all gangly limbs and uncertain grace, his recent growth spurt leaving him feeling perpetually off-balance in his own body.
He'd escaped the stifling formality of his mother's garden party, slipping away through the side gate with practiced stealth. The guests—his mother's carefully curated collection of influential connections—wouldn't miss him. Anne might, but she was too busy playing hostess to notice his absence immediately.
He'd texted Y/N on the ancient Nokia his father had given him. A phone Anne didn't know about, used exclusively for communications his mother wouldn't approve of. Primarily, reaching Y/N.
Meet at the old spot? Dying of boredom here
Twenty minutes later, he was perched on their usual fallen oak, its massive trunk creating a natural bench partially hidden from the main path by a screen of hazels and bracken. He'd been coming to this spot for six summers now, ever since discovering that the daughter of the shop owner in the village liked to explore the same woods he did.
At first, their friendship had been simple. 
Two kids building dams in streams and climbing trees. As they grew older, it evolved into conversations, shared secrets, and a bond that existed entirely separate from Harry's "real life" of prep schools and his mother's social climbing.
He heard her before he saw her. 
The soft crunch of twigs underfoot, followed by her familiar laugh.
"Fancy suit for a woodland adventure, Styles," she teased as she emerged into the small clearing. At fifteen, Y/N was all contradictions—confident yet shy, childlike yet startlingly mature in her observations. Her long hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, her jeans and t-shirt a stark contrast to his formal attire.
Harry grinned, loosening the tie that felt like it had been slowly strangling him all afternoon. "Mother insisted. Apparently, potential members of Parliament can only be impressed by teenagers in three-piece suits."
Y/N laughed again, dropping down beside him on the log. "How terribly posh of you. Did you bring cake?"
It was their tradition. Harry smuggling treats from whatever event he was escaping. He produced a napkin-wrapped bundle from his jacket pocket with a flourish.
"Lemon drizzle. Mrs. Henley’s specialty, apparently."
They shared the cake in comfortable silence, watching the dappled sunlight filter through the leaves overhead. This was their sixth summer of friendship, a relationship that existed in a strange vacuum. Intense during the holiday months when Harry's family occupied their country estate, then suspended during the school year when he returned to London and his meticulously scheduled life.
"How much longer are you staying this year?" Y/N asked eventually, brushing cake crumbs from her hands.
Harry's stomach twisted uncomfortably. "We're leaving early. Day after tomorrow."
Her expression fell, disappointment evident in the slight downturn of her mouth. "But you just got here two weeks ago. You usually stay at least a month."
"Mother has commitments in London," he explained, the excuse sounding hollow even to his own ears. "Some charity gala she's organizing."
The truth—that Anne had been increasingly vocal about his "unsuitable friendship" with the village shopkeeper's daughter—remained unspoken. His mother's warnings had become more pointed this summer, her disapproval shifting from general disdain to specific concern about Harry's developing interest in a girl so far beneath their social standing.
"You'll be back next summer though, right?" Y/N asked, her voice carrying a note of uncertainty that was new and unsettling.
"Of course," Harry promised quickly—too quickly, perhaps. "Nothing could keep me away."
A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the distant call of a wood pigeon and the soft rustling of leaves in the occasional breeze.
"I've been thinking," Y/N said after a while, her voice taking on a deliberately casual tone that immediately put Harry on alert.
"Dangerous pastime," he teased, nudging her shoulder with his.
She rolled her eyes, but couldn't quite suppress her smile. "I've been thinking about how in all these years, we've never hung out with anyone else. It's always just been us."
Harry shrugged, inexplicably uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. "I don't particularly like any of the other summer residents, and you've said yourself, the village kids think you're odd for reading so much."
"That's not what I meant," she clarified, picking at a loose thread on her jeans."I meant... don't you ever wonder what it would be like? To do normal teenage things together?"
"Like what?" Harry asked, genuinely confused. "We already do normal things. Hiking, swimming, watching films on my laptop..."
Y/N looked up then, meeting his gaze directly in a way that made his heart rate inexplicably accelerate. "Like dating."
The word hung in the humid air between them, charged with possibilities Harry had considered but never voiced. At sixteen, he existed in a strange liminal space. He was old enough to feel the pull of attraction, yet young enough to be terrified by it.
"Oh," he managed, his voice cracking embarrassingly on the single syllable.
Y/N's cheeks flushed, but she held his gaze with remarkable composure for someone who'd just lobbed an emotional grenade into their comfortable friendship.
"We don't have to," she said quickly. "I just thought... maybe you felt it too."
Harry swallowed hard, his collar suddenly feeling too tight despite having loosened his tie. "Felt what?"
It was a coward's question, forcing her to articulate what he already knew. What he'd been feeling for at least the past year but had never found the courage to acknowledge.
Y/N's expression shifted subtly, disappointment flickering briefly before determination took its place. "This."
With a boldness that left him breathless, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, a brief, soft contact that lasted only a moment before she pulled back, her eyes wide with a mixture of triumph and uncertainty.
Harry sat frozen, his brain struggling to catch up with what had just happened. His first kiss, delivered with such simple directness that he'd had no time to overthink it, no chance to ruin it with awkwardness.
"Oh," he said again, eloquence apparently deserting him entirely.
A flicker of vulnerability crossed Y/N's face. "Was that okay?"
Instead of answering, Harry did the bravest thing he'd ever done—braver than standing up to his school's bullies, braver than defying his mother's expectations. He leaned forward and kissed her back, clumsily at first, then with growing confidence as she responded.
It was nothing like the sophisticated encounters he'd imagined based on films and the exaggerated tales of his more experienced schoolmates. There was no dramatic embrace, no swelling music. Just the simple press of lips, the faint taste of lemon cake, and the dizzying realization that everything between them had irrevocably changed.
When they finally pulled apart, both slightly breathless, Y/N smiled. A smile so unguarded and genuinely happy that Harry felt something twist painfully in his chest.
"I've been wanting to do that since last summer," she admitted, her fingers tentatively finding his on the rough bark of the log between them.
Harry laced his fingers through hers, marveling at how natural it felt. "Me too. I just... didn't know how to ask."
"You could have just done it," she pointed out with a laugh. "Like I did."
"I wasn't that brave," he admitted, squeezing her hand. "Still not sure I am."
Y/N's expression softened. "You don't have to be brave all the time, Harry. Just sometimes."
They spent the rest of the afternoon in that clearing, talking, kissing, planning a future neither of them fully understood. A future that seemed simultaneously vast with possibility and comfortingly contained to the woods around them.
When the lengthening shadows finally forced them to part, Harry walked her to the edge of the village, their hands clasped tightly between them until the last possible moment.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he promised, reluctantly releasing her hand as they reached the point where their paths diverged. "Same place?"
Y/N nodded, her eyes bright with newfound certainty. "I'll bring the snacks this time."
He watched her walk away, her ponytail swinging with each step, until she turned the corner and disappeared from view. Only then did he allow himself to acknowledge the complicated knot of emotions in his chest, elation at what had happened, fear of what his mother would say if she ever found out, and a strange, persistent ache at the knowledge that he was leaving in two days.
Harry turned toward home, already dreading the garden party's inevitable aftermath and his mother's interrogation about his absence. But for once, the prospect of Anne's disapproval couldn't dim the warm glow of possibility that Y/N's kiss had ignited.
Two days later, his family left for London as planned. Despite his promises, Harry never returned to the village the following summer. His music career began its meteoric rise, propelling him into a world so far removed from that woodland clearing that it sometimes felt like the memories belonged to someone else entirely.
Until tonight, when the taste of Y/N's lips had unlocked a door he'd thought permanently closed, releasing a flood of memories he'd spent twelve years trying to forget.
· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·
Present day
The sound of footsteps on the stairs jolted Harry back to the present. He took another sip of whisky, larger this time, welcoming the burn that chased away the lingering taste of memories.
Y/N appeared in the doorway, her hair damp from the shower, dressed in silk pajama shorts and a matching camisole. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup, making her look younger, more vulnerable.
More like the girl he'd kissed in those woods and then abandoned without explanation.
The girl whose heart he'd broken long before their current arrangement had given him fresh opportunities to hurt her.
Her expression, however, held nothing of that past tenderness. Her eyes were cool, assessing, as she leaned against the doorframe.
"We need to talk," she said simply, her voice neutral in a way that suggested careful control rather than actual calm.
Harry swirled the whisky in his glass, buying time, pushing memories back into their proper compartments.
"Yes," he agreed finally, gesturing to the sofa across from his chair. "We do."
As Y/N moved into the room, Harry found himself wondering if she ever thought about that first kiss. If she remembered it with the same vivid clarity that had ambushed him tonight, or if she'd successfully buried it beneath layers of justified resentment.
Some questions, he knew, were better left unasked. Especially when the answers might complicate an already impossible situation.
· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·
A/N: Part three finally here! Let me know what you think. I’m so happy everyone is enjoying it so far.
This part was almost double the previous two. Is that too much? Should I make the parts shorter?
Masterlist
Taglist: @mysunflowerposts @lydiasfalling @panini @ell0ra-br3kk3r @donutsandpalmtrees @sunshinemoonsposts @angeldavis777 @fangirl509east @maudie-duan @indierockgirrl
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motorsportbarbie13 · 4 months ago
Text
Post It - Part 8 - LN4
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when lando stumbles upon a random tiktok of a pretty american influencer, he can't stop himself from sliding into her DMs. what happens next is more than both of them ever bargained for.
warnings: angst and online hate. notes: i'm baaaaaack. i've got this series finished up for you even though i said i was going on a break. Part 9 will be up later this week. as always, extra thank yous to @lestapiastrisgirl for listening to me whine and complain and letting me bounce ideas off of her. <3 pairing: lando norris x influencer!reader word count: 3.5k words
|| - Part 1 || - Part 2 || - Part 3 || - Part 4 || - Part 5 || - Part 6 || -Part 7 Master List
Worry creases the space between your eyes as you watch Lando pace the the length of the living room in his Monaco apartment. After your run in with Allegra in Miami, you hadn’t seen her for the rest of the weekend. In fact, you hadn’t heard from her at all in the weeks after the race, which had started to make you nervous. Lando had insisted that this was a good thing, that maybe your hard launch with him had gotten her to back off but you knew better. You were familiar with women like Allegra and you knew that Miami wasn’t going to be the last time you had heard from her. 
And you had been right. 
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“Lando, we need to go to Zak with these.” You plead from your spot on the couch. It had been hours since the texts had stopped but the threat remained. You knew she’d make good on her promises after reading how unhinged she was being. “Or at the very least let Corinne know so they’re not blindsided by whatever story she fabricates.” 
Lando runs a shaky hand through his curls. “No.” He says, voice tight and thin. He stops pacing before turning to you, his eyes filled with a desperate kind of resolve. “No one else is going to see these. I’ll handle this by myself.” 
“Handle it how, Lan?” You ask, your voice tight with concern. “By giving her what she wants? By breaking up with me?” 
He flinches at your words, a flicker of pain crossing his face. “Jesus, baby. Of course not.” Crossing the room to sit next to you, he pulls you into his lap while his arms snake around your waist. “I would never. I’m not going to let her dictate my life. Not again.” 
