#and now here we are in it happening again

[grimmweepers]

ok shit after i sent this to my drafts i didn't realise it cut off some of my tags bc it didn't tell me that i had reached my tag limit LMAO. pls read under the cut after the tags <3

OH AND THE SMUT SCENE WAS FANTASTICCCCCCCC KJSUTGIWITGEWUGYUGWUYGWUGU BUT I WILL FOREVER WAIL AND THROW MYSELF ON WALLS AT THE MENTION OF HIS GRANDMOTHER AND PARENTS.

this fic pulled on my heartstrings. but it also made my heart race and jump. i laughed but some parts also left me clutching my chest. i cried but i also smiled. this just tells me that reading your work is always an experience <3 AND WHAT A WONDERFUL GIFT YOU HAVE <3 THANK U FOR SHARING IT WITH US

like a lotus in spring, you are mine to bloom — ft. alhaitham

synopsis: at twenty one, you’re just a girl he meets as he trains for the role of scribe. at twenty four, you’ve become everything he loves in this world. after three years of knowing you and nearly two and a half decades of life, alhaitham finally realizes why his father left letters for his mother instead of just saying the words outloud

❤︎ word count: 7.7k words — we find ourselves here in the same old situation again, i see LOL pls give it a chance though!! plssss

❤︎ before you read: female reader ; 18+ content — not suitable for minors ; not proof read ; strangers to friends to lovers ; mutual pining but not at the same time for a bit (he falls first <3) ; jealous alhaitham ; hinted drunk sex ; getting together + love confessions ; alhaitham character story spoilers + references to his grandmother and parents ; semi-clothed unprotected sex ; no prep ; some nipple play ; creampie ; the cringiest love letter at the end LOL

❤︎ comments: guys every time i write alhaitham it’s so corny and cheesy but . he is my fav genshin guy of all time i deserve to be allowed this okay

TWENTY ONE. 

You’re still a student when you first meet Alhaitham. (Not a student for much longer, but a student all the same. With a little luck on your side and good graces from your darshan’s sage on your thesis, you’re expected to graduate in just a few short months.)

You don’t have the best first meet. In fact, your impression of Alhaitham starts off entirely on the wrong foot. 

He’s newly graduated, just freshly rewarded a degree for his (impressive) efforts, and is now well on his way to training for the role of scribe—you heard he was offered far more prestigious roles, but for some reason, a genius like him settled for a role like that. You try not to judge. People have their passions, after all, and if that’s what he wants to do, well…who are you to make comments? (But amongst a school that only houses the brilliant, Alhaitham is, very undoubtedly, a standout. It’s hard to stand out in a school filled with only the best minds, but he manages to do so with ease. Sometimes, you’re almost jealous. You can’t help but wonder why he doesn’t aim a little higher than he does.)

He trains in the house of Daena. His first order of training is to fact-check ordinance drafts using books so he can better get the hang of drafting them himself in the future. You’re also in the House of Daena to find the last book for your thesis—after weeks of begging, you’re finally granted access to the restricted section to find it. 

And you do. Except your palm meets warm skin instead of the cold leather cover of a book. You pause, glancing up as sharp, teal eyes meet your gaze, staring at you expectantly as if you should be the one letting go. But you need this book. It’s the final research element to finish your thesis, and you’d like to be done with it. End of story. No matter how devastatingly handsome the man (because he is handsome, you’ll admit at least that much), you will not be handing over the last, final key to your academic freedom.

“Um, excuse me,” you say politely, “I was kind of reaching for that.”

“As was I,” he says, staring at you with a bored, almost uncaring expression. Your eyes narrow. “Now, if you’d please kindly take your hand off of mine.”

“I believe it should be you taking your hand off of mine,” you correct, huffing as you add stubbornly, “I reached for it first.”

He blinks at you, bland and a little irritated, as he points out, “Your hand is on top of mine, which means I reached the book first.”

Well.

Maybe if you were feeling particularly patient, you’d be inclined to admit that, yes, he does have a point. But stubbornness, combined with pure exhaustion, has you at your wit's end, and if you have to play the role of a difficult student, then so be it. You’re pretty sure you need it more, and you’re probably a much speedier reader anyway. You’ll have it done and returned in no time.

This guy, on the other hand…he doesn’t look too bright. You’re not willing to take your chances and let him walk off with a book that you might never see again.

“I started reaching for it first,” you scowl, “you just sped up your hand once you saw me. I should get it.”

“Unlikely,” he scoffs, “I didn’t even see you. Although,” he gives you a once over with his eyes, making you feel uncomfortably seen under his judging gaze, “I suppose you were a bit easy to miss.”

You gape at him. “Just what does that mean?”

“It means,” he smirks, taking the opportunity to grab the book as you stand in shock, “that I got here first.”

“Hey!” You glare at him, seeing red for a moment. What a perfectly good waste of a perfectly handsome face—and such an awful attitude coupled with his ridiculously smug grin couldn’t make for a worse combination. But, before you can even say anything, the book is being pressed back into your hands.

“You seem like you want it more than I do, though,” he hums, “I suppose I can let you have it. It’s a bit outdated for this ordinance, anyway.” With that, he saunters off. You push down the soft flutter in your heart for a moment and force yourself to hope you’ll never see him again. (Faintly, you hope your wishes don’t come true—but you refuse to admit it to yourself.)

Unfortunately (and fortunately at the same time) for you, you do see him again. Many, many times, in fact. When he works in the House of Daena as often as he does, and you like to spend all your free time there to study if you can, you’re both bound to run into each other often. Very often. 

And sometimes, it’s quite literally running into him. 

“Oof,” you hiss, staggering backward and hitting your head against the bookshelf behind you as you bump into a sturdy figure. You drop the books in your hand, blinking before reaching to rub your read as you start to apologize. “Sorry, I didn’t see you—oh. It’s you.”

“It’s me,” he says, looking mildly entertained. Alhaitham is everywhere. Everywhere. You can’t escape him if you try, and now, you can’t even avoid him in your own personal space. “Although, I think I should be the one apologizing this time. I was too busy reading to pay attention. This section is usually empty at this time.”

“How often are you in here to know what section is empty at what time?” You raise a brow. 

“Too often to be considered good for my well-being,” he says dryly, sighing in misery. You crack a smile at that. Oddly enough, so does he—you don’t think you’ve ever heard someone say they’ve seen Alhaitham smile. It must be a rare sight that only you, and perhaps a very few others, can say they’ve witnessed. “I was just about to take a break to buy a coffee—I’ll bring one back for you, too, to make up for the cranial damage I’ve supplied.”

“A most wonderful idea,” you perk up instantly, “I love when I get to drain the wallet of a man.”

He gives you an amused look at that. And somehow, bringing you a coffee along with his own during his breaks is a habit that seems to stick for a long, long while after that. 

────────────────────────

TWENTY TWO.

Alhaitham’s feelings are hurt. Not a lot of words tend to do that—he’s been blessed with thick skin and an unbothered attitude to a fault, sometimes. But something about today, for some odd reason, hurts his feelings. 

Your words to the waiter who took your order keep ringing in his head. 

Oh goodness, no, we are definitely not dating!

Most people mistake you and Alhaitham for a pair of lovers rather than a pair of friends. It’s just the way things go when a man and a woman are seen together for extended periods of time over and over. It doesn’t help that Alhaitham doesn’t really have any friends. He had one before you, but…well, things are complicated now. Far too complicated to think about it more than necessary. He has you, and that’s enough. But the matter still stands that most people tend to assume that something blossoms between the two of you that isn’t just friendly. 

He was starting to think it was true himself, too. He knows it’s true from his end, at least. But you say those words with such a sure, definitive tone that it almost sounds like you’re offended by the notion of being seen as his girlfriend. And sure, he would be disappointed—he’s no liar—if you didn’t feel romantically for him, but he’d understand. It’s not something you can help. But you brush off the idea like it’s an anomaly of sorts in the universe for someone like you and someone like Alhaitham to be a couple. It hurts his feelings. More than it should. 

(He knows deep down, in the depths of his heart, that you don’t mean it that way. You never would. But irrationality is but one of many feelings that bloom when it comes to romance.)

Alhaitham knows from a young age he’s different than most kids his age. This fact doesn’t change as he gets older. He’s brighter than most of his peers—which is certainly saying something because Sumeru is a nation filled with enough sharp minds, it’s as though brilliance were the average trait. People don’t typically like Alhaitham (which is fine by him, he doesn’t like most of them, either. They mostly don’t meet his standards). The kids don’t play with him in the parks that Grandmother would leave him at while she shopped around at the market, and they don’t sit with him on his one and only day at the Akademiya when he is but an elementary scholar. It never bothered him. He preferred reading under the trees and self-learning at home, anyway. When he’s older and enrolled in the Akademiya full-time, they don’t prefer to partner with him for projects for any other reason than simply being guaranteed a good grade, and they don’t spare him a glance when they all converse in groups outside of class. He never cared for freeloaders, anyway—he only trusts himself for projects, and he is at the Akademiya to learn, not make friends. 

It’s not until he meets Kaveh does he consider the idea that friendships are meaningful enough to spare some effort into. But the end result of that only solidifies that he is best when in solitude. 

But then he meets you. Some part of Alhaitham knows very early on that you would never be just a friend to him. If it was friendship that he craved, he would have looked for it elsewhere before running into you. Something about you from the very beginning makes him yearn for things much deeper than that. Things that remind him of his parents. 

Friendship is fleeting. People at the Akademiya go their separate ways and meet new people. They fall out and have arguments. They grow up and grow apart and become different. But love blooms like the Kalpalata lotuses on a vine, timeless as time itself. It starts and never ends, one root stemming into more and more vines until they never stop growing.

Alhaitham has fallen in love with you. Logic tells him it’s only a recent development, but his heart has known this outcome would be brought about for a long, long time. And, in all truthfulness, your words have hurt his feelings. 

And yet, he still loves you through it. He thinks that even if you crushed his feelings with a cold, indifferent smile, he would still love you through it. 

A hand waves in front of his face, pulling him from his thoughts as you take a sip from your coffee. Puspa Cafe is not as busy at this hour, most people are in the middle of a work day, but Alhaitham is allowed to pick his lunch hour, and yours happens to be earlier than most.

“Sorry, I just have to ask—are…are you upset?” you ask gently, making him pause. 

Yes.

“No,” he says simply, “why would I be?”

“You seem upset.”

“I’m not.”

“You were fine up until…I don’t know, a few minutes ago. Is something on your mind?”

You know him so well, he thinks. How could you not see how perfect the two of you are together?

“I’m simply concerned about your sugar intake is all,” he eyes the cold, iced drink in your hands with more syrups than he deems necessary. You always have a penchant for choosing the sweetest drink off the menu, and Alhaitham will never understand how your teeth don’t rot.

“Well, that’s very funny,” you roll your eyes, “because I was just thinking about how low on vitamin D you must be—do you ever leave your study to see the sun?”

He spares you a soft chuckle at that, shaking his head before taking a sip of his own coffee—hot and black and with two spoons of sugar. Simple, like how he prefers. You make a face at his drink as he sets it down. 

“Have you ever thought about what you look for in a partner?” he asks suddenly, making you blink in shock for a moment. He flinches at his own forwardness just a tad. 

“Umm, I suppose a little here and there…why do you ask?”

“No reason,” he shrugs, “just curious what your type was, that’s all. You’re painfully single, so I figured your taste was rather distinct.”

“Rude,” you scoff, rolling your eyes enough that he thinks it’s safe to assume you’re not suspicious. “Are you here just to poke fun at my choices today?”

Alhaitham should not be asking you this. Not when the answer so clearly is going to hurt his already very bruised feelings. Of course, your type won’t be him. And, of course, he is going to mourn your answer the second you give it, which is his own fault considering he’s the one who asked. (He has to wonder, for a moment, if this constitutes as an undiscovered hidden kink of his and whether or not he really just gets off on some unnecessary pain. Why else would he willingly subject himself to this?)

But, he’s caught off guard when you shrug and simply say, “I suppose someone who’s intelligent. I’d appreciate some good discussions. And…and maybe someone who’s kind, y’know? I would be rather sad if they were mean,” you pretend to sniffle dramatically.

“That’s…that’s it?” He tilts his head in equal parts shock and equal parts confusion. 

“What did you expect me to look for in a partner?” You snort, “A three-story mansion? A rock-solid, chiseled chest to lay on?” 

“Well, no,” he rolls his eyes, “Maybe something a bit less generic to narrow down your pool, I suppose, but if that’s your bar, so be it. There are far too many men who are intelligent and kind, you know.”

“Yes, but none of them show me any signs of interest,” you pout, “I must be undesirable or something.”

I desire you, he wants to say. He can’t quite find the courage to get the words out, though—and as if the universe has it completely out for him, the same waiter from earlier who is responsible for asking you the question that kills Alhaitham’s mood for the day comes back with the bill. And something else, too. 

Something that kills his mood for the week. 

His jaw clenches a tad when you flush at the note scribbled on a napkin for you, eyeing your flustered reaction while you read over the words: I get off at eight if you’d like to find me. You stare for a moment before you murmur, “Well, look at that. A sign of interest—it must be the Dendro Archon’s divine power.”

“The Divine have no say over who you fall for,” he insists.

“You don’t know that,” you hum thoughtfully, “The God of Wisdom knows her people better than anyone else, you know. I’d like to think she knows when love is bound for two people.”

You fold the napkin carefully and keep it in your pocket, and Alhaitham fishes out his mora pouch with stiff fingers. He leaves a very shoddy tip on the table before he exits after you. 

────────────────────────

TWENTY THREE.

You wake up in his bed. 

It’s a foggy memory, but you know you fucked Alhaitham after more sips of wine than you can count and one flirty comment too many. It happened in a blur last night, and you can’t say you’re surprised that it finally happened at all. Alhaitham is a man just like any other, and mingling pleasure with friendship is a normal thing to do. Falling under him on his mattress is not something you never had daydreams of—but the truth of the matter is that your daydreams don’t just stop with the bed.

They end with a toothbrush beside his in the bathroom. A mug next to his in the kitchen. Your shoes kicked off along with his at the entrance of a home. Your laughter and his bouncing off of the walls. A ring, maybe. One on your hand and one on his. 

In your imagination, it starts with pleasure, but it ends with love.

Falling in love with Alhaitham is a peaceful ordeal. He’s dependable and inherently kind. Strong and impressively capable. Intelligent and objectively handsome. You’d bring him home to your mother and father, and they’d thank Lord Kusanali for smiling down upon their humble little family and their darling little daughter by sending such a divine man your way. 

You don’t think you can pinpoint when exactly it is you started to love this boy, but you know loving him became as simple as breathing. You never thought about it. Never learned to do it. Never questioned it, even. You inhale the scent of his spicy, woody cologne and exhale the warm breath of your affections stored in your lungs. He lives somewhere nestled so deep in your ribcage that you think you’d have to crack each of them one after the other before you could pry him out.

You love Alhaitham. You think you know everything there is to know about loving him. You think you’d do it right—better than anyone else. 

He only drinks his coffee when it’s piping hot, and his wine can never be one degree less than iced. He has dry hands, but he hates the feeling of lotion. He doesn’t like raw onions but he doesn’t mind them cooked. When the sun is in his eyes, he’s in a foul mood, but he enjoys napping under the warm rays, much like a cat. He laughs surprisingly boyishly from his belly if you manage to deliver a dry yet clever enough joke, and he clears his throat and gets a bit shy once he’s realized he’s let it out. He twirls his pen in his hand when he’s bored, and he only uses the kind with gel ink because they write smoother. 

You love Alhaitham. For you, it’s always been him. 

When you wake up to his bare, warm body next to yours, breathing peacefully with an arm thrown over your waist, you can’t help but selfishly wish he’d stay asleep all day. Just for a day. Just for the amount of time you get in between the sun’s departure and the moon’s arrival. Just so you can watch him exist in this moment where it’s you, him, and the liminal space between friends and lovers. Just so you can admire how beautiful he is without worrying about his eyes opening and the inevitable conversation of what you’re both doing is brought up. 

People (like Kaveh, or Dehya, or Tighnari, or…anyone) tend to insist that Alhaitham loves you. It’s obvious, they say, just as obvious as your love for him. You never believe it. It’s not because he’s bad at love or because you’re bad for him. You think he’d make a good lover—contrary to popular belief, you don’t think Alhaitham is uninterested in intimacy or affection. And you think you’d make a good girlfriend—unlike other people, you understand him and like what you see. 

But he doesn’t love you. That much is a fact you’ve long accepted. It’s not because you’re bad for him or because he’s incapable of feeling—but rather, it’s just that bitter, soul-crushing reality that you can’t help who you love and who you don’t. Alhaitham doesn’t love you—it’s not something either of you can really change. Because if he did, he’d waste no time. He’d get to the heart of the matter and quit dancing around the issue. 

It’s just the kind of guy that he is. 

So, because this is your first and likely last time seeing him this way, you slowly reach over and brush a few strands of messy, unruly bedhead from his forehead before cupping his cheek in your hand. His skin is soft and warm under your palm, much more delicate to the touch than you anticipated from how chiseled his features are. Your thumb gently brushes along the slant of his cheekbone, eyes softening at how he lets out a puff of air as he sleeps. 

“Morning,” he says hoarsely, eyes still closed and making you jolt in surprise. He lets out a quiet, sleepy chuckle that would make you melt if not for the way your heart still pounds from the shock. 

“You’re awake?”

“Mhm,” he hums, nodding before finally cracking an eye open. “For a while now.”

“Why pretend to sleep then, you creep?” You scoff, glaring at him as he sits up slightly and glances at you with a teasing glint in his eyes. No part of him seems to be shocked about you being nude in his bed. Or the fact that you’re even in his bed at all, nude or not. 

“You’re the creep if we’re being technical here. It’s undoubtedly a little on the creepy side to study someone with such careful touches while they sleep.”

“That’s your main concern…?” You stare at him—and for lack of better words, you’re dumbfounded. You and Alhaitham have been friends for two years and counting. You’ve never once crossed the line or even toed at it to step beyond the border of anything more. And, yet, here you are. In his bed. Completely nude. He was lying there and felt your delicate touch along his skin, felt you act like a lover and not a friend on a quiet, intimate morning when in fact, you both should be shamefully avoiding each other’s eyes in a moment that’s anything but intimate as you leave. 

He makes no move to ask you to leave or even question why you’re still here. You make no move to really leave—it’s not like you want to. 

“What should my main concern be, then?” he looks at you expectantly, like he really doesn’t know.

“Oh, I don’t know, Alhaitham—shouldn’t you be a little more panicked by the idea that I’ve trespassed into your bed and seen you…bare?”

“Well, to be fair, you didn’t trespass. I let you in—and also, to be fair, I saw the same for you, too, so we’re even.”

“You’re oddly calm about this,” you hiss. “This doesn’t bother you even a little? That things might change?”

He looks at you funny—like you’ve just told him a joke that hardly makes sense but makes him want to laugh anyway. “You’re too brilliant to be this dense,” he murmurs. “Maybe I’m quite open to the idea of change.”

You take offense to the first part enough to completely miss the second part of his statement. 

“I am not dense,” you huff, “I’m incredibly bright. I’ll have to send you my thesis sometime.”

“No need,” he responds through a low hum. He pulls you closer, flush against his chest. Bare skin on skin. Intimate skin, at that. You shiver for a moment as his warm, large hand wanders lower and lower before stopping just at the small of your back, rubbing slow circles at the dimple where your spine ends. “I’ve read it plenty of times. It was very insightful.”

“Well, in that case, you should know not to insult my intelligence—”

“If you don’t notice my affection for you, I’m afraid you might not be as observant as I initially thought.”

You pause. Your heart flutters. Then it feels like it decays. Your eyes widen a fraction. Then they feel like they need to be squeezed shut for fear of tears. You feel your fingers twitch to reach for him. And yet they stiffen in distrust. 

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” you whisper. Because you don’t.

You really fucking don’t. You thought you knew. His feelings and how to read them. His thoughts and how his mind works. Every little quirk of his and how he approaches every damn thing in this world. You thought you knew.

Now you feel like you don’t know much of anything, especially not what he means right in this moment. 

“You don’t?” He whispers, hand moving to grab your wrist and bring it to his cheek so his lips can brush along the delicate lines of your palm prints. (If he was brave, he’d tell you that his destiny and yours are written in those very lines. Maybe someday he’ll build the courage.)

“No,” you say through a shaky whisper. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I love you. Just like you love me.” He says it so plainly, that you almost feel like it's a dry, cruel joke. (You know him a little better than that, though, to know he’d never.)

“How do you know I love you?” you challenge just because it’s all you have left to cling to—easy, instant denial. 

He laughs. Soft. Quiet. Melodic. So fucking sweet. “I’m too smart to act dense,” Alhaitham teases. And then, for a moment, his eyes soften enough that they almost look vulnerable. “And only someone who loves me could deal with my… peculiarities. Though, I will admit, it took me quite a while to reach this conclusion. You made me work for it.”

“If you’ve known all along—” 

“Not all along,” he corrects, “like I said, it took me a while to come to this conclusion. But once I did, it was rather obvious.”

You scowl with a finger prodding into his chest, eyes misty with relief and the faintest traces of agitation, “Well, regardless, why haven’t you said something all this time? Obviously, I wasn’t as aware as you seem to be, so the least you could have done is spared me the pining and heartbreak of wondering if you’d ever look at me—”

“I wanted to make sure I could offer you a peaceful life first,” he says gently. You blink. He smiles, eyeing something in the distance—you don’t quite catch it, but you think it might be the old, worn-out stack of envelopes sitting on his desk. 

“What?”

“When you’re with me,” he whispers, leaning in so that his lips brush over yours, “I can lead a peaceful life. I wanted to make sure I could give you the same.”

“And what does that consist of?” you raise a brow. 

“Well,” he murmurs, pecking the corner of your mouth, “A stable job with a generous income, which I now have. A fixed schedule, which I have also negotiated. A proper home to house the both of us, which you are comfortably laying in. And…” he grabs your hand, bringing it to his chest where his heart is beating erratically, “A rock-solid, chiseled chest to lay on, which I have dedicatedly worked to add to my physique for you.”

“Haitham!” you squeal, shoving him away with a horrified shriek as he laughs with a wide grin. You don’t even know why he still remembers that comment to poke fun at it, but you suppose that is the tragedy of falling for a prodigious scholar. His mind is sharp. And so is his memory. “Enough!”

“Okay, okay,” he grins smugly. “I want us to lead a peaceful life.”

“There’s not a lot of peace I am counting on with you.”

“I will elect to ignore that statement,” he says dryly, “But that’s why I waited this long,” he buries his face into your neck, nose pressing into the skin as he inhales, “I’m afraid I can’t wait any longer, though. Won’t you accept my frugal attempt at a serene life with you?”

“Perhaps I can make do,” you fight back a stupid grin.

He smiles into your neck. You can feel it. You can practically see it. You hope you’ll grow old with it, too. 

“Then I suppose I’m forever indebted to your graciousness, my love.”

────────────────────────

TWENTY FOUR.

When Alhaitham was eight, Grandmother told him the story of how his parents had fallen in love. It was a typical love story, he thought at the time—nothing overly special or unique. A simple, sweet bond between two people who became friends and something more along the way.

What stood out were the letters. Not very much at first, but with time, he’d realized how special they were. 

Grandmother handed him the letters with a soft, melancholy look in her eyes that made him realize he hadn’t just lost his father and mother. She had lost her son and daughter-in-law. Alhaitham felt the absence of his parents often. It was hard not to at that age—he didn’t have a father to throw a ball to or tag along with to the market. He didn’t have a mother to hum him a melody or make his favorite dish for dinner. But Grandmother filled the gaps in those places well enough that even if his heart bled, not too much blood spilled between the cracks.

But he was no son. Not a proper one for her at her age, anyway. She raised him like he was her own, but she grew older every day, and he didn’t grow fast enough to keep up. He couldn’t take care of her in her old age the way his father would have. He couldn’t do much besides bring the vegetables for her to cut or set the table while she cooked. He couldn’t offer her the mora when she went to the market or carry too many of the heavy bags while they walked home. He couldn’t let her rest in her old age too much because, regardless of how mature and bright he was for his age, Alhaitham was just a child. Her child, nonetheless—Grandmother didn’t let him forget that fact. But a child.

When she died, he arranged the funeral alone. He didn’t cry throughout the whole ordeal. Her old colleagues from way back in her Akademiya days came, as did some of his parents’ old acquaintances. No one he knew too familiarly, though—no one who really mattered when they clasped his shoulder and told him to hang in there.

She was a good woman. He knew that already.

She was very intelligent. A very obvious fact.

She was exceptionally kind. A rather unsurprising observation.

She loved very deeply. Well. That one stung—as true as it might have been.

He remembers it so vividly still. How he had walked home alone after it all. How he had taken off his tie (a very poorly tied tie, at that—Grandmother had always helped him before) and silently entered his room.

It wasn’t until he had eyed his desk that finally, it all sank in. The notes—the ones his father had so carefully written his mother while they were still just starting to fall in love, sat there as if waiting for him. He read them one by one, just like he had so many times before. He didn’t realize he’d started crying until a rivulet of his sorrow landed from his cheek to the page, staining the paper a darker shade of heartache. 

Alone. 

That’s all Alhaitham had ever been since the tender age of four. At least, that’s what people had always thought—but he’d never felt the sorrow people tended to feel for him. Not having a father and mother was okay. Hard at times, but okay. Grandmother had been everything he needed. More than what he needed, in fact. 

Grandmother was everything. And she had left him just the same way his parents had. He’d cried that night—alone in a house that was nothing more than just a house. Not a home, not a place where he could return to and look forward to it. Not a place where love was waiting for him to shelter him as soon as he came back from the cruel, outside world.

Grandmother was gone. Mother and father had left so long ago. But they all had each other—in whatever world they’d crossed to, they’d had each other. 

He remembers it all so vividly still. How he’d read his father’s words, and for the first time in all his life, he’d craved it. What his parents had. 

To my love, my soul, my heart. I am yours, always. 

He wondered that night, through teary and blurry eyes, if love like that would ever find him. If he’d one day be able to call someone his love, soul, and heart.

He thinks now, as you laugh with your head tilted forward and a tweezer in hand while sitting on his lap, that he can. 

“Hold still, you,” comes your teasing remark, “you said this would be nothing. Now look at you.”

“You’re being too harsh,” he grumbles, pouting slightly. With a smile, you bend your neck down and press a soft kiss to his jutted lips, humming before pressing an extra one to the corner of his mouth for good measure. (And yes, the grand sage—acting, you can almost hear him correct in your own head—can pout. He is rather frequent at curling those lips of his in your presence when he wants something, in fact. Or when he is teased too much. Something about you brings about a side of him that is much less stoic and far more dramatized.)

