#and is it her having unbearable expectations for herself

[ilium-ilia]

calyptra thalictri

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | "single mom" au | masterlist

6: gut

tw: grief, mentions of non-con

The clock keeps ticking, but nothing moves. 

Stagnant time hangs heavy in the air, suffocating you as you stare at your tenth spreadsheet of the day. Your eyes have grown sensitive to the light recently, easily fatigued by screens and the overhead lights beating down on you worse than the sun in the midst of summer. It burrows into your retina. Worms until the pressure builds in your cranium and it throbs with each beat of your heart. Too much pressure—both internal, and external. 

Yet as you scan the same row you’ve stared at for the better part of the last half hour, you find that you can’t get your brain to stray away from Simon. Muddy thoughts attempt to surface as you remember the events of the weekend. How he showed up to your apartment to pick up his items, how he cooked your food and took care of you, and then… fuzzy. Half connected thoughts of you in bed and him leaving you tucked in. Caring hands. Warm skin.

You woke up to a text from him the next morning. He’s oddly polite—bluntly so. Heavily insisting on checking up on you. On seeing how you’re doing. His kindness makes you uncomfortable, but you’re unsure if it’s because of him, or you. Plagued with an uncertain mind, you have a hard time telling when aid is given out of avarice or sincerity. 

As you close your spreadsheet, you decide that Simon’s actions are certainly out of candor. What could anyone expect or want from you—a single, pregnant woman who hardly has anything to show for herself?

As the ticking of time grows louder, you find the pressure in your bladder growing until it’s unbearable. A balloon stretched to its limits, weight bearing down on it until it threatens to burst, soiling your offals, wetting them. Huffing, you place your hands on your lower stomach for support as you stand before waddling out of your cubicle, thighs pressing together as if to put a cork in the raging tide that yearns to flow between your legs. 

You hardly make it to the toilet before you burst. Knees trembling, diaphragm melting—your head falls into your hands as you will your muscles to relax. You sit on the bowl until your legs grow numb before you force yourself to wash up. Hands running under warm water, you stare at yourself in the mirror with disbelief. 

People always say pregnancy makes you glow, but you wonder if that incandescence has been lost on you. Void of any glimmer, you can find only the dull sheen of fatigue beneath your eyes where it wanders low and deep into your skin, crevices that pull open and wide. Even the thought of attempting to muster a smile only makes your bottom lip quiver, and still you stare at yourself. At this mess. You. 

Nothing but a contemptible creature. 

Drying off your hands, you exit the bathroom where you’re once more surrounded by the dull buzz of conversation and incoming faxes. Sunlight streams from the open office windows, chairs squeak as employees get comfortable, and—

“Do you think it’s some sort of ploy for attention?” 

There’s nothing but a thin privacy wall to separate you and this hushed conversation, but the words bleed through it all the same. Freezing, you keep your eyes straight ahead as you hear paper rustle by the printer hidden somewhere on your left. 

“Attention?” The second voice belongs to a man—Ed, you think. A nasally voice that’s trying too hard to sound deep and throaty. 

“Well, think about it.” Jane. You’d recognize her voice anywhere—your friend. The only person in the office who manages to drag you outside of your home. “She’s not finding any man of her own, and she can’t really compete with any of the rest of us as far as personality.” 

“That’s a little blunt,” Ed defends. 

Plastic scrapes against itself as something slams shut on the printer. “Just speaking the truth is all. Seriously, I think this pregnancy is her way of garnering sympathy. She’ll get people to coo over her, maybe even pity her because she doesn’t know who the dad is and will probably swindle some poor guy into giving her help.” 

Ed scoffs. “Only an idiot would step in to help with a mess like that.”

“I think an idiot is exactly who she’s looking for,” Jane says with a bitter chuckle. “Doesn’t matter who they are as long as they’re willing to feed into her sob story, right? Look, all I’m saying is don’t expect to see me at the baby shower. Lord knows I’ve given that girl enough as is.” 

A barbed hook pierces through your chest, curls, then tugs. It catches on everything. Flesh, tendon, bone—it does not discriminate. You feel it cut. Shatter. Split. It leaves behind nothing but a gaping hole large enough that not even this growing creature inside of you can fill. 

The rest of their conversation is lost on your fuzzy hearing as you trudge back to your desk. Your monitor has managed to turn off, but you pay it no mind as you hit the power button on the tower. Fans slow to a stop as your computer powers down, and you make quick work of the sparse items at your desk. A water bottle, a cardigan, a stress ball—it’s all shoved into your bag before you turn on your heels and dart out of the building as fast as your swollen feet will carry you. 

You do not say goodbye. You doubt anyone will miss you anyway. 

No one pays you any attention on the transit home. You shove yourself into the tube and keep your head down and pretend as if the moisture isn’t welling in your eyes. Nobody spares you a second glance. There’s no pitiful nods or awkward smiles. There’s not a single shred of kindness to be found underneath the streets of London, and the same can be said for the space above ground. Shoulders scrape against yours during the afternoon rush as you dart into your apartment building, fingers trembling as you hit the buttons on the lift, lips pressing together as you rise up several floors. 

The waterworks start the moment the door closes and locks behind you. Hot tears that have no care for your skin or the way it burns as it streams down your cheeks. Hand clasped over your mouth, you stumble into the living room and collapse onto the couch, knees curling up to your chest as far as your stomach will allow. A sinking suspicion has nettled beneath your skin for a long time now that this is how people truly see you—some useless thing that’s better tossed aside rather than cherished. 

The nettling has turned into poison now that you’ve heard proof exit the mouth of the only person you could have ever cared to call a friend. 

It takes you half an hour to pull yourself off of the couch and into your bedroom. Shoes abandoned halfway through the hallway, you peel your work clothes off of your body and leave them in a heaping pile on the floor, wiping at the stray tears on your face with the discarded cloth. 

Waves of hormones hit you relentlessly until you’re drowning beneath the surface. You’re hardly able to get your nightshirt on before you’re sobbing again, knees collapsing until you’re sitting on the edge of your bed, ugly crying into your palms. It is beyond you how you are capable of growing a new life and yet you still feel the most alone and isolated that you ever have. 

A knock sounds on your door just as the sun begins to dip below the horizon. You’ve moved back to the living room, cuddled up underneath a blanket as some show drones on the television loud enough to drown out your thoughts of self-deprecation. Something within you tells you to ignore the noise, but when it happens again you know the musician behind such ruckus will not retreat until they are heard. 

You drag yourself to the door, hands pulling at your nightshirt. It’s long enough to be a dress, falling just above your knees, covering the swell of your stomach—you’ve started to outgrow all your other pyjamas. Trying not to care for your appearance, you swing the door open just enough to peek your head through. 

“Evenin’ Angel.” 

It’s him—Simon. 

Who else would it be? 

He stands just as tall as ever, hands shoved in the pockets of his jumper, but his hood is down this time, revealing short cropped hair. His throat bobs as he swallows, eyes tracing you up and down as he awaits your response.

“Oh. Hi, Simon,” you greet. Your words are tense and awkward on your tongue, falling from your lips like a baby bird flung from the nest too soon. Wiping at your face, you try not to curse at the swelling of your eyes and the visible evidence of your near mental breakdown. “Uh… is there something you need?” 

“Just wanted to check up on ya,” he says bluntly. 

“That’s okay, you don’t have-”

His palm lays flat against the door, forearm following after it, and with his jumper for cushioning he pushes against the wood. It falls out of your grasp, but it is gentle—leaves knocking around in the autumn wind. Stepping back, you watch as he enters your home as if he has each step memorized. He locks the deadbolt behind him but his eyes don’t leave you for a moment. 

“Simon, you don’t have to do this,” you finish. 

He silences you with his fingers against your cheek. You freeze. Algid blood in your veins, slowing down your heart, widening your eyes as he drifts far enough until he’s cupped your face in his palm. He’s warm against your tear-stained skin. Almost warm enough to evaporate all the moisture that remains. 

“You’ve been cryin,” he notes, thumb pressing into the plush fat that lies beneath your eye. “What’s wrong, Angel?” 

Taut lips roll inwards on themselves as you close your eyes. There’s no breath deep enough in the entire world to prevent this next onslaught of tears that spew out of you. Snot thickening in your nose, head shaking, your head falls forward, but Simon refuses to remove his hand. 

His grip finds your lower back just as you curse. Boots still heavy on his feet, he leads you back to the half-formed nest you created on your couch where he sits and drags you next to him. The pressure of his palm leads you to his chest, but you fight. Shaking your head, he allows you to, and instead opts to run his fingers along your spine instead. 

“This isn’t fair to you.” Nearly each word you speak is punctuated with a sniffle, uncontrollable and painful in your chest. 

“What do you mean?” Simon asks. 

“Oh, I know how this looks!” you wail. Your hands finally fall away from your eyes, shame consuming your heart as you look at him. He’s leaning forward, an elbow on his knee, head bent forward as he listens, as he watches, as he studies. “Some unmarried woman, pregnant with someone else’s kid. I know what people think. That I’m just trying to garner sympathy, or swindle you for help, is that it? I’m just taking advantage of you and your kindness.” 

Simon’s eyes darken as you speak, like storm clouds closing in on a pale horizon. His hand stills on your back, palm pressed against you, warmth seeping through your shirt and into your skin. His fingers twitch along your spine, and it nearly stuns the hiccups out of you. 

“Who got you all in your head like this, Angel?” he questions. 

Angel. What a cruel nickname, you think. Is that why you’re stuck in this mess—because you’re one of God’s chosen? His most loved? Are you truly loved enough to be forced to endure such turmoil? 

“Nothing,” you say, defensive. You are wary of this kindness. “No one. Just some stupid conversation at work. It’s nothing.” 

Simon’s hand begins to move again, fingertips tracing up to the nape of your neck where he lets his thumb swipe just below your hairline before traveling back down. “It isn’t right, blamin’ you for this. You’re so tired, aren’t you? Yeah, I can see it. Workin’ so hard, all alone with no one to help you.” 

Hearing it out loud is worse than anything your own mind could conjure. Each syllable twists the knife deeper and deeper, forcing your gaze away from him as you try to hold back another sob. 

“But you remember what I said the other night, don’t you? Said I’d take care of you. Both of you,” he continues. His hand stills as he slides away from your back and to your side, grip curling into your waist as he scoots closer. “If you want it, Angel. Doesn’t seem like the daddy’ll be comin’ back ‘round anytime soon, anyway.” 

You’re shaking now. Tender flesh trembling beneath his touch as you keep your hand plastered over your mouth, eyes squeezed shut as tears soak your lap and fingers. The lack of response has Simon tilting his head—nothing but a curious animal—and he reaches for you. Chin tilting up to look at him, thumb pressed against your cheek, urging your eyes open; you’re beautiful. Even as you fracture and crumble in his hands, he feels his core growing tight. 

“Tell me ‘bout him, Angel. The man who gave you this little gift—” his hand falls to your stomach now, “—did he hurt you?” 

There it is—the last wall comes crumbling down. 

It takes everything within him not to grin when you collapse against him, wet face tucked in the crook of his neck as you let him hold you. His arms wrap around you, pulling you as close as you can get, and he hums as he feels the swell of your stomach press against his ribs. Nose against the crown of your head, he murmurs sweet nothings to you. Petty promises. It’s an impressive feat that his teeth don’t puncture your skin as he speaks—wretched animal, all bite with a bark that comes only after the slaughter. 

“It’s all right,” he whispers, voice low in his throat. “I’ll be here to take care of ya, yeah? Both of you. Like I said. Nothing’s gonna hurt you again, Angel.” 

You’re clinging to each word he speaks; the only ounce of comfort you’ve been given since this whole ordeal started. Hands pawing at his chest, fingers curling into his shirt, you nod—you thank him for his kindness. You’ll take anything he gives you, even if you’re not sure why he’s offering it to begin with. 

As Simon continues to whisper comforting promises against your skin, you sob, each shuddering breath forcing you to inhale the scent of him, and you try not to wonder why this redolence seems so familiar.

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[vunblr]

Roots and Branches

Pairing: Lumberjack!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Fluff. Smut. Unprotected sex.

Summary: Bucky has built a quiet life in the woods, content to keep the world at arm's length. But when a new neighbor moves to town, her presence ignites emotions he’s hesitant to face.

Word Count: About 18.6k.

notes: I’ve been wanting to write a story in a lumberjack AU for a while now, and here it is. It ended up being longer than I expected, but I have no regrets. In my mind, Lumberjack!Bucky=Beefy!Bucky.

By the way, I��m still dreaming that someone, feeling inspired, creates Bucky as an NPC for Stardew Valley. I would kiss the ground that person walks on.

The city stretched behind her, a blur of steel and noise shrinking in the rearview mirror. Relief and uncertainty warred in her chest, but she clung tightly to the thought of what lay ahead. The town had always been her haven: sunlit summers chasing fireflies, her grandmother’s laughter ringing from the porch, and the quiet that once cradled her restless mind in peace.

It had been years since she’d last visited, but the constant noise, relentless crowds, and a recent, unsettling encounter had made city life unbearable. Her grandmother’s house, nestled at the edge of a sprawling forest, now felt like her only escape. It wasn’t perfect -her uncle had warned her about the repairs needed- but she’d gladly trade peeling paint and creaky floors for the chaos she was leaving behind. Besides, without rent to worry about and the freedom of her home-office proofreading job, she had the space and time to start over, one step at a time.

The road stretched endlessly before her, winding through rolling hills and patches of dense forest. The further she drove, the quieter it became. No blaring horns, no traffic, just the hum of her engine and the occasional rustle of leaves stirred by the wind. She cracked the window, letting in the crisp scent of pine and earth.

For the first time in months, she felt her shoulders begin to relax. And then, with an ominous thunk, the car jerked to one side.

Her stomach sank as she guided the vehicle to the shoulder, the once-smooth ride now bumpier than a cobblestone street. Stepping out, she found her fears confirmed: the back tire sagged, utterly deflated.

“Of course,” she muttered, brushing a stray hair from her face. “Why not?”

She retrieved the jack and wrench from the trunk, determined to fix it herself. She wasn’t helpless, after all. But after twenty minutes of grunting, tugging, and nearly twisting her wrist, the lug nuts refused to budge. Maybe they just needed a little more effort.

Two hours later, she slumped against the side of the car, her arms aching and her patience long gone. She’d tried everything -kicking the wrench, sitting on it for leverage- everything except calling for help, though the lack of cell signal made that impossible. Her lip trembled as she bit down hard, determined not to let the tears of frustration win.

“You wanted quiet? You got quiet,” she muttered, her voice tight with irritation. Walking seemed like the only option now. Maybe she’d stumble upon a house, a gas station, anything. Resolving trying her luck, she locked the car and started forward, her boots crunching against the gravel shoulder.

The air hung heavy with stillness, broken only by the occasional chirp of a bird or the rustle of leaves in the breeze. The walk felt endless, each step feeding her doubts. What if there was nothing ahead? What if she’d made a mistake leaving the car? Just as she was debating turning back, a low rumble cut through the quiet.

She froze, breath hitching as her eyes darted down the empty road. The sound grew louder, unmistakably the steady growl of a truck engine. Relief flooded her chest, tempered by a flicker of caution.

Moving closer to the edge of the road, she raised a tentative hand to wave. Moments later, an old, sturdy truck came into view, slowing as it approached.

Bucky wasn’t in any rush. The late afternoon light filtered through the trees, casting long shadows on the road ahead. He kept one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh. The hum of the truck engine was a comforting sound, a backdrop to his thoughts.

As he rounded a gentle curve, something caught his eye up ahead: a car parked awkwardly on the shoulder. He frowned, slowing the truck. From the angle it was sitting, it didn’t look abandoned, but it wasn’t going anywhere either. A flat tire, maybe? His brow furrowed. Someone had to own it, but there wasn’t another soul in sight.

He continued slowly, his gaze drifting to the road ahead, and that’s when he spotted her. She stood near the edge of the road, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder and her hand half-raised in a cautious wave. She didn’t look panicked, just tired, a little frustrated, and undeniably relieved to see another human being out here.

He brought the truck to a stop a few feet ahead of her, letting the engine idle as he leaned across the seat to glance out the passenger window. “Need some help?” he called, keeping his tone easy.

She stepped closer, her cautious wave lowering as she approached. When she stopped short of the truck, her polite smile faltered, her gaze locking on his face.

He didn’t notice at first, but she stared, caught off guard by the sight ahead of her. Shoulder-length dark hair framed handsome face, shadowed with a day or two of stubble. And those eyes… crystal blue, so piercing they looked like they belonged to the lead character of a romance novel rather than the driver of an old truck.

Her lips parted slightly as her thoughts ran wild. Maybe she was hallucinating. Two hours of frustration and the heat of the sun must have gotten to her, conjuring a guy from one of those pink-covered novels she’d been proofreading.

“You okay?” His voice pulled her back, laced with just enough concern to cut through the fog in her head.

She blinked rapidly, heat flooding her cheeks as she scrambled for an excuse. “Uh, yeah, sorry. Just… fatigue, I guess.” She gave a quick laugh, brushing her hair back as if that would somehow erase her embarrassment. “It’s been a long day.”

Bucky didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. He nodded, his expression sympathetic. “Yeah, I can imagine.”

She cleared her throat, trying to sound more composed. “I’d really appreciate the help. The tire’s flat and the lug nuts are stuck. I’ve tried everything, but they won’t budge.”

Bucky nodded again, shifting the truck into park before stepping out. “I saw the car back there. Mind if I take a look?”

Her shoulders relaxed slightly, and she offered a more genuine smile. “Please. That’d be great.”

She couldn’t help but stare as he climbed out of the truck. It wasn’t just the striking eyes or the scruff that made him look like he’d stepped off a book cover, it was everything.

Worn jeans sat low on his hips, perfectly fitted to legs that spoke of strength and endurance. A red flannel shirt, snug across his broad shoulders and well-defined arms, hinted at a life of hard, honest work. His boots crunched against the gravel as he moved with an effortless confidence that made it nearly impossible to look away.

Yup, she thought, feeling her cheeks warm again. A lead character.

She snapped her gaze away, trying to focus on literally anything else, the road, the sky, her worn-out sneakers. But as he approached, the heat creeping up her neck didn’t fade.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, his brow furrowing slightly.

She blinked and met his eyes, cursing herself for getting caught again. “Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine,” she said waving a hand. “Just tired, I guess. Two hours of trying to fight with a tire does that to you.”

He nodded slowly, and his expression softened. “Fair enough.”

She gestured vaguely toward her car in the distance. “It’s over there. I’d appreciate the help, it’s like the universe welded those lug nuts on.”

When they reached the car, she unlocked it and retrieved the tools from the trunk, setting them down beside the flat tire. She stepped back, watching as he crouched and took the wrench in his hand. With what seemed like no effort at all, he twisted the lug nuts loose, the metal giving way under his grip as if it had never been stuck in the first place. She stared again, biting her lip as her gaze lingered on how his forearm flexed under the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel. Completely oblivious to her scrutiny, he worked in focused silence, switching out the flat tire with methodical ease. When he finished, he stood up, brushed the dust from his hands, and glanced at the car. His gaze snagged on the backseat, where duffel bags and boxes were crammed together.

“Looks like you’re movin’,” he said, his voice low and gruff.

She nodded, brushing her hands on her jeans as if she’d done any of the work. “Yeah, I am. Heading to town. My grandmother used to have a house there, I’m moving into it.”

Bucky glanced at her, his sharp blue eyes unreadable, but not unkind. “The old house near the woods?”

Her brows lifted in surprise. “Yeah, actually. You know it?”

He shrugged lightly, his gaze slipping to the ground. “Small town,” he murmured.

Unsure if his hesitation was discomfort or just shyness, she shifted her weight. “Well, thanks again for helping. I’m Y/n, by the way.”

He didn’t respond for a moment and then blinked, as if snapping out of a thought. “Bucky,” he said simply, his tone softening just enough to feel welcoming.

“Well, nice to meet you, Bucky.” Her smile was warm despite the long, frustrating day.

He nodded slightly, a flicker of a smile tugging at his lips before it disappeared. “You should get goin’,” he said after a pause. “Road’s pretty empty once it gets dark.”

She nodded, grateful. “Right. Thanks again.”

He gave a short nod before turning to his truck. She lingered for a moment, watching as he climbed into the cab and started the engine, before finally slipping into her car and pulling back onto the road.

He gave her a brief nod, turning to his truck without saying another word. She stood there for a moment, watching him go, before climbing into her car.

Bucky climbed into his truck, shutting the door with a quiet click. As the engine rumbled to life, his thumbs tapped idly on the steering wheel, his mind drifting. So, she was the woman moving into the old blue house, the one the old ladies in town had been gossiping about lately.

“Fresh face,” they’d said, curious and speculative. The kind of talk he usually tuned out, but now he could picture her, standing on the side of the road with that friendly smile.

His jaw tightened as he glanced in the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of her car pulling back onto the road. Attractive, sure, but that wasn’t his business. He wasn’t in the habit of noticing things like that anymore, or at least, he tried not to.

Shaking his head slightly, he put the truck in gear and pulled back onto the road.

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

She reached the house in the late afternoon, the golden light of the setting sun painting the wooden structure in warm tones. From a distance, it looked charming, but as she got closer, the years of neglect became more apparent. A shutter hung by a single hinge, swinging slightly in the breeze, and the porch sagged in the middle, its boards warped and cracked.

It didn’t seem unlivable, though, and for that, she was grateful. The windows were intact, the roof looked solid, and the front door swung open without resistance when she unlocked it. She stepped inside, wrinkling her nose at the stale smell of a house left empty for too long. Dust coated the floors and every surface in sight, but nothing that a good cleaning wouldn’t fix.

Walking through the rooms, she made a mental list of things that needed attention. The walls could use fresh paint, the porch would definitely need repairs before it became a hazard, and a few wobbly cabinet doors in the kitchen caught her eye. It was all manageable.

By the time she returned to the living room, she realized the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the house in shadows. She flipped the light switch by the door, but nothing happened. A quick check of the other switches confirmed her suspicion, there wasn’t a single light bulb in the entire property.

“Figures,” she muttered, setting her hands on her hips. Luckily, she’d packed a portable lamp. Its soft glow filled the room as she set it on the floor and unrolled her sleeping bag in the corner, where the old sofa used to sit.

Dinner was a simple affair: a cup of instant noodles and a bottle of water, eaten cross-legged on the floor. She was too tired to think about anything elaborate, and the stillness of the house was oddly comforting after the chaos of the city.

Her thoughts drifted back to the day’s events, replaying the encounter on the road. Bucky’s face flickered in her mind, those piercing blue eyes, the way his long, dark hair framed his sharp features, the slight rasp to his voice when he’d asked if she was okay. She bit her lip, and the memory of the way he’d effortlessly changed the tire brought a faint smile to her lips as her eyelids grew heavy. The moving truck will arrive by morning, and with better lighting, she’ll assess the house and start making it livable. Ideally, she would have cleaned beforehand, but the moving company only had that date available, so she didn’t have much choice.

----------

Right at 8 o’clock sharp, the rumble of the moving truck echoed down the quiet street. She stepped outside, greeting the movers and directing them where to place the furniture. It didn’t take long to realize the porch’s sagging boards were going to be a problem. One mover nearly put his foot through a weakened plank, and after a few close calls, they opted to bring in as much as possible through the windows.

After tipping the movers and seeing them off, she grabbed her bag and headed into town. The general store was easy to find, nestled on the main street between a bakery and a small diner. The scent of freshly baked bread lingered in the air as she pushed open the store’s creaky door, the tiny bell overhead jingling.

Inside, the aisles were narrow and well-stocked, offering everything from cleaning supplies to locally-made jams. She grabbed a basket and began filling it with essentials: sponges, dish soap, floor cleaner, and a few staples for the pantry.

At the checkout line, she felt the weight of a few curious stares. Small towns were like that, everyone wanted to know who the newcomer was. A man in line behind her gave her a polite nod, and a couple of women nearby exchanged whispers before one of them, an older lady with a kind smile, stepped forward.

“Moving into the old blue house on Maple, aren’t you?” the woman asked, her voice warm and curious.

She blinked, surprised but not entirely caught off guard. “That’s right,” she said, returning the smile. “Spent summers there as a kid. It’s been a while, though.”

“Well, welcome back,” the woman said, clasping her hands. “I’m Dorothy. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Actually…” she hesitated, seizing the moment. “The house needs a bit of work, especially the porch. Do you know a good carpenter?”

Dorothy’s face lit up. “Sam Wilson’s the man you’re looking for. Runs a workshop just outside town. He’s dependable and does fine work. I’ll jot down his address for you.”

After paying for her items, she loaded everything into the car and headed toward the workshop. The drive was short, and soon she spotted a neatly painted sign that read Wilson Woodworks. The building was modest but well-kept, with stacks of lumber and partially finished projects visible through the open garage door.

Grabbing her notepad and pen, she stepped out of the car, hoping Sam would be able to help bring her grandmother’s house back to life.

The workshop smelled of sawdust and varnish, the soft hum of a saw cutting through wood filling the air. She peered curiously through the open entry, her gaze scanning the neatly organized chaos: tools hanging on pegboards, wood shavings scattered across the floor, and a workbench cluttered with projects in progress. Near the center of the space stood a man in a faded gray t-shirt and jeans, his sleeves rolled up to reveal toned arms. His easy smile and confident posture immediately struck her as someone who knew his craft.

“Sam Wilson?” she asked, stepping further inside.

The man turned, his grin widening. “That’s me,” he replied warmly. “What can I do for you?”

“Hi. I’m Y/n. I just moved into town, to the old blue house on Maple Street. The porch is in pretty bad shape, and I was told you’re the one to call.”

Sam gave an approving nod, wiping his hands on a nearby rag. “Maple Street, huh? Yeah, I’ve worked on a couple of those houses. They’ve got good bones but can be stubborn. I’d have to take a look before I can give you a plan.”

“Of course,” she said, relieved. “When do you think you’d be able to-”

Before she could finish, a gruff voice interrupted from the back of the shop. “Sam, I told you that damn hinge on the-”

Bucky appeared, stepping out from what looked like a storage area, drying his hands on a towel. His words faltered the moment he spotted her, his blue eyes locking onto hers in surprise. He froze for a moment, the towel still in his hand, before nodding stiffly.

“Hey,” he said, with a cautious tone.

She offered him a small, friendly smile. “Hello again.”

Sam’s gaze darted between the two of them, a knowing grin spreading across his face like a Cheshire cat. “Well, well,” he drawled. “You two already know each other so soon?”

Bucky shot him a look -half warning, half exasperation- but Sam’s grin only widened.

“We met yesterday,” she explained, glancing between them. “Bucky helped me with a flat tire.”

“Did he now?” Sam leaned back against the workbench, crossing his arms. “Man of many talents, huh, Buck?”

Bucky muttered something under his breath, his ears turning slightly red as he turned away to busy himself with a random piece of wood.

Sam laughed, clearly enjoying himself. “Don’t let him fool you,” he said to her, his tone light. “He’s a softie under all that brooding.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied, unable to suppress a smile.

Bucky’s muttering grew quieter as he moved further into the workshop, but Sam wasn’t done. “You’re in luck, though,” he said to her, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I think you’re gonna give his wood a good use.”

She let out a small laugh, not entirely sure why but unwilling to seem rude. “Well, I’ll do my best,” she said with a shrug, hoping that was the right response.

The sound of tools crashing followed by a sharp, muttered curse that carried through the workshop interrupted the exchange, and she turned toward the source. “Is he okay?”

Sam smirked, his tone teasing as he said, “Oh, he’s just fine. Just gets a little... tense when his work’s involved. My friend here is one of my suppliers. Keeps me stocked up on the best lumber in town.”

“Oh, I see,” she replied, her gaze briefly flicking toward where Bucky had disappeared. Inwardly, she couldn’t help but think that his... thick build seemed to match with the work lumber suppliers did. “So, should we arrange a time for you to come by and look at the porch?” she asked, mentally slapping herself and steering the conversation back on track.

Sam grinned, leaning casually against the counter. “Tomorrow works for you? Say mid-morning?”

“That sounds great,” she agreed, already mentally listing what she might need to tidy up before his visit.

As her car disappeared down the road, Bucky emerged from the back of the workshop, his steps deliberate and brooding as he approached Sam.

“What was that?” he asked, his voice low but edged with irritation.

Sam raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence as he crossed his arms. “What was what?”

“You know what,” Bucky growled, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t.”

Sam held up his hands, his expression mock-innocent. “Don’t what? You’re projecting, man. She’s just a new neighbor who needs some help with her porch. That’s all.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, his voice dropping even lower. “Whatever your bird brain is planning on doing, don’t. I’m not... Just stay out of my business.”

Sam gave him a sidelong look, clearly unimpressed by Bucky’s gruff warning. “You think too highly of yourself, Barnes,” he said with a smirk. “I’m just trying to help the lady out, same as you did.”

The logger threw one last dirty glance at Sam, muttering under his breath. “Next cargo’s in four days,” he grumbled, already heading for the door.

Sam’s amused chuckle followed him, but Bucky ignored it, his boots hitting the workshop floor with heavy steps.

As he reached the truck, a sharp twinge in his left arm made him curse softly. He grabbed it, flexing his fingers out of habit, then glanced up at the sky. It was streaked with soft clouds, their innocent appearance at odds with what he felt brewing in the air.

A storm was coming.

It wasn’t something anyone could see yet, but Bucky didn’t need a weather report. Since his arm had been crushed in Afghanistan, leaving him with orthopedic implants and lingering aches, he could always tell when the pressure was about to shift.

He flexed his arm again, rolling his shoulder to ease the discomfort. The storm would hit soon, inside and out.

Sliding into the truck, he decided to stop by the general store on the way home. He needed a bottle of scotch. Maybe two.

It was shaping up to be one of those nights.

When she got back to the house, she dropped the bags on the kitchen counter and let out a sigh. She glanced around at the dim, dusty space and resolved to tackle it head-on. After eating a quick sandwich, she got to work.

The first task was the lightbulbs, all of them. Room by room, she placed them, swearing quietly each time she had to stretch on tiptoe or drag a chair around. Next came the cleaning. By the time she was almost finished, it was late afternoon. She stood in the middle of the living room, exhausted and sweaty, a few stubborn cobwebs clinging to her sleeves. She pushed her hair off her forehead and noticed, through the newly cleaned windows, the unmistakable sight of grey clouds gathering on the horizon.

“Great,” she muttered, dragging the vacuum to a corner. She glanced up at the ceiling, half expecting to see a stain forming already. “Please, no leaks. Just this once, let me have some luck.” The wind outside began to pick up, rattling the loose shutter on the porch. She grimaced. The house might not be falling apart, but it wasn’t going to win any awards for weatherproofing either.

She pulled the last bag of cleaning supplies toward her, determined to finish what she could before the storm hit.

The rhythmic patter of rain on the roof accompanied her as she sat at the small kitchen table, nursing a simple dinner. Her arms ached pleasantly from the day’s cleaning spree, her newly functional lightbulbs casting a warm glow over the room. Despite the state of the house when she’d arrived, it felt more like a home now, or at least the beginning of one.

The rain grew heavier, drumming steadily against the windows as she finished eating and washed her dishes. With a satisfied sigh, she headed for the bathroom. The steamy warmth of the shower was a welcome reprieve, washing away the grime and fatigue of the day. She closed her eyes as the water cascaded down, her mind meandering to the list of things she still needed to tackle.

The porch needs fixing first. Maybe some paint for the walls. And that loose shutter... her lips curled into a soft, almost dreamy smile as her thoughts drifted to Bucky. She bit her lip, suppressing a laugh at herself. It had been a while since she’d had anyone to daydream about, and maybe it was just her exhaustion playing tricks on her. Clearly, she needed a break from all these romance novels. The irony wasn’t lost on her, spending her days proofreading swooning declarations and lingering glances wasn’t helping her sanity.

On the other side of town, the rain was more than just a backdrop for Bucky, it was a trigger, a reminder. He sat on the kitchen floor, his back pressed against the counter, cradling a bottle of scotch in one hand and absently flexing the fingers of his left arm with the other. The pain in his left arm wasn’t unbearable -he’d had worse- but the weather had settled into his bones.

One would think Afghanistan’s climate rarely saw rain, but he knew better. In the northern regions, heavy rains could flood entire valleys in minutes, turning the ground into treacherous mud. It wasn’t just the water he remembered, but the chaos it brought. Mud-caked boots slipping on uneven terrain. The deafening crack of gunfire cutting through the downpour. The screams of comrades who’d never make it out of the storm, swallowed by water and bullets alike.

He closed his eyes tightly, forcing the memories away, but the rain’s steady rhythm seemed determined to drag him back. He took a long swig from the bottle, the burn of the alcohol a poor distraction for his haunted mind.

And then, unbidden, he thought of her.

The way she’d smiled at him earlier today at Sam’s workshop. Like she was genuinely glad to see him. He shook his head sharply, scowling at himself. He didn’t deserve to think about her. Didn’t deserve to let himself linger on the way she’d looked at him with curiosity instead of judgment. He was a broken-down man who knew better than to let anyone get close. The rain’s rhythm matched the pounding in his head, and he rubbed his temple with a quiet groan. Thinking about her was a mistake, one he couldn’t afford to make.

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

The low hum of a truck pulling up broke the peaceful morning. She peeked out the window, spotting Sam hopping out with a clipboard in hand, a tape measure clipped to his belt. His easy smile greeted her as she opened the door.

“Morning,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat. “Ready to figure out what your little slice of heaven here needs?”

She chuckled, stepping aside to let him in. “Let’s call it a fixer-upper and go from there.”

Sam gave a low whistle as he stepped onto the sagging porch. “First thing’s first, this baby needs a lot of love. I’m surprised it’s holding up at all.” He tapped one of the warped boards with his boot, and it creaked ominously.

“Well, that’s why you’re here,” she replied lightly, crossing her arms.

They walked the perimeter of the house as Sam scribbled notes on his clipboard, occasionally pausing to point out things that needed attention, a loose shutter here, a weathered doorframe there. He climbed the porch steps again, shaking his head. “You’re lucky nothing major’s out of whack, though this porch... Yeah, we’ll start here.”

She nodded, leaning against the railing -carefully-. “Sounds good. So, what’s next?”

Sam grinned, snapping the clipboard shut. “Now comes the fun part, asking nosy questions while I figure out how to turn this place into a proper home. Where’d you move from?”

“City,” she said, her gaze flicking to the overgrown yard. “Needed a change. Too much noise, too many people.”

He nodded like he understood perfectly. “Yeah, city life can wear you down. And what do you do for work? So that I know if I ever need something specific.”

“I’m a proofreader,” she replied. “Not exactly glamorous, but it lets me work from anywhere.”

He chuckled. “Sounds pretty glamorous to me. Living the dream: working in pajamas, no one to bother you.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Not quite. Deadlines don’t care if you’re in pajamas.”

“Fair point,” Sam said, scribbling something on his clipboard. He glanced at her casually. “Anyone special missing you back in the city?”

Her brow furrowed slightly, caught off guard. “Uh, no. Why?”

“No reason,” he said with an exaggerated shrug, flashing his most innocent grin. “We small-town folks are just naturally curious.” Satisfied, he tucked the clipboard under his arm. “Well,” he said, turning on the charm, “I’ll put together a plan for the porch and those other fixes we talked about. Shouldn’t take long.”

“Thanks, Sam,” she said, smiling warmly.

He tipped his imaginary hat again. “Happy to help.” As he walked back to his truck, he patted the clipboard storing every little detail she’d just shared. Oh, he’d have fun with this later.

Over the next few days, she found herself settling deeper into the rhythm of small-town life. Locals stopped to chat whenever she ran errands, and she was finally starting to remember their names. The house was slowly transforming under her care, each repair bringing it closer to what she remembered from her childhood summers.

And then there was Bucky. He was a puzzle she hadn’t figured out yet. Quiet and guarded one moment, then unexpectedly kind the next. Their paths seemed to cross more often now. It wasn’t intentional, but each encounter left her feeling like she’d peeled back another layer of his carefully constructed wall.

The first time it happened, she was in the general store, arms full of cleaning supplies and pantry staples, along with a guilty indulgence or two. As she stepped into the checkout line, she spotted him just ahead of her with a modest basket of items, his broad shoulders blocking most of her view of the cashier.

As she shuffled forward, her eyes drifted to his basket. Among the practical items -bread, coffee, and what looked like a pack of nails- sat a brightly colored box of dinosaur-shaped mac and cheese.

She couldn’t help herself. “Didn’t peg you for the novelty pasta type.” She quipped lightly, a teasing smile curling her lips.

Bucky turned his head sharply, caught off guard. He glanced at the box, then back at her, a faint pink tinting his cheeks, as he muttered “They’re easy. And cheap.”

The combination of his flustered tone and stoic expression made her grin. “Hey, no judgment. Dinosaurs are awesome. I’d pick those over plain elbows any day.”

His lips twitched, just slightly, but enough to count. “You’ve got good taste,” he said, the faintest trace of a smirk softening his features.

The cashier rang up his items, and he moved through quickly, nodding politely as he passed her. But as she finished paying and struggled to balance her bags, she found him lingering outside near his truck.

“Need a hand?” he asked gruffly, though he was already moving toward her.

She hesitated for a moment before relenting. “If you don’t mind.”

Without a word, he scooped up the heaviest bags as if they weighed nothing. She blinked at the sight, muscles flexing under his worn henley.

“Thanks,” she said, slightly breathless, trying to keep up as he strode to her car.

“Welcome,” he said simply, setting the bags in her trunk with ease. His gaze flicked to her briefly, and he almost looked like he wanted to say more. Instead, he just gave a curt nod and walked back to his truck.

It was only a few days later when they ran into each other again, this time at the post office. She had just picked up a package that was almost comically large, far too awkward for one person to handle easily. Balancing it against her hip, she tried to maneuver her way out of the building without dropping it, muttering a steady stream of curses under her breath.

Just as the box tilted precariously, a hand appeared to steady it, large and sure.

“Careful,” came the familiar low drawl.

She blinked, startled, and looked up into a pair of blue eyes she was starting to recognize all too well. “Thanks,” she said, exhaling in relief. “Starting to think you have impeccable timing.”

His lips twitched, that almost-smile she was beginning to appreciate flickering across his face. “Just passing through.” He replied, shifting his grip on the package and effortlessly hoisting it up, carrying it like it weighed nothing at all.

“Oh, you don’t have to-”

“It’s fine,” he stated simply, his tone leaving no room for argument. He glanced at her car and walked toward it.

She trailed behind him as he easily strode with the package. By the time she unlocked the trunk, he deposited the box neatly inside, brushing his hands off quickly.

“Thanks,” she said again, feeling a little useless but sincerely grateful.

“It’s nothin’,” he replied, already stepping back. His eyes lingered on her for a second longer than usual before he turned toward his truck, parked a few spaces down.

She watched him go, following the deliberate, measured way he moved. Just as he reached his door, she called out impulsively, “I owe you one, you know.”

He paused, glancing back at her with a quirk of his brow. “I’ll hold you to it,” he said, the hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth. And then he was gone, leaving her with a warm, unexpected feeling she carried all the way home.

The days that followed were quiet but productive. Between finishing work assignments, and tinkering with small projects around the house, she hardly noticed how much time she spent indoors until her eyes began to ache from staring at her laptop screen for hours on end.

One crisp morning, the allure of fresh air proved too strong to resist. She decided to take a walk in the woods, craving a change of scenery. It had been years since the last time she’d wandered those familiar paths, but she still remembered some of the trails from her childhood summers.

As she wandered along the narrow dirt trail, the sunlight filtering through the canopy in golden shafts painted the forest in a warm, serene glow. She hadn’t expected to encounter anyone out here, but the steady, rhythmic thwack of an axe meeting wood broke through the quiet, catching her attention.

Curiosity stirred, and before she could think better of it, she found herself following the sound, her footsteps light on the soft earth.

There he was, in a small clearing just off the trail, splitting logs with effortless precision. Bucky’s axe swung high before coming down in a clean arc, the sharp crack of splitting wood breaking the stillness. A neat pile of firewood grew beside him, while fresh rounds waited in a haphazard stack.

He hadn’t noticed her yet, too focused on his work, and she found herself lingering longer than she should have, watching the way his muscles moved beneath his shirt and how his hair stuck to his forehead.

When he finally glanced up and spotted her, her stomach flipped. His brows knit together in mild surprise, and he straightened, propping the axe against a nearby stump.