You run your fingers through his hair, the curls long and unruly from his refusal to get it cut because of how much you like it longer. “Then what are we going to do?” You drop an extra emphasis on ‘we’, desperately hoping that he realizes that you two are in this together now. You can practically feel the panic radiating off of him and you know you don’t have much time to prevent him from spinning off into oblivion. 
“I just need to figure this out.” He mutters, more to himself than to you. “There has to be another way. Some way to make her stop without…” He lets the words hang in the air, his voice thick with dread. 
“Without what, Lan?” You press as gently as you can. “Without her ruining everything?” 
His eyes meet yours then and you see nothing but a desperate kind of vulnerability that has your heart squeezing painfully in your chest. He didn’t deserve this and you could kill Allegra for brining this kind of pain to your doorstep during one of Lando’s favorite race weeks of the entire season. 
“Without her dragging you into this.” He says, voice barely a whisper. “You don’t deserve this. None of this is your problem and you shouldn’t have to deal with this.” 
You reach out to cup his face, waiting a beat for him to look back at you and make eye contact. “Lando.” You say, firm but softly. “This isn’t just about you anymore. It’s not just about her either. It’s about us, you and me. And we’re not going to let her win.” 
“But-” He starts, lips trying to form a coherent protest but you simply shake your head. 
“No.” You say firmly, “We’re going to Zak. We’re going to Corinne. We’re going to tell them everything and we’re going to do it together. I’ll call Giselle on the way to the paddock and have her dial in too. This is an all hands on deck problem that we need help dealing with. You’re not alone in this anymore, okay?” 
You knew your PR manager Giselle was going to lose her shit once she heard the story. She was huge on making sure your reputation was spotless and this was the kind of problem that was going to keep her up at night. You didn’t care though. Nothing else mattered beyond getting this chick out of your lives for good and making sure Lando knew this wasn’t his fault. 
“This isn’t just some PR mess anymore, okay?” You wait a beat, letting your words sink in deeper. “This is blackmail and it could ruin your career. It’s not going to go away if we ignore it.” 
Lando looks at you, gaze filled with a mixture of fear, embarrassment, and a hint of admiration. “You really think they’ll help?” 
You scoff a bit before dusting a kiss over his cheek. “I know they will. You’re like a son to Zak, he’d move mountains for you. And Corinne? She may play the exasperated press officer, but she adores you. Everyone does, okay? And no one is going to want you to deal with this alone. They’re not going to let her get away with this. We’re in this together, my love. Always. Okay?” 
It takes a moment but eventually Lando nods. “Okay. Let’s go talk to Zak.” 
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You probably could have cut the tension in Zak’s office with a butter knife. The McLaren CEO usually prided himself on being a calm beacon in what normally was a chaotic and busy sport. Not today though. Today, the room was tense as you sat next to Lando across from Zak. Corinne stood in the corner, arms crossed. On Zak’s desk sat your phone, with Giselle on the other end in her office back in Boston. 
“It was never real.” Lando insists as he finishes reciting the history of his ‘relationship’ with Allegra. “Rich introduced us. He said it would be good for my image, good for her career. We did a few staged appearances in Monaco and London but we were never alone behind closed doors. There was always someone from my circle with us. That’s it. Nothing more.” 
Lando runs a hand through his har, sighing deeply out of frustration. Beside him, you reach out a hand, placing it on his thigh, hoping the gesture will ground him in some way. You can feel the waves of anxiety rolling off of him and you want nothing more than to fix this mess for him. 
“I ended it with Allegra months ago, before we even met in person.” He glances over at you, eyes going soft. “I told her it was over but she won’t let it go.” He pulls out his phone then, the screen displaying the threatening texts. “She’s claiming we were together and that I cheated on her. Now she’s threatening to go to the press with ‘proof’ if we don’t break up and I hard launch with her instead by tomorrow.” 
Corinne leans forward, brows furrowed. “What kind of proof?” Her voice is sharp, like she almost doesn’t believe him. Your hackles rise at her tone and you turn to glare at her. The last thing you were going to allow was someone to put the blame on Lando for this. 
“She didn’t say.” Lando replies grimly. “But knowing her, it’ll be fabricated. Texts, photos…anything to make her story believable.” 
Zak rubs at his temples and sighs. “This is a mess. We need to get ahead of this. If she goes public, it’s going to be a disaster. And during Monaco race week too?” He looks over at Corinne. “How bad do you think this could be?” 
Before Corinne can answer, another staffer bursts into the office, the door practically shaking on its hinges. “Zak.” He stammers, totally breathless. “TMZ…they just dropped the story. It’s everywhere. They have screenshots of texts and photos of them kissing. Everyone is losing their minds.” 
A heavy silence descends upon the room, the weight of the situation pressing down on everyone. Lando’s jaw tightens, his eyes flashing with anger. “Fucking hell. She did it.” He growls, low and dangerous. 
Zak’s eyes narrow, expression grim. “Show me.” He commands sharply. 
The staffer holds out his phone, the screen displaying the TMZ article, the headline screaming accusations of infidelity and betrayal. The ‘proof’ was there, fabricated texts displayed for the world to see, a twisted narrative designed to Destry Lando’s reputation and your relationship. 
The room falls into stunned silence, the air thick with disbelief and a uneasy sense of urgency. The TMZ article was a total bombshell, carefully contracted to inflict maximum damage. The fabricated texts, displayed at the top of the article, paint a damming picture of your boyfriend’s supposed infidelity, a betrayal that threatened to unravel his reputation and relationship with you. 
“This is outrageous.” From Zak’s desk, Giselle speaks up firmly, her surprisingly calm voice cutting through the silence. “Allegra clearly planned this. The timing, the ‘evidence’, it’s being done right now to cause maximum chaos.” 
Zak nods grimly. “We need to respond quickly and decisively. We can’t let this narrative take hold.” He turns to Lando, looking at the young driver with a mixture of determination and concern. “These texts are completely fabricated, right? I need you to be honest with me, is there any shred of truth to any of this?” 
“Absolutely not.” He shakes his head. “I swear to all of you, these are lies. I still have every single text she ever sent to me. Everything I sent to Rich too. Every email, every text, every conversation we ever had that was in writing is saved. We were never really together, this was all a PR stunt.” 
You reach over to take Lando’s hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze in hopes he’ll feel the silent support you’re sending him. You knew the truth and you trusted him implicitly. Anyone who was close to you and Lando would see right through it, you knew that. But you also knew the public wasn’t going to be very kind. The truth often took a backseat to sensational headlines and online outrage. 
“Okay.” Zak says, pulling your attention back onto him. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Corinne, I want a statement drafted immediately. We need to be clear and unquivocal: these allegations are false and the ‘evidence’ is fabricated. We’ll release it through all of our official channels.” 
Corinne nods, her fingers already flying across the keyboard of her phone. “I’ll need Lando to sign off on it.” She says without lifting her eyes off the screen. “And we need to be prepared for a media onslaught. This is going to be a feeding frenzy, especially with today being media day.” 
Zak turns to the staffer, his expression stern. “Get legal on the phone. I want to explore our options for handling this in court. This is defamation, pure and simple. We’re not going to let them get away with this.” 
He looks at you and Lando then, his expression sofenting slightly. “This is going to be tough.” He says, shaking his head. “But we’ll get through this. You both have the full support of the entire team both here in the paddock and back at the factory. We’re going to fight this and we’ll prove it’s all false.” He pauses before shifting his gaze to Lando. “You’re going to need to be strong and clear and you’re going to need to trust us.” 
Zak then moves to look at you, his expression softening even further. “We’ll do everything in our power to protect you from this too. You don’t deserve to be caught up in this.” His eyes drop down to where your phone sits. “Giselle, you have Corinne’s direct line. You let her know what you need and you’ll have our full support too. We’ll get through this.” 
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FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
McLaren Racing Statement Regarding Recent Allegations
McLaren Racing is aware of the recent allegations circulating in the media regarding Lando Norris. We categorically deny the claims of infidelity and the veracity of the fabricated evidence presented.
It has come to our attention that false and malicious information has been disseminated with the intent to damage the reputation of Lando Norris and *your name*. We are deeply concerned by the deliberate attempt to manipulate public perception through the creation and distribution of fabricated texts and misleading narratives.
Lando Norris has been a valued member of the McLaren Racing team for many years, and we stand firmly behind him. We have thoroughly investigated the claims and have found them to be completely unfounded. We are appalled that anyone would resort to such tactics to inflict harm.
Furthermore, we wish to express our unwavering support for *your name*, who has been unfairly and unjustly targeted in this campaign of misinformation. We condemn any attempt to drag innocent parties into personal disputes and to subject them to unwarranted public scrutiny.
We are currently exploring all legal avenues to address this egregious breach of privacy and to hold those responsible accountable for their actions. We will not tolerate the spread of lies and the deliberate attempt to tarnish the reputations of our team members.
We urge the media and the public to exercise caution and critical thinking when consuming information from unreliable sources. We will continue to provide accurate and transparent information through official McLaren channels.
We appreciate the support of our fans and partners during this challenging time. We remain focused on the upcoming race and on achieving our goals on the track.
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f1.gossip.source posted
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f1.gossip.source in a bomshell report, TMZ released an article full of text messages and photos from Lanod's old supposed situationship @/its_allegra_babes today. McLaren quickly responded to the report claiming it was all false and that Lando had never been in a relationship with the model. They are apparently persuing legal action against both TMZ and Allegra, claiming defemation and that the text messages were falsafied. Lando has repeadetly refused to answer any questions related to his personal life during the Monaco race weekend, further adding to the speculation that he is guilty of cheating with his now-girlfriend @/yourusername. What do we think folks? Who do we believe??? user928 i fucking KNEW that girl wasn't as wholesome as she appears. >>>user223 right??? total homewrecker user029 anyone who thinks Lando wrote those text messages that were in the TMZ article is dumber than a box of rocks. user019 you can't even see his face in any of the photos!!!! user929 this reeeeeeeks of jealous on allegra's part user2029 idk the way @/yourusername was avoiding the paddock this weekend and has gone radio silent when she is usually all up in her stories when she's with lando is sus af >>>user282 she's guilty. she knew lando and allegra were together and she went along with it.
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The fall out from Allegra’s article in TMZ is swift and immediate. The paddock is abuzz with accusations and whispers that followed both you and Lando around all weekend. McLaren’s statement had been quick and forceful, effectively silencing anyone in the paddock who tried to bring it up during any interview with Lando. 
On the advice of Giselle, you had chosen to remain silent beyond releasing your own short statement on your instagram saying that you stood behind your boyfriend and believed that all of the allegations brought forward in the TMZ article were lies. You had turned your comments off and left your phone in Lando’s apartment for the weekend. 
On Saturday night, when you’d usually be out to dinner with Lando and some of the other drivers ahead of the race the next day, you and your boyfriend instead chose to lay low in his apartment instead. 
The apartment, usually a haven of tranquility and quiet respite, felt suffocating tonight though. The air was thick with the weight of the weekend’s events. Lando had qualified P2 behind Oscar, but the celebration of a McLaren front row lockout had been somewhat subdued. 
Lando sat on the edge of the sofa, shoulders slumped, the energy that had fueled is driver earlier in the day now replaced with heart exhaustion. You sit beside him, head tucked into the crook of his neck, legs slung over his as you tried to offer some sort of silent support. The initial shock of the scandal had subsided and in it’s place settled a weary air of acceptance. The damage had been done, the lies were out there, swirling through the digital world, posing the public’s perception of both you and your boyfriend. 
