#and will nose her way into things at times

[julietsf1]

For Her - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: She came to support him. Instead, she was met with hate and a paddock full of people who acted like she didn’t exist. But if there was one thing about Lando Norris, it was that he loved out loud (3.2k words)

content: protective boyfriend, public relationship, public displays of affection, romantic grand gesture

AN: happy new season guys!!! what a race, I hope china will be kinder with my heart :') here's another fic for our race winner! muah <3

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The first race of the season should have been magical.

It should have been the kind of morning you’d always imagined—walking through the paddock with the giddy excitement of someone witnessing greatness up close, feeling the electricity in the air, the intoxicating mix of tire smoke, adrenaline, and champagne already waiting for its moment in the podium spray. You had thought of how proud you would feel watching Lando, how thrilling it would be to see him in his element, how belonging you might feel in a world that, until now, had existed for you in stories and through screens.

You had not imagined being denied entry.

"Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to step back."

The security guard barely spared you a glance, already moving on to the next person in line, his voice impassive, as if he had done this a hundred times before and you were simply another face in a sea of hopeful girls who had tried to talk their way into the paddock.

You gripped your lanyard a little tighter, your heart skipping slightly. "I have a pass," you said, voice gentle but firm as you lifted it to eye level, the McLaren logo glinting in the sunlight.

The guard exhaled sharply through his nose, unimpressed. "We've had a lot of fans trying to sneak in today. If you don’t have the right accreditation, I can’t let you through."

Your stomach twisted.

"I do have the right accreditation," you tried again, as kindly as possible, despite the heat creeping up your neck. "I’m with McLaren. My boyfriend-"

"Yeah, that’s what they all say."

The words were clipped, dismissive, and spoken with the kind of flat finality that suggested he had already decided you were lying.

Embarrassment coiled in your chest, wrapping itself around your lungs, making it suddenly difficult to breathe.

You stood there, cheeks burning, as people brushed past you, throwing curious glances your way. The seconds stretched endlessly, each one more excruciating than the last.

It wasn’t until a McLaren staff member recognized you—"Oh, she’s with Lando," they had said offhandedly—that the security guard finally stepped aside, not bothering with so much as an apology.

By the time you walked through the gates, the joy you had carried that morning had dulled into something smaller, something fragile.

And then, somehow, it got worse.

...

The McLaren motorhome stood like a beacon in the paddock, its sleek glass windows reflecting the bustle of team personnel moving inside. You exhaled slowly, shaking off the earlier embarrassment, and made your way toward the hospitality lounge, longing for something warm and familiar.

A latte, perhaps. Something to reset the day.

You stepped up to the hospitality counter with a practiced sort of grace, the kind that had been instilled in you from your childhood—shoulders back, chin lifted, a polite smile even when you wanted to disappear.

The woman behind the counter was stunning in a sharp, effortless way, her McLaren uniform crisp, her dark eyes shrewd, assessing. She barely looked up when you stepped forward.

"Good morning," you greeted, your voice light, pleasant. "Could I get an oat latte, please?"

The woman’s gaze flicked to you then, sweeping over you in a way that wasn’t unkind but wasn’t exactly warm, either.

"Are you with media?" she asked, already sounding bored.

You shook your head, still polite. "No, I’m—"

"Hospitality is for team guests only," she interrupted, her words clipped, a polite but unmistakable dismissal.

There was something about the way she said it, the way her lips curled just slightly, that sent something sharp down your spine.

You held up your accreditation again, your expression kind but unwavering. "I am a team guest. It is my first race though! I'm with Lando."

A pause. A flicker of something in her gaze.

And then, a small, almost imperceptible smirk.

"Ah," she said slowly, like she was only just now realizing. "Of course you are."

There was something else behind her tone, something you recognized.

You had met people like her before, in glittering lobbies, at perfectly curated events, in spaces where perception was everything. People who measured others in careful glances and quiet, ruthless judgments.

The woman tilted her head, her smile suddenly saccharine. "I’m afraid we’re only serving certain guests at the moment."

The words landed with the soft cruelty of a velvet dagger.

She wasn’t saying no outright.

She was refusing you while pretending it was about something else entirely.

You stared at her for a moment, your fingers tightening slightly over the strap of your bag.

You could have fought. Could have pointed out that this was ridiculous, that you had every right to be here, that her behavior was as transparent as it was petty.

But instead, you simply let out a soft breath and smiled.

Not the kind of smile that was warm and grateful.

The kind of smile that veiled the frustration you were feeling.

"No worries," you said gently, dipping your head, your voice smooth, graceful. "I wouldn’t want to trouble you."

And with that, you turned and walked away, back straight, head held high, because if nothing else—you were not the kind of woman who begged.

But it still stung.

...

The hotel room is quiet except for the faint murmur of the city outside. The occasional car hums past beneath the window, the distant noises of Melbourne nightlife drifting in through the small gap in the balcony door. Inside, the glow from the bedside lamp casts soft golden light over the pristine sheets, the half-finished cup of tea you abandoned hours ago, and your phone—face-down, untouched, deliberately ignored.

You had set it aside like it burned you.

And in a way, it had.

You don’t need to look at the screen to know what’s waiting for you there.

A photo. You, walking alone through the paddock, caught at an unflattering angle—your hands adjusting the strap of your bag, your gaze flicking off to the side. Out of context, impersonal, just another frame in someone else’s story.

But the caption beneath it?

That made it personal.

The caption beneath it, however, was anything but subtle.

"Classic gold digger. No personality, no job, just another wag looking for a paycheck."

The replies were worse.

"She looks so full of herself. I bet she spends his money like crazy."

"Lando deserves better. She looks disgusting."

"Does she even like racing or just his wallet?"

You had expected something like this eventually. Being seen always came at a cost.

But expectation doesn’t soften the blow.

It doesn’t make the words less sharp. It doesn’t stop them from settling in the quiet places of your mind, the ones that whisper in the dark when the world is still.

You exhale slowly, smoothing your hand over the sheets, willing away the tightness in your throat.

It’s fine.

You were raised to handle things like this with grace, with an understanding that women who stand beside successful men are often reduced to spectators, accessories, footnotes in their own stories.

You know who you are. You know your worth.

And yet, knowing doesn’t stop the sting.

A keycard beeps at the door.

Then, the soft sound of it swinging open, of footsteps—light, easy, carrying a kind of restless energy even now.

"Hi, darling," Lando’s voice fills the space before he does.

You don’t turn immediately, letting yourself blink once, twice, composing yourself in the quiet before offering a small smile as he steps inside.

He looks effortlessly disheveled—his hair still damp from the rain outside, his McLaren polo slightly untucked, the fabric creased like he’d run a hand over it one too many times.

He is still buzzing—from the high of the weekend, from the thrill of being back in the car, from the sheer joy of doing what he loves.

And then he looks at you.

And everything shifts.

His grin falters. His brows pull together.

"Hey," he says again, but softer this time, slower. "What’s wrong?"

You hesitate, fingers brushing against the sheets. "It’s nothing."

Lando stills.

"You’re upset."

It’s not a question.

You exhale, tilting your head slightly, lips curving in something almost amused. "No big deal, this is your weekend."

But Lando doesn’t smile.

Instead, he moves—crossing the room in three long strides, sinking down in front of you, his hands warm against your thighs, his gaze level, intent.

"Tell me," he says, quiet but firm.

All day, you have been ignored, dismissed, treated like an inconvenience. And yet, here he is, giving you his undivided attention, his entire world narrowing down to this moment, to you.

You hesitate. Then, finally, you murmur, "People weren’t exactly kind today."

His grip on your legs tightens just slightly.

"Security thought I was a fan trying to sneak in. Hospitality wouldn’t serve me." You let out a small, humorless laugh, shaking your head. "And now there’s a photo of me online. People saying I’m a disgusting gold digger."

Lando doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even breathe.

Then, slowly, he reaches for your phone, flipping it over with careful precision before scrolling. He doesn’t need you to guide him—he finds it immediately.

His jaw tightens.

And then, in a tone so low and steady that it makes your stomach flip:

"Are you joking?"

You open your mouth, but he’s already shaking his head, pushing himself up, pacing now, running a hand through his curls.

"Such bullshit," he starts, turning sharply, voice too controlled, too even, "that after everything—after how much effort you’ve put into being here, after how much of your life you’ve adjusted for me—these people had the nerve to treat you like that?"

You shift under his gaze, biting your lip. "Lando, it’s not—"

"No, no, hold on," he interrupts, hands in the air like he needs a second to process. He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, but there’s nothing amused about it.

"Because from where I’m standing, you’re the easiest person to love in any room, and I genuinely don’t understand how anyone could be that dense."

He exhales sharply, shaking his head, jaw tight. "Honestly, I don’t even know whether to be pissed or impressed by their level of dickheadness."

He stops, inhales sharply, then turns back to you.

"Tomorrow," he says, voice steady now, decisive. "We fix this."

You raise a brow. "We?"

Lando tilts his head, giving you a look like you have just asked if the sky is blue.

"Obviously."

...

There are very few things in life that can silence an entire paddock.

Lando Norris walking in hand-in-hand with you is apparently one of them.

The usual morning commotion—the hurried strides of engineers, the murmured strategy discussions, the distant hum of espresso machines—all of it seems to slow, the air shifting as one by one, heads turn.

Eyes follow you as you move through the paddock, curiosity crackling in the air like static before a storm.Conversations taper off, whispers trailing in your wake, phones discreetly lifted, cameras capturing the moment in real time.

Lando, of course, is unbothered.

If anything, he thrives under the weight of their attention. His grip on your hand remains firm, steady, unwavering, his strides unhurried, his smirk bordering on self-satisfied.

He wants them to see.

It’s deliberate—the way he holds you close, the way his fingers brush over yours in soft, thoughtless patterns, the way his head tilts toward you slightly every time you speak, like you are the only thing worth listening to.

There is no question about what this is.

There is no question about where you belong.

He makes sure of it.

And then, with perfect, almost cinematic timing, he steers you toward McLaren hospitality.

Right to the coffee bar.

The barista from yesterday stands behind the counter, the same sharp-cut uniform, the same perfectly applied lipstick, the same calculating gaze.

Only now, it falters.

She sees Lando before she sees you, her posture straightening, professional mask slipping into place like second nature. But then, her eyes flick toward you—toward your hands intertwined, toward the subtle, unspoken intimacy of the way he keeps close.

You watch as realization dawns.

Oh.

Lando leans against the counter, effortless, grinning.

"Two oat lattes," he says, voice bright, easy, amused. "One for me, one for my girl."

The silence that follows is exquisite.

The barista hesitates—just for a fraction of a second, just long enough for you to see it.

Panic.

"Of course," she says, voice smooth but not quite as sharp as before.

And just like that, there are no shortages, no waiting, no excuses.

The coffees are made within seconds.

Lando watches, humming thoughtfully, tapping his fingers lightly against the counter as she slides the first cup toward him. He lifts it to his lips, taking a slow, exaggerated sip before letting out a long, obnoxiously satisfied hum.

"Mm," he muses, shifting his weight, sparing her a glance. "Tastes better today."

His smirk is dangerous.

"Must be the service."

The barista’s lips press together just slightly.

You take your coffee, cradling the cup in your hands, offering her a soft, serene smile.

"Thank you," you say lightly.

You watch as she winces.

And Lando, the ever-efficient instigator that he is, takes it one step further.

"You know," he muses, as if the thought has just occurred to him, "I think I should make this a tradition."

He turns to you then, eyes bright with mischief, voice just loud enough for the surrounding staff to hear.

"Morning coffee," he says smoothly. "Every race weekend. For the foreseeable future."

The barista looks like she wants to disappear.

You, on the other hand, can’t help but smile.

...

The checkered flag had waved, the roar of the crowd still vibrating through the air, but none of it mattered—not the celebrations, not the flashing cameras, not the McLaren team swarming the pit wall in victory.

Because the moment Lando climbed out of the car, eyes scanning the chaos, he found you.

And then—he ran.

Straight toward you, helmet discarded, race suit half-unzipped, curls a disheveled mess from the heat of the cockpit.

You barely have time to react before he collides into you, arms wrapping around your waist, lifting you off the ground like you weigh nothing.

You shriek—an actual, real shriek—as your feet leave the pavement, the entire world tilting as he spins you in circles,laughter spilling from his lips like he can’t contain it.

And then—he kisses you.

Right there, in front of thousands of fans, in front of cameras, reporters, his entire team.

Hard. Fierce. Like he’d won the race and you in the same breath.

The world erupts around you—cheering, chanting, Oscar groaning dramatically in the background.

"Oh my god. You two are disgusting."

None of it matters.

Because Lando is grinning against your lips, breathless, victorious, yours.

When he finally sets you back down, he doesn’t let go.

Doesn’t even try to.

Instead, he beams down at you, cheeks flushed, curls damp with sweat, voice all cocky, all Lando.

"So, did I impress you or what?"

You roll your eyes, fond and exasperated all at once. "Eh. You were alright."

He gasps. Actually gasps.

"You’re joking." He turns toward the cameras, mock-betrayed. "Did you guys hear that? I win a Grand Prix, and she says I’m ‘alright.’"

You bite your lip, pretending to consider. "You were pretty fast, I guess."

"Pretty fast?" he repeats, positively scandalized. "Babe. I am literally the fastest man in Australia right now."

You burst out laughing. "I was kind of rooting for Oscar."

Oscar, mid-drink of water behind you, chokes.

"Lies." Lando pulls you back in, forehead resting against yours, his voice dropping into something softer, something just for you.

"Say you’re proud of me."

You sigh dramatically. "I guess I’m—"

"Say it."

You grin, heart pounding. "Fine. I’m proud of you, Norris."

He hums, satisfied, smug, still absolutely glowing. "Thought so."

...

Lando was still riding the high when he got to the media pen, his race suit unzipped to his waist, curls damp with sweat, and that stupidly charming grin still plastered across his face.

It wasn’t just a ‘first win of the season’ grin.

It was a ‘my girlfriend is here, and I just won a whole-ass race for her’ grin.

The interviewer barely got a word in before Lando pointed directly at you, standing just off-camera.

"Her."

You blink. "Me?"

"Yeah, you!" He turns back to the cameras, nodding enthusiastically. "Let’s just get this straight—I did this for her. Like, entirely. One hundred percent. Full motivation. If she hadn’t shown up, I probably would’ve parked it in a gravel trap on lap ten."

The interviewer laughed. "So, you’re saying she’s your good luck charm?"

"Absolutely," Lando replied, dead serious. "I mean, have you seen her? Look at her."

The camera did not pan to you, thank god. The poor guy running the live feed probably had no idea what to do.

But Lando? Oh, he was just getting started.

"She walked into this paddock today looking like an actual goddess, completely unaware that she is, in fact, the sun incarnate, and people want me to talk about tire degradation? No. I want to talk about her."

The interviewer tried so hard to stay professional.

"You—uh, you had great pace today—"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Lando waved him off.

"Lando, I don’t think—"

"Listen, I need to emphasize something." Lando leaned in, tone conspiratorial. "Do you know how lucky I am? Not only is she breathtaking, but she’s also, like, annoyingly smart. Like, did you know she reads all the time? Real books.Not just memes and Twitter threads like me."

He gestured vaguely, suddenly overwhelmed by his own emotions.

"She doesn’t even realize how much people admire her. But I see it. I see everything. And I just think the world needs to start appreciating her at my level."

"That is… very sweet." The interviewer was visibly struggling to keep up.

"Just had to get that out there."

"Well, congratulations on the win, Lando," the interviewer finally managed, skimming over his list of unanswered questions he had prepared.

"Thank you." He nodded seriously, finally letting go of the mic. "And big thanks to the team, of course."

You rolled your eyes from behind the cameras, suppressing a smile.

...

The internet had seen many things, but no one was prepared for Lando Norris using his post-race interview as a full-blown love letter. 

"Lando’s race pace was great, but his girlfriend propaganda was even stronger."

"THE WAY HE JUST POINTED AT HER IMMEDIATELY I CAN’T."

"Lando Norris said ‘this win is for my girlfriend’ and proceeded to recite a romantic sonnet on live TV. My standards are ruined."

Later, as the two of you curled up in the hotel room, finally away from the cameras, Lando buried his face in your neck with a content sigh.

"You know," he murmured, voice sleepy, warm, full of love. "I really did win that for you."

You ran your fingers through his curls. "I know."

"I meant every word, too."

You smiled. "Don't you think it was a bit much?"

"I don't think it was nearly enough," he said, already half-asleep, grinning like he had never been happier.

[yueebby]

the bet — jason todd

synopsis. it’s harder to keep your relationship with jason a secret from the world's greatest detectives than you thought. (3 times each wayne family member tries to prove that you and jason are together and 1 time they actually do.)

notes. ooc. tooth. rotting. fluff. like 3k words of it and im sick. my first time writing for jason ever yay!

“You know, if you stare any harder, you might actually burn a hole through her head.”

Dick’s teasing voice slices through the comfortable silence between the two brothers, save for the distant sirens and the low hum of Gotham’s never-ending nightlife below them. They’re perched on a rooftop across from an upscale bar, the neon sign casting a soft glow on their suits. Through the massive glass windows, you sit at the bar, leaning in with an easy, disarming laugh as the suspect, some sleazy drug trafficker falls right into your trap.

Jason, crouched beside Dick with his elbows on his knees, grumbles beneath his mask. “I’m not staring.”

Dick lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Right. Then I must be hallucinating.”

“I thought we got you checked out for that already,” Jason shoots back, his voice sharp.

Dick winces, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. “Low blow.”

“It was pretty funny.”

Dick doesn’t argue, just settles into a knowing silence, watching as Jason’s hand unconsciously flexes against the holster at his hip.

Jason exhales through his nose, his jaw ticking. “I don’t understand why she has to flirt to get intel. We could just beat the answers out of these guys. Hell, we’d probably get it faster.”

The older vigilante shakes his head. “Yeah, because nothing says ‘covert op’ like bashing heads through walls.” His voice is light, but his eyes flicker to the way Jason’s fingers tighten around the grip of his gun. “Relax. Your sweetheart can handle herself.”

Jason freezes, but only for a fraction of a second. His heart, though, does that annoying thing where it skips a beat, both traitorous and stupid.

Your sweetheart.

Not that anyone knew. Not that anyone could know. As much as he wanted to grab you by the waist and kiss you breathless after missions, he wasn’t about to hand his family more ammunition for their relentless teasing.

Dick, for one, was proving exactly why this relationship stayed a secret.

The silence should have been Jason’s first warning. The way Dick just sits there, absently swinging a batarang between his fingers, watching the bar with an all-too-pleased expression.

“You know,” Dick hums, as if lost in thought, “it’s important to let that special someone know how you feel. Your twin flame. That one person you’ve been pining over since– oh, I don’t know, your youth.”

Jason doesn’t move.

Dick pauses for dramatic effect, then casually props his chin in his hand, his gaze flicking to Jason. A slow grin tugs at his lips.

“Hm. You’re blushing.”

Jason’s breath stills. His eyes snap to Dick, but his head remains stubbornly forward.

“I am not blushing.” His voice is gritted steel. “And I haven’t been pining over her for that long.”

Dick tilts his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Huh. Funny.” He leans back with an exaggerated stretch. “I never said who.”

Jason’s fists clench.

Damn it.

His mask covered his whole damn face. There was no way Dick could have seen a blush, no way he could have known.

Jason grits his teeth as realization dawns.

He walked right into that.

Like a lovesick fool.

The next time Jason’s nearly caught is at one of Bruce’s galas.

Jason had grumbled and rolled his eyes when you insisted on attending—something about not wanting to spend the night in a “stuffy ass ballroom pretending to care about Gotham’s elite.” You had countered that it was for a good cause, something you actually cared about, and that Bruce would appreciate the support. Begrudgingly, he agreed.

But, of course, he couldn’t just let you go without making things complicated.

“Matching colors,” Tim observes, arms crossed, his sharp blue gaze flickering between you and Jason.

You school your expression into something neutral. Jason, standing entirely too close to you, does no such thing.

“What a coincidence,” Tim drawls, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“It really was,” you force out a laugh, silently screaming at Jason for his careless mistake.

He had seen your dress before the gala, made a gruff noise of disapproval, and then—without a single word—had left only to return an hour later with a tie in the exact same deep shade of red.

You had almost thrown a shoe at him.

As endearing as the gesture should have been, it was infuriating. He was the one insisting that your relationship remain under wraps, but he was awful at hiding it.

Right now, you can practically feel his warmth radiating onto you, his fingers twitching at his side, itching to settle on your waist. His entire presence screams possessive, yet he’s standing there trying to play it cool.

“Right, Jay?” you prompt, hoping begging he plays along.

“Total accident,” he deadpans.

You mentally facepalm. He is not selling it.

Tim’s smirk deepens, thriving off Jason’s obvious discomfort.

“Well then,” Tim shrugs, barely suppressing his amusement. “If she’s not your date, do you mind if I steal a dance?”

Jason’s shoulders tense. His jaw clenches so tight you’re surprised his teeth don’t crack.

“Go ahead.”

His tone is flat, but you know better. His hands may be in his pockets, but you can see them clenched into fists. His entire body is rigid, like he’s forcing himself to not grab your wrist and pull you back to his side.

You want to laugh. It’s so obvious.

Tim takes your hand and whisks you away onto the dance floor before Jason can change his mind.

He’s is a smooth dancer, you’ll give him that. He moves with confidence, leading you effortlessly through the slow, sweeping steps of the waltz. The ballroom around you is a blur of glittering gowns and dark suits, the music swelling in a soft, romantic rhythm.

You try to focus on the dance, but you can feel Jason’s stare.

It’s burning into you from across the room, a weight against your spine that makes your pulse spike.

Tim notices. Of course, he does.

“I know I have a grand total of one song before your guard dog comes back,” he murmurs, tilting his head slightly as he spins you. His fingers press lightly against your back, his mouth close to your ear. “So, between you and me… you can just tell me if you’re dating.”

You groan. “Why is everyone so obsessed with this?”

Tim pulls back just enough to give you a pointed look. “Because the two of you have been dancing around each other for years. I’m in pain just watching.”

“You’re so dramatic.” You roll your eyes, trying not to laugh. “Buzz off and focus on your own romantic life, Drake.”

Tim just grins. “Yours is so much more interesting.” He spins you gracefully, his smirk growing as he catches sight of Jason still watching. Still fuming.

He tugs you back in, dropping his voice to a whisper. “So tell me… are the two of you together? Because I’ve been sensing–”

“You’ve been sensing jack shit, Drake.”

The voice is low, sharp, and pissed.

You barely have time to process Jason’s arrival before you feel a hand—his hand—on your waist, warm and grounding and claiming.

Tim barely gets a breath out before Jason smoothly steps in, seamlessly taking his place as if he had planned this from the start. His movements are precise, natural, possessive. The transition is so smooth it’s like the dance was meant to end like this—with you in his arms.

Tim watches, looking utterly delighted.

“Wow,” he muses. “Not even a full song? Possessive much?”

Jason doesn’t acknowledge him. His grip on you tightens, and you feel his breath against your temple as he leans in just enough to send a shiver down your spine.

You should step back. You should do something to break the illusion.

But you don’t.

Because his hand is on your waist, his other hand holding yours just right. His body is solid and warm against you, moving with you effortlessly like he was made for this. The scent of leather lingers on him, comforting and intoxicating.

He is looking at you like you are the only person in the room.

And you don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing until he speaks.

“I don’t like how low his hands were.”

The words are gritted out, low and quiet, meant just for you.

Your heart stumbles. You should not find that as attractive as you do.

“Jason–”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “He knows. He’s just trying to het under my skin.”

You blink up at him, heat rising to your cheeks. “Jay, it was just a dance.”

His fingers flex against your waist.

Your breath catches in your throat. The words send something electric through you, something dangerous. You don’t have time to respond.

Because Tim, damn Tim, is still standing there, watching the whole exchange with way too much satisfaction.

“Well,” he muses, rocking back on his heels. “That was interesting.”

Jason finally acknowledges him by glowering in his direction.

“Get lost, Drake.”

Tim grins. Because while he may not have gotten a confession, he definitely got confirmation.

After your encounter with Tim, you and Jason had agreed to lay extra low. No unnecessary risks, no slip-ups. No feeding into their suspicions. That plan, of course, went up in flames, quite literally when you almost lost a damn arm.

Jason had nearly lost his mind.

Now, standing in the training room with Cassandra, you tug absentmindedly at the hem of your sleeve, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in your arm.

Cass, however, does not.

“That’s one nasty burn,” she winces, crouching slightly to get a better look at the angry, blistering wound.

You shift uncomfortably under her scrutiny. “It’s nothing, really,” you say, waving a dismissive hand. “I was just reaching into the oven to grab some muffins, and my arm accidentally hit the hot rack.”

Jason, standing beside you with his arms crossed, snorts.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Told you to be careful this morning.”

The second the words leave his mouth, his body goes rigid. His eyes widen slightly, realizing his mistake.

Shit.

Cass doesn’t even blink before zeroing in.

“What was that?”

Jason schools his expression into mock confusion. “What was what?”

“Don’t play coy, Todd.” Cass’s voice is sharp, her dark eyes locked onto him with an intensity that could crack glass.

Jason ever so stubborn and entirely unwilling to admit defeat, doesn’t back down.

“I don’t know what you mean.” He doesn’t flinch.

Cass tilts her head, unconvinced. “I heard the two of you were on patrol pretty late last night.” Her gaze flickers between you and Jason, noting every shift in body language, every subtle tell. “So tell me, Todd… what were you doing with [Name] this morning too? Did you, perhaps, sleep together?”

Silence.

The tension in the room thickens, settling over you like an impending storm. Your pulse spikes. Jason’s jaw locks. Cass’s eyes remain unmoving, sharp as a blade.

The stalemate stretches too long.

Before Cass can press further, you jump in.

“What Jason meant,” you say quickly, forcing an easy laugh, “is that our patrol ended at around six in the morning. I invited him over for a snack, is all.”

You will her to believe it.

Jason exhales subtly beside you, relaxing ever so slightly at your quick save.

Cass, however, is not satisfied.

“You never invite me over for snacks,” she states, arms crossing over her chest.

You frown. “I’m sorry, Cass. How about next time?”

She considers for a moment, expression unreadable, before nodding.

“I’ll be there at sunrise.”

You smile, nudging her shoulder. “It’s a deal.”

Cass eyes the two of you for another long second before finally, finally, grabbing her bag and exiting the room.

The moment the door clicks shut, Jason lets out a heavy breath.

Without warning, his large frame topples over yours, his solid weight pressing against your back as he buries his face into the crook of your neck.

“You’re gonna kill me one day,” he mutters, lips brushing the sensitive skin near your ear. His voice is low, gravelly, full of something raw and unguarded.

His arms encircle you, pulling you flush against him.

You bite back a smile, leaning into his warmth.

“Have I told you how much I love you?” His lips graze the nape of your neck, lingering.

“Not nearly enough,” you murmur.

It’s a lie.

Because Jason tells you every single day.

If not with his words, then with the way he looks at you. With the way he touches you like you’re the most precious thing in the world. With the way he freaks out over every little injury, over every near miss, like the thought of losing you would be enough to unmake him.

And God, if he wasn’t so damn obvious about it.

Your charade finally comes to an end on a rare night. The entire family gathered around the Wayne Manor dining table. It had taken weeks of convincing, countless rescheduled plans, and Alfred’s unshakable will to make it happen. You silently applaud him, watching as he moves seamlessly around the table, topping off glasses and making sure everyone eats.

The conversation is lively but controlled, an unspoken agreement hanging in the air: no fights. Bruce was actually eating rather than brooding, Damian had only thrown out two insults so far, and Tim was at least half-awake. For a Wayne family dinner, this was practically peaceful.

No one notices that you and Jason are sitting a little too close, they’re all too engrossed with the hearty meal and a rare opportunity of having a civil conversation with each other.

Jason, ever the attentive boyfriend, wordlessly reaches for the serving platter and places another thick slice of roast onto your plate. Then, he carefully spoons asparagus onto your dish, making sure it’s coated just enough with hollandaise sauce just the way you like it.

“Eat up, sweetheart.” His voice is low and smooth, meant just for you.

Your heart does a little flutter at the name, and your lips tug into a smile as you pick up your fork.

But then a familiar voice turns the entire night around.

“Forgive me if I’m wrong,” Damian’s voice cuts through the table, as sharp as one of his throwing knives, “but doesn’t ‘sweetheart’ have romantic implications?”

Silence.

A few forks hover mid-air. Bruce pauses as he cuts into his steak. Dick, who had been talking to Cass, freezes mid-sentence. Tim, who had been half-heartedly scrolling through his phone under the table, suddenly looks very awake.

“No, you’re absolutely right,” Dick leans back in his chair, grinning like he just hit the jackpot. His eyes flicker with amusement as he clasps his hands together. 

Jason’s chewing slows. Your eyes flicker to his face, trying to gauge his reaction. This was it. The moment he always dreaded.

“Todd just called [Last Name] ‘sweetheart,’” Damian supplies, ever helpful, pointing at the two of you with his fork.

Cass and Tim share a knowing glance, both nodding in quiet confirmation.

Dick gapes. “In front of my salad?”

Jason, rather than looking panicked, looks entirely unbothered. Too unbothered. His jaw moves as he stuffs another carrot into his mouth, chews deliberately, and then–

“It’s our one-year anniversary next month.”

Chaos erupts.

“WHAT?”

“I KNEW IT!”

“Called it.”

“Took you guys long enough!”

Tim smacks the table, rattling the silverware. Dick throws his hands in the air. Cass laughs silently, shaking her head as if she’s just been vindicated after months of waiting.

Stephanie, meanwhile, grabs Tim’s arm and shakes him. “You owe me fifty-bucks, Drake.”

Bruce, to his credit, looks unfazed, save for the slight twitch of his eyebrow. He sets his knife down and looks at Jason with a measured expression.

“Well done, son.”

Jason stares at him for a moment before giving him a single nod, as if they’re discussing business strategy rather than his romantic relationship.

You’re still flustered under the sheer weight of all the attention, but then Jason’s fingers interlace with yours under the table. Warm. Steady. Protective. He gives your hand a light squeeze, and just like that, your nerves settle.

The chatter continues, voices overlapping.

“I suppose that means I won the bet?”

The room stills.

Jason’s head snaps up. “Wait. What?”

Tim, not even looking ashamed, shrugs. “Technically, nobody won. We all knew already.”

Damian scowls. “The condition was that someone had to prove it. I did that tonight. Therefore, I win.”

Jason straightens in his chair, voice dangerously low. “Hold on. You had a bet?!”

You grimace, bracing yourself as the night takes a turn.

Tim leans back in his chair, smirking. “Oh, yeah. This has been going for months.”

“How much?” Jason demands, his eyes narrowing.

Dick, grinning, raises his glass. “A hundred bucks.”

Jason turns to you, betrayed. “Did you know about this?”

You shake your head furiously. “I would’ve rigged it to win if I had.”

“Unbelievable,” Jason mutters, rubbing his temples.

But then he feels your thumb brush gently over his knuckles, and suddenly, the noise fades into the background. He turns to you, the frustration melting from his features as he takes in the warmth of your smile, the way your eyes are only on him.

You squeeze his hand. “Well,” you say softly, just for him. “At least we don’t have to sneak around anymore.”

Jason exhales a low chuckle, shaking his head before turning to you fully. There’s adoration in his eyes, open and raw and entirely unguarded. His lips form the silent words, ‘I love you,’ and though no sound escapes, you hear it in the way his eyes soften, in the way his fingers tighten just slightly around yours. Your breath catches, warmth blooming in your chest, and without thinking, you smile radiantly, mirroring the love on his face.

thank you for reading! comments n reblogs are appreciated 💋

[ilium-ilia]

calyptra thalictri

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

5: veil

tw: medical talk, morning sickness, light drugging, non-con

The only food your stomach allows you to keep down these days is buttered pasta—this child (this creature) allows nothing else. 

A large pot of penne boils in front of you, pasta dancing through the turbulent water, swirling as if enticing you to join for a bath. To stick your hand into the superheated liquid, to allow it to gnaw your skin off to the very bone. Instead, you stand and stare at it, arms crossed and eyes heavy as the timer on the stove slowly counts down. 

Morning sickness has been a mighty beast to overcome these last few weeks, though you’ve come to the painful realization that it does not plague you only in the morning like the name would suggest. It’s in the afternoon while you’re at the office when your co-worker walks by you, cologne thick and heavy on their skin, tainting your nose, forcing your stomach to clench and thrash. It’s in the evening when you crave a treat so fervently that your body decides the only good option is to overturn the lunch you hardly choked down in the first place. It’s in the middle of the night when you rouse yourself for a glass of water, only to choke on rancid, unforgiving bile.

You’re not gaining enough weight, your obstetrician says. Far behind the curve—she tells you to eat more. You need more protein, more fibre, more fats; more of everything. Choke it down. Keep it down. Everything you do now is for the baby. For this child. Never for yourself. Never your own health. An incubator, a carrier, a mother by proxy but not by desire. 

You want to tell her that she should live with something growing inside of her—something ripping her apart from the inside out—and see how she fares with such a monumental task. 

Once your pasta has made it to the halfway mark, you sigh and retrieve your kettle. The warped iron dully reflects your disappointed gaze as you fill it at the sink. You place it on the other burner to boil, ready to indulge in your sleepy time tea to knock yourself out after a long day of office bureaucracy and shrouded misogynistic insults. Everyone at work has put two and two together—you’re unwed, you do not speak of any man; simply, you are a sinner. A harlot. Something to scorn. Their whispers bleed through the walls louder than they know. 

A knock sounds at the door. 