“You can just admit it hurts, you know,” you say through an amused snort.

“It won’t hurt if you just do it right.”

“I’m an expert at tweezing eyebrows,” you huff, “I do mine all the time. And I would know that it hurts.”

“It can’t be that painful,” he clicks his teeth, “just be gentle.”

“I cannot gently pull out a hair from your follicle, Haitham—I don’t know what you want me to—hey!”

He grabs the tweezers from your hand and pulls you close, hugging you tight enough that his nose digs into your skin a bit as he buries it into your neck. It’s Saturday. His first out of two days off for the week—standard scribe work weeks are nine to five on weekdays, and he very much appreciates his weekends away from the bustling, lively Akademiya nonsense. 

Saturday happens to be your day off, too. 

“Where is Kaveh?” you ask quietly, playing with the hem of his shirt. He raises a brow, eyeing the suspicious movement of your fingers.

“Working with a client in Aaru Village. He won’t be back until tomorrow evening. Why am I not enough company for you?”

“Oh, be quiet,” you roll your eyes, and this time, your hands wander under his shirt, palms slowly dragging along his chiseled, planed abdomen while he shivers slightly under your touch. “I was just asking if…”

“If…?” he urges you to continue.

You know he knows. But, for the sake of indulging his smug, teasing little game, you huff and push his shirt up to expose his chest before murmuring, “If we would be interrupted or not. I don’t fancy such awkward run-ins with your roommate.”

“Our roommate,” he corrects, “this is your home, too.”

“Yes,” you smile, brushing your palms over his pectorals, watching as he stiffens when you graze along his nipples, “I suppose it is.”

“Well, he’s not here. And he won’t be, so kiss me,” he demands through a breathy whisper. You do. You kiss him instantly—because kissing Alhaitham is what you do best. When he’s happy, sad, angry, distressed, or just plain tired, kissing him is how you know him the most. When your breaths exchange and your life force and his mingle to become one, singular unit. 

You sigh into his mouth, letting his hands cradle your jaw and tilt your head to better meet his mouth, all while your hands still explore his upper half. He moans under your touch, cock springing to life slowly below you through his pants. You angle your hips forward, inching higher up his lap to drag your crotch along his and help the erection grow against the friction. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, hard and heavy between his legs in no time. 

“Haitham,” you breathe, feeling that familiar ache build between your own thighs. 

You kiss him like that for a bit. Messy, deep, sloppy, and so, so slow. With all the time in the world. Languid strokes of your tongue against his as he rolls his hips up from underneath you, dragging his clothed, bulging cock against your dripping cunt. The fabric separates you, rudely so, and it’s not long until you both grow tired of it. 

“Off,” you whine, tugging at his pants, “off, off, off!”

“So demanding,” he chuckles, pecking your nose sweetly before he lifts his hips, letting you slide off his sweatpants. “Satisfied?” 

“Yes,” you beam, “You always give me what I want. It’s my favorite thing about you.”

His gaze darkens at that—not for any other reason than it makes him so incredibly filled with lust when you speak to him like that. So spoiled and happy about it because it’s him. Him. You’re happy that it’s him. And he’s happy that it’s you. 

You don’t even bother undressing yourselves fully—he pulls down your own pants just enough to expose your pretty, leaking folds, and his hands wander under your shirt, where he almost short-circuits for a moment. Braless. Because you just love to drive him mad, he thinks. This much easy access to your soft, delicate breasts and the pert nipples that decorate them is enough to make him curse under his breath as his thumbs tease over them. 

“You’re a tease.”

“For simply existing?” you gasp, making him crack a small grin. 

“Yes,” he hums, “Your existence on its own teases me at all times. I’m afraid it drives me mad.”

You hum, reaching forward to gently take his hard, leaking cock into your hand and give a light, teasing squeeze. “Maybe my goal is to turn you completely into a lost cause.”

“Then,” he groans, throwing his head back against the couch cushions while he breathes harshly, “then you’re definitely succeeding. Is that what you wished to hear?”

“Yes,” you whisper, kissing his jaw, “It is, actually.”

It doesn’t take long at all before Alhaitham has tossed you back against the couch, laughing as you shriek at the sudden change of position. You glare at him, fighting back your own chorus of giggles as he moves to hover over you, kissing and biting playfully along your cheeks. 

“I love you,” he mumbles.

“Aw, so sweet,” you coo, “say that again.”

He rolls his eyes. His lips curl into the brightest grin at the same time. My love, my soul, my heart—the words are ingrained in his memory always. “I love you.”

“And I love you,” you whisper.

He leans in for a soft, slow kiss as the tip of his leaking cock slides against your folds, tapping against your clit before rubbing along your entrance. You gasp, shuddering against him, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer. 

“You know,” he murmurs, “I could get used to this.”

“Sex on the couch? We can do that any time—”

“A weekend with just the two of us,” he groans, dropping his head to your neck as you laugh loudly. Bright. Airy. A sound the wind carries to him in his subconscious. He hears you even when you’re not there—even when you aren’t around, he searches for you. 

“Oh,” you say playfully, “Yeah, I guess that’s nice too, isn’t it?”

“I’ll show you just how nice it’s about to be,” he hums. The tip of his thick, blunt head is pressed against your folds—you’re leaking just as much as he is. You slick, and his pre cum mix for a messy collision of arousal as he presses into you slowly, so carefully, you feel like you could break at any second with how he handles you. 

He’s patient. When Alhaitham fucks you, he’s patient enough that you feel like his other half and not his means of pleasure. Like he fucks you for you and not for himself. 

“More,” you insist, impatient as you add, “I can take it.”

“Patience is a virtue,” he clicks his teeth, “I want to take my time feeling you.”

And he does. He rolls his hips slowly. So slowly, you feel delirious. It’s a painful, gradual build-up of pleasure that has you trying to roll your hips into him to meet him halfway, a pathetic attempt when he’s on top of you to press his weight down on you to keep you in place. 

“Please, Haitham,” you whine, sweat shining across your sweet, pleasure-hazed face as he stares down at you, “Please more. I need it—need you. Need all of you.”

“You have all of me,” he groans, feeling the tight walls of your cunt squeeze around him, the squelching noise of his thick girth bullying into your folds in and out, in and out, in and out, driving him to the brink of insanity. “You’ve always had every piece of me.”

“I want more,” you hiss. 

He lets out a breathy laugh that turns into a soft moan. “If that’s what you want.”

The next thing you know, two strong, muscled arms are grabbing your thighs and bringing them around his torso to wrap around him, and his large hands grab your hips and pull, practically manhandling you deeper onto his cock. You shudder, letting out a shrill, high-pitched gasp as he intrudes further into your cunt, nudging the head of his cock against your sweetest of spots and making your body tremble. 

“Haitham,” you gasp, “Haitham, fuck—fuck, you feel so good. So deep—love when you fuck me like this.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, kissing in between your pretty little scrunched-up eyebrows, “I love fucking you like this, too. When you take me so well, squeeze so tight, and let me feel you like the good girl you are.”

His words make your folds squeeze around him, and fuck—he’s close. So fucking close, the pad of his rough, callused thumb meets your clit as he rubs circles, trying to bring you to the edge before he goes plummeting himself. 

“‘M close—almost…almost there,” you pant.

“Me too, baby,” he groans. He slams into you, skin slapping against skin and the glistening sheen of it mixing your sweat together. His mouth parts with pretty, low sounds of his pleasure, and your face twists with the devastating rush of yours. 

Once. Twice. A third time, and you fall apart as he thrusts into you and presses the tip of his thick length against the spongey spot in the back of your walls. 

“Haitham,” you gasp, legs tightening around him as your nails press crescent shapes into his back. “Fuck, I’m c-cumming…oh, Gods.”

“Good,” he gasps, and with one last roll of his desperate hips, he spills into you, too. A thick, sticky, familiar rush of heat fills your cunt, ropes of cum painting you white within with every twitch of his aching cock. “Fuck—you feel so good. So perfect—you were made for me. Me.”

“You,” you whisper, breathless. 

You let him shudder over you, fingers running through his hair as he finishes releasing his load into you before he slumps his weight over your body. It’s a small couch—decorative more than functional. (All thanks to Kaveh, of course.) But you don’t particularly care when you’re under him. It feels right all the same. 

“We have the house to ourselves this weekend,” he reminds you after some time of catching your breaths. “So…so we can do this all you want.”

You giggle, rolling your eyes as you poke his forehead. “You’re obscene.”

“I’m romantic,” he corrects, “I just want to be with you and nothing else. Can’t blame a man when he’s been gifted such a beautiful sight before him.”

“And cheesy, too,” you huff. 

He smiles. My love, my soul, my heart. 

——————————

You wake up Monday morning to Alhaitham already gone—it’s rare that he’s ever up before you. He leaves the house just in time to make it to work exactly on the dot and not a moment sooner or a moment later. But, as is with any Akademiya position, there are quarterly meetings that even the scribe can’t avoid. You giggle at the image in your head of a grumpy Alhaitham carefully tiptoeing around the room as he miserably gets ready for an early morning of extra work, all while making sure he doesn’t wake you. 

You yawn, sitting up to start your morning for your own day of work ahead—but it catches your eye before you can fully rise from bed, making you pause. 

A note? No, you realize almost instantly. Not just a note—a letter:

To my love, my soul, my heart: Kalpalata lotuses will bloom soon. I forget how beautiful the world is sometimes, and I suppose it’s because I am always distracted by your beauty alone. Will you laugh as you read this? I suppose you might because even I must admit, it is a rather cliche thing to say. I can just picture your smile now, and I am certain I will have it memorized until my last breath. It’s easy to remember it so well when it’s all I see in my dreams. Have I told you how often I see you in them? It’s difficult to think that there was once a time in Sumeru when we did not dream. It seems like sleeping beside your body is no longer enough—your presence is required even in my slumber for me to truly be at peace.  Perhaps when the lotuses bloom, we can take a trip to the deeper parts of the rainforest to catch a glimpse of a few. They say the vines are blessed by The Lord herself. I was never one to seek out the divine, but perhaps with a gift as sacred as you, I should take the time to thank Lady Kusanali for granting such brilliance to take bloom in my presence. Only, the difference is that here with you, there are no cliffs to climb or seasons to await. You are mine to bloom, always—my precious, beautiful lotus.  Forever yours,  Haitham ♡

ITS DONE. HAPPY LATE BDAY TO MY FIRST AND LONGEST LOVE. YOU MEAN EVERYTHING AND MORE TO MEEEEE

[mrs-elsie-barnes]

Restraint | Bucky Barnes x Reader | Oneshot 1.6k

You rush to Bucky's side when he's hit with a a super serum booster out in the field so that you can...take care...of him.

Warnings: 18+ smut, if you're looking for an medical ethics this isn't it, p in v, oral (m recieving), unprotected sex, orgasm denial, dirty talk. Topping from the bottom a bit? Bucky is restrained/slightly subby Bucky if you squint, but also dominant Bucky. Bucky is horny, reader can't help herself and they're both crazy possessive.

Dividers by @firefly-graphics and @saradika-graphics

Masterlist | Bucky Barnes

“Where is he?”

“Who?” Sam asked, his warning look at Joaquin came too late. 

“Tell me!” You turned on the younger man, “where the fuck have you put him?” 

“He's -”

“No, it's for her own safety,” Sam pulled Joaquin away, trying to dodge around you. 

“Where's Bucky? Tell me - please.” You were desperate, running through the hanger as soon as you heard he'd been hit, you needed to see him- now, needed to know he was okay. 

“I really don't think-”

“Sam I'm going to find him, I don't care if I have to search every inch of this airfield I'll find him. So you might as well just tell me and get it over with.” 

“Fine, but you've gotta leave him to it, he needs to recover and we don't know -”

“Sam!” 

“Upstairs, room 205.” 

You could hear him before you could see him, the sound of metal on metal unmistakable, and then the door to room 205 slammed shut behind a fleeing doctor and his cry of anger was released into the corridor. 

“Bucky?” You pushed the door open again, peering inside. 

“Don't, baby, just go and I'll come to you when -” he cut himself off, thrashing side to side. 

205 was somewhere between an officer's quarters and a hospital room, it was furnished like a bedroom, but away from the mess hall and regular sleeping areas downstairs. You'd expected to see Bucky hooked up to machines, maybe an IV drip, at least a monitor. 

But Bucky was handcuffed to the bed. The vibranium cuffs attached at each corner, spreading his body across the sheets. He’d shed his shirt and leather jacket, but his tactical pants still stretched over his thick thighs, his boots kicking out despite the restraints around his ankles. 

“Bucky, what happened?” 

“Doll, please -” he grit his teeth, jaw ticking, and set his head back on the pillows, “I don't want you to see me like this, go home, I'll come back.”

‘Like this’ was sweating and writhing, veins bulging in his already flexed muscles, sweat forming on his brow. 

“I can't leave you, what happened?” 

“Hit,” he tugged at his bonds again and you noticed red welts forming on his right wrist, "serum booster something, they were trying to - ugh -” he arched up, a vein in his neck pulsing, “enhance, but I - hit. We don't know - ugh - what it will do to me.”

Despite his otherwise out of control appearance, Bucky's blue eyes were clear and pleading. This was painful, you were sure, made worse by his movement in the cuffs. 

“You need to calm down, baby, stop moving.”

“Can't,” he tugged again, rattling the cuffs. 

“Let me help,” you stepped forwarding, shedding the big coat you'd pulled on when you left the house in a hurry. Your nipples pebbled under the flimsy nightdress you'd been wearing when you got the call. Bucky took a deep inhale at the sight. 

“No, no, no - I'm here because I could - fuck, baby, I could hurt someone. I don't wanna hurt you, go - fucking hell you look so damn delicious - go home!” 

But you ignored him. Instead you knelt on the end of the bed and unlaced his tactical boots, sliding them slowly off and setting them to the floor. Bucky kept his eyes squeezed shut. 

It did feel better to have them off though, and he rolled his ankles in relief, despite the cuffs. 

“Better, baby?” Your hand was on his leg and he managed to get out a quick nod before your hand moved higher, higher. He thrashed. 

“Seriously, you have to stop, what if I -” 

“You won't hurt me, you're a good man, Bucky. And look at you.” 

Your hand left his leg, the bed moved and he cracked his eyes open in time to see you settle in his lap. He bucked up, involuntarily he was sure, and revealed in your giggle as you grabbed his tac belt for stability. 

“Hmm, later, Bucky baby. Let me take care of you first.”

Your hands were back, sliding up his chest. He'd put on weight, since moving in with you, coming home to a hot dinner every night, desserts on the weekend, treats on dates. You liked seeing him well and happy. Beneath your hands the feel of his abs was still there, an undeniable strength, but he was so soft too and you loved that about him. The softness that he only shared with you, that he had gained through your love and care.

“Doll-” his warnings were beginning to sound whiny, pleading, and you could feel his familiar hardness growing beneath you now. 

“Just let me look after you,” you repeated, though you weren't sure if this was for him or you.

Your hands grazed higher, over his pecs, brushing your thumbs against his nipples, and up to his tense shoulders. It would hurt, you knew, to have his arms pulled like that. Especially his left, where the vibranium met skin and muscle. You'd massaged that spot enough times to know exactly where to dig your thumbs to make him say - 

“Fuck - I can't -" the cuffs rattled again, his hips driving upwards and knocking you off balance, leaving you in one of your favourite places, sprawled over his chest. He was thick beneath you, spreading your thighs wide, his cock straining against his zipper and pressing up between your legs.

“Bucky - let me take some of that pressure off, I love you so much - I” 

He tipped his head, catching your lips in a bruising kiss. Your hands clutched at his hair, turning his head to the perfect angle, lips parted you kissed him back fiercly in a whirlwind of his desperation and your need.

“We shouldn't - the doctor said -” 

Your hands were gone again, leaving his hair mussed on the pillow. 

“You're mine, Bucky, I won't have anyone else telling us how I take care of you.” 

The zip on his pants was close to splitting and so was Bucky's sanity, back arched from the bed, teeth bared. Slowly you popped the button and lowered the zip, allowing the hard length of his cock to spring free.

Like the rest of him, Bucky's cock was beautiful, thick and ready, the vein running up the side pulsed beneath your palm, precum beading at his red tip. He looked delicious.

“Do something,” Bucky's hips pumped again and again, thrusting up into your grip. You let go and he growled, low and throaty, body straining against his bonds. “Get your hands back on my dick right now.” 

You shivered, lust coursing through your body like fire. "I thought you told me to leave? Besides, wouldn’t you rather have something else?” You teased, leaning forward and licking a long stripe from his base to his weeping tip, gathering his pre-cum on your tongue and groaning lewdly in satisfaction. 

“Fuck!” He tugged again and the bed groaned. “Do that again.” Instinctively, you lent forwards and wrapped your lips around his head, sucking slowly and dipping your tongue into his slit. It was Bucky’s turn to groan now, head tipped back. 

He was thrusting up, trying to get himself as deep into your mouth as possible and - fuck - you loved him like this. Raw and wild and passionate. You had to have him, the need was so strong you could feel your heartbeat between your legs, arousal making your thighs slide together when you moved to sit up. 

“No, no, no, doll, please, what are you doing?” He pleaded, eyes wide in understanding when you climbed up to sit in his lap. 

Bucky’s cock lay hard against his soft stomach, your lips perfectly molded around it to push the tip against your clit when you rocked back and forth. It was delicious, this temptation, the tease. But Bucky was beyond teasing. He needed to be inside of you now.

With one last pull he broke free of the restraints. His hands, vibranium cuffs still hanging from his wrists, went straight to your waist, lifting you enough to impale you on his cock. 

He was so ready, throbbing inside of you, and the sensation of being empty and then so wonderfully full had you clenching around him immediately, teetering on the edge of an orgasm you weren't prepared for.

“No, no, Doll, this was your idea so you can fucking wait for me.” 

You wailed but clenched down, willing yourself to hold on for now.

Bucky set a bruising rhythm, holding you still as he thrust up into you, using your body to chase his own pleasure.

“Bucky I'm gonna -”

“No you're fucking not, you're gonna hold it like a good girl and cum when I say.” His voice was low, gravelly from shouting.

God. You needed it. It was like an electric shock, the power looking for an escape and ricocheting around your body until every muscle felt sore from holding back. 

“I can't, Bucky, I've got to-” you sobbed, tears welling in your eyes from the effort. 

“Cum,” he grunted, holding you down and grinding you onto his cock while your body went tight, light exploding behind your eyes, “look at me.” 

You opened your eyes and met his, dark with lust, and you twitched again, milking him as he filled you in three harsh pumps.

“Fuck,” he dropped his hands to the bed and you rolled off him. 

“Well, at least you didn't get sick from the serum, right?” You flopped back onto the bed. 

Bucky rolled into his side, looking down at you with a grin on his face, hand pumping his already hard dick again. 

“No ill effects, anyway.” He laughed, before sliding back between your legs. 

[satellite-evans]

all I need

Pairing: Lando Norris x driver!reader

Summary: Lando gets furiuos when you get fined for swearing after your crash.

Word count: 2.9k+

Warnings: fluff, swearing, injuries, angry lando

Request : Hi could I please request a lando x reader fic where the reader is a driver and she gets in a big crash and the team radio is like asking if she is okay and shes like answers after a bit and is in pain because she just CRASHED and then she accidentally swears on radio and she gets fined and the media is going crazy and like lando is just being a good protective boyfriend and is defending her in interviews and stuff? Thanks!! xoxo - anon 🍟

A/N:

Hi love, thank you so much for sending in a request and trusting me enough to write your idea!! I hope I did it justice xxx

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

One moment, everything is fine—you’re fighting for position, pushing the car to its absolute limit, heart pounding with adrenaline as you navigate the treacherous corners. The next, it all goes horribly wrong.

The rear tires lose grip. A sharp twitch, then a full spin. Time slows, but your mind races. Your hands react on instinct, desperately trying to correct, but it’s too late. The world outside the cockpit blurs in a sickening whirl of colors—track, barriers, sky. Then nothing but gut-wrenching weightlessness as the car lifts off the ground.

The impact is catastrophic. Metal shrieks against metal, carbon fiber shatters like glass. The force slams through your body, rattling bones, squeezing air from your lungs. Pain flares—sharp, immediate—radiating from your ribs, your shoulders, your skull as the cockpit jolts to a brutal stop. Static crackles in your helmet.

For a moment, everything is eerily still. Your pulse roars in your ears, drowning out the stunned gasps from the crowd, the commentary scrambling to make sense of what just happened. Your breath is ragged, shallow. The world tilts nauseatingly around you.

Then, the radio buzzes to life.

"Y/N, Y/N, are you okay?!" David's voice is urgent, bordering on frantic. There’s a tightness to it you’ve never heard before, and that alone terrifies you more than the crash itself.

You try to respond, but pain flares when you shift. A groan escapes before you can stop it. Your fingers fumble for the radio button, and when you finally manage to press it, your voice comes out weak, breathless.

"Fuck—yeah, I think so." A cough, a wince. "That hurt."

Across the track, in his car, Lando watches it all unfold in real-time. His stomach drops, breath catching as he sees your car crumple against the barriers. His knuckles go white around the steering wheel, heart hammering painfully against his ribs. The images flash across the big screens, slow-motion replays dissecting the crash from every angle. He can’t tear his eyes away.

Is she okay? Is she responding?!" His voice is laced with panic, the desperation evident.

His race engineer hesitates. "We're waiting on confirmation, Lando. Focus on the race."

But how the hell is he supposed to do that? The car, the track, the championship—all of it fades. Right now, none of it matters except you.

His grip on the steering wheel tightens. "Please—can you keep me updated? I need to know if she's okay." His voice wavers just slightly, the emotion threatening to spill over.

A pause. Then, softer, "We will, Lando. Just focus for now."

He exhales sharply, forcing himself to keep driving, but his eyes keep flicking to the screens around the circuit, searching for any sign of movement from you. His heart pounds as he waits—praying to hear your voice again.

A beat of silence stretches after your message. Then, Race Control’s voice cuts through.

"Y/N, reminder that all radio transmissions are broadcasted live. Watch the language."

Despite everything, a strained, breathy laugh escapes you. "Yeah, yeah, noted. Ow."

The medical car is already pulling up, orange lights flashing, marshals swarming the wreckage. You can hear them shouting, their voices urgent but professional. Someone taps on the side of your cockpit, checking for a response. Your fingers twitch, slow and uncoordinated, but you give them a thumbs-up.

The crowd, stunned into silence, exhales as one. The commentators try to fill the dead air with reassurances, but the tension is thick. On social media, the crash is already going viral—clips looping endlessly, speculation running rampant.

The straps of your harness dig into your bruised shoulders as the adrenaline begins to wear off, replaced by a dull, spreading ache that makes every breath feel like a struggle. The world around you is a cacophony of noise—sirens wailing, the frantic chatter of the marshals, the dull roar of the crowd beyond the barriers—but it all feels distant, muffled by the ringing in your ears.

"Try not to move too much," one of the medical staff instructs gently, his gloved hands already working to unbuckle you from the mangled remains of your car. "Can you feel everything?"

You give a small, shaky nod. "Yeah," you breathe, wincing as you shift slightly. "Just sore. Really sore."

The relief on his face is immediate, but the tension in the air remains. They move carefully, extracting you from the cockpit as gingerly as possible. As soon as you're free, your knees threaten to buckle, but strong arms catch you before you hit the ground.

"You’re alright, we’ve got you," another voice reassures, steadying you as they guide you toward the waiting medical car. The flash of cameras in the distance, the low hum of anxious murmurs from the pit lane—it all feels surreal.

The moment the checkered flag waves, Lando doesn’t care about anything else. Not the debrief, not the podium celebrations—none of it matters. His car screeches to a halt in parc fermé, barely lined up properly, but he’s already halfway out before the engine even fully shuts down. His hands rip off his steering wheel, then his helmet, tossing it aside as he breaks into a full sprint toward the medical center.

His lungs burn, but he doesn’t slow down. The only thing driving him forward is the sheer panic gripping his chest. His mind replays the crash on an agonizing loop—the way your car crumpled, how long it took for you to respond, the thought of losing you was eating him alive. He pushes past team personnel, ignoring their calls, shoving the medical center doors open with enough force to make them slam against the walls.

"Where is she?" His voice is sharp, almost desperate.

A nurse barely has time to react before he spots you. Sitting on the edge of the examination bed, bruised and battered, your race suit scuffed with streaks of dirt and dried blood. Your arm is wrapped around your ribs, and there’s a gash just below your glove, crimson seeping through the fabric. Your right knee is swollen, and every inhale looks like it stings.

But you’re alive.

Lando exhales a shuddering breath, his entire body sagging with relief. He crosses the room in seconds, reaching you like you might disappear if he doesn’t move fast enough. Without hesitation, he takes your hand, gripping it tightly like an anchor. His fingers ghost over your bruised knuckles, his touch impossibly gentle.

"Jesus, Y/N…" His voice is hoarse, cracking under the weight of the fear still clinging to him.

You manage a small, tired smile despite the pain. "I’m fine. Trust me, it’s not as bad as it looks."

His jaw clenches, eyes scanning you like he doesn’t quite believe you. "Not as bad as it looks? You scared the hell out of me. Don’t do that again. Ever."

The intensity of his words makes your chest tighten—not just from the bruises, but from the raw emotion behind them. You squeeze his hand, grounding him.

Later, after the doctors clear you—bruised ribs, mild concussion, but nothing broken—you limp out of the medical center, Lando’s arm wrapped protectively around your waist. Every step sends a dull ache through your body, but at least you’re standing.

David intercepts you, shifting awkwardly on his feet. "So, uh… don’t shoot the messenger, but you’re getting a fine for the team radio."

You blink. "You’re kidding, right?"

Before David can even answer, Lando scoffs, disbelief flashing across his face. "She just survived a high-speed crash, and they’re fining her for swearing? Seriously?"

David sighs, handing over the paperwork with an apologetic shrug. "Yeah… FIA wasn’t too happy. Regulations and all."

You stare at the notice for a beat before letting out a tired, incredulous laugh. "Yeah, okay. Next time I crash at 200 mph, I’ll be sure to say ‘gosh darn it’ instead."

Lando shakes his head, jaw tight with frustration. "Unbelievable."

But instead of dwelling on it, he just pulls you in closer, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. The warmth of his embrace eases some of the lingering tension in your body. "Don’t worry about it, love. If they want to fine you for being human, let them. You’re still the toughest person I know."