“You lost?” he asked, with a low and even voice, though his tone wasn’t unkind.

She stepped closer, shaking her head. “No, just wandering. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t,” he said, grabbing a rag from the pile and wiping his hands. His gaze lingered on her for a moment, like he was trying to piece together why she was there. “Trail gets tricky up ahead. Lots of roots and uneven ground.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied, glancing around the clearing. “This your spot?”

He nodded once. “Helps to stay busy.”

She looked at the pile of wood, then back at him. “Looks like more than just ‘staying busy.’”

A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “Winters here are rough.”

There was a pause, not quite awkward, but heavy. She shifted her weight, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, it’s impressive. I mean, you make it look easy.”

“It’s not,” he said simply, picking up the axe again. “But you get used to it.”

She lingered, unsure if she should say more or let him get back to work. He tilted his head slightly, watching her with a curious expression.

“You like the woods?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” she said, smiling softly. “It’s peaceful out here. Different from the city.”

His gaze flicked back to the axe in his hand. “It is.” There was a weight to his words, hinting at something deeper than just the stillness of the woods, but she chose not to push.

“Well, I’ll let you get back to it,” she said finally, offering him a polite nod.

“Careful on the trail,” he said again, his voice softer this time.

As she turned to leave, she couldn’t resist glancing back over her shoulder. He was already back to work, the axe slicing clean through another log. She bit her lip, shaking her head at herself as she continued down the trail.

He sighed. Winters are rough? That was the polite answer, the one people accepted without a second glance. The truth was darker, heavier. Every time the weight of old memories clawed at him -screams, chaos, the suffocating fear that came into walking a dark tunnel that could bury him alive- he found his solace in the rhythmic swing of an axe. Splitting firewood was his refuge, the repetitive motion carving out a rare emptiness in his mind.

He kept chopping, waiting until he was sure she wouldn’t glance back again. Then, he let himself linger, his eyes following her retreating form.

He was interested.

Shit.

Sam hadn’t been helping either, dropping “innocent” tidbits about her, like breadcrumbs, every time they crossed paths. How she worked from home. How she wasn’t seeing anyone. How she seemed to be settling in, though she was still getting used to small-town life. Bucky could tell Sam was trying to nudge him, but it only stirred something conflicted in him.

On one hand, he was drawn to her, from her curves to the way she smiled, also, the way her voice provoked a warmth in him he hadn’t felt in years. On the other hand, the thought of pursuing something -anything- good for himself felt... wrong. Like he didn’t deserve it.

And then there was the matter of simply not knowing how.

He was out of shape when it came to people. Always had been, even before life turned upside down. Now, with scars inside and out, the idea of approaching her felt like staring down at a puzzle he didn’t have the pieces for.

What would he even say? What would she think if she knew the mess he was?

Bucky swung the axe harder, the sharp crack of the log splitting echoing through the clearing. He flexed his fingers and tightened his jaw.

For now, all he could do was chop and hope the noise drowned out the voice in his head whispering that he wasn’t enough.

Over the next couple of months, the little town started to feel less like a temporary retreat and more like a place she could call home. The older women gushed over her porch restoration project and eagerly shared gardening tips, while the crowd closer to her age welcomed her into their fold with invitations for coffee dates or potluck dinners.

And then there was Bucky.

Though technically part of that age group, he was absent from most social gatherings. She couldn’t picture him at a potluck, anyway, sitting around sharing recipes or small talk. It just wasn’t him. Yet, in his own quiet way, he’d become more present in her life.

Bit by bit, he seemed to uncoil from whatever tension held him so tightly. He started to linger longer during their chance encounters, sometimes surprising them both with a dry, unexpected joke. Other times, he’d pitch in with simple acts of kindness, like carrying eventually heavy stuff to her car, or even fixing the wobbly step on her porch when Sam got busier and asked him to do it. He could have said no, but he still came, quietly getting the job done without any fanfare.

-----------

Then, the announcement of the annual town festival brought a new wave of excitement. It was the event of the season, where everyone came together to celebrate the town's founding. Without much hesitation, she signed up to contribute, deciding to sell pies and baked goods. Not only was it a way to contribute to the celebration, but it was also a chance to make a little extra income for the ongoing repairs to the house. The porch was done, but there was still plenty of work to do: fresh paint, creaky floorboards, and other little fixes that added up.

So, she rolled up her sleeves and got to work. The week leading up to the festival was a whirlwind of flour-dusted counters and the comforting aroma of cinnamon and vanilla. She tested each recipe to make sure they were just like her grandmother used to make.

The excitement of the upcoming festival settled over the town, and she felt like she was becoming part of something bigger, a tradition, a community.

Meanwhile, word had spread that she was setting up a booth to sell her pies. Sam, always the one to keep an ear to the ground, couldn't help but tease Bucky one morning while they were working on a new batch of supplies for the festival booths. They were building the structure for several of the vendors, and Bucky had come by to help with the heavier lifting, always lending a hand when needed.

“She’s doing a booth, huh?” Sam asked with a knowing grin as he hammered in a final nail. “Maybe you should swing by, get yourself a little sugar, hm?”

Bucky’s response was as sharp as ever. “Shut up, Wilson,” he grumbled, his eyes narrowing as he worked, but Sam could see the way his shoulders stiffened, the way he held himself a little straighter.

He stayed silent for a beat, focusing on the sturdy plank of wood he was planing down. The rhythmic scrape of the tool seemed to be the only thing keeping him calm. Sam, however, was never one to let a good opportunity slip by.

“I’m just saying,” Sam pressed on, leaning casually against the workbench, “she’s single, she’s sweet, and she seems to like you.” He smirked, his tone teetering on playful. “You could, y’know, take a shot. Maybe buy a pie while you’re at it. You can’t live on just dino-shaped mac and cheese.”

Bucky huffed a humorless laugh, setting the plane down with a bit more force than intended. “And what would I even say to her, huh? ‘Hi, I’m good at chopping wood and screwing things up.’ That’s a real winner.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, undeterred. “You don’t have to lead with the self-deprecating monologue, man. Just... be you. You’re a good guy, Buck, even if you refuse to see it.” He straightened, resting a hand on his hip. “And she’s clearly got some interest. Not every woman looks at a guy like he’s the only steady thing in a storm.”

Bucky shot him a sharp look, the tips of his ears unmistakably pink. “She doesn’t-“

“Oh, she does,” Sam interrupted with a grin that widened at Bucky’s growing discomfort. “And you’d see it too if you didn’t spend so much time convincing yourself you’re not worth her attention.”

For a long moment, Bucky said nothing, his jaw tightening as he flexed his left hand, a tell Sam recognized far too well. Finally, he sighed, leaning his weight on the workbench. “It’s not that simple.”

“It never is,” Sam agreed, his tone softening. “But you don’t have to figure it all out today. Start small. Talk to her at the festival. Buy a pie. Hell, buy the whole booth if you have to.” He clapped Bucky on the shoulder, eliciting a grunt. “Just don’t let this pass you by.”

----------

The day of the festival arrived, and the town square buzzed with life. Booths lined the streets, each one bursting with local goods: handmade crafts, fresh produce, and jars of preserves. Children darted through the crowds, their faces painted like butterflies or superheroes, their laughter weaving through the cheerful hum of a local band playing in the distance.

Her booth stood out in its simplicity, decorated with gingham tablecloths and jars of freshly picked flowers from her garden. The pies were the centerpiece, their golden crusts glistening in the sunlight, flanked by trays of cookies and jars of homemade jam.

She adjusted the sign that read “Baked Goods – From Granny’s Recipe Box” and stepped back, taking a deep breath to steady herself.

The day unfolded in a whirlwind of chatter and laughter. Her booth was busier than she’d dared to hope, a steady stream of customers stopping to sample the pies or chat about the sign. Compliments came easily from the townsfolk, praising her buttery crusts and spiced fillings. Each kind word felt like a little victory, her heart swelling with the realization that she was becoming a part of the community.

The sun climbed higher into the sky, casting warm golden light over the bustling festival. Her booth remained busy, the stream of smiling faces keeping her occupied and distracted, though not enough to stop her from glancing through the crowd now and then.

By mid-afternoon, Sam strolled up, hands in his pockets and an easy grin on his face. "Well, well. Look at you, baking queen," he teased.

She laughed, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face. “Hardly. But I’ll take it. Want a slice?”

Sam leaned on the edge of the booth, scanning the offerings. “Tempting, but I might be here on more of a reconnaissance mission.”

Her brow lifted. “What kind of mission?”

“You know, checking in, seeing how you're doing, and maybe scouting for a certain broody lumberjack.” He winked, and she rolled her eyes with a chuckle.

“Let me guess, he sent you to grab a pie?” she joked, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Bucky? Nah.” Sam’s grin dimmed slightly, and he gave a small shrug. “Didn’t see him around earlier. Honestly, he might not even show. Festivals aren’t really his thing.”

She tried to keep the disappointment off her face, focusing instead on adjusting a jar of jam on the table. Sam caught the subtle shift in her expression, his teasing smile softening.

“He’s around,” Sam said casually, leaning an elbow on the edge of the booth. “Bucky’s just… not much of a crowd guy. Give him time.”

Her fingers paused on the jar, but she didn’t look up. “I wasn’t-”

“Sure you weren’t,” Sam interrupted with a knowing grin. “But I wouldn’t hold it against him. People aren’t really his thing. Except, maybe, certain people.”

She rolled her eyes, her lips curving into a small smile despite herself. “And you’re just full of insight, aren’t you?”

“Hey, I’m just observin’.” He straightened up, grabbing a cookie from the tray. “And I’ll take one of these for the road. Festival’s not complete without snacks.”

She shook her head, amused as Sam strolled off, leaving her alone to greet the next customer.

The hours passed in a blur of chatter and sales, the sun dipping lower in the sky. She’d almost stopped scanning the square for him when, late in the afternoon, a familiar figure emerged.

Bucky walked slowly, his hands buried deep in his jacket pockets, his gaze flicking over the booths like he wasn’t sure where to go. Then he spotted her. His shoulders straightened, and their eyes met across the square. For a moment, neither moved. Then, with an almost sheepish hesitation, he started toward her.

Each step closer felt like a mistake, and yet he didn’t stop. His eyes took in the sight of her booth, tidy and charming, and then her. She wore a casual dress under a cardigan, and a frilly apron tied neatly around her waist, the image of a vintage housewife. The dress fit snugly at her chest, the fabric pulling slightly when she moved to rearrange something on the table. It wasn’t anything overly revealing, but it didn’t matter; all of the visual information seemed to bypass his brain entirely and head directly to the south. He swallowed hard, trying to redirect his focus before he embarrassed himself.

“Hey,” he said when he reached the booth, his voice a little softer than he intended. He scratched the back of his neck, glancing briefly at the display of pies and jars before forcing himself to meet her eyes.

“Hi,” she replied, her face lighting up in a way that made the whole awkward journey worth it.

“I, uh... thought I’d stop by,” he continued, the words fumbling slightly as he fought the urge to retreat. “Looks like business is good.” He gestured vaguely at the booth, trying to seem casual, though his pulse was anything but.

“It’s been steady,” she said, her smile warm. “I wasn’t sure if you’d make it.”

Her words made him hesitate, but only briefly. He nodded toward the pies, his lips twitching into what might have been the beginnings of a smile. “Figured I’d see what all the fuss is about.”

“And?” she asked, a playful glint in her eye. “Are you finding the fuss justified?”

He looked at her then, his gaze lingering in a way that made her shift her weight slightly. His lips quirked into the faintest smirk. “Seen a few tempting products,” he said, his voice low, almost teasing.

Was that... a double meaning? She wasn’t sure, but the way her stomach flipped at his tone left her biting her lip to suppress a smile.

“Well,” she said, leaning slightly against the booth, “what might you be interested in, then?”

“Got any plum jam?” he asked after a moment, his eyes scanning the jars displayed on the table.

She winced apologetically. “Sorry, sold out this morning. It’s a popular one.”

He gave a small nod, not seeming too put out. “Guess I’ll settle for a slice of apple pie, then.”

“You won’t regret it,” she said, quickly cutting a generous slice and placing it in a little paper dish. As she handed it to him, their fingers brushed briefly, a small, electric jolt of contact that she tried not to overthink.

“Thanks,” he murmured, his gaze flickering back to hers for a split second before focusing intently on the pie. He took a bite, and the deep, guttural groan that escaped him had her blinking in surprise, and then staring at him, very much not with pure thoughts.

Her gaze dropped helplessly to his mouth, where a small dollop of apple mush clung stubbornly to the corner of his lips. Oh, how she’d love to help him clean that up, maybe even by lapping it up herself. The thought had her throat going dry. “Uh, you have... there,” she managed, signaling to her own mouth because words failed her entirely.

He frowned slightly, his thumb swiping at his lips. When he missed, she gave a quick, stifled laugh, shaking her head and pointing more precisely. His next attempt was successful, and when he scooped the apple filling with his thumb and licked it clean off, her breath caught.

That should be illegal.

“Damn,” he said, glancing down at the pie with newfound respect. “Guess you can marry now.”

She blinked, startled. “What?”

His ears reddened as he fumbled for an explanation, suddenly realizing how strange that sounded. “Uh... my ma used to say... I mean, like, if a woman could cook well, she’d be ready for marriage, or something… uh, forget it.” He waved a hand, suddenly looking like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

“Oh no,” she said, crossing her arms and quirking a brow, her lips twitching in amusement. “Now I really want to know what your ma used to say.”

“My ma used to say,” he admitted reluctantly, “a woman who can bake a pie like this could keep a man happy for life.”

As the words left his mouth, he realized -really realized- what he’d just said. Bringing up marriage, even indirectly, in what was supposed to be casual conversation? A new low, even for him. His inward grimace was immediate, a mortifying mix of regret and disbelief at his own lack of subtlety.

She blinked at him, her head tilting slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. “Well,” she said slowly, the edge of her lip quirking up, “Bet she was the kind of person who made everyone feel at home.”

He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, she... she was something.” Hoping to steer the moment away from the awkward territory he’d stumbled into, he gestured vaguely to the booth. “Anyway, uh... pie’s great. Really.”

“Thanks, Bucky. I’m glad you like it. It’s one of my granny’s best recipes.” She smiled warmly

He nodded, his lips twitching into something close to a smile. “She taught you well.”

That earned a soft laugh from her. “Yeah, she’d make me practice until I got it just right. Burned a lot of pies before this one.”

The conversation lingered as they eased into a rhythm, the earlier tension giving way to something more relaxed. She asked about his work, curious about how he supplied Sam with lumber, and he surprised her by sharing a bit more than usual talking about the care it took to choose the right trees and how the process wasn’t just chopping wood but understanding the forest itself.

“You make it sound like an art,” she said, tilting her head thoughtfully.

“Guess it kinda is,” he admitted. “You’ve gotta respect it. If you don’t, it shows in the work.”

Before she could respond, a familiar voice interrupted, cutting through their moment like a buzz saw.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to show up!”

Sam’s broad grin was radiant as he strolled up to the booth, hands tucked casually into his pockets.

Bucky groaned softly, his shoulders slumping a fraction as if bracing himself for whatever teasing was about to come. “What do you want, Sam?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Sam said breezily, his eyes darting between the two of them. “Just thought I’d check in, maybe grab some pie, see what’s happening over here.” He smirked. “Looks like I picked the right booth.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her amusement. “Careful, Sam. You’re gonna run me out of inventory if you keep showing up.”

Sam leaned on the counter, grinning. “Don’t worry, I’m here only to make sure Bucky doesn’t scare off your customers with his broody face.”

Bucky shot him a glare, but Sam only shrugged, completely unfazed.

“Actually, Buck, some of the people are starting to pack up. We should get a head start on breaking down everything so tomorrow’s not such a hassle,” Sam continued, his tone shifting to business mode. “Don’t give me that look, I'm not the one who strolled in here right before closing time.”

Bucky sighed but didn’t argue. “Right, right,” he muttered but didn’t seem eager to leave just yet.

She chuckled softly at their dynamic, watching as Sam started to organize a few things, seemingly trying to speed up the process of wrapping up.  “Well then, I’ll just get the last of these pies packed up.” she said, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll make it a little easier on yourself if you let us take a couple of those home,” Sam said with a grin, his eyes scanning the remaining trays. “For later, of course. Can’t let all this deliciousness go to waste.”

Bucky didn’t respond right away, but his gaze lingered on the last few slices, making it clear he wasn’t about to pass up on some baked goods.

“Yeah, well, I suppose you’re right,” she said, laughing. “Guess you both deserve some for your hard work on the structures.”

“I’m not gonna argue with that,” Sam said, grinning as he reached for the remaining slices of pie. “Besides,” he said, gesturing toward Bucky, “look at him. He must be starving. You don’t know the amount of food it takes to keep all that going.”

Bucky froze mid-chew, his fork hovering just above the plate, and gave Sam a pointed look, equal parts exasperation and disbelief. “Seriously?”

“What?” Sam shrugged innocently, though his smirk said otherwise. “It’s true. You’re always munching on something. Remember last week? Three sandwiches in one sitting, and you still stole my fries.”

Bucky’s glare sharpened, but it only fueled Sam’s amusement. “You ate half my wings, Wilson,” Bucky said dryly, his tone low and unimpressed.

“Details,” Sam said with a wave of his hand, his grin not fading. “Point is, you’ve got the appetite of a bear coming out of hibernation. I’m just trying to make sure you don’t go hungry.”

She laughed as she placed the box of pies on the counter. “Well, I can’t have that on my conscience,” she teased. “Take as many slices as you need, Bucky. We’ll call it a public service.”

Bucky shifted on his feet, his gaze darting between her and the pies. The faintest flush crept up his neck as he mumbled, “Thanks,” and slid another slice of pie onto his plate. His eyes lingered on the cookies for a moment before he reached for one, his movements a little hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure how much was too much.

“You sure?” he asked, glancing up at her, his voice quieter now.

She smiled warmly, waving off his concern. “Positive. Consider it payment for all the heavy lifting.”

He huffed a low laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching up in what could almost be called a smile. “Appreciate it,” he said, his words rough but sincere.

Sam clapped him on the shoulder, almost making Bucky drop the cookie. “Alright, big guy, let’s get out of her way before you clean her out completely.

Bucky shot him a half-hearted glare but allowed Sam to steer him toward a cluster of tables nearby, his plate balanced carefully in one hand.

She watched them go, her lips curving into a smile as Sam said something that made Bucky shake his head in exasperation.

With a deep breath, she turned back to finish packing up, though her gaze flicked toward their working spot every now and then.

That night, she lay in bed, the exhaustion of the festival weighing her body down but leaving her mind buzzing. Every detail of the day replayed like a film reel, but one moment stood out above all: Bucky and his awkward, utterly endearing comment about marriage.

She groaned, burying her flushed face into her pillow like a teenager. Guess you can marry now. The memory of his hesitant, almost panicked attempt to explain himself made her toes curl, not in secondhand embarrassment but in something far warmer, more thrilling. And the way he’d looked at her as he said it... that fleeting vulnerability, his ears burning red. She shook her head, biting her lip against a smile.

An idea came to her mind while sipping her morning coffee, staring at the half-empty box of baked goods and preserves she hadn’t packed into the car the day before. She’d thought she was carrying too much, but now she saw what she’d left behind: two jars of plum jam. The very ones Bucky had wanted at the festival but hadn’t been able to get.

She turned one jar in her hand, smiling faintly. It wasn’t much, but it felt like the right thing to do, a small gesture to thank him for all the ways he’d helped her. A friendly token, nothing more. The thought made her nerves tingle anyway.

Shoving those thoughts aside, she packed the jars into her backpack, laced up her boots, and headed out. She made her way toward the spot where she’d found him last time, the rhythmic thwack of his axe cutting through wood still vivid in her memory. She tried not to feel disappointed when the clearing came into view and she didn’t see him right away, but then a faint rustling sound caught her attention.

Bucky was there, further back, crouched near a stack of neatly cut logs, inspecting a wedge that had splintered unevenly. He looked so at ease in his element, that she almost turned back. But then he shifted, his head tilting slightly as if he’d heard her approach.

“Hey,” she called, her voice lighter than intended.

He stood, turning to face her. His brow furrowed slightly in surprise, but it softened quickly. “Hey.”

“I, uh...” She adjusted her backpack strap, suddenly feeling awkward for tracking him down like this. “I had some leftovers from the festival, and I remembered you wanted plum jam. Turns out I had two jars I didn’t even bring.” She opened the backpack and pulled them out, offering them with a tentative smile. “Figured I’d bring them to you as a thank-you for all the times you’ve helped me out.”

Bucky stared at the jars, his expression unreadable at first, but then his lips tugged into the faintest hint of a smile. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” she said, shrugging lightly. “But I wanted to. It’s just jam, anyway.”

“Just jam,” he repeated, taking the jars from her hands, his fingers brushing hers briefly. He glanced at the labels, then back at her. “Thanks. Really.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, feeling breathless under his intense gaze. She stuffed her hands into her knitted jacket pockets, trying to play it cool. “Hope it’s as good as my pies.”

His lips twitched, that almost-smile appearing again. “Guess I’ll have to let you know.” For a moment, neither of them moved, then he cleared his throat, gesturing toward the logs behind him. “You walked all the way out here just for this?” he asked, slightly lifting his brow.

“Pretty much, yeah,” she admitted, her voice softening as a hint of shyness crept in. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, suddenly very aware of how much effort she’d put into this small gesture.

Bucky’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, “That’s... thoughtful of you.”

Her cheeks warmed under his quiet scrutiny, but she forced a casual shrug. “Well, I figured it beats letting them collect dust in my pantry.”

“Still,” he murmured, “thanks. Means a lot.”

“You’re welcome. I, uh...” She glanced at the jars in his hands, suddenly unsure of herself. “I won’t take more of your time. Just wanted to...” She gestured vaguely toward the jam, the movement almost bashful.

Bucky’s gaze softened, his grip tightening slightly around the jars. Before she could step away, he called after her, his voice rough yet almost hesitant. “Hey.”

She turned back, catching the flicker of something earnest in his expression.

“Thanks again,” he said simply, holding up the jars slightly.

Her smile softened, more genuine now. “Anytime.”

Bucky stood there for a long moment after she left, staring at the jars in his hands. The deep, rich purple of the jam glinted faintly in the sunlight filtering through the trees, but his mind wasn’t on the contents. It was on her. The way her voice had faltered, the slight hesitance in her movements when she handed them to him, like she wasn’t sure if he’d even want them.

Why the hell wouldn’t I? he thought bitterly, his jaw tightening. He shifted the jars to one hand, his free one dragging down his face. Damn it.

The easy confidence he used to have, -the kind that once let him charm anyone he wanted- was long gone, worn away by years of service that had left their mark on his body and mind. His scars, both visible and hidden, weren’t just marks; they were reminders of a life split into before and after. He set the jars carefully on a stump, picking up his axe again and turning back to the log he’d been working on.

The first swing came down harder than necessary, the wood splitting with a satisfying crack.

What if Sam was right? What if she really did like him? What the hell would he even do with that? He couldn’t imagine someone like her -a woman who baked pies for town festivals and brought plum jam out to the woods- being happy with someone like him. Someone who carried more baggage than he knew how to unpack.

The axe came down again, the sharp sound echoing through the clearing.

She deserved better than someone like him. Someone whole. Someone who didn’t wake up in cold sweats or flinch at loud noises. Someone who could stand in a crowd without feeling like the walls were closing in. He couldn’t even have a simple conversation without fumbling over his words like a damn teenager.

Another swing and the log finally gave way, splitting clean in two. He adjusted the pieces and started again, the rhythmic motion grounding him even as his thoughts spiraled.

And yet... there she was, walking through the woods just to give him something she thought he’d like. Her smile was genuine, her laugh soft, and for a moment, it had felt almost normal, like maybe he wasn’t the broken mess he’d convinced himself he was.

Don’t kid yourself.

The axe paused mid-air as his gaze flickered to the jars again. She wasn’t just being polite, was she? There had been something in her eyes, something he didn’t know how to name but felt keenly.

God, I used to be good at this, he thought, lowering the axe and resting his hands on the handle. Before everything went to hell, before the nightmares and the scars and the sense of being completely out of place in a world that had moved on without him, he’d known how to read people. Known how to charm them.

Now, he couldn’t even tell if the kindest gesture he’d received in years was just... friendliness.

Bucky exhaled slowly, his grip tightening on the axe. He had no answers, only doubts, and a feeling in his gut that maybe, just maybe, he was about to screw this up like he did everything else.

----------

The afternoon sunlight filtered through the living room curtains as she sat cross-legged on the couch, her laptop balanced on her knees. She rubbed her temples and glared at the screen, rereading the same sentence for what felt like the hundredth time. The latest manuscript she was proofreading was a Highlander romance, complete with a Marie Sue, a couple of brawny warriors, and more plaid than a fabric store. It wasn’t that she disliked the genre, but this one was so cliché-ridden it was almost impressive.

“And then his emerald eyes bore into hers, as if he could see the depths of her soul,” she read aloud, her tone dry. She let out a groan, rolling her eyes for what felt like the fiftieth time that day. “Of course he did.”

Still, it paid the bills. She took a sip of her now lukewarm tea and leaned back, debating whether to power through or take a break. That’s when a knock sounded at the door.

Her brows furrowed. Dorothy, the old lady he met at the general store, had mentioned bringing over some plant bulbs today, and it was her signature to show up unannounced. Closing the laptop with a sigh of relief at the distraction, she stood and padded to the door.

“Dorothy, you didn’t have to-” she began, opening the door with a welcoming smile, only to have the words die in her throat.

It wasn’t Dorothy.

Bucky stood there, one hand gripping a well-worn toolbox and the other shoved casually into the pocket of his jeans. The red henley he wore was snug enough to highlight the curve of his shoulders and the breadth of his chest, but not enough to look like he was trying. His hair was slightly mussed, as if the wind had tussled it just before he knocked, and the faintest hint of stubble shadowed his jaw.

For a second, neither of them spoke. She blinked, her surprise evident, while he cleared his throat and offered a small, almost sheepish nod.

“Hey,” he said, his deep voice tinged with a hint of hesitation. “I, uh... remembered you mentioned during the festival needing to fix a couple of roof tiles.” He lifted the toolbox slightly as if to emphasize his purpose. “Thought I’d stop by and take care of it. For the jam.”

It was a perfectly logical explanation, but the sight of him on her porch, looking like an ad for rustic competence, left her momentarily speechless.

She groaned inwardly, the warmth of embarrassment creeping up her neck as she registered her current state, an old pair of sweatpants and an even older shirt with a faded logo, complete with a jam stain right across the bosom. Great. Just great.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she finally managed, her voice brushing off the initial surprise as she tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “Really, it’s not that big of a deal.”

Bucky shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching into a small, easy smile. “Figured I owed you one. Besides, it’s no trouble.”

Despite herself, her lips quirked in a smile as she stepped aside and gestured toward the side of the house. “Well, okay then. The tiles that need fixing are just over there.”

He nodded, his movements purposeful but unhurried, as he turned toward his truck. “I’ll grab my ladder and get started.”

As he walked away, she shut the door with a quiet click and let out a soft exhale, leaning her forehead briefly against the cool wood. A glance down at her outfit made her wince. Nope. There was no way she was standing out there in this while Bucky Barnes fixed her roof looking like a walking ad for rugged, small-town charm.

She bolted for her room, tearing through her wardrobe with newfound urgency. A simple casual dress with a V neckline and cardigan was the winning combo, comfortable enough for an impromptu chat but still presentable. She smoothed the fabric over her hips and checked her reflection in the mirror, brushing her hair back into place before heading back to the living room.

The faint clink of metal outside signaled that Bucky was already at work. Feeling slightly more put-together, she made her way to the kitchen to make some lemonade, hoping she didn’t look like she was trying too hard.

Once the lemonade was ready, she poured a glass, her movements steady as she tried to keep her thoughts from spiraling. It wasn’t a big deal. Just a neighborly gesture to bring him something cool while he worked. Absolutely no ulterior motives, she told herself firmly, ignoring the tiny thrill that ran through her at the thought of talking to him again.

After tidying up a few things to stall for time, she finally stepped outside, the lemonade glass balanced carefully in her hand. The sun had warmed the air, and she spotted Bucky perched on the ladder, one boot firmly planted on a lower rung as he worked to secure a tile.

“Hey,” she called out lightly, making her way toward him.

He glanced down, his hands pausing mid-adjustment. His gaze caught on her new outfit, lingering for a moment before flicking back to her face. She wasn’t imagining it, the slight shift in his expression was hard to miss.

Feeling suddenly self-conscious under his sharp blue eyes, she offered the glass with a small smile. “Thought you might want something to drink.” Then, in a rush of nervous energy, she added, “Dorothy was supposed to drop by, so I figured I should look a little more... put together.”

His gaze flickered briefly to the neckline of her dress, the height of his vantage point affording a view to skin that other way should be concealed by cloth. For a split second, his focus lingered on the swell of her breasts before he forced his attention back to her face with an unreadable expression.

“Thanks,” he said gruffly, reaching down to take the glass. His fingers brushed hers for a fraction of a second, the callouses rough against her skin, and she fought the urge to shiver at the contact.

“You’re, uh, making good progress,” she said, nodding toward the roof as if that would distract from the warmth in her cheeks.

“Not much to it,” he replied, taking a sip. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he drank, and her eyes dipped of their own accord, watching the movement.

When he handed the glass back, their fingers brushed again, and she swore his hand lingered just a moment longer this time.

She lingered by the ladder, holding her glass of lemonade, the condensation cool against her fingers. “You and Sam did a great job building the booths for the festival,” she said, her tone casual. “Not only a provider, huh? Seems like you’re quite the handyman too.”

Bucky glanced down at her, his lips twitching into a faint smile before he focused back on the tile he was securing. “It wasn’t just us. Plenty of other guys helped out.”

“Still,” she insisted, watching the muscles in his forearms shift as he worked, “it’s cool. You don’t see that kind of dedication every day.”

He didn’t respond right away, his grip tightening on the hammer. The compliment clearly unsettled him, and for a split second, his aim wavered. The hammer came down too close to his thumb, and he muttered a sharp curse under his breath.

“Are you okay?” she asked, stepping closer instinctively. Her brows knit together with concern as she watched him shake out his hand.

“Peachy,” he muttered with a gruff voice, though the faint pink creeping up his neck gave away his frustration, whether from the near miss or her watchful presence, she wasn’t sure.

Her lips twitched at his tone, but she held back a laugh, not wanting to poke the bear. “Alright, then. I’ll leave you to it before I distract you into taking off a finger.”

He glanced down at her, his blue eyes sharp but not unkind. “You’re not a distraction,” he said after a beat, his voice softer this time.

Her stomach did a little flip, but she forced herself to keep her tone light. “Still, I’d hate to be the reason you get hurt. Let me know if you need anything else, okay?”

He gave a small nod, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer before he turned back to his work, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

She stepped back toward the house, clutching the empty glass tightly as she crossed the threshold and shut the door behind her.

With a deep breath, she returned to the couch, her laptop waiting for her where she’d left it. But even as she opened the screen and stared down the next line of plaid-covered Highlander melodrama, her thoughts drifted back to the man on her roof and the way his gaze lingered just a second too long.

---------

The knock at the door startled her out of the repetitive loop of her manuscript edits. Leaving the laptop on the coffee table, she stood, smoothing the fabric of her dress instinctively. When she opened the door, there he was, a faint sheen of sweat on his face and his toolbox in hand.

“All done,” Bucky said, his deep voice a little quiet, as though he wasn’t entirely sure how to say more. He gestured vaguely toward the roof with his free hand. “The tiles should hold up fine now. No leaks to worry about.”

Her smile was warm as relief and gratitude washed over her. “Thank you, Bucky. Really. That was so kind of you to come by and take care of it.”

He gave a small shrug, his lips twitching into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Didn’t take long. Figured it’d save you some hassle.”

“Still,” she said, stepping back to open the door wider, “you didn’t have to. Can I at least get you something? Another drink, maybe?”

He hesitated, his hand tightening slightly on the handle of the toolbox. “You don’t have to-”

“I insist,” she cut him off gently, her smile unwavering. “Please. It’s the least I can do.”

After a beat, he nodded, stepping over the threshold with a cautious ease, as if unsure of how much space he was allowed to take up. She led him to the kitchen, motioning for him to sit at the small table while she poured a fresh glass of lemonade.

He sat stiffly, setting his toolbox carefully by his feet and rubbing the back of his neck. The kitchen smelled faintly of citrus and sugar, a scent that mingled oddly with the outdoorsy hint of sawdust and sweat he carried with him.

“Here,” she said, placing the glass in front of him before sitting across the table. “I hope it’s still cold enough.”

Bucky nodded his thanks, taking a sip. The silence stretched for a moment, not uncomfortable but loaded with unspoken thoughts. She was the first to break it.

“So, how long have you been working with Sam?” she asked, leaning her arms casually on the table.

He set the glass down, his fingers lingering on the rim as he answered. “A few years. Helps keep me busy.”

She tilted her head, studying him with quiet curiosity. “Do you supply the rest of the workshops and stores too?”

Bucky let out a soft, humorless chuckle. “Not really, just a few. Don’t think anyone’s lining up to hire a guy like me.”

Her brows knit together. “I don’t know about that. You’re dependable, skilled... and clearly a good neighbor.”

Her words caught him off guard, and he looked down, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Just doing what needs to be done,” he mumbled.

“More than that,” she pressed, a hint of teasing in her tone now to lighten the moment. “If I hadn’t seen it for myself, I wouldn’t believe how fast you fixed those tiles.”

Bucky shook his head, his lips twitching into that barely-there smile again. “It’s just a roof.”

“To you, maybe,” she said lightly. “To me, it’s one less thing to worry about. And I really appreciate it.”

Her sincerity left him quiet for a moment, his fingers tightening briefly around the glass. He glanced up at her, meeting her eyes. “You’re welcome,” he said finally, with a low voice.

Another pause lingered between them, she smiled, leaning back slightly in her chair. “Well, if you ever need more jam -or a roof to fix- you know where to find me.”

He chuckled softly, the sound surprising even himself. “Guess I’ll keep that in mind.”

Their gazes held for just a beat too long before he stood, his hand already reaching for the toolbox. “I should get going.”

“Of course,” she said, standing as well, though she didn’t move to rush him out. “Thanks again, Bucky.”

As Bucky made his way toward the door, his gaze swept briefly over the living room, pausing on the open laptop resting on the coffee table. His steps slowed, curiosity flickering across his features. “What’s that you’re working on?” he asked, tilting his head toward the screen.

She followed his gaze and let out a soft, sheepish laugh. “Oh, just... proofreading a manuscript.”

He raised a brow, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly. “What kind of manuscript?”

Her lips parted as if she might dodge the question, but his steady, inquisitive look made it clear he wasn’t letting this one go. “It’s, uh... a romance,” she admitted, her voice almost shy.

His brow lifted a little higher. “About?”

She hesitated, fidgeting slightly under his gaze. “It’s... okay, it’s one of those super cheesy historical romances. You know, with a rugged Highlander and a maid who’s swept up in some dramatic, forbidden love affair.” Her words tumbled out in a rush, her cheeks warming as she spoke.

Bucky’s expression shifted. First skeptical, then mildly amused, and finally landing somewhere between disbelief and intrigue. “And that sells?”

“It’s a very popular topic,” She nodded, already cringing inwardly. “It’s... well, it’s got a lot of dramatic tension, flowery descriptions, and... other stuff.”

“Like what?” he asked, genuinely curious, his head tilting slightly as he leaned against the doorframe.

She bit the inside of her cheek, debating how much detail to share. “You know... dramatic misunderstandings, passionate declarations, epic sword fights... and, uh...” She trailed off, waving her hand vaguely. “Other... things.”

“Other things,” he repeated, his lips twitching like he was trying not to smile. “You mean... the spicy stuff?”

Her cheeks flamed, and she groaned, covering her face with her hands. “Yes, okay? That stuff. Happy now?”

He chuckled making her peek at him from behind her fingers. “Didn’t take you for someone who’d spend their day reading about shirtless Highlanders sweeping maids off their feet.”

“I don’t spend my day reading it,” she shot back, lowering her hands to glare at him, though her expression was more embarrassed than angry. “I’m proofreading. There’s a difference.”

“Right,” he said, dragging the word out like he wasn’t entirely convinced. “So you’re not secretly daydreaming about a plaid-wearing, hero coming to whisk you away?”

“Absolutely not,” she replied firmly, though the faint crack in her voice betrayed her mortification.

He smirked, finally stepping back from the doorframe. “Good to know.”

She crossed her arms, watching him as he moved toward his toolbox. “Not that you’re one to judge,” she called after him. “You seem to know an awful lot about what goes on in those books for someone who’s never read one.”

That stopped him in his tracks. He turned back, his gaze narrowing slightly, though there was still a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I have a sister,” he said simply, as though that explained everything.

Her mouth opened, then shut, caught off guard. “Touché,” she murmured, conceding the point. Still, she couldn’t let it rest. “But honestly, this one is so bad, I don’t get how the editors went along with it.”

His curiosity piqued, and Bucky tilted his head. “And why’s that?”

“It’s just... so cheesy,” she said, her voice dipping with exaggerated drama. “Way too fluffy, the guy won’t stop talking about his feelings, and he’s clingy in a way that makes me cringe.” She shuddered a little for effect.

Bucky raised a brow, his thumb absently tapping against the handle of the toolbox. “So... that makes it bad for the genre? Or is that your personal taste talking?”

She blinked, thrown off by the question. “I-what?”

“I mean,” he continued, leaning casually against the doorframe, “aren’t romance novels supposed to be... you know, emotional? Feelings and all that? Or is it just not your thing?”

She frowned, his thoughtful tone making her pause. “I guess... it’s not the emotions that bother me,” she admitted, her arms crossing loosely. “It’s the way it’s written. This guy is just so... over the top. He’s constantly swooning over her, saying how she’s his whole world, his sun and stars... it’s too much. Like, tone it down, man.”

Bucky’s lips twitched, and he gave a small, thoughtful nod as if chewing over her words. “So, you’re more into the... brooding types?”

Her face warmed slightly at the observation, but she shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Maybe. I like characters who... don’t lay it all out at once. You know, someone with a little mystery.”

A long silence stretched between them, his gaze lingering on her as if trying to read between the lines. “Sounds like it’d be tough to figure out what they’re thinking.” He observed.

She raised a brow at that, tilting her head. “Sometimes actions speak louder than words, you know.”

Bucky seemed to consider that, his fingers flexing lightly around the handle of his toolbox. He nodded once, then glanced toward the door. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your... highlander drama.” He shifted his weight, toolbox in hand, and turned toward the door. But as he stepped through, he hesitated, glancing back. “Hey,” he said, his tone quieter now, almost hesitant. “If, uh... if you ever need something else, just let me know.”

She smiled “I will. The same goes for you, thanks again.”

He nodded, a small, almost shy tilt of his head, before stepping fully out the door. She stood there for a moment, staring after him as the faint crunch of his boots faded down the path. The quiet of her house enveloped her as she closed the door, replaying snippets of their conversation.

She had barely made it back to the couch when her phone buzzed. The screen lit up with a text from Sam:

Hey, I’m grilling tonight. You should come by. No excuses.

A smile tugged at her lips. The idea of stepping out, getting off her screen, and being around people sounded better than staying cooped up with plaids and cringy lairds. She quickly texted back her agreement.

The gathering was small, just a handful of locals chatting around the glow of the garden lights and the firepit, the scent of burning wood mingling with spiced cider in the air.

She wasn’t expecting to see Bucky there, given he wasn’t the social type but there he was, standing slightly apart from the crowd, his hands shoved into his pockets as he listened to a conversation between Sam and another neighbor.

She hesitated, her pulse quickening at the sight of him. Sam spotted her, waving her over. “Hey, glad you made it! C’mon, grab a drink.”

She made her way to the table laden with snacks and drinks, feeling Bucky’s gaze on her as she poured herself some cider. When she turned, he was standing just a few steps away, his expression unreadable in the flickering firelight.

“Hey,” she said, her voice a touch breathless. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

His lips quirked in a half-smile. “Sam can be... persuasive.”

She laughed softly “Yeah, he’s good at that.”

They stood there in companionable silence for a moment, and then, as someone started strumming a guitar on the other side of the yard, Bucky glanced at her, his blue eyes glinting with something she couldn’t quite place.