Though you are not surprised to hear the blunt percussive melody, you realize you’re not used to it. The way it reverberates through the wood. How sharp it cracks through the air. Humming, you place your stirring soon on the counter before shuffling to the front door, not bothering to look to see who it is when you open it. 

Simon stands on the other side, and he’s just as tall and broad as you remember him being from yesterday. Your car park helper, who loaded your bags into your car and slipped his number into your hand before you could even comprehend the scribbling. His dark eyes flicker to your stomach as you give him a gauche smile, hand still resting on the knob like you’re considering slamming the door in his face and holing up inside your quaint burrow. 

“Hi,” you greet, spine stiffer than a board. “Erm… come on in. I’ve got your stuff here in the kitchen.” 

Head bowed low as if begging for forgiveness in anticipation, you lead Simon into your home as he wordlessly follows behind you. Simon’s items—that had peculiarly found themselves hidden among your groceries—sit in a bag on the counter. You begin to rummage through the items, listing off each thing that you found no belonging to you, but you find your tongue tripping on your words at the looming presence behind you. 

He is a strange man, you realize. Truly strange. Selfless enough to assist you—a stranger—yet so quiet. A gargantuan boulder made of scar tissue and crooked bone, he seems more animal than he does man. Roughened by the wilderness. Fond of the freedom that lies beyond human shackles. Beyond human skin. 

“This ought to be all of it,” you say, tapping the counter. “At least, it was the stuff that I didn’t recognize being mine, but if you-” 

Words catch in your throat when you turn back around to face Simon and find him bent over your stove, spoon in hand, stirring your pasta. The timer goes off, and he shuts it off like he’s done it a million times previously before he kills the burner. You swallow, and your anticipation feels thick in your throat. 

“Oh, Simon, you don’t have to do that.” Your polite tone smothers the confusion you feel you ought to spit at him—a snappy what the hell are you doing? 

“Take a seat.” It’s the first thing he’s said to you since he’s entered your home, and yet he sounds like the host instead of the guest. His edict is firm, and leaves no room for argument. 

Stiff, you waddle over to the living room before sinking down into the sofa. With your flat being too small to house a proper dining room table, you’ve always eaten here, sitting in front of the TV and trying to use it to drown out the lonely silence that’s haunted these walls since you first moved in. Now, there is company to be had here, yet your mind reels as you listen to Simon in the kitchen, flat suddenly haunted by an unknown entity—a large creature with one of the most gentle touches you’ve ever seen. 

The kettle cries, boiling water is poured, china clinks as pasta is mixed—Simon prepares everything the way you had it laid out and presents it to you in the living room when he’s finished. Your gratitude leaves your lips numb as you place your plate in your lap and stare at the meal as he plops himself next to you. 

His weight is heavy on the couch, body sinking into the cushion, threatening to lure you into the gravity of him as he leans forward and places your tea on the coffee table. Simon’s hands are empty, void of any meal for himself, and you find yourself anxiously poking at your penne with the prongs of your fork. 

“How’s your mornin’ sickness?” he asks.

It’s an odd question to hear coming from a man like him, legitimate concern lacing his tone as if he has skin in this wretched game. Avoiding eye contact, you pierce a piece of penne onto your fork before inspecting it. You try to force yourself to focus on anything but Simon. 

“It’s alright,” you murmur. “The medicine helps some but it’s still… not great.” 

You’re transported back to the car park when you first met Simon—large hand obscuring your medicine, his eerie chime about which one he prefers more, his refusal to stand by and let you do anything on your own. Even now you feel the weight of his attention on you, meticulously cutting you apart as he waits for you to eat. There is little reprieve to be found when you finally force something down your throat, but the change in discomfort manifests as a pit in your stomach; angry muscles churn, esophagus expanding, ready to expel. 

“Did you find all your items in your bag? I didn’t miss anything, did I?” you question, anxious to get the attention off of you and onto something else. 

He hums, dark like the amber shade of aged whiskey. “Yeah. All there.” 

“Good.” Sharp. Short. To the point. You swallow. “Must have gotten mixed into mine when you helped me the other day.” 

“Must’ve.” 

You give up on the small talk after his blunt responses prove to be never-ending, and instead focus on eating your meal as quickly as possible. Each time your stomach begins to twist in protest, you reach for your tea and desperately sip away at the liquid, praying that the warmth will urge your abdomen into submission. The nausea is still there, puttering around in your stomach like an unwelcome guest, but now it’s coupled with the weight of slumber that so desperately attempts to pull you into its grasp. 

The room spins. Suddenly stricken with prostration, you find your lungs expelling the last bit of air they hold as you blink away the fog obscuring your vision, only for it to return a moment later. You try to focus on something. Anything. The gossamer sheen of butter that collects in the ridges of your penne, the small bend in the prong of your fork—

—the thick fingers reaching out to grab your plate. 

“Finished?” Simon asks. 

You swallow down the briny aftertaste lingering on your tongue as you allow him to take your plate and place it on the coffee table. Nodding, you swipe at your brow—there is no perspiration, but the thudding of your heart leads you to believe there should be. 

“Yes. I-I—Simon—thank you. Sincerely. But I’m not feeling well. I think it might be best if you-” 

“You should lay down,” Simon interjects, cutting off your fuzzy thoughts from ever leaving the cavern of your mouth. 

A rebuttal bubbles up in the back of your throat the same time your dinner does. Bile and acid sear your vocal cords, fraying them, pulling them too taut to speak. Wordlessly, you watch Simon stand before you with his hand extended and reaching for yours, and though you know you should recoil, you find yourself too dazed to really care that he grabs you and pulls you to your feet. 

Each step toward your bedroom feels like a marathon. Muscles too tight yet unforgivingly malleable, knees nearly buckling, feet swelling and throbbing. Simon aids you in laying down, going as far as to pull the covers up over your melting body. Vision shrouded with your impending repose, you watch him—fingers gripping the blanket, tucking you in, knees colliding with the floor, hand now rubbing against the fat on your cheek—

—his eyes. They’re dark. Voids holding the absence of light and soul. They widen as he looks at you. Fear cuts through your chest as you think they might swallow you whole. Solicitude plagues you as your mind questions why you recognize them. 

“Why are you doing this?” Your voice hardly reaches a susurrus. It whistles between your teeth and along the tip of your tongue as his warmth bleeds into your skin. “Why are you… taking care of me?” 

“Because it’s what’s right.” 

Simon speaks it like an oath—a prophecy unfolding before his very eyes as he beholds you, calloused hands and all. He sees the confusion flicker across your face like a dying bulb, and his lips nearly quirk into a smile. One day, you’ll understand it as he does. This wretched gift of creation. 

“I’m gonna take care of you,” he swears. “Both of you.” 

You’re too far gone to hear it. Mind drowning beneath the waves of nothingness and contorted dreams. Chest rising and falling, eyes fluttering beneath their lids—he watches you. His gaze rakes over your body just like his hands have done so many times in the past, floating over the curve of your breasts until he’s met with the swelling of your stomach. 

His. Both you, and this child. 

Wandering palms traverse from your face to your stomach. He presses. Feels the way your skin stretches around your growing womb, feels the warmth of creation beneath his very fingertips, feels the fluttering in his chest. Simon Riley feels alive. More alive than a gun in his hand could ever instill in him. 

Ardor suddenly swelling in the rotten cavern of his ribcage, he presses his lips to yours. It’s the first time he’s gotten to taste you without the barrier of a mask in the way—unadulterated, and true. You’re just as soft as he imagined you’d be, and when he pulls away, he finds that he can’t wander too far before he speaks again. 

“I’m gonna take care of you, Angel. You, and my child.”

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[halfmoonaria]

he doesn’t know

pairing: sub!tara carpenter & dom!female reader

summary: every sunday, she finds herself in the backseat of your car instead—legs shaking, breath hitching, and trying to keep quiet.

warnings: smut (18+), cheating, secret relationship, oral sex (tara receiving), strap-on sex

author’s note: never done this so tell me if it’s too much.

Tara wasn't ashamed. She never had been.

When she was four, she decided she wanted to wear her fairy costume to preschool—not for Halloween, not for a special event, just because she felt like it.

The glittery wings were bent from being stuffed in the dress-up bin too many times, and the tulle skirt was a little too short after a year-long growth spurt, but she didn't care. It made her feel pretty, so she wore it.

Her mom tried to talk her out of it, and Sam sighed like she was already embarrassed on her behalf, but Tara had been stubborn even then.

She had marched out the door, wings bouncing with every step, and refused to acknowledge the weird looks from other kids.

It was the same when she cut her own bangs in the first grade.

She had gotten bored, found a pair of dull craft scissors, and decided she wanted a change. The result was uneven and way too short, a jagged mess that made her mom gasp when she saw it. Sam winced and tried to smooth it down for her, saying she'd regret it when she looked back at pictures.

Tara just shrugged. It was her hair. If she didn't care, then why should anyone else?

That was how she had always been—bold, impulsive, never second-guessing herself. She wasn't reckless, not really, but she never understood the point of worrying about what people thought.

Her parents didn't know where it came from.

Sam was careful, always weighing her choices, always thinking ahead. She cared about things like reputation, about saying the right thing and making the right impression. She was the responsible one, the one who took after their mom, the one who fit into every expectation placed in front of her.

Tara was different.

She did things because she wanted to, because they felt right in the moment. She never thought too hard about whether she should. And when people questioned her, when they looked at her like she was weird or childish, she never let it get to her.

When she was eight, she declared that she was going to be a superhero for career day, no matter how many times her teacher told her to pick something realistic.

And when she was ten, she ran straight into a fight with a kid twice her size because he made fun of her friend's lisp. She had come home with a bloody nose and a proud grin, and Sam had scolded her the whole time she was pressing an ice pack to her face.

"You don't just fight people, Tara," Sam had said, exasperated. "What if he had really hurt you?"

"He didn't," Tara had replied. "And he won't make fun of her again."

That was what mattered to her—doing what she felt was right, standing by the choices she made, never letting anyone make her feel small.

And shame? That wasn't something she carried.

When other kids went through awkward phases, blushing at old photos or cringing at past decisions, Tara barely blinked. She had no regrets, no embarrassment. She never understood why Sam stressed over things like reputation or what people might whisper behind her back.

Tara didn't let people's opinions shape her. She never had. She was bold, confident, completely sure of herself in a way that most kids weren't.

But that didn't mean she was immune to normal things. Crushes, for example.

Her first celebrity crush had been Heath Ledger in 10 Things I Hate About You. She was barely old enough to understand what a crush was, but she knew she liked watching him. He had that effortless charm, that mischievous smile—she figured that was what people meant when they said someone was attractive.

But as she got older, that crush faded.

She expected another one to take its place. That's how it worked, right? You grew up, your tastes changed, you found someone new to fawn over.

Except... she didn't.

At least, not the way she was supposed to.

Because when she rewatched the movie, waiting for that familiar feeling to settle in at the sight of Heath's smirk, it never came. Instead, she felt something entirely different—something she didn't understand—when Julia Stiles appeared on screen.

It wasn't just that she admired her. It wasn't just that she thought she was cool. It was the way her stomach flipped at the sharpness of her voice, the confidence in her posture. It was the way she suddenly found herself hyper-fixated on the little things—her smirk, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the sharp glint in her eyes when she delivered a cutting remark.

And it wasn't just her.

It was the girl in her chemistry class with the pretty hands. The soccer captain who always had her hair in a messy bun. The stranger she saw at the mall, dressed in a leather jacket and looking effortlessly cool.

But she didn't get it.

Because that wasn't supposed to happen.

She had always been confident in who she was. She never questioned herself, never second-guessed her choices. But this? This threw her off. It didn't fit into the version of herself she had always known.

So, for the first time in her life, she did the one thing she never thought she would.

She ignored it.

At least, she tried to.

But it was impossible to ignore something that followed her everywhere. Her eyes drifted—unintentionally at first, but then with growing awareness. The girls in her classes, the ones at the mall, the cashier at the grocery store. It wasn't just about noticing them, either. It was the way her stomach tensed when a girl laughed in that soft, pretty way, or the heat that crept up her neck when one of them brushed past her too closely.

And then there were the movies.

She used to argue hard whenever Mindy and Annika suggested a rom-com over a horror flick. But lately? She still huffed, still acted annoyed, but the protests weren't as strong as before. And when a sex scene came on, she didn't roll her eyes or fake gag anymore.

Because the problem was, she was watching.

Not the man. Never the man.

Her focus lingered elsewhere—on the curves of a woman's body, the softness of her skin, the way her lips parted on a moan. Tara didn't mean to stare, didn't mean to feel anything, but she did.

And that terrified her more than any horror movie ever could.

Not because she thought it was wrong. Tara hadn't grown up in a religious household, where being gay was condemned, or in a place where she'd been taught to believe it was unnatural. Her family never gave her any reason to think she couldn't be whoever she wanted, love whoever she wanted.

She had lesbian friends, gay friends. Mindy was out and proud, never hesitating to call a girl hot in the middle of a conversation. No one ever looked twice. It was normal. Accepted. Fine.

So why didn't it feel fine for her?

She knew it wasn't wrong—she wasn't stupid. She'd never side-eyed anyone for being into girls, never thought twice when someone came out. But somehow, when it was her—when the label curled around her throat and squeezed—it felt different.

Tara had spent her whole life knowing exactly who she was. She had never been unsure. She was bold. Confident. Unapologetic. She cut her own bangs with safety scissors when she was six and shrugged when Sam gasped at the mess she made.

She wore her Halloween costume from last year to school in the middle of March because she liked it. When she made a decision, she stuck to it, never second-guessed herself, never hesitated.

But this? This wasn't something she chose.

It crept up on her, slithered into her brain like an unwanted thought, a splinter she couldn't pull out. And it was infuriating, because she had never questioned herself before—never felt like she had to.

And yet, here she was.

Staring too long at girls in her classes, feeling her chest go tight when a woman laughed a certain way, blinking too fast at the TV whenever a female character undressed.

This wasn't supposed to happen to her.

It was okay for other people to be gay. She never questioned that. It was fine, normal, good for them. But when she looked at herself, at the thought of admitting it, of saying it out loud—it felt impossible. Like it didn't belong to her. Like the rules were different for her, even though she knew, logically, they weren't.

Maybe that was what scared her the most.

That for the first time in her life, she wasn't sure of herself.

That for the first time in her life, she felt ashamed.

She hated it. Hated how it made her feel like a stranger in her own skin, like she had something to hide when she had never hidden anything in her life.

And the worst part? Mindy was starting to notice.

Or maybe she wasn't. Maybe she was just being Mindy, teasing for the sake of getting a rise out of her like she always did. But Tara felt exposed all the same, like she was standing in the middle of a room with a spotlight on her, like any second now someone would call her out and she wouldn't have a damn thing to say in return.

It started small.

It started with little things. A smirk when a pretty girl passed by. A knowing look when Tara stumbled over her words around someone attractive. A casual, So, you got a thing for brunettes now? when Tara glanced at someone for half a second too long.

It was nothing. Just jokes. But every time, Tara felt a spike of panic she couldn't shake.

Because she wasn't used to this—this hesitation, this awareness of herself. Normally, if someone called her out on something, she'd just own it. Shrug it off. Yeah, so what? But now, the idea of admitting anything made her stomach twist.

She could play it off, roll her eyes, throw a sarcastic comment back. But Mindy wasn't stupid. And she wasn't letting it go.

One night, they were walking back from a party when Mindy casually nudged her side and said, You totally froze up when that girl talked to you.

Tara scoffed, stuffing her hands into her jacket pockets. I did not.

You did. And you were blushing.

I don't blush.

Mindy had just grinned, like she had already made up her mind. Uh-huh. Sure.

Tara had let it go, pretended it didn't bother her. But later, alone in her room, she caught herself replaying the interaction in her head, her chest tightening with frustration.

Why did she care so much?

Why did it matter what Mindy thought?

Maybe because deep down, she wasn't entirely sure Mindy was wrong.

And if Mindy could see it, then who else could?

That was what scared her the most. Because Mindy wasn't wrong. That was the worst part.

And whenever Mindy made comments about it, Tara would scoff, roll her eyes, shove her shoulder, mutter something about reaching—

But every time, her pulse would quicken, her ears would burn, and she'd feel the panic rise in her chest like a tidal wave.

It wasn't just the waitress at the diner, the one with the dimples and the low-cut uniform. It wasn't just the girl in her sociology class, the one with the raspy voice who always showed up with a cold brew and a half-smirk. It was everywhere.

At the gym, when she caught herself watching the way a girl tied up her ponytail, the smooth shift of her muscles.

At the grocery store, when she found herself staring just a little too long at the woman reaching for something on the top shelf, her shirt lifting just enough to reveal a sliver of her stomach.

At movie night, when she no longer protested the romance movies Mindy and Anika picked—because she didn't mind watching them anymore.

That was the real problem. Because she still hated the cheesy dialogue and the unrealistic plotlines, but whenever there was a sex scene, whenever a woman undressed, Tara wasn't looking away.

She didn't want to.

And that terrified her.

Because it wasn't just a thought anymore, wasn't just something lurking in the back of her mind that she could ignore. It was becoming real, something she couldn't control. She started feeling like people could see it—like it was written all over her, like she had a neon sign above her head flashing Tara Carpenter likes girls.

And maybe nobody actually noticed. Maybe nobody gave a damn. But it didn't matter because she felt exposed anyway, like someone could call her out at any second. Like Mindy's teasing wasn't just teasing anymore—like it was an accusation.

It was in the way people looked at her, in the way her own skin felt too tight, too obvious. She started overthinking every little thing—how long she looked at a girl, whether she was staring, whether her voice sounded different when she spoke to someone pretty. Whether she was acting different.

And the worst part was that she didn't even know if she was right. She didn't know if people actually saw something in her that she hadn't seen before, or if she was just losing her mind over nothing. But it didn't matter. The fear was there, real and suffocating, and it was eating her alive.

So she did the only thing she could think to do.

She got a boyfriend.

Or, more accurately, she asked Chad out.

It wasn't some grand realization. It wasn't even a well-thought-out decision. It was desperation. Panic. Like a reflex, like slamming the brakes at the last second before a crash.

And Chad just happened to be there.

And in a way, it made sense. She'd known him forever. Before high school, before college, before parties and liquor and sneaking out when Sam wasn't looking. He was familiar. Safe. He liked her. Everyone knew that.

Ever since sixth grade, people had whispered about it. Girls in their class used to giggle and nudge each other whenever Chad so much as looked at her. It was obvious.

He was the guy who always found excuses to talk to her, who laughed a little too hard at her jokes, who got weirdly competitive when she dated someone else, even when there was no reason to be.

So when she asked him out, there was no hesitation.

He said yes before she even finished the sentence.

And that was supposed to be it.

She had a boyfriend now. That was supposed to fix everything.

It was supposed to make things go away—the butterflies in her stomach, the heat crawling up her neck whenever a girl smiled at her, the way she noticed things she wasn't supposed to notice.

It was supposed to make Mindy shut up.

It was supposed to be easy.

But it wasn't.

If anything, it only got worse.

At first, she told herself it was working. That it was fine. She had a boyfriend. She was in a relationship. If people had questions before, they wouldn't anymore.

And it wasn't like she hated Chad. He was sweet. Affectionate. A little too eager sometimes, but that wasn't new. And for a while, she let herself believe that this was how it was supposed to be.

But then he kissed her.

And it wasn't bad. There was nothing wrong with it. His lips were soft, his hands were warm, he knew what he was doing. But for some reason, Tara felt wrong.

Like she was trying to force something that wasn't there.

And maybe that would've been fine if it was just the kissing. If it stopped at making out on his couch, at him pulling her into his lap at parties, at his arm draped lazily around her shoulders.

But it didn't stop.

And that was when the real problem started.

Because the first time they had sex, she didn't feel relieved.

She felt nothing.

No spark, no excitement, no rush of pleasure or warmth curling through her stomach. Just the uncomfortable realization that she was waiting for it to feel like something more.

And it never did.

She knew what sex was supposed to feel like—what it was supposed to do to her. But with Chad, it was just... there. Mechanical. Predictable. And all she could think about was whether it would be different if it were a woman.

Would a woman's lips feel softer than Chad's? Would her moans be louder? Would Tara's own moans sound different—less forced, less careful—if she wasn't holding back, if she actually wanted it?

Would the right spots be hit without her having to guide him there?

Would she ache for it the way she was supposed to?

She didn't know.

But she wanted to.

And THAT was the worst part. Because she wasn't supposed to be thinking about this. She wasn't supposed to be comparing. But every time Chad touched her, every time his hands slipped under her shirt, every time he pressed her into the mattress and murmured her name against her skin, she found herself wondering.

Would it feel better?

Would it feel right?

And once that thought was in her head, it wouldn't leave.

No matter how hard she tried, no matter how much she wanted to be normal, it wasn't working.

And with every day that passed, she started to realize—maybe it never would.

That thought alone should have terrified her. Should have made her try harder to make things with Chad work, to prove to herself that this was just a phase, a weird glitch in her brain that she could push through.

But instead, it just made her angry.

Because she had done everything RIGHT. She had played by the rules, followed the script, done exactly what she was supposed to do. And yet, here she was, stuck in her own damn head, questioning things she shouldn’t be questioning.

And it didn't help that you existed.

You weren't someone that necessarily stood out in a crowd—not in the way Mindy did, always loud, always on, impossible to ignore. But Tara knew you.

Everybody did.

Because you weren't just out, you were openly out. Unapologetically. The kind of gay that didn't need to be announced because it was just there. The way you dressed, the way you carried yourself, the way you talked about girls without ever hesitating.

Mindy was the same way, sure, but Mindy was Mindy. She had always been that way—loud, cocky, the self-proclaimed expert on all things queer.

But you? You weren't loud. You weren't in people's faces about it. You just were. And for some reason, that made it so much worse.

Because it meant Tara couldn't ignore you.

And she had tried.

God, had she tried.

But no matter what, her eyes always seemed to find you at parties, leaning against a wall with a drink in hand, laughing at something someone said. Or in class, when you stretched in your seat, the hem of your shirt riding up just a little. Or when you passed by in the hall, chatting with Anika about some girl you had hooked up with the weekend before.

It made Tara's stomach twist in ways she didn't understand.

Because she wasn't jealous. Not really.

So then why did she care?

Why did it bother her so much?

Why did she hate how easy it seemed for you? How you never hesitated, never stumbled over your words, never had to second-guess every single thing you felt?

Maybe that's why she had looked at you that night at the party.

Maybe that's why she had kept looking.

And maybe that's why, when she finally realized you had caught her, she couldn't bring herself to look away.

The party had been the same as every other frat party—loud, overcrowded, the air thick with cheap beer and sweat and the distant scent of weed. The living room was packed, music shaking the walls, bodies pressed together, some dancing, some just using it as an excuse to grope each other. The kitchen was worse, sticky floors and an overworked fridge stuffed with liquor bottles, people shouting over each other as they took shots, beer pong cups scattered across every available surface.

It wasn't Tara's scene. Not really. But Mindy had dragged her out, Anika too, and after a couple of drinks, the haze had settled in just enough to make it bearable.

And then she had seen you.

She hadn't even known you were going to be there. But one second, she was standing near the edge of the living room, half-listening to some guy rant about his business major, and the next, her eyes had locked onto you—and everything else just faded into background noise.

Because you weren't just there.

You were hot.

Tara had always known you were attractive in the way someone KNOWS things without really thinking about it. She had eyes. She wasn't blind. But that night, it hit her. It knocked the air from her lungs, settled thick and heavy in the pit of her stomach, made her pulse in places she shouldn't have been thinking about.

The alcohol made it worse.

She should've been angry—angry that you were here, that you were making her feel things she didn't want to feel. But she wasn't.

She was just staring.

Her grip tightened around her cup, her lips parted slightly as she took you in—your outfit, the way it hugged your body in all the right places, the effortless confidence in the way you carried yourself.

You weren't wearing something basic, like a black cat or a schoolgirl outfit. No, you were dressed as something that exuded confidence, something cocky—mafia boss style, but with a spin that made it impossible to ignore.

A fitted black blazer, tailored to perfection, cinched at the waist with a sleek belt. Underneath, a deep-cut silk blouse, the first few buttons undone just enough to tease, the fabric clinging to your frame in a way that made it hard not to look.

The skirt was short—really short—hugging your hips before stopping dangerously high on your thighs, paired with sheer black stockings that ran smooth down to your heels.

A fake cigar rested between your fingers, just for the effect, and a thin gold chain sat against your collarbone, glinting under the dim party lights. The whole look screamed power, control— trouble.

Tara's body reacted before her brain could catch up.

Her stomach tightened. Her thighs pressed together instinctively, and she felt a rush of heat spread through her—low and needy and completely out of her control.

Because you weren't even trying. You weren't flirting with her, weren't giving her any special attention. You were just existing—laughing with your friends, a drink in hand, head tilting back slightly as you said something that made them all grin.

And yet, Tara felt like she was the one being hunted.

It wasn't fair.

It wasn't normal.

And the second you turned your head, the second your eyes met hers, the smirk that tugged at your lips was enough to make her stomach drop.

Because Tara had never expected you to actually notice her.

She had been staring, sure—longer than she should have, more obviously than she meant to. But the idea of you catching her? The idea of you actually seeing her? That hadn't even crossed her mind.

She was frozen for a second, unsure if she should look away, pretend she hadn’t been blatantly checking you out.

But before she could decide, you were already moving—pushing off the counter with an effortless kind of confidence, weaving through the crowd like you had all the time in the world.

And you didn't hesitate. Didn't stop. Walked straight up to her like you had known her for years, like there was no question about it, like this was something that had always been meant to happen.

For a second, she thought you were going to say something cocky. Something teasing, something about the way she had been looking at you, something that would make her panic spike even higher.

Instead, you had just said her name.

Like it was obvious. Like of course you knew who she was.

Tara didn't even remember what she had said back, because her mind had been caught on you. On the way you leaned in a little when you talked, the way you smelled like expensive perfume and vodka, the way the room was too loud but she could still hear you.

And the worst part? She could barely even keep her gaze up.

Her eyes kept drifting—down to the smooth skin of your collarbone, the gold chain resting against it. Lower, to where your silk blouse was open just enough to show a teasing amount of cleavage.

She had snapped her gaze back up quickly, hoping you hadn't noticed.

You had.

After that, she didn't remember much. At least, not in detail.

She remembered you handing her another drink, remembered the feeling of your fingers brushing hers. She remembered how your lips looked around the rim of your glass, how you licked a drop of alcohol off your bottom lip without thinking. She remembered how close you stood, how the warmth of your body practically wrapped around hers, even though you weren't touching.

And she remembered that the second she was with you, she stopped thinking about HIM.

Chad was somewhere—probably off doing some stupid drinking challenge with his teammates, yelling over a game of beer pong, flexing or showing off or whatever the hell he and his sport-obsessed friends did. But the important thing was that he wasn't here.

And Tara didn’t care.

He didn't cross her mind once. Not when you leaned in to say something against her ear, your breath warm against her skin. Not when you laughed at something she said and touched her arm, your fingers grazing her through the sleeve of her jacket. Not when your eyes flicked down to her lips and back up again, slow, deliberate.

And definitely not when she found herself tilting her head, when the alcohol made her bold enough to not overthink, when she kissed you before she could stop herself.

That part was hazy.

All she knew was that one second, you were standing close, and the next, her lips were on yours. And she didn't regret it. Not even a little.

She didn't know who pulled who. Didn't know how it had escalated so quickly. All she knew was that at some point, your fingers curled around her wrist, and she let you guide her through the crowd, past the bodies pressed together, past the couples making out in dark corners, past the booming music.

And then you were in a bedroom.

And that was where everything really started.

Tara barely remembered how you got there. One moment, the party had been a blur of flashing lights and pounding music, the heat of bodies pressing in on her from all sides.

And then, suddenly, it was just you. Just the two of you, the noise of the party fading behind a closed door, leaving nothing but the sound of her own breathing and the pounding of her pulse.

Fuck.

She should have hesitated. She should have thought about Chad. But she didn't.

Not when you were this close, your scent filling her nose—something dark and sweet, like vanilla and smoke. Not when your fingers brushed her wrist, sending a spark up her arm. Not when your gaze flickered down to her mouth like you already knew exactly what she wanted.

And then your lips were on hers, and—fuck.

It wasn't like kissing Chad. With him, it had always been easy, predictable. She knew what to expect, what it would feel like. But this? This was something else entirely. Your lips were softer, but the way you kissed her was anything but. You didn't just kiss—you took. You grabbed her, pulled her into you, kissed her like you owned her.

Tara barely even noticed when her back hit the door. Not when your hands slid beneath her top, fingers ghosting over her ribs, dragging up her sides. Not when your knee pressed between her thighs, making her suck in a sharp breath.

She had never felt like this before.

With Chad, she had always been able to keep a part of herself detached. But with you? There was no thinking. No overanalyzing. Just the sharp, intoxicating press of your body against hers, the way your mouth trailed down her jaw, her neck, biting just hard enough to make her gasp.

Her hands moved on their own, slipping beneath your blazer, pushing it off your shoulders. She barely had time to register the sound of it hitting the floor before her fingers were on the buttons of your shirt, fumbling as she pulled it open.

And then she saw you.

The smooth curve of your shoulders, the way the dim lighting cast shadows along your stomach. The black lace of your bra, barely covering your chest. She couldn't stop staring. Couldn't stop wanting.

You grinned like you knew exactly what was going through her mind, and then your hands were on her thighs, gripping tight as you lifted her onto the dresser. Her legs parted without hesitation, wrapping around your waist as your lips crashed back against hers.

Tara didn't remember how her top came off, only that suddenly she was half-naked, her back pressed against the mirror, your hands roaming her body like you needed to touch every inch of her.

And then you were lowering yourself, trailing kisses down her chest, over her stomach, sinking to your knees between her thighs.

Her breath hitched.

Chad had never done this.

And when your mouth pressed against her, when your tongue flicked against her in a way that made her spine arch—

She knew.

This was what she had been craving all along.

And Tara still remembered it.

It wasn't just that it had felt good—it was the way it had felt right. The way her body had reacted to every touch, every flick of your tongue, every bite, every fucking thing you did to her like she had been waiting for it her whole life without even knowing.

She had never felt euphoric before. Never felt her limbs go weak, her head go light, her stomach twist with something dangerously close to desperation. But that night, with your hands gripping her thighs, your mouth between them, your voice murmuring something low and filthy against her skin—it was like a switch had flipped.

With Chad, it had always been just...fine. Nice, in the way that it was supposed to be.

He touched her the way a boyfriend should.

He kissed her the way a boyfriend should.

He made sure she was taken care of, in the way that a boyfriend should.

And Tara had always figured that was enough.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

It was the way you didn't just kiss her—you devoured her. Like she was something to be tasted, something to be enjoyed. It was the way your hands gripped her like you needed her closer, the way your nails dragged over her thighs, the way your tongue moved like you knew exactly how to make her fall apart.

And fuck, did she fall apart.

She had never been this loud before. She had never shaken like this, never clutched at the sheets, never let her head fall back, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut as you pulled every single sound out of her like you owned them.

And you did.

Because it wasn't just what you were doing—it was the way you did it. The way you looked up at her with those fucking eyes, the way you didn't stop, not even when she swore she couldn't take any more, not even when her legs trembled around your shoulders.

And when she finally did come apart, gasping your name, head thrown back, body arching, back hitting the mirror so hard she thought it might crack—she had never felt something like that before.

She knew it was wrong.

She should have felt guilty. She should have felt sick to her stomach, ashamed, horrified at what she had just done. She had Chad—sweet, loyal Chad—waiting for her somewhere downstairs, probably wondering where she had disappeared to. She had a boyfriend, and she had just—

But it didn't feel wrong.

It should have. God, it should have. She should have been scrambling for her clothes, should have been choking on regret, should have been thinking of ways to explain it away. But instead, all she could feel was the aftershocks still pulsing through her body, the ghost of your hands on her skin, the warm, lazy hum in her limbs.

It didn't feel like a mistake.

It didn't feel like something to regret.

It felt like something she had needed.

But she should have pushed you away.

She should have looked at you with disgust, should have spat out some excuse about being drunk, about making a mistake, about how this wasn’t her, about how this couldn’t happen again.

But she didn't.

Because it didn't feel like a mistake.

And when you moved closer, when your fingers trailed lazily over her bare skin, when your lips brushed against her neck as if you were inviting her to take more—to take everything—Tara didn't pull away.

Instead, before she could even think, before she could stop herself, she heard herself asking if you could do this again sometime.

The words had slipped out so easily, like she had been waiting to say them, like they had been sitting on the tip of her tongue for months, just waiting for the chance to be spoken.

And when you smirked, when you leaned in and murmured something she could barely register through the haze in her head, when your lips brushed over hers one last time before pulling away—Tara knew.

She wasn't going to stop.

She couldn’t stop.

Because no matter how wrong it was, no matter how much she should have felt guilty—she wanted it. And that was the worst part.

Or maybe the worst part was that it happened again.

She should have known it would.

Because the moment she walked out of that frat house, the moment she left you behind in that bedroom, she couldn't stop thinking about you. About what had happened. About how fucking good it had felt.

She should have felt guilty.

She should have gone home, called Chad, done something to make this feel like a mistake. But instead, she laid in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, body still humming, hands gripping the sheets because she couldn't fucking sleep—because she wanted more.

And then, a few days later, she got a text.

meet me in ten.

No context. No explanation. Just an address and a ticking clock.

She shouldn't have gone.

But she did.

She told herself she wasn't going for that, that she just wanted to see what you had to say, that she just wanted to—fuck, she didn't know. But she found herself getting in her car anyway, her hands tightening around the wheel the closer she got.