You smile, leaning into him, exhaustion settling deep in your bones. Because at the end of the day, a fine means nothing when you still have Lando by your side.

And, as expected, the media goes absolutely wild.

"Formula 1 Driver Y/N Y/L/N Fined After Shocking Radio Message Post-Crash!"

"Did Y/N Deserve Her FIA Penalty? Fans Debate Over Radio Outburst!"

"Y/N’s Crash Sparks Controversy: Was the Fine Justified?"

The headlines flood every social platform within minutes. Slow-motion replays of the crash loop endlessly on TV screens, side-by-side with grainy images of you wincing as you climbed out of the wreckage. Every angle is analyzed, every expression dissected.

Your post-race hospital visit is barely over when reporters start circling like vultures, bombarding you with questions before you even have the strength to face them, but Lando was having none of it.

Seated in front of the media, still in his race suit, Lando’s jaw is tight, hands clenched on the table as microphones are shoved toward him.

"Lando, there's been a lot of discussion about Y/N’s penalty for language over the team radio. Do you think the FIA was justified in issuing the fine?"

He scoffs, jaw tightening. "Are we seriously focusing on a fine when she just survived a massive crash?" His voice is sharp, edged with barely restrained anger. "She was in pain. She was shaken up. And she swore—who wouldn’t? It's ridiculous."

The journalists shift uncomfortably, but another one presses on. "Rules are rules, though. FIA has strict guidelines about profanity on public transmissions. Do you think it sets a bad precedent if they don’t enforce them?"

Lando lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "Mate, if your first thought after seeing a crash like that is to talk about a penalty, maybe rethink your priorities."

Another journalist jumps in. "But don’t you think it’s important to maintain professionalism on the radio? A lot of young fans look up to drivers."

Lando rolls his eyes. "Right, because what’s really damaging to young fans isn’t the fact that someone just had a life-threatening accident, but the fact that she said ‘fuck’ while trying to breathe properly again." He leans forward, voice lower but no less cutting. "If we’re talking role models, maybe start by making sure the sport actually supports its drivers instead of fining them for reacting like a human being."

His words are already making waves, clips spreading across social media.

And while you’re still exhausted, still aching from the crash, there’s something about seeing him so openly, fiercely in your corner that makes your heart ache in the best way.

Even after the official interviews, the media frenzy doesn’t stop. Paparazzi crowd outside the paddock, desperate for a statement. Team members act as buffers, but there’s only so much they can do.

As you slowly make your way out of the motorhome, Lando’s arm firmly around your waist, cameras flash, voices overlapping as reporters shout over each other.

"Y/N, do you think the FIA’s decision was fair?"

"Do you regret your words on the radio?"

"Lando, how did it feel watching the crash happen live?"

He tenses beside you. "How do you think it felt?" His voice is sharp, protective. "I watched someone I love crash at full speed. So no, I don’t really give a damn about some radio penalty right now."

You squeeze his hand in silent gratitude. He doesn’t have to be this involved, but he is. Always.

Another journalist turns to you, voice softer but no less intrusive. "Y/N, how are you feeling after the accident?"

You exhale, trying to keep your expression neutral despite the lingering pain. "Sore, obviously. But I’m okay."

"Will you be racing in the next Grand Prix?"

Lando answers before you can. "She’s focusing on recovery first. That’s the priority."

It’s not a direct confirmation, but it’s enough to hold off the speculation—at least for now.

The chaos of the day finally starts to feel like a distant memory as you curl up on the couch in Lando’s apartment. An ice pack rests gently on your ribs, offering some comfort against the bruising, but it’s Lando’s presence that truly calms you. His arm drapes protectively around you, pulling you in close like he never wants to let go, his warmth surrounding you in a way that makes you feel safe. His thumb moves in slow, soothing circles on your arm, the rhythm gentle and steady.

It’s such a contrast to the frantic energy of the day—the flashing cameras, the endless questions, the tension in the air—but now, in this moment, all of that feels like it belongs to another world. This is where you’re grounded.

You sigh, resting your head against his shoulder, letting the quietness of the room wrap around you like a soft blanket. But there’s something still heavy in the pit of your stomach, a lingering feeling that something was unsettled. You tilt your head up to look at him, your eyes tracing the faint lines of worry still etched across his face, the tension that’s only now starting to ease from his features.

"You didn’t have to go that hard for me," you murmur, your voice soft, though you know the words don’t quite do justice to what you’re feeling. You had been overwhelmed by everything that happened, but he—he had been beside you every step of the way, his every move showing how deeply he cared.

He scoffs, shaking his head slowly like the idea is completely foreign to him. "Of course I did. It’s bullshit," he mutters, his voice laced with frustration that hasn’t quite gone away. "You should be getting support, not fined for a stupid word." The words come out with a little more heat than he intends, but it’s the underlying softness in his voice, the way he’s speaking to you like he wants to protect you from the world’s unfairness, that makes your heart flutter.

You chuckle softly, a tired sound that makes his grip on you tighten just a fraction, like he’s afraid you might slip away. "Guess I owe you, huh?" you tease, trying to lighten the mood.

Lando’s response is immediate—he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. His hands shift, cradling you with a tenderness that almost feels too gentle, like you’re something precious he’s afraid to break. "Just don’t scare me like that again," he whispers, his voice barely above a breath, as though the thought of you being hurt again is more than he can bear. "And we’ll call it even."

You smile up at him, heart full of warmth for this man who always seems to put your well-being before his own. But you can’t promise him that. You know how the sport works, how unpredictable it is. You’ll never be able to give him that guarantee.

But there’s something you can promise him, something more important. You squeeze his hand, the simple act grounding you both in this moment. Your voice is steady as you look up into his eyes, locking your gaze with his. "No matter what happens," you say, the words firm but soft, a promise from the deepest part of you, "you’ll always have me. I’ll always have you."

His expression softens in a way that makes you think he’s heard every unspoken word in your statement, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. The air between you feels full—full of shared understanding, full of the love you have for each other, full of the promise that no matter the challenges, no matter the risks, you’ll face it all side by side.

For a long moment, Lando is quiet, his thumb still brushing over your skin in slow, absentminded strokes. But then his breath catches slightly, and when you glance up, you see it—the way his eyes shimmer with unshed tears. His jaw tenses as if he’s trying to hold it all back, but the emotion is too heavy, too raw.

"I thought I lost you," he admits, his voice breaking just enough to reveal the fear he’s been holding in. "When everything was happening, and I couldn’t reach you..." He trails off, shaking his head as if trying to push the memory away, but his grip on you tightens like he never wants to let go again. "I don’t know what I would’ve done if—"

"Hey," you interrupt softly, your hand moving to cup his face, your thumb brushing against the dampness on his cheek. "I’m here. I’m okay. And I’m not going anywhere."

That seems to break whatever wall he was trying to hold up. Lando lets out a shaky breath, his forehead dropping against yours as he closes his eyes. "I just... I can’t lose you," he confesses, the words raw and vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache. "Not you."

You press a soft kiss to his lips, hoping it conveys everything words can’t. "You won’t," you promise against his mouth, your voice unwavering. "I’m right here."

He nods slightly, like he’s trying to believe it, and when he pulls you into his arms again, it’s with a desperation that speaks to how close he felt to losing you. But in this moment, with his heart laid bare and your arms wrapped tightly around each other, there’s nothing else that matters.

Lando kisses you gently on the forehead, his lips lingering there for just a second longer. "That’s all I need," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. Then, his arms pull you even closer, his warmth radiating through your bones.

[raining-anonymously]

something about mouthwashing that has always bothered me is the cake-baking scene. where the game’s dialogue is usually very realistic, this scene feels… weird. the dialogue is unnatural and too video-gamey. anya, swansea, and jimmy are telling curly things he should already know for the player’s benefit, such as the backstory for the communal birthday parties and how to bake the cake. it’s strange. but i think i’ve finally figured it out!

We start with Daisuke. “Look at your face!” suggests that Curly’s reaction to being surprise-birthday’d was an expression of shock. This is supported by Jimmy later apologizing to Curly for jumping him like that.

Back to the present. Curly, who tends to use fewer filler words comparatively, uses the word “uh” twice in two lines. “Uh. Wow,” followed by:

I wanna talk about this question for a minute. Let’s look at the scene. Curly can see the birthday party decorations from his position. Curly knows the approximate date off the top of his head, according to the dead pixel scene, so he should know it’s around his birthday. Curly has also undoubtedly experienced many Pony Express birthday parties before. All this to say, why the hell is he asking what the occasion is? It should be pretty obvious, no?

The answer is dissociation.

We know from Curly’s POV introduction that he spaces out in conversation, and that Anya is aware of this. This lasts to the point where he’s staring off at nothing until Anya asks if he’s listening.

He also appears to dissociate during his conversation with Jimmy before the crash: he stops talking completely until prompted by Jimmy to respond and doesn’t seem to understand what’s happening (Jimmy tells him everyone on the ship should die and Curly seemingly agrees, only to very clearly be upset and in shock when Jimmy goes and makes this happen).

Now, Jimmy, Anya, and Swansea have known Curly for years. Seems pretty reasonable that they would be able to recognize signs of his dissociation, yeah? And they do.

Again, these are things that Curly should absolutely know. I believe Anya and Jimmy saw the facial expression that Daisuke referred to and noticed Curly’s inexplicable confusion and realized he was dissociating. They then informed him of the details of the situation while posing it as a question, likely in an attempt to ground him. Anya ends her information with “right?” while Jimmy ends his with “remember?” This allows them to give Curly the information he isn’t grasping in a gentle way that doesn’t call attention to the fact that this is something he should already know.

Anya then gives him more direct instruction by telling him where the cake recipe is (again, a thing he should absolutely know considering he eats in that kitchen every day) and lightly tells him to go make it. She’s guiding him to a task that he would ordinarily be able to complete on his own because she can tell that he’s unsure and out of it.

Swansea—who, while not as close to Curly as Jimmy and not as attentive to the crew’s mental wellbeing as Anya, has known the captain for years— does the same thing, more directly. He asks Curly about the cake recipe and tells him where to find the ingredients and recipe. Again, Curly should absolutely know this already, but for some reason he isn’t doing it on his own.

From the crew’s perspective, if you as Curly choose to engage in this optional dialogue, Anya and Jimmy told Curly to go make the cake, and instead of doing that Curly wandered quietly around the lounge. Brought on, probably, by this dissociative episode. So Swansea reminds Curly what he’s supposed to be doing and where to go to do it.

(While Jimmy and Anya are consistently shown to be in tune to Curly’s emotions (Jimmy moreso pre-crash), Swansea typically is not; however, he’s standing near Anya during this segment, meaning she had the opportunity to tell him what she’d noticed.)

Now, an interesting thing about Curly’s optional conversations with the rest of the crew here: He doesn’t say anything during them. This is a little odd, considering Curly is a fairly social character. He does have other optional interactions where he doesn’t respond, but those are typically after he’s just had a back-and-forth with the other person or where you’re able to respond nonverbally (such as closing/opening the door to Utility when Jimmy jokes about it). But for the most part, Curly does respond to what others say.

Not here, though. He can drift between Daisuke, Anya and Swansea, and Jimmy, but he doesn’t say a word apart from when Jimmy notices his silence and prompts him to speak.

Even then, he just agrees with Jimmy without any indication that he processed what Jimmy said. If you go for Jimmy’s second optional dialogue, Curly once again has no response.

All this to say—

This post was not made to demonstrate any overarching story element. Honestly, I kinda thought I was stringing conclusions together. But now that it’s all down? It… kinda makes sense. This is consistent with Curly’s character, with Anya’s and Jimmy’s dynamics with Curly, and with the typically excellent, human, non-meta dialogue Mouthwashing utilizes in all other scenes.

It works down to the little details, such as Daisuke being the only one who doesn’t have weird dialogue here; he’s only known Curly a few months and is probably less in tune to the captain’s mannerisms. (Plus the crew tends not to tell him about anything serious.) Furthermore, dissociation can be caused by stress, and Curly is VERY stressed in this scene, preoccupied as he is with needing to tell the crew about the termination. His flavor text during this scene demonstrates that pretty well; his flavor text is much more cynical than his norm and often leads to him thinking about the termination rather than what he’s supposed to be doing.

Is there a possibility that I’m completely wrong? Of course. But I finally have a plausible explanation for something that has been bugging me for months, so I’m satisfied.

hope you enjoyed today’s episode of MOUTHWASHING THEORY TO FILL A PLOT HOLE THAT NO ONE EXCEPT MY PEDANTIC ASS THINKS ABOUT <3

If I said anything wrong re: dissociation or if you have another Watsonian explanation for why this scene is written so oddly, please do feel free to share!

[sweetdispatch]

A break - L. Hughes

masterlist pairing: Luke Hughes x girlfriend!reader summary: Luke announced that he's going back home for the break, assuming that you're working anyways but he doesn't know that you took week off from work to spend time with him warning: argument, misunderstanding note: ahh, i didn't write anything for the past month because i've been doubting my writing skills, let me know what do you think! feedback is always welcome🎀

---

You picked up Luke when he returned from Montreal. It was the last game before a national team break. Since he didn't get called up, you thought that the two of you would spend a whole week together. When the two of you returned to the apartment, you noticed that he’s packing his suitcase. This looked suspicious because he didn't mention going anywhere.

“Umm… What are you doing?” You asked Luke. He closed the gap between the two of you and kissed your forehead.

“I’m packing because tomorrow’ morning I have a flight back home. Since it’s my free week, I want to spend some time with friends and family back in Michigan” He said casually and returned to packing. 

“Oh… You didn’t say anything earlier” You replied trying to cover hurt in your voice. 

“I didn’t plan it honestly but I talked with boys and they’re also going back to Michigan and we’re having a little reunion. You have work anyways so I didn’t bother you with this” 

“So you just decided to leave without saying anything? Very kind of you” You said with sarcasm. Luke sighed loudly.

“Look, it’s not a big deal, you have work so I don’t see a point in sitting here bored and waiting for you to return every single day, I think I can see my friends or are you gonna act possessive now?” You couldn’t believe in his words. 

“I’m not gonna act possessive but it would be nice to know about it earlier” 

“Well, I booked the plane ticket this morning so deal with it” Luke said nonchalantly and you could feel the anger boiling inside of you. Instead of arguing with him, you decided to drop it.

“Whatever…” You turned to go to the bathroom before you spoke again. “And for your information, I took a week off from work so we can spend time together” With that, you closed the bathroom door louder than you should. 

“Well if you would have told me this earlier, I would stay” Luke screamed so you could hear him. You rolled your eyes and started preparing a bath for yourself. You needed to rest and rethink what just happened.

In your opinion, you did nothing wrong and Luke is guilty. You wanted to spend time with him since he doesn’t have training and games and he decided to leave you. Even worse is that he didn’t bother to invite you to go to Michigan with him, knowing that you’re not working and he’s blaming you for this whole mess. You laid in the bath longer than usual because you didn’t want to face him. 

Luke didn’t see a problem in his decision to go back home. It’s his free week and he can do whatever he wants. He’s seeing you every single day and he has a full right to go and see his family and friends. In fact, he thinks that it’s all your fault. If you told him earlier that you took a week off from work, he would stay in New Jersey. He returned to packing, not even bothered that you’re sitting in the bathroom for the second hour. 

You left the bathroom, still mad at him and ignored his presence. Luke did the same. The minute you left the bathroom, he went in to take a shower. You went to the kitchen to eat something before going to sleep. You prepared yourself mac’n’cheese and didn’t even bother to make one for him. You knew it’s petty but in your thinking, he deserves it. 

You returned to the bedroom and went straight to bed. You saw that Luke is still in the bathroom and sighed deeply. You didn’t want to argue with him over something so silly but at the same time, you didn’t want to admit that he’s right and has full right to go and see his family and friends. You closed your eyes and tried to get some sleep. Luke left the bathroom and saw that you’re facing the window and even when he knew that you’re not sleeping, he decided to play your game. Without a word, he laid in the bed and fell asleep.

The next morning you woke up and saw that there’s an empty spot in your bed and the whole apartment is quiet. You stepped out to go and make yourself a cup of tea and notice that Luke left. You send him a quick message. 

Very mature to leave without even bothering to say bye

Have fun in Michigan and hope you won’t return to an empty apartment :)

You were well aware that you’re overreacting but you couldn’t help. You were mad over this whole situation. You drank your tea and decided to get ready for the day. You called your friend to meet up with her. That was the last time you checked your phone for the day. Since Luke left you, you didn’t want to have contact with him or anyone else and thought that maybe the break would be nice for the two of you to figure things out. You left your phone at home and decided to enjoy the day with your friend. 

Luke read your messages and laughed. He knew how petty you can get so he wasn’t even bothered by it. He blocked his phone and returned to the conversation he had with his mom and dad. 

“What’s so funny?” His dad asked. 

“Me and Y/N had an argument yesterday and she sent me a text that I should hope that she’ll be in the apartment when I return” He chuckled. 

“That sounds serious Luke, what was the argument about?” Now his mum asked.

“Oh, it’s nothing. She’s just mad that I flew to Michigan for my break and didn’t told her earlier, later she said something about taking week off from work, thinking that I would be feeling guilty” Luke shrugged 

“If she has a free week, why didn’t you bring her with you here?” His dad questioned and the realisation hit Luke. He didn’t even think about this scenario. He left you alone in New Jersey. His face lost all the colors when he realised it. His mum quickly noticed this.

“You didn’t ask her. You didn’t even think about inviting her here” His mom said and he nodded ashamed of the situation. Luke knew that he messed up real good now. 

“I need to call her” He excused himself and went to his bedroom. He called you 5 times but he couldn’t reach you. All the bad scenarios were going through his head. 

What if you really left him?

Luke knew he had to do something about it. He returned to the living room and asked.

“Mum, can I use your phone?” Without a doubt, his mum gave him her phone and Luke tried to call you. Again, he couldn’t reach you. “I think I need to get back and save my relationship” Luke replied and left again.

Luke booked a flight for tomorrow’ morning and prayed to see you there when he gets back to the apartment. He started to think about the argument you two had and he knew that he was the one who’s wrong. He should invite you when you told him that you took a week off to spend time with him. 

“Everything is going to be fine between the two of you. Y/N loves you too much to break up with you over this misunderstanding” His mum said standing in the entry to his bedroom. She could tell that his youngest son is scared that he might lose the love of his life. 

“I really hope for it. I’m scared mum” He sighed and closed the laptop. 

Around 9PM, you finally got back home. You spent a wonderful day with your friend where you drank overpriced coffee, ate the best carbonara that you could find in New Jersey and had a couple drinks. You went straight to the bathroom to take a shower and lay in your bed. You needed sleep after all the adventures you had today. Because you left your phone in the kitchen in the morning, you forgot to check it when you returned. It was your worry for tomorrow, today was all about you.

The next day when you woke up, you went straight to the kitchen. You grabbed your phone and saw 30 missed calls from Luke, 10 from his mother and over 100 messages from his whole family. You started feeling guilty and bad that you ignored them and quickly tried to call back to Luke. He didn’t answer the phone and you felt that it’s over between the two of you. Fact that you left your phone at home yesterday was his final straw and he’s gonna break up with you. 

Tears were falling from your eyes while you were making tea and didn’t even hear that someone entered the apartment. You were too deep in your head thinking about what are you gonna do. You and Luke had been together for the past 5 years and now it’s over. 

Luke entered the house and the first thing he heard was you crying. At first he sighed, relieved that you’re at home but then he realised that you’re crying. Quickly he dropped his suitcase and ran to hug you. You screamed in panic but then you recognized the strong grip. 

“Don’t cry, please don’t cry” Luke tried to calm you down and it was working. He was smothering your hair, whispering sweet things into your ear. When you finally cooled down, you spoke.

“What are you doing here? I thought you’re in Michigan” You wiped your cheeks and looked at him.

“I was but my parents made me realise that I messed up. I tried to reach you but you didn’t answer your phone so I decided to return and sort things out between us. I don’t want you to think that I’m choosing my friends over you. I’ll always choose you” Luke looked deeply into your eyes while he said the last sentence. 

“Sorry that I didn’t answer the phone calls from you. I left my phone at home yesterday when I went out and after I got back home, I completely forgot to check it. I did it this morning and tried to call you but you didn’t pick up and I thought that you’re breaking up with me” You hugged him and he kissed the top of your head. 

“I would never break up with you. I didn’t answer because I was already under the building apartment” Luke kissed your head again. “Sorry for all the misunderstanding, I should tell you about me leaving for Michigan when I…” 

“Stop. You have nothing to apologise for. I was wrong for being mad that you want to spend time with your family and friends. It was a bad call and I deeply regret it. Sorry for ruining your free week and that you couldn’t spend time with them” 

“We both messed up but that’s why we love each other right?” Luke joked and you giggled.

“True. I love you Luke” You tiptoed and kissed his lips. 

“How about I'll take you on a nice dinner today and you’ll tell me about yesterday?” He smiled at you.

“Okay and sorry again for ruining your trip. That was the last thing I wanted to do” You felt guilty for this whole mess and it was bothering you that he dropped everything just to see if everything’s alright between the two of you. 

“Everything’s fine baby. As long as we’re good, it was worth it” Luke smiled at you and you hugged him again.

[unknownogre]

The sky was angry, that much was certain. Between the flashes of lightning that turned night to day, and the massive claps of thunder that shook the very ground…there was much rage. I couldn’t understand for the life of me why…until I heard a clatter in my storage shed. I lived alone in the woods, nothing just fell…

Now I’m not a cautious person. I’m not scared by this, I don’t rush to grab a kitchen knife or sword or what have you. It is probably just some scared critter trying to take cover from the storm. I can’t blame them, I don’t plan on kicking them out. All I plan to do is make their stay more comfortable and nothing less. So out in the storm I go to the shed…I don’t much feel the cold anymore, just like I don’t feel the warmth either. Sort of numb anymore, but that is neither here nor there. I open the shed to see…

…a little girl. She was muddy and terrified and quickly she grabbed…a spade…to defend herself. I make no aggressive movement. The sheer amount of fear pouring off of her could almost be smelled in the air. This girl was being chased, hell hunted. She looked like a cornered fox during the hunt.

“Hello.”

I stayed by the door to the shed. I wasn’t going to encroach in her space more than I had to. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. She swings the spade a couple of times but honestly no harm no foul in my book. She is scared, I get it. What ever was chasing her must be pretty…

…oh. I pause to look back over my shoulder. Something entered my land, Oh a lot of somethings. They should know better. I have signed treaties by the king. At least now I know why she is running.

“Pl…please…please don’t give me to them. Please I beg of you…I…I don’t want to die…not like that…not like that.”

She just fell to her knees sobbing. My heart broke in that moment, started to beat faster too. This is what it feels like to be angry again eh? It’s been a while, I had almost forgotten. It was nice not being angry, not being bothered. Still, all good things come to an end. I…I didn’t want this to happen so soon. I didn’t want to give it up…I wanted it for a bit longer, to cherish it. I’ll miss it…

…my peace and quiet.

Still all good things come to an end I suppose. I can’t be idle, not right now. I’m a bastard but I’m not a monster…though I suppose that depends on what legends you listen to. I offered the little girl my hand.

“I won’t give you to them. Here you are safe, you don’t need to hide out here. Come into the main part of the house, sit by the fire. I have stew…and I’ll talk to these nice ‘people’. We’ll get it all sorted out.”

She seemed hesitant and I couldn’t blame her, she doesn’t know me from anyone and when she grabbed my hand she sent a bit of power through me. I knew she was just feeling out my intentions and emotions, I wasn’t going to begrudge her a little protection. Then she looked very confused…and I just smiled…this girls aura is clean. She has done nothing wrong, crossed no moral lines anyway. I’m just interested to see why they were hunting her through the forest. She got up and went with me to my main house. I wrapped her in a blanket, put her in front of the fire with some stew and a lovely hunk of bread I made myself. I pulled my curtains of course; they don’t need to be looking in my window. She’ll be safe, I know it.

BANG! BANG!

“OPEN UP IN THE NAME OF THE INQUISITION! UNDER ORDER OF THE HOLY GOD SOLAS, WE DEMAND ENTRANCE INTO YOUR HOME!”

That is someone who thinks they have power here, at least by the tone of their voice. The little girl jumps of course, big scary man hammering on a door would do that to anyone. A little pat to her shoulder before I turn to the door. She was still confused, but a little less scared. I bet she is still trying to process what she learned about me, takes a bit really. I don’t blame her. Still she was eating now, that was good.

When I opened the door I was greeted by the sight of a dozen armored and armed men. One of course was better armed and armored than the rest, he wore a very familiar symbol on his chest. I smile of course, I’m shorter than they are and unarmed. I’m not a threat to them…in their eyes.

“Sir, do you know where you are? Don’t worry I’ll answer that question for you. This is the Forbidden Forest. There has been a treaty in place for the last one hundred and fifty years that keep the kingdom and their enforcers, that would be you, from entering without the expressed consent of the individual that lives here, that would be me. You are breaking a treaty written in blood and supported by the king. Is that something you desire to do? I’ll let you leave right now and we’ll just call this whole ordeal a mistake.”

There was a pause in the leader as he thought of my words. It was almost as though no one had spoken to him like that before. How irritating. Have things fallen out of favor that hard.

“The king no longer rules. The Holy Pope no governs the realm, as the king as beheaded for heresy. All agreements are then null and void. We have authority here, let us in. We are searching for a witch. We…”

I raised my hand and he actually stopped talking. I didn’t think that would work, they clearly aren’t spoken back to at all very often. I could see the soldiers behind him look a bit confused as well.

“What is a witch?”

I needed clarification on that. I don’t know that term save for as a slur against women who were powerful. It was never a good thing and only used for oppression. I don’t like oppression.

“A witch…a woman born with power. That is an affront to our Lord Solas and they must be exterminated. Women are not meant to have power.”

Bigots…I don’t let my smile falter at all. NO matter the century no matter the cause there are always bigots, I know how to deal with bigots. I take one step outside and shut my door. Then they don’t have any line of sight into my house and that little girl will be safe, and she won’t see what comes next.

“First of all they are called Sorcerers, NOT Witches. Witches is a bigoted name used to push women down and allow men to commit violence against them. A person born with power is a Sorcerer, or a bard, or a druid…NOT a witch. Second of all, I don’t care for this Pope who likes to commit violence against women. IN that frame of mind, I’ve decided to resist. You will not be hunting that sweet little girl anymore, and I’ve decided not to forgive you trespassing on my land. You can pray now, if you think it will help.”