“I’m so sorry, my love.” You murmur against his neck, still sweaty from the exertion of a hard qualifying run earlier in the day. Your heart aches for him, seeing the way he had nearly melted into the couch after arriving home just a few minutes ago. “This isn’t fair.” 
Lando looks up at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of exhaustion and gratitude. “It’s not.” He agrees roughly. “But we’ll get through this. We always do.” 
“I know.” You place a dusting of kisses on his neck, up his jaw, before finally landing on his lips. “But it’s still a lot for you to handle.” 
He nods, lifting a hand to frame your face before smiling sadly at you. “I feel like I’ve let you down.” He confesses after a moment. “I promised to protect you from all of this and I didn’t.” 
“Baby, this isn’t your fault.” You say gently. 
He looks at you with a flicker of doubt in his eyes. “But it is.” He insists. “If I hand’t…” He trails off, unable to articulate the way his heart is aching in his chest, the way the guilt feels like it’s going to drown him alive, the way he wants all of this to just…stop. “If I hadn’t been so careless, if I hadn’t…” 
“Lando.” You interrupt, voice firm. “Stop. You are not responsible for her actions. You didn’t do anything wrong. You trusted the wrong people and tried to make things better, that’s it.” 
He sighs, shoulders slumping. “I know.” He murmurs so softly you can barely hear him. “It still feels like…” 
“Like it’s your fault?” You finish for him. “Like you somehow brought this on yourself?” 
He nods, his gaze fixed on the floor. 
You reach out, gently tilting his chin up so he’s forced to look at you again. “Lan, this isn’t your fault. This is on her and her miserable attempt to drag you down with her. She saw you were happy and couldn’t stand it. This sits squarely with her and I promise you, she’s not going to get away with this.” 
He looks at you then, a flicker of hope retiring to his eyes. “You really think so?” 
“I know so.” You say, dropping a kiss onto his nose before pulling back to look into his eyes again. “We’ll get through this. We’ll clear our names and we’ll come out stronger on the other side. Together.” 
He finally smiles then. It’s wary but it’s the most genuine smile you’ve seen from him since this entire fiasco started.
“I love you.” He whispers, confession hanging heavy in the air between you. 
Your heart hammers in your chest. The words hand’t been quite out of left field if you were being honest. You’d felt the same way for a while now but you had been afraid to put the feeling out in the open, worrying that it was too soon or that Lando didn’t feel the same. A genuine smile blooms across your face as tears prick the back of your eyes.
“I love you too.” You whisper. 
Lando leans in, his lips brushing against yours, a soft tentative touch that quickly deepens into something more urgent, hungrier, like he can’t get enough of the way you taste.
When Lando pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours, breath warm against your cheek. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He confesses thickly. “You’ve been my rock through all of this.” 
“And you’ve been mine.” You reply softly, peppering quick kisses along the strong line of his jaw. “We’re in this together, remember?” 
He nods, eyes searching yours and you can feel that there’s a question he wants to ask you. “About tomorrow…” He starts hesitantly. “Do you still want to come to the race? I understand if you want to stay here.” 
You hesitate, the weight of the situation pressing down on you. The thought of facing the paddock, the reporters and the fans, fills you with a sense of dread. But you also know that staying away would be seen as admission of guilt, a sign of weakness. 
“I don’t know. I’m going to miss Spain next week already with my trip to New Zealand…” You’d had this trip planned to get content for Pretty Little Lens for almost a year now and Lando had been totally in support of it, even suggesting that he join you after the race because the grid had 2 weeks off before the next race in Canada. You hated to miss another race when you were already here. Missing two races in a row after this would also cause more rumors to swirl, you both knew that. 
“I want to be there for you…” 
“But you’re worried.” He finishes for you, his hand finding yours before intertwining his fingers with yours and giving it a squeeze. “I understand. You don’t have to go if you’d rather stay out of the spotlight. It won’t be easy tomorrow.” 
The look in his eyes, the defeat and the way his shoulders slump down a little more despite his attempts to be supportive make the decision easy for you. “No.” You say firmly. “I’m going. I can’t let them scare me away and I can’t let Allegra get what she wants. We should go together, show them that we have nothing to be ashamed of. We didn’t do anything wrong and we shouldn’t need to hide.” You pause, an idea striking you suddenly. “But…” You say carefully. “Maybe we can arrive a little later? Avoid the rush and media circus?” 
Lando nods, a small smile playing on his lips. “I am known for my inability to be on time.” 
You chuckle, allowing Lando to pull you into his lap. Your arms circle his neck before you nuzzle into his neck. Dragging in a deep inhale, you let the smell of his cologne surround you. Citrus and spice and all Lando. Comforting. Yours. 
He pulls you closer, his warmth a warm have of comfort that you’ve grown to depend on in the last few months. “Thank you.” He whispers against your neck. “For everything. I love you.” 
“I love you too, Lando.” 
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f1.gossip.source posted
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f1.gossip.source despite both going silent on all social media platforms after posting personal and team statements, @/yourusername and @/lando still showed up hand in hand today ahead of the first practice session of the weekend. Lando refused to answer any questions regarding his personal life and both the driver and influencer looked noticbly tense. The couple were some of the last people to arrive to the paddock so there wasn't much time for the media to pry. The McLaren driver has been accused of cheating on his ex-girlfriend and participating in a PR relationship with the American influencer @/yourusername. McLaren and Lando both catagorically deny any wrong doing and say that the proof provided by Allegra is fabricated and false. Who should we believe??? user8187 idk, they looked genuinely upset while walking in this morning. Why would McLaren post such a public statement if Allegra was right about everything? >>>user929 they looked upset because they've been exposed!!! user112 i always thought their soft launching so quick was weird. it's giving 'oh look a shiny new toy to distract me from my real problems' >>>user928 seriously. they hard launched SO QUICK. Something doesn't add up. user847 i always knew there was something off about her. #teamallegra user1883 there's no WAY these two are PR. Are we all forgetting how forced and miserable allegra and lando ALWAYS looked??? Compared to these two??? >>>user9288 seriously. we moved on much too quickly from the allegra/lando PR allegations. No way she's telling the truth. user928 #teamyourname and thats a hill i'll die on >>>user9992 fucking SAME
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thebarneschronicles · 5 months ago
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Closer To Home IV
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Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Word Count: 8.7k
Synopsis: The storm changed everything. A week spent trapped together, moving around each other like it was second nature. Mornings spent wrapped in his warmth, nights spent unraveling under his hands. And now, the words you’ve been swallowing for months are fighting to break free and you don’t know how much longer you can keep them in.
You love him. And he knows it. But love has never been easy for Bucky. And if you say it—if you let yourself finally speak the truth—will it pull him closer, or will it send him running?
Trigger Warnings: Emotional breakdowns; Angst, banter, and all the feels. Surprisingly no smut this time around... but their chance will come!
Closer To Home Masterlist
Author’s Note: The words are out... now we can focus on their other shenanigans. Loving to see your thoughts about this story and my ask box is always open if you wanna know more. P.S.: There'll probably be more updates this week, but I'm not setting it in stone. B xx
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“Just kiss me. Keep my mouth shut, will you? Do it until I forget my name.”
The kissing had worked. The slow, lingering press of his lips, the desperate way his hands had explored your skin like he was learning you by touch alone—every moment had distracted you from the pressing truth of your feelings. And when he finally took you, when he split you open at your very core only to put you back together again with every roll of his hips, every whispered praise against your lips, it had done its job.
You hadn’t said it.
Those three little words that kept haunting you, lingering on the tip of your tongue every waking moment since Bucky Barnes had stepped into your life.
I love you.
They could cement everything you had built together or crumble it into dust. And yet, they pressed behind your teeth, growing heavier each day, aching to be voiced, desperate to reach his ears.
You loved him.
God knew when it had happened. Was it when you first read his files, when he was still just a name and a tragic history? Or when he first looked at you—really looked at you—after you were assigned to work alongside him and Sam? Maybe it was the day he effortlessly picked up the stack of reports you had been struggling to carry, flashing you that small hesitant smile he wouldn’t normally share with anyone.
Or was it that first night he offered to walk you home?
No. Who were you kidding? It had happened long before then.
It had crept in through stolen glances over mission briefings, through late-night talks over cups of coffee you always made for him without asking, in the hopes of stealing just a moment of his time. It had settled in the quiet, in the routine of his grumbled, "Morning, doll," when he found you in the communal kitchen, in the way his tired eyes softened when you gave him that worried look as he walked in, battered and bruised from a fight.
And now, it was torture.
Because you couldn’t stop thinking about it.
The snowstorm had come and gone, the city slowly crawling back to life after nearly a week buried in ice. You and Bucky had spent those days together, and you had been blindsided by just how easy it had been—how natural it was to cohabitate. As if this was something you did all the time, as if domesticity had always been woven into the fabric of your relationship.
In the midst of unspoken feelings and a push and pull you actively ignored, you learned things. That he liked to watch you cook, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, incapable of hiding he was mesmerized. That he didn’t mind washing the dishes afterward, sleeves rolled up as he worked in comfortable silence, so long as you kept him company. That he’d rub your ankles while you lounged on the couch after hours spent bustling around the house, his strong hands kneading into your skin with practiced ease, relishing in the way your breath hitched when he squeezed just right.
He was the perfect boyfriend.
Except he wasn’t your boyfriend.
Because you couldn’t call him that. Could you?
You groaned, pressing the heels of your palms against your eyes, your head dropping onto your desk. Hours had passed, and you still couldn’t concentrate on anything. Your mind was consumed by the what-ifs, spiraling around the impossible tangle of your relationship with a 1940s super soldier who carried more trauma than you could count on both hands.
Fantastic. Just great.
The faint scuff of boots outside your door jolted you back to reality. You lifted your head just as Sam Wilson leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, an all-too-knowing smirk tugging at his lips. He held a file in one hand, but the amusement in his eyes told you he had other priorities.
"Well, did I just catch you napping on the job?"
You snorted, leaning back in your chair. "I wish. And good morning to you too, Sam. How can I help you?"
"Mission stuff," he said, tossing the file onto your desk. "Figured I’d go over it with you before Barnes shows up to derail our day with his useless questions. Also, wanted to check in—how was your week harboring a former assassin cyborg in your apartment?"
You pressed your lips together as memories of those days surged through your mind—his touch, his warmth, the way his eyes held you like you were something he never wanted to lose, the hunger in them when you straddled him. You hesitated, caught up in the memories, which was enough to set Sam off.
"Did you talk about it yet?" he pressed.
"About what, exactly?" you asked, feigning innocence.
"Oh, I don’t know—your big ol’ feelings? The fact that you two have been dancing around the subject for months? Did you ask him to be your boyfriend yet?"
With the playful lilt in his voice and the mischief dancing in his eyes, it was hard to believe this man was a war veteran—let alone Captain America.
You rolled your eyes, tapping your nails against the desk. "Don’t you have aliens to fight, Cap? Kittens to rescue? Children to kiss?"
"I’m Captain America, not a politician," Sam shot back, dragging out a chair and dropping into it with a pointed look. "So, that’s a no?"
You exhaled sharply, rubbing at your temples and urging the flush on your cheeks to go away. "We didn’t really… talk much. Not really."
Sam let out a long whistle, shaking his head. "Damn. Didn’t think Barnes had it in him."