The address you had sent led her to an empty parking lot just outside of town, the kind of place people went when they didn't want to be seen. Your car was parked in the farthest corner, backed up against a row of trees, tinted windows hiding whatever happened inside.

It was the perfect spot.

And Tara knew exactly why you had picked it.

Her heart was pounding when she parked beside you. Her body was already warm, already tingling with anticipation as she climbed into your passenger seat.

And the second you looked at her—smirking like you knew she had been thinking about this all fucking week—she realized she had been waiting for this to happen again.

That was how it started.

One meeting turned into two.

Two turned into three.

And then, before she even knew how it had happened, it became a routine.

Every Sunday.

A text. A location. Your car parked somewhere no one would find you. And then hands on skin, lips crashing together, nails dragging, teeth biting, clothes being pushed aside because neither of you ever had the patience to take them off completely.

She knew it was fucked up.

She knew it was wrong.

But that didn't stop her from showing up every damn week.

And the worst part wasn't that she was lying.

It was how she was lying.

Because of all the excuses she could have used—homework, hangouts with Mindy, anything that actually made sense—the one she found herself using the most was that she was going to church.

Fucking church.

She didn't even believe in anything. Had never been the type to sit through a sermon, had never even entertained the idea of faith, and yet—somehow—Chad never questioned it.

Maybe it was because he was just that gullible. Maybe it was because he wasn't used to suspecting her of anything. Or maybe it was because, despite knowing her for over a year, he didn't know her as well as he thought he did.

Either way, every Sunday when she told him she couldn't hang out, when she said she had to go to mass, when she put on some half-assed ugh my mom’s making me go tone, he just accepted it.

Told her to have fun.

Asked her what the sermon was about later.

And Tara had to sit there, staring at her phone, trying to come up with some bullshit answer while still catching her breath.

Because she hadn't been in church.

She hadn't been in church.

She hadn't been praying.

She had been on her knees, mouth wrapped around your cocky little smirk, hands digging into your thighs. She had been moaning a name that wasn't his, head thrown back against the seat, panting like she had just run a marathon.

She had been gripping the leather interior with trembling fingers, legs wrapped around your head with the strength of metal bars, back arching so hard she thought she might snap in two.

And Chad had gone about his Sunday completely clueless.

___

"Fuck." Tara moaned, breath hitching, nails digging into your back as her head hit the window.

Like every other Sunday.

The windows were fogged up, streaked with condensation, the air inside thick with heat and the sharp scent of sweat.

The car rocked slightly with every movement, the backseat cramped but familiar, the leather sticking to her skin. It had been like this every time—fast, desperate, no hesitation.

You'd barely gotten inside before she was pulling you to the back, mouths crashing together, hands tugging at clothes, both of you too impatient to take your time.

Now, she was spread out beneath you, thighs trembling against your shoulders, fingers tangled in your hair as your tongue worked her over like you had all the time in the world.

Her skirt pushed up, undergarments long forgotten, her shirt still halfway on, bunched up under her ribs from when you'd shoved it out of the way. The feeling of your mouth on her was enough to send her spiraling, but it was the way you held her there—firm, unrelenting, like you had no plans of stopping anytime soon—that made her body shake with every flick of your tongue.

She could hear herself, the obscene wet sounds mixing with her ragged breaths, the moans she couldn't hold back no matter how hard she bit her lip. She had never sounded like this before, not with Chad, not with anyone.

It was a different kind of pleasure—overwhelming, raw, like her entire body was caught in a storm she couldn't control. Every Sunday, it was the same. You had her unraveling, melting under your touch, forgetting everything except the way you made her feel.

She didn't even realize she was grinding against your face until your grip tightened on her thighs, holding her still as you sucked at her clit just right. Her back arched, a sharp cry spilling from her lips, her mind blanking completely. Fuck. She was close. Already. Again. It was always like this with you.

And Chad had no idea.

Tara's head tilted back, lips parting, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps. "Oh my—fuck, just like that—" Her voice broke around the words, half a moan, half a plea.

She could barely think, her mind slipping into static, body tightening under your touch. Every drag of your tongue sent another pulse of pleasure through her, her hands fisting the fabric of your jacket like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

The air was thick, heavy, carrying the sound of her moans, the quiet creak of the leather beneath her, the wet, obscene noises of your mouth working her over.

It should've been embarrassing—the way she was falling apart so quickly, the way she could already feel the heat coiling in her stomach, twisting tighter and tighter—but it wasn't. Not with you.

Your grip on her thighs tightened as you hummed against her, and Tara nearly lost it. A broken cry ripped from her throat, her body jerking, hips bucking up against your face. "Oh, shit—" Her fingers scrambled for something to hold onto, one slipping into your hair, gripping tight. "Don't stop—don't—"

Like you ever would.

She felt the way you smirked against her, cocky as ever, before your tongue flicked over her clit in slow, deliberate strokes that had her whimpering, her legs shaking. "Jesus, you're so—fuck." Her voice was wrecked, raw, words tumbling out before she could stop them.

She wanted to say something more—something coherent—but the way you sucked at her clit, the way your nails dug into her hips, the way she could already feel herself spiraling again—

She was gone.

Tara came with a strangled moan, her whole body tensing, back arching, thighs tightening around your head like she never wanted to let go. Her hands gripped your hair, pulling, as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her, leaving her breathless, trembling. Her head lolled back against the window, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted as she tried to catch her breath.

And then she felt it—your hands smoothing over her thighs, your mouth pulling away, your breath warm against her skin. She forced her eyes open, still hazy, only to be met with your gaze—dark, intense, that fucking smirk tugging at your lips. Like you knew exactly what you'd just done to her.

But you weren't judging.

You just watched her, taking in the way she was still trying to recover, the way her chest rose and fell, the way her skin was flushed. Then, slowly, you dragged your hands down her legs, prying them from where they were still locked around you, letting them fall slack against the leather seat.

"So," you mused, voice low, teasing. "What excuse did you use this time?"

Tara bit her lip, still catching her breath, her fingers twitching against the seat as she let out a shaky little laugh. "Would you believe me if I said shopping?"

You raised an eyebrow, amused.

Shopping. That had been the excuse this time. And for a moment, Chad had actually questioned it—had cocked his head, confused, when she told him she was heading out alone. Shopping wasn't really her thing, at least not solo. But then he just shrugged, distracted by something on his phone, and that was that. No suspicion, no follow-up questions.

Tara had almost felt guilty for how easy it was. Almost.

She should have felt guilty now, too—sitting there, legs still weak, skin still flushed, while you smirked at her like you knew exactly how ruined she was.

But the moment she saw you shift, reaching for your bag, zipping it open with a deliberate slowness, guilt was the last thing on her mind.

"Well," you murmured, pulling something from inside, "I've done some shopping."

Tara's breath caught when she saw what it was.

A strap.

It was sleek, black, and bigger than Chad's actual one—noticeably so.

Tara swallowed. You and she had talked about this before. The first time you brought it up, she had barely hesitated before agreeing, because she had been sure—certain—that the whole P in V thing would be different with you. Better. More enjoyable. And after everything else you'd done to her, she had no doubt about that.

Still, she found herself shifting in place, heart picking up, torn between excitement and nerves. She hadn't done this with you before. Hadn't done this with any girl before. But fuck—just the sight of it, the thought of it, had heat curling low in her stomach all over again.

Tara gulped, eyes locked on the strap, but her mind was already ahead—already picturing it all before it even happened. How it would feel. How you would feel.

You didn't move yet. Just scanned her face, like you were waiting for some hesitation, some sign that she would be scared off. But she wasn't. She couldn't be.

Your smirk deepened, head tilting just slightly, the unspoken question clear in your eyes—want to?

Tara nodded. Too fast. Too desperate. She knew that. But she did.

So she moved without thinking, shifting onto all fours, her knees pressing into the worn leather of the backseat. Her back arched slightly, her hands splayed out in front of her as she tried to steady herself, breathing uneven.

Behind her, she could hear you—hear the rustle of fabric, the soft sound of buckles being adjusted, the quiet exhale you let out as you fit the strap into place. Then the warmth of your hand running down her back, over her hips, fingers brushing between her thighs before you paused.

Her stomach tensed at the thought. At the thought.

She swallowed hard, her fingers curling into fists where they rested against the seat. Then your hands were on her again—trailing down her spine, over the curve of her hips, fingertips brushing against her thighs, teasing her. She shuddered at the touch, hips rolling back instinctively, already seeking more.

You let out a quiet chuckle, low and teasing, before pressing yourself against her, letting her feel the weight of it. She sucked in a breath, her entire body tightening at the sensation alone.

You asked if she was ready.

She barely managed to whisper yes before you pushed in.

Her mouth fell open, a sharp, broken sound leaving her as her body stretched around you. Her arms nearly gave out beneath her, and her head dropped forward, forehead pressing against the window.

It was almost like the pleasure rushed straight to her eyes, like it was so intense she couldn't even see for a moment—just a wave of heat, of pressure, of something she had never felt before.

The first thrust was slow, teasing, like you were letting her feel every inch of it before pulling back just as carefully. Even that had her sucking in a sharp breath, fingers twitching against the seat beneath her.

The stretch, the fullness—it was overwhelming in a way she hadn't expected. It was nothing like before. It was so much more. And when you did it again, thrusting just a little deeper, just a little harder, a gasp tore from her lips.

You didn't stop. Your hips snapped forward again, finding a rhythm that was steady but deep, every push forcing her further into the seat. The car rocked just slightly with each movement, the damp heat of the space making every sensation ten times more intense. The sounds of it—of skin meeting skin, of wet, filthy noises between her legs—filled her ears, mixed with the ragged breaths leaving both of you.

And the moans.

Tara bit her lip, trying to quiet herself, but it was impossible. A moan ripped from her throat as you hit a spot that made her whole body jolt, the muscles in her stomach tensing. Her head tipped forward, forehead pressing harder into the window, fogging it up even more. It was getting harder to hold herself up, her arms already trembling from the effort of staying up on all fours, but she couldn't bring herself to care.

Not when you sounded like that.

The breathy little grunts leaving your lips—low and raspy, like you were getting just as lost in it as she was—made something coil tight in her stomach. She wished she could see you. She tried to picture your face behind her, how your brows must've been furrowed, how your mouth was probably open, panting, the way your jaw clenched every time she clenched around you.

"Jesus—" The word came out of her before she could stop it, breathless and desperate, her voice shaking. She felt you smirk against her back, your lips ghosting over her spine before nipping at her shoulder, sending a shiver down her body.

"What's wrong, baby?" you murmured, voice dripping with amusement.

Tara's breath hitched.

It wasn't just what you said. It was how you said it—so low, so full of amusement, like you knew exactly what you were doing to her, like you loved watching her fall apart beneath you. And baby. Fuck, she hadn't expected that. The way it sounded coming from your mouth—rough, teasing, possessive—sent heat surging through her body.

She whimpered, fingers clawing at the seat. Her hips rolled back against you, desperate, wordlessly begging for more.

Then.

A buzzing cut through the thick air, sharp and insistent, demanding attention.

Tara barely registered it at first, still too caught up in the aftershocks of everything—her heavy breathing, the way her body still pulsed around you, the lingering heat of your hands gripping her hips. But then you stopped moving, and her moan died in her throat, leaving only the sound of her own ragged breaths and that damn vibration filling the car.

Then she turned her head slightly, trying to glance back at you.

You didn't look worried. Not even a little. If anything, you looked amused. Your eyes gleamed with something dark, something teasing, as you tilted your head toward the phone in a silent suggestion. Check it.

Tara swallowed. Her whole body felt hot, sweat sticking to her skin, thighs still twitching around you. The last thing she wanted to do was answer her phone right now, but the vibrating didn't stop. Whoever it was, they weren't giving up.

She exhaled sharply, adjusting her weight on her knees before reaching forward, stretching as far as she could without moving off of you. It wasn't easy. Her back arched deeper, pushing her against you even more, making her even more aware of where you still were, thick and unmoving inside her.

She tried to keep quiet, to focus, but the angle sent a wave of pressure through her core, and a quiet, breathy moan slipped out before she could stop it.

She clenched her jaw, swallowing hard, and finally grasped the phone. Her fingers were slick with sweat, struggling to get a grip as she flipped it over in her palm. She held it tightly, worried it might slip right out of her hand with how weak she felt.

Her breath was uneven as she turned the screen over, eyes flicking to the caller ID.

Her stomach dropped.

Chad.

Tara's grip on the phone tightened as she stared at Chad's name on the screen, her pulse hammering against her ribs.

Her first thought was that she couldn't possibly answer. There was no way. Not like this—shaky, breathless, body still stretched and filled, the heat of you pressing against her skin. She wasn't even sure if she could form a coherent sentence right now, let alone talk to Chad without him immediately knowing something was off.

Slowly, as if in a daze, she tilted the phone just slightly so you could see.

Your gaze flicked down, taking in the name without any hint of concern, and Tara swore she saw the corner of your mouth twitch up like you were actually enjoying this. Like it amused you how completely fucked she was in this moment.

She gulped, feeling her breath hitch, fingers twitching around the device. Her mind spun, spiraling into every possible excuse she could come up with, every reason she had to not answer. Maybe she could just ignore it—say she was busy, say she didn't hear it, say her phone died. He wouldn't suspect anything, right? He never did. He never even—

Your voice cut through her thoughts, low and smooth. "Answer it."

Tara's breath caught in her throat. She blinked, eyes snapping to you, like she wasn't sure she'd heard you right. "What?"

Your smirk deepened. You leaned in, just enough for her to feel your breath ghost over her shoulder. And then, slower this time—deliberate, teasing, dripping with amusement—you repeated, "Answer the phone."

Her body tensed. Her stomach flipped. Her throat felt like it had closed up completely. There was no way. She shook her head, already stammering, "I—I can't—"

But before she could even finish, you gripped her hips and pulled her back onto the strap, burying yourself deeper with one swift motion.

Tara choked on a loud, surprised moan, her body jolting, the phone nearly slipping from her fingers.

She barely had a second to recover before your voice came again, low and firm and completely in control.

"Answer him, Tara."

So she did.

Because she couldn't say no to you—not when you made her feel like this. Not when her whole body was on fire, every nerve ignited, pulsing with heat. Not when you fucked her like you did, when you had her melting into every single touch, when you knew exactly how to make her fall apart.

Her finger shook as it hovered over the screen, hesitation tightening in her chest. But then, with a sharp inhale, she slid her thumb across to accept the call, bringing the phone up to her ear.

The device was warm, heated from the stuffy air in the car, and when it pressed against her flushed skin, she felt the contrast—felt just how overheated she was, how wrecked she already looked. Her breath wavered as she tried to pull herself together, forcing a swallow past the lump in her throat.

Then, as steadily as she could manage—sweet, happy, normal—she breathed out a soft, "Hi, baby."

It almost sounded real. Almost. If not for the slight tremble in her voice, the way it wavered at the edges, betraying her.

Chad didn't seem to notice. "Hey, babe," he greeted easily, his voice light and casual. "You still at the mall? They're closing soon, just wondering when you're heading back."

Tara's stomach twisted. Still at the mall. She barely stopped herself from laughing at the irony. She hadn't been anywhere near the mall. She hadn't been walking around all day, hadn't spent the afternoon wandering stores, browsing through clothes, or carrying shopping bags.

No, she'd spent it in your lap. On her back, on her knees, on all fours. She'd spent it with your hands all over her, your mouth on her, making her come over and over again until her legs had trembled and she thought she might actually black out from the intensity of it.

Chad kept talking, completely oblivious. "Mindy and Anika are having a movie night. Thought we could go, but if you're too tired from walking around all day, I get it."

Tara parted her lips, just about to answer—

And then you moved.

Her breath hitched violently as you pushed back inside her, slow but deep, making her grip the phone tighter. Her eyes fluttered, jaw clenching as she struggled not to react.

You weren't done with her. Not even close.

Her head dipped forward, eyes squeezing shut as you dragged out again, the pace torturously slow. She could hear it, could hear how wet she was, how easily you moved inside her, and the realization sent another wave of heat crashing through her body.

She started nodding—at nothing, at Chad's words, at whatever he was saying—just to distract herself. Just to have something to focus on besides the way you were ruining her.

But then you picked up the pace.

Faster. Harder.

Tara's breathing grew heavier, her mouth falling open as her fingers gripped the phone like a lifeline.

Chad finished talking, clearly waiting for a response.

She gulped, trying to focus, trying so hard to make her voice sound normal.

"Y-yeah, uhm—"

Her breath caught, her body jerking as you rolled your hips just right. She had to bite her lip—hard—to keep herself from making a sound.

You weren't making it easy.

You were deep, hitting the perfect spot every single time, making her entire body feel like it was burning.

Her lips trembled, fingers tightening around the phone as she struggled to push out the words. "I'd—" she inhaled sharply, voice breaking, "—I'd love to go."

Her thighs twitched. She tried so hard to keep herself still, to not move against you, to not push back for more.

She could feel your smirk. Could practically hear the amusement in the way you exhaled through your nose, in the way you didn't stop, didn't slow down.

She sucked in another shaky breath.

"I—" she panted, each syllable shaky, "I'm leaving soon. I'll—" her voice hitched again as you thrust just right, "—I'll text you when I-I'm done."

There was a short pause before Chad's voice came through again, casual, completely unaware.

"Why are you so out of breath?"

Tara's heart practically stopped.

She had to think fast. Her brain scrambled for something, anything, that would make sense, that would explain why she sounded like this.

"I—" her voice wavered, still breathless, "I'm just—trying to make it to Nordstrom before they close."

The lie slipped out before she could even process it.

And the worst part?

He fucking believed it.

"Alright," he said, not suspicious at all. Not even a little. "Just text me when you're on your way home."

Tara could barely focus, barely even hear him over the pounding of her own heart.

And then—then—he added it. The three words she'd been waiting for, dreading, knowing it was coming.

"I love you."

Tara squeezed her eyes shut. "I love you too," she panted out, forcing the words past her lips, rushing to get it over with—

But then you thrust forward. Hard.

So fucking hard.

A sharp cry ripped from her throat before she could stop it, before she could even think. It wasn't just a moan—it was loud, raw, completely unfiltered, and so obviously not the sound of someone running through a mall.

Her eyes flew open, her whole body freezing as panic crashed over her like a wave.

Oh, fuck.

Her mouth hung open, heart hammering, hands clenching around the phone. She felt like she couldn't breathe.

"What the fuck was that?" He let out a small laugh. Not mad. Not suspicious. Just genuinely confused.

Tara's stomach twisted.

She could feel your breath against her skin. Could feel the way you stilled, the way you were watching her, waiting to see what she'd say.

Her brain was a fucking mess, completely scrambled, thoughts running too fast, too panicked.

She had to fix this.

Quickly, she squeezed her eyes shut again. "I stubbed my toe," she rushed out, her voice tight, breathless. Then she forced out a hiss through her teeth, as if to sell it. "Fuck, that hurt."

Chad chuckled on the other end of the line, that same stupid little laugh of his that made Tara's stomach twist. Completely oblivious. Completely unaware of what was happening, what had been happening for weeks now. "God, babe, you're so clumsy."

Tara barely managed to force out a weak "Mhm." It was all she could get out without completely giving herself away.

But the truth was, that sound wasn't for him.

It was for you.

Because she was desperate.

And she needed you to keep going.

She was so fucking close—every muscle in her body was tensed, her thighs trembling where they pressed against the leather seats, her breath coming out in shallow little gasps as she tried to keep some level of composure. And you knew it. You fucking knew it.

She felt the way your hands flexed against her waist, felt the teasing drag of your fingertips as they traced up her stomach, slow, calculated, making her shiver. Felt the way your hips barely moved now, holding back, waiting, making her want to fucking scream.

She wasn't going to make it if Chad kept talking.

Her jaw clenched, and she could already feel herself slipping, feel the heat pooling lower, spreading through her entire body. The pleasure was too much, too overwhelming, and she couldn't be on the phone with Chad when she came.

Her fingers gripped the phone so tightly her knuckles turned white, the screen slick against her sweaty palm. She couldn't even register what Chad was saying anymore, his voice a distant, meaningless hum in the background.

"Well, alright," he finally said, sounding distracted, like he was half paying attention, "just hurry up before they start the movie without us."

You shifted behind her, your fingers pressing just a little harder against her burning skin, and Tara's breath hitched.

She couldn't do this anymore.

Her voice came out rushed, breathless, almost strained—"Yeah, I will—bye."

She fumbled with the phone, barely managing to end the call before her entire body gave out, slumping forward onto her forearms as she let out a shaking exhale.

And then, the second the call disconnected, you slammed into her again.

Her forehead pressed against the window as she let out a choked gasp, her entire body trembling. She was so fucking close—so close she could taste it, feel it in every inch of her, her thighs burning, her back arching as she tried to push herself back against you.

She wasn't even thinking anymore. Couldn't think.

Not with how fucking deep you were, how perfectly you hit every spot inside her that had her toes curling and her fingers twitching uselessly against the seat.

She felt your hands tighten around her hips, grounding her, holding her exactly where you wanted her. And then—

"Good job, baby."

Tara's breath stuttered.

"You did so good."

And that—that was the last straw.

Her entire body tensed, pleasure hitting her so hard it nearly knocked the air from her lungs. And then she broke.

She came with a loud, uncontrollable moan, her back arching, her arms giving out beneath her. The orgasm ripped through her in wave after wave of unbearable pleasure, leaving her shaking, gasping, crying out as you kept going, dragging it out, making it last until she couldn't even fucking breathe.

The car was silent except for the sound of heavy breathing. Tara felt like she could still hear the blood rushing through her ears, her body tingling in the aftermath. She barely registered the feeling of you pulling out until the loss of contact made her whimper slightly, her legs trembling as she collapsed fully onto the seat beneath her.

Her arms felt weak. Her thighs burned. And her chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath. You weren't much better, panting as you sat back, but fuck—Tara was completely spent.

Still, she did what she always did. Without a word, she forced herself to sit up on shaking arms and began fixing her clothes, her fingers clumsily pulling her underwear back up, straightening her skirt, smoothing out the wrinkles in her shirt. She was still flushed, her skin still burning, and her hair was an absolute mess, but at least she didn't look completely wrecked.

You watched her, an amused glint in your eyes, and then, just as she was running her fingers through her tangled hair, you smirked.

"How's that toe you stubbed?"

Tara froze for a second, then let out a breathless laugh, rolling her eyes as she shoved you lightly. "Fuck you," she muttered, but there was no real heat behind it—just the kind of teasing exasperation that made you grin wider.

She reached down, grabbing her shoes from where they had ended up discarded on the floor. She slipped them on, lacing up her white Converse with slightly shaky fingers. When she was done, she glanced back at you, hesitating for just a second before pushing open the car door.

The cool night air hit her instantly, and she took a deep breath, stepping out onto the pavement. But before she shut the door, she turned back around, looking at you over her shoulder.

"Next Sunday?"

You smirked, leaning back against the seat as you met her gaze.

"Next Sunday."

And with that, she shut the door and walked away.

[jupote]

This one got away from me but I had a ton of fun writing this!

Human were so useless that you could find no use for them aside for your little toys. You'd taken blood bags and lovers both, most of the degenerates weren't picky to which they were. A cute plaything here, a roughish boy toy there. Sometimes multiple at once, just for some variety. Never had they produced offspring, with your rather poor constitution you figured it was impossible to do so.

So imagine your surprise when you smell your scent wandering the streets. You had to pause, debate whether this was some kind of trap to lure you out.

It wasn't until you heard a sniffle, the tiniest sound you've ever heard, that you ventured after the smell. After your smell. As you followed the trail, you could smell the difference in it. While it wasn't yours entirely, the other scents were completely overpowered by yours.

As you followed the trail, it led you to an alleyway. A dirty, disgusting, trash filled, sex smelling alleyway. But still you went on, wrinkling your nose and finding the trail.

It was hard to pinpoint the exact moment you saw her as one second you were staring straight ahead and the next, you were face to face with a familiar set of eyes. Ruby red almond shaped eyes stared at you, unshed tears providing a glossy finish to the orbs.

"You, child," you spoke, voice commanding attention. "Why do you smell like me?" You asked.

The child, so tiny you could hold her with one arm, looked away and gave a small shrug. "Where are your parents? I demand to speak to them." You ordered, watching the child flinch from under you.

"Pa 'ied m'nths ago." The little thing mumbled, words slurred. "'ama lef' days ago. J'st Apa now."

"Apa w'nt be 'lone 'ny more?" The child asked, head burying itself in your neck.

You stared at the dirt covered, sickly pale child in front of you. You could kill it, quite easily in fact. Nothing could stop you from sinking your fangs into the tiny neck and having a little snack before heading home.

Scoffing at the idea, you grabbed the child and held it against your chest. There was barely enough blood to support the child, much less fill you with anything but boredom.

With the child resting on your elbow you found that yes, you could easily hold it with one arm. The thing couldn't have weighed more than 30 pounds, if even that. "Well that won't do. Come with me, I shall get you cleaned up, fed, and then we will discuss why you look and smell like me." You said, even as the child all but slumped against your shoulder.

You hesitated to answer, though ultimately you knew what it was. "No. Apa won't be alone anymore. Apa won't ever be alone again," you promised as you brought the sleeping child back to your home.

---

It was hours later that the child woke up again. In the time, you took a rag and wiped away all the dirt from her face, neck, arms and legs. You'd rather not have any dirt brought into your house but waiting for the child to wake up was the best course of action, lest you set off any kind of reaction with her.

So wait you did, meditating on the chair next to the bed you laid the child on. It was quiet, almost peaceful. If it wasn't for the insistent stare glued onto your form, you could even call it the most restful meditation you've had in years.

"Why must you stare at me." You asked the owner of the stare, opening your eyes to see the child fully.

She sat huddled under the blanket, forming a cacoon around her with only her big eyes pearing through. "Who 're you?" She asked, words less slurred although there was still a hint of exhaustion.

"My name is-" you paused, wracking your brain for your name. You hadn't heard the word in years. Your little playthings had taken to calling you master, so much so that you gave up trying to get them to call you your name after the first couple of years. "Cyrus. You may call my Cyrus."

"Why'du stop?" She asked, eyes curious is the mischievous way only a toddler can have.

"I hesitated because I forgot my name." You explained, standing up from the chair and dusting yourself of invisible debris.

"Why'du f'rg't your name?" Another question left her as she followed you with her eyes.

"No one has called me by my name for years longer than your bloodline has been alive. Speaking of your bloodline, who were your parents?" You asked, standing in front of the child and staring down at her.

She seemed to shrink in on herself at the question, lowering her eyes away from yours. "Papa 'ied wh'n it was cold cold. N mama w'nt to get Apa food wh'n Apa said she was hungry. Apa made mama go 'way." Tears filled the childs voice as she hiccuped the last few words.

You stared at the child as she shook in grief. Judging by how skinny and dirty she was when you first picked her up, she'd been alone for more than a few days. Either that, or they were already in a shitty situation to begin with.

As a centuries-old vampire, you thought you'd grown detached from humanity, not caring about its ultimate fate. That is, until you learned that you had a single living descendant, a child whose parents had just died. Turns out you do care.

[ramp-it-up]

Trouble in Mind

Summary: Las Vegas, 1952. James Buchanan Barnes is the newest, and youngest, Capo in town. But amid the glitz and shadows of the Strip, he never expects to find you, the beautiful singer who vanished from his life six years ago without a trace. Bucky wants you back. And he wants answers. But you're only willing to give him one of those things.

Pairing: Mafia!Bucky Barnes x Lounge Singer!Reader

A/N: This is an absolute fever dream inspired by #BuckyBarnesBirthdayBingo by @avengers-assemble-bingo. This fulfills the square: Mafia Bucky.

I went back to 50's Vegas because I need another world to get lost in. This is a little longer because this world is so fetch. I can't quite decide if he is going to be dark!Mafia! Bucky after this. Let me know what you think! Please reblog, comment, and like!

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. Angst. Lots of cigarette smoking, longing, forbidden romance, Steve and Sam (they are warnings!), Bucky is an ass, cocky Bucky, smooth talker Bucky, young love, heart break, a slap (which he deserves), rough sex, wall sex, 50's foundation garments, long time no sex, oral (f receiving) squirting praise kink, raw p in v, lies, deceit, and crime, along with 1950's race relations and allusions to Jim Crow. Whew.

I do not have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

-------

Las Vegas, 1952

Vegas glittered at night.

Neon lights buzzed, the air thick with cigarette smoke and money. And tonight, a set of eyes was watching you that you thought you’d left far behind. 

You felt his gaze before you even saw him. It burned into you from the darkest corner of the club. The kind of stare that made your skin prickle, which was both a warning and a temptation.

Bucky.

You’d heard a new Capo was coming to take over the casino, an up and comer from the East Coast, one of the youngest Bosses ever. 

You never imagined it would be Bucky Barnes.

------ 

Brooklyn, 1946

Bucky saw you before you ever looked his way.

James Buchanan Barnes was fresh out of the war and already sinking into the life waiting for him back home.

The one his mother prayed he’d stay away from. 

The one he walked into anyway.

The scent of fresh bread drifted from the bakery down the block as Bucky leaned outside the corner store, trading laughs with his boys, cigarette dangling from his fingers, watching the world pass him by.

Then you walked past, on the way to your vocal lessons.

Your head was high, shoulders squared, exuding the kind of confidence that was ingrained. Your dress clung just right, swaying with each step, and Bucky swore he forgot how to breathe.

He knew your type, a daddy’s girl, from a family with expectations. A good girl from Bed-Stuy, the kind who kept her nose clean and didn’t look twice at trouble.

Trouble, like him.

Down on the corner, they could hear your voice carry over the city noise, rising like a bird above the clatter of the el train.

Lark. That’s what they called you when you weren’t listening. Never to your face.

They knew better than to get too close, and Bucky knew better than to look too long.

But he looked anyway.

And when you finally met his eyes, something in you flickered.

Your father had warned you about guys like Bucky Barnes. 

‘Young punks’, he called them, hanging outside that shop owned by the local boss. Nothing but dead ends and broken hearts. He told you to keep your head high and your eyes forward, and to remember who you were. 

And if that warning wasn’t clear enough, there was another, unspoken one layered beneath it: Girls like you don’t mix with boys like him. Not in this world.

But when Bucky looked at you with those blue eyes, you knew you were already ruined. 

He found ways to get close. 

Catching your eye when you passed by, a slow smirk when you looked away too fast. Holding the door open a second too long, letting his fingers brush yours when he handed over your change. Words, always words, low and teasing, dangerous for a girl with a mind like yours. 

Words were your weakness.

"You gonna keep pretendin’ you don’t see me, Doll?" he asked one evening, stepping into your path as you left the bakery. 

You could smell his cologne and feel his heat and why were you thinking that his lips were nice? What was the tingle in your lower back that you just knew would go away if he touched you there?

You shook your head, remembering you couldn’t entertain this.

"You gonna keep acting like it don’t matter?" you shot back, heart pounding. 

You continued on your way but that night you couldn’t sleep for thoughts of him. 

One day, he whistled as you walked by. And that day, you stopped.

"You want a problem, Barnes?"

He smirked, looking you over blatantly and licking his lips.

"A problem’s not what I want, Doll. Just enjoyin’ the view."

That should’ve been the end of it. But it wasn’t.

You should’ve ignored him. Should’ve listened to your father. But you didn’t.

Because Bucky Barnes had a way of making himself impossible to ignore.

It was stolen glances at first, then hushed conversations on the stoop when the sun was setting. His voice curled around your name, making it sound like something precious. It was the thrill of his hand ghosting over yours, his fingers rough but careful, like he was afraid you’d pull away.

Except you never did.

You knew the risks. You knew people talked. In a world that kept its lines drawn thick and unyielding, Bucky chasing after you was a dangerous thing. 

But Bucky never cared about lines.

He didn't care when people whispered, when your father tightened the reins, when your friends warned you that even if he wasn’t afraid, the world wouldn’t be kind.

“You scared?” he asked one night, his voice soft but steady.

"Of what?"

"Of what happens if you let yourself want this as bad as I do.”

You should have been. But you weren’t.

At first, you told yourself it was just curiosity, just a bit of rebellion before you settled down and did what was expected of you. But curiosity turned into something more, something dangerous. 

Something like love.

Because when he kissed you for the first time, heat pressing against heat in the shadow of an alleyway, you didn’t care about the rules. Bucky tasted like smoke and sin and the promise of something reckless. And suddenly, all the warnings in the world didn’t matter.

Didn’t matter that Brooklyn had unspoken rules. Because Bucky knew what he wanted. And he knew you wanted him back. 

He savored those stolen nights in dark alleys, the way you melted under his touch, the way you let yourself need him, even if only when no one else could see.

And you knew that it wasn’t just about the thrill of sneaking around, or the way he could make your breath hitch with a single look. It was about him, the way he softened when it was just the two of you. The way his fingers traced slow patterns on your skin, memorizing you like you were something sacred.

The way he made you feel like you belonged to him.

Maybe you did. Because you gave him your innocence. 

But love like that didn’t come without consequences. 

What Bucky hadn’t expected, what he hadn’t planned for, was how deep he’d fall for you, how much he’d care.

You weren’t just a good time. You weren’t just a secret thrill. You were it.

The one thing that made the rest of the world fade away.

And maybe that’s why he didn’t see it coming.

One day you were there, warm and real beneath his hands. And the next, you were gone.

No warning. No note. No goodbye. Just vanished, into thin air.

And for six years, he told himself it didn’t matter. That if you wanted to leave, then fine. That he wasn’t the type to chase ghosts.

But then he saw you again, standing under the lights of a Vegas stage, your voice carving its way through the smoky haze.

And in that moment, Bucky Barnes knew one thing for certain.

This time, he wasn’t letting you run.