I’m old, but not weak. I live alone in a rather dangerous forest…but I’m left alone. It took the creatures of this place one week after I moved in more than one hundred years ago to learn that lesson. All of them laughed a little bit, a mocking tone that I did not much appreciate but I cannot blame them either, they’re idiots…and know not what they do.

“Listen here old man….”

I didn’t want to hear his insult so I punched him square in the breast place. I held back, but only a little bit. He hit the ground hard, about fifteen yards away with his chest caved in. Geeze, I am out of practice aren’t I? Oh well, I’ll have time to get back into the swing of things.

“I’d tell all of you who I am but if you knew that you wouldn’t be here in the first place. I’m going to let you run…and who ever gets to the forest first gets to deliver my message to your Pope. The sleeping giant has awoken and will lay waste to your empire.”

I killed one more after they took a few swings, they might as well be standing still for how slow they are. I’ve been training for a very long time, first as a paladin and then as a monk. I don’t age anymore…I’m older then the country they fight for.

Okay…so I killed three before the other eight turned to run. It was a new one in the least amount of armor who was able to run the fastest. Go figure, the one with the least amount of sin in his aura is the one who would get away. Good for him. They aren’t powerful, not even hardly trained. It looks like they just grabbed people who were bullies and gave them armor and a title and sent them out to do the bidding of the Pope. I’m faster, I’m stronger…and I killed the last seven of them as the rain poured and the thunder shook the ground.

“Solas this is your fault you know. If you talked to the people who would do villainy in your name maybe they wouldn’t. You owe me for what I’m about to do and don’t for one moment think that if you don’t repay me I won’t come up there and show you just how upset I am at having to leave my peace and quiet. You can start by cleaning up these bodies…and ask Tempest to cut the storm out, I’m going to protect all the women, not just this one.”

I knew my words would carry, I haven’t spoken to the gods for a long time…and when I speak they listen. The storm…it died down very quickly and in a bright flash of light the bodies were gone. I had to smirk just a little bit…I still had it at least. That one would get lost in no time, so I had a cushion to get to the pope and kill him. I didn’t want to, but at this point I had to. There wasn’t diplomacy with this. There was murder and that was it. They needed to see their god crumble, that is how it always ended. That is how it needed to end. I thought I could get outside of the cycle.

Back in the house the little girl had been watching through the window and she scrambled back to her seat when I walked back in. The air was still thick with her fear, and well I can’t blame her. I just killed eleven people right in front of her with no weapon or spell. One hundred years ago I could have done it without her even seeing.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you. You coming here was the wake up call I needed. I’m…I’m sorry things got so bad.”

I move to sit opposite her on the fire and put a kettle to warm up. We have plenty of time to move, I was going to let her sleep for a while before asking if she wanted to join me, but after a few minutes of silence and her just looking at me, she spoke first.

“I’m need to come with you. They still have my mom. Too many have been hurt. Too many have died.”

Things were bad, she wouldn’t sleep anyway would she? I just nudge the stew to her, and she picks it up and starts eating. There is a sigh that tumbles past my lips as I look at her and just nod. How could I say no really. Not that I had planned to but maybe I could have talked myself into going alone. Maybe when this is all said and done they’ll let me have my peace again. When the Pope’s body is thrown down the stairs to his followers and they see their gods have condemned them instead of helping, maybe that will be enough…but it rarely is. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.

"P-please. Don't let them take me…" A witch, a young girl pleaded as she hides in your shed. You see the fear in her eyes as you hear the armored footsteps of the inquisition approached your home. Your heart thumps. They don't take heretics lightly nor one that shields them from their hold.

[littlelamy]

can you make a story where rafe and reader broke up 3 years ago, but she comes back to Outer Banks only now she has a daughter(who looks just like Rafe) and a husband (Whom she doesn't really love) and rafe still loves her

lamy's notes: i feel like i should do a part 2—send a request if you want one!

you never thought you’d come back.

three years was a long time. long enough to build a new life, to convince yourself you were better off away from this place, from everything that once kept you tangled in its grip. long enough to pretend you had moved on.

but then your husband got a job offer in charleston, and suddenly, outer banks was just a short drive away.

and now you’re here. back where it all started.

“mommy, look!”

your daughter’s voice pulls you from your thoughts, and you glance over to see her pointing at a row of seashells scattered across the sand, eyes bright with excitement. your heart squeezes. she looks so much like him. blonde-ish hair, sharp blue eyes—features that don’t belong to your husband.

you force a smile, kneeling down beside her. “those are beautiful, baby.”

“can i take some home?” she asks, looking up at you expectantly.

before you can answer, a voice—deep, familiar, and entirely unexpected—cuts through the salty air.

“i think you’ll need a pretty big bag for all those.”

your breath catches. slowly, you rise to your feet, turning toward the voice you haven’t heard in three years.

rafe cameron.

he looks different. older. sharper in some ways, softer in others. but his eyes? they’re exactly the same. the same piercing blue, the same intensity that always made it hard to breathe when he looked at you.

“rafe,” you say, his name barely a whisper on your lips.

his gaze flickers to the little girl standing at your side, and you see it. the moment realization hits. the way his jaw tightens, his fingers clench.

“mommy, who’s that?” your daughter asks, tugging at your hand.

rafe swallows hard, tearing his eyes away from her to look at you instead. waiting. silently demanding an answer.

“he’s…” your voice trails off, the words catching in your throat. you glance at your daughter, then back at him. “he’s an old friend.”

his lips press into a thin line. he knows you’re lying. but he doesn’t push. not yet.

“what are you doing here?” you ask, trying to ignore the way your pulse is racing.

he huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “funny. i was about to ask you the same thing.”

you hesitate, glancing at your daughter before looking back at him. “we… moved back. my husband’s job—”

his expression darkens at the mention of your husband, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “your husband.”

there’s something bitter in his voice, something that makes your chest tighten. before you can respond, your daughter tugs at your hand again.

“mommy, can we go now?” she asks, oblivious to the tension crackling between you and rafe.

you nod quickly, eager to escape, but rafe steps forward, gaze locked onto yours. “we need to talk.”

there’s a part of you that wants to run. that wants to pretend this moment never happened. but deep down, you know you can’t.

because the past has finally caught up to you.

and rafe isn’t letting you go this time.

taglist: @namelesslosers @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @rafesbabygirlx @drewsephrry

[hivemuthur]

Hello! I hope you’re doing well. I just wanted to say that your writing is absolutely amazing. If it’s not too much trouble, I’d love to make a request. Could u write something super fluffy w vik, just pure, cozy domestic vibes with no work since it’s the weekend—maybe soft morning sex, making and sharing breakfast, taking care of Viktor’s potted plants, grocery shopping, or anything along those lines. And vik realises that taking a break from his work isn’t so bad at all. Thank you so much!

Hi Anon! I guess I shouldn't bother anymore, but sorry for the long wait :v here's some morning sex with Viktor hehe (and they do other things too)

Long Weekend

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! smut + fluff

word count: 2,3K

artist on X

—

Viktor wakes with one arm less than he should have only to realise your head resting in the crease of his elbow acts as a dam holding his blood back from circulating toward his fingers. He wonders, for a moment, what happens there, in his fingertips with all the trapped cells, whether they wither away as his tissues desperately suck out all of the available oxygen or do they squeeze past the press of your cheek, just at a very slow rate.

He connects the tips of his thumb and index finger only to make sure he feels absolutely nothing from the elbow down and wonders again if he should wake you or just shake you off gently. His mind lands on the former, sleep still crusting his eyes as he begins to squeeze his feeling palm between the skin on your cheek and the valley of his joint, accidentally coaxing a protest from your mouth.

“Viki, no,” you groan softly, eyes still closed, brows scrunching. Hand bats his fingers away and he chuckles, voice still hoarse, “Baby, we will have to amputate soon if you don’t free me.”

“Noo,” you whine, wrapping yourself around him like a vice, leg pressing on his belly, arm squeezing between his waist and a mattress, free hand coming to rake through his hair. He sighs, flexing his fingers and elbow, blood crushing back forcefully, almost unpleasantly, as the feeling of thousands of prickling pins surges under his skin, soaking into the muscles.

“That will work,” he says, wrapping his thawing fingers into your hair and scratching your scalp.

“Wait.” You open one eye and throw him a suspicious look. “Are you not trying to flee?”

He shakes his head with a soft smile and presses a kiss to your temple, then sighs. “I promised, did I not? I’m an honourable man.”

You only eye him suspiciously, fully prepared for the I’ll only pop to work for an hour trick. Or the other one, the I forgot something one. You hate them both equally, but you did make him promise, with a hand on his chest and eyes drilled into yours as he repeated the vow word for word after you. Such dramatic means to cage your man at home for two days, if somebody asks you, but desperate times called for desperate methods.

So desperate, that when he folded with an exasperated, “Fine,” it was nearly not enough, so you followed him around the apartment asking constantly, “Do you really promise?” to the point of driving him insane. So he seized your nagging mouth with his, wrapped his hands around you and breathed, “I promise, to everything that’s sacred.” Kissed you some more, kicked your legs so you were the force dragging you both to the bedroom, and then he said, “Shut up already,” with all the love poured into it and then fucked you stupid so you had no more questions left in you.

And now you lay here, promise so far being kept, seeping through Viktor’s arms wrapped around you, his foot tickling yours gently and his stomach rising and falling, your thigh with it.

“Alright then,” you give him the benefit, lowering your head back onto his chest and he chuckles and yawns, loud and wide. You play with the hair curling around his ears, press your nose to the crook of his neck and breathe in the scent of sleep on him.

Heartbeat still slow, pumping lazily, Viktor runs his hand over your thigh, fingers spread wide when he gets to your ass and grabs a handful of flesh, kneading and squeezing. He hums, pats one of the cheeks so you snake up a bit to meet his mouth and you share the morning drool with him, heavy and sticky, before your jaw unlocks and your tongue wakes up properly.

“Hmm, what’s this for?” you ask, rolling your weight onto him, your chests now flush together as you tangle all of your fingers into his hair.

“Just exploring the benefits of sleeping in,” says Viktor, lips curving into a smile, and indeed he is exploring, adjusting your ass to rest on his core and he rocks you gently into another kiss. All so slow, sloppy almost, if the two of you weren’t still carrying the sand of sleep within you, hands dry and warm on each other.

“Please explore further, maybe I will convince you to finally take a vacation.” With that you press yourself down onto him and Viktor grunts out something like a warning, keeping you in place when you try to retreat.

“Let’s start with a long weekend, hmm? Baby steps,” he purrs into your mouth and rolls his hips underneath you, holding you still as he licks the quiet moan off your lips. How sweet it tastes on his tongue when you are all warm and pliant and all he has to do is to just shift a little bit to rub himself on you.

He looks so pretty in the morning glow—sun sinking into the room through the cracks in the curtains paints him in golden stains, plays around his eyes and hair as you run your thumbs through the hollows of his cheeks. You sink back into a kiss. His tongue feels soft, and you melt between breaths, first drops of heat slipping out of you onto his cock.

Ass still in his grasp, you do little to no movement and just let his mouth travel from the corner of your mouth to your chin and jaw, where he sucks, then leaves a shy nip, teeth barely there. You flex your neck under his lips, your back arches more and more until he slides freely between his lower abdomen and your pussy, and you have to bury your face back in his neck.

He cocks his head so that his lips brush your forehead when he utters, “I want you.”

Wordlessly, you lick your palm and reach it between you, fingers wrapping around his cock in a lazy stroke. You press gently on the base, drag your touch to the top and rub his head on your clit, everything in the rhythm of your hips rocking together.

“Tease,” he smirks, and you hum a chuckle into his throat.

What is feels like to have your man unhurried, to not have to grasp his belt in haste and press your face into his crotch in an attempt to keep him home for ten more minutes, indescribable. You could whine to this feeling only, the realisation that you could be at it for hours and nothing will interrupt you, nothing will take him away from you today.

It swells in your chest as you slide him inside you, slowly, inch filling you by inch and Viktor squeezes your ass tighter, guiding you down on him with a slow, breathy exhale, as if this brings him relief. You leech your mouth onto the spot where his jaw is sharpest, then lick his ear to finally kiss it as reverently as you would kiss his mouth.

He exhales deeply and you can feel the stretch travelling up your core. Once he is hilted, you just breathe, adjust to him, teasing him with gentle flex of your muscles and smile each time a pretty sound falls from his lips. For a while it’s just a twitch for twitch, gasp for gasp, a non-verbal conversation happening between your mouths while your bodies negotiate who will make the first move.

Viktor does, bending his knees and spreading your thighs further apart. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and respond with a small roll of your hips, rocking his cock inside you. “Yes,” a quiet praise falls from him as the bond between his hands and your ass is finally severed and the white imprints of where he touched fade into pink. The same touch travels up, stops around your hip to hook in its crease while his other hand strokes the curve of your spine and rests wrapped around the back of your neck.

His touch is warm, still sleepy, every deep breath and slow beat of a heart translates into a squeeze here and there as his fingers sink back into your skin.

“It seems I’ve been missing a lot, hmm?” he hums, extending his fingers to the base of your skull, drawing dozy purrs from you.

“You have no idea,” you say, your mind half-there, half of it concentrated on milking Viktor’s cock and sliding up and down his torso. The usually raw country of his body is so welcoming now, his navel peppered with dark hair grinding underneath you, stomach bellowing slowly into yours until you are all mixed breaths and hands holding each other through each slow thrust.

The buildup is creeping into your muscles gently, swelling, pulsing in your lower belly each time Viktor grunts or moans against your mouth. “So good,” he whispers, eyes closed, his eyelashes dusting over your cheek. With the lapping subtlety of incoming tide the shape of you becomes the shape of him and you both wax into one through this calm completion reached between breaths, praises shared like a secret between your mouths.

You come wrapped around him tightly, and Viktor follows soon after, spilling himself inside you with a few slow thrusts, his face buried in your neck. He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your temple, arms still holding you close, his body drenched in bliss.

“I will admit,” he murmurs, cradling your head, “this is better than crawling into the lab at seven in the morning.”

“Well, I’m flattered,” you smirk, already busy kissing his neck as he softens inside you. “I’ll have you know this activity comes with coffee, too.”

“Does it now? I don’t see any. I think I’ll have to speak with your manager,” Viktor teases, rolling you both over so that he’s now lying on top of you. “I’ll make the coffee. You stay here,” he mutters, pressing a soft peck to your lips.

“Why?”

“I want to explore this activity further once I’m properly awake,” he says, scrambling out of bed, fastening his brace, and throwing the nearest jumper over his shoulders. It’s yours.

You stretch out lazily, and indeed, when Viktor returns with the coffee pot, you explore the activity further—this time, faster. Until your stomach betrays your other basic human need, making it clear that you both need to eat.

Squeezing oranges for juice is your job, yet you barely press on the fruits, too busy ogling Viktor’s hands as he cracks eggs into the frying pan.

“See something you like?” he teases, and you wonder how he knows without even looking at you.

“Shut up,” you snort, putting more effort into dismembering the oranges.

You eat together, and the stupid grin on your face refuses to fade. You don’t even try to hide it. Viktor only smiles knowingly between bites, though he does his best not to look too triumphant about it. His foot nudges yours under the table, and when you glance up at him, he tilts his head, feigning innocence.

"What’s so amusing?" he asks, dabbing at his lips with a napkin.

"Nothing," you hum, still grinning. "I’m just enjoying this."

He chuckles, shaking his head, but doesn't argue.

The two of you part only for the essentials—morning routines and quick trips to grab fresh clothes—but for the rest of the day, you remain practically attached at the hip. You go out for groceries, Viktor's hand settling on the small of your back as you navigate the market together. He huffs in amusement as you haggle for the best produce, muttering something about your ‘ruthless negotiation tactics,’ but in the end, he lets you have your way.

Back home, you cook side by side, shoulders brushing as you move around the kitchen. Viktor insists he’s a very precise sous-chef, but you catch him sneaking a taste of whatever he’s chopping. “Quality control,” he claims, entirely unapologetic.

By the afternoon, you curl up with a book, your head resting on Viktor’s lap as he absentmindedly strokes your hair. You feel him shift beneath you every so often, his fingers twitching like he’s reaching for a pen, but he never gets up. He never moves toward his work. You’re fairly sure you’ve achieved the impossible—his mind is not consumed by research or equations. Just you. Just this moment.

Evening settles in, golden light spilling through the windows, and Viktor all but drags you back toward the bedroom. You laugh, half-protesting, but his grip is firm, his intent undeniable.

“Has the domestic life won you over already?” you tease.

Viktor hums, tilting his head as if considering. “Almost. Perhaps a little more convincing would work in your favour, though.”

You arch a brow, playing along. “And what’s in it for me?”

A smirk tugs at the corner of Viktor’s lips before he leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “I think I’ve warmed up to the idea of a long weekend,” he murmurs, his voice rich with suggestion. His fingers trail feather-light up your spine, teasing, slow. “I just need… one last push.”

You gasp as his hands find their mark, but before you can retaliate, Viktor sweeps you up into another kiss, effectively ending the conversation in favour of much more persuasive arguments.

When sleep finally claims you both, tangled in each other’s warmth, Viktor realises something. The world did not collapse. The lab did not burn down. His work is still there, waiting, but today... today belonged to something else. To something just as important.

And maybe, just maybe, taking a break isn’t so bad after all.

[enigmakiwi]

"Enhancements from other organisms for superior intelligence" yeah this is a straight up lie. CRISPR can do a lot of things but it cannot do magic.

What organisms? Which organisms' genes could be spliced in to make a human more intelligent? This straight up doesn't make sense. We aren't at a stage where we can just apply vague traits to something using CRISPR. This shit (genes and genetics with regard to the brain/intelligence/personality) is incredibly complicated and still not fully understood, and— side note— what other organism could improve human intelligence if we are the smartest species? And what specific genes are the "intelligence" genes, then, anyway? Even Elon isn't that stupid. I think.

The only conclusion I can come to here is that she means other humans. If she means they made a designer baby using the genes of several different humans, well... I don't know what I should think, honestly. A few years ago, I would've told you that this would also be a lie, but I don't know shit about shit anymore. The world is insane and Elon is insane and I'm at a point where I can believe it.

The fact is that we do not have the knowledge nor the ability required to make a sci-fi super intelligence baby— at least, not successfully, and not without absolutely horrifying risks. On the off chance this isn't a total lie, that kid is going to be a completely normal human person because they've exaggerated what they did to the kid (which, I imagine, was probably modifying more specific genes which are actually known to cause various illnesses). Or die of some mysterious illness because they're not exaggerating and everything in those genes is fucked, in which case, I dunno, is that... a crime? I'm pretty sure would count as human experimentation, so...

And, because I just realized I didn't mention it— yeah, CRISPR is not approved for human use right now, OP is 100% correct. I don't know how Elon possibly could've done all this without word getting out and causing a huge scandal. There's no way he could have done all this intelligence-enhancing cross-organism shit in absolute secrecy and without facing any backlash. SOMEONE would spill the beans, as is the nature of secrets in group operations (which this would've had to have been; even Ashley says Elon just "managed" it, not did it all himself). This is another reason I think that, at most, they modified risk factors for illnesses. And we've only got one account here— the mother, who could very well and very easily be lying about or exaggerating this IVF+ story.

But I don't know for sure. I'm not an expert and Elon is an evil motherfucker. I don't check the news much because everything is awful right now, so maybe I missed something. I honestly don't know if there's hard laws about this, so I don't know what would even happen if this all turned out to be partially true. IF. And it's a big if, because again, this borders into completely impossible.

TLDR I cannot take this seriously and I do not buy it as is, but the world (and Elon) is batshit enough that maybe Elon did use CRISPR on his baby in some way, probably to try to eliminate genetic illnesses and risk factors. But, to be clear, this is probably a complete lie.

Elon’s latest baby mama says she used genetic engineering (CRISPR is not ethically approved by the scientific community for use on humans) to create the perfect human with “enhancements from other organisms”

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Where Do You End Pt. 3

Main Masterlist

Read on A03! - Pt. 2

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, angst, body swap, mentions of smut, humor, horniness, very weird

Summary/Warnings: You and Dean have a talk.

Author's Note: Here we go. Dean about the be on his KNEES (for several reasons)

Word Count: 5.3k

A lot was happening. 

Cold wind had filled Dean’s body—Her body—and then suddenly the bunker library was gone. Sammy was gone. Everything was gone, and he felt like he’d been flipped in and out, turned in a circle, and everything was spinning when the world came back into focus. 

And he was so fucking confused.

He was back in his own body. Taller, easier to control, better to reach high things with, and less likely to accidentally move too fast and slam into something. He had his own legs and arms and feet and hands.

Dean had never really appreciated his hands before this. But son of a bitch, he’d missed them. One week without them, and he’d failed to open jars, had Her fancy, looping handwriting that he couldn’t even read, and dropped three guns. She could always hold a gun easily, but Dean had almost taken Sammy’s ear off.

He’d never take his hands for granted again.

He’d never take his body for granted. As fun as boobs had been for about two days—he’d never touched them, She would’ve killed him, but he’d liked watching them bounce—he’d quickly gotten sick of bras and how sometimes they just hurt. A lot of Her body had just hurt at random points through every single damn day. Dean was never going to be sure how She just did things, because he’d gotten a fresh wave of what Sammy had called post-menstrual syndrome, and he’d wanted to kill someone. 

He’d missed being taller, missed having Little Dean, missed not needing to worry about walking through the gas station at night—he’d had to start taking Sammy every time he wanted some pie, and he was never going to leave Her alone in a bar again—and not having to keep track of his goddamn hair all the time.

Even now it was too long. He’d been ready for a cut by the time the curse had hit, and somehow over just one week of being unattended, Dean felt like he had a mane. When he rubbed a hand over his jaw he could feel stubble, and She hadn’t even left him a razor. Or scissors.

If fact, the room seemed to be mostly empty, save for a lot of books, some stray ritual materials on the floor, and the motel furniture. There wasn’t even food or beer, and the bed looked hardly slept in, and Dean had a feeling that all those books would have worn pages from Her attention.

He didn’t quite know what he’d expected, when they switched back. A warning would’ve been nice, or a heads up that he’d suddenly be transported to the middle of freakin’ nowhere. All he knew what that She’d spent the week somewhere rainy, with trees and a view of the ocean, crashing up in waves on the rocks. Somewhere where the motels had cabin-like furniture and a lot of photos of bird and moose. 

This limited information told Dean that he was either on the upper East Coast, or the upper West Coast. 

So if he called Sam and took a gamble, he had a fifty percent chance of getting rescued, along with an equal shot of being stranded even longer as Sammy fucked off in the wrong direction and Dean tried to work out where the hell She’d landed him.

But if Dean was here, She’d be back in the bunker with Sam. So, hopefully, She wouldn’t be so pissed that she’d just leave Dean to find his own way back. 

Hopefully when Dean got back, She’d still be there.

He’d spent most of the week scowling at books and random points on the wall, trying to figure out how the hell he was going to fix this. He couldn’t lose this. He couldn’t lose Her.

And She did love him. She’d said she loved Dean, and she’d used the present tense, and there was still hope. He’d fix this. Dean had spent the whole week repeating to himself that he would fix this. He’d read a bunch on articles online, asked Sam what he did when Eileen was pissed—Sam had said Eileen never got that pissed at him, so Dean had thrown out all his lettuce—and tried to call Her over and over to fix this.

Dean had been worried She wasn’t getting his messages. He’d started to feel something heavy and sickening grow in his stomach, because She could have been in danger. Sam said She’d been emailing him about the curse, but maybe whoever had been hurting Her had gotten her laptop, and they’d been using the emails to throw Sam and Dean off the trail. Maybe She’d been waiting for Dean to come help Her, but he’d just been brooding so now she thought he didn’t care.

Her laptop was still open, and when Dean clicked on her inbox, his emails had been left unread. Her phone was on the bed, and he could still see all his messages on the notification screen. She hadn’t been in danger. 

She’d just been ignoring him. 

And he could feel his jaw clench—his hands fist and his brow draw—as anger began to settle in his muscles and throat, but he didn’t have the right to it.

Because Dean was pretty sure She thought he didn’t care. 

About Her. 

“She just needs space, dude.” Sam had looked up at him from across the war room table about a week ago, his voice dangerously close to a lecture tone. “She just found out you’ve been lying to her for years-“

“I lied for her.” Dean had snapped, glaring at his phone. “Why won’t she call me back-“

“Because as far as she’d concerned, you just lied. She doesn’t care that it was for her,” Sam had put quotation marks around those last words, and Dean had scowled. “She cares that you didn’t think about her at all-“

Dean head had snapped up, his eyes narrowing. “Shut the fuck up, Sammy, of course I care about her-“

“I know that.” Sam hadn’t wavered, crossing his arms over his chest. “Because you tell me. But all you’ve done with her is make her feel confused and dumb-“

“She’s not dumb-“

“I fucking know that Dean! I’m trying to tell you how she feels-“

“I wouldn’t need you to tell me,” Dean’s words had been pushed through his teeth, and he’d been damn near ready to punch Sam in the face or smash his phone on the table. “If she’d pick up the phone.”

Sam had given Dean a long, odd look, and then shaken his head. “Whatever, man. Not the love of my life who’s gonna hate my guts.”

Dean had felt the blood leave his face. He’d felt his whole world shatter just a little, felt his heart fucking stop. Just go dead in his chest, because She didn’t hate him. She loved him. Dean had decided that he’d be fine not being able to touch Her or hold Her as close as he wanted, because at least She’d be safe, and She’d never hate him. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to look in the mirror and see anything but a rotten, cracked pile of trash if She hated him.

But he’d looked in the mirror that same night, and he’d seen Her. Awesome, smart, funny Her.

He’d never known what he’d done to trick someone so beautiful into loving him. Dean had been satisfied knowing that possibly, maybe, hopefully, he could’ve been good enough.

That even if he’d never get to have Her, he’d been good enough for Her to trust him, to let him hold Her heart in his hands and keep it safe, just as he’d built his own heart to sit on an alter that was made of Her. An alter that tended to and existed only for Her, that would shatter and cave if he ever became something horrible enough to make Her not want him-

Son of a bitch.

He’d gotten it. 

He’d stared at Her reflection, and he’d felt it, in Her chest. Worked out why he’d spent every moment in Her body trailing after himself, and moving to his will, leaning into his own touch. Why his eyes kept scanning around rooms for something he didn’t understand, but would know when he found it. Why when he’d taken a shower and the smell of his shampoo had drifted through the steam, everything in his body—Her body—had relaxed.

She’d built Her own alter.

To Dean. 