"Sam—" you groaned.
"Oh, come on. You spent a whole week holed up with Terminator, what do you expect me to do? Just sit back and not pry?"
"You are way too invested in my love life for someone who has yet to offer a single useful piece of advice."
Sam grinned, leaning forward. "Alright, spill. What happened during the storm?"
You hesitated, glancing down the hallway to make sure Bucky was nowhere in sight. When the coast was clear, you exhaled, shoulders sagging. "We stayed at mine for most of it, but one night, we went to his place, and… I kind of lost it."
Sam’s smirk faded. "Lost it how?"
You swallowed hard, fingers twisting together. "I broke down, Sam. Full-on sobbing, ugly crying—everything. He wanted to know why, and I just—" Your voice caught, and you forced yourself to push through it. "I told him. That I know about Hydra. The torture. And... I saw the way he lives, like he’s punishing himself. Like he doesn’t think he deserves anything good. It wrecked me."
Sam’s expression tightened, but his voice stayed level. "And how did he handle it?"
You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head. "I didn’t give him the chance. I was about to say ‘I love you,’ and I panicked. So instead…" You sighed, dropping your gaze. "We slept together. More than once. And now everything’s a mess because I’m—" The words caught in your throat, heavy and terrifying. "Because I’m in love with him. And he knows. But I haven’t said it to him yet."
Sam blinked, then let out a low whistle. "Damn. Maybe I should start brooding—chicks love it."
You shot him a glare, but your heart wasn’t in it. He held up his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. So you’re in love with him. What’s the problem?"
"Everything," you whispered, the weight of it pressing against your ribs. "I love him, Sam. And I haven’t told him because… I don’t even know if I should."
Sam’s teasing faded, his voice softer now. "Why not?"
You swallowed hard, staring out the window as if the answer was somewhere out there. "Because I don’t know if he’ll stay. He’s lost so much already. People, time, parts of himself. What if I tell him, and it’s too much? What if it pushes him away? Or worse—what if he doesn’t feel the same?"
Sam exhaled, shaking his head. "You really are in your own head about this."
"That’s helpful," you shot back, voice thick with sarcasm.
He leaned forward, forearms braced against the desk, voice steady and certain, that way he usually got when he was about to drop some wisdom. "Look. This is Bucky we’re talking about. Yeah, he’s been through hell. More than anyone should have to survive. But you know what else? He’s still here. He’s choosing to be here, with you. And if you love him, and he already knows—because trust me, he knows—then saying the words isn’t going to send him running."
Your chest ached, emotions clawing their way up your throat. "How do you know that? Because this… this is eating me alive, Sam. I just want him to stay. I want to love him. And I’m terrified he won’t let me. There have been so many times I almost said it, but I had to choke it back because…" Your voice cracked, a tear slipping free before you could stop it. "Because I know this will either be everything or it’ll be the thing that breaks us. And I don’t know if I can face it if it’s the latter."
Sam’s expression shifted, his voice unwavering yet gentle. "Maybe you should let him decide that."
“And what if he decides it’s not worth it?” The words barely made it past the lump in your throat. You dropped your gaze, unwilling to let Sam see the way your lips trembled, the way your hands clenched into fists against your lap.
“He’s had enough people deciding everything for him to last a lifetime,” Sam said, his tone edged with something firm. “Don’t be another one on that list just because you think you know what he'll do. Maybe, if you actually ask him about his feelings, he’ll surprise you.”
“You sound awfully sure of something you know nothing about,” you muttered, but the usual fire in your retorts was absent. It was just exhaustion now, doubt curling into your bones.
“Who said I know nothing?”
That got your attention. Your head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “Sam... What do you know?”
“Nothing,” he replied too quickly, the picture of innocence as he shrugged, but the smirk tugging at his lips gave him away.
“Samuel, I will call your sister.”
Sam’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second before he recovered, but you caught it. He clicked his tongue, feigning nonchalance. “Yeah, about that—maybe don’t. You know Buck had a thing for her back when we were in Louisiana, right?”
Your jaw fell open. “He what?”
Before Sam could respond, heavy footfalls echoed down the hallway. You barely had a moment to process the revelation before Bucky strode into your office, his expression mildly suspicious, his vibranium arm clutching a pastel pink bag. The contrast of the bag’s soft color against his all-black ensemble was so stark it nearly gave you whiplash.
“There you are,” Sam boomed, standing with a grin as he clapped Bucky on the shoulder. “What’s in the bag, Barnes? Something sweet for your sweetheart?”
Bucky shot him an unimpressed look before his eyes landed on you, and his features softened instantly. “Breakfast. For her, not for you,” he clarified, lifting the bag slightly. Then his brows drew together, scanning your face with quiet concern. “Why are you crying? What did he do?”
“I’m not crying,” you rushed to say, though the evidence of your damp cheeks begged to differ. “It’s allergies,” You quickly wiped them with the back of your hands, forcing a smile. “What did you get?”
“I got you a bagel from that place you like,” Bucky said, stepping closer, his voice laced with something almost hesitant. "They didn’t have coffee, so I got you, uh… a strawberry matcha? The girl at the counter said you'd like it." He shifted slightly, as if bracing for your reaction.
You froze for a second, staring at him. The idea of Bucky—gruff, no-nonsense Bucky—standing at a café counter and listening to drink recommendations was almost too much. But then the weight of it settled in your chest: he’d gone out of his way. Remembered your favorite bagel. Chosen something new just because he wanted to bring you something—God, you were in too deep.
“That’s really sweet, Buck.” You pushed yourself up from your chair, unable to stop yourself from leaning in, rising on your tiptoes and pressing a kiss to his cheek. His skin was warm beneath your lips, his stubble rough against your fingers. “You didn’t have to go through all that trouble.”
“I wanted to,” he murmured, echoing something you had said to him so many times before it almost felt like second nature now. For a moment, Bucky just stared at you, his blue eyes tracing your face like he was trying to decide on something. Then, before you could fully process what was happening, he shifted slightly, tilting his head, and brushed a kiss against your lips.
It was soft—so soft it almost didn’t feel real. But it was enough to send your mind reeling, your breath hitching in your throat as a jolt of electricity raced through you. When he pulled back, his expression was unreadable, and you were too stunned to speak. Your fingers gripped the paper bag, anchoring yourself to something, anything, to help you process what had just happened.
And then Sam’s voice shattered the moment.
“Ah, look at the two of you. My favorite couple,” he said with a dramatic sigh.
Your entire body stiffened. “Sam,” you hissed, heat flooding your cheeks.
“What?” Sam shrugged innocently, though the smirk tugging at his lips said otherwise. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. Right, Buck?”
Bucky didn’t so much as flinch, but his jaw tightened slightly, a tell tale sign of his annoyance that only you seemed to notice.
“Sam, we haven’t even—” You started, grasping at some semblance of control over the rapidly unraveling situation, but Sam cut you off with an exaggerated groan.
"For the love of God, Barnes, put her out of her misery already," Sam groaned, nudging him with an elbow. "Tell her she’s your girlfriend. Tell her she’s got you wrapped around her finger. Do us all a favor."
You wanted to die. Right there. Spontaneously combust and vanish from existence.
“Anyway, that’s my cue to leave,” Sam said, grabbing the file he’d initially dropped on your desk.
“But we haven’t even discussed—” You started, grasping at the one thing that could spare you from the awkwardness sinking into your chest.
“We can discuss it later. Right now, I’ll leave you lovebirds alone to talk.” Sam said with an infuriatingly knowing look before turning toward the door. He paused, glancing over his shoulder with a wicked grin. “Oh, and by the way… I told her about Sarah.”
Bucky inhaled sharply through his nose, exhaling in a long, put-upon sigh. His tongue flicked over his bottom lip, annoyance now evident. “Sam…”
“Consider it payback for flirting with my sister. And what’s a little jealousy? It adds spice to the relationship,” Sam teased, stepping just out of Bucky’s immediate reach.
Bucky turned fully toward him, which only made Sam laugh, hands up in mock surrender. “She threatened to call her, man! I had no choice.”
Bucky turned back to you, groaning softly as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I swear, he lives to torment me,” he muttered.
You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound easing some of the tension in your chest. “So… Sarah?” you teased, raising an eyebrow.
His head shot up, his blue eyes widening, genuine worry flickering across his face. “Nothing happened,” he said quickly. “With Sarah, I mean. There’s—there’s nothing to tell.”
You bit back a grin, warmth curling in your chest at his obvious distress. Reaching out, you took his hand, squeezing it gently. “Relax, Buck. I’m not upset. Honestly, I’m just shocked you had any interest in anyone besides that waitress before I threw myself on you.”
The corners of his mouth twitched, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly as your words landed. “You didn’t force me into anything,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost tender. His thumb brushed slow circles over the back of your hand, grounding you in the moment.
“Good,” you teased, pulling the pink drink bag closer to you with a smirk. “Now let’s try this strawberry matcha you so lovingly procured for me.”
You did it. You got over the awkwardness by skillfully dodging the subject. You nearly sighed in relief—right up until Bucky let out a noise, half scoff, half laugh, before his amusement faded into something else as he stepped closer.
“I know what you’re trying to do,” he mumbled, moving behind you with a calculated slowness, his presence looming but never overbearing. His arm slid around your middle, pulling you back against him, and your breath hitched as his chest pressed against your back. “And it won’t work.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, your voice unsteady .
Bucky held you in place, his lips brushing your ear as he leaned in closer, the warmth of his breath sending shivers down your spine. “Why were you crying?” he murmured, low and insistent, his lips trailing down to press the faintest kiss to the curve of your neck.
Your knees felt like they might give out, your eyes fluttering shut involuntarily. You sent a silent thank-you to the universe for the secluded corner your office was tucked into, sparing you the humiliation of anyone catching you like this—being thoroughly undone by your super soldier.
“Sam told me I suck at my job,” you lied, barely managing to string the words together.
Bucky chuckled, the vibration of it reverberating against your back. “You’re a terrible liar,” he said, finally twisting you around to face him. His arms circled your waist, holding you securely, leaving no room for escape—not that you wanted to.
“And your interrogation tactics are crap,” you shot back, trying to mask your flustered state with sarcasm. Your hands instinctively slid up to rest on his shoulders, fingers brushing against the soft fabric of his shirt.
“We’ll see about that,” he warned, his voice teasing but his gaze unwavering as it flicked over your face.
You took a moment to really look at him, letting your eyes trace over every detail—the softness in his gaze, the faint smirk tugging at his lips, the roughness of his stubbled jaw that you knew would scrape deliciously against your skin. Your heart raced as you took him in, suddenly overwhelmed by how effortlessly gorgeous he was. “God, you’re handsome,” you blurted, your voice quiet but sure. “It’s unfair.”
His smirk deepened, though his expression remained serious. “Compliments will get you nowhere,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “I will make you tell me.”
You considered his words, tilting your head as you let your nails trail lightly through the hair at the nape of his neck. “Maybe,” you said, your lips curving into a sly smile. “Maybe we can do it over dinner?”
Bucky’s brows raised slightly, a flicker of interest crossing his face before he recovered, the smirk returning in full force. “Are you asking me out, or is this another attempt to dodge the question?”
“Maybe both,” you quipped, tugging him just a little closer, your noses nearly brushing.
His gaze softened, his arms tightening around you. “Dinner, huh?”