—-

Vegas, 1952

The man that you had to leave in the middle of the night was sitting in the lounge that you sang in. The man that you dreamed about at night as you sang love songs was right here in the room with you.

And you didn’t know how to act.

You should have run. But you didn’t.

He was seated in the VIP section, flanked by two other men in sharp suits, but he was the only one that mattered. The way he lounged, cigarette between his fingers, watching you like he never relinquished his ownership of you, made your head spin.

—--

Bucky leaned back in his seat, cigarette burning low between his fingers, letting the familiar hum of the casino settle into his bones: the money, the women, the men who thought they were untouchable.

Las Vegas glowed like sin, neon and greed dripping down its streets. It wasn’t Brooklyn, but it had its own kind of pull, its own kind of power. And now, it belonged to him.

It all revolved around him.

But none of it held his attention. Not like you did.

He saw you before you saw him, and for a moment, the world tilted as the air sucked straight out of the room.

Then you stepped onto that stage, looking like something spun from a dream, and for the first time in years, Bucky almost believed in fate.

He’d spent too long clawing his way up in this world to let anyone, or anything, decide his future for him. But seeing you again? It felt like something supernatural.

Because here you were.

In his city.

Singing like you owned the damn room.

You had changed. Not just older, not just more poised. It was in the way you carried yourself, the way you commanded the stage with a presence that made every other woman in the world fade to nothing.

And your body. It was a marvel, showcased in shimmering fabric that clung to curves he remembered all too well.

Now you had fuller hips and softer edges; your body was made to be held. If he got his hands on you again, he knew there would be more of you to worship, to savor.

You weren’t that wide-eyed girl from Brooklyn anymore. And yet, you were still his Lark.

He saw the exact moment you felt his gaze, the subtle tension in your spine, the way your fingers curled just a little tighter around the mic. Even after all these years, you could still feel him.

Then your eyes found him in the dim glow of the club, and Bucky saw it, the sharp inhale, the slight part of your lips, as if you were about to say his name.

It was enough to make his chest ache.

—--

You should’ve kept walking.

You should’ve ignored the butterflies in your belly and that tingle in your back that only Bucky Barnes had been able to inspire.

But you didn’t.

Instead, after your set, you let your feet carry you straight to his table.

Bucky smirked, his fingers tapping lazily against the glass in front of him. 

Like he knew you would come to him.

Six years gone, and yet the moment your eyes locked with his, it was like no time had passed at all. But you weren’t that girl anymore. And Bucky wasn’t that boy.

He was something else now. Something more defined. The suit fit too well, the watch on his wrist cost too much, and the men flanking him sat too still, waiting for his command.

Still, when he looked at you, it wasn’t the infamous new Capo of Las Vegas James Buchanan Barnes staring back.

It was him. Your Bucky.

The boy who once kissed you breathless in the back of a borrowed car.

The boy who called you ‘Baby’ like the word belonged to him.

The boy you left behind in the dead of night, never looking back.

Until now.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” you said, keeping your voice steady.

His smile was the same one that decimated you back in the day.

“Funny,” he said, tapping ash from his cigarette. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

Your stomach flipped, but you didn’t let it show. 

Bucky had always been too good at reading you. Way too good. And then he did something dangerous. He nodded to the empty seat beside him.

“Sit with me, Doll.”

The way he said it, low and easy, like it was a foregone conclusion made your body obey like you had long ago. Your fingers twitched at your side. But instead of walking away, you lowered yourself into the seat beside him, your skin prickling with goosebumps under his gaze.

And when he smirked again, just a little, like he’d just won something, your breath hitched.

Because you both knew.

Six years apart hadn’t changed a gotdamn thing.

—--

The moment you sat down, you knew you’d already lost something. Maybe the upper hand, maybe your damn mind, but something shifted the second you met his eyes and made the choice to stay.

Bucky took another slow drag from his cigarette, like he was savoring this moment. He exhaled a thin stream of smoke, peering at you through it with those blue eyes, then finally turned to the two men sitting beside him, as if he’d just remembered they were there.

“Fellas,” he drawled, tapping his cigarette against the ashtray, “this here is Trouble.”

Your lips parted slightly, a profane retort ready to go, but before you could snap back, he continued.

“Trouble, this is Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson.”

Steve, the blonde with the sharp blue eyes, nodded at you, his expression unreadable. He was the kind of man who didn’t say much but noticed everything.

Sam, on the other hand, smiled a beautiful gap-toothed grin. 

“Trouble, huh?” 

He extended a hand, and you hesitated before taking it, but his grip was warm and firm.

“I gotta say, any woman that can put that look on Barnes’ face is someone I gotta know.”

You arched a brow, tilting your head. 

“And what look is that?”

Sam’s grin widened. 

“Like he just won the jackpot.”

Your stomach tightened, but you kept your face neutral. Instead, you turned back to Bucky, leveling him with a look. 

“Trouble?”

Bucky’s lips curled, and something wicked danced in his eyes. 

“You always were.”

You didn’t blink. 

“And you always loved it.”

There was a silence thick with sex between you, and again the other men were forgotten.

Then, Steve cleared his throat. 

“How do you two know each other?”

Bucky chuckled darkly, and leaned back in his seat.

“Let’s just say…” His eyes met yours, heat simmering beneath the surface.  “She used to belong to me.”

The words struck your chest like lightning. You’d learned enough curse words to set his head on fire since you’d known him last, but you didn’t lace the room with profanity. 

Your fingers curled into a fist in your lap, but you kept your expression steady. 

You weren’t the girl anymore who let Bucky Barnes own her with a smile and a whispered promise in the dark.

So you tilted your head, letting your lips curve.

“Used to,” you repeated, voice smooth as velvet. “Interesting choice of words.”

Bucky’s smile didn’t drop, but he clutched his glass tighter, and you saw the way his jaw ticked.

Sam let out a low whistle, clearly enjoying the show. 

“Damn. She’s quick.”

Steve, ever the observer, just watched the exchange with a smirk.

You leaned in slightly, just enough to make Bucky’s eyes flicker to your mouth and down to your cleavage before he dragged them back up. 

“If I remember right, I was the one who left.”

Bucky exhaled a slow breath through his nose, tapping his cigarette against the ashtray again, his voice a shade lower now. 

“That’s what you think?”

You raised a brow. 

“That’s what I know.”

He made a sound low in his throat before taking another sip of his drink. He gazed at you like he was trying to figure out what to do with you now that you were sitting right in front of him again.

Then his eyes narrowed just a fraction.

“So tell me, Trouble. If you walked away so easy, why are you sitting here now?”

That’s the question, you thought.

So instead of answering, you reached for his glass, plucked it from his fingers, and took a slow sip before setting it back down.

Then you met his eyes and smiled.

“Maybe I just wanted to remind you,” you said softly. “That you don’t own me anymore.”

Bucky stared at you, unreadable. That muscle in his jaw twitched again.

Then, slowly, that wicked smirk crept back onto his face and he tilted his head at you, those blue eyes sparkling.

“We’ll see about that, Lark.”

—----

Bucky watched as you set his glass back down, the ghost of your lipstick staining the rim, taunting him. Six years apart, and you still knew how to get under his skin with a single look, a single move. 

A single sentence.

Maybe I just wanted to remind you… that you don’t own me anymore.

You challenged him in ways no one else dared to. And Bucky fucking loved it.

Steve and Sam were watching, though they had the good sense to stay quiet. Sam was chuckling, and Steve’s face held a small crooked smile, one that appeared after Bucky said Lark.

Bucky didn’t give a damn about either of them right now.

His eyes stayed on you. You were trying to be tough, but you had to be feeling the same pull that he was. Bucky leaned forward, closing the space just enough to catch your scent and see your pupils blow wider. 

Gotcha.

“Never needed to own you, Doll.” 

His voice was quiet, but there was steel beneath it. 

“That was never the game.”

Your lips parted slightly, but you caught yourself, chucking your chin up instead. 

“Then what was your game, James?”

He smiled again. He wasn’t about to hand you that answer.

Yet.

Instead, he sat back, dragging his gaze over you slowly, and licking his lips. 

You were still the most beautiful thing in the damn room, and you had to know it. That dress, those eyes; every man in this club was probably watching you, and wanting you.

But only one of them had ever had you.

And only one of them was going to again.

He tapped his fingers once against the table before rising smoothly to his feet. 

“C’mon.”

You blinked, “What?”

He nodded toward the back of the club, where the private booths were. Where you two could talk without an audience.

“Walk with me.”

A challenge. A test. A door you could still choose not to open.

Bucky saw you hesitate, for just a moment, but then you stood, smoothing out your dress and holding your head high like you hadn’t just made a decision that would change everything.

Bucky’s smirk widened.

That’s my girl.

—-

Bucky’s smirk deepened when you stood, like he’d known you would. That alone made something tighten in your chest, but you swallowed it down, lifting your chin as you followed him through the club.

The noise of the club, the conversations, the clinking of glasses, the jazz band, it all blurred as he led you toward the back, past the heavy velvet curtain that separated the VIP section from the private rooms. It infuriated you how easy it was to fall into step with him, how your body remembered before your mind could protest.

The moment you were away from prying eyes, he turned.

“You still listen like a Good Girl,” he murmured, voice smooth as smoke and just as dangerous.

You crossed your arms, shielding yourself from his stare as he leaned back against the small table between you, eyes skimming the curves of your dress like he had every right to.

“And you’re still a little asshole, Bucky.”

His smirk didn’t waver. If anything, it deepened. He pulled out a cigarette, tapping it against his lighter before the soft flicker of flame cast his face in gold. He inhaled slow, exhaled even slower.

“I think you know I’m not ‘little,’ Baby,” he said, voice dipping lower. “Bet you that cunt still curves to my dick.”

You didn’t think. Your palm met his cheek in a resounding slap before you could stop it.

Bucky only grinned.

“You must wanna see if it’s true,” he murmured, stepping closer, “because you know that turns me on.”

Your breath hitched, anger curling hot in your gut, and you turned to leave, but his hand wrapped around your wrist, gentle but firm.

“Sorry, Doll.”

You knew he was anything but.

Although he let you go the moment you glared at his hand, the heat of his touch lingered.

“Stay,” he said, quieter this time. “I think we need to talk, don’t you?”

You lifted a brow. “About?”

He studied you like he was searching for the right words.

“You left Brooklyn.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a wound, still fresh after six years.

You met his stare, steady. 

“I did.”

“Didn’t say a damn thing to me.”

You thought of the reason why, of the tiny heartbeat that changed your life forever, and you folded your arms tighter across your chest.

“Would it have mattered?”

Bucky let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as he took another drag of his cigarette.

“That’s cute, Doll.”

His voice was rough.

“You really think I would’ve let you go?”

Your stomach clenched, but you didn’t flinch. 

“That might be why I didn’t tell you.”

His jaw ticked, frustration creeping into the lines of his face. He leaned in, forearms bracing against the table, his eyes locking onto yours.

“You ran. Fine.” 

His voice was softer now, laced with something you couldn’t name. 

“But tell me this. Was it worth it?”

The air left your lungs. You thought of why you ran. What was expected of you. What would’ve happened if you’d stayed.

Six years of building a life from scratch. Six years of trying to convince yourself you made the right choice. Six years of missing him. Six years of seeing his eyes every day both in your dreams and when you woke.

“Absolutely.”

Bucky’s gaze flickered, searching your face for something, doubt, regret, a lie. But he didn’t find it.

His voice was barely above a whisper when he said, “You were mine.”

You exhaled slowly. 

“I’m not sorry for what I did, Bucky. But I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

You meant it. Every word.

But you belonged to someone else now. Someone more important than James Barnes.

—---

Bucky’s eyes flashed, then he sat back in his seat, appraising you yet again. 

“It’s okay, Doll. I turned out okay. And here we are, together again.”

“We’re not together, Bucky.”

He took another drag of his smoke.

“Only a matter of time, Baby.”

You took a breath, steadying yourself, lifting your chin. 

“I have another set.”

Bucky smiled at you.

“I know.”

Of course, he knew. He ran this town and he always paid attention, always saw more than you wanted him to.

You stood, ready to walk away, to put some space between the past and the present before you lost yourself in it again. But before you could take a step, something small and cool slid against your palm.

You looked down.

A key.

Bucky’s fingers lingered over yours just long enough to make your pulse jump. He looked into your eyes and leaned down and it was like your lips were connected by magnets. 

He tasted like whiskey and cigarettes and regrets as his tongue slid into your mouth, establishing ownership yet again. 

He pulled back and rested his forehead on yours.

“Royal Sierra Hotel. Top floor,” he gruffed.  “I’ll be waiting.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

You should have dropped the key right back into his palm. Should have told him no, should have walked away, should have done a thousand things. 

But you did none of them. You just curled your fingers around the key, just for a second, then slipped it into your dress pocket like it meant nothing. 

Bucky didn’t call you on it. Didn’t press. He just smiled, slow and knowing, then stepped back.

“See you soon, Doll.”

Then he was gone, and you were left standing there, with a key in your pocket and a storm in your chest, knowing damn well you were about to make a mistake.

——

Your second set of the night flew by in a blur. Your voice soared through the rafters, full of emotion, carrying the weight of things you couldn’t say out loud. The memories all spilled into the songs, wrapped in melodies that weren’t yours but might as well have been. 

You poured your soul into every note, and the crowd felt it. They responded with enthusiastic applause and with generosity for the waitresses and bartenders. At the end of the night, the club manager pressed extra bills into your hand, murmuring something about record-breaking tips.

You barely heard him. 

Your mind was already made up.

You stepped out into the cool night air, exhaling as you raised your hand to hail a cab, but before you could, a smooth voice cut through the darkness.

“Need a ride?”

You turned, heels clicking against the pavement as you took in the sight before you.

Steve Rogers, all broad shoulders and quiet authority, leaned against a gleaming black Continental, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. 

Your brows lifted. 

“Didn’t peg you for a chauffeur.”

Steve chuckled.

“Just trying to be nice.” 

He nodded toward the passenger seat. 

“We’ll take you wherever you need to go.”

Your gaze shifted past him to Sam, watching you from inside the car, his smile just visible through the window.

“And if I need to go home?” you asked, testing.

Steve shrugged. 

“Then we’ll take the lady home. But if you’re looking for a little more excitement…”

“We know a place or two,” Sam finished, his voice tinged with amusement.

Despite yourself, you smiled. You liked them. Even if they were Bucky’s men, and even if they saw more than they let on.

“I’ll take you up on that,” you said, sighing as you stepped forward. 

“Standing on a stage in heels all night isn’t exactly easy on the legs.”

Steve’s gaze flickered down, tracing the slit in your dress, lingering just long enough to make your pulse skip.

“Those legs look just fine to me,” he murmured.

You arched a brow. Was Steve Rogers flirting with you? And was Sam giving you the same once over from the passenger seat?

And more importantly, what would Bucky do if he knew? 

You didn’t have time to wonder. Steve was already holding the door open, waiting. You slid inside, sinking into the plush leather seats, and shot him a tired, knowing smile as he shut the door behind you.

He climbed into the driver’s seat and adjusted the mirror, his eyes catching yours in the reflection. 

“Which way, Miss Y/L/N?”

You hesitated.

Bucky was making this hard.

You closed your eyes, reaching back, searching for the girl you were six years ago. The girl who ran. The girl who had every reason to. But she was gone, her memories worn thin, fragile as cigarette paper.

You could stand to make some new ones.

And they would have to last. Because this would only be one night.

“The Royal Sierra,” you said softly.

Steve’s lips twitched. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You two do this often?” you asked as the car rumbled to life.

Steve and Sam exchanged a glance, the kind that spoke volumes.

“I’ve known Bucky for three years,” Sam said, voice lighter than his meaning. “And I’ve never seen him give a woman the time of daylight.”

You let out a soft laugh.

“It’s nighttime, Sam.”

“Exactly,” he said, grinning. 

“He’s never introduced me to a dame before. Plenty have tried to get to him through us, but he doesn’t let ‘em. He just shoos ‘em off like stray dogs.” 

Sam’s smirk deepened. 

“But you? You’re different.”

Something in your chest tightened. You turned toward the back of Steve’s head. 

“What about you, Mr. Rogers?”

Steve cleared his throat, his hands flexing on the wheel.

“I’ve known Buck since we were kids in Brooklyn,” he said after a pause.

“And he’s only ever talked about one woman to me.”

The weight of his words settled over you. He didn’t have to say it. You knew.

Steve’s voice was softer when he added, “But he stopped talking about her about five and a half years ago.”

Your heart clenched.

You didn’t ask any more questions after that. You just let the city lights blur past the window, let the neon colors bleed together as they carried you to the man waiting at the top of the Royal Sierra.

Waiting for you.

——-

The Royal Sierra was a loud kind of quiet. The kind that came from power. Bucky’s kind of place.

Steve pulled up to the entrance, stepping out with effortless authority, like he’d done it a thousand times before. Like he belonged here. Like you belonged here. No one stopped you. No one asked questions.

His presence alone was a key. A shield.

Bucky Barnes’ reach extended farther than Mr. Crow’s.

Before you knew it, you were stepping into the elevator, watching the floors tick by, your pulse a slow, deliberate drum in your throat. And by the time you reached the penthouse, your body had made a decision your mind refused to acknowledge.

You lifted a gloved hand and slid the key into the lock.

The door opened instantly.

And then, there was Bucky.

His gaze collided with yours, stealing the air from your lungs. He didn’t move. Just stood there, watching you, burning you into his memory like he was afraid you might disappear if he blinked.

Then his hands were on you.

Your gasp was swallowed by his mouth crashing against yours, desperate and deep, like he had something to prove, like he needed you to know that six years hadn’t dulled his hunger for you.

You melted, even though you knew better.

You knew this was dangerous. That this wasn’t just about lust, or longing, or the years between you. But none of it mattered as you wound your arms around him, tangling your fingers in the dark curls you missed too damn much.

Bucky groaned, dragging you flush against him. His hands roamed lower, exploring this new version of you, the one with fuller curves, wider hips, a body that had known things he hadn’t been there to witness.

He needed to erase it all.

He deepened the kiss, his breath ragged as he backed you against the wall, pinning you there, swallowing the soft sound you made.

God, that sound.

He had dreamed about it.

You pulled back. Your lips were swollen, your breath uneven, you were beautiful. But there was something else in your eyes.

A flicker of hesitation.

Bucky smirked.

He didn’t want to talk. Not tonight. He wanted to taste you, to relearn every inch of you. 

He brought your hand up to his mouth, taking the glove off your hand with his teeth, one finger at a time.

Your mind short circuited, forgetting what you wanted to say, the only thought that your panties would burst into flames, but the liquid at your center would surely put the fire out.

Bucky Barnes was still so goddamn hot.

“You staying?” 

His voice was hoarse with desire.

Your lips parted slightly. Then, slowly, you nodded. That was all he needed.

With deliberate slowness, he backed you toward the couch, his blue eyes never leaving yours.

He didn’t know why you left.

Didn’t know why you were in Vegas.

Didn’t know how long he had.

And tonight, he wasn’t asking.

"Missed this," he murmured against your throat, his breath hot, his fingers digging into the roundness of your ass. His voice sent a shiver down your spine.

He turned you, fingers finding the zipper of your dress. You felt it slide down, the cool air kissing your bare skin as the rich fabric slipped from your shoulders, revealing the decadent silk and lace beneath.

Bucky let out a rough exhale.

The longline bra molded perfectly to your curves, the underwire and boning lifting your breasts high, the lace trim barely concealing your peaked nipples. The silk garter belt cinched your waist, accentuating the swell of your hips, its straps fastened to sheer stockings that clung to your legs like a whisper.

Bucky groaned low in his throat, his hands ghosting over your sides, gripping, kneading. 

“Jesus, Doll… you always did know how to drive me fuckin’ crazy,” he rasped.

He trailed a finger along the edge of your bra, teasing you through the lace with his knuckles grazing the soft swell of your breast. 

“Look at you… all wrapped up like a goddamn present,” he muttered, voice thick with reverence.

His hands slid down, and his thumbs traced slow, reverent paths along the edge of your garter, then lower, teasing the sensitive skin of your thighs. He tilted his head, lips curving against your jaw.

“Been dreamin’ about this,” he whispered, voice dripping with possession. 

“And now it’s real.”

You shivered beneath his touch, and Bucky smirked, satisfied. He trailed his fingers lower, slipping beneath the garter belt to palm your ass, squeezing greedily, pulling you flush against him.

“Missed these fuckin’ curves,” he groaned, rolling his hips against you, letting you feel just how hard he was, how much he needed you.

He was losing patience. Six years was too damn long.

His hands found the hooks of your bra, and he made quick work of them, peeling the garment from your body and tossing it over his shoulder. He pulled back for just a second, just long enough to admire the sight of you, bare, breathless, your eyes fully dilated.

“Damn, Doll” he whispered, voice almost reverent. 

Then his mouth was on you, trailing down your neck hotly, over your collarbone, lower, until his lips wrapped around your nipple, sucking, groaning when your fingers tangled in his hair, when your body arched into his mouth.

“Feel so good,” he murmured against your skin, voice wrecked.

His hands roamed lower, curling around your thighs, gripping hard as he lifted you effortlessly, walking you backward until your spine hit the cool surface of the wall.

Bucky looked up at you then, eyes burning, voice nothing but gravel.

“Hold on tight, Baby. I ain’t letting you go this time.

Bucky pressed a kiss into you, his hard length grinding against your soaked panties. The heat of him, the sheer size of him, had you trembling.

"Need inside you, Doll… so fucking hard for you," he groaned, his voice rough with need.

You gasped as he rocked into you, your damp panties and his boxers doing little to separate the friction between you. Your hips rolled in response, dragging a throaty grunt from his lips.

"Fuck!"

Bucky hooked a finger into your panties, yanking them to the side. The first brush of his bare cock against your slick folds sent a shudder through you. It was heaven. The aching kind. The kind you felt.

"Bucky, please!"

You needed to feel him again after so long.

His thick cock slid through your folds, coating himself in your arousal, teasing your clit with every slow stroke. You felt everything, the ridges, the veins, the swollen head nudging at your entrance.

At the same time, his mouth latched onto your nipple, his stubble scraping deliciously against your skin. His calloused fingers kneaded the roundness of your ass, pulling unashamed whimpers from your throat.

"Mine," Bucky growled.

Your breath hitched. But just as you prepared for that first, deep thrust, he pulled back.

You gasped in protest.

"Gonna fuck you proper, though. In a bed."

You let out a breathless laugh as Bucky scooped you up effortlessly, carrying you to his bedroom. He laid you out, spreading your legs as he loomed over you, devouring the sight. His manicured nails dragged over your thighs in a slow, teasing stroke.

Your breath stuttered with anticipation.

"Be a good girl for me," he murmured, eyes dark with intent. "And grab my hair if you need to."

Confusion flickered in your eyes, until you felt your legs being thrown over his shoulders. Then, Bucky was between your thighs.

You scrambled up on your elbows, heat rushing to your face as he spread you open with two fingers, stroking the sensitive, slick folds hidden beneath. His gaze locked onto your glistening sex, mesmerized.

"So beautiful, Lark."

Your breath came in shallow gasps as he ran his fingers through your wetness, spreading it.

"So wet… dripping… coating my fingers, Baby."

The filthy words, the intensity of his stare, made fresh arousal seep from you. Your inner walls clenched around nothing, aching for more.

"Pinch those nipples for me," Bucky rasped,

Your lips parted in shock, but his stare was unwavering. With a shaky breath, you obeyed.

The added sensation sent pleasure rippling through you, making your back arch, your ass pressing into the mattress as Bucky pumped his fingers nice and slow. The other hand fisted around his cock, stroking in time with the movement inside you.

Your gaze dropped to watch him touch himself as he touched you. Fuck.

A gush of slick spilled from you. Bucky cursed under his breath, scissoring his fingers, stretching you, preparing you.

"So fucking tight, Doll. Need to get you ready."

Then, his head dipped lower. Your gasp filled the room. Bucky smirked.

"Why so shocked?" he taunted. "You act like you haven’t had sex since I borrowed Johnny’s car—"

He stopped.

Your face must have given you away because his own softened instantly.

"Oh, shit."

His tone was different now, understanding. 

"It’s okay, Baby. I got you."

Determination flashed in his blue eyes as he leaned down again, brushing a featherlight kiss against your most sensitive place. It was intimate. Like he was kissing your mouth.

Then, he licked into you, slow and deliberate, and your world shattered. Lightning coursed through your veins as your thighs instinctively clamped around his head. Your fingers fisted in his curls, tugging mercilessly.

Bucky groaned in approval, his tongue swirling, sucking, worshiping. Every swipe, every firm drag, every deep flick had you writhing beneath him, riding his face, chasing oblivion.

When he pried your thighs apart and plunged two fingers back inside, curling them just right, you detonated. 

Your orgasm ripped through you, your body seizing, your walls fluttering around his fingers as a flood of wetness spilled into his mouth.

"Bucky!"

He pulled back, lips glistening, eyes dark with satisfaction.

"S’okay, Baby. It’s natural."

Then he leaned down again. And drank from you like a man dying of thirst.

You whimpered, overwhelmed, your body trembling as he held you down, refusing to let you escape. The overstimulation was brutal, unbearable.

Too much, too good.

"Really have been such a good girl for me…" he murmured against your sensitive skin.

Then, his voice dropped to something sinful.

"Gonna give you this cock you been waiting for."

When he finally kissed you, his lips slick with you, the last shred of restraint dissolved.

You moaned into his mouth as he lined himself up, dragging the thick, swollen head of his cock through your drenched folds. He parted your lips, teasing you with tiny, torturous strokes. Then, with a sharp slap, he tapped his cock against your clit, making you cry out.

"Shit, Doll…" 

Bucky’s voice was strained, his jaw tight as he fought for control. You rolled your hips, desperate, pleading.

"Inside, please!"

"You’re gonna feel… so… goodddd…"

He bit it out through clenched teeth as he pushed forward slow, steady, and stretching you inch by inch. You choked on a moan as he filled you. He was so big. You had forgotten how thick, how deep, how perfect he felt inside you.

"Ohhhhhh, Bucky!"

"Right here, Baby."

His eyes locked onto you, greedily drinking in your bouncing breasts, your trembling stomach, the way your body took him. The sight alone nearly ended him. His head dropped back, his grip on you tightening as he bottomed out, grinding his hips into yours, making you wail in pleasure.

"You feel amazing… so fucking good. Never felt anything like this, I swear, Lark."

Your walls clenched around him, and Bucky’s face twisted, his control slipping.

"I need you to cum all over my dick."

You gasped as his hand found your clit, circling it with the same practiced precision that always ruined you. His other hand pinched your nipple, sending another bolt of pleasure straight to your core.

"Cum for me, Doll."

You had no choice. Your body seized, pleasure obliterating you as you came, gushing around his cock, wave after wave of ecstasy rolling through you.

Bucky’s grip turned bruising as he drove into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt. His breath caught. 

"Mine!" he growled. 

And his release filled you, thick and hot, as his body shuddered violently against yours.

And in that moment, tangled together, sweat-slicked and sated, you both knew

You were his again.

—--

Bucky collapsed beside you, chest heaving, staring blankly at the ceiling.

You did the same, but while he was basking in the afterglow, warmth spreading through his chest like hope, your stomach twisted into knots.

"Where you going, Lark?"

His voice was thick with exhaustion, but he still caught the way you shifted, the way your body tensed before you sat up.

"Bathroom," you murmured, already moving. "Need to clean up."

Something flickered in his eyes, something soft, something real. But the moment you slipped away, his hope dimmed just a little.

You disappeared into the harsh fluorescent glow of the bathroom, shutting the door behind you.

—--

Bucky sat at the edge of the bed, watching as you slipped your shoes back on. You moved quickly, deliberately. Like you’d planned your exit before you ever walked through his door.

"You don’t have to run out like this," he said, voice rough.

You hesitated, just for a second, before fastening your coat.

"I have to get home."

Bucky’s fingers flexed against the sheets.

"Home."

He rolled the word over his tongue. He didn’t like the way it tasted.

Your gaze lifted, and for a fleeting moment, something flickered there, regret, and sorrow buried so deep he almost missed it.

Bucky nodded, jaw tight. He had questions. Too many. But he knew you wouldn’t answer them.

So he let you go.

But that didn’t mean he was letting this go.

—-----

Bucky sat in the back of the Continental, silent as Steve drove.

He hadn’t said a word since Steve muttered, “I’ll take you to where she lives.”

Vegas never slept, but the streets were quiet this early. Bucky stared out the window, jaw clenched.

He should’ve stopped you from leaving. Should’ve asked the damn questions instead of letting you walk out. But you were good at slipping away. You’d done it before.

Not this time.

Steve glanced at him in the rearview mirror.

"You sure about this?"

Bucky’s eyes stayed on the road ahead.

"Just drive."

Steve sighed but didn’t argue. The car veered off the Strip, where the lights weren’t as bright, where the buildings weren’t as tall, where the money wasn’t as loud. It wasn’t a bad neighborhood, but it sure as hell wasn’t where Bucky expected you to be.

The car slowed.

A modest duplex came into view, its porch light flickering on.

Bucky barely registered anything beyond you were here. Until he saw the front door open.

You stepped out, wrapped in a housecoat, makeup gone, hair wrapped in a scarf. Then you walked to the neighboring unit. And knocked. The door cracked open.

And out ran a little boy.

Bucky sat up straighter, his breath hitching as the kid bolted toward you, dark messy hair bouncing, big blue eyes shining as he laughed, launching himself into your waiting arms.

You caught him effortlessly, hugging him close, whispering something into his ear.

Like you’d done it a thousand times before.

Because you had.

The realization hit like a bullet to the ribs.

You had a son.

Bucky’s world tilted.

Then, the boy’s voice, small and sleepy, carried through the quiet street.

"Mama, you’re home."

His breath left him in a rush.

"Yes, Jamie, I’m home."

Steve tensed, hands gripping the wheel.

Bucky’s hands curled into fists.

"Buck—"

"Drive," he rasped. The word barely made it past his lips.

Steve hesitated.

"Now."

The car pulled away, but Bucky’s eyes stayed locked on you.

Six years.

Six years, and you had kept this from him.

—---

The moment Jamie crashed into your arms, the world melted away.

"Mama, you’re home!"

You exhaled shakily, smoothing his hair, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

Miss Thea stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her housecoat, watching with quiet understanding. She didn’t ask questions. Never had. Just gave you a slow nod before retreating inside.

Jamie yawned, burrowing into your shoulder, his little arms tightening around your neck.

"You smell funny," he mumbled sleepily.

You huffed a quiet laugh, shifting him in your arms.

"Yeah? What do I smell like?"

Jamie blinked up at you, barely awake.

"Like trouble," he sighed.

Your breath caught.

A chill danced down your spine, one you always felt when Bucky was near. Slowly, your eyes lifted, scanning the street.

Nothing. No car. No sign of him. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t been here.

You swallowed hard, clutching Jamie closer as you stepped inside, locking the door behind you. You couldn’t shake the feeling.

Bucky knew.

And no matter how much you wanted to believe you could keep him away….You knew better.

James Buchanan Barnes was coming for you.

For both of you.

[skeltnwrites]

A Family Affair ✶ part one!

In a fit of jealousy over Nancy’s perfect new boyfriend, Steve falsely claims to be dating someone too. Robin recruits you to help Steve out, despite the fact that you’re practically strangers. | MASTERLIST

⤷ Fucking Brad ›› Hawkins Elementary puts on Peter Pan, Steve has FOMO, and you have all sorts of crazy plans 8k

Fucking Brad. Brad, with his slim waist and his broad shoulders and his chiseled jaw. Brad, who doesn’t slouch and can grow a full beard and always smells nice. Brad, who is the better version of Steve in every way. He’s the Ken of Barbies. He’s what every man wishes he looked like at thirty-two. He’s like Steve, if Steve had Botox injections and a gym membership. 

And God he has stupidly good hair. All layered and cropped like it’s trimmed every other week. But effortless in the way it sits perfectly on either side of his face. He probably hasn’t had a bad hair day in his life. And even worse, Steve’s yet to find a single gray hair on the man’s entire head.

It’s too good to be true, obviously. You can’t be that attractive and a good person. Steve doesn’t make the rules. 

But Nancy seems happy. And as a good ex-husband and father of her children, Steve’s trying to be happy for her and her new boyfriend. There’s just this sharp little shard of his heart that never quite slots back into its old place. And every time he thinks he’s patched it up, Brad comes along and knocks it loose again. 

The divorce took a heavy toll on Steve. He’ll admit that now, almost a year down the line. He lost weight, then gained twice as much back. He pushed Robin so far away that they didn’t speak for two months. It really changed him. It made him question things he used to be so sure of. 

Nancy was never cruel, not even on their worst nights. But the arguing became constant. Steve slept in the kids’ rooms more than his own. He became obsessed with finding solutions that Nancy didn’t care to try.

She was never cruel, but she did break his heart for a second time. So maybe that’s part of the reason he tells her a little white lie. 

It happened last week. Steve had been out of town for the weekend and subsequently didn’t have the kids for a whole week straight since Nancy couldn’t swap days with him. And this is the longest he’s not seen them in… probably ever, so he’s extra excited to pick them up. He even offers to drive to Nancy’s house on the other side of town rather than meet her somewhere halfway. But guess who pulls into the driveway at the same exact time as him? Brad. 

And Caroline, bless her sweet little second-grade heart, beams across the yard, right past Steve’s car up to Brad’s. Steve remembers watching in a daze, the scene unfolding in slow motion. His heart wrings itself in his chest just thinking about it. Caroline, his firstborn, his baby girl, his own flesh and blood, betrayed him, for fucking Brad. 