Of all fucking people, She really did love him in the way he’d always refused to hope for. He’d wanted—for Her sake and his own painful reparation—for Her love to be strong and real, but fleeting.

He’d prayed that She did love him, and She’d always like him, but it would pass and Dean wouldn’t have to spend his life forcing himself a few steps back from grabbing Her and fusing Her love into his ribs until he could really fucking feel it.

He hadn’t wanted to feel it. He’d wanted Her love to wither, so Dean could tend to his own selfish desire in peace, and She could be happy.

A piece of him had hated the idea of Her being happy without him. But that had been part of the sacrifice. Dean would have to break himself down until he learned how to stop getting jealous when Her attention drifted, when he figured out how to lie to himself about not caring if She settled safely with some boring douchebag in a way that stuck on his body. 

He’d told himself that one day She’d start flirting at a bar, and his legs would forget to chase after Her because he really did want Her to be happy. 

But now he could feel it. He had been able to feel the part of Her that moved and rolled and hummed only for Dean.

He’d started rehearsing his speech that night.

He had a whole thing ready. He’d tell Her she was right. He’d stay he was sorry, and that he’d make the same choice a million times to keep Her safe but he’d never be able to live with himself She thought he didn’t care. He’d say he cared. He’d say it over and over until She understood that Dean could be reduced to ash and sand, and he’d still care. He was just bad at it. He was just bad in general. But he loved Her, and that made him feel okay.

He’d practiced in his head when he was in Her body—using Her voice to apologize to Her had felt strange and wrong—and he spent the time while he waited for Sammy to arrive going over it in the mirror. She’d forgive him. He’d run the speech by Sam, and Sam had rolled his eyes and called Dean a loser and an idiot, but he’d said it would probably be fine. 

It would be fine.

Sam said Dean would be picked up in a day, and he’d get to back Her, apologize, and everything would be fine.

He packed Her things as he waited, running over the speech one last time as he heard the rumble of Baby’s engine outside.

But when there was a knock at the door, it wasn’t Sam standing on the other side. 

——————

It’s raining. 

It fucking raining.

You’re standing outside in the rain, your hair clinging to you brow and your clothing stuck to your bone, and Dean’s staring at you like he’s seen a ghost, and this is so dumb.

“Hi.” Your voice is flat and not as strong as you’d like, but you’d also been out here for a minute before he’d answered the door, and the cold is already sinking too deep into your skin.

“Uh,” Dean stares at you, a small line forming in his brow. “I thought you’d be Sam.”

“I’m not.” You raise your chin slightly, holding his gaze. “I’ve had enough of being someone else for a long, long time.”

“I- you- Uh,” he clears his throat, and there’s something shaken and slightly off in his gaze, something that makes him falter. “I’ve never been good at-“

“Am I allowed inside?”

Dean blinks at you, his brow fully drawing, and you roll your eyes.

“It’s raining, Dean.”

He frowns, scanning over the grass behind you and the pavement, and the sight of the mist and darkened concrete almost seems to shock him. He stands a little taller, almost stumbles back, and grabs your arm.

Yanking you right inside after him.

Forcing your body to fall right over his, keeping you there for a brief second as you regain your balance, and then just fucking moving away.

He’d been so warm. He hadn’t quite smelled right, but you’d smelled like him, and it had made up the difference. His strong, steady arm had wrapped around your back for a second, and then he’d left you standing in the center of the room as he shuffled away.

He’d left you standing alone.

Nothing had changed.

“I missed you.”

You glower at the air, turning to see that his voice had come from the bathroom. The door has been left ajar, and you can see him moving around inside, and you hate that you’re still listening. That it’s Dean’s voice—his real voice, with all that same gravity he always has and the deep sound almost a bass in your chest—so you’re clinging to it like it’s wood and you’ve been set adrift.

Dean set you adrift. He’s the one stranded you and threw you to the waves and lied. Then he’d always pulled you just close enough to the shore for you to foolishly believe he’d left you rest somewhere warm, and then he’d fucking left again.

“You missed me.” Your voice has a little more fire behind it, and you can feel it bubbling up in your neck and stomach. The explosion. “You fucking missed me?”

Dean’s head pokes through the door, and there’s a small frown on his face. “Of course I-“

“Did you really miss me? Or are you just saying that when you secretly want me gone?”

He flinches. Dean visibly recoils, like you’ve stabbed him, and you’d feel worse about that if he hadn’t broken your heart into pieces with the blunt end of a gun and then fused you back together a little more his than before. A little more devoted—because at least he’d cared enough to pay you any mind—and a little angrier.

Dean says your name slowly, you hold your hand up, and his mouth shuts closed in a second.

“We’re going to fight, Dean.” You let out a slow breath, scanning over his face. “We’re going to fight, and then I’m going to leave.”

His eyes widen, something wild and panicked flashing behind them. “You’re-“

“I’m leaving with you. Or without you. But I,” you sigh, squeezing your eyes shut because you can’t look at him. He looks wounded and smaller than he should be, and he can’t do that. Not now. “I need to know, now. I need to know why you lied, and why you just made me stay in love with you-“

“I didn’t mean to.” He mutters, and his voice is soft, and you still won’t look at him. “I didn’t- You had to be safe-“

“I was safe-“

“Yeah, you were. But you wouldn’t have been, with me.” 

Something’s passed to your hands, and it’s soft and warm. You risk one eye open to stare at the fluffy towel in your hands, and Dean’s still talking.

“You woulda had a target, people with me and Sammy always get targets, and they always end up dead. And I-“ He chokes on something, and you’re staring at his knees. You still feel like you’re seeing too much. “I couldn’t lose you. I don’t- I won’t lose you. I needed to protect you, and I wanted you to be happy-“

You scoff, glowing at his thighs. “That’s a lie. You always stopped me from moving on-“

“I know-“

“You don’t know, Dean!” You’re shouting at his stomach, strangling the towel in your hands. “You have no idea how- It hurt! It hurt all the time that you’d say you didn’t love me, and then you’d turn around and tell me nobody was good enough for me, and I- I was confused, and lost, and lonely-“

He says your name, and you shake your head at his chest. 

“No! I would’ve been safe! I’m always safe with you-“

Dean’s laugh is dry and humorless. “That’s not-“

“It is. You-“ You choke on the air, and the base of his neck tenses. “I don’t trust just anyone, Dean, and I trusted you with my life, I loved you-“

“Loved?”

You stare at him, and he’s never been so still. Like he thinks that if he even breathes a little too loud, you’ll bolt. 

And he looks pained. 

You can feel it. In your own chest there’s a phantom of something clenching at your heart, and there’s a wired tension in your muscles that you’d grown used to over the past week. 

He’s shivering a little. It’s humid in the motel room, and he’s dry, but Dean’s shivering. 

And it’s a little hard to breathe.

“Love.” You whisper. “I love you. But it hurts, Dean. It really fucking hurts.”

He bows his head, and only mutters, “I- I had to protect you-“

He keeps repeating that, like it’s a mantra or prayer. Like he can make it real, if he just says it over and over until the words are only sounds.

“You didn’t need to protect me Dean, and you know it.” You sigh, rubbing your neck with a hand as Dean seems to curl into himself. “You were just afraid.”

He flinches again. “I-“

“But you are not a coward, Dean Winchester.” You force your voice to be a little stronger, your spine moving to stand slightly taller as you watch him. “You are an asshole, and a masochist, and self-sacrificing dick, and the best man I know.”

He glances up at you, swallowing slightly, and you push on.

“You’re clever, and resilient, and loyal, and caring. You’d give your life in a second for anyone, and you’d give your happiness for the people you love because you are an idiot who can’t see how it kills us. I did not fall in love with you against my will. I am a smart woman, and I chose you.” You narrow your eyes at him, taking a firm step closer. You can feel something charged and bright moving between your bodies, and you don’t know if it starts in him or you, but it’s all the same. Right now, it’s only you and Dean in the whole world. “I chose you because you are brave, so stop being a coward and be fucking happy, Dean.”

“I-“

“Tell me you’ll be happy.”

Dean stares at you. “I- I’ll be happy.”

He frowns at the words, as if they taste odd on his tongue. 

You’ll have to work on that.

You nod. “Tell me you’re sorry.”

“I’m sorry.” He almost lurches forward, like he’s physically stopping himself from reaching out to hold you. “I’m so goddamn sorry, and I’m never gonna-“

“Tell me you love me. But,” You stand a little taller, and this could break you. “Only if you really fucking mean it-“

“I love you.” The words are fast. Firm. 

They jumpstart your every nerve at once, and you’re going to be okay. 

“I’m in love with you,” Dean says your name, his hands fisted at his side. “I love you, and I’m sorry, and I’ll be happy, and just- Don’t leave. Don’t leave, please. I love you, goddamnit, so don’t-“

“You can say it all you want.” You swallow, keeping your gaze locked on his. “I want to see you do something.”

There’s a long moment where he just stares at you, but there’s no sickening worry in your body. You didn’t push him too far, you said everything you had to, and Dean might be drawing ragged breathes you can feel tighten around your own lungs—might just be standing there and watching you—but if he does nothing at all you’ll know. You’ll finally know in a way that you can trust, and you’ll be able to walk away and relearn how to move and think in a world where Dean really doesn’t want you-

He moves so fast. One second Dean’s staring at you with a drawn brow and flared nostrils, and the next he’s on you. Bent over your body, his hands molded and perfectly fit on your waist and jaw, his lips slammed over yours and pulling every part of your soul out through your mouth.

And every bit of doubt evaporates without any suffering or pain.

Because Dean cares.

And you can feel it.

It’s not just in how he kisses you, like he’s returned from war and you’ve been a crumpled picture in his pocket, his kiss bruising and searching all at once, as every bit of his adoration and desire and hope—there’s something that’s still delicate in this kiss, because his hands stay on your body like you might be set adrift once more and he’s fighting against all the tides and rocks to keep you at his side—sinks from Dean’s lip into yours.

It’s in the lingering sensations you can still feel between your bodies. It’s in how when your arms wrap around Dean’s neck and you return the kiss with every bit of wrathful and determined love you’ve ever held for the man before you, you can feel the rush of relief in his body.

He pulls you closer, and groans against your skin when you squirm in his hold. Dean presses kisses over your collarbone and sucks a line up your neck that makes you fold into him like putty, and when you scratch at his arms a prickle runs over your own skin.

You think Dean’s feeling it too. He grabs at your hair and tugs it back to bite and kiss at your throat, and his own body jerks slightly. He falls over you on the mattress, and makes a low grunt that matches the weight of him that’s

been dropped on your chest. You reach a hand between your bodies as he nips at your lower lip—palming and squeezing at his bulge, feeling yourself melt into the sheets at his low groan—and when he swats you away he replaces the loss with his knee, his thighs tensing in that brief moment where you’re aching without relief.

Dean rises over you, and furrowed expression on his face.

“Got makin’ up to do.” He mutters, his eyes so dark on yours it feeds something in your gut that had been flickering and humming into an inferno. And you could get lost in that darkness. They’d be warm. “I just- I’m takin’ care of it, sweetheart. You need to trust me-“

You push up to kiss him, cupping your hand around his head and keeping it short and gentle.

“I trust you.” You whisper against his lips, running your thumb over his cheekbone. “I’m staying. Just- I-“

You don’t have the words. For how if this is it, if he’s going to love you and hold you, he can’t drop you. You can’t do this just to be left stranded once more.

But you don’t need the words. 

Because there’s still a little bit of you that is Dean, and he understands. 

Dean lays you back on the bed, pulls his shirt over his head, and now you have nothing but time and care. His hands trace and map over your body as he strips you out of your wet clothing, and lingering cold from the rain vanishes as Dean starts to touch you.

Really, properly touch you.

Rough, calloused hands squeezing and pulling at your breasts and hot, full lips wrapping around your nipple, sucking and pulling it between his teeth with low groans that vibrate through your body. By the time he’s trailing down your stomach—sucking dark marks all over your skin that make your back arch off the bed and your knees spread in a silent plea for him to move further down��you’re tugging at his hair and gasping his name in need.

Then Dean dives right past where you’re dripping and rolling the sheets for him, kissing down your thighs and up to your ankle, switching legs and keeping you pressed to the mattress with one firm hand.

You can see his own need, pushing against his jeans. You can feel it, throbbing and pulsing in your core.

“Dean,“ You moan as he nips at your knee, slowing working his way back up to your center. “Shit, Dean, please-“

His mouth moves to your inner thigh, sucking another, almost possessive spot right near your core before hiking your legs over his shoulders, his breath warm over you pussy and his mouth so close-

“Dean-“

“That’s my name, baby.” He hums. “Get ready to scream it.” 

The asshole winks at you, and you barely have time to glare at him before he dives into your cunt, and everything in your body lights on fire.

It’s infuriating how everything Dean does, he’s good at. How even eating pussy feels like something artful when it’s Dean doing it, and he’s working you like clay with only his mouth. Turning you into a writhing, moaning mess on the bed as he licks and sucks and bites and kisses, and his scruff is just long enough to burn on your thighs in the best way, and his hands are drawing pattern on your thighs in perfect rhythm with his movement between your clit and clenching pussy, humming and growling against you in harmony and pushing his tongue into you right as your hips buck off the bed-

When you start to grind and moan a weak warning of your release—barreling towards you like a tidal wave—Dean keeps you on the edge with teeth on your clit and teasing movement of his tongue for just too long. Just until you’re whining and squirming and trying push your cunt right into his face, and then he pulls your clit into his mouth and flicks his tongue over you in almost a frenzy, and you unravel.

You might be screaming his name. Your heart feels like it’s filled with helium and your body feels a little bigger as Dean presses one calming kiss over your clit and draws away—keeping at least one part of his body pressed to yours as he sheds the remainder of his clothes—and you think he might be proud.

You’ll let him have this. Just for tonight, when all he’s done is eaten you out and you feeling like you’re glowing, you’ll let Dean be pleased with himself.

He settles back over your body, his gaze locked to yours as he bumps against your inner thigh, and every breath feels important.

“I-“ Dean clears his throat, scanning over your face. “I, uh- You didn’t happen to bring protection-“

“I’m clean.” You whisper, your fingers curling on his chest. “And on the pill.”

He swallows, nodding slowly. “And you’re okay-“

“Yeah.”

“You’re sure-“

“Dean.” Your voice gets a little more solid, your eyes firm on his. “If you don’t want to, we won’t, but I’m more than-“

You yelp as Dean slams his mouth down to yours, kissing you into the mattress and swallowing your high sound as he pushes his cock right into you without resistance.

He pulls back to watch you as he bottoms out, reaching down to trace a small circle on your clit, and his hips jerk with a grunt.

The movement make him press right against your g-spot, Dean groans and rolls his hips, you whine and start to grind against him as your own pleasure crest and vaults, and you both freeze as you realize what’s happening. 

Dean pressed his thumb flat on your clit, the movement slow and careful, and lets out a hiss through his teeth. Still staring at him, you purposefully clench around him, and stars cloud your vision as need pools deeper in your gut. 

Something snaps. 

And you’ve never been higher. 

Every movement is doubled, and everything seems to only carry you higher. Dean begins to slam into you at a brutal pace that grows sloppier and sloppier the more you grind and writhing beneath him, squeezing his cock whenever he hits that spongey, needy part deep inside of you, the feeling of practical euphoria doubled and practically intoxicating. 

At some point Dean rolls onto his back, never removing himself inside of you and never breaking his pace. Your nails scratch at his chest as you ride his dick, rubbing your clit over his chest and reaching a hand behind you to play with his balls as he guides you up and down with a tight grip on your hips-

Dean almost roars when you squeeze his balls with light fingers, and you would’ve fallen forward if he didn’t hold you up. One of Dean’s thumbs move to furiously rub at your clit, and you’re not sure who cums first.

All you know is that it’s all an almost infinite high as you fuck yourself on his cock through your orgasm, and Dean pushes up to suck at your tits as his release drips down your thighs. 

You could’ve stayed here forever. Basking in the little, electric aftershocks of your shared orgasm, squeezing around Dean when he twitches inside of each other, watching each other with open looks of wonder because you might have just found a backdoor to heaven. 

But eventually, Dean has to roll you onto your back press a kiss to your brow before shuffling to the bathroom. He returns with a wet washcloth that gets tossed to a corner of the room once he’s cleaned you up, and wastes no time settling his body back over yours with a low groan.

“Sammy’s gonna have a field day.” He mutters against your skin, and you giggle, letting your fingers play with the hair at the nape of his neck. “Been telling me for years to just talk to you.”

You hum. “You should’ve listened. Sam can be wise beyond his years sometimes.”

He snorts. “You’re supposed to be on my side-“

“I am.” You tilt your head to kiss his cheek, smiling against his scruff. “Just not for this.”

“Whatever.” Dean grumbles, and he’s clinging to you like you’re a teddy bear. “Long as he shuts his big mouth about it-“

“We could make out in the war room. When we get home. Just to fuck with him.”

There’s a long pause, and when Dean speaks again, he sounds a little breathless. You feel a little lightheaded.

“You’re my dream girl.”

“I know.” You smile at the ceiling. “Dean, can you still feel-“

“Yeah.” He pinches at your waist, as if testing that the aftereffects are still there. “Kinda hot, though.”

“You wanna keep making it up to me?” You hold his gaze as he pushes up on his elbows, raising his brows at you. “Sam doesn’t know where we are, you still have about four years of missed sex to catch up on, and it is storming outside-“

Dean grunts your name, and you give him your best innocent pout.

“You forgive me?”

“Yeah.” You whisper. “But I’d like a few more apologies, please.”

He raises his brows. “Am I ever gonna get to stop apologizing-“

“No.” You offer him a small smile. “But mostly just because your apologies are amazing.”

Dean rolls his eyes, you open your mouth to tell him that you have forgiven him—so if he really doesn’t want to keep having sex, he by no means has to—but you don’t have to.

He knows. 

And based on the fervor with which he kisses you back into the mattress, he wants nothing more than to try and fuck you until you’re turned inside out, and he’s gotten that lingering bit of the curse inside of him to stick.

End Note: Rare Dean Winchester dealing with emotions, spotted in the wild! Thank you so much for reading!! Shoutout to the anon who requested a body swap series, huge W for that idea <3, this one's for you.

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[chronicdelusionistsart]

Bernard Dowd and the Art of Recontextualization

I'm what you might call a "fake Batman fan" - that is, I've only watched most of the Batman animated series', all of the live action movies, most of the animated ones, played some of the video games... so, you know, probably thousands of hours of my life in Batman related media. But not the comics! Fake fan!

Frankly, I find the comics medium the way DC and Marvel do it to be really hard to follow. There's the fact that you can't really follow an individual solo character without them getting caught up in massive crossover events that ruin their arc and pacing, there's the soap-opera-iness that encourages cheap and revolving conflicts inherent to the longform monthly release schedule, the writer roulette, and there's also just that going back to try and thread a particular continuity or character is an exercise in frustration. Oh and the retcons. Everyone hates those. They've (basically) never been good. Don't remember this part it will never come up aga

But, you know, despite this - or maybe because of this - comics is a breeding ground for ideas. Because of the quick turnaround and the demand for novel conflicts, comics just churn out idea after idea. Good ideas, bad ideas, doesn't matter. Get it to print. Retcon it later if we write ourselves into a corner. Comics are often soooooo first draft coded. This is why I personally prefer adaptations - they often reimagine ideas and retcon them into new narratives where they can serve a more coherent plot. But what happens when a character is picked up for a second draft ... without actually contradicting the earlier material? While enriching the earlier material, even?

(SPOILERS for Tim Drake: Robin and uh... 20 year old comics under the cut!)

So, uh, quick disclaimer - because I have very little overall knowledge of DC's Comics continuity, there may be more interesting examples of times that what I'm going to point out was done. But I love Bernard and from a writer's POV I'm impressed with the way they did it so we're talking about Bernard lmao

The Beginning (Robin 1993) - Reading comics from the 2000s hurts in a way I can't describe

Okay so I heard Tim Drake is dating a guy now? (Penny Sonic voice) Whoa he's bisexual I didn't know that! I'm sure people on the internet are being very normal about this. Cool let's find out more about his new bf. I like starting from the beginning... so like yeah hold on while I crack open the Robin comic and take down what this guy's deal is.

😬

So basically the TL;DR of Bernard in his original appearances is that he seems to be an attempt to introduce some normal stakes teen drama into Tim's life. He has all the Funny Guy Friend Classics - he's got an inflated sense of his proficiency at pulling girls, he's inexplicably drawn towards the protagonist (who is cooler than him), he wants to date the most popular girl in school, and he wants to get down with older women!

This might just be me but while I was going through this I thought like, he almost reads a little uncanny, like he's been filtered through a Disney Teen Special. In practice he mostly serves to introduce Tim to the Real Plot, Darla Aquista, and be one of his ties to civilian life, which is, like, fine. He's ultimately just a background character and he's so unimportant that he only has one appearance after their school gets shot up(!!!), which is, again, to be more of an accessory to the Darla plot.

After this display of "wow this guy's kind of lowkey insane for offering to his resurrected bestie supervillainess to be her manager actually", he's dropped forever. Comics! We're not gonna unpack that.

The Sequel (Batman: Urban Legends) - We're Gonna Unpack That

Until almost two decades later when he calls Tim up for a date. And while I'm trying to skim over a lot to get to the point here and I don't really know the FULL context, it is notable that Tim is in the middle of an identity crisis / the cusp of adulthood when this happens (I think he just lost a spleen or something. That sucks dude). It's pretty implicit that part of the reason he's going to see Bernard is because he's someone familiar in a time when he's facing a lot of new and scary stuff.

And at first blush, he really does seem like the same dude. The familiar arm over the shoulder, the banter, it's all very casual and similar to the ribbing from high school -

- and I guess nothing has happened to Bernard in the interim haha he's just the funny friend guy right?

I really like the way they did this. I'm just unambiguously going to praise how good this is if you just came off the 2000s stuff. Comics have kind of breakneck pacing by nature but they really manage to condense down and then pull off a neat sleight of hand over the course of like four pages here. They re-establish Bernard as a silly guy and then wham you with the fact that yeah actually we ARE gonna unpack that. Fuck you Tim Drake life is ever changing and nothing stays the same

So the TL;DR on the rest of the Urban Legends storyline is that stuff like, HAPPENED to this guy while our focus was elsewhere. He learned martial arts, presumably so that he wouldn't be so helpless in the next school shooting level event, he got into a pain cult, he's just Not Doing Well. We find out, reading between the lines, that calling Tim on a date was probably one of his last attempts to reach out to someone when the cult stuff was getting really bad.

I've heard people complain that Bernard is uninteresting or not a character or entirely focused on his relationship with Tim, and I think that criticism is really weird considering that his entire re-debut focuses on the point that he's been having his own life and making his own (often wild) decisions - ones that really changed the course of his life - while Tim was gone. And it's also notable that this story is about how the fact that he's his own person and has changed and has made the nerve-wracking decision to take action and call Tim inspires Tim himself to take a leap and fling himself into the uncertain waters of young adulthood.

Me when I have my bi awakening and call to get out of a rut simultaneously because Cute Insane Guy Inspired Me. iconic

So that's how Bernard has changed. But that's not recontextualization, that's just the writers taking a guy and making him do another, cooler thing. Well hold the fuck on because we're not goddamn done.

What did he mean by th-

The Recontextualizerrrrr (Tim Drake: Robin) - Bernard is the funniest person in Gotham City. I'll not be taking constructive criticism on this

Tim Drake: Robin is the followup to the Urban Legends story and Tim is the main character fr. Obviously. but Bernard is also a major character. Later, he even gets to be a POV character. But they don't do that for several issues, instead treating us to his shenanigans from Tim's point of view as he solves a bizarre serial murder case and like, they're cute! And neither of them are normal in the slightest. I love that for them.

Again, TL;DR, there are a lot of interactions where Bernard talks to Tim both in and out of costume, but we don't get to see his POV until they go out to a restaurant and meet Bernard's parents there by accident and Tim has to run off to do Robin stuff. And like... a lot of stuff happens in this one bois. Whammy after whammy

We're suddenly introduced explicitly to a lot that was only implied or just completely unavailable before. Bernard's parents are ragingly homophobic. Probably were never great even before that. He suffers from depression. All that is a lot to. wait. hold on a second

he knows?????

HE KNOWS????

Okay so if you stop at this point and reread the entire run so far you find out that Bernard is in fact the biggest troll in the entire universe. This is the moment that cemented him as my favourite, by the way. Like I had a feeling that he knew and I was just laughing my ass off when my suspicions were confirmed.

But this is really interesting on top of that because Bernard has been revealed to be, at this point, a guy who you should look deeper than the surface to understand. Someone who masks his true self and whose true motivations you can only uncover if you're really looking past the facade. Even with Tim, he sort of offers Tim and Robin half the story each, taking advantage of Robin's "distance" to give out information he wants Tim to think about but that he's reluctant to talk about frankly while at the same time almost daring Tim to open up about his identity.

Absolutely most normal way to tell your bf about your cult trauma. You'll always be famous to me Bernard Dowd

This is a really neat trick by the writers. It makes Bernard a multifaceted character who got to quietly develop while we were mostly focused on Tim, and there's some clever clever foreshadowing they set up in this run to achieve this. If it were just this, I would call it good writing.

But it actually goes one level deeper than that and becomes something really really special. because as we all know, Bernard was not conceived to be this way, he was a one-off guy who was kind of annoying and he was essentially retconned to be, like. Gay? Have depth? Be funny? All of those things?

The Seamless Retcon (Robin 1993 Again) - We took your guy and we gave him gay subtext and it worked astoundingly well

This is not a new observation btw, I've seen a ton of posts to this effect. But oh my god. Some of these panels really hit different with the new Bernard lore. Like holy fuck just read this back to back

There are tons of moments like this. There's SO MUCH that the revelation that Bernard is queer adds to his initially extremely underwhelming tenure in the Robin comics. A reread almost begs the question of what Bernard must have been thinking at any given moment! BRO YOU SAID YOU WANTED TO FUCK HIS STEPMOM. That's completely believable as a next-level closeting move and goes from kind of annoying to turbofunny.

Like yeah of course he's acting like a douche. His father is a status-chasing asshole and he's five racks deep in the closet. Of course he gravitates towards Tim - his gaydar is pinging and he thinks Tim is cute. And it's also pinging that Tim is like. You know

None of this would hit as hard if the writers had not set up Bernard as someone who masks so much. They worked it in that character trait to mean that you could always glean information deeper than the surface from his top level interactions.