“Dinner,” you confirmed, your heart thundering as the word hung between you.
The look in his eyes told you he was already on board, but his voice stayed teasing as he finally replied. “Fine. Your place. I’ll bring the food. But don’t think this means you’re off the hook.”
You laughed, leaning your forehead against his, but your insides twisted with the promise of the conversation that awaited you. 
Instead of leaving work together, Bucky had, surprisingly, let you fend for yourself. You walked the few blocks back to your apartment with a jittery sensation that only grew more restless as you thought about how the night would unfold.
There was no avoiding it. Tonight, you'd have to talk about it, define your relationship once and for all, and you had no idea how it would play out. Or if you were prepared for it.
By the time you reached your door, you were wound so tight with nerves you were unable to sit still. You headed straight for the kitchen, hoping to lose yourself in the steady rhythm of baking. Soon, the rich scent of cinnamon and apples filled the small space, wrapping around you like a hug. The pie had barely cooled and you had just gotten finished spritzing your perfume when Bucky’s knock came at the door. You smoothed your hair one last time, and opened it with a breathless smile.
There he was. Casual, but devastating in his dark Henley and leather jacket, black jeans hugging his frame in all the right places. He had a bottle of whiskey tucked under one arm and a stack of takeout bags in the other—Thai food, from the place you’d offhandedly mentioned wanting to try. How did he remember it? You had no idea.
“You look nice,” he said, his voice soft, warm, and entirely too casual for the buzz of energy humming between you. His blue eyes swept over your frame, lingering just a second too long. You had thrown on a simple outfit after your shower—soft jeans and an oversized sweater that slid teasingly off one shoulder—but the way he looked at you made you feel like you were naked and exposed.
“Thanks,” you murmured, your cheeks heating as you lifted onto your tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips. He tilted his head slightly, deepening it for just a moment, accepting the way your hands cupped his cheeks to keep him steady, before pulling back with a sigh.
He couldn’t resist giving you another once over, before he got distract. “What’s that smell?” Bucky asked as he stepped inside.
“Apple pie,” you said, closing the door behind him. “I figured I’d take care of dessert since you were handling dinner.”
His brows lifted. “Apple pie? That’s awfully domestic…”
You shrugged, feeling the blood heating up your cheeks. “Thought it might remind you of home—or, you know, simpler times.”
Bucky hummed, setting the food and whiskey down before reaching out and tugging on the hem of your sweater. “Looks good on you.”
“Domesticity or the sweater?” You joked, closing the door behind you and leaning on it as you watched him. It never failed to catch you off guard—how effortlessly he settled into your space. Dropping the bags on the counter, peeling off his gloves and jacket, rolling up his sleeves. He moved like a man who belonged, who knew he was home, as much as he refused to call it home. The sight of it stole your breath.
His lips quirked. “Both.”
Dinner was easy, the two of you falling into a comfortable rhythm that felt as natural as breathing. He teased you about the mountain of spring rolls you’d pulled onto your plate (“Is that all for you, or am I allowed to have one?”), and you ribbed him right back for always stealing bites off your plate instead of sticking to his own. The laughter came easily, and for a while, the tension simmering under the surface felt like a distant echo.
That was, until Bucky leaned back in his chair, his expression shifting from playful to intent.
“So,” he said, folding his arms over his chest. “Ready for the Spanish Inquisition?”
You groaned, your head dropping into your hands. “Oh, come on. Can’t you let me off the hook?”
“Not a chance,” he said, his voice laced with humor but his eyes sharp. “I already let you off. Twice.”
The covert mention of the night you broke down didn’t go unnoticed. Lifting your head, you rested your chin in your hand, meeting his steady blue gaze with a pout. The stare-off felt like a challenge—like you were daring him to back off while he silently willed you to break. The only question was who would give in first. And you had no doubt—it would be you.
You’d do anything Bucky Barnes asked you to. Sighing, you pushed back from the table and stood. “Fine. If you’re going to interrogate me, we’re at least going to make it fun.”
"Fun?" His tone was doubtful, but the slight twitch of his lips gave him away. "In my experience, interrogations usually involve dark rooms and torture."
"Not this one. As tempting as it’d be to watch you try all that Winter Soldier stuff on me—" You cut yourself off before saying too much. This was already giving away enough. "We’re playing Truth or Drink." You nodded toward the whiskey he’d brought. "Grab your liquor, Sergeant, and meet me in the living room."
You plopped down on the soft rug in front of your couch, crossing your legs, an arm leaning over the soft cushions as you settled in. The rug’s texture was a comfort beneath you, grounding you for what you suspected was about to be a very revealing game. Bucky followed, setting the whiskey and two glasses down on the coffee table before sitting across from you, all the way down the other side of the couch.
“You’re so far away,” you complained, leaning forward slightly.
“It’s on purpose,” he said with a smirk. “Can’t let you distract me. I’ve got a mission here.”
His teasing tone made your stomach flip, but you masked it with an exaggerated sigh, rolling your eyes as you reached for the whiskey bottle. “Fine, Barnes. Let’s get this over with.” You poured a generous amount into each glass and handed him one. “You wanna go first, or should I?”
“Ladies first,” he said smoothly.  Ever the gentleman—even when he was expertly deploying psychological and emotional blackmail.
Resigning yourself to your inevitable demise, you pretended to think, tapping a finger against your chin. “Alright. Tell me a story about you and Steve.”
Bucky raised an eyebrow. “That’s not a question.”
“Fine. Would you please tell me a story about you and Steve?”
He chuckled, shaking his head as he took a slow sip of whiskey. “What kind of story?”
“I don’t know... Something interesting. Something no one else knows. Something fun.”
For a moment, Bucky’s gaze drifted, lost somewhere in memories you’d never be able to touch. Then, a small, genuine smile pulled at his lips, and your chest ached at the sight of it. “Alright… Before the serum, before the whole ‘Star-Spangled Man with a Plan’ schtick, when he was just a scrawny kid, Steve used to put newspapers in his shoes to make himself look taller.”
You grinned. “That’s adorable.”
“Yeah, well, not so adorable when it rained and he forgot to take them out.” Bucky snorted, shaking his head. “One time, we got caught in a downpour on the way to a dance. Steve walks in, shoes squelching, and suddenly the whole place smells like wet dog and cheap ink.” He chuckled, eyes shining. “God, the way people looked at him. I had to convince the bouncer we weren’t trying to stink up the joint on purpose.”
You laughed, watching the way his shoulders eased, the usual tension in his frame loosening as he let himself revel in a memory that didn’t hurt to hold onto.
Then, before you could stop yourself, you blurted, “Do you think Steve would’ve approved?”
Bucky blinked, confused. “Approved of what?”
“Us,” you admitted, voice quieter now. “Me. Being with you.” You hesitated, fiddling with the edge of the couch cushion. “I mean, we only met a few times before… y’know. And from everything I’ve heard, he was pretty protective of you.”
For a second, you thought he might deflect, but instead, Bucky’s answer was firm. Certain. “Yeah. Steve would’ve approved.”
Your heart did a little flip.
“He would’ve liked that you take care of me,” Bucky continued, his voice softer now, the burn of his unvoiced gratitude not going unnoticed.
Something inside you melted. “See, this is why you need to sit closer.” You scooted forward, shifting toward him. “I need to kiss you and I can’t.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Nice try, doll, but you’re not getting out of your turn that easily.”
You groaned. “Fine. What’s your question?”
“When was the last time you dated someone?” His eyes glinted with something unreadable, but his tone was casual. “Before... this.” He gestured again, this time between the two of you.
You scoffed. “That’s what you wanna know? Out of all the things?”
“Just answer the question, sweetheart.”
You groaned, pulling at the fluffy rug beneath you. “I don’t know, four, five years ago? I lost count. Last real relationship I had was before I got into this whole ‘girl in the chair’ thing. And it didn’t go well.”
Bucky frowned. “Why?”
“Communication issues,” you said vaguely, then sighed. “And the fact that he had a habit of sleeping with anything that breathed within a three-mile radius—except me. Which included both his best friends. And my roommate at the time.”
Bucky’s eyebrows shot up before he could school his expression back into something more neutral. “What do you mean ‘except you’?”
You shrugged, forcing nonchalance. “Exactly what it sounds like. He thought I wasn’t... good enough. Or at least not good enough for him.”
Bucky’s jaw ticked, something dangerous flashing in his eyes, but before he could open his mouth, you cut in, “You’re overextending your turn, Sergeant. I’m the one asking questions now.”
Bucky exhaled sharply, visibly annoyed that he couldn’t dig deeper into that revelation, but he nodded. “Fine. Go ahead.”
You hugged your knees to your chest, eyeing him. “Did you really have a thing with Sarah?”
Bucky groaned, tipping his head back against the couch, exhaling like a man who’d just been handed a life sentence. “I knew you wouldn’t just let this go. I swear to God, I’m gonna kill Sam.”
You grinned, biting back a laugh. “That’s not a no.”
Bucky rolled his head to the side to glare at you, but there was no real heat behind it. It made you want to kiss him. But then again, everything made you want to kiss him. “There was no thing,” he huffed, shifting so he was facing you more fully. “We flirted. That’s it. Nothing for you to worry about.”
“I’m not worried,” you said, though the way you hugged your knees closer and half-smothered your smile into your arm made him smirk.
“Sure. You’re jealous, though.”
You wrinkled your nose. “So what if I was?”
Bucky hummed, his smirk widening as he leaned in slightly, voice dropping to something infuriatingly smooth. “It’s cute.”
“Ugh. Shut up.” You stretched your leg out, nudging his thigh with your foot to change the subject. “Your turn.”
Before you could pull away, Bucky’s hand wrapped around your ankle, firm but warm. In one effortless motion, he pulled your leg over his lap, drawing you in like it was the most natural thing in the world. His thumb brushed absently against your shin as he settled back, casual as ever. But the way his fingers found the muscle of your calf—slow, deliberate, kneading just right—was anything but casual. A shiver ran up your spine. If he noticed, he didn’t say a word.
He stayed quiet long enough for your nerves to start creeping in. Then his grip tightened, just slightly. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, deliberate. “Did you ever think we’d be a one-time thing?”
Your breath hitched. “Us?”
His fingers traced slow, idle patterns against your calf—deceptively nonchalant. But the way his touch set every nerve in your body on fire? Not even close.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “This… thing we’re doing. Did you think it’d last? Or did you go in thinking it was just for one night?”
You hesitated. Out of all the things he could’ve asked, this hadn’t even been on your radar.
“I…” You exhaled, shifting slightly, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was. How warm his hands were against your skin. “I never thought of it as a one-time thing.”
His gaze flickered—sharp, assessing, unreadable. “Why?”
You huffed, trying for annoyed, but it came out breathier than you wanted. “Why what?”
His smile was slow, knowing. “Why’d you think it’d be more?”
Your throat tightened. “Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Reading me.”
“Why?”
“Because some things need to stay a secret.” You swallowed. “Some things… you don’t need to know. It’s too much.”
His grin widened, dark amusement curling at the edges. “I’m sure I can handle it.”
You curled your fingers into the rug beneath you. “Fine.” The word felt heavier than it should. “Just don’t be mad if you don’t like it.” You pressed on before he could interrupt. “This, you… it was never something I could walk away from.”
His fingers stilled—just for a second—before resuming those slow, maddening circles. “And that’s a bad thing?”