“Walk with me?” he asked, with a low but steady voice.

Surprised, she nodded, and they left the noise and light of the gathering behind, stepping into the quiet shadows of the trees that bordered Sam’s property.

As they walked, the only sounds were the crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant chords of the guitar. Finally, he spoke.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began with a cautious tone like he was testing the waters. “About what you said earlier. About liking... brooding characters.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Oh?”

His gaze stayed forward, but his hands fidgeted at his sides. “Got me wondering if you really meant that. Or if you were just... making conversation.” The vulnerability in his voice sent a wave of warmth through her.

“I wasn’t just making conversation,” she admitted softly.

He stopped walking, turning to face her fully. The firelight was distant now, casting only the faintest glow, but she could still see the intensity in his expression. “Good,” he said, his voice rougher now. “Because I don’t want to keep wondering.”

Before she could respond, he stepped closer, his hand brushing hers, tentative but deliberate. And when she didn’t pull away, he leaned in, his breath warm against her skin as his lips captured hers in a kiss that was both hesitant and deeply certain, as if he’d been waiting for this moment far longer than he dared to admit.

She melted into him, her hands sliding up to his shoulders. That small gesture gave him all the permission he needed. Tilting his head, he traced the seam of her lips with his tongue, a gentle yet deliberate request. She parted her lips for him, granting entrance, and he deepened the kiss with a low, quiet sigh that sent warmth spiraling through her.

His hand slid to the curve of her lower back, pulling her closer, while the other found its way to her nape. His fingers tangled gently in her hair as he cradled her. Their kiss broke slowly, reluctantly, his lips brushing hers one last time as if he couldn’t quite let go. Bucky lingered close, his breath warm against her cheek, his nose skimming along her jaw before dipping to her neck. He pressed his face there, inhaling deeply, and his quiet, teasing voice sent a shiver down her spine.

“This too clingy for you?”

A soft laugh escaped her, though it dissolved into a breathy sigh as she tilted her head, exposing more of her neck to him. “Shut up,” she murmured, her fingers threading through his hair, keeping him close. Whatever witty retort she might have had melted into nothing as he pressed a lingering kiss to her pulse point.

Bucky’s lips lingered against her neck for a moment longer before he pulled back just enough to look at her. His fingers at her nape flexed, and then his gaze dropped briefly to her lips. Her heart stuttered as he closed the distance again, this time more demanding. His mouth claimed hers in a kiss that was deeper and hungrier. Gone was the tentative sweetness, this was need, raw and unrestrained. His hand slid from her lower back to her hip, splaying wide, pulling her flush against him as if he needed to eliminate even the smallest gap between them.

Her fingers tightened in his hair, tugging just enough to draw a low, throaty sound from him that sent a thrill through her. She arched into him instinctively, and his hand slid down to the hem of her dress, his fingers brushing her bare thigh. His touch was deliberate, teasing, but his restraint was evident. Her hands left his hair, sliding down to his chest, the soft flannel brushing her palms before she gripped the fabric and tugged him closer. He responded instantly, groaning softly into her mouth as the hand on her nape angled her tighter against his lips.

When they finally broke apart, their breaths mingling in the charged silence, he pressed his forehead to hers. Neither of them moved to step away, the distant chatter and laughter around the grill fading into the background. The weight of unspoken need between them was palpable.

“We should...” she started, her voice catching slightly. Then, more firmly, “We should go somewhere.”

His head lifted slightly, blue eyes dark as he searched hers for a beat before a slow smile tugged at his lips, agreeing with a low voice.

Without another word, he took her hand, intertwining their fingers briefly before leading her away. They drifted toward the edge of the yard with casual ease, their steps slow enough to avoid suspicion but quick enough to betray their shared urgency. Once they’d slipped into the cover of the trees bordering Sam’s property, she turned to him, their bodies close in the dim light of the evening. “Your truck or...?”

Bucky’s brows shot up at the suggestion, and for a moment, the idea tempted him, briefly, wildly. Considering the insistent ache in his jeans, the thought held undeniable appeal. But then, reason settled over him like a cool breeze. Not like this. Not tonight.

His lips quirked into a lopsided smirk, and he leaned in just enough that his voice sent a shiver through her. “Your place,” he murmured, low and deliberate.

The shift in his tone left her breathless, her pulse hammering against her skin as her cheeks warmed. She nodded wordlessly, her hand tightening slightly around his as they moved with quiet purpose. The path back to her house felt electric, each step charged with anticipation.

As the door clicked shut behind them, Bucky turned sharply, cornering her against the solid wood. His hands framed her face as his lips captured hers again, more demanding this time, his body pressing into hers with a heat that left no room for misinterpretation. She gasped softly into the kiss, the feel of his hardon against her stomach sending a jolt of desire through her.

Her fingers tangled in his long hair, tugging just enough to make him growl low in his throat. The sound vibrated between them, primal and electrifying. He broke the kiss just enough to murmur, his voice gravelly, “Where’s the bedroom?”

She pointed vaguely down the hall, her breath hitching. Before she could blink, his strong hands were gripping her waist, and he effortlessly threw her over his shoulder in one smooth motion.

A surprised squeal left her lips, and she braced herself against his back, her fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt. His hand splayed firmly over her rear to steady her, his voice teasing but thick with intent. “Easy there,” he said, the words curling with a hint of amusement.

He strode purposely through the hallway, and when they reached the bedroom, he set her down on the bed with surprising care, though his gaze was anything but gentle. He stood over her for a moment, taking her in, the way her hair fell wild around her face, her lips swollen from his kisses, her chest rising and falling with anticipation.

His tongue flicked over his bottom lip as his eyes darkened. “Damn,” he muttered, his voice hoarse with hunger, “you’re a sight.”

She shifted slightly under his intense stare, a flicker of shyness creeping in her despite her arousal. The way he looked at her, so unapologetically hungry, made her feel exposed. His lips quirked slightly as if sensing her hesitation, and he leaned down, his hand coming to rest against her jaw.

“You okay?” he murmured, his voice softer now but no less intent.

She nodded, her breath hitching as his thumb brushed along her cheek. “Yeah,” she whispered.

“Good,” he replied, his lips curving into a faint smile before he kissed her again. This time, it was slower, deeper, his tongue sweeping against hers in a way that left her clinging to him, her earlier shyness melting into the heat of his touch.

Her fingers found his shirt, tugging at the hem, and he pulled back just enough to strip it off, tossing it aside without ceremony. The scars on his chest and arm caught the dim light, but the confidence in his gaze never wavered as he leaned back in, his hands sliding down her sides with deliberate, teasing slowness.

Her teeth sank into her bottom lip as her eyes roamed over him, the sheer breadth of his chest and the powerful arms flexing with restrained strength. He was a bear of a man, solid and unrelenting, and she loved every bit of it.

“You know,” he began, his voice low and rough, his fingers deftly popping open the buttons of her dress one by one. “I love seeing you in these dresses and skirts.” His lips quirked into a wicked grin, his gaze flicking up to meet hers. “Makes it so damn easy to get under them. Have my way with you.”

Her cheeks burned at his words, a mixture of arousal and shyness bubbling to the surface. “Bucky...” she breathed, but her protest was feeble at best, especially as he continued his slow, deliberate assault, parting the fabric of her dress to expose more of her skin.

“That one you wore at the festival,” he went on, his tone darkening with heat as he leaned closer, his lips grazing her collarbone. “That vintage-looking thing? Sweetheart, it drove me crazy.”

She gasped softly as his hands slid over her hips, his thumbs tracing patterns against her bare skin. “Crazy how?” she managed to ask, her voice trembling under the weight of his attention.

He let out a low, throaty chuckle, his lips trailing down to the swell of her breasts. “Crazy enough to want to bend you over the booth table,” he murmured, his teeth scraping lightly against her skin, “and fuck you right there. Pies, jam… didn’t care. Would’ve made a mess of it all just to get my hands on you.”

A desperate whimper slipped past her lips as heat pooled low in her belly. Her hands slid into his hair, tugging slightly.

He growled softly at the sensation, pressing her back against the bed. His hands gripped the fabric of her dress and tugged it down her arms, exposing her fully to his gaze. “But we’ve got all the time we want now,” he said, his voice rough, his lips curving into a predatory smile. “And I plan to take my damn time.”

Her pussy clenched with anticipation as her mind whirled, trying to reconcile the quiet, awkward man she’d come to know with this unabashedly vocal, commanding version of him. It was as though he’d been holding back all this time, and now, the dam had finally burst.

Her bra followed the dress, and his sharp intake of breath sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through her. His thumb traced the curve of her breast, slow and deliberate, before he leaned in, his lips hovering just above her skin.

“Y’know,” he murmured, his voice rough and teasing, “all I could think about this afternoon was pouring that lemonade on these.” His lips ghosted over her nipple, his breath warm. “Then drinking it straight off you.”

Her gaze widened, a sudden wave of shyness overtaking her. She let out a nervous laugh, pressing her hands over her face to shield herself.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said firmly, his hand catching her wrists and gently tugging them away. His eyes burned with an intensity that made her stomach flip. “You were the one who instigated our little escape from Sam’s party, remember?”

His words sent a shiver down her spine, and she couldn’t help the way her body arched toward him as his lips finally claimed the peak of her breast, his tongue swirling in deliberate, maddening strokes. Any remaining hesitation evaporated as he pressed his hips against hers, letting her feel just how much he wanted her.

“You don’t get to act shy now,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly against her skin. “Not after everything you’ve been driving me crazy with.”

Her voice came out barely above a whisper, trembling as she stammered, “I... I didn’t do anything...”

Bucky pulled back just enough to meet her wide-eyed gaze, his lips curving into a wicked smirk. “Oh, you didn’t?” he drawled, his tone laced with teasing disbelief. His hand slid down her side, his calloused fingers leaving a trail of fire in their wake. “That little dress at the festival? the lemonade with that neckline? The way you bit your lower lip every time we spoke? Sweetheart, you’ve been doing everything.”

Her cheeks burned, her lips parting as if to protest, but no words came out. Instead, he leaned in closer, his nose brushing the curve of her jaw as he whispered, “And I’ve been trying real hard to keep my hands to myself... but now? Now, I’m done trying.”

Her breath caught, and before she could respond, his lips were on hers again, claiming her in a kiss that left no room for doubt. His hands roamed her body with purpose, pulling her flush against him, his erection pressing firmly against her pussy.

Her fingers found their way into his hair again, tugging gently at the strands as he groaned into her mouth, the sound reverberating through her. “You’re killing me, you know that?” he murmured against her lips, his voice rough and filled with longing. “All I’ve been thinking about is this... you... for weeks.” He kissed her again, slower and deeper this time, as if savoring the moment.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he rasped when they parted for air, his forehead resting against hers. “But you’re about to find out.”

He left a trail of open-mouthed kisses down her body, his lips lingering on every inch of skin as if committing her to memory. When he reached the waistband of her drenched panties, he paused, his hands gripping her thighs firmly to keep her in place. Pressing his face against the soaked fabric, he inhaled deeply, a guttural groan rumbling from his chest.

“God, you smell so good,” he murmured, his voice thick with hunger. His thumbs hooked into the sides of the delicate lace, slowly pulling it down her legs as he kept his eyes locked on hers. The intensity in his gaze made her pulse thunder in her ears. “You’ve been driving me insane,” he confessed, his lips brushing against her inner thigh as he tossed the damp fabric aside. “Every time I saw you in those little dresses... I thought about this. About getting under that hemline and taste you.”

Her body quivered at his words, her fingers tangling in the sheets beneath her as anticipation coiled tight in her core. “Bucky...” she breathed, her voice a plea.

“Patience,” he said again, his voice low and teasing, but there was no mistaking the edge of hunger in it. His hands spread her thighs further apart, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh as he held her open. His breath ghosted over her pussy, warm and tantalizing, making her gasp and clutch the sheets. “I want to take my time with you.”

And then his mouth was on her. His tongue dragged through her slick folds with slow, deliberate strokes, before barely retreating with a sinful hum. “Fuck,” he groaned, “You taste even better than I imagined.” He paused only long enough to meet her eyes, his own dark and full of promise. “And I’ve been imagining this for a long time.”

Her breath caught in her throat as he spread her pussy lips with his thumbs, baring her fully to him. His mouth latched onto her clit, his tongue swirling in lazy circles before he nursed it with intent. The sharp jolt of pleasure ripped a cry from her lips, her hips thrusting against his mouth involuntarily.

“Bucky! oh, God!” she gasped, her voice trembling as he kept at it, alternating between sucking and flicking her sensitive nub with maddening precision. His growl vibrated against her, the sound and sensation drawing another moan from deep within her chest.

“Stay still,” he commanded, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips glistening. The rumble of his voice sent shivers down her spine. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Two thick fingers joined the assault, sliding slowly into her wet heat, stretching her as they pressed in until they were knuckle-deep. She gasped, her walls clenching around him as he paused for a moment, letting her adjust before starting a maddening rhythm.

His mouth stayed on her clit, tongue flicking and circling in tandem with the slow, deliberate thrust of his fingers. The combination was overwhelming, a perfectly orchestrated symphony of pleasure that had her crying out his name, her thighs trembling as she struggled to keep still.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he murmured against her, his voice filled with awe and lust. His fingers curled inside her, finding that sweet spot that made her hips jerk off the bed. “Right there, huh? That’s it.”

Her breathing turned ragged, her hands gripping his hair tightly as her body climbed higher and higher toward release. He didn’t let up, his tongue and fingers working her with relentless precision, coaxing her closer to the edge with every stroke.

The orgasm tore through her like an electric shock, sharp and all-consuming. Her body clenched tight, her muscles locking for a heartbeat before releasing uncontrollable spasms. Her walls clenched around his fingers, her back arching off the bed as a sharp cry tore from her lips. He growled with satisfaction, his fingers slowing but not stopping as he rode her through her climax, his mouth pressing soft, soothing kisses to her inner thigh as she shuddered beneath him.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, pulling his fingers free slowly and bringing them to his lips to taste. His darkened gaze met hers, his tongue flicking out to clean the slick from his fingers. “You’re fucking perfect.”

She barely had time to catch her breath before Bucky stood, towering over her, his eyes dark with intent. With a sharp tug, he kicked off his work boots, the thud of them hitting the floor making her jump slightly. Then came the metallic clink of his belt, the sound sending a thrill straight through her.

Her gaze was locked on him as he unzipped his jeans, the low rasp of the zipper making her stomach tighten. He tugged them down along with his underwear in one swift motion, revealing himself in all his glory. He was all broad shoulders and thick muscle. His broad chest and left arm were marred by scars that only added to the raw magnetism he exuded. And then there was his cock. Thick, hard, and so utterly intimidating that she bit her lip at the sight.

“Like what you see?” he asked, a lazy smile pulling at his lips.

She nodded, unable to form words as her cheeks flushed.

“Good,” he said, his hand wrapping around his shaft, stroking lazily as he took a step closer. “Because you’re going to feel all of me.”

Bucky climbed onto the bed, positioning himself between her parted thighs. His hands gripped her waist, firm but careful, as though he might crush her if he wasn’t mindful of his strength. His cock rested heavy and hard against her slick folds, the head teasing her entrance as he rocked his hips slowly, coating himself.

“So wet,” he murmured, his voice a husky growl that sent a shiver down her spine. She moaned softly, her thighs trembling as the thick head of his cock pressed against her opening, the stretch beginning even before he was inside. He moved slowly, agonizingly so, letting her body adjust to his size inch by inch. Her walls fluttered around him as he filled her, her slick heat clenching tightly as he pushed deeper. Her hands gripped his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as her breath hitched. “Oh my God, Bucky... you’re so-”

“Big?” he finished for her, his tone edged with dark amusement as he paused, fully sheathed inside her. He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear as he rumbled, “That’s it, sweetheart.”

Her head fell back against the pillow as she panted, her body stretched to its limit, the delicious pressure bordering on too much. But as her hips shifted slightly, the friction sent a bolt of pleasure through her that made her moan his name.

Bucky groaned low in his throat, his hands sliding to her rear to tilt her hips upward. He withdrew slowly, almost to the tip, before thrusting back in with deliberate care. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he murmured, his gaze locked on her face as he started to move in earnest.

His pace began slow and steady, each thrust measured, but it wasn’t long before his control began to slip. His grip on her tightened as he quickened, the powerful thrusts rocking her body against the mattress. The sound of their bodies meeting filled the room, the wet slap of his cock driving deep into her pussy mingling with her moans and his guttural groans.

“Hold on to me,” he ordered, his voice rough with lust. Before she could process his words, he hooked an arm under her ass and lifted her effortlessly, sitting crisscrossed with her perched in his lap.

Her arms flew around his neck, clinging to him as the new angle made him hit even deeper. His hands gripped her hips, guiding her movements as he thrust up into her, the force of his cock driving her wild. Her head fell forward, her forehead resting against his as she whimpered, overwhelmed by the intensity of the pleasure building inside her.

“Look at me,” he demanded. Her hazy eyes met his as he tilted her hips slightly forward, the firm muscles just above his shaft slapping her clit with every thrust.

She cried out, her nails raking down his back as the coil inside her tightened, ready to snap. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop!”

He groaned, his cock swelling even harder inside her as he chased her climax. “I’ve got you,” he promised, his thrusts growing rougher, deeper. “Come for me, sweetheart. Let me feel it.”

Her orgasm hit her hard, her pussy clamping down on his cock as she cried out his name, her body trembling violently in his arms, and he growled in satisfaction.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he ground out, his movements growing erratic as her spasming walls pushed him closer to the edge. “You’re mine, doll. Mine.”

With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself fully inside her, his cock pulsing as he spilled into her with a guttural moan. He held her tightly, pressing his forehead to her shoulder as they both panted, their bodies trembling from the intensity of their encounter.

For a moment, neither of them moved, the room filled only with the sound of their heavy breathing. Then, with utter gentleness, Bucky eased her back onto the bed, his body following hers as he stayed buried inside her. He braced himself on his forearms, keeping his weight off her but staying close enough that she could feel the warmth of his skin against hers.

A lazy smirk tugged at his lips as he glanced down at her, the faintest hint of mischief in his eyes. “So,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, “better than the breathtaking Highlander?”

Her breath hitched before she burst into laughter, making his smirk widen. “Oh, so much better,” she stated, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down for a quick, playful kiss. “I find the curt and gloomy lumberjack character more appealing.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, his smirk faltering just slightly. “Curt and gloomy, huh?”

She nodded, her voice turning softer. “Mysterious. Rugged. A little broody. Kind. Thoughtful. Handsome.”

He blinked, caught off guard by the weight of her words. A faint flush crept up his neck, blooming across his cheeks, and he glanced away, suddenly looking very much like the socially awkward man she’d come to adore.

“Didn’t know I was signing up for flattery,” he muttered under his breath, his ears reddening as he busied himself with brushing away a strand of hair hanging on his face.

She laughed and cupped his cheek, gently forcing him to meet her gaze. “Just telling the truth,” She said softly, her thumb brushing over his stubbed skin.

He swallowed hard, the blush deepening as his lips twitched into a shy, crooked smile. “Still not used to it,” he admitted quietly, his voice barely above a murmur.

“Guess I’ll just have to keep saying it until you are,” she replied with a grin, pulling him down for another kiss before he could argue.

Dividers by: @strangergraphics

[helaintoloki]

Winter Flower

pairing: Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier) x reader

warnings: themes of kidnapping, drugging, violence, trauma, suggestive content. mentions of pregnancy, eventual happy ending

notes: wanted to try writing something out of my comfort zone so pls let me know what you think and if you’d like to see more!

summary: fate binds you to the Winter Soldier, but will it be enough to keep you together when you’re constantly being pulled apart?

“We’ve decided to give you a new pet.”

The Winter Soldier isn’t sure what to make of the barely conscious woman that’s been carelessly thrown at his feet by his handlers, but he knows better than to ask questions by now. His handlers seem to find his predicament comical as they laugh at a joke the Asset is not a part of and watch the scene unfold with malevolent smiles.

The woman, unbeknownst to the soldier, had undergone weeks of physical torture and anguish as various Hydra doctors poked and prodded at her mind and body until there was not a single ounce of fight left in her body. She’d been battered and bruised until she was almost nothing, and in the end it had all been a complete waste of time. Their hopes for a new weapon were diminished by the discovery that her body had not taken to the serum; her brute strength and aggression had only lasted for three days before she had crashed and returned back to normal. The experiment had failed, and Hydra now looked to their prized possession to dispose of her properly.

“We will let you have your fun,” his handler had snidely remarked before slamming the door shut behind him, leaving the Winter Soldier locked in his holding cell alone with her. She hadn’t moved in the time since she’d arrived, so the man felt it necessary to firmly nudge her ribs with his boot to wake her up. He didn’t want her here, didn’t enjoy a stranger in the only space he could remotely consider his own, and he wanted this to be known.

Slowly, the failed experiment uses every ounce of strength she has left to lift her head and will herself to look up at the man tasked with terminating life. Unlike the soldier, she knows why they have thrown her in here with their deadliest killer, and the trembling of her bottom lip reveals her trepidation. He initially expects to feel disdain and disgust for this supposed pet that lies at his feet, but when her wide eyes meet his own something inside him shifts.

The Winter Soldier was never one for compassion or empathy; he was programmed to kill without remorse, to void himself of any warmth or humanity, but as he looked down at her his chest swirled with emotions he could not name. It wasn’t pity or mockery, but a compulsive need to protect her from harm the way one wishes to protect a helpless animal from awaiting predators. She is not a pet, but he decides in that moment that she will be his to look after.

Wordlessly, the soldier scoops her limp form off of the tile ground and rests her in the small cot he calls a bed. A pathetic whine of pain leaves her body at the discomfort of being moved around, causing his chest to tighten unbearably. This shouldn’t be happening, there shouldn’t be a sense of longing suffocating his entire being when he gazes upon her weakened form, and yet the man finds himself taking extra care to tuck her under the blankets.

He lets her sleep, keeping careful watch over her form like a guard dog as he seats himself in front of the metal door and basks in her presence.

The Winter Soldier had a new purpose now.

~~~

No one had expected the Asset to become so taken with you.

When the guards came to see if the Soldat had finished the job, they were stunned to find you fast asleep in his bed while he stood watch. They had tried to terminate you themselves only to be met with gruesome ends after just looking at you. The Winter Soldier was adamant that you were not going anywhere, and no one could understand why he had become so fond of you within such a short span of time.

The answer had been discovered a week later by the scientists tasked with creating the new weapon. Though your body had not taken to the physical changes of the serum, they found that it had permanently altered your inner body chemistry and DNA as a result. Your new genetic makeup had triggered something within the Winter Soldier as soon as your eyes had locked with his own, almost as if your blood spoke to his. You were bound together on a biological level by this new serum, and this bond could not be broken.

The deaths of twenty men left Hydra with no choice but to let him keep you as the ordeal was not worth losing more valuable resources than necessary. Your survival did not come without cost, however, and they made it clear that you were expected to earn your keep. The Winter Soldier’s handlers had decided that you could be quite useful in forcing the Asset to comply. The cost of any mistakes or failures were yours to pay, and the possibility of your torture or isolation from one another proved to be a good motivator for the Soldat to execute missions without flaw.

You are an unwilling prisoner in all of this, your freedom taken from under you with no regard to your autonomy, but you know that this is the best possible outcome to have happened to you. Being a pet is much better than being a weapon to abuse or a failed experiment to get rid of, and you know that no real harm can come to you under the protection of the Winter Soldier. You have no choice but to make the most of the course life has chosen for you, and so you fall into your role as his companion.

“I don’t like when you leave,” you utter quietly while making careful work of combing his hair. He is scheduled to be sent away to Italy to locate and execute a deserter known to have important Hydra files with them, and your soldier will be gone for a week. His absence is isolating, and you know that once he is gone a nurse will arrive to hold you down while the doctors drug you to prevent you from causing any problems while he is away. Your brain becomes foggier and foggier with each dosage, and as time goes on the details of your life before the Winter Soldier become hazier until you almost forget everything.

“I must,” is his gruff reply. “It will keep you safe.”

“I want to leave, too,” you whisper despondently, taking great care to ensure your words cannot be heard by anyone other than him. He stiffens, and for a moment you fear being reprimanded, but his quiet utterance in reply has you hopeful for a chance at something better.

“You will.”

~~~

You wake to a man violently grabbing you by the hair and dragging you out of bed. You kick and claw at his arm in a fruitless attempt to free yourself, but he remains unfazed as he drags you to your destination. You know these hallways well enough to know where you are going, and despite your groggy state at having just been woken up from your drug induced slumber you are aware enough to know what is about to come.

Your soldier is waiting for you when you finally arrive to his handler’s office, eyes wide with fury and helplessness as he watches the man lift you by the hair before slamming you back down onto the ground. You cry out in agony and reach for your companion only to have a heavy boot land down onto your hand. The Winter Soldier moves to attack only to have several guns pointed at him, and he is forced with no choice but to stand down and watch you take on the abuse.

“You did not comply with orders, Soldat,” the man says simply, casting an irate glance your way at the sound of your pathetic cries. “I asked you to return with those stolen files and instead you lost them. What good are they to me now?”

A swift kick is driven into your ribcage and you curl into yourself with a sob. His entire body is vibrating with anger, each blow landed only fueling his need for vengeance, and yet he cannot save you. This was the arrangement made, the only reason you were allowed to still be alive, and it was his fault that this was happening to you. A single tear slides down his face at the sound of bone cracking when you take another hit to the ribs, and just when he thinks he can’t take anymore the man raises a hand to signal the assailant to cease his abuse.

“Do not fail again, or next time she will endure worse than a broken rib.”

The guards file out until all that remains is the Winter Soldier and his battered pet that lies unmoving in the center of the room. He’s on you in an instant, hands that were built to kill being used to gently lift your broken form from the ground. Every movement sends painful jolts throughout your body that make you let out pained shrieks and cause his chest to tighten as a result. The Asset cradles you to his chest like a child would their favorite teddy bear and does his best to console you. His metal fingers gingerly comb through your hair as you sob into his chest, and his mind is frenzied with thoughts of how he could ever possibly make this better.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes into your neck, his salty tears staining your skin when he presses his face against you. “I’m sorry, my pet.”

You are a prisoner just like him, and he cannot help you when he himself is bound to Hydra forever.

~~~

A week has passed and your injuries have improved gradually overtime, though your Soldat still takes great precaution when touching you or holding you close at night. He handles you with care, and it will never cease to amaze you how a man who was created to be the perfect weapon can be so tender with a woman who would mean nothing to him if not for the serum running through her veins.

He has been gone more often as of late, assisting in the training of a new batch of soldiers. At times you worry he might take to one of them the way he did you, might abandon you in place of a new pet, but from what you have gathered from overheard conversations the scientists had fixed this issue when creating the new serum. They couldn’t risk him showing loyalty to others and chance him deciding to fight back. He was yours, and admittedly you liked it this way. Perhaps it was the constant drugs being put in your system or the isolation of being confined to this building forever, but you loved him.

“I want a name,” you tell him when he returns from a grueling day of training. He looks at you almost puzzled as he removes his tactical clothing in preparation for a shower.

“Name?” He repeats with furrowed brows, planting himself in front of where you sit on the edge of the bed. You open your legs to allow him refuge in between them and hum in approval when he reaches down to gently run his metal fingers along the lines of your jaw.

“I don’t remember mine anymore, or anything before I came here, not completely. I need a name now.”

The Winter Soldier had never stopped to consider these details before you’d brought them to his attention; he didn’t know anything about himself, and he’d forgotten that this was considered abnormal. You had a life before him, an identity, and yet he’d never stopped to try and ask you.

“цветок.” You tilt your head in confusion and he smiles, a rare laugh escaping him as he explains, “Flower.”

He bends forward to press a kiss to the crown of your head, and in that moment you decide you like your new name.

You prefer being his Flower over his Pet, and you make sure to express your gratitude for this change when joining him in the shower.

~~~

Your privileges, while not many, have increased with your time spent as the Winter Soldier’s companion. You aid Hydra in keeping the man in line and ensuring optimal execution on missions, and your permanent bond to him means you never once have tried to escape in his absence. Thus, they felt it appropriate that you finally be able to leave the four walls of your bedroom.

You now have the ability to follow the soldier once a week to training, and you accompany one another to doctor’s visits rather than having them send the physician to you. So long as neither of you screw up, you can continue this routine of leaving your confinement to enjoy a small taste of freedom.

One of your new privileges is the responsibility of grooming the Winter Solider. Now that you can fully be trusted around sharp objects, you can trim his hair and shave his face while he sits back and enjoys how sweetly you fawn over him. Hydra had lost several workers to this task as one accidental tug of hair or cut to his chin could cost them their life, so this was one job they were happy to rid themselves of.

His blue eyes stare intensely up at your scrunched features as you carefully frame the pieces around his face. You work with practiced ease like you’ve done this before, and maybe you have, but there’s no way for either of you to find that out now. Your tongue pokes out discreetly from between your lips while you trim his ends, and the soldier envisions pulling you into his lap then and there to steal a kiss. He’d never do so in front of watchful eyes such as those of the guard who supervise your activity, it’s too intimate and he refuses to share you in such a way, but it brings him solace to envision a word where he can love you without inhibition or fear of putting you in harm’s way.

“I wish they would let you keep it long,” you hum thoughtfully, voice followed by the quiet snipping of the scissors.

“Not good for missions, Flower,” he reminds you before allowing his eyes to flutter shut at the feeling of your fingers combing through his hair.

“You’re leaving again?”

“Not for long,” the man consoles, flesh hand coming to rest on your thigh before giving it a comforting squeeze. “Hydra says I must complete this one last task, and then we both will go to sleep.”

“Sleep?” You repeat hesitantly, pausing your ministrations to meet his steely gaze. His silence has you unnerved, and you return to your previous work in order to distract yourself from the nerves that begin to settle into the pit of your stomach. “Winter, I don’t want to-“

“It is an order, so we must,” he interrupts. He doesn’t mean to be harsh, but he needs you to understand that even with these new freedoms you are still under Hydra’s commands. He cannot risk you becoming bold, becoming defiant, because he knows better than anyone what Hydra does to those who step out of line. He will not have that for you, and he would rather you understand to comply now than have it beat into you later.

You set the scissors down and step back to admire your work. His blue eyes follow your every move as you begin to clean up the mess, and his chest tightens with yearning as he pictures a life of normalcy. If he tries hard enough, he can pretend that you are a normal couple living a regular life- you’re with him because you love him and not because your biology had been programmed to yearn for him only, and your trimming of his hair is an act of love rather than a necessity forced upon him by his handlers. You’ll never know just how much it pains him to know you will never truly be his, and it is his fault you have been subjected to this life.

“Winter,” you call out gently, breaking the man from his obvious turmoil. You say his name so gently, different from what he is used to. His lips barely quirk into a smile, and for you that is a win. “I love you.”

Placing his metal hand on the back of your neck, he carefully pulls you closer so that your foreheads are pressed together. You can feel the gentle fanning of his breath on your face as his nose gently brushes against your own and inhales your scent. One day he will free you from this cage, even if it is at his own expensive.

“I love you.”

~~~

Your Winter returns to you in shambles and it scares you.

You’ve never seen him so frenzied, so unsure of himself and the world around him. His eyes are welled with tears, and he’s on you the moment he spots you, nearly yanking you out of bed as he pulls you impossibly tight to his chest and begins to comb his fingers through your hair.

“Winter?” You whisper meekly while scrambling to find purchase in his hold. You feel his hot tears trickle down onto your neck and the tremble of his hands as they splay across your back, but his hold never relinquishes.

“There was a man,” he shakily whispers into your hair, faltering to swallow the rising bile in his throat, “a man on a bridge.”

“What happened?”

“I knew him,” he whispers agonizingly, the turmoil evident in his tone. His shoulders tremble with each sob he fights to hold back, but the feel of your fingers gently rubbing circles into shoulders allows him the strength to continue. “He called me- he called me Bucky.”

Your features contort into a frown as you hold the sobbing man impossibly tight. You know just how difficult it is to have no semblance of your past or your identity before Hydra, but you can’t imagine just how awful it is to be given a piece of the puzzle only to have nowhere to place it. You want to help him but you don’t know how, and it pains you to be so useless.

“I think he knew you, too,” you reassure him quietly in case of any prying ears. “Maybe Bucky is your name, and this man is a friend. Maybe… maybe he can help us.”

The soldier stiffens at your words, carefully pulling himself out of your grasp to meet your gaze. You fear that perhaps you’ve misspoken and angered your companion, but once you see the rare glimpse of hope shining through his tears you realize your words have struck a chord within him.

With feverish movements he pulls your body back to him and slams his lips onto your own, swallowing your startled gasp and pushing you back towards the mattress. You accept him willingly and without complaint; you let him take you over and over again to the point of exhaustion until neither of you can hold yourselves up any longer. He worships you, comforts you, ensures to you that he will take this new lead and run with it until he can gain your freedom. His mission has always been you, and you trust him with your entire being to complete it.

They come for him hours later. The door to your room slams open, and two guards stand on the other side. Despite your entangled limbs and state of undress, you know well enough to immediately move yourself out of the way by pressing yourself as far back into the corner of the wall as possible. They grab him roughly by the arms before dragging him out of bed, and you watch helplessly from behind the cover of the sheets as he is taken from you once more. Despite the roughness in which they handle him, his eyes remain gentle as they look upon you fondly, and your heart sinks in your stomach when you note how differently this gaze feels. The door shuts harshly behind him, and a part of you fears that the look on his face wasn’t an expression of love.

It was his way of saying goodbye.

~~~

You haven’t seen your Winter in three weeks, and no one has come to check on you in five days.

You feel like you’re losing your sanity with each second that passes- you never thought you’d miss the interactions that came with your daily injections or the physical touch of the nurse holding you down. You’re thirsty, starving, dirty, delirious, and spiraling in your isolation. What could have happened to make them abandon the Winter Soldier’s pet? What could have happened to make him abandon you? Maybe he’s dead, or maybe he had never truly cared about you enough to get you out of this place, and you’re not sure which is worse.

You think you’re dreaming at first when the door to your prison slowly begins to creak open, and the sudden downpour of light is so blinding you can barely make out the figure standing before you. You whine and tightly shut your eyes, but you’re still able to hear the careful footsteps that approach you as if you’re a scared animal who might bite at any sudden movements.

“I’ve got something,” the feminine voice murmurs. “East Wing, last door to the right. They left someone behind.”

You attempt to open your eyes again and are met with the kind features of a woman. She offers you a comforting smile and attempts to reach for you only to flinch, but she’s quick to immediately retract her hands and hold them up in surrender. It’s clear she doesn’t want to scare you, but your bouts of torture and mental scarring don’t allow you to trust so easily. The Hydra nurses had often smiled at you the same way before strapping you down and aiding in your torment.

“Hey, it’s okay,” she coaxes softly, “I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Are you with Hydra?”

She shakes her head. “My name is Natasha, and I’m an Avenger. My friends and I are here to help you. Can you tell me your name?”

The name strikes a chord within you, but it isn’t impactful enough for you to truly grasp her importance or bring recognition to your mind. It is enough, however, for her to gain your trust and answer her with a quiet utterance of the word, “Flower.”

She hums thoughtfully before extending her hand to you again, and this time you take it without trepidation. Natasha slowly helps you to your feet, but your lack of nutrition and dehydrated state causes you to keel over immediately. The woman catches you in her arms and keeps you upright by allowing you to lean against her, but there’s evident worry on her features now that she fully knows the extent of your physical state. You appear weak and frail, delirious, and she hates to even think about what has happened to you during your stay at the Hydra base.

“Nat,” a new voice calls, and you muster up enough strength to lift your head and lock eyes with the man in the doorway. His features are kind and his eyes blue like your Winter’s, and his build nearly takes up the entire frame. His brows are etched with concern once they catch sight of you, and he’s quick to assist Natasha in guiding you out of the room.

“Flower, this is Steve,” she introduces in a hushed tone, “can he pick you up so we can get out of here faster?”

“I can’t leave,” you murmur hoarsely, eyes beginning to well with tears.

“It’s okay, no one is going to hurt you now if you leave,” she tries to assure you only for you to vehemently shake your head.

“If I leave he won’t know where I am o-or how to find me.”

“Who won’t know?” Steve presses gently, catching your figure as you stumble into his grasp before bursting into a fit of sobs.

“Winter,” you choke, too lost in your crying fit to note the way Steve’s body stiffens at the mention of the man. He shares an uneasy glance with Natasha before composing himself and offering you comfort through the careful rubbing of your back. Your cries echo throughout the abandoned Hydra base and send chills through the Captain’s spine.

He isn’t sure what the next step is or what to even make of this situation. They had been sent here to explore the Hydra base in search of any remaining personnel or files after the aftermath of Pierce, and while he had hoped to find some trace of Bucky he hadn’t been prepared for a battered woman to be the only link left to his missing friend.

Carefully lifting your frail body off the ground and into his arms, Steve trails closely behind Natasha as the two make their exit. You’re an inconsolable mess, but Steve does his best to offer the only words he can think of.

“We’ll find him, I promise.”

You never thought you’d ever get to see the sunlight again, but when Steve carries you over the threshold of the base and out into the open world you find yourself being blinded by its brightness. The feel of fresh air is jarring, its warmth kissing your skin as you are carried into their awaiting jet and set on the softest gurney you’ve ever been on. A multitude of voices surround you, but you can’t seem to focus on anything but the simple fact that no longer are you a prisoner to Hydra and their abuse.

You are free.

~~~

It took hours for Natasha to settle you so Bruce could properly examine you, but no one could blame you for your aversion to doctors and fear of needles. No one had ever been as patient or kind with you as they had been during the process of running blood tests, conducting a psychological profile, and settling you in with an IV to get you hydrated again. You clung to the Black Widow like a lifeline, but she never once seemed to mind. You almost got the impression that she understood the horrors that you’d been through, and that was enough for you to put your entire trust in her.

While your tests are being conducted, Tony and Steve sit in the intelligence room staring at the profile before them on the screen. Your innocent face stares back at the two men, a stark contrast to the woman who sits in the exam room with Banner and Romanoff. Your face is youthful and full of life, and the longer Steve stares at your photo the more the knot in his stomach twists.

“Her name is y/n y/l/n. She was a hairstylist in Manhattan before she was declared missing,” Tony reads along solemnly.

“Does she have any family we can contact?” Steve asks only for his counterpart to shake his head dejectedly.

“Parents passed away when she was in college and there’s no immediate family left. Hydra knew what they were doing when they picked her for their program.”

Sighing, Steve pinches the bridge of his nose in rumination before leaning in back into his chair. He felt a sense of responsibility when it came to your wellbeing; though he didn’t know the exact nature of your relationship with Bucky, he knew you must have been important to him considering how worried you were about him finding you, and that mean you were important to Steve now too. But there was so little to work with when it came to helping you enter back into the real world again, and who knew how long it would take for you to reacclimatize to your newfound freedom.

“This poor girl was tortured for who knows how long. If I could have found her sooner-“

“Hey, don’t do that to yourself,” Tony interrupts with a deep frown, “that doesn’t help anyone. We have her here now, and we’re going to get her the best treatment money can buy to help her get through all of this.”

Before Steve can reply, the two men are interrupted by the presence of Dr. Banner who holds a folder of tests results in his hands. The Captain is on his feet immediately, looking at Bruce expectantly with bated breath as he waits for the prognosis.

“As we suspected, there is super soldier serum running through her veins. However, it appears dormant since she showed no signs of increased strength or aggression or any other possible abilities. We’re not sure what effect it has on her, but I think she should be able to live a relatively normal life despite it being active in her system.”

“You couldn’t remove it?” Tony questions.

“She didn’t want me to. She said it’s what keeps her connected to Barnes, what kept him from killing her when Hydra dumped her on him.”

“I didn’t know that was possible,” Steve murmurs quietly. “Will she be okay?”

“Well, it’s going to take some time for her to psychologically recover from the torture and the isolation she endured, but there is a good chance her memories can be restored with time as well. Physically I’d say she’ll recover, and I’ll ask again when she’s in a better mental state about removing the serum, but…”

The hesitation in his voice is clear, prompting Tony and Steve to exchange uneasy glances before urging him to go on.

“What is it, Bruce?” Tony presses. Sighing, Banner adjusts the frames of his glasses and looks between the two men before landing his eyes on your holographic picture. He doesn’t want to voice the reality of the situation, but he knows he must if they want to help you.

Finally, he replies, “She’s pregnant.”

The room becomes deafly silent as the doctor’s words hang in the air, and it feels like ages before Steve finally works up the nerve to speak.

“Pregnant?” He nearly gawks in astonishment, clearly not believing the words he’s hearing.

“The blood tests and an ultrasound both came up conclusive,” Bruce confirms solemnly.

“And the father?” Steve hesitates to ask.

“Based on the details she shared with Nat, I think it’s safe to say that Barnes is the father.”

“So you’re telling me this woman is carrying a baby super soldier?” Tony questions bluntly much to Steve’s chagrin.

“It would be appear that way, yes,” Bruce replies almost annoyed at Tony’s poor choice of words.

“Is it safe?”

“I can’t say for sure, but I think the serum running through her veins increases her chances of survival and the possibility of a relatively normal pregnancy. We’ll just have to keep an eye on her in the meantime and hope for the best.”

“Well, Rogers, it looks like you’re going to be an Uncle,” Tony congratulates with a hearty clap to his back in an attempt to lighten the mood. Though Steve doesn’t exactly appreciate the jokes, his nerves are somewhat put at ease when he continues, “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure she gets everything she needs for the super tyke.”

It seems that finding Bucky is more important now than ever, and Steve is determined to do whatever it takes to reunite you with the man you love.

No matter the cost.