Because of this, Bernard is really fucking interesting and he's a good character and he's one that gets better on reread. Like I said, that's a set of observations that are not new to me. But something that really gets to me is how seamless and intentional it is. It really feels like the writer sat down and took their time devising a guy that is believable as that other guy, but only if you read back with certain context.

The conclusion - Comics. Man.

So is this just about how Bernard is really fucking interesting and he's a good character and he's one that gets better on reread and that he can exist independent of Tim and all the haters are wrong. Yeah of course. 💖

But also like, I have thoroughly proven to myself that I was kinda wrong to just reject the published comics medium out of hand. I see now that there's room for the writer's roulette to hit the jackpot and that something I mistook as an outright flaw, the winding and unfocused and often improvised nature of it, can be ridden like a wave if you're skilled enough to do it. Meghan Fitzmarten is a goddamned genius.

I guess I have to read comics now. Fuck

[marvelwitchergilmore]

Can't Fight This Feeling Anymore

Summary: Tyler Owens x fe!Reader -> Tyler and you have had a fight and it's up to the Wranglers to make sure you both finally make up and admit the truth to each other.

Disclaimer: best-friends to lovers, oblivious idiots, love confessions, angsty moments mentioned, reader has a sister who finally forces a confession from you, found family, happy ending, mention of a tornado and the damage it can cause. Not Proof Read.

The clock had just past six, the rest of the Wranglers sat at a table in the corner of the bar, watching you and Tyler. 

They weren’t even sure if you and Tyler knew they were there. Boone had been the first one to arrive and when he spotted the pair of you sitting at opposite ends on the same side of the bar, he knew he just had to wait. In the meantime, he’d text the others and told them to be stealthy when coming inside. 

“What are we meant to do?”

Javi shrugged at Kate’s question. “Maybe there’s nothing we can do.”

“We can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

“Kate’s right,” Dexter agreed. “They’ve been off with each other for weeks. It can’t continue much longer.”

“Do we even know what happened?” 

Everyone shook their heads. 

“I think they kissed.”

“Lily!”

Lily turned to the others. “What? I’m not saying it’s confirmed.”

They’d all had feelings about you and Tyler getting together for months. If she’d known something without telling the rest of the group., her gossip privileges would be terminated. 

“But, I mean, look at them.”

Tyler was sitting on one side, and you were on the other. Every now and then, he’d sneak a look over to you and just as he turned away, you’d look back. Both missing each other by seconds. Every once in a while, Tyler’s leg would shake and he’d go to stand up but then he’d shake his head and turn back on his stool and take a sip of his drink. 

The label on the bottle you were drinking from was all scratched off. The paint on your fingernails was in a similar state. Between the two bars of the stool, your feet wiggled side to side, speeding up and then slowing down. You were deep in thought, spiraling, looking at Tyler and calming down. Only to get nervous again. 

“They’ve been friends for so long…I’m saying they’ve kissed and they’ve both freaked out about it.”

“Why would they freak out, though? They’re practically twin flames, let alone just being soulmates.”

Kate started to side with Lily’s theory. “She’s got a point. Just because we can see that, it doesn’t mean they wouldn’t freak out about it.”

“Maybe they did more than just kiss.”

All the Wranglers looked at each other, confused and concerned before looking back. Had you both done more than just kiss? Is that what the awkwardness was about?

It had been a mistake. A fluke. A hideous trick of fate that Tyler had overheard the conversation between yourself and your sister. 

She’d surprised you at the motel you and the team had been staying at. And she’d come along for the ride; she wanted to know what her sister had been getting up to since she hadn’t come home in a few months. 

And it was in the space of three days that your sister had found out, and voiced, your biggest secret. 

You were in love with Tyler. 

She’d suspected it for a long time. From the minute you’d said his name, if she was being honest. At that point, you were just friends with him. But your sister could hear it. The way his name rolled off your tongue. There was something more than just being friends with him. 

Then there was the way you looked at your phone whenever his contact popped up. She knew you didn’t notice the change in yourself, but she certainly did. The light that came to your eyes. 

On the first day, she watched how you and Tyler moved around together. Your eyes tracking him, your unconscious of following him around and the pair of you completing tasks together. Sometimes, neither of you had to speak, already knowing what the other wanted from a single look. 

Your sister had to hand it to you, you were doing a good job at hiding it from people. The trained look in your eyes when you felt heat rise to your cheeks. You forced it back with all of your might. 

The second day was the ultimate confirmation. 

A tornado ripped through a small town and took the diner where Tyler had been picking food up from, out. His voice over the radio crackled away and the fear in your eyes was greater than your sister had ever seen. 

The shake in your voice, the subtle shake in your hands when his voice finally broke away. Yourself and Dexter were trying to track the storm whilst Dani and Javi were reading what data they could. Kate, Boone and Lily started to get things packed up and called emergency services on the way there. 

By the time Javi pulled the truck to a stop, you ran outside and surveyed the damage. Yourself and Kate instructed people on who to help and where to go, you turned to Kate and she nodded before you took off in the opposite direction. 

Your sister watched as you came to where the diner had previously stood. She’d passed it on her way into town to surprise you. It was a large pile of sheets and rubble. 

Then a voice cut through the dying wind. 

From behind the pile, people started emerging from the underground shelter. Tyler included. 

You’d taken off running in his direction and landed directly in his arms, pulling him down to hug him. Your sister saw the way you relaxed under his touch. You hadn’t been like that with…anyone. Usually it was an uncomfortable shrug to get them off. 

Back in the motel, she had tried to hold you still and help calm you down. But hives practically spawned across your skin when she tried. 

“Get off me.”

At the time, you’d shrugged her off you and grabbed what you had been reaching for; the maps. You’d sprawled one open and plotted the direction with Dani. 

Your sister watched as you and Tyler stopped hugging but didn’t step away from each other. Your hand pushed the hair from his forehead as you checked his eyes. Had he been hit? Concussed? Bleeding?

“I’m fine, Sweetheart. Just glad to see you.” 

As Tyler leaned down, you leaned up and hugged him tighter. 

“I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“We should help some of the others. Make sure no-one got caught up in the damage.”

You nodded and walked back with Tyler. 

That was when she knew. It was at that moment that she knew you were completely in love with Tyler. The thought of him getting hurt, the idea of him not coming up from that tornado shelter…that was one of the worst possible scenarios you could have thought of. 

Then the signs just seemed to be glaring all over. The way you looked at him, the way you moved with him, the way he was with you, the way his eyes were ultimately always on you. Whenever a joke was told, your eyes would immediately land on each other. The hand holding, the shoulder leaning, the stories, the pictures, the videos…all of it. 

You were completely in love with Tyler, but you weren’t going to do anything about it. Because when she asked you, you denied it completely. 

“We’re just friends.”

That was a tale as old as time. Just friends. Your feelings for Tyler had been something more than friendly for a long time. And, though you hadn’t noticed it, his feelings for you hadn’t been friendly, either, for a long time. 

The next day, your sister confronted you about the lie. 

And Tyler had heard practically everything. 

“What do you want me to tell him? We’re friends! It’s not like I can just go up to him and say, ‘hey, Ty. Just so you know, I’ve been head over heels in love with you for three years. What do you think about that?’?”

“Why not?”

“Why not?!” You sighed as you said your sister’s name. “I love him, more than I’ve ever loved anyone. But that doesn’t change how he feels about me or the fact that first and foremost, he’s my best friend.”

That was when there was a clang of a metal bucket outside the door and Tyler cursed himself under his breath. He would have turned around and left silently, maybe asked you more about it when you were alone and hoped you wouldn’t die of mortification before he could tell you what he did think. 

But that was too late. 

You and your sister emerged from the storage closet and found him outside with a bag of ice. 

“People leave all kinds of things lying about the place,” he huffed, trying his best to cover up the fact that he’d heard everything from your sister yelling; “You might not want to tell me, but you should tell him!”

He knew he shouldn’t have listened in but when you asked who and your sister mentioned his name…his feet remained glued to the concrete square just outside the door. 

Your sister had bolted not too long after looking at your reaction at seeing him. And when she walked away, he tried to keep his cover up. 

“How much of that did you hear?”

“Hear of what?”

There was just one problem about Tyler lying. You’d always seen right through his lie. 

“Oh, god-”

“Y/n. I-I didn’t mean to-”

You shook your head. “Don’t- Don’t worry about it. She’s…she’s just-”

“Did you want to-”

“No, no. It’s okay. Just…forget everything that’s just happened. It’ll be easier for everyone that way. And I promise, nobody knows. She doesn’t-” 

You could have killed your sister at that moment. 

“You know what? Yeah, just…just forget about it. You don’t have to worry about it. This is a me thing, not a you thing so…don’t worry about it. And don’t feel bad. We’re friends, right?”

“Yeah, but-”

“Then that’s just it. A couple lines got crossed but they’ll sort themselves out.”

You’d run away as quickly as you could without it looking completely deliberate. For the rest of the day, you avoided Tyler where you could. And once your sister left, it only got worse. You and Tyler were talking to each other but…it was strained. 

You and Tyler trying to talk to each other was worse than watching you both not talk to each other. 

Two weeks later, Boone had been asked by the motel owner if you and Tyler were okay since she heard raised voices and then a slam of a door. 

“That doesn’t sound like them?”

“I didn’t think so, either. But the yelling wasn’t like what I’ve heard before. It wasn’t violent, not one bit of it. It was just…desperate. Hurting. They like each other, don’t they?”

Boone nodded. 

“Well, you might want to do something so they know the other one is in love with them, too.”

After that, Boone had driven to the local bar to try and arrange a game plan with the rest of the Wranglers. Just one problem remained in his way. 

You and Tyler were at the same bar, not talking to each other, trying not to seem petty since neither of you had left.

“There’s gotta be something we can do.” Dani said after a few minutes. 

“I’ve got an idea.” Boone finally offered. “But it might be a long-shot.”

“Might as well try. What do we have to lose?”

Boone downed the last of his drink before taking a few quarters out of his pocket. “Grab your stuff. We can’t be here to see it.”

“Why not?”

“Part of the magic, my man. Come on.”

Boone made his way over to the jukebox before finding the song he was looking for. 

The bar had been mostly quiet. The sound of sodas being sprayed into glasses, food being cooked in the kitchen, the jukebox playing old tunes from old records that were from voices that hadn’t been heard live in almost two decades. 

Until the music cut itself off and over the calm atmosphere of the bar and his own stresses, the soft beginning of Can’t Fight This Feeling Anymore washed over him. 

Tyler looked over at you before then looking at the jukebox where he found Boone stood. With a soft smile and a salute, Boone headed towards the door, shortly followed by the rest of the team. 

How long had they been sitting there? 

As the lyrics became all too real, you and Tyler looked at each other before quickly looking away. But then he made a decision. 

He needed to talk to you. You and him had shared disagreements before. This wasn’t a disagreement, but it sure felt like it. So he did what one of you always did when you had a fight. 

“Dance with me.”

“Tyler-”

“No.” He shook his head. “Not this time. You don’t get to run away this time. We had a fight, and we’re gonna resolve it. Same way we’ve done with every other one. Dance with me.”

In a moment's decision, you agreed and took his hand. For the first time in your life, it felt awkward taking his hand in yours. But it didn’t last long because Tyler kept a steady grip of your hand in his as he led you both to the dance floor. 

And for a while, it felt awkward. 

Dancing so close to him, and yet so far. It was like being back at middle school prom with your crush but since you’re barely a teenager, it just feels awkward as hell. 

Then Tyler’s hand came around your waist and pulled you closer. 

“Tyler-”

“I’m only doing this so I know you’re not gonna bolt when you hear what I have to say.”

“Seriously, Tyler. What my sister was saying- what I was saying. You don’t have to worry about it.”

“But I am.”

“Tyler. I’m telling you, you can completely forget about it. I won’t be hurt. I’m not hurt.”

“But I am.”

You looked at him. How the hell was he hurt? He wasn’t the one head over heels in love. 

The words could barely form on your lips. What the hell was he talking about?

“I’m hurt because you’re telling me I can completely forget about it. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to forget about it.”

You sighed. You didn’t want his pity. 

“Tyler…”

“No, just…hear me out. Please.”

You felt all your insides tense up as you agreed. 

“Believe me, I know listen’n is wrong. But ‘m glad I did. Y/n, you’re my best friend. You always have been and you always will be. But I want you to know that you’re not alone.”

“Alone? Tyler, I don’t-”

“I am in love with you. Y/n Y/l/n. And I have been for a long, long time.” 

It seemed like a relief for Tyler to say those words out loud. 

“You are the first person I want to talk to in the morning and your voice is the last thing I want to hear before I go to sleep. You are the person I want to be dancing with on every dance floor from here to Australia. You are the person I want by my side when speeding ninety miles an hour into a tornado. You’re also the person I want to go home with at the end of the day. I am so completely in love with you, Sweetheart.”

“If this is some kind of cruel joke-”

Tyler shook his head. “Sweetheart, you know when I’m lying. Trust me, I don’t plan on lying about how I feel about you.”

Your eyes scanned Tyler’s face. There was nothing but truth. 

Then Tyler smiled. “Guess the only thing left to ask is, do you still love me, too?”

You swallowed. For so many years, you’d buried your feelings for Tyler. But you finally nodded. 

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop.”

As Tyler dipped his head forward with a glowing smile, you felt yourself relax entirely. And when his lips finally kissed yours…both of you seemed to forget what the hell you’d been fighting about anyway. 

[onebadassunicorn]

Love Lies

pairing: Azriel x Reader

content warnings: angst, talk of revenge, death and mind manipulation, light smut

word count: 3.4k

Permanent taglist: @motheroffae @tele86 @demon-master-zero @thegoddessofnothingness @rosecobollway

Azriel permanent taglist: @kathren1sky-blog

Taglist @sinfully-yoursss @sillyfreakfanparty @phoenix666stuff @ quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @hellohauntedturnstudent @love-over-fears @kk191327 @i-am-infinite @historygeekqueen @yourdarkrose @fr0stfall @dnfhascorruptedme @azzydaddy

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

********

Chapter 22

The days blurred together, time slipping through the cracks like grains of sand.

You drifted between sleep and wakefulness, your body weak, your mind heavy with everything that had happened.

Azriel never left your side.

Not once.

He slept beside you every night, his body curled around yours, his wings a protective cocoon.

When you cried in the middle of the night, he was there—holding you, whispering reassurances, running his scarred fingers through your hair.

"I'm here, love," he murmured into your temple. "I'm not going anywhere."

And he never did.

The pain was suffocating.

Not just the physical wounds, though those still ached.

But the emotional devastation.

The betrayal.

The heartbreak.

The horror of almost losing him forever.

The memories of that night plagued you, haunting you in the quiet moments when your mind drifted too far.

And eventually—you had to talk about it.

One evening, as the sun dipped beyond the horizon, you lay in bed, Azriel beside you, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your arm.

The moment you shifted, trying to sit up, he was there—helping you, adjusting the pillows behind your back.

"Are you in pain?" he asked softly, watching you closely.

"No," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

You were hesitant, unsure how to bring it up.

But you had to.

"Azriel—" you swallowed hard, meeting his gaze. "We need to talk about what happened."

Azriel stiffened, his wings tensing behind him.

But he nodded, gripping your hand tightly.

"I know," he said quietly.

You took a deep breath, searching for the right words.

"When I saw you with her—" you hesitated, your throat tightening. "I know it wasn’t you. I know it was the spell."

Azriel’s jaw clenched, his entire body rigid with tension.

"But," you continued, voice shaking, "It still hurt."

Azriel let out a sharp exhale, as if the air had been punched from his lungs.

His hands tightened around yours, his thumbs brushing against your knuckles.

"I know," he rasped. "I know, love."

You looked away for a moment, gathering your thoughts. "Seeing you like that—half undressed, with your hands on her, kissing her, looking at her like she was the only thing in the world—" your voice broke, and you squeezed your eyes shut.

Azriel shook his head violently, his hands trembling around yours.

"Don’t," he choked out. "Don’t say it."

But you had to.

"And then you looked at me—" You let out a strangled breath, blinking away the tears threatening to fall. "You looked at me like you didn’t even know me, Az."

His breathing staggered, his face contorting with sheer, unrelenting agony.

"I know," he whispered, his voice barely there. "I’m so sorry, Y/N. I can never—" his voice broke completely, and he buried his face in his hands. "I can never undo that. I can never take that pain away."

He was shaking now, his wings trembling. "But I swear to you, I will spend the rest of my life making it right."

Tears slipped down your cheeks. "You almost lost yourself, Az."

He lifted his head, his eyes red, full of anguish.

"I know," he said again, his voice hoarse, raw. "And if I had gone through with it—if I had consummated that bond—" his breath hitched violently, "Even Helion wouldn’t have been able to fix it."

You nodded, your lips trembling. "I know."

And then—he shattered.

A broken, guttural sob ripped from his throat, and suddenly, Azriel was clutching you, burying his face into your lap, his body trembling uncontrollably.

"I almost lost you," he choked, his voice thick with despair. "I almost let her take you from me."

You ran your fingers through his hair, trying to soothe him, even as your own tears fell freely.

"You didn’t," you whispered. "We’re here. We’re together."

His arms tightened around you, as if he was afraid you would slip away again.

And for a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Just held onto each other.

Held onto what was left.

Held onto what still remained.

After a while, you finally murmured, "I think I need to go home for a little while."

Azriel lifted his head, his eyes red-rimmed, filled with sadness. "Velaris is your home."

You gave him a small, sad smile. "No, Az. Dawn Court. I need to go back to where I grew up. To where I was before all of this. Maybe… maybe it will help me heal."

His breath hitched slightly, but he nodded. "I understand."

Then—you reached for him, cupping his face. "I want you to come with me."

His eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across his features. "You do?"

You nodded, squeezing his hand. "Yes. We both need time, Az. Time to heal. Time to be away from everything. Time to be us again."

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

Then—he nodded. "Then I will go wherever you go."

Azriel lifted his head from where he had been clutching you, his hazel eyes red-rimmed, filled with anguish, with longing, with love. "I love you."

The words shook, raw and desperate, like they had been carved from the deepest part of his soul. "I love you, Y/N."

His voice was strained, thick with the weight of everything you both had endured. "And I will do anything—anything—to make sure we heal together."

His fingers brushed against your cheek, gentle, reverent, as if he was trying to memorize every inch of you.

"I swear to you," he whispered, his forehead pressing against yours. "No matter how long it takes, no matter what we have to do, I will never stop fighting for us. I will never stop proving to you that I am yours."

You let out a shaky breath, your eyes burning with fresh tears.

"Az—"

But he wasn’t done.

"I almost lost you twice now," he said, his voice breaking. "I won’t make that mistake again. I will never let anything or anyone come between us. Ever again."

His hands cradled your face, his thumbs wiping away the silent tears that had begun to slip down your cheeks.

"I will spend the rest of my life proving to you that I am the male who loves you, who will always love you, who will always put you first. I don’t care how long it takes, Y/N. I don’t care if I have to fight every day to make you believe me again. I will never let you go."

A soft sob broke from your lips, and you collapsed against him, burying yourself in his warmth, in his strength, in the place that had always felt like home.

He held you tightly, his arms wrapping around you, his wings curling around you both like a shield.

"We will heal together," he whispered into your hair. "I promise."

*****

The knock on your door came just as you finished packing the last of your things.

You knew who it was before you even opened it.

"Lucien."

Your voice was soft, full of affection and warmth as you took in his familiar amber eyes, the streak of burnished gold in his red hair catching the light.

He looked good.

Calmer.

More at ease than you had seen him in weeks.

Lucien offered you a small, almost hesitant smile before stepping inside, his eyes scanning the packed bags.

"So, it’s official then," he murmured, hands in his pockets. "You’re leaving."

You nodded, swallowing against the sudden tightness in your throat. "Just for a little while."

"I know," he said quietly, his gaze flickering over your face as if he was memorizing every feature. "Still doesn’t make it any easier."

You let out a soft, breathy laugh, stepping toward him.

"Lucien," you said, voice gentle, full of gratitude. "I don’t know where I would be right now if it weren’t for you."

His eyes softened, but he didn’t speak.

"You took care of me when I couldn’t take care of myself," you continued, blinking away the tears that threatened to fall. "You fought for me. You believed in me. You… you never gave up on me."

You reached for his scarred hand, squeezing it tightly. "Thank you."

Lucien exhaled sharply, his throat bobbing as he tried to mask his emotions.

"You don’t have to thank me," he said gruffly, but his fingers curled around yours, holding on tightly. "I would do it again. A thousand times over."

His voice dropped into something rough, something raw. "I love you, Y/N."

Your chest ached, your heart swelling with warmth and deep, unwavering affection for him. "I love you too, Luce."

"No," he said, shaking his head, his grip on you tightening just slightly. "You don’t understand."

His amber eyes burned with something deeper, something unshakable. "I love you, and I always will. As long as I am alive, you will always have me."

A single tear slipped down your cheek, and Lucien wiped it away with his thumb.

"No tears, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice teasing, lightening the heaviness in the room.

"I don’t want to cry. I just…" you sighed, pulling him into a tight hug. "I just want you to be happy, Lucien."

"I’m getting there," he murmured into your hair. "Slowly. But I am."

You pulled back slightly, your eyes searching his face. "How are you coping? With what happened?"

Lucien hesitated, his jaw tightening just slightly.

But then he let out a quiet breath, rubbing the back of his neck.

"It was hard at first," he admitted, his voice lower now, tinged with something unreadable. "But talking with Helion helped."

His eyes darkened, his expression shadowing. "She wasn’t going to stop. Not until you and Azriel were both dead. And I couldn’t—" he cut himself off, shaking his head. "I couldn’t let that happen."

You nodded, understanding his burden.

"And Feyre and Nesta?"

Lucien exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "We talked. I made amends with them. They’re not banishing me."

He smirked then, and your brows lifted.

"Okay… what’s up?" you asked suspiciously. "What is with the smirk?"

Lucien’s eyes gleamed with something mischevious, something lighter.

"Well," he drawled, rocking back on his heels. "There is a certain artist that is in business with Feyre that I don’t want to stop seeing."

He winked, and it clicked instantly.

Your jaw dropped. "No."

His smirk widened. "Yes."

"Lucien!" you gasped, grinning despite yourself. "Your old flame?"

"What can I say?" he said with mock arrogance, adjusting his cuffs. "I’m trying to make up for what I once lost."

For the first time in so long, you felt truly happy for him.

"I’m proud of you," you told him honestly, grabbing his hands again. "You deserve happiness, Lucien. And if she makes you happy, don’t let her go."

"I don’t plan on it," he said lightly, but there was depth in his words.

He pulled you in for one last, tight embrace. "I’ll see you when you and Az come back from Dawn Court."

"You better," you whispered into his ear.

And as you pulled away, watching him smile for the first time in what felt like forever, you knew—

That even in the darkest of times, light could always be found again.

*****

The soft glow of sunrise bathed the rolling hills of Dawn Court, painting the sky in hues of gold, peach, and lavender. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of citrus groves and blooming jasmine.

Azriel stood beside you on the balcony of the estate overlooking the valley, his arms wrapped around your waist, holding you close.

It had been weeks since you’d arrived.

Weeks of quiet, of peace, of learning to breathe again.

And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you both felt free.

The weight of Velaris, of war, of betrayal, of loss, had begun to slip from your shoulders.

Here, in the land where you had been raised, you were rediscovering who you were.

And in doing so—Azriel was rediscovering himself, too.

In the early mornings, you would take him to the gardens, showing him the places you had played as a child, the trees you used to climb, the lakes you used to swim in.

You would tell him stories of your past, watching as his shadows curled around your wrists, their movements no longer anxious, no longer restless.

At midday, you would visit the temples, kneeling before the pools of shimmering water, the same places you had once learned to heal.

Your gifts, the light within you that had been dulled by heartbreak and pain, began to return.

And when Azriel woke in the night, drenched in sweat, his body shaking from memories of Alatar’s spell, of Nettlewisp still lingering in the shadows of his mind—

You were there.

Your hands glowing softly as you pressed them to his temples, easing his pain.

Your touch soothing the remnants of nightmares that tried to consume him.

"It’s okay, love," you would whisper against his brow, pressing kisses into his hair, his cheeks, his lips. "I’ve got you."

And slowly, steadily, Azriel began to believe it.

That he was not tainted.

That he was not damaged beyond repair.

That he deserved to heal, just as much as you did.

And that he could.

With you.

The days in Dawn Court were spent in laughter, in warmth, in quiet, in touch.

Azriel would take your hand in his, pressing soft kisses to your fingertips, your palms, your wrists.

He would lie with you beneath the shade of olive trees, watching as the sky shifted from blue to dusk, memorizing the sound of your voice, the way your laughter carried in the wind.

He would press you against the soft grass, make love to you beneath the open sky, whispering between each kiss, "You are mine. You have always been mine. I will never let you go again."

And you would answer each time with soft, reverent touches, with whispered declarations of love, with sighs of pleasure that filled the air around you.

Because you had found each other again.

And nothing, nothing would ever take you from him again.

One evening, as the sky turned to twilight, you sat on the balcony of your childhood home, Azriel beside you, his wings stretched lazily against the railing.

"We could stay," he murmured, brushing a stray curl from your face.

You smiled, leaning into his touch. "We could," you agreed.

Azriel exhaled deeply, watching the distant horizon.

"But it’s not home," he finally said.

You knew what he meant.

Dawn Court had given you peace, had given you time.

But home was with him.

"No, it’s not," you whispered, tracing the scarred planes of his knuckles. "Home is waiting for us in Velaris. In our cabin."

Azriel swallowed hard, emotions flickering in his gaze. "Are you ready?"

You thought about it.

Thought about everything you had endured, everything you had lost.

Thought about Elain, Alatar, the pain, the betrayal.

But then—you thought about everything you still had.

Everything you and Azriel had fought for.

You nodded. "I’m ready."

Azriel’s fingers tightened around yours.

"Then let’s go home, love."

And as he swept you into his arms, winnowing you both back to the city beneath the stars, back to the home you had built together—

You knew.

That no matter what had been lost, love had found its way back.

The cabin stood untouched, just as you had left it, nestled deep in the mountains beyond Velaris, surrounded by whispering trees and crisp, fresh air.

This was where it had all begun.

Where you and Azriel had first truly fallen into each other, into the love the Mother had woven into your very souls.

And now—you were home again.

From the moment you stepped inside, the need to be close, to touch, to feel, was unbearable.

It was as if the mating frenzy had struck anew, as if your bodies and souls were desperate to remember every inch of each other.

You didn’t make it past the threshold before Azriel had you pressed against the wooden door, his hands gripping your waist, his lips devouring yours.