You scoffed, mostly to deflect. “For me? Yeah.”
His thumb pressed deeper into your skin. “Why?”
You sighed, dropping your head back against the couch before meeting his gaze again. "Because I got attached. One kiss, and I was already in too deep. And now? Now, I don’t know how to want you halfway. If you had only ever wanted me for a night, I would’ve taken it. Even if it broke me.” Your voice quieted. “And now we’re here, and it’s been months, and if this goes wrong—” You swallowed hard. “If you suddenly realize you don’t want this, or me, or that it's all too much— I don’t think I’d come out the other side in one piece.”
Bucky didn’t speak right away. Just watched you, unreadable as ever. Then, his thumb traced a slow, deliberate path along the curve of your knee, sending another shiver down your spine. “I know”, he said after a moment. Then, softer—raw, stripped of bravado:
“That’s what scares me.”
His words burned, low and true, cutting deeper than you expected. It wasn’t hesitation. It wasn’t doubt. It was something else entirely.
It was honesty.
And in that moment, you felt it—the shift. He was cracking open, piece by piece, letting you see the soft, bleeding parts of him that no one else had ever touched.
He let you see him. All of him. Let you peer in for as long as you wanted, as if he had made peace with it. That there was no wall you couldn’t bring down, so he just accepted it.
And maybe that was the real weight of it. Not the sex, not his past, not your willingness, but this—this terrifying, aching certainty that he could ruin you. That you’d let him. That if he asked, you would lay yourself bare at his feet and never ask for anything in return. He knew that if he asked, you would give him everything. Every last piece of yourself, until he was whole and you were the one bleeding.
Silence stretched between you, thick and humming. His eyes stayed locked onto yours, searching, waiting. And you realized—this was the test. Not the chase, not the tension, not even the words you hadn’t yet spoken. The test was whether you could hold his gaze, whether you could sit in the weight of this moment and not look away.
Your breath came shallow, chest tight, but you didn’t look away.
You couldn’t.
Not when his fingers curled just a little tighter on your thigh, like he was feeling the way you trembled. Not when his gaze flickered down, tracing the shape of your lips, the quickening pulse at your throat, the way your body betrayed you in ways your words refused to.
His voice was softer this time, but no less intense. “You know… I don’t do halfway either.”
Damn him.
The air between you turned electric. Your pulse hammered against your ribs, a warning and an invitation all at once.
“Bucky…” Your voice barely cleared a whisper, but he heard it. His fingers slid a little higher, grazing the sensitive skin of your thigh.
“What?” His tone was laced with challenge, teasing, but his eyes—his eyes were dark. Intent.
You let out a shaky breath. “Don’t… don’t play with me, okay?”
His smirk faltered, something shifting in his expression. “Is that what you think? That I don’t feel the same way? That this is some kind of game?”
“I don’t know.” You swallowed. “You’re hard to read.”
“I’m easier than you think.”
You shook your head. “I can’t read you right now.”
Bucky hummed, tilting his head slightly as you shifted, letting your arm rest against the couch behind him, seeking another point of contact. Your fingers slipped into the soft strands at the nape of his neck—an experiment, really. His lashes fluttered shut, just for a second, and your stomach flipped. Gravity, that’s what he was. A force pulling you in, impossible to resist. God, you wanted to climb into his lap and devour him whole.
“You can read me,” he murmured, eyes still closed. “You’re just scared you’ll see something you can’t ignore.”
Your heart pounded. “You always say that… Like you’re so sure I’ll wake up one day and decide you're a monster.” Your voice was quieter now. “That I'll finally see you the way you see yourself. It's not going to happen, Bucky.”
“That’s not what I mean.” He finally looked at you, his voice quieter now, but no less sure. “I mean… you’ll finally let yourself believe I feel the same way about you as you do about me.”
Your stomach flipped violently.
The air thickened, pressing in from all sides, and suddenly, you weren’t sure if you could breathe right. His words settled deep, threading into places you weren’t ready to touch—places that made you want too much, feel too much. It was too honest, too real, and if you let yourself linger there, you might drown in it.
So, you did the only thing you could. You swerved.
You sucked in a breath, forcing a smirk. “You really gotta stop saying things like that.”
His brow lifted slightly. “Like what?”
“Like… things that make my heart feel like it’s about to explode.” You made a vague, fluttery motion near your chest. “It’s very inconsiderate. You should warn a girl before you go throwing around words like that.”
Bucky huffed out something that almost sounded like a laugh, but he didn’t take the bait. His gaze stayed steady, unyielding, like he was waiting for you to actually sit with what he’d just said.
Nope. Not happening.
Instead, you let a wicked grin curled at your lips, a lifeline in dangerous waters. “Okay, I have a good one.”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed, wary but intrigued. “Go on.”
You bit your lip, leaning in like you had a secret too tempting to resist. “That first night we had sex… was that your first time since the ’40s?”
For half a second, he just blinked at you, like he couldn’t believe the words had actually left your mouth. Then, with a groan, he tipped his head back against the couch. “Jesus Christ.”
He laughed, but you caught the way the tops of his ears tinged red, his cheeks following suit. “That bad, huh?”
You gasped, swatting at his chest. “I never said that.”
He smirked, reaching for his drink. “Can you get me another one? I might not recover from this.”
You laughed, fingers curling tighter in his hair before dragging down the back of his neck, feeling the way he shivered under your touch. “If I tell you the truth about it, your ego will get so big we’ll both suffocate in this room.” You tilted his chin up with a knuckle, your lips brushing his in a soft kiss. “Come on, tell me.”
He took a slow sip of his drink, but you saw through him. He was stalling, rolling the words around in his head, figuring out how much to give away. Your heart picked up pace, watching the way his jaw worked, the way his fingers flexed.
Finally, he exhaled. “Yeah,” he admitted, voice quieter. “It was.”
You swallowed, lips parting, but before you could respond, he continued.
“I didn’t even remember how good it felt. Not until—” Bucky sighed, leaning back into your touch as if it steadied him.
“Until?” You urged him on, your nails dragging lightly against his scalp.
“Until I had you naked under me, wrapped around my fingers.” His eyes darkened, and his voice dipped lower, sending a shiver down your spine. “You were so wet and so… warm. When I—”
“I remember,” you cut him off, voice barely above a whisper, pressing your mouth to his shoulder to ground yourself.
And you did. You remembered the way he had frozen, realization crashing over him like a wave, the way his breath had hitched when he finally understood what it would feel like to be inside you. The memory sent a delicious shudder through you, and when you glanced down, you found his hand still on your leg, fingers tracing absentminded circles over your skin.
“So do I,” he admitted, his laugh coming out breathy, almost disbelieving. “Thought about it more times than I’d like to admit.”
You bit your lip, sliding your palm over his stomach, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. “You don’t have to just think. You can do it again,” you murmured. “Anytime. Anything you want, you can do it to me. You know that, right?”
His breath hitched, those piercing blue eyes locking onto yours, holding you captive. In that moment, you understood—he wasn’t letting you slip away. Every dodge, every joke, every attempt to steer the conversation elsewhere, he unraveled it effortlessly, guiding you right back to where he wanted you. "Why do you offer me so much?" His voice was low, edged with something unsteady. "Your body. Your trust. Why do you give yourself to me so freely?" The illusion of a lighthearted game shattered, the bourbon forgotten on the table, its amber warmth abandoned in favor of something far stronger—the charged air between you. It pulsed with the weight of everything you refused to admit, with the inevitability of what came next.
It felt like being caught in a storm’s eye, a vacuum where time stretched and condensed, where the world outside ceased to exist. There was only this moment, this man, and the unrelenting gravity of his presence. You could either surrender and give him the truth he was so keen to obtain, or wait for him to relent, to spare you, to step back and let you escape once more.
But you knew—God, you knew—he wouldn’t. His gaze was unwavering, his body coiled with the kind of patience that promised he could outlast you. He would outlast you. He had outlasted every single person in his life, why would you be any different? He wasn’t just waiting; he was chasing, methodical and unshakable.
And you? You were already lost. Because deep down, past all the resistance, you knew there was only one ending to this. You would give in. You would tell him what he wanted to hear.
Because how could you not?
Your chest tightened under the weight of his stare, each word peeling you open. "I want you to take it. To have me." The confession felt too vast, too exposed, but you forced yourself to continue. "You always hold back. Always deny yourself of everything good. I don’t want that for us. If you—if you don’t want this, it won’t be because I never gave you the choice."
His expression didn’t waver. “Is that the only reason?”
“I—” Your inhale was shaky, your eyes searching his.
“Do you only want this because you think I need something to hold on to?”
“No.” The word ripped from your throat, immediate, your head shaking, your voice cracking under the weight of it. “No, Bucky. That’s not… I don’t want to be some rehabilitation for you. I want to be with you. All of you.” 
Your fingers twisted into his shirt, clinging to the fabric like a lifeline, like letting go would unravel you completely. “You don’t understand… I chose you, even when you never asked to be chosen.” A breathless, humorless laugh escaped you, sharp and fragile all at once. “But I couldn’t help it. With you, it’s like I finally—” You exhaled shakily, searching for the words, for air, for him. “Like it’s finally right. It fits. We fit. It’s like I was always meant for this. Meant for you.”
The confession scraped against your ribs, raw and aching, and you blinked hard, forcing back the sting behind your eyes. “I’ve never felt like this. For anyone. Never trusted anyone enough to—to let myself be claimed, to be theirs” Your voice barely held, a whisper on the edge of breaking. “But with you, it just… happened. You looked at me and it was over. I want you to be the one I belong to.”
Bucky’s lips parted, his breath shallow, but his voice was firm. Certain. “Because you love me.”
The moment he said it, you felt it—the trap snapping shut around you with perfect precision. You had to hand it to him; he was a damn good interrogator. You hadn’t even suspected that this was where he was leading you. Your breath hitched, emotions rising too fast to control, clawing at your throat like something primal, something desperate. His hand was still on your ankle, grounding, waiting. But he let you move, sensing the shift, the way your body coiled like a spring, the way your lips trembled as you fought against the inevitable.
“You’re not being fair,” you choked out, voice cracking as you turned your face away from his unwavering gaze.
“I just want to hear it, doll.”
Your chest ached. You squeezed your eyes shut, fingers curling into the fabric of your own sweater like you could hold yourself together if you just squeezed hard enough. “You know why I can’t.”
“I actually don’t.”
“You’ll leave. It’ll be too much…” you whispered, the words barely more than a breath. “You’ll run. And I don’t want to lose you because of my stupid feelings.”
Silence stretched between you, thick, suffocating. The air felt electric, charged with everything you weren’t saying. When you finally dared to look at him, his expression was unreadable, something soft, something searching. And then, just the slightest tilt of his lips—sad, knowing.
“Doll…” His fingers trailed slowly up your calf, not teasing this time, but tethering. A lifeline. “I’m here.”
“Until when?” The question was a wound, raw and bleeding. The first tear slipped free before you could stop it. The second followed before you even realized it was there. Bucky’s grip faltered, his fingers tightening—then loosening—like the words had landed somewhere deep, somewhere fragile.
Then, he let out a rough, breathless laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Until you’re done with me.” His voice was quiet, resigned. Like he already knew the ending to this story before it ever happened. “Until you don’t love me anymore. Until you realize what a mess I am and find someone better.”