~~~

It’s been two months since you were freed from Hydra’s prison, but sometimes it only feels like just yesterday you’d been tangled in the sheets with your lover planning your escape. Should you even call him that? You’re not sure anymore. Your new therapist had affirmed you were an unwilling participant in all that had happened to you, but so was he, and he had taken care of you as best as he could given the circumstances you found yourselves in. You think you do love him even if she says you’d only forced yourself to feel that way as a means to survive.

Along with a new therapist, you’d been given all the resources possible to start your life over. Despite their insistence that you were welcome to stay at the Avenger’s compound while you healed, you were adamant about wanting the autonomy that came with having your own apartment. You wanted to learn to be your own person again, to live in your own space by your own schedule, so Tony had helped you find the perfect apartment in a quiet part of town.

Steve visited nearly every day to ensure you and the baby were doing alright considering he felt you were his responsibility now in Bucky’s absence. No leads have been found yet on the whereabouts of the Winter Soldier, but he is doing his damndest to find Bucky by all means. Natasha stops by every once and while when Steve cannot, offering you company and support during your transitional period.

Your body has healed from the grueling abuse you’d endured, but it’s taking your mind a little longer to catch up. You remember your name now, your real name, and vague remnants of your past, but it isn’t enough for you to complete the full picture. Bruce says it will take some time for you to regain your memories, but you’re not oblivious to the possibility that your mind might not ever be fully restored.

Natasha had accompanied you to another ultrasound appointment to check on the health of the baby and your own before taking you grocery shopping. The doctors say you’re almost three months along with a perfectly healthy baby, and Nat had cooed sweetly at the grainy image displayed for you both on the screen. You never knew how exactly to feel every time they showed you the baby- you didn’t hate it or detest the fact that you were pregnant, but the circumstances in which it had all occurred certainly weren’t ideal, and it served as a reminder that you would be going into this alone.

Once you were coherent enough, Steve had sat you down and carefully explained that your Winter once went by the name of James Barnes, though most people just called him Bucky. He told you of their friendship and how he had thought him to be dead all these years until the incident on the bridge, and he assured you he was doing everything in his power to bring you both together again. Of course, that had been a month ago, and Bucky was nowhere to be seen. It pained you to know that he wouldn’t be here to experience any milestones with you, to see his child grow inside you, to hold them and love them and enjoy his chance at having a family. You were supposed to start a new life together, but instead you and your little one are all alone.

You step out of the elevator and head towards your apartment with an arm full of groceries after finally making the trip home. Natasha had offered to help you bring them up, but you insisted you’d be fine on your own. You look forward to the hearty soup you plan to make for dinner and to frame the latest ultrasound on your fridge, and you don’t mind the fact that most days you dine alone. You’ve learned to get used to solitude once more, though it helps when it’s out of your own volition and not because you’ve been locked away in your own personal prison cell.

The apartment is quiet and untouched when you enter and hang your keys on the wall, but it’s only once you make it to the kitchen that you realize there is an intruder standing in your home. Your newly bought groceries fall to the floor with a deafening thud, fruits and vegetables scattering everywhere as you stare at the familiar pair of blue eyes that pierce straight through you. His hair has gotten longer again and his features are covered in stubble, but you know it is him.

“Winter?” You whisper in a trembling voice, afraid that if you speak any louder he might just disappear.

“Flower,” he breathes out, and before you can even blink he’s on you in an instant. Your frame is lifted from the ground when he picks you up in a bone crushing hug, one hand wrapped around your midsection while the other cradles the back of your head. He breathes in your scent as you nestle your face into the crook of his neck and begin to sob with the amalgamation of emotions within you. You missed him terribly, but you hated him for abandoning you and for loving you so much that Hydra had decided you were too valuable a resource to lose, and yet you were so relieved to see him alive and breathing in your little apartment.

“You left me,” you sob into his neck which prompts him to tighten his hold on you in response. “You promised you’d come back.”

“I could never leave you,” he hushes you, trembling lips brushing against the shell of your ear, “I could never ever leave you. I tried to come back for you but you were gone, and I couldn’t risk coming near you with the Avengers around or else they might take me away from you.”

“They wouldn’t do that, Steve has been looking for you. He promised we’d get to be together.”

“That isn’t his promise to make,” the man utters solemnly, finally relinquishing his hold on you so he can step back and admire your beautiful tear stained face. You look so different from the last time he’d seen you; your face was fuller and brighter, and the length of your hair had changed, but you were still just as beautiful as ever. “Flower-“

“Y/n,” you interrupt him. He falters at the name and furrows his brows in confusion until you clarify, “my real name is y/n. And yours is James, but Steve calls you Bucky.”

A look of recognition washes over his features and he nods. “We were… friends.”

“Steve can help us,” you attempt to reassure him again, but Bucky is not so easily convinced.

“No, no, I can’t… I can’t stay here. Many people want me dead, so it’s better to just disappear.”

“Disappear?” You blanch, already feeling the panic beginning to bubble within you. Your hands begin to tremble and you take a step away from him as you desperately try to process his words. “No, you can’t- you can’t leave me again!”

“I came here to say goodbye,” he admits solemnly before gently taking your shaky hands in his own. “You deserve to have a life without me in it.”

“I don’t want that!” You insist through tears only for him to shush you.

“My Flower, the serum bound us together, but it doesn’t mean that I have the right to ruin your chance at freedom. There is no future with me, a life on the run is not what you deserve. I will not put you through torment again. I-“

“I’m pregnant,” you finally blurt to get him to shut up. His wide eyes and stunned silence prove that your methods are effective. You feel his hold on you tighten as he takes a pensive swallow and slowly looks you up and down.

“Pregnant?” He repeats quietly in disbelief.

“I’m pregnant, and that means I do deserve a life with you in it. I deserve to raise our baby with you, to have you by my side. Please don’t leave me again.”

Tears steadily fall down your cheeks, and Bucky is quick to cup your face in his hands so that he may wipe them away. The apartment is quiet as he soaks up the news he’s just been given. He once thought he’d spend the rest of his life a slave to Hydra with nothing to lose and nothing to keep, but then he’d met you and everything had changed. You were his mission, his reason to fight, and now so was this baby. The answer is clear right in front of him, so he takes it.

“Pack a bag,” he urges you gently. “Pack a bag so we can leave and start over somewhere else together.”

Your breath hitches in your throat at his insistence, but you don’t think twice about scurrying off to your room and gathering whatever items will fit in your bag. You did want a new life, a fresh start, but no apartment in New York would fill the hole within you caused by Bucky’s absence if he left you behind. You are grateful to the Avengers, to all they have done for you, but Bucky is right. Your chance at a happy life is not their promise to make.

You leave a note for Natasha and Steve to find explaining that you are safe and will be okay on your own, that they don’t have to look for you and can rest assured knowing you are perfectly happy wherever it is you are. You thank them for everything and leave behind the keys to your apartment, taking one last look at the place before following Bucky to his getaway vehicle.

“Where will we go?”

He rests a comforting hand on your thigh and gives it a gentle squeeze before meeting your gaze. The hopeful glimmer in your eyes fills his heart with warmth and only further fuels his need to protect you and ensure your happiness. He hopes he’s doing the right thing by bringing you along with him.

“Romania,” he finally answers. “I think you’ll like it there.”

~~~

The soft cries from the bassinet rouse you from your slumber, but Bucky is gently pushing you back into bed before you can even remove the covers.

“I got it,” he murmurs hoarsely, sleep still evident in his voice when he speaks. The sun is barely beginning to rise as its warmth seeps through the curtains, and you comfortably stretch yourself awake in bed as Bucky brings the mewling infant to your awaiting embrace. “Hungry again.”

“It feels like she always is,” you jest with a fond smile while lifting your shift and allowing the infant to nurse. Bucky presses a kiss to your temple and repeats the act to your child before retreating into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee for the start of your day.

Your life in Bucharest has been relatively quiet for the past year. As Bucky had promised, you’d made a fresh start in a new home for yourself, a home of your choosing where you could live in peace with your daughter and without worry of anyone finding your hidden paradise. Time had helped heal you both, and though there was still much progress to be made, becoming parents had softened you both and given you all the more motivation to be better versions of yourselves for your daughter.

Natalia Rose Barnes had been born eight months ago in a small hospital room and was deemed perfectly healthy despite your initial concerns of how the serum might affect her growth. She was the most beautiful little creature Bucky had ever seen, and his heart had bursted with pride when you’d handed her to him for the first time. He never once thought it possible for him to have a family, to take part of the creation of something so innocent and sweet after years of atrocities committed by his own hands, and yet here he was watching her tiny hand wrap tightly around his metal fingers.

Your days consisted of staying home to take care of Rosie while Bucky completed odd jobs around Bucharest to earn money. You practiced journaling often to keep track of old memories that would resurface with time to allow you to continue piecing your life together, and Bucky did the same. The thought of the Winter Soldier reawakening always lingered at the back of his mind, but he made it his mission that he would never show that part of himself to your daughter or to you ever again. You were no longer Winter and Flower but Bucky and y/n, and he was determined to keep it that way at all costs.

“I have to go out into town for groceries today,” he informs you whilst holding the cup of coffee to your lips and allowing you to take a drink. “Rose needs diapers, and we’re out of plums.”

You hum thoughtfully in response and reply, “If there is enough money leftover can you stop at the bakery for muffins?”

“Of course,” Bucky replies with a gentle grin, gently brushing his knuckles against your chin. “Anything you want.”

“I think Rosie and I will go for a walk in the park today,” you tell him. “Maybe you can join us once you’re done and we can walk home together.”

“I’d like that,” he affirms. You know how paranoid Bucky gets when you and Rose are alone, especially when it’s out in public, but he tries not to restrict your freedom too much and allows you to do certain things on your own.

You both prepare separately for your days and accompany one another out of the apartment. Bucky assists you in setting up the stroller and strapping a sleeping Rose in her seat, and he gives you a tender kiss before parting ways with you. The day is bright and beautiful, and your heart is content as you walk through the streets of Bucharest and to the local park.

You don’t have any friends or family in Romania, so you appreciate the friendliness of locals that greet you in passing or simply offer a smile your way. Many people especially like to stop and fawn over Natalia, so your guard is down when a woman seats herself next to you on the park bench and interrupts your journaling by cooing at your daughter.

“She’s beautiful.”

“Thank you, I-“ you begin to say only to freeze once you look up from your writing to acknowledge the stranger. She gives you a pointed look, but her smile is playful as she watches you process her presence before you. “Natasha?!”

“You’re hard to find, you know,” she quips with a raised brow, but she isn’t given a reply when you instead choose to throw yourself into her arms and hold her impossibly tight.

“I-I can’t believe you’re here,” you breathe in disbelief, eyes welling with tears at the comfort that comes with seeing a familiar face.

“I can’t believe you already had the baby,” she replies before pulling out of your hold to take in your face. “Are you alright? Banner was worried it might be hard on you because of the serum.”

“It was perfectly safe, Rose and I made it out fine.”

“Rose?” Natasha repeats before casting her gaze to the cooing baby sitting in the stroller.

“Well, her middle name is Rose, but her first name is Natalia,” you correct with a sheepish smile after seeing the way Natasha looks at you in surprise. “I wanted to name her after someone important, and after everything you did for me it only felt right.”

“I’m… honored,” she expresses, still getting over the initial shock. A new emotion flashes across her face for a split second before becoming unreadable again, but you detect the change before she can hide it.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that without asking you first,” You immediately jump to apologize in fear of upsetting her. You’d been so excited to see her you hadn’t even considered the fact she might be irritated with you for leaving without a trace and not bothering to reach out with your new location.

“No, it’s not that. It’s just… well, it makes this next part a little harder,” she admits mournfully, taking in the way your eyes widen slightly and lips begin to pull into a frown at her sudden change in demeanor. “As much as I wish I could say I’m here for a friendly visit, I’m actually here to bring you in for questioning.”

“What?” You gape in quiet bewilderment. You can already feel the unease beginning to grow at her serious tone, and your mind is racing with possibilities of what you could possibly be in trouble for.

“A bomb was recently planted at the Vienna International Centre and killed several UN representatives including King T’Chaka of Wakanda. Security footage revealed that the person responsible for this was Barnes.”

“That’s… that’s impossible!” You immediately argue, mind scrambling to catch up with the news Natasha has just dumped on you. Your heart is racing in your chest and body beginning to feel the oncomings of a panic attack when you realize your peaceful little life in Bucharest has been abruptly ended by a false accusation. “He couldn’t have done that, we’ve been together almost every day with Rosie.”

“They have him on camera, y/n. My hands are tied. I’ve been asked to bring you in because of your connection to Barnes, but if you can honestly say he’s been with you here in Bucharest this entire time then that might help him out. Steve and Sam should be with him right now.”

You can almost feel the hope draining out of you as you process the fact that the life you’d built for yourself was crashing down all around you. No matter how far you run, the past continues to catch up to you both. Bucky isn’t the Winter Soldier anymore, he’s trying to be better, and you wish others could see him for who he is rather than for what he has done.

“I’ll go with you if you promise they won’t take Rosie away from me,” you urge her. Natasha frowns.

“I can’t promise that, but I can promise that no matter what happens she’ll be safe. Can you trust me on that?”

You do, and that’s why you follow her willingly to Berlin for questioning. Bucky is already there when you arrive, and your heart breaks when you see how they have chosen to restrain him. His eyes are filled with sorrow at the sight of you and Rosie being escorted to a separate room, and he wants nothing more than to be there for you both, but he can do nothing as you are taken from him once again.

The prime focus is on Bucky, so you sit alone in the interrogation room for some time before the door finally opens and Steve enters. He has a tired smile on his face meant to hold up his facade while he hands you a glass of water.

“I thought you might need this,” he offers before taking a seat across from you.

“Are you here to question me?”

“No, I’m here as a friend. I don’t think you should be locked away in a room like this on your own.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” you offer bluntly. You don’t mean to be crass, but you’re beginning to become fed up with constantly having your life uprooted without any consideration of your feelings or autonomy. You didn’t choose this life for yourself or plan for it to be this way, yet it seemed you were always being punished for loving a tortured man who was trying to do better.

Despite your brashness, the air is void of tension and instead filled with the happy babbles of Rosie who continuously tries to reach across the table for Steve. She has Bucky’s eyes and his smile, and Steve feels a sense of protectiveness wash over him every time he looks at her. He has a duty to you and to Rosie to help prove Bucky’s innocence, and he hopes you’ll be able to see that he is on your side no matter what.

“Would you like to hold her?” You ask him after noting the way he eyes her so intently. He happily obliges, and you’re filled with a sense of ease to see your baby being coddled by Captain America. At the very least Rosie has a super powered support system, and this fact helps alleviate some of your stress.

“She’s gorgeous,” Steve compliments, allowing the girl to press her hands against his face in exploration. “This is all I ever wanted for Bucky. A chance to have the life that was taken from him, to start a family with a nice girl who loved him despite all he’s endured. I just wish it could have happened differently.”

“I know,” you reply solemnly before casting your gaze to your hands resting in your lap in order to hide your welling tears. “I do too.”

Steve opens his mouth to reply only to be interrupted by the blaring sounds of an alarm. The interrogation room is coated in red, and Rosie begins to shriek at the assaulting noise. You look to Steve with wide and fearful eyes when he quickly rises from his seat and hands you back your daughter. The alarms are reminiscent of the ones at the Hydra base, and it takes everything in you not to fall apart for the sake of your baby. Steve rests a gentle hand on your shoulder and provides you a reassuring squeeze before instructing you to stay put.

“I’ll be right back, I promise,” he avows before bolting out of the room. Your breathing comes in quick gasps as you press yourself to the furtherest corner of the wall and slowly sink to the floor with a crying Rosie to the floor. Your mind attempts to retrieve the therapeutic techniques you’d been taught to help you deal with such episodes, but none of them come to fruition fast enough for you to settle. You feel like you can’t breathe, and the blaring alarm has turned into a distant ringing as you curl in on yourself with the baby pressed tightly to your chest.

You don’t know long you’re stuck waiting in that room, unable to differentiate between minutes or hours, but you’re finally freed from your prison when the door swings open and Natasha rushes to your side.

“We gotta go,” she urges you whilst helping your trembling figure off the ground.

“Natasha, what’s going on?! Where’s Bucky?!” Your press for information falls on deaf ears as she uses one arm to keep you close to her form while the other holds out her gun for potential attacks. “We can’t leave him!”

“Someone activated the Winter Soldier,” she finally answers you after ensuring the area is secure and urging you forward. “It’s not safe for you or the baby.”

“No…” you breathe out before stopping in your tracks, “no, that’s not right.”

“Y/n, we don’t have time-“

“He wouldn’t hurt me, Natasha. The serum, it-“

“I’m not taking any chances,” she states adamantly before forcing you along with her to the exit. You can only stumble after her quick pace and follow her to safety while Bucky wreaks havoc on the building. The next few moments are a blur once you’re shoved into the back of a military van and sped off to a secondary location. The building grows further and further away, separating you and Bucky once more.

~~~

A warm breeze brushes through the grass around you, serene and comforting while you stare pensively at the lake before you. You’d sat at a lake like this once years ago with your parents when they were still alive, and it brought you the same comfort then that it did now. The world is calm here in your bubble, and you think you can finally breathe.

Rosie sits a few feet away from you in the grass playing with two of the local girls from the nearby village. The children adore your toddler and flock to visit her nearly everyday, but you don’t mind. This is what you had always wanted for her, to see her play with other children and know a world of peace where no harm could come to her. This was the most relatively normal childhood she could have, and you were grateful to be here in Wakanda.

After the Winter Soldier had been activated that fateful day, Natasha had stashed you and Rosie into a safe house while she dealt with the aftermath. Days passed before Steve finally came to get you, and you were promptly taken to be reunited with Bucky in Wakanda where T’Challa had granted you both asylum. They would work to erase his programming while you were there, and you would get to raise Rosie without the fear of having to up and leave at a moment’s notice. You’ll be forever indebted to the King for his kindness towards your family, and you truly think this could be the end of all your worries.

Your rumination is interrupted by the shifting of the grass when a new presence joins your side, and almost by instinct do you immediately lean into his side and rest your head upon his shoulder. You sometimes still expect to feel the sensation of cool metal against your cheek, but his appendage is gone now along with the Winter Soldier. Time has healed your husband, and there is no chance of anyone using him as a weapon now.

“I never thought life could be like this,” he voices aloud, a small smile forming on his lips at the sound of Rosie’s echoing laughter.

“It’s nice here,” you agree quietly. “Peaceful. We don’t have to run anymore.”

There’s a pause of silence following your words before he speaks again. “I don’t think I ever thanked you.”

His comment has you turning to look at him in puzzlement, your brows furrowing with uncertainty at what he’s trying to convey.

“Thanked me?”

He nods before shifting his gaze to you. His face is melancholic and full of sincerity when he reaches for your hand to take in his own. His eyes are swimming with devotion and admiration, and it has your stomach doing a nervous flip at the sudden shift in his demeanor.

“For giving me this second chance, for giving me a family. Hydra brought our paths together and the serum bonded us to one another, but Banner could have removed it from your system so you could live a normal life in Manhattan without a connection to me. You refused it. And when I returned you followed me to Romania despite me trying to set you free. You loved me anyway despite all you’d been through with me, you never gave up on me. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

You smile up at him with complete adoration and devotion before resting a hand upon his cheek. He immediately melts at your touch, eyes fluttering shut as he releases a relaxed breath and savors the feel of your palm against his skin.

“You’ll never have to thank me for that,” you assure him with complete sincerity. “I will love you for the rest of my life with or without some stupid serum. We came into each other’s lives for a reason, and this is it.”

You pull him towards you for a passionate kiss that both of you ensure to savor before returning your gazes to the landscape before you. The sun sparkles on the water while the wind rustles through grass, and Rosie begins to make her clumsy ascent towards you both with hands outstretched for her father. Bucky is quick to pull her into his chest and hold her securely in his lap as your little family enjoys a peaceful afternoon in Wakanda.

Life is still and perfect, and for now you can continue to remain in your peaceful bubble blissfully unaware of the dangers yet to come.

[pukefactory]

Delusional anon here!!

Could you perhaps write one on Ena (DBBQ) x touched starved reader?

Thank you so much and I LOVE your writing!!

Author’s Note

Thank you kindly, dear Anon. Hopefully this meets your expectations.

-Rush

•☽────✧˖°˖ BEAUTIFUL RUIN˖°˖✧────☾•

★ Summary: A Compilation of Headcanons Featuring Salesperson Ena X A Touched Starved Reader

★ Character(s): Salesperson Ena (Ena: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ Ena notices how you flinch at accidental touches, how your shoulders tense when someone brushes past. Her Salesperson side is intrigued, fingers twitching to grab your wrist, while her Meanie side scoffs—“What, never been touched before?” But the moment you don’t recoil, just stare at her with wide, uncertain eyes, she goes silent.

☆ “We’ve got an incredible deal today! A limited-time offer just for you—one (1) premium-quality hug, at zero cost! Act now, supplies are infinite!” Her red side grins, wiggling clawed fingers like she’s about to grab you. Meanwhile, if you don’t take the hug immediately, her Meanie side grumbles, “Just take the damn hug already.”

☆ Ena is a living contradiction, her two halves shifting between smooth and jagged, warm and cold. When she finally touches you—whether through a handshake, a playful jab, or a genuine embrace—it feels electric. Your skin prickles, the sensation lingering long after she lets go. Ena watches you, fascinated. ��You really are starving for this, huh?”

☆ The moment she realizes you like her touch, Ena becomes unbearable. “Congratulations! You’ve won a subscription to Unlimited Ena Contact! Payment is due in the form of unwavering attention and maybe a snack.” She has has no concept of personal space, draping herself over your shoulders like a living scarf.

☆ Her Meanie side refuses to sugarcoat things. “You act like touch is some rare, forbidden treasure. It’s not. People touch each other all the time. Why are you like this?” But when you look away, embarrassed, she sighs and mutters, “Fine. Come here. But tell anyone I did this and I’ll throw you into the ocean.”

☆ Ena starts treating physical affection like a high-stakes negotiation. “You need this, correct? I am willing to provide a solution. But first, let’s discuss the terms—would you prefer a pat on the head, a side hug, or the deluxe experience: the Full Ena Wraparound™?”

☆ Her Salesperson side is all firm, enthusiastic grips and playful nudges, while her Meaie side is cautious, stiff, but deeply aware of the weight of every interaction. Together, they balance each other, a messy but genuine attempt at giving you what you need.

☆ When you’re having a bad day, Ena doesn’t ask what’s wrong. She just sits next to you, her shoulder bumping against yours, letting you soak in her presence. If you lean into her, she’ll go still for a moment before wrapping her arms around you, murmuring, “It’s fine. It’s just business. No refunds, no takebacks.”

☆ Ena doesn’t get your hesitance at first, but over time, she starts recognizing the small tells—the way you hesitate before reaching out, the way your fingers curl like you’re trying to hold onto something intangible. She stops making a show of it. No more deals, no more business talk. She just holds out her hand, waiting.

☆ One day, you initiate it. A casual touch. A hand on her arm. Ena freezes, like a machine thrown into an error loop. “What. The. Hell.” But then, suddenly, she’s ecstatic—“Unexpected move! I love it!”

[nonotnolan]

No Regrets

My roommate's body keeps looking at me like I'm supposed to be making the first move. It was weird enough when my roommate and his girlfriend swapped bodies for the weekend, but the unspoken tension was starting to become unbearable. "Seriously, Tiffany, you're starting to creep me out. Don't you and Daniel have plans for tonight?"

She just smiled at me. "No plans. I'm still deciding how I want to spend my evening. Daniel, though... he's taking my body out clubbing tonight. He wants to see how many free drinks he can score, and I think he's also planning to get laid." Gross. I knew better than to say anything out loud, but my face must have given me away. "Don't be such a prude, Jeff. You know we have an open relationship."

I tugged at my collar. "I know, Tiff, I'm sorry. I just... body swaps that cross the gender line still make me uncomfortable. It feels wrong, somehow. And, I mean, technically they are illegal."

"Oh please, get over yourself," she said, tossing herself onto his bed. "Swaps over 12 hours are also illegal, but that didn't stop you from hiring someone to take your Calc exam two weeks ago. You need to learn how to relax. Not everything you were told on Sundays is true, you know. Some things aren't actually all that bad. You're only clutching your pearls because society told you that swapping genders was bad. What harm is there, as long as both people consent?"

I wanted to argue, but I knew Tiffany was absolutely correct. There wasn't anything wrong with the two of them swapping bodies outside of society telling us that men and women could only swap with other men and other women. Which... given the way that their open relationship also defied societal expectations, I suppose it wasn't too much of a surprise that the two of them thought so little about swapping like this. "You're right, and I'm sorry. I... I'm trying, really. You've heard how conservative my childhood was. It's a lot to unlearn."

"Well, maybe it's time to start unlearning," she said, beckoning me closer. "You want to know the real reason I'm still here? It's because of you, stud. I'm here to see you." Did Tiffany just call me a stud? She had to be mocking me, but I could feel myself blushing all the same.

Tiffany started to unbutton my shirt, brushing her fingers along my exposed chest as she did so. I could feel myself growing erect. Were we... were we really doing this? They were in an open relationship, after all, it wasn't like he was helping Tiffany cheat on his roommate. With his roommate? God, Swappers made things confusing.

"I've seen the way you look at Daniel," she said, rubbing a hand across the stubble on my chin. "I love the man, but he's too straight and too clueless to pick up on those stares. And honestly, I can't help but think that you're too sheltered to realize you're even doing it half the time."

"I... thought I was hiding it better," I said, trying to steady my emotions. Her fingers started to tease my nipples, leaving me squirming with raw pleasure. "I still don't know if I'm bisexual, or gay, or just... Mormon. But I didn't think it mattered. He's already in a relationship with you. What I want isn't important."

"He's in an open relationship," she said, staring at me like I was a hunk of meat to be devoured. "He's also not here right now. I'm in control of this body right now, and I want to fuck you senseless. If that's what you want too, well..." Tiffany slipped her hand inside my waistband, giving my manhood a firm squeeze that had me gasping for breath. "Tonight's a perfect night to let loose. No regrets."

I couldn't hold back anymore. I leaned in for a quick kiss, which Tiffany returned with tongue. The two of us stripped down as fast as we could, though I made certain not to let her pull me onto the bed with her. "Not on Daniel's bed," I said, dragging her over to my part of the bedroom. "His sheets reek of frat boy sweat, and I doubt he has any lube."

"I, uhh... you're alright with being on top, right?" I asked, as I handed her the bottle of lube from my nightstand. It occurred to me that we hadn't actually talked through any plans, set boundaries, or anything like that. "The way you phrased it, I'm assuming that's what you meant, I just--"

"Stop. Thinking." Seeing Daniel's face looming over me, with a look of pure lust on his face, it was everything I never knew I needed. I started rolling over onto my knees before she yelled at me. "Not like that, stay on your back. I want to see your face as I fuck you senseless."

Tiffany spent the entire time telling me exactly what to do, and it was everything I could have ever wanted. She got me lubed, eased me onto her massive manhood, and railed me like there was no tomorrow. My chest was coated in strands of my own cum, while Daniel's cum slowly leaked out of my ass. I'd never had a no-hands orgasm before, but holy hell I could not believe how amazing that felt.

"I can't believe we just did that," I said, trying to catch my breath. She responded by scooping up some of the jizz off of my torso and putting it into her mouth. She was making an entire production out of licking it off of her finger, and I could feel myself getting hard again. "So, uhh... you... you'll be in Daniel's body for the entire evening?"

"If that's your way of asking me if I'd like to fuck you again? The answer is yes," she said, giving me a wink. "Even better, we might be able to make this a weekly thing," she added, standing up to grab some towels. "I don't think I'll have to fight too hard to convince Daniel to swap. What sort of straight man doesn't enjoy having boobs?"

God, I was falling for her so hard. What had I gotten myself into? Life was going to be a long, awkward hell once my roommate was back in his own body. And yet... I had to admit, I had no regrets.

[usualsworld]

A Dance of Thorns

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x Reader ༊*·˚

Warnings: cheating; adultery; smut fight; makeup sex; slight dark Anthony Bridgerton; implied age gap; period-typical sexism.

Word Count: 6,000+

Inspired by gothicquill 

Trapped in a marriage of duty rather than love, the Viscountess Bridgerton finds herself locked in a silent war with her husband, Anthony. Once, there had been respect — now, only cold stares and cruel words remain. But when a late-night confrontation spirals into something far more dangerous, buried truths and unspoken desires begin to unravel.

Seated in the dimly lit bedroom, you feel the crushing weight of your title – Viscountess Bridgerton. Once, it had been an honor, a purpose. Now, it feels like a prison. The distance between you and Anthony has grown into an abyss, neither of you daring to bridge it. Nights stretch long and lonely, your marriage reduced to obligation and cold pleasantries.

The door swings open with force, the hinges protesting under Anthony’s impatience. He steps inside, the flickering candlelight casting harsh shadows across his face – tired, frustrated, yet unreadable in that way he has perfected.

"You’re still up?" His voice is clipped, edged with something dangerously close to disdain. He pulls off his gloves with slow, deliberate motions, his eyes never leaving yours. "One would think a Viscountess would have better sense than to waste her time waiting for a husband who clearly has enough burdens without adding to them. Or do you have something pressing to say? More grievances, perhaps?"

You lift your head from where it had been resting against your knees, your body still trembling from earlier sobs. But the sorrow fades as his words settle in. Too cold. Too cruel. Too much.

Anger replaces grief, sharp.

You push yourself to your feet, wiping at your face as if scrubbing away the last traces of vulnerability.

"Oh, forgive me, my lord," you bite out, the title twisted into something venomous. "Forgive me for wanting to lay eyes on my husband, if only for the briefest of moments before he disappears again into whatever… obligations keep him so very occupied."

Anthony stills, his expression impassive – but you know better. You see the flicker of tension in his shoulders, the minute clench of his jaw. He knows exactly what you mean.

Your marriage had never been one of love. That was no secret. It had been arranged, convenient, expected. But at the very least, there had been respect.

Once.

Now, there is nothing but silence, suspicion, and resentment.

Anthony exhales sharply, shaking his head. "Spare me the dramatics." He steps closer, slow and measured, like a predator sizing up prey. His gaze is unreadable – cold and calculating, yet laced with something far more dangerous.

"You knew what this was from the beginning," he says, his voice low but weighted. "Affection was never a requirement. Duty, however, is. Or have you suddenly forgotten the role you so readily accepted?"

The words cut deep, but you refuse to let him see it.

A bitter laugh escapes you, though there is no amusement in it. "Readily accepted?" you echo, incredulous. "I was a child, Anthony. A child promised to a man with power enough to shape my entire future before I could even dream of choosing it for myself."

His expression flickers, something shifting in his eyes. But it’s gone before you can name it, replaced by that same indifferent mask.

Your hands tremble, but you refuse to back down.

"You had a choice," you push, your voice rising. "You, with all your influence, all your control. If this arrangement was such an unbearable weight, you could have ended it. But you didn’t."

His jaw tightens, and you know you’ve struck a nerve.

"So don’t you dare stand there," you seethe, stepping closer now, "and act as if you are merely a victim of circumstance. You made your choices, Anthony."

Anthony’s jaw clenches tighter, his chest heaving with restrained emotion. The anger he felt moments ago shifts into something more complex, something he can’t quite identify. Your words sting, cutting through the layers of indifference he has built around himself.

He looks at you – really looks at you – and sees the exhaustion in your eyes, the frustration in your clenched fists. He sees the person he married, the one who stood by his side through the years, even when things were far from easy.

You lower your head as soon as the words leave your lips, your breath unsteady. But before you can retreat into yourself, his hand tilts your chin up once more.

Your gaze meets his, locking onto the dark depths of his eyes. Your own irises glisten, tears pooling but refusing to fall. They are born from too much – sadness, anger, exhaustion, frustration.

He watches you, his expression unreadable. There is no sharp retort, no immediate rebuttal. Just a steady, almost contemplative calm in his eyes, as if weighing something unspoken between you both.

You bite your lower lip, the silence stretching too long, too heavy. Waiting.

Waiting for him to say something. Anything.

Anthony’s fingers caress your chin, the touch surprisingly gentle, in contrast to the fire in your earlier exchange. He watches you intently, his gaze never leaving yours, and for a moment, just a moment, the intensity in his eyes falters.

Then, his thumb brushes the corner of your lip, smoothing over the indentation left by your teeth. The gesture is an unconscious one, born from something he doesn’t quite understand himself.

He opens his mouth, his throat feeling tight with emotion, and murmurs, "Why must you always challenge me?"

"You are the Viscount," you say plainly, your voice steady, unwavering. "If I don’t challenge you, no one else will have the courage to."

You hold his gaze, refusing to back down.

"I am simply fulfilling my role as a wife, husband," you say, your voice steady, almost matter-of-fact.

"So, that’s the only reason, then?" he asks, his thumb still tracing your lower lip with surprising tenderness. He seems almost in a trance, his gaze fixed intently on your mouth.

He leans imperceptibly closer, his voice lowering to a whisper. "Is it fun? Driving me up the wall? Testing my limits?"

"I manage the household. I tend to our guests. I handle the simpler matters. I build connections. And I…"– you tilt your head slightly, as if stating the most obvious fact in the world – "I challenge you."

Your words hang between you, deliberate, undeniable.

He freezes, his jaw tensing, his nostrils flaring. There it is, out in the open, his most shameful secret. His chest heaves, his body rigid, caught off guard by your unexpected mention of his indiscretions.

"If I didn’t, you would live comfortably on your pedestal of certainties. You would continue treating me like nothing. And you would keep spending your nights with whores."

You spit the last word like venom, sharp and cutting, daring him to deny it.

His hand falls from your chin, clenching into a tight fist by his side. For a moment, he doesn’t respond, the silence in the room palpable, charged with something he can’t quite name.

When he speaks, his voice is low, rough with barely controlled emotion. "What, did you think I was going to deny it?"

"Of course not. Why would you deny it?" you say, almost amused. "It’s the truth, and everyone knows it."

You shrug, feigning indifference – though you both know better.

"When I attend afternoon tea with the other ladies, Anthony, they all talk about it."

You tilt your head, watching him, watching for the flicker of something – guilt, irritation, anything. But he gives you nothing.

"Everyone knows the great Viscount Bridgerton works tirelessly, and when he isn’t working, he’s fucking whores."

The words are laced with mockery, punctuated by a humorless laugh.

"You think I don’t smell it? That I don’t see the marks on your neck?"

Before he can step away, you reach up, your fingers gripping his collar. In one swift motion, you yank it aside, forcing him to stumble – just slightly.

Even you are surprised by your own strength.

As his shirt is suddenly jerked to the side, Anthony stumbles forward, his body colliding against yours. He catches himself in the nick of time, his hands braced against the wall, trapping you between him and the stone. His chest rises and falls under your touch, his breathing labored and ragged.

"You seem awfully preoccupied with my…escapades," he bites out, his tone sharp, his eyes glittering with unsuppressed anger. "Are you jealous?"

"Me? Jealous?" You tilt your head slightly, your eyes darkening as a slow, knowing smile curls on your lips. "Don’t worry, husband… a mutual betrayal doesn’t hurt."

You bite your lower lip, watching him, daring him to react.

It’s a bluff, of course. But Anthony is barely home for more than five hours a day – how could he possibly know the truth?

Two can play this game.

His eyes flash darkly, your words hitting him square in the chest. "Mutual."

His gaze flickers down to your mouth, his own lip curling into a sardonic smile. He leans in closer, his body pressing against yours, pinning you between the wall and his unyielding frame.

"You expect me to believe that you’ve been unfaithful all these years?" he asks, his tone dripping with doubt.

His hands move to your waist, his fingers digging into your skin, possessive and demanding. "Or are you just bluffing, wife?"

"However, husband…"

"I don’t expect you to believe anything," you say sweetly, tilting your head ever so slightly, your eyes wide, innocent – dove eyes. "You’re free to believe whatever you like."

Your voice is light, almost playful. But then –

Your expression shifts, the softness melting away like a mask slipping from your face. Your eyes narrow, sharp as a blade, the look of a woman who knows exactly where to strike.

"Before I was a Viscountess, I was a Marquess," you remind him, your tone softer now, but no less dangerous. "My family is wealthier than yours. And if there’s one thing I never run out of, it’s connections… and money."

The words spill from your lips like a secret shared between friends, a quiet whisper laced with something dark, something dangerous.

Then, you feel it – his grip tightening at your waist.

There it is. The seed of doubt, the tiniest crack in his unshakable confidence.

Your words echo in the silence, and he stiffens. No. He couldn’t possibly believe that you had taken a lover, could he? And yet, the image of you with another man – any other man – makes him see red.

He grips you tighter, his fingers bruising your skin, but he doesn’t care. That possessive part of him, the one he tries to keep contained, is rearing its ugly head. He hates the idea of another man with you, just as you hate the idea of him with any other woman.

The tension between you is like a taut wire, stretched thin, ready to snap. His chest heaves, his heart pounding with a mix of possessive anger and denial.

"Are you telling me you’ve been using your connections and money to… what exactly?" he growls, his voice low, barely above a whisper. "Is this your way of getting back at me? By paying someone to warm your bed while I’m away? By betraying me just as I have betrayed you?"

You merely shrug in response, offering nothing but a sharp, ironic smile. Then, without warning, you press your hands against his shoulders and shove.

He isn’t expecting it.

Anthony stumbles backward, the force sending him down onto the bed behind him. A rare moment of vulnerability – one you savor.

Now, you stand before him, tall, unyielding. But you don’t stay there for long.

Slowly, you lean down, lowering yourself to his level, your face inches from his.

"Let this be a reminder, husband," you murmur, your voice silk wrapped around steel. "If you are venom, I can be the very viper itself."

Your lips curve into something between a smirk and a warning.

"Don't test me."

The sudden shift in power dynamics leaves him reeling. He finds himself on the bed, pinned beneath your gaze, his breath catching in his throat as you hover over him, your face mere inches away.

He opens his mouth to retort, his usual sharp tongue ready with a scathing response, but your words silence him.

"Vixen," he mutters, his tone a mix of begrudging reverence and irritation.

He knows it. This woman, the woman he married, the woman he calls his wife, is a viper in disguise. Sharp. Dangerous.

"I’ll be sleeping in the other room," you say casually, as if the last few minutes hadn’t just been a battlefield.

Rising to your full height, you turn on your heel and stride toward the door. When you swing it open, you’re met with the wide-eyed stares of several servants – clearly caught in the act of eavesdropping.

Their eyes go wide in panic, and they immediately scatter, hurrying away as if they hadn’t been standing there, hanging on to every word. You watch them for a beat before letting out a short, amused laugh.

Still, a thought lingers at the back of your mind – Had you gone too far?

You had just all but confessed to adultery, a bold-faced lie, but one that Anthony doesn’t know is a lie. And knowing him, he will not let it rest. He will dig, search, turn the entire ton upside down in pursuit of this phantom lover.

Oh well. A problem for another day.