"I missed you," he murmured between kisses, his voice rough with hunger, with love, with longing. "I missed this."

You whimpered against his mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair as he lifted you into his arms.

"Show me," you whispered.

And he did.

Again.

And again.

And again.

That first night, you never left the bedroom—Azriel made love to you beneath the stars shining through the open windows, the firelight dancing across your tangled bodies.

"Mine," he growled as he thrust into you, his hands gripping your thighs, your waist, your breasts. "I’ll never stop proving it to you."

And you let him.

Because you were his.

And he was yours.

For as long as the stars burned in the sky.

The next seven days and nights were spent in a dreamlike haze—one filled with breathless laughter, stolen kisses, and bodies intertwined beneath the blankets.

You couldn’t keep your hands off each other.

Not for longer than a few minutes.

When Azriel cooked, you would come up behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing kisses to his spine.

"Distracting me, love?" he would tease, grinning as he turned to catch your lips in a slow, deep kiss.

"Always," you would whisper against his mouth.

When you bathed together, he would trace every inch of your skin, his hands memorizing you all over again.

"I need to feel you," he murmured against your shoulder, his lips skimming the water-slicked column of your neck. "I need to make sure this is real."

When you hiked through the forest, he would pull you onto his lap at every rest stop, whispering filth into your ear, pressing soft, reverent kisses along your jaw.

"You're never leaving my sight again," he murmured against your temple.

"Good," you whispered back.

Each night, you returned to the fire, your bodies entwined, moving in perfect rhythm, slow and deep, urgent and desperate, tender and raw.

It was worship.

It was devotion.

It was love, in its purest form.

And every morning—Azriel would wake with you in his arms, his hands tangled in your hair, his lips pressed against your skin.

*****

The sun rose slowly, casting a soft golden glow across the room.

Your body was sore, deliciously spent, your limbs tangled with Azriel’s beneath the sheets.

His wings curled around you, his warmth seeping into your skin as he nuzzled into your hair.

"Good morning, love," he whispered against your neck, his breath hot, his voice husky from sleep.

"Morning," you murmured, your eyes still heavy with exhaustion.

He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then another, then another.

"Az," you sighed, shivering as his lips trailed up the curve of your neck.

"Mmm?" he hummed, dragging his nose along your pulse, inhaling deeply.

"What are you doing?"

"Memorizing you."

Your chest tightened, your heart aching in the best way.

He tilted your chin, forcing you to look at him.

His hazel eyes burned with warmth, with reverence, with undying love.

"I love you."

His voice was strong, unwavering. "I will never love anyone else. I will never want anyone else. You are my heart, my soul, my forever."

“You are my home, Y/n”

Tears filled your eyes, spilling over before you could stop them.

"Say it again," you whispered, your voice trembling.

Azriel cupped your face, brushing his thumb over your cheek.

"I love you, Y/N. I will love you until the end of time."

You pressed your forehead against his, letting the moment settle deep into your bones, into your very soul.

"I love you, Azriel," you whispered back. "I always have. And I always will."

And as he wrapped himself around you, as the morning sun bathed your cabin in golden light, you knew—

The nightmare was finally over.

You were home.

With him.

Where you belonged.

********

Thank you so much to all the readers who have stuck with me through this series! I hope you have enjoyed it!

I will be finishing Cassian's Leather and Lace story and Lucien's Echoes of Yesterday stories over the next week.

And I have about 8 stories coming for Azriel, Cassian and Lucien coming over the next month so if you want to be on my permanent taglist, drop me a comment below!

[magpiepills]

The person you called out for the stupid flag thing has now deactivated their account and we've lost a brilliant writer and a very nice person. You couldn't just have contacted them via DM instead of making a big thing of it in public?

Hi there, anon. Perhaps you haven’t seen my post about “the stupid flag thing” from this morning! It’s right here.

Yesterday, some people were concerned about the use of a confederate flag in a fic. A discussion was had about how this was surprising and out of character and a couple people DID dm the writer out of concern. They were empathetic and polite and sincere. I saw the screenshots.

Here is my own contribution to that early conversation.

Unfortunately, the responses the writers got back were not encouraging. In one she said (and again, I saw the screen shot and this is a direct quote from the writer of the fic in question. Multiple people saw this and can verify that they were her words) “I am fully aware of the history and connotations of the flag and how it can be/has been percieved throughout history.”

Only after this very distressing response did anyone “call her out.” Nobody jumped the gun. No one was especially unkind considering the touchy and emotionally charged subject. She hurt a lot of feelings and disappointed people who liked and respected her, including me.

Could you not have dm’d me to talk off anon if you’re so bothered by what has happened? Are you more mad at me for shining a light on problematic behavior than you are at the people doing problematic things? Do very nice people use racist imagery to set the scene in a fic and completely disregard how their audience will feel about that?

I’m sorry she left too, because now people like you only take away that she was somehow “bullied off the app” by people who are rightfully upset at her actions and response and not that she couldn’t be big enough to listen, learn, grow, and use her platform (much bigger than mine by the way!) to elevate anti racist messages in this community and amplify the voices of the writers here who have been saying for ages how they no longer feel welcome or safe here because of racism?

Some people take criticism and are thankful for the opportunity to do better, and end up being great allies and we all benefit and grow. Some people just run. We saw what happened.

[buckysm]

2:15 am (and i miss you)

ᯓ★ part one, part two

ᯓ★ Bucky Barnes x fem ex hydra AVENGER reader

ᯓ★ word count 8.4k+ (this was going to be 5k but then i ended up writing about 2.5k worth of smut... so!! beware)

ᯓ★a/n: this is weeks late, life happens, shit happens we get back up to write bucky barnes faniction. {para @dove4444 te amo, perdon por la espera <33333}

ᯓ★ summary: Tensions rise when a ‘friendship’ builds that leave both of you wanting more. Everyone can see how his eyes never leave you. If only you could get your head out of your ass and see for yourself.

ᯓ★ series warnings/ tags/ tropes: canon? what canon?, haters to lovers -- except you never hated him and he just resented you-- midnight rendezvous, friends to lovers, separation, Anxiety, angst and fluff and smut,  Bucky Needs a Hug, Protective Bucky Barnes Bucky Barnes issues related to past trauma, not so platonic cuddling, slow burn, jealous Bucky Barnes Miscommunication Bad Ass Reader Soft Bucky Barnes, Mentions of torture off screen ------[PART TWO WARNINGS: unhealthy coping strategies, miscommunication, smut, dry humping, cursing in other languages (Spanish and Russian), dacryphilia, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, p in v unprotected sex]

You needed time to heal after— two days of bed rest, stitches, and recovery for a heavily sprained ankle. And unfortunately for Bucky, that meant no clandestine meetings at quarter past two in the morning. 

He tried his best to keep away. After the initial reunion, he handed you into the infirmary and avoided everyone like the plague. They avoided him right back; he couldn’t blame them. He felt as if a storm cloud enveloped him without you, knew he had murder in his eyes. It cost him to hand you up to the doctors, a pang in his heart at having you taken from him once again. He told himself it wasn’t like that, and you would be back in his line of sight before he knew it. His subconscious disagreed, so he trained for hours until he passed out in a mat, warring voices in his head quieting down with exhaustion that pulled at his body, made gravity stronger. Phantom hands yanking him down into oblivion mid-workout. He toed the line of danger training without a spotter, but once the black started to spot his vision and his dry throat burned with rage, —he was a super soldier, neglecting hydration helped him pass out faster— he knew to go to the mat so when he did pass out, at least he wouldn’t injure himself.

One of those days he came to the Black Widow frowning from above him.

He grumbled an intentional incoherent sentence, not feeling like interacting. The redhead’s brows furrowed further. Unimpressed with his antics.

“Get a grip, Barnes, this self-pity schtick has to go. Here.” 

He felt more than saw the weight of a water bottle against his stomach. Almost snarled before remembering himself. This was a bit embarrassing. He sat up and grabbed at the water with resentment in what was meant to be one fluid movement, but came out clumsy and sluggish. His head pounded, his vision clouded. Embarrassing. Begrudgingly, he unscrewed the water bottle and finished it in slow, measured drinks under Black Widow’s judging gaze.

Said redhead dropped to a crouch, eye level with him, frown unfurling, and even he could see the concern in her eyes and the unpleased twist of her lips.

“Barnes, look. I long ago forgave you for the scar you gave me, and I know that you hold yourself guilty for— don’t give me that look, you know you do. Anyway, the others wanted to stage an intervention— No, before you start, let me finish! They care about you. —No. I know that face, I’m going to ignore all your passive-aggressive expressions now, you petulant child— I know you don’t like to think much about what happened during— well, yes, I know you remember. Haven’t you ever stopped to think why the fifty-sixth floor stayed destroyed? Huh? Yeah! Thought you didn’t. I know you pay close attention to Tony, so I know you know he is prideful and a perfectionist. He wouldn’t leave a floor wrecked just because. And before you get angry. No, he didn’t tell anyone why he let it be. And I know for a fact that he turned off the cameras. I couldn’t find any trace of the feed for the floor, and I am Black Widow — it didn’t take me long to figure out he had forgiven you no matter how much he teases you. Yes, he was hurt, but he ultimately understood that it wasn’t a choice, and he cares, in his own asshole way. He— We care about you, Barnes. And I know things have been awkward with Steve— since you tried to kill him and all--, but if you don’t see that he cherishes you then you have been lying to yourself. And she cares too! Did you know she has been accepting visitor? She’s about to be discharged to her own room tomorrow morning. She didn’t need to stay in the infirmary but Tony worries, and I know you do too. So there is no reason to stay away from your friend— no rational reason. And it pains me to see hope bloom in her eyes once the door opens and the way she tries to cover up it’s shatter when it’s not you. You two understand each other. You are best friends. Whether you choose to acknowledge it or not. We live together. She wears her heart on her sleeve. You just have to learn to read her tells. She will never outright say what she means to say. She will veil her true feelings with insults and sarcasm. Now take a shower and go to her, you big fucking idiot. You reek.” She sprang up in one smooth motion, leaving him with a fond stern look and scolded, all of reminded him of his sister.

That was the longest she had spoken in front of him ever, even putting every interaction together. He didn’t have time to unpack everything, though. Bucky was left reeling, jaw clenched to prevent it from slacking open in shock. His breaths came in faster and faster. He missed you so much. He couldn’t stop thinking about having you in his arms, wanting you back there forever. But Black Widow was right. He reeked. 

His thoughts ran a mile a second, his body going through the motions without needing instruction. Made his way to his bathroom and showered, and did his night routine on autopilot. 

 It was late… you were most definitely sleeping. His every thought hyper-focused on you. On the fact that you weren’t there, your absence a heavy and loud presence in his heart.

  Bucky stared at his bed, bones weary and freshly showered. He would lie to himself if he said he contemplated sleeping there, visiting you tomorrow. He needed you now— needed you always—But his need for you felt more pronounced at that moment. His body was tired, but it yearned to hold you more than it did sleep. He needed his nightly dose of you. And even then that wouldn’t be enough, needed you close needed you in ways that had him blushing and running himself a cold shower. He shook his head, trying to lose memories of him jerking himself off at breakneck speed, to find some sort of release of the lust full torture he found himself in just by thinking about you— never mind breathing in your scent.

He threw himself on his bed. Trying to keep away, truly he did. But between the lands of consciousness and unconsciousness, he saw you. Screaming for him, crying out as you were tortured. He couldn’t take it. His heart pounded as he ran his fingers aggressively through his hair. 

He knew you deserved all that was good in the world, and that excluded him — but that didn’t calm down the tension in his body palpable through his teeth. Bucky tried to breathe in, tried to think rationally, but his limbs moved on their own accord as if deciding for him. 

His mind a passenger to his body as he was pulled by an invisible string holding his heart hostage, tethered to you, throughout the building to your door.

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

You couldn’t sleep, or rather you had been knocked out for a while, sleeping on and off, drifting between the blurred line of realistic nightmare and nonsensical reality, dozed in a wide array of medicine, and found yourself squirming at two a.m. in the morning. 

You were unable to move much. Your leg was elevated to aid your heavy sprain.

Your eyes were heavy, blinking slowly in the darkness. You were so uncomfortable, and you had to sit with one big fact. Squirmed with it. You wanted to see him. You distracted yourself from any other thoughts, from processing whatever the fuck happened in the warehouse, the new drops in the bucket of blood and death, with memories of his arms around yours. You had relished in life giving away beneath your hands, just as they had relished in breaking your bones. You glared at your palms as if they would give you an answer to why you didn’t feel guilty. You had to kill your way out, no one was coming to save you. He would’ve. You could see it in his eyes, he was about to fight Captain America to get to you. You shivered not knowing how to take it. He had been so relieved, and so had you.

Your inhale was shaky. You tried to think of him, but— your greatest fears had come true those long hours before you got to escape. Half unconscious with pain you thought you were back in Hydra. When you screamed in pain from the torture, you thought those nights with him had all been a nice dream. That the beautiful man with the sad blue eyes had been a hallucination. The cruel eyes from not too long ago blurred into those of  your past, of older memories from Hydra. A variety of eyes: twin flames, mirrored each other with sadistic pleasure and glee. There was a twist in your gut that didn’t let you give up, told you there was a man with soulful eyes and a gorgeous smile waiting for you. Pure grit brought you back online, moving your body in ways you hadn’t since your hydra days. Killed so many. You were scared that you didn’t care. Bucky was real, had hugged you so tight—

But an anxious, paranoid part of you still thought so.  You hadn’t seen him in days, and the rational part of you knew he was real, but a dark and needy side of you needed him here to believe it. A heavy sensation of being trapped grew in your body, your limbs heavy and achy impeded you from moving much. Frustration built in your chest, rising and rising. Your breaths came out fast and shallow. You didn’t know how to manage it, needed to move, needed him. 

A knock at the door dragged you from your haze. Hope failed to bloom in your chest, too many times had it grown only for someone that wasn’t Jamie to come into the hospital room.

You couldn’t see through your distress. It was late, and you didn’t want to be bothered— not by anyone who wasn’t him. You slid a hand under your pillow, fingers curling around the grip of your knife. 

You knew those soft footsteps, familiar with them even in their uncertainty— you were dreaming. “Doll?” Oh, how you missed him.

You placed the knife on the bedside. “Jamie?” You weren’t able to keep the excitement and relief from your voice.

“I had a nightmare. I had to check for myself. I’ll let you sleep.” His voice was gruff, worried. Worried.

Yes, you were in fact dreaming, a pain medication-induced nice dream. Your Jamie was proud, he would never— this was your dream, you could do whatever you wanted and you wanted him around you. “Come here. There’s enough room for the both of us.”

Dream Jamie didn’t hesitate. The bed shifted with his weight. You flinched when you felt cold metal against you.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I can move—”

You giggled softly.  The dark haze dissipating from your mind by his presence. “It’s alright, Jamie. You’re so cold. Get under the covers with me.” You yawned. Now that you weren’t in distress, your subconscious pulled you towards sleep—deeper sleep, since you were already in the sandman’s territory.

There was an awkward shuffle as he got inside the covers.

You curled around the cold metal arm as best as you could with restricted movement. You yawned again. “G’night, Jamie. Try to get some sleep. We’re safe here; nothing can hurt us in my dream. I’m so glad to have you in my arms I missed you so much. So happy you’re real and here, even if it is a dream Jamie.” Your words murmured. You rubbed your face into his cotton shirt. The pounding of his heart lulled you to sleep.

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

You thought you were dreaming! Did you dream of him often? It didn’t matter. He would ponder about this new revelation later; now he would focus on your soft, pliant body against him, and tiredness overtaking him.

Bucky’s consciousness came to him in phases, each one more forceful than the last, crashing into him in waves. The first sensation he became aware of was warmth. His body relaxed against it. It was familiar, as he had dreamt of it. The next thing he noticed was that the warmth was tangible, had soft give to it— he could feel it. He rolled his neck against foreign pillows… His eyes flew open, muscles tensing slightly with alarm. 

Your soft sleeping body cocooned his left side and enveloped his usually cold metal arm— which was at that moment the same temperature as your body. He so badly wanted to give in again. Burrow into your warm, soft skin. He barely had time to overthink it. His groggy mind almost reached consciousness before a soft murmur from your lips brought his thoughts to heel.

“Shhh, go back to sleep, s’early Jamie, sleep.” You didn’t seem to care about him not being a product of REM. You curled up tighter around him. Your smile bigger than last night, cheek pressed against his metal arm. And never had he felt any semblance of gratefulness toward Stark. But the new arm sent feedback to his brain. A weapon of destruction cradled and enveloped softly by your body. Somehow you trusted him, he felt less a weapon with no agency and more a person. He liked touching you with his metal arm. He knew that it was tainted but your touch made it pure. Bucky acknowledged that he would’ve never gotten you here with him if it weren’t for that still-wrecked floor. Unwanted tears prickled in his eyes. Would he ever live up to this forgiveness?

He didn’t want to think anymore so he followed the laced command in your sweet, sleepy voice urging him back to dream land and succumbed to his dreams.

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

The air around the two of you shifted after the one-person intervention. And yes, of course, the team noticed, but they chose to say nothing. They were glad that Natasha had gone in to talk to him by herself. Although she never did retell what happened, but it seemed to work. And while they liked to tease Bucky— some billionaire philanthropists more than others— they were happy for him; he seemed a little more calmer than before. Settled into himself. 

While he never directly came out and touched you in front of them. He started orbiting you blatantly. Taking a seat next to you during the rare shared meals. Glaring at anyone who dared take his spot next to you on the couch. Walking into a room and making his way to you. 

Two particular instances engraved themselves into the minds of the team members who were lucky enough to behold it. 

The first event took place in the morning. It started like any other. You chit-chatted with Steve and Nat as you made two of your breakfast bagels. They might’ve thought you had woken up hungry that day were it not for the two cups of coffee you set in front of the plate holding the two halved bagels.

Tony tinkered with a toaster in the background, his eyes looking up slowly when Bucky walked in fingers not stopping their ministrations on the machinery. 

And the team had been so wrong. Yes, Bucky had a strong disposition, but the way he had always stared at you, so intently. It should have been obvious. It was like their eyes opened after the mission had gone wrong.  The man was so obviously besotted with you. 

It couldn’t be more clear as the usual dark storm cloud that hung over him dissolved when his eyes found you. He strode toward you with one track mind. 

You spoke to him before your gaze found his, as if sensing his presence.“Hey there, I just made you my favorite breakfast. Grab our plate, here’s your coffee. Dark and joyless like you.” You turned to look at him with barely veiled glee.

Steve’s brows furrowed slightly, concerned. He used to make those kinds of jokes with his Bucky, but he didn’t know how this Bucky would react.

Tony’s eyes furrowed with concern—

Bucky huffed and pursed his lips. But his eyes, they were accustomed to his eyes being perpetually set in a glare. 

His gaze was soft, voice softer, “Doll… You know me so well.”

Your grin was dazzling and you were the only one that missed the way his stare lingered a bit too long on your lips.

DOLL??? Oh, you guys were clearly fucking. Natasha smiled, amused, and raised an eyebrow at Steve. 

Steve gaped at Bucky, lost and forlorn. He had spent so long tiptoeing around the man who used to be his best friend. 

Bucky didn’t seem to care that there were other people in the kitchen, long gone was the man who didn’t show up for breakfast. You curled your fingers around the handle of the two coffee cups, concluding the chit-chat. He grabbed the plate with his metal fingers. Then, so slyly as if with half a mind, he reached out his right arm toward you, near your hips. His fingers slid inside the loop of your jeans and yanked you toward him.

You let out a surprised yelp and laughed. “Jamie! Careful. The coffee will spill!” You didn’t seem the least put off by his actions. 

They had no clue when it started, but somehow, in a few months you had gotten through the broken and hurting Winter Soldier and got to Jamie. 

Jamie. Bucky never let Steve call him that. It was bittersweet. Your chattering voice faded as he dragged you out of the kitchen. It was then that he came to a conclusion. Bucky was a different man, and he wanted to get to know this version of him.

And they felt guilty, they had given a half ass try to get through to him, put off by his glower, you weren’t perturbed by his grumpiness nor his mood swings. Letting him be silent whenever he got too in his head. Chatting to him about whatever until you eventually drew out a small smile perceptible in his usually clouded expression.

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

You had found yourself in the proud position of Bucky’s friend, closest and best — you did sleep in the same bed—, yet you still felt like screaming in frustration. It wasn’t enough. You weren’t unhappy per se. You had him in your arms every night…Your cheek pressed against his warm, sturdy chest. The only thing between keeping your skin from his was a thin, flimsy shirt. And maybe it was wrong for you to, but you longed for more, to touch without restraint. Had feelings with more-than-friends connotations. Not that you had many— any— real friends before you were recruited here. So while you knew there was a difference between platonic and romantic love. You tried fooling yourself into thinking it was platonic. But you wouldn’t go and kill around 15 people for just about anyone, and it hurt. You wanted him to see you the same way you did him. Rare nights where it was you holding him instead of the more common inverse. 

You’d scrape your fingernails softly through his scalp. Hope would make your heart full, inflating it with every hum of pleasure he let out in his sleep. But then he’d wake up shy and closed off, cheeks red with what you perceived as embarrassment and your heart would collapse once again, hope seeping out and leaving acid in its wake.

But he’d do certain things that would make your heart race, exhilarated and frustrated, leaving you reeling and confused.

Your feelings grew despite your protests, so you kept them locked in nice and tight, hidden even from yourself, for as long as possible. 

You were full to the brim with tension, and one particular instance made you lose it, the container breaking with pressure and spilling all over the place. 

It went like so. It was early afternoon, and sunlight spilled from the high windows of the tower, casting a warm glow on the room. 

Natasha was telling you all about these two guys; they were inviting her and you to a double date. You were certain in your decision not to go. The man you’d be paired up with was the same one that frequented the bar with the team; he had brown eyes and a sleazy smile. Nothing like your Jamie.

You were doubling down on your decision when he walked in.

“Hello, Doll, Nat.” His greeting was gruff, but a few months ago, you would’ve thought him possessed.

Natasha’s eyes glinted with mischief and calculation. She gave you a feral grin before turning around, her expression slipping easily into neutrality. “Bucky, it’s so good that you’re here. You can help me convince her to go out with me.”

Jamie cocked his head, expression unreadable. “Sounds fun, Doll; you need a girl’s night.”

This was it! The perfect opportunity to gauge his reaction to you going out with someone else! “It’s a double date with the guys from communication.” You deliberately left out the part where you didn’t want to go, wanting to push a grand reaction. —It never came.

You saw his full body tense for a moment, and for a second, your heart soared… only to crash instantly when he gave you a terse smile. His voice was disappointingly steady, “Why don’t you want to go?”

You knew your body was overreacting, knew you were blowing it out of proportion, but your heart shrivelled nonetheless. You tried still, couldn’t swallow down the frustration try as you did.“I like my men a little bit older…” Your mouth answered for you, giving him a cheeky grin. 

He turned his full attention toward you, and your body viscerally recoiled from the look in his eyes. An angry and resentful glint in his eyes. So familiar—the way he used to stare at you before the first meeting at two a.m.

“You should go.” His words were final, a command. 

You didn’t understand, and you almost sobbed then. You prided yourself in being able to count the number of times you had cried on one hand. A chasm was growing between you, distance expanding with every word. He didn’t want you that way. Pinche ilusa! How could he ever want you that way? You snarled instead of crying, “Alright, I will, but don’t expect me here at two in the morning.”

His smile was bitter, mean. “I won’t.” 

Your returning smile was filled with spite. Anger bubbling in your throat, you saw red. “Pinche pendejo, deveras.”  (Such a fucking prick), it hurt to smile. You didn’t even want to think about the last time you used your Spanish. But his hardened eyes and clenched jaw brought out the most impulsive sides of you. 

Beside you, Nat and Bucky tensed. You lifted your downward gaze toward them. Their heads were cocked to the side, assessing… You’d never slipped into your native tongue.

You took a deep breath before speaking, “I’m going to get ready, Nat! See you at eight!” Smiled at them both before prancing to the elevator, assuming a mask of joy, heart sunken in.

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

The elevator doors closed in front of you, taking you from him. The Winter Soldier's gaze lingered on the spot where you'd disappeared, his eyes burning with a mix of longing and frustration before snapping toward his adversary.

The soldier was full of rage. Flowers had bloomed through the cracks in his stone heart only to wilt because of her.

The redheaded sensed the obvious danger, and spoke in a language the soldier didn’t understand. He understood her disappointment with him, which displeased the soldier.

“говорить демон.” The soldier growled, beckoning the demon to speak, try and save herself. 

She had been a friend…The redheaded demon responded in his language. “You were taking too long, and I couldn’t take any more of her sulking… So speak up or forever hold your peace, soldier. You don’t get to wallow in self-pity and watch life passing you by, cursing time for moving on and not standing still, you can’t unwind the clock, soldier, you can only go forward… So decide carefully before it’s too late.”

Bucky couldn’t breathe, bereft of oxygen. What had he done? Had the soldier really come back because of you? The threat of losing you?

He somehow found himself in his room. He didn’t quite remember how he got there. His brain a haze of frustration and defeat.

His room felt wrong, empty, and cold. He didn’t even approach his bed, knowing how that whole schtick would go. So Bucky paced and paced, his mind running around in circles. 

And what was that whole thing about liking older men? How was he supposed to take it? 

He knew he had fucked up. But he wasn’t about to go crash your date… So he went to his training room. Came back to the land of the living hours later, an unknown familiar face framed by gold hair staring down at him. Warmth pressed against his mouth and he drank greedily.

“…can’t keep hurting yourself like this, Buck.”

Bucky groaned in response and in acknowledgment. Looked at his friend’s concerned eyes. His chest ached with nostalgia, love, regret… everything. “That’s my line, punk.” His voice came out unsteady.

The ground moved underneath him, yanked by his metal arm toward Steve into a tight hug. For a moment Bucky’s arms hovered uncertainly and he could feel a Steve’s large body shake against him. So he hugged his friend back. He had been neglecting Steve.

“Yeah, yeah, alright, Stevie, it’s alright.” His voice was fond. He was yanked once again. Twin grips on his shoulders shook him with more force than merited. 

“No, you stupid idiot! It’s not alright…” For a moment Steve looked like he wanted to say more, but he knew how Bucky was, so he kept in his spiel and sighed dramatically. “Come on, let’s get some food in your poor body.”

Steve tried to help Bucky walk, which ended up with Captain America being whacked upside the head. The blonde turned to Bucky with fake offence, instead deciding to drag him to the kitchen by force. Oh, how things changed…

Steve had changed…he managed to beat Bucky in a stare-down. Even in his forties after the serum   that only happened once in a blue moon. So Bucky found himself eating a sandwich and a big glass of electrolytes with resentment. His leg bounced with vigor. 