It’s not fair. Nancy breaking his heart is one thing, but his daughter? At this rate, he’s not sure he’ll live long enough to walk her down the aisle. And like hell he’ll let Brad be the one to do it. 

Steve steps onto the driveway and quickly receives the same armfuls of enthusiasm Caroline treated Brad with. He kneels to hug her back properly, both arms around her waist as he sprinkles kisses along the side of her head. 

“You’re back!” Steve feels the shape of a big smile through his shirt. 

“I missed you,” he says, pulling back to see her lovely face, “so, so much.” 

Caroline is proof that Steve’s done something right in his life. He finds more and more evidence every day. It’s in her kindness to strangers and her bottomless well of curiosity and her sunbeam of a smile that weirdly looks like a smaller version of his own. He used to hate the way his teeth looked in his mouth but now he wonders why.

He’s received comments about their alikeness since the day she was born. She obtained his hooded eyes, his square jaw, and his strong nose. She has lighter eyes, like Nancy’s, and lighter hair, like Steve’s when he was her age. But still, Caroline’s his carbon copy, his mini-me. 

“Missed you too, like, more than the whole universe.” 

“Woah! More than the whole universe? That’s a lot of missing to do.” His fingers crawl across her chest until she arches away in a fit of giggles. “Is your poor little heart okay?” 

Brad waves incessantly from the top of the driveway until Steve glances up. He’s not an asshole, he waves back, but he can’t help his smile curdling into something sour. 

Caroline, of his two children, is by far the least likely to lie to him. She burst into tears the last time Steve caught her red-handed and over something so insignificant he couldn’t even tell you what it was. But her words feels hollow when the memory of her picking Brad over him still stings fresh. Logically, Steve knows it wasn’t a malicious decision. Caroline’s a daddy’s girl to her core. But just knowing doesn’t make the hurt ache any less. 

Steve pulls Caroline up as he stands. “Where’s your brother?” 

“Mom said he can’t play outside ‘cause he got in trouble at school.” 

“What happened?” 

“He threw rocks at someone.” 

Steve presses his lips together with a hum. “Not good.” 

Caroline beats him to the front door, swinging it hard enough to shake the house. “Dad’s here!” she announces. 

Steve’s still in this weird limbo about entering the house without Nancy’s permission. To his knowledge, she’s never cared when one of the kids has invited him in, but it feels sort of wrong because he hasn’t lived there in quite some time. 

It’s a quaint little home at the top of a hill, purchased in their early twenties when Nancy was pregnant with Caroline. So many years of his life, etched into floorboards and door frames and garden stones that he rarely ever sees anymore. 

In the foyer, a riot of blonde fur slams hard into Steve’s knees. He’s expecting it, delighted more than anything to greet his honorary third child, Daisy. Eighty pounds, a golden retriever with more energy than Steve knew a dog could have. She was a Christmas gift from Steve to the family, a surprise Nancy has slowly grown to love over the years. Still, she would’ve been happy to let Steve take her, Daisy’s always been more his than hers, but signing the lease on a place that doesn’t allow pets complicates things. 

Steve’s crouched on the floor, receiving a face full of wet kisses when someone smaller barrels into his side. 

“Daddy!” 

Steve’s hand catches the carpet before he falls, his free arm slinging around his youngest, Andrew. “Hi, buddy.” He pulls him in for a forehead kiss but pushes him back for a better look at his face.

He’s got big brown eyes, round like Nancy’s, and feathered with a long set of lashes. He’s a fair mix of their genes, Nancy’s button nose and pointed ears but Steve’s thick hair and plush lips. He’s like Daisy, with endless reserves of energy and no off switch, but he’s half the dog’s size, tiny, even for six. 

“Hi.” 

“Hi. How was school?” 

“Good,” Andy smiles, words whistling in the gap his front teeth left behind. “I got something from the treasure box and I had music specials today.”

Steve gives his shoulder a loving squeeze. “That’s fun. I heard you got in trouble though, hmm?”

“Barely. It wasn’t really bad. I had a timeout but mom says I still can’t play.”

“Oh, okay. I’ll talk to Mom.” 

“Talk to mom about what?” Nancy frowns from the doorway, crossing her arms over her chest. 

One thing from their marriage that Steve doesn’t miss is Nancy materializing out of thin air. She’s quiet and quick on her feet, always appearing at the most incriminating moments. He can think of a dozen times he’d gotten in trouble for letting the kids do something she already forbade. 

Steve shifts his focus to her begrudgingly. He presses his lips into a cordial, tight-lipped smile. “Why can’t he play? He said he had a time-out already.” 

“Because he didn’t do what I asked, Steve. I know you like to let the kids get away with everything, but in my house there are consequences.” 

“Okay,” he raises his eyebrows and his smile slips away, “unnecessary.” 

She breathes a quiet sigh, hooking her fingernail under the fresh tear in her tights. “It’s been a long week.” 

“Sorry.” Steve means it because he’s been there, but he doesn’t waste much sympathy on Nancy these days.

Brad fills the leftover silence as he zips down the stairs, his fingers drumming along the handrail in time with his hums. “Steve!” he grins. “How was Florida? Catch some sun?” He cruises over to Nancy with a much gentler excitement, pecking her head with a soft, “Hi, honey.” 

Steve wants to gag. No, he wants to projectile vomit all over their nice floors. He stands and chooses to look at Nancy as he replies the simplest, “Yeah.” 

Nancy stares blankly back at him. He used to have some kind of superpower when they were in love. Could read her mind by looking at her eyes alone. But these days he can’t tell her frown from her smile, let alone her thoughts.

“Is your dad doing better?” she says. 

“Yeah, he’s– yeah, fine. He’s home now.” 

“Good.” 

Andy pulls Brad down to his knees, eager to funnel a “very important” secret into his ear. Steve tries, but he can’t decipher any words over Nancy’s voice. 

“So, can you take him?” she asks.

“Where?” 

“The dentist. Are you listening to me? I said his appointment is after school.” 

A vein pulses on Nancy’s forehead, though Steve isn’t privy. His attention swings across the living room behind her like a compass needle, always pointing to Andy and Brad. They’re both giggling, falling onto the couch like ragdolls. Steve’s never had worse FOMO in his life. 

“Yeah, sorry, yeah. I’ll take him,” he answers finally. 

“He’s been complaining about his mouth since last Tuesday. Think he has a cavity.” 

Steve nods. Nancy nods. The silence is awful. 

She turns her nose to the stairs and he knows she can’t bear the awkwardness either. “Andrew go get your stuff. Caroline!” 

“What!” 

“Come on! Dad’s waiting!” 

Andy shrieks and Steve turns instinctually. It’s a happy shriek, he finds, paired with pleads of, “Again! Again!”

Brad nods knowingly, slotting his hands under the boy's armpits and swinging him up and up and up until he launches him right back into the couch. 

Andy’s thrilled, of course. But Steve doesn't know how to feel. There isn’t a sound he loves more in the world than his kids laughs’, but his body tells him what is happening right now is all sorts of wrong. 

“Oh and don’t forget about the play on Friday,” Nancy adds. 

Steve can’t answer. He can’t fucking think over the sound of his molars grinding against each other. A switch flips in his brain. 

“It’s at six I’m pretty sure. Care’s pretty nervous so just, I dunno, don’t bring it up maybe.” 

“I’m bringing someone,” he blurts. 

Nancy shifts her weight from foot to foot, her stare sharp as a thumbtack, pinning him right to the floor. Why the fuck did he just say that? 

“Who?” she asks strangely. Her mouth is smaller like she’s mad. But her eyes are curious, a sudden softness to them. 

Steve clears his dry throat but finds no relief. He hasn’t fucking thought this through. He shrugs, his chin tipping toward the floor. “Just this girl I’ve been talking to. She’s…” He chances a glimpse up but steers his eyes away from Nancy’s the second they land. “It’s kinda gettin’ serious, so, you know.” 

“Really?” 

He squirms at the way she says it. He feels like he’s in trouble and about to get an earful. “Yeah,” he swallows, “Yeah. She’s great. You’ll like her.” 

“How long?” 

“Hmm?” 

“How long have you been seeing her?” 

His eyes rove across the ceiling as he pretends to count the imaginary days he’s spent with his imaginary girlfriend. “Ya know, a few months.” He frowns for show, “Give or take.” 

Nancy chuckles wryly. She very clearly doesn’t buy it. And of course, she doesn’t buy it, they were married for a third of his life, she knows Steve inside and out. Steve is officially, utterly, and irreversibly doomed. 

“Time flies when you’re having fun,” he slips in nervously. 

“Right.”

“Yeah, so…” 

“Okay, well, I look forward to meeting her.” 

“Okay. Me too. Well– to you meeting her. I’ve met her, obviously.” 

Her mouth twists in a struggle to hide her amusement. “Okay, Steve.” 

This is pathetic. Steve’s never been more embarrassed in his life. Ten-plus years he’s had to make a fool of himself in front of Nancy and nothing will ever top this. 

Tiny arms curl around his legs and he knows they’re Carolines before he’s seen them. She’s a foot taller than Andy and ten times as gentle. Her ear presses into Steve’s side, her hair newly pinned with a set of plastic butterflies. Steve’s positive she gets prettier by the day and he’s just grateful to have anyone besides Nancy to look at. 

Andy hustles down the stairs not long later, sneakers swinging from his wrist by the laces, wearing a backpack twice the size of his chest. And with both kids in sight, Steve cuts straight for the front door, encouraging a round of goodbye hugs and kisses for Mom from the safety of the porch. 

On the ride home, Caroline has a deck of questions about his trip. If Grandma and Grandpa still live in that big house on the water. If the airplane ride was bumpy or not. His favorite– if he ordered the fish tails (popcorn shrimp) from that restaurant they all went to last time. 

Eight years he’s been a dad and to this day the infinite questions never fail to fascinate him. And even more remarkable, how Caroline remembers things from years ago like they happened this morning.

He hadn’t told her why he went to Florida or the real reason she couldn’t come. Steve’s dad had a minor health scare, and if it weren’t for his mom calling in hysterics, he probably would have saved the PTO. He spent most of the trip in the hospital, listening to his dad fuss about every possible thing he could find to complain about. 

Nancy preached honesty when it came to explaining things like this to the kids. But Caroline’s a worrywart. Steve couldn’t let her spiral, certainly not over his dad of all people. 

He’s very happy to be back home. And even happier to be distracted from his poor decision-making by the bottomless pit that is his daughter's brain. But time flies when you’re having fun as Steve apparently says now. Dinner goes fast, and bedtime even faster. 

The kids are asleep and he’s left to simmer alone in his stupidity. He replays the conversation with Nancy on a loop, each turn twisting the words until he can’t tell what’s real apart from what he wishes to have said. He fucked up, that much is clear. And for what? A fleeting satisfaction if Nancy had believed him? He truly can’t think of a time in the last ten years he’s said something so dumb. 

Steve dials Robin’s number and slips the phone against his ear as he opens the fridge. He stares at his groceries, or lack thereof, and listens to the phone ring and ring and ring until he’s turned over to Robin’s answering machine. 

“Hi, you’ve reached Robin! Or, well, it's not, obviously, because you're talking to a machine. Anyway, I’m probably busy doing something incredibly important, so, leave a message, and I’ll call back– unless I forget— which, statistically speaking, is very probable. Sorry.” –Beep! 

“Hi, um, this is Steve.” He shuts the fridge door and swipes the takeout menu from the magnets on the side. “I’m having an… emergency type of situation and if you really, truly love me you’ll call me back, like, as soon as you get this. Yeah, okay, bye.” 

Robin’s at work he’s pretty sure. That or sucking face with her new girlfriend, Lin. She’s busy a lot nowadays, Steve just as much. It’s put a weight on their friendship but Steve can’t imagine his life without her. She’ll surely call him a dumbass or an idiot or the classic dingus for what he’s done. But being snarky with each other is their love language; he looks forward to it. 

Steve’s three or four Cheers’ reruns deep when the phone rings. He rocks himself out of his recliner and takes the half-empty pizza box in his lap back to the kitchen. He’ll be the first to admit, his evenings aren’t all that glamorous. But things could be worse and he’s happy with the majority of his life’s choices– minus the most recent one, obviously. 

The phone slides against the pizza grease on his fingers. He pins it between his ear and shoulder to swipe his hands down the front of his shirt as he speaks, “You know, you’re lucky this isn’t a life-or-death emergency. I’d have been dead hours ago.” 

“Uh-huh. Tragic,” Robin rasps. “I’ll write your eulogy for you. ‘Steve Harrington: untimely death by dumbassery.’” 

“That’s not a real word, genius.” 

“It is now. I’ve made it one.”

“You can’t just make it a word. That’s not how it works.” 

“No, it is. Check your dictionary.” He hears the clinking of pans, water running in a sink. “But wait, what did you do? Lock your keys in your car again?”

“Ha, no. I wish.” 

“Forget to pick up the hellspawns?” 

“No, Rob.” 

“What? It’s happened before,” she laughs in that scratchy way she does. He can picture her whole face like she’s stood there beside him. “I dunno, I’m tired. I give up. What’s the crisis?” 

“Um, so, I told Nance that I’ve been seeing someone and that it’s serious and I’m bringing her to the kid’s thing on Friday.” 

Robin’s silent long enough for Steve to pull the phone back and check if the call’s still connected. But her laughter builds slowly, rattling through the speaker in beats. “Oh no, Steven.” 

“Yeah, so…” He shears the last bite off of the pizza he was working on before and tosses the crust back into the box.  “I’m fucked.” 

“You could say that.” 

“Thanks for the encouragement.” 

“Sorry, sorry. I mean, fuck dude. Why’d you say that?”

“I don’t know, okay? It was stupid. I fucked up.”

“Big time.”

“I have to figure something out.” 

“Can’t you just say it fizzled out? You had a good run, but you weren’t right for each other, cue dramatic sigh, problem solved.”

“No! She knows, Robin. She fucking knows I was lying. She was giving me that look she gives Andy when he’s done something he’s not supposed to.”

“Heh, I know the one. God, that’s hilarious. I love her mad face. Was she doing that weird lip thing, like she’s trying to suck them back into her skull?” 

Steve cuts off his own laughter, “Probably– I don’t know! I was panicking, bad, you should’ve seen me.” 

“Oh, I would pay so much money to see a video of this. Were there cameras? Where was this at?” 

“No, no, I have to do something. I need to bring someone to the show.” 

A beat. Two. “What? You want me to revive straight Robin? I can’t walk in heels to save my life, you know that.” 

“Jesus, no. She knows you're gay, dude.” 

“Then who?”

“I dunno.” Steve throws his hand in the air. “You know people.”

“I know people?”

“Yes?”

“You’re right, hold on, let me get out my address book and just call every single woman I know. ‘Hey, how do you feel about pretending to be my friend’s boyfriend so his ex-wife doesn’t make fun of him?’ Sound good?” 

“Yes! Exactly!” 

“Maybe while we’re at it we just start calling random women in the phone book. I saw a billboard with this sexy lawyer lady today.” 

“Robin.” 

“Steve,” she chuckles. “Come on. This is crazy. You have to see that.” 

“I don’t care, Rob. You don’t get it. Nancy is dating America’s next top model and I’m,” his words feel sticky as bubblegum, “I’m watching shitty TV and eating shittier pizza by myself.”  

Robin sighs. “Don’t act like I haven’t been a good wing-woman. I’ve tried to set you up with people.”

“That’s not what I’m saying. I’m not ready to date anyone for real, I just– I just want to pretend for a night, that’s all. I don’t want Nancy to think any less of me than she already does.” 

Robin sighs again, worse. He feels bad about bugging her but she’s his best friend and she bugs him to the same extent with her own relationship problems. He listened to her cry for an hour about a fight she had with Lin last week.  

“If I help you… will you promise me that you will move on and go on a real, actual date with a woman who is not Nancy Wheeler?” 

Steve’s about to say ‘I’ll do anything’, but the sentence catches in his throat. 

Robin complains about Steve’s dating life (or lack of) about once a week, if not more. It’s been a year since the divorce, yeah, but he’s short on time with two kids and a second full-time job that affords him the first. He’s not in any rush to do awkward first dates or even worse breakups again. 

But fuck, he’d rather die than face the consequences of his own actions. “Fine, yes. I’ll do it.” 

“Hallelujah.” 

“Please, just call a couple of your friends for me. One night, that’s all I’m asking.” 

“Honestly, I definitely know a couple of people who’d do it for a hundred bucks.” 

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. “If that’s what it costs to keep my dignity then so be it.” 

He hears Robin’s breathy smile. “You’re so dramatic. Shelly might do it for free. She doesn’t exactly look your type though.” 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“I dunno, Steve. We both know Nancy has a better gaydar than you.” 

“I hit on one lesbian at the height of my divorce-depression. I was desperate, okay?” 

“You hit on two, actually. I do count, still. And she was like the most butch woman I've ever met. You guys basically had the same outfit on.”

“It was a good outfit!” 

Her laughter is loud through the speaker. And before he realizes it, he's laughing too. In retrospect, that woman very obviously was a lesbian and not at all his type. 

“Wait,” Robin gasps, “what about Y/N!” 

“Who?” 

She repeats your name with even more emphasis. “She was at my birthday thing. You definitely met her.” 

Steve describes a vague version of the person he thinks is you. His memory is hazy. 

“Yes! Yes! You wouldn’t stop showing her fucking pictures of the kids.” 

“Excuse me, she wanted to see them.”

“No, I think you need to ask her that again, pal.” 

Steve reconsiders that moment he met you. He recalls a polite smile and how you had several nice things to say about his kids. He remembers you being pretty but it was too soon post-divorce for him to process that information then. 

“Oh my God,” Robin roars, “How did I not think of this sooner? You guys are perfect for each other, I’m telling you!” 

“Wait, wait, Robin. This is just pretend. I’m not actually dating her.” 

She scoffs. “Will you give her a chance? Please? This can count as your real date.”

“No, absolutely not. No. I can’t– I already know her. That’s weird.” 

“Oh my God. You’re making dumb fucking excuses already. You better hold up your end of the deal, Harrington.” 

“I will, I will. Just not her. We’ll figure it out after, okay?” 

The line is silent but he can almost hear the gears in Robin’s head cranking out a new negotiation.  

“I’m serious. Don’t tell her it’s a date.” 

“Ugh. Have you no faith in me anymore?” 

“Will you ask her? Seriously, Robin, please?” 

“Yes, whatever, I’ll ask her. But don’t come crying to me when this blows up in your face.” 

“Don’t tell her it’s a date, Rob. I mean it.” 

“I knowww.” 

“Thank you,” he sighs. He feels like a load of bricks just dropped from his back straight to his stomach. 

“But I really think you and Y/N should come to that romance retreat with me and Lin. She knows the owner so I’m sure she could snag us another couple of tickets.” 

“Mmm. Sorry, no. I’m actually busy that weekend, ‘member?” 

“Oh, I know you did not just lie to me right now. What is this, a compulsion?” 

“Oh my God. I was kidding,” he laughs. “But also hard no. I’m hanging up.” 

“You can’t avoid all your problems forever.” 

“Whatever. Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight. Love you, dingus.” 

“Love you.” 

Steve slots the phone back in its cradle and presses his hand into the countertop. He thinks of you again, your face, your clothes, your voice– what had you said to him? He turns you in his mind like an unravelled spool but there are way too many loose ends. 

He agrees with Robin, this is a bad idea. He can’t imagine you’ll drop everything to help a guy you met one time. And if for whatever reason you do agree? You might be really awkward or rude to the kids or a kidnapper! He really, really hopes Robin doesn't befriend kidnappers. 

She assures him you are not a kidnapper when she calls him the next night. She also tells him he’s won the lottery and somehow you’ve agreed to this ridiculous plan. You’ll pretend to be his girlfriend in front of his kids and ex-wife and her boyfriend, just to save him from some embarrassment. Steve thinks you might be crazy but Robin promises you’re a match made in heaven. 

Steve jots down your phone number and thanks Robin until she hangs up on him. But he doesn’t call you yet. He chews on the plan all week and decides it still tastes bad. Very, very bad. But what choice does he have now? He’s groveled with Robin until she gave in and asked you and you’ve actually agreed. He’s in too deep now. 

It takes him three tries to dial your number all the way through. He only works himself up to the final digit with the mental image of Brad and his stupid, sparkly teeth. Steve's stomach starts cartwheeling as the line trills. 

“Hello?” 

He freezes. He doesn’t know what he expected you to sound like but your voice throws him for a loop. Every sentence from his practiced speech erases itself from his memory. 

“Helloooo?” 

Steve forces all the air from his lungs until he makes a strangled sort of noise. “Hey– sorry, um– hi, it’s Steve. Uhh, Robin’s friend.”

“Oh! She said you’d call.” 

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “Here I am.” 

You chuckle back but are otherwise quiet, waiting for him.

“So like–”

“How did–”

“Sorry,” you say overtop each other. 

“You go,” he begs. 

“Well, I mean– so Robin gave me the run down already, but like, how exactly do you want this to go?” 

“So,” Steve takes a deep breath, “my kids are both in the school play over at Hawkins Elementary. It’s this Friday from six to seven-ish. All I need you to do is just show up and pretend that you’re my girlfriend.” He cringes through the last part. The more times he explains this plan, the more outrageous it sounds. This might as well be a form of torture. 

“Just show up and watch the play and agree that we’re a couple if somebody asks? That type of thing?” 

“Yes, exactly. Yes. My ex-wife and her boyfriend will be there, so probably just them and the kids.” 

“Right, Robin said. But how much should I– how do I say– should I hold your hand, I guess, kiss you, things like that?”

“No, no,” he swallows so hard you probably hear it too. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Whatever you’re comfortable with.” 

"Would you..." you pause for a while. He fears you’re backing out. “Would you want to meet up, maybe? Like, sometime before the play?” you ask. “We could talk more about boundaries and, I dunno, how we met, our first date, all of that junk. In case it comes up.” 

Steve doesn’t think that’s really necessary. He only needs you for one hour, the majority of which you won’t be talking. You’re really just there to sit beside him and smile. But you are doing him a massive favor, if it makes you feel better, it wouldn’t hurt to discuss it in person.

He lets you pick the time and place and thanks you endlessly before he hangs up, very much ready to crawl into bed and never come back out. 

His second impression of you doesn’t stray far from the first. You’re sweet, maybe a little too sweet for someone who barely knows him. And you must be smart. You have enough wits about you to question him and this plan. Maybe, with you there, it won’t completely fall apart.

But as luck would have it, Steve is forced to cancel on you last minute– thanks to Brad, of course. Well, it’s not really his fault his sister goes into labor but Steve likes to pretend it is when Nancy asks if he can take the kids that night. He reschedules with you once, then again when you can’t make it. But shit happens and things don’t work out how he hoped. Neither of you can make it work before the play. 

So Steve pulls up to Hawkins Elementary with his heart lodged in his throat like a stone. He’s about to make the biggest fucking fool of himself if you don’t show and he’s only about forty-five percent sure that you will. As of yesterday, you were still game, sounded excited, even, to come. But maybe you forgot about the whole thing or maybe you’re chickening out because you never solidified where you had your first date. Steve wouldn’t blame you either way. 

Brad’s already seated in the front row of the auditorium, Nancy likely dropping the kids off at their classrooms. Steve slinks around the back to a denser part of the audience hoping not to be seen. But it’s Brad. He’s got twenty-twenty vision, no doubt. He flags Steve down as soon as he turns around, standing and waving emphatically, leaving Steve no other choice but to sit with them. 

Brad talks his ear off, to no one's surprise, but Steve’s mind is stuck somewhere else. His eyes skip between the lavish rose bouquets in Brad’s lap to the measly assortment of pink and blue daisies in his own. It’s silly to worry the kids would love him less over something like flowers, but he can’t help himself. 

Nancy joins with a knowing smirk and immediately asks about Steve’s plus one. He feeds her some generic, bullshit line about you and how you’re trying so very hard to make it, and he decides Nancy must fucking hate him. She knows it was a lie. She just wants to watch him burst into flames and char into a corpse of embarrassment and regret. 

There are less than two minutes to showtime. The audience is buzzing, the auditorium doors are closing, and the bench space beside Steve remains unoccupied. He turns around for one last pathetic look behind him before his dignity is tarnished forever. 

But there you are! Stood up against the back wall, searching and searching until your eyes lock onto Steve’s and your whole face brightens like a sunrise. 

Steve waves, a little shy suddenly, but largely overwhelmed by the complete one-eighty his heart’s just spun. And it only worsens as you make your way up to the row. 

You look fucking unreal Steve realizes. You pat a pretty dress down your thighs, two big bouquets wedged in the crook of your arm, and shimmy past the family seated beside him with a dashing smile.

“Sorry I’m late,” you say to him, so genuinely apologetic Steve can’t remember the reason you’re there in the first place. You bend to wrap your arms around him, his nose tapping the sugared sweetness of your perfume. 

His brain reboots itself, a blank slate. He’s completely forgotten about Nancy and Brad until you lean across his lap to address them. 

“Nancy,” Steve coughs, “um, this is Y/N. My girlfriend.” The words trip off his tongue slow and he thinks it can’t be more obvious that he doesn’t mean them. 

But while his head is busy imploding on itself, you’re acing introductions. You’re smiling and waving, your voice stays so calm— exactly the reassurance Steve needed. He peels his eyes off your face for a glimpse at Nancy’s and nearly laughs. 

Her brows are up, obscured by her bangs, and she blinks like she’s got something caught in her mascara. Priceless. 

“Y/N, this is Nancy and her boyfriend, Brad,” Steve finishes. 

“Nice to meet you,” Brad smiles, squeezing Nancy’s knee until she does the same. 

The pretending is clumsy at first. Steve’s arm hesitates on its course behind your shoulders. And you go stiff as a board the first time his fingertips brush your bare arm. You overcompensate, laughing at something that’s not all that funny while Steve rambles on about how you met when no one even asked. But eventually, you find a balance somewhere between too much and too little.

And Steve can’t stop fucking smiling. You’re polite, funny, really pretty, you’re perfect. You’re more than what he hoped to have tonight. 

The lights dim and the curtains part, Steve’s excitement shifts toward the stage. His hand remains on your shoulder but his attention is reserved solely for his kids. You cheer for them just as loud as he does, for two children you’ve never met in your life. You remember their names and are eager for Steve to point them out when they appear. You’re a convincing girlfriend. You actually seem to care a whole lot. 

Caroline is a fabulous mermaid. She has a tail made of sequins and glitter gel down her arms. All those hours of practice were worth it, Steve nearly cries watching his little girl recite her two lines to a T. 

And Andrew plays a scruffy dog called Nana. He has no lines but he makes several appearances throughout the show, barking with flawless comedic timing for a kindergartener. Steve’s biased when he thinks his kids are the best actors here, of course, but he couldn’t be more proud. 

Touching you doesn’t become any less strange as the evening rolls on. Your thigh is smushed to his. Your back warms the inside of his elbow. He hasn’t touched anyone like this since Nancy, maybe besides Robin who doesn’t really count. And perhaps that’s pitiful, he’s not touching you all that much. But he likes it, which, is probably even more pitiful, you being his pretend girlfriend and all. 

The main cast of fifth graders bow, the crowd erupts with applause, and the lights flicker back on as the big curtains close. 

Nancy is staring at you when Steve checks her way. It’s not the first time he’s caught her tonight but he still isn’t certain that she fully believes this whole thing. At least you’re here and you seem normal and you’re a much better actor than Robin gave you credit for. That’s a mission fucking accomplished in Steve’s book. 

“They did really good, Steve,” you say in his ear. “They’re both adorable.” 

His smile is immediate. He won’t miss an opportunity to rave about his kids, not even to a stranger. “Did you see Andy’s run? He does this little skippy-thing, I dunno where he learned it.” 

“Mhmm! And Caroline, she’s only eight? She seems so much older the way she talked.”

“I know! She was so worried before, I can’t believe how good she did.” 

Nancy is one of the first parents to her feet. Brad collects her purse and the flowers as she scans each exit for the quickest route. Her face is rigid as she explains, “I’m going to get Caroline if you’ll…”

“Yeah,” Steve nods when she looks. 

Nancy’s eyes veer from his to yours for the briefest second before she turns around. Her chin juts up to Brad. “Ready?” 

He works a hand across the cardigan on her back and starts for the end of the row where parents squeeze and squish by each other toward the hall doors. 

Steve waits until their bodies bleed into the rest of the crowd before he faces you again. His lips tilt into a funny line, his eyes alive under the auditorium lights. “I kinda think that worked?” 

“Are you kidding?” you laugh and knock your shoulder into his. “She kept staring at me! She totally bought it.” 

Steve’s smile pinches up into his cheeks. He thinks you're really quite beautiful. It’s not new information to him, he noticed the first time he met you, bumbling up behind Robin in her kitchen. And he remembered just last week when she brought you up out of the blue. 

But today that knowledge feels different. Today you’re all smiles and sweet touches and sneaky glances. It’s doing something scary to his heart. 

Steve stands quickly. He’s hot all over, uncomfortably aware of the sweat accumulating under his clothes. Being sardined against every other parent in the school will do that. Plus, there’s you and your nice face. Still, somehow, he misses the heat of your thigh pressed to his. 

“She’s smart, Nancy, I mean… I dunno,” he worries. 

You stand too and your hand finds a home on the back of his arm. “No, no. It worked. Trust me.” 

“Trust you?” He can’t help but grin at your nonchalance. He wishes he could be like that, but having kids makes you worry more. 

You grin back and shrug. “Yeah, trust me.” 

Well, he can’t not trust you. Not when you’re looking at him with all the confidence in the world and squeezing his arm in gentle reassurance. 

His cheeks ache from smiling by the time you make it to the hall. He gestures one way and you follow him past doors and bulletin boards and as many children as there are adults. And finally, he turns through an open classroom door and it’s just absolute chaos. 

A ball pops against a ceiling tile, Steve’s heel slides under a stack of notebook paper, and a string of kids fly between his hip and yours, all in one blink. 

You recognize Andrew faster than Steve expects, pointing him out where he’s barking at a child sprawled on the rug. The other boy stops giggling as you approach, prompting Andrew to spin around with the crazed expression of a real puppy looking for trouble. 

His costume is even cuter up close, a painted snout and a fur-onesie with a floppy-eared hood to match. Andrew barks at Steve, crawling across the carpet on all fours until he’s panting at his father’s jeans. 

Steve squats down to his level, a gentle hand on either side of the boy's neck. “Oh, nooo. They didn’t turn you into a real dog, did they? Are we going to have to feed you from Daisy’s bowl now?” 

Andy slurps a rope of spit back in his mouth and rolls his eyes. “I’m just pretending, Dad.”

“Ohh,” Steve laughs, pressing him impossibly closer. “You did so good, bud. Proud of you.” 

“Did you see me? When I barked at the pirates?” 

“I did! I actually thought it was a real dog.” 

Andrew cackles once, throwing his head down on Steve’s shoulder. 

Steve pats his fuzzy back. “Tired?” 

He blinks up at you curiously and shakes his head. 

“Andy,” Steve cranes toward you, “this is my friend, Y/N. Can you say hi?”

He lifts his head and barks, high-pitched and snappy as a chihuahua. 

Steve tilts his ear away and pinches Andy’s side until the barking turns to giggles. “In English, please.” 

“Hi, Y/N,” Andy squeals out between the remainder of his laughter. 

“Hi, buddy.” You kneel beside Steve and fawn, “You did such a good job!”

Andy pokes his tongue through the gap in his smile. He looks you over entirely and bats his long lashes like a paper fan. 

“I got these for you,” you say, tipping the colorful blooms toward his face. “This one’s for your sister. Here.” 

He chokes the plastic-wrapped stems in his tiny fist, half his face hidden behind a rainbow of petals. 

“Here, bud,” Steve takes one of his bouquets from the floor and tucks it in with yours, “this one’s from me.” 

Andy can’t see much of anything with his nose pressed to a daffodil but he loves them all the same. You pick yourself off the floor, your laughter spilling like the sun. 

“Let’s go find your sister,” Steve says, a hand braced on Andy’s shoulder as he stands too. 

Andy looks between you and Steve in amazement. “She was a mermaid. Did you see?” 

“We did,” Steve answers. “She was a great mermaid, don’t you think?” 

“Yes. She was all sparkly.” Andy slips his small hand into Steve’s, then automatically offers you his other.

You find Nancy, Brad, and Caroline outside the school near the parent pickup circle. Brad’s got Caroline’s hand in his, her feet tracing the edge of the sidewalk like a balance beam. 

She jumps off the curb when she spots Steve, tripping over her toes before breaking into a sprint for his arms. 

Steve kneels right there on the asphalt. “Hi, baby,” he laughs. She sets her elbows on his shoulders as he kisses her on each cheek. “Did such a good job up there!” 

“Did you see me!” she yells. “I wasn’t even scared! I didn’t forget my words like I thought I would.” 

Steve thumbs the corner of her crinkled eye where eyeshadow glares silver under the moon. “I know! My big girl. I’m so proud. Know that?” 

She giggles, her fingers scrunching around the cellophane wrapping in his hand. “Are these for me?” 

“They are. For my best little lady.” 

She sticks her smile in the bouquet and sniffs. 

Steve is oblivious to the heart-warmed grin on your face. But you watch the scene unfold, feeling an unexpected fondness for a family that isn’t yours. You’re only a guest in their little world, an outsider looking in— but even from here, it’s undeniable. He’s a great dad.

“Hey, I have someone I want you to meet,” Steve says. 

You’re so enraptured by the moment, you completely forget that’s your cue. Steve beckons you over with features that echo Carolines, not just in emotion but in shape too. They’re cheek-to-cheek looking at you like a pair of very happy identical twins. 

“Hi, Caroline,” you wave and offer the same hand to shake.