Your breath stuttered, your heart hammering against your ribs so hard it hurt. “There’s no one better. No one else.”
You didn’t push him away when he reached for you, cradling the back of your neck with steady, careful hands. His touch was warm, unshakable. The kiss that followed was a collision—of fear, of longing, of too many unspoken things. It was salty with tears, but it tasted sweeter than anything you’d ever known. Bucky cupped your face, thumbs chasing away the stubborn wetness on your cheeks, lips moving slow, deliberate, like he had something to prove to you. And you let him. You let him tilt your head back, let him drag a hand down the length of your throat, let yourself drown in the sensation of him.
He tasted like bourbon and longing and home, and you drank him in like he was the only thing keeping you alive. 
You couldn’t get enough.
Not when he pulled you onto his lap, not when he tangled a hand in your hair and tipped his head back against the couch, letting you take what you wanted—what you both wanted. Not when your kisses turned frantic, desperate, until your lips were bruised and swollen from the way you couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop.
“You ready to tell me now?” His voice was a rasp against your lips, breathless, hungry. His fingers tangled into the hair at the nape of your neck, his free hand dragging under your sweater, fingers mapping the heat of your skin. “I wanna hear it, sweetheart. Do you know how badly—” he pressed a kiss to your jaw, your throat, your shoulder, “—how badly I’ve wanted to hear it? Since that night at my apartment? You were crying for me, and I—”
He was unraveling. And so were you.
You barely had time to react before he moved, pressing you down against the rug, his hands burning paths down your thighs as he spread them open, pressing himself against you, a shuddering breath escaping his lips as he hovered above you.
“Tell me you love me,” he demanded. “You want me to take what I want, don’t you? You want me to claim you? This is it, sweetheart. This is what I want.”
Your breath caught. This version of him—raw, unfiltered, pleading—it stunned you into silence. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, his name barely more than a whimper on your lips as his mouth found your skin again, leaving bruises, leaving proof.
Your hands were trembling, your pulse a thunderous rhythm beneath your skin. Fear curled in your belly, a living thing, coiling tight around your ribs, squeezing your lungs. You had never been so afraid of words before, of the weight they carried, of the way they could change everything in an instant.
“C’mon, sweetheart, say it,” he murmured, his voice a rough whisper against your lips. His hands gripped your waist, grounding himself in the reality of you, as if touch alone wasn’t enough. “I already know, doll. I just—I need to hear it.”
His voice was softer this time, but no less commanding, no less desperate. His eyes searched yours, stormy and endless, as if he were trying to commit you—this moment—to memory, afraid you might slip through his fingers like sand.
His breath hitched, fingers tightening ever so slightly, his forehead pressing against yours. “Give me something real,” he rasped, his voice thick, aching. “Let me hold onto it.”
“James—”
“Say it.” His voice cracked, a raw, broken thing, like he was shattering before your eyes. “Please, doll. I’m begging you.”
Your lungs burned, your heart a frantic drumbeat against your ribs, an erratic melody of terror and longing. Your throat closed around the words, refusing to let them go, but you knew—God, you knew—you couldn’t hold them in any longer. Not when he was looking at you like that. Like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.
“I love you,” you finally breathed, the confession slipping from your lips like an exhale, fragile and trembling. 
The effect on him was instant, visceral, breathtaking.
A sharp inhale. A flicker of disbelief, of something breaking and rebuilding all at once in his expression. His hand tightened at the nape of your neck, his forehead falling to rest against yours as if the weight of your words had stolen his balance. His breath was uneven, shuddering against your lips, and for a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t speak, just held you there in the space between heartbeats.
His lips parted, but no words came out—not at first. His breath hitched, his fingers curling slightly against your skin like he was afraid to let go. Then, finally, in a voice so raw it nearly shattered you, he whispered, "Say it again."
“I love you.”
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humble-solitude · 2 months ago
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(Always check the original post on my Tumblr if you're seeing this from a reblog because I update it, so you can see the most recent additions)
Shadowvanilla Ao3 Fics that I think are a good read:
Jambound [I know there are some people that complain about them being out of character but it's good writing anyway]
You are here—Therefore I grieve
Camellias
MY CHERISHED FLAVOR [ read at your own risk]
Chiaroscuro
Free me from my chains
-<•>- by Owlsirr
Dollfaced [ from the same Author as Jambound ]
Joyful Confessions Delivered by Idiots
A ridiculous bouquet in the spring rain
Falling for you was Anything but a Mistake
Beast Among Heroes
An Honest Lie [ serie Antinomy]
A Distorted Truth [ serie Antinomy]
Oblivion
Old Line of Heroes.
Blue Flowers On Thursdays.
A Healer’s Journey to redeem the Villain
The Milkmaid [ serie Eldritch vanilla cookie AU, Genderbend and Eldrich horror ]
To stand beside an unnamed star [ serie Eldrich vanilla cookie AU]
This must be fallacy (because you make me feel so loved) [ It's his own AU ]
Feverish Frenzie [ It's another AU ]
In the Eye of the Vanilla Beholder
Is this Farce about Us? [ It's not strictly only shadowvanilla, it's also polybeasts and polyancients and affomilk but there's also the platonic relationship tag and because it's new I still haven't figured out which of them is platonic ]
Change the Fates' Design [ one of the few travel-time Fics I like of them ]
₊⊹𝚂𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚢 ₊⊹
Arranged Lilies
nothing left to lose [ Time-loop fic]
Your Typical Villain Story [ it's a regressor AU that I'm hoping the Author will develop further]
The Time Between Shadows [ from the same Author as Your Typical Villain Story, I'm waiting for it to develop]
Malinger [ while it's slow to update and like one comment pointed out there are a few plot holes I like how the storyline is going, I'm cheering for Smilk ]
Pure Vanilla's Lullaby
You'll Be the Saddest Part of Me [ it's both a Shadowvanilla fic and a Shadowlily one but while Shadowvanilla isn't the focus I think it's a pretty good read, currently on hiatus]
Stream: START!
Cómo domesticar a un dios del engaño
Tempus Fugit [ the other time-travel fic I like of them but really slow to update]
Broken Porcelain Puppets
Bound Paths: Once upon a time [it's a serie]
The Whole Universe Baked into You
To Blindside a Beast
The Price of Deceit
Liebesträume No. 3 in F Minor
To find freedom
A Guide to Making Friends
my hate's immense - his name's in vain (destroying God will cure my pain.) [ our eulogy serie but I gave the name of one for easier search ]
Judas
Where The Fount of Knowledge Never Fell [ serie Where Shadow Milk Cookie Never Came To Be ]
When We Spoke of Witches Beneath the Milky Way [ it's an established relationship but it's interesting anyway ]
Seeking the Truth at Blueberry Yogurt Academy [ part 2 of When We Spoke of Witches Beneath the Milky Way ]
Healing the Corrupted Soul
Trapped In A Cycle
5 times Pure Vanilla Tried getting into Shadow Milk's pants and the 1 Time he Succeeded [ flustered Smilk is funny ]
Friends, huh? (yeah right) [ serie You know you're better than this ]
Two Sides of the Same Coin [ it's an AU but they are so in denial it's funny ]
Vanilla wafer walls and shadows of doubt
Self proclaimed angel
P.s: It's not necessarily a list with only good quality writing, 100% in-character characters or canon-compliant, and it's not to be taken seriously when I say I think they're good if you dislike them, because I just wanted to share what I think it's something fun to read to pass the time and I'm not a writing critic anyway
P.s.s: one or two fics need an Ao3 account to read, and most of them are only a few chapters and slow to update, I mean it when I say they are fics to pass the time until something else updates
P.s.s.s: these ones aren't Shadowvanilla (or with any ship) but if you are a multishipper I wanted to share these too
The Time We Met Was In Chaos [ serie The Five Beasts In An Apartment: The Sitcom AU]
When it doubt, Get Roommates! (Aka Lovers)
Uncorrupted Jam, Uncorrupted Beast! (Please believe us😭😭)
The Resolute Volition
The Devouring Hour ( CRK AU)
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assortedshrift · 2 months ago
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Captivated by the twst yandereverse au!!
Help! I’ve been sucked back into yandere twst content, specifically the yandereverse au written by @thatnonameuser. Just checked back into The Red King holds a Bleeding Head after being off tumblr for a while and chapters 9 and 10 totally blindsided me. I very much recommend their series to any yandere enjoyers!!
Some thoughts I had while reading the last two chapters (major spoilers)
ch9
Darling being considered an insult in Heartslabyul is one of those worldbuilding tidbits that I love to see. It makes sense that Heartslabyul, and probably Rose Queendom, would stereotype darlings as disorderly and in need of constant correction. 
Like oh, darlings are just naturally less disciplined than yanderes, so calling a misbehaving yandere ‘darling’ implies they’re no better than the people they are supposed to be managing.
Also imagine being a darling and hearing your friend/SO call another person darling with the same tone of someone saying a slur. Idk why but it's super funny to me.
Also again, from the flashbacks I'm guessing that the King of Hearts probably took advantage of this to some extent and played off any disobedience as being ditzy and unorganized. But not too often though, or the Queen goes from “oh you silly darling” to “this leash is for your own sake”.
(omg coming back to this because just remembered that Crewel is from the Queendom of Roses and mr “whips are great accessories” definitely made a fashion line of darling-safe collars and leashes)
Also Trey was so unsubtle with the desserts. Clover, please, you can't say your pro darlings rights while watching them eat food that you drugged!
Trey’s parents definitely taught him how to mix drugs into baked sweets and he definitely got a lot of practice with his darling brother and sister. I bet that at some point the siblings have/will catch on to the scheme but like, what can you do about it? 
*annoyed sigh* Big bro Trey noticed me stressing out over my entrance exam so I’m probably gonna get the sedative brownies tonight.
And after Riddle’s overblot he might even consider branching out to some of the dorm members once in a while. ADeuce being yandere in this au makes them like 63% more feral and I would definitely be tempted to sedate them once in a while.
Speaking of our besties, I really like how Grim, Ace, and Deuce are being portrayed. Yes they're yanderes in a society that promotes violence for the sake of love. But they're still single braincelled goofs who just want to hang out with you. 
Ch 10
The MOMENT the author mentioned a metallic scent I KNEW that wasn't normal pet food!!! And Grim eating it… oof!! If he wasn't just as enthusiastic about eating everything including literal grass I would be a bit more scared!
Gotta admit I was feeling stressed out when reader shouted at ADeuce. Like, we know that this is a school for magical villainous yanderes, I just knew someone was gonna overhear. In a way it's probably a good thing that we were almost immediately confronted by Cater who kinda owes us after the overblot, that could have gone a lot worse.
Additionally, I like how Cater’s canon aversion to his sisters is incorporated into this verse while also doing a bit of worldbuilding in how a family in a yandere society would act. Honestly I’m a sucker for worldbuilding.
Riddle was sweet here, But this section also caused the greatest dissonance between me and the reader-character. I would absolutely be salty about the fact that Riddle shouted our darling status like that. Dude put us in serious danger and I’d want to hold it over his head. Going forward, every time he tries to lecture us about safety I’d say “Well it would be a lot safer if SOMEONE hadn't announced my status to the whole world,” which is definitely a bad idea that would build up to a yandere-style meltdown later. TLDR reader probably made the right call in how they responded to Riddle asking for forgiveness.