You lift a hand and beckon one of the maids forward with a single finger. The poor girl hesitates before approaching, eyes downcast, as if terrified of being caught in the crossfire.

"Prepare the guest room at the end of the hall for me," you order smoothly.

Meanwhile, Anthony feels a strange mixture of disbelief, irritation, and… something else. Something more primal, more possessive.

"Like hell you are." He gets to his feet, his gaze following you as you walk toward the door, his eyes dark and intent. He barely registers the scattered servants, too focused on you.

When you turn and order the servants to prepare the guest room, Anthony bristles. No. You aren’t doing this, not tonight. Not tonight after that conversation.

He stalks after you, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the hallway. "You’re not leaving this room." His hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist. He whirls you around, your back colliding against the bedroom door. The force of it sends a sharp jolt up your arm, but it is nothing compared to the way your heart is racing now.

His grip is firm – borderline painful – and his expression is dark, his jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle twitching there. His body is close, too close, trapping you against the door, trapping you in him.

"Yes, I am leaving, Mr. Bridgerton," you say, your voice steady despite the shock flickering in your eyes.

Your heart stumbles over a beat – you hadn’t expected him to grab you. Let alone throw you back against the wall.

For a brief moment, you simply stare at him, processing the sudden shift.

"I’ve already asked Clara" – the maid you had summoned – "to prepare the room for me."

Your tone is cool, as if stating the obvious. As if his grip on your arm, the way his body towers over yours, is of no consequence. "There is nothing more for us to discuss tonight."

Anthony’s grip tightens, his free hand slamming down on the wall beside your head, effectively caging you in. His brown eyes are stormy, filled with a mix of anger, frustration, and something else, something dangerous. He leans in, his lips hovering dangerously close to your ear.

"Oh, there’s more to discuss," he growls, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine. "And we’re not finished until I say we are."

While Anthony continues his performance, Clara – poor Clara – remains frozen, eyes wide in fear. You neither move nor breathe, trapped between the two most relentless forces in this house.

The Viscount and the Viscountess.

Two worlds colliding.

You exhale sharply, throwing your head back in frustration before shooting a sharp look at the petrified maid.

"You may go. You’re dismissed for the night," you order, your voice rigid but controlled. No need to turn this into an even bigger spectacle.

Because by morning, the city will be buzzing – whispers of the scandalous Viscountess Bridgerton and her alleged affair, rumors of how her husband laid hands on her in a fit of rage.

Wonderful. Just wonderful.

The moment Clara disappears, your attention shifts back to Anthony. Your gaze is pure fire – dark, untamed – like a predator watching its prey.

His body becomes a barrier against yours, blocking any chance of escape.

"So tell me, husband," you taunt, your voice as cold as a sharpened blade. "What else is there to discuss?"

Anthony’s eyes burn, ignited by your provocation. Without hesitation, he steps forward, eliminating the last shred of space between you, pressing his body against yours. He can feel the frantic beat of your heart, can taste your resistance.

"You really want to know, wife?" His voice drops to a deep timbre, a low growl vibrating through you.

The hand that once braced against the wall slides up to your cheek, a surprisingly gentle touch, completely at odds with the fury in his eyes.

"Then let me make it very clear for you…"

His fingers trace a slow path down your neck, a touch so light, so careful it almost contradicts the fierce hunger in his gaze.

You bite your lip, swallowing the gasp that threatens to escape. No, you will not give him that satisfaction.

"You," he pauses, savoring the moment, watching the way your breath stutters, how your chest rises and falls unevenly, "are not sleeping in the guest room tonight."

His hand drifts to your waist, possessive, determined. His thumb grazes the sliver of exposed skin in your nightgown.

"You’ll be sleeping in my bed."

Your eyes narrow, laced with judgment as they meet his.

"Now, you want me." Your smirk lands like a sharp slap.

"Funny," you murmur, your voice laced with mockery. "Not too long ago, you wouldn’t even think of touching me. But now that you think another man has…"

You lean in, defiant, even with his grip restricting your movements.

"You’re pathetic, Viscount."

His fingers tighten on your hip – a silent warning to watch your words. He’s teetering on the edge, patience wearing thin, worn down by every sharp-edged provocation. He’s not used to this – not to being challenged, to being resisted. And, damn it, as much as it infuriates him… it also excites him.

A low, dangerous chuckle slips from his lips.

"Oh, pathetic, am I?" He leans in, his mouth hovering over yours. "Let’s see who’ll be pathetic tonight, wife."

His fingers slide to your chin, forcing you to look at him. His face dips, nose brushing along the side of your neck as he breathes you in, inhaling your scent like a drug.

"You think you can just accuse me, challenge me, and I’ll let you go?" His whisper brushes against your ear, hot, laced with a quiet threat.

"Oh no, darling." His voice drips with arrogance. "You won’t get rid of me that easily."

His fingers glide from your face to your hair, tangling in the soft strands before giving a sharp tug, forcing you to expose your throat.

Before you can react, his lips claim your skin – teeth grazing, bites marking, just enough to steal your breath.

He doesn’t stop.

His mouth carves a burning path, invisible marks seared into your skin, as if branding you with a single truth: Mine.

You bite your lower lip, fighting to keep any sound at bay. But it’s useless.

Because he knows.

He always knows.

He feels the way your body trembles, the way your breath shudders. A satisfied smile ghosts over his lips as he presses a kiss to the pulse point in your throat.

"You can pretend all you want, wife," he murmurs, voice thick with possession.

His lips trail along your skin, his hand slowly traveling up your body, a touch balancing between tenderness and dominance. "But I know the truth."

A gasp escapes you, involuntary, tangled with a whisper.

"I hate you…"

You breathe it out between ragged sighs, your eyes fluttering shut against the pleasure. Your hand moves to his right shoulder, fingers finding rigid, tense muscles beneath them.

And he laughs.

And then, without hesitation, you dig your nails in.

Low, rough.

Like a man who has already won.

A sharp, stifled hiss escapes Anthony's lips, the pain blending seamlessly with pleasure. Your nails, digging into his skin, only fuel his desire. His grip on your hair tightens, pulling just enough to make you gasp.

"Hate me? No, darling," he murmurs, his voice thick with need as his lips resume their slow, tormenting assault on your neck. "You can try, but you will fail. We both know you can't resist me any more than I can resist you."

The sharp pull on your scalp intensifies, the sting spreading like fire. The pain – blistering, exquisite – sends a jolt straight through you. A moan tumbles past your lips, raw and unbidden, your body betraying you.

He knows you. He knows you've always liked a little pain.

Your hips move instinctively, rolling forward, meeting his. The friction, the heat – it’s intoxicating. His body, firm and unyielding, presses against yours, and through the thin fabric of your nightgown, you feel everything.

Anthony exhales sharply, his grip on your waist turning possessive, his fingers sinking into your skin. His free hand slides up, resting just below your ribs, anchoring you to him. His forehead nearly brushes yours as his dark eyes, wild and smoldering, lock onto your own.

"You want me, don't you?" His voice is a low rasp, teasing, taunting. "You can deny it all you want, love, but your body betrays you."

"Oh, really?" His voice is still low, dark. "You actually think you just want me for pleasure?" His lips hover over yours, his breath hot against your skin. "You think I don’t see through you? Through this cold, detached façade you cling to so desperately?"

Your jaw clenches at the pet name, anger flashing in your eyes. "I want you the same way I want others." Your voice is sharp, cutting, meant to wound. "Only for my pleasure."

The words hit him like a challenge. His fingers flex against your hip, his grip tightening just enough to remind you of his strength.

The loose neckline of your nightgown shifts dangerously, fabric slipping, baring more than intended. You bite your lip, gaze locked onto his, refusing to let him see just how much this – he – is affecting you.

He moves swiftly. Before you can react, his hands capture your wrists, pushing them above your head, pinning them against the wall.

Your breath stutters.

His eyes flicker downward, darkening as they take in your disheveled hair, your flushed cheeks, the way your chest rises and falls unevenly. He drinks in the sight of you – vulnerable, defiant, completely at his mercy.

"What are you going to do now, Mr. Bridgerton?" You ask, your voice laced with defiance, deliberately refusing to call him husband, refusing to call him Anthony.

The way you say his name – or rather, the way you refuse to – sparks something dangerous inside him.

His jaw tics.

"Now?" he growls, his voice rough, thick with frustration and something deeper, something unspoken.

"Now, I'm going to remind you who you belong to."

Before you can respond, his hands leave your wrists only to seize your waist in an iron grip. In one swift movement, he lifts you, carrying you across the room with long, determined strides.

The door slams shut behind him with a forceful kick of his boot.

You barely have time to process before you feel your back collide with the mattress, the air leaving your lungs in a sharp gasp. The irony isn’t lost on you – look how the tables have turned.

You push yourself up onto your elbows, your breath uneven, your pulse wild. Your gaze meets his, and in that moment, nothing else exists.

His gaze is dark and unrelenting as he takes a lingering moment to drink her in – disheveled, flushed, sprawled out across their bed. The sight of her like this, breathless and defiant, only feeds something primal inside him, a hunger sharpened by the way she looks at him with both defiance and undeniable want.

He steps forward, slow and deliberate, his body taut with tension, every movement exuding dominance. "You think you’re in control, sweetheart?" His voice is a low growl, smooth and dangerous. "You’re not. Not here. Not in my bed."

His hands move with practiced ease, undoing his belt without ever breaking eye contact. The sharp sound of leather sliding free from the loops cuts through the air, a silent warning. He lets it drop to the floor carelessly before rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, exposing his forearms, his movements precise and methodical. His fingers work deftly at the buttons of his shirt, revealing golden skin and hard muscle beneath.

You shift, rubbing one thigh against the other, the sight of him – unraveling, controlled yet lethal – sending a rush of heat through you. He is effortlessly beautiful, intoxicating in the way only a man who knows his own power can be.

He steps to the edge of the bed, towering over his wife, looking every bit the predator you refuse to admit that you want. His voice is deep, unwavering.

You part your lips, dragging your teeth over your lower one as you exhale through your nose, your expression shifting into something smug, defiant. You want to obey, to let yourself sink into the moment, but the idea of handing him that victory so easily is unbearable.

"Lose the nightgown." It is not a request. It is a command.

"If you really think I –" A gasp rips from her throat, sharp and unbidden.

Anthony’s patience has never been his strong suit. He moves without warning, his fingers catching on the delicate fabric of your nightgown and tearing it apart as if it were paper, the sound of shredding fabric filling the air.

His eyes are feral, burning with possession as he discards the ruined silk, his body moving over you, his presence all-consuming. He leans down, his lips hovering just above yours, his breath mingling with your own.

"You were saying, love?" His voice is silk and steel, rough with amusement and something deeper.

You barely have time to react before he presses against you, forcing you down against the mattress, his warmth searing against your bare skin. The solid weight of him steals your breath, leaving you utterly trapped beneath him.

"You’re unbelievable," you breathe, your pulse hammering, your body betraying the irritation you try to hold onto. Even now, you can’t believe he had the audacity to rip your nightgown.

Anthony smirks, leaning in ever so slightly, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

"Oh, darling." His voice is velvet-wrapped sin, deep and knowing. "You haven’t seen anything yet."

"You love it," he growls, his mouth moving to your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "You love it when I’m like this – out of control, consumed with desire."

With deliberate slowness, he parts your legs, positioning himself between them, his movements filled with intent. You feel his hardness through the thin fabric between you, and despite yourself, a breathless sound escapes your lips.

He presses his body even more against yours, leaving no space between them. The feel of her skin against his is a delicious torture, only fueling the fire between them. His hand moves up your arm, his touch both possessive and tender.

Your fingers instinctively find their way to the back of his neck, gripping onto him like he's the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

"Fu– fuck..." you whisper, eyes fluttering closed.

A low chuckle rumbles from deep in his chest. "No need to hold back, sweetheart," he breathes against your ear. "I want to hear every little sound you make for me."

"You think you can fight this? Fight me?" His voice is dark, laced with amusement. His lips graze your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. "But we both know the truth, don’t we?"

His lips return to your neck, teasing, biting – just enough to leave a mark. One hand holds yours above your head, effortlessly pinning you in place, while the other explores your body, tracing slow, burning lines down your sides.

You inhale sharply, refusing to give in, refusing to let him see just how much he's unraveling you. But Anthony is nothing if not relentless. He knows every tell, every weakness, every unspoken desire.

"Say it," he murmurs, his tone softer now but no less commanding. "Say what we both already know."

You still shake your head, refusing to answer. His hand then goes to your panties, wrapping his hand around them and giving a strong pull, ripping the fabric in one go.

Anthony’s eyes lock onto yours, his gaze dark and smoldering with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. He can see the desire burning within you, evident in the way your breath hitches and your chest rises and falls with each shallow inhale. But he doesn’t just want to see it – he wants to hear it. He needs you to admit it, to confess that you are his, completely and irrevocably.

He leans in closer, his warm breath brushing against the shell of your ear, sending a wave of heat through your body. His lips hover mere millimeters away, teasing, as his voice drops to a low, commanding growl. "Say it," he demands, his tone leaving no room for defiance. "Say you're mine."

Without warning, he guides himself inside you in one swift, confident motion, filling you completely. Your head falls back instinctively, a sharp cry of pleasure escaping your lips as he grips your hips, pulling you against him with a possessive urgency. Holy shit, you think, your mind spinning as the sensation overwhelms you.

Your eyes roll back, your body trembling under his touch. It had been too long since you’d last been together like this, too long since you’d felt this kind of raw, unbridled connection. The ache of his absence had been unbearable, and now, with him so close, so deep inside you, it’s as if every nerve in your body is alight with electricity.

Anthony is lost in you, his movements deliberate and rhythmic, a dance that is both familiar and exhilaratingly new. It’s been far too long since he’s felt this way, since he’s been able to lose himself in the warmth of your body, in the way you respond to him so perfectly. In this moment, there is no doubt – you are his, and he is yours, bound together in a way that transcends time.

His lips find your neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the sensitive skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. His hands roam your body with a possessive hunger, mapping every curve, every inch of you, as if committing you to memory all over again.

"You're mine," he murmurs against your skin, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble that reverberates through you. "Only mine. Always."

"Fuck, fuck, fuck..." You repeat the words under your breath, your mind spinning, completely lost in the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body. You can’t think straight, can’t focus on anything but the way Anthony makes you feel – consumed, possessed, utterly his.

"I'm- I'm yours, Anthony," you manage to say, your voice trembling, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Beads of sweat trickle down your forehead, your body trembling from the intensity of it all. Even in this state of blissful delirium, you muster the strength to shoot him a defiant, accusatory look, as if daring him to deny it.

"And you are mine..." you whisper, your eyes locking with his, the intensity of your gaze mirroring the fire in his.

"Absolutely, love," he growls, his voice low and rough, his dark eyes burning with a desire that threatens to consume you both. His hands tighten on your hips, his touch possessive, his body responding to every movement, every breath you take.

"You're mine," he repeats, his voice deeper, more commanding than before. "And I'm yours. Completely and utterly."

He rolls you over effortlessly, pulling you on top of him. His hands grip your hips firmly, guiding your movements as if you weigh nothing more than a feather. Your legs feel weak, shaky from the pleasure coursing through you, but Anthony holds you steady, his strong hands keeping you in place. You know you’ll feel the marks of his touch tomorrow, and the thought sends a shiver down your spine.

Your body moves with his, your breasts rising and falling with each breath, each motion. Sweat glides down your neck, tracing a path along your collarbone and down your chest, leaving your skin glistening like a rare jewel under the dim light.

The two of you are close, so close to the edge, and Anthony’s hand slides down to your ass, gripping it tightly, pulling you even closer to him. He sets a relentless pace, his body moving in perfect sync with yours, guiding you in a rhythm you couldn’t possibly follow on your own.

Your body responds to his every touch, your skin flushed and hot, your moans escaping your lips unbidden. You’re at his mercy, completely under his control, and yet it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

He lifts you higher, bringing you closer to him, his eyes never leaving yours. The intensity of his gaze is almost too much to bear, but you can’t look away. He bites your lip, a sharp, possessive gesture that sends a jolt of pleasure through you.

"Say it again," he growls, his voice strained, his body taut like a coiled spring ready to snap. "Say I'm yours."

"You're mine, Anthony. Mine. And I'm yours..." you whisper, your voice weak, your eyes fluttering shut as the pleasure threatens to overwhelm you.

The moment the words leave your lips, he lets out a deep, guttural groan, and you cry out in ecstasy, your voices mingling as you both reach your peak together. Your head falls back, your body trembling as waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you breathless and spent.

You collapse against his chest, your ear pressed to his skin, listening to the rapid thud of his heartbeat. His arms wrap around you, holding you close as you both try to catch your breath. He’s still inside you, his body slowly relaxing, but the connection between you remains, unbroken and undeniable.

You can’t form words, can’t think of anything but the way his heart beats against your ear, steady and strong. In this moment, there’s nothing else – just you and Anthony, bound together in every way that matters.

He feels your body go limp on top of him, your head resting gently on his chest as both of your bodies slowly relax, the tension melting away. His arms encircle you, pulling you tightly against him, his heart still racing from the intensity of the moment. The warmth of your skin against his is intoxicating, and he can’t help but savor the way you fit perfectly in his embrace.

He looks down at you, his gaze sweeping over your disheveled hair, the soft flush that colors your cheeks, and the delicate sheen of sweat that glistens on your skin. You are a vision to him – utterly breathtaking, a beautiful mess that he can’t tear his eyes away from. His fingers brush a stray lock of hair from your face, his touch tender and reverent.

Gently, he lifts your chin, urging you to meet his eyes. His voice is soft but firm, filled with a possessiveness that sends a shiver down your spine. "You're mine," he repeats, his gaze never wavering from yours, as if he’s trying to imprint the words into your very soul.

You don’t respond immediately, letting the silence stretch between you for a few more moments. Then, unexpectedly, you begin to laugh – a soft, almost incredulous sound that grows louder, more unrestrained. It’s as if you can’t contain it, the laughter bubbling up from deep within you.

"I lied..." you confess, your laughter softening into a sly smile. Your voice is low, almost teasing, as you continue, "I don’t have a lover. I just wanted to make you mad." You bite your lip, a mix of shame and pride flickering across your face, as if you’re both embarrassed by your admission and delighted by the effect it had on him.

But then your expression shifts, the playfulness fading into something more serious. You raise your head higher, your eyes locking with his, and there’s a challenge in your gaze. "But if you keep looking for other women," you say, your voice steady and firm, "I won’t hesitate to do the same."

The room seems to grow quieter, the weight of your words hanging in the air between you. Anthony’s grip on you tightens almost imperceptibly, his jaw clenching as he processes what you’ve just said. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes – surprise, perhaps, or maybe even a hint of admiration for your boldness. But above all, there’s a fierce determination, as if your words have only solidified his resolve.

"You won’t have to," he murmurs, his voice low and intense. His hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin in a gesture that’s both possessive and tender. "Because now there’s no one else for me but you."

[batboysanonymous]

Bird in a Cage (Extended Version)

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Grief turned Y/N into a ghost of herself, drowning in the unbearable silence of a bond that should have shattered—unaware that her mate still breathed, just beyond her reach.

The City of Starlight was quieter without him.

Not the kind of quiet that soothed, but the kind that suffocated.

Velaris had always been a sanctuary—a beacon of warmth carved from darkness. The place Azriel had loved most in the world, the place where they had built a life together, where his laughter—so rare, so precious—had once melted into the hum of the city.

Now, it was a tomb.

Y/N barely recognized herself anymore.

The mirror reflected a ghost.

Her skin, once kissed by the sun, had paled into something colorless, something brittle. Her lips—Azriel had always traced them with his fingers, with his mouth, worshipped them like they were made of stardust—were chapped, cracked from the relentless winter air she no longer cared to shield herself from.

But her eyes—her eyes were the worst.

They had once been filled with fire. They had burned when she was angry, glowed when she laughed, softened when Azriel looked at her like she was his entire world.

Now, they were empty.

Hollowed.

Dulled by grief.

The bond—it was the cruelest thing of all.

It should have broken.

The moment he died, it should have shattered inside her like glass, the way everyone said it would.

But it hadn’t.

Instead, it had gone quiet.

Not severed. Not gone. Just… silent.

She should have felt it snap, should have felt something inside her tear apart at the moment his heart stopped beating. But she hadn’t.

And she hated that she hadn’t.

Because it left her with questions.

With doubt.

With a tiny, traitorous whisper in the back of her mind that refused to believe he was truly gone.

A whisper that tormented her in the darkest hours of the night.

When she woke, gasping, chest heaving, reaching out for something—someone—who wasn’t there.

When she swore she could feel the ghost of his presence lingering in the room, the faintest whisper of his scent curling through the air.

When her soul still ached, as if something tethered it to a mate that no longer existed.

But that was just grief, wasn’t it?

The way it twisted things. The way it made you believe in impossibilities.

Her mate.

Her husband.

Her best friend.

Gone.

She curled further into the window seat, a thick blanket draped over her shoulders, though it did nothing to warm her. She didn’t feel warmth anymore.

Beyond the glass, Velaris glittered under the night sky, so full of life.

The Sidra River shimmered beneath the glow of the city’s lights. Laughter echoed through the streets, the faint melody of a string quartet drifting from a café near the water. Couples strolled hand in hand, shadows twining together beneath the lanterns.

It was all the same.

As if the world had not ended.

As if Azriel had not died.

As if everything had not been ripped apart at the seams.

It was unbearable.

───────────────────────────────

“Y/N.”

The voice was soft. Careful.

Rhysand.

She didn’t turn to look at him.

She knew how he saw her.

Knew what he was thinking.

That she was slipping away.

That she had already slipped too far.

“I brought you dinner.”

She swallowed.

Her gaze flickered to the plate he placed on the small table beside her.

Her favorite meal.

She had no appetite.

She hadn’t for weeks.

“Eat,” Rhys pressed, lowering himself into the armchair across from her.

She didn’t.

His sigh was barely more than a breath.

“Feyre is worried about you,” he said carefully. “We all are.”

Her jaw tightened.

Her jaw tightened, the tendons in her neck pulled taut as if they might snap under the weight of the silence between them.

Rhysand didn’t look away.

“Y/N…” His voice was quiet. Careful.

Like he was afraid she might break.

She clenched her fists beneath the blanket, nails digging into her palms so hard she half-expected to draw blood. Maybe she wanted to. Maybe she wanted to feel something that wasn’t this hollow, gnawing ache in her chest.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she said, her voice flat, lifeless.

Another beat of silence. A pause thick with things unsaid.

Then, carefully—too carefully—

“The bond hasn’t broken.”

The words landed like a knife between her ribs.

Her breath hitched.

She went utterly still.

For a moment, the sounds of Velaris—the distant hum of laughter, the faint notes of music drifting from a tavern, the rustling of the wind against the glass—faded into nothing.

She hadn’t told him that.

Hadn’t told anyone.

Because it was impossible.

Because it wasn’t supposed to be this way.

The bond should have shattered the second Azriel took his last breath. Should have ripped itself from her, leaving only a gaping, unbearable emptiness in its wake. That was what happened when one mate lost the other. That was what she had expected—the pain, the tearing, the finality of it.

But there had been no breaking.

No shattering.

Only silence.

A cruel, hollow silence that left her questioning everything.

“I don’t know why,” she admitted after a long moment, her voice hoarse, frayed at the edges. “I should have—felt it. When he—”

The word stuck in her throat like poison.

She couldn’t say it.

Couldn’t force it past the raw, aching knot in her chest.

Rhys didn’t press her.

Didn’t finish the sentence for her.

But he didn’t look surprised, either.

The realization sent a chill down her spine.

She turned her head slowly, her eyes locking onto his for the first time in days.

Violet met Y/E/C.

Something flickered there.

Something off.

Something withholding.

A flicker of hesitation. A fleeting flash of guilt.

“… What?” she rasped.

Rhysand shook his head. Too quickly. “Nothing.”

It was a lie.

She could see it in the way his throat bobbed, in the way his fingers twitched before stilling, in the way his power coiled subtly around him as if bracing for something.

Rhysand was many things.

A High Lord. A brother. A friend.

But above all, he was a master of deception.

She had seen him weave lies with silken ease, had watched him manipulate and maneuver people like a game of chess—always three steps ahead, always knowing exactly what pieces to move and when.

And now, he was lying to her.

She should have pressed him. Should have torn the truth from his lips, demanded to know why.

But she didn’t.

Because if he was lying—if he was hiding something—she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

Because the truth, whatever it was, could be worse than the lie she had been living in.

So she let it go.

She had no more energy to fight.

And that night, when she closed her eyes, the dream came again.

Azriel.

Standing just beyond the veil of shadows, his hazel eyes locked onto hers.

He never spoke.

Never moved.

Just watched.

And she—she always ran toward him.

Always reached for him.

But the moment her fingers brushed his—

He disappeared.

Vanishing into smoke.

The loss of him—again—ripped through her like a blade.

She woke with a start, gasping, her body shaking, drenched in sweat.

Her hands fisted in the sheets, her breath coming in ragged, shallow bursts.

And the bond—

It was there.

Faint. Muted.

Like something was blocking it.

Her heart slammed against her ribs, a frantic, erratic rhythm.

No.

No, she was imagining it.

This was what grief did.

It twisted things.

Warped reality.

Made you believe in impossibilities.

Azriel was dead.

The bond hadn’t broken.

And she would never know why.

───────────────────────────────

Cassian slammed his fists against Rhysand’s desk so hard the wood cracked.

“You have to tell her.”

Rhys barely flinched. He remained seated, fingers steepled, his expression unreadable. The picture of calm. But Cassian knew better.

There was a storm brewing beneath that composed mask.

“I will tell her when the time is right,” Rhys said evenly.

Cassian barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. “The time was weeks ago. Do you even see her, Rhys? Do you see what she’s become?”

Rhys’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

So Cassian pressed forward, his wings flaring, barely able to keep his rage in check. “She’s withering. She doesn’t eat. She doesn’t sleep. She stares out that fucking window like she’s waiting for death to come collect her.” His voice dropped, turned guttural, desperate. “She is not surviving this. And you are letting it happen.”

Rhys’s violet eyes flashed.

“I am protecting her.”

Cassian slammed his hands down again. “From what? From knowing her mate is alive? From knowing the truth?”

Rhys stood, slow and measured, his power pressing against the room, dark and furious. “From false hope.”

Cassian scoffed. “False—” He let out a sharp breath, dragging his hands through his hair. “She feels the bond, Rhys. She knows something isn’t right. You think you’re protecting her, but all you’re doing is destroying her.”

Rhys’s fingers curled into fists.

“She deserves the truth,” Mor said quietly from the doorway.

Cassian turned, startled to see her standing there, her golden eyes lined with pain.

Mor never took his side over Rhys’s.

And yet—

“She’s drowning,” Mor continued, stepping forward, folding her arms tightly over her chest. “And you’re letting her.”

Something flickered across Rhys’s face—guilt, maybe. Regret.

He closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling through his nose.

Then—

“I will tell her.”

Cassian didn’t release the breath he was holding. Not yet.

“When?” he demanded.

Rhys hesitated.

Cassian’s blood boiled. “Not when it’s convenient for you, Rhys. Now.”

Rhys opened his mouth—

And then, the sound of footsteps echoed through the River House.

The three of them turned.

Y/N stood at the threshold, her face pale, her eyes dull but watchful.

Cassian’s stomach dropped.

How much had she heard?

He didn’t have to wonder for long.

“You’re hiding something,” she said.

Not a question.

Rhys went still.

Cassian swallowed hard, his throat thick.

“Y/N—”

She turned her gaze on Rhys, cutting off whatever weak excuse Cassian knew was about to leave his mouth.

“Why do I still feel the bond?” she whispered.

Rhys hesitated.

And that was his mistake.

Y/N sucked in a breath, her lips parting slightly.

Cassian saw it happen—the exact moment she knew.

“… No.”

Rhys took a step toward her. “It’s not what you think—”

“He’s alive?”

Her voice broke on the last word.

The walls closed in.

Cassian felt his own knees nearly buckle at the sheer devastation in her voice.

Y/N stumbled back a step, her breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts.

And then—

She turned and ran.

Cassian moved to follow, but Rhys stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“Let her go,” Rhys murmured, his voice tight.

Cassian shoved his hand away. “Are you fucking serious?”

Rhys didn’t respond.

Cassian didn’t care.

Because Y/N had just learned the most important truth of her life—

And she had learned it alone.

And none of them knew if she would ever forgive them for it.

───────────────────────────────

By the time Cassian stormed back into the study, the walls trembled with the weight of Rhysand’s magic. A silent rage cloaked the room, dark and suffocating, shadows stretching unnaturally as if his power itself recoiled from what had just happened.

Mor stood by the fireplace, her arms wrapped around herself, eyes fixed on the floor. Guilt weighed heavy in her golden gaze.

“You don’t get to walk away from this,” Cassian growled, slamming the door behind him.

Rhys didn’t move from where he stood near his desk, his jaw tight, his fists clenched so hard his knuckles had gone white.

“She deserved the truth,” Mor said softly, her voice raw.

“She deserved better than this,” Cassian snapped.

Rhys’s power pulsed, the chandeliers rattling above them. “You think I don’t know that?” His voice was low, shaking with restrained fury.

“Then why?” Cassian demanded. “Why did you let her suffer? Why did you break her?”

Rhys turned to them then, violet eyes dark with something unreadable. Something haunted.

“Because I had no choice.”

Cassian’s wings flared, his body thrumming with unspent rage. “Bullshit.”

Rhys exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “If she had known—if she had felt the bond the way she was supposed to—she would have gone after him.”

Cassian stilled. “What?”

Mor frowned. “But the bond was—”

“Blocked,” Rhys finished. “Because I had to block it.”

The air shifted, the weight of those words settling like a stone in Cassian’s chest.

“You blocked their bond?” Mor whispered, disbelief painting every syllable.

Rhys lifted his chin, unapologetic. “I had to. Azriel is on a mission that cannot be compromised.”

A sick feeling curled in Cassian’s gut. “What mission?”

Rhys hesitated. Just for a moment.

Then—

“We found out that Koschei has allies—ones we didn’t account for,” Rhys said, his voice tight. “They captured Azriel. They tortured him. Nearly broke him.” His throat bobbed. “But he got out. And when he did, he realized something.”

Cassian and Mor exchanged a wary glance.

“What?” Cassian asked.

Rhys’s eyes gleamed with something dark. Something dangerous.

“That he could end them.”

A slow, cold dread crept up Cassian’s spine.

Rhys went on. “He knew he couldn’t come back. Knew that if he did, they would find him, find us. So he let us believe he was dead. We barely got to him in time, barely found out before it was too late. He’s been playing a long game, infiltrating their ranks, feeding us information from within.”

Mor’s breath hitched. “For how long?”

“Since the night he went missing,” Rhys murmured. “Since the night he died to us.”

Cassian swallowed hard. “And the bond?”

Rhys’s gaze darkened. “It had to be silenced. If she had felt him, if he had felt her, she would have known he was alive. And she would have gone after him. And if she had—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “They would have killed them both.”

Mor’s hands trembled where she held herself.

Cassian clenched his jaw, but there was no denying the truth of Rhys’s words.

If Y/N had known—if she had even suspected—she would have torn apart the world to find Azriel.

And she would have died trying.

“So why now?” Cassian rasped. “Why tell her now?”

Rhys’s throat bobbed.

“Because he’s coming home,” he whispered.

A beat of silence.

Then—

Cassian swore under his breath.

Mor closed her eyes.

Rhys turned toward the window, gazing out at the city below.

“He’s not the same,” Rhys admitted, so quietly it was nearly lost in the hush of the room. “I don’t know who he’ll be when he returns.” A pause. “I don’t know if she’ll even recognize him.”

Cassian ran a hand over his face. “And you didn’t think she deserved to prepare for that?”

Rhys’s eyes gleamed as he looked at them.

“No,” he said. “Because she deserves to see him. To feel the bond the way she was meant to. Not as a whisper, not as an absence—but as a promise.”

Cassian’s throat tightened.

Because if Azriel was coming home—

It meant the game was ending.

And none of them knew what pieces would be left standing.

───────────────────────────────

The world had ended once before.

The day Azriel died.

Or at least—the day she thought he had.

The grief had come like a tidal wave, unrelenting and merciless. It had drowned her, pulled her under until she forgot what it felt like to breathe. She had mourned him, had shattered beneath the weight of a love ripped away too soon, had tried to understand why the bond—the thing that should have severed the moment his heart stopped beating—had remained.

She had screamed at it. Had begged it to break, to free her from the unbearable agony of existing without him.

But it hadn’t.

And she had hated herself for what that meant.

For the sliver of hope that had curled in her chest despite the impossibility of it.

But she had silenced it. Forced herself to accept that it was simply another cruelty of fate, a mistake, a malfunction of whatever magic tied them together.

Azriel was gone.

And she—

She had become nothing.

Now, standing on the landing, her hands shaking violently as the night stretched before her, she wasn’t sure how to exist in a world where that was no longer true.

Where he was alive.

Her heart was a wild, frantic thing in her chest, slamming against her ribs as if trying to escape. Her pulse roared in her ears, drowning out the sounds of the city behind her, the voices inside the River House, the gentle rustling of leaves in the wind.

She could feel him.

Not a faint whisper, not a distant echo of something she had convinced herself was grief—him.

Close.

Real.

And then—

The steady, haunting sound of wings.

Her breath caught.

Her body froze.

The world seemed to still.

A shadow swept across the sky, darkening the stars, and she felt it the moment he arrived. Felt it in her bones, in the sharp pull of the bond that slammed into her with the force of a tidal wave, so overwhelming it sent her staggering back.

She choked on a breath, her vision blurring, her chest aching with the sudden, uncontrollable flood of emotion.

It had never been like this.

Even before, even when the bond had first clicked into place, it had never been this—wild.

This raw. This desperate.

Like it had been waiting.

Like it had been starving.

Like it had known what she hadn’t.

Azriel landed.

The impact sent a gust of wind swirling around her, whipping strands of hair across her face, but she couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Because he was there.

Not a dream.

Not a ghost.

Not a cruel trick of her mind, taunting her with something she could never have again.

Her mate.

Her mate was alive.

He was thinner.

The sharp angles of his face were more pronounced, his golden-brown skin tinged with exhaustion. His leathers clung to his frame, battle-worn and stiff, and his hazel eyes—

Gods, his eyes.

They locked onto hers, widening as if he, too, could barely believe what he was seeing.

His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths, his hands clenching at his sides as his body visibly shook.

Her throat closed.

She couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t move.

Because if she did, she might wake up.

She might wake up again to a cold, empty bed, to a bond that still existed but didn’t feel.

She might wake up and realize that this was just another dream—another nightmare.

And she couldn’t survive that.

Not again.

A broken sound tore from her throat, her knees buckling, and that was all it took.

Azriel moved.

One step. Then another. And then—

She was in his arms.

A sob ripped from her lips as she collapsed into him, her fingers clutching at his leathers, at his shoulders, his back—anywhere she could hold, anywhere that would prove that this wasn’t a lie.

Azriel exhaled sharply against her hair, his arms locking around her so tight it was almost painful, as if he thought she might slip away if he didn’t hold her close enough.

The bond snapped.

A jolt of pure, unfiltered connection crashed through her, so powerful that she gasped, her body trembling violently as the walls that had dulled it for weeks shattered in an instant.

It was like breathing again after drowning.

Like sunlight after an eternity in the dark.

She felt everything.

His heartbeat—wild, erratic, matching the frantic rhythm of her own.

The way his chest heaved, the way his hands fisted in the back of her sweater like she might disappear.

The way his entire body shook against hers, like he, too, was barely holding himself together.

His scent wrapped around her, heady and overwhelming—home.

She let out another strangled sob, burying her face in his shoulder, breathing him in, needing to memorize the way he felt, the way he smelled, the way their bond sang so loudly it was nearly unbearable.

“I thought I lost you,” she choked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Azriel inhaled sharply.

His fingers traced over her back, shaking as he pulled away just enough to cup her face, to tilt her chin up until their eyes met.

He looked wrecked.

His throat bobbed. His hazel eyes were damp.

And his voice—

His voice was hoarse when he whispered, “I thought I’d never see you again.”

Something inside her shattered.

Her hands flew to his face, tracing the sharp planes of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbones, the rougher skin where a new scar cut across his temple.

Azriel’s eyes fluttered shut at the touch, his breath catching, his grip tightening on her waist.

“I thought you were dead,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

He swallowed.

“I know.”

Her lip trembled. “I grieved you.”

His hands trembled as they slid into her hair, as he pressed his forehead to hers.

“I know,” he rasped, pain cracking through his voice.

She sucked in a breath, squeezing her eyes shut.

Taglist: onebadassunicorn, k-godling, suggesteddoubletake, vanserrasimp, meritxellao,  @kathren1sky_blog, @willowpains, masbt1218, antonia002, bookishcait, fuckingsimp4azriel, @fanficscuziranout, buttermilktea11, @lilah-asteria, @lreadsstuff, @flintthegoodboyo, @saltedcoffeescotch

Want to join my tag list? Drop a comment or check out this link to submit a specific series you would like tagged in! (Or if you just don't want to comment, that's okay too)

[bueckets]

thank you for taking the time to read my works. below you'll find a collection of my series and standalone stories organized for easy browsing. i hope you find something that gets you onto santas naughty list.

Series

The Prophecy | Finished

Description: They call her The Prophecy—basketball’s impossible phenomenon, rewriting what it means to be perfect on the court. With a near-flawless shooting record and a mind just as sharp in aerospace engineering as it is in breaking down defenses, her name sparks awe, envy, and relentless scrutiny. But perfection has its cost.

But even legends have weak spots. When a high-stakes matchup against LSU draws the attention of Paige Bueckers—the golden face of college basketball—The Prophecy’s flawless world starts to crack. On the court, they’re rivals, locked in a battle for supremacy. Off the court, late-night texts and shared moments blur the lines between competition and something much harder to define.

Word Count: 30K

Part: Start Here

The Hit List | In Progress

Description: When an overworked engineering student's late-night CAD project gets interrupted by a very drunk, very lost basketball star stumbling into the wrong dorm room, she learns that some defensive plays work better in love than on the court.

What starts as a case of mistaken identity turns into an unexpected game of cat and mouse when UConn's golden girl, Paige Bueckers, can't seem to take a hint– or maybe just doesn't want to. Armed with nothing but sarcasm, an overprotective stuffed bear named Mr. Gummy, and a borrowed team jacket that definitely isn't helping the situation, our engineering hero finds herself drawing up plays to defend her heart against college basketball's most persistent point guard.

They say offense wins games, but defense wins championships. When you're trying not to fall for a girl who treats the court like her kingdom and your personal space like a suggestion, maybe it's time to admit some battles aren't meant to be won.

Word Count: 34k

Part: Start Here

One Shots

Thin Walls

Description: When a sleep-deprived biomed student moves in with UConn’s most notorious heartbreaker, you expect late-night film study, protein shake graveyards, and an apartment perpetually scented like sweat and victory. What you don’t expect? Thin walls. And Paige Bueckers making absolutely no effort to keep her extracurricular activities quiet.

What starts as a battle for basic human decency turns into something far messier—petty revenge plots, mind games laced with innuendo, and an unspoken tension that neither of you is willing to name. Paige plays like she owns the court, like she owns the world, and maybe—just maybe—like she wants to own you, too.

They say pressure makes diamonds, but when it comes to Paige Bueckers, it just might make a disaster.

WC: 8.4k

Read Me

Competitive Stamina

Tags: fuck buddies with unresolved issues, unbearable sexual tension, dom!Paige, strap, degradation, slapping, edging, post-game aggression sex, possessive paige, rough sex that solves nothing, idk just porn w minimal plot (I KNOOOOOW)

WC: 6.3k-ish

Read Me

Going UP?

Description: From missed alarms to broken elevators, your Tuesday couldn’t get worse, well, until it gets better. When a late-running grad student’s desperate dash to save her thesis turns into an unexpected elevator encounter with UConn basketball sensation Paige Bueckers, she learns that sometimes the best assists come from broken machinery.

Armed with nothing but coffee-fueled anxiety and an encyclopedic knowledge of basketball analytics, you find yourself trading quips with college basketball’s golden girl in a stalled elevator. What starts as a disaster turns into something else entirely when basketball theory meets practice, terrible jokes meet dangerous grins, and hot chocolate meets, well, everywhere except the mug.