She smiles big and wraps her smaller fingers around yours. “You came to see our show?”

“I did! You were a really amazing mermaid, you know? I especially liked the dance with the sea stars.” 

She shrinks away, suddenly sheepish as she thanks you. 

“Oh, here,” you shift the bouquet in your arms toward her, “before I forget, these are for you.”

“Another! Oh my gosh!” Her beaded hair-tie clinks as she pivots. “Mom! Look! I have three flowers now!” She takes the bouquet at the base and books it toward Nancy who’s engrossed in a conversation with Brad. “Can I keep them in my room, please? And can we get some more vases tonight? I’ll water them, I promise, Mommy.”

You have a fondness for his kids Steve doesn’t often see in the eyes of strangers. They're quite rambunctious a lot of the time and while the elderly compliment him and his genes occasionally, this is different. Affection softens every line of your expression and there’s joy stitched in each sweep of your lashes. It’s endearing as it is strange because ultimately you are still very much a stranger. 

Steve trusts Robin’s judgment more than his own sometimes. If love for his kids were a race, she’d take a very close second against him. She takes her duties as an aunt very seriously and so he’s confident you’re as great as she says. But still, he doesn’t know you personally. He can’t know your intentions for certain. And he might feel guiltier about that in the context of introducing you to his kids— if you weren’t so undeniably wonderful.

You idle beside Steve, a short distance from the rest of the crew. He places his hand on the small of your back and you exchange quiet smiles. 

It’s mostly for show. He feels the weight of Nancy’s gaze in his peripherals. But an ounce or two of Steve is motivated purely by his own self-interest.

He misses these simple acts of affection. Tracing the veins in someone else’s palm, kissing their eyelids, counting their lashes. It’s human nature, a need, he supposes. A need he’s been trying to convince himself is much more of a want. 

And you’re so very gentle with him. It’s really driving him mad. 

Nancy must tell the kids it’s time to go because they’re scrambling over in a cacophony of goodbyes. Steve gives them each a big squeeze and a little shake for the road. Caroline hugs you like you’re no different than the rest of them, while Andy, ever the little charmer, asks your name for the third time. They disappear behind the first row of cars, their voices carry far but fade into all the rest. 

When Steve turns, he finds you already looking at him. 

“They’re really great,” your smile worsens and Steve’s stomach capsizes, “your kids. You should be proud.”

The joy is contagious, infecting Steve with the same toothy smile, spreading through every cell in his body straight down to his jumping heart. “I am,” he manages. 

“God,” you shake your head at the stars, “I can’t believe that actually worked.” 

Steve closes his eyes and exhales a rough laugh. “You’re telling me.” 

“Did I make you uncomfortable at all? I didn’t want to do too much.” 

“No,” Steve promises. “No, no, it was perfect. You did great. Thank you.”

You throw your hand up in dismissal. “Don’t. That was… weirdly fun.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you chuckle, “is that fucked up?” 

“Not any more than me asking you to do this,” he snorts. 

“How long exactly do you plan to do this for? I could probably do most evenings but mornings are trickier with work.” 

Steve blinks unceremoniously. “Oh, I– well, I was just gonna tell her it didn’t work out, actually.”

“Really?” 

He struggles to understand your squinting. He didn’t expect you to question this part. “Yeah?”

“You want it to be believable, don’t you?” 

“Well, yeah–”

“Then you have to sell it, Steve. Give it a little buildup, some emotion. It would be so obvious if you ended it now.” 

He searches your face, not sure what he’s hoping to find. But there’s at least some level of authenticity there. “You’d want to? To keep going?”

“Like I said,” you frown, “weirdly fun.” 

He hums. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Okay.”

“I say we make a few more appearances, you know, as a happy couple. Then, we stage the breakup.” 

“What, in front of her?”

“No, not necessarily. But we plant the seeds. We aren’t as affectionate, we get a little worked up over something stupid. I don’t know. Just enough to make her catch on that things aren’t all that good. That’s believable.”

Steve stares at you for a long minute before his smile turns a sinister shade. “You’re crazy, aren’t you?” 

You huff but there’s no heat behind it. You’re grinning too. “I thought you had more manners than that, Steve.” 

“Yeah, well, if it's any consolation, I also think you’re a fuckin’ genius.”

“You’ve been a nice boyfriend, so, I’ll let it slide.”  

He rolls his eyes like a kid. He likes talking to you but he isn’t sure what else to say. 

“So, see you next time then?”

“Yeah,” he nods, “yeah, I’ll call you. Thank you.” 

“‘Kay. See ya.” 

There’s a beat before you go, a split-second where Steve could hug you, kiss your cheek, touch your arm. He’s not exactly sure what the protocol is for this type of situation, though. He makes the executive decision not to subject you to any more PDA lest you get the wrong idea about him. But the way you’ve got this all planned out, he’s not so worried anymore. 

“Bye,” he waves. 

You walk the same path Nancy and his kids had, the back of your head slipping behind the bed of a truck. There’s something about you. Something fun, something that makes him feel alive again. And a fake relationship isn’t really harming anyone if you’re both enjoying yourselves. So why the hell not? 

[evesbookshop]

❤︎︎ 𝐕𝐢 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝓇ℯ𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐩 ❤︎︎

✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿

𝐅𝐭: 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐩 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞, 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐩 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐤/𝐜𝐨𝐜𝐤, 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐭

𝐅𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿

Vi who watches one TikTok of a girl complaining that she’ll never get to have her dick sucked and it absolutely changes her life. If we’re being completely honest Vi’s always had a little bit of a thing with your mouth, but she can’t help it. And this has just made it so much worse

So much worse infact that when she gets horny and you’re away, she watches strap sucking videos specifically so she can imagine what you’d look like on your knees taking her. And how heavenly your already magnificent mouth could feel.

And she tries to keep it together, she does. But she’s been extra feral and it’s not hard to pick up on the fact that something’s causing it. Her already crumpling composure all comes toppling down when she goes to show you a fight video she had saved on twitter and it instead opens up to a girl throat fucking her girlfriend with a strap.

It’s dead silent as you piece together what’s really been making her crazy. And she is staring at her phone, she turned it off and chucked it , in abject horror. Not for long though of course.

“Did you wanna try that” She’s gonna cream her pants.

And that’s how you end up here, on your knees, Vi’s black strap within an inch of your face and Vi herself looking just as delicious as usual. Maybe more so, if you’re being honest.

Eyes trailing her body as they make their way up. From the hot oink happy trail that only stops a few centimeters from her belly button to her toned beyond belief torso. I mean abs like hers should be illegal really, and her breast , god they looked great from this angle.

But more importantly was her eyes, dark with a hunger you’d only seen a few times on her. Taking in every piece of you, and if this was anyone else you’d feel vulnerable, but you don’t.

“Just gonna stare or you gonna put that pretty mouth to work, babe”

A shiver went down your spine as you leaned forward, grasping the toy at the base and kissing up the side length before coming to the tip. Tapping it on your tongue and giving it a few light licks.

“Don’t tease.” Vi’s voice was tight and barely restrained. She had one hand buried softly in your hair but her grip tightened as she spoke, giving a warning tug.

“Can’t help it,” you gave her a soft smirk “it’s just so fun” at that a sharper tug that had the ghost of a whine leave your mouth. Finally you stopped your teasing, anticipation having brewed enough.

Taking her deeper and deeper as a steady pace before it bottomed out, and you’d be lying if the feeling of Vi’s bush against your nose and the sweet sent of her musk that filled your senses didn’t have you clenching around nothing. Drawing back and repeating until you had a good temp, rubbing and gripping at her trembling thighs to steady yourself.

And Vi, she was in heaven. You’d think this wouldn’t feel that good, that it wouldn’t live up to all the fantasies she’d created in her mind. But if anything, this was better. She had the prettiest girl in the world in front of her , sucking her dick like a porn star, hell she could feel the moans you were trying to muffle vibrating through the silicone and it was doing something fierce to her. But it wasn’t enough.

“Oh fuck, pretty girl you’re doin so good . So fucken good promise , but I need more” Her voice was wrecked , bordering on the line of pathetic. A raspy whiney mess and damn if it wasn’t working for you.

“What’s wrong baby , whaddya need?” You pull back and a line of droop connects your lips to the tip of her cock, almost as thin as her restrain is wearing at the moment. Hand coming to jerk it off. Because despise it being fake, the grinder that lay underneath bumping relentlessly against Vi’s sensitive clit was very real.

“Need to fuck your face” oh this was filthy

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, just fuck. C’mon princess. Don’t tease” Another raspy whine left her lips as her hips bucked forward, and you thighs pressed together to follow.

“Yeah Vi, okay. Fuck my face” it was breathy but just as needy in response and it had her removing her hand from your hair so that it could help the other gather all the fly away and pull it back, becoming a handle of sorts. Mumbling soft but ever so genuine ‘thank you’s.

“Just tap me twice if it’s too much , alright pretty?”

“Alright.”

“Good girl, now open up for me.” She instructed and you obeyed, jaw dropping and tongue out far enough to cover your teeth. The first few were gentle, testing. But after she had it, all bets were off. Hips snapping relentless , silicone bumping against the back of your throat as you tried to suck in tandem. Spit dropping down the sides of your mouth and down your chest.

“Oh that’s so good, doin so good for me , babe. So fucken good”

“God you’re perfect, mouth is perfect, taking me so well”

And when you gagged the first time, she knew she wasn’t lasting long.

“Oh fuck, that’s right pretty girl. Just fucken choke on my cock.” She was practically bent over cradling your head as she humped the toy into your mouth. Coil in her stomach tightening with every thrust, threatening to snap with every moan you let out in response .

It came as no surprise to the both of you when she let out whine turned growl as she chased and then road out her high. Grinding against the bumper and simultaneously choking you on her cock. A few more jerky and not nearly as strong thrusts before she was pulling out. Hazy and in complete awe of you. Even as you were covered in spit and blinking away tears.

“Too rough?”

“Never”

“Good.” Before she was helping you stand to carrying you to the bedroom.

“Did so good , babe. I’m gonna fuck you till you see stars tonight.”

✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿

𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬, 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 ❤︎︎

𝐌𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐨 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝❤︎︎

[mashtatosworld]

on set

summary: you're a trainee make-up artist for Big Bang, but you're more than that to him

Working with Big Bang was easily the best part of your apprenticeship.

Unlike other artists who wanted layers of product, constant touch-ups, and precise contouring, the guys mostly required light work: a bit of foundation, some powder, a touch of eyeliner if the concept called for it.

It made your job more enjoyable, especially since they treated you like part of the team rather than just another staff member.

It made for a relaxed atmosphere in the makeup trailer, where laughter and teasing were as common as powder brushes and eyeliner pencils.

Seunghyun was the worst at sitting still, always shifting in his chair when you tried to fix his brows, even running away when you brought out the tweezers. While Daesung, ever the considerate one, sat perfectly still and thanked you each time you adjusted something. Youngbae, being the perfectionist he was, always asked to check his reflection halfway through, nodding in approval before letting you continue.

But Jiyong?

Jiyong made your job interesting.

The others mostly kept things professional, but he had a habit of getting under your skin - both figuratively and literally. He was always touching, always leaning, always there.

If he wasn’t stealing your makeup brushes to twirl between his fingers or teasingly drag over your nose while you were moisturising his skin, then he was casually resting his chin on your shoulder while you worked on someone else, peering at your technique like an inquisitive cat.

The worst part?

You didn’t even mind.

You kind of liked it.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

“Is that my sandwich?” you asked, watching as he took another bite of the meal you had left on the table - having stepped away only for a moment to grab your compact mirror.

Jiyong glanced up from his phone, completely unbothered. “You left it unattended. That’s a free-for-all.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That was my lunch.”

He had the audacity to smirk, chewing slowly before holding up the other half. “You can still have the rest.”

"Keep it." You rolled your eyes, being extra forceful as you dabbed his face with powder. But the damn smirk never dropped from his face.

The next day was the same.

You had left your breakfast bar on the make up table and when you returned, it was half-eaten, carefully wrapped back up again like he hadn't taken several bites.

You snatched it from the table with a huff, but before you could start eating, he reached into his bag and pulled out a small container.

“I got you something,” he said, placing it in front of you.

You frowned, eyeing the packaging. “What is it?”

“Kimchi fried rice,” he replied, shrugging. “Figured you’d want something better than a cereal bar anyway. And we can share this.”

Your heart did a dumb little flip at the casual way he said it.

Daesung, who had been watching the exchange, snickered. “You guys act more like a couple than some actual couples I know.”

Jiyong didn’t even blink. “She’s madly in love with me,” he said, shooting you a playful grin.

You rolled your eyes. “Oh yeah, totally.”

Totally.

Because you couldn’t ignore the warmth spreading through your chest as you dug into the food he had brought you.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

After that, you two frequently shared lunches together, eating quietly to one side. Sometimes he was keen to speak, other times, you two ate in comfortable silence.

But these interactions had clearly been noticed by others.

One afternoon, while you were fixing the lipstick of one of the lead models for the music video, she brought it up.

“Hey make up girl,” she said smoothly, her tone edged with something sharp. “You and GDragon seem… close.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Oh, uh… I guess? We work together a lot.”

She hummed, lips pursed as if she wasn’t convinced. Then, without hesitation, she asked, “Can you ask him out for me?”

You nearly choked. “What?”

She flipped her hair over her shoulder, giving you a look like it was obvious. “I’ve been wanting to get drinks with him, but he hasn't spoken to me yet. Since you’re close, I need you to set it up.”

You hesitated.

On one hand, you didn’t want to.

You liked Jiyong - more than you probably should.

But on the other hand, she was a well-known model in the industry, and refusing her could put your job at risk. She was demanding. You'd spent most of the week fetching her sparkling water or finding her phone as if you were her personal assistant.

So, against your better judgment, you agreed.

Later, when Jiyong was sitting in a makeup chair waiting for a quick touch-up, you carefully approached him. You took a deep breath, trying to sound casual. “Hey, um, are you busy later?”

He turned his head toward you, intrigued. “Why?”

“There’s this downtown bar,” you said carefully, watching his expression. “And I know someone that would like to go with you.”

Jiyong blinked, then smirked. “You mean you?”

You froze. “What?”

He chuckled, shaking his head like he found your shyness cute. “Why not just say it? Of course I’ll go with you. I had wanted to ask you first, but I guess you beat me to it.”

Your mouth opened, then shut. You were completely stunned. This was not how this was supposed to go.

But before you could correct him, he was already grinning, standing up and lightly pinching your cheek. “Cute. You should’ve just told me earlier, Jagi.”

Jagi?!

From that moment on, everything shifted.

Jiyong treated you like his girlfriend.

He started calling you pet names, saving a seat for you beside him in the van, throwing an arm around you in between takes. At one point, he even pulled you onto his lap when there were no seats left, completely unbothered by the way staff and models alike stared.

And the model? Oh, she was fuming.

She spent the rest of the day on set making your life miserable.

The final straw had been when she 'accidentally' knocked your makeup brushes onto the floor, forcing you to scramble and clean them up before someone slipped on one.

Your mentor had scolded you, sending you away to go clean them with an annoyed tut. By the time the day was winding down, you were exhausted.

You couldn’t take it anymore. You were standing at the sink as you washed the brushes with a scowl.

That’s where Jiyong found you.

“Hey,” he called, voice softer than usual. “I was looking for you.”

You didn’t answer right away, focusing on the brushes. He stepped closer, leaning against the counter. “So, about our date tonight - ”

“I might not be able to go,” you interrupted quietly, not meeting his eyes.

Jiyong frowned. “Why not?”

You swallowed, watching the muted colours stain the porcelain sink. “Because I might be fired before I leave today.”

His entire demeanour shifted. “What?”

You exhaled shakily. “She - ” You didn’t need to say her name. You both knew. “She’s been making my life hell all day. I think she’s trying to sabotage me. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s already complained to my boss. And if she does…”

Jiyong’s jaw tightened. Then he said, voice firm, “If anyone’s going to be fired, it’s her.”

Your eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by his seriousness. “Jiyong - ”

“Don’t worry about it,” he interrupted. “Just focus on our date later.”

You put the brushes down and wiped your hands on your jeans. “That’s still happening?”

He gave you a look like you were crazy. “Of course.” Then, softer, “You still want to, right?”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you hadn’t really thought about what this all meant.

But the idea of going on a real date with Jiyong - of being his, even if just for a night - excited you.

He studied you carefully, waiting for your answer.

Finally, you nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

A slow, satisfied smirk spread across his lips. He took a step forward, trapping you against the counter, his hands bracing on either side of you.

“Good,” he murmured. Then, before you could react, he leaned in and kissed you - soft, slow, but with enough confidence to make your knees weak.

When he pulled back, his voice was a whisper against your lips.

“I wouldn’t have taken no for an answer.”

Your mood significantly improved after that.

Nothing could ruin your high.

Especially when, the next morning, you arrived on set to find that the model had been replaced.

And Jiyong?

Well, let’s just say he was more than happy to continue calling you Jagi.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

this will probably be a part of a mini collection 😝

taglist: @petersasteria, @mirahyun , @allthoughtsmindfull , @gdinthehouseee , @infinetlyforgotten , @redhoodedtoad , @kathaelipwse , @lxvemaze , @loveesiren , @sherrayyyyy , @getyoassoutthetrunk , @shieraseastarrs , @ctrldivinev , @xxxicddbr88 , @onyxmango , @tryingtolivelifeblog , @tulentiy , @bettelaboure , @maskedcrawford

[scriptseekstories]

Queen Bee’s Hive

Chapter 4- The Night it Goes Wrong

A/N: So uhhh, heads up, things will get horrific so I gotta warn yall

Trigger Warning: Major body horror, bones breaking, blood, teeth falling out, and whatnot. Like this is my first time actually writing something like and I was like 😨 If you ain’t comfortable with that, let me give you a short TL:DR at the end of the taglist.

I’ll put a sign that when it’ll begin and end with this: ꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂ ꧁꧂ ꧁꧂ ꧁꧂ ꧁

ALSO I may not post in a while, I got vacation with the fam!

The moment Alfred Pennyworth saw you in that police station, clutching onto the edge of the seat with your big eyes, and confused look, he knew he was going to adore you.

He has been a caretaker, a protector, a father all his life, raising Bruce when his parents, Alfred’s cherished friends, have died. He tended to his wounds and assisted when Dick was first brought into the Manor.

Ever since then, he has cared, loved, protected, and cherished every single member of this family. He was a great guardian to all.

However, Alfred was far from perfect, shamefully leaving his daughter to care for a family he wasn’t related to, yet he hoped raising all of Bruce’s children would make up for his neglected ways.

That’s why he attached himself to you. You were neglected outright the moment you held out your hand for Bruce to shake. He was appalled seeing his son ignore you so blatantly.

Perfect as he may not have been, he saw his daughter in you. He may not have fully have the memory of Julia Pennyworth’s childhood, but he knew she was a spunky and bright as you.

Yet despite the promise of taking care of you, life had other plans when Bruce took in Jason, taking the title of Robin to him. He was relieved to see you have one family member to bond over.

But after Jason’s death, it was back to square one with you. His heart ached seeing you get rejected with each member, and he tried his best to make sure you had felt included, even if it was him only.

Old habits die hard, he supposed. He once or twice failed to acknowledge you for he has been too busy with the other members, as one does. One memory was horrible when he failed to arrive for your science fair, and you returned home with your tear stained cheeks.

He has never forgiven himself since, each failed parenting attempt a reminder that he has failed his daughter. Unhealthy as it may have been, Alfred knew you weren’t her.

You were more than any child he has seen being adopted in the Wayne Manor. You were his child, and what had happened that day made him knew he failed you once more.

Cleaning the garden with some members of the family, Alfred returned back inside for drinks. Tim had the foolishly wise idea to throw a stick at a window, your window, where the beehive laid.

The bees began to emerge from their hive and hovered around the family, not fully attack until Dick panicked and sprayed the bees with the hose, completely missing and hit your window again.

The bees weren’t thrilled with the attack on your window, so they began to sting the members, first Dick, then heavily at Tim. Steph hid behind Bruce as the oldest member quickly avoided the bees and pulled out the pesticides for the weeds.

When Alfred returned, horror ran throughout his body when he saw the dead bees and hive. That was when he began shouting at them, the moment you returned home, and the moment you finally broke.

“Wow, crybaby,” Damien snarked while walking in the garden to see the commotion. He watched you run back inside, and couldn’t help but snicker acting so pathetic.

“Steph, clean up this mess, I’ll have to tend to Tim’s stings,” Bruce pinched his nose in frustration, not aware of Alfred’s frozen body, anger rising to his face before he let out a harsh and cold tone.

“Bruce Thomas Wayne!!” Everyone stopped what they were doing, looking at Alfred. Bruce froze, as the butler was royally pissed off, yet it only showed in his eyes.

“Never in my life if raising you, tending to your failures and comfort your pain, would I ever expect you to treat one of your children with such negligence and disgust!” He shouted, causing the siblings to look down, however Alfred saw that they weren’t full realizing what they did, which made him more furious.

“You not only proved to me that you never truly known Master (Name), but you proved to me that despite all of your achievements involving the rest of your kids, you are still arrogant enough to not ever acknowledge your own flesh in blood when they were in pain!” Pulling out his wallet, Alfred shows rows of photos of you as a kid, beaming while holding up a trophy.

Bruce instinctively opened his mouth to defend himself, but words died on his tongue, eyes drifting down to the destroyed beehive. You were always talking about bees, he thinks. What did you talk about?

And those photos. They looked old. You weren’t that old today, right? Bruce felt his stomach knot. How old were you?

“Pennyworth,” Damien at least had the decency to avoid eye contact, as no one dared to backtalk to Alfred when he’s scolding. “It was just a bunch of-,”

“Master Damien, you of all people here should know what the bond is between human and animal,” He turned to the youngest son, “Your strong bond with your pets are the equivalent to Master (Name)’s bonds with their bees. If not, their bond is stronger,” That had Damien to shut up.

“They have worked hard, every single day just to prove that they belonged in this family. Despite your comments, lack or affection, and shameful harmful attacks, they never let their smile disappear,” There were times he truly thought he failed you when you couldn’t smile, yet the next day the genuine joy was back.

“I am utterly not only disappointed in everyone here, but utterly appalled to witness you all not realize how exactly in the wrong you are,” Alfred tightened his fingers and dug them into his gloved palms, his projections strong.

“They adored you all, despite not knowing your nightly escapades, they wished to be apart of your hearts along with everyone else!” Alfred stretched his arm out to the hive, “Yet the proof is right on the floor, murdered by their own father,” The hive was now meant a lot to Alfred as it was to you.

“I, myself, is also to blame. I lack the strength to speak up sooner, in hopes that you all might finally one around and open your hearts and arms for them, but I was wrong,” He admitted, guilty memories of him leaving Julia haunted him. He won’t do the same with you.

“I expect you all to apologize first thing in the morning, we don’t want a foul mood lingering in the air when their birthday is simply two days away,” Not letting any of them have the final say, Alfred turned on his heels and marched inside, heart slamming against his chest.

He looked around then at the stairs, where Duke was standing there with a concerned look on his face. That gave Alfred a hint on where you went.

“A-Alfred?” Duke quietly mumbled, peaking out of the stairwell like a child admitting to do something wrong. Alfred let out a deep sigh before motioning Duke to follow him.

“Is this… where their room was all along?” Duke said in shock, then shame washed over his face. Even the door looked small compared to the massive doors that led to his room. Alfred closed his eyes and knocked with his knuckle.

“Master (Name)?” He began, “I heavily and sincerely apologize for what has happened with your bees. Please forgive my lack of defense towards your dear creatures. I’m sorry,” He called through the door. Silence, making the butler talk again.

“Words cannot describe how awful I feel, Master (Name). I promise you with my very soul, everything will change after this day,” He rested his forehead against the door, collecting his composure as to not feel more ashamed while imagining your cries while holding onto him.

“Y-yeah, (Name)! Maybe tomorrow, we could go eat take out! Relax at the beach, or watch a movie!” Duke piped up, a nervous smile on his face. You didn’t respond, which had Alfred worried.

“Master (Name)?” Gently twisting the doorknob, Alfred pushed the door open. Duke couldn’t see inside as Alfred peered in, but soon swung the door open. Duke hadn’t had time to react before Alfred turn to run off in the halls. And when Duke looked back in your room, he knew why.

You were gone.

꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂ ꧁꧂ ꧁꧂ ꧁꧂ ꧁

The rain became heavy, splashing into your fabric and letting it soak it all until your clothes felt heavy. Yet you’d didn’t stop, you had to keep skating through the empty streets of Gotham.

You crashed into the rough sidewalk, scrapping large cuts and stabs of concrete digging into your skin. You just kept on pushing and continued to skate through the heavy rain. The glow from Ivy’s pollen she gifted you lit up the way to the warehouse in the harsh storm.

You managed to easily slide underneath the broken door to the warehouse, still gaining more slices form the gravel and concrete, yet you didn’t care at all.

“No more waiting, I have to do this now,” You panted, starting up the generators and checking on your hive. You wiped more tears, or was it rain?, while watching your mother’s beehive still intact. You may have failed your bees, but you won’t fail your mother.

You tossed your wet jacket on the old tv, taking your phone out to check the time and record this very moment of Raine history.

11:45

You were completely unaware that you had left your deceased Queen bee in you pocket, and by putting your jacket on the tv, she slipped out and landed into the honey.

Unaware of what you did, the honey began to glow the orange light, brighter hues swirled around the poor insects before completely dissolving her completely.

You turned back to the honey jar, grabbing it and paced around, determination etched all over your face. You’ll prove them that you do belong, that your existence was worth something just like them.

“Project: Honey,” You began, “An intense research study on genetically altering the DNA and structure of the honeybee. To provide better insight on saving endangered plants and to uprise the declining bee population,” While you talked, you kept on starting up everything in the warehouse.

You stood in the center, holding the jar over your head, faltering for a moment. You second guessed yourself on not waiting for a little while more, but flashes of the Waynes, you knew you had to do it.

“Final test, what more can you push yourself into being a part of your research than being just like a bee?” You asked yourself, holding the jar up in the light, “For you, mama,” And with that, you took a small sip.

You shut your eyes tight, hitching your breath. Yet the moment you swallowed the thick honey, your eyes shot back open, mouth salivating while you looked back at the jar, hands trembling.

It was-

“So sweet…” You muttered, tasting more of the honey. You never tasted anything like this! Each sip was more flavorful than the last. You needed more.

“So floral… so savory…” You stuck your finger in the jar, addicted to such a flavor. Your senses were too focused on the honey to realize your eyes began to turn a pinkish red, and your genetic bees began to rumble within their hives.

“So good,”

꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂ ꧁꧂ ꧁꧂ ꧁꧂ ꧁

But that was when the itching started.

“Fuck…” You hissed, feeling your arms itch, and soon your whole body began to feel like it needed to be rubbed with sandpaper. Your nails scratched against your arms and neck, the urge to peel your skin off was overwhelming.

Your stomach felt ill, but it wasn’t from the honey. Your vision blurred, until you felt something wet run down your cheek. You wiped them away, believed to be tears, but only when you saw dark strains on your fingers, you realized blood was seeping from your eyes.

You couldn’t even scream when pain shot to your limbs.

Suddenly, a grotesque sound of bones breaking, and extreme jolts of hot searing pain ran to your spine. The ringing of your ears didn’t cover the piercing high pitch screams of horror. Your skin tightens and cracks, bones twisting in agony, as if something was pushing against your skin.

You felt like vomiting, the bile, or was it blood? You found out quickly when you spat out a glob of both vomit and blood, but something hard slipped through your lips.

Your tooth. Your teeth.

One became three, and soon every tooth began to fall out with strong strings of blood and shreds of gums trailing behind them. You choked out a low, guttural sound emitting from your very throat, a sound you never made before.

It wasn’t a scream, yet you did felt like screaming with every single emotion you experienced. You wanted this to stop, this was horrifying enough to make you want to cry out, do something. The sounds coming out of you became higher pitch, almost like a screech from an unknown creature.

Your spin felt like it was scalding hot, searing pain spreads across your back until you let out another screech when you heard the sickening CRUNCH of muscles and skin break by your spine.

Your back splits open, something pushing through like it needed you. You needed air. It pushed through, getting larger by the minute before the head pulls out with a loud ear piercing sound emitting from its mouth.

It wasn’t an it. It was you.

It felt like your skin was being pulled off, like a crab molting from its old skin. Your… old body began to spasm until it fell limp, your new body crawling out, spreading wings out and fully standing tall.

Yet despite the ease of escaping the skin, the agonizing pain still very much lingered. You never stopped screeching with how much your body distorted. Legs, arms, mouth and body, everything was unbearable.

“M-MAMA!!” You screeched out, gurgled by the globs of blood you keep vomiting out. Your stomach lurched and heaved with the torture you’ve been enduring, flashes of memories seeming to be the one good thing in this disturbing experience.

Then-

Silence.

꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂ ꧁꧂ ꧁꧂ ꧁꧂ ꧁

Everything was over. The pain wasn’t there, but the fear never went away. You didn’t comprehend what happened, what you became, and where you were. You were snapping your head around, watching the warehouse lights intently before eyes spotted the beehive.

The moment you looked at it, your eyes hurt from the sudden burst of light emerged from your head and back. Your blurry eyes trailed down to your own body, seeing two pairs of arms. But besides your arms, underneath you.

Was the body of you.

You gently clasped your hands underneath your once human body. Cheeks stained with blood that leaked from your tears, limbs contorted in an inhumane way, and eyes faded into grey pupils.

Vision blurry yet still coherent, they landed on the clock, where it flashed a bright infrared sequence of numbers to tell the time.

11:52

It was merely seven minutes of agonizing torture.

CRASH

The sunroof shattered by the weight of multiple people, having you whip your body around to see Batman. His cowl never showed much, yet his eyes showed more than enough emotions. Most was fear. But for what? Or who.

Along with Batman, stood the Robins. Red Robin assessed what was going on in front of them, before feeling sick when he saw what the scene was in front of them all.

A large grotesque figure, almost two times the size of Bane himself, a bright colorful glow surrounding it while it flexed its thorax. And underneath the beast… was your body, back completely ripped as if it had taken your skeleton, completely lifeless.

Your eyes couldn’t properly identify what or who was in front of you, all pairs of your eyes darting in completely different directions and not being able to fully spot the figures. The confusion made you tighten your grip on your old corpse more.

You opened your mouth to at least release a sound, before screeching when a baterang swooshed past your neck, body acting fast and barely avoided a decapitation.

“GET AWAY FROM THEM!!” Robin screamed, charging towards you with a strong swing of his sword. You dropped your body and scrambled back, your new form not yet in control. You skidded against the concrete flooring, pushing both pairs of arms to steady yourself.

Signal, Batman, Orphan, Red Robin, Spoiler, Nightwing, Robin, and Red Hood all began to surround you, all had looks underneath their helmets, cowls, and masks that show they were out for blood, filled with anguish and rage.

Red Hood pulled out a gun, cocking it before aiming it at you. All of your eyes darted around as you began to get surrounded by them, your hearing still ringing as you could see them shout, yet no words were audible.

Before any of the Bats can attack, your genetic bees swarm around them, glowing yellow and orange as if blinding them. You felt yourself pull towards to the hive, and you took a big leap over them and clumsily landed in the now ruined garden.

The bees got aggressive, the whole hive glowing brighter and brighter as they all began to buzz so loud, it was all anyone could hear.

Robin raised one of his swords, about to attack and destroy the hive, but Signal tackled him, looking like he was shouting at the boywonder. You didn't care, you had to escape.

Arms wrapped around the hive, and clutched it to your chest as you needed to escape. Just when you felt hopeless in escaping, the world felt lighter, as if you were floating.

Which you were. You were flying.

You couldn’t even comprehend what was happening until you burst through the broken sunroof, still clutching your hive securely.

Where were you? You didn’t know, all you had to know was that staying in one place will get you killed. You body flew across the city buildings, emitting a powerful light bursting from your body. It would’ve been something to marvel about if it wasn’t your weakness at the moment.

Flying in the air was exposing you as a big red target. As if knowing what you wanted, your body began to tilt downward and fly towards the ground. Yet you still didn’t know how to control your body, so you crash landed.

You didn’t recognize this place, or maybe you did? Your mind was being overwhelmed with the horrors you endured. The rain hit your disgusting form with harsh impacts, as if the world was punishing you for committing on such a foolish act.

You crawled the best you can into a narrow alleyway, avoiding large areas to get spotted faster. You never stopped panting, you never stopped panicking, all of this frantic terrified emotions soon stopped when you finally were able to pause and stare at the reflection from a trash lid.

You were no longer yourself. You were nothing but a monster. You were this large beast, one more pair of arms protruding from your waist, each hand containing sharp, claw-like fingers.

Legs were definitely not resembling human, as they were slightly thick. It looked like they were made to be agile and strong. Your second pair of hands dug their claws into your thighs, as if trying to see if it was all a bad dream.

Your face wasn’t any different. Three pairs of eyes, antennas prominent on your face, with a sharp and golden charm-like plaque above your head. Two thoraxes one both sides of your mouth… where did your mouth go…?

Large translucent wings with pink and yellow hues, your large abdomen behind you and hair on your head… both were glowing. Bright colors of blue, yellow, pink, and orange swirled within, lighting up the dark and grim alley you landed in.

The final touch was the stinger, sharp and long, and it was embarrassingly twitching.

Some say you were the most beautiful and fascinating creature they ever stumbled upon, but you knew better. You were this gross disgusting beast that crawled out of your old body.

You failed your mother, you failed yourself, and you failed your poor bees who died in vain by the hands of your… your… what were they?