He kept his eyes on his plate, avoiding Steve’s too observant eyes, eyes that knew him since childhood.

As soon as the last bite had been swallowed, Bucky looked up. Only to regret it instantly. Steve had a resolved expression. A glint in his eyes that told him to run. So he did. Not ready for whatever conversation he wanted to have.

“Where’s Banner?” He pushed off the table in a harsh, sudden movement.

Steve’s face fell, confused and hurt. “Huh?”

“I need a cigarette.”

He got furrowed brows and a cocked head in response.

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

A few blocks away, your leg bounced anxiously. Unbeknownst to you mirroring the person who caused your stress, .

You sat across from Nat, your date an uncomfortable breath away.  The tension between you palpable as you struggled to make small talk with him. Thigh pressed to bouncing thigh. You wanted to turn pleading eyes to Nat. And for what? You had come here out of your own volition. Fuck. You needed a smoke. You tried to convince yourself you wanted to be here. If he didn’t want you, you deserved someone who did.

A meaty hand slid against your bare skin. Ala mierda… Yeah, no… Abort.

“Calm down, baby… you are all… amped up… how about we go outside and—”

“That’s a good idea.” 

You got a sleazy grin and a flash of eerily perfect teeth. His were a charmingly imperfect; he wouldn’t call you baby. He would call you doll….

“I am going outside by myself. I need a smoke. Besides— I left my lighter at home.”

“I-”

“No, thank you. Sorry, Nat.” You flashed your not-so-sorry gaze toward her. 

She was amused. “Go! by all means. I’ll get the check.” She moved her hand, shooing you off.

A grip on your arm stopped you. “Don’t tell me it’s because of that creepy guy with murder in his eyes.”

You shivered, giddy with pleasure. It was too obvious of a response for it to fly over your date’s head.

“It is! He stares at you like you hurt him. Like he wants to tie you up in his bed and never let you leave!”

Your wicked grin was enough for him to let you go with a huff of disgust. You didn’t care, kissing Nat’s cheek. “Goodbye, you evil woman.” 

She spanked your ass, sending you off. You turned one last time toward her, grinning. Your smiles reflecting glee and mirth.

You walked around the city for a while. Savoring being able to do so without recrimination. 

You weren’t delusional; you should’ve known better. Yet you were so blinded by self-doubt that you closed your eyes.

Bucky wasn’t loud with his emotions, ever. He swallowed them whole, drowned in them. Even if he wanted you, he was too prideful and scared of being hurt. Countless sleepless nights and nights where it was avoided deliberately to see each other told of a man who was interested in you in some capacity.

You weren’t dumb, you just chose to ignore the evidence. Turning a blind eye to the staggering difference in the way he spoke to you versus literally anyone else. He gave you preferential treatment. You cuddled every night for fucks sake! And you doubted that he cared for you? He couldn’t sleep without you, and vice versa! 

You checked your phone. 2:03 a.m. What were you stalling for? 

You smiled all the way back to the tower.

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

The third time the elevator doors pinged, Bucky’s hope had worn out. Expecting Steve or Natasha. The latter had come from the double date alone. “I told you to leave me alone to— what had you called it?— wallow in self-pity and the consequences of my own actions or whatever.” He raised a shaking hand, knuckles cracked and bleeding— he was embarassed to admit he had succumed to his baser needs and punched a wall out of frustration— taking a drag of a cigarette. It tasted radioactive… but it smelled like you. He coughed softly.

An achingly familiar laugh startled him from his stupor. He swerved around with wide eyes. A kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar… “What are you doing here? If you’re here to tell me about — I don’t want to hear it.” He grumbled. Yes, you were friends, but he really, really didn’t want to hear about you sleeping or even breathing in near another man. He took another drag of your cigarette. Filled his lungs with smoke, his blood with chemicals. Okay, yes. He got it now.

“You big, stupid man.” The candor of your voice dripped with irritation. You stomped toward him, heels clacking against the floor, and snatched the smoke from him in harsh movements.

He grunted in response, out of his depth, and turned his gaze toward the skyline. He was aware of your every movement. You took two drags and stomped a perfectly good half of a cigarette with your heel.

He turned to glare at you, giving you a once-over. Fucking helllll….. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Bucky needed to dump cold water on himself ASAP. He was reminded of the many, many long showers he had jerked off in before joining you in bed. They were always futile, super soldier refractory period, and your soft skin, and— you were wearing a mini skirt and a top that accentuated your tits. Bucky mentally clutched his 100-year-old pearls. His breath hitching. Eyes catching on thighs— THIGHS. And boobsp—BOOBS!Before meeting your pleased predatory gaze. 

You took one step toward him, he took one step back.

“I’m going to ask you something, please answer me honestly— Why don’t you want to hear about my date?”

“Why are you here and not with your date?” he ground out his non-answer.

“Why are your knuckles bleeding? Why are you smoking my cigarette?”

“Why are you here and not with your date?” He repeated, body tense, ready to pounce, touch, taste. You looked so beautiful. The soft night lights illuminating your tinted lips, your glittery eyelids, bringing the color out of your iris.

“Well, I found myself seated next to him and thinking: Jamie wouldn’t say that— but you weren’t there. And he wasn’t you.”

This time when you advanced toward him, his feet stayed planted in place. Your took your time advancing toward him. And you were taller now, easier to reach with those long heels. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pressed up against him.

His arousal grew to unavoidable levels. Pushing against your hip. “Fuck, doll. You can’t— I’m wrong for you, all messed up and angry. And from the forties…” His fingers clenched and unclenched on his sides. He was lacking in excuses to touch you. His limbs itched to hold you. Dig into you.

“Well, I hate to repeat myself, but I see I have to. I’ve told you I like my men a little bit older… And maybe I’m a bit messed up too. Because seeing you all fucked up and angry…. Well, I wasn’t upset.”

“I can’t sleep without you. I dream of you, I—”

You smiled with glee, “I know, Natasha was all too pleased to explain to me the mechanics of ‘morning wood’”

Bucky groaned in response. Letting his hands, metal and otherwise, slide against your hips. It was nothing like cuddling; his intentions were impure. They had always been, but he had not felt any past guilt over his arousal, unashemed in his guilt, he felt no need to neglect his urges no— unless you told him otherwise.

He could tell you had some snarky response in the makings. He wanted nothing more than to wipe that cocky grin off your face. If you thought he would be taking the subservient route, you were gravely mistaken. At least right now he needed to be in control, needed you to trust him. Needed you. 

Your eyes glinted with snark, your mouth opening to tease. His hand coasted up your back, to your nape, his fingers gliding into your hair to pull you toward him. Your eyes widened in surprise, pupils blown out. Good, you thought too much; he needed to make your brain shut up for a bit.

He held his breath as he leaned in, hummed with satisfaction once your lips pressed against his. Your lips, so soft against his. He needed more. He gripped your hip, conscious of the strength in his metal arm, the last thing he wanted was to hurt you, but he did want to leave a mark. You gasped in pleasure. Your hands yanked on his hair, and he groaned against your lips.

He set his sights on a wall three paces away, pushing against you. So malleable under him, succumbing so easily to his ministrations, like putty under his hands. His blood sang with the escalating volume of your noises. With each step he took forward, you met with a step back. You gasped as your back met the wall.

“Jamie... please," your voice was so whiny, so desperate it made his cock hurt with arousal. Blood rushed in his ears; he needed more, needed you begging. Undone.

He yanked on the base of your hair with one hand, exposing your neck for him. He was oh so happy to kiss and lick your skin. You whined and shifted against him... sensitive. His other hand slid down your skirt until it met skin. Groaning against your neck, he slid his hand up, up, finally reaching your perfect ass. He couldn't feel any underwear... Fuck... he might've been from the forties, but he had internet access, and he could call a spade a spade, or in this case, a thong a thong. He yanked on the flimsy thing, so it snapped back against your skin.

You whimpered and panted, eyes closed in bliss. He could feel your hips shift, as if chasing after stimulation. And who was he to deny you?

He placed both hands just below your ass, lifting you up and pulling them apart, a silent command you gladly followed with a whine and a curse word in Spanish.

You locked your legs around his waist; his erection pressed against your warmth, and his soft cotton pants were doing nothing to help his desperation. He gave up on holding himself back when your lips met his once again, your hips jerking against him.

It was the best thing he had ever felt since... ever. His fingers spread on either side of your ass, your back supported by the wall. He was beyond words, and so were you.

His cotton pants were soaked with your arousal, hiding nothing. He could feel everything: your pussy open for his cock to grind on, your underwear had twisted to the side. He lost all ability to think, his conscious motor skills deciding to go offline, the only movement he could do was jerking his hips. His lips opened to pant like a dog. It was your turn to kiss him, sloppy and uncoordinated, as he ground against you.

He had half a mind to be aware of his strength, but each time he tested the waters, pressing harder against you, you moaned louder. So it wasn't long before he realized you could take it, take all of him.

His body trembled with built-up tension. It felt like nothing he had ever experienced. His hands flexed and tightened on your ass, pressing you harder against him, making the friction so much sweeter. He chased the pleasure with a one-track mind, couldn't think of anything but your scent, skin, taste – for years, he had felt numb, and you brought him back to life. He hadn't thought he'd be able to feel such exquisite pleasure; it was you who had his hips jerking, dry humping like teenagers. He didn't care.

Your fingers clawed at his back, nails scratching his skin; you had long ago stopped kissing him, opting instead for panting against his neck.

Pleasure built and built, mind-numbing. You were saying something... begging for him... He threw his head back and groaned as his pleasure crested, stars exploding behind his eyes; he couldn't see...

His hips jerked with aftershocks, breaths harsh against your neck; his pants were soiled with his come and your arousal. Your legs slackened, dropping to the floor. Most of your body weight rested on the wall, the rest supported by his hands. He had two functioning brain cells, both reminding him of his selfishness.

You didn't look displeased with him, though; your skirt was bunched up at the hips, top in disarray. Your eye makeup was a mess, and he loved that. Your panties were slid to the far side, showing off your glistening cunt.

His knees hit the floor before he even realized what he was doing. He felt your thighs shake against his skin as he leaned in to look closer. Your clit was swollen and dark. He leaned in to kiss, to suck. Fingers pressed against his face, pushing him away.

“S’ too sensitive," your voice wavered.

Bucky furrowed his brows, looking up inquisitively at you.

“Came. Twice," you clarified, tone shaky with satisfaction.  your gaze followed his movements as he stood up to cradle your face, tilting your head to kiss you softly. He sucked on your teeth before stopping the kiss.

“Huh, didn't notice. You felt too good I went crazy. Too bad though, I want to feel you come on my face and on my cock."

You smiled, satisfied, a cat who finally got the cream “Sure, later," you muttered against him.

“Whenever you want, doll face," he smiled down on you. You looked fucked all the way to next week, and he hadn't even dicked you down yet. “Come on, let's get cleaned up."

You hummed, wrapping your arms around him in a silent request; he obliged happily, carrying you bridal-style all the way to his room.

── ࣪˖  ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

Jamie was so soft, so careful with you. Your head was hazy with the aftermath of pleasure. No orgasm in your past could hold a flame to the explosive bliss from the earlier encounter.

Your head was hazy as he led you to his bathroom, your mind too fucked out for processing his room. You complied with whichever way he tugged your limbs, sliding off your rumpled clothes, until the only thing on your body were your high heels.

He knelt in front of you, his touch tender, as if apologizing for moments ago when he ground on you without thought. His cool metal fingers skated up your calf, reaching up to support your knee, as his other hand worked on the latch of your heels. He pressed a kiss to each ankle before standing up in front of you.

You blinked slowly, your eyes trained on him. He was still clothed. Why was he still clothed? Your gaze caught on the wet patch on his pants, outlining his half hard dick. Praise super-soldier metabolism.

You planted your feet on the white marble floor, your arms stretching out toward him, fingers curling into his shirt and yanking. “Off."

He grinned softly – you would never, ever get enough of his smiles – before sliding his shirt off in one swift movement.

Your breath caught in your throat—fuck, he was beautiful.

“Beautiful Jamie," you said, taking a step closer. You slid one hand up his chest, using the other to trace fingers along scar tissue. He was so… captivating, so utterly himself, that you felt like you were the only person in the world who got to see him like this “Only for me, only I get to see you like this." You turned to throw him a challenging glare.

“Doll, I wouldn't have it any other way, and I don't share either. Call me old-fashioned –"

“If I see you with another woman, James, I swear to God, I will break my killing streak. And all three of us will end up in a –" Rage had barely simmered from the image before he had yanked on your hips to pull you into another kiss.

“Easy there, Doll, there's no one else," his voice was so satisfied, an assured tinge to his candor, in a way you knew it only got for you. You were so fucking stupid for not noticing.

“Good," you yanked on his pants. “So... super-soldier dick... how long can you go? I bet we can get Jamie junior tired."

He laughed loudly, the sound enough for you to shiver with pleasure. “Doll, I don't think you could keep up with me; you'd pass out. You don’t understand how many times I can go if it's with you."

“Well, surely you can keep count if I'm passed out... set a record."

His laugh was disbelieving. “I don't want to fuck you when you're unconscious; I want you awake and making those sweet, delicious sounds."

“Another time, then – take off your pants."

“As you wish."

You tried, you really did, to focus on cleaning yourself once you'd gotten inside the shower. But you didn't fight the urge to slide your fingers into his scalp and help him clean his hair. Forcing him into a crouch to aid your reach, resting his face on your shoulder.

His touch was gentle, a silent decision to wash each other. He went first. You pressed your fingers, massaging the soap against his skin, fingers traveling lower, your eyes fixed on his cock. He was beautiful. Your fingers reached his hips; he was fully hard at that point, leaking. You couldn't stop yourself; you had planned on teasing him, but his cock was too pretty, red and wet with pre-come. Your soap-slicked hands circled his cock... and damn the groan that fell from his lips was unlike anything – the groans before had been rough, taking. This one was desperate, needing.

You took him in both hands, dragging your thumb against his leaking tip. He threw his head back and groaned, fingers digging into the skating over your waist.

You dragged your touch up and down his length, your eyes studying his every movement: his clenched jaw, and tightened face. He was holding his sounds back; that wouldn't do. You tightened your grip, fastened your pace – only to have your movements halted by his tight grip on your wrist. His gaze was heavy on yours. “The next time I'm coming, I'm doing it inside you."

Tension filled the air as he had his turn, took his time cleaning you. He was so clinical it was driving you insane. But you could tell he was restraining himself, his movements rushed; he had an end goal in mind.

You dried off quickly, not mentioning the fact that showering would prove futile with what you had in mind. The night was young; it was barely 3 am.

The anticipation was thick in each deep breath you took. As soon as you had crossed the doorway to his bedroom, you couldn't restrain yourself. You turned toward him, but he beat you to the first move, yanking on your arm and throwing you over his shoulder; you laughed as he spanked your ass.

The next moment, your body was airborne before your back bounced softly on his bed.

You leaned on your shoulders, breasts heaving with each breath, thighs open.

“Do you know how much I've wanted you, how long... I thought I was going to go crazy with how much I needed you," he said, crawling on top of you. Kissing you once chastely, your breath hitching. You were out of your depth; this was a completely new situation, and you were loving every second of it. He featherlight kisses peppered over your jaw, below your ear, along your neck – your body twisted and turned – over your collarbone, down... “You're so beautiful, Doll— I had to restrain myself back there. You deserve worship." His gruff voice was all the warning you got before he latched on to a nipple and sucked, cool metal fingers rolling your neglected nipple between his fingers, awakening erogenous zones that made their debut with a bang.

“Ala puta, mierda..." This bliss was unlike anything. Your hips jerked, your cunt pounded with need. Warm fingers slid your pussy open, circling your clit. You could feel every nerve sing with pleasure. Your toes curled, the balls of your feet pressing down against the bed.

He slid one finger into your cunt, and your whole body jerked in response. “Ala madre – ala madreeee!" Your head lolled, eyes rolling to the back of your head. You couldn't form coherent thought; your brain deciding to go offline.

Pleasure built and built, still sensitive from the past two orgasms. Just when you found yourself at the precipice, you were left bereft of pleasure, cut off from his touch. You looked at him with betrayal.

“No need for that, Dollface— you'll come soon. I want it to be on my cock— give me a second I’m going to get a condo –"

“NO!" You wanted to feel him and you wanted him inside you now .

“All right, Doll, and while I would love to put a baby inside you, I'm not sure I'm ready to share you yet –"

“I’m on birth control! I'm clean; I haven't – in years." Your voice was desperate, he smiled slowly at the neediness in your tone.

He shut you up with a kiss, fingers digging into the soft of your thighs, holding you open for him.

You felt yourself lose clarity, tears streaming down your face.You needed his cock inside you now.

You didn't have to wait long; soon enough he pressed his tip inside you. He was big... You babbled and pleaded for more to no avail. His fingers traced your skin, grounding you, as he slid in inch by delicious inch, until he was fully sheathed. Your body writhed under him with pleasure. It was a tight fit, bordering on a little bit painful. The slight pinch only made the feelings more heightened as your cunt pulsed around him.

You tried to beg him to “move," but none of the languages in your repertoire seemed to be available. So you were left a whining mess. He got the message. Felt his cock slide out of you only to slam into you so hard you saw stars. You could feel the exact moment he lost control, went feral and pussy-drunk. His thrusts were severe and hard, thrusting himself until your pelvises slammed together, the sound of your skin meeting his echoing through the room.

You were crying out, nails searching for pleasure on his back.

It didn't take long for your pleasure to peak; it ebbed and rose in waves. You weren't sure where your orgasm ended and another one began. Had started to come down only to have him pinch your clit and –

It was so good; you took everything he gave you greedily, you had been fulfilled a while ago your needs met ages ago. You were there for him to fuck however many times he wanted—  drenched with your arousal and his come. His hips would stutter, and you'd feel a rush of his come, warm and drenching you. He'd slow down for a few moments, making you think it was over, hips sputtering softly inside you. He'd kiss your skin softly in apology and harden inside you again.

He made good on his promise. Once you were close to passing out, he stopped.

Your full body shook as he cleaned you with warm towels, your mind unresponsive as he moved your limbs softly to slide on one of his hoodies and boxer briefs.

You were halfway to dreamland when he wrapped his arms around you, the room reeking of sex.

“…Doll... Mine... Love... Love you..." His voice was soft, and it barely processed as you fell asleep in his arms.

Did process enough for you to reply a sleepy, “Love you more."

Please remember to leave your kind thoughts in the comments (they fuel me), and if you enjoyed support with reblogs, ok thanks for reading love ya hope you enjoyed 🫶🏻!!!!

[urfavhecate]

I’ve been waiting for too long | drunk!Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: After your breakup with Wanda, Natasha takes care of you… good care…

Warnings: oneshot, drunk Natasha, SMUT, +18, MDNI ! drunk sex, breakup mention, short one, oral (r receiving), fingering (r receiving), multiple orgasm, kinda overstimulation.

Note: Hey guy, it has been long time since last post. As always… English isn’t my first language sp im sorry for all mistakes. This year I have my finals so it’s hard to find time for hobbies but I hope I’ll find more time to write some stuff. If you have any ideas for next shots or stories m requests are open, or if you want to yapp a little I’m also here. <3

No one is allowed to copy, translate or pubish my work as their own!

The life of an Avengers was never easy. As soon as you started your relationship with Wanda, you felt like you had found everything you needed, almost like you had grabbed God by the legs. However, as it quickly turned out, nothing lasts forever, because a few months later Wanda broke up with you.

It was one of those evenings when the Avengers tower seemed empty. While everyone else was busy with their own things, Natasha was sitting in the living room drinking her beer. When she saw you enter the room, she handed you a bottle so you could rest a bit.

„Have a drink and relax” she simply said. You thanked her and fell down on the couch next to Natasha. She just looked at you, knowing something was wrong. "Rough day?" she asked with a stoic face.

“Wanda broke up with me,” you replied quietly, your voice breaking at the thought of what had happened. “She chose that fucking toaster on legs over me.”

Natasha couldn’t help but giggle softly at the comment. “Vision you mean?”

“i don’t get it… what did i do wrong?”

Natasha’s smirk disappeared from her face. She leaned back on the couch, and she sighed before she could muster up a response. “Maybe you didn’t do anything… Sometimes its about what people want or don’t want”

“But him?! Really?! What did he have what i don’t?” You were irritated just thinking about him. He was a robot, he wasn’t even human.

"Beats me... He can fly and shoot lasers from his head" Natasha laughed again "You know... not everyone has good taste"

You laughed softly as you started to question whether or not he had a metal dick. You started to joke as Natasha smiled knowing that she cheered you up a bit, she didn't like seeing you down. Your relationship had always been weird. It wasn't just friendly flirting, but you never talked about what was between you, pretending that you were just friends and worked together.

“I think we should find you a new hobby because I don’t want to picture his metal dick again” The redhead laughed.

“I have one idea… We could always go to a bar”

It wasn’t long before you ended up at one of the nearby bars, drinking and dancing. A few shots and drinks later, you both were visibly tipsy, the alcohol was taking effect. Natasha’s usual composure loosened as her inhibitions lowered, her gaze more carefree and lighthearted. She leaned back against the barstool, studying you with a lazy smirk on her face.

“What?” you giggled noticing she was staring at you.

“Nothing… You just a lot more fun when youre drunk” she answered letting inner thoughts threaten to spill out.

When you finished on the dance floor, your bodies moved together in perfect harmony, you danced and your bodies rubbed against each other. She let her hand drift to your hip, pulling you even closer to her. Her eyes met yours, dark with mix of intoxication and desire.

“You're beautiful you know that?” you mumbled moving closer to her, your lips were now just inches apart.

“Am I?” she murmured softly, her voice a low seductive purr “Or is that just the alcohol talking”

“you are hot as fuck” Natasha's smirk turned cocky as her eyes burned with desire. She gently pushed you backwards until your back hit the wall, trapping you against it with the weight of her body. Her hand moved from your hip to your chin, tipping your face up to meet her gaze. Natasha chuckled, her body pressing against yours, her hand still holding your chin, her gaze boring into yours. She leaned in, her lips brushing against your earlobe, her voice a heady whisper in your ear.

"You don't know what you're asking for," she muttered huskily, her free hand roaming over the fabric of your clothes. "I can make you feel things you've never felt before." Wanda wasn’t really dominant so this was new and exiting at the same time.

Natasha dragged you into a taxi and you headed back to the tower. Throughout the whole way, you couldn't keep your hands to yourselves, wandering over the other woman's body.

Natasha's patience had reached its limit. The moment the elevator doors closed behind you, she punted. She slammed you against the wall, her body trapping yours, her gaze smoldering with desire.

"I can't wait anymore," she panted, her hands roaming all over your body, touching you with a desperate need. Her lips found your neck, kissing and nipping, leaving a trail of heated affection “I’ve been waiting for too long”

You moaned when her lips touched your neck and your fingers tangled with her hair. Natasha hummed against your neck, the sound a mixture of approval and desire. Your moan sent a jolt of arousal through her body, fueling her need to feel your skin against hers. Her hands roamed freely over your body, slipping under your clothes, seeking more contact, more flesh. Her kisses moved up until her lips found yours, capturing them in a passionate, demanding kiss.

When you got out of the elevator, Natasha immediately pushed you against the wall. Natasha groaned when you wrapped your leg around her waist, the action bringing your bodies even closer together. She ground her hips against you, the movement hard and desperate, her need for you becoming almost primal. She broke the kiss just long enough to let out a ragged exhale, her breath mingling with yours. "I want you. Now."

“Say it again... please….” You moaned. Natasha's hand gripped your hip, her fingers digging into your flesh as she pushed you harder against the wall. She leaned in, her lips brushing against your ear, her voice a low, sinful whisper.

"I want you. I need you. Now." Her hand slid up the length of your thigh, hooking your leg over her hip, the movement more possessive than ever before. "You understand?"

At that moment, you didn't care about the breakup or that anyone could see you two. Natasha's sloppy kisses were driving you crazy, so you dragged her to your room. Natasha pushed you onto the bed, climbing on top of you and pinning your hands above your head.

"Wanda never dominated you huh?" Natasha smiled knowing it was true. "Baby with me you'll feel things you could only dream of with Wanda"

A moment later they ended up naked in your bed. Natasha moved lower kissing your chest, your stomach and finally ending between those legs. She couldn't help herself and ran her tongue through your wet folds. She moaned loudly at the taste of you on her tongue.

"oh god... you taste so good"

Your fingers tangled in her hair holding her where you needed her the most. Her tongue moved faster and faster, and you squirmed beneath her. Natasha grabbed your thighs to keep you in place. She continued to eat your pussy like it was her last meal. She was hungry for your taste. It wasn't long before she added her fingers, pushing two of them roughly into your pussy. You moaned with pleasure, wanting more. You tugged at her hair, holding her between your shaking legs. Her movements were still sloppy from the alcohol. She mumbled something under her breath as she gently sucked on your clit.

"I’m… I’m gonna... cum... Natasha please… can I cum?" you moaned. Your body trembled as you ere closer to the pleasure, as Natasha’s fingers curled inside you, finding that sweet spot.

"Good girl, asking for permission... such a submissive good girl." Natasha mumbled, pushing another finger into your pussy "Cum for me baby"

It wasn't long before you came on Natasha's face. The redhead lapped up your juices, not wanting to waste a single drop. Her face was covered in your orgasm and her eyes still held a hunger. Her pupils were much larger and her irises were a darker shade of green.

“Nat… Natasha… oh god… fuck…!”

“Good girl, scream my name… my good girl” she kept mumbling.

As you came down from your high, you thought Natasha would pull away to kiss you, but she continued eating your pussy. She couldn't hold back, it only took a moment for her to become addicted to your taste. Natara's free hand pressed gently against your lower abdomen.

"Natasha...tooo sensitve..." you tried to pull away but Natasha held you in place.

"Don't you dare move. Just one more"

Natasha continued fucking you not paying attention to the overwhelming pleasure that was spreading throughout your body. Life mattered to your cheeks. Your legs shook as Natasha's fingers moved in and out at a rapid pace. You squirmed, moaning her name like a prayer.

"I can't...I can't…" You kept screaming.

"You can do it baby....You'll feel so good..."

“Tell me when you belong to… Tell me you’re mine…” She softly bit your clit.

“I’m yours… only yours…”

As you came a second time Natasha smiled and kissed your forehead. Her hands moved to your breasts. “I’m not done with you yet”