They say love is a game of chances. But when you’re trapped between floors with a girl who can bend physics on the court and make your heart run suicides off it, maybe it’s worth taking the shot.

Sometimes cupid doesn’t use arrows. Sometimes he just breaks the elevator.

Word Count: 8.1K

Part: Start Here

[littlexdeaths]

mile high club - s.r.

spencer reid x bau fem reader

18+ ONLY MDNI

warnings: secret relationship, public sex, soft dom spencer, very jealous reader, doctor kink, praise kink, unprotected piv sex, cream pie

a/n: this is based on a request i had gotten a while back on my old account for spencer. plane sex is one of my favorite scenarios with him so i hope you enjoy. also please go easy on me, it’s been a WHILE since i’ve written for our little genius. xx

word count: 2.2k

“Shh, love. We wouldn’t want the others to hear you, now would we?”

His lips brush against your ear as his hand reaches up to cover your mouth, the other slipping further into your panties. Your breath hitches as he slides another finger inside your entrance, letting your body mold against his in the small space.

Out of all the places he could’ve done this— you never expected the jet bathroom.

But even Dr. Spencer ‘kissing is more sanitary than shaking hands’ Reid could only resist your teasing for so long.

It had started earlier that morning while you were still at the precinct. Subtle brushes of your fingertips against his back as he worked on his geological profile, his eyes continuously finding yours through the plexiglass screen. You found any opportunity to invade his space, your perfume overwhelming his senses. But that wasn’t enough for you.

Once the rest of the team had left to chase down a possible lead, you made your move. Purposefully leaning over the desk across from him as he went through the case file again. Your eyes sparkled in amusement as his adam’s apple bobbed, hazel eyes locked on where your blouse was undone. The lace of your push up bra just barely peeking out.

You were driving him insane.

But this was your way of getting him back, after having to watch the lead detective on this case blatantly flirt with him. She batted her doe eyes at him, volunteered to help him any chance she could. It was embarrassing really, how much she threw herself at him. But you couldn’t help but feel that surge of jealousy clawing at your throat.

Because to anyone else, he was free game.

You had been sneaking around together for well over a month, after a mishap on a previous case. The hotel had mistakenly booked you a single bed room, and there were no other rooms available. And none of your team was willing to switch. “He snores too much,” Morgan had all but insisted.

While Spencer was adamant he would sleep on the floor, or the chair in the corner, you wouldn’t allow it.

After two nights of unbearable sexual tension it was him who finally snapped, after you crawled into bed in a pair of sleep shorts that barely covered your ass. His body melted into yours as he kissed you, effectively stealing the air from your lungs. He rolled your body beneath him, your fingers lacing together as he buried himself inside you.

The chemistry between you was always there, but neither of you were quite willing to cross that line of professionalism and friendship until that night. But now that you had a taste of him, you were downright insatiable.

You could barely keep your hands off of each other, in private and in public. Which for someone as non touchy as Spencer Reid… people quickly began to notice. Regardless, you both tried to keep it a secret from your team, knowing agents in the same unit weren't allowed to fraternize.

But that didn’t stop you from pulling him into an empty office for a quickie at Quantico, or him sneaking into your hotel room while on a case. Your relationship was becoming harder and harder to hide from everyone, but this might have been your final straw.

The case had wrapped up later that evening, the unsub was caught and you were beyond relieved when you left the station and that detective behind. But that relief soon bleed into irritation as Morgan plopped down across from you and Spencer on the jet. A megawatt smile was stretched across his face as he slid one earbud out of his ear.

“So kid, heard you landed Detective Reynold’s digits,” he chuckles.

Spencer can feel the way you tense up, but you keep your gaze focused on the case file in front of you. Feigning disinterest in their conversation, but your boyfriend knows better.

“Uh, I did. But I politely declined.”

Derek’s scoff has you nearly rolling your eyes, gripping your pen tighter in between your fingers as you tap it on the table.

“Now why is that, pretty boy? Got some secret girlfriend that we don’t know about?”

Spencer groans, running a hand through his tousled hair. What you don’t notice is the way Derek eyes the two of you suspiciously.

“No— she’s just not my type,” he sighs.

“A beautiful woman isn’t your type?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, closing the case file with a little more force than necessary. Both males turn to look at you now, unable to hide your irritation anymore.

“I have a killer migraine so if the two of you could shut it for the next hour that would be wonderful,” you huff.

Before either of them have time to reply you lean your head back against the seat and close your eyes. Finding yourself holding back a grin as Emily echoes your sentiment. The jet settles into a comfortable silence then, the lights dimming in the cabin.

When you dare to peek your eyes open Morgan has already moved back to his original seat, leaving you and Spencer alone again. You had felt his eyes on you long before you met his gaze, his dark hues boring into yours with an intensity that has your stomach fluttering.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you whisper under your breath, letting your eyes drop to your lap.

“Like what?” He answers tensely.

“You know what, Spence.”

You shift in your chair, thighs pressing together as you cross your legs. Now was not the time. Not in the jet with your nosy coworkers surrounding you. As much as you’d love to climb into his lap and muss up his hair more, that would be far too risky.

So you both remained silent for a while, but the air between you was taut with tension. Just waiting for one of you to break it, but you refused to let it be you. As much as you reassured yourself that Spencer rejected that woman’s advances, it was still hard for you to watch.

Spencer must have seen that flash of hurt pass over your features, and he is unable to hold back anymore as he leans further into your space.

“Bathroom,” you feel his lips at your ear then, a shiver passing through you as he speaks. “Right now.”

From the authoritative lithe in his tone you know not to disobey him, carefully rising from your seat to head to the small bathroom. The rest of your team look as though they are asleep when you pass them, a sense of relief floods as you gently shut the door behind you.

You lean your palms against the countertop, glancing at yourself in the mirror. It’s a few minutes before you hear the door click open, and your eyes fall as you feel the heat of his body behind yours.

You both don’t utter a word as he cages you in, his forearms grazing your own. The veins in his hands protrude as he grips the edge of the counter and his chin rests on your shoulder.

“So,” he hums, his breath tickling your neck. “Someone’s feeling a little jealous?”

You scoff, finally meeting his brooding gaze in the reflection of the mirror.

“I am not jealous.”

Spencer just chuckles, one of his large hands splaying over the curve of your hip.

“You sound a little defensive, agent. You wouldn’t be lying to me now, would you?”

The dark edge to his voice has your body tingling and your heart hammering against your ribs.

“N-No.”

He tsks softly, his hands wandering toward the edge of your pencil skirt.

“And to think, I was going to reward you, despite your incessant teasing earlier.”

The feeling of his rough palm on the inside of your thigh breaks your resolve, body melting against him as you whine.

“No, Spence— please.”

He grips the hem of your skirt, slowly hitching it up your thighs.

“You know that’s not my name, angel,” he taunts as his teeth graze over your earlobe.

“Please, Doctor.”

You quickly correct yourself, which earns you a deep groan, “Good girl.”

Spencer wastes no time in tugging your skirt the rest of the way up your legs. His large hand cupping your cunt through the soaked lace of your panties. He presses the heel of his palm against your clit, quickly shushing you as you mewl pathetically in response.

But once his fingers have slipped past the lace and are buried to the hilt inside you, you are unable to hold back your pleasured whimpers. His other hand quickly moves to cover your mouth, but his hushed words only aid in turning you on more.

The thought of one of your colleagues catching you both in this position sends an excited jolt through your body, your walls tightening harder around his dexterous fingers. Spencer groans at the sensation, letting his thumb brush over your swollen clit.

“Oh, you’d like that wouldn’t you?” He chuckles, “You want them to hear us?”

You nod your head, grinding your hips back against his to feel his hardened length straining against the fabric of his slacks. Spencer curses under his breath, meeting your half lidded gaze in the reflection before he’s yanking your panties down your thighs.

He removes his hand from your mouth and the clink of his belt sends another rush of heat through you. Spencer eagerly guides your legs apart, before bending you over the sink.

“Then let them,” he mutters as he guides the tip of his cock through your drenched folds, and sinks into your warm heat with a strangled grunt.

A gasp leaves your own as he bottoms out completely, your head lolling forward at the sheer fullness. But your boyfriend doesn’t let that slide for long as his strong hand coaxes your chin up to meet his hazel eyes in the mirror.

“Eyes on me.” Spencer instructs, guiding his hips back and plunging them forward.

His thrusts are fast and sharp, nearly knocking the wind out of you from his urgency. You grip the counter harshly, willing your eyes not to roll in the back of your head as you whimper. Spencer’s lips are back at your ear again, his ever darkening hues never once stray from your own.

“Look how pretty you are, baby… how well you take me,” he groans, gripping your hips tighter.

You’re far too gone to answer him, managing a small whine as you angle your hips back to take him even deeper. His hand drifts lower, over the bunched fabric of your skirt to circle over your clit. Soft mewls continue to spill past your lips as he buries himself inside you, hurtling you faster towards that precipice.

“As if I could ever want anyone else.”

That admission is spoken under his breath and although Spencer didn’t intend for you to hear it, you certainly did. But those words are your undoing, your body trembling in his strong hands as you lose yourself in him. The feeling of your cunt fluttering around him breaks what is left of his composure, spilling into you as you cry out his name.

You both are silent as you come back down to earth, only the sounds of your heavy breathing filling the small space. His hands are gentle as he pulls you further into his chest, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

“Feeling better?”

You giggle softly, “Much.”

You catch a glimpse of his smirk in the mirror as he slips out of you to tuck himself back into his slacks. The brunette quickly drops to his knees before you have a chance to protest, letting his fingertips glide along your skin. Spencer smiles sheepishly as he guides your panties back up your legs, peppering gentle kisses along your inner thighs.

You can feel his cum beginning to soak into the already damp fabric as he helps you adjust your skirt, pressing one last kiss to your clothed hip before he rises to his feet.

“Think you can manage getting back to your seat without my help?” He teases, clearly noticing the way your legs were still shaking as he helped you re-dress.

“I can manage fine, Doctor Reid.”

You can see the flash in his eyes when you call him by his title again, a wicked smile on your lips when you lean up to press a chaste kiss to his cheek.

You exit the bathroom without another word, getting comfortable in your seat. It’s a few minutes later before Spencer returns to his seat beside you, in an attempt to not raise any suspicion. The seatbelt sign clicks on once he takes his seat, signaling the beginning descent to Quantico.

He pulls a novel out of his satchel as you rest your head on his shoulder, feeling your eyelids starting to droop.

“Pay up, Morgan.”

Emily’s hushed voice cuts through the silence not long after you’d both taken your seats again. You feel Spencer stiffen beside you, his fingers freezing on the open page of his novel.

“Damn, couldn’t keep it in your pants for twenty more minutes, pretty boy?” The male grumbles, getting up to toss a couple twenties in Emily’s direction.

She grins widely, waving them around before tucking them in the pocket of her dress pants.

“So you’re betting on us now?” you ask, unable to hide the exasperation in your voice.

“Oh, we’ve been betting on you the second you both started sneaking around,” Rossi’s voice sounds from behind you, amusement littering his tone.

“You two aren’t subtle.”

tagging some spencer loving moots: @xxbimbobunnyxx @babygorewhore @hippiegoth97 @take-everything-you-can @alialuvsreid @angel-eyes-and-devil-hearts

[smuttysabina]

Born To Be A Slut

(Male Reader x Shin Yuna x Hwang Yeji, 5k words) Tags: Romantic sex, Dating an Idol, Lovey dovey stuff, Adorable cuddling, Teasing, Lesbian sex, Some cuckolding, vaginal sex- hey what was that last part?, Oh, well if EVERYONE is cucking each other isn't that just a polyamorous relationship?, Yeah so group sex, Anal sex, Deepthroating, Cum eating, Threesome, Oral sex of all kinds, forceful sex (I mean, Yeji is involved, what did you expect?), Rampant sluttery, And smatterings of mutual understanding, Oh and fat sloppy creampies.

It was a particular agony to be a personal trainer for idols. The more mundane aspects of it certainly held painful tensions, sculpting the taut, supple flesh of gorgeous girls into ever more enticing shapes would be a temptation in and of itself. But the methodology of idol training requires a rather hands-on approach, which makes the sexual pressures nigh unbearable. Normally this stress would be easily resolved by the idol in question, in fact many "trainers" were on hand for precisely such an occasion; since the ladies themselves were hardly immune to the arousing effects as well. Unfortunately for the true professionals however, they were far too expensive to be used as fuck-meat and discarded. And so they would suffer from their pent up lusts, morosely watching as others were fucked senseless by the very luscious idols they had been training mere moments before. Of course, the more kindly or salacious girls would surreptitiously assist the poor trainers, briefly allowing them to drain their tensions into them before returning to a strictly professional relationship. Which was what was supposed to have happened to you, but sadly some idols simply enjoy breaking the rules...

You really shouldn't be doing this with Yuna. But it's hard to say no to her when this nubile vixen is staring up at you with such needy eyes. She had been teasing you for months, constantly glaring at you hungrily, wordlessly demanding your attention as well as your love. Yuna had put her body through its paces for you, relentlessly showing herself off during training, moving subtly so that your hands strayed where they should not. Which is not to say that she had not been quite verbal about her interest either, her sweetly innocent voice had been encouraging you to take liberties with her the entire time. Yuna's constant attentions had locked you in a sordid spiral, unable to think of anything but being here, yet unwilling to simply leave and end your misery. The easiest thing to do would be to give in, but that would create a whole host of problems, since you knew that you would be unable to resist giving into her demands after falling the first time. Lia had noticed your predicament, and a week ago had sympathetically led you into the bathroom and sucked you to completion; willingly swallowing your painfully bloated load that had festered in your balls for ages. But now...

Yuna presses against you, hot and sweaty from her exercise, her toned body lithe and ready for more intense... exertions. You awkwardly pry the young idol off of you, you're here to help her with her workout, not engage in unwholesome activities. Yuna submits to your entreaties with a sly smile, sighing dramatically as she returns to her stretching routine. A routine that seems to have gained some rather exotic positions since you last ran through them. Yuna presents her body to you from all imaginable angles; arching her back to show off her smooth abs and perky bodice, bowing down and thrusting her tight butt into the air, spreading her legs wide and leaning down to reveal her bulging camel-toe... All the while she watches you like a hunting cat, her poses growing ever less useful and ever more erotic as she slowly whittles down your will to resist. Yuna doesn't even bother averting her gaze from the obvious bulge in her pants. She knows you want her, so what are you waiting for? Give in.

Eager to shatter the final chains of restraint, Yuna flows upright and stalks towards you; hips swaying, chest thrust out with clear seductive intent. You stumble backwards into the wall, sliding down its mirrored surface, trying to find a way to escape, but Yuna will not be denied. She joins you on the floor, crawling the last few feet and between your legs until her face is inches away from yours. Her face is flushed with arousal, her eyes begging you wordlessly for everything you have. Kiss her, caress her, grope her, please her, fuck her, fill her, fill her with your seed, fill her until she is swollen with your love, love her, loveherloveherloveher- With a snarl you savagely kiss Yuna, your tongues wrestling greedily as you pull her body against yours. She moans in ecstasy, her legs wrapping around waist as she gyrates on you, her hands already groping at your crotch. Your hands clench around her petite ass before sliding lower to grip the fabric of her leggings. Fueled by lust, you rip them open at her crotch with brutal strength, exposing her already dripping pussy to the cold air. With mirrored enthusiasm Yuna painfully wrenches your cock out of your pants, before slamming herself onto your rigid manhood with a groan of pleasure. This virile slut had been teasing you for months, ever since you started working with her, and you pay her back for every excruciating second with interest. You jackhammer her tight cunt, pounding into her crotch with such speed that the wet slaps echo noisily throughout the empty room. Yuna blubbers with joy, taking every thrust with salacious enthusiasm, loudly begging you for your hot cum... Unable to resist her encouragements any longer, with a tortured groan you empty yourself into Yuna, making her squeal as she follows suit. Her pussy milks your cock greedily, squeezing out every last drop until your shaft has been fully drained.

Yuna lets out a content purr, her legs locked tight around your waist, her hands idly rubbing up and down your back. She stares deep into your eyes, her own wet with tears of joy, and kisses you possessively, you are hers now, got it? You belong only to Yuna...

Yuna howls as she squirms beneath her lover, her lithe body writhing as she takes every last inch of him, her greedy little cunt squeezing tight around his manhood. Her eyes roll back and she spasms as his seed erupts into her, her legs locking tight around his waist so that she receives every last drop of his love. Yuna snarls as he withdraws, but is quickly mollified as he is replaced by another fan whose cock is already dripping with excitement. This one takes her from behind as she slobbers on another member that appears like magic in front of her face. Yes, fill her up! Give her more...

"Oh! Be gentle," Yuna exclaims as you slowly push inside of her pussy, "I'm still so tight baby, so go slow with me..." She simpers as your cock fills her belly, nodding shyly in encouragement while pressing one hand against your chest, the epitome of an innocent lover. Once Yuna had caught you, her continuous seduction had mellowed, well comparatively so, she still teased you endlessly, just more in private now. And now whenever her temptatious stretches filled you with lust, you simply took her in whatever position she so happened to be in; it had gotten to the point that Yuna had joked that she should wear crotchless yoga pants, since you tore hers open so often. She hadn't, of course, she knew full well that nothing was more exciting than the anticipation that led up to the act itself, and kept her puffy lower lips shrouded to fire your imagination... Yuna moans sweetly as her legs bounce on your shoulders, you are so deep inside of her that a bulge forms in her belly from where your cock is buried in her, "Please, you're stretching me out, I'm not used to taking-"

"MORE! Give me more!" Yuna screeches as twin cocks piston her gushing cunt, her pussy slobbering fluids all over the pair of them as they plow her. The pink of her insides are clearly visible as her hole fails to grip them tightly enough, the slut too busy orgasming to even consider clenching down on their dicks. It's still not enough to fully satisfy her though, and soon another meaty cock is cramming itself into her already gaping cunt. Yuna wails with pleasure as her pussy is stretched out by three pounding dicks, gleefully scrabbling at the floor as her guts get brutally rearranged...

Your member noses curiously up Yuna's soaking slit before prodding gently against her anus, causing her to squeal in protest, "Wait! I want to save that for a special occasion! I'll need time to prep too you know!" She looks back at you and pouts, her ass still raised high in the air while her chest is pressed fully against the ground in a perfect arch. Yuna smiles affectionately as you lower your ambitions and push into the now-familiar warmth of her pussy, its wet folds welcoming you inside lovingly. You had been seeing Yuna for a couple months now, meeting with her in a disused practice room to provide a thin veneer of deniability; ostensibly she was growing stiff and required some extra assistance in working out the kinks. You certainly had been helping her stretch out, though the main area you focused on was her crotch and core. For her part, Yuna remained adorably endearing, lavishing you with attention whenever possible, even if it was mostly sensual in nature; her love language was undoubtedly sex. But still, you sensed she was holding back somewhat, contrary to the rumours about her, Yuna was delightfully wholesome and submissive once you got her clothes off; she was aggressive while teasing, but once your cock was inside of her she was like putty in your hands... You shudder with pleasure as your seed pours into Yuna as you hold her perky butt tight against you, causing her to gasp with delight, "I feel so warm inside..."

Semen spews out of Yuna's gaping asshole like a fountain as her guts empty themselves in a torrent of foul liquid after getting mercilessly pummeled by a gargantuan cock. The whore wails in distress as all the creamy love her fans had filled her with gushes out of her, as she desperately tries to squeeze shut her blown out asshole. Yuna's frantic bawling eventually draws Yeji's attention, who sighs in annoyance before assigning yet more meat to pump Yuna full again. Soon the slut is once more spasming in delight as her butt gets refilled once more, her filthy cunt drooling from the stimulation of having her ass violated by countless cocks...

Several weeks later, you and Yuna had secreted yourselves once more in the unused studio, going through actual stretches for once, as Yuna had strained her leg the other day while dancing. Though things had certainly started to hint at a more intimate sort of physical therapy, when the door suddenly slams open; and in saunters Yeji. Wearing naught but a towel, and crowned with the same, Itzy's leader appears fresh out of the shower, and more than a little amused to see you, "So this is where you've been hiding then," she smiles evilly, "don't think I haven't noticed you running off all the time, Yuna." Yuna sits upright from where she had been touching her toes and rolls her eyes in exasperation, "Well yeah, where else would I go to do some physical therapy in private?" Yeji sighs and stalks closer, as Yuna scoots between you and her protectively, glaring up defiantly at her senior, and Yeji meets her gaze with ease, "Yuna, tell me the truth, is this your new lover? It's been months since I found your last one, or have you finally grown up?" Yuna's pretty face twists petulantly, "No, he's just helping me do therapy, I've been a good girl, I promise!" Yuna's posture shifts from rebellious to submissive, affecting sadness at Yeji's lack of trust in her. It seemed all for sure, but even you felt a little moved by her performance, and it seemed Yeji did as well as her lips part slightly, "Oh, you promise?" her voice suddenly reduced to a husky whisper, the tension between the two felt like a familiar one, as Yeji stands directly in front of Yuna, so engrossed in her junior that she ignores you entirely; or you are merely beneath her notice, "So have you been a good girl Yuna?" she breathes. Yuna tilts her head forward and gives Yeji her best puppy-dog eyes, her face the very definition of purity, it was hard to refuse Yuna when she looked like that. Yeji twitches. Yuna lays it on like butter, "I promise I have not been a naughty girl, Yeji..." She flutters her eyelashes, smiling sweetly up at her leader, adorably shifting slightly from side to side as she maintains constant eye contact. Yeji's face flushes, as her lips draw back revealing clenched teeth, until with a snarl of pure lust she grabs Yeji's head and shoves it into her crotch.

"You lying slut," Yeji hisses as she forces Yuna's mouth against her cunt, "you filthy little whore, you've fallen in love again, haven't you?" Yuna lets out a whine of protest, even as she gorges upon Yeji's pussy, doing her best to try and pull away but unable to match her senior's strength. Yeji's towel falls to the ground from the violence of their sex, revealing her well-toned body and perky breasts; if she had any shame at being nude in front of a male coworker while forcing her junior to eat her out, she did not show it. Instead she groans brazenly as Yuna pleasures her, that nimble tongue and soft lips you knew so well now put to good use stimulating Yeji's hairy pussy; she crouches slightly as she pushes back against Yuna's head, hand gripping her hair tightly. And as much as she seems to struggle, Yuna still satisfies Yeji skillfully enough that soon she is shuddering as she approaches climax, "Oh fuck, eat it, eat it," Yeji moans loudly, even as Yuna squeaks in distress, which only seems to excite Yeji even further until she cannot hold on even longer, "Oh fuck, Yuna!" Yeji eyes roll back and she screams as her cunt squirts all over Yuna's mouth, forcing her to gulp down her fluids even as she struggles for breath, until Yeji stops quivering and regains her composure. Exhaling slowly, she releases her grip upon Yuna and allows her to collapse onto the ground like a piece of trash, where she coughs pitifully. Finally, Yeji acknowledges your presence, glancing at you with a sneer that conveys all too well her relish in cuckolding you, "Now then, strip."

You hesitate, knowing full well that company policy protected you from the idols' sexual demands, but unsure where your protracted tryst with Yuna left you on the scale of things. Were you still a professional trainer, or were you just an intern now, to be used and abused at will? Yeji cocks her head, "I said strip, or else I'll do it for you, meat." Yuna squawks in protest at this, but Yeji just laughs mockingly, "What? I thought he wasn't your lover, so why do you care so much?" While Yuna scrambles her brain for a response, Yeji returns her attention to you and menacingly raises an eyebrow, indicating you should get on with it. She eyes your nude form with the mild disinterest of a lady whose body count was in the thousands, before shrugging slightly and lazily stalking forwards. Her slow advance halts though when Yuna scrambles in front of her, arms outstretched, still bravely defiant, "You can't have him, he is mine!" Yuna snarls fiercely, you are unable to see Yuna's expression, but it must have been serious as Yeji blinks in surprise, "No, he is fuck-meat, he exists to be drained and discarded." "No," Yuna spits, "I love him, and he is mine!" Yeji groans in irritation, "How many times... Yuna darling, if you really loved him, would you have fucked literally hundreds of fans while he was yours?" You knew obviously, but you still feel a pit open in your stomach, before Yuna replies, "Those don't count! Those were just dicks, he is different! He is special!" she turns her head and gives you a reassuring smile before returning to staring down her leader; and the knots in your belly disappear, she did love you! Yeji rolls her eyes, and glance past Yuna to give you an exasperated look, before sighing wearily, "If he really loved you Yuna, would he be hard for me right now?" Yuna sniffs haughtily, contemptuously not even bothering to check to see if it was true (it was), Yeji continue as if by rote, "So if I were to fuck him right now, he would not stay hard at all, and would not enjoy himself?" Yuna nods confidently, "Of course not! But you would be able to force him to cum anyways!" Yeji smiles wanly, "See? If he can't stop himself from breeding whatever hole is wrapped around his cock, what makes yours so special? For all you know he's been plowing Chaery and Lia as well." "What, no!" Yuna stammers, "He's been giving all of his love to me! Plus he's a professional, so he's off limits!" "And what if I made him love me, would he just be fuck-meat then?" Yeji smiles slyly. Yuna laughs at that, "There is NO way you could do that, his love belongs only to me!" Yeji merely smirks, "Well let's find out then, shall we?" she looks at you, "On the ground meat, time to get fucked..."

You shiver slightly as you lay down, nervous about the ordeal to come, but Yuna gives you several kisses for support before pulling back and giving several more for your cock; as if claiming it for herself once more. Then Yeji arrives, "Oh good, you're getting it ready for me," as she grabs your cock and points it up, before slamming Yuna's head into it. Yuna's arms flail as she chokes on your meat, but Yeji simply leans forward, applying her body weight on her juniors head to keep her occupied. Giving you a faint smile, she murmurs in your ear, "Sorry, but this is going to be rough. Her lovers rarely last this long, so I'm going to have to make this... memorable," her smile becomes genuine for a moment, "enjoy this, because I will." Yeji pats your cheek before returning her attentions to Yuna, whose face is growing steadily redder by the moment as spit pools around the base of your shaft. She eases up enough for Yuna's head to jerk up, allowing her to gulp down what air she can with your cock still occupying her mouth, before Yeji forces her down again, "Didn't I say to get him ready for me? Fuck, you suck at this," she starts to piston her junior's head up and down your cock, uncaring of the massive mess she was making as Yuna slobbers and gasps desperately for air. You meanwhile are too busy groaning with pleasure to worry much about your lover, her wet tongue and throat driving your cock wild; you even start to thrust a little in time with Yeji's rhythm. At some indeterminable point Yeji grows tired of her sport, and hauls Yuna's drooling face off of your meat before depositing her nearby. She gives you a ravenous glare, "Time to fuck..."

With languid grace Yeji orients herself above your slippery member, holding position just low enough that her coarse folds kissed your tip. She gently sways her hips, running your cockhead through her moist, hairy slit, smirking as you shudder from the stimulation; she can tell how badly you want it. Yeji licks her lips as your hips begin to unconsciously hike upwards, your body desperate to breed her, no matter the implications, "You see Yuna," Yeji purrs to the prostrate form of her junior who was only now raising herself up onto her elbows, still hacking as she recovers from having her throat used like a fleshlight, "just a little teasing and now he is mindlessly desperate for me already. And this is why men are all worthless fuck-meat." Yuna whines despondently at this, but fixes you with a stare that wordlessly conveys her confidence in you; she nods in encouragement, she knows your love will not waver even if you are balls deep inside of Yeji. Speaking of which, Yeji finally decides to put you out of your misery, and with a feral groan slowly slides your length inside of herself until her folds kiss your crotch. She pauses her for a few moments, savoring the feeling of being filled, allowing you to feel the differences between hers and Yuna's insides; then with a crooked smile she rides you. Her pace is ferocious, almost feral, fucking you as if she were an animal in heat, her sopping cunt massaging your cock ceaselessly. Unlike the smooth tightness of Yuna, Yeji's cunt was practically drooling with fluids, roughly dragging against your shaft as she bounces atop you. After several minutes of this voracious sex, you can feel your balls already pulsating needily, and no matter how hard you tried to hold on for your beloved, you knew you were going to breed Yeji. Or not. Pausing on the precipice of your climax, Yeji waits until the moment has passed, before slowly starting again, hungrily she leans forward, her dark nipples rigid, and growls, "Say you love me." You refuse, and so she continues.

What feels like hours pass by, but it must have surely been far less, as Yeji continues to pry at your determination, urging you to give in. And oh how you want to, your balls throb in agony from being denied so many times, and your brain feels melted from being edged for so long by this cruel sexual goddess. All the while Yeji smugly provides a running commentary for Yuna, who is out of your view by this point, and no doubt worried sick about you. But even the thought of your dearest Yuna could only sustain you for so long, and like the experienced slut she was, Yeji could tell without you even needing to say anything. So when she runs her hands up your sweaty chest, and clasps your cheeks, she knows exactly how you will answer before she even asks, "Do you love me?" Despairing, you moan an affirmative, feeling absolutely wretched for betraying Yuna, but unable to resist your body's demands that you impregnate the woman atop you. Yeji smirks, her body similarly coated with sweat, her breasts heaving from her protracted exertions, her legs bulging with muscles, and lets out a little laugh, "No, you don't," Before finishing you off with a furious burst of riding that has your head spinning as your balls empty themselves into Yeji's fertile cunt. Who groans with delight as her pussy is filled, her narrow eyes widening slightly as the sheer quantity of semen pouring inside of her surprises even her. She slowly grinds on you as your cock finishes leaking its load into Yeji, "Fuck," she murmurs, "That was a lot, I'm almost impressed," she turns around and calls behind her, "Yuna dear, time to clean up! Oh stop masturbating and get over here already!"

You frown up at Yeji in confusion, masturbation, what was she talking about? Yeji grins mirthlessly down at you, "What, didn't you notice? The entire time you were doing your best to hold on for her, your supposed lover was busy finger-blasting herself silly like the perverted little cuck she is. That's right, she was enjoying your suffering, she was aroused by watching you getting taken by another girl. Pitiful, isn't it?" With that Yeji smoothly unmounts you, uncaring of the slick of semen leaking from her cunt down her glistening thighs; she was about to get cleaned off anyways. Then she drags the now completely naked Yuna towards you, who blushes shyly as she approaches, stammering awkwardly in embarrassment, "Honey! You're okay! You um, held on for so long! I'm so proud of you!" she gives you a sickly sweet smile, as if trying to distract you from the fact that her legs were absolutely drenched with fluids. The look of jealousy that flashes across her face is genuine though, as she smells the stench of another girl slathering your nethers. With a determined expression, she gets to work sucking and licking the evidence of your copulation off of you; cleaning you so enthusiastically that your member improbably starts to rise to the occasion once more. But Yuna's chore is not yet finished, after all, your delicious load belongs to her, so she takes her due.

Yeji groans as Yuna devours her sloppy cunt once more, the slut's lithe tongue scooping out its creamy contents before undulating it back down its length and into her throat. Yuna's ass is raised high in the air as she works, the tempting sweep of her hips put on full display, showing exactly why she was so often taken in this position. Your interest does not go unnoticed, even as her pussy is getting emptied, Yeji beckons you closer, leaning forward slightly so that she can spread her junior's cheeks, "Ready again? Good, now fuck her ass this time," Yuna lets out a surprised noise at this pronouncement, but Yeji uses a hand to keep her on task by holding her head in place, "Oh and don't worry about lube, she likes it rough. So, are you going to fuck her or not?" You hesitate, Yuna had said that she had wanted to save anal for a special occasion, but she had not helped you while Yeji was ravishing you, and instead had been aroused by your suffering... Your tip prods at her entrance, causing Yuna to quiver slightly until you grasp her wide hips to hold her in place as you force yourself into her asshole. You push inside of her vigorously, expecting to have to press through the cramped confines of her unused rear; instead, you slam yourself inside of Yuna's guts to the hilt. A muffled squeal emanates from Yeji's crotch, as Yuna's entire body jolts in surprise, and a gush of squirt splatters against your balls. The tight hole which you had been aching to fuck for so long, was loose from overuse, stretched out from countless cocks that had been plowing it while you had patiently waited. So you jackhammer Yuna's worthless asshole, now beyond caring about her discomfort as you relentless fuck her guts, causing Yeji to coo in delight, "See I told you she was a slut, make her pay for cucking you..." And oh how you do, you treat her asshole like a cheap fleshlight, uncaring of the pain you might be causing; though judging by the sporadic sprays of squirt that hit your thighs in balls, the whore was enjoying it. And you were too, though her anus was no longer the snug hole it used to be, her coils still had enough strength to massage your shaft as it slams past them. Your balls start to clench upwards once more, your thrusts deepen and grow in force, Yeji notes this and urges you on, "Do it, claim her fucking asshole, fill this bitch's guts with your cum," groaning loudly, you comply, spurting your seed deep inside of Yuna's innards while she spasms with ecstasy from having her ass bred.

Still shuddering, you pull out of Yuna's ass, and are unsurprised when it closes immediately after you leave, sealing your semen inside of her. Panting, she looks up at Yeji for approval, her face flushed with arousal, her face smeared with Yeji's cunt juices. Yeji pats her cheek affectionately, "Fuck, you were born to be a slut, Yuna," the girl in question giggles shyly, before glancing back at you apologetically, "I'm sorry dear, I guess it wasn't love after all, I'm just a slut after all..." Yuna continues to breath heavily, and whines, "I need mooore," she pouts, "does nobody love me enough to give some?" Yeji lets out a knowing sigh, "I'm sure some of the interns are absolutely bursting with love for you Yuna, why don't you go ask them?" Yuna brightens noticeably at this, and beaming happily scampers up onto her feet and races out of the room, not even bothering to spare you a parting glance. And thus ended your relationship, if it could be called that, with Yuna. Yeji gives you a sympathetic look as the pair of you sit on the wooden floor, both uncaring of the fact that you are seated in a puddle of sexual fluids. Yeji clears her throat, "We're going to have to let you go, but don't worry, we know a few other companies with openings so you shouldn't have any troubles finding work. IVE in particular seem to be needing good physical trainers, those lazy brats," she gives you a level stare, "But first, fuck-meat, I am going to use you until I am satisfied. After all," she smiles cruelly, "I don't have to worry about being down a professional trainer any more..." Her smug boasting is cut off however as you jump up and shove your cock into her face, forcing her to clean the stinking ass-juices off of your cock as her eyes narrow dangerously. Once you are erect once more, you push her back onto the ground, where she growls huskily, "Feisty, I think I'm going to enjoy this more than I expected," Yeji smoothly assumes the position, sticking her butt up into the air and giving you a meaningful glance,

"Well pick a hole already, and don't worry, I won't let you stop until I'm satisfied. Now show me how you fuck an actual woman, and not some mincing slut..."

[breezyblossoms]

Y/N wasn’t sure when she had started waiting for Xaden Riorson.

Maybe it had been back at Basgiath, when she first let him into her bed, knowing full well she’d never have his heart.

Maybe it had been after a battle, when he pulled her into his arms with shaking hands, holding on too tight—like he wasn’t sure if she’d still be there if he let go.

Maybe it had been always. And maybe that was the problem. Because Xaden never chose her. Not really. Not in the way that mattered.

And yet, Y/N had let herself believe—stupidly, hopelessly believe—that one day, he would. That one day, he’d look at her and see more. But she saw the truth now.

Because he was looking at her. At Violet Sorrengail. And Gods help her, Y/N had never seen his eyes that soft before.

Her breath caught, something sharp and vicious tearing through her chest. Because she knew that look. She had dreamed of that look. But it had never been for her.

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms. Because of course it was Violet. Violet, who had fought her way through Basgiath. Violet, who had tamed Xaden’s dragon’s mate—a dragon that should’ve never chosen her. Violet, who had done in months what Y/N had never been able to do.

She had his heart.

And Y/N—

Y/N had never even been close.

Her throat burned. Because this wasn’t just losing him. She had never had him to begin with. And that was the part that hurt the most.

Xaden turned then, his gaze flicking toward her—and for one awful, unbearable second, their eyes met. His expression shifted. Like he knew. Like he understood exactly what she was thinking. Like he felt guilt. But guilt wasn’t love. Guilt wasn’t choosing her.

And Y/N was done waiting for something that was never hers to begin with. So she forced her lips into something that might’ve been a smile—might’ve looked real if it weren’t for the way her heart was cracking, splintering, breaking apart piece by piece.

And then—

She turned and walked away. Because almost didn’t count. Not anymore.

⸻

Xaden noticed immediately.

The first time Y/N wasn’t there—wasn’t where she always was—he ignored it.

The second time, something cold curled in his stomach.

The third time, he knew. She was avoiding him.

And Xaden Riorson did not handle losing well. Especially not when he hadn’t even realized he was playing a game.

He caught glimpses of her—passing shadows, fleeting moments before she turned the corner, before she slipped away.

And he let her. For a while. Because Gods help him, he didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know why it felt like his chest was hollowing out every time he realized she wasn’t coming back. Didn’t know why her absence felt sharper than any blade, more suffocating than any battle wound.

Until the fourth time.

Until he saw her with someone else. She wasn’t laughing. Wasn’t even smiling. But she was trying.

And Xaden—stupid, oblivious, undeserving Xaden—finally understood. It wasn’t just that she was avoiding him.

She was moving on.

And that, he realized, was unforgivable. Not because she didn’t deserve to. But because he should’ve never let her think she had to. Because Y/N had always been there. In the quiet moments, in the war-torn ones. In his bed, in his arms.

He had never needed to wonder where she would be. Until now. Until he fucked it all up.

And Xaden Riorson didn’t lose things he wasn’t willing to fight for.

So he found her.

Cornered her.

Late at night, when she was least expecting it. When she had finally stopped looking over her shoulder for him. Because she thought he wouldn’t come. Because he had given her every reason to believe that.

But she was wrong.

Xaden pressed a hand against the doorframe, blocking her escape as she turned to find him standing there, his expression raw, desperate, furious.

She froze. Her breath hitched.

And Xaden had to clench his fists to keep himself from reaching for her. Because Gods help him, he had never wanted anything more.

But Y/N—

Y/N only tilted her head, her voice flat when she said, “Move.”

Xaden let out a slow, measured breath. “No.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Xaden—”

“You walked away,” he cut her off, his voice quiet, sharp. “And I let you.”

Her jaw clenched. “So what, now you’re here to fix your conscience?”

No.

It had never been about guilt. It had always been about her. But she didn’t see that. Because he had never let her see it. Because he had let her believe she was temporary.

Xaden stepped closer, the air shifting between them.

“You think I didn’t notice?” His voice was low, rough, almost dangerous.

Because it wasn’t just noticing. It was feeling. Feeling her absence in every empty space she had left behind. Feeling the ache in his chest every time he looked for her and found nothing. Feeling like a fucking idiot for never realizing that she had been his before he even knew he had something to lose.

Y/N exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “Don’t do this, Xaden.”

“Do what?” he murmured.

Her throat bobbed. “Make this harder than it has to be.”

He let out a quiet, humorless laugh.

“Hard?” He stepped even closer. “You think this is hard for you?”

Her breath caught, but she didn’t move back. Didn’t run. And that was the only thing that kept him fucking standing. Because she was still here. Still listening. Still his, even if she didn’t want to be.

Xaden swallowed hard, his voice dropping to something honest, something wrecked.

“I can’t lose you.”

She blinked.

Like she hadn’t expected the words. Like she didn’t believe them.

And that? That nearly killed him. Because fuck, she had spent all this time thinking she was something he could just let go.

Like she hadn’t been his every damn day. Like she wasn’t the thing that had kept him breathing, fighting, alive.

“I can’t lose you,” he said again, softer this time.

And Gods help him, it was the truest thing he had ever said.

Her breath shuddered. Her hands fisted at her sides.

And for a long, unbearable moment—

She didn’t say a word. Didn’t tell him to leave. Didn’t tell him it was too late.

And Xaden—for the first time in his life—let himself hope.

Because Y/N had walked away.

But maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t ready to let him go either.

⸻

Y/N didn’t make it easy for him.

She didn’t fall into his arms. Didn’t sigh in relief and tell him she had been waiting for him all along.

Because that would have been a lie.

She had stopped waiting. Stopped hoping for something he had never been willing to give her.

And if he thought a few pretty words were enough to pull her back into his orbit—

He was wrong.