You sniffled before peering into the hive you still clutched against your arms. They still glowed, giving out an almost harmonious buzz, as if they were comforting you. You saw the Queen bee still alive inside, much for alive than your poor Queen bee at home-

Wait.

Your queen bee. Where was she when you ran away?

You couldn’t even think before you let out another screech, dropping your hive as you got dragged out of the alleyway. You scratched against the ground, desperately trying to get a hold of a strong object, yet it was futile as strong vines wrapped around your body, the tip of the vine gripping your jaw.

"Well well well~”

A voice. A soothing alluring tone that echoed through the night. Your glowing body allowed you to see a slender figure rising above you with the help of plants, strangely familiar red rose hair and a bright smirk across their… her lips.

“It seems to me that I have myself a little~... a little..." Her smirk faltered, eyes narrowing at you, before they trailed down to the necklace around your neck. They widened in horror, the vines loosening ever so slightly before she pushed the plants for carry her closer to you.

"Bumblebee?" Ivy uttered, and your whole body went loose within her binds. All of your eyes, wide eyed and scared, stared at her own, softening as if you recognized her for the first time. That had her stomach drop. Did you not recognize her?

You began to let out another screech of fear as you heard the Bats coming. Ivy furrowed her eyebrows, looking at the small figures getting closer on the buildings, then at you... or rather, what now became of you.

She quickly covered your face with her vine, pulling your struggling body into her flower shop and into a secret passage. There laid a base for all the villains to law low, each of them shouting in annoyance over Ivy's vines, but soon shut up seeing you.

"Hey hey, it's okay,” She tried to shush you, “You need to stop thrashing, I cannot help you if you're in a state of panic," Yet like a caged animal, you were relentless on trying to escape the vine’s grasp, holding you in the middle of the base.

Riddler, Two-Face, Harley Quinn, Bane, Scarecrow, Catwoman, and every other villain that escaped Arkham and are laying low watched intently, whispering to one another.

“(Name)?" "It's them..." "Not my poor child, what has happened to them?" "No.." Henchmen and villains alike all watched timely as you struggled against the binds of the sturdy vines, Ivy watching you intently.

“Oh (Name)..." She whispered, “What has happened to you?” She cupped your cheek, thumb rubbing against the thorax as you continued to sob, a small vulnerable child stuck in a monstrous body.

"S...Sc-Ared." You choked out, "M-Mа...Mа... W-wa-nt... M-Mama..." Blood still seeped out of what is now your mouth, staining the thorax with wet splotches of red. Your voice was no longer filled with bright, anxious, or even sarcastic tone.

Ivy didn’t know how to calm you down. How could she fix something when she has no idea how you became like this? Earlier this morning you were this bubbly, clumsy teen who tripped over their own shoes, and now? And why don’t you know her?

From the corner of her eyes, she saw Harley motioning her to hug you. She was hesitant at first, not knowing if your glowing hair is harmful, but she couldn’t let her baby client suffer like this.

"I'm so sorry the world hasn't been kind to you, little bumblebee," She hushed your broken cries. She bent you towards her, lowering you down as she placed you head against her chest.

"But I will be here for you," The warmth of her arms wrapped around your head, the steady heartbeat from her chest, the vines now simply holding your hands. You finally calmed down until there was nothing but hiccups and sniffles.

For once in this terrible night, you felt safe.

Buzzzzz

“I’ll always be here for you, (Name),”

A/N: wow... that's a whole lot of trauma for you.

BUUUT ANYWAYS, for those who skipped the part.

TL:DR- You got turned into an anthropomorphic bee in a horrifying way cuz I gotta do that Imao.

Tag list: @pix-stuff @jellystar-star @moon0goddess @bad4amficideas @lettucel0ver @lithiumval @degenerates-posts @ryuushou @deathbynarcisstick @silverklaus @artistwithcreativeburnout @middevil465 @jsprien213 @1abi @oliviaewl @redkarmakai @nxdxsworld @the-dumber-scaramouche

[jaikoyaki]

ꜱᴛᴀʏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ

//Kang Haerin x Reader//univ!AU//short oneshot//

ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇx ��ᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʟᴀɴ. ꜰᴀʟʟɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ ᴡᴀꜱɴ’ᴛ.

SYPNOSIS ! You’ve never missed a party. But when Kang Haerin—your best friend/fake girlfriend, and a total loser—cups your face and asks you to stay, how could you possibly say no????

WORD COUNT ! 2k TAGS ! Fake Dating, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Fluff & Tension, Light Angst, Nerd/Loser (idfk)!Haerin, Popular!reader, Subtle Jealousy. friends with benefits???, univ!au, fem!reader ofc, CUDDLESSS WARNINGS ! Mild suggestiveness, gay ahhahahah, idk how to write kissing stuff, kinda rushed but idc, Mentions of alcohol/partying,

AUTHOR'S NOTE ! ohmygoff guys i tried a different header style and i don’t like it but i’m too lazy to fix it 😭 anyway i got this idea from a tt i saw like a year ago lol

You’re sitting cross-legged in front of your vanity, lip gloss uncapped in one hand and your phone in the other. A stream of notifications rolls across the screen—texts from your friends about tonight’s party, someone asking if you’re bringing Haerin, and a single message from your ex that you’ve been ignoring all day.  

The girl behind you shifts on the bed, the soft glow from your LED lights casting faint shadows across her face. She’s still in her oversized sweater, the sleeves bunched over her hands, and her glasses are slipping down the bridge of her nose. Loose strands of hair frame her face as she watches you apply your makeup.  

“You’re really going?” Haerin’s voice is soft, almost hesitant. 

You meet her gaze through the mirror, “Yeah. Why, you gonna miss me?”  you joked

Haerin’s eyes drop to her lap, fingers tugging at the frayed hem of her sweater. “No.”  

You roll your eyes. “Liar.”  

She doesn’t answer, but you catch the way her lips press together.

Most people wouldn’t dare accuse Haerin of lying. Half the school is either intimidated by her or obsessed with her—the whole mysterious, nonchalant dreadhead vibe only adds to the appeal. She’s smart, always at the top of her class, but not in a try-hard way. It’s effortless for her.

At least, that’s what everyone else thinks.

You know better.

“awhh, you’re really not gonna miss me?” you tease, tilting your head.

Haerin’s mouth twitches, almost like she’s fighting a smile. She pushes her glasses up her nose with the edge of her sleeve. “Obviously not.”

Yeah. Sure.

The thing about Haerin is that she’s impossible to read—cold and quiet to most, yet with you, she’s something else entirely. A complete loser, really.

She’s obsessed with frogs. Like, weirdly obsessed. She has a whole album of frog pictures on her phone and once made you sit through a 20-minute Ted Talk about how they absorb water through their skin. And don’t even get started on the fish facts—Haerin has this habit of dropping random, useless knowledge on you at the worst times. (“Did you know some fish can change genders?” she once whispered during a math test.)  

And honestly—You find it kind of cute.

You twist around in your seat, setting your lip gloss down and leaning back on your hands. Haerin’s still looking down, her glasses sliding lower on her nose as she worries the edge of her sweater between her fingers.  

“You could come with me, you know.”  

Haerin scoffs, adjusting her glasses. “Why would I do that?”  

“Because,” you shrug, “it would make sense for my girlfriend to be there.”  

Haerin’s head snaps up, eyes rolling behind her lenses. “You’re really still going through with that?”  

You grin. “We already agreed, didn’t we?”  

“You agreed.”  

“Hey! You agreed too,” you remind her. “You were the one who said it’d be a good idea.”  

Haerin huffs, standing up and heading toward your closet.

The whole fake dating thing had been your idea. After your ex moved on a little too fast, you figured making her jealous was the obvious solution. And who better to rope into your ridiculous plan than your own best friend?

It worked maybe a little too well. Your ex definitely noticed, and Haerin played the part better than you expected. Too good, even. The way she held your hand, the way she looked at you like you were the only person in the room—it felt real.

Then your ex texted you she said she wanted to talk, maybe even try again. But you turned her down without hesitation and never mentioned it to Haerin.

And somehow, instead of ending the whole thing right there… you just kept going.

“Great.” You hum to yourself, picking up your brush again.

You hear Haerin rummaging through your closet, followed by the shuffle of fabric. When you glance back, you see her pulling on a blue flannel—and then… a baseball cap.

She adjusts the brim low over her face as she sits back down on the bed.

“You are not wearing a baseball cap to the party,” you arch a brow, grabbing your phone and a handful of makeup products as you walk toward her.

The girl on your bed leans back, tipping the brim upward slightly. “What’s wrong with baseball caps?”

“At a party? Everything.”

You toss the cap behind you and slide into her lap without thinking—an easy, familiar motion, like slipping into your favourite seat. Her hands instinctively hover at your waist, hesitating just for a moment before resting there, light but sure, as if they’ve done it a hundred times before.

“Let me do your makeup,” you say, grinning as you hold her chin between your fingers.

“What?” Haerin blinks, pushing her glasses up with her knuckle.

“You’ll look cute.”

“No.”

“Please?”

Silence. Which is basically a yes to her.

“Yay”

Her breath hitches when you push her glasses up onto her head. Her hands tighten on your waist—just slightly, just enough for you to notice.

You pretend not to.

She watches as you put blush onto her cheeks, her lashes fluttering when you swipe a soft stroke across her nose. When you lean in to do her eyeliner, your thumb resting lightly beneath her jaw, you feel it—the faintest tremor beneath your fingers.

“Sit still,” you murmur, leaning in to draw her eyeliner. Your left hand steadies her head, thumb resting just beneath her jaw.

Her gaze flickers up—not toward the mirror, but directly at you.

And now you’re close enough to see the gold flecks in her irises, the way her breath subtly hitches in her throat.

How is she supposed to stay still when you’re this close?

“There.” You smile, brushing your thumb lightly over the curve of her cheek. “Pretty.”

Though, you could’ve sworn you didn’t put that much blush on her…

Haerin avoids your gaze instead flicking toward the corner of the room

“Hm…wait.” You squint, studying her face. “You’re missing something.”

“Ah!...lipstick.”

Her gaze drops immediately to your lips.

You hum to yourself, twisting slightly as you glance toward the side of the couch, brushing your hand along the cushion in search of the tube. “Damn… I forgot to bring it over.”

You start to push yourself up — but before you can move, Haerin’s hands shift at your sides, her fingers brushing lightly over your waist like she’s steadying you.

You blink. “Haerin?”

Her cheeks are bright pink, her breath shaky. For a moment, it feels like time slows. The warmth of her hands bleeds through your shirt, and you’re close enough to see the quick rise and fall of her chest.

And then her hands slide up, cupping your face, her thumbs skimming over your skin.

Your breath stutters.

She hesitates, eyes flicking down to your mouth, then back up—like she’s waiting for you to stop her.

You don’t.

And then, softly (almost shyly) Haerin kisses you.

Your breath stutters as her mouth moves hesitantly at first—like she’s bracing for you to pull away. But you don’t. Your hands curl into the fabric of her flannel as she leans in deeper, her thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

“Problem solved,” she whispers.

-

You’ve always gone to the parties.

Seriously—always. If there’s a party happening, your name is on the guest. People expect you to be there. You have a reputation for it, being the life of the party, the one who knows exactly where the good drinks are, who’s sneaking into the pool after midnight, and which couple is probably going to break up by the end of the night.

Skipping a party? That’s not really your thing.

So when Haerin asks, “You’re really going?” it’s not a weird question. Of course you’re going.

Or… you were.

Your lips are still tingling when Haerin pulls back, just barely, her face hovering so close that you can feel her breath against your skin. Her glasses have slipped down her nose again, and her hands are still cradling your face like she’s afraid to let go.

Your heart is pounding. Actually, pounding might be an understatement —it’s doing backflips and somersaults and possibly breaking Olympic records right now.

“Now, Stay,” Haerin whispers.

Your eyes widen. “Wha—”

She leans in again, a soft kiss against the corner of your mouth this time. So soft you barely feel it, but it sends a hot spark shooting down your spine.

“Stay,” she says again.

You’re starting to feel dizzy. “Haerin—”

Another kiss—this time against your jaw. Her lips linger there for a second longer than they should, and you swear you feel her breath hitch against your skin.

In Haerin’s head, everything’s loud and quiet at the same time.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t real. Just a dumb plan to make your ex jealous. That’s what Haerin had told herself, over and over, every time you held her hand in public, every time you leaned into her side, every time someone called her your girlfriend. It was supposed to be harmless.

But somewhere between the ice cream dates and the way you smiled at her, it stopped feeling fake.

She should pull away. She should stop.

But she can’t.

Because the truth is, Haerin doesn’t want it to be fake anymore.

“Stay.”

Your brain is short-circuiting. Haerin’s hands slide from your cheeks to the back of your neck, her fingertips pressing lightly into your skin.

What the hell is happening right now??

Her lips brush the tip of your nose next —so soft it almost makes you laugh if you weren’t so busy trying not to combust.

“Stay.”

Her voice is steadier this time — more sure of itself.

You can’t breathe. Your hands are gripping the front of her flannel now, your knuckles white from how hard you’re holding on.

Her lips press lightly to the side of your neck next, just below your ear. Warm. Careful. She pulls away slowly, like she’s testing the reaction—and oh god, if your face gets any hotter you’re going to actually catch fire.

You can’t move. Can’t think. Can’t do anything except sit there, wide-eyed and very much on the verge of collapse.

Haerin tilts her head, brushing her lips over yours one more time—so soft and slow that it feels almost dreamlike. And when she pulls back, her eyes are dark behind her glasses, her cheeks flushed.

“Stay,” she whispers.

And then-

“...Please?”

Your whole body jolts like someone just hit you with a defibrillator. Haerin’s hands are still cupping the back of your neck, her forehead pressed against yours. Her lips are parted, her breath coming out as shaky.

Your mouth opens and nothing comes out. Your heart is beating so loud you can’t even hear yourself think.

“Uh—”

Haerin’s eyes flick to your lips again— and for a second, you think she’s going to kiss you again 

“Okay,” you breathe.

You don’t even know if you said it out loud or just thought it, but Haerin’s face relaxes, the corners of her mouth twitching upward.

And just like that

This was the first time you didn’t attend a party.

_______________

Your phone buzzes from where it’s balanced on the edge of the couch. You reach for it, trying not to disturb Haerin—who is currently asleep on top of you, her face buried in the crook of your neck, her arms lazily draped around your waist.

You squint at the screen. Hanni.

You sigh and swipe to answer the call, careful to keep your voice low.

“Hello?” you whisper.

“DUDE, WHERE ARE YOU?” Hanni’s voice is practically vibrating through the phone, loud enough to make you wince. You can barely hear her over the sound of music thumping in the background.

“I’m… not coming,” you murmur.

“What?!” Hanni’s voice sharpens. “What do you mean you’re not coming? Are you sick???”

You open your mouth to respond, but then Haerin shifts, her arms tightening slightly around your waist as she nuzzles closer. A soft hum escapes her lips.

And suddenly, you can't think of a single reason to leave.

“…I just don’t feel like it,” you say, your voice barely above a breath.

“You don’t feel like it?” Hanni scoffs. “Girl, Since when?”

You hesitate, shifting your phone to your other hand. Haerin shifts too, her breath warm against your neck. You don’t dare move, the same way you’d stay still if a cat had settled in your lap.

That’s when Hanni’s gaze sharpens. Her eyes narrow as she squints at the screen.

“Wait… why are you whispering?”

“I—”

Her gaze drops. Her eyes widen.

“Wait.” Hanni leans closer to the camera, her brows furrowing. “Are those—”

You frown. “What?”

“Y/N.”

“What??” you panic.

“Are those lipstick marks?”

Hanni’s eyes nearly pop out of her head. “IS THAT HAE—”

You hang up.

______________________________

hey guys...i may have a dani version of this if anyone’s interested😈😈

taglist: @arihiu @fruityg0rl @keiji-jin @hazel-tanthamore22 @yjiminswallet @idkwhatim-doinghere101 @gtfoiydlyj @loliue @Mj.Db @jkwsel @saysirhc @peranoo @syronns @angiisss @hwonnrinji @nnewjeansstuff @popasi @greenniee @imsogay504 @wintersgff @kki1ooo @sh1ba100 @tashasmywife

[ordowrites]

cw: yandere, possessive behavior, afab reader, power imbalance, spanking ment. (arle), hinted kidnapping, hinted imprisonment pet names, unhealthy relationships, mdni.

characters: arlecchino, scaramouche, diluc.

minors and blank blogs dni.

Diluc stares at you in a way you can't describe - those red eyes of him make your skin prickle as you adjust the tille on your dress and play with sleeves that flare out to give you a floral look. (Though you think you look like fire, because it's red and you're beginning to hate the color). You watch as his lips thin into a line as that red gaze looks down to where your chest is more noticeable before glancing back up.

Your heart pounds in your chest as he strides over to you, long legs breaking the distance. You want to run - you didn't want to be here.

When he parts his lips to speak, you flinch, expecting the worst.

"How beautiful you look, my love." You're sure he was going to say something else, with that expression on his face. His hands rest at your hips and you wonder about burning this dress the same way you did your wedding dress (pawning it off for mora would be impossible). "However."

"However...?" you prompt, growing concern. Tonight is already ruined and you were hoping maybe, for a moment, you could have some fun.

Diluc clearns his throat, his hand working up to the low cut but tasteful part of the dress and tugs it. He can get a nice eyeful of your breasts, but not too much. It is conservative but fashionable. "However," he continues, voice raspy now, face reddening a bit. "Must it be so...revealing?"

"You are the one who chose this dress." You point out. Because this rich people party is required for you to attend, and you don't want to go through another however long it will take to choose an acceptable dress. "So I am going to wear it."

Even though you'd like it if it were another color, you think to yourself.

Diluc lets out a breath through his nose - choosing to concede and letting his hands concede. No doubt nobody needs to see the tycoon and his unwilling wife argue today. If you argued, he'd have to claim hysterical and there would be more gossip.

"If you say so, my love." he says, weakly. "But if I feel you are receiving too much attention or -" Too much attention means you're talking to unapproved people, you mentally add on. "you are behaving inappropriately, you will be retired for the night."

Diluc controls many things in your life and you're more than surprised he conceded so easily. Perhaps the argument just was not worth it.

For now.

The dress feels nice with the growing heat of the summer, the cool breeze that comes off the sea helps relieve some of the worst feelings of being hot - though you consider jumping in or hiding in one of the ships, until you consider whose eyes might be on you and the color of your favorite summer dress.

Had been your favorite summer dress.

The familiar soft click of heels that make you tense and shudder approach.

"Good afternoon, you look much like a flower today." Arlecchino is still able to make you feel as if you're in the dead of winter and not in the height of Fontaine's summer. "Were you not supposed to stay with in the city, little flower?"

Affectionate nicknames are not her thing - you are in trouble.

"I wandered," you lie. "It is merely the docks, and the sea is so beautiful today." She is always so composed but the Knave looks at you dead in the eyes and you have to look away. "Am I needed elsewhere?"

"No." comes the answer. "But perhaps return now before you get hurt."

By you or by them? you wonder as you don't fight how her hand goes to your hip and she guides you away from the docks, none of the sailors pay you any attention.

"Since you wish to run off without permission, I suppose we can spend a little time outside today." Alrecchino's tone is a warning and you can already feel the sting of her palm against your skin. "Don't think of this as a reward, but merely a mercy. It is quite nice and cabin fever is no fun."

Her nails dig into the flesh of your hips.

"But do remember you are in trouble." You nod weakly. "I do like this dress on you. Perhaps you should wear it out more. Much better than your usual choices."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Good girl." And you are forced into compliance as she leads - not guides - you home. You can't help but glance over your shoulder, hungry to escape to the sea and leave Fontaine. But there is no place in Teyvat where her claws won't reach.

"What are you wearing?" Scaramouche demands with annoyance as you finally grace him with your presence that evening. It's nothing revealing - oh no, you want to annoy him, not get hurt.

"Clothes."

"You should wear the clothes more befitting of your station. Did the servants not choose something better for you?"

"They did." You answer as you survey the food on the table. Your stomach grumbles. You're hungrier than usual, but he worked you to the bone today. His expression tells you that he's not unhappy but he has to make a coniption anyways. "I was running behind, My Lord. Why make you wait for all the ribbons and ties to be done when this is just as nice and lovely but quick?"

You aren't wrong but there's just one thing -

"And, My Lord, you have impeccable taste in fashion."

You grin when you see a bit of red dust his skin. He clears his throat.

"Whatever. Just - just eat." You've won this round, quite peacefully, too. Normally, he says more words but when you compliment him - rarely - you can sway him as best as you can. The mental tally is updated in your head and you thank him for his benevolence and forgiveness before beginning to eat yourself.

But he doesn't eat - his cheeks still red as he stares at you, watching. Studying.

"I suppose you do look good in my clothes." he says, after awhile. "Don't make this a habit."

"Of course not, Lord Scaramouche."

[helen-with-an-a]

Tough

Misa Rodríguez x Reader

Description: R plays for Arsenal and Misa is there after the quarter-final first leg loss

Warnings: i wrote this during the Bayern match so if there are any typos and/or it's shit, I'm sorry.

You couldn’t help but sigh as the final whistle went. You game had been shit. There were no two ways about it. You had been sloppy in defence and failed to capitalise when it mattered. And now you were facing an uphill battle next week. You felt your eyes begin to sting a little.

“Chin up, pet.” Katie smiled at you, throwing an arm around your shoulders.

“Not right now, Katie.” You sighed but leant against her anyways.

“It’s gonna be tough, but we can do it, ja?” Wally chimed in, her optimism not what you wanted to hear.

You just hummed noncommittally. You knew that it would be hard. You already knew that from the minute they had drawn Real Madrid’s name out of the pot. You didn’t need positivity right now.

All you needed was a shower and a mug of tea. And your girlfriend. And a good ole cuddle … in her nice warm bed that smelt like her … and made you feel all warm and safe … with her arms holding you all night as she played with your hair … and whispered sweet things about you in Spanish that you only half understood

God, you missed her.

You were tired and touchstaved and really, really missed your girlfriend.

“Bien jugado,” Caicedo smiled as you shook her hand.

“Igualmente,” you sighed, clapping her on the shoulder. You liked Linda. She was one of the nicer girls who happily spent some of her time showing you around the city as Misa pouted that she wasn’t getting your full attention.

You made your rounds, humming and fake smiling as you avoided the pitying looks from the Madrid players and the promises from your teammates that you could turn this around.

“Mi vida,” Misa smiled sheepishly at you, her dark eyebrows knitted together.

“Shut up,” you pouted, lifting your arms as you walked towards her.

“Lo siento?” She winced, afraid of your reaction. Would you hate her? You had the only shot on target for Arsenal all game – it was a spectacular short, looping in from the edge of the box aiming straight for the top corner. The net was just waiting to ripple. Except it didn’t. Misa’s glove had pushed it wide. It was some stunning goalkeeping. You couldn’t fault her. Your heart had sunk as it drifted past the post, the annoyance you felt more towards yourself than her.

“Shut up,” you grumbled again, this time wrapping your arms around her neck in a tight hug.

“I truly am sorry, mi vida.” She wasn’t even sure why she was apologising. It was quite literally her job to stop your shots. You sighed, feeling your feet leave the ground as she stood up to her full height.

“Mis, baby, my love. Stop talking,” you complained, wrapping your legs around her waist.

You didn’t care that you were still on the pitch. You didn’t care that you could feel the eyes of all your teammates. You didn’t care that probably a thousand cameras were on you. You didn’t care that this was probably being broadcasted around the world. You just needed Misa.

“Mi vida, honestly, you played … fabulosamente…”

“María,” you warned.

Usually, you loved Misa’s inability to stop talking, especially when you were able to hear her raspy voice and lilted English interspersed with Spanish. But right now, right this minute, you needed silence and a hug from your girlfriend. You buried your nose in her shoulder, inhaling the scent of the wet fabric, grass and something undeniably Misa.

“Lo siento,” she apologised again, her arms tightening against you.

“Shush,” you huffed again, melting into her.

“Bienvenido a casa,” Misa grinned at you, holding the door to her flat open. “Ladies first.”

“Such a gentleman,” you teased, lifting yourself up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to her cheek. “Gentlewoman?” you laughed again, dropping your bags in the hall.

You loved Misa’s flat. It was the perfect representation of her, all crisp lines and cozy colours. It was odd, that you had your home all the way back in London, and yet this space felt far more comforting than yours ever did. The fuzzy blankets and fruity candles adding to the perfect space. Despite you only living in it for a few weeks at a time, your influences were all over the flat. The Lego flowers you had made over Christmas sat pride of place in the vase on the coffee table, the blanket you had knitted (appallingly badly) was draped over the back of the sofa. Pictures of you and Misa littered the walls and spare surfaces. Your favourite one on the bookshelf. Misa had one of her hands tangled in your hair as she tilted your head up to look at her, the other resting and your hip. You were both mid-laugh, a lovesick gaze in your eye as Misa was obviously about to lean down and kiss you. You knew Misa’s favourite was on her nightstand in her bedroom. It was taken some time in the post-World Cup win, when you were finally celebrating alone. You had a bright red bikini top on, although it wasn’t really hiding much, and her gold medal glinting in the sunlight. From the angle she was sitting at, you could see your hands resting on her muscular thighs as you arched an eyebrow at her, trying to hide your smile. It had taken a lot of convincing, but you had finally managed to get her to keep the framed photograph hidden from public view.

“Do you want a shower, mi vida?” Misa’s voice was gentle in your ear, her hands running up and down your torse. You had already showered in the changing rooms before escaping for the night. But you knew that Misa wasn’t necessarily asking as a way to get clean.

It was one of your favourite ways of reconnecting. It was usually after a gym session in the off seasons when you were all hot and sweaty, or when you had finally returned from a day of tanning in the Spanish sunshine. Misa’s gentle hands doing far more than the cool water ever could to relax you.

“Mmhmm,” you sighed, leaning back into her.

“Buena,” She smiled, pressing a kiss to your temple.

The shower was perfect. The steam cleared your chest as Misa’s hands gently massaged your aching muscles. “I’m not lying when I said you played well, mi vida.”

“I know, baby. You can’t lie for shit,” You wiggled your eyebrow. “I’m just disappointed.” You mumbled as you ran your own hands over her toned stomach.

“Con quién?” Misa’s voice was as soft as a pillow.

“The team,” you shrugged. “Myself.”

“But you played well.” She leant down, pressing a long kiss to the side of your mouth.

“No, we didn’t.” You rolled your eyes. You knew you gave a sub-par performance tonight. You didn’t want her trying to sugarcoat it.

“The team, sure. Arsenal played like … como el culo.” She waited for your small little laugh. “But you, mi vida, your shot was good. I had to work hard to stop you. The whole of my backline did.”

“Agree to disagree?” You asked, hoping she would stop talking about the match.

“Nope,” She stuck her tongue out at you, sensing you needed the humour. “I am right, como siempre. You played well,” She took a step closer to you, her hands falling to your waist.

“and I’m going to spend,” She pressed you back against the shower tiles, the cold biting against your skin. “Toda la noche” she slotted her thigh in between yours. “Proving it to you.”

You blinked, your head reeling at the dizzying pace that Misa had switched on you.

“Sound good?”

[lanadelreyscokewhor3]

SPORTS CAR- D. GRAYSON

pairing: richboy! dick grayson x girly! innocent!fem! reader

word count: 3.9k

part one here! part two here!

summary: a true gentleman, dick takes you on your first date, and things get a tad bit heated on the drive home...

warnings: fingering, heavy praise and size kink, petnames, manhandling, kissing/ makeout session, flirting, swearing, future indications of sex, alcohol consumption

" i think you know what this i, i think you wanna, uh no, you ain't got no mrs. / oh, but you got a sports car we can uh-uh in it/ while you drive it real far- yeah, you know what this is"- sports car, tate mcrae

author note: yayyy this series is back! i got mixed reviews on adding smut to this part or having more slow burn, so i settled in the middle. very happy to be writing for them again- and side note, i tagged my idea of the dress she wears, but of course- totally up to viewers interpretation. happy reading!!

You felt like a princess, who was about to enter her personal horse drawn carriage. As if you were Cinderella, on your way to the ball in her shimmering gown and pumpkin carriage.

You watched as a dark black limo appeared by the curb in the dim lighting of your building, watching the rain slide down the hood from behind the front glass door.

A tall, dark figure stepped out from the back, and you wasted no time slipping out the door, the wind blowing the ends of your dress against your heels.

You had gone with something darker than you usually did, to blend with Dick’s cooler tones. Though you hadn’t fully turned to the darkside in grays and blacks, you settled on a deep, dark wine colour.

A mix, between your pinks and his blacks.

Your eyes twinkled with excitement as he approached, umbrella in hand to quickly shield you from the rain. Light seemed to beam out from your chest as he was close enough to touch, brushing soft manicured fingers across his forearm.

“Hi you.”

He didn't utter a word back.

Just swept you into his arms, kissing you with such passion it made your legs wobble slightly.

“Hi you.” he murmured, eyes flickering down to stare at your swollen lips. “Shall we go?”

You nodded eagerly, holding onto his arm as he ran you through the rain, making you giggle as you practically nose dived into the car, him following shortly after.

He shook his damp hair as he closed the umbrella and you squealed as some drops got on your skin. “Good god you look so beautiful. That dress…” he praised, eying your entire body up and down, before stopping at your eyes, taking them in.

Little did you know, he was unraveling it with his mind, just itching to slip the slutlry little shoulder straps and reveal the your breasts that were screaming at him from where he sat.

But no, no- he had to be a gentleman. He was a gentleman. So why did you make him want to do such naughty, naughty things? Let alone on the first real date?

You noticed he sat beside you on the leather seats, rather than across from you, the warmth radiating off him despite the chill that hung in the air outside.

“Thank you. It’s um, it’s vintage.”

His eyebrows perked up.  “Yeah? Tell me about it sweetheart. D’ya shop vintage often?”

A simple, shy answer- because yes, he still made you feel like you were a little girl with a big, bad crush again- turned into a full, deep seated conversation.

You had barely taken note of where the driver was taking you, weaving you through streets and stoplights. Somehow the two of you were deep in conversation, Dick fully engaged in your interests, smiling when you mentioned all your Pinterest boards and little things you adored.

Little did you know, he had already stalked them all- and knew exactly what you liked. And you had done amazing, based on your own taste.

It felt nice to have someone be so… well interested in what you had to say. Like what you were truly saying, not just the sounds that left your lips.

No, all of Dicks attention was solely focused on you- and you were so deep in his distractions you didn't even realize his hand had slipped up to rest on your thigh, until he slowly started to rub circles on your bare flesh with the pad of his thumb.

You stopped suddenly, startled- but eager for the physical affection he showed you. Leaned in closer than he was before, anxiously awaiting what you had to say next.

“Mhmmm sweetheart, why’d you stop?”

Your eyes looked down at where his hand lay, and flickered back up to meet his now playful, coy gaze as he urged you to keep going. The effect he had on you was nothing short of hypnotic.

You shook your head, quickly looking away as you laughed. “I’m so sorry, I’m boring you with all this fashion talk-”

“Boring me? Bunny, nothing you could ever say could bore me. I like when you talk. You have a really pretty voice.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I do?”

“Like honey. And silk. It's so smooth, like your skin. Delicate.”

You subtly stretched your leg, letting the fabric drape around your thigh, letting his hand snake up just an inch higher, thumb tracing little circles on the bare skin.

You were feeling bold tonight. The little bottle of champagne he had delivered to your apartment with a delicate rose had made it just an inch easier.

“Do you think I’m delicate?” you murmured, looking deep into his eyes. His breath hitched as you took himin, staring at him with stars in your eyes.

“I think you’re coy. Alluring. Not simply delicate.” he smirked, pinching your thigh playfully, making you yelp. The car slowed to a sudden stop, two quick raps of a knuckle and a muffled “Here you are Mr. Grayson, sir.”

“Shall we be off?” he asked, stepping out into the dark night, extending a hand as he opened the car door for you. You took it, his larger hand seeming to swallow yours as you daintly hold onto it, like you were a Victorian aristocrat leaving her carriage.

“Thank you sir.” You called, waving goodbye to the driver, who gave you a soft smile as you were swept away by Dick, his arm wrapped around your hips, guiding you onwards.

“C’mon sweetheart, let's get you outta the rain okay?” he coaxed, ushering you inside the dimly lit restaurant, empty except for the flickering candles on the ironed tablecloths, and a few staff tending the bar.

"Wow.. Dickie this is, this is so beautiful.” you gasped as you took in the spacious room, slowly slipping off your shawl for him as he hung it up at the front. The place looked like it belonged in old luxurious Hollywood, something straight out of a film with the dim, low hanging wall lanterns, and plush leather booths.

The only thing missing was the bustle and chatter of mingling and glasses clinking together from the crowd. But there was none. Just soft, sweet music that was like a calming ambience, wrapping you in a warm hug.

“But- but where is everyone else?”

He just smiled to himself, taking your arm in his as he guided you to a table, as if you had said a silly joke and he only understood the true punchline. “Silly girl, I reserved it for us.”

“What, a table?” He shook his head, pushing the chair out for you to sit in. “No, the restaurant.”

Your jaw went slack, almost thudding against the table.

“The restaurant?!”

“Yeah, I called in some favours and managed to snag the place for myself. They didn't mind, especially when I told them it was for a pretty lil bunny like you.” he hummed, giving the waiter a little signal, as if what he had just said and done was an everyday, not a big deal occurrence.

You, on the other hand, thought your eyes were gonna pop out of their sockets. The fact that anyone- let alone this sweet, sexy, charming hunk of muscle had done this? For you?

Yeah you were willing to risk everything, and then some.

“Jesus Dick that's- I- I don't even know what to say I’m-”

“Don't say anything about it sweetheart. Don't worry your pretty lil head about it. It's all taken care of.”