I know that as the audience we have access to knowledge that the reader-character dosent, but I was low-key cringing (in a fun way) during the interaction with Trey. 
“... have you met your darling, Trey?”
“Yes, I think I already have.”
YeS, i ThInK i AlReAdY hAvE. Trey you mischievous rat (affectionate).
Oh hey, its Che'nya!
Dang, your really gonna narc on Trey like that huh?
The execution was a harsh reminder that we can't treat our friends here like we would in the normal world. A straightforward bitch-fest resulting in a couple of body bags is horrifying, but Chenya did us a solid, even if his reason was almost as horrifying as the murders. 
But now that I know he's stalking us I can imagine the reader (if she becomes desensitized) could get used to an invisible companion she can (sort-of) let her guard down around and complain to him about the NRA boy’s ghoulish acts. 
Speaking of, I wonder if the original Cheshire Cat intended for a scenario like that with Winston, but was thwarted when their snooping was discovered and the Queen decided to go full mask off.
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1997starcandy · 2 months ago
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senator john f. kennedy x reader situationship hcs
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a/n: this one’s been rotting in my drafts forever. i swore i’d never post it since i hated it but hey, i figured i’d give the people what they want so here you go, a little something from the vault...
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it’s the late 1940s. you and then-congressman john f. kennedy begin a complicated, long-lasting, and intermittent affair that spans well into the early 1950s. how the two of you meet? i’ll leave those details up to you. but make no mistake — he is head over heels for you. 
he calls you in the middle of the night from an oyster bar somewhere on the campaign trail — exhausted, tipsy, unsure where he is, slurring on about how much he misses you, begging you to say it back (you do)
late-night walks around georgetown and dates at martin's
fumbling around on the cape
you have to leave for new york for work, and he insists on tagging along. under normal circumstances, you'd have told him hell no b/c you knew his ass needed to stay in washington. but congress is in recess, his family's out of town, and for once, the human dynamo has nothing better to do, so you let him
he teaches you to sail; you crash the boat (oops) and swear it was the boat's fault, not yours. he doesn't argue, but somehow you still end up paying b/c apparently the son of one of the richest men in america never carries cash
you visit his office, which sometimes (okay, often) ends with the two of you making a mess of his desk. when you bring it up, he just shrugs and mutters something about how it "doesn't matter," knowing damn well one of those papers could determine the fate of the whole country
he hails a taxi one night and asks the driver to take you both to a club out of town — despite knowing it's against the rules. the driver gives him a look like he's grown an extra head, but he smooths it over, "yeah, and i'll make it worth your while, pal. don't worry about me — i'm running for the u.s. senate. i'll figure out the fare. now, how's your sense of adventure?" the driver laughs and agrees, and you can only shake your head, laughing too, b/c somehow, jack kennedy can truly charm his way out of anything
you get tipsy on wine one night and start reading his palm like a fortune teller. he plays along, all dramatic gasps and wide eyes
he steals a photo booth strip of you from a bar and keeps it in his wallet. you catch him looking at it when he thinks you're asleep on the train
he starts calling you ridiculous nicknames like "bug" or "spoons." you protest, but he refuses to explain it. years later, you realize it was just because you once had a nervous habit of tapping your spoon when you were thinking, and he thought it was endearing
he's diehard red sox and you're ride-or-die white sox (yikes?)
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in 1953, the news breaks: senator kennedy is engaged to jacqueline bouvier. you are... blindsided? you always lived in the uncertainty of your "relationship," which was never formally acknowledged by the two of you. but it always felt meaningful. now, you question everything. you hate how they were right about him all along. the next time you see him, he tries to explain, insisting it's nothing more than a carefully laid out plan, another chess move orchestrated by his father. he needs the perfect wife — catholic, well-connected, a woman who will solidify his public image and put an end to the whispers about his personal life. but you know well he's never done anything he didn't want to do. sure, he may feel the pressure, but he bends only when it suits him. which means, despite everything he's saying, part of him must want this. want her. and that thought alone makes your stomach turn. he tells you he still thinks about you constantly, but he doesn't know how to say more than that. and so, you leave. b/c you know better than to meddle in the life of a married man — worse, a married man who's practically dead set on becoming the next president.
years later, long after his presidency, you miraculously stumble upon an old letter — written in 1953, right after the news of his engagement broke.
____,
i have turned this letter over in my mind more times than i care to admit, writing and unwriting each word before ink ever touched the page. perhaps that is why i have put off writing for so long — because saying anything at all means acknowledging that there is something to be said. and there is. there always has been. 
by now, i expect you have seen the headlines. i will not insult you by assuming otherwise, nor will i attempt to disguise what has already been written. there is little i could say that would change the facts or your own reservations about me — some of which, i suspect, i deserve. and yet, i find that i cannot leave certain things unsaid. 
it is no small cruelty to be so fond of someone in the wrong lifetime. because i am. in whatever way i have ever been capable of love, i have loved you. i cannot say if that has been enough. i have never known how to say it, how to show it, how to make you believe it without needing to explain myself afterwards. but if i had ever felt for even a second that my life were my own — that i could wake up one morning and make a choice without thinking of my father, of the papers, of the senate, of the presidency — then i would have chosen you. a thousand times over, i would have chosen you. 
and so, should you choose never to see me again — a decision i could neither fault nor resent — know that i shall recall nothing but the best of you, for the best of you is all i have ever known and all i will ever allow myself to remember.
yours, always,
Jack 
and the worst part? the letter was never sent and we'll never know why! maybe he tossed it aside, thinking it was futile. or maybe, by some cruel twist of fate, it just never reached you. and now, when all of it is ancient history, you find it. and you can't even be angry anymore. you can't throw the letter in his face. you can't call him a coward. you can't ask, why didn't you send it? because he's gone. and decades later, you're forced to accept a sort of quiet mourning, a love that now lives only as an echo of something that might have been the greatest part of your life.
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REF DO SOMETHING. DO SOMETHING!!!
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creepswrites · 9 months ago
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Hi, I just read your hcs about reader struggling with anxiety and depression, it was really great! I am also sorry you're going through tough times rn, I really really hope you'll feel better soon. Tbh I've been going through something myself and reading the Sinclair brothers' hcs, it reminded me of an idea I've wanted to eequest for a long while. I would like to request for the Siclair brothers (separately) x gn!reader headcanons where the reader struggles with mental health issues, but since they don't really leave Ambrose they can't get to their medication. How would they approach the brothers about it, would they hide it, how would the brothers react, you know.
Of course you can work on this when you feel like it, if you're not feeling like it with what's going on in your life. Or scrap the idea altogether, or add whoever you want. Thank you so much for letting me get my thoughts out tho <3 You are valid. You are loved. You are seen.
thank you for the kind wishes, i do appreciate it :) i tried to keep this relatively inclusive as to what exactly reader is suffering from but some stuff may be a lil specific. and don't worry, writing helps distract me so i'm happy to do this <3
SINCLAIR BROTHERS x GN! READER WHO NEEDS THEIR MEDICATION
BO SINCLAIR
You absolutely tried to hide it at first. How could you not?
Bo wasn't exactly... understanding about that kind of thing
I mean, you've seen how he acts with Vincent sometimes and thats his own brother. You don't want to imagine how he'd treat you if he knew...
But you knew the longer you went without your prescriptions, the more difficult things would get
It started small. Your moods would change randomly and very drastically - one extreme to another or you'd have trouble sleeping or oversleeping or - your least favorite - you'd lash out at one of the brothers for seemingly nothing
Bo noticed. He didn't say anything about it because he assumed that, if it was that important, you'd tell him
So when you had a full on meltdown on the kitchen floor one afternoon, he was blindsided
He had no idea it'd gotten this bad and, unfortunately, his first reaction was to get mad at you. He yelled at you, tried to get you to pull yourself together. After all, if you had been suffering, you would've told him! Right...?
It's not until your crying abruptly stops that he realizes he fucked up. You shut down on him, near catatonic as he tries to apologize
He's scared. And when he's scared, he lashes out. You know that. It still doesn't make it hurt less
The brothers agree that there needs to be regular trips made so you can get your medication. Lester offers to take you since he's the one who goes to town the most anyways
You and Bo get into an argument about it once or twice because he doesn't understand why you wouldn't tell him
His heart breaks a little when you tell him you didn't think he'd believe you or would look at you differently for it
He reassures you that no, never. He totally understands the moodswings, the angry episodes you have, those things
Once you're on your meds again, you two promise that if anything major like this happens for either of you, that you can always lean on each other
Bo takes time getting there but he grows to understand you and figure out how best to help you!
VINCENT SINCLAIR
You tell Vincent pretty early on that you need medication
While you don't give him many specifics as to why, you tell him that life will be better for all of you if you keep taking them
At first he's a little apprehensive of letting you go into town so Bo goes with you to pick it up
Not because he doesn't believe you! But because he's scared you're still trying to escape
He wants to know what they're for so he's not above snooping around to read the labels
(You'd tell him if he asked but he didn't know that)
The amount you take surprises him and he tries to think about what you're like off them, in a morbidly curious way
He is, however, insistent that you're taking them consistently and without interruption. Vince makes sure you take them every day and gets on his brother's cases if they give you a hard time about it
They're not cures though. You both find that out the hard way when he finds you trembling in the corner of his shop like you were in freezing weather. The panic attack was violent and took you by surprise but Vincent holds steady
He sits with you, humming soft melodies to try and ground you
When you're ready, he hugs you and you just break down into tears. You'd never wanted him to have to see you like this, you don't want him to think you're some fragile china doll who can't take care of themself
But he would never see you like that. You explain that, while the meds make them less frequent, you're not cured completely
Things will slip through the cracks sometimes and that's okay! He'll always be there when you need him
When he catches you scratching yourself anxiously, he buys you gloves and makes sure you keep your nails short
He catches you picking at your face and gets you small bandages you can place over the spots so you don't obsessively pick
Vincent is always doing little things to try and improve your quality of life, even if you're taking medication!
LESTER SINCLAIR
You don't really tell him but you also don't hide it from him either
He notices you taking pills every morning and every night and is able to put two and two together
Probably asks you what they're for once you two have been dating for a bit but it doesn't really change much in your relationship
He's relatively chill about it though and offers to take you into town to pick up your meds
Likes to hoard pills for you so you never run out - it's an irrational fear of his but you think its sweet
Whenever you get sad, Jonesy and Lester are both right there to comfort you however you need
Sometimes, when the bad thoughts get too loud, Lester catches you staring vacantly into the bathroom mirror or out windows and he worries
One night you wandered out into the woods, barefoot and freezing, just because you felt so out of touch with your own body
Everything felt fake and floaty and you just needed to be out somewhere harsh and grounding and real
You love Lester, you really do, but there, in the forest all alone, all you could think about was how empty you felt
He finds you early the next morning and he was clearly worried sick, still in his sleep clothes with just a flashlight and an anxious Jonesy
Once at home and warm from your shower, he pleads with you to talk to him about it
You finally spill about how you've felt completely dissociated from yourself, even with all the meds you're taking, and it just got to be too much
He gives you a hug and you both agree to try and find other ways to shock you back to reality that don't involve you wandering into the forest at night
Turns out, an ice cube on the back of the neck works wonders to snap you out of whatever stupor you've found yourself in!
Lester is as involved with it as you'd let him. Never ashamed or afraid to lend you a hand with anything!
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