Xaden must have realized it too. Because the moment she narrowed her eyes, the moment she crossed her arms and tilted her chin up, his expression turned grim. Like he knew exactly what she was about to say. Like he knew she was going to make this hard.

And for once—finally—he didn’t run from it.

Y/N exhaled slowly, carefully.

“Prove it.”

Xaden’s jaw ticked. “I am.”

“No,” she said, voice sharp, cold. “You’re saying it. That’s not the same thing.”

A muscle feathered in his jaw. “Then tell me how.”

Y/N let out a humorless laugh.

“You want me to tell you how to love me?” she murmured, tilting her head. “That’s funny, Xaden. I thought love was supposed to be instinctual.”

His fingers curled into tight, shaking fists.

“Y/N—”

“No,” she cut him off. “You don’t get to show up and say you can’t lose me after choosing her every single time.”

His lips parted—but he didn’t argue.

Because he couldn’t.

Because it was true.

And Gods help her, the silence was worse than any excuse he could have given her.

Because he knew. He had always known.

She let out a slow breath, forcing herself to stay standing when all she wanted to do was crumple.

She had promised herself she wouldn’t break for him again. But gods, he was making it hard.

“I need to know I’m not just an afterthought,” she said, her voice low, steady.

He lifted his head at that, his eyes flashing with something dark, something wrecked.

“You’ve never been an afterthought,” he said, his voice sharp, furious. “Not to me.”

Y/N’s chest ached. But she shook her head.

“Then prove it.”

And this time, he didn’t hesitate.

⸻

Xaden knew it was coming. Because Gods help him, she was right.

She had never been an afterthought. But the problem was—neither was Violet. Not with their dragons bonded for life. Not with their destinies tangled, whether they wanted it or not. Not with the war, with Basgiath, with everything.

But Y/N wasn’t going to be a second choice. Not anymore. And that meant he had to prove it.

Starting with Sgaeyl.

It wasn’t a secret that his dragon favored Y/N. Sgaeyl had always preferred her, had always sought her out over Violet, despite the bond between their dragons.

Xaden had always thought it was amusing.

But now—

Now, it wasn’t a game. Because Sgaeyl had chosen. And Xaden wasn’t sure what that meant for everything else. Y/N stood in the clearing, arms crossed as she watched him. Not angry. Not hopeful. Just waiting.

Sgaeyl’s head turned toward him. “Fix this,” she said in his mind. “Now.”

Xaden exhaled sharply. “You tell me how,” he muttered.

Sgaeyl let out a deep, considering hum. Then, she said, “I cannot break a bond that is not mine.”

Xaden stilled.

Because that—that was new. Y/N raised a brow. “Well?” Xaden let out a slow, careful breath.

“There’s only one way to prove it,” he admitted.

Her brows lifted. “And that is?”

Xaden swallowed. “Choose you over her.”

Y/N’s lips parted. And Xaden waited.

Because Gods help him, he was finally choosing. And this time, he prayed to every god that ever existed that he wasn’t too late.

⸻

Xaden Riorson had spent his entire life fighting for survival.

Fighting for power. For revenge. For a future that wasn’t dictated by the sins of his father. But he had never fought for love. Never had to.

Because until now, he had never been at risk of losing the one person he couldn’t live without.

And Y/N—Gods help him—was making damn sure he earned every second of her time.

The tension between Xaden and Violet was palpable.

It had been since the moment Sgaeyl had chosen Y/N over her. Not that Violet had ever been oblivious to it. She was smart. Too smart. She had noticed the way Sgaeyl sought Y/N out first. The way Xaden’s gaze always lingered on her. The way Y/N had started to disappear.

And now? Now, Violet wasn’t oblivious at all.

Xaden found her waiting for him outside the barracks, arms crossed, her expression cool, calculating.

“I didn’t want to believe it,” she said simply.

Xaden didn’t pretend not to know what she meant. Instead, he exhaled sharply. “But you did.”

She nodded. “I saw the way she looked at you.”

His stomach tightened.

“More importantly,” Violet continued, tilting her head. “I saw the way you looked at her.”

Xaden didn’t answer. Because there was nothing to deny.

She let out a slow breath. “This is going to make things… complicated.”

It already was. With their dragons bonded, their destinies were already tangled. But that wasn’t the same as love. And Violet knew it.

“Then we make it uncomplicated,” Xaden said, steady, certain.

Her lips parted slightly. Because they both knew what that meant. What that had to mean. They couldn’t be more than what they were. Couldn’t blur the lines. Couldn’t pretend their dragons’ bond was the same as their own. Because Xaden had made his choice. And it wasn’t her.

For a long moment, Violet was silent. Then, finally, she nodded. And Gods help him, Xaden felt it shift.

The last thread of uncertainty snapping.

Because for the first time—truly, fully, undeniably—he was free to fight for the person he should have been fighting for all along.

⸻

It wasn’t enough.

Not to prove himself. Not to undo the damage he had caused. Because Y/N wasn’t an idiot. She wasn’t going to fall at his feet just because he had finally woken up. So she made him work for it.

She didn’t let him touch her. Didn’t let him fall into old habits. Didn’t let him have her until she was sure she had all of him. Because if he wanted her—really wanted her—it had to be all or nothing.

Xaden gritted his teeth when she dodged him for the fourth time in a week. He had done everything. Given her space. Let her set the pace. But fuck if he wasn’t losing his mind.

Because every time he caught a glimpse of her, every time her gaze locked with his across the training yard, every time she turned away before he could say something—

It felt like a slow, torturous death. So when he finally cornered her—again—she didn’t look surprised. Didn’t look apologetic.

Just calm. Waiting. Testing him.

Xaden exhaled slowly, measured.

“What else do you want from me?”

Y/N tilted her head. Unmoved. “I don’t want anything from you, Xaden.”

His chest tightened.

“Then why are you still here?” His voice was quiet, dangerous.

She smirked, but there was no warmth in it.

“I’m not. You’re the one chasing me, remember?”

His lips parted. Because fuck. She wasn’t wrong. He was chasing her. The way she used to chase him. And Gods help him, it was terrifying. Because for the first time, she held all the power. And he—the one who had spent his entire life controlling every possible outcome—was at her mercy.

“I know I fucked up,” he admitted, his voice rough, raw.

Her smirk faded.

“But I also know,” he continued, his eyes dark, intense, unrelenting, “that you’re still standing here. Which means a part of you wants to see if I’ll fight for you.”

She inhaled sharply. But she didn’t deny it. And Xaden knew. Knew she still wanted him. Knew this wasn’t about whether she had feelings for him. It was about whether he deserved them.

And Gods help him, he would spend the rest of his life proving that he did.

⸻

Xaden Riorson had always thought he understood pain.

The bite of a blade, the snap of broken ribs, the searing agony of dragon fire. But this—watching Y/N slip through his fingers, watching her smile at someone who wasn’t him—this was a different kind of torment.

Because she wasn’t his to lose. Not yet. And Gods help him, she was making him suffer for it.

He saw her again.

With him.

The first time, Xaden convinced himself it was nothing.

The second time, he clenched his fists but stayed quiet.

The third time?

He barely stopped himself from snapping the bastard’s neck.

Y/N stood close to the other rider—too close. Her head tilted back as she laughed at something he said.

Not forced. Not polite.

Real.

Xaden felt something dark and ugly curl in his stomach. Something he had never had to experience before.

Jealousy.

Not the petty kind. The kind that ate away at his fucking soul. Because that used to be him. That used to be his space beside her. His words making her laugh. His gaze catching hers across the training yard, a secret flickering between them.

But now?

Now, he was nothing more than a spectator. And Gods help him, it was driving him insane.

Sgaeyl’s voice rumbled in his mind. “You could simply go to her.”

His jaw tightened. No. Not yet. Not until she was ready. Not until she was the one choosing him again. But Gods help him, if she didn’t stop smiling at that bastard soon, he was going to—

“You’re scowling.”

Xaden whipped around to find Violet watching him, arms crossed.

He exhaled sharply. “I’m aware.”

Violet smirked. “Not a fan of Y/N’s new friend?”

He shot her a glare.

She laughed. “Oh, relax. They’re not like that.”

Xaden stilled. “What?”

Violet arched a brow. “You really think she’s replaced you that easily?”

His throat felt tight. “I don’t know what to think.”

Violet sighed, shaking her head. “It’s platonic. You’d know that if you stopped sulking in the shadows and actually talked to her.”

Xaden gritted his teeth. “She’s the one avoiding me.”

“Is she?”

That fucking smirk. Violet had always been too perceptive for her own good. And the worst part? She wasn’t wrong.

It happened on a stormy night. When the tension was so thick it felt like it could snap.

Y/N had gone to the training grounds, seeking solitude.

But of course, Xaden followed.

She sensed him before he spoke. Always did. But she didn’t turn around. Didn’t acknowledge him.

Until—

“I know it’s platonic,” he said quietly.

She stiffened. Then slowly turned to face him. “Excuse me?”

Xaden took a step closer, his gaze unreadable.

“I know you’re not with him.”

Y/N tilted her head, something dangerous and mocking in her eyes.

“And?”

Xaden exhaled sharply. “And it doesn’t fucking matter.”

Her lips parted slightly. Because this was different. This wasn’t him asking for another chance. This wasn’t him chasing her, hoping she’d let him in. This was him standing his ground. Him refusing to pretend he wasn’t hers.

“I don’t care if you’re not with him,” he said, voice low, steady.

“I don’t care how long you make me wait. How hard you make this.”

He stepped closer.

Crowding her. Consuming her.

“I don’t care if you never admit that you still love me,” he murmured. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

Because Gods help her, she had spent weeks waiting for him to crack. To slip back into old habits. To fail. But he hadn’t. He had stayed. Even when she made him suffer. Even when she pushed him away.

Because for the first time, he was fighting for her. And Gods help her, she wanted to believe him. But believing him meant admitting she had never stopped loving him. And that? That was terrifying.

Xaden must have seen it in her eyes. Because his gaze softened, just slightly.

And then, he broke her.

“I was a fool,” he admitted, his voice raw.

“For thinking you’d always be there. For thinking I could have you without giving you everything.”

He swallowed hard.

“But I’m here now.”

A pause. Then, the final blow.

“And I’m not leaving. Not ever.”

Y/N shattered. Because fuck, she wanted to believe him.

And maybe—

Maybe she finally did.

She let out a shaky breath. And then, finally, she stopped running.

Xaden barely had time to react before she grabbed the front of his shirt and crashed her lips against his. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t slow. It was desperate, aching, furious. It was everything they had been holding back.

Xaden let out a low, guttural sound, his hands sliding into her hair, gripping her like she might disappear. Like he was never going to let her go. Because he wasn’t. Not this time. Not ever.

And as her fingers tightened around him, as she finally, finally let herself believe him—

Xaden Riorson knew one thing.

The suffering had been worth it. Because in the end, he had won the only war that mattered.

Her.

[leona-hawthorne]

LEONA-HAWTHORNE’S FICMAS

december 23rd. mattheo riddle — he’s mine!

mattheo riddle x fem reader

summary ; it seems to be a little hard to get into the christmas spirit when your little sister is hogging your boyfriend! words ; 1.4k warnings ; fluff, established relationship

navigation ficmas masterlist

It had been your idea to bring Mattheo home for Christmas. Of course it had. You’d argued for it, certain your parents wouldn’t mind—and they didn’t. In fact, they’d been surprisingly enthusiastic about it. They liked Mattheo, for one, and they knew enough about his home life—or lack thereof—to see why he might need an escape for the holidays. Besides, the thought of leaving him behind in that cold, empty manor while you went off to bake cookies and trim trees with your family felt unbearable.  

What you hadn’t planned for was your little sister.  

The moment she saw Mattheo, her eyes went wide, her lips parted in a tiny gasp, and for once, she didn’t have a single smart remark. You’d expected her usual groaning protest of Ew, boys are gross or Whatever, he’s probably boring. But instead, she just stood there staring up at him, as though he were some sort of fairy tale prince who’d stepped straight out of one of her bedtime stories.  

“Hey,” Mattheo had said gently, crouching down to her level. He had that rare, soft smile on his face—the one he reserved only for you, and apparently now, six-year-old girls. “You must be the famous little sister. I’ve heard all about you.”  

Her face had turned scarlet, and she’d ducked behind your leg, clutching your jeans for dear life. You’d raised an eyebrow at Mattheo, trying to stifle a laugh. Well, this is new. 

From then on, it was as though she’d claimed him. Every time you turned around, there she was, dragging him off for some new adventure. At first, it was cute. Endearing, even. She’d taken him by the hand to show him the ornaments she’d made for the tree, chattering on about how she’d painted the reindeer one herself. He’d listened patiently, nodding and smiling as though her ramblings were the most fascinating thing he’d ever heard.  

But then it escalated.  

By the second day, you found them at her little pink tea table, tiny porcelain cups in hand. Mattheo’s long legs were awkwardly folded beneath him as he pretended to sip imaginary tea. You’d leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, biting your lip to keep from laughing.  

“Really?” you’d asked, grinning. “A tea party?”  

“She made me a very convincing argument,” Mattheo replied, deadpan, though the corners of his mouth twitched with amusement. “Also, I think this is her way of letting me know who’s in charge here.”  

You’d laughed then, shaking your head, but something about the way your sister beamed up at him had made you pause.  

It wasn’t long before her demands grew bolder. She’d roped him into baking cookies—flour dusted all over his dark jumper—and insisted he give her a piggyback ride around the house. And though Mattheo obliged her every request with good-natured patience, you couldn’t help but feel a twinge of annoyance.

Because every time you tried to steal a moment alone with him, she was already there, wedged firmly between the two of you.  

On the third day, you figured maybe it was time to steal back your boyfriend.

“Where is he?” you muttered, stalking through the house. The smell of gingerbread lingered in the air, and somewhere, you could hear your sister’s giggles echoing down the hall.  

You found them in the living room. She was perched on Mattheo’s back, her little arms wrapped tightly around his neck as he crawled on all fours, pretending to be a dragon.  

“Really?” you said, crossing your arms as you stood in the doorway.  

Mattheo glanced up at you, his curls falling into his eyes. He was grinning. “What?”  

“She’s hogging you,” you said, your voice teetering on the edge of a whine.  

“She’s six,” he replied, raising an eyebrow. “You jealous of a six-year-old?”  

“What? No, I just– you know what? You two have fun, I’m gonna go help my mom with wrapping.”

And by the fourth day, you’d had enough.  

You didn’t know whether to scoff or to smile as you watched Mattheo from the doorway of the kitchen. He stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, flour dusting his dark shirt as he helped your little sister roll out sugar cookie dough. His hands were comically large compared to hers, yet he moved with such careful precision, as if afraid to crush her tiny fingers by accident.

Your sister giggled, a sound that echoed through the space like a bell, and your chest tightened at how easily Mattheo coaxed that sound from her. It was endearing—no, more than endearing. It was heartwarming. But also…infuriating.

You stepped into the room, leaning against the counter as you folded your arms. “How’s it going in here?”

Mattheo glanced up at you, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “It’s going great. We’re making masterpieces, aren’t we, kid?”

Your sister nodded vigorously, her pigtails bouncing as she beamed up at him. “Mattheo says my snowman looks perfect!”

You raised a brow, biting back a smile. “Perfect, huh? Even though his head is sliding off his body?”

Mattheo chuckled, brushing a streak of flour off his arm. “It’s an abstract snowman,” he said smoothly, turning back to the dough. “He’s got character.”

Your sister giggled again, clearly thrilled by his attention, and you felt the beginnings of that familiar pang of annoyance. You’d invited Mattheo here for you, not so he could spend every waking moment entertaining your sister.

“Right,” you said, stepping closer and nudging him lightly with your hip. “Well, I’m stealing him now. We were supposed to watch a movie, remember?”

Mattheo looked over at you, his dark eyes sparkling with amusement. “Baby, are you jealous of a six-year-old?”

Your mouth opened, indignation flaring to life, but before you could respond, your sister tugged on his sleeve. “Wait! We still have to make the reindeer cookies! You promised!”

Mattheo crouched slightly, bringing himself to her level as he smiled at her. “And we’ll make those, I swear. But your big sister’s giving me that look, and I think I’d better listen to her before she drags me out of here.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the way your lips twitched upward. “I’m not giving you a look.”

“Oh, you’re giving me a look,” he teased, standing to his full height and brushing his hands off on a towel. He leaned closer, lowering his voice so only you could hear. “You’re practically glaring at me. I’d almost say it’s cute.”

“Don’t push your luck, Riddle,” you muttered, though your cheeks burned at the way his breath ghosted against your skin.

Your sister pouted, crossing her arms. “But Mattheo—”

“I’ll be back,” he promised her, giving her a playful wink. “And when I am, we’ll make the best reindeer cookies anyone’s ever seen. Deal?”

She huffed, clearly not pleased, but she nodded anyway, her pout softening.

You grabbed Mattheo’s wrist, tugging him toward the living room before your sister could protest again. “Come on. You’re mine, remember?”

He let you pull him away, laughing softly under his breath. Once you reached the living room, you rounded on him, poking a finger at his chest. “You’re supposed to be spending time with me. Me, Mattheo. Not my sister. Me.”

“Is this really happening right now?” he asked, smirking down at you. “You’re actually jealous of a six-year-old.”

“Okay, first of all, I’m not jealous,” you shot back, though your words sounded more defensive than you intended. “I just don’t like sharing, especially when it’s you. And second, it’s not my fault she suddenly decided she loves boys after swearing for years that they had cooties!”

Mattheo grinned, his hands coming up to rest on your hips. “So what you’re saying is…I’m irresistible.”

You groaned, dropping your face into your hands. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you still love me.”

You peeked at him through your fingers, finding his gaze soft and affectionate, his smirk less teasing now and more genuine. Your frustration melted away as quickly as it had come, replaced by a warm, fluttery feeling in your chest.

“Yeah,” you admitted, dropping your hands and stepping closer to him. “I do.”

“And for the record,” he murmured, leaning down until his lips brushed your temple, “I’m yours. Always.”

​​ficmas taglist: @winnie1emon @ur-local-wizard @satosugu4-ever @ankoluvs @superstargirll @slytherin-princess-x @abeoavita @mattheoriddle101 @georgiastars13 @smoooore @mattheoriddles-sluttt @2dloveshp @mattysprincess @catching-fire-in-the-wind @revesephemeres @esmerai-artemis @clar2aa @iamaconfusedpan

© leona-hawthorne 2025. please do not copy, translate or repost any of my writing.

[solemnd]

Falter

Caitlyn Kirmman x fem!reader

summary: You betrayed her, so why did Caitlyn's heart ache at the sight of you wounded?

warning: minimal gore (Wounds, cuts, blood), death, angst, mentions of fighting

A/N: short one!!! But yeah I've had this idea for awhile 😊

—

Caitlyn sat upright, her body slumped weakly under the weight of her injuries. Her blurred gaze tracked the dark red drops of blood falling from the cut from her left eye, splattering onto the ground below. Her trembling right hand pressed tightly against the stab wound on her side, trying to stop the bleeding, but her strength was wavering.

With effort, her gaze lifted. The soft light of the blue sky makes her blink. When her vision cleared, it landed on you. You lay motionless on the ground, the spear Ambessa had wielded gave you a large cut on your stomach. Blood seeped from the wound, pooling beneath you, as your chest rose and fell in increasingly shallow breaths.

Caitlyn’s heart twisted painfully, her grief a raw and an open wound. She wanted to hate you. Desperately. She wanted to curse your name for the betrayal that cut deeper than any blade. You had worked for Ambessa behind her back, yet somehow made your way back into her life.

But even as rage coiled in her chest, she couldn’t ignore the truth. You’d had your chance to kill her—and you didn’t. When the moment came, you faltered. Ambessa had expected that, but Caitlyn didn't. Instead, you turned against her orders, fighting by Caitlyn and Mel's side to stop her. But it was your defiance that cost you. Ambessa didn’t hesitate, striking you down before Caitlyn’s horrified eyes.

A broken sob escaped her lips. Why? Why did you come back into her life? Why did you comfort her after her mother’s death, hold her when she was at her most vulnerable, and make her fall in love with you again? Only to shatter her trust with the truth that you had been working for Noxus all along?

The questions gnawed at her. Had your serving for Noxus begin the moment you left Piltover at 15? Or was it later, when your letters stopped coming, despite your promises to keep in touch? Caitlyn felt sick with the uncertainty, her anger rising even more at the memory of your betrayal.

But that anger couldn’t drown out the ache in her heart. You had defended her—fought for her—even as it cost you your life.

God, why did it have to be you?

Her breath hitched as she saw your hand begin to loosen its grip on your wound. Caitlyn couldn’t stop herself. With sheer determination, she tried to crawl toward you, her arms shaking as she struggled to hold the weight of her body. She didn’t know if she was reaching to help you or to curse you one last time, but it didn’t matter. Her body betrayed her, collapsing under its own weight.

A sharp cry of pain escaped her as she hit the ground, her vision swimming with tears. Despite her pain, she kept her eyes on you, watching your chest rise one more time, praying for a miracle that she knew wouldn't happen.

When your body finally stilled, Caitlyn broke. Silent tears streamed from her uninjured eye, her shoulders shaking as sobs wracked her wounded frame. She felt like she was shattering into pieces, caught between the memory of your betrayal and the sight of your lifeless form lying before her.

She almost wished you had never returned—never reignited the fire in her heart for you—because now she would forever carry the unbearable weight of loving and losing you.

[toxicmalysh]

Guys hear me outttt

Mommy Wanda with a belly bulge kink...

Word count: 1k+

Content warnings: Top mean mommy Wanda X GN!reader (I tried my best guys sorry) fingering (r recieving), strap on (r recieving), sadism, slight squirting, slight overstim, breeding kink, sexual punishments, ellusions to sexual manipulation. This is just pure filth guys

✧⋆✦⋆✧

Your eyes squeezed shut at the feeling of her fingers slipping in and out of your gummy walls. Wanda groaned at the way you throbbed around her…

“God you're so tight, pretty pet.. mommy will stretch you out..”

You swore she was talking to herself at the way she lowered her voice.

Wanda had wasted no time in getting you to your room after one of Tony's party's.

You had teased her for hours, thinking the most vulgar thoughts, knowing she would be listening.

You were now shaking against your shared bed, on the edge of your third orgasm…

You whined as Wanda spat on your clit,

“Such a pretty pussy…”

She gave it a harsh slap causing you to squirt a small amount, white heat filling your head.

“Oh you like that? You like when mommy spanks what's hers? What a dirty plaything I have..”

She pulled her hand away suddenly, seconds before your much needed orgasm.

“Mommy no-”

You immediately paused your protest as her green eyes pierced yours, a look of disgust on her face.

“Wait here… do not touch yourself.” her tone was cold and firm.

You nodded quickly as Wanda walked into the ensuite bathroom. You could hear the familiar sound of her strap fabric rubbing together. Fuck. The throbbing between your legs was unbearable, your cunt gushing as you tried to ignore your clit begging for relief.

You squeezed your thighs together, rubbing them slightly.. your hands found your stiff nipples, already red and sore from Wanda's sadistic tendencies. Your eyes shut slowly as you pinched and pulled at your breasts feeling your wetness sticking to your thighs.

“Ow!” You called out after a sharp sting traveled from your thigh up your leg. Your eyes shot open, admiring the harm print that was left. You then looked over Wanda stood to the side of the bed.

"What did I say?"

She was wearing her strap as expected but the attachment was new. You gulped as you processed the size of the toy. It was massive, at least 9 inches in length. How were you supposed to take that?

“Not so brave now are we?” You rolled your eyes as Wanda climbed onto the bed. Her knees spread your thighs as her hand wrapped around your throat.

“Mommy doesn't like punishing you. She likes rewarding her good pet, but when you misbehave like tonight I have to teach you there are consequences for your actions. And now you think it's acceptable to roll your eyes at me?”

It was a lie, Wanda loved punishing you, hearing the whimpers fall from your lips, listening to the squelching sound you pussy made especially for punishments, watching the tears roll down your cheeks and admiring the marks that were left on your skin.

She wouldn't admit it but she would find an excuse to manipulate you into thinking showing you when you'd done something wrong just to spank you a few times.

“I'm sorry Wanda I just dont-” you were cut off by a harsh slap on your right breast. She practically spat her words out as she leaned closer to you, her hand still squeezing your throat.

“That's not my fucking name.”

“Mommy I'm sorry..”

Your eyes took in the large dildo as Wanda began quickly lining it up with your sloppy cunt.

“If you want to misbehave and act like a brat, I will treat you like one.”

She didn't bother spreading you wetness or her spit across the toy, she simply slid it into your slippery walls, whilst simultaneously pushing your thighs to your chest into a mating press.

You both watched in awe as you saw the tip of the toy through your stomach. You moaned loudly, feeling the toy in your gut, your eyes fixated on the moving head as she moved back and forth slowly, the bulge moving with the strap.

“Look at that.. such a greedy pussy.. all for mommy.”

You nodded, your hum a broken whimper as you nodded, your lip between your teeth. Holy fuck you felt full.

Wanda wanted to take it slow, and allow you to get use to the size of the toy, but watching it move from your stomach, she gave into her needs.

She growled as she placed one hand on the bulge, you pussy making a “schlick” noise as your back arched,

“Oh my god~.”

Your moan was broken, and throaty as your hands naturally reached for Wanda's back.

You felt tears prick at your eyes from the stinging sensation and the added pressure from Wanda's hand. It hurt, so, good.

And this was Wanda's plan, to mix pain with pleasure. Force guide you into that fuzzy headspace you loved so much, and give you so much pleasure, whilst hurting you, you associated the pair.

You craved pain. Your masochistic side growing from each spank, stretch, and pinch. It was addictive.

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head and you naturally pulled Wanda closer to you. She pulled away suddenly, and you gasped as the toy was ripped from your gaping hole. Before you could complain, Wanda dragged you to the edge of your bed, she stood in front of you, with her hand still pressing your legs to your chest, the other pushing down on your stomach. Her left leg came up to rest on the bed beside you, as she slid the toy back into you. She was able to thrust much harder and faster.

Wanda was grunting as her eyes fixated on the moving bulge, you watched her eyes, her pupils blown and her mouth pulled into a sadistic smirk. The pressure of it all was sending you head first over the edge. Wanda's voice came out as a breathless, condescending tone as if she was asking a child the question.

“What if mommy did something to her cock?”

Your eyes looked down to her strap for a moment still memorised by the visible movement. You wanted to ask her to continue but your mouth opened in a silent moan as her hand moved to your swollen clit.

“What if mommy wanted to cum inside you hm? Oh you'd look so cute, all swollen, full of mommy's pups.”

A rush of red, hot, pleasure coursed through your whole body. You felt a flash of arousal leaking around her strap.

“You like that idea hm? Want mommy to fill your little tummy up?”

You nodded rapidly, your body paralyzed as you were seconds from falling over the edge.

“God, look at that.”

A red wisp of energy flicked your chin up forcing you to look at the bulge in your stomach once more.

You both moaned in unison, growling at the new found pleasure.

“Mom- mommy.. need to cum? Please? Cum?”

You couldn't even get your words out, broken from a consistent string of moans.

Wanda's eyes flickered up,

“Go on, cum for me, milk mommy's cock.”

You almost screamed as a throaty moan clawed its way from your lips. Your pussy spasmed around Wanda's cock, the toy slipping out slowly from the force of your orgasm. Your thighs vibrated uncontrollably as Wanda kept running circles around your overstimulated clit.

“I'm starting to think I need to come up with some new punishments…”

[faebled-stories]

Mind Over Words

Kinkvember Day 10: Mind Reading

Ex-IZONE/Soloist Kwon Eunbi x Male reader

8k words

Kwon Eunbi was no stranger to adoration. As one of the most illustrious idols in the K-pop industry, she had become accustomed to the constant spotlight illuminating her every move. The shimmering lights of fame and the intoxicating cheers of her fans filled her life with an exhilarating thrill, while those around her—managers, stylists, and bodyguards—catered meticulously to her whims. They were like loyal shadows, wholly devoted to her, and Eunbi thrived on the attention that came with her status.

But when you entered her life, it was like stepping into a different world. Assigned as her new bodyguard after a particularly harrowing fan incident, you weren’t like the others who had surrounded her. Their gazes lingered, always softened with admiration or anxious deference, each gesture a silent acknowledgment of her celebrity. But you? You were an enigma, a puzzle. From the very first moment, Eunbi sensed something unusual, even unsettling about you.

Your composure seemed unbreakable, almost otherworldly. You didn’t hover; you didn’t flinch at her biting remarks or her occasional temper. You simply stood there, strong and steady, carrying out your duties with a level of professionalism that was both maddening and captivating. Why doesn’t he react to me? Eunbi wondered, confusion and frustration swirling within her. Why doesn’t he treat me like I’m someone to be adored?

What she didn’t know was that you could hear her thoughts, clear as a voice spoken aloud. You heard her silent questions, felt her frustration, even her curiosity. But she didn’t need to know that yet. You simply stood there, impervious on the outside, knowing every flicker of emotion that crossed her mind.

Eunbi’s initial attempts to ignore you were futile. Your presence was like a constant hum in the background, steady and unavoidable. She couldn’t shake how your striking features, rugged and composed, carried an aura of authority that demanded attention—yet you didn’t wield it like others. You emitted a calm restraint that, despite your undeniable allure, made her pulse quicken in unexpected ways.

Every day, she tried to brush off these reactions, but her inner thoughts were a chaotic mix of confusion and intrigue, and you felt it all. You didn’t react, didn’t show the slightest hint that her presence affected you. And with each passing day, Eunbi’s frustration grew.

As weeks passed, Eunbi found herself caught in an emotional bind. Somehow, you seemed to know what she needed before she could even ask. When she was parched after a long rehearsal, there would be a bottle of chilled water in her hand before she even turned around. At an outdoor shoot, as the heat grew unbearable, you’d have a towel ready or a fan positioned for relief. It was uncanny, almost supernatural.

Yet, the more you took care of her needs, the more irritated she became. Perfect was a word she’d heard too often, but you embodied it in a way that felt oppressive. Why were you so attuned to her? Why did you seem to understand her unspoken needs so well? Your silence and precision highlighted her vulnerability, unsettling her more than she cared to admit. You never asked for gratitude, never expected her approval or admiration. You were…unmoved.

Her frustration simmered, and her thoughts spiraled: Does he ever make mistakes? Why doesn’t he react to me? Why does he care about everything else but my attention?

Your calm exterior held, but you were fully aware of her thoughts. Eunbi’s inner voice pulsed with equal parts irritation and fascination. She lashed out in small ways, hoping to provoke a crack in your armor. She made cutting remarks, and tossed off-handed jabs your way, but you only replied evenly.

“I’m here to take care of you, Ms. Kwon. It’s my job,” you said once, offering a towel after a particularly grueling rehearsal, your tone gentle but unreadable.

That was the crux of her dilemma—you were too good at your job. Your calmness was both a shield and a barrier. Each time she lashed out, a part of her hoped for a reaction, for some glimpse of humanity behind the stoic mask. And you felt her silent yearning. It was palpable, woven into her thoughts as if searching for proof that you weren’t just her bodyguard.

What truly haunted her was the attraction that had blossomed almost immediately after your arrival. She fought against it, clinging to professionalism. But every stolen glance—at the strength in your hands, the confident set of your shoulders under a suit, the way your jaw would tense in moments of concentration—only pulled her deeper into a world of fantasy.

God, just imagine those hands on me, she mused one day, biting her lip before catching herself. The thought startled even her, and she chastised herself immediately. But she couldn’t resist the magnetic pull that only grew stronger with each passing interaction. You could feel her fantasies drift through her mind, the haze of longing nearly suffocating. Still, you held firm.

When ignoring her desire no longer worked, Eunbi switched tactics. She began dressing more provocatively around you, telling herself it was merely her style, but she knew the intent was far from innocent. The first time she walked into the room in a low-cut top, she threw you a glance, eagerly anticipating a response.

But you merely nodded politely, eyes scanning the surroundings as if her presence were no more remarkable than anyone else’s. Her thoughts turned bitterly annoyed: Seriously? He didn’t even notice.

The next day, she wore a tight dress that accentuated her legs and hips. She swayed deliberately as she passed, hoping to break your indifference. But once again, you remained indifferent, your gaze focused on her surroundings rather than her.

Why doesn’t he see me? she fumed inwardly. She knew she was attractive. She knew the effect she had on people. But with you, it felt like she was invisible.

“Do you think this dress looks good on me?” she asked one morning, adjusting the straps with a slight smirk. The neckline dipped, framing her figure in a way she knew was alluring.

You glanced briefly. “It’s appropriate for the event, Ms. Kwon,” you replied smoothly, sensing the frustration flaring up inside her even as she kept her expression neutral.

Appropriate? she seethed inwardly, biting back a scowl. I’m practically throwing myself at him, and all he can say is that it’s ‘appropriate’?

The tension built steadily over the following weeks, until it finally reached a boiling point at a fan meeting. She sat behind a long table, surrounded by the chatter and excitement of her fans, a familiar routine. But today, her mind was somewhere else—on you.

You stood nearby, ever-watchful, a statue of unwavering professionalism. She knew you were scanning the room, focused on your duty. But amid the buzz of adoring fans, she felt a strange emptiness. You were so close, yet so unreachable, her thoughts swirling with a longing she didn’t want to name.

He can’t be this detached. He has to feel something. Why won’t he let me see?

What she didn’t know was that her thoughts, though silent to others, echoed clearly in your mind, striking like a silent plea. You remained steadfast, a lighthouse against her growing storm, guiding her while suppressing your own turbulent emotions. You knew the line between duty and desire was razor-thin, and crossing it could unravel everything.

But Eunbi’s thoughts grew louder, her mind practically screaming her frustration, her curiosity, her yearning. It was almost as if she wanted you to hear her deepest, most vulnerable desires. And you heard every word, every unspoken admission, knowing that the boundary between you was wearing thin.

Why won’t he just look at me? Eunbi thought bitterly, frustration simmering just below the surface of her practiced smile. I could be naked, and he wouldn’t care.

The thought stirred up both anger and a strange thrill that unsettled her. It was childish—a possessive cry for your attention, yet it was raw, disarmingly real. She wanted you to notice her—needed you to, more than she had ever wanted anything. Yet, as she subtly stole glances at you out of the corner of her eye, she found nothing: no hint of interest, no flicker of recognition that her heart raced in your presence.

Her dress hugged her curves perfectly, an outfit chosen with every intention of catching your eye. A silent plea wrapped in silk and lace, it clashed painfully with the stoic indifference she saw in your gaze. Just as she caught herself hoping for your attention, the laughter of nearby girls pierced through her focus, their admiration for you like daggers to her heart.

“He’s so handsome!” one of them squealed, her eyes sparkling as she gazed at you. “Do you think he’s single?” another chimed in, her tone blending excitement with hope.

Eunbi’s jaw tightened, her forced smile growing strained. They’re not here for him. They’re here for me. Why are they looking at him like that? The surge of jealousy and insecurity nearly broke her composure. What was he even looking at? They’re flat as a plank compared to me.

But what twisted the knife deeper in Eunbi’s heart wasn’t just the attention you were receiving; it was your reaction to it. For the first time since she’d met you, a small laugh escaped your lips, a polite smile brightening your features just slightly. The sight was like a slap, lighting a painful flame of betrayal within her. You had never smiled at her like that, no matter how hard she tried, no matter how many subtle advancements she made. Nothing could ignite a spark in you.

Are you kidding me? Her heart raced, jealousy and anger pounding against her ribcage. He can smile at them, but not at me? The thought was painful, almost intoxicating, as if it revealed a hard truth she wasn’t ready to confront: you saw beauty in them, but not in her.

Her gaze narrowed on the girls, their laughter stinging like a taunt. They were transfixed by you, oblivious to the charge in the air between her and you, their eyes shimmering with a careless admiration. He’s mine, she thought fiercely. Not yours.

The jealousy seethed within her, tightening the knots in her stomach with each passing second. She knew she shouldn’t focus on them—or on you—but try as she might, her attention kept snapping back to the frenzied crowd. Fans clamored to catch a glimpse of her, their smiles far brighter than the tension brewing inside her heart. She struggled to maintain her facade, to plaster a smile on her face while signing autographs, yet nothing could shake the bitter realization that had taken up residence in her chest.

As she forced herself to engage with the fans ahead of her, the laughter of those girls, and the image of you chuckling at their admiration, echoed in her mind. Would she ever break through the wall you had built around yourself? And why, despite everything, did she still hope for your gaze to meet hers, even if just for a fleeting moment?

And then, her already brittle patience snapped with the next fan in line—a man whose presence was a jarring departure from the girls. A middle-aged man stepped forward, his smile wide enough to reveal uneven teeth, but it was the way his eyes lingered on Eunbi that made her stomach churn. “Eunbi-ssi,” he said, a shadow of something unsettling lurking in his voice. His gaze traveled down her body before snapping back to her face, and she forced a polite smile, wishing desperately to push the waves of jealousy swirling in her mind into the recesses of her consciousness.

“I’ve been following your career for years,” he continued, his eyes uncomfortably assessing her. “You’re even more beautiful in person.”

Great, she thought, her stomach churning in disgust. Another creep.

Eunbi clenched her jaw, masking her distaste with a polite response. “Thank you for your support.” Her voice, sweet yet strained, fell flat in the air, thick with tension. As she hastily signed the man’s poster, she mentally urged him to move along.

But the encounter was far from over. The man extended his hand with a persistence that unsettled her, the simple handshake suddenly feeling invasive. Reluctantly, she took his hand, hoping the interaction would be brief. But as his grip tightened, she felt a chill run through her—a sense of an unseen boundary being crossed. His fingers lingered too long, and he leaned in closer, invading her personal space with an oily request, “Can I get a special picture? Just between us?”

Let go, she thought desperately, panic flickering in her eyes. Why won’t he let go?

Her pulse quickened, her mind spinning as panic threatened to take over. With every second that passed, she felt more cornered, her instincts screaming for her to pull away, but his grasp tightened instead. Her gaze darted to you, instinctively pleading for a reprieve from the unwanted encounter.

Without hesitation, you stepped forward, seamlessly inserting yourself between Eunbi and the unwanted fan. Your presence was commanding, authoritative yet calm, exuding a sense of protection that immediately eased some of her unease. “That’s enough.Take your hands of Ms. Kwon before I force them off,” you said, your voice steady and unwavering.

The fan blinked, his bravado crumbling as he quickly released Eunbi’s hand. He mumbled an apology, retreating with a pale face, his previous confidence shattered. The relief that flooded through Eunbi was palpable, yet beneath her relief lingered a gratitude so profound, it unsettled her, a quiet acknowledgment that went beyond mere professionalism. You had stepped in at exactly the right moment, just when she needed you the most. It wasn’t just about professionalism anymore. It was something deeper. You had understood her discomfort before she even had a chance to voice it.

-----

Later that night, Eunbi paced back and forth in her room, her mind racing with everything that had happened. The way you had stepped in with that fan, the way you always seemed to know exactly what she needed—it was starting to feel like too much. How does he always know? she wondered, her frustration bubbling over. How does he do it?

Unable to let it go, she crossed the hall and knocked on your door. When you opened it, your expression was as unreadable as ever, but tonight, she wasn’t going to let you keep hiding behind that calm facade.

“Ms. Kwon” you said, your voice unwavering. “Is something wrong?”

Without waiting for an invitation, she stepped past you into the room, her frustration pushing her forward. “How do you do it?” she demanded, turning to face you, her pulse quickening.

You raised an eyebrow. “Do what?”

“You always know,” she snapped. “You always know what I need before I even ask. How do you do that?”

For a moment, you hesitated, your gaze holding a flicker of something darker, though your voice remained steady. “It’s my job to take care of you.”

“That’s crap, you know what I’m talking about,” she shot back, shaking her head. “It’s not just your job. You know things… things you shouldn’t know.”

You stayed silent, eyes searching hers, and then finally said, “I pay attention. I notice things.”

Eunbi’s mind spun with conflicting emotions, a tangled mess of confusion and desire. Is that all it is? Could he really just be that observant?

But she knew there was more to it than that. No one had ever been able to anticipate her needs the way you did. Not her staff, not her fans—no one.

Her thoughts spiraled. How does he know exactly what I want, even when I don’t say it?

Frustration took over. “If you’re so good at paying attention,” she said, stepping closer, “then why don’t you ever...”

She stopped herself, caught off guard by her own longing. Why don’t you ever touch me? Why don’t you ever lose control?