As if a bell had been rung, wine had appeared in your glass, followed by a basket of fresh, steaming bread rolls with soft butter.

“You really do know the way to my heart.” you giggled, taking a slow sip of wine. “I like to think I do sweetheart.”

“Isn't that funny? I’ve only known you for a week and it feels like you’ve always been in my life. It's like.. I don't know. Maybe it's fate.”

He raised an eyebrow, grabbing a roll from the basket, spreading on the melting butter before taking a bite. “Do you believe in fate?” he asked, and you pursed your lips together, taking a bite of bread yourself before responding.

“Maybe. I think so. I think this is what fate is.”

He smiled at that, leg (barely needing to) stretch to bump your leg under the table. “Thats cute. You’re really fucking cute.”

You scrunched your nose before taking another bite and he laughed.

“Yeah that. That little scrunch you do when you’re trying not to get all flustered from my words. S’sexy.”

You rolled your eyes. “Well, I’m just thankful you didnt ruin the cute moment by grabbing my hand and rubbing butter all over my skin. Way to keep a moment going Grayson.”

You played into his wit, finding yourself starting to pick up on his snarky, sly little comments and sarcasm. “You’re not into that?”

“I’m into a lot of things but oil on the skin… not so much.” you smirked, taking a sip of your drink as his eyes raked you over, fist clenching around the butter knife at your suggestive comment.

“What happened to miss innocent?” he asked.

“Oh she's around. But sometimes she goes into hiding when she's had some drinks and there's a cute guy she likes. Environmental influences play a large role, ya know.”

“Oh so I’m an environmental influence now?”

“Oh sure! But I can pretend to not be all stern and sarcastic if you want.” You waved a hand over your face, changing your expression to a stoic and stern look, as if you were a philosopher from ancient times.

“Oh I am not like that.” he scoffed.

“Are so.”

“Am not.”

You crossed your arms, and he felt his gaze slide down to where your breasts were pushed together, having to take a dry swallow and pray to whatever god he believed in to get him through this night without taking you over the table.

God you were so fucking sexy when you looked at him like that. Acting all tough and playful, as if he didnt know how innocent you were. And fuck if that didn't make him hard.

“Tell you what sweetheart. If I go this entire dinner without laughing, or smiling- and I’m as cold as you insist, you’ll win this imaginary competition.”

“First off, you already laughed and now you’re just gonna laugh to win. Second, if I do win, what's the reward?”

“We start now, and I promise I won't. I dont cheat. And whatever you desire, sweetheart.”

You nodded, leaning back in your chair, swirling the wine around in your glass before taking another swig. “Bragging rights. For the entire week.”

He stuck out his hand. “It's a deal.”

-------------------------------------------- You tugged on his arm, laughing loudly as you stumbled out of the restaurant, trying to guide him onwards- belly and heart both full.

Not before you had profusely thanked all the staff, he noted, the kindness rolling off of you in waves.

It was so refreshing to see, you were so different from any other girl he had taken out. Usually they were spoiled, rich, and cold. And just wanting to get into his pants, and wallet.

But you… you were simply so bubbly and ecstatic it was impossible for him not to smile. So of course, you had lost the competition, almost immediately after it started.

You had waved it off with a “oh whatever” when he had brought it up, rolling your eyes before giggling.

I still get bragging rights for whenever I want. You insisted, cheeks heating in the dim candlelight as he winked at you. Of course you do bunny. Who would I be if not to comply?

Now here he was, arm being tugged on by what felt like a little humming bird next to him, out into the rain. You beamed at him, smiling as you tugged him forward, wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him deeply.

A low growl left his lips as you parted your lips, lipgloss tasting sweet- like bubblegum. He picked you up, hands firm on your hips so you were as tall as him, letting out a little muffled squeak at the sudden shift, making him chuckle.

“You okay there bunny? Cat got your tongue?” he cooed condensely as he pushed you back up against the brick wall, nothing but him and the streetlights in sight.

He was beautiful. “You’re so beautiful.” you whispered, and something like shock, then surprise flashed in his eyes.

No one had ever called him that before. Hot, attractive maybe, but beautiful? Never. And it was even better sounding from your lips.

You just gazed at him with so much admiration, it made his heart clench. The soft rain running down your skin, your cheeks- soaking your hair and glittering off your necklace in the dim lights.

He was entranced.

All he could think to do was kiss you again, harder- faster. He couldn't get enough of you, your lips, your skin, your taste. God he was melting.

The little sounds you made when he nipped at your lower lip, the gentle pants and moans of his name, like his simple touch was sending you spiraling just made him crave you more.

“D-dick-” you mewled, head lolling forward onto his shoulder as he nipped and sucked at your neck, the sensation, the wine and the chill droplets of water that rolled off the tips of his hair onto your skin sent shivers down your spine.

A flash of bright headlights filled your view- clouding your senses. “I think the car is here.” you murmured, but not pushing him to get off you.

“I know sweetheart, I just want one more kiss.” he said into your skin, planting another kiss and nip down on your neck, leaving a little mark.

You moaned as he guided you down to your feet, swaying slightly at the change in altitude. His hand was entwined with yours, guiding you over to the back of the limo- opening the door for you like a perfect gentleman.

You laughed, stumbling down in the soft leather seats, back flush against them as he scrambled inside, shaking the rain from his hair like a wet dog.

Two quick raps of his large knuckle against the tinted glass and the car was rolling forward, his lips landing on yours again greedily. You arched into his touch, hands tangling in his hair.

“I usually don't do this kinda thing until the second date. I promise.” he moaned against your neck, and you shivered again, his hand roaming down to slowly hike up your skirt, waiting for the eager nods of approval from you with each little inch, to make sure you were okay with the direction this was going.

His fingers brushed your inner thigh, your hardened nipples poking through the fabric to brush against his suit.

“Fuck bunny youre so fuckin… fuck. Don't even know what your askin for.” he chuckled, inching closer to the damp spot on your panties.

“This. But this is as far as I’ve gone with a guy before.”

He looked at you with a look of gentle concern, hands stopping their wandering. “This okay? You want me to stop?”

You shook your head, grabbing his wrist and guiding it back down to where it was before.

“Fuck baby. But I’m not letting your first time be in the backseat, you understand?”

You nodded, seeing the limited space that was left for his massive body in the backseat.

“Not enough room here for all the pretty lil things I wanna do to you.” he growled, lips coming back to resume their place on your neck, inching further and further down as he bumped your thighs apart with his wrist as his fingers rubbed gentle little circles on the damp spot.

“Dick you’re so-”

“So what? Hm?”

You moaned, fingers tugging at the strands of black between them as he slipped past the fabric and slipped a finger in. “-big” you squirmed as his finger curled inside of you.

He smirked cockily, peering down at your face contorted in pleasure. “Cmon bunny. Think you can take one more f’me?” he asked, ego clearly boosted by your genuine reactions.

“So sensitive…” he tsked, thumb sneaking out to brush your clit. Your head rolled, slightly off the seat as you reached back for the door- window- anything to ground you from the overwhelming heat that had pooled down in your core.

“What- what about the driver?” you asked meekly, suddenly worried he would understand exactly what was happening behind the divider, hearing your little noises.

“Don't worry about him sweetheart. Just focus on me okay? Focus on feeling good.” he reassured you, his voice as soft and sweet as honey as you coaxed you open, having you come undone beneath his body as it shielded you from the world, from the cars blurring by as the limo continued to drive.

You nodded, staring into his gentle eyes, his sweet words and gentle praises making you grip the folds in his suit jacket, tugging his tie to bring him in for a teasing kiss.

He moaned, savouring the taste of you again as you rocked your hips against his hand, as he added a second finger.

“Thereee you go sweetheart, good girl. So innocent, aren't you? Taking two fingers like a good lil girl.”

“Feels so good..” you moaned, starting to feel a gentle pressure in your body that threatened to topple.

“Yeah bunny? Anyone make you feel this good before? Anyone see you this pretty, this fuckable?”

You shook your head, blabbering incoherent nothings as you twisted his tie, trying to cling to it as you felt yourself teetering. "Cause you're so fuckable. Wanna just use you like a pretty lil doll. My sweet bunny..."

“Dickie I’m gonna- fuck- gonna cum-”

“Thats it baby, cmon cum on my fingers bun. Such a sweetheart, look at you.” he cooed down at you softly, watching your eyes roll back, mouth parting to let out little pants and gasps escape as you shattered around his fingers, crying his name out with a squeal.

He groaned at the sight of you falling apart under him, and he knew right then and there the view would never be enough.

He’d always crave this, he'd always want and need this.

Your legs shook like a baby fawns as he slowly slipped his glistening fingers out of you, slipping them in his mouth to suck.

You tasted so fucking divine. Fuck.

Your eyes widened at the action, so absorbed in his actions you felt yourself gravitating to slip them into your own mouth. Silently you placed a hand on his, tugging them out of his mouth and guiding them between your parted lips, tongue swirling around his digits, without breaking eye contact once.

You looked so innocent with your big doe eyes, it drove him insane. He couldn't help but groan at the sight, threatening to spill in his pants right then and there as you tugged them out of your mouth with a pop!, a little line of spit connecting them to your stained lips.

“Wanna make you feel good now Dickie. I don't know how but you can- you can teach me. Right?”

You gripped his hands tighter, and he smiled softly.

“Not tonight sweetheart. Tonight’s about you. And we're gonna take it slow. I’ll teach you some things later, when you've had some rest, okay? You’re practically asleep, like a curled little kitten.” he laughed, watching you struggle to keep your eyes open.

Your body felt like it was floating, from pleasure, from Dicks sweet, yet taunting words and the wine churning through your blood. It was late, and you clung to him.

Not that you were drunk, but you were buzzed enough you felt comfortable enough to nuzzle up to him, placing your head in his lap, letting his gentle caress wash over you like a wave. He stroked your hair, slipping over to brush against your bare skin on your arms, back up to your scalp for a soft scratch behind the ears.

You practically purred at the touch, feeling safe and relaxed as he held you. You fluttered in and out of consciousness as you felt the car stop, and he adjusted you so you were draped in his arms, like a princess rescued by her charming prince.

You clung to his jacket, yawning. “Where are we goin?” you asked, not recognizing the sleek and modern building you were entering- one that looked like it costs four months rent to simply step inside the lobby.

“We’re at my place, okay bunny? I just don't want you to be alone tonight. Are you okay to share a bed with me?” he asked, pressing a button that had the elevator dinging- doors parting open for him- as if they were only summoned for Dick.

You nodded, willing to go wherever Dick took you. He lifted you up just a smidge, planting a kiss on your forehead as you traveled up to the penthouse suite. He hummed a soft tune, at peace with the sounds of your breathing and the whirl of the elevator as it took you both above the skyline.

A few moments later, you heard a beep, a door swinging open- before being shut and locked behind you. There was the faint sound of two other men's voices- ones you didn't recognize- but you drifted back into a gentle sleep before you could put any faces to the voices.

They stopped mid convo, Jason and Tim turning from the couch to observe Dick- yes, the same Dick they had known most of their life, cradling a girl in his arms as if she was a fair maiden he had rescued.

“Don't.” Dick growled, seeing the light in their eyes start to flicker.

“She's beautiful.” Jason murmured, absorbing the way you hung limply in Dicks arms, small fingers (to him) clinging to Dicks jacket, eyelash tickling your cheeks in the soft light.

And the dress you had on would send any man into shambles.

“You’re lucky I wasn't at that club that night or else we’d have to flip a coin.” Jason joked, making Dick roll his eyes.

"Not a chance in hell. Both of you aren't gonna bother her. She's shy and innocent- and we don't need either of you ruining that.” he said, starting to make his way over to his room, to lay you in his bed just to watch you sleep a little longer before curling up beside you and getting rest himself.

He had to make sure you were fully taken care of before he could even imagine getting a wink of sleep. Your breathing was steady, and your eyes had stayed shut for enough time for Dick to know you were fully asleep now, still in his arms.

It was adorable.

“Introductions over breakfast?” Tim suggested, craning his head to get one last glimpse of you before you disappeared behind Dicks fortress.

“Start preparing a normal script.” was all DIck said before shutting the door behind him- softer then any time he had before in his life.

“She's made him go soft.” Tim observed.

“And thank god for that.” Jason snorted, watching the lock on Dicks door click.

You felt gentle touches unzipping your dress and guiding you out of your shoes, before soft, large fabric engulfed your frame. Dick had dressed you in one of his t-shirts, one that smelt so strongly of him it made your head spin.

“Goodnight my sweetheart.” you heard him call- from what seemed so far away, followed by a gentle kiss to your forehead as he tucked the soft satin sheets around your frame.

Sleep had taken over before you had noticed he had then slipped into bed next to you, wrapping his arms around you to hold you close- and to keep you safe.

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

taglist: @gwyneveire @kalulakunundrum @undecided-simp @duchessdaisybat @princesstrunkz @americaarse @loveryoushouldcomeoverr @lanilxx @merrydoe @tinythebunni

[returnofeternity]

synopsis. you go too far in the caves.

pairing: lottie matthews x gn!reader

genre: angst and fluff.

warnings. drug use, suffocation, passing out, character death for like a second?

wc: 2,246

· · 𐂂 · ·

you should have just stayed in bed and waited for her to come back. you knew where she was and what she was doing, and you knew she needed to be alone, but you couldn't sleep so you went looking for her.

she was doing exactly what you thought she was doing, aka praying to the Wilderness, but she was crying. and you hate it when she cries. and you hate how miserable she looked when she told you she couldn't hear It and that It didn't listen. you wanted to make her happy. so, you blurted out the only thing that's been cheering her up for the past few weeks.

"take me to the caves. i want to see more."

to be quite frank, you really dislike all these cave sessions lottie's been making you do. tripping out in the wilderness with shrooms was fine, cool even, but you can't count how many times you've almost died in the caves. the worst part is that it's all for naught. your 'visions' make no sense to you. most of the time they're just hallucinations of you and lottie back at home with some weird shit sprinkled in instead of visions of what the Wilderness desires. that's what these trips have been for; to hear and feel the Wilderness. and you do! you're connecting with it just like lottie wants, but you're not seeing It. you feel like you're failing lottie.

and you'd do anything to make her happy.

so going back to the caves with the gas leak it is.

lottie tightens the rope around your waist, looking up at you for confirmation that it's tight enough. you nod in return and she gives you a delicate smile, dropping her end of the rope so she can pick up the candle. the flame lights her face perfectly, and you get lost in her big, brown eyes as she moves a piece of her hair from out of her face.

"you should go deeper." she says, her voice gentle and calm. "maybe you'll be able to see more."

you don't like this idea.

"okay," you agree, your fingers nervously fiddling with the rope tied around your waist. "but is the rope even long enough?"

she looks down to eye the length and nods when she looks back at you. "it should be. just go as far as you can, okay? i got you." she reassures you, leaning in for a short kiss that makes all your worries melt away.

lottie pulls her mask up to cover her nose and mouth and bends down to pick up the rope before walking back to kneel by the entrance, rope tight in her hand. you let out a shaky breath and turn your back to her, wondering what the fuck you keep getting yourself into.

as you start walking into the cave, you hear lottie call out from behind, her voice echoing loudly off the walls. "listen to what's happening around you."

you mumble back an "okay" like she can hear you and steady yourself against the wall as you close your eyes and take a deep breath, trying to tune into the Wilderness. your shoes scuff against some rocks as you feel your way around and you gasp as a flash of you on a cliff pops into your mind. when you blink your eyes open, you're still in the cave, but it's cold as if the wind is nipping against your nose and cheek. despite the bad feeling you have in your stomach, you venture further into the dark cave. your eyes feel heavy and you keep bumping your shoulder against the wall of the cave because of how disoriented you feel. maybe you should sit down for a second.

you slide down the wall, groaning at the rocks scratching your back, and lift your shirt up to your nose so you can try and breathe properly. your throat burns as you take raggedy breaths and your eyes prickle with tears. this was a horrible idea. maybe you should just head back and make something up to make lottie happy. but if she found out you lied she'd be angry at you. goddammit.

the rope around your waist pulls you forward slightly and you catch yourself with your hands, face grimacing as you breathe in the not-so-fresh air of the cave. weakly, you pat the ground for the rope trailing behind you and tug at once to let lottie know you're okay. you make a retching sound as you move to get up, frothy drool leaking from your lips and onto the cave ground. well, shit, that's never happened before. you'd better hurry and get the fuck out of out here. you can come another time. lottie would understand.

when you get up, reality flashes between that cliff you saw and the cave. it makes you pause, and when you step forward and blink, you're on the cliff. right on the edge. you try to move back but your feet are glued to the ground. the wind blows harshly and makes your eyes well up with tears, and it's only then you realize that you can only move your eyes. everything else is stiff. you try to shout for lottie, but your mouth won't open, and even the choked sob that racks your body doesn't let out. it sounds more like a muffled scream.

the wind blows again but this time it's with more force and it makes you sway back and forth. the feeling makes your stomach sink, and a cold sweat washes over your body. your wide eyes fly to the bottom of the cliff, the clouds and rocks below making it seem like it's millions of miles deep. you start praying for something to wake you up from this hallucination; lottie, the Wilderness, god, who-the-fuck-ever can help you.  

suddenly, just as your body leans forward, about to fall off the cliff, you're back in the caves. you fall down, head bumping against the rocky floor and getting scratched up. your throat tightens and you wheeze, hands reaching up to grab at whatever force is choking you. the feeling is terrible. no matter how hard you try and breathe, you just can't. as the edges of your vision begin to fade to black, you let out a feeble whisper of lottie's name.

· · 𐂂 · ·

lottie tugs at the rope again, heart pounding in her chest when she feels how loose it is. she takes her mask off for a second to call out your name, listening intently for any response back. she hears nothing, and when she pulls the rope down in frustration, it snaps back so easily.

you're not attached to it anymore.

she puts her mask back on so fast that she accidentally scratches her nose. she holds her breath as best as she can as she jogs into the cave, frantically calling out your name and cursing under her breath. lottie tries to tap into the Wilderness, trying to feel where you could be, but she can't seem to sense you anymore. it's like a fading pulse in her head as she takes deep breaths and searches for you.

her eyes tear up and she sniffs, looking around to see if she can spot your body somewhere. there, in the corner, she can see your limp hand. immediately she rushes toward you, dropping to her knees and scooping your weak body into her lap.

"i got you. you're okay, you're okay." she mutters to herself rather than you.

lottie tugs you up and carries you back to the entrance of the cave, her muscles burning as she tries to keep upright and keep you in her arms despite the lack of fresh air in her lungs. she collapses near the opening and apologizes to your unconscious body for accidentally hurting you. her hands cradle your face and she shakes you, body prickling with fear when she notices just how limp you are.

she puts her hands over your heart and starts to pray. "bring them back to us. bring them back to us." your pulse slowly weakens more as she repeats those words over and over, and she gets desperate. she looks around the cave before her eyes land on the flickering candle. "fuck it."

she grasps onto the can that's a candle and slices her hand on the sharp edge, instantly dripping her blood onto your body and moving into a prayer position with her bloody hand over your heart.

"bring them back to me. bring them back to me. bring them back. please. please."

you come back into consciousness screaming for lottie and clawing at your throat. you can finally breathe but barely. lottie's there to shush you and stroke your head, grabbing you by your shirt to tug you into her arms.

"'it's okay, it's okay, you're safe. i got you." she whispers to you, soothingly rubbing your back and helping you get your breathing back to normal. she pushes you back gently and strokes your cheek, her thumb wiping your freshly falling tears.

"i'm sorry, i tried to go as far as i could." your voice is hoarse as you speak and it hurts. you cling onto her warm arms and rub her skin with your thumbs to try and calm yourself down but you can't keep your sobs in. she pulls you back in for a hug and shakes her head. you stay there for a few moments, thinking about whether you should tell her what you saw or stay silent. "i wanna go back now, please."

maybe you'll tell her later.

· · 𐂂 · ·

lottie holds your hand all the way back to the huts, even when you told her you needed to take a piss. it's endearing but still uncomfortable. didn't help the fact that she didn't take her eyes off you either.

the walk back is silent, and you know she feels guilty because she's not saying anything. you want her to say something, but your throat hurts too much to speak, so you just rub her thumb and pull her closer to your side.

when you get back to the shelter, she sits you down on the bed and tells you to stay put while she runs and gets a rag and bowl of water. you don't know why she's cleaning you up when she's the one who's bleeding more than you, but it feels nice to be taken care of by her. honestly, you almost forget about the scratches on your head until you hiss at the slight pain as she cleans them up. lottie leaves again to get her herb paste made from heliotropes and other various plants to put on your wounds, cooing at you quietly when you whine from how much it stings.

"let me put it on your hand?" you suggest after she sets the paste down on the bed and kisses your nose. "it looks bad."

she nods and gives you her hand, and you clean it with some water first before applying the purple-ish paste. lottie bites her lip as you gently rub it across the nasty gash on her palm, and you apologize softly as you finish with it. you bring her hand to your lips so you can kiss it and help her onto your lap and into bed with you, cuddling her side protectively.

"we should take a few days off so you can rest before we go back." lottie mumbles, her fingers dancing along the side of your arm.

you sigh and shut your eyes, stomach swarming with uneasy feelings. "lott, i don't think i want to do this anymore. i mean, fuck, i almost died in there."

she sits up on her arm and leans over you, pieces of her hair tickling your face. "i know, but we need to figure out what the Wilderness wants. you're the closest to It now. It'll tell you what It needs, you just need to learn how to understand It. i can teach you."

you shake your head and gulp down some tears, turning your head away from her and inhaling heavily. "i was on some cliff before i passed out. i couldn't move at all. the vision stopped right as i fell from it, and then that's when i started choking. i don't know what it means. i don't know what any of my visions mean."

lottie frowns and leans over you some more so she can try and catch your gaze, and when you look back at her, her eyes are just as sad as you are. she bends down and captures your lips in a reassuring kiss, resting her head on your forehead as she whispers: "it's okay. we'll figure it out together. you just have to keep trying. we'll be safer next time."

your shoulders slump back against the blankets in defeat. you know she's just being pushy because wants the best for the group, but sometimes you wish she'd listen. you give a half-assed smile and nod, your fingers prodding at the holes in her mesh shirt as you try not to think about how nervous you are to go back.

"can you make me that herb tea? the one that always helps me sleep..." you mumble, feeling like you just need to rest for weeks to forget about today.

[propertyofemilyprentiss]

I love you, I’m sorry

Pairing: Emily Prentiss x fem!reader

Category: Hurt/Comfort

Summary: Love can cause you to make stupid choices, even when it was unrequited. Requested here.

TWs: guns, injury, blood, hospitals

Word count: 2.5K

It was inevitable, falling in love with Emily Prentiss. From the moment you’ve joined the team, there was this invisible magnetic field that was pulling you towards her constantly. Maybe it was that silky raven hair that you wished you could run your fingers through, or those deep brown eyes with long eyelashes that you tried to not stare into every time she wasn’t paying attention to you. Maybe it was her beautiful nose or those perfect, kissable lips, that were even harder not to stare at. As time passed, more reasons added to the list: the teasing attitude whenever you were spending time together, the kindness and vulnerability that were kept behind her stoic façade, the way her mind worked during every case.

Emily Prentiss was just so mesmerising in every sense of the word.

So you couldn’t even fight the butterflies in your stomach once they started appearing, little by little, during every interaction. Or the way your heart rate would slightly pick up. Or how you couldn’t stop the rosyness of your cheeks whenever she would make a remark on you. 

If you wouldn’t have worked in a team of profilers, you could’ve clinged to the hope of her not figuring out. But pretty soon, when the teasing started coming from everyone in the team, you knew that chance was out the window.

That’s when nighttime started becoming heavier, filled with one hundred thoughts per second. Emily was your best friend, and her teasing demeanor was a part of herself, not something meant that was only meant for you. Maybe she didn’t like you that way, and you would just end up embarrassing yourself in front of her. Maybe it was better to keep your feelings hidden, instead of paying the price of your connection drifting apart. Maybe you should save the hurt to yourself instead of destroying one of the few good things you had in life. 

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But the “what ifs” were swirling through your head at the same time, the small but dangerously optimistic part of you grasping onto the possibility that maybe your feelings could be reciprocated, that you could be the one person she finds both love and friendship in.

Oh, how much you would give for that to happen.

__

It started to take a toll on you, the spiralling and overthinking. You didn’t have the energy in you to respond to her little comments or smalltalk, instead becoming more isolated and withdrawn, hoping that you could cage the feeling inside your body until it would disappear. Instead, it just grew within, ready to burst at any moment like a ticking bomb. But it still felt better than the alternative of a possible rejection. 

One day though, Emily had enough of you pulling away from her, having a nagging, desperate feeling in her chest to fix whatever was causing you pain. So, during a lunch break, she grabbed you by the arm and went to an empty conference room, closing the door behind her.

That was when your heart started racing again.

”Look, I know something’s going on, okay? You can talk to me, y/n, you know that. I miss you…I miss my best friend”.

God, that word shouldn’t cause your heart to sting so much. That’s what you were, wasn’t it?

”It’s no-“

”No, it’s not nothing”, she interrupted you, her voice giving out how upset she actually was, “Please, I’m here for you, okay? Whatever it is, I can help.”

You almost laughed at that, a bitter feeling sinking into your stomach, “I’m okay, Em. I promise”.

You weren’t certain that your eyes were cooperating with your words, as you immediately noticed the furrow of her eyebrows and the heartbreaking concern in her gaze, causing you to look away. You knew it wouldn’t be long before you crumpled under her gaze, no more words needed to be spoken in order for the truth to surge out before you could even stop it.

“I’m not okay”, you whispered, daring to look up at her with the slightest hint of hope, “I haven’t slept well in weeks, everything is becoming too much and I can’t…handle it anymore.”

”Everything?”

”You”, your voice finally blurted out, the heaviness in your soul lifting up for a moment, “I’m falling in love with you, Emily. I knew it from the moment I met you, there was this feeling that sat right in my chest, but I didn’t say anything out of fear. But I can’t…I can’t pretend anymore, that you’re not the one person I want to spend my time with every single day, that I don’t imagine us cooking together or watching movies on my couch or going to sleep in the same bed…”

Her own eyes widened, her heart sinking and fluttering at the same time from your confession. She couldn’t…no. Those words that she was aching to hear for so long, that sounded so perfect coming from your lips caused her walls to build right up, her first instinct of panic being to push you away before you could truly see behind the friendship. Behind the smiles and teasing and small comments, behind the little thoughtful gestures and nights spent sharing a bed after a get together with JJ and Penelope, which always ended up with talking until sunrise. Behind everything, it was her, and she couldn’t let you see that, couldn’t bring you down with her deep-seated problems. 

It would be selfish of her to bring you into her world when your soul was shining so bright.

”I…we can’t”, her voice wavered, every word hurting a tiny more as she spoke, “You are so amazing, y/n, but I just…I don’t feel the same way. I’m sorry.”

You bit your tongue at her apologising tone, trying to keep the tears at bay in order to not embarrass yourself furthermore. The pain was spreading rapidly in every inch of your body, the look of pure sadness in her eyes fueling your despair. You wanted to protest, wanted to give her dozens of examples which would prove the opposite of her words, but the white flag was already hanging onto your back, covering the anger like a heavy blanket, leaving you empty and hopeless.

But you couldn’t be mad at her. After all, she couldn’t control her feelings, couldn’t force herself to love you back. What was even there to love, anyway?

So you just had to pretend that it wasn’t destroying you.

”Oh, okay”, you finally responded, acting like your heart wasn’t in a million pieces on the floor, “I’m sorry…let’s just forget that I said anything”, you muttered as you made your way out of the room, not being able to control the tears anymore, but you’d be damned if you cried in front of her. 

“No, y/n, please”, Emily turned after you, but stopped in her tracks as the door shut closed, knowing that she’s the last person you’d want to spend any more time with right now.

She blinked away her own tears as well, her tough façade crumbling at the thought of letting go of the one person she loves the most.

It’s for the best, Emily tried to convince herself.

But was it, really?

__

Days passed in a blur, the awkward tension between the two of you obvious to the rest of the team, but none dared to ask what happened. Cases worked wonderfully as a distraction, every time being paired with anyone but Emily. Nights were still the worst, cursing yourself for ruining the most amazing friendship you’ve ever had with someone. Or whatever that was, you still weren’t sure. The uncertainty crept over you like a shadow, wondering if it will ever get better and how long you’ll be able to work in the same team as her. 

Stupid, believing that there was a good ending in this.

__

One case in particular was the definition of disaster. You knew it was plotted long before, your eyes widening as soon as you heard the words “y/n, you and Prentiss will go to the crime scene”. Well, your heart stopped after “you and Prentiss”, followed by an awkward gaze towards her way, discovering an equally shocked look, almost ready to protest.

But she didn’t. And you didn’t either.

That didn’t stop you going from radio silence to arguing during the course of the case, each second spent together bringing you further apart. Disaster.

__

You could feel your heart leaping in your chest as you slowly approached a seemingly abandoned house, isolated from society. Glock in your hand, steps lighter than a cat’s, your eyes analyzed every single detail about it. The open field made you feel vulnerable, despite the rest of the team being right there, approaching from different angles. Emily was with you still, almost trying to be the one walking in front, but you never let her. 

Thump thump thump. 

And then you saw it, heart stopping in your chest as a figure appeared in front of the window, gun in hand. Time seemed to still as your instinct screamed to move in front of her, to do anything as long as she’ll be okay.

So you did just that, before Emily realized what was happening, you quickly moved in front of her before loud noises erupted from the house and disturbed the silent nature. A second later you felt them in your vest, then you fell on the ground, realizing that it was not just that.

”y/n!”, the voice was desperate, tinged with fear. You looked up, seeing Emily already at your leg, trying to stop the bleeding. 

It was the first time you ever saw Emily Prentiss scared.

”Fuck, why is it so much blood? No, no, no…I need a medic right now!”, she almost screamed through her radio, panic gripping her entire being. Her fingers were white from the pressure that she was applying, but the voice in her head was constantly saying “not enough, not enough”.

She dared to look at your face, almost nauseous from how pale you were. No, she couldn’t lose you, not like this, not ever. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

”You idiot!”, she choked on a sob, “why did you do that?! I can protect myself!”

Wasn’t it obvious, though? You were willing to do anything for her.

“I…l’ve you”, you managed to whisper, for a moment not entirely sure that it was loud enough. And then you saw the tears freefalling on her beautiful cheeks, confirming it.

”No, don’t do this to me. You need to hold on, okay? Or I swear I will kick your ass”, the usual teasing voice was replaced with a whimper, “please just don’t go. Don’t close your eyes, look at me”.

You tried your best to fight against the dark corners of your eyes that were slowly advancing on your vision, but it was a losing battle from the start. And for one last time, you allowed yourself to be selfish, blurting out the only wish you had on your mind.

”Kiss me”.

Emily could feel her heart breaking completely at your muffled words tinged with pain, the finality in your request instinctively making her protest, refusing to believe that it’s the last moment she was ever going to spend with you. 

Where was that goddamn ambulance?! Please!

As she kept pressing on the wound, her hands long painted red, the answer was out before she even registered it, with the softest voice possible.

”Okay…”.

You could barely feel it, the moment her lips touched yours, but it was there, delicate, fearful, filled with longing - and it was still the most perfect kiss you’ve ever had. It was like all the pain faded away, as if the world allowed just for one moment for everything to be okay. 

“I can see the ambulance! Hold on, please…I…I love you too. I need you here”, she pleaded to you, her vision blurred with tears.

But everything went black.

__

Senses came back to you little by little. First, it was the hearing, the constant beeping of something in the room. Then, the feeling - an agonizing headache crippling all through your head. But also something softer, warmer, at the end of your right hand. You moved your fingers a bit, slowly recognizing that it’s someone’s hand. 

A gasp echoed through the room before you had to guess whose it was, the too familiar voice balming over you like a warm blanket.

”y/n? I’m here, it’s okay…”, she squeezed your hand, her heart fluttering with hope after days of standing in the same spot, wishing nothing more than to see those perfect eyes open.

You let out a groan at the sudden light, causing the headache to intensify a bit. Still, nothing too unbearable, not when Emily was right there, as beautiful as ever, holding your hand.

”Hi…”, she breathed out relieved, smiling for the first time in what felt like forever.

”Hi…”, you whispered back, returning a smaller smile.

Silence. Not the one either of you were used to lately, but the comforting one, when the other person’s presence was enough to make everything else okay.

”Don’t ever do that again”, she broke the silence, her voice fully serious.

”Why not? Got myself a kiss…not complaining”, you tried to lighten up the mood despite the circumstance. 

Looking closely, there was a small tinge of pink on her cheeks, your smile widening.

”Well I am complaining! We don’t need a life and death situation for that to happen…”, her voice lowered down through the end, fearful of the implications of what she was admitting.

“What do you mean?”, it took you a moment to process, almost not believing her words.

The silent battle in her mind was clearly visible through her eyes, but you waited until she was ready to talk, the monitor in the corner showing your slightly increased heart-rate.

”I…I love you, y/n. I’ve loved you from the beginning, but I was scared. Scared of what it meant if I said it out loud, of you seeing me as me. It was easier to shut everything out”.

”Idiot”, you interfered, though the smile on your face confirmed the lack of any negative feelings.

She chuckled in response. The most beautiful sound in the world.

”I know, I know. But I don’t want to have any regrets, not when it comes to you, y/n”, she squeezed your hand again.

”Then kiss me again”.

”With pleasure”, she murmured, approaching your face, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before lowering herself, her lips gently touching your as she poured all her love into it, moving in sync with yours.

Maybe there was a happy ending out there written for you too.