Your gaze held hers, intense and unreadable. Taking a step closer, your presence fills the space between you with a magnetic intensity.

Her breath hitched. She was so close to losing control herself, her body trembling with a desire she’d been fighting for weeks. Yes. Finally, I’ve wanted this since the day I met you.

But she couldn’t say that. Instead, she stammered, “We... we shouldn’t. We’re professionals.”

Your lips twitched into the faintest of smiles. “Are we?”

Eunbi stepped back, trying to regain some sense of control. “We should keep this... professional. I don’t see you this way .”

You paused, as if weighing her words, and then took a step back as if to agree with her.

Her heart seized in her chest. No. Don’t leave. Please don’t leave.

You turned back, eyes dark with amusement. “I think you do want this,” you murmured, your voice low.

Eunbi’s breath caught as you moved closer, your body pressing against hers. All her resistance crumbled.

“You want me to stop?” you asked, your voice low, almost teasing.

Eunbi’s breath caught in her throat as her thoughts betrayed her once again. No, don’t stop. Please don’t stop.

Her heart pounded in her chest as you reached out, your hand gently brushing her arm. The touch sent a shock of heat through her body, making her breath hitch. She opened her mouth to protest, but the words wouldn’t come. All she could think about was how badly she wanted you to keep going, to let go of that rigid professionalism just for once.

You leaned in closer, your breath warm against her skin as you whispered, “Is this what you want?”

Eunbi’s mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. She knew she should push you away, knew she should tell you to stop—but she couldn’t. She couldn’t fight the desire that had been building inside her for weeks.

Yes, it is. I want this. I want you.

But out loud, she shook her head, trying to hold onto some semblance of control. “We... we shouldn’t, it's wrong.”

Your lips twitched into the faintest of smiles. “Why is it so wrong?” you repeated, your voice filled with a dark amusement.

Eunbi’s body betrayed her as she stepped closer, her heart racing. Just rip my top off already. I want you to touch me. I’ve been waiting for this.

Your eyes darkened as you heard her unspoken thoughts, and for the first time, Eunbi saw a crack in your calm demeanor. You moved in closer, your hands sliding up her arms, sending shivers down her spine. And then, with a low, dark chuckle, you did exactly what she had been begging for in her mind—your fingers gripped the fabric of her top, and with one swift motion, you ripped it open.

Eunbi gasped, her body reacting instantly to the cool air hitting her skin. She stared up at you, wide-eyed, a mix of shock and thrill coursing through her. “What the hell—” she began, trying to keep her voice steady, but she was too flustered to hide how much she was enjoying it.

Your gaze never wavered as you leaned in, your lips brushing her ear. “You wanted this, didn’t you?” Your hands moved to her chest, teasing her exposed skin, and Eunbi’s breath hitched as the intensity of your touch sent waves of pleasure through her.

“I... I didn’t say that,” she protested weakly, her voice trembling. “You just... ruined my shirt.”

But her mind was screaming a different story. Finally. Oh god, I’ve been waiting for this. Don’t stop. Touch me more.

You chuckled softly, your fingers trailing over her skin. “You didn’t have to say it.”

Eunbi’s breath hitched as your hands moved across her chest, teasing her exposed skin. She wanted to push away, to tell you that this was wrong, that they shouldn’t be doing this, but her body had a mind of its own. Her heart raced as your fingers trailed over her nipples, sending electric jolts of pleasure through her.

“We... we should stop,” she said breathlessly, her voice trembling as she tried to regain some control. “This isn’t... we can’t...”

But your gaze was dark, intense, and you weren't planning on stopping. Leaning down, your lips finding her sensitive nipples, you began to suck and tease, your tongue swirling over them in a way that made Eunbi’s entire body shudder.

Oh my god, she thought, her mind spiraling. I’m so wet. Ugh just take me already... I’m so easy for you.

“Wait, stop...” she said weakly, her voice barely a whisper. “This isn’t right.”

You could hear her every thought, the conflict raging inside her as her body responded to his touch. His hands slid down her sides, slowly beginning to undress the remaining items. She gasped, her body trembling as his fingers brushed over her waist, tugging at the fabric of her pants.

“N-no,” she protested, trying to hold onto the last shred of professionalism. “We... we need to stop. ”

But you don’t stop. You know better. You know exactly what she wants, even if she can’t admit it to herself. Slowly, deliberately, you undress her, your touch firm yet gentle as you pull her pants down, along with her panties, leaving her completely bare beneath you.

Eunbi’s heart races, her mind spinning with conflicting thoughts. This is wrong. We shouldn’t be doing this. But at the same time, another voice in her head screams louder. I want you. I want you so badly. I’m so wet for you. Just take me already.

You have her on her back now, your eyes never leaving hers as you lower your face between her legs. Eunbi’s breath catches in her throat, her body trembling with anticipation as your hands slide up her thighs, parting them gently.

“Fuck” she gasps, her voice shaking as she tries to hold onto her composure. “This is too far…”

And then, your mouth pressing against her most sensitive spot as your tongue begins to tease and explore. Eunbi’s entire body jolts with pleasure, her back arching off the bed as a moan escapes her lips.

“Oh my god...” she gasps, her mind spinning. This feels so good. Too good…

Your tongue works expertly, drawing out wave after wave of pleasure as you move between her legs. Eunbi’s hands grip the sheets, her body trembling with the intensity of the sensations crashing through her. But even as she's lost in the moment, another thought pushes to the front of her mind.

If he starts playing with my nipples, I’ll lose it. I’ll completely lose control.

Hearing every word, your hands moved up her body, tracing the curve of her waist before finding her breast. You gently cupped it, feeling the weight of her fullness in your hand. Eunbi inhaled sharply, her breath hitching as your thumb brushed against her nipple. The sensitive bud hardened under your touch, and you couldn’t help but smile at the involuntary response.

With a feather-light touch, you traced the outline of her nipples, eliciting a soft gasp from Eunbi. Her back arched slightly off the bed, a silent plea for more. You obliged, your fingers now gently twisting and tugging her nipples, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to her core. Eunbi had unknowingly given you the key to her pleasure—a natural button on her chest that you savored with delicate attention.

Her orgasm took her by surprise, hitting suddenly and with intense force. She couldn’t hold back a loud, involuntary gasp as her back arched off the bed, a testament to the pleasure coursing through her body. Her hips bucked uncontrollably, meeting your touch with a needful urgency, as wave after wave of ecstasy overtook her.

The Idol’s mind went blank, all conscious thought evaporating in an instant as her body trembled beneath your touch. Every muscle in her body seemed to tense up and then release, a violent shudder passing through her with each passing moment. Her breathing became ragged, panting and gasping for air as she rode out the intense waves of pleasure. It was as if every nerve ending in her body was on fire, consumed by the overwhelming intensity of her release.

“Oh my god... oh god...” she moaned, her voice a breathless, broken whisper. Her fingernails digging into your hair as she struggled to maintain some semblance of control. But it was futile, her body was beyond her control now, completely at the mercy of the exquisite pleasure coursing through her veins. Her toes curled, her legs shook, and her whole body trembled with the force of her orgasm.

"This is too much... it feels too good... I can’t stop..." Her thoughts are a mess, her body spiraling out of control as you continue to pleasure her, your tongue never letting up. Every stroke sends another surge of ecstasy crashing through her, pushing her deeper into the abyss of pleasure.

She was helpless, completely at his mercy, and she loved every second of it. Her body trembled, her mind overwhelmed by the intensity of her orgasm, but even in the middle of it, she wanted more. Needed more.

Oh god... I need you inside me..

You finally pull back, your lips glistening with the evidence of her pleasure, watching in awe as Eunbi’s body quivered, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. Her chest heaved, rising and falling with each labored breath, the pinkened peaks of her nipples standing tall and proud. You had done this to her, reduced her to a trembling, gasping mess.

Standing up, your expression was unreadable as you began to undress, the room heavy with the tension that still lingers between you. Eunbi’s heart races as she watches you, her body still thrumming with desire, even after the intensity of her orgasm.

But then, suddenly, you pause, glancing down at her, and for a moment, it looks like you’re about to step away.

Eunbi’s breath catches in her throat, panic seizing her for a split second. No. No,waht are you doing?..

You turned slightly. Her heart pounded in her chest, her mind screaming in frustration. Don’t you dare leave. Please. Please stay. I need you to stay.

Her lips parted, but the words wouldn’t come. She was too conflicted, too torn between her desire and the thin thread of professionalism she still tried to cling to. “W-Wait” she stammered, her voice weak and trembling. 

You turn back toward her, a faint, teasing smile curving on your lips as you slowly undo your belt. You've heard her thoughts loud and clear, and the amusement in your eyes only makes her heart race faster.

“You want me to stay?” you ask softly, your voice a low, teasing rumble.

Eunbi’s breath catches in her throat, her body still trembling with need. She can feel the heat radiating off you as you stand above her, your presence overwhelming.

Yes. Yes, I want you to stay. I need you to finish this.

As you undress fully, your eyes never leave hers, the weight of your gaze making her tremble even more. You’re toying with her now, enjoying the way her thoughts betray her true desires, even as she tries to resist.

You move back toward the bed, positioning yourself between her legs. Eunbi’s breath quickens as she feels your hands slide up her thighs, parting them gently. Her body is already responding to you, her core throbbing with need, but her mind is still at war with itself.

A soft chuckle escaped your lips as it trailed down her neck and your hands slid up her body, teasing her one last time before positioning your length at her entrance. Her body tensed in anticipation, her heart racing as she felt you used her arousal to coat your member.

“No...” she gasped, her voice barely audible. “We can’t...”

Hurry up and fuck me, I need this.

As you slowly pressed inside her, Eunbi’s body trembled, her breath catching in her throat as you filled her completely. Every inch of you sent waves of pleasure through her, and even though her mind screamed for her to hold onto control, her body had already surrendered.

Soft protest escaped her mouth as her thoughts were swirling all over the place. Yes, yes, yes. This is what I wanted. This is what I’ve been waiting for.

Your movement was slow at first, each thrust deep and deliberate, drawing out the pleasure with every motion. Eunbi’s hands gripped the sheets, her body responding to every movement, her hips lifting to meet his as she completely gave in.

Slap me... slap my tits...play with it. The thought blazed through her mind, a desperate plea for more, for something to push her over the edge again. But she couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud. 

You hesitate for a moment, teasing her, holding back just enough to drive her wild. Beneath you, Eunbi’s body writhes, her thoughts growing louder, more frantic. Please, please. Slap my tits. I need you to break me.

Finally, you give her what she wants. Your hand comes down on her chest, the sharp sting of your slap sending another wave of pleasure crashing through her. Eunbi cries out, clenching tightly around your shaft as her back arching off the bed, the pressure inside her intensifies.

Oh god, yes. Yes, this is what I needed.

As you repeat the assault on her chest, your movements quicken, each thrust deep and deliberate. Eunbi’s mind is spinning. Her body trembles beneath you, her hands gripping the sheets as wave after wave of pleasure courses through her. She’s lost control, her body responding to every touch, every stroke, as you drive her closer and closer to the edge.

Don’t stop. Please don’t stop. I need you.

You don’t slow down. You thrust into her deeper, your hands gripping her hips as you move faster, the tension between you building with every second. Eunbi’s breath comes in shallow gasps, her body arching off the bed as the pleasure overwhelms her.

“We can’t... we can’t do this...,” she whispers, her voice shaking as she tries to hold onto control. You hear her thoughts as clearly as if she’d spoken them, and you don’t stop. You can feel the way her body responds to you, the way she’s giving in completely, even as her lips whisper half-hearted protests.

Leaning down, your breath warm against her ear, you murmur, “Do you really want me to stop?”

For a moment, she hesitates, her lips parting as if to protest. Her eyes search yours, torn between her restraint and the undeniable pull she feels. Then, as her need overtakes any lingering hesitation, she gives in, her voice barely more than a whisper at first.

“Forget it,” she breathes, her voice trembling with raw honesty as her desires spill forth, unrestrained. “Just keep going. Please… just keep fucking me as hard as you can.”

Her words hang in the air, her vulnerability laid bare, yet her gaze remains fixed on yours with unguarded need. In that look, she surrenders fully, giving herself over to the moment. You feel her body respond, breaths coming quicker, her back arching to meet you as she invites each touch, every movement with an openness that only intensifies the desire between you.

With renewed intensity, you fully connected your hips, your hands sliding up her body before resting firmly on her chest. Your fingers graze her sensitive skin, each touch sparking a fresh surge of pleasure that sends her gasping, her body yielding fully to your hold. You use her chest to steady yourself, fingers pressing into her soft skin as you thrust deeper, guiding her into the rhythm that grows stronger with every moment.

As you move with a cadence that speaks of the ancient knowledge of lovers, a gasp escapes her lips, a note in the symphony of pleasure that fills the room. The rhythm is intoxicating, a steady drumbeat that resonates with the very core of your beings. But then, with a swift, powerful slap, you break the pattern, introducing a new sensation that draws a moan from her, a sound that hangs in the air like a delicate promise.

Her body responds instinctively, pressing closer, as if seeking to merge with your own. Each movement is a testament to the raw, urgent energy that flows between you, a force that cannot be contained or denied. Her soft moans grow more intense, a crescendo that builds with each shared breath. You feel her hands slide up, fingers gripping your arms, a silent plea for anchor as the pace grows faster, the dance more frenzied.

"Oh god," she murmurs, her voice a melody that harmonizes with the sound of skin meeting skin. The words are a benediction, a surrender to the overwhelming sensations that course through her. Her breath hitches, a staccato that matches the rhythm of your movements, as the pleasure builds, a wave on the verge of breaking.

With each thrust, the connection between you deepens, a magnetic pull that aligns your bodies in perfect rhythm, as if an invisible thread weaves through you, binding you together. Every touch, every moment, brings you both closer to the edge, the tension between you coiling tighter, a spring wound to the brink of release.

As you continue to thrust, you can feel the heat building between you, matching the desperate need in her gaze. Her nails dig into your chest, urging you on, as she matches your rhythm, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

You can feel her body trembling beneath you, her muscles tensing as she nears her own release. The feeling of her, clenching around you, is almost too much to bear. You can feel yourself swelling inside her, ready to release all the pent-up desire that has been building between you.

"I'm so fucking close" she whimpers, her voice barely audible as she gasps for breath. You can see the anticipation in her eyes, the need for that final, shattering release.

“Wait... Pull out“ she gasps, her voice barely audible. ”don’t cum inside me,"  sounding like she was talking to herself rather than you.

But her mind betrays her, drowning out her own words. Please, fill me up. I need it. I want you to breed me. I’m yours.

You don’t slow down. Your pace quickens, each thrust deep and powerful, driving her closer and closer to the edge of another release. Eunbi’s mind is in chaos, her thoughts a jumbled mess of conflicting emotions.

“Please... pull out,” she whispers again, her voice trembling. “We... we shouldn’t... you can’t cum in me…”

But all you could hear were the relentless and loud thoughts circling in her mind I want you to fill me. I need you to cum inside me. I need you to breed me like the slut I am.

You groan softly, your hands gripping her hips tighter as you thrust into her harder, deeper, pushing her closer to the brink. You know exactly what she truly wants, even as she fights against it with her words.

“No...stop...” she gasps, her voice barely a whisper now. “Pull out...”

But her thoughts scream louder, desperate, begging: Yes. Yes. Please, fill me all the way up.

With one final thrust, you position your hips and penetrate at just the right angle, striking a special spot and sending Eunbi spiraling into a whirlwind of unrestrained pleasure. As the intensity of her orgasm builds, she feels completely enveloped by the exquisite sensations flowing through her body. Her back arches off the bed, a testament to the overwhelming ecstasy that has taken control. The thoughts of professionalism and restraint that once lingered in her mind fade away, replaced by an all-consuming focus on the indescribable pleasure that now captivates her.

A guttural cry escapes her lips as her hips buck wildly, moving in rhythm with the overwhelming surge of release. Her body, slick with sweat, trembles with each wave of pleasure that crashes over her. In this moment she is simply a being overcome by the raw, primal exhilaration of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

Every touch, and every thrust propels her closer to the edge of oblivion. Your hands roam freely over her body, finding their way to the soft mounds of her breasts. Cupping them tenderly, your fingers gently knead the delicate flesh, before zeroing in on the sensitive peaks of her nipples.

As you take one taut bud into your mouth, you flick your tongue over the sensitive tip, causing Eunbi to gasp at the sudden jolt of pleasure. Biting down ever so slightly, the delicious mixture of pleasure and pain sends her senses into overdrive. simultaneously, you pinch and tug at her other nipple, eliciting a raw, visceral response from Eunbi's body. Her breath hitches, her heart races, and she is certain she may very well shatter into a million pieces from the sheer force of the sensations coursing through her.

Her mind reels as your mouth continues to work its magic on her aching nipple, while your fingers continue their relentless assault on the other. She can feel each tug, each pinch, and each flick of your tongue as if they are imprinted on her very soul. Every sensation is amplified, every nerve ending electrified, as her body is enveloped in a cocoon of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

And as if you can sense her growing need, her unspoken desire, you give her exactly what she craves. She can feel the throb of your member, filling her to the brim, each pulse sending another jolt of pleasure ricocheting through her body. As you continue to pump into her, she can feel her teetering on the edge of an abyss, the intensity of her impending release building with each thrust

Then, suddenly, she's there. The world around her fades into obscurity as she is consumed by the sheer force of her orgasm. It rips through her like a tempest, leaving her breathless and trembling in its wake. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes over her, a cacophony of sensations that leave her mind reeling and her body spent.

As you both come undone together, she feels your seed in every crevice inside her, each drop igniting another wave of pleasure that ripples through her. Your breathing, once ragged and urgent, begins to slow, the rhythm softening as your shared climax fades into a quiet, tender aftermath. A moment stretches between you, the intimacy lingering in the warmth of your entwined bodies. You gradually withdraw, and she’s left with a sudden, aching emptiness that sends a shiver down her spine. The absence is palpable, and she fights the urge to reach out, the space between you now filled with a longing that leaves her breathless.

You stand at the edge of the bed, gathering your clothes in silence, each movement careful and slow, as if holding back something heavy. Your gaze remains fixed on the floor, and Eunbi senses the tension in the air, an unmistakable shift between you that makes her stomach clench.

“Hey…” she started softly, her voice edged with worry. “What’s wrong?”

For a moment, you didn’t respond, keeping your back to her, shoulders tense and rigid. Silence stretched between you, thick and weighted, pressing down until finally, you murmured, “I… I shouldn’t have done that.”

Eunbi sat up, her mind clearing quickly, though her body was still tingling from the intimacy you’d just shared. “What? Why not?” Her brow furrowed as she watched you, confusion tightening her chest. Does he regret it?

You shook your head, still not meeting her gaze. “I never wanted to… use my powers like this.”

“Powers?” she echoed, her frown deepening. She pulled the sheet tightly around herself, unsure where this conversation was headed. “What powers?”

You sighed, the sound long and heavy, as if you were exhaling something you’d been holding in for a long time. “I can… hear thoughts, Eunbi. I can read minds.”

Eunbi blinked, stunned. “What?” she said, a slight, disbelieving laugh escaping her. “Come on, be serious.”

But you weren’t laughing. You finally turned to her, meeting her gaze with an expression full of guilt and something even deeper, something that looked like regret. “It’s true. I’ve had this ability my whole life. I shouldn’t have used it with you.”

Her eyes widened as she processed your words, her pulse quickening. She wanted to argue, to laugh it off, to tell you that you were joking, but something about the look in your eyes made her stop. Her mind reeled with memories of all the times you’d known exactly what she needed, all the moments when you’d read her without her saying a word.

“Prove it,” she challenged, her voice soft but firm. She watched you carefully, waiting.

You nodded, your tone gentle but earnest. “Think of something. Anything. Just… something random.”

After a slight pause, she glanced around the room and landed on a small object, the orange lamp on the bedside table. She tried to keep her gaze neutral.

Your eyes flickered, and after a moment you said, “Orange lamp.”

Eunbi felt her breath catch, but she quickly raised an eyebrow, refusing to let you see her surprise. “Okay, maybe you just saw me look at it. That’s not enough to prove anything.”

A small smile tugged at her lips as she raised her chin, still feeling the warmth of your seed inside her, a tender reminder of the closeness you had just shared. The thought slipped into her mind without hesitation, unguarded and impulsive.

That was the best that I’ve ever been fucked.

You rubbed the back of your neck, your shy smile growing wider as you looked down, clearly trying not to laugh. After a moment, you met her gaze, the warmth in your eyes unmistakable. “Thank you… it was the best for me as well.”

Eunbi’s cheeks flushed a deep red as her mouth dropped open. “W-What,” she muttered, burying her face in her hands. Her blush deepened, yet as she looked up at you, the sincerity in your expression melted her embarrassment, softening her self-consciousness. The air between you felt charged, intimate, as if words were no longer needed. And then, a sinking realization washed over her, stirring a feeling of both horror and shame.

If you could hear everything… then you had heard everything.

Her cheeks flushed with a deep embarrassment, and as her thoughts wandered back to just a few moments earlier, her face burned with the realization. All those things she had thought, the raw and explicit thoughts she’d never voiced. She buried her face in her hands, barely able to look at you. “Oh my god,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You heard all of that, didn’t you?”

You winced, nodding. “Yeah… I’m sorry.”

Eunbi’s heart pounded in her chest, a mix of mortification and anger welling up. But beneath it all, she sensed the regret in your voice, the heaviness in your words. Slowly, she looked up at you, studying the anguish etched across your face.

“I shouldn’t have used it,” you confessed, your tone thick with remorse. “I never wanted to invade your privacy like that. I… I got caught up in my feelings for you, and I crossed a line.”

Her initial embarrassment softened as she saw the depth of your guilt, the pain you seemed to be carrying. She could see how much you regretted letting your guard down, how much you wished things had unfolded differently. Instead of feeling betrayed, a warmth of compassion began to swell within her.

Sighing, Eunbi took a deep breath. “I... I don’t blame you,” she said softly, her voice more understanding now.

Your eyes widened slightly, surprise breaking through your guarded expression. “You don’t?”

Eunbi shook her head, her heartbeat still racing but her voice calm and steady. “I mean, yeah, it’s... a lot to take in. But you didn’t do anything I didn’t want. You just... knew it before I could say it.”

You looked at her, as if struggling to believe that she could be so forgiving. "But I—"

She stopped you, her voice gentle but firm. “You’re not a bad person for this. You didn’t manipulate me. I’ve wanted this for a long time. You just... heard what I was too afraid to say.”

Eunbi’s face heated again, the memory of her own thoughts flooding back, but with it came a different feeling. If you had heard her deepest desires and still felt such remorse, then maybe you hadn’t betrayed her. Maybe you were struggling, too.

“I’m not mad,” she continued, her tone soft but clear. “Embarrassed, yeah. But not mad.”

Relief flickered across your face, though the weight of guilt still lingered in your eyes. “What now? I can leave if you want me to.”

Eunbi took a moment to consider, then met your gaze with a quiet resolve. “No. I don’t want that. We can’t change what happened, but that doesn’t make it a mistake.”

She could see the uncertainty in your expression, the way you still seemed to doubt her forgiveness, but there was a hint of hope, a spark of belief.

“I don’t know if I can—”

“We’ll work it out,” she interrupted, her words firm, reassuring. “I don’t want to lose you. Not after this. We can keep it between us. It’s our secret.”

The promise settled between you, and slowly, you nodded, the tension in your shoulders easing as you stepped closer. “Okay,” you murmured. “We’ll keep it between us.”

Eunbi offered a small, tentative smile, reaching out to take your hand. “We’ll figure it out.”

-----

Months passed, and the secret between you became an unspoken bond, an intimacy shared in every glance, every touch, every fleeting moment that only you and Eunbi could understand. You had grown adept at living a dual life—professional on the surface, but connected by a private world of shared thoughts and hidden feelings. To everyone else, you were just her bodyguard: disciplined, unyielding. But to Eunbi, you were so much more.

At a sold-out concert, Eunbi danced across the stage, her presence commanding the room as fans cheered and sang along. The lights flashed, the beat reverberated, and in that sea of admiration, her focus was still somehow on you. There you were, standing by the side of the stage, your gaze steady, watching over her with unwavering vigilance. To anyone else, you were the ever-present protector, but she knew the truth hidden in your eyes.

As she danced, Eunbi found herself drifting toward the edge of the stage, closer to where you stood, her heart swelling with a sudden impulse. She locked eyes with you for the briefest of moments, and in that silent exchange, she sent a thought, simple but laden with the weight of everything she felt.

You have no idea how much I love you. I love you with all my heart.

Your reaction was instant. For a split second, your usually impassive expression faltered, your eyes widening in shock. She saw the vulnerability there, the raw emotion that no one else could see. The sight brought a grin to her face, laughter bubbling up as she saw just how deeply her words had affected you.

I finally broke you, she thought with amusement, her smile radiant.

You blinked, taken aback but slowly recovering, and then, as if to return the moment, you mouthed the words back to her, words that resonated in her mind just as clearly as if you’d spoken them aloud.

“I love you too.”

In that fleeting moment, the world around you seemed to fall away, leaving only the two of you in a silent, unbreakable connection. Her heart soared as she returned to the center of the stage, her smile brighter than the lights that beamed down on her. The cheers of the crowd, the energy of the performance—it was all background to the quiet words still echoing in her mind. She had heard them, felt them, and knew them to be true.

And as the music played on, those words played in her heart, over and over, a melody just for the two of you.

[cressidagrey]

Such A Mystery - Part 5

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Colette Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen fell in love at the ripe old age of 12 and never looked back.

Colette Leclerc really regrets posting that particular Taylor Swift Lyric to her private Instagram account, because it made George Russell go insane.  

The rest of the world has absolutely no idea that the Dutch Lion and Charles Leclerc’s twin sister have been a couple for 15 years and are expecting a baby. 

Warnings: 

Pregnancy, Mention of multiple miscarriages, Pregnancy complications, George Russell Bashing (he's probably really nice in real life but in this, he's the bad guy, sorry), Jos Verstappen

Author Notes: Huge thanks to @llirawolf for holding my hand through this. Currently thinking this will have like 5-7 parts? (That was a nice fever dream. I am now thinking maybe 8-9?)

Max didn‘t wait until he was back at the hotel to call Colette. He was attached to his phone as soon as he got done with that horrible press conference. 

He really didn‘t care what anybody else had to say about that. As soon as he could, he called Colette.

It wasn‘t Colette that picked up though, it was Pascale, her mother.

"Max," she greeted him.

Max was surprised to hear Pascale's voice on the other end of the line. He had been expecting to hear Colette's voice, and hearing her mother instead sent a jolt of anxiety through him.

"How is she doing?" He asked. He didn't need to say more. Pascale understood.

"She's...she's not doing well," Pascale said wearily. He could hear the exhaustion in her voice. "She's been crying almost non-stop since the news broke."

Max closed his eyes, his heart clenching painfully at the news. The thought of Colette crying, of her being so upset and distressed...it was unbearable.

"Can I talk to her?" he asked, desperately needing to hear her voice.

He needed to hear that she was okay, that she was holding up. He needed to know that she was coping.

Somehow. 

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and Max held his breath as he waited for Pascale to respond. He could hear muffled voices in the background, and he knew that Pascale was likely talking to Colette.

"Maxie?"

Colette had cried. That was clearly obvious in her voice, how hoarse it was...how even these two syllable seemed to take so much effort from her, her voice hitching. He could hear her shaky breathing over the phone, clearly her trying to get a grip on herself and not worry him even more.

But that had become impossible the moment George Russell had decided to get completely bananas.

"Hey, liefje," he said softly. "How are you doing?"

Colette's voice caught on a sob, and Max's heart ached at the raw emotion in it. He could practically picture her, sitting in their living room, tears streaming down her face as she tried to hold it together.

"I'm...I'm not okay," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Max's heart clenched in his chest, and he desperately wished he was there with her. He wanted to hold her, to comfort her. But he could only listen.

"What can I do?" he asked, his voice thick with emotions. "How can I help you?"

He needed to do something, anything to ease her pain and make her feel better. "Do you want me to come home?" He asked her. "I'll do it, liefje. Say the word."

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. He could hear Colette breathing heavily, clearly trying to compose herself.

"No," she finally said, her voice sounding a bit more steady. "No, please don't. You have a race tomorrow. You need to focus."

Max's heart squeezed at her words. He wanted nothing more than to hop on the next plane back to Monaco and be with her. But he knew she was right. He couldn't just abandon his team and the race like that. "If you change your mind..." he trailed off.

"No, we are not doing that," Colette said shakily. "Your races are yours, and I'll be waiting once you come home."

"You are more important than any race ever could be," he disagreed sharply. More important than anything else to him. He loved her so much. "I want you to know that."

He needed her to know that. 

She had always been a pillar of support to him. Had never questioned how much of his time his career demanded. Had never once thrown it at his head in an accusatory way. She had always accepted it. Had supported him every step of the way, from his first practice in a Formula 1 car, through his first point finish, his first race win, four championships…

She had always supported him. 

But no race win…no trophy, no world champion title was ever going to be as important to him as Colette. 

He would happily give all of that up, if it meant that he got to come home to her. 

He heard her exhale shakily.  "I do know that," Colette said softly. "I know that. But...But even if you were here, you couldn't do anything but hold me. Everybody is..." she trailed off and he could hear another hitch in her breath. "Did you...Did you see what Arthur did?" She asked him, and he could hear the tears in her voice.

"I did, liefje," he agreed softly. "He shouldn't have done that without talking to you first."

"Or to you. This is your life too," Colette disagreed.

"Colette," he said carefully. "I don't care that the public knows. You were the one that wanted to keep this private, which was completely alright with me. I agreed to that. It didn't bother me, liefje. But I wouldn't have cared if it was public knowledge either. I am only upset with Arthur because he upset you."

Colette didn't answer. He could picture her sitting on their bed, cross legged, one hand resting on her baby bump…she took deep breaths, clearly trying to keep her tears at bay.

"I just...I feel so stupid," she mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper. "I feel so stupid...I shouldn't be so upset by this. But I am and I..." her voice trailed off.

"Hey," he interrupted gently. "You are allowed to be upset, liefje. You are allowed to feel however you feel," he reminded her carefully.​​

There was a knock at the door and he looked up to see Gemma stick her head into the driver’s room, a grimace on her face. "Can it wait?" He demanded from her, not caring at all, that he was being rude.

"No, it can't. George Russell had some more stuff to say," Gemma said hesitantly.

Colette must have heard it, because he got to hear another choked off sob from her.

"Liefje," he said softly. "I want you to let me deal with this, alright? Don't look online. Don't search it out. Just ignore it. Your only job right now is to take care of you and our baby," he told her fiercely. "Let us take care of the rest."

Colette let out another shaky breath on the other end of the line. He could hear her trying to compose herself, trying to push the sobs back.

Finally, she said quietly, "Okay," in a small, meek voice, and he hated how defeated she sounded.

"Go cuddle with the cats," he told her softly. "Let your Mom spoil you."

"M…Maman’s making hot cocoa," Colette offered weakly, and he could hear the smile in her voice.

It was faint, but it was there. And that was all he could hope for right now."I am jealous," he teased her lightly.

"I'd save you some, but it's too good to share," she teased back before her voice caught on another sob, and he knew that this was it. This was the end of her being able to converse with him.

"Hey," he said gently. "I love you. So much."

"I love you too," Colette whispered in a broken voice. "So much."

Max hated that he couldn't be there, he hated that he had to hang up. He just wanted to hold her, to remind her that everything was alright.

"I want you to do something for me," he told her in a firm voice. "I want you to take a bath. And a long one," he told her. "One of the nice lavender scented bubble bath, I always make fun of you about. And I want you to eat dinner. And I want you to watch some of those stupid tv shows you love, and for you to relax. And rest. Can you do that?"

"I...I'll try," Colette said weakly over the line. He could hear her crying getting slightly worse again, the realization that they were ending the call obviously hitting her.

"And then you will take the best nap. And cuddle with our cats," he continued. "Alright? You'll do all that for me?"

"Yes," she answered him, her voice breaking on that one word.

Max closed his eyes, his heart hurting as he took a deep breath. "I am going to hang up now. I'm sorry, love."

"I know," she whispered, and he could hear the desperation in her voice. The need to keep the phone line between them open. But he knew that she was tired and he knew that she was distraught. And he knew that she needed rest. He needed to let her go.

"I love you," he said fiercely. "I love you so damn much, liefje. I'll talk to you as soon as I can."

"I-I love you," Colette managed back, before her voice broke on a sob again. "More than anything. Please...be careful tomorrow, okay? Be careful."

"I will," he promised her. "I swear, I will be careful. I'll come home to you in one piece, okay? I promise."

"You better," she told him in a wobbly voice. It was half pleading, half joking, and it just about crushed him.

"I swear. I'll try my damn hardest," he promised her. "And when I get home? I promise I will hold you for hours. I won't let you go, liefje."

He hung up on her then. And then he turned to Gemma. "What could Russell possibly have said that I should care about it right now?"

"How about that you have spent the last 15 years living a lie and that he wouldn't want you to date his sister, because your girlfriend probably is the one dealing with all your anger issues?" Gemma offered drily.

Max looked at her in disbelief for a moment, his mind refusing to process her words immediately, they were so completely insane.

"What?" He finally asked, his voice coming out in a disbelieving croak. Gemma handed him her phone, a grimace on her face. And there it was in black written text. Screencaps of statements George Russell had made.

 None of it making any sense whatsoever. Max had no idea what the other driver had snorted that had sent him off the rocker like that.

"They tried to get Charles Leclerc to comment as well, but he said it was insulting and that he has not once worried about you and Colette, more the opposite," Gemma said quickly. "Everybody that has ever seen the two of you together knows that it's complete bullshit, Max."

Still. He swallowed.

"I would never lay a finger on her," he said weakly. Not ever.

Colette was...Colette was everything. Colette had been his safe place before he even knew what that was or that he needed one. 

He would rather cut off his own hand than to put a finger at her in anger.

Gemma stepped over to him and laid her hand on his shoulder. "Everybody knows that," she told him gently. "Everyone that knows you knows that you would never. Just like everyone knows that the other stuff Russell has said is nonsense as well."

Max closed his eyes, letting Gemma's words sink in. He knew that they were true. The people in his life, the people that knew him and Colette...they knew that those accusations were completely ridiculous. That even thinking he would ever hurt Colette was laughable.

"But..." he said quietly. "Social media won't care that it's complete crap."

"It'll blow over. You know the online world has the attention span of a goldfish," she said with a shrug. "We'll send the usual suspects to talk to the media tomorrow to make it clear that you neither have anger issues nor that anybody needs to worry about you laying a single finger on Colette," Gemma promised. "I know that this is hurtful, Max, but I think it just makes it very clear that everything that Russell has said has been completely made up."

Max leaned his head against the door behind him, his mind racing, trying to process everything. He knew she was right. That everything she was saying was reasonable. But it still hurt. It hurt that somebody would come at him and his relationship with Colette like that. Especially when it was so clear that they knew nothing about them.

"I'm going to call some people," Gemma told him gently and with a final squeeze on his shoulder left the room.

Max took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair, trying to process everything and calm his racing thoughts. He wanted to call Colette again. He wanted to explain again and again that he would never hurt her. That all of this was complete and utter bullshit.

But he didn't want to bother or upset her even more, if she had even been able to rest at all.

And he hated this. He hated this so much.

He really did. He hated that there was nothing he could do.

He hated that the next day was going to be a media circus. He hated that he was going to have to sit in a car for an hour and a half tomorrow, without being able to see or talk to her.

And most of all, he hated George Russell.

Bath. Lavender. Warm Water. And hot cocoa.

She felt like a child again.

Her Maman had been hovering around her all afternoon and early evening, fussing over her when she really didn't need it, but Colette was glad that her mother refused to leave her alone.

Especially when her mother tucked her into bed like she had done when she had been a wayward 6-year old. 

"Arthur didn't think," her mother said softly. "He didn't do this on purpose to hurt you."

Colette let out a shaky breath. "I know he didn't," she said thickly. "But I am just so mad at him. And it just...hurt," she admitted. It hurt more than she had thought.

"I know," her mother said softly.

Another shaky exhale, and Colette closed her eyes, just to keep the tears at bay.

"I knew it was going to come out one day," she admitted weakly. "But I never wanted it to come out like this. Not now.”

Bébé rumbled unerneath her skin, striking out to kick against her ribs once more. She laid her hand over where he had just kicked her. 

Her mother gently sat down next to her, gathering her in her arms and pulling her close. Colette melted into it and leaned into her Mom with a soft, shaky sigh.

"It wasn't right of Arthur to say anything," her mother told her quietly. "He had no right to share that picture. Nor to talk about your relationship. Not without talking to you about it first."

Colette swallowed back another bout of tears, hiding her face in her Mom's chest. "I know," she said, her voice breaking slightly. "I know, it wasn't his news to share, but...it's still just...it's just so upsetting."

Her mother ran a hand over her hair while the other circled her back in a soft, circular motion. "I know," her mother agreed, her voice kind and soft. "But this doesn't change anything. You know that, right? The important people already knew," she continued softly. "Your family and friends. They all know that Max and you are in a relationship."

A quiet nod, Colette still hiding her face in her mother’s chest, her fingers clinging onto her shirt.

"It's just...." she said weakly. "It still hurts. A lot."

Her mother's arms wrapped around her a little tighter, a gentle kiss placed atop her head. "I know," her Mom agreed again, gently rubbing Colette's back. "It hurts, and it sucks, and it's not fair that he didn't talk to you about it before. I'm sorry, Choupinette."

Colette swallowed again, and exhaled, trying to hold it together. But a few tears escaped anyway. "I just...I just wish that he hadn't. I feel so exposed now," she admitted in a half-whisper.

"I know," her Mom agreed again, letting Colette let out another round of quiet tears. "I know, Choupinette," her mother repeated, gently rubbing her back again, her arms tight around her.

Colette sniffled again, her emotions a tangled, swirling mess, and clung on tighter to her Mother. "I just...I just wish Max was here," she admitted in a broken whisper.v"He asked me if he should come home," she admitted softly.

Her mother’s hand ran gently up and down her back, still hugging Colette tight.

"What did you tell him?" she asked quietly.

Colette swallowed past the lump in her throat and breathed in shakily. "I told him to race. I told him I didn't want him to come home," she said shakily, more tears escaping her.

Her mother hummed quietly and hugged her a little tighter. "Why?" Her mother's voice was gentle and curious, no judgement and accusation to be found.

"Because I fell in love with a 12-year-old boy for whom racing was the most important thing in his life,” she answered, her voice soft. “Max has this...passion for it. This incredible love. And I promised myself then, that I was never going to be the one to take it from him," she explained softly. "I was never going to make him chose. Between me and racing."

And maybe that was also because for years...she had wondered if she was going to be the one of the two he would chose. 

Her mother was quiet behind her for a moment, only the soothing motion of her hand rubbing along Colette's back continuing.

And then her mother said, softly.

"You know he would chose you in a heartbeat, don't you?"

Colette buried her face further into her mother, her tears starting to flow again as she let her mother's words sink in.

Because she wanted to believe it. She really, really wanted to.

"He will never need to," she said simply. "He said ​​the same thing but…I would never take it away from him."

Her mother hummed again and tightened her arms around her a little.

"I know you wouldn't," she assured. "But he still wouldn't hesitate, love."

Colette took another shaky breath, trying to keep herself from completely falling to pieces just from the thought of it. It was true. She knew it deep in her bones. Max would drop everything to get to her, if she only asked. And it just made her feel like crying more.

"I just...I just miss him," she admitted in a sniffly voice, her nails digging in her mother's soft shirt.

Her mother's gentle hand was running over her hair again, trying to soothe her as best as she could. "I know, baby," she whispered. "You'll see him soon."

Colette huffed a breath against her mother’s chest, the thought both a comfort and a curse.

She wanted to see him. She wanted to crawl into his arms and just listen to him tell her everything was going to be okay, and believe every single word of it.

Another shaky inhale and exhale, and Colette's hands gripped her Mom's shirt, just to keep from completely falling apart.

It was all so overwhelming, with Max so far away, and just everything in general.

Her breath shuddered again when her mother's arms tightened around her once more, pulling her even closer to her chest, as if she was trying to protect her through sheer force of will.

Colette let her, burying her face in her Mom's soft chest and trying to hold it